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Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields ; '
Why wouldst thou leave calm Hartwell's green Think'st thou to thee Napoleon's victor yields ?
abode, 3 Better reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords
Apician table, and Horati.ın ode, To ploughsbares, shave and wash thy Bashkir hordes, | To rule a people who will not be ruled, Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout, And love much rather to be scourged than school'd ? Than follow headlong in the fatal route,
Ah ! thine was not the temper or the taste To infest the clime whose skies and laws are pure For thrones ; the table secs thee better placed ; With thy foul legions. Spain wants no manure : A mild Epicurean, form’d, at best, Her soil is fertile, but she fceds no foe;
To be a kind host and as good a guest, Her vultures, too, were gorged not long ago;
To talk of letters, and to know by heart And wouldist thou furnish them with fresher prey ? One half the poet's, all the gourmand's art; Alas! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey:
A scholar always, now and then a wit, I am Diogenes, though Russ and Hun
And gentle when digestion may permit;
The gout was martyrdom enough for thee.
Shall noble Albion pass without a phrase Still will he hold his lantern up to scan
From a bold Briton in her wonted praise ? The face of nonarchs for an “ honest man.
“ Arts - arms and George — and glory — and the
isles — XI.
And happy Britain ---Wealtb—and Freedom's smilesAnd what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land
White cliffs, that held Invasion far aloof Of ne plus ultra ultras and their band
Contented subjects, all alike tax-proof Of mercenaries ? and her noisy chambers
Proud Wellington, with eagle beak so curl'd, And tribune, which each orator first clambers
That nose, the hook where he suspends the world ! 4 Before he finds a voice, and when 't is found,
And Waterloo — and trade — and (hush! not yet Hears “ the lie" echo for his answer round ?
A syllable of imposts or of debt). Our British Commons sometimes deign to “ hcar !”
And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh, A Gallic senate hath more tongue than hear;
Whose penknife slit a goose-quill t'other dayEven Constant, their sole master of debate,
And · pilots who have weather'd every storm'sMust fight next day his speech to vindicate.
(But, no, not even for rhyme's sake, name ReBut this costs little to true Franks, who had rather
form)." Combat than listen, were it to their father.
These are the themes thus sung so oft before, What is the simple standing of a shot,
Methinks we need not sing them any more ; To listening long, and interrupting not ?
Found in so many volumes far and near, Though this was not the method of old Rome,
There's no occasion you should find them here. When Tully fulmined o'er cach vocal dome,
Yet something may remain perchance to chime Demosthenes has sanction'd the transaction,
With reason, and, what's stranger still, with rhyme. In saying eloquence meant “ Action, action!”
Even this thy geniu, Canning ! may permit,
Who, bred a statesmen, still wast born a wit,
To unleaven'd prose thine own poetic flame ; Have revolutionary patés risen,
Our last, our best, our only orator, And turn'd the royal entrails to a prison ?
Even I can praise thee — Tories do no more : Have discontented movements stirr'd the troops ? Nay, not so much; - they hate thee, man, because Or have no movements follow'd traitorous soups ? Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes. Have Carbonaro o cooks not carbonadoed
The hounds will gather to their huntsman's hollo, Each course enough ? or doctors dire discriaded And where he leads the duteous pack will follow; Repletion ? Ah! in thy dejected looks
But not for love mistake their yelling cry; I read all France's treason in her cooks !
Their yelp for game is not an eulogy ; Good classic Louis ! is it, canst thou say,
Less faithful far than the four-footed pack, Desirable to be the Desiré ? ”
A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back.
