A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE

One fatal remembrance — one sorrow that throws
Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes —
To which Life nothing darker nor brighter can bring,
For which joy hath no balm — and affliction no sting."
MOORE .
TO
SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.
AS A SLIGHT BUT MOST SINCERE TOKEN OF
ADMIRATION FOR HIS GENIUS, RESPECT FOR HIS
CHARACTER, AND GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP ,

THIS PRODUCTION IS INSCRIBED

BY HIS OBLIGED AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT ,
BYRON.
LONDON , May , 1813.

No breath of air to break the wave

(Dedication of the National Monument, July 1, 1869.)
I
After the eyes that looked, the lips that spake
Here, from the shadows of impending death,
Those words of solemn breath,
What voice may fitly break
The silence, doubly hallowed, left by him?
We can but bow the head, with eyes grown dim,
And, as a Nation's litany, repeat
The phrase his martyrdom hath made complete,
Noble as then, but now more sadly-sweet:
"Let us, the Living, rather dedicate
Ourselves to the unfinished work, which they
Thus far advanced so nobly on its way,

FROM V IRGIL , G EORG . III

L O ! smoking in the stubborn plough, the ox
Falls, from his lip foam gushing crimson-stained,
And sobs his life out. Sad of face the ploughman
Moves, disentangling from his comrade's corpse
The lone survivor: and its work half-done,
Abandoned in the furrow stands the plough
Not shadiest forest-depths, not softest lawns,
May move him now: not river amber-pure,
That tumbles o'er the cragstones to the plain.
Powerless the broad sides, glazed the rayless eye,

THE FOURTH BOOK OF THE GEORGICS

The gifts of heav'n my foll'wing song pursues,
Airial honey, and ambrosial dews.
Maecenas, read this other part, that sings
Embattled squadrons, and advent'rous kings:
A mighty pomp, tho' made of little things,
Their arms, their arts, their manners, I disclose,
And how they war, and whence the people rose:
Slight is the subject, but the praise not small,
If Heav'n assist, and Phaebus hear my call.
First, for thy bees a quiet station find,
And lodge 'em under covert of the wind,

THE THIRD BOOK OF THE GEORGICS

Thy fields, propitious Pales, I rehearse;
And sing thy pastures in no vulgar verse,
Amphrysian shepherd; the Lycaean woods,
Arcadia's flow'ry plains, and pleasing floods
All other themes that careless minds invite
Are worn with use, unworthy me to write.
Busiris' altars, and the dire decrees
Of hard Eurystheus, ev'ry reader sees;
Hylas the boy, Latona's erring isle,
And Pelops' iv'ry shoulder, and his toil
For fair Hippodame, with all the rest

[ Work and the earth ]

Until Jove let it be, no colonist
Mastered the wild earth; no land was marked,
None parceled out or shared; but everyone
Looked for his living in the common wold.

And Jove gave poison to the blacksnakes, and
Made the wolves ravage, made the ocean roll,
Knocked honey from the leaves, took fire away —
So man might beat out various inventions
By reasoning and art.
First he chipped fire
Out of the veins of flint where it was hidden;

All Trees, all leavy Groves confesse the Spring
Their gentlest friend, then, then the lands begin
To swell with forward pride, and seed desire
To generation; Heavens Almighty Sire
Melts on the Bosome of his Love, and powres
Himselfe into her lap in fruitfull showers.
And by a soft insinuation, mixt
With earths large Masse, doth cherish and assist
Her weake conceptions; No loane shade, but rings
With chatting Birds delicious murmurings.
Then Venus mild instinct (at set times) yeilds
The Herds to kindly meetings, then the fields

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE GEORGICS

Thus far of tillage, and of heav'nly signs:
Now sing, my Muse, the growth of gen'rous vines,
The shady groves, the woodland progeny,
And the slow product of Minerva's tree.
Great Father Bacchus! to my song repair;
For clust'ring grapes are thy peculiar care:
For thee, large bunches load the bending vine,
And the last blessings of the year are thine.
To thee his joys the jolly Autumn owes,
When the fermenting juice the vat o'erflows.

Motto for the title-page
Tentanda via est; quâ me quoque possim
Tollere humo, victorque viram volitare per ora.
Virg. [Georg. III 9 10]

On vent'rous wing in quest of praise I go,
And leave the gazing multitude below.

P RELUDE

What makes a plenteous harvest, when to turn
The fruitful soil, and when to sow the corn;
The care of sheep, of oxen, and of kine,
And how to raise on elms the teeming vine;
The birth and genius of the frugal bee,
I sing, Maecenas, and I sing to thee.
Ye deities, who fields and plains protect,
Who rule the seasons, and the year direct,
Bacchus and fostering Ceres, powers divine,
Who gave us corn for mast, for water, wine;
Ye Fauns, propitious to the rural swains,