No More Learning

You're his foe--for that he fears you,
And in absence blasts and sears you:
You're his friend--for that he hates you,
First obliges, and then baits you,
Darting on the opportunity
When to do it with impunity: 50
You are neither--then he'll flatter,
Till he finds some trait for satire;
Hunts your weak point out, then shows it,
Where it injures, to expose it
In the mode that's most insidious,
Adding every trait that's hideous--
From the bile, whose blackening river
Rushes through his Stygian liver.

Then he thinks himself a lover--[581]
Why? I really can't discover, 60
In his mind, age, face, or figure;
Viper broth might give him vigour:
Let him keep the cauldron steady,
He the venom has already.

For his faults--he has but _one_;
'Tis but Envy, when all's done:
He but pays the pain he suffers,
Clipping, like a pair of Snuffers,
Light that ought to burn the brighter
For this temporary blighter. 70
He's the Cancer of his Species,
And will eat himself to pieces,--
Plague personified and Famine,--
Devil, whose delight is damning. [582]
For his merits--don't you know 'em? [ia]
Once he wrote a pretty Poem.

1818.

[First published, _Fraser's Magazine_, January, 1833,
vol. vii. pp. 88-84. ]




THE DUEL. [583]

1.

'Tis fifty years, and yet their fray
To us might seem but yesterday.
Tis fifty years, and three to boot,
Since, hand to hand, and foot to foot,
And heart to heart, and sword to sword,
One of our Ancestors was gored.
I've seen the sword that slew him;[584] he,
The slain, stood in a like degree
To thee, as he, the Slayer, stood
(Oh had it been but other blood! )
In kin and Chieftainship to me.
Thus came the Heritage to thee.

2.

To me the Lands of him who slew
Came through a line of yore renowned;
For I can boast a race as true
To Monarchs crowned, and some discrowned,
As ever Britain's Annals knew:
For the first Conqueror gave us Ground,[585]
And the last Conquered owned the line
Which was my mother's, and is mine.

3.

I loved thee--I will not say _how_,
Since things like these are best forgot:
Perhaps thou may'st imagine now
Who loved thee, and who loved thee not.
And thou wert wedded to another,[586]
And I at last another wedded:
I am a father, thou a mother,
To Strangers vowed, with strangers bedded.
For land to land, even blood to blood--
Since leagued of yore our fathers were--
Our manors and our birthright stood;
And not unequal had I wooed,
If to have wooed thee I could dare.
But this I never dared--even yet
When naught is left but to forget.
I feel that I could only love:
To sue was never meant for me,
And least of all to sue to thee;
For many a bar, and many a feud,
Though never told, well understood
Rolled like a river wide between--
And then there was the Curse of blood,
Which even my Heart's can not remove.
Alas! how many things have been!
Since we were friends; for I alone
Feel more for thee than can be shown.

4.

How many things! I loved thee--thou
Loved'st me not: another was
The Idol of thy virgin vow,
And I was, what I am, Alas!
And what he is, and what thou art,
And what we were, is like the rest:
We must endure it as a test,
And old Ordeal of the Heart. [587]

Venice, _Dec_. 29, 1818.




STANZAS TO THE PO. [588]

1.

River, that rollest by the ancient walls,
Where dwells the Lady of my love, when she
Walks by thy brink, and there perchance recalls
A faint and fleeting memory of me:

2.

What if thy deep and ample stream should be
A mirror of my heart, where she may read
The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee,
Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed!

3.

What do I say--a mirror of my heart?
Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong?
Such as my feelings were and are, thou art;
And such as thou art were my passions long.

4.

Time may have somewhat tamed them,--not for ever;
Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye
Thy bosom overboils, congenial river!
Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away:

5.

But left long wrecks behind, and now again,[ib]
Borne in our old unchanged career, we move:
Thou tendest wildly onwards to the main,
And I--to loving _one_ I should not love.

6.

The current I behold will sweep beneath
Her native walls, and murmur at her feet;
Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe
The twilight air, unharmed by summer's heat.

7.

She will look on thee,--I have looked on thee,
Full of that thought: and, from that moment, ne'er
Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see,
Without the inseparable sigh for her!

