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And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine,
Still I must yield those worthies merit,
Perhaps they would do quite as well
Now, Clare, I must return to you;
I think I said 'twould be your fate
Yet since in danger courts abound,
Not for a moment may you stray
Oh 1 if you wish that happiness
article on “ Epistles, Odes, and other Poems, by Thomas Little, Esq.”]
* A bard (horresco referens) defied his reviewer 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 2
* [“ of all I have ever known, Clare has always been the least altered in every thing 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
And though some trifling share of praise,
LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCHYARD OF HARROW. 3
Spot of my youth ! whose hoary branches sigh,
When fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd breast And calm its cares and passions into rest, Oft have I thought, 't would soothe my dying hourIf aught may soothe when life resigns her power, – To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell, Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell ; With this fond dream, methinks, 't were 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 loved, Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved; Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear, Mourn’d by the few my soul acknowledged here; Deplored by those in early days allied, And unremember'd by the world beside. September 2. 1807.
[The “Lines written beneath an Elm at Harrow,” trere the last in the little volume printed at Newark in 1807. The reader is referred to Mr. Moore's Notices, for tarious interesting particulars respecting the impression produced on Lord Byron's mind by the celebrated Critique of his juvenile
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.” – Byron Drary, 1821.]
* [On losing his natural daughter, Allegra, in April, 1822. Lord Byron sent her remains to be buried at Harrow, “where.” he says, in a letter to Mr. Murray, “I once hoped to have laid my own.” “There is," he adds, "a spot in the church-yard, near the footpath, on the brow of the hill looking towards Windsor, and a tomb under a large trec (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 tublet to her memory, the body had better be deposited in the church," — and it was so accordingly.]
performances, put forth in the Edinburgh Review, -a journat which, at that time, possessed nearly undivided influence and authority. The Poers diaries and letters afford evidence that, in his latter days, he considered this piece as the work of Mr. (now Lord) broughan ; but on what grounds he had came to that conclusion he no where mentions. It forms, however, from whatever pen it may have proceeded, so important a tink in Lord Byron's literary history, that we insert it at length.]
Anticle froxi Tiie redix BURGil Review, For JANUARY, 1808.
Hours of Idleness; a series of Poros, original and translated. By o: Gordon, Lord Byron, a Minor. 8vo. pp. 200. Newark, 1807
The poesy of this young lord belongs to the class which neither gods nor men are said to permit. Indeed, we do not recollect to have seen a quantity of verse with so few deviations in either direction from that exact standard. His effusions are spread over a dead flat, and can no more get above or below the level, than is they were so much stagnant water. As an extenuation of this offence, the noble author is peculiarly forward in pleading minority. We have it in the titleage, and on the very back of the volume: it follows his name ike a favourite part of his style. Much stress is laid upon it in the preface; and the poems are connected with this general statement of his case, by particular dates, substantiating the age at which each was written. Now, the law upon the point of minority we hold to be perfectly clear. It is a plea available only to the defendant; no plaintiff can offer it as a supplementary ground of action. Thus, if any suit could be brought against Lord Byron, for the purpose of compelling him to put into court a certain o of poetry, and if judgment were given against him, it is highly probable that an exception would be taken, were he to deliver for poetry the contents of this volume. To this he might plead minority; but, as he now makes volun tender of the article, he hath no right to sue, on that ground, for the price in good current praise, should the goods be unmarketable. This is our view of the law on the point; and, we dare to say, so will it be ruled. Perhaps, however, in reality, all that he tells us about his youth is rather with a view to increase our wonder than to soften our censures. He possibly means to say, “See how a minor can write This poem was actually composed by a oung man of eighteen, and this by one of only sixteen . " ut, alas! we all remember the poetry of Cowley at ten, and Pope at twelve; and so far from hearing, with any degree of surprise, that very poor verses were written o a youth from hi- o school to his leaving col inclusive, we really believe this to be the most common of all occurrences : that it happens in the life of nine men in ten who are educated in England; and that the tenth man writes better verse than Lord Byron. His other plea of privilege our author rather brings forward in order to waive it. He certainly, however, does allude frequently to his family and ancestors—sometimes in poetry, sometimes in notes; and, while giving up his claim on the score of rank, he takes care to remember us of Dr. Johnson's saying. that when a nobleman o as an author, his merit should be handsomely acknowledged. In truth, it is this consideration only that induces us to give Lord Byron's poems a place in our review, beside our desire to counsel him, that he do forthwith abandon poetry, and turn his talents, which are considerable, and his opportunities, which are great, to better account. With this view, we must beg leave seriously to assure him, that the mere rhytning of the final syllable, even when accompanied by the presence of a certain number of o although (which does not always happen) those feet should scan regularly, and have been all counted accurately upon the fingers.--is not the whole art of poet We would entreat him to believe, that a certain portion of liveliness, somewhat of fancy, is necessary to constitute a poem, and that a poem in the present day, to be read, must contain at least one thought, either in a little degree different from the ideas of former writers, or differently expressed. We put it to his candour, whether there is anything so deserving the name of poetry in verses like the following, written in 1806; and whether, if a youth of eighteen could say any thing so unons to his ancestors, a youth of nineteen should pubsh ---
“shades of heroes, farewell your descendant, departing
“Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret: Far distant he goes, with the same emulation; The same of his fathers he ne'er can forget.
