How can you free me from this horrid snare!
The cat may come, dear mousie! have a care!"
"O King," replied this scion of all mice,
"I'll surely set you free, and in a trice.
Fear not, I've knives as sharp as any saw,
And white as ivory, sheathed within my jaw.
Swiftly they'll cut the cruel cords that bind
So close: I can work well, you'll find."
And with these words friend Rat begins to gnaw The mighty rope, wearying his tiny jaw
Full many hours, but works so steadily
That the end crowns his labor finally,
And Master Lion hurries him away;
But as he went within himself he thought:
"No kindly deed is vain, howe'er 'tis wrought."
There's the whole story, simply told in rhyme.
'Tis long indeed, yet old in point of time,
As Esop testifies and millions more.
Now, come to see me, play the Lion's part,
And I'll endeavor, studying every art,
To play the Rat, free from ingratitude,
While you will show the Lion's fortitude,
If caught in snare as in foul prison hid,
Like any Rat! Now this God's grace forbid!"
(Translated by Leigh Hunt.)
A sweet "No, no," with a sweet smile beneath,
Becomes an honest girl; I'd have you learn it;-
As for plain "Yes," it may be said, i' faith,
Too plainly and too oft;-pray, well discern it.
Not that I'd have my pleasure incomplete,
Or lose the kiss for which my lips beset you;
But that in suffering me to take it, sweet,
I'd have you say, "No, no, I will not let you."
ON THE LAUGH OF MADAME D'ALBRET.
(Translated by Leigh Hunt.)
Yes, that fair neck, too beautiful by half,
Those eyes, that voice, that bloom, all do her honor;
Yet after all, that little giddy laugh
Is what, in my mind, sits the best upon her.
Good God! 'twould make the very streets and ways Through which she passes, burst into a pleasure! Did melancholy come to mar my days,
And kill me in the lap of too much leisure,
No spell were wanting, from the dead to raise me, But only that sweet laugh, wherewith she slays me.
THE ABBOT AND HIS HENCHMAN.
(Translated by Wm. J. Eckoff.)
The abbot's man, and he, the man of God,
In silly laughs and moistening of the clod
Seem as each were the other one's twin brother,-
In short, two peas resembling one another.
And yet last night the well-matched pair fell out.
You wonder what it could have been about?
With a deep sigh the pious prior said,
"At night put the big wine jug near my bed.
I fear I should expire were I left dry."
To which fat flunky dared to make reply:
"And you want me to lie all night bereft
Of balmy sleep? You know I get what's left
In that big jug. - I'm loath to see you die,
But yet-expire for lose my sleep? Not L."
ON A LADY WHO WISHED TO BEHOLD MAROT.
(Translated for this Work.)
As in my works to readers I appeared,
She loved me, then desired to see my face; Well, she has seen me, swarthy, gray of beard, Yet I am none the lower in her grace. O tender heart, O nymph of noble race, You are just: this frame already hoar with age, This is not I, 'tis but my prison cage.
And in the writings you were wont to read, Your sweet eyes saw me better (I engage)
Far, than the hour you looked on me indeed.
THE SACK OF ROME BY THE CONSTABLE OF BOURBON, 1527.
[Lord George Noel Gordon BYRON: A famous English poet; born in London, January 22, 1788. At the age of ten he succeeded to the estate and title of his granduncle William, fifth Lord Byron. He was educated at Harrow and Cambridge, and in 1807 published his first volume of poems, "Hours of Idleness." After a tour through eastern Europe he brought out two cantos of "Childe Harold," which met with instantaneous success, and soon after he married the heiress Miss Millbanke. The union proving unfortunate, Byron left England, and passed several years in Italy. In 1823 he joined the Greek insurgents in Cephalonia, and later at Missolonghi, where he died of a fever April 19, 1824. His chief poetical works are: "Childe Harold," "Don Juan," "Manfred," "Cain," "Marino Faliero," "Sardanapalus," "The Giaour," "Bride of Abydos," "The Corsair,” “Lara,” and “Mazeppa."]
