The Poetical Works of Lord Byron

They roar'd, they dined, they drank, they swore they meant

To die for England-why then live?-for rent! The peace has made one general malcontent Of these high-market patriots; war was rent! Their love of country, millions all misspent, How reconcile? by reconciling rent! And will they not repay the treasures lent? No; down with everything, and up with rent! Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent, Being, end, aim, religion-rent, rent, rent! Thou sold'st thy birthright, Esau! for a mess; Thou shouldst have gotten more, or eaten less; Now thou hast swill'd thy pottage, thy demands Are idle; Israel says the bargain stands. Such, landlords! was your appetite for war, And gorged with blood, you grumble at a scar! What! would they spread their earthquake even o'er cash?

And when land crumbles, bid firm paper crash? So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall, And found on 'Change a Fundling Hospital! Lo, Mother Church, while all religion writhes, Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring, Tithes; The prelates go to-where the saints have gone, And proud pluralities subside to one; Church, state, and faction wrestle in the dark, Toss'd by the deluge in their common ark. Shorn of her bishops, banks, and dividends, Another Pabel soars-but Britain ends. And why? to pamper the self-seeking wants, And prop the hill of these agrarian ants. 'Go to these ants, thou sluggard, and be wise; Admire their patience through each sacrifice, Till taught to feel the lesson of their pride, The price of taxes and of homicide; Admire their justice, which would fain deny The debt of nations :-pray, who made it high?

XV.

Or turn to sail between those shifting rocks,
The new Symplegades-the crushing Stocks,
Where Midas might again his wish behold
In real paper or imagined gold.
That magic palace of Alcina shows

More wealth than Britain ever had to lose,
Were all her atoms of unleaven'd ore,
And all her pebbles from Pactolus' shore.
There Fortune plays, while Rumour holds the
stake,

And the world trembles to bid brokers break.
How rich is Britain! not indeed in mines,
Or peace, or plenty, corn or oil, or wines;
No land of Canaan, full of milk and honey,
Nor (save in paper shekels) ready money:
But let us not to own the truth refuse,
Was ever Christian land so rich in Jews?
Those parted with their teeth to good King John,
And now, ye kings! they kindly draw your own;
All states, all things, all sovereigns they control,
And waft a loan from Indus to the pole.'
The banker-broker-baron-brethren, speed
To aid these bankrupt tyrants in their need.

Nor these alone; Columbia feels no less
Fresh speculations follow each success ;
And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain
Her mild per-centage from exhausted Spain.
Not without Abraham's seed can Russia march;
'Tis gold, not steel, that rears the conqueror's
arch.

Two Jews, a chosen people, can command
In every realm their scripture-promised land :-
Two Jews keep down the Romans, and uphold
The accursed Hun, more brutal than of old :
Two Jews-but not Samaritans-direct
The world, with all the spirit of their sect.
What is the happiness of earth to them?
A congress forms their New Jerusalem,'
Where baronies and orders both invite-
Oh, holy Abraham ! dost thou see the sight?
Thy followers mingling with these royal swine,
Who spit not on their Jewish gaberdine,'
But honour them as portion of the show-
(Where now, oh Pope! is thy forsaken toe?
Could it not favour Judah with some kicks?
Or has it ceased to kick against the pricks?')
On Shylock's shore behold them stand afresh,
To cut from nations' hearts their 'pound of flesh.'

XVI.

Strange sight this Congress! destined to unite
All that's incongruous, all that's opposite.
I speak not of the sovereigns-they're alike,
A common coin as ever mint could strike;
But those who sway the puppets, pull the strings,
Have more of motley than their heavy kings.
Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, combine,
While Europe wonders at the vast design:
There Metternich, power's foremost parasite,
Cajoles; there Wellington forgets to fight;
There Chateaubriand forms new books of
martyrs ;

And subtle Greeks intrigue for stupid Tartars;
There Montmorenci, the sworn foe to charters,
Turns a diplomatist of great éclat,

To furnish articles for the 'Débats ;'
Of war so certain-yet not quite so sure
As his dismissal in the Moniteur.'
Alas! how could his cabinet thus err !
Can peace be worth an ultra-minister?
He falls indeed, perhaps to rise again,
'Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain."

XVII.

