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Title: Byron's Poetical Works, Vol. 1
Author: Byron
Editor: Ernest Hartley Coleridge
Posting Date: February 22, 2015 [EBook #8861]
Release Date: September, 2005
First Posted: August 15, 2003
Language: English
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THE WORKS
OF
LORD BYRON.
A NEW, REVISED AND ENLARGED EDITION,
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS.
POETRY, VOLUME 1.
EDITED BY
ERNEST HARTLEY COLERIDGE, M.A.
1898
PREFACE TO THE POEMS.
The text of the present issue of Lord Byron's Poetical Works is based on
that of 'The Works of Lord Byron', in six volumes, 12mo, which was
published by John Murray in 1831. That edition followed the text of the
successive issues of plays and poems which appeared in the author's
lifetime, and were subject to his own revision, or that of Gifford and
other accredited readers. A more or less thorough collation of the
printed volumes with the MSS. which were at Moore's disposal, yielded a
number of variorum readings which have appeared in subsequent editions
published by John Murray. Fresh collations of the text of individual
poems with the original MSS. have been made from time to time, with the
result that the text of the latest edition (one-vol. 8vo, 1891) includes
some emendations, and has been supplemented by additional variants.
Textual errors of more or less importance, which had crept into the
numerous editions which succeeded the seventeen-volume edition of 1832,
were in some instances corrected, but in others passed over. For the
purposes of the present edition the printed text has been collated with
all the MSS. which passed through Moore's hands, and, also, for the
first time, with MSS. of the following plays and poems, viz. 'English
Bards, and Scotch Reviewers'; 'Childe Harold', Canto IV.; 'Don Juan',
Cantos VI.-XVI.; 'Werner'; 'The Deformed Transformed'; 'Lara';
'Parisina'; 'The Prophecy of Dante'; 'The Vision of Judgment'; 'The Age
of Bronze'; 'The Island'. The only works of any importance which have
been printed directly from the text of the first edition, without
reference to the MSS., are the following, which appeared in 'The
Liberal' (1822-23), viz.: 'Heaven and Earth', 'The Blues', and 'Morgante
Maggiore'.
A new and, it is believed, an improved punctuation has been adopted. In
this respect Byron did not profess to prepare his MSS. for the press,
and the punctuation, for which Gifford is mainly responsible, has been
reconsidered with reference solely to the meaning and interpretation of
the sentences as they occur.
In the 'Hours of Idleness and Other Early Poems', the typography of the
first four editions, as a rule, has been preserved. A uniform typography
in accordance with modern use has been adopted for all poems of later
date. Variants, being the readings of one or more MSS. or of successive
editions, are printed in italics [as footnotes. text Ed] immediately
below the text. They are marked by Roman numerals. Words and lines
through which the author has drawn his pen in the MSS. or Revises are
marked 'MS. erased'.
Poems and plays are given, so far as possible, in chronological order.
'Childe Harold' and 'Don Juan', which were written and published in
parts, are printed continuously; and minor poems, including the first
four satires, have been arranged in groups according to the date of
composition. Epigrams and 'jeux d'esprit' have been placed together, in
chronological order, towards the end of the sixth volume. A Bibliography
of the poems will immediately precede the Index at the close of the
sixth volume.
The edition contains at least thirty hitherto unpublished poems,
including fifteen stanzas of the unfinished seventeenth canto of 'Don
Juan', and a considerable fragment of the third part of 'The Deformed
Transformed'. The eleven unpublished poems from MSS. preserved at
Newstead, which appear in the first volume, are of slight if any
literary value, but they reflect with singular clearness and sincerity
the temper and aspirations of the tumultuous and moody stripling to whom
"the numbers came," but who wisely abstained from printing them himself.
Byron's notes, of which many are published for the first time, and
editorial notes, enclosed in brackets, are printed immediately below the
variorum readings. The editorial notes are designed solely to supply the
reader with references to passages in other works illustrative of the
text, or to interpret expressions and allusions which lapse of time may
have rendered obscure.
Much of the knowledge requisite for this purpose is to be found in the
articles of the 'Dictionary of National Biography', to which the fullest
acknowledgments are due; and much has been arrived at after long
research, involving a minute examination of the literature, the
magazines, and often the newspapers of the period.
Inasmuch as the poems and plays have been before the public for more
than three quarters of a century, it has not been thought necessary to
burden the notes with the eulogies and apologies of the great poets and
critics who were Byron's contemporaries, and regarded his writings, both
for good and evil, for praise and blame, from a different standpoint
from ours. Perhaps, even yet, the time has not come for a definite and
positive appreciation of his genius. The tide of feeling and opinion
must ebb and flow many times before his rank and station among the poets
of all time will be finally adjudged. The splendour of his reputation,
which dazzled his own countrymen, and, for the first time, attracted the
attention of a contemporary European audience to an English writer, has
faded, and belongs to history; but the poet's work remains, inviting a
more intimate and a more extended scrutiny than it has hitherto received
in this country. The reader who cares to make himself acquainted with
the method of Byron's workmanship, to unravel his allusions, and to
follow the tenour of his verse, will, it is hoped, find some assistance
in these volumes.
I beg to record my especial thanks to the Earl of Lovelace for the use
of MSS. of his grandfather's poems, including unpublished fragments; for
permission to reproduce portraits in his possession; and for valuable
information and direction in the construction of some of the notes.
My grateful acknowledgments are due to Dr. Garnett, C.B., Dr. A. H.
Murray, Mr. R. E. Graves, and other officials of the British Museum, for
invaluable assistance in preparing the notes, and in compiling a
bibliography of the poems.
I have also to thank Mr. Leslie Stephen and others for important hints
and suggestions with regard to the interpretation of some obscure
passages in 'Hints from Horace'.
In correcting the proofs for the press, I have had the advantage of the
skill and knowledge of my friend Mr. Frank E. Taylor, of Chertsey, to
whom my thanks are due.
On behalf of the Publisher, I beg to acknowledge with gratitude the
kindness of the Lady Dorchester, the Earl Stanhope, Lord Glenesk and Sir
Theodore Martin, K.C.B., for permission to examine MSS. in their
possession; and of Mrs. Chaworth Musters, for permission to reproduce
her miniature of Miss Chaworth, and for other favours. He desires also
to acknowledge the generous assistance of Mr. and Miss Webb, of Newstead
Abbey, in permitting the publication of MS. poems, and in making
transcripts for the press.
I need hardly add that, throughout the progress of the work, the advice
and direct assistance of Mr. John Murray and Mr. R. E. Prothero have
been always within my reach. They have my cordial thanks.
ERNEST HARTLEY COLERIDGE.
[facsimile of title page:]
POEMS ON VARIOUS OCCASIONS.
Virginibus Puerisque Canto.
(Hor. Lib, 3. 'Ode 1'.)
The only Apology necessary to be adduced, in extenuation of any errors
in the following collection, is, that the Author has not yet completed
his nineteenth year.
December 23,1806.
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE TO 'HOURS OF IDLENESS AND OTHER EARLY POEMS'.
There were four distinct issues of Byron's Juvenilia. The first
collection, entitled 'Fugitive Pieces', was printed in quarto by S. and
J. Ridge of Newark. Two of the poems, "The Tear" and the "Reply to Some
Verses of J. M. B. Pigot, Esq.," were signed "BYRON;" but the volume
itself, which is without a title-page, was anonymous. It numbers
sixty-six pages, and consists of thirty-eight distinct pieces. The last
piece, "Imitated from Catullus. To Anna," is dated November 16, 1806.
The whole of this issue, with the exception of two or three copies, was
destroyed. An imperfect copy, lacking pp. 17-20 and pp. 58-66, is
preserved at Newstead. A perfect copy, which had been retained by the
Rev. J. T. Becher, at whose instance the issue was suppressed, was
preserved by his family (see 'Life', by Karl Elze, 1872, p. 450), and is
now in the possession of Mr. H. Buxton Forman, C.B. A facsimile reprint
of this unique volume, limited to one hundred copies, was issued, for
private circulation only, from the Chiswick Press in 1886.
Of the thirty-eight 'Fugitive Pieces', two poems, viz. "To Caroline" and
"To Mary," together with the last six stanzas of the lines, "To Miss E.
P. [To Eliza]," have never been republished in any edition of Byron's
Poetical Works.
A second edition, small octavo, of 'Fugitive Pieces', entitled 'Poems on
Various Occasions', was printed by S. and J. Ridge of Newark, and
distributed in January, 1807. This volume was issued anonymously. It
numbers 144 pages, and consists of a reproduction of thirty-six
'Fugitive Pieces', and of twelve hitherto unprinted poems--forty-eight
in all. For references to the distribution of this issue--limited, says
Moore, to one hundred copies--see letters to Mr. Pigot and the Earl of
Clare, dated January 16, February 6, 1807, and undated letters of the
same period to Mr. William Bankes and Mr. Falkner ('Life', pp. 41, 42).
The annotated copy of 'Poems on Various Occasions', referred to in the
present edition, is in the British Museum.
Early in the summer (June--July) of 1807, a volume, small octavo, named
'Hours of Idleness'--a title henceforth associated with Byron's early
poems--was printed and published by S. and J. Ridge of Newark, and was
sold by the following London booksellers: Crosby and Co.; Longman,
Hurst, Rees, and Orme; F. and C. Rivington; and J, Mawman. The full
title is, 'Hours of Idleness; a Series of Poems Original and
Translated'. By George Gordon, Lord Byron, a Minor. It numbers 187
pages, and consists of thirty-nine poems. Of these, nineteen belonged to
the original 'Fugitive Pieces', eight had first appeared in 'Poems on
Various Occasions', and twelve were published for the first time. The
"Fragment of a Translation from the 9th Book of Virgil's Æneid"
('sic'), numbering sixteen lines, reappears as "The Episode of Nisus and
Euryalus, A Paraphrase from the Æneid, Lib. 9," numbering 406 lines.
The final collection, also in small octavo, bearing the title 'Poems
Original and Translated', by George Gordon, Lord Byron, second edition,
was printed and published in 1808 by S. and J. Ridge of Newark, and sold
by the same London booksellers as 'Hours of Idleness'. It numbers 174
pages, and consists of seventeen of the original 'Fugitive Pieces', four
of those first published in 'Poems on Various Occasions', a reprint of
the twelve poems first published in 'Hours of Idleness', and five poems
which now appeared for the first time--thirty-eight poems in all.
Neither the title nor the contents of this so-called second edition
corresponds exactly with the previous issue.
Of the thirty-eight 'Fugitive Pieces' which constitute the suppressed
quarto, only seventeen appear in all three subsequent issues. Of the
twelve additions to 'Poems on Various Occasions', four were excluded
from 'Hours of Idleness', and four more from 'Poems Original and
Translated'.
The collection of minor poems entitled 'Hours of Idleness', which has
been included in every edition of Byron's Poetical Works issued by John
Murray since 1831, consists of seventy pieces, being the aggregate of
the poems published in the three issues, 'Poems on Various Occasions',
'Hours of Idleness', and 'Poems Original and Translated', together with
five other poems of the same period derived from other sources.
In the present issue a general heading, "Hours of Idleness, and other
Early Poems," has been applied to the entire collection of Early Poems,
1802-1809. The quarto has been reprinted (excepting the lines "To Mary,"
which Byron himself deliberately suppressed) in its entirety, and in the
original order. The successive additions to the 'Poems on Various
Occasions', 'Hours of Idleness', and 'Poems Original and Translated',
follow in order of publication. The remainder of the series, viz. poems
first published in Moore's 'Life and Journals of Lord Byron' (1830);
poems hitherto unpublished; poems first published in the 'Works of Lord
Byron' (1832), and poems contributed to J. C. Hobhouse's 'Imitations and
Translations' (1809), have been arranged in chronological order. (For an
important contribution to the bibliography of the quarto of 1806, and of
the other issues of Byron's Juvenilia, see papers by Mr. R. Edgcumbe,
Mr. H. Buxton Forman, C.B., and others, in the 'Athenaeum', 1885, vol.
ii. pp. 731-733, 769; and 1886, vol. i. p. 101, etc. For a collation of
the contents of the four first issues and of certain large-paper copies
of 'Hours of Idleness', etc., see 'The Bibliography of the Poetical
Works of Lord Byron', vol. vi. of the present edition.)
[text of facsimile pages of two different editions mentioned above:]
HOURS OF IDLENESS,
A SERIES OF POEMS,
ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED,
BY GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON,
A MINOR.
[Greek: Maet ar me mal ainee maete ti neichei.]
HOMER. Iliad, 10.
Virginibus puerisque Canto.
HORACE.
He whistled as he went for want of thought.
DRYDEN.
NEMARK:
Printed and sold by S. and J. RIDGE;
SOLD ALSO BY B CROSBY AND CO. STATIONER'S COURT;
LONGMAN, HURST, REES, AND ORME, PATERNOSTER-ROW;
F. AND C. RIVINGTON, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD;
AND J. MAWMAN, IN THE POULTRY;
LONDON.
1807
POEMS
ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED
BY
GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON,
[Greek: Maet ar me mal ainee maete ti neichei.]
HOMER, Iliad, 10.
He whistled as he went for want of thought.
DRYDEN.
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE TO ENGLISH BARDS, AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS.
The MS. ('MS. M.') of the first draft of Byron's "Satire" (see Letter to
Pigot, October 26, 1807) is now in Mr. Murray's possession. It is
written on folio sheets paged 6-25, 28-41, and numbers 360 lines.
Mutilations on pages 12, 13, 34, 35 account for the absence of ten
additional lines.
After the publication of the January number of 'The Edinburgh Review'
for 1808 (containing the critique on 'Hours of Idleness'), which was
delayed till the end of February, Byron added a beginning and an ending
to the original draft. The MSS. of these additions, which number ninety
lines, are written on quarto sheets, and have been bound up with the
folios. (Lines 1-16 are missing.) The poem, which with these and other
additions had run up to 560 lines, was printed in book form (probably by
Ridge of Newark), under the title of 'British Bards, A Satire'. "This
Poem," writes Byron ['MSS. M.'], "was begun in October, 1807, in London,
and at different intervals composed from that period till September,
1808, when it was completed at Newstead Abbey.--B., 1808." A date, 1808,
is affixed to the last line. Only one copy is extant, that which was
purchased, in 1867, from the executors of R.C. Dallas, by the Trustees
of the British Museum. Even this copy has been mutilated. Pages 17, 18,
which must have contained the first version of the attack on Jeffrey
(see 'English Bards', p. 332, line 439, 'note' 2), have been torn out,
and quarto proof-sheets in smaller type of lines 438-527, "Hail to
immortal Jeffrey," etc., together with a quarto proof-sheet, in the same
type as 'British Bards', containing lines 540-559, "Illustrious
Holland," etc., have been inserted. Hobhouse's lines (first edition,
lines 247-262), which are not in the original draft, are included in
'British Bards'. The insertion of the proofs increased the printed
matter to 584 lines. After the completion of this revised version of
'British Bards', additions continued to be made. Marginal corrections
and MS. fragments, bound up with 'British Bards', together with
forty-four lines (lines 723-726, 819-858) which do not occur in MS. M.,
make up with the printed matter the 696 lines which were published in
March, 1809, under the title of 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers'.
The folio and quarto sheets in Mr. Murray's possession ('MS. M.') may be
regarded as the MS. of 'British Bards; British Bards' (there are a few
alterations, e.g. the substitution of lines 319-326, "Moravians, arise,"
etc., for the eight lines on Pratt, which are to be found in the folio
MS., and are printed in 'British Bards'), with its accompanying MS.
fragments, as the foundation of the text of the first edition of
'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers'.
Between the first edition, published in March, and the second edition in
October, 1809, the difference is even greater than between the first
edition and 'British Bards'. The Preface was enlarged, and a postscript
affixed to the text of the poem. Hobhouse's lines (first edition,
247-262) were omitted, and the following additional passages inserted,
viz.: (i.) lines 1-96, "Still must I hear," etc.; (ii.) lines 129-142,
"Thus saith the Preacher," etc.; (iii.) lines 363-417, "But if some
new-born whim," etc.; (iv.) lines 638-706, "Or hail at once," etc.; (v.)
lines 765-798, "When some brisk youth," etc.; (vi.) lines 859-880, "And
here let Shee," etc.; (vii.) lines 949-960, "Yet what avails," etc.;
(viii.) lines 973-980, "There, Clarke," etc.; (ix.) lines 1011-1070,
"Then hapless Britain," etc. These additions number 370 lines, and,
together with the 680 lines of the first edition (reduced from 696 by
the omission of Hobhouse's contribution), make up the 1050 lines of the
second and third editions, and the doubtful fourth edition of 1810. Of
these additions, Nos. i., ii., iii., iv., vi., viii., ix. exist in MS.,
and are bound up with the folio MS. now in Mr. Murray's possession.
The third edition, which is, generally, dated 1810, is a replica of the
second edition.
The first issue of the fourth edition, which appeared in 1810, is
identical with the second and third editions. A second issue of the
fourth edition, dated 1811, must have passed under Byron's own
supervision. Lines 723, 724 are added, and lines 725, 726 are materially
altered. The fourth edition of 1811 numbers 1052 lines.
The suppressed fifth edition, numbering 1070 lines (the copy in the
British Museum has the title-page of the fourth edition; a second copy,
in Mr. Murray's possession, has no title-page), varies from the fourth
edition of 1811 by the addition of lines 97-102 and 528-539, and by some
twenty-nine emendations of the text. Eighteen of these emendations were
made by Byron in a copy of the fourth edition which belonged to Leigh
Hunt. On another copy, in Mr. Murray's possession, Byron made nine
emendations, of which six are identical with those in the Hunt copy, and
three appear for the first time. It was in the latter volume that he
inscribed his after-thoughts, which are dated "B. 1816."
For a complete collation of the five editions of 'English Bards, and
Scotch Reviewers', and textual emendations in the two annotated volumes,
and for a note on genuine and spurious copies of the first and other
editions, see 'The Bibliography of the Poetical Works of Lord Byron',
vol. vi.
[Facsimile of title-page of first edition, including Byron's signature.
To view this and other facsimiles, and the other illustrations mentioned in
this text, see the html edition. text Ed.]
ENGLISH BARDS,
AND
Scotch Reviewers.
A SATIRE.
I had rather be a kitten, and cry, mew!
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers.
SHAKSPEARE.
Such shameless Bards we have; and yet 'tis true,
There are as mad, abandon'd Critics too.
POPE.
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
HOURS OF IDLENESS, AND OTHER EARLY POEMS.
FUGITIVE PIECES.
Preface to the Poems
Bibliographical Note to "Hours of Idleness and Other Early Poems"
Bibliographical Note to "English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers"
On Leaving Newstead Abbey
To E----
On the Death of a Young Lady, Cousin to the Author, and very dear to
Him
To D----
To Caroline
To Caroline [second poem]
To Emma
Fragments of School Exercises: From the "Prometheus Vinctus" of
Æschylus
Lines written in "Letters of an Italian Nun and an English
Gentleman, by J.J. Rousseau: Founded on Facts"
Answer to the Foregoing, Addressed to Miss----
On a Change of Masters at a Great Public School
Epitaph on a Beloved Friend
Adrian's Address to his Soul when Dying
A Fragment
To Caroline [third poem]
To Caroline [fourth poem]
On a Distant View of the Village and School of Harrow on the Hill,
1806
Thoughts Suggested by a College Examination
To Mary, on Receiving Her Picture
On the Death of Mr. Fox
To a Lady who Presented to the Author a Lock of Hair Braided with
his own, and appointed a Night in December to meet him in the
Garden
To a Beautiful Quaker
To Lesbia!
To Woman
An Occasional Prologue, Delivered by the Author Previous to the
Performance of "The Wheel of Fortune" at a Private Theatre
To Eliza
The Tear
Reply to some Verses of J.M.B. Pigot, Esq., on the Cruelty of his
Mistress
Granta. A Medley
To the Sighing Strephon
The Cornelian
To M----
Lines Addressed to a Young Lady. [As the Author was discharging his
Pistols in a Garden, Two Ladies passing near the spot were alarmed
by the sound of a Bullet hissing near them, to one of whom the
following stanzas were addressed the next morning]
Translation from Catullus. 'Ad Lesbiam'
Translation of the Epitaph on Virgil and Tibullus, by Domitius Marsus
Imitation of Tibullus. 'Sulpicia ad Cerinthum'
Translation from Catullus. 'Lugete Veneres Cupidinesque'
Imitated from Catullus. To Ellen
POEMS ON VARIOUS OCCASIONS.
To M.S.G.
Stanzas to a Lady, with the Poems of Camoëns
To M.S.G. [second poem]
Translation from Horace. 'Justum et tenacem', etc.
The First Kiss of Love
Childish Recollections
Answer to a Beautiful Poem, Written by Montgomery, Author of "The
Wanderer in Switzerland," etc., entitled "The Common Lot"
Love's Last Adieu
Lines Addressed to the Rev. J.T. Becher, on his advising the Author
to mix more with Society
Answer to some Elegant Verses sent by a Friend to the Author,
complaining that one of his descriptions was rather too warmly
drawn
Elegy on Newstead Abbey
HOURS OF IDLENESS.
To George, Earl Delawarr
Damætas
To Marion
Oscar of Alva
Translation from Anacreon. Ode I
From Anacreon. Ode 3
The Episode of Nisus and Euryalus. A Paraphrase from the 'Æneid',
Lib. 9
Translation from the 'Medea' of Euripides [L. 627-660]
Lachin y Gair
To Romance
The Death of Calmar and Orla
To Edward Noel Long, Esq.
To a Lady
POEMS ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED.
When I Roved a Young Highlander
To the Duke of Dorset
To the Earl of Clare
I would I were a Careless Child
Lines Written beneath an Elm in the Churchyard of Harrow
EARLY POEMS FROM VARIOUS SOURCES.
Fragment, Written Shortly after the Marriage of Miss Chaworth. First
published in Moore's 'Letters and Journals of Lord Byron', 1830,
i. 56
Remembrance. First published in 'Works of Lord Byron', 1832, vii.
152
To a Lady Who Presented the Author with the Velvet Band which bound
her Tresses. 'Works', 1832, vii. 151
To a Knot of Ungenerous Critics. 'MS. Newstead'
Soliloquy of a Bard in the Country. 'MS. Newstead'
L'Amitié est L'Amour sans Ailes. 'Works', 1832, vii. 161
The Prayer of Nature. 'Letters and Journals', 1830, i. 106
Translation from Anacreon. Ode 5. 'MS. Newstead'
[Ossian's Address to the Sun in "Carthon."] 'MS. Newstead'
[Pignus Amoris.] 'MS. Newstead'
[A Woman's Hair.] 'Works', 1832, vii. 151
Stanzas to Jessy. 'Monthly Literary Recreations', July, 1807
The Adieu. 'Works', 1832, vii. 195
To----. 'MS. Newstead'
On the Eyes of Miss A----H----. 'MS. Newstead'
To a Vain Lady. 'Works', 1832, vii. 199
To Anne. 'Works', 1832, vii. 201
Egotism. A Letter to J.T. Becher. 'MS. Newstead'
To Anne. 'Works', 1832, vii. 202
To the Author of a Sonnet Beginning, "'Sad is my verse,' you say,
'and yet no tear.'" 'Works', 1832, vii. 202
On Finding a Fan. 'Works', 1832, 203
Farewell to the Muse. 'Works', 1832, vii. 203
To an Oak at Newstead. 'Works', 1832, vii. 206
On Revisiting Harrow. 'Letters and Journals', i. 102
To my Son. 'Letters and Journals', i. 104
Queries to Casuists. 'MS. Newstead'
Song. Breeze of the Night. 'MS. Lovelace'
To Harriet. 'MS. Newstead'
There was a Time, I need not name. 'Imitations and Translations',
1809, p. 200
And wilt Thou weep when I am low? 'Imitations and Translations',
1809, p. 202
Remind me not, Remind me not. 'Imitations and Translations', 1809,
p. 197
To a Youthful Friend. 'Imitations and Translations', 1809, p. 185
Lines Inscribed upon a Cup Formed from a Skull. First published,
'Childe Harold', Cantos i., ii. (Seventh Edition), 1814
Well! Thou art Happy. 'Imitations and Translations', 1809, p. 192
Inscription on the Monument of a Newfoundland Dog. 'Imitations and
Translations', 1809, p. 190
To a Lady, On Being asked my reason for quitting England in the
Spring. 'Imitations and Translations', 1809, p. 195
Fill the Goblet Again. A Song. 'Imitations and Translations', 1809,
p. 204
Stanzas to a Lady, on Leaving England. 'Imitations and
Translations', 1809, p. 227
ENGLISH BARDS, AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS
HINTS FROM HORACE
THE CURSE OF MINERVA
THE WALTZ
HOURS OF IDLENESS
AND OTHER EARLY POEMS.
ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY. [i]
Why dost thou build the hall, Son of the winged days? Thou lookest
from thy tower to-day: yet a few years, and the blast of the desart
comes: it howls in thy empty court.-OSSIAN. [1]
I.
Through thy battlements, Newstead, [2] the hollow winds whistle: [ii]
Thou, the hall of my Fathers, art gone to decay;
In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle
Have choak'd up the rose, which late bloom'd in the way.
2.
Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who, proudly, to battle, [iii]
Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, [3]
The escutcheon and shield, which with ev'ry blast rattle,
Are the only sad vestiges now that remain.
3.
No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers,
Raise a flame, in the breast, for the war-laurell'd wreath;
Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan [4] slumbers,
Unnerv'd is the hand of his minstrel, by death.
4.
Paul and Hubert too sleep in the valley of Cressy;
For the safety of Edward and England they fell:
My Fathers! the tears of your country redress ye:
How you fought! how you died! still her annals can tell.
5.
On Marston, [5] with Rupert, [6] 'gainst traitors contending,
Four brothers enrich'd, with their blood, the bleak field;
For the rights of a monarch their country defending, [iv]
Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd. [7]
6.
Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant departing
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu! [v]
Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting
New courage, he'll think upon glory and you.
7.
Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, [vi]
'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret; [vii]
Far distant he goes, with the same emulation,
The fame of his Fathers he ne'er can forget. [viii]
8.
That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish; [ix]
He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown:
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish;
When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own!
1803.
[Footnote 1: The motto was prefixed in _Hours of Idleness_.]
[Footnote 2: The priory of Newstead, or de Novo Loco, in Sherwood, was
founded about the year 1170, by Henry II. On the dissolution of the
monasteries it was granted (in 1540) by Henry VIII. to "Sir John Byron
the Little, with the great beard." His portrait is still preserved at
Newstead.]
[Footnote 3: No record of any crusading ancestors in the Byron family
can be found. Moore conjectures that the legend was suggested by some
groups of heads on the old panel-work at Newstead, which appear to
represent Christian soldiers and Saracens, and were, most probably, put
up before the Abbey came into the possession of the family.]
[Footnote 4: Horistan Castle, in _Derbyshire_, an ancient seat of the
B--R--N family [4to]. (Horiston.--4to.)]
[Footnote 5: The battle of Marston Moor, where the adherents of Charles
I. were defeated.]
[Footnote 6: Son of the Elector Palatine, and related to Charles I. He
afterwards commanded the Fleet, in the reign of Charles II.]
[Footnote 7: Sir Nicholas Byron, the great-grandson of Sir John Byron
the Little, distinguished himself in the Civil Wars. He is described by
Clarendon (_Hist, of the Rebellion_, 1807, i. 216) as "a person of great
affability and dexterity, as well as martial knowledge." He was Governor
of Carlisle, and afterwards Governor of Chester. His nephew and
heir-at-law, Sir John Byron, of Clayton, K.B. (1599-1652), was raised to
the peerage as Baron Byron of Rochdale, after the Battle of Newbury,
October 26, 1643. He held successively the posts of Lieutenant of the
Tower, Governor of Chester, and, after the expulsion of the Royal Family
from England, Governor to the Duke of York. He died childless, and was
succeeded by his brother Richard, the second lord, from whom the poet
was descended. Five younger brothers, as Richard's monument in the
chancel of Hucknall Torkard Church records, "faithfully served King
Charles the First in the Civil Wars, suffered much for their loyalty,
and lost all their present fortunes." (See _Life of Lord Byron_, by Karl
Elze: Appendix, Note (A), p. 436.)]
[Footnote i: 'On Leaving N ... ST ... D.'--[4to] 'On Leaving
Newstead.'--('P. on V. Occasions.')]
[Footnote ii:
'Through the cracks in these battlements loud the winds whistle
For the hall of my fathers is gone to decay;
And in yon once gay garden the hemlock and thistle
Have choak'd up the rose, which late bloom'd in the way'.
[4to]]
[Footnote iii:
'Of the barons of old, who once proudly to battle'.
[4to]]
[Footnote iv:
'For Charles the Martyr their country defending'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote v: 'Bids ye adieu!' [4to]]
[Footnote vi: 'Though a tear dims.' [4to]]
[Footnote vii: ''Tis nature, not fear, which commands his regret'.
[4to]]
[Footnote viii: 'In the grave he alone can his fathers forget'. [4to]]
[Footnote ix: 'Your fame, and your memory, still will he cherish'.
[4to]]
TO E---[1]
Let Folly smile, to view the names
Of thee and me, in Friendship twin'd;
Yet Virtue will have greater claims
To love, than rank with vice combin'd.
And though unequal is _thy_ fate,
Since title deck'd my higher birth;
Yet envy not this gaudy state,
_Thine_ is the pride of modest worth.
Our _souls_ at least congenial meet,
Nor can _thy_ lot _my_ rank disgrace;
Our intercourse is not less sweet,
Since worth of rank supplies the place.
_November_, 1802.
[Footnote 1: E---was, according to Moore, a boy of Byron's own age, the
son of one of the tenants at Newstead.]
ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY, [1]
COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR, AND VERY DEAR TO HIM.
1.
Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom,
Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove,
Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb,
And scatter flowers on the dust I love.
2.
Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,
That clay, where once such animation beam'd;
The King of Terrors seiz'd her as his prey;
Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd.
3.
Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel,
Or Heaven reverse the dread decree of fate,
Not here the mourner would his grief reveal,
Not here the Muse her virtues would relate.
4.
But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soars
Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day;
And weeping angels lead her to those bowers,
Where endless pleasures virtuous deeds repay.
5.
And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign!
And, madly, Godlike Providence accuse!
Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain;--
I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse.
6.
Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear,
Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face;
Still they call forth my warm affection's tear,
Still in my heart retain their wonted place. [i]
1802.
[Footnote 1: The author claims the indulgence of the reader more for
this piece than, perhaps, any other in the collection; but as it was
written at an earlier period than the rest (being composed at the age of
fourteen), and his first essay, he preferred submitting it to the
indulgence of his friends in its present state, to making either
addition or alteration.--[4to]
"My first dash into poetry was as early as 1800. It was the ebullition
of a passion for--my first cousin, Margaret Parker (daughter and
granddaughter of the two Admirals Parker), one of the most beautiful
of evanescent beings. I have long forgotten the verse; but it would be
difficult for me to forget her--her dark eyes--her long
eye-lashes--her completely Greek cast of face and figure! I was then
about twelve--she rather older, perhaps a year. She died about a year
or two afterwards, in consequence of a fall, which injured her spine,
and induced consumption ... I knew nothing of her illness, being at
Harrow and in the country till she was gone. Some years after, I made
an attempt at an elegy--a very dull one."--_Byron Diary_, 1821;
_Life_, p. 17.
[Margaret Parker was the sister of Sir Peter Parker, whose death at
Baltimore, in 1814, Byron celebrated in the "Elegiac Stanzas," which
were first published in the poems attached to the seventh edition of
_Childe Harold_.]
[Footnote i: _Such sorrow brings me honour, not disgrace_. [4to]]
TO D---[1]
1.
In thee, I fondly hop'd to clasp
A friend, whom death alone could sever;
Till envy, with malignant grasp, [i]
Detach'd thee from my breast for ever.
2.
True, she has forc'd thee from my _breast_,
Yet, in my _heart_, thou keep'st thy seat; [ii]
There, there, thine image still must rest,
Until that heart shall cease to beat.
3.
And, when the grave restores her dead,
When life again to dust is given,
On _thy dear_ breast I'll lay my head--
Without _thee! where_ would be _my Heaven?_
February, 1803.
[Footnote 1: George John, 5th Earl Delawarr (1791-1869). (See _note_ 2,
p. 100; see also lines "To George, Earl Delawarr," pp. 126-128.)]
[Footnote i:
_But envy with malignant grasp,
Has torn thee from my breast for ever.
[4to]]
[Footnote ii: _But in my heart_. [4to]]
TO CAROLINE. [i]
1.
Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes,
Suffus'd in tears, implore to stay;
And heard _unmov'd_ thy plenteous sighs,
Which said far more than words can say? [ii]
2.
Though keen the grief _thy_ tears exprest, [iii]
When love and hope lay _both_ o'erthrown;
Yet still, my girl, _this_ bleeding breast
Throbb'd, with deep sorrow, as _thine own_.
3.
But, when our cheeks with anguish glow'd,
When _thy_ sweet lips were join'd to mine;
The tears that from _my_ eyelids flow'd
Were lost in those which fell from _thine_.
4.
Thou could'st not feel my burning cheek,
_Thy_ gushing tears had quench'd its flame,
And, as thy tongue essay'd to speak,
In _sighs alone_ it breath'd my name.
5.
And yet, my girl, we weep in vain,
In vain our fate in sighs deplore;
Remembrance only can remain,
But _that_, will make us weep the more.
6.
Again, thou best belov'd, adieu!
Ah! if thou canst, o'ercome regret,
Nor let thy mind past joys review,
Our only _hope_ is, to _forget_!
1805.
[Footnote i: _To_----. [4to]]
[Footnote ii: _than words could say_. [4to]]
[Footnote iii: _Though deep the grief_. [4to]]
TO CAROLINE. [1]
1.
You say you love, and yet your eye
No symptom of that love conveys,
You say you love, yet know not why,
Your cheek no sign of love betrays.
2.
Ah! did that breast with ardour glow,
With me alone it joy could know,
Or feel with me the listless woe,
Which racks my heart when far from thee.
3.
Whene'er we meet my blushes rise,
And mantle through my purpled cheek,
But yet no blush to mine replies,
Nor e'en your eyes your love bespeak.
4.
Your voice alone declares your flame,
And though so sweet it breathes my name,
Our passions still are not the same;
Alas! you cannot love like me.
5.
For e'en your lip seems steep'd in snow,
And though so oft it meets my kiss,
It burns with no responsive glow,
Nor melts like mine in dewy bliss.
6.
Ah! what are words to love like _mine_,
Though uttered by a voice like thine,
I still in murmurs must repine,
And think that love can ne'er be _true_,
7.
Which meets me with no joyous sign,
Without a sigh which bids adieu;
How different is my love from thine,
How keen my grief when leaving you.
8.
Your image fills my anxious breast,
Till day declines adown the West,
And when at night, I sink to rest,
In dreams your fancied form I view.
9.
'Tis then your breast, no longer cold,
With equal ardour seems to burn,
While close your arms around me fold,
Your lips my kiss with warmth return.
10.
Ah! would these joyous moments last;
Vain HOPE! the gay delusion's past,
That voice!--ah! no, 'tis but the blast,
Which echoes through the neighbouring grove.
11.
But when _awake_, your lips I seek,
And clasp enraptur'd all your charms,
So chill's the pressure of your cheek,
I fold a statue in my arms.
12.
If thus, when to my heart embrac'd,
No pleasure in your eyes is trac'd,
You may be prudent, fair, and _chaste_,
But ah! my girl, you _do not love_.
[Footnote 1: These lines, which appear in the Quarto, were never
republished.]
TO EMMA. [1]
1.
Since now the hour is come at last,
When you must quit your anxious lover;
Since now, our dream of bliss is past,
One pang, my girl, and all is over.
2.
Alas! that pang will be severe,
Which bids us part to meet no more;
Which tears me far from _one_ so dear,
_Departing_ for a distant shore.
3.
Well! we have pass'd some happy hours,
And joy will mingle with our tears;
When thinking on these ancient towers,
The shelter of our infant years;
4.
Where from this Gothic casement's height,
We view'd the lake, the park, the dell,
And still, though tears obstruct our sight,
We lingering look a last farewell,
5.
O'er fields through which we us'd to run,
And spend the hours in childish play;
O'er shades where, when our race was done,
Reposing on my breast you lay;
6.
Whilst I, admiring, too remiss,
Forgot to scare the hovering flies,
Yet envied every fly the kiss,
It dar'd to give your slumbering eyes:
7.
See still the little painted _bark_,
In which I row'd you o'er the lake;
See there, high waving o'er the park,
The _elm_ I clamber'd for your sake.
8.
These times are past, our joys are gone,
You leave me, leave this happy vale;
These scenes, I must retrace alone;
Without thee, what will they avail?
9.
Who can conceive, who has not prov'd,
The anguish of a last embrace?
When, torn from all you fondly lov'd,
You bid a long adieu to peace.
10.
_This_ is the deepest of our woes,
For _this_ these tears our cheeks bedew;
This is of love the final close,
Oh, God! the fondest, _last_ adieu!
1805.
[Footnote 1: To Maria--[4to]]
FRAGMENTS OF SCHOOL EXERCISES:
FROM THE "PROMETHEUS VINCTUS" OF AESCHYLUS,
[Greek: Maedam o panta nem_on, K.T.L_] [1]
Great Jove! to whose Almighty Throne
Both Gods and mortals homage pay,
Ne'er may my soul thy power disown,
Thy dread behests ne'er disobey.
Oft shall the sacred victim fall,
In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall;
My voice shall raise no impious strain,
'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main.
...
How different now thy joyless fate,
Since first Hesione thy bride,
When plac'd aloft in godlike state,
The blushing beauty by thy side,
Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smil'd,
And mirthful strains the hours beguil'd;
The Nymphs and Tritons danc'd around,
Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless frown'd, [2]
HARROW, December 1, 1804.
[Footnote 1: The Greek heading does not appear in the Quarto, nor in the
three first Editions.]
[Footnote 2: "My first Harrow verses (that is, English, as exercises), a
translation of a chorus from the 'Prometheus' of Æschylus, were received
by Dr. Drury, my grand patron (our headmaster), but coolly. No one had,
at that time, the least notion that I should subside into
poetry."--'Life', p. 20. The lines are not a translation but a loose
adaptation or paraphrase of part of a chorus of the 'Prometheus
Vinctus', I, 528, 'sq.']
LINES
WRITTEN IN "LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN AND AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN,
BY J. J. ROUSSEAU; [1] FOUNDED ON FACTS."
"Away, away,--your flattering arts
May now betray some simpler hearts;
And _you_ will _smile_ at their believing,
And _they_ shall _weep_ at your deceiving."
[Footnote 1: A second edition of this work, of which the title is,
_Letters, etc., translated from the French of Jean Jacques Rousseau_,
was published in London, in 1784. It is, probably, a literary forgery.]
ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, [i] ADDRESSED TO MISS----.
Dear simple girl, those flattering arts,
(From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts,)[ii]
Exist but in imagination,
Mere phantoms of thine own creation; [iii]
For he who views that witching grace,
That perfect form, that lovely face,
With eyes admiring, oh! believe me,
He never wishes to deceive thee:
Once in thy polish'd mirror glance [iv]
Thou'lt there descry that elegance
Which from our sex demands such praises,
But envy in the other raises.--
Then he who tells thee of thy beauty, [v]
Believe me, only does his duty:
Ah! fly not from the candid youth;
It is not flattery,--'tis truth. [vi]
July, 1804.
[Footnote i: _Answer to the above._ [4to] ]
[Footnote ii: _From which you'd._ [4to] ]
[Footnote iii:
_Mere phantoms of your own creation;
For he who sees_. [4to]]
[Footnote iv:
_Once let you at your mirror glance
You'll there descry that elegance,_ [4to]]
[Footnote v:
_Then he who tells you of your beauty._ [4to]]
[Footnote vi:
_It is not flattery, but truth_. [4to]]
ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A GREAT PUBLIC SCHOOL. [1]
Where are those honours, IDA! once your own,
When Probus fill'd your magisterial throne?
As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace,
Hail'd a Barbarian in her Cæsar's place,
So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate,
And seat _Pomposus_ where your _Probus_ sate.
Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul, [i]
Pomposus holds you in his harsh controul;
Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd,
With florid jargon, and with vain parade;
With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules,
(Such as were ne'er before enforc'd in schools.) [ii]
Mistaking _pedantry_ for _learning's_ laws,
He governs, sanction'd but by self-applause;
With him the same dire fate, attending Rome,
Ill-fated Ida! soon must stamp your doom:
Like her o'erthrown, for ever lost to fame,
No trace of science left you, but the name,
HARROW, July, 1805.
[Footnote 1: In March, 1805, Dr. Drury, the Probus of the piece,
retired from the Head-mastership of Harrow School, and was succeeded by
Dr. Butler, the Pomposus. "Dr. Drury," said Byron, in one of his
note-books, "was the best, the kindest (and yet strict, too) friend I
ever had; and I look upon him still as a father." Out of affection to
his late preceptor, Byron advocated the election of Mark Drury to the
vacant post, and hence his dislike of the successful candidate. He was
reconciled to Dr. Butler before departing for Greece, in 1809, and in
his diary he says, "I treated him rebelliously, and have been sorry ever
since." (See allusions in and notes to "Childish Recollections," pp.
84-106, and especially note I, p. 88, notes I and 2, p. 89, and note I,
p. 91.)] ]
[Footnote i:
----_but of a narrower soul_.--[4to]]
[Footnote ii:
_Such as were ne'er before beheld in schools._--[4to]]
EPITAPH ON A BELOVED FRIEND.[1]
[Greek: Astaer prin men elampes eni tsuoisin hepsos.]
[Plato's Epitaph (Epig. Græc., Jacobs, 1826, p. 309),
quoted by Diog. Laertins.]
Oh, Friend! for ever lov'd, for ever dear! [i]
What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier!
What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath,
Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death!
Could tears retard the tyrant in his course;
Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force;
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay,
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey;
Thou still hadst liv'd to bless my aching sight,
Thy comrade's honour and thy friend's delight.
If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh
The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie,
Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart,
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art.
No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep,
But living statues there are seen to weep;
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb,
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom.
What though thy sire lament his failing line,
A father's sorrows cannot equal mine!
Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer,
Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here:
But, who with me shall hold thy former place?
Thine image, what new friendship can efface?
Ah, none!--a father's tears will cease to flow,
Time will assuage an infant brother's woe;
To all, save one, is consolation known,
While solitary Friendship sighs alone.
HARROW, 1803. [2]
[Footnote i:
_Oh Boy! for ever loved, for ever dear!
What fruitless tears have wash'd thy honour'd bier;
What sighs re-echoed to thy parting breath,
Whilst thou wert struggling in the pangs of death.
Could tears have turn'd the tyrant in his course,
Could sighs have checked his dart's relentless force; [iii]
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay,
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey,
Thou still had'st liv'd to bless my aching sight,
Thy comrade's honour, and thy friend's delight:
Though low thy lot since in a cottage born,
No titles did thy humble name adorn,
To me, far dearer, was thy artless love,
Than all the joys, wealth, fame, and friends could prove.
For thee alone I liv'd, or wish'd to live,
(Oh God! if impious, this rash word forgive,)
Heart-broken now, I wait an equal doom,
Content to join thee in thy turf-clad tomb;
Where this frail form compos'd in endless rest,
I'll make my last, cold, pillow on thy breast;
That breast where oft in life, I've laid my head,
Will yet receive me mouldering with the dead;
This life resign'd, without one parting sigh,
Together in one bed of earth we'll lie!
Together share the fate to mortals given,
Together mix our dust, and hope for Heaven._
HARROW, 1803.--[4to. _P. on V. Occasions._]]
[Footnote 1: The heading which appears in the Quarto and _P. on V.
Occasions_ was subsequently changed to "Epitaph on a Friend." The motto
was prefixed in 'Hours of Idleness'. The epigram which Bergk leaves
under Plato's name was translated by Shelley ('Poems', 1895, iii.
361)--
"Thou wert the morning star
Among the living,
Ere thy fair light had fled;
Now having died, thou art as
Hesperus, giving
New splendour to the dead."
There is an echo of the Greek distich in Byron's exquisite line, "The
Morning-Star of Memory."
The words, "Southwell, March 17," are added, in a lady's hand, on p. 9
of the annotated copy of P. 'on' V. 'Occasions' in the British Museum.
The conjecture that the "'beloved' friend," who is of humble origin, is
identical with "E----" of the verses on p. 4, remains uncertain.]
[Footnote ii:
_have bath'd thy honoured bier._
[_P. on V. Occasions._] ]
[Footnote iii:
_Could tears retard,_ [_P. on V. Occasions._]
_Could sighs avert._ [_P. on V. Occasions._] ]
ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL WHEN DYING.
Animula! vagula, Blandula,
Hospes, comesque corporis,
Quæ nunc abibis in Loca--
Pallidula, rigida, nudula,
Nec, ut soles, dabis Jocos?
TRANSLATION.
Ah! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring Sprite,
Friend and associate of this clay!
To what unknown region borne,
Wilt thou, now, wing thy distant flight?
No more with wonted humour gay,
But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.
1806.
A FRAGMENT. [1]
When, to their airy hall, my Fathers' voice
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice;
When, pois'd upon the gale, my form shall ride,
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side;
Oh! may my shade behold no sculptur'd urns,
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns!
No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone; [i]
My _epitaph_ shall be my name alone: [2]
If _that_ with honour fail to crown my clay, [ii]
Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay!
_That_, only _that_, shall single out the spot;
By that remember'd, or with that forgot. [iii]
1803.
[Footnote 1: There is no heading in the Quarto.]
[Footnote 2: In his will, drawn up in 1811, Byron gave directions that
"no inscription, save his name and age, should be written on his tomb."
June, 1819, he wrote to Murray: "Some of the epitaphs at the Certosa
cemetery, at Ferrara, pleased me more than the more splendid monuments
at Bologna; for instance, 'Martini Luigi Implora pace.' Can anything be
more full of pathos? I hope whoever may survive me will see those two
words, and no more, put over me."--'Life', pp. 131, 398.]
[Footnote: i.
'No lengthen'd scroll of virtue and renown.'
[4to. P. on V. Occ.]]
[Footnote: ii.
'If that with honour fails,'
[4to]]
[Footnote: iii.
'But that remember'd, or fore'er forgot'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
TO CAROLINE. [1]
1.
Oh! when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow?
Oh! when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay?
The present is hell! and the coming to-morrow
But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day.
2.
From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no curses, [i]
I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from bliss;
For poor is the soul which, bewailing, rehearses
Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this--
3.
Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes bright'ning,
Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could assuage,
On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning,
With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage.
4.
But now tears and curses, alike unavailing,
Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight;
Could they view us our sad separation bewailing,
Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight.
5.
Yet, still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation,
Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer;
Love and Hope upon earth bring no more consolation,
In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear.
6.
Oh! when, my ador'd, in the tomb will they place me,
Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are fled?
If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee,
Perhaps they will leave unmolested--the dead.
1805.
[Footnote 1: [To------.--[4to].]]
[Footnote i: 'fall no curses'.--[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
TO CAROLINE. [1]
1.
When I hear you express an affection so warm,
Ne'er think, my belov'd, that I do not believe;
For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm,
And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive.
2.