Scene: Before the Walls of Rome.
The assault: the army in motion, with ladders to scale the walls; BOURBON, with a white scarf over his armor, foremost.
Chorus of Spirits in the air.
"Tis the morn, but dim and dark.
Whither flies the silent lark?
Whither shrinks the clouded sun?
Is the day indeed begun ?
Nature's eye is melancholy
O'er the city high and holy:
But without there is a din
Should arouse the saints within,
And revive the heroic ashes
Round which yellow Tiber dashes.
Oh ye seven hills! awaken,
Ere your very base be shaken!
Hearken to the steady stamp!
Mars is in their every tramp!
Not a step is out of tune,
As the tides obey the moon!
On they march, though to self-slaughter,
Regular as rolling water,
Whose high waves o'ersweep the border
Of huge moles, but keep their order,
Breaking only rank by rank.
Hearken to the armor's clank!
Look down o'er each frowning warrior,
How he glares upon the barrier:
Look on each step of each ladder,
As the stripes that streak an adder.
Look upon the bristling wall,
Manned without an interval!
Round and round, and tier on tier,
Cannon's black mouth, shining spear,
Lit match, bell-mouthed musquetoon,
Gaping to be murderous soon;
All the warlike gear of old,
Mixed with what we now behold,
In this strife 'twixt old and new,
Gather like a locusts' crew.
Shade of Remus! 'tis a time
Awful as thy brother's crime!
Christians war against Christ's shrine:
Must its lot be like to thine?
Near-and near - and nearer still,
As the earthquake saps the hill,
First with trembling, hollow motion,
Like a scarce-awakened ocean,
Then with stronger shock and louder,
Till the rocks are crushed to powder,-
Onward sweeps the rolling host!
Heroes of the immortal boast!
Mighty chiefs! eternal shadows!
First flowers of the bloody meadows
Which encompass Rome, the mother
Of a people without brother!
Will you sleep when nations' quarrels
Plow the root up of your laurels ?
Ye who wept o'er Carthage burning,
Weep not-strike! for Rome is mourning!
Onward sweep the varied nations!
Famine long hath dealt their rations.
To the wall, with hate and hunger,
Numerous as wolves, and stronger,
On they sweep. Oh! glorious city,
Must thou be a theme for pity?
Fight, like your first sire, each Roman!
Alaric was a gentle foeman,
Matched with Bourbon's black banditti!
Rouse thee, thou eternal city;
Rouse thee! Rather give the torch
With thine own hand to thy porch,
Than behold such hosts pollute
Your worst dwelling with their foot.
Ah! behold yon bleeding specter!
Ilion's children find no Hector;
Priam's offspring loved their brother;
Rome's great sire forgot his mother,
When he slew his gallant twin,
With inexpiable sin.
See the giant shadow stride
O'er the ramparts high and wide!
When the first o'erleapt thy wall,
Its foundation mourned thy fall.
Now, though towering like a Babel,
Who to stop his steps are able?
Stalking o'er thy highest dome,
Remus claims his vengeance, Rome!
Now they reach thee in their anger:
Fire and smoke and hellish clangor
Are around thee, thou world's wonder!
Death is in thy walls and under.
Now the meeting steel first clashes,
Downward then the ladder crashes,
With its iron load all gleaming,
Lying at its foot blaspheming!
Up again! for every warrior
Slain, another climbs the barrier.
Thicker grows the strife: thy ditches
Europe's mingling gore enriches.
Rome! although thy wall may perish,
Such manure thy fields will cherish,
Making gay the harvest home;
But thy hearths, alas! oh, Rome!
Yet be Rome amidst thine anguish,
Fight as thou wast wont to vanquish !
Yet once more, ye old Penates,
Let not your quenched hearths be Até's!
Yet again, ye shadowy heroes,
Yield not to these stranger Neros!
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