be, formed on that subject, are now a matter of indifference: the work is to depend on itself and not on the writer: and the author, who has no resources in his own mind beyond the reputation, transient or permanent, which is to arise from his literary efforts, deserves the fate of authors. In the course of the following canto it was my intention, either in the text or in the notes, to have touched upon the present state of Italian literature, and perhaps of manners. But the text, within the limits I proposed, I soon found hardly sufficient for the labyrinth of external objects, and the consequent reflections; and for the whole of the notes, excepting a few of the shortest, I am indebted to yourself, and these were necessarily limited to the elucidation of the text. It is also a delicate, and no very grateful task, to dissert upon the literature and manners of a nation so dissimilar; and requires an attention and impartiality which would induce us—though perhaps no inattentive observers, nor ignorant of the language or customs of the people amongst whom we have recently abode-to distrust, or at least defer, our judgment, and more narrowly examine our information. The state of literary as well as political party appears to run, or to have run, so high, that for a stranger to steer impartially between them is next to impossible. It may be enough, then, at least for my purpose, to quote from their own beautiful language-'Mi pare che in un paese tutto poetico, che vanta la lingua la più nobile ed insieme la più dolce, tutte tutte le vie diverse si possono tentare, e che sinche la patria di Alfieri e di Monti non ha perduto l'antico valore, in tutte essa dovrebbe essere la prima.' Italy has great names still: Canova, Monti, Ugo Foscolo, Pindemonte, Visconti, Morelli, Cicognara, Albrizzi, Mezzophanti, Mai, Mustoxidi, Aglietti, and Vacca, will secure to the present generation an honourable place in most of the departments of art, science, and belles lettres; and in some the very highest. Europe -the World-has but one Canova.
It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, that 'La pianta uomo nasce più robusta in Italia che in qualunque altra terra-e che gli stessi atroci delitti che vi si commettono ne sono una prova.' Without subscribing to the latter part of his proposition-a dangerous doctrine, the truth of which may be disputed on better grounds, namely, that the Italians are in no respect more ferocious than their neighbours-that man must be wilfully blind, or ignorantly heedless, who is not struck with the extraordinary capacity of this people, or, if such a word be admissible, their capabilities, the facility of their acquisitions, the rapidity of their conceptions, the fire of their genius, their sense of beauty, and amidst all the disadvantages of repeated revolutions, the desolation of battles, and the despair of ages, their still unquenched 'longing after immortality' -the immortality of independence. And when we ourselves, in riding round the walls of Rome, heard the simple lament of the labourers' chorus, Roma! Roma! Roma! Roma non è più come era prima,' it was difficult not to contrast this melancholy dirge with the bacchanal roar of the songs of exultation still yelled from the London taverns, over the carnage of Mont St Jean, and the betrayal of Genoa, of Italy, of France, and of the world, by men whose conduct you yourself have exposed in a work worthy of the better days of our history. For me,
Non movero mai corda
Ove la turba di sue ciance assorda.'
What Italy has gained by the late transfer of nations, it were useless for Englishmen to inquire, till it becomes ascertained that England has acquired something more than a permanent army and a suspended Habeas Corpus; it is enough for them to look at home. For what they have done abroad, and especially in the south, verily they will have their reward,' and at no very distant period.
Wishing you, my dear Hobhouse, a safe and agreeable return to that country whose real welfare can be dearer to none than to yourself, I dedicate to you this poem in its completed state; and repeat once more how truly I am ever, your obliged and affectionate friend,
None are all evil-quickening round his heart,
One softer feeling would not yet depart :
Oft could he sneer at others, as beguiled
By passions worthy of a fool or child;
Yet 'gainst that passion vainly still he strove,
And even in him it asks the name of Love!
Yes, it was love-unchangeable-unchanged,
Felt but for one from whom he never ranged;
Though fairest captives daily met his eye,
He shunn'd, nor sought, but coldly pass'd them
by:
[bower,
Though many a beauty droop'd in prison'd
None ever soothed his most unguarded hour.