Yet still, this fond bosom regrets, while adoring,
That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear,
That Age will come on, when Remembrance, deploring,
Contemplates the scenes of her youth, with a tear;
3.
That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining
Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the breeze,
When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining,
Prove nature a prey to decay and disease.
4.
Tis this, my belov'd, which spreads gloom o'er my features,
Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the decree
Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of his creatures,
In the death which one day will deprive you of me. [i]
5.
Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion, [ii]
No doubt can the mind of your lover invade;
He worships each look with such faithful devotion,
A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade.
6.
But as death, my belov'd, soon or late shall o'ertake us,
And our breasts, which alive with such sympathy glow,
Will sleep in the grave, till the blast shall awake us,
When calling the dead, in Earth's bosom laid low.
7.
Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure,
Which from passion, like ours, must unceasingly flow; [iii]
Let us pass round the cup of Love's bliss in full measure,
And quaff the contents as our nectar below.
1805.
[Footnote 1: [There is no heading in the Quarto.]]
[Footnote i: _will deprive me of thee_.--[4to]]
[Footnote ii:
_No jargon of priests o'er our union was mutter'd,
To rivet the fetters of husband and wife;
By our lips, by our hearts, were our vows alone utter'd,
To perform them, in full, would ask more than a life_.--[4to]]
[Footnote iii: _will unceasingly flow_.--[4to]]
ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE AND SCHOOL OF HARROW ON THE HILL, 1806.
Oh! mihi præteritos referat si Jupiter annos.[1]
VIRGIL.
1.
Ye scenes of my childhood, whose lov'd recollection
Embitters the present, compar'd with the past;
Where science first dawn'd on the powers of reflection,
And friendships were form'd, too romantic to last; [2]
2.
Where fancy, yet, joys to retrace the resemblance
Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied; [3]
How welcome to me your ne'er fading remembrance, [i]
Which rests in the bosom, though hope is deny'd!
3.
Again I revisit the hills where we sported,
The streams where we swam, and the fields where we fought; [4]
The school where, loud warn'd by the bell, we resorted,
To pore o'er the precepts by Pedagogues taught.
4.
Again I behold where for hours I have ponder'd,
As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone [5] I lay;
Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander'd,
To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray.
5.
I once more view the room, with spectators surrounded,
Where, as Zanga, [6] I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown;
While, to swell my young pride, such applauses resounded,
I fancied that Mossop [7] himself was outshone.
6.
Or, as Lear, I pour'd forth the deep imprecation,
By my daughters, of kingdom and reason depriv'd;
Till, fir'd by loud plaudits and self-adulation,
I regarded myself as a _Garrick_ reviv'd. [ii]
7.
Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you!
Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast; [iii]
Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you:
Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest.
8.
To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me, [iv]
While Fate shall the shades of the future unroll!
Since Darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me,
More dear is the beam of the past to my soul!
9.
But if, through the course of the years which await me,
Some new scene of pleasure should open to view,
I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me,
"Oh! such were the days which my infancy knew." [8]
1806.
[Footnote 1: The motto was prefixed in 'Hours of Idleness'.]
[Footnote 2:
"My school-friendships were with me _passions_ (for I was always
violent), but I do not know that there is one which has endured (to be
sure, some have been cut short by death) till now."
'Diary', 1821; 'Life', p. 21.]
[Footnote 3: Byron was at first placed in the house of Mr. Henry
Drury, but in 1803 was removed to that of Mr. Evans.
"The reason why Lord Byron wishes for the change, arises from the
repeated complaints of Mr. Henry Drury respecting his inattention to
business, and his propensity to make others laugh and disregard their
employment as much as himself."
Dr. Joseph Drury to Mr. John Hanson.]
[Footnote 4:
"At Harrow I fought my way very fairly. I think I lost but one battle
out of seven."
'Diary', 1821; 'Life', p. 21.]
[Footnote 5: A tomb in the churchyard at Harrow was so well known to be
his favourite resting-place, that the boys called it "Byron's Tomb:" and
here, they say, he used to sit for hours, wrapt up in thought.--'Life',
p. 26.]
[Footnote 6: For the display of his declamatory powers, on the
speech-days, he selected always the most vehement passages; such as the
speech of Zanga over the body of Alonzo, and Lear's address to the
storm.--'Life', p. 20, 'note'; and 'post', p. 103, 'var'. i.]
[Footnote 7: Henry Mossop (1729-1773), a contemporary of Garrick, famous
for his performance of "Zanga" in Young's tragedy of 'The Revenge'.]
[Footnote 8: Stanzas 8 and 9 first appeared in 'Hours of Idleness'.]
[Footnote i:
'How welcome once more'.
[4to]]
[Footnote ii:
'I consider'd myself'.
[4to]]
[Footnote iii:
'As your memory beams through this agonized breast;
Thus sad and deserted, I n'er can forget you,
Though this heart throbs to bursting by anguish possest.
[4to]
Your memory beams through this agonized breast.--
[P. on V. Occasions.']
[Footnote iv:
'I thought this poor brain, fever'd even to madness,
Of tears as of reason for ever was drain'd;
But the drops which now flow down _this_ bosom of sadness,
Convince me the springs have some moisture retain'd'.
'Sweet scenes of my childhood! your blest recollection,
Has wrung from these eyelids, to weeping long dead,
In torrents, the tears of my warmest affection,
The last and the fondest, I ever shall shed'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]
THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE EXAMINATION.
High in the midst, surrounded by his peers,
Magnus [1] his ample front sublime uprears: [i]
Plac'd on his chair of state, he seems a God,
While Sophs [2] and Freshmen tremble at his nod;
As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom, [ii]
_His_ voice, in thunder, shakes the sounding dome;
Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools,
Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules.
Happy the youth! in Euclid's axioms tried,
Though little vers'd in any art beside; 10
Who, scarcely skill'd an English line to pen, [iii]
Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken.
What! though he knows not how his fathers bled,
When civil discord pil'd the fields with dead,
When Edward bade his conquering bands advance,
Or Henry trampled on the crest of France:
Though marvelling at the name of _Magna Charta_,
Yet well he recollects the _laws_ of _Sparta_;
Can tell, what edicts sage _Lycurgus_ made,
While _Blackstone's_ on the _shelf_, _neglected_ laid; 20
Of _Grecian dramas_ vaunts the deathless fame,
Of _Avon's bard_, rememb'ring scarce the name.
Such is the youth whose scientific pate
Class-honours, medals, fellowships, await;
Or even, perhaps, the _declamation_ prize,
If to such glorious height, he lifts his eyes.
But lo! no _common_ orator can hope
The envied silver cup within his scope:
Not that our _heads_ much eloquence require,
Th' ATHENIAN'S [3] glowing style, or TULLY'S fire. 30
A _manner_ clear or warm is useless, since [iv]
We do not try by _speaking_ to _convince_;
Be other _orators_ of pleasing _proud_,--
We speak to _please_ ourselves, not _move_ the crowd:
Our gravity prefers the _muttering_ tone,
A proper mixture of the _squeak_ and _groan_:
No borrow'd _grace_ of _action_ must be seen,
The slightest motion would displease the _Dean_;
Whilst every staring Graduate would prate,
Against what--_he_ could never imitate. 40
The man, who hopes t' obtain the promis'd cup,
Must in one _posture_ stand, and _ne'er look up_;
Nor _stop_, but rattle over _every_ word--
No matter _what_, so it can _not_ be heard:
Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest:
Who speaks the _fastest's_ sure to speak the _best_;
Who utters most within the shortest space,
May, safely, hope to win the _wordy race_.
The Sons of _Science_ these, who, thus repaid,
Linger in ease in Granta's sluggish shade; 50
Where on Cam's sedgy banks, supine, they lie,
Unknown, unhonour'd live--unwept for die:
Dull as the pictures, which adorn their halls,
They think all learning fix'd within their walls:
In manners rude, in foolish forms precise,
All modern arts affecting to despise;
Yet prizing _Bentley's, Brunck's_, or _Porson's_ [4] note, [v]
More than the _verse on which the critic wrote_:
Vain as their honours, heavy as their Ale, [5]
Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale; 60
To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel,
When Self and Church demand a Bigot zeal.
With eager haste they court the lord of power, [vi]
(Whether 'tis PITT or PETTY [6] rules the hour;)
To _him_, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head,
While distant mitres to their eyes are spread; [vii]
But should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace,
They'd fly to seek the next, who fill'd his place.
_Such_ are the men who learning's treasures guard!
_Such_ is their _practice_, such is their _reward_! 70
This _much_, at least, we may presume to say--
The premium can't exceed the _price_ they _pay_. [viii]
1806.
[Footnote 1:
No reflection is here intended against the person mentioned under the
name of Magnus. He is merely represented as performing an unavoidable
function of his office. Indeed, such an attempt could only recoil upon
myself; as that gentleman is now as much distinguished by his
eloquence, and the dignified propriety with which he fills his
situation, as he was in his younger days for wit and conviviality.
[Dr. William Lort Mansel (1753-1820) was, in 1798, appointed Master of
Trinity College, by Pitt. He obtained the bishopric of Bristol, through
the influence of his pupil, Spencer Perceval, in 1808. He died in 1820.]
[Footnote 2: Undergraduates of the second and third year.]
[Footnote 3: Demosthenes.]
[Footnote 4: The present Greek professor at Trinity College, Cambridge;
a man whose powers of mind and writings may, perhaps, justify their
preference. [Richard Porson (1759-1808). For Byron's description of him,
see letter to Murray, of February 20, 1818. Byron says ('Diary',
December 17, 18, 1813) that he wrote the 'Devil's Drive' in imitation of
Porson's 'Devil's Walk'. This was a common misapprehension at the time.
The 'Devil's Thoughts' was the joint composition of Coleridge and
Southey, but it was generally attributed to Porson, who took no trouble
to disclaim it. It was originally published in the 'Morning Post', Sept.
6, 1799, and Stuart, the editor, said that it raised the circulation of
the paper for several days after. (See Coleridge's Poems (1893), pp.
147, 621.)]
[Footnote 5: Lines 59-62 are not in the Quarto. They first appeared in
'Poems Original and Translated']
[Footnote 6: Since this was written, Lord Henry Petty has lost his
place, and subsequently (I had almost said consequently) the honour of
representing the University. A fact so glaring requires no comment.
(Lord Henry Petty, M.P. for the University of Cambridge, was Chancellor
of the Exchequer in 1805; but in 1807 he lost his seat. In 1809 he
succeeded his brother as Marquis of Lansdowne. He died in 1863.)]
[Footnote i: 'M--us--l.--'[4to]]
[Footnote ii: 'Whilst all around.'--[4to]]
[Footnote iii:
'Who with scarse sense to pen an English letter,
Yet with precision scans an Attis metre.'
[4to]]
[Footnote iv:
'The manner of the speech is nothing, since',
[4to. 'P, on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote v:
'Celebrated critics'.
[4to. 'Three first Editions'.]]
[Footnote vi:
'They court the tool of power'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions.']]
[Footnote vii:
'While mitres, prebends'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions.']]
[Footnote viii:
The 'reward's' scarce equal to the 'price' they pay.
[4to]]
TO MARY,
ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE. [1]
1.
This faint resemblance of thy charms,
(Though strong as mortal art could give,)
My constant heart of fear disarms,
Revives my hopes, and bids me live.
2.
Here, I can trace the locks of gold
Which round thy snowy forehead wave;
The cheeks which sprung from Beauty's mould,
The lips, which made me 'Beauty's' slave.
3.
Here I can trace--ah, no! that eye,
Whose azure floats in liquid fire,
Must all the painter's art defy,
And bid him from the task retire.
4.
Here, I behold its beauteous hue;
But where's the beam so sweetly straying, [i.]
Which gave a lustre to its blue,
Like Luna o'er the ocean playing?
5.
Sweet copy! far more dear to me,
Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art,
Than all the living forms could be,
Save her who plac'd thee next my heart.
6.
She plac'd it, sad, with needless fear,
Lest time might shake my wavering soul,
Unconscious that her image there
Held every sense in fast controul.
7.
Thro' hours, thro' years, thro' time,'twill cheer--
My hope, in gloomy moments, raise;
In life's last conflict 'twill appear,
And meet my fond, expiring gaze.
[Footnote 1: This "Mary" is not to be confounded with the heiress of
Annesley, or "Mary" of Aberdeen. She was of humble station in life.
Byron used to show a lock of her light golden hair, as well as her
picture, among his friends. (See 'Life', p. 41, 'note'.)]
[Footnote i.:
'But Where's the beam of soft desire?
Which gave a lustre to its blue,
Love, only love, could e'er inspire.--'
[4to. 'P. on V, Occasions]]
ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX,[1]
THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU APPEARED IN THE "MORNING POST."
"Our Nation's foes lament on _Fox's_ death,
But bless the hour, when PITT resign'd his breath:
These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue,
We give the palm, where Justice points its due."
TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES SENT THE FOLLOWING REPLY [i]
FOR INSERTION IN THE "MORNING CHRONICLE."
Oh, factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth
Would mangle, still, the dead, perverting truth; [ii]
What, though our "nation's foes" lament the fate,
With generous feeling, of the good and great;
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name [iii]
Of him, whose meed exists in endless fame?
When PITT expir'd in plenitude of power,
Though ill success obscur'd his dying hour,
Pity her dewy wings before him spread,
For noble spirits "war not with the dead:"
His friends in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave; [iv]
He sunk, an Atlas bending "'neath the weight" [v]
Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state.
When, lo! a Hercules, in Fox, appear'd,
Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd:
He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied, [vi]
With him, our fast reviving hopes have died;
Not one great people, only, raise his urn,
All Europe's far-extended regions mourn.
"These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth undue,
To give the palm where Justice points its due;" [vii]
Yet, let not canker'd Calumny assail, [viii]
Or round her statesman wind her gloomy veil.
FOX! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep,
Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep;
For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan,
While friends and foes, alike, his talents own.--[ix]
Fox! shall, in Britain's future annals, shine,
Nor e'en to PITT, the patriot's 'palm' resign;
Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask,
For PITT, and PITT alone, has dar'd to ask. [x]
(Southwell, Oct., 1806. [1])
[Footnote 1: The stanza on the death of Fox appeared in the _Morning
Post_, September 26, 1806.]
[Footnote 2: This MS. is preserved at Newstead.]
[Footnote i:
_The subjoined Reply._
[4to] ]
[Footnote ii:
_Would mangle, still, the dead, in spite of truth._
[4to] ]
[Footnote iii:
_Shall, therefore, dastard tongues assail the name
Of him, whose virtues claim eternal fame?_
[4to] ]
[Footnote iv: _And all his errors._--[4to] ]
[Footnote v:
_He died, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight
Of cares oppressing our unhappy state.
But lo! another Hercules appeared._
[4to] ]
[Footnote vi:
_He too is dead who still our England propp'd
With him our fast reviving hopes have dropp'd._
[4to] ]
[Footnote vii: _And give the palm._ [4to] ]
[Footnote viii:
_But let not canker'd Calumny assail
And round.--
[4to] ]
[Footnote ix: _And friends and foes._ [4to] ]
[Footnote x: '--would dare to ask.' [410]]
TO A LADY WHO PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF HAIR BRAIDED WITH HIS
OWN, AND APPOINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER TO MEET HIM IN THE GARDEN. [1]
These locks, which fondly thus entwine,
In firmer chains our hearts confine,
Than all th' unmeaning protestations
Which swell with nonsense, love orations.
Our love is fix'd, I think we've prov'd it;
Nor time, nor place, nor art have mov'd it;
Then wherefore should we sigh and whine,
With groundless jealousy repine;
With silly whims, and fancies frantic,
Merely to make our love romantic?
Why should you weep, like _Lydia Languish_,
And fret with self-created anguish?
Or doom the lover you have chosen,
On winter nights to sigh half frozen;
In leafless shades, to sue for pardon,
Only because the scene's a garden?
For gardens seem, by one consent,
(Since Shakespeare set the precedent;
Since Juliet first declar'd her passion)
To form the place of assignation.
Oh! would some modern muse inspire,
And seat her by a _sea-coal_ fire;
Or had the bard at Christmas written,
And laid the scene of love in Britain;
He surely, in commiseration,
Had chang'd the place of declaration.
In Italy, I've no objection,
Warm nights are proper for reflection;
But here our climate is so rigid,
That love itself, is rather frigid:
Think on our chilly situation,
And curb this rage for imitation.
Then let us meet, as oft we've done,
Beneath the influence of the sun;
Or, if at midnight I must meet you,
Within your mansion let me greet you: [i.]
'There', we can love for hours together,
Much better, in such snowy weather,
Than plac'd in all th' Arcadian groves,
That ever witness'd rural loves;
'Then', if my passion fail to please, [ii.]
Next night I'll be content to freeze;
No more I'll give a loose to laughter,
But curse my fate, for ever after. [2]
[Footnote 1: These lines are addressed to the same Mary referred to in
the lines beginning, "This faint resemblance of thy charms." ('Vide
ante', p. 32.)]
[Footnote 2: In the above little piece the author has been accused by
some 'candid readers' of introducing the name of a lady [Julia
Leacroft] from whom he was some hundred miles distant at the time this
was written; and poor Juliet, who has slept so long in "the tomb of all
the Capulets," has been converted, with a trifling alteration of her
name, into an English damsel, walking in a garden of their own creation,
during the month of 'December', in a village where the author never
passed a winter. Such has been the candour of some ingenious critics. We
would advise these 'liberal' commentators on taste and arbiters of
decorum to read 'Shakespeare'.
Having heard that a very severe and indelicate censure has been passed
on the above poem, I beg leave to reply in a quotation from an admired
work, 'Carr's Stranger in France'.--"As we were contemplating a
painting on a large scale, in which, among other figures, is the
uncovered whole length of a warrior, a prudish-looking lady, who seemed
to have touched the age of desperation, after having attentively
surveyed it through her glass, observed to her party that there was a
great deal of indecorum in that picture. Madame S. shrewdly whispered in
my ear 'that the indecorum was in the remark.'"--[Ed. 1803, cap. xvi, p.
171. Compare the note on verses addressed "To a Knot of Ungenerous
Critics," p. 213.]]
[Footnote i:
'Oh! let me in your chamber greet you.'
[4to]]
[Footnote ii:
'There if my passion'
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions]]
TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER. [1]
Sweet girl! though only once we met,
That meeting I shall ne'er forget;
And though we ne'er may meet again,
Remembrance will thy form retain;
I would not say, "I love," but still,
My senses struggle with my will:
In vain to drive thee from my breast,
My thoughts are more and more represt;
In vain I check the rising sighs,
Another to the last replies:
Perhaps, this is not love, but yet,
Our meeting I can ne'er forget.
What, though we never silence broke,
Our eyes a sweeter language spoke;
The tongue in flattering falsehood deals,
And tells a tale it never feels:
Deceit, the guilty lips impart,
And hush the mandates of the heart;
But soul's interpreters, the eyes,
Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise.
As thus our glances oft convers'd,
And all our bosoms felt rehears'd,
No _spirit_, from within, reprov'd us,
Say rather, "'twas the _spirit mov'd_ us."
Though, what they utter'd, I repress,
Yet I conceive thou'lt partly guess;
For as on thee, my memory ponders,
Perchance to me, thine also wanders.
This, for myself, at least, I'll say,
Thy form appears through night, through day;
Awake, with it my fancy teems,
In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams;
The vision charms the hours away,
And bids me curse Aurora's ray
For breaking slumbers of delight,
Which make me wish for endless night.
Since, oh! whate'er my future fate,
Shall joy or woe my steps await;
Tempted by love, by storms beset,
Thine image, I can ne'er forget.
Alas! again no more we meet,
No more our former looks repeat;
Then, let me breathe this parting prayer,
The dictate of my bosom's care:
"May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker,
That anguish never can o'ertake her;
That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her,
But bliss be aye her heart's partaker!
Oh! may the happy mortal, fated [i]
To be, by dearest ties, related,
For _her_, each hour, _new joys_ discover, [ii]
And lose the husband in the lover!
May that fair bosom never know
What 'tis to feel the restless woe,
Which stings the soul, with vain regret,
Of him, who never can forget!"
1806.
[Footnote 1:
_Whom the author saw at Harrowgate_.
Annotated copy of 'P. on V. Occasions', p. 64 (British Museum).]
[Footnote i:
The Quarto inserts the following lines:--
_"No jealous passion shall invade,
No envy that pure heart pervade;"
For he that revels in such charms,
Can never seek another's arms._]
[Footnote ii:
new joy _discover_.
[4to]]
TO LESBIA! [i] [1]
1.
LESBIA! since far from you I've rang'd, [ii]
Our souls with fond affection glow not;
You say, 'tis I, not you, have chang'd,
I'd tell you why,--but yet I know not.
2.
Your polish'd brow no cares have crost;
And Lesbia! we are not much older, [iii]
Since, trembling, first my heart I lost,
Or told my love, with hope grown bolder.
3.
Sixteen was then our utmost age,
Two years have lingering pass'd away, love!
And now new thoughts our minds engage,
At least, I feel disposed to stray, love!
4.
"Tis _I_ that am alone to blame,
_I_, that am guilty of love's treason;
Since your sweet breast is still the same,
Caprice must be my only reason.
5.
I do not, love! suspect your truth,
With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not;
Warm was the passion of my youth,
One trace of dark deceit it leaves not.
6.
No, no, my flame was not pretended;
For, oh! I lov'd you most sincerely;
And though our dream at last is ended
My bosom still esteems you dearly.
7.
No more we meet in yonder bowers;
Absence has made me prone to roving; [iv]
But older, firmer _hearts_ than ours
Have found monotony in loving.
8.
Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd,
New beauties, still, are daily bright'ning,
Your eye, for conquest beams prepar'd, [v]
The forge of love's resistless lightning.
9.
Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed,
Many will throng, to sigh like me, love!
More constant they may prove, indeed;
Fonder, alas! they ne'er can be, love!
1806.
[Footnote 1: "The lady's name was Julia Leacroft" ('Note by Miss E.
Pigot'). The word "Julia" (?) is added, in a lady's hand, in the
annotated copy of 'P. on V. Occasions', p. 52 (British Museum)]
[Footnote i: 'To Julia'. [4to]]
[Footnote ii: 'Julia since'. [4to]]
[Footnote iii: 'And Julia'. [4to]]
[Footnote iv:
_Perhaps my soul's too pure for roving_.
[4to]]
[Footnote v:
_Your eye for conquest comes prepar'd_.
[4to]]
TO WOMAN.
Woman! experience might have told me [i]
That all must love thee, who behold thee:
Surely experience might have taught
Thy firmest promises are nought; [ii]
But, plac'd in all thy charms before me,
All I forget, but to _adore_ thee.
Oh memory! thou choicest blessing,
When join'd with hope, when still possessing; [iii]
But how much curst by every lover
When hope is fled, and passion's over.
Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,
How prompt are striplings to believe her!
How throbs the pulse, when first we view
The eye that rolls in glossy blue,
Or sparkles black, or mildly throws
A beam from under hazel brows!
How quick we credit every oath,
And hear her plight the willing troth!
Fondly we hope 'twill last for ay,
When, lo! she changes in a day.
This record will for ever stand,'
"Woman, thy vows are trac'd in sand." [1] [iv]
[Footnote i:
_Surely, experience_.
[4to]]
[Footnote ii:
_A woman's promises are naught_.
[4to]]
[Footnote iii: Here follows, in the Quarto, an additional couplet:--
_Thou whisperest, as our hearts are beating,
"What oft we've done, we're still repeating_,"]
[Footnote iv:
_This Record will for ever stand
That Woman's vows are writ in sand_.
[4to]]
[Footnote 1: The last line is almost a literal translation from a
Spanish proverb.
(The last line is not "almost a literal translation from a Spanish
proverb," but an adaptation of part of a stanza from the 'Diana' of
Jorge de Montemajor--
"Mirà, el Amor, lo que ordena;
Que os viene a hazer creer
Cosas dichas por muger,
Y escriptas en el arena."
Southey, in his 'Letters from Spain', 1797, pp. 87-91, gives a specimen
of the 'Diana', and renders the lines in question thus--
"And Love beheld us from his secret stand,
And mark'd his triumph, laughing, to behold me,
To see me trust a writing traced in sand,
To see me credit what a woman told me."
Byron, who at this time had little or no knowledge of Spanish
literature, seems to have been struck with Southey's paraphrase, and
compressed the quatrain into an epigram.]
AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE,
DELIVERED BY THE AUTHOR PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE OF "THE WHEEL OF
FORTUNE" AT A PRIVATE THEATRE. [1]
Since the refinement of this polish'd age
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage;
Since taste has now expung'd licentious wit,
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ;
Since, now, to please with purer scenes we seek,
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek;
Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim,
And meet indulgence--though she find not fame.
Still, not for _her_ alone, we wish respect, [i]
_Others_ appear more conscious of defect:
To-night no _vet'ran Roscii_ you behold,
In all the arts of scenic action old;
No COOKE, no KEMBLE, can salute you here,
No SIDDONS draw the sympathetic tear;
To-night you throng to witness the _début_
Of embryo Actors, to the Drama new:
Here, then, our almost unfledg'd wings we try;
Clip not our _pinions_, ere the _birds can fly_:
Failing in this our first attempt to soar,
Drooping, alas! we fall to rise no more.
Not one poor trembler, only, fear betrays,
Who hopes, yet almost dreads to meet your praise;
But all our Dramatis Personæ wait,
In fond suspense this crisis of their fate.
No venal views our progress can retard,
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward;
For these, each _Hero_ all his power displays, [ii]
Each timid _Heroine_ shrinks before your gaze:
Surely the last will some protection find? [iii]
None, to the softer sex, can prove unkind:
While Youth and Beauty form the female shield, [iv]
The sternest Censor to the fair must yield. [v]
Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail,
Should, _after all_, our best endeavours fail;
Still, let some mercy in your bosoms live,
And, if you can't applaud, at least _forgive_.
[Footnote 1. "I enacted Penruddock, in 'The Wheel of Fortune', and
Tristram Fickle, in the farce of 'The Weathercock', for three nights, in
some private theatricals at Southwell, in 1806, with great applause. The
occasional prologue for our volunteer play was also of my
composition."--'Diary; Life', p. 38. The prologue was written by him,
between stages, on his way from Harrogate. On getting into the carriage
at Chesterfield, he said to his companion, "Now, Pigot, I'll spin a
prologue for our play;" and before they reached Mansfield he had
completed his task,--interrupting only once his rhyming reverie, to ask
the proper pronunciation of the French word 'début'; and, on being told
it, exclaiming, "Aye, that will do for rhyme to ''new'.'"--'Life', p.
39. "The Prologue was spoken by G. Wylde, Esq."--Note by Miss E. PIGOT.]
[Footnote i. _But not for her alone_.--[4to]
[Footnote ii: _For them each Hero_.--[4to]]
[Footnote iii: _Surely these last_.--[4to]]
[Footnote iv: _Whilst Youth_.--[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote v: _The sternest critic_.--[4to]]
TO ELIZA. [i]
1.
Eliza! [1] what fools are the Mussulman sect,
Who, to woman, deny the soul's future existence;
Could they see thee, Eliza! they'd own their defect,
And this doctrine would meet with a general resistance. [ii]
2.
Had their Prophet possess'd half an atom of sense, [iii]
He ne'er would have _woman_ from Paradise driven;
Instead of his _Houris_, a flimsy pretence, [iv]
With _woman alone_ he had peopled his Heaven.
3.
Yet, still, to increase your calamities more, [v]
Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit,
He allots one poor husband to share amongst four! [vi]--
With _souls_ you'd dispense; but, this last, who could bear it?
4.
His religion to please neither party is made;
On _husbands_ 'tis _hard_, to the wives most uncivil;
Still I can't contradict, [vii] what so oft has been said,
"Though women are angels, yet wedlock's the devil."
5.
This terrible truth, even Scripture has told, [2]
Ye Benedicks! hear me, and listen with rapture;
If a glimpse of redemption you wish to behold,
Of ST. MATT.--read the second and twentieth chapter.
6.
'Tis surely enough upon earth to be vex'd,
With wives who eternal confusion are spreading;
"But in Heaven" (so runs the Evangelists' Text)
"We neither have giving in marriage, or wedding."
7.
From this we suppose, (as indeed well we may,)
That should Saints after death, with their spouses put up more,
And wives, as in life, aim at absolute sway,
All Heaven would ring with the conjugal uproar.
8.
Distraction and Discord would follow in course,
Nor MATTHEW, nor MARK, nor ST. PAUL, can deny it,
The only expedient is general divorce,
To prevent universal disturbance and riot.
9.
But though husband and wife, shall at length be disjoin'd,
Yet woman and man ne'er were meant to dissever,
Our chains once dissolv'd, and our hearts unconfin'd,
We'll love without bonds, but we'll love you for ever.
10.
Though souls are denied you by fools and by rakes,
Should you own it yourselves, I would even then doubt you,
Your nature so much of _celestial_ partakes,
The Garden of Eden would wither without you.
Southwell, _October_ 9, 1806.
[Footnote 1: The letters "E. B. P." are added, in a lady's hand, in the
annotated copy of _P. on V. Occasions_, p. 26 (_British Museum_). The
initials stand for Miss Elizabeth Pigot.]
[Footnote 2: Stanzas 5-10, which appear in the Quarto, were never
reprinted.]
[Footnote i:
_To Miss E. P._ [4to]
_To Miss_---. [_P. on V. Occasions._]]
[Footnote ii:
_Did they know but yourself they would bend with respect,
And this doctrine must meet_---.
[_MS. Newstead_.]]
[Footnote iii: _But an atom of sense_. [4to]]
[Footnote iv: _But instead of his_ Houris. [4to]]
[Footnote v: _But still to increase_. [4to]]
[Footnote vi: _He allots but one husband. [4to]]
[Footnote vii: _But I can't---._ [4to]]
THE TEAR.
O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater
Felix! in imo qui scatentem
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit. [1]
GRAY, 'Alcaic Fragment'.
1.
When Friendship or Love
Our sympathies move;
When Truth, in a glance, should appear,
The lips may beguile,
With a dimple or smile,
But the test of affection's a _Tear_.
2.
Too oft is a smile
But the hypocrite's wile,
To mask detestation, or fear;
Give me the soft sigh,
Whilst the soul-telling eye
Is dimm'd, for a time, with a _Tear_.
3.
Mild Charity's glow,
To us mortals below,
Shows the soul from barbarity clear;
Compassion will melt,
Where this virtue is felt,
And its dew is diffused in a _Tear_.
4.
The man, doom'd to sail
With the blast of the gale,
Through billows Atlantic to steer,
As he bends o'er the wave
Which may soon be his grave,
The green sparkles bright with a _Tear_.
5.
The Soldier braves death
For a fanciful wreath
In Glory's romantic career;
But he raises the foe
When in battle laid low,
And bathes every wound with a _Tear_.
6.
If, with high-bounding pride,[i]
He return to his bride!
Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear;
All his toils are repaid
When, embracing the maid,
From her eyelid he kisses the _Tear_.
7.
Sweet scene of my youth! [2]
Seat of Friendship and Truth,
Where Love chas'd each fast-fleeting year;
Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd,
For a last look I turn'd,
But thy spire was scarce seen through a _Tear_.
8.
Though my vows I can pour,
To my Mary no more, [3]
My Mary, to Love once so dear,
In the shade of her bow'r,
I remember the hour,
She rewarded those vows with a _Tear_.
9.
By another possest,
May she live ever blest!
Her name still my heart must revere:
With a sigh I resign,
What I once thought was mine,
And forgive her deceit with a _Tear_.
10.
Ye friends of my heart,
Ere from you I depart,
This hope to my breast is most near:
If again we shall meet,
In this rural retreat,
May we _meet_, as we _part_, with a _Tear_.
11.
When my soul wings her flight
To the regions of night,
And my corse shall recline on its bier; [ii]
As ye pass by the tomb,
Where my ashes consume,
Oh! moisten their dust with a _Tear_.
12.
May no marble bestow
The splendour of woe,
Which the children of Vanity rear;
No fiction of fame
Shall blazon my name,
All I ask, all I wish, is a _Tear_.
October 26, 1806. [iii]
[Footnote 1: The motto was prefixed in 'Hours of Idleness'.]
[Footnote 2: Harrow.]
[Footnote 3: Miss Chaworth was married in 1805.]
[Footnote i:
_When with high-bounding pride,
He returns_----.
[4to]]
[Footnote ii:
_And my body shall sleep on its bier_.
[4to. _P. on V. Occasions_.]]
[Footnote iii:
BYRON, October 26, 1806.
[4to]]
REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J. M. B. PIGOT, ESQ.,
ON THE CRUELTY OF HIS MISTRESS. [1]
1.
Why, Pigot, complain
Of this damsel's disdain,
Why thus in despair do you fret?
For months you may try,
Yet, believe me, a _sigh_ [i]
Will never obtain a _coquette_.
2.
Would you teach her to love?
For a time seem to rove;
At first she may _frown_ in a _pet;_
But leave her awhile,
She shortly will smile,
And then you may _kiss_ your _coquette_.
3.
For such are the airs
Of these fanciful fairs,
They think all our _homage_ a _debt_:
Yet a partial neglect [ii]
Soon takes an effect,
And humbles the proudest _coquette_.
4.
Dissemble your pain,
And lengthen your chain,
And seem her _hauteur_ to _regret;_ [iii]
If again you shall sigh,
She no more will deny,
That _yours_ is the rosy _coquette_.
5.
If still, from false pride, [iv]
Your pangs she deride,
This whimsical virgin forget;
Some _other_ admire,
Who will _melt_ with your _fire_,
And laugh at the _little coquette_.
6.
For _me_, I adore
Some _twenty_ or more,
And love them most dearly; but yet,
Though my heart they enthral,
I'd abandon them all,
Did they act like your blooming _coquette_.
7.
No longer repine,
Adopt this design, [v]
And break through her slight-woven net!
Away with despair,
No longer forbear
To fly from the captious _coquette_.
8.
Then quit her, my friend!
Your bosom defend,
Ere quite with her snares you're beset:
Lest your deep-wounded heart,
When incens'd by the smart,
Should lead you to _curse_ the _coquette_.
October 27, 1806. [vi]
[Footnote 1: The letters "C. B. F. J. B. M." are added, in a lady's
hand, in the annotated copy of 'P. on V. Occasions', p. 14 (British
Museum).]
[Footnote i: _But believe me_. [4to]]
[Footnote ii: _But a partial_. [4to]]
[Footnote iii: _Nor seem_. [4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote iv: _But if from false pride._ [4to]]
[Footnote v: _But form this design._ [4to]]
[Footnote vi: BYRON, October 27, 1806. [4to]
GRANTA. A MEDLEY.
[Greek: Argureais logchaisi machou kai panta krataese_o.] [1]
(Reply of the Pythian Oracle to Philip of Macedon.)
1.
Oh! could LE SAGE'S [2] demon's gift
Be realis'd at my desire,
This night my trembling form he'd lift
To place it on St. Mary's spire. [i]
2.
Then would, unroof'd, old Granta's halls,
Pedantic inmates full display;
_Fellows_ who dream on _lawn_ or _stalls_,
The price of venal votes to pay. [ii]
3.
Then would I view each rival wight,
PETTY and PALMERSTON survey;
Who canvass there, with all their might, [iii]
Against the next elective day. [3]
4.
Lo! candidates and voters lie [iv]
All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number!
A race renown'd for piety,
Whose conscience won't disturb their slumber.
5.
Lord H---[4] indeed, may not demur;
Fellows are sage, reflecting men:
They know preferment can occur,
But very seldom,--_now_ and _then_.
6.
They know the Chancellor has got
Some pretty livings in disposal:
Each hopes that _one_ may be his _lot_,
And, therefore, smiles on his proposal. [v]
7.
Now from the soporific scene [vi]
I'll turn mine eye, as night grows later,
To view, unheeded and unseen, [vii]
The studious sons of Alma Mater.
8.
There, in apartments small and damp,
The candidate for college prizes,
Sits poring by the midnight lamp;
Goes late to bed, yet early rises. [viii]
9.
He surely well deserves to gain them,
With all the honours of his college, [ix]
Who, striving hardly to obtain them,
Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge:
10.
Who sacrifices hours of rest,
To scan precisely metres Attic;
Or agitates his anxious breast, [x]
In solving problems mathematic:
11.
Who reads false quantities in Seale, [5]
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle;
Depriv'd of many a wholesome meal; [xi]
In _barbarous Latin_ [6] doom'd to wrangle:
12.
Renouncing every pleasing page,
From authors of historic use;
Preferring to the letter'd sage,
The square of the hypothenuse. [7]
13.
Still, harmless are these occupations, [xii]
That hurt none but the hapless student,
Compar'd with other recreations,
Which bring together the imprudent;
14.
Whose daring revels shock the sight,
When vice and infamy combine,
When Drunkenness and dice invite, [xiii]
As every sense is steep'd in wine.
15.
Not so the methodistic crew,
Who plans of reformation lay:
In humble attitude they sue,
And for the sins of others pray:
16.
Forgetting that their pride of spirit,
Their exultation in their trial, [xiv]
Detracts most largely from the merit
Of all their boasted self-denial.
17.
'Tis morn:--from these I turn my sight:
What scene is this which meets the eye?
A numerous crowd array'd in white, [8]
Across the green in numbers fly.
18.
Loud rings in air the chapel bell;
'Tis hush'd:--what sounds are these I hear?
The organ's soft celestial swell
Rolls deeply on the listening ear.
19.
To this is join'd the sacred song,
The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain;
Though _he_ who hears the _music_ long, [xv]
Will _never_ wish to _hear again_.
20.
Our choir would scarcely be excus'd,
E'en as a band of raw beginners;
All mercy, now, must be refus'd [xvi]
To such a set of croaking sinners.
21.
If David, when his toils were ended,
Had heard these blockheads sing before him,
To us his psalms had ne'er descended,--
In furious mood he would have tore 'em.
22.
The luckless Israelites, when taken
By some inhuman tyrant's order,
Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken,
On Babylonian river's border.
23.
Oh! had they sung in notes like these [xvii]
Inspir'd by stratagem or fear,
They might have set their hearts at ease,
The devil a soul had stay'd to hear.
24.
But if I scribble longer now, [xviii]
The deuce a soul will _stay to read_;
My pen is blunt, my ink is low;
'Tis almost time to _stop_, _indeed_.
25.
Therefore, farewell, old _Granta's_ spires!
No more, like _Cleofas_, I fly;
No more thy theme my Muse inspires:
The reader's tir'd, and so am I.
October 28, 1806.
[Footnote 1: The motto was prefixed in 'Hours of Idleness'.
"Fight with silver spears" ('i.e'. with bribes), "and them shall
prevail in all things."]
[Footnote 2: The 'Diable Boiteux' of Le Sage, where Asmodeus, the demon,
places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation, and unroofs the houses for
inspection. [Don Cleofas, clinging to the cloak of Asmodeus, is carried
through the air to the summit of S. Salvador.]
[Footnote 3: On the death of Pitt, in January, 1806, Lord Henry Petty
beat Lord Palmerston in the contest for the representation of the
University of Cambridge in Parliament.]
[Footnote 4: Probably Lord Henry Petty. See variant iii.]
[Footnote 5: Scale's publication on Greek Metres displays considerable
talent and ingenuity, but, as might be expected in so difficult a work,
is not remarkable for accuracy. ('An Analysis of the Greek Metres; for
the use of students at the University of Cambridge'. By John Barlow
Seale (1764), 8vo. A fifth edition was issued in 1807.)]
[Footnote 6. The Latin of the schools is of the 'canine species', and
not very intelligible.]
[Footnote 7: The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of the
hypothenuse is equal to the squares of the other two sides of a
right-angled triangle.]
[Footnote 8: On a saint's day the students wear surplices in chapel.]
[Footnote i: 'And place it'. [4to]]
[Footnote ii: 'The price of hireling'. [4to]]
[Footnote iii: 'Who canvass now'. [4to]]
[Footnote iv:
'One on his power and place depends,
The other on--the Lord knows what!
Each to some eloquence pretends,
But neither will convince by that.
The first, indeed, may not demur;
Fellows are sage reflecting men,
And know'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote v:
'And therefore smiles at his'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote vi:
'Now from Corruption's shameless scene'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote vii: 'And view unseen'. [4to]]
[Footnote viii: 'and early rises'. [4to]]
[Footnote ix: 'And all the' [4to]]
[Footnote x: 'And agitates'. [4to]]
[Footnote xi: 'And robs himself of many a meal'. [4to]]
[Footnote xii:
'But harmless are these occupations
Which'.
[4to]]
[Footnote xiii:
'When Drunkenness and dice unite.
And every sense'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote xiv: 'And exultation'. [4to]]
[Footnote xv: 'But he'. [4to]]
[Footnote xvi: 'But mercy'. [4to]]
[Footnote xvii: 'But had they sung'. [4to]]
[Footnote xviii:
'But if I write much longer now'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
TO THE SIGHING STREPHON. [1]
1.
Your pardon, my friend,
If my rhymes did offend,
Your pardon, a thousand times o'er;
From friendship I strove,
Your pangs to remove,
But, I swear, I will do so no more.
2.
Since your _beautiful_ maid,
Your flame has repaid,
No more I your folly regret;
She's now most divine,
And I bow at the shrine,
Of this quickly reformèd coquette.
3.
Yet still, I must own, [i]
I should never have known,
From _your verses_, what else she deserv'd;
Your pain seem'd so great,
I pitied your fate,
As your fair was so dev'lish reserv'd.
4.
Since the balm-breathing kiss [ii]
Of this magical Miss,
Can such wonderful transports produce; [iii]
Since the _"world you forget,
When your lips once have met,"_
My counsel will get but abuse.
5.
You say, "When I rove,"
"I know nothing of love;"
Tis true, I am given to range;
If I rightly remember,
_I've lov'd_ a good number; [iv]
Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change.
6.
I will not advance, [v]
By the rules of romance,
To humour a whimsical fair;
Though a smile may delight,
Yet a _frown_ will _affright,_ [vi]
Or drive me to dreadful despair.
7.
While my blood is thus warm,
I ne'er shall reform,
To mix in the Platonists' school;
Of this I am sure,
Was my Passion so pure,
Thy _Mistress_ would think me a fool. [vii]
8 [viii]
And if I should shun,
Every _woman_ for _one,_
Whose _image_ must fill my whole breast;
Whom I must _prefer,_
And _sigh_ but for _her,_
What an _insult_ 'twould be to the _rest!_
9.
Now Strephon, good-bye;
I cannot deny,
Your _passion_ appears most _absurd;_
Such _love_ as you plead,
Is _pure_ love, indeed,
For it _only_ consists in the _word_.
[Footnote 1: The letters "J. M. B. P." are added, in a lady's hand, in
the annotated copy of 'P. on V. Occasions', p. 17 (British Museum).]
[Footnote i: 'But still'. [4to]]
[Footnote ii: 'But since the chaste kiss.' [4to]]
[Footnote iii: 'Such wonderful.' [4to]]
[Footnote iv:
'I've kiss'd a good number.
But-----'
[4to]]
[Footnote v:
'I ne'er will advance.'
[4to]]
[Footnote vi:
'Yet a frown won't affright.'
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions.']]
[Footnote vii:
'My mistress must think me.'
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions.']]
[Footnote viii:
'Though the kisses are sweet,
Which voluptuously meet,
Of kissing I ne'er was so fond,
As to make me forget,
Though our lips oft have met,
That still there was something beyond.'
[4to]
THE CORNELIAN. [1]
1.
No specious splendour of this stone
Endears it to my memory ever;
With lustre _only once_ it shone,
And blushes modest as the giver. [i]
2.
Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties,
Have, for my weakness, oft reprov'd me;
Yet still the simple gift I prize,
For I am sure, the giver lov'd me.
3.
He offer'd it with downcast look,
As _fearful_ that I might refuse it;
I told him, when the gift I took,
My _only fear_ should be, to lose it.
4.
This pledge attentively I view'd,
And _sparkling_ as I held it near,
Methought one drop the stone bedew'd,
And, ever since, _I've lov'd a tear._
5.
Still, to adorn his humble youth,
Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield;
But he, who seeks the flowers of truth,
Must quit the garden, for the field.
6.
'Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth,
Which beauty shews, and sheds perfume;
The flowers, which yield the most of both,
In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom.
7.
Had Fortune aided Nature's care,
For once forgetting to be blind,
_His_ would have been an ample share,
If well proportioned to his mind.
8.
But had the Goddess clearly seen,
His form had fix'd her fickle breast;
_Her_ countless hoards would _his_ have been,
And none remain'd to give the rest.
[Footnote 1: The cornelian was a present from his friend Edleston, a
Cambridge chorister, afterwards a clerk in a mercantile house in London.
Edleston died of consumption, May 11, 1811. (See letter from Byron to
Miss Pigot, October 28, 1811.) Their acquaintance began by Byron saving
him from drowning. (MS. note by the Rev. W. Harness.)]
[Footnote i: 'But blushes modest'. [4to]]
TO M----[i]
1.
Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire,
With bright, but mild affection shine:
Though they might kindle less desire,
Love, more than mortal, would be thine.
2.
For thou art form'd so heavenly fair,
_Howe'er_ those orbs _may_ wildly beam,
We must _admire,_ but still despair;
That fatal glance forbids esteem.
3.
When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth,
So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear'd that, too divine for earth,
The skies might claim thee for their own.
4.
Therefore, to guard her dearest work,
Lest angels might dispute the prize,
She bade a secret lightning lurk,
Within those once celestial eyes.
5.
These might the boldest Sylph appall,
When gleaming with meridian blaze;
Thy beauty must enrapture all;
But who can dare thine ardent gaze?
6.
'Tis said that Berenice's hair,
In stars adorns the vault of heaven;
But they would ne'er permit _thee_ there,
_Thou_ wouldst so far outshine the seven.
7.
For did those eyes as planets roll,
Thy sister-lights would scarce appear:
E'en suns, which systems now controul,
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere. [1]
Friday, November 7, 1806
[Footnote 1:
"Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do intreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return."
Shakespeare.]
[Footnote i: 'To A----'. [4to] ]
LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.[1]
[As the author was discharging his Pistols in a Garden, Two Ladies
passing near the spot were alarmed by the sound of a Bullet hissing near
them, to one of whom the following stanzas were addressed the next
morning.] [2]
1.
Doubtless, sweet girl! the hissing lead,
Wafting destruction o'er thy charms [i]
And hurtling o'er [3] thy lovely head,
Has fill'd that breast with fond alarms.
2.
Surely some envious Demon's force,
Vex'd to behold such beauty here,
Impell'd the bullet's viewless course,
Diverted from its first career.
3.
Yes! in that nearly fatal hour,
The ball obey'd some hell-born guide;
But Heaven, with interposing power,
In pity turn'd the death aside.
4.
Yet, as perchance one trembling tear
Upon that thrilling bosom fell;
Which _I_, th' unconscious cause of fear,
Extracted from its glistening cell;--
5.
Say, what dire penance can atone
For such an outrage, done to thee?
Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne,
What punishment wilt thou decree?
6.
Might I perform the Judge's part,
The sentence I should scarce deplore;
It only would restore a heart,
Which but belong'd to _thee_ before.
7.
The least atonement I can make
Is to become no longer free;
Henceforth, I breathe but for thy sake,
Thou shalt be _all in all_ to me.
8.