Great by courtesy), when surrounded by the Mussulmans on 3. (Hartwell, in Buckinghamshire- the residence of Louis the banks of the river Pruth.
xvill., during the latter years of the Emigration.] (" Eight thousand men had to Asturias march'd
"Naso suspendit adunco."- Horace. Beneath Count Julian's banner; the remains
The Roman applies it to one who merely was imperious Of that brave army which in Africa
to his acquaintance. So well against the Mussulman made head,
$(" The Pilot that weather'd the storm " is the burthen Till sense of injuries insupportable,
of a song, in honour of Pitt, by Mr. Canning.) And raging thirst of vengeance, overthrew Their leader's noble spirit. To revenge
6 [“ I have never heard any one who fulfilled my ideal of an
orator. Grattan would have been near it, but for his harle. His quarrel, twice that number left their bones, Slain in uunatural battle on the field
quin delivery. Pitt I never heard - Fox but once: and then
he struck me as a debater, which to me seems as different Of Xeres, where the sceptre from the Goths By righteous Hlcaren was reft."-Southcy's Roderick.) Grey is great, but it is not oratory;
from an orator as an improvisatore or a versitier from a poet.
Canning is sometimes ? [According to Botta, the Neapolitan republicans who,
very like one. Whitbread was the Demosthenes of ball taste during the reign of King Joachim, ted to the recesses of the
and vulgar vehemence, but strong, and English. Holland is Abruzzi, and there formed a secret confederacy, were the inpressive from sense and sincerity. Burdett is sweet and first that assumed the designation, since familiar all over silvery as Delial himself, and, I think, the greatest favourite Italy, of“ Carbonari" (colliers).]
in landemonium." - Byron Diary, 1821.]
Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure,
They roar'd, they dined, they drank, they swore they Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure ; 1
meant The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last
To die for England - why then live ? - for rent ! To stumble, kick, and now and then stick fast The peace has made one general malcontent With his great self and rider in the mud;
Of these high-market patriots ; war was rent ! But what of that? the animal shows blood.
Their love of country, millions all mis-spent,
How reconcile ? by reconciling rent!
And will they not repay the treasures lent ?
No: down with every thing, and up with rent! Bewail her now uncountry gentlemen ?
Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent, The last to bid the cry of warfare cease,
Being, end, aim, religion - rent, rent, rent ! The first to make a malady of peace.
Thou sold'st thy birthright, Esau ! for a mess; For what were all these country patriots born ?
Thou shouldst have gotten more, or caten less ; To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn ?
Now thou hast swill'd thy pottage, thy demands But corn, like every mortal thing, must fall,
Are idle ; Israel says the bargain stands. Kings, conquerors, and markets most of all.
Such, landlords ! was your appetite for war, And must ye fall with every ear of grain ?
And, gorged with blood, you grumble at a scar! Why would you trouble Buonaparte's reign ?
What! would they spread their earthquake even o'er He was your great Triptolemus ; his vices
cash ? Destroy'd but realms, and still maintain'd your
And when land crumbles, bid firm paper crash ? prices;
So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall, He amplified to every lord's content
And found on 'Change a Fundling Hospital ? The grand agrarian alchymy, hight rent.
Lo! Mother Church, while all religion writhes, Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars,
Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring, Tithes; And lower wheat to such desponding quarters ?
The prelates go to — where the saints have gone, Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone ?
And proud pluralities subside to one ; The man was worth much more upon his throne.
Church, state, and faction wrestle in the dark, True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt,
Toss'd by the deluge in their common ark. But what of that ? the Gaul may bear the guilt ;
Shorn of her bishops, banks, and dividends, But bread was high, the farmer paid his way,
Another Babel soars — but Britain ends. And acres told upon the appointed day.
And why? to pamper the self-seeking wants, But where is now the goodly audit ale ?
And prop the hill of these agrarian ants. The purse-proud tenant, never known to fail ?
“ Go to these ants, thou sluggard, and be wise;" The farm which never yet was left on hand ?
Admire their patience through each sacrifice, The marsh reclaim'd to most improving land ?
Till taught to feel the lesson of their pride, The impatient hope of the expiring lease ?
The price of taxes and of homicide; The doubling rental ? What an evil's peace !
Admire their justice, which would fain deny In vain the prize excites the ploughman's skill,
The debt of nations :- pray who made it high?
