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In his doctrine, at least as a teacher,
And kick'd from one stool

As a knave and a fool,
Has mounted another as preacher!

In that gown, like a skin

With no lion within,

He still for the bench would be driving, And roareth away,

A true Vicar of Bray, Except that his bray lost his living. "'Gainst free-thinkers," he roars, "You should all shut your doors, Or be bound in the Devil's indentures." And here I agree,

For who ever would be

A guest where old Simony enters!

(1) "Can't accept your courteous offer. These matters must be arranged with Mr. Douglas Kinnaird. He is my trustee, and a man of honour. To him you can state all your mercantile reasons, which you might not like to state to me personally, such as heavy season'-'flat public'don't go off' lordship writes too much'-' won't take advice'' declining popularity'--' deduction for the trade'make very little' generally lose by him'-' pirated edition' -'foreign edition'-' severe criticisms,' etc. with other hints and howls for an oration, which I leave Douglas, who is an orator, to answer."-Lord B. to Mr. Murray, Aug. 23, 1821. -L. E.

"The argument of the above [stanzas] is that he wanted to ⚫stint me of my sizeings,' as Lear says,-that is to say, not

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TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON.

You have ask'd for a verse-the request,
In a rhymer, 't were strange to deny;
But my Hippocrene was but my breast,
And my feelings (its fountain) are dry.
Were I now as I was, I had sung

What Lawrence has pencill'd so well;
But the strain would expire on my tongue,
And the theme is too soft for my shell.

I am ashes where once I was fire,
And the bard in my bosom is dead;
What I loved I now merely admire,
And my heart is as grey as my head.
My life is not dated by years;

There are moments which act as a plough; And there is not a furrow appears

But is deep in my soul as my brow.

Let the young and the brilliant aspire
To sing what I gaze on in vain;
For sorrow has torn from my lyre

The string which was worthy the strain.(5)

to propose an extravagant price for an extravagant poem, as is becoming." Lord B. to Mr. Moore, Ravenna, 1822.-L. E. (2) These lines were written on reading in the newspapers, that Lady Byron had been patroness of a ball in aid of some charity at Hinckley.-P. E.

(3) Marino Faliero, which, if not actually "damned" in the theatrical acceptation of the term, was to all intents and purposes a failure, as far as regards stage representation.-P. E.

(4) Dr. Nott, tutor to the late Princess Charlotte of Wales, who preached a Sermon denouncing Lord Byron's Cain as a blasphemous production.-L. E.

(5) The verses were composed December 1, 1819. "They are so unworthy the author," says Lady Blessington, "that

STANZAS. (1)

Ou!-my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pillow!
Where is my lover? where is my lover?

Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover?
Far far away! and alone along the billow?
Oh! my lonely-lonely-lonely--Pillow!
Why must my head ache where his gentle brow lay?
How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly,

And my head droops over thee like the willow!

Oh! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow!

Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from breaking, In return for the tears I shed upon thee waking;

Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow. Then if thou wilt-no more my lonely Pillow, In one embrace let these arms again enfold him, And then expire of the joy--but to behold him! Oh! my lone bosom!-oh! my lonely Pillow!

THE CONQUEST. (2)

THE Son of Love and Lord of War I sing;

Him who bade England bow to Normandy, And left the name of Conqueror, more than King To his unconquerable dynasty.

Not fann'd alone by Victory's fleeting wing,

He rear'd his bold and brilliant throne on high: The Bastard kept, like lions, his prey fast, And Britons' bravest victor was the last.

March 8-9, 1821.

they are merely given as proof that the greatest genius can sometimes write bad verses, as even Homer nods." The following was Lady Blessington's answer:

"When I ask'd for a verse, pray believe,

'T was not vanity urged the desire;
For no more can my mirror deceive,
And no more can I poets inspire.

Time has touch'd with rude fingers my brow,
And the roses have fled from my cheek;

Then it surely were folly, if now

I the praise due to beauty should seek.

