Da ch' io intesi quell' anime offense

Chinai il viso, e tanto il tenni basso Fin che il poeta mi disse: "Che pense?" Quando risposi cominciai: "Ahi lasso! Quanti dolci pensier, quanto disio Meno costoro al doloroso passo!" Poi mi rivolsi a loro, e parlai io,

E cominciai: "Francesca, i tuoi martiri A lagrimar mi fanno tristo e pio. Ma dimmi al tempo de' dolci sospiri A che, e come concedette Amore Che conosceste i dubbiosi desiri?" Ed ella a me: "Nessun maggior dolore Che ricordarsi del tempo felice

Nella miseria: (1) e ciò sa il tuo dottore. Ma, se a conoscer la prima radice

Del nostro amor tu hai cotanto affetto Farò (2) come colui che piange e dice. Noi leggevamo un giorno per diletto

Di Lancillotto, (3) come Amor lo strinse: Soli eravamo, e senza alcun sospetto. Per più fiate gli occhi ci sospinse

Quella lettura, e scolorocci il viso: Ma solo un punto fu quel che ci vinse. Quando leggemmo il disiato riso

Esser baciato da cotanto amante, Questi, che mai da me non fia diviso, La bocca mi baciò tutto tremante:

Galeotto fu il libro, e chi lo scrisseQuel giorno più non vi leggemmo avante." Mentre che l' uno spirto questo disse, L'altro piangeva si, che di pietade Io veuni men così com' io morisse, E caddi, come corpo morto cade.

scious of their danger, they read a love-story together. They gazed upon each other, pale with emotion; but the secret of their mutual passion never escaped their lips :

Per più fiate gli occhi ci sospinse
Quella lettura, e scoloroccí il viso;

Ma solo un punto fu qual che ci vinse."

The description of two happy lovers in the story was the ruin of Francesca. It was the romance of Lancilot and Genevra, wife of Arthur, King of England:

'Quando leggemmo il disiato riso

Esser baciato da cotanto amante,

Questi, che mai da me non fia diviso
La bocca mi baciò tutto tremante.'

After this avowal, she hastens to complete the picture with one touch which covers her with confusion:

'Quel giorno più non vi leggemmo avante.'

She utters not another word!-and yet we fancy her before us, with her downcast and glowing looks; whilst her lover stands by her side, listening in silence and in tears. Dante, too, who had hitherto questioned her, no longer ventures to inquire in what manner ber husband had put her to death; but is so overawed by pity, that he sinks into a swoon. Nor is this to be considered as merely a poetical exaggeration. The poet had probably known her when a girl, blooming in innocence and beauty under the paternal roof. This, we think, is the true account of the overwhelming sympathy with which her form overpowers him. The episode, too, was written by him in the very house in which she was born, and in which he had himself, during the last ten years of his exile, found a constant asylum." Macaulay.-L. E. (1) "In omni adversitate fortunæ infelicissimum genus infortunii est fuisse felicem."-Boetius. Dante himself tells us, that Boetius and Cicero de Amicitia were the two first books that engaged his attention.-L. E.

"I pass each day where Dante's bones are laid;
A little cupola, more neat than solemn,
Protects his dust,-but reverence here is paid

To the bard's tomb, and not the warrior's column:
The time must come when, both alike decay'd,

The chieftain's trophy, and the poet's volume,
Will sink where lie the songs and wars of earth,

Before Pelides' death, or Homer's birth."-Don Juan, C. iii. [

Since I first listen'd to these souls offended,

I bow'd my visage, and so kept it till-
"What think'st thou?" said the bard; when I un-
And recommenced: "Alas! unto such ill [bended(4)
How many sweet thoughts, what strong ecstasies
Led these their evil fortune to fulfil!"
And then I turn'd unto their side my eyes,

