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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.

'WHEN THURLOW THIS DAMN'D NONSENSE SENT'

[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 ccasions (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;

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"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 Phœbus 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 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 Fill I renounce all sense, all shame, all grace

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That seat, like seats, the bane of Freedom's realm,

But dear to those presiding at the helmIs basely purchased, not with gold alone; Add Conscience, too, this bargain is your

own

"T is thine to offer with corrupting art The rotten borough of the human heart.

FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO THOMAS MOORE

[These verses refer to the meeting of the 'Allied Sovereigns.' Southey had celebrated the commencement of the year 1814 in his Carmen Triumphale, in the refrain of which occur the words' Glory to God.' The Laureate also celebrated in an ode The Allied Sovereigns in England.]

'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.

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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. [First published, 1830.]

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.

[First published, 1819.]

[Another version.]

ON A ROYAL VISIT TO THE VAULTS

OR CESAR'S DISCOVERY OF C. I. AND H. 8. IN YE SAME VAULT

[First published in the Edition of 1904 from a manuscript in the possession of Mr. Murray.]

FAMED for their civil and domestic quarrels,

See heartless Henry lies by headless
Charles;
Between them stands another sceptred
thing,

It lives, it reigns'aye, every inch 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,

The royal Vampires join and rise again. What now can tombs avail, since these disgorge

The blood and dirt of both to mould a George!

1814.

ICH DIEN

[First published in the Edition of 1904 from a manuscript in the possession of Mr. A. H. Hallam Murray. Dated by conjecture 1814.]

FROM this emblem what variance your motto evinces,

For the Man is his country's- the Arms are the Prince's!

'HERE'S TO HER WHO LONG'

[To Thomas Moore, September 20, 1814. On being accepted by Miss Milbanke.]

HERE's to her who long

Hath waked the poet's sigh! The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy.

'ONCE FAIRLY SET OUT ON HIS PARTY OF PLEASURE'

[To Thomas Moore, March 27, 1815. On the return of Napoleon from Elba.]

ONCE fairly set out on his party of plea

sure,

Taking towns at his liking and crowns at his leisure,

From Elba to Lyons and Paris he goes, Making balls for the ladies, and bows to his

foes.

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[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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