But first as he flew, I forgot to say, To look upon Leipsic plain; And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare, For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead, But the softest note that soothed his car As round her fell her long fair hair; And she look'd to heaven with that frenzied air, And the carnage begun, when resistance is done, But the Devil has reach'd our cliffs so white, If his eyes were good, he but saw by night But he made a tour, and kept a journal Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal, And he sold it in shares to the Men of the Row, The Devil first saw, as he thought, the Mail, So instead of a pistol he cock'd his tail, So he sat him on his box again, And bade him have no fear, But be true to his club and stanch to his rein, "Next to seeing a lord at the council board, The Devil gat next to Westminster, [flat; And he turn'd to "the room" of the Commons; But he heard, as he purposed to enter in there, That" the Lords" had received a summons; And he thought, as a “ quondam aristocrat," He might peep at the peers, though to hear them were And he walk'd up the house so like one of our own, That they say that he stood pretty near the throne. He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise, The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly, And Johnny of Norfolk-a man of some size And Chatham, so like his friend Billy; 1 ["I cannot conceive how the Vault has got about; but so it is. It is too farouche; but truth to say, my sallies are not very playful." Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, March 12. 1814.] Lines composed on the occasion of his Royal Highness the Ah, what can tombs avail !-since these disgorge STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 2 I SPEAK not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name, There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame : But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart. Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace Were those hours-can their joy or their bitterness [chain, cease? We repent With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet. One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love, ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE RECITED AT THE CALEDONIAN MEETING. WHO hath not glow'd above the page where fame Hath fix'd high Caledon's unconquer'd name; The mountain-land which spurn'd the Roman chain, And baffled back the fiery-crested Dane, 2["Thou hast asked me for a song, and I enclose you an experiment, which has cost me something more than trouble, and is, therefore, less likely to be worth your taking any in your proposed setting. Now, if it be so, throw it into the fire without phrase."-Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, May 10. 1814.] Whose bright claymore and hardihood of hand The bleeding phantom of each martial form Here goes, for a swim on the stream of old Time, We are smother'd, at least, in respectable mud, man saw. The papers have told you, no doubt, of the fusses, The fêtes, and the gapings to get at these Russes, 1 Of his Majesty's suite, up from coachman to Het man, And what dignity decks the flat face of the great man. 1["The newspapers will tell you all that is to be told of emperors, &c. They have dined and supped, and shown their flat faces in all thoroughfares and several saloons. Their uniforms are very becoming, but rather short in the skirts; and their conversation is a catechism, for which, and the answers, I refer you to those who have heard it." - Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, June 14. 1814.] TO SARAH COUNTESS OF JERSEY, ON THE PRINCE WHEN the vain triumph of the imperial lord, If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze, What can his vaulted gallery now disclose? Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine, 2 [The newspapers have got hold (I know not how) of the Condolatory Address to Lady Jersey on the picture-abduction by our Regent, and have published them with my name, too, smack-without even asking leave, or inquiring whether or no! D-n their impudence, and d-n every thing. It has put me out of patience, and so I shall say no more about it."- -Byron Letters.] For them the voice of festal mirth But turn to gaze again, and find anew And those must wait till ev'ry charm is gone, August, 1814. TO BELSHAZZAR. Crown'd and anointed from on high; Go! dash the roses from thy brow Grey hairs but poorly wreathe with them; Youth's garlands misbecome thee now, More than thy very diadein, Where thou hast tarnish'd every gem: — Then throw the worthless bauble by, Which, worn by thee, ev'n slaves contemn; And learn like better men to die! Oh! early in the balance weigh'd, ELEGIAC STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF THERE is a tear for all that die, For them is Sorrow's purest sigh O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent: A tomb is theirs on every page, An epitaph on every tongue : The present hours, the future age, For them bewail, to them belong. [This gallant officer fell in August, 1814, in his twentyninth year, whilst commanding, on shore, a party belonging to his ship, the Menelaus, and animating them, in storming the American camp near Baltimore. He was Lord Byron's first cousin; but they had never met since boyhood.] 