Imágenes de página
PDF
ePub
[graphic]

cenza flows, and is almost absorbed in a wide sandy that have in our times attained a temporary reputa bed before it reaches the Anio. Nothing can be tion, and is very seldom to be trusted even when he more fortunate for the lines of the poet, whether in speaks of objects which he must be presumed to a metaphorical or direct sense: have seen. His errors, from the simple exaggeration to the downright misstatement, are so frequent as to induce a suspicion that he had either never visited the spots described, or had trusted to the The stream is clear high up the valley, but before fidelity of former writers. Indeed the Classical it reaches the hill of Bardela looks green and yel-Tour has every characteristic of a mere compilalow like a sulphur rivulet. tion of former notices, strung together upon a very

"Me quotiens reficit gelidus Digentia rivus,
Quem Mandola bibit rugosus frigore pagus.'

[ocr errors]

Rocca Giovane, a ruined village in the hills, half slender thread of personal observation, and swelled an hour's walk from the vineyard where the pave-out by those decorations which are so easily supplied ment is shown, does seem to be the site of the by a systematic adoption of all the common places fane of Vacuna, and an inscription found there tells of praise, applied to everything, and therefore sigthat this temple of the Sabine Victory was repaired nifying nothing.

by Vespasian.* With these helps, and a position The style which one person thinks cloggy and corresponding exactly to everything which the poet cumbrous, and unsuitable, may be to the taste of has told us of his retreat, we may feel tolerably se- others, and such may experience some salutary excure of our site. citement in ploughing through the periods of the Classical Tour. It must be said, It must be said, however, that polish and weight are apt to beget an expectation of value. It is amongst the pains of the damned to toil up a climax with a huge round stone.

The hill which should be Lucretilis is called Campanile, and by following up the rivulet to the pretended Bandusia, you come to the roots of the higher mountain Gennaro. Singularly enough, the only spot of ploughed land in the whole valley is on the knoll where this Bandusia rises.

[ocr errors]

tu frigus amabile

Fessis vomere tauris

Præbes, et pecori vago."

The peasants show another spring near the mosaic pavement, which they call "Oradina," and which flows down the hills into a tank, or mill-dam, and then it trickles over into the Digentia. But we must not hope

"To trace the Muses upwards to their spring,"

The tourist had the choice of his words, but there was no such latitude allowed to that of his sentiments. The love of virtue and of liberty, which must have distinguished the character, certainly adorns the pages of Mr. Eustace, and the gentlemanly spirit, so recommendatory either in an author or his productions, is very conspicuous throughout the Classical Tour. But these generous qualities are the foliage of such a performance, and may be spread about it so prominently and profusely as to embarrass those who wish to see and find the fruit at hand. The unction of the divine, and the exhortations of the moralist, may have made this work something more or better than a book of travels, by exploring the windings of the romantic valley in but they have not made it a book of travels; and search of the Bandusian fountain. It seems strange this observation applies more especially to that enthat any one should have thought Bandusia a foun- ticing method of instruction conveyed by the pertain of the Digentia-Horace has not let drop a petual introduction of the same Gallic Helot to reel word of it; and this immortal spring has in fact and bluster before the rising generation, and terrify been discovered in possession of the holders of it into decency by the display of all the excesses of many good things in Italy, the monks. It was at the revolution. An animosity against atheists and tached to the church of St. Gervais and Protais regicides in general, and Frenchmen specifically, near Venusia, where it is most likely to be found.† may be honorable, and may be useful as a record; We shall not be so lucky as a late traveller in find- but that antidote should either be administered in ing the occasional pine still pendant on the poetic any work rather than a tour, or, at least should be villa. There is not a pine in the whole valley, but served up apart, and not so mixed with the whole there are two cypresses, which he evidently took, or mass of information and reflection as to give a bitmistook, for the tree in the ode. The truth is, that terness to every page: for who would choose to have İ the pine is now, as it was in the days of Virgil, a the antipathies of any man, however just, for his garden tree, and it was not at all likely to be found travelling companions? A tourist, unless he asin the craggy acclivities of the valley of Rustica. pires to the credit of prophecy, is not answerable Horace probably had one of them in the orchard for the changes which may take place in the country close above his farm, immediately overshadowing which he describes; but his reader may very fairly his villa, not on the rocky heights at some distance esteem all his political portraits and deductions as from his abode. The tourist may have easily sup- so much waste paper, the moment they cease to asposd himself to have seen this pine figured in the sist, and more particularly if they obstruct his ac above cypresses, for the orange and lemon trees tual survey.

