Ye who beheld, (oh! sight admired and mourn'd, Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd!) Through clouds of fire the massy fragments riven, Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven; Saw the long column of revolving flames Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames, 1 While thousands, throng'd around the burning dome, Shrank back appall'd, and trembled for their home, As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone The skies, with lightnings awful as their own, Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall; Say-shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle, Know the same favour which the former knew, A shrine for Shakspeare-worthy him and you? Yes it shall be As soars this fane to emulate the last, Dear are the days which made our annals bright, Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley2 ceased to write. Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs, Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs ; While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's glass To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line, [By the bye, the best view of the said fire (which I myself saw from a house-top in Covent Garden) was at Westminster Bridge, from the reflection of the Thames.' Lord Byron to Lord Holland.] [Originally, "Ere Garrick died," &c." By the bye, one of my corrections in the copy sent yesterday has dived into the bathos some sixty fathom 'When Garrick died, and Brinsley ceased to write.' Ceasing to live is a much more serious concern, and ought not to be first. Second thoughts in every thing are best; but, in rhyme, third and fourth don't come amiss. I always scrawl in this way, and smooth as fast as I can, but never suthiciently; and, latterly, I can weave a nine-line stanza faster than a couplet, for which measure I have not the cunning. When I began Childe Harold,' I had never tried Spenser's measure, and now I cannot scribble in any other." -Lord Byron to Lord Holland.] 3 [The following lines were omitted by the Committee:- Pause-ere their feebler offspring you condemn, Reflect how hard the task to rival them! Friends of the stage! to whom both Players and Plays And made us blush that you forbore to blame; This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd, PARENTHETICAL ADDRESS 5 BY DR. PLAGIARY, Half stolen, with acknowledgments, to be spoken in an inarticulate voice by Master P. at the opening of the next new theatre. Stolen parts marked with the inverted commas of quotation-thus ". "WHEN energising objects men pursue," Then Lord knows what is writ by Lord knows who. "A modest monologue you here survey," Hiss'd from the theatre the "other day," As if Sir Fretful wrote "the slumberous" verse, And gave his son "the rubbish" to rehearse. "Yet at the thing you'd never be amazed," Knew you the rumpus which the author raised; "Nor even here your smiles would be represt," Knew you these lines-the badness of the best. "Flame! fire! and flame!!" (words borrow'd from Lucretius,) "Dread metaphors which open wounds" like issues! If you decree, the stage must condescend The past reproach let present scenes refute, "Is Whitbread," said Lord Byron, "determined to castrate all my cavalry lines? I do implore, for my own gratification, one lash on those accursed quadrupeds a long shot, Sir Lucius, if you love me.'"] ["Soon after the Rejected Addresses' scene in 1812, I met Sheridan. In the course of dinner, he said, Lord Byron, did you know that amongst the writers of addresses was Whitbread himself?' I answered by an inquiry of what sort of an address he had made. Of that,' replied Sheridan, I remember little, except that there was a phaniz in it. A phoenix!! Well, how did he describe it?'Like a poulterer,' answered Sheridan: it was green, and yellow, and red, and blue: he did not let us off for a single feather.'". - Byron Letters, 1821.] 5 [Among the addresses sent in to the Drury Lane Committee was one by Dr. Busby, entitled "A Monologue," of which the above is a parody. It began as follows: "When energising objects men pursue, Shot from the ruins of the other day," &c.] "And sleeping pangs awake-and- but away" (Confound me if I know what next to say). "Lo Hope reviving re-expands her wings," And Master G-recites what Doctor Busby sings! "If mighty things with small we may compare," (Translated from the grammar for the fair!) Dramatic" spirit drives a conquering car," And burn'd poor Moscow like a tub of " tar. "This spirit Wellington has shown in Spain," To furnish melodrames for Drury Lane. "Another Marlborough points to Blenheim's story," And George and I will dramatise it for yc. "In arts and sciences our isle hath shone" (This deep discovery is mine alone). "Oh British poesy, whose powers inspire" My verse or I'in a fool-and Fame's a liar, "Thee we invoke, your sister arts implore" With "smiles," and "lyres," and "pencils," and much more. [Cupid" These, if we win the Graces, too, we gain Disgraces, too! "inseparable train!" "Three who have stolen their witching airs from (You all know what I mean, unless you're stupid): "Harmonious throng" that I have kept in petto, Now to produce in a "divine sestetto"!! "While Poesy," with these delightful doxies, "Sustains her part" in all the "upper" boxes! "Thus lifted gloriously, you'll soar along," Borne in the vast balloon of Busby's song; "Shine in your farce, masque, scenery, and play" (For this last line George had a holiday). "Old Drury never, never soar'd so high," So says the manager, and so say I. "But hold, you say, this self-complacent boast; " Is this the poem which the public lost? [pride;" "True-true-that lowers at once our mounting But lo!