But thou, perhaps, may'st now reject
Such expiation of my guilt;
Come then--some other mode elect?
Let it be death--or what thou wilt.
9.
Choose, then, relentless! and I swear
Nought shall thy dread decree prevent;
Yet hold--one little word forbear!
Let it be aught but banishment.
[Footnote 1: This title first appeared in "Contents" to 'P. on V.
Occasions'.]
[Footnote 2: The occurrence took place at Southwell, and the beautiful
lady to whom the lines were addressed was Miss Houson, who is also
commemorated in the verses "To a Vain Lady" and "To Anne." She was the
daughter of the Rev. Henry Houson of Southwell, and married the Rev.
Luke Jackson. She died on Christmas Day, 1821, and her monument may be
seen in Hucknall Torkard Church.]
[Footnote 3: This word is used by Gray in his poem to the Fatal
Sisters:--
"Iron-sleet of arrowy shower
Hurtles in the darken'd air."]
[Footnote i: 'near thy charms'. [4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.
AD LESBIAM.
Equal to Jove that youth must be--
_Greater_ than Jove he seems to me--
Who, free from Jealousy's alarms,
Securely views thy matchless charms;
That cheek, which ever dimpling glows,
That mouth, from whence such music flows,
To him, alike, are always known,
Reserv'd for him, and him alone.
Ah! Lesbia! though 'tis death to me,
I cannot choose but look on thee;
But, at the sight, my senses fly,
I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die;
Whilst trembling with a thousand fears,
Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres,
My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short,
My limbs deny their slight support;
Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread,
With deadly languor droops my head,
My ears with tingling echoes ring,
And Life itself is on the wing;
My eyes refuse the cheering light,
Their orbs are veil'd in starless night:
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath,
And feels a temporary death.
TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL
AND TIBULLUS, BY DOMITIUS MARSUS.
He who, sublime, in epic numbers roll'd,
And he who struck the softer lyre of Love,
By Death's _unequal_[1] hand alike controul'd,
Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!
[Footnote: 1. The hand of Death is said to be unjust or unequal, as
Virgil was considerably older than Tibullus at his decease.]
IMITATION OF TIBULLUS.
SULPICIA AD CERINTHUM (LIB. QUART.).
Cruel Cerinthus! does the fell disease [i]
Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please?
Alas! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain,
That I might live for Love and you again;
But, now, I scarcely shall bewail my fate:
By Death alone I can avoid your hate.
[Footnote i:
'does this fell disease'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions.]
TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.
LUGETE VENERES CUPIDINESQUE (CARM. III.) [i]
Ye Cupids, droop each little head,
Nor let your wings with joy be spread,
My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead,
Whom dearer than her eyes she lov'd: [ii]
For he was gentle, and so true,
Obedient to her call he flew,
No fear, no wild alarm he knew,
But lightly o'er her bosom mov'd:
And softly fluttering here and there,
He never sought to cleave the air,
He chirrup'd oft, and, free from care, [iii]
Tun'd to her ear his grateful strain.
Now having pass'd the gloomy bourn, [iv]
From whence he never can return,
His death, and Lesbia's grief I mourn,
Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain.
Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave!
Whose jaws eternal victims crave,
From whom no earthly power can save,
For thou hast ta'en the bird away:
From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow,
Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow;
Thou art the cause of all her woe,
Receptacle of life's decay.
[Footnote i:
_Luctus De Morte Passeris_.
[4to. _P. on V. Occasions_.] ]
[Footnote ii: _Which dearer_. [4to] ]
[Footnote iii: _But chirrup'd_. [4to] ]
[Footnote iv: _But now he's pass'd_. [4to] ]
IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. [1]
TO ELLEN. [i]
Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire,
A million scarce would quench desire;
Still would I steep my lips in bliss,
And dwell an age on every kiss;
Nor then my soul should sated be,
Still would I kiss and cling to thee:
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever,
Still would we kiss and kiss for ever;
E'en though the numbers did exceed [ii]
The yellow harvest's countless seed;
To part would be a vain endeavour:
Could I desist?--ah! never--never.
November 16, 1806.
[Footnote 1: From a note in Byron's copy of Catullus (now in the
possession of Mr. Murray), it is evident that these lines are based on
Carm. xlviii., 'Mellitos oculos tuos, Juventi'.]
[Footnote i: 'To Anna'. [4to] ]
[Footnote ii: 'E'en though the number'. [4to. 'Three first Editions'.]]
* * * * * * * *
POEMS ON VARIOUS OCCASIONS
TO M. S. G.
1.
Whene'er I view those lips of thine,
Their hue invites my fervent kiss;
Yet, I forego that bliss divine,
Alas! it were--unhallow'd bliss.
2.
Whene'er I dream of that pure breast,
How could I dwell upon its snows!
Yet, is the daring wish represt,
For that,--would banish its repose.
3.
A glance from thy soul-searching eye
Can raise with hope, depress with fear;
Yet, I conceal my love,--and why?
I would not force a painful tear.
4.
I ne'er have told my love, yet thou
Hast seen my ardent flame too well;
And shall I plead my passion now,
To make thy bosom's heaven a hell?
5.
No! for thou never canst be mine,
United by the priest's decree:
By any ties but those divine,
Mine, my belov'd, thou ne'er shalt be.
6.
Then let the secret fire consume,
Let it consume, thou shalt not know:
With joy I court a certain doom,
Rather than spread its guilty glow.
7.
I will not ease my tortur'd heart,
By driving dove-ey'd peace from thine;
Rather than such a sting impart,
Each thought presumptuous I resign.
8.
Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave
More than I here shall dare to tell;
Thy innocence and mine to save,--
I bid thee now a last farewell.
9.
Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair
And hope no more thy soft embrace;
Which to obtain, my soul would dare,
All, all reproach, but thy disgrace.
10.
At least from guilt shall thou be free,
No matron shall thy shame reprove;
Though cureless pangs may prey on me,
No martyr shall thou be to love.
STANZAS TO A LADY, WITH THE POEMS OF CAMOËNS. [1]
1.
This votive pledge of fond esteem,
Perhaps, dear girl! for me thou'lt prize;
It sings of Love's enchanting dream,
A theme we never can despise.
2.
Who blames it but the envious fool,
The old and disappointed maid?
Or pupil of the prudish school,
In single sorrow doom'd to fade?
3.
Then read, dear Girl! with feeling read,
For thou wilt ne'er be one of those;
To thee, in vain, I shall not plead
In pity for the Poet's woes.
4.
He was, in sooth, a genuine Bard;
His was no faint, fictitious flame:
Like his, may Love be thy reward,
But not thy hapless fate the same.
[Footnote: 1. Lord Strangford's 'Poems from the Portuguese by Luis de
Camoëns' and "Little's" Poems are mentioned by Moore as having been
Byron's favourite study at this time ('Life', P--39).]
TO M. S. G. [1]
1.
When I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive;
Extend not your anger to sleep;
For in visions alone your affection can live,--
I rise, and it leaves me to weep.
2.
Then, Morpheus! envelop my faculties fast,
Shed o'er me your languor benign;
Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last,
What rapture celestial is mine!
3.
They tell us that slumber, the sister of death,
Mortality's emblem is given;
To fate how I long to resign my frail breath,
If this be a foretaste of Heaven!
4.
Ah! frown not, sweet Lady, unbend your soft brow,
Nor deem me too happy in this;
If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now,
Thus doom'd, but to gaze upon bliss.
5.
Though in visions, sweet Lady, perhaps you may smile,
Oh! think not my penance deficient!
When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile,
To awake, will be torture sufficient.
[Footnote 1: "C. G. B. to E. P." 'MS. Newstead'.]
TRANSLATION FROM HORACE.
Justum et tenacem propositi virum.
HOR. 'Odes', iii. 3. I.
1.
The man of firm and noble soul
No factious clamours can controul;
No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow
Can swerve him from his just intent:
Gales the warring waves which plough,
By Auster on the billows spent,
To curb the Adriatic main,
Would awe his fix'd determined mind in vain.
2.
Aye, and the red right arm of Jove,
Hurtling his lightnings from above,
With all his terrors there unfurl'd,
He would, unmov'd, unaw'd, behold;
The flames of an expiring world,
Again in crashing chaos roll'd,
In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd,
Might light his glorious funeral pile:
Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'd smile.
THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE.
[Greek:
Ha barbitos de chordais
Er_ota mounon aechei. [1]
ANACREON ['Ode' 1].
1.
Away with your fictions of flimsy romance,
Those tissues of falsehood which Folly has wove; [i]
Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,
Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love.
2.
Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with fantasy glow, [ii]
Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove;
From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow, [iii]
Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love.
3.
If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse,
Or the Nine be dispos'd from your service to rove,
Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the Muse,
And try the effect, of the first kiss of love.
4.
I hate you, ye cold compositions of art,
Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove;
I court the effusions that spring from the heart,
Which throbs, with delight, to the first kiss of love. [iv]
5.
Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes, [v]
Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move:
Arcadia displays but a region of dreams; [vi]
What are visions like these, to the first kiss of love?
6.
Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth, [vii]
From Adam, till now, has with wretchedness strove;
Some portion of Paradise still is on earth,
And Eden revives, in the first kiss of love.
7.
When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past--
For years fleet away with the wings of the dove--
The dearest remembrance will still be the last,
Our sweetest memorial, the first kiss of love.
December 23, 1806.
[Footnote 1: The motto was prefixed in 'Hours of Idleness'.]
[Footnote i:
'Moriah [A] those air dreams and types has o'er wove,
['MS. Newstead'.]
'Those tissues of fancy Moriah has wove,
'['P. on V. Occasions'.] ]
[Sub-Footnote A: Moriah is the "Goddess of Folly."]
[Footnote ii:
'Ye rhymers, who sing as if seated on snow.--'
['P. on V. Occasions'.] ]
[Footnote iii:
'With what blest inspiration.--'
['MS. P. on V. Occasions'.] ]
[Footnote iv:
'Which glows with delight at'.
['MS'.]]
[Footnote v:
'Your shepherds, your pipes'.
['MS. P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote vi:
'Arcadia yields but a legion of dreams'.
['MS'.]
[Footnote vii:
'that man from his birth'.
['MS. P. on V. Occasions'.]
CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS. [1]
"I cannot but remember such things were,
And were most dear to me."
'Macbeth' [2]
["That were most precious to me."
'Macbeth', act iv, sc. 3.]
When slow Disease, with all her host of Pains, [i]
Chills the warm tide, which flows along the veins;
When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing,
And flies with every changing gale of spring;
Not to the aching frame alone confin'd,
Unyielding pangs assail the drooping mind:
What grisly forms, the spectre-train of woe,
Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the blow,
With Resignation wage relentless strife,
While Hope retires appall'd, and clings to life. 10
Yet less the pang when, through the tedious hour,
Remembrance sheds around her genial power,
Calls back the vanish'd days to rapture given,
When Love was bliss, and Beauty form'd our heaven;
Or, dear to youth, pourtrays each childish scene,
Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have been.
As when, through clouds that pour the summer storm,
The orb of day unveils his distant form,
Gilds with faint beams the crystal dews of rain
And dimly twinkles o'er the watery plain; 20
Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams,
The Sun of Memory, glowing through my dreams,
Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze,
To scenes far distant points his paler rays,
Still rules my senses with unbounded sway,
The past confounding with the present day.
Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought,
Which still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought;
My soul to Fancy's fond suggestion yields,
And roams romantic o'er her airy fields. 30
Scenes of my youth, develop'd, crowd to view,
To which I long have bade a last adieu!
Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes;
Friends lost to me, for aye, except in dreams;
Some, who in marble prematurely sleep,
Whose forms I now remember, but to weep;
Some, who yet urge the same scholastic course
Of early science, future fame the source;
Who, still contending in the studious race,
In quick rotation, fill the senior place! 40
These, with a thousand visions, now unite,
To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight. [3]
IDA! blest spot, where Science holds her reign,
How joyous, once, I join'd thy youthful train!
Bright, in idea, gleams thy lofty spire,
Again, I mingle with thy playful quire;
Our tricks of mischief, [4] every childish game,
Unchang'd by time or distance, seem the same;
Through winding paths, along the glade I trace
The social smile of every welcome face; 50
My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy or woe,
Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe,
Our feuds dissolv'd, but not my friendship past,--
I bless the former, and forgive the last.
Hours of my youth! when, nurtur'd in my breast,
To Love a stranger, Friendship made me blest,--
Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth,
When every artless bosom throbs with truth;
Untaught by worldly wisdom how to feign,
And check each impulse with prudential rein; 60
When, all we feel, our honest souls disclose,
In love to friends, in open hate to foes;
No varnish'd tales the lips of youth repeat,
No dear-bought knowledge purchased by deceit;
Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen'd years,
Matured by age, the garb of Prudence wears: [ii]
When, now, the Boy is ripen'd into Man,
His careful Sire chalks forth some wary plan;
Instructs his Son from Candour's path to shrink,
Smoothly to speak, and cautiously to think; 70
Still to assent, and never to deny--
A patron's praise can well reward the lie:
And who, when Fortune's warning voice is heard,
Would lose his opening prospects for a word?
Although, against that word, his heart rebel,
And Truth, indignant, all his bosom swell.
Away with themes like this! not mine the task,
From flattering friends to tear the hateful mask;
Let keener bards delight in Satire's sting,
My Fancy soars not on Detraction's wing: 80
Once, and but once, she aim'd a deadly blow,
To hurl Defiance on a secret Foe;
But when that foe, from feeling or from shame,
The cause unknown, yet still to me the same,
Warn'd by some friendly hint, perchance, retir'd,
With this submission all her rage expired.
From dreaded pangs that feeble Foe to save,
She hush'd her young resentment, and forgave.
Or, if my Muse a Pedant's portrait drew,
POMPOSUS' [5] virtues are but known to few: 90
I never fear'd the young usurper's nod,
And he who wields must, sometimes, feel the rod.
If since on Granta's failings, known to all
Who share the converse of a college hall,
She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain,
'Tis past, and thus she will not sin again:
Soon must her early song for ever cease,
And, all may rail, when I shall rest in peace.
Here, first remember'd be the joyous band,
Who hail'd me chief, [6] obedient to command; 100
Who join'd with me, in every boyish sport,
Their first adviser, and their last resort;
Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant's frown, [iii]
Or all the sable glories of his gown; [iv]
Who, thus, transplanted from his father's school,
Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule--
Succeeded him, whom all unite to praise,
The dear preceptor of my early days,
PROBUS, [7] the pride of science, and the boast--
To IDA now, alas! for ever lost! 110
With him, for years, we search'd the classic page, [v]
And fear'd the Master, though we lov'd the Sage:
Retir'd at last, his small yet peaceful seat
From learning's labour is the blest retreat.
POMPOSUS fills his magisterial chair;
POMPOSUS governs,--but, my Muse, forbear:
Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot, [vi]
His name and precepts be alike forgot;
No more his mention shall my verse degrade,--
To him my tribute is already paid. [8] 120
High, through those elms with hoary branches crown'd [9]
Fair IDA'S bower adorns the landscape round;
There Science, from her favour'd seat, surveys
The vale where rural Nature claims her praise;
To her awhile resigns her youthful train,
Who move in joy, and dance along the plain;
In scatter'd groups, each favour'd haunt pursue,
Repeat old pastimes, and discover new;
Flush'd with his rays, beneath the noontide Sun,
In rival bands, between the wickets run, 130
Drive o'er the sward the ball with active force,
Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course.
But these with slower steps direct their way,
Where Brent's cool waves in limpid currents stray,
While yonder few search out some green retreat,
And arbours shade them from the summer heat:
Others, again, a pert and lively crew,
Some rough and thoughtless stranger plac'd in view,
With frolic quaint their antic jests expose,
And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes; 140
Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray
Tradition treasures for a future day:
"'Twas here the gather'd swains for vengeance fought,
And here we earn'd the conquest dearly bought:
Here have we fled before superior might,
And here renew'd the wild tumultuous fight."
While thus our souls with early passions swell,
In lingering tones resounds the distant bell;
Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er,
And Learning beckons from her temple's door. 150
No splendid tablets grace her simple hall,
But ruder records fill the dusky wall:
There, deeply carv'd, behold! each Tyro's name
Secures its owner's academic fame;
Here mingling view the names of Sire and Son,
The one long grav'd, the other just begun:
These shall survive alike when Son and Sire,
Beneath one common stroke of fate expire; [10]
Perhaps, their last memorial these alone,
Denied, in death, a monumental stone, 160
Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave
The sighing weeds, that hide their nameless grave.
And, here, my name, and many an early friend's,
Along the wall in lengthen'd line extends.
Though, still, our deeds amuse the youthful race,
Who tread our steps, and fill our former place,
Who young obeyed their lords in silent awe,
Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law;
And now, in turn, possess the reins of power,
To rule, the little Tyrants of an hour; 170
Though sometimes, with the Tales of ancient day,
They pass the dreary Winter's eve away;
"And, thus, our former rulers stemm'd the tide,
And, thus, they dealt the combat, side by side;
Just in this place, the mouldering walls they scaled,
Nor bolts, nor bars, against their strength avail'd;
Here PROBUS came, the rising fray to quell,
And, here, he falter'd forth his last farewell;
And, here, one night abroad they dared to roam,
While bold POMPOSUS bravely staid at home;" 180
While thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive,
When names of these, like ours, alone survive:
Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm
The faint remembrance of our fairy realm.
Dear honest race! though now we meet no more,
One last long look on what we were before--
Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu--
Drew tears from eyes unus'd to weep with you.
Through splendid circles, Fashion's gaudy world,
Where Folly's glaring standard waves unfurl'd, 190
I plung'd to drown in noise my fond regret,
And all I sought or hop'd was to forget:
Vain wish! if, chance, some well-remember'd face,
Some old companion of my early race,
Advanc'd to claim his friend with honest joy,
My eyes, my heart, proclaim'd me still a boy;
The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around,
Were quite forgotten when my friend was found;
The smiles of Beauty, (for, alas! I've known
What 'tis to bend before Love's mighty throne;) 200
The smiles of Beauty, though those smiles were dear,
Could hardly charm me, when that friend was near:
My thoughts bewilder'd in the fond surprise,
The woods of IDA danc'd before my eyes;
I saw the sprightly wand'rers pour along,
I saw, and join'd again the joyous throng;
Panting, again I trac'd her lofty grove,
And Friendship's feelings triumph'd over Love.
Yet, why should I alone with such delight
Retrace the circuit of my former flight? 210
Is there no cause beyond the common claim,
Endear'd to all in childhood's very name?
Ah! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here,
Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear
To one, who thus for kindred hearts must roam,
And seek abroad, the love denied at home.
Those hearts, dear IDA, have I found in thee,
A home, a world, a paradise to me.
Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share
The tender guidance of a Father's care; 220
Can Rank, or e'en a Guardian's name supply
The love, which glistens in a Father's eye?
For this, can Wealth, or Title's sound atone,
Made, by a Parent's early loss, my own?
What Brother springs a Brother's love to seek?
What Sister's gentle kiss has prest my cheek?
For me, how dull the vacant moments rise,
To no fond bosom link'd by kindred ties!
Oft, in the progress of some fleeting dream,
Fraternal smiles, collected round me seem; 230
While still the visions to my heart are prest,
The voice of Love will murmur in my rest:
I hear--I wake--and in the sound rejoice!
I hear again,--but, ah! no Brother's voice.
A Hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must stray
Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way;
While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine,
I cannot call one single blossom mine:
What then remains? in solitude to groan,
To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone? 240
Thus, must I cling to some endearing hand,
And none more dear, than IDA'S social band.
Alonzo! [11] best and dearest of my friends, [vii]
Thy name ennobles him, who thus commends:
From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise;
The praise is his, who now that tribute pays.
Oh! in the promise of thy early youth,
If Hope anticipate the words of Truth!
Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name,
To build his own, upon thy deathless fame: [viii] 250
Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list
Of those with whom I lived supremely blest;
Oft have we drain'd the font of ancient lore,
Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more;
Yet, when Confinement's lingering hour was done,
Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one:
Together we impell'd the flying ball,
Together waited in our tutor's hall;
Together join'd in cricket's manly toil,
Or shar'd the produce of the river's spoil; 260
Or plunging from the green declining shore,
Our pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore: [ix]
In every element, unchang'd, the same,
All, all that brothers should be, but the name.
Nor, yet, are you forgot, my jocund Boy!
DAVUS, [12] the harbinger of childish joy;
For ever foremost in the ranks of fun,
The laughing herald of the harmless pun;
Yet, with a breast of such materials made,
Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid; 270
Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel
In Danger's path, though not untaught to feel.
Still, I remember, in the factious strife,
The rustic's musket aim'd against my life: [13]
High pois'd in air the massy weapon hung,
A cry of horror burst from every tongue:
Whilst I, in combat with another foe,
Fought on, unconscious of th' impending blow;
Your arm, brave Boy, arrested his career--
Forward you sprung, insensible to fear; 280
Disarm'd, and baffled by your conquering hand,
The grovelling Savage roll'd upon the sand:
An act like this, can simple thanks repay? [x]
Or all the labours of a grateful lay?
Oh no! whene'er my breast forgets the deed,
That instant, DAVUS, it deserves to bleed.
LYCUS! [14] on me thy claims are justly great:
Thy milder virtues could my Muse relate,
To thee, alone, unrivall'd, would belong
The feeble efforts of my lengthen'd song. [xi] 290
Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates fit,
A Spartan firmness, with Athenian wit:
Though yet, in embryo, these perfections shine,
LYCUS! thy father's fame [15] will soon be thine.
Where Learning nurtures the superior mind,
What may we hope, from genius thus refin'd;
When Time, at length, matures thy growing years,
How wilt thou tower, above thy fellow peers!
Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free,
With Honour's soul, united beam in thee. 300
Shall fair EURYALUS,[16] pass by unsung?
From ancient lineage, not unworthy, sprung:
What, though one sad dissension bade us part,
That name is yet embalm'd within my heart,
Yet, at the mention, does that heart rebound,
And palpitate, responsive to the sound;
Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will:
We once were friends,--I'll think, we are so still.
A form unmatch'd in Nature's partial mould,
A heart untainted, we, in thee, behold: 310
Yet, not the Senate's thunder thou shall wield,
Nor seek for glory, in the tented field:
To minds of ruder texture, these be given--
Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven.
Haply, in polish'd courts might be thy seat,
But, that thy tongue could never forge deceit:
The courtier's supple bow, and sneering smile,
The flow of compliment, the slippery wile,
Would make that breast, with indignation, burn,
And, all the glittering snares, to tempt thee, spurn. 320
Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate;
Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate;
The world admire thee, and thy friends adore;--
Ambition's slave, alone, would toil for more. [xii]
Now last, but nearest, of the social band,
See honest, open, generous CLEON [17] stand;
With scarce one speck, to cloud the pleasing scene,
No vice degrades that purest soul serene.
On the same day, our studious race begun,
On the same day, our studious race was run; 330
Thus, side by side, we pass'd our first career,
Thus, side by side, we strove for many a year:
At last, concluded our scholastic life,
We neither conquer'd in the classic strife:
As Speakers, [18] each supports an equal name, [xiii]
And crowds allow to both a partial fame:
To soothe a youthful Rival's early pride,
Though Cleon's candour would the palm divide,
Yet Candour's self compels me now to own,
Justice awards it to my Friend alone. 340
Oh! Friends regretted, Scenes for ever dear,
Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear!
Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's urn,
To trace the hours, which never can return;
Yet, with the retrospection loves to dwell, [xiv]
And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell!
Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind,
As infant laurels round my head were twin'd;
When PROBUS' praise repaid my lyric song,
Or plac'd me higher in the studious throng; 350
Or when my first harangue receiv'd applause, [19]
His sage instruction the primeval cause,
What gratitude, to him, my soul possest,
While hope of dawning honours fill'd my breast! [xv]
For all my humble fame, to him alone,
The praise is due, who made that fame my own.
Oh! could I soar above these feeble lays,
These young effusions of my early days,
To him my Muse her noblest strain would give,
The song might perish, but the theme might live. [xvi] 360
Yet, why for him the needless verse essay?
His honour'd name requires no vain display:
By every son of grateful IDA blest,
It finds an echo in each youthful breast;
A fame beyond the glories of the proud,
Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd.
IDA! not yet exhausted is the theme,
Nor clos'd the progress of my youthful dream.
How many a friend deserves the grateful strain!
What scenes of childhood still unsung remain! 370
Yet let me hush this echo of the past,
This parting song, the dearest and the last;
And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy,
To me a silent and a sweet employ,
While, future hope and fear alike unknown,
I think with pleasure on the past alone;
Yes, to the past alone, my heart confine,
And chase the phantom of what once was mine.
IDA! still o'er thy hills in joy preside,
And proudly steer through Time's eventful tide: 380
Still may thy blooming Sons thy name revere,
Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear;--
That tear, perhaps, the fondest which will flow,
O'er their last scene of happiness below:
Tell me, ye hoary few, who glide along,
The feeble Veterans of some former throng,
Whose friends, like Autumn leaves by tempests whirl'd,
Are swept for ever from this busy world;
Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth,
While Care has yet withheld her venom'd tooth; [xvii] 390
Say, if Remembrance days like these endears,
Beyond the rapture of succeeding years?
Say, can Ambition's fever'd dream bestow
So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of woe?
Can Treasures hoarded for some thankless Son,
Can Royal Smiles, or Wreaths by slaughter won,
Can Stars or Ermine, Man's maturer Toys,
(For glittering baubles are not left to Boys,)
Recall one scene so much belov'd to view,
As those where Youth her garland twin'd for you? 400
Ah, no! amid the gloomy calm of age
You turn with faltering hand life's varied page,
Peruse the record of your days on earth,
Unsullied only where it marks your birth;
Still, lingering, pause above each chequer'd leaf,
And blot with Tears the sable lines of Grief;
Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw,
Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu;
But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn,
Trac'd by the rosy finger of the Morn; 410
When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of truth,
And Love, without his pinion, [20] smil'd on Youth.
[Footnote 1: The words, "that schoolboy thing," etc. (see letter to H.
Drury, Jan. 8, 1808), evidently apply, not as Moore intimates,
to this period, but to the lines "On a Change of Masters,"
etc., July, 1805 (see letter to W. Bankes, March 6, 1807).]
[Footnote 2: The motto was prefixed in 'Hours of Idleness'.]
[Footnote 3: Lines 43-98 were added in 'Hours of Idleness']
[Footnote 4: Newton Hanson relates that on one occasion he accompanied
his father to Harrow on Speech Day to see his brother Hargreaves Hanson
and Byron.
"On our arrival at Harrow, we set out in search of Hargreaves and
Byron, but the latter was not at his tutor's. Three or four lads,
hearing my father's inquiries, set off at full speed to find him. They
soon discovered him, and, laughing most heartily, called out, 'Hallo,
Byron! here's a gentleman wants you.' And what do you think? He had
got on Drury's hat. I can still remember the arch cock of Byron's eye
at the hat and then at my father, and the fun and merriment it caused
him and all of us whilst, during the day, he was perambulating the
highways and byeways of Ida with the hat on. 'Harrow Speech Day and
the Governor's Hat' was one of the standing rallying-points for Lord
Byron ever after."
[Footnote 5: Dr. Butler, then Head-master of Harrow. Had Byron
published another edition of these poems, it was his intention
to replace these four lines by the four which follow:--
"'If once my muse a harsher portrait drew,
Warm with her wrongs, and deemed the likeness true,
By cooler judgment taught, her fault she owns,--
With noble minds a fault confess'd, atones'."
['MS. M.']
See also allusion in letter to Mr. Henry Drury, June 25, 1809.
--Moore's 'Note'.]
[Footnote 6: On the retirement of Dr. Drury, three candidates for the
vacant chair presented themselves--Messrs. Drury, Evans, and Butler. On
the first movement to which this contest gave rise in the school, young
Wildman was at the head of the party for Mark Drury, while Byron held
himself aloof from any. Anxious, however, to have him as an ally, one of
the Drury faction said to Wildman, "Byron, I know, will not join,
because he does not choose to act second to any one, but, by giving up
the leadership to him, you may at once secure him." This Wildman did,
and Byron took the command.--'Life', p. 29.]
[Footnote 7: Dr. Drury. This most able and excellent man retired from
his situation in March, 1805, after having resided thirty-five years at
Harrow; the last twenty as head-master; an office he held with equal
honour to himself and advantage to the very extensive school over which
he presided. Panegyric would here be superfluous: it would be useless to
enumerate qualifications which were never doubted. A considerable
contest took place between three rival candidates for his vacant chair:
of this I can only say--
'Si mea cum vestris valuissent vota, Pelasgi!
Non foret ambiguus tanti certaminis hares.'
[Byron's letters from Harrow contain the same high praise of Dr. Drury.
In one, of November 2, 1804, he says,
"There is so much of the gentleman, so much mildness, and nothing of
pedantry in his character, that I cannot help liking him, and will
remember his instructions with gratitude as long as I live."
A week after, he adds,
"I revere Dr. Drury. I dread offending him; not, however, through
fear, but the respect I bear him makes me unhappy when I am under his
displeasure."
Dr. Drury has related the secret of the influence he obtained: the
glance which told him that the lad was "a wild mountain colt," told him
also that he could be "led with a silken string."]]
[Footnote 8: This alludes to a character printed in a former private
edition ['P. on V. Occasions'] for the perusal of some friends, which,
with many other pieces, is withheld from the present volume. To draw the
attention of the public to insignificance would be deservedly
reprobated; and another reason, though not of equal consequence, may be
given in the following couplet:--
"Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel?
Who breaks a Butterfly upon a wheel?"
'Prologue to the Satires': POPE.
['Hours of Idleness', p. 154, 'note']
[(See the lines "On a Change of Masters at a Great Public School,"
'ante', p. 16.)
The following lines, attached to the Newstead MS. draft of
"Childish Recollections," are aimed at Pomposus:--
"Just half a Pedagogue, and half a Fop,
Not formed to grace the pulpit, but the Shop;
The 'Counter', not the 'Desk', should be his place,
Who deals out precepts, as if dealing Lace;
Servile in mind, from Elevation proud,
In argument, less sensible than loud,
Through half the continent, the Coxcomb's been,
And stuns you with the Wonders he has seen:
''How' in Pompeii's vault he found the page,
Of some long lost, and long lamented Sage,
And doubtless he the Letters would have trac'd,
Had they not been by age and dust effac'd:
This single specimen will serve to shew,
The weighty lessons of this reverend Beau,
Bombast in vain would want of Genius cloke,
For feeble fires evaporate in smoke;
A Boy, o'er Boys he holds a trembling reign,
More fit than they to seek some School again."]]
[Footnote 9: Lines 121-243 were added in 'Hours of Idleness'.]
[Footnote 10: During a rebellion at Harrow, the poet prevented the
school-room from being burnt down, by pointing out to the boys the names
of their fathers and grandfathers on the walls.--(Medwin's
'Conversations' (1824), p. 85.)
Byron elsewhere thus describes his usual course of life
while at Harrow: "always cricketing, rebelling, 'rowing', and in all
manner of mischiefs." One day he tore down the gratings from the window
of the hall; and when asked by Dr. Butler his reason for the outrage,
coolly answered, "because they darkened the room."--'Life', p. 29.]
[Footnote 11: "Lord Clare." (Annotated copy of 'P. on V. Occasions'
in the British Museum.)
[Lines 243-264, as the note in Byron's handwriting explains, were
originally intended to apply to Lord Clare. In 'Hours of Idleness'
"Joannes" became "Alonzo," and the same lines were employed to celebrate
the memory of his friend the Hon. John Wingfield, of the Coldstream
Guards, brother to Richard, fourth Viscount Powerscourt. He died at
Coimbra in 1811, in his twentieth year. Byron at one time gave him the
preference over all other friends.]]
[Footnote 12: The Rev. John Cecil Tattersall, B.A., of Christ Church,
Oxford, who died December 8, 1812, at Hall's Place, Kent, aged
twenty-three.]
[Footnote 13: The "factious strife" was brought on by the breaking up of
school, and the dismissal of some volunteers from drill, both happening
at the same hour. The butt-end of a musket was aimed at Byron's head,
and would have felled him to the ground, but for the interposition of
Tattersall.--'Life', p. 25.]
[Footnote 14: John Fitzgibbon, second Earl of Clare (1792-1851),
afterwards Governor of Bombay, of whom Byron said, in 1822,
"I have always loved him better than any 'male' thing in the world."
"I never," was his language in 1821, "hear the word ''Clare'' without
a beating of the heart even 'now'; and I write it with the feelings of
1803-4-5, ad infinitum."]
[Footnote 15: John Fitzgibbon, first Earl of Clare (1749-1802), became
Attorney-General and Lord Chancellor of Ireland. In the latter years of
the independent Irish Parliament, he took an active part in politics in
opposition to Grattan and the national party, and was distinguished as a
powerful, if bitter, speaker. He was made Earl of Clare in 1795.]
[Footnote 16: George John, fifth Earl of Delawarr.--
"I am happy enough, and comfortable here," says Byron, in a letter
from Harrow of Oct. 25, 1804. "My friends are not numerous, but
select. Among the principal, I rank Lord Delawarr, who is very
amiable, and my particular friend."--
"Nov. 2, 1804. Lord Delawarr is considerably younger than me, but the
most good-tempered, amiable, clever fellow in the universe. To all
which he adds the quality (a good one in the eyes of women) of being
remarkably handsome. Delawarr and myself are, in a manner, connected;
for one of my forefathers, in Charles I's time, married into their
family."
The allusion in the text to their subsequent quarrel, receives further
light from a letter which the poet addressed to Lord Clare under date,
February 6, 1807. (See, too, lines "To George, Earl Delawarr," p. 126.)
The first Lord Byron was twice married. His first wife was Cecilie,
widow of Sir Francis Bindlose, and daughter of Thomas, third Lord
Delawarr. He died childless, and was succeeded by his brother Richard,
the poet's ancestor. His younger brother, Sir Robert Byron, married
Lucy, another daughter of the third Lord Delawarr.]
[Footnote 17: Edward Noel Long, who was drowned by the foundering of a
transport on the voyage to Lisbon with his regiment, in 1809. (See lines
"To Edward Noel Long, Esq.," 'post', p. 184.)]
[Footnote 18: This alludes to the public speeches delivered at the
school where the author was educated.]
[Footnote 19:
"My qualities were much more oratorical than poetical, and Dr. Drury,
my grand patron, had a great notion that I should turn out an orator
from my fluency, my turbulence, my voice, my copiousness of
declamation, and my action. I remember that my first declamation
astonished Dr. Drury into some unwonted (for he was economical of
such) and sudden compliments, before the declaimers at our first
rehearsal."
'Byron Diary'.
"I certainly was much pleased with Lord Byron's attitude, gesture, and
delivery, as well as with his composition. To my surprise, he suddenly
diverged from the written composition, with a boldness and rapidity
sufficient to alarm me, lest he should fail in memory as to the
conclusion. I questioned him, why he had altered his declamation? He
declared he had made no alteration, and did not know, in speaking,
that he had deviated from it one letter. I believed him, and from a
knowledge of his temperament, am convinced that he was hurried on to
expressions and colourings more striking than what his pen had
expressed."
DR. DRURY, 'Life', p. 20.]
[Footnote 20: "L'Amitié est l'Amour sans ailes," is a French proverb.
(See the lines so entitled, p. 220.)]
[Footnote i:
'Hence! thou unvarying song, of varied loves,
Which youth commends, maturer age reproves;
Which every rhyming bard repeats by rote,
By thousands echo'd to the self-same note!
Tir'd of the dull, unceasing, copious strain,
My soul is panting to be free again.
Farewell! ye nymphs, propitious to my verse,
Some other Damon, will your charms rehearse;
Some other paint his pangs, in hope of bliss,
Or dwell in rapture on your nectar'd kiss.
Those beauties, grateful to my ardent sight,
No more entrance my senses in delight;
Those bosoms, form'd of animated snow,
Alike are tasteless and unfeeling now.
These to some happier lover, I resign;
The memory of those joys alone is mine.
Censure no more shall brand my humble name,
The child of passion and the fool of fame.
Weary of love, of life, devoured with spleen,
I rest a perfect Timon, not nineteen;
World! I renounce thee! all my hope's o'ercast!
One sigh I give thee, but that sigh's the last.
Friends, foes, and females, now alike, adieu!
Would I could add remembrance of you, too!
Yet though the future, dark and cheerless gleams,
The curse of memory, hovering in my dreams,
Depicts with glowing pencil all those years,
Ere yet, my cup, empoison'd, flow'd with tears,
Still rules my senses with tyrannic sway,
The past confounding with the present day.
Alas! in vain I check the maddening thought;
It still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought:
My soul to Fancy's', etc., etc., as at line 29.--]
[Footnote ii: 'Cunning with age.' ['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iii: 'Nor shrunk before.' ['Hours of Idleness'.]]
[Footnote iv:
'Careless to soothe the pedant's furious frown,
Scarcely respecting his majestic gown;
By which, in vain, he gain'd a borrow'd grace,
Adding new terror to his sneering face,'
['P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote v:
'With him for years I search'd the classic page,
Culling the treasures of the letter'd sage,'
['P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote vi:
'Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot,
Soon shall his shallow precepts be forgot;
No more his mention shall my pen degrade--
My tribute to his name's already paid.'
['P. on V. Occasions'.]
Another variant for a new edition ran--
'Another fills his magisterial chair;
Reluctant Ida owns a stranger's care;
Oh! may like honours crown his future name:
If such his virtues, such shall be his fame.'
['MS. M.']
[Footnote vii:
'Joannes! best and dearest of my friends.'
['P. on V. Occasions.']]
[Footnote viii:
'Could aught inspire me with poetic fire,
For thee, alone, I'd strike the hallow'd lyre;
But, to some abler hand, the task I wave,
Whose strains immortal may outlive the grave'.--
['P. on V. Occasions.']]
[Footnote ix:
'Our lusty limbs.'
['P. on V. Occasions.']
'--the buoyant waters bore.'
['Hours of Idleness.']]
[Footnote x:
'Thus did you save that life I scarcely prize--
A life unworthy such a sacrifice.
Oh! when my breast forgets the generous deed.'
['P. on V. Occasions'.] ]
[Footnote xi:
'For ever to possess a friend in thee,
Was bliss unhop'd, though not unsought by me;
Thy softer soul was form'd for love alone,
To ruder passions and to hate unknown;
Thy mind, in union with thy beauteous form,
Was gentle, but unfit to stem the storm;
That face, an index of celestial worth,
Proclaim'd a heart abstracted from the earth.
Oft, when depress'd with sad, foreboding gloom,
I sat reclin'd upon our favourite tomb,
I've seen those sympathetic eyes o'erflow
With kind compassion for thy comrade's woe;
Or, when less mournful subjects form'd our themes,
We tried a thousand fond romantic schemes,
Oft hast thou sworn, in friendship's soothing tone.
Whatever wish was mine, must be thine own.
The next can boast to lead in senates fit,
A Spartan firmness,--with Athenian wit;
Tho' yet, in embryo, these perfections shine,
Clarus! thy father's fame will soon be thine.'--
['P. on V. Occasions'.]
A remonstrance which Lord Clare addressed to him at
school; was found among his papers (as were most of the
notes of his early favourites), and on the back of it was an
endorsement which is a fresh testimony of his affection:--
"This and another letter were written at Harrow, by my 'then' and, I
hope, 'ever' beloved friend, Lord Clare, when we were both schoolboys;
and sent to my study in consequence of some 'childish'
misunderstanding,--the only one which ever arose between us. It was of
short duration, and I retain this note solely for the purpose of
submitting it to his perusal, that we may smile over the recollection
of the insignificance of our first and last quarrel."
See, also, Byron's account of his accidental meeting with Lord Clare in
Italy in 1821, as recorded in 'Detached Thoughts', Nov. 5, 1821; in
letters to Moore, March 1 and June 8, 1822; and Mme. Guiccioli's
description of his emotion on seeing Clare ('My Recollections of Lord
Byron', ed. 1869, p. 156).]
[Footnote xii:
'Where is the restless fool, would wish for more?'
['P. on V. Occasions.']]
[Footnote xiii:
'As speakers, each supports a rival name,
Though neither seeks to damn the other's fame,
Pomposus sits, unequal to decide,
With youthful candour, we the palm divide.'--
['P. on V. Occasions']]
[Footnote xiv:
'Yet in the retrospection finds relief,
And revels in the luxury of grief.'--
['P. on V. Occasions.']]
[Footnote xv:
'When, yet a novice in the mimic art,
I feign'd the transports of a vengeful heart;
When, as the Royal Slave, I trod the stage,
To vent in Zanga, more than mortal rage;
The praise of Probus, made me feel more proud,
Than all the plaudits of the list'ning crowd.
Ah! vain endeavour in this childish strain
To soothe the woes of which I thus complain!
What can avail this fruitless loss of time,
To measure sorrow, in a jingling rhyme!
No social solace from a friend, is near,
And heartless strangers drop no feeling tear.
I seek not joy in Woman's sparkling eye,
The smiles of Beauty cannot check the sigh.
Adieu, thou world! thy pleasure's still a dream,
Thy virtue, but a visionary theme;
Thy years of vice, on years of folly roll,
Till grinning death assigns the destin'd goal,'
'Where all are hastening to the dread abode,
To meet the judgment of a righteous God;
Mix'd in the concourse of a thoughtless throng,
A mourner, midst of mirth, I glide along;
A wretched, isolated, gloomy thing,
Curst by reflection's deep corroding sting;
But not that mental sting, which stabs within,
The dark avenger of unpunish'd sin;
The silent shaft, which goads the guilty wretch
Extended on a rack's untiring stretch:
Conscience that sting, that shaft to him supplies--
His mind the rack, from which he ne'er can rise,
For me, whatever my folly, or my fear,
One cheerful comfort still is cherish'd here.
No dread internal, haunts my hours of rest,
No dreams of injured innocence infest;
Of hope, of peace, of almost all bereft,
Conscience, my last but welcome guest, is left.
Slander's empoison'd breath, may blast my name,
Envy delights to blight the buds of fame:
Deceit may chill the current of my blood,
And freeze affection's warm impassion'd flood;
Presaging horror, darken every sense,
Even here will conscience be my best defence;
My bosom feeds no "worm which ne'er can die:"
Not crimes I mourn, but happiness gone by.
Thus crawling on with many a reptile vile,
My heart is bitter, though my cheek may smile;
No more with former bliss, my heart is glad;
Hope yields to anguish and my soul is sad;
From fond regret, no future joy can save;
Remembrance slumbers only in the grave.'
['P. on V. Occasions']]
[Footnote xvi:
'The song might perish, but the theme must live.'
['Hours of Idleness.']]
[Footnote xvii:
'----his venom'd tooth.'
['Hours of Idleness'.]]
ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM, WRITTEN BY MONTGOMERY,
AUTHOR OF "THE WANDERER OF SWITZERLAND," ETC.,
ENTITLED "THE COMMON LOT." [1]
1.
Montgomery! true, the common lot
Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave;
Yet some shall never be forgot,
Some shall exist beyond the grave.
2.
"Unknown the region of his birth,"
The hero [2] rolls the tide of war;
Yet not unknown his martial worth,
Which glares a meteor from afar.
3.
His joy or grief, his weal or woe,
Perchance may 'scape the page of fame;
Yet nations, now unborn, will know
The record of his deathless name.
4.
The Patriot's and the Poet's frame
Must share the common tomb of all:
Their glory will not sleep the same;
'That' will arise, though Empires fall.
5.
The lustre of a Beauty's eye
Assumes the ghastly stare of death;
The fair, the brave, the good must die,
And sink the yawning grave beneath.
6.
Once more, the speaking eye revives,
Still beaming through the lover's strain;
For Petrarch's Laura still survives:
She died, but ne'er will die again.
7.
The rolling seasons pass away,
And Time, untiring, waves his wing;
Whilst honour's laurels ne'er decay,
But bloom in fresh, unfading spring.
8.
All, all must sleep in grim repose,
Collected in the silent tomb;
The old, the young, with friends and foes,
Fest'ring alike in shrouds, consume.
9.
The mouldering marble lasts its day,
Yet falls at length an useless fane;
To Ruin's ruthless fangs a prey,
The wrecks of pillar'd Pride remain.
10.
What, though the sculpture be destroy'd,
From dark Oblivion meant to guard;
A bright renown shall be enjoy'd,
By those, whose virtues claim reward.
11.
Then do not say the common lot
Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave;
Some few who ne'er will be forgot
Shall burst the bondage of the grave.
1806.
[Footnote 1: Montgomery (James), 1771-1854, poet and hymn-writer,
published:
'Prison Amusements' (1797),
'The Ocean; a Poem' (1805),
'The Wanderer of Switzerland, and other Poems' (1806),
'The West Indies, and other Poems' (1810),
'Songs of Sion' (1822),
'The Christian Psalmist' (1825),
'The Pelican Island, and other Poems' (1827),
'etc.' ('vide post'), 'English Bards',
'etc.', line 418, and 'note'.]
[Footnote 2: No particular hero is here alluded to. The exploits of
Bayard, Nemours, Edward the Black Prince, and, in more modern times, the
fame of Marlborough, Frederick the Great, Count Saxe, Charles of Sweden,
etc., are familiar to every historical reader, but the exact places of
their birth are known to a very small proportion of their admirers.]
LOVE'S LAST ADIEU.
[Greek: Aeì d' aeí me pheugei.]--[Pseud.] ANACREON, [Greek: Eis chruson].
1.
The roses of Love glad the garden of life,
Though nurtur'd 'mid weeds dropping pestilent dew,
Till Time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife,
Or prunes them for ever, in Love's last adieu!
2.
In vain, with endearments, we soothe the sad heart,
In vain do we vow for an age to be true;
The chance of an hour may command us to part,
Or Death disunite us, in Love's last adieu!
3.
Still Hope, breathing peace, through the grief-swollen breast, [i]
Will whisper, "Our meeting we yet may renew:"
With this dream of deceit, half our sorrow's represt,
Nor taste we the poison, of Love's last adieu!
4.
Oh! mark you yon pair, in the sunshine of youth,
Love twin'd round their childhood his flow'rs as they grew;
They flourish awhile, in the season of truth,
Till chill'd by the winter of Love's last adieu!
5.
Sweet lady! why thus doth a tear steal its way,
Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue?
Yet why do I ask?--to distraction a prey,
Thy reason has perish'd, with Love's last adieu!
6.
Oh! who is yon Misanthrope, shunning mankind?
From cities to caves of the forest he flew:
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind;
The mountains reverberate Love's last adieu!
7.
Now Hate rules a heart which in Love's easy chains,
Once Passion's tumultuous blandishments knew;
Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins,
He ponders, in frenzy, on Love's last adieu!
8.
How he envies the wretch, with a soul wrapt in steel!
His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few,
Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel,
And dreads not the anguish of Love's last adieu!
9.
Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o'ercast;
No more, with Love's former devotion, we sue:
He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast;
The shroud of affection is Love's last adieu!
10.
In this life of probation, for rapture divine,
Astrea[1] declares that some penance is due;
From him, who has worshipp'd at Love's gentle shrine,
The atonement is ample, in Love's last adieu!
11.
Who kneels to the God, on his altar of light
Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew:
His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight,
His cypress, the garland of Love's last adieu!
[Footnote 1: The Goddess of Justice.]
[Footnote i:
_Still, hope-beaming peace._
['P. on V. Occasions.']]