And said, "Francesca, thy sad destinies
Have made me sorrow till the tears arise.
But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs
By what and how thy love to passion rose,
So as his dim desires to recognise?"
Then she to me: "The greatest of all woes
Is to remind us of our happy days (5)
In misery, and that thy teacher knows.(6)
But if to learn our passion's first root preys
Upon thy spirit with such sympathy,

I will do even as he who weeps and says.(7)
We read one day for pastime, seated nigh,

Of Lancilot, how love enchain'd him too.
We were alone, quite unsuspiciously.
But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue
All o'er discolour'd by that reading were;
But one point only wholly us o'erthrew; (8)
When we read the long-sigh'd-for smile of her,
To be thus kiss'd by such devoted lover,(9)
He who from me can be divided ne'er
Kiss'd my mouth, trembling in the act all over.
Accursed was the book and he who wrote!
That day no further leaf we did uncover."
While thus one spirit told us of their lot,

The other wept, so that with pity's thralls
I swoon'd as if by death I had been smote,
And fell down even as a dead body falls.(10)

(2) In some of the editions it is 'dirò,' in others 'fare; an essential difference between saying' and 'doing, which I know not how to decide. Ask Foscolo. The d-deditions drive me mad." Lord B. to Mr. M.-L. E.

(3) One of the Knights of Arthur's Round Table, and the lover of Genevra, celebrated in romance. See Soutbey's King Arthur, vol. i. p. 52. Whitaker, the historian of Manchester, makes out for the knight both a local babitation and a name "The name of Lancelot," he says, "is a p pellation truly British, and significative of royalty; Lance being a Celtic term for a spear, and Leod, Lod, or Let, i porting a people. He was therefore (1) a British sovereiza; and since he is denominated Lancelot of the Lake, perhaps he resided at Coccium, in the region Linnis, and was the monarch of Lancashire; as the kings of Creones, living at Selma, on the forest of Morven, are generally denominated sovereigns of Morven; or, more properly, was King of Che shire, and resided at Pool-ton Lancelot, in the hundred of Wirral." See also Ellis's Specimens of early Romances, vol. i. p. 271.— L. E.

STANZAS, (1)

WRITTEN WHEN ABOUT TO JOIN THE ITALIAN

CARBONARI.

WHEN a man hath no freedom to fight for at home,
Let him combat for that of his neighbours;
Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome,
And get knock'd on the head for his labours.

To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan,
And is always as nobly requited;
Then battle for freedom wherever you can,

And, if not shot or hang'd, you'll get knighted.

EPIGRAM ON MY WEDDING-DAY.
TO PENELOPE. (2)

Turs day, of all our days, has done

The worst for me and you:-
"Tis just six years since we were one,
And five since we were two.

January 2, 1821. coming all the difficulties of rhyme, with which Mr. Cary does not grapple :

...The land that gave me birth
Is situate on the coast, where Po descends
To rest in ocean with his sequent streams.

Love, that in gentle heart is quickly learnt,
Entangled him by that fair form, from me
Ta'en in such cruel sort, as grieves me still:
Love, that denial takes from none beloved,
Caught me with pleasing him so passing well,
That, as thou seest, he yet deserts me not.
Love brought us to one death: Caina waits
The soul, who spilt our life. Such were their words;
At hearing which downward I bent my looks,
And held them there so long, that the bard cried:
What art thou pondering? I in answer thus:
Alas! by what sweet thoughts, what fond desire.
Must they at length to that ill pass have reach'd!'
Then turning, I to them my speech address'd,
And thus began: Francesca! your sad fate
Even to tears my grief and pity moves.
But tell me; in the time of your sweet sighs,
By what, and how Love granted, that ye knew
Your yet uncertain wishes?' She replied:
No greater grief than to remember days
Of joy, when misery is at hand. That kens
Thy learn'd instructor. Yet so eagerly
If thou art bent to know the primal root
From whence our love gat being, I will do
As one, who weeps and tells his tale.
For our delight, we read of Lancelot,
How him love thrall'd. Alone we were, and no
Suspicion near us. Ofttimes by that reading
Our eyes were drawn together, and the hue
Fled from our alter'd cheek. But at one point
Alone we fell. When of that smile we read,
The wished smile, so rapturously kiss'd
By one so deep in love, then he, who ne'er
From me shall separate, at once my lips

