When Cynthia's light almost gave way to morn,
And nearly veil'd in mist her waning horn;
A serf, that rose betimes to thread the wood,
And hew the bough that bought his children's food,
Pass'd by the river that divides the plain
Of Otho's lands and Lara's broad domain:
He heard a tramp-a horse and horseman broke
From out the wood-before him was a cloak
Wrapt round some burthen at his saddle-bow,
Bent was his head, and hidden was his brow.
Roused by the sudden sight at such a time,
And some foreboding that it might be crime,
Himself unheeded watch'd the stranger's course,
Who reach'd the river, bounded from his horse,
And, lifting thence the burthen which he bore,
Heaved up the bank, and dash'd it from the shore;
Then paused, and look'd, and turn'd, and seem'd to
watch,

And still another hurried glance would snatch,
And follow with his step the stream that flow'd,
As if even yet too much its surface show'd:
At once he started, stoop'd, around him strown
The winter floods had scatter'd heaps of stone;
Of these the heaviest thence he gather'd there,
And slung them with a more than common care.
Meantime the serf had crept to where unseen
Himself might safely mark what this might mean;
He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast,
And something glitter'd starlike on the vest:
But, ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk,
A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk:
It rose again, but indistinct to view,
And left the waters of a purple hue,
Then deeply disappear'd: the horseman gazed
Till ebb'd the latest eddy it had raised;
Then, turning, vaulted on his pawing steed,

visit whilst at supper, and who, during the space of a month or thereabouts, previous to this time, had called upon him almost daily, at the apostolic palace, he took this person behind him on his mule, and proceeded to the street of the Jews, where he quitted his servant, directing him to remain there until a certain hour; when, if he did not return, he might repair to the palace. The duke then seated the person in the mask behind him, and rode, I know not waither; but in that night he was assassinated, and thrown to the river. The servant, after having been dismissed, was also assaulted and mortally wounded; and although he was attended with great care, yet such was his situation, that he could give no intelligible account of what had befallen his master. In the morning, the duke not having returned to the palace, his servants began to be alarmed; and one of them informed the pontiff of the evening excursion of his sons, and that the duke had not yet made his appearance. This gave the pope no small anxiety; but he conjectured that the duke had been attracted by some courtesan to pass the night with her, and, not choosing to quit the house in epen day, had waited till the following evening to return home. When, however, the evening arrived, and he found himself disappointed in his expectations, he became deeply afflicted, and began to make inquiries from different persons, whom he ordered to attend him for that purpose. Amongst these was a man named Giorgio Schiavoni, who, baving discharged some timber from a bark in the river, had remained on board the vessel to watch it; and being interrogated whether he had seen any one thrown into the ver on the night preceding, he replied, that he saw two men on foot, who came down the street, and looked diliFrutly about, to observe whether any person was passing. That seeing no one, they returned, and a short time afterwards two others came, and looked around in the same manser as the former: no person still appearing, they gave a to their companions, when a man came, mounted on a white horse, having behind him a dead body, the head and arms of which hung on one side, and the feet on the

And instant spurr'd him into panting speed.
His face was mask'd-the features of the dead,
If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread;
But if in sooth a star its bosom bore,
Such is the badge that knighthood ever wore,
And such 'tis known Sir Ezzelin had worn
Upon the night that led to such a morn.
If thus he perish'd, Heaven receive his soul!
His undiscover'd limbs to ocean roll;
And charity upon the hope would dwell
It was not Lara's hand by which he fell.

XXV.

And Kaled-Lara-Ezzelin, are gone, Alike without their monumental stone! The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean

From lingering where her chieftain's blood had been.
Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud,
Her tears were few, her wailing never loud;
But furious would you tear her from the spot
Where yet she scarce believed that he was not,
Her eye shot forth with all the living fire
That haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire;
But left to waste her weary moments there,
She talk'd all idly unto shapes of air,
Such as the busy brain of Sorrow paints,
And woos to listen to her fond complaints:
And she would sit beneath the very tree
Where lay his drooping head upon her knee;
And in that posture where she saw him fall,
His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall;
And she had shorn but saved her raven hair,
And oft would snatch it from her bosom there,
And fold and press it gently to the ground,
As if she stanch'd anew some phantom's wound.

