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Nor these alone ; Columbia feels no less
Fresh speculations follow each success;
And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain
Her mild per-centage from exhausted Spain.
Not without Abraham's seed can Russia march;
T is gold, not steel, that rears the conqueror'8 arch.
Two Jews, a chosen people, can command
In every realm their 6cripture-promised land : —
Two Jews keep down the Romans, and upbdld
The accursed Hun, more brutal than of old:
Two Jews — but not Samaritans — direct
The world, with all the spirit of their sect.
What is the happiness of earth to them?
A congress forms their " New Jerusalem,"
Where baronies and orders both Invite —
Oh, holy Abraham I dost thou see the sight?
Thy followers mingling with these royal swine,
Who spit riot " on their Jewish gaberdine,"
Bat honour them as portion of the show —
(WTiere now, oh Pope! is thy forsaken toe?
Could it not favour Judah with some kicks?
Or has it ceased to " kick against the pricks ? ")
On Shyloek's shore behold them stand afresh,
To cut from nations' hearts their " pound of flesh."
Strange sight this Congress! destined to unite
All that's incongruous, all that 'a opposite.
I speak not of the sovereigns — they 're alike,
A common coin as ever mint could strike;
But those who sway the puppets, pull the strings,
Have more of motley than their heavy kings.
Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, combine,
While Europe wonders at the vast design:
There Metternich, power's foremost parasite,
Cajoles; there Wellington forgets to fight;
There Chateaubriand forms new books of martyrs ; >
And subtle Greeks - Intrigue for stupid Tartars;
There Montmorenci, the swom foe to charters,'
Turns a diplomatist of great eclat,
To furnish articles for the " Dcbats ;"
Of war so certain — yet not quite so sure
As his dismissal In the " Monlteur."
Alas: how could his cabinet thus err?
Can peace be worth an ultra-minister?
He falls indeed, perhaps to rise again,
u Almost as quickly as he conqucr'd Spain." *
The mother of the hero's hope, the boy.
The young Astyanax of modern Troy ;»
The still pale shadow of the loftiest queen
That earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen;
She flits amidst the phantoms of the hour.
The theme of pity, and the wreck of power.
Oh, cruel mockery 1 Could not Austria spare
A daughter? What did France's widow there?
Her titter place was by St. Helen's wave,
Her only throne Is In Napoleon's grave.
But, no — she still must hold a petty reign,
Flank'd by her formidable chamberlain;
The martial Argus, whose not hundred eyes
Must watch her through these paltry pageantries. 8
What though she share no more, and shared In vain,
A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne,
Which swept from Moscow to the southern seas I
Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese,
Where Parma views the traveller resort.
To note the trappings of her mimic court.
But she appears I Verona sees her shorn
Of all her beams — while nations gaze and mourn —
Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time
To chill in their inhospitable clime;
(If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold j —
But no, — their embers soon will burst the mould;)
She comes ! — the Andromache (but not Racine's,
Nor Homer's,) — Lo ! on Pyrrhus' arm she leans I
Yes 1 the right arm, yet red from Waterloo,
Which cut her lord's half-shatter'd sceptre through.
Is offer'd and accepted! Could a slave
Do more? or less ? — and he In his new grave!
Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strife,
And the c.r-empress grows as ex a wife!
So much for human ties In royal breasts!
Why spare men's feelings, when their own are jests?
But, tired of foreign follies, I turn home.
And sketch the group — the picture's yet to come.
My muse 'gan weep, but, ere a tear was spilt,
She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt!
While throng'd the chiefs of every Highland clan
To hail their brother, Vich Ian Alderman!
Guildhall grows Gael, anil echoes with Erse roar.
While all the Common Council cry " Claymore!"
To sec proud Albyn's tartans as a belt
Gird the gross sirloin of a city Celt, •
She burst Into a laughter so extreme.
That I awoke — and lo! it was no dream '.
Here, reader, will we pause • — if there's no harm In This first—you '11 have, perhaps, a second " Carmen."
Enough of this — a sight more moui
to Christianity In France. Lord Byron perhaps alludes to the well-known joke of Talleyrand, who. meeting the Duke of Montmorenci at the same party with M. Rothschild, soon after the latter bad been ennobled by the Kmperor of Austria, i* said to have begged leave to present il. If premier baron J*"f to .V. U premier baron CArttien.]
1 Monsieur Chateaubriand, who has not forgotten the author in the minister, received a handsome compliment at Ver-riia from a literary sovereign: "Ah! Monsieur C, are you Mated tothat Chateaubriand who — who—who has written ■wu-rtnig »•• (fcrit qnetqur choie .') It Is said that the author of Atala repented him for a moment of his legitimacy.
