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And if, as the opinion goes,
Verse hath a better sale than prose-
Certes, I should have more than those,

My Murray.
But now this sheet is nearly cramm’d,
So, if you will, I shan't be shamm'd;
And if you won't, you may be damn'd,

My Murray (1)

THE CHARITY BALL.(2)
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 ber “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!”

Let the Priest who beguiled

His Sovereign's child
To his own dirty views of promotion,

Wear the sheep's clothing still

Among flocks to his will,
And dishonour the cause of devotion.

The Altar and Throne

Are in peril alone
From such as yourself, who would render

The Altar itself

A shop let for pelf,
And pray God to pay his defender.

But, Doctor, one word,

Which perhaps you have heard “They should never throw stones who bave windows

Of glass” to be broken:

And by that same token,
As a sinner, you can't care what sin does.

But perhaps you do well:

Your own windows, they tell,
Have long ago suffer'd erasure;

Not a fragment remains

Of your character's panes,
Since the Regent refused you a glazier.

Though your visions of lawn

Have all been withdrawn,
And you miss'd your bold stroke for a mitre,

In a very snug way

You may still preach and pray,
And from bishop sink into backbiter !

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ELEGY ON THE RECOVERY OF LADY ****. |

Behold the blessings of a lucky lot,
My play (3) is damu’d, and Lady **** not!

SONG.
AIR- THE VICAR AND MOSES."
Do you know Doctor Nott, (4)

With a crook in his lot,
Who several years since tried to dish up

A neat Codicil

To the Princess's Will,
That made Doctor Nott not a Bishop!

So the Doctor, being found

A little unsound
In his doctrine, at least as a teacher,

And kick'd from one stool

As a knave and a fool,
Has mounted another as preacher!

In that gown, like a skin

With no lion within,
He still for the bench would be driving,

And roareth away,

A true Vicar of Bray,
Except that his bray lost his living.

'Gainst free-thinkers," he roars,
4 You should all shut your doors,
Or be bound in the Devil's indentures."

And here I agree,

For who ever would be
A guest where old Simony enters!

TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON.
You have ask'd for a verse—the request,

In a rhymer, 't were strange to deny;
But my Hippocrene was but my breast,

And my feelings (its fountain) are dry.
Were I now as I was, I had sung

What Lawrence has pencill'd so well;
But the strain would expire on my tongue,

And the theme is too soft for my shell.
I am ashes where once I was fire,

And the bard in my bosom is dead;
What I loved I now merely admire,

And my heart is as grey as my head.
My life is not dated by years;

There are moments which act as a plough;
And there is not a furrow appears

But is deep in my soul as my brow.
Let the young and the brilliant aspire

To sing what I gaze on in vain;
For sorrow has torn from my lyre

The string which was worthy the strain.(5)

(1) “Can't accept your courteous offer. These matters to propose an extravagant price for an extravagant poem, as must be arranged with Mr. Douglas Kinnaird. He is my is becoming." Lord B. to Mr. Moore, Ravenna, 1822.-L. E. trustee, and a man of honour. To him you can state all (2) These lines were written on reading in the newspayour mercantile reasons, which you might not like to state pers, that Lady Byron had been patroness of a ball in aid of to me personally, such as heavy season'-flat public' some charity at Hinckley.-P.E. • don't go off' _lordship writes too much'-' won't take (3) Marino Faliero, which, if not actually “ damned” in advice' declining popularity' -deduction for the trade the theatrical acceptation of the term, was to all intents * make very little generally lose by him'-pirated edition and purposes a failure, as far as regards stage representa. - foreign edition' - severe criticisms,' etc. with other hints tion.-P.E. and howls for an oration, which i leave Douglas, who is an (4) Dr. Nott, tator to the late Princess Charlotte of orator, to answer."- Lord B. to Mr. Murray, Aug. 23, 1821. Wales, who preached a Sermon denouncing Lord Byron's - L.E.

Cain as a blasphemous production.-L. E. “The argument of the above stanzas) is that he wanted to (5) The verses were composed December 1, 1819. “ They ! stint me of my sizeings,' as Lear says that is to say, not | are so unwortby the author,” says Lady Blessington, “that

STANZAS. (1)
OH!--my lonely - lonely-lonely-Pillow!
Where is my lover? where is my lover?
Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover ?

Far-far away! and alone along the billow?

Oh! my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pillow!
Why must my head ache where his gentle brow lay?
How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly,

And my head droops over thee like the willow!

Oh! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow!
Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from breaking,
In return for the tears I shed upon thee waking;

Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow.

