The Works of Lord Byron, Vol. 7. Poetry

ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS.31

1When Thurlow this damned nonsense sent,(I hope I am not violent)Nor men nor gods knew what he meant.2And since not even our Rogers' praiseTo common sense his thoughts could raise —Why would they let him print his lays?345To me, divine Apollo, grant – O!Hermilda's32 first and second canto,I'm fitting up a new portmanteau;6And thus to furnish decent lining,My own and others' bays I'm twining, —So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in.June 2, 1813.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, i. 396.]

TO LORD THURLOW.33

1"I lay my branch of laurel down.""Thou lay thy branch of laurel down!"Why, what thou'st stole is not enow;And, were it lawfully thine own,Does Rogers want it most, or thou?Keep to thyself thy withered bough,Or send it back to Doctor Donne:34Were justice done to both, I trow,He'd have but little, and thou – none.2"Then, thus, to form Apollo's crown."A crown! why, twist it how you will,Thy chaplet must be foolscap still.When next you visit Delphi's town,Enquire amongst your fellow-lodgers,They'll tell you Phoebus gave his crown,Some years before your birth, to Rogers.3"Let every other bring his own."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.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, i. 397.]

THE DEVIL'S DRIVE.3536

1The Devil returned to Hell by two,And he stayed at home till five;When he dined on some homicides done in ragoût,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, "I'll take a drive.I walked in the morning, I'll ride to-night;In darkness my children take most delight,10And I'll see how my favourites thrive.2"And what shall I ride in?" quoth Lucifer, then —"If I followed my taste, indeed,I should mount in a waggon of wounded men,And smile to see them bleed.But these will be furnished again and again,And at present my purpose is speed;To see my manor as much as I may,And watch that no souls shall be poached away.3"I have a state-coach at Carlton House,20A chariot in Seymour-place;37But they're lent to two friends, who make me amendsBy driving my favourite pace:And they handle their reins with such a grace,I have something for both at the end of the race.4"So now for the earth to take my chance,"Then up to the earth sprung he;And making a jump from Moscow to France,He stepped across the sea,And rested his hoof on a turnpike road,30No very great way from a Bishop's abode.385But first as he flew, I forgot to say,That he hovered a moment upon his way,To look upon Leipsic plain;And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare,And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair,That he perched on a mountain of slain;And he gazed with delight from its growing height,Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight,Nor his work done half as well:40For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead,That it blushed like the waves of Hell!Then loudly, and wildly, and long laughed he:"Methinks they have little need here of me!"6Long he looked down on the hosts of each clime,While the warriors hand to hand were —Gaul – Austrian and Muscovite heroes sublime,And – (Muse of Fitzgerald arise with a rhyme!)A quantity of Landwehr!39Gladness was there,50For the men of all might and the monarchs of earth,There met for the wolf and the worm to make mirth,And a feast for the fowls of the Air!7But he turned aside and looked from the ridgeOf hills along the river,And the best thing he saw was a broken bridge,40Which a Corporal chose to shiver;Though an Emperor's taste was displeased with his haste,The Devil he thought it clever;And he laughed again in a lighter strain,60O'er the torrent swoln and rainy,When he saw "on a fiery steed" Prince Pon,In taking care of Number One—Get drowned with a great many!8But the softest note that soothed his earWas the sound of a widow sighing;And the sweetest sight was the icy tear,Which Horror froze in the blue eye clearOf a maid by her lover lying —As round her fell her long fair hair,70And she looked to Heaven with that frenzied airWhich seemed to ask if a God were there!And stretched by the wall of a ruined hut,With its hollow cheek, and eyes half shut,A child of Famine dying:And the carnage begun, when resistance is done,And the fall of the vainly flying!9Then he gazed on a town by besiegers taken,Nor cared he who were winning;But he saw an old maid, for years forsaken,80Get up and leave her spinning;And she looked in her glass, and to one that did pass,She said – "pray are the rapes beginning?"4110But the Devil has reached our cliffs so white,And what did he there, I pray?If his eyes were good, he but saw by nightWhat we see every day;But he made a tour and kept a journalOf all the wondrous sights nocturnal,And he sold it in shares to the Men of the Row,90Who bid pretty well – but they cheated him, though!11The Devil first saw, as he thought, the Mail,Its coachman and his coat;So instead of a pistol he cocked his tail,And seized him by the throat;"Aha!" quoth he, "what have we here?'T is a new barouche, and an ancient peer!"4212So he sat him on his box again,And bade him have no fear,But be true to his club, and staunch to his rein,100His brothel and his beer;"Next to seeing a Lord at the Council board,I would rather see him here."13Satan hired a horse and gigWith promises to pay;And he pawned his horns for a spruce new wig,To redeem as he came away:And he whistled some tune, a waltz or a jig,And drove off at the close of day.14The first place he stopped at – he heard the Psalm110That rung from a Methodist Chapel:"'T is the best sound I've heard," quoth he, "since my palmPresented Eve her apple!When Faith is all, 't is an excellent sign,That the Works and Workmen both are mine."15He passed Tommy Tyrwhitt,43 that standing jest,To princely wit a Martyr:But the last joke of all was by far the best,When he sailed away with "the Garter"!"And" – quoth Satan – "this Embassy's worthy my sight,120Should I see nothing