But as pilgrims who visit the shrine

Of some saint bear a relic away,

I sought a memorial of thine,

As a treasure when distant I stray.

Oh! say not that lyre is unstrung,

Whose chords can such raptures bestow.
Or that mute is that magical tongue,

From whence music and poetry flow.

And though Sorrow, ere yet youth has fled,
May have alter'd the locks' jetty hue,

The bays that encircle the head

Hide the ravisher's marks from our view.”—P. E.

(1) These verses were written by Lord Byron, and giver to the Countess Guiccioli, a little before he left Italy for Greece. They were meant to suit the Hindostanee air-" Alla Malla Punca," which the Countess was fond of singing. - L. E.

(2) This fragment was found amongst Lord Byron's papers, after his departure from Genoa for Greece.-L. E. (3) In Lady Blessington's Conversations with Lord Byron we find these lines thus introduced: "I will give you some stanzas I wrote yesterday (said Byron; they are as simple as even Wordsworth himself could write, and would do for music."-P. E.

(4) This lampoon upon the author of The Pleasures of Memory, the most perfect specimen extant of Lord Byron's skill in caricature, is, for obvious reasons omitted in the London Editions, but was maliciously given to the world by Fraser's Magazine, which delights in all kinds of literary mischief. The publication attracted the notice of the Times and the Examiner, both of which dealt severely with the noble satirist. We subjoin their observations, after the following note, which was prefixed to the lampoon by Fraser. The lines are dated 1818, without month or place.

["Lord Byron abused every body he knew, and the closer the intimacy the grosser the abuse. As Sam Rogers was among his most intimate friends, (You (Rogers) and I were

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NOSE and chin would shame a knocker;
Wrinkles that would puzzle Cocker;
Mouth which marks the envious scorner,
With a scorpion in each corner,
Turning its quick tail to sting you
In the place that most may wring you;
Eyes of lead-like hue, and gummy;
Carcass pick'd out from some mummy;
Bowels (but they were forgotten,
Save the liver, and that's rotten);

never correspondents (says Byron in one of his letters to him), but always something better-which is, very good friends,') it could not be expected that he should escape, and it was well known in all literary circles that one of the most stinging and personal little satires ever written by his Lordship was directed against the poetical banker. This poem was in Moore's hands; but he, having the fear of exclusion from Rogers's table before his eyes, would not publish it; it was also in Murray's bands; but he, having the fear of the bawling of those Whig folks who infest his sanctum before his optics, could not muster nerve enough to give it to the world. As it is one of the best things in its way that fell from his Lordship's pen, we thought it a pity that the public should be deprived of it; and after having sought for it for some time in vain, we are now enabled, by the kindness of a fair friend, whose name must be a secret, but which if published would be an ornament to our pages, to lay it before our readers."]

The Times visits the author with the following flagellation:

"Every body who has read Lord Byron's life and poems with attention, however slight, will feel little surprise that a person so destitute of sound principles, and combining, with = the utmost levity of thinking, the most obstinate and usreasoning self-will, should utter the most contradictory opinions, both of men and things, according to the caprice of the moment, or, perhaps, no better cause than the inf ence of the wind. It is notorious to all who knew him that he lampooned his dearest friends, and amused one set of companions by caricatures of another, whom he, in tara. favoured with ludicrous representations of the first. Every body knew that this was the condition of all acquaintance with him, and nobody was stupid enough to suppose that the weakest of mankind could be capable of sincerity, much less of so firm and sacred a relation as friendship. His mind. highly gifted as it was with various talents, had no intellectual dignity, and was incapable of appreciating the higier duties and virtues of life. He was like a child with a coll -now dressing it with all the finery at hand, and caressing it with all the endearments within the reach of its fauey, then dashing it to pieces because a pin or a plait was out o place. It is obvious that the praise or censure of such a man, however ably written, cannot be of the least worth or injury to any human creature, as it may always be presumed that in his Lordship's portfolio, if not in his printed works, some set-off will be found for every panegyric and

Skin all sallow, flesh all sodden,-
Form the devil would frighten God in.
Is't a corpse stuck up for show,
Galvanised at times to go?
With the Scripture in connection,
New proof of the resurrection?
Vampire, ghost, or goul, what is it?
I would walk ten miles to miss it.