LINES. [i]
ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER, [1]
ON HIS ADVISING THE AUTHOR TO MIX MORE WITH SOCIETY.
1.
Dear BECHER, you tell me to mix with mankind;
I cannot deny such a precept is wise;
But retirement accords with the tone of my mind:
I will not descend to a world I despise.
2.
Did the Senate or Camp my exertions require,
Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go forth;
When Infancy's years of probation expire,
Perchance, I may strive to distinguish my birth.
3.
The fire, in the cavern of Etna, conceal'd,
Still mantles unseen in its secret recess;
At length, in a volume terrific, reveal'd,
No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress.
4.
Oh! thus, the desire, in my bosom, for fame [i]
Bids me live, but to hope for Posterity's praise.
Could I soar with the Phoenix on pinions of flame,
With him I would wish to expire in the blaze.
5.
For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death,
What censure, what danger, what woe would I brave!
Their lives did not end, when they yielded their breath,
Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave.[ii]
6.
Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd?
Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules?
Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd?
Why search for delight, in the friendship of fools?
7.
I have tasted the sweets, and the bitters, of love,
In friendship I early was taught to believe;
My passion the matrons of prudence reprove,
I have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive.
8.
To me what is wealth?--it may pass in an hour,
If Tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown:
To me what is title?--the phantom of power;
To me what is fashion?--I seek but renown.
9.
Deceit is a stranger, as yet, to my soul;
I, still, am unpractised to varnish the truth:
Then, why should I live in a hateful controul?
Why waste, upon folly, the days of my youth?
1806.
[Footnote 1: The Rev. John Thomas Becher (1770-1848) was Vicar of
Rumpton and Midsomer Norton, Notts., and made the acquaintance of Byron
when he was living at Southwell. To him was submitted an early copy of
the 'Quarto', and on his remonstrance at the tone of some of the
verses, the whole edition (save one or two copies) was burnt. Becher
assisted in the revision of 'P. on V. Occasions', published in
1807. He was in 1818 appointed Prebendary of Southwell, and, all his
life, took an active interest and prominent part in the administration
of the poor laws and the welfare of the poor. (See Byron's letters to
him of February 26 and March 28, 1808.)]
[Footnote i:
'To the Rev. J. T. Becher.'
['P. on V. Occasions']]
[Footnote ii:
'Oh! such the desire.'
['P. on V. Occasions']]
[Footnote iii:
'--the gloom of the grave.'
['P. on V. Occasions'.]]
ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES SENT BY A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR,
COMPLAINING THAT ONE OF HIS DESCRIPTIONS
WAS RATHER TOO WARMLY DRAWN.
"But if any old Lady, Knight, Priest, or Physician,
Should condemn me for printing a second edition;
If good Madam Squintum my work should abuse,
May I venture to give her a smack of my muse?"
Anstey's 'New Bath Guide', p. 169.
Candour compels me, BECHER! to commend
The verse, which blends the censor with the friend;
Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause
From me, the heedless and imprudent cause; [i]
For this wild error, which pervades my strain, [ii]
I sue for pardon,--must I sue in vain?
The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart;
Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart?
Precepts of prudence curb, but can't controul,
The fierce emotions of the flowing soul.
When Love's delirium haunts the glowing mind,
Limping Decorum lingers far behind;
Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace,
Outstript and vanquish'd in the mental chase.
The young, the old, have worn the chains of love;
Let those, they ne'er confined, my lay reprove;
Let those, whose souls contemn the pleasing power,
Their censures on the hapless victim shower.
Oh! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song,
The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng,
Whose labour'd lines, in chilling numbers flow,
To paint a pang the author ne'er can know!
The artless Helicon, I boast, is youth;--
My Lyre, the Heart--my Muse, the simple Truth.
Far be't from me the "virgin's mind" to "taint:"
Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint:
The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile,
Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile,
Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer,
Firm in her virtue's strength, yet not severe;
She, whom a conscious grace shall thus refine,
Will ne'er be "tainted" by a strain of mine.
But, for the nymph whose premature desires
Torment her bosom with unholy fires,
No net to snare her willing heart is spread;
She would have fallen, though she ne'er had read.
For me, I fain would please the chosen few,
Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true,
Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy
The light effusions of a heedless boy. [iii]
I seek not glory from the senseless crowd;
Of fancied laurels, I shall ne'er be proud;
Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize,
Their sneers or censures, I alike despise.
November 26, 1806.
[Footnote i:
_the heedless and unworthy cause._
[_P. on V. Occasions._]]
[Footnote ii:
_For this sole error._
[_P. on V. Occasions._]]
[Footnote iii:
_The light effusions of an amorous boy._
[_P. on V. Occasions._]]
ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY. [1]
"It is the voice of years, that are gone! they roll before me, with
all their deeds."
Ossian. [i]
1.
NEWSTEAD! fast-falling, once-resplendent dome!
Religion's shrine! repentant HENRY'S [2] pride!
Of Warriors, Monks, and Dames the cloister'd tomb,
Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide,
2.
Hail to thy pile! more honour'd in thy fall,
Than modern mansions, in their pillar'd state;
Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall,
Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate.
3.
No mail-clad Serfs, [3] obedient to their Lord,
In grim array, the crimson cross [4] demand;
Or gay assemble round the festive board,
Their chief's retainers, an immortal band.
4.
Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye
Retrace their progress, through the lapse of time;
Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die,
A votive pilgrim, in Judea's clime.
5.
But not from thee, dark pile! departs the Chief;
His feudal realm in other regions lay:
In thee the wounded conscience courts relief,
Retiring from the garish blaze of day.
6.
Yes! in thy gloomy cells and shades profound,
The monk abjur'd a world, he ne'er could view;
Or blood-stain'd Guilt repenting, solace found,
Or Innocence, from stern Oppression, flew.
7.
A Monarch bade thee from that wild arise,
Where Sherwood's outlaws, once, were wont to prowl;
And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes,
Sought shelter in the Priest's protecting cowl.
8.
Where, now, the grass exhales a murky dew,
The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay,
In sainted fame, the sacred Fathers grew,
Nor raised their pious voices, but to pray.
9.
Where, now, the bats their wavering wings extend,
Soon as the gloaming [5] spreads her waning shade;[ii]
The choir did, oft, their mingling vespers blend,
Or matin orisons to Mary [6] paid.
10.
Years roll on years; to ages, ages yield;
Abbots to Abbots, in a line, succeed:
Religion's charter, their protecting shield,
Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed.
11.
One holy HENRY rear'd the Gothic walls,
And bade the pious inmates rest in peace;
Another HENRY [7] the kind gift recalls,
And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease.
12.
Vain is each threat, or supplicating prayer;
He drives them exiles from their blest abode,
To roam a dreary world, in deep despair--
No friend, no home, no refuge, but their God. [8]
13.
Hark! how the hall, resounding to the strain,
Shakes with the martial music's novel din!
The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign,
High crested banners wave thy walls within.
14.
Of changing sentinels the distant hum,
The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms,
The braying trumpet, and the hoarser drum,
Unite in concert with increas'd alarms.
15.
An abbey once, a regal fortress [9] now,
Encircled by insulting rebel powers;
War's dread machines o'erhang thy threat'ning brow,
And dart destruction, in sulphureous showers.
16.
Ah! vain defence! the hostile traitor's siege,
Though oft repuls'd, by guile o'ercomes the brave;
His thronging foes oppress the faithful Liege,
Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave.
17.
Not unaveng'd the raging Baron yields;
The blood of traitors smears the purple plain;
Unconquer'd still, his falchion there he wields,
And days of glory, yet, for him remain.
18.
Still, in that hour, the warrior wish'd to strew
Self-gather'd laurels on a self-sought grave;
But Charles' protecting genius hither flew,
The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save.
19.
Trembling, she snatch'd him [10] from th' unequal strife,
In other fields the torrent to repel;
For nobler combats, here, reserv'd his life,
To lead the band, where godlike FALKLAND [11] fell.
20.
From thee, poor pile! to lawless plunder given,
While dying groans their painful requiem sound,
Far different incense, now, ascends to Heaven,
Such victims wallow on the gory ground.
21.
There many a pale and ruthless Robber's corse,
Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod;
O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse,
Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod.
22.
Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread,
Ransack'd resign, perforce, their mortal mould:
From ruffian fangs, escape not e'en the dead,
Racked from repose, in search for buried gold.
23.
Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre,
The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death;
No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire,
Or sings the glories of the martial wreath. [iii]
24.
At length the sated murderers, gorged with prey,
Retire: the clamour of the fight is o'er;
Silence again resumes her awful sway,
And sable Horror guards the massy door.
25.
Here, Desolation holds her dreary court:
What satellites declare her dismal reign!
Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort,
To flit their vigils, in the hoary fane.
26.
Soon a new Morn's restoring beams dispel
The clouds of Anarchy from Britain's skies;
The fierce Usurper seeks his native hell,
And Nature triumphs, as the Tyrant dies.
27.
With storms she welcomes his expiring groans;
Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his labouring breath;
Earth shudders, as her caves receive his bones,
Loathing [12] the offering of so dark a death.
28.
The legal Ruler [13] now resumes the helm,
He guides through gentle seas, the prow of state;
Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful realm,
And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied Hate.
29.
The gloomy tenants, Newstead! of thy cells,
Howling, resign their violated nest; [iv]
Again, the Master on his tenure dwells,
Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest.
30.
Vassals, within thy hospitable pale,
Loudly carousing, bless their Lord's return;
Culture, again, adorns the gladdening vale,
And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn.
31.
A thousand songs, on tuneful echo, float,
Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees;
And, hark! the horns proclaim a mellow note,
The hunters' cry hangs lengthening on the breeze.
32.
Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake;
What fears! what anxious hopes! attend the chase!
The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake;
Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race.
33.
Ah happy days! too happy to endure!
Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew:
No splendid vices glitter'd to allure;
Their joys were many, as their cares were few.
34.
From these descending, Sons to Sires succeed;
Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart;
Another Chief impels the foaming steed,
Another Crowd pursue the panting hart.
35.
Newstead! what saddening change of scene is thine!
Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay;
The last and youngest of a noble line,
Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway.
36.
Deserted now, he scans thy gray worn towers;
Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep;
Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers;
These, these he views, and views them but to weep.
37.
Yet are his tears no emblem of regret:
Cherish'd Affection only bids them flow;
Pride, Hope, and Love, forbid him to forget,
But warm his bosom, with impassion'd glow.
38.
Yet he prefers thee, to the gilded domes, [14]
Or gewgaw grottos, of the vainly great;
Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs,
Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of Fate.
39.
Haply thy sun, emerging, yet, may shine,
Thee to irradiate with meridian ray;
Hours, splendid as the past, may still be thine,
And bless thy future, as thy former day. [v]
[Footnote 1: As one poem on this subject is already printed, the author
had, originally, no intention of inserting the following. It is now
added at the particular request of some friends.]
[Footnote 2: Henry II. founded Newstead soon after the murder of Thomas
à Becket.]
[Footnote 3: This word is used by Walter Scott, in his poem, 'The Wild
Huntsman', as synonymous with "vassal."]
[Footnote 4: The red cross was the badge of the Crusaders.]
[Footnote 5: As "gloaming," the Scottish word for twilight, is far more
poetical, and has been recommended by many eminent literary men,
particularly by Dr. Moore in his Letters to Burns, I have ventured to
use it on account of its harmony.]
[Footnote 6: The priory was dedicated to the Virgin.--['Hours of
Idleness'.]]
[Footnote 7: At the dissolution of the monasteries, Henry VIII. bestowed
Newstead Abbey on Sir John Byron.]
[Footnote 8: During the lifetime of Lord Byron's predecessor in the
title there was found in the lake a large brass eagle, in the body of
which were concealed a number of ancient deeds and documents. This eagle
is supposed to have been thrown into the lake by the retreating
monks.--'Life', p. 2, note. It is now a lectern in Southwell
Minster.]
[Footnote 9: Newstead sustained a considerable siege in the war between
Charles I. and his parliament.]
[Footnote 10: Lord Byron and his brother Sir William held high commands
in the royal army. The former was general-in-chief in Ireland,
lieutenant of the Tower, and governor to James, Duke of York, afterwards
the unhappy James II; the latter had a principal share in many actions.
['Vide ante', p. 3, 'note' 1.]]
[Footnote 11: Lucius Cary, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most accomplished
man of his age, was killed at the Battle of Newbury, charging in the
ranks of Lord Byron's regiment of cavalry.]
[Footnote 12: This is an historical fact. A violent tempest occurred
immediately subsequent to the death or interment of Cromwell, which
occasioned many disputes between his partisans and the cavaliers: both
interpreted the circumstance into divine interposition; but whether as
approbation or condemnation, we leave to the casuists of that age to
decide. I have made such use of the occurrence as suited the subject of
my poem.]
[Footnote 13: Charles II.]
[Footnote 14: An indication of Byron's feelings towards Newstead in his
younger days will be found in his letter to his mother of March 6,
1809.]
[Footnote i: 'Hours of Idleness.']
[Footnote ii:
'Soon as the twilight winds a waning shade.'--
['P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote iii:
'--of the laurel'd wreath.'
['P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote iv:
'Howling, forsake--.'
['P. on V. Occasions']]
[Footnote v:
'Fortune may smile upon a future line,
And heaven restore an ever-cloudless day,'
['P. on V. Occasions.', 'Hours of Idleness.']]
* * * * * * * * *
HOURS OF IDLENESS
TO GEORGE, EARL DELAWARR. [i]
1.
Oh! yes, I will own we were dear to each other;
The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are true;
The love which you felt was the love of a brother,
Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you.
2.
But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion;
The attachment of years, in a moment expires:
Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion,
But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires.
3.
Full oft have we wander'd through Ida together,
And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow:
In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather!
But Winter's rude tempests are gathering now.
4.
No more with Affection shall Memory blending,
The wonted delights of our childhood retrace:
When Pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending,
And what would be Justice appears a disgrace.
5.
However, dear George, for I still must esteem you--[ii]
The few, whom I love, I can never upbraid;
The chance, which has lost, may in future redeem you,
Repentance will cancel the vow you have made.
6.
I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection,
With me no corroding resentment shall live:
My bosom is calm'd by the simple reflection,
That both may be wrong, and that both should forgive.
7.
You knew, that my soul, that my heart, my existence,
If danger demanded, were wholly your own;
You knew me unalter'd, by years or by distance,
Devoted to love and to friendship alone.
8.
You knew,--but away with the vain retrospection!
The bond of affection no longer endures;
Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection,
And sigh for the friend, who was formerly yours.
9.
For the present, we part,--I will hope not for ever; [1]
For time and regret will restore you at last:
To forget our dissension we both should endeavour,
I ask no atonement, but days like the past.
[Footnote 1: See Byron's Letter to Lord Clare of February 6, 1807,
referred to in 'note' 2, p. 100.]
[Footnote i:
'To----'.
['Hours of Idleness, Poems O. and Translated]]
[Footnote ii.
'However, dear S----'.
['Hours of Idleness, Poems O. and Translated'.]]
DAMÆTAS. [1]
In law an infant, [2] and in years a boy,
In mind a slave to every vicious joy;
From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd,
In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend;
Vers'd in hypocrisy, while yet a child;
Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild;
Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool;
Old in the world, though scarcely broke from school;
Damætas ran through all the maze of sin,
And found the goal, when others just begin:
Ev'n still conflicting passions shake his soul,
And bid him drain the dregs of Pleasure's bowl;
But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain,
And what was once his bliss appears his bane.
[Footnote 1: Moore appears to have regarded these lines as applying to
Byron himself. It is, however, very unlikely that, with all his passion
for painting himself in the darkest colours, he would have written
himself down "a hypocrite." Damætas is, probably, a satirical sketch of
a friend or acquaintance. (Compare the solemn denunciation of Lord
Falkland in 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', lines
668-686.)]]
[Footnote 2: In law, every person is an infant who has not attained the
age of twenty-one.]
TO MARION. [1]
MARION! why that pensive brow? [i]
What disgust to life hast thou?
Change that discontented air;
Frowns become not one so fair.
'Tis not Love disturbs thy rest,
Love's a stranger to thy breast:
_He_, in dimpling smiles, appears,
Or mourns in sweetly timid tears;
Or bends the languid eyelid down,
But _shuns_ the cold forbidding 'frown'.
Then resume thy former fire,
Some will _love_, and all admire!
While that icy aspect chills us,
Nought but cool Indiff'rence thrills us.
Would'st thou wand'ring hearts beguile,
Smile, at least, or _seem_ to _smile_;
Eyes like _thine_ were never meant
To hide their orbs in dark restraint;
Spite of all thou fain wouldst say,
Still in _truant_ beams they play.
Thy lips--but here my _modest_ Muse
Her impulse _chaste_ must needs refuse:
She _blushes, curtsies, frowns,_--in short She
Dreads lest the _Subject_ should transport me;
And flying off, in search of _Reason_,
Brings Prudence back in proper season.
_All_ I shall, therefore, say (whate'er [ii]
I think, is neither here nor there,)
Is, that such _lips_, of looks endearing,
Were form'd for _better things_ than _sneering_.
Of soothing compliments divested,
Advice at least's disinterested;
Such is my artless song to thee,
From all the flow of Flatt'ry free;
Counsel like _mine_ is as a brother's,
_My_ heart is given to some others;
That is to say, unskill'd to cozen,
It shares itself among a dozen.
Marion, adieu! oh, pr'ythee slight not
This warning, though it may delight not;
And, lest my precepts be displeasing, [iii]
To those who think remonstrance teazing,
At once I'll tell thee our opinion,
Concerning Woman's soft Dominion:
Howe'er we gaze, with admiration,
On eyes of blue or lips carnation;
Howe'er the flowing locks attract us,
Howe'er those beauties may distract us;
Still fickle, we are prone to rove,
_These_ cannot fix our souls to love;
It is not too _severe_ a stricture,
To say they form a _pretty picture_;
But would'st thou see the secret chain,
Which binds us in your humble train,
To hail you Queens of all Creation,
Know, in a _word, 'tis Animation_.
BYRON, _January_ 10, 1807.
[Footnote 1: The MS. of this Poem is preserved at Newstead. "This was to
Harriet Maltby, afterwards Mrs. Nichols, written upon her meeting Byron,
and, 'being 'cold, silent', and 'reserved' to him,' by the advice of a
Lady with whom she was staying; quite foreign to her 'usual' manner,
which was gay, lively, and full of flirtation."--Note by Miss E. Pigot.
(See p. 130, var. ii.)]
[Footnote a:
'Harriet'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote b:
'All I shall therefore say of these',
('Thy pardon if my words displease').
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote c:
'And lest my precepts be found fault, by
Those who approved the frown of M--lt-by'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
OSCAR OF ALVA. [1]
1.
How sweetly shines, through azure skies,
The lamp of Heaven on Lora's shore;
Where Alva's hoary turrets rise,
And hear the din of arms no more!
2.
But often has yon rolling moon,
On Alva's casques of silver play'd;
And view'd, at midnight's silent noon,
Her chiefs in gleaming mail array'd:
3.
And, on the crimson'd rocks beneath,
Which scowl o'er ocean's sullen flow,
Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death,
She saw the gasping warrior low; [i]
4.
While many an eye, which ne'er again [ii]
Could mark the rising orb of day,
Turn'd feebly from the gory plain,
Beheld in death her fading ray.
5.
Once, to those eyes the lamp of Love,
They blest her dear propitious light;
But, now, she glimmer'd from above,
A sad, funereal torch of night.
6.
Faded is Alva's noble race,
And grey her towers are seen afar;
No more her heroes urge the chase,
Or roll the crimson tide of war.
7.
But, who was last of Alva's clan?
Why grows the moss on Alva's stone?
Her towers resound no steps of man,
They echo to the gale alone.
8.
And, when that gale is fierce and high,
A sound is heard in yonder hall;
It rises hoarsely through the sky,
And vibrates o'er the mould'ring wall.
9.
Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs,
It shakes the shield of Oscar brave;
But, there, no more his banners rise,
No more his plumes of sable wave.
10.
Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth,
When Angus hail'd his eldest born;
The vassals round their chieftain's hearth
Crowd to applaud the happy morn.
11.
They feast upon the mountain deer,
The Pibroch rais'd its piercing note, [2]
To gladden more their Highland cheer,
The strains in martial numbers float.
12.
And they who heard the war-notes wild,
Hop'd that, one day, the Pibroch's strain
Should play before the Hero's child,
While he should lead the Tartan train.
13.
Another year is quickly past,
And Angus hails another son;
His natal day is like the last,
Nor soon the jocund feast was done.
14.
Taught by their sire to bend the bow,
On Alva's dusky hills of wind,
The boys in childhood chas'd the roe,
And left their hounds in speed behind.
15.
But ere their years of youth are o'er,
They mingle in the ranks of war;
They lightly wheel the bright claymore,
And send the whistling arrow far.
16.
Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair,
Wildly it stream'd along the gale;
But Allan's locks were bright and fair,
And pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale.
17.
But Oscar own'd a hero's soul,
His dark eye shone through beams of truth;
Allan had early learn'd controul,
And smooth his words had been from youth.
18.
Both, both were brave; the Saxon spear
Was shiver'd oft beneath their steel;
And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear,
But Oscar's bosom knew to feel;
19.
While Allan's soul belied his form,
Unworthy with such charms to dwell:
Keen as the lightning of the storm,
On foes his deadly vengeance fell.
20.
From high Southannon's distant tower
Arrived a young and noble dame;
With Kenneth's lands to form her dower,
Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came;
21.
And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride,
And Angus on his Oscar smil'd:
It soothed the father's feudal pride
Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child.
22.
Hark! to the Pibroch's pleasing note,
Hark! to the swelling nuptial song,
In joyous strains the voices float,
And, still, the choral peal prolong.
23.
See how the Heroes' blood-red plumes
Assembled wave in Alva's hall;
Each youth his varied plaid assumes,
Attending on their chieftain's call.
24.
It is not war their aid demands,
The Pibroch plays the song of peace;
To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands
Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease.
25.
But where is Oscar? sure 'tis late:
Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame?
While thronging guests and ladies wait,
Nor Oscar nor his brother came.
26.
At length young Allan join'd the bride;
"Why comes not Oscar?" Angus said:
"Is he not here?" the Youth replied;
"With me he rov'd not o'er the glade:
27.
"Perchance, forgetful of the day,
'Tis his to chase the bounding roe;
Or Ocean's waves prolong his stay:
Yet, Oscar's bark is seldom slow."
28.
"Oh, no!" the anguish'd Sire rejoin'd,
"Nor chase, nor wave, my Boy delay;
Would he to Mora seem unkind?
Would aught to her impede his way?
29.
"Oh, search, ye Chiefs! oh, search around!
Allan, with these, through Alva fly;
Till Oscar, till my son is found,
Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply."
30.
All is confusion--through the vale,
The name of Oscar hoarsely rings,
It rises on the murm'ring gale,
Till night expands her dusky wings.
31.
It breaks the stillness of the night,
But echoes through her shades in vain;
It sounds through morning's misty light,
But Oscar comes not o'er the plain.
32.
Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief
For Oscar search'd each mountain cave;
Then hope is lost; in boundless grief,
His locks in grey-torn ringlets wave.
33.
"Oscar! my son!--thou God of Heav'n,
Restore the prop of sinking age!
Or, if that hope no more is given,
Yield his assassin to my rage.
34.
"Yes, on some desert rocky shore
My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie;
Then grant, thou God! I ask no more,
With him his frantic Sire may die!
35.
"Yet, he may live,--away, despair!
Be calm, my soul! he yet may live;
T' arraign my fate, my voice forbear!
O God! my impious prayer forgive.
36.
"What, if he live for me no more,
I sink forgotten in the dust,
The hope of Alva's age is o'er:
Alas! can pangs like these be just?"
37.
Thus did the hapless Parent mourn,
Till Time, who soothes severest woe,
Had bade serenity return,
And made the tear-drop cease to flow.
38.
For, still, some latent hope surviv'd
That Oscar might once more appear;
His hope now droop'd and now revived,
Till Time had told a tedious year.
39.
Days roll'd along, the orb of light
Again had run his destined race;
No Oscar bless'd his father's sight,
And sorrow left a fainter trace.
40.
For youthful Allan still remain'd,
And, now, his father's only joy:
And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd,
For beauty crown'd the fair-hair'd boy.
41.
She thought that Oscar low was laid,
And Allan's face was wondrous fair;
If Oscar liv'd, some other maid
Had claim'd his faithless bosom's care.
42.
And Angus said, if one year more
In fruitless hope was pass'd away,
His fondest scruples should be o'er,
And he would name their nuptial day.
43.
Slow roll'd the moons, but blest at last
Arriv'd the dearly destin'd morn:
The year of anxious trembling past,
What smiles the lovers' cheeks adorn!
44.
Hark to the Pibroch's pleasing note!
Hark to the swelling nuptial song!
In joyous strains the voices float,
And, still, the choral peal prolong.
45.
Again the clan, in festive crowd,
Throng through the gate of Alva's hall;
The sounds of mirth re-echo loud,
And all their former joy recall.
46.
But who is he, whose darken'd brow
Glooms in the midst of general mirth?
Before his eyes' far fiercer glow
The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth.
47.
Dark is the robe which wraps his form,
And tall his plume of gory red;
His voice is like the rising storm,
But light and trackless is his tread.
48.
'Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round,
The bridegroom's health is deeply quaff'd;
With shouts the vaulted roofs resound,
And all combine to hail the draught.
49.
Sudden the stranger-chief arose,
And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd;
And Angus' cheek with wonder glows,
And Mora's tender bosom blush'd.
50.
"Old man!" he cried, "this pledge is done,
Thou saw'st 'twas truly drunk by me;
It hail'd the nuptials of thy son:
Now will I claim a pledge from thee.
51.
"While all around is mirth and joy,
To bless thy Allan's happy lot,
Say, hadst thou ne'er another boy?
Say, why should Oscar be forgot?"
52.
"Alas!" the hapless Sire replied,
The big tear starting as he spoke,
"When Oscar left my hall, or died,
This aged heart was almost broke.
53.
"Thrice has the earth revolv'd her course
Since Oscar's form has bless'd my sight;
And Allan is my last resource,
Since martial Oscar's death, or flight."
54.
"'Tis well," replied the stranger stern,
And fiercely flash'd his rolling eye;
"Thy Oscar's fate, I fain would learn;
Perhaps the Hero did not die.
55.
"Perchance, if those, whom most he lov'd,
Would call, thy Oscar might return;
Perchance, the chief has only rov'd;
For him thy Beltane, yet, may burn. [3]
56.
"Fill high the bowl the table round,
We will not claim the pledge by stealth;
With wine let every cup be crown'd;
Pledge me departed Oscar's health."
57.
"With all my soul," old Angus said,
And fill'd his goblet to the brim:
"Here's to my boy! alive or dead,
I ne'er shall find a son like him."
58.
"Bravely, old man, this health has sped;
But why does Allan trembling stand?
Come, drink remembrance of the dead,
And raise thy cup with firmer hand."
59.
The crimson glow of Allan's face
Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue;
The drops of death each other chace,
Adown in agonizing dew.
60.
Thrice did he raise the goblet high,
And thrice his lips refused to taste;
For thrice he caught the stranger's eye
On his with deadly fury plac'd.
61.
"And is it thus a brother hails
A brother's fond remembrance here?
If thus affection's strength prevails,
What might we not expect from fear?"
62.
Roused by the sneer, he rais'd the bowl,
"Would Oscar now could share our mirth!"
Internal fear appall'd his soul; [i]
He said, and dash'd the cup to earth.
63.
"'Tis he! I hear my murderer's voice!"
Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming Form.
"A murderer's voice!" the roof replies,
And deeply swells the bursting storm.
64.
The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink,
The stranger's gone,--amidst the crew,
A Form was seen, in tartan green,
And tall the shade terrific grew.
65.
His waist was bound with a broad belt round,
His plume of sable stream'd on high;
But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there,
And fix'd was the glare of his glassy eye.
66.
And thrice he smil'd, with his eye so wild
On Angus bending low the knee;
And thrice he frown'd, on a Chief on the ground,
Whom shivering crowds with horror see.
67.
The bolts loud roll from pole to pole,
And thunders through the welkin ring,
And the gleaming form, through the mist of the storm,
Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing.
68.
Cold was the feast, the revel ceas'd.
Who lies upon the stony floor?
Oblivion press'd old Angus' breast, [iv]
At length his life-pulse throbs once more.
69.
"Away, away! let the leech essay
To pour the light on Allan's eyes:"
His sand is done,--his race is run;
Oh! never more shall Allan rise!
70.
But Oscar's breast is cold as clay,
His locks are lifted by the gale;
And Allan's barbèd arrow lay
With him in dark Glentanar's vale.
71.
And whence the dreadful stranger came,
Or who, no mortal wight can tell;
But no one doubts the form of flame,
For Alva's sons knew Oscar well.
72.
Ambition nerv'd young Allan's hand,
Exulting demons wing'd his dart;
While Envy wav'd her burning brand,
And pour'd her venom round his heart.
73.
Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow;
Whose streaming life-blood stains his side?
Dark Oscar's sable crest is low,
The dart has drunk his vital tide.
74.
And Mora's eye could Allan move,
She bade his wounded pride rebel:
Alas! that eyes, which beam'd with love,
Should urge the soul to deeds of Hell.
75.
Lo! see'st thou not a lonely tomb,
Which rises o'er a warrior dead?
It glimmers through the twilight gloom;
Oh! that is Allan's nuptial bed.
76.
Far, distant far, the noble grave
Which held his clan's great ashes stood;
And o'er his corse no banners wave,
For they were stain'd with kindred blood.
77.
What minstrel grey, what hoary bard,
Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise?
The song is glory's chief reward,
But who can strike a murd'rer's praise?
78.
Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand,
No minstrel dare the theme awake;
Guilt would benumb his palsied hand,
His harp in shuddering chords would break.
79.
No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse,
Shall sound his glories high in air:
A dying father's bitter curse,
A brother's death-groan echoes there.
[Footnote 1: The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story of
"Jeronymo and Lorenzo," in the first volume of Schiller's 'Armenian, or
the Ghost-Seer'. It also bears some resemblance to a scene in the third
act of 'Macbeth'.--['Der Geisterseher', Schiller's 'Werke' (1819), x.
97, 'sq'.]
[Footnote 2: It is evident that Byron here confused the 'pibroch', the
air, with the 'bagpipe', the instrument.]
[Footnote 3: Beltane Tree, a Highland festival on the first of May,
held near fires lighted for the occasion.]
[Footnote i:
'She view'd the gasping'----.
['Hours of Idleness'.]]
[Footnote ii:
'When many an eye which ne'er again
Could view'----.
['Hours of Idleness'.]]
[Footnote iii:
'Internal fears'----.
['Hours of Idleness'.]]
[Footnote iv:
'Old Angus prest, the earth with his breast'.
['Hours of Idleness'.]]
TRANSLATION FROM ANACREON.
[Greek: Thel_o legein Atpeidas, k.t.l.] [1]
ODE 1.
TO HIS LYRE.
I wish to tune my quivering lyre, [i]
To deeds of fame, and notes of fire;
To echo, from its rising swell,
How heroes fought and nations fell,
When Atreus' sons advanc'd to war,
Or Tyrian Cadmus rov'd afar;
But still, to martial strains unknown,
My lyre recurs to Love alone.
Fir'd with the hope of future fame, [ii]
I seek some nobler Hero's name;
The dying chords are strung anew,
To war, to war, my harp is due:
With glowing strings, the Epic strain
To Jove's great son I raise again;
Alcides and his glorious deeds,
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds;
All, all in vain; my wayward lyre
Wakes silver notes of soft Desire.
Adieu, ye Chiefs renown'd in arms!
Adieu the clang of War's alarms! [iii]
To other deeds my soul is strung,
And sweeter notes shall now be sung;
My harp shall all its powers reveal,
To tell the tale my heart must feel;
Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim,
In songs of bliss and sighs of flame.
[Footnote 1: The motto does not appear in 'Hours of Idleness' or
'Poems O. and T.']
[Footnote i: 'I sought to tune'----.--['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote ii:
'The chords resumed a second strain,
To Jove's great son I strike again.
Alcides and his glorious deeds,
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iii:
'The Trumpet's blast with these accords
To sound the clash of hostile swords--
Be mine the softer, sweeter care
To soothe the young and virgin Fair'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
FROM ANACREON.
[Greek: Mesonuktiois poth h_opais, k.t.l.] [1]
ODE 3.
'Twas now the hour when Night had driven
Her car half round yon sable heaven;
Boötes, only, seem'd to roll [i]
His Arctic charge around the Pole;
While mortals, lost in gentle sleep,
Forgot to smile, or ceas'd to weep:
At this lone hour the Paphian boy,
Descending from the realms of joy,
Quick to my gate directs his course,
And knocks with all his little force;
My visions fled, alarm'd I rose,--
"What stranger breaks my blest repose?"
"Alas!" replies the wily child
In faltering accents sweetly mild;
"A hapless Infant here I roam,
Far from my dear maternal home.
Oh! shield me from the wintry blast!
The nightly storm is pouring fast.
No prowling robber lingers here;
A wandering baby who can fear?"
I heard his seeming artless tale, [ii]
I heard his sighs upon the gale:
My breast was never pity's foe,
But felt for all the baby's woe.
I drew the bar, and by the light
Young Love, the infant, met my sight;
His bow across his shoulders flung,
And thence his fatal quiver hung
(Ah! little did I think the dart
Would rankle soon within my heart).
With care I tend my weary guest,
His little fingers chill my breast;
His glossy curls, his azure wing,
Which droop with nightly showers, I wring;
His shivering limbs the embers warm;
And now reviving from the storm,
Scarce had he felt his wonted glow,
Than swift he seized his slender bow:--
"I fain would know, my gentle host,"
He cried, "if this its strength has lost;
I fear, relax'd with midnight dews,
The strings their former aid refuse."
With poison tipt, his arrow flies,
Deep in my tortur'd heart it lies:
Then loud the joyous Urchin laugh'd:--
"My bow can still impel the shaft:
'Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it;
Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?"
[Footnote 1: The motto does not appear in 'Hours of Idleness' or
'Poems O. and T.']
[Footnote i: The Newstead MS. inserts--
'No Moon in silver robe was seen
Nor e'en a trembling star between'.]
[Footnote ii:
'Touched with the seeming artless tale
Compassion's tears o'er doubt prevail;
Methought I viewed him, cold and damp,
I trimmed anew my dying lamp,
Drew back the bar--and by the light
A pinioned Infant met my sight;
His bow across his shoulders slung,
And hence a gilded quiver hung;
With care I tend my weary guest,
His shivering hands by mine are pressed:
My hearth I load with embers warm
To dry the dew drops of the storm:
Drenched by the rain of yonder sky
The strings are weak--but let us try.'
--['MS. Newstead'.]]
THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURYALUS. [1]
A PARAPHRASE FROM THE "ÆNEID," LIB. 9.
Nisus, the guardian of the portal, stood,
Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood;
Well skill'd, in fight, the quivering lance to wield,
Or pour his arrows thro' th' embattled field:
From Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave, [i]
And sought a foreign home, a distant grave.
To watch the movements of the Daunian host,
With him Euryalus sustains the post;
No lovelier mien adorn'd the ranks of Troy,
And beardless bloom yet grac'd the gallant boy; 10
Though few the seasons of his youthful life,
As yet a novice in the martial strife,
'Twas his, with beauty, Valour's gifts to share--
A soul heroic, as his form was fair:
These burn with one pure flame of generous love;
In peace, in war, united still they move;
Friendship and Glory form their joint reward;
And, now, combin'd they hold their nightly guard. [ii]
"What God," exclaim'd the first, "instils this fire?
Or, in itself a God, what great desire? 20
My lab'ring soul, with anxious thought oppress'd,
Abhors this station of inglorious rest;
The love of fame with this can ill accord,
Be't mine to seek for glory with my sword.
See'st thou yon camp, with torches twinkling dim,
Where drunken slumbers wrap each lazy limb?
Where confidence and ease the watch disdain,
And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign?
Then hear my thought:--In deep and sullen grief
Our troops and leaders mourn their absent chief: 30
Now could the gifts and promised prize be thine,
(The deed, the danger, and the fame be mine,)
Were this decreed, beneath yon rising mound,
Methinks, an easy path, perchance, were found;
Which past, I speed my way to Pallas' walls,
And lead Æneas from Evander's halls."
With equal ardour fir'd, and warlike joy,
His glowing friend address'd the Dardan boy:--
"These deeds, my Nisus, shalt thou dare alone?
Must all the fame, the peril, be thine own? 40
Am I by thee despis'd, and left afar,
As one unfit to share the toils of war?
Not thus his son the great Opheltes taught:
Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought;
Not thus, when Ilion fell by heavenly hate,
I track'd Æneas through the walks of fate:
Thou know'st my deeds, my breast devoid of fear,
And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear.
Here is a soul with hope immortal burns,
And _life_, ignoble _life_, for _Glory_ spurns. [iii] 50
Fame, fame is cheaply earn'd by fleeting breath:
The price of honour, is the sleep of death."
Then Nisus:--"Calm thy bosom's fond alarms: [iv]
Thy heart beats fiercely to the din of arms.
More dear thy worth, and valour than my own,
I swear by him, who fills Olympus' throne!
So may I triumph, as I speak the truth,
And clasp again the comrade of my youth!
But should I fall,--and he, who dares advance
Through hostile legions, must abide by chance,-- 60
If some Rutulian arm, with adverse blow,
Should lay the friend, who ever lov'd thee, low,
Live thou--such beauties I would fain preserve--
Thy budding years a lengthen'd term deserve;
When humbled in the dust, let some one be,
Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for me;
Whose manly arm may snatch me back by force,
Or wealth redeem, from foes, my captive corse;
Or, if my destiny these last deny,
If, in the spoiler's power, my ashes lie; 70
Thy pious care may raise a simple tomb,
To mark thy love, and signalise my doom.
Why should thy doating wretched mother weep
Her only boy, reclin'd in endless sleep?
Who, for thy sake, the tempest's fury dar'd,
Who, for thy sake, war's deadly peril shar'd;
Who brav'd what woman never brav'd before,
And left her native, for the Latian shore."
"In vain you damp the ardour of my soul,"
Replied Euryalus; "it scorns controul; 80
Hence, let us haste!"--their brother guards arose,
Rous'd by their call, nor court again repose;
The pair, buoy'd up on Hope's exulting wing,
Their stations leave, and speed to seek the king.
Now, o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran,
And lull'd alike the cares of brute and man;
Save where the Dardan leaders, nightly, hold
Alternate converse, and their plans unfold.
On one great point the council are agreed,
An instant message to their prince decreed; 90
Each lean'd upon the lance he well could wield,
And pois'd with easy arm his ancient shield;
When Nisus and his friend their leave request,
To offer something to their high behest.
With anxious tremors, yet unaw'd by fear, [v]
The faithful pair before the throne appear;
Iulus greets them; at his kind command,
The elder, first, address'd the hoary band.
"With patience" (thus Hyrtacides began)
"Attend, nor judge, from youth, our humble plan. 100
Where yonder beacons half-expiring beam,
Our slumbering foes of future conquest dream, [vi]
Nor heed that we a secret path have trac'd,
Between the ocean and the portal plac'd;
Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke,
Whose shade, securely, our design will cloak!
If you, ye Chiefs, and Fortune will allow,
We'll bend our course to yonder mountain's brow,
Where Pallas' walls, at distance, meet the sight,
Seen o'er the glade, when not obscur'd by night: 110
Then shall Æneas in his pride return,
While hostile matrons raise their offspring's urn;
And Latian spoils, and purpled heaps of dead
Shall mark the havoc of our Hero's tread;
Such is our purpose, not unknown the way,
Where yonder torrent's devious waters stray;
Oft have we seen, when hunting by the stream,
The distant spires above the valleys gleam."
Mature in years, for sober wisdom fam'd,
Mov'd by the speech, Alethes here exclaim'd,-- 120
"Ye parent gods! who rule the fate of Troy,
Still dwells the Dardan spirit in the boy;
When minds, like these, in striplings thus ye raise,
Yours is the godlike act, be yours the praise;
In gallant youth, my fainting hopes revive,
And Ilion's wonted glories still survive."
Then in his warm embrace the boys he press'd,
And, quivering, strain'd them to his agéd breast;
With tears the burning cheek of each bedew'd,
And, sobbing, thus his first discourse renew'd:-- 130
"What gift, my countrymen, what martial prize,
Can we bestow, which you may not despise?
Our Deities the first best boon have given--
Internal virtues are the gift of Heaven.
What poor rewards can bless your deeds on earth,
Doubtless await such young, exalted worth;
Æneas and Ascanius shall combine
To yield applause far, far surpassing mine."
Iulus then:--"By all the powers above!
By those Penates, who my country love! 140
By hoary Vesta's sacred Fane, I swear,
My hopes are all in you, ye generous pair!
Restore my father, to my grateful sight,
And all my sorrows, yield to one delight.
Nisus! two silver goblets are thine own,
Sav'd from Arisba's stately domes o'erthrown;
My sire secured them on that fatal day,
Nor left such bowls an Argive robber's prey.
Two massy tripods, also, shall be thine,
Two talents polish'd from the glittering mine; 150
An ancient cup, which Tyrian Dido gave,
While yet our vessels press'd the Punic wave:
But when the hostile chiefs at length bow down,
When great Æneas wears Hesperia's crown,
The casque, the buckler, and the fiery steed
Which Turnus guides with more than mortal speed,
Are thine; no envious lot shall then be cast,
I pledge my word, irrevocably past:
Nay more, twelve slaves, and twice six captive dames,
To soothe thy softer hours with amorous flames, 160
And all the realms, which now the Latins sway,
The labours of to-night shall well repay.
But thou, my generous youth, whose tender years
Are near my own, whose worth my heart reveres,
Henceforth, affection, sweetly thus begun,
Shall join our bosoms and our souls in one;
Without thy aid, no glory shall be mine,
Without thy dear advice, no great design;
Alike, through life, esteem'd, thou godlike boy,
In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy." 170
To him Euryalus:--"No day shall shame
The rising glories which from this I claim.
Fortune may favour, or the skies may frown,
But valour, spite of fate, obtains renown.
Yet, ere from hence our eager steps depart,
One boon I beg, the nearest to my heart:
My mother, sprung from Priam's royal line,
Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine,
Nor Troy nor king Acestes' realms restrain
Her feeble age from dangers of the main; 180
Alone she came, all selfish fears above, [vii]
A bright example of maternal love.
Unknown, the secret enterprise I brave,
Lest grief should bend my parent to the grave;
From this alone no fond adieus I seek,
No fainting mother's lips have press'd my cheek;
By gloomy Night and thy right hand I vow,
Her parting tears would shake my purpose now: [viii]
Do thou, my prince, her failing age sustain,
In thee her much-lov'd child may live again; 190
Her dying hours with pious conduct bless,
Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress:
So dear a hope must all my soul enflame, [ix]
To rise in glory, or to fall in fame."
Struck with a filial care so deeply felt,
In tears at once the Trojan warriors melt;
Faster than all, Iulus' eyes o'erflow!
Such love was his, and such had been his woe.
"All thou hast ask'd, receive," the Prince replied;
"Nor this alone, but many a gift beside. 200
To cheer thy mother's years shall be my aim,
Creusa's [2] style but wanting to the dame;
Fortune an adverse wayward course may run,
But bless'd thy mother in so dear a son.
Now, by my life!--my Sire's most sacred oath--
To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth,
All the rewards which once to thee were vow'd, [x]
If thou should'st fall, on her shall be bestow'd."
Thus spoke the weeping Prince, then forth to view
A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew; 210
Lycaon's utmost skill had grac'd the steel,
For friends to envy and for foes to feel:
A tawny hide, the Moorish lion's spoil, [xi]
Slain 'midst the forest in the hunter's toil,
Mnestheus to guard the elder youth bestows, [xii]
And old Alethes' casque defends his brows;
Arm'd, thence they go, while all th' assembl'd train,
To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain. [xiii]
More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace,
Iulus holds amidst the chiefs his place: 220
His prayer he sends; but what can prayers avail,
Lost in the murmurs of the sighing gale? [xiv]
The trench is pass'd, and favour'd by the night,
Through sleeping foes, they wheel their wary flight.
When shall the sleep of many a foe be o'er?
Alas! some slumber, who shall wake no more!
Chariots and bridles, mix'd with arms, are seen,
And flowing flasks, and scatter'd troops between:
Bacchus and Mars, to rule the camp, combine;
A mingled Chaos this of war and wine. 230
"Now," cries the first, "for deeds of blood prepare,
With me the conquest and the labour share:
Here lies our path; lest any hand arise,
Watch thou, while many a dreaming chieftain dies;
I'll carve our passage, through the heedless foe,
And clear thy road, with many a deadly blow."
His whispering accents then the youth repress'd,
And pierced proud Rhamnes through his panting breast:
Stretch'd at his ease, th' incautious king repos'd;
Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had clos'd; 240
To Turnus dear, a prophet and a prince,
His omens more than augur's skill evince;
But he, who thus foretold the fate of all,
Could not avert his own untimely fall.
Next Remus' armour-bearer, hapless, fell,
And three unhappy slaves the carnage swell;
The charioteer along his courser's sides
Expires, the steel his sever'd neck divides;
And, last, his Lord is number'd with the dead:
Bounding convulsive, flies the gasping head; 250
From the swol'n veins the blackening torrents pour;
Stain'd is the couch and earth with clotting gore.
Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire,
And gay Serranus, fill'd with youthful fire;
Half the long night in childish games was pass'd; [xv]
Lull'd by the potent grape, he slept at last:
Ah! happier far, had he the morn survey'd,
And, till Aurora's dawn, his skill display'd. [xvi]
In slaughter'd folds, the keepers lost in sleep, [xvii]
His hungry fangs a lion thus may steep; 260
'Mid the sad flock, at dead of night he prowls,
With murder glutted, and in carnage rolls
Insatiate still, through teeming herds he roams; [xviii]
In seas of gore, the lordly tyrant foams.
Nor less the other's deadly vengeance came,
But falls on feeble crowds without a name;
His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can feel,
Yet wakeful Rhæsus sees the threatening steel;
His coward breast behind a jar he hides,
And, vainly, in the weak defence confides; 270
Full in his heart, the falchion search'd his veins,
The reeking weapon bears alternate stains;
Through wine and blood, commingling as they flow,
One feeble spirit seeks the shades below.
Now where Messapus dwelt they bend their way,
Whose fires emit a faint and trembling ray;
There, unconfin'd, behold each grazing steed,
Unwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage feed: [xix]
Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm,
Too flush'd with carnage, and with conquest warm: 280
"Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is pass'd;
Full foes enough, to-night, have breath'd their last:
Soon will the Day those Eastern clouds adorn;
Now let us speed, nor tempt the rising morn."
What silver arms, with various art emboss'd,
What bowls and mantles, in confusion toss'd,
They leave regardless! yet one glittering prize
Attracts the younger Hero's wandering eyes;
The gilded harness Rhamnes' coursers felt,
The gems which stud the monarch's golden belt: 290
This from the pallid corse was quickly torn,
Once by a line of former chieftains worn.
Th' exulting boy the studded girdle wears,
Messapus' helm his head, in triumph, bears;
Then from the tents their cautious steps they bend,
To seek the vale, where safer paths extend.