“That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish;
Now, we positively do assert, that there is nothing better than these stanzas in the whole compass of the noble minor's volume.
Lord Byron should also have a care of attempting what the greatest poets have done before him, for comparisons (as he must have had occasion to see at his writing-master's) are odious. Gray's Odeon Eton College should really have kept out the ten hobbling stanzas “On a distant View of the Willage and School of Harrow.”
“Where fancy yet joys to retrace the resemblance
Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied, How welcome to me your ne'er-fading remembrance, Which rests in the bosom, though i: is denied.”
In like manner, the exquisite lines of Mr. Rogers, “cn a Tear,” might have warned the noble author off those preso and spared us a whole dozen such stanzas as the folowing:
“Mild Charity's glow, to us mortals below, Shows the soul from o clear; Compassion will meit where this virtue is felt, And its dew is diffused in a Tear.
“The man doom'd to sail with the blast of the gale,
And so of instances in which former poets have failed. Thus we do not think Lord Byron was made for translating, during his nonage, Adrian's Address to his Soul,” when Pope succeeded so indifferently in the attempt. If our readers, however, are of another opinion, they may look at it.
“Ah! gentle, fleeting, wavering sprite,
However, be this as it may, we fear his translations and imitations are great favourites with Lord Byron. We have them of all kinds, from Anacreon to Ossian; and, viewing them as school exercises, they may pass. Only, why print them after they have had their day and served their turn ? And why call the thing in p.79. (see p. 380.) a translation, where two words (3124 x-ruv) of the original are expanded into four lines, and the other thing in p. 81. (see ibid.) whereaszewortal: rod' oozis is rendered by means of six hobbling verses 2 as to his Ossianic o; we are not very good judges, being in truth, so moderately skilled in that species of composition, that we should, in all probability, be criticising some bit of the genuine Macpherson itself, were we to express our opinion of Lord Byron's rhapsodies. If, then, the following beginning of a “Song of Bards” is by his lordship, we venture to object to it, as far as we can comprehend it. “What form rises on the roar of clouds? whose dark ghost gleams on the red stream of tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder; 'tis Orla, the brown chief of Oithona. He was,” &c. After detaining this “brown chief" some time, the hards conclude by giving him their advice to “raise his fair locks;” then to “spread them on the arch of the rainbow;” and “to smile through the tears of the storm.” of this kind of thing there are no less than nine pages; and we can so far venture an opinion in their favour, that they look very like Macpherson; and we are positive they are pretty nearly as stupid and tiresome.
It is a sort of privilege of poets to be egotists; but they should “use it as not abusing it;” and particularly one who o himself (though indeed at the ripe age of nineteen) on
eing “an infant bard,”—(“The 'artless Helicon I boast is routh")—should either not know, or should seem not to now, so much about his own ancestry. Besides a poem above cited, on the family seat of the Byrons, we have another of eleven pages, on the self-same subject, introduced with an apology, “he certainly had no intention of inserting it,” but o “the particular request of some friends,” &c. &c. It concludes with five stanzas on himself, “the last and youngest of a noble line.” There is a good deal also about his maternal ancestors, in a poem on Lachin y Gair, a mountain where he spent part of his youth, and might have learnt that pibroch is not a bagpipe, any more than duet means a fiddle.
