The Complete Works of Lord Byron Read Online

Thy husband too shall think of thee:
By neither shalt thou be forgot,
Thou false to him, thou fiend to me!

TO TIME

Time! on whose arbitrary wing
The varying hours must flag or fly,
Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring,
But drag or drive us on to die —
Hail thou! who on my birth bestowed
Those boons to all that know thee known;
Yet better I sustain thy load,
For now I bear the weight alone.
I would not one fond heart should share
The bitter moments thou hast given;
And pardon thee — since thou couldst spare
All that I loved, to peace or Heaven.
To them be joy or rest — on me
Thy future ills shall press in vain;
I nothing owe but years to thee,
A debt already paid in pain.
Yet even that pain was some relief;
It felt, but still forgot thy power:
The active agony of grief
Retards, but never counts the hour.
In joy I’ve sighed to think thy flight
Would soon subside from swift to slow;
Thy cloud could overcast the light,
But could not add a night to Woe;
For then, however drear and dark,
My soul was suited to thy sky;
One star alone shot forth a spark
To prove thee — not Eternity.
That beam hath sunk — and now thou art
A blank — a thing to count and curse
Through each dull tedious trifling part,
Which all regret, yet all rehearse.
One scene even thou canst not deform —
The limit of thy sloth or speed
When future wanderers bear the storm
Which we shall sleep too sound to heed.
And I can smile to think how weak
Thine efforts shortly shall be shown,
When all the vengeance thou canst wreak
Must fall upon — a nameless stone.

TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG

Ah! Love was never yet without
The pang, the agony, the doubt,
Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh,
While day and night roll darkling by.

Without one friend to hear my woe,
I faint, I die beneath the blow.
That Love had arrows well I knew;
Alas! I find them poison’d too.

Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net
Which Love around your haunts hath set;
Or, circled by his fatal fire,
Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire.

A bird of free and careless wing
Was I through many a smiling spring;
But caught within the subtle snare,
I burn, and feebly flutter there.

Who ne’er have loved, and loved in vain,
Can neither feel nor pity pain,
The cold repulse, the look askance,
The lightning of Love’s angry glance.

In flattering dreams I deem’d thee mine;
Now hope, and he who hoped, decline’
Like melting wax, or withering flower,
I feel my passion, and thy power.

My light of life! ah, tell me why
That pouting lip, and alter’d eye?
My bird of love! my beauteous mate!
And art thou changed, and canst thou hate?

Mine eyes like wintry streams o’erflow:
What wretch with me would barter woe?
My bird! relent: one note could give
A charm to bid thy lover live.

My curdling blood, my madd’ning brain,
In silent anguish I sustain
And still thy heart, without partaking
One pang, exults - while mine is breaking.

Pour me the poison; fear not thou!
Thou canst not murder more than now:
I’ve lived to curse my natal day,
And Love, that thus can lingering slay.

My wounded soul, my bleeding breast,
Can patience preach thee into rest?
Alas! too late, I dearly know
That joy is harbinger of woe.

THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU ART FICKLE

Thou art not false, but thou art fickle,
To those thyself so fondly sought;
The tears that thou hast forced to trickle
Are doubly bitter from that thought:
‘Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest
Too well thou lov’st - too soon thou leavest.

The wholly false the heart despises,
And spurns deceiver and deceit;
But she who not a thought disguises,
Whose love is as sincere as sweet,
When she can change who loved so truly,
It feels what mine has felt so newly.

To dream of joy and wake to sorrow
Is doom’d to all who love or live;
And if, when conscious on the morrow,
We scarce our fancy can forgive,
That cheated us in slumber only,
To leave the waking soul more lonely,

What must they feel whom no false vision,
But truest, tenderest passion warm’d?
Sincere, but swift in sad transition;
As if a dream alone had charm’d?
Ah! sure such grief is fancy’s scheming,
And all thy change can be but dreaming!

ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE ‘ORIGIN OF LOVE’

The ‘Origin of Love!’ — Ah why
That cruel question ask of me,
When thou may’st read in many an eye
He starts to life on seeing thee?

And should’st thou seek his end to know:
My heart forebodes, my fears foresee
He’ll linger long in silent woe;
But live — until I cease to be.

REMEMBER HIM, WHOM PASSION’S POWER

Remember him, whom Passion’s power
Severely — deeply — vainly proved:
Remember thou that dangerous hour,
When neither fell, though both were loved.

That yielding breast, that melting eye,
Too much invited to be blessed:
That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh,
The wilder wish reproved, repressed.

