《唐璜》（節選）
第一章（節選）
（尋找英雄人物）
一
說來新鮮，我苦於沒有英雄可寫，
儘管當今之世，英雄是迭出不窮；
年年有，月月有，報刊上連篇纍牘，
而後纔又發現：他算不得真英雄；
因此，對這些我就不人云亦云了，
而想把我們的老友唐璜來傳誦——
我們都看過他的戲，他夠短壽，
似乎未及天年就被小鬼給帶走。
二
上一代有弗農，沃爾夫，豪剋，凱培，
劊子手坎伯蘭，格朗貝，等等將軍，
不論好壞吧，總算被人談論一陣，
象今日的威斯萊，招牌上也標過名。
呵，這群聲譽的奴僕，那“母豬的崽仔”，
都曾昂首闊步，象班柯的帝工之影；
同樣，法國有一個拿破侖和杜莫埃，
在《導報》、《醒世報》上都贏得了記載。
三
法國還有孔多塞，布裏索，米拉波，
拉法夷特，培鬆，丹東，馬拉，巴那夫，
我們知道，他們都是赫赫有名，
此外，還有尚未被遺忘的，例如：
儒貝爾、奧什、馬爾索、拉納、德賽、莫羅，
以及許多軍界要角，難以盡述。
他們有一時都非常、非常垣赫，
然而，用在我的詩上卻不太適合。
四
納爾遜一度是大不列顛的戰神，
可惜為時不久，就改換了風尚；
特拉法爾加已不再為人提起，
它已和我們的英雄一起埋葬；
因為陸軍的聲望一天天隆盛，
海軍界的人士豈能不受影響，
更何況，我們的王子衹為陸軍撐腰，
把郝、鄧肯、納爾遜、傑維斯都忘掉。
五
英雄人物何止一個阿伽門農，
在他前後，也出過不少俊傑之輩，
雖然英勇’象他，卻又各有千秋；
然而，衹因為不曾在詩篇裏留輝，
便被世人遺忘了。——我無意針砭，
但老實說，當代我實在找不到誰
適用於我的詩（就是這新的詩章），
因此，我說過，我就選中了唐璜。
第一章（節選）
（詩人自諷）
二一三
但如今，年方三十我就白了發，
（誰知道四十歲左右又該如何？
前幾天我還想到要戴上假發——）
我的心蒼老得更快些；簡短說，
我在五月就揮霍了我的夏季，
現在已打不起精神與人反駁；
我的生命連本帶利都已用完，
哪兒還有那種所嚮披靡之感?
二一四
唉，完了，完了，——我心中再也沒有
那清新的朝氣，象早晨的露珠，
它能使我們從一切可愛的情景
醖釀出種種新鮮而優美的情愫，
好似蜜蜂釀出蜜，藏在心房中；
但你可認為那甘蜜越來越豐富？
不，它原來不是外來的，而是憑你
有沒有給花兒倍增嫵媚的能力。
二一五
唉，完了，完了——我的心靈呵，
你不再是我的一切，我的宇宙！
過去氣概萬千，而今擱置一邊，
你已不再是我的禍福的根由；
那幻覺已永遠消失：你麻木了，
但這也不壞，因為在你冷卻後，
我卻獲得了許多真知灼見，
雖然天知道它來得多麽辛酸。
二一六
我談情的日子完了。無論多迷人：
少女也好，夫人也好，更別提寡婦，
已不能象昔日似地令我癡迷——
總之，我過去的生命已不能重複。
對心靈的契合我不再有所幻想，
紅葡萄酒的豪飲也受到了勸阻；
但為了老好先生總得有點癖好，
我想我最好是走上貪財之道。
二一七
“雄圖”一度是我的偶像，但它已在
‘憂傷”和“歡娛”的神壇之前破碎；
這兩個神祗給我遺下不少表記，
足夠我空閑的時候沉思默對；
而今，象培根的銅頭，我已說完：
“現在，過去，時已不再”；青春誠可貴，
但我寶貴的青春已及時用盡：
心靈耗在愛情上，腦子用於押韻。
二一八
聲名究竟算得了什麽？那不過是
保不定在哪兒占有一小角篇幅，
有的人把它比作登一座山峰，
它的頂端同樣是彌漫着雲霧；
就為了這，人們又說，又寫，又宣講，
英雄豪傑廝殺，詩人“秉着夜燭”，
好等本人化為灰時，可以誇得上
一個名字，一幅劣照，和更糟的雕像。
二一九
人的希望又是什麽？古埃及王
基奧普斯造了第一座金字塔，
為了他的威名和他的木乃伊
永垂不朽，這塔造得最為高大，
可是他沒有料到，他的墓被盜，
棺材裏連一點灰都沒有留下。
唉，由此可見，無論是你，是我，
何必還要立豐碑把希望寄托？
二二○
然而，由於我一嚮愛窮究哲理，
我常自慰說：“嗚呼，生如白駒過隙，
此身乃是草芥，任死神隨意收割；
你的青春總算過得差強人意，
即使照你的心願能再活一遍，
它仍將流逝一所以，先生，該感激
你的星宿；一切情況總算不太壞：
讀你的《聖經》吧，照顧好你的錢袋。”
第二章（節選）
海黛
一一七
她的頭髮是褐色的，我說過，
但她的眼睛卻烏黑得像死亡，
睫毛也同樣黑，像絲絨般彎下，
卻含有無限嬌媚；因為當月光
從那烏亮的邊緣整個閃出來，
連飛快的箭也沒有這般力量：
它好像是盤捲的蛇突然伸直，
猛地把它的毒全力嚮人投擲。
一八三
那是一天逐漸涼爽的時刻，
一輪紅日正沒入蔚藍的峰巒，
大自然鴉雀無聲，幽暗而靜止，
好像整個世界已融化在其間；
他們一邊是平靜而涼爽的海，
一邊是有如新月彎彎的遠山，
玫瑰色的天空中衹有一顆星，
它閃爍着，很像是一隻眼睛。
一八四
他們就這樣手輓手往前遊蕩，
踩着貝殼和五色光燦的碎石，
有時走過平坦而堅硬的沙地，
有時走進了被風雨多年侵蝕
而形成的岩洞，好像精心安排，
有大廳，有晶石的房頂和居室；
他們並肩歇下來，以一臂相偎，
呵，紫紅的晚霞已使他們陶醉。
一八五
他們擡頭看天，那火燒的流雲
像一片赤紅的海，廣阔而燦爛，
他們俯視着海，映得波光粼粼，
圓圓的一輪明月正升出海面，
他們聆聽浪花的潑濺和細風，
他們還看到含情脈脈的視綫
從每人的黑眼睛照射對方的心，
於是嘴唇相挨，接了一個蜜吻。
一八六
呵，一個長長的吻，是愛情、青春
和美所賜的，它們都傾力以註，
好似太陽光集中於一個焦點，
這種吻衹有年輕時纔吻得出；
那時靈魂、心和感官和諧共鳴，
血是熔岩，脈搏是火，每一愛撫、
每一吻都震撼心靈：這種力量
我認為必須以其長度來衡量。
一八七
我說的長度指時間；他們一吻
天知道多久！——當然他們沒計算；
即使算過了，恐怕也計算不出
一秒鐘內那多麽豐富的美感；
誰都不說話，衹感到彼此吸引，
仿佛心魂和嘴唇在互相召喚，
一旦匯合了，就像蜜蜂膠在一起，
他們的心是花朵，嚮外釀着蜜。
一八八
他們遠離了世界，但不像鬥室中
一個人所感到的那種孤獨滋味，
海是靜默的，海灣上閃出星星，
紅色的晚霞暗了，天越來越黑，
四周無聲的沙石，滴水的岩洞，
使他們不由得更緊緊地依偎；
好像普天之下再也沒有生命，
衹有他們兩人，而他們將永生。
一八九
在那寂寞的沙灘上，他們不怕
耳目來窺探，也沒有夜的恐怖；
他們有彼此已足。語言雖不多，
衹斷續幾個字，卻已盡情吐訴；
呵，熱情所教的一切熱烈詞藻
怎及得一聲輕嘆那樣表達出
天性的奧秘——初戀，這一啓示
正是夏娃對後代女兒的恩賜。
一九○
海黛沒有憂慮，並不要求盟誓，
自己也不發誓，因為她沒聽過
一個鐘情的少女會被人欺騙，
或必須有種種諾言才能結合；
她真純而無知得像一隻小鳥，
在飛奔自己的伴侶時衹有快樂，
從來不曾夢想到有中途變心，
所以一個字也沒提到忠貞。
一九一
她愛着，也被人熱愛；她崇拜，
也被人崇拜：他們本諸天性，
讓熱熾的靈魂嚮着彼此傾註，
如果靈魂能死，它已死於熱情！
但他們的神智又漸漸清醒，
不過使感情復燃，又一次迷沉；
海黛把急跳的心緊貼他的胸，
似乎它再也不能離開它的跳動。
一九二
哎，他們是這麽年輕，這麽美，
這麽孤獨，這麽愛，愛得沒辦法，
那一時刻心靈又總是最充沛，
他們誰也沒有力量把它管轄，
於是犯下死後難逃的罪孽，
必得讓永恆的地獄之火來懲罰
這片刻的歡娛，——凡人要想贈給
彼此以快樂或痛苦，就得受這罪。
一九四
他們彼此望着，他們的眼睛
在月光下閃亮；她以雪白的臂
摟着唐璜的頭，他也摟着她的，
他的手半埋在所握的發辮裏；
她坐在他的膝上，飲着他的輕嘆，
他也飲着她的，終至喘不過氣，
就這樣，他們形成了一組雕像，
帶有古希臘風味，相愛而半裸。
一九五
那深情而火熱的時辰過去了，
唐璜在她的臂抱中睡得沉沉，
她沒有睡，卻輕柔而又堅定地
把她胸脯的姣美獻給他去枕；
她的眼睛時而仰望，時而看他，
那蒼白的頰已被她的胸偎溫，
呵，她博大的心靈正多麽喜悅，
為了它獻出和將獻出的一切。
一九七
因為他睡得這麽恬靜，這麽可愛，
他整個生命都和我們起着共鳴，
他是那麽溫和，靜止，柔弱無力，
毫不自覺他給人的那些歡欣，
他所經歷、證實、和加於人的一切
都已沒入深遠，渺茫而不可尋，
這就是你愛的，迷人而不乏謬誤，
像是死了，卻不給人以死的恐怖。
一九八
這少女看着她的戀人，而那一刻
愛情、夜晚和海洋都是最孤寂，
它們共同把寂寞註入她的靈魂；
呵，就憑這砂石和粗獷的岩壁，
她和她久經風波之苦的戀人
築起愛之巢，和人寰的一切遠離，
而太空中成群的星星遍觀世界，
竟找不到什麽比她的臉更喜悅。
二○二
海黛和自然為伴，不懂那一切，
海黛是熱情所生，在她的故鄉
太陽發出三倍光明炙烤着人，
連它明眸的女兒吻人都火燙；
她生來衹為了愛，為了選中了
一個情人，就和他共一條心腸，
別處的事情她不管；天堂，地獄，
和她無關：她的心衹跳在這裏！
二○三
哦，那熱情的澎湃！心房的急跳！
我們為此得付出多大的犧牲！
但心跳的因和果又極有韻味，
叫監視它的“智慧”不得不行動：
連忙把美好的真理念念有辭，
好剝奪“歡樂”的魔力；“良心”也相同：
它使勁對我們講解善良的格言，
太善良了——可怪卡色瑞沒來抽捐。
二○四
好了，在這荒涼的海邊，他們的心
已經訂婚，而星星，那婚禮的火把
把這美麗的一對照得更美麗，
海洋是證人，岩洞是新婚的臥榻，
情感為他們主婚，孤獨是牧師——
他們就這樣結了婚；這岩壁之下，
在他們看來就是快樂的天堂，
他們看彼此也和天使沒有兩樣。
二一二
據柏拉圖說，那是唯美的感受，
是感官的無微不至的擴散，
它純屬於精神，博大而神奇，
自星空降落，就充塞與天地間；
要沒有它，人生會顯得太沉悶。
總之，那就是要用你自己的眼，
再加上一兩種小感覺來表明
肉體本由易燃的泥質所揉成。
二一四
心靈像天空，是天庭的一部分，
它也有日夜交替，和天空一樣，
有時它遮上了烏雲，閃過雷電，
也要盡情肆虐，變得昏暗無光；
可是一旦被燒灼，刺破，和撕裂，
險惡的雲霧會化為雨而消亡；
由眼睛流出了心血凝成的淚滴，
這就是我們一生中的英國天氣。
第三章（節選）
哀希臘
一
希臘群島呵，美麗的希臘群島！
火熱的薩弗在這裏唱過戀歌；
在這裏，戰爭與和平的藝術並興，
狄洛斯崛起，阿波羅躍出海面！
永恆的夏天還把海島鍍成金，
可是除了太陽，一切已經消沉。
二
開奧的繆斯，蒂奧的繆斯，
那英雄的竪琴，戀人的琵琶，
原在你的岸上博得了聲譽，
而今在這發源地反倒喑啞；
呵，那歌聲已遠遠嚮西流傳，
遠超過你祖先的“海島樂園”。
三
起伏的山巒望着馬拉鬆——
馬拉鬆望着茫茫的海波；
我獨自在那裏冥想一刻鐘，
夢想希臘仍舊自由而歡樂；
因為，當我在波斯墓上站立，
我不能想象自己是個奴隸。
四
一個國王高高坐在石山頂，
了望着薩拉密挺立於海外；
千萬衹船舶在山下靠停，
還有多少隊伍全由他統率！
他在天亮時把他們數了數，
但日落的時候他們都在何處？
五
呵，他們而今安在？還有你呢，
我的祖國？在無聲的土地上，
英雄的頌歌如今已沉寂——
那英雄的心也不再激蕩！
難道你一嚮莊嚴的竪琴，
竟至淪落到我的手裏彈弄？
六
也好，置身在奴隸民族裏，
儘管榮譽都已在淪喪中，
至少，一個愛國志士的憂思，
還使我的作歌時感到臉紅；
因為，詩人在這兒有什麽能為？
為希臘人含羞，對希臘國落淚。
七
我們難道衹好對時光悲哭
和慚愧？——我們的祖先卻流血。
大地呵！把斯巴達人的遺骨
從你的懷抱裏送回來一些！
哪怕給我們三百勇士的三個，
讓德魔比利的决死戰復活！
八
怎麽，還是無聲？一切都喑啞？
不是的！你聽那古代的英魂
正象遠方的瀑布一樣喧嘩，
他們回答：“衹要有一個活人
登高一呼，我們就來，就來！”
噫！倒衹是活人不理不睬。
九
算了，算了；試試別的調門：
斟滿一杯薩摩斯的美酒！
把戰爭留給土耳其野人，
讓開奧的葡萄的血汁傾流！
聽呵，每一個酒鬼多麽踴躍
響應這一個不榮譽的號召！
一○
你們還保有庇瑞剋的舞藝，
但庇瑞剋的方陣哪裏去了？
這是兩課，為什麽衹記其一，
而把高尚而堅強的一課忘掉？
凱德謨斯給你們造了字體——
難道他是為了傳授給奴隸？
一一
把薩摩斯的美酒斟滿一盅！
讓我們且拋開這樣的話題！
這美酒曾使阿納剋瑞翁
發為神聖的歌；是的，他屈於
波裏剋瑞底斯，一個暴君，
但這暴君至少是我們國人。
一二
剋索尼薩斯的一個暴君
是自由的最忠勇的朋友：
暴君米太亞得留名至今！
呵，但願現在我們能夠有
一個暴君和他一樣精明，
他會團结我們不受人欺凌！
一三
把薩摩斯的美酒斟滿一盅！
在蘇裏的山岩，巴加的岸上，
住着一族人的勇敢的子孫，
不愧是斯巴達的母親所養；
在那裏，也許種子已經散播，
是赫剌剋勒斯血統的真傳。
一四
自由的事業別依靠西方人，
他們有一個做買賣的國王；
本土的利劍，本土的士兵，
是衝鋒陷陣的唯一希望；
但土耳其武力，拉丁的欺騙，
會裏應外合把你們的盾打穿。
一五
把薩摩斯的美酒斟滿一盅！
樹蔭下正舞蹈着我們的姑娘——
我看見她們的黑眼亮晶晶，
但是，望着每個鮮豔的姑娘，
我的眼就為火熱的淚所迷，
這乳房難道也要哺育奴隸？
一六
讓我攀登蘇尼阿的懸崖，
在那裏，將衹有我和那海浪
可以聽見彼此飄送着悄悄話，
讓我象天鵝一樣歌盡而亡；
我不要奴隸的國度屬於我——
幹脆把那薩摩斯酒杯打破！
第四章（節選）
海黛（續）
一三
海黛和唐璜沒有想到死的事，
這天地、這大氣對他們太適合，
時光也無可挑剔，衹嫌它會飛，
他們看自己呢，更是無可指責；
每人就是對方的鏡子，誰看誰
都是眼裏亮晶晶地閃着歡樂：
他們知道，這寶石一般的閃光
無非是他們眼底深情的反映。
二一
不知怎麽原因，就當他們凝視着
晚霞的那一刻，仿佛在他們心間
隨着歡樂突然襲來一陣戰慄，
好似冷風拂過了火焰或琴弦，
一個聲音發顫，另一個身子發抖，
每人都掠過一絲不安的預感，
這使得唐璜發出低低的嘆息，
海黛的眼睛也涌出晶瑩的淚滴。
二二
她那先知的眼睛睜得大大的，
盡在追隨和眺望消逝的太陽，
仿佛隨着這燦爛的光輪的沉落，
他們歡會的最後一天就要消亡；
唐璜看着她，卜問自己的命運，
他感到凄酸，卻又沒有理由悲傷，
他的眼神因此嚮她的目光尋找
這悲戚的來由（至少對他夠玄奧）。
二三
她轉身對他一笑，但那笑容是
使別人笑不起來的，接着扭轉臉，
不管她驚覺於什麽吧，這一感覺
很快地就被明智或自尊所驅散；
當唐璜半莊半諧地嚮她提到
他們心頭的這種不吉的共感，
她說：“萬一有禍事——但那不可能，
至少我不會活着看見它發生。”
二四
唐璜還要問下去，若不是她的唇
壓上了他的唇，使他不能不沉默；
她拿熱情的一吻和預感抗爭，
終於使她的心完全把惡兆擺脫。
對，這纔是解悶的最好的辦法，
有人喜歡以酒澆愁：這也不錯，
兩者我都試過；所以，誰要試用，
可以就心疼和頭疼任擇一種。
二八
他們該住在森林中，像夜鶯似的
歌唱自娛而隱居；他們原不宜
在所謂“社會”這繁華的孤寂中，
和“憎恨”、“罪惡”、“憂患”呼吸在一起；
凡心靈自由的人都落落寡合，
唱得最甜的鳥兒衹成雙而棲，
雄鷹獨自高飛，而烏鴉和海鷗
像世人一樣，衹圍着腐屍不走。
二九
現在，海黛和唐璜臉偎着臉，
正相親相愛地享受着午眠。
那是一陣小睡，睡得並不沉，
因為不時地仿佛有一種預感
使唐璜輕顫，並且傳過他全身；
海黛的嘴唇好似溪水在喃喃，
發着無字的樂麯；她的臉被夢
熏得像風吹亂的玫瑰一般紅。
第十章（節選）
十八
“舊日好時光”給我心中帶來了
蘇格蘭的一切：那藍色的山峰，
𠔌中清澈的流水，底河和頓河，
格子呢，結發帶，我幼年的感情，
巴爾戈尼橋下的黑流，和我那
最初溫柔的夢，像班柯的幽靈
都掠過我的眼前：呵，這回憶確是
“好時光”的一瞥，別管多麽幼稚。
查良錚譯
撫琴居掃校製作
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
想從前我們倆分手
想從前我們倆分手，
默默無言地流着淚，
預感到多年的隔離，
我們忍不住心碎；
你的臉冰涼、發白，
你的吻更似冷冰，
呵，那一刻正預兆了
我今日的悲痛。
清早凝結着寒露，
冷徹了我的額角，
那種感覺仿佛是
對我此刻的警告。
你的誓言全破碎了，
你的行為如此輕浮：
人傢提起你的名字，
我聽了也感到羞辱。
他們當着我講到你，
一聲聲有如喪鐘；
我的全身一陣顫慄——
為什麽對你如此情重？
沒有人知道我熟識你，
呵，熟識得太過了——
我將長久、長久地悔恨，
這深處難以為外人道。
你我秘密地相會，
我又默默地悲傷，
你竟然把我欺騙，
你的心終於遺忘。
如果很多年以後，
我們又偶然會面，
我將要怎樣招呼你？
衹有含着淚，默默無言。
1808年
查良錚 譯
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
詠錫雍
你磅礴的精神之永恆的幽靈！
自由呵，你在地牢裏纔最燦爛！
因為在那兒你居於人的心間——
那心呵，它衹聽命對你的愛情；
當你的信徒們被帶上了枷鎖，
在暗無天日的地牢裏犧牲，
他們的祖國因此受人尊敬，
自由的聲譽隨着每陣風傳播。
錫雍！你的監獄成了一隅聖地，
你陰鬱的地面變成了神壇，
因為伯尼瓦爾在那裏走來走去
印下深痕，仿佛你冰冷的石板
是生草的泥土！別塗去那足跡
因為它在暴政下嚮上帝求援。
查良錚 譯
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
在巴比倫的河邊我們坐下來哭泣
一
在巴比倫的河邊我們坐下來
悲痛地哭泣，我們想到那一天
我們的敵人如何在屠殺叫喊中，
焚毀了撒冷的高聳的神殿：
而你們，呵，她凄涼的女兒！
你們都號哭着四散逃散。
二
當我們憂鬱地坐在河邊
看着腳下的河水自由地奔流，
他們命令我們歌唱；呵，絶不！
我們絶不在這事情上低頭！
寧可讓這衹右手永遠枯瘦，
但我們的聖琴絶不為異族彈奏！
三
我把那竪琴懸挂在柳梢頭，
噢，撒冷！它的歌聲該是自由的；
想到你的光榮喪盡的那一刻，
卻把你的這遺物留在我這裏：
呵，我絶不使它優美的音調
和暴虐者的聲音混在一起！
查良錚 譯
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
恰爾德·哈洛爾德遊記（節選）
第一章（節選）
去 國 行
別了，別了！故國的海岸
消失在海水盡頭；
洶濤狂嘯，晚風悲嘆，
海鷗也驚叫不休。
海上的紅日冉冉西斜，
我的船乘風直追，
嚮太陽、嚮你暫時告別，
我的故鄉呵，再會！
不幾時，太陽又會出來，
又開始新的一天，
我又會招呼藍天、碧海，
卻難覓我的傢園。
華美的第宅已荒無人影，
爐竈裏火滅煙消，
墻垣上野草密密叢生，
愛犬在門邊哀叫。
“過來，過來，我的小書童！
你怎麽傷心痛哭？
你是怕大海浪濤洶涌，
還是怕狂風震怒？
別哭了，快把眼淚擦幹；
這條船又快又牢靠：
咱們傢最快的獵鷹也難
飛得像這般輕巧。”
“風衹管吼叫，浪衹管打來，
我不怕驚風險浪，
可是，公子呵，您不必奇怪
我為何這樣悲傷。
衹因我這次拜別了老父，
又和我慈母分離，
離開了他們，我無親無故，
衹有您——還有上帝。
“父親祝福我平安吉利，
沒怎麽怨天尤人；
母親少不了唉聲嘆氣，
巴望我回轉傢門。”
“得了，得了，我的小夥子！
難怪你哭個沒完；
若像你那樣天真幼稚，
我也會熱淚不幹。
“過來，過來，我的好伴當！
你怎麽蒼白失色？
你是怕法國敵寇兇狂，①
還是怕暴風兇惡？”
“公子，您當我貪生怕死？
我不是那種膿包，
是因為挂念傢中的妻子，
纔這樣蒼白枯槁。
“就在那湖邊，離府上不遠，
住着我妻兒一傢，
孩子要他爹，聲聲哭喊，
叫我妻怎生回話？”
“得了，得了，我的好夥伴！
誰不知你的悲傷，
我的心性卻輕浮冷淡，
一笑就去國離鄉。”
誰會相信妻子或情婦
虛情假意的傷感？
兩眼方纔還滂沱如註，
又嫣然笑對新歡。
我不為眼前的危難而憂傷，
也不為舊情悲悼；
傷心的倒是：世上沒一樣
值得我珠淚輕拋。
如今我一身孤孤單單，
在茫茫大海飄流；
沒有任何人為我嗟嘆，
我何必為別人憂愁？
我走後哀吠不休的愛犬
又有了新的主子；
過不了多久，我若敢近前，
會把我咬個半死。
船兒呵，全靠你，疾駛如飛，
橫跨那滔滔海浪；
任憑你送我到天南地北，
衹莫回我的故鄉。
我嚮你歡呼，蒼茫的碧海！
當陸地來到眼前，
我就歡呼那石窟、荒埃！
我的故鄉呵，再見！
楊德豫譯
①當時，英國同席捲歐陸的拿破侖法國正處於交
戰狀態。恰爾德·哈羅德的航船從英國駛往葡萄牙；
要經過法國海岸附近。
贈伊涅茲
1
切莫對着我愁容笑微微，
哎！我不能以笑容相迎；
但願上帝保佑你永不掉淚，
或者永不突然哭泣傷心。
2
你不是想明了，是什麽苦惱，
在把我的歡樂與青春腐蝕？
但不知你可願意知道，
這苦痛連你也難幫我療治？
3
既不是愛，也不是恨，
更非卑微的野心難實現；
使我對自己的現狀感到可憎，
並且拋棄我往昔之所戀：
4
而是從耳聞、目睹和經歷
産生了厭倦的心情：
美人再不能使我感到欣喜；
你的眸子也不能使我出神。
5
象傳說中希伯來漂泊者的憂鬱，
那是註定的命運，無法脫離，
他不願窺探黑暗的地獄，
又不能希望在死以前得到安息。
6
往哪兒逃，能擺脫身內的不幸，
即使漂流到越來越遙遠的地方，
不論逃到哪裏，它還是纏身，
這毒害着生命的惡魔似的思想。
7
然而人們還在虛假的歡樂裏沉湎，
我所厭絶的他們都感到夠味；
呵！願他們在好夢裏多留幾天，
總不要象我般蘇醒夢回！
8
命運要我去流浪的地方還不少，
去時還帶着多少可嘆的記憶；
但我唯一的慰藉是我知道：
最不幸的遭遇也不足為奇。
9
什麽是最不幸？何必問到底，
發慈悲不要再探究竟；
笑吧——不要把帷幕硬拉起，
將男人心底的地獄看分明。
楊熙齡譯
第二章（節選）
九
你也在那兒了！你的生命和愛情，
都消逝了，我的愛和生活也陷於絶望；
你的形影在我心頭縈繞，記憶猶新，
教我怎麽能承認你已經真的死亡？
好吧——我們會重逢，我將這樣夢想，
用這個想象來填補我空虛的心底：
衹要還留下絲毫記憶，在重逢的時光，
不論我的命運如何，衹要你魂魄安謐，
這在我就等於得到莫大的幸福、莫大的慰藉！
二三
我們會默默地追念，當夜深人靜，
自己曾經愛過，儘管這愛情已一去不返；
心兒孤獨地傷悼着受了打擊的熱情，
雖然形單影衹，仍懷念着過去的侶伴。
少年的愛和歡欣已逝而青春未完，
人誰願意就這此平白地老去呢？哎，
倘使本是水乳交融的靈魂彼此離散，
在死來臨之前，生也沒有多大意味！
誰不願意重做少年呢？呵，快樂又幸福的年歲！
二五
坐在山石上冥想，對着山巒與河流；
用緩緩的步子探訪那陰暗的森林，
那裏居住着不受人管轄的野獸，
人跡不至，或者是難得有人通行；
攀登那無人知曉、無路可循的山嶺，
那上面有不需要人來飼養的獸類；
徘徊在懸崖和瀑布旁，獨自一人；
這並不孤獨，而是跟嫵媚的自然相會，
她把豐富寶藏攤開在你眼前，讓你細細玩味。
楊熙齡譯
第三章（節選）
一
可愛的孩子，你的臉可象你媽媽？
上次相見，你天真的藍眼珠含着笑，
我的家庭和心靈的獨養女兒，艾達！
然後分手了，——可不象這一遭，
那時還有希望。——
猛然間我纔驚覺：
周圍已是起伏的海浪，風在唏噓；
我走了；漂泊到哪兒，自己也不知道；
但是那海岸已經在我眼前隱去，
阿爾比溫是再也不能使我歡欣，或者使我憂鬱。
二
又到了海上！又一次以海為傢！
我歡迎你，歡迎你，吼叫的波浪！
我身下的洶涌的海潮象識主的駿馬；
快把我送走，不論送往什麽地方，
雖然那緊張的桅桿要象蘆葦般搖晃，
雖然破裂的帆篷會在大風中亂飄，
然而我還是不得不流浪去他鄉，
因為我象從岩石上掉下的一棵草，
將在海洋上漂泊，不管風暴多兇，浪頭多麽高。
三
在青春的黃金時代，我曾歌詠一人，
那反抗自己抑鬱心靈的漂泊的叛逆；
現在來從提過去說開頭的事情，
象疾風推浮雲前進，讓我把它說到底。
從這故事，我發現往昔思想的痕跡，
還有幹了的眼淚，它們逐漸地湮滅，
但留下一條荒涼的小徑；就從這裏，
以沉重的腳步，踏着生命的沙土，歲月
逝去了；這生命的最後的沙土，沒有一花一葉。
四
也許因年輕時歡樂和苦痛的激情，
我的心、我的琴都折斷了一根弦，
它們都會發出刺耳的嘈雜聲音，
現在重彈舊調，怕也難以改善；
雖然我的麯調是沉悶的，抑鬱不歡，
然而為着這歌兒能夠幫助我脫離
自私的悲歡夢境——那是多麽可厭，
而使我陶醉於忘掉一切的境界裏，
它至少對於我（也衹對我）不算是無益的主題。
五
誰要是憑着經歷而不是靠年歲，
熟知這悲慘世界，看透了人生，
那麽他就會把一切看得無所謂；
塵世上的榮譽、野心、悲哀、鬥爭、愛情，
都再也不能用那尖刀刺痛他的心，
留下無聲而劇烈的痛苦，在他心坎上；
他知道何以思想要到寂寞的洞穴裏退隱，
而那洞穴裏，卻充滿着活潑的幻想，
在擁擠的腦海裏還留着陳舊而完好的形象。
六
為了創造並在創造中活得更活潑，
我們把種種幻想變成具體的形象，
同時照着我們幻想的生活而生活，
簡而言之，就象我如今寫着詩行。
我是什麽？空空如也。你卻不一樣，
我思想之魂！我和你一起漂泊各地，
雖然不可見，卻總凝視着萬象，
我已經和你變成了渾然的一體，
你總是在我身邊，即使在我情感枯竭之際。
七
但是我不應該想得這麽熱狂、雜亂，
我已經想得太陰鬱，而且也太多，
我的頭腦在動蕩中沸騰，過分疲倦，
變成一團狂熱和火焰急轉着的漩渦。
從青年時代起，我的心就不受束縛，
所以我的生命之泉已經受了毒害。
已經太遲了！然而我已非故我，
雖然時間治不好的痛苦，我仍能忍耐；
雖然依舊吃得下苦果，而不責怪命運，自怨自艾。
一二
可是不久他就醒悟，知道他自己
最不適合與人們為伍，在人群中廝混；
他同人們格格不入，志趣迥異；
豈肯隨聲附和，雖然他的靈魂，
在年青時，曾被自己的思想所戰勝；
他特立獨行，怎肯把心的主權
割讓給心靈所反對的那些庸人；
在孤獨中感到驕傲，因為即使孤單，
人在離群索居時，別有一種生活，會被發現。
一三
起伏的山巒都象是他知心的朋友，
波濤翻騰着的大海是他的家乡；
他有力量而且也有熱情去浪遊，
衹要那裏有蔚藍的天和明媚風光；
沙漠、森林、洞窟以及海上的白浪，
這些都是他的伴侶，都使他留戀；
它們有着共通的語言，明白流暢，
勝過他本國的典籍——他常拋開一邊，
而寧肯閱讀陽光寫在湖面上的造化的詩篇。
三三
宛如一塊裂成許多碎塊的破鏡，
變成許多小小的鏡子，一面一面；
越是破碎，就會映出越多的人影。
會把一個人的影子化作幾千；
而那忘不掉往事的心何獨不然，
破碎地活着；它冰冷、憔悴而孤獨，
在慢慢長夜裏悲痛得不能成眠，
軀殼不死，它的愁苦總難以消除，
哪種苦痛深藏不露，因為是言語無法傾訴。
四七
它們矗立着，仿佛是孤高的心靈，
雖然憔悴，但是又决不象庸衆折腰，
裏面空無一人，唯有風從縫隙吹進；
衹能跟浮雲暗暗地交談，這些古堡；
曾經有一天，它們是年青而驕傲，
下方進行着戰爭，旗幟飄揚在上空；
但如今那些戰鬥的，早已魄散魂銷，
那些飄揚的，連灰燼也無影無蹤，
留下荒涼的城垛，也永不會再遭炮火進攻。
七五
山峰、湖泊以及藍天難道不屬於我
和我的靈魂，如同我是它們的一部分？
我對它們的眷愛，在我深深的心窩，
是否真誠純潔？叫我怎能不看輕
其他一切，假使同山水和蒼穹比並？
我又怎能不低擋那惱人的濁浪，
而拋棄這些感情，學那些庸碌之人，
換上一副麻木而世俗的冰冷心腸？
庸人的眼衹註視泥坑，他們的思想怎敢發光。
八九
天地寂然，雖則並沒有沉沉酣睡，
但忘了呼吸，象人在感觸最深時一般；
靜靜地，正如人思索得如癡如醉：
天地寂然，從高遠的星空燦爛，
到平靜安寧的湖水和環抱的群山，
一切的一切集中於一個實在的生命，
無論是一綫光、一陣風、一張葉瓣，
都不遺失，而成了存在的一部分，
各各感到了萬物的創造者和衛護者的真純。
九○
於是深深激起宇宙無窮的感慨，
尤其在孤寂中——其實是最不寂寥；
這種感觸是真理，它通過我們的存在，
又滲透而擺脫了自我；它是一種音調，
稱為音樂的靈魂和源泉，使人明了
永恆的諧和；好象西塞裏亞的腰帶，
它復有着一種魔力，能夠産生奇效，
一切東西縛上了它，就美得勾人喜愛，
它使得死之魔影也再不能對我們有所損害。
一一三
我沒有愛過這人世，人世也不愛我；
它的臭惡氣息，我從來也不贊美；
沒有強露歡顔去奉承，不隨聲附和，
也未曾嚮它偶像崇拜的教條下跪，
因此世人無法把我當作同類；
我側身其中，卻不是他們中的一人；
要是沒有屈辱自己，心靈沾上污穢，
那麽我也許至今還在人海中浮沉，
在並非他們的、而算作他們的思想的屍衣下棲身。
楊熙齡譯
第四章（節選）
二七
月亮升起來了，但還不是夜晚，
落日和月亮平分天空，霞光之海
沿着藍色的弗留利群峰的高巔
往四下迸流，天空沒有一片雲彩，
但好象交織着各種不同的色調，
融為西方的一條巨大的彩虹——
西下的白天就在那裏接連了
逝去的亙古；而對面，月中的山峰
浮遊於蔚藍的太空——神仙的海島！
二八
衹有一顆孤星伴着戴安娜，統治了
這半壁恬靜的天空，但在那邊
日光之海仍舊燦爛，它的波濤
仍舊在遙遠的瑞申山頂上滾轉：
日和夜在互相爭奪，直到大自然
恢復應有的秩序；加暗的布倫泰河
輕柔地流着，日和夜已給它深染
初開放的玫瑰花的芬芳的紫色，
這色彩順水而流，就象在鏡面上閃爍。
二九
河面上充滿了從迢遙的天庭
降臨的容光；水波上的各種色澤
從斑斕的落日以至上升的明星
都將它們奇幻的異彩散發、融合：
呵，現在變色了；冉冉的陰影飄過，
把它的帷幕挂上山巒；臨別的白天
仿佛是垂死的、不斷喘息的海豚，
每一陣劇痛都使它的顔色改變，
最後卻最美；終於——完了，一切沒入灰色。
查良錚譯
一七八
在無徑可通的林叢有一種樂趣，
在寂寞幽僻的海濱有一種狂歡，
這裏是一個無人侵擾的社會：
面對大海，樂聲伴着濤聲嗚咽。
我不是不愛人類，但我更愛自然。
從我和人們的交往，從過去的經歷
或今後可能的遭遇，我悄然脫身
和那茫茫廣宇融成一體，我的心緒
絶非言語所能表達——但也無法隱匿！
一七九
翻滾吧，你深邃幽暗的海洋——
一萬艘戰艦在你身上徒勞無益地掠過，
人類給大地撒下毀滅的印記，但他的統治
卻在你的岸邊終止——你的底層殘骸交錯。
這些都是你的業績，而人類卻留不下什麽
他恣意蹂躪的蹤影，除了他渺小的自己
恰似一滴雨珠，一剎那間嚮海上墜落，
汩汩地冒泡、呻吟，沉沒在你深深的懷抱：
沒有墳墓——不聞喪鐘、不見棺槨，無人知曉。
黃宏煦譯
撫琴居掃校製作
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
洛欽伊珈
去吧，你豔麗的風景，你玫瑰的花園！
讓富貴的寵兒在你的眸子裏徜徉；
還給我峻岩吧，那兒有積雪的安眠，
儘管它仍銘記着自由與愛的創傷。
然而，加裏敦尼呵，你的峰巒多壯美：
在那雪白的山頂，儘管天高風急，
儘管 布湍激，沒有舒緩的泉水，
我卻懷念幽暗的洛屈納期而嘆息。
呵，我幼小的腳步天天在那裏遊蕩，
我戴着蘇格蘭帽子，穿着花格外套，
腦中冥想着一些久已逝去的族長，
而信步漫遊在那鬆林蔭蔽的小道；
我流連忘返，直到夕陽落山的霞光
為燦爛的北極星的 所替換，
因為古老的故事煽動了我的幻想，
呵，是那幽暗的洛屈納咖山民的流傳。
“噫，死者的鬼魂！你們的聲音我難道
沒有聽見，在滾滾的夜風裏升騰？”
那一定是英雄的幽靈歡樂喧囂，
駕着長風，奔馳於他的高原的𠔌中！
在洛屈納咖附近，每當風雲凝聚，
鼕寒就駕着他的冰車前來駐紮：
那裏的陰雲旋捲着我祖先的形跡，
他們住在幽暗的洛屈納期的鳳暴下。
“不幸而勇敢的壯士！難道沒有惡兆
預示你們的大業已為命運所摒棄？”
呵，儘管你們註定在剋勞頓戰死了，
你們的覆亡並沒有贏得歡呼的勝利。
但你們在泥土的永眠中仍舊快樂，
你們和族人在布瑞瑪山穴一起安息；
那蘇格蘭風笛正在幽暗的山中高歌，
洛屈納珈山中回蕩着你們的事跡。
洛屈納珈呵，我已離開你年復一年，
還得再過多少歲月我才能再踏上你！
雖然造化沒把緑野和鮮花給你裝點，
你比阿爾比安的平原夏令人珍惜。
英格蘭呵，以遠方山巒的遊子來看，
你的美景太嫌溫馴而小巧玲瓏，
喚我多麽嚮往那雄偉粗獷的懸崖，
那幽暗的洛屈納珈的險惡的崢嶸。
查良錚 譯
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
好吧，我們不再一起漫遊
好吧，我們不再一起漫遊，
消磨這幽深的夜晚，
儘管這顆心仍舊迷戀，
儘管月光還那麽燦爛。
因為利劍能夠磨 劍鞘，
靈魂也把胸膛磨得夠受，
這顆心呵，它得停下來呼吸，
愛情也得有歇息的時候。
雖然夜晚為愛情而降臨，
很快的，很快又是白晝，
但是在這月光的世界，
我們已不再一起漫遊。
1817.2.18
查良錚 譯
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
給奧古絲塔的詩章
〔其一〕
當四周逐漸陰沉暗淡，
理性悄然隱沒了光綫，
希望的火燭搖曳欲熄，
我在孤獨中 徊茫然。
在沒有星月的午夜時分，
心靈展開激烈的搏鬥；
弱者絶望，冷漠者離去，
致命的摧殘被稱作寬厚。
逢命運轉逆，愛情遠走，
憎惡的飛矢萬箭齊射，
你是我希望的唯一星辰，
躍然而高懸，永不隕落。
啊，幸有你清輝永駐的光芒，
像天使的眼睛，將我看護，
以永遠閃爍的仁慈之光，
屏退我身旁沉沉的夜幕。
當烏雲飛臨你的頭頂，
試圖籠罩你閃射的光芒，
而你遠射的明輝卻愈加純淨，
把襲來的晦色逐一驅光。
願你心能將我教晦，
何事勇猛，何事當容。
你的一句輕柔細語可抵消
世人對我所有的卑鄙指控。
你就像枝葉茂密的大樹，
軀幹挺拔，卻微微俯首，
始終不渝地張開慈愛的手臂，
用緑蔭將你眷念的故物護守。
聽任狂風暴雨席捲大地，
你依然是那般熱切溫存；
在風雨交加的時刻裏，
灑淚的緑葉溫暖着我的身心。
但讓災厄落在我頭上吧，
我决不能讓你遭受惡運；
當明 隕了傅 天國要奬賞
仁慈者——你就是第一人！
讓退色的愛情斷絶吧，
衹有你的情誼永世難訣；
你心雖善感，卻從不改變，
你靈魂柔順，卻永不妥協。
一切都失去，唯有你依然，
你用忠實可靠的胸懷證明了，
這世界並不是荒原所在——
甚至對我也不例外！
〔其二〕
吉祥的光陰一去不還，
命運之星悄然隕落，
而你仁慈的心卻不願發現，
衆人對我那些過錯的指責。
你深深體察我悲痛的情懷，
毫不畏避地與我分嘗，
我所能想象出的摯愛，
尋無覓處——除了你心上。
大自然把笑顔舒展，
這最後一笑是對我的酬報，
我不能視它為欺騙，
而是把它當作你的微笑。
當狂風席捲着海浪，
一如我曾信任的心嚮我襲擊，
假如那波浪激起我的感觸，
那就是，為什麽它把你我分離？
我希望的唯一基石已崩潰，
碎片紛紛落入海水；
心靈衹好交給痛苦發落，
但它决不把痛苦的奴隸作。
種種磨難在追逐着我，
它們摧毀我，卻休想侮辱我；
它們折磨我，卻休想製服我；
不屑想它們，心中衹想着你！
你人情練達，卻不欺騙我；
你是個女人，卻不曾遺棄；
儘管被我愛，從不傷害我；
雖然遭誹謗，卻也不回避；
儘管被信賴，不曾回絶我；
雖然分離了，並不想擺脫；
儘管很警覺，絶不污衊我，
衹為防人麯解纔甘於緘默。
對這世界我並不鄙薄，
也不在意世人對我的譴責；
但我無法尊敬這一切，
多蠢啊，我早就應該設法解脫。
我為此付出的代價有多大，
原來的料想遠不及它。
然而無論損失多慘重，
决不能從這兒把你奪下。
在我往事的一片荒墟中，
至少還有這些令我追記；
它告訴我，我素日最愛者，
的確是世間難覓的珍奇。
像沙漠中的甘泉一樣甜美，
像荒原裏的緑樹一樣青翠，
幽寂中一陣悅耳的鳥啼，
嚮我的心靈將你描繪。
張繼光 溫曉紅 譯
第一章（節選）
（尋找英雄人物）
一
說來新鮮，我苦於沒有英雄可寫，
儘管當今之世，英雄是迭出不窮；
年年有，月月有，報刊上連篇纍牘，
而後纔又發現：他算不得真英雄；
因此，對這些我就不人云亦云了，
而想把我們的老友唐璜來傳誦——
我們都看過他的戲，他夠短壽，
似乎未及天年就被小鬼給帶走。
二
上一代有弗農，沃爾夫，豪剋，凱培，
劊子手坎伯蘭，格朗貝，等等將軍，
不論好壞吧，總算被人談論一陣，
象今日的威斯萊，招牌上也標過名。
呵，這群聲譽的奴僕，那“母豬的崽仔”，
都曾昂首闊步，象班柯的帝工之影；
同樣，法國有一個拿破侖和杜莫埃，
在《導報》、《醒世報》上都贏得了記載。
三
法國還有孔多塞，布裏索，米拉波，
拉法夷特，培鬆，丹東，馬拉，巴那夫，
我們知道，他們都是赫赫有名，
此外，還有尚未被遺忘的，例如：
儒貝爾、奧什、馬爾索、拉納、德賽、莫羅，
以及許多軍界要角，難以盡述。
他們有一時都非常、非常垣赫，
然而，用在我的詩上卻不太適合。
四
納爾遜一度是大不列顛的戰神，
可惜為時不久，就改換了風尚；
特拉法爾加已不再為人提起，
它已和我們的英雄一起埋葬；
因為陸軍的聲望一天天隆盛，
海軍界的人士豈能不受影響，
更何況，我們的王子衹為陸軍撐腰，
把郝、鄧肯、納爾遜、傑維斯都忘掉。
五
英雄人物何止一個阿伽門農，
在他前後，也出過不少俊傑之輩，
雖然英勇’象他，卻又各有千秋；
然而，衹因為不曾在詩篇裏留輝，
便被世人遺忘了。——我無意針砭，
但老實說，當代我實在找不到誰
適用於我的詩（就是這新的詩章），
因此，我說過，我就選中了唐璜。
第一章（節選）
（詩人自諷）
二一三
但如今，年方三十我就白了發，
（誰知道四十歲左右又該如何？
前幾天我還想到要戴上假發——）
我的心蒼老得更快些；簡短說，
我在五月就揮霍了我的夏季，
現在已打不起精神與人反駁；
我的生命連本帶利都已用完，
哪兒還有那種所嚮披靡之感?
二一四
唉，完了，完了，——我心中再也沒有
那清新的朝氣，象早晨的露珠，
它能使我們從一切可愛的情景
醖釀出種種新鮮而優美的情愫，
好似蜜蜂釀出蜜，藏在心房中；
但你可認為那甘蜜越來越豐富？
不，它原來不是外來的，而是憑你
有沒有給花兒倍增嫵媚的能力。
二一五
唉，完了，完了——我的心靈呵，
你不再是我的一切，我的宇宙！
過去氣概萬千，而今擱置一邊，
你已不再是我的禍福的根由；
那幻覺已永遠消失：你麻木了，
但這也不壞，因為在你冷卻後，
我卻獲得了許多真知灼見，
雖然天知道它來得多麽辛酸。
二一六
我談情的日子完了。無論多迷人：
少女也好，夫人也好，更別提寡婦，
已不能象昔日似地令我癡迷——
總之，我過去的生命已不能重複。
對心靈的契合我不再有所幻想，
紅葡萄酒的豪飲也受到了勸阻；
但為了老好先生總得有點癖好，
我想我最好是走上貪財之道。
二一七
“雄圖”一度是我的偶像，但它已在
‘憂傷”和“歡娛”的神壇之前破碎；
這兩個神祗給我遺下不少表記，
足夠我空閑的時候沉思默對；
而今，象培根的銅頭，我已說完：
“現在，過去，時已不再”；青春誠可貴，
但我寶貴的青春已及時用盡：
心靈耗在愛情上，腦子用於押韻。
二一八
聲名究竟算得了什麽？那不過是
保不定在哪兒占有一小角篇幅，
有的人把它比作登一座山峰，
它的頂端同樣是彌漫着雲霧；
就為了這，人們又說，又寫，又宣講，
英雄豪傑廝殺，詩人“秉着夜燭”，
好等本人化為灰時，可以誇得上
一個名字，一幅劣照，和更糟的雕像。
二一九
人的希望又是什麽？古埃及王
基奧普斯造了第一座金字塔，
為了他的威名和他的木乃伊
永垂不朽，這塔造得最為高大，
可是他沒有料到，他的墓被盜，
棺材裏連一點灰都沒有留下。
唉，由此可見，無論是你，是我，
何必還要立豐碑把希望寄托？
二二○
然而，由於我一嚮愛窮究哲理，
我常自慰說：“嗚呼，生如白駒過隙，
此身乃是草芥，任死神隨意收割；
你的青春總算過得差強人意，
即使照你的心願能再活一遍，
它仍將流逝一所以，先生，該感激
你的星宿；一切情況總算不太壞：
讀你的《聖經》吧，照顧好你的錢袋。”
第二章（節選）
海黛
一一七
她的頭髮是褐色的，我說過，
但她的眼睛卻烏黑得像死亡，
睫毛也同樣黑，像絲絨般彎下，
卻含有無限嬌媚；因為當月光
從那烏亮的邊緣整個閃出來，
連飛快的箭也沒有這般力量：
它好像是盤捲的蛇突然伸直，
猛地把它的毒全力嚮人投擲。
一八三
那是一天逐漸涼爽的時刻，
一輪紅日正沒入蔚藍的峰巒，
大自然鴉雀無聲，幽暗而靜止，
好像整個世界已融化在其間；
他們一邊是平靜而涼爽的海，
一邊是有如新月彎彎的遠山，
玫瑰色的天空中衹有一顆星，
它閃爍着，很像是一隻眼睛。
一八四
他們就這樣手輓手往前遊蕩，
踩着貝殼和五色光燦的碎石，
有時走過平坦而堅硬的沙地，
有時走進了被風雨多年侵蝕
而形成的岩洞，好像精心安排，
有大廳，有晶石的房頂和居室；
他們並肩歇下來，以一臂相偎，
呵，紫紅的晚霞已使他們陶醉。
一八五
他們擡頭看天，那火燒的流雲
像一片赤紅的海，廣阔而燦爛，
他們俯視着海，映得波光粼粼，
圓圓的一輪明月正升出海面，
他們聆聽浪花的潑濺和細風，
他們還看到含情脈脈的視綫
從每人的黑眼睛照射對方的心，
於是嘴唇相挨，接了一個蜜吻。
一八六
呵，一個長長的吻，是愛情、青春
和美所賜的，它們都傾力以註，
好似太陽光集中於一個焦點，
這種吻衹有年輕時纔吻得出；
那時靈魂、心和感官和諧共鳴，
血是熔岩，脈搏是火，每一愛撫、
每一吻都震撼心靈：這種力量
我認為必須以其長度來衡量。
一八七
我說的長度指時間；他們一吻
天知道多久！——當然他們沒計算；
即使算過了，恐怕也計算不出
一秒鐘內那多麽豐富的美感；
誰都不說話，衹感到彼此吸引，
仿佛心魂和嘴唇在互相召喚，
一旦匯合了，就像蜜蜂膠在一起，
他們的心是花朵，嚮外釀着蜜。
一八八
他們遠離了世界，但不像鬥室中
一個人所感到的那種孤獨滋味，
海是靜默的，海灣上閃出星星，
紅色的晚霞暗了，天越來越黑，
四周無聲的沙石，滴水的岩洞，
使他們不由得更緊緊地依偎；
好像普天之下再也沒有生命，
衹有他們兩人，而他們將永生。
一八九
在那寂寞的沙灘上，他們不怕
耳目來窺探，也沒有夜的恐怖；
他們有彼此已足。語言雖不多，
衹斷續幾個字，卻已盡情吐訴；
呵，熱情所教的一切熱烈詞藻
怎及得一聲輕嘆那樣表達出
天性的奧秘——初戀，這一啓示
正是夏娃對後代女兒的恩賜。
一九○
海黛沒有憂慮，並不要求盟誓，
自己也不發誓，因為她沒聽過
一個鐘情的少女會被人欺騙，
或必須有種種諾言才能結合；
她真純而無知得像一隻小鳥，
在飛奔自己的伴侶時衹有快樂，
從來不曾夢想到有中途變心，
所以一個字也沒提到忠貞。
一九一
她愛着，也被人熱愛；她崇拜，
也被人崇拜：他們本諸天性，
讓熱熾的靈魂嚮着彼此傾註，
如果靈魂能死，它已死於熱情！
但他們的神智又漸漸清醒，
不過使感情復燃，又一次迷沉；
海黛把急跳的心緊貼他的胸，
似乎它再也不能離開它的跳動。
一九二
哎，他們是這麽年輕，這麽美，
這麽孤獨，這麽愛，愛得沒辦法，
那一時刻心靈又總是最充沛，
他們誰也沒有力量把它管轄，
於是犯下死後難逃的罪孽，
必得讓永恆的地獄之火來懲罰
這片刻的歡娛，——凡人要想贈給
彼此以快樂或痛苦，就得受這罪。
一九四
他們彼此望着，他們的眼睛
在月光下閃亮；她以雪白的臂
摟着唐璜的頭，他也摟着她的，
他的手半埋在所握的發辮裏；
她坐在他的膝上，飲着他的輕嘆，
他也飲着她的，終至喘不過氣，
就這樣，他們形成了一組雕像，
帶有古希臘風味，相愛而半裸。
一九五
那深情而火熱的時辰過去了，
唐璜在她的臂抱中睡得沉沉，
她沒有睡，卻輕柔而又堅定地
把她胸脯的姣美獻給他去枕；
她的眼睛時而仰望，時而看他，
那蒼白的頰已被她的胸偎溫，
呵，她博大的心靈正多麽喜悅，
為了它獻出和將獻出的一切。
一九七
因為他睡得這麽恬靜，這麽可愛，
他整個生命都和我們起着共鳴，
他是那麽溫和，靜止，柔弱無力，
毫不自覺他給人的那些歡欣，
他所經歷、證實、和加於人的一切
都已沒入深遠，渺茫而不可尋，
這就是你愛的，迷人而不乏謬誤，
像是死了，卻不給人以死的恐怖。
一九八
這少女看着她的戀人，而那一刻
愛情、夜晚和海洋都是最孤寂，
它們共同把寂寞註入她的靈魂；
呵，就憑這砂石和粗獷的岩壁，
她和她久經風波之苦的戀人
築起愛之巢，和人寰的一切遠離，
而太空中成群的星星遍觀世界，
竟找不到什麽比她的臉更喜悅。
二○二
海黛和自然為伴，不懂那一切，
海黛是熱情所生，在她的故鄉
太陽發出三倍光明炙烤着人，
連它明眸的女兒吻人都火燙；
她生來衹為了愛，為了選中了
一個情人，就和他共一條心腸，
別處的事情她不管；天堂，地獄，
和她無關：她的心衹跳在這裏！
二○三
哦，那熱情的澎湃！心房的急跳！
我們為此得付出多大的犧牲！
但心跳的因和果又極有韻味，
叫監視它的“智慧”不得不行動：
連忙把美好的真理念念有辭，
好剝奪“歡樂”的魔力；“良心”也相同：
它使勁對我們講解善良的格言，
太善良了——可怪卡色瑞沒來抽捐。
二○四
好了，在這荒涼的海邊，他們的心
已經訂婚，而星星，那婚禮的火把
把這美麗的一對照得更美麗，
海洋是證人，岩洞是新婚的臥榻，
情感為他們主婚，孤獨是牧師——
他們就這樣結了婚；這岩壁之下，
在他們看來就是快樂的天堂，
他們看彼此也和天使沒有兩樣。
二一二
據柏拉圖說，那是唯美的感受，
是感官的無微不至的擴散，
它純屬於精神，博大而神奇，
自星空降落，就充塞與天地間；
要沒有它，人生會顯得太沉悶。
總之，那就是要用你自己的眼，
再加上一兩種小感覺來表明
肉體本由易燃的泥質所揉成。
二一四
心靈像天空，是天庭的一部分，
它也有日夜交替，和天空一樣，
有時它遮上了烏雲，閃過雷電，
也要盡情肆虐，變得昏暗無光；
可是一旦被燒灼，刺破，和撕裂，
險惡的雲霧會化為雨而消亡；
由眼睛流出了心血凝成的淚滴，
這就是我們一生中的英國天氣。
第三章（節選）
哀希臘
一
希臘群島呵，美麗的希臘群島！
火熱的薩弗在這裏唱過戀歌；
在這裏，戰爭與和平的藝術並興，
狄洛斯崛起，阿波羅躍出海面！
永恆的夏天還把海島鍍成金，
可是除了太陽，一切已經消沉。
二
開奧的繆斯，蒂奧的繆斯，
那英雄的竪琴，戀人的琵琶，
原在你的岸上博得了聲譽，
而今在這發源地反倒喑啞；
呵，那歌聲已遠遠嚮西流傳，
遠超過你祖先的“海島樂園”。
三
起伏的山巒望着馬拉鬆——
馬拉鬆望着茫茫的海波；
我獨自在那裏冥想一刻鐘，
夢想希臘仍舊自由而歡樂；
因為，當我在波斯墓上站立，
我不能想象自己是個奴隸。
四
一個國王高高坐在石山頂，
了望着薩拉密挺立於海外；
千萬衹船舶在山下靠停，
還有多少隊伍全由他統率！
他在天亮時把他們數了數，
但日落的時候他們都在何處？
五
呵，他們而今安在？還有你呢，
我的祖國？在無聲的土地上，
英雄的頌歌如今已沉寂——
那英雄的心也不再激蕩！
難道你一嚮莊嚴的竪琴，
竟至淪落到我的手裏彈弄？
六
也好，置身在奴隸民族裏，
儘管榮譽都已在淪喪中，
至少，一個愛國志士的憂思，
還使我的作歌時感到臉紅；
因為，詩人在這兒有什麽能為？
為希臘人含羞，對希臘國落淚。
七
我們難道衹好對時光悲哭
和慚愧？——我們的祖先卻流血。
大地呵！把斯巴達人的遺骨
從你的懷抱裏送回來一些！
哪怕給我們三百勇士的三個，
讓德魔比利的决死戰復活！
八
怎麽，還是無聲？一切都喑啞？
不是的！你聽那古代的英魂
正象遠方的瀑布一樣喧嘩，
他們回答：“衹要有一個活人
登高一呼，我們就來，就來！”
噫！倒衹是活人不理不睬。
九
算了，算了；試試別的調門：
斟滿一杯薩摩斯的美酒！
把戰爭留給土耳其野人，
讓開奧的葡萄的血汁傾流！
聽呵，每一個酒鬼多麽踴躍
響應這一個不榮譽的號召！
一○
你們還保有庇瑞剋的舞藝，
但庇瑞剋的方陣哪裏去了？
這是兩課，為什麽衹記其一，
而把高尚而堅強的一課忘掉？
凱德謨斯給你們造了字體——
難道他是為了傳授給奴隸？
一一
把薩摩斯的美酒斟滿一盅！
讓我們且拋開這樣的話題！
這美酒曾使阿納剋瑞翁
發為神聖的歌；是的，他屈於
波裏剋瑞底斯，一個暴君，
但這暴君至少是我們國人。
一二
剋索尼薩斯的一個暴君
是自由的最忠勇的朋友：
暴君米太亞得留名至今！
呵，但願現在我們能夠有
一個暴君和他一樣精明，
他會團结我們不受人欺凌！
一三
把薩摩斯的美酒斟滿一盅！
在蘇裏的山岩，巴加的岸上，
住着一族人的勇敢的子孫，
不愧是斯巴達的母親所養；
在那裏，也許種子已經散播，
是赫剌剋勒斯血統的真傳。
一四
自由的事業別依靠西方人，
他們有一個做買賣的國王；
本土的利劍，本土的士兵，
是衝鋒陷陣的唯一希望；
但土耳其武力，拉丁的欺騙，
會裏應外合把你們的盾打穿。
一五
把薩摩斯的美酒斟滿一盅！
樹蔭下正舞蹈着我們的姑娘——
我看見她們的黑眼亮晶晶，
但是，望着每個鮮豔的姑娘，
我的眼就為火熱的淚所迷，
這乳房難道也要哺育奴隸？
一六
讓我攀登蘇尼阿的懸崖，
在那裏，將衹有我和那海浪
可以聽見彼此飄送着悄悄話，
讓我象天鵝一樣歌盡而亡；
我不要奴隸的國度屬於我——
幹脆把那薩摩斯酒杯打破！
第四章（節選）
海黛（續）
一三
海黛和唐璜沒有想到死的事，
這天地、這大氣對他們太適合，
時光也無可挑剔，衹嫌它會飛，
他們看自己呢，更是無可指責；
每人就是對方的鏡子，誰看誰
都是眼裏亮晶晶地閃着歡樂：
他們知道，這寶石一般的閃光
無非是他們眼底深情的反映。
二一
不知怎麽原因，就當他們凝視着
晚霞的那一刻，仿佛在他們心間
隨着歡樂突然襲來一陣戰慄，
好似冷風拂過了火焰或琴弦，
一個聲音發顫，另一個身子發抖，
每人都掠過一絲不安的預感，
這使得唐璜發出低低的嘆息，
海黛的眼睛也涌出晶瑩的淚滴。
二二
她那先知的眼睛睜得大大的，
盡在追隨和眺望消逝的太陽，
仿佛隨着這燦爛的光輪的沉落，
他們歡會的最後一天就要消亡；
唐璜看着她，卜問自己的命運，
他感到凄酸，卻又沒有理由悲傷，
他的眼神因此嚮她的目光尋找
這悲戚的來由（至少對他夠玄奧）。
二三
她轉身對他一笑，但那笑容是
使別人笑不起來的，接着扭轉臉，
不管她驚覺於什麽吧，這一感覺
很快地就被明智或自尊所驅散；
當唐璜半莊半諧地嚮她提到
他們心頭的這種不吉的共感，
她說：“萬一有禍事——但那不可能，
至少我不會活着看見它發生。”
二四
唐璜還要問下去，若不是她的唇
壓上了他的唇，使他不能不沉默；
她拿熱情的一吻和預感抗爭，
終於使她的心完全把惡兆擺脫。
對，這纔是解悶的最好的辦法，
有人喜歡以酒澆愁：這也不錯，
兩者我都試過；所以，誰要試用，
可以就心疼和頭疼任擇一種。
二八
他們該住在森林中，像夜鶯似的
歌唱自娛而隱居；他們原不宜
在所謂“社會”這繁華的孤寂中，
和“憎恨”、“罪惡”、“憂患”呼吸在一起；
凡心靈自由的人都落落寡合，
唱得最甜的鳥兒衹成雙而棲，
雄鷹獨自高飛，而烏鴉和海鷗
像世人一樣，衹圍着腐屍不走。
二九
現在，海黛和唐璜臉偎着臉，
正相親相愛地享受着午眠。
那是一陣小睡，睡得並不沉，
因為不時地仿佛有一種預感
使唐璜輕顫，並且傳過他全身；
海黛的嘴唇好似溪水在喃喃，
發着無字的樂麯；她的臉被夢
熏得像風吹亂的玫瑰一般紅。
第十章（節選）
十八
“舊日好時光”給我心中帶來了
蘇格蘭的一切：那藍色的山峰，
𠔌中清澈的流水，底河和頓河，
格子呢，結發帶，我幼年的感情，
巴爾戈尼橋下的黑流，和我那
最初溫柔的夢，像班柯的幽靈
都掠過我的眼前：呵，這回憶確是
“好時光”的一瞥，別管多麽幼稚。
查良錚譯
撫琴居掃校製作
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想從前我們倆分手
想從前我們倆分手，
默默無言地流着淚，
預感到多年的隔離，
我們忍不住心碎；
你的臉冰涼、發白，
你的吻更似冷冰，
呵，那一刻正預兆了
我今日的悲痛。
清早凝結着寒露，
冷徹了我的額角，
那種感覺仿佛是
對我此刻的警告。
你的誓言全破碎了，
你的行為如此輕浮：
人傢提起你的名字，
我聽了也感到羞辱。
他們當着我講到你，
一聲聲有如喪鐘；
我的全身一陣顫慄——
為什麽對你如此情重？
沒有人知道我熟識你，
呵，熟識得太過了——
我將長久、長久地悔恨，
這深處難以為外人道。
你我秘密地相會，
我又默默地悲傷，
你竟然把我欺騙，
你的心終於遺忘。
如果很多年以後，
我們又偶然會面，
我將要怎樣招呼你？
衹有含着淚，默默無言。
1808年
查良錚 譯
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
詠錫雍
你磅礴的精神之永恆的幽靈！
自由呵，你在地牢裏纔最燦爛！
因為在那兒你居於人的心間——
那心呵，它衹聽命對你的愛情；
當你的信徒們被帶上了枷鎖，
在暗無天日的地牢裏犧牲，
他們的祖國因此受人尊敬，
自由的聲譽隨着每陣風傳播。
錫雍！你的監獄成了一隅聖地，
你陰鬱的地面變成了神壇，
因為伯尼瓦爾在那裏走來走去
印下深痕，仿佛你冰冷的石板
是生草的泥土！別塗去那足跡
因為它在暴政下嚮上帝求援。
查良錚 譯
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在巴比倫的河邊我們坐下來哭泣
一
在巴比倫的河邊我們坐下來
悲痛地哭泣，我們想到那一天
我們的敵人如何在屠殺叫喊中，
焚毀了撒冷的高聳的神殿：
而你們，呵，她凄涼的女兒！
你們都號哭着四散逃散。
二
當我們憂鬱地坐在河邊
看着腳下的河水自由地奔流，
他們命令我們歌唱；呵，絶不！
我們絶不在這事情上低頭！
寧可讓這衹右手永遠枯瘦，
但我們的聖琴絶不為異族彈奏！
三
我把那竪琴懸挂在柳梢頭，
噢，撒冷！它的歌聲該是自由的；
想到你的光榮喪盡的那一刻，
卻把你的這遺物留在我這裏：
呵，我絶不使它優美的音調
和暴虐者的聲音混在一起！
查良錚 譯
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
恰爾德·哈洛爾德遊記（節選）
第一章（節選）
去 國 行
別了，別了！故國的海岸
消失在海水盡頭；
洶濤狂嘯，晚風悲嘆，
海鷗也驚叫不休。
海上的紅日冉冉西斜，
我的船乘風直追，
嚮太陽、嚮你暫時告別，
我的故鄉呵，再會！
不幾時，太陽又會出來，
又開始新的一天，
我又會招呼藍天、碧海，
卻難覓我的傢園。
華美的第宅已荒無人影，
爐竈裏火滅煙消，
墻垣上野草密密叢生，
愛犬在門邊哀叫。
“過來，過來，我的小書童！
你怎麽傷心痛哭？
你是怕大海浪濤洶涌，
還是怕狂風震怒？
別哭了，快把眼淚擦幹；
這條船又快又牢靠：
咱們傢最快的獵鷹也難
飛得像這般輕巧。”
“風衹管吼叫，浪衹管打來，
我不怕驚風險浪，
可是，公子呵，您不必奇怪
我為何這樣悲傷。
衹因我這次拜別了老父，
又和我慈母分離，
離開了他們，我無親無故，
衹有您——還有上帝。
“父親祝福我平安吉利，
沒怎麽怨天尤人；
母親少不了唉聲嘆氣，
巴望我回轉傢門。”
“得了，得了，我的小夥子！
難怪你哭個沒完；
若像你那樣天真幼稚，
我也會熱淚不幹。
“過來，過來，我的好伴當！
你怎麽蒼白失色？
你是怕法國敵寇兇狂，①
還是怕暴風兇惡？”
“公子，您當我貪生怕死？
我不是那種膿包，
是因為挂念傢中的妻子，
纔這樣蒼白枯槁。
“就在那湖邊，離府上不遠，
住着我妻兒一傢，
孩子要他爹，聲聲哭喊，
叫我妻怎生回話？”
“得了，得了，我的好夥伴！
誰不知你的悲傷，
我的心性卻輕浮冷淡，
一笑就去國離鄉。”
誰會相信妻子或情婦
虛情假意的傷感？
兩眼方纔還滂沱如註，
又嫣然笑對新歡。
我不為眼前的危難而憂傷，
也不為舊情悲悼；
傷心的倒是：世上沒一樣
值得我珠淚輕拋。
如今我一身孤孤單單，
在茫茫大海飄流；
沒有任何人為我嗟嘆，
我何必為別人憂愁？
我走後哀吠不休的愛犬
又有了新的主子；
過不了多久，我若敢近前，
會把我咬個半死。
船兒呵，全靠你，疾駛如飛，
橫跨那滔滔海浪；
任憑你送我到天南地北，
衹莫回我的故鄉。
我嚮你歡呼，蒼茫的碧海！
當陸地來到眼前，
我就歡呼那石窟、荒埃！
我的故鄉呵，再見！
楊德豫譯
①當時，英國同席捲歐陸的拿破侖法國正處於交
戰狀態。恰爾德·哈羅德的航船從英國駛往葡萄牙；
要經過法國海岸附近。
贈伊涅茲
1
切莫對着我愁容笑微微，
哎！我不能以笑容相迎；
但願上帝保佑你永不掉淚，
或者永不突然哭泣傷心。
2
你不是想明了，是什麽苦惱，
在把我的歡樂與青春腐蝕？
但不知你可願意知道，
這苦痛連你也難幫我療治？
3
既不是愛，也不是恨，
更非卑微的野心難實現；
使我對自己的現狀感到可憎，
並且拋棄我往昔之所戀：
4
而是從耳聞、目睹和經歷
産生了厭倦的心情：
美人再不能使我感到欣喜；
你的眸子也不能使我出神。
5
象傳說中希伯來漂泊者的憂鬱，
那是註定的命運，無法脫離，
他不願窺探黑暗的地獄，
又不能希望在死以前得到安息。
6
往哪兒逃，能擺脫身內的不幸，
即使漂流到越來越遙遠的地方，
不論逃到哪裏，它還是纏身，
這毒害着生命的惡魔似的思想。
7
然而人們還在虛假的歡樂裏沉湎，
我所厭絶的他們都感到夠味；
呵！願他們在好夢裏多留幾天，
總不要象我般蘇醒夢回！
8
命運要我去流浪的地方還不少，
去時還帶着多少可嘆的記憶；
但我唯一的慰藉是我知道：
最不幸的遭遇也不足為奇。
9
什麽是最不幸？何必問到底，
發慈悲不要再探究竟；
笑吧——不要把帷幕硬拉起，
將男人心底的地獄看分明。
楊熙齡譯
第二章（節選）
九
你也在那兒了！你的生命和愛情，
都消逝了，我的愛和生活也陷於絶望；
你的形影在我心頭縈繞，記憶猶新，
教我怎麽能承認你已經真的死亡？
好吧——我們會重逢，我將這樣夢想，
用這個想象來填補我空虛的心底：
衹要還留下絲毫記憶，在重逢的時光，
不論我的命運如何，衹要你魂魄安謐，
這在我就等於得到莫大的幸福、莫大的慰藉！
二三
我們會默默地追念，當夜深人靜，
自己曾經愛過，儘管這愛情已一去不返；
心兒孤獨地傷悼着受了打擊的熱情，
雖然形單影衹，仍懷念着過去的侶伴。
少年的愛和歡欣已逝而青春未完，
人誰願意就這此平白地老去呢？哎，
倘使本是水乳交融的靈魂彼此離散，
在死來臨之前，生也沒有多大意味！
誰不願意重做少年呢？呵，快樂又幸福的年歲！
二五
坐在山石上冥想，對着山巒與河流；
用緩緩的步子探訪那陰暗的森林，
那裏居住着不受人管轄的野獸，
人跡不至，或者是難得有人通行；
攀登那無人知曉、無路可循的山嶺，
那上面有不需要人來飼養的獸類；
徘徊在懸崖和瀑布旁，獨自一人；
這並不孤獨，而是跟嫵媚的自然相會，
她把豐富寶藏攤開在你眼前，讓你細細玩味。
楊熙齡譯
第三章（節選）
一
可愛的孩子，你的臉可象你媽媽？
上次相見，你天真的藍眼珠含着笑，
我的家庭和心靈的獨養女兒，艾達！
然後分手了，——可不象這一遭，
那時還有希望。——
猛然間我纔驚覺：
周圍已是起伏的海浪，風在唏噓；
我走了；漂泊到哪兒，自己也不知道；
但是那海岸已經在我眼前隱去，
阿爾比溫是再也不能使我歡欣，或者使我憂鬱。
二
又到了海上！又一次以海為傢！
我歡迎你，歡迎你，吼叫的波浪！
我身下的洶涌的海潮象識主的駿馬；
快把我送走，不論送往什麽地方，
雖然那緊張的桅桿要象蘆葦般搖晃，
雖然破裂的帆篷會在大風中亂飄，
然而我還是不得不流浪去他鄉，
因為我象從岩石上掉下的一棵草，
將在海洋上漂泊，不管風暴多兇，浪頭多麽高。
三
在青春的黃金時代，我曾歌詠一人，
那反抗自己抑鬱心靈的漂泊的叛逆；
現在來從提過去說開頭的事情，
象疾風推浮雲前進，讓我把它說到底。
從這故事，我發現往昔思想的痕跡，
還有幹了的眼淚，它們逐漸地湮滅，
但留下一條荒涼的小徑；就從這裏，
以沉重的腳步，踏着生命的沙土，歲月
逝去了；這生命的最後的沙土，沒有一花一葉。
四
也許因年輕時歡樂和苦痛的激情，
我的心、我的琴都折斷了一根弦，
它們都會發出刺耳的嘈雜聲音，
現在重彈舊調，怕也難以改善；
雖然我的麯調是沉悶的，抑鬱不歡，
然而為着這歌兒能夠幫助我脫離
自私的悲歡夢境——那是多麽可厭，
而使我陶醉於忘掉一切的境界裏，
它至少對於我（也衹對我）不算是無益的主題。
五
誰要是憑着經歷而不是靠年歲，
熟知這悲慘世界，看透了人生，
那麽他就會把一切看得無所謂；
塵世上的榮譽、野心、悲哀、鬥爭、愛情，
都再也不能用那尖刀刺痛他的心，
留下無聲而劇烈的痛苦，在他心坎上；
他知道何以思想要到寂寞的洞穴裏退隱，
而那洞穴裏，卻充滿着活潑的幻想，
在擁擠的腦海裏還留着陳舊而完好的形象。
六
為了創造並在創造中活得更活潑，
我們把種種幻想變成具體的形象，
同時照着我們幻想的生活而生活，
簡而言之，就象我如今寫着詩行。
我是什麽？空空如也。你卻不一樣，
我思想之魂！我和你一起漂泊各地，
雖然不可見，卻總凝視着萬象，
我已經和你變成了渾然的一體，
你總是在我身邊，即使在我情感枯竭之際。
七
但是我不應該想得這麽熱狂、雜亂，
我已經想得太陰鬱，而且也太多，
我的頭腦在動蕩中沸騰，過分疲倦，
變成一團狂熱和火焰急轉着的漩渦。
從青年時代起，我的心就不受束縛，
所以我的生命之泉已經受了毒害。
已經太遲了！然而我已非故我，
雖然時間治不好的痛苦，我仍能忍耐；
雖然依舊吃得下苦果，而不責怪命運，自怨自艾。
一二
可是不久他就醒悟，知道他自己
最不適合與人們為伍，在人群中廝混；
他同人們格格不入，志趣迥異；
豈肯隨聲附和，雖然他的靈魂，
在年青時，曾被自己的思想所戰勝；
他特立獨行，怎肯把心的主權
割讓給心靈所反對的那些庸人；
在孤獨中感到驕傲，因為即使孤單，
人在離群索居時，別有一種生活，會被發現。
一三
起伏的山巒都象是他知心的朋友，
波濤翻騰着的大海是他的家乡；
他有力量而且也有熱情去浪遊，
衹要那裏有蔚藍的天和明媚風光；
沙漠、森林、洞窟以及海上的白浪，
這些都是他的伴侶，都使他留戀；
它們有着共通的語言，明白流暢，
勝過他本國的典籍——他常拋開一邊，
而寧肯閱讀陽光寫在湖面上的造化的詩篇。
三三
宛如一塊裂成許多碎塊的破鏡，
變成許多小小的鏡子，一面一面；
越是破碎，就會映出越多的人影。
會把一個人的影子化作幾千；
而那忘不掉往事的心何獨不然，
破碎地活着；它冰冷、憔悴而孤獨，
在慢慢長夜裏悲痛得不能成眠，
軀殼不死，它的愁苦總難以消除，
哪種苦痛深藏不露，因為是言語無法傾訴。
四七
它們矗立着，仿佛是孤高的心靈，
雖然憔悴，但是又决不象庸衆折腰，
裏面空無一人，唯有風從縫隙吹進；
衹能跟浮雲暗暗地交談，這些古堡；
曾經有一天，它們是年青而驕傲，
下方進行着戰爭，旗幟飄揚在上空；
但如今那些戰鬥的，早已魄散魂銷，
那些飄揚的，連灰燼也無影無蹤，
留下荒涼的城垛，也永不會再遭炮火進攻。
七五
山峰、湖泊以及藍天難道不屬於我
和我的靈魂，如同我是它們的一部分？
我對它們的眷愛，在我深深的心窩，
是否真誠純潔？叫我怎能不看輕
其他一切，假使同山水和蒼穹比並？
我又怎能不低擋那惱人的濁浪，
而拋棄這些感情，學那些庸碌之人，
換上一副麻木而世俗的冰冷心腸？
庸人的眼衹註視泥坑，他們的思想怎敢發光。
八九
天地寂然，雖則並沒有沉沉酣睡，
但忘了呼吸，象人在感觸最深時一般；
靜靜地，正如人思索得如癡如醉：
天地寂然，從高遠的星空燦爛，
到平靜安寧的湖水和環抱的群山，
一切的一切集中於一個實在的生命，
無論是一綫光、一陣風、一張葉瓣，
都不遺失，而成了存在的一部分，
各各感到了萬物的創造者和衛護者的真純。
九○
於是深深激起宇宙無窮的感慨，
尤其在孤寂中——其實是最不寂寥；
這種感觸是真理，它通過我們的存在，
又滲透而擺脫了自我；它是一種音調，
稱為音樂的靈魂和源泉，使人明了
永恆的諧和；好象西塞裏亞的腰帶，
它復有着一種魔力，能夠産生奇效，
一切東西縛上了它，就美得勾人喜愛，
它使得死之魔影也再不能對我們有所損害。
一一三
我沒有愛過這人世，人世也不愛我；
它的臭惡氣息，我從來也不贊美；
沒有強露歡顔去奉承，不隨聲附和，
也未曾嚮它偶像崇拜的教條下跪，
因此世人無法把我當作同類；
我側身其中，卻不是他們中的一人；
要是沒有屈辱自己，心靈沾上污穢，
那麽我也許至今還在人海中浮沉，
在並非他們的、而算作他們的思想的屍衣下棲身。
楊熙齡譯
第四章（節選）
二七
月亮升起來了，但還不是夜晚，
落日和月亮平分天空，霞光之海
沿着藍色的弗留利群峰的高巔
往四下迸流，天空沒有一片雲彩，
但好象交織着各種不同的色調，
融為西方的一條巨大的彩虹——
西下的白天就在那裏接連了
逝去的亙古；而對面，月中的山峰
浮遊於蔚藍的太空——神仙的海島！
二八
衹有一顆孤星伴着戴安娜，統治了
這半壁恬靜的天空，但在那邊
日光之海仍舊燦爛，它的波濤
仍舊在遙遠的瑞申山頂上滾轉：
日和夜在互相爭奪，直到大自然
恢復應有的秩序；加暗的布倫泰河
輕柔地流着，日和夜已給它深染
初開放的玫瑰花的芬芳的紫色，
這色彩順水而流，就象在鏡面上閃爍。
二九
河面上充滿了從迢遙的天庭
降臨的容光；水波上的各種色澤
從斑斕的落日以至上升的明星
都將它們奇幻的異彩散發、融合：
呵，現在變色了；冉冉的陰影飄過，
把它的帷幕挂上山巒；臨別的白天
仿佛是垂死的、不斷喘息的海豚，
每一陣劇痛都使它的顔色改變，
最後卻最美；終於——完了，一切沒入灰色。
查良錚譯
一七八
在無徑可通的林叢有一種樂趣，
在寂寞幽僻的海濱有一種狂歡，
這裏是一個無人侵擾的社會：
面對大海，樂聲伴着濤聲嗚咽。
我不是不愛人類，但我更愛自然。
從我和人們的交往，從過去的經歷
或今後可能的遭遇，我悄然脫身
和那茫茫廣宇融成一體，我的心緒
絶非言語所能表達——但也無法隱匿！
一七九
翻滾吧，你深邃幽暗的海洋——
一萬艘戰艦在你身上徒勞無益地掠過，
人類給大地撒下毀滅的印記，但他的統治
卻在你的岸邊終止——你的底層殘骸交錯。
這些都是你的業績，而人類卻留不下什麽
他恣意蹂躪的蹤影，除了他渺小的自己
恰似一滴雨珠，一剎那間嚮海上墜落，
汩汩地冒泡、呻吟，沉沒在你深深的懷抱：
沒有墳墓——不聞喪鐘、不見棺槨，無人知曉。
黃宏煦譯
撫琴居掃校製作
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
洛欽伊珈
去吧，你豔麗的風景，你玫瑰的花園！
讓富貴的寵兒在你的眸子裏徜徉；
還給我峻岩吧，那兒有積雪的安眠，
儘管它仍銘記着自由與愛的創傷。
然而，加裏敦尼呵，你的峰巒多壯美：
在那雪白的山頂，儘管天高風急，
儘管 布湍激，沒有舒緩的泉水，
我卻懷念幽暗的洛屈納期而嘆息。
呵，我幼小的腳步天天在那裏遊蕩，
我戴着蘇格蘭帽子，穿着花格外套，
腦中冥想着一些久已逝去的族長，
而信步漫遊在那鬆林蔭蔽的小道；
我流連忘返，直到夕陽落山的霞光
為燦爛的北極星的 所替換，
因為古老的故事煽動了我的幻想，
呵，是那幽暗的洛屈納咖山民的流傳。
“噫，死者的鬼魂！你們的聲音我難道
沒有聽見，在滾滾的夜風裏升騰？”
那一定是英雄的幽靈歡樂喧囂，
駕着長風，奔馳於他的高原的𠔌中！
在洛屈納咖附近，每當風雲凝聚，
鼕寒就駕着他的冰車前來駐紮：
那裏的陰雲旋捲着我祖先的形跡，
他們住在幽暗的洛屈納期的鳳暴下。
“不幸而勇敢的壯士！難道沒有惡兆
預示你們的大業已為命運所摒棄？”
呵，儘管你們註定在剋勞頓戰死了，
你們的覆亡並沒有贏得歡呼的勝利。
但你們在泥土的永眠中仍舊快樂，
你們和族人在布瑞瑪山穴一起安息；
那蘇格蘭風笛正在幽暗的山中高歌，
洛屈納珈山中回蕩着你們的事跡。
洛屈納珈呵，我已離開你年復一年，
還得再過多少歲月我才能再踏上你！
雖然造化沒把緑野和鮮花給你裝點，
你比阿爾比安的平原夏令人珍惜。
英格蘭呵，以遠方山巒的遊子來看，
你的美景太嫌溫馴而小巧玲瓏，
喚我多麽嚮往那雄偉粗獷的懸崖，
那幽暗的洛屈納珈的險惡的崢嶸。
查良錚 譯
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
好吧，我們不再一起漫遊
好吧，我們不再一起漫遊，
消磨這幽深的夜晚，
儘管這顆心仍舊迷戀，
儘管月光還那麽燦爛。
因為利劍能夠磨 劍鞘，
靈魂也把胸膛磨得夠受，
這顆心呵，它得停下來呼吸，
愛情也得有歇息的時候。
雖然夜晚為愛情而降臨，
很快的，很快又是白晝，
但是在這月光的世界，
我們已不再一起漫遊。
1817.2.18
查良錚 譯
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
給奧古絲塔的詩章
〔其一〕
當四周逐漸陰沉暗淡，
理性悄然隱沒了光綫，
希望的火燭搖曳欲熄，
我在孤獨中 徊茫然。
在沒有星月的午夜時分，
心靈展開激烈的搏鬥；
弱者絶望，冷漠者離去，
致命的摧殘被稱作寬厚。
逢命運轉逆，愛情遠走，
憎惡的飛矢萬箭齊射，
你是我希望的唯一星辰，
躍然而高懸，永不隕落。
啊，幸有你清輝永駐的光芒，
像天使的眼睛，將我看護，
以永遠閃爍的仁慈之光，
屏退我身旁沉沉的夜幕。
當烏雲飛臨你的頭頂，
試圖籠罩你閃射的光芒，
而你遠射的明輝卻愈加純淨，
把襲來的晦色逐一驅光。
願你心能將我教晦，
何事勇猛，何事當容。
你的一句輕柔細語可抵消
世人對我所有的卑鄙指控。
你就像枝葉茂密的大樹，
軀幹挺拔，卻微微俯首，
始終不渝地張開慈愛的手臂，
用緑蔭將你眷念的故物護守。
聽任狂風暴雨席捲大地，
你依然是那般熱切溫存；
在風雨交加的時刻裏，
灑淚的緑葉溫暖着我的身心。
但讓災厄落在我頭上吧，
我决不能讓你遭受惡運；
當明 隕了傅 天國要奬賞
仁慈者——你就是第一人！
讓退色的愛情斷絶吧，
衹有你的情誼永世難訣；
你心雖善感，卻從不改變，
你靈魂柔順，卻永不妥協。
一切都失去，唯有你依然，
你用忠實可靠的胸懷證明了，
這世界並不是荒原所在——
甚至對我也不例外！
〔其二〕
吉祥的光陰一去不還，
命運之星悄然隕落，
而你仁慈的心卻不願發現，
衆人對我那些過錯的指責。
你深深體察我悲痛的情懷，
毫不畏避地與我分嘗，
我所能想象出的摯愛，
尋無覓處——除了你心上。
大自然把笑顔舒展，
這最後一笑是對我的酬報，
我不能視它為欺騙，
而是把它當作你的微笑。
當狂風席捲着海浪，
一如我曾信任的心嚮我襲擊，
假如那波浪激起我的感觸，
那就是，為什麽它把你我分離？
我希望的唯一基石已崩潰，
碎片紛紛落入海水；
心靈衹好交給痛苦發落，
但它决不把痛苦的奴隸作。
種種磨難在追逐着我，
它們摧毀我，卻休想侮辱我；
它們折磨我，卻休想製服我；
不屑想它們，心中衹想着你！
你人情練達，卻不欺騙我；
你是個女人，卻不曾遺棄；
儘管被我愛，從不傷害我；
雖然遭誹謗，卻也不回避；
儘管被信賴，不曾回絶我；
雖然分離了，並不想擺脫；
儘管很警覺，絶不污衊我，
衹為防人麯解纔甘於緘默。
對這世界我並不鄙薄，
也不在意世人對我的譴責；
但我無法尊敬這一切，
多蠢啊，我早就應該設法解脫。
我為此付出的代價有多大，
原來的料想遠不及它。
然而無論損失多慘重，
决不能從這兒把你奪下。
在我往事的一片荒墟中，
至少還有這些令我追記；
它告訴我，我素日最愛者，
的確是世間難覓的珍奇。
像沙漠中的甘泉一樣甜美，
像荒原裏的緑樹一樣青翠，
幽寂中一陣悅耳的鳥啼，
嚮我的心靈將你描繪。
張繼光 溫曉紅 譯
HOURS OF IDLENESS
AND OTHER EARLY POEMS.
ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY. [i]
Why dost thou build the hall, Son of the winged days? Thou lookest
from thy tower to-day: yet a few years, and the blast of the desart
comes: it howls in thy empty court.-OSSIAN. [1]
I.
Through thy battlements, Newstead, [2] the hollow winds whistle: [ii]
Thou, the hall of my Fathers, art gone to decay;
In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle
Have choak'd up the rose, which late bloom'd in the way.
2.
Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who, proudly, to battle, [iii]
Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, [3]
The escutcheon and shield, which with ev'ry blast rattle,
Are the only sad vestiges now that remain.
3.
No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers,
Raise a flame, in the breast, for the war-laurell'd wreath;
Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan [4] slumbers,
Unnerv'd is the hand of his minstrel, by death.
4.
Paul and Hubert too sleep in the valley of Cressy;
For the safety of Edward and England they fell:
My Fathers! the tears of your country redress ye:
How you fought! how you died! still her annals can tell.
5.
On Marston, [5] with Rupert, [6] 'gainst traitors contending,
Four brothers enrich'd, with their blood, the bleak field;
For the rights of a monarch their country defending, [iv]
Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd. [7]
6.
Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant departing
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu! [v]
Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting
New courage, he'll think upon glory and you.
7.
Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, [vi]
'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret; [vii]
Far distant he goes, with the same emulation,
The fame of his Fathers he ne'er can forget. [viii]
8.
That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish; [ix]
He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown:
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish;
When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own!
1803.
[Footnote 1: The motto was prefixed in _Hours of Idleness_.]
[Footnote 2: The priory of Newstead, or de Novo Loco, in Sherwood, was
founded about the year 1170, by Henry II. On the dissolution of the
monasteries it was granted (in 1540) by Henry VIII. to "Sir John Byron
the Little, with the great beard." His portrait is still preserved at
Newstead.]
[Footnote 3: No record of any crusading ancestors in the Byron family
can be found. Moore conjectures that the legend was suggested by some
groups of heads on the old panel-work at Newstead, which appear to
represent Christian soldiers and Saracens, and were, most probably, put
up before the Abbey came into the possession of the family.]
[Footnote 4: Horistan Castle, in _Derbyshire_, an ancient seat of the
B--R--N family [4to]. (Horiston.--4to.)]
[Footnote 5: The battle of Marston Moor, where the adherents of Charles
I. were defeated.]
[Footnote 6: Son of the Elector Palatine, and related to Charles I. He
afterwards commanded the Fleet, in the reign of Charles II.]
[Footnote 7: Sir Nicholas Byron, the great-grandson of Sir John Byron
the Little, distinguished himself in the Civil Wars. He is described by
Clarendon (_Hist, of the Rebellion_, 1807, i. 216) as "a person of great
affability and dexterity, as well as martial knowledge." He was Governor
of Carlisle, and afterwards Governor of Chester. His nephew and
heir-at-law, Sir John Byron, of Clayton, K.B. (1599-1652), was raised to
the peerage as Baron Byron of Rochdale, after the Battle of Newbury,
October 26, 1643. He held successively the posts of Lieutenant of the
Tower, Governor of Chester, and, after the expulsion of the Royal Family
from England, Governor to the Duke of York. He died childless, and was
succeeded by his brother Richard, the second lord, from whom the poet
was descended. Five younger brothers, as Richard's monument in the
chancel of Hucknall Torkard Church records, "faithfully served King
Charles the First in the Civil Wars, suffered much for their loyalty,
and lost all their present fortunes." (See _Life of Lord Byron_, by Karl
Elze: Appendix, Note (A), p. 436.)]
[Footnote i: 'On Leaving N ... ST ... D.'--[4to] 'On Leaving
Newstead.'--('P. on V. Occasions.')]
[Footnote ii:
'Through the cracks in these battlements loud the winds whistle
For the hall of my fathers is gone to decay;
And in yon once gay garden the hemlock and thistle
Have choak'd up the rose, which late bloom'd in the way'.
[4to]]
[Footnote iii:
'Of the barons of old, who once proudly to battle'.
[4to]]
[Footnote iv:
'For Charles the Martyr their country defending'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote v: 'Bids ye adieu!' [4to]]
[Footnote vi: 'Though a tear dims.' [4to]]
[Footnote vii: ''Tis nature, not fear, which commands his regret'.
[4to]]
[Footnote viii: 'In the grave he alone can his fathers forget'. [4to]]
[Footnote ix: 'Your fame, and your memory, still will he cherish'.
[4to]]
TO E---[1]
Let Folly smile, to view the names
Of thee and me, in Friendship twin'd;
Yet Virtue will have greater claims
To love, than rank with vice combin'd.
And though unequal is _thy_ fate,
Since title deck'd my higher birth;
Yet envy not this gaudy state,
_Thine_ is the pride of modest worth.
Our _souls_ at least congenial meet,
Nor can _thy_ lot _my_ rank disgrace;
Our intercourse is not less sweet,
Since worth of rank supplies the place.
_November_, 1802.
[Footnote 1: E---was, according to Moore, a boy of Byron's own age, the
son of one of the tenants at Newstead.]
ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY, [1]
COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR, AND VERY DEAR TO HIM.
1.
Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom,
Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove,
Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb,
And scatter flowers on the dust I love.
2.
Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,
That clay, where once such animation beam'd;
The King of Terrors seiz'd her as his prey;
Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd.
3.
Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel,
Or Heaven reverse the dread decree of fate,
Not here the mourner would his grief reveal,
Not here the Muse her virtues would relate.
4.
But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soars
Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day;
And weeping angels lead her to those bowers,
Where endless pleasures virtuous deeds repay.
5.
And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign!
And, madly, Godlike Providence accuse!
Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain;--
I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse.
6.
Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear,
Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face;
Still they call forth my warm affection's tear,
Still in my heart retain their wonted place. [i]
1802.
[Footnote 1: The author claims the indulgence of the reader more for
this piece than, perhaps, any other in the collection; but as it was
written at an earlier period than the rest (being composed at the age of
fourteen), and his first essay, he preferred submitting it to the
indulgence of his friends in its present state, to making either
addition or alteration.--[4to]
"My first dash into poetry was as early as 1800. It was the ebullition
of a passion for--my first cousin, Margaret Parker (daughter and
granddaughter of the two Admirals Parker), one of the most beautiful
of evanescent beings. I have long forgotten the verse; but it would be
difficult for me to forget her--her dark eyes--her long
eye-lashes--her completely Greek cast of face and figure! I was then
about twelve--she rather older, perhaps a year. She died about a year
or two afterwards, in consequence of a fall, which injured her spine,
and induced consumption ... I knew nothing of her illness, being at
Harrow and in the country till she was gone. Some years after, I made
an attempt at an elegy--a very dull one."--_Byron Diary_, 1821;
_Life_, p. 17.
[Margaret Parker was the sister of Sir Peter Parker, whose death at
Baltimore, in 1814, Byron celebrated in the "Elegiac Stanzas," which
were first published in the poems attached to the seventh edition of
_Childe Harold_.]
[Footnote i: _Such sorrow brings me honour, not disgrace_. [4to]]
TO D---[1]
1.
In thee, I fondly hop'd to clasp
A friend, whom death alone could sever;
Till envy, with malignant grasp, [i]
Detach'd thee from my breast for ever.
2.
True, she has forc'd thee from my _breast_,
Yet, in my _heart_, thou keep'st thy seat; [ii]
There, there, thine image still must rest,
Until that heart shall cease to beat.
3.
And, when the grave restores her dead,
When life again to dust is given,
On _thy dear_ breast I'll lay my head--
Without _thee! where_ would be _my Heaven?_
February, 1803.
[Footnote 1: George John, 5th Earl Delawarr (1791-1869). (See _note_ 2,
p. 100; see also lines "To George, Earl Delawarr," pp. 126-128.)]
[Footnote i:
_But envy with malignant grasp,
Has torn thee from my breast for ever.
[4to]]
[Footnote ii: _But in my heart_. [4to]]
TO CAROLINE. [i]
1.
Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes,
Suffus'd in tears, implore to stay;
And heard _unmov'd_ thy plenteous sighs,
Which said far more than words can say? [ii]
2.
Though keen the grief _thy_ tears exprest, [iii]
When love and hope lay _both_ o'erthrown;
Yet still, my girl, _this_ bleeding breast
Throbb'd, with deep sorrow, as _thine own_.
3.
But, when our cheeks with anguish glow'd,
When _thy_ sweet lips were join'd to mine;
The tears that from _my_ eyelids flow'd
Were lost in those which fell from _thine_.
4.
Thou could'st not feel my burning cheek,
_Thy_ gushing tears had quench'd its flame,
And, as thy tongue essay'd to speak,
In _sighs alone_ it breath'd my name.
5.
And yet, my girl, we weep in vain,
In vain our fate in sighs deplore;
Remembrance only can remain,
But _that_, will make us weep the more.
6.
Again, thou best belov'd, adieu!
Ah! if thou canst, o'ercome regret,
Nor let thy mind past joys review,
Our only _hope_ is, to _forget_!
1805.
[Footnote i: _To_----. [4to]]
[Footnote ii: _than words could say_. [4to]]
[Footnote iii: _Though deep the grief_. [4to]]
TO CAROLINE. [1]
1.
You say you love, and yet your eye
No symptom of that love conveys,
You say you love, yet know not why,
Your cheek no sign of love betrays.
2.
Ah! did that breast with ardour glow,
With me alone it joy could know,
Or feel with me the listless woe,
Which racks my heart when far from thee.
3.
Whene'er we meet my blushes rise,
And mantle through my purpled cheek,
But yet no blush to mine replies,
Nor e'en your eyes your love bespeak.
4.
Your voice alone declares your flame,
And though so sweet it breathes my name,
Our passions still are not the same;
Alas! you cannot love like me.
5.
For e'en your lip seems steep'd in snow,
And though so oft it meets my kiss,
It burns with no responsive glow,
Nor melts like mine in dewy bliss.
6.
Ah! what are words to love like _mine_,
Though uttered by a voice like thine,
I still in murmurs must repine,
And think that love can ne'er be _true_,
7.
Which meets me with no joyous sign,
Without a sigh which bids adieu;
How different is my love from thine,
How keen my grief when leaving you.
8.
Your image fills my anxious breast,
Till day declines adown the West,
And when at night, I sink to rest,
In dreams your fancied form I view.
9.
'Tis then your breast, no longer cold,
With equal ardour seems to burn,
While close your arms around me fold,
Your lips my kiss with warmth return.
10.
Ah! would these joyous moments last;
Vain HOPE! the gay delusion's past,
That voice!--ah! no, 'tis but the blast,
Which echoes through the neighbouring grove.
11.
But when _awake_, your lips I seek,
And clasp enraptur'd all your charms,
So chill's the pressure of your cheek,
I fold a statue in my arms.
12.
If thus, when to my heart embrac'd,
No pleasure in your eyes is trac'd,
You may be prudent, fair, and _chaste_,
But ah! my girl, you _do not love_.
[Footnote 1: These lines, which appear in the Quarto, were never
republished.]
TO EMMA. [1]
1.
Since now the hour is come at last,
When you must quit your anxious lover;
Since now, our dream of bliss is past,
One pang, my girl, and all is over.
2.
Alas! that pang will be severe,
Which bids us part to meet no more;
Which tears me far from _one_ so dear,
_Departing_ for a distant shore.
3.
Well! we have pass'd some happy hours,
And joy will mingle with our tears;
When thinking on these ancient towers,
The shelter of our infant years;
4.
Where from this Gothic casement's height,
We view'd the lake, the park, the dell,
And still, though tears obstruct our sight,
We lingering look a last farewell,
5.
O'er fields through which we us'd to run,
And spend the hours in childish play;
O'er shades where, when our race was done,
Reposing on my breast you lay;
6.
Whilst I, admiring, too remiss,
Forgot to scare the hovering flies,
Yet envied every fly the kiss,
It dar'd to give your slumbering eyes:
7.
See still the little painted _bark_,
In which I row'd you o'er the lake;
See there, high waving o'er the park,
The _elm_ I clamber'd for your sake.
8.
These times are past, our joys are gone,
You leave me, leave this happy vale;
These scenes, I must retrace alone;
Without thee, what will they avail?
9.
Who can conceive, who has not prov'd,
The anguish of a last embrace?
When, torn from all you fondly lov'd,
You bid a long adieu to peace.
10.
_This_ is the deepest of our woes,
For _this_ these tears our cheeks bedew;
This is of love the final close,
Oh, God! the fondest, _last_ adieu!
1805.
[Footnote 1: To Maria--[4to]]
FRAGMENTS OF SCHOOL EXERCISES:
FROM THE "PROMETHEUS VINCTUS" OF AESCHYLUS,
[Greek: Maedam o panta nem_on, K.T.L_] [1]
Great Jove! to whose Almighty Throne
Both Gods and mortals homage pay,
Ne'er may my soul thy power disown,
Thy dread behests ne'er disobey.
Oft shall the sacred victim fall,
In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall;
My voice shall raise no impious strain,
'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main.
...
How different now thy joyless fate,
Since first Hesione thy bride,
When plac'd aloft in godlike state,
The blushing beauty by thy side,
Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smil'd,
And mirthful strains the hours beguil'd;
The Nymphs and Tritons danc'd around,
Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless frown'd, [2]
HARROW, December 1, 1804.
[Footnote 1: The Greek heading does not appear in the Quarto, nor in the
three first Editions.]
[Footnote 2: "My first Harrow verses (that is, English, as exercises), a
translation of a chorus from the 'Prometheus' of 苨chylus, were received
by Dr. Drury, my grand patron (our headmaster), but coolly. No one had,
at that time, the least notion that I should subside into
poetry."--'Life', p. 20. The lines are not a translation but a loose
adaptation or paraphrase of part of a chorus of the 'Prometheus
Vinctus', I, 528, 'sq.']
LINES
WRITTEN IN "LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN AND AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN,
BY J. J. ROUSSEAU; [1] FOUNDED ON FACTS."
"Away, away,--your flattering arts
May now betray some simpler hearts;
And _you_ will _smile_ at their believing,
And _they_ shall _weep_ at your deceiving."
[Footnote 1: A second edition of this work, of which the title is,
_Letters, etc., translated from the French of Jean Jacques Rousseau_,
was published in London, in 1784. It is, probably, a literary forgery.]
ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, [i] ADDRESSED TO MISS----.
Dear simple girl, those flattering arts,
(From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts,)[ii]
Exist but in imagination,
Mere phantoms of thine own creation; [iii]
For he who views that witching grace,
That perfect form, that lovely face,
With eyes admiring, oh! believe me,
He never wishes to deceive thee:
Once in thy polish'd mirror glance [iv]
Thou'lt there descry that elegance
Which from our sex demands such praises,
But envy in the other raises.--
Then he who tells thee of thy beauty, [v]
Believe me, only does his duty:
Ah! fly not from the candid youth;
It is not flattery,--'tis truth. [vi]
July, 1804.
[Footnote i: _Answer to the above._ [4to] ]
[Footnote ii: _From which you'd._ [4to] ]
[Footnote iii:
_Mere phantoms of your own creation;
For he who sees_. [4to]]
[Footnote iv:
_Once let you at your mirror glance
You'll there descry that elegance,_ [4to]]
[Footnote v:
_Then he who tells you of your beauty._ [4to]]
[Footnote vi:
_It is not flattery, but truth_. [4to]]
ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A GREAT PUBLIC SCHOOL. [1]
Where are those honours, IDA! once your own,
When Probus fill'd your magisterial throne?
As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace,
Hail'd a Barbarian in her C鎠ar's place,
So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate,
And seat _Pomposus_ where your _Probus_ sate.
Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul, [i]
Pomposus holds you in his harsh controul;
Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd,
With florid jargon, and with vain parade;
With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules,
(Such as were ne'er before enforc'd in schools.) [ii]
Mistaking _pedantry_ for _learning's_ laws,
He governs, sanction'd but by self-applause;
With him the same dire fate, attending Rome,
Ill-fated Ida! soon must stamp your doom:
Like her o'erthrown, for ever lost to fame,
No trace of science left you, but the name,
HARROW, July, 1805.
[Footnote 1: In March, 1805, Dr. Drury, the Probus of the piece,
retired from the Head-mastership of Harrow School, and was succeeded by
Dr. Butler, the Pomposus. "Dr. Drury," said Byron, in one of his
note-books, "was the best, the kindest (and yet strict, too) friend I
ever had; and I look upon him still as a father." Out of affection to
his late preceptor, Byron advocated the election of Mark Drury to the
vacant post, and hence his dislike of the successful candidate. He was
reconciled to Dr. Butler before departing for Greece, in 1809, and in
his diary he says, "I treated him rebelliously, and have been sorry ever
since." (See allusions in and notes to "Childish Recollections," pp.
84-106, and especially note I, p. 88, notes I and 2, p. 89, and note I,
p. 91.)] ]
[Footnote i:
----_but of a narrower soul_.--[4to]]
[Footnote ii:
_Such as were ne'er before beheld in schools._--[4to]]
EPITAPH ON A BELOVED FRIEND.[1]
[Greek: Astaer prin men elampes eni tsuoisin hepsos.]
[Plato's Epitaph (Epig. Gr鎐., Jacobs, 1826, p. 309),
quoted by Diog. Laertins.]
Oh, Friend! for ever lov'd, for ever dear! [i]
What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier!
What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath,
Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death!
Could tears retard the tyrant in his course;
Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force;
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay,
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey;
Thou still hadst liv'd to bless my aching sight,
Thy comrade's honour and thy friend's delight.
If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh
The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie,
Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart,
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art.
No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep,
But living statues there are seen to weep;
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb,
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom.
What though thy sire lament his failing line,
A father's sorrows cannot equal mine!
Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer,
Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here:
But, who with me shall hold thy former place?
Thine image, what new friendship can efface?
Ah, none!--a father's tears will cease to flow,
Time will assuage an infant brother's woe;
To all, save one, is consolation known,
While solitary Friendship sighs alone.
HARROW, 1803. [2]
[Footnote i:
_Oh Boy! for ever loved, for ever dear!
What fruitless tears have wash'd thy honour'd bier;
What sighs re-echoed to thy parting breath,
Whilst thou wert struggling in the pangs of death.
Could tears have turn'd the tyrant in his course,
Could sighs have checked his dart's relentless force; [iii]
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay,
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey,
Thou still had'st liv'd to bless my aching sight,
Thy comrade's honour, and thy friend's delight:
Though low thy lot since in a cottage born,
No titles did thy humble name adorn,
To me, far dearer, was thy artless love,
Than all the joys, wealth, fame, and friends could prove.
For thee alone I liv'd, or wish'd to live,
(Oh God! if impious, this rash word forgive,)
Heart-broken now, I wait an equal doom,
Content to join thee in thy turf-clad tomb;
Where this frail form compos'd in endless rest,
I'll make my last, cold, pillow on thy breast;
That breast where oft in life, I've laid my head,
Will yet receive me mouldering with the dead;
This life resign'd, without one parting sigh,
Together in one bed of earth we'll lie!
Together share the fate to mortals given,
Together mix our dust, and hope for Heaven._
HARROW, 1803.--[4to. _P. on V. Occasions._]]
[Footnote 1: The heading which appears in the Quarto and _P. on V.
Occasions_ was subsequently changed to "Epitaph on a Friend." The motto
was prefixed in 'Hours of Idleness'. The epigram which Bergk leaves
under Plato's name was translated by Shelley ('Poems', 1895, iii.
361)--
"Thou wert the morning star
Among the living,
Ere thy fair light had fled;
Now having died, thou art as
Hesperus, giving
New splendour to the dead."
There is an echo of the Greek distich in Byron's exquisite line, "The
Morning-Star of Memory."
The words, "Southwell, March 17," are added, in a lady's hand, on p. 9
of the annotated copy of P. 'on' V. 'Occasions' in the British Museum.
The conjecture that the "'beloved' friend," who is of humble origin, is
identical with "E----" of the verses on p. 4, remains uncertain.]
[Footnote ii:
_have bath'd thy honoured bier._
[_P. on V. Occasions._] ]
[Footnote iii:
_Could tears retard,_ [_P. on V. Occasions._]
_Could sighs avert._ [_P. on V. Occasions._] ]
ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL WHEN DYING.
Animula! vagula, Blandula,
Hospes, comesque corporis,
Qu?nunc abibis in Loca--
Pallidula, rigida, nudula,
Nec, ut soles, dabis Jocos?
TRANSLATION.
Ah! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring Sprite,
Friend and associate of this clay!
To what unknown region borne,
Wilt thou, now, wing thy distant flight?
No more with wonted humour gay,
But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.
1806.
A FRAGMENT. [1]
When, to their airy hall, my Fathers' voice
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice;
When, pois'd upon the gale, my form shall ride,
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side;
Oh! may my shade behold no sculptur'd urns,
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns!
No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone; [i]
My _epitaph_ shall be my name alone: [2]
If _that_ with honour fail to crown my clay, [ii]
Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay!
_That_, only _that_, shall single out the spot;
By that remember'd, or with that forgot. [iii]
1803.
[Footnote 1: There is no heading in the Quarto.]
[Footnote 2: In his will, drawn up in 1811, Byron gave directions that
"no inscription, save his name and age, should be written on his tomb."
June, 1819, he wrote to Murray: "Some of the epitaphs at the Certosa
cemetery, at Ferrara, pleased me more than the more splendid monuments
at Bologna; for instance, 'Martini Luigi Implora pace.' Can anything be
more full of pathos? I hope whoever may survive me will see those two
words, and no more, put over me."--'Life', pp. 131, 398.]