-the papers print what you deride. "'Tis ours to look on you-you hold the prize," 'Tis twenty guineas, as they advertize! "A double blessing your rewards impart " I wish I had them, then, with all my heart. "Our twofold feeling owns its twofold cause," Why son and I both beg for your applause. "When in your fostering beams you bid us live," My next subscription list shall say how much you give! October, 1812. VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMER HOUSE AT WHEN Dryden's fool, "unknowing what he sought," Did modern swains, possess'd of Cymon's powers, Th' offended guests would not, with blushing, see REMEMBER THEE! REMEMBER THEE! REMEMBER thee ! remember thee! Till Lethe quench life's burning stream Remorse and shame shall cling to thee, And haunt thee like a feverish dream! Remember thee! Ay, doubt it not. Thy husband too shall think of thee: By neither shalt thou be forgot, Thou false to him, thou fiend to me! 3 TO TIME. TIME on whose arbitrary wing Hail thou! who on my birth bestow'd Those boons to all that know thee known; Yet better I sustain thy load, For now I bear the weight alone. I would not one fond heart should share Thy future ills shall press in vain : Yet even that pain was some relief; Retards, but never counts the hour. In joy I've sigh'd to think thy flight Would soon subside from swift to slow; Thy cloud could overcast the light, But could not add a night to woe; For then, however drear and dark, One scene even thou canst not deform; When future wanderers bear the storm And I can smile to think how weak Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, When all the vengeance thou canst wreak Must fall upon-a nameless stone. morning at her quondam lover's apartments. His Lordship was from home; but finding lathek' on the table, the Lady wrote in the first page of the volume the words Remember me! Byron immediately wrote under the ominous warning these two stanzas."— MEDWIN.] TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG. AH! Love was never yet without Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh, Without one friend to hear my woe, Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net Which Love around your haunts hath set; Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire. A bird of free and careless wing Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain, My light of life! ah, tell me why And art thou changed, and canst thou hate? My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain, And still thy heart, without partaking THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU ART FICKLE. THOU art not false, but thou art fickle, To those thyself so fondly sought; And spurns deceiver and deceit ; To dream of joy and wake to sorrow What must they feel whom no false vision, As if a dream alone had charm'd? Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming, And all thy change can be but dreaming! ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE "ORIGIN THE "Origin of Love!"-Ah, why And shouldst thou seek his end to know: REMEMBER HIM, WHOM PASSION'S POWER. When neither fell, though both were loved. Oh let me feel that all I lost But saved thee all that conscience fears; To spare the vain remorse of years. Yet think of this when many a tongue, Think that, whate'er to others, thou Hast seen each selfish thought subdued: Oh, God! that we had met in time, Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free; Far may thy days, as heretofore, This heart, alas! perverted long, Then to the things whose bliss or woe, Like mine, is wild and worthless all, That world resign-such scenes forego, Where those who feel must surely fall. Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness, Thy soul from long seclusion pure; From what even here hath pass'd, may guess What there thy bosom must endure. Oh! pardon that imploring tear, Since not by Virtue shed in vain, My frenzy drew from eyes so dear; For me they shall not weep again. Though long and mournful must it be, The thought that we no more may meet; Yet I deserve the stern decree, And almost deem the sentence sweet. Still, had I loved thee less, my heart It felt not half so much to part, As if its guilt had made thee mine. 1813. And, were it lawfully thine own, 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 amongst your fellow-lodgers, They'll tell you Phoebus gave his crown, Some years before your birth, to Rogers. "Let every other bring his own." Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel, TO LORD THURLOW. "I lay my branch of laurel down, Lord Thurlow's lines to Mr. Rogers. ["Among the many gay hours we passed together in the spring of 1813, I remember particularly the wild flow of his spirits one evening, when we had accompanied Mr. Rogers home from some early assembly. It happened that our host had just received a presentation copy of a volume of poems, written professedly in imitation of the old English writers, and containing, like many of these models, a good deal that was striking and beautiful, mixed up with much that was trifling, fantastic, and absurd. In vain did Mr. Rogers, in justice to the author, endeavour to direct our attention to some of the beauties of the work. In this sort of hunt through the volume, we at length lighted on the discovery that our host, in addition to his sincere approbation of some of its contents, had also the motive of gratitude for standing by its author, as one of the poems was a warm and, I need not add, welldeserved panegyric on himself. The opening line of the poem was, as well as I can recollect, When Rogers o'er this labour bent:' and Lord Byron undertook to read it aloud ; — but he found it impossible to get beyond the first two words TO THOMAS MOORE. WRITTEN THE EVENING BEFORE HIS VISIT TO MR. LEIGH HUNT IN HORSEMONGER-LANE GAOL, MAY 19. 1813. Он 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 't is an answer— And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers; [First published, 1830.] Our laughter had now increased to such a pitch that nothing could restrain it. Two or three times he began; but no sooner had the words When Rogers' passed his lips, than our fit burst forth afresh,- till even Mr. Rogers himself, with all his feeling of our injustice, found it impossible not to join A day or two after, Lord Byron sent me the following:My dear Moore, When Rogers' must not see the enclosed, which I send for your perusal. MOORE.] us. [The reader who wishes to understand the full force of this scandalous insinuation is referred to Muretus's notes on a celebrated poem of Catullus, entitled In Cesarem; but consisting, in fact, of savagely scornful abuse of the favourite Mamurra: "Quis hoc potest videre? quis potest pati, THY cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe, At once such majesty with sweetness blending, December 17. 1813. [These verses are said to have dropped from the Poet's pen, to excuse a transient expression of melancholy which overclouded the general gaiety. It was impossible to observe his interesting countenance, expressive of a dejection belonging neither to his rank, his age, nor his success, without feeling an indefinable curiosity to ascertain whether it had a deeper cause than habit or constitutional temperament. It was obviously of a degree incalculably more serious than that alluded to by Prince Arthur -'I remember when I was in France But, howsoever derived, this, joined to Lord Byron's air of mingling in amusements and sports as if he contemned them, and felt that his sphere was far above the frivolous crowd which surrounded him, gave a strong effect of colouring to a FROM THE PORTUGUESE. "TU MI CHAMAS." IN moments to delight devoted, To death even hours like these must roll, ANOTHER VERSION. You call me still your life.-Oh! change the word. THE DEVIL'S DRIVE; AN UNFINISHED RHAPSODY.3 THE Devil return'd to hell by two, And he stay'd at home till five; When he dined on some homicides done in ragoût, And a rebel or so in an Irish stew, And sausages made of a self-slain JewAnd 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; I should mount in a waggon of wounded men, But these will be furnish'd again and again, 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 favourite pace : And they handle their reins with such a grace, I have something for both at the end of their race. And making a jump from Moscow to France, And rested his hoof on a turnpike road, character whose tints were otherwise romantic. - SIR WALTER SCOTT.] I never 2 ["Redde some Italian, and wrote two sonnets. wrote but one sonnet before, and that was not in carnest, and many years ago, as an exercise- and I will never write another. They are the most puling, petrifying, stupidly pla tonic compositions." - Byron Diary, 1813.1 3 ["I have lately written a wild, rambling, unfinished rhapsody, called The Devil's Drive,' the notion of which I took from Porson's Devil's Walk.'"- Byron Diary, 1812. "Of this strange, wild poem," says Moore, "the only copy that Lord Byron, I believe, ever wrote, he presented to Lord Holland. Though with a good deal of vigour and imagination, it is, for the most part, rather clumsily executed, wanting the point and condensation of those clever verses of Mr. Coleridge, which Lord Byron, adopting a notion long prevalent, has attributed to Professor Porson."] |