Yes-it was Love-if thoughts of tenderness,
Tried in temptation, strengthen'd by distress,
Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime,
And yet-oh, more than all !—untired by time;
Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile,
Could render sullen were she near to smile,
Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent
On her one murmur of his discontent;
Which still would meet with joy, with calmness
part,
[heart;
Lest that his look of grief should reach her
Which nought removed, nor menaced to re-
If there be love in mortals-this was love!
He was a villain-ay, reproaches shower
On him-but not the passion, nor its power,
Which only proved, all other virtues gone,
Nor guilt itself could quench this loveliest one!
He paused a moment-till his hastening men
Pass'd the first winding downward to the glen,
'Strange tidings !-many a peril have I past,
Nor know I why this next appears the last!
Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear,
Nor shall my followers find me falter here.
'Tis rash to meet, but surer death to wait
Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate;
And if my plan but hold, and Fortune smile,
We'll furnish mourners for our funeral pile.
Ay, let them slumber-peaceful be their dreams!
Morn ne'er awoke them with such brilliant
beams
As kindle high to-night (but blow, thou breeze!)
To warm these slow avengers of the seas.
Now to Medora-Oh! my sinking heart,
Long may her own be lighter than thou art!
Yet was I brave-mean boast where all are
brave!
Even insects sting for aught they seek to save. This common courage which with brutes we share,
That owes its deadliest efforts to despair,
Small merit claims; but 'twas my nobler hope
To teach my few with numbers still to cope.
Long have I led them-not to vainly bleed:
No medium now-we perish or succeed!
So let it be-it irks not me to die;
But thus to urge them whence they cannot fly.
My lot hath long had little of my care,
But chafes my pride thus baffled in the snare:
Is this my skill? my craft? to set at last
Hope, power, and life upon a single cast?
Oh, Fate!-accuse thy folly, not thy fate;
She may redeem thee still-nor yet too late.'
Thus with himself communion held he, till
He reach'd the summit of his tower-crown'd hill:
There at the portal paused-for wild and soft
He heard those accents never heard too oft;
Through the high lattice far yet sweet they rung,
And these the notes his bird of beauty sung:
'Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells,
Lonely and lost to light for evermore,
Save when to thine my heart responsive swells,
Then trembles into silence as before.
'There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp
Burns the slow flame, eternal,-but unseen; Which not the darkness of despair can damp, Though vain its ray as it had never been. Remember me-Oh! pass not thou my grave Without one thought whose relics there recline: The only pang my bosom dare not brave
Must be to find forgetfulness in thine.
'My fondest-faintest-latest accents hear:
Grief for the dead not virtue can reprove;
Then give me all I ever ask'd—a tear,
The first-last-sole reward of so much love!'
He pass'd the portal-cross'd the corridor,
And reach'd the chamber as the strain gave o'er:
'My own Medora !-sure thy song is sad-'
'In Conrad's absence wouldst thou have it glad?
Without thine ear to listen to my lay,
Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray:
Still must each accent to my bosom suit,
Myheart unhush'd-although my lips were mute!
Oh! many a night on this lone couch reclined,
My dreaming fear with storms hath wing'd the
wind,
[sail
And deem'd the breath that faintly fann'd thy
The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale;
Though soft, it seem'd the low prophetic dirge,
That mourn'd thee floating on the savage surge:
| Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fire,
Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire;
And many a restless hour outwatch'd each star,
And morning came-and still thou wert afar.
Oh! how the chill blast on my bosom blew,
And day broke dreary on my troubled view,
And still I gazed and gazed-and not a prow
Was granted to my tears, my truth, my vow!
At length 'twas noon-I hail'd and blest the mast
That met my sight-it near'd-Alas, it pass'd!
Another came-O God! 'twas thine at last!
Would that those days were over! wilt thou ne'er,
My Conrad, learn the joys of peace to share?
