'Having been officiously taken up by a person who arrogated to himself some self-importance in criticism, and who made an observation upon their demerits, Lord Byron quaintly observed, "They were written in haste, and they shall perish in the same manner!" and immediately consigned them to the flames. As my music adapted to them, however, did not share the same fate, and having a contrary opinion of anything that might fall from the pen of his Lordship, I treasured them up, and on a subsequent interview with his Lordship, I accused him of having committed suicide in making so valuable a burnt-offering: to which he smilingly replied, "The act seems to inflame you; come, Nathan, since you are displeased with the sacrifice, I will give them to you as a peace-offering, use them as you may deem proper."']

THEY say that Hope is happiness;

But genuine Love must prize the past, And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless;

They rose the first- they set the last.

And all that Memory loves the most Was once our only Hope to be, And all that Hope adored and lost Hath melted into Memory.

Alas! it is delusion all;

The future cheats us from afar, Nor can we be what we recall,

Nor dare we think on what we are.

I suppose that to-night you 're engaged with some codgers,

And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers;

And I, though with cold I have nearly my death got,

Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote.

But to-morrow at four, we will both play the Scurra,

And you'll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra.

'WHEN THURLOW THIS DAMN'D NONSENSE SENT'

[To Thomas Moore, June, 1813. Byron and Moore were supping with Rogers on bread and cheese when their host brought forth Lord Thurlow's Poems on Several Occasions (1813). 'In vain did Mr. Rogers (to whom a copy of the work had been presented),' says Moore in his Life, 'in justice to the author, endeavour to direct our attention to some of the beauties of the work. One of the poems was a warm and, I need not add, well-deserved panegyric on himself. The opening line of the poem was, as well as I can recollect,

"When Rogers o'er this labour bent."

And Lord Byron undertook to read it aloud; but he found it impossible to get beyond the first two words. Our laughter had now increased to such a pitch that nothing could restrain it. Two or three times he began, but, no sooner had the words When Rogers " passed his lips, than our fit burst forth afresh

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till even Mr. Rogers himself, with all his feeling of our injustice, found it impossible not to join us; and had the author himself been of the party, I question much whether he could have resisted the infection.' A day or two later Byron sent the following verses in a letter to Moore.]

WHEN Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent (I hope I am not violent),

Nor men nor gods knew what he meant.
And since not even our Rogers' praise
To common sense his thoughts could

raise

Why would they let him print his lays?

To me, divine Apollo, grant-0! Hermilda's first and second canto, I'm fitting up a new portmanteau;