Just at this hour, a band of Latian horse
To Turnus' camp pursue their destin'd course:
While the slow foot their tardy march delay,
The knights, impatient, spur along the way: 300
Three hundred mail-clad men, by Volscens led,
To Turnus with their master's promise sped:
Now they approach the trench, and view the walls,
When, on the left, a light reflection falls;
The plunder'd helmet, through the waning night,
Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright;
Volscens, with question loud, the pair alarms:--
"Stand, Stragglers! stand! why early thus in arms?
From whence? to whom?"--He meets with no reply;
Trusting the covert of the night, they fly: 310
The thicket's depth, with hurried pace, they tread,
While round the wood the hostile squadron spread.
With brakes entangled, scarce a path between,
Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene:
Euryalus his heavy spoils impede,
The boughs and winding turns his steps mislead;
But Nisus scours along the forest's maze,
To where Latinus' steeds in safety graze,
Then backward o'er the plain his eyes extend,
On every side they seek his absent friend. 320
"O God! my boy," he cries, "of me bereft, [xx]
In what impending perils art thou left!"
Listening he runs--above the waving trees,
Tumultuous voices swell the passing breeze;
The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around
Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground.
Again he turns--of footsteps hears the noise--
The sound elates--the sight his hope destroys:
The hapless boy a ruffian train surround, [xxi]
While lengthening shades his weary way confound; 330
Him, with loud shouts, the furious knights pursue,
Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. [xxii]
What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers dare?
Ah! must he rush, his comrade's fate to share?
What force, what aid, what stratagem essay,
Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey?
His life a votive ransom nobly give,
Or die with him, for whom he wish'd to live?
Poising with strength his lifted lance on high,
On Luna's orb he cast his frenzied eye:-- 340
"Goddess serene, transcending every star! [xxiii]
Queen of the sky, whose beams are seen afar!
By night Heaven owns thy sway, by day the grove,
When, as chaste Dian, here thou deign'st to rove;
If e'er myself, or Sire, have sought to grace
Thine altars, with the produce of the chase,
Speed, speed my dart to pierce yon vaunting crowd,
To free my friend, and scatter far the proud."
Thus having said, the hissing dart he flung;
Through parted shades the hurtling weapon sung; 350
The thirsty point in Sulmo's entrails lay,
Transfix'd his heart, and stretch'd him on the clay:
He sobs, he dies,--the troop in wild amaze,
Unconscious whence the death, with horror gaze;
While pale they stare, thro' Tagus' temples riven,
A second shaft, with equal force is driven:
Fierce Volscens rolls around his lowering eyes;
Veil'd by the night, secure the Trojan lies. [xxiv]
Burning with wrath, he view'd his soldiers fall.
"Thou youth accurst, thy life shall pay for all!" 360
Quick from the sheath his flaming glaive he drew,
And, raging, on the boy defenceless flew.
Nisus, no more the blackening shade conceals,
Forth, forth he starts, and all his love reveals;
Aghast, confus'd, his fears to madness rise,
And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies;
"Me, me,--your vengeance hurl on me alone;
Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your own;
Ye starry Spheres! thou conscious Heaven! attest!
He could not--durst not--lo! the guile confest! 370
All, all was mine,--his early fate suspend;
He only lov'd, too well, his hapless friend:
Spare, spare, ye Chiefs! from him your rage remove;
His fault was friendship, all his crime was love."
He pray'd in vain; the dark assassin's sword
Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gor'd;
Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad crest,
And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast:
As some young rose whose blossom scents the air,
Languid in death, expires beneath the share; 380
Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower,
Declining gently, falls a fading flower;
Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head,
And lingering Beauty hovers round the dead.
But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide,
Revenge his leader, and Despair his guide; [xxv]
Volscens he seeks amidst the gathering host,
Volscens must soon appease his comrade's ghost;
Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe;
Rage nerves his arm, Fate gleams in every blow; 390
In vain beneath unnumber'd wounds he bleeds,
Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds;
In viewless circles wheel'd his falchion flies,
Nor quits the hero's grasp till Volscens dies;
Deep in his throat its end the weapon found,
The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the wound. [xxvi]
Thus Nisus all his fond affection prov'd--
Dying, revenged the fate of him he lov'd;
Then on his bosom sought his wonted place, [xxvii]
And death was heavenly, in his friend's embrace! 400
Celestial pair! if aught my verse can claim,
Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is fame! [xxviii]
Ages on ages shall your fate admire,
No future day shall see your names expire,
While stands the Capitol, immortal dome!
And vanquished millions hail their Empress, Rome!
[Footnote 1: Lines 1-18 were first published in 'P. on V. Occasions',
under the title of "Fragment of a Translation from the 9th Book of
Virgil's 'Æneid'."]
[Footnote 2: The mother of Iulus, lost on the night when Troy was
taken.]
[Footnote i:
'Him Ida sent, a hunter, now no more,
To combat foes, upon a foreign shore;
Near him, the loveliest of the Trojan band,
Did fair Euryalus, his comrade, stand;
Few are the seasons of his youthful life,
As yet a novice in the martial strife:
The Gods to him unwonted gifts impart,
A female's beatify, with a hero's heart.
['P. on V. Occasions.']
From Ida torn he left his native grove,
Through distant climes, and trackless seas to rove.'
['Hours of Idleness.']]
[Footnote ii:
'And now combin'd, the massy gate they guard'.
['P. on V. Occasions'.]
--they hold the nightly guard'.
['Hours of Idleness'.]]
[Footnote iii:
And Love, and Life alike the glory spurned.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iv:
Then Nisus, "Ah, my friend--why thus suspect
Thy youthful breast admits of no defect."
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote v:
Trembling with diffidence not awed by fear.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote vi:
The vain Rutulians lost in slumber dream.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote vii:
'Hither she came------.
['Hours of Idleness.']]
[Footnote viii:
'Her falling tears------.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote ix:
'With this assurance Fate's attempts are vain;
Fearless I dare the foes of yonder plain.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote x:
'That all the gifts which once to thee were vowed.
['MS. Newstead'.]
[Footnote xi:
'A tawny skin the furious lion's spoil.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xii:
'Mnestheus presented, and the Warrior's mask
Alethes gave a doubly temper'd casque.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xiii:
'To glad their journey, follow them in vain.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xiv:
'Dispersed and scattered on the sighing gale.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xv:
'By Bacchus' potent draught weigh'd down at last
Half the long night in childish games was past.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xvi:
'--disportive play'd.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xvii:
By hunger prest, the keeper lull'd to sleep
In slaughter thus a Lyon's fangs may steep.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xviii:
Through teeming herds unchecked, unawed, he roams.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xix:
Heedless of danger on the herbage feed.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xx:
----'of thee bereft
In what dire perils is my brother left.'
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xxi:
Then his lov'd boy the ruffian band surround
Entangled in the tufted Forest ground.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xxii:
'At length a captive to the hostile crew'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xxiii:
'The Goddess bright transcending every star'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xxiv:
'No object meets them but the earth and skies.
He burns for vengeance, rising in his wrath--
Then you, accursed, thy life shall pay for both;
Then from the sheath his flaming brand he drew,
And on the raging boy defenceless flew.
Nisus no more the blackening shade conceals,
Forth forth he rushed and all his love reveals;
Pale and confused his fear to madness grows,
And thus in accents mild he greets his Foes.
"On me, on me, direct your impious steel,
Let me and me alone your vengeance feel--
Let not a stripling's blood by Chiefs be spilt,
Be mine the Death, as mine was all the guilt.
By Heaven and Hell, the powers of Earth and Air.
Yon guiltless stripling neither could nor dare:
Spare him, oh! spare by all the Gods above,
A hapless boy whose only crime was Love."
He prayed in vain; the fierce assassin's sword
Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored;
Drooping to earth inclines his lovely head,
O'er his fair curls, the purpling stream is spread.
As some sweet lily, by the ploughshare broke
Languid in Death, sinks down beneath the stroke;
Or, as some poppy, bending with the shower,
Gently declining falls a waning flower'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xxv:
'Revenge his object'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xxvi:
'The assassin's soul'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xxvii:
'Then on his breast he sought his wonted place,
And Death was lovely in his Friend's embrace'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xxviii:
'Yours are the fairest wreaths of endless Fame.'
['MS. Newstead'.]]
TRANSLATION FROM THE "MEDEA" OF EURIPIDES [Ll. 627-660].
[Greek: Erotes hyper men agan, K.T.L.[1]]
1.
When fierce conflicting passions urge
The breast, where love is wont to glow,
What mind can stem the stormy surge
Which rolls the tide of human woe?
The hope of praise, the dread of shame,
Can rouse the tortur'd breast no more;
The wild desire, the guilty flame,
Absorbs each wish it felt before.
2.
But if affection gently thrills
The soul, by purer dreams possest,
The pleasing balm of mortal ills
In love can soothe the aching breast:
If thus thou comest in disguise, [i]
Fair Venus! from thy native heaven,
What heart, unfeeling, would despise
The sweetest boon the Gods have given?
3.
But, never from thy golden bow,
May I beneath the shaft expire!
Whose creeping venom, sure and slow,
Awakes an all-consuming fire:
Ye racking doubts! ye jealous fears!
With others wage internal war;
Repentance! source of future tears,
From me be ever distant far!
4.
May no distracting thoughts destroy
The holy calm of sacred love!
May all the hours be winged with joy,
Which hover faithful hearts above!
Fair Venus! on thy myrtle shrine
May I with some fond lover sigh!
Whose heart may mingle pure with mine,
With me to live, with me to die!
5.
My native soil! belov'd before,
Now dearer, as my peaceful home,
Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore,
A hapless banish'd wretch to roam!
This very day, this very hour,
May I resign this fleeting breath!
Nor quit my silent humble bower;
A doom, to me, far worse than death.
6.
Have I not heard the exile's sigh,
And seen the exile's silent tear,
Through distant climes condemn'd to fly,
A pensive, weary wanderer here?
Ah! hapless dame! [2] no sire bewails,
No friend thy wretched fate deplores,
No kindred voice with rapture hails
Thy steps within a stranger's doors.
7.
Perish the fiend! whose iron heart
To fair affection's truth unknown,
Bids her he fondly lov'd depart,
Unpitied, helpless, and alone;
Who ne'er unlocks with silver key, [3]
The milder treasures of his soul;
May such a friend be far from me,
And Ocean's storms between us roll!
[Footnote 1: The Greek heading does not appear in 'Hours of Idleness' or
'Poems O. and T'.]
[Footnote 2: Medea, who accompanied Jason to Corinth, was deserted by
him for the daughter of Creon, king of that city. The chorus, from which
this is taken, here addresses Medea; though a considerable liberty is
taken with the original, by expanding the idea, as also in some other
parts of the translation.]
[Footnote 3: The original is [Greek: katharan anoixanta klaeda
phren_on,] literally "disclosing the bright key of the mind."]
[Footnote i:
'If thus thou com'st in gentle guise'.
['Hours of Idleness'.]]
LACHIN Y GAIR. [1]
1.
Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses!
In you let the minions of luxury rove:
Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love:
Yet, Caledonia, belov'd are thy mountains,
Round their white summits though elements war:
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.
2.
Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy, wander'd:
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid; [2]
On chieftains, long perish'd, my memory ponder'd,
As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade;
I sought not my home, till the day's dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;
For fancy was cheer'd, by traditional story,
Disclos'd by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.
3.
"Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?"
Surely, the soul of the hero rejoices,
And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale!
Round Loch na Garr, while the stormy mist gathers,
Winter presides in his cold icy car:
Clouds, there, encircle the forms of my Fathers;
They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr.
4.
"Ill starr'd, [3] though brave, did no visions foreboding
Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?"
Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden, [4]
Victory crown'd not your fall with applause:
Still were you happy, in death's earthy slumber,
You rest with your clan, in the caves of Braemar; [5]
The Pibroch [6] resounds, to the piper's loud number,
Your deeds, on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.
5.
Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you,
Years must elapse, ere I tread you again:
Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you,
Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain:
England! thy beauties are tame and domestic,
To one who has rov'd on the mountains afar:
Oh! for the crags that are wild and majestic,
The steep, frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr. [7]
[Footnote 1: 'Lachin y Gair', or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, 'Loch
na Garr', towers proudly pre-eminent in the Northern Highlands, near
Invercauld. One of our modern tourists mentions it as the highest
mountain, perhaps, in Great Britain. Be this as it may, it is certainly
one of the most sublime and picturesque amongst our "Caledonian Alps."
Its appearance is of a dusky hue, but the summit is the seat of eternal
snows. Near Lachin y Gair I spent some of the early part of my life, the
recollection of which has given birth to the following stanzas.
[Prefixed to the poem in 'Hours of Idleness' and 'Poems O. and T.']
[Footnote 2: This word is erroneously pronounced 'plad'; the proper
pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is shown by the orthography.]
[Footnote 3: I allude here to my maternal ancestors, "the Gordons," many
of whom fought for the unfortunate Prince Charles, better known by the
name of the Pretender. This branch was nearly allied by blood, as well
as attachment, to the Stuarts. George, the second Earl of Huntley,
married the Princess Annabella Stuart, daughter of James I. of Scotland.
By her he left four sons: the third, Sir William Gordon, I have the
honour to claim as one of my progenitors.]
[Footnote 4: Whether any perished in the Battle of Culloden, I am not
certain; but, as many fell in the insurrection, I have used the name of
the principal action, "pars pro toto."]
[Footnote 5: A tract of the Highlands so called. There is also a Castle
of Braemar.]
[Footnote 6: The Bagpipe.--'Hours of Idleness'. (See note, p. 133.)]
[Footnote 7: The love of mountains to the last made Byron
"Hail in each crag a friend's familiar face,
And Loch na Garr with Ida looked o'er Troy."
'The Island' (1823), Canto II. stanza xii.]
TO ROMANCE.
1.
Parent of golden dreams, Romance!
Auspicious Queen of childish joys,
Who lead'st along, in airy dance,
Thy votive train of girls and boys;
At length, in spells no longer bound,
I break the fetters of my youth;
No more I tread thy mystic round,
But leave thy realms for those of Truth.
2.
And yet 'tis hard to quit the dreams
Which haunt the unsuspicious soul,
Where every nymph a goddess seems, [i]
Whose eyes through rays immortal roll;
While Fancy holds her boundless reign,
And all assume a varied hue;
When Virgins seem no longer vain,
And even Woman's smiles are true.
3.
And must we own thee, but a name,
And from thy hall of clouds descend?
Nor find a Sylph in every dame,
A Pylades [1] in every friend?
But leave, at once, thy realms of air [ii]
To mingling bands of fairy elves;
Confess that woman's false as fair,
And friends have feeling for--themselves?
4.
With shame, I own, I've felt thy sway;
Repentant, now thy reign is o'er;
No more thy precepts I obey,
No more on fancied pinions soar;
Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye,
And think that eye to truth was dear;
To trust a passing wanton's sigh,
And melt beneath a wanton's tear!
5.
Romance! disgusted with deceit,
Far from thy motley court I fly,
Where Affectation holds her seat,
And sickly Sensibility;
Whose silly tears can never flow
For any pangs excepting thine;
Who turns aside from real woe,
To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine.
6.
Now join with sable Sympathy,
With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds,
Who heaves with thee her simple sigh,
Whose breast for every bosom bleeds;
And call thy sylvan female choir,
To mourn a Swain for ever gone,
Who once could glow with equal fire,
But bends not now before thy throne.
7.
Ye genial Nymphs, whose ready tears [iii]
On all occasions swiftly flow;
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears,
With fancied flames and phrenzy glow
Say, will you mourn my absent name,
Apostate from your gentle train?
An infant Bard, at least, may claim
From you a sympathetic strain.
8.
Adieu, fond race! a long adieu!
The hour of fate is hovering nigh;
E'en now the gulf appears in view,
Where unlamented you must lie: [iv]
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen,
Convuls'd by gales you cannot weather,
Where you, and eke your gentle queen,
Alas! must perish altogether.
[Footnote 1: It is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades was the
companion of Orestes, and a partner in one of those friendships which,
with those of Achilles and Patroclus, Nisus and Euryalus, Damon and
Pythias, have been handed down to posterity as remarkable instances of
attachments, which in all probability never existed beyond the
imagination of the poet, or the page of an historian, or modern
novelist.]
[Footnote i:
'Where every girl--.'
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote ii:
'But quit at once thy realms of air
Thy mingling--.'
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iii:
'Auspicious bards--.'
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iv:
'Where you are doomed in death to lie.'
['MS. Newstead'.]]
THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. [1]
AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S "OSSIAN". [2]
Dear are the days of youth! Age dwells on their remembrance through the
mist of time. In the twilight he recalls the sunny hours of morn. He
lifts his spear with trembling hand. "Not thus feebly did I raise the
steel before my fathers!" Past is the race of heroes! But their fame
rises on the harp; their souls ride on the wings of the wind; they hear
the sound through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall of
clouds. Such is Calmar. The grey stone marks his narrow house. He looks
down from eddying tempests: he rolls his form in the whirlwind, and
hovers on the blast of the mountain.
In Morven dwelt the Chief; a beam of war to Fingal. His steps in the
field were marked in blood. Lochlin's sons had fled before his angry
spear; [i] but mild was the eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his
yellow locks: they streamed like the meteor of the night. No maid was
the sigh of his soul: his thoughts were given to friendship,--to
dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes! Equal were their swords in
battle; but fierce was the pride of Orla:--gentle alone to Calmar.
Together they dwelt in the cave of Oithona.
From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves. Erin's sons fell
beneath his might. Fingal roused his chiefs to combat. [ii] Their ships
cover the ocean! Their hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the
aid of Erin.
Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies. But the blazing oaks
gleam through the valley. [iii] The sons of Lochlin slept: their dreams
were of blood. They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not so
the Host of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. Calmar stood by his
side. Their spears were in their hands. Fingal called his chiefs: they
stood around. The king was in the midst. Grey were his locks, but strong
was the arm of the king. Age withered not his powers. "Sons of Morven,"
said the hero, "to-morrow we meet the foe. But where is Cuthullin, the
shield of Erin? He rests in the halls of Tura; he knows not of our
coming. Who will speed through Lochlin, to the hero, and call the chief
to arms? The path is by the swords of foes; but many are my heroes. They
are thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs! Who will arise?"
"Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed," said dark-haired Orla, "and mine
alone. What is death to me? I love the sleep of the mighty, but little
is the danger. The sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borne
Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards; and lay me by the stream
of Lubar."--"And shalt thou fall alone?" said fair-haired Calmar. "Wilt
thou leave thy friend afar? Chief of Oithona! not feeble is my arm in
fight. Could I see thee die, and not lift the spear? No, Orla! ours has
been the chase of the roebuck, and the feast of shells; ours be the path
of danger: ours has been the cave of Oithona; ours be the narrow
dwelling on the banks of Lubar."--"Calmar," said the chief of Oithona,
"why should thy yellow locks be darkened in the dust of Erin? Let me
fall alone. My father dwells in his hall of air: he will rejoice in his
boy; but the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast for her Son in Morven. She
listens to the steps of the hunter on the heath, and thinks it is the
tread of Calmar. Let her not say, 'Calmar has fallen by the steel of
Lochlin: he died with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark brow.' Why
should tears dim the azure eye of Mora? Why should her voice curse Orla,
the destroyer of Calmar? Live Calmar! Live to raise my stone of moss;
live to revenge me in the blood of Lochlin. Join the song of bards above
my grave. Sweet will be the song of Death to Orla, from the voice of
Calmar. My ghost shall smile on the notes of Praise." "Orla," said the
son of Mora, "could I raise the song of Death to my friend? Could I give
his fame to the winds? No, my heart would speak in sighs: faint and
broken are the sounds of sorrow. Orla! our souls shall hear the song
together. One cloud shall be ours on high: the bards will mingle the
names of Orla and Calmar."
They quit the circle of the Chiefs. Their steps are to the Host of
Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak dim-twinkles through the night. The
northern star points the path to Tura. Swaran, the King, rests on his
lonely hill. Here the troops are mixed: they frown in sleep; their
shields beneath their heads. Their swords gleam, at distance in heaps.
The fires are faint; their embers fail in smoke. All is hushed; but the
gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the Heroes through the
slumbering band. Half the journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his
shield, meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glistens through
the shade. His spear is raised on high. "Why dost thou bend thy brow,
chief of Oithona?" said fair-haired Calmar: "we are in the midst of
foes. Is this a time for delay?" "It is a time for vengeance," said Orla
of the gloomy brow. "Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: seest thou his spear? Its
point is dim with the gore of my father. The blood of Mathon shall reek
on mine: but shall I slay him sleeping, Son of Mora? No! he shall feel
his wound: my fame shall not soar on the blood of slumber. Rise, Mathon,
rise! The Son of Conna calls; thy life is his; rise to combat." Mathon
starts from sleep: but did he rise alone? No: the gathering Chiefs bound
on the plain. "Fly! Calmar, fly!" said dark-haired Orla. "Mathon is
mine. I shall die in joy: but Lochlin crowds around. Fly through the
shade of night." Orla turns. The helm of Mathon is cleft; his shield
falls from his arm: he shudders in his blood. [i] He rolls by the side
of the blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall: his wrath rises: his weapon
glitters on the head of Orla: but a spear pierced his eye. His brain
gushes through the wound, and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll the
waves of the Ocean on two mighty barks of the North, so pour the men of
Lochlin on the Chiefs. As, breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer the
barks of the North, so rise the Chiefs of Morven on the scattered crests
of Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes his
shield; his sons throng around; the people pour along the heath. Ryno
bounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the spear. The
eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is the clang of death!
many are the Widows of Lochlin. Morven prevails in its strength.
Morn glimmers on the hills: no living foe is seen; but the sleepers are
many; grim they lie on Erin. The breeze of Ocean lifts their locks; yet
they do not awake. The hawks scream above their prey.
Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? Bright as the gold
of the stranger, they mingle with the dark hair of his friend. 'Tis
Calmar: he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood.
Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not; but his eye is
still a flame. It glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasped in
Calmar's; but Calmar lives! he lives, though low. "Rise," said the king,
"rise, son of Mora: 'tis mine to heal the wounds of Heroes. Calmar may
yet bound on the hills of Morven." [v]
"Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven with Orla," said the
Hero. "What were the chase to me alone? Who would share the spoils of
battle with Calmar? Orla is at rest! Rough was thy soul, Orla! yet soft
to me as the dew of morn. It glared on others in lightning: to me a
silver beam of night. Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora; let it hang in my
empty hall. It is not pure from blood: but it could not save Orla. Lay
me with my friend: raise the song when I am dark!"
They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four grey stones mark the dwelling
of Orla and Calmar. When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue
waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven:--the bards raised the song.
"What Form rises on the roar of clouds? Whose dark Ghost gleams on the
red streams of tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder. 'Tis Orla, the
brown Chief of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. Peace to thy soul,
Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Calmar! Lovely wast thou, son
of blue-eyed Mora; but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave.
The Ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar!
It dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes of
Morven. Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the arch
of the rainbow, and smile through the tears of the storm. [3]
[Footnote 1: The MS. is preserved at Newstead.]
[Footnote 2: It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though
considerably varied in the catastrophe, is taken from "Nisus and
Euryalus," of which episode a translation is already given in the
present volume [see pp. 151-168].]
[Footnote 3: I fear Laing's late edition has completely overthrown every
hope that Macpherson's 'Ossian' might prove the translation of a series
of poems complete in themselves; but, while the imposture is discovered,
the merit of the work remains undisputed, though not without
faults--particularly, in some parts, turgid and bombastic diction.--The
present humble imitation will be pardoned by the admirers of the
original as an attempt, however inferior, which evinces an attachment to
their favourite author. [Malcolm Laing (1762-1818) published, in 1802, a
'History of Scotland, etc.', with a dissertation "on the supposed
authenticity of Ossian's Poems," and, in 1805, a work entitled 'The
Poems of Ossian, etc., containing the Poetical Works of James
Macpherson, Esq., in Prose and Rhyme, with Notes and Illustrations'.]
[Footnote i:
'Erin's sons--'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote ii:
'The horn of Fingal--'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iii:
'--the fires gleam--'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iv:
'He trembles in his blood. He rolls convulsive.'
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote v:
'--the mountain of Morven.'
['MS. Newstead'.]]
TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ. [i] [1]
"Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico."--HORACE.
Dear LONG, in this sequester'd scene, [ii]
While all around in slumber lie,
The joyous days, which ours have been
Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye;
Thus, if, amidst the gathering storm,
While clouds the darken'd noon deform,
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow,
I hail the sky's celestial bow,
Which spreads the sign of future peace,
And bids the war of tempests cease.
Ah! though the present brings but pain,
I think those days may come again;
Or if, in melancholy mood,
Some lurking envious fear intrude, [iii]
To check my bosom's fondest thought,
And interrupt the golden dream,
I crush the fiend with malice fraught,
And, still, indulge my wonted theme.
Although we ne'er again can trace,
In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore,
Nor through the groves of Ida chase
Our raptured visions, as before;
Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion,
And Manhood claims his stern dominion,
Age will not every hope destroy,
But yield some hours of sober joy.
Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing
Will shed around some dews of spring:
But, if his scythe must sweep the flowers
Which bloom among the fairy bowers,
Where smiling Youth delights to dwell,
And hearts with early rapture swell;
If frowning Age, with cold controul,
Confines the current of the soul,
Congeals the tear of Pity's eye,
Or checks the sympathetic sigh,
Or hears, unmov'd, Misfortune's groan
And bids me feel for self alone;
Oh! may my bosom never learn
To soothe its wonted heedless flow; [iv]
Still, still, despise the censor stern,
But ne'er forget another's woe.
Yes, as you knew me in the days,
O'er which Remembrance yet delays, [v]
Still may I rove untutor'd, wild,
And even in age, at heart a child. [vi]
Though, now, on airy visions borne,
To you my soul is still the same.
Oft has it been my fate to mourn, [vii]
And all my former joys are tame:
But, hence! ye hours of sable hue!
Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er:
By every bliss my childhood knew,
I'll think upon your shade no more.
Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past,
And caves their sullen roar enclose [viii]
We heed no more the wintry blast,
When lull'd by zephyr to repose.
Full often has my infant Muse,
Attun'd to love her languid lyre;
But, now, without a theme to choose,
The strains in stolen sighs expire.
My youthful nymphs, alas! are flown; [ix]
E----is a wife, and C----a mother,
And Carolina sighs alone,
And Mary's given to another;
And Cora's eye, which roll'd on me,
Can now no more my love recall--
In truth, dear LONG, 'twas time to flee--[x]
For Cora's eye will shine on all.
And though the Sun, with genial rays,
His beams alike to all displays,
And every lady's eye's a _sun_,
These last should be confin'd to one.
The soul's meridian don't become her, [xi]
Whose Sun displays a general _summer_!
Thus faint is every former flame,
And Passion's self is now a name; [xii] [xiii]
As, when the ebbing flames are low,
The aid which once improv'd their light,
And bade them burn with fiercer glow,
Now quenches all their sparks in night;
Thus has it been with Passion's fires,
As many a boy and girl remembers,
While all the force of love expires,
Extinguish'd with the dying embers.
But now, dear LONG, 'tis midnight's noon,
And clouds obscure the watery moon,
Whose beauties I shall not rehearse,
Describ'd in every stripling's verse;
For why should I the path go o'er
Which every bard has trod before? [xiv]
Yet ere yon silver lamp of night
Has thrice perform'd her stated round,
Has thrice retrac'd her path of light,
And chas'd away the gloom profound,
I trust, that we, my gentle Friend,
Shall see her rolling orbit wend,
Above the dear-lov'd peaceful seat,
Which once contain'd our youth's retreat;
And, then, with those our childhood knew,
We'll mingle in the festive crew;
While many a tale of former day
Shall wing the laughing hours away;
And all the flow of souls shall pour
The sacred intellectual shower,
Nor cease, till Luna's waning horn,
Scarce glimmers through the mist of Morn.
[Footnote 1: The MS. of these verses is at Newstead. Long was with Byron
at Harrow, and was the only one of his intimate friends who went up at
the same time as he did to Cambridge, where both were noted for feats of
swimming and diving. Long entered the Guards, and served in the
expedition to Copenhagen. He was drowned early in 1809, when on his way
to join the army in the Peninsula; the transport in which he sailed
being run down in the night by another of the convoy. "Long's father,"
says Byron, "wrote to me to write his son's epitaph. I promised--but I
had not the heart to complete it. He was such a good, amiable being as
rarely remains long in this world; with talent and accomplishments, too,
to make him the more regretted."--'Diary', 1821; 'Life', p. 32. See also
memorandum ('Life', p. 31, col. ii.).]
[Footnote i:
'To E. N. L. Esq.'
['Hours of Idleness. Poems O. and T.'] ]
[Footnote ii:
'Dear L----.'
['Hours of Idleness. Poems O. and T.'] ]
[Footnote iii:
'Some daring envious.'
['MS. Newstead.'] ]
[Footnote iv:
'its young romantic flow.'
['MS. Newstead.'] ]
[Footnote v:
'O'er which my fancy'--.
['MS. Newstead.'] ]
[Footnote vi:
'Still may my breast to boyhood cleave,
With every early passion heave;
Still may I rove untutored, wild,
But never cease to seem a child.'--
['MS. Newstead.'] ]
[Footnote vii:
'Since we have met, I learnt to mourn.'
['MS. Newstead.'] ]
[Footnote viii:
'And caves their sullen war'--.
['MS. Newstead.'] ]
[Footnote ix:
'--thank Heaven are flown'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote x:
'In truth dear L----'.
['Hours of Idleness. Poems O. and T.] ]
[Footnote xi:
'The glances really don't become her'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xii:
'No more I linger on its name'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xiii:
'And passion's self is but a name'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xiv:
'And what's much worse than this I find
Have left their deepen'd tracks behind
Yet as yon'------.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
TO A LADY. [i]
1.
Oh! had my Fate been join'd with thine, [1]
As once this pledge appear'd a token,
These follies had not, then, been mine,
For, then, my peace had not been broken.
2.
To thee, these early faults I owe,
To thee, the wise and old reproving:
They know my sins, but do not know
'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving.
3.
For once my soul, like thine, was pure,
And all its rising fires could smother;
But, now, thy vows no more endure,
Bestow'd by thee upon another. [1]
4.
Perhaps, his peace I could destroy,
And spoil the blisses that await him;
Yet let my Rival smile in joy,
For thy dear sake, I cannot hate him.
5.
Ah! since thy angel form is gone,
My heart no more can rest with any;
But what it sought in thee alone,
Attempts, alas! to find in many.
6.
Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid!
'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee;
Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid,
But Pride may teach me to forget thee.
7.
Yet all this giddy waste of years,
This tiresome round of palling pleasures;
These varied loves, these matrons' fears,
These thoughtless strains to Passion's measures--
8.
If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd:--
This cheek, now pale from early riot,
With Passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd,
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet.
9.
Yes, once the rural Scene was sweet,
For Nature seem'd to smile before thee;
And once my Breast abhorr'd deceit,--
For then it beat but to adore thee.
10.
But, now, I seek for other joys--
To think, would drive my soul to madness;
In thoughtless throngs, and empty noise,
I conquer half my Bosom's sadness.
11.
Yet, even in these, a thought will steal,
In spite of every vain endeavour;
And fiends might pity what I feel--
To know that thou art lost for ever.
[Footnote 1: These verses were addressed to Mrs. Chaworth Musters.
Byron wrote in 1822,
"Our meetings were stolen ones. ... A gate leading from Mr. Chaworth's
grounds to those of my mother was the place of our interviews. The
ardour was all on my side. I was serious; she was volatile: she liked
me as a younger brother, and treated and laughed at me as a boy; she,
however, gave me her picture, and that was something to make verses
upon. Had I married her, perhaps, the whole tenour of my life would
have been different."
Medwin's 'Conversations', 1824, p. 81.]
[Footnote i:
_To------._
['Hours of Idleness. Poems O. and T.']]
* * * * * * * * *
POEMS ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED
WHEN I ROVED A YOUNG HIGHLANDER. [i]
1.
When I rov'd a young Highlander o'er the dark heath,
And climb'd thy steep summit, oh Morven of snow! [1]
To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath,
Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below; [2]
Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear,
And rude as the rocks, where my infancy grew,
No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear;
Need I say, my sweet Mary, [3] 'twas centred in you?
2.
Yet it could not be Love, for I knew not the name,--
What passion can dwell in the heart of a child?
But, still, I perceive an emotion the same
As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild:
One image, alone, on my bosom impress'd,
I lov'd my bleak regions, nor panted for new;
And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd,
And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you.
3.
I arose with the dawn, with my dog as my guide,
From mountain to mountain I bounded along;
I breasted [4] the billows of Dee's [5] rushing tide,
And heard at a distance the Highlander's song:
At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose.
No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view;
And warm to the skies my devotions arose,
For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you.
4.
I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone;
The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no more;
As the last of my race, I must wither alone,
And delight but in days, I have witness'd before:
Ah! splendour has rais'd, but embitter'd my lot;
More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew:
Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not
forgot,
Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you.
5.
When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky,
I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen; [6]
When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye,
I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene;
When, haply, some light-waving locks I behold,
That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue,
I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold,
The locks that were sacred to beauty, and you.
6.
Yet the day may arrive, when the mountains once more
Shall rise to my sight, in their mantles of snow;
But while these soar above me, unchang'd as before,
Will Mary be there to receive me?--ah, no!
Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred!
Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu!
No home in the forest shall shelter my head,--
Ah! Mary, what home could be mine, but with you?
[Footnote 1: Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire. "Gormal of snow"
is an expression frequently to be found in Ossian.]
[Footnote 2: This will not appear extraordinary to those who have been
accustomed to the mountains. It is by no means uncommon, on attaining
the top of Ben-e-vis, Ben-y-bourd, etc., to perceive, between the summit
and the valley, clouds pouring down rain, and occasionally accompanied
by lightning, while the spectator literally looks down upon the storm,
perfectly secure from its effects.]
[Footnote 3: Byron, in early youth, was "unco' wastefu'" of Marys.
There was his distant cousin, Mary Duff (afterwards Mrs. Robert
Cockburn), who lived not far from the "Plain-Stanes" at Aberdeen. Her
"brown, dark hair, and hazel eyes--her very dress," were long years
after "a perfect image" in his memory (_Life_, p. 9). Secondly, there
was the Mary of these stanzas, "with long-flowing ringlets of gold," the
"Highland Mary" of local tradition. She was (writes the Rev. J. Michie,
of The Manse, Dinnet) the daughter of James Robertson, of the farmhouse
of Ballatrich on Deeside, where Byron used to spend his summer holidays
(1796-98). She was of gentle birth, and through her mother, the daughter
of Captain Macdonald of Rineton, traced her descent to the Lord of the
Isles. "She died at Aberdeen, March 2, 1867, aged eighty-five years." A
third Mary (see "Lines to Mary," etc., p. 32) flits through the early
poems, evanescent but unspiritual. Last of all, there was Mary Anne
Chaworth, of Annesley (see "A Fragment," etc., p. 210; "The Adieu," st.
6, p. 239, etc.), whose marriage, in 1805, "threw him out again--alone
on a wide, wide sea" (Life, p. 85).]
[Footnote 4: "Breasting the lofty surge" (Shakespeare).]
[Footnote 5: The Dee is a beautiful river, which rises near Mar Lodge,
and falls into the sea at New Aberdeen.]
[Footnote 6: Colbleen is a mountain near the verge of the Highlands, not
far from the ruins of Dee Castle.]
[Footnote i:
_Song_.
[_Poems O. and T._]]
TO THE DUKE OF DORSET. [i] [1]
Dorset! whose early steps with mine have stray'd, [ii]
Exploring every path of Ida's glade;
Whom, still, affection taught me to defend,
And made me less a tyrant than a friend,
Though the harsh custom of our youthful band
Bade _thee_ obey, and gave _me_ to command; [2]
Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower
The gift of riches, and the pride of power;
E'en now a name illustrious is thine own,
Renown'd in rank, not far beneath the throne. 10
Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul [iii]
To shun fair science, or evade controul;
Though passive tutors, [3] fearful to dispraise
The titled child, whose future breath may raise,
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes,
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise.
When youthful parasites, who bend the knee
To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee,--
And even in simple boyhood's opening dawn
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn,-- 20
When these declare, "that pomp alone should wait
On one by birth predestin'd to be great;
That books were only meant for drudging fools,
That gallant spirits scorn the common rules;"
Believe them not,--they point the path to shame,
And seek to blast the honours of thy name:
Turn to the few in Ida's early throng,
Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong;
Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth,
None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth, 30
Ask thine own heart--'twill bid thee, boy, forbear!
For _well_ I know that virtue lingers there.
Yes! I have mark'd thee many a passing day,
But now new scenes invite me far away;
Yes! I have mark'd within that generous mind
A soul, if well matur'd, to bless mankind;
Ah! though myself, by nature haughty, wild,
Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child;
Though every error stamps me for her own,
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone; 40
Though my proud heart no precept, now, can tame,
I love the virtues which I cannot claim.
'Tis not enough, with other sons of power,
To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour;
To swell some peerage page in feeble pride,
With long-drawn names that grace no page beside;
Then share with titled crowds the common lot--
In life just gaz'd at, in the grave forgot;
While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead,
Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head, 50
The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the Herald's roll,
That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll,
Where Lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb may find
One spot, to leave a worthless name behind.
There sleep, unnotic'd as the gloomy vaults
That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults,
A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread,
In records destin'd never to be read.
Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes,
Exalted more among the good and wise; 60
A glorious and a long career pursue,
As first in Rank, the first in Talent too:
Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun;
Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son.
Turn to the annals of a former day;
Bright are the deeds thine earlier Sires display;
One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth,
And call'd, proud boast! the British drama forth. [4]
Another view! not less renown'd for Wit;
Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit; 70
Bold in the field, and favour'd by the Nine;
In every splendid part ordain'd to shine;
Far, far distinguished from the glittering throng,
The pride of Princes, and the boast of Song. [5]
Such were thy Fathers; thus preserve their name,
Not heir to titles only, but to Fame.
The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close,
To me, this little scene of joys and woes;
Each knell of Time now warns me to resign
Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all were mine: 80
Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue,
And gild their pinions, as the moments flew;
Peace, that reflection never frown'd away,
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day;
Friendship, whose truth let Childhood only tell;
Alas! they love not long, who love so well.
To these adieu! nor let me linger o'er
Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore,
Receding slowly, through the dark-blue deep,
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep. 90
Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part [iv]
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart;
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind.
And, yet, perhaps, in some maturer year,
Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere,
Since the same senate, nay, the same debate,
May one day claim our suffrage for the state,
We hence may meet, and pass each other by
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye. 100
For me, in future, neither friend nor foe,
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe--
With thee no more again I hope to trace
The recollection of our early race;
No more, as once, in social hours rejoice,
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice;
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught
To veil those feelings, which, perchance, it ought,
If these,--but let me cease the lengthen'd strain,--
Oh! if these wishes are not breath'd in vain, 110
The Guardian Seraph who directs thy fate
Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great.
1805.
[Footnote 1: In looking over my papers to select a few additional poems
for this second edition, I found the above lines, which I had totally
forgotten, composed in the summer of 1805, a short time previous to my
departure from H[arrow]. They were addressed to a young schoolfellow of
high rank, who had been my frequent companion in some rambles through
the neighbouring country: however, he never saw the lines, and most
probably never will. As, on a re-perusal, I found them not worse than
some other pieces in the collection, I have now published them, for the
first time, after a slight revision. [The foregoing note was prefixed to
the poem in 'Poems O. and T'. George John Frederick, 4th Duke of Dorset,
born 1793, was killed by a fall from his horse when hunting, in 1815,
while on a visit to his step-father the Earl of Whitworth,
Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland. (See Byron's letter to Moore, Feb. 22,
1815).]]
[Footnote 2: At every public school the junior boys are completely
subservient to the upper forms till they attain a seat in the higher
classes. From this state of probation, very properly, no rank is exempt;
but after a certain period, they command in turn those who succeed.]
[Footnote 3: Allow me to disclaim any personal allusions, even the most
distant. I merely mention generally what is too often the weakness of
preceptors.]
[Footnote 4: "Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, was born in 1527. While
a student of the Inner Temple, he wrote his tragedy of 'Gorboduc', which
was played before Queen Elizabeth at Whitehall, in 1561. This tragedy,
and his contribution of the Induction and legend of the Duke of
Buckingham to the 'Mirrour for Magistraytes', compose the poetical
history of Sackville. The rest of it was political. In 1604, he was
created Earl of Dorset by James I. He died suddenly at the
council-table, in consequence of a dropsy on the brain."--'Specimens of
the British Poets', by Thomas Campbell, London, 1819, ii. 134, 'sq'.]
[Footnote 5: Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset [1637-1706], esteemed the
most accomplished man of his day, was alike distinguished in the
voluptuous court of Charles II. and the gloomy one of William III. He
behaved with great gallantry in the sea-fight with the Dutch in 1665; on
the day previous to which he composed his celebrated song ["'To all you
Ladies now at Land'"]. His character has been drawn in the highest
colours by Dryden, Pope, Prior, and Congreve. 'Vide' Anderson's 'British
Poets', 1793, vi. 107, 108.]
[Footnote i:
'To the Duke of D-----'.
['Poems O. and T.']]
[Footnote ii:
'D-r-t'-----.
['Poems O. and T.']]
[Footnote iii:
Yet D-r-t-----.
['Poems O. and T.']
[Footnote iv:
'D--r--t farewell.'
['Poems O. and T.']]
TO THE EARL OF CLARE. [i]
Tu semper amoris
Sis memor, et cari comitis ne abscedat imago.
VAL. FLAC. 'Argonaut', iv. 36.
1.
Friend of my youth! when young we rov'd,
Like striplings, mutually belov'd,
With Friendship's purest glow;
The bliss, which wing'd those rosy hours,
Was such as Pleasure seldom showers
On mortals here below.
2.
The recollection seems, alone,
Dearer than all the joys I've known,
When distant far from you:
Though pain, 'tis still a pleasing pain,
To trace those days and hours again,
And sigh again, adieu!
3.
My pensive mem'ry lingers o'er,
Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more,
Those scenes regretted ever;
The measure of our youth is full,
Life's evening dream is dark and dull,
And we may meet--ah! never!
4.
As when one parent spring supplies
Two streams, which from one fountain rise,
Together join'd in vain;
How soon, diverging from their source,
Each, murmuring, seeks another course,
Till mingled in the Main!
5.
Our vital streams of weal or woe,
Though near, alas! distinctly flow,
Nor mingle as before:
Now swift or slow, now black or clear,
Till Death's unfathom'd gulph appear,
And both shall quit the shore.
6.
Our souls, my Friend! which once supplied
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside,
Now flow in different channels:
Disdaining humbler rural sports,
'Tis yours to mix in polish'd courts,
And shine in Fashion's annals;
7.
'Tis mine to waste on love my time,
Or vent my reveries in rhyme,
Without the aid of Reason;
For Sense and Reason (critics know it)
Have quitted every amorous Poet,
Nor left a thought to seize on.
8.
Poor LITTLE! sweet, melodious bard!
Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard
That he, who sang before all;
He who the lore of love expanded,
By dire Reviewers should be branded,
As void of wit and moral. [1]
9.
And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine,
Harmonious favourite of the Nine!
Repine not at thy lot.
Thy soothing lays may still be read,
When Persecution's arm is dead,
And critics are forgot.
10.
Still I must yield those worthies merit
Who chasten, with unsparing spirit,
Bad rhymes, and those who write them:
And though myself may be the next
By critic sarcasm to be vext,
I really will not fight them. [2]
11.
Perhaps they would do quite as well
To break the rudely sounding shell
Of such a young beginner:
He who offends at pert nineteen,
Ere thirty may become, I ween,
A very harden'd sinner.
12.
Now, Clare, I must return to you; [ii]
And, sure, apologies are due:
Accept, then, my concession.
In truth, dear Clare, in Fancy's flight [iii]
I soar along from left to right;
My Muse admires digression.
13.
I think I said 'twould be your fate
To add one star to royal state;--
May regal smiles attend you!
And should a noble Monarch reign,
You will not seek his smiles in vain,
If worth can recommend you.
14.
Yet since in danger courts abound,
Where specious rivals glitter round,
From snares may Saints preserve you;
And grant your love or friendship ne'er
From any claim a kindred care,
But those who best deserve you!
15.
Not for a moment may you stray
From Truth's secure, unerring way!
May no delights decoy!
O'er roses may your footsteps move,
Your smiles be ever smiles of love,
Your tears be tears of joy!
16.
Oh! if you wish that happiness
Your coming days and years may bless,
And virtues crown your brow;
Be still as you were wont to be,
Spotless as you've been known to me,--
Be still as you are now. [3]
17.
And though some trifling share of praise,
To cheer my last declining days,
To me were doubly dear;
Whilst blessing your beloved name,
I'd _waive_ at once a _Poet's_ fame,
To _prove_ a _Prophet_ here.
1807.
[Footnote 1: These stanzas were written soon after the appearance of a
severe critique in a northern review, on a new publication of the
British Anacreon. (Byron refers to the article in the 'Edinburgh
Review', of July, 1807, on "'Epistles, Odes, and other Poems', by Thomas
Little, Esq.")]
[Footnote 2: A bard [Moore] ('Horresco referens') defied his reviewer
[Jeffrey] to mortal combat. If this example becomes prevalent, our
Periodical Censors must be dipped in the river Styx: for what else can
secure them from the numerous host of their enraged assailants? [Cf.
'English Bards', l. 466, 'note'.]]
[Footnote 3:
"Of all I have ever known, Clare has always been the least altered in
everything from the excellent qualities and kind affections which
attached me to him so strongly at school. I should hardly have thought
it possible for society (or the world, as it is called) to leave a
being with so little of the leaven of bad passions. I do not speak
from personal experience only, but from all I have ever heard of him
from others, during absence and distance."
'Detached Thoughts', Nov. 5, 1821; 'Life', p. 540.]
[Footnote i:
'To the Earl of-----'.
['Poems O. and T.']]
[Footnote ii:
'Now----I must'.
['Poems O. and T.']]
[Footnote iii:
'In truth dear----in fancy's flight'.
['Poems O. and T.']]
I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD. [i]
1
I would I were a careless child,
Still dwelling in my Highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,
Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave;
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon [1] pride,
Accords not with the freeborn soul,
Which loves the mountain's craggy side,
And seeks the rocks where billows roll.
2.
Fortune! take back these cultur'd lands,
Take back this name of splendid sound!
I hate the touch of servile hands,
I hate the slaves that cringe around:
Place me among the rocks I love,
Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar;
I ask but this--again to rove
Through scenes my youth hath known before.
3.
Few are my years, and yet I feel
The World was ne'er design'd for me:
Ah! why do dark'ning shades conceal
The hour when man must cease to be?
Once I beheld a splendid dream,
A visionary scene of bliss:
Truth!--wherefore did thy hated beam
Awake me to a world like this?
4.
I lov'd--but those I lov'd are gone;
Had friends--my early friends are fled:
How cheerless feels the heart alone,
When all its former hopes are dead!
Though gay companions, o'er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though Pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
The heart--the heart--is lonely still.
5.
How dull! to hear the voice of those
Whom Rank or Chance, whom Wealth or Power,
Have made, though neither friends nor foes,
Associates of the festive hour.