Sure thou hast more than wealth, and many a
As bright as this invites us not to roam :
Thou know'st it is not peril that I fear,
I only tremble when thou art not here;
Then not for mine, but that far dearer life,
Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main :
And he deceived me-for-he came again!'
Which flies from love and languishes for strife-Again-again-and oft again, my love!
How strange that heart, to me so tender still,
Should war with nature and its better will!'
'Yea, strange indeed-that heart hath long been
changed;
Worm-like 'twas trampled-adder-like avenged,
Without one hope on earth beyond thy love,
And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above.
Yet the same feeling which thou dost condemn,
My very love to thee is hate to them,
So closely mingling here, that disentwined,
I cease to love thee when I love mankind :
Yet dread not this-the proof of all the past
Assures the future that my love will last;
But-O Medora! nerve thy gentler heart :
This hour again-but not for long-we part.'
This hour we part !-my heart foreboded this!
Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss.
This hour-it cannot be-this hour away!
Yon bark hath hardly anchor'd in the bay:
Her consort still is absent, and her crew
Have need of rest before they toil anew:
My love! thou mock'st my weakness;
If there be life below, and hope above,
He will return-but now the moments bring
The time of parting with redoubled wing:
The why-the where-what boots it now to tell?
Since all must end in that wild word- farewell!
Yet would I fain-did time allow-disclose-
Fear not-these are no formidable foes;
And here shall watch a more than wonted guard,
For sudden siege and long defence prepared :
Nor be thou lonely-though thy lord's away,
Our matrons and thy handmaids with thee stay:
And this thy comfort-that when next we meet,
Security shall make repose more sweet.
List!-'tis the bugle-Juan shrilly blew-
'One kiss-one more-another-Oh! Adieu!'
She rose-she sprung-she clung to his embrace,
Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face;
He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye,
Which downcast droop'd in tearless agony.
Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms,
In all the wildness of dishevell'd charms;
and Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt
So full-that feeling seem'd almost unfelt!
Hark-peals the thunder of the signal-gun !
It told 'twas sunset, and he cursed that sun.
Again-again-that form he madly press'd,
Which mutely clasp'd, imploringly caress'd!
And tottering to the couch his bride he bore,
One moment gazed, as if to gaze no more;
Felt that for him earth held but her alone,
Kiss'd her cold forehead-turn'd-is Conrad
gone?
My breast before the time when it must feel;
But trifle now no more with my distress,
Such mirth hath less of play than bitterness.
Be silent, Conrad !-dearest! come and share
The feast these hands delighted to prepare ;
Light toil! to cull and dress thy frugal fare!
See, I have pluck'd the fruit that promised best,
And where not sure, perplex'd, but pleased, I
guess'd
At such as seem'd the fairest: thrice the hill
My steps have wound to try the coolest rill;
Yes! thy sherbet to-night will sweetly flow,
See how it sparkles in its vase of snow!
The grape's gay juice thy bosom never cheers;
Thou more than Moslem when the cup appears:
Think not I mean to chide-for I rejoice
What others deem a penance is thy choice.
But come, the board is spread; our silver lamp
Is trimm'd, and heeds not the Sirocco's damp.
Then shall my handmaids while the time along,
And join with me the dance, or wake the song;
Or my guitar, which still thou lov'st to hear,
Shall soothe or lull;-or, should it vex thine ear,
We'll turn the tale, by Ariosto told,
Of fair Olympia loved and left of old.*
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'And, is he gone?'-on sudden solitude
How oft that fearful question will intrude.
'Twas but an instant past, and here he stood !
And now'-without the portal's porch she rush'd,
And then at length her tears in freedom gush'd:
Big, bright, and fast, unknown to her they fell;
But still her lips refused to send-'Farewell!'
For in that word-that fatal word-howe'er
We promise, hope, believe-there breathes de-
spair.