8.

Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream,--
Yes! they will meet the wave I gaze on now:
Mine cannot witness, even in a dream,
That happy wave repass me in its flow!

9.

The wave that bears my tears returns no more:
Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep? --
Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore,
I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep. [ic]


10.

But that which keepeth us apart is not
Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth,
But the distraction of a various lot,
As various as the climates of our birth.

11.

A stranger loves the Lady of the land,[id]
Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood
Is all meridian, as if never fanned
By the black wind that chills the polar flood. [ie]

12.

My blood is all meridian; were it not,
I had not left my clime, nor should I be,[if]
In spite of tortures, ne'er to be forgot,
A slave again of love,--at least of thee.

13.

'Tis vain to struggle--let me perish young--
Live as I lived, and love as I have loved;
To dust if I return, from dust I sprung,
And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved.

June, 1819.

[First published, _Conversations of Lord Byron_, 1824, 4? , pp. 24-26. ]




SONNET ON THE NUPTIALS OF THE MARQUIS ANTONIO CAVALLI
WITH THE COUNTESS CLELIA RASPONI OF RAVENNA. [589]

A noble Lady of the Italian shore
Lovely and young, herself a happy bride,
Commands a verse, and will not be denied,
From me a wandering Englishman; I tore
One sonnet, but invoke the muse once more
To hail these gentle hearts which Love has tied,
In Youth, Birth, Beauty, genially allied
And blest with Virtue's soul, and Fortune's store.
A sweeter language, and a luckier bard
Were worthier of your hopes, Auspicious Pair!
And of the sanctity of Hymen's shrine,
But,--since I cannot but obey the Fair,
To render your new state your true reward,
May your Fate be like _Hers_, and unlike _mine. _

Ravenna, July 31, 1819.

[From an autograph MS. in the possession of the Lady Dorchester, now
for the first time printed. ]




SONNET TO THE PRINCE REGENT. [ig]
ON THE REPEAL OF LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD'S FORFEITURE.

To be the father of the fatherless,
To stretch the hand from the throne's height, and raise
_His_ offspring, who expired in other days
To make thy Sire's sway by a kingdom less,--[ih]
_This_ is to be a monarch, and repress
Envy into unutterable praise.
Dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such traits,
For who would lift a hand, except to bless? [ii]
Were it not easy, Sir, and is't not sweet
To make thyself beloved? and to be
Omnipotent by Mercy's means? for thus
Thy Sovereignty would grow but more complete,
A despot thou, and yet thy people free,[ij]
And by the heart--not hand--enslaving us.

Bologna, _August_ 12, 1819. [590]

[First published, _Letters and Journals,_ ii. 234, 235. ]




STANZAS. [591]


1.

Could Love for ever
Run like a river,
And Time's endeavour
Be tried in vain--
No other pleasure
With this could measure;
And like a treasure[ik]
We'd hug the chain.
But since our sighing
Ends not in dying,
And, formed for flying,
Love plumes his wing;
Then for this reason
Let's love a season;
But let that season be only Spring.


2.

When lovers parted
Feel broken-hearted,
And, all hopes thwarted,
Expect to die;
A few years older,
Ah! how much colder
They might behold her
For whom they sigh!
When linked together,
In every weather,[il]
They pluck Love's feather
From out his wing--
He'll stay for ever,[im]
But sadly shiver
Without his plumage, when past the Spring. [in]

3.

Like Chiefs of Faction,
His life is action--
A formal paction
That curbs his reign,
Obscures his glory,
Despot no more, he
Such territory
Quits with disdain.
Still, still advancing,
With banners glancing,
His power enhancing,
He must move on--
Repose but cloys him,
Retreat destroys him,
Love brooks not a degraded throne.

4.

Wait not, fond lover!
Till years are over,
And then recover
As from a dream.
While each bewailing
The other's failing.
With wrath and railing,
All hideous seem--
While first decreasing,
Yet not quite ceasing,
Wait not till teasing,
All passion blight:
If once diminished
Love's reign is finished--
Then part in friendship,--and bid good-night. [io]

5.

