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What child has she of promise fair,
Who claims a fostering mother's care?
Whose Innocence requires defence,
Or forms at least a smooth pretence,
Thus to disturb a harmless Boy,
His humble hope, and peace annoy?
She need not fear the amorous rhyme,
Love will not tempt her future time,
For her his wings have ceas'd to spread,
No more he flutters round her head;
Her day's Meridian now is past,
The clouds of Age her Sun o'ercast;
To her the strain was never sent,
For feeling Souls alone 'twas meant
The verse she seiz'd, unask'd, unbade,
And damn'd, ere yet the whole was read!
Yes! for one single erring verse,
Pronounc'd an unrelenting Curse;
Yes! at a first and transient view,
Condemn'd a heart she never knew.
Can such a verdict then decide,
Which springs from disappointed pride?
Without a wondrous share of Wit,
To judge is such a Matron fit?
The rest of the censorious throng
Who to this zealous Band belong,
To her a general homage pay,
And right or wrong her wish obey:
Why should I point my pen of steel
To break "such flies upon the wheel?"
With minds to Truth and Sense un-
known,

Who dare not call their words their own.
Rail on, Rail on, ye heartless Crew!
Your Leader's grand design pursue:
Secure behind her ample shield,
Yours is the harvest of the field.
My path with thorns you cannot strew,
Nay more, my warmest thanks are
due;

When such as you revile my Name,
Bright beams the rising Sun of Fame,
Chasing the shades of envious night,
Outshining every critic Light.

Such, such as you will serve to show
Each radiant tint with higher glow.
Vain is the feeble cheerless toil,
Your efforts on yourselves recoil;
Then Glory still for me you raise,
Yours is the Censure, mine the Praise.
- BYRON,

December 1, 1806.
[First published, 1898.

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The Matron knows I love the Sex too well,

Even unprovoked aggression to repel. What though from private pique her anger grew,

And bade her blast a heart she never knew?

30 What though, she said, for one light heedless line,

That Wilmot's1 verse was far more pure than mine!

In wars like these, I neither fight nor fly, When dames accuse 'tis bootless to deny; Hers be the harvest of the martial field, I can't attack, where Beauty forms the shield.

But when a pert Physician loudly cries, Who hunts for scandal, and who lives by lies,

A walking register of daily news
Train'd to invent, and skilful to abuse
For arts like these at bounteous tables
fed,

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When S condemns a book he never read,

Declaring with a coxcomb's native air, The moral's shocking, though the rhymes are fair.

Ah! must he rise unpunish'd from the feast,

Nor lash'd by vengeance into truth at least?

Such lenity were more than Man's indeed!

Those who condemn, should surely deign to read. Yet must I spare degrade,

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nor thus my pen

I quite forgot that scandal was his trade. For food and raiment thus the coxcomb rails,

51

For those who fear his physic, like his

tales.

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And thus I fall, though meaner far than

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As in the field of combat, side by side, A Fabius and some noble Roman died.

December, 1806.

[First published, 1898.]

1[Robert Lloyd (1733-1764).]

The Rev. Luke Milbourne (died 1720) published, in 1698, his Notes on Dryden's Virgil, containing a venomous attack on Dryden.]

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I

1[Lord Clare had written to Byron, “I thin by your last letter that you are very much pique with most of your friends, and, if I am not muc mistaken, you are a little piqued with me. one part you say, 'There is little or no doubt few years or months will render us as politely ir different to each other, as if we had never passe a portion of our time together.' Indeed. Byro you wrong me; and I have no doubt - at leas I hope, you wrong yourself."- Life, P. 25

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12.

Thou, who in wisdom plac'd me here, Who, when thou wilt, canst take me hence,

Ah! whilst I tread this earthly sphere, Extend to me thy wide defence.

13.

To Thee, my God, to Thee I call!
Whatever weal or woe betide,
By thy command I rise or fall,
In thy protection I confide.

14.

If, when this dust to dust's restor❜d, My soul shall float on airy wing, How shall thy glorious Name ador'd Inspire her feeble voice to sing!

15.

But, if this fleeting spirit share

With clay the Grave's eternal bed, While Life yet throbs I raise my prayer, Though doom'd no more to quit the dead.

16.

To Thee I breathe my humble strain,
Grateful for all thy mercies past,
And hope, my God, to thee again
This erring life may fly at last.
December 29, 1806.
[First published, 1830.]

TRANSLATION FROM

ANACREON.

Εἰς ῥόδον.

ODE V.

MINGLE with the genial bowl
The Rose, the flow'ret of the Soul,
The Rose and Grape together quaff'd,
How doubly sweet will be the draught!
With Roses crown our jovial brows,
While every cheek with Laughter glows;
While Smiles and Songs, with Wine
incite,

To wing our moments with Delight.
Rose by far the fairest birth,
Which Spring and Nature cull from
Earth

Rose whose sweetest perfume given,
Breathes our thoughts from Earth to
Heaven.

Rose whom the Deities above,
From Jove to Hebe, dearly love,
When Cytherea's blooming Boy,
Flies lightly through the dance of Joy,
With him the Graces then combine,
And rosy wreaths their locks entwine.
Then will I sing divinely crown'd,
With dusky leaves my temples bound
Lyæus! in thy bowers of pleasure,
I'll wake a wildly thrilling measure.
There will my gentle Girl and I,
Along the mazes sportive fly,
Will bend before thy potent throne
Rose, Wine, and Beauty, all my own.
1805.

[First published, 1898.]

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