Give me again a faithful few,
In years and feelings still the same,
And I will fly the midnight crew,
Where boist'rous Joy is but a name.
6.
And Woman, lovely Woman! thou,
My hope, my comforter, my all!
How cold must be my bosom now,
When e'en thy smiles begin to pall!
Without a sigh would I resign,
This busy scene of splendid Woe,
To make that calm contentment mine,
Which Virtue knows, or seems to know.
7.
Fain would I fly the haunts of men [2]--
I seek to shun, not hate mankind;
My breast requires the sullen glen,
Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind.
Oh! that to me the wings were given,
Which bear the turtle to her nest!
Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven,
To flee away, and be at rest. [3]
[Footnote 1: Sassenach, or Saxon, a Gaelic word, signifying either
Lowland or English.]
[Footnote 2: Shyness was a family characteristic of the Byrons.
The poet continued in later years to have a horror of being
observed by unaccustomed eyes, and in the country would,
if possible, avoid meeting strangers on the road.]
[Footnote 3:
"And I said, O that I had wings like a dove, for then would I fly
away, and be at rest."
(Psalm iv. 6.) This verse also constitutes a part of the most beautiful
anthem in our language.]
[Footnote i:
'Stanzas'.
['Poems O. and T.']]
LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE
CHURCHYARD OF HARROW. [1] [i]
Spot of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh,
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky;
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod,
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod;
With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore,
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before:
Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill,
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still,
Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay,
And frequent mus'd the twilight hours away;
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline,
But, ah! without the thoughts which then were mine:
How do thy branches, moaning to the blast,
Invite the bosom to recall the past,
And seem to whisper, as they gently swell,
"Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell!"
When Fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd breast,
And calm its cares and passions into rest,
Oft have I thought, 'twould soothe my dying hour,--
If aught may soothe, when Life resigns her power,--
To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell,
Would hide my bosom where it lov'd to dwell;
With this fond dream, methinks 'twere sweet to die--
And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie;
Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose,
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose;
For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade,
Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd;
Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I lov'd,
Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps mov'd;
Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear,
Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here;
Deplor'd by those in early days allied,
And unremember'd by the world beside.
September 2, 1807.
[Footnote 1: On the death of his daughter, Allegra, in April, 1822,
Byron sent her remains to be buried at Harrow, "where," he says, in a
letter to Murray, "I once hoped to have laid my own." "There is," he
wrote, May 26, "a spot in the church'yard', near the footpath, on the
brow of the hill looking towards Windsor, and a tomb under a large tree
(bearing the name of Peachie, or Peachey), where I used to sit for hours
and hours when a boy. This was my favourite spot; but as I wish to erect
a tablet to her memory, the body had better be deposited in the
'church'." No tablet was, however, erected, and Allegra sleeps in her
unmarked grave inside the church, a few feet to the right of the
entrance.]
[Footnote i:
'Lines written beneath an Elm
In the Churchyard of Harrow on the Hill
September 2, 1807'.
['Poems O. and T.']]
FRAGMENT.
WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE MARRIAGE OF MISS CHAWORTH. [1]
First published in
Moore's 'Letters and Journals of Lord Byron', 1830, i. 56
1.
Hills of Annesley, Bleak and Barren,
Where my thoughtless Childhood stray'd,
How the northern Tempests, warring,
Howl above thy tufted Shade!
2.
Now no more, the Hours beguiling,
Former favourite Haunts I see;
Now no more my Mary smiling,
Makes ye seem a Heaven to Me.
1805.
[Footnote 1: Miss Chaworth was married to John Musters, Esq., in August,
1805. The stanzas were first published in Moore's _Letters and Journals
of Lord Byron_, 1830, i. 56. (See, too, _The Dream_, st. ii. 1. 9.) The
original MS. (which is in the possession of Mrs. Chaworth Musters)
formerly belonged to Miss E. B. Pigot, according to whom they "were
written by Lord Byron in 1804." "We were reading Burns' _Farewell to
Ayrshire_--
Scenes of woe and Scenes of pleasure
Scenes that former thoughts renew
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure
Now a sad and last adieu, etc.
when he said, 'I like that metre; let me try it,' and taking up a
pencil, wrote those on the other side in an instant. I read them to
Moore, and at his particular request I copied them for him."-E. B.
Pigot, 1859.
On the fly-leaf of the same volume (_Poetry of Robert Burns_, vol. iv.
Third Edition, 1802), containing the _Farewell to Ayrshire_, Byron wrote
in pencil the two stanzas "Oh! little lock of golden hue," in 1806
(_vide post_, p. 233).
It may be noted that the verses quoted, though included until recently
among his poems, were not written by Burns, but by Richard Gall, who
died in 1801, aged 25.]
REMEMBRANCE.
'Tis done!--I saw it in my dreams:
No more with Hope the future beams;
My days of happiness are few:
Chill'd by Misfortune's wintry blast,
My dawn of Life is overcast;
Love, Hope, and Joy, alike adieu!
Would I could add Remembrance too!
1806. [First published, 1832.]
TO A LADY
WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITH THE VELVET BAND WHICH BOUND HER TRESSES.
1.
This Band, which bound thy yellow hair
Is mine, sweet girl! thy pledge of love;
It claims my warmest, dearest care,
Like relics left of saints above.
2.
Oh! I will wear it next my heart;
'Twill bind my soul in bonds to thee:
From me again 'twill ne'er depart,
But mingle in the grave with me.
3.
The dew I gather from thy lip
Is not so dear to me as this;
_That_ I but for a moment sip,
And banquet on a transient bliss: [i]
4.
_This_ will recall each youthful scene,
E'en when our lives are on the wane;
The leaves of Love will still be green
When Memory bids them bud again.
1806. [First published, 1832.]
[Footnote i:
_on a transient kiss._
['MS. Newstead'.]
TO A KNOT OF UNGENEROUS CRITICS. [1]
Rail on, Rail on, ye heartless crew!
My strains were never meant for you;
Remorseless Rancour still reveal,
And damn the verse you cannot feel.
Invoke those kindred passions' aid,
Whose baleful stings your breasts pervade;
Crush, if you can, the hopes of youth,
Trampling regardless on the Truth:
Truth's Records you consult in vain,
She will not blast her native strain;
She will assist her votary's cause,
His will at least be her applause,
Your prayer the gentle Power will spurn;
To Fiction's motley altar turn,
Who joyful in the fond address
Her favoured worshippers will bless:
And lo! she holds a magic glass,
Where Images reflected pass,
Bent on your knees the Boon receive--
This will assist you to deceive--
The glittering gift was made for you,
Now hold it up to public view;
Lest evil unforeseen betide,
A Mask each canker'd brow shall hide,
(Whilst Truth my sole desire is nigh,
Prepared the danger to defy,)
"There is the Maid's perverted name,
And there the Poet's guilty Flame,
Gloaming a deep phosphoric fire,
Threatening--but ere it spreads, retire.
Says Truth Up Virgins, do not fear!
The Comet rolls its Influence here;
'Tis Scandal's Mirror you perceive,
These dazzling Meteors but deceive--
Approach and touch--Nay do not turn
It blazes there, but will not burn."--
At once the shivering Mirror flies,
Teeming no more with varnished Lies;
The baffled friends of Fiction start,
Too late desiring to depart--
Truth poising high Ithuriel's spear
Bids every Fiend unmask'd appear,
The vizard tears from every face,
And dooms them to a dire disgrace.
For e'er they compass their escape,
Each takes perforce a native shape--
The Leader of the wrathful Band,
Behold a portly Female stand!
She raves, impelled by private pique,
This mean unjust revenge to seek;
From vice to save this virtuous Age,
Thus does she vent indecent rage!
What child has she of promise fair,
Who claims a fostering Mother's care?
Whose Innocence requires defence,
Or forms at least a smooth pretence,
Thus to disturb a harmless Boy,
His humble hope, and peace annoy?
She need not fear the amorous rhyme,
Love will not tempt her future time,
For her his wings have ceased to spread,
No more he flutters round her head;
Her day's Meridian now is past,
The clouds of Age her Sun o'ercast;
To her the strain was never sent,
For feeling Souls alone 'twas meant--
The verse she seized, unask'd, unbade,
And damn'd, ere yet the whole was read!
Yes! for one single erring verse,
Pronounced an unrelenting Curse;
Yes! at a first and transient view,
Condemned a heart she never knew.--
Can such a verdict then decide,
Which springs from disappointed pride?
Without a wondrous share of Wit,
To judge is such a Matron fit?
The rest of the censorious throng
Who to this zealous Band belong,
To her a general homage pay,
And right or wrong her wish obey:
Why should I point my pen of steel
To break "such flies upon the wheel?"
With minds to Truth and Sense unknown,
Who dare not call their words their own.
Rail on, Rail on, ye heartless Crew!
Your Leader's grand design pursue:
Secure behind her ample shield,
Yours is the harvest of the field.--
My path with thorns you cannot strew,
Nay more, my warmest thanks are due;
When such as you revile my Name,
Bright beams the rising Sun of Fame,
Chasing the shades of envious night,
Outshining every critic Light.--
Such, such as you will serve to show
Each radiant tint with higher glow.
Vain is the feeble cheerless toil,
Your efforts on yourselves recoil;
Then Glory still for me you raise,
Yours is the Censure, mine the Praise.
BYRON,
December 1, 1806.
[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time
printed.
There can be little doubt that these verses were called forth by the
criticisms passed on the "Fugitive Pieces" by certain ladies of
Southwell, concerning whom, Byron wrote to Mr. Pigot (Jan. 13, 1807), on
sending him an early copy of the 'Poems',
"That 'unlucky' poem to my poor Mary has been the cause of some
animadversion from 'ladies in years'. I have not printed it in this
collection in consequence of my being pronounced a most 'profligate
sinner', in short a ''young Moore''"
'Life', p. 41.]
SOLILOQUY OF A BARD IN THE COUNTRY. [1]
'Twas now the noon of night, and all was still,
Except a hapless Rhymer and his quill.
In vain he calls each Muse in order down,
Like other females, these will sometimes frown;
He frets, be fumes, and ceasing to invoke
The Nine, in anguish'd accents thus he spoke:
Ah what avails it thus to waste my time,
To roll in Epic, or to rave in Rhyme?
What worth is some few partial readers' praise.
If ancient Virgins croaking 'censures' raise?
Where few attend, 'tis useless to indite;
Where few can read, 'tis folly sure to write;
Where none but girls and striplings dare admire,
And Critics rise in every country Squire--
But yet this last my candid Muse admits,
When Peers are Poets, Squires may well be Wits;
When schoolboys vent their amorous flames in verse,
Matrons may sure their characters asperse;
And if a little parson joins the train,
And echos back his Patron's voice again--
Though not delighted, yet I must forgive,
Parsons as well as other folks must live:--
From rage he rails not, rather say from dread,
He does not speak for Virtue, but for bread;
And this we know is in his Patron's giving,
For Parsons cannot eat without a 'Living'.
The Matron knows I love the Sex too well,
Even unprovoked aggression to repel.
What though from private pique her anger grew,
And bade her blast a heart she never knew?
What though, she said, for one light heedless line,
That Wilmot's [2] verse was far more pure than mine!
In wars like these, I neither fight nor fly,
When 'dames' accuse 'tis bootless to deny;
Her's be the harvest of the martial field,
I can't attack, where Beauty forms the shield.
But when a pert Physician loudly cries,
Who hunts for scandal, and who lives by lies,
A walking register of daily news,
Train'd to invent, and skilful to abuse--
For arts like these at bounteous tables fed,
When S----condemns a book he never read.
Declaring with a coxcomb's native air,
The 'moral's' shocking, though the 'rhymes' are fair.
Ah! must he rise unpunish'd from the feast,
Nor lash'd by vengeance into truth at least?
Such lenity were more than Man's indeed!
Those who condemn, should surely deign to read.
Yet must I spare--nor thus my pen degrade,
I quite forgot that scandal was his trade.
For food and raiment thus the coxcomb rails,
For those who fear his physic, like his _tales_.
Why should his harmless censure seem offence?
Still let him eat, although at my expense,
And join the herd to Sense and Truth unknown,
Who dare not call their very thoughts their own,
And share with these applause, a godlike bribe,
In short, do anything, except _prescribe_:--
For though in garb of Galen he appears,
His practice is not equal to his years.
Without improvement since he first began,
A young Physician, though an ancient Man--
Now let me cease--Physician, Parson, Dame,
Still urge your task, and if you can, defame.
The humble offerings of my Muse destroy,
And crush, oh! noble conquest! crush a Boy.
What though some silly girls have lov'd the strain,
And kindly bade me tune my Lyre again;
What though some feeling, or some partial few,
Nay, Men of Taste and Reputation too,
Have deign'd to praise the firstlings of my Muse--
If _you_ your sanction to the theme refuse,
If _you_ your great protection still withdraw,
Whose Praise is Glory, and whose Voice is law!
Soon must I fall an unresisting foe,
A hapless victim yielding to the blow.--
Thus Pope by Curl and Dennis was destroyed,
Thus Gray and Mason yield to furious Lloyd; [3]
From Dryden, Milbourne [4] tears the palm away,
And thus I fall, though meaner far than they.
As in the field of combat, side by side,
A Fabius and some noble Roman died.
Dec. 1806.
[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time
printed.]
[Footnote 2: John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (1647-1680). His 'Poems'
were published in the year of his death.]
[Footnote 3: Robert Lloyd (1733-1764). The following lines occur in the
first of two odes to 'Obscurity and Oblivion'--parodies of the odes of
Gray and Mason:--
"Heard ye the din of modern rhymers bray?
It was cool M----n and warm G----y,
Involv'd in tenfold smoke."]
[Footnote 4: The Rev. Luke Milbourne (died 1720) published, in 1698, his
'Notes on Dryden's Virgil', containing a venomous attack on Dryden. They
are alluded to in 'The Dunciad', and also by Dr. Johnson, who wrote
('Life of Dryden'),
"His outrages seem to be the ebullitions of a mind agitated by
stronger resentment than bad poetry can excite."]
L'AMITIÉ, EST L'AMOUR SANS AILES. [1]
1.
Why should my anxious breast repine,
Because my youth is fled?
Days of delight may still be mine;
Affection is not dead.
In tracing back the years of youth,
One firm record, one lasting truth
Celestial consolation brings;
Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat,
Where first my heart responsive beat,--
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"
2
Through few, but deeply chequer'd years,
What moments have been mine!
Now half obscured by clouds of tears,
Now bright in rays divine;
Howe'er my future doom be cast,
My soul, enraptured with the past,
To one idea fondly clings;
Friendship! that thought is all thine own,
Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone--
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"
3
Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave
Their branches on the gale,
Unheeded heaves a simple grave,
Which tells the common tale;
Round this unconscious schoolboys stray,
Till the dull knell of childish play
From yonder studious mansion rings;
But here, whene'er my footsteps move,
My silent tears too plainly prove,
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"
4
Oh, Love! before thy glowing shrine,
My early vows were paid;
My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine,
But these are now decay'd;
For thine are pinions like the wind,
No trace of thee remains behind,
Except, alas! thy jealous stings.
Away, away! delusive power,
Thou shall not haunt my coming hour;
Unless, indeed, without thy wings.
5
Seat of my youth! [2] thy distant spire
Recalls each scene of joy;
My bosom glows with former fire,--
In mind again a boy.
Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill,
Thy every path delights me still,
Each flower a double fragrance flings;
Again, as once, in converse gay,
Each dear associate seems to say,
"Friendship is Love without his wings!'
6.
My Lycus! [3] wherefore dost thou weep?
Thy falling tears restrain;
Affection for a time may sleep,
But, oh, 'twill wake again.
Think, think, my friend, when next we meet,
Our long-wished interview, how sweet!
From this my hope of rapture springs;
While youthful hearts thus fondly swell,
Absence my friend, can only tell,
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"
7.
In one, and one alone deceiv'd,
Did I my error mourn?
No--from oppressive bonds reliev'd,
I left the wretch to scorn.
I turn'd to those my childhood knew,
With feelings warm, with bosoms true,
Twin'd with my heart's according strings;
And till those vital chords shall break,
For none but these my breast shall wake
Friendship, the power deprived of wings!
8
Ye few! my soul, my life is yours,
My memory and my hope;
Your worth a lasting love insures,
Unfetter'd in its scope;
From smooth deceit and terror sprung,
With aspect fair and honey'd tongue,
Let Adulation wait on kings;
With joy elate, by snares beset,
We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget,
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"
9
Fictions and dreams inspire the bard,
Who rolls the epic song;
Friendship and truth be my reward--
To me no bays belong;
If laurell'd Fame but dwells with lies,
Me the enchantress ever flies,
Whose heart and not whose fancy sings;
Simple and young, I dare not feign;
Mine be the rude yet heartfelt strain,
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"
December 29, 1806. [First published, 1832.]
[Footnote 1: The MS. is preserved at Newstead.]
[Footnote 2: Harrow.]
[Footnote 3: Lord Clare had written to Byron,
"I think by your last letter that you are very much piqued with most
of your friends, and, if I am not much mistaken, a little so with me.
In one part you say,
'There is little or no doubt a few years or months will render us as
politely indifferent to each other, as if we had never passed a
portion of our time together.'
Indeed, Byron, you wrong me; and I have no doubt, at least I hope, you
are wrong yourself."
'Life', p. 25.]
THE PRAYER OF NATURE. [1]
1
Father of Light! great God of Heaven!
Hear'st thou the accents of despair?
Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven?
Can vice atone for crimes by prayer?
2
Father of Light, on thee I call!
Thou see'st my soul is dark within;
Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall,
Avert from me the death of sin.
3
No shrine I seek, to sects unknown;
Oh, point to me the path of truth!
Thy dread Omnipotence I own;
Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth.
4
Let bigots rear a gloomy fane,
Let Superstition hail the pile,
Let priests, to spread their sable reign,
With tales of mystic rites beguile.
5
Shall man confine his Maker's sway
To Gothic domes of mouldering stone?
Thy temple is the face of day;
Earth, Ocean, Heaven thy boundless throne.
6
Shall man condemn his race to Hell,
Unless they bend in pompous form?
Tell us that all, for one who fell,
Must perish in the mingling storm?
7
Shall each pretend to reach the skies,
Yet doom his brother to expire,
Whose soul a different hope supplies,
Or doctrines less severe inspire?
8
Shall these, by creeds they can't expound,
Prepare a fancied bliss or woe?
Shall reptiles, groveling on the ground,
Their great Creator's purpose know?
9
Shall those, who live for self alone, [i]
Whose years float on in daily crime--
Shall they, by Faith, for guilt atone,
And live beyond the bounds of Time?
10
Father! no prophet's laws I seek,--
_Thy_ laws in Nature's works appear;--
I own myself corrupt and weak,
Yet will I _pray_, for thou wilt hear!
11
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star,
Through trackless realms of aether's space;
Who calm'st the elemental war,
Whose hand from pole to pole I trace:
12
Thou, who in wisdom plac'd me here,
Who, when thou wilt, canst take me hence,
Ah! whilst I tread this earthly sphere,
Extend to me thy wide defence.
13
To Thee, my God, to thee I call!
Whatever weal or woe betide,
By thy command I rise or fall,
In thy protection I confide.
14.
If, when this dust to dust's restor'd,
My soul shall float on airy wing,
How shall thy glorious Name ador'd
Inspire her feeble voice to sing!
15
But, if this fleeting spirit share
With clay the Grave's eternal bed,
While Life yet throbs I raise my prayer,
Though doom'd no more to quit the dead.
16
To Thee I breathe my humble strain,
Grateful for all thy mercies past,
And hope, my God, to thee again [ii]
This erring life may fly at last.
December 29, 1806.
[Footnote 1: These stanzas were first published in Moore's 'Letters and
Journals of Lord Byron', 1830, i. 106.]
[Footnote i:
Shalt these who live for self alone,
Whose years fleet on in daily crime--
Shall these by Faith for guilt atone,
Exist beyond the bounds of Time?
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote ii:
My hope, my God, in thee again
This erring life will fly at last.
['MS. Newstead']]
TRANSLATION FROM ANACREON. [1]
[Greek: Eis rodon.]
ODE 5
Mingle with the genial bowl
The Rose, the 'flow'ret' of the Soul,
The Rose and Grape together quaff'd,
How doubly sweet will be the draught!
With Roses crown our jovial brows,
While every cheek with Laughter glows;
While Smiles and Songs, with Wine incite,
To wing our moments with Delight.
Rose by far the fairest birth,
Which Spring and Nature cull from Earth--
Rose whose sweetest perfume given,
Breathes our thoughts from Earth to Heaven.
Rose whom the Deities above,
From Jove to Hebe, dearly love,
When Cytherea's blooming Boy,
Flies lightly through the dance of Joy,
With him the Graces then combine,
And rosy wreaths their locks entwine.
Then will I sing divinely crown'd,
With dusky leaves my temples bound--
Lyæus! in thy bowers of pleasure,
I'll wake a wildly thrilling measure.
There will my gentle Girl and I,
Along the mazes sportive fly,
Will bend before thy potent throne--
Rose, Wine, and Beauty, all my own.
1805.
[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time
printed,]
OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN IN "CARTHON." [1]
Oh! thou that roll'st above thy glorious Fire,
Round as the shield which grac'd my godlike Sire,
Whence are the beams, O Sun! thy endless blaze,
Which far eclipse each minor Glory's rays?
Forth in thy Beauty here thou deign'st to shine!
Night quits her car, the twinkling stars decline;
Pallid and cold the Moon descends to cave
Her sinking beams beneath the Western wave;
But thou still mov'st alone, of light the Source--
Who can o'ertake thee in thy fiery course?
Oaks of the mountains fall, the rocks decay,
Weighed down with years the hills dissolve away.
A certain space to yonder Moon is given,
She rises, smiles, and then is lost in Heaven.
Ocean in sullen murmurs ebbs and flows,
But thy bright beam unchanged for ever glows!
When Earth is darkened with tempestuous skies,
When Thunder shakes the sphere and Lightning flies,
Thy face, O Sun, no rolling blasts deform,
Thou look'st from clouds and laughest at the Storm.
To Ossian, Orb of Light! thou look'st in vain,
Nor cans't thou glad his agèd eyes again,
Whether thy locks in Orient Beauty stream,
Or glimmer through the West with fainter gleam--
But thou, perhaps, like me with age must bend;
Thy season o'er, thy days will find their end,
No more yon azure vault with rays adorn,
Lull'd in the clouds, nor hear the voice of Morn.
Exult, O Sun, in all thy youthful strength!
Age, dark unlovely Age, appears at length,
As gleams the moonbeam through the broken cloud
While mountain vapours spread their misty shroud--
The Northern tempest howls along at last,
And wayworn strangers shrink amid the blast.
Thou rolling Sun who gild'st those rising towers,
Fair didst thou shine upon my earlier hours!
I hail'd with smiles the cheering rays of Morn,
My breast by no tumultuous Passion torn--
Now hateful are thy beams which wake no more
The sense of joy which thrill'd my breast before;
Welcome thou cloudy veil of nightly skies,
To thy bright canopy the mourner flies:
Once bright, thy Silence lull'd my frame to rest,
And Sleep my soul with gentle visions blest;
Now wakeful Grief disdains her mild controul,
Dark is the night, but darker is my Soul.
Ye warring Winds of Heav'n your fury urge,
To me congenial sounds your wintry Dirge:
Swift as your wings my happier days have past,
Keen as your storms is Sorrow's chilling blast;
To Tempests thus expos'd my Fate has been,
Piercing like yours, like yours, alas! unseen.
1805.
[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time
printed. (See 'Ossian's Poems', London, 1819, pp. xvii. 119.)]
PIGNUS AMORIS. [1]
1
As by the fix'd decrees of Heaven,
'Tis vain to hope that Joy can last;
The dearest boon that Life has given,
To me is--visions of the past.
2.
For these this toy of blushing hue
I prize with zeal before unknown,
It tells me of a Friend I knew,
Who loved me for myself alone.
3.
It tells me what how few can say
Though all the social tie commend;
Recorded in my heart 'twill lay, [2]
It tells me mine was once a Friend.
4.
Through many a weary day gone by,
With time the gift is dearer grown;
And still I view in Memory's eye
That teardrop sparkle through my own.
5.
And heartless Age perhaps will smile,
Or wonder whence those feelings sprung;
Yet let not sterner souls revile,
For Both were open, Both were young.
6.
And Youth is sure the only time,
When Pleasure blends no base alloy;
When Life is blest without a crime,
And Innocence resides with Joy.
7
Let those reprove my feeble Soul,
Who laugh to scorn Affection's name;
While these impose a harsh controul,
All will forgive who feel the same.
8
Then still I wear my simple toy,
With pious care from wreck I'll save it;
And this will form a dear employ
For dear I was to him who gave it.
? 1806.
[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time
printed.]
[Footnote 2: For the irregular use of "lay" for "lie," compare "The
Adieu" (st. 10, 1. 4, p. 241), and the much-disputed line, "And dashest
him to earth--there let him lay" ('Childe Harold', canto iv. st. 180).]
A WOMAN'S HAIR. [1]
Oh! little lock of golden hue
In gently waving ringlet curl'd,
By the dear head on which you grew,
I would not lose you for _a world_.
Not though a thousand more adorn
The polished brow where once you shone,
Like rays which guild a cloudless sky [i]
Beneath Columbia's fervid zone.
1806.
[Footnote 1: These lines are preserved in MS. at Newstead, with the
following memorandum in Miss Pigot's handwriting: "Copied from the
fly-leaf in a vol. of my Burns' books, which is written in pencil by
himself." They have hitherto been printed as stanzas 5 and 6 of the
lines "To a Lady," etc., p. 212.]
[Footnote i:
_a cloudless morn_.
['Ed'. 1832.]
STANZAS TO JESSY. [1]
1
There is a mystic thread of life
So dearly wreath'd with mine alone,
That Destiny's relentless knife
At once must sever both, or none.
2
There is a Form on which these eyes
Have fondly gazed with such delight--
By day, that Form their joy supplies,
And Dreams restore it, through the night.
3
There is a Voice whose tones inspire
Such softened feelings in my breast, [i]--
I would not hear a Seraph Choir,
Unless that voice could join the rest.
4
There is a Face whose Blushes tell
Affection's tale upon the cheek,
But pallid at our fond farewell,
Proclaims more love than words can speak.
5
There is a Lip, which mine has prest,
But none had ever prest before;
It vowed to make me sweetly blest,
That mine alone should press it more. [ii]
6
There is a Bosom all my own,
Has pillow'd oft this aching head,
A Mouth which smiles on me alone,
An Eye, whose tears with mine are shed.
7
There are two Hearts whose movements thrill,
In unison so closely sweet,
That Pulse to Pulse responsive still
They Both must heave, or cease to beat.
8
There are two Souls, whose equal flow
In gentle stream so calmly run,
That when they part--they part?--ah no!
They cannot part--those Souls are One.
[GEORGE GORDON, LORD] BYRON.
[Footnote 1: "Stanzas to Jessy" have often been printed, but were never
acknowledged by Byron, or included in any authorized edition of his
works. They are, however, unquestionably genuine. They appeared first in
'Monthly Literary Recreations' (July, 1807), a magazine published by B.
Crosby & Co., Stationers' Court. Crosby was London agent for Ridge, the
Newark bookseller, and, with Longman and others, "sold" the recently
issued 'Hours of Idleness'. The same number of 'Monthly Literary
Recreations' (for July, 1807) contains Byron's review of Wordsworth's
'Poems' (2 vols., 1807), and a highly laudatory notice of 'Hours of
Idleness'. The lines are headed "Stanzas to Jessy," and are signed
"George Gordon, Lord Byron." They were republished in 1824, by Knight
and Lacy, in vol. v. of the three supplementary volumes of the 'Works',
and again in the same year by John Bumpus and A. Griffin, in their
'Miscellaneous Poems', etc. A note which is prefixed to these issues,
"The following stanzas were addressed by Lord Byron to his Lady, a few
months before their separation," and three variants in the text, make it
unlikely that the pirating editors were acquainted with the text of the
magazine. The MS. ('British Museum', Eg. MSS. No. 2332) is signed
"George Gordon, Lord Byron," but the words "George Gordon, Lord" are in
another hand, and were probably added by Crosby. The following letter
(together with a wrapper addressed, "Mr. Crosby, Stationers' Court," and
sealed in red wax with Byron's arms and coronet) is attached to the
poem:--
July 21, 1807.
SIR,
I have sent according to my promise some Stanzas
for Literary Recreations. The insertion I leave to the option
of the Editors. They have never appeared before. I should
wish to know whether they are admitted or not, and when
the work will appear, as I am desirous of a copy.
Etc., etc., BYRON.
P.S.--Send your answer when convenient."]
[Footnote i:
'Such thrills of Rapture'.
[Knight and Lacy, 1824, v. 56.]
[Footnote ii:
'And mine, mine only'.
[Knight and Lacy, v. 56.]]
THE ADIEU.
WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THE AUTHOR WOULD SOON DIE.
1.
Adieu, thou Hill! [1] where early joy
Spread roses o'er my brow;
Where Science seeks each loitering boy
With knowledge to endow.
Adieu, my youthful friends or foes,
Partners of former bliss or woes;
No more through Ida's paths we stray;
Soon must I share the gloomy cell,
Whose ever-slumbering inmates dwell
Unconscious of the day.
2.
Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes, [i]
Ye spires of Granta's vale,
Where Learning robed in sable reigns.
And Melancholy pale.
Ye comrades of the jovial hour,
Ye tenants of the classic bower,
On Cama's verdant margin plac'd,
Adieu! while memory still is mine,
For offerings on Oblivion's shrine,
These scenes must be effac'd.
3
Adieu, ye mountains of the clime
Where grew my youthful years;
Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime
His giant summit rears.
Why did my childhood wander forth
From you, ye regions of the North,
With sons of Pride to roam?
Why did I quit my Highland cave,
Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear wave,
To seek a Sotheron home?
4
Hall of my Sires! a long farewell--
Yet why to thee adieu?
Thy vaults will echo back my knell,
Thy towers my tomb will view:
The faltering tongue which sung thy fall,
And former glories of thy Hall,
Forgets its wonted simple note--
But yet the Lyre retains the strings,
And sometimes, on Æolian wings,
In dying strains may float.
5.
Fields, which surround yon rustic cot, [2]
While yet I linger here,
Adieu! you are not now forgot,
To retrospection dear.
Streamlet! [3] along whose rippling surge
My youthful limbs were wont to urge,
At noontide heat, their pliant course;
Plunging with ardour from the shore,
Thy springs will lave these limbs no more,
Deprived of active force.
6.
And shall I here forget the scene,
Still nearest to my breast?
Rocks rise and rivers roll between
The spot which passion blest;
Yet Mary, [4] all thy beauties seem
Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream,
To me in smiles display'd;
Till slow disease resigns his prey
To Death, the parent of decay,
Thine image cannot fade.
7.
And thou, my Friend! whose gentle love
Yet thrills my bosom's chords,
How much thy friendship was above
Description's power of words!
Still near my breast thy gift [5] I wear [ii]
Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear,
Of Love the pure, the sacred gem:
Our souls were equal, and our lot
In that dear moment quite forgot;
Let Pride alone condemn!
8.
All, all is dark and cheerless now!
No smile of Love's deceit
Can warm my veins with wonted glow,
Can bid Life's pulses beat:
Not e'en the hope of future fame
Can wake my faint, exhausted frame,
Or crown with fancied wreaths my head.
Mine is a short inglorious race,--
To humble in the dust my face,
And mingle with the dead.
9.
Oh Fame! thou goddess of my heart;
On him who gains thy praise,
Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart,
Consumed in Glory's blaze;
But me she beckons from the earth,
My name obscure, unmark'd my birth,
My life a short and vulgar dream:
Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd,
My hopes recline within a shroud,
My fate is Lethe's stream.
10.
When I repose beneath the sod,
Unheeded in the clay,
Where once my playful footsteps trod,
Where now my head must lay, [6]
The meed of Pity will be shed
In dew-drops o'er my narrow bed,
By nightly skies, and storms alone;
No mortal eye will deign to steep
With tears the dark sepulchral deep
Which hides a name unknown.
11.
Forget this world, my restless sprite,
Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven:
There must thou soon direct thy flight,
If errors are forgiven.
To bigots and to sects unknown,
Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne;
To Him address thy trembling prayer:
He, who is merciful and just,
Will not reject a child of dust,
Although His meanest care.
12.
Father of Light! to Thee I call;
My soul is dark within:
Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall,
Avert the death of sin.
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star
Who calm'st the elemental war,
Whose mantle is yon boundless sky,
My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive;
And, since I soon must cease to live,
Instruct me how to die. [iii]
1807. [First published, 1832.]
[Footnote 1: Harrow. ]
[Footnote 2: Mrs. Pigot's Cottage.]
[Footnote 3: The river Grete, at Southwell.]
[Footnote 4: Mary Chaworth.]
[Footnote 5: Compare the verses on "The Cornelian," p. 66, and
"Pignus Amoris," p. 231.]
[Footnote 6: See note to "Pignus Amoris," st. 3, l. 3, p. 232.]
[Footnote i:
'--ye regal Towers'.
['MS. Newstead'.] ]
[Footnote ii:
'The gift I wear'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iii:
'And since I must forbear to live,
Instruct me how to die.'
['MS. Newstead']
TO----[1]
1.
Oh! well I know your subtle Sex,
Frail daughters of the wanton Eve,--
While jealous pangs our Souls perplex,
No passion prompts you to relieve.
2
From Love, or Pity ne'er you fall,
By _you_, no mutual Flame is felt,
"Tis Vanity, which rules you all,
Desire alone which makes you melt.
3
I will not say no _souls_ are yours,
Aye, ye have Souls, and dark ones too,
Souls to contrive those smiling lures,
To snare our simple hearts for you.
4
Yet shall you never bind me fast,
Long to adore such brittle toys,
I'll rove along, from first to last,
And change whene'er my fancy cloys.
5
Oh! I should be a _baby_ fool,
To sigh the dupe of female art--
Woman! perhaps thou hast a _Soul_,
But where have _Demons_ hid thy _Heart_?
January, 1807.
[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time
printed.]
ON THE EYES OF MISS A----H----[1]
Anne's Eye is liken'd to the _Sun_,
From it such Beams of Beauty fall;
And _this_ can be denied by none,
For like the _Sun_, it shines on _All_.
Then do not admiration smother,
Or say these glances don't become her;
To _you_, or _I_, or _any other_
Her _Sun_, displays perpetual Summer. [2]
January 14, 1807.
[Footnote 1: Miss Anne Houson. From an autograph MS. at Newstead,
now for the first time printed.]
[Footnote 2: Compare, for the same simile, the lines "To Edward
Noel Long, Esq.," p. 187, 'ante'.]
TO A VAIN LADY. [1]
1
Ah, heedless girl! why thus disclose
What ne'er was meant for other ears;
Why thus destroy thine own repose,
And dig the source of future tears?
2
Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid,
While lurking envious foes will smile,
For all the follies thou hast said
Of those who spoke but to beguile.
3
Vain girl! thy lingering woes are nigh,
If thou believ'st what striplings say:
Oh, from the deep temptation fly,
Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey.
4
Dost thou repeat, in childish boast,
The words man utters to deceive?
Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost,
If thou canst venture to believe.
5
While now amongst thy female peers
Thou tell'st again the soothing tale,
Canst thou not mark the rising sneers
Duplicity in vain would veil?
6
These tales in secret silence hush,
Nor make thyself the public gaze:
What modest maid without a blush
Recounts a flattering coxcomb's praise?
7.
Will not the laughing boy despise
Her who relates each fond conceit--
Who, thinking Heaven is in her eyes,
Yet cannot see the slight deceit?
8.
For she who takes a soft delight
These amorous nothings in revealing,
Must credit all we say or write,
While vanity prevents concealing.
9.
Cease, if you prize your Beauty's reign!
No jealousy bids me reprove:
One, who is thus from nature vain,
I pity, but I cannot love.
January 15, 1807. [First published, 1832.]
[Footnote 1: To A Young Lady (Miss Anne Houson) whose vanity induced her
to repeat the compliments paid her by some young men of her
acquaintance.--'MS. Newstead_'.]
TO ANNE. [1]
1.
Oh, Anne, your offences to me have been grievous:
I thought from my wrath no atonement could save you;
But Woman is made to command and deceive us--
I look'd in your face, and I almost forgave you.
2.
I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect you,
Yet thought that a day's separation was long;
When we met, I determined again to suspect you--
Your smile soon convinced me _suspicion_ was wrong.
3.
I swore, in a transport of young indignation,
With fervent contempt evermore to disdain you:
I saw you--my _anger_ became _admiration_;
And now, all my wish, all my hope's to regain you.
4.
With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the contention!
Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness before you;--
At once to conclude such a fruitless dissension,
Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease to adore you!
January 16, 1807. [First published, 1832.]
[Footnote 1: Miss Anne Houson.]
EGOTISM. A LETTER TO J. T. BECHER. [1]
[Greek: Heauton bur_on aeidei.]
1.
If Fate should seal my Death to-morrow,
(Though much _I_ hope she will _postpone_ it,)
I've held a share _Joy_ and _Sorrow_,
Enough for _Ten_; and _here_ I _own_ it.
2.
I've lived, as many others live,
And yet, I think, with more enjoyment;
For could I through my days again live,
I'd pass them in the 'same' employment.
3.
That 'is' to say, with 'some exception',
For though I will not make confession,
I've seen too much of man's deception
Ever again to trust profession.
4.
Some sage 'Mammas' with gesture haughty,
Pronounce me quite a youthful Sinner--
But 'Daughters' say, "although he's naughty,
You must not check a 'Young Beginner'!"
5.
I've loved, and many damsels know it--
But whom I don't intend to mention,
As 'certain stanzas' also show it,
'Some' say 'deserving Reprehension'.
6.
Some ancient Dames, of virtue fiery,
(Unless Report does much belie them,)
Have lately made a sharp Enquiry,
And much it 'grieves' me to 'deny' them.
7.
Two whom I lov'd had 'eyes' of 'Blue',
To which I hope you've no objection;
The 'Rest' had eyes of 'darker Hue'--
Each Nymph, of course, was 'all perfection'.
8.
But here I'll close my 'chaste' Description,
Nor say the deeds of animosity;
For 'silence' is the best prescription,
To 'physic' idle curiosity.
9.
Of 'Friends' I've known a 'goodly Hundred'--
For finding 'one' in each acquaintance,
By 'some deceived', by others plunder'd,
'Friendship', to me, was not 'Repentance'.
10.
At 'School' I thought like other 'Children';
Instead of 'Brains', a fine Ingredient,
'Romance', my 'youthful Head bewildering',
To 'Sense' had made me disobedient.
11.
A victim, 'nearly' from affection,
To certain 'very precious scheming',
The still remaining recollection
Has 'cured' my 'boyish soul' of 'Dreaming'.
12.
By Heaven! I rather would forswear
The Earth, and all the joys reserved me,
Than dare again the 'specious Snare',
From which 'my Fate' and 'Heaven preserved' me.
13.
Still I possess some Friends who love me--
In each a much esteemed and true one;
The Wealth of Worlds shall never move me
To quit their Friendship, for a new one.
14.
But Becher! you're a 'reverend pastor',
Now take it in consideration,
Whether for penance I should fast, or
Pray for my 'sins' in expiation.
15.
I own myself the child of 'Folly',
But not so wicked as they make me--
I soon must die of melancholy,
If 'Female' smiles should e'er forsake me.
16.
'Philosophers' have 'never doubted',
That 'Ladies' Lips' were made for 'kisses!'
For 'Love!' I could not live without it,
For such a 'cursed' place as 'This is'.
17.
Say, Becher, I shall be forgiven!
If you don't warrant my salvation,
I must resign all 'Hopes' of 'Heaven'!
For, 'Faith', I can't withstand Temptation.
P.S.--These were written between one and two, after 'midnight'. I
have not 'corrected', or 'revised'. Yours, BYRON.
[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first
time printed.]
TO ANNE. [1]
1
Oh say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed
The heart which adores you should wish to dissever;
Such Fates were to me most unkind ones indeed,--
To bear me from Love and from Beauty for ever.
2.
Your frowns, lovely girl, are the Fates which alone
Could bid me from fond admiration refrain;
By these, every hope, every wish were o'erthrown,
Till smiles should restore me to rapture again.
3.
As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwin'd,
The rage of the tempest united must weather;
My love and my life were by nature design'd
To flourish alike, or to perish together.
4.
Then say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed
Your lover should bid you a lasting adieu:
Till Fate can ordain that his bosom shall bleed,
His Soul, his Existence, are centred in you.
1807. [First published, 1832.]
TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET
BEGINNING "'SAD IS MY VERSE,' YOU SAY, 'AND YET NO TEAR.'"
1.
Thy verse is "sad" enough, no doubt:
A devilish deal more sad than witty!
Why we should weep I can't find out,
Unless for _thee_ we weep in pity.
2.
Yet there is one I pity more;
And much, alas! I think he needs it:
For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore,
Who, to his own misfortune, reads it.
3.
Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic,
May _once_ be read--but never after:
Yet their effect's by no means tragic,
Although by far too dull for laughter.
4.
But would you make our bosoms bleed,
And of no common pang complain--
If you would make us weep indeed,
Tell us, you'll read them o'er again.
March 8, 1807. [First published, 1832.]
ON FINDING A FAN. [1]
1.
In one who felt as once he felt,
This might, perhaps, have fann'd the flame;
But now his heart no more will melt,
Because that heart is not the same.
2.
As when the ebbing flames are low,
The aid which once improved their light,
And bade them burn with fiercer glow,
Now quenches all their blaze in night.
3.
Thus has it been with Passion's fires--
As many a boy and girl remembers--
While every hope of love expires,
Extinguish'd with the dying embers.
4.
The _first_, though not a spark survive,
Some careful hand may teach to burn;
The _last_, alas! can ne'er survive;
No touch can bid its warmth return.
5.
Or, if it chance to wake again,
Not always doom'd its heat to smother,
It sheds (so wayward fates ordain)
Its former warmth around another.
1807. [First published, 1832.]
[Footnote 1: Of Miss A. H. (MS. Newstead).]
FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. [i.]
1.
Thou Power! who hast ruled me through Infancy's days,
Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part;
Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays,
The coldest effusion which springs from my heart.
2.
This bosom, responsive to rapture no more,
Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing;
The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar,
Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing.
3.
Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre,
Yet even these themes are departed for ever;
No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire,
My visions are flown, to return,--alas, never!
4.
When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl,
How vain is the effort delight to prolong!
When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul, [ii]
What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song?
5.
Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone,
Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign?
Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown?
Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine.
6.
Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love? [iii]
Ah, surely Affection ennobles the strain!
But how can my numbers in sympathy move,
When I scarcely can hope to behold them again?
7.
Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done,
And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires?
For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone!
For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires!
8.
Untouch'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast--
'Tis hush'd; and my feeble endeavours are o'er;
And those who have heard it will pardon the past,
When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no more.
9.
And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot,
Since early affection and love is o'ercast:
Oh! blest had my Fate been, and happy my lot,
Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last.
10.
Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er meet; [iv]
If our songs have been languid, they surely are few:
Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet--
The present--which seals our eternal Adieu.
1807. [First published, 1832.]
[Footnote 1:
'Adieu to the Muse'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote ii:
'When cold is the form'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iii:
--'whom I lived but to love'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iv:
'Since we never can meet'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD. [1]
1.
Young Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground,
I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine;
That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around,
And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine.
2.
Such, such was my hope, when in Infancy's years,
On the land of my Fathers I rear'd thee with pride;
They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears,--
Thy decay, not the _weeds_ that surround thee can hide.
3.
I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour,
A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my Sire;
Till Manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power,
But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expire.
4.
Oh! hardy thou wert--even now little care
Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds gently
heal:
But thou wert not fated affection to share--
For who could suppose that a Stranger would feel?
5.
Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for a while;
Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run,
The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile,
When Infancy's years of probation are done.
6.
Oh, live then, my Oak! tow'r aloft from the weeds,
That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay,
For still in thy bosom are Life's early seeds,
And still may thy branches their beauty display.
7.
Oh! yet, if Maturity's years may be thine,
Though _I_ shall lie low in the cavern of Death,
On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine, [i]
Uninjured by Time, or the rude Winter's breath.
8.
For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave
O'er the corse of thy Lord in thy canopy laid;
While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave,
The Chief who survives may recline in thy shade.
9.
And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot,
He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread.
Oh! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot;
Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead.
10.
And here, will they say, when in Life's glowing prime,
Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lay,
And here must he sleep, till the moments of Time
Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day.
1807. [First published 1832.]
["Copied for Mr. Moore, Jan. 24, 1828."--Note by Miss Pigot.]
[Footnote 1: There is no heading to the original MS., but on the blank
leaf at the end of the poem is written,
"To an oak in the garden of Newstead Abbey, planted by the author in
the 9th year of [his] age; this tree at his last visit was in a state
of decay, though perhaps not irrecoverable."
On arriving at Newstead, in 1798, Byron, then in his
eleventh year, planted an oak, and cherished the fancy, that as the tree
flourished so should he. On revisiting the abbey, he found the oak
choked up by weeds and almost destroyed;--hence these lines. Shortly
after Colonel Wildman took possession, he said to a servant,
"Here is a fine young oak; but it must be cut down, as it grows in an
improper place."
"I hope not, sir, "replied the man, "for it's the one that my lord was
so fond of, because he set it himself."
_Life_, p. 50, note.]
[Footnote i:
_For ages may shine_.
[_MS. Newstead_]]
ON REVISITING HARROW. [1]
1.
Here once engaged the stranger's view
Young Friendship's record simply trac'd;
Few were her words,--but yet, though few,
Resentment's hand the line defac'd.
2.
Deeply she cut--but not eras'd--
The characters were still so plain,
That Friendship once return'd, and gaz'd,--
Till Memory hail'd the words again.
3.
Repentance plac'd them as before;
Forgiveness join'd her gentle name;
So fair the inscription seem'd once more,
That Friendship thought it still the same.
4.
Thus might the Record now have been;
But, ah, in spite of Hope's endeavour,
Or Friendship's tears, Pride rush'd between,
And blotted out the line for ever.
September, 1807.
[First published in Moore's 'Life and Letters, etc.', 1830, i. 102.]
[Footnote 1:
"Some years ago, when at Harrow, a friend of the author engraved on a
particular spot the names of both, with a few additional words, as a
memorial. Afterwards, on receiving some real or imaginary injury, the
author destroyed the frail record before he left Harrow. On revisiting
the place in 1807, he wrote under it these stanzas."
Moore's 'Life, etc.', i. 102.]]
TO MY SON. [1]
1.
Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue
Bright as thy mother's in their hue;
Those rosy lips, whose dimples play
And smile to steal the heart away,
Recall a scene of former joy,
And touch thy father's heart, my Boy!
2.
And thou canst lisp a father's name--
Ah, William, were thine own the same,--
No self-reproach--but, let me cease--
My care for thee shall purchase peace;
Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy,
And pardon all the past, my Boy!
3.
Her lowly grave the turf has prest,
And thou hast known a stranger's breast;
Derision sneers upon thy birth,
And yields thee scarce a name on earth;
Yet shall not these one hope destroy,--
A Father's heart is thine, my Boy!
4.
Why, let the world unfeeling frown,
Must I fond Nature's claims disown?
