EXTRACT VII.
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.
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