In the valley of waters we wept o'er the day his prey, 'Having been officiously taken up by a person who arrogated to himself some self-importance in criticism, and who made an observation upon their demerits, Lord Byron quaintly observed, And our heads on our bosoms all droop-"They were written in haste, and they shall ingly lay, perish in the same manner!" and immediately consigned them to the flames. As my music adapted to them, however, did not share the same fate, and having a contrary opinion of anything that might fall from the pen of his Lordship, I treasured them up, and on a subsequent interview with his Lordship, I accused him of having committed suicide in making so valuable a burnt-offering: to which he smilingly replied, "The act seems to inflame you; come, Nathan, since you are displeased with the sacrifice, I will give them to you as a peace-offering, use them as you may deem proper."'] THEY say that Hope is happiness; But genuine Love must prize the past, And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless; They rose the first- they set the last. And all that Memory loves the most Alas! it is delusion all; The future cheats us from afar, Nor dare we think on what we are. EPHEMERAL VERSES [These squibs, bits of satire, and broken rhymes are taken chiefly from Byron's Letters. None of the verses were published in any edition of his poems during the author's life. The titles and dates here given indicate the letters from which the verses are taken, when no other source is indicated.] 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 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 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 - O! Hermilda's first and second canto, I'm fitting up a new portmanteau; And thus to furnish decent lining, TO LORD THURLOW I lay my branch of laurel down: 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 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. never man saw. The papers have told you, no doubt, of the fusses, The fêtes 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, |