Oh! let me feel that all I lost
But saved thee all that Conscience fears;
And blush for every pang it cost
To spare the vain remorse of years.

Yet think of this when many a tongue,
Whose busy accents whisper blame,
Would do the heart that loved thee wrong,
And brand a nearly blighted name.

Think that, whate’er to others, thou
Hast seen each selfish thought subdued:
I bless thy purer soul even now,
Even now, in midnight solitude.

Oh, God! that we had met in time,
Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free;
When thou hadst loved without a crime,
And I been less unworthy thee!

Far may thy days, as heretofore,
From this our gaudy world be past!
And that too bitter moment o’er,
Oh! may such trial be thy last.

This heart, alas! perverted long,
Itself destroyed might there destroy;
To meet thee in the glittering throng,
Would wake Presumption’s hope of joy.

Then to the things whose bliss or woe,
Like mine, is wild and worthless all,
That world resign — such scenes forego,
Where those who feel must surely fall.

Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness —
Thy soul from long seclusion pure;
From what even here hath passed, may guess
What there thy bosom must endure.

Oh! pardon that imploring tear,
Since not by Virtue shed in vain,
My frenzy drew from eyes so dear;
For me they shall not weep again.

Though long and mournful must it be,
The thought that we no more may meet;
Yet I deserve the stern decree,
And almost deem the sentence sweet.

Still — had I loved thee less — my heart
Had then less sacrificed to thine;
It felt not half so much to part
As if its guilt had made thee mine.

ON LORD THURLOW’S POEMS

When Thurlow this damn’d nonsense sent
(I hope I am not violent),
Nor men nor gods knew what he meant.

And since not even our Rogers’ praise
To common sense his thoughts could raise —
Why would they let him print his lays’

To me, divine Apollo, grant — O!
Hermilda s first and second canto,
I’m fitting up a new portmanteau;

And thus to furnish decent lining,
My own and others’ bays I’m twining, —
So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in.

TO LORD THURLOW

‘I lay my branch of laurel down.
Then thus to form Apollo’s crown.
Let every other bring his own.’~Lord Thurlow’s lines to Mr. Rogers

‘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 wither’d bough,
Or send it back to Doctor Donne:
Were justice done to both, I trow,
He’d have but little, and thou — none.

‘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,
Inquire amongst your fellow-lodgers,
They’ll tell you Phoebus gave his crown,
Some years before your birth, to Rogers.

‘Let every other bring his own.’
When coals to Newcastle are carried,
And owls sent to Athens, as wonders,
From his spouse when the R egent’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.

TO THOMAS MOORE

WRITTEN THE EVENING BEFORE HIS VISIT TO MR. LEIGH HUNT IN HORSEMONGER LANE GAOL, MAY 19, 1813

Oh you, who in all names can tickle the town,
Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown,
For hang me if I know of which you may most brag,
Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Twopenny Post Bag;

But now to my letter-to yours ‘tis 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 Phobus 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.

IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND

When, from the heart where Sorrow sits,
Her dusky shadow mounts too high,
And o’er the changing aspect flits,
And clouds the brow, or fills the eye;
Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink:
My thoughts their dungeon know too well;
Back to my breast the wanderers shrink,
And droop within their silent cell.

SONNET, TO GENEVRA

Thine eyes’ blue tenderness, thy long fair hair,
And the wan lustre of thy features caught
From contemplation-where serenely wrought,
Seems Sorrow’s softness charm’d from its despair —
Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air
That — but I know thy blessed bosom fraught
With mines of unalloy’d and stainless thought —
I should have deem’d thee doom’d to earthly care.
With such an aspect, by his colours blent,
When from his beauty-breathing pencil born
(Except that thou hast nothing to repent),
The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn —
Such seem’st thou — but how much more excellent!
With nought Remorse can claim — nor Virtue scorn.

December 17, 1813.

SONNET TO GENEVRA

Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush,
My heart would wish away that ruder glow:
And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes — but, oh!
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
And into mine my mother’s weakness rush,
Soft as the last drops round Heaven’s airy bow.
For, though thy long dark lashes low depending,
The soul of melancholy Gentleness
Gleams like a Seraph from the sky descending,
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.

SONNET, TO THE SAME (GENEVRA)

Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush,
My heart would wish away that ruder glow:
And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes — but, oh!
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
And into mine my mother’s weakness rush,
Soft as the last drops round heaven’s airy bow.
For, through thy long dark lashes low depending,
The soul of melancholy Gentleness
Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending,
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE, ‘TU MI CHAMAS’

In moments to delight devoted,
‘My life!’ with tenderest tone you cry;
Dear words! on which my heart had doted,
If youth could neither fade nor die.