1 [Count Capo d'lstrlas—afterwards President of C.reeee. The count was murdered in September, 1831, by the brother sod son of a Mainotc chief whom he hail imprisoned.] 1 [The Duke de Montmorenci-Lava!.] * [From Pope's verses on Lord Peterborough : —
"Ami he. whose lightning pterred the Pierian lines. Now forms my quincunx, and now ranks my vines. Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain. Almost as quickly as he ronquer'd Spain."] 1 [Napoleon Francois Charles Joserll, Duke of Relchstadt, died at the palace of Schunhrunn, July 22, 1832, having just attained his twenty-llrst year.]
6 [Count Neipperg, chamlierlain and second husband to Maria-Louisa, had but one eye. The count died in 1H31. Sec ante, p. 4fil.]'
* [George the Fourth is said to have been somewhat annoyed, on entering the levee-room at Ilolyrood (Aug. 1822) In full Stuart tartan, to sec only one figure similarly attired (ami of similar bulk)— that of Kir William Curtis. The city knight bad every thing complete—even the inife stuck In the garter. He asked the King, If he did not think him well dressed. "Yes!" replied his Majesty, "only you have no spoon in your bote." The devourer of turtle had a fine engraving executed of himself in Ids Celtic attire.]
WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THE AUTHOR WOULD SOON DIE.
Adieu, thou Hill1 ! where early joy
Spread roses o'er my brow;
With knowledge to endow.
No more through Ida's paths we stray;
Unconscious of the day.
Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes,
Ye spires of Granta's vale.
Ye comrades of the jovial hour,
On Cama's verdant margin placed,
These scenes must be effaced.
Adieu, ye mountains of the clime
Where grew my youthful years;
His giant summit rears.
With sons of pride to roam?
To seek a Sotheron home?
Hall of my Sires! a long farewell —
Yet why to thee adieu?
Thy towers my tomb will view:
Forgets its wonted simple note —
In dying strains may float.
Fields, which surround yon rustic cot,
While yet I linger here,
To retrospection dear.
At noontide heat their pliant course;
Deprived of active force.
And shall I here forget the scene,
Rocks rise and rivers roll between
The spot which passion blest;
To me in smiles display'd;
Thine image cannot fade.
And thou, my Friend 1! whose gentle love.
Yet thrills my bosom's chords,
Description's power of words!
Of Love the pure, the sacred gem;
Let Pride alone condemn!
AU, all is dark and cheerless now I
No smile of Love's deceit
Can bid Life s pulses beat:
Or crown with fancied wreaths my hcid.
And mingle with the dead.
Oh Fame I thou goddess of my heart;
On him who gains thy praise.
Consumed in Glory's blaze;
My life a short and vulgar dream:
My fate is Lethe's stream.
When I repose beneath the sod,
Unheeded in the clay,
Where now my head must lay,
By nightly skies, and storms alone;
Which hides a name unknown.
Forget this world, my restless sprite.
There must thou soon direct thy flight,
To bigots and to sects unknown.
Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne;
To Him address thy trembling prayer:
Although his meanest care.
Father of Light I to Thee I call,
My soul is dark within:
Avert the death of sin.
Whose mantle is yon boundless sky,
Instruct me how to die.
1807. [First published, 1832 ]
TO A VAIN LADY.
Ah, heedless girl! why thus disclose
Why thus destroy thine own repose,
Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid,
for all the follies thou hast said
Vain girl! thy ling'ring woes are nigh,
Oh, from the deep temptation fly.
Dost thou repeat, in childish boast,
Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost.
While now amongst thy female peers
Canst thou not mark the rising sneers
These tales in secret silence hush,
What modest maid without a blush
Recounts a flattering coxcomb's praise?
Win not the laughing boy despise
Who, thinking Heaven Is In her eyes,
For she who takes a soft delight
These amorous nothings in revealing.
Must credit all we say or write,
Cease, If you prize your beauty's reign!
Ho jealousy bids me reprove: One, who is thus from nature vain,
I pity, but I cannot love.
January 15, 1807. [First published, 1832.]
On, Anne 1 your offences to me have been grievous: 1 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.
I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect you,
When we met, I determined again to suspect you—
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.
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 I January 16, 1807. [First published, 1S32.]
TO THE SAME.
On, 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.
Your frowns, lovely girl, arc the Fates which alone Could bid me from fond admiration refrain;
By these, every hope, every wish were o'erthrown,
As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined,
My love and my life were by nature design'd
Then say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed
Till Fate can ordain that his bosom shall bleed,
1807. [First published, 1832.]
TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET BEGINNING,
"' SAD IS MY VERSE/ YOU SAY, * AND YET NO TEAR.'"
Thy verse is " sad" enough, no doubt:
Why we should weep I can't find out.
Yet there is one I pity more;
And much, alas! I think he needs it;
Who, to his own misfortune, reads it.
Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic,
Yet their effect's by no means tragic,
But would you make our bosoms bleed,
If you would make us weep indeed,
March 8, 1807. [First published, 1832.]
ON FINDING A FAN.
In one who felt as once he felt,
This might, perhaps, have fiinn'd the flame; But now his heart no more will melt,
Because that heart is not the same.