One day,

All trembling kiss'd. The book and writer both Were love's purveyors. In its leaves that day We read no more." While thus one spirit spake, The other wail'd so sorely, that heart-struck, I, through compassion fainting, seem'd not far From death, and like a corse fell to the ground." The story of Francesca and Paolo is a great favourite with the Italians. It is noticed by all the historians of Ravenna. Petrarch introduces it, in his Trionfi d'Amore, among his examples of calamitous passion; and Tassoni, in his Secchia Rapita, represents Paolo Malatesta as leading the troops of Rimini, and describes him, when mounted on his charger, as contemplating a golden sword-chain, presented to him by Francesca :

Rimini vien con la bandiera sesta,
Guida mille cavalli, e mille fanti...
Halli donata al dipartir Francesca'
L'aurea catena, à cui la spada appende.
La va mirando il misero, e rinfresca
Quel foco ognor, che l' anima gli accende,
Quanto cerca fuggir, tanto s' invesca."

To him Francesca gave the golden chain

At parting-time, from which his sword was hung;

The wretched lover gazed at it with paiu,

Adding new pangs to those his heart had wrung;

The more he sought to fly the luscious bane,

The firmer he was bound, the deeper stung."—L. E.

(1) In allusion to these stanzas, Lord Byron writes thus to Mr. Moore, from Ravenna, 1820:-"If honour should come unlooked for' to any of your acquaintance, make a melody of it, that his ghost, like poor Yorick's, may have the satisfaction of being plaintively pitied-or still more nobly commemorated, like 'Oh breathe not his name.' case you should not think him worth it, here is a chant for you instead.”—P. E.

(2) Another version of this epigram runs thus:-
"How strangely Time his course has run,
Since first I pair'd with you;

Six years ago we made but ONE,

Now five have made us TWO."-P. E.

In

(3) In Lord Byron's MS. Diary of the preceding day, we find the following entry:-"January 21, 1821. Dined-visited-came home-read. Remarked on an anecdote in Grimm's Correspondence, which says, that Regnard et la plupart des poètes comiques étaient gens bilieux et mélan. coliques; et que M. de Voltaire, qui est très gai, n'a jamais fait que des tragédies-et que la comédie gaie est le seul genre où il n'ait point réussi. C'est que celui qui rit et celui qui fait rire sont deux hommes fort différents!' At this moment I feel as bilious as the best comic writer of them all (even as Regnard himself, the next to Molière, who bas written some of the best comedies in any language, and who is supposed to have committed suicide), and am not in spirits to continue my proposed tragedy. To-morrow is my birth-day-that is to say, at twelve o' the clock, midnight; i. e. in twelve minutes, I shall have completed thirty-andthree years of age!!!-and I go to my bed with a heaviness of heart at having lived so long, and to so little purpose. It is three minutes past twelve'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,' and I am now thirty-three!

'Tis but as a dead-flower with May-dew besprinkled: Then away with all such from the head that is hoary! What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?

Oh FAME! (5)—if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

(1) The procession of the Brasiers to Brandenburgh House was one of the most absurd fooleries of the time of the late Queen's trial. — L. E.

"Have you heard that the 'Brasiers' Company' have, or mean to present an address at Brandenburgh House, in armour,' and with all possible variety and splendour of brazen apparel?" Lord B. to Mr. Moore, Ravenna, 1821. — P. E.

(2) "There is an epigram for you, is it not?-worthy
Of Wordsworth, the grand metaquizzical poet,
A man of vast merit, though few people know it;
The perusal of whom (as I told you at Mestri)
I owe, in great part, to my passion for pastry."