So shall Affection
To recollection
The dear connection
Bring back with joy:
You had not waited[ip]
Till, tired or hated,
Your passions sated
Began to cloy.
Your last embraces
Leave no cold traces--
The same fond faces
As through the past:
And eyes, the mirrors
Of your sweet errors,
Reflect but rapture--not least though last.


6.

True, separations[iq]
Ask more than patience;
What desperations
From such have risen!
But yet remaining,
What is't but chaining
Hearts which, once waning,
Beat 'gainst their prison?
Time can but cloy love,
And use destroy love:
The winged boy, Love,
Is but for boys--
You'll find it torture
Though sharper, shorter,
To wean, and not wear out your joys.

_December_ 1, 1819.

[First published, _New Monthly Magazine_, 1832,
vol. xxxv. pp. 310-312. ]




ODE TO A LADY WHOSE LOVER WAS KILLED BY A BALL,
WHICH AT THE SAME TIME SHIVERED A PORTRAIT NEXT HIS HEART.


Motto.

_On peut trouver des femmes qui n'ont jamais eu de galanterie, mais
il est rare d'en trouver qui n'en aient jamais eu
qu'une_. --[_Reflexions_ . . . du Duc de la Rochefoucauld, No.
lxxiii. ]

1.

Lady! in whose heroic port
And Beauty, Victor even of Time,
And haughty lineaments, appear
Much that is awful, more that's dear--
Wherever human hearts resort
_There_ must have been for thee a Court,
And Thou by acclamation Queen,
Where never Sovereign yet had been.
That eye so soft, and yet severe,
Perchance might look on Love as Crime;
And yet--regarding thee more near--
The traces of an unshed tear
Compressed back to the heart,
And mellowed Sadness in thine air,
Which shows that Love hath once been there,
To those who watch thee will disclose
More than ten thousand tomes of woes
Wrung from the vain Romancer's art.
With thee how proudly Love hath dwelt!
His full Divinity was felt,
Maddening the heart he could not melt,
Till Guilt became Sublime;
But never yet did Beauty's Zone
For him surround a lovelier throne,
Than in that bosom once his own:
And he the Sun and Thou the Clime
Together must have made a Heaven
For which the Future would be given.

2.

And thou hast loved--Oh! not in vain!
And not as common Mortals love.
The Fruit of Fire is Ashes,
The Ocean's tempest dashes
Wrecks and the dead upon the rocky shore:
True Passion must the all-searching changes prove,
The Agony of Pleasure and of Pain,
Till Nothing but the Bitterness remain;
And the Heart's Spectre flitting through the brain
Scoffs at the Exorcism which would remove.

3.

And where is He thou lovedst? in the tomb,
Where should the happy Lover be!
For him could Time unfold a brighter doom,
Or offer aught like thee?
He in the thickest battle died,
Where Death is Pride;
And _Thou_ his widow--not his bride,
Wer't not more free--
_Here_ where all love, till Love is made
A bondage or a trade,
_Here_--thou so redolent of Beauty,
In whom Caprice had seemed a duty,
_Thou_, who could'st trample and despise
The holiest chain of human ties
For him, the dear One in thine eyes,
Broke it no more.
Thy heart was withered to it's Core,
It's hopes, it's fears, it's feelings o'er:
Thy Blood grew Ice when _his_ was shed,
And Thou the Vestal of the Dead.

4.

Thy Lover died, as All
Who truly love should die;
For such are worthy in the fight to fall
Triumphantly.
No Cuirass o'er that glowing heart
The deadly bullet turned apart:
Love had bestowed a richer Mail,
Like Thetis on her Son;
But hers at last was vain, and thine could fail--
The hero's and the lover's race was run.
Thy worshipped portrait, thy sweet face,
_Without_ that bosom kept it's place
As Thou _within_.
Oh! enviously destined Ball!
Shivering thine imaged charms and all
Those Charms would win:
Together pierced, the fatal Stroke hath gored
Votary and Shrine, the adoring and the adored.
That Heart's last throb was thine, that blood
Baptized thine Image in it's flood,
And gushing from the fount of Faith
O'erflowed with Passion even in Death,
Constant to thee as in it's hour
Of rapture in the secret bower.
Thou too hast kept thy plight full well,
As many a baffled Heart can tell.