Then if thou wilt-no more my lonely Pillow, In one embrace let these arms again enfold him, And then expire of the joy-but to behold him!

Oh! my lone bosom!-oh! my lonely Pillow!

TO — .(3)
But once I dared to lift my eyes,

To lift my eyes to thee;
And, since that day, beneath the skies,

No other sight they see.
In vain sleep shuts them in the night,

The night grows day to me,
Presenting idly to my sight

What still a dream must be.
A fatal dream-for many a bar

Divides thy fate from mine;
And still my passions wake and war,

But peace be still with thine.

THE CONQUEST.(2)
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 King

To his unconquerable dynasty.
Not fann'd alone by Victory's fleeting wing,

He rear'd his bold and brilliant throne on high:
The Bastard kept, like lions, his prey fast,
And Britons' bravest victor was the last.

March 8-9, 1821.

ON SAM ROGERS.(4)
Question and Answer.

QUESTION.
Nose and chin would shame a knocker;
Wrinkles that would puzzle Cocker;
Mouth which marks the envious scorner,
With a scorpion in each corner,
Turning its quick tail to sting you
In the place that most may wring you;
Eyes of lead-like hue, and gummy;
Carcass pick'd out froin some mummy;
Bowels (but they were forgotten,
Save the liver, and that's rotten);

they are merely given as proof that the greatest genius can never correspondents (says Byron in one of his letters to sometimes write bad verses, as even Homer nods."

him), but always something better - which is, very part The following was Lady Blessington's answer :

friends,') it could not be expected that be should escape "When I ask'd for a verse, pray believe,

and it was well known in all literary circles that one of the 'T was not vanity urged the desire;

most stinging and personal little satires ever written by his For no more can my mirror deceive,

Lordship was directed against the poetical banker. Tha And no more can I poets inspire.

poem was in Moore's hands; but be, having the fear of a Time has touch'd with rude fingers my brow,

clusion from Rogers's table before his eyes, would not publish And the roses have fled from any cheek;

it;- it was also in Murray's hands; but he, having the fear Then it surely were folly, if now

of the bawling of those Whig folks who infest bis satuten I the praise due to beauty should seek.

before his optics, could not muster nerve enough to give 1 But as pilgrims who visit the shrine

to the world. As it is one of the best things in its way that Of some saint bear a relic away, I songht a memorial of thine,

fell from his Lordship's pen, we thought it a pity that is As a treasure when distant I stray.

public should be deprived of it; and after having sun Oh! say not that lyre is unstrung.

for it for some time in vain, we are now enabled, by the Whose chords can such raptures bestow,

kindness of a fair friend, whose name must be a seerth, w Or that mute is that magical lungue,

which ir published would be an ornament to our pafrs, From whence music and poetry flow.

lay it before our readers." And though Sorrow, ere yel youth has led,

The Times visits the author with the following safe May have alter'd the locks' jetty hus

lation: The bays that encircle the head

“Every body who has read Lord Byron's life and porn Hide the ravisher's marks from our view."-PE.

with attention, however sligbt, will feel little surprise to (1) These verses were written by Lord Byron, and given to a person so destitute of sound principles, and combining, w the Countess Guiccioli, a little before he left Italy for Greece. the utinost levity of thinking, the most obstinate and They were meant to suit the Hindostanee air-“ Alla Malla reasoning self will, should utter the most contradicio Pupca,” which the Countess was fond of singing.-L. E. opinions, both of men and things, according to the caprice

(2) This fragment was found amongst Lord Byron's of the moment, or, perhaps, no better cause than tbe la. papers, after his departure from Genoa for Greece.-L.E. ence of the wind. It is notorious to all w bo keek

(3) in Lady Blessington's Conversations with Lord Byron that he lampooned his dearest friends, and amused ORE SE we find these lines thus introduced: “I will give you some companions by caricatures of anotber, whom he, una stanzas I wrote yesterday (said Byron); they are as simple favoured with ludicrous representations of the first bles as even Wordsworth himself could write, and would do for body knew that this was the condition of all acquaintan music."--P.E.

with bim, and nobody was stupid enough to suppose Ibat (4) This lampoon upon the author of The Pleasures of weakest of mankind could be capable of sincerity, meca Memory, the inost perfect specimen extant of Lord Byron's of so firm and sacred a relation as friendship. His ta skill in caricature, is, for obvious reasons omitted in the highly gifted as it was with various talents, bad bomull London Editions, but was maliciously given to the world by lectual dignity, and was incapable of appreciating the best Fraser's Magazine, which delights in all kinds of literary duties and virtues of life. He was like a child with a mischief. The publication attracted the notice of the Times 1 -now dressing it with all the finery at hand, and cares and the Escaminer, both of which dealt severely with the it with all the endearments within the reach of its

pait kas eet! noble satirist. We suhjoin their observations, after the fol then dashing it to pieces because a pin or a plait was lowing note, which was prefixed to the lampoon by Fraser. place. It is obvious that the praise or censure et see The lines are dated 1818, without month or place.