[Footnote: i.
'No lengthen'd scroll of virtue and renown.'
[4to. P. on V. Occ.]]
[Footnote: ii.
'If that with honour fails,'
[4to]]
[Footnote: iii.
'But that remember'd, or fore'er forgot'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
TO CAROLINE. [1]
1.
Oh! when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow?
Oh! when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay?
The present is hell! and the coming to-morrow
But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day.
2.
From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no curses, [i]
I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from bliss;
For poor is the soul which, bewailing, rehearses
Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this--
3.
Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes bright'ning,
Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could assuage,
On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning,
With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage.
4.
But now tears and curses, alike unavailing,
Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight;
Could they view us our sad separation bewailing,
Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight.
5.
Yet, still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation,
Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer;
Love and Hope upon earth bring no more consolation,
In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear.
6.
Oh! when, my ador'd, in the tomb will they place me,
Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are fled?
If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee,
Perhaps they will leave unmolested--the dead.
1805.
[Footnote 1: [To------.--[4to].]]
[Footnote i: 'fall no curses'.--[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
TO CAROLINE. [1]
1.
When I hear you express an affection so warm,
Ne'er think, my belov'd, that I do not believe;
For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm,
And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive.
2.
Yet still, this fond bosom regrets, while adoring,
That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear,
That Age will come on, when Remembrance, deploring,
Contemplates the scenes of her youth, with a tear;
3.
That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining
Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the breeze,
When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining,
Prove nature a prey to decay and disease.
4.
Tis this, my belov'd, which spreads gloom o'er my features,
Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the decree
Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of his creatures,
In the death which one day will deprive you of me. [i]
5.
Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion, [ii]
No doubt can the mind of your lover invade;
He worships each look with such faithful devotion,
A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade.
6.
But as death, my belov'd, soon or late shall o'ertake us,
And our breasts, which alive with such sympathy glow,
Will sleep in the grave, till the blast shall awake us,
When calling the dead, in Earth's bosom laid low.
7.
Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure,
Which from passion, like ours, must unceasingly flow; [iii]
Let us pass round the cup of Love's bliss in full measure,
And quaff the contents as our nectar below.
1805.
[Footnote 1: [There is no heading in the Quarto.]]
[Footnote i: _will deprive me of thee_.--[4to]]
[Footnote ii:
_No jargon of priests o'er our union was mutter'd,
To rivet the fetters of husband and wife;
By our lips, by our hearts, were our vows alone utter'd,
To perform them, in full, would ask more than a life_.--[4to]]
[Footnote iii: _will unceasingly flow_.--[4to]]
ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE AND SCHOOL OF HARROW ON THE HILL, 1806.
Oh! mihi pr鎡eritos referat si Jupiter annos.[1]
VIRGIL.
1.
Ye scenes of my childhood, whose lov'd recollection
Embitters the present, compar'd with the past;
Where science first dawn'd on the powers of reflection,
And friendships were form'd, too romantic to last; [2]
2.
Where fancy, yet, joys to retrace the resemblance
Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied; [3]
How welcome to me your ne'er fading remembrance, [i]
Which rests in the bosom, though hope is deny'd!
3.
Again I revisit the hills where we sported,
The streams where we swam, and the fields where we fought; [4]
The school where, loud warn'd by the bell, we resorted,
To pore o'er the precepts by Pedagogues taught.
4.
Again I behold where for hours I have ponder'd,
As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone [5] I lay;
Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander'd,
To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray.
5.
I once more view the room, with spectators surrounded,
Where, as Zanga, [6] I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown;
While, to swell my young pride, such applauses resounded,
I fancied that Mossop [7] himself was outshone.
6.
Or, as Lear, I pour'd forth the deep imprecation,
By my daughters, of kingdom and reason depriv'd;
Till, fir'd by loud plaudits and self-adulation,
I regarded myself as a _Garrick_ reviv'd. [ii]
7.
Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you!
Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast; [iii]
Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you:
Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest.
8.
To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me, [iv]
While Fate shall the shades of the future unroll!
Since Darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me,
More dear is the beam of the past to my soul!
9.
But if, through the course of the years which await me,
Some new scene of pleasure should open to view,
I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me,
"Oh! such were the days which my infancy knew." [8]
1806.
[Footnote 1: The motto was prefixed in 'Hours of Idleness'.]
[Footnote 2:
"My school-friendships were with me _passions_ (for I was always
violent), but I do not know that there is one which has endured (to be
sure, some have been cut short by death) till now."
'Diary', 1821; 'Life', p. 21.]
[Footnote 3: Byron was at first placed in the house of Mr. Henry
Drury, but in 1803 was removed to that of Mr. Evans.
"The reason why Lord Byron wishes for the change, arises from the
repeated complaints of Mr. Henry Drury respecting his inattention to
business, and his propensity to make others laugh and disregard their
employment as much as himself."
Dr. Joseph Drury to Mr. John Hanson.]
[Footnote 4:
"At Harrow I fought my way very fairly. I think I lost but one battle
out of seven."
'Diary', 1821; 'Life', p. 21.]
[Footnote 5: A tomb in the churchyard at Harrow was so well known to be
his favourite resting-place, that the boys called it "Byron's Tomb:" and
here, they say, he used to sit for hours, wrapt up in thought.--'Life',
p. 26.]
[Footnote 6: For the display of his declamatory powers, on the
speech-days, he _select_ed always the most vehement passages; such as the
speech of Zanga over the body of Alonzo, and Lear's address to the
storm.--'Life', p. 20, 'note'; and 'post', p. 103, 'var'. i.]
[Footnote 7: Henry Mossop (1729-1773), a contemporary of Garrick, famous
for his performance of "Zanga" in Young's tragedy of 'The Revenge'.]
[Footnote 8: Stanzas 8 and 9 first appeared in 'Hours of Idleness'.]
[Footnote i:
'How welcome once more'.
[4to]]
[Footnote ii:
'I consider'd myself'.
[4to]]
[Footnote iii:
'As your memory beams through this agonized breast;
Thus sad and deserted, I n'er can forget you,
Though this heart throbs to bursting by anguish possest.
[4to]
Your memory beams through this agonized breast.--
[P. on V. Occasions.']
[Footnote iv:
'I thought this poor brain, fever'd even to madness,
Of tears as of reason for ever was drain'd;
But the drops which now flow down _this_ bosom of sadness,
Convince me the springs have some moisture retain'd'.
'Sweet scenes of my childhood! your blest recollection,
Has wrung from these eyelids, to weeping long dead,
In torrents, the tears of my warmest affection,
The last and the fondest, I ever shall shed'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]
THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE EXAMINATION.
High in the midst, surrounded by his peers,
Magnus [1] his ample front sublime uprears: [i]
Plac'd on his chair of state, he seems a God,
While Sophs [2] and Freshmen tremble at his nod;
As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom, [ii]
_His_ voice, in thunder, shakes the sounding dome;
Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools,
Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules.
Happy the youth! in Euclid's axioms tried,
Though little vers'd in any art beside; 10
Who, scarcely skill'd an English line to pen, [iii]
Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken.
What! though he knows not how his fathers bled,
When civil discord pil'd the fields with dead,
When Edward bade his conquering bands advance,
Or Henry trampled on the crest of France:
Though marvelling at the name of _Magna Charta_,
Yet well he recollects the _laws_ of _Sparta_;
Can tell, what edicts sage _Lycurgus_ made,
While _Blackstone's_ on the _shelf_, _neglected_ laid; 20
Of _Grecian dramas_ vaunts the deathless fame,
Of _Avon's bard_, rememb'ring scarce the name.
Such is the youth whose scientific pate
Class-honours, medals, fellowships, await;
Or even, perhaps, the _declamation_ prize,
If to such glorious height, he lifts his eyes.
But lo! no _common_ orator can hope
The envied silver cup within his scope:
Not that our _heads_ much eloquence require,
Th' ATHENIAN'S [3] glowing style, or TULLY'S fire. 30
A _manner_ clear or warm is useless, since [iv]
We do not try by _speaking_ to _convince_;
Be other _orators_ of pleasing _proud_,--
We speak to _please_ ourselves, not _move_ the crowd:
Our gravity prefers the _muttering_ tone,
A proper mixture of the _squeak_ and _groan_:
No borrow'd _grace_ of _action_ must be seen,
The slightest motion would displease the _Dean_;
Whilst every staring Graduate would prate,
Against what--_he_ could never imitate. 40
The man, who hopes t' obtain the promis'd cup,
Must in one _posture_ stand, and _ne'er look up_;
Nor _stop_, but rattle over _every_ word--
No matter _what_, so it can _not_ be heard:
Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest:
Who speaks the _fastest's_ sure to speak the _best_;
Who utters most within the shortest space,
May, safely, hope to win the _wordy race_.
The Sons of _Science_ these, who, thus repaid,
Linger in ease in Granta's sluggish shade; 50
Where on Cam's sedgy banks, supine, they lie,
Unknown, unhonour'd live--unwept for die:
Dull as the pictures, which adorn their halls,
They think all learning fix'd within their walls:
In manners rude, in foolish forms precise,
All modern arts affecting to despise;
Yet prizing _Bentley's, Brunck's_, or _Porson's_ [4] note, [v]
More than the _verse on which the critic wrote_:
Vain as their honours, heavy as their Ale, [5]
Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale; 60
To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel,
When Self and Church demand a Bigot zeal.
With eager haste they court the lord of power, [vi]
(Whether 'tis PITT or PETTY [6] rules the hour;)
To _him_, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head,
While distant mitres to their eyes are spread; [vii]
But should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace,
They'd fly to seek the next, who fill'd his place.
_Such_ are the men who learning's treasures guard!
_Such_ is their _practice_, such is their _reward_! 70
This _much_, at least, we may presume to say--
The premium can't exceed the _price_ they _pay_. [viii]
1806.
[Footnote 1:
No reflection is here intended against the person mentioned under the
name of Magnus. He is merely represented as performing an unavoidable
function of his office. Indeed, such an attempt could only recoil upon
myself; as that gentleman is now as much distinguished by his
eloquence, and the dignified propriety with which he fills his
situation, as he was in his younger days for wit and conviviality.
[Dr. William Lort Mansel (1753-1820) was, in 1798, appointed Master of
Trinity College, by Pitt. He obtained the bishopric of Bristol, through
the influence of his pupil, Spencer Perceval, in 1808. He died in 1820.]
[Footnote 2: Undergraduates of the second and third year.]
[Footnote 3: Demosthenes.]
[Footnote 4: The present Greek professor at Trinity College, Cambridge;
a man whose powers of mind and writings may, perhaps, justify their
preference. [Richard Porson (1759-1808). For Byron's description of him,
see letter to Murray, of February 20, 1818. Byron says ('Diary',
December 17, 18, 1813) that he wrote the 'Devil's Drive' in imitation of
Porson's 'Devil's Walk'. This was a common misapprehension at the time.
The 'Devil's Thoughts' was the joint composition of Coleridge and
Southey, but it was generally attributed to Porson, who took no trouble
to disclaim it. It was originally published in the 'Morning Post', Sept.
6, 1799, and Stuart, the editor, said that it raised the circulation of
the paper for several days after. (See Coleridge's Poems (1893), pp.
147, 621.)]
[Footnote 5: Lines 59-62 are not in the Quarto. They first appeared in
'Poems Original and Translated']
[Footnote 6: Since this was written, Lord Henry Petty has lost his
place, and subsequently (I had almost said consequently) the honour of
representing the University. A fact so glaring requires no comment.
(Lord Henry Petty, M.P. for the University of Cambridge, was Chancellor
of the Exchequer in 1805; but in 1807 he lost his seat. In 1809 he
succeeded his brother as Marquis of Lansdowne. He died in 1863.)]
[Footnote i: 'M--us--l.--'[4to]]
[Footnote ii: 'Whilst all around.'--[4to]]
[Footnote iii:
'Who with scarse sense to pen an English letter,
Yet with precision scans an Attis metre.'
[4to]]
[Footnote iv:
'The manner of the speech is nothing, since',
[4to. 'P, on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote v:
'Celebrated critics'.
[4to. 'Three first Editions'.]]
[Footnote vi:
'They court the tool of power'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions.']]
[Footnote vii:
'While mitres, prebends'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions.']]
[Footnote viii:
The 'reward's' scarce equal to the 'price' they pay.
[4to]]
TO MARY,
ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE. [1]
1.
This faint resemblance of thy charms,
(Though strong as mortal art could give,)
My constant heart of fear disarms,
Revives my hopes, and bids me live.
2.
Here, I can trace the locks of gold
Which round thy snowy forehead wave;
The cheeks which sprung from Beauty's mould,
The lips, which made me 'Beauty's' slave.
3.
Here I can trace--ah, no! that eye,
Whose azure floats in liquid fire,
Must all the painter's art defy,
And bid him from the task retire.
4.
Here, I behold its beauteous hue;
But where's the beam so sweetly straying, [i.]
Which gave a lustre to its blue,
Like Luna o'er the ocean playing?
5.
Sweet copy! far more dear to me,
Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art,
Than all the living forms could be,
Save her who plac'd thee next my heart.
6.
She plac'd it, sad, with needless fear,
Lest time might shake my wavering soul,
Unconscious that her image there
Held every sense in fast controul.
7.
Thro' hours, thro' years, thro' time,'twill cheer--
My hope, in gloomy moments, raise;
In life's last conflict 'twill appear,
And meet my fond, expiring gaze.
[Footnote 1: This "Mary" is not to be confounded with the heiress of
Annesley, or "Mary" of Aberdeen. She was of humble station in life.
Byron used to show a lock of her light golden hair, as well as her
picture, among his friends. (See 'Life', p. 41, 'note'.)]
[Footnote i.:
'But Where's the beam of soft desire?
Which gave a lustre to its blue,
Love, only love, could e'er inspire.--'
[4to. 'P. on V, Occasions]]
ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX,[1]
THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU APPEARED IN THE "MORNING POST."
"Our Nation's foes lament on _Fox's_ death,
But bless the hour, when PITT resign'd his breath:
These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue,
We give the palm, where Justice points its due."
TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES SENT THE FOLLOWING REPLY [i]
FOR _INSERT_ION IN THE "MORNING CHRONICLE."
Oh, factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth
Would mangle, still, the dead, perverting truth; [ii]
What, though our "nation's foes" lament the fate,
With generous feeling, of the good and great;
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name [iii]
Of him, whose meed exists in endless fame?
When PITT expir'd in plenitude of power,
Though ill success obscur'd his dying hour,
Pity her dewy wings before him spread,
For noble spirits "war not with the dead:"
His friends in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave; [iv]
He sunk, an Atlas bending "'neath the weight" [v]
Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state.
When, lo! a Hercules, in Fox, appear'd,
Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd:
He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied, [vi]
With him, our fast reviving hopes have died;
Not one great people, only, raise his urn,
All Europe's far-extended regions mourn.
"These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth undue,
To give the palm where Justice points its due;" [vii]
Yet, let not canker'd Calumny assail, [viii]
Or round her statesman wind her gloomy veil.
FOX! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep,
Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep;
For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan,
While friends and foes, alike, his talents own.--[ix]
Fox! shall, in Britain's future annals, shine,
Nor e'en to PITT, the patriot's 'palm' resign;
Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask,
For PITT, and PITT alone, has dar'd to ask. [x]
(Southwell, Oct., 1806. [1])
[Footnote 1: The stanza on the death of Fox appeared in the _Morning
Post_, September 26, 1806.]
[Footnote 2: This MS. is preserved at Newstead.]
[Footnote i:
_The subjoined Reply._
[4to] ]
[Footnote ii:
_Would mangle, still, the dead, in spite of truth._
[4to] ]
[Footnote iii:
_Shall, therefore, dastard tongues assail the name
Of him, whose virtues claim eternal fame?_
[4to] ]
[Footnote iv: _And all his errors._--[4to] ]
[Footnote v:
_He died, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight
Of cares oppressing our unhappy state.
But lo! another Hercules appeared._
[4to] ]
[Footnote vi:
_He too is dead who still our England propp'd
With him our fast reviving hopes have dropp'd._
[4to] ]
[Footnote vii: _And give the palm._ [4to] ]
[Footnote viii:
_But let not canker'd Calumny assail
And round.--
[4to] ]
[Footnote ix: _And friends and foes._ [4to] ]
[Footnote x: '--would dare to ask.' [410]]
TO A LADY WHO PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF HAIR BRAIDED WITH HIS
OWN, AND APPOINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER TO MEET HIM IN THE GARDEN. [1]
These locks, which fondly thus entwine,
In firmer chains our hearts confine,
Than all th' unmeaning protestations
Which swell with nonsense, love orations.
Our love is fix'd, I think we've prov'd it;
Nor time, nor place, nor art have mov'd it;
Then wherefore should we sigh and whine,
With groundless jealousy repine;
With silly whims, and fancies frantic,
Merely to make our love romantic?
Why should you weep, like _Lydia Languish_,
And fret with self-created anguish?
Or doom the lover you have chosen,
On winter nights to sigh half frozen;
In leafless shades, to sue for pardon,
Only because the scene's a garden?
For gardens seem, by one consent,
(Since Shakespeare set the precedent;
Since Juliet first declar'd her passion)
To form the place of assignation.
Oh! would some modern muse inspire,
And seat her by a _sea-coal_ fire;
Or had the bard at Christmas written,
And laid the scene of love in Britain;
He surely, in commiseration,
Had chang'd the place of declaration.
In Italy, I've no objection,
Warm nights are proper for reflection;
But here our climate is so rigid,
That love itself, is rather frigid:
Think on our chilly situation,
And curb this rage for imitation.
Then let us meet, as oft we've done,
Beneath the influence of the sun;
Or, if at midnight I must meet you,
Within your mansion let me greet you: [i.]
'There', we can love for hours together,
Much better, in such snowy weather,
Than plac'd in all th' Arcadian groves,
That ever witness'd rural loves;
'Then', if my passion fail to please, [ii.]
Next night I'll be content to freeze;
No more I'll give a loose to laughter,
But curse my fate, for ever after. [2]
[Footnote 1: These lines are addressed to the same Mary referred to in
the lines beginning, "This faint resemblance of thy charms." ('Vide
ante', p. 32.)]
[Footnote 2: In the above little piece the author has been accused by
some 'candid readers' of introducing the name of a lady [Julia
Leacroft] from whom he was some hundred miles distant at the time this
was written; and poor Juliet, who has slept so long in "the tomb of all
the Capulets," has been converted, with a trifling alteration of her
name, into an English damsel, walking in a garden of their own creation,
during the month of 'December', in a village where the author never
passed a winter. Such has been the candour of some ingenious critics. We
would advise these 'liberal' commentators on taste and arbiters of
decorum to read 'Shakespeare'.
Having heard that a very severe and indelicate censure has been passed
on the above poem, I beg leave to reply in a quotation from an admired
work, 'Carr's Stranger in France'.--"As we were contemplating a
painting on a large scale, in which, among other figures, is the
uncovered whole length of a warrior, a prudish-looking lady, who seemed
to have touched the age of desperation, after having attentively
surveyed it through her glass, observed to her party that there was a
great deal of indecorum in that picture. Madame S. shrewdly whispered in
my ear 'that the indecorum was in the remark.'"--[Ed. 1803, cap. xvi, p.
171. Compare the note on verses addressed "To a Knot of Ungenerous
Critics," p. 213.]]
[Footnote i:
'Oh! let me in your chamber greet you.'
[4to]]
[Footnote ii:
'There if my passion'
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions]]
TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER. [1]
Sweet girl! though only once we met,
That meeting I shall ne'er forget;
And though we ne'er may meet again,
Remembrance will thy form retain;
I would not say, "I love," but still,
My senses struggle with my will:
In vain to drive thee from my breast,
My thoughts are more and more represt;
In vain I check the rising sighs,
Another to the last replies:
Perhaps, this is not love, but yet,
Our meeting I can ne'er forget.
What, though we never silence broke,
Our eyes a sweeter language spoke;
The tongue in flattering falsehood deals,
And tells a tale it never feels:
Deceit, the guilty lips impart,
And hush the mandates of the heart;
But soul's interpreters, the eyes,
Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise.
As thus our glances oft convers'd,
And all our bosoms felt rehears'd,
No _spirit_, from within, reprov'd us,
Say rather, "'twas the _spirit mov'd_ us."
Though, what they utter'd, I repress,
Yet I conceive thou'lt partly guess;
For as on thee, my memory ponders,
Perchance to me, thine also wanders.
This, for myself, at least, I'll say,
Thy form appears through night, through day;
Awake, with it my fancy teems,
In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams;
The vision charms the hours away,
And bids me curse Aurora's ray
For breaking slumbers of delight,
Which make me wish for endless night.
Since, oh! whate'er my future fate,
Shall joy or woe my steps await;
Tempted by love, by storms beset,
Thine image, I can ne'er forget.
Alas! again no more we meet,
No more our former looks repeat;
Then, let me breathe this parting prayer,
The dictate of my bosom's care:
"May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker,
That anguish never can o'ertake her;
That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her,
But bliss be aye her heart's partaker!
Oh! may the happy mortal, fated [i]
To be, by dearest ties, related,
For _her_, each hour, _new joys_ discover, [ii]
And lose the husband in the lover!
May that fair bosom never know
What 'tis to feel the restless woe,
Which stings the soul, with vain regret,
Of him, who never can forget!"
1806.
[Footnote 1:
_Whom the author saw at Harrowgate_.
Annotated copy of 'P. on V. Occasions', p. 64 (British Museum).]
[Footnote i:
The Quarto _insert_s the following lines:--
_"No jealous passion shall invade,
No envy that pure heart pervade;"
For he that revels in such charms,
Can never seek another's arms._]
[Footnote ii:
new joy _discover_.
[4to]]
TO LESBIA! [i] [1]
1.
LESBIA! since far from you I've rang'd, [ii]
Our souls with fond affection glow not;
You say, 'tis I, not you, have chang'd,
I'd tell you why,--but yet I know not.
2.
Your polish'd brow no cares have crost;
And Lesbia! we are not much older, [iii]
Since, trembling, first my heart I lost,
Or told my love, with hope grown bolder.
3.
Sixteen was then our utmost age,
Two years have lingering pass'd away, love!
And now new thoughts our minds engage,
At least, I feel disposed to stray, love!
4.
"Tis _I_ that am alone to blame,
_I_, that am guilty of love's treason;
Since your sweet breast is still the same,
Caprice must be my only reason.
5.
I do not, love! suspect your truth,
With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not;
Warm was the passion of my youth,
One trace of dark deceit it leaves not.
6.
No, no, my flame was not pretended;
For, oh! I lov'd you most sincerely;
And though our dream at last is ended
My bosom still esteems you dearly.
7.
No more we meet in yonder bowers;
Absence has made me prone to roving; [iv]
But older, firmer _hearts_ than ours
Have found monotony in loving.
8.
Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd,
New beauties, still, are daily bright'ning,
Your eye, for conquest beams prepar'd, [v]
The forge of love's resistless lightning.
9.
Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed,
Many will throng, to sigh like me, love!
More constant they may prove, indeed;
Fonder, alas! they ne'er can be, love!
1806.
[Footnote 1: "The lady's name was Julia Leacroft" ('Note by Miss E.
Pigot'). The word "Julia" (?) is added, in a lady's hand, in the
annotated copy of 'P. on V. Occasions', p. 52 (British Museum)]
[Footnote i: 'To Julia'. [4to]]
[Footnote ii: 'Julia since'. [4to]]
[Footnote iii: 'And Julia'. [4to]]
[Footnote iv:
_Perhaps my soul's too pure for roving_.
[4to]]
[Footnote v:
_Your eye for conquest comes prepar'd_.
[4to]]
TO WOMAN.
Woman! experience might have told me [i]
That all must love thee, who behold thee:
Surely experience might have taught
Thy firmest promises are nought; [ii]
But, plac'd in all thy charms before me,
All I forget, but to _adore_ thee.
Oh memory! thou choicest blessing,
When join'd with hope, when still possessing; [iii]
But how much curst by every lover
When hope is fled, and passion's over.
Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,
How prompt are striplings to believe her!
How throbs the pulse, when first we view
The eye that rolls in glossy blue,
Or sparkles black, or mildly throws
A beam from under hazel brows!
How quick we credit every oath,
And hear her plight the willing troth!
Fondly we hope 'twill last for ay,
When, lo! she changes in a day.
This record will for ever stand,'
"Woman, thy vows are trac'd in sand." [1] [iv]
[Footnote i:
_Surely, experience_.
[4to]]
[Footnote ii:
_A woman's promises are naught_.
[4to]]
[Footnote iii: Here follows, in the Quarto, an additional couplet:--
_Thou whisperest, as our hearts are beating,
"What oft we've done, we're still repeating_,"]
[Footnote iv:
_This Record will for ever stand
That Woman's vows are writ in sand_.
[4to]]
[Footnote 1: The last line is almost a literal translation from a
Spanish proverb.
(The last line is not "almost a literal translation from a Spanish
proverb," but an adaptation of part of a stanza from the 'Diana' of
Jorge de Montemajor--
"Mir? el Amor, lo que ordena;
Que os viene a hazer creer
Cosas dichas por muger,
Y escriptas en el arena."
Southey, in his 'Letters from Spain', 1797, pp. 87-91, gives a specimen
of the 'Diana', and renders the lines in question thus--
"And Love beheld us from his secret stand,
And mark'd his triumph, laughing, to behold me,
To see me trust a writing traced in sand,
To see me credit what a woman told me."
Byron, who at this time had little or no knowledge of Spanish
literature, seems to have been struck with Southey's paraphrase, and
compressed the quatrain into an epigram.]
AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE,
DELIVERED BY THE AUTHOR PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE OF "THE WHEEL OF
FORTUNE" AT A PRIVATE THEATRE. [1]
Since the refinement of this polish'd age
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage;
Since taste has now expung'd licentious wit,
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ;
Since, now, to please with purer scenes we seek,
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek;
Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim,
And meet indulgence--though she find not fame.
Still, not for _her_ alone, we wish respect, [i]
_Others_ appear more conscious of defect:
To-night no _vet'ran Roscii_ you behold,
In all the arts of scenic action old;
No COOKE, no KEMBLE, can salute you here,
No SIDDONS draw the sympathetic tear;
To-night you throng to witness the _d閎ut_
Of embryo Actors, to the Drama new:
Here, then, our almost unfledg'd wings we try;
Clip not our _pinions_, ere the _birds can fly_:
Failing in this our first attempt to soar,
Drooping, alas! we fall to rise no more.
Not one poor trembler, only, fear betrays,
Who hopes, yet almost dreads to meet your praise;
But all our Dramatis Person?wait,
In fond suspense this crisis of their fate.
No venal views our progress can retard,
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward;
For these, each _Hero_ all his power displays, [ii]
Each timid _Heroine_ shrinks before your gaze:
Surely the last will some protection find? [iii]
None, to the softer sex, can prove unkind:
While Youth and Beauty form the female shield, [iv]
The sternest Censor to the fair must yield. [v]
Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail,
Should, _after all_, our best endeavours fail;
Still, let some mercy in your bosoms live,
And, if you can't applaud, at least _forgive_.
[Footnote 1. "I enacted Penruddock, in 'The Wheel of Fortune', and
Tristram Fickle, in the farce of 'The Weathercock', for three nights, in
some private theatricals at Southwell, in 1806, with great applause. The
occasional prologue for our volunteer play was also of my
composition."--'Diary; Life', p. 38. The prologue was written by him,
between stages, on his way from Harrogate. On getting into the carriage
at Chesterfield, he said to his companion, "Now, Pigot, I'll spin a
prologue for our play;" and before they reached Mansfield he had
completed his task,--interrupting only once his rhyming reverie, to ask
the proper pronunciation of the French word 'd閎ut'; and, on being told
it, exclaiming, "Aye, that will do for rhyme to ''new'.'"--'Life', p.
39. "The Prologue was spoken by G. Wylde, Esq."--Note by Miss E. PIGOT.]
[Footnote i. _But not for her alone_.--[4to]
[Footnote ii: _For them each Hero_.--[4to]]
[Footnote iii: _Surely these last_.--[4to]]
[Footnote iv: _Whilst Youth_.--[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote v: _The sternest critic_.--[4to]]
TO ELIZA. [i]
1.
Eliza! [1] what fools are the Mussulman sect,
Who, to woman, deny the soul's future existence;
Could they see thee, Eliza! they'd own their defect,
And this doctrine would meet with a general resistance. [ii]
2.
Had their Prophet possess'd half an atom of sense, [iii]
He ne'er would have _woman_ from Paradise driven;
Instead of his _Houris_, a flimsy pretence, [iv]
With _woman alone_ he had peopled his Heaven.
3.
Yet, still, to increase your calamities more, [v]
Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit,
He allots one poor husband to share amongst four! [vi]--
With _souls_ you'd dispense; but, this last, who could bear it?
4.
His religion to please neither party is made;
On _husbands_ 'tis _hard_, to the wives most uncivil;
Still I can't contradict, [vii] what so oft has been said,
"Though women are angels, yet wedlock's the devil."
5.
This terrible truth, even Scripture has told, [2]
Ye Benedicks! hear me, and listen with rapture;
If a glimpse of redemption you wish to behold,
Of ST. MATT.--read the second and twentieth chapter.
6.
'Tis surely enough upon earth to be vex'd,
With wives who eternal confusion are spreading;
"But in Heaven" (so runs the Evangelists' Text)
"We neither have giving in marriage, or wedding."
7.
From this we suppose, (as indeed well we may,)
That should Saints after death, with their spouses put up more,
And wives, as in life, aim at absolute sway,
All Heaven would ring with the conjugal uproar.
8.
Distraction and Discord would follow in course,
Nor MATTHEW, nor MARK, nor ST. PAUL, can deny it,
The only expedient is general divorce,
To prevent universal disturbance and riot.
9.
But though husband and wife, shall at length be disjoin'd,
Yet woman and man ne'er were meant to dissever,
Our chains once dissolv'd, and our hearts unconfin'd,
We'll love without bonds, but we'll love you for ever.
10.
Though souls are denied you by fools and by rakes,
Should you own it yourselves, I would even then doubt you,
Your nature so much of _celestial_ partakes,
The Garden of Eden would wither without you.
Southwell, _October_ 9, 1806.
[Footnote 1: The letters "E. B. P." are added, in a lady's hand, in the
annotated copy of _P. on V. Occasions_, p. 26 (_British Museum_). The
initials stand for Miss Elizabeth Pigot.]
[Footnote 2: Stanzas 5-10, which appear in the Quarto, were never
reprinted.]
[Footnote i:
_To Miss E. P._ [4to]
_To Miss_---. [_P. on V. Occasions._]]
[Footnote ii:
_Did they know but yourself they would bend with respect,
And this doctrine must meet_---.
[_MS. Newstead_.]]
[Footnote iii: _But an atom of sense_. [4to]]
[Footnote iv: _But instead of his_ Houris. [4to]]
[Footnote v: _But still to increase_. [4to]]
[Footnote vi: _He allots but one husband. [4to]]
[Footnote vii: _But I can't---._ [4to]]
THE TEAR.
O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater
Felix! in imo qui scatentem
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit. [1]
GRAY, 'Alcaic Fragment'.
1.
When Friendship or Love
Our sympathies move;
When Truth, in a glance, should appear,
The lips may beguile,
With a dimple or smile,
But the test of affection's a _Tear_.
2.
Too oft is a smile
But the hypocrite's wile,
To mask detestation, or fear;
Give me the soft sigh,
Whilst the soul-telling eye
Is dimm'd, for a time, with a _Tear_.
3.
Mild Charity's glow,
To us mortals below,
Shows the soul from barbarity clear;
Compassion will melt,
Where this virtue is felt,
And its dew is diffused in a _Tear_.
4.
The man, doom'd to sail
With the blast of the gale,
Through billows Atlantic to steer,
As he bends o'er the wave
Which may soon be his grave,
The green sparkles bright with a _Tear_.
5.
The Soldier braves death
For a fanciful wreath
In Glory's romantic career;
But he raises the foe
When in battle laid low,
And bathes every wound with a _Tear_.
6.
If, with high-bounding pride,[i]
He return to his bride!
Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear;
All his toils are repaid
When, embracing the maid,
From her eyelid he kisses the _Tear_.
7.
Sweet scene of my youth! [2]
Seat of Friendship and Truth,
Where Love chas'd each fast-fleeting year;
Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd,
For a last look I turn'd,
But thy spire was scarce seen through a _Tear_.
8.
Though my vows I can pour,
To my Mary no more, [3]
My Mary, to Love once so dear,
In the shade of her bow'r,
I remember the hour,
She rewarded those vows with a _Tear_.
9.
By another possest,
May she live ever blest!
Her name still my heart must revere:
With a sigh I resign,
What I once thought was mine,
And forgive her deceit with a _Tear_.
10.
Ye friends of my heart,
Ere from you I depart,
This hope to my breast is most near:
If again we shall meet,
In this rural retreat,
May we _meet_, as we _part_, with a _Tear_.
11.
When my soul wings her flight
To the regions of night,
And my corse shall recline on its bier; [ii]
As ye pass by the tomb,
Where my ashes consume,
Oh! moisten their dust with a _Tear_.
12.
May no marble bestow
The splendour of woe,
Which the children of Vanity rear;
No fiction of fame
Shall blazon my name,
All I ask, all I wish, is a _Tear_.
October 26, 1806. [iii]
[Footnote 1: The motto was prefixed in 'Hours of Idleness'.]
[Footnote 2: Harrow.]
[Footnote 3: Miss Chaworth was married in 1805.]
[Footnote i:
_When with high-bounding pride,
He returns_----.
[4to]]
[Footnote ii:
_And my body shall sleep on its bier_.
[4to. _P. on V. Occasions_.]]
[Footnote iii:
BYRON, October 26, 1806.
[4to]]
REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J. M. B. PIGOT, ESQ.,
ON THE CRUELTY OF HIS MISTRESS. [1]
1.
Why, Pigot, complain
Of this damsel's disdain,
Why thus in despair do you fret?
For months you may try,
Yet, believe me, a _sigh_ [i]
Will never obtain a _coquette_.
2.
Would you teach her to love?
For a time seem to rove;
At first she may _frown_ in a _pet;_
But leave her awhile,
She shortly will smile,
And then you may _kiss_ your _coquette_.
3.
For such are the airs
Of these fanciful fairs,
They think all our _homage_ a _debt_:
Yet a partial neglect [ii]
Soon takes an effect,
And humbles the proudest _coquette_.
4.
Dissemble your pain,
And lengthen your chain,
And seem her _hauteur_ to _regret;_ [iii]
If again you shall sigh,
She no more will deny,
That _yours_ is the rosy _coquette_.
5.
If still, from false pride, [iv]
Your pangs she deride,
This whimsical virgin forget;
Some _other_ admire,
Who will _melt_ with your _fire_,
And laugh at the _little coquette_.
6.
For _me_, I adore
Some _twenty_ or more,
And love them most dearly; but yet,
Though my heart they enthral,
I'd abandon them all,
Did they act like your blooming _coquette_.
7.
No longer repine,
Adopt this design, [v]
And break through her slight-woven net!
Away with despair,
No longer forbear
To fly from the captious _coquette_.
8.
Then quit her, my friend!
Your bosom defend,
Ere quite with her snares you're beset:
Lest your deep-wounded heart,
When incens'd by the smart,
Should lead you to _curse_ the _coquette_.
October 27, 1806. [vi]
[Footnote 1: The letters "C. B. F. J. B. M." are added, in a lady's
hand, in the annotated copy of 'P. on V. Occasions', p. 14 (British
Museum).]
[Footnote i: _But believe me_. [4to]]
[Footnote ii: _But a partial_. [4to]]
[Footnote iii: _Nor seem_. [4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote iv: _But if from false pride._ [4to]]
[Footnote v: _But form this design._ [4to]]
[Footnote vi: BYRON, October 27, 1806. [4to]
GRANTA. A MEDLEY.
[Greek: Argureais logchaisi machou kai panta krataese_o.] [1]
(Reply of the Pythian Oracle to Philip of Macedon.)
1.
Oh! could LE SAGE'S [2] demon's gift
Be realis'd at my desire,
This night my trembling form he'd lift
To place it on St. Mary's spire. [i]
2.
Then would, unroof'd, old Granta's halls,
Pedantic inmates full display;
_Fellows_ who dream on _lawn_ or _stalls_,
The price of venal votes to pay. [ii]
3.
Then would I view each rival wight,
PETTY and PALMERSTON survey;
Who canvass there, with all their might, [iii]
Against the next elective day. [3]
4.
Lo! candidates and voters lie [iv]
All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number!
A race renown'd for piety,
Whose conscience won't disturb their slumber.
5.
Lord H---[4] indeed, may not demur;
Fellows are sage, reflecting men:
They know preferment can occur,
But very seldom,--_now_ and _then_.
6.
They know the Chancellor has got
Some pretty livings in disposal:
Each hopes that _one_ may be his _lot_,
And, therefore, smiles on his proposal. [v]
7.
Now from the soporific scene [vi]
I'll turn mine eye, as night grows later,
To view, unheeded and unseen, [vii]
The studious sons of Alma Mater.
8.
There, in apartments small and damp,
The candidate for college prizes,
Sits poring by the midnight lamp;
Goes late to bed, yet early rises. [viii]
9.
He surely well deserves to gain them,
With all the honours of his college, [ix]
Who, striving hardly to obtain them,
Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge:
10.
Who sacrifices hours of rest,
To scan precisely metres Attic;
Or agitates his anxious breast, [x]
In solving problems mathematic:
11.
Who reads false quantities in Seale, [5]
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle;
Depriv'd of many a wholesome meal; [xi]
In _barbarous Latin_ [6] doom'd to wrangle:
12.
Renouncing every pleasing page,
From authors of historic use;
Preferring to the letter'd sage,
The square of the hypothenuse. [7]
13.
Still, harmless are these occupations, [xii]
That hurt none but the hapless student,
Compar'd with other recreations,
Which bring together the imprudent;
14.
Whose daring revels shock the sight,
When vice and infamy combine,
When Drunkenness and dice invite, [xiii]
As every sense is steep'd in wine.
15.
Not so the methodistic crew,
Who plans of reformation lay:
In humble attitude they sue,
And for the sins of others pray:
16.
Forgetting that their pride of spirit,
Their exultation in their trial, [xiv]
Detracts most largely from the merit
Of all their boasted self-denial.
17.
'Tis morn:--from these I turn my sight:
What scene is this which meets the eye?
A numerous crowd array'd in white, [8]
Across the green in numbers fly.
18.
Loud rings in air the chapel bell;
'Tis hush'd:--what sounds are these I hear?
The organ's soft celestial swell
Rolls deeply on the listening ear.
19.
To this is join'd the sacred song,
The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain;
Though _he_ who hears the _music_ long, [xv]
Will _never_ wish to _hear again_.
20.
Our choir would scarcely be excus'd,
E'en as a band of raw beginners;
All mercy, now, must be refus'd [xvi]
To such a set of croaking sinners.
21.
If David, when his toils were ended,
Had heard these blockheads sing before him,
To us his psalms had ne'er descended,--
In furious mood he would have tore 'em.
22.
The luckless Israelites, when taken
By some inhuman tyrant's order,
Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken,
On Babylonian river's border.
23.
Oh! had they sung in notes like these [xvii]
Inspir'd by stratagem or fear,
They might have set their hearts at ease,
The devil a soul had stay'd to hear.
24.
But if I scribble longer now, [xviii]
The deuce a soul will _stay to read_;
My pen is blunt, my ink is low;
'Tis almost time to _stop_, _indeed_.
25.
Therefore, farewell, old _Granta's_ spires!
No more, like _Cleofas_, I fly;
No more thy theme my Muse inspires:
The reader's tir'd, and so am I.
October 28, 1806.
[Footnote 1: The motto was prefixed in 'Hours of Idleness'.
"Fight with silver spears" ('i.e'. with bribes), "and them shall
prevail in all things."]
[Footnote 2: The 'Diable Boiteux' of Le Sage, where Asmodeus, the demon,
places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation, and unroofs the houses for
inspection. [Don Cleofas, clinging to the cloak of Asmodeus, is carried
through the air to the summit of S. Salvador.]
[Footnote 3: On the death of Pitt, in January, 1806, Lord Henry Petty
beat Lord Palmerston in the contest for the representation of the
University of Cambridge in Parliament.]
[Footnote 4: Probably Lord Henry Petty. See variant iii.]
[Footnote 5: Scale's publication on Greek Metres displays considerable
talent and ingenuity, but, as might be expected in so difficult a work,
is not remarkable for accuracy. ('An Analysis of the Greek Metres; for
the use of students at the University of Cambridge'. By John Barlow
Seale (1764), 8vo. A fifth edition was issued in 1807.)]
[Footnote 6. The Latin of the schools is of the 'canine species', and
not very intelligible.]
[Footnote 7: The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of the
hypothenuse is equal to the squares of the other two sides of a
right-angled triangle.]
[Footnote 8: On a saint's day the students wear surplices in chapel.]
[Footnote i: 'And place it'. [4to]]
[Footnote ii: 'The price of hireling'. [4to]]
[Footnote iii: 'Who canvass now'. [4to]]
[Footnote iv:
'One on his power and place depends,
The other on--the Lord knows what!
Each to some eloquence pretends,
But neither will convince by that.
The first, indeed, may not demur;
Fellows are sage reflecting men,
And know'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote v:
'And therefore smiles at his'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote vi:
'Now from Corruption's shameless scene'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote vii: 'And view unseen'. [4to]]
[Footnote viii: 'and early rises'. [4to]]
[Footnote ix: 'And all the' [4to]]
[Footnote x: 'And agitates'. [4to]]
[Footnote xi: 'And robs himself of many a meal'. [4to]]
[Footnote xii:
'But harmless are these occupations
Which'.
[4to]]
[Footnote xiii:
'When Drunkenness and dice unite.
And every sense'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote xiv: 'And exultation'. [4to]]
[Footnote xv: 'But he'. [4to]]
[Footnote xvi: 'But mercy'. [4to]]
[Footnote xvii: 'But had they sung'. [4to]]
[Footnote xviii:
'But if I write much longer now'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
TO THE SIGHING STREPHON. [1]
1.
Your pardon, my friend,
If my rhymes did offend,
Your pardon, a thousand times o'er;
From friendship I strove,
Your pangs to remove,
But, I swear, I will do so no more.
2.
Since your _beautiful_ maid,
Your flame has repaid,
No more I your folly regret;
She's now most divine,
And I bow at the shrine,
Of this quickly reform鑔 coquette.
3.
Yet still, I must own, [i]
I should never have known,
From _your verses_, what else she deserv'd;
Your pain seem'd so great,
I pitied your fate,
As your fair was so dev'lish reserv'd.
4.
Since the balm-breathing kiss [ii]
Of this magical Miss,
Can such wonderful transports produce; [iii]
Since the _"world you forget,
When your lips once have met,"_
My counsel will get but abuse.
5.
You say, "When I rove,"
"I know nothing of love;"
Tis true, I am given to range;
If I rightly remember,
_I've lov'd_ a good number; [iv]
Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change.
6.
I will not advance, [v]
By the rules of romance,
To humour a whimsical fair;
Though a smile may delight,
Yet a _frown_ will _affright,_ [vi]
Or drive me to dreadful despair.
7.
While my blood is thus warm,
I ne'er shall reform,
To mix in the Platonists' school;
Of this I am sure,
Was my Passion so pure,
Thy _Mistress_ would think me a fool. [vii]
8 [viii]
And if I should shun,
Every _woman_ for _one,_
Whose _image_ must fill my whole breast;
Whom I must _prefer,_
And _sigh_ but for _her,_
What an _insult_ 'twould be to the _rest!_
9.
Now Strephon, good-bye;
I cannot deny,
Your _passion_ appears most _absurd;_
Such _love_ as you plead,
Is _pure_ love, indeed,
For it _only_ consists in the _word_.
[Footnote 1: The letters "J. M. B. P." are added, in a lady's hand, in
the annotated copy of 'P. on V. Occasions', p. 17 (British Museum).]
[Footnote i: 'But still'. [4to]]
[Footnote ii: 'But since the chaste kiss.' [4to]]
[Footnote iii: 'Such wonderful.' [4to]]
[Footnote iv:
'I've kiss'd a good number.
But-----'
[4to]]
[Footnote v:
'I ne'er will advance.'
[4to]]
[Footnote vi:
'Yet a frown won't affright.'
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions.']]
[Footnote vii:
'My mistress must think me.'
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions.']]
[Footnote viii:
'Though the kisses are sweet,
Which voluptuously meet,
Of kissing I ne'er was so fond,
As to make me forget,
Though our lips oft have met,
That still there was something beyond.'
[4to]
THE CORNELIAN. [1]
1.
No specious splendour of this stone
Endears it to my memory ever;
With lustre _only once_ it shone,
And blushes modest as the giver. [i]
2.
Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties,
Have, for my weakness, oft reprov'd me;
Yet still the simple gift I prize,
For I am sure, the giver lov'd me.
3.
He offer'd it with downcast look,
As _fearful_ that I might refuse it;
I told him, when the gift I took,
My _only fear_ should be, to lose it.
4.
This pledge attentively I view'd,
And _sparkling_ as I held it near,
Methought one drop the stone bedew'd,
And, ever since, _I've lov'd a tear._
5.
Still, to adorn his humble youth,
Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield;
But he, who seeks the flowers of truth,
Must quit the garden, for the field.
6.
'Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth,
Which beauty shews, and sheds perfume;
The flowers, which yield the most of both,
In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom.
7.
Had Fortune aided Nature's care,
For once forgetting to be blind,
_His_ would have been an ample share,
If well proportioned to his mind.
8.
But had the Goddess clearly seen,
His form had fix'd her fickle breast;
_Her_ countless hoards would _his_ have been,
And none remain'd to give the rest.
[Footnote 1: The cornelian was a present from his friend Edleston, a
Cambridge chorister, afterwards a clerk in a mercantile house in London.
Edleston died of consumption, May 11, 1811. (See letter from Byron to
Miss Pigot, October 28, 1811.) Their acquaintance began by Byron saving
him from drowning. (MS. note by the Rev. W. Harness.)]
[Footnote i: 'But blushes modest'. [4to]]
TO M----[i]
1.
Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire,
With bright, but mild affection shine:
Though they might kindle less desire,
Love, more than mortal, would be thine.
2.
For thou art form'd so heavenly fair,
_Howe'er_ those orbs _may_ wildly beam,
We must _admire,_ but still despair;
That fatal glance forbids esteem.
3.
When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth,
So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear'd that, too divine for earth,
The skies might claim thee for their own.
4.
Therefore, to guard her dearest work,
Lest angels might dispute the prize,
She bade a secret lightning lurk,
Within those once celestial eyes.
5.
These might the boldest Sylph appall,
When gleaming with meridian blaze;
Thy beauty must enrapture all;
But who can dare thine ardent gaze?
6.
'Tis said that Berenice's hair,
In stars adorns the vault of heaven;
But they would ne'er permit _thee_ there,
_Thou_ wouldst so far outshine the seven.
7.
For did those eyes as planets roll,
Thy sister-lights would scarce appear:
E'en suns, which systems now controul,
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere. [1]
Friday, November 7, 1806
[Footnote 1:
"Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do intreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return."
Shakespeare.]
[Footnote i: 'To A----'. [4to] ]
LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.[1]
[As the author was discharging his Pistols in a Garden, Two Ladies
passing near the spot were alarmed by the sound of a Bullet hissing near
them, to one of whom the following stanzas were addressed the next
morning.] [2]
1.
Doubtless, sweet girl! the hissing lead,
Wafting destruction o'er thy charms [i]
And hurtling o'er [3] thy lovely head,
Has fill'd that breast with fond alarms.
2.
Surely some envious Demon's force,
Vex'd to behold such beauty here,
Impell'd the bullet's viewless course,
Diverted from its first career.
3.
Yes! in that nearly fatal hour,
The ball obey'd some hell-born guide;
But Heaven, with interposing power,
In pity turn'd the death aside.
4.
Yet, as perchance one trembling tear
Upon that thrilling bosom fell;
Which _I_, th' unconscious cause of fear,
Extracted from its glistening cell;--
5.
Say, what dire penance can atone
For such an outrage, done to thee?
Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne,
What punishment wilt thou decree?
6.
Might I perform the Judge's part,
The sentence I should scarce deplore;
It only would restore a heart,
Which but belong'd to _thee_ before.
7.
The least atonement I can make
Is to become no longer free;
Henceforth, I breathe but for thy sake,
Thou shalt be _all in all_ to me.
8.
But thou, perhaps, may'st now reject
Such expiation of my guilt;
Come then--some other mode elect?
Let it be death--or what thou wilt.
9.
Choose, then, relentless! and I swear
Nought shall thy dread decree prevent;
Yet hold--one little word forbear!
Let it be aught but banishment.
[Footnote 1: This title first appeared in "Contents" to 'P. on V.
Occasions'.]
[Footnote 2: The occurrence took place at Southwell, and the beautiful
lady to whom the lines were addressed was Miss Houson, who is also
commemorated in the verses "To a Vain Lady" and "To Anne." She was the
daughter of the Rev. Henry Houson of Southwell, and married the Rev.
Luke Jackson. She died on Christmas Day, 1821, and her monument may be
seen in Hucknall Torkard Church.]
[Footnote 3: This word is used by Gray in his poem to the Fatal
Sisters:--
"Iron-sleet of arrowy shower
Hurtles in the darken'd air."]
[Footnote i: 'near thy charms'. [4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.
AD LESBIAM.
Equal to Jove that youth must be--
_Greater_ than Jove he seems to me--
Who, free from Jealousy's alarms,
Securely views thy matchless charms;
That cheek, which ever dimpling glows,
That mouth, from whence such music flows,
To him, alike, are always known,
Reserv'd for him, and him alone.
Ah! Lesbia! though 'tis death to me,
I cannot choose but look on thee;
But, at the sight, my senses fly,
I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die;
Whilst trembling with a thousand fears,
Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres,
My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short,
My limbs deny their slight support;
Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread,
With deadly languor droops my head,
My ears with tingling echoes ring,
And Life itself is on the wing;
My eyes refuse the cheering light,
Their orbs are veil'd in starless night:
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath,
And feels a temporary death.
TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL
AND TIBULLUS, BY DOMITIUS MARSUS.
He who, sublime, in epic numbers roll'd,
And he who struck the softer lyre of Love,
By Death's _unequal_[1] hand alike controul'd,
Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!
[Footnote: 1. The hand of Death is said to be unjust or unequal, as
Virgil was considerably older than Tibullus at his decease.]
IMITATION OF TIBULLUS.
SULPICIA AD CERINTHUM (LIB. QUART.).
Cruel Cerinthus! does the fell disease [i]
Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please?
Alas! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain,
That I might live for Love and you again;
But, now, I scarcely shall bewail my fate:
By Death alone I can avoid your hate.
[Footnote i:
'does this fell disease'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions.]
TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.
LUGETE VENERES CUPIDINESQUE (CARM. III.) [i]
Ye Cupids, droop each little head,
Nor let your wings with joy be spread,
My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead,
Whom dearer than her eyes she lov'd: [ii]
For he was gentle, and so true,
Obedient to her call he flew,
No fear, no wild alarm he knew,
But lightly o'er her bosom mov'd:
And softly fluttering here and there,
He never sought to cleave the air,
He chirrup'd oft, and, free from care, [iii]
Tun'd to her ear his grateful strain.
Now having pass'd the gloomy bourn, [iv]
From whence he never can return,
His death, and Lesbia's grief I mourn,
Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain.
Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave!
Whose jaws eternal victims crave,
From whom no earthly power can save,
For thou hast ta'en the bird away:
From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow,
Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow;
Thou art the cause of all her woe,
Receptacle of life's decay.
[Footnote i:
_Luctus De Morte Passeris_.
[4to. _P. on V. Occasions_.] ]
[Footnote ii: _Which dearer_. [4to] ]
[Footnote iii: _But chirrup'd_. [4to] ]
[Footnote iv: _But now he's pass'd_. [4to] ]
IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. [1]
TO ELLEN. [i]
Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire,
A million scarce would quench desire;
Still would I steep my lips in bliss,
And dwell an age on every kiss;
Nor then my soul should sated be,
Still would I kiss and cling to thee:
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever,
Still would we kiss and kiss for ever;
E'en though the numbers did exceed [ii]
The yellow harvest's countless seed;
To part would be a vain endeavour:
Could I desist?--ah! never--never.
November 16, 1806.
[Footnote 1: From a note in Byron's copy of Catullus (now in the
possession of Mr. Murray), it is evident that these lines are based on
Carm. xlviii., 'Mellitos oculos tuos, Juventi'.]
[Footnote i: 'To Anna'. [4to] ]
[Footnote ii: 'E'en though the number'. [4to. 'Three first Editions'.]]
* * * * * * * *
POEMS ON VARIOUS OCCASIONS
TO M. S. G.
1.
Whene'er I view those lips of thine,
Their hue invites my fervent kiss;
Yet, I forego that bliss divine,
Alas! it were--unhallow'd bliss.
2.
Whene'er I dream of that pure breast,
How could I dwell upon its snows!
Yet, is the daring wish represt,
For that,--would banish its repose.
3.
A glance from thy soul-searching eye
Can raise with hope, depress with fear;
Yet, I conceal my love,--and why?
I would not force a painful tear.
4.
I ne'er have told my love, yet thou
Hast seen my ardent flame too well;
And shall I plead my passion now,
To make thy bosom's heaven a hell?
5.
No! for thou never canst be mine,
United by the priest's decree:
By any ties but those divine,
Mine, my belov'd, thou ne'er shalt be.
6.
Then let the secret fire consume,
Let it consume, thou shalt not know:
With joy I court a certain doom,
Rather than spread its guilty glow.
7.
I will not ease my tortur'd heart,
By driving dove-ey'd peace from thine;
Rather than such a sting impart,
Each thought presumptuous I resign.
8.
Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave
More than I here shall dare to tell;
Thy innocence and mine to save,--
I bid thee now a last farewell.
9.
Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair
And hope no more thy soft embrace;
Which to obtain, my soul would dare,
All, all reproach, but thy disgrace.
10.
At least from guilt shall thou be free,
No matron shall thy shame reprove;
Though cureless pangs may prey on me,
No martyr shall thou be to love.
STANZAS TO A LADY, WITH THE POEMS OF CAMO薔S. [1]
1.
This votive pledge of fond esteem,
Perhaps, dear girl! for me thou'lt prize;
It sings of Love's enchanting dream,
A theme we never can despise.
2.
Who blames it but the envious fool,
The old and disappointed maid?
Or pupil of the prudish school,
In single sorrow doom'd to fade?
3.
Then read, dear Girl! with feeling read,
For thou wilt ne'er be one of those;
To thee, in vain, I shall not plead
In pity for the Poet's woes.
4.
He was, in sooth, a genuine Bard;
His was no faint, fictitious flame:
Like his, may Love be thy reward,
But not thy hapless fate the same.
[Footnote: 1. Lord Strangford's 'Poems from the Portuguese by Luis de
Camo雗s' and "Little's" Poems are mentioned by Moore as having been
Byron's favourite study at this time ('Life', P--39).]
TO M. S. G. [1]
1.
When I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive;
Extend not your anger to sleep;
For in visions alone your affection can live,--
I rise, and it leaves me to weep.
2.
Then, Morpheus! envelop my faculties fast,
Shed o'er me your languor benign;
Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last,
What rapture celestial is mine!
3.
They tell us that slumber, the sister of death,
Mortality's emblem is given;
To fate how I long to resign my frail breath,
If this be a foretaste of Heaven!
4.
Ah! frown not, sweet Lady, unbend your soft brow,
Nor deem me too happy in this;
If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now,
Thus doom'd, but to gaze upon bliss.
5.
Though in visions, sweet Lady, perhaps you may smile,
Oh! think not my penance deficient!
When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile,
To awake, will be torture sufficient.
[Footnote 1: "C. G. B. to E. P." 'MS. Newstead'.]
TRANSLATION FROM HORACE.
Justum et tenacem propositi virum.
HOR. 'Odes', iii. 3. I.
1.
The man of firm and noble soul
No factious clamours can controul;
No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow
Can swerve him from his just intent:
Gales the warring waves which plough,
By Auster on the billows spent,
To curb the Adriatic main,
Would awe his fix'd determined mind in vain.
2.
Aye, and the red right arm of Jove,
Hurtling his lightnings from above,
With all his terrors there unfurl'd,
He would, unmov'd, unaw'd, behold;
The flames of an expiring world,
Again in crashing chaos roll'd,
In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd,
Might light his glorious funeral pile:
Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'd smile.
THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE.
[Greek:
Ha barbitos de chordais
Er_ota mounon aechei. [1]
ANACREON ['Ode' 1].
1.
Away with your fictions of flimsy romance,
Those tissues of falsehood which Folly has wove; [i]
Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,
Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love.
2.
Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with fantasy glow, [ii]
Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove;
From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow, [iii]
Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love.
3.
If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse,
Or the Nine be dispos'd from your service to rove,
Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the Muse,
And try the effect, of the first kiss of love.
4.
I hate you, ye cold compositions of art,
Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove;
I court the effusions that spring from the heart,
Which throbs, with delight, to the first kiss of love. [iv]
5.
Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes, [v]
Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move:
Arcadia displays but a region of dreams; [vi]
What are visions like these, to the first kiss of love?
6.
Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth, [vii]
From Adam, till now, has with wretchedness strove;
Some portion of Paradise still is on earth,
And Eden revives, in the first kiss of love.
7.
When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past--
For years fleet away with the wings of the dove--
The dearest remembrance will still be the last,
Our sweetest memorial, the first kiss of love.
December 23, 1806.
[Footnote 1: The motto was prefixed in 'Hours of Idleness'.]
[Footnote i:
'Moriah [A] those air dreams and types has o'er wove,
['MS. Newstead'.]
'Those tissues of fancy Moriah has wove,
'['P. on V. Occasions'.] ]
[Sub-Footnote A: Moriah is the "Goddess of Folly."]
[Footnote ii:
'Ye rhymers, who sing as if seated on snow.--'
['P. on V. Occasions'.] ]
[Footnote iii:
'With what blest inspiration.--'
['MS. P. on V. Occasions'.] ]
[Footnote iv:
'Which glows with delight at'.
['MS'.]]
[Footnote v:
'Your shepherds, your pipes'.
['MS. P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote vi:
'Arcadia yields but a legion of dreams'.
['MS'.]
[Footnote vii:
'that man from his birth'.
['MS. P. on V. Occasions'.]
CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS. [1]
"I cannot but remember such things were,
And were most dear to me."
'Macbeth' [2]
["That were most precious to me."
'Macbeth', act iv, sc. 3.]
When slow Disease, with all her host of Pains, [i]
Chills the warm tide, which flows along the veins;
When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing,
And flies with every changing gale of spring;
Not to the aching frame alone confin'd,
Unyielding pangs assail the drooping mind:
What grisly forms, the spectre-train of woe,
Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the blow,
With Resignation wage relentless strife,
While Hope retires appall'd, and clings to life. 10
Yet less the pang when, through the tedious hour,
Remembrance sheds around her genial power,
Calls back the vanish'd days to rapture given,
When Love was bliss, and Beauty form'd our heaven;
Or, dear to youth, pourtrays each childish scene,
Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have been.
As when, through clouds that pour the summer storm,
The orb of day unveils his distant form,
Gilds with faint beams the crystal dews of rain
And dimly twinkles o'er the watery plain; 20
Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams,
The Sun of Memory, glowing through my dreams,
Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze,
To scenes far distant points his paler rays,
Still rules my senses with unbounded sway,
The past confounding with the present day.
Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought,
Which still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought;
My soul to Fancy's fond suggestion yields,
And roams romantic o'er her airy fields. 30
Scenes of my youth, develop'd, crowd to view,
To which I long have bade a last adieu!
Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes;
Friends lost to me, for aye, except in dreams;
Some, who in marble prematurely sleep,
Whose forms I now remember, but to weep;
Some, who yet urge the same scholastic course
Of early science, future fame the source;
Who, still contending in the studious race,
In quick rotation, fill the senior place! 40
These, with a thousand visions, now unite,
To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight. [3]
IDA! blest spot, where Science holds her reign,
How joyous, once, I join'd thy youthful train!
Bright, in idea, gleams thy lofty spire,
Again, I mingle with thy playful quire;
Our tricks of mischief, [4] every childish game,
Unchang'd by time or distance, seem the same;
Through winding paths, along the glade I trace
The social smile of every welcome face; 50
My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy or woe,
Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe,
Our feuds dissolv'd, but not my friendship past,--
I bless the former, and forgive the last.
Hours of my youth! when, nurtur'd in my breast,
To Love a stranger, Friendship made me blest,--
Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth,
When every artless bosom throbs with truth;
Untaught by worldly wisdom how to feign,
And check each impulse with prudential rein; 60
When, all we feel, our honest souls disclose,
In love to friends, in open hate to foes;
No varnish'd tales the lips of youth repeat,
No dear-bought knowledge purchased by deceit;
Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen'd years,
Matured by age, the garb of Prudence wears: [ii]
When, now, the Boy is ripen'd into Man,
His careful Sire chalks forth some wary plan;
Instructs his Son from Candour's path to shrink,
Smoothly to speak, and cautiously to think; 70
Still to assent, and never to deny--
A patron's praise can well reward the lie:
And who, when Fortune's warning voice is heard,
Would lose his opening prospects for a word?
Although, against that word, his heart rebel,
And Truth, indignant, all his bosom swell.
Away with themes like this! not mine the task,
From flattering friends to tear the hateful mask;
Let keener bards delight in Satire's sting,
My Fancy soars not on Detraction's wing: 80
Once, and but once, she aim'd a deadly blow,
To hurl Defiance on a secret Foe;
But when that foe, from feeling or from shame,
The cause unknown, yet still to me the same,
Warn'd by some friendly hint, perchance, retir'd,
With this submission all her rage expired.
From dreaded pangs that feeble Foe to save,
She hush'd her young resentment, and forgave.
Or, if my Muse a Pedant's portrait drew,
POMPOSUS' [5] virtues are but known to few: 90
I never fear'd the young usurper's nod,
And he who wields must, sometimes, feel the rod.
If since on Granta's failings, known to all
Who share the converse of a college hall,
She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain,
'Tis past, and thus she will not sin again:
Soon must her early song for ever cease,
And, all may rail, when I shall rest in peace.
Here, first remember'd be the joyous band,
Who hail'd me chief, [6] obedient to command; 100
Who join'd with me, in every boyish sport,
Their first adviser, and their last resort;
Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant's frown, [iii]
Or all the sable glories of his gown; [iv]
Who, thus, transplanted from his father's school,
Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule--
Succeeded him, whom all unite to praise,
The dear preceptor of my early days,
PROBUS, [7] the pride of science, and the boast--
To IDA now, alas! for ever lost! 110
With him, for years, we search'd the classic page, [v]
And fear'd the Master, though we lov'd the Sage:
Retir'd at last, his small yet peaceful seat
From learning's labour is the blest retreat.
POMPOSUS fills his magisterial chair;
POMPOSUS governs,--but, my Muse, forbear:
Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot, [vi]
His name and precepts be alike forgot;
No more his mention shall my verse degrade,--
To him my tribute is already paid. [8] 120
High, through those elms with hoary branches crown'd [9]
Fair IDA'S bower adorns the landscape round;
There Science, from her favour'd seat, surveys
The vale where rural Nature claims her praise;
To her awhile resigns her youthful train,
Who move in joy, and dance along the plain;
In scatter'd groups, each favour'd haunt pursue,
Repeat old pastimes, and discover new;
Flush'd with his rays, beneath the noontide Sun,
In rival bands, between the wickets run, 130
Drive o'er the sward the ball with active force,
Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course.
But these with slower steps direct their way,
Where Brent's cool waves in limpid currents stray,
While yonder few search out some green retreat,
And arbours shade them from the summer heat:
Others, again, a pert and lively crew,
Some rough and thoughtless stranger plac'd in view,
With frolic quaint their antic jests expose,
And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes; 140
Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray
Tradition treasures for a future day:
"'Twas here the gather'd swains for vengeance fought,
And here we earn'd the conquest dearly bought:
Here have we fled before superior might,
And here renew'd the wild tumultuous fight."
While thus our souls with early passions swell,
In lingering tones resounds the distant bell;
Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er,
And Learning beckons from her temple's door. 150
No splendid tablets grace her simple hall,
But ruder records fill the dusky wall:
There, deeply carv'd, behold! each Tyro's name
Secures its owner's academic fame;
Here mingling view the names of Sire and Son,
The one long grav'd, the other just begun:
These shall survive alike when Son and Sire,
Beneath one common stroke of fate expire; [10]
Perhaps, their last memorial these alone,
Denied, in death, a monumental stone, 160
Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave
The sighing weeds, that hide their nameless grave.
And, here, my name, and many an early friend's,
Along the wall in lengthen'd line extends.
Though, still, our deeds amuse the youthful race,
Who tread our steps, and fill our former place,
Who young obeyed their lords in silent awe,
Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law;
And now, in turn, possess the reins of power,
To rule, the little Tyrants of an hour; 170
Though sometimes, with the Tales of ancient day,
They pass the dreary Winter's eve away;
"And, thus, our former rulers stemm'd the tide,
And, thus, they dealt the combat, side by side;
Just in this place, the mouldering walls they scaled,
Nor bolts, nor bars, against their strength avail'd;
Here PROBUS came, the rising fray to quell,
And, here, he falter'd forth his last farewell;
And, here, one night abroad they dared to roam,
While bold POMPOSUS bravely staid at home;" 180
While thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive,
When names of these, like ours, alone survive:
Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm
The faint remembrance of our fairy realm.
Dear honest race! though now we meet no more,
One last long look on what we were before--
Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu--
Drew tears from eyes unus'd to weep with you.
Through splendid circles, Fashion's gaudy world,
Where Folly's glaring standard waves unfurl'd, 190
I plung'd to drown in noise my fond regret,
And all I sought or hop'd was to forget:
Vain wish! if, chance, some well-remember'd face,
Some old companion of my early race,
Advanc'd to claim his friend with honest joy,
My eyes, my heart, proclaim'd me still a boy;
The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around,
Were quite forgotten when my friend was found;
The smiles of Beauty, (for, alas! I've known
What 'tis to bend before Love's mighty throne;) 200
The smiles of Beauty, though those smiles were dear,
Could hardly charm me, when that friend was near:
My thoughts bewilder'd in the fond surprise,
The woods of IDA danc'd before my eyes;
I saw the sprightly wand'rers pour along,
I saw, and join'd again the joyous throng;
Panting, again I trac'd her lofty grove,
And Friendship's feelings triumph'd over Love.
Yet, why should I alone with such delight
Retrace the circuit of my former flight? 210
Is there no cause beyond the common claim,
Endear'd to all in childhood's very name?
Ah! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here,
Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear
To one, who thus for kindred hearts must roam,
And seek abroad, the love denied at home.
Those hearts, dear IDA, have I found in thee,
A home, a world, a paradise to me.
Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share
The tender guidance of a Father's care; 220
Can Rank, or e'en a Guardian's name supply
The love, which glistens in a Father's eye?
For this, can Wealth, or Title's sound atone,
Made, by a Parent's early loss, my own?
What Brother springs a Brother's love to seek?
What Sister's gentle kiss has prest my cheek?
For me, how dull the vacant moments rise,
To no fond bosom link'd by kindred ties!
Oft, in the progress of some fleeting dream,
Fraternal smiles, collected round me seem; 230
While still the visions to my heart are prest,
The voice of Love will murmur in my rest:
I hear--I wake--and in the sound rejoice!
I hear again,--but, ah! no Brother's voice.
A Hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must stray
Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way;
While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine,
I cannot call one single blossom mine:
What then remains? in solitude to groan,
To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone? 240
Thus, must I cling to some endearing hand,
And none more dear, than IDA'S social band.
Alonzo! [11] best and dearest of my friends, [vii]
Thy name ennobles him, who thus commends:
From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise;
The praise is his, who now that tribute pays.
Oh! in the promise of thy early youth,
If Hope anticipate the words of Truth!
Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name,
To build his own, upon thy deathless fame: [viii] 250
Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list
Of those with whom I lived supremely blest;
Oft have we drain'd the font of ancient lore,
Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more;
Yet, when Confinement's lingering hour was done,
Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one:
Together we impell'd the flying ball,
Together waited in our tutor's hall;
Together join'd in cricket's manly toil,
Or shar'd the produce of the river's spoil; 260
Or plunging from the green declining shore,
Our pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore: [ix]
In every element, unchang'd, the same,
All, all that brothers should be, but the name.
Nor, yet, are you forgot, my jocund Boy!
DAVUS, [12] the harbinger of childish joy;
For ever foremost in the ranks of fun,
The laughing herald of the harmless pun;
Yet, with a breast of such materials made,
Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid; 270
Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel
In Danger's path, though not untaught to feel.
Still, I remember, in the factious strife,
The rustic's musket aim'd against my life: [13]
High pois'd in air the massy weapon hung,
A cry of horror burst from every tongue:
Whilst I, in combat with another foe,
Fought on, unconscious of th' impending blow;
Your arm, brave Boy, arrested his career--
Forward you sprung, insensible to fear; 280
Disarm'd, and baffled by your conquering hand,
The grovelling Savage roll'd upon the sand:
An act like this, can simple thanks repay? [x]
Or all the labours of a grateful lay?
Oh no! whene'er my breast forgets the deed,
That instant, DAVUS, it deserves to bleed.
LYCUS! [14] on me thy claims are justly great:
Thy milder virtues could my Muse relate,
To thee, alone, unrivall'd, would belong
The feeble efforts of my lengthen'd song. [xi] 290
Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates fit,
A Spartan firmness, with Athenian wit:
Though yet, in embryo, these perfections shine,
LYCUS! thy father's fame [15] will soon be thine.
Where Learning nurtures the superior mind,
What may we hope, from genius thus refin'd;
When Time, at length, matures thy growing years,
How wilt thou tower, above thy fellow peers!
Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free,
With Honour's soul, united beam in thee. 300
Shall fair EURYALUS,[16] pass by unsung?
From ancient lineage, not unworthy, sprung:
What, though one sad dissension bade us part,
That name is yet embalm'd within my heart,
Yet, at the mention, does that heart rebound,
And palpitate, responsive to the sound;
Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will:
We once were friends,--I'll think, we are so still.
A form unmatch'd in Nature's partial mould,
A heart untainted, we, in thee, behold: 310
Yet, not the Senate's thunder thou shall wield,
Nor seek for glory, in the tented field:
To minds of ruder texture, these be given--
Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven.
Haply, in polish'd courts might be thy seat,
But, that thy tongue could never forge deceit:
The courtier's supple bow, and sneering smile,
The flow of compliment, the slippery wile,
Would make that breast, with indignation, burn,
And, all the glittering snares, to tempt thee, spurn. 320
Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate;
Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate;
The world admire thee, and thy friends adore;--
Ambition's slave, alone, would toil for more. [xii]
Now last, but nearest, of the social band,
See honest, open, generous CLEON [17] stand;
With scarce one speck, to cloud the pleasing scene,
No vice degrades that purest soul serene.
On the same day, our studious race begun,
On the same day, our studious race was run; 330
Thus, side by side, we pass'd our first career,
Thus, side by side, we strove for many a year:
At last, concluded our scholastic life,
We neither conquer'd in the classic strife:
As Speakers, [18] each supports an equal name, [xiii]
And crowds allow to both a partial fame:
To soothe a youthful Rival's early pride,
Though Cleon's candour would the palm divide,
Yet Candour's self compels me now to own,
Justice awards it to my Friend alone. 340
Oh! Friends regretted, Scenes for ever dear,
Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear!
Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's urn,
To trace the hours, which never can return;
Yet, with the retrospection loves to dwell, [xiv]
And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell!
Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind,
As infant laurels round my head were twin'd;
When PROBUS' praise repaid my lyric song,
Or plac'd me higher in the studious throng; 350
Or when my first harangue receiv'd applause, [19]
His sage instruction the primeval cause,
What gratitude, to him, my soul possest,
While hope of dawning honours fill'd my breast! [xv]
For all my humble fame, to him alone,
The praise is due, who made that fame my own.
Oh! could I soar above these feeble lays,
These young effusions of my early days,
To him my Muse her noblest strain would give,
The song might perish, but the theme might live. [xvi] 360
Yet, why for him the needless verse essay?
His honour'd name requires no vain display:
By every son of grateful IDA blest,
It finds an echo in each youthful breast;
A fame beyond the glories of the proud,
Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd.
IDA! not yet exhausted is the theme,
Nor clos'd the progress of my youthful dream.
How many a friend deserves the grateful strain!
What scenes of childhood still unsung remain! 370
Yet let me hush this echo of the past,
This parting song, the dearest and the last;
And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy,
To me a silent and a sweet employ,
While, future hope and fear alike unknown,
I think with pleasure on the past alone;
Yes, to the past alone, my heart confine,
And chase the phantom of what once was mine.
IDA! still o'er thy hills in joy preside,
And proudly steer through Time's eventful tide: 380
Still may thy blooming Sons thy name revere,
Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear;--
That tear, perhaps, the fondest which will flow,
O'er their last scene of happiness below:
Tell me, ye hoary few, who glide along,
The feeble Veterans of some former throng,
Whose friends, like Autumn leaves by tempests whirl'd,
Are swept for ever from this busy world;
Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth,
While Care has yet withheld her venom'd tooth; [xvii] 390
Say, if Remembrance days like these endears,
Beyond the rapture of succeeding years?
Say, can Ambition's fever'd dream bestow
So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of woe?
Can Treasures hoarded for some thankless Son,
Can Royal Smiles, or Wreaths by slaughter won,
Can Stars or Ermine, Man's maturer Toys,
(For glittering baubles are not left to Boys,)
Recall one scene so much belov'd to view,
As those where Youth her garland twin'd for you? 400
Ah, no! amid the gloomy calm of age
You turn with faltering hand life's varied page,
Peruse the record of your days on earth,
Unsullied only where it marks your birth;
Still, lingering, pause above each chequer'd leaf,
And blot with Tears the sable lines of Grief;
Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw,
Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu;
But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn,
Trac'd by the rosy finger of the Morn; 410
When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of truth,
And Love, without his pinion, [20] smil'd on Youth.
[Footnote 1: The words, "that schoolboy thing," etc. (see letter to H.
Drury, Jan. 8, 1808), evidently apply, not as Moore intimates,
to this period, but to the lines "On a Change of Masters,"
etc., July, 1805 (see letter to W. Bankes, March 6, 1807).]
[Footnote 2: The motto was prefixed in 'Hours of Idleness'.]
[Footnote 3: Lines 43-98 were added in 'Hours of Idleness']
[Footnote 4: Newton Hanson relates that on one occasion he accompanied
his father to Harrow on Speech Day to see his brother Hargreaves Hanson
and Byron.
"On our arrival at Harrow, we set out in search of Hargreaves and
Byron, but the latter was not at his tutor's. Three or four lads,
hearing my father's inquiries, set off at full speed to find him. They
soon discovered him, and, laughing most heartily, called out, 'Hallo,
Byron! here's a gentleman wants you.' And what do you think? He had
got on Drury's hat. I can still remember the arch cock of Byron's eye
at the hat and then at my father, and the fun and merriment it caused
him and all of us whilst, during the day, he was perambulating the
highways and byeways of Ida with the hat on. 'Harrow Speech Day and
the Governor's Hat' was one of the standing rallying-points for Lord
Byron ever after."
[Footnote 5: Dr. Butler, then Head-master of Harrow. Had Byron
published another edition of these poems, it was his intention
to replace these four lines by the four which follow:--
"'If once my muse a harsher portrait drew,
Warm with her wrongs, and deemed the likeness true,
By cooler judgment taught, her fault she owns,--
With noble minds a fault confess'd, atones'."
['MS. M.']
See also allusion in letter to Mr. Henry Drury, June 25, 1809.
--Moore's 'Note'.]
[Footnote 6: On the retirement of Dr. Drury, three candidates for the
vacant chair presented themselves--Messrs. Drury, Evans, and Butler. On
the first movement to which this contest gave rise in the school, young
Wildman was at the head of the party for Mark Drury, while Byron held
himself aloof from any. Anxious, however, to have him as an ally, one of
the Drury faction said to Wildman, "Byron, I know, will not join,
because he does not choose to act second to any one, but, by giving up
the leadership to him, you may at once secure him." This Wildman did,
and Byron took the command.--'Life', p. 29.]
[Footnote 7: Dr. Drury. This most able and excellent man retired from
his situation in March, 1805, after having resided thirty-five years at
Harrow; the last twenty as head-master; an office he held with equal
honour to himself and advantage to the very extensive school over which
he presided. Panegyric would here be superfluous: it would be useless to
enumerate qualifications which were never doubted. A considerable
contest took place between three rival candidates for his vacant chair:
of this I can only say--
'Si mea cum vestris valuissent vota, Pelasgi!
Non foret ambiguus tanti certaminis hares.'
[Byron's letters from Harrow contain the same high praise of Dr. Drury.
In one, of November 2, 1804, he says,
"There is so much of the gentleman, so much mildness, and nothing of
pedantry in his character, that I cannot help liking him, and will
remember his instructions with gratitude as long as I live."
A week after, he adds,
"I revere Dr. Drury. I dread offending him; not, however, through
fear, but the respect I bear him makes me unhappy when I am under his
displeasure."
Dr. Drury has related the secret of the influence he obtained: the
glance which told him that the lad was "a wild mountain colt," told him
also that he could be "led with a silken string."]]
[Footnote 8: This alludes to a character printed in a former private
edition ['P. on V. Occasions'] for the perusal of some friends, which,
with many other pieces, is withheld from the present volume. To draw the
attention of the public to insignificance would be deservedly
reprobated; and another reason, though not of equal consequence, may be
given in the following couplet:--
"Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel?
Who breaks a Butterfly upon a wheel?"
'Prologue to the Satires': POPE.
['Hours of Idleness', p. 154, 'note']
[(See the lines "On a Change of Masters at a Great Public School,"
'ante', p. 16.)
The following lines, attached to the Newstead MS. draft of
"Childish Recollections," are aimed at Pomposus:--
"Just half a Pedagogue, and half a Fop,
Not formed to grace the pulpit, but the Shop;
The 'Counter', not the 'Desk', should be his place,
Who deals out precepts, as if dealing Lace;
Servile in mind, from Elevation proud,
In argument, less sensible than loud,
Through half the continent, the Coxcomb's been,
And stuns you with the Wonders he has seen:
''How' in Pompeii's vault he found the page,
Of some long lost, and long lamented Sage,
And doubtless he the Letters would have trac'd,
Had they not been by age and dust effac'd:
This single specimen will serve to shew,
The weighty lessons of this reverend Beau,
Bombast in vain would want of Genius cloke,
For feeble fires evaporate in smoke;
A Boy, o'er Boys he holds a trembling reign,
More fit than they to seek some School again."]]
[Footnote 9: Lines 121-243 were added in 'Hours of Idleness'.]
[Footnote 10: During a rebellion at Harrow, the poet prevented the
school-room from being burnt down, by pointing out to the boys the names
of their fathers and grandfathers on the walls.--(Medwin's
'Conversations' (1824), p. 85.)
Byron elsewhere thus describes his usual course of life
while at Harrow: "always cricketing, rebelling, 'rowing', and in all
manner of mischiefs." One day he tore down the gratings from the window
of the hall; and when asked by Dr. Butler his reason for the outrage,
coolly answered, "because they darkened the room."--'Life', p. 29.]
[Footnote 11: "Lord Clare." (Annotated copy of 'P. on V. Occasions'
in the British Museum.)
[Lines 243-264, as the note in Byron's handwriting explains, were
originally intended to apply to Lord Clare. In 'Hours of Idleness'
"Joannes" became "Alonzo," and the same lines were employed to celebrate
the memory of his friend the Hon. John Wingfield, of the Coldstream
Guards, brother to Richard, fourth Viscount Powerscourt. He died at
Coimbra in 1811, in his twentieth year. Byron at one time gave him the
preference over all other friends.]]
[Footnote 12: The Rev. John Cecil Tattersall, B.A., of Christ Church,
Oxford, who died December 8, 1812, at Hall's Place, Kent, aged
twenty-three.]
[Footnote 13: The "factious strife" was brought on by the breaking up of
school, and the dismissal of some volunteers from drill, both happening
at the same hour. The butt-end of a musket was aimed at Byron's head,
and would have felled him to the ground, but for the interposition of
Tattersall.--'Life', p. 25.]
[Footnote 14: John Fitzgibbon, second Earl of Clare (1792-1851),
afterwards Governor of Bombay, of whom Byron said, in 1822,
"I have always loved him better than any 'male' thing in the world."
"I never," was his language in 1821, "hear the word ''Clare'' without
a beating of the heart even 'now'; and I write it with the feelings of
1803-4-5, ad infinitum."]
[Footnote 15: John Fitzgibbon, first Earl of Clare (1749-1802), became
Attorney-General and Lord Chancellor of Ireland. In the latter years of
the independent Irish Parliament, he took an active part in politics in
opposition to Grattan and the national party, and was distinguished as a
powerful, if bitter, speaker. He was made Earl of Clare in 1795.]
[Footnote 16: George John, fifth Earl of Delawarr.--
"I am happy enough, and comfortable here," says Byron, in a letter
from Harrow of Oct. 25, 1804. "My friends are not numerous, but
_select_. Among the principal, I rank Lord Delawarr, who is very
amiable, and my particular friend."--
"Nov. 2, 1804. Lord Delawarr is considerably younger than me, but the
most good-tempered, amiable, clever fellow in the universe. To all
which he adds the quality (a good one in the eyes of women) of being
remarkably handsome. Delawarr and myself are, in a manner, connected;
for one of my forefathers, in Charles I's time, married into their
family."
The allusion in the text to their subsequent quarrel, receives further
light from a letter which the poet addressed to Lord Clare under date,
February 6, 1807. (See, too, lines "To George, Earl Delawarr," p. 126.)
The first Lord Byron was twice married. His first wife was Cecilie,
widow of Sir Francis Bindlose, and daughter of Thomas, third Lord
Delawarr. He died childless, and was succeeded by his brother Richard,
the poet's ancestor. His younger brother, Sir Robert Byron, married
Lucy, another daughter of the third Lord Delawarr.]
[Footnote 17: Edward Noel Long, who was drowned by the foundering of a
transport on the voyage to Lisbon with his regiment, in 1809. (See lines
"To Edward Noel Long, Esq.," 'post', p. 184.)]
[Footnote 18: This alludes to the public speeches delivered at the
school where the author was educated.]
[Footnote 19:
"My qualities were much more oratorical than poetical, and Dr. Drury,
my grand patron, had a great notion that I should turn out an orator
from my fluency, my turbulence, my voice, my copiousness of
declamation, and my action. I remember that my first declamation
astonished Dr. Drury into some unwonted (for he was economical of
such) and sudden compliments, before the declaimers at our first
rehearsal."
'Byron Diary'.
"I certainly was much pleased with Lord Byron's attitude, gesture, and
delivery, as well as with his composition. To my surprise, he suddenly
diverged from the written composition, with a boldness and rapidity
sufficient to alarm me, lest he should fail in memory as to the
conclusion. I questioned him, why he had altered his declamation? He
declared he had made no alteration, and did not know, in speaking,
that he had deviated from it one letter. I believed him, and from a
knowledge of his temperament, am convinced that he was hurried on to
expressions and colourings more striking than what his pen had
expressed."
DR. DRURY, 'Life', p. 20.]
[Footnote 20: "L'Amiti?est l'Amour sans ailes," is a French proverb.
(See the lines so entitled, p. 220.)]
[Footnote i:
'Hence! thou unvarying song, of varied loves,
Which youth commends, maturer age reproves;
Which every rhyming bard repeats by rote,
By thousands echo'd to the self-same note!
Tir'd of the dull, unceasing, copious strain,
My soul is panting to be free again.
Farewell! ye nymphs, propitious to my verse,
Some other Damon, will your charms rehearse;
Some other paint his pangs, in hope of bliss,
Or dwell in rapture on your nectar'd kiss.
Those beauties, grateful to my ardent sight,
No more entrance my senses in delight;
Those bosoms, form'd of animated snow,
Alike are tasteless and unfeeling now.
These to some happier lover, I resign;
The memory of those joys alone is mine.
Censure no more shall brand my humble name,
The child of passion and the fool of fame.
Weary of love, of life, devoured with spleen,
I rest a perfect Timon, not nineteen;
World! I renounce thee! all my hope's o'ercast!
One sigh I give thee, but that sigh's the last.
Friends, foes, and females, now alike, adieu!
Would I could add remembrance of you, too!
Yet though the future, dark and cheerless gleams,
The curse of memory, hovering in my dreams,
Depicts with glowing pencil all those years,
Ere yet, my cup, empoison'd, flow'd with tears,
Still rules my senses with tyrannic sway,
The past confounding with the present day.
Alas! in vain I check the maddening thought;
It still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought:
My soul to Fancy's', etc., etc., as at line 29.--]
[Footnote ii: 'Cunning with age.' ['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iii: 'Nor shrunk before.' ['Hours of Idleness'.]]
[Footnote iv:
'Careless to soothe the pedant's furious frown,
Scarcely respecting his majestic gown;
By which, in vain, he gain'd a borrow'd grace,
Adding new terror to his sneering face,'
['P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote v:
'With him for years I search'd the classic page,
Culling the treasures of the letter'd sage,'
['P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote vi:
'Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot,
Soon shall his shallow precepts be forgot;
No more his mention shall my pen degrade--
My tribute to his name's already paid.'
['P. on V. Occasions'.]
Another variant for a new edition ran--
'Another fills his magisterial chair;
Reluctant Ida owns a stranger's care;
Oh! may like honours crown his future name:
If such his virtues, such shall be his fame.'
['MS. M.']
[Footnote vii:
'Joannes! best and dearest of my friends.'
['P. on V. Occasions.']]
[Footnote viii:
'Could aught inspire me with poetic fire,
For thee, alone, I'd strike the hallow'd lyre;
But, to some abler hand, the task I wave,
Whose strains immortal may outlive the grave'.--
['P. on V. Occasions.']]
[Footnote ix:
'Our lusty limbs.'
['P. on V. Occasions.']
'--the buoyant waters bore.'
['Hours of Idleness.']]
[Footnote x:
'Thus did you save that life I scarcely prize--
A life unworthy such a sacrifice.
Oh! when my breast forgets the generous deed.'
['P. on V. Occasions'.] ]
[Footnote xi:
'For ever to possess a friend in thee,
Was bliss unhop'd, though not unsought by me;
Thy softer soul was form'd for love alone,
To ruder passions and to hate unknown;
Thy mind, in union with thy beauteous form,
Was gentle, but unfit to stem the storm;
That face, an index of celestial worth,
Proclaim'd a heart abstracted from the earth.
Oft, when depress'd with sad, foreboding gloom,
I sat reclin'd upon our favourite tomb,
I've seen those sympathetic eyes o'erflow
With kind compassion for thy comrade's woe;
Or, when less mournful subjects form'd our themes,
We tried a thousand fond romantic schemes,
Oft hast thou sworn, in friendship's soothing tone.
Whatever wish was mine, must be thine own.
The next can boast to lead in senates fit,
A Spartan firmness,--with Athenian wit;
Tho' yet, in embryo, these perfections shine,
Clarus! thy father's fame will soon be thine.'--
['P. on V. Occasions'.]
A remonstrance which Lord Clare addressed to him at
school; was found among his papers (as were most of the
notes of his early favourites), and on the back of it was an
endorsement which is a fresh testimony of his affection:--
"This and another letter were written at Harrow, by my 'then' and, I
hope, 'ever' beloved friend, Lord Clare, when we were both schoolboys;
and sent to my study in consequence of some 'childish'
misunderstanding,--the only one which ever arose between us. It was of
short duration, and I retain this note solely for the purpose of
submitting it to his perusal, that we may smile over the recollection
of the insignificance of our first and last quarrel."
See, also, Byron's account of his accidental meeting with Lord Clare in
Italy in 1821, as recorded in 'Detached Thoughts', Nov. 5, 1821; in
letters to Moore, March 1 and June 8, 1822; and Mme. Guiccioli's
description of his emotion on seeing Clare ('My Recollections of Lord
Byron', ed. 1869, p. 156).]
[Footnote xii:
'Where is the restless fool, would wish for more?'
['P. on V. Occasions.']]
[Footnote xiii:
'As speakers, each supports a rival name,
Though neither seeks to damn the other's fame,
Pomposus sits, unequal to decide,
With youthful candour, we the palm divide.'--
['P. on V. Occasions']]
[Footnote xiv:
'Yet in the retrospection finds relief,
And revels in the luxury of grief.'--
['P. on V. Occasions.']]
[Footnote xv:
'When, yet a novice in the mimic art,
I feign'd the transports of a vengeful heart;
When, as the Royal Slave, I trod the stage,
To vent in Zanga, more than mortal rage;
The praise of Probus, made me feel more proud,
Than all the plaudits of the list'ning crowd.
Ah! vain endeavour in this childish strain
To soothe the woes of which I thus complain!
What can avail this fruitless loss of time,
To measure sorrow, in a jingling rhyme!
No social solace from a friend, is near,
And heartless strangers drop no feeling tear.
I seek not joy in Woman's sparkling eye,
The smiles of Beauty cannot check the sigh.
Adieu, thou world! thy pleasure's still a dream,
Thy virtue, but a visionary theme;
Thy years of vice, on years of folly roll,
Till grinning death assigns the destin'd goal,'
'Where all are hastening to the dread abode,
To meet the judgment of a righteous God;
Mix'd in the concourse of a thoughtless throng,
A mourner, midst of mirth, I glide along;
A wretched, isolated, gloomy thing,
Curst by reflection's deep corroding sting;
But not that mental sting, which stabs within,
The dark avenger of unpunish'd sin;
The silent shaft, which goads the guilty wretch
Extended on a rack's untiring stretch:
Conscience that sting, that shaft to him supplies--
His mind the rack, from which he ne'er can rise,
For me, whatever my folly, or my fear,
One cheerful comfort still is cherish'd here.
No dread internal, haunts my hours of rest,
No dreams of injured innocence infest;
Of hope, of peace, of almost all bereft,
Conscience, my last but welcome guest, is left.
Slander's empoison'd breath, may blast my name,
Envy delights to blight the buds of fame:
Deceit may chill the current of my blood,
And freeze affection's warm impassion'd flood;
Presaging horror, darken every sense,
Even here will conscience be my best defence;
My bosom feeds no "worm which ne'er can die:"
Not crimes I mourn, but happiness gone by.
Thus crawling on with many a reptile vile,
My heart is bitter, though my cheek may smile;
No more with former bliss, my heart is glad;
Hope yields to anguish and my soul is sad;
From fond regret, no future joy can save;
Remembrance slumbers only in the grave.'
['P. on V. Occasions']]
[Footnote xvi:
'The song might perish, but the theme must live.'
['Hours of Idleness.']]
[Footnote xvii:
'----his venom'd tooth.'
['Hours of Idleness'.]]
ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM, WRITTEN BY MONTGOMERY,
AUTHOR OF "THE WANDERER OF SWITZERLAND," ETC.,
ENTITLED "THE COMMON LOT." [1]
1.
Montgomery! true, the common lot
Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave;
Yet some shall never be forgot,
Some shall exist beyond the grave.
2.
"Unknown the region of his birth,"
The hero [2] rolls the tide of war;
Yet not unknown his martial worth,
Which glares a meteor from afar.
3.
His joy or grief, his weal or woe,
Perchance may 'scape the page of fame;
Yet nations, now unborn, will know
The record of his deathless name.
4.
The Patriot's and the Poet's frame
Must share the common tomb of all:
Their glory will not sleep the same;
'That' will arise, though Empires fall.
5.
The lustre of a Beauty's eye
Assumes the ghastly stare of death;
The fair, the brave, the good must die,
And sink the yawning grave beneath.
6.
Once more, the speaking eye revives,
Still beaming through the lover's strain;
For Petrarch's Laura still survives:
She died, but ne'er will die again.
7.
The rolling seasons pass away,
And Time, untiring, waves his wing;
Whilst honour's laurels ne'er decay,
But bloom in fresh, unfading spring.
8.
All, all must sleep in grim repose,
Collected in the silent tomb;
The old, the young, with friends and foes,
Fest'ring alike in shrouds, consume.
9.
The mouldering marble lasts its day,
Yet falls at length an useless fane;
To Ruin's ruthless fangs a prey,
The wrecks of pillar'd Pride remain.
10.
What, though the sculpture be destroy'd,
From dark Oblivion meant to guard;
A bright renown shall be enjoy'd,
By those, whose virtues claim reward.
11.
Then do not say the common lot
Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave;
Some few who ne'er will be forgot
Shall burst the bondage of the grave.
1806.
[Footnote 1: Montgomery (James), 1771-1854, poet and hymn-writer,
published:
'Prison Amusements' (1797),
'The Ocean; a Poem' (1805),
'The Wanderer of Switzerland, and other Poems' (1806),
'The West Indies, and other Poems' (1810),
'Songs of Sion' (1822),
'The Christian Psalmist' (1825),
'The Pelican Island, and other Poems' (1827),
'etc.' ('vide post'), 'English Bards',
'etc.', line 418, and 'note'.]
[Footnote 2: No particular hero is here alluded to. The exploits of
Bayard, Nemours, Edward the Black Prince, and, in more modern times, the
fame of Marlborough, Frederick the Great, Count Saxe, Charles of Sweden,
etc., are familiar to every historical reader, but the exact places of
their birth are known to a very small proportion of their admirers.]
LOVE'S LAST ADIEU.
[Greek: Ae?d' ae?me pheugei.]--[Pseud.] ANACREON, [Greek: Eis chruson].
1.
The roses of Love glad the garden of life,
Though nurtur'd 'mid weeds dropping pestilent dew,
Till Time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife,
Or prunes them for ever, in Love's last adieu!
2.
In vain, with endearments, we soothe the sad heart,
In vain do we vow for an age to be true;
The chance of an hour may command us to part,
Or Death disunite us, in Love's last adieu!
3.
Still Hope, breathing peace, through the grief-swollen breast, [i]
Will whisper, "Our meeting we yet may renew:"
With this dream of deceit, half our sorrow's represt,
Nor taste we the poison, of Love's last adieu!
4.
Oh! mark you yon pair, in the sunshine of youth,
Love twin'd round their childhood his flow'rs as they grew;
They flourish awhile, in the season of truth,
Till chill'd by the winter of Love's last adieu!
5.
Sweet lady! why thus doth a tear steal its way,
Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue?
Yet why do I ask?--to distraction a prey,
Thy reason has perish'd, with Love's last adieu!
6.
Oh! who is yon Misanthrope, shunning mankind?
From cities to caves of the forest he flew:
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind;
The mountains reverberate Love's last adieu!
7.
Now Hate rules a heart which in Love's easy chains,
Once Passion's tumultuous blandishments knew;
Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins,
He ponders, in frenzy, on Love's last adieu!
8.
How he envies the wretch, with a soul wrapt in steel!
His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few,
Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel,
And dreads not the anguish of Love's last adieu!
9.
Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o'ercast;
No more, with Love's former devotion, we sue:
He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast;
The shroud of affection is Love's last adieu!
10.
In this life of probation, for rapture divine,
Astrea[1] declares that some penance is due;
From him, who has worshipp'd at Love's gentle shrine,
The atonement is ample, in Love's last adieu!
11.
Who kneels to the God, on his altar of light
Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew:
His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight,
His cypress, the garland of Love's last adieu!
[Footnote 1: The Goddess of Justice.]
[Footnote i:
_Still, hope-beaming peace._
['P. on V. Occasions.']]
LINES. [i]
ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER, [1]
ON HIS ADVISING THE AUTHOR TO MIX MORE WITH SOCIETY.
1.
Dear BECHER, you tell me to mix with mankind;
I cannot deny such a precept is wise;
But retirement accords with the tone of my mind:
I will not descend to a world I despise.
2.
Did the Senate or Camp my exertions require,
Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go forth;
When Infancy's years of probation expire,
Perchance, I may strive to distinguish my birth.
3.
The fire, in the cavern of Etna, conceal'd,
Still mantles unseen in its secret recess;
At length, in a volume terrific, reveal'd,
No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress.
4.
Oh! thus, the desire, in my bosom, for fame [i]
Bids me live, but to hope for Posterity's praise.
Could I soar with the Phoenix on pinions of flame,
With him I would wish to expire in the blaze.
5.
For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death,
What censure, what danger, what woe would I brave!
Their lives did not end, when they yielded their breath,
Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave.[ii]
6.
Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd?
Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules?
Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd?
Why search for delight, in the friendship of fools?
7.
I have tasted the sweets, and the bitters, of love,
In friendship I early was taught to believe;
My passion the matrons of prudence reprove,
I have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive.
8.
To me what is wealth?--it may pass in an hour,
If Tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown:
To me what is title?--the phantom of power;
To me what is fashion?--I seek but renown.
9.
Deceit is a stranger, as yet, to my soul;
I, still, am unpractised to varnish the truth:
Then, why should I live in a hateful controul?
Why waste, upon folly, the days of my youth?
1806.
[Footnote 1: The Rev. John Thomas Becher (1770-1848) was Vicar of
Rumpton and Midsomer Norton, Notts., and made the acquaintance of Byron
when he was living at Southwell. To him was submitted an early copy of
the 'Quarto', and on his remonstrance at the tone of some of the
verses, the whole edition (save one or two copies) was burnt. Becher
assisted in the revision of 'P. on V. Occasions', published in
1807. He was in 1818 appointed Prebendary of Southwell, and, all his
life, took an active interest and prominent part in the administration
of the poor laws and the welfare of the poor. (See Byron's letters to
him of February 26 and March 28, 1808.)]
[Footnote i:
'To the Rev. J. T. Becher.'
['P. on V. Occasions']]
[Footnote ii:
'Oh! such the desire.'
['P. on V. Occasions']]
[Footnote iii:
'--the gloom of the grave.'
['P. on V. Occasions'.]]
ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES SENT BY A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR,
COMPLAINING THAT ONE OF HIS DESCRIPTIONS
WAS RATHER TOO WARMLY DRAWN.
"But if any old Lady, Knight, Priest, or Physician,
Should condemn me for printing a second edition;
If good Madam Squintum my work should abuse,
May I venture to give her a smack of my muse?"
Anstey's 'New Bath Guide', p. 169.
Candour compels me, BECHER! to commend
The verse, which blends the censor with the friend;
Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause
From me, the heedless and imprudent cause; [i]
For this wild error, which pervades my strain, [ii]
I sue for pardon,--must I sue in vain?
The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart;
Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart?
Precepts of prudence curb, but can't controul,
The fierce emotions of the flowing soul.
When Love's delirium haunts the glowing mind,
Limping Decorum lingers far behind;
Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace,
Outstript and vanquish'd in the mental chase.
The young, the old, have worn the chains of love;
Let those, they ne'er confined, my lay reprove;
Let those, whose souls contemn the pleasing power,
Their censures on the hapless victim shower.
Oh! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song,
The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng,
Whose labour'd lines, in chilling numbers flow,
To paint a pang the author ne'er can know!
The artless Helicon, I boast, is youth;--
My Lyre, the Heart--my Muse, the simple Truth.
Far be't from me the "virgin's mind" to "taint:"
Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint:
The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile,
Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile,
Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer,
Firm in her virtue's strength, yet not severe;
She, whom a conscious grace shall thus refine,
Will ne'er be "tainted" by a strain of mine.
But, for the nymph whose premature desires
Torment her bosom with unholy fires,
No net to snare her willing heart is spread;
She would have fallen, though she ne'er had read.
For me, I fain would please the chosen few,
Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true,
Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy
The light effusions of a heedless boy. [iii]
I seek not glory from the senseless crowd;
Of fancied laurels, I shall ne'er be proud;
Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize,
Their sneers or censures, I alike despise.
November 26, 1806.
[Footnote i:
_the heedless and unworthy cause._
[_P. on V. Occasions._]]
[Footnote ii:
_For this sole error._
[_P. on V. Occasions._]]
[Footnote iii:
_The light effusions of an amorous boy._
[_P. on V. Occasions._]]
ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY. [1]
"It is the voice of years, that are gone! they roll before me, with
all their deeds."
Ossian. [i]
1.
NEWSTEAD! fast-falling, once-resplendent dome!
Religion's shrine! repentant HENRY'S [2] pride!
Of Warriors, Monks, and Dames the cloister'd tomb,
Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide,
2.
Hail to thy pile! more honour'd in thy fall,
Than modern mansions, in their pillar'd state;
Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall,
Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate.
3.
No mail-clad Serfs, [3] obedient to their Lord,
In grim array, the crimson cross [4] demand;
Or gay assemble round the festive board,
Their chief's retainers, an immortal band.
4.
Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye
Retrace their progress, through the lapse of time;
Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die,
A votive pilgrim, in Judea's clime.
5.
But not from thee, dark pile! departs the Chief;
His feudal realm in other regions lay:
In thee the wounded conscience courts relief,
Retiring from the garish blaze of day.
6.
Yes! in thy gloomy cells and shades profound,
The monk abjur'd a world, he ne'er could view;
Or blood-stain'd Guilt repenting, solace found,
Or Innocence, from stern Oppression, flew.
7.
A Monarch bade thee from that wild arise,
Where Sherwood's outlaws, once, were wont to prowl;
And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes,
Sought shelter in the Priest's protecting cowl.
8.
Where, now, the grass exhales a murky dew,
The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay,
In sainted fame, the sacred Fathers grew,
Nor raised their pious voices, but to pray.
9.
Where, now, the bats their wavering wings extend,
Soon as the gloaming [5] spreads her waning shade;[ii]
The choir did, oft, their mingling vespers blend,
Or matin orisons to Mary [6] paid.
10.
Years roll on years; to ages, ages yield;
Abbots to Abbots, in a line, succeed:
Religion's charter, their protecting shield,
Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed.
11.
One holy HENRY rear'd the Gothic walls,
And bade the pious inmates rest in peace;
Another HENRY [7] the kind gift recalls,
And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease.
12.
Vain is each threat, or supplicating prayer;
He drives them exiles from their blest abode,
To roam a dreary world, in deep despair--
No friend, no home, no refuge, but their God. [8]
13.
Hark! how the hall, resounding to the strain,
Shakes with the martial music's novel din!
The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign,
High crested banners wave thy walls within.
14.
Of changing sentinels the distant hum,
The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms,
The braying trumpet, and the hoarser drum,
Unite in concert with increas'd alarms.
15.
An abbey once, a regal fortress [9] now,
Encircled by insulting rebel powers;
War's dread machines o'erhang thy threat'ning brow,
And dart destruction, in sulphureous showers.
16.
Ah! vain defence! the hostile traitor's siege,
Though oft repuls'd, by guile o'ercomes the brave;
His thronging foes oppress the faithful Liege,
Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave.
17.
Not unaveng'd the raging Baron yields;
The blood of traitors smears the purple plain;
Unconquer'd still, his falchion there he wields,
And days of glory, yet, for him remain.
18.
Still, in that hour, the warrior wish'd to strew
Self-gather'd laurels on a self-sought grave;
But Charles' protecting genius hither flew,
The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save.
19.
Trembling, she snatch'd him [10] from th' unequal strife,
In other fields the torrent to repel;
For nobler combats, here, reserv'd his life,
To lead the band, where godlike FALKLAND [11] fell.
20.
From thee, poor pile! to lawless plunder given,
While dying groans their painful requiem sound,
Far different incense, now, ascends to Heaven,
Such victims wallow on the gory ground.
21.
There many a pale and ruthless Robber's corse,
Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod;
O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse,
Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod.
22.
Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread,
Ransack'd resign, perforce, their mortal mould:
From ruffian fangs, escape not e'en the dead,
Racked from repose, in search for buried gold.
23.
Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre,
The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death;
No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire,
Or sings the glories of the martial wreath. [iii]
24.
At length the sated murderers, gorged with prey,
Retire: the clamour of the fight is o'er;
Silence again resumes her awful sway,
And sable Horror guards the massy door.
25.
Here, Desolation holds her dreary court:
What satellites declare her dismal reign!
Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort,
To flit their vigils, in the hoary fane.
26.
Soon a new Morn's restoring beams dispel
The clouds of Anarchy from Britain's skies;
The fierce Usurper seeks his native hell,
And Nature triumphs, as the Tyrant dies.
27.
With storms she welcomes his expiring groans;
Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his labouring breath;
Earth shudders, as her caves receive his bones,
Loathing [12] the offering of so dark a death.
28.
The legal Ruler [13] now resumes the helm,
He guides through gentle seas, the prow of state;
Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful realm,
And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied Hate.
29.
The gloomy tenants, Newstead! of thy cells,
Howling, resign their violated nest; [iv]
Again, the Master on his tenure dwells,
Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest.
30.
Vassals, within thy hospitable pale,
Loudly carousing, bless their Lord's return;
Culture, again, adorns the gladdening vale,
And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn.
31.
A thousand songs, on tuneful echo, float,
Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees;
And, hark! the horns proclaim a mellow note,
The hunters' cry hangs lengthening on the breeze.
32.
Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake;
What fears! what anxious hopes! attend the chase!
The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake;
Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race.
33.
Ah happy days! too happy to endure!
Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew:
No splendid vices glitter'd to allure;
Their joys were many, as their cares were few.
34.
From these descending, Sons to Sires succeed;
Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart;
Another Chief impels the foaming steed,
Another Crowd pursue the panting hart.
35.
Newstead! what saddening change of scene is thine!
Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay;
The last and youngest of a noble line,
Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway.
36.
Deserted now, he scans thy gray worn towers;
Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep;
Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers;
These, these he views, and views them but to weep.
37.
Yet are his tears no emblem of regret:
Cherish'd Affection only bids them flow;
Pride, Hope, and Love, forbid him to forget,
But warm his bosom, with impassion'd glow.
38.
Yet he prefers thee, to the gilded domes, [14]
Or gewgaw grottos, of the vainly great;
Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs,
Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of Fate.
39.
Haply thy sun, emerging, yet, may shine,
Thee to irradiate with meridian ray;
Hours, splendid as the past, may still be thine,
And bless thy future, as thy former day. [v]
[Footnote 1: As one poem on this subject is already printed, the author
had, originally, no intention of _insert_ing the following. It is now
added at the particular request of some friends.]
[Footnote 2: Henry II. founded Newstead soon after the murder of Thomas
?Becket.]
[Footnote 3: This word is used by Walter Scott, in his poem, 'The Wild
Huntsman', as synonymous with "vassal."]
[Footnote 4: The red cross was the badge of the Crusaders.]
[Footnote 5: As "gloaming," the Scottish word for twilight, is far more
poetical, and has been recommended by many eminent literary men,
particularly by Dr. Moore in his Letters to Burns, I have ventured to
use it on account of its harmony.]
[Footnote 6: The priory was dedicated to the Virgin.--['Hours of
Idleness'.]]
[Footnote 7: At the dissolution of the monasteries, Henry VIII. bestowed
Newstead Abbey on Sir John Byron.]
[Footnote 8: During the lifetime of Lord Byron's predecessor in the
title there was found in the lake a large brass eagle, in the body of
which were concealed a number of ancient deeds and documents. This eagle
is supposed to have been thrown into the lake by the retreating
monks.--'Life', p. 2, note. It is now a lectern in Southwell
Minster.]
[Footnote 9: Newstead sustained a considerable siege in the war between
Charles I. and his parliament.]
[Footnote 10: Lord Byron and his brother Sir William held high commands
in the royal army. The former was general-in-chief in Ireland,
lieutenant of the Tower, and governor to James, Duke of York, afterwards
the unhappy James II; the latter had a principal share in many actions.
['Vide ante', p. 3, 'note' 1.]]
[Footnote 11: Lucius Cary, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most accomplished
man of his age, was killed at the Battle of Newbury, charging in the
ranks of Lord Byron's regiment of cavalry.]
[Footnote 12: This is an historical fact. A violent tempest occurred
immediately subsequent to the death or interment of Cromwell, which
occasioned many disputes between his partisans and the cavaliers: both
interpreted the circumstance into divine interposition; but whether as
approbation or condemnation, we leave to the casuists of that age to
decide. I have made such use of the occurrence as suited the subject of
my poem.]
[Footnote 13: Charles II.]
[Footnote 14: An indication of Byron's feelings towards Newstead in his
younger days will be found in his letter to his mother of March 6,
1809.]
[Footnote i: 'Hours of Idleness.']
[Footnote ii:
'Soon as the twilight winds a waning shade.'--
['P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote iii:
'--of the laurel'd wreath.'
['P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote iv:
'Howling, forsake--.'