ANSWER.

Many passengers arrest one,
To demand the same free question.
Shorter's my reply, and franker,-
That's the Bard, the Beau, the Banker.
Yet if you could bring about
Just to turn him inside out,
Satan's self would seem less sooty,
And his present aspect-Beauty.
Mark that (as he masks the bilious
Air, so softly supercilious)
Chasten'd bow, and mock humility,
Almost sicken to servility;

Hear his tone (which is to talking
That which creeping is to walking,
Now on all-fours, now on tip-toe);
Hear the tales he lends his lip to;
Little hints of heavy scandals;
Every friend in turn he handles;
All which women or which men do,
Glides forth in an inuendo,

Clothed in odds and ends of humour-
Herald of each paltry rumour,
From divorces down to dresses,
Women's frailties, men's excesses,
All which life presents of evil
Make for him a constant revel.
You're his foe, for that he fears you,
And in absence blasts and sears you:
You're his friend-for that he hates you,
First caresses, and then baits you-
Darting on the opportunity
When to do it with impunity:

every calumny. We have been led to make these remarks from seeing, lately, a most malignant and atrocious satire against Mr. Rogers, which must have been written at the time the noble bard was publicly bedaubing his friend with flattery. We certainly are of opinion with those who think the slaver' of the flattery more injurious than the 'bite' of the libel. But the slander can do no injury to Mr. Rogers. The united voices of, perhaps, the most numerous circle of friends possessed by any man in England will indignantly repel the calumny, which will merely be remembered as another item in the almost incalculable list of the mean and dirty qualities of its author. We would, however, recommend as a curiosity to the readers of the satire the encomiastic sonnet (p. 862, ante) written by Lord Byron on the same gentleman on whom he has, in the lampoon, emptied all the venom which even his black bile could generate. "One thing is certain, that the true account of Lord Byron is yet to be written; for though his real character peeps out through all the mist with which the incense of flattery or friendship has enveloped it, a faithful picture is still wanting in justice to the man himself, whose character requires explanation, and to the world, who have been absurdly accused of using him worse than he deserved."

The Examiner designates the lines as unmannerly and inhuman, and, after alluding to the contrast they present with the writer's eulogy on the same person, proceeds thus:"Let us turn from Lord Byron's vilification of Mr. Rogers, to Mr. Rogers's touching lines on the death of Lord Byron, written, certainly, when he would not have credited the treachery of his noble friend. In the passage on Bologna, in his Italy, he says of Byron :

You are neither-then he'll flatter,
Till he finds some trait for satire;
Hunts your weak point out, then shows it
Where it injures to disclose it,
In the mode that's most invidious,
Adding every trait that's hideous-
From the bile, whose blackening river
Fushes through his Stygian liver.
Then he thinks himself a lover-
Why? I really can't discover,
In his mind, age, face, or figure;
Viper-broth might give him vigour,—
Let him keep the cauldron steady,
He the venom has already.
For his faults-he has but one,—
'Tis but envy, when all's done.
He but pays the pain he suffers,
Clipping, like a pair of snuffers,
Lights which ought to burn the brighter
For this temporary blighter.
He's the cancer of his species,
And will eat himself to pieces,-
Plague personified, and famine,—
Devil, whose sole delight is damning.
For his merits, would you know 'em?
Once he wrote a pretty Poem.

ON LADY MILBANKE'S DOG TRIM.(1)

ALAS! poor Trim;

I'm sorry for him:
I had rather by half
It had been Sir Ralph.

LINES TO LADY HOLLAND. (2)
LADY, accept the gift a hero wore,
In spite of all this elegiac stuff;
Let not seven stanzas, written by a bore,
Prevent your Ladyship from taking snuff.