To death even hours like these must roll,
Ah! then repeat those accents never;
Or change ‘my life!’ into ‘my soul!’
Which, like my love, exists for ever.

ANOTHER VERSION

You call me still your life. — Oh! change the word —
Life is as transient as the inconstant sigh:
Say rather I’m your soul; more just that name,
For, like the soul, my love can never die.

THE DEVIL’S DRIVE: AN UNFINISHED RHAPSODY

The Devil return’d to hell by two,
And he stay’d 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 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,

‘And what shall I ride in?’ quoth Lucifer then —
‘If I follow’d my taste, indeed,
I should mount in a waggon 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.

‘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:
And they handle their reins with such a grace,
I have something for both at the end of their race.

‘So now for the earth to take my chance:’
Then up to the earth sprang 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.

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 blush’d like the waves of hell!
Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh’d he:
‘Methinks they have here little need of me!’

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!

But the Devil has reach’d our, cliffs so white,
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
Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal,
And he sold it in shares to the Men of the Row,
Who bid pretty well — but they cheated him, though!

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?
‘Tis a new barouche, and an ancient peer!’

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.’

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

He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise,
The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly,
And Johnny of Norfolk - a man of some size —
And 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 staring —
A 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.’

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 WINDSOR

Famed 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 mix’d their dust in vain,
Each royal vampire wakes to life again.
Ah, what can tombs avail! — since these disgorge
The blood and dust of both — to mould a George.

ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE

‘Expends Annibalem: — quot libras in duce summo
Invenies?~JUVENAL., Sat. X.

I.

Tis done — but yesterday a King!
And arm’d with Kings to strive —
And now thou art a nameless thing:
So abject — yet alive!
Is this the man of thousand thrones,
Who strew’d our earth with hostile bones,
And can he thus survive?
Since he, miscall’d the Morning Star,
Nor man nor fiend bath fallen so far.

II.

Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind
Who bow’d so low the knee?
By gazing on thyself grown blind,
Thou taught’st the rest to see.
With might unquestion’d, — power to save, —
Thine only gift hath been the grave
To those that worshipp’d thee;
Nor till thy fall could mortals guess
Ambition’s less than littleness!

III.

Thanks for that lesson — It will teach
To after — warriors more
Than high Philosophy can preach,
And vainly preach ‘d before.
That spell upon the minds of men
Breaks never to unite again,
That led them to adore
Those Pagod things of sabre sway
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay.

IV.

The triumph and the vanity,
The rapture of the strife —
The earthquake voice of Victory,
To thee the breath of life;
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway
Which man seem’d made but to obey,
Wherewith renown was rife —
All quell’d! — Dark Spirit! what must be
The madness of thy memory!

V.

The Desolator desolate!
The Victor overthrown!
The Arbiter of others’ fate
A Suppliant for his own!
Is it some yet imperial hope
That with such change can calmly cope?
Or dread of death alone?
To die a prince — or live a slave —
Thy choice is most ignobly brave!

VI.

He who of old would rend the oak,
Dream’d not of the rebound:
Chain’d by the trunk he vainly broke —
Alone — how look’d he round?
Thou, in the sternness of thy strength,
An equal deed halt done at length,
And darker fate hast found:
He fell, the forest prowlers’ prey;
But thou must eat thy heart away!

VII.

The Roman, when his burning heart
Was slaked with blood of Rome,
Threw down the dagger — dared depart,
In savage grandeur, home —
He dared depart in utter scorn
Of men that such a yoke had borne,
Yet left him such a doom!
His only glory was that hour
Of self-upheld abandon’d power.

VIII.

The Spaniard, when the lust of sway
Had lost its quickening spell,
Cast crowns for rosaries away,
An empire for a cell;
A strict accountant of his beads,
A subtle disputant on creeds,
His dotage trifled well:
Yet better had he neither known
A bigot’s shrine, nor despot’s throne.

IX.

But thou — from thy reluctant hand
The thunderbolt is wrung —
Too late thou leav’st the high command
To which thy weakness clung;
All Evil Spirit as thou art,
It is enough to grieve the heart
To see thine own unstrung;
To think that God’s fair world hath been
The footstool of a thing so mean;

X.

