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But now to my latter-to yours 't is an answer-
To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir,
All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge on
According to compact) the wit in the dungeon--
Pray Phoebus at length our political malice
May not get us lodgings within the same palace!
I suppose that to-night you 're engaged with some
codgers,

And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers;
And I, though with cold I have nearly my death got,
Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote.
But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scurra,
And you'll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra.

"And," quoth he, "I'll take a drive.
I walk'd in the morning, I'll ride to-night •
In darkness my children take most delight,
And I'll see how my favourites thrive.
2.

"And what shall I ride in ?" quoth Lucifer then-
"If I follow'd my taste, indeed,

I should mount in a wagon of wounded men,
And smile to see them bleed.

But these will be furnish'd 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 poach'd away.
3.

"I have a state-coach at Carlton House,
A chariot in Seymour-place;

But they 're lent to two friends, who make me amends
By driving my favourite pace:

FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO THOMAS And they handle their reins with such a grace,

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"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 smother'd, at least, in respectable mud,
Where the Divers of Bathos lie drown'd in a heap,
And Southey's last Pæan has pillow'd his sleep ;-
That "Felo de se" who, half drunk with his malmsey,
Walk'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea,
Singing "Glory to God" in a spick and span stanza,
The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) never man

saw.

2.

The papers have told you, no doubt, of the fusses,
The fetes, and the gapings to get at these Russes,-
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,

S.

The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter and brisker,
But then he is sadly deficient in whisker;
And wore but a star less blue coat, and in kersey-
-mere breeches whisk'd round, in a waltz with the Jersey,
Who, lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted
With majesty's presence as those she invited.

THE DEVIL'S DRIVE.

Of this strange, wild poem, which extends to about two hundred and afty lines, the only copy that Lord Byron, I believe, ever wrote, be

presented Lcd Holland. Though with a good deal of vigour and

I have something for both at the end of their 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 stepp'd across the sea,

And rested his hoof on a turnpike road,
No very great way from a bishop's abode.
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But first as he flew, I forgot to say,

That he hover'd 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 perch'd 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:

For 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 laugh'd he,
"Methinks they have here little need of me

8.

But the softest note that soothed his ear

Was the sound of a widow sighing:
And the sweetest sight was the icy tear,
Which horror froze in the blue eye clear
Of a maid by her lover lying-
As round her fell her long fair hair :
And she look'd to heaven with that frenzied air
Which seem'd to ask if a God were there!
And, stretch'd by the wall of a ruin'd 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!

10.

But the Devil has reach'd our cliffs so wnite,
And what did he there, I pray ?

If his eyes were good, he but saw by night
What we see every day:

But he made a tour, and kept a journal

Imagination, 1.4, or the most part, ratner clumsily executed, wanting the point and condensation of those clever verses of Mr Coleridge Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal, which Lord Byron, adopting a notion long prevalent, has attributed to Professor Porson. There are, however, some of the stanzas of The And he sold it in shares to the Men of the Ran Devil Drive" well worth preserving.]-Moore. Who bid pretty well-but they cheated him, thougꞌ

1.

THE Devil return'd to hell by two,

And he staid at home till five;

When he dined on some homicides done in ragout,
And a rebel or so in an Irish stew,

And sausages made of a self-slain Jew,

And bethought himself what next to do,

11.

The Devil first saw, as he thought, the Mail

Its coachman and his coat;

So instead of a pistol he cock'd his tail,
And seized him by the throat:
"Aha," quoth he, "what have we here?
'T is a new barouche, and an ancient poer!

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12.

So he sat him on his box again,

And bade him have no fear,

But be true to his club, and stanch to his rein, His brothel, and his beer;

"Next to seeing a lord at the council board,

I would rather see him here."

*

17.

The Devil gat next to Westminster,

And he turn'd" to the room" of the Commons; But he heard, as he purposed to enter in there, That "the Lords" had received a summons; And he thought as a quondam aristocrat," He might peep at the peers, though to hear them were flat;

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And he walk'd up the house so like one of our own, That they say that he stood pretty near the throne.

18.

He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise,

The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly, And Johnny of Norfolk-a man of some sizeAnd Chatham, so like his friend Billy; And 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 staringA certain chief justice say something like swearing. And the Devil was shock'd-and quoth he, "I must go, For 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." December, 1813.

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TO LADY CAROLINE AMB. AND say'st thou that I have not felt, Whilst thou wert thus estranged from me? Nor knows't 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 mayest not bless,

They'll tell thee, Clara! I have seem'd,
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 struggle 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 wo;
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.

But 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 askEre time mature a guiltier hour; Ere wrath's impending vials shower Remorse redoub ed 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 fee From wo 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.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.
1.

I SPEAK not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name,
There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame
But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart
The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart

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What most admired each scrutinizing eye
Of all that deck'd that passing pageantry?
What spread from face to face that wondering air?
The thought of Brutus-for his was not there!
That absence proved his worth -- that absence fix'd
His memory on the longing niind, unmix'd;
And more decreed his glory to endure,
Than all a gold Colossus could secure.

If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze
Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze,
Amid those pictured charms, whose loveliness,
Bright though they be, thine own had render'd less ;
If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits
Heir of his father's throne and shatter'd wits,
If his corrupted eye and wither'd heart
Could with thy gentle image bear depart,
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;
And night with every star, save Dian's beam.

ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE RECITED AT Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be,

THE CALEDONIAN MEETING.