Enough of this-a sight more mournful woos
The averted eye of the reluctant muse.
The imperial daughter, the imperial bride,
The imperial victim-sacrifice to pride;
The mother of the hero's hope, the boy,
The young Astyanax of modern Troy; +

• Monsieur Chateaubriand, who has not forgotten the author

in the minister, received a handsome compliment at Verona from a literary sovereign: Ah! Monsieur C., are you related to that Chateaubriand who-who-who has written something?' (écrit quelque chose !) It is said that the author of Atala repented him for a moment of his legitimacy,

The Duke de Reichstadt, Napoleon's son.

The still pale shadow of the loftiest queen
That earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen;
She flits amidst the phantoms of the hour,
The theme of pity, and the wreck of power.
Oh, cruel mockery! Could not Austria spare
A daughter? What did France's widow there?
Her fitter place was by St Helen's wave,
Her only throne is in Napoleon's grave.
But, no-she still must hold a petty reign,
Flank'd by her formidable chamberlain ;)
The martial Argus, whose not hundred eyes
Must watch her through these paltry pageantries.
What though she share no more, and shared in
vain,

A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne,
Which swept from Moscow to the southern seas!
Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese,
Where Parma views the traveller resort,
To note the trappings of her mimic court.
But she appears! Verona sees her shorn
Of all her beams-while nations gaze and

mourn

Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time
To chill in their inhospitable clime;
(If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold ;-
But no, their embers soon will burst the mould;)
She comes!-the Andromache (but not Racine's,
Nor Homer's,)-Lo! on Pyrrhus' arm she leans!

Yes! the right arm, yet red from Waterloo, Which cut her lord's half shatter'd sceptre through,

Is offer'd and accepted? Could a slave
Do more? or less ?-and he in his new grave!
Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strife,
And the ex-empress grows as ex a wife!
So much for human ties in royal breasts!
Why spare men's feelings, when their own are
jests?

XVIII.

But, tired of foreign follies, I turn home,
And sketch the group-the picture's yet to come.
My muse 'gan weep, but ere a tear was spilt,
She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt!
While throng'd the chiefs of every Highland clan
To hail their brother, Vich Ian Alderman!
Guildhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse roar,
While all the Common Council cry Claymore!
To see proud Albyn's tartans as a belt
Gird the gross surloin of a city Celt,
She burst into a laughter so extreme,
That I awoke,-and lo! it was no dream!
Here, reader, will we pause:-if there's no
harm in

This first- you'll have, perhaps, a second 'Carmen.'

THE BLUES:

A LITERARY ECLOGUE.

1822.

'Nimium ne crede colori.-VIRGIL,

O trust not, ye beautiful creatures, to hue,

Though your hair were as red as your stockings are blue.

ECLOGUE THE FIRST.

London.-Before the Door of a Lecture Room. Enter Tracy, meeting Inkel.

Ink. YOU'RE too late.

Tra.

Ink.

Is it over?

Nor will be this hour.

Tra. I know it too well, and have worn out my patience

With studying to study your new publications. There's Vamp, Scamp, and Mouthy, and Wordswords and Co.

With their damnable

Tra.

Ink. Hold, my good friend, do you know But the benches are cramm'd like a garden in Whom you speak to? flower, [the fashion; With the pride of our belles, who have made it So, instead of 'beaux arts,' we may say 'la belle passion'

Right well, boy, and so does 'the Row :' You're an author-a poet

Ink.

And think you that I Can stand tamely in silence, to hear you decry

For learning, which lately has taken the lead in
The world, and set all the fine gentlemen read-The Muses?
ing.

Count Neipperg chamberlain and second husband to
Maria Louisa

Tra.

Excuse me: I meant no offence To the Nine; though the number who make some pretence

To their favours is such- -but the subject to drop,

Tra. And the crowd of to-day shows that
one fool makes many.

But we two will be wise.
Ink.

Pray, then, let us retire.

Tra. I would, but――

I am just piping hot from a publisher's shop, (Next door to the pastry-cook's; so that when I Cannot find the new volume I wanted to buy On the bibliopole's shelves, it is only two paces, Ink. There must be attraction much higher As one finds every author in one of those places :) Than Scamp, or the Jew's harp he nicknames Where I just had been skimming a charming To call you to this hot bed. [his lyre, critique, [Greek! Tra. I own it-'tis trueSo studded with wit, and so sprinkled with A fair ladyWhere your friend-you know who has just Ink.

