change the word--
Life is as transient as the inconstant sigh:
Say rather I'm your Soul; more just that name,
For, like the soul, my Love can never die.
Life is as transient as the inconstant sigh:
Say rather I'm your Soul; more just that name,
For, like the soul, my Love can never die.
Byron
]
FROM THE PORTUGUESE.
"TU MI CHAMAS"
1.
In moments to delight devoted,[54]
"My Life! " with tenderest tone, you cry;
Dear words! on which my heart had doted,
If Youth could neither fade nor die.
2.
To Death even hours like these must roll,
Ah! then repeat those accents never;
Or change "my Life! " into "my Soul! "
Which, like my Love, exists for ever.
[MS. M. ]
ANOTHER VERSION.
You call me still your _Life_. --Oh!
change the word--
Life is as transient as the inconstant sigh:
Say rather I'm your Soul; more just that name,
For, like the soul, my Love can never die.
[Stanzas 1, 2 first published, _Childe Harold_, 1814
(Seventh Edition). "Another Version," first published, 1832. ]
To
SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.
as a slight but most sincere token
of admiration of 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.
ADVERTISEMENT.
The tale which these disjointed fragments present, is founded upon
circumstances now less common in the East than formerly; either because
the ladies are more circumspect than in the "olden time," or because the
Christians have better fortune, or less enterprise. The story, when
entire, contained the adventures of a female slave, who was thrown, in
the Mussulman manner, into the sea for infidelity, and avenged by a
young Venetian, her lover, at the time the Seven Islands were possessed
by the Republic of Venice, and soon after the Arnauts were beaten back
from the Morea, which they had ravaged for some time subsequent to the
Russian invasion. The desertion of the Mainotes, on being refused the
plunder of Misitra, led to the abandonment of that enterprise, and to
the desolation of the Morea, during which the cruelty exercised on all
sides was unparalleled even in the annals of the faithful.
THE GIAOUR.
No breath of air to break the wave
That rolls below the Athenian's grave,
That tomb[55] which, gleaming o'er the cliff,
First greets the homeward-veering skiff
High o'er the land he saved in vain;
When shall such Hero live again?
* * * * *
Fair clime! where every season smiles[cg]
Benignant o'er those blessed isles,
Which, seen from far Colonna's height,
Make glad the heart that hails the sight, 10
And lend to loneliness delight.
There mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek
Reflects the tints of many a peak
Caught by the laughing tides that lave
These Edens of the eastern wave:
And if at times a transient breeze
Break the blue crystal of the seas,
Or sweep one blossom from the trees,
How welcome is each gentle air
That wakes and wafts the odours there! 20
For there the Rose, o'er crag or vale,
Sultana of the Nightingale,[56]
The maid for whom his melody,
His thousand songs are heard on high,
Blooms blushing to her lover's tale:
His queen, the garden queen, his Rose,
Unbent by winds, unchilled by snows,
Far from the winters of the west,
By every breeze and season blest,
Returns the sweets by Nature given 30
In softest incense back to Heaven;
And grateful yields that smiling sky
Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh.
FROM THE PORTUGUESE.
"TU MI CHAMAS"
1.
In moments to delight devoted,[54]
"My Life! " with tenderest tone, you cry;
Dear words! on which my heart had doted,
If Youth could neither fade nor die.
2.
To Death even hours like these must roll,
Ah! then repeat those accents never;
Or change "my Life! " into "my Soul! "
Which, like my Love, exists for ever.
[MS. M. ]
ANOTHER VERSION.
You call me still your _Life_. --Oh!
change the word--
Life is as transient as the inconstant sigh:
Say rather I'm your Soul; more just that name,
For, like the soul, my Love can never die.
[Stanzas 1, 2 first published, _Childe Harold_, 1814
(Seventh Edition). "Another Version," first published, 1832. ]
To
SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.
as a slight but most sincere token
of admiration of 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.
ADVERTISEMENT.
The tale which these disjointed fragments present, is founded upon
circumstances now less common in the East than formerly; either because
the ladies are more circumspect than in the "olden time," or because the
Christians have better fortune, or less enterprise. The story, when
entire, contained the adventures of a female slave, who was thrown, in
the Mussulman manner, into the sea for infidelity, and avenged by a
young Venetian, her lover, at the time the Seven Islands were possessed
by the Republic of Venice, and soon after the Arnauts were beaten back
from the Morea, which they had ravaged for some time subsequent to the
Russian invasion. The desertion of the Mainotes, on being refused the
plunder of Misitra, led to the abandonment of that enterprise, and to
the desolation of the Morea, during which the cruelty exercised on all
sides was unparalleled even in the annals of the faithful.
THE GIAOUR.
No breath of air to break the wave
That rolls below the Athenian's grave,
That tomb[55] which, gleaming o'er the cliff,
First greets the homeward-veering skiff
High o'er the land he saved in vain;
When shall such Hero live again?
* * * * *
Fair clime! where every season smiles[cg]
Benignant o'er those blessed isles,
Which, seen from far Colonna's height,
Make glad the heart that hails the sight, 10
And lend to loneliness delight.
There mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek
Reflects the tints of many a peak
Caught by the laughing tides that lave
These Edens of the eastern wave:
And if at times a transient breeze
Break the blue crystal of the seas,
Or sweep one blossom from the trees,
How welcome is each gentle air
That wakes and wafts the odours there! 20
For there the Rose, o'er crag or vale,
Sultana of the Nightingale,[56]
The maid for whom his melody,
His thousand songs are heard on high,
Blooms blushing to her lover's tale:
His queen, the garden queen, his Rose,
Unbent by winds, unchilled by snows,
Far from the winters of the west,
By every breeze and season blest,
Returns the sweets by Nature given 30
In softest incense back to Heaven;
And grateful yields that smiling sky
Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh.