which throw such a bloom over his description of Neither encomium nor accusation of any govern the royal gardens at Naples, unless they have been ment or governors, is meant to be here offered; but since displaced, were assuredly only acacias and it is stated as an incontrovertible fact, that the other common garden shrubs. The extreme dis- change operated, either by the address of the late appointment experienced by choosing the Classical imperial system, or by the disappointment of every Tourist as a guide in Italy must be allowed to find expectation by those who have succeeded to the vent in a few observations, which, it is asserted Italian thrones, has been so considerable, and is so without fear of contradiction, will be confirmed apparent, as not only to put Mr. Eustace's antigalby every one who has selected the same conductor lican philippics entirely out of date, but even to through the same country. This author is in fact throw some suspicion upon the competency and canone of the most inaccurate, unsatisfactory writers dor of the author himself. A remarkable example

IMP. CÆSAR VESPASIANVS
PONTIFEX MAXIMVS. TRIB
POTEST. CENSOR. ÆDEM
VICTORIÆ. VETVSTATE ILLAPSAM
SVA. IMPENSA. RESTITVIT.

† See Historical Illustrations of the Fourth Canto, p. 43.
See Classical Tour, &c., chap. vii. p. 250, vol. li.

§ "Under our windows, and bordering on the beach, is the royal garden, laid out in parterres, and walks shaded by rows of orange trees." Classical

Tour, &c., chap. xi. vol. ii. cct. 365.

may be found in the instance of Bolonga, over whose papal attachments, and consequent desolation, the tourist pours forth such strains of condolence and revenge, made louder by the borrowed trumpet of Mr. Burke. Now Bolonga is at this moment, and has been for some years, notorious amongst the states of Italy for its attachment to revolutionary principles, and was almost the only city which made any demonstrations in favor of the unfortunate Murat. This change may, however

[graphic]

have been made since Mr. Eustace visited this coun-I been suspended, no attempt would have oeen made try; but the traveller whom he has thrilled with hor- to anticipate their decision. As it is, those who ror at the projected stripping of the copper from the stand in the relation of posterity to Mr. Eustace cupola of St. Peter's, must be much relieved to find may be permitted to appeal from cotemporary that sacrilege out of the power of the French, or praises, and are perhaps more likely to be just in any other plunderers, the cupola being covered with proportion as the causes of love and hatred are the lead.* farther removed. This appeal had, in some measure, If the conspiring voice of otherwise rival critics been made before the above remarks were written; had not given considerable currency to the Classical for one of the most respectable of the Florentine Tour, it would have been unnecessary to warn the publishers, who had been persuaded by the repeated reader, that however it may adorn his library, it inquiries of those on their journey southwards to will be of little or no service to him in his carriage; reprint a cheap edition of the Classical Tour, was, and if the judgment of those critics had hitherto by the concurring advice of returning travellers, induced to abandon his design, although he had already arranged his types and paper, and had struck off one or two of the first sheets.

"What, then, will be the astonishment, or rather the horror of my reader, when I inforın him the French committee

turned its attention to Saint Peter's, and employed a company of Jews to

estimate and purchase the gold, silver, and bronze that adorn the inside of

The writer of these notes would wish to part (like Mr. Gibbon) on good terms with the Pope and the the edifice, as well as the copper that covers the vaults and dome on the Cardinals, but he does not think it necessary to exoutside." Chap. iv. p. 130, vol. . The story about the Jews is positively tend the same discreet silence to their humble par

denied at Rome.

tisans.

THE GIAOUR;

A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE.

One fatal remembrance-one sorrow that throws
Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes-
To which life nothing darker nor brighter can bring,
For which joy hath no balm, and affliction no sting.
MOORE

TO

SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.

AS A SLIGHT BUT MOST SINCERE TOKEN OF ADMIRATION FOR HIS GENIUS, RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, AND GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP,

THIS PRODUCTION IS INSCRIBED

BY HIS OBLIGED AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT,

BYRON.

[ocr errors]

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE Tale which these disjointed fragments present, is founded upon circumstances now less common in the East than formerly; either because the ladies are more circumspect than in the "olden time; or because the Christians have better fortune, or less enterprise. The story, when entire, contained the adventures of a female slave, who was thrown, in the Mussulman manner, into the sea for infidelity, and avenged by a young Venetian, her lover, at the time the Seven Islands were possessed by the Republic of Venice, and soon after the Arnaouts were beaten back from the Morea, which they had ravaged for some time subsequent to the Russian invasion. The desertion of the Mainotes, on being refused the plunder of Misitra, led to the abandonment of that enterprise, and to the desolation of the Morea, during which the cruelty exercised on all sides was unparalleled even in the annals of the faithful.