[From an autograph MS. in the possession of Mr. Murray, now for the
first time printed. ]




THE IRISH AVATAR. [ir][592]

"And Ireland, like a bastinadoed elephant, kneeling to receive the
paltry rider. "--[_Life of Curran_, ii. 336. ]


1.

Ere the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave,[593]
And her ashes still float to their home o'er the tide,
Lo! George the triumphant speeds over the wave,
To the long-cherished Isle which he loved like his--bride.

2.

True, the great of her bright and brief Era are gone,
The rain-bow-like Epoch where Freedom could pause
For the few little years, out of centuries won,
Which betrayed not, or crushed not, or wept not her cause.

3.

True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags,
The Castle still stands, and the Senate's no more,
And the Famine which dwelt on her freedomless crags
Is extending its steps to her desolate shore.

4.

To her desolate shore--where the emigrant stands
For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth;
Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from his hands,
For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth.

5.

But he comes! the Messiah of Royalty comes!
Like a goodly Leviathan rolled from the waves;
Then receive him as best such an advent becomes,[is]
With a legion of cooks,[594] and an army of slaves!

6.

He comes in the promise and bloom of threescore,
To perform in the pageant the Sovereign's part--[it]
But long live the Shamrock, which shadows him o'er!
Could the Green in his _hat_ be transferred to his _heart! _

7.

Could that long-withered spot but be verdant again,
And a new spring of noble affections arise--
Then might Freedom forgive thee this dance in thy chain,
And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the skies.

8.

Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now?
Were he God--as he is but the commonest clay,
With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow--
Such servile devotion might shame him away.

9.

Aye, roar in his train! [595] let thine orators lash
Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride--
Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash
His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied.

10.

Ever glorious Grattan! the best of the good!
So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest!
With all which Demosthenes wanted endued,
And his rival, or victor, in all he possessed.

11.

Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome,
Though unequalled, preceded, the task was begun--
But Grattan sprung up like a god from the tomb
Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the _one! _[596]

12.

With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute;
With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind;
Even Tyranny, listening, sate melted or mute,
And Corruption shrunk scorched from the glance of his mind.

13.

But back to our theme! Back to despots and slaves! [iu]
Feasts furnished by Famine! rejoicings by Pain!
True Freedom but _welcomes_, while Slavery still _raves_,
When a week's Saturnalia hath loosened her chain.

14.

Let the poor squalid splendour thy wreck can afford,
(As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would hide)
Gild over the palace, Lo! Erin, thy Lord!
Kiss his foot with thy blessing--his blessings denied! [iv]

15.
Or _if_ freedom past hope be extorted at last,[iw]
If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay,
Must what terror or policy wring forth be classed
With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves yield their prey?

16.

Each brute hath its nature; a King's is to _reign_,--
To _reign! _ in that word see, ye ages, comprised
The cause of the curses all annals contain,
From Caesar the dreaded to George the despised!

17.

Wear, Fingal, thy trapping! [597] O'Connell, proclaim[ix]
His accomplishments! _His! ! ! _ and thy country convince
Half an age's contempt was an error of fame,
And that "Hal is the rascaliest, sweetest _young_ prince! "[iy]

18.

Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall
The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs?
Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of all
The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with hymns?

19.

Aye! "Build him a dwelling! " let each give his mite! [598]
Till, like Babel, the new royal dome hath arisen! [iz]
Let thy beggars and helots their pittance unite--
And a palace bestow for a poor-house and prison!

20.

Spread--spread for Vitellius, the royal repast,
Till the gluttonous despot be stuffed to the gorge!
And the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at last
The Fourth of the fools and oppressors called "George! "

21.

Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan!
Till they _groan_ like thy people, through ages of woe!
Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's throne,
Like their blood which has flowed, and which yet has to flow.

22.

But let not _his_ name be thine idol alone--
On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears!
Thine own Castlereagh! let him still be thine own!
A wretch never named but with curses and jeers!

23.

Till now, when the Isle which should blush for his birth,
Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her soil,
Seems proud of the reptile which crawled from her earth,
And for murder repays him with shouts and a smile. [599]

24.