man, however ably written, cannot be of the least ["Lord Byron abused every body he knew, and the closer or injury to any human creature, as it may always ! the intimacy the grosser the abuse. As Sam Rogers was sumed that in his Lordship's portfolio, if not in his among his most intimate friends, ("You (Rogers) and I were works, some set-off will be found for every panegyric

Skin all sallow, flesh all sodden,

You are neither—then he'll flatter, Form the devil would frighten God in.

Till he finds some trait for-satire; Is't a corpse stuck up for show,

Hunts your weak point out, then shows it Galvanised at times to go?

Where it injures to disclose it, With the Scripture in connection,

In the mode that's most invidious, New proof of the resurrection ?

Adding every trait that's hideousVampire, ghost, or goul, what is it?

From the bile, whose blackening river I would walk ten miles to miss it.

Rushes through his Stygian liver.

Then he thinks himself a lover-
ANSWER.

Why? I really can't discover,
Many passengers arrest one,

In his mind, age, face, or figure;
To demand the same free question.

Viper-broth might give him vigour, Shorter's my reply, and franker,

Let him keep the cauldron steady, That's the Bard, the Beau, the Banker.

He the venom has already. Yet if you could bring about

For his faults—he has but one, Just to turn him inside out,

'Tis but envy, when all's done. Satan's self would seem less sooty,

He but pays the pain he suffers, And his present aspect-Beauty.

Clipping, like a pair of snuffers, Mark that (as he masks the bilious

Lights which ought to burn the brighter Air, so softly supercilious)

For this temporary blighter. Chasten'd bow, and mock humility,

He's the cancer of his species, Almost sicken to servility;

And will eat himself to pieces, -Hear his tone (which is to talking

Plague personified, and famine, That which creeping is to walking,

Devil, whose sole delight is damning. Now on all-fours, now on tip-toe);

For his merits, would you know 'em ?
Hear the tales he lends his lip to;

Once he wrote a pretty Poem.
Little hints of heavy scandals;
Every friend in turn he handles;
All which women or which men do,
Glides forth in an inuendo,

ON LADY MILBANKE'S DOG TRIM.(1) Clothed in odds and ends of humour

Alas! poor Trim; Herald of each paltry rumour,

I'm sorry for him: From divorces down to dresses,

I had rather by half
Women's frailties, men's excesses,

It had been Sir Ralph.
All which life presents of evil
Make for him a constant revel.
You're his foe, for that he fears you,

LINES TO LADY HOLLAND. (2)
And in absence blasts and sears you:
You're his friend for that he hates you,

LADY, accept the gift a hero wore,
First caresses, and then baits you-

In spite of all this elegiac stuff; Darting on the opportunity

Let not seven stanzas, written by a bore, When to do it with impunity:

Prevent your Ladyship from taking snuff.

Yet thy heart, methinks, every calamny. We have been led to make these remarks

"Was generous, noble-noble in its scorn, from seeing, lately, a most malignant and atrocious satire

- Of all things low or little, nothing there against Mr. Rogers, which must have been written at the

Sordid or servile. If imagined wrongs time the noble bard was publicly bedaubing his friend with

Pursued thee, urging thee sometimes to do flattery. We certainly are of opinion with those who think

Things long regretted, oft, as many know, the slaver' of the flattery more injurious than the bite'

None more than I, thy gratitude would build

On slight foundations. of the libel. But the slander can do no injury to Mr. Ro. gers. The united voices of, perbaps, the most numerous | And he concludes: circle of friends possessed by any man in England will indignantly repel the calumny, which will merely be remem

Ah! who, among us all,

Could say be had not err'd as much, and more.' bered as another item in the almost incalculable list of the mean and dirty qualities of its author. We would, however,

How consummately the noble lord must have played the recommend as a curiosity to the readers of the satire the

hypocrite, little of hypocrisy as there seemed in his cha. encomiastic sonnet (p. 862, ante) written by Lord Byron on

racter; yet must he have worn bis disguise under his abanthe same gentleman on whom he has, in the lampoon, emp

donment."-P.E. tied all the venom which even his black bile could generate.