As when the ebbing flames are low,
The aid which once improved their light,
And bade them burn with fiercer glow, m
Thus has it been with passion's fires—
While every hope of love expires,
The firtt, though not a spark survive,
The last, alas 1 can ne'er survive;
Or, if it chance to wake again,
Not always doom'd its heat to smother,
It sheds (so wayward fates ordain)
1807. [First published, 1832.]
FAREWELL TO THE MUSE.
Tuou Power I who hast ruled me through infancy's days.
Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part; Then rue on the gale this the last of my lays, The coldest effusion which springs from my heart.
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.
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.
When drain'd Is the nectar which gladdens the bowl,
When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul,
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.
Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love?
Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain 1 But how can my numbers in sympathy move,
When I scarcely can hope to behold them again?
Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done,
For glories like theirs, oh, how faint Is my tone!
Untouch'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast—
And those who have heard it will pardon the past. When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no more.
I [Lord Byron, on his first arrival at Kewstead, in 1798. planted an oak in the garden, and nourished the Taney, that as the tree flourished so should he. On revisiting the abbey, during Lord Grey de Kuthven's residence there, he found the oak choked up by weeds, and almost destroyed ; — hence .these Hues. Shortly after Colonel Wildman, the present proprietor, took possession, he one day noticed it, and said to the servant who was with hiia," Here is a fine young oak;
And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot.
Oh 1 blest had my fate been, and happy my lot.
Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er meet;
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, 1KJS.]
TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD.'
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.
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 1 water thy stem with my tears,— Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide.
I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour,
Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power.
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 fed
All, droop not, my Oak 1 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.
Oh, live then, my Oak 1 tow'r aloft from the'
For still in thy bosom arc life's early seeds.
Oh! yet, if maturity's years may be thine,
On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine.
For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave
While the branches thus gratefully shelter his jrivt,
And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot.
Oh! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot:
And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime,
And here must he sleep, till the raqments of time
1807. [First published. 1831]
but ft must be cut down, as it grows in an improper place" —'• I hope not, sir." replied the man: "for itls the one la* my lord was so fond of, because he set it himself." The Colonel has, of course, taken eeery possible care of it. It U already inquired after, by strangers, as " The Bybo* Ota." and promises to share, in after times, the celebrity oi Saakspeare's mulberry, and Pope's willow.}
ON REVISITING HARROW. 1
Here once engaged the stranger's view
Young Friendship's record simply traced; Few were her words,—but yet, though few,
Resentment's hand the line defaced.
The characters were still so plain.
Till Memory hail'd the words again.
Repentance placed them as before;
Forgiveness join'd her gentle name;
That Friendship thought it still the same.
But, ah, in spite of Hope's endeavour.
And blotted out the line for ever!
EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS, OF SOUTHWELL,
A CARRIER, WHO DIED Or DRUNKENNESS.
Johs Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell,
TO MY SON.s
Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue,
And thou canst lisp a father's name —
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!
Why, let the world unfeeling frown,
1 Some years ago, when at Harrow, a friend of the author •^srAved on a particular spot the names of both, with a few •v-irtitional words, as a memorial. Afterwards, on receiving (ome real or imagined injury, the author destroyed the frail record before he left Harrow. On revisiting the place in "V. he wrote under it these stanzas.
*[" Whether these verses arc. In any degree, founded on I A ^*ve no "ecurale means of determining. Fond its Lord Byron was of recording every particular of his youth,
Oh, 't will be sweet in thee to trace,
Although so young thy heedless sire,
IS07. Cl'irst published, 1S30.)
FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER,
Farewell! If ever fondest prayer
For other's weal avall'd on high,
But waft thy name beyond the sky.
Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,
Are in that word— Farewell!— Farewell!
These lips are mute, these eyes are dry;
But in my breast and In my brain,
The thought that ne'er shall sleep again.
Though grief and passion there rebel:
I only feel—Farewell!— Farewell 1
BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUL.
Brioht be the place of thy soul 1
No lovelier spirit than thine E'er burst from its mortal control
In the orbs of the blessed to shine.
On earth thou wert all but divine.
And our sorrow may cease to repine,
When we know that thy God is with thee.
Light be the turf of thy tomb!
May its verdure like emeralds be: There should not be the shadow of gloom
In aught that reminds us of thee.
Y'oung flowers and an evergreen tree
But nor cypress nor yew let us sec;
such an event, or rather era, as is here commemorated, would have been, of all others, the least likely to pass unmentioned by him; and yet neither in conversation nor in any of his writings do 1 remember even an allusion to it. On the other hand, so entirely was all that he wrote,—making allowance for the embellishments of fancy,—the transcript of his actual life and feelings, that it is not easy to suppose a poem, so full of natural tenderness, to have been Indebted for its origin to imagination alone."— Moore. But sec post, Don Juan, canto xvi. st. CI.]