else to amuse me to night.With no one to bear it, but Thomas à Tyrwhitt,This ribband belongs to an 'Order of Merit'!"16He stopped at an Inn and stepped withinThe Bar and read the "Times;"And never such a treat, as – the epistle of one "Vetus,"44Had he found save in downright crimes:"Though I doubt if this drivelling encomiast of WarEver saw a field fought, or felt a scar,Yet his fame shall go farther than he can guess,130For I'll keep him a place in my hottest Press;And his works shall be bound in Morocco d'Enfer,And lettered behind with his Nom de Guerre."17The Devil gat next to Westminster,And he turned to "the room" of the Commons;But he heard as he purposed to enter in there,That "the Lords" had received a summons;And he thought, as "a quondam Aristocrat,"He might peep at the Peers, though to hear them were flat;And he walked up the House so like one of his own,140That they say that he stood pretty near the throne.18He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise,The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly,And Jockey of Norfolk – a man of some size —And Chatham, so like his friend Billy;45And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon's eyes,Because the Catholics would not rise,In spite of his prayers and his prophecies;And he heard – which set Satan himself a staring —A certain Chief Justice say something like swearing.46And the Devil was shocked – and quoth he, "I must go,151For I find we have much better manners below.If thus he harangues when he passes my border,I shall hint to friend Moloch to call him to order."19Then the Devil went down to the humbler House,Where he readily found his wayAs natural to him as its hole to a Mouse,He had been there many a day;And many a vote and soul and job heHad bid for and carried away from the Lobby:But there now was a "call" and accomplished debaters161Appeared in the glory of hats, boots and gaiters —Some paid rather more – but all worse dressed than Waiters!20There was Canning for War, and Whitbread for peace,And others as suited their fancies;But all were agreed that our debts should increaseExcepting the Demagogue Francis.That rogue! how could Westminster chuse him againTo leaven the virtue of these honest men!But the Devil remained till the Break of Day170Blushed upon Sleep and Lord Castlereagh:47Then up half the house got, and Satan got upWith the drowsy to snore – or the hungry to sup: —But so torpid the power of some speakers, 't is said,That they sent even him to his brimstone bed.21He had seen George Rose – but George was grown dumb,And only lied in thought!48And the Devil has all the pleasure to comeOf hearing him talk as he ought.With the falsest of tongues, the sincerest of men – 180His veracity were but deceit —And Nature must first have unmade him again,Ere his breast or his face, or his tongue, or his pen,Conceived – uttered – looked – or wrote down letters ten,Which Truth would acknowledge complete.22Satan next took the army list in hand,Where he found a new "Field Marshal;"And when he saw this high commandConferred on his Highness of Cumberland,49"Oh! were I prone to cavil – or were I not the Devil,190I should say this was somewhat partial;Since the only wounds that this Warrior gat,Were from God knows whom – and the Devil knows what!"23He then popped his head in a royal Ball,And saw all the Haram so hoary;And who there besides but Corinna de Staël!50Turned Methodist and Tory!"Aye – Aye" – quoth he – "'t is the way with them all,When Wits grow tired of Glory:But thanks to the weakness, that thus could pervert her,200Since the dearest of prizes to me's a deserter:Mem– whenever a sudden conversion I want,To send to the school of Philosopher Kant;And whenever I need a critic who can gloss overAll faults – to send for Mackintosh to write up the Philosopher."5124The Devil waxed faint at the sight of this Saint,And he thought himself of eating;And began to cram from a plate of hamWherewith a Page was retreating —Having nothing else to do (for "the friends" each so near210Had sold all their souls long before),As he swallowed down the bacon he wished himself a JewFor the sake of another crime more:For Sinning itself is but half a recreation,Unless it ensures most infallible Damnation.25But he turned him about, for he heard a soundWhich even his ear found faults in;For whirling above – underneath – and around —Were his fairest Disciples Waltzing!52And quoth he – "though this be – the premier pas to me,220Against it I would warn all —Should I introduce these revels among my younger devils,They would all turn perfectly carnal:And though fond of the flesh – yet I never could bear itShould quite in my kingdom get the upper hand of Spirit."26The Devil (but 't was over) had been vastly gladTo see the new Drury Lane,And yet he might have been rather madTo see it rebuilt in vain;And had he beheld their "Nourjahad,"53230Would never have gone again:And Satan had taken it much amiss,They should fasten such a piece on a friend of his —Though he knew that his works were somewhat sad,He never had found them quite so bad:For this was "the book" which, of yore, Job, sorely smitten,Said, "Oh that mine enemy, mine enemy had written"!27Then he found sixty scribblers in separate cells,54And marvelled what they were doing,For they looked like little fiends in their own little hells,240Damnation for others brewing —Though their paper seemed to shrink, from the heat of their ink,They were only coolly reviewing!And as one of them wrote down the pronoun "We,""That Plural" – says Satan – "means him and me,With the Editor added to make up the threeOf an Athanasian Trinity,And render the believers in our 'Articles' sensible,How many must combine to form one Incomprehensible"! December 9, 1813.[Stanzas 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 8, 10, 11, 12, 17, 18, first published, Letters and Journals, 1830, i. 471-474: stanzas 6, 7, 9, 13, 14, 15, 16, 19-27, now published for the first time from an autograph MS. in the possession of the Earl of Ilchester.]