other side of the horse; the two persons on foot supporting the body, to prevent its falling. They thus proceeded to wards that part, where the filth of the city is usually dis. charged into the river, and turning the horse, with his tail towards the water, the two persons took the dead body by the arms and feet, and with all their strength flung it into the river. The person on horseback then asked if they had thrown it in; to which they replied, Signor, si (yes, Sir). He then looked towards the river, and, seeing a mantle floating on the stream, he inquired what it was that appeared black, to which they answered, it was a mantle; and one of them threw stones upon it, in consequence of which it sunk. The attendants of the pontiff then inquired from Giorgio, why he had not revealed this to the governor of the city; to which he replied, that he had seen in his time a hundred dead bodies thrown into the river at the same place, without any inquiry being made respecting them; and that he had not, therefore, considered it as a matter of any im. portance. The fishermen and seamen were then collected, and ordered to search the river, where, on the following evening, they found the body of the duke, with his habit entire, and thirty ducats in his purse. He was pierced with nine wounds, one of which was in his throat, the others in his head, body, and limbs. No sooner was the pontiff informed of the death of his son, and that he had been thrown, like filth, into the river, than, giving way to his grief, he shut himself up in a chamber, and wept bitterly. The Cardinal of Segovio, and other attendants on the pope, went to the door, and, after many hours spent in persuasions and exhortations, prevailed upon him to admit them. From the evening of Wednesday till the following Saturday the pope took no food; nor did he sleep from Thursday morning till the same hour on the ensuing day. At length, however, giving way to the entreaties of his attendants, he began to restrain his sorrow, and to consider the injury which his own health might sustain, by the further indulgence of his grief."-Roscoe's Leo Tenth, vol. i. p. 265.

Herself would question, and for him reply;
Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly
From some imagined spectre in pursuit;
Then seat her down upon some linden's root,

(1) "Lara, though it has many good passages, is a further proof of the melancholy fact, which is true of all sequels, from the continuation of the Eneid, by one of the famous Italian poets of the middle ages, down to Polly, a Sequel to the Beggar's Opera, that more last words' may generally be spared, without any great detriment to the world." Bishop Heber.

"Lara has some charms which The Corsair has not. It is more domestic; it calls forth more sympathies with polished society; it is more intellectual, but much less passionate, less vigorous, and less brilliant; it is sometimes even languid, at any rate, it is more diffuse." Sir E. Brydges. "Lara, obviously the sequel of The Corsair, maintains in

And hide her visage with her meagre hand,
Or trace strange characters along the sand.
This could not last-she lies by him she loved;
Her tale untold her truth too dearly proved. (1)

general the same tone of deep interest and lofty feeling; though the disappearance of Medora from the scene deprives it of the enchanting sweetness by which its terrors are there redeemed, and make the hero, on the whole, less captivating. The character of Lara, too, is rather too laboriously finish. ed, and his nocturnal encounter with the apparition is worked up too ostentatiously. There is infinite beauty in the sketch of the dark Page, and in many of the moral or general reflections which are interspersed with the narrative.” Jeffrey.-L. E

"What do the Reviewers mean by 'elaborate? Lara I wrote while undressing, after coming home from balls and masquerades, in the year of revelry, 1814." B. Letters, 1822.-L. E.

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE subsequent poems were written at the request of my friend, the Hon. D. Kinnaird, for a Selection of Hebrew Melodies, and have been published with the music, arranged by Mr. Braham and Mr. Nathan. (2) January, 1815.

HEBREW MELODIES.

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. (3)
SHE walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes :
Thus mellow'd to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

(I) Lord Byron never alludes to his share in these Melodies with complacency. Mr. Moore having, on one occasion, rallied him a little on the manner in which some of them had been set to music,-"Sunburn Nathan!" he exclaims, "why do you always twit me with his Ebrew nasalities? Have I not told you it was all Kinnaird's doing, and my own exquisite facility of temper?"-L. E.

(2) "Neither the ancient Jews," says Dr. Burney, "nor the modern, have ever had characters peculiar to music; so that the melodies used in their religious ceremonies have, at all times, been traditional, and at the mercy of the singers."-Kalkbrenner tells us, that "les juifs espagnols lisent et chantent leurs psaumes bien différemment que les juifs hollandais, les juifs romains autrement que les juifs de la Prusse et de la Hesse; et tous croient chanter comme on chantoit dans le Temple de Jérusalem!"-Hist. de la Musique, tom. i. p. 34.-L. E.

