Captain Medwin relates Lord Byron's detestation of Venice in unmeasured terms. He likewise tells of his Lordship performing here one of those aquatic feats in which he greatly prided himself; and the Countess Albrizzi mentions a similar incident: "He was seen, on leaving a palace situated on the grand canal, instead of entering his gondola, to throw himself, with his clothes on, into the water, and swim to his house."
The Countess, who became acquainted with his Lordship at Venice, also narrates a few particulars of the mode in which he passed his time in that city: Amongst his peculiar habits was that of never showing himself on foot. "He was never seen to walk through the streets of Venice, nor along the pleasant banks of the Brenta, where he spent some weeks of the summer; and there are some who assert that he has never seen, excepting from a window, the wonders of the Piazza di San Marco,2 so powerful in him was the desire of not showing himself to be deformed in any part of his person. I, however," continues the Countess, "believe that he often gazed on those wonders, but in the late and solitary hour, when the stupendous edifices which surrounded him, illuminated by the soft and placid light of the moon, appeared a thousand times more lovely." "During an entire winter, he went out every morning alone, to row himself to the island of the Armenians (a small island, distant from Venice about half a league), to enjoy the society of those learned and hospitable monks, and to learn their difficult language." During the summer, Lord Byron enjoyed the exercise of riding in the evening. "No sunsets," said he, "are to be compared with those of Venicethey are too gorgeous for any painter, and defy any poet."
NATURE REVIVING
(For the Mirror.)The rills run free, and fetterless, and strong,
Rejoicing that their icy bonds are broke,
The breeze is burthen'd with the grateful song
Of birds innumerous: who from torpor woke,
Cleave the fine air with renovated stroke.
The teeming earth flings up its budding store
Of herbs, and flow'rs, escaping from the yoke.
That Winter's spell had cast around; and o'er
The clear and sun-lit sky, dark clouds are seen no more.
In woody dells, by shallow brooks that stand,
The modest violet, and primrose pale,
(Like youth just bursting into life,) expand,
And cast their perfumes down the dewy vale,
Till laden seems each bland, yet searching gale
That fans the cheek with odours of the Spring.
All living nature rushes to inhale:
As if this universal blossoming
Too soon would fade away, or instantly take wing.
What beauty in the swelling upland green,
On which the fleecy flock in sportive play,
And mirth, and gambol innocent, are seen.
What pleasure through the scented copse to stray,
And hear the stock dove coo its am'rous lay,
Or climb the steep hill's side, beneath whose height
Dashing afar, like drifted snow, their spray;
The waves of ocean with an angry might,
Flash in the purple dawn, majestically bright.
Yet 'midst this union of benignant tones,
How fares it with the reasonable part
Of God's created glories? Man disowns
Not to give thanks; but skilled by human art
To screen the passions of a grateful heart;
He walks encircled by philosophy, whose creed
Allows no outward semblance, to impart
One trace of joyousness that may exceed
Those coldly rigid rules on which it loves to feed.
And therefore balmy spring, with all its joys,
Its pomp of early leaves, and thrilling lays,
And ceaseless chime of song (that never cloys,
Altho' the winds be redolent of praise.)
Wakes not in man that stupor of amaze,
Bird, beast, and plant, in universal choir,
Pay to Almighty in a thousand ways,
That sterner reason's votaries would flout,
Giving their tardy homage in mistrust and doubt.
Not so with me. I never feel the spring
Come on in beauty, but my swelling soul
Seems ready in its gush of joy, to fling
All trammels off, that would in aught control
Its wild pulsation. O'er it feelings roll
Too mighty for expression; and each sense
Appears to be commingled in one whole;
Whose sum of ecstacy is so intense,
It finds no home to garner it, but in omnipotence.
POLISH PATRIOT'S APPEAL
(For the Mirror.)Rise fellow men! our country yet remains
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high,
And swear with her to livefor her to die.
Have we not proved our country's worththe country of the free?
Have we not raised the tyrant's footand struck for liberty
The giant foot that on us fell, in war's tremendous fall
The mighty weight that bore us down and held our arms in thrall?
Have we not risked our homes, our all, at Freedom's glorious shrine,
And dared the vengeance of the Russ, whose sway is yclept divine?
And have we not appealed to armsour last and dearest right!
And is not ours a sacred cause, a just and holy fight?
Yes, on Sarmatia's bleeding form Oppression's fetters rang,
And Liberty's last dying dirge the Northern trumpet sang:
Our hopes were buried in the grave where Kosciusko lies;
There came not friendship then from earthnor mercy from the skies!
But Heaven has roused the Polish slave and bid him rend his chains,
And now we rank among the free"Our country yet remains:"
Again we seek our native rights by God and Nature given
A people's right unto their soil from us unjustly riven.
We call upon the honoured bravethe free of every land
For succour from the powerfulfor aid from every strand:
We ask for every good man's prayerwe call for help on high;
Ye shades of Poland's slaughtered sons, look on propitiously.
We fight the fight of nationsbear witness field and storm
To our desert hereafter? Now we are but braggarts warm
But by our honest cause, we swear, ere they our land retake,
Each town shall he a charnel tombeach field a gory lake!
THE NATURALIST
ANECDOTES OF PARROTS
(For the Mirror.)"Who taught the Parrot human notes to try?
'Twas witty want, fierce hunger to appease."
A parrot belonging to the sister of the Comte de Buffon (says Bingley,) "would frequently speak to himself, and seem to fancy that some one addressed him. He often asked for his paw, and answered by holding it up. Though he liked to hear the voice of children, he seemed to have an antipathy to them; he pursued them, and bit them till he drew blood. He had also his objects of attachment; and though his choice was not very nice, it was constant. He was excessively fond of the cook-maid; followed her everywhere, sought for, and seldom missed finding her. If she had been some time out of his sight, the bird climbed with his bill and claws to her shoulders, and lavished on her caresses. His fondness had all the marks of close and warm friendship. The girl happened to have a very sore finger, which was tedious in healing, and so painful as to make her scream. While she uttered her moans the parrot never left her chamber. The first thing he did every day, was to pay her a visit; and this tender condolence lasted the whole time of the cure, when he again returned to his former calm and settled attachment. Yet this strong predilection for the girl seems to have been more directed to her office in the kitchen, than to her person; for, when another cook-maid succeeded her, the parrot showed the same degree of fondness3 to the new comer, the very first day."