['P. on V. Occasions']]
[Footnote v:
'Fortune may smile upon a future line,
And heaven restore an ever-cloudless day,'
['P. on V. Occasions.', 'Hours of Idleness.']]
* * * * * * * * *
HOURS OF IDLENESS
TO GEORGE, EARL DELAWARR. [i]
1.
Oh! yes, I will own we were dear to each other;
The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are true;
The love which you felt was the love of a brother,
Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you.
2.
But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion;
The attachment of years, in a moment expires:
Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion,
But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires.
3.
Full oft have we wander'd through Ida together,
And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow:
In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather!
But Winter's rude tempests are gathering now.
4.
No more with Affection shall Memory blending,
The wonted delights of our childhood retrace:
When Pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending,
And what would be Justice appears a disgrace.
5.
However, dear George, for I still must esteem you--[ii]
The few, whom I love, I can never upbraid;
The chance, which has lost, may in future redeem you,
Repentance will cancel the vow you have made.
6.
I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection,
With me no corroding resentment shall live:
My bosom is calm'd by the simple reflection,
That both may be wrong, and that both should forgive.
7.
You knew, that my soul, that my heart, my existence,
If danger demanded, were wholly your own;
You knew me unalter'd, by years or by distance,
Devoted to love and to friendship alone.
8.
You knew,--but away with the vain retrospection!
The bond of affection no longer endures;
Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection,
And sigh for the friend, who was formerly yours.
9.
For the present, we part,--I will hope not for ever; [1]
For time and regret will restore you at last:
To forget our dissension we both should endeavour,
I ask no atonement, but days like the past.
[Footnote 1: See Byron's Letter to Lord Clare of February 6, 1807,
referred to in 'note' 2, p. 100.]
[Footnote i:
'To----'.
['Hours of Idleness, Poems O. and Translated]]
[Footnote ii.
'However, dear S----'.
['Hours of Idleness, Poems O. and Translated'.]]
DAM芓AS. [1]
In law an infant, [2] and in years a boy,
In mind a slave to every vicious joy;
From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd,
In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend;
Vers'd in hypocrisy, while yet a child;
Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild;
Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool;
Old in the world, though scarcely broke from school;
Dam鎡as ran through all the maze of sin,
And found the goal, when others just begin:
Ev'n still conflicting passions shake his soul,
And bid him drain the dregs of Pleasure's bowl;
But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain,
And what was once his bliss appears his bane.
[Footnote 1: Moore appears to have regarded these lines as applying to
Byron himself. It is, however, very unlikely that, with all his passion
for painting himself in the darkest colours, he would have written
himself down "a hypocrite." Dam鎡as is, probably, a satirical sketch of
a friend or acquaintance. (Compare the solemn denunciation of Lord
Falkland in 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', lines
668-686.)]]
[Footnote 2: In law, every person is an infant who has not attained the
age of twenty-one.]
TO MARION. [1]
MARION! why that pensive brow? [i]
What disgust to life hast thou?
Change that discontented air;
Frowns become not one so fair.
'Tis not Love disturbs thy rest,
Love's a stranger to thy breast:
_He_, in dimpling smiles, appears,
Or mourns in sweetly timid tears;
Or bends the languid eyelid down,
But _shuns_ the cold forbidding 'frown'.
Then resume thy former fire,
Some will _love_, and all admire!
While that icy aspect chills us,
Nought but cool Indiff'rence thrills us.
Would'st thou wand'ring hearts beguile,
Smile, at least, or _seem_ to _smile_;
Eyes like _thine_ were never meant
To hide their orbs in dark restraint;
Spite of all thou fain wouldst say,
Still in _truant_ beams they play.
Thy lips--but here my _modest_ Muse
Her impulse _chaste_ must needs refuse:
She _blushes, curtsies, frowns,_--in short She
Dreads lest the _Subject_ should transport me;
And flying off, in search of _Reason_,
Brings Prudence back in proper season.
_All_ I shall, therefore, say (whate'er [ii]
I think, is neither here nor there,)
Is, that such _lips_, of looks endearing,
Were form'd for _better things_ than _sneering_.
Of soothing compliments divested,
Advice at least's disinterested;
Such is my artless song to thee,
From all the flow of Flatt'ry free;
Counsel like _mine_ is as a brother's,
_My_ heart is given to some others;
That is to say, unskill'd to cozen,
It shares itself among a dozen.
Marion, adieu! oh, pr'ythee slight not
This warning, though it may delight not;
And, lest my precepts be displeasing, [iii]
To those who think remonstrance teazing,
At once I'll tell thee our opinion,
Concerning Woman's soft Dominion:
Howe'er we gaze, with admiration,
On eyes of blue or lips carnation;
Howe'er the flowing locks attract us,
Howe'er those beauties may distract us;
Still fickle, we are prone to rove,
_These_ cannot fix our souls to love;
It is not too _severe_ a stricture,
To say they form a _pretty picture_;
But would'st thou see the secret chain,
Which binds us in your humble train,
To hail you Queens of all Creation,
Know, in a _word, 'tis Animation_.
BYRON, _January_ 10, 1807.
[Footnote 1: The MS. of this Poem is preserved at Newstead. "This was to
Harriet Maltby, afterwards Mrs. Nichols, written upon her meeting Byron,
and, 'being 'cold, silent', and 'reserved' to him,' by the advice of a
Lady with whom she was staying; quite foreign to her 'usual' manner,
which was gay, lively, and full of flirtation."--Note by Miss E. Pigot.
(See p. 130, var. ii.)]
[Footnote a:
'Harriet'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote b:
'All I shall therefore say of these',
('Thy pardon if my words displease').
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote c:
'And lest my precepts be found fault, by
Those who approved the frown of M--lt-by'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
OSCAR OF ALVA. [1]
1.
How sweetly shines, through azure skies,
The lamp of Heaven on Lora's shore;
Where Alva's hoary turrets rise,
And hear the din of arms no more!
2.
But often has yon rolling moon,
On Alva's casques of silver play'd;
And view'd, at midnight's silent noon,
Her chiefs in gleaming mail array'd:
3.
And, on the crimson'd rocks beneath,
Which scowl o'er ocean's sullen flow,
Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death,
She saw the gasping warrior low; [i]
4.
While many an eye, which ne'er again [ii]
Could mark the rising orb of day,
Turn'd feebly from the gory plain,
Beheld in death her fading ray.
5.
Once, to those eyes the lamp of Love,
They blest her dear propitious light;
But, now, she glimmer'd from above,
A sad, funereal torch of night.
6.
Faded is Alva's noble race,
And grey her towers are seen afar;
No more her heroes urge the chase,
Or roll the crimson tide of war.
7.
But, who was last of Alva's clan?
Why grows the moss on Alva's stone?
Her towers resound no steps of man,
They echo to the gale alone.
8.
And, when that gale is fierce and high,
A sound is heard in yonder hall;
It rises hoarsely through the sky,
And vibrates o'er the mould'ring wall.
9.
Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs,
It shakes the shield of Oscar brave;
But, there, no more his banners rise,
No more his plumes of sable wave.
10.
Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth,
When Angus hail'd his eldest born;
The vassals round their chieftain's hearth
Crowd to applaud the happy morn.
11.
They feast upon the mountain deer,
The Pibroch rais'd its piercing note, [2]
To gladden more their Highland cheer,
The strains in martial numbers float.
12.
And they who heard the war-notes wild,
Hop'd that, one day, the Pibroch's strain
Should play before the Hero's child,
While he should lead the Tartan train.
13.
Another year is quickly past,
And Angus hails another son;
His natal day is like the last,
Nor soon the jocund feast was done.
14.
Taught by their sire to bend the bow,
On Alva's dusky hills of wind,
The boys in childhood chas'd the roe,
And left their hounds in speed behind.
15.
But ere their years of youth are o'er,
They mingle in the ranks of war;
They lightly wheel the bright claymore,
And send the whistling arrow far.
16.
Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair,
Wildly it stream'd along the gale;
But Allan's locks were bright and fair,
And pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale.
17.
But Oscar own'd a hero's soul,
His dark eye shone through beams of truth;
Allan had early learn'd controul,
And smooth his words had been from youth.
18.
Both, both were brave; the Saxon spear
Was shiver'd oft beneath their steel;
And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear,
But Oscar's bosom knew to feel;
19.
While Allan's soul belied his form,
Unworthy with such charms to dwell:
Keen as the lightning of the storm,
On foes his deadly vengeance fell.
20.
From high Southannon's distant tower
Arrived a young and noble dame;
With Kenneth's lands to form her dower,
Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came;
21.
And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride,
And Angus on his Oscar smil'd:
It soothed the father's feudal pride
Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child.
22.
Hark! to the Pibroch's pleasing note,
Hark! to the swelling nuptial song,
In joyous strains the voices float,
And, still, the choral peal prolong.
23.
See how the Heroes' blood-red plumes
Assembled wave in Alva's hall;
Each youth his varied plaid assumes,
Attending on their chieftain's call.
24.
It is not war their aid demands,
The Pibroch plays the song of peace;
To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands
Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease.
25.
But where is Oscar? sure 'tis late:
Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame?
While thronging guests and ladies wait,
Nor Oscar nor his brother came.
26.
At length young Allan join'd the bride;
"Why comes not Oscar?" Angus said:
"Is he not here?" the Youth replied;
"With me he rov'd not o'er the glade:
27.
"Perchance, forgetful of the day,
'Tis his to chase the bounding roe;
Or Ocean's waves prolong his stay:
Yet, Oscar's bark is seldom slow."
28.
"Oh, no!" the anguish'd Sire rejoin'd,
"Nor chase, nor wave, my Boy delay;
Would he to Mora seem unkind?
Would aught to her impede his way?
29.
"Oh, search, ye Chiefs! oh, search around!
Allan, with these, through Alva fly;
Till Oscar, till my son is found,
Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply."
30.
All is confusion--through the vale,
The name of Oscar hoarsely rings,
It rises on the murm'ring gale,
Till night expands her dusky wings.
31.
It breaks the stillness of the night,
But echoes through her shades in vain;
It sounds through morning's misty light,
But Oscar comes not o'er the plain.
32.
Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief
For Oscar search'd each mountain cave;
Then hope is lost; in boundless grief,
His locks in grey-torn ringlets wave.
33.
"Oscar! my son!--thou God of Heav'n,
Restore the prop of sinking age!
Or, if that hope no more is given,
Yield his assassin to my rage.
34.
"Yes, on some desert rocky shore
My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie;
Then grant, thou God! I ask no more,
With him his frantic Sire may die!
35.
"Yet, he may live,--away, despair!
Be calm, my soul! he yet may live;
T' arraign my fate, my voice forbear!
O God! my impious prayer forgive.
36.
"What, if he live for me no more,
I sink forgotten in the dust,
The hope of Alva's age is o'er:
Alas! can pangs like these be just?"
37.
Thus did the hapless Parent mourn,
Till Time, who soothes severest woe,
Had bade serenity return,
And made the tear-drop cease to flow.
38.
For, still, some latent hope surviv'd
That Oscar might once more appear;
His hope now droop'd and now revived,
Till Time had told a tedious year.
39.
Days roll'd along, the orb of light
Again had run his destined race;
No Oscar bless'd his father's sight,
And sorrow left a fainter trace.
40.
For youthful Allan still remain'd,
And, now, his father's only joy:
And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd,
For beauty crown'd the fair-hair'd boy.
41.
She thought that Oscar low was laid,
And Allan's face was wondrous fair;
If Oscar liv'd, some other maid
Had claim'd his faithless bosom's care.
42.
And Angus said, if one year more
In fruitless hope was pass'd away,
His fondest scruples should be o'er,
And he would name their nuptial day.
43.
Slow roll'd the moons, but blest at last
Arriv'd the dearly destin'd morn:
The year of anxious trembling past,
What smiles the lovers' cheeks adorn!
44.
Hark to the Pibroch's pleasing note!
Hark to the swelling nuptial song!
In joyous strains the voices float,
And, still, the choral peal prolong.
45.
Again the clan, in festive crowd,
Throng through the gate of Alva's hall;
The sounds of mirth re-echo loud,
And all their former joy recall.
46.
But who is he, whose darken'd brow
Glooms in the midst of general mirth?
Before his eyes' far fiercer glow
The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth.
47.
Dark is the robe which wraps his form,
And tall his plume of gory red;
His voice is like the rising storm,
But light and trackless is his tread.
48.
'Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round,
The bridegroom's health is deeply quaff'd;
With shouts the vaulted roofs resound,
And all combine to hail the draught.
49.
Sudden the stranger-chief arose,
And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd;
And Angus' cheek with wonder glows,
And Mora's tender bosom blush'd.
50.
"Old man!" he cried, "this pledge is done,
Thou saw'st 'twas truly drunk by me;
It hail'd the nuptials of thy son:
Now will I claim a pledge from thee.
51.
"While all around is mirth and joy,
To bless thy Allan's happy lot,
Say, hadst thou ne'er another boy?
Say, why should Oscar be forgot?"
52.
"Alas!" the hapless Sire replied,
The big tear starting as he spoke,
"When Oscar left my hall, or died,
This aged heart was almost broke.
53.
"Thrice has the earth revolv'd her course
Since Oscar's form has bless'd my sight;
And Allan is my last resource,
Since martial Oscar's death, or flight."
54.
"'Tis well," replied the stranger stern,
And fiercely flash'd his rolling eye;
"Thy Oscar's fate, I fain would learn;
Perhaps the Hero did not die.
55.
"Perchance, if those, whom most he lov'd,
Would call, thy Oscar might return;
Perchance, the chief has only rov'd;
For him thy Beltane, yet, may burn. [3]
56.
"Fill high the bowl the table round,
We will not claim the pledge by stealth;
With wine let every cup be crown'd;
Pledge me departed Oscar's health."
57.
"With all my soul," old Angus said,
And fill'd his goblet to the brim:
"Here's to my boy! alive or dead,
I ne'er shall find a son like him."
58.
"Bravely, old man, this health has sped;
But why does Allan trembling stand?
Come, drink remembrance of the dead,
And raise thy cup with firmer hand."
59.
The crimson glow of Allan's face
Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue;
The drops of death each other chace,
Adown in agonizing dew.
60.
Thrice did he raise the goblet high,
And thrice his lips refused to taste;
For thrice he caught the stranger's eye
On his with deadly fury plac'd.
61.
"And is it thus a brother hails
A brother's fond remembrance here?
If thus affection's strength prevails,
What might we not expect from fear?"
62.
Roused by the sneer, he rais'd the bowl,
"Would Oscar now could share our mirth!"
Internal fear appall'd his soul; [i]
He said, and dash'd the cup to earth.
63.
"'Tis he! I hear my murderer's voice!"
Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming Form.
"A murderer's voice!" the roof replies,
And deeply swells the bursting storm.
64.
The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink,
The stranger's gone,--amidst the crew,
A Form was seen, in tartan green,
And tall the shade terrific grew.
65.
His waist was bound with a broad belt round,
His plume of sable stream'd on high;
But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there,
And fix'd was the glare of his glassy eye.
66.
And thrice he smil'd, with his eye so wild
On Angus bending low the knee;
And thrice he frown'd, on a Chief on the ground,
Whom shivering crowds with horror see.
67.
The bolts loud roll from pole to pole,
And thunders through the welkin ring,
And the gleaming form, through the mist of the storm,
Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing.
68.
Cold was the feast, the revel ceas'd.
Who lies upon the stony floor?
Oblivion press'd old Angus' breast, [iv]
At length his life-pulse throbs once more.
69.
"Away, away! let the leech essay
To pour the light on Allan's eyes:"
His sand is done,--his race is run;
Oh! never more shall Allan rise!
70.
But Oscar's breast is cold as clay,
His locks are lifted by the gale;
And Allan's barb鑔 arrow lay
With him in dark Glentanar's vale.
71.
And whence the dreadful stranger came,
Or who, no mortal wight can tell;
But no one doubts the form of flame,
For Alva's sons knew Oscar well.
72.
Ambition nerv'd young Allan's hand,
Exulting demons wing'd his dart;
While Envy wav'd her burning brand,
And pour'd her venom round his heart.
73.
Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow;
Whose streaming life-blood stains his side?
Dark Oscar's sable crest is low,
The dart has drunk his vital tide.
74.
And Mora's eye could Allan move,
She bade his wounded pride rebel:
Alas! that eyes, which beam'd with love,
Should urge the soul to deeds of Hell.
75.
Lo! see'st thou not a lonely tomb,
Which rises o'er a warrior dead?
It glimmers through the twilight gloom;
Oh! that is Allan's nuptial bed.
76.
Far, distant far, the noble grave
Which held his clan's great ashes stood;
And o'er his corse no banners wave,
For they were stain'd with kindred blood.
77.
What minstrel grey, what hoary bard,
Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise?
The song is glory's chief reward,
But who can strike a murd'rer's praise?
78.
Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand,
No minstrel dare the theme awake;
Guilt would benumb his palsied hand,
His harp in shuddering chords would break.
79.
No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse,
Shall sound his glories high in air:
A dying father's bitter curse,
A brother's death-groan echoes there.
[Footnote 1: The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story of
"Jeronymo and Lorenzo," in the first volume of Schiller's 'Armenian, or
the Ghost-Seer'. It also bears some resemblance to a scene in the third
act of 'Macbeth'.--['Der Geisterseher', Schiller's 'Werke' (1819), x.
97, 'sq'.]
[Footnote 2: It is evident that Byron here confused the 'pibroch', the
air, with the 'bagpipe', the instrument.]
[Footnote 3: Beltane Tree, a Highland festival on the first of May,
held near fires lighted for the occasion.]
[Footnote i:
'She view'd the gasping'----.
['Hours of Idleness'.]]
[Footnote ii:
'When many an eye which ne'er again
Could view'----.
['Hours of Idleness'.]]
[Footnote iii:
'Internal fears'----.
['Hours of Idleness'.]]
[Footnote iv:
'Old Angus prest, the earth with his breast'.
['Hours of Idleness'.]]
TRANSLATION FROM ANACREON.
[Greek: Thel_o legein Atpeidas, k.t.l.] [1]
ODE 1.
TO HIS LYRE.
I wish to tune my quivering lyre, [i]
To deeds of fame, and notes of fire;
To echo, from its rising swell,
How heroes fought and nations fell,
When Atreus' sons advanc'd to war,
Or Tyrian Cadmus rov'd afar;
But still, to martial strains unknown,
My lyre recurs to Love alone.
Fir'd with the hope of future fame, [ii]
I seek some nobler Hero's name;
The dying chords are strung anew,
To war, to war, my harp is due:
With glowing strings, the Epic strain
To Jove's great son I raise again;
Alcides and his glorious deeds,
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds;
All, all in vain; my wayward lyre
Wakes silver notes of soft Desire.
Adieu, ye Chiefs renown'd in arms!
Adieu the clang of War's alarms! [iii]
To other deeds my soul is strung,
And sweeter notes shall now be sung;
My harp shall all its powers reveal,
To tell the tale my heart must feel;
Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim,
In songs of bliss and sighs of flame.
[Footnote 1: The motto does not appear in 'Hours of Idleness' or
'Poems O. and T.']
[Footnote i: 'I sought to tune'----.--['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote ii:
'The chords resumed a second strain,
To Jove's great son I strike again.
Alcides and his glorious deeds,
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iii:
'The Trumpet's blast with these accords
To sound the clash of hostile swords--
Be mine the softer, sweeter care
To soothe the young and virgin Fair'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
FROM ANACREON.
[Greek: Mesonuktiois poth h_opais, k.t.l.] [1]
ODE 3.
'Twas now the hour when Night had driven
Her car half round yon sable heaven;
Bo鰐es, only, seem'd to roll [i]
His Arctic charge around the Pole;
While mortals, lost in gentle sleep,
Forgot to smile, or ceas'd to weep:
At this lone hour the Paphian boy,
Descending from the realms of joy,
Quick to my gate directs his course,
And knocks with all his little force;
My visions fled, alarm'd I rose,--
"What stranger breaks my blest repose?"
"Alas!" replies the wily child
In faltering accents sweetly mild;
"A hapless Infant here I roam,
Far from my dear maternal home.
Oh! shield me from the wintry blast!
The nightly storm is pouring fast.
No prowling robber lingers here;
A wandering baby who can fear?"
I heard his seeming artless tale, [ii]
I heard his sighs upon the gale:
My breast was never pity's foe,
But felt for all the baby's woe.
I drew the bar, and by the light
Young Love, the infant, met my sight;
His bow across his shoulders flung,
And thence his fatal quiver hung
(Ah! little did I think the dart
Would rankle soon within my heart).
With care I tend my weary guest,
His little fingers chill my breast;
His glossy curls, his azure wing,
Which droop with nightly showers, I wring;
His shivering limbs the embers warm;
And now reviving from the storm,
Scarce had he felt his wonted glow,
Than swift he seized his slender bow:--
"I fain would know, my gentle host,"
He cried, "if this its strength has lost;
I fear, relax'd with midnight dews,
The strings their former aid refuse."
With poison tipt, his arrow flies,
Deep in my tortur'd heart it lies:
Then loud the joyous Urchin laugh'd:--
"My bow can still impel the shaft:
'Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it;
Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?"
[Footnote 1: The motto does not appear in 'Hours of Idleness' or
'Poems O. and T.']
[Footnote i: The Newstead MS. _insert_s--
'No Moon in silver robe was seen
Nor e'en a trembling star between'.]
[Footnote ii:
'Touched with the seeming artless tale
Compassion's tears o'er doubt prevail;
Methought I viewed him, cold and damp,
I trimmed anew my dying lamp,
Drew back the bar--and by the light
A pinioned Infant met my sight;
His bow across his shoulders slung,
And hence a gilded quiver hung;
With care I tend my weary guest,
His shivering hands by mine are pressed:
My hearth I load with embers warm
To dry the dew drops of the storm:
Drenched by the rain of yonder sky
The strings are weak--but let us try.'
--['MS. Newstead'.]]
THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURYALUS. [1]
A PARAPHRASE FROM THE "芅EID," LIB. 9.
Nisus, the guardian of the portal, stood,
Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood;
Well skill'd, in fight, the quivering lance to wield,
Or pour his arrows thro' th' embattled field:
From Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave, [i]
And sought a foreign home, a distant grave.
To watch the movements of the Daunian host,
With him Euryalus sustains the post;
No lovelier mien adorn'd the ranks of Troy,
And beardless bloom yet grac'd the gallant boy; 10
Though few the seasons of his youthful life,
As yet a novice in the martial strife,
'Twas his, with beauty, Valour's gifts to share--
A soul heroic, as his form was fair:
These burn with one pure flame of generous love;
In peace, in war, united still they move;
Friendship and Glory form their joint reward;
And, now, combin'd they hold their nightly guard. [ii]
"What God," exclaim'd the first, "instils this fire?
Or, in itself a God, what great desire? 20
My lab'ring soul, with anxious thought oppress'd,
Abhors this station of inglorious rest;
The love of fame with this can ill accord,
Be't mine to seek for glory with my sword.
See'st thou yon camp, with torches twinkling dim,
Where drunken slumbers wrap each lazy limb?
Where confidence and ease the watch disdain,
And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign?
Then hear my thought:--In deep and sullen grief
Our troops and leaders mourn their absent chief: 30
Now could the gifts and promised prize be thine,
(The deed, the danger, and the fame be mine,)
Were this decreed, beneath yon rising mound,
Methinks, an easy path, perchance, were found;
Which past, I speed my way to Pallas' walls,
And lead 苙eas from Evander's halls."
With equal ardour fir'd, and warlike joy,
His glowing friend address'd the Dardan boy:--
"These deeds, my Nisus, shalt thou dare alone?
Must all the fame, the peril, be thine own? 40
Am I by thee despis'd, and left afar,
As one unfit to share the toils of war?
Not thus his son the great Opheltes taught:
Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought;
Not thus, when Ilion fell by heavenly hate,
I track'd 苙eas through the walks of fate:
Thou know'st my deeds, my breast devoid of fear,
And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear.
Here is a soul with hope immortal burns,
And _life_, ignoble _life_, for _Glory_ spurns. [iii] 50
Fame, fame is cheaply earn'd by fleeting breath:
The price of honour, is the sleep of death."
Then Nisus:--"Calm thy bosom's fond alarms: [iv]
Thy heart beats fiercely to the din of arms.
More dear thy worth, and valour than my own,
I swear by him, who fills Olympus' throne!
So may I triumph, as I speak the truth,
And clasp again the comrade of my youth!
But should I fall,--and he, who dares advance
Through hostile legions, must abide by chance,-- 60
If some Rutulian arm, with adverse blow,
Should lay the friend, who ever lov'd thee, low,
Live thou--such beauties I would fain preserve--
Thy budding years a lengthen'd term deserve;
When humbled in the dust, let some one be,
Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for me;
Whose manly arm may snatch me back by force,
Or wealth redeem, from foes, my captive corse;
Or, if my destiny these last deny,
If, in the spoiler's power, my ashes lie; 70
Thy pious care may raise a simple tomb,
To mark thy love, and signalise my doom.
Why should thy doating wretched mother weep
Her only boy, reclin'd in endless sleep?
Who, for thy sake, the tempest's fury dar'd,
Who, for thy sake, war's deadly peril shar'd;
Who brav'd what woman never brav'd before,
And left her native, for the Latian shore."
"In vain you damp the ardour of my soul,"
Replied Euryalus; "it scorns controul; 80
Hence, let us haste!"--their brother guards arose,
Rous'd by their call, nor court again repose;
The pair, buoy'd up on Hope's exulting wing,
Their stations leave, and speed to seek the king.
Now, o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran,
And lull'd alike the cares of brute and man;
Save where the Dardan leaders, nightly, hold
Alternate converse, and their plans unfold.
On one great point the council are agreed,
An instant message to their prince decreed; 90
Each lean'd upon the lance he well could wield,
And pois'd with easy arm his ancient shield;
When Nisus and his friend their leave request,
To offer something to their high behest.
With anxious tremors, yet unaw'd by fear, [v]
The faithful pair before the throne appear;
Iulus greets them; at his kind command,
The elder, first, address'd the hoary band.
"With patience" (thus Hyrtacides began)
"Attend, nor judge, from youth, our humble plan. 100
Where yonder beacons half-expiring beam,
Our slumbering foes of future conquest dream, [vi]
Nor heed that we a secret path have trac'd,
Between the ocean and the portal plac'd;
Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke,
Whose shade, securely, our design will cloak!
If you, ye Chiefs, and Fortune will allow,
We'll bend our course to yonder mountain's brow,
Where Pallas' walls, at distance, meet the sight,
Seen o'er the glade, when not obscur'd by night: 110
Then shall 苙eas in his pride return,
While hostile matrons raise their offspring's urn;
And Latian spoils, and purpled heaps of dead
Shall mark the havoc of our Hero's tread;
Such is our purpose, not unknown the way,
Where yonder torrent's devious waters stray;
Oft have we seen, when hunting by the stream,
The distant spires above the valleys gleam."
Mature in years, for sober wisdom fam'd,
Mov'd by the speech, Alethes here exclaim'd,-- 120
"Ye parent gods! who rule the fate of Troy,
Still dwells the Dardan spirit in the boy;
When minds, like these, in striplings thus ye raise,
Yours is the godlike act, be yours the praise;
In gallant youth, my fainting hopes revive,
And Ilion's wonted glories still survive."
Then in his warm embrace the boys he press'd,
And, quivering, strain'd them to his ag閐 breast;
With tears the burning cheek of each bedew'd,
And, sobbing, thus his first discourse renew'd:-- 130
"What gift, my countrymen, what martial prize,
Can we bestow, which you may not despise?
Our Deities the first best boon have given--
Internal virtues are the gift of Heaven.
What poor rewards can bless your deeds on earth,
Doubtless await such young, exalted worth;
苙eas and Ascanius shall combine
To yield applause far, far surpassing mine."
Iulus then:--"By all the powers above!
By those Penates, who my country love! 140
By hoary Vesta's sacred Fane, I swear,
My hopes are all in you, ye generous pair!
Restore my father, to my grateful sight,
And all my sorrows, yield to one delight.
Nisus! two silver goblets are thine own,
Sav'd from Arisba's stately domes o'erthrown;
My sire secured them on that fatal day,
Nor left such bowls an Argive robber's prey.
Two massy tripods, also, shall be thine,
Two talents polish'd from the glittering mine; 150
An ancient cup, which Tyrian Dido gave,
While yet our vessels press'd the Punic wave:
But when the hostile chiefs at length bow down,
When great 苙eas wears Hesperia's crown,
The casque, the buckler, and the fiery steed
Which Turnus guides with more than mortal speed,
Are thine; no envious lot shall then be cast,
I pledge my word, irrevocably past:
Nay more, twelve slaves, and twice six captive dames,
To soothe thy softer hours with amorous flames, 160
And all the realms, which now the Latins sway,
The labours of to-night shall well repay.
But thou, my generous youth, whose tender years
Are near my own, whose worth my heart reveres,
Henceforth, affection, sweetly thus begun,
Shall join our bosoms and our souls in one;
Without thy aid, no glory shall be mine,
Without thy dear advice, no great design;
Alike, through life, esteem'd, thou godlike boy,
In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy." 170
To him Euryalus:--"No day shall shame
The rising glories which from this I claim.
Fortune may favour, or the skies may frown,
But valour, spite of fate, obtains renown.
Yet, ere from hence our eager steps depart,
One boon I beg, the nearest to my heart:
My mother, sprung from Priam's royal line,
Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine,
Nor Troy nor king Acestes' realms restrain
Her feeble age from dangers of the main; 180
Alone she came, all selfish fears above, [vii]
A bright example of maternal love.
Unknown, the secret enterprise I brave,
Lest grief should bend my parent to the grave;
From this alone no fond adieus I seek,
No fainting mother's lips have press'd my cheek;
By gloomy Night and thy right hand I vow,
Her parting tears would shake my purpose now: [viii]
Do thou, my prince, her failing age sustain,
In thee her much-lov'd child may live again; 190
Her dying hours with pious conduct bless,
Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress:
So dear a hope must all my soul enflame, [ix]
To rise in glory, or to fall in fame."
Struck with a filial care so deeply felt,
In tears at once the Trojan warriors melt;
Faster than all, Iulus' eyes o'erflow!
Such love was his, and such had been his woe.
"All thou hast ask'd, receive," the Prince replied;
"Nor this alone, but many a gift beside. 200
To cheer thy mother's years shall be my aim,
Creusa's [2] style but wanting to the dame;
Fortune an adverse wayward course may run,
But bless'd thy mother in so dear a son.
Now, by my life!--my Sire's most sacred oath--
To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth,
All the rewards which once to thee were vow'd, [x]
If thou should'st fall, on her shall be bestow'd."
Thus spoke the weeping Prince, then forth to view
A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew; 210
Lycaon's utmost skill had grac'd the steel,
For friends to envy and for foes to feel:
A tawny hide, the Moorish lion's spoil, [xi]
Slain 'midst the forest in the hunter's toil,
Mnestheus to guard the elder youth bestows, [xii]
And old Alethes' casque defends his brows;
Arm'd, thence they go, while all th' assembl'd train,
To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain. [xiii]
More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace,
Iulus holds amidst the chiefs his place: 220
His prayer he sends; but what can prayers avail,
Lost in the murmurs of the sighing gale? [xiv]
The trench is pass'd, and favour'd by the night,
Through sleeping foes, they wheel their wary flight.
When shall the sleep of many a foe be o'er?
Alas! some slumber, who shall wake no more!
Chariots and bridles, mix'd with arms, are seen,
And flowing flasks, and scatter'd troops between:
Bacchus and Mars, to rule the camp, combine;
A mingled Chaos this of war and wine. 230
"Now," cries the first, "for deeds of blood prepare,
With me the conquest and the labour share:
Here lies our path; lest any hand arise,
Watch thou, while many a dreaming chieftain dies;
I'll carve our passage, through the heedless foe,
And clear thy road, with many a deadly blow."
His whispering accents then the youth repress'd,
And pierced proud Rhamnes through his panting breast:
Stretch'd at his ease, th' incautious king repos'd;
Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had clos'd; 240
To Turnus dear, a prophet and a prince,
His omens more than augur's skill evince;
But he, who thus foretold the fate of all,
Could not avert his own untimely fall.
Next Remus' armour-bearer, hapless, fell,
And three unhappy slaves the carnage swell;
The charioteer along his courser's sides
Expires, the steel his sever'd neck divides;
And, last, his Lord is number'd with the dead:
Bounding convulsive, flies the gasping head; 250
From the swol'n veins the blackening torrents pour;
Stain'd is the couch and earth with clotting gore.
Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire,
And gay Serranus, fill'd with youthful fire;
Half the long night in childish games was pass'd; [xv]
Lull'd by the potent grape, he slept at last:
Ah! happier far, had he the morn survey'd,
And, till Aurora's dawn, his skill display'd. [xvi]
In slaughter'd folds, the keepers lost in sleep, [xvii]
His hungry fangs a lion thus may steep; 260
'Mid the sad flock, at dead of night he prowls,
With murder glutted, and in carnage rolls
Insatiate still, through teeming herds he roams; [xviii]
In seas of gore, the lordly tyrant foams.
Nor less the other's deadly vengeance came,
But falls on feeble crowds without a name;
His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can feel,
Yet wakeful Rh鎠us sees the threatening steel;
His coward breast behind a jar he hides,
And, vainly, in the weak defence confides; 270
Full in his heart, the falchion search'd his veins,
The reeking weapon bears alternate stains;
Through wine and blood, commingling as they flow,
One feeble spirit seeks the shades below.
Now where Messapus dwelt they bend their way,
Whose fires emit a faint and trembling ray;
There, unconfin'd, behold each grazing steed,
Unwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage feed: [xix]
Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm,
Too flush'd with carnage, and with conquest warm: 280
"Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is pass'd;
Full foes enough, to-night, have breath'd their last:
Soon will the Day those Eastern clouds adorn;
Now let us speed, nor tempt the rising morn."
What silver arms, with various art emboss'd,
What bowls and mantles, in confusion toss'd,
They leave regardless! yet one glittering prize
Attracts the younger Hero's wandering eyes;
The gilded harness Rhamnes' coursers felt,
The gems which stud the monarch's golden belt: 290
This from the pallid corse was quickly torn,
Once by a line of former chieftains worn.
Th' exulting boy the studded girdle wears,
Messapus' helm his head, in triumph, bears;
Then from the tents their cautious steps they bend,
To seek the vale, where safer paths extend.
Just at this hour, a band of Latian horse
To Turnus' camp pursue their destin'd course:
While the slow foot their tardy march delay,
The knights, impatient, spur along the way: 300
Three hundred mail-clad men, by Volscens led,
To Turnus with their master's promise sped:
Now they approach the trench, and view the walls,
When, on the left, a light reflection falls;
The plunder'd helmet, through the waning night,
Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright;
Volscens, with question loud, the pair alarms:--
"Stand, Stragglers! stand! why early thus in arms?
From whence? to whom?"--He meets with no reply;
Trusting the covert of the night, they fly: 310
The thicket's depth, with hurried pace, they tread,
While round the wood the hostile squadron spread.
With brakes entangled, scarce a path between,
Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene:
Euryalus his heavy spoils impede,
The boughs and winding turns his steps mislead;
But Nisus scours along the forest's maze,
To where Latinus' steeds in safety graze,
Then backward o'er the plain his eyes extend,
On every side they seek his absent friend. 320
"O God! my boy," he cries, "of me bereft, [xx]
In what impending perils art thou left!"
Listening he runs--above the waving trees,
Tumultuous voices swell the passing breeze;
The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around
Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground.
Again he turns--of footsteps hears the noise--
The sound elates--the sight his hope destroys:
The hapless boy a ruffian train surround, [xxi]
While lengthening shades his weary way confound; 330
Him, with loud shouts, the furious knights pursue,
Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. [xxii]
What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers dare?
Ah! must he rush, his comrade's fate to share?
What force, what aid, what stratagem essay,
Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey?
His life a votive ransom nobly give,
Or die with him, for whom he wish'd to live?
Poising with strength his lifted lance on high,
On Luna's orb he cast his frenzied eye:-- 340
"Goddess serene, transcending every star! [xxiii]
Queen of the sky, whose beams are seen afar!
By night Heaven owns thy sway, by day the grove,
When, as chaste Dian, here thou deign'st to rove;
If e'er myself, or Sire, have sought to grace
Thine altars, with the produce of the chase,
Speed, speed my dart to pierce yon vaunting crowd,
To free my friend, and scatter far the proud."
Thus having said, the hissing dart he flung;
Through parted shades the hurtling weapon sung; 350
The thirsty point in Sulmo's entrails lay,
Transfix'd his heart, and stretch'd him on the clay:
He sobs, he dies,--the troop in wild amaze,
Unconscious whence the death, with horror gaze;
While pale they stare, thro' Tagus' temples riven,
A second shaft, with equal force is driven:
Fierce Volscens rolls around his lowering eyes;
Veil'd by the night, secure the Trojan lies. [xxiv]
Burning with wrath, he view'd his soldiers fall.
"Thou youth accurst, thy life shall pay for all!" 360
Quick from the sheath his flaming glaive he drew,
And, raging, on the boy defenceless flew.
Nisus, no more the blackening shade conceals,
Forth, forth he starts, and all his love reveals;
Aghast, confus'd, his fears to madness rise,
And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies;
"Me, me,--your vengeance hurl on me alone;
Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your own;
Ye starry Spheres! thou conscious Heaven! attest!
He could not--durst not--lo! the guile confest! 370
All, all was mine,--his early fate suspend;
He only lov'd, too well, his hapless friend:
Spare, spare, ye Chiefs! from him your rage remove;
His fault was friendship, all his crime was love."
He pray'd in vain; the dark assassin's sword
Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gor'd;
Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad crest,
And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast:
As some young rose whose blossom scents the air,
Languid in death, expires beneath the share; 380
Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower,
Declining gently, falls a fading flower;
Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head,
And lingering Beauty hovers round the dead.
But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide,
Revenge his leader, and Despair his guide; [xxv]
Volscens he seeks amidst the gathering host,
Volscens must soon appease his comrade's ghost;
Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe;
Rage nerves his arm, Fate gleams in every blow; 390
In vain beneath unnumber'd wounds he bleeds,
Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds;
In viewless circles wheel'd his falchion flies,
Nor quits the hero's grasp till Volscens dies;
Deep in his throat its end the weapon found,
The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the wound. [xxvi]
Thus Nisus all his fond affection prov'd--
Dying, revenged the fate of him he lov'd;
Then on his bosom sought his wonted place, [xxvii]
And death was heavenly, in his friend's embrace! 400
Celestial pair! if aught my verse can claim,
Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is fame! [xxviii]
Ages on ages shall your fate admire,
No future day shall see your names expire,
While stands the Capitol, immortal dome!
And vanquished millions hail their Empress, Rome!
[Footnote 1: Lines 1-18 were first published in 'P. on V. Occasions',
under the title of "Fragment of a Translation from the 9th Book of
Virgil's '苙eid'."]
[Footnote 2: The mother of Iulus, lost on the night when Troy was
taken.]
[Footnote i:
'Him Ida sent, a hunter, now no more,
To combat foes, upon a foreign shore;
Near him, the loveliest of the Trojan band,
Did fair Euryalus, his comrade, stand;
Few are the seasons of his youthful life,
As yet a novice in the martial strife:
The Gods to him unwonted gifts impart,
A female's beatify, with a hero's heart.
['P. on V. Occasions.']
From Ida torn he left his native grove,
Through distant climes, and trackless seas to rove.'
['Hours of Idleness.']]
[Footnote ii:
'And now combin'd, the massy gate they guard'.
['P. on V. Occasions'.]
--they hold the nightly guard'.
['Hours of Idleness'.]]
[Footnote iii:
And Love, and Life alike the glory spurned.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iv:
Then Nisus, "Ah, my friend--why thus suspect
Thy youthful breast admits of no defect."
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote v:
Trembling with diffidence not awed by fear.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote vi:
The vain Rutulians lost in slumber dream.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote vii:
'Hither she came------.
['Hours of Idleness.']]
[Footnote viii:
'Her falling tears------.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote ix:
'With this assurance Fate's attempts are vain;
Fearless I dare the foes of yonder plain.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote x:
'That all the gifts which once to thee were vowed.
['MS. Newstead'.]
[Footnote xi:
'A tawny skin the furious lion's spoil.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xii:
'Mnestheus presented, and the Warrior's mask
Alethes gave a doubly temper'd casque.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xiii:
'To glad their journey, follow them in vain.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xiv:
'Dispersed and scattered on the sighing gale.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xv:
'By Bacchus' potent draught weigh'd down at last
Half the long night in childish games was past.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xvi:
'--disportive play'd.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xvii:
By hunger prest, the keeper lull'd to sleep
In slaughter thus a Lyon's fangs may steep.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xviii:
Through teeming herds unchecked, unawed, he roams.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xix:
Heedless of danger on the herbage feed.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xx:
----'of thee bereft
In what dire perils is my brother left.'
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xxi:
Then his lov'd boy the ruffian band surround
Entangled in the tufted Forest ground.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xxii:
'At length a captive to the hostile crew'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xxiii:
'The Goddess bright transcending every star'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xxiv:
'No object meets them but the earth and skies.
He burns for vengeance, rising in his wrath--
Then you, accursed, thy life shall pay for both;
Then from the sheath his flaming brand he drew,
And on the raging boy defenceless flew.
Nisus no more the blackening shade conceals,
Forth forth he rushed and all his love reveals;
Pale and confused his fear to madness grows,
And thus in accents mild he greets his Foes.
"On me, on me, direct your impious steel,
Let me and me alone your vengeance feel--
Let not a stripling's blood by Chiefs be spilt,
Be mine the Death, as mine was all the guilt.
By Heaven and Hell, the powers of Earth and Air.
Yon guiltless stripling neither could nor dare:
Spare him, oh! spare by all the Gods above,
A hapless boy whose only crime was Love."
He prayed in vain; the fierce assassin's sword
Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored;
Drooping to earth inclines his lovely head,
O'er his fair curls, the purpling stream is spread.
As some sweet lily, by the ploughshare broke
Languid in Death, sinks down beneath the stroke;
Or, as some poppy, bending with the shower,
Gently declining falls a waning flower'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xxv:
'Revenge his object'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xxvi:
'The assassin's soul'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xxvii:
'Then on his breast he sought his wonted place,
And Death was lovely in his Friend's embrace'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xxviii:
'Yours are the fairest wreaths of endless Fame.'
['MS. Newstead'.]]
TRANSLATION FROM THE "MEDEA" OF EURIPIDES [Ll. 627-660].
[Greek: Erotes hyper men agan, K.T.L.[1]]
1.
When fierce conflicting passions urge
The breast, where love is wont to glow,
What mind can stem the stormy surge
Which rolls the tide of human woe?
The hope of praise, the dread of shame,
Can rouse the tortur'd breast no more;
The wild desire, the guilty flame,
Absorbs each wish it felt before.
2.
But if affection gently thrills
The soul, by purer dreams possest,
The pleasing balm of mortal ills
In love can soothe the aching breast:
If thus thou comest in disguise, [i]
Fair Venus! from thy native heaven,
What heart, unfeeling, would despise
The sweetest boon the Gods have given?
3.
But, never from thy golden bow,
May I beneath the shaft expire!
Whose creeping venom, sure and slow,
Awakes an all-consuming fire:
Ye racking doubts! ye jealous fears!
With others wage internal war;
Repentance! source of future tears,
From me be ever distant far!
4.
May no distracting thoughts destroy
The holy calm of sacred love!
May all the hours be winged with joy,
Which hover faithful hearts above!
Fair Venus! on thy myrtle shrine
May I with some fond lover sigh!
Whose heart may mingle pure with mine,
With me to live, with me to die!
5.
My native soil! belov'd before,
Now dearer, as my peaceful home,
Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore,
A hapless banish'd wretch to roam!
This very day, this very hour,
May I resign this fleeting breath!
Nor quit my silent humble bower;
A doom, to me, far worse than death.
6.
Have I not heard the exile's sigh,
And seen the exile's silent tear,
Through distant climes condemn'd to fly,
A pensive, weary wanderer here?
Ah! hapless dame! [2] no sire bewails,
No friend thy wretched fate deplores,
No kindred voice with rapture hails
Thy steps within a stranger's doors.
7.
Perish the fiend! whose iron heart
To fair affection's truth unknown,
Bids her he fondly lov'd depart,
Unpitied, helpless, and alone;
Who ne'er unlocks with silver key, [3]
The milder treasures of his soul;
May such a friend be far from me,
And Ocean's storms between us roll!
[Footnote 1: The Greek heading does not appear in 'Hours of Idleness' or
'Poems O. and T'.]
[Footnote 2: Medea, who accompanied Jason to Corinth, was deserted by
him for the daughter of Creon, king of that city. The chorus, from which
this is taken, here addresses Medea; though a considerable liberty is
taken with the original, by expanding the idea, as also in some other
parts of the translation.]
[Footnote 3: The original is [Greek: katharan anoixanta klaeda
phren_on,] literally "disclosing the bright key of the mind."]
[Footnote i:
'If thus thou com'st in gentle guise'.
['Hours of Idleness'.]]
LACHIN Y GAIR. [1]
1.
Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses!
In you let the minions of luxury rove:
Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love:
Yet, Caledonia, belov'd are thy mountains,
Round their white summits though elements war:
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.
2.
Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy, wander'd:
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid; [2]
On chieftains, long perish'd, my memory ponder'd,
As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade;
I sought not my home, till the day's dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;
For fancy was cheer'd, by traditional story,
Disclos'd by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.
3.
"Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?"
Surely, the soul of the hero rejoices,
And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale!
Round Loch na Garr, while the stormy mist gathers,
Winter presides in his cold icy car:
Clouds, there, encircle the forms of my Fathers;
They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr.
4.
"Ill starr'd, [3] though brave, did no visions foreboding
Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?"
Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden, [4]
Victory crown'd not your fall with applause:
Still were you happy, in death's earthy slumber,
You rest with your clan, in the caves of Braemar; [5]
The Pibroch [6] resounds, to the piper's loud number,
Your deeds, on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.
5.
Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you,
Years must elapse, ere I tread you again:
Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you,
Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain:
England! thy beauties are tame and domestic,
To one who has rov'd on the mountains afar:
Oh! for the crags that are wild and majestic,
The steep, frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr. [7]
[Footnote 1: 'Lachin y Gair', or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, 'Loch
na Garr', towers proudly pre-eminent in the Northern Highlands, near
Invercauld. One of our modern tourists mentions it as the highest
mountain, perhaps, in Great Britain. Be this as it may, it is certainly
one of the most sublime and picturesque amongst our "Caledonian Alps."
Its appearance is of a dusky hue, but the summit is the seat of eternal
snows. Near Lachin y Gair I spent some of the early part of my life, the
recollection of which has given birth to the following stanzas.
[Prefixed to the poem in 'Hours of Idleness' and 'Poems O. and T.']
[Footnote 2: This word is erroneously pronounced 'plad'; the proper
pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is shown by the orthography.]
[Footnote 3: I allude here to my maternal ancestors, "the Gordons," many
of whom fought for the unfortunate Prince Charles, better known by the
name of the Pretender. This branch was nearly allied by blood, as well
as attachment, to the Stuarts. George, the second Earl of Huntley,
married the Princess Annabella Stuart, daughter of James I. of Scotland.
By her he left four sons: the third, Sir William Gordon, I have the
honour to claim as one of my progenitors.]
[Footnote 4: Whether any perished in the Battle of Culloden, I am not
certain; but, as many fell in the insurrection, I have used the name of
the principal action, "pars pro toto."]
[Footnote 5: A tract of the Highlands so called. There is also a Castle
of Braemar.]
[Footnote 6: The Bagpipe.--'Hours of Idleness'. (See note, p. 133.)]
[Footnote 7: The love of mountains to the last made Byron
"Hail in each crag a friend's familiar face,
And Loch na Garr with Ida looked o'er Troy."
'The Island' (1823), Canto II. stanza xii.]
TO ROMANCE.
1.
Parent of golden dreams, Romance!
Auspicious Queen of childish joys,
Who lead'st along, in airy dance,
Thy votive train of girls and boys;
At length, in spells no longer bound,
I break the fetters of my youth;
No more I tread thy mystic round,
But leave thy realms for those of Truth.
2.
And yet 'tis hard to quit the dreams
Which haunt the unsuspicious soul,
Where every nymph a goddess seems, [i]
Whose eyes through rays immortal roll;
While Fancy holds her boundless reign,
And all assume a varied hue;
When Virgins seem no longer vain,
And even Woman's smiles are true.
3.
And must we own thee, but a name,
And from thy hall of clouds descend?
Nor find a Sylph in every dame,
A Pylades [1] in every friend?
But leave, at once, thy realms of air [ii]
To mingling bands of fairy elves;
Confess that woman's false as fair,
And friends have feeling for--themselves?
4.
With shame, I own, I've felt thy sway;
Repentant, now thy reign is o'er;
No more thy precepts I obey,
No more on fancied pinions soar;
Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye,
And think that eye to truth was dear;
To trust a passing wanton's sigh,
And melt beneath a wanton's tear!
5.
Romance! disgusted with deceit,
Far from thy motley court I fly,
Where Affectation holds her seat,
And sickly Sensibility;
Whose silly tears can never flow
For any pangs excepting thine;
Who turns aside from real woe,
To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine.
6.
Now join with sable Sympathy,
With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds,
Who heaves with thee her simple sigh,
Whose breast for every bosom bleeds;
And call thy sylvan female choir,
To mourn a Swain for ever gone,
Who once could glow with equal fire,
But bends not now before thy throne.
7.
Ye genial Nymphs, whose ready tears [iii]
On all occasions swiftly flow;
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears,
With fancied flames and phrenzy glow
Say, will you mourn my absent name,
Apostate from your gentle train?
An infant Bard, at least, may claim
From you a sympathetic strain.
8.
Adieu, fond race! a long adieu!
The hour of fate is hovering nigh;
E'en now the gulf appears in view,
Where unlamented you must lie: [iv]
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen,
Convuls'd by gales you cannot weather,
Where you, and eke your gentle queen,
Alas! must perish altogether.
[Footnote 1: It is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades was the
companion of Orestes, and a partner in one of those friendships which,
with those of Achilles and Patroclus, Nisus and Euryalus, Damon and
Pythias, have been handed down to posterity as remarkable instances of
attachments, which in all probability never existed beyond the
imagination of the poet, or the page of an historian, or modern
novelist.]
[Footnote i:
'Where every girl--.'
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote ii:
'But quit at once thy realms of air
Thy mingling--.'
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iii:
'Auspicious bards--.'
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iv:
'Where you are doomed in death to lie.'
['MS. Newstead'.]]
THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. [1]
AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S "OSSIAN". [2]
Dear are the days of youth! Age dwells on their remembrance through the
mist of time. In the twilight he recalls the sunny hours of morn. He
lifts his spear with trembling hand. "Not thus feebly did I raise the
steel before my fathers!" Past is the race of heroes! But their fame
rises on the harp; their souls ride on the wings of the wind; they hear
the sound through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall of
clouds. Such is Calmar. The grey stone marks his narrow house. He looks
down from eddying tempests: he rolls his form in the whirlwind, and
hovers on the blast of the mountain.
In Morven dwelt the Chief; a beam of war to Fingal. His steps in the
field were marked in blood. Lochlin's sons had fled before his angry
spear; [i] but mild was the eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his
yellow locks: they streamed like the meteor of the night. No maid was
the sigh of his soul: his thoughts were given to friendship,--to
dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes! Equal were their swords in
battle; but fierce was the pride of Orla:--gentle alone to Calmar.
Together they dwelt in the cave of Oithona.
From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves. Erin's sons fell
beneath his might. Fingal roused his chiefs to combat. [ii] Their ships
cover the ocean! Their hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the
aid of Erin.
Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies. But the blazing oaks
gleam through the valley. [iii] The sons of Lochlin slept: their dreams
were of blood. They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not so
the Host of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. Calmar stood by his
side. Their spears were in their hands. Fingal called his chiefs: they
stood around. The king was in the midst. Grey were his locks, but strong
was the arm of the king. Age withered not his powers. "Sons of Morven,"
said the hero, "to-morrow we meet the foe. But where is Cuthullin, the
shield of Erin? He rests in the halls of Tura; he knows not of our
coming. Who will speed through Lochlin, to the hero, and call the chief
to arms? The path is by the swords of foes; but many are my heroes. They
are thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs! Who will arise?"
"Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed," said dark-haired Orla, "and mine
alone. What is death to me? I love the sleep of the mighty, but little
is the danger. The sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borne
Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards; and lay me by the stream
of Lubar."--"And shalt thou fall alone?" said fair-haired Calmar. "Wilt
thou leave thy friend afar? Chief of Oithona! not feeble is my arm in
fight. Could I see thee die, and not lift the spear? No, Orla! ours has
been the chase of the roebuck, and the feast of shells; ours be the path
of danger: ours has been the cave of Oithona; ours be the narrow
dwelling on the banks of Lubar."--"Calmar," said the chief of Oithona,
"why should thy yellow locks be darkened in the dust of Erin? Let me
fall alone. My father dwells in his hall of air: he will rejoice in his
boy; but the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast for her Son in Morven. She
listens to the steps of the hunter on the heath, and thinks it is the
tread of Calmar. Let her not say, 'Calmar has fallen by the steel of
Lochlin: he died with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark brow.' Why
should tears dim the azure eye of Mora? Why should her voice curse Orla,
the destroyer of Calmar? Live Calmar! Live to raise my stone of moss;
live to revenge me in the blood of Lochlin. Join the song of bards above
my grave. Sweet will be the song of Death to Orla, from the voice of
Calmar. My ghost shall smile on the notes of Praise." "Orla," said the
son of Mora, "could I raise the song of Death to my friend? Could I give
his fame to the winds? No, my heart would speak in sighs: faint and
broken are the sounds of sorrow. Orla! our souls shall hear the song
together. One cloud shall be ours on high: the bards will mingle the
names of Orla and Calmar."
They quit the circle of the Chiefs. Their steps are to the Host of
Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak dim-twinkles through the night. The
northern star points the path to Tura. Swaran, the King, rests on his
lonely hill. Here the troops are mixed: they frown in sleep; their
shields beneath their heads. Their swords gleam, at distance in heaps.
The fires are faint; their embers fail in smoke. All is hushed; but the
gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the Heroes through the
slumbering band. Half the journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his
shield, meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glistens through
the shade. His spear is raised on high. "Why dost thou bend thy brow,
chief of Oithona?" said fair-haired Calmar: "we are in the midst of
foes. Is this a time for delay?" "It is a time for vengeance," said Orla
of the gloomy brow. "Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: seest thou his spear? Its
point is dim with the gore of my father. The blood of Mathon shall reek
on mine: but shall I slay him sleeping, Son of Mora? No! he shall feel
his wound: my fame shall not soar on the blood of slumber. Rise, Mathon,
rise! The Son of Conna calls; thy life is his; rise to combat." Mathon
starts from sleep: but did he rise alone? No: the gathering Chiefs bound
on the plain. "Fly! Calmar, fly!" said dark-haired Orla. "Mathon is
mine. I shall die in joy: but Lochlin crowds around. Fly through the
shade of night." Orla turns. The helm of Mathon is cleft; his shield
falls from his arm: he shudders in his blood. [i] He rolls by the side
of the blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall: his wrath rises: his weapon
glitters on the head of Orla: but a spear pierced his eye. His brain
gushes through the wound, and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll the
waves of the Ocean on two mighty barks of the North, so pour the men of
Lochlin on the Chiefs. As, breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer the
barks of the North, so rise the Chiefs of Morven on the scattered crests
of Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes his
shield; his sons throng around; the people pour along the heath. Ryno
bounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the spear. The
eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is the clang of death!
many are the Widows of Lochlin. Morven prevails in its strength.
Morn glimmers on the hills: no living foe is seen; but the sleepers are
many; grim they lie on Erin. The breeze of Ocean lifts their locks; yet
they do not awake. The hawks scream above their prey.
Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? Bright as the gold
of the stranger, they mingle with the dark hair of his friend. 'Tis
Calmar: he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood.
Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not; but his eye is
still a flame. It glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasped in
Calmar's; but Calmar lives! he lives, though low. "Rise," said the king,
"rise, son of Mora: 'tis mine to heal the wounds of Heroes. Calmar may
yet bound on the hills of Morven." [v]
"Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven with Orla," said the
Hero. "What were the chase to me alone? Who would share the spoils of
battle with Calmar? Orla is at rest! Rough was thy soul, Orla! yet soft
to me as the dew of morn. It glared on others in lightning: to me a
silver beam of night. Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora; let it hang in my
empty hall. It is not pure from blood: but it could not save Orla. Lay
me with my friend: raise the song when I am dark!"
They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four grey stones mark the dwelling
of Orla and Calmar. When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue
waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven:--the bards raised the song.
"What Form rises on the roar of clouds? Whose dark Ghost gleams on the
red streams of tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder. 'Tis Orla, the
brown Chief of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. Peace to thy soul,
Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Calmar! Lovely wast thou, son
of blue-eyed Mora; but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave.
The Ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar!
It dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes of
Morven. Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the arch
of the rainbow, and smile through the tears of the storm. [3]
[Footnote 1: The MS. is preserved at Newstead.]
[Footnote 2: It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though
considerably varied in the catastrophe, is taken from "Nisus and
Euryalus," of which episode a translation is already given in the
present volume [see pp. 151-168].]
[Footnote 3: I fear Laing's late edition has completely overthrown every
hope that Macpherson's 'Ossian' might prove the translation of a series
of poems complete in themselves; but, while the imposture is discovered,
the merit of the work remains undisputed, though not without
faults--particularly, in some parts, turgid and bombastic diction.--The
present humble imitation will be pardoned by the admirers of the
original as an attempt, however inferior, which evinces an attachment to
their favourite author. [Malcolm Laing (1762-1818) published, in 1802, a
'History of Scotland, etc.', with a dissertation "on the supposed
authenticity of Ossian's Poems," and, in 1805, a work entitled 'The
Poems of Ossian, etc., containing the Poetical Works of James
Macpherson, Esq., in Prose and Rhyme, with Notes and Illustrations'.]
[Footnote i:
'Erin's sons--'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote ii:
'The horn of Fingal--'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iii:
'--the fires gleam--'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iv:
'He trembles in his blood. He rolls convulsive.'
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote v:
'--the mountain of Morven.'
['MS. Newstead'.]]
TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ. [i] [1]
"Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico."--HORACE.
Dear LONG, in this sequester'd scene, [ii]
While all around in slumber lie,
The joyous days, which ours have been
Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye;
Thus, if, amidst the gathering storm,
While clouds the darken'd noon deform,
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow,
I hail the sky's celestial bow,
Which spreads the sign of future peace,
And bids the war of tempests cease.
Ah! though the present brings but pain,
I think those days may come again;
Or if, in melancholy mood,
Some lurking envious fear intrude, [iii]
To check my bosom's fondest thought,
And interrupt the golden dream,
I crush the fiend with malice fraught,
And, still, indulge my wonted theme.
Although we ne'er again can trace,
In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore,
Nor through the groves of Ida chase
Our raptured visions, as before;
Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion,
And Manhood claims his stern dominion,
Age will not every hope destroy,
But yield some hours of sober joy.
Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing
Will shed around some dews of spring:
But, if his scythe must sweep the flowers
Which bloom among the fairy bowers,
Where smiling Youth delights to dwell,
And hearts with early rapture swell;
If frowning Age, with cold controul,
Confines the current of the soul,
Congeals the tear of Pity's eye,
Or checks the sympathetic sigh,
Or hears, unmov'd, Misfortune's groan
And bids me feel for self alone;
Oh! may my bosom never learn
To soothe its wonted heedless flow; [iv]
Still, still, despise the censor stern,
But ne'er forget another's woe.
Yes, as you knew me in the days,
O'er which Remembrance yet delays, [v]
Still may I rove untutor'd, wild,
And even in age, at heart a child. [vi]
Though, now, on airy visions borne,
To you my soul is still the same.
Oft has it been my fate to mourn, [vii]
And all my former joys are tame:
But, hence! ye hours of sable hue!
Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er:
By every bliss my childhood knew,
I'll think upon your shade no more.
Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past,
And caves their sullen roar enclose [viii]
We heed no more the wintry blast,
When lull'd by zephyr to repose.
Full often has my infant Muse,
Attun'd to love her languid lyre;
But, now, without a theme to choose,
The strains in stolen sighs expire.
My youthful nymphs, alas! are flown; [ix]
E----is a wife, and C----a mother,
And Carolina sighs alone,
And Mary's given to another;
And Cora's eye, which roll'd on me,
Can now no more my love recall--
In truth, dear LONG, 'twas time to flee--[x]
For Cora's eye will shine on all.
And though the Sun, with genial rays,
His beams alike to all displays,
And every lady's eye's a _sun_,
These last should be confin'd to one.
The soul's meridian don't become her, [xi]
Whose Sun displays a general _summer_!
Thus faint is every former flame,
And Passion's self is now a name; [xii] [xiii]
As, when the ebbing flames are low,
The aid which once improv'd their light,
And bade them burn with fiercer glow,
Now quenches all their sparks in night;
Thus has it been with Passion's fires,
As many a boy and girl remembers,
While all the force of love expires,
Extinguish'd with the dying embers.
But now, dear LONG, 'tis midnight's noon,
And clouds obscure the watery moon,
Whose beauties I shall not rehearse,
Describ'd in every stripling's verse;
For why should I the path go o'er
Which every bard has trod before? [xiv]
Yet ere yon silver lamp of night
Has thrice perform'd her stated round,
Has thrice retrac'd her path of light,
And chas'd away the gloom profound,
I trust, that we, my gentle Friend,
Shall see her rolling orbit wend,
Above the dear-lov'd peaceful seat,
Which once contain'd our youth's retreat;
And, then, with those our childhood knew,
We'll mingle in the festive crew;
While many a tale of former day
Shall wing the laughing hours away;
And all the flow of souls shall pour
The sacred intellectual shower,
Nor cease, till Luna's waning horn,
Scarce glimmers through the mist of Morn.
[Footnote 1: The MS. of these verses is at Newstead. Long was with Byron
at Harrow, and was the only one of his intimate friends who went up at
the same time as he did to Cambridge, where both were noted for feats of
swimming and diving. Long entered the Guards, and served in the
expedition to Copenhagen. He was drowned early in 1809, when on his way
to join the army in the Peninsula; the transport in which he sailed
being run down in the night by another of the convoy. "Long's father,"
says Byron, "wrote to me to write his son's epitaph. I promised--but I
had not the heart to complete it. He was such a good, amiable being as
rarely remains long in this world; with talent and accomplishments, too,
to make him the more regretted."--'Diary', 1821; 'Life', p. 32. See also
memorandum ('Life', p. 31, col. ii.).]
[Footnote i:
'To E. N. L. Esq.'
['Hours of Idleness. Poems O. and T.'] ]
[Footnote ii:
'Dear L----.'
['Hours of Idleness. Poems O. and T.'] ]
[Footnote iii:
'Some daring envious.'
['MS. Newstead.'] ]
[Footnote iv:
'its young romantic flow.'
['MS. Newstead.'] ]
[Footnote v:
'O'er which my fancy'--.
['MS. Newstead.'] ]
[Footnote vi:
'Still may my breast to boyhood cleave,
With every early passion heave;
Still may I rove untutored, wild,
But never cease to seem a child.'--
['MS. Newstead.'] ]
[Footnote vii:
'Since we have met, I learnt to mourn.'
['MS. Newstead.'] ]
[Footnote viii:
'And caves their sullen war'--.
['MS. Newstead.'] ]
[Footnote ix:
'--thank Heaven are flown'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote x:
'In truth dear L----'.
['Hours of Idleness. Poems O. and T.] ]
[Footnote xi:
'The glances really don't become her'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xii:
'No more I linger on its name'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xiii:
'And passion's self is but a name'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xiv:
'And what's much worse than this I find
Have left their deepen'd tracks behind
Yet as yon'------.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
TO A LADY. [i]
1.
Oh! had my Fate been join'd with thine, [1]
As once this pledge appear'd a token,
These follies had not, then, been mine,
For, then, my peace had not been broken.
2.
To thee, these early faults I owe,
To thee, the wise and old reproving:
They know my sins, but do not know
'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving.
3.
For once my soul, like thine, was pure,
And all its rising fires could smother;
But, now, thy vows no more endure,
Bestow'd by thee upon another. [1]
4.
Perhaps, his peace I could destroy,
And spoil the blisses that await him;
Yet let my Rival smile in joy,
For thy dear sake, I cannot hate him.
5.
Ah! since thy angel form is gone,
My heart no more can rest with any;
But what it sought in thee alone,
Attempts, alas! to find in many.
6.
Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid!
'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee;
Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid,
But Pride may teach me to forget thee.
7.
Yet all this giddy waste of years,
This tiresome round of palling pleasures;
These varied loves, these matrons' fears,
These thoughtless strains to Passion's measures--
8.
If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd:--
This cheek, now pale from early riot,
With Passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd,
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet.
9.
Yes, once the rural Scene was sweet,
For Nature seem'd to smile before thee;
And once my Breast abhorr'd deceit,--
For then it beat but to adore thee.
10.
But, now, I seek for other joys--
To think, would drive my soul to madness;
In thoughtless throngs, and empty noise,
I conquer half my Bosom's sadness.
11.
Yet, even in these, a thought will steal,
In spite of every vain endeavour;
And fiends might pity what I feel--
To know that thou art lost for ever.
[Footnote 1: These verses were addressed to Mrs. Chaworth Musters.
Byron wrote in 1822,
"Our meetings were stolen ones. ... A gate leading from Mr. Chaworth's
grounds to those of my mother was the place of our interviews. The
ardour was all on my side. I was serious; she was volatile: she liked
me as a younger brother, and treated and laughed at me as a boy; she,
however, gave me her picture, and that was something to make verses
upon. Had I married her, perhaps, the whole tenour of my life would
have been different."
Medwin's 'Conversations', 1824, p. 81.]
[Footnote i:
_To------._
['Hours of Idleness. Poems O. and T.']]
* * * * * * * * *
POEMS ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED
WHEN I ROVED A YOUNG HIGHLANDER. [i]
1.
When I rov'd a young Highlander o'er the dark heath,
And climb'd thy steep summit, oh Morven of snow! [1]
To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath,
Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below; [2]
Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear,
And rude as the rocks, where my infancy grew,
No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear;
Need I say, my sweet Mary, [3] 'twas centred in you?
2.
Yet it could not be Love, for I knew not the name,--
What passion can dwell in the heart of a child?
But, still, I perceive an emotion the same
As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild:
One image, alone, on my bosom impress'd,
I lov'd my bleak regions, nor panted for new;
And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd,
And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you.
3.
I arose with the dawn, with my dog as my guide,
From mountain to mountain I bounded along;
I breasted [4] the billows of Dee's [5] rushing tide,
And heard at a distance the Highlander's song:
At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose.
No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view;
And warm to the skies my devotions arose,
For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you.
4.
I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone;
The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no more;
As the last of my race, I must wither alone,
And delight but in days, I have witness'd before:
Ah! splendour has rais'd, but embitter'd my lot;
More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew:
Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not
forgot,
Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you.
5.
When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky,
I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen; [6]
When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye,
I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene;
When, haply, some light-waving locks I behold,
That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue,
I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold,
The locks that were sacred to beauty, and you.
6.
Yet the day may arrive, when the mountains once more
Shall rise to my sight, in their mantles of snow;
But while these soar above me, unchang'd as before,
Will Mary be there to receive me?--ah, no!
Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred!
Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu!
No home in the forest shall shelter my head,--
Ah! Mary, what home could be mine, but with you?
[Footnote 1: Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire. "Gormal of snow"
is an expression frequently to be found in Ossian.]
[Footnote 2: This will not appear extraordinary to those who have been
accustomed to the mountains. It is by no means uncommon, on attaining
the top of Ben-e-vis, Ben-y-bourd, etc., to perceive, between the summit
and the valley, clouds pouring down rain, and occasionally accompanied
by lightning, while the spectator literally looks down upon the storm,
perfectly secure from its effects.]
[Footnote 3: Byron, in early youth, was "unco' wastefu'" of Marys.
There was his distant cousin, Mary Duff (afterwards Mrs. Robert
Cockburn), who lived not far from the "Plain-Stanes" at Aberdeen. Her
"brown, dark hair, and hazel eyes--her very dress," were long years
after "a perfect image" in his memory (_Life_, p. 9). Secondly, there
was the Mary of these stanzas, "with long-flowing ringlets of gold," the
"Highland Mary" of local tradition. She was (writes the Rev. J. Michie,
of The Manse, Dinnet) the daughter of James Robertson, of the farmhouse
of Ballatrich on Deeside, where Byron used to spend his summer holidays
(1796-98). She was of gentle birth, and through her mother, the daughter
of Captain Macdonald of Rineton, traced her descent to the Lord of the
Isles. "She died at Aberdeen, March 2, 1867, aged eighty-five years." A
third Mary (see "Lines to Mary," etc., p. 32) flits through the early
poems, evanescent but unspiritual. Last of all, there was Mary Anne
Chaworth, of Annesley (see "A Fragment," etc., p. 210; "The Adieu," st.
6, p. 239, etc.), whose marriage, in 1805, "threw him out again--alone
on a wide, wide sea" (Life, p. 85).]
[Footnote 4: "Breasting the lofty surge" (Shakespeare).]
[Footnote 5: The Dee is a beautiful river, which rises near Mar Lodge,
and falls into the sea at New Aberdeen.]
[Footnote 6: Colbleen is a mountain near the verge of the Highlands, not
far from the ruins of Dee Castle.]
[Footnote i:
_Song_.
[_Poems O. and T._]]
TO THE DUKE OF DORSET. [i] [1]
Dorset! whose early steps with mine have stray'd, [ii]
Exploring every path of Ida's glade;
Whom, still, affection taught me to defend,
And made me less a tyrant than a friend,
Though the harsh custom of our youthful band
Bade _thee_ obey, and gave _me_ to command; [2]
Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower
The gift of riches, and the pride of power;
E'en now a name illustrious is thine own,
Renown'd in rank, not far beneath the throne. 10
Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul [iii]
To shun fair science, or evade controul;
Though passive tutors, [3] fearful to dispraise
The titled child, whose future breath may raise,
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes,
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise.
When youthful parasites, who bend the knee
To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee,--
And even in simple boyhood's opening dawn
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn,-- 20
When these declare, "that pomp alone should wait
On one by birth predestin'd to be great;
That books were only meant for drudging fools,
That gallant spirits scorn the common rules;"
Believe them not,--they point the path to shame,
And seek to blast the honours of thy name:
Turn to the few in Ida's early throng,
Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong;
Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth,
None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth, 30
Ask thine own heart--'twill bid thee, boy, forbear!
For _well_ I know that virtue lingers there.
Yes! I have mark'd thee many a passing day,
But now new scenes invite me far away;
Yes! I have mark'd within that generous mind
A soul, if well matur'd, to bless mankind;
Ah! though myself, by nature haughty, wild,
Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child;
Though every error stamps me for her own,
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone; 40
Though my proud heart no precept, now, can tame,
I love the virtues which I cannot claim.
'Tis not enough, with other sons of power,
To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour;
To swell some peerage page in feeble pride,
With long-drawn names that grace no page beside;
Then share with titled crowds the common lot--
In life just gaz'd at, in the grave forgot;
While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead,
Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head, 50
The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the Herald's roll,
That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll,
Where Lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb may find
One spot, to leave a worthless name behind.
There sleep, unnotic'd as the gloomy vaults
That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults,
A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread,
In records destin'd never to be read.
Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes,
Exalted more among the good and wise; 60
A glorious and a long career pursue,
As first in Rank, the first in Talent too:
Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun;
Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son.
Turn to the annals of a former day;
Bright are the deeds thine earlier Sires display;
One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth,
And call'd, proud boast! the British drama forth. [4]
Another view! not less renown'd for Wit;
Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit; 70
Bold in the field, and favour'd by the Nine;
In every splendid part ordain'd to shine;
Far, far distinguished from the glittering throng,
The pride of Princes, and the boast of Song. [5]
Such were thy Fathers; thus preserve their name,
Not heir to titles only, but to Fame.
The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close,
To me, this little scene of joys and woes;
Each knell of Time now warns me to resign
Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all were mine: 80
Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue,
And gild their pinions, as the moments flew;
Peace, that reflection never frown'd away,
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day;
Friendship, whose truth let Childhood only tell;
Alas! they love not long, who love so well.
To these adieu! nor let me linger o'er
Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore,
Receding slowly, through the dark-blue deep,
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep. 90
Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part [iv]
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart;
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind.
And, yet, perhaps, in some maturer year,
Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere,
Since the same senate, nay, the same debate,
May one day claim our suffrage for the state,
We hence may meet, and pass each other by
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye. 100
For me, in future, neither friend nor foe,
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe--
With thee no more again I hope to trace
The recollection of our early race;
No more, as once, in social hours rejoice,
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice;
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught
To veil those feelings, which, perchance, it ought,
If these,--but let me cease the lengthen'd strain,--
Oh! if these wishes are not breath'd in vain, 110
The Guardian Seraph who directs thy fate
Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great.
1805.
[Footnote 1: In looking over my papers to _select_ a few additional poems
for this second edition, I found the above lines, which I had totally
forgotten, composed in the summer of 1805, a short time previous to my
departure from H[arrow]. They were addressed to a young schoolfellow of
high rank, who had been my frequent companion in some rambles through
the neighbouring country: however, he never saw the lines, and most
probably never will. As, on a re-perusal, I found them not worse than
some other pieces in the collection, I have now published them, for the
first time, after a slight revision. [The foregoing note was prefixed to
the poem in 'Poems O. and T'. George John Frederick, 4th Duke of Dorset,
born 1793, was killed by a fall from his horse when hunting, in 1815,
while on a visit to his step-father the Earl of Whitworth,
Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland. (See Byron's letter to Moore, Feb. 22,
1815).]]
[Footnote 2: At every public school the junior boys are completely
subservient to the upper forms till they attain a seat in the higher
classes. From this state of probation, very properly, no rank is exempt;
but after a certain period, they command in turn those who succeed.]
[Footnote 3: Allow me to disclaim any personal allusions, even the most
distant. I merely mention generally what is too often the weakness of
preceptors.]
[Footnote 4: "Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, was born in 1527. While
a student of the Inner Temple, he wrote his tragedy of 'Gorboduc', which
was played before Queen Elizabeth at Whitehall, in 1561. This tragedy,
and his contribution of the Induction and legend of the Duke of
Buckingham to the 'Mirrour for Magistraytes', compose the poetical
history of Sackville. The rest of it was political. In 1604, he was
created Earl of Dorset by James I. He died suddenly at the
council-table, in consequence of a dropsy on the brain."--'Specimens of
the British Poets', by Thomas Campbell, London, 1819, ii. 134, 'sq'.]
[Footnote 5: Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset [1637-1706], esteemed the
most accomplished man of his day, was alike distinguished in the
voluptuous court of Charles II. and the gloomy one of William III. He
behaved with great gallantry in the sea-fight with the Dutch in 1665; on
the day previous to which he composed his celebrated song ["'To all you
Ladies now at Land'"]. His character has been drawn in the highest
colours by Dryden, Pope, Prior, and Congreve. 'Vide' Anderson's 'British
Poets', 1793, vi. 107, 108.]
[Footnote i:
'To the Duke of D-----'.
['Poems O. and T.']]
[Footnote ii:
'D-r-t'-----.
['Poems O. and T.']]
[Footnote iii:
Yet D-r-t-----.
['Poems O. and T.']
[Footnote iv:
'D--r--t farewell.'
['Poems O. and T.']]
TO THE EARL OF CLARE. [i]
Tu semper amoris
Sis memor, et cari comitis ne abscedat imago.
VAL. FLAC. 'Argonaut', iv. 36.
1.
Friend of my youth! when young we rov'd,
Like striplings, mutually belov'd,
With Friendship's purest glow;
The bliss, which wing'd those rosy hours,
Was such as Pleasure seldom showers
On mortals here below.
2.
The recollection seems, alone,
Dearer than all the joys I've known,
When distant far from you:
Though pain, 'tis still a pleasing pain,
To trace those days and hours again,
And sigh again, adieu!
3.
My pensive mem'ry lingers o'er,
Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more,
Those scenes regretted ever;
The measure of our youth is full,
Life's evening dream is dark and dull,
And we may meet--ah! never!
4.
As when one parent spring supplies
Two streams, which from one fountain rise,
Together join'd in vain;
How soon, diverging from their source,
Each, murmuring, seeks another course,
Till mingled in the Main!
5.
Our vital streams of weal or woe,
Though near, alas! distinctly flow,
Nor mingle as before:
Now swift or slow, now black or clear,
Till Death's unfathom'd gulph appear,
And both shall quit the shore.
6.
Our souls, my Friend! which once supplied
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside,
Now flow in different channels:
Disdaining humbler rural sports,
'Tis yours to mix in polish'd courts,
And shine in Fashion's annals;
7.
'Tis mine to waste on love my time,
Or vent my reveries in rhyme,
Without the aid of Reason;
For Sense and Reason (critics know it)
Have quitted every amorous Poet,
Nor left a thought to seize on.
8.
Poor LITTLE! sweet, melodious bard!
Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard
That he, who sang before all;
He who the lore of love expanded,
By dire Reviewers should be branded,
As void of wit and moral. [1]
9.
And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine,
Harmonious favourite of the Nine!
Repine not at thy lot.
Thy soothing lays may still be read,
When Persecution's arm is dead,
And critics are forgot.
10.
Still I must yield those worthies merit
Who chasten, with unsparing spirit,
Bad rhymes, and those who write them:
And though myself may be the next
By critic sarcasm to be vext,
I really will not fight them. [2]
11.
Perhaps they would do quite as well
To break the rudely sounding shell
Of such a young beginner:
He who offends at pert nineteen,
Ere thirty may become, I ween,
A very harden'd sinner.
12.
Now, Clare, I must return to you; [ii]
And, sure, apologies are due:
Accept, then, my concession.
In truth, dear Clare, in Fancy's flight [iii]
I soar along from left to right;
My Muse admires digression.
13.
I think I said 'twould be your fate
To add one star to royal state;--
May regal smiles attend you!
And should a noble Monarch reign,
You will not seek his smiles in vain,
If worth can recommend you.
14.
Yet since in danger courts abound,
Where specious rivals glitter round,
From snares may Saints preserve you;
And grant your love or friendship ne'er
From any claim a kindred care,
But those who best deserve you!
15.
Not for a moment may you stray
From Truth's secure, unerring way!
May no delights decoy!
O'er roses may your footsteps move,
Your smiles be ever smiles of love,
Your tears be tears of joy!
16.
Oh! if you wish that happiness
Your coming days and years may bless,
And virtues crown your brow;
Be still as you were wont to be,
Spotless as you've been known to me,--
Be still as you are now. [3]
17.
And though some trifling share of praise,
To cheer my last declining days,
To me were doubly dear;
Whilst blessing your beloved name,
I'd _waive_ at once a _Poet's_ fame,
To _prove_ a _Prophet_ here.
1807.
[Footnote 1: These stanzas were written soon after the appearance of a
severe critique in a northern review, on a new publication of the
British Anacreon. (Byron refers to the article in the 'Edinburgh
Review', of July, 1807, on "'Epistles, Odes, and other Poems', by Thomas
Little, Esq.")]
[Footnote 2: A bard [Moore] ('Horresco referens') defied his reviewer
[Jeffrey] to mortal combat. If this example becomes prevalent, our
Periodical Censors must be dipped in the river Styx: for what else can
secure them from the numerous host of their enraged assailants? [Cf.
'English Bards', l. 466, 'note'.]]
[Footnote 3:
"Of all I have ever known, Clare has always been the least altered in
everything from the excellent qualities and kind affections which
attached me to him so strongly at school. I should hardly have thought
it possible for society (or the world, as it is called) to leave a
being with so little of the leaven of bad passions. I do not speak
from personal experience only, but from all I have ever heard of him
from others, during absence and distance."
'Detached Thoughts', Nov. 5, 1821; 'Life', p. 540.]
[Footnote i:
'To the Earl of-----'.
['Poems O. and T.']]
[Footnote ii:
'Now----I must'.
['Poems O. and T.']]
[Footnote iii:
'In truth dear----in fancy's flight'.
['Poems O. and T.']]
I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD. [i]
1
I would I were a careless child,
Still dwelling in my Highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,
Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave;
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon [1] pride,
Accords not with the freeborn soul,
Which loves the mountain's craggy side,
And seeks the rocks where billows roll.
2.
Fortune! take back these cultur'd lands,
Take back this name of splendid sound!
I hate the touch of servile hands,
I hate the slaves that cringe around:
Place me among the rocks I love,
Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar;
I ask but this--again to rove
Through scenes my youth hath known before.
3.
Few are my years, and yet I feel
The World was ne'er design'd for me:
Ah! why do dark'ning shades conceal
The hour when man must cease to be?
Once I beheld a splendid dream,
A visionary scene of bliss:
Truth!--wherefore did thy hated beam
Awake me to a world like this?
4.
I lov'd--but those I lov'd are gone;
Had friends--my early friends are fled:
How cheerless feels the heart alone,
When all its former hopes are dead!
Though gay companions, o'er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though Pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
The heart--the heart--is lonely still.
5.
How dull! to hear the voice of those
Whom Rank or Chance, whom Wealth or Power,
Have made, though neither friends nor foes,
Associates of the festive hour.
Give me again a faithful few,
In years and feelings still the same,
And I will fly the midnight crew,
Where boist'rous Joy is but a name.
6.
And Woman, lovely Woman! thou,
My hope, my comforter, my all!
How cold must be my bosom now,
When e'en thy smiles begin to pall!
Without a sigh would I resign,
This busy scene of splendid Woe,
To make that calm contentment mine,
Which Virtue knows, or seems to know.
7.
Fain would I fly the haunts of men [2]--
I seek to shun, not hate mankind;
My breast requires the sullen glen,
Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind.
Oh! that to me the wings were given,
Which bear the turtle to her nest!
Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven,
To flee away, and be at rest. [3]
[Footnote 1: Sassenach, or Saxon, a Gaelic word, signifying either
Lowland or English.]
[Footnote 2: Shyness was a family characteristic of the Byrons.
The poet continued in later years to have a horror of being
observed by unaccustomed eyes, and in the country would,
if possible, avoid meeting strangers on the road.]
[Footnote 3:
"And I said, O that I had wings like a dove, for then would I fly
away, and be at rest."
(Psalm iv. 6.) This verse also constitutes a part of the most beautiful
anthem in our language.]
[Footnote i:
'Stanzas'.
['Poems O. and T.']]
LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE
CHURCHYARD OF HARROW. [1] [i]
Spot of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh,
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky;
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod,
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod;
With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore,
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before:
Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill,
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still,
Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay,
And frequent mus'd the twilight hours away;
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline,
But, ah! without the thoughts which then were mine:
How do thy branches, moaning to the blast,
Invite the bosom to recall the past,
And seem to whisper, as they gently swell,
"Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell!"
When Fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd breast,
And calm its cares and passions into rest,
Oft have I thought, 'twould soothe my dying hour,--
If aught may soothe, when Life resigns her power,--
To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell,
Would hide my bosom where it lov'd to dwell;
With this fond dream, methinks 'twere sweet to die--
And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie;
Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose,
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose;
For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade,
Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd;
Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I lov'd,
Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps mov'd;
Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear,
Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here;
Deplor'd by those in early days allied,
And unremember'd by the world beside.
September 2, 1807.
[Footnote 1: On the death of his daughter, Allegra, in April, 1822,
Byron sent her remains to be buried at Harrow, "where," he says, in a
letter to Murray, "I once hoped to have laid my own." "There is," he
wrote, May 26, "a spot in the church'yard', near the footpath, on the
brow of the hill looking towards Windsor, and a tomb under a large tree
(bearing the name of Peachie, or Peachey), where I used to sit for hours
and hours when a boy. This was my favourite spot; but as I wish to erect
a tablet to her memory, the body had better be deposited in the
'church'." No tablet was, however, erected, and Allegra sleeps in her
unmarked grave inside the church, a few feet to the right of the
entrance.]
[Footnote i:
'Lines written beneath an Elm
In the Churchyard of Harrow on the Hill
September 2, 1807'.
['Poems O. and T.']]
FRAGMENT.
WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE MARRIAGE OF MISS CHAWORTH. [1]
First published in
Moore's 'Letters and Journals of Lord Byron', 1830, i. 56
1.
Hills of Annesley, Bleak and Barren,
Where my thoughtless Childhood stray'd,
How the northern Tempests, warring,
Howl above thy tufted Shade!
2.
Now no more, the Hours beguiling,
Former favourite Haunts I see;
Now no more my Mary smiling,
Makes ye seem a Heaven to Me.
1805.
[Footnote 1: Miss Chaworth was married to John Musters, Esq., in August,
1805. The stanzas were first published in Moore's _Letters and Journals
of Lord Byron_, 1830, i. 56. (See, too, _The Dream_, st. ii. 1. 9.) The
original MS. (which is in the possession of Mrs. Chaworth Musters)
formerly belonged to Miss E. B. Pigot, according to whom they "were
written by Lord Byron in 1804." "We were reading Burns' _Farewell to
Ayrshire_--
Scenes of woe and Scenes of pleasure
Scenes that former thoughts renew
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure
Now a sad and last adieu, etc.
when he said, 'I like that metre; let me try it,' and taking up a
pencil, wrote those on the other side in an instant. I read them to
Moore, and at his particular request I copied them for him."-E. B.
Pigot, 1859.
On the fly-leaf of the same volume (_Poetry of Robert Burns_, vol. iv.
Third Edition, 1802), containing the _Farewell to Ayrshire_, Byron wrote
in pencil the two stanzas "Oh! little lock of golden hue," in 1806
(_vide post_, p. 233).
It may be noted that the verses quoted, though included until recently
among his poems, were not written by Burns, but by Richard Gall, who
died in 1801, aged 25.]
REMEMBRANCE.
'Tis done!--I saw it in my dreams:
No more with Hope the future beams;
My days of happiness are few:
Chill'd by Misfortune's wintry blast,
My dawn of Life is overcast;
Love, Hope, and Joy, alike adieu!
Would I could add Remembrance too!
1806. [First published, 1832.]
TO A LADY
WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITH THE VELVET BAND WHICH BOUND HER TRESSES.
1.
This Band, which bound thy yellow hair
Is mine, sweet girl! thy pledge of love;
It claims my warmest, dearest care,
Like relics left of saints above.
2.
Oh! I will wear it next my heart;
'Twill bind my soul in bonds to thee:
From me again 'twill ne'er depart,
But mingle in the grave with me.
3.
The dew I gather from thy lip
Is not so dear to me as this;
_That_ I but for a moment sip,
And banquet on a transient bliss: [i]
4.
_This_ will recall each youthful scene,
E'en when our lives are on the wane;
The leaves of Love will still be green
When Memory bids them bud again.
1806. [First published, 1832.]
[Footnote i:
_on a transient kiss._
['MS. Newstead'.]
TO A KNOT OF UNGENEROUS CRITICS. [1]
Rail on, Rail on, ye heartless crew!
My strains were never meant for you;
Remorseless Rancour still reveal,
And damn the verse you cannot feel.
Invoke those kindred passions' aid,
Whose baleful stings your breasts pervade;
Crush, if you can, the hopes of youth,
Trampling regardless on the Truth:
Truth's Records you consult in vain,
She will not blast her native strain;
She will assist her votary's cause,
His will at least be her applause,
Your prayer the gentle Power will spurn;
To Fiction's motley altar turn,
Who joyful in the fond address
Her favoured worshippers will bless:
And lo! she holds a magic glass,
Where Images reflected pass,
Bent on your knees the Boon receive--
This will assist you to deceive--
The glittering gift was made for you,
Now hold it up to public view;
Lest evil unforeseen betide,
A Mask each canker'd brow shall hide,
(Whilst Truth my sole desire is nigh,
Prepared the danger to defy,)
"There is the Maid's perverted name,
And there the Poet's guilty Flame,
Gloaming a deep phosphoric fire,
Threatening--but ere it spreads, retire.
Says Truth Up Virgins, do not fear!
The Comet rolls its Influence here;
'Tis Scandal's Mirror you perceive,
These dazzling Meteors but deceive--
Approach and touch--Nay do not turn
It blazes there, but will not burn."--
At once the shivering Mirror flies,
Teeming no more with varnished Lies;
The baffled friends of Fiction start,
Too late desiring to depart--
Truth poising high Ithuriel's spear
Bids every Fiend unmask'd appear,
The vizard tears from every face,
And dooms them to a dire disgrace.
For e'er they compass their escape,
Each takes perforce a native shape--
The Leader of the wrathful Band,
Behold a portly Female stand!
She raves, impelled by private pique,
This mean unjust revenge to seek;
From vice to save this virtuous Age,
Thus does she vent indecent rage!
What child has she of promise fair,
Who claims a fostering Mother's care?
Whose Innocence requires defence,
Or forms at least a smooth pretence,
Thus to disturb a harmless Boy,
His humble hope, and peace annoy?
She need not fear the amorous rhyme,
Love will not tempt her future time,
For her his wings have ceased to spread,
No more he flutters round her head;
Her day's Meridian now is past,
The clouds of Age her Sun o'ercast;
To her the strain was never sent,
For feeling Souls alone 'twas meant--
The verse she seized, unask'd, unbade,
And damn'd, ere yet the whole was read!
Yes! for one single erring verse,
Pronounced an unrelenting Curse;
Yes! at a first and transient view,
Condemned a heart she never knew.--
Can such a verdict then decide,
Which springs from disappointed pride?
Without a wondrous share of Wit,
To judge is such a Matron fit?
The rest of the censorious throng
Who to this zealous Band belong,
To her a general homage pay,
And right or wrong her wish obey:
Why should I point my pen of steel
To break "such flies upon the wheel?"
With minds to Truth and Sense unknown,
Who dare not call their words their own.
Rail on, Rail on, ye heartless Crew!
Your Leader's grand design pursue:
Secure behind her ample shield,
Yours is the harvest of the field.--
My path with thorns you cannot strew,
Nay more, my warmest thanks are due;
When such as you revile my Name,
Bright beams the rising Sun of Fame,
Chasing the shades of envious night,
Outshining every critic Light.--
Such, such as you will serve to show
Each radiant tint with higher glow.
Vain is the feeble cheerless toil,
Your efforts on yourselves recoil;
Then Glory still for me you raise,
Yours is the Censure, mine the Praise.
BYRON,
December 1, 1806.
[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time
printed.
There can be little doubt that these verses were called forth by the
criticisms passed on the "Fugitive Pieces" by certain ladies of
Southwell, concerning whom, Byron wrote to Mr. Pigot (Jan. 13, 1807), on
sending him an early copy of the 'Poems',
"That 'unlucky' poem to my poor Mary has been the cause of some
animadversion from 'ladies in years'. I have not printed it in this
collection in consequence of my being pronounced a most 'profligate
sinner', in short a ''young Moore''"
'Life', p. 41.]
SOLILOQUY OF A BARD IN THE COUNTRY. [1]
'Twas now the noon of night, and all was still,
Except a hapless Rhymer and his quill.
In vain he calls each Muse in order down,
Like other females, these will sometimes frown;
He frets, be fumes, and ceasing to invoke
The Nine, in anguish'd accents thus he spoke:
Ah what avails it thus to waste my time,
To roll in Epic, or to rave in Rhyme?
What worth is some few partial readers' praise.
If ancient Virgins croaking 'censures' raise?
Where few attend, 'tis useless to indite;
Where few can read, 'tis folly sure to write;
Where none but girls and striplings dare admire,
And Critics rise in every country Squire--
But yet this last my candid Muse admits,
When Peers are Poets, Squires may well be Wits;
When schoolboys vent their amorous flames in verse,
Matrons may sure their characters asperse;
And if a little parson joins the train,
And echos back his Patron's voice again--
Though not delighted, yet I must forgive,
Parsons as well as other folks must live:--
From rage he rails not, rather say from dread,
He does not speak for Virtue, but for bread;
And this we know is in his Patron's giving,
For Parsons cannot eat without a 'Living'.
The Matron knows I love the Sex too well,
Even unprovoked aggression to repel.
What though from private pique her anger grew,
And bade her blast a heart she never knew?
What though, she said, for one light heedless line,
That Wilmot's [2] verse was far more pure than mine!
In wars like these, I neither fight nor fly,
When 'dames' accuse 'tis bootless to deny;
Her's be the harvest of the martial field,
I can't attack, where Beauty forms the shield.
But when a pert Physician loudly cries,
Who hunts for scandal, and who lives by lies,
A walking register of daily news,
Train'd to invent, and skilful to abuse--
For arts like these at bounteous tables fed,
When S----condemns a book he never read.
Declaring with a coxcomb's native air,
The 'moral's' shocking, though the 'rhymes' are fair.
Ah! must he rise unpunish'd from the feast,
Nor lash'd by vengeance into truth at least?
Such lenity were more than Man's indeed!
Those who condemn, should surely deign to read.
Yet must I spare--nor thus my pen degrade,
I quite forgot that scandal was his trade.
For food and raiment thus the coxcomb rails,
For those who fear his physic, like his _tales_.
Why should his harmless censure seem offence?
Still let him eat, although at my expense,
And join the herd to Sense and Truth unknown,
Who dare not call their very thoughts their own,
And share with these applause, a godlike bribe,
In short, do anything, except _prescribe_:--
For though in garb of Galen he appears,
His practice is not equal to his years.
Without improvement since he first began,
A young Physician, though an ancient Man--
Now let me cease--Physician, Parson, Dame,
Still urge your task, and if you can, defame.
The humble offerings of my Muse destroy,
And crush, oh! noble conquest! crush a Boy.
What though some silly girls have lov'd the strain,
And kindly bade me tune my Lyre again;
What though some feeling, or some partial few,
Nay, Men of Taste and Reputation too,
Have deign'd to praise the firstlings of my Muse--
If _you_ your sanction to the theme refuse,
If _you_ your great protection still withdraw,
Whose Praise is Glory, and whose Voice is law!
Soon must I fall an unresisting foe,
A hapless victim yielding to the blow.--
Thus Pope by Curl and Dennis was destroyed,
Thus Gray and Mason yield to furious Lloyd; [3]
From Dryden, Milbourne [4] tears the palm away,
And thus I fall, though meaner far than they.
As in the field of combat, side by side,
A Fabius and some noble Roman died.
Dec. 1806.
[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time
printed.]
[Footnote 2: John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (1647-1680). His 'Poems'
were published in the year of his death.]
[Footnote 3: Robert Lloyd (1733-1764). The following lines occur in the
first of two odes to 'Obscurity and Oblivion'--parodies of the odes of
Gray and Mason:--
"Heard ye the din of modern rhymers bray?
It was cool M----n and warm G----y,
Involv'd in tenfold smoke."]
[Footnote 4: The Rev. Luke Milbourne (died 1720) published, in 1698, his
'Notes on Dryden's Virgil', containing a venomous attack on Dryden. They
are alluded to in 'The Dunciad', and also by Dr. Johnson, who wrote
('Life of Dryden'),
"His outrages seem to be the ebullitions of a mind agitated by
stronger resentment than bad poetry can excite."]
L'AMITI? EST L'AMOUR SANS AILES. [1]
1.
Why should my anxious breast repine,
Because my youth is fled?
Days of delight may still be mine;
Affection is not dead.
In tracing back the years of youth,
One firm record, one lasting truth
Celestial consolation brings;
Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat,
Where first my heart responsive beat,--
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"
2
Through few, but deeply chequer'd years,
What moments have been mine!
Now half obscured by clouds of tears,
Now bright in rays divine;
Howe'er my future doom be cast,
My soul, enraptured with the past,
To one idea fondly clings;
Friendship! that thought is all thine own,
Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone--
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"
3
Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave
Their branches on the gale,
Unheeded heaves a simple grave,
Which tells the common tale;
Round this unconscious schoolboys stray,
Till the dull knell of childish play
From yonder studious mansion rings;
But here, whene'er my footsteps move,
My silent tears too plainly prove,
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"
4
Oh, Love! before thy glowing shrine,
My early vows were paid;
My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine,
But these are now decay'd;
For thine are pinions like the wind,
No trace of thee remains behind,
Except, alas! thy jealous stings.
Away, away! delusive power,
Thou shall not haunt my coming hour;
Unless, indeed, without thy wings.
5
Seat of my youth! [2] thy distant spire
Recalls each scene of joy;
My bosom glows with former fire,--
In mind again a boy.
Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill,
Thy every path delights me still,
Each flower a double fragrance flings;
Again, as once, in converse gay,
Each dear associate seems to say,
"Friendship is Love without his wings!'
6.
My Lycus! [3] wherefore dost thou weep?
Thy falling tears restrain;
Affection for a time may sleep,
But, oh, 'twill wake again.
Think, think, my friend, when next we meet,
Our long-wished interview, how sweet!
From this my hope of rapture springs;
While youthful hearts thus fondly swell,
Absence my friend, can only tell,
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"
7.
In one, and one alone deceiv'd,
Did I my error mourn?
No--from oppressive bonds reliev'd,
I left the wretch to scorn.
I turn'd to those my childhood knew,
With feelings warm, with bosoms true,
Twin'd with my heart's according strings;
And till those vital chords shall break,
For none but these my breast shall wake
Friendship, the power deprived of wings!
8
Ye few! my soul, my life is yours,
My memory and my hope;
Your worth a lasting love insures,
Unfetter'd in its scope;
From smooth deceit and terror sprung,
With aspect fair and honey'd tongue,
Let Adulation wait on kings;
With joy elate, by snares beset,
We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget,
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"
9
Fictions and dreams inspire the bard,
Who rolls the epic song;
Friendship and truth be my reward--
To me no bays belong;
If laurell'd Fame but dwells with lies,
Me the enchantress ever flies,
Whose heart and not whose fancy sings;
Simple and young, I dare not feign;
Mine be the rude yet heartfelt strain,
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"
December 29, 1806. [First published, 1832.]
[Footnote 1: The MS. is preserved at Newstead.]
[Footnote 2: Harrow.]
[Footnote 3: Lord Clare had written to Byron,
"I think by your last letter that you are very much piqued with most
of your friends, and, if I am not much mistaken, a little so with me.
In one part you say,
'There is little or no doubt a few years or months will render us as
politely indifferent to each other, as if we had never passed a
portion of our time together.'
Indeed, Byron, you wrong me; and I have no doubt, at least I hope, you
are wrong yourself."
'Life', p. 25.]
THE PRAYER OF NATURE. [1]
1
Father of Light! great God of Heaven!
Hear'st thou the accents of despair?
Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven?
Can vice atone for crimes by prayer?
2
Father of Light, on thee I call!
Thou see'st my soul is dark within;
Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall,
Avert from me the death of sin.
3
No shrine I seek, to sects unknown;
Oh, point to me the path of truth!
Thy dread Omnipotence I own;
Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth.
4
Let bigots rear a gloomy fane,
Let Superstition hail the pile,
Let priests, to spread their sable reign,
With tales of mystic rites beguile.
5
Shall man confine his Maker's sway
To Gothic domes of mouldering stone?
Thy temple is the face of day;
Earth, Ocean, Heaven thy boundless throne.
6
Shall man condemn his race to Hell,
Unless they bend in pompous form?
Tell us that all, for one who fell,
Must perish in the mingling storm?
7
Shall each pretend to reach the skies,
Yet doom his brother to expire,
Whose soul a different hope supplies,
Or doctrines less severe inspire?
8
Shall these, by creeds they can't expound,
Prepare a fancied bliss or woe?
Shall reptiles, groveling on the ground,
Their great Creator's purpose know?
9
Shall those, who live for self alone, [i]
Whose years float on in daily crime--
Shall they, by Faith, for guilt atone,
And live beyond the bounds of Time?
10
Father! no prophet's laws I seek,--
_Thy_ laws in Nature's works appear;--
I own myself corrupt and weak,
Yet will I _pray_, for thou wilt hear!
11
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star,
Through trackless realms of aether's space;
Who calm'st the elemental war,
Whose hand from pole to pole I trace:
12
Thou, who in wisdom plac'd me here,
Who, when thou wilt, canst take me hence,
Ah! whilst I tread this earthly sphere,
Extend to me thy wide defence.
13
To Thee, my God, to thee I call!
Whatever weal or woe betide,
By thy command I rise or fall,
In thy protection I confide.
14.
If, when this dust to dust's restor'd,
My soul shall float on airy wing,
How shall thy glorious Name ador'd
Inspire her feeble voice to sing!
15
But, if this fleeting spirit share
With clay the Grave's eternal bed,
While Life yet throbs I raise my prayer,
Though doom'd no more to quit the dead.
16
To Thee I breathe my humble strain,
Grateful for all thy mercies past,
And hope, my God, to thee again [ii]
This erring life may fly at last.
December 29, 1806.
[Footnote 1: These stanzas were first published in Moore's 'Letters and
Journals of Lord Byron', 1830, i. 106.]
[Footnote i:
Shalt these who live for self alone,
Whose years fleet on in daily crime--
Shall these by Faith for guilt atone,
Exist beyond the bounds of Time?
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote ii:
My hope, my God, in thee again
This erring life will fly at last.
['MS. Newstead']]
TRANSLATION FROM ANACREON. [1]
[Greek: Eis rodon.]
ODE 5
Mingle with the genial bowl
The Rose, the 'flow'ret' of the Soul,
The Rose and Grape together quaff'd,
How doubly sweet will be the draught!
With Roses crown our jovial brows,
While every cheek with Laughter glows;
While Smiles and Songs, with Wine incite,
To wing our moments with Delight.
Rose by far the fairest birth,
Which Spring and Nature cull from Earth--
Rose whose sweetest perfume given,
Breathes our thoughts from Earth to Heaven.
Rose whom the Deities above,
From Jove to Hebe, dearly love,
When Cytherea's blooming Boy,
Flies lightly through the dance of Joy,
With him the Graces then combine,
And rosy wreaths their locks entwine.
Then will I sing divinely crown'd,
With dusky leaves my temples bound--
Ly鎢s! in thy bowers of pleasure,
I'll wake a wildly thrilling measure.
There will my gentle Girl and I,
Along the mazes sportive fly,
Will bend before thy potent throne--
Rose, Wine, and Beauty, all my own.
1805.
[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time
printed,]
OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN IN "CARTHON." [1]
Oh! thou that roll'st above thy glorious Fire,
Round as the shield which grac'd my godlike Sire,
Whence are the beams, O Sun! thy endless blaze,
Which far eclipse each minor Glory's rays?
Forth in thy Beauty here thou deign'st to shine!
Night quits her car, the twinkling stars decline;
Pallid and cold the Moon descends to cave
Her sinking beams beneath the Western wave;
But thou still mov'st alone, of light the Source--
Who can o'ertake thee in thy fiery course?
Oaks of the mountains fall, the rocks decay,
Weighed down with years the hills dissolve away.
A certain space to yonder Moon is given,
She rises, smiles, and then is lost in Heaven.
Ocean in sullen murmurs ebbs and flows,
But thy bright beam unchanged for ever glows!
When Earth is darkened with tempestuous skies,
When Thunder shakes the sphere and Lightning flies,
Thy face, O Sun, no rolling blasts deform,
Thou look'st from clouds and laughest at the Storm.
To Ossian, Orb of Light! thou look'st in vain,
Nor cans't thou glad his ag鑔 eyes again,
Whether thy locks in Orient Beauty stream,
Or glimmer through the West with fainter gleam--
But thou, perhaps, like me with age must bend;
Thy season o'er, thy days will find their end,
No more yon azure vault with rays adorn,
Lull'd in the clouds, nor hear the voice of Morn.
Exult, O Sun, in all thy youthful strength!
Age, dark unlovely Age, appears at length,
As gleams the moonbeam through the broken cloud
While mountain vapours spread their misty shroud--
The Northern tempest howls along at last,
And wayworn strangers shrink amid the blast.
Thou rolling Sun who gild'st those rising towers,
Fair didst thou shine upon my earlier hours!
I hail'd with smiles the cheering rays of Morn,
My breast by no tumultuous Passion torn--
Now hateful are thy beams which wake no more
The sense of joy which thrill'd my breast before;
Welcome thou cloudy veil of nightly skies,
To thy bright canopy the mourner flies:
Once bright, thy Silence lull'd my frame to rest,
And Sleep my soul with gentle visions blest;
Now wakeful Grief disdains her mild controul,
Dark is the night, but darker is my Soul.
Ye warring Winds of Heav'n your fury urge,
To me congenial sounds your wintry Dirge:
Swift as your wings my happier days have past,
Keen as your storms is Sorrow's chilling blast;
To Tempests thus expos'd my Fate has been,
Piercing like yours, like yours, alas! unseen.
1805.
[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time
printed. (See 'Ossian's Poems', London, 1819, pp. xvii. 119.)]
PIGNUS AMORIS. [1]
1
As by the fix'd decrees of Heaven,
'Tis vain to hope that Joy can last;
The dearest boon that Life has given,
To me is--visions of the past.
2.
For these this toy of blushing hue
I prize with zeal before unknown,
It tells me of a Friend I knew,
Who loved me for myself alone.
3.
It tells me what how few can say
Though all the social tie commend;
Recorded in my heart 'twill lay, [2]
It tells me mine was once a Friend.
4.
Through many a weary day gone by,
With time the gift is dearer grown;
And still I view in Memory's eye
That teardrop sparkle through my own.
5.
And heartless Age perhaps will smile,
Or wonder whence those feelings sprung;
Yet let not sterner souls revile,
For Both were open, Both were young.
6.
And Youth is sure the only time,
When Pleasure blends no base alloy;
When Life is blest without a crime,
And Innocence resides with Joy.
7
Let those reprove my feeble Soul,
Who laugh to scorn Affection's name;
While these impose a harsh controul,
All will forgive who feel the same.
8
Then still I wear my simple toy,
With pious care from wreck I'll save it;
And this will form a dear employ
For dear I was to him who gave it.
? 1806.
[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time
printed.]
[Footnote 2: For the irregular use of "lay" for "lie," compare "The
Adieu" (st. 10, 1. 4, p. 241), and the much-disputed line, "And dashest
him to earth--there let him lay" ('Childe Harold', canto iv. st. 180).]
A WOMAN'S HAIR. [1]
Oh! little lock of golden hue
In gently waving ringlet curl'd,
By the dear head on which you grew,
I would not lose you for _a world_.
Not though a thousand more adorn
The polished brow where once you shone,
Like rays which guild a cloudless sky [i]
Beneath Columbia's fervid zone.
1806.
[Footnote 1: These lines are preserved in MS. at Newstead, with the
following memorandum in Miss Pigot's handwriting: "Copied from the
fly-leaf in a vol. of my Burns' books, which is written in pencil by
himself." They have hitherto been printed as stanzas 5 and 6 of the
lines "To a Lady," etc., p. 212.]
[Footnote i:
_a cloudless morn_.
['Ed'. 1832.]
STANZAS TO JESSY. [1]
1
There is a mystic thread of life
So dearly wreath'd with mine alone,
That Destiny's relentless knife
At once must sever both, or none.
2
There is a Form on which these eyes
Have fondly gazed with such delight--
By day, that Form their joy supplies,
And Dreams restore it, through the night.
3
There is a Voice whose tones inspire
Such softened feelings in my breast, [i]--
I would not hear a Seraph Choir,
Unless that voice could join the rest.
4
There is a Face whose Blushes tell
Affection's tale upon the cheek,
But pallid at our fond farewell,
Proclaims more love than words can speak.
5
There is a Lip, which mine has prest,
But none had ever prest before;
It vowed to make me sweetly blest,
That mine alone should press it more. [ii]
6
There is a Bosom all my own,
Has pillow'd oft this aching head,
A Mouth which smiles on me alone,
An Eye, whose tears with mine are shed.
7
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.
8
There are two Souls, whose equal flow
In gentle stream so calmly run,
That when they part--they part?--ah no!
They cannot part--those Souls are One.
[GEORGE GORDON, LORD] BYRON.
[Footnote 1: "Stanzas to Jessy" have often been printed, but were never
acknowledged by Byron, or included in any authorized edition of his
works. They are, however, unquestionably genuine. They appeared first in
'Monthly Literary Recreations' (July, 1807), a magazine published by B.