[freshing.

got such a threshing,
That it is, as the phrase goes, extremely 're-
What a beautiful word!
Ink.
Very true; 'tis so soft
And so cooling-they use it a little too oft;
And the papers have got it at last-but no
So they've cut up our friend, then? [matter.
Tra.
Not left him a tatter-
Not a rag of his present or past reputation,
Which they call a disgrace to the age and the
nation.

Ink. I'm sorry to hear this! for friendship,
you know-

Our poor friend!--but I thought it would terminate so,

A spinster?

Tra.

Miss Lilac !

The devil! why, man,
Pray get out of this hobble as fast as you can.
You wed with Miss Lilac! 'twould be your
perdition:

She's a poet, a chemist, a mathematician.
Tra. I say she's an angel.
Ink.

Say rather an angle. If you and she marry, you'll certainly wrangle. I say she's a Blue, man, as blue as the ether. Tra. And is that any cause for not coming [it. together? [alliance Our friendship is such, I'll read nothing to shock Ink. Humph! I can't say I know any happy You don't happen to have the Review in your Which has lately sprung up from a wedlock pocket? [cerning Tra. No; I left a round dozen of authors | She's so learned in all things, and fond of conand others Herself in all matters connected with learning, (Very sorry, no doubt, since the cause is a Thatbrother's)

All scrambling and jostling, like so many imps,
And on fire with impatience to get the next
ink. Let us join them.
[glimpse.

Tra. What, won't you return to the lecture?
Ink. Why the place is so cramm'd, there's
not room for a spectre.

retreat

Besides, our friend Scamp is to-day so absurd—
Tra. How can you know that till you hear
him?
Ink.
I heard
Quite enough; and, to tell you the truth, my
[heat.
Was from his vile nonsense, no less than the
Tra. I have had no great loss, then?
Ink.
Loss!-such a palaver!
Id inoculate sooner my wife with the slaver
Of a dog when gone rabid, than listen two
hours
[pours,

To the torrent of trash which around him he
Pump'd up with such effort, disgorged with

with science.

Tra. What?

Ink. I perhaps may as well hold my tongue; But there's five hundred people can tell you you're wrong. [Jew.

Tra. You forget Lady L..ac's as rich as a Ink. Is it miss or the cash of mamma you pursue?

Tra. Why, Jack, I'll be frank with you-. something of both. The girl's a fine girl.

Ink.

And you feel nothing loth
To her good lady-mother's reversion; and yet
Her life is as good as your own, I will bet.
Tra. Let her live, and as long as she likes;
I demand
[and hand.
Nothing more than the heart of her daughter
Ink. Why, that heart's in the inkstand-that
hand on the pen.

Tra. Apropos - Will you write me a song now and then?

Ink. To what purpose?

Tra. You know, my dear friend, that in prose,
My talent is decent, as far as it goes;
But in rhyme-

Ink.
You're a terrible stick, to be sure.
Tra. I own it: and yet, in these times,
there's no lure

For the heart of the fair like a stanza or two;
And so, as I can't, will you furnish a few?
Ink. In your name?
Tra.

To slip into her hand at the very next rout.
Ink. Are you so far advanced as to hazard
this?

Tra.

Why,

Ink. I've a card, and shall go; but at present,

as soon

As friend Scamp shall be pleased to step down from the moon [wits), (Where he seems to be soaring in search of his And an interval grants from his lecturing fits, I'm engaged to the Lady Bluebottle's collation, [Muse. To partake of a luncheon and learn'd conversation :

Do you think me subdued by a Blue-stocking's
So far as to tremble to tell her in rhyme [eye,
What I've told her in prose, at the least, as
sublime?

Ink. As sublime! If it be so, no need of my Tra. But consider, dear Inkel, she's one of "Tis a sort of re-union for Scamp, on the days the 'Blues.' [to say. Of his lecture, to treat him with cold tongue Ink. As sublime !--Mr Tracy-I've nothing and praise. [pleasant. Stick to prose-As sublime! !-But I wish you And I own, for my own part, that 'tis not ungood day. Will you go? There's Miss Lilac will also be present.

Tra. Nay, stay, my dear fellow-consider-
I'm wrong;

I own it; but, prithee, compose me the song.
Ink. As sublime!!