WINDSOR POETICS

LINES COMPOSED ON THE OCCASION OF HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCE REGENT BEING SEEN STANDING BETWEEN THE COFFINS OF HENRY VIII. AND CHARLES I., IN THE ROYAL VAULT AT WINDSORFamed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties,By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies;Between them stands another sceptred thing —It moves, it reigns – in all but name, a king:Charles to his people, Henry to his wife,– In him the double tyrant starts to life:Justice and Death have mixed their dust in vain,Each royal Vampire wakes to life again.Ah, what can tombs avail! – since these disgorgeThe blood and dust of both – to mould a George.55[First published, Poetical Works, Paris, 1819, vi. 125.][Another Version.]

ON A ROYAL VISIT TO THE VAULTS.56

[or Cæsar's Discovery of C. I. AND H. 8. in ye same Vault.]Famed for their civil and domestic quarrelsSee heartless Henry lies by headless Charles;Between them stands another sceptred thing,It lives, it reigns – "aye, every inch a king."Charles to his people, Henry to his wife,In him the double tyrant starts to life:Justice and Death have mixed their dust in vain.The royal Vampires join and rise again.What now can tombs avail, since these disgorgeThe blood and dirt57 of both to mould a George!

ICH DIEN

From this emblem what variance your motto evinces,For the Man is his country's – the Arms are the Prince's!?1814.[From an autograph MS. in the possession of Mr. A. H. Hallam Murray, now for the first time printed.]

CONDOLATORY ADDRESS

TO SARAH COUNTESS OF JERSEY, ON THE PRINCE REGENT'S RETURNING HER PICTURE TO MRS. MEE.58When the vain triumph of the imperial lord,Whom servile Rome obeyed, and yet abhorred,Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust,That left a likeness of the brave, or just;What most admired each scrutinising eyeOf all that decked that passing pageantry?What spread from face to face that wondering air?The thought of Brutus59– for his was not there!That absence proved his worth, – that absence fixed10His memory on the longing mind, unmixed;And more decreed his glory to endure,Than all a gold Colossus could secure.If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gazeSearch for thy form, in vain and mute amaze,Amidst those pictured charms, whose loveliness,Bright though they be, thine own had rendered less:If he, that Vain Old Man, whom truth admitsHeir of his father's crown, and of his wits,If his corrupted eye, and withered heart,20Could with thy gentle image bear to part;That tasteless shame be his, and ours the grief,To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief:Yet Comfort still one selfish thought imparts,We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts.What can his vaulted gallery now disclose?A garden with all flowers – except the rose; —A fount that only wants its living stream;A night, with every star, save Dian's beam.Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be,30That turn from tracing them to dream of thee;And more on that recalled resemblance pause,Than all he shall not force on our applause.Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine,With all that Virtue asks of Homage thine:The symmetry of youth – the grace of mien —The eye that gladdens – and the brow serene;The glossy darkness of that clustering hair,60Which shades, yet shows that forehead more than fair!Each glance that wins us, and the life that throws40A spell which will not let our looks repose,But turn to gaze again, and find anewSome charm that well rewards another view.These are not lessened, these are still as bright,Albeit too dazzling for a dotard's sight;And those must wait till ev'ry charm is gone,To please the paltry heart that pleases none; —That dull cold sensualist, whose sickly eyeIn envious dimness passed thy portrait by;Who racked his little spirit to combine50Its hate of Freedom's loveliness, and thine. May 29, 1814.[First published in The Champion, July 31, 1814.]

FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO THOMAS MOORE

"What say I?" – not a syllable further in prose;I'm your man "of all measures," dear Tom, – so here goes!Here goes, for a swim on the stream of old Time,On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of rhyme.If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in the flood,We are smothered, at least, in respectable mud,Where the divers of Bathos lie drowned in a heap,And Southey's last Pæan has pillowed his sleep;That Felo de se who, half drunk with his Malmsey,Walked out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea,10Singing "Glory to God" in a spick and span stanza,The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) never man saw.61The papers have told you, no doubt, of the fusses,The fêtes, and the gapings to get at these Russes,62—Of his Majesty's suite, up from coachman to Hetman, —And what dignity decks the flat face of the great man.I saw him, last week, at two balls and a party, —For a Prince, his demeanour was rather too hearty.You know, we are used to quite different graces,The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter and brisker,21But then he is sadly deficient in whisker;And wore but a starless blue coat, and in kersey-mere breeches whisked round, in a waltz with the Jersey,63Who, lovely as ever, seemed just as delightedWith Majesty's presence as those she invited. June, 1814.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, i. 561, 562 (note).]

ANSWER TO 'S PROFESSIONS OF AFFECTION

In hearts like thine ne'er may I hold a placeTill I renounce all sense, all shame, all grace —That seat, – like seats, the bane of Freedom's realm,But dear to those presiding at the helm —Is basely purchased, not with gold alone;Add Conscience, too, this bargain is your own —'T is thine to offer with corrupting artThe rotten borough64 of the human heart.?1814.[From an autograph MS., now for the first time printed.]

ON NAPOLEON'S ESCAPE FROM ELBA.65

Once fairly set out on his party of pleasure,Taking towns at his liking, and crowns at his leisure,From Elba to Lyons and Paris he goes,Making balls for the ladies, and bows to his foes.March 27, 1815.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, i. 611.]

ENDORSEMENT TO THE DEED OF SEPARATION, IN THE APRIL OF 1816

A year ago you swore, fond she!"To love, to honour," and so forth:Such was the vow you pledged to me,And here's exactly what 't is worth.[First published, Poetical Works, 1831, vi. 454.]

[TO GEORGE ANSON BYRON(?)66]

1And, dost thou ask the reason of my sadness?Well, I will tell it thee, unfeeling boy!'Twas ill report that urged my brain to madness,'Twas thy tongue's venom poisoned all my joy.2The sadness which thou seest is not sorrow;My wounds are far too deep for simple grief;The heart thus withered, seeks in vain to borrowFrom calm reflection, comfort or relief.3The arrow's flown, and dearly shalt thou rue it;No mortal hand can rid me of my pain:My heart is pierced, but thou canst not subdue it —Revenge is left, and is not left in vain.?1816.[First published, Nicnac, March 25, 1823.]

SONG FOR THE LUDDITES.67

1As the Liberty lads o'er the seaBought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood,So we, boys, weWill die fighting, or live free,And down with all kings but King Ludd!2When the web that we weave is complete,And the shuttle exchanged for the sword,We will fling the winding sheetO'er the despot at our feet,And dye it deep in the gore he has poured.3Though black as his heart its hue,Since his veins are corrupted to mud,Yet this is the dewWhich the tree shall renewOf Liberty, planted by Ludd! December 24, 1816.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 58.]

TO THOMAS MOORE

What are you doing now,Oh Thomas Moore?What are you doing now,Oh Thomas Moore?Sighing or suing now,Rhyming or wooing now,Billing or cooing now,Which, Thomas Moore?But the Carnival's coming,Oh Thomas Moore!The Carnival's coming,Oh Thomas Moore!Masking and humming,Fifing and drumming,Guitarring and strumming,Oh Thomas Moore! December 24, 1816.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 58, 59.]

TO MR. MURRAY

To hook the Reader, you, John Murray,Have published "Anjou's Margaret,"68Which won't be sold off in a hurry(At least, it has not been as yet);And then, still further to bewilder him,Without remorse, you set up "Ilderim;"69So mind you don't get into debt, —Because – as how – if you should fail,These books would be but baddish bail.And mind you do not let escapeThese rhymes to Morning Post or Perry,Which would be very treacherous —very,And get me into such a scrape!For, firstly, I should have to sally,All in my little boat, against a Galley;And, should I chance to slay the Assyrian wight,Have next to combat with the female Knight:And pricked to death expire upon her needle,A sort of end which I should take indeed ill! March 25, 1817.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 91.]