B. Letters, January 22, 1821.-L. E.

(3) In a letter to Mr. Murray, date of July 30th, 1821, Lord Byron thus addresses that gentleman:-"Are you aware that Shelley has written an Elegy on John Keats?"-entitled Adonais-"and accuses the Quarterly Review of killing him." Then come the above lines, a parody on "Who killed poor Cock Robin ?" By such drollery his Lordship no doubt meant to ridicule this idea of his friend, which, indeed, he had already more gravely disputed, in a letter to Shelley himself. Moore.-P. E.

(4) "I composed these stanzas (except the fourth, added now) a few days ago, on the road from Florence to Pisa." B. Diary, Pisa, 6th Nov. 1821.—L. E.

"I enclose you some lines written not long ago, which you may do what you like with, as they are very harm. less. Only, if copied, or printed, or set, I could write it more correctly than in the usual way in which one's nothings are monstered,' as Coriolanus says." Lord B. to Mr Moore. Pisa, 1821.-P. E.

(5) In the same Diary, we find the following painfully interesting passage:-"As far as FAME goes (that is to say, living Fame), I have bad my share, perhaps indeed, certainly-more than my deserts. Some odd instances have

Because if a live dog, 'tis said,
Be worth a lion fairly sped,

A live lord must be worth two dead,
My Murray.

occurred to my own experience of the wild and strange places to which a name may penetrate, and where it may impress. Two years ago-(almost three, being in August, or July, 1819)-I received at Ravenna a letter in English verse from Drontheim in Norway, written by a Norwegian, and full of the usual compliments, etc. etc. In the same month I received an invitation into Holstein, from a Mr. Jacobson, I think, of Hamburgh; also (by the same medium) a translation of Medora's song in the Corsair, by a Westphalian baroness (not Thunderton-tronck'), with some original verses of hers (very pretty and Klopstockish), and a prose translation annexed to them, on the subject of my wife. As they concerned her more than me, I sent them to her with Mr. Jacobson's letter. It was odd enough to receive an invitation to pass the summer in Holstein, while in Italy, from people I never knew. The letter was addressed to Venice. Mr. J. talked to me of the wild roses growing in the Holstein summer:' why, then, did the Cimbri and the Teutones emigrate?-What a strange thing is life and man! Were I to present myself at the door of the house where my daughter now is, the door would be shut in my face, unless (as is not impossible) I knocked down the porter; and if 1 had gone in that year (and perhaps now) to Drontheim the furthest town in Norway), or into Holstein, I should Lave been received with open arms into the mansions of strangers and foreigners-attached to me by no tie but that of mind and rumour. As far as Fame goes, I have had my share: it has, indeed. been leavened by other human contingencies; and this in a greater degree than has occurred to most li terary men of a decent rank in life; but, on the whale, I take it that such equipoise is the condition of humanity."

--L. E.

(6) Horace Walpole's Memoirs of the last Nine Years of the Reign of George II.-L. E.

(7) Memoirs by James Earl Waldegrave, Governor of George III. when Prince of Wales.-L. E.

In his doctrine, at least as a teacher,
And kick'd from one stool

As a knave and a fool,

Has mounted another as preacher!

In that gown, like a skin

With no lion within,

He still for the bench would be driving, And roareth away,

A true Vicar of Bray, Except that his bray lost his living. "'Gainst free-thinkers," he roars, "You should all shut your doors, Or be bound in the Devil's indentures." And here I agree,

For who ever would be

A guest where old Simony enters!

These matters

(1) "Can't accept your courteous offer. must be arranged with Mr. Douglas Kinnaird. He is my trustee, and a man of honour. To him you can state all your mercantile reasons, which you might not like to state to me personally, such as heavy season-flat public'⚫ don't go off' lordship writes too much'-' won't take advice'' declining popularity'-' deduction for the trade⚫ make very little'-' generally lose by him'-' pirated edition' -foreign edition'-' severe criticisms,' etc. with other hints and howls for an oration, which i leave Douglas, who is an orator, to answer."-Lord B. to Mr. Murray, Aug. 23, 1821. -L. E.

