To look upon it, now that it had grown
Into a damning witness of the path
She took the night before, when passion led
Her erring steps to an illicit bed.
She sat upon the couch in her chemise-
Like a fair statue peer'd her charming bust
From its loose covering, and the graceful ease
Of that impassion'd attitude was just
Such model as the graphic mind would seize,—
A beautiful contour-sublime-august.
The fainting abigail lay at her feet,
Silent, and still as death, or slumber sweet.
Through the old window's gothic tracery
Apollo's ray woo'd the fair group-the breeze
With wanton gust, play'd its wild witchery
O'er an Æolian harp, breathing rich harmonies
In solemn mournful tone, as they had sped
From his own lyre; while the deep-tinted trees,
Taught by the wind, whisper'd a warning sound,
That love must, like their fading leaves, at last, be found.
Still did the lady gaze upon the cowl,
In which she lately play'd her ghostly freak: The blood upon it curdled hers, and stole
The rubies from her lips, and blanch'd her cheek.
The myst❜ry she in part could read-the whole,
A dark charade, of which she fain would seek
The dread solution! All confused she sought
To end that fearful dream, with mischief fraught.
Alas!-it was no dream; and her suspense
Made that dark witness of the dreadful truth
More dreadful: she must now, forsooth, go hence;
Her hostess' favor lost-friend of her youth!
This, her first real love-fatal spring, from whence
A flood of misery of rapid growth
Seem'd ready to o'erwhelm her dearest hope:
Ye painters, for your art, here is some scope.1
Aye, many a slighter subject for the pallet
Hath occupied the graphic skill o' the art
Of painted poetry divine, and shall it
Not now inspire some pencil to impart
Its passion to the canvas frame? and fill it
With teints of anguish from a swelling heart—
The pallid hue of fear-the blush of shame-
Jealousy's rage-lost love, and blighted fame?
To paint all these, perchance we may require
A tenth Muse, since the old, old nine
Have been so negligent (with all their fire),
Of the poor painter's claim to something fine.
And (gentle reader), may we not desire
Your kind permission here, to change our line
Of march, a little while ?-a short digression,
To take a peep at the fine art profession?
One more request we make-'Tis growing late,
And Rhyme is weary-our poor Peg is tir'd
1 "Would that I were a painter! to be grouping
All that a poet drags into detail !
Oh that my words were colours! but their tints
May serve perhaps as outlines or slight hints."
Don Juan, canto vi. stanza 109.
"Twere well we make a halt and take a bait;
A cheering cup, kind reader, is requir'd,
And soothing rest, new vigour to create.
What, though the Muse may sometimes get bemir'd
With Critic dirt!-WE shake it off and laugh,
To think how vain their prophecies—their "chaff”1
On matters long gone bye.-Much like the sage
Astrologers, who settle all the weather
For future time, by their unerring gage,
The Planets, as they travel hither-thither,
Bring frost, or thunder-calm, or tempest's rage;
So, our POETIC planets may bring either ;—
The Critic sunshine, or its fiercest gale; 2
If Rich, the former;-Poor-storm, snow, or hail!
Alike infallible, th' Astrologer and Critic,
The one doth often but excite our laughter;
New planets mar their system hypothetic,
And their ingenious "day before or after!"
The new orbs?—"Too far off to be synthetic,
Have nought to prophecy of our hereafter!"
The Critic's aim is a more serious thing,
When darting at a name a deadly sting.
See the critiques on Don Juan-Colton, Styles, Terrot, etc.—in Murray's edition of Byron's works, 1846.
2 "Of all this servile herd, the worst is he
That in proud dulness joins with quality;
A constant critic at the great man's board,
To fetch and carry nonsense for my lord.
What woeful stuff this madrigal would be
In some starv'd, hackney'd sonneteer, or me!
But let a lord once own the happy lines,
How the wit brightens! how the style refines!
Before his sacred name flies every fault,
And each exalted stanza teems with thought!"
Pope's " Essay on Criticism," line 414.
Read-But for a lord, or Poet Laureate's lines,
"How the wit brightens !" etc.
"Who steals" our "purse, steals trash,"-Well, let him
But, a bright name! Alas! we're loath to spare it.
Spare it we must, in Bigot's jaundic'd eyes,
And Superstition's paralysing grasp,
Which stultifies the mind, begetting lies,
And rooted faith in them (like pois'nous Asp
Infecting all the blood),-it ever tries
To steep the Soul in ignorance, and clasp
Its victim firmly-hopelessly in error,
Till the despairing spirit sinks in religious terror!
No "needless Alexandrine" this, the time is come When TRUTH, like sunshine, scatters the dark cloud,
And LIBERTY, disdaining to be dumb,
Will speak out boldly (of their Champion, proud);1 Their great prerogative they will resume,
Their pure, free thoughts to write, or speak aloud
To all the world, if all the world will hear;
If not, 'tis well-the world is free to sneer,
And follow its own nose, as it may please
Its sweet self to prefer; our vagrant Muse,
Will neither persecute (though she may tease
Sometimes), nor prosecute. She cannot choose,
But fight tough battles, to the little ease
Of our most obstinate, persistent foes,
Who aim at stopping our poetic breath;
Let them beware-it may be "death destroying death."
Now, good night, friends and foes, until to-morrow;
Peg's in the stable, and has furl'd his wings. Somnus' narcotics we've no need to borrow,
Our gay Muse sleeps-hark !—e'en in sleep she sings, Dreaming, no doubt, of something rich, and mellow. Perchance rehearsing to herself new things.
The morning's early dew we'll brush away,
And hear the lark bid welcome to the day.
Anon, at our fine gallery we'll peep,
And wake the great R. A.'s out of their sleep.
1 Fear, and be slain? no worse can come, to fight;
And fight and die, is death destroying death.
Shakespeare, King Richard II., act iii.
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