graphical and technical, of the shipwreck in Canto Second, which "took," as they say in the Row.

...

Yours, etc.

P. S. — That . . . Galignani has about ten lies in one paragraph. It was not a Bible that was found in Shelley's pocket, but John Keats's poems. However, it would not have been strange, for he was a great admirer of Scripture as a composition. I did not send my bust to the academy of New York; but I sat for my picture to young West,1 an American artist, at the request of some members of that Academy to him that he would take my portrait, Academy, I believe.

for the

I had, and still have, thoughts of South America, but am fluctuating between it and Greece.

FROM "DON JUAN," CANTO I

WANTED A HERO

I

I WANT a hero: an uncommon want,

When every year and month sends forth a new one, Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,

The discovers he is not the true one;
age

1 William Edward West (1788-1857) went to Italy in 1819 to study art. The artist wrote to his father after completing Byron's picture "His friends say it is the only likeness ever taken of him, all the others being ideal heads." Several replicas are in existence. The original, with the portrait of Countess Guiccioli made at the same time, is said to be owned by Mr. Joy of Hartham Park, Wilts.

Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,

I'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan We all have seen him, in the pantomime,

Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time.

II

Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke, Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe, Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk,

And fill'd their sign posts then, like Wellesley now; Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk, Followers of fame, nine farrow' of that sow: France, too, had Buonaparté and Dumourier Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier.

III

Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau,

Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette,
Were French, and famous people, as we know :
And there were others, scarce forgotten yet,

Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, Moreau,
With many of the military set,

Exceedingly remarkable at times,
But not at all adapted to my rhymes.

IV

Nelson was once Britannia's god of war,

And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd;

There's no more to be said of Trafalgar,

'Tis with our hero quietly inurn'd;

Because the army's grown more popular,
At which the naval people are concern'd;
Besides, the prince is all for the land-service,
Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis.

V

Brave men were living before Agamemnon
And since, exceeding valorous and sage,

A good deal like him too, though quite the same none;
But then they shone not on the poet's page,
And so have been forgotten: - I condemn none,
But can't find any in the present age

Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one);
So, as I said, I'll take my friend Don Juan.

VI

Most epic poets plunge in medias res'

(Horace makes this the heroic turn-pike road), And then your hero tells, whene'er you please, What went before - by way of episode,

While seated after dinner at his ease,

Beside his mistress in some soft abode,

Palace, or garden, paradise, or cavern,
Which serves the happy couple for a tavern.

VII

That is the usual method, but not mine

My way is to begin with the beginning;

The regularity of my design

Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning,

And therefore I shall open with a line

(Although it cost me half an hour in spinning) Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father, And also of his mother, if you'd rather.

THINGS SWEET

CXXII

"Tis sweet to hear

At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep The song and oar of Adria's gondolier,

By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep; "Tis sweet to see the evening star appear;

"Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep From leaf to leaf; 't is sweet to view on high The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.

CXXIII

'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home; 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come; 'Tis sweet to be awaken'd by the lark,

Or lull'd by falling waters; sweet the hum Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, The lisp of children, and their earliest words.

CXXIV

Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes
In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth,

Purple and gushing: sweet are our escapes

From civic revelry to rural mirth;

Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps,
Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth,
Sweet is revenge - especially to women,
Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen.

CXXV

Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet

The unexpected death of some old lady Or gentleman of seventy years complete,

Who've made us youth' wait too - too long already For an estate, or cash, or country seat,

Still breaking, but with stamina so steady That all the Israelites are fit to mob its

Next owner for their double-damn'd post-obits.

CXXVI

"T is sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels,
By blood or ink; 't is sweet to put an end
To strife; 't is sometimes sweet to have our quarrels,
Particularly with a tiresome friend :

Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels ;
Dear is the helpless creature we defend
Against the world; and dear the schoolboy spot
We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot.

CXXVII

But sweeter still than this, than these, than all,
Is first and passionate love—it stands alone,

Like Adam's recollection of his fall;

The tree of knowledge has been pluck'dall's

known