Crosby & Co., Stationers' Court. Crosby was London agent for Ridge, the
Newark bookseller, and, with Longman and others, "sold" the recently
issued 'Hours of Idleness'. The same number of 'Monthly Literary
Recreations' (for July, 1807) contains Byron's review of Wordsworth's
'Poems' (2 vols., 1807), and a highly laudatory notice of 'Hours of
Idleness'. The lines are headed "Stanzas to Jessy," and are signed
"George Gordon, Lord Byron." They were republished in 1824, by Knight
and Lacy, in vol. v. of the three supplementary volumes of the 'Works',
and again in the same year by John Bumpus and A. Griffin, in their
'Miscellaneous Poems', etc. A note which is prefixed to these issues,
"The following stanzas were addressed by Lord Byron to his Lady, a few
months before their separation," and three variants in the text, make it
unlikely that the pirating editors were acquainted with the text of the
magazine. The MS. ('British Museum', Eg. MSS. No. 2332) is signed
"George Gordon, Lord Byron," but the words "George Gordon, Lord" are in
another hand, and were probably added by Crosby. The following letter
(together with a wrapper addressed, "Mr. Crosby, Stationers' Court," and
sealed in red wax with Byron's arms and coronet) is attached to the
poem:--
July 21, 1807.
SIR,
I have sent according to my promise some Stanzas
for Literary Recreations. The _insert_ion I leave to the option
of the Editors. They have never appeared before. I should
wish to know whether they are admitted or not, and when
the work will appear, as I am desirous of a copy.
Etc., etc., BYRON.
P.S.--Send your answer when convenient."]
[Footnote i:
'Such thrills of Rapture'.
[Knight and Lacy, 1824, v. 56.]
[Footnote ii:
'And mine, mine only'.
[Knight and Lacy, v. 56.]]
THE ADIEU.
WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THE AUTHOR WOULD SOON DIE.
1.
Adieu, thou Hill! [1] where early joy
Spread roses o'er my brow;
Where Science seeks each loitering boy
With knowledge to endow.
Adieu, my youthful friends or foes,
Partners of former bliss or woes;
No more through Ida's paths we stray;
Soon must I share the gloomy cell,
Whose ever-slumbering inmates dwell
Unconscious of the day.
2.
Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes, [i]
Ye spires of Granta's vale,
Where Learning robed in sable reigns.
And Melancholy pale.
Ye comrades of the jovial hour,
Ye tenants of the classic bower,
On Cama's verdant margin plac'd,
Adieu! while memory still is mine,
For offerings on Oblivion's shrine,
These scenes must be effac'd.
3
Adieu, ye mountains of the clime
Where grew my youthful years;
Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime
His giant summit rears.
Why did my childhood wander forth
From you, ye regions of the North,
With sons of Pride to roam?
Why did I quit my Highland cave,
Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear wave,
To seek a Sotheron home?
4
Hall of my Sires! a long farewell--
Yet why to thee adieu?
Thy vaults will echo back my knell,
Thy towers my tomb will view:
The faltering tongue which sung thy fall,
And former glories of thy Hall,
Forgets its wonted simple note--
But yet the Lyre retains the strings,
And sometimes, on 苚lian wings,
In dying strains may float.
5.
Fields, which surround yon rustic cot, [2]
While yet I linger here,
Adieu! you are not now forgot,
To retrospection dear.
Streamlet! [3] along whose rippling surge
My youthful limbs were wont to urge,
At noontide heat, their pliant course;
Plunging with ardour from the shore,
Thy springs will lave these limbs no more,
Deprived of active force.
6.
And shall I here forget the scene,
Still nearest to my breast?
Rocks rise and rivers roll between
The spot which passion blest;
Yet Mary, [4] all thy beauties seem
Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream,
To me in smiles display'd;
Till slow disease resigns his prey
To Death, the parent of decay,
Thine image cannot fade.
7.
And thou, my Friend! whose gentle love
Yet thrills my bosom's chords,
How much thy friendship was above
Description's power of words!
Still near my breast thy gift [5] I wear [ii]
Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear,
Of Love the pure, the sacred gem:
Our souls were equal, and our lot
In that dear moment quite forgot;
Let Pride alone condemn!
8.
All, all is dark and cheerless now!
No smile of Love's deceit
Can warm my veins with wonted glow,
Can bid Life's pulses beat:
Not e'en the hope of future fame
Can wake my faint, exhausted frame,
Or crown with fancied wreaths my head.
Mine is a short inglorious race,--
To humble in the dust my face,
And mingle with the dead.
9.
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 earth,
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.
10.
When I repose beneath the sod,
Unheeded in the clay,
Where once my playful footsteps trod,
Where now my head must lay, [6]
The meed of Pity will be shed
In dew-drops o'er my narrow bed,
By nightly skies, and storms alone;
No mortal eye will deign to steep
With tears the dark sepulchral deep
Which hides a name unknown.
11.
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;
To Him address thy trembling prayer:
He, who is merciful and just,
Will not reject a child of dust,
Although His meanest care.
12.
Father of Light! to Thee I call;
My soul is dark within:
Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall,
Avert the death of sin.
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star
Who calm'st the elemental war,
Whose mantle is yon boundless sky,
My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive;
And, since I soon must cease to live,
Instruct me how to die. [iii]
1807. [First published, 1832.]
[Footnote 1: Harrow. ]
[Footnote 2: Mrs. Pigot's Cottage.]
[Footnote 3: The river Grete, at Southwell.]
[Footnote 4: Mary Chaworth.]
[Footnote 5: Compare the verses on "The Cornelian," p. 66, and
"Pignus Amoris," p. 231.]
[Footnote 6: See note to "Pignus Amoris," st. 3, l. 3, p. 232.]
[Footnote i:
'--ye regal Towers'.
['MS. Newstead'.] ]
[Footnote ii:
'The gift I wear'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iii:
'And since I must forbear to live,
Instruct me how to die.'
['MS. Newstead']
TO----[1]
1.
Oh! well I know your subtle Sex,
Frail daughters of the wanton Eve,--
While jealous pangs our Souls perplex,
No passion prompts you to relieve.
2
From Love, or Pity ne'er you fall,
By _you_, no mutual Flame is felt,
"Tis Vanity, which rules you all,
Desire alone which makes you melt.
3
I will not say no _souls_ are yours,
Aye, ye have Souls, and dark ones too,
Souls to contrive those smiling lures,
To snare our simple hearts for you.
4
Yet shall you never bind me fast,
Long to adore such brittle toys,
I'll rove along, from first to last,
And change whene'er my fancy cloys.
5
Oh! I should be a _baby_ fool,
To sigh the dupe of female art--
Woman! perhaps thou hast a _Soul_,
But where have _Demons_ hid thy _Heart_?
January, 1807.
[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time
printed.]
ON THE EYES OF MISS A----H----[1]
Anne's Eye is liken'd to the _Sun_,
From it such Beams of Beauty fall;
And _this_ can be denied by none,
For like the _Sun_, it shines on _All_.
Then do not admiration smother,
Or say these glances don't become her;
To _you_, or _I_, or _any other_
Her _Sun_, displays perpetual Summer. [2]
January 14, 1807.
[Footnote 1: Miss Anne Houson. From an autograph MS. at Newstead,
now for the first time printed.]
[Footnote 2: Compare, for the same simile, the lines "To Edward
Noel Long, Esq.," p. 187, 'ante'.]
TO A VAIN LADY. [1]
1
Ah, heedless girl! why thus disclose
What ne'er was meant for other ears;
Why thus destroy thine own repose,
And dig the source of future tears?
2
Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid,
While lurking envious foes will smile,
For all the follies thou hast said
Of those who spoke but to beguile.
3
Vain girl! thy lingering woes are nigh,
If thou believ'st what striplings say:
Oh, from the deep temptation fly,
Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey.
4
Dost thou repeat, in childish boast,
The words man utters to deceive?
Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost,
If thou canst venture to believe.
5
While now amongst thy female peers
Thou tell'st again the soothing tale,
Canst thou not mark the rising sneers
Duplicity in vain would veil?
6
These tales in secret silence hush,
Nor make thyself the public gaze:
What modest maid without a blush
Recounts a flattering coxcomb's praise?
7.
Will not the laughing boy despise
Her who relates each fond conceit--
Who, thinking Heaven is in her eyes,
Yet cannot see the slight deceit?
8.
For she who takes a soft delight
These amorous nothings in revealing,
Must credit all we say or write,
While vanity prevents concealing.
9.
Cease, if you prize your Beauty's reign!
No jealousy bids me reprove:
One, who is thus from nature vain,
I pity, but I cannot love.
January 15, 1807. [First published, 1832.]
[Footnote 1: To A Young Lady (Miss Anne Houson) whose vanity induced her
to repeat the compliments paid her by some young men of her
acquaintance.--'MS. Newstead_'.]
TO ANNE. [1]
1.
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.
2.
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.
3.
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.
4.
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.]
[Footnote 1: Miss Anne Houson.]
EGOTISM. A LETTER TO J. T. BECHER. [1]
[Greek: Heauton bur_on aeidei.]
1.
If Fate should seal my Death to-morrow,
(Though much _I_ hope she will _postpone_ it,)
I've held a share _Joy_ and _Sorrow_,
Enough for _Ten_; and _here_ I _own_ it.
2.
I've lived, as many others live,
And yet, I think, with more enjoyment;
For could I through my days again live,
I'd pass them in the 'same' employment.
3.
That 'is' to say, with 'some exception',
For though I will not make confession,
I've seen too much of man's deception
Ever again to trust profession.
4.
Some sage 'Mammas' with gesture haughty,
Pronounce me quite a youthful Sinner--
But 'Daughters' say, "although he's naughty,
You must not check a 'Young Beginner'!"
5.
I've loved, and many damsels know it--
But whom I don't intend to mention,
As 'certain stanzas' also show it,
'Some' say 'deserving Reprehension'.
6.
Some ancient Dames, of virtue fiery,
(Unless Report does much belie them,)
Have lately made a sharp Enquiry,
And much it 'grieves' me to 'deny' them.
7.
Two whom I lov'd had 'eyes' of 'Blue',
To which I hope you've no objection;
The 'Rest' had eyes of 'darker Hue'--
Each Nymph, of course, was 'all perfection'.
8.
But here I'll close my 'chaste' Description,
Nor say the deeds of animosity;
For 'silence' is the best prescription,
To 'physic' idle curiosity.
9.
Of 'Friends' I've known a 'goodly Hundred'--
For finding 'one' in each acquaintance,
By 'some deceived', by others plunder'd,
'Friendship', to me, was not 'Repentance'.
10.
At 'School' I thought like other 'Children';
Instead of 'Brains', a fine Ingredient,
'Romance', my 'youthful Head bewildering',
To 'Sense' had made me disobedient.
11.
A victim, 'nearly' from affection,
To certain 'very precious scheming',
The still remaining recollection
Has 'cured' my 'boyish soul' of 'Dreaming'.
12.
By Heaven! I rather would forswear
The Earth, and all the joys reserved me,
Than dare again the 'specious Snare',
From which 'my Fate' and 'Heaven preserved' me.
13.
Still I possess some Friends who love me--
In each a much esteemed and true one;
The Wealth of Worlds shall never move me
To quit their Friendship, for a new one.
14.
But Becher! you're a 'reverend pastor',
Now take it in consideration,
Whether for penance I should fast, or
Pray for my 'sins' in expiation.
15.
I own myself the child of 'Folly',
But not so wicked as they make me--
I soon must die of melancholy,
If 'Female' smiles should e'er forsake me.
16.
'Philosophers' have 'never doubted',
That 'Ladies' Lips' were made for 'kisses!'
For 'Love!' I could not live without it,
For such a 'cursed' place as 'This is'.
17.
Say, Becher, I shall be forgiven!
If you don't warrant my salvation,
I must resign all 'Hopes' of 'Heaven'!
For, 'Faith', I can't withstand Temptation.
P.S.--These were written between one and two, after 'midnight'. I
have not 'corrected', or 'revised'. Yours, BYRON.
[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first
time printed.]
TO ANNE. [1]
1
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.
2.
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.
3.
As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwin'd,
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.
4.
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 centred in you.
1807. [First published, 1832.]
TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET
BEGINNING "'SAD IS MY VERSE,' YOU SAY, 'AND YET NO TEAR.'"
1.
Thy verse is "sad" enough, no doubt:
A devilish deal more sad than witty!
Why we should weep I can't find out,
Unless for _thee_ we weep in pity.
2.
Yet there is one I pity more;
And much, alas! I think he needs it:
For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore,
Who, to his own misfortune, reads it.
3.
Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic,
May _once_ be read--but never after:
Yet their effect's by no means tragic,
Although by far too dull for laughter.
4.
But would you make our bosoms bleed,
And of no common pang complain--
If you would make us weep indeed,
Tell us, you'll read them o'er again.
March 8, 1807. [First published, 1832.]
ON FINDING A FAN. [1]
1.
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.
2.
As when the ebbing flames are low,
The aid which once improved their light,
And bade them burn with fiercer glow,
Now quenches all their blaze in night.
3.
Thus has it been with Passion's fires--
As many a boy and girl remembers--
While every hope of love expires,
Extinguish'd with the dying embers.
4.
The _first_, though not a spark survive,
Some careful hand may teach to burn;
The _last_, alas! can ne'er survive;
No touch can bid its warmth return.
5.
Or, if it chance to wake again,
Not always doom'd its heat to smother,
It sheds (so wayward fates ordain)
Its former warmth around another.
1807. [First published, 1832.]
[Footnote 1: Of Miss A. H. (MS. Newstead).]
FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. [i.]
1.
Thou Power! who hast ruled me through Infancy's days,
Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part;
Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays,
The coldest effusion which springs from my heart.
2.
This bosom, responsive to rapture no more,
Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing;
The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar,
Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing.
3.
Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre,
Yet even these themes are departed for ever;
No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire,
My visions are flown, to return,--alas, never!
4.
When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl,
How vain is the effort delight to prolong!
When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul, [ii]
What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song?
5.
Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone,
Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign?
Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown?
Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine.
6.
Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love? [iii]
Ah, surely Affection ennobles the strain!
But how can my numbers in sympathy move,
When I scarcely can hope to behold them again?
7.
Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done,
And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires?
For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone!
For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires!
8.
Untouch'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast--
'Tis hush'd; and my feeble endeavours are o'er;
And those who have heard it will pardon the past,
When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no more.
9.
And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot,
Since early affection and love is o'ercast:
Oh! blest had my Fate been, and happy my lot,
Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last.
10.
Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er meet; [iv]
If our songs have been languid, they surely are few:
Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet--
The present--which seals our eternal Adieu.
1807. [First published, 1832.]
[Footnote 1:
'Adieu to the Muse'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote ii:
'When cold is the form'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iii:
--'whom I lived but to love'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iv:
'Since we never can meet'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD. [1]
1.
Young Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground,
I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine;
That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around,
And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine.
2.
Such, such was my hope, when in Infancy's years,
On the land of my Fathers I rear'd thee with pride;
They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears,--
Thy decay, not the _weeds_ that surround thee can hide.
3.
I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour,
A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my Sire;
Till Manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power,
But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expire.
4.
Oh! hardy thou wert--even now little care
Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds gently
heal:
But thou wert not fated affection to share--
For who could suppose that a Stranger would feel?
5.
Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for a while;
Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run,
The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile,
When Infancy's years of probation are done.
6.
Oh, live then, my Oak! tow'r aloft from the weeds,
That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay,
For still in thy bosom are Life's early seeds,
And still may thy branches their beauty display.
7.
Oh! yet, if Maturity's years may be thine,
Though _I_ shall lie low in the cavern of Death,
On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine, [i]
Uninjured by Time, or the rude Winter's breath.
8.
For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave
O'er the corse of thy Lord in thy canopy laid;
While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave,
The Chief who survives may recline in thy shade.
9.
And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot,
He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread.
Oh! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot;
Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead.
10.
And here, will they say, when in Life's glowing prime,
Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lay,
And here must he sleep, till the moments of Time
Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day.
1807. [First published 1832.]
["Copied for Mr. Moore, Jan. 24, 1828."--Note by Miss Pigot.]
[Footnote 1: There is no heading to the original MS., but on the blank
leaf at the end of the poem is written,
"To an oak in the garden of Newstead Abbey, planted by the author in
the 9th year of [his] age; this tree at his last visit was in a state
of decay, though perhaps not irrecoverable."
On arriving at Newstead, in 1798, Byron, then in his
eleventh year, planted an oak, and cherished the fancy, that as the tree
flourished so should he. On revisiting the abbey, he found the oak
choked up by weeds and almost destroyed;--hence these lines. Shortly
after Colonel Wildman took possession, he said to a servant,
"Here is a fine young oak; but it must be cut down, as it grows in an
improper place."
"I hope not, sir, "replied the man, "for it's the one that my lord was
so fond of, because he set it himself."
_Life_, p. 50, note.]
[Footnote i:
_For ages may shine_.
[_MS. Newstead_]]
ON REVISITING HARROW. [1]
1.
Here once engaged the stranger's view
Young Friendship's record simply trac'd;
Few were her words,--but yet, though few,
Resentment's hand the line defac'd.
2.
Deeply she cut--but not eras'd--
The characters were still so plain,
That Friendship once return'd, and gaz'd,--
Till Memory hail'd the words again.
3.
Repentance plac'd them as before;
Forgiveness join'd her gentle name;
So fair the inscription seem'd once more,
That Friendship thought it still the same.
4.
Thus might the Record now have been;
But, ah, in spite of Hope's endeavour,
Or Friendship's tears, Pride rush'd between,
And blotted out the line for ever.
September, 1807.
[First published in Moore's 'Life and Letters, etc.', 1830, i. 102.]
[Footnote 1:
"Some years ago, when at Harrow, a friend of the author engraved on a
particular spot the names of both, with a few additional words, as a
memorial. Afterwards, on receiving some real or imaginary injury, the
author destroyed the frail record before he left Harrow. On revisiting
the place in 1807, he wrote under it these stanzas."
Moore's 'Life, etc.', i. 102.]]
TO MY SON. [1]
1.
Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue
Bright as thy mother's in their hue;
Those rosy lips, whose dimples play
And smile to steal the heart away,
Recall a scene of former joy,
And touch thy father's heart, my Boy!
2.
And thou canst lisp a father's name--
Ah, William, were thine own the same,--
No self-reproach--but, let me cease--
My care for thee shall purchase peace;
Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy,
And pardon all the past, my Boy!
3.
Her lowly grave the turf has prest,
And thou hast known a stranger's breast;
Derision sneers upon thy birth,
And yields thee scarce a name on earth;
Yet shall not these one hope destroy,--
A Father's heart is thine, my Boy!
4.
Why, let the world unfeeling frown,
Must I fond Nature's claims disown?
Ah, no--though moralists reprove,
I hail thee, dearest child of Love,
Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy--
A Father guards thy birth, my Boy!
5.
Oh,'twill be sweet in thee to trace,
Ere Age has wrinkled o'er my face,
Ere half my glass of life is run,
At once a brother and a son;
And all my wane of years employ
In justice done to thee, my Boy!
6.
Although so young thy heedless sire,
Youth will not damp parental fire;
And, wert thou still less dear to me,
While Helen's form revives in thee,
The breast, which beat to former joy,
Will ne'er desert its pledge, my Boy!
1807.
[First published in Moore's 'Life and Letters, etc.', 1830, i. 104.]
[Footnote 1: For a reminiscence of what was, possibly, an actual event,
see 'Don Juan', canto xvi. st. 61. He told Lady Byron that he had two
natural children, whom he should provide for.]
QUERIES TO CASUISTS. [1]
The Moralists tell us that Loving is Sinning,
And always are prating about and about it,
But as Love of Existence itself's the beginning,
Say, what would Existence itself be without it?
They argue the point with much furious Invective,
Though perhaps 'twere no difficult task to confute it;
But if Venus and Hymen should once prove defective,
Pray who would there be to defend or dispute it?
BYRON.
[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. (watermark 1805) at Newstead, now for
the first time printed.]
SONG.[1]
1.
Breeze of the night in gentler sighs
More softly murmur o'er the pillow;
For Slumber seals my Fanny's eyes,
And Peace must never shun her pillow.
2.
Or breathe those sweet 苚lian strains
Stolen from celestial spheres above,
To charm her ear while some remains,
And soothe her soul to dreams of love.
3.
But Breeze of night again forbear,
In softest murmurs only sigh:
Let not a Zephyr's pinion dare
To lift those auburn locks on high.
4.
Chill is thy Breath, thou breeze of night!
Oh! ruffle not those lids of Snow;
For only Morning's cheering light
May wake the beam that lurks below.
5.
Blest be that lip and azure eye!
Sweet Fanny, hallowed be thy Sleep!
Those lips shall never vent a sigh,
Those eyes may never wake to weep.
February 23rd, 1808.
[Footnote 1: From the MS. in the possession of the Earl of Lovelace.]
TO HARRIET. [1]
1.
Harriet! to see such Circumspection, [2]
In Ladies I have no objection
Concerning what they read;
An ancient Maid's a sage adviser,
Like _her_, you will be much the wiser,
In word, as well as Deed.
2.
But Harriet, I don't wish to flatter,
And really think 't would make the matter
More perfect if not quite,
If other Ladies when they preach,
Would certain Damsels also teach
More cautiously to write.
[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first
time printed.]
[Footnote 2: See the poem "To Marion," and 'note', p. 129. It would seem
that J. T. Becher addressed some flattering lines to Byron with
reference to a poem concerning Harriet Maltby, possibly the lines "To
Marion." The following note was attached by Miss Pigot to these stanzas,
which must have been written on another occasion:--
"I saw Lord B. was _flattered_ by John Becher's lines, as he read
'Apollo', etc., with a peculiar smile and emphasis; so out of _fun_,
to vex him a little, I said,
'_Apollo!_ He _should_ have said _Apollyon_.'
'Elizabeth! for Heaven's sake don't say so again! I don't
mind _you_ telling me so; but if any one _else_ got hold _of the
word_, I should never hear the end of it.'
So I laughed at him, and dropt it, for he was _red_ with agitation."]
THERE WAS A TIME, I NEED NOT NAME. [i] [1]
1.
There was a time, I need not name,
Since it will ne'er forgotten be,
When all our feelings were the same
As still my soul hath been to thee.
2.
And from that hour when first thy tongue
Confess'd a love which equall'd mine,
Though many a grief my heart hath wrung,
Unknown, and thus unfelt, by thine,
3.
None, none hath sunk so deep as this--
To think how all that love hath flown;
Transient as every faithless kiss,
But transient in thy breast alone.
4.
And yet my heart some solace knew,
When late I heard thy lips declare,
In accents once imagined true,
Remembrance of the days that were.
5.
Yes! my adored, yet most unkind!
Though thou wilt never love again,
To me 'tis doubly sweet to find
Remembrance of that love remain. [ii]
6.
Yes! 'tis a glorious thought to me,
Nor longer shall my soul repine,
Whate'er thou art or e'er shall be,
Thou hast been dearly, solely mine.
June 10, 1808. [First published, 1809]
[Footnote 1: This copy of verses, with eight others, originally appeared
in a volume published in 1809 by J. C. Hobhouse, under the title of
_Imitations and Translations, From the Ancient and Modern Classics,
Together with Original Poems never before published_. The MS. is in the
possession of the Earl of Lovelace.]
[Footnote i:
_Stanzas to the Same_.
[_Imit. and Transl._, p. 200.]]
[Footnote ii:
_The memory of that love again._
[MS. L.]]
AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN I AM LOW? [i]
1.
And wilt thou weep when I am low?
Sweet lady! speak those words again:
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so--
I would not give that bosom pain.
2.
My heart is sad, my hopes are gone,
My blood runs coldly through my breast;
And when I perish, thou alone
Wilt sigh above my place of rest.
3.
And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace
Doth through my cloud of anguish shine:
And for a while my sorrows cease,
To know thy heart hath felt for mine.
4.
Oh lady! bless鑔 be that tear--
It falls for one who cannot weep;
Such precious drops are doubly dear [ii]
To those whose eyes no tear may steep.
5.
Sweet lady! once my heart was warm
With every feeling soft as thine;
But Beauty's self hath ceased to charm
A wretch created to repine.
6. [iii]
Yet wilt thou weep when I am low?
Sweet lady! speak those words again:
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so--
I would not give that bosom pain. [1]
Aug. 12, 1808. [First published, 1809.]
[Footnote 1: It was in one of Byron's fits of melancholy that the
following verses were addressed to him by his friend John
Cam Hobhouse:--
EPISTLE TO A YOUNG NOBLEMAN IN LOVE.
Hail! generous youth, whom glory's sacred flame
Inspires, and animates to deeds of fame;
Who feel the noble wish before you die
To raise the finger of each passer-by:
Hail! may a future age admiring view
A Falkland or a Clarendon in you.
But as your blood with dangerous passion boils,
Beware! and fly from Venus' silken toils:
Ah! let the head protect the weaker heart,
And Wisdom's 苂is turn on Beauty's dart.
* * * * *
But if 'tis fix'd that every lord must pair,
And you and Newstead must not want an heir,
Lose not your pains, and scour the country round,
To find a treasure that can ne'er be found!
No! take the first the town or court affords,
Trick'd out to stock a market for the lords;
By chance perhaps your luckier choice may fall
On one, though wicked, not the worst of all:
* * * * *
One though perhaps as any Maxwell free,
Yet scarce a copy, Claribel, of thee;
Not very ugly, and not very old,
A little pert indeed, but not a scold;
One that, in short, may help to lead a life
Not farther much from comfort than from strife;
And when she dies, and disappoints your fears,
Shall leave some joys for your declining years.
But, as your early youth some time allows,
Nor custom yet demands you for a spouse,
Some hours of freedom may remain as yet,
For one who laughs alike at love and debt:
Then, why in haste? put off the evil day,
And snatch at youthful comforts while you may!
Pause! nor so soon the various bliss forego
That single souls, and such alone, can know:
Ah! why too early careless life resign,
Your morning slumber, and your evening wine;
Your loved companion, and his easy talk;
Your Muse, invoked in every peaceful walk?
What! can no more your scenes paternal please,
Scenes sacred long to wise, unmated ease?
The prospect lengthen'd o'er the distant down,
Lakes, meadows, rising woods, and all your own?
What! shall your Newstead, shall your cloister'd bowers,
The high o'erhanging arch and trembling towers!
Shall these, profaned with folly or with strife,
An ever fond, or ever angry wife!
Shall these no more confess a manly sway,
But changeful woman's changing whims obey?
Who may, perhaps, as varying humour calls,
Contract your cloisters and o'erthrow your walls;
Let Repton loose o'er all the ancient ground,
Change round to square, and square convert to round;
Root up the elms' and yews' too solemn gloom,
And fill with shrubberies gay and green their room;
Roll down the terrace to a gay parterre,
Where gravel'd walks and flowers alternate glare;
And quite transform, in every point complete,
Your Gothic abbey to a country seat.
Forget the fair one, and your fate delay;
If not avert, at least defer the day,
When you beneath the female yoke shall bend,
And lose your _wit_, your _temper_, and your _friend_. [A]
Trin. Coll. Camb., 1808.]
[Sub-Footnote A: In his mother's copy of Hobhouse's volume, Byron has
written with a pencil,
"_I have lost them all, and shall WED accordingly_. 1811. B."]
[Footnote i:
Stanzas.
[MS. L.]
To the Same.
[Imit. and Transl., p 202.]]
[Footnote ii:
For one whose life is torment here,
And only in the dust may sleep.
[MS. L.]]
[Footnote iii: The MS. _insert_s--
Lady I will not tell my tale
For it would rend thy melting heart;
'Twere pity sorrow should prevail
O'er one so gentle as thou art.
[MS. L.]]
REMIND ME NOT, REMIND ME NOT. [i]
1.
Remind me not, remind me not,
Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours,
When all my soul was given to thee;
Hours that may never be forgot,
Till Time unnerves our vital powers,
And thou and I shall cease to be.
2.
Can I forget--canst thou forget,
When playing with thy golden hair,
How quick thy fluttering heart did move?
Oh! by my soul, I see thee yet,
With eyes so languid, breast so fair,
And lips, though silent, breathing love.
3.
When thus reclining on my breast,
Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet,
As half reproach'd yet rais'd desire,
And still we near and nearer prest,
And still our glowing lips would meet,
As if in kisses to expire.
4.
And then those pensive eyes would close,
And bid their lids each other seek,
Veiling the azure orbs below;
While their long lashes' darken'd gloss
Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek,
Like raven's plumage smooth'd on snow.
5.
I dreamt last night our love return'd,
And, sooth to say, that very dream
Was sweeter in its phantasy,
Than if for other hearts I burn'd,
For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam
In Rapture's wild reality.
6.
Then tell me not, remind me not, [ii]
Of hours which, though for ever gone,
Can still a pleasing dream restore, [iii]
Till thou and I shall be forgot,
And senseless, as the mouldering stone
Which tells that we shall be no more.
Aug. 13, 1808. [First published, 1809.]
[Footnote i:
_A Love Song. To----.
[Imit. and Transl., p. 197.]
[Footnote ii:
_Remind me not, remind me not_.
[MS. L.] ]
[Footnote iii:
_Must still_.
[MS. L.] ]
TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. [i]
1.
Few years have pass'd since thou and I
Were firmest friends, at least in name,
And Childhood's gay sincerity
Preserved our feelings long the same. [ii]
2.
But now, like me, too well thou know'st [iii]
What trifles oft the heart recall;
And those who once have loved the most
Too soon forget they lov'd at all. [iv]
3.
And such the change the heart displays,
So frail is early friendship's reign, [v]
A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day's,
Will view thy mind estrang'd again. [vi]
4.
If so, it never shall be mine
To mourn the loss of such a heart;
The fault was Nature's fault, not thine,
Which made thee fickle as thou art.
5.
As rolls the Ocean's changing tide,
So human feelings ebb and flow;
And who would in a breast confide
Where stormy passions ever glow?
6.
It boots not that, together bred,
Our childish days were days of joy:
My spring of life has quickly fled;
Thou, too, hast ceas'd to be a boy.
7.
And when we bid adieu to youth,
Slaves to the specious World's controul,
We sigh a long farewell to truth;
That World corrupts the noblest soul.
8.
Ah, joyous season! when the mind [1]
Dares all things boldly but to lie;
When Thought ere spoke is unconfin'd,
And sparkles in the placid eye.
9.
Not so in Man's maturer years,
When Man himself is but a tool;
When Interest sways our hopes and fears,
And all must love and hate by rule.
10.
With fools in kindred vice the same, [vii]
We learn at length our faults to blend;
And those, and those alone, may claim
The prostituted name of friend.
11.
Such is the common lot of man:
Can we then 'scape from folly free?
Can we reverse the general plan,
Nor be what all in turn must be?
12.
No; for myself, so dark my fate
Through every turn of life hath been;
Man and the World so much I hate,
I care not when I quit the scene.
13.
But thou, with spirit frail and light,
Wilt shine awhile, and pass away;
As glow-worms sparkle through the night,
But dare not stand the test of day.
14.
Alas! whenever Folly calls
Where parasites and princes meet,
(For cherish'd first in royal halls,
The welcome vices kindly greet,)
15.
Ev'n now thou'rt nightly seen to add
One insect to the fluttering crowd;
And still thy trifling heart is glad
To join the vain and court the proud.
16.
There dost thou glide from fair to fair,
Still simpering on with eager haste,
As flies along the gay parterre,
That taint the flowers they scarcely taste.
17.
But say, what nymph will prize the flame
Which seems, as marshy vapours move,
To flit along from dame to dame,
An ignis-fatuus gleam of love?
18.
What friend for thee, howe'er inclin'd,
Will deign to own a kindred care?
Who will debase his manly mind,
For friendship every fool may share?
19.
In time forbear; amidst the throng
No more so base a thing be seen;
No more so idly pass along;
Be something, any thing, but--mean.
August 20th, 1808. [First published, 1809.]
[Footnote 1: Stanzas 8-9 are not in the _MS_.]
[Footnote i:
'To Sir W. D., on his using the expression, "Soyes constant en
amitie."'
[MS. L.] ]
[Footnote ii:
'Twere well my friend if still with thee
Through every scene of joy and woe,
That thought could ever cherish'd be
As warm as it was wont to glow.
[MS. L] ]
[Footnote iii:
_And yet like me._
[MS. L.] ]
[Footnote iv:
_Forget they ever._
[MS. L. _Imit. and Transl_., p. 185.] ]
[Footnote v:
_So short._
[MS. L.] ]
[Footnote vi:
_...a day
Will send my friendship back again._
[MS. L.]
[Footnote vii:
_Each fool whose vices are the same
Whose faults with ours may blend._
[_MS. L._]]
LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL. [1]
1.
Start not--nor deem my spirit fled:
In me behold the only skull,
From which, unlike a living head,
Whatever flows is never dull.
2.
I lived, I loved, I quaff'd, like thee:
I died: let earth my bones resign;
Fill up--thou canst not injure me;
The worm hath fouler lips than thine.
3.
Better to hold the sparkling grape,
Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood;
And circle in the goblet's shape
The drink of Gods, than reptile's food.
4.
Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone,
In aid of others' let me shine;
And when, alas! our brains are gone,
What nobler substitute than wine?
5.
Quaff while thou canst: another race,
When thou and thine, like me, are sped,
May rescue thee from earth's embrace,
And rhyme and revel with the dead.
6.
Why not? since through life's little day
Our heads such sad effects produce;
Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay,
This chance is theirs, to be of use.
Newstead Abbey, 1808.
[First published in the seventh edition of 'Childe Harold'.]
[Footnote 1: Byron gave Medwin the following account of this cup:--"The
gardener in digging [discovered] a skull that had probably belonged to
some jolly friar or monk of the abbey, about the time it was
dis-monasteried. Observing it to be of giant size, and in a perfect
state of preservation, a strange fancy seized me of having it set and
mounted as a drinking cup. I accordingly sent it to town, and it
returned with a very high polish, and of a mottled colour like
tortoiseshell."--Medwin's 'Conversations', 1824, p. 87.]
WELL! THOU ART HAPPY. [i] [1]
1.
Well! thou art happy, and I feel
That I should thus be happy too;
For still my heart regards thy weal
Warmly, as it was wont to do.
2.
Thy husband's blest--and 'twill impart
Some pangs to view his happier lot: [ii]
But let them pass--Oh! how my heart
Would hate him if he loved thee not!
3.
When late I saw thy favourite child,
I thought my jealous heart would break;
But when the unconscious infant smil'd,
I kiss'd it for its mother's sake.
4.
I kiss'd it,--and repress'd my sighs
Its father in its face to see;
But then it had its mother's eyes,
And they were all to love and me.
5. [iii]
Mary, adieu! I must away:
While thou art blest I'll not repine;
But near thee I can never stay;
My heart would soon again be thine.
6.
I deem'd that Time, I deem'd that Pride,
Had quench'd at length my boyish flame;
Nor knew, till seated by thy side,
My heart in all,--save hope,--the same.
7.
Yet was I calm: I knew the time
My breast would thrill before thy look;
But now to tremble were a crime--
We met,--and not a nerve was shook.
8.
I saw thee gaze upon my face,
Yet meet with no confusion there:
One only feeling couldst thou trace;
The sullen calmness of despair.
9.
Away! away! my early dream
Remembrance never must awake:
Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream?
My foolish heart be still, or break.
November, 1808. [First published, 1809.]
[Footnote 1: These lines were written after dining at Annesley with Mr.
and Mrs. Chaworth Musters. Their daughter, born 1806, and now Mrs.
Hamond, of Westacre, Norfolk, is still (January, 1898) living.]
[Footnote i:
_To Mrs.----_[erased].
[_MS. L._]
_To-----_.
[_Imit. and Transl_. Hobhouse, 1809.] ]
[Footnote ii:
_Some pang to see my rival's lot._
[_MS. L._] ]
[Footnote iii: MS. L. _insert_s--
_Poor little pledge of mutual love,
I would not hurt a hair of thee,
Although thy birth should chance to prove
Thy parents' bliss--my misery._]
INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG. [1]
When some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe
And storied urns record who rest below:
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been:
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth--
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth:
While Man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive Heaven.
Oh Man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on--it honours none you wish to mourn:
To mark a Friend's remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one,--and here he lies. [i]
Newstead Abbey, October 30, 1808. [First published, 1809.]
[Footnote 1: This monument is placed in the garden of Newstead.
A prose inscription precedes the verses:--
"Near this spot
Are deposited the Remains of one
Who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferocity,
And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices.
This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
If inscribed over human ashes,
Is but a just tribute to the Memory of
BOATSWAIN, a Dog,
Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803,
And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808."
Byron thus announced the death of his favourite to his friend
Hodgson:--"Boatswain is dead!--he expired in a state of madness on the
18th after suffering much, yet retaining all the gentleness of his
nature to the last; never attempting to do the least injury to any one
near him. I have now lost everything except old Murray." In the will
which the poet executed in 1811, he desired to be buried in the vault
with his dog, and Joe Murray was to have the honour of making one of the
party. When the poet was on his travels, a gentleman, to whom Murray
showed the tomb, said, "Well, old boy, you will take your place here
some twenty years hence." "I don't know that, sir," replied Joe; "if I
was sure his lordship would come here I should like it well enough, but
I should not like to lie alone with the dog."--'Life', pp. 73, 131.]
[Footnote i:
_I knew but one unchang'd--and here he lies.--
[_Imit. and Transl_., p. 191.] ]
TO A LADY, [1]
ON BEING ASKED MY REASON FOR QUITTING ENGLAND IN THE SPRING. [i]
1.
When Man, expell'd from Eden's bowers,
A moment linger'd near the gate,
Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours,
And bade him curse his future fate.
2.
But, wandering on through distant climes,
He learnt to bear his load of grief;
Just gave a sigh to other times,
And found in busier scenes relief.
3.
Thus, Lady! will it be with me, [ii]
And I must view thy charms no more;
For, while I linger near to thee,
I sigh for all I knew before.
4.
In flight I shall be surely wise,
Escaping from temptation's snare:
I cannot view my Paradise
Without the wish of dwelling there. [iii] [2]
December 2, 1808. [First published, 1809.]
[Footnote 1: Byron had written to his mother on November 2, 1808,
announcing his intention of sailing for India in the following March.
See 'Childe Harold', canto i. st. 3. See also Letter to Hodgson, Nov.
27, 1808.]
[Footnote 2: In an unpublished letter of Byron to----, dated within
a few days of his final departure from Italy to Greece, in
1823, he writes:
"Miss Chaworth was two years older than myself. She married a man of
an ancient and respectable family, but her marriage was not a happier
one than my own. Her conduct, however, was irreproachable; but there
was not sympathy between their characters. I had not seen her for many
years when an occasion offered to me, January, 1814. I was upon the
point, with her consent, of paying her a visit, when my sister, who
has always had more influence over me than any one else, persuaded me
not to do it. 'For,' said she, 'if you go you will fall in love again,
and then there will be a scene; one step will lead to another, 'et
cela fera un 閏lat''."]
[Footnote i:
'The Farewell To a Lady.'
['Imit. and Transl.']
[Footnote ii:
'Thus Mary!' (Mrs. Musters).
['MS'.]
[Footnote iii:
'Without a wish to enter there.'
['Imit. and Transl'., p. 196.] ]
FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. [i]
A SONG.
1.
Fill the goblet again! for I never before
Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core;
Let us drink!--who would not?--since, through life's varied round,
In the goblet alone no deception is found.
2.
I have tried in its turn all that life can supply;
I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye;
I have lov'd!--who has not?--but what heart can declare
That Pleasure existed while Passion was there?
3.
In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its spring,
And dreams that Affection can never take wing,
I had friends!--who has not?--but what tongue will avow,
That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou?
4.
The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange,
Friendship shifts with the sunbeam--thou never canst change;
Thou grow'st old--who does not?--but on earth what appears,
Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years?
5.
Yet if blest to the utmost that Love can bestow,
Should a rival bow down to our idol below,
We are jealous!--who's not?--thou hast no such alloy;
For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy.
6.
Then the season of youth and its vanities past,
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last;
There we find--do we not?--in the flow of the soul,
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl.
7.
When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth,
And Misery's triumph commenc'd over Mirth,
Hope was left,--was she not?--but the goblet we kiss,
And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss.
8.
Long life to the grape! for when summer is flown,
The age of our nectar shall gladden our own:
We must die--who shall not?--May our sins be forgiven,
And Hebe shall never be idle in Heaven.
[First published, 1809.]
[Footnote i:
'Song'.
['Imit. and Transl'., p. 204.]
STANZAS TO A LADY, ON LEAVING ENGLAND. [i]
1.
Tis done--and shivering in the gale
The bark unfurls her snowy sail;
And whistling o'er the bending mast,
Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast;
And I must from this land be gone,
Because I cannot love but one.
2.
But could I be what I have been,
And could I see what I have seen--
Could I repose upon the breast
Which once my warmest wishes blest--
I should not seek another zone,
Because I cannot love but one.
3.
'Tis long since I beheld that eye
Which gave me bliss or misery;
And I have striven, but in vain,
Never to think of it again:
For though I fly from Albion,
I still can only love but one.
4.
As some lone bird, without a mate,
My weary heart is desolate;
I look around, and cannot trace
One friendly smile or welcome face,
And ev'n in crowds am still alone,
Because I cannot love but one.
5.
And I will cross the whitening foam,
And I will seek a foreign home;
Till I forget a false fair face,
I ne'er shall find a resting-place;
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun,
But ever love, and love but one.
6.
The poorest, veriest wretch on earth
Still finds some hospitable hearth,
Where Friendship's or Love's softer glow
May smile in joy or soothe in woe;
But friend or leman I have none, [ii]
Because I cannot love but one.
7.
I go--but wheresoe'er I flee
There's not an eye will weep for me;
There's not a kind congenial heart,
Where I can claim the meanest part;
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone,
Wilt sigh, although I love but one.
8.
To think of every early scene,
Of what we are, and what we've been,
Would whelm some softer hearts with woe--
But mine, alas! has stood the blow;
Yet still beats on as it begun,
And never truly loves but one.
9.
And who that dear lov'd one may be,
Is not for vulgar eyes to see;
And why that early love was cross'd,
Thou know'st the best, I feel the most;
But few that dwell beneath the sun
Have loved so long, and loved but one.
10.
I've tried another's fetters too,
With charms perchance as fair to view;
And I would fain have loved as well,
But some unconquerable spell
Forbade my bleeding breast to own
A kindred care for aught but one.
11.
'Twould soothe to take one lingering view,
And bless thee in my last adieu;
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep
For him that wanders o'er the deep;
His home, his hope, his youth are gone, [iii]
Yet still he loves, and loves but one. [iv]
1809. [First published, 1809.]
[Footnote i:
'To Mrs. Musters.'
['MS.']
'To----on Leaving England.'
['Imit. and Transl.', p. 227.]
[Footnote ii:
'But friend or lover I have none'.
['Imit. and Transl'., p. 229.]]
[Footnote iii:
'Though wheresoever my bark may run,
I love but thee, I love but one.'
['Imit. and Transl.', p. 230.]
'The land recedes his Bark is gone,
Yet still he loves and laves but one.'
[MS.]
[Footnote iv:
'Yet far away he loves but one.'
[MS.]
ENGLISH BARDS, AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS;
A SATIRE.
BY
LORD BYRON.
"I had rather be a kitten, and cry, mew!
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers."
SHAKESPEARE.
"Such shameless Bards we have; and yet 'tis true,
There are as mad, abandon'd Critics, too."
POPE.
PREFACE [1]
All my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged me not to publish this
Satire with my name. If I were to be "turned from the career of my
humour by quibbles quick, and paper bullets of the brain" I should have
complied with their counsel. But I am not to be terrified by abuse, or
bullied by reviewers, with or without arms. I can safely say that I have
attacked none 'personally', who did not commence on the offensive. An
Author's works are public property: he who purchases may judge, and
publish his opinion if he pleases; and the Authors I have endeavoured to
commemorate may do by me as I have done by them. I dare say they will
succeed better in condemning my scribblings, than in mending their own.
But my object is not to prove that I can write well, but, if 'possible',
to make others write better.
As the Poem has met with far more success than I expected, I have
endeavoured in this Edition to make some additions and alterations, to
render it more worthy of public perusal.
In the First Edition of this Satire, published anonymously, fourteen
lines on the subject of Bowles's Pope were written by, and _insert_ed at
the request of, an ingenious friend of mine, [2] who has now in the
press a volume of Poetry. In the present Edition they are erased, and
some of my own substituted in their stead; my only reason for this being
that which I conceive would operate with any other person in the same
manner,--a determination not to publish with my name any production,
which was not entirely and exclusively my own composition.
With [3] regard to the real talents of many of the poetical persons
whose performances are mentioned or alluded to in the following pages,
it is presumed by the Author that there can be little difference of
opinion in the Public at large; though, like other sectaries, each has
his separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom his abilities are
over-rated, his faults overlooked, and his metrical canons received
without scruple and without consideration. But the unquestionable
possession of considerable genius by several of the writers here
censured renders their mental prostitution more to be regretted.
Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, laughed at and forgotten;
perverted powers demand the most decided reprehension. No one can wish
more than the Author that some known and able writer had undertaken
their exposure; but Mr. Gifford has devoted himself to Massinger, and,
in the absence of the regular physician, a country practitioner may, in
cases of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe his nostrum to
prevent the extension of so deplorable an epidemic, provided there be no
quackery in his treatment of the malady. A caustic is here offered; as
it is to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can recover the
numerous patients afflicted with the present prevalent and distressing
rabies for rhyming.--As to the' Edinburgh Reviewers', it would indeed
require an Hercules to crush the Hydra; but if the Author succeeds in
merely "bruising one of the heads of the serpent" though his own hand
should suffer in the encounter, he will be amply satisfied.
[Footnote 1: The Preface, as it is here printed, was prefixed to the
Second, Third, and Fourth Editions of 'English Bards, and Scotch
Reviewers'. The preface to the First Edition began with the words, "With
regard to the real talents," etc. The text of the poem follows that of
the suppressed Fifth Edition, which passed under Byron's own
supervision, and was to have been issued in 1812. From that Edition the
Preface was altogether excluded.
In an annotated copy of the Fourth Edition, of 1811, underneath the
note, "This preface was written for the Second Edition, and printed with
it. The noble author had left this country previous to the publication
of that Edition, and is not yet returned," Byron wrote, in 1816, "He is,
and gone again."--MS. Notes from this volume, which is now in Mr.
Murray's possession, are marked--B., 1816.]
[Footnote 2: John Cam Hobhouse.]
[Footnote 3: Preface to the First Edition.]
INTRODUCTION TO ENGLISH BARDS, AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS.
The article upon 'Hours of Idleness' "which Lord Brougham ... after
denying it for thirty years, confessed that he had written" ('Notes from
a Diary', by Sir M. E. Grant Duff, 1897, ii. 189), was published in the
'Edinburgh Review' of January, 1808. 'English Bards, and Scotch
Reviewers' did not appear till March, 1809. The article gave the
opportunity for the publication of the satire, but only in part provoked
its composition. Years later, Byron had not forgotten its effect on his
mind. On April 26, 1821, he wrote to Shelley: "I recollect the effect on
me of the Edinburgh on my first poem: it was rage and resistance and
redress: but not despondency nor despair." And on the same date to
Murray: "I know by experience that a savage review is hemlock to a
sucking author; and the one on me (which produced the 'English Bards',
etc.) knocked me down, but I got up again," etc. It must, however, be
remembered that Byron had his weapons ready for an attack before he used
them in defence. In a letter to Miss Pigot, dated October 26, 1807, he
says that "he has written one poem of 380 lines to be published in a few
weeks with notes. The poem ... is a Satire." It was entitled 'British
Bards', and finally numbered 520 lines. With a view to publication, or
for his own convenience, it was put up in type and printed in quarto
sheets. A single copy, which he kept for corrections and additions, was
preserved by Dallas, and is now in the British Museum. After the review
appeared, he enlarged and recast the 'British Bards', and in March,
1809, the Satire was published anonymously. Byron was at no pains to
conceal the authorship of 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', and,
before starting on his Pilgrimage, he had prepared a second and enlarged
edition, which came out in October, 1809, with his name prefixed. Two
more editions were called for in his absence, and on his return he
revised and printed a fifth, when he suddenly resolved to suppress the
work. On his homeward voyage he expressed, in a letter to Dallas, June
28, 1811, his regret at having written the Satire. A year later he
became intimate, among others, with Lord and Lady Holland, whom he had
assailed on the supposition that they were the instigators of the
article in the 'Edinburgh Review', and on being told by Rogers that they
wished the Satire to be withdrawn, he gave orders to his publisher,
Cawthorn, to burn the whole impression. A few copies escaped the flames.
One of two copies retained by Dallas, which afterwards belonged to
Murray, and is now in his grandson's possession, was the foundation of
the text of 1831, and of all subsequent issues. Another copy which
belonged to Dallas is retained in the British Museum.
Towards the close of the last century there had been an outburst of
satirical poems, written in the style of the 'Dunciad' and its offspring
the 'Rosciad', Of these, Gifford's 'Baviad' and 'Maviad' (1794-5), and
T. J. Mathias' 'Pursuits of Literature' (1794-7), were the direct
progenitors of 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', The 'Rolliad'
(1794), the 'Children of Apollo' (circ. 1794), Canning's 'New Morality'
(1798), and Wolcot's coarse but virile lampoons, must also be reckoned
among Byron's earlier models. The ministry of "All the Talents" gave
rise to a fresh batch of political 'jeux d'閟prits', and in 1807, when
Byron was still at Cambridge, the air was full of these ephemera. To
name only a few, 'All the Talents', by Polypus (Eaton Stannard Barrett),
was answered by 'All the Blocks, an antidote to All the Talents', by
Flagellum (W. H. Ireland); 'Elijah's Mantle, a tribute to the memory of
the R. H. William Pitt', by James Sayer, the caricaturist, provoked
'Melville's Mantle, being a Parody on ... Elijah's Mantle'. 'The
Simpliciad, A Satirico-Didactic Poem', and Lady Anne Hamilton's 'Epics
of the Ton', are also of the same period. One and all have perished, but
Byron read them, and in a greater or less degree they supplied the
impulse to write in the fashion of the day.
'British Bards' would have lived, but, unquestionably, the spur of the
article, a year's delay, and, above all, the advice and criticism of his
friend Hodgson, who was at work on his 'Gentle Alterative for the
Reviewers', 1809 (for further details, see vol. i., 'Letters', Letter
102, 'note' 1), produced the brilliant success of the enlarged satire.
'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers' was recognized at once as a work
of genius. It has intercepted the popularity of its great predecessors,
who are often quoted, but seldom read. It is still a popular poem, and
appeals with fresh delight to readers who know the names of many of the
"bards" only because Byron mentions them, and count others whom he
ridicules among the greatest poets of the century.
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. [1]
Still [2] must I hear?--shall hoarse [3] FITZGERALD bawl
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall,
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Reviews
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my _Muse?_
Prepare for rhyme--I'll publish, right or wrong:
Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song. [i]
Oh! Nature's noblest gift--my grey goose-quill!
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,
That mighty instrument of little men! 10
The pen! foredoomed to aid the mental throes
Of brains that labour, big with Verse or Prose;
Though Nymphs forsake, and Critics may deride,
The Lover's solace, and the Author's pride.
What Wits! what Poets dost thou daily raise!
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise!
Condemned at length to be forgotten quite,
With all the pages which 'twas thine to write.
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen! [ii]
Once laid aside, but now assumed again, 20
Our task complete, like Hamet's [4] shall be free;
Though spurned by others, yet beloved by me:
Then let us soar to-day; no common theme,
No Eastern vision, no distempered dream [5]
Inspires--our path, though full of thorns, is plain;
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.
When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway,
Obey'd by all who nought beside obey; [iii]
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,
Bedecks her cap with bells of every Clime; [iv] 30
When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail,
And weigh their Justice in a Golden Scale; [v]
E'en then the boldest start from public sneers,
Afraid of Shame, unknown to other fears,
More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe,
And shrink from Ridicule, though not from Law.
Such is the force of Wit! I but not belong
To me the arrows of satiric song;
The royal vices of our age demand
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. [vi] 40
Still there are follies, e'en for me to chase,
And yield at least amusement in the race:
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame,
The cry is up, and scribblers are my game:
Speed, Pegasus!--ye strains of great and small,
Ode! Epic! Elegy!--have at you all!
I, too, can scrawl, and once upon a time
I poured along the town a flood of rhyme,
A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame;
I printed--older children do the same. 50
'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print;
A Book's a Book, altho' there's nothing in't.
Not that a Title's sounding charm can save [vii]
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave:
This LAMB [6] must own, since his patrician name
Failed to preserve the spurious Farce from shame. [7]
No matter, GEORGE continues still to write, [8]
Tho' now the name is veiled from public sight.
Moved by the great example, I pursue
The self-same road, but make my own review: 60
Not seek great JEFFREY'S, yet like him will be
Self-constituted Judge of Poesy.
A man must serve his time to every trade
Save Censure--Critics all are ready made.
Take hackneyed jokes from MILLER, [9] got by rote,
With just enough of learning to misquote;
A man well skilled to find, or forge a fault;
A turn for punning--call it Attic salt;
To JEFFREY go, be silent and discreet,
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet: 70
Fear not to lie,'twill seem a _sharper_ hit; [viii]
Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit;
Care not for feeling--pass your proper jest,
And stand a Critic, hated yet caress'd.
And shall we own such judgment? no--as soon
Seek roses in December--ice in June;
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff,
Believe a woman or an epitaph,
Or any other thing that's false, before
You trust in Critics, who themselves are sore; 80
Or yield one single thought to be misled
By JEFFREY'S heart, or LAMB'S Boeotian head. [10]
To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced,
Combined usurpers on the Throne of Taste;
To these, when Authors bend in humble awe,
And hail their voice as Truth, their word as Law;
While these are Censors, 'twould be sin to spare; [11]
While such are Critics, why should I forbear?
But yet, so near all modern worthies run,
'Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun; 90
Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike,
Our Bards and Censors are so much alike.
Then should you ask me, [12] why I venture o'er
The path which POPE and GIFFORD [13] trod before;
If not yet sickened, you can still proceed;
Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read.
"But hold!" exclaims a friend,--"here's some neglect:
This--that--and t'other line seem incorrect."
What then? the self-same blunder Pope has got,
And careless Dryden--"Aye, but Pye has not:"-- 100
Indeed!--'tis granted, faith!--but what care I?
Better to err with POPE, than shine with PYE. [14]
Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days [15]
Ignoble themes obtained mistaken praise,
When Sense and Wit with Poesy allied,
No fabled Graces, flourished side by side,
From the same fount their inspiration drew,
And, reared by Taste, bloomed fairer as they grew.
Then, in this happy Isle, a POPE'S pure strain
Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain; 110
A polished nation's praise aspired to claim,
And raised the people's, as the poet's fame.
Like him great DRYDEN poured the tide of song,
In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong.
Then CONGREVE'S scenes could cheer, or OTWAY'S melt; [16]
For Nature then an English audience felt--
But why these names, or greater still, retrace,
When all to feebler Bards resign their place?
Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast,
When taste and reason with those times are past. 120
Now look around, and turn each trifling page,
Survey the precious works that please the age;
This truth at least let Satire's self allow,
No dearth of Bards can be complained of now. [ix]
The loaded Press beneath her labour groans, [x]
And Printers' devils shake their weary bones;
While SOUTHEY'S Epics cram the creaking shelves, [xi]
And LITTLE'S Lyrics shine in hot-pressed twelves. [17]
Thus saith the _Preacher_: "Nought beneath the sun
Is new," [18] yet still from change to change we run. 130
What varied wonders tempt us as they pass!
The Cow-pox, Tractors, Galvanism, and Gas, [19]
In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare,
Till the swoln bubble bursts--and all is air!
Nor less new schools of Poetry arise,
Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize:
O'er Taste awhile these Pseudo-bards prevail; [xii]
Each country Book-club bows the knee to Baal,
And, hurling lawful Genius from the throne,
Erects a shrine and idol of its own; [xiii] 140
Some leaden calf--but whom it matters not,
From soaring SOUTHEY, down to groveling STOTT. [20]
Behold! in various throngs the scribbling crew,
For notice eager, pass in long review:
Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace,
And Rhyme and Blank maintain an equal race;
Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode;
And Tales of Terror [21] jostle on the road;
Immeasurable measures move along;
For simpering Folly loves a varied song, 150
To strange, mysterious Dulness still the friend,
Admires the strain she cannot comprehend.
Thus Lays of Minstrels [22]--may they be the last!--
On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast.
While mountain spirits prate to river sprites,
That dames may listen to the sound at nights;
And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's [23] brood
Decoy young Border-nobles through the wood,
And skip at every step, Lord knows how high,
And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why; 160
While high-born ladies in their magic cell,
Forbidding Knights to read who cannot spell,
Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave,
And fight with honest men to shield a knave.
Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan,
The golden-crested haughty Marmion,
Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight,
Not quite a Felon, yet but half a Knight. [xiv]
The gibbet or the field prepared to grace;
A mighty mixture of the great and base. 170
And think'st thou, SCOTT! by vain conceit perchance,
On public taste to foist thy stale romance,
Though MURRAY with his MILLER may combine
To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line? [24]
No! when the sons of song descend to trade,
Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade,
Let such forego the poet's sacred name,
Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame:
Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain! [25]
And sadly gaze on Gold they cannot gain! 180
Such be their meed, such still the just reward [xv]
Of prostituted Muse and hireling bard!
For this we spurn Apollo's venal son,
And bid a long "good night to Marmion." [26]
These are the themes that claim our plaudits now;
These are the Bards to whom the Muse must bow;
While MILTON, DRYDEN, POPE, alike forgot,
Resign their hallowed Bays to WALTER SCOTT.
The time has been, when yet the Muse was young,
When HOMER swept the lyre, and MARO sung, 190
An Epic scarce ten centuries could claim,
While awe-struck nations hailed the magic name:
The work of each immortal Bard appears
The single wonder of a thousand years. [27]
Empires have mouldered from the face of earth,
Tongues have expired with those who gave them birth,
Without the glory such a strain can give,
As even in ruin bids the language live.
Not so with us, though minor Bards, content, [xvi]
On one great work a life of labour spent: 200
With eagle pinion soaring to the skies,
Behold the Ballad-monger SOUTHEY rise!
To him let CAMO薔S, MILTON, TASSO yield,
Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field.
First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance,
The scourge of England and the boast of France!
Though burnt by wicked BEDFORD for a witch,
Behold her statue placed in Glory's niche;
Her fetters burst, and just released from prison,
A virgin Phoenix from her ashes risen. 210
Next see tremendous Thalaba come on, [28]
Arabia's monstrous, wild, and wond'rous son;
Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'erthrew
More mad magicians than the world e'er knew.
Immortal Hero! all thy foes o'ercome,
For ever reign--the rival of Tom Thumb! [29]
Since startled Metre fled before thy face,
Well wert thou doomed the last of all thy race!
Well might triumphant Genii bear thee hence,
Illustrious conqueror of common sense! 220
Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails,
Cacique in Mexico, [30] and Prince in Wales;
Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do,
More old than Mandeville's, and not so true.
Oh, SOUTHEY! SOUTHEY! [31] cease thy varied song!
A bard may chaunt too often and too long:
As thou art strong in verse, in mercy, spare!
A fourth, alas! were more than we could bear.
But if, in spite of all the world can say,
Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way; 230
If still in Berkeley-Ballads most uncivil,
Thou wilt devote old women to the devil, [32]
The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue:
"God help thee," SOUTHEY, [33] and thy readers too.
Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, [34]
That mild apostate from poetic rule,
The simple WORDSWORTH, framer of a lay
As soft as evening in his favourite May,
Who warns his friend "to shake off toil and trouble,
And quit his books, for fear of growing double;" [35] 240
Who, both by precept and example, shows
That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose;
Convincing all, by demonstration plain,
Poetic souls delight in prose insane;
And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme
Contain the essence of the true sublime.
Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy,
The idiot mother of "an idiot Boy;"
A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way,
And, like his bard, confounded night with day [36] 250
So close on each pathetic part he dwells,
And each adventure so sublimely tells,
That all who view the "idiot in his glory"
Conceive the Bard the hero of the story.
Shall gentle COLERIDGE pass unnoticed here, [37]
To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear?
Though themes of innocence amuse him best,
Yet still Obscurity's a welcome guest.
If Inspiration should her aid refuse
To him who takes a Pixy for a muse, [38] 260
Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass
The bard who soars to elegize an ass:
So well the subject suits his noble mind, [xvii]
He brays, the Laureate of the long-eared kind. [xviii]
Oh! wonder-working LEWIS! [39] Monk, or Bard,
Who fain would make Parnassus a church-yard! [xix]
Lo! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow,
Thy Muse a Sprite, Apollo's sexton thou!
Whether on ancient tombs thou tak'st thy stand,
By gibb'ring spectres hailed, thy kindred band; 270
Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page,
To please the females of our modest age;
All hail, M.P.! [40] from whose infernal brain
Thin-sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train;
At whose command "grim women" throng in crowds,
And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds,
With "small grey men,"--"wild yagers," and what not,
To crown with honour thee and WALTER SCOTT:
Again, all hail! if tales like thine may please,
St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease: 280
Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell,
And in thy skull discern a deeper Hell.
Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir
Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire,
With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flushed
Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames are hushed?
'Tis LITTLE! young Catullus of his day,
As sweet, but as immoral, in his Lay!
Grieved to condemn, the Muse must still be just,
Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. 290
Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns;
From grosser incense with disgust she turns
Yet kind to youth, this expiation o'er,
She bids thee "mend thy line, and sin no more." [xx]
For thee, translator of the tinsel song,
To whom such glittering ornaments belong,
Hibernian STRANGFORD! with thine eyes of blue, [41]
And boasted locks of red or auburn hue,
Whose plaintive strain each love-sick Miss admires,
And o'er harmonious fustian half expires, [xxi] 300
Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author's sense,
Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence.
Think'st thou to gain thy verse a higher place,
By dressing Camo雗s [42] in a suit of lace?
Mend, STRANGFORD! mend thy morals and thy taste;
Be warm, but pure; be amorous, but be chaste:
Cease to deceive; thy pilfered harp restore,
Nor teach the Lusian Bard to copy MOORE.
Behold--Ye Tarts!--one moment spare the text! [xxii]--
HAYLEY'S last work, and worst--until his next; 310
Whether he spin poor couplets into plays,
Or damn the dead with purgatorial praise, [43]
His style in youth or age is still the same,
For ever feeble and for ever tame.
Triumphant first see "Temper's Triumphs" shine!
At least I'm sure they triumphed over mine.
Of "Music's Triumphs," all who read may swear
That luckless Music never triumph'd there. [44]
Moravians, rise! bestow some meet reward [45]
On dull devotion--Lo! the Sabbath Bard, 320
Sepulchral GRAHAME, [46] pours his notes sublime
In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rhyme;
Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke, [xxiii]
And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch;
And, undisturbed by conscientious qualms,
Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms.
Hail, Sympathy! thy soft idea brings" [xxiv]
A thousand visions of a thousand things,
And shows, still whimpering thro' threescore of years, [xxv]
The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers. 330
And art thou not their prince, harmonious Bowles! [47]
Thou first, great oracle of tender souls?
Whether them sing'st with equal ease, and grief, [xxvi]
The fall of empires, or a yellow leaf;
Whether thy muse most lamentably tells
What merry sounds proceed from Oxford bells, [xxvii]
Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend
In every chime that jingled from Ostend;
Ah! how much juster were thy Muse's hap,
If to thy bells thou would'st but add a cap! [xxviii] 340
Delightful BOWLES! still blessing and still blest,
All love thy strain, but children like it best.
'Tis thine, with gentle LITTLE'S moral song,
To soothe the mania of the amorous throng!
With thee our nursery damsels shed their tears,
Ere Miss as yet completes her infant years:
But in her teens thy whining powers are vain;
She quits poor BOWLES for LITTLE'S purer strain.
Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine [xxix]
The lofty numbers of a harp like thine; 350
"Awake a louder and a loftier strain," [48]
Such as none heard before, or will again!
Where all discoveries jumbled from the flood,
Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud,
By more or less, are sung in every book,
From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook.
Nor this alone--but, pausing on the road,
The Bard sighs forth a gentle episode, [xxx] [49]
And gravely tells--attend, each beauteous Miss!--
When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. 360
Bowles! in thy memory let this precept dwell,
Stick to thy Sonnets, Man!--at least they sell.
But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe,
Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a scribe:
If 'chance some bard, though once by dunces feared,
Now, prone in dust, can only be revered;
If Pope, whose fame and genius, from the first, [xxxi]
Have foiled the best of critics, needs the worst,
Do thou essay: each fault, each failing scan;
The first of poets was, alas! but man. 370
Rake from each ancient dunghill ev'ry pearl,
Consult Lord Fanny, and confide in CURLL; [50]
Let all the scandals of a former age
Perch on thy pen, and flutter o'er thy page;
Affect a candour which thou canst not feel,
Clothe envy in a garb of honest zeal;
Write, as if St. John's soul could still inspire,
And do from hate what MALLET [51] did for hire.
Oh! hadst thou lived in that congenial time,
To rave with DENNIS, and with RALPH to rhyme; [52] 380
Thronged with the rest around his living head,
Not raised thy hoof against the lion dead,
A meet reward had crowned thy glorious gains,
And linked thee to the Dunciad for thy pains. [53]
Another Epic! Who inflicts again
More books of blank upon the sons of men?
Boeotian COTTLE, rich Bristowa's boast,
Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast,
And sends his goods to market--all alive!
Lines forty thousand, Cantos twenty-five! 390
Fresh fish from Hippocrene! [54] who'll buy? who'll buy?
The precious bargain's cheap--in faith, not I.
Your turtle-feeder's verse must needs be flat, [xxxii]
Though Bristol bloat him with the verdant fat;
If Commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brain,
And AMOS COTTLE strikes the Lyre in vain.
In him an author's luckless lot behold!
Condemned to make the books which once he sold.
Oh, AMOS COTTLE!--Phoebus! what a name
To fill the speaking-trump of future fame!-- 400
Oh, AMOS COTTLE! for a moment think
What meagre profits spring from pen and ink!
When thus devoted to poetic dreams,
Who will peruse thy prostituted reams?
Oh! pen perverted! paper misapplied!
Had COTTLE [55] still adorned the counter's side,
Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils,
Been taught to make the paper which he soils,
Ploughed, delved, or plied the oar with lusty limb,
He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him. 410
As Sisyphus against the infernal steep
Rolls the huge rock whose motions ne'er may sleep,
So up thy hill, ambrosial Richmond! heaves
Dull MAURICE [56] all his granite weight of leaves:
Smooth, solid monuments of mental pain!
The petrifactions of a plodding brain,
That, ere they reach the top, fall lumbering back again.
With broken lyre and cheek serenely pale,
Lo! sad Alc鎢s wanders down the vale;
Though fair they rose, and might have bloomed at last, 420
His hopes have perished by the northern blast:
Nipped in the bud by Caledonian gales,
His blossoms wither as the blast prevails!
O'er his lost works let _classic_ SHEFFIELD weep;
May no rude hand disturb their early sleep! [57]
Yet say! why should the Bard, at once, resign [xxxiii]
His claim to favour from the sacred Nine?
For ever startled by the mingled howl
Of Northern Wolves, that still in darkness prowl;
A coward Brood, which mangle as they prey, 430
By hellish instinct, all that cross their way;
Aged or young, the living or the dead," [xxxiv]
No mercy find-these harpies must be fed.
Why do the injured unresisting yield
The calm possession of their native field?
Why tamely thus before their fangs retreat,
Nor hunt the blood-hounds back to Arthur's Seat? [58]
Health to immortal JEFFREY! once, in name,
England could boast a judge almost the same; [59]
In soul so like, so merciful, yet just, 440
Some think that Satan has resigned his trust,
And given the Spirit to the world again,
To sentence Letters, as he sentenced men.
With hand less mighty, but with heart as black,
With voice as willing to decree the rack;
Bred in the Courts betimes, though all that law
As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw,--
Since well instructed in the patriot school
To rail at party, though a party tool--
Who knows? if chance his patrons should restore 450
Back to the sway they forfeited before,
His scribbling toils some recompense may meet,
And raise this Daniel to the Judgment-Seat. [60]
Let JEFFREY'S shade indulge the pious hope,
And greeting thus, present him with a rope:
"Heir to my virtues! man of equal mind!
Skilled to condemn as to traduce mankind,
This cord receive! for thee reserved with care,
To wield in judgment, and at length to wear."
Health to great JEFFREY! Heaven preserve his life, 460
To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife,
And guard it sacred in its future wars,
Since authors sometimes seek the field of Mars!
Can none remember that eventful day, [xxxv] [61]
That ever-glorious, almost fatal fray,
When LITTLE'S leadless pistol met his eye, [62]
And Bow-street Myrmidons stood laughing by?
Oh, day disastrous! on her firm-set rock,
Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock;
Dark rolled the sympathetic waves of Forth, 470
Low groaned the startled whirlwinds of the north;
TWEED ruffled half his waves to form a tear,
The other half pursued his calm career; [63]
ARTHUR'S steep summit nodded to its base,
The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place.
The Tolbooth felt--for marble sometimes can,
On such occasions, feel as much as man--
The Tolbooth felt defrauded of his charms,
If JEFFREY died, except within her arms: [64]
Nay last, not least, on that portentous morn, 480
The sixteenth story, where himself was born,
His patrimonial garret, fell to ground,
And pale Edina shuddered at the sound:
Strewed were the streets around with milk-white reams,
Flowed all the Canongate with inky streams;
This of his candour seemed the sable dew,
That of his valour showed the bloodless hue;
And all with justice deemed the two combined
The mingled emblems of his mighty mind.
But Caledonia's goddess hovered o'er 490
The field, and saved him from the wrath of Moore;
From either pistol snatched the vengeful lead,
And straight restored it to her favourite's head;
That head, with greater than magnetic power,
Caught it, as Dan鋏 caught the golden shower,
And, though the thickening dross will scarce refine,
Augments its ore, and is itself a mine.
"My son," she cried, "ne'er thirst for gore again,
Resign the pistol and resume the pen;
O'er politics and poesy preside, 500
Boast of thy country, and Britannia's guide!
For long as Albion's heedless sons submit,
Or Scottish taste decides on English wit,
So long shall last thine unmolested reign,
Nor any dare to take thy name in vain.
Behold, a chosen band shall aid thy plan,
And own thee chieftain of the critic clan.
First in the oat-fed phalanx [65] shall be seen
The travelled Thane, Athenian Aberdeen. [66]
HERBERT shall wield THOR'S hammer, [67] and sometimes 510
In gratitude, thou'lt praise his rugged rhymes.
Smug SYDNEY [68] too thy bitter page shall seek,
And classic HALLAM, [69] much renowned for Greek;
SCOTT may perchance his name and influence lend,
And paltry PILLANS [70] shall traduce his friend;
While gay Thalia's luckless votary, LAMB, [xxxvi] [71]
Damned like the Devil--Devil-like will damn.
Known be thy name! unbounded be thy sway!
Thy HOLLAND'S banquets shall each toil repay!
While grateful Britain yields the praise she owes 520
To HOLLAND'S hirelings and to Learning's foes.
Yet mark one caution ere thy next Review
Spread its light wings of Saffron and of Blue,
Beware lest blundering BROUGHAM [72] destroy the sale,
Turn Beef to Bannocks, Cauliflowers to Kail."
Thus having said, the kilted Goddess kist
Her son, and vanished in a Scottish mist. [73]
Then prosper, JEFFREY! pertest of the train [74]
Whom Scotland pampers with her fiery grain!
Whatever blessing waits a genuine Scot, 530
In double portion swells thy glorious lot;
For thee Edina culls her evening sweets,
And showers their odours on thy candid sheets,
Whose Hue and Fragrance to thy work adhere--
This scents its pages, and that gilds its rear. [75]
Lo! blushing Itch, coy nymph, enamoured grown,
Forsakes the rest, and cleaves to thee alone,
And, too unjust to other Pictish men,
Enjoys thy person, and inspires thy pen!
Illustrious HOLLAND! hard would be his lot, 540
His hirelings mentioned, and himself forgot! [76]
HOLLAND, with HENRY PETTY [77] at his back,
The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack.
Blest be the banquets spread at Holland House,
Where Scotchmen feed, and Critics may carouse!
Long, long beneath that hospitable roof [xxxvii]
Shall Grub-street dine, while duns are kept aloof.
See honest HALLAM [78] lay aside his fork,
Resume his pen, review his Lordship's work,
And, grateful for the dainties on his plate, [xxxviii] 550
Declare his landlord can at least translate! [79]
Dunedin! view thy children with delight,
They write for food--and feed because they write: [xxxix]
And lest, when heated with the unusual grape,
Some glowing thoughts should to the press escape,
And tinge with red the female reader's cheek,
My lady skims the cream of each critique;
Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul,
Reforms each error, and refines the whole. [80]
Now to the Drama turn--Oh! motley sight! 560
What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite:
Puns, and a Prince within a barrel pent, [xl] [81]
And Dibdin's nonsense yield complete content. [82]
Though now, thank Heaven! the Rosciomania's o'er. [83]
And full-grown actors are endured once more;
Yet what avail their vain attempts to please,
While British critics suffer scenes like these;
While REYNOLDS vents his "'dammes!'" "poohs!" and
"zounds!" [xli] [84]
And common-place and common sense confounds?
While KENNEY'S [85] "World"--ah! where is KENNEY'S wit? [xlii]-- 570
Tires the sad gallery, lulls the listless Pit;
And BEAUMONT'S pilfered Caratach affords
A tragedy complete in all but words? [xliii]
Who but must mourn, while these are all the rage
The degradation of our vaunted stage?
Heavens! is all sense of shame and talent gone?
Have we no living Bard of merit?--none?
Awake, GEORGE COLMAN! [86] CUMBERLAND, awake![87]
Ring the alarum bell! let folly quake!
Oh! SHERIDAN! if aught can move thy pen, 580
Let Comedy assume her throne again; [xliv]
Abjure the mummery of German schools;
Leave new Pizarros to translating fools; [88]
Give, as thy last memorial to the age,
One classic drama, and reform the stage.
Gods! o'er those boards shall Folly rear her head,
Where GARRICK trod, and SIDDONS lives to tread? [xlv] [89]
On those shall Farce display buffoonery's mask,
And HOOK conceal his heroes in a cask? [90]
Shall sapient managers new scenes produce 590
From CHERRY, [91] SKEFFINGTON, [92] and Mother GOOSE? [xlvi] [93]
While SHAKESPEARE, OTWAY, MASSINGER, forgot,
On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot?
Lo! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim
The rival candidates for Attic fame!
In grim array though LEWIS' spectres rise,
Still SKEFFINGTON and GOOSE divide the prize.
And sure 'great' Skeffington must claim our praise,
For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays
Renowned alike; whose genius ne'er confines 600
Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay designs; [xlvii] [94]
Nor sleeps with "Sleeping Beauties," but anon
In five facetious acts comes thundering on.
While poor John Bull, bewildered with the scene,
Stares, wondering what the devil it can mean;
But as some hands applaud, a venal few!
Rather than sleep, why John applauds it too.
Such are we now. Ah! wherefore should we turn
To what our fathers were, unless to mourn?
Degenerate Britons! are ye dead to shame, 610
Or, kind to dulness, do you fear to blame?
Well may the nobles of our present race
Watch each distortion of a NALDI'S face;
Well may they smile on Italy's buffoons,
And worship CATALANI's pantaloons, [95]
Since their own Drama yields no fairer trace
Of wit than puns, of humour than grimace. [96]
Then let Ausonia, skill'd in every art
To soften manners, but corrupt the heart,
Pour her exotic follies o'er the town, 620
To sanction Vice, and hunt Decorum down:
Let wedded strumpets languish o'er DESHAYES,
And bless the promise which his form displays;
While Gayton bounds before th' enraptured looks
Of hoary Marquises, and stripling Dukes:
Let high-born lechers eye the lively Presle
Twirl her light limbs, that spurn the needless veil;
Let Angiolini bare her breast of snow,
Wave the white arm, and point the pliant toe;
Collini trill her love-inspiring song, 630
Strain her fair neck, and charm the listening throng!
Whet [97] not your scythe, Suppressors of our Vice!
Reforming Saints! too delicately nice!
By whose decrees, our sinful souls to save,
No Sunday tankards foam, no barbers shave;
And beer undrawn, and beards unmown, display
Your holy reverence for the Sabbath-day.
Or hail at once the patron and the pile
Of vice and folly, Greville and Argyle! [98]
Where yon proud palace, Fashion's hallow'd fane, 640
Spreads wide her portals for the motley train,
Behold the new Petronius [99] of the day, [xlviii]
Our arbiter of pleasure and of play!
There the hired eunuch, the Hesperian choir,
The melting lute, the soft lascivious lyre,
The song from Italy, the step from France,
The midnight orgy, and the mazy dance,
The smile of beauty, and the flush of wine,
For fops, fools, gamesters, knaves, and Lords combine:
Each to his humour--Comus all allows; 650
Champaign, dice, music, or your neighbour's spouse.
Talk not to us, ye starving sons of trade!
Of piteous ruin, which ourselves have made;
In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask,
Nor think of Poverty, except "en masque," [100]
When for the night some lately titled ass
Appears the beggar which his grandsire was,
The curtain dropped, the gay Burletta o'er,
The audience take their turn upon the floor:
Now round the room the circling dow'gers sweep, 660
Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters leap;
The first in lengthened line majestic swim,
The last display the free unfettered limb!
Those for Hibernia's lusty sons repair
With art the charms which Nature could not spare;
These after husbands wing their eager flight,
Nor leave much mystery for the nuptial night.
Oh! blest retreats of infamy and ease,
Where, all forgotten but the power to please,
Each maid may give a loose to genial thought, 670
Each swain may teach new systems, or be taught:
There the blithe youngster, just returned from Spain,
Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main;
The jovial Caster's set, and seven's the Nick,
Or--done!--a thousand on the coming trick!
If, mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire,
And all your hope or wish is to expire,
Here's POWELL'S [101] pistol ready for your life,
And, kinder still, two PAGETS for your wife: [xlix]
Fit consummation of an earthly race 680
Begun in folly, ended in disgrace,
While none but menials o'er the bed of death,
Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy wavering breath;
Traduced by liars, and forgot by all,
The mangled victim of a drunken brawl,
To live like CLODIUS, [102] and like FALKLAND fall.[103]
Truth! rouse some genuine Bard, and guide his hand
To drive this pestilence from out the land.
E'en I--least thinking of a thoughtless throng,
Just skilled to know the right and choose the wrong, 690
Freed at that age when Reason's shield is lost,
To fight my course through Passion's countless host, [104]
Whom every path of Pleasure's flow'ry way
Has lured in turn, and all have led astray--
E'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel
Such scenes, such men, destroy the public weal:
Altho' some kind, censorious friend will say,
"What art thou better, meddling fool, [105] than they?"
And every Brother Rake will smile to see
That miracle, a Moralist in me. 700
No matter--when some Bard in virtue strong,
Gifford perchance, shall raise the chastening song,
Then sleep my pen for ever! and my voice
Be only heard to hail him, and rejoice,
Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise, though I
May feel the lash that Virtue must apply.
As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals
From silly HAFIZ up to simple BOWLES, [106]
Why should we call them from their dark abode,
In Broad St. Giles's or Tottenham-Road? 710
Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare
To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street or the Square? [l]
If things of Ton their harmless lays indite,
Most wisely doomed to shun the public sight,
What harm? in spite of every critic elf,
Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself;
MILES ANDREWS [107] still his strength in couplets try,
And live in prologues, though his dramas die.
Lords too are Bards: such things at times befall,
And 'tis some praise in Peers to write at all. 720
Yet, did or Taste or Reason sway the times,
Ah! who would take their titles with their rhymes? [108]
ROSCOMMON! [109] SHEFFIELD! [110] with your spirits fled, [111]
No future laurels deck a noble head;
No Muse will cheer, with renovating smile,
The paralytic puling of CARLISLE. [li] [112]
The puny schoolboy and his early lay
Men pardon, if his follies pass away;
But who forgives the Senior's ceaseless verse,
Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow worse? 730
What heterogeneous honours deck the Peer!
Lord, rhymester, petit-ma顃re, pamphleteer! [113]
So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age,
His scenes alone had damned our sinking stage;
But Managers for once cried, "Hold, enough!"
Nor drugged their audience with the tragic stuff.
Yet at their judgment let his Lordship laugh, [lii]
And case his volumes in congenial calf;
Yes! doff that covering, where Morocco shines,
And hang a calf-skin on those recreant lines. [114] 740
With you, ye Druids! rich in native lead,
Who daily scribble for your daily bread:
With you I war not: GIFFORD'S heavy hand
Has crushed, without remorse, your numerous band.
On "All the Talents" vent your venal spleen; [115]
Want is your plea, let Pity be your screen.
Let Monodies on Fox regale your crew,
And Melville's Mantle [116] prove a Blanket too!
One common Lethe waits each hapless Bard,
And, peace be with you! 'tis your best reward. 750
Such damning fame; as Dunciads only give [liii]
Could bid your lines beyond a morning live;
But now at once your fleeting labours close,
With names of greater note in blest repose.
Far be't from me unkindly to upbraid
The lovely ROSA'S prose in masquerade,
Whose strains, the faithful echoes of her mind,
Leave wondering comprehension far behind. [117]
Though Crusca's bards no more our journals fill, [118]
Some stragglers skirmish round the columns still; 760
Last of the howling host which once was Bell's, [liv]
Matilda snivels yet, and Hafiz yells;
And Merry's [119] metaphors appear anew,
Chained to the signature of O. P. Q. [120]
When some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall,
Employs a pen less pointed than his awl,
Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of shoes,
St. Crispin quits, and cobbles for the Muse,
Heavens! how the vulgar stare! how crowds applaud!
How ladies read, and Literati laud! [121] 770
If chance some wicked wag should pass his jest,
'Tis sheer ill-nature--don't the world know best?
Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme,
And CAPEL LOFFT [122] declares 'tis quite sublime.
Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade!
Swains! quit the plough, resign the useless spade!
Lo! BURNS and BLOOMFIELD, nay, a greater far,
GIFFORD was born beneath an adverse star,
Forsook the labours of a servile state,
Stemmed the rude storm, and triumphed over Fate: 780
Then why no more? if Phoebus smiled on you,
BLOOMFIELD! why not on brother Nathan too? [123]
Him too the Mania, not the Muse, has seized;
Not inspiration, but a mind diseased:
And now no Boor can seek his last abode,
No common be inclosed without an ode.
Oh! since increased refinement deigns to smile
On Britain's sons, and bless our genial Isle,
Let Poesy go forth, pervade the whole,
Alike the rustic, and mechanic soul! 790
Ye tuneful cobblers! still your notes prolong,
Compose at once a slipper and a song;
So shall the fair your handywork peruse,
Your sonnets sure shall please--perhaps your shoes.
May Moorland weavers [124] boast Pindaric skill,
And tailors' lays be longer than their bill!
While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes,
And pay for poems--when they pay for coats.
To the famed throng now paid the tribute due, [lv]
Neglected Genius! let me turn to you. 800
Come forth, oh CAMPBELL! give thy talents scope;
Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope?
And thou, melodious ROGERS! rise at last,
Recall the pleasing memory of the past; [125]
Arise! let blest remembrance still inspire,
And strike to wonted tones thy hallowed lyre;
Restore Apollo to his vacant throne,
Assert thy country's honour and thine own.
What! must deserted Poesy still weep
Where her last hopes with pious COWPER sleep? 810
Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she turns,
To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, BURNS!
No! though contempt hath marked the spurious brood,
The race who rhyme from folly, or for food,
Yet still some genuine sons 'tis hers to boast,
Who, least affecting, still affect the most: [lvi]
Feel as they write, and write but as they feel--
Bear witness GIFFORD, [126] SOTHEBY, [127] MACNEIL. [128]
"Why slumbers GIFFORD?" once was asked in vain;
Why slumbers GIFFORD? let us ask again. [129] 820
Are there no follies for his pen to purge?
Are there no fools whose backs demand the scourge?
Are there no sins for Satire's Bard to greet?
Stalks not gigantic Vice in every street?
Shall Peers or Princes tread pollution's path,
And 'scape alike the Laws and Muse's wrath?
Nor blaze with guilty glare through future time,
Eternal beacons of consummate crime?
Arouse thee, GIFFORD! be thy promise claimed,
Make bad men better, or at least ashamed. 830
Unhappy WHITE! [130] while life was in its spring,
And thy young Muse just waved her joyous wing,
The Spoiler swept that soaring Lyre away, [lvii] [131]
Which else had sounded an immortal lay.
Oh! what a noble heart was here undone,
When Science' self destroyed her favourite son!
Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit,
She sowed the seeds, but Death has reaped the fruit.
'Twas thine own Genius gave the final blow,
And helped to plant the wound that laid thee low: 840
So the struck Eagle, stretched upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart,
And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart;
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel
He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel;
While the same plumage that had warmed his nest
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.
There be who say, in these enlightened days,
That splendid lies are all the poet's praise; 850
That strained Invention, ever on the wing,
Alone impels the modern Bard to sing:
Tis true, that all who rhyme--nay, all who write,
Shrink from that fatal word to Genius--Trite;
Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires,
And decorate the verse herself inspires:
This fact in Virtue's name let CRABBE [132] attest;
Though Nature's sternest Painter, yet the best.
And here let SHEE [133] and Genius find a place,
Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace; 860
To guide whose hand the sister Arts combine,
And trace the Poet's or the Painter's line;
Whose magic touch can bid the canvas glow,
Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow;
While honours, doubly merited, attend [lviii]
The Poet's rival, but the Painter's friend.
Blest is the man who dares approach the bower
Where dwelt the Muses at their natal hour;
Whose steps have pressed, whose eye has marked afar,
The clime that nursed the sons of song and war, 870
The scenes which Glory still must hover o'er,
Her place of birth, her own Achaian shore.
But doubly blest is he whose heart expands
With hallowed feelings for those classic lands;
Who rends the veil of ages long gone by,
And views their remnants with a poet's eye!
WRIGHT! [134] 'twas thy happy lot at once to view
Those shores of glory, and to sing them too;
And sure no common Muse inspired thy pen
To hail the land of Gods and Godlike men. 880
And you, associate Bards! [135] who snatched to light [lvix]
Those gems too long withheld from modern sight;
Whose mingling taste combined to cull the wreath
While Attic flowers Aonian odours breathe,
And all their renovated fragrance flung,
To grace the beauties of your native tongue;
Now let those minds, that nobly could transfuse
The glorious Spirit of the Grecian Muse,
Though soft the echo, scorn a borrowed tone: [lx]
Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. 890
Let these, or such as these, with just applause, [lxi]
Restore the Muse's violated laws;
But not in flimsy DARWIN'S [136] pompous chime, [lxii]
That mighty master of unmeaning rhyme,
Whose gilded cymbals, more adorned than clear,
The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear,
In show the simple lyre could once surpass,
But now, worn down, appear in native brass;
While all his train of hovering sylphs around
Evaporate in similes and sound: 900
Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die:
False glare attracts, but more offends the eye. [137]
Yet let them not to vulgar WORDSWORTH [138] stoop,
The meanest object of the lowly group,
Whose verse, of all but childish prattle void,
Seems blessed harmony to LAMB and LLOYD: [139]
Let them--but hold, my Muse, nor dare to teach
A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach:
The native genius with their being given
Will point the path, and peal their notes to heaven. 910
And thou, too, SCOTT! [140] resign to minstrels rude
The wilder Slogan of a Border feud:
Let others spin their meagre lines for hire;
Enough for Genius, if itself inspire!
Let SOUTHEY sing, altho' his teeming muse, [lxiii]
Prolific every spring, be too profuse;
Let simple WORDSWORTH [141] chime his childish verse,
And brother COLERIDGE lull the babe at nurse [lxiv]
Let Spectre-mongering LEWIS aim, at most, [lxv]
To rouse the Galleries, or to raise a ghost; 920
Let MOORE still sigh; let STRANGFORD steal from MOORE, [lxvi]
And swear that CAMO薔S sang such notes of yore;
Let HAYLEY hobble on, MONTGOMERY rave,
And godly GRAHAME chant a stupid stave;
Let sonneteering BOWLES [142] his strains refine,
And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line;
Let STOTT, CARLISLE, [143] MATILDA, and the rest
Of Grub Street, and of Grosvenor Place the best,
Scrawl on, 'till death release us from the strain,
Or Common Sense assert her rights again; 930
But Thou, with powers that mock the aid of praise,
Should'st leave to humbler Bards ignoble lays:
Thy country's voice, the voice of all the Nine,
Demand a hallowed harp--that harp is thine.
Say! will not Caledonia's annals yield
The glorious record of some nobler field,
Than the vile foray of a plundering clan,
Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man?
Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food
For SHERWOOD'S outlaw tales of ROBIN HOOD? [lxvii] 940
Scotland! still proudly claim thy native Bard,
And be thy praise his first, his best reward!
Yet not with thee alone his name should live,
But own the vast renown a world can give;
Be known, perchance, when Albion is no more,
And tell the tale of what she was before;
To future times her faded fame recall,
And save her glory, though his country fall.
Yet what avails the sanguine Poet's hope,
To conquer ages, and with time to cope? 950
New eras spread their wings, new nations rise,
And other Victors fill th' applauding skies; [144]
A few brief generations fleet along,
Whose sons forget the Poet and his song:
E'en now, what once-loved Minstrels scarce may claim
The transient mention of a dubious name!
When Fame's loud trump hath blown its noblest blast,
Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last;
And glory, like the Phoenix [145] midst her fires,
Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires. 960
Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons,
Expert in science, more expert at puns?
Shall these approach the Muse? ah, no! she flies,
Even from the tempting ore of Seaton's prize; [lxviii]
Though Printers condescend the press to soil
With rhyme by HOARE, [146] and epic blank by HOYLE: [lxix] [147]
Not him whose page, if still upheld by whist,
Requires no sacred theme to bid us list. [148]
Ye! who in Granta's honours would surpass,
Must mount her Pegasus, a full-grown ass; 970
A foal well worthy of her ancient Dam,
Whose Helicon [149] is duller than her Cam. [lxx]
There CLARKE, [150] still striving piteously "to please," [lxxi]
Forgetting doggerel leads not to degrees,
A would-be satirist, a hired Buffoon,
A monthly scribbler of some low Lampoon, [151]
Condemned to drudge, the meanest of the mean,
And furbish falsehoods for a magazine,
Devotes to scandal his congenial mind;
Himself a living libel on mankind. 980
Oh! dark asylum of a Vandal race! [152]
At once the boast of learning, and disgrace!
So lost to Phoebus, that nor Hodgson's [153] verse
Can make thee better, nor poor Hewson's [154] worse. [lxxii]
But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave,
The partial Muse delighted loves to lave;
On her green banks a greener wreath she wove, [lxxiii]
To crown the Bards that haunt her classic grove;
Where RICHARDS wakes a genuine poet's fires,
And modern Britons glory in their Sires. [155] [lxxiv] 990
For me, who, thus unasked, have dared to tell
My country, what her sons should know too well, [lxxv]
Zeal for her honour bade me here engage [lxxvi]
The host of idiots that infest her age;
No just applause her honoured name shall lose,
As first in freedom, dearest to the Muse.
Oh! would thy bards but emulate thy fame,
And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name!
What Athens was in science, Rome in power,
What Tyre appeared in her meridian hour, 1000
'Tis thine at once, fair Albion! to have been--
Earth's chief Dictatress, Ocean's lovely Queen: [lxxvii]
But Rome decayed, and Athens strewed the plain,
And Tyre's proud piers lie shattered in the main;
Like these, thy strength may sink, in ruin hurled, [lxxviii]
And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world.
But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's fate,
With warning ever scoffed at, till too late;
To themes less lofty still my lay confine,
And urge thy Bards to gain a name like thine. [156] 1010
Then, hapless Britain! be thy rulers blest,
The senate's oracles, the people's jest!
Still hear thy motley orators dispense
The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense,
While CANNING'S colleagues hate him for his wit,
And old dame PORTLAND [157] fills the place of PITT.
Yet once again, adieu! ere this the sail
That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale;
And Afric's coast and Calpe's adverse height, [158]
And Stamboul's minarets must greet my sight: 1020
Thence shall I stray through Beauty's native clime, [159]
Where Kaff [160] is clad in rocks, and crowned with snows sublime.
But should I back return, no tempting press [lxxix]
Shall drag my Journal from the desk's recess;
Let coxcombs, printing as they come from far,
Snatch his own wreath of Ridicule from Carr;
Let ABERDEEN and ELGIN [161] still pursue
The shade of fame through regions of Virt?
Waste useless thousands on their Phidian freaks,
Misshapen monuments and maimed antiques; 1030
And make their grand saloons a general mart
For all the mutilated blocks of art:
Of Dardan tours let Dilettanti tell,
I leave topography to rapid [162] GELL; [163]
And, quite content, no more shall interpose
To stun the public ear--at least with Prose. [lxxx]
Thus far I've held my undisturbed career,
Prepared for rancour, steeled 'gainst selfish fear;
This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdained to own--
Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown: 1040
My voice was heard again, though not so loud,
My page, though nameless, never disavowed;
And now at once I tear the veil away:--
Cheer on the pack! the Quarry stands at bay,
Unscared by all the din of MELBOURNE house, [164]
By LAMB'S resentment, or by HOLLAND'S spouse,
By JEFFREY'S harmless pistol, HALLAM'S rage,
Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page.
Our men in buckram shall have blows enough,
And feel they too are "penetrable stuff:" 1050
And though I hope not hence unscathed to go,
Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe.
The time hath been, when no harsh sound would fall
From lips that now may seem imbued with gall;
Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise
The meanest thing that crawled beneath my eyes:
But now, so callous grown, so changed since youth,
I've learned to think, and sternly speak the truth;
Learned to deride the critic's starch decree,
And break him on the wheel he meant for me; 1060
To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss,
Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss:
Nay more, though all my rival rhymesters frown,
I too can hunt a Poetaster down;
And, armed in proof, the gauntlet cast at once
To Scotch marauder, and to Southern dunce.
Thus much I've dared; if my incondite lay [lxxx]
Hath wronged these righteous times, let others say:
This, let the world, which knows not how to spare,
Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare. [165] 1070
[Footnote 1: "The 'binding' of this volume is considerably too valuable
for the contents. Nothing but the consideration of its being the
property of another, prevents me from consigning this miserable record
of misplaced anger and indiscriminate acrimony to the flames."--B.,
1816.]
[Footnote 2: IMITATION.
"Semper ego auditor tantum? nunquamne reponam,
Vexatus toties, rauci Theseide Codri?"
JUVENAL, 'Satire I'.l. 1.]
[Footnote 3: "'Hoarse Fitzgerald'.--"Right enough; but why notice such
a mountebank?"--B., 1816.
Mr. Fitzgerald, facetiously termed by Cobbett the "Small Beer Poet,"
inflicts his annual tribute of verse on the Literary Fund: not content
with writing, he spouts in person, after the company have imbibed a
reasonable quantity of bad port, to enable them to sustain the
operation.
[William Thomas Fitzgerald (circ. 1759-1829) played the part of
unofficial poet laureate. His loyal recitations were reported by the
newspapers. He published, 'inter alia', 'Nelson's Triumph' (1798),
'Tears of Hibernia, dispelled by the Union' (1802), and 'Nelson's Tomb'
(1806). He owes his fame to the first line of 'English Bards', and the
famous parody in 'Rejected Addresses'. The following 'jeux d閟prits'
were transcribed by R. C. Dallas on a blank leaf of a copy of the Fifth
Edition:--
"Written on a copy of 'English Bards' at the 'Alfred' by W. T.
Fitzgerald, Esq.--
I find Lord Byron scorns my Muse,
Our Fates are ill agreed;
The Verse is safe, I can't abuse
Those lines, I never read.
Signed W. T. F."
Answer written on the same page by Lord Byron--
"What's writ on me," cries Fitz, "I never read"!
What's writ by thee, dear Fitz, none will, indeed.
The case stands simply thus, then, honest Fitz,
Thou and thine enemies are fairly quits;
Or rather would be, if for time to come,
They luckily were 'deaf', or thou wert dumb;
But to their pens while scribblers add their tongues.
The Waiter only can escape their lungs. [A]]
{Sub-Footnote 0.1: Compare 'Hints from Horace', l. 808, 'note' 1.}
[Footnote 4: Cid Hamet Benengeli promises repose to his pen, in the last
chapter of 'Don Quixote'. Oh! that our voluminous gentry would follow
the example of Cid Hamet Benengeli!]
[Footnote 5: "This must have been written in the spirit of prophecy."
(B., 1816.)]
[Footnote 6: "He's a very good fellow; and, except his mother and
sister, the best of the set, to my mind."--B., 1816. [William
(1779-1848) and George (1784-1834) Lamb, sons of Sir Peniston Lamb
(Viscount Melbourne, 1828), by Elizabeth, only daughter of Sir Ralph
Milbanke, were Lady Byron's first cousins. William married, in 1805,
Lady Caroline Ponsonby, the writer of 'Glenarvon'. George, who was one
of the early contributors to the 'Edinburgh Review', married in 1809
Caroline Rosalie Adelaide St. Jules. At the time of the separation, Lady
Caroline Lamb and Mrs. George Lamb warmly espoused Lady Byron's cause,
Lady Melbourne and her daughter Lady Cowper (afterwards Lady Palmerston)
were rather against than for Lady Byron. William Lamb was discreetly
silent, and George Lamb declaimed against Lady Byron, calling her a
d----d fool. Hence Lord Byron's praises of George. Cf. line 517 of
'English Bards'.]
[Footnote 7: This ingenuous youth is mentioned more particularly, with
his production, in another place. ('Vide post', l. 516.)
"Spurious Brat" [see variant ii. p. 300], that is the farce; the
ingenuous youth who begat it is mentioned more particularly with his
offspring in another place. ['Note. MS. M.'] [The farce 'Whistle for It'
was performed two or three times at Covent Garden Theatre in 1807.]
[Footnote 8: In the 'Edinburgh Review'.]
[Footnote 9: The proverbial "Joe" Miller, an actor by profession
(1684-1738), was a man of no education, and is said to have been unable
to read. His reputation rests mainly on the book of jests compiled after
his death, and attributed to him by John Mottley. (First Edition. T.
Read. 1739.)]
[Footnote 10: Messrs. Jeffrey and Lamb are the alpha and omega, the
first and last of the 'Edinburgh Review'; the others are mentioned
hereafter.
[The MS. Note is as follows:--"Of the young gentlemen who write in the
'E.R.', I have now named the alpha and omega, the first and the last,
the best and the worst. The intermediate members are designated with due
honour hereafter."]
"This was not just. Neither the heart nor the head of these gentlemen
are at all what they are here represented. At the time this was written,
I was personally unacquainted with either."--B., 1816.
[Francis Jeffrey (1773-1850) founded the 'Edinburgh Review' in
conjunction with Sydney Smith, Brougham, and Francis Horner, in 1802. In
1803 he succeeded Smith as editor, and conducted the 'Review' till 1829.
Independence of publishers and high pay to contributors ("Ten guineas a
sheet," writes Southey to Scott, June, 1807, "instead of seven pounds
for the 'Annual'," 'Life and Corr'., iii. 125) distinguished the new
journal from the first. Jeffrey was called to the Scottish bar in 1794,
and as an advocate was especially successful with juries. He was
constantly employed, and won fame and fortune. In 1829 he was elected
Dean of the Faculty of Advocates, and the following year, when the Whigs
came into office, he became Lord Advocate. He sat as M.P. twice for
Malton (1830-1832), and, afterwards, for Edinburgh. In 1834 he was
appointed a Judge of the Court of Sessions, when he took the title of
Lord Jeffrey. Byron had attacked Jeffrey in British Bards before his
'Hours of Idleness' had been cut up by the 'Edinburgh', and when the
article appeared (Jan. 1808), under the mistaken impression that he was
the author, denounced him at large (ll. 460-528) in the first edition of
'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers'. None the less, the great critic
did not fail to do ample justice to the poet's mature work, and won from
him repeated acknowledgments of his kindness and generosity. (See
'Edinburgh Review', vol. xxii. p. 416, and Byron's comment in his
'Diary' for March 20,1814; 'Life', p. 232. See, too, 'Hints from
Horace', ll. 589-626; and 'Don Juan', canto x. st. 11-16, and canto xii.
st. 16. See also Bagehot's 'Literary Studies', vol. i. article I.)]
[Footnote 11: IMITATION.
"Stulta est dementia, cum tot ubique
------occurras peritur?parcere chart?"
JUVENAL, 'Sat. I.' ll. 17, 18.]
[Footnote 12: IMITATION.
"Cur tamen hoc potius libeat decurrere campo,
Per quem magnus equos Aurunc?flexit alumnus,
Si vacat, et placidi rationem admittitis, edam."
JUVENAL, 'Sat. I'. ll. 19-21.]
[Footnote 13: William Gifford (1756-1826), a self-taught scholar, first
a ploughboy, then boy on board a Brixham coaster, afterwards shoemaker's
apprentice, was sent by friends to Exeter College, Oxford (1779-81). In
the 'Baviad' (1794) and the 'Maeviad' (1795) he attacked many of the
smaller writers of the day, who were either silly, like the Della
Cruscan School, or discreditable, like Williams, who wrote as "Anthony
Pasquin." In his 'Epistle to Peter Pindar' (1800) he laboured to expose
the true character of John Wolcot. As editor of the 'Anti-Jacobin, or
Weekly Examiner' (November, 1797, to July, 1798), he supported the
political views of Canning and his friends. As editor of the 'Quarterly
Review', from its foundation (February, 1809) to his resignation in
September, 1824, he soon rose to literary eminence by his sound sense
and adherence to the best models, though his judgments were sometimes
narrow-minded and warped by political prejudice. His editions of
'Massinger' (1805), which superseded that of Monck Mason and Davies
(1765), of 'Ben Jonson' (1816), of 'Ford' (1827), are valuable. To his
translation of 'Juvenal' (1802) is prefixed his autobiography. His
translation of 'Persius' appeared in 1821. To Gifford, Byron usually
paid the utmost deference. "Any suggestion of yours, even if it were
conveyed," he writes to him, in 1813, "in the less tender text of the
'Baviad', or a Monck Mason note to Massinger, would be obeyed." See also
his letter (September 20, 1821, 'Life', p.531): "I know no praise which
would compensate me in my own mind for his censure." Byron was attracted
to Gifford, partly by his devotion to the classical models of
literature, partly by the outspoken frankness of his literary criticism,
partly also, perhaps, by his physical deformity.]
[Footnote 14: Henry James Pye (1745-1813), M.P. for Berkshire, and
afterwards Police Magistrate for Westminster, held the office of poet
laureate from 1790 till his death in 1813, succeeding Thomas Warton, and
succeeded by Southey. He published 'Farringdon Hill' in 1774, The
'Progress of Refinement' in 1783, and a translation of Burger's 'Lenore'
in 1795. His name recurs in the 'Vision of Judgment', stanza xcii. Lines
97-102 were _insert_ed in the Fifth Edition.]
[Footnote 15: The first edition of the Satire opened with this line; and
Byron's original intention was to prefix the following argument, first
published in 'Recollections', by R. C. Dallas (1824):--
"ARGUMENT.
"The poet considereth times past, and their poesy--makes a sudden
transition to times present--is incensed against book-makers--revileth
Walter Scott for cupidity and ballad-mongering, with notable remarks
on Master Southey--complaineth that Master Southey had inflicted three
poems, epic and otherwise, on the public--inveigheth against William
Wordsworth, but laudeth Mister Coleridge and his elegy on a young
ass--is disposed to vituperate Mr. Lewis--and greatly rebuketh Thomas
Little (the late) and Lord Strangford--recommendeth Mr. Hayley to turn
his attention to prose--and exhorteth the Moravians to glorify Mr.
Grahame--sympathiseth with the Rev. [William Bowles]--and deploreth
the melancholy fate of James Montgomery--breaketh out into invective
against the Edinburgh Reviewers--calleth them hard names, harpies and
the like--apostrophiseth Jeffrey, and prophesieth.--Episode of Jeffrey
and Moore, their jeopardy and deliverance; portents on the morn of the
combat; the Tweed, Tolbooth, Firth of Forth [and Arthur's Seat],
severally shocked; descent of a goddess to save Jeffrey; incorporation
of the bullets with his sinciput and occiput.--Edinburgh Reviews 'en
masse'.--Lord Aberdeen, Herbert, Scott, Hallam, Pillans, Lambe,
Sydney Smith, Brougham, etc.--Lord Holland applauded for dinners and
translations.--The Drama; Skeffington, Hook, Reynolds, Kenney, Cherry,
etc.--Sheridan, Colman, and Cumberland called upon [requested, MS.] to
write.--Return to poesy--scribblers of all sorts--lords sometimes
rhyme; much better not--Hafiz, Rosa Matilda, and X.Y.Z.--Rogers,
Campbell, Gifford, etc. true poets--Translators of the Greek
Anthology--Crabbe--Darwin's style--Cambridge--Seatonian
Prize--Smythe--Hodgson--Oxford--Richards--Poetaloquitur--Conclusion."]
[Footnote 16: Lines 115, 116, were a MS. addition to the printed text of
'British Bards'. An alternative version has been pencilled on the
margin:--
"Otway and Congreve mimic scenes had wove
And Waller tuned his Lyre to mighty Love."]
[Footnote 17: Thomas Little was the name under which Moore's early poems
were published, 'The Poetical Works of the late Thomas Little, Esq.'
(1801). "Twelves" refers to the "duodecimo." Sheets, after printing, are
pressed between cold or hot rollers, to impart smoothness of "surface."
Hot rolling is the more expensive process.]
[Footnote 18: Eccles. chapter i. verse 9.]
[Footnote 19: At first sight Byron appears to refer to the lighting of
streets by gas, especially as the first shop lighted with it was that of
Lardner & Co., at the corner of the Albany (June, 1805), and as lamps
were on view at the premises of the Gas Light and Coke Company in Pall
Mall from 1808 onwards. But it is almost certain that he alludes to the
"sublimating gas" of Dr. Beddoes, which his assistant, Davy, mentions in
his 'Researches' (1800) as nitrous oxide, and which was used by Southey
and Coleridge. The same four "wonders" of medical science are depicted
in Gillray's caricatures, November, 1801, and May and June, 1802, and
are satirized in Christopher Caustic's 'Terrible Tractoration! A
Poetical Petition against Galvanising Trumpery and the Perkinistit
Institution' (in 4 cantos, 1803).
Against vaccination, or cow-pox, a brisk war was still being carried on.
Gillray has a likeness of Jenner vaccinating patients.
Metallic "Tractors" were a remedy much advertised at the beginning of
the century by an American quack, Benjamin Charles Perkins, founder of
the Perkinean Institution in London, as a "cure for all Disorders, Red
Noses, Gouty Toes, Windy Bowels, Broken Legs, Hump Backs."
In Galvanism several experiments, conducted by Professor Aldini, nephew
of Galvani, are described in the 'Morning Post' for Jan. 6th, Feb. 6th,
and Jan. 22nd, 1803. The latter were made on the body of Forster the
murderer.
For the allusion to Gas, compare 'Terrible Tractoration', canto 1--
"Beddoes (bless the good doctor) has
Sent me a bag full of his gas,
Which snuff'd the nose up, makes wit brighter,
And eke a dunce an airy writer."]
[Footnote 20: Stott, better known in the 'Morning Post' by the name of
Hafiz. This personage is at present the most profound explorer of the
bathos. I remember, when the reigning family left Portugal, a special
Ode of Master Stott's, beginning thus:--('Stott loquitur quoad
Hibernia')--
"Princely offspring of Braganza,
Erin greets thee with a stanza," etc.
Also a Sonnet to Rats, well worthy of the subject, and a most thundering
Ode, commencing as follows:--
"Oh! for a Lay! loud as the surge
That lashes Lapland's sounding shore."
Lord have mercy on us! the "Lay of the Last Minstrel" was nothing to
this. [The lines "Princely Offspring," headed "Extemporaneous Verse on
the expulsion of the Prince Regent from Portugal by Gallic Tyranny,"
were published in the 'Morning Post', Dec. 30, 1807. (See 'post', l.
708, and 'note'.)] ]
[Footnote 21: See p. 317, note 1.]
[Footnote 22: See the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," 'passim'. Never was
any plan so incongruous and absurd as the groundwork of this production.
The entrance of Thunder and Lightning prologuising to Bayes' tragedy
[('vide The Rehearsal'), 'British Bards'], unfortunately takes away the
merit of originality from the dialogue between Messieurs the Spirits of
Flood and Fell in the first canto. Then we have the amiable William of
Deloraine, "a stark moss-trooper," videlicet, a happy compound of
poacher, sheep-stealer, and highwayman. The propriety of his magical
lady's injunction not to read can only be equalled by his candid
acknowledgment of his independence of the trammels of spelling,
although, to use his own elegant phrase, "'twas his neckverse at
Harribee," 'i. e.' the gallows.