WHO hath not glow'd above the page where fame
Hath fix'd high Caledon's unconquer'd name;
The mountain-land which spurn'd the Roman chain
And baffled back the fiery-crested Dane,
Whose bright claymore and hardihood of hand
No for could tame-no tyrant could command ?
That race is gone-but still their children breathe,
And glory crowns them with redoubled wreath :
O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine,
And England! add their stubborn strength to thine.
The blood which flow'd with Wallace flows as free
But now 't is only shed for fame and thee!
Oh! pass not by the northern veteran's claim,
But give support-the world hath given him fame!
The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled
While cheerly following where the mighty led
Who sleep beneath the undistinguish'd sod
Where happier comrades in their triumph trod,
To us bequeath-'t is all their fate allows-
The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse:
She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise
The tearful eye in melancholy gaze,
Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose
The Highland seer's anticipated woes,
The bleeding phantom of each martial form
Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm;
While sad, she chants the solitary song,
The soft lament for him who tarrries long-
For him, whose distant relics vainly crave
The Coronach's wild requiem to the brave.
'Tis Heaven-not man-must charm away the wo
Which bursts when Nature's feelings newly flow;
Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear
Of half its bitterness for one so dear;
A nation's gratitude perchance may spread
A thornless pillow for the widow'd head;
May lighten well her heart's maternal care,
And wean from penury the soldier's heir.

May, 1814.

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That turn from tracing them to dream of thee;
And more on that recall'd 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,
Which shades, yet shows that forehead more than fair
Each glance that wins us, and the life that throws
A spell which will not let our looks repose,
But turn to gaze again, and find anew
Some charm that well rewards another view.
These are not lessen'd, these are still as bright,
Albeit too dazzling for a dotard's sight;
And these must wait till every charm is gone'
To please the paltry heart that pleases none,
That dull cold sensualist, whose sickly eye
In envious dimness pass'd thy portrait by;
Who rack'd his little spirit to combine
Its hate of Freedom's loveliness, and thine.

TO BELSHAZZAR. 1.

July, 1814.

BELSHAZZAR! from the banquet turn, Nor in thy sensual fulness fall: Behold! while yet before thee burn

The graven words, the glowing wall. Many a despot men miscall

Crown'd and anointed from on nigh; But thou, the weakest, worst of all— Is it not written, thou must die?

2.

Go! dash the roses from thy brow-
Gray hairs but poorly wreathe with them.
Youth's garlands misbecome thee now,

More than thy very diadem,
Where thou hast tarnish'd every gem :--

Then throw the worthless bauble by, Which, worn by thee, ev'n slaves contemn: And learn like better men to die.

3.

Oh! early in the balance weigh'd,
And ever light of word and worth
Whose soul expired ere youth decay'd,
And left thee but a mass of earth.

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In the year since Jesus died for men,
Eighteen hundred years and ten,
We were a gallant company,
Riding o'er land, and sailing o'er sea,
Oh! but we went merrily!

We forded the river and clomb the high hill,
Never our steeds for a day stood still;
Whether we lay in the cave or the shed,
Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed;
Whether we couch'd in our rough capote,
On the rougher plank of our gliding boat,
Or stretch'd on the beach, or our saddles spread
As a pillow beneath the resting head,

Fresh we woke upon the morrow:

All our thoughts and our words had scope,

We had health, and we had hope,

Toil and travel, but no sorrow.
We were of all tongues and creeds ;-
Some were those who counted beads,
Some of mosque, and some of church,
And some, or I mis-say, of neither;
Yet through the wide world might ye search
Nor find a motlier crew nor blither.

But some are dead, and some are gone,
And some ars scatter'd and alone,
And some are rebels on the hills*

That look along Epirus' valleys, Where freedom still at moments rallies, And pays in blood oppression's is:

And some are in a far countree,

And some all restlessly at home;
But never more, oh! never we
Shall meet to revel and to roam.

But those hardy days flew cheerily,
And when they now fall drearily,
My thoughts, like swallows, skim the main,
And bear my spirit back again
Over the earth, and through the air,
A wild bird, and a wanderer.
'T is this that ever wakes my strain,
And oft, too oft, implores again
The few who may endure my lay,
To follow me so far away.
Stranger-wilt thou follow now,

And sit with me on Acro-Corinth s brow?
December, 1815.

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What is this death ?—a quiet of the heart?
The whole of that which we are a part?
For life is but a vision-what I see
Of all which lives alone is life to me,
And being so-the absent are the dead,
Who haunt us from tranquillity, and spread
A dreary shroud around us, and invest
With sad remembrancers our hours of rest.

The absent are the dead-for they are cold,
And ne'er can be what once we did behold:
And they are changed, and cheerless,—or if yet
The unforgotten do not all forget,
Since thus divided-equal must it be
If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea;
It may be both-but one day end it must
In the dark union of insensate dust.

The under-earth inhabitants-are they
But mingled millions decomposed to clay?
The ashes of a thousand ages spread
Wherever man has trodden or shall tread?
Or do they in their silent cities dwell
Each in his incommunicative cell?

Or have they their own language? and a sense
Of breathless being?-darken'd and intense
As midnight in her solitude?-Oh Earth!
Where are the past ?—and wherefore had they birth
The dead are thy inheritors-and we
But bubbles on thy surface; and the key
Of thy profundity is in the grave,
The ebon portal of thy peopled cave,
Where I would walk in spirit, and behold
Our elements resolved to things untold,
And fathom hidden wonders, and explore
The essence of great bosoms now no more.

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The last tidings recently heard of Dervish (one of the Arnaouts who allowed ine) state him to be in revolt upon the mountains, at the hard of some of the bands common in that country in times of trouble.

TO AUGUSTA. 1.

My sister! my swect sister! if a name Dearer and purer were, it should be thino. Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim No tears, but tenderness to answer mine

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