"The argument of the above [stanzas] is that he wanted to ⚫stint me of my sizcings,' as Lear says,—that is to say, not

A shop let for pelf,

And pray God to pay his defender.

But, Doctor, one word,

Which perhaps you have heard

"They should never throw stones who have windows Of glass" to be broken:

And by that same token,

As a sinner, you can't care what sin does.

But perhaps you do well: Your own windows, they tell, Have long ago suffer'd erasure; Not a fragment remains

Of your character's panes,

Since the Regent refused you a glazier.

Though your visions of lawn

Have all been withdrawn,

And you miss'd your bold stroke for a mitre,
In a very snug way

You may still preach and pray,

And from bishop sink into backbiter!

TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON.

-the request,

You have ask'd for a verse-
In a rhymer, 't were strange to deny;
But my Hippocrene was but my breast,

And my feelings (its fountain) are dry.
Were I now as I was, I had sung

What Lawrence has pencill'd so well;
But the strain would expire on my tongue,
And the theme is too soft for
my shell.

I am ashes where once I was fire,
And the bard in my bosom is dead;
What I loved I now merely admire,

And my heart is as grey as my head.
My life is not dated by years;

There are moments which act as a plough; And there is not a furrow appears

But is deep in my soul as my brow.

Let the young and the brilliant aspire
To sing what I gaze on in vain;
For sorrow has torn from my lyre

The string which was worthy the strain.(5)

to propose an extravagant price for an extravagant poem, as is becoming." Lord B. to Mr. Moore, Ravenna, 1822.-L. E. (2) These lines were written on reading in the newspapers, that Lady Byron had been patroness of a ball in aid of some charity at Hinckley.-P. E.

(3) Marino Faliero, which, if not actually "damned" in the theatrical acceptation of the term, was to all intents and purposes a failure, as far as regards stage representation.-P. E.

(4) Dr. Nott, tutor to the late Princess Charlotte of Wales, who preached a Sermon denouncing Lord Byron's Cain as a blasphemous production.-L. E.

(5) The verses were composed December 1, 1819. "They are so unworthy the author," says Lady Blessington, "that

STANZAS. (1)

OH!-my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pillow! Where is my lover? where is my lover? Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover? Far far away! and aloue along the billow? Oh! my lonely-lonely-lonely--Pillow! Why must my head ache where his gentle brow lay? How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly,

And my head droops over thee like the willow!

Oh! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow!

Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from breaking, In return for the tears I shed upon thee waking;

Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow.

Then if thou wilt-no more my lonely Pillow, In one embrace let these arms again enfold him, And then expire of the joy-but to behold him! Oh! my lone bosom!-oh! my lonely Pillow!

THE CONQUEST. (2)

THE Son of Love and Lord of War I sing;

Him who bade England bow to Normandy, And left the name of Conqueror, more than King To his unconquerable dynasty.

Not fann'd alone by Victory's fleeting wing,

He rear'd his bold and brilliant throne on high: The Bastard kept, like lions, his prey fast, And Britons' bravest victor was the last.

March 8-9, 1821.

they are merely given as proof that the greatest genius can
sometimes write bad verses, as even Homer nods."
The following was Lady Blessington's answer:-
"When I ask'd for a verse, pray believe,
'Twas not vanity urged the desire;
For no more can my mirror deceive,
And no more can I poets inspire.

Time has touch'd with rude fingers my brow,
And the roses have fled from my cheek;

Then it surely were folly, if now

I the praise due to beauty should seek.

But as pilgrims who visit the shrine

Of some saint bear a relic away,

I sought a memorial of thine,

As a treasure when distant I stray.