(3) These stanzas were written by Lord Byron, on returning from a ball-room, where he had seen Mrs. (now Lady) Wilmot Horton, the wife of his relation, the present Governor of Ceylon. On this occasion Mrs. II. had appeared

(1)

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL
SWEPT. (4)

THE harp the monarch minstrel swept,
The king of men, the loved of Heaven,
Which Music hallow'd while she wept

O'er tones her heart of hearts had given,
Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven !
It soften'd men of iron mould,

It gave them virtues not their own;

No ear so dull, no soul so cold,

That felt not, fired not to the tone,

Till David's lyre grew mightier than his throne!
It told the triumphs of our king,
It wafted glory to our God;

It made our gladden'd valleys ring,

The cedars bow, the mountains nod;

Its sound aspired to heaven and there abode ! Since then, though heard on earth no more,

Devotion, and her daughter Love

Still bid the bursting spirit soar

To sounds that seem as from above,

In dreams that day's broad light can not remove.(5)

1

in mourning, with numerous spangles on her dress.—L. E. Nathan however says, in his Fugitive Pieces and Reminiscences of Lord Byron :-"It is most probable, from the fervent attachment he felt towards his sister, whose countenance was as beautiful as her disposition was amiable, and the unceasing tenderness with which he seemed on all | occasions to view her, that they (the lines in question) were directed to that lady alone. This opinion is much strengthened by the anxiety he betrayed whenever the composition was executed in her presence.”—P. E.

(4) "In the reign of King David, music was held in the highest estimation by the Hebrews. The genius of that prince for music, and his attachment to the study and practice of it, as well as the great number of musicians appointed by him for the performance of religious rites and ceremonies, could not fail to extend its influence and augment its perfections: for it was during this period, that music was first honoured by being admitted in the ministry of sacrifice, and worship of the ark; as well as by being cultivated by a king." Burney.-L. E.

(5) "The hymns of David excel no less in sublimity and

IF THAT HIGH WORLD.
Ir that high world, which lies beyond
Our own, surviving Love endears;
If there the cherish'd heart be fond,
The eye the same, except in tears-
How welcome those untrodden spheres!
How sweet this very hour to die!
To soar from earth, and find all fears
Lost in thy light-Eternity!

It must be so: 'tis not for self

That we so tremble on the brink, And, striving to o'erleap the gulf, Yet cling to Being's severing link. Oh! in that future let us think

To hold each heart the heart that shares, With them the immortal waters drink, And soul in soul grow deathless theirs!

OH! WEEP FOR THOSE.

On! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream,
Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream;

tenderness of expression, than in loftiness and purity of religions sentiment. In comparison with them, the sacred poetry of all other nations sinks into mediocrity. They have embodied so exquisitely the universal language of religious emotion, that (a few fierce and vindictive passages excepted, natural in the warrior-poet of a sterner age) they have entered with unquestionable propriety into the Christian ritual. The songs which cheered the solitude of the desert caves of Engedi, or resounded from the voice of the Hebrew people

they wound along the glens or the hill-sides of Judea, have been repeated for ages in almost every part of the babitable world,-in the remotest islands of the ocean, among the forests of America, or the sands of Africa. How Bany human hearts have they softened, purified, exalted! of how many wretched beings have they been the secret Pasolation on how many communities have they drawn on the blessings of Divine Providence, by bringing the fictions in unison with their deep devotional fervour!" Valman.-L. E.

The words of this melody have been greatly and deervedly admired; yet the circumstances that attended the composition of the latter lines may be interesting. When

255

Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell;
Mourn-where their God hath dwelt the godless dwell!
And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet?
And when shall Zion's songs again seem sweet?
And Judah's melody once more rejoice

The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly voice?
Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast,
How shall ye flee away and be at rest!
The wild-dove hath her nest, the fox his cave,
Mankind their country-Israel but the grave!

ON JORDAN'S BANKS.

ON Jordan's banks the Arab's camels stray,
On Sion's hill the False One's votaries pray,
The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steep--
Yet there--even there-O God! thy thunders sleep:

There where thy finger scorch'd the tablet stone!
There where thy shadow to thy people shone !
Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire:
Thyself-none living see and not expire!

Oh! in the lightning let thy glance appear;

Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppressor's spear.
How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod!
How long thy temple worshipless, O God!

JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER. (1)

SINCE Our country, our God-O my sire!
Demand that thy daughter expire;
Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow,
Strike the bosom that's bared for thee now!

And the voice of my mourning is o'er,
And the mountains behold me no more:
If the hand that I love lay me low,
There cannot be pain in the blow!

And of this, O my father! be sure—
That the blood of thy child is as pure
As the blessing I beg ere it flow,
And the last thought that soothes me below.

Though the virgins of Salem lament,
Be the judge and the hero unbent!
I have won the great battle for thee,
And my father and country are free!

his Lordship put the copy into my hand, it terminated thus:

Its sound aspired to heaven, and there abode.' This however did not complete the verse, and I wished him to help out the melody. He replied, "Why, I have sent you to heaven-it would be difficult to go further!' My attention for a few moments was called to some other person, and his Lordship, whom I had hardly missed, exclaimed'Here, Nathan, I have brought you down again;' and immediately presented me the beautiful and sublime lines which conclude the melody." Nathan.-P. E.

