VII.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Lady of his love; -Oh! she was changed,
As by the sickness of the soul; her mind
170 Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes,
They had not their own lustre, but the look
Which is not of the earth; she was become
The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things;
175 And forms impalpable and unperceived
Of others' sight familiar were to hers.

And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance
Of melancholy is a fearful gift:

180 What is it but the telescope of truth,
Which strips the distance of its fantasies,
And brings life near in utter nakedness,
Making the cold reality too real?

VIII.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
185 The Wanderer was alone as heretofore,
The beings which surrounded him were gone,
Or were at war with him; he was a mark
For blight and desolation, compass'd round
With Hatred and Contention; Pain was mix'd
In all which was served up to him, until,
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,
He fed on poisons, and they had no power,
But were a kind of nutriment; he lived

190

before his eyes - his thoughts were elsewhere; and he was but awakened by the congratulations of the by-standers, to find that he was married." MoORE.

191. Pontic monarch = Mithridates.

Through that which had been death to many men, 195 And made him friends of mountains: with the stars And the quick Spirit of the Universe

He held his dialogues! and they did teach
To him the magic of their mysteries;

To him the book of Night was open'd wide,
200 And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd
A marvel and a secret Be it so.

IX.

My dream was past; it had no further change.
It was of a strange order, that the doom

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out 205 Almost like a reality the one To end in madness - both in misery.

TO THOMAS MOORE.

Moore, the poet, was a close friend of Byron's and the editor of his Life. Indeed, Byron gave Moore during his lifetime an autobiography which never saw the light, for after being read by a few persons, the publisher Murray, who had paid Moore 2000 guineas for it, burned it in the presence of a small company, as unsuitable for publication. Moore repaid the sum advanced him. This poem and the one following were written after he, Byron, had left England for the last time.

My boat is on the shore,

And my bark is on the sea;
But, before I go, Tom Moore,
Here's a double health to thee!

5 Here's a sigh to those who love me,
And a smile to those who hate;
And, whatever sky 's above me,
Here's a heart for every fate.

10

Though the ocean roar around me,
Yet it still shall bear me on ;
Though a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.

Were 't the last drop in the well, As I gasp'd upon the brink, 15 Ere my fainting spirit fell,

'Tis to thee that I would drink.

With that water, as this wine,
That libation I would pour

Should be peace with thine and mine, 20 And health to thee, Tom Moore.

SO WE'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING.

So, we'll go no more a roving

So late into the night,

Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

5 For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

10

Though the night was made for loving,

And the day returns too soon,

Yet we 'll go no more a roving

By the light of the moon.

ON THE BUST OF HELEN BY CANOVA.

"The Helen of Canova (a bust which is in the house of Madame the Countess d' Albrizzi) is," says Byron, "without exception, to my mind, the most perfectly beautiful of human conception, and far beyond my ideas of human execution." Canova was the most eminent Italian sculptor of Byron's time. He died in Venice in 1822.

In this beloved marble view,

Above the works and thoughts of man,
What nature could, but would not, do,
And beauty and Canova can!
5 Beyond imagination's power,

Beyond the Bard's defeated art,
With immortality her dower,

Behold the Helen of the heart!

A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD

ON THE SIEGE AND CONQUEST OF ALHAMA

Which, in the Arabic language, is to the following purport.

A translation from the Spanish. "The effect," says Byron, "of the original ballad which existed both in Spanish and Arabic was such, that it was forbidden to be sung by the Moors, on pain of death, within Granada." The historical basis of the poem may be found in the sixth chapter of Washington Irving's A Chronicle of the Conquest of Granada.

5

THE Moorish King rides up and down
Through Granada's royal town;

From Elvira's gates to those

Of Bivarambla on he goes.

Woe is me, Alhama!

10

15

20

25

30

35

Letters to the monarch tell
How Alhama's city fell:

In the fire the scroll he threw,

And the messenger he slew.

Woe is me, Alhama!

He quits his mule, and mounts his horse, And through the street directs his course; Through the streets of Zacatin

To the Alhambra spurring in.

Woe is me, Alhama!

When the Alhambra walls he gain'd,
On the moment he ordain'd

That the trumpet straight should sound
With the silver clarion round.

Woe is me, Alhama!

And when the hollow drums of war
Beat the loud alarm afar,

That the Moors of town and plain
Might answer to the martial strain,

Woe is me, Alhama!

Then the Moors, by this aware

That bloody Mars recall'd them there,

One by one, and two by two,

To a mighty squadron grew.

Woe is me, Alhama!

Out then spake an aged Moor
In these words the king before,
"Wherefore call on us, O King?
What may mean this gathering?"
Woe is me, Alhama!