(1) When Lord Byron, soon after his marriage, was on a "One thing is certain, that the true account of Lord Byron

visit at the house of his father-in-law in Leicestershire, he is yet to be written ; for though his real character peeps out through all the mist with which the incense of flattery or

was much annoyed by the frequent quarrels of Sir Ralph

Milbanke and his lady. One morning, Lady Milbanke came friendsbip has enveloped it, a faithful picture is still wanting

into Lord Byron's room, and weeping for the loss of her fa. in justice to the man himself, whose character requires ex

vourite dog, earnestly requested him, as soon as convenient, planation, and to the world, who have been absurdly accused of using him worse than he deserved."

to write an epitaph. His Lordship replied, “I shall never The Escaminer designates the lines as unmannerly and

be more at leisure than at the present moment:" and immeinbuman, and, after alluding to the contrast they present

diately wrote the above.-P. E. with the writer's eulogy on the same person, proceeds thus:

(2) These lines were composed, on reading in the news. "Let us turn from Lord Byron's vilification of Mr. Rogers,

papers an address to Lady Holland, by the Earl of Carlisle, to Mr. Rogers's touching lines on the death of Lord Byron,

persuading ber to reject the snuff-box bequeathed to ber by written, certainly, when he would not bave credited the

Napoleon, beginning :treachery of his noble friend. In the passage on Bologna,

Lady, reject the gift," etc.-P.E. in his Ilaly, he says of Byron :

ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY

SIXTH YEAR.

Missolonghi, Jan. 22, 1824.(1) 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,

Since others it hath ceased to move :
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,

Still let me love!
My days are in the yellow leas;

The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief

Are mine alone!
The fire that on my bosom preys

Is lone as some volcanic isle ;
No torch is kindled at its blaze-

A funeral pile!
The hope, the fear, the jealous care,

The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,

But wear the chain.
But 'tis not thus and 't is not here

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now,

Where glory decks the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.
The sword, the banner, and the field,

Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,

Was not more free.
Awake! (not Greece-she is awake!)

Awake, my spirit! Think through wkom Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,

And then strike home!
Tread those reviving passions down,

Unworthy manhood !-unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown

Of Beauty be.
If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live!

The land of honourable death
Is here:-up to the field, and give

Away thy breath!
Seek 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. (2)

(1) « This morning Lord Byron came from bis bed-room which they so nobly express, and that consciousness of Into the apartment where Colonel Stanhope and some friends Incar grave glimmering sadly through the whole, there is were assembled, and said with a smile-You were com- perhaps no production within the range of mere haman complaining, the other day, that I never write any poetry now. position, round which the circumstances and feelings ander This is my birth-day, and I have just finished something, which it was written cast so tonching an interest. Moore. which, I think, is better than what I usually write.' He - L. E. then produced these noble and affecting verses.” Count “We perceive," says Count Gamba, “from these lines Gamba..-L. E.

as well as from his daily conversations, that his ambition (2) « Taking into consideration every thing connected and his hope were irrevocably fixed upon the glorious ab with these verses,--the last tender aspirations of a loving |jects of his expedition to Greece, and that he had made up spirit which they breathe, the self-devotion to a noble cause his mind to return victorious or return no more.-P.E.

Attributed Poems.

TO JESSY.(1) THERE is a mystic thread of life

So dearly wreathed with mine alone, That destiny's relentless knife

At once must sever both or none. There is a form, on which these eyes

Have often gazed with fond delight By day that form their joy supplies,

And dreams restore it through the night. There is a voice, whose tones inspire

Such thrills of rapture through my breast I would not bear a seraph choir,

Unless that voice could join the rest. There is a face, whose blushes tell

Affection's tale upon the cheekBut pallid at one fond farewell,

Proclaims more love than words can speak. There is a lip, which mine hath press'd,

And none had ever press'd before,

It vow'd to make me sweetly blest,

And mine—mine only press'd it more. There is a bosom—all my own

Hath pillow'd oft this aching head; A mouth which smiles on me alone,

An eye, whose tears with mine are shed. There are two hearts, whose movements thrill

In unison so closely sweet,
That, pulse to pulse responsive still,

They both must heave, or cease to beat. There are two souls, whose equal flow

In gentle streams so calmly run, That when they part—they part!-ah! no,

They cannot part-those souls are one.

LINES
POUND IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT CBAMOUXI.

How many number'd are, how few agreed,
In age, or clime, or character, or creed!
Here wandering Genius leaves a deatbless name,
Aud Folly writes—for others do the same.
Italian treachery, and English pride,
Dutch craft, and German dulness, side by side!