(1) "Jephtha, a bastard son of Gilead, having been wrongfully expelled from his father's house, had taken refuge in a wild country, and become a noted captain of freebooters. His kindred, groaning under foreign oppression, began to look to their valiant though lawless compatriot, whose profession, according to their usage, was no more dishonourable than that of a pirate in the elder days of Greece. They sent for him, and made him head of their city. Before he went forth against the Ammonites, he made the memorable vow, that, if he returned victorious, he would sacrifice as a burnt-offering whatever first met him

When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd,
When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd,
Let my memory still be thy pride,
And forget not I smiled as I died!

OH! SNATCH'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S
BLOOM.

OH! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
But on thy turf shall roses rear

Their leaves, the earliest of the year;

And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:
And oft by yon blue gushing stream

Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a dream,
And lingering pause and lightly tread;
Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead.

Away! we know that tears are vain,

That death nor heeds nor hears distress: Will this unteach us to complain?

Or make one mourner weep the less? And thou--who tell'st me to forget, Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

MY SOUL IS DARK.

My soul is dark-Oh! quickly string
The harp I yet can brook to hear;
And let thy gentle fingers fling

Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear: "If in this heart a hope be dear,

That sound shall charm it forth again; If in these eyes there lurk a tear, "Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.

But bid the strain be wild and deep,
Nor let thy notes of joy be first:
I tell thee, minstrel! I must weep,

Or else this heavy heart will burst;
For it hath been by sorrow nursed,

And ached in sleepless silence long; And now 'tis doom'd to know the worst, And break at once-or yield to song.(1)

I SAW THEE WEEP.

I SAW thee weep-the big bright tear
Came o'er that eye of blue;
And then methought it did appear

A violet dropping dew:

I saw thee smile-the sapphire's blaze
Beside thee ceased to shine;

It could not match the living rays
That fill'd that glance of thine.

on his entrance into his native city. He gained a splendid victory. At the news of it, his only daughter came dancing forth, in the gladness of her heart, and with jocund instruments of music, to salute the deliverer of his people. The miserable father rent his clothes in agony; but the noblespirited maiden would not hear of the disregard of the vow: she only demanded a short period to bewail upon the mountains, like the Antigone of Sophocles, her dying without hope of becoming a bride or mother, and then submitted to her fate." Millman.-L. E.

(1) "It was generally conceived that Lord Byron's reported singularities approached on some occasions to derangement, and at one period, indeed, it was very currently asserted that

As clouds from yonder sun receive
A deep and mellow dye,

Which scarce the shade of coming eve

Can banish from the sky, Those smiles unto the moodiest mind

Their own pure joy impart: Their sunshine leaves a glow behind That lightens o'er the heart.

THY DAYS ARE DONE.
THY days are done, thy fame begun;
Thy country's strains record
The triumphs of her chosen Son,
The slaughters of his sword!
The deeds he did, the fields he won,
The freedom he restored!

Though thou art fall'n, while we are free
Thou shalt not taste of death!
The generous blood that flow'd from thee
Disdain'd to sink beneath;
Within our veins its currents be,

Thy spirit on our breath!

Thy name, our charging hosts along,
Shall be the battle-word!
Thy fall, the theme of choral song
From virgin voices pour'd!

To weep would do thy glory wrong;
Thou shalt not be deplored.

SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST
BATTLE.

WARRIORS and chiefs! should the shaft or the sword
Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord,
Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path:
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath!
Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow,
Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe,
Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet!
Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet.
Farewell to others, but never we part,
Heir to my royalty, son of my heart!
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway,
Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day!

SAUL. (2)

THOU whose spell can raise the dead,
Bid the prophet's form appear.
"Samuel raise thy buried head!

King, behold the phantom seer!"

Earth yawn'd; he stood the centre of a cloud: Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud.

his intellects were actually impaired. The report on served to amuse his Lordship. He referred to the circum stance, and declared that he would try how a madman con write: seizing the pen with eagerness, he for a memes fixed his eyes in majestic wildness on vacancy; when like flash of inspiration, without erasing a single word, t above verses were the result." Nathan.-P. E.

(2) "Haunted with that insatiable desire of searching in the secrets of futurity, inseparable from uncivilised m Saul knew not to what quarter to turn. The priests, ou raged by his cruelty, had forsaken him: the prophets ste aloof: no dreams visited his couch; he had persecute even the unlawful diviners. He hears at last of a femal

Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye;
His hand was wither'd, and his veins were dry;
His foot, in bony whiteness, glitter'd there,
Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare;
From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame,
Like cavern'd winds, the hollow accents came.
Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak,
At and blasted by the thunder-stroke.
once,

"Why is my sleep disquieted?

