Venice.

Lord Byron's Memoirs, written by himself.—Reflections, when about to read them.

Let me a moment—ere with fear and hope

Of gloomy, glorious things, these leaves I ope—

As one in fairy tale to whom the key

  Of some enchanter's secret halls is given,

Doubts while he enters slowly, tremblingly,

  If he shall meet with shapes from hell or heaven—

Let me a moment think what thousands live

O'er the wide earth this instant who would give,

Gladly, whole sleepless nights to bend the brow

Over these precious leaves, as I do now.

How all who know—and where is he unknown?

To what far region have his songs not flown,

Like PSAPHON'S birds[1] speaking their master's name,

In every language syllabled by Fame?—

How all who've felt the various spells combined

Within the circle of that mastermind,—

Like spells derived from many a star and met

Together in some wondrous amulet,—

Would burn to know when first the Light awoke

In his young soul,—and if the gleams that broke

From that Aurora of his genius, raised

Most pain or bliss in those on whom they blazed;

Would love to trace the unfolding of that power,

Which had grown ampler, grander, every hour;

And feel in watching o'er his first advance

  As did the Egyptian traveller[2] when he stood

By the young Nile and fathomed with his lance

  The first small fountains of that mighty flood.

They too who mid the scornful thoughts that dwell

  In his rich fancy, tingeing all its streams,—

As if the Star of Bitterness which fell

  On earth of old,[3] had touched them with its beams,—

Can track a spirit which tho' driven to hate,

From Nature's hands came kind, affectionate;

And which even now, struck as it is with blight,

Comes out at times in love's own native light;—

How gladly all who've watched these struggling rays

Of a bright, ruined spirit thro' his lays,

Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips,

  What desolating grief, what wrongs had driven

That noble nature into cold eclipse;

  Like some fair orb that, once a sun in heaven.

And born not only to surprise but cheer

With warmth and lustre all within its sphere,

Is now so quenched that of its grandeur lasts

Naught but the wide, cold shadow which it casts.

Eventful volume! whatsoe'er the change

Of scene and clime—the adventures bold and strange—

The griefs—the frailties but too frankly told—

The loves, the feuds thy pages may unfold,

If Truth with half so prompt a hand unlocks

  His virtues as his failings, we shall find

The record there of friendships held like rocks,

  And enmities like sun-touched snow resigned;

Of fealty, cherisht without change or chill,

In those who served him, young, and serve him still;

Of generous aid given, with that noiseless art

Which wakes not pride, to many a wounded heart;

Of acts—but, no—not from himself must aught

Of the bright features of his life be sought.

While they who court the world, like Milton's cloud,

"Turn forth their silver lining" on the crowd,

This gifted Being wraps himself in night;

  And keeping all that softens and adorns

And gilds his social nature hid from sight,

  Turns but its darkness on a world he scorns.

[1] Psaphon, in order to attract the attention of the world, taught multitudes of birds to speak his name, and then let them fly away in various directions; whence the proverb, "Psaphonis aves."

[2] Bruce.

[3] "And the name of the star is called Wormwood, and the third part of the waters became wormwood."—Rev. viii.