Oh! say not that lyre is unstrung,

Whose chords can such raptures bestow,
Or that mute is that magical tongue,

From whence music and poetry flow.

And though Sorrow, ere yet youth has fled,
May have alter'd the locks' jetty hu

The bays that encircle the head

Hide the ravisher's marks from our view.”—P. E.

(I) These verses were written by Lord Byron, and given to the Countess Guiccioli, a little before he left Italy for Greece. They were meant to suit the Hindostanee air-" Alla Malla Punca" which the Countess was fond of singing. - L. E.

(2) This fragment was found amongst Lord Byron's papers, after his departure from Genoa for Greece.-L. E. (3) In Lady Blessington's Conversations with Lord Byron we find these lines thus introduced: "I will give you some stanzas I wrote yesterday (said Byron); they are as simple as even Wordsworth himself could write, and would do for music."-P. E.

(4) This lampoon upon the author of The Pleasures of Memory, the most perfect specimen extant of Lord Byron's skill in caricature, is, for obvious reasons omitted in the London Editions, but was maliciously given to the world by Fraser's Magazine, which delights in all kinds of literary mischief. The publication attracted the notice of the Times and the Examiner, both of which dealt severely with the noble satirist. We subjoin their observations, after the following note, which was prefixed to the lampoon by Fraser. The lines are dated 1818, without month or place.

["Lord Byron abused every body he knew, and the closer the intimacy the grosser the abuse. As Sam Rogers was among his most intimate friends, ( You (Rogers) and I were

NOSE and chin would shame a knocker;
Wrinkles that would puzzle Cocker;
Mouth which marks the envious scorner,
With a scorpion in each corner,
Turning its quick tail to sting you
In the place that most may wring you;
Eyes of lead-like hue, and gummy;
Carcass pick'd out from some mummy;
Bowels (but they were forgotten,
Save the liver, and that's rotten);

never correspondents (says Byron in one of his letters to him), but always something better-which is, very good friends,') it could not be expected that he should escape, and it was well known in all literary circles that one of the most stinging and personal little satires ever written by his Lordship was directed against the poetical banker. This poem was in Moore's hands; but he, having the fear of exclusion from Rogers's table before his eyes, would not publish it;-it was also in Murray's hands; but he, having the fear of the bawling of those Whig folks who infest his sanctam before his optics, could not muster nerve enough to give it to the world. As it is one of the best things in its way that fell from his Lordship's pen, we thought it a pity that the public should be deprived of it; and after having sought for it for some time in vain, we are now enabled, by the kindness of a fair friend, whose name must be a secret, but which if published would be an ornament to our pages, to lay it before our readers."]

The Times visits the author with the following flagel lation:

"Every body who has read Lord Byron's life and poems with attention, however slight, will feel little surprise that a person so destitute of sound principles, and combining, with the utmost levity of thinking, the most obstinate and unreasoning self-will, should utter the most contradictory opinions, both of men and things, according to the caprice of the moment, or, perhaps, no better cause than the infsence of the wind. It is notorious to all who kuen bio, that he lampooned his dearest friends, and amused one set of companions by caricatures of another, whom he, in turn, favoured with ludicrous representations of the first. Every body knew that this was the condition of all acquaintance with him, and nobody was stupid enough to suppose that the weakest of mankind could be capable of sincerity, much less of so firm and sacred a relation as friendship. His mind. highly gifted as it was with various talents, had no intel lectual dignity, and was incapable of appreciating the higher duties and virtues of life. He was like a child with a del│ -now dressing it with all the finery at hand, and caressing it with all the endearments within the reach of its fancy. then dashing it to pieces because a pin or a plait was out of place. It is obvious that the praise or censure of such ai man, however ably written, cannot be of the least worth or injury to any human creature, as it may always be presumed that in his Lordship's portfolio, if not in his printed works, some set-off will be found for every panegyric and