When, to their airy hall, my Fathers' voice
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice;
When, pois'd upon the gale, my form shall ride,
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side;
Oh! may my shade behold no sculptur'd urns,
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns!
No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone;
My  shall be my name alone: 
If  with honour fail to crown my clay,
Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay!
, only , shall single out the spot;
By that remember'd, or with that forgot.

A Fragment

1.

    The Moorish King rides up and down.
    Through Granada's royal town:
    From Elvira's gates to those
    Of Bivarambla on he goes.
    Woe is me, Alhama!

2.

    Letters to the Monarch tell
    How Alhama's city fell:
    In the fire the scroll he threw,
    And the messenger he slew.
    Woe is me, Alhama!

3.

    He quits his mule, and mounts his horse,
    And through the street directs his course;
    Through the street of Zacatin
    To the Alhambra spurring in.
    Woe is me, Alhama!

4.

    When the Alhambra walls he gained,
    On the moment he ordained
    That the trumpet straight should sound
    With the silver clarion round.
    Woe is me, Alhama!

5.

    And when the hollow drums of war
    Beat the loud alarm afar,
    That the Moors of town and plain
    Might answer to the martial strain.
    Woe is me, Alhama!

6.

    Then the Moors, by this aware,
    That bloody Mars recalled them there,
    One by one, and two by two,
    To a mighty squadron grew.
    Woe is me, Alhama!

7.

    Out then spake an aged Moor
    In these words the king before,
    "Wherefore call on us, oh King?
    What may mean this gathering?"
    Woe is me, Alhama!

8.

    "Friends! ye have, alas! to know
    Of a most disastrous blow -
    That the Christians, stern and bold,
    Have obtained Alhama's hold."
    Woe is me, Alhama!

9.

    Out then spake old Alfaqui,
    With his beard so white to see,
    "Good King! thou art justly served,
    Good King! this thou hast deserved.
    Woe is me, Alhama!

10.

    "By thee were slain, in evil hour,
    The Abencerrage, Granada's flower;
    And strangers were received by thee,
    Of Cordova the Chivalry.
    Woe is me, Alhama!

11.

    "And for this, oh King! is sent
    On thee a double chastisement;
    Thee and thine, thy crown and realm,
    One last wreck shall overwhelm.
    Woe is me, Alhama!

12.

    "He who holds no laws in awe,
    He must perish by the law;
    And Granada must be won,
    And thyself with her undone."
    Woe is me, Alhama!

13.

    Fire flashed from out the old Moor's eyes,
    The Monarch's wrath began to rise,
    Because he answered, and because
    He spake exceeding well of laws.
    Woe is me, Alhama!

14.

    "There is no law to say such things
    As may disgust the ear of kings:" -
    Thus, snorting with his choler, said
    The Moorish King, and doomed him dead.
    Woe is me, Alhama!

15.

    Moor Alfaqui! Moor Alfaqui!
    Though thy beard so hoary be,
    The King hath sent to have thee seized,
    For Alhama's loss displeased.
    Woe is me, Alhama!

16.

    And to fix thy head upon
    High Alhambra's loftiest stone;
    That this for thee should be the law,
    And others tremble when they saw.
    Woe is me, Alhama!

17.

    "Cavalier, and man of worth!
    Let these words of mine go forth;
    Let the Moorish Monarch know,
    That to him I nothing owe.
    Woe is me, Alhama!

18.

    "But on my soul Alhama weighs,
    And on my inmost spirit preys;
    And if the King his land hath lost,
    Yet others may have lost the most.
    Woe is me, Alhama!

19.

    "Sires have lost their children, wives
    Their lords, and valiant men their lives!
    One what best his love might claim
    Hath lost, another wealth, or fame.
    Woe is me, Alhama!

20.

    "I lost a damsel in that hour,
    Of all the land the loveliest flower;
    Doubloons a hundred I would pay,
    And think her ransom cheap that day."
    Woe is me, Alhama!

21.

    And as these things the old Moor said,
    They severed from the trunk his head;
    And to the Alhambra's wall with speed
    'Twas carried, as the King decreed.
    Woe is me, Alhama!

22.

    And men and infants therein weep
    Their loss, so heavy and so deep;
    Granada's ladies, all she rears
    Within her walls, burst into tears.
    Woe is me, Alhama!

23.

    And from the windows o'er the walls
    The sable web of mourning falls;
    The King weeps as a woman o'er
    His loss, for it is much and sore.
    Woe is me, Alhama!

                [First published, , Canto IV., 1818.]