Yet thy heart, methinks,
Was generous, noble-noble in its seorn,
Of all things low or little, nothing there
Sordid or servile. If imagined wrongs
Pursued thee, urging thee sometimes to do
Things long regretted, oft, as many know,
None more than I, thy gratitude would build
On slight foundations.'

And he concludes:

"Ah! who, among us all,

Could say he had not err'd as much, and more."

How consummately the noble lord must have played the hypocrite, little of hypocrisy as there seemed in his character; yet must he have worn his disguise under his abandonment."-P. E.

(1) When Lord Byron, soon after his marriage, was on a visit at the house of his father-in-law in Leicestershire, he was much annoyed by the frequent quarrels of Sir Ralph Milbanke and his lady. One morning, Lady Milbanke came into Lord Byron's room, and weeping for the loss of her favourite dog, earnestly requested him, as soon as convenient, to write an epitaph. His Lordship replied, "I shall never be more at leisure than at the present moment:" and immediately wrote the above.-P. E.

(2) These lines were composed on reading in the newspapers an address to Lady Holland, by the Earl of Carlisle, persuading her to reject the snuff-box bequeathed to her by Napoleon, beginning:

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ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY

SIXTH YEAR.

Missolonghi, Jan. 22, 1824.(1)

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,

Since others it hath ceased to move:
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf;

The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys

Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze

A funeral pile!

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.

But 'tis not thus-and 't is not here

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now,

(1) "This morning Lord Byron came from his bed-room into the apartment where Colonel Stanhope and some friends were assembled, and said with a smile-You were complaining, the other day, that I never write any poetry now. This is my birth-day, and I have just finished something, which, I think, is better than what I usually write.' then produced these noble and affecting verses." Camba.-L. E.

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(2) "Taking into consideration every thing connected with these verses,--the last tender aspirations of a loving spirit which they breathe, the self-devotion to a noble cause

Where glory decks the hero's bier,
Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece-she is awake!)
Awake, my spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood!-unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of Beauty be.

If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live?
The land of honourable death

Is here:-up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

Seek out-less often sought than found-
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest. (2)

which they so nobly express, and that consciousness of a near grave glimmering sadly through the whole,-there is perhaps no production within the range of mere human composition, round which the circumstances and feelings under | which it was written cast so touching an interest." Moore. -L. E.

"We perceive," says Count Gamba, "from these lines as well as from his daily conversations, that his ambition and his hope were irrevocably fixed upon the glorious objects of his expedition to Greece, and that he had made up his mind to return victorious or return no more."-P. E.

Attributed Poems.

TO JESSY. (1)

THERE is a mystic thread of life

So dearly wreathed with mine alone, That destiny's relentless knife

At once must sever both or none. There is a form, on which these eyes Have often gazed with fond delight-By day that form their joy supplies,

And dreams restore it through the night. There is a voice, whose tones inspire Such thrills of rapture through my breastI would not hear a seraph choir, Unless that voice could join the rest. There is a face, whose blushes tell Affection's tale upon the cheek— But pallid at one fond farewell,

Proclaims more love than words can speak. There is a lip, which mine hath press'd, And none had ever press'd before,

(1) These stanzas are said to have been addressed by Lord Byron to his Lady a few months before their separation.-P. E.

It vow'd to make me sweetly blest,
And mine-mine only press'd it more.
There is a bosom-all my own-

Hath pillow'd oft this aching head;

A mouth which smiles on me alone,

An eye, whose tears with mine are shed. There are two hearts, whose movements thrill In unison so closely sweet,

That, pulse to pulse responsive still,

They both must heave, or cease to beat.
There are two souls, whose equal flow
In gentle streams so calmly run,
That when they part-they part!-ah! no,
They cannot part-those souls are one.

LINES

POUND IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT CHAMOUNI.
How many number'd are, how few agreed,
In age, or clime, or character, or creed!
Here wandering Genius leaves a deathless name,
And Folly writes-for others do the same.
Italian treachery, and English pride,

Dutch craft, and German dulness, side by side!