Ah, no--though moralists reprove,
I hail thee, dearest child of Love,
Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy--
A Father guards thy birth, my Boy!
5.
Oh,'twill be sweet in thee to trace,
Ere Age has wrinkled o'er my face,
Ere half my glass of life is run,
At once a brother and a son;
And all my wane of years employ
In justice done to thee, my Boy!
6.
Although so young thy heedless sire,
Youth will not damp parental fire;
And, wert thou still less dear to me,
While Helen's form revives in thee,
The breast, which beat to former joy,
Will ne'er desert its pledge, my Boy!
1807.
[First published in Moore's 'Life and Letters, etc.', 1830, i. 104.]
[Footnote 1: For a reminiscence of what was, possibly, an actual event,
see 'Don Juan', canto xvi. st. 61. He told Lady Byron that he had two
natural children, whom he should provide for.]
QUERIES TO CASUISTS. [1]
The Moralists tell us that Loving is Sinning,
And always are prating about and about it,
But as Love of Existence itself's the beginning,
Say, what would Existence itself be without it?
They argue the point with much furious Invective,
Though perhaps 'twere no difficult task to confute it;
But if Venus and Hymen should once prove defective,
Pray who would there be to defend or dispute it?
BYRON.
[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. (watermark 1805) at Newstead, now for
the first time printed.]
SONG.[1]
1.
Breeze of the night in gentler sighs
More softly murmur o'er the pillow;
For Slumber seals my Fanny's eyes,
And Peace must never shun her pillow.
2.
Or breathe those sweet Æolian strains
Stolen from celestial spheres above,
To charm her ear while some remains,
And soothe her soul to dreams of love.
3.
But Breeze of night again forbear,
In softest murmurs only sigh:
Let not a Zephyr's pinion dare
To lift those auburn locks on high.
4.
Chill is thy Breath, thou breeze of night!
Oh! ruffle not those lids of Snow;
For only Morning's cheering light
May wake the beam that lurks below.
5.
Blest be that lip and azure eye!
Sweet Fanny, hallowed be thy Sleep!
Those lips shall never vent a sigh,
Those eyes may never wake to weep.
February 23rd, 1808.
[Footnote 1: From the MS. in the possession of the Earl of Lovelace.]
TO HARRIET. [1]
1.
Harriet! to see such Circumspection, [2]
In Ladies I have no objection
Concerning what they read;
An ancient Maid's a sage adviser,
Like _her_, you will be much the wiser,
In word, as well as Deed.
2.
But Harriet, I don't wish to flatter,
And really think 't would make the matter
More perfect if not quite,
If other Ladies when they preach,
Would certain Damsels also teach
More cautiously to write.
[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first
time printed.]
[Footnote 2: See the poem "To Marion," and 'note', p. 129. It would seem
that J. T. Becher addressed some flattering lines to Byron with
reference to a poem concerning Harriet Maltby, possibly the lines "To
Marion." The following note was attached by Miss Pigot to these stanzas,
which must have been written on another occasion:--
"I saw Lord B. was _flattered_ by John Becher's lines, as he read
'Apollo', etc., with a peculiar smile and emphasis; so out of _fun_,
to vex him a little, I said,
'_Apollo!_ He _should_ have said _Apollyon_.'
'Elizabeth! for Heaven's sake don't say so again! I don't
mind _you_ telling me so; but if any one _else_ got hold _of the
word_, I should never hear the end of it.'
So I laughed at him, and dropt it, for he was _red_ with agitation."]
THERE WAS A TIME, I NEED NOT NAME. [i] [1]
1.
There was a time, I need not name,
Since it will ne'er forgotten be,
When all our feelings were the same
As still my soul hath been to thee.
2.
And from that hour when first thy tongue
Confess'd a love which equall'd mine,
Though many a grief my heart hath wrung,
Unknown, and thus unfelt, by thine,
3.
None, none hath sunk so deep as this--
To think how all that love hath flown;
Transient as every faithless kiss,
But transient in thy breast alone.
4.
And yet my heart some solace knew,
When late I heard thy lips declare,
In accents once imagined true,
Remembrance of the days that were.
5.
Yes! my adored, yet most unkind!
Though thou wilt never love again,
To me 'tis doubly sweet to find
Remembrance of that love remain. [ii]
6.
Yes! 'tis a glorious thought to me,
Nor longer shall my soul repine,
Whate'er thou art or e'er shall be,
Thou hast been dearly, solely mine.
June 10, 1808. [First published, 1809]
[Footnote 1: This copy of verses, with eight others, originally appeared
in a volume published in 1809 by J. C. Hobhouse, under the title of
_Imitations and Translations, From the Ancient and Modern Classics,
Together with Original Poems never before published_. The MS. is in the
possession of the Earl of Lovelace.]
[Footnote i:
_Stanzas to the Same_.
[_Imit. and Transl._, p. 200.]]
[Footnote ii:
_The memory of that love again._
[MS. L.]]
AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN I AM LOW? [i]
1.
And wilt thou weep when I am low?
Sweet lady! speak those words again:
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so--
I would not give that bosom pain.
2.
My heart is sad, my hopes are gone,
My blood runs coldly through my breast;
And when I perish, thou alone
Wilt sigh above my place of rest.
3.
And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace
Doth through my cloud of anguish shine:
And for a while my sorrows cease,
To know thy heart hath felt for mine.
4.
Oh lady! blessèd be that tear--
It falls for one who cannot weep;
Such precious drops are doubly dear [ii]
To those whose eyes no tear may steep.
5.
Sweet lady! once my heart was warm
With every feeling soft as thine;
But Beauty's self hath ceased to charm
A wretch created to repine.
6. [iii]
Yet wilt thou weep when I am low?
Sweet lady! speak those words again:
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so--
I would not give that bosom pain. [1]
Aug. 12, 1808. [First published, 1809.]
[Footnote 1: It was in one of Byron's fits of melancholy that the
following verses were addressed to him by his friend John
Cam Hobhouse:--
EPISTLE TO A YOUNG NOBLEMAN IN LOVE.
Hail! generous youth, whom glory's sacred flame
Inspires, and animates to deeds of fame;
Who feel the noble wish before you die
To raise the finger of each passer-by:
Hail! may a future age admiring view
A Falkland or a Clarendon in you.
But as your blood with dangerous passion boils,
Beware! and fly from Venus' silken toils:
Ah! let the head protect the weaker heart,
And Wisdom's Ægis turn on Beauty's dart.
* * * * *
But if 'tis fix'd that every lord must pair,
And you and Newstead must not want an heir,
Lose not your pains, and scour the country round,
To find a treasure that can ne'er be found!
No! take the first the town or court affords,
Trick'd out to stock a market for the lords;
By chance perhaps your luckier choice may fall
On one, though wicked, not the worst of all:
* * * * *
One though perhaps as any Maxwell free,
Yet scarce a copy, Claribel, of thee;
Not very ugly, and not very old,
A little pert indeed, but not a scold;
One that, in short, may help to lead a life
Not farther much from comfort than from strife;
And when she dies, and disappoints your fears,
Shall leave some joys for your declining years.
But, as your early youth some time allows,
Nor custom yet demands you for a spouse,
Some hours of freedom may remain as yet,
For one who laughs alike at love and debt:
Then, why in haste? put off the evil day,
And snatch at youthful comforts while you may!
Pause! nor so soon the various bliss forego
That single souls, and such alone, can know:
Ah! why too early careless life resign,
Your morning slumber, and your evening wine;
Your loved companion, and his easy talk;
Your Muse, invoked in every peaceful walk?
What! can no more your scenes paternal please,
Scenes sacred long to wise, unmated ease?
The prospect lengthen'd o'er the distant down,
Lakes, meadows, rising woods, and all your own?
What! shall your Newstead, shall your cloister'd bowers,
The high o'erhanging arch and trembling towers!
Shall these, profaned with folly or with strife,
An ever fond, or ever angry wife!
Shall these no more confess a manly sway,
But changeful woman's changing whims obey?
Who may, perhaps, as varying humour calls,
Contract your cloisters and o'erthrow your walls;
Let Repton loose o'er all the ancient ground,
Change round to square, and square convert to round;
Root up the elms' and yews' too solemn gloom,
And fill with shrubberies gay and green their room;
Roll down the terrace to a gay parterre,
Where gravel'd walks and flowers alternate glare;
And quite transform, in every point complete,
Your Gothic abbey to a country seat.
Forget the fair one, and your fate delay;
If not avert, at least defer the day,
When you beneath the female yoke shall bend,
And lose your _wit_, your _temper_, and your _friend_. [A]
Trin. Coll. Camb., 1808.]
[Sub-Footnote A: In his mother's copy of Hobhouse's volume, Byron has
written with a pencil,
"_I have lost them all, and shall WED accordingly_. 1811. B."]
[Footnote i:
Stanzas.
[MS. L.]
To the Same.
[Imit. and Transl., p 202.]]
[Footnote ii:
For one whose life is torment here,
And only in the dust may sleep.
[MS. L.]]
[Footnote iii: The MS. inserts--
Lady I will not tell my tale
For it would rend thy melting heart;
'Twere pity sorrow should prevail
O'er one so gentle as thou art.
[MS. L.]]
REMIND ME NOT, REMIND ME NOT. [i]
1.
Remind me not, remind me not,
Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours,
When all my soul was given to thee;
Hours that may never be forgot,
Till Time unnerves our vital powers,
And thou and I shall cease to be.
2.
Can I forget--canst thou forget,
When playing with thy golden hair,
How quick thy fluttering heart did move?
Oh! by my soul, I see thee yet,
With eyes so languid, breast so fair,
And lips, though silent, breathing love.
3.
When thus reclining on my breast,
Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet,
As half reproach'd yet rais'd desire,
And still we near and nearer prest,
And still our glowing lips would meet,
As if in kisses to expire.
4.
And then those pensive eyes would close,
And bid their lids each other seek,
Veiling the azure orbs below;
While their long lashes' darken'd gloss
Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek,
Like raven's plumage smooth'd on snow.
5.
I dreamt last night our love return'd,
And, sooth to say, that very dream
Was sweeter in its phantasy,
Than if for other hearts I burn'd,
For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam
In Rapture's wild reality.
6.
Then tell me not, remind me not, [ii]
Of hours which, though for ever gone,
Can still a pleasing dream restore, [iii]
Till thou and I shall be forgot,
And senseless, as the mouldering stone
Which tells that we shall be no more.
Aug. 13, 1808. [First published, 1809.]
[Footnote i:
_A Love Song. To----.
[Imit. and Transl., p. 197.]
[Footnote ii:
_Remind me not, remind me not_.
[MS. L.] ]
[Footnote iii:
_Must still_.
[MS. L.] ]
TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. [i]
1.
Few years have pass'd since thou and I
Were firmest friends, at least in name,
And Childhood's gay sincerity
Preserved our feelings long the same. [ii]
2.
But now, like me, too well thou know'st [iii]
What trifles oft the heart recall;
And those who once have loved the most
Too soon forget they lov'd at all. [iv]
3.
And such the change the heart displays,
So frail is early friendship's reign, [v]
A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day's,
Will view thy mind estrang'd again. [vi]
4.
If so, it never shall be mine
To mourn the loss of such a heart;
The fault was Nature's fault, not thine,
Which made thee fickle as thou art.
5.
As rolls the Ocean's changing tide,
So human feelings ebb and flow;
And who would in a breast confide
Where stormy passions ever glow?
6.
It boots not that, together bred,
Our childish days were days of joy:
My spring of life has quickly fled;
Thou, too, hast ceas'd to be a boy.
7.
And when we bid adieu to youth,
Slaves to the specious World's controul,
We sigh a long farewell to truth;
That World corrupts the noblest soul.
8.
Ah, joyous season! when the mind [1]
Dares all things boldly but to lie;
When Thought ere spoke is unconfin'd,
And sparkles in the placid eye.
9.
Not so in Man's maturer years,
When Man himself is but a tool;
When Interest sways our hopes and fears,
And all must love and hate by rule.
10.
With fools in kindred vice the same, [vii]
We learn at length our faults to blend;
And those, and those alone, may claim
The prostituted name of friend.
11.
Such is the common lot of man:
Can we then 'scape from folly free?
Can we reverse the general plan,
Nor be what all in turn must be?
12.
No; for myself, so dark my fate
Through every turn of life hath been;
Man and the World so much I hate,
I care not when I quit the scene.
13.
But thou, with spirit frail and light,
Wilt shine awhile, and pass away;
As glow-worms sparkle through the night,
But dare not stand the test of day.
14.
Alas! whenever Folly calls
Where parasites and princes meet,
(For cherish'd first in royal halls,
The welcome vices kindly greet,)
15.
Ev'n now thou'rt nightly seen to add
One insect to the fluttering crowd;
And still thy trifling heart is glad
To join the vain and court the proud.
16.
There dost thou glide from fair to fair,
Still simpering on with eager haste,
As flies along the gay parterre,
That taint the flowers they scarcely taste.
17.
But say, what nymph will prize the flame
Which seems, as marshy vapours move,
To flit along from dame to dame,
An ignis-fatuus gleam of love?
18.
What friend for thee, howe'er inclin'd,
Will deign to own a kindred care?
Who will debase his manly mind,
For friendship every fool may share?
19.
In time forbear; amidst the throng
No more so base a thing be seen;
No more so idly pass along;
Be something, any thing, but--mean.
August 20th, 1808. [First published, 1809.]
[Footnote 1: Stanzas 8-9 are not in the _MS_.]
[Footnote i:
'To Sir W. D., on his using the expression, "Soyes constant en
amitie."'
[MS. L.] ]
[Footnote ii:
'Twere well my friend if still with thee
Through every scene of joy and woe,
That thought could ever cherish'd be
As warm as it was wont to glow.
[MS. L] ]
[Footnote iii:
_And yet like me._
[MS. L.] ]
[Footnote iv:
_Forget they ever._
[MS. L. _Imit. and Transl_., p. 185.] ]
[Footnote v:
_So short._
[MS. L.] ]
[Footnote vi:
_...a day
Will send my friendship back again._
[MS. L.]
[Footnote vii:
_Each fool whose vices are the same
Whose faults with ours may blend._
[_MS. L._]]
LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL. [1]
1.
Start not--nor deem my spirit fled:
In me behold the only skull,
From which, unlike a living head,
Whatever flows is never dull.
2.
I lived, I loved, I quaff'd, like thee:
I died: let earth my bones resign;
Fill up--thou canst not injure me;
The worm hath fouler lips than thine.
3.
Better to hold the sparkling grape,
Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood;
And circle in the goblet's shape
The drink of Gods, than reptile's food.
4.
Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone,
In aid of others' let me shine;
And when, alas! our brains are gone,
What nobler substitute than wine?
5.
Quaff while thou canst: another race,
When thou and thine, like me, are sped,
May rescue thee from earth's embrace,
And rhyme and revel with the dead.
6.
Why not? since through life's little day
Our heads such sad effects produce;
Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay,
This chance is theirs, to be of use.
Newstead Abbey, 1808.
[First published in the seventh edition of 'Childe Harold'.]
[Footnote 1: Byron gave Medwin the following account of this cup:--"The
gardener in digging [discovered] a skull that had probably belonged to
some jolly friar or monk of the abbey, about the time it was
dis-monasteried. Observing it to be of giant size, and in a perfect
state of preservation, a strange fancy seized me of having it set and
mounted as a drinking cup. I accordingly sent it to town, and it
returned with a very high polish, and of a mottled colour like
tortoiseshell."--Medwin's 'Conversations', 1824, p. 87.]
WELL! THOU ART HAPPY. [i] [1]
1.
Well! thou art happy, and I feel
That I should thus be happy too;
For still my heart regards thy weal
Warmly, as it was wont to do.
2.
Thy husband's blest--and 'twill impart
Some pangs to view his happier lot: [ii]
But let them pass--Oh! how my heart
Would hate him if he loved thee not!
3.
When late I saw thy favourite child,
I thought my jealous heart would break;
But when the unconscious infant smil'd,
I kiss'd it for its mother's sake.
4.
I kiss'd it,--and repress'd my sighs
Its father in its face to see;
But then it had its mother's eyes,
And they were all to love and me.
5. [iii]
Mary, adieu! I must away:
While thou art blest I'll not repine;
But near thee I can never stay;
My heart would soon again be thine.
6.
I deem'd that Time, I deem'd that Pride,
Had quench'd at length my boyish flame;
Nor knew, till seated by thy side,
My heart in all,--save hope,--the same.
7.
Yet was I calm: I knew the time
My breast would thrill before thy look;
But now to tremble were a crime--
We met,--and not a nerve was shook.
8.
I saw thee gaze upon my face,
Yet meet with no confusion there:
One only feeling couldst thou trace;
The sullen calmness of despair.
9.
Away! away! my early dream
Remembrance never must awake:
Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream?
My foolish heart be still, or break.
November, 1808. [First published, 1809.]
[Footnote 1: These lines were written after dining at Annesley with Mr.
and Mrs. Chaworth Musters. Their daughter, born 1806, and now Mrs.
Hamond, of Westacre, Norfolk, is still (January, 1898) living.]
[Footnote i:
_To Mrs.----_[erased].
[_MS. L._]
_To-----_.
[_Imit. and Transl_. Hobhouse, 1809.] ]
[Footnote ii:
_Some pang to see my rival's lot._
[_MS. L._] ]
[Footnote iii: MS. L. inserts--
_Poor little pledge of mutual love,
I would not hurt a hair of thee,
Although thy birth should chance to prove
Thy parents' bliss--my misery._]
INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG. [1]
When some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe
And storied urns record who rest below:
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been:
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth--
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth:
While Man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive Heaven.
Oh Man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on--it honours none you wish to mourn:
To mark a Friend's remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one,--and here he lies. [i]
Newstead Abbey, October 30, 1808. [First published, 1809.]
[Footnote 1: This monument is placed in the garden of Newstead.
A prose inscription precedes the verses:--
"Near this spot
Are deposited the Remains of one
Who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferocity,
And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices.
This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
If inscribed over human ashes,
Is but a just tribute to the Memory of
BOATSWAIN, a Dog,
Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803,
And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808."
Byron thus announced the death of his favourite to his friend
Hodgson:--"Boatswain is dead!--he expired in a state of madness on the
18th after suffering much, yet retaining all the gentleness of his
nature to the last; never attempting to do the least injury to any one
near him. I have now lost everything except old Murray." In the will
which the poet executed in 1811, he desired to be buried in the vault
with his dog, and Joe Murray was to have the honour of making one of the
party. When the poet was on his travels, a gentleman, to whom Murray
showed the tomb, said, "Well, old boy, you will take your place here
some twenty years hence." "I don't know that, sir," replied Joe; "if I
was sure his lordship would come here I should like it well enough, but
I should not like to lie alone with the dog."--'Life', pp. 73, 131.]
[Footnote i:
_I knew but one unchang'd--and here he lies.--
[_Imit. and Transl_., p. 191.] ]
TO A LADY, [1]
ON BEING ASKED MY REASON FOR QUITTING ENGLAND IN THE SPRING. [i]
1.
When Man, expell'd from Eden's bowers,
A moment linger'd near the gate,
Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours,
And bade him curse his future fate.
2.
But, wandering on through distant climes,
He learnt to bear his load of grief;
Just gave a sigh to other times,
And found in busier scenes relief.
3.
Thus, Lady! will it be with me, [ii]
And I must view thy charms no more;
For, while I linger near to thee,
I sigh for all I knew before.
4.
In flight I shall be surely wise,
Escaping from temptation's snare:
I cannot view my Paradise
Without the wish of dwelling there. [iii] [2]
December 2, 1808. [First published, 1809.]
[Footnote 1: Byron had written to his mother on November 2, 1808,
announcing his intention of sailing for India in the following March.
See 'Childe Harold', canto i. st. 3. See also Letter to Hodgson, Nov.
27, 1808.]
[Footnote 2: In an unpublished letter of Byron to----, dated within
a few days of his final departure from Italy to Greece, in
1823, he writes:
"Miss Chaworth was two years older than myself. She married a man of
an ancient and respectable family, but her marriage was not a happier
one than my own. Her conduct, however, was irreproachable; but there
was not sympathy between their characters. I had not seen her for many
years when an occasion offered to me, January, 1814. I was upon the
point, with her consent, of paying her a visit, when my sister, who
has always had more influence over me than any one else, persuaded me
not to do it. 'For,' said she, 'if you go you will fall in love again,
and then there will be a scene; one step will lead to another, 'et
cela fera un éclat''."]
[Footnote i:
'The Farewell To a Lady.'
['Imit. and Transl.']
[Footnote ii:
'Thus Mary!' (Mrs. Musters).
['MS'.]
[Footnote iii:
'Without a wish to enter there.'
['Imit. and Transl'., p. 196.] ]
FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. [i]
A SONG.
1.
Fill the goblet again! for I never before
Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core;
Let us drink!--who would not?--since, through life's varied round,
In the goblet alone no deception is found.
2.
I have tried in its turn all that life can supply;
I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye;
I have lov'd!--who has not?--but what heart can declare
That Pleasure existed while Passion was there?
3.
In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its spring,
And dreams that Affection can never take wing,
I had friends!--who has not?--but what tongue will avow,
That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou?
4.
The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange,
Friendship shifts with the sunbeam--thou never canst change;
Thou grow'st old--who does not?--but on earth what appears,
Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years?
5.
Yet if blest to the utmost that Love can bestow,
Should a rival bow down to our idol below,
We are jealous!--who's not?--thou hast no such alloy;
For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy.
6.
Then the season of youth and its vanities past,
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last;
There we find--do we not?--in the flow of the soul,
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl.
7.
When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth,
And Misery's triumph commenc'd over Mirth,
Hope was left,--was she not?--but the goblet we kiss,
And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss.
8.
Long life to the grape! for when summer is flown,
The age of our nectar shall gladden our own:
We must die--who shall not?--May our sins be forgiven,
And Hebe shall never be idle in Heaven.
[First published, 1809.]
[Footnote i:
'Song'.
['Imit. and Transl'., p. 204.]
STANZAS TO A LADY, ON LEAVING ENGLAND. [i]
1.
Tis done--and shivering in the gale
The bark unfurls her snowy sail;
And whistling o'er the bending mast,
Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast;
And I must from this land be gone,
Because I cannot love but one.
2.
But could I be what I have been,
And could I see what I have seen--
Could I repose upon the breast
Which once my warmest wishes blest--
I should not seek another zone,
Because I cannot love but one.
3.
'Tis long since I beheld that eye
Which gave me bliss or misery;
And I have striven, but in vain,
Never to think of it again:
For though I fly from Albion,
I still can only love but one.
4.
As some lone bird, without a mate,
My weary heart is desolate;
I look around, and cannot trace
One friendly smile or welcome face,
And ev'n in crowds am still alone,
Because I cannot love but one.
5.
And I will cross the whitening foam,
And I will seek a foreign home;
Till I forget a false fair face,
I ne'er shall find a resting-place;
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun,
But ever love, and love but one.
6.
The poorest, veriest wretch on earth
Still finds some hospitable hearth,
Where Friendship's or Love's softer glow
May smile in joy or soothe in woe;
But friend or leman I have none, [ii]
Because I cannot love but one.
7.
I go--but wheresoe'er I flee
There's not an eye will weep for me;
There's not a kind congenial heart,
Where I can claim the meanest part;
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone,
Wilt sigh, although I love but one.
8.
To think of every early scene,
Of what we are, and what we've been,
Would whelm some softer hearts with woe--
But mine, alas! has stood the blow;
Yet still beats on as it begun,
And never truly loves but one.
9.
And who that dear lov'd one may be,
Is not for vulgar eyes to see;
And why that early love was cross'd,
Thou know'st the best, I feel the most;
But few that dwell beneath the sun
Have loved so long, and loved but one.
10.
I've tried another's fetters too,
With charms perchance as fair to view;
And I would fain have loved as well,
But some unconquerable spell
Forbade my bleeding breast to own
A kindred care for aught but one.
11.
'Twould soothe to take one lingering view,
And bless thee in my last adieu;
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep
For him that wanders o'er the deep;
His home, his hope, his youth are gone, [iii]
Yet still he loves, and loves but one. [iv]
1809. [First published, 1809.]
[Footnote i:
'To Mrs. Musters.'
['MS.']
'To----on Leaving England.'
['Imit. and Transl.', p. 227.]
[Footnote ii:
'But friend or lover I have none'.
['Imit. and Transl'., p. 229.]]
[Footnote iii:
'Though wheresoever my bark may run,
I love but thee, I love but one.'
['Imit. and Transl.', p. 230.]
'The land recedes his Bark is gone,
Yet still he loves and laves but one.'
[MS.]
[Footnote iv:
'Yet far away he loves but one.'
[MS.]
ENGLISH BARDS, AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS;
A SATIRE.
BY
LORD BYRON.
"I had rather be a kitten, and cry, mew!
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers."
SHAKESPEARE.
"Such shameless Bards we have; and yet 'tis true,
There are as mad, abandon'd Critics, too."
POPE.
PREFACE [1]
All my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged me not to publish this
Satire with my name. If I were to be "turned from the career of my
humour by quibbles quick, and paper bullets of the brain" I should have
complied with their counsel. But I am not to be terrified by abuse, or
bullied by reviewers, with or without arms. I can safely say that I have
attacked none 'personally', who did not commence on the offensive. An
Author's works are public property: he who purchases may judge, and
publish his opinion if he pleases; and the Authors I have endeavoured to
commemorate may do by me as I have done by them. I dare say they will
succeed better in condemning my scribblings, than in mending their own.
But my object is not to prove that I can write well, but, if 'possible',
to make others write better.
As the Poem has met with far more success than I expected, I have
endeavoured in this Edition to make some additions and alterations, to
render it more worthy of public perusal.
In the First Edition of this Satire, published anonymously, fourteen
lines on the subject of Bowles's Pope were written by, and inserted at
the request of, an ingenious friend of mine, [2] who has now in the
press a volume of Poetry. In the present Edition they are erased, and
some of my own substituted in their stead; my only reason for this being
that which I conceive would operate with any other person in the same
manner,--a determination not to publish with my name any production,
which was not entirely and exclusively my own composition.
With [3] regard to the real talents of many of the poetical persons
whose performances are mentioned or alluded to in the following pages,
it is presumed by the Author that there can be little difference of
opinion in the Public at large; though, like other sectaries, each has
his separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom his abilities are
over-rated, his faults overlooked, and his metrical canons received
without scruple and without consideration. But the unquestionable
possession of considerable genius by several of the writers here
censured renders their mental prostitution more to be regretted.
Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, laughed at and forgotten;
perverted powers demand the most decided reprehension. No one can wish
more than the Author that some known and able writer had undertaken
their exposure; but Mr. Gifford has devoted himself to Massinger, and,
in the absence of the regular physician, a country practitioner may, in
cases of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe his nostrum to
prevent the extension of so deplorable an epidemic, provided there be no
quackery in his treatment of the malady. A caustic is here offered; as
it is to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can recover the
numerous patients afflicted with the present prevalent and distressing
rabies for rhyming.--As to the' Edinburgh Reviewers', it would indeed
require an Hercules to crush the Hydra; but if the Author succeeds in
merely "bruising one of the heads of the serpent" though his own hand
should suffer in the encounter, he will be amply satisfied.
[Footnote 1: The Preface, as it is here printed, was prefixed to the
Second, Third, and Fourth Editions of 'English Bards, and Scotch
Reviewers'. The preface to the First Edition began with the words, "With
regard to the real talents," etc. The text of the poem follows that of
the suppressed Fifth Edition, which passed under Byron's own
supervision, and was to have been issued in 1812. From that Edition the
Preface was altogether excluded.
In an annotated copy of the Fourth Edition, of 1811, underneath the
note, "This preface was written for the Second Edition, and printed with
it. The noble author had left this country previous to the publication
of that Edition, and is not yet returned," Byron wrote, in 1816, "He is,
and gone again."--MS. Notes from this volume, which is now in Mr.
Murray's possession, are marked--B., 1816.]
[Footnote 2: John Cam Hobhouse.]
[Footnote 3: Preface to the First Edition.]
INTRODUCTION TO ENGLISH BARDS, AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS.
The article upon 'Hours of Idleness' "which Lord Brougham ... after
denying it for thirty years, confessed that he had written" ('Notes from
a Diary', by Sir M. E. Grant Duff, 1897, ii. 189), was published in the
'Edinburgh Review' of January, 1808. 'English Bards, and Scotch
Reviewers' did not appear till March, 1809. The article gave the
opportunity for the publication of the satire, but only in part provoked
its composition. Years later, Byron had not forgotten its effect on his
mind. On April 26, 1821, he wrote to Shelley: "I recollect the effect on
me of the Edinburgh on my first poem: it was rage and resistance and
redress: but not despondency nor despair." And on the same date to
Murray: "I know by experience that a savage review is hemlock to a
sucking author; and the one on me (which produced the 'English Bards',
etc.) knocked me down, but I got up again," etc. It must, however, be
remembered that Byron had his weapons ready for an attack before he used
them in defence. In a letter to Miss Pigot, dated October 26, 1807, he
says that "he has written one poem of 380 lines to be published in a few
weeks with notes. The poem ... is a Satire." It was entitled 'British
Bards', and finally numbered 520 lines. With a view to publication, or
for his own convenience, it was put up in type and printed in quarto
sheets. A single copy, which he kept for corrections and additions, was
preserved by Dallas, and is now in the British Museum. After the review
appeared, he enlarged and recast the 'British Bards', and in March,
1809, the Satire was published anonymously. Byron was at no pains to
conceal the authorship of 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', and,
before starting on his Pilgrimage, he had prepared a second and enlarged
edition, which came out in October, 1809, with his name prefixed. Two
more editions were called for in his absence, and on his return he
revised and printed a fifth, when he suddenly resolved to suppress the
work. On his homeward voyage he expressed, in a letter to Dallas, June
28, 1811, his regret at having written the Satire. A year later he
became intimate, among others, with Lord and Lady Holland, whom he had
assailed on the supposition that they were the instigators of the
article in the 'Edinburgh Review', and on being told by Rogers that they
wished the Satire to be withdrawn, he gave orders to his publisher,
Cawthorn, to burn the whole impression. A few copies escaped the flames.
One of two copies retained by Dallas, which afterwards belonged to
Murray, and is now in his grandson's possession, was the foundation of
the text of 1831, and of all subsequent issues. Another copy which
belonged to Dallas is retained in the British Museum.
Towards the close of the last century there had been an outburst of
satirical poems, written in the style of the 'Dunciad' and its offspring
the 'Rosciad', Of these, Gifford's 'Baviad' and 'Maviad' (1794-5), and
T. J. Mathias' 'Pursuits of Literature' (1794-7), were the direct
progenitors of 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', The 'Rolliad'
(1794), the 'Children of Apollo' (circ. 1794), Canning's 'New Morality'
(1798), and Wolcot's coarse but virile lampoons, must also be reckoned
among Byron's earlier models. The ministry of "All the Talents" gave
rise to a fresh batch of political 'jeux d'ésprits', and in 1807, when
Byron was still at Cambridge, the air was full of these ephemera. To
name only a few, 'All the Talents', by Polypus (Eaton Stannard Barrett),
was answered by 'All the Blocks, an antidote to All the Talents', by
Flagellum (W. H. Ireland); 'Elijah's Mantle, a tribute to the memory of
the R. H. William Pitt', by James Sayer, the caricaturist, provoked
'Melville's Mantle, being a Parody on ... Elijah's Mantle'. 'The
Simpliciad, A Satirico-Didactic Poem', and Lady Anne Hamilton's 'Epics
of the Ton', are also of the same period. One and all have perished, but
Byron read them, and in a greater or less degree they supplied the
impulse to write in the fashion of the day.
'British Bards' would have lived, but, unquestionably, the spur of the
article, a year's delay, and, above all, the advice and criticism of his
friend Hodgson, who was at work on his 'Gentle Alterative for the
Reviewers', 1809 (for further details, see vol. i., 'Letters', Letter
102, 'note' 1), produced the brilliant success of the enlarged satire.
'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers' was recognized at once as a work
of genius. It has intercepted the popularity of its great predecessors,
who are often quoted, but seldom read. It is still a popular poem, and
appeals with fresh delight to readers who know the names of many of the
"bards" only because Byron mentions them, and count others whom he
ridicules among the greatest poets of the century.
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. [1]
Still [2] must I hear?--shall hoarse [3] FITZGERALD bawl
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall,
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Reviews
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my _Muse?_
Prepare for rhyme--I'll publish, right or wrong:
Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song. [i]
Oh! Nature's noblest gift--my grey goose-quill!
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,
That mighty instrument of little men! 10
The pen! foredoomed to aid the mental throes
Of brains that labour, big with Verse or Prose;
Though Nymphs forsake, and Critics may deride,
The Lover's solace, and the Author's pride.
What Wits! what Poets dost thou daily raise!
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise!
Condemned at length to be forgotten quite,
With all the pages which 'twas thine to write.
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen! [ii]
Once laid aside, but now assumed again, 20
Our task complete, like Hamet's [4] shall be free;
Though spurned by others, yet beloved by me:
Then let us soar to-day; no common theme,
No Eastern vision, no distempered dream [5]
Inspires--our path, though full of thorns, is plain;
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.
When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway,
Obey'd by all who nought beside obey; [iii]
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,
Bedecks her cap with bells of every Clime; [iv] 30
When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail,
And weigh their Justice in a Golden Scale; [v]
E'en then the boldest start from public sneers,
Afraid of Shame, unknown to other fears,
More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe,
And shrink from Ridicule, though not from Law.
Such is the force of Wit! I but not belong
To me the arrows of satiric song;
The royal vices of our age demand
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. [vi] 40
Still there are follies, e'en for me to chase,
And yield at least amusement in the race:
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame,
The cry is up, and scribblers are my game:
Speed, Pegasus!--ye strains of great and small,
Ode! Epic! Elegy!--have at you all!
I, too, can scrawl, and once upon a time
I poured along the town a flood of rhyme,
A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame;
I printed--older children do the same. 50
'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print;
A Book's a Book, altho' there's nothing in't.
Not that a Title's sounding charm can save [vii]
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave:
This LAMB [6] must own, since his patrician name
Failed to preserve the spurious Farce from shame. [7]
No matter, GEORGE continues still to write, [8]
Tho' now the name is veiled from public sight.
Moved by the great example, I pursue
The self-same road, but make my own review: 60
Not seek great JEFFREY'S, yet like him will be
Self-constituted Judge of Poesy.
A man must serve his time to every trade
Save Censure--Critics all are ready made.
Take hackneyed jokes from MILLER, [9] got by rote,
With just enough of learning to misquote;
A man well skilled to find, or forge a fault;
A turn for punning--call it Attic salt;
To JEFFREY go, be silent and discreet,
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet: 70
Fear not to lie,'twill seem a _sharper_ hit; [viii]
Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit;
Care not for feeling--pass your proper jest,
And stand a Critic, hated yet caress'd.
And shall we own such judgment? no--as soon
Seek roses in December--ice in June;
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff,
Believe a woman or an epitaph,
Or any other thing that's false, before
You trust in Critics, who themselves are sore; 80
Or yield one single thought to be misled
By JEFFREY'S heart, or LAMB'S Boeotian head. [10]
To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced,
Combined usurpers on the Throne of Taste;
To these, when Authors bend in humble awe,
And hail their voice as Truth, their word as Law;
While these are Censors, 'twould be sin to spare; [11]
While such are Critics, why should I forbear?
But yet, so near all modern worthies run,
'Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun; 90
Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike,
Our Bards and Censors are so much alike.
Then should you ask me, [12] why I venture o'er
The path which POPE and GIFFORD [13] trod before;
If not yet sickened, you can still proceed;
Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read.
"But hold!" exclaims a friend,--"here's some neglect:
This--that--and t'other line seem incorrect."
What then? the self-same blunder Pope has got,
And careless Dryden--"Aye, but Pye has not:"-- 100
Indeed!--'tis granted, faith!--but what care I?
Better to err with POPE, than shine with PYE. [14]
Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days [15]
Ignoble themes obtained mistaken praise,
When Sense and Wit with Poesy allied,
No fabled Graces, flourished side by side,
From the same fount their inspiration drew,
And, reared by Taste, bloomed fairer as they grew.
Then, in this happy Isle, a POPE'S pure strain
Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain; 110
A polished nation's praise aspired to claim,
And raised the people's, as the poet's fame.
Like him great DRYDEN poured the tide of song,
In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong.
Then CONGREVE'S scenes could cheer, or OTWAY'S melt; [16]
For Nature then an English audience felt--
But why these names, or greater still, retrace,
When all to feebler Bards resign their place?
Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast,
When taste and reason with those times are past. 120
Now look around, and turn each trifling page,
Survey the precious works that please the age;
This truth at least let Satire's self allow,
No dearth of Bards can be complained of now. [ix]
The loaded Press beneath her labour groans, [x]
And Printers' devils shake their weary bones;
While SOUTHEY'S Epics cram the creaking shelves, [xi]
And LITTLE'S Lyrics shine in hot-pressed twelves. [17]
Thus saith the _Preacher_: "Nought beneath the sun
Is new," [18] yet still from change to change we run. 130
What varied wonders tempt us as they pass!
The Cow-pox, Tractors, Galvanism, and Gas, [19]
In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare,
Till the swoln bubble bursts--and all is air!
Nor less new schools of Poetry arise,
Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize:
O'er Taste awhile these Pseudo-bards prevail; [xii]
Each country Book-club bows the knee to Baal,
And, hurling lawful Genius from the throne,
Erects a shrine and idol of its own; [xiii] 140
Some leaden calf--but whom it matters not,
From soaring SOUTHEY, down to groveling STOTT. [20]
Behold! in various throngs the scribbling crew,
For notice eager, pass in long review:
Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace,
And Rhyme and Blank maintain an equal race;
Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode;
And Tales of Terror [21] jostle on the road;
Immeasurable measures move along;
For simpering Folly loves a varied song, 150
To strange, mysterious Dulness still the friend,
Admires the strain she cannot comprehend.
Thus Lays of Minstrels [22]--may they be the last!--
On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast.
While mountain spirits prate to river sprites,
That dames may listen to the sound at nights;
And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's [23] brood
Decoy young Border-nobles through the wood,
And skip at every step, Lord knows how high,
And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why; 160
While high-born ladies in their magic cell,
Forbidding Knights to read who cannot spell,
Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave,
And fight with honest men to shield a knave.
Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan,
The golden-crested haughty Marmion,
Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight,
Not quite a Felon, yet but half a Knight. [xiv]
The gibbet or the field prepared to grace;
A mighty mixture of the great and base. 170
And think'st thou, SCOTT! by vain conceit perchance,
On public taste to foist thy stale romance,
Though MURRAY with his MILLER may combine
To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line? [24]
No! when the sons of song descend to trade,
Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade,
Let such forego the poet's sacred name,
Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame:
Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain! [25]
And sadly gaze on Gold they cannot gain! 180
Such be their meed, such still the just reward [xv]
Of prostituted Muse and hireling bard!
For this we spurn Apollo's venal son,
And bid a long "good night to Marmion." [26]
These are the themes that claim our plaudits now;
These are the Bards to whom the Muse must bow;
While MILTON, DRYDEN, POPE, alike forgot,
Resign their hallowed Bays to WALTER SCOTT.
The time has been, when yet the Muse was young,
When HOMER swept the lyre, and MARO sung, 190
An Epic scarce ten centuries could claim,
While awe-struck nations hailed the magic name:
The work of each immortal Bard appears
The single wonder of a thousand years. [27]
Empires have mouldered from the face of earth,
Tongues have expired with those who gave them birth,
Without the glory such a strain can give,
As even in ruin bids the language live.
Not so with us, though minor Bards, content, [xvi]
On one great work a life of labour spent: 200
With eagle pinion soaring to the skies,
Behold the Ballad-monger SOUTHEY rise!
To him let CAMOËNS, MILTON, TASSO yield,
Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field.
First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance,
The scourge of England and the boast of France!
Though burnt by wicked BEDFORD for a witch,
Behold her statue placed in Glory's niche;
Her fetters burst, and just released from prison,
A virgin Phoenix from her ashes risen. 210
Next see tremendous Thalaba come on, [28]
Arabia's monstrous, wild, and wond'rous son;
Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'erthrew
More mad magicians than the world e'er knew.
Immortal Hero! all thy foes o'ercome,
For ever reign--the rival of Tom Thumb! [29]
Since startled Metre fled before thy face,
Well wert thou doomed the last of all thy race!
Well might triumphant Genii bear thee hence,
Illustrious conqueror of common sense! 220
Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails,
Cacique in Mexico, [30] and Prince in Wales;
Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do,
More old than Mandeville's, and not so true.
Oh, SOUTHEY! SOUTHEY! [31] cease thy varied song!
A bard may chaunt too often and too long:
As thou art strong in verse, in mercy, spare!
A fourth, alas! were more than we could bear.
But if, in spite of all the world can say,
Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way; 230
If still in Berkeley-Ballads most uncivil,
Thou wilt devote old women to the devil, [32]
The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue:
"God help thee," SOUTHEY, [33] and thy readers too.
Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, [34]
That mild apostate from poetic rule,
The simple WORDSWORTH, framer of a lay
As soft as evening in his favourite May,
Who warns his friend "to shake off toil and trouble,
And quit his books, for fear of growing double;" [35] 240
Who, both by precept and example, shows
That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose;
Convincing all, by demonstration plain,
Poetic souls delight in prose insane;
And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme
Contain the essence of the true sublime.
Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy,
The idiot mother of "an idiot Boy;"
A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way,
And, like his bard, confounded night with day [36] 250
So close on each pathetic part he dwells,
And each adventure so sublimely tells,
That all who view the "idiot in his glory"
Conceive the Bard the hero of the story.
Shall gentle COLERIDGE pass unnoticed here, [37]
To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear?
Though themes of innocence amuse him best,
Yet still Obscurity's a welcome guest.
If Inspiration should her aid refuse
To him who takes a Pixy for a muse, [38] 260
Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass
The bard who soars to elegize an ass:
So well the subject suits his noble mind, [xvii]
He brays, the Laureate of the long-eared kind. [xviii]
Oh! wonder-working LEWIS! [39] Monk, or Bard,
Who fain would make Parnassus a church-yard! [xix]
Lo! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow,
Thy Muse a Sprite, Apollo's sexton thou!
Whether on ancient tombs thou tak'st thy stand,
By gibb'ring spectres hailed, thy kindred band; 270
Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page,
To please the females of our modest age;
All hail, M.P.! [40] from whose infernal brain
Thin-sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train;
At whose command "grim women" throng in crowds,
And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds,
With "small grey men,"--"wild yagers," and what not,
To crown with honour thee and WALTER SCOTT:
Again, all hail! if tales like thine may please,
St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease: 280
Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell,
And in thy skull discern a deeper Hell.
Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir
Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire,
With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flushed
Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames are hushed?
'Tis LITTLE! young Catullus of his day,
As sweet, but as immoral, in his Lay!
Grieved to condemn, the Muse must still be just,
Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. 290
Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns;
From grosser incense with disgust she turns
Yet kind to youth, this expiation o'er,
She bids thee "mend thy line, and sin no more." [xx]
For thee, translator of the tinsel song,
To whom such glittering ornaments belong,
Hibernian STRANGFORD! with thine eyes of blue, [41]
And boasted locks of red or auburn hue,
Whose plaintive strain each love-sick Miss admires,
And o'er harmonious fustian half expires, [xxi] 300
Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author's sense,
Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence.
Think'st thou to gain thy verse a higher place,
By dressing Camoëns [42] in a suit of lace?
Mend, STRANGFORD! mend thy morals and thy taste;
Be warm, but pure; be amorous, but be chaste:
Cease to deceive; thy pilfered harp restore,
Nor teach the Lusian Bard to copy MOORE.
Behold--Ye Tarts!--one moment spare the text! [xxii]--
HAYLEY'S last work, and worst--until his next; 310
Whether he spin poor couplets into plays,
Or damn the dead with purgatorial praise, [43]
His style in youth or age is still the same,
For ever feeble and for ever tame.
Triumphant first see "Temper's Triumphs" shine!
At least I'm sure they triumphed over mine.
Of "Music's Triumphs," all who read may swear
That luckless Music never triumph'd there. [44]
Moravians, rise! bestow some meet reward [45]
On dull devotion--Lo! the Sabbath Bard, 320
Sepulchral GRAHAME, [46] pours his notes sublime
In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rhyme;
Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke, [xxiii]
And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch;
And, undisturbed by conscientious qualms,
Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms.
Hail, Sympathy! thy soft idea brings" [xxiv]
A thousand visions of a thousand things,
And shows, still whimpering thro' threescore of years, [xxv]
The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers. 330
And art thou not their prince, harmonious Bowles! [47]
Thou first, great oracle of tender souls?
Whether them sing'st with equal ease, and grief, [xxvi]
The fall of empires, or a yellow leaf;
Whether thy muse most lamentably tells
What merry sounds proceed from Oxford bells, [xxvii]
Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend
In every chime that jingled from Ostend;
Ah! how much juster were thy Muse's hap,
If to thy bells thou would'st but add a cap! [xxviii] 340
Delightful BOWLES! still blessing and still blest,
All love thy strain, but children like it best.
'Tis thine, with gentle LITTLE'S moral song,
To soothe the mania of the amorous throng!
With thee our nursery damsels shed their tears,
Ere Miss as yet completes her infant years:
But in her teens thy whining powers are vain;
She quits poor BOWLES for LITTLE'S purer strain.
Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine [xxix]
The lofty numbers of a harp like thine; 350
"Awake a louder and a loftier strain," [48]
Such as none heard before, or will again!
Where all discoveries jumbled from the flood,
Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud,
By more or less, are sung in every book,
From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook.
Nor this alone--but, pausing on the road,
The Bard sighs forth a gentle episode, [xxx] [49]
And gravely tells--attend, each beauteous Miss!--
When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. 360
Bowles! in thy memory let this precept dwell,
Stick to thy Sonnets, Man!--at least they sell.
But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe,
Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a scribe:
If 'chance some bard, though once by dunces feared,
Now, prone in dust, can only be revered;
If Pope, whose fame and genius, from the first, [xxxi]
Have foiled the best of critics, needs the worst,
Do thou essay: each fault, each failing scan;
The first of poets was, alas! but man. 370
Rake from each ancient dunghill ev'ry pearl,
Consult Lord Fanny, and confide in CURLL; [50]
Let all the scandals of a former age
Perch on thy pen, and flutter o'er thy page;
Affect a candour which thou canst not feel,
Clothe envy in a garb of honest zeal;
Write, as if St. John's soul could still inspire,
And do from hate what MALLET [51] did for hire.
Oh! hadst thou lived in that congenial time,
To rave with DENNIS, and with RALPH to rhyme; [52] 380
Thronged with the rest around his living head,
Not raised thy hoof against the lion dead,
A meet reward had crowned thy glorious gains,
And linked thee to the Dunciad for thy pains. [53]
Another Epic! Who inflicts again
More books of blank upon the sons of men?
Boeotian COTTLE, rich Bristowa's boast,
Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast,
And sends his goods to market--all alive!
Lines forty thousand, Cantos twenty-five! 390
Fresh fish from Hippocrene! [54] who'll buy? who'll buy?
The precious bargain's cheap--in faith, not I.
