The Works of Lord Byron, Vol. 7. Poetry

EPISTLE TO MR. MURRAY

1My dear Mr. Murray,You're in a damned hurryTo set up this ultimate Canto;86But (if they don't rob us)You'll see Mr. HobhouseWill bring it safe in his portmanteau.2For the Journal you hint of,87As ready to print off,No doubt you do right to commend it;But as yet I have writ offThe devil a bit ofOur "Beppo: " – when copied, I'll send it.3In the mean time you've "Galley"88Whose verses all tally,Perhaps you may say he's a Ninny,But if you abashed areBecause of Alashtar,He'll piddle another Phrosine.894Then you've Sotheby's Tour, —90No great things, to be sure, —You could hardly begin with a less work;For the pompous rascallion,Who don't speak ItalianNor French, must have scribbled by guess-work.5No doubt he's a rare manWithout knowing GermanTranslating his way up Parnassus,And now still absurderHe meditates MurderAs you'll see in the trash he calls Tasso's.6But you've others his bettersThe real men of lettersYour Orators – Critics – and Wits —And I'll bet that your Journal(Pray is it diurnal?)Will pay with your luckiest hits.7You can make any loss upWith "Spence"91 and his gossip,A work which must surely succeed;Then Queen Mary's Epistle-craft,92With the new "Fytte" of "Whistlecraft,"Must make people purchase and read.8Then you've General Gordon,93Who girded his sword on,To serve with a Muscovite Master,And help him to polishA nation so owlish,They thought shaving their beards a disaster.9For the man, "poor and shrewd,"94With whom you'd concludeA compact without more delay,Perhaps some such pen isStill extant in Venice;But please, Sir, to mention your pay.10Now tell me some newsOf your friends and the Muse,Of the Bar, or the Gown, or the House,From Canning, the tall wit,To Wilmot,95 the small wit,Ward's creeping Companion and Louse,11Who's so damnably bitWith fashion and Wit,That he crawls on the surface like Vermin,But an Insect in both, —By his Intellect's growth,Of what size you may quickly determine.96Venice, January 8, 1818.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 156, 157;stanzas 3, 5, 6, 10, 11, first published, Letters, 1900, iv. 191-193.]

ON THE BIRTH OF JOHN WILLIAM RIZZO HOPPNER.97

His father's sense, his mother's grace,In him, I hope, will always fit so;With – still to keep him in good case —The health and appetite of Rizzo. February 20, 1818.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 134.]

[E NIHILO NIHIL; OR AN EPIGRAM BEWITCHED.]

Of rhymes I printed seven volumes —98The list concludes John Murray's columns:Of these there have been few translations99For Gallic or Italian nations;And one or two perhaps in German —But in this last I can't determine.But then I only sung of passionsThat do not suit with modern fashions;Of Incest and such like diversionsPermitted only to the Persians,Or Greeks to bring upon their stages —But that was in the earlier agesBesides my style is the romantic,Which some call fine, and some call frantic;While others are or would seem as sickOf repetitions nicknamed Classic.For my part all men must allowWhatever I was, I'm classic now.I saw and left my fault in time,And chose a topic all sublime —Wondrous as antient war or hero —Then played and sung away like Nero,Who sang of Rome, and I of Rizzo:The subject has improved my wit so,The first four lines the poet seesStart forth in fourteen languages!Though of seven volumes none beforeCould ever reach the fame of four,Henceforth I sacrifice all GloryTo the Rinaldo of my Story:I've sung his health and appetite(The last word's not translated right —He's turned it, God knows how, to vigour)100I'll sing them in a book that's bigger.Oh! Muse prepare for thy Ascension!And generous Rizzo! thou my pension. February, 1818.[From an autograph MS. in the possession of Mr. Murray,now for the first time printed.]

TO MR. MURRAY

1Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times,101Patron and publisher of rhymes,For thee the bard up Pindus climbs,My Murray.2To thee, with hope and terror dumb,The unfledged MS. authors come;Thou printest all – and sellest some —My Murray.3Upon thy table's baize so greenThe last new Quarterly is seen, —But where is thy new Magazine,102My Murray?4Along thy sprucest bookshelves shineThe works thou deemest most divine —The Art of Cookery,103 and mine,My Murray.5Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist,And Sermons, to thy mill bring grist;And then thou hast the Navy List,My Murray.6And Heaven forbid I should conclude,Without "the Board of Longitude,"104Although this narrow paper would,My Murray.Venice, April 11, 1818.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 171.]

BALLAD.

TO THE TUNE OF "SALLEY IN OUR ALLEY."