The biography of Gilpin Horner, and the marvellous pedestrian page, who
travelled twice as fast as his master's horse, without the aid of
seven-leagued boots, are 'chefs d'oeuvre' in the improvement of taste.
For incident we have the invisible, but by no means sparing box on the
ear bestowed on the page, and the entrance of a Knight and Charger into
the castle, under the very natural disguise of a wain of hay. Marmion,
the hero of the latter romance, is exactly what William of Deloraine
would have been, had he been able to read and write. The poem was
manufactured for Messrs. CONSTABLE, MURRAY, and MILLER, worshipful
Booksellers, in consideration of the receipt of a sum of money; and
truly, considering the inspiration, it is a very creditable production.
If Mr. SCOTT will write for hire, let him do his best for his
paymasters, but not disgrace his genius, which is undoubtedly great, by
a repetition of Black-Letter Ballad imitations.
[Constable paid Scott a thousand pounds for 'Marmion', and
"offered one fourth of the copyright to Mr. Miller of Albemarle
Street, and one fourth to Mr. Murray of Fleet Street (see line 173).
Both publishers eagerly accepted the proposal."
...
"A severe and unjust review of 'Marmion' by Jeffrey appeared in [the
'Edinburgh Review' for April] 1808, accusing Scott of a mercenary
spirit in writing for money. ... Scott was much nettled by these
observations."
('Memoirs of John Murray', i. 76, 95). In his diary of 1813 Byron wrote
of Scott,
"He is undoubtedly the Monarch of Parnassus, and the most 'English' of
Bards."
'Life', p. 206.]]
[Footnote 23: It was the suggestion of the Countess of Dalkeith, that
Scott should write a ballad on the old border legend of 'Gilpin Horner',
which first gave shape to the poet's ideas, and led to the 'Lay of the
Last Minstrel'.]
[Footnote 24: In his strictures on Scott and Southey, Byron takes his
lead from Lady Anne Hamilton's (1766-1846, daughter of Archibald, ninth
Duke of Hamilton, and Lady-in-waiting to Caroline of Brunswick) 'Epics
of the Ton' (1807), a work which has not shared the dubious celebrity of
her 'Secret Memories of the Court', etc. (1832). Compare the following
lines (p. 9):--
"Then still might Southey sing his crazy Joan,
Or feign a Welshman o'er the Atlantic flown,
Or tell of Thalaba the wondrous matter,
Or with clown Wordsworth, chatter, chatter, chatter.
* * * * *
Good-natured Scott rehearse, in well-paid lays,
The marv'lous chiefs and elves of other days."
(For Scott's reference to "my share of flagellation among my betters,"
and an explicit statement that he had remonstrated with Jeffrey against
the "offensive criticism" of 'Hours of Idleness', because he thought it
treated with undue severity, see Introduction to 'Marmion', 1830.)]]
[Footnote 25: Lines 179, 180, in the Fifth Edition, were substituted for
variant i. p. 312.--'Leigh Hunt's annotated Copy of the Fourth Edition'.]
[Footnote 26: "Good night to Marmion"--the pathetic and also prophetic
exclamation of Henry Blount, Esquire, on the death of honest Marmion.]
[Footnote 27: As the 'Odyssey' is so closely connected with the story of
the 'Iliad', they may almost be classed as one grand historical poem. In
alluding to Milton and Tasso, we consider the 'Paradise Lost' and
'Gerusalemme Liberata' as their standard efforts; since neither the
'Jerusalem Conquered' of the Italian, nor the 'Paradise Regained' of the
English bard, obtained a proportionate celebrity to their former poems.
Query: Which of Mr. Southey's will survive?]
[Footnote 28: 'Thalaba', Mr. Southey's second poem, is written in
defiance of precedent and poetry. Mr. S. wished to produce something
novel, and succeeded to a miracle. 'Joan of Arc' was marvellous enough,
but 'Thalaba' was one of those poems "which," in the word of PORSON,
"will be read when Homer and Virgil are forgotten, but--<i<not till
then'." ["Of 'Thalaba" the wild and wondrous song"--Proem to 'Madoc',
Southey's 'Poetical Works' (1838), vol. v. 'Joan of Arc' was published
in 1796, 'Thalaba the Destroyer' in 1801, and 'Madoc' in 1805.]
[Footnote 29: The hero of Fielding's farce, 'The Tragedy of Tragedies',
'or the Life and Death of Tom Thumb the Great', first played in 1730 at
the Haymarket.]
[Footnote 30: Southey's 'Madoc' is divided into two parts--Part I.,
"Madoc in Wales;" Part II., "Madoc in Aztlan." The word "cacique"
("Cacique or cazique... a native chief or 'prince' of the aborigines in
the West Indies:" 'New Engl. Dict'., Art. "Cacique") occurs in the
translations of Spanish writers quoted by Southey in his notes, but not
in the text of the poem.]
[Footnote 31: We beg Mr. Southey's pardon: "Madoc disdains the degraded
title of Epic." See his Preface. ["It assumes not the degraded title of
Epic."--Preface to 'Madoc' (1805), Southey's 'Poetical Works' (1838),
vol. v. p. xxi.] Why is Epic degraded? and by whom? Certainly the late
Romaunts of Masters Cottle, Laureat Pye, Ogilvy, Hole,[A] and gentle
Mistress Cowley, have not exalted the Epic Muse; but, as Mr. SOUTHEY'S
poem "disdains the appellation," allow us to ask--has he substituted
anything better in its stead? or must he be content to rival Sir RICHARD
BLACKMORE in the quantity as well as quality of his verse?
[Sub-Footnote A: For "Hole," the 'MS'. and 'British Bards' read "Sir J.
B. Burgess; Cumberland."] ]
[Footnote 32: See 'The Old Woman of Berkeley', a ballad by Mr. Southey,
wherein an aged gentlewoman is carried away by Beelzebub, on a "high
trotting horse."]
[Footnote 33: The last line, "God help thee," is an evident plagiarism
from the 'Anti-Jacobin' to Mr. Southey, on his Dactylics:--
"God help thee, silly one!"
'Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin', p. 23.]
[Footnote 34: In the annotated copy of the Fourth Edition Byron has
drawn a line down the margin of the passage on Wordsworth, lines
236-248, and adds the word "Unjust." The first four lines on Coleridge
(lines 255-258) are also marked "Unjust." The recantation is, no doubt,
intended to apply to both passages from beginning to end.
"'Unjust'."--B., 1816. (See also Byron's letter to S. T. Coleridge,
March 31, 1815.)]
[Footnote 35: 'Lyrical Ballads', p. 4.--"The Tables Turned," Stanza 1.
"Up, up, my friend, and clear your looks,
Why all this toil and trouble?
Up, up, my friend, and quit your books,
Or surely you'll grow double."]
[Footnote 36: Mr. W. in his preface labours hard to prove, that prose
and verse are much the same; and certainly his precepts and practice are
strictly conformable:--
"And thus to Betty's questions he
Made answer, like a traveller bold.
'The cock did crow, to-whoo, to-whoo,
And the sun did shine so cold.'"
'Lyrical Ballads', p. 179. [Compare 'The Simpliciad', II. 295-305, and
'note'.]]
[Footnote 37: "He has not published for some years."--'British Bards'.
(A marginal note in pencil.) [Coleridge's 'Poems' (3rd edit.) appeared
in 1803; the first number of 'The Friend' on June 1, 1809.]]
[Footnote 38: COLERIDGE'S 'Poems', p. 11, "Songs of the Pixies," 'i. e.'
Devonshire Fairies; p. 42, we have "Lines to a Young Lady;" and, p. 52,
"Lines to a Young Ass." [Compare 'The Simpliciad', ll. 211, 213--
"Then in despite of scornful Folly's pother,
Ask him to live with you and hail him brother."]]
[Footnote 39: Matthew Gregory Lewis (1775-1818), known as "Monk" Lewis,
was the son of a rich Jamaica planter. During a six months' visit to
Weimar (1792-3), when he was introduced to Goethe, he applied himself to
the study of German literature, especially novels and the drama. In 1794
he was appointed 'attach? to the Embassy at the Hague, and in the
course of ten weeks wrote 'Ambrosio, or The Monk', which was published
in 1795. In 1798 he made the acquaintance of Scott, and procured his
promise of co-operation in his contemplated 'Tales of Terror'. In the
same year he published the 'Castle Spectre' (first played at Drury Lane,
Dec. 14, 1797), in which, to quote the postscript "To the Reader," he
meant (but Sheridan interposed) "to have exhibited a whole regiment of
Ghosts." 'Tales of Terror' were printed at Weybridge in 1801, and two or
three editions of 'Tales of Wonder', to which Byron refers, came out in
the same year. Lewis borrowed so freely from all sources that the
collection was called "Tales of Plunder." In the first edition (two
vols., printed by W. Bulmer for the author, 1801) the first eighteen
poems, with the exception of 'The Fire King' (xii.) by Walter Scott, are
by Lewis, either original or translated. Scott also contributed
'Glenfinlas, The Eve of St. John, Frederick and Alice, The Wild Huntsmen
(Der Wilde J鋑er). Southey contributed six poems, including 'The Old
Woman of Berkeley' (xxiv.). 'The Little Grey Man' (xix.) is by H.
Bunbury. The second volume is made up from Burns, Gray, Parnell, Glover,
Percy's 'Reliques', and other sources.
A second edition, published in 1801, which consists of thirty-two
ballads (Southey's are not included), advertises "'Tales of Terror'
printed uniform with this edition of 'Tales of Wonder'." 'Romantic
Tales', in four volumes, appeared in 1808. Of his other works, 'The
Captive, A Monodrama', was played in 1803; the 'Bravo of Venice, A
Translation from the German', in 1804; and 'Timour the Tartar' in 1811.
His 'Journal of a West Indian Proprietor' was not published till 1834.
He sat as M.P. for Hindon (1796-1802).
He had been a favourite in society before Byron appeared on the scene,
but there is no record of any intimacy or acquaintance before 1813. When
Byron was living at Geneva, Lewis visited the Maison Diodati in August,
1816, on which occasion he "translated to him Goethe's 'Faust' by word
of mouth," and drew up a codicil to his will, witnessed by Byron,
Shelley, and Polidori, which contained certain humane provisions for the
well-being of the negroes on his Jamaica estates. He also visited him at
'La Mira' in August, 1817. Byron wrote of him after his death: "He was a
good man, and a clever one, but he was a bore, a damned bore--one may
say. But I liked him."
To judge from his letters to his mother and other evidence (Scott's
testimony, for instance), he was a kindly, well-intentioned man, but
lacking in humour. When his father condemned the indecency of the
'Monk', he assured him "that he had not the slightest idea that what he
was then writing could injure the principles of any human being." "He
was," said Byron, "too great a bore to lie," and the plea is evidently
offered in good faith. As a writer, he is memorable chiefly for his
sponsorship of German literature. Scott said of him that he had the
finest ear for rhythm he ever met with--finer than Byron's; and
Coleridge, in a letter to Wordsworth, Jan., 1798 ('Letters of S. T. C.'
(1895), i. 237), and again in 'Table Talk' for March 20, 1834, commends
his verses. Certainly his ballad of "Crazy Jane," once so famous that
ladies took to wearing "Crazy Jane" hats, is of the nature of poetry.
(See 'Life', 349, 362, 491, etc.; 'Life and Correspondence' of M. G.
Lewis (1839), i. 158, etc.; 'Life of Scott', by J. G. Lockhart (1842),
pp. 80-83, 94.)] ]
[Footnote 40: "For every one knows little Matt's an M.P."--See a poem to
Mr. Lewis, in 'The Statesman', supposed to be written by Mr. Jekyll.
[Joseph Jekyll (d. 1837) was celebrated for his witticisms and metrical
'jeux d'esprit' which he contributed to the 'Morning Chronicle' and the
'Evening Statesman'. His election as M.P. for Calne in 1787, at the
nomination of Lord Lansdowne, gave rise to 'Jekyll, A Political Eclogue'
(see 'The Rottiad' (1799), pp. 219-224). He was a favourite with the
Prince Regent, at whose instance he was appointed a Master in Chancery
in 1815.]]
[Footnote 41: The reader, who may wish for an explanation of this, may
refer to "Strangford's Camo雗s," p. 127, note to p. 56, or to the last
page of the 'Edinburgh Review' of Strangford's Camo雗s.
[Percy Clinton Sydney Smythe, sixth Viscount Strangford (1780-1855),
published 'Translations from the Portuguese by Luis de Camoens' in 1803.
The note to which Byron refers is on the canzonet 'Na?sei quem
assella', "Thou hast an eye of tender blue." It runs thus:
"Locks of auburn and eyes of blue have ever been dear to the sons of
song.... Sterne even considers them as indicative of qualities the
most amiable.... The Translator does not wish to deem ... this
unfounded. He is, however, aware of the danger to which such a
confession exposes him--but he flies for protection to the temple of
AUREA VENUS."
It may be added that Byron's own locks were auburn, and his eyes a
greyish-blue.]]
[Footnote 42: It is also to be remarked, that the things given to the
public as poems of Camo雗s are no more to be found in the original
Portuguese, than in the Song of Solomon.]
[Footnote 43: See his various Biographies of defunct Painters, etc.
[William Hayley (1745-1820) published 'The Triumphs of Temper' in 1781,
and 'The Triumph of Music' in 1804. His biography of Milton appeared in
1796, of Cowper in 1803-4, of Romney in 1809. He had produced, among
other plays, 'The Happy Prescription' and 'The Two Connoisseurs' in
1784. In 1808 he would be regarded as out of date, "hobbling on" behind
younger rivals in the race (see E.B., I. 923). For his life and works,
see Southey's article in the 'Quarterly Review' (vol. xxxi. p. 263). The
appeal to "tarts" to "spare the text," is possibly an echo of 'The
Dunciad', i. 155, 156--
"Of these twelve volumes, twelve of amplest size,
Redeemed from topers and defrauded pies."
The meaning of the appeal is fixed by such a passage as this from 'The
Blues', where the company discuss Wordsworth's appointment to a
Collectorship of Stamps--
"'Inkle'.
I shall think of him oft when I buy a new hat;
There his works will appear.
"'Lady Bluemount'.
Sir, they reach to the Ganges.
"'Inkle'.
I sha'n't go so far. I can have them at Grange's."
Grange's was a well-known pastry-cook's in Piccadilly. In Pierce Egan's
'Life in London' (ed. 1821), p. 70, 'note' 1, the author writes, "As I
sincerely hope that this work will shrink from the touch of a
pastry-cook, and also avoid the foul uses of a trunk-maker ... I feel
induced now to describe, for the benefit of posterity, the pedigree of a
Dandy in 1820."]
[Footnote 44: Hayley's two most notorious verse productions are
'Triumphs of Temper' and 'The Triumph of Music'. He has also written
much Comedy in rhyme, Epistles, etc., etc. As he is rather an elegant
writer of notes and biography, let us recommend POPE'S advice to
WYCHERLEY to Mr. H.'s consideration, viz., "to convert poetry into
prose," which may be easily done by taking away the final syllable of
each couplet.]
[Footnote 45: Lines 319-326 do not form part of the original 'MS'. A
slip of paper which contains a fair copy of the lines in Byron's
handwriting has been, with other fragments, bound up with Dallas's copy
of 'British Bards'. In the 'MS'. this place is taken by a passage and
its pendant note, which Byron omitted at the request of Dallas, who was
a friend of Pratt's:--
"In verse most stale, unprofitable, flat--
Come, let us change the scene, and ''glean'' with Pratt;
In him an author's luckless lot behold,
Condemned to make the books which once he sold:
Degraded man! again resume thy trade--
The votaries of the Muse are ill repaid,
Though daily puffs once more invite to buy
A new edition of thy 'Sympathy.'"
"Mr. Pratt, once a Bath bookseller, now a London author, has written as
much, to as little purpose, as any of his scribbling contemporaries. Mr.
P.'s 'Sympathy' is in rhyme; but his prose productions are the most
voluminous."
Samuel Jackson Pratt (1749-1814), actor, itinerant lecturer, poet of the
Cruscan school, tragedian, and novelist, published a large number of
volumes. His 'Gleanings' in England, Holland, Wales, and Westphalia
attained some reputation. His 'Sympathy; a Poem' (1788) passed through
several editions. His pseudonym was Courtney Melmoth. He was a patron of
the cobbler-poet, Blacket] ]
[Footnote 46: Mr. Grahame has poured forth two volumes of Cant, under
the name of 'Sabbath Walks' and 'Biblical Pictures'. [James Grahame
(1765-1811), a lawyer, who subsequently took Holy Orders. 'The Sabbath',
a poem, was published anonymously in 1804; and to a second edition were
added 'Sabbath Walks'. 'Biblical Pictures' appeared in 1807.]
[Footnote 47: The Rev. W. Lisle Bowles (1768-1850). His edition of
Pope's 'Works', in ten vols., which stirred Byron's gall, appeared in
1807. The 'Fall of Empires', Tyre, Carthage, etc., is the subject of
part of the third book of 'The Spirit of Discovery by Sea' (1805). Lines
"To a Withered Leaf," are, perhaps, of later date; but the "sear
tresses" and "shivering leaves" of "Autumn's gradual gloom" are familiar
images in his earlier poems. Byron's senior by twenty years, he was
destined to outlive him by more than a quarter of a century; but when
'English Bards, etc.', was in progress, he was little more than
middle-aged, and the "three score years" must have been written in the
spirit of prophecy. As it chanced, the last word rested with him, and it
was a generous one. Addressing Moore, in 1824, he says ('Childe Harold's
Last Pilgrimage')--
"So Harold ends, in Greece, his pilgrimage!
There fitly ending--in that land renown'd,
Whose mighty Genius lives in Glory's page,--
He on the Muses' consecrated ground,
Sinking to rest, while his young brows are bound
With their unfading wreath!"
Among his poems are a "Sonnet to Oxford," and "Stanzas on hearing the
Bells of Ostend."]
[Footnote 48: "Awake a louder," etc., is the first line in BOWLES'S
'Spirit of Discovery': a very spirited and pretty dwarf Epic. Among
other exquisite lines we have the following:--
----"A kiss
Stole on the list'ning silence, never yet
Here heard; they trembled even as if the power," etc., etc.
That is, the woods of Madeira trembled to a kiss; very much astonished,
as well they might be, at such a phenomenon.
"Mis-quoted and misunderstood by me; but not intentionally. It was not
the 'woods,' but the people in them who trembled--why, Heaven only
knows--unless they were overheard making this prodigious smack."-B.,
1816.]
[Footnote 49: The episode above alluded to is the story of "Robert ?
Machin" and "Anna d'Arfet," a pair of constant lovers, who performed the
kiss above mentioned, that startled the woods of Madeira. [See Byron's
letter to Murray, Feb. 7, 1821, "On Bowies' Strictures," 'Life', p.
688.]]
[Footnote 50: CURLL is one of the Heroes of the 'Dunciad', and was a
bookseller. Lord Fanny is the poetical name of Lord HERVEY, author of
'Lines to the Imitator of Horace'.]
[Footnote 51: Lord BOLINGBROKE hired MALLET to traduce POPE after his
decease, because the poet had retained some copies of a work by Lord
Bolingbroke--the "Patriot King,"--which that splendid, but malignant
genius had ordered to be destroyed.]
[Footnote 52: Dennis the critic, and Ralph the rhymester:--
"Silence, ye Wolves! while Ralph to Cynthia howls,
Making Night hideous: answer him, ye owls!"
DUNCIAD.
[Book III. II. 165, 166, Pope wrote, "And makes night," etc.]]
[Footnote 53: See Bowles's late edition of Pope's works, for which he
received three hundred pounds. [Twelve hundred guineas.--'British
Bards'.] Thus Mr. B. has experienced how much easier it is to profit by
the reputation of another, than to elevate his own. ["Too savage all
this on Bowles," wrote Byron, in 1816, but he afterwards returned to his
original sentiments. "Although," he says (Feb. 7, 1821), "I regret
having published 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', the part which I
regret the least is that which regards Mr. Bowles, with reference to
Pope. Whilst I was writing that publication, in 1807 and 1808, Mr.
Hobhouse was desirous that I should express our mutual opinion of Pope,
and of Mr. Bowles's edition of his works. As I had completed my outline,
and felt lazy, I requested that 'he' would do so. He did it. His
fourteen lines on Bowles's Pope are in the first edition of 'English
Bards', and are quite as severe, and much more poetical, than my own, in
the second. On reprinting the work, as I put my name to it, I omitted
Mr. Hobhouse's lines, by which the work gained less than Mr. Bowles....
I am grieved to say that, in reading over those lines, I repent of their
having so far fallen short of what I meant to express upon the subject
of his edition of Pope's works" ('Life', pp. 688, 689). The lines
supplied by Hobhouse are here subjoined:--
"Stick to thy sonnets, man!--at least they sell.
Or take the only path that open lies
For modern worthies who would hope to rise:
Fix on some well-known name, and, bit by bit,
Pare off the merits of his worth and wit:
On each alike employ the critic's knife,
And when a comment fails, prefix a life;
Hint certain failings, faults before unknown,
Review forgotten lies, and add your own;
Let no disease, let no misfortune 'scape,
And print, if luckily deformed, his shape:
Thus shall the world, quite undeceived at last,
Cleave to their present wits, and quit their past;
Bards once revered no more with favour view,
But give their modern sonneteers their due;
Thus with the dead may living merit cope,
Thus Bowles may triumph o'er the shade of Pope."]]
[Footnote 54:
"'Helicon' is a mountain, and not a fish-pond. It should have been
'Hippocrene.'"--B., 1816.
[The correction was made in the Fifth Edition.]]
[Footnote 55: Mr. Cottle, Amos, Joseph, I don't know which, but one or
both, once sellers of books they did not write, and now writers of books
they do not sell, have published a pair of Epics--'Alfred' (poor Alfred!
Pye has been at him too!)--'Alfred' and the 'Fall of Cambria'.
"All right. I saw some letters of this fellow (Jh. Cottle) to an
unfortunate poetess, whose productions, which the poor woman by no
means thought vainly of, he attacked so roughly and bitterly, that I
could hardly regret assailing him, even were it unjust, which it is
not--for verily he is an ass."--B., 1816.
[Compare 'Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin'--
"And Cottle, not he whom that Alfred made famous,
But Joseph of Bristol, the brother of Amos."
The identity of the brothers Cottle appears to have been a matter
beneath the notice both of the authors of the 'Anti-Jacobin' and of
Byron. Amos Cottle, who died in 1800 (see Lamb's Letter to Coleridge of
Oct. 9, 1800; 'Letters of C. Lamb', 1888, i. 140), was the author of a
'Translation of the Edda of Soemund', published in 1797. Joseph Cottle,
'inter alia', published 'Alfred' in 1801, and 'The Fall of Cambria',
1807. An 'Expostulatory Epistle', in which Joseph avenges Amos and
solemnly castigates the author of 'Don Juan', was issued in 1819 (see
Lamb's Letter to Cottle, Nov. 5, 1819), and was reprinted in the Memoir
of Amos Cottle, _insert_ed in his brother's 'Early Recollections of
Coleridge' (London, 1837, i. 119). The "unfortunate poetess" was,
probably, Ann Yearsley, the Bristol milk-woman. Wordsworth, too (see
'Recollections of the Table-Talk of S. Rogers', 1856, p. 235), dissuaded
her from publishing her poems. Roughness and bitterness were not among
Cottle's faults or foibles, and it is possible that Byron misconceived
the purport of the correspondence.]]
[Footnote 56: Mr. Maurice hath manufactured the component parts of a
ponderous quarto, upon the beauties of "Richmond Hill," and the
like:--it also takes in a charming view of Turnham Green, Hammersmith,
Brentford, Old and New, and the parts adjacent. [The Rev. Thomas Maurice
(1754-1824) had this at least in common with Byron--that his 'History of
Ancient and Modern Hindostan' was severely attacked in the 'Edinburgh
Review'. He published a vindication of his work in 1805. He must have
confined his dulness to his poems ('Richmond Hill' (1807), etc.), for
his 'Memoirs' (1819) are amusing, and, though otherwise blameless, he
left behind him the reputation of an "indiscriminate enjoyment" of
literary and other society. Lady Anne Hamilton alludes to him in 'Epics
of the Ton' (1807), p. 165--
"Or warmed like Maurice by Museum fire,
From Ganges dragged a hurdy-gurdy lyre."
He was assistant keeper of MSS. at the British Museum from 1799 till his
death.]]
[Footnote 57: Poor MONTGOMERY, though praised by every English Review,
has been bitterly reviled by the 'Edinburgh'. After all, the Bard of
Sheffield is a man of considerable genius. His 'Wanderer of Switzerland'
is worth a thousand 'Lyrical Ballads', and at least fifty 'Degraded
Epics'.
[James Montgomery (1771-1854) was born in Ayrshire, but settled at
Sheffield, where he edited a newspaper, the 'Iris', a radical print,
which brought him into conflict with the authorities. His early poems
were held up to ridicule in the 'Edinburgh Review' by Jeffrey, in Jan.
1807. It was probably the following passage which provoked Byron's note:
"When every day is bringing forth some new work from the pen of Scott,
Campbell,... Wordsworth, and Southey, it is natural to feel some disgust
at the undistinguishing voracity which can swallow down these... verses
to a pillow." The 'Wanderer of Switzerland', which Byron said he
preferred to the 'Lyrical Ballads', was published in 1806. The allusion
in line 419 is to the first stanza of 'The Lyre'--
"Where the roving rill meand'red
Down the green, retiring vale,
Poor, forlorn Al鎐us wandered,
Pale with thoughts--serenely pale."
He is remembered chiefly as the writer of some admirable hymns. ('Vide
ante', p. 107, "Answer to a Beautiful Poem," and 'note'.)]
[Footnote 58: Arthur's Seat; the hill which overhangs Edinburgh.]
[Footnote 59: Lines 439-527 are not in the 'MS.' The first draft of the
passage on Jeffrey, which appears to have found a place in 'British
Bards' and to have been afterwards cut out, runs as follows:--
"Who has not heard in this enlightened age,
When all can criticise the historic page,
Who has not heard in James's Bigot Reign
Of Jefferies! monarch of the scourge, and chain,
Jefferies the wretch whose pestilential breath,
Like the dread Simoom, winged the shaft of Death;
The old, the young to Fate remorseless gave
Nor spared one victim from the common grave?
"Such was the Judge of James's iron time,
When Law was Murder, Mercy was a crime,
Till from his throne by weary millions hurled
The Despot roamed in Exile through the world.
"Years have rolled on;--in all the lists of Shame,
Who now can parallel a Jefferies' name?
With hand less mighty, but with heart as black
With voice as willing to decree the Rack,
With tongue envenomed, with intentions foul
The same in name and character and soul."
The first four lines of the above, which have been erased, are to be
found on p. 16 of 'British Bards.' Pages 17, 18, are wanting, and quarto
proofs of lines 438-527 have been _insert_ed. Lines 528-539 appear for the
first time in the Fifth Edition.]]
[Footnote 60: "Too ferocious--this is mere insanity."--B., 1816. [The
comment applies to lines 432-453.]]
[Footnote 61: "All this is bad, because personal."--B., 1816.]
[Footnote 62: In 1806, Messrs. Jeffrey and Moore met at Chalk Farm. The
duel was prevented by the interference of the Magistracy; and on
examination, the balls of the pistols were found to have evaporated.
This incident gave occasion to much waggery in the daily prints. [The
first four editions read, "the balls of the pistols, like the courage of
the combatants."]
[The following disclaimer to the foregoing note appears in the MS. in
Leigh Hunt's copy of the Fourth Edition, 1811. It was first printed in
the Fifth Edition:--]
"I am informed that Mr. Moore published at the time a disavowal of the
statements in the newspapers, as far as regarded himself; and, in
justice to him, I mention this circumstance. As I never heard of it
before, I cannot state the particulars, and was only made acquainted
with the fact very lately. November 4, 1811."
[As a matter of fact, it was Jeffrey's pistol that was found to be
leadless.]]
[Footnote 63: The Tweed here behaved with proper decorum; it would have
been highly reprehensible in the English half of the river to have shown
the smallest symptom of apprehension.]
[Footnote 64: This display of sympathy on the part of the Tolbooth (the
principal prison in Edinburgh), which truly seems to have been most
affected on this occasion, is much to be commended. It was to be
apprehended, that the many unhappy criminals executed in the front might
have rendered the Edifice more callous. She is said to be of the softer
sex, because her delicacy of feeling on this day was truly feminine,
though, like most feminine impulses, perhaps a little selfish.]
[Footnote 65: Line 508. For "oat-fed phalanx," the Quarto Proof and
Editions 1-4 read "ranks illustrious." The correction is made in
'MS'. in the Annotated Edition. It was suggested that the motto of
the 'Edinburgh Review' should have been, "Musam tenui meditamur
aven?"]
[Footnote 66: His Lordship has been much abroad, is a member of the
Athenian Society, and reviewer of Gell's 'Topography of Troy'. [George
Gordon, fourth Earl of Aberdeen (1784-1860), published in 1822 'An
Inquiry into the Principles of Beauty in Grecian Architecture'. His
grandfather purchased Gight, the property which Mrs. Byron had sold to
pay her husband's debts. This may have been an additional reason for the
introduction of his name.]]
[Footnote 67: Mr. Herbert is a translator of Icelandic and other poetry.
One of the principal pieces is a 'Song on the Recovery of Thor's
Hammer': the translation is a pleasant chant in the vulgar tongue, and
endeth thus:--
"Instead of money and rings, I wot,
The hammer's bruises were her lot.
Thus Odin's son his hammer got."
[William Herbert (1778-1847), son of the first Earl of Carnarvon, edited
'Mus?Etonenses' in 1795, whilst he was still at school. He was one of
the earliest contributors to the 'Edinburgh Review'. At the time when
Byron was writing his satire, he was M.P. for Hampshire, but in 1814 he
took Orders. He was appointed Dean of Manchester in 1840, and
republished his poetical works, and among them his Icelandic
Translations or 'Hor?Scandic?(Miscellaneous Works', 2 vols.), in
1842.]]
[Footnote 68: The Rev. SYDNEY SMITH, the reputed Author of 'Peter
Plymley's Letters', and sundry criticisms. [Sydney Smith (1771-1845),
the "witty Canon of St. Paul's," was one of the founders, and for a
short time (1802) the editor, of the 'Edinburgh Review'. His 'Letters on
the Catholicks, from Peter Plymley to his brother Abraham', appeared in
1807-8.]
[Footnote 69: Mr. HALLAM reviewed PAYNE KNIGHT'S "Taste," and was
exceedingly severe on some Greek verses therein. It was not discovered
that the lines were Pindar's till the press rendered it impossible to
cancel the critique, which still stands an everlasting monument of
Hallam's ingenuity.--['Note added to Second Edition':
Hallam is incensed because he is falsely accused, seeing that he never
dineth at Holland House. If this be true, I am sorry--not for having
said so, but on his account, as I understand his Lordship's feasts are
preferable to his compositions. If he did not review Lord HOLLAND'S
performance, I am glad; because it must have been painful to read, and
irksome to praise it. If Mr. HALLAM will tell me who did review it,
the real name shall find a place in the text; provided, nevertheless,
the said name be of two orthodox musical syllables, and will come into
the verse: till then, HALLAM must stand for want of a better.]
[Henry Hallam (1777-1859), author of 'Europe during the Middle Ages',
1808, etc.
"This," said Byron, "is the style in which history ought to be
written, if it is wished to impress it on the memory"
('Lady Blessington's Conversations with Lord Byron', 1834, p. 213). The
article in question was written by Dr. John Allen, Lord Holland's
domestic physician, and Byron was misled by the similarity of sound in
the two names (see H. C. Robinson's 'Diary', i. 277), or repeated what
Hodgson had told him (see Introduction, and Letter 102, 'note' i).
For a disproof that Hallam wrote the article, see 'Gent. Mag'., 1830,
pt. i. p. 389; and for an allusion to the mistake in the review, compare
'All the Talents', p. 96, and 'note'.
"Spare me not 'Chronicles' and 'Sunday News',
Spare me not 'Pamphleteers' and 'Scotch Reviews'"
"The best literary joke I recollect is its [the 'Edin. Rev'.] attempting
to prove some of the Grecian Pindar rank non sense, supposing it to have
been written by Mr. P. Knight."]
[Footnote 70: Pillans is a [private, 'MS'.] tutor at Eton. [James
Pillans (1778-1864), Rector of the High School, and Professor of
Humanity in the University, Edinburgh. Byron probably assumed that the
review of Hodgson's 'Translation of Juvenal', in the 'Edinburgh Review',
April, 1808, was by him.]]
Footnote 71: The Honourable G. Lambe reviewed "BERESFORD'S Miseries,"
and is moreover Author of a farce enacted with much applause at the
Priory, Stanmore; and damned with great expedition at the late theatre,
Covent Garden. It was entitled 'Whistle for It'. [See note, 'supra', on
line 57.] His review of James Beresford's 'Miseries of Human Life; or
the Last Groans of Timothy Testy and Samuel Sensitive', appeared in the
'Edinburgh Review 'for Oct. 1806.]
[Footnote: 72: Mr. Brougham, in No. XXV. of the 'Edinburgh Review',
throughout the article concerning Don Pedro de Cevallos, has displayed
more politics than policy; many of the worthy burgesses of Edinburgh
being so incensed at the infamous principles it evinces, as to have
withdrawn their subscriptions.--[Here followed, in the First Edition:
"The name of this personage is pronounced Broom in the south, but the
truly northern and 'musical' pronunciation is BROUGH-AM, in two
syllables;" but for this, Byron substituted in the Second Edition: "It
seems that Mr. Brougham is not a Pict, as I supposed, but a Borderer,
and his name is pronounced Broom, from Trent to Tay:--so be it."
The title of the work was "Exposition of the Practices and Machinations
which led to the usurpation of the Crown of Spain, and the means adopted
by the Emperor of the French to carry it into execution," by Don Pedro
Cevallos. The article, which appeared in Oct. 1808, was the joint
composition of Jeffrey and Brougham, and proved a turning-point in the
political development of the 'Review'.]]
[Footnote 73: I ought to apologise to the worthy Deities for introducing
a new Goddess with short petticoats to their notice: but, alas! what was
to be done? I could not say Caledonia's Genius, it being well known
there is no genius to be found from Clackmannan to Caithness; yet
without supernatural agency, how was Jeffrey to be saved? The national
"Kelpies" are too unpoetical, and the "Brownies" and "gude neighbours"
(spirits of a good disposition) refused to extricate him. A Goddess,
therefore, has been called for the purpose; and great ought to be the
gratitude of Jeffrey, seeing it is the only communication he ever held,
or is likely to hold, with anything heavenly.]
[Footnote 74: Lines 528-539 appeared for the first time in the Fifth
Edition.]
[Footnote 75: See the colour of the back binding of the 'Edinburgh
Review'.]
[Footnote 76: "Bad enough, and on mistaken grounds too."--B., 1816. [The
comment applies to the whole passage on Lord Holland.]
[Henry Richard Vassall, third Lord Holland (1773-1840), to whom Byron
dedicated the 'Bride of Abydos' (1813). His 'Life of Lope de Vega' (see
note 4) was published in 1806, and 'Three Comedies from the Spanish', in
1807.]]
[Footnote 77: Henry Petty (1780-1863) succeeded his brother as third
Marquis of Lansdowne in 1809. He was a regular attendant at the social
and political gatherings of his relative, Lord Holland; and as Holland
House was regarded as one of the main rallying-points of the Whig party
and of the Edinburgh Reviewers, the words, "whipper-in and hunts-man,"
probably refer to their exertions in this respect.]
[Footnote 78: See note 1, p. 337. (Footnote 69--Text Ed.)]
[Footnote 79: Lord Holland has translated some specimens of Lope de
Vega, _insert_ed in his life of the author. Both are bepraised by his
'disinterested' guests.]
[Footnote 80: Certain it is, her ladyship is suspected of having
displayed her matchless wit in the 'Edinburgh Review'. However that may
be, we know from good authority, that the manuscripts are submitted to
her perusal--no doubt, for correction.]
[Footnote 81: In the melo-drama of 'Tekeli', that heroic prince is clapt
into a barrel on the stage; a new asylum for distressed heroes.--[In the
'MS'. and 'British Bards' the note stands thus:--"In the melodrama of
'Tekeli', that heroic prince is clapt into a barrel on the stage, and
Count Everard in the fortress hides himself in a green-house built
expressly for the occasion. 'Tis a pity that Theodore Hook, who is
really a man of talent, should confine his genius to such paltry
productions as 'The Fortress, Music Mad', etc. etc." Theodore Hook
(1788-1841) produced 'Tekeli' in 1806. 'Fortress' and 'Music Mad' were
played in 1807. He had written some eight or ten popular plays before he
was twenty-one.]]
[Footnote 82: 'Vide post', 1. 591, note 3.]
[Footnote 83: William Henry West Betty (1791-1874) ("the Young Roscius")
made his first appearance on the London stage as Selim, disguised as
Achmet, in 'Barbarossa', Dec. 1, 1804, and his last, as a boy actor, in
'Tancred', and Captain Flash in 'Miss in her Teens', Mar. 17, 1806, but
acted in the provinces till 1808. So great was the excitement on the
occasion of his 'd閎ut', that the military were held in readiness to
assist in keeping order. Having made a large fortune, he finally retired
from the stage in 1824, and passed the last fifty years of his life in
retirement, surviving his fame by more than half a century.]
[Footnote 84: All these are favourite expressions of Mr. Reynolds, and
prominent in his comedies, living and defunct. [Frederick Reynolds
(1764-1841) produced nearly one hundred plays, one of the most
successful of which was 'The Caravan, or the Driver and his Dog'. The
text alludes to his endeavour to introduce the language of ordinary life
on the stage. Compare 'The Children of Apollo', p. 9--
"But in his diction Reynolds grossly errs;
For whether the love hero smiles or mourns,
'Tis oh! and ah! and ah! and oh! by turns."]]
[Footnote 85: James Kenney (1780-1849). Among his very numerous plays,
the most successful were 'Raising the Wind' (1803), and 'Sweethearts and
Wives' (1823). 'The World' was brought out at Covent Garden, March 30,
1808, and had a considerable run. He was intimate with Charles and Mary
Lamb (see 'Letters of Charles Lamb', ii. 16, 44).]
[Footnote 85a: Mr. T. Sheridan, the new Manager of Drury Lane theatre,
stripped the Tragedy of 'Bonduca' ['Caratach' in the original 'MS'.] of
the dialogue, and exhibited the scenes as the spectacle of 'Caractacus'.
Was this worthy of his sire? or of himself? [Thomas Sheridan
(1775-1817), most famous as the son of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, and
father of Lady Dufferin, Mrs. Norton, and the Duchess of Somerset, was
author of several plays. His 'Bonduca' was played at Covent Garden, May
3, 1808. The following answer to a real or fictitious correspondent, in
the 'European Magazine' for May, 1808, is an indication of contemporary
opinion: "The Fishwoman's letter to the author of 'Caractacus' on the
art of gutting is inadmissible." For anecdotes of Thomas Sheridan, see
Angelo's 'Reminiscences', 1828, ii. 170-175. See, too, 'Epics of the
Ton', p. 264.]]
[Footnote 86: George Colman, the younger (1762-1836), wrote numerous
dramas, several of which, 'e.g. The Iron Chest' (1796), 'John Bull'
(1803), 'The Heir-at-Law' (1808), have been popular with more than one
generation of playgoers. An amusing companion, and a favourite at Court,
he was appointed Lieutenant of the Yeomen of the Guard, and examiner of
plays by Royal favour, but his reckless mode of life kept him always in
difficulties. 'John Bull' is referred to in 'Hints from Horace', line
166.]]
[Footnote 87: Richard Cumberland (1732-1811), the original of Sir
Fretful Plagiary in 'The Critic', a man of varied abilities, wrote
poetry, plays, novels, classical translations, and works of religious
controversy. He was successively Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge,
secretary to the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and secretary to the Board
of Trade. His best known plays are 'The West Indian, The Wheels of
Fortune', and 'The Jew'. He published his 'Memoirs' in 1806-7.]]
[Footnote 88: Sheridan's translation of 'Pizarro', by Kotzebue, was
first played at Drury Lane, 1799. Southey wrote of it, "It is impossible
to sink below 'Pizarro'. Kotzebue's play might have passed for the worst
possible if Sheridan had not proved the possibility of making it worse"
(Southey's 'Letters', i. 87). Gifford alludes to it in a note to 'The
M鎣iad' as "the translation so maliciously attributed to Sheridan."]
[Footnote 89: In all editions, previous to the fifth, it was, "Kemble
lives to tread." Byron used to say, that, of actors, "Cooke was the most
natural, Kemble the most supernatural, Kean the medium between the two;
but that Mrs. Siddons was worth them all put together." Such effect,
however, had Kean's acting on his mind, that once, on seeing him play
Sir Giles Overreach, he was seized with a fit.]
[Footnote 90: See 'supra', line 562.]
[Footnote 91: Andrew Cherry (1762-1812) acted many parts in Ireland and
in the provinces, and for a few years appeared at Drury Lane. He was
popular in Dublin, where he was known as "Little Cherry." He was painted
as Lazarillo in Jephson's 'Two Strings to Your Bow'. He wrote 'The
Travellers' (1806), 'Peter the Great' (1807), and other plays.]]
[Footnote 92: Mr. [now Sir Lumley] Skeffington is the illustrious author
of 'The Sleeping Beauty;' and some comedies, particularly 'Maids and
Bachelors: Baccalaurii' baculo magis quam lauro digni.
[Lumley St. George (afterwards Sir Lumley) Skeffington (1768-1850).
Besides the plays mentioned in the note, he wrote 'The Maid of Honour'
(1803) and 'The Mysterious Bride' (1808). 'Amatory Verses, by Tom
Shuffleton of the Middle Temple' (1815), are attributed to his pen. They
are prefaced by a dedicatory letter to Byron, which includes a coarse
but clever skit in the style of 'English Bards'. "Great Skeffington" was
a great dandy. According to Capt. Gronow ('Reminiscences', i. 63), "he
used to paint his face so that he looked like a French toy; he dressed
'?la Robespierre', and practised all the follies;... was remarkable for
his politeness and courtly manners... You always knew of his approach by
an 'avant courier' of sweet smell." His play 'The Sleeping Beauty' had a
considerable vogue.]]
[Footnote 93: Thomas John Dibdin (1771-1841), natural son of Charles
Dibdin the elder, made his first appearance on the stage at the age of
four, playing Cupid to Mrs. Siddons' Venus at the Shakespearian Jubilee
in 1775. One of his best known pieces is 'The Jew and the Doctor'
(1798). His pantomime, 'Mother Goose', in which Grimaldi took a part,
was played at Covent Garden in 1807, and is said to have brought the
management ?0,000.]
[Footnote 94: Mr. Greenwood is, we believe, scene-painter to Drury Lane
theatre--as such, Mr. Skeffington is much indebted to him.]
[Footnote 95: Naldi and Catalani require little notice; for the visage
of the one, and the salary of the other, will enable us long to
recollect these amusing vagabonds. Besides, we are still black and blue
from the squeeze on the first night of the Lady's appearance in
trousers. [Guiseppe Naldi (1770-1820) made his 'd閎ut' on the London
stage at the King's Theatre in April, 1806. In conjunction with Catalani
and Braham, he gave concerts at Willis' Rooms. Angelica Catalani (circ.
1785-1849), a famous soprano, Italian by birth and training, made her
'd閎ut' at Venice in 1795. She remained in England for eight years
(1806-14). Her first appearance in England was at the King's Theatre, in
Portogallo's 'Semiramide,' in 1806. Her large salary was one of the
causes which provoked the O. P. (Old Prices) Riots in December, 1809, at
Covent Garden. Praed says of his 'Ball Room Belle'--
"She warbled Handel: it was grand;
She made the Catalani jealous."]
[Footnote 96: Moore says that the following twenty lines were struck off
one night after Lord Byron's return from the Opera, and sent the next
morning to the printer. The date of the letter to Dallas, with which the
lines were enclosed, suggests that the representation which provoked the
outburst was that of 'I Villegiatori Rezzani,' at the King's Theatre,
February 21, 1809. The first piece, in which Naldi and Catalani were the
principal singers, was followed by d'Egville's musical extravaganza,
'Don Quichotte, on les Noces de Gamache.' In the 'corps de ballet' were
Deshayes, for many years master of the 'ballet' at the King's Theatre;
Miss Gayton, who had played a Sylph at Drury Lane as early as 1806 (she
was married, March 18, 1809, to the Rev. William Murray, brother of Sir
James Pulteney, Bart.--'Morning Chronicle,' December 30, 1810), and
Mademoiselle Angiolini, "elegant of figure, 'petite', but finely formed,
with the manner of Vestris." Mademoiselle Presle does not seem to have
taken part in 'Don Quichotte;' but she was well known as 'premi鑢e
danseuse' in 'La Belle Laiti鑢e, La F阾e Chinoise,' and other ballets.]]
[Footnote 97: For "whet" Editions 1-5 read "raise." Lines 632-637 are
marked "good" in the Annotated Fourth Edition.]
[Footnote 98: To prevent any blunder, such as mistaking a street for a
man, I beg leave to state, that it is the institution, and not the Duke
of that name, which is here alluded to.
A gentleman, with whom I am slightly acquainted, lost in the Argyle
Rooms several thousand pounds at Backgammon.[A] It is but justice to the
manager in this instance to say, that some degree of disapprobation was
manifested: but why are the implements of gaming allowed in a place
devoted to the society of both sexes? A pleasant thing for the wives and
daughters of those who are blessed or cursed with such connections, to
hear the Billiard-Balls rattling in one room, and the dice in another!
That this is the case I myself can testify, as a late unworthy member of
an Institution which materially affects the morals of the higher orders,
while the lower may not even move to the sound of a tabor and fiddle,
without a chance of indictment for riotous behaviour. [The Argyle
Institution, founded by Colonel Greville, flourished many years before
the Argyll Rooms were built by Nash in 1818. This mention of Greville's
name caused him to demand an explanation from Byron, but the matter was
amicably settled by Moore and G. F. Leckie, who acted on behalf of the
disputants (see 'Life', pp. 160, 161).]]
[Sub-Footnote A: "True. It was Billy Way who lost the money. I knew him,
and was a subscriber to the Argyle at the time of this event."--B.,
1816.]
[Footnote 99: Petronius, "Arbiter elegantiarum" to Nero, "and a very
pretty fellow in his day," as Mr. Congreve's "Old Bachelor" saith of
Hannibal.]
[Footnote 100: "We are authorised to state that Mr. Greville, who has a
small party at his private assembly rooms at the Argyle, will receive
from 10 to 12 [p.m.] masks who have Mrs. Chichester's Institution
tickets.--Morning Post, June 7, 1809.]
[Footnote 101: See note on line 686, infra.]
[Footnote 102: 'Clodius'--"Mutato nomine de te Fabula narratur."--['MS']
[The allusion is to the well-known incidents of his intrigue with
Pompeia, C鎠ar's wife, and his sacrilegious intrusion into the mysteries
of the Bona Dea. The Romans had a proverb, "Clodius accuset Moechos?"
(Juv., 'Sat.' ii. 27). That "Steenie" should lecture on the "turpitude
of incontinence!" ('The Fortunes of Nigel,' cap. xxxii.)]]
[Footnote 103: I knew the late Lord Falkland well. On Sunday night I
beheld him presiding at his own table, in all the honest pride of
hospitality; on Wednesday morning, at three o'clock, I saw stretched
before me all that remained of courage, feeling, and a host of passions.
He was a gallant and successful officer: his faults were the faults of a
sailor--as such, Britons will forgive them. ["His behaviour on the field
was worthy of a better fate, and his conduct on the bed of death evinced
all the firmness of a man without the farce of repentance--I say the
farce of repentance, for death-bed repentance is a farce, and as little
serviceable to the soul at such a moment as the surgeon to the body,
though both may be useful if taken in time. Some hireling in the papers
forged a tale about an agonized voice, etc. On mentioning the
circumstance to Mr. Heaviside, he exclaimed, 'Good God! what absurdity
to talk in this manner of one who died like a lion!'--he did
more."--'MS'] He died like a brave man in a better cause; for had he
fallen in like manner on the deck of the frigate to which he was just
appointed, his last moments would have been held up by his countrymen as
an example to succeeding heroes.
[Charles John Carey, ninth Viscount Falkland, died from a wound received
in a duel with Mr. A. Powell on Feb. 28, 1809. (See Byron's letter to
his mother, March 6, 1809.) The story of "the agonized voice" may be
traced to a paragraph in the 'Morning Post,' March 2, 1809: "Lord
Falkland, after hearing the surgeon's opinion, said with a faltering
voice and as intelligibly as the agonized state of his body and mind
permitted, "I acquit Mr. Powell of all blame; in this transaction I
alone am culpable.'"]]
[Footnote 104: "Yes: and a precious chase they led me."--B., 1816.]
[Footnote 105: "'Fool' enough, certainly, then, and no wiser
since."--B., 1816.]
[Footnote 106: What would be the sentiments of the Persian Anacreon,
HAFIZ, could he rise from his splendid sepulchre at Sheeraz (where he
reposes with FERDOUSI and SADI, the Oriental Homer and Catullus), and
behold his name assumed by one STOTT of DROMORE, the most impudent and
execrable of literary poachers for the Daily Prints?]
[Footnote 107: Miles Peter Andrews (d. 1824) was the owner of large
powder-mills at Dartford. He was M.P. for Bewdley. He held a good social
position, but his intimate friends were actors and playwrights. His
'Better Late than Never' (which Reynolds and Topham helped him to write)
was played for the first time at Drury Lane, October 17, 1790, with
Kemble as Saville, and Mrs. Jordan as Augusta. He is mentioned in 'The
Baviad', l. 10; and in a note Gifford satirizes his prologue to
'Lorenzo', and describes him as an "industrious paragraph-monger."]]
[Footnote 108: In a manuscript fragment, bound in the same volume as
'British Bards', we find these lines:--
"In these, our times, with daily wonders big,
A Lettered peer is like a lettered pig;
Both know their Alphabet, but who, from thence,
Infers that peers or pigs have manly sense?
Still less that such should woo the graceful nine;
Parnassus was not made for lords and swine."]
[Footnote 109: Wentworth Dillon, 4th Earl of Roscommon (1634-1685),
author of many translations and minor poems, endeavoured (circ. 1663) to
found an English literary academy.]
[Footnote 110: John Sheffield, Earl of Mulgrave (1658), Marquis of
Normanby (1694), Duke of Buckingham (1703) (1649-1721), wrote an 'Essay
upon Poetry', and several other works.]
[Footnote 111: Lines 727-740 were added after 'British Bards' had been
printed, and are included in the First Edition, but the appearance in
'British Bards' of lines 723-726 and 741-746, which have been cut out
from Mr. Murray's MS., forms one of many proofs as to the identity of
the text of the 'MS'. and the printed Quarto.]]
[Footnote 112: Frederick Howard, 5th Earl of Carlisle, K.G. (1748-1825),
Viceroy of Ireland, 1780-1782, and Privy Seal, etc., published
'Tragedies and Poems', 1801. He was Byron's first cousin once removed,
and his guardian. 'Poems Original and Translated,' were dedicated to
Lord Carlisle, and, as an erased MS. addition to 'British Bards'
testifies, he was to have been excepted from the roll of titled
poetasters--
"Ah, who would take their titles from their rhymes?
On 'one' alone Apollo deigns to smile,
And crowns a new Roscommon in Carlisle."
Before, however, the revised Satire was sent to the press, Carlisle
ignored his cousin's request to introduce him on taking his seat in the
House of Lords, and, to avenge the slight, eighteen lines of castigation
supplanted the flattering couplet. Lord Carlisle suffered from a nervous
disorder, and Byron was informed that some readers had scented an
allusion in the words "paralytic puling." "I thank Heaven," he
exclaimed, "I did not know it; and would not, could not, if I had. I
must naturally be the last person to be pointed on defects or maladies."
In 1814 he consulted Rogers on the chance of conciliating Carlisle, and
in 'Childe Harold', iii. 29, he laments the loss of the "young and
gallant Howard" (Carlisle's youngest son) at Waterloo, and admits that
"he did his sire some wrong." But, according to Medwin ('Conversations',
1824, p. 362), who prints an excellent parody on Carlisle's lines
addressed to Lady Holland in 1822, in which he urges her to decline the
legacy of Napoleon's snuff-box, Byron made fun of his "noble relative"
to the end of the chapter ('vide post', p. 370, 'note' 2).]]
[Footnote 113: The Earl of Carlisle has lately published an
eighteen-penny pamphlet on the state of the Stage, and offers his plan
for building a new theatre. It is to be hoped his Lordship will be
permitted to bring forward anything for the Stage--except his own
tragedies. [This pamphlet was entitled 'Thoughts upon the present
condition of the stage, and upon the construction of a new Theatre',
anon. 1808.]
Line 732. None of the earlier editions, including the fifth and Murray,
1831, _insert_ "and" between "petit-ma顃re" and "pamphleteer." No doubt
Byron sounded the final syllable of "ma顃re," 'anglic? "mailer."]]
[Footnote 114:
"Doff that lion's hide,
And hang a calf-skin on those recreant limbs."
SHAKESPEARE, 'King John.'
Lord Carlisle's works, most resplendently bound, form a conspicuous
ornament to his book-shelves:--
"The rest is all but [only, MS.] leather and prunella."
"Wrong also--the provocation was not sufficient to justify such
acerbity."--B., 1816.]
[Footnote 115: 'All the Blocks, or an Antidote to "All the Talents"' by
Flagellum (W. H. Ireland), London, 1807: 'The Groan of the Talents, or
Private Sentiments on Public Occasions,' 1807; "Gr--vile Agonistes, 'A
Dramatic Poem, 1807,' etc., etc."]
[Footnote 116: "MELVILLE'S Mantle," a parody on 'Elijah's Mantle,' a
poem. ['Elijah's Mantle, being verses occasioned by the death of that
illustrious statesman, the Right Hon. W. Pitt.' Dedicated to the Right
Rev. the Lord Bishop of Lincoln (1807), was written by James Sayer.
'Melville's Mantle, being a Parody on the poem entitled "Elijah's
Mantle"' was published by Budd, 1807. 'A Monody on the death of the R.
H. C. J. Fox,' by Richard Payne Knight, was printed for J. Payne,
1806-7. Another "Monody," 'Lines written on returning from the Funeral
of the R. H. C. J. Fox, Friday Oct'. 10, 1806, addressed to Lord
Holland, was by M. G. Lewis, and there were others.]]
[Footnote 117: This lovely little Jessica, the daughter of the noted Jew
King, seems to be a follower of the Della Crusca school, and has
published two volumes of very respectable absurdities in rhyme, as times
go; besides sundry novels in the style of the first edition of 'The
Monk.'
"She since married the 'Morning Post'--an exceeding good match; and is
now dead--which is better."--B., 1816. [The last seven words are in
pencil, and, possibly, by another hand. The novelist "Rosa," the
daughter of "Jew King," the lordly money-lender who lived in Clarges
Street, and drove a yellow chariot, may possibly be confounded with
"Rosa Matilda," Mrs. Byrne (Gronow, 'Rem.' (1889), i. 132-136). (See
note 1, p. 358.)]
[Footnote 118: Lines 759, 760 were added for the first time in the
Fourth Edition.]
[Footnote 119: Lines 756-764, with variant ii., refer to the Della
Cruscan school, attacked by Gifford in 'The Baviad' and 'The M鎣iad.'
Robert Merry (1755-1798), together with Mrs. Piozzi, Bertie Greatheed,
William Parsons, and some Italian friends, formed a literary society
called the 'Oziosi' at Florence, where they published 'The Arno
Miscellany' (1784) and 'The Florence Miscellany' (1785), consisting of
verses in which the authors "say kind things of each other" (Preface to
'The Florence Miscellany,' by Mrs. Piozzi). In 1787 Merry, who had
become a member of the Della Cruscan Academy at Florence, returned to
London, and wrote in the 'World' (then edited by Captain Topham) a
sonnet on "Love," under the signature of "Della Crusca." He was answered
by Mrs. Hannah Cowley, 'n閑' Parkhouse (1743-1809), famous as the
authoress of 'The Belles Stratagem' (acted at Covent Garden in 1782), in
a sonnet called "The Pen," signed "Anna Matilda." The poetical
correspondence which followed was published in 'The British Album'
(1789, 2 vols.) by John Bell. Other writers connected with the Della
Cruscan school were "Perdita" Robinson, 'n閑' Darby (1758-1800), who
published 'The Mistletoe' (1800) under the pseudonym "Laura Maria," and
to whom Merry addressed a poem quoted by Gifford in 'The Baviad' ('note'
to line 284); Charlotte Dacre, who married Byrne, Robinson's successor
as editor of the 'Morning Post,' wrote under the pseudonym of "Rosa
Matilda," and published poems ('Hours of Solitude,' 1805) and numerous
novels ('Confessions of the Nun of St. Omer's,' 1805; 'Zofloya;' 'The
Libertine,' etc.); and "Hafiz" (Robert Stott, of the 'Morning Post'). Of
these writers, "Della Crusca" Merry, and "Laura Maria" Robinson, were
dead; "Anna Matilda" Cowley, "Hafiz" Stott, and "Rosa Matilda" Dacre
were still living. John Bell (1745-1831), the publisher of 'The British
Album,' was also one of the proprietors of the 'Morning Post,' the
'Oracle,' and the 'World,' in all of which the Della Cruscans wrote. His
"Owls and Nightingales" are explained by a reference to 'The Baviad' (l.
284), where Gifford pretends to mistake the nightingale, to which Merry
("Arno") addressed some lines, for an owl. "On looking again, I find the
owl to be a nightingale!--N'importe."]]
[Footnote 120: These are the signatures of various worthies who figure
in the poetical departments of the newspapers.]
[Footnote 121: "This was meant for poor Blackett, who was then
patronised by A. I. B." (Lady Byron); "but 'that' I did not know, or
this would not have been written, at least I think not."--B., 1816.
[Joseph Blacket (1786-1810), said by Southey ('Letters,' i. 172) to
possess "force and rapidity," and to be endowed with "more powers than
Robert Bloomfield, and an intellect of higher pitch," was the son of a
labourer, and by trade a cobbler. He was brought into notice by S. J.
Pratt (who published Blacket's 'Remains' in 1811), and was befriended by
the Milbanke family. Miss Milbanke, afterwards Lady Byron, wrote (Sept.
2, 1809), "Seaham is at present the residence of a poet, by name Joseph
Blacket, one of the Burns-like and Dermody kind, whose genius is his
sole possession. I was yesterday in his company for the first time, and
was much pleased with his manners and conversation. He is extremely
diffident, his deportment is mild, and his countenance animated
melancholy and of a satirical turn. His poems certainly display a
superior genius and an enlarged mind...." Blacket died on the Seaham
estate in Sept., 1810, at the age of twenty-three. (See Byron's letter
to Dallas, June 28, 1811; his 'Epitaph for Joseph Blackett;' and 'Hints
from Horace,' l. 734.)]]
[Footnote 122: Capel Lofft, Esq., the M鎐enas of shoemakers, and
Preface-writer-General to distressed versemen; a kind of gratis
Accoucheur to those who wish to be delivered of rhyme, but do not know
how to bring it forth.
[Capel Lofft (1751-1824), jurist, poet, critic, and horticulturist,
honoured himself by his kindly patronage of Robert Bloomfield
(1766-1823), who was born at Honington, near Lofft's estate of Throston,
Suffolk. Robert Bloomfield was brought up by his elder brothers--
Nathaniel a tailor, and George a shoemaker. It was in the latter's
workshop that he composed 'The Farmer's Boy,' which was published (1798)
with the help of Lofft. He also wrote 'Rural Tales' (1802), 'Good
Tidings; or News from the Farm '(1804), 'The Banks of the Wye' (1811),
etc. (See 'Hints from Horace,' line 734, notes 1 and 2.)]]
[Footnote 123: See Nathaniel Bloomfield's ode, elegy, or whatever he or
any one else chooses to call it, on the enclosures of "Honington Green."
[Nathaniel Bloomfield, as a matter of fact, called it a ballad.--'Poems'
(1803).]]
[Footnote 124: Vide 'Recollections of a Weaver in the Moorlands of
Staffordshire'. [The exact title is 'The Moorland Bard; or Poetical
Recollections of a Weaver', etc. 2 vols., 1807. The author was T.
Bakewell, who also wrote 'A Domestic Guide to Insanity', 1805.]]
[Footnote 125: It would be superfluous to recall to the mind of the
reader the authors of 'The Pleasures of Memory' and 'The Pleasures of
Hope', the most beautiful didactic poems in our language, if we except
Pope's 'Essay on Man': but so many poetasters have started up, that even
the names of Campbell and Rogers are become strange.--[Beneath this note
Byron scribbled, in 1816,--
"Pretty Miss Jaqueline
Had a nose aquiline,
And would assert rude
Things of Miss Gertrude,
While Mr. Marmion
Led a great army on,
Making Kehama look
Like a fierce Mameluke."
"I have been reading," he says, in 1813, "'Memory' again, and 'Hope'
together, and retain all my preference of the former. His elegance is
really wonderful--there is no such a thing as a vulgar line in his
book." In the annotations of 1816, Byron remarks, "Rogers has not
fulfilled the promise of his first poems, but has still very great
merit."]
[Footnote 126: GIFFORD, author of the 'Baviad' and 'M鎣iad', the first
satires of the day, and translator of Juvenal, [and one (though not the
best) of the translators of Juvenal.--'British Bards'.]]
[Footnote 127: SOTHEBY, translator of WIELAND'S 'Oberon' and Virgil's
'Georgics', and author of 'Saul', an epic poem. [William Sotheby
(1757-1833) began life as a cavalry officer, but being a man of fortune,
sold out of the army and devoted himself to literature, and to the
patronage of men of letters. His translation of the 'Oberon' appeared in
1798, and of the 'Georgics' in 1800. 'Saul' was published in 1807. When
Byron was in Venice, he conceived a dislike to Sotheby, in the belief
that he had made an anonymous attack on some of his works; but, later,
his verdict was, "a good man, rhymes well (if not wisely); but is a
bore" ('Diary', 1821; 'Works', p. 509, note). He is "the solemn antique
man of rhyme" ('Beppo', st. lxiii.), and the "Botherby" of 'The Blues';
and in 'Don Juan', Canto I. st. cxvi., we read--
"Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's house
His Pegasus nor anything that's his."]]
[Footnote 128: MACNEIL, whose poems are deservedly popular, particularly
"SCOTLAND'S Scaith," and the "Waes of War," of which ten thousand copies
were sold in one month. [Hector Macneil (1746-1816) wrote in defence of
slavery in Jamaica, and was the author of several poems: 'Scotland's
Skaith, or the History of Will and Jean' (1795), 'The Waes of War, or
the Upshot of the History of Will and Jean' (1796), etc., etc.]]
[Footnote 129: Mr. GIFFORD promised publicly that the 'Baviad' and
'M鎣iad' should not be his last original works: let him remember, "Mox
in reluctantes dracones." [Cf. 'New Morality,' lines 29-42.]]
[Footnote 130: Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge, in October 1806, in
consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that would
have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and
which Death itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in
such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret that
so short a period was allotted to talents, which would have dignified
even the sacred functions he was destined to assume.
[H. K. White (1785-1806) published 'Clifton Grove' and other poems in
1803. Two volumes of his 'Remains,' consisting of poems, letters, etc.,
with a life by Southey, were issued in 1808. His tendency to epilepsy
was increased by over-work at Cambridge. He once remarked to a friend
that "were he to paint a picture of Fame, crowning a distinguished
undergraduate after the Senate house examination, he would represent her
as concealing a Death's head under a mask of Beauty" ('Life of H. K.
W.', by Southey, i. 45). By "the soaring lyre, which else had sounded an
immortal lay," Byron, perhaps, refers to the unfinished 'Christiad,'
which, says Southey, "Henry had most at heart."]]
[Footnote 131: Lines 832-834, as they stand in the text, were _insert_ed
in MS. in both the Annotated Copies of the Fourth Edition.]]
[Footnote 132: "I consider Crabbe and Coleridge as the first of these
times, in point of power and genius."--B., 1816.]
[Footnote 133: Mr. Shee, author of 'Rhymes on Art' and 'Elements of
Art'. [Sir Martin Archer Shee (1770-1850) was President of the Royal
Academy (1830-45). His 'Rhymes on Art' (1805) and 'Elements of Art'
(1809), a poem in six cantos, will hardly be regarded as worthy of
Byron's praise, which was probably quite genuine. He also wrote a novel,
'Harry Calverley', and other works.]]
[Footnote 134: Mr. Wright, late Consul-General for the Seven Islands, is
author of a very beautiful poem, just published: it is entitled 'Hor?
Ionic?, and is descriptive of the isles and the adjacent coast of
Greece. [Walter Rodwell Wright was afterwards President of the Court of
Appeal in Malta, where he died in 1826. 'Hor?Ionic? a Poem descriptive
of the Ionian Islands, and Part of the Adjacent Coast of Greece', was
published in 1809. He is mentioned in one of Byron's long notes to
'Childe Harold', canto ii., dated Franciscan Convent, Mar. 17, 1811.]]
[Footnote 135: The translators of the Anthology have since published
separate poems, which evince genius that only requires opportunity to
attain eminence. [The Rev. Robert Bland (1779-1825) published, in 1806,
'Translations chiefly from the Greek Anthology, with Tales and
Miscellaneous Poems'. In these he was assisted (see 'Life of the Rev.
Francis Hodgson', vol. i. pp. 226-260) by Denman (afterwards Chief
Justice), by Hodgson himself, and, above all, by John Herman Merivale
(1779-1844), who subsequently, in 1813, was joint editor with him of
'Collections from the Greek Anthology', etc.]]
[Footnote 136: Erasmus Darwin (1731-1802), the grandfather of Charles
Robert Darwin. Coleridge describes his poetry as "nothing but a
succession of landscapes or paintings. It arrests the attention too
often, and so prevents the rapidity necessary to pathos."--'Anima
Poet?, 1895, p. 5. His chief works are 'The Botanic Garden' (1789-92)
and 'The Temple of Nature' (1803). Byron's censure of 'The Botanic
Garden' is inconsistent with his principles, for Darwin's verse was
strictly modelled on the lines of Pope and his followers. But the 'Loves
of the Triangles' had laughed away the 'Loves of the Plants'.]]
[Footnote 137: The neglect of 'The Botanic Garden' is some proof of
returning taste. The scenery is its sole recommendation.]
[Footnote 138: This was not Byron's mature opinion, nor had he so
expressed himself in the review of Wordsworth's 'Poems' which he
contributed to 'Crosby's Magazine' in 1807 ('Life', p. 669). His scorn
was, in part, provoked by indignities offered to Pope and Dryden, and,
in part, assumed because one Lake poet called up the rest; and it was
good sport to flout and jibe at the "Fraternity." That the day would
come when the message of Wordsworth would reach his ears and awaken his
enthusiasm, he could not, of course, foresee (see 'Childe Harold', canto
iii. stanzas 72, 'et seqq.').]]
[Footnote 139: Messrs. Lamb and Lloyd, the most ignoble followers of
Southey and Co. [Charles Lloyd (1775-1839) resided for some months under
Coleridge's roof, first in Bristol, and afterwards at Nether Stowey
(1796-1797). He published, in 1796, a folio edition of his 'Poems on the
Death of Priscilla Farmer', in which a sonnet by Coleridge and a poem of
Lamb's were included. Lamb and Lloyd contributed several pieces to the
second edition of Coleridge's Poems, published in 1797; and in 1798 they
brought out a joint volume of their own composition, named 'Poems in
Blank Verse'. 'Edmund Oliver', a novel, appeared also in 1798. An
estrangement between Coleridge and Lloyd resulted in a quarrel with
Lamb, and a drawing together of Lamb, Lloyd, and Southey. But Byron
probably had in his mind nothing more than the lines in the
'Anti-Jacobin', where Lamb and Lloyd are classed with Coleridge and
Southey as advocates of French socialism:--
"Coleridge and Southey, Lloyd and Lamb and Co.,
Tune all your mystic harps to praise Lepaux."
In later life Byron expressed a very different opinion of Lamb's
literary merits. (See the preface to 'Werner', now first published.)]]
[Footnote 140: By the bye, I hope that in Mr. Scott's next poem, his
hero or heroine will be less addicted to "Gramarye," and more to
Grammar, than the Lady of the Lay and her Bravo, William of Deloraine.]
[Footnote 141: "Unjust."--B., 1816. [In 'Frost at Midnight', first
published in 1798, Coleridge twice mentions his "Cradled infant."]]
[Footnote 142: The Rev. W. L. Bowles ('vide ante', p. 323, note 2),
published, in 1789, 'Fourteen Sonnets written chiefly on Picturesque
Spots during a Journey'.]]
[Footnote 143: It may be asked, why I have censured the Earl of
CARLISLE, my guardian and relative, to whom I dedicated a volume of
puerile poems a few years ago?--The guardianship was nominal, at least
as far as I have been able to discover; the relationship I cannot help,
and am very sorry for it; but as his Lordship seemed to forget it on a
very essential occasion to me, I shall not burden my memory with the
recollection. I do not think that personal differences sanction the
unjust condemnation of a brother scribbler; but I see no reason why they
should act as a preventive, when the author, noble or ignoble, has, for
a series of years, beguiled a "discerning public" (as the advertisements
have it) with divers reams of most orthodox, imperial nonsense. Besides,
I do not step aside to vituperate the earl: no--his works come fairly in
review with those of other Patrician Literati. If, before I escaped from
my teens, I said anything in favour of his Lordship's paper books, it
was in the way of dutiful dedication, and more from the advice of others
than my own judgment, and I seize the first opportunity of pronouncing
my sincere recantation. I have heard that some persons conceive me to be
under obligations to Lord CARLISLE: if so, I shall be most particularly
happy to learn what they are, and when conferred, that they may be duly
appreciated and publicly acknowledged. What I have humbly advanced as an
opinion on his printed things, I am prepared to support, if necessary,
by quotations from Elegies, Eulogies, Odes, Episodes, and certain
facetious and dainty tragedies bearing his name and mark:--
"What can ennoble knaves, or 'fools', or cowards?
Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards."
So says Pope. Amen!--"Much too savage, whatever the foundation might
be."--B., 1816.]
[Footnote 144: Line 952. 'Note'--
"Tollere humo, victorque virum volitare per ora."
(VIRGIL.)]
[Footnote 145:
"The devil take that 'Phoenix'! How came it there?"
--B., 1816.]
[Footnote 146: The Rev. Charles James Hoare (1781-1865), a close friend
of the leaders of the Evangelical party, gained the Seatonian Prize at
Cambridge in 1807 with his poem on the 'Shipwreck of St. Paul'.]
[Footnote 147: Edmund Hoyle, the father of the modern game of whist,
lived from 1672 to 1769. The Rev. Charles Hoyle, his "poetical
namesake," was, like Hoare, a Seatonian prizeman, and wrote an epic in
thirteen books on the 'Exodus'.]
[Footnote 148: The 'Games of Hoyle', well known to the votaries of
Whist, Chess, etc., are not to be superseded by the vagaries of his
poetical namesake ["illustrious Synonime" in 'MS.' and 'British Bards'],
whose poem comprised, as expressly stated in the advertisement, all the
"Plagues of Egypt."]
[Footnote 149: Here, as in line 391, "Fresh fish from Helicon," etc.,
Byron confounds Helicon and Hippocrene.]]
[Footnote 150: This person, who has lately betrayed the most rabid
symptoms of confirmed authorship, is writer of a poem denominated 'The
Art of Pleasing', as "Lucus a non lucendo," containing little
pleasantry, and less poetry. He also acts as ["lies as" in 'MS.']
monthly stipendiary and collector of calumnies for the 'Satirist'. If
this unfortunate young man would exchange the magazines for the
mathematics, and endeavour to take a decent degree in his university, it
might eventually prove more serviceable than his present salary.]
[Note.--An unfortunate young person of Emanuel College, Cambridge,
ycleped Hewson Clarke, has lately manifested the most rabid symptoms of
confirmed Authorship. His Disorder commenced some years ago, and the
'Newcastle Herald' teemed with his precocious essays, to the great
edification of the Burgesses of Newcastle, Morpeth, and the parts
adjacent even unto Berwick upon Tweed. These have since been abundantly
scurrilous upon the [town] of Newcastle, his native spot, Mr. Mathias
and Anacreon Moore. What these men had done to offend Mr. Hewson Clarke
is not known, but surely the town in whose markets he had sold meat, and
in whose weekly journal he had written prose deserved better treatment.
Mr. H.C. should recollect the proverb "'tis a villainous bird that
defiles his own nest." He now writes in the 'Satirist'. We recommend the
young man to abandon the magazines for mathematics, and to believe that
a high degree at Cambridge will be more advantageous, as well as
profitable in the end, than his present precarious gleanings.]
[Hewson Clarke (1787-circ. 1832) was entered at Emmanuel Coll. Camb.
circ. 1806 (see 'Postscript'). He had to leave the University without
taking a degree, and migrated to London, where he devoted his not
inconsiderable talents to contributions to the 'Satirist', the
'Scourge', etc. He also wrote: 'An Impartial History of the Naval, etc.,
Events of Europe ... from the French Revolution ... to the Conclusion of
a General Peace' (1815); and a continuation of Hume's 'History of
England', 2 vols. (1832).
The 'Satirist', a monthly magazine illustrated with coloured cartoons,
was issued 1808-1814. 'Hours of Idleness' was reviewed Jan. 1808 (i.
77-81). "The Diary of a Cantab" (June, 1808, ii. 368) contains some
verses of "Lord B----n to his Bear. To the tune of Lachin y gair." The
last verse runs thus:--
"But when with the ardour of Love I am burning,
I feel for thy torments, I feel for thy care;
And weep for thy bondage, so truly discerning
What's felt by a 'Lord', may be felt by a 'Bear'."
In August, 1808 (iii. 78-86), there is a critique on 'Poems Original and
Translated', in which the bear plays many parts. The writer "is without
his bear and is himself muzzled," etc. Towards the close of the article
a solemn sentence is passed on the author for his disregard of the
advice of parents, tutors, friends; "but," adds the reviewer, "in the
paltry volume before us we think we observe some proof that the still
small voice of conscience will be heard in the cool of the day. Even now
the gay, the gallant, the accomplished bear-leader is not happy," etc.
Hence the castigation of "the sizar of Emmanuel College."]
[Footnote 151:
"Right enough: this was well deserved, and well laid on."
(B., 1816.)]
[Footnote 152:
"Into Cambridgeshire the Emperor Probus transported a considerable
body of Vandals."
(Gibbon's 'Decline and Fall', ii. 83.) There is no reason to doubt the
truth of this assertion; the breed is still in high perfection.
We see no reason to doubt the truth of this statement, as a large stock
of the same breed are to be found there at this day.--'British Bards'.
[Lines 981-984 do not occur in the 'MS'. Lines 981, 982, are _insert_ed in
MS. in 'British Bards'.]]
[Footnote 153: This gentleman's name requires no praise: the man who
[has surpassed Dryden and Gifford as a Translator.--'MS. British Bards']
in translation displays unquestionable genius may be well expected to
excel in original composition, of which, it is to be hoped, we shall
soon see a splendid specimen. [Francis Hodgson (1781-1852) was Byron's
lifelong friend. His 'Juvenal' appeared in 1807; 'Lady Jane Grey and
other Poems', in 1809; 'Sir Edgar, a Tale', in 1810. For other works and
details, see 'Life of the Rev. Francis Hodgson', by the Rev. James T.
Hodgson (1878).]]
[Footnote 154: Hewson Clarke, 'Esq'., as it is written.]
[Footnote 155: 'The Aboriginal Britons', an excellent ["most excellent"
in 'MS.'] poem, by Richards. [The Rev. George Richards, D.D.
(1769-1835), a Fellow of Oriel, and afterwards Rector of St.
Martin's-in-the-Fields. 'The Aboriginal Britons', a prize poem, was
published in 1792, and was followed by 'The Songs of the Aboriginal
Bards of Britain' (1792), and various other prose and poetical works.]]
[Footnote: 156. With this verse the satire originally ended.]
[Footnote 157: A friend of mine being asked, why his Grace of Portland
was likened to an old woman? replied, "he supposed it was because he was
past bearing." (Even Homer was a punster--a solitary pun.)--['MS'.] His
Grace is now gathered to his grandmothers, where he sleeps as sound as
ever; but even his sleep was better than his colleagues' waking. 1811.
[William Henry Cavendish, third Duke of Portland (1738-1809), Prime
Minister in 1807, on the downfall of the Ministry of "All the Talents,"
till his death in 1809, was, as the wits said, "a convenient block to
hang Whigs on," but was not, even in his vigour, a man of much
intellectual capacity. When Byron meditated a tour to India in 1808,
Portland declined to write on his behalf to the Directors of the East
India Company, and couched his refusal in terms which Byron fancied to
be offensive.]]
[Footnote 158: "Saw it August, 1809."--B., 1816. [The following notes
were omitted from the Fifth Edition:--
"Calpe is the ancient name of Gibraltar. Saw it August, 1809.--B.,
1816.
"Stamboul is the Turkish word for Constantinople. Was there the summer
1810."
To "Mount Caucasus," he adds, "Saw the distant ridge of,--1810, 1811"]]
[Footnote 159: Georgia.]
[Footnote 160: Mount Caucasus.]
[Footnote 161: Lord Elgin would fain persuade us that all the figures,
with and without noses, in his stoneshop, are the work of Phidias!
"Credat Jud鎢s!" [R. Payne Knight, in his introduction to 'Specimens of
Ancient Sculpture', published 1809, by the Dilettanti Society, throws a
doubt on the Phidian workmanship of the "Elgin" marbles. See the
Introduction to 'The Curse of Minerva'.]]
[Footnote 162: [Sir William Gell (1777-1836) published the 'Topography
of Troy' (1804), the 'Geography and Antiquities of Ithaca' (1807), and
the 'Itinerary of Greece' (1808). Byron reviewed the two last works in
the 'Monthly Review' (August, 1811), ('Life', pp. 670, 676). Fresh from
the scenes, he speaks with authority. "With Homer in his pocket and Gell
on his sumpter-mule, the Odysseus tourist may now make a very classical
and delightful excursion." The epithet in the original MS. was
"coxcomb," but becoming acquainted with Gell while the satire was in the
press, Byron changed it to "classic." In the fifth edition he altered it
to "rapid," and appended this note:--"'Rapid,' indeed! He topographised
and typographised King Priam's dominions in three days! I called him
'classic' before I saw the Troad, but since have learned better than to
tack to his name what don't belong to it."]]
[Footnote 163: Mr. Gell's 'Topography of Troy and Ithaca' cannot fail to
ensure the approbation of every man possessed of classical taste, as
well for the information Mr. Gell conveys to the mind of the reader, as
for the ability and research the respective works display.
"'Troy and Ithaca.' Visited both in 1810, 1811."--B., 1816.
"'Ithaca' passed first in 1809."--B., 1816.
"Since seeing the plain of Troy, my opinions are somewhat changed as
to the above note. Cell's survey was hasty and superficial."--B.,
1816.]
[Footnote 164:
"Singular enough, and 'din' enough, God knows."
(B., 1816).]
[Footnote 165:
"The greater part of this satire I most sincerely wish had never been
written-not only on account of the injustice of much of the critical,
and some of the personal part of it--but the tone and temper are such
as I cannot approve."
BYRON. July 14, 1816. 'Diodati, Geneva'.]
[Footnote i:
'Truth be my theme, and Censure guide my song.'
['MS. M.']
[Footnote ii:
'But thou, at least, mine own especial quill
Dipt in the dew drops from Parnassus' hill,
Shalt ever honoured and regarded be,
By more beside no doubt, yet still by me.'
['MS. M.'] ]
[Footnote iii:
'And men through life her willing slaves obey.'
['MS. Second, Third, and Fourth Editions.']]
[Footnote iv:
'Unfolds her motley store to suit the time.'--
['MS. Second, Third, and Fourth Editions.']]
[Footnote v:
'When Justice halts and Right begins to fail.'
['MS. Second, Third, and Fourth Editions.']]
[Footnote vi:
'A mortal weapon'.
['MS. M.']
[Footnote vii:
'Yet Titles sounding lineage cannot save
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave,
Lamb had his farce but that Patrician name
Failed to preserve the spurious brat from shame.'
['MS.']]
[Footnote viii:
'a lucky hit.'
['Second, Third, and Fourth Editions.']]
[Footnote ix:
'No dearth of rhyme.'
['British Bards'.] ]
[Footnote x:
'The Press oppressed.'
['British Bards'.] ]
[Footnote xi:
'While Southey's Epics load.'
['British Bards'.] ]
[Footnote xii:
'O'er taste awhile these Infidels prevail.'
['MS.']]
[Footnote xiii:
'Erect and hail an idol of their own.'
['MS.']]
[Footnote xiv:
'Not quite a footpad-----.'
['British Bards'.] ]
[Footnote xv:
'Low may they sink to merited contempt.'
['British Bards'.]]
'And Scorn reimmerate the mean attempt!'--
['MS. First to Fourth Editions']]
[Footnote xvi:
'--though lesser bards content--'
['British Bards']
[Footnote xvii:
'How well the subject.'
['MS. First to Fourth Editions.']]
[Footnote xviii:
'A fellow feeling makes us wondrous kind.'--
['British Bards, First to Fourth Editions.']]
[Footnote xix:
'Who fain would'st.'
['British Bards, First to Fifth Editions'.]]
[Footnote xx:
'Mend thy life, and sin no more.'
['MS.']]
[Footnote xxi:
'And o'er harmonious nonsense.'
['MS. First Edition.']]
[Footnote xxii:
'In many marble-covered volumes view
Hayley, in vain attempting something new,
Whether he spin his comedies in rhyme,
Or scrawls as Wood and Barclay [A] walk, 'gainst Time.'
['MS. British Bards', and 'First to Fourth Editions.']
[Sub-Footnote A: Captain Robert Barclay (1779-1854) of Ury,
agriculturalist and pedestrian, came of a family noted for physical
strength and endurance. Byron saw him win his walk against Wood at
Newmarket. (See Angelo's 'Reminiscences' (1837), vol. ii. pp. 37-44.) In
July, 1809, Barclay completed his task of walking a thousand miles in a
thousand hours, at the rate of one mile in each and every hour. (See,
too, for an account of Barclay, 'The Eccentric Review' (1812), i.
133-150.)]]
[Footnote xxiii:
'Breaks into mawkish lines each holy Book'.
['MS. First Edition'.] ]
[Footnote xxiv:
'Thy "Sympathy" that'.
['British Bards'.] ]
[Footnote xxv:
'And shows dissolved in sympathetic tears'.
'----in thine own melting tears.--'
['MS. First to Fourth Editions'.]]
[Footnote xxvi:
'Whether in sighing winds them seek'st relief
Or Consolation in a yellow leaf.--'
['MS. first to Fourth Editions.'] ]
[Footnote xxvii:
'What pretty sounds.'
['British Bards.'] ]
[Footnote xxviii:
'Thou fain woulds't----'
['British Bards.'] ]
[Footnote xxix:
'But to soft themes'.
['British Bards, First Edition'.] ]
[Footnote xxx:
'The Bard has wove'.
['British Bards'.] ]
[Footnote xxxi:
'If Pope, since mortal, not untaught to err
Again demand a dull biographer'.
['MS'.]]
[Footnote xxxii:
'Too much in Turtle Bristol's sons delight
Too much in Bowls of Rack prolong the night.--'
['MS. Second to Fourth Editions'.]
'Too much o'er Bowls.'
['Second and Third Editions'.]]
[Footnote xxxiii:
'And yet why'.
['British Bards'.] ]
[Footnote xxxiv:
'Or old or young'.
['British Bards'.] ]
[Footnote xxxv:
--'yes, I'm sure all may.'
['Quarto Proof Sheet']
[Footnote xxxvi:
'While Cloacina's holy pontiff Lambe [3]
As he himself was damned shall try to damn'.
['British Bards'.]
[Sub-Footnote A. We have heard of persons who "when the Bagpipe sings in
the nose cannot contain their urine for affection," but Mr. L. carries
it a step further than Shakespeare's diuretic amateurs, being notorious
at school and college for his inability to contain--anything. We do not
know to what "Pipe" to attribute this additional effect, but the fact is
uncontrovertible.--['Note' to Quarto Proof bound up with 'British
Bards'.]]
[Footnote xxxvii:
'Lo! long beneath'--.
['British Bards'.]]
[Footnote xxxviii:
'And grateful to the founder of the feast
Declare his landlord can translate at least'.--
['MS. British Bards. First to Fourth Editions'.]]
[Footnote xxxix:
'--are fed because they write.'
['British Bards'.]]
[Footnote xl:
'Princes in Barrels, Counts in arbours pent.--
[MS. British Bards'.]]
[Footnote xli:
'His "damme, poohs."'
['MS. First Edition.']]
[Footnote xlii:
'While Kenny's World just suffered to proceed
Proclaims the audience very kind indeed'.--
['MS. British Bards. First to Fourth Editions'.]]
[Footnote xliii:
'Resume her throne again'.--
['MS. British Bards. First to Fourth Editions.']]
[Footnote xliv:--
'and Kemble lives to tread'.--
['British Bards. First to Fourth Editions.']]
[Footnote xlv:
'St. George [A] and Goody Goose divide the prize.'--
[MS. alternative in British Bards.]
[Sub-Footnote A: We need not inform the reader that we do not allude to
the Champion of England who slew the Dragon. Our St. George is content
to draw status with a very different kind of animal.--[Pencil note to
'British Bards'.]]]
[Footnote xlvi:
'Its humble flight to splendid Pantomimes'.
['British Bards. MS']]
[Footnote xlvii:
'Behold the new Petronius of the times
The skilful Arbiter of modern crimes.'
['MS.']
[Footnote xlviii:
'----a Paget for your wife.'
['MS. First to Fourth Editions.']]
[Footnote xlix:
'From Grosvenor Place or Square'.
['MS. British Bards'.]]
[Footnote l:
'On one alone Apollo deigns to smile
And crowns a new Roscommon in Carlisle.'
['MS. Addition to British Bards.']
'Nor e'en a hackneyed Muse will deign to smile
On minor Byron, or mature Carlisle.'
[First Edition.]
[Footnote li:
'Yet at their fiat----'
'Yet at their nausea----.'
['MS. Addition to British Bards'.]]
[Footnote lii:
'Such sneering fame.'
['British Bards']
[Footnote liii:
'Though Bell has lost his nightingales and owls,
Matilda snivels still and Hafiz howls,
And Crusca's spirit rising from the dead
Revives in Laura, Quiz, and X. Y. Z.'--
['British Bards. First to Third Editions', 1810.]]
[Footnote liv:
'None since the past have claimed the tribute due'.
['British Bards. MS'.]]
[Footnote lv:
'From Albion's cliffs to Caledonia's coast.
Some few who know to write as well as feel'.
['MS'.]]
[Footnote lvi:
'The spoiler came; and all thy promise fair
Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there.--'
['First to Fourth Editions']]
[Footnote lvii:
'On him may meritorious honours tend
While doubly mingling,'.
['MS. erased'.]]
Footnote lviii:
'And you united Bards'.
['MS. Addition to British Bards'.]
'And you ye nameless'.
['MS. erased'.]]
[Footnote lvix:
'Translation's servile work at length disown
And quit Achaia's Muse to court your own'.
['MS. Addition to British Bards'.]]
[Footnote lx:
'Let these arise and anxious of applause'.
['British Bards. MS'.]]
[Footnote lxi:
'But not in heavy'.
['British Bards. MS'.]]
[Footnote lxii:
'Let prurient Southey cease'.
['MS. British Bards'.]]
[Footnote lxiii:
'still the babe at nurse'.
['MS'.]
'Let Lewis jilt our nurseries with alarm
With tales that oft disgust and never charm'.
[Footnote lxiv:
'But thou with powers--'
['MS. British Bards'.]]
[Footnote lxv:
'Let MOORE be lewd; let STRANGFORD steal from MOORE'.
['MS. First to Fourth Editions'.]]
[Footnote lxvi:
'For outlawed Sherwood's tales.'
['MS. Brit. Bards. Eds.' 1-4.]
[Footnote lxvii:
'And even spurns the great Seatonian prize.--'
['MS. First to Fourth Editions' (a correction in the Annotated Copy).]]
[Footnote lxviii:
'With odes by Smyth [A] and epic songs by Hoyle,
Hoyle whose learn'd page, if still upheld by whist
Required no sacred theme to bid us list.--'
['MS. British Bards.']
[Sub-Footnote A: William Smyth (1766-1849). Professor of Modern History
at Cambridge, published his 'English Lyrics' (in 1806), and several
other works.]
[Footnote lxix:
'Yet hold--as when by Heaven's supreme behest,
If found, ten righteous had preserved the Rest
In Sodom's fated town--for Granta's name
Let Hodgson's Genius plead and save her fame
But where fair Isis, etc.'
['MS.' and 'British Bards.']]
[Footnote lxx:
'See Clarke still striving piteously to please
Forgets that Doggrel leads not to degrees.--'
['MS. Fragment' bound up with 'British Bards'.]
[Footnote lxxi:
'So sunk in dullness and so lost in shame
That Smythe and Hodgson scarce redeem thy fame.--'
['MS. Addition to British Bards. First to Fourth Editions'.]]
[Footnote lxxii:
'----is wove.--'
[MS. British Bards' and 'First to Fourth Editions'.]]
[Footnote lxxiii:
'And modern Britons justly praise their sires.'--
['MS. British Bards' and 'First to Fourth Editions]]
[Footnote lxxiv:
'--what her sons must know too well.'
['British Bards]]
[Footnote lxxv:
'Zeal for her honour no malignant Rage,
Has bade me spurn the follies of the age.--'
['MS. British Bards'. First Edition]]
[Footnote lxxvi:
'--Ocean's lonely Queen.'
['British Bards']]
'--Ocean's mighty Queen.'
['First to Fourth Editions']]
[Footnote: lxxvii.
'Like these thy cliffs may sink in ruin hurled
The last white ramparts of a falling world'.--
['British Bards MS.']]
[Footnote: lxxviii.
'But should I back return, no lettered rage
Shall drag my common-place book on the stage:
Let vain Valentia [A] rival luckless Carr,
And equal him whose work he sought to mar.--'
['Second to Fourth Editions'.]
[Sub-Footnote: A. Lord Valentia (whose tremendous travels are
forthcoming with due decorations, graphical, topographical,
typographical) deposed, on Sir John Carr's unlucky suit, that Mr.
Dubois's satire prevented his purchase of 'The Stranger' in
Ireland.--Oh, fie, my lord! has your lordship no more feeling for a
fellow-tourist?--but "two of a trade," they say, etc. [George Annesley,
Viscount Valentia (1769-1844), published, in 1809, 'Voyages and Travels
to India, Ceylon, the Red Sea, Abyssinia, and Egypt in the Years
1802-6'. Byron calls him "vain" Valentia, because his "accounts of
ceremonies attending his lordship's interviews with several of the petty
princes" suggest the thought "that his principal errand to India was to
measure certain rank in the British peerage against the gradations of
Asiatic royalty."--'Eclectic Review', August, 1809. In August, 1808, Sir
John Carr, author of numerous 'Travels', brought an unsuccessful action
for damages against Messrs. Hood and Sharpe, the publishers of the
parody of his works by Edward Dubois,--'My Pocket Book: or Hints for a
Ryghte Merrie and Conceitede Tour, in 4to, to be called "The Stranger in
Ireland in 1805,"' By a Knight Errant, and dedicated to the papermakers.
(See Letter to Hodgson, August 6, 1809, and suppressed stanza (stanza
Ixxxvii.) of the first canto of 'Childe Harold'.)]]
[Footnote lxxix:
'To stun mankind, with Poesy or Prose'.
['Second to Fourth Editions'.]
[Footnote lxxx:
'Thus much I've dared to do, how far my lay'.--
['First to Fourth Editions'.]]
POSTSCRIPT TO THE SECOND EDITION.
I have been informed, since the present edition went to the press, that
my trusty and well-beloved cousins, the Edinburgh Reviewers, are
preparing a most vehement critique on my poor, gentle, 'unresisting'
Muse, whom they have already so be-deviled with their ungodly ribaldry;
"Tant鎛e animis coelestibus Ir?"
I suppose I must say of JEFFREY as Sir ANDREW AGUECHEEK saith, "an I had
known he was so cunning of fence, I had seen him damned ere I had fought
him." What a pity it is that I shall be beyond the Bosphorus before the
next number has passed the Tweed! But I yet hope to light my pipe with
it in Persia. [1]
My Northern friends have accused me, with justice, of personality
towards their great literary Anthropophagus, Jeffery; but what else was
to be done with him and his dirty pack, who feed by "lying and
slandering," and slake their thirst by "evil speaking"? I have adduced
facts already well known, and of JEFFREY's mind I have stated my free
opinion, nor has he thence sustained any injury:--what scavenger was
ever soiled by being pelted with mud? It may be said that I quit England
because I have censured there "persons of honour and wit about town;"
but I am coming back again, and their vengeance will keep hot till my
return. Those who know me can testify that my motives for leaving
England are very different from fears, literary or personal: those who
do not, may one day be convinced. Since the publication of this thing,
my name has not been concealed; I have been mostly in London, ready to
answer for my transgressions, and in daily expectation of sundry
cartels; but, alas! "the age of chivalry is over," or, in the vulgar
tongue, there is no spirit now-a-days.
There is a youth ycleped Hewson Clarke (subaudi 'esquire'), a sizer of
Emanuel College, and, I believe, a denizen of Berwick-upon-Tweed, whom I
have introduced in these pages to much better company than he has been
accustomed to meet; he is, notwithstanding, a very sad dog, and for no
reason that I can discover, except a personal quarrel with a bear, kept
by me at Cambridge to sit for a fellowship, and whom the jealousy of his
Trinity contemporaries prevented from success, has been abusing me, and,
what is worse, the defenceless innocent above mentioned, in the
'Satirist' for one year and some months. I am utterly unconscious of
having given him any provocation; indeed, I am guiltless of having heard
his name, till coupled with the 'Satirist'. He has therefore no reason
to complain, and I dare say that, like Sir Fretful Plagiary, he is
rather 'pleased' than otherwise. I have now mentioned all who have done
me the honour to notice me and mine, that is, my bear and my book,
except the editor of the 'Satirist', who, it seems, is a gentleman--God
wot! I wish he could impart a little of his gentility to his subordinate
scribblers. I hear that Mr. JERNINGHAM[1] is about to take up the
cudgels for his M鎐enas, Lord Carlisle. I hope not: he was one of the
few, who, in the very short intercourse I had with him, treated me with
kindness when a boy; and whatever he may say or do, "pour on, I will
endure." I have nothing further to add, save a general note of
thanksgiving to readers, purchasers, and publishers, and, in the words
of SCOTT, I wish
"To all and each a fair good night,
And rosy dreams and slumbers light."
[Footnote 1: The article never appeared, and Lord Byron, in the 'Hints
from Horace', taunted Jeffrey with a silence which seemed to indicate
that the critic was beaten from the field.]
[Footnote 2: Edward Jerningham (1727-1812), third son of Sir George
Jerningham, Bart., was an indefatigable versifier. Between the
publication of his first poem, 'The Nunnery', in 1766, and his last,
'The Old Bard's Farewell', in 1812, he sent to the press no less than
thirty separate compositions. As a contributor to the 'British Album',
Gifford handled him roughly in the 'Baviad' (lines 21, 22); and Mathias,
in a note to 'Pursuits of Literature', brackets him with Payne Knight as
"ecrivain du commun et po雝e vulgaire." He was a dandy with a literary
turn, who throughout a long life knew every one who was worth knowing.
Some of his letters have recently been published (see 'Jerningham
Letters', two vols., 1896).]
HINTS FROM HORACE: [i]
BEING AN ALLUSION IN ENGLISH VERSE TO THE EPISTLE
"AD PISONES, DE ARTE POETIC?"
AND INTENDED AS A SEQUEL TO "ENGLISH BARDS, AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS."
----"Ergo fungar vice cotis, acutum
Reddere qu?ferrum valet, exsors ipsa secandi."
HOR. 'De Arte Poet'., II. 304 and 305.
"Rhymes are difficult things--they are stubborn things, Sir."
FIELDING'S 'Amelia', Vol. iii. Book; and Chap. v.
[Footnote i:
Hints from Horace (Athens, Capuchin Convent, March 12, 1811); being an
Imitation in English Verse from the Epistle, etc.
[MS, M.]
Hints from Horace: being a Partial Imitation, in English Verse, of the
Epistle 'Ad Pisones, De Arte Poetic?; and intended as a sequel to
'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers'.
Athens, Franciscan Convent, March 12, 1811.
['Proof b'.]]
INTRODUCTION TO HINTS FROM HORACE
Three MSS. of 'Hints from Horace' are extant, two in the possession of
Lord Lovelace (MSS. L. a and b), and a third in the possession of Mr.
Murray ('MS. M'.).
Proofs of lines 173-272 and 1-272 ('Proofs a, b'), are among the Egerton
MSS. in the British Museum. They were purchased from the Rev. Alexander
Dallas, January 12, 1867, and are, doubtless, fragments of the proofs
set up in type for Cawthorn in 1811. They are in "book-form," and show
that the volume was intended to be uniform with the Fifth Edition of
'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', of 1811. The text corresponds
closely but not exactly with that adopted by Murray in 1831, and does
not embody the variants of the several MSS. It is probable that complete
proofs were in Moore's possession at the time when he included the
_select_ions from the 'Hints' in his 'Letters and Journals', pp. 263-269,
and that the text of the entire poem as published in 1831 was derived
from this source. _Select_ions, numbering in all 156 lines, had already
appeared in 'Recollections of the Life of Lord Byron', by R. C. Dallas,
1824, pp. 104-113. Byron, estimating the merit by the difficulty of the
performance, rated the 'Hints from Horace' extravagantly high. He only
forbore to publish them after the success of 'Childe Harold', because he
felt, as he states, that he should be "heaping coals of fire upon his
head" if he were in his hour of triumph to put forth a sequel to a
lampoon provoked by failure. Nine years afterwards, when he resolved to
print the work with some omissions, he gravely maintained that it
excelled the productions of his mature genius. "As far," he said, "as
versification goes, it is good; and on looking back at what I wrote
about that period, I am astonished to see how little I have trained on.
I wrote better then than now; but that comes of my having fallen into
the atrocious bad taste of the times" [September 23, 1820]. The opinion
of J. C. Hobhouse that the 'Hints' would require "a good deal of
slashing" to adapt them to the passing hour, and other considerations,
again led Byron to suspend the publication. Authors are frequently bad
judges of their own works, but of all the literary hallucinations upon
record there are none which exceed the mistaken preferences of Lord
Byron. Shortly after the appearance of 'The Corsair' he fancied that
'English Bards' was still his masterpiece; when all his greatest works
had been produced, he contended that his translation from Pulci was his
"grand performance,--the best thing he ever did in his life;" and
throughout the whole of his literary career he regarded these 'Hints
from Horace' with a special and unchanging fondness.
HINTS FROM HORACE
ATHENS: CAPUCHIN CONVENT, March. 12, 1811. [i]
Who would not laugh, if Lawrence [1], hired to grace [ii]
His costly canvas with each flattered face,
Abused his art, till Nature, with a blush,
Saw cits grow Centaurs underneath his brush?
Or, should some limner join, for show or sale,
A Maid of Honour to a Mermaid's tail? [iii]
Or low Dubost [2]--as once the world has seen--
Degrade God's creatures in his graphic spleen?
Not all that forced politeness, which defends
Fools in their faults, could gag his grinning friends. 10
Believe me, Moschus, like that picture seems [iv]
The book which, sillier than a sick man's dreams,
Displays a crowd of figures incomplete,
Poetic Nightmares, without head or feet.
Poets and painters, as all artists know, [v]
May shoot a little with a lengthened bow;
We claim this mutual mercy for our task,
And grant in turn the pardon which we ask;
But make not monsters spring from gentle dams--
Birds breed not vipers, tigers nurse not lambs. 20
A laboured, long Exordium, sometimes tends
(Like patriot speeches) but to paltry ends; [vi]
And nonsense in a lofty note goes down,
As Pertness passes with a legal gown: [vii]
Thus many a Bard describes in pompous strain [viii]
The clear brook babbling through the goodly plain:
The groves of Granta, and her Gothic halls,
King's Coll-Cam's stream-stained windows, and old walls:
Or, in adventurous numbers, neatly aims
To paint a rainbow, or the river Thames. [3] 30
You sketch a tree, and so perhaps may shine [ix]--
But daub a shipwreck like an alehouse sign;
You plan a _vase_--it dwindles to a _pot_;
Then glide down Grub-street--fasting and forgot:
Laughed into Lethe by some quaint Review,
Whose wit is never troublesome till--true.
In fine, to whatsoever you aspire,
Let it at least be simple and entire.
The greater portion of the rhyming tribe [x]
(Give ear, my friend, for thou hast been a scribe) 40
Are led astray by some peculiar lure. [xi]
I labour to be brief--become obscure;
One falls while following Elegance too fast;
Another soars, inflated with Bombast;
Too low a third crawls on, afraid to fly,
He spins his subject to Satiety;
Absurdly varying, he at last engraves
Fish in the woods, and boars beneath the waves! [xii]
Unless your care's exact, your judgment nice,
The flight from Folly leads but into Vice; 50
None are complete, all wanting in some part,
Like certain tailors, limited in art.
For galligaskins Slowshears is your man [xiii]
But coats must claim another artisan. [4]
Now this to me, I own, seems much the same
As Vulcan's feet to bear Apollo's frame;
Or, with a fair complexion, to expose
Black eyes, black ringlets, but--a bottle nose!
Dear Authors! suit your topics to your strength,
And ponder well your subject, and its length; 60
Nor lift your load, before you're quite aware
What weight your shoulders will, or will not, bear.
But lucid Order, and Wit's siren voice, [xiv]
Await the Poet, skilful in his choice;
With native Eloquence he soars along,
Grace in his thoughts, and Music in his song.
Let Judgment teach him wisely to combine
With future parts the now omitted line:
This shall the Author choose, or that reject,
Precise in style, and cautious to _select_; 70
Nor slight applause will candid pens afford
To him who furnishes a wanting word. [xv]
Then fear not, if 'tis needful, to produce
Some term unknown, or obsolete in use,
(As Pitt has furnished us a word or two, [5]
Which Lexicographers declined to do;)
So you indeed, with care,--(but be content
To take this license rarely)--may invent.
New words find credit in these latter days,
If neatly grafted on a Gallic phrase; [xvi] 80
What Chaucer, Spenser did, we scarce refuse
To Dryden's or to Pope's maturer Muse.
If you can add a little, say why not,
As well as William Pitt, and Walter Scott?
Since they, by force of rhyme and force of lungs, [xvii]
Enriched our Island's ill-united tongues;
'Tis then--and shall be--lawful to present
Reform in writing, as in Parliament.
As forests shed their foliage by degrees,
So fade expressions which in season please; 90
And we and ours, alas! are due to Fate,
And works and words but dwindle to a date.
Though as a Monarch nods, and Commerce calls, [xviii]
Impetuous rivers stagnate in canals;
Though swamps subdued, and marshes drained, sustain [xix]
The heavy ploughshare and the yellow grain,
And rising ports along the busy shore
Protect the vessel from old Ocean's roar,
All, all, must perish; but, surviving last,
The love of Letters half preserves the past. 100
True, some decay, yet not a few revive; [xx] [6]
Though those shall sink, which now appear to thrive,
As Custom arbitrates, whose shifting sway [xxi]
Our life and language must alike obey.
The immortal wars which Gods and Angels wage,
Are they not shown in Milton's sacred page?
His strain will teach what numbers best belong
To themes celestial told in Epic song. [xxii]
The slow, sad stanza will correctly paint
The Lover's anguish, or the Friend's complaint. 110
But which deserves the Laurel--Rhyme or Blank? [xxiii]
Which holds on Helicon the higher rank?
Let squabbling critics by themselves dispute
This point, as puzzling as a Chancery suit.
Satiric rhyme first sprang from selfish spleen.
You doubt--see Dryden, Pope, St. Patrick's Dean. [7]
Blank verse is now, with one consent, allied
To Tragedy, and rarely quits her side.
Though mad Almanzor [8] rhymed in Dryden's days,
No sing-song Hero rants in modern plays; 120
Whilst modest Comedy her verse foregoes
For jest and 'pun' [9] in very middling prose.
Not that our Bens or Beaumonts show the worse,
Or lose one point, because they wrote in verse.
But so Thalia pleases to appear, [xxiv]
Poor Virgin! damned some twenty times a year!
Whate'er the scene, let this advice have weight:--
Adapt your language to your Hero's state.
At times Melpomene forgets to groan,
And brisk Thalia takes a serious tone; 130
Nor unregarded will the act pass by
Where angry Townly [10] "lifts his voice on high."
Again, our Shakespeare limits verse to Kings,
When common prose will serve for common things;
And lively Hal resigns heroic ire, [xxv]--
To "hollaing Hotspur" [11] and his sceptred sire. [xxvi]
'Tis not enough, ye Bards, with all your art,
To polish poems; they must touch the heart:
Where'er the scene be laid, whate'er the song,
Still let it bear the hearer's soul along; 140
Command your audience or to smile or weep,
Whiche'er may please you--anything but sleep.
The Poet claims our tears; but, by his leave,
Before I shed them, let me see 'him' grieve.
If banished Romeo feigned nor sigh nor tear,
Lulled by his languor, I could sleep or sneer. [xxvii]
Sad words, no doubt, become a serious face,
And men look angry in the proper place.
At double meanings folks seem wondrous sly,
And Sentiment prescribes a pensive eye; 150
For Nature formed at first the inward man,
And actors copy Nature--when they can.
She bids the beating heart with rapture bound,
Raised to the Stars, or levelled with the ground;
And for Expression's aid, 'tis said, or sung, [xxviii]
She gave our mind's interpreter--the tongue,
Who, worn with use, of late would fain dispense
(At least in theatres) with common sense;
O'erwhelm with sound the Boxes, Gallery, Pit,
And raise a laugh with anything--but Wit. 160
To skilful writers it will much import,
Whence spring their scenes, from common life or Court;
Whether they seek applause by smile or tear,
To draw a Lying Valet, [12] or a Lear, [13]
A sage, or rakish youngster wild from school,
A wandering Peregrine, or plain John Bull;
All persons please when Nature's voice prevails,
Scottish or Irish, born in Wilts or Wales.
Or follow common fame, or forge a plot; [xxix]
Who cares if mimic heroes lived or not! 170
One precept serves to regulate the scene:
Make it appear as if it _might_ have _been_.
If some Drawcansir [14] you aspire to draw,
Present him raving, and above all law:
If female furies in your scheme are planned,
Macbeth's fierce dame is ready to your hand;
For tears and treachery, for good and evil,
Constance, King Richard, Hamlet, and the Devil!
But if a new design you dare essay,
And freely wander from the beaten way, 180
True to your characters, till all be past,
Preserve consistency from first to last.
Tis hard [15] to venture where our betters fail, [xxx]
Or lend fresh interest to a twice-told tale;
And yet, perchance,'tis wiser to prefer
A hackneyed plot, than choose a new, and err;
Yet copy not too closely, but record,
More justly, thought for thought than word for word;
Nor trace your Prototype through narrow ways,
But only follow where he merits praise. 190
For you, young Bard! whom luckless fate may lead [16]
To tremble on the nod of all who read,
Ere your first score of cantos Time unrolls, [xxxi]
Beware--for God's sake, don't begin like Bowles!
"Awake a louder and a loftier strain," [17]--
And pray, what follows from his boiling brain?--
He sinks to Southey's level in a trice,
Whose Epic Mountains never fail in mice!
Not so of yore awoke your mighty Sire
The tempered warblings of his master-lyre; 200
Soft as the gentler breathing of the lute,
"Of Man's first disobedience and the fruit"
He speaks, but, as his subject swells along,
Earth, Heaven, and Hades echo with the song."[xxxii]
Still to the "midst of things" he hastens on,
As if we witnessed all already done; [xxxiii]
Leaves on his path whatever seems too mean
To raise the subject, or adorn the scene;
Gives, as each page improves upon the sight,
Not smoke from brightness, but from darkness--light; 210
And truth and fiction with such art compounds,
We know not where to fix their several bounds.