VERSICLES

I read the "Christabel;"70Very well:I read the "Missionary;"71Pretty – very:I tried at "Ilderim;"Ahem!I read a sheet of "Marg'ret of Anjou;"Can you?I turned a page of Webster's "Waterloo;"72Pooh! pooh!I looked at Wordsworth's milk-white "Rylstone Doe;"73Hillo!I read "Glenarvon," too, by Caro Lamb;74God damn! March 25, 1817.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 87.]

QUEM DEUS VULT PERDERE PRIUS DEMENTAT.75

God maddens him whom't is his will to lose,And gives the choice of death or phrenzy – choose.[First published, Letters, 1900, iv. 93.]

TO THOMAS MOORE

1My boat is on the shore,And my bark is on the sea;But, before I go, Tom Moore,Here's a double health to thee!2Here's a sigh to those who love me,And a smile to those who hate;And, whatever sky's above me,Here's a heart for every fate.3Though the Ocean roar around me,Yet it still shall bear me on;Though a desert shall surround me,It hath springs that may be won.4Were't the last drop in the well,As I gasped upon the brink,Ere my fainting spirit fell,'T is to thee that I would drink.5With that water, as this wine,The libation I would pourShould be – peace with thine and mine,And a health to thee, Tom Moore.76 July, 1817.[First published, Waltz, London, W. Benbow, 1821, p. 29.]

EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO DR. POLIDORI.77

Dear Doctor, I have read your play,Which is a good one in its way, —Purges the eyes, and moves the bowels,And drenches handkerchiefs like towelsWith tears, that, in a flux of grief,Afford hysterical reliefTo shattered nerves and quickened pulses,Which your catastrophe convulses.I like your moral and machinery;10Your plot, too, has such scope for Scenery!Your dialogue is apt and smart;The play's concoction full of art;Your hero raves, your heroine cries,All stab, and every body dies.In short, your tragedy would beThe very thing to hear and see:And for a piece of publication,If I decline on this occasion,It is not that I am not sensible20To merits in themselves ostensible,But – and I grieve to speak it – playsAre drugs – mere drugs, Sir – now-a-days.I had a heavy loss by Manuel—78Too lucky if it prove not annual, —And Sotheby, with his Orestes,79(Which, by the way, the old Bore's best is),Has lain so very long on hand,That I despair of all demand;I've advertised, but see my books,30Or only watch my Shopman's looks; —Still Ivan, Ina,80 and such lumber,My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber.There's Byron too, who once did better,Has sent me, folded in a letter,A sort of – it's no more a dramaThan Darnley, Ivan, or Kehama;So altered since last year his pen is,I think he's lost his wits at Venice.In short, Sir, what with one and t' other,40I dare not venture on another.I write in haste; excuse each blunder;The Coaches through the street so thunder!My room's so full – we've Gifford hereReading MS., with Hookham Frere,Pronouncing on the nouns and particles,Of some of our forthcoming Articles.The Quarterly– Ah, Sir, if youHad but the Genius to review! —A smart Critique upon St. Helena,50Or if you only would but tell in aShort compass what – but to resume;As I was saying, Sir, the Room —The Room's so full of wits and bards,Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Freres, and WardsAnd others, neither bards nor wits:My humble tenement admitsAll persons in the dress of Gent.,From Mr. Hammond to Dog Dent.81A party dines with me to-day,60All clever men, who make their way:Crabbe, Malcolm,82 Hamilton,83 and Chantrey,Are all partakers of my pantry.They're at this moment in discussionOn poor De Staël's late dissolution.Her book,84 they say, was in advance —Pray Heaven, she tell the truth of France!'T is said she certainly was marriedTo Rocca, and had twice miscarried,No – not miscarried, I opine, – 70But brought to bed at forty-nine.Some say she died a Papist; someAre of opinion that's a Hum;I don't know that – the fellows Schlegel,85Are very likely to inveigleA dying person in compunctionTo try th' extremity of Unction.But peace be with her! for a womanHer talents surely were uncommon,Her Publisher (and Public too)80The hour of her demise may rue —For never more within his shop he —Pray – was not she interred at Coppet?Thus run our time and tongues away; —But, to return, Sir, to your play:Sorry, Sir, but I cannot deal,Unless 't were acted by O'Neill.My hands are full – my head so busy,I'm almost dead – and always dizzy;And so, with endless truth and hurry,90Dear Doctor, I am yours,JOHN MURRAY.August 21, 1817.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 139-141.Lines 67-82 first published, Letters, 1900, iv. 161.]