With Byron in Itlay; a selection of the poems and letters of Lord Byron relating to his life in ItalyEdited by Anna Benneson McMahan . swift or slow;And round the theatres, a sable throng, They wait in their dusk livery of woe, —But not to them do woful things belong, For sometimes they contain a deal of fun, Like mourning coaches when the funerals done. XL!With all its sinful doings, I must say, That Italys a pleasant place to me,Who love to see the Sun shine every day, And vines (not naild to walls) from tree to treeFestoond, much like the back scene of a play Or melodrame, which people floc
With Byron in Itlay; a selection of the poems and letters of Lord Byron relating to his life in ItalyEdited by Anna Benneson McMahan . swift or slow;And round the theatres, a sable throng, They wait in their dusk livery of woe, —But not to them do woful things belong, For sometimes they contain a deal of fun, Like mourning coaches when the funerals done. XL!With all its sinful doings, I must say, That Italys a pleasant place to me,Who love to see the Sun shine every day, And vines (not naild to walls) from tree to treeFestoond, much like the back scene of a play Or melodrame, which people flock to see,When the first act is ended by a danceIn vineyards copied from the south of France. XLIII like on Autumn evenings to ride out, Without being forced to bid my groom be sureMy cloak is round his middle strapped about, Because the skies are not the most secure;I know too that, if stoppd upon my route Where the green alleys windingly allure,Reeling with grapes red wagons choke the way, —In England t would be dung, dust, or a dray. [ 116 ] Tl/TONUMENT to Niccolo Machiaveili, in SantaCroce, Florence. Designed In Here Machiavellts earth returnd to wlievci it rose. — Childe Harold, Cant i I\. Btaaz i Ih. p. 71. THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 XLIIII also like to dine on becaficas, To see the Sun set, sure he 11 rise to-morrow,Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as A drunken mans dead eye in maudlin sorrow,But with all Heaven t himself; that day will break as Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrowThat sort of farthing candlelight which glimmersWhere reeking Londons smoky caldron simmers. XLIV I love the language, that soft bastard Latin,Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, And sounds as if it should be writ on satin, With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, And gentle liquids gliding all so pat inThat not a single accent seems uncouth, Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, Which we re obliged to hiss, and spit, and spu
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