If you would please the Public, deign to hear
What soothes the many-headed monster's ear: [xxxiv]
If your heart triumph when the hands of all
Applaud in thunder at the curtain's fall,
Deserve those plaudits--study Nature's page,
And sketch the striking traits of every age;
While varying Man and varying years unfold
Life's little tale, so oft, so vainly told; 220
Observe his simple childhood's dawning days,
His pranks, his prate, his playmates, and his plays:
Till time at length the mannish tyro weans,
And prurient vice outstrips his tardy teens! [xxxv]
Behold him Freshman! forced no more to groan [xxxvi]
O'er Virgil's [18] devilish verses and his own;
Prayers are too tedious, Lectures too abstruse,
He flies from Tavell's frown to "Fordham's Mews;"
(Unlucky Tavell! [19] doomed to daily cares [xxxvii]
By pugilistic pupils, and by bears,) 230
Fines, Tutors, tasks, Conventions threat in vain,
Before hounds, hunters, and Newmarket Plain.
Rough with his elders, with his equals rash,
Civil to sharpers, prodigal of cash;
Constant to nought--save hazard and a whore, [xxxviii]
Yet cursing both--for both have made him sore:
Unread (unless since books beguile disease,
The P----x becomes his passage to Degrees);
Fooled, pillaged, dunned, he wastes his terms away, [xxxix]
And unexpelled, perhaps, retires M.A.; 240
Master of Arts! as _hells_ and _clubs_ [20] proclaim, [xl]
Where scarce a blackleg bears a brighter name!
Launched into life, extinct his early fire,
He apes the selfish prudence of his Sire;
Marries for money, chooses friends for rank,
Buys land, and shrewdly trusts not to the Bank;
Sits in the Senate; gets a son and heir;
Sends him to Harrow--for himself was there.
Mute, though he votes, unless when called to cheer,
His son's so sharp--he'll see the dog a Peer! 250
Manhood declines--Age palsies every limb;
He quits the scene--or else the scene quits him;
Scrapes wealth, o'er each departing penny grieves, [xli]
And Avarice seizes all Ambition leaves;
Counts cent per cent, and smiles, or vainly frets,
O'er hoards diminished by young Hopeful's debts;
Weighs well and wisely what to sell or buy,
Complete in all life's lessons--but to die;
Peevish and spiteful, doting, hard to please,
Commending every time, save times like these; 260
Crazed, querulous, forsaken, half forgot,
Expires unwept--is buried--Let him rot!
But from the Drama let me not digress,
Nor spare my precepts, though they please you less. [xlii]
Though Woman weep, and hardest hearts are stirred, [xliii]
When what is done is rather seen than heard,
Yet many deeds preserved in History's page
Are better told than acted on the stage;
The ear sustains what shocks the timid eye,
And Horror thus subsides to Sympathy, 270
True Briton all beside, I here am French--
Bloodshed 'tis surely better to retrench:
The gladiatorial gore we teach to flow
In tragic scenes disgusts though but in show;
We hate the carnage while we see the trick,
And find small sympathy in being sick.
Not on the stage the regicide Macbeth
Appals an audience with a Monarch's death; [xliv]
To gaze when sable Hubert threats to sear
Young Arthur's eyes, can _ours_ or _Nature_ bear? 280
A haltered heroine [21] Johnson sought to slay--
We saved Irene, but half damned the play,
And (Heaven be praised!) our tolerating times
Stint Metamorphoses to Pantomimes;
And Lewis' [22] self, with all his sprites, would quake
To change Earl Osmond's negro to a snake!
Because, in scenes exciting joy or grief,
We loathe the action which exceeds belief:
And yet, God knows! what may not authors do,
Whose Postscripts prate of dyeing "heroines blue"? [23] 290
Above all things, _Dan_ Poet, if you can,
Eke out your acts, I pray, with mortal man,
Nor call a ghost, unless some cursed scrape [xlv]
Must open ten trap-doors for your escape.
Of all the monstrous things I'd fain forbid,
I loathe an Opera worse than Dennis did; [24]
Where good and evil persons, right or wrong,
Rage, love, and aught but moralise--in song.
Hail, last memorial of our foreign friends, [xlvi]
Which Gaul allows, and still Hesperia lends! 300
Napoleon's edicts no embargo lay
On whores--spies--singers--wisely shipped away.
Our giant Capital, whose squares are spread [xlvii]
Where rustics earned, and now may beg, their bread,
In all iniquity is grown so nice,
It scorns amusements which are not of price.
Hence the pert shopkeeper, whose throbbing ear
Aches with orchestras which he pays to hear, [xlviii]
Whom shame, not sympathy, forbids to snore,
His anguish doubling by his own "encore;" [xlix] 310
Squeezed in "Fop's Alley," [25] jostled by the beaux,
Teased with his hat, and trembling for his toes;
Scarce wrestles through the night, nor tastes of ease,
Till the dropped curtain gives a glad release:
Why this, and more, he suffers--can ye guess?--
Because it costs him dear, and makes him dress! [26]
So prosper eunuchs from Etruscan schools;
Give us but fiddlers, and they're sure of fools!
Ere scenes were played by many a reverend clerk, [l] [27]
(What harm, if David danced before the ark?) [li] 320
In Christmas revels, simple country folks
Were pleased with morrice-mumm'ry and coarse jokes.
Improving years, with things no longer known,
Produced blithe Punch and merry Madame Joan,
Who still frisk on with feats so lewdly low, [lii]
'Tis strange Benvolio [28] suffers such a show;
Suppressing peer! to whom each vice gives place, [liii]
Oaths, boxing, begging--all, save rout and race.
Farce followed Comedy, and reached her prime,
In ever-laughing Foote's fantastic time: [29] 330
Mad wag! who pardoned none, nor spared the best,
And turned some very serious things to jest.
Nor Church nor State escaped his public sneers,
Arms nor the Gown--Priests--Lawyers--Volunteers:
"Alas, poor Yorick!" now for ever mute!
Whoever loves a laugh must sigh for Foote.
We smile, perforce, when histrionic scenes
Ape the swoln dialogue of Kings and Queens,
When "Crononhotonthologos must die," [30]
And Arthur struts in mimic majesty. 340
Moschus! with whom once more I hope to sit, [liv]
And smile at folly, if we can't at wit;
Yes, Friend! for thee I'll quit my cynic cell,
And bear Swift's motto, "Vive la bagatelle!"
Which charmed our days in each 苂ean clime,
As oft at home, with revelry and rhyme.
Then may Euphrosyne, who sped the past,
Soothe thy Life's scenes, nor leave thee in the last;
But find in thine--like pagan Plato's bed, [lv] [31]
Some merry Manuscript of Mimes, when dead. 350
Now to the Drama let us bend our eyes,
Where fettered by whig Walpole low she lies; [32]
Corruption foiled her, for she feared her glance;
Decorum left her for an Opera dance!
Yet Chesterfield, [33] whose polished pen inveighs
'Gainst laughter, fought for freedom to our Plays;
Unchecked by Megrims of patrician brains,
And damning Dulness of Lord Chamberlains.
Repeal that act! again let Humour roam
Wild o'er the stage--we've time for tears at home; 360
Let Archer [34] plant the horns on Sullen's brows,
And Estifania gull her "Copper" [35] spouse;
The moral's scant--but that may be excused,
Men go not to be lectured, but amused.
He whom our plays dispose to Good or Ill
Must wear a head in want of Willis' skill; [36]
Aye, but Macheath's example--psha!--no more!
It formed no thieves--the thief was formed before; [37]
And spite of puritans and Collier's curse, [lvi]
Plays make mankind no better, and no worse. [38] 370
Then spare our stage, ye methodistic men!
Nor burn damned Drury if it rise again. [39]
But why to brain-scorched bigots thus appeal?
Can heavenly Mercy dwell with earthly Zeal?
For times of fire and faggot let them hope!
Times dear alike to puritan or Pope.
As pious Calvin saw Servetus blaze,
So would new sects on newer victims gaze.
E'en now the songs of Solyma begin;
Faith cants, perplexed apologist of Sin! 380
While the Lord's servant chastens whom he loves,
And Simeon kicks, [40] where Baxter only "shoves."[41]
Whom Nature guides, so writes, that every dunce [lvii],
Enraptured, thinks to do the same at once;
But after inky thumbs and bitten nails [lviii],
And twenty scattered quires, the coxcomb fails.
Let Pastoral be dumb; for who can hope
To match the youthful eclogues of our Pope?
Yet his and Philips' [42] faults, of different kind,
For Art too rude, for Nature too refined, [lix] 390
Instruct how hard the medium 'tis to hit
'Twixt too much polish and too coarse a wit.
A vulgar scribbler, certes, stands disgraced
In this nice age, when all aspire to taste;
The dirty language, and the noisome jest,
Which pleased in Swift of yore, we now detest;
Proscribed not only in the world polite [lx],
But even too nasty for a City Knight!
Peace to Swift's faults! his wit hath made them pass,
Unmatched by all, save matchless Hudibras! 400
Whose author is perhaps the first we meet,
Who from our couplet lopped two final feet;
Nor less in merit than the longer line,
This measure moves a favourite of the Nine.
Though at first view eight feet may seem in vain
Formed, save in Ode, to bear a serious strain [lxi],
Yet Scott has shown our wondering isle of late
This measure shrinks not from a theme of weight,
And, varied skilfully, surpasses far
Heroic rhyme, but most in Love and War, 410
Whose fluctuations, tender or sublime,
Are curbed too much by long-recurring rhyme.
But many a skilful judge abhors to see,
What few admire--irregularity.
This some vouchsafe to pardon; but 'tis hard
When such a word contents a British Bard.
And must the Bard his glowing thoughts confine, [lxii]
Lest Censure hover o'er some faulty line?
Remove whate'er a critic may suspect,
To gain the paltry suffrage of "Correct"? 420
Or prune the spirit of each daring phrase,
To fly from Error, not to merit Praise?
Ye, who seek finished models, never cease [lxiii],
By day and night, to read the works of Greece.
But our good Fathers never bent their brains
To heathen Greek, content with native strains.
The few who read a page, or used a pen,
Were satisfied with Chaucer and old Ben;
The jokes and numbers suited to their taste
Were quaint and careless, anything but chaste; 430
Yet, whether right or wrong the ancient rules,
It will not do to call our Fathers fools!
Though you and I, who eruditely know
To separate the elegant and low,
Can also, when a hobbling line appears,
Detect with fingers--in default of ears.
In sooth I do not know, or greatly care
To learn, who our first English strollers were;
Or if, till roofs received the vagrant art,
Our Muse, like that of Thespis, kept a cart; 440
But this is certain, since our Shakespeare's days,
There's pomp enough--if little else--in plays;
Nor will Melpomene ascend her Throne [lxiv]
Without high heels, white plume, and Bristol stone.
Old Comedies still meet with much applause,
Though too licentious for dramatic laws;
At least, we moderns, wisely, 'tis confest,
Curtail, or silence, the lascivious jest [lxv].
Whate'er their follies, and their faults beside,
Our enterprising Bards pass nought untried; 450
Nor do they merit slight applause who choose
An English subject for an English Muse,
And leave to minds which never dare invent
French flippancy and German sentiment.
Where is that living language which could claim
Poetic more, as philosophic, fame,
If all our Bards, more patient of delay,
Would stop, like Pope, to polish by the way? [43]
Lords of the quill, whose critical assaults
O'erthrow whole quartos with their quires of faults [lxvi], 460
Who soon detect, and mark where'er we fail,
And prove our marble with too nice a nail!
Democritus himself was not so bad;
He only 'thought'--but 'you' would make us--mad!
But truth to say, most rhymers rarely guard
Against that ridicule they deem so hard;
In person negligent, they wear, from sloth,
Beards of a week, and nails of annual growth;
Reside in garrets, fly from those they meet,
And walk in alleys rather than the street. 470
With little rhyme, less reason, if you please,
The name of Poet may be got with ease,
So that not tuns of helleboric juice [lxvii]
Shall ever turn your head to any use;
Write but like Wordsworth--live beside a lake,
And keep your bushy locks a year from Blake; [44]
Then print your book, once more return to town,
And boys shall hunt your Bardship up and down. [45]
Am I not wise, if such some poets' plight,
To purge in spring--like Bayes [46]--before I write? 480
If this precaution softened not my bile,
I know no scribbler with a madder style;
But since (perhaps my feelings are too nice)
I cannot purchase Fame at such a price,
I'll labour gratis as a grinders' wheel, [lxviii]
And, blunt myself, give edge to other's steel,
Nor write at all, unless to teach the art
To those rehearsing for the Poet's part;
From Horace show the pleasing paths of song, [lxix],
And from my own example--what is wrong. 490
Though modern practice sometimes differs quite,
'Tis just as well to think before you write;
Let every book that suits your theme be read,
So shall you trace it to the fountain-head.
He who has learned the duty which he owes
To friends and country, and to pardon foes;
Who models his deportment as may best
Accord with Brother, Sire, or Stranger-guest;
Who takes our Laws and Worship as they are,
Nor roars reform for Senate, Church, and Bar; 500
In practice, rather than loud precept, wise,
Bids not his tongue, but heart, philosophize:
Such is the man the Poet should rehearse,
As joint exemplar of his life and verse.
Sometimes a sprightly wit, and tale well told,
Without much grace, or weight, or art, will hold
A longer empire o'er the public mind
Than sounding trifles, empty, though refined.
Unhappy Greece! thy sons of ancient days
The Muse may celebrate with perfect praise, 510
Whose generous children narrowed not their hearts
With Commerce, given alone to Arms and Arts. [lxx]
Our boys (save those whom public schools compel
To "Long and Short" before they're taught to spell)
From frugal fathers soon imbibe by rote,
"A penny saved, my lad, 's a penny got."
Babe of a city birth! from sixpence take [lxxi]
The third, how much will the remainder make?--
"A groat."--"Ah, bravo! Dick hath done the sum! [lxxii]
He'll swell my fifty thousand to a Plum." [47] 520
They whose young souls receive this rust betimes,
'Tis clear, are fit for anything but rhymes;
And Locke will tell you, that the father's right
Who hides all verses from his children's sight;
For Poets (says this Sage [48], and many more,)
Make sad mechanics with their lyric lore: [lxxiii]
And Delphi now, however rich of old,
Discovers little silver, and less gold,
Because Parnassus, though a Mount divine,
Is poor as Irus, [49] or an Irish mine. [lxxiv] [50] 530
Two objects always should the Poet move,
Or one or both,--to please or to improve.
Whate'er you teach, be brief, if you design
For our remembrance your didactic line;
Redundance places Memory on the rack,
For brains may be o'erloaded, like the back. [lxxv]
Fiction does best when taught to look like Truth,
And fairy fables bubble none but youth:
Expect no credit for too wondrous tales,
Since Jonas only springs alive from Whales! 540
Young men with aught but Elegance dispense;
Maturer years require a little Sense.
To end at once:--that Bard for all is fit [lxxvi]
Who mingles well instruction with his wit;
For him Reviews shall smile; for him o'erflow
The patronage of Paternoster-row;
His book, with Longman's liberal aid, shall pass
(Who ne'er despises books that bring him brass);
Through three long weeks the taste of London lead,
And cross St. George's Channel and the Tweed. 550
But every thing has faults, nor is't unknown
That harps and fiddles often lose their tone,
And wayward voices, at their owner's call,
With all his best endeavours, only squall;
Dogs blink their covey, flints withhold the spark,
And double-barrels (damn them!) miss their mark. [lxxvii] [51]
Where frequent beauties strike the reader's view,
We must not quarrel for a blot or two;
But pardon equally to books or men,
The slips of Human Nature, and the Pen. 560
Yet if an author, spite of foe or friend,
Despises all advice too much to mend,
But ever twangs the same discordant string,
Give him no quarter, howsoe'er he sing.
Let Havard's [52] fate o'ertake him, who, for once,
Produced a play too dashing for a dunce:
At first none deemed it his; but when his name
Announced the fact--what then?--it lost its fame.
Though all deplore when Milton deigns to doze, [lxxviii]
In a long work 'tis fair to steal repose. 570
As Pictures, so shall Poems be; some stand
The critic eye, and please when near at hand; [lxxix]
But others at a distance strike the sight;
This seeks the shade, but that demands the light,
Nor dreads the connoisseur's fastidious view,
But, ten times scrutinised, is ten times new.
Parnassian pilgrims! ye whom chance, or choice, [lxxx]
Hath led to listen to the Muse's voice,
Receive this counsel, and be timely wise;
Few reach the Summit which before you lies. 580
Our Church and State, our Courts and Camps, concede
Reward to very moderate heads indeed!
In these plain common sense will travel far;
All are not Erskines who mislead the Bar: [lxxxi] [53]
But Poesy between the best and worst
No medium knows; you must be last or first;
For middling Poets' miserable volumes
Are damned alike by Gods, and Men, and Columns. [lxxxii]
Again, my Jeffrey--as that sound inspires, [54]
How wakes my bosom to its wonted fires! 590
Fires, such as gentle Caledonians feel
When Southrons writhe upon their critic wheel,
Or mild Eclectics, [55] when some, worse than Turks,
Would rob poor Faith to decorate "Good Works."
Such are the genial feelings them canst claim--
My Falcon flies not at ignoble game.
Mightiest of all Dunedin's beasts of chase!
For thee my Pegasus would mend his pace.
Arise, my Jeffrey! or my inkless pen
Shall never blunt its edge on meaner men; 600
Till thee or thine mine evil eye discerns,
"Alas! I cannot strike at wretched kernes." [56]
Inhuman Saxon! wilt thou then resign
A Muse and heart by choice so wholly thine?
Dear d--d contemner of my schoolboy songs,
Hast thou no vengeance for my Manhood's wrongs?
If unprovoked thou once could bid me bleed,
Hast thou no weapon for my daring deed?
What! not a word!--and am I then so low?
Wilt thou forbear, who never spared a foe? 610
Hast thou no wrath, or wish to give it vent?
No wit for Nobles, Dunces by descent?
No jest on "minors," quibbles on a name, [57]
Nor one facetious paragraph of blame?
Is it for this on Ilion I have stood,
And thought of Homer less than Holyrood?
On shore of Euxine or 苂ean sea,
My hate, untravelled, fondly turned to thee.
Ah! let me cease! in vain my bosom burns,
From Corydon unkind Alexis turns: [58] 620
Thy rhymes are vain; thy Jeffrey then forego,
Nor woo that anger which he will not show.
What then?--Edina starves some lanker son,
To write an article thou canst not shun;
Some less fastidious Scotchman shall be found,
As bold in Billingsgate, though less renowned.
As if at table some discordant dish, [59]
Should shock our optics, such as frogs for fish;
As oil in lieu of butter men decry,
And poppies please not in a modern pie; [lxxxiii] 630
If all such mixtures then be half a crime,
We must have Excellence to relish rhyme.
Mere roast and boiled no Epicure invites;
Thus Poetry disgusts, or else delights.
Who shoot not flying rarely touch a gun:
Will he who swims not to the river run?
And men unpractised in exchanging knocks
Must go to Jackson [60] ere they dare to box.
Whate'er the weapon, cudgel, fist, or foil,
None reach expertness without years of toil; 640
But fifty dunces can, with perfect ease,
Tag twenty thousand couplets, when they please.
Why not?--shall I, thus qualified to sit
For rotten boroughs, never show my wit?
Shall I, whose fathers with the "Quorum" sate, [lxxxiv]
And lived in freedom on a fair estate;
Who left me heir, with stables, kennels, packs, [lxxxv]
To 'all' their income, and to--'twice' its tax;
Whose form and pedigree have scarce a fault,
Shall I, I say, suppress my Attic Salt? 650
Thus think "the Mob of Gentlemen;" but you,
Besides all this, must have some Genius too.
Be this your sober judgment, and a rule,
And print not piping hot from Southey's school,
Who (ere another Thalaba appears),
I trust, will spare us for at least nine years.
And hark'ye, Southey! [61] pray--but don't be vexed--
Burn all your last three works--and half the next.
But why this vain advice? once published, books
Can never be recalled--from pastry-cooks! [lxxxvi] 660
Though "Madoc," with "Pucelle," [62] instead of Punk,
May travel back to Quito--on a trunk! [63]
Orpheus, we learn from Ovid and Lempriere,
Led all wild beasts but Women by the ear;
And had he fiddled at the present hour,
We'd seen the Lions waltzing in the Tower; [64]
And old Amphion, such were minstrels then,
Had built St. Paul's without the aid of Wren.
Verse too was Justice, and the Bards of Greece
Did more than constables to keep the peace; 670
Abolished cuckoldom with much applause,
Called county meetings, and enforced the laws,
Cut down crown influence with reforming scythes,
And served the Church--without demanding tithes;
And hence, throughout all Hellas and the East,
Each Poet was a Prophet and a Priest,
Whose old-established Board of Joint Controls [65]
Included kingdoms in the cure of souls.
Next rose the martial Homer, Epic's prince,
And Fighting's been in fashion ever since; 680
And old Tyrt鎢s, when the Spartans warred,
(A limping leader, but a lofty bard) [lxxxvii]
Though walled Ithome had resisted long,
Reduced the fortress by the force of song.
When Oracles prevailed, in times of old,
In song alone Apollo's will was told. [lxxxviii]
Then if your verse is what all verse should be,
And Gods were not ashamed on't, why should we?
The Muse, like mortal females, may be wooed; [66]
In turns she'll seem a Paphian, or a prude; 690
Fierce as a bride when first she feels affright,
Mild as the same upon the second night;
Wild as the wife of Alderman or Peer,
Now for His Grace, and now a grenadier!
Her eyes beseem, her heart belies, her zone--
Ice in a crowd--and Lava when alone.
If Verse be studied with some show of Art.
Kind Nature always will perform her part;
Though without Genius, and a native vein
Of wit, we loathe an artificial strain, 700
Yet Art and Nature joined will win the prize,
Unless they act like us and our allies.
The youth who trains to ride, or run a race,
Must bear privations with unruffled face,
Be called to labour when he thinks to dine,
And, harder still, leave wenching and his wine.
Ladies who sing, at least who sing at sight,
Have followed Music through her farthest flight; [lxxxix]
But rhymers tell you neither more nor less,
"I've got a pretty poem for the Press;" 710
And that's enough; then write and print so fast;--
If Satan take the hindmost, who'd be last?
They storm the Types, they publish, one and all, [xc] [67]
They leap the counter, and they leave the stall.
Provincial Maidens, men of high command,
Yea! Baronets have inked the bloody hand!
Cash cannot quell them; Pollio played this prank, [xci]
(Then Phoebus first found credit in a Bank!)
Not all the living only, but the dead,
Fool on, as fluent as an Orpheus' Head; [68] 720
Damned all their days, they posthumously thrive,
Dug up from dust, though buried when alive!
Reviews record this epidemic crime,
Those Books of Martyrs to the rage for rhyme.
Alas! woe worth the scribbler! often seen
In Morning Post, or Monthly Magazine.
There lurk his earlier lays; but soon, hot pressed, [xcii]
Behold a Quarto!--Tarts must tell the rest.
Then leave, ye wise, the Lyre's precarious chords
To muse-mad baronets, or madder lords, [cxiii] 730
Or country Crispins, now grown somewhat stale,
Twin Doric minstrels, drunk with Doric ale!
Hark to those notes, narcotically soft!
The Cobbler-Laureats [69] sing to Capel Lofft! [70]
Till, lo! that modern Midas, as he hears, [xciv]
Adds an ell growth to his egregious ears! [xcv]
There lives one Druid, who prepares in time [71]
'Gainst future feuds his poor revenge of rhyme;
Racks his dull Memory, and his duller Muse,
To publish faults which Friendship should excuse. 740
If Friendship's nothing, Self-regard might teach
More polished usage of his parts of speech.
But what is shame, or what is aught to him? [xcvi]
He vents his spleen, or gratifies his whim.
Some fancied slight has roused his lurking hate,
Some folly crossed, some jest, or some debate;
Up to his den Sir Scribbler hies, and soon
The gathered gall is voided in Lampoon.
Perhaps at some pert speech you've dared to frown,
Perhaps your Poem may have pleased the Town: 750
If so, alas! 'tis nature in the man--
May Heaven forgive you, for he never can!
Then be it so; and may his withering Bays
Bloom fresh in satire, though they fade in praise
While his lost songs no more shall steep and stink
The dullest, fattest weeds on Lethe's brink,
But springing upwards from the sluggish mould,
Be (what they never were before) be--sold!
Should some rich Bard (but such a monster now, [72]
In modern Physics, we can scarce allow), [xcvii] 760
Should some pretending scribbler of the Court,
Some rhyming Peer--there's plenty of the sort--[xcviii] [73]
All but one poor dependent priest withdrawn,
(Ah! too regardless of his Chaplain's yawn!)
Condemn the unlucky Curate to recite
Their last dramatic work by candle-light,
How would the preacher turn each rueful leaf,
Dull as his sermons, but not half so brief!
Yet, since 'tis promised at the Rector's death,
He'll risk no living for a little breath. 770
Then spouts and foams, and cries at every line,
(The Lord forgive him!) "Bravo! Grand! Divine!"
Hoarse with those praises (which, by Flatt'ry fed, [xcix]
Dependence barters for her bitter bread),
He strides and stamps along with creaking boot;
Till the floor echoes his emphatic foot,
Then sits again, then rolls his pious eye, [c]
As when the dying vicar will not die!
Nor feels, forsooth, emotion at his heart;--
But all Dissemblers overact their part. 780
Ye, who aspire to "build the lofty rhyme," [74]
Believe not all who laud your false "sublime;"
But if some friend shall hear your work, and say,
"Expunge that stanza, lop that line away,"
And, after fruitless efforts, you return
Without amendment, and he answers, "Burn!"
That instant throw your paper in the fire,
Ask not his thoughts, or follow his desire;
But (if true Bard!) you scorn to condescend, [ci]
And will not alter what you can't defend, 790
If you will breed this Bastard of your Brains, [75]
We'll have no words--I've only lost my pains.
Yet, if you only prize your favourite thought,
As critics kindly do, and authors ought;
If your cool friend annoy you now and then,
And cross whole pages with his plaguy pen;
No matter, throw your ornaments aside,--
Better let him than all the world deride.
Give light to passages too much in shade,
Nor let a doubt obscure one verse you've made; 800
Your friend's a "Johnson," not to leave one word,
However trifling, which may seem absurd;
Such erring trifles lead to serious ills,
And furnish food for critics, or their quills. [76]
As the Scotch fiddle, with its touching tune,
Or the sad influence of the angry Moon,
All men avoid bad writers' ready tongues,
As yawning waiters fly [77] Fitzscribble's lungs; [cii]
Yet on he mouths--ten minutes--tedious each [ciii] [78]
As Prelate's homily, or placeman's speech; 810
Long as the last years of a lingering lease,
When Riot pauses until Rents increase.
While such a minstrel, muttering fustian, strays
O'er hedge and ditch, through unfrequented ways,
If by some chance he walks into a well,
And shouts for succour with stentorian yell,
"A rope! help, Christians, as ye hope for grace!"
Nor woman, man, nor child will stir a pace;
For there his carcass he might freely fling, [civ]
From frenzy, or the humour of the thing. 820
Though this has happened to more Bards than one;
I'll tell you Budgell's story,--and have done.
Budgell, a rogue and rhymester, for no good,
(Unless his case be much misunderstood)
When teased with creditors' continual claims,
"To die like Cato," [79] leapt into the Thames!
And therefore be it lawful through the town
For any Bard to poison, hang, or drown.
Who saves the intended Suicide receives
Small thanks from him who loathes the life he leaves; [cv] 830
And, sooth to say, mad poets must not lose
The Glory of that death they freely choose.
Nor is it certain that some sorts of verse [cvi]
Prick not the Poet's conscience as a curse;
Dosed [80] with vile drams on Sunday he was found,
Or got a child on consecrated ground!
And hence is haunted with a rhyming rage--
Feared like a bear just bursting from his cage.
If free, all fly his versifying fit,
Fatal at once to Simpleton or Wit: 840
But 'him', unhappy! whom he seizes,--'him'
He flays with Recitation limb by limb;
Probes to the quick where'er he makes his breach,
And gorges like a Lawyer--or a Leech.
[The last page of 'MS. M.' is dated--
BYRON,
Capuchin Convent,
Athens. 'March 14th, 1811'.
The following memorandum, in Byron's handwriting, is also inscribed on
the last page:
"722 lines, and 4 _insert_ed after and now counted, in all 726.--B.
"Since this several lines are added.--B. June 14th, 1811.
"Copied fair at Malta, May 3rd, 1811.--B."
BYRON,
'March 11th and 12th',
Athens. 1811.
['MS. L. (a)'.]
BYRON, 'March 14th, 1811.'
Athens, Capuchin Convent.
['MS. L. (b)'.]]
[Footnote 1: Sir Thomas Lawrence (1769-1830) succeeded West as P.R.A. in
1820. Benjamin West (1738-1820) had been elected P.R.A. in 1792, on the
death of Sir Joshua Reynolds.]
[Footnote 2: In an English newspaper, which finds its way abroad
wherever there are Englishmen, I read an account of this dirty dauber's
caricature of Mr. H---as a "beast," and the consequent action, etc. The
circumstance is, probably, too well known to require further comment.
[Thomas Hope (1770-1831) was celebrated for his collections of pictures,
sculpture, and _bric-?brac_. He was the author of _Anastasius, or
Memoirs of a Greek, etc_., which was attributed to Byron, and, according
to Lady Blessington, excited his envy. "Low Dubost" was a French
painter, who, in revenge for some fancied injustice, caricatured Hope
and his wife as Beauty and the Beast. An exhibition of the sketch is
said to have brought in from twenty to thirty pounds a week. A brother
of Mrs. Hope (Louisa Beresford, daughter of Lord Decies, Archbishop of
Tuam) mutilated the picture, and, an action having been brought, was
ordered to pay a nominal sum of five pounds. Dubost's academy portrait
of Mrs. Hope did not please Peter Pindar.
"In Mistress Hope, Monsieur Dubost!
Thy Genius yieldeth up the Ghost."
_Works_ (1812), v. 372.]]
[Footnote 3:
"While pure Description held the place of Sense."--
Pope, _Prol. to the Sat.,_ L. 148.
"While Mr. Sol decked out all so glorious
Shines like a Beau in his Birthday Embroidery."
[Fielding, _Tom Thumb_, act i. sc. I.]--[_MS. M._]
"_Fas est et ab Hoste doceri._" In the 7th Art. of the 31st No. of the
_Edinburgh Review_ (vol. xvi. Ap. 1810) the "Observations" of an Oxford
Tutor are compared to "Children's Cradles" (page 181), then to a
"Barndoor fowl flying" (page 182), then the man himself to "a
Coach-horse on the Trottoir" (page 185) etc., etc., with a variety of
other conundrums all tending to prove that the ingenuity of comparison
increases in proportion to the dissimilarity between the things
compared.--[_MS. L. (b) erased._]]
[Footnote 4: Mere common mortals were commonly content with one Taylor
and with one bill, but the more particular gentlemen found it impossible
to confide their lower garments to the makers of their body clothes. I
speak of the beginning of 1809: what reform may have since taken place I
neither know, nor desire to know.--[_MSS. L. (b), M_.]]
[Footnote 5: Mr. Pitt was liberal in his additions to our Parliamentary
tongue; as may be seen in many publications, particularly the 'Edinburgh
Review'.
[The reference may be to financial terms, such as sinking fund (a phrase
not introduced by Pitt), the English equivalent of 'caisse
d'amortissement', or income tax ('imp魌 sur le revenu'), or to actual
French words such as 'chouannerie, projet', etc. But Pitt's "additions"
are unnoticed by Frere and other reporters and critics of his speeches.
For a satirical description of Pitt's words, "which are finer and longer
than can be conceived," see 'Rolliad', 1799; 'Political Miscellanies',
p. 421; and 'Political Eclogues', p. 195.
"And Billy best of all things loves--a trope."
Compare, too, Peter Pindar, "To Sylvanus Urban," 'Works' (1812), ii. 259.
"Lycurgus Pitt whose penetrating eyes
Behold the fount of Freedom in excise,
Whose 'patriot' logic possibly maintains
The 'identity' of 'liberty' and 'chains'."]]
[Footnote 6: Old ballads, old plays, and old women's stories, are at
present in as much request as old wine or new speeches. In fact, this is
the millennium of black letter: thanks to our Hebers, Webers, and
Scotts!
[Richard Heber (1773-1833), book-collector and man of letters, was
half-brother of the Bishop of Calcutta. He edited, 'inter alia',
'Specimens of the Early English Poets', by George Ellis, 3 vols., London:
1811.
W. H. Weber (1783-1818), a German by birth, was employed by Sir Walter
Scott as an amanuensis and "searcher." He edited, in 1810, 'Metrical
Romances of the 13th, 14th, and 15th Centuries', a work described by
Southey ('Letters', ii. 308) as "admirably edited, exceedingly curious,
and after my own heart." He also published editions of Ford, and
Beaumont and Fletcher, which were adversely criticized by Gifford. For
an account of his relations to Scott and of his melancholy end, see
Lockhart's 'Life of Scott' (1871), p. 251.]]
[Footnote 7: 'Mac Flecknoe', the 'Dunciad', and all Swift's lampooning
ballads. Whatever their other works may be, these originated in personal
feelings, and angry retort on unworthy rivals; and though the ability of
these satires elevates the poetical, their poignancy detracts from the
personal character of the writers.]
[Footnote 8: 'Almanzor: or the Conquest of Granada by the Spaniards', a
Tragedy by John Dryden. The bombastic character of the hero was severely
criticized in Dryden's own time, and was defended by him thus:
"'Tis said that Almanzor is no perfect pattern of heroic virtue, that
he is a contemner of kings, and that he is made to perform
impossibilities. I must therefore avow, in the first place, from
whence I took the character. The first image I had of him was from the
Achilles of Homer: the next from Tasso's Rinaldo, and the third from
the Artaban of Mons. Calpren鑔e.... He talks extravagantly in his
passion, but if I would take the trouble to quote from Ben Jonson's
Cethegus, I could easily show you that the rhodomontades of Almanzor
are neither so irrational as his nor so impossible to be put in
execution."
'An Essay on Heroic Plays. Works of John Dryden' (1821), iv. 23-25.]
[Footnote 9: With all the vulgar applause and critical abhorrence of
puns, they have Aristotle on their side; who permits them to orators,
and gives them consequence by a grave disquisition.
["Cicero also," says Addison, "has sprinkled several of his works with
them; and in his book on Oratory, quotes abundance of sayings as pieces
of wit, which, upon examination, prove arrant puns."--'Essay on Wit,
Works' (1888), ii. 354.]]
[Footnote 10: In Vanbrugh and Gibber's comedy of The Provoked Husband,
first played at Drury Lane, January 10, 1728.]]
[Footnote 11:
"And in his ear I'll holla--Mortimer!"
['I Henry IV'., act i. sc. 3.]]
[Footnote 12: Garrick's 'Lying Valet' was played for the first time at
Goodman's Fields, November 30, 1741.]
["Peregrine" is a character in George Colman's 'John Bull', or 'An
Englishman's Fire-Side', Covent Garden. March 5, 1803.] ]
[Footnote 13: I have Johnson's authority for making Lear a
monosyllable--
"Perhaps where Lear rav'd or Hamlet died
On flying cars new sorcerers may ride."
["Perhaps where Lear has rav'd, and Hamlet dy'd."
Prologue to 'Irene. Johnson's Works' (1806), i. 168.]
and (if it need be mentioned) the 'authority' of the epigram on Barry
and Garrick.--[Note 'erased, Proof b, British Museum'.]]
[Footnote 14:
"'Johnson'. Pray, Mr. Bayes, who is that Drawcansir?
'Bayes'. Why, Sir, a great [fierce] hero, that frights his mistress,
snubs up kings, baffles armies, and does what he will, without regard
to numbers, good sense, or justice [good manners, justice, or
numbers]."
'The Rehearsal', act iv. sc. I.
'The Rehearsal', by George Villiers, second Duke of Buckingham
(1627-1688), appeared in 1671. Sprat and others are said to have shared
the authorship. So popular was the play that "Drawcansir" passed into a
synonime for a braggadocio. It is believed that "Bayes" (that is, of
course, "laureate") was meant for a caricature of Dryden: "he himself
complains bitterly that it was so." (See 'Lives of the Poets' (1890), i.
386; and Boswell's 'Life of Johnson' (1876), p. 235, and 'note'.)]]
[Footnote 15:
"Difficile est proprie communia dicere; tuque
Rectius Iliacum carmen deducis in actus,
Quam si proferres ignota indictaque primus."
HOR: 'DE ARTE POET': 128-130.
Mons. Dacier, Mons. de S關ign? Boileau, and others, have left their
dispute on the meaning of this sentence in a tract considerably longer
than the poem of Horace. It is printed at the close of the eleventh
volume of Madame de S關ign?s Letters, edited by Grouvelle, Paris, 1806.
Presuming that all who can construe may venture an opinion on such
subjects, particularly as so many who _can't_ have taken the same
liberty, I should have held "my farthing candle" as awkwardly as
another, had not my respect for the wits of Louis 14th's Augustan
"Si鑓le" induced me to subjoin these illustrious authorities. I
therefore offer:
firstly Boileau: "Il est difficile de trailer des sujets qui sont ?la
port閑 de tout le monde d'une maniere qui vous les rende propres, ce qui
s'appelle s'approprier un sujet par le tour qu'on y donne."
2dly, Batteux: "Mais il est bien difficile de donner des traits propres
et individuels aux etres purement possibles."
3dly, Dacier: "Il est difficile de traiter convenablement ces caract鑢es
que tout le monde peut inventer."
Mr. S關ign?s opinion and translation, consisting of some thirty pages,
I omit, particularly as Mr. Grouvelle observes, "La chose est bien
remarquable, aucune de ces diverses interpretations ne parait 阾re la
veritable." But, by way of comfort, it seems, fifty years afterwards,
"Le lumineux Dumarsais" made his appearance, to set Horace on his legs
again, "dissiper tous les nuages, et concilier tous les dissentiments;"
and I suppose some fifty years hence, somebody, still more luminous,
will doubtless start up and demolish Dumarsais and his system on this
weighty affair, as if he were no better than Ptolemy or Copernicus and
comments of no more consequence than astronomical calculations. I am
happy to say, "la longueur de la dissertation" of Mr. D. prevents Mr. G.
from saying any more on the matter. A better poet than Boileau, and at
least as good a scholar as Mr. de S關ign? has said,
"A little learning is a dangerous thing."
And by the above extract, it appears that a good deal may be rendered as
useless to the Proprietors.
[Byron chose the words in question, Difficile,' etc., as a motto for the
first five cantos of 'Don Juan']
[Footnote 16: About two years ago a young man named Townsend was
announced by Mr. Cumberland, in a review (since deceased) [the 'London
Review'], as being engaged in an epic poem to be entitled "Armageddon."
The plan and specimen promise much; but I hope neither to offend Mr.
Townsend, nor his friends, by recommending to his attention the lines of
Horace to which these rhymes allude. If Mr. Townsend succeeds in his
undertaking, as there is reason to hope, how much will the world be
indebted to Mr. Cumberland for bringing him before the public! But, till
that eventful day arrives, it may be doubted whether the premature
display of his plan (sublime as the ideas confessedly are) has not,--by
raising expectation too high, or diminishing curiosity, by developing
his argument,--rather incurred the hazard of injuring Mr. Townsend's
future prospects. Mr. Cumberland (whose talents I shall not depreciate
by the humble tribute of my praise) and Mr. Townsend must not suppose me
actuated by unworthy motives in this suggestion. I wish the author all
the success he can wish himself, and shall be truly happy to see epic
poetry weighed up from the bathos where it lies sunken with Southey,
Cottle, Cowley (Mrs. or Abraham), Ogilvy, Wilkie, Pye, and all the "dull
of past and present days." Even if he is not a 'Milton', he may be
better than 'Blackmore'; if not a 'Homer', an 'Antimachus'. I should
deem myself presumptuous, as a young man, in offering advice, were it
not addressed to one still younger. Mr. Townsend has the greatest
difficulties to encounter; but in conquering them he will find
employment; in having conquered them, his reward. I know too well "the
scribbler's scoff, the critic's contumely;" and I am afraid time will
teach Mr. Townsend to know them better. Those who succeed, and those who
do not, must bear this alike, and it is hard to say which have most of
it. I trust that Mr. Townsend's share will be from 'envy'; he will soon
know mankind well enough not to attribute this expression to malice.
[This note was written [at Athens] before the author was apprised of Mr.
Cumberland's death [in May, 1811].--'MS'. (See Byron's letter to Dallas,
August 27, 1811.) The Rev. George Townsend (1788-1857) published 'Poems'
in 1810, and eight books of his 'Armageddon' in 1815. They met with the
fate which Byron had predicted. In later life he compiled numerous works
of scriptural exegesis. He was a Canon of Durham from 1825 till his
death.]]
[Footnote 17: The first line of 'A Spirit of Discovery by Sea', by the
Rev. W. Lisle Bowles, first published in 1805.]
[Footnote 18: Harvey, the 'circulator' of the 'circulation' of the
blood, used to fling away Virgil in his ecstasy of admiration and say,
"the book had a devil." Now such a character as I am copying would
probably fling it away also, but rather wish that "the devil had the
book;" not from dislike to the poet, but a well-founded horror of
hexameters. Indeed, the public school penance of "Long and Short" is
enough to beget an antipathy to poetry for the residue of a man's life,
and, perhaps, so far may be an advantage.]
[Footnote 19:
"'Infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem'."
I dare say Mr. Tavell (to whom I mean no affront) will understand me;
and it is no matter whether any one else does or no.--To the above
events, "'qu鎞ue ipse miserrima vidi, et quorum pars magna fui'," all
'times' and 'terms' bear testimony. [The Rev. G.F. Tavell was a fellow
and tutor of Trinity College, Cambridge, during Byron's residence, and
owed this notice to the "zeal with which he protested against his
juvenile vagaries." During a part of his residence at Trinity, Byron
kept a tame bear in his rooms in Neville's Court. (See 'English Bards',
l. 973, 'note', and postscript to the Second Edition, 'ante', p. 383. See
also letter to Miss Pigot, October 26, 1807.)
The following copy of a bill (no date) tells its own story:--
The Honble. Lord Byron.
To John Clarke.
To Bread & Milk for the Bear deliv'd.} ?1 9 7
to Haladay ... ... ... }
Cambridge Reve. A Clarke.]]
[Footnote 20: "Hell," a gaming-house so called, where you risk little,
and are cheated a good deal. "Club," a pleasant purgatory, where you
lose more, and are not supposed to be cheated at all.]
[Footnote 21:
"Irene had to speak two lines with the bowstring round her neck; but
the audience cried out ['Murder!'] 'Murder!' and she was obliged to go
off the stage alive."
'Boswell's Johnson' [1876, p. 60].
[Irene (first played February 6, 1749) for the future was put to death
behind the scenes. The strangling her, contrary to Horace's rule, 'coram
populo', was suggested by Garrick. (See Davies' 'Life of Garrick'
(1808), i. 157.)]]
[Footnote 22: Matthew Gregory Lewis (1775-1818). ('Vide English Bards,
etc'., l. 265, n. 8.) The character of Hassan, "my misanthropic negro,"
as Lewis called him, was said by the critics of the day to have been
borrowed from Zanga in Young's 'Revenge'. Lewis, in his "Address to the
Reader," quoted by Byron (in 'note' 3), defends the originality of the
conception.]
[Footnote 23: In the postscript to _The Castle Spectre_, Mr. Lewis tells
us, that though blacks were unknown in England at the period of his
action, yet he has made the anachronism to set off the scene: and if he
could have produced the effect "by making his heroine blue,"--I quote
him--"blue he would have made her!" [_The Castle Spectre_, by M.G.
Lewis, Esq., M.P., London, 1798, page 102.]]
[Footnote 24: In 1706 John Dennis, the critic (1657-1734), wrote an
'Essay on the Operas after the Italian manner, which are about to be
established on the English Stage'; to show that they were more immoral
than the most licentious play.]
[Footnote 25: One of the gangways in the Opera House, where the young
men of fashion used to assemble. (See letter to Murray, Nov. 9, 1820;
_Life_, p. 62.)]
[Footnote 26: In the year 1808, happening at the opera to tread on the
toes of a very well-dressed man, I turned round to apologize, when, to
my utter astonishment, I recognized the face of the porter of the very
hotel where I then lodged in Albemarle Street. So here was a gentleman
who ran every morning forty errands for half a crown, throwing away half
a guinea at night, besides the expense of his habiliments, and the hire
of his "Chapeau de Bras."--[_MS. L. (a)_.]]
[Footnote 27: The first theatrical representations, entitled "Mysteries
and Moralities," were generally enacted at Christmas, by monks (as the
only persons who could read), and latterly by the clergy and students of
the universities. The dramatis personae were usually Adam, Pater
Coelestis, Faith, Vice, and sometimes an angel or two; but these were
eventually superseded by 'Gammer Gurton's Needle'.--'Vide' Warton's
'History of English Poetry [passim]'.--['MSS. M., L. (b)'.]]
[Footnote 28: 'Benvolio' [Lord Grosvenor, 'MS. L'. ('b')] does not bet;
but every man who maintains racehorses is a promoter of all the
concomitant evils of the turf. Avoiding to bet is a little pharisaical.
Is it an exculpation? I think not. I never yet heard a bawd praised for
chastity, because 'she herself' did not commit fornication.
[Robert, second Earl Grosvenor (1767-1845), was created Marquis of
Westminster in 1831. Like his father, Gifford's patron, the first Earl
Grosvenor, he was a breeder of racehorses, and a patron of the turf. As
Lord Belgrave, he brought forward a motion for the suppression of Sunday
newspapers, June 11, 1799, denouncing them in a violent speech. The
motion was lost; but many years after, in a speech delivered in the
House of Lords, January 2, 1807, he returned to the charge. (See 'Parl.
Hist'., 34. 1006, 1010; and 'Parl. Deb'., 8. 286.) (For a skit on Lord
Belgrave's sabbatarian views, see Peter Pindar, 'Works' (1812), iv.
519.)]]
[Footnote 29: Samuel Foote (1720-1777), actor and playwright. His solo
entertainments, in 'The Dish of Tea, An Auction of Pictures', 1747-8
(see his comedy 'Taste'), were the precursors of 'Mathews at Home', and
a long line of successors. His farces and curtain-pieces were often
"spiced-up" with more or less malicious character-sketches of living
persons. Among his better known pieces are 'The Minor' (1760),
ridiculing Whitefield and the Methodists, and 'The Mayor of Garratt'
(1763), in which he played the part of Sturgeon (Byron used this piece,
for an illustration in his speech on the Frame-workers Bill, February
27, 1812). 'The Lyar', first played at Covent Garden, January 12, 1762,
was the latest to hold the stage. It was reproduced at the Opera Comique
in 1877.]
[Footnote 30: Henry Carey, poet and musician (d. 1743), a natural son of
George Savile, Marquis of Halifax, was the author of
_Chrononhotonthologos_, "the most tragical tragedy ever yet tragedised
by any company of tragedians," which was first played at the Haymarket,
February 22, 1734. The well-known lines, "Go, call a coach, and let a
coach be called," etc., which Scott prefixed to the first chapter of
_The Antiquary_, are from the last scene, in which Bombardinion fights
with and kills the King Chrononhotonthologos. But his one achievement
was _Sally in our Alley_, of which he wrote both the words and the
music. The authorship of "God Save the King" has been attributed to him,
probably under a misapprehension.]
[Footnote 31: Under Plato's pillow a volume of the 'Mimes' of Sophron
was found the day he died.--'Vide' Barth閘閙i, De Pauw, or Diogenes
La雛tius, [Lib. iii. p. 168--Chouet 1595] if agreeable. De Pauw calls it
a jest-book. Cumberland, in his 'Observer', terms it moral, like the
sayings of Publius Syrus.]
[Footnote 32: In 1737 the manager of Goodman's Fields Theatre having
brought Sir Robert Walpole a farce called 'The Golden Rump', the
minister detained the copy. He then made extracts of the most offensive
passages, read them to the house, and brought in a bill to limit the
number of playhouses and to subject all dramatic writings to the
inspection of the Lord Chamberlain. Horace Walpole ascribed 'The Golden
Rump' to Fielding, and said that he had found an imperfect copy of the
play among his father's papers. But this has been questioned. (See 'A
Book of the Play', by Dutton Cook (1881), p. 27.)]]
[Footnote 33: His speech on the Licensing Act [in which he opposed the
Bill], is reckoned one of his most eloquent efforts.
[The following sentences have been extracted from the speech which was
delivered:--
"The bill is not only an encroachment upon liberty, it is likewise an
encroachment on property. Wit, my lords, is a sort of property; it is
the property of those who have it, and too often the only property
they have to depend on...
"Those gentlemen who have any such property are all, I hope, our
friends; do not let us subject them to any unnecessary or arbitrary
restraint...
"The stage and the press, my lord, are two of our out-sentries; if we
remove them, if we hoodwink them, if we throw them into fetters, the
enemy may surprise us. Therefore I must now look upon the bill before
us as a step for introducing arbitrary power into this kingdom."
Lord Chesterfield's sentiments with regard to laughter are contained in
an apophthegm, repeated more than once in his correspondence: "The
vulgar laugh aloud, but never smile; on the contrary, people of fashion
often smile, but seldom or never laugh aloud."--'Chesterfield's Letters
to his Godson', Oxford, 1890, p. 27.]]
[Footnote 34: Archer and Squire Sullen are characters in Farquhar's
play (1678-1707), 'The Beaux' Stratagem', March 8, 1707.]]
[Footnote 35: Michael Perez, the "Copper Captain," in [Fletcher's]
'Rule a Wife and Have a Wife' [licensed October 19, 1624].]
[Footnote 36: The Rev. Dr. Francis Willis died in 1807, in the 90th year
of his age. He attended George III. in his first attack of madness in
1788. The power of his eye on other persons is illustrated by a story
related by Frederick Reynolds ('Life and Times', ii. 23), who describes
how Edmund Burke quailed under his look. His son, John Willis, was
entrusted with the entire charge of the king in 1811. Compare Shelley's
'Peter Bell the Third', part vi.--
"Let him shave his head:
Where's Dr. Willis?"
(See, too, 'Bland-Burges Papers' (1885), pp. 113-115, and 'Life of
George IV'., by Percy Fitzgerald (1881), ii. 18.)]]
[Footnote 37: Dr. Johnson was of the like opinion.
"Highwaymen and housebreakers," he says, in his Life of Gay, "seldom
frequent the playhouse, or mingle in any elegant diversion; nor is it
possible for any one to imagine that he may rob with safety, because
he sees Macheath reprieved upon the stage."
'Lives of the Poets', by Samuel Johnson (1890), ii. 266. It was
asserted, on the other hand, by Sir John Fielding, the Bow-street
magistrate, that on every run of the piece, 'The Beggar's Opera', an
increased number of highwaymen were brought to his office; and so strong
was his conviction, that in 1772 he remonstrated against the performance
with the managers of both the houses.]
[Footnote 38: Jerry Collier's controversy with Congreve, etc., on the
subject of the drama, is too well known to require further comment.
[Jeremy Collier (1650-1756), non-juring bishop and divine. The occasion
of his controversy with Congreve was the publication of his 'Short View
of the Immorality and Profaneness of the English Stage' (1697-8).
Congreve, who had been attacked by name, replied in a tract entitled
'Amendments upon Mr. Collier's false and imperfect citations from the'
OLD BATCHELEUR, etc.]]
[Footnote 39: A few months after lines 370-381 were added to 'The
Hints', in September, 1812, Byron, at the request of Lord Holland, wrote
the address delivered on the opening of the theatre, which had been
rebuilt after the fire of February 24, 1809. He subsequently joined the
Committee of Management]
[Footnote 40: Mr. Simeon is the very bully of beliefs, and castigator of
"good works." He is ably supported by John Stickles, a labourer in the
same vineyard:--but I say no more, for, according to Johnny in full
congregation,'"No hopes for them as laughs."'
[The Rev. Charles Simeon (1758-1836) was the leader of the evangelical
movement in Cambridge. The reference may be to the rigour with which he
repelled a charge brought against him by Dr. Edwards, the Master of
Sidney Sussex, that a sermon which he had preached in November, 1809,
savoured of antinomianism. It may be noted that a friend (the Rev. W.
Parish), to whom he submitted the MS. of a rejoinder to Pearson's
'Cautions, etc.', advised him to print it, "especially if you should
rather keep down a lash or two which might irritate." Simeon was
naturally irascible, and, in reply to a friend who had mildly reproved
him for some display of temper, signed himself, in humorous penitence,
"Charles proud and irritable." (See 'Memoirs of the Life of the Rev. Mr.
Simeon', by Rev. W. Carus (1847), pp. 195, 282, etc.)]]
[Footnote 41: 'Baxter's Shove to heavy-a--d Christians', the veritable
title of a book once in good repute, and likely enough to be so again.
["Baxter" is a slip of the pen. The tract or sermon, 'An Effectual Shove
to the heavy-arse Christian', was, according to the title-page, written
by William Bunyan, minister of the gospel in South Wales, and "printed
for the author" in London in 1768.]]
[Footnote 42: Ambrose Philips (1675?-1749) published his 'Epistle to the
Earl of Dorset' and his 'Pastorals' in 1709. It is said that Pope
attacked him in his satires in consequence of an article in the
'Guardian', in which the 'Pastorals' were unduly extolled. His verses,
addressed to the children of his patron, Lord Carteret, were parodied by
Henry Carey, in 'Namby Pamby, or a Panegyric on the New
Versification'.]
[Footnote 43: See letters to Murray, Sept. 15, 1817; Jan. 25, 1819; Mar.
29, 1820; Nov. 4, 1820; etc. See also the two 'Letters' against Bowles,
written at Ravenna, Feb. 7 and Mar. 21, 1821, in which Byron's
enthusiastic reverence for Pope is the dominant note.]
[Footnote 44: As famous a tonsor as Licinus himself, and better paid
[and may be like him a senator, one day or other: no disparagement to
the High Court of Parliament.--'MS.L.(b)'], and may, like him, be one
day a senator, having a better qualification than one half of the heads
he crops, viz.--Independence.
[According to the Scholiast, Cassar made his barber Licinus a senator,
"quod odisset Pompeium." Blake (see Letter to Murray, Nov. 9, 1820) was,
presumably, Benjamin Blake, a perfumer, who lived at 46, Park Street,
Grosvenor Square.]]
[Footnote 45: There was some foundation for this. When Wordsworth and
his sister Dorothy called on Daniel Stuart, editor of the 'Courier', at
his fine new house in Harley Street, the butler would not admit them
further than the hall, and was not a little taken aback when he
witnessed the deference shown to these strangely-attired figures by his
master.--Personal Reminiscence of the late Miss Stuart, of 106, Harley
Street.]
[Footnote 46:
"'Bayes'. If I am to write familiar things, as sonnets to Armida, and
the like, I make use of stewed prunes only; but when I have a grand
design in hand, I ever take physic and let blood; for when you would
have pure swiftness of thought, and fiery flights of fancy, you must
have a care of the pensive part. In fine, you must purge."
'Rehearsal', act ii. sc. 1.
This passage is instanced by Johnson as a proof that "Bayes" was a
caricature of Dryden.
"Bayes, when he is to write, is blooded and purged; this, as Lamotte
relates, ... was the real practice of the poet."
'Lives of the Poets' 1890), i. 388.]]
[Footnote 47: Cant term for ?00,000.]
[Footnote 48: I have not the original by me, but the Italian translation
runs as follows:--
"E una cosa a mio credere molto stravagante, che un Padre desideri, o
permetta, che suo figliuolo coltivi e perfezioni questo talento."
A little further on:
"Si trovano di rado nel Parnaso le miniere d' oro e d' argento,"
'Educazione dei Fanciulli del Signer Locke' (Venice, 1782), ii. 87.
["If the child have a poetic vein, it is to me the strangest thing in
the world, that the father should desire or suffer it to be cherished
or improved."--"It is very seldom seen, that any one discovers mines
of gold or silver on Parnassus."
'Some Thoughts concerning Education', by John Locke (1880), p. 152.]]
[Footnote 49: "Iro pauperior:" a proverb: this is the same beggar who
boxed with Ulysses for a pound of kid's fry, which he lost and half a
dozen teeth besides. (See 'Odyssey', xviii. 98.)]
[Footnote 50: The Irish gold mine in Wicklow, which yields just ore
enough to swear by, or gild a bad guinea.]
[Footnote 51: As Mr. Pope took the liberty of damning Homer, to whom he
was under great obligations--"'And Homer (damn him!) calls'"--it may be
presumed that anybody or anything may be damned in verse by poetical
licence [I shall suppose one may damn anything else in verse with
impunity.--'MS. L. (b)']; and, in case of accident, I beg leave to plead
so illustrious a precedent.]
[Footnote 52: For the story of Billy Havard's tragedy, see Davies's
'Life of Garrick'. I believe it is 'Regulus', or 'Charles the First'
[Lincoln's Inn Fields, March 1, 1737]. The moment it was known to be his
the theatre thinned, and the book-seller refused to give the customary
sum for the copyright. [See 'Life of Garrick', by Thomas Davies (1808),
ii. 205.]
[Footnote 53: Thomas Erskine (third son of the fifth Earl of Buchan)
afterwards Lord Erskine (1750-1823), Lord Chancellor (1806-7), an
eloquent orator, a supremely great advocate, was, by comparison, a
failure as a judge. His power over a jury, "his little twelvers," as he
would sometimes address them, was practically unlimited. (See
'Recollections of the Table-Talk of Samuel Rogers' (1856), p. 126.)]]
[Footnote 54: Lines 589-626 are not in the 'Murray MS'., nor in either
of the 'Lovelace MSS'.]]
[Footnote 55: To the Eclectic or Christian Reviewers I have to return
thanks for the fervour of that charity which, in 1809, induced them to
express a hope that a thing then published by me might lead to certain
consequences, which, although natural enough, surely came but rashly
from reverend lips. I refer them to their own pages, where they
congratulated themselves on the prospect of a tilt between Mr. Jeffrey
and myself, from which some great good was to accrue, provided one or
both were knocked on the head. Having survived two years and a half
those "Elegies" which they were kindly preparing to review, I have no
peculiar gusto to give them "so joyful a trouble," except, indeed, "upon
compulsion, Hal;" but if, as David says in 'The Rivals', it should come
to "bloody sword and gun fighting," we "won't run, will we, Sir Lucius?"
[Byron, writing at Athens, away from his books, misquotes 'The Rivals'.
The words, "Sir Lucius, we--we--we--we won't run," are spoken by Acres,
not by David.] I do not know what I had done to these Eclectic
gentlemen: my works are their lawful perquisite, to be hewn in pieces
like Agag, if it seem meet unto them: but why they should be in such a
hurry to kill off their author, I am ignorant. "The race is not always
to the swift, nor the battle to the strong:" and now, as these
Christians have "smote me on one cheek," I hold them up the other; and,
in return for their good wishes, give them an opportunity of repeating
them. Had any other set of men expressed such sentiments, I should have
smiled, and left them to the "recording angel;" but from the pharisees
of Christianity decency might be expected. I can assure these brethren,
that, publican and sinner as I am, I would not have treated "mine
enemy's dog thus." To show them the superiority of my brotherly love, if
ever the Reverend Messrs. Simeon or Ramsden should be engaged in such a
conflict as that in which they requested me to fall, I hope they may
escape with being "winged" only, and that Heaviside may be at hand to
extract the ball.
["If, however, the noble Lord and the learned advocate have the
courage requisite to sustain their mutual insults, we shall probably
soon hear the explosions of another kind of 'paper' war, after the
fashion of the ever-memorable duel which the latter is said to have
fought, or seemed to fight, with 'Little' Moore. We confess there is
sufficient provocation, if not in the critique, at least in the
satire, to urge a 'man of honour' to defy his assailant to mortal
combat, and perhaps to warrant a man of law to 'declare' war in
Westminster Hall. Of this we shall no doubt hear more in due time"
('Eclectic Review', May, 1809). Byron pretends to believe that the
"Christian" Reviewers, actuated by stern zeal for piety, were making
mischief in sober earnest. "Heaviside" (see last line of Byron's note)
was the surgeon in attendance at the duel between Lord Falkland and Mr.
A. Powell. (See 'English Bards', 1. 686, note 2.)]]
[Footnote 56: _Macbeth_, act v. sc. 7.]
[Footnote 57: See the critique of the 'Edinburgh Review' on 'Hours of
Idleness', January, 1808.]
[Footnote 58: "Invenies alium, si te hic fastidit, Alexin."]
[Footnote 59: Here 'MS. L.' (a) recommences.]
[Footnote 60: John Jackson (1769-1845), better known as "Gentleman"
Jackson, was champion of England from 1795 to 1803. His three fights
were against Fewterel (1788), George Ingleston, nicknamed "the Brewer"
(1789), and Mendoza (1795). In 1803 he retired from the ring. His rooms
at 13, Bond Street, became the head-quarters of the Pugilistic Club.
(See Pierce Egan's 'Life in London', pp. 252-254, where the rooms are
described, and a drawing of them by Cruikshank is given.) Jackson's
character stood high.
"From the highest to the lowest person in the Sporting World, his
'decision' is law."
He was Byron's guest at Cambridge, Newstead, and Brighton; received from
him many letters; and is described by him, in a note to 'Don Juan' (xi.
19), as:
"my old friend and corporeal pastor and master."]
[Footnote 61: Mr. Southey has lately tied another canister to his tail
in 'The Curse of Kehama', maugre the neglect of 'Madoc', etc., and has
in one instance had a wonderful effect. A literary friend of mine,
walking out one lovely evening last summer, on the eleventh bridge of
the Paddington canal, was alarmed by the cry of "one in jeopardy:" he
rushed along, collected a body of Irish haymakers (supping on
butter-milk in an adjacent paddock), procured three rakes, one eel-spear
and a landing net, and at last ('horresco referens') pulled out--his own
publisher. The unfortunate man was gone for ever, and so was a large
quarto wherewith he had taken the leap, which proved, on inquiry, to
have been Mr. Southey's last work. Its "alacrity of sinking" was so
great, that it has never since been heard of; though some maintain that
it is at this moment concealed at Alderman Birch's pastry premises,
Cornhill. Be this as it may, the coroner's inquest brought in a verdict
of "'Felo de bibliopol?" against a "quarto unknown;" and circumstantial
evidence being since strong against 'The Curse of Kehama' (of which the
above words are an exact description), it will be tried by its peers
next session, in Grub-street--Arthur, Alfred, Davideis, Richard Coeur de
Lion, Exodus, Exodiad, Epigoniad, Calvary, Fall of Cambria, Siege of
Acre, Don Roderick, and Tom Thumb the Great, are the names of the twelve
jurors. The judges are Pye, Bowles, and the bell-man of St. Sepulchre's.
The same advocates, pro and con, will be employed as are now engaged in
Sir F. Burdett's celebrated cause in the Scotch courts. The public
anxiously await the result, and all 'live' publishers will be subpoenaed
as witnesses.--But Mr. Southey has published 'The Curse of Kehama',--an
inviting title to quibblers. By the bye, it is a good deal beneath Scott
and Campbell, and not much above Southey, to allow the booby Ballantyne
to entitle them, in the 'Edinburgh Annual Register' (of which, by the
bye, Southey is editor) "the grand poetical triumvirate of the day."
But, on second thoughts, it can be no great degree of praise to be the
one-eyed leaders of the blind, though they might as well keep to
themselves "Scott's thirty thousand copies sold," which must sadly
discomfort poor Southey's unsaleables. Poor Southey, it should seem, is
the "Lepidus" of this poetical triumvirate. I am only surprised to see
him in such good company.
"Such things, we know, are neither rich nor rare,
But wonder how the devil 'he' came there."
The trio are well defined in the sixth proposition of Euclid:--
"Because, in the triangles D B C, A C B; D B is equal to A C; and B C
common to both; the two sides D B, B C, are equal to the two A C, C B,
each to each, and the angle D B C is equal to the angle A C B:
therefore, the base D C is equal to the base A B, and the triangle D B
C (Mr. Southey) is equal to the triangle A C B, the less to the
greater, which is absurd" etc.
The editor of the 'Edinburgh Register' will find the rest of the theorem
hard by his stabling; he has only to cross the river; 'tis the first
turnpike t' other side 'Pons Asinorum.'[A]
['The Curse of Kehama', by Robert Southey, was published 1810;
'Arthur, or The Northern Enchantment', by the Rev. Richard Hole, in 1789;
'Alfred', by Joseph Cottle, in 1801;
'Davideis`', by Abraham Cowley, in 1656;
'Richard the First', by Sir James Bland Surges, in 1801;
'Exodiad', by Sir J. Bland Surges and R. Cumberland, in 1808;
'Exodus', by Charles Hoyle, in 1802;
'Epigoniad', by W. Wilkie, D.D., in 1757;
'Calvary', by R. Cumberland, in 1792;
'Fall of Cambria', by Joseph Cottle, in 1809;
'Siege of Acre', by Hannah Cowley, in 1801;
'The Vision of Don Roderick', by Sir Walter Scott, in 1811;
'Tom Thumb the Great', by Henry Fielding, in 1730.
The 'Courier' of July 16, 1811, reports in full the first stage of the
case Sir F. Burdett 'v.' William Scott ('vide supra'), which was brought
before Lord Meadowbank as ordinary in the outer court. Jeffrey was
counsel for the pursuer, who sought to recover a sum of ?000 lent under
a bond. For the defence it was alleged that the money had been entrusted
for a particular purpose, namely, the maintenance of an infant. Jeffrey
denied the existence of any such claim, and maintained that whatever was
scandalous or calumnious in the defence was absolutely untrue. The case,
which was not included in the Scottish Law Reports, was probably settled
out of court. Evidently the judge held that on technical grounds an
action did not lie. Burdett's enemies were not slow in turning the
scandal to account. (See a contemporary pamphlet, 'Adultery and
Patriotism', London, 1811.)] ]
[Sub-Footnote A: This Latin has sorely puzzled the University of
Edinburgh. Ballantyne said it meant the "Bridge of Berwick," but
Southey claimed it as half English; Scott swore it was the "Brig o'
Stirling:" he had just passed two King James's and a dozen Douglasses
over it. At last it was decided by Jeffrey, that it meant nothing more
nor less than the "counter of Archy Constable's shop."]
[Footnote 62: Voltaire's 'Pucelle' is not quite so immaculate as Mr.
Southey's 'Joan of Arc', and yet I am afraid the Frenchman has both more
truth and poetry too on his side--(they rarely go together)--than our
patriotic minstrel, whose first essay was in praise of a fanatical
French strumpet, whose title of witch would be correct with the change
of the first letter.]
[Footnote 63: Like Sir Bland Burges's 'Richard'; the tenth book of
which I read at Malta, on a trunk of Eyre's, 19, Cockspur-street.
If this be doubted, I shall buy a portmanteau to quote from.
[Sir James Bland Burges (1752-1824), who assumed, in 1821, the name of
Lamb, married, as his first wife, the Hon. Elizabeth Noel, daughter of
Lord Wentworth, and younger sister of Byron's mother-in-law, Lady
Milbanke. He was called to the bar in 1777, and in the same year was
appointed a Commissioner in Bankruptcy. In 1787 he was returned M.P. for
the borough of Helleston; and from 1789 to 1795 held office as
Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs. In 1795, at the instance of his
chief, Lord Grenville, he vacated his post, and by way of compensation
was created a baronet with a sinecure post as Knight-Marshal of the
Royal Household. Thenceforth he devoted himself to literature. In 1796
he wrote the 'Birth and Triumph of Love', by way of letter-press to some
elegant designs of the Princess Elizabeth. (For 'Richard the First' and
the 'Exodiad', see note, p. 436.) His plays, 'Riches and Tricks for
Travellers', appeared in 1810, and there were other works. In spite of
Wordsworth's testimony (Wordsworth signed, but Coleridge dictated and no
doubt composed, the letter: see 'Thomas Poole and His Friends', ii. 27)
"to a pure and unmixed vein of native English" in 'Richard the First
(Bland-Burges Papers', 1885, p. 308), Burges as a poet awaits
rediscovery. His diaries, portions of which were published in 1885, are
lively and instructive. He has been immortalized in Person's
Macaronics--
"Poetis nos l鎡amur tribus,
Pye, Petro Pindar, parvo Pybus.
Si ulterius ire pergis,
Adde his Sir James Bland Burges!"]
[Footnote 64: [Charles Lamb, in "Christ's Hospital Five and Thirty Years
Ago" (_Prose Works_, 1836, ii. 30), records his repeated visits, as a
Blue Coat boy, "to the Lions in the Tower--to whose lev閑, by courtesy
immemorial, we had a prescriptive title to admission."]
[Footnote 65: Lines 677, 678 are not in 'MS. L. (a)'.]
[Footnote 66: Lines 689-696 are not in 'MS. L. (a)' or 'MS. L. (b)'.]
[Footnote 67: 'MS. L.' ('a' and 'b') continue at line 758.]
[Footnote 68:
"Tum quoque marmorea caput a cervice revulsum,
Gurgite cum medio portans OEagrius Hebrus,
Volveret Eurydicen vox ipsa, et frigida lingua;
Ah, miseram Eurydicen! anim?fugiente vocabat;
Eurydicen toto referebant flumine rip?"
'Georgic', iv. 523-527.]
[Footnote 69: I beg Nathaniel's pardon: he is not a cobbler; 'it' is a
'tailor', but begged Capel Lofft to sink the profession in his preface
to two pair of panta--psha!--of cantos, which he wished the public to
try on; but the sieve of a patron let it out, and so far saved the
expense of an advertisement to his country customers--Merry's
"Moorfields whine" was nothing to all this. The "Delia Cruscans" were
people of some education, and no profession; but these Arcadians
("Arcades ambo"--bumpkins both) send out their native nonsense without
the smallest alloy, and leave all the shoes and small-clothes in the
parish unrepaired, to patch up Elegies on Enclosures, and P鎍ns to
Gunpowder. Sitting on a shop-board, they describe the fields of battle,
when the only blood they ever saw was shed from the finger; and an
"Essay on War" is produced by the ninth part of a "poet;"
"And own that 'nine' such poets made a Tate."
Did Nathan ever read that line of Pope? and if he did, why not take it
as his motto?
['An Essay on War; Honington Green, a Ballad ... an Elegy and other
Poems,' was published in 1803.]]
[Footnote 70: This well-meaning gentleman has spoiled some excellent
shoemakers, and been accessory to the poetical undoing of many of the
industrious poor. Nathaniel Bloomfield and his brother Bobby have set
all Somersetshire singing; nor has the malady confined itself to one
county. Pratt too (who once was wiser) has caught the contagion of
patronage, and decoyed a poor fellow named Blackett into poetry; but he
died during the operation, leaving one child and two volumes of
"Remains" utterly destitute. The girl, if she don't take a poetical
twist, and come forth as a shoemaking Sappho, may do well; but the
"tragedies" are as ricketty as if they had been the offspring of an Earl
or a Seatonian prize poet. The patrons of this poor lad are certainly
answerable for his end; and it ought to be an indictable offence. But
this is the least they have done: for, by a refinement of barbarity,
they have made the (late) man posthumously ridiculous, by printing what
he would have had sense enough never to print himself. Certes these
rakers of "Remains" come under the statute against "resurrection men."
What does it signify whether a poor dear dead dunce is to be stuck up in
Surgeons' or in Stationers' Hall? Is it so bad to unearth his bones as
his blunders? Is it not better to gibbet his body on a heath, than his
soul in an octavo? "We know what we are, but we know not what we may
be;" and it is to be hoped we never shall know, if a man who has passed
through life with a sort of 閏lat is to find himself a mountebank on the
other side of Styx, and made, like poor Joe Blackett, the laughing-stock
of purgatory. The plea of publication is to provide for the child; now,
might not some of this 'Sutor ultra Crepidaitis' friends and seducers
have done a decent action without inveigling Pratt into biography? And
then his inscription split into so many modicums!--"To the Duchess of
Somuch, the Right Hon. So-and-So, and Mrs. and Miss Somebody, these
volumes are," etc. etc.--why, this is doling out the "soft milk of
dedication" in gills,--there is but a quart, and he divides it among a
dozen. Why, Pratt, hadst thou not a puff left? Dost thou think six
families of distinction can share this in quiet? There is a child, a
book, and a dedication: send the girl to her grace, the volumes to the
grocer, and the dedication to the devil.
[For Robert Bloomfield, see 'English Bards', ll. 774-786, and note 2.
For Joseph Blacket, see 'English Bards', ll. 765-770, and note 1.
Blacket's 'Remains', with Life by Pratt, appeared in 1811. The work was
dedicated "To Her Grace the Duchess of Leeds, Lady Milbanke and Family,
Benevolent Patrons of the Author," etc.]]
[Footnote 71: Lines 737-758 are not in either of the three original MSS.
of 'Hints from Horace', and were probably written in the autumn of 1811.
They appear among a sheet of "alterations to 'English Bards, and S.
Reviewers', continued with additions" ('MSS. L.'}, drawn up for the
fifth edition, and they are _insert_ed on a separate sheet in 'MS. M.' A
second sheet ('MSS. L.') of "scraps of rhyme ... principally additions
and corrections for 'English Bards', etc." (for the fifth edition), some
of which are dated 1810, does not give the whole passage, but includes
the following variants (erased) of lines 753-756:--
(i.)
"Then let thy ponderous quarto steep and stink,
The dullest fattest weed on Lethe's brink.
Down with that volume to the depths of hell!
Oblivion seems rewarding it too well."
(ii.)
"Yet then thy quarto still may," etc.
A "Druid" (see 'English Bards', line 741) was Byron's name for a
scribbler who wrote for his living. In 'MS. M.', "scribbler" has been
erased, and "Druid" substituted. It is doubtful to whom the passage, in
its final shape, was intended to apply, but it is possible that the
erased lines, in which "ponderous quarto" stands for "lost songs," were
aimed at Southey (see 'ante', line 657, 'note' 1).]
[Footnote 72: 'MS. L. (a)' recommences at line 758.]
[Footnote 73: Here will Mr. Gifford allow me to introduce once more to
his notice the sole survivor, the "ultimus Romanorum," the last of the
Cruscanti--"Edwin" the "profound" by our Lady of Punishment! here he is,
as lively as in the days of "well said Baviad the Correct." I thought
Fitzgerald had been the tail of poesy; but, alas! he is only the
penultimate.
A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO THE EDITOR OF THE "MORNING CHRONICLE."
"What reams of paper, floods of ink,"
Do some men spoil, who never think!
And so perhaps you'll say of me,
In which your readers may agree.
Still I write on, and tell you why;
Nothing's so bad, you can't deny,
But may instruct or entertain
Without the risk of giving pain, etc., etc.
ON SOME MODERN QUACKS AND REFORMISTS.
In tracing of the human mind
Through all its various courses,
Though strange, 'tis true, we often find
It knows not its resources:
And men through life assume a part
For which no talents they possess,
Yet wonder that, with all their art,
They meet no better with success, etc., etc.]
['A Familiar Epistle, etc.', by T. Vaughan, Esq., was published in the
'Morning Chronicle', October 7, 1811. Gifford, in the 'Baviad' (l. 350),
speaks of "Edwin's mewlings," and in a note names "Edwin" as the
"profound Mr. T. Vaughan." 'Love's Metamorphoses', by T. Vaughan, was
played at Drury Lane, April 15, 1776. He also wrote 'The Hotel, or
Double Valet', November 26, 1776, which Jephson rewrote under the title
of 'The Servant with Two Masters.' Compare 'Children of Apollo', p. 49:--
"Jephson, who has no humour of his own,
Thinks it no crime to borrow from the town;
The farce (almost forgot) of 'The Hotel'
Or 'Double Valet' seems to answer well.
This and his own make 'Two Strings to his Bow'."]]
[Footnote 74: See Milton's 'Lycidas'.]
[Footnote 75: Minerva being the first by Jupiter's head-piece, and a
variety of equally unaccountable parturitions upon earth, such as Madoc,
etc. etc.]
[Footnote 76:
"A crust for the critics."
'Bayes, in "the Rehearsal"' [act ii. sc. 2].
[Footnote 77: And the "waiters" are the only fortunate people who can
"fly" from them; all the rest, viz. the sad subscribers to the "Literary
Fund," being compelled, by courtesy, to sit out the recitation without a
hope of exclaiming, "Sic" (that is, by choking Fitz. with bad wine, or
worse poetry) "me servavit Apollo!"
[See 'English Bards', line 1 and 'note' 3.]]
[Footnote 78: Lines 813-816 not in 'MS. L. (a)' or 'MS. L. (b)'.]
[Footnote 79: On his table were found these words:--"What Cato did, and
Addison approved, cannot be wrong." But Addison did not "approve;" and
if he had, it would not have mended the matter. He had invited his
daughter on the same water-party; but Miss Budgell, by some accident,
escaped this last paternal attention. Thus fell the sycophant of
"Atticus," and the enemy of Pope!
[Eustace Budgell (1686-1737), a friend and relative of Addison's, "leapt
into the Thames" to escape the dishonour which attached to him in
connection with Dr. Tindal's will, and the immediate pressure of money
difficulties. He was, more or less, insane.
"We talked (says Boswell) of a man's drowning himself. I put the case
of Eustace Budgell.
'Suppose, sir,' said I, 'that a man is absolutely sure that, if he
lives a few days longer, he shall be detected in a fraud, the
consequence of which will be utter disgrace, and expulsion from
society?'
JOHNSON. 'Then, sir, let him go abroad to a distant country; let him
go to some place where he is 'not' known. Don't let him go to the
devil, where he 'is' known.'"
Boswell's 'Life of Johnson' (1886), p. 281.]]
[Footnote 80: If "dosed with," etc. be censured as low, I beg leave to
refer to the original for something still lower; and if any reader will
translate "Minxerit in patrios cineres," etc. into a decent couplet, I
will _insert_ said couplet in lieu of the present.]
[Footnote i:
ATHENS, 'March 2nd, 1811'.
['MS. L.' (a).]
ATHENS, 'March 12th, 1811'.
['MS. L. (i), MS. M.']]
[Footnote ii:
'If [A] West or Lawrence, (take whichever you will)
Sons of the Brush, supreme in graphic skill,
Should clap a human head-piece on a mare,
How would our Exhibition's loungers stare!
Or should some dashing limner set to sale
My Lady's likeness with a Mermaid's tail.'
['MS. L.' (a).]
'The features finished, should superbly deck
My Lady's likeness with a Filly's neck;
Or should some limner mad or maudlin group
A Mermaid's tail and Maid of Honour's Hoop.'
['MS. L. '(b).] ]
[Sub-Footnote A: I have been obliged to dive into the "Bathos" for the
simile, as I could not find a description of these Painters' merits
above ground.
"Si liceat parvis
Componere magna"--
"Like London's column pointing to the skies
Like a 'tall Bully', lifts its head and lies"
I was in hopes might bear me out, if the monument be like a Bully.
West's glory may be reduced by the scale of comparison. If not, let me
have recourse to 'Tom Thumb the Great' [Fielding's farce, first
played 1730] to keep my simile in countenance.--['MS. L. (b) erased]]
[Footnote iii: After line 6, the following lines (erased) were _insert_ed:--
'Or patch a Mammoth up with wings and limbs,
And fins of aught that flies or walks or swims'.
['MS. M'.]
Another variant ran--
'Or paint (astray from Truth and Nature led)
A Judge with wings, a Statesman with a Head'!
['MS. M'.]]
[Footnote iv:
'Believe me, Hobhouse'.
['MS. M'.]]
[Footnote v:
'as we scribblers'.
['MSS. L'. ('a' and 'b'), 'MS. M'.]]
[Footnote vi:
'Like Wardle's'[A] 'speeches'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]]
[Sub-Footnote A: [Gwyllim Lloyd Wardle (1762-1834), who served in
Ireland in 1798, as Colonel of the Welsh Fusiliers, known as "Wynne's
lambs," was M.P. for Okehampton 1807-12. In January, 1809, he brought
forward a motion for a parliamentary investigation into the exercise
of military patronage by the Duke of York, and the supposed influence
of the Duke's mistress, Mary Anne Clarke.]]
[Footnote vii:
'As pertness lurks beneath a legal gown.
And nonsense in a lofty note goes down'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]]
or,
'Which covers all things like a Prelate's gown'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]]
or,
'Which wraps presumption'.
['MS. M. erased'.]]
[Footnote viii:
'As when the poet to description yields
Of waters gliding through the goodly fields;
The Groves of Granta and her Gothic Halls,
Oxford and Christchurch, London and St. Pauls,
Or with a ruder flight he feebly aims
To paint a rainbow or the River Thames.
Perhaps you draw a fir tree or a beech,
But then a landscape is beyond your reach;
Or, if that allegory please you not,
Take this--you'ld form a vase, but make a pot'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]]
[Footnote ix:
'Although you sketch a tree which Taste endures,
Your ill-daubed Shipwreck shocks the Connoisseurs.'
['MS. M.']]
[Footnote x:
'The greater portion of the men of rhyme
Parents and children or their Sires sublime'.
['MS. M'.]]
[Footnote xi:
'But change the malady they strive to cure'.
['MS. L. (a').]]
[Footnote xii:
'Fish in the woods and wild-boars in the waves'.
['MS. M'.]]
[Footnote xiii:
'For Coat and waistcoat Slowshears is your man,
But Breeches claim another Artisan;
Now this to me I own seems much the same
As one leg perfect and the other lame'.
['MSS. M., L. (a').]
'Sweitzer is your man'.
[MS. M. 'erased'.]]
[Footnote xiv:
'Him who hath sense to make a skilful choice
Nor lucid Order, nor the Siren Voice
Of Eloquence shall shun, and Wit and Grace
(Or I'm deceived) shall aid him in the Race:
These too will teach him to defer or join
To future parts the now omitted line:
This shall the Author like or that reject,
Sparing in words and cautious to _select_:
Nor slight applause will candid pens afford
To him who well compounds a wanting word,
And if, by chance, 'tis needful to produce
Some term long laid and obsolete in use'.--
['MSS. M., L'. ('a' and 'b'). 'The last line partly erased.']
[Footnote xv:
'The dextrous Coiner of a' wanting 'word'.--
['Proof b, British Museum'.]]
[Footnote xvi:
'Adroitly grafted.'
['Proof b, British Museum'.]]
[Footnote xvii:
'Since they enriched our language in their time
In modern speeches or Black letter rhyme.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote xviii:
'Though at a Monarch's nod, and Traffic's call
Reluctant rivers deviate to Canal'.
['MSS. M., L'. ('a' and 'b').]]
[Footnote xix:
'marshes dried, sustain'.
['Proof b, British Museum'.]]
[Footnote xx:
'Thus--future years dead volumes shall revive'.
['Proof b, British Museum'.]]
[Footnote xxi:
'As Custom fluctuates whose Iron Sway
Though ever changing Mortals must obey'.
['MS. M'.]]
[Footnote xxii:
'To mark the Majesty of Epic song'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]]
[Footnote xxiii:
'But which is preferable rhyme or blank
Which holds in poesy'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]
[Footnote xxiv:
--'ventures to appear.--'
['MS. Corr. in Proof b, British Museum'.]
[Footnote xxv:
'And Harry Monmouth, till the scenes require,
Resigns heroics to his sceptred Sire.'
['MS. L'. (a).]]
[Footnote xxvi:
'To "hollaing Hotspur" and the sceptred sire.'--
['MS. Corr. in Proof b, British Museum'.]]
[Footnote xxvii:
'Dull as an Opera, I should sleep or sneer.'
['MS. M'.]]
[Footnote xxviii:
'And for Emotion's aid 'tis said and sung'.
['MS. L, (a)'.]]
[Footnote xxix:
'or form a plot'.
['Proof b, British Museum'.]]
[Footnote xxx:
'Whate'er the critic says or poet sings
'Tis no slight task to write on common things'.
['MS. L. (a).']]
[Footnote xxxi:
'Ere o'er our heads your Muse's Thunder rolls.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote xxxii:
'Earth, Heaven and Hell, are shaken with the Song.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote xxxiii:
'Through deeds we know not, though already done,'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote xxxiv:
'What soothes the people's, Peer's, and Critic's ear.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote xxxv:
'And Vice buds forth developed with his Teens.'
[MS. M.]]
[Footnote xxxvi:
'The beardless Tyro freed at length from school.
[MSS. L. (b), M. erased'.]
'And blushing Birch disdains all College rule.
[MS. M. erased'.]
'And dreaded Birch.
[MS. L.' (a' and 'b').]]
[Footnote xxxvii:
'Unlucky Tavell! damned to daily cares
By pugilistic Freshmen, and by Bears.'
['MS. M. erased'.]]
[Footnote xxxviii:
'Ready to quit whatever he loved before,
Constant to nought, save hazard and a whore.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote xxxix:
'The better years of youth he wastes away.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote xl:
'Master of Arts, as all the Clubs proclaim.'
['MS. L. (b)'.]]
[Footnote xli:
'Scrapes wealth, o'er Grandam's endless jointure grieves.'
['MS. erased'.]
'O'er Grandam's mortgage, or young hopeful's debts.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
'O'er Uncle's mortgage.'
['MS. L. (b)'.]]
[Footnote xlii:
'Your plot is told or acted more or less.'
['MS. M.']]
[Footnote xliii:
'To greater sympathy our feelings rise
When what is done is done before our eyes.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote xliv:
'Appalls an audience with the work of Death--
To gaze when Hubert simply threats to sere.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote xlv:
'Nor call a Ghost, unless some cursed hitch
Requires a trapdoor Goblin or a Witch.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote xlvi:
'This comes from Commerce with our foreign friends
These are the precious fruits Ausonia sends.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote xlvii:
'Our Giant Capital where streets still spread
Where once our simpler sins were bred.'
['MS. L. (a).']
'Our fields where once the rustic earned his bread.'
['MS. L. (b)'.]]
[Footnote xlviii:
'Aches with the Orchestra he pays to hear.
[MS. M.']]
[Footnote xlix:
'Scarce kept awake by roaring out encore.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote l:
'Ere theatres were built and reverend clerks
Wrote plays as some old book remarks.'
[MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote li:
'Who did what Vestris--yet, at least,--cannot,
And cut his kingly capers "Sans culotte."'
['MS. M.']]
[Footnote lii:
'Who yet squeaks on nor fears to be forgot
If good Earl Grosvenor supersede them not'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]
'Who still frisk on with feats so vastly low
'Tis strange Earl Grosvenor suffers such a show'.
['MS. M'.]]
[Footnote liii:
'Suppressing Peer! to whom all vice gives place,
Save Gambling--for his Lordship loves a Race'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]]
[Footnote liv:
'Hobhouse, since we have roved through Eastern climes,
While all the 苂ean echoed to our rhymes,
And bound to Momus by some pagan spell
Laughed, sang and quaffed to "Vive la Bagatelle!'"--
['MS. L'. ('a').]
'Hobhouse, with whom once more I hope to sit
And smile at what our Stage retails for wit.
Since few, I know, enjoy a laugh so well
Sardonic slave to "Vive la Bagatelle"
So that in your's like Pagan Plato's bed
They'll find some book of Epigrams when dead'.
['MS. L'. ('b').]]
[Footnote lv:
'My wayward Spirit weakly yields to gloom,
But thine will waft thee lightly to the Tomb,
So that in thine, like Pagan Plato's, bed
They'll find some Manuscript of Mimes, when dead'.
['MS. M'.]]
[Footnote lvi:
'And spite of Methodism and Collier's curse'.
['MS. M'.]
'He who's seduced by plays must be a fool'
'If boys want teaching let them stay at school'.
[MS. L. (a).]]
[Footnote lvii:
'Whom Nature guides so writes that he who sees
Enraptured thinks to do the same with ease'.
['MS. M'.]]
[Footnote lviii:
'But after toil-inked thumbs and bitten nails
Scratched head, ten quires--the easy scribbler fails'.--
['MS. L'. ('a').]
[Footnote lix:
'The one too rustic, t'other too refined'.
['MS. L'. ('a' and 'b').]]
[Footnotes lx:
'Offensive most to men with house and land
Possessed of Pedigree and bloody hand'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]]
Footnote lxi:
'Composed for any but the lightest strain'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]]
Footnote lxii:
'And must I then my'--
['MS.L'. ('a').]
[Footnote lxiii:
'Ye who require Improvement'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]]
[Footnote lxiv:
'And Tragedy, whatever stuff he spoke
Now wants high heels, long sword and velvet cloak'.--
['MS. L'. ('a') 'erased'.]]
[Footnote lxv:
'Curtail or silence the offensive jest'.
['MS. M'.]
'Curtail the personal or smutty jest'.
['MS. L'. ('a') 'erased'.]]
[Footnote lxvi:
'Overthrow whole books with all their hosts of faults'.--
['MS. L'. ('a').]]
[Footnotes lxvii:
'So that not Hellebore with all its juice'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]]
[Footnote lxviii:
'I'll act instead of whetstone--blunted, but
Of use to make another's razor cut'.
['MS. L.' ('a').]]
[Footnote lxix:
'From Horace show the better arts of song'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]]
[Footnote lxx:
'To Trade, but gave their hours to arms and arts'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]
'With traffic'.
['MS. L'. ('b').]]
[Footnote lxxi:
'Babe of old Thelusson' [A]----.
['MS. L'. ('a' and 'b').]]
[Sub-Footnote A: [Peter Isaac Thellusson, banker (died July 21, 1797),
by his will directed that his property should accumulate for the
benefit of the unborn heir of an unborn grandson. The will was,
finally, upheld, but, meanwhile, on July 28, 1800, an act (39 and 40
Geo. III.c.98) was passed limiting such executory devises.]]
[Footnote lxxii:
'A groat--ah bravo! Dick's the boy for sums
He'll swell my fifty thousand into plums'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]]
[Footnote lxxiii:
'Are idle dogs and (damn them!) always poor'.--
['MS. L'. ('a' and 'b').]]
[Footnote lxxiv:
'Unlike Potosi holds no silver mine'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]
'Keeps back his ingots like'}
'Is rather costive--like' } 'an Irish Mine'.
'Is no Potosi, but' }
['MS. L'. ('b').]]
[Footnote lxxv:
'Write but recite not, e'en Apollo's song
Mouthed in a mortal ear would seem too long,
Long as the last year of a lingering lease,
When Revel pauses until Rents increase'.
['MS. M. erased'.]]
[Footnote lxxvi:
'To finish all'.
['MS. L'. ('b').]
'That Bard the mask will fit'.
['MS. L'. ('b').]]
[Footnote lxxvii:
'Revenge defeats its object in the dark
And pistols (courage bullies!) miss their mark.'
['MS. L. (a).']
And pistols (courage duellists!) miss their mark.
['MS. L. (b)'.]]
[Footnote lxxviii:
'Though much displeased.'
['MS. L. (a and b)'.]]
[Footnote lxxix:
'The scrutiny.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote lxxx:
'Oh ye aspiring youths whom fate or choice.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote lxxxi:
'All are not Erskines who adorn the bar.'
['MS. M'.]]
[Footnote lxxxii:
'With very middling verses to offend
The Devil and Jeffrey grant but to a friend.'
['MS. L. (a).']
'Though what "Gods, men, and columns" interdict,
The Devil and Jeffrey [A] pardon--in a Pict.'
['MS. M.']]
[Sub-Footnote A: "The Devil and Jeffrey are here placed antithetically
to gods and men, such being their usual position, and their due
one--according to the facetious saying, 'If God won't take you, the
Devil must;' and I am sure no one durst object to his taking the
poetry, which, rejected by Horace, is accepted by Jeffrey. That these
gentlemen are in some cases kinder,--the one to countrymen, and the
other from his odd propensity to prefer evil to good,--than the 'gods,
men, and columns' of Horace, may be seen by a reference to the review
of Campbell's 'Gertrude of Wyoming'; and in No. 31 of the 'Edinburgh
Review' (given to me the other day by the captain of an English
frigate off Salamis), there is a similar concession to the mediocrity
of Jamie Graham's 'British Georgics'. It is fortunate for Campbell,
that his fame neither depends on his last poem, nor the puff of the
'Edinburgh Review'. The catalogues of our English are also less
fastidious than the pillars of the Roman librarians. A word more with
the author of 'Gertrude of Wyoming'. At the end of a poem, and even of
a couplet, we have generally 'that unmeaning thing we call a thought;'
so Mr. Campbell concludes with a thought in such a manner as to fulfil
the whole of Pope's prescription, and be as 'unmeaning' as the best of
his brethren:--
'Because I may not 'stain' with grief
The death-song of an Indian chief.'
"When I was in the fifth form, I carried to my master the translation
of a chorus in Prometheus, wherein was a pestilent expression about
'staining a voice,' which met with no quarter. Little did I think that
Mr. Campbell would have adopted my fifth form 'sublime'--at least in
so conspicuous a situation. 'Sorrow' has been 'dry' (in proverbs), and
'wet' (in sonnets), this many a day; and now it ''stains',' and stains
a sound, of all feasible things! To be sure, death-songs might have
been stained with that same grief to very good purpose, if Outalissi
had clapped down his stanzas on wholesome paper for the 'Edinburgh
Evening Post', or any other given hyperborean gazette; or if the said
Outalissi had been troubled with the slightest second sight of his own
notes embodied on the last proof of an overcharged quarto; but as he
is supposed to have been an improvisatore on this occasion, and
probably to the last tune he ever chanted in this world, it would have
done him no discredit to have made his exit with a mouthful of common
sense. Talking of ''staining'' (as Caleb Quotem says) 'puts me in
mind' of a certain couplet, which Mr. Campbell will find in a writer
for whom he, and his school, have no small contempt:--
'E'en copious Dryden wanted, or forgot,
The last and greatest art--the art to 'blot'!'"
['MS. M'.]]
[Footnote lxxxiii:
'And mustard rarely pleases in a pie.'
['MS. L. '(a).]]
[Footnote lxxxiv:
'At the Sessions'.
['MS. L.' (b), 'in pencil'.] ]
[Footnote lxxxv: Lines 647-650--
Whose character contains no glaring fault...
Shall I, I say.
[MS. L. (a).]]
[Footnote lxxxvi: After 660--
'But why this hint-what author e'er could stop
His poems' progress in a Grocers shop.'
['MS. L. (a).'] ]
[Footnote lxxxvii:
'As lame as I am, but a better bard.'
['MS. M.']]
[Footnote lxxxviii:
'Apollo's song the fate of men foretold.'
['MS. L. (a).']]
[Footnote lxxxix:
'Have studied with a Master day and night'.
['MS. L. (a, b).']]
[Footnote xc:
'They storm Bolt Court, they publish one and all'.--
['MS. M. erased.']]
[Footnote xci:
'Rogers played this prank'.
['MS. M.']]
[Footnote xcii:
'There see their sonnets first--but Spring--hot prest
Beholds a Quarto--Tarts must tell the Rest.'
['MS. M. erased.']]
[Footnote xciii:
'To fuddled Esquires or to flippant Lords.'
['MS. M.']]
[Footnote xciv:
'Till lo! that modern Midas of the swains--
Feels his ears lengthen--with the lengthening strains'.--
['MS. M. erased'.]]
[Footnote xcv:
'Adds a week's growth to his enormous ears'.
['MS. M. erased.']]
[Footnote xcvi:
'But what are these? Benefits might bind
Some decent ties about a manly mind'.
['MS. M.']]
[Footnote xcvii:
'Our modern sceptics can no more allow.'
['MS. L. (a).']]
[Footnote xcviii:
'Some rhyming peer--Carlisle or Carysfort.'[A]
['MS. M.']]
[Sub-Footnote A: [To variant ii. (p. 444) (this footnote) is subjoined
this note:
"Of 'John Joshua, Earl of Carysfort,' I know nothing at present, but
from an advertisement in an old newspaper of certain Poems and
Tragedies by his Lordship, which I saw by accident in the Morea.
Being a rhymer himself, he will forgive the liberty I take with his
name, seeing, as he must, how very commodious it is at the close of
that couplet; and as for what follows and goes before, let him place
it to the account of the other Thane; since I cannot, under these
circumstances, augur pro or con the contents of his 'foolscap crown
octavos.'"
[John Joshua Proby, first Earl of Carysfort, was joint
postmaster-general in 1805, envoy to Berlin in 1806, and ambassador to
Petersburgh in 1807. Besides his poems ('Dramatic and Miscellaneous
Works', 1810), he published two pamphlets (1780,1783), to show the
necessity of universal suffrage and short parliaments. He died in
1828.]]
[Footnote xcix:
'Hoarse with bepraising, and half choaked with lies,
Sweat on his brow and tear drops in his eyes.'
['MS. L. (a).']]
[Footnote c:
'Then sits again, then shakes his piteous head
As if the Vicar were already dead.'
['MS. L. (a).']]
[Footnote ci:
'But if you're too conceited to amend.'
['MS. L. (a).]']
[Footnote cii:
'On pain of suffering from their pen or tongues.'
['MS. M. erased.']
'--fly Fitzgerald's lungs.'
['MS. M.']]
[Footnote ciii:
'Ah when Bards mouth! how sympathetic Time
Stagnates, and Hours stand still to hear their rhyme.'
['MS. M. erased'.]]
[Footnote civ:
'Besides how know ye? that he did not fling
Himself there--for the humour of the thing.'
['MS. M'.]]
[Footnote cv:
'Small thanks, unwelcome life he quickly leaves;
And raving poets--really should not lose.'
['MS. M'.]
[Footnote cvi:
'Nor is it clearly understood that verse
Has not been given the poet for a curse;
Perhaps he sent the parson's pig to pound,
Or got a child on consecrated ground;
But, be this as it may, his rhyming rage
Exceeds a Bear who strives to break his cage.
If free, all fly his versifying fit;
The young, the old, the simpleton and wit.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
THE CURSE OF MINERVA.
--"Pallas te hoc vulnere, Pallas
Immolat, et poenam scelerato ex sanguine sumit."
_Aeneid_, lib. xii, 947, 948.
NOTE I.
In 'The Malediction of Minerva (New Monthly Magazine', vol. iii. p. 240)
additional footnotes are appended
(1) to line 106, recording the obliteration of Lord Elgin's name, "which
had been inscribed on a pillar of one of the principal temples," while
that of Lady Elgin had been left untouched; and
(2) to line 196, giving quotations from pp. 158, 269, 419 of Eustace's
'Classical Tour in Italy'.
After line 130, which reads, "And well I know within that murky land"
('i.e'. Caledonia), the following apology for a hiatus was _insert_ed:
"Here follows in the original certain lines which the editor has
exercised his discretion by suppressing; inasmuch as they comprise
national reflections which the bard's justifiable indignation has made
him pour forth against a people which, if not universally of an
amiable, is generally of a respectable character, and deserves not in
this case to be censured 'en masse' for the faults of an
individual."
NOTE II.
The text of 'The Curse of Minerva' is based on that of the quarto
printed by T. Davison in 1813. With the exception of the variants, as
noted, the text corresponds with the MS. in the possession of Lord
Stanhope. Doubtless it represents Byron's final revision. The text of an
edition of 'The Curse, etc'., Philadelphia, 1815, 8vo [printed by De
Silver and Co.], was followed by Galignani (third edit., 1818, etc.).
The same text is followed, but not invariably, in the _select_ions printed
by Hone in 1816 (111 lines); Wilson, 1818 (112 lines); and Knight and
Lacy, 1824 (111 lines). It exhibits the following variants from the
quarto of 1813:--
Line. Variant.
56.----'lands and main.'
81. 'Her helm was deep indented and her lance.'
94. 'Seek'st thou the cause? O mortal, look around.'
102. 'That Hadrian----'
116. 'The last base brute----'
143. 'Ten thousand schemes of petulance and pride.'
152. '----victors o'er the grave.'
162. '----Time shall tell the rest.'
199. 'Loath'd throughout life--scarce pardon'd in the dust.'
203. 'Erostratus and Elgin, etc.'
206. '----viler than the first.
222. 'Shall shake your usurpation to its base.'
233. 'While Lusitania----'
273. 'Then in the Senates----'
290. '----decorate his fall.'
The following variants may also be noted:--
Line. Variant. Publisher
1. 'Slow sinks now lovely, etc.' Hone
110. 'The Gothic monarch and the British----.' Wilson
'----and his fit compeer.'
131. 'And well I know within that murky land.
...
Dispatched her reckoning children far and wide. Hone
And well I know, albeit afar, the land,
Where starving Avarice keeps her chosen band;
Or sends their hungry numbers eager forth.
...
And aye accursed, etc.' Wilson
INTRODUCTION TO _THE CURSE OF MINERVA_
'The Curse of Minerva', which was written at Athens, and is dated March
17, 1811, remained unpublished, as a whole, in this country, during
Byron's life-time. The arrangement which had been made with Cawthorn, to
bring out a fifth edition of 'English Bards', included the issue of a
separate volume, containing 'Hints from Horace' and 'The Curse of
Minerva;' and, as Moore intimates, it was the withdrawal of the latter,
in deference to the wishes of Lord Elgin or his connections, which led
to the suppression of the other satires.
The quarto edition of The 'Curse of Minerva', printed by T. Davison in
1812, was probably set up at the same time as Murray's quarto edition of
'Childe Harold', and reserved for private circulation. With or without
Byron's consent, the poem as a whole was published in Philadelphia by De
Silver and Co., 1815, 8vo (for variants, see p. 453, 'note'). In a letter
to Murray, March 6, 1816, he says that he "disowns" 'The Curse, etc.',
"as stolen and published in a miserable and villainous copy in the
magazine." The reference is to 'The Malediction of Minerva, or The
Athenian Marble-Market', which appeared in the 'New Monthly Magazine'
for April, 1818, vol. iii. 240. It numbers 111 lines, and is signed
"Steropes" (The Lightner, a Cyclops). The text of the magazine, with the
same additional footnotes, but under the title of 'The Curse', etc., was
republished in the eighth edition of 'Poems on His Domestic
Circumstances', W. Hone, London, 1816, 8vo, and, thenceforth, in other
piratical issues. Whatever may have been his feelings or intentions in
1812, four years later Byron was well aware that 'The Curse of Minerva'
would not increase his reputation as a poet, while the object of his
satire--the exposure and denunciation of Lord Elgin--had been
accomplished by the scathing stanzas (canto ii. 10-15), with their
accompanying note, in 'Childe Harold'. "Disown" it as he might, his
words were past recall, and both indictments stand in his name.
Byron was prejudiced against Elgin before he started on his tour. He
had, perhaps, glanced at the splendid folio, 'Specimens of Ancient
Sculpture', which was issued by the Dilettanti Society in 1809. Payne
Knight wrote the preface, in which he maintains that the friezes and
metopes of the Parthenon were not the actual work of Phidias, "but ...
architectural studies ... probably by workmen scarcely ranked among
artists." So judged the leader of the 'cognoscenti', and, in accordance
with his views, Elgin and Aberdeen are held up to ridicule in 'English
Bards' (second edition, October, 1809, 1. 1007, and 'note') as credulous
and extravagant collectors of "maimed antiques." It was, however, not
till the first visit to Athens (December, 1809-March, 1810), when he saw
with his own eyes the "ravages of barbarous and antiquarian despoilers"
(Lord Broughton's 'Travels in Albania', 1858, i. 259), that contempt
gave way to indignation, and his wrath found vent in the pages of
'Childe Harold'.
Byron cared as little for ancient buildings as he did for the
authorities, or for patriotic enterprise, but he was stirred to the
quick by the marks of fresh and, as he was led to believe, wanton injury
to "Athena's poor remains." The southern side of the half-wrecked
Parthenon had been deprived of its remaining metopes, which had suffered
far less from the weather than the other sides which are still in the
building; all that remained of the frieze had been stripped from the
three sides of the cella, and the eastern pediment had been despoiled of
its diminished and mutilated, but still splendid, group of figures; and,
though five or six years had gone by, the blank spaces between the
triglyphs must have revealed their recent exposure to the light, and the
shattered edges of the cornice, which here and there had been raised and
demolished to permit the dislodgment of the metopes, must have caught
the eye as they sparkled in the sun. Nor had the removal and deportation
of friezes and statues come to an end. The firman which Dr. Hunt, the
chaplain to the embassy, had obtained in 1801, which empowered Elgin and
his agents to take away 'qualche pezzi di pietra', still ran, and Don
Tita Lusieri, the Italian artist, who remained in Elgin's service, was
still, like the 'canes venatici' (American? "smell-dogs") employed by
Verres in Sicily (see 'Childe Harold', canto ii. st. 12, 'note'),
finding fresh relics, and still bewailing to sympathetic travellers the
hard fate which compelled him to despoil the temples 'malgr?lui'. The
feelings of the inhabitants themselves were not much in question, but
their opinions were quoted for and against the removal of the marbles.
Elgin's secretary and prime agent, W.R. Hamilton, testifies, from
personal knowledge, that, "so far from exciting any unpleasant
sensations, the people seemed to feel it as the means of bringing
foreigners into the country, and of having money spent there" ('Memoir
on the Earl of Elgin's Pursuits in Greece', 1811). On the other hand,
the traveller, Edward Daniel Clarke, with whom Byron corresponded (see
'Childe Harold', canto ii. st. 12, 'note'), speaks of the attachment of
the Turks to the Parthenon, and their religious veneration for the
building as a mosque, and tells a pathetic story of the grief of the
Disdar when "a metope was lowered, and the adjacent masonry scattered
its white fragments with thundering noise among the ruins" ('Travels in
Various Countries', part ii, sect. ii, p. 483).
Other travellers of less authority than Clarke--Dodwell, for instance,
who visited the Parthenon before it had been dismantled, and,
afterwards, was present at the removal of metopes; and Hughes, who came
after Byron (autumn, 1813)--make use of such phrases as "shattered
desolation," "wanton devastation and avidity of plunder." Even
Michaelis, the great archaeologist, who denounces 'The Curse of Minerva'
as a "'libellous' poem," and affirms "that only blind passion could
doubt that Lord Elgin's act was an act of preservation," admits that
"the removal of several metopes and of the statue from the Erechtheion
had severely injured the surrounding architecture" ('Ancient Marbles in
Great Britain', by A. Michaelis, translated by C.A.M. Fennell, 1882, p.
135). Highly coloured and emotional as some of these phrases may be,
they explain, if they do not justify, the 's鎣a indignatio' of Byron's
satire.
It is almost, if not quite, unnecessary to state the facts on the other
side. History regards Lord Elgin as a disinterested official, who at
personal loss (at least thirty-five thousand pounds on his own showing),
and in spite of opposition and disparagement, secured for his own
country and the furtherance of art the perishable fragments of Phidian
workmanship, which, but for his intervention, might have perished
altogether. If they had eluded the clutches of Turkish mason and Greek
dealer in antiquities--if, by some happy chance, they had escaped the
ravages of war, the gradual but gradually increasing assaults of rain
and frost would have already left their effacing scars on the "Elgin
marbles." As it is, the progress of decay has been arrested, and all the
world is the gainer. Byron was neither a prophet nor an archaeologist,
and time and knowledge have put him in the wrong. But in 1810 the gaps
in the entablature of the Parthenon were new, the Phidian marbles were
huddled in a "damp dirty penthouse" in Park Lane (see 'Life of Haydon',
i. 84), and the logic of events had not justified a sad necessity.
THE CURSE OF MINERVA.
Pallas te hoc Vulnere Pallas
Immolat et poenam scelerato ex Sanguine Sumit.
ATHENS: CAPUCHIN CONVENT, _March_ 17, 1811.
Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, [1]
Along Morea's hills the setting Sun;
Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light;
O'er the hushed deep the yellow beam he throws, [i]
Gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows;
On old 苂ina's rock and Hydra's isle [2]
The God of gladness sheds his parting smile;
O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine,
Though there his altars are no more divine. [ii] 10
Descending fast, the mountain-shadows kiss
Thy glorious Gulf, unconquered Salamis!
Their azure arches through the long expanse, [iii]
More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance,
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven,
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of Heaven;
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep,
Behind his Delphian rock he sinks to sleep. [iv]
On such an eve his palest beam he cast
When, Athens! here thy Wisest looked his last. 20
How watched thy better sons his farewell ray,
That closed their murdered Sage's [3] latest day!
Not yet--not yet--Sol pauses on the hill,
The precious hour of parting lingers still;
But sad his light to agonizing eyes,
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes;
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seemed to pour,
The land where Phoebus never frowned before;
But ere he sunk below Cithaeron's head,
The cup of Woe was quaffed--the Spirit fled; 30
The soul of Him that scorned to fear or fly, [v]
Who lived and died as none can live or die.