1Of all the twice ten thousand bardsThat ever penned a canto,Whom Pudding or whom Praise rewardsFor lining a portmanteau;Of all the poets ever known,From Grub-street to Fop's Alley,105The Muse may boast – the World must ownThere's none like pretty Gally!1062He writes as well as any Miss,Has published many a poem;The shame is yours, the gain is his,In case you should not know 'em:He has ten thousand pounds a year —I do not mean to vally —His songs at sixpence would be dear,So give them gratis, Gaily!3And if this statement should seem queer,Or set down in a hurry,Go, ask (if he will be sincere)His bookseller – John Murray.Come, say, how many have been sold,And don't stand shilly-shally,Of bound and lettered, red and gold,Well printed works of Gally.4For Astley's circus Upton107 writes,And also for the Surry; (sic)Fitzgerald weekly still recites,Though grinning Critics worry:Miss Holford's Peg, and Sotheby's Saul,In fame exactly tally;From Stationer's Hall to Grocer's StallThey go – and so does Gally.5He rode upon a Camel's hump108Through Araby the sandy,Which surely must have hurt the rumpOf this poetic dandy.His rhymes are of the costive kind,And barren as each valleyIn deserts which he left behindHas been the Muse of Gally.6He has a Seat in Parliament,Is fat and passing wealthy;And surely he should be contentWith these and being healthy:But Great Ambition will misruleMen at all risks to sally, —Now makes a poet – now a fool,And we know which– of Gally.7Some in the playhouse like to row,Some with the Watch to battle,Exchanging many a midnight blowTo Music of the Rattle.Some folks like rowing on the Thames,Some rowing in an Alley,But all the Row my fancy claimsIs rowing– of my Gally. April 11, 1818.109

ANOTHER SIMPLE BALLAT

1Mrs. Wilmot sate scribbling a play,Mr. Sotheby sate sweating behind her;But what are all these to the LayOf Gally i.o. the Grinder?Gally i.o. i.o., etc.2I bought me some books tother day,And sent them down stairs to the binder;But the Pastry Cook carried awayMy Gally i.o. the Grinder.Gally i.o. i.o., etc.3I wanted to kindle my taper,And called to the Maid to remind her;And what should she bring me for paperBut Gally i.o. the Grinder.Gally i.o. i.o., etc.4Among my researches for EaseI went where one's certain to find her:The first thing by her throne that one seesIs Gally i.o. the Grinder.Gally i.o. i.o., etc.5Away with old Homer the blind —I'll show you a poet that's blinder:You may see him whene'er you've a mindIn Gally i.o. the Grinder.Gally i.o. i.o., etc.6Blindfold he runs groping for fame,And hardly knows where he will find her:She don't seem to take to the nameOf Gally i.o. the Grinder.Gally i.o. i.o., etc.7Yet the Critics have been very kind,And Mamma and his friends have been kinder;But the greatest of Glory's behindFor Gally i.o. the Grinder.Gally i.o. i.o., etc. April 11, 1818.[From an autograph MS. in the possession of Mr. Murray,now for the first time printed.]

EPIGRAM.

FROM THE FRENCH OF RULHIÈRES.110

If for silver, or for gold,You could melt ten thousand pimplesInto half a dozen dimples,Then your face we might behold,Looking, doubtless, much more snugly,Yet even then 'twould be damned ugly. August 12, 1819.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 235.]

EPILOGUE.111

1There's something in a stupid ass,And something in a heavy dunce;But never since I went to schoolI heard or saw so damned a foolAs William Wordsworth is for once.2And now I've seen so great a foolAs William Wordsworth is for once;I really wish that Peter BellAnd he who wrote it were in hell,For writing nonsense for the nonce.3It saw the "light in ninety-eight,"Sweet babe of one and twenty years!112And then he gives it to the nationAnd deems himself of Shakespeare's peers!4He gives the perfect work to light!Will Wordsworth, if I might advise,Content you with the praise you getFrom Sir George Beaumont, Baronet,And with your place in the Excise!1819.[First published, Philadelphia Record, December 28, 1891.]

ON MY WEDDING-DAY

Here's a happy New Year! but with reasonI beg you'll permit me to say —Wish me many returns of the Season,But as few as you please of the Day.113 January 2, 1820.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 294.]

EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM PITT

With Death doomed to grapple,Beneath this cold slab, heWho lied in the ChapelNow lies in the Abbey. January 2, 1820.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 295.]

EPIGRAM

In digging up your bones, Tom Paine,Will. Cobbett114 has done well:You visit him on Earth again,He'll visit you in Hell.

or —

You come to him on Earth againHe'll go with you to Hell! January 2, 1820.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 295.]