[blocks in formation]

Fair clime! where every season smiles
Benignant o'er those blessed isles,
Which, seen from far Collona's height,
Make glad the heart that hails the sight,
And lend to loneliness delight.
There, mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek
Reflects the tints of many a peak
Caught by the laughing tides that lave
These Edens of the Eastern wave;
And if, at times, a transient breeze
Break the blue crystal of the seas,
Or sweep one blossom from the trees,
How welcome is each gentle air
That wakes and wafts the odors there.
For there-the rose o'er crag or vale,
Sultana of the nightingale,2

The maid for whom his melody,

His thousand songs are heard on high, Blooms blushing to her lover's tale: His queen, the garden queen, his rose, Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows, Far from the winters of the west, By every breeze and season blest, Returns the sweets by Nature given, In softest incense back to heaven; And grateful yields that smiling sky Her fairest hue and fragant sigh. And many a summer flower is there, And many a shade that love might share, And many a grotto, meant for rest, That holds the pirate for a guest;

Whose bark in sheltering cove below
Lurks for the passing peaceful prow
Till the gay mariner's guitar3

Is heard, and seen the evening star
Then stealing with the muffled oar,
Far shaded by the rocky shore,
Rush the night-prowlers on the prey,
And turn to groans his roundelay.
Strange-that where Nature lov'd to trace
As if for gods, a dwelling place,
And every charm and grace hath mix'd
Within the paradise she fix'd,

There man, enamor'd of distress,
Should mar it into wilderness,

And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower
That tasks not one laborious hour;
Nor claims the culture of his hand
To bloom along the fairy land,
But springs as to preclude his care,
And sweetly woos him-but to spare!
Strange-that where all is peace beside
There passion riots in her pride,
And lust and rapine wildly reign
To darken o'er the fair domain.
It is as though the fiends prevail'd
Against the seraphs they assail'd,

And, fixed on heavenly thrones, should dwell,
The freed inheritors of hell;

So soft the scene, so form'd for joy,
So curst the tyrants that destroy!

He who hath bent him o'er the dead,
Ere the first day of death is fled,
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress,
(Before decay's effacing fingers

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,)
And mark'd the mild angelic air,

The rapture of repose that's there,
The fix'd, yet tender traits that streak
The languor of the placid cheek,
And-but for that sad shrouded eye,

That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now,
And but for that chill, changeless brow,
Where cold obstruction's apathy 4
Appals the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him it could impart

5

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;
Yes, but for these, and these alone,
Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour
He still might doubt the tyrant's power;
So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd,
The first, last look by death reveal'd!
Such is the aspect of this shore;
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there.
Hers is the loveliness in death,

That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb,
Expression's last receding ray,

A gilded halo hovering round decay,
The farewell beam of feeling past away!
Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth,
Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished

earth!

Clime of the unforgotten brave!

Whose land from plain to mountain-cave
Was freedom's home or glory's grave!
Shrine of the mighty! can it be,
That this is all remains of thee?
Approach, thou craven crouching slave:
Say, is not this Thermopylæ ?
These waters blue that round you lave,
Oh servile offspring of the free-
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this?
The gulf, the rock of Salamis !
These scenes, their story not unknown,
Arise, and make again your own;
Snatch from the ashes of your sires

;

The embers of their former fires
And he who in the strife expires
Will add to theirs a name of fear
That tyranny shall quake to hear,
And leave his sons a hope, a fame
They too will rather die than shame.
For freedom's battle once begun,
Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son,
Though baffled oft, is ever won.
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page,
Attest it many a deathless age!
While kings, in dusty darkness hid,
Have left a nameless pyramid,

Thy heroes, though the general doom
Hath swept the column from their tomb,
A mightier monument command,
The mountains of their native land!
There points thy muse to stranger's eye
The graves of those that cannot die!
"Twere long to tell, and sad to trace,
Each step from splendor to disgrace;
Enough-no foreign foe could quell
Thy soul, till from itself it fell;
Yes! self-abasement paved the way
To villain-bonds and despot sway.

What can he tell who treads thy shore?
No legend of thine olden time,
No theme on which the muse might soar
High, as thine own in days of yore,

When man was worthy of thy clime;
The hearts within thy vallies bred,
The fiery souls that might have led
Thy sons to deeds sublime,
Now crawl from cradle to the grave,
Slaves-nay; the bondsmen of a slave,6
And callous, save to crime;

Stain'd with each evil that pollutes
Mankind, where least above the brutes ;
Without even savage virtue blest,
Without one free or valiant breast.
Still to the neighboring ports they waft
Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft;
In this the subtle Greek is found,
For this, and this alone, renown'd.
In vain might liberty invoke
The spirit to its bondage broke,

Or raise the neck that courts the yoke:
No more her sorrows I bewail,
Yet this will be a mournful tale,
And they who listen may believe,
Who heard it first had cause to grieve.