But lo! from high Hymettus to the plain
The Queen of Night asserts her silent reign; [vi] [4]
No murky vapour, herald of the storm, [vii]
Hides her fair face, or girds her glowing form;
With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play,
There the white column greets her grateful ray,
And bright around, with quivering beams beset,
Her emblem sparkles o'er the Minaret; 40
The groves of olive scattered dark and wide,
Where meek Cephisus sheds his scanty tide,
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque,
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk, [5]
And sad and sombre 'mid the holy calm,
Near Theseus' fane, yon solitary palm;
All, tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye;
And dull were his that passed them heedless by. [6]
Again the 苂ean, heard no more afar,
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war: 50
Again his waves in milder tints unfold
Their long expanse of sapphire and of gold,
Mixed with the shades of many a distant isle
That frown, where gentler Ocean deigns to smile. [viii]
As thus, within the walls of Pallas' fane,
I marked the beauties of the land and main,
Alone, and friendless, on the magic shore,
Whose arts and arms but live in poets' lore;
Oft as the matchless dome I turned to scan,
Sacred to Gods, but not secure from Man, 60
The Past returned, the Present seemed to cease,
And Glory knew no clime beyond her Greece!
Hour rolled along, and Dian's orb on high
Had gained the centre of her softest sky;
And yet unwearied still my footsteps trod
O'er the vain shrine of many a vanished God: [ix]
But chiefly, Pallas! thine, when Hecate's glare
Checked by thy columns, fell more sadly fair
O'er the chill marble, where the startling tread
Thrills the lone heart like echoes from the dead. 70
Long had I mused, and treasured every trace
The wreck of Greece recorded of her race,
When, lo! a giant-form before me strode,
And Pallas hailed me in her own Abode!
Yes,'twas Minerva's self; but, ah! how changed,
Since o'er the Dardan field in arms she ranged!
Not such as erst, by her divine command,
Her form appeared from Phidias' plastic hand:
Gone were the terrors of her awful brow,
Her idle 苂is bore no Gorgon now; 80
Her helm was dinted, and the broken lance
Seemed weak and shaftless e'en to mortal glance;
The Olive Branch, which still she deigned to clasp,
Shrunk from her touch, and withered in her grasp;
And, ah! though still the brightest of the sky,
Celestial tears bedimmed her large blue eye;
Round the rent casque her owlet circled slow,
And mourned his mistress with a shriek of woe!
"Mortal!"--'twas thus she spake--"that blush of shame
Proclaims thee Briton, once a noble name; 90
First of the mighty, foremost of the free, [x]
Now honoured 'less' by all, and 'least' by me:
Chief of thy foes shall Pallas still be found.
Seek'st thou the cause of loathing!--look around.
Lo! here, despite of war and wasting fire,
I saw successive Tyrannies expire;
'Scaped from the ravage of the Turk and Goth, [xi]
Thy country sends a spoiler worse than both.
Survey this vacant, violated fane;
Recount the relics torn that yet remain: 100
'These' Cecrops placed, 'this' Pericles adorned, [7]
'That' Adrian reared when drooping Science mourned.
What more I owe let Gratitude attest--
Know, Alaric and Elgin did the rest.
That all may learn from whence the plunderer came,
The insulted wall sustains his hated name: [8]
For Elgin's fame thus grateful Pallas pleads,
Below, his name--above, behold his deeds!
Be ever hailed with equal honour here
The Gothic monarch and the Pictish peer: [xii] 110
Arms gave the first his right, the last had none,
But basely stole what less barbarians won.
So when the Lion quits his fell repast,
Next prowls the Wolf, the filthy Jackal last: [xiii]
Flesh, limbs, and blood the former make their own,
The last poor brute securely gnaws the bone.
Yet still the Gods are just, and crimes are crossed:
See here what Elgin won, and what he lost!
Another name with _his_ pollutes my shrine:
Behold where Dian's beams disdain to shine! 120
Some retribution still might Pallas claim,
When Venus half avenged Minerva's shame." [9]
She ceased awhile, and thus I dared reply,
To soothe the vengeance kindling in her eye:
"Daughter of Jove! in Britain's injured name, [xiv]
A true-born Briton may the deed disclaim.
Frown not on England; England owns him not:
Athena, no! thy plunderer was a Scot.
Ask'st thou the difference? From fair Phyles' towers
Survey Boeotia;--Caledonia's ours. 130
And well I know within that bastard land [10]
Hath Wisdom's goddess never held command;
A barren soil, where Nature's germs, confined
To stern sterility, can stint the mind;
Whose thistle well betrays the niggard earth,
Emblem of all to whom the Land gives birth;
Each genial influence nurtured to resist;
A land of meanness, sophistry, and mist. [xv]
Each breeze from foggy mount and marshy plain
Dilutes with drivel every drizzly brain, 140
Till, burst at length, each wat'ry head o'erflows,
Foul as their soil, and frigid as their snows:
Then thousand schemes of petulance and pride
Despatch her scheming children far and wide;
Some East, some West, some--everywhere but North!
In quest of lawless gain, they issue forth.
And thus--accursed be the day and year!
She sent a Pict to play the felon here.
Yet Caledonia claims some native worth, [11]
As dull Boeotia gave a Pindar birth; 150
So may her few, the lettered and the brave,
Bound to no clime, and victors of the grave,
Shake off the sordid dust of such a land,
And shine like children of a happier strand;
As once, of yore, in some obnoxious place,
Ten names (if found) had saved a wretched race."
"Mortal!" the blue-eyed maid resumed, "once more
Bear back my mandate to thy native shore. [12]
Though fallen, alas! this vengeance yet is mine,
To turn my counsels far from lands like thine. 160
Hear then in silence Pallas' stern behest;
Hear and believe, for Time will tell the rest.
"First on the head of him who did this deed
My curse shall light,--on him and all his seed:
Without one spark of intellectual fire,
Be all the sons as senseless as the sire:
If one with wit the parent brood disgrace,
Believe him bastard of a brighter race:
Still with his hireling artists let him prate,
And Folly's praise repay for Wisdom's hate; 170
Long of their Patron's gusto let them tell,
Whose noblest, _native_ gusto is--to sell:
To sell, and make--may shame record the day!--
The State--Receiver of his pilfered prey.
Meantime, the flattering, feeble dotard, West,
Europe's worst dauber, and poor Britain's best,
With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er,
And own himself an infant of fourscore. [13]
Be all the Bruisers culled from all St. Giles',
That Art and Nature may compare their styles; [xvi] 180
While brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare,
And marvel at his Lordship's 'stone shop' there. [14]
Round the thronged gate shall sauntering coxcombs creep
To lounge and lucubrate, to prate and peep;
While many a languid maid, with longing sigh,
On giant statues casts the curious eye;
The room with transient glance appears to skim,
Yet marks the mighty back and length of limb;
Mourns o'er the difference of _now_ and _then_;
Exclaims, 'These Greeks indeed were proper men!' 190
Draws slight comparisons of 'these' with 'those', [xvii]
And envies La颭 all her Attic beaux.
When shall a modern maid have swains like these? [xviii]
Alas! Sir Harry is no Hercules!
And last of all, amidst the gaping crew,
Some calm spectator, as he takes his view,
In silent indignation mixed with grief,
Admires the plunder, but abhors the thief.
Oh, loathed in life, nor pardoned in the dust,
May Hate pursue his sacrilegious lust! 200
Linked with the fool that fired the Ephesian dome,
Shall vengeance follow far beyond the tomb, [15]
And Eratostratus [16] and Elgin shine
In many a branding page and burning line;
Alike reserved for aye to stand accursed,
Perchance the second blacker than the first.
"So let him stand, through ages yet unborn,
Fixed statue on the pedestal of Scorn;
Though not for him alone revenge shall wait,
But fits thy country for her coming fate: 210
Hers were the deeds that taught her lawless son
To do what oft Britannia's self had done.
Look to the Baltic--blazing from afar,
Your old Ally yet mourns perfidious war. [17]
Not to such deeds did Pallas lend her aid,
Or break the compact which herself had made;
Far from such counsels, from the faithless field
She fled--but left behind her Gorgon shield;
A fatal gift that turned your friends to stone,
And left lost Albion hated and alone. 220
"Look to the East, [18] where Ganges' swarthy race
Shall shake your tyrant empire to its base;
Lo! there Rebellion rears her ghastly head,
And glares the Nemesis of native dead;
Till Indus rolls a deep purpureal flood,
And claims his long arrear of northern blood.
So may ye perish!--Pallas, when she gave
Your free-born rights, forbade ye to enslave.
"Look on your Spain!--she clasps the hand she hates,
But boldly clasps, and thrusts you from her gates. 230
Bear witness, bright Barossa! [19] thou canst tell
Whose were the sons that bravely fought and fell.
But Lusitania, kind and dear ally,
Can spare a few to fight, and sometimes fly.
Oh glorious field! by Famine fiercely won,
The Gaul retires for once, and all is done!
But when did Pallas teach, that one retreat
Retrieved three long Olympiads of defeat?
"Look last at home--ye love not to look there
On the grim smile of comfortless despair: 240
Your city saddens: loud though Revel howls,
Here Famine faints, and yonder Rapine prowls.
See all alike of more or less bereft;
No misers tremble when there's nothing left.
'Blest paper credit;' [20] who shall dare to sing?
It clogs like lead Corruption's weary wing.
Yet Pallas pluck'd each Premier by the ear,
Who Gods and men alike disdained to hear;
But one, repentant o'er a bankrupt state,
On Pallas calls,--but calls, alas! too late: 250
Then raves for'----'; to that Mentor bends,
Though he and Pallas never yet were friends.
Him senates hear, whom never yet they heard,
Contemptuous once, and now no less absurd.
So, once of yore, each reasonable frog,
Swore faith and fealty to his sovereign 'log.'
Thus hailed your rulers their patrician clod,
As Egypt chose an onion [21] for a God.
"Now fare ye well! enjoy your little hour;
Go, grasp the shadow of your vanished power; 260
Gloss o'er the failure of each fondest scheme;
Your strength a name, your bloated wealth a dream.
Gone is that Gold, the marvel of mankind.
And Pirates barter all that's left behind. [22]
No more the hirelings, purchased near and far,
Crowd to the ranks of mercenary war.
The idle merchant on the useless quay
Droops o'er the bales no bark may bear away;
Or, back returning, sees rejected stores
Rot piecemeal on his own encumbered shores: 270
The starved mechanic breaks his rusting loom,
And desperate mans him 'gainst the coming doom.
Then in the Senates of your sinking state
Show me the man whose counsels may have weight.
Vain is each voice where tones could once command;
E'en factions cease to charm a factious land:
Yet jarring sects convulse a sister Isle,
And light with maddening hands the mutual pile.
"'Tis done, 'tis past--since Pallas warns in vain;
The Furies seize her abdicated reign: 280
Wide o'er the realm they wave their kindling brands,
And wring her vitals with their fiery hands.
But one convulsive struggle still remains, [xix]
And Gaul shall weep ere Albion wear her chains,
The bannered pomp of war, the glittering files, [xx]
O'er whose gay trappings stern Bellona smiles;
The brazen trump, the spirit-stirring drum,
That bid the foe defiance ere they come;
The hero bounding at his country's call,
The glorious death that consecrates his fall, 290
Swell the young heart with visionary charms.
And bid it antedate the joys of arms.
But know, a lesson you may yet be taught,
With death alone are laurels cheaply bought;
Not in the conflict Havoc seeks delight,
His day of mercy is the day of fight.
But when the field is fought, the battle won,
Though drenched with gore, his woes are but begun:
His deeper deeds as yet ye know by name;
The slaughtered peasant and the ravished dame, 300
The rifled mansion and the foe-reaped field,
Ill suit with souls at home, untaught to yield.
Say with what eye along the distant down
Would flying burghers mark the blazing town?
How view the column of ascending flames
Shake his red shadow o'er the startled Thames?
Nay, frown not, Albion! for the torch was thine
That lit such pyres from Tagus to the Rhine:
Now should they burst on thy devoted coast,
Go, ask thy bosom who deserves them most? 310
The law of Heaven and Earth is life for life,
And she who raised, in vain regrets, the strife."
[Footnote 1: The lines (1-54) with which the Satire begins, down to "As
thus, within the walls of Pallas' fane," first appeared (1814) as the
opening stanza of the Third Canto of 'The Corsair'. At that time the
publication of 'The Curse of Minerva' had been abandoned. (See Byron's
'note' to 'The Corsair', Canto III. st. i. line i.)]
[Footnote 2: Idra; 'The Corsair', III. st. i. line 7. Hydra, or Hydrea,
is an island on the east coast of the Peloponnese, between the gulfs of
Nauplia and 苂ina. As an "isle of Greece" it had almost no history
until the War of Independence, when its chief town became a "city of
refuge" for the inhabitants of the Morea and Northern Greece. Byron was,
perhaps, the first poet to give it a name in song.]
[Footnote 3: Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset (the
hour of execution), notwithstanding the entreaties of his disciples to
wait till the sun went down.]
[Footnote 4: The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our own
country; the days in winter are longer, but in summer of less duration.]
[Footnote 5: The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house; the palm is without
the present walls of Athens, not far from the temple of Theseus, between
which and the tree the wall intervenes. Cephisus' stream is indeed
scanty, and Ilissus has no stream at all.]
[Footnote 6:
"The Temple of Theseus is the most perfect ancient edifice in the
world. In this fabric, the most enduring stability, and a simplicity
of design peculiarly striking, are united with the highest elegance
and accuracy of workmanship."
'Travels in Albania, etc.', by Lord Broughton (1858), i. 259.]
[Footnote 7: This is spoken of the city in general, and not of the
Acropolis in particular. The temple of Jupiter Olympius, by some
supposed the Pantheon, was finished by Hadrian; sixteen columns are
standing, of the most beautiful marble and architecture.]
[Footnote 8: The following lines, of which the first two were written on
the original 'MS'., are in Byron's handwriting:--
"Aspice quos Scoto Pallas concedit honores;
Subter stat nomen, facta superque vide.
Scote miser! quamvis nocuisti Palladis 鎑i,
Infandum facinus vindicat ipsa Venus.
Pygmalion statuam pro spons?arsisse refertur;
Tu statuam rapias, Scote, sed uxor abest."
Compare 'Horace in London', by the authors of 'Rejected Addresses'
(James and Horace Smith), London, 1813, ode xv., "The Parthenon,"
"'Pastor quum traheret per freta navibus'."
"And Hymen shall thy nuptial hopes consume,
Unless, like fond Pygmalion, thou canst wed
Statues thy hand could never give to bloom.
In wifeless wedlock shall thy life be led,
No marriage joys to bless thy solitary bed."
[Lord Elgin's first marriage with Mary, daughter of William Hamilton
Nisbet, was dissolved by Act of Parliament in 1808.]]
[Footnote 9: His lordship's name, and that of one who no longer bears
it, are carved conspicuously on the Parthenon; above, in a part not far
distant, are the torn remnants of the bassorelievos, destroyed in a vain
attempt to remove them.
[On the Erechtheum there was deeply cut in a plaster wall the words--
"QUOD NON FECERUNT GOTI,
HOC FECERUNT SCOTI."]]
[Footnote 10: "Irish bastards," according to Sir Callaghan O'Brallaghan.
["A wild Irish soldier in the Prussian Army," in Macklin's
'Love-?la-Mode' (first played December 12, 1759).]]
[Footnote 11: Lines 149-156 not in original 'MS'.]
[Footnote 12: Compare 'Horace in London', ode xv:--
"All who behold my mutilated pile,
Shall brand its ravages with classic rage;
And soon a titled bard from Britain's isle
Thy country's praise and suffrage shall engage,
And fire with Athens' wrongs an angry age."]
[Footnote 13: Mr. West, on seeing the "Elgin Collection," (I suppose we
shall hear of the "Abershaw" and "Jack Shephard" collection) declared
himself a "mere tyro" in art.
[Compare Letters of Benjamin West to the Earl of Elgin, February 6,
1809, March 20, 1811, published in W.R. Hamilton's 'Memorandum', 1811.]]
[Footnote 14: Poor Crib was sadly puzzled when the marbles were first
exhibited at Elgin House; he asked if it was not "a stone shop?"--He was
right; it 'is' a shop.]
[Footnote 15: Lines 202-265 are not in the MS.]
[Footnote 16: Herostratus or Eratostratus fired the temple of Artemis on
the same night that Alexander the Great was born. (See Plut.,
'Alex'., 3, etc.)]
[Footnote 17: The affair of Copenhagen. Copenhagen was bombarded by sea
by Admiral Lord Gambier (1756-1833), and by land by General Lord
Cathcart (1755-1843), September 2-8, 1807. The citadel was given up to
the English, and the Danes surrendered their fleet, with all the naval
stores, and their arsenals and dockyards. The expedition was "promptly
and secretly equipped" by the British Government "with an activity and
celerity," says Koch ('Hist. of Europe', p. 214), "such as they had
never displayed in sending aid to their allies," with a view to
anticipate the seizure and appropriation of the Danish fleet by Napoleon
and Alexander (Green's 'Hist. English People' (1875), p. 799).]]
[Footnote 18: "The East" is brought within range of Minerva's curse,
'symmetriae caus?, and it is hard to say to which "rebellion" she
refers. A choice lies between the mutiny which broke out in 1809, during
Sir George Barlow's presidency of Madras, among the officers of the
Company's service, and which at one time threatened the continuance of
British sway in India; and later troubles, in 1810, arising from the
Pind醨?hordes, who laid waste the villages of Central India and
Hindostan, and from the Pathans, who invaded Berar under Ameer Khan. But
here, as in lines 245-258 ('vide infra', p. 470, 'note' i), Byron is
taking toll of a note to 'Epics of the Ton', pp. 246, 247, which
enlarges on the mutiny of native soldiers which took place at Vellore in
1806, where several "European officers and a considerable portion of the
69th Regiment were massacred," in consequence of "an injudicious order
with respect to the dress of the Sepoys."--Gleig's 'History of the
British Empire in India' (1835), iii. 233, 'note'.]]
[Footnote 19: The victory of "bright Barossa," March 5, 1811, was
achieved by the sudden determination--"an inspiration rather than a
resolution," says Napier--of the British commander, General Graham
(Thomas, Lord Lynedoch, 1750-1843), to counter-march his troops, and
force the eminence known as the Cerro de Puerco, or hill of Barosa,
which had fallen into the hands of the French under Ruffin. Graham was
at this time second in command to the Spanish Captain-general, La Pe馻,
and at his orders, but under the impression that the hill would be
guarded by the Spanish troops, was making his way to a neighbouring
height. Meantime La Pe馻 had withdrawn the corps of battle to a
distance, and left the hill covered with baggage and imperfectly
protected. Graham recaptured Barosa, and repulsed the French with heavy
loss, in an hour and a half. Napier affirms that La Pe馻 "looked idly
on, neither sending his cavalry nor his horse artillery to the
assistance of his ally;" and testifies "that no stroke in aid of the
British was struck by a Spanish sabre that day."
"Famine" may have raised the devil in the English troops, but it
prevented them from following up the victory. A further charge against
the Spaniards was that, after Barosa had been won, the English were left
for hours without food, and, as they had marched through the night
before they came into action, they could only look on while the French
made good their retreat.
Two companies of the 20th Portuguese formed part of the British
contingent, and took part in the engagement. The year before, at Busaco
(September 27, 1810), the Portuguese had displayed signal bravery; but
at Gebora (February 19, 1811) "Madden's Portuguese, regardless of his
example and reproaches, shamefully turned their backs" (Napier's
'History of the Peninsular War' (1890), iii. 26, 98, 102-107).]
[Footnote 20:
"Blest paper credit! last and best supply,
That lends Corruption lighter wings to fly."
(POPE.)
[In February, 1811, a _select_ committee of the House of Commons "on
commercial credit" recommended an advance of ?,000,000 to manufacturers
who were suffering from over-speculation. "Did they not know," asked
Lord Grenville, in the House of Lords, March 21, "that they were adding
to the mass of paper at this moment in existence a sum of ?,000,000, as
if there was not paper enough already in the country, in order to
protect their commerce and manufactures from destruction?" Nevertheless,
the measure passed. The year before (February 19, 1810), a committee
which had sat under the presidency of Francis Horner, to inquire into
the cause of the high price of gold bullion (gold was worth ?. 10s. an
ounce), returned (June 10) a report urging the resumption of cash
payment at the end of two years.
It has been suggested to the editor that the asterisks ('----') in line
251 (which are not filled up in Lord Stanhope's MS. of 'The Curse of
Minerva') stand for "Horner," and that Byron, writing at Athens in
March, 1811, was under the impression that Perceval would adopt sound
views on the currency question, and was not aware that he was strongly
anti-bullionist. On that supposition the two premiers are Portland and
Perceval, Horner is the Mentor, and Perceval (line 257) the "patrician
clod." To what extent Byron was 'au courant' with home politics when he
wrote the lines, it is impossible to say, and without such knowledge
some doubt must rest on any interpretation of the passage. But of its
genesis there is no doubt. Lady Ann Hamilton, in her estimate of Lord
Henry Petty, in 'Epics of the Ton' (p. 139), has something to say on
budget "figures"--
"Those imps which make the senses reel, and zounds!
Mistake a cypher for a thousand pounds;"
and her note-writer comments thus: "It somewhat hurts the feelings to
see a minister stand up in his place, and after a very pretty exordium
to the budget, take up a bundle of papers from the table, gaze at the
incomprehensible calculations before him, stammer out a few confused
numbers, and then, with a rueful face, look over his shoulder to
V--ns--rt for assistance. How often have I grieved to see unhappy
A--d--g--n in this lamentable predicament!" Again, on Thellusson being
raised to the peerage as Lord Rendlesham, she asks--
"Say, shall we bend to titles thus bestowed,
And like the Egyptians, hail the calf a god?
With toads, asps, onions, ornament the shrine,
And reptiles own and pot-herbs things divine?"
It is evident that Byron, uninspired by Pallas, turned to the 'Epics of
the Ton' for "copy," but whether he left a blank on purpose because
"Vansittart" (to whom Perceval did turn) would not scan, or, misled by
old newspapers, would have written "Horner," must remain a mystery.]]
[Footnote 21: See the portrait of Spencer Perceval in the National
Portrait Gallery.]
[Footnote 22: The Deal and Dover traffickers in specie.]
[Footnote i:
'O'er the blue ocean way his'.
['MS.'][A]]
[Sub-Footnote A: The only MS. of 'The Curse of Minerva' which the
editor has seen, is in the possession of the Earl of Stanhope. A
second MS., formerly in the possession of the Duke of Newcastle, is
believed to have perished in a fire which broke out at Clumber in
1879.]
[Footnote ii:
'Nor yet forbears each long-abandoned shrine'.
['MS.']]
[Footnote iii:
'Their 'varying azure mingled with the sky
Beneath his rays assumes a deeper dye'.
['MS.']]
[Footnote iv:
'Behind his Delphian cliff'----.
['Corsair', III. st. i. l. 18.]]
[Footnote v:
'The soul of him who'----.
['Corsair, III. st. i. 1. 31.']]
[Footnote vi:
'silver reign'.
['MS.']]
[Footnote vii:
'How sweet and Silent, not a passing cloud
Hides her fair face with intervening shroud'.
['MS.']]
[Footnote viii:
'seems to smile',
['Corsair', III. st. i. 1. 54.]]
[Footnote ix:
'Sad shrine'.
['MS.']]
[Footnote x:
'Welcome to slaves, and foremost'.
['MS'.] ]
[Footnote xi:
'Ah, Athens! scarce escaped from Turk and Goth,
Hell sends a paltry Scotchman worse than both.'
['MS'.]]
[Footnote xii:
'British peer'.
['MS'.] ]
[Footnote xiii:
'Sneaking Jackal'.
['MS'.] ]
[Footnote xiv:
'guilty name'.
['MS'.]]
[Footnote xv:
'A land of liars, mountebanks, and Mist'.
['MS'.]]
[Footnote xvi:
'That Art may measure old and modern styles'.
['MS'.]]
[Footnote xvii:
'shy comparisons'.
['MS'.]
[Footnote xviii:
'In sooth the Nymph 'twere no slight task to please
Since young Sir Harry, etc.'
['MS'.]]
[Footnote xix:
'Fallen is each dear bought friend on Foreign Coast
Or leagued to add you to the world you lost'.
['MS'.]]
[Footnote xx:
'----'the glittering file
The martial sounds that animate the while'.
['MS'.]]
INTRODUCTION TO 'THE WALTZ'
Byron spent the autumn of 1812 "by the waters of Cheltenham," and,
besides writing to order his 'Song of Drury Lane' (the address spoken at
the opening of the theatre, Oct. 10, 1812), he put in hand a 'Satire on
Waltzing'. It was published anonymously in the following spring; but,
possibly, because it was somewhat coolly received, he told Murray (April
21, 1813) "to contradict the report that he was the author of a certain
malicious publication on waltzing." In his memoranda "chiefly with
reference to my Byron," Moore notes "Byron's hatred of waltzing," and
records a passage of arms between "the lame boy" and Mary Chaworth,
which arose from her "dancing with some person who was unknown to her."
Then, and always, he must have experienced the bitter sense of exclusion
from active amusements; but it is a hasty assumption that Byron only
denounced waltzing because he was unable to waltz himself. To modern
sentiment, on the moral side, waltzing is unassailable; but the first
impressions of spectators, to whom it was a novelty, were distinctly
unfavourable.
In a letter from Germany (May 17, 1799) Coleridge describes a dance
round the maypole at R黚eland.
"The dances were reels and the waltzes, but chiefly the latter; this
dance is in the higher circles sufficiently voluptuous, but here the
motions of it were 'far' more faithful interpreters of the passions."
A year later, H.C. Robinson, writing from Frankfort in 1800 ('Diary and
Letters', i. 76), says, "The dancing is unlike anything you ever saw.
You must have heard of it under the name of waltzing, that is rolling
and turning, though the rolling is not horizontal but perpendicular. Yet
Werther, after describing his first waltz with Charlotte, says, and I
say so too, 'I felt that if I were married my wife should waltz (or
roll) with no one but myself.'" Ten years later, Gillray publishes a
caricature of the waltz, as a French dance, which he styles, "Le bon
Genre." It is not a pretty picture. By degrees, however, and with some
reluctance, society yielded to the fascinations of the stranger.
"My cousin Hartington," writes Lady Caroline Lamb, in 1812 ('Memoirs
of Viscount Melbourne', by W.T. McCullagh Torrens, i. 105), "wanted to
have waltzes and quadrilles; and at Devonshire House it could not be
allowed, so we had them in the great drawing-room at Whitehall. All
the 'bon ton' assembled there continually. There was nothing so
fashionable."
"No event," says Thomas Raikes ('Personal Reminiscences', p. 284), ever
produced so great a sensation in English society as the introduction of
the German waltz.... Old and young returned to school, and the mornings
were now absorbed at home in practising the figures of a French
quadrille or whirling a chair round the room to learn the step and
measure of the German waltz. The anti-waltzing party took the alarm,
cried it down; mothers forbad it, and every ballroom became a scene of
feud and contention. The foreigners were not idle in forming their
'閘鑦es'; Baron Tripp, Neumann, St. Aldegonde, etc., persevered in spite
of all prejudices which were marshalled against them. It was not,
however, till Byron's "malicious publication" had been issued and
forgotten that the new dance received full recognition. "When," Raikes
concludes, "the Emperor Alexander was seen waltzing round the room at
Almack's with his tight uniform and numerous decorations," or [Gronow,
'Recollections', 1860, pp. 32, 33] "Lord Palmerston might have been seen
describing an infinite number of circles with Madame de Lieven," insular
prejudices gave way, and waltzing became general.
THE WALTZ:
AN APOSTROPHIC HYMN.
BY HORACE HORNEM, ESQ.
"Qualis in Eurot?ripis, aut per juga Cynthi,
Exercet DIANA choros."
VIRGIL, '苙'. i. 502.
"Such on Eurotas's banks, or Cynthus's height,
Diana seems: and so she charms the sight,
When in the dance the graceful goddess leads
The quire of nymphs, and overtops their heads."
DRYDEN'S _Virgil_.
NOTE.
The title-page of the first edition (4to.) of _The Waltz_ bears the
imprint:
London:
Printed by S. Gosnell,
Little Queen Street, Holborn.
For Sherwood, Neely and Jones,
Paternoster Row. 1813.
(Price Three Shillings.)
Successive Revises had run as follows:--
i. London: Printed for John Murray, Albemarle Street, Piccadilly. By S.
Gosnell, Little Queen Street. 1813.
ii. Cambridge: Printed by G. Maitland. For John Murray, etc.
iii. Cambridge: Printed by G. Maitland. For Sherwood, Neely and Jones,
Paternoster Row. 1813.
For the Bibliography of _The Waltz_, see vol. vi. of the present issue.
TO THE PUBLISHER.
SIR,
I am a country Gentleman of a midland county. I might have been a
Parliament-man for a certain borough; having had the offer of as many
votes as General T. at the general election in 1812. [1] But I was all
for domestic happiness; as, fifteen years ago, on a visit to London, I
married a middle-aged Maid of Honour. We lived happily at Hornem Hall
till last Season, when my wife and I were invited by the Countess of
Waltzaway (a distant relation of my Spouse) to pass the winter in town.
Thinking no harm, and our Girls being come to a marriageable (or, as
they call it, 'marketable') age, and having besides a Chancery suit
inveterately entailed upon the family estate, we came up in our old
chariot,--of which, by the bye, my wife grew so ashamed in less than a
week, that I was obliged to buy a second-hand barouche, of which I might
mount the box, Mrs. H. says, if I could drive, but never see the
inside--that place being reserved for the Honourable Augustus Tiptoe,
her partner-general and Opera-knight. Hearing great praises of Mrs. H.'s
dancing (she was famous for birthnight minuets in the latter end of the
last century), I unbooted, and went to a ball at the Countess's,
expecting to see a country dance, or, at most, Cotillons, reels, and all
the old paces to the newest tunes, But, judge of my surprise, on
arriving, to see poor dear Mrs. Hornem with her arms half round the
loins of a huge hussar-looking gentleman I never set eyes on before; and
his, to say truth, rather more than half round her waist, turning round,
and round, to a d----d see-saw up-and-down sort of tune, that reminded
me of the "Black Joke," only more "'affettuoso'"[1] till it made me
quite giddy with wondering they were not so. By and by they stopped a
bit, and I thought they would sit or fall down:--but no; with Mrs. H.'s
hand on his shoulder, "'Quam familiariter'"[2] (as Terence said, when I
was at school,) they walked about a minute, and then at it again, like
two cock-chafers spitted on the same bodkin. I asked what all this
meant, when, with a loud laugh, a child no older than our Wilhelmina (a
name I never heard but in the 'Vicar of Wakefield', though her mother
would call her after the Princess of Swappenbach,) said, "L--d! Mr.
Hornem, can't you see they're valtzing?" or waltzing (I forget which);
and then up she got, and her mother and sister, and away they went, and
round-abouted it till supper-time. Now that I know what it is, I like it
of all things, and so does Mrs. H. (though I have broken my shins, and
four times overturned Mrs. Hornem's maid, in practising the preliminary
steps in a morning). Indeed, so much do I like it, that having a turn
for rhyme, tastily displayed in some election ballads, and songs in
honour of all the victories (but till lately I have had little practice
in that way), I sat down, and with the aid of William Fitzgerald, Esq.,
and a few hints from Dr. Busby, (whose recitations I attend, and am
monstrous fond of Master Busby's manner of delivering his father's late
successful "Drury Lane Address,")[1] I composed the following hymn,
wherewithal to make my sentiments known to the Public; whom,
nevertheless, I heartily despise, as well as the critics.
I am, Sir, yours, etc., etc.
HORACE HORNEM.
[Footnote 1: State of the poll (last day) 5.
[General Tarleton (1754-1833) contested Liverpool in October, 1812. For
three days the poll stood at five, and on the last day, eleven. Canning
and Gascoigne were the successful candidates.]]
[Footnote 2: More expressive.--[_MS_.]
[Footnote 3: My Latin is all forgotten, if a man can be said to have
forgotten what he never remembered; but I bought my title-page motto of
a Catholic priest for a three-shilling bank token, after much haggling
for the even sixpence. I grudged the money to a papist, being all for
the memory of Perceval and "No popery," and quite regretting the
downfall of the pope, because we can't burn him any more.--[Revise No.
2.] ]
[Footnote 4: See 'Rejected Addresses'.]
THE WALTZ
Muse of the many-twinkling feet! [1] whose charms
Are now extended up from legs to arms;
Terpsichore!--too long misdeemed a maid--
Reproachful term--bestowed but to upbraid--
Henceforth in all the bronze of brightness shine, [i]
The least a Vestal of the Virgin Nine.
Far be from thee and thine the name of Prude:
Mocked yet triumphant; sneered at, unsubdued;
Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly,
If but thy coats are reasonably high! 10
Thy breast--if bare enough--requires no shield;
Dance forth--_sans armour_ thou shalt take the field
And own--impregnable to _most_ assaults,
Thy not too lawfully begotten "Waltz."
Hail, nimble Nymph! to whom the young hussar, [2]
The whiskered votary of Waltz and War,
His night devotes, despite of spur and boots;
A sight unmatched since Orpheus and his brutes:
Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz!--beneath whose banners
A modern hero fought for modish manners; 20
On Hounslow's heath to rival Wellesley's [3] fame,
Cocked, fired, and missed his man--but gained his aim;
Hail, moving muse! to whom the fair one's breast
Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest.
Oh! for the flow of Busby, [4] or of Fitz,
The latter's loyalty, the former's wits,
To "energise the object I pursue,"
And give both Belial and his Dance their due! [ii]
Imperial Waltz! imported from the Rhine
(Famed for the growth of pedigrees and wine), 30
Long be thine import from all duty free,
And Hock itself be less esteemed than thee;
In some few qualities alike--for Hock
Improves our cellar--_thou_ our living stock.
The head to Hock belongs--thy subtler art
Intoxicates alone the heedless heart:
Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims,
And wakes to Wantonness the willing limbs.
Oh, Germany! how much to thee we owe,
As heaven-born Pitt can testify below, 40
Ere cursed Confederation made thee France's,
And only left us thy d--d debts and dances! [5]
Of subsidies and Hanover bereft,
We bless thee still--George the Third is left!
Of kings the best--and last, not least in worth,
For graciously begetting George the Fourth.
To Germany, and Highnesses serene,
Who owe us millions--don't we owe the Queen?
To Germany, what owe we not besides?
So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides; 50
Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood,
Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud:
Who sent us--so be pardoned all her faults--
A dozen dukes, some kings, a Queen--and Waltz.
But peace to her--her Emperor and Diet,
Though now transferred to Buonapart?s "fiat!"
Back to my theme--O muse of Motion! say,
How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way?
Borne on the breath of Hyperborean gales,
From Hamburg's port (while Hamburg yet had _mails_), 60
Ere yet unlucky Fame--compelled to creep
To snowy Gottenburg-was chilled to sleep;
Or, starting from her slumbers, deigned arise,
Heligoland! to stock thy mart with lies; [iii]
While unburnt Moscow [6] yet had news to send,
Nor owed her fiery Exit to a friend,
She came--Waltz came--and with her certain sets
Of true despatches, and as true Gazettes;
Then flamed of Austerlitz the blest despatch, [7]
Which _Moniteur_ nor _Morning Post_ can match 70
And--almost crushed beneath the glorious news--
Ten plays, and forty tales of Kotzebue's; [8]
One envoy's letters, six composer's airs,
And loads from Frankfort and from Leipsic fairs:
Meiners' four volumes upon Womankind, [9]
Like Lapland witches to ensure a wind;
Brunck's heaviest tome for ballast, [10] and, to back it,
Of Heyn? [11] such as should not sink the packet. [iv]
Fraught with this cargo--and her fairest freight,
Delightful Waltz, on tiptoe for a Mate, 80
The welcome vessel reached the genial strand,
And round her flocked the daughters of the land.
Not decent David, when, before the ark,
His grand _Pas-seul_ excited some remark;
Not love-lorn Quixote, when his Sancho thought
The knight's _Fandango_ friskier than it ought;
Not soft Herodias, when, with winning tread,
Her nimble feet danced off another's head;
Not Cleopatra on her Galley's Deck,
Displayed so much of _leg_ or more of _neck_, 90
Than Thou, ambrosial Waltz, when first the Moon
Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune!
To You, ye husbands of ten years! whose brows
Ache with the annual tributes of a spouse;
To you of nine years less, who only bear
The budding sprouts of those that you _shall_ wear,
With added ornaments around them rolled
Of native brass, or law-awarded gold;
To You, ye Matrons, ever on the watch
To mar a son's, or make a daughter's match; 100
To You, ye children of--whom chance accords--
_Always_ the Ladies, and _sometimes_ their Lords;
To You, ye single gentlemen, who seek
Torments for life, or pleasures for a week;
As Love or Hymen your endeavours guide,
To gain your own, or snatch another's bride;--
To one and all the lovely Stranger came,
And every Ball-room echoes with her name.
Endearing Waltz!--to thy more melting tune
Bow Irish Jig, and ancient Rigadoon. [12] 110
Scotch reels, avaunt! and Country-dance forego
Your future claims to each fantastic toe!
Waltz--Waltz alone--both legs and arms demands,
Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands;
Hands which may freely range in public sight
Where ne'er before--but--pray "put out the light."
Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier
Shines much too far--or I am much too near;
And true, though strange--Waltz whispers this remark,
"My slippery steps are safest in the dark!" 120
But here the Muse with due decorum halts,
And lends her longest petticoat to "Waltz."
Observant Travellers of every time!
Ye Quartos published upon every clime!
0 say, shall dull _Romaika's_ heavy round,
_Fandango's_ wriggle, or _Bolero's_ bound;
Can Egypt's _Almas_ [13]--tantalising group--
Columbia's caperers to the warlike Whoop--
Can aught from cold Kamschatka to Cape Horn
With Waltz compare, or after Waltz be born? 130
Ah, no! from Morier's pages down to Galt's, [14]
Each tourist pens a paragraph for "Waltz."
Shades of those Belles whose reign began of yore,
With George the Third's--and ended long before!--
Though in your daughters' daughters yet you thrive, [v]
Burst from your lead, and be yourselves alive!
Back to the Ball-room speed your spectred host,
Fool's Paradise is dull to that you lost. [vi]
No treacherous powder bids Conjecture quake;
No stiff-starched stays make meddling fingers ache; [vii] 140
(Transferred to those ambiguous things that ape
Goats in their visage, [15] women in their shape;)
No damsel faints when rather closely pressed,
But more caressing seems when most caressed;
Superfluous Hartshorn, and reviving Salts,
Both banished by the sovereign cordial "Waltz."
Seductive Waltz!--though on thy native shore
Even Werter's self proclaimed thee half a whore;
Werter--to decent vice though much inclined,
Yet warm, not wanton; dazzled, but not blind-- 150
Though gentle Genlis, [16] in her strife with Sta雔,
Would even proscribe thee from a Paris ball;
The fashion hails--from Countesses to Queens,
And maids and valets waltz behind the scenes;
Wide and more wide thy witching circle spreads,
And turns--if nothing else--at least our _heads_;
With thee even clumsy cits attempt to bounce,
And cockney's practise what they can't pronounce.
Gods! how the glorious theme my strain exalts,
And Rhyme finds partner Rhyme in praise of "Waltz!" 160
Blest was the time Waltz chose for her _d閎ut_!
The Court, the Regent, like herself were new; [17]
New face for friends, for foes some new rewards;
New ornaments for black-and royal Guards; [viii]
New laws to hang the rogues that roared for bread;
New coins (most new) [18] to follow those that fled;
New victories--nor can we prize them less,
Though Jenky [19] wonders at his own success;
New wars, because the old succeed so well,
That most survivors envy those who fell; 170
New mistresses--no, old--and yet 'tis true,
Though they be _old_, the _thing_ is something new;
Each new, quite new--(except some ancient tricks), [20]
New white-sticks--gold-sticks--broom-sticks--_all new sticks_!
With vests or ribands--decked alike in hue,
New troopers strut, new turncoats blush in blue:
So saith the Muse: my----, [21] what say you?
Such was the time when Waltz might best maintain
Her new preferments in this novel reign;
Such was the time, nor ever yet was such; 180
Hoops are _ more_, and petticoats _not much_;
Morals and Minuets, Virtue and her stays,
And tell-tale powder--all have had their days.
The Ball begins--the honours of the house
First duly done by daughter or by spouse,
Some Potentate--or royal or serene--
With Kent's gay grace, or sapient Gloster's mien, [ix]
Leads forth the ready dame, whose rising flush
Might once have been mistaken for a blush.
From where the garb just leaves the bosom free, 190
That spot where hearts [22] were once supposed to be;
Round all the confines of the yielded waist,
The strangest hand may wander undisplaced:
The lady's in return may grasp as much
As princely paunches offer to her touch.
Pleased round the chalky floor how well they trip
One hand reposing on the royal hip! [23]
The other to the shoulder no less royal
Ascending with affection truly loyal!
Thus front to front the partners move or stand, 200
The foot may rest, but none withdraw the hand;
And all in turn may follow in their rank,
The Earl of--Asterisk--and Lady--Blank;
Sir--Such-a-one--with those of fashion's host, [x] [24]
For whose blest surnames--vide "Morning Post."
(Or if for that impartial print too late,
Search Doctors' Commons six months from my date)--
Thus all and each, in movement swift or slow,
The genial contact gently undergo;
Till some might marvel, with the modest Turk, 210
If "nothing follows all this palming work?" [25]
True, honest Mirza!--you may trust my rhyme--
Something does follow at a fitter time;
The breast thus publicly resigned to man,
In private may resist him--if it can.
O ye who loved our Grandmothers of yore,
Fitzpatrick, [26] Sheridan, and many more!
And thou, my Prince! whose sovereign taste and will [xi]
It is to love the lovely beldames still!
Thou Ghost of Queensberry! [27] whose judging Sprite 220
Satan may spare to peep a single night,
Pronounce--if ever in your days of bliss
Asmodeus struck so bright a stroke as this;
To teach the young ideas how to rise,
Flush in the cheek, and languish in the eyes;
Rush to the heart, and lighten through the frame,
With half-told wish, and ill-dissembled flame,
For prurient Nature still will storm the breast--
_Who_, tempted thus, can answer for the rest?
But ye--who never felt a single thought 230
For what our Morals are to be, or ought;
Who wisely wish the charms you view to reap,
Say--would you make those beauties quite so cheap?
Hot from the hands promiscuously applied,
Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side,
Where were the rapture then to clasp the form
From this lewd grasp and lawless contact warm? [xii]
At once Love's most endearing thought resign,
To press the hand so pressed by none but thine;
To gaze upon that eye which never met 240
Another's ardent look without regret;
Approach the lip which all, without restraint,
Come near enough--if not to touch--to taint;
If such thou lovest--love her then no more,
Or give--like her--caresses to a score;
Her Mind with these is gone, and with it go
The little left behind it to bestow.
Voluptuous Waltz! and dare I thus blaspheme?
Thy bard forgot thy praises were his theme.
Terpsichore forgive!--at every Ball 250
My wife _now_ waltzes--and my daughters _shall_;
_My_ son--(or stop--'tis needless to inquire--
These little accidents should ne'er transpire;
Some ages hence our genealogic tree [xiii]
Will wear as green a bough for him as me)--
Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amends
Grandsons for me--in heirs to all his friends.
[Footnote 1: "Glance their many-twinkling feet."--GRAY.]
[Footnote 2: Lines 15-28 do not appear in the MS., but ten lines
(omitting lines 21-24) were _insert_ed in Proof No. 1.]
[Footnote 3: To rival Lord Wellesley's, or his nephew's, as the reader
pleases:--the one gained a pretty woman, whom he deserved, by fighting
for; and the other has been fighting in the Peninsula many a long day,
"by Shrewsbury clock," without gaining anything in 'that' country but
the title of "the Great Lord," and "the Lord;" which savours of
profanation, having been hitherto applied only to that Being to whom
"'Te Deums'" for carnage are the rankest blasphemy.--It is to be
presumed the general will one day return to his Sabine farm: there
"To tame the genius of the stubborn plain,
'Almost as quickly' as he conquer'd Spain!"
The Lord Peterborough conquered continents in a summer; we do more--we
contrive both to conquer and lose them in a shorter season. If the
"great Lord's" 'Cincinnatian' progress in agriculture be no speedier
than the proportional average of time in Pope's couplet, it will,
according to the farmer's proverb, be "ploughing with dogs."
By the bye--one of this illustrious person's new titles is forgotten--it
is, however, worth remembering--"'Salvador del mundo!" credite,
posteri'! If this be the appellation annexed by the inhabitants of the
Peninsula to the name of a 'man' who has not yet saved them--query--are
they worth saving, even in this world? for, according to the mildest
modifications of any Christian creed, those three words make the odds
much against them in the next--"Saviour of the world," quotha!--it were
to be wished that he, or any one else, could save a corner of it--his
country. Yet this stupid misnomer, although it shows the near connection
between superstition and impiety, so far has its use, that it proves
there can be little to dread from those Catholics (inquisitorial
Catholics too) who can confer such an appellation on a 'Protestant'. I
suppose next year he will be entitled the "Virgin Mary;" if so, Lord
George Gordon himself would have nothing to object to such liberal
bastards of our Lady of Babylon.
[William Pole-Wellesley (1785?-1857), afterwards fourth Lord Mornington,
a nephew of the great Duke of Wellington, married, in March, 1812,
Catharine, daughter and heiress of Sir Tylney Long, Bart. On his
marriage he added his wife's double surname to his own, and, thereby,
gave the wits their chance. In 'Rejected Addresses' Fitzgerald is made
to exclaim--
"Bless every man possess'd of aught to give,
Long may Long-Tilney-Wellesley-Long-Pole live."
The principals in the duel to which Byron alludes were Wellesley-Pole
and Lord Kilworth. The occasion of the quarrel was a misconception of
some expression of Pole's at an assembly at Lady Hawarden's (August 6,
1811). A meeting took place on Wimbledon Common (August 9), at which the
seconds intervened, and everything was "amicably adjusted." Some days
later a letter appeared in the 'Morning Post' (August 14, 1811), signed
"Kilworth," to the effect that an apology had been offered and accepted.
This led to a second meeting on Hounslow Heath (August 15), when shots
were exchanged. Again the seconds intervened, and, after more
explanations, matters were finally arranged. A 'jeu d'esprit' which
appeared in the 'Morning Chronicle' (August 16, 1811) connects the
"mortal fracas" with Pole's prowess in waltzing at a f阾e at Wanstead
House, near Hackney, where, when the heiress had been wooed and won, his
guests used to dine at midnight after the opera.
"Mid the tumult of waltzing and wild Irish reels,
A prime dancer, I'm sure to get at her--
And by Love's graceful movements to trip up her heels,
Is the Long and the short of the matter."]
[Footnote 4: Thomas Busby, Mus. Doc. (1755-1838), musical composer, and
author of 'A New and Complete Musical Dictionary', 1801, etc. He was
also a versifier. As early as 1785 he published 'The Age of Genius, A
Satire'; and, after he had ceased to compose music for the stage,
brought out a translation of Lucretius, which had long been in MS. His
"rejected address" on the reopening of Drury Lane Theatre, would have
been recited by his son (October 15), but the gallery refused to hear it
out. On the next night (October 16) "Master" Busby was more successful.
Byron's parody of Busby's address, which began with the line, "When
energising objects men pursue," is headed, "Parenthetical Address. By
Dr. Plagiary."]
[Footnote 5: The Confederation of the Rhine (1803-1813), by which the
courts of W黵temberg and Bavaria, together with some lesser
principalities, detached themselves from the Germanic Body, and accepted
the immediate protection of France.]
[Footnote 6: The patriotic arson of our amiable allies cannot be
sufficiently commended--nor subscribed for. Amongst other details
omitted in the various [A] despatches of our eloquent ambassador, he did
not state (being too much occupied with the exploits of Colonel C----,
in swimming rivers frozen, and galloping over roads impassable,) that
one entire province perished by famine in the most melancholy manner, as
follows:--In General Rostopchin's consummate conflagration, the
consumption of tallow and train oil was so great, that the market was
inadequate to the demand: and thus one hundred and thirty-three thousand
persons were starved to death, by being reduced to wholesome diet! the
lamp-lighters of London have since subscribed a pint (of oil) a piece,
and the tallow-chandlers have unanimously voted a quantity of best
moulds (four to the pound), to the relief of the surviving
Scythians;--the scarcity will soon, by such exertions, and a proper
attention to the 'quality' rather than the quantity of provision, be
totally alleviated. It is said, in return, that the untouched Ukraine
has subscribed sixty thousand beeves for a day's meal to our suffering
manufacturers.
[Hamburg fell to Napoleon's forces in 1810, and thence-forward the mails
from the north of Europe were despatched from Anholt, or Gothenberg, or
Heligoland. In 1811 an attempt to enforce the conscription resulted in
the emigration of numbers of young men of suitable age for military
service. The unfortunate city was deprived of mails and males at the
same time. Heligoland, which was taken by the British in 1807, and
turned into a depot for the importation of smuggled goods to French
territory, afforded a meeting-place for British and continental traders.
Mails from Heligoland detailed rumours of what was taking place at the
centres of war; but the newspapers occasionally threw doubts on the
information obtained from this source. Lord Cathcart's despatch, dated
November 23, appeared in the 'Gazette' December 16, 1812. The paragraph
which appealed to Byron's sense of humour is as follows: "The expedition
of Colonel Chernichef ('sic') [the Czar's aide-de-camp] was a continued
and extraordinary exertion, he having marched seven hundred wersts
('sic') in five days, and swam several rivers."]
[Sub-Footnote A: Veracious despatches.--['MS. M'.] ]
[Footnote 7: Austerlitz was fought on Dec. 2, 1805. On Dec. 20 the
'Morning Chronicle' published a communication from a correspondent,
giving the substance of Napoleon's "Proclamation to the Army," issued on
the evening after the battle, which had reached Bourrienne, the French
minister at Hamburg. "An army," ran the proclamation, "of 100,000 men,
which was commanded by the Emperors of Russia and Austria, has been in
less than four hours either cut off or dispersed." It was an official
note of this "blest despatch," forwarded by courier to Bath, which
brought "the heavy news" to Pitt, and, it is believed, hastened his
death.]
[Footnote 8: August Frederick Ferdinand von Kotzebue (1761-1819), whom
Coleridge appraised as "the German Beaumont and Fletcher without their
poetic powers," and Carlyle as "a bundle of dyed rags," wrote over a
hundred plays, publishing twenty within a few years.
An adaptation of 'Misanthropy and Repentance' as 'The Stranger',
Sheridan's 'Pizarro', and Lewis' 'Castle Spectre' are well-known
instances of his powerful influence on English dramatists.
"The Present," writes Sara Coleridge, in a note to one of her father's
letters, "will ever have her special votaries in the world of letters,
who collect into their focus, by a kind of burning-glass, the feelings
of the day. Amongst such Kotzebue holds a high rank. Those 'dyed rags'
of his once formed gorgeous banners, and flaunted in the eyes of
refined companies from London to Madrid, from Paris to
Moscow."
Coleridge's 'Biographia Literaria' (1847), ii. 227.]
[Footnote 9: A translation of Christopher Meiner's 'History of the
Female Sex', in four volumes, was published in London in 1808. Lapland
wizards, not witches, were said to raise storms by knotting pieces of
string, which they exposed to the wind.]
[Footnote 10: Richard Franz Philippe Brunck (1729-1803). His editions of
the 'Anthologia Gr鎐a', and of the Greek dramatists are among his best
known works. Compare Sheridan's doggerel--
"Huge leaves of that great commentator, old Brunck,
Perhaps is the paper that lined my poor 'Trunk'."]
[Footnote 11: Christian Gottlob Heyne (1729-1812) published editions of
'Virgil' (1767-1775), 'Pindar' (1773), and 'Opuscula Academica', in six
vols. (1785-1812).]
[Footnote 12: A lively dance for one couple, characterized by a peculiar
jumping step. It probably originated in Provence.]
[Footnote 13: Dancing girls--who do for hire what Waltz doth gratis.
[The Romaika is a modern Greek dance, characterized by serpentining
figures and handkerchief-throwing among the dancers. The Fandango
(Spaniards use the word "seguidilla") was of Moorish origin. The Bolero
was brought from Provence, circ. 1780.
"The Bolero intoxicates, the Fandango
inflames"
('Hist. of Dancing', by G. Vuillier-Heinemann, 1898).]]
[Footnote 14: For Morier, see note to line 211. Galt has a paragraph
descriptive of the waltzing Dervishes ('Voyages and Travels' (1812),
p.190).]
[Footnote 15: It cannot be complained now, as in the Lady Baussi鑢e's
time, of the "Sieur de la Croix," that there be "no whiskers;" but how
far these are indications of valour in the field, or elsewhere, may
still be questionable. Much may be, and hath been;[A] avouched on both
sides. In the olden time philosophers had whiskers, and soldiers
none--Scipio himself was shaven--Hannibal thought his one eye handsome
enough without a beard; but Adrian, the emperor, wore a beard (having
warts on his chin, which neither the Empress Sabina nor even the
courtiers could abide)--Turenne had whiskers, Marlborough
none--Buonaparte is unwhiskered, the Regent whiskered; "'argal'"
greatness of mind and whiskers may or may not go together; but certainly
the different occurrences, since the growth of the last mentioned, go
further in behalf of whiskers than the anathema of Anselm did
'against' long hair in the reign of Henry I.--Formerly, 'red'
was a favourite colour. See Lodowick Barrey's comedy of 'Ram
Alley', 1661; Act I. Scene I.
'Taffeta'. Now for a wager--What coloured beard comes next by the
window?
'Adriana'. A black man's, I think.
'Taffeta'. I think not so: I think a 'red', for that is most in
fashion.
There is "nothing new under the sun:" but 'red', then a 'favourite', has
now subsided into a favourite's colour. [This is, doubtless, an allusion
to Lord Yarmouth, whose fiery whiskers gained him the nickname of "Red
Herrings."]
[Sub-Footnote A: The paragraph "Much may be" down to "reign of Henry
I." was added in Revise 1, and the remainder of the note in Revise 2.]]
[Footnote 16: Madame Genlis (Stephanie F閘icit?Ducrest, Marquise de
Sillery), commenting on the waltz, writes,
"As a foreigner, I shall not take the liberty to censure this kind of
dance; but this I can say, that it appears intolerable to German
writers of superior merits who are not accused of severity of
manners,"
and by way of example instances M. Jacobi, who affirms that "Werther
('Sorrows of Werther', Letter ix.), the lover of Charlotte, swears that,
were he to perish for it, never should a girl for whom he entertained
any affection, and on whom he had honourable views, dance the waltz with
any other man besides himself."--'_Select_ions from the Works of Madame de
Genlis' (1806), p. 65.
Compare, too, "Faulkland" on country-dances in 'The Rivals', act ii. sc.
I,
"Country-dances! jigs and reels! ... A minuet I could have forgiven
... Zounds! had she made one in a cotillon--I believe I could have
forgiven even that--but to be monkey-led for a night! to run the
gauntlet through a string of amorous palming puppies ... Oh, Jack,
there never can be but one man in the world whom a truly modest and
delicate woman ought to pair with in a country-dance; and even then,
the rest of the couples should be her great-uncles and aunts!"]
[Footnote 17: An anachronism--Waltz and the battle of Austerlitz are
before said to have opened the ball together; the bard means (if he
means anything), Waltz was not so much in vogue till the Regent attained
the acme of his popularity. Waltz, the comet, whiskers, and the new
government, illuminated heaven and earth, in all their glory, much about
the same time: of these the comet only has disappeared; the other three
continue to astonish us still.--'Printers Devil'.
[As the 'Printer's Devil' intimates, the various novelties of the age of
"Waltz" are somewhat loosely enumerated. The Comet, which signalized
1811, the year of the restricted Regency, had disappeared before the
Prince and his satellites burst into full blaze in 1812. It was (see
'Historical Record of the Life Guards', 1835, p.177) in 1812 that the
Prince Regent commanded the following alterations to be made in the
equipments of the regiment of Life Guards: "Cocked hats with feathers to
be discontinued, and brass helmets with black horsehair crests
substituted. Long coats, trimmed with gold lace across the front. Shirts
and cuffs to be replaced by short coatees," etc., etc. In the same
branch of the service, whiskers were already in vogue. The "new laws"
were those embodied in the "Frame-work Bill," which Byron denounced in
his speech in the House of Lords, Feb. 27, 1812. Formerly the breaking
of frames had been treated "as a minor felony, punishable by
transportation for fourteen years," and the object of the bill was to
make such offences capital. The bill passed into law on March 5, and as
a result we read ('Annual Register', 1812, pp. 38, 39) that on May 24 a
special commission for the rioters of Cheshire was opened by Judge
Dallas at Chester. "His lordship passed the awful sentence of death upon
sixteen, and in a most impressioned address, held out not the smallest
hope of mercy." Of these five 'only' were hanged.
Owing to the scarcity of silver coinage, the Bank of England was
empowered to issue bank-tokens for various sums (Mr. Hornem bought his
motto for 'The Waltz' with a three-shilling bank-token; see 'note' to
Preface) which came into circulation on July 9, 1811. The "new
ninepences" which were said to be forthcoming never passed into
circulation at all. A single "pattern" coin (on the obverse, 'Bank
Token, Ninepence, 1812') is preserved in the British Museum (see
privately printed 'Catalogue', by W. Boyne (1866), p.11). The "new
victories" were the fall of Ciudad Rodrigo (Jan. 17), the capture of
Badajoz (April 7), and the Battle of Salamanca (July 12, 1812). By way
of "new wars," the President of the United States declared war with
Great Britain on June 18, and Great Britain with the United States, Oct.
13, 1812. As to "new mistresses," for a reference to "'Our' Sultan's"
"she-promotions" of "those only plump and sage, Who've reached the
regulation age," see 'Intercepted Letters, or the Twopenny Post-bag', by
Thomas Brown the Younger, 1813, and for "gold sticks," etc., see
"Promotions" in the 'Annual Register' for March, 1812, in which a long
list of Household appointments is duly recorded.]]
[Footnote 18: Amongst others a new ninepence--a creditable coin now
forthcoming, worth a pound, in paper, at the fairest calculation.]
[Footnote 19: Robert Banks Jenkinson, second Earl of Liverpool, was
Secretary at War and for the Colonies from 1809 to 1812, in Spencer
Perceval's administration, and, on the assassination of the premier,
undertook the government. Both as Secretary at War and as Prime Minister
his chief efforts were devoted to the support of Wellington in the
Peninsula.]
[Footnote 20: "Oh that 'right' should thus overcome 'might!'" Who does
not remember the "delicate investigation" in the 'Merry Wives of
Windsor'?--
'Ford'. Pray you, come near; if I suspect without cause, why then make
sport at me; then let me be your jest; I deserve it. How now? whither
bear you this?
'Mrs. Ford'. What have you to do whither they bear it?--You were best
meddle with buck-washing."
[Act iii. sc. 3.]
[Footnote 21: The gentle, or ferocious, reader may fill up the blank as
he pleases--there are several dissyllabic names at 'his' service (being
already in the Regent's): it would not be fair to back any peculiar
initial against the alphabet, as every month will add to the list now
entered for the sweep-stakes;--a distinguished consonant is said to be
the favourite, much against the wishes of the 'knowing ones'.--['Revise']
[In the Revise the line, which is not in the MS., ran, "So saith the
Muse; my M----what say you?" The name intended to be supplied is
"Moira."
On Perceval's death (May 11 1812), Lord Liverpool became Prime Minister,
but was unable to carry on the government. Accordingly the Prince Regent
desired the Marquis Wellesley and Canning to approach Lords Grey and
Grenville with regard to the formation of a coalition ministry. They
were unsuccessful, and as a next step Lord Moira (Francis Rawdon, first
Marquis of Hastings, 1754-1826) was empowered to make overtures in the
same quarter. The Whig Lords stipulated that the regulation of the
Household should rest with ministers, and to this Moira would not
consent, possibly because the Prince's favourite, Lord Yarmouth, was
Vice-Chamberlain. Negotiations were again broken off, and on June 9
Liverpool began his long term of office as Prime Minister.
"I sate," writes Byron, "in the debate or rather discussion in the
House of Lords on that question (the second negotiation) immediately
behind Moira, who, while Grey was speaking, turned round to me
repeatedly, and asked me whether I agreed with him. It was an awkward
question to me, who had not heard both sides. Moira kept repeating to
me, 'It is 'not' so; it is so and so,'" etc.
(Letter to W. Bankes (undated), 'Life', p. 162). Hence the question, "My
Moira, what say you?"]
[Footnote 22:
"We have changed all that," says the Mock Doctor--'tis all
gone--Asmodeus knows where. After all, it is of no great importance
how women's hearts are disposed of; they have nature's privilege to
distribute them as absurdly as possible. But there are also some men
with hearts so thoroughly bad, as to remind us of those phenomena
often mentioned in natural history; viz. a mass of solid stone--only
to be opened by force--and when divided, you discover a _toad_ in the
centre, lively, and with the reputation of being venomous."
[In the MS. the last sentence stood: "In this country there is _one man_
with a heart so thoroughly bad that it reminds us of those unaccountable
petrifactions often mentioned in natural history," etc. The couplet--
"Such things we know are neither rich nor rare,
But wonder how the Devil they got there,"
which was affixed to the note, was subsequently erased.]]
[Footnote 23: Compare Sheridan's lines on waltzing, which Moore
heard him "repeat in a drawing-room"--
"With tranquil step, and timid downcast glance,
Behold the well-pair'd couple now advance.
In such sweet posture our first parents moved,
While, hand in hand, through Eden's bower they roved.
Ere yet the devil, with promise fine and false,
Turned their poor heads, and taught them how to waltz.
One hand grasps hers, the other holds her hip.
...
For so the law's laid down by Baron Trip."]
[Footnote 24: Lines 204-207 are not in the MS., but were added in a
revise.]
[Footnote 25: In Turkey a pertinent--here an impertinent and superfluous
question--literally put, as in the text, by a Persian to Morier, on
seeing a Waltz in Pera. [See 'A Journey through Persia', etc. By James
Morier, London (1812), p. 365.]
[Footnote 26: Richard Fitzpatrick (1747-1813), second son of John, first
Earl of Ossory, served in the first American War at the battles of
Brandywine and Germanstown. He sat as M.P. for Tavistock for
thirty-three years. The chosen friend and companion of Fox, he was a
prominent member of the opposition during the close of the eighteenth
century. In the ministry of "All the Talents" he was Secretary at War.
He dabbled in literature, was one of the authors of the 'Rolliad', and
in 1775 published 'Dorinda: A Town Eclogue'. He was noted for his social
gifts, and in recognition, it is said, of his "fine manners and polite
address," inherited a handsome annuity from the Duke of Queensberry.
Byron associates him with Sheridan as 'un homme galant' and leader of
'ton' of the past generation.]
[Footnote 27: William Douglas, third Earl of March and fourth Duke of
Queensberry (1724-1810), otherwise "old Q.," was conspicuous as a
"blood" and evil liver from youth to extreme old age. He was a patron of
the turf, a connoisseur of Italian Opera, and 'surtout' an inveterate
libertine. As a Whig, he held office in the Household during North's
Coalition Ministry, but throughout George the Third's first illness in
1788, displayed such indecent partisanship with the Prince of Wales,
that, when the king recovered, he lost his post. His dukedom died with
him, and his immense fortune was divided between the heirs to his other
titles and his friends. Lord Yarmouth, whose wife, Maria Fagniani, he
believed to be his natural daughter, was one of the principal legatees.]
[Footnote i:
'Henceforth with due unblushing brightness shine'.
['MS. M'.] ]
[Footnote ii:
'And weave a couplet worthy them and you.'
['Proof'.] ]
[Footnote iii:
'To make Heligoland the mart for lies'.
['MS. M'.]
[Footnote iv:
'As much of Heyne as should not sink the packet'.
['MS. M'.]]
[Footnote v:
'Who in your daughters' daughters yet survive
Like Banquo's spirit be yourselves alive.'
['MS. M.']]
[Footnote vi:
'Elysium's ill exchanged for that you lost'.
['MS. M.']]
[Footnote vii:
'No stiff-starched stays make meddling lovers ache'.
['MS. M'.]]
[Footnote viii:
'New caps and Jackets for the royal Guards'.
['MS. M.']]
[Footnote ix:
'With K--t's gay grace, or silly-Billy's mien'.
['MS. M.']
'With K--t's gay grace, or G--r's booby mien'.
['MS. erased'.]
[Footnote x:
'Sir--Such a one--with Mrs.--Miss So-so'.
['Revise'.]]
[Footnote xi:
'And thou my Prince whose undisputed will'.
[MS. M.]]
[Footnote xii:
'From this abominable contact warm'.
['MS. M.']]
[Footnote xiii:
'Some generations hence our Pedigree
Will never look the worse for him or me.'
['MS, erased'.]]
AND OTHER EARLY POEMS.
ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY. [i]
Why dost thou build the hall, Son of the winged days? Thou lookest
from thy tower to-day: yet a few years, and the blast of the desart
comes: it howls in thy empty court.-OSSIAN. [1]
I.
Through thy battlements, Newstead, [2] the hollow winds whistle: [ii]
Thou, the hall of my Fathers, art gone to decay;
In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle
Have choak'd up the rose, which late bloom'd in the way.
2.
Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who, proudly, to battle, [iii]
Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, [3]
The escutcheon and shield, which with ev'ry blast rattle,
Are the only sad vestiges now that remain.
3.
No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers,
Raise a flame, in the breast, for the war-laurell'd wreath;
Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan [4] slumbers,
Unnerv'd is the hand of his minstrel, by death.
4.
Paul and Hubert too sleep in the valley of Cressy;
For the safety of Edward and England they fell:
My Fathers! the tears of your country redress ye:
How you fought! how you died! still her annals can tell.
5.
On Marston, [5] with Rupert, [6] 'gainst traitors contending,
Four brothers enrich'd, with their blood, the bleak field;
For the rights of a monarch their country defending, [iv]
Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd. [7]
6.
Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant departing
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu! [v]
Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting
New courage, he'll think upon glory and you.
7.
Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, [vi]
'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret; [vii]
Far distant he goes, with the same emulation,
The fame of his Fathers he ne'er can forget. [viii]
8.
That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish; [ix]
He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown:
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish;
When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own!
1803.
[Footnote 1: The motto was prefixed in _Hours of Idleness_.]
[Footnote 2: The priory of Newstead, or de Novo Loco, in Sherwood, was
founded about the year 1170, by Henry II. On the dissolution of the
monasteries it was granted (in 1540) by Henry VIII. to "Sir John Byron
the Little, with the great beard." His portrait is still preserved at
Newstead.]
[Footnote 3: No record of any crusading ancestors in the Byron family
can be found. Moore conjectures that the legend was suggested by some
groups of heads on the old panel-work at Newstead, which appear to
represent Christian soldiers and Saracens, and were, most probably, put
up before the Abbey came into the possession of the family.]
[Footnote 4: Horistan Castle, in _Derbyshire_, an ancient seat of the
B--R--N family [4to]. (Horiston.--4to.)]
[Footnote 5: The battle of Marston Moor, where the adherents of Charles
I. were defeated.]
[Footnote 6: Son of the Elector Palatine, and related to Charles I. He
afterwards commanded the Fleet, in the reign of Charles II.]
[Footnote 7: Sir Nicholas Byron, the great-grandson of Sir John Byron
the Little, distinguished himself in the Civil Wars. He is described by
Clarendon (_Hist, of the Rebellion_, 1807, i. 216) as "a person of great
affability and dexterity, as well as martial knowledge." He was Governor
of Carlisle, and afterwards Governor of Chester. His nephew and
heir-at-law, Sir John Byron, of Clayton, K.B. (1599-1652), was raised to
the peerage as Baron Byron of Rochdale, after the Battle of Newbury,
October 26, 1643. He held successively the posts of Lieutenant of the
Tower, Governor of Chester, and, after the expulsion of the Royal Family
from England, Governor to the Duke of York. He died childless, and was
succeeded by his brother Richard, the second lord, from whom the poet
was descended. Five younger brothers, as Richard's monument in the
chancel of Hucknall Torkard Church records, "faithfully served King
Charles the First in the Civil Wars, suffered much for their loyalty,
and lost all their present fortunes." (See _Life of Lord Byron_, by Karl
Elze: Appendix, Note (A), p. 436.)]
[Footnote i: 'On Leaving N ... ST ... D.'--[4to] 'On Leaving
Newstead.'--('P. on V. Occasions.')]
[Footnote ii:
'Through the cracks in these battlements loud the winds whistle
For the hall of my fathers is gone to decay;
And in yon once gay garden the hemlock and thistle
Have choak'd up the rose, which late bloom'd in the way'.
[4to]]
[Footnote iii:
'Of the barons of old, who once proudly to battle'.
[4to]]
[Footnote iv:
'For Charles the Martyr their country defending'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote v: 'Bids ye adieu!' [4to]]
[Footnote vi: 'Though a tear dims.' [4to]]
[Footnote vii: ''Tis nature, not fear, which commands his regret'.
[4to]]
[Footnote viii: 'In the grave he alone can his fathers forget'. [4to]]
[Footnote ix: 'Your fame, and your memory, still will he cherish'.
[4to]]
TO E---[1]
Let Folly smile, to view the names
Of thee and me, in Friendship twin'd;
Yet Virtue will have greater claims
To love, than rank with vice combin'd.
And though unequal is _thy_ fate,
Since title deck'd my higher birth;
Yet envy not this gaudy state,
_Thine_ is the pride of modest worth.
Our _souls_ at least congenial meet,
Nor can _thy_ lot _my_ rank disgrace;
Our intercourse is not less sweet,
Since worth of rank supplies the place.
_November_, 1802.
[Footnote 1: E---was, according to Moore, a boy of Byron's own age, the
son of one of the tenants at Newstead.]
ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY, [1]
COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR, AND VERY DEAR TO HIM.
1.
Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom,
Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove,
Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb,
And scatter flowers on the dust I love.
2.
Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,
That clay, where once such animation beam'd;
The King of Terrors seiz'd her as his prey;
Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd.
3.
Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel,
Or Heaven reverse the dread decree of fate,
Not here the mourner would his grief reveal,
Not here the Muse her virtues would relate.
4.
But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soars
Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day;
And weeping angels lead her to those bowers,
Where endless pleasures virtuous deeds repay.
5.
And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign!
And, madly, Godlike Providence accuse!
Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain;--
I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse.
6.
Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear,
Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face;
Still they call forth my warm affection's tear,
Still in my heart retain their wonted place. [i]
1802.
[Footnote 1: The author claims the indulgence of the reader more for
this piece than, perhaps, any other in the collection; but as it was
written at an earlier period than the rest (being composed at the age of
fourteen), and his first essay, he preferred submitting it to the
indulgence of his friends in its present state, to making either
addition or alteration.--[4to]
"My first dash into poetry was as early as 1800. It was the ebullition
of a passion for--my first cousin, Margaret Parker (daughter and
granddaughter of the two Admirals Parker), one of the most beautiful
of evanescent beings. I have long forgotten the verse; but it would be
difficult for me to forget her--her dark eyes--her long
eye-lashes--her completely Greek cast of face and figure! I was then
about twelve--she rather older, perhaps a year. She died about a year
or two afterwards, in consequence of a fall, which injured her spine,
and induced consumption ... I knew nothing of her illness, being at
Harrow and in the country till she was gone. Some years after, I made
an attempt at an elegy--a very dull one."--_Byron Diary_, 1821;
_Life_, p. 17.
[Margaret Parker was the sister of Sir Peter Parker, whose death at
Baltimore, in 1814, Byron celebrated in the "Elegiac Stanzas," which
were first published in the poems attached to the seventh edition of
_Childe Harold_.]
[Footnote i: _Such sorrow brings me honour, not disgrace_. [4to]]
TO D---[1]
1.
In thee, I fondly hop'd to clasp
A friend, whom death alone could sever;
Till envy, with malignant grasp, [i]
Detach'd thee from my breast for ever.
2.
True, she has forc'd thee from my _breast_,
Yet, in my _heart_, thou keep'st thy seat; [ii]
There, there, thine image still must rest,
Until that heart shall cease to beat.
3.
And, when the grave restores her dead,
When life again to dust is given,
On _thy dear_ breast I'll lay my head--
Without _thee! where_ would be _my Heaven?_
February, 1803.
[Footnote 1: George John, 5th Earl Delawarr (1791-1869). (See _note_ 2,
p. 100; see also lines "To George, Earl Delawarr," pp. 126-128.)]
[Footnote i:
_But envy with malignant grasp,
Has torn thee from my breast for ever.
[4to]]
[Footnote ii: _But in my heart_. [4to]]
TO CAROLINE. [i]
1.
Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes,
Suffus'd in tears, implore to stay;
And heard _unmov'd_ thy plenteous sighs,
Which said far more than words can say? [ii]
2.
Though keen the grief _thy_ tears exprest, [iii]
When love and hope lay _both_ o'erthrown;
Yet still, my girl, _this_ bleeding breast
Throbb'd, with deep sorrow, as _thine own_.
3.
But, when our cheeks with anguish glow'd,
When _thy_ sweet lips were join'd to mine;
The tears that from _my_ eyelids flow'd
Were lost in those which fell from _thine_.
4.
Thou could'st not feel my burning cheek,
_Thy_ gushing tears had quench'd its flame,
And, as thy tongue essay'd to speak,
In _sighs alone_ it breath'd my name.
5.
And yet, my girl, we weep in vain,
In vain our fate in sighs deplore;
Remembrance only can remain,
But _that_, will make us weep the more.
6.
Again, thou best belov'd, adieu!
Ah! if thou canst, o'ercome regret,
Nor let thy mind past joys review,
Our only _hope_ is, to _forget_!
1805.
[Footnote i: _To_----. [4to]]
[Footnote ii: _than words could say_. [4to]]
[Footnote iii: _Though deep the grief_. [4to]]
TO CAROLINE. [1]
1.
You say you love, and yet your eye
No symptom of that love conveys,
You say you love, yet know not why,
Your cheek no sign of love betrays.
2.
Ah! did that breast with ardour glow,
With me alone it joy could know,
Or feel with me the listless woe,
Which racks my heart when far from thee.
3.
Whene'er we meet my blushes rise,
And mantle through my purpled cheek,
But yet no blush to mine replies,
Nor e'en your eyes your love bespeak.
4.
Your voice alone declares your flame,
And though so sweet it breathes my name,
Our passions still are not the same;
Alas! you cannot love like me.
5.
For e'en your lip seems steep'd in snow,
And though so oft it meets my kiss,
It burns with no responsive glow,
Nor melts like mine in dewy bliss.
6.
Ah! what are words to love like _mine_,
Though uttered by a voice like thine,
I still in murmurs must repine,
And think that love can ne'er be _true_,
7.
Which meets me with no joyous sign,
Without a sigh which bids adieu;
How different is my love from thine,
How keen my grief when leaving you.
8.
Your image fills my anxious breast,
Till day declines adown the West,
And when at night, I sink to rest,
In dreams your fancied form I view.
9.
'Tis then your breast, no longer cold,
With equal ardour seems to burn,
While close your arms around me fold,
Your lips my kiss with warmth return.
10.
Ah! would these joyous moments last;
Vain HOPE! the gay delusion's past,
That voice!--ah! no, 'tis but the blast,
Which echoes through the neighbouring grove.
11.
But when _awake_, your lips I seek,
And clasp enraptur'd all your charms,
So chill's the pressure of your cheek,
I fold a statue in my arms.
12.
If thus, when to my heart embrac'd,
No pleasure in your eyes is trac'd,
You may be prudent, fair, and _chaste_,
But ah! my girl, you _do not love_.
[Footnote 1: These lines, which appear in the Quarto, were never
republished.]
TO EMMA. [1]
1.
Since now the hour is come at last,
When you must quit your anxious lover;
Since now, our dream of bliss is past,
One pang, my girl, and all is over.
2.
Alas! that pang will be severe,
Which bids us part to meet no more;
Which tears me far from _one_ so dear,
_Departing_ for a distant shore.
3.
Well! we have pass'd some happy hours,
And joy will mingle with our tears;
When thinking on these ancient towers,
The shelter of our infant years;
4.
Where from this Gothic casement's height,
We view'd the lake, the park, the dell,
And still, though tears obstruct our sight,
We lingering look a last farewell,
5.
O'er fields through which we us'd to run,
And spend the hours in childish play;
O'er shades where, when our race was done,
Reposing on my breast you lay;
6.
Whilst I, admiring, too remiss,
Forgot to scare the hovering flies,
Yet envied every fly the kiss,
It dar'd to give your slumbering eyes:
7.
See still the little painted _bark_,
In which I row'd you o'er the lake;
See there, high waving o'er the park,
The _elm_ I clamber'd for your sake.
8.
These times are past, our joys are gone,
You leave me, leave this happy vale;
These scenes, I must retrace alone;
Without thee, what will they avail?
9.
Who can conceive, who has not prov'd,
The anguish of a last embrace?
When, torn from all you fondly lov'd,
You bid a long adieu to peace.
10.
_This_ is the deepest of our woes,
For _this_ these tears our cheeks bedew;
This is of love the final close,
Oh, God! the fondest, _last_ adieu!
1805.
[Footnote 1: To Maria--[4to]]
FRAGMENTS OF SCHOOL EXERCISES:
FROM THE "PROMETHEUS VINCTUS" OF AESCHYLUS,
[Greek: Maedam o panta nem_on, K.T.L_] [1]
Great Jove! to whose Almighty Throne
Both Gods and mortals homage pay,
Ne'er may my soul thy power disown,
Thy dread behests ne'er disobey.
Oft shall the sacred victim fall,
In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall;
My voice shall raise no impious strain,
'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main.
...
How different now thy joyless fate,
Since first Hesione thy bride,
When plac'd aloft in godlike state,
The blushing beauty by thy side,
Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smil'd,
And mirthful strains the hours beguil'd;
The Nymphs and Tritons danc'd around,
Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless frown'd, [2]
HARROW, December 1, 1804.
[Footnote 1: The Greek heading does not appear in the Quarto, nor in the
three first Editions.]
[Footnote 2: "My first Harrow verses (that is, English, as exercises), a
translation of a chorus from the 'Prometheus' of 苨chylus, were received
by Dr. Drury, my grand patron (our headmaster), but coolly. No one had,
at that time, the least notion that I should subside into
poetry."--'Life', p. 20. The lines are not a translation but a loose
adaptation or paraphrase of part of a chorus of the 'Prometheus
Vinctus', I, 528, 'sq.']
LINES
WRITTEN IN "LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN AND AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN,
BY J. J. ROUSSEAU; [1] FOUNDED ON FACTS."
"Away, away,--your flattering arts
May now betray some simpler hearts;
And _you_ will _smile_ at their believing,
And _they_ shall _weep_ at your deceiving."
[Footnote 1: A second edition of this work, of which the title is,
_Letters, etc., translated from the French of Jean Jacques Rousseau_,
was published in London, in 1784. It is, probably, a literary forgery.]
ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, [i] ADDRESSED TO MISS----.
Dear simple girl, those flattering arts,
(From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts,)[ii]
Exist but in imagination,
Mere phantoms of thine own creation; [iii]
For he who views that witching grace,
That perfect form, that lovely face,
With eyes admiring, oh! believe me,
He never wishes to deceive thee:
Once in thy polish'd mirror glance [iv]
Thou'lt there descry that elegance
Which from our sex demands such praises,
But envy in the other raises.--
Then he who tells thee of thy beauty, [v]
Believe me, only does his duty:
Ah! fly not from the candid youth;
It is not flattery,--'tis truth. [vi]
July, 1804.
[Footnote i: _Answer to the above._ [4to] ]
[Footnote ii: _From which you'd._ [4to] ]
[Footnote iii:
_Mere phantoms of your own creation;
For he who sees_. [4to]]
[Footnote iv:
_Once let you at your mirror glance
You'll there descry that elegance,_ [4to]]
[Footnote v:
_Then he who tells you of your beauty._ [4to]]
[Footnote vi:
_It is not flattery, but truth_. [4to]]
ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A GREAT PUBLIC SCHOOL. [1]
Where are those honours, IDA! once your own,
When Probus fill'd your magisterial throne?
As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace,
Hail'd a Barbarian in her C鎠ar's place,
So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate,
And seat _Pomposus_ where your _Probus_ sate.
Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul, [i]
Pomposus holds you in his harsh controul;
Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd,
With florid jargon, and with vain parade;
With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules,
(Such as were ne'er before enforc'd in schools.) [ii]
Mistaking _pedantry_ for _learning's_ laws,
He governs, sanction'd but by self-applause;
With him the same dire fate, attending Rome,
Ill-fated Ida! soon must stamp your doom:
Like her o'erthrown, for ever lost to fame,
No trace of science left you, but the name,
HARROW, July, 1805.
[Footnote 1: In March, 1805, Dr. Drury, the Probus of the piece,
retired from the Head-mastership of Harrow School, and was succeeded by
Dr. Butler, the Pomposus. "Dr. Drury," said Byron, in one of his
note-books, "was the best, the kindest (and yet strict, too) friend I
ever had; and I look upon him still as a father." Out of affection to
his late preceptor, Byron advocated the election of Mark Drury to the
vacant post, and hence his dislike of the successful candidate. He was
reconciled to Dr. Butler before departing for Greece, in 1809, and in
his diary he says, "I treated him rebelliously, and have been sorry ever
since." (See allusions in and notes to "Childish Recollections," pp.
84-106, and especially note I, p. 88, notes I and 2, p. 89, and note I,
p. 91.)] ]
[Footnote i:
----_but of a narrower soul_.--[4to]]
[Footnote ii:
_Such as were ne'er before beheld in schools._--[4to]]
EPITAPH ON A BELOVED FRIEND.[1]
[Greek: Astaer prin men elampes eni tsuoisin hepsos.]
[Plato's Epitaph (Epig. Gr鎐., Jacobs, 1826, p. 309),
quoted by Diog. Laertins.]
Oh, Friend! for ever lov'd, for ever dear! [i]
What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier!
What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath,
Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death!
Could tears retard the tyrant in his course;
Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force;
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay,
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey;
Thou still hadst liv'd to bless my aching sight,
Thy comrade's honour and thy friend's delight.
If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh
The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie,
Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart,
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art.
No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep,
But living statues there are seen to weep;
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb,
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom.
What though thy sire lament his failing line,
A father's sorrows cannot equal mine!
Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer,
Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here:
But, who with me shall hold thy former place?
Thine image, what new friendship can efface?
Ah, none!--a father's tears will cease to flow,
Time will assuage an infant brother's woe;
To all, save one, is consolation known,
While solitary Friendship sighs alone.
HARROW, 1803. [2]
[Footnote i:
_Oh Boy! for ever loved, for ever dear!
What fruitless tears have wash'd thy honour'd bier;
What sighs re-echoed to thy parting breath,
Whilst thou wert struggling in the pangs of death.
Could tears have turn'd the tyrant in his course,
Could sighs have checked his dart's relentless force; [iii]
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay,
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey,
Thou still had'st liv'd to bless my aching sight,
Thy comrade's honour, and thy friend's delight:
Though low thy lot since in a cottage born,
No titles did thy humble name adorn,
To me, far dearer, was thy artless love,
Than all the joys, wealth, fame, and friends could prove.
For thee alone I liv'd, or wish'd to live,
(Oh God! if impious, this rash word forgive,)
Heart-broken now, I wait an equal doom,
Content to join thee in thy turf-clad tomb;
Where this frail form compos'd in endless rest,
I'll make my last, cold, pillow on thy breast;
That breast where oft in life, I've laid my head,
Will yet receive me mouldering with the dead;
This life resign'd, without one parting sigh,
Together in one bed of earth we'll lie!
Together share the fate to mortals given,
Together mix our dust, and hope for Heaven._
HARROW, 1803.--[4to. _P. on V. Occasions._]]
[Footnote 1: The heading which appears in the Quarto and _P. on V.
Occasions_ was subsequently changed to "Epitaph on a Friend." The motto
was prefixed in 'Hours of Idleness'. The epigram which Bergk leaves
under Plato's name was translated by Shelley ('Poems', 1895, iii.
361)--
"Thou wert the morning star
Among the living,
Ere thy fair light had fled;
Now having died, thou art as
Hesperus, giving
New splendour to the dead."
There is an echo of the Greek distich in Byron's exquisite line, "The
Morning-Star of Memory."
The words, "Southwell, March 17," are added, in a lady's hand, on p. 9
of the annotated copy of P. 'on' V. 'Occasions' in the British Museum.
The conjecture that the "'beloved' friend," who is of humble origin, is
identical with "E----" of the verses on p. 4, remains uncertain.]
[Footnote ii:
_have bath'd thy honoured bier._
[_P. on V. Occasions._] ]
[Footnote iii:
_Could tears retard,_ [_P. on V. Occasions._]
_Could sighs avert._ [_P. on V. Occasions._] ]
ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL WHEN DYING.
Animula! vagula, Blandula,
Hospes, comesque corporis,
Qu?nunc abibis in Loca--
Pallidula, rigida, nudula,
Nec, ut soles, dabis Jocos?
TRANSLATION.
Ah! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring Sprite,
Friend and associate of this clay!
To what unknown region borne,
Wilt thou, now, wing thy distant flight?
No more with wonted humour gay,
But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.
1806.
A FRAGMENT. [1]
When, to their airy hall, my Fathers' voice
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice;
When, pois'd upon the gale, my form shall ride,
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side;
Oh! may my shade behold no sculptur'd urns,
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns!
No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone; [i]
My _epitaph_ shall be my name alone: [2]
If _that_ with honour fail to crown my clay, [ii]
Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay!
_That_, only _that_, shall single out the spot;
By that remember'd, or with that forgot. [iii]
1803.
[Footnote 1: There is no heading in the Quarto.]
[Footnote 2: In his will, drawn up in 1811, Byron gave directions that
"no inscription, save his name and age, should be written on his tomb."
June, 1819, he wrote to Murray: "Some of the epitaphs at the Certosa
cemetery, at Ferrara, pleased me more than the more splendid monuments
at Bologna; for instance, 'Martini Luigi Implora pace.' Can anything be
more full of pathos? I hope whoever may survive me will see those two
words, and no more, put over me."--'Life', pp. 131, 398.]
[Footnote: i.
'No lengthen'd scroll of virtue and renown.'
[4to. P. on V. Occ.]]
[Footnote: ii.
'If that with honour fails,'
[4to]]
[Footnote: iii.
'But that remember'd, or fore'er forgot'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
TO CAROLINE. [1]
1.
Oh! when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow?
Oh! when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay?
The present is hell! and the coming to-morrow
But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day.
2.
From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no curses, [i]
I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from bliss;
For poor is the soul which, bewailing, rehearses
Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this--
3.
Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes bright'ning,
Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could assuage,
On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning,
With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage.
4.
But now tears and curses, alike unavailing,
Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight;
Could they view us our sad separation bewailing,
Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight.
5.
Yet, still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation,
Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer;
Love and Hope upon earth bring no more consolation,
In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear.
6.
Oh! when, my ador'd, in the tomb will they place me,
Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are fled?
If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee,
Perhaps they will leave unmolested--the dead.
1805.
[Footnote 1: [To------.--[4to].]]
[Footnote i: 'fall no curses'.--[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
TO CAROLINE. [1]
1.
When I hear you express an affection so warm,
Ne'er think, my belov'd, that I do not believe;
For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm,
And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive.
2.
Yet still, this fond bosom regrets, while adoring,
That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear,
That Age will come on, when Remembrance, deploring,
Contemplates the scenes of her youth, with a tear;
3.
That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining
Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the breeze,
When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining,
Prove nature a prey to decay and disease.
4.
Tis this, my belov'd, which spreads gloom o'er my features,
Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the decree
Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of his creatures,
In the death which one day will deprive you of me. [i]
5.
Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion, [ii]
No doubt can the mind of your lover invade;
He worships each look with such faithful devotion,
A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade.
6.
But as death, my belov'd, soon or late shall o'ertake us,
And our breasts, which alive with such sympathy glow,
Will sleep in the grave, till the blast shall awake us,
When calling the dead, in Earth's bosom laid low.
7.
Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure,
Which from passion, like ours, must unceasingly flow; [iii]
Let us pass round the cup of Love's bliss in full measure,
And quaff the contents as our nectar below.
1805.
[Footnote 1: [There is no heading in the Quarto.]]
[Footnote i: _will deprive me of thee_.--[4to]]
[Footnote ii:
_No jargon of priests o'er our union was mutter'd,
To rivet the fetters of husband and wife;
By our lips, by our hearts, were our vows alone utter'd,
To perform them, in full, would ask more than a life_.--[4to]]
[Footnote iii: _will unceasingly flow_.--[4to]]
ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE AND SCHOOL OF HARROW ON THE HILL, 1806.
Oh! mihi pr鎡eritos referat si Jupiter annos.[1]
VIRGIL.
1.
Ye scenes of my childhood, whose lov'd recollection
Embitters the present, compar'd with the past;
Where science first dawn'd on the powers of reflection,
And friendships were form'd, too romantic to last; [2]
2.
Where fancy, yet, joys to retrace the resemblance
Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied; [3]
How welcome to me your ne'er fading remembrance, [i]
Which rests in the bosom, though hope is deny'd!
3.
Again I revisit the hills where we sported,
The streams where we swam, and the fields where we fought; [4]
The school where, loud warn'd by the bell, we resorted,
To pore o'er the precepts by Pedagogues taught.
4.
Again I behold where for hours I have ponder'd,
As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone [5] I lay;
Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander'd,
To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray.
5.
I once more view the room, with spectators surrounded,
Where, as Zanga, [6] I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown;
While, to swell my young pride, such applauses resounded,
I fancied that Mossop [7] himself was outshone.
6.
Or, as Lear, I pour'd forth the deep imprecation,
By my daughters, of kingdom and reason depriv'd;
Till, fir'd by loud plaudits and self-adulation,
I regarded myself as a _Garrick_ reviv'd. [ii]
7.
Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you!
Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast; [iii]
Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you:
Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest.
8.
To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me, [iv]
While Fate shall the shades of the future unroll!
Since Darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me,
More dear is the beam of the past to my soul!
9.
But if, through the course of the years which await me,
Some new scene of pleasure should open to view,
I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me,
"Oh! such were the days which my infancy knew." [8]
1806.
[Footnote 1: The motto was prefixed in 'Hours of Idleness'.]
[Footnote 2:
"My school-friendships were with me _passions_ (for I was always
violent), but I do not know that there is one which has endured (to be
sure, some have been cut short by death) till now."
'Diary', 1821; 'Life', p. 21.]
[Footnote 3: Byron was at first placed in the house of Mr. Henry
Drury, but in 1803 was removed to that of Mr. Evans.
"The reason why Lord Byron wishes for the change, arises from the
repeated complaints of Mr. Henry Drury respecting his inattention to
business, and his propensity to make others laugh and disregard their
employment as much as himself."
Dr. Joseph Drury to Mr. John Hanson.]
[Footnote 4:
"At Harrow I fought my way very fairly. I think I lost but one battle
out of seven."
'Diary', 1821; 'Life', p. 21.]
[Footnote 5: A tomb in the churchyard at Harrow was so well known to be
his favourite resting-place, that the boys called it "Byron's Tomb:" and
here, they say, he used to sit for hours, wrapt up in thought.--'Life',
p. 26.]
[Footnote 6: For the display of his declamatory powers, on the
speech-days, he _select_ed always the most vehement passages; such as the
speech of Zanga over the body of Alonzo, and Lear's address to the
storm.--'Life', p. 20, 'note'; and 'post', p. 103, 'var'. i.]
[Footnote 7: Henry Mossop (1729-1773), a contemporary of Garrick, famous
for his performance of "Zanga" in Young's tragedy of 'The Revenge'.]
[Footnote 8: Stanzas 8 and 9 first appeared in 'Hours of Idleness'.]
[Footnote i:
'How welcome once more'.
[4to]]
[Footnote ii:
'I consider'd myself'.
[4to]]
[Footnote iii:
'As your memory beams through this agonized breast;
Thus sad and deserted, I n'er can forget you,
Though this heart throbs to bursting by anguish possest.
[4to]
Your memory beams through this agonized breast.--
[P. on V. Occasions.']
[Footnote iv:
'I thought this poor brain, fever'd even to madness,
Of tears as of reason for ever was drain'd;
But the drops which now flow down _this_ bosom of sadness,
Convince me the springs have some moisture retain'd'.
'Sweet scenes of my childhood! your blest recollection,
Has wrung from these eyelids, to weeping long dead,
In torrents, the tears of my warmest affection,
The last and the fondest, I ever shall shed'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]
THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE EXAMINATION.
High in the midst, surrounded by his peers,
Magnus [1] his ample front sublime uprears: [i]
Plac'd on his chair of state, he seems a God,
While Sophs [2] and Freshmen tremble at his nod;
As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom, [ii]
_His_ voice, in thunder, shakes the sounding dome;
Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools,
Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules.
Happy the youth! in Euclid's axioms tried,
Though little vers'd in any art beside; 10
Who, scarcely skill'd an English line to pen, [iii]
Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken.
What! though he knows not how his fathers bled,
When civil discord pil'd the fields with dead,
When Edward bade his conquering bands advance,
Or Henry trampled on the crest of France:
Though marvelling at the name of _Magna Charta_,
Yet well he recollects the _laws_ of _Sparta_;
Can tell, what edicts sage _Lycurgus_ made,
While _Blackstone's_ on the _shelf_, _neglected_ laid; 20
Of _Grecian dramas_ vaunts the deathless fame,
Of _Avon's bard_, rememb'ring scarce the name.
Such is the youth whose scientific pate
Class-honours, medals, fellowships, await;
Or even, perhaps, the _declamation_ prize,
If to such glorious height, he lifts his eyes.
But lo! no _common_ orator can hope
The envied silver cup within his scope:
Not that our _heads_ much eloquence require,
Th' ATHENIAN'S [3] glowing style, or TULLY'S fire. 30
A _manner_ clear or warm is useless, since [iv]
We do not try by _speaking_ to _convince_;
Be other _orators_ of pleasing _proud_,--
We speak to _please_ ourselves, not _move_ the crowd:
Our gravity prefers the _muttering_ tone,
A proper mixture of the _squeak_ and _groan_:
No borrow'd _grace_ of _action_ must be seen,
The slightest motion would displease the _Dean_;
Whilst every staring Graduate would prate,
Against what--_he_ could never imitate. 40
The man, who hopes t' obtain the promis'd cup,
Must in one _posture_ stand, and _ne'er look up_;
Nor _stop_, but rattle over _every_ word--
No matter _what_, so it can _not_ be heard:
Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest:
Who speaks the _fastest's_ sure to speak the _best_;
Who utters most within the shortest space,
May, safely, hope to win the _wordy race_.
The Sons of _Science_ these, who, thus repaid,
Linger in ease in Granta's sluggish shade; 50
Where on Cam's sedgy banks, supine, they lie,
Unknown, unhonour'd live--unwept for die:
Dull as the pictures, which adorn their halls,
They think all learning fix'd within their walls:
In manners rude, in foolish forms precise,
All modern arts affecting to despise;
Yet prizing _Bentley's, Brunck's_, or _Porson's_ [4] note, [v]
More than the _verse on which the critic wrote_:
Vain as their honours, heavy as their Ale, [5]
Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale; 60
To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel,
When Self and Church demand a Bigot zeal.
With eager haste they court the lord of power, [vi]
(Whether 'tis PITT or PETTY [6] rules the hour;)
To _him_, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head,
While distant mitres to their eyes are spread; [vii]
But should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace,
They'd fly to seek the next, who fill'd his place.
_Such_ are the men who learning's treasures guard!
_Such_ is their _practice_, such is their _reward_! 70
This _much_, at least, we may presume to say--
The premium can't exceed the _price_ they _pay_. [viii]
1806.
[Footnote 1:
No reflection is here intended against the person mentioned under the
name of Magnus. He is merely represented as performing an unavoidable
function of his office. Indeed, such an attempt could only recoil upon
myself; as that gentleman is now as much distinguished by his
eloquence, and the dignified propriety with which he fills his
situation, as he was in his younger days for wit and conviviality.
[Dr. William Lort Mansel (1753-1820) was, in 1798, appointed Master of
Trinity College, by Pitt. He obtained the bishopric of Bristol, through
the influence of his pupil, Spencer Perceval, in 1808. He died in 1820.]
[Footnote 2: Undergraduates of the second and third year.]
[Footnote 3: Demosthenes.]
[Footnote 4: The present Greek professor at Trinity College, Cambridge;
a man whose powers of mind and writings may, perhaps, justify their
preference. [Richard Porson (1759-1808). For Byron's description of him,
see letter to Murray, of February 20, 1818. Byron says ('Diary',
December 17, 18, 1813) that he wrote the 'Devil's Drive' in imitation of
Porson's 'Devil's Walk'. This was a common misapprehension at the time.
The 'Devil's Thoughts' was the joint composition of Coleridge and
Southey, but it was generally attributed to Porson, who took no trouble
to disclaim it. It was originally published in the 'Morning Post', Sept.
6, 1799, and Stuart, the editor, said that it raised the circulation of
the paper for several days after. (See Coleridge's Poems (1893), pp.
147, 621.)]
[Footnote 5: Lines 59-62 are not in the Quarto. They first appeared in
'Poems Original and Translated']
[Footnote 6: Since this was written, Lord Henry Petty has lost his
place, and subsequently (I had almost said consequently) the honour of
representing the University. A fact so glaring requires no comment.
(Lord Henry Petty, M.P. for the University of Cambridge, was Chancellor
of the Exchequer in 1805; but in 1807 he lost his seat. In 1809 he
succeeded his brother as Marquis of Lansdowne. He died in 1863.)]
[Footnote i: 'M--us--l.--'[4to]]
[Footnote ii: 'Whilst all around.'--[4to]]
[Footnote iii:
'Who with scarse sense to pen an English letter,
Yet with precision scans an Attis metre.'
[4to]]
[Footnote iv:
'The manner of the speech is nothing, since',
[4to. 'P, on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote v:
'Celebrated critics'.
[4to. 'Three first Editions'.]]
[Footnote vi:
'They court the tool of power'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions.']]
[Footnote vii:
'While mitres, prebends'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions.']]
[Footnote viii:
The 'reward's' scarce equal to the 'price' they pay.
[4to]]
TO MARY,
ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE. [1]
1.
This faint resemblance of thy charms,
(Though strong as mortal art could give,)
My constant heart of fear disarms,
Revives my hopes, and bids me live.
2.
Here, I can trace the locks of gold
Which round thy snowy forehead wave;
The cheeks which sprung from Beauty's mould,
The lips, which made me 'Beauty's' slave.
3.
Here I can trace--ah, no! that eye,
Whose azure floats in liquid fire,
Must all the painter's art defy,
And bid him from the task retire.
4.
Here, I behold its beauteous hue;
But where's the beam so sweetly straying, [i.]
Which gave a lustre to its blue,
Like Luna o'er the ocean playing?
5.
Sweet copy! far more dear to me,
Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art,
Than all the living forms could be,
Save her who plac'd thee next my heart.
6.
She plac'd it, sad, with needless fear,
Lest time might shake my wavering soul,
Unconscious that her image there
Held every sense in fast controul.
7.
Thro' hours, thro' years, thro' time,'twill cheer--
My hope, in gloomy moments, raise;
In life's last conflict 'twill appear,
And meet my fond, expiring gaze.
[Footnote 1: This "Mary" is not to be confounded with the heiress of
Annesley, or "Mary" of Aberdeen. She was of humble station in life.
Byron used to show a lock of her light golden hair, as well as her
picture, among his friends. (See 'Life', p. 41, 'note'.)]
[Footnote i.:
'But Where's the beam of soft desire?
Which gave a lustre to its blue,
Love, only love, could e'er inspire.--'
[4to. 'P. on V, Occasions]]
ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX,[1]
THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU APPEARED IN THE "MORNING POST."
"Our Nation's foes lament on _Fox's_ death,
But bless the hour, when PITT resign'd his breath:
These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue,
We give the palm, where Justice points its due."
TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES SENT THE FOLLOWING REPLY [i]
FOR _INSERT_ION IN THE "MORNING CHRONICLE."
Oh, factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth
Would mangle, still, the dead, perverting truth; [ii]
What, though our "nation's foes" lament the fate,
With generous feeling, of the good and great;
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name [iii]
Of him, whose meed exists in endless fame?
When PITT expir'd in plenitude of power,
Though ill success obscur'd his dying hour,
Pity her dewy wings before him spread,
For noble spirits "war not with the dead:"
His friends in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave; [iv]
He sunk, an Atlas bending "'neath the weight" [v]
Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state.
When, lo! a Hercules, in Fox, appear'd,
Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd:
He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied, [vi]
With him, our fast reviving hopes have died;
Not one great people, only, raise his urn,
All Europe's far-extended regions mourn.
"These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth undue,
To give the palm where Justice points its due;" [vii]
Yet, let not canker'd Calumny assail, [viii]
Or round her statesman wind her gloomy veil.
FOX! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep,
Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep;
For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan,
While friends and foes, alike, his talents own.--[ix]
Fox! shall, in Britain's future annals, shine,
Nor e'en to PITT, the patriot's 'palm' resign;
Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask,
For PITT, and PITT alone, has dar'd to ask. [x]
(Southwell, Oct., 1806. [1])
[Footnote 1: The stanza on the death of Fox appeared in the _Morning
Post_, September 26, 1806.]
[Footnote 2: This MS. is preserved at Newstead.]
[Footnote i:
_The subjoined Reply._
[4to] ]
[Footnote ii:
_Would mangle, still, the dead, in spite of truth._
[4to] ]
[Footnote iii:
_Shall, therefore, dastard tongues assail the name
Of him, whose virtues claim eternal fame?_
[4to] ]
[Footnote iv: _And all his errors._--[4to] ]
[Footnote v:
_He died, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight
Of cares oppressing our unhappy state.
But lo! another Hercules appeared._
[4to] ]
[Footnote vi:
_He too is dead who still our England propp'd
With him our fast reviving hopes have dropp'd._
[4to] ]
[Footnote vii: _And give the palm._ [4to] ]
[Footnote viii:
_But let not canker'd Calumny assail
And round.--
[4to] ]
[Footnote ix: _And friends and foes._ [4to] ]
[Footnote x: '--would dare to ask.' [410]]
TO A LADY WHO PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF HAIR BRAIDED WITH HIS
OWN, AND APPOINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER TO MEET HIM IN THE GARDEN. [1]
These locks, which fondly thus entwine,
In firmer chains our hearts confine,
Than all th' unmeaning protestations
Which swell with nonsense, love orations.
Our love is fix'd, I think we've prov'd it;
Nor time, nor place, nor art have mov'd it;
Then wherefore should we sigh and whine,
With groundless jealousy repine;
With silly whims, and fancies frantic,
Merely to make our love romantic?
Why should you weep, like _Lydia Languish_,
And fret with self-created anguish?
Or doom the lover you have chosen,
On winter nights to sigh half frozen;
In leafless shades, to sue for pardon,
Only because the scene's a garden?
For gardens seem, by one consent,
(Since Shakespeare set the precedent;
Since Juliet first declar'd her passion)
To form the place of assignation.
Oh! would some modern muse inspire,
And seat her by a _sea-coal_ fire;
Or had the bard at Christmas written,
And laid the scene of love in Britain;
He surely, in commiseration,
Had chang'd the place of declaration.
In Italy, I've no objection,
Warm nights are proper for reflection;
But here our climate is so rigid,
That love itself, is rather frigid:
Think on our chilly situation,
And curb this rage for imitation.
Then let us meet, as oft we've done,
Beneath the influence of the sun;
Or, if at midnight I must meet you,
Within your mansion let me greet you: [i.]
'There', we can love for hours together,
Much better, in such snowy weather,
Than plac'd in all th' Arcadian groves,
That ever witness'd rural loves;
'Then', if my passion fail to please, [ii.]
Next night I'll be content to freeze;
No more I'll give a loose to laughter,
But curse my fate, for ever after. [2]
[Footnote 1: These lines are addressed to the same Mary referred to in
the lines beginning, "This faint resemblance of thy charms." ('Vide
ante', p. 32.)]
[Footnote 2: In the above little piece the author has been accused by
some 'candid readers' of introducing the name of a lady [Julia
Leacroft] from whom he was some hundred miles distant at the time this
was written; and poor Juliet, who has slept so long in "the tomb of all
the Capulets," has been converted, with a trifling alteration of her
name, into an English damsel, walking in a garden of their own creation,
during the month of 'December', in a village where the author never
passed a winter. Such has been the candour of some ingenious critics. We
would advise these 'liberal' commentators on taste and arbiters of
decorum to read 'Shakespeare'.
Having heard that a very severe and indelicate censure has been passed
on the above poem, I beg leave to reply in a quotation from an admired
work, 'Carr's Stranger in France'.--"As we were contemplating a
painting on a large scale, in which, among other figures, is the
uncovered whole length of a warrior, a prudish-looking lady, who seemed
to have touched the age of desperation, after having attentively
surveyed it through her glass, observed to her party that there was a
great deal of indecorum in that picture. Madame S. shrewdly whispered in
my ear 'that the indecorum was in the remark.'"--[Ed. 1803, cap. xvi, p.
171. Compare the note on verses addressed "To a Knot of Ungenerous
Critics," p. 213.]]
[Footnote i:
'Oh! let me in your chamber greet you.'
[4to]]
[Footnote ii:
'There if my passion'
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions]]
TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER. [1]
Sweet girl! though only once we met,
That meeting I shall ne'er forget;
And though we ne'er may meet again,
Remembrance will thy form retain;
I would not say, "I love," but still,
My senses struggle with my will:
In vain to drive thee from my breast,
My thoughts are more and more represt;
In vain I check the rising sighs,
Another to the last replies:
Perhaps, this is not love, but yet,
Our meeting I can ne'er forget.
What, though we never silence broke,
Our eyes a sweeter language spoke;
The tongue in flattering falsehood deals,
And tells a tale it never feels:
Deceit, the guilty lips impart,
And hush the mandates of the heart;
But soul's interpreters, the eyes,
Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise.
As thus our glances oft convers'd,
And all our bosoms felt rehears'd,
No _spirit_, from within, reprov'd us,
Say rather, "'twas the _spirit mov'd_ us."
Though, what they utter'd, I repress,
Yet I conceive thou'lt partly guess;
For as on thee, my memory ponders,
Perchance to me, thine also wanders.
This, for myself, at least, I'll say,
Thy form appears through night, through day;
Awake, with it my fancy teems,
In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams;
The vision charms the hours away,
And bids me curse Aurora's ray
For breaking slumbers of delight,
Which make me wish for endless night.
Since, oh! whate'er my future fate,
Shall joy or woe my steps await;
Tempted by love, by storms beset,
Thine image, I can ne'er forget.
Alas! again no more we meet,
No more our former looks repeat;
Then, let me breathe this parting prayer,
The dictate of my bosom's care:
"May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker,
That anguish never can o'ertake her;
That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her,
But bliss be aye her heart's partaker!
Oh! may the happy mortal, fated [i]
To be, by dearest ties, related,
For _her_, each hour, _new joys_ discover, [ii]
And lose the husband in the lover!
May that fair bosom never know
What 'tis to feel the restless woe,
Which stings the soul, with vain regret,
Of him, who never can forget!"
1806.
[Footnote 1:
_Whom the author saw at Harrowgate_.
Annotated copy of 'P. on V. Occasions', p. 64 (British Museum).]
[Footnote i:
The Quarto _insert_s the following lines:--
_"No jealous passion shall invade,
No envy that pure heart pervade;"
For he that revels in such charms,
Can never seek another's arms._]
[Footnote ii:
new joy _discover_.
[4to]]
TO LESBIA! [i] [1]
1.
LESBIA! since far from you I've rang'd, [ii]
Our souls with fond affection glow not;
You say, 'tis I, not you, have chang'd,
I'd tell you why,--but yet I know not.
2.
Your polish'd brow no cares have crost;
And Lesbia! we are not much older, [iii]
Since, trembling, first my heart I lost,
Or told my love, with hope grown bolder.
3.
Sixteen was then our utmost age,
Two years have lingering pass'd away, love!
And now new thoughts our minds engage,
At least, I feel disposed to stray, love!
4.
"Tis _I_ that am alone to blame,
_I_, that am guilty of love's treason;
Since your sweet breast is still the same,
Caprice must be my only reason.
5.
I do not, love! suspect your truth,
With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not;
Warm was the passion of my youth,
One trace of dark deceit it leaves not.
6.
No, no, my flame was not pretended;
For, oh! I lov'd you most sincerely;
And though our dream at last is ended
My bosom still esteems you dearly.
7.
No more we meet in yonder bowers;
Absence has made me prone to roving; [iv]
But older, firmer _hearts_ than ours
Have found monotony in loving.
8.
Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd,
New beauties, still, are daily bright'ning,
Your eye, for conquest beams prepar'd, [v]
The forge of love's resistless lightning.