A Very Mournful Ballad

Oh! little lock of golden hue
In gently waving ringlet curl'd,
By the dear head on which you grew,
I would not lose you for a world.

Not though a thousand more adorn
The polished brow where once you shone,
Like rays which guild a cloudless sky 
Beneath Columbia's fervid zone.

A Woman's Hair

Animula! vagula, Blandula,
Hospes, comesque corporis,
Quæ nunc abibis in Loca -
Pallidula, rigida, nudula,
Nec, ut soles, dabis Jocos?


Translation. - 


Ah! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring Sprite,
Friend and associate of this clay!
To what unknown region borne,
Wilt thou, now, wing thy distant flight?
No more with wonted humour gay,
But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.

Adrian's Address To His Soul When Dying

Since the refinement of this polish'd age
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage;
Since taste has now expung'd licentious wit,
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ;
Since, now, to please with purer scenes we seek,
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek;
Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim,
And meet indulgence - though she find not fame.
Still, not for her alone, we wish respect,
Others appear more conscious of defect:
To-night no vet'ran Roscii you behold,
In all the arts of scenic action old;
No COOKE, no KEMBLE, can salute you here,
No SIDDONS draw the sympathetic tear;
To-night you throng to witness the début
Of embryo Actors, to the Drama new:
Here, then, our almost unfledg'd wings we try;
Clip not our pinions, ere the birds can fly:
Failing in this our first attempt to soar,
Drooping, alas! we fall to rise no more.
Not one poor trembler, only, fear betrays,
Who hopes, yet almost dreads to meet your praise;
But all our Dramatis Personæ wait,
In fond suspense this crisis of their fate.
No venal views our progress can retard,
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward;
For these, each Hero all his power displays, 
Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze:
Surely the last will some protection find? 
None, to the softer sex, can prove unkind:
While Youth and Beauty form the female shield, 
The sternest Censor to the fair must yield. 
Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail,
Should, after all, our best endeavours fail;
Still, let some mercy in your bosoms live,
And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive.

An Occasional Prologue, Delivered By The Author Previous To The Performance Of "The Wheel Of Fortune" At A Private Theatre

1.

    And wilt thou weep when I am low?
    Sweet lady! speak those words again:
    Yet if they grieve thee, say not so - 
    I would not give that bosom pain.


2.

    My heart is sad, my hopes are gone,
    My blood runs coldly through my breast;
    And when I perish, thou alone
    Wilt sigh above my place of rest.


3.

    And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace
    Doth through my cloud of anguish shine:
    And for a while my sorrows cease,
    To know thy heart hath felt for mine.


4.

    Oh lady! blessèd be that tear - 
    It falls for one who cannot weep;
    Such precious drops are doubly dear 
    To those whose eyes no tear may steep.


5.

    Sweet lady! once my heart was warm
    With every feeling soft as thine;
    But Beauty's self hath ceased to charm
    A wretch created to repine.


6. 

    Yet wilt thou weep when I am low?
    Sweet lady! speak those words again:
    Yet if they grieve thee, say not so - 
    I would not give that bosom pain.

And Wilt Thou Weep When I Am Low?

1.

    Montgomery! true, the common lot
    Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave;
    Yet some shall never be forgot,
    Some shall exist beyond the grave.


2.

    "Unknown the region of his birth,"
    The hero  rolls the tide of war;
    Yet not unknown his martial worth,
    Which glares a meteor from afar.


3.

    His joy or grief, his weal or woe,
    Perchance may 'scape the page of fame;
    Yet nations, now unborn, will know
    The record of his deathless name.


4.

    The Patriot's and the Poet's frame
    Must share the common tomb of all:
    Their glory will not sleep the same;
    'That' will arise, though Empires fall.


5.

    The lustre of a Beauty's eye
    Assumes the ghastly stare of death;
    The fair, the brave, the good must die,
    And sink the yawning grave beneath.


6.

    Once more, the speaking eye revives,
    Still beaming through the lover's strain;
    For Petrarch's Laura still survives:
    She died, but ne'er will die again.


7.

    The rolling seasons pass away,
    And Time, untiring, waves his wing;
    Whilst honour's laurels ne'er decay,
    But bloom in fresh, unfading spring.


8.

    All, all must sleep in grim repose,
    Collected in the silent tomb;
    The old, the young, with friends and foes,
    Fest'ring alike in shrouds, consume.


9.

    The mouldering marble lasts its day,
    Yet falls at length an useless fane;
    To Ruin's ruthless fangs a prey,
    The wrecks of pillar'd Pride remain.


