1831.] Byron's Memoirs. 149 



When the web that we weave is complete, 

 And the shuttle exchanged for the sword, 



We will fling the winding-sheet 



O'er the despot at our feet, 

 And dye it deep in the gore he has poured. 



Though black as his heart is its hue, 

 Since his veins are corrupted to mud, 



Yet this is the dew 



Which the tree shall renew 

 Of Liberty, planted by Lud." 



This he winds up in the degdge style in which it was written : 



" There's an amiable chanson for you all impromptu ! I have written it 

 principally to shock your neighbour * * *, who is all clergy and loyalty 

 mirth and innocence milk and water. 



" But the Carnival's coming, 



Oh, Thomas Moore ; 

 The Carnival's coming, 



Oh, Thomas Moore ; 

 Masking and humming, 

 Fifing and drumming, 

 Guitarring and strumming 



Oh, Thomas Moore." 



He frequently made these light verses ; and among the prettiest are 

 some lines on a statue by Canova : 



" The Helen of Canova (a bust which is in the collection of the Countess 

 D'Albrizzi) is, without exception, to my mind, the most perfectly beautiful 

 of human conceptions, and far beyond my ideas of human execution. 



" In this beloved marble, view, 



Above the works and thoughts of man, 

 What Nature could, but would not do, 



Arid Beauty and Canova can. 

 Beyond imagination's power, 



Beyond the bard's defective art, 

 With immortality her dower, 



Behold the Helen of the heart !" 



We then have the Carnival again : 



" I am on the invalid regimen. The Carnival that is, the latter part of it 

 had knocked me up a little. But it is over, and it is now Lent, with all its 

 abstinence and its sacred music 



" So we'll go no more a roving 



So late into the night, 

 Though the heart be still as loving, 



And the moon be still as bright; 

 For the sword outwears its sheath, 



And the soul outwears the breast, 

 And the heart must pause to breathe, 



And love itself have rest ; 

 Though the night was made for loving, 



And the day returns too soon, 

 Yet we'll go no more a roving 



By the light of the moon." 



Byron was now in his felicity rambling, gondoliering, chatting 

 in opera-boxes, making love (such as it was), and writing poetry. He 