(1) These stanzas are said to have been addressed by Lord Byron to his Lady a few months before their separation.-P.E.

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The hardy Russian hails congenial snow;
The Spaniard shivers as these breezes blow.
Knew men the objects of this varied crew,
To stare how many, and to feel how few!
Here Nature's child, ecstatic from her school,
And travelling problems, that admire by rule;
The timorous poet woes his modest muse,
And thanks his stars he's safe from all reviews;
The pedant drags from out his motley store
A line some hundred hills have beard before.
Here critics too (for wbere's the happy spot
So blest by nature as to have them not?)
Spit their vile slander o'er some simple phrase
Of foolish wonder or of honest praise;
Some pompous hint, some comment on mine host,
Some direful failure, or some empty boast :
Not blacker spleen could fill these furious men,
If Jeffrey's soul had perch'd on Gifford's pen.
Here envy, batred, and the fool of fame,
Join'd in one act of wonder when they came:
Here beauty's worshipper in flesh or rock,
The incarnate fancy, or the breathing block,
Sees the white giant, in his robe of light,
Stretch his huge form to look o'er Jura's height;
And stops, while hastening to the blest remains
And calmer beauties of the classic plains.
And here, whom hope beguiling bids to seek
Ease for his breast, and colour for his cheek,
Still steals a moment from Ausonia’s sky,
And views and wonders on his way to die.

Bat, since my breast is not so pure,

Since still the vulture tears my heart, Let me this agony endure,

Not thee, oh! dearest as thou art! In mercy, Clara! let us part,

And I will seek, yet know not how, To shun, in time, the threatening dart;

Guilt must not aim at such as thou. But thou must aid me in the task,

And nobly thus exert thy power; Then spurn me hence—'t is all I ask

Ere time mature a guiltier hour; Ere wrath's impending vials shower

Remorse redoubled on my head; Ere fires unquenchably devour

A heart whose hope has long been dead. Deceive no more thyself and me,

Deceive not better hearts than mine; Ah, shouldst thou, whither wouldst thou flee,

From woe like ours-from shame like thine! And if there be a wrath divine,

A pang beyond this fleeting breath, E'en now all future hope resign:

Such thoughts are guilt-such guilt is death!

But be, the author of these idle lines, What passion leads him, and what tie confines ? For him what friend is true, what mistress blooms, What joy elates him, and what grief consumes ? Impassion'd, senseless, vigorous, or old, What matters !-bootless were his story told. Some praise at least one act of sense may claim; He wrote these verses, but he hid his name.

TO LADY CAROLINE LAMB. And say'st thou that I have not felt,

Whilst thou wert thus estranged from me? Nor know'st how dearly I have dwelt

On one unbroken dream of thee? But love like ours must never be,

And I will learn to prize thee less, As thou hast fled, so let me flee,

And change the heart thou mayst not bless. They'll tell thee, Clara! I have seemid,

Of late, another's charms to woo, Nor sigh’d, nor frown'd, as if I deem'd

That thou wert banish'd from my view. Clara! this strugglo-to undo

What thou hast done too well, for me
This mask before the babbling crew-

This treachery-was truth to thee!
I have not wept while thou wert gone,

Nor worn one look of sullen woe;
But sought, in many, all that one

(Ah! need I name her!) could bestow. It is a duty which I owe

To thine-to thee-to man-to God, To crush, to quench this guilty glow,

Ere yet the path of crime be trod.

THE PRINCE OF WHALES. Io Pæan! Jo! sing To the finny people's kingNot a mightier whale than this In the vast Atlantic is; Not a fatter fish than he Flounders round the Polar sea : See his blubber-at his gills What a world of drink he swills, From his trunk as from a spout! Which next moment he pours out. Such his person: next declare, Muse! who his companions are. Every fish of generous kind Scuds aside or slinks behind, But about his person keep All the monsters of the deep; Mermaids, with their tales and singing, His delighted fancy stinging; Crooked dolphins, they surround him; Dog-like seals, they fawn around him: Following hard, the progress mark Of the intolerant salt sea-sharkFor his solace and relief Flat fish are his courtiers chief;Last and lowest of his train, Ink-fish, libellers of the main, Their black liquor shed in spite (Such on earth the things that write). In his stomach, some do say No good thing can ever stay; Had it been the fortune of it To have swallow'd the old prophet, Three days there he'd not have dwell’d. Bat in one have been expell’d. Hapless mariners are they Who, beguiled, as seamen say, Deeming it some rock or island, Footing sure, 'safe spot, and dry land, Anchor in his scaly rind; Soon the difference they find,

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