Tra. I but used the expression in haste.
Ink. That may be, Mr Tracy, but shows
damn'd bad taste.
[what
Tra. I own it-I know it-acknowledge it-
Can I say to you more?
Ink.
I see what you'd be at:
You disparage my parts with insidious abuse,
Till you think you can turn them best to your

Tra. That metal's attractive.'
Ink.
No doubt-to the pocket.
Tra. You should rather encourage my pas-
sion than shock it.

But let us proceed; for I think by the hum--
Ink. Very true; let us go, then, before they

can come,

Or else we'll be kept here an hour at their levée,
On the rack of cross questions, by all the blue
bevy.
(drone
Hark! Zounds, they'll be on us; I know by the
Of old Botherby's spouting ex-cathedrâ tone.
Ay! there he is at it. Poor Scamp! better join
Your friends, or he'll pay you back in your own
coin.

Tra. All fair; 'tis but lecture for lecture.
Ink.
That's clear.

But for God's sake, let's go, or the Bore will be
here.

Come, come: nay, I'm off.
Tra.

[Exit Inkel.

You are right, and I'll follow 'Tis high time for a 'Sic me servavit Apollo. And yet we shall have the whole crew on our kibes,

Blues, dandies, and dowagers, and secondhand scribes,

All flocking to moisten their exquisite throttles With a glass of Madeira at Lady Bluebottle's. [Exit Tracy.

END OF ECLOGUE THE FIRST.

ECLOGUE THE SECOND.

A Table prepared.

Tra. 'Tis the English Journal de Trevoux,' An Apartment in the House of Lady Bluebottle A clerical work of our Jesuits at home. Have you never yet seen it?

Sir Richard Bluebottle solus.

Was there ever a man who was married so sorry'
Like a fool, I must needs do the thing in a hurry.
My life is reversea, and my quiet destroy'd;
My days, which once pass'd in so gentle a vord,
Must now, every hour of the twelve, be employ'd,
The twelve, do I say?—of the whole twenty-four.
Is there one which I dare call my own any more
What with driving and visiting, dancing ai
dining,

What with learning, and teaching, and scrit
bling, and shining

[pains,

Nor profane with your sneers so poetic a name. Ink. Nay, I meant him no evil, but pitied his master;

No pleasure! no leisure! no thought for my
But to hear a vile jargon which addles my brains; For the poet of pedlars 'twere, sure, no disaster
A smatter and chatter, glean'd out of reviews,To wear a new livery; the more, as 'tis not
By the rag, tag, and bobtail of those they call The first time he has turn'd both his creed and
'BLUES;'

A rabble who know not-But soft, here they come !

[dumb.

Would to God I were deaf! as I'm not, I'll be

Enter Lady Bluebottle, Miss Lilac, Lady Blue-
mount, Mr Botherby, Inkel, Tracy, Miss
Mazarine, and others, with Scamp the Lec-
tarer, &c., &c.

Lady Blueb. Ah! Sir Richard, good morn-
ing: I've brought you some friends.
Sir Rich. (bows, and afterwards aside). If
friends, they're the first,

Lady Blueb. But the luncheon attends,
I pray ye be seated, sans cérémonie.

Mr Scamp, you're fatigued; take your chair

there next me.

[They all sit.

Sir Rich. (aside). If he does, his fatigue is

his coat.

Ink. I shall think of him oft when I buy a new hat:

There his works will appear-

Lady Bluem. Sir, they reach to the Ganges.
Ink. I shan't go so far-I can have them at
Grange's.*

Lady Bluem. Oh fie!

Miss Lil.

Lady Bluem.

Both.

And for shame!

Lady Bluem. How good?

You're too bad. Very good! [phrase.

Lady Blueb. He means nought - 'tis his

Lady Bluem.

He grows rude.

Lady Blueb. He means nothing; nay, ask him. Lady Bluem. Pray, sir! did you mean What you say?

Ink. Never mind if he did; 'twill be seen That whatever he means won't alloy what he says. Both. Sir!

Ink.

I defy him to beat this day's wondrous applause. 'Twas in your defence.
The very walls shook.

Both.

If you please, with submission,
I can make out my own.
Ink.
It would be your perdition.
While you live, my dear Botherby, never defend
Yourself or your works; but leave both to a
friend.

Grange is or was a famous pastry-cook and fruiterer in Piccadilly.

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The Poetical Works of Lord Byron: Reprinted from the Original Editions, with ...