*

Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing
The shadows of the rocks advancing,
Start on the fisher's eye like boat
Of island-pirate or Mainote;
And, fearful for his light caique,

He shuns the near, but doubtful creek :
Though worn and weary with his toil,
And cumber'd with his scaly spoil,
Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar,
Till Port Leone's safer shore
Receives him by the lovely light
That best becomes an eastern night.

*

Who thundering comes on blackest steed,
With slacken'd bit, and hoof of speed?
Beneath the clattering iron's sound
The cavern'd echoes wake around

In lash for lash, and bound for bound;
The foam that streaks the courser's side
Seems gather'd from the ocean-tide;
Though weary waves are sunk to rest,
There's none within his rider's breast;
And though to-morrow's tempest lower,
'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour! 7
I know thee not, I loathe thy race,
But in thy lineaments I trace
What time shall strengthen, not efface:
Though young and pale, that sallow front
Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt;
Though bent on earth thine evil eye,
As meteor-like thou glidest by,
Right well I view and deem the one
Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun.

On-on he hastened, and he drew
My gaze of wonder as he flew:
Though like a demon of the night
He pass'd and vanish'd from my sight,
His aspect and his air impress'd
A troubled memory on my breast,
And long upon my startled ear
Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear.
He spurs the steed; he nears the steep,
That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep;
He winds around; he hurries by ;
The rock relieves him from mine eye;
For well I ween unwelcome he
Whose glance is fix'd on those that flee ;
And not a star but shines too bright
On him who takes such timeless flight.
He wound along, but, ere he pass'd,
One glance he snatch'd, as if his last,
A moment check'd his wheeling steed,
A moment breathed him from his speed,
A moment on his stirrup stood-
Why looks he o'er the olive-wood?
The cresent glimmers on the hill,

The mosque's high lamps are quivering still :
Though too remote for sound to wake
In echoes of the far tophaike,s
The flashes of each joyous peal
Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal.
To-night, set Rhamazani's sun;
To-night the Bairam feast's begun;
To-night-but who and what art thou,
Of foreign garb and fearful brow?
And what are these to thine or thee,
That thou shouldst either pause or flee?

He stood some dread was on his face,
Soon hatred settled in its place;
It rose not with the reddening flush
Of transient anger's darkening blush,
But pale as marble o'er the tomb,
Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom.
His brow was bent, his eye was glazed,
He raised his arm, and fiercely raised,
And sternly shook his hand on high,
As doubting to return or fly:
Impatient of his flight delay'd,

Here loud his raven charger neigh'd

Down glanced that hand, and grasped his blede; That sound had burst his waking dream,

As slumber starts at owlet's scream.

The spur hath lanced his courser's sides;
Away, away, for life he rides ;

Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed,9
Springs to the touch his startled steed;
The rock is doubled, and the shore
Shakes with the clattering tramp no more.
The crag is won, no more is seen
His Christian crest and haughty mien.
'Twas but an instant he restrain'd
That fiery barb so sternly rein'd:
'Twas but a moment that he stood,
Then sped as if by death pursued;
But in that instant o'er his soul
Winters of memory seem'd to roll,
And gather in that drop of time
A life of pain, an age of crime.
O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears,
Such moment pours the grief of years.
What felt he then, at once opprest
By all that most distracts the breast?
That pause, which ponder'd o'er his fate,
Oh, who its dreary length shall date?
Though in time's record nearly nought,
It was eternity to thought!

For infinite as boundless space

The thought that conscience must embrace,
Which in itself can comprehend

Wo without name, or hope, or end.

The hour is past, the Giaour is gone!
And did he fly or fall alone?

Wo to that hour he came or went!
The curse for Hassan's sin was sent,
To turn a palace to a tomb:

He came, he went, like the simoom,10
That harbinger of fate and gloom,
Beneath whose widely-wasting breath
The very cypress droops to death-

Dark tree, still sad when other's grief is fled,
The only constant mourner o'er the dead!

The steed is vanish'd from the stall;
No serf is seen in Hassan's hall;
The lonely spider's thin gray pall
Waves slowly widening o'er the wall;
The bat builds in his haram bower;
And in the fortress of his power

The owl usurps the beacon-tower;
The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim,
With baffled thirst, and famine grim;

For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed, Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread: 'Twas sweet of yore to see it play,

And chase the sultriness of day,

[graphic]
« AnteriorContinuar »