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II "Anil sleeping pangs awake—and — but away" 1 (Confound me if I know what next to say). M Lo Hope reviving re-expands her wings," And Master G— recites what Doctor Busby sings! — i "If mighty things with small we may compare," (Translated from the grammar for the fair!) Dramatic " spirit drives a conquering car," And burn'd poor Moscow like a tub of " tar." "This spirit Wellington has shown in Spain," To furnish melodrames for Drury Lane. "Another Marlborough points to Blenheim's story," And George and I will dramatise it for ye.
1 "In arts and sciences our isle hath shone"
(This deep discovery is mine alone).
"Oh British poesy, whose powers inspire"
My verse—or I'm a fool—and Fame's a liar, I "Thee we invoke, your sister arts implore"
With " smiles," and " lyres," and " pencils," and much more.
These, if we win the Graces, too, we gain
"Three who have stolen their witching airs from
i "Shine in your farce, masque, scenery, and play"
■ (For this last line George had a holiday).
'"Old Drury never, never soar'd so high,"
! So says the manager, and so say I. "But hold, you say, this self-complacent boast;" Is this the poem which the public lost? [pride ;" "True—true—that lowers at once our mounting But lo ! — the papers print what you deride. "'Tis ours to look on you—you hold the prize," 'T Is twenty guinea*, as they advertise! "A double blessing your rewards impart"— I wish I had them, then, with all my heart. "Our twofold feeling owns Its twofold cause," Why son and I both beg for your applause. "When in your fostering beams you bid us live," My next subscription list shall say how much you give!
VEBSES FOUND IN A SUMMER HOUSE AT HALES-OWEN.'
j When Dryden's fool, " unknowing what he sought,"
; His hours in whistling spent, " for want of thought," 2
u This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense
j' Supplied, and amply too, by innocence;
!] Did modern swains, possess'd of Cymon's powers,
II In Cymon's manner waste their leisure hours,
Th' offended guests would not, with blushing, see |! These fair green walks disgraced by infamy. Severe the fate of modern fools, alas I When vice and folly mark them as they pass, lake noxious reptiles o'er the whiten'd wall, The filth they leave still points out where they crawl.
1 [In Warwickshire.] '[See Cymon and Iphigenla.]
3 [" The Gcquel of a temporary liaison, formed by Lord Byron during his gay but brief career in London, occasioned the composition of this Impromptu. On the cessation of the [ connection, the fair one, actuated by jealousy, called one
REMEMBER THEE I REMEMBER THEE I
Emihui thee I remember thee!
Till Lethe quench life's burning stream Remorse and shame shall cling to thee,
And haunt thee like a feverish dream!
Remember thee 1 Ay, doubt it not.
Thy husband too shall think of thee: By neither shalt thou be forgot,
Thou false to him, thou fiend tome!'
Time I on whose arbitrary wing
The varying hours must flag or fly,
Wiose tardy winter, fleeting spring,
Hail thou 1 who on my birth bestow'd
Those boons to all that know thee known;
Vet better I sustain thy load.
I would not one fond heart should share
And pardon thee, since thou couldst spare
To them be joy or rest, on me
Thy future ills shall press in vain:
I nothing owe but years to thee.
Yet even that pain was some relief;
It felt, but still forgot thy power: The active agony of grief
Retards, but never counts the hour.
In joy I've sigh'd to think thy flight
Thy cloud could overcast the light,
For then, however drear and dark.
My soul was suited to thy sky; One star alone shot forth a spark
To prove thee — not Eternity.
That beam hath sunk, and now thou art
Through each dull tedious trifling part.
One scene even thou canst not deform;
The limit of thy sloth or speed
Which we shall sleep too sound to heed:
And I can smile to think how weak
When all the vengeance thou can-: wreak
morning at her quondam lover's apartments. His Lord-Siwas from home; but finding 'Yatktk' on the table, tlx bdt wrote in tho first page of the volume the words ' Keturaoer me 1' Byron immediately wrote under tbe ominous wanucf these two stanzas." — Meuwin.)
TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG.
Ah! Love was never yet without
Without one friend to hear my woe,
Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net
Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire.
A bird of free and careless wing
Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain,
In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine;
My light of life I ah, tell me why
That pouting lip, and alter'd eye?
My bird of love ! my beauteous mate!
And art thou changed, and canst thou hate?
Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow:
My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain,
Pour me the poison ; fear not thou!
My wounded soul, my bleeding breast,
THOD ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU ART FICKLE.
Thou art not false, but thou art fickle,
To those thyself so fondly sought;
Are doubly bitter from that thought:
The wholly false the heart despises,
And spurns deceiver and deceit; But she who not a thought disguises,
Whose love is as sincere as sweet,— When she can change who loved so truly, It feels what mine has felt so newly.
To dream of joy and wake to sorrow
And if, when conscious on the morrow,
That cheated us in slumber only.
To leave the waking soul more lonely,
What must they feel whom no false vision,
Sincere, but swift in sad transition;
Ah ! sure such grief is fancy's scheming,
And all thy change can be but dreaming!
ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE "ORIGIN OF LOVE."
The " Origin of Love !"—Ah, why
That cruel question ask of me,
He starts to life on seeing thee?
And shouldst thou seek his end to know:
He '11 linger long in silent woe;
REMEMBER HIM, WHOM PASSION'S POWER.
Remember him whom passion's power
Severely, deeply, vainly proved: Remember thou that dangerous hour
When neither fell, though both were loved.
That yielding breast, that melting eye,
Too much invited to be blcss'd: That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh,
The wilder wish reproved, repress'd.
Oh ! let me feel that all I lost
But saved thee all that conscience fears; And blush for every pang it cost
To spare the vain remorse of years.
Yet think of this when many a tongue,
Would do the heart that loved thee wrong,
Think that, whate'er to others, thou
I bless thy purer soul even now,
Oh, God! that we had met in time.
Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free;
When thou hadst loved without a crime,
Far may thy days, as heretofore,
And that too bitter moment o'er,
This heart, alas! perverted long.
To meet thee in the glittering throng,
Then to the things whose bliss or woe,
That world resign—such scenes forego.
Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness,
From what even here hath pass'd, may guess
Oh I pardon that imploring tear,
My frenzy drew from eyes so dear;
Though long and mournful must it be.
Yet I deserve the stern decree,
And almost deem the sentence sweet.
Still, had I loved thee less, my heart
It felt not half so much to part,
'ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS.'
When Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent
(I hope I am not violent),
Nor men nor gods knew what he meant.
And since not ev'n our Rogers' praise
To common sense his thoughts could raise —
Why would they let him print his lays?
To me, divine Apollo, grant—O!
And thus to furnish decent lining,
My own and others' bays I'm twining—
So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in.
TO LORD THURLOW.
"I lay my branch of laurel down,
Lord Thurlour's lines to Mr. Rogers.
** / lay my branch of laurel dotcn." Thou " lay thy branch of laurel down!" Why, what thou'st stole is not enow;
1 [" Among the many gay hours we passed together in the spring of 1813, 1 remember particularly the wild flow of his spirits one evening, when we had accompanied Mr. Rogers home from some early assembly. It happened that our host had just received a presentation copy or a volume of poems, written professedly In imitation of the old English writers, and containing, like many of these models, a good deal that was striking and beautiful, mixed up with much that was trifling, fantastic, and absurd. In vain did Mr. Rogers, in justice to the author, endeavour to direct our attention to some of the beauties of the work. In this sort of hunt through the volume, we at length lighted on the discovery that our host, in addition to his sincere approbation of some of its contents, had also the motive of gratitude for standing hy Us author, as one of the poems was a warm and. I need not add, welldeserved panegyric on himself. The opening line of the poem was, as well as I can recollect, 'When Rogers o'er this labour bent:1 and Lord Byron undertook to read it aloud ; — but ho found it impossible to get beyond the first two words
And, were it lawfully thine own,
Keep to thyself thy witherM bough.
Were justice done to both, I trow.
He'd have but little, and thou — none.
"Then thus to form Apollo's cram." A crown 1 why, twist it how you will, Thy chaplet must be foolscap sUlL When next you visit Delphi's town,
Inquire amongst your fellow-lodgers. They 'U tell you Phrebus gave his crown.
Some years before your birth, to Rogers.
"Lei every other bring his own.TM When coals to Newcastle are carried,
And owls sent to Athens, as wonders, From his spouse when the Regent's unmarried.
Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders; When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel.
When Castlereagh's wife has an heir. Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel,
And thou shalt have plenty to spare.
TO THOMAS MOORE.
WEITTBN THE EVENING BEFORE HIS VISIT TO Ma. LEIGH I
Oh you, who in all names can tickle the town,
• • • • •
But now to my letter— to yours't is an answer-
And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rotters;
[First published, 18X0 ]
Our laughter had now increased to such a pitch that could restrain ft Two or three times be began; bat t» sooner had the words 'When Rogers' passed his lips, ttuc our fit burst forth afresh, — till even Mr. Rogers himself, with all his feeling of our injustice, found it Impossible not to J us. A day or two alter. Lord Byron sent me the f<" * My dear Moore,4 When Rogers* must uot se which I send for your perusal' "— Moore.]
1 [The reader who wishes to understand the full twee of this scandalous Insinuation is referred to Muretus's I a celebrated poem of Catullus, entitled /a Cttsarr consisting, in fact, of savagely scornful abuse of the f Mamurra : —
"Quis hoc potest viderc ? quts potest pau.
IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND.
When, from the heart where Sorrow sits,
Her dusky shadow mounts too high,
And clouds the brow, or fills the eye;
My thoughts their dungeon know too well; Back to my breast the wanderers shrink,
And droop within their silent cell.1
SONNET, TO GENEVRA.
| Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, And the wan lustre of thy features—caught From contemplation — where serenely wrought.
Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair —
Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air, That—but I know thy blessed bosom fraught With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought —
I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care.