EPITAPH

Posterity will ne'er surveyA nobler grave than this;Here lie the bones of Castlereagh:Stop traveller,      *       * January 2, 1820.[First published, Lord Byron's Works, 1833, xvii. 246.]

EPIGRAM

The world is a bundle of hay,Mankind are the asses who pull;Each tugs it a different way, —And the greatest of all is John Bull![First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 494.]

MY BOY HOBBIE O.115

New Song to the tune of

"Whare hae ye been a' day,My boy Tammy O.!Courting o' a young thingJust come frae her Mammie O."1How came you in Hob's pound to cool,My boy Hobbie O?Because I bade the people pullThe House into the Lobby O.2What did the House upon this call,My boy Hobbie O?They voted me to Newgate all,Which is an awkward Jobby O.3Who are now the people's men,My boy Hobbie O?There's I and Burdett – GentlemenAnd blackguard Hunt and Cobby O.4You hate the house —why canvass, then?My boy Hobbie O?Because I would reform the denAs member for the Mobby O.5Wherefore do you hate the Whigs,My boy Hobbie O?Because they want to run their rigs,As under Walpole Bobby O.6But when we at Cambridge wereMy boy Hobbie O,If my memory don't errYou founded a Whig Clubbie O.7When to the mob you make a speech,My boy Hobbie O,How do you keep without their reachThe watch within your fobby O?8But never mind such petty things,My boy Hobbie O;God save the people – damn all Kings,So let us Crown the Mobby O!Yours truly,(Signed)   Infidus Scurra March 23d, 1820.[First published Murray's Magazine, March, 1887, vol. i. pp. 292, 293.]

LINES ADDRESSED BY LORD BYRON TO MR. HOBHOUSE ON HIS ELECTION FOR WESTMINSTER.116

Would you go to the house by the true gate,Much faster than ever Whig Charley went;Let Parliament send you to Newgate,And Newgate will send you to Parliament.April 9, 1820.[First published, Miscellaneous Poems, printed for J. Bumpus, 1824.]

A VOLUME OF NONSENSE

Dear Murray, —You ask for a "Volume of Nonsense,"Have all of your authors exhausted their store?I thought you had published a good deal not long since.And doubtless the Squadron are ready with more.But on looking again, I perceive that the SpeciesOf "Nonsense" you want must be purely "facetious;"And, as that is the case, you had best put to pressMr. Sotheby's tragedies now in M.S.,Some Syrian SallyFrom common-place Gally,Or, if you prefer the bookmaking of women,Take a spick and span "Sketch" of your feminine He-Man.117 Sept. 28, 1820.[First published, Letters, 1900, v. 83.]

STANZAS.118

When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home,Let him combat for that of his neighbours;Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome,And get knocked on the head for his labours.To do good to Mankind is the chivalrous plan,And is always as nobly requited;Then battle for Freedom wherever you can,And, if not shot or hanged, you'll get knighted.November 5, 1820.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 377.]

TO PENELOPE.119

January 2, 1821

This day, of all our days, has doneThe worst for me and you: —'T is just six years since we were one,And five since we were two.November 5, 1820.[First published, Medwin's Conversations, 1824, p. 106.]

THE CHARITY BALL.120

What matter the pangs of a husband and father,If his sorrows in exile be great or be small,So the Pharisee's glories around her she gather,And the saint patronises her "Charity Ball!"What matters – a heart which, though faulty, was feeling,Be driven to excesses which once could appal —That the Sinner should suffer is only fair dealing,As the Saint keeps her charity back for "the Ball!" December 10, 1820.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 540.]

EPIGRAM ON THE BRAZIERS' ADDRESS TO BE PRESENTED IN ARMOUR BY THE COMPANY TO QUEEN CAROLINE.121

It seems that the Braziers propose soon to passAn Address and to bear it themselves all in brass;A superfluous pageant, for by the Lord Harry!They'll find, where they're going, much more than they carry.

Or —

The Braziers, it seems, are determined to passAn Address, and present it themselves all in brass: —A superfluous {pageant/trouble} for, by the Lord Harry!They'll find, where they're going, much more than they carry.January 6, 1821.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 442.]

ON MY THIRTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY.

JANUARY 22, 1821.122

Through Life's dull road, so dim and dirty,I have dragged to three-and-thirty.What have these years left to me?Nothing – except thirty-three.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 414.]

MARTIAL, Lib. I. Epig. I

"Hic est, quem legis, ille, quem requiris,

Toto notus in orbe Martialis," etc.