Where ·Midas might again his wish behold
In real paper or imagined gold. Or else the ministry will lose their votes,
That magic palace of Alcina shows And patriotism, so delicately nice,
More wealth than Britain ever had to lose, Her loaves will lower to the market price ;
Were all her atoms of unleaven'd ore, For ah ! " the loaves and fishes," once so high, And all her pebbles from Pactolus' shore. Are gone - their oren closed, their ocean dry, There Fortune plays, while Rumour holds the And nought remains of all the millions spent,
stake, Exccpting to grow moderate and content.
And the world trembles to bid brokers break. They who are not so, had their turn- and turn How rich is Britain ! not indeed in mines, About still flows from Fortune's equal urn;
Or peace or plenty, corn or oil, or wines ; Now let their virtue be its own reward,
No land of Canaan, full of milk and honey, And share the blessings which themselves prepared. Nor (save in paper shekels) rearly money : See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm,
But let us not to own the truth refuse, Farmers of war, dictators of the farm;
Was ever Christian land so rich in Jews ? Their ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands, Those parted with their teeth to good King John, Their fields manured by gore of other lands;
And now, ye kings ! they kindly draw your own; Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent
All states, all things, all sovereigns they control, Their brethren out to battle - why? for rent ! And waft a loan “ from Indus to the pole.” Year after year they voted cent. per cent., (reat! | The banker - broker - baron ?- brethren, speci Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions — why ? for To aid these bankrupt tyrants in their need.
(On the suicide of Lord Londouderry, in August, 1822, Mr. Canning, who had prepared to sail for India as Governor. General, was made Secretary of State for Foreign Affurs, - not much. it was alleged, to the personal satisfaction of George the Fourth, or of the high Tories in the cabinet. He lived to verify some of the predictions of the poet - to
abandon the foreign policy of his predecessor — to break up the Tory party by a coalition with the Whigs- and to prepare the way for Rcform in Parliament.)
? (The head of the illustrious house of Montmorenci has usually been designated "le premier haron Chrétien;" his ancestor having, it is supposed, been the first noble convert
Nor these alone ; Columbia feels no less
The mother of the hero's hope, the boy,
Here, reader, will we pause: – if there's no harm in This first — you'll have, perhaps, a second “ Carmen." " And he, whose lightning pierced the Iberian lines,
Now forms my quincunx, and now ranks my vines,
Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain."] 5 [Napoleon François Charles Joseph, Duke of Reichstadt, died at the palace of Schönbrunn, July 22. 1832, having just attained his twenty-first year.]
6 [Count Neipperg, chamberlain and second husband to Maria-Louisa, had but one eye. The count died in 1831. See antè, p. 461.)
7 [George the Fourth is said to have been somewhat annoyed, on entering the levee-room at Holyrood (Aug. 1822) in full Stuart tartan, to see only one figure similarly attired (and of similar bulk) – that of Sir Willian Curtis. The city knight had every thing complete - even the Ánije stuck it the garter. He asked the King, if he did not think him well dressed. “ Yes !” replied his Majesty, "only you have no spoon in your hose." "The devourer of turtle had a fine engraving executed of himself in his Celtic attire.]
to Christianity in France. Lord Byron perhaps alludes to the well-known joke of Talleyrand, who, meeting the Duke of Montmorenci at the same party with M. Rothschild, soon after the latter had been ennobled by the Emperor of Austria, is said to have begged leave to present M. le premier baron Juif to M. le premier baron Chrétien.]
| Monsieur Chateaubriand, who has not forgotten the au. thor 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.
? [Count Capo d'Istrias - afterwards President of Greece. The count was murdered in September, 1831, by the brother and son of a Mainote chief whom he had imprisoned.]
3 [The Duke de Montmorenci-Laval.]
WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT TIIE AUTHOR
WOULD SOON DIE.
Rocks rise, and rivers roll between
The spot which passion blest;
To me in smiles display'd;
Thine image cannot fade.
And thou, my Friend 5! whose gentle love,
Yet thrills my bosom's chords, How much thy friendship was above
Description's power of words !
Of Love the pure, the sacred gem;
Let Pride alone condemn !
All, all is dark and cheerless now!
No smile of Love's deceit
Can bid Life's pulses beat :
Or crown with fancied wreaths my head.