As the author has dedicated so large a part of his volume to immortalise his employments at school and college, we cannot possibly dismiss it without presenting the reader with a specimen of these ingenious effusions. In an ode with a Greek motto, called Granta, we have the following magnificent stanzas :-
E e 2
“There, in apartments small and damp,
“Who reads false quantities in Sele,
“Renouncing every pleasing page, From authors of historic use,
Preferring to the letter'd sage, The square of the hypothenuse.
“Still harnless are these occupations,
we are sorry to hear so bad an account of the college psalmody as is contained in the following Attic stanzas : —
“Our choir would scarcely be excused
“If David, when his toils were ended,
But, whatever judgment may be passed on the poems of this noble minor, it seems we must take them as we find them, and be content; for they are the last we shall ever have from him. He is, at best, he says, but an intruder into the groves of Parnassus: he never lived in a garret, like thorough-bred
ts; and “though he once roved a careless mountaineer in the Highlands of Scotland,” he has not of late enjoyed this advantage. Moreover, he expects no profit from his publication; and, whether it succeeds or not, “it is highly improbable, from his situation and pursuits hereafter," that he should again condescend to become an author. Therefore, let us take what we get, and be thankful. What right have we poor devils to be nice? We are well off to have got so much from a man of this lord's station, who does not live in a garret, but “has the sway” of Newstead Abbey. Again, we say, let us be thankful; and, with honest Sancho, bid God bless the giver, nor look the gift horse in the mouth.*
* [The Monthly. Reviewers, in those days the next in circulation to the Edinburgh, gave a much more favourable notice of the “Hours of Idleness.” “These compositions, (said they) are generally of a plaintive or an amatory cast. with an occasional mixture of satire; and they display both ease and strength—both pathos and fire. It will be expected that marks of juvenility and of haste should be discovered in these productions; and we seriously advise our young bard to fulfil with submissive perseverance the duties of revision and correction. We discern, in Lord Byron, a degree of mental power, and a turn of mental disposition, which render us solicitous that both should be well cultivated and wisely di, in his career of life. He has received talents, and is accountable for the use of them. We trust that he will render them beneficial to man, and a source of real gratification to himself in declining age. Then may he properly exclaim with the Roman orator, non lubet mihi deplorare vitam, quod multi, et ii docti, saepe fecerunt : neque me vixisse poemitet:
uomiamita vixi, ut non frustra me natum existimem.' "
ord Byron, repaid the Edinburgh Critique with a satire– and became himself a Monthly Reviewer.]
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
* [The first edition of this satire, which then began with what is now the ninety-seventh line (“ Time tras, cre yet,” &c., appeared in March, 1809. A second, to which the author prefixed his name, followed in October of that year; and a third and fourth were called for during his first pilgrimage, in 1810 and 1811. On his return to England, a fifth edition was prepared for the press by himself, with considerable care, but suppressed, and, except one copy, destroyed, when on the eve of publication. The text is now printed from the copy that escaped : on casually meeting with which, in 1815, he reperused the whole, and wrote on the margin some annotations, which also we shall preserve. — distinguishing them, by the insertion of their date, from those allixed to the prior editions.
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 3, 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 maliner, — a determination not to publish with my name any production, which was not entirely and exclusively my own composition. With 1 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. 3
1 [Here the preface to the first edition commenced.]
* [“I well recollect," said Lord Byron, in 1821, “the effect which the critique of the Edinburgh Reviewers on my first poem, had upon me — it was rage and resistance, and redress; but not despondency nor despair. A savage review is hemlock to a sucking author, and the one on me (which produced the English Bards, &c.) knocked me down—but i got up again. That critique was a master-piece of low wit, a tissue of scurrilous abuse. I remember there was a great deal of vulgar trash, about people being “ thankful for what the could get,” –“ not looking a gift horse in the mouth,' and suc stable expressions. But so far from their bullying me, or deterring me from writing, I was bent on falsifying their raven predictions, and determined to show them, croak as they would, that it was not the last time they should hear from me."]
a [* The severity of the criticism, as Sir Egerton Brydges has well observed, “touched Lord Byron in the point where his original strength lay : it wounded his pride, and roused his bitter indignation. He published English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, and bowed down those who had hitherto held a despotic victory over the public mind. There was, after all, more in the boldness of the enterprise, in the fearlessness of the attack, than in its intrinsic force... But the moral effect of the gallantry of the assault, and of the justice of the cause, made it victorious and triumphant. This was one of those lucky developements which cannot often occur; and which fixed Lord Byron's fame. From that day he engaged the public notice as a writer of undoubted talent and energy both of intellect and temper."]
