"OH! banish care "-such ever be
The motto of thy revelry!
Perchance of mine, when wassail nights
Renew those riotous delights,
Wherewith the children of Despair
Lull the lone heart, and "banish care."
But not in morn's reflecting hour,
When present, past, and future lower,
When all I loved is changed or gone,
Mock with such taunts the woes of one,
Whose every thought-but let them pass-
Thou know'st I am not what I was.
But, above all, if thou wouldst hold
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold,
By all the powers that men revere,
By all unto thy bosom dear,
Thy joys below, thy hopes above,
Speak-speak of any thing but love.
"Twere long to tell, and vain to hear,
The tale of one who scorns a tear;
And there is little in that tale
Which better bosoms would bewail.
But mine has suffer'd more than well
'Twould suit philosophy to tell.
I've seen my bride another's bride,-
Have seen her seated by his side,—
Have seen the infant, which she bore,
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore,
When she and I in youth have smiled
As fond and faultless as her child;-
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain,
Ask if I felt no secret pain,
And I have acted well my part,
And made my cheek belie my heart,
Return'd the freezing glance she gave,
Yet felt the while that woman's slave;—
Have kiss'd, as if without design,
The babe which ought to have been mine,
And show'd, alas! in each caress
Time had not made me love the less.
But let this pass-I'll whine no more,
Nor seek again an eastern shore;
The world befits a busy brain,-
I'll hie me to its haunts again.
But if, in some succeeding year,
When Britain's "May is in the sere,
Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crimes Suit with the sablest of the times,
WHEN Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent, (I hope I am not violent,)
Nor men nor gods knew what he meant.
And since not ev'n our Rogers' praise
To common sense his thoughts could raiseWhy 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.
"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 DonneWere 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 among 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 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
lines, the only copy that Lord Byron, I believe, ever wrote, he presented to Lord Holland. Though with a good deal of vigor and imagination, it is for the most part, rather clumsily executed, wanting the point and conden sation of those clever verses of Mr. Coleridge which Lord Byron, adopting a notion long prevalent, has attributed to Professor Porson. There are however, some of the stanzas of "The Devil's Drive” well worth preserving.]-Moore.
WRITTEN THE EVENING BEFORE HIS VISIT, IN COM-[Of this strange, wild poem, which extends to about two hundred and fifty
PANY WITH LORD BYRON, TO MR. LEIGH HUNT
IN HORSEMONGER-LANE JAIL, 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 Two-penny 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 Phoebus 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.
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
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
THE Devil return'd to hell by two,
And he staid at home till five;
When he dined on some homicides done in ragout,
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 favorites thrive.
" And what shall I ride in?" quoth Lucifer then-
"If I follow'd my taste, indeed,
I should mount in a wagon 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 favorite 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 sprung 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;
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 Het-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:
And what dignity decks the flat face of the great
I saw him, last week, at two balls and a party,-
For a prince, his demeanor was rather too hearty.
You know, we are used to quite different graces,
For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead,
That it blushed like the waves of hell! Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'd he; "Methinks they have here little need of me!"
The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter and 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 his hollow cheek, and eyes half shut,
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."
Lines composed on the occasion of His Royal Highness the Prince Regent being seen standing between the coffins of Henry VIII, and Charles 1. in the royal vault at Windsor.
FAMED for contemptuous breach of sacred ties, By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies; Between them stands another sceptered thingIt moves, it reigns-in all but name, a king:
Charles to his people, Henry to nis 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 G-ge.
March, 1814.
ADDITIONAL STANZAS, TO THE ODE TC NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.
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.
But thou forsooth must be a king
And don the purple vest,
As if that foolish robe could wring
Remembrance from thy breast.
Where is that fated garment? where
The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear,
The star-the string-the crest?
Vain froward child of empire! say,
Are all thy playthings snatch'd away?
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. April, 1814.
AND say'st thou that I have not felt,
Whilst thou wert thus estranged from me?
Nor know'st how dearly I have dwelt
On one unbroken dream of thee?