Your turtle-feeder's verse must needs be flat, [xxxii]
Though Bristol bloat him with the verdant fat;
If Commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brain,
And AMOS COTTLE strikes the Lyre in vain.
In him an author's luckless lot behold!
Condemned to make the books which once he sold.
Oh, AMOS COTTLE!--Phoebus! what a name
To fill the speaking-trump of future fame!-- 400
Oh, AMOS COTTLE! for a moment think
What meagre profits spring from pen and ink!
When thus devoted to poetic dreams,
Who will peruse thy prostituted reams?
Oh! pen perverted! paper misapplied!
Had COTTLE [55] still adorned the counter's side,
Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils,
Been taught to make the paper which he soils,
Ploughed, delved, or plied the oar with lusty limb,
He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him. 410
As Sisyphus against the infernal steep
Rolls the huge rock whose motions ne'er may sleep,
So up thy hill, ambrosial Richmond! heaves
Dull MAURICE [56] all his granite weight of leaves:
Smooth, solid monuments of mental pain!
The petrifactions of a plodding brain,
That, ere they reach the top, fall lumbering back again.
With broken lyre and cheek serenely pale,
Lo! sad Alcæus wanders down the vale;
Though fair they rose, and might have bloomed at last, 420
His hopes have perished by the northern blast:
Nipped in the bud by Caledonian gales,
His blossoms wither as the blast prevails!
O'er his lost works let _classic_ SHEFFIELD weep;
May no rude hand disturb their early sleep! [57]
Yet say! why should the Bard, at once, resign [xxxiii]
His claim to favour from the sacred Nine?
For ever startled by the mingled howl
Of Northern Wolves, that still in darkness prowl;
A coward Brood, which mangle as they prey, 430
By hellish instinct, all that cross their way;
Aged or young, the living or the dead," [xxxiv]
No mercy find-these harpies must be fed.
Why do the injured unresisting yield
The calm possession of their native field?
Why tamely thus before their fangs retreat,
Nor hunt the blood-hounds back to Arthur's Seat? [58]
Health to immortal JEFFREY! once, in name,
England could boast a judge almost the same; [59]
In soul so like, so merciful, yet just, 440
Some think that Satan has resigned his trust,
And given the Spirit to the world again,
To sentence Letters, as he sentenced men.
With hand less mighty, but with heart as black,
With voice as willing to decree the rack;
Bred in the Courts betimes, though all that law
As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw,--
Since well instructed in the patriot school
To rail at party, though a party tool--
Who knows? if chance his patrons should restore 450
Back to the sway they forfeited before,
His scribbling toils some recompense may meet,
And raise this Daniel to the Judgment-Seat. [60]
Let JEFFREY'S shade indulge the pious hope,
And greeting thus, present him with a rope:
"Heir to my virtues! man of equal mind!
Skilled to condemn as to traduce mankind,
This cord receive! for thee reserved with care,
To wield in judgment, and at length to wear."
Health to great JEFFREY! Heaven preserve his life, 460
To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife,
And guard it sacred in its future wars,
Since authors sometimes seek the field of Mars!
Can none remember that eventful day, [xxxv] [61]
That ever-glorious, almost fatal fray,
When LITTLE'S leadless pistol met his eye, [62]
And Bow-street Myrmidons stood laughing by?
Oh, day disastrous! on her firm-set rock,
Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock;
Dark rolled the sympathetic waves of Forth, 470
Low groaned the startled whirlwinds of the north;
TWEED ruffled half his waves to form a tear,
The other half pursued his calm career; [63]
ARTHUR'S steep summit nodded to its base,
The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place.
The Tolbooth felt--for marble sometimes can,
On such occasions, feel as much as man--
The Tolbooth felt defrauded of his charms,
If JEFFREY died, except within her arms: [64]
Nay last, not least, on that portentous morn, 480
The sixteenth story, where himself was born,
His patrimonial garret, fell to ground,
And pale Edina shuddered at the sound:
Strewed were the streets around with milk-white reams,
Flowed all the Canongate with inky streams;
This of his candour seemed the sable dew,
That of his valour showed the bloodless hue;
And all with justice deemed the two combined
The mingled emblems of his mighty mind.
But Caledonia's goddess hovered o'er 490
The field, and saved him from the wrath of Moore;
From either pistol snatched the vengeful lead,
And straight restored it to her favourite's head;
That head, with greater than magnetic power,
Caught it, as Danäe caught the golden shower,
And, though the thickening dross will scarce refine,
Augments its ore, and is itself a mine.
"My son," she cried, "ne'er thirst for gore again,
Resign the pistol and resume the pen;
O'er politics and poesy preside, 500
Boast of thy country, and Britannia's guide!
For long as Albion's heedless sons submit,
Or Scottish taste decides on English wit,
So long shall last thine unmolested reign,
Nor any dare to take thy name in vain.
Behold, a chosen band shall aid thy plan,
And own thee chieftain of the critic clan.
First in the oat-fed phalanx [65] shall be seen
The travelled Thane, Athenian Aberdeen. [66]
HERBERT shall wield THOR'S hammer, [67] and sometimes 510
In gratitude, thou'lt praise his rugged rhymes.
Smug SYDNEY [68] too thy bitter page shall seek,
And classic HALLAM, [69] much renowned for Greek;
SCOTT may perchance his name and influence lend,
And paltry PILLANS [70] shall traduce his friend;
While gay Thalia's luckless votary, LAMB, [xxxvi] [71]
Damned like the Devil--Devil-like will damn.
Known be thy name! unbounded be thy sway!
Thy HOLLAND'S banquets shall each toil repay!
While grateful Britain yields the praise she owes 520
To HOLLAND'S hirelings and to Learning's foes.
Yet mark one caution ere thy next Review
Spread its light wings of Saffron and of Blue,
Beware lest blundering BROUGHAM [72] destroy the sale,
Turn Beef to Bannocks, Cauliflowers to Kail."
Thus having said, the kilted Goddess kist
Her son, and vanished in a Scottish mist. [73]
Then prosper, JEFFREY! pertest of the train [74]
Whom Scotland pampers with her fiery grain!
Whatever blessing waits a genuine Scot, 530
In double portion swells thy glorious lot;
For thee Edina culls her evening sweets,
And showers their odours on thy candid sheets,
Whose Hue and Fragrance to thy work adhere--
This scents its pages, and that gilds its rear. [75]
Lo! blushing Itch, coy nymph, enamoured grown,
Forsakes the rest, and cleaves to thee alone,
And, too unjust to other Pictish men,
Enjoys thy person, and inspires thy pen!
Illustrious HOLLAND! hard would be his lot, 540
His hirelings mentioned, and himself forgot! [76]
HOLLAND, with HENRY PETTY [77] at his back,
The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack.
Blest be the banquets spread at Holland House,
Where Scotchmen feed, and Critics may carouse!
Long, long beneath that hospitable roof [xxxvii]
Shall Grub-street dine, while duns are kept aloof.
See honest HALLAM [78] lay aside his fork,
Resume his pen, review his Lordship's work,
And, grateful for the dainties on his plate, [xxxviii] 550
Declare his landlord can at least translate! [79]
Dunedin! view thy children with delight,
They write for food--and feed because they write: [xxxix]
And lest, when heated with the unusual grape,
Some glowing thoughts should to the press escape,
And tinge with red the female reader's cheek,
My lady skims the cream of each critique;
Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul,
Reforms each error, and refines the whole. [80]
Now to the Drama turn--Oh! motley sight! 560
What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite:
Puns, and a Prince within a barrel pent, [xl] [81]
And Dibdin's nonsense yield complete content. [82]
Though now, thank Heaven! the Rosciomania's o'er. [83]
And full-grown actors are endured once more;
Yet what avail their vain attempts to please,
While British critics suffer scenes like these;
While REYNOLDS vents his "'dammes!'" "poohs!" and
"zounds!" [xli] [84]
And common-place and common sense confounds?
While KENNEY'S [85] "World"--ah! where is KENNEY'S wit? [xlii]-- 570
Tires the sad gallery, lulls the listless Pit;
And BEAUMONT'S pilfered Caratach affords
A tragedy complete in all but words? [xliii]
Who but must mourn, while these are all the rage
The degradation of our vaunted stage?
Heavens! is all sense of shame and talent gone?
Have we no living Bard of merit?--none?
Awake, GEORGE COLMAN! [86] CUMBERLAND, awake![87]
Ring the alarum bell! let folly quake!
Oh! SHERIDAN! if aught can move thy pen, 580
Let Comedy assume her throne again; [xliv]
Abjure the mummery of German schools;
Leave new Pizarros to translating fools; [88]
Give, as thy last memorial to the age,
One classic drama, and reform the stage.
Gods! o'er those boards shall Folly rear her head,
Where GARRICK trod, and SIDDONS lives to tread? [xlv] [89]
On those shall Farce display buffoonery's mask,
And HOOK conceal his heroes in a cask? [90]
Shall sapient managers new scenes produce 590
From CHERRY, [91] SKEFFINGTON, [92] and Mother GOOSE? [xlvi] [93]
While SHAKESPEARE, OTWAY, MASSINGER, forgot,
On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot?
Lo! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim
The rival candidates for Attic fame!
In grim array though LEWIS' spectres rise,
Still SKEFFINGTON and GOOSE divide the prize.
And sure 'great' Skeffington must claim our praise,
For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays
Renowned alike; whose genius ne'er confines 600
Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay designs; [xlvii] [94]
Nor sleeps with "Sleeping Beauties," but anon
In five facetious acts comes thundering on.
While poor John Bull, bewildered with the scene,
Stares, wondering what the devil it can mean;
But as some hands applaud, a venal few!
Rather than sleep, why John applauds it too.
Such are we now. Ah! wherefore should we turn
To what our fathers were, unless to mourn?
Degenerate Britons! are ye dead to shame, 610
Or, kind to dulness, do you fear to blame?
Well may the nobles of our present race
Watch each distortion of a NALDI'S face;
Well may they smile on Italy's buffoons,
And worship CATALANI's pantaloons, [95]
Since their own Drama yields no fairer trace
Of wit than puns, of humour than grimace. [96]
Then let Ausonia, skill'd in every art
To soften manners, but corrupt the heart,
Pour her exotic follies o'er the town, 620
To sanction Vice, and hunt Decorum down:
Let wedded strumpets languish o'er DESHAYES,
And bless the promise which his form displays;
While Gayton bounds before th' enraptured looks
Of hoary Marquises, and stripling Dukes:
Let high-born lechers eye the lively Presle
Twirl her light limbs, that spurn the needless veil;
Let Angiolini bare her breast of snow,
Wave the white arm, and point the pliant toe;
Collini trill her love-inspiring song, 630
Strain her fair neck, and charm the listening throng!
Whet [97] not your scythe, Suppressors of our Vice!
Reforming Saints! too delicately nice!
By whose decrees, our sinful souls to save,
No Sunday tankards foam, no barbers shave;
And beer undrawn, and beards unmown, display
Your holy reverence for the Sabbath-day.
Or hail at once the patron and the pile
Of vice and folly, Greville and Argyle! [98]
Where yon proud palace, Fashion's hallow'd fane, 640
Spreads wide her portals for the motley train,
Behold the new Petronius [99] of the day, [xlviii]
Our arbiter of pleasure and of play!
There the hired eunuch, the Hesperian choir,
The melting lute, the soft lascivious lyre,
The song from Italy, the step from France,
The midnight orgy, and the mazy dance,
The smile of beauty, and the flush of wine,
For fops, fools, gamesters, knaves, and Lords combine:
Each to his humour--Comus all allows; 650
Champaign, dice, music, or your neighbour's spouse.
Talk not to us, ye starving sons of trade!
Of piteous ruin, which ourselves have made;
In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask,
Nor think of Poverty, except "en masque," [100]
When for the night some lately titled ass
Appears the beggar which his grandsire was,
The curtain dropped, the gay Burletta o'er,
The audience take their turn upon the floor:
Now round the room the circling dow'gers sweep, 660
Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters leap;
The first in lengthened line majestic swim,
The last display the free unfettered limb!
Those for Hibernia's lusty sons repair
With art the charms which Nature could not spare;
These after husbands wing their eager flight,
Nor leave much mystery for the nuptial night.
Oh! blest retreats of infamy and ease,
Where, all forgotten but the power to please,
Each maid may give a loose to genial thought, 670
Each swain may teach new systems, or be taught:
There the blithe youngster, just returned from Spain,
Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main;
The jovial Caster's set, and seven's the Nick,
Or--done!--a thousand on the coming trick!
If, mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire,
And all your hope or wish is to expire,
Here's POWELL'S [101] pistol ready for your life,
And, kinder still, two PAGETS for your wife: [xlix]
Fit consummation of an earthly race 680
Begun in folly, ended in disgrace,
While none but menials o'er the bed of death,
Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy wavering breath;
Traduced by liars, and forgot by all,
The mangled victim of a drunken brawl,
To live like CLODIUS, [102] and like FALKLAND fall.[103]
Truth! rouse some genuine Bard, and guide his hand
To drive this pestilence from out the land.
E'en I--least thinking of a thoughtless throng,
Just skilled to know the right and choose the wrong, 690
Freed at that age when Reason's shield is lost,
To fight my course through Passion's countless host, [104]
Whom every path of Pleasure's flow'ry way
Has lured in turn, and all have led astray--
E'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel
Such scenes, such men, destroy the public weal:
Altho' some kind, censorious friend will say,
"What art thou better, meddling fool, [105] than they?"
And every Brother Rake will smile to see
That miracle, a Moralist in me. 700
No matter--when some Bard in virtue strong,
Gifford perchance, shall raise the chastening song,
Then sleep my pen for ever! and my voice
Be only heard to hail him, and rejoice,
Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise, though I
May feel the lash that Virtue must apply.
As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals
From silly HAFIZ up to simple BOWLES, [106]
Why should we call them from their dark abode,
In Broad St. Giles's or Tottenham-Road? 710
Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare
To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street or the Square? [l]
If things of Ton their harmless lays indite,
Most wisely doomed to shun the public sight,
What harm? in spite of every critic elf,
Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself;
MILES ANDREWS [107] still his strength in couplets try,
And live in prologues, though his dramas die.
Lords too are Bards: such things at times befall,
And 'tis some praise in Peers to write at all. 720
Yet, did or Taste or Reason sway the times,
Ah! who would take their titles with their rhymes? [108]
ROSCOMMON! [109] SHEFFIELD! [110] with your spirits fled, [111]
No future laurels deck a noble head;
No Muse will cheer, with renovating smile,
The paralytic puling of CARLISLE. [li] [112]
The puny schoolboy and his early lay
Men pardon, if his follies pass away;
But who forgives the Senior's ceaseless verse,
Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow worse? 730
What heterogeneous honours deck the Peer!
Lord, rhymester, petit-maître, pamphleteer! [113]
So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age,
His scenes alone had damned our sinking stage;
But Managers for once cried, "Hold, enough!"
Nor drugged their audience with the tragic stuff.
Yet at their judgment let his Lordship laugh, [lii]
And case his volumes in congenial calf;
Yes! doff that covering, where Morocco shines,
And hang a calf-skin on those recreant lines. [114] 740
With you, ye Druids! rich in native lead,
Who daily scribble for your daily bread:
With you I war not: GIFFORD'S heavy hand
Has crushed, without remorse, your numerous band.
On "All the Talents" vent your venal spleen; [115]
Want is your plea, let Pity be your screen.
Let Monodies on Fox regale your crew,
And Melville's Mantle [116] prove a Blanket too!
One common Lethe waits each hapless Bard,
And, peace be with you! 'tis your best reward. 750
Such damning fame; as Dunciads only give [liii]
Could bid your lines beyond a morning live;
But now at once your fleeting labours close,
With names of greater note in blest repose.
Far be't from me unkindly to upbraid
The lovely ROSA'S prose in masquerade,
Whose strains, the faithful echoes of her mind,
Leave wondering comprehension far behind. [117]
Though Crusca's bards no more our journals fill, [118]
Some stragglers skirmish round the columns still; 760
Last of the howling host which once was Bell's, [liv]
Matilda snivels yet, and Hafiz yells;
And Merry's [119] metaphors appear anew,
Chained to the signature of O. P. Q. [120]
When some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall,
Employs a pen less pointed than his awl,
Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of shoes,
St. Crispin quits, and cobbles for the Muse,
Heavens! how the vulgar stare! how crowds applaud!
How ladies read, and Literati laud! [121] 770
If chance some wicked wag should pass his jest,
'Tis sheer ill-nature--don't the world know best?
Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme,
And CAPEL LOFFT [122] declares 'tis quite sublime.
Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade!
Swains! quit the plough, resign the useless spade!
Lo! BURNS and BLOOMFIELD, nay, a greater far,
GIFFORD was born beneath an adverse star,
Forsook the labours of a servile state,
Stemmed the rude storm, and triumphed over Fate: 780
Then why no more? if Phoebus smiled on you,
BLOOMFIELD! why not on brother Nathan too? [123]
Him too the Mania, not the Muse, has seized;
Not inspiration, but a mind diseased:
And now no Boor can seek his last abode,
No common be inclosed without an ode.
Oh! since increased refinement deigns to smile
On Britain's sons, and bless our genial Isle,
Let Poesy go forth, pervade the whole,
Alike the rustic, and mechanic soul! 790
Ye tuneful cobblers! still your notes prolong,
Compose at once a slipper and a song;
So shall the fair your handywork peruse,
Your sonnets sure shall please--perhaps your shoes.
May Moorland weavers [124] boast Pindaric skill,
And tailors' lays be longer than their bill!
While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes,
And pay for poems--when they pay for coats.
To the famed throng now paid the tribute due, [lv]
Neglected Genius! let me turn to you. 800
Come forth, oh CAMPBELL! give thy talents scope;
Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope?
And thou, melodious ROGERS! rise at last,
Recall the pleasing memory of the past; [125]
Arise! let blest remembrance still inspire,
And strike to wonted tones thy hallowed lyre;
Restore Apollo to his vacant throne,
Assert thy country's honour and thine own.
What! must deserted Poesy still weep
Where her last hopes with pious COWPER sleep? 810
Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she turns,
To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, BURNS!
No! though contempt hath marked the spurious brood,
The race who rhyme from folly, or for food,
Yet still some genuine sons 'tis hers to boast,
Who, least affecting, still affect the most: [lvi]
Feel as they write, and write but as they feel--
Bear witness GIFFORD, [126] SOTHEBY, [127] MACNEIL. [128]
"Why slumbers GIFFORD?" once was asked in vain;
Why slumbers GIFFORD? let us ask again. [129] 820
Are there no follies for his pen to purge?
Are there no fools whose backs demand the scourge?
Are there no sins for Satire's Bard to greet?
Stalks not gigantic Vice in every street?
Shall Peers or Princes tread pollution's path,
And 'scape alike the Laws and Muse's wrath?
Nor blaze with guilty glare through future time,
Eternal beacons of consummate crime?
Arouse thee, GIFFORD! be thy promise claimed,
Make bad men better, or at least ashamed. 830
Unhappy WHITE! [130] while life was in its spring,
And thy young Muse just waved her joyous wing,
The Spoiler swept that soaring Lyre away, [lvii] [131]
Which else had sounded an immortal lay.
Oh! what a noble heart was here undone,
When Science' self destroyed her favourite son!
Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit,
She sowed the seeds, but Death has reaped the fruit.
'Twas thine own Genius gave the final blow,
And helped to plant the wound that laid thee low: 840
So the struck Eagle, stretched upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart,
And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart;
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel
He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel;
While the same plumage that had warmed his nest
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.
There be who say, in these enlightened days,
That splendid lies are all the poet's praise; 850
That strained Invention, ever on the wing,
Alone impels the modern Bard to sing:
Tis true, that all who rhyme--nay, all who write,
Shrink from that fatal word to Genius--Trite;
Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires,
And decorate the verse herself inspires:
This fact in Virtue's name let CRABBE [132] attest;
Though Nature's sternest Painter, yet the best.
And here let SHEE [133] and Genius find a place,
Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace; 860
To guide whose hand the sister Arts combine,
And trace the Poet's or the Painter's line;
Whose magic touch can bid the canvas glow,
Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow;
While honours, doubly merited, attend [lviii]
The Poet's rival, but the Painter's friend.
Blest is the man who dares approach the bower
Where dwelt the Muses at their natal hour;
Whose steps have pressed, whose eye has marked afar,
The clime that nursed the sons of song and war, 870
The scenes which Glory still must hover o'er,
Her place of birth, her own Achaian shore.
But doubly blest is he whose heart expands
With hallowed feelings for those classic lands;
Who rends the veil of ages long gone by,
And views their remnants with a poet's eye!
WRIGHT! [134] 'twas thy happy lot at once to view
Those shores of glory, and to sing them too;
And sure no common Muse inspired thy pen
To hail the land of Gods and Godlike men. 880
And you, associate Bards! [135] who snatched to light [lvix]
Those gems too long withheld from modern sight;
Whose mingling taste combined to cull the wreath
While Attic flowers Aonian odours breathe,
And all their renovated fragrance flung,
To grace the beauties of your native tongue;
Now let those minds, that nobly could transfuse
The glorious Spirit of the Grecian Muse,
Though soft the echo, scorn a borrowed tone: [lx]
Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. 890
Let these, or such as these, with just applause, [lxi]
Restore the Muse's violated laws;
But not in flimsy DARWIN'S [136] pompous chime, [lxii]
That mighty master of unmeaning rhyme,
Whose gilded cymbals, more adorned than clear,
The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear,
In show the simple lyre could once surpass,
But now, worn down, appear in native brass;
While all his train of hovering sylphs around
Evaporate in similes and sound: 900
Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die:
False glare attracts, but more offends the eye. [137]
Yet let them not to vulgar WORDSWORTH [138] stoop,
The meanest object of the lowly group,
Whose verse, of all but childish prattle void,
Seems blessed harmony to LAMB and LLOYD: [139]
Let them--but hold, my Muse, nor dare to teach
A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach:
The native genius with their being given
Will point the path, and peal their notes to heaven. 910
And thou, too, SCOTT! [140] resign to minstrels rude
The wilder Slogan of a Border feud:
Let others spin their meagre lines for hire;
Enough for Genius, if itself inspire!
Let SOUTHEY sing, altho' his teeming muse, [lxiii]
Prolific every spring, be too profuse;
Let simple WORDSWORTH [141] chime his childish verse,
And brother COLERIDGE lull the babe at nurse [lxiv]
Let Spectre-mongering LEWIS aim, at most, [lxv]
To rouse the Galleries, or to raise a ghost; 920
Let MOORE still sigh; let STRANGFORD steal from MOORE, [lxvi]
And swear that CAMOËNS sang such notes of yore;
Let HAYLEY hobble on, MONTGOMERY rave,
And godly GRAHAME chant a stupid stave;
Let sonneteering BOWLES [142] his strains refine,
And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line;
Let STOTT, CARLISLE, [143] MATILDA, and the rest
Of Grub Street, and of Grosvenor Place the best,
Scrawl on, 'till death release us from the strain,
Or Common Sense assert her rights again; 930
But Thou, with powers that mock the aid of praise,
Should'st leave to humbler Bards ignoble lays:
Thy country's voice, the voice of all the Nine,
Demand a hallowed harp--that harp is thine.
Say! will not Caledonia's annals yield
The glorious record of some nobler field,
Than the vile foray of a plundering clan,
Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man?
Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food
For SHERWOOD'S outlaw tales of ROBIN HOOD? [lxvii] 940
Scotland! still proudly claim thy native Bard,
And be thy praise his first, his best reward!
Yet not with thee alone his name should live,
But own the vast renown a world can give;
Be known, perchance, when Albion is no more,
And tell the tale of what she was before;
To future times her faded fame recall,
And save her glory, though his country fall.
Yet what avails the sanguine Poet's hope,
To conquer ages, and with time to cope? 950
New eras spread their wings, new nations rise,
And other Victors fill th' applauding skies; [144]
A few brief generations fleet along,
Whose sons forget the Poet and his song:
E'en now, what once-loved Minstrels scarce may claim
The transient mention of a dubious name!
When Fame's loud trump hath blown its noblest blast,
Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last;
And glory, like the Phoenix [145] midst her fires,
Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires. 960
Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons,
Expert in science, more expert at puns?
Shall these approach the Muse? ah, no! she flies,
Even from the tempting ore of Seaton's prize; [lxviii]
Though Printers condescend the press to soil
With rhyme by HOARE, [146] and epic blank by HOYLE: [lxix] [147]
Not him whose page, if still upheld by whist,
Requires no sacred theme to bid us list. [148]
Ye! who in Granta's honours would surpass,
Must mount her Pegasus, a full-grown ass; 970
A foal well worthy of her ancient Dam,
Whose Helicon [149] is duller than her Cam. [lxx]
There CLARKE, [150] still striving piteously "to please," [lxxi]
Forgetting doggerel leads not to degrees,
A would-be satirist, a hired Buffoon,
A monthly scribbler of some low Lampoon, [151]
Condemned to drudge, the meanest of the mean,
And furbish falsehoods for a magazine,
Devotes to scandal his congenial mind;
Himself a living libel on mankind. 980
Oh! dark asylum of a Vandal race! [152]
At once the boast of learning, and disgrace!
So lost to Phoebus, that nor Hodgson's [153] verse
Can make thee better, nor poor Hewson's [154] worse. [lxxii]
But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave,
The partial Muse delighted loves to lave;
On her green banks a greener wreath she wove, [lxxiii]
To crown the Bards that haunt her classic grove;
Where RICHARDS wakes a genuine poet's fires,
And modern Britons glory in their Sires. [155] [lxxiv] 990
For me, who, thus unasked, have dared to tell
My country, what her sons should know too well, [lxxv]
Zeal for her honour bade me here engage [lxxvi]
The host of idiots that infest her age;
No just applause her honoured name shall lose,
As first in freedom, dearest to the Muse.
Oh! would thy bards but emulate thy fame,
And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name!
What Athens was in science, Rome in power,
What Tyre appeared in her meridian hour, 1000
'Tis thine at once, fair Albion! to have been--
Earth's chief Dictatress, Ocean's lovely Queen: [lxxvii]
But Rome decayed, and Athens strewed the plain,
And Tyre's proud piers lie shattered in the main;
Like these, thy strength may sink, in ruin hurled, [lxxviii]
And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world.
But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's fate,
With warning ever scoffed at, till too late;
To themes less lofty still my lay confine,
And urge thy Bards to gain a name like thine. [156] 1010
Then, hapless Britain! be thy rulers blest,
The senate's oracles, the people's jest!
Still hear thy motley orators dispense
The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense,
While CANNING'S colleagues hate him for his wit,
And old dame PORTLAND [157] fills the place of PITT.
Yet once again, adieu! ere this the sail
That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale;
And Afric's coast and Calpe's adverse height, [158]
And Stamboul's minarets must greet my sight: 1020
Thence shall I stray through Beauty's native clime, [159]
Where Kaff [160] is clad in rocks, and crowned with snows sublime.
But should I back return, no tempting press [lxxix]
Shall drag my Journal from the desk's recess;
Let coxcombs, printing as they come from far,
Snatch his own wreath of Ridicule from Carr;
Let ABERDEEN and ELGIN [161] still pursue
The shade of fame through regions of Virtù;
Waste useless thousands on their Phidian freaks,
Misshapen monuments and maimed antiques; 1030
And make their grand saloons a general mart
For all the mutilated blocks of art:
Of Dardan tours let Dilettanti tell,
I leave topography to rapid [162] GELL; [163]
And, quite content, no more shall interpose
To stun the public ear--at least with Prose. [lxxx]
Thus far I've held my undisturbed career,
Prepared for rancour, steeled 'gainst selfish fear;
This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdained to own--
Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown: 1040
My voice was heard again, though not so loud,
My page, though nameless, never disavowed;
And now at once I tear the veil away:--
Cheer on the pack! the Quarry stands at bay,
Unscared by all the din of MELBOURNE house, [164]
By LAMB'S resentment, or by HOLLAND'S spouse,
By JEFFREY'S harmless pistol, HALLAM'S rage,
Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page.
Our men in buckram shall have blows enough,
And feel they too are "penetrable stuff:" 1050
And though I hope not hence unscathed to go,
Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe.
The time hath been, when no harsh sound would fall
From lips that now may seem imbued with gall;
Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise
The meanest thing that crawled beneath my eyes:
But now, so callous grown, so changed since youth,
I've learned to think, and sternly speak the truth;
Learned to deride the critic's starch decree,
And break him on the wheel he meant for me; 1060
To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss,
Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss:
Nay more, though all my rival rhymesters frown,
I too can hunt a Poetaster down;
And, armed in proof, the gauntlet cast at once
To Scotch marauder, and to Southern dunce.
Thus much I've dared; if my incondite lay [lxxx]
Hath wronged these righteous times, let others say:
This, let the world, which knows not how to spare,
Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare. [165] 1070
[Footnote 1: "The 'binding' of this volume is considerably too valuable
for the contents. Nothing but the consideration of its being the
property of another, prevents me from consigning this miserable record
of misplaced anger and indiscriminate acrimony to the flames."--B.,
1816.]
[Footnote 2: IMITATION.
"Semper ego auditor tantum? nunquamne reponam,
Vexatus toties, rauci Theseide Codri?"
JUVENAL, 'Satire I'.l. 1.]
[Footnote 3: "'Hoarse Fitzgerald'.--"Right enough; but why notice such
a mountebank?"--B., 1816.
Mr. Fitzgerald, facetiously termed by Cobbett the "Small Beer Poet,"
inflicts his annual tribute of verse on the Literary Fund: not content
with writing, he spouts in person, after the company have imbibed a
reasonable quantity of bad port, to enable them to sustain the
operation.
[William Thomas Fitzgerald (circ. 1759-1829) played the part of
unofficial poet laureate. His loyal recitations were reported by the
newspapers. He published, 'inter alia', 'Nelson's Triumph' (1798),
'Tears of Hibernia, dispelled by the Union' (1802), and 'Nelson's Tomb'
(1806). He owes his fame to the first line of 'English Bards', and the
famous parody in 'Rejected Addresses'. The following 'jeux désprits'
were transcribed by R. C. Dallas on a blank leaf of a copy of the Fifth
Edition:--
"Written on a copy of 'English Bards' at the 'Alfred' by W. T.
Fitzgerald, Esq.--
I find Lord Byron scorns my Muse,
Our Fates are ill agreed;
The Verse is safe, I can't abuse
Those lines, I never read.
Signed W. T. F."
Answer written on the same page by Lord Byron--
"What's writ on me," cries Fitz, "I never read"!
What's writ by thee, dear Fitz, none will, indeed.
The case stands simply thus, then, honest Fitz,
Thou and thine enemies are fairly quits;
Or rather would be, if for time to come,
They luckily were 'deaf', or thou wert dumb;
But to their pens while scribblers add their tongues.
The Waiter only can escape their lungs. [A]]
{Sub-Footnote 0.1: Compare 'Hints from Horace', l. 808, 'note' 1.}
[Footnote 4: Cid Hamet Benengeli promises repose to his pen, in the last
chapter of 'Don Quixote'. Oh! that our voluminous gentry would follow
the example of Cid Hamet Benengeli!]
[Footnote 5: "This must have been written in the spirit of prophecy."
(B., 1816.)]
[Footnote 6: "He's a very good fellow; and, except his mother and
sister, the best of the set, to my mind."--B., 1816. [William
(1779-1848) and George (1784-1834) Lamb, sons of Sir Peniston Lamb
(Viscount Melbourne, 1828), by Elizabeth, only daughter of Sir Ralph
Milbanke, were Lady Byron's first cousins. William married, in 1805,
Lady Caroline Ponsonby, the writer of 'Glenarvon'. George, who was one
of the early contributors to the 'Edinburgh Review', married in 1809
Caroline Rosalie Adelaide St. Jules. At the time of the separation, Lady
Caroline Lamb and Mrs. George Lamb warmly espoused Lady Byron's cause,
Lady Melbourne and her daughter Lady Cowper (afterwards Lady Palmerston)
were rather against than for Lady Byron. William Lamb was discreetly
silent, and George Lamb declaimed against Lady Byron, calling her a
d----d fool. Hence Lord Byron's praises of George. Cf. line 517 of
'English Bards'.]
[Footnote 7: This ingenuous youth is mentioned more particularly, with
his production, in another place. ('Vide post', l. 516.)
"Spurious Brat" [see variant ii. p. 300], that is the farce; the
ingenuous youth who begat it is mentioned more particularly with his
offspring in another place. ['Note. MS. M.'] [The farce 'Whistle for It'
was performed two or three times at Covent Garden Theatre in 1807.]
[Footnote 8: In the 'Edinburgh Review'.]
[Footnote 9: The proverbial "Joe" Miller, an actor by profession
(1684-1738), was a man of no education, and is said to have been unable
to read. His reputation rests mainly on the book of jests compiled after
his death, and attributed to him by John Mottley. (First Edition. T.
Read. 1739.)]
[Footnote 10: Messrs. Jeffrey and Lamb are the alpha and omega, the
first and last of the 'Edinburgh Review'; the others are mentioned
hereafter.
[The MS. Note is as follows:--"Of the young gentlemen who write in the
'E.R.', I have now named the alpha and omega, the first and the last,
the best and the worst. The intermediate members are designated with due
honour hereafter."]
"This was not just. Neither the heart nor the head of these gentlemen
are at all what they are here represented. At the time this was written,
I was personally unacquainted with either."--B., 1816.
[Francis Jeffrey (1773-1850) founded the 'Edinburgh Review' in
conjunction with Sydney Smith, Brougham, and Francis Horner, in 1802. In
1803 he succeeded Smith as editor, and conducted the 'Review' till 1829.
Independence of publishers and high pay to contributors ("Ten guineas a
sheet," writes Southey to Scott, June, 1807, "instead of seven pounds
for the 'Annual'," 'Life and Corr'., iii. 125) distinguished the new
journal from the first. Jeffrey was called to the Scottish bar in 1794,
and as an advocate was especially successful with juries. He was
constantly employed, and won fame and fortune. In 1829 he was elected
Dean of the Faculty of Advocates, and the following year, when the Whigs
came into office, he became Lord Advocate. He sat as M.P. twice for
Malton (1830-1832), and, afterwards, for Edinburgh. In 1834 he was
appointed a Judge of the Court of Sessions, when he took the title of
Lord Jeffrey. Byron had attacked Jeffrey in British Bards before his
'Hours of Idleness' had been cut up by the 'Edinburgh', and when the
article appeared (Jan. 1808), under the mistaken impression that he was
the author, denounced him at large (ll. 460-528) in the first edition of
'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers'. None the less, the great critic
did not fail to do ample justice to the poet's mature work, and won from
him repeated acknowledgments of his kindness and generosity. (See
'Edinburgh Review', vol. xxii. p. 416, and Byron's comment in his
'Diary' for March 20,1814; 'Life', p. 232. See, too, 'Hints from
Horace', ll. 589-626; and 'Don Juan', canto x. st. 11-16, and canto xii.
st. 16. See also Bagehot's 'Literary Studies', vol. i. article I.)]
[Footnote 11: IMITATION.
"Stulta est dementia, cum tot ubique
------occurras perituræ parcere chartæ."
JUVENAL, 'Sat. I.' ll. 17, 18.]
[Footnote 12: IMITATION.
"Cur tamen hoc potius libeat decurrere campo,
Per quem magnus equos Auruncæ flexit alumnus,
Si vacat, et placidi rationem admittitis, edam."
JUVENAL, 'Sat. I'. ll. 19-21.]
[Footnote 13: William Gifford (1756-1826), a self-taught scholar, first
a ploughboy, then boy on board a Brixham coaster, afterwards shoemaker's
apprentice, was sent by friends to Exeter College, Oxford (1779-81). In
the 'Baviad' (1794) and the 'Maeviad' (1795) he attacked many of the
smaller writers of the day, who were either silly, like the Della
Cruscan School, or discreditable, like Williams, who wrote as "Anthony
Pasquin." In his 'Epistle to Peter Pindar' (1800) he laboured to expose
the true character of John Wolcot. As editor of the 'Anti-Jacobin, or
Weekly Examiner' (November, 1797, to July, 1798), he supported the
political views of Canning and his friends. As editor of the 'Quarterly
Review', from its foundation (February, 1809) to his resignation in
September, 1824, he soon rose to literary eminence by his sound sense
and adherence to the best models, though his judgments were sometimes
narrow-minded and warped by political prejudice. His editions of
'Massinger' (1805), which superseded that of Monck Mason and Davies
(1765), of 'Ben Jonson' (1816), of 'Ford' (1827), are valuable. To his
translation of 'Juvenal' (1802) is prefixed his autobiography. His
translation of 'Persius' appeared in 1821. To Gifford, Byron usually
paid the utmost deference. "Any suggestion of yours, even if it were
conveyed," he writes to him, in 1813, "in the less tender text of the
'Baviad', or a Monck Mason note to Massinger, would be obeyed." See also
his letter (September 20, 1821, 'Life', p.531): "I know no praise which
would compensate me in my own mind for his censure." Byron was attracted
to Gifford, partly by his devotion to the classical models of
literature, partly by the outspoken frankness of his literary criticism,
partly also, perhaps, by his physical deformity.]
[Footnote 14: Henry James Pye (1745-1813), M.P. for Berkshire, and
afterwards Police Magistrate for Westminster, held the office of poet
laureate from 1790 till his death in 1813, succeeding Thomas Warton, and
succeeded by Southey. He published 'Farringdon Hill' in 1774, The
'Progress of Refinement' in 1783, and a translation of Burger's 'Lenore'
in 1795. His name recurs in the 'Vision of Judgment', stanza xcii. Lines
97-102 were inserted in the Fifth Edition.]
[Footnote 15: The first edition of the Satire opened with this line; and
Byron's original intention was to prefix the following argument, first
published in 'Recollections', by R. C. Dallas (1824):--
"ARGUMENT.
"The poet considereth times past, and their poesy--makes a sudden
transition to times present--is incensed against book-makers--revileth
Walter Scott for cupidity and ballad-mongering, with notable remarks
on Master Southey--complaineth that Master Southey had inflicted three
poems, epic and otherwise, on the public--inveigheth against William
Wordsworth, but laudeth Mister Coleridge and his elegy on a young
ass--is disposed to vituperate Mr. Lewis--and greatly rebuketh Thomas
Little (the late) and Lord Strangford--recommendeth Mr. Hayley to turn
his attention to prose--and exhorteth the Moravians to glorify Mr.
Grahame--sympathiseth with the Rev. [William Bowles]--and deploreth
the melancholy fate of James Montgomery--breaketh out into invective
against the Edinburgh Reviewers--calleth them hard names, harpies and
the like--apostrophiseth Jeffrey, and prophesieth.--Episode of Jeffrey
and Moore, their jeopardy and deliverance; portents on the morn of the
combat; the Tweed, Tolbooth, Firth of Forth [and Arthur's Seat],
severally shocked; descent of a goddess to save Jeffrey; incorporation
of the bullets with his sinciput and occiput.--Edinburgh Reviews 'en
masse'.--Lord Aberdeen, Herbert, Scott, Hallam, Pillans, Lambe,
Sydney Smith, Brougham, etc.--Lord Holland applauded for dinners and
translations.--The Drama; Skeffington, Hook, Reynolds, Kenney, Cherry,
etc.--Sheridan, Colman, and Cumberland called upon [requested, MS.] to
write.--Return to poesy--scribblers of all sorts--lords sometimes
rhyme; much better not--Hafiz, Rosa Matilda, and X.Y.Z.--Rogers,
Campbell, Gifford, etc. true poets--Translators of the Greek
Anthology--Crabbe--Darwin's style--Cambridge--Seatonian
Prize--Smythe--Hodgson--Oxford--Richards--Poetaloquitur--Conclusion."]
[Footnote 16: Lines 115, 116, were a MS. addition to the printed text of
'British Bards'. An alternative version has been pencilled on the
margin:--
"Otway and Congreve mimic scenes had wove
And Waller tuned his Lyre to mighty Love."]
[Footnote 17: Thomas Little was the name under which Moore's early poems
were published, 'The Poetical Works of the late Thomas Little, Esq.'
(1801). "Twelves" refers to the "duodecimo." Sheets, after printing, are
pressed between cold or hot rollers, to impart smoothness of "surface."
Hot rolling is the more expensive process.]
[Footnote 18: Eccles. chapter i. verse 9.]
[Footnote 19: At first sight Byron appears to refer to the lighting of
streets by gas, especially as the first shop lighted with it was that of
Lardner & Co., at the corner of the Albany (June, 1805), and as lamps
were on view at the premises of the Gas Light and Coke Company in Pall
Mall from 1808 onwards. But it is almost certain that he alludes to the
"sublimating gas" of Dr. Beddoes, which his assistant, Davy, mentions in
his 'Researches' (1800) as nitrous oxide, and which was used by Southey
and Coleridge. The same four "wonders" of medical science are depicted
in Gillray's caricatures, November, 1801, and May and June, 1802, and
are satirized in Christopher Caustic's 'Terrible Tractoration! A
Poetical Petition against Galvanising Trumpery and the Perkinistit
Institution' (in 4 cantos, 1803).
Against vaccination, or cow-pox, a brisk war was still being carried on.
Gillray has a likeness of Jenner vaccinating patients.
Metallic "Tractors" were a remedy much advertised at the beginning of
the century by an American quack, Benjamin Charles Perkins, founder of
the Perkinean Institution in London, as a "cure for all Disorders, Red
Noses, Gouty Toes, Windy Bowels, Broken Legs, Hump Backs."
In Galvanism several experiments, conducted by Professor Aldini, nephew
of Galvani, are described in the 'Morning Post' for Jan. 6th, Feb. 6th,
and Jan. 22nd, 1803. The latter were made on the body of Forster the
murderer.
For the allusion to Gas, compare 'Terrible Tractoration', canto 1--
"Beddoes (bless the good doctor) has
Sent me a bag full of his gas,
Which snuff'd the nose up, makes wit brighter,
And eke a dunce an airy writer."]
[Footnote 20: Stott, better known in the 'Morning Post' by the name of
Hafiz. This personage is at present the most profound explorer of the
bathos. I remember, when the reigning family left Portugal, a special
Ode of Master Stott's, beginning thus:--('Stott loquitur quoad
Hibernia')--
"Princely offspring of Braganza,
Erin greets thee with a stanza," etc.
Also a Sonnet to Rats, well worthy of the subject, and a most thundering
Ode, commencing as follows:--
"Oh! for a Lay! loud as the surge
That lashes Lapland's sounding shore."
Lord have mercy on us! the "Lay of the Last Minstrel" was nothing to
this. [The lines "Princely Offspring," headed "Extemporaneous Verse on
the expulsion of the Prince Regent from Portugal by Gallic Tyranny,"
were published in the 'Morning Post', Dec. 30, 1807. (See 'post', l.
708, and 'note'.)] ]
[Footnote 21: See p. 317, note 1.]
[Footnote 22: See the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," 'passim'. Never was
any plan so incongruous and absurd as the groundwork of this production.
The entrance of Thunder and Lightning prologuising to Bayes' tragedy
[('vide The Rehearsal'), 'British Bards'], unfortunately takes away the
merit of originality from the dialogue between Messieurs the Spirits of
Flood and Fell in the first canto. Then we have the amiable William of
Deloraine, "a stark moss-trooper," videlicet, a happy compound of
poacher, sheep-stealer, and highwayman. The propriety of his magical
lady's injunction not to read can only be equalled by his candid
acknowledgment of his independence of the trammels of spelling,
although, to use his own elegant phrase, "'twas his neckverse at
Harribee," 'i. e.' the gallows.
The biography of Gilpin Horner, and the marvellous pedestrian page, who
travelled twice as fast as his master's horse, without the aid of
seven-leagued boots, are 'chefs d'oeuvre' in the improvement of taste.
For incident we have the invisible, but by no means sparing box on the
ear bestowed on the page, and the entrance of a Knight and Charger into
the castle, under the very natural disguise of a wain of hay. Marmion,
the hero of the latter romance, is exactly what William of Deloraine
would have been, had he been able to read and write. The poem was
manufactured for Messrs. CONSTABLE, MURRAY, and MILLER, worshipful
Booksellers, in consideration of the receipt of a sum of money; and
truly, considering the inspiration, it is a very creditable production.
If Mr. SCOTT will write for hire, let him do his best for his
paymasters, but not disgrace his genius, which is undoubtedly great, by
a repetition of Black-Letter Ballad imitations.
[Constable paid Scott a thousand pounds for 'Marmion', and
"offered one fourth of the copyright to Mr. Miller of Albemarle
Street, and one fourth to Mr. Murray of Fleet Street (see line 173).
Both publishers eagerly accepted the proposal."
...
"A severe and unjust review of 'Marmion' by Jeffrey appeared in [the
'Edinburgh Review' for April] 1808, accusing Scott of a mercenary
spirit in writing for money. ... Scott was much nettled by these
observations."
('Memoirs of John Murray', i. 76, 95). In his diary of 1813 Byron wrote
of Scott,
"He is undoubtedly the Monarch of Parnassus, and the most 'English' of
Bards."
'Life', p. 206.]]
[Footnote 23: It was the suggestion of the Countess of Dalkeith, that
Scott should write a ballad on the old border legend of 'Gilpin Horner',
which first gave shape to the poet's ideas, and led to the 'Lay of the
Last Minstrel'.]
[Footnote 24: In his strictures on Scott and Southey, Byron takes his
lead from Lady Anne Hamilton's (1766-1846, daughter of Archibald, ninth
Duke of Hamilton, and Lady-in-waiting to Caroline of Brunswick) 'Epics
of the Ton' (1807), a work which has not shared the dubious celebrity of
her 'Secret Memories of the Court', etc. (1832). Compare the following
lines (p. 9):--
"Then still might Southey sing his crazy Joan,
Or feign a Welshman o'er the Atlantic flown,
Or tell of Thalaba the wondrous matter,
Or with clown Wordsworth, chatter, chatter, chatter.
* * * * *
Good-natured Scott rehearse, in well-paid lays,
The marv'lous chiefs and elves of other days."
(For Scott's reference to "my share of flagellation among my betters,"
and an explicit statement that he had remonstrated with Jeffrey against
the "offensive criticism" of 'Hours of Idleness', because he thought it
treated with undue severity, see Introduction to 'Marmion', 1830.)]]
[Footnote 25: Lines 179, 180, in the Fifth Edition, were substituted for
variant i. p. 312.--'Leigh Hunt's annotated Copy of the Fourth Edition'.]
[Footnote 26: "Good night to Marmion"--the pathetic and also prophetic
exclamation of Henry Blount, Esquire, on the death of honest Marmion.]
[Footnote 27: As the 'Odyssey' is so closely connected with the story of
the 'Iliad', they may almost be classed as one grand historical poem. In
alluding to Milton and Tasso, we consider the 'Paradise Lost' and
'Gerusalemme Liberata' as their standard efforts; since neither the
'Jerusalem Conquered' of the Italian, nor the 'Paradise Regained' of the
English bard, obtained a proportionate celebrity to their former poems.
Query: Which of Mr. Southey's will survive?]
[Footnote 28: 'Thalaba', Mr. Southey's second poem, is written in
defiance of precedent and poetry. Mr. S. wished to produce something
novel, and succeeded to a miracle. 'Joan of Arc' was marvellous enough,
but 'Thalaba' was one of those poems "which," in the word of PORSON,
"will be read when Homer and Virgil are forgotten, but--