“Semper ego auditor tantum ? nunquamne reponam,
* [" Hoarse Fitzgerald.”—“Right enough: but why notice such a mountebank.”— Byron, 1816.] 6 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 as bad port, to enable them to sustain the operation.—ssor
Oh! nature's noblest gift—my gray 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 : The pen I foredoom'd 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 1 How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise I Condemn’d at length to be forgotten quite, With all the pages which 'twas thine to write. But thou, at least, mine own especial pen Once laid aside, but now assumed again, Our task complete, like Hamet's 7 shall be free; Though spurn’d by others, yet beloved by me : Then let us soar to-day; no common theme, No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream 8 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;
the long period of thirty-two years, this harmless poetaster was an attendant at the anniversary dinners of the Literary Fund, and constantly honoured the occasion with an ode, which he himself recited with most comical dignity of em}. He was fortunate in having for his patron Viscount Dudley and Ward, on whose death, without a will, his benevolent intentions towards the bard were fulfilled by his son, the late. Earl Dudley, who generously sent him a draft for 5000l. Fitzgerald died in 1829. Of his numerous loyal effusions only a single line has survived its author; but the £haracteristics of his style have been so happily hit off, in the “REjected ADDREsses " — (a work which Lord Byron has ronounced to be “by far the best thing of the kind since the olliad,") — that we cannot resist the temptation of extract: - ... • * “Who burnt (confound his soul ') the houses twain, . " Of Covent Garden and of Drury Lane 2 Who, while the British squadron lay off Cork, , , (God bless the Regent and the Duke of York 1) With a foul earthquake ravaged the Caraccas, And raised the price of dry goods and tobaccos ? Who makes the quartern loaf and Luddites rise ? Who fills the butchers' shops with large blue flies 2 Who thought in flames St. James's court to pinch 2 Who burnt the wardrobe of poor Lady Finch 2– Why he, who forging for this isle a yoke, Reminds me of a line I lately spoke – * The tree of freedom is the British Oak.” Bless every man possess'd of aught to give Long may Long Tilney Wellesley Long Pole live God bless the army, bless their chats of scarlet ! God bless the navy, bless the Princess Charlotte : God bless the Guards, though worsted Gallia scoff! God bless their pig-tails, though they're now cut off! And oh in Downing Street should Old Nick revel, England's prime minister, then bless the Devil "l 7 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. * [“. This must have been written in the spirit of prophecy.” —B. 1816.]
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,
Such is the force of wit! but not belong To me the arrows of satiric song; The royal vices of our age demand A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. Still there are follies, e'en for me to chase, And yield at least amusement in the rece: 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 pour'd along the town a flood of rhyme, A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame; I printed — older children do the same. 'T is pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; A book 's a book, although there 's nothing in 't, Not that a title's sounding charm can save Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave : This Lambe must own, since his patrician name Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from shame." No matter, George continues still to write, * Though now the name is veil'd from public sight. Moved by the great example, I pursue The self-same road, but make my own review: Not seek great Jeffrey's, yet like him, will be Self-constituted judge of poesy.
Fear not to lie, 't will seem a sharper hit; Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit Care not for feeling — pass your proper jestAnd stand a critic, hated yet caress'd.
And shall we own such judgment 2 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; Or yield one single thought to be misled By Jeffrey's heart, or Lambe's Boeotian head.s 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, 't would be sin to spare; While such are critics, why should I forbear? But yet, so near all modern worthies run, 'T is doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun; Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike, Our bards aud censors are so much alike.
and otherwise, on the Foo, 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 the 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, Frith of Forth, 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, &c.— The Lord Holland applauded for dinners and translations—The Drama; Skeffington, Hook, Reynolds, Kenney, Cherry, &c.—Sheridan, Colman, and Cumberland called upon to write. — Return to [...o. of all sorts —lords sometimes rhyme; much
otter not Haiz, Rosa Matilda, and X, Y, Z ~ Rogers, Campbell, Gifford, &c. true poets – Translators of the Greek Anthology – Crabbe – Darwin's style — Cambridge – Seatonian Prize — Smythe – Hodgson — Oxford — Richards — Poeta loquitur – Conclusion.”
7 [when Lord Byron, in the autumn of 1808, was occupied upon this Satire, he devoted a considerable portion of his time to a deep study of the writings of Pope ; and from that #. may be doi his enthusiastic admiration of this great poet