But love like ours must never be,
And I will learn to prize thee less; As thou hast fled, so let me flee,
And change the heart thou mayest not bless.
They'll tell thee, Clara! I have seem'd,
Of late, another's charms to woo,
Nor sigh'd, nor frown'd, as if I deem'd
That thou wert banish'd from my view.
Clara! this struggle-to undo
What thou hast done too well, for me This mask before the babbling crewThis treachery-was truth to thee.
I have not wept while thou wert gone,
Nor worn one look of sullen wo;
But sought, in many, all that one
(Ah! need I name her?) could bestow.
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.
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.
![[blocks in formation]](https://books.google.es/books/content?id=SE-zEoht5BkC&hl=es&output=html_text&pg=PA568&img=1&zoom=3&q=editions:LCCN24023098&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U1lji-i35llnRf0240dfYRRXoEOWg&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=507,763,383,333)
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 scrutinizing eye
Of all that deck'd that passing pageantry?
What spread from face to face the 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;
With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet. And more decreed his glory to endure,
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,
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 lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine.
Than all a gold Colossus could secure.
If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze
Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze,
Amid 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 throne and shatter'd wits,
If his corrupted eye and wither'd heart
Could with thy gentle image bear depart,
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;
And 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 tnee;
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 these must wait till every 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.
IN the valley of waters we wept o'er the day
When the host of the stranger made Salem his prey;
And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay,
And our hearts were so full of the land far away.
The song they demanded in vain-it lay still
In our souls as the wind that hath died on the hill;
They called for the harp, but our blood they shall
spill,
Ere our right hands shall teach them one tone of their skill.
All stringlessly hung on the willow's sad tree,
As dead as her dead leaf those mute harps must be,
Our hands may be fettered, our tears still are free,
For our God and our glory, and Sion! for thee.
October, 1814.
THEY say that Hope is happiness,
But genuine Love must prize the past; And Memory wakes the thoughts that blessThey rose the first, they set the last.
And all that Memory loves the most Was once our only hope to be; And all that hope adored and lost Hath melted into memory.
Alas! it is delusion all,
The future cheats us from afar, Nor can we be what we recall,
Nor dare we think on what we are. October, 1814.
BELSHAZZAR! from the banquet turn, Nor in thy sensual fulness fall: Behold! while yet before thee burn The graven words, the glowing wall. Many a despot men miscall
Crown'd and anointed from on high; But thou, the weakest, worst of allIs it not written, thou must die?
Go! dash the roses from thy brow-
Gray hairs but poorly wreathe with them:
Youth's garlands misbecome thee now,
More than thy very diadem,
Where thou hast tarnish'd every gem :-
Then throw the worthless bauble by,
Which, worn by thee, ev'n slaves contemn:
And learn like better men to die.
Oh! early in the balance weigh'd,
And ever light of word and worth, Whose soul expired ere youth decay'd, And left thee but a mass of earth.
To see thee moves the scorner's mirth : But tears in Hope's averted eye Lament that even thou hadst birthUnfit to govern, live, or die.
LINES INTENDED FOR THE OPENING OF "THE SIEGE OF CORINTH."
In the year since Jesus died for men,
Eighteen hundred years and ten,
We were a gallant company,
Riding o'er land, and sailing o'er sea.
Oh! but we went merrily!
We forded the river and clomb the high hill,
Never our steeds for a day stood still ;
Whether we lay in the cave or the shed,
Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed;
Whether we couch'd in our rough capote,
On the rougher plank of our gliding boat,
Or stretch'd on the beach, or our saddles spread
As a pillow beneath the resting head,
Fresh we woke upon the morrow:
All our thoughts and our words had scope,
We had health, and we had hope,
Toil and travel, but no sorrow.
We were of all tongues and creeds ;-
Some were those who counted beads,
Some of mosque, and some of church,
And some, or I mis-say, of neither;
Yet through the wide world might ye search,
Nor find a motlier crew nor blither.
|