10.

    What, though the sculpture be destroy'd,
    From dark Oblivion meant to guard;
    A bright renown shall be enjoy'd,
    By those, whose virtues claim reward.


11.

    Then do not say the common lot
    Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave;
    Some few who ne'er will be forgot
    Shall burst the bondage of the grave.

Answer To A Beautiful Poem, Written By Montgomery, Author Of "The Wanderer Of Switzerland," Etc., Entitled "The Common Lot."

"But if any old Lady, Knight, Priest, or Physician,
 Should condemn me for printing a second edition;
 If good Madam Squintum my work should abuse,
 May I venture to give her a smack of my muse?"

 Anstey's 'New Bath Guide', p. 169.


Candour compels me, BECHER! to commend
The verse, which blends the censor with the friend;
Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause
From me, the heedless and imprudent cause; 
For this wild error, which pervades my strain, 
I sue for pardon, - must I sue in vain?
The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart;
Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart?
Precepts of prudence curb, but can't controul,
The fierce emotions of the flowing soul.
When Love's delirium haunts the glowing mind,
Limping Decorum lingers far behind;
Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace,
Outstript and vanquish'd in the mental chase.
The young, the old, have worn the chains of love;
Let those, they ne'er confined, my lay reprove;
Let those, whose souls contemn the pleasing power,
Their censures on the hapless victim shower.
Oh! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song,
The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng,
Whose labour'd lines, in chilling numbers flow,
To paint a pang the author ne'er can know!
The artless Helicon, I boast, is youth; - 
My Lyre, the Heart - my Muse, the simple Truth.
Far be't from me the "virgin's mind" to "taint:"
Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint:
The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile,
Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile,
Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer,
Firm in her virtue's strength, yet not severe;
She, whom a conscious grace shall thus refine,
Will ne'er be "tainted" by a strain of mine.
But, for the nymph whose premature desires
Torment her bosom with unholy fires,
No net to snare her willing heart is spread;
She would have fallen, though she ne'er had read.
For me, I fain would please the chosen few,
Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true,
Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy
The light effusions of a heedless boy. 
I seek not glory from the senseless crowd;
Of fancied laurels, I shall ne'er be proud;
Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize,
Their sneers or censures, I alike despise.

Answer To Some Elegant Verses Sent By A Friend To The Author, Complaining That One Of His Descriptions Was Rather Too Warmly Drawn

Dear simple girl, those flattering arts,
(From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts,)
Exist but in imagination,
Mere phantoms of thine own creation;
For he who views that witching grace,
That perfect form, that lovely face,
With eyes admiring, oh! believe me,
He never wishes to deceive thee:
Once in thy polish'd mirror glance
Thou'lt there descry that elegance
Which from our sex demands such praises,
But envy in the other raises. -
Then he who tells thee of thy beauty,
Believe me, only does his duty:
Ah! fly not from the candid youth;
It is not flattery, - 'tis truth.

Answer To The Foregoing, Addressed To Miss ----

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
    Whose names are on the hills and o'er the seas.

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

Lord Byron

A Fragment

A Very Mournful Ballad

A Woman's Hair

Adrian's Address To His Soul When Dying

An Occasional Prologue, Delivered By The Author Previous To The Performance Of "The Wheel Of Fortune" At A Private Theatre

And Wilt Thou Weep When I Am Low?

Answer To A Beautiful Poem, Written By Montgomery, Author Of "The Wanderer Of Switzerland," Etc., Entitled "The Common Lot."

Answer To Some Elegant Verses Sent By A Friend To The Author, Complaining That One Of His Descriptions Was Rather Too Warmly Drawn

Answer To The Foregoing, Addressed To Miss ----

Aristomenes

Lord Byron

OKAY this is an annotated playlist of NARRATIVE VERSE from c.1380 to NOW

Apocalypse, Now

A Fragment

A Very Mournful Ballad

A Woman's Hair

Adrian's Address To His Soul When Dying

An Occasional Prologue, Delivered By The Author Previous To The Performance Of "The Wheel Of Fortune" At A Private Theatre

And Wilt Thou Weep When I Am Low?

Answer To A Beautiful Poem, Written By Montgomery, Author Of "The Wanderer Of Switzerland," Etc., Entitled "The Common Lot."

Answer To Some Elegant Verses Sent By A Friend To The Author, Complaining That One Of His Descriptions Was Rather Too Warmly Drawn

Answer To The Foregoing, Addressed To Miss ----

Aristomenes