Without one single ray of her genius,--without
The fancy, the manhood, the fire of her race--
The miscreant who well might plunge Erin in doubt[ja]
If _she_ ever gave birth to a being so base.

25.

If she did--let her long-boasted proverb be hushed,
Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile can spring--
See the cold-blooded Serpent, with venom full flushed,
Still warming its folds in the breast of a King! [jb]

26.

Shout, drink, feast, and flatter! Oh! Erin, how low
Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till
Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below
The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still.

27.

My voice, though but humble, was raised for thy right;[600]
My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free;
This hand, though but feeble, would arm in thy fight,[jc]
And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still for _thee! _

28.

Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my land;[jd]
I have known noble hearts and great souls in thy sons,
And I wept with the world, o'er the patriot band
Who are gone, but I weep them no longer as once.

29.

For happy are they now reposing afar,--
Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan,[601] all
Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent war,
And redeemed, if they have not retarded, thy fall.

30.

Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves!
Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of to-day--
Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves[je]
Be stamped in the turf o'er their fetterless clay.

31.

Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore,
Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled;[jf]
There was something so warm and sublime in the core
Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy--thy _dead_. [jg]

32.

Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour
My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore,
Which though trod like the worm will not turn upon power,
'Tis the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore! [jh][602]

Ra. _September_ 16, 1821.
[First published, _Conversations of Lord Byron_, 1824, pp. 331-338. ]




STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA. [603]

1.

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story--
The days of our Youth are the days of our glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. [604]


2.

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?
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?

3.

Oh Fame! --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.

4.

_There_ chiefly I sought thee, _there_ only I found thee;
Her Glance was the best of the rays that surround thee,
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,
I knew it was Love, and I felt it was Glory.

_November_ 6, 1821.

[First published, _Letters and Journals of Lord Byron_, 1830, ii. 366,
note. ]




STANZAS TO A HINDOO AIR. [605]

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 alone along the billow?

2.

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!

3.

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.

4.

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!

[First published, _Works of Lord Byron_, 1832, xiv. 357. ]




TO----[606]

1.

But once I dared to lift my eyes--
To lift my eyes to thee;
And since that day, beneath the skies,
No other sight they see.

2.

In vain sleep shuts them in the night--
The night grows day to me;
Presenting idly to my sight
What still a dream must be.

3.

A fatal dream--for many a bar
Divides thy fate from mine;
And still my passions wake and war,
But peace be still with thine.

[First published, _New Monthly Magazine_, 1833, vol. 37, p. 308. ]




TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON.

1.

You have asked for a verse:--the request
In a rhymer 'twere strange to deny;
But my Hippocrene was but my breast,
And my feelings (its fountain) are dry.

2.

Were I now as I was, I had sung
What Lawrence has painted so well;[607]
But the strain would expire on my tongue,
And the theme is too soft for my shell.

3.

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.

4.

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.

5.

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.

B.

[First published, _Letters and Journals_, 1830, ii. 635, 636. ]




ARISTOMENES. [608]

Canto First.

1.

The Gods of old are silent on the shore.
Since the great Pan expired, and through the roar
Of the Ionian waters broke a dread
Voice which proclaimed "the Mighty Pan is dead. "
How much died with him! false or true--the dream
Was beautiful which peopled every stream
With more than finny tenants, and adorned
The woods and waters with coy nymphs that scorned
Pursuing Deities, or in the embrace
Of gods brought forth the high heroic race 10
Whose names are on the hills and o'er the seas.