The hardy Russian hails congenial snow;
The Spaniard shivers as these breezes blow.
Knew men the objects of this varied crew,
To stare how many, and to feel how few!
Here Nature's child, ecstatic from her school,
And travelling problems, that admire by rule;
The timorous poet woes his modest muse,
And thanks his stars he's safe from all reviews;
The pedant drags from out his motley store
A line some hundred hills have heard before.
Here critics too (for where's the happy spot
So blest by nature as to have them not?)
Spit their vile slander o'er some simple phrase
Of foolish wonder or of honest praise;
Some pompous hint, some comment on mine host,
Some direful failure, or some empty boast:
Not blacker spleen could fill these furious men,
If Jeffrey's soul had perch'd on Gifford's pen.
Here envy, hatred, and the fool of fame,
Join'd in one act of wonder when they came:
Here beauty's worshipper in flesh or rock,
The incarnate fancy, or the breathing block,
Sees the white giant, in his robe of light,
Stretch his huge form to look o'er Jura's height;
And stops, while hastening to the blest remains
And calmer beauties of the classic plains.
And here, whom hope beguiling bids to seek
Ease for his breast, and colour for his cheek,
Still steals a moment from Ausonia's sky,
And views and wonders on his way--to die.

But he, the author of these idle lines, What passion leads him, and what tie confines? For him what friend is true, what mistress blooms, What joy elates him, and what grief consumes? Impassion'd, senseless, vigorous, or old, What matters!-bootless were his story told. Some praise at least one act of sense may claim; He wrote these verses, but he hid his name.

TO LADY CAROLINE LAMB. 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 mayst 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 crew-
This treachery-was truth to thee!

I have not wept while thou wert gone,
Nor worn one look of sullen woe;
But sought, in many, all that one
(Ah! need I name her!) could bestow.
It is a duty which I owe

To thine-to thee-to man-to God,
To crush, to quench this guilty glow,
Ere yet the path of crime be trod.

But, since my breast is not so pure,
Since still the vulture tears my heart,
Let me this agony endure,

Not thee, oh! dearest as thou art!
In mercy, Clara! let us part,

And I will seek, yet know not how,
To shun, in time, the threatening dart;
Guilt must not aim at such as thou.
But thou must aid me in the task,

And nobly thus exert thy power;
Then spurn me hence-'t is all I ask-
Ere time mature a guiltier hour;
Ere wrath's impending vials shower
Remorse redoubled on my head;
Ere fires unquenchably devour

A heart whose hope has long been dead. Deceive no more thyself and me,

Deceive not better hearts than mine; Ah, shouldst thou, whither wouldst thou flee, From woe like ours-from shame like thine! And if there be a wrath divine,

A pang beyond this fleeting breath, E'en now all future hope resign:

Such thoughts are guilt-such guilt is death!

THE PRINCE OF WHALES.

Io Paan! Io! sing

To the finny people's king—
Not a mightier whale than this
In the vast Atlantic is;
Not a fatter fish than he
Flounders round the Polar sea:
See his blubber-at his gills
What a world of drink he swills,
From his trunk as from a spout!
Which next moment he pours out.
Such his person: next declare,
Muse! who his companions are.
Every fish of generous kind
Scuds aside or slinks behind,
But about his person keep
All the monsters of the deep;
Mermaids, with their tales and singing,
His delighted fancy stinging;

progress

Crooked dolphins, they surround him;
Dog-like seals, they fawn around him:
Following hard, the
mark
Of the intolerant salt sea-shark-
For his solace and relief
Flat fish are his courtiers chief;—
Last and lowest of his train,
Ink-fish, libellers of the main,
Their black liquor shed in spite-
(Such on earth the things that write).

In his stomach, some do say

No good thing can ever stay;

Had it been the fortune of it

To have swallow'd the old prophet,
Three days there he'd not have dwell'd.
But in one have been expell'd.
Hapless mariners are they
Who, beguiled, as seamen say,
Deeming it some rock or island,
Footing sure, safe spot, and dry land,
Anchor in his scaly rind;

Soon the difference they find,

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