O'er every feature of that still, pale face,
Had sorrow fix'd what time can ne'er erase:
The tender blue of that large loving eye
Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy,
Till-oh, how far!-it caught a glimpse of him,
Why, thou wert worse than he who broke his And then it flow'd, and frenzied seem'd to swim,
From crag to crag descending, swiftly sped
Stern Conrad down, nor once he turn'd his head;
But shrunk whene'er the windings of his way
Forced on his eye what he would not survey,
His lone but lovely dwelling on the steep,
That hail'd him first when homeward from the
deep;
And she-the dim and melancholy star,
Whose ray of beauty reach'd him from afar,
On her he must not gaze, he must not think,
There he might rest- -but on Destruction's
brink:
Yet once almost he stopp'd, and nearly gave
His fate to chance, his projects to the wave;
But no-it must not be-a worthy chief
May melt, but not betray to woman's grief.
He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind,
And sternly gathers all his might of mind:
Again he hurries on; and as he hears
The clang of tumult vibrate on his ears,
The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore,
The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar;
As marks his eye the seaboy on the mast,
The anchors rise, the sails unfurling fast,
The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge
That mute adieu to those who stem the surge;
And more than all, his blood-red flag aloft,
He marvell'd how his heart could seem so soft.
Fire in his glance, and wildness in his breast,
He feels of all his former self possest;
He bounds-he flies-until his footsteps reach
The verge where ends the cliff, begins the beach,
There checks his speed; but pauses less to breathe
The breezy freshness of the deep beneath,
Than there his wonted statelier step renew;
Nor rush, disturb'd by haste, to vulgar view:
For well had Conrad learn'd to curb the crowd,
By arts that veil, and oft preserve the proud:
His was the lofty port, the distant mien,
That seems to shun the sight-and awes if seen;
The solemn aspect, and the high-born eye,
That checks low mirth but lacks not courtesy;
All these he wielded to command assent;
But where he wish'd to win, so well unbent,
That kindness cancell'd fear in those who heard,
And others gifts show'd mean beside his word,
When echo'd to the heart as from his own
His deep yet tender melody of tone:
But such was foreign to his wonted mood,
He cared not what he soften'd, but subdued;
The evil passions of his youth had made
Him value less who loved-than what obey'd.
Around him mustering ranged his ready guard, Before him Juan stands-' Are all prepared?' They are-nay, more-embark'd: the latest
'My sword and my capote.'
Soon firmly girded on, and lightly slung,
His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung;
Call Pedro here!'-He comes-and Conrad
With all the courtesy he deign'd his friends: 'Receive these tablets, and peruse with care, Words of high trust and truth are graven there; Double the guard, and when Anselmo's bark Arrives, let him alike these orders mark: In three days (serve the breeze) the sun shall shine
On our return--till then all peace be thine!' This said, his brother pirate's hand he wrung, Then to his boat with haughty gesture sprung. Flash'd the dipt oars, and sparkling with the stroke,
Around the waves' phosphoric brightness broke;
They gain the vessel-on the deck ne stands-
Shrieks the shrill whistle-ply the busy hands:
He marks how well the ship her helm obeys,
How gallant all her crew-and deigns to praise.
His eyes of pride to young Gonsalvo turn-
Why doth he start, and inly seem to mourn?
Alas! those eyes beheld his rocky tower,
And live a moment o'er the parting hour;
She-his Medora-did she mark the prow?
Ah! never loved he half so much as now!
But much must yet be done ere dawn of day-
Again he mans himself and turns away;
Down to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends,
And there unfolds his plan - his means-
ends;
Before them burns the lamp, and spreads the
chart,
And all that speaks and aids the naval art:
They to the midnight watch protract debate;
To anxious eyes what hour is ever late?
Meantime the steady breeze serenely blew,
And fast and falcon-like the vessel flew ;
Pass'd the high headlands of each clustering
isle,
To gain their port - long-long ere morning
[bay
And soon the night-glass through the narrow
Discovers where the Pacha's galleys lay.
Count they each sail, and mark how there supine
The lights in vain o'er heedless Moslems shine.
Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow pass'd by,
And anchor'd where his ambush meant to lie;
Screen'd from espial by the jutting cape,
That rears on high its rude fantastic shape.
Then rose his band to duty-not from sleep-
Equipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep;
While lean'd their leader o'er the fretting flood,
And calmly talk'd-and yet he talk'd of blood!
⚫ By night, particularly in a warm latitude, every stroke of the our, every motion of the boat or ship, is followed by a slight | flash like sheet-lightning from the water.
'Conosceste i dubiosi desiri?'—DANTE.
Already shared the captives and the prize,
Though far the distant foe they thus despise ;
"Tis but to sail-no doubt to-morrow's sun
Will see the Pirates bound-their haven won!
Meantime the watch may slumber, if they will,
Nor only wake to war, but dreaming kill.
Though all, who can, disperse on shore and seek
To flesh their glowing valour on the Greek;
How well such deed becomes the turban'd brave,
To bare the sabre's edge before a slave!
Infest his dwelling--but forbear to slay,
Their arms are strong, yet merciful to-day,
And do not deign to smite because they may!
Unless some gay caprice suggests the blow,
To keep in practice for the coming foe.
Revel and rout the evening hours beguile,
And they who wish to wear a head must smile;
For Moslem mouths produce their choicest
cheer,
And hoard their curses, till the coast is clear.
High in his hall reclines the turban'd Seyd:
Around-the bearded chiefs he came to lead.
Removed the banquet, and the last pilaff-
Forbidden draughts, 'tis said, he dared to quaff,
Though to the rest the sober berry's juice,
The slaves bear round for rigid Moslems' use;
The long chibouques + dissolving cloud supply,
While dance the Almas to wild minstrelsy.
The rising morn will view the chiefs embark;
But waves are somewhat treacherous in the
dark;
And revellers may more securely sleep
On silken couch than o'er the rugged deep;
Feast there who can-nor combat till they must,
And less to conquest than to Korans trust;
And yet the numbers crowded in his host
Might warrant more than even the Pacha's
boast.
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Bows his bent head, his hand salutes the floor,
Ere yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore:
'A captive Dervise, from the Pirate's nest
Escaped, is here-himself would tell the rest."
He took the sign from Seyd's assenting eye,
And led the holy man in silence nigh.
His arms were folded on his dark-green vest,
His step was feeble, and his look deprest ;
Yet worn he seem'd of hardship more than years,
And pale his cheek with penance, not from fears.
Vow'd to his God-his sable locks he wore,
And these his lofty cap rose proudly o'er ;
Around his form his loose long robe was thrown,
And wrapt a breast bestow'd on Heaven alone;
Submissive, yet with self-possession mann'd,
He calmly met the curious eyes that scann'd;
And question of his coming fain would seek,
Before the Pacha's will allow'd to speak.
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I had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast,
Beyond the wandering freedom which I lost;
At length a fisher's humble boat by night
Afforded hope, and offer'd chance of flight;
I seized the hour, and find my safety here;
With thee-most mighty Pacha ! who can fear?'
'How speed the outlaws? stand they well pre-
pared,
[guard?
Their plunder'd wealth, and robber's rock, to
Dream they of this our preparation, doom'd
To view with fire their scorpion nest consumed?'
'Pacha! the fetter'd captive's mourning eye,
That weeps for flight, but ill can play the spy:
I only heard the reckless waters roar,
Those waves that would not bear me from the
I only mark'd the glorious sun and sky, [shore;
Too bright-too blue-for my captivity;
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Anxious to explore with his own eyes the state of the Vandals, Majorian ventured, after disguising the colour of tw hair, to visit Carthage in the character of his own ambassador; and Genseric was afterwards mortified by the discovery that he had entertained and dismissed the Emperor of the Roma Such an anecdote may be rejected as an improbable fictiona but it is a fiction which would not have been imagined unless in the life of a hero.'-GIBBON, Decline and Fall, vol vi p
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