And mingle with the dead.
Adieu, thou Hill !! where early joy
Spread roses o'er my brow;
With knowledge to endow.
No more through Ida's paths we stray ;
Unconscious of the day.
Ye spircs of Granta's vale,
And Melancholy pale.
On Cama's verdant margin placec,
These scenes must be effaced. Adieu, ye moumtains of the clime
Where grew my youthful years ;
His giant summit rears.
With sons of pride to roam ?
To seek a Sotheron home ?
Yet why to thee adieu ?
Thy towers my tomb will view :
Forgets its wonted simple note -
In dying strains may float.
While yet I linger here,
To retrospection dear.
At noontide heat their pliant course;
Deprived of active force.
Still nearest to my breast ?
Oh Fame ! thou goddess of my heart;
On him who gains thy praise, Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart,
Consumed in Glory's blaze; But me she beckons from the carth, My name obscure, unmark'd my birth,
My life a short and vulgar dream; Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd, My hopes recline within a shroud,
My fate is Lethe's stream.
When I repose beneath the sod,
Unheeded in the clay,
Where now my head must lay;
By nightly skies, and stornis alone;
Which hideg a name unknown.
Forget this world, my restless sprite,
Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven: There must thou soon direct thy flight,
If errors are forgiven. To bigots and to sects unknown, Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne ;
I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect you,
Yet thought that a day's separation was long: When we met, I determined again to suspect you —
Your smile soon convinced me suspicion was wrong. I swore, in a transport of young indignation,
With fervent contempt evermore to disdain you: I saw you - my anger became admiration;
And now, all my wish, all my hope, 's to regain you. With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the contention !
Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness before you; At once to conclude such a fruitless dissension, Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease to adore you!
January 16. 1807. [First published, 1832.)
TO THE SAME. OH, say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed
The heart which adores you should wish to dissever; Such Fates were to me most unkind ones indeed ;
To bear me from love and from beauty for ever. Your frowns, lovely girl, are the Fates which alone
Could bid me from fond admiration refrain ; By these, every hope, every wish were o'erthrown,
Till smiles should restore me to rapture again. As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined,
The rage of the tempest united must weather, My love and my life were by nature design'd
To flourish alike, or to perish together. Then say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed,
Your lover should bid you a lasting adieu ; Till Fate can ordain that his bosom shall bleed, His soul, his existence, are center'd in you.
1807. [First published, 1832.]
TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET BEGINNING, ""SAD IS MY VERSE,' YOU SAY, ' AND YET NO TEAR.'" Thy verse is “ sad " enough, no doubt :
A devilish deal more sad than witty!
Unless for thee we weep in pity.
And much, alas ! I think he needs it:
Who, to his own misfortune, reads it.
May once be read — but never after :
Although by far too dull for laughter.
And of no common pang complain -
March 8. 1807. (First published, 1832.]
ON FINDING A FAN.
To Him address thy trembling prayer :
Although his meanest care.
My soul is dark within:
Avert the death of sin.
Whose mantle is yon boundless sky,
1807. (First published, 1832.)
TO A VAIN LADY.
What ne'er was meant for other ears:
And dig the source of future tears ?
While lurking envious foes will smile,
Of those who spoke but to beguile.
If thou believ'st what striplings say:
Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey.
The words man utters to deceive ?
If thou canst venture to believe.
Thou tell'st again the soothing tale,
Duplicity in vain would veil ?
Nor make thyself the public gaze :
Recounts a flattering coxcomb's praise ?
Her who relates each fond conceit-
Yet cannot see the slight deceit ?
These amorous nothings in revealing,
While vanity prevents concealing.
No jealousy bids me reprove :
January 15. 1807. [First published, 1832.)
Oh, Anne ! your offences to me have been grievous; I thought from my wrath no atonement could save
you; But woman is made to command and deceive us
I look'd in your face, and I almost forgave you.
In one who felt as once he felt,
This might, perhaps, have fann'd the flame; But now his heart no more will melt, Because that heart is not the same.
M m 4