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[To Thomas Moore, June, 1813. Byron and Moore were supping with Rogers on bread and cheese when their host brought forth Lord Thurlow's Poems on Several Occasions (1813). In vain did Mr. Rogers (to whom a copy of the work had been presented),' says Moore in his Life, in justice to the author, endeavour to direct our attention to some of the beauties of the work. One of the poems was a warm and, I need not add, well-deserved panegyric on himself. The opening line of the poem was, as well as I can recollect,

"When Rogers o'er this labour bent."

And Lord Byron undertook to read it aloud; but he found it impossible to get beyond the first two words. Our laughter had now increased to such a pitch that nothing could restrain it. Two or three times he began, but, no sooner had the words When Rogers passed his lips, than our fit burst forth afresh

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till even Mr. Rogers himself, with all his feeling of our injustice, found it impossible not to join us; and had the author himself been of the party, I question much whether he could have resisted the infection.' A day or two later Byron sent the following verses in a letter to Moore.]

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-0! Hermilda's first and second canto, I'm fitting up a new portmanteau;

FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO THOMAS MOORE

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.

[On the same day with the preceding Byron sent to Moore the following stanzas on Lord Thurlow's lines.]

'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 Phœbus you his crown, gave 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 Regent's unmarried,

Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders; When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel, When Castlereagh's wife has an heir, Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel,

And thou shalt have plenty to spare.

ANSWER TO 'S PROFESSIONS OF AFFECTION

[First published in the Edition of 1904 from an autograph manuscript. Dated by conjecture 1814.]

IN hearts like thine ne'er may I hold a place

Till I renounce all sense, all shame, all

grace

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'IN THIS BELOVED MARBLE

VIEW'

[To John Murray, Venice, November 25, 1816. The Helen of Canova (a bust which is in the house of Madame the Countess d'Albrizzi, whom I know) is, without exception, to my mind, the most perfectly beautiful of human conceptions, and far beyond my ideas of human execution.')

IN this beloved marble view

Above the works and thoughts of Man, What Nature could, but would not, do, And Beauty and Canova can! Beyond Imagination's power, Beyond the Bard's defeated art, With Immortality her dower,

Behold the Helen of the heart!

'AND DOST THOU ASK THE REASON OF MY SADNESS?'

[To George Anson Byron (?). Dated by conjecture 1816.]

AND dost thou ask the reason of my sadness?

Well, I will tell it thee, unfeeling boy! 'T was ill report that urged my brain to madness,

'Twas thy tongue's venom poison'd all my joy.

The sadness which thou seest is not sorrow; My wounds are far too deep for simple grief;

The heart thus wither'd, seeks in vain to borrow

From calm reflection, comfort or relief.

The arrow's flown, and dearly shalt thou rue it;

No mortal hand can rid me of my pain: My heart is pierced, but thou canst not subdue it

Revenge is left, and is not left in vain.

'AS THE LIBERTY LADS O'ER THE SEA'

[To Thomas Moore, Venice, December 24, 1816. The riots of the so-called Luddites broke out in 1811, and were aimed chiefly at

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'TO HOOK THE READER, YOU, JOHN MURRAY'

[To John Murray, March 25, 1817.] To hook the reader, you, John Murray, Have publish'd Anjou's Margaret, Which won't be sold off in a hurry

(At least, it has not been as yet); And then, still further to bewilder 'em, Without remorse you set up Ilderim ;

So mind you don't get into debt, Because as how, if you should fail, These books would be but baddish bail. And mind you do not let escape

These rhymes to Morning Post or Perry, Which would be very treacherous - very, And get me into such a scrape!

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