Who is he that calls the dead?
Is it thou, O king? Behold,
Bloodless are these limbs, and cold;
Such are mine; and such shall be
Thine to-morrow when with me;
Ere the coming day is done,
Such shalt thou be, such thy son.
Fare thee well, but for a day,
Then we mix our mouldering clay.
Thou, thy race, lie pale and low,
Pierced by shafts of many a bow;
And the falchion by thy side
To thy heart thy hand shall guide:
Crownless, breathless, headless fall,
Son and sire, the house of Saul! (1)

FALL IS VANITY, SAITH THE PREACHER."
FAME, wisdom, love, and power were mine,
And health and youth possess'd me;
My goblets blush'd from every vine,
And lovely forms caress'd me:
I sunn'd my heart in beauty's eyes,
And felt my soul grow tender;
All earth can give, or mortal prize,
Was mine of regal splendour.

I strive to number o'er what days
Remembrance can discover,
Which all that life or earth displays
Would lure me to live over.

There rose no day, there roll'd no hour
Of pleasure unembitter'd;
And not a trapping deck'd my power
That gall'd not while it glitter'd.

The serpent of the field, by art

And spells, is won from harming;
But that which coils around the heart,
Oh! who hath power of charming?
It will not list to wisdom's lore,
Nor music's voice can lure it;
But there it stings for evermore
The soul that must endure it.

'Whom

ecromancer, a woman with the spirit of Ob; strangely similar in sound to the Obeah women in the West Indies. To the cave-dwelling of this woman, in Endor, the monarch proceeds in disguise. He commands her to raise the spirit of Samuel. At this daring demand, the woman first recog aises, or pretends to recognise, her royal visitor. test thou?' says the king. Mighty ones ascending from the earth,Of what form? An old man covered with mantle.' Saul, in terror, bows down his head to the earth; and, it should seem, not daring to look up, receives from the voice of the spectre the awful intimation of his defeat and death. On the reality of this apparition we pretead not to decide: the figure, if figure there were, was not seen by Saul; and, excepting the event of the approaching battle, the spirit said nothing which the living prophet had hot said before, repeatedly and publicly. But the fact is carious, as showing the popular belief of the Jews in de

WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS

SUFFERING CLAY.

WHEN coldness wraps this suffering clay, Ah! whither strays the immortal mind? It cannot die, it cannot stay,

But leaves its darken'd dust behind.
Then, unembodied, doth it trace

By steps each planet's heavenly way?
Or fill at once the realms of space,
A thing of eyes, that all survey?
Eternal, boundless, undecay'd,

A thought unseen, but seeing all,
All, all in earth, or skies display'd,
Shall it survey, shall it recall:
Each fainter trace that memory holds
So darkly of departed years,
In one broad glance the soul beholds,
And all, that was, at once appears.

Before Creation peopled earth,

Its eye shall roll through chaos back; And where the furthest heaven had birth, The spirit trace its rising track. And where the future mars or makes, Its glance dilate o'er all to be, While sun is quench'd or system breaks, Fix'd in its own eternity.

Above or love, hope, hate, or fear,

It lives all passionless and pure: An age shall fleet like earthly year; Its years as moments shall endure. Away, away, without a wing,

O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly; A nameless and eternal thing, Forgetting what it was to die.

VISION OF BELSHAZZAR.
THE king was on his throne,

The satraps throng'd the hall;
A thousand bright lamps shone
O'er that high festival.
A thousand cups of gold,

In Judah deem'd divine-
Jehovah's vessels hold

The godless heathen's wine!
In that same hour and hall,
The fingers of a hand
Came forth against the wall,
And wrote, as if on sand:

parted spirits to have been the same with that of most other nations." Millman.-L. E.

(1) "Since we have spoken of witches," said Lord Byron at Cephalonia, in 1823," what think you of the witch of Endor? I have always thought this the finest and most finished witch-scene that ever was written or conceived; and you will be of my opinion, if you consider all the cir cumstances and the actors in the case, together with the gravity, simplicity, and dignity of the language. It beats all the ghost-scenes I ever read. The finest conception on a similar subject is that of Goethe's devil, Mephistopheles; and though, of course, you will give the priority to the former, as being inspired, yet the latter, if you know it, will appear to you-at least it does to me-one of the finest and most sublime specimens of human conception." Kennedy's Conversations on Religion, etc., with Lord Byron.-L. E.