Cephalonia, _Sept^r^_ 10^th^ 1823.
[From an autograph MS. in the possession of the Lady Dorchester,
now for the first time printed. ]



FOOTNOTES:

[568] {529}[Byron does not give his authority for the Spanish original
of his _Romance Muy Doloroso_. In default of any definite information,
it may be surmised that his fancy was caught by some broadside or
chap-book which chanced to come into his possession, and that he made
his translation without troubling himself about the origin or
composition of the ballad. As it stands, the "Romance" is a cento of
three or more ballads which are included in the _Guerras Civiles de
Granada_ of Gines Perez de Hita, published at Saragossa in 1595 (see ed.
"En Alcala de Henares," 1601, pp. 249-252). Stanzas 1-11, "Passeavase el
Rey Moro," etc. , follow the text which De Hita gives as a translation
from the Arabic; stanzas 12-14 are additional, and do not correspond
with any of the Spanish originals; stanzas 15-21, with numerous
deviations and omissions, follow the text of a second ballad, "Moro
Alcayde, Moro Alcayde," described by De Hita as "antiguo Romance," and
portions of stanzas 21-23 are imbedded in a ballad entitled "Muerte dada
a Los Abencerrajes" (Duran's _Romancero General_, 1851, ii. 89).

The ballad as a whole was not known to students of Spanish literature
previous to the publication of Byron's translation (1818), (see _Ancient
Ballads from the Civil Wars of Granada_, by Thomas Rodd, 1801, pp. 93,
98; Southey's _Common-Place Book_, iv. 262-266, and his _Chronicle of
the Cid_, 1808, pp. 371-374), and it has not been included by H. Duran
in his _Romancero General_, 1851, ii. 89-91, or by F. Wolf and C.
Hofmann in their _Primavera y Flor de Romances_, 1856, i. 270-278. At
the same time, it is most improbable that Byron was his own
"Centonista," and it may be assumed that the Spanish text as printed
(see _Childe Harold,_ Canto IV. , 1818, pp. 240-254, and _Poetical
Works_, 1891, pp. 566, 567) was in his possession or within his reach.
(For a correspondence on the subject, see _Notes and Queries_, Third
Series, vol. xii. p. 391, and Fourth Series, vol. i. p. 162. )

A MS. of the Spanish text, sent to England for "copy," is in a foreign
handwriting. Two MSS. (A, B) of the translation are in Mr. Murray's
possession: A, a rough draft; B, a fair copy. The watermark of A is
1808, of B (dated January 4, 1817) 1800. It is to be noted that the
refrain in the Spanish text is _Ay de mi Alhama_, and that the insertion
of the comma is a printer's or reader's error. ]

[569] [In A. D. 886, during the reign of Muley Abul Hacen, King of
Granada, Albania was surprised and occupied by the Christians under Don
Rodrigo Ponce de Leon. ]

[570] The effect 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. ["This ballad was so dolorous in the
original Arabic language, that every time it was sung it acted as an
incitement to grief and despair, and for this reason it was at length
finally prohibited in Granada. "--_Historia . . . de las Guerras Civiles_,
translated from the Arabic of Abenhamim, by Gines Perez de Hita, and
from the Spanish by Thomas Rodd, 1803, p. 334. According to Ticknor
(_Hist. of Spanish Literature_, 1888, iii. 139), the "Arabic origin" of
De Hita's work is not at all probable. "He may have obtained Arabic
materials for parts of his story. "]

[hv] _Alas--alas--Alhama! _--[MS. M. ]

[571] [Byron's _Ay de mi, Alhama_, which should be printed _Ay de mi
Alhama_, must be rendered "Woe for my Alhama! " "Woe is me, Alhama! " is
the equivalent of "_Ay de mi Alhama! _"]

[572] {531}["Un viejo Alfaqui" is "an old Alfaqui," _i. e. _ a doctor of
the Mussulman law, not a proper name. ]

[573] {532}["De leyes tambien hablava" should be rendered "He spake
'also' of the laws," not _tan bien_, "so well," or "exceeding well. "]

[574] {533}[The Alcaide or "governor" of the original ballad is
converted into the Alfaqui of stanza 9. It was the "Alcaide," in whose
absence Alhama was taken, and who lost children, wife, honour, and his
own head in consequence (_Notes and Queries_, iv. i. 162). ]

[hw] ----_so white to see_. --[MS. M. ]

[575] {535}[Jacopo Vittorelli (1749-1835) was born at Bassano, in
Venetian territory. Under the Napoleonic "kingdom of Italy" he held
office as a subordinate in the Ministry of Education at Milan, and was
elected a member of the college of "Dotti. " At a later period of his
life he returned to Bassano, and received an appointment as censor of
the press.