2 [These verses were given by Lord Byron to Mr. Power, of the Strand, who has published them, with very beautiful music by Sir John Stevenson."I feel merry enough to send you a sad song. An event, the death of poor Dorset, (see antè, p. 384.) and the recollection of what I once felt, and ought to have felt now, but could not-set me pondering, and finally into the train of thought which you have in your hands. I wrote them with a view to your setting them, and as a present to Power, if he would accept the words, and you did not think yourself degraded, for once in a way, by marrying them to music. I don't care what Power says to secure the property of the song, so that it is not complimentary to me, nor any thing about 'condescending' or 'noble author' both vile phrases,' as Polonius says."- Lord Byron to Mr. Moore.] THERE be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me : When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lull'd winds seem dreaming. And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep; Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep : So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean. ON NAPOLEON'S ESCAPE FROM ELBA. ONCE fairly set out on his party of pleasure, Making balls for the ladies, and bows to his foes. 2 March, 27. 1815. 1["Do you remember the lines I sent you early last year? I don't wish (like Mr. Fitzgerald) to claim the character of Vates,' in all its translations, but were they not a little prophetic? I mean those beginning, There's not a joy the world can give,' &c., on which I pique myself as being the truest, though the most melancholy, I ever wrote." - Byron Letters, March, 1816] 2 ["I can forgive the rogue for utterly falsifying every line of mine Ode-which I take to be the last and uttermost stretch of human magnanimity. Do you remember the story of a certain abbé, who wrote a treatise on the Swedish constitution, and proved it indissoluble and eternal? Just as he had corrected the last sheet, news came that Gustavus the Third had destroyed this immortal government. Sir,' quoth the abbe, the King of Sweden may overthrow the constitution, but not my book!! I think of the abbe, but not with him. Making every allowance for talent and most consummate daring, there is, after all, a good deal in luck or destiny. He might have been stopped by our frigates, or wrecked in the Gulf of Lyons, which is particularly tempestuous-or-a ODE FROM THE FRENCH. L. We do not curse thee, Waterloo ! As then shall shake the world with wonder. thousand things. But he is certainly fortune's favourite."— Byron Letters, March, 1815.] v. 3 See Rev. chap. viii. v. 7, &c. "The first angel sounded, and there followed hail and fire mingled with blood," &c. 8. "And the second angel sounded, and as it were a great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea; and the third part of the sea became blood," &c. v. 10. "And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp; and it fell upon the third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters." v. 11. And the name of the star is called Wormwood: and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter." ["Poor dear Murat, what an end! His white plume used to be a rallying point in battle, like Henry the Fourth's. He refused a confessor and a bandage; so would neither suffer his soul nor body to be bandaged." —. – Byron Letters.] 5 Murat's remains are said to have been torn from the grave and burnt. So moved his heart upon our foes. Fell, or fled along the plain; O'er glories gone the invaders march, With her heart in her voice; FROM THE FRENCH. Must thou go, my glorious Chief, 2 Sever'd from thy faithful few ? Who can tell thy warrior's grief, Maddening o'er that long adieu ? Woman's love, and friendship's zeal, Dear as both have been to me What are they to all I feel, With a soldier's faith for thee ? Idol of the soldier's soul ! First in fight, but mightiest now : Thee alone no doom can bow. Scarce dare trust a man with thee, Oh! although in dungeons pent, All their chains were light to me, Gazing on thy soul unbent. Would the sycophants of him Now so deaf to duty's prayer, Were his borrow'd glories dim, In his native darkness share? Were that world this hour his own, All thou calmly dost resign, Could he purchase with that throne Hearts like those which still are thine ? My chief, my king, my friend, adieu! Never did I droop before; Never to my sovereign sue, As his foes I now implore: All I ask is to divide Every peril he must brave; Sharing by the hero's side His fall, his exile, and his grave. ON THE STAR OF "THE LEGION OF HONOUR." FROM THE FRENCH. STAR of the brave!-whose beam hath shed Wild meteor of immortal birth! Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays; who had been exalted from the ranks by Buonaparte. He clung to his master's knees; wrote a letter to Lord Keith, entreating permission to accompany him, even in the most menial capacity, which could not be admitted." 3" At Waterloo, one man was seen, whose left arm was shattered by a cannon ball, to wrench it off with the other, and throwing it up in the air, exclaimed to his comrades, Vive l'Empereur, jusqu'à la mort!' There were many other instances of the like: this, however, you may depend on as true."-Private Letter from Brussels. |