With such an aspect, by his colours blent,
(Except that thou hast nothing to repent)
Such seem'st thou — but how much more excellent!
December 17, 1813.'
SONNET, TO THE SAME.
Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,
My heart would wish away that ruder glow •.
And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes — but, oh!
Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow.
For, through thy long dark lashes low depending,
Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending,
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
December 17, 1913.
1 [These verses are said to have dropped from the Poet's pen, to excuse a transient expression of melancholy which overclouded the general gaiety. It was impossible to observe his interesting countenance, expressive of a dejection belonging neither to his rank, his age, nor his success, without feeling an indefinable curiosity to ascertain whether It had a •ieeper cause than habit or constitutional temperament. It was obviously of a degree Incalculably more serious than that alluded to by Prince Arthur —
'I remember when I was in France
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night.
Bat. howsoever derived, this, joined to Lord Byron's air of minarling in amusements and sports as if he contemned them, and felt that his sphere was far above the frivolous crowd which surrounded him. gave a strong effect of colouring to a
FROM THE PORTUGUESE.
"TU Kl CI1AMAB."
Is moments to delight devoted,
"My life !" with tenderest tone, you cry; Dear words I on which my heart had doted,
If youth could neither fade nor die.
To death even hours like these must roll,
Or change " my life 1" into " my soul!"
You call me still your life.—Oh 1 change the word —
Say rather I'm jour soul; more just that name,
THE DEVIL'S DRIVE;
AN UNFINISHED RHAPSODY.3
The Devil retum'd to hell by two,
And he stay'd at home till five; When he dined on some homicides done in rayout,
And a rebel or so in an Irish stew, And sausages made of a self-slain Jew — And bethought himself what next to do,
"And," quoth he, " IH take a drive. I walk'd in the morning, I '11 ride to-night; In darkness my children take most delight,
And I 'II see how my favourites thrive.
"And what shall I ride in ?" quoth Lucifer then—
"If I follow'd my taste, indeed,
And smile to see them bleed.
And at present my purpose is speed;
"I have a state-coach at Carlton House,
A chariot in Seymour Place; But they 're lent to two friends, who make me amends,
By driving my favourite pace: And they handle their reins with such a grace, I have something for both at the end of their race.
"So now for the earth to take my chance:"
Then up to the earth sprung he j
He stepp'd across the sea,
character whose tints were otherwise romantic—Sir WalTer Sl'OTT.]
3 [" Hedde some Italian, and wrote two sonnets. I never wrote but one sonnet before, and that was not in earnest, and many years ago, as an exercise — and I will never write another. They are the most puling, petrifying, stupidly pla* tonic compositions." — Byron Diary, 1813.J
3 [" 1 have lately written a wild, rambling, unfinished rhapsody, called ' The Devil's Drive,1 the notion of which I took from Porson's ' Devil's Walk.' "— Byron Diary, 1812. "Of this strange, wild poem," says Moore, " the only copy that Lord Byron, I believe, over wrote, he presented to Lord Holland. Though with a good deal of vigour and Imagination, It is, for the most part, rather clumsily executed, wanting the point and condensation of those clever verses of Mr. Coleridge, which Lord Byron, adopting a notion long prevalent, has attributed to Professor Forson.M]
But first as he flew, I forgot to say,
To look upon Lelpsic plain;
That he perch'd on a mountain of slain;
Nor his work done half as well: For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead,
That it blush'd like the waves of hell! Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'd he: "Methinks they have here little need of me.'" • • • * *
But the softest note that soothed his car
Was the sound of a widow sighing;
Of a maid by her lover lying—
A child of famine dying:
And the fall of the vainly flying!
• • • * •
But the Devil has reach'd our cliffs so white,
And what did he there, I pray?
What we see every day:
The Devil first saw, as he thought, the Mai!,
Its coachman and his coat;
And seized him by the throat:
So he sat him on his box again,
And bade him have no fear,
His brothel, and his beer;
• • • • •
The Devil gat next to Westminster,
And he turn'd to " the room" of the Commons; But he heard, as he purposed to enter in there,
That " the Lords" had received a summons;
He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise,
And Johnny of Norfolk—a man of some size —
i [" I cannot conceive how the Fault has got about; but so it is. It is too farouche; but truth to say, ray sallies are
to Sir. Moore, March 12.
And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon's eyes,
Lines composed on the occasion of his Royal
Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties,
Charles to his people, Henry to his wife.
STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 3
I Steak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name.
Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace Were those hours—can their joy or their bitterness cease? [chain. —
We repent — we abjure—we will break from our
Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt!
And stern to tbe haughty, but humble to thee.
With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet.
One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love.
ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE RECITED AT
Who hath not glow'd above the page where fame
1 [" Thou hast asked me for a song, and I enclose yon m experiment, which has cost me something more than trouhl* and is. therefore, less likely to be worth your taking any Is your proposed setting. Now, if It be so, throw it into Cfew sww without pMrete." — Lord Byron to Mr. Moon, Kay 10, !*M-J