And Earth hath spilt her blood for him,
Who thus can hoard his own!
And Monarchs bow’d the trembling limb,
And thank’d him for a throne!
Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear,
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear
In humblest guise have shown.
Oh! ne’er may tyrant leave behind
A brighter name to lure mankind!

XI.

Thine evil deeds are writ in gore,
Nor written thus in vain —
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more,
Or deepen every stain:
If thou hadst died as honour dies,
Some new Napoleon might arise,
To shame the world again —
But who would soar the solar height,
To set in such a starless night?

XII.

Weigh’d in the balance, hero dust
Is vile as vulgar clay;
Thy scales, Mortality! are just
To all that pass away:
But yet methought the living great
Some higher sparks should animate,
To dazzle and dismay:
Nor deem’d Contempt could thus make mirth
Of these, the Conquerors of the earth.

XIII.

And she, proud Austria’s mournful flower,
Thy still imperial bride;
How bears her breast the torturing hour?
Still clings she to thy side?
Must she too bend, must she too share
Thy late repentance, long despair,
Thou throneless Homicide?
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, —
‘Tisworth thy vanish’d diadem!

XIV.

Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,
And gaze upon the sea;
That element may meet thy smile —
It ne’er was ruled by thee!
Or trace with thine all idle hand
In loitering mood upon the sand
That Earth is now as free!
That Corinth’s pedagogue hath now
Transferr’d his by-word to thy brow.

XV.

Thou Timour! in his captive’s cage
What thoughts will there be thine,
While brooding in thy prison’d rage?
But one — ’The world was mine!’
Unless, like he of Babylon,
All sense is with thy sceptre gone,
Life will not long confine
That spirit pour’d so widely forth-
So long obey’d — so little worth!

XVI.

Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,
Wilt thou withstand the shock?
And share with him the unforgiven,
His vulture and his rock!
Foredoom’d by God — by man accurst,
And that last act, though not thy worst,
The very Fiend’s arch mock
He in his fall preserved his pride,
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died!

XVII.

There was a day — there was an hour,
While earth was Gaul’s — Gaul thine —
When that immeasurable power
Unsated to resign
Had been an act of purer fame
Than gathers round Marengo’s name,
And gilded thy decline,
Through the long twilight of all time,
Despite some passing clouds of crime.

XVIII.

But thou forsooth must be a king,
And don the purple vest,
As !f that foolish robe could wring
Remembrance from thy breast.
Where is that faded garment? where
The gewgaws thou Overt fond to wear,
The star, the string the crest?
Vain froward child of empire! say,
Are all thy playthings snatched away?

XIX.

Where may the wearied eye repose
When gazing on the Great;
Where neither guilty glory glows,
Nor despicable state?
Yes — one — the first — the last — the best —
The Cincinnatus of the West,
Whom envy dared not hate,
Bequeath’d the name of Washington,
To make man blush there was but one!

I SPEAK NOT, I TRACE NOT, I BREATHE NOT THY NAME

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 that now burns on my cheek may impart
The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart.
Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace,
Were those hours - can their joy or their bitterness cease?
We repent, we abjure, we will break from our chain, -
We will part, we will fly to - unite it again!
Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt!
Forgive me, adored one! - forsake if thou wilt;
But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased,
And man shall not break it - whatever thou may’st.
And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee,
This soul in its bitterest blackness shall be;
And our days seem as swift, and our moments more sweet,
With thee at my side, than with worlds at our feet.
One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love,
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove.
And the heartless may wonder at all I resign -
Thy lips shall reply, not to them, but to mine.

May, 1814.

ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE RECITED AT 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 foe 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 ‘tis 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 — ’tis 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 tarries long —
For him, whose distant relics vainly crave
The coronach’s wild requiem to the brave!

“‘Tis Heaven — not man — must charm away the woe
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

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 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.

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,

The Czar’s look, I own, was much brighter and brisker,
But then he is sadly deficient in whisker;
And wore but a starless 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.

June 1814.

CONDOLATORY ADDRESS TO SARAH

COUNTESS OF JERSEY, ON THE PRINCE REGENT’S RETURNING HER PICTURE TO MRS. MEE

When the vain triumph of the imperial lord,
Whom servile Rome obey’d, and yet abhorr’d,
Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust,
That left a likeness of the brave or just;
What most admired each scrutinising 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 mind, 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,
Amidst 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 crown, and of his wits,
If his corrupted eye, and wither’d heart,
Could 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,
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 those must wait till ev’ry 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.

August 1814.