He, unto whom thou art so partial,Oh, reader! is the well-known Martial,The Epigrammatist: while living,Give him the fame thou would'st be giving;So shall he hear, and feel, and know it —Post-obits rarely reach a poet.[N.D.? 1821.][First published, Lord Byron's Works, 1833, xvii. 245]

BOWLES AND CAMPBELL

To the air of "How now, Madam Flirt," in the Beggar's Opera.123

BOWLES"Why, how now, saucy Tom?If you thus must ramble,I will publish someRemarks on Mister Campbell.Saucy Tom!"CAMPBELL"Why, how now, Billy Bowles?Sure the priest is maudlin!(To the public) How can you, d – n your souls!Listen to his twaddling?Billy Bowles!" February 22, 1821.[First published, The Liberal, 1823, No. II. p. 398.]

ELEGY

Behold the blessings of a lucky lot!My play is damned, and Lady Noel not. May 25, 1821.[First published, Medwin's Conversations, 1824, p. 121.]

JOHN KEATS.124

Who killed John Keats?"I," says the Quarterly,So savage and Tartarly;"'T was one of my feats."Who shot the arrow?"The poet-priest Milman(So ready to kill man)"Or Southey, or Barrow." July 30, 1821.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 506.]

FROM THE FRENCH

Ægle, beauty and poet, has two little crimes;She makes her own face, and does not make her rhymes. Aug. 2, 1821.[First published, The Liberal, 1823, No. II. p. 396.]

TO MR. MURRAY

1For Orford125 and for Waldegrave126You give much more than me you gave;Which is not fairly to behave,My Murray!2Because if a live dog, 't is said,Be worth a lion fairly sped,A live lord must be worth two dead,My Murray!3And if, as the opinion goes,Verse hath a better sale than prose, —Certes, I should have more than those,My Murray!4But now this sheet is nearly crammed,So, if you will, I shan't be shammed,And if you won't, —you may be damned,My Murray!127August 23, 1821.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 517.]

[NAPOLEON'S SNUFF-BOX.]128

Lady, accept the box a hero wore,In spite of all this elegiac stuff:Let not seven stanzas written by a bore,Prevent your Ladyship from taking snuff!1821.[First published, Conversations of Lord Byron, 1824, p. 235.]

THE NEW VICAR OF BRAY

1Do you know Doctor Nott?129With "a crook in his lot,"Who seven years since tried to dish upA neat CodicilTo the Princess's Will,130Which made Dr. Nott not a bishop.2So the Doctor being foundA little unsoundIn his doctrine, at least as a teacher,And kicked from one stoolAs a knave or a fool,He mounted another as preacher.3In that Gown (like the SkinWith no Lion within)He still for the Bench would be driving;And roareth away,A new Vicar of Bray,Except that his bray lost his living.4"Gainst Freethinkers," he roars,"You should all block your doorsOr be named in the Devil's indentures:"And here I agree,For who e'er would beA Guest where old Simony enters?5Let the Priest, who beguiledHis own Sovereign's childTo his own dirty views of promotion,Wear his Sheep's cloathing stillAmong flocks to his will,And dishonour the Cause of devotion.6The Altar and ThroneAre in danger aloneFrom such as himself, who would renderThe Altar itselfBut a step up to Pelf,And pray God to pay his defender.7But, Doctor, one wordWhich perhaps you have heard"He should never throw stones who has windowsOf Glass to be broken,And by this same tokenAs a sinner, you can't care what Sin does.8But perhaps you do well:Your own windows, they tell,Have long ago sufferéd censure;Not a fragment remainsOf your character's panes,Since the Regent refused you a glazier.9Though your visions of lawnHave all been withdrawn,And you missed your bold stroke for a mitre;In a very snug wayYou may still preach and pray,And from bishop sink into backbiter!"[First published, Works (Galignani), 1831, p. 116.]

LUCIETTA. A FRAGMENT

Lucietta, my deary,That fairest of faces!Is made up of kisses;But, in love, oft the case isEven stranger than this is —There's another, that's slyer,Who touches me nigher, —A Witch, an intriguer,Whose manner and figureNow piques me, excites me,Torments and delights me —Cætera desunt.[From an autograph MS. in the possession of Mr. Murray, now for the first time printed.]

EPIGRAMS

Oh, Castlereagh! thou art a patriot now;Cato died for his country, so did'st thou:He perished rather than see Rome enslaved,Thou cut'st thy throat that Britain may be saved!So Castlereagh has cut his throat! – The worstOf this is, – that his own was not the first.So He has cut his throat at last! – He! Who?The man who cut his country's long ago. ?August, 1822.[First published, The Liberal, No. I. October 18, 1822, p. 164.]

THE CONQUEST.131

The Son of Love and Lord of War I sing;Him who bade England bow to Normandy,And left the name of Conqueror more than KingTo his unconquerable dynasty.Not fanned alone by Victory's fleeting wing,He reared his bold and brilliant throne on high;The Bastard kept, like lions, his prey fast,And Britain's bravest Victor was the last. March 8-9, 1823.[First published, Lord Byron's Works, 1833, xvii. 246.]

IMPROMPTU.132

Beneath Blessington's eyesThe reclaimed ParadiseShould be free as the former from evil;But if the new EveFor an Apple should grieve,What mortal would not play the Devil? April, 1823.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 635.]

JOURNAL IN CEPHALONIA

The dead have been awakened – shall I sleep?The World's at war with tyrants – shall I crouch?The harvest's ripe – and shall I pause to reap?I slumber not; the thorn is in my Couch;Each day a trumpet soundeth in mine ear,Its echo in my heart — June 19, 1823.[First published, Letters, 1901, vi. 238.]

SONG TO THE SULIOTES

1Up to battle! Sons of SuliUp, and do your duty duly!There the wall – and there the Moat is:Bouwah!133 Bouwah! Suliotes!There is booty – there is Beauty,Up my boys and do your duty.2By the sally and the rallyWhich defied the arms of Ali;By your own dear native Highlands,By your children in the islands,Up and charge, my Stratiotes,Bouwah! – Bouwah! – Suliotes!3As our ploughshare is the Sabre:Here's the harvest of our labour;For behind those battered breachesAre our foes with all their riches:There is Glory – there is plunder —Then away despite of thunder![From an autograph MS. in the possession of Mr. Murray, now for the first time printed.]

[LOVE AND DEATH.]

1I watched thee when the foe was at our side,Ready to strike at him – or thee and me.Were safety hopeless – rather than divideAught with one loved save love and liberty.2I watched thee on the breakers, when the rockReceived our prow and all was storm and fear,And bade thee cling to me through every shock;This arm would be thy bark, or breast thy bier.3I watched thee when the fever glazed thine eyes,Yielding my couch and stretched me on the ground,When overworn with watching, ne'er to riseFrom thence if thou an early grave hadst found.4The earthquake came, and rocked the quivering wall,And men and nature reeled as if with wine.Whom did I seek around the tottering hall?For thee. Whose safety first provide for? Thine.5And when convulsive throes denied my breathThe faintest utterance to my fading thought,To thee – to thee – e'en in the gasp of deathMy spirit turned, oh! oftener than it ought.6Thus much and more; and yet thou lov'st me not,And never wilt! Love dwells not in our will.Nor can I blame thee, though it be my lotTo strongly, wrongly, vainly love thee still.134[First published, Murray's Magazine, February, 1887, vol. i. pp. 145, 146.]

LAST WORDS ON GREECE

What are to me those honours or renownPast or to come, a new-born people's cry?Albeit for such I could despise a crownOf aught save laurel, or for such could die.I am a fool of passion, and a frownOf thine to me is as an adder's eye.To the poor bird whose pinion fluttering downWafts unto death the breast it bore so high;Such is this maddening fascination grown,So strong thy magic or so weak am I.[First published, Murray's Magazine, February, 1887, vol. i. p. 146.]

ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR.135

1'T is time this heart should be unmoved,Since others it hath ceased to move:Yet, though I cannot be beloved,Still let me love!2My days are in the yellow leaf;The flowers and fruits of Love are gone;The worm, the canker, and the griefAre mine alone!3The fire that on my bosom preysIs lone136 as some Volcanic isle;No torch is kindled at its blaze —A funeral pile.4The hope, the fear, the jealous care,The exalted portion of the painAnd power of love, I cannot share,But wear the chain.5But 't is not thus– and 't is not here—137Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor nowWhere Glory decks the hero's bier,138Or binds his brow.6The Sword, the Banner, and the Field,139Glory and Greece, around me see!The Spartan, borne upon his shield,140Was not more free.7Awake! (not Greece – she is awake!)Awake, my spirit! Think through whomThy life-blood tracks its parent lake,141And then strike home!8Tread those reviving passions down,142Unworthy manhood! – unto theeIndifferent should the smile or frownOf Beauty be.9If thou regret'st thy youth, why live?The land of honourable deathIs here: – up to the Field, and giveAway thy breath!10Seek out – less often sought than found —A soldier's grave, for thee the best;Then look around, and choose thy ground,And take thy Rest.Missolonghi, Jan. 22, 1824.[First published, Morning Chronicle, October 29, 1824.]