9.
Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed,
Many will throng, to sigh like me, love!
More constant they may prove, indeed;
Fonder, alas! they ne'er can be, love!
1806.
[Footnote 1: "The lady's name was Julia Leacroft" ('Note by Miss E.
Pigot'). The word "Julia" (?) is added, in a lady's hand, in the
annotated copy of 'P. on V. Occasions', p. 52 (British Museum)]
[Footnote i: 'To Julia'. [4to]]
[Footnote ii: 'Julia since'. [4to]]
[Footnote iii: 'And Julia'. [4to]]
[Footnote iv:
_Perhaps my soul's too pure for roving_.
[4to]]
[Footnote v:
_Your eye for conquest comes prepar'd_.
[4to]]
TO WOMAN.
Woman! experience might have told me [i]
That all must love thee, who behold thee:
Surely experience might have taught
Thy firmest promises are nought; [ii]
But, plac'd in all thy charms before me,
All I forget, but to _adore_ thee.
Oh memory! thou choicest blessing,
When join'd with hope, when still possessing; [iii]
But how much curst by every lover
When hope is fled, and passion's over.
Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,
How prompt are striplings to believe her!
How throbs the pulse, when first we view
The eye that rolls in glossy blue,
Or sparkles black, or mildly throws
A beam from under hazel brows!
How quick we credit every oath,
And hear her plight the willing troth!
Fondly we hope 'twill last for ay,
When, lo! she changes in a day.
This record will for ever stand,'
"Woman, thy vows are trac'd in sand." [1] [iv]
[Footnote i:
_Surely, experience_.
[4to]]
[Footnote ii:
_A woman's promises are naught_.
[4to]]
[Footnote iii: Here follows, in the Quarto, an additional couplet:--
_Thou whisperest, as our hearts are beating,
"What oft we've done, we're still repeating_,"]
[Footnote iv:
_This Record will for ever stand
That Woman's vows are writ in sand_.
[4to]]
[Footnote 1: The last line is almost a literal translation from a
Spanish proverb.
(The last line is not "almost a literal translation from a Spanish
proverb," but an adaptation of part of a stanza from the 'Diana' of
Jorge de Montemajor--
"Mir? el Amor, lo que ordena;
Que os viene a hazer creer
Cosas dichas por muger,
Y escriptas en el arena."
Southey, in his 'Letters from Spain', 1797, pp. 87-91, gives a specimen
of the 'Diana', and renders the lines in question thus--
"And Love beheld us from his secret stand,
And mark'd his triumph, laughing, to behold me,
To see me trust a writing traced in sand,
To see me credit what a woman told me."
Byron, who at this time had little or no knowledge of Spanish
literature, seems to have been struck with Southey's paraphrase, and
compressed the quatrain into an epigram.]
AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE,
DELIVERED BY THE AUTHOR PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE OF "THE WHEEL OF
FORTUNE" AT A PRIVATE THEATRE. [1]
Since the refinement of this polish'd age
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage;
Since taste has now expung'd licentious wit,
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ;
Since, now, to please with purer scenes we seek,
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek;
Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim,
And meet indulgence--though she find not fame.
Still, not for _her_ alone, we wish respect, [i]
_Others_ appear more conscious of defect:
To-night no _vet'ran Roscii_ you behold,
In all the arts of scenic action old;
No COOKE, no KEMBLE, can salute you here,
No SIDDONS draw the sympathetic tear;
To-night you throng to witness the _d閎ut_
Of embryo Actors, to the Drama new:
Here, then, our almost unfledg'd wings we try;
Clip not our _pinions_, ere the _birds can fly_:
Failing in this our first attempt to soar,
Drooping, alas! we fall to rise no more.
Not one poor trembler, only, fear betrays,
Who hopes, yet almost dreads to meet your praise;
But all our Dramatis Person?wait,
In fond suspense this crisis of their fate.
No venal views our progress can retard,
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward;
For these, each _Hero_ all his power displays, [ii]
Each timid _Heroine_ shrinks before your gaze:
Surely the last will some protection find? [iii]
None, to the softer sex, can prove unkind:
While Youth and Beauty form the female shield, [iv]
The sternest Censor to the fair must yield. [v]
Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail,
Should, _after all_, our best endeavours fail;
Still, let some mercy in your bosoms live,
And, if you can't applaud, at least _forgive_.
[Footnote 1. "I enacted Penruddock, in 'The Wheel of Fortune', and
Tristram Fickle, in the farce of 'The Weathercock', for three nights, in
some private theatricals at Southwell, in 1806, with great applause. The
occasional prologue for our volunteer play was also of my
composition."--'Diary; Life', p. 38. The prologue was written by him,
between stages, on his way from Harrogate. On getting into the carriage
at Chesterfield, he said to his companion, "Now, Pigot, I'll spin a
prologue for our play;" and before they reached Mansfield he had
completed his task,--interrupting only once his rhyming reverie, to ask
the proper pronunciation of the French word 'd閎ut'; and, on being told
it, exclaiming, "Aye, that will do for rhyme to ''new'.'"--'Life', p.
39. "The Prologue was spoken by G. Wylde, Esq."--Note by Miss E. PIGOT.]
[Footnote i. _But not for her alone_.--[4to]
[Footnote ii: _For them each Hero_.--[4to]]
[Footnote iii: _Surely these last_.--[4to]]
[Footnote iv: _Whilst Youth_.--[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote v: _The sternest critic_.--[4to]]
TO ELIZA. [i]
1.
Eliza! [1] what fools are the Mussulman sect,
Who, to woman, deny the soul's future existence;
Could they see thee, Eliza! they'd own their defect,
And this doctrine would meet with a general resistance. [ii]
2.
Had their Prophet possess'd half an atom of sense, [iii]
He ne'er would have _woman_ from Paradise driven;
Instead of his _Houris_, a flimsy pretence, [iv]
With _woman alone_ he had peopled his Heaven.
3.
Yet, still, to increase your calamities more, [v]
Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit,
He allots one poor husband to share amongst four! [vi]--
With _souls_ you'd dispense; but, this last, who could bear it?
4.
His religion to please neither party is made;
On _husbands_ 'tis _hard_, to the wives most uncivil;
Still I can't contradict, [vii] what so oft has been said,
"Though women are angels, yet wedlock's the devil."
5.
This terrible truth, even Scripture has told, [2]
Ye Benedicks! hear me, and listen with rapture;
If a glimpse of redemption you wish to behold,
Of ST. MATT.--read the second and twentieth chapter.
6.
'Tis surely enough upon earth to be vex'd,
With wives who eternal confusion are spreading;
"But in Heaven" (so runs the Evangelists' Text)
"We neither have giving in marriage, or wedding."
7.
From this we suppose, (as indeed well we may,)
That should Saints after death, with their spouses put up more,
And wives, as in life, aim at absolute sway,
All Heaven would ring with the conjugal uproar.
8.
Distraction and Discord would follow in course,
Nor MATTHEW, nor MARK, nor ST. PAUL, can deny it,
The only expedient is general divorce,
To prevent universal disturbance and riot.
9.
But though husband and wife, shall at length be disjoin'd,
Yet woman and man ne'er were meant to dissever,
Our chains once dissolv'd, and our hearts unconfin'd,
We'll love without bonds, but we'll love you for ever.
10.
Though souls are denied you by fools and by rakes,
Should you own it yourselves, I would even then doubt you,
Your nature so much of _celestial_ partakes,
The Garden of Eden would wither without you.
Southwell, _October_ 9, 1806.
[Footnote 1: The letters "E. B. P." are added, in a lady's hand, in the
annotated copy of _P. on V. Occasions_, p. 26 (_British Museum_). The
initials stand for Miss Elizabeth Pigot.]
[Footnote 2: Stanzas 5-10, which appear in the Quarto, were never
reprinted.]
[Footnote i:
_To Miss E. P._ [4to]
_To Miss_---. [_P. on V. Occasions._]]
[Footnote ii:
_Did they know but yourself they would bend with respect,
And this doctrine must meet_---.
[_MS. Newstead_.]]
[Footnote iii: _But an atom of sense_. [4to]]
[Footnote iv: _But instead of his_ Houris. [4to]]
[Footnote v: _But still to increase_. [4to]]
[Footnote vi: _He allots but one husband. [4to]]
[Footnote vii: _But I can't---._ [4to]]
THE TEAR.
O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater
Felix! in imo qui scatentem
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit. [1]
GRAY, 'Alcaic Fragment'.
1.
When Friendship or Love
Our sympathies move;
When Truth, in a glance, should appear,
The lips may beguile,
With a dimple or smile,
But the test of affection's a _Tear_.
2.
Too oft is a smile
But the hypocrite's wile,
To mask detestation, or fear;
Give me the soft sigh,
Whilst the soul-telling eye
Is dimm'd, for a time, with a _Tear_.
3.
Mild Charity's glow,
To us mortals below,
Shows the soul from barbarity clear;
Compassion will melt,
Where this virtue is felt,
And its dew is diffused in a _Tear_.
4.
The man, doom'd to sail
With the blast of the gale,
Through billows Atlantic to steer,
As he bends o'er the wave
Which may soon be his grave,
The green sparkles bright with a _Tear_.
5.
The Soldier braves death
For a fanciful wreath
In Glory's romantic career;
But he raises the foe
When in battle laid low,
And bathes every wound with a _Tear_.
6.
If, with high-bounding pride,[i]
He return to his bride!
Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear;
All his toils are repaid
When, embracing the maid,
From her eyelid he kisses the _Tear_.
7.
Sweet scene of my youth! [2]
Seat of Friendship and Truth,
Where Love chas'd each fast-fleeting year;
Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd,
For a last look I turn'd,
But thy spire was scarce seen through a _Tear_.
8.
Though my vows I can pour,
To my Mary no more, [3]
My Mary, to Love once so dear,
In the shade of her bow'r,
I remember the hour,
She rewarded those vows with a _Tear_.
9.
By another possest,
May she live ever blest!
Her name still my heart must revere:
With a sigh I resign,
What I once thought was mine,
And forgive her deceit with a _Tear_.
10.
Ye friends of my heart,
Ere from you I depart,
This hope to my breast is most near:
If again we shall meet,
In this rural retreat,
May we _meet_, as we _part_, with a _Tear_.
11.
When my soul wings her flight
To the regions of night,
And my corse shall recline on its bier; [ii]
As ye pass by the tomb,
Where my ashes consume,
Oh! moisten their dust with a _Tear_.
12.
May no marble bestow
The splendour of woe,
Which the children of Vanity rear;
No fiction of fame
Shall blazon my name,
All I ask, all I wish, is a _Tear_.
October 26, 1806. [iii]
[Footnote 1: The motto was prefixed in 'Hours of Idleness'.]
[Footnote 2: Harrow.]
[Footnote 3: Miss Chaworth was married in 1805.]
[Footnote i:
_When with high-bounding pride,
He returns_----.
[4to]]
[Footnote ii:
_And my body shall sleep on its bier_.
[4to. _P. on V. Occasions_.]]
[Footnote iii:
BYRON, October 26, 1806.
[4to]]
REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J. M. B. PIGOT, ESQ.,
ON THE CRUELTY OF HIS MISTRESS. [1]
1.
Why, Pigot, complain
Of this damsel's disdain,
Why thus in despair do you fret?
For months you may try,
Yet, believe me, a _sigh_ [i]
Will never obtain a _coquette_.
2.
Would you teach her to love?
For a time seem to rove;
At first she may _frown_ in a _pet;_
But leave her awhile,
She shortly will smile,
And then you may _kiss_ your _coquette_.
3.
For such are the airs
Of these fanciful fairs,
They think all our _homage_ a _debt_:
Yet a partial neglect [ii]
Soon takes an effect,
And humbles the proudest _coquette_.
4.
Dissemble your pain,
And lengthen your chain,
And seem her _hauteur_ to _regret;_ [iii]
If again you shall sigh,
She no more will deny,
That _yours_ is the rosy _coquette_.
5.
If still, from false pride, [iv]
Your pangs she deride,
This whimsical virgin forget;
Some _other_ admire,
Who will _melt_ with your _fire_,
And laugh at the _little coquette_.
6.
For _me_, I adore
Some _twenty_ or more,
And love them most dearly; but yet,
Though my heart they enthral,
I'd abandon them all,
Did they act like your blooming _coquette_.
7.
No longer repine,
Adopt this design, [v]
And break through her slight-woven net!
Away with despair,
No longer forbear
To fly from the captious _coquette_.
8.
Then quit her, my friend!
Your bosom defend,
Ere quite with her snares you're beset:
Lest your deep-wounded heart,
When incens'd by the smart,
Should lead you to _curse_ the _coquette_.
October 27, 1806. [vi]
[Footnote 1: The letters "C. B. F. J. B. M." are added, in a lady's
hand, in the annotated copy of 'P. on V. Occasions', p. 14 (British
Museum).]
[Footnote i: _But believe me_. [4to]]
[Footnote ii: _But a partial_. [4to]]
[Footnote iii: _Nor seem_. [4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote iv: _But if from false pride._ [4to]]
[Footnote v: _But form this design._ [4to]]
[Footnote vi: BYRON, October 27, 1806. [4to]
GRANTA. A MEDLEY.
[Greek: Argureais logchaisi machou kai panta krataese_o.] [1]
(Reply of the Pythian Oracle to Philip of Macedon.)
1.
Oh! could LE SAGE'S [2] demon's gift
Be realis'd at my desire,
This night my trembling form he'd lift
To place it on St. Mary's spire. [i]
2.
Then would, unroof'd, old Granta's halls,
Pedantic inmates full display;
_Fellows_ who dream on _lawn_ or _stalls_,
The price of venal votes to pay. [ii]
3.
Then would I view each rival wight,
PETTY and PALMERSTON survey;
Who canvass there, with all their might, [iii]
Against the next elective day. [3]
4.
Lo! candidates and voters lie [iv]
All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number!
A race renown'd for piety,
Whose conscience won't disturb their slumber.
5.
Lord H---[4] indeed, may not demur;
Fellows are sage, reflecting men:
They know preferment can occur,
But very seldom,--_now_ and _then_.
6.
They know the Chancellor has got
Some pretty livings in disposal:
Each hopes that _one_ may be his _lot_,
And, therefore, smiles on his proposal. [v]
7.
Now from the soporific scene [vi]
I'll turn mine eye, as night grows later,
To view, unheeded and unseen, [vii]
The studious sons of Alma Mater.
8.
There, in apartments small and damp,
The candidate for college prizes,
Sits poring by the midnight lamp;
Goes late to bed, yet early rises. [viii]
9.
He surely well deserves to gain them,
With all the honours of his college, [ix]
Who, striving hardly to obtain them,
Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge:
10.
Who sacrifices hours of rest,
To scan precisely metres Attic;
Or agitates his anxious breast, [x]
In solving problems mathematic:
11.
Who reads false quantities in Seale, [5]
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle;
Depriv'd of many a wholesome meal; [xi]
In _barbarous Latin_ [6] doom'd to wrangle:
12.
Renouncing every pleasing page,
From authors of historic use;
Preferring to the letter'd sage,
The square of the hypothenuse. [7]
13.
Still, harmless are these occupations, [xii]
That hurt none but the hapless student,
Compar'd with other recreations,
Which bring together the imprudent;
14.
Whose daring revels shock the sight,
When vice and infamy combine,
When Drunkenness and dice invite, [xiii]
As every sense is steep'd in wine.
15.
Not so the methodistic crew,
Who plans of reformation lay:
In humble attitude they sue,
And for the sins of others pray:
16.
Forgetting that their pride of spirit,
Their exultation in their trial, [xiv]
Detracts most largely from the merit
Of all their boasted self-denial.
17.
'Tis morn:--from these I turn my sight:
What scene is this which meets the eye?
A numerous crowd array'd in white, [8]
Across the green in numbers fly.
18.
Loud rings in air the chapel bell;
'Tis hush'd:--what sounds are these I hear?
The organ's soft celestial swell
Rolls deeply on the listening ear.
19.
To this is join'd the sacred song,
The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain;
Though _he_ who hears the _music_ long, [xv]
Will _never_ wish to _hear again_.
20.
Our choir would scarcely be excus'd,
E'en as a band of raw beginners;
All mercy, now, must be refus'd [xvi]
To such a set of croaking sinners.
21.
If David, when his toils were ended,
Had heard these blockheads sing before him,
To us his psalms had ne'er descended,--
In furious mood he would have tore 'em.
22.
The luckless Israelites, when taken
By some inhuman tyrant's order,
Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken,
On Babylonian river's border.
23.
Oh! had they sung in notes like these [xvii]
Inspir'd by stratagem or fear,
They might have set their hearts at ease,
The devil a soul had stay'd to hear.
24.
But if I scribble longer now, [xviii]
The deuce a soul will _stay to read_;
My pen is blunt, my ink is low;
'Tis almost time to _stop_, _indeed_.
25.
Therefore, farewell, old _Granta's_ spires!
No more, like _Cleofas_, I fly;
No more thy theme my Muse inspires:
The reader's tir'd, and so am I.
October 28, 1806.
[Footnote 1: The motto was prefixed in 'Hours of Idleness'.
"Fight with silver spears" ('i.e'. with bribes), "and them shall
prevail in all things."]
[Footnote 2: The 'Diable Boiteux' of Le Sage, where Asmodeus, the demon,
places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation, and unroofs the houses for
inspection. [Don Cleofas, clinging to the cloak of Asmodeus, is carried
through the air to the summit of S. Salvador.]
[Footnote 3: On the death of Pitt, in January, 1806, Lord Henry Petty
beat Lord Palmerston in the contest for the representation of the
University of Cambridge in Parliament.]
[Footnote 4: Probably Lord Henry Petty. See variant iii.]
[Footnote 5: Scale's publication on Greek Metres displays considerable
talent and ingenuity, but, as might be expected in so difficult a work,
is not remarkable for accuracy. ('An Analysis of the Greek Metres; for
the use of students at the University of Cambridge'. By John Barlow
Seale (1764), 8vo. A fifth edition was issued in 1807.)]
[Footnote 6. The Latin of the schools is of the 'canine species', and
not very intelligible.]
[Footnote 7: The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of the
hypothenuse is equal to the squares of the other two sides of a
right-angled triangle.]
[Footnote 8: On a saint's day the students wear surplices in chapel.]
[Footnote i: 'And place it'. [4to]]
[Footnote ii: 'The price of hireling'. [4to]]
[Footnote iii: 'Who canvass now'. [4to]]
[Footnote iv:
'One on his power and place depends,
The other on--the Lord knows what!
Each to some eloquence pretends,
But neither will convince by that.
The first, indeed, may not demur;
Fellows are sage reflecting men,
And know'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote v:
'And therefore smiles at his'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote vi:
'Now from Corruption's shameless scene'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote vii: 'And view unseen'. [4to]]
[Footnote viii: 'and early rises'. [4to]]
[Footnote ix: 'And all the' [4to]]
[Footnote x: 'And agitates'. [4to]]
[Footnote xi: 'And robs himself of many a meal'. [4to]]
[Footnote xii:
'But harmless are these occupations
Which'.
[4to]]
[Footnote xiii:
'When Drunkenness and dice unite.
And every sense'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote xiv: 'And exultation'. [4to]]
[Footnote xv: 'But he'. [4to]]
[Footnote xvi: 'But mercy'. [4to]]
[Footnote xvii: 'But had they sung'. [4to]]
[Footnote xviii:
'But if I write much longer now'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
TO THE SIGHING STREPHON. [1]
1.
Your pardon, my friend,
If my rhymes did offend,
Your pardon, a thousand times o'er;
From friendship I strove,
Your pangs to remove,
But, I swear, I will do so no more.
2.
Since your _beautiful_ maid,
Your flame has repaid,
No more I your folly regret;
She's now most divine,
And I bow at the shrine,
Of this quickly reform鑔 coquette.
3.
Yet still, I must own, [i]
I should never have known,
From _your verses_, what else she deserv'd;
Your pain seem'd so great,
I pitied your fate,
As your fair was so dev'lish reserv'd.
4.
Since the balm-breathing kiss [ii]
Of this magical Miss,
Can such wonderful transports produce; [iii]
Since the _"world you forget,
When your lips once have met,"_
My counsel will get but abuse.
5.
You say, "When I rove,"
"I know nothing of love;"
Tis true, I am given to range;
If I rightly remember,
_I've lov'd_ a good number; [iv]
Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change.
6.
I will not advance, [v]
By the rules of romance,
To humour a whimsical fair;
Though a smile may delight,
Yet a _frown_ will _affright,_ [vi]
Or drive me to dreadful despair.
7.
While my blood is thus warm,
I ne'er shall reform,
To mix in the Platonists' school;
Of this I am sure,
Was my Passion so pure,
Thy _Mistress_ would think me a fool. [vii]
8 [viii]
And if I should shun,
Every _woman_ for _one,_
Whose _image_ must fill my whole breast;
Whom I must _prefer,_
And _sigh_ but for _her,_
What an _insult_ 'twould be to the _rest!_
9.
Now Strephon, good-bye;
I cannot deny,
Your _passion_ appears most _absurd;_
Such _love_ as you plead,
Is _pure_ love, indeed,
For it _only_ consists in the _word_.
[Footnote 1: The letters "J. M. B. P." are added, in a lady's hand, in
the annotated copy of 'P. on V. Occasions', p. 17 (British Museum).]
[Footnote i: 'But still'. [4to]]
[Footnote ii: 'But since the chaste kiss.' [4to]]
[Footnote iii: 'Such wonderful.' [4to]]
[Footnote iv:
'I've kiss'd a good number.
But-----'
[4to]]
[Footnote v:
'I ne'er will advance.'
[4to]]
[Footnote vi:
'Yet a frown won't affright.'
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions.']]
[Footnote vii:
'My mistress must think me.'
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions.']]
[Footnote viii:
'Though the kisses are sweet,
Which voluptuously meet,
Of kissing I ne'er was so fond,
As to make me forget,
Though our lips oft have met,
That still there was something beyond.'
[4to]
THE CORNELIAN. [1]
1.
No specious splendour of this stone
Endears it to my memory ever;
With lustre _only once_ it shone,
And blushes modest as the giver. [i]
2.
Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties,
Have, for my weakness, oft reprov'd me;
Yet still the simple gift I prize,
For I am sure, the giver lov'd me.
3.
He offer'd it with downcast look,
As _fearful_ that I might refuse it;
I told him, when the gift I took,
My _only fear_ should be, to lose it.
4.
This pledge attentively I view'd,
And _sparkling_ as I held it near,
Methought one drop the stone bedew'd,
And, ever since, _I've lov'd a tear._
5.
Still, to adorn his humble youth,
Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield;
But he, who seeks the flowers of truth,
Must quit the garden, for the field.
6.
'Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth,
Which beauty shews, and sheds perfume;
The flowers, which yield the most of both,
In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom.
7.
Had Fortune aided Nature's care,
For once forgetting to be blind,
_His_ would have been an ample share,
If well proportioned to his mind.
8.
But had the Goddess clearly seen,
His form had fix'd her fickle breast;
_Her_ countless hoards would _his_ have been,
And none remain'd to give the rest.
[Footnote 1: The cornelian was a present from his friend Edleston, a
Cambridge chorister, afterwards a clerk in a mercantile house in London.
Edleston died of consumption, May 11, 1811. (See letter from Byron to
Miss Pigot, October 28, 1811.) Their acquaintance began by Byron saving
him from drowning. (MS. note by the Rev. W. Harness.)]
[Footnote i: 'But blushes modest'. [4to]]
TO M----[i]
1.
Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire,
With bright, but mild affection shine:
Though they might kindle less desire,
Love, more than mortal, would be thine.
2.
For thou art form'd so heavenly fair,
_Howe'er_ those orbs _may_ wildly beam,
We must _admire,_ but still despair;
That fatal glance forbids esteem.
3.
When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth,
So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear'd that, too divine for earth,
The skies might claim thee for their own.
4.
Therefore, to guard her dearest work,
Lest angels might dispute the prize,
She bade a secret lightning lurk,
Within those once celestial eyes.
5.
These might the boldest Sylph appall,
When gleaming with meridian blaze;
Thy beauty must enrapture all;
But who can dare thine ardent gaze?
6.
'Tis said that Berenice's hair,
In stars adorns the vault of heaven;
But they would ne'er permit _thee_ there,
_Thou_ wouldst so far outshine the seven.
7.
For did those eyes as planets roll,
Thy sister-lights would scarce appear:
E'en suns, which systems now controul,
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere. [1]
Friday, November 7, 1806
[Footnote 1:
"Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do intreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return."
Shakespeare.]
[Footnote i: 'To A----'. [4to] ]
LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.[1]
[As the author was discharging his Pistols in a Garden, Two Ladies
passing near the spot were alarmed by the sound of a Bullet hissing near
them, to one of whom the following stanzas were addressed the next
morning.] [2]
1.
Doubtless, sweet girl! the hissing lead,
Wafting destruction o'er thy charms [i]
And hurtling o'er [3] thy lovely head,
Has fill'd that breast with fond alarms.
2.
Surely some envious Demon's force,
Vex'd to behold such beauty here,
Impell'd the bullet's viewless course,
Diverted from its first career.
3.
Yes! in that nearly fatal hour,
The ball obey'd some hell-born guide;
But Heaven, with interposing power,
In pity turn'd the death aside.
4.
Yet, as perchance one trembling tear
Upon that thrilling bosom fell;
Which _I_, th' unconscious cause of fear,
Extracted from its glistening cell;--
5.
Say, what dire penance can atone
For such an outrage, done to thee?
Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne,
What punishment wilt thou decree?
6.
Might I perform the Judge's part,
The sentence I should scarce deplore;
It only would restore a heart,
Which but belong'd to _thee_ before.
7.
The least atonement I can make
Is to become no longer free;
Henceforth, I breathe but for thy sake,
Thou shalt be _all in all_ to me.
8.
But thou, perhaps, may'st now reject
Such expiation of my guilt;
Come then--some other mode elect?
Let it be death--or what thou wilt.
9.
Choose, then, relentless! and I swear
Nought shall thy dread decree prevent;
Yet hold--one little word forbear!
Let it be aught but banishment.
[Footnote 1: This title first appeared in "Contents" to 'P. on V.
Occasions'.]
[Footnote 2: The occurrence took place at Southwell, and the beautiful
lady to whom the lines were addressed was Miss Houson, who is also
commemorated in the verses "To a Vain Lady" and "To Anne." She was the
daughter of the Rev. Henry Houson of Southwell, and married the Rev.
Luke Jackson. She died on Christmas Day, 1821, and her monument may be
seen in Hucknall Torkard Church.]
[Footnote 3: This word is used by Gray in his poem to the Fatal
Sisters:--
"Iron-sleet of arrowy shower
Hurtles in the darken'd air."]
[Footnote i: 'near thy charms'. [4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]
TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.
AD LESBIAM.
Equal to Jove that youth must be--
_Greater_ than Jove he seems to me--
Who, free from Jealousy's alarms,
Securely views thy matchless charms;
That cheek, which ever dimpling glows,
That mouth, from whence such music flows,
To him, alike, are always known,
Reserv'd for him, and him alone.
Ah! Lesbia! though 'tis death to me,
I cannot choose but look on thee;
But, at the sight, my senses fly,
I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die;
Whilst trembling with a thousand fears,
Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres,
My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short,
My limbs deny their slight support;
Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread,
With deadly languor droops my head,
My ears with tingling echoes ring,
And Life itself is on the wing;
My eyes refuse the cheering light,
Their orbs are veil'd in starless night:
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath,
And feels a temporary death.
TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL
AND TIBULLUS, BY DOMITIUS MARSUS.
He who, sublime, in epic numbers roll'd,
And he who struck the softer lyre of Love,
By Death's _unequal_[1] hand alike controul'd,
Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!
[Footnote: 1. The hand of Death is said to be unjust or unequal, as
Virgil was considerably older than Tibullus at his decease.]
IMITATION OF TIBULLUS.
SULPICIA AD CERINTHUM (LIB. QUART.).
Cruel Cerinthus! does the fell disease [i]
Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please?
Alas! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain,
That I might live for Love and you again;
But, now, I scarcely shall bewail my fate:
By Death alone I can avoid your hate.
[Footnote i:
'does this fell disease'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions.]
TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.
LUGETE VENERES CUPIDINESQUE (CARM. III.) [i]
Ye Cupids, droop each little head,
Nor let your wings with joy be spread,
My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead,
Whom dearer than her eyes she lov'd: [ii]
For he was gentle, and so true,
Obedient to her call he flew,
No fear, no wild alarm he knew,
But lightly o'er her bosom mov'd:
And softly fluttering here and there,
He never sought to cleave the air,
He chirrup'd oft, and, free from care, [iii]
Tun'd to her ear his grateful strain.
Now having pass'd the gloomy bourn, [iv]
From whence he never can return,
His death, and Lesbia's grief I mourn,
Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain.
Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave!
Whose jaws eternal victims crave,
From whom no earthly power can save,
For thou hast ta'en the bird away:
From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow,
Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow;
Thou art the cause of all her woe,
Receptacle of life's decay.
[Footnote i:
_Luctus De Morte Passeris_.
[4to. _P. on V. Occasions_.] ]
[Footnote ii: _Which dearer_. [4to] ]
[Footnote iii: _But chirrup'd_. [4to] ]
[Footnote iv: _But now he's pass'd_. [4to] ]
IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. [1]
TO ELLEN. [i]
Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire,
A million scarce would quench desire;
Still would I steep my lips in bliss,
And dwell an age on every kiss;
Nor then my soul should sated be,
Still would I kiss and cling to thee:
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever,
Still would we kiss and kiss for ever;
E'en though the numbers did exceed [ii]
The yellow harvest's countless seed;
To part would be a vain endeavour:
Could I desist?--ah! never--never.
November 16, 1806.
[Footnote 1: From a note in Byron's copy of Catullus (now in the
possession of Mr. Murray), it is evident that these lines are based on
Carm. xlviii., 'Mellitos oculos tuos, Juventi'.]
[Footnote i: 'To Anna'. [4to] ]
[Footnote ii: 'E'en though the number'. [4to. 'Three first Editions'.]]
* * * * * * * *
POEMS ON VARIOUS OCCASIONS
TO M. S. G.
1.
Whene'er I view those lips of thine,
Their hue invites my fervent kiss;
Yet, I forego that bliss divine,
Alas! it were--unhallow'd bliss.
2.
Whene'er I dream of that pure breast,
How could I dwell upon its snows!
Yet, is the daring wish represt,
For that,--would banish its repose.
3.
A glance from thy soul-searching eye
Can raise with hope, depress with fear;
Yet, I conceal my love,--and why?
I would not force a painful tear.
4.
I ne'er have told my love, yet thou
Hast seen my ardent flame too well;
And shall I plead my passion now,
To make thy bosom's heaven a hell?
5.
No! for thou never canst be mine,
United by the priest's decree:
By any ties but those divine,
Mine, my belov'd, thou ne'er shalt be.
6.
Then let the secret fire consume,
Let it consume, thou shalt not know:
With joy I court a certain doom,
Rather than spread its guilty glow.
7.
I will not ease my tortur'd heart,
By driving dove-ey'd peace from thine;
Rather than such a sting impart,
Each thought presumptuous I resign.
8.
Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave
More than I here shall dare to tell;
Thy innocence and mine to save,--
I bid thee now a last farewell.
9.
Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair
And hope no more thy soft embrace;
Which to obtain, my soul would dare,
All, all reproach, but thy disgrace.
10.
At least from guilt shall thou be free,
No matron shall thy shame reprove;
Though cureless pangs may prey on me,
No martyr shall thou be to love.
STANZAS TO A LADY, WITH THE POEMS OF CAMO薔S. [1]
1.
This votive pledge of fond esteem,
Perhaps, dear girl! for me thou'lt prize;
It sings of Love's enchanting dream,
A theme we never can despise.
2.
Who blames it but the envious fool,
The old and disappointed maid?
Or pupil of the prudish school,
In single sorrow doom'd to fade?
3.
Then read, dear Girl! with feeling read,
For thou wilt ne'er be one of those;
To thee, in vain, I shall not plead
In pity for the Poet's woes.
4.
He was, in sooth, a genuine Bard;
His was no faint, fictitious flame:
Like his, may Love be thy reward,
But not thy hapless fate the same.
[Footnote: 1. Lord Strangford's 'Poems from the Portuguese by Luis de
Camo雗s' and "Little's" Poems are mentioned by Moore as having been
Byron's favourite study at this time ('Life', P--39).]
TO M. S. G. [1]
1.
When I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive;
Extend not your anger to sleep;
For in visions alone your affection can live,--
I rise, and it leaves me to weep.
2.
Then, Morpheus! envelop my faculties fast,
Shed o'er me your languor benign;
Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last,
What rapture celestial is mine!
3.
They tell us that slumber, the sister of death,
Mortality's emblem is given;
To fate how I long to resign my frail breath,
If this be a foretaste of Heaven!
4.
Ah! frown not, sweet Lady, unbend your soft brow,
Nor deem me too happy in this;
If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now,
Thus doom'd, but to gaze upon bliss.
5.
Though in visions, sweet Lady, perhaps you may smile,
Oh! think not my penance deficient!
When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile,
To awake, will be torture sufficient.
[Footnote 1: "C. G. B. to E. P." 'MS. Newstead'.]
TRANSLATION FROM HORACE.
Justum et tenacem propositi virum.
HOR. 'Odes', iii. 3. I.
1.
The man of firm and noble soul
No factious clamours can controul;
No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow
Can swerve him from his just intent:
Gales the warring waves which plough,
By Auster on the billows spent,
To curb the Adriatic main,
Would awe his fix'd determined mind in vain.
2.
Aye, and the red right arm of Jove,
Hurtling his lightnings from above,
With all his terrors there unfurl'd,
He would, unmov'd, unaw'd, behold;
The flames of an expiring world,
Again in crashing chaos roll'd,
In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd,
Might light his glorious funeral pile:
Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'd smile.
THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE.
[Greek:
Ha barbitos de chordais
Er_ota mounon aechei. [1]
ANACREON ['Ode' 1].
1.
Away with your fictions of flimsy romance,
Those tissues of falsehood which Folly has wove; [i]
Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,
Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love.
2.
Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with fantasy glow, [ii]
Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove;
From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow, [iii]
Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love.
3.
If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse,
Or the Nine be dispos'd from your service to rove,
Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the Muse,
And try the effect, of the first kiss of love.
4.
I hate you, ye cold compositions of art,
Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove;
I court the effusions that spring from the heart,
Which throbs, with delight, to the first kiss of love. [iv]
5.
Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes, [v]
Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move:
Arcadia displays but a region of dreams; [vi]
What are visions like these, to the first kiss of love?
6.
Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth, [vii]
From Adam, till now, has with wretchedness strove;
Some portion of Paradise still is on earth,
And Eden revives, in the first kiss of love.
7.
When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past--
For years fleet away with the wings of the dove--
The dearest remembrance will still be the last,
Our sweetest memorial, the first kiss of love.
December 23, 1806.
[Footnote 1: The motto was prefixed in 'Hours of Idleness'.]
[Footnote i:
'Moriah [A] those air dreams and types has o'er wove,
['MS. Newstead'.]
'Those tissues of fancy Moriah has wove,
'['P. on V. Occasions'.] ]
[Sub-Footnote A: Moriah is the "Goddess of Folly."]
[Footnote ii:
'Ye rhymers, who sing as if seated on snow.--'
['P. on V. Occasions'.] ]
[Footnote iii:
'With what blest inspiration.--'
['MS. P. on V. Occasions'.] ]
[Footnote iv:
'Which glows with delight at'.
['MS'.]]
[Footnote v:
'Your shepherds, your pipes'.
['MS. P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote vi:
'Arcadia yields but a legion of dreams'.
['MS'.]
[Footnote vii:
'that man from his birth'.
['MS. P. on V. Occasions'.]
CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS. [1]
"I cannot but remember such things were,
And were most dear to me."
'Macbeth' [2]
["That were most precious to me."
'Macbeth', act iv, sc. 3.]
When slow Disease, with all her host of Pains, [i]
Chills the warm tide, which flows along the veins;
When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing,
And flies with every changing gale of spring;
Not to the aching frame alone confin'd,
Unyielding pangs assail the drooping mind:
What grisly forms, the spectre-train of woe,
Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the blow,
With Resignation wage relentless strife,
While Hope retires appall'd, and clings to life. 10
Yet less the pang when, through the tedious hour,
Remembrance sheds around her genial power,
Calls back the vanish'd days to rapture given,
When Love was bliss, and Beauty form'd our heaven;
Or, dear to youth, pourtrays each childish scene,
Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have been.
As when, through clouds that pour the summer storm,
The orb of day unveils his distant form,
Gilds with faint beams the crystal dews of rain
And dimly twinkles o'er the watery plain; 20
Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams,
The Sun of Memory, glowing through my dreams,
Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze,
To scenes far distant points his paler rays,
Still rules my senses with unbounded sway,
The past confounding with the present day.
Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought,
Which still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought;
My soul to Fancy's fond suggestion yields,
And roams romantic o'er her airy fields. 30
Scenes of my youth, develop'd, crowd to view,
To which I long have bade a last adieu!
Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes;
Friends lost to me, for aye, except in dreams;
Some, who in marble prematurely sleep,
Whose forms I now remember, but to weep;
Some, who yet urge the same scholastic course
Of early science, future fame the source;
Who, still contending in the studious race,
In quick rotation, fill the senior place! 40
These, with a thousand visions, now unite,
To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight. [3]
IDA! blest spot, where Science holds her reign,
How joyous, once, I join'd thy youthful train!
Bright, in idea, gleams thy lofty spire,
Again, I mingle with thy playful quire;
Our tricks of mischief, [4] every childish game,
Unchang'd by time or distance, seem the same;
Through winding paths, along the glade I trace
The social smile of every welcome face; 50
My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy or woe,
Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe,
Our feuds dissolv'd, but not my friendship past,--
I bless the former, and forgive the last.
Hours of my youth! when, nurtur'd in my breast,
To Love a stranger, Friendship made me blest,--
Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth,
When every artless bosom throbs with truth;
Untaught by worldly wisdom how to feign,
And check each impulse with prudential rein; 60
When, all we feel, our honest souls disclose,
In love to friends, in open hate to foes;
No varnish'd tales the lips of youth repeat,
No dear-bought knowledge purchased by deceit;
Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen'd years,
Matured by age, the garb of Prudence wears: [ii]
When, now, the Boy is ripen'd into Man,
His careful Sire chalks forth some wary plan;
Instructs his Son from Candour's path to shrink,
Smoothly to speak, and cautiously to think; 70
Still to assent, and never to deny--
A patron's praise can well reward the lie:
And who, when Fortune's warning voice is heard,
Would lose his opening prospects for a word?
Although, against that word, his heart rebel,
And Truth, indignant, all his bosom swell.
Away with themes like this! not mine the task,
From flattering friends to tear the hateful mask;
Let keener bards delight in Satire's sting,
My Fancy soars not on Detraction's wing: 80
Once, and but once, she aim'd a deadly blow,
To hurl Defiance on a secret Foe;
But when that foe, from feeling or from shame,
The cause unknown, yet still to me the same,
Warn'd by some friendly hint, perchance, retir'd,
With this submission all her rage expired.
From dreaded pangs that feeble Foe to save,
She hush'd her young resentment, and forgave.
Or, if my Muse a Pedant's portrait drew,
POMPOSUS' [5] virtues are but known to few: 90
I never fear'd the young usurper's nod,
And he who wields must, sometimes, feel the rod.
If since on Granta's failings, known to all
Who share the converse of a college hall,
She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain,
'Tis past, and thus she will not sin again:
Soon must her early song for ever cease,
And, all may rail, when I shall rest in peace.
Here, first remember'd be the joyous band,
Who hail'd me chief, [6] obedient to command; 100
Who join'd with me, in every boyish sport,
Their first adviser, and their last resort;
Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant's frown, [iii]
Or all the sable glories of his gown; [iv]
Who, thus, transplanted from his father's school,
Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule--
Succeeded him, whom all unite to praise,
The dear preceptor of my early days,
PROBUS, [7] the pride of science, and the boast--
To IDA now, alas! for ever lost! 110
With him, for years, we search'd the classic page, [v]
And fear'd the Master, though we lov'd the Sage:
Retir'd at last, his small yet peaceful seat
From learning's labour is the blest retreat.
POMPOSUS fills his magisterial chair;
POMPOSUS governs,--but, my Muse, forbear:
Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot, [vi]
His name and precepts be alike forgot;
No more his mention shall my verse degrade,--
To him my tribute is already paid. [8] 120
High, through those elms with hoary branches crown'd [9]
Fair IDA'S bower adorns the landscape round;
There Science, from her favour'd seat, surveys
The vale where rural Nature claims her praise;
To her awhile resigns her youthful train,
Who move in joy, and dance along the plain;
In scatter'd groups, each favour'd haunt pursue,
Repeat old pastimes, and discover new;
Flush'd with his rays, beneath the noontide Sun,
In rival bands, between the wickets run, 130
Drive o'er the sward the ball with active force,
Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course.
But these with slower steps direct their way,
Where Brent's cool waves in limpid currents stray,
While yonder few search out some green retreat,
And arbours shade them from the summer heat:
Others, again, a pert and lively crew,
Some rough and thoughtless stranger plac'd in view,
With frolic quaint their antic jests expose,
And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes; 140
Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray
Tradition treasures for a future day:
"'Twas here the gather'd swains for vengeance fought,
And here we earn'd the conquest dearly bought:
Here have we fled before superior might,
And here renew'd the wild tumultuous fight."
While thus our souls with early passions swell,
In lingering tones resounds the distant bell;
Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er,
And Learning beckons from her temple's door. 150
No splendid tablets grace her simple hall,
But ruder records fill the dusky wall:
There, deeply carv'd, behold! each Tyro's name
Secures its owner's academic fame;
Here mingling view the names of Sire and Son,
The one long grav'd, the other just begun:
These shall survive alike when Son and Sire,
Beneath one common stroke of fate expire; [10]
Perhaps, their last memorial these alone,
Denied, in death, a monumental stone, 160
Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave
The sighing weeds, that hide their nameless grave.
And, here, my name, and many an early friend's,
Along the wall in lengthen'd line extends.
Though, still, our deeds amuse the youthful race,
Who tread our steps, and fill our former place,
Who young obeyed their lords in silent awe,
Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law;
And now, in turn, possess the reins of power,
To rule, the little Tyrants of an hour; 170
Though sometimes, with the Tales of ancient day,
They pass the dreary Winter's eve away;
"And, thus, our former rulers stemm'd the tide,
And, thus, they dealt the combat, side by side;
Just in this place, the mouldering walls they scaled,
Nor bolts, nor bars, against their strength avail'd;
Here PROBUS came, the rising fray to quell,
And, here, he falter'd forth his last farewell;
And, here, one night abroad they dared to roam,
While bold POMPOSUS bravely staid at home;" 180
While thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive,
When names of these, like ours, alone survive:
Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm
The faint remembrance of our fairy realm.
Dear honest race! though now we meet no more,
One last long look on what we were before--
Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu--
Drew tears from eyes unus'd to weep with you.
Through splendid circles, Fashion's gaudy world,
Where Folly's glaring standard waves unfurl'd, 190
I plung'd to drown in noise my fond regret,
And all I sought or hop'd was to forget:
Vain wish! if, chance, some well-remember'd face,
Some old companion of my early race,
Advanc'd to claim his friend with honest joy,
My eyes, my heart, proclaim'd me still a boy;
The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around,
Were quite forgotten when my friend was found;
The smiles of Beauty, (for, alas! I've known
What 'tis to bend before Love's mighty throne;) 200
The smiles of Beauty, though those smiles were dear,
Could hardly charm me, when that friend was near:
My thoughts bewilder'd in the fond surprise,
The woods of IDA danc'd before my eyes;
I saw the sprightly wand'rers pour along,
I saw, and join'd again the joyous throng;
Panting, again I trac'd her lofty grove,
And Friendship's feelings triumph'd over Love.
Yet, why should I alone with such delight
Retrace the circuit of my former flight? 210
Is there no cause beyond the common claim,
Endear'd to all in childhood's very name?
Ah! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here,
Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear
To one, who thus for kindred hearts must roam,
And seek abroad, the love denied at home.
Those hearts, dear IDA, have I found in thee,
A home, a world, a paradise to me.
Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share
The tender guidance of a Father's care; 220
Can Rank, or e'en a Guardian's name supply
The love, which glistens in a Father's eye?
For this, can Wealth, or Title's sound atone,
Made, by a Parent's early loss, my own?
What Brother springs a Brother's love to seek?
What Sister's gentle kiss has prest my cheek?
For me, how dull the vacant moments rise,
To no fond bosom link'd by kindred ties!
Oft, in the progress of some fleeting dream,
Fraternal smiles, collected round me seem; 230
While still the visions to my heart are prest,
The voice of Love will murmur in my rest:
I hear--I wake--and in the sound rejoice!
I hear again,--but, ah! no Brother's voice.
A Hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must stray
Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way;
While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine,
I cannot call one single blossom mine:
What then remains? in solitude to groan,
To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone? 240
Thus, must I cling to some endearing hand,
And none more dear, than IDA'S social band.
Alonzo! [11] best and dearest of my friends, [vii]
Thy name ennobles him, who thus commends:
From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise;
The praise is his, who now that tribute pays.
Oh! in the promise of thy early youth,
If Hope anticipate the words of Truth!
Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name,
To build his own, upon thy deathless fame: [viii] 250
Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list
Of those with whom I lived supremely blest;
Oft have we drain'd the font of ancient lore,
Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more;
Yet, when Confinement's lingering hour was done,
Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one:
Together we impell'd the flying ball,
Together waited in our tutor's hall;
Together join'd in cricket's manly toil,
Or shar'd the produce of the river's spoil; 260
Or plunging from the green declining shore,
Our pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore: [ix]
In every element, unchang'd, the same,
All, all that brothers should be, but the name.
Nor, yet, are you forgot, my jocund Boy!
DAVUS, [12] the harbinger of childish joy;
For ever foremost in the ranks of fun,
The laughing herald of the harmless pun;
Yet, with a breast of such materials made,
Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid; 270
Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel
In Danger's path, though not untaught to feel.
Still, I remember, in the factious strife,
The rustic's musket aim'd against my life: [13]
High pois'd in air the massy weapon hung,
A cry of horror burst from every tongue:
Whilst I, in combat with another foe,
Fought on, unconscious of th' impending blow;
Your arm, brave Boy, arrested his career--
Forward you sprung, insensible to fear; 280
Disarm'd, and baffled by your conquering hand,
The grovelling Savage roll'd upon the sand:
An act like this, can simple thanks repay? [x]
Or all the labours of a grateful lay?
Oh no! whene'er my breast forgets the deed,
That instant, DAVUS, it deserves to bleed.
LYCUS! [14] on me thy claims are justly great:
Thy milder virtues could my Muse relate,
To thee, alone, unrivall'd, would belong
The feeble efforts of my lengthen'd song. [xi] 290
Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates fit,
A Spartan firmness, with Athenian wit:
Though yet, in embryo, these perfections shine,
LYCUS! thy father's fame [15] will soon be thine.
Where Learning nurtures the superior mind,
What may we hope, from genius thus refin'd;
When Time, at length, matures thy growing years,
How wilt thou tower, above thy fellow peers!
Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free,
With Honour's soul, united beam in thee. 300
Shall fair EURYALUS,[16] pass by unsung?
From ancient lineage, not unworthy, sprung:
What, though one sad dissension bade us part,
That name is yet embalm'd within my heart,
Yet, at the mention, does that heart rebound,
And palpitate, responsive to the sound;
Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will:
We once were friends,--I'll think, we are so still.
A form unmatch'd in Nature's partial mould,
A heart untainted, we, in thee, behold: 310
Yet, not the Senate's thunder thou shall wield,
Nor seek for glory, in the tented field:
To minds of ruder texture, these be given--
Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven.
Haply, in polish'd courts might be thy seat,
But, that thy tongue could never forge deceit:
The courtier's supple bow, and sneering smile,
The flow of compliment, the slippery wile,
Would make that breast, with indignation, burn,
And, all the glittering snares, to tempt thee, spurn. 320
Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate;
Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate;
The world admire thee, and thy friends adore;--
Ambition's slave, alone, would toil for more. [xii]
Now last, but nearest, of the social band,
See honest, open, generous CLEON [17] stand;
With scarce one speck, to cloud the pleasing scene,
No vice degrades that purest soul serene.
On the same day, our studious race begun,
On the same day, our studious race was run; 330
Thus, side by side, we pass'd our first career,
Thus, side by side, we strove for many a year:
At last, concluded our scholastic life,
We neither conquer'd in the classic strife:
As Speakers, [18] each supports an equal name, [xiii]
And crowds allow to both a partial fame:
To soothe a youthful Rival's early pride,
Though Cleon's candour would the palm divide,
Yet Candour's self compels me now to own,
Justice awards it to my Friend alone. 340
Oh! Friends regretted, Scenes for ever dear,
Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear!
Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's urn,
To trace the hours, which never can return;
Yet, with the retrospection loves to dwell, [xiv]
And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell!
Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind,
As infant laurels round my head were twin'd;
When PROBUS' praise repaid my lyric song,
Or plac'd me higher in the studious throng; 350
Or when my first harangue receiv'd applause, [19]
His sage instruction the primeval cause,
What gratitude, to him, my soul possest,
While hope of dawning honours fill'd my breast! [xv]
For all my humble fame, to him alone,
The praise is due, who made that fame my own.
Oh! could I soar above these feeble lays,
These young effusions of my early days,
To him my Muse her noblest strain would give,
The song might perish, but the theme might live. [xvi] 360
Yet, why for him the needless verse essay?
His honour'd name requires no vain display:
By every son of grateful IDA blest,
It finds an echo in each youthful breast;
A fame beyond the glories of the proud,
Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd.
IDA! not yet exhausted is the theme,
Nor clos'd the progress of my youthful dream.
How many a friend deserves the grateful strain!
What scenes of childhood still unsung remain! 370
Yet let me hush this echo of the past,
This parting song, the dearest and the last;
And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy,
To me a silent and a sweet employ,
While, future hope and fear alike unknown,
I think with pleasure on the past alone;
Yes, to the past alone, my heart confine,
And chase the phantom of what once was mine.
IDA! still o'er thy hills in joy preside,
And proudly steer through Time's eventful tide: 380
Still may thy blooming Sons thy name revere,
Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear;--
That tear, perhaps, the fondest which will flow,
O'er their last scene of happiness below:
Tell me, ye hoary few, who glide along,
The feeble Veterans of some former throng,
Whose friends, like Autumn leaves by tempests whirl'd,
Are swept for ever from this busy world;
Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth,
While Care has yet withheld her venom'd tooth; [xvii] 390
Say, if Remembrance days like these endears,
Beyond the rapture of succeeding years?
Say, can Ambition's fever'd dream bestow
So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of woe?
Can Treasures hoarded for some thankless Son,
Can Royal Smiles, or Wreaths by slaughter won,
Can Stars or Ermine, Man's maturer Toys,
(For glittering baubles are not left to Boys,)
Recall one scene so much belov'd to view,
As those where Youth her garland twin'd for you? 400
Ah, no! amid the gloomy calm of age
You turn with faltering hand life's varied page,
Peruse the record of your days on earth,
Unsullied only where it marks your birth;
Still, lingering, pause above each chequer'd leaf,
And blot with Tears the sable lines of Grief;
Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw,
Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu;
But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn,
Trac'd by the rosy finger of the Morn; 410
When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of truth,
And Love, without his pinion, [20] smil'd on Youth.
[Footnote 1: The words, "that schoolboy thing," etc. (see letter to H.
Drury, Jan. 8, 1808), evidently apply, not as Moore intimates,
to this period, but to the lines "On a Change of Masters,"
etc., July, 1805 (see letter to W. Bankes, March 6, 1807).]
[Footnote 2: The motto was prefixed in 'Hours of Idleness'.]
[Footnote 3: Lines 43-98 were added in 'Hours of Idleness']
[Footnote 4: Newton Hanson relates that on one occasion he accompanied
his father to Harrow on Speech Day to see his brother Hargreaves Hanson
and Byron.
"On our arrival at Harrow, we set out in search of Hargreaves and
Byron, but the latter was not at his tutor's. Three or four lads,
hearing my father's inquiries, set off at full speed to find him. They
soon discovered him, and, laughing most heartily, called out, 'Hallo,
Byron! here's a gentleman wants you.' And what do you think? He had
got on Drury's hat. I can still remember the arch cock of Byron's eye
at the hat and then at my father, and the fun and merriment it caused
him and all of us whilst, during the day, he was perambulating the
highways and byeways of Ida with the hat on. 'Harrow Speech Day and
the Governor's Hat' was one of the standing rallying-points for Lord
Byron ever after."
[Footnote 5: Dr. Butler, then Head-master of Harrow. Had Byron
published another edition of these poems, it was his intention
to replace these four lines by the four which follow:--
"'If once my muse a harsher portrait drew,
Warm with her wrongs, and deemed the likeness true,
By cooler judgment taught, her fault she owns,--
With noble minds a fault confess'd, atones'."
['MS. M.']
See also allusion in letter to Mr. Henry Drury, June 25, 1809.
--Moore's 'Note'.]
[Footnote 6: On the retirement of Dr. Drury, three candidates for the
vacant chair presented themselves--Messrs. Drury, Evans, and Butler. On
the first movement to which this contest gave rise in the school, young
Wildman was at the head of the party for Mark Drury, while Byron held
himself aloof from any. Anxious, however, to have him as an ally, one of
the Drury faction said to Wildman, "Byron, I know, will not join,
because he does not choose to act second to any one, but, by giving up
the leadership to him, you may at once secure him." This Wildman did,
and Byron took the command.--'Life', p. 29.]
[Footnote 7: Dr. Drury. This most able and excellent man retired from
his situation in March, 1805, after having resided thirty-five years at
Harrow; the last twenty as head-master; an office he held with equal
honour to himself and advantage to the very extensive school over which
he presided. Panegyric would here be superfluous: it would be useless to
enumerate qualifications which were never doubted. A considerable
contest took place between three rival candidates for his vacant chair:
of this I can only say--
'Si mea cum vestris valuissent vota, Pelasgi!
Non foret ambiguus tanti certaminis hares.'
[Byron's letters from Harrow contain the same high praise of Dr. Drury.
In one, of November 2, 1804, he says,
"There is so much of the gentleman, so much mildness, and nothing of
pedantry in his character, that I cannot help liking him, and will
remember his instructions with gratitude as long as I live."
A week after, he adds,
"I revere Dr. Drury. I dread offending him; not, however, through
fear, but the respect I bear him makes me unhappy when I am under his
displeasure."
Dr. Drury has related the secret of the influence he obtained: the
glance which told him that the lad was "a wild mountain colt," told him
also that he could be "led with a silken string."]]
[Footnote 8: This alludes to a character printed in a former private
edition ['P. on V. Occasions'] for the perusal of some friends, which,
with many other pieces, is withheld from the present volume. To draw the
attention of the public to insignificance would be deservedly
reprobated; and another reason, though not of equal consequence, may be
given in the following couplet:--
"Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel?
Who breaks a Butterfly upon a wheel?"
'Prologue to the Satires': POPE.
['Hours of Idleness', p. 154, 'note']
[(See the lines "On a Change of Masters at a Great Public School,"
'ante', p. 16.)
The following lines, attached to the Newstead MS. draft of
"Childish Recollections," are aimed at Pomposus:--
"Just half a Pedagogue, and half a Fop,
Not formed to grace the pulpit, but the Shop;
The 'Counter', not the 'Desk', should be his place,
Who deals out precepts, as if dealing Lace;
Servile in mind, from Elevation proud,
In argument, less sensible than loud,
Through half the continent, the Coxcomb's been,
And stuns you with the Wonders he has seen:
''How' in Pompeii's vault he found the page,
Of some long lost, and long lamented Sage,
And doubtless he the Letters would have trac'd,
Had they not been by age and dust effac'd:
This single specimen will serve to shew,
The weighty lessons of this reverend Beau,
Bombast in vain would want of Genius cloke,
For feeble fires evaporate in smoke;
A Boy, o'er Boys he holds a trembling reign,
More fit than they to seek some School again."]]
[Footnote 9: Lines 121-243 were added in 'Hours of Idleness'.]
[Footnote 10: During a rebellion at Harrow, the poet prevented the
school-room from being burnt down, by pointing out to the boys the names
of their fathers and grandfathers on the walls.--(Medwin's
'Conversations' (1824), p. 85.)
Byron elsewhere thus describes his usual course of life
while at Harrow: "always cricketing, rebelling, 'rowing', and in all
manner of mischiefs." One day he tore down the gratings from the window
of the hall; and when asked by Dr. Butler his reason for the outrage,
coolly answered, "because they darkened the room."--'Life', p. 29.]
[Footnote 11: "Lord Clare." (Annotated copy of 'P. on V. Occasions'
in the British Museum.)
[Lines 243-264, as the note in Byron's handwriting explains, were
originally intended to apply to Lord Clare. In 'Hours of Idleness'
"Joannes" became "Alonzo," and the same lines were employed to celebrate
the memory of his friend the Hon. John Wingfield, of the Coldstream
Guards, brother to Richard, fourth Viscount Powerscourt. He died at
Coimbra in 1811, in his twentieth year. Byron at one time gave him the
preference over all other friends.]]
[Footnote 12: The Rev. John Cecil Tattersall, B.A., of Christ Church,
Oxford, who died December 8, 1812, at Hall's Place, Kent, aged
twenty-three.]
[Footnote 13: The "factious strife" was brought on by the breaking up of
school, and the dismissal of some volunteers from drill, both happening
at the same hour. The butt-end of a musket was aimed at Byron's head,
and would have felled him to the ground, but for the interposition of
Tattersall.--'Life', p. 25.]
[Footnote 14: John Fitzgibbon, second Earl of Clare (1792-1851),
afterwards Governor of Bombay, of whom Byron said, in 1822,
"I have always loved him better than any 'male' thing in the world."
"I never," was his language in 1821, "hear the word ''Clare'' without
a beating of the heart even 'now'; and I write it with the feelings of
1803-4-5, ad infinitum."]
[Footnote 15: John Fitzgibbon, first Earl of Clare (1749-1802), became
Attorney-General and Lord Chancellor of Ireland. In the latter years of
the independent Irish Parliament, he took an active part in politics in
opposition to Grattan and the national party, and was distinguished as a
powerful, if bitter, speaker. He was made Earl of Clare in 1795.]
[Footnote 16: George John, fifth Earl of Delawarr.--
"I am happy enough, and comfortable here," says Byron, in a letter
from Harrow of Oct. 25, 1804. "My friends are not numerous, but
_select_. Among the principal, I rank Lord Delawarr, who is very
amiable, and my particular friend."--
"Nov. 2, 1804. Lord Delawarr is considerably younger than me, but the
most good-tempered, amiable, clever fellow in the universe. To all
which he adds the quality (a good one in the eyes of women) of being
remarkably handsome. Delawarr and myself are, in a manner, connected;
for one of my forefathers, in Charles I's time, married into their
family."
The allusion in the text to their subsequent quarrel, receives further
light from a letter which the poet addressed to Lord Clare under date,
February 6, 1807. (See, too, lines "To George, Earl Delawarr," p. 126.)
The first Lord Byron was twice married. His first wife was Cecilie,
widow of Sir Francis Bindlose, and daughter of Thomas, third Lord
Delawarr. He died childless, and was succeeded by his brother Richard,
the poet's ancestor. His younger brother, Sir Robert Byron, married
Lucy, another daughter of the third Lord Delawarr.]
[Footnote 17: Edward Noel Long, who was drowned by the foundering of a
transport on the voyage to Lisbon with his regiment, in 1809. (See lines
"To Edward Noel Long, Esq.," 'post', p. 184.)]
[Footnote 18: This alludes to the public speeches delivered at the
school where the author was educated.]
[Footnote 19:
"My qualities were much more oratorical than poetical, and Dr. Drury,
my grand patron, had a great notion that I should turn out an orator
from my fluency, my turbulence, my voice, my copiousness of
declamation, and my action. I remember that my first declamation
astonished Dr. Drury into some unwonted (for he was economical of
such) and sudden compliments, before the declaimers at our first
rehearsal."
'Byron Diary'.
"I certainly was much pleased with Lord Byron's attitude, gesture, and
delivery, as well as with his composition. To my surprise, he suddenly
diverged from the written composition, with a boldness and rapidity
sufficient to alarm me, lest he should fail in memory as to the
conclusion. I questioned him, why he had altered his declamation? He
declared he had made no alteration, and did not know, in speaking,
that he had deviated from it one letter. I believed him, and from a
knowledge of his temperament, am convinced that he was hurried on to
expressions and colourings more striking than what his pen had
expressed."
DR. DRURY, 'Life', p. 20.]
[Footnote 20: "L'Amiti?est l'Amour sans ailes," is a French proverb.
(See the lines so entitled, p. 220.)]
[Footnote i:
'Hence! thou unvarying song, of varied loves,
Which youth commends, maturer age reproves;
Which every rhyming bard repeats by rote,
By thousands echo'd to the self-same note!
Tir'd of the dull, unceasing, copious strain,
My soul is panting to be free again.
Farewell! ye nymphs, propitious to my verse,
Some other Damon, will your charms rehearse;
Some other paint his pangs, in hope of bliss,
Or dwell in rapture on your nectar'd kiss.
Those beauties, grateful to my ardent sight,
No more entrance my senses in delight;
Those bosoms, form'd of animated snow,
Alike are tasteless and unfeeling now.
These to some happier lover, I resign;
The memory of those joys alone is mine.
Censure no more shall brand my humble name,
The child of passion and the fool of fame.
Weary of love, of life, devoured with spleen,
I rest a perfect Timon, not nineteen;
World! I renounce thee! all my hope's o'ercast!
One sigh I give thee, but that sigh's the last.
Friends, foes, and females, now alike, adieu!
Would I could add remembrance of you, too!
Yet though the future, dark and cheerless gleams,
The curse of memory, hovering in my dreams,
Depicts with glowing pencil all those years,
Ere yet, my cup, empoison'd, flow'd with tears,
Still rules my senses with tyrannic sway,
The past confounding with the present day.
Alas! in vain I check the maddening thought;
It still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought:
My soul to Fancy's', etc., etc., as at line 29.--]
[Footnote ii: 'Cunning with age.' ['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iii: 'Nor shrunk before.' ['Hours of Idleness'.]]
[Footnote iv:
'Careless to soothe the pedant's furious frown,
Scarcely respecting his majestic gown;
By which, in vain, he gain'd a borrow'd grace,
Adding new terror to his sneering face,'
['P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote v:
'With him for years I search'd the classic page,
Culling the treasures of the letter'd sage,'
['P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote vi:
'Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot,
Soon shall his shallow precepts be forgot;
No more his mention shall my pen degrade--
My tribute to his name's already paid.'
['P. on V. Occasions'.]
Another variant for a new edition ran--
'Another fills his magisterial chair;
Reluctant Ida owns a stranger's care;
Oh! may like honours crown his future name:
If such his virtues, such shall be his fame.'
['MS. M.']
[Footnote vii:
'Joannes! best and dearest of my friends.'
['P. on V. Occasions.']]
[Footnote viii:
'Could aught inspire me with poetic fire,
For thee, alone, I'd strike the hallow'd lyre;
But, to some abler hand, the task I wave,
Whose strains immortal may outlive the grave'.--
['P. on V. Occasions.']]
[Footnote ix:
'Our lusty limbs.'
['P. on V. Occasions.']
'--the buoyant waters bore.'
['Hours of Idleness.']]
[Footnote x:
'Thus did you save that life I scarcely prize--
A life unworthy such a sacrifice.
Oh! when my breast forgets the generous deed.'
['P. on V. Occasions'.] ]
[Footnote xi:
'For ever to possess a friend in thee,
Was bliss unhop'd, though not unsought by me;
Thy softer soul was form'd for love alone,
To ruder passions and to hate unknown;
Thy mind, in union with thy beauteous form,
Was gentle, but unfit to stem the storm;
That face, an index of celestial worth,
Proclaim'd a heart abstracted from the earth.
Oft, when depress'd with sad, foreboding gloom,
I sat reclin'd upon our favourite tomb,
I've seen those sympathetic eyes o'erflow
With kind compassion for thy comrade's woe;
Or, when less mournful subjects form'd our themes,
We tried a thousand fond romantic schemes,
Oft hast thou sworn, in friendship's soothing tone.
Whatever wish was mine, must be thine own.
The next can boast to lead in senates fit,
A Spartan firmness,--with Athenian wit;
Tho' yet, in embryo, these perfections shine,
Clarus! thy father's fame will soon be thine.'--
['P. on V. Occasions'.]
A remonstrance which Lord Clare addressed to him at
school; was found among his papers (as were most of the
notes of his early favourites), and on the back of it was an
endorsement which is a fresh testimony of his affection:--
"This and another letter were written at Harrow, by my 'then' and, I
hope, 'ever' beloved friend, Lord Clare, when we were both schoolboys;
and sent to my study in consequence of some 'childish'
misunderstanding,--the only one which ever arose between us. It was of
short duration, and I retain this note solely for the purpose of
submitting it to his perusal, that we may smile over the recollection
of the insignificance of our first and last quarrel."
See, also, Byron's account of his accidental meeting with Lord Clare in
Italy in 1821, as recorded in 'Detached Thoughts', Nov. 5, 1821; in
letters to Moore, March 1 and June 8, 1822; and Mme. Guiccioli's
description of his emotion on seeing Clare ('My Recollections of Lord
Byron', ed. 1869, p. 156).]
[Footnote xii:
'Where is the restless fool, would wish for more?'
['P. on V. Occasions.']]
[Footnote xiii:
'As speakers, each supports a rival name,
Though neither seeks to damn the other's fame,
Pomposus sits, unequal to decide,
With youthful candour, we the palm divide.'--
['P. on V. Occasions']]
[Footnote xiv:
'Yet in the retrospection finds relief,
And revels in the luxury of grief.'--
['P. on V. Occasions.']]
[Footnote xv:
'When, yet a novice in the mimic art,
I feign'd the transports of a vengeful heart;
When, as the Royal Slave, I trod the stage,
To vent in Zanga, more than mortal rage;
The praise of Probus, made me feel more proud,
Than all the plaudits of the list'ning crowd.
Ah! vain endeavour in this childish strain
To soothe the woes of which I thus complain!
What can avail this fruitless loss of time,
To measure sorrow, in a jingling rhyme!
No social solace from a friend, is near,
And heartless strangers drop no feeling tear.
I seek not joy in Woman's sparkling eye,
The smiles of Beauty cannot check the sigh.
Adieu, thou world! thy pleasure's still a dream,
Thy virtue, but a visionary theme;
Thy years of vice, on years of folly roll,
Till grinning death assigns the destin'd goal,'
'Where all are hastening to the dread abode,
To meet the judgment of a righteous God;
Mix'd in the concourse of a thoughtless throng,
A mourner, midst of mirth, I glide along;
A wretched, isolated, gloomy thing,
Curst by reflection's deep corroding sting;
But not that mental sting, which stabs within,
The dark avenger of unpunish'd sin;
The silent shaft, which goads the guilty wretch
Extended on a rack's untiring stretch:
Conscience that sting, that shaft to him supplies--
His mind the rack, from which he ne'er can rise,
For me, whatever my folly, or my fear,
One cheerful comfort still is cherish'd here.
No dread internal, haunts my hours of rest,
No dreams of injured innocence infest;
Of hope, of peace, of almost all bereft,
Conscience, my last but welcome guest, is left.
Slander's empoison'd breath, may blast my name,
Envy delights to blight the buds of fame:
Deceit may chill the current of my blood,
And freeze affection's warm impassion'd flood;
Presaging horror, darken every sense,
Even here will conscience be my best defence;
My bosom feeds no "worm which ne'er can die:"
Not crimes I mourn, but happiness gone by.
Thus crawling on with many a reptile vile,
My heart is bitter, though my cheek may smile;
No more with former bliss, my heart is glad;
Hope yields to anguish and my soul is sad;
From fond regret, no future joy can save;
Remembrance slumbers only in the grave.'
['P. on V. Occasions']]
[Footnote xvi:
'The song might perish, but the theme must live.'
['Hours of Idleness.']]
[Footnote xvii:
'----his venom'd tooth.'
['Hours of Idleness'.]]
ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM, WRITTEN BY MONTGOMERY,
AUTHOR OF "THE WANDERER OF SWITZERLAND," ETC.,
ENTITLED "THE COMMON LOT." [1]
1.
Montgomery! true, the common lot
Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave;
Yet some shall never be forgot,
Some shall exist beyond the grave.
2.
"Unknown the region of his birth,"
The hero [2] rolls the tide of war;
Yet not unknown his martial worth,
Which glares a meteor from afar.
3.
His joy or grief, his weal or woe,
Perchance may 'scape the page of fame;
Yet nations, now unborn, will know
The record of his deathless name.
4.
The Patriot's and the Poet's frame
Must share the common tomb of all:
Their glory will not sleep the same;
'That' will arise, though Empires fall.
5.
The lustre of a Beauty's eye
Assumes the ghastly stare of death;
The fair, the brave, the good must die,
And sink the yawning grave beneath.
6.
Once more, the speaking eye revives,
Still beaming through the lover's strain;
For Petrarch's Laura still survives:
She died, but ne'er will die again.
7.
The rolling seasons pass away,
And Time, untiring, waves his wing;
Whilst honour's laurels ne'er decay,
But bloom in fresh, unfading spring.
8.
All, all must sleep in grim repose,
Collected in the silent tomb;
The old, the young, with friends and foes,
Fest'ring alike in shrouds, consume.
9.
The mouldering marble lasts its day,
Yet falls at length an useless fane;
To Ruin's ruthless fangs a prey,
The wrecks of pillar'd Pride remain.
10.
What, though the sculpture be destroy'd,
From dark Oblivion meant to guard;
A bright renown shall be enjoy'd,
By those, whose virtues claim reward.
11.
Then do not say the common lot
Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave;
Some few who ne'er will be forgot
Shall burst the bondage of the grave.
1806.
[Footnote 1: Montgomery (James), 1771-1854, poet and hymn-writer,
published:
'Prison Amusements' (1797),
'The Ocean; a Poem' (1805),
'The Wanderer of Switzerland, and other Poems' (1806),
'The West Indies, and other Poems' (1810),
'Songs of Sion' (1822),
'The Christian Psalmist' (1825),
'The Pelican Island, and other Poems' (1827),
'etc.' ('vide post'), 'English Bards',
'etc.', line 418, and 'note'.]
[Footnote 2: No particular hero is here alluded to. The exploits of
Bayard, Nemours, Edward the Black Prince, and, in more modern times, the
fame of Marlborough, Frederick the Great, Count Saxe, Charles of Sweden,
etc., are familiar to every historical reader, but the exact places of
their birth are known to a very small proportion of their admirers.]
LOVE'S LAST ADIEU.
[Greek: Ae?d' ae?me pheugei.]--[Pseud.] ANACREON, [Greek: Eis chruson].
1.
The roses of Love glad the garden of life,
Though nurtur'd 'mid weeds dropping pestilent dew,
Till Time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife,
Or prunes them for ever, in Love's last adieu!
2.
In vain, with endearments, we soothe the sad heart,
In vain do we vow for an age to be true;
The chance of an hour may command us to part,
Or Death disunite us, in Love's last adieu!
3.
Still Hope, breathing peace, through the grief-swollen breast, [i]
Will whisper, "Our meeting we yet may renew:"
With this dream of deceit, half our sorrow's represt,
Nor taste we the poison, of Love's last adieu!
4.
Oh! mark you yon pair, in the sunshine of youth,
Love twin'd round their childhood his flow'rs as they grew;
They flourish awhile, in the season of truth,
Till chill'd by the winter of Love's last adieu!
5.
Sweet lady! why thus doth a tear steal its way,
Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue?
Yet why do I ask?--to distraction a prey,
Thy reason has perish'd, with Love's last adieu!
6.
Oh! who is yon Misanthrope, shunning mankind?
From cities to caves of the forest he flew:
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind;
The mountains reverberate Love's last adieu!
7.
Now Hate rules a heart which in Love's easy chains,
Once Passion's tumultuous blandishments knew;
Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins,
He ponders, in frenzy, on Love's last adieu!
8.
How he envies the wretch, with a soul wrapt in steel!
His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few,
Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel,
And dreads not the anguish of Love's last adieu!
9.
Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o'ercast;
No more, with Love's former devotion, we sue:
He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast;
The shroud of affection is Love's last adieu!
10.
In this life of probation, for rapture divine,
Astrea[1] declares that some penance is due;
From him, who has worshipp'd at Love's gentle shrine,
The atonement is ample, in Love's last adieu!
11.
Who kneels to the God, on his altar of light
Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew:
His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight,
His cypress, the garland of Love's last adieu!
[Footnote 1: The Goddess of Justice.]
[Footnote i:
_Still, hope-beaming peace._
['P. on V. Occasions.']]
LINES. [i]
ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER, [1]
ON HIS ADVISING THE AUTHOR TO MIX MORE WITH SOCIETY.
1.
Dear BECHER, you tell me to mix with mankind;
I cannot deny such a precept is wise;
But retirement accords with the tone of my mind:
I will not descend to a world I despise.
2.
Did the Senate or Camp my exertions require,
Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go forth;
When Infancy's years of probation expire,
Perchance, I may strive to distinguish my birth.
3.
The fire, in the cavern of Etna, conceal'd,
Still mantles unseen in its secret recess;
At length, in a volume terrific, reveal'd,
No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress.
4.
Oh! thus, the desire, in my bosom, for fame [i]
Bids me live, but to hope for Posterity's praise.
Could I soar with the Phoenix on pinions of flame,
With him I would wish to expire in the blaze.
5.
For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death,
What censure, what danger, what woe would I brave!
Their lives did not end, when they yielded their breath,
Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave.[ii]
6.
Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd?
Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules?
Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd?
Why search for delight, in the friendship of fools?
7.
I have tasted the sweets, and the bitters, of love,
In friendship I early was taught to believe;
My passion the matrons of prudence reprove,
I have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive.
8.
To me what is wealth?--it may pass in an hour,
If Tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown:
To me what is title?--the phantom of power;
To me what is fashion?--I seek but renown.
9.
Deceit is a stranger, as yet, to my soul;
I, still, am unpractised to varnish the truth:
Then, why should I live in a hateful controul?
Why waste, upon folly, the days of my youth?
1806.
[Footnote 1: The Rev. John Thomas Becher (1770-1848) was Vicar of
Rumpton and Midsomer Norton, Notts., and made the acquaintance of Byron
when he was living at Southwell. To him was submitted an early copy of
the 'Quarto', and on his remonstrance at the tone of some of the
verses, the whole edition (save one or two copies) was burnt. Becher
assisted in the revision of 'P. on V. Occasions', published in
1807. He was in 1818 appointed Prebendary of Southwell, and, all his
life, took an active interest and prominent part in the administration
of the poor laws and the welfare of the poor. (See Byron's letters to
him of February 26 and March 28, 1808.)]
[Footnote i:
'To the Rev. J. T. Becher.'
['P. on V. Occasions']]
[Footnote ii:
'Oh! such the desire.'
['P. on V. Occasions']]
[Footnote iii:
'--the gloom of the grave.'
['P. on V. Occasions'.]]
ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES SENT BY A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR,
COMPLAINING THAT ONE OF HIS DESCRIPTIONS
WAS RATHER TOO WARMLY DRAWN.
"But if any old Lady, Knight, Priest, or Physician,
Should condemn me for printing a second edition;
If good Madam Squintum my work should abuse,
May I venture to give her a smack of my muse?"
Anstey's 'New Bath Guide', p. 169.
Candour compels me, BECHER! to commend
The verse, which blends the censor with the friend;
Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause
From me, the heedless and imprudent cause; [i]
For this wild error, which pervades my strain, [ii]
I sue for pardon,--must I sue in vain?
The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart;
Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart?
Precepts of prudence curb, but can't controul,
The fierce emotions of the flowing soul.
When Love's delirium haunts the glowing mind,
Limping Decorum lingers far behind;
Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace,
Outstript and vanquish'd in the mental chase.
The young, the old, have worn the chains of love;
Let those, they ne'er confined, my lay reprove;
Let those, whose souls contemn the pleasing power,
Their censures on the hapless victim shower.
Oh! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song,
The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng,
Whose labour'd lines, in chilling numbers flow,
To paint a pang the author ne'er can know!
The artless Helicon, I boast, is youth;--
My Lyre, the Heart--my Muse, the simple Truth.
Far be't from me the "virgin's mind" to "taint:"
Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint:
The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile,
Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile,
Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer,
Firm in her virtue's strength, yet not severe;
She, whom a conscious grace shall thus refine,
Will ne'er be "tainted" by a strain of mine.
But, for the nymph whose premature desires
Torment her bosom with unholy fires,
No net to snare her willing heart is spread;
She would have fallen, though she ne'er had read.
For me, I fain would please the chosen few,
Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true,
Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy
The light effusions of a heedless boy. [iii]
I seek not glory from the senseless crowd;
Of fancied laurels, I shall ne'er be proud;
Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize,
Their sneers or censures, I alike despise.
November 26, 1806.
[Footnote i:
_the heedless and unworthy cause._
[_P. on V. Occasions._]]
[Footnote ii:
_For this sole error._
[_P. on V. Occasions._]]
[Footnote iii:
_The light effusions of an amorous boy._
[_P. on V. Occasions._]]
ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY. [1]
"It is the voice of years, that are gone! they roll before me, with
all their deeds."
Ossian. [i]
1.
NEWSTEAD! fast-falling, once-resplendent dome!
Religion's shrine! repentant HENRY'S [2] pride!
Of Warriors, Monks, and Dames the cloister'd tomb,
Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide,
2.
Hail to thy pile! more honour'd in thy fall,
Than modern mansions, in their pillar'd state;
Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall,
Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate.
3.
No mail-clad Serfs, [3] obedient to their Lord,
In grim array, the crimson cross [4] demand;
Or gay assemble round the festive board,
Their chief's retainers, an immortal band.
4.
Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye
Retrace their progress, through the lapse of time;
Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die,
A votive pilgrim, in Judea's clime.
5.
But not from thee, dark pile! departs the Chief;
His feudal realm in other regions lay:
In thee the wounded conscience courts relief,
Retiring from the garish blaze of day.
6.
Yes! in thy gloomy cells and shades profound,
The monk abjur'd a world, he ne'er could view;
Or blood-stain'd Guilt repenting, solace found,
Or Innocence, from stern Oppression, flew.
7.
A Monarch bade thee from that wild arise,
Where Sherwood's outlaws, once, were wont to prowl;
And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes,
Sought shelter in the Priest's protecting cowl.
8.
Where, now, the grass exhales a murky dew,
The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay,
In sainted fame, the sacred Fathers grew,
Nor raised their pious voices, but to pray.
9.
Where, now, the bats their wavering wings extend,
Soon as the gloaming [5] spreads her waning shade;[ii]
The choir did, oft, their mingling vespers blend,
Or matin orisons to Mary [6] paid.
10.
Years roll on years; to ages, ages yield;
Abbots to Abbots, in a line, succeed:
Religion's charter, their protecting shield,
Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed.
11.
One holy HENRY rear'd the Gothic walls,
And bade the pious inmates rest in peace;
Another HENRY [7] the kind gift recalls,
And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease.
12.
Vain is each threat, or supplicating prayer;
He drives them exiles from their blest abode,
To roam a dreary world, in deep despair--
No friend, no home, no refuge, but their God. [8]
13.
Hark! how the hall, resounding to the strain,
Shakes with the martial music's novel din!
The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign,
High crested banners wave thy walls within.
14.
Of changing sentinels the distant hum,
The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms,
The braying trumpet, and the hoarser drum,
Unite in concert with increas'd alarms.
15.
An abbey once, a regal fortress [9] now,
Encircled by insulting rebel powers;
War's dread machines o'erhang thy threat'ning brow,
And dart destruction, in sulphureous showers.
16.
Ah! vain defence! the hostile traitor's siege,
Though oft repuls'd, by guile o'ercomes the brave;
His thronging foes oppress the faithful Liege,
Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave.
17.
Not unaveng'd the raging Baron yields;
The blood of traitors smears the purple plain;
Unconquer'd still, his falchion there he wields,
And days of glory, yet, for him remain.
18.
Still, in that hour, the warrior wish'd to strew
Self-gather'd laurels on a self-sought grave;
But Charles' protecting genius hither flew,
The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save.
19.
Trembling, she snatch'd him [10] from th' unequal strife,
In other fields the torrent to repel;
For nobler combats, here, reserv'd his life,
To lead the band, where godlike FALKLAND [11] fell.
20.
From thee, poor pile! to lawless plunder given,
While dying groans their painful requiem sound,
Far different incense, now, ascends to Heaven,
Such victims wallow on the gory ground.
21.
There many a pale and ruthless Robber's corse,
Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod;
O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse,
Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod.
22.
Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread,
Ransack'd resign, perforce, their mortal mould:
From ruffian fangs, escape not e'en the dead,
Racked from repose, in search for buried gold.
23.
Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre,
The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death;
No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire,
Or sings the glories of the martial wreath. [iii]
24.
At length the sated murderers, gorged with prey,
Retire: the clamour of the fight is o'er;
Silence again resumes her awful sway,
And sable Horror guards the massy door.
25.
Here, Desolation holds her dreary court:
What satellites declare her dismal reign!
Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort,
To flit their vigils, in the hoary fane.
26.
Soon a new Morn's restoring beams dispel
The clouds of Anarchy from Britain's skies;
The fierce Usurper seeks his native hell,
And Nature triumphs, as the Tyrant dies.
27.
With storms she welcomes his expiring groans;
Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his labouring breath;
Earth shudders, as her caves receive his bones,
Loathing [12] the offering of so dark a death.
28.
The legal Ruler [13] now resumes the helm,
He guides through gentle seas, the prow of state;
Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful realm,
And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied Hate.
29.
The gloomy tenants, Newstead! of thy cells,
Howling, resign their violated nest; [iv]
Again, the Master on his tenure dwells,
Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest.
30.
Vassals, within thy hospitable pale,
Loudly carousing, bless their Lord's return;
Culture, again, adorns the gladdening vale,
And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn.
31.
A thousand songs, on tuneful echo, float,
Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees;
And, hark! the horns proclaim a mellow note,
The hunters' cry hangs lengthening on the breeze.
32.
Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake;
What fears! what anxious hopes! attend the chase!
The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake;
Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race.
33.
Ah happy days! too happy to endure!
Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew:
No splendid vices glitter'd to allure;
Their joys were many, as their cares were few.
34.
From these descending, Sons to Sires succeed;
Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart;
Another Chief impels the foaming steed,
Another Crowd pursue the panting hart.
35.
Newstead! what saddening change of scene is thine!
Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay;
The last and youngest of a noble line,
Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway.
36.
Deserted now, he scans thy gray worn towers;
Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep;
Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers;
These, these he views, and views them but to weep.
37.
Yet are his tears no emblem of regret:
Cherish'd Affection only bids them flow;
Pride, Hope, and Love, forbid him to forget,
But warm his bosom, with impassion'd glow.
38.
Yet he prefers thee, to the gilded domes, [14]
Or gewgaw grottos, of the vainly great;
Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs,
Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of Fate.
39.
Haply thy sun, emerging, yet, may shine,
Thee to irradiate with meridian ray;
Hours, splendid as the past, may still be thine,
And bless thy future, as thy former day. [v]
[Footnote 1: As one poem on this subject is already printed, the author
had, originally, no intention of _insert_ing the following. It is now
added at the particular request of some friends.]
[Footnote 2: Henry II. founded Newstead soon after the murder of Thomas
?Becket.]
[Footnote 3: This word is used by Walter Scott, in his poem, 'The Wild
Huntsman', as synonymous with "vassal."]
[Footnote 4: The red cross was the badge of the Crusaders.]
[Footnote 5: As "gloaming," the Scottish word for twilight, is far more
poetical, and has been recommended by many eminent literary men,
particularly by Dr. Moore in his Letters to Burns, I have ventured to
use it on account of its harmony.]
[Footnote 6: The priory was dedicated to the Virgin.--['Hours of
Idleness'.]]
[Footnote 7: At the dissolution of the monasteries, Henry VIII. bestowed
Newstead Abbey on Sir John Byron.]
[Footnote 8: During the lifetime of Lord Byron's predecessor in the
title there was found in the lake a large brass eagle, in the body of
which were concealed a number of ancient deeds and documents. This eagle
is supposed to have been thrown into the lake by the retreating
monks.--'Life', p. 2, note. It is now a lectern in Southwell
Minster.]
[Footnote 9: Newstead sustained a considerable siege in the war between
Charles I. and his parliament.]
[Footnote 10: Lord Byron and his brother Sir William held high commands
in the royal army. The former was general-in-chief in Ireland,
lieutenant of the Tower, and governor to James, Duke of York, afterwards
the unhappy James II; the latter had a principal share in many actions.
['Vide ante', p. 3, 'note' 1.]]
[Footnote 11: Lucius Cary, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most accomplished
man of his age, was killed at the Battle of Newbury, charging in the
ranks of Lord Byron's regiment of cavalry.]
[Footnote 12: This is an historical fact. A violent tempest occurred
immediately subsequent to the death or interment of Cromwell, which
occasioned many disputes between his partisans and the cavaliers: both
interpreted the circumstance into divine interposition; but whether as
approbation or condemnation, we leave to the casuists of that age to
decide. I have made such use of the occurrence as suited the subject of
my poem.]
[Footnote 13: Charles II.]
[Footnote 14: An indication of Byron's feelings towards Newstead in his
younger days will be found in his letter to his mother of March 6,
1809.]
[Footnote i: 'Hours of Idleness.']
[Footnote ii:
'Soon as the twilight winds a waning shade.'--
['P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote iii:
'--of the laurel'd wreath.'
['P. on V. Occasions'.]]
[Footnote iv:
'Howling, forsake--.'
['P. on V. Occasions']]
[Footnote v:
'Fortune may smile upon a future line,
And heaven restore an ever-cloudless day,'
['P. on V. Occasions.', 'Hours of Idleness.']]
* * * * * * * * *
HOURS OF IDLENESS
TO GEORGE, EARL DELAWARR. [i]
1.
Oh! yes, I will own we were dear to each other;
The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are true;
The love which you felt was the love of a brother,
Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you.
2.
But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion;
The attachment of years, in a moment expires:
Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion,
But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires.
3.
Full oft have we wander'd through Ida together,
And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow:
In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather!
But Winter's rude tempests are gathering now.
4.
No more with Affection shall Memory blending,
The wonted delights of our childhood retrace:
When Pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending,
And what would be Justice appears a disgrace.
5.
However, dear George, for I still must esteem you--[ii]
The few, whom I love, I can never upbraid;
The chance, which has lost, may in future redeem you,
Repentance will cancel the vow you have made.
6.
I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection,
With me no corroding resentment shall live:
My bosom is calm'd by the simple reflection,
That both may be wrong, and that both should forgive.
7.
You knew, that my soul, that my heart, my existence,
If danger demanded, were wholly your own;
You knew me unalter'd, by years or by distance,
Devoted to love and to friendship alone.
8.
You knew,--but away with the vain retrospection!
The bond of affection no longer endures;
Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection,
And sigh for the friend, who was formerly yours.
9.
For the present, we part,--I will hope not for ever; [1]
For time and regret will restore you at last:
To forget our dissension we both should endeavour,
I ask no atonement, but days like the past.
[Footnote 1: See Byron's Letter to Lord Clare of February 6, 1807,
referred to in 'note' 2, p. 100.]
[Footnote i:
'To----'.
['Hours of Idleness, Poems O. and Translated]]
[Footnote ii.
'However, dear S----'.
['Hours of Idleness, Poems O. and Translated'.]]
DAM芓AS. [1]
In law an infant, [2] and in years a boy,
In mind a slave to every vicious joy;
From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd,
In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend;
Vers'd in hypocrisy, while yet a child;
Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild;
Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool;
Old in the world, though scarcely broke from school;
Dam鎡as ran through all the maze of sin,
And found the goal, when others just begin:
Ev'n still conflicting passions shake his soul,
And bid him drain the dregs of Pleasure's bowl;
But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain,
And what was once his bliss appears his bane.
[Footnote 1: Moore appears to have regarded these lines as applying to
Byron himself. It is, however, very unlikely that, with all his passion
for painting himself in the darkest colours, he would have written
himself down "a hypocrite." Dam鎡as is, probably, a satirical sketch of
a friend or acquaintance. (Compare the solemn denunciation of Lord
Falkland in 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', lines
668-686.)]]
[Footnote 2: In law, every person is an infant who has not attained the
age of twenty-one.]
TO MARION. [1]
MARION! why that pensive brow? [i]
What disgust to life hast thou?
Change that discontented air;
Frowns become not one so fair.
'Tis not Love disturbs thy rest,
Love's a stranger to thy breast:
_He_, in dimpling smiles, appears,
Or mourns in sweetly timid tears;
Or bends the languid eyelid down,
But _shuns_ the cold forbidding 'frown'.
Then resume thy former fire,
Some will _love_, and all admire!
While that icy aspect chills us,
Nought but cool Indiff'rence thrills us.
Would'st thou wand'ring hearts beguile,
Smile, at least, or _seem_ to _smile_;
Eyes like _thine_ were never meant
To hide their orbs in dark restraint;
Spite of all thou fain wouldst say,
Still in _truant_ beams they play.
Thy lips--but here my _modest_ Muse
Her impulse _chaste_ must needs refuse:
She _blushes, curtsies, frowns,_--in short She
Dreads lest the _Subject_ should transport me;
And flying off, in search of _Reason_,
Brings Prudence back in proper season.
_All_ I shall, therefore, say (whate'er [ii]
I think, is neither here nor there,)
Is, that such _lips_, of looks endearing,
Were form'd for _better things_ than _sneering_.
Of soothing compliments divested,
Advice at least's disinterested;
Such is my artless song to thee,
From all the flow of Flatt'ry free;
Counsel like _mine_ is as a brother's,
_My_ heart is given to some others;
That is to say, unskill'd to cozen,
It shares itself among a dozen.
Marion, adieu! oh, pr'ythee slight not
This warning, though it may delight not;
And, lest my precepts be displeasing, [iii]
To those who think remonstrance teazing,
At once I'll tell thee our opinion,
Concerning Woman's soft Dominion:
Howe'er we gaze, with admiration,
On eyes of blue or lips carnation;
Howe'er the flowing locks attract us,
Howe'er those beauties may distract us;
Still fickle, we are prone to rove,
_These_ cannot fix our souls to love;
It is not too _severe_ a stricture,
To say they form a _pretty picture_;
But would'st thou see the secret chain,
Which binds us in your humble train,
To hail you Queens of all Creation,
Know, in a _word, 'tis Animation_.
BYRON, _January_ 10, 1807.
[Footnote 1: The MS. of this Poem is preserved at Newstead. "This was to
Harriet Maltby, afterwards Mrs. Nichols, written upon her meeting Byron,
and, 'being 'cold, silent', and 'reserved' to him,' by the advice of a
Lady with whom she was staying; quite foreign to her 'usual' manner,
which was gay, lively, and full of flirtation."--Note by Miss E. Pigot.
(See p. 130, var. ii.)]
[Footnote a:
'Harriet'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote b:
'All I shall therefore say of these',
('Thy pardon if my words displease').
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote c:
'And lest my precepts be found fault, by
Those who approved the frown of M--lt-by'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
OSCAR OF ALVA. [1]
1.
How sweetly shines, through azure skies,
The lamp of Heaven on Lora's shore;
Where Alva's hoary turrets rise,
And hear the din of arms no more!
2.
But often has yon rolling moon,
On Alva's casques of silver play'd;
And view'd, at midnight's silent noon,
Her chiefs in gleaming mail array'd:
3.
And, on the crimson'd rocks beneath,
Which scowl o'er ocean's sullen flow,
Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death,
She saw the gasping warrior low; [i]
4.
While many an eye, which ne'er again [ii]
Could mark the rising orb of day,
Turn'd feebly from the gory plain,
Beheld in death her fading ray.
5.
Once, to those eyes the lamp of Love,
They blest her dear propitious light;
But, now, she glimmer'd from above,
A sad, funereal torch of night.
6.
Faded is Alva's noble race,
And grey her towers are seen afar;
No more her heroes urge the chase,
Or roll the crimson tide of war.
7.
But, who was last of Alva's clan?
Why grows the moss on Alva's stone?
Her towers resound no steps of man,
They echo to the gale alone.
8.
And, when that gale is fierce and high,
A sound is heard in yonder hall;
It rises hoarsely through the sky,
And vibrates o'er the mould'ring wall.
9.
Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs,
It shakes the shield of Oscar brave;
But, there, no more his banners rise,
No more his plumes of sable wave.
10.
Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth,
When Angus hail'd his eldest born;
The vassals round their chieftain's hearth
Crowd to applaud the happy morn.
11.
They feast upon the mountain deer,
The Pibroch rais'd its piercing note, [2]
To gladden more their Highland cheer,
The strains in martial numbers float.
12.
And they who heard the war-notes wild,
Hop'd that, one day, the Pibroch's strain
Should play before the Hero's child,
While he should lead the Tartan train.
13.
Another year is quickly past,
And Angus hails another son;
His natal day is like the last,
Nor soon the jocund feast was done.
14.
Taught by their sire to bend the bow,
On Alva's dusky hills of wind,
The boys in childhood chas'd the roe,
And left their hounds in speed behind.
15.
But ere their years of youth are o'er,
They mingle in the ranks of war;
They lightly wheel the bright claymore,
And send the whistling arrow far.
16.
Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair,
Wildly it stream'd along the gale;
But Allan's locks were bright and fair,
And pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale.
17.
But Oscar own'd a hero's soul,
His dark eye shone through beams of truth;
Allan had early learn'd controul,
And smooth his words had been from youth.
18.
Both, both were brave; the Saxon spear
Was shiver'd oft beneath their steel;
And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear,
But Oscar's bosom knew to feel;
19.
While Allan's soul belied his form,
Unworthy with such charms to dwell:
Keen as the lightning of the storm,
On foes his deadly vengeance fell.
20.
From high Southannon's distant tower
Arrived a young and noble dame;
With Kenneth's lands to form her dower,
Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came;
21.
And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride,
And Angus on his Oscar smil'd:
It soothed the father's feudal pride
Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child.
22.
Hark! to the Pibroch's pleasing note,
Hark! to the swelling nuptial song,
In joyous strains the voices float,
And, still, the choral peal prolong.
23.
See how the Heroes' blood-red plumes
Assembled wave in Alva's hall;
Each youth his varied plaid assumes,
Attending on their chieftain's call.
24.
It is not war their aid demands,
The Pibroch plays the song of peace;
To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands
Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease.
25.
But where is Oscar? sure 'tis late:
Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame?
While thronging guests and ladies wait,
Nor Oscar nor his brother came.
26.
At length young Allan join'd the bride;
"Why comes not Oscar?" Angus said:
"Is he not here?" the Youth replied;
"With me he rov'd not o'er the glade:
27.
"Perchance, forgetful of the day,
'Tis his to chase the bounding roe;
Or Ocean's waves prolong his stay:
Yet, Oscar's bark is seldom slow."
28.
"Oh, no!" the anguish'd Sire rejoin'd,
"Nor chase, nor wave, my Boy delay;
Would he to Mora seem unkind?
Would aught to her impede his way?
29.
"Oh, search, ye Chiefs! oh, search around!
Allan, with these, through Alva fly;
Till Oscar, till my son is found,
Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply."
30.
All is confusion--through the vale,
The name of Oscar hoarsely rings,
It rises on the murm'ring gale,
Till night expands her dusky wings.
31.
It breaks the stillness of the night,
But echoes through her shades in vain;
It sounds through morning's misty light,
But Oscar comes not o'er the plain.
32.
Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief
For Oscar search'd each mountain cave;
Then hope is lost; in boundless grief,
His locks in grey-torn ringlets wave.
33.
"Oscar! my son!--thou God of Heav'n,
Restore the prop of sinking age!
Or, if that hope no more is given,
Yield his assassin to my rage.
34.
"Yes, on some desert rocky shore
My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie;
Then grant, thou God! I ask no more,
With him his frantic Sire may die!
35.
"Yet, he may live,--away, despair!
Be calm, my soul! he yet may live;
T' arraign my fate, my voice forbear!
O God! my impious prayer forgive.
36.
"What, if he live for me no more,
I sink forgotten in the dust,
The hope of Alva's age is o'er:
Alas! can pangs like these be just?"
37.
Thus did the hapless Parent mourn,
Till Time, who soothes severest woe,
Had bade serenity return,
And made the tear-drop cease to flow.
38.
For, still, some latent hope surviv'd
That Oscar might once more appear;
His hope now droop'd and now revived,
Till Time had told a tedious year.
39.
Days roll'd along, the orb of light
Again had run his destined race;
No Oscar bless'd his father's sight,
And sorrow left a fainter trace.
40.
For youthful Allan still remain'd,
And, now, his father's only joy:
And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd,
For beauty crown'd the fair-hair'd boy.
41.
She thought that Oscar low was laid,
And Allan's face was wondrous fair;
If Oscar liv'd, some other maid
Had claim'd his faithless bosom's care.
42.
And Angus said, if one year more
In fruitless hope was pass'd away,
His fondest scruples should be o'er,
And he would name their nuptial day.
43.
Slow roll'd the moons, but blest at last
Arriv'd the dearly destin'd morn:
The year of anxious trembling past,
What smiles the lovers' cheeks adorn!
44.
Hark to the Pibroch's pleasing note!
Hark to the swelling nuptial song!
In joyous strains the voices float,
And, still, the choral peal prolong.
45.
Again the clan, in festive crowd,
Throng through the gate of Alva's hall;
The sounds of mirth re-echo loud,
And all their former joy recall.
46.
But who is he, whose darken'd brow
Glooms in the midst of general mirth?
Before his eyes' far fiercer glow
The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth.
47.
Dark is the robe which wraps his form,
And tall his plume of gory red;
His voice is like the rising storm,
But light and trackless is his tread.
48.
'Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round,
The bridegroom's health is deeply quaff'd;
With shouts the vaulted roofs resound,
And all combine to hail the draught.
49.
Sudden the stranger-chief arose,
And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd;
And Angus' cheek with wonder glows,
And Mora's tender bosom blush'd.
50.
"Old man!" he cried, "this pledge is done,
Thou saw'st 'twas truly drunk by me;
It hail'd the nuptials of thy son:
Now will I claim a pledge from thee.
51.
"While all around is mirth and joy,
To bless thy Allan's happy lot,
Say, hadst thou ne'er another boy?
Say, why should Oscar be forgot?"
52.
"Alas!" the hapless Sire replied,
The big tear starting as he spoke,
"When Oscar left my hall, or died,
This aged heart was almost broke.
53.
"Thrice has the earth revolv'd her course
Since Oscar's form has bless'd my sight;
And Allan is my last resource,
Since martial Oscar's death, or flight."
54.
"'Tis well," replied the stranger stern,
And fiercely flash'd his rolling eye;
"Thy Oscar's fate, I fain would learn;
Perhaps the Hero did not die.
55.
"Perchance, if those, whom most he lov'd,
Would call, thy Oscar might return;
Perchance, the chief has only rov'd;
For him thy Beltane, yet, may burn. [3]
56.
"Fill high the bowl the table round,
We will not claim the pledge by stealth;
With wine let every cup be crown'd;
Pledge me departed Oscar's health."
57.
"With all my soul," old Angus said,
And fill'd his goblet to the brim:
"Here's to my boy! alive or dead,
I ne'er shall find a son like him."
58.
"Bravely, old man, this health has sped;
But why does Allan trembling stand?
Come, drink remembrance of the dead,
And raise thy cup with firmer hand."
59.
The crimson glow of Allan's face
Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue;
The drops of death each other chace,
Adown in agonizing dew.
60.
Thrice did he raise the goblet high,
And thrice his lips refused to taste;
For thrice he caught the stranger's eye
On his with deadly fury plac'd.
61.
"And is it thus a brother hails
A brother's fond remembrance here?
If thus affection's strength prevails,
What might we not expect from fear?"
62.
Roused by the sneer, he rais'd the bowl,
"Would Oscar now could share our mirth!"
Internal fear appall'd his soul; [i]
He said, and dash'd the cup to earth.
63.
"'Tis he! I hear my murderer's voice!"
Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming Form.
"A murderer's voice!" the roof replies,
And deeply swells the bursting storm.
64.
The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink,
The stranger's gone,--amidst the crew,
A Form was seen, in tartan green,
And tall the shade terrific grew.
65.
His waist was bound with a broad belt round,
His plume of sable stream'd on high;
But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there,
And fix'd was the glare of his glassy eye.
66.
And thrice he smil'd, with his eye so wild
On Angus bending low the knee;
And thrice he frown'd, on a Chief on the ground,
Whom shivering crowds with horror see.
67.
The bolts loud roll from pole to pole,
And thunders through the welkin ring,
And the gleaming form, through the mist of the storm,
Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing.
68.
Cold was the feast, the revel ceas'd.
Who lies upon the stony floor?
Oblivion press'd old Angus' breast, [iv]
At length his life-pulse throbs once more.
69.
"Away, away! let the leech essay
To pour the light on Allan's eyes:"
His sand is done,--his race is run;
Oh! never more shall Allan rise!
70.
But Oscar's breast is cold as clay,
His locks are lifted by the gale;
And Allan's barb鑔 arrow lay
With him in dark Glentanar's vale.
71.
And whence the dreadful stranger came,
Or who, no mortal wight can tell;
But no one doubts the form of flame,
For Alva's sons knew Oscar well.
72.
Ambition nerv'd young Allan's hand,
Exulting demons wing'd his dart;
While Envy wav'd her burning brand,
And pour'd her venom round his heart.
73.
Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow;
Whose streaming life-blood stains his side?
Dark Oscar's sable crest is low,
The dart has drunk his vital tide.
74.
And Mora's eye could Allan move,
She bade his wounded pride rebel:
Alas! that eyes, which beam'd with love,
Should urge the soul to deeds of Hell.
75.
Lo! see'st thou not a lonely tomb,
Which rises o'er a warrior dead?
It glimmers through the twilight gloom;
Oh! that is Allan's nuptial bed.
76.
Far, distant far, the noble grave
Which held his clan's great ashes stood;
And o'er his corse no banners wave,
For they were stain'd with kindred blood.
77.
What minstrel grey, what hoary bard,
Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise?
The song is glory's chief reward,
But who can strike a murd'rer's praise?
78.
Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand,
No minstrel dare the theme awake;
Guilt would benumb his palsied hand,
His harp in shuddering chords would break.
79.
No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse,
Shall sound his glories high in air:
A dying father's bitter curse,
A brother's death-groan echoes there.
[Footnote 1: The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story of
"Jeronymo and Lorenzo," in the first volume of Schiller's 'Armenian, or
the Ghost-Seer'. It also bears some resemblance to a scene in the third
act of 'Macbeth'.--['Der Geisterseher', Schiller's 'Werke' (1819), x.
97, 'sq'.]
[Footnote 2: It is evident that Byron here confused the 'pibroch', the
air, with the 'bagpipe', the instrument.]
[Footnote 3: Beltane Tree, a Highland festival on the first of May,
held near fires lighted for the occasion.]
[Footnote i:
'She view'd the gasping'----.
['Hours of Idleness'.]]
[Footnote ii:
'When many an eye which ne'er again
Could view'----.
['Hours of Idleness'.]]
[Footnote iii:
'Internal fears'----.
['Hours of Idleness'.]]
[Footnote iv:
'Old Angus prest, the earth with his breast'.
['Hours of Idleness'.]]
TRANSLATION FROM ANACREON.
[Greek: Thel_o legein Atpeidas, k.t.l.] [1]
ODE 1.
TO HIS LYRE.
I wish to tune my quivering lyre, [i]
To deeds of fame, and notes of fire;
To echo, from its rising swell,
How heroes fought and nations fell,
When Atreus' sons advanc'd to war,
Or Tyrian Cadmus rov'd afar;
But still, to martial strains unknown,
My lyre recurs to Love alone.
Fir'd with the hope of future fame, [ii]
I seek some nobler Hero's name;
The dying chords are strung anew,
To war, to war, my harp is due:
With glowing strings, the Epic strain
To Jove's great son I raise again;
Alcides and his glorious deeds,
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds;
All, all in vain; my wayward lyre
Wakes silver notes of soft Desire.
Adieu, ye Chiefs renown'd in arms!
Adieu the clang of War's alarms! [iii]
To other deeds my soul is strung,
And sweeter notes shall now be sung;
My harp shall all its powers reveal,
To tell the tale my heart must feel;
Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim,
In songs of bliss and sighs of flame.
[Footnote 1: The motto does not appear in 'Hours of Idleness' or
'Poems O. and T.']
[Footnote i: 'I sought to tune'----.--['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote ii:
'The chords resumed a second strain,
To Jove's great son I strike again.
Alcides and his glorious deeds,
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iii:
'The Trumpet's blast with these accords
To sound the clash of hostile swords--
Be mine the softer, sweeter care
To soothe the young and virgin Fair'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
FROM ANACREON.
[Greek: Mesonuktiois poth h_opais, k.t.l.] [1]
ODE 3.
'Twas now the hour when Night had driven
Her car half round yon sable heaven;
Bo鰐es, only, seem'd to roll [i]
His Arctic charge around the Pole;
While mortals, lost in gentle sleep,
Forgot to smile, or ceas'd to weep:
At this lone hour the Paphian boy,
Descending from the realms of joy,
Quick to my gate directs his course,
And knocks with all his little force;
My visions fled, alarm'd I rose,--
"What stranger breaks my blest repose?"
"Alas!" replies the wily child
In faltering accents sweetly mild;
"A hapless Infant here I roam,
Far from my dear maternal home.
Oh! shield me from the wintry blast!
The nightly storm is pouring fast.
No prowling robber lingers here;
A wandering baby who can fear?"
I heard his seeming artless tale, [ii]
I heard his sighs upon the gale:
My breast was never pity's foe,
But felt for all the baby's woe.
I drew the bar, and by the light
Young Love, the infant, met my sight;
His bow across his shoulders flung,
And thence his fatal quiver hung
(Ah! little did I think the dart
Would rankle soon within my heart).
With care I tend my weary guest,
His little fingers chill my breast;
His glossy curls, his azure wing,
Which droop with nightly showers, I wring;
His shivering limbs the embers warm;
And now reviving from the storm,
Scarce had he felt his wonted glow,
Than swift he seized his slender bow:--
"I fain would know, my gentle host,"
He cried, "if this its strength has lost;
I fear, relax'd with midnight dews,
The strings their former aid refuse."
With poison tipt, his arrow flies,
Deep in my tortur'd heart it lies:
Then loud the joyous Urchin laugh'd:--
"My bow can still impel the shaft:
'Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it;
Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?"
[Footnote 1: The motto does not appear in 'Hours of Idleness' or
'Poems O. and T.']
[Footnote i: The Newstead MS. _insert_s--
'No Moon in silver robe was seen
Nor e'en a trembling star between'.]
[Footnote ii:
'Touched with the seeming artless tale
Compassion's tears o'er doubt prevail;
Methought I viewed him, cold and damp,
I trimmed anew my dying lamp,
Drew back the bar--and by the light
A pinioned Infant met my sight;
His bow across his shoulders slung,
And hence a gilded quiver hung;
With care I tend my weary guest,
His shivering hands by mine are pressed:
My hearth I load with embers warm
To dry the dew drops of the storm:
Drenched by the rain of yonder sky
The strings are weak--but let us try.'
--['MS. Newstead'.]]
THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURYALUS. [1]
A PARAPHRASE FROM THE "芅EID," LIB. 9.
Nisus, the guardian of the portal, stood,
Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood;
Well skill'd, in fight, the quivering lance to wield,
Or pour his arrows thro' th' embattled field:
From Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave, [i]
And sought a foreign home, a distant grave.
To watch the movements of the Daunian host,
With him Euryalus sustains the post;
No lovelier mien adorn'd the ranks of Troy,
And beardless bloom yet grac'd the gallant boy; 10
Though few the seasons of his youthful life,
As yet a novice in the martial strife,
'Twas his, with beauty, Valour's gifts to share--
A soul heroic, as his form was fair:
These burn with one pure flame of generous love;
In peace, in war, united still they move;
Friendship and Glory form their joint reward;
And, now, combin'd they hold their nightly guard. [ii]
"What God," exclaim'd the first, "instils this fire?
Or, in itself a God, what great desire? 20
My lab'ring soul, with anxious thought oppress'd,
Abhors this station of inglorious rest;
The love of fame with this can ill accord,
Be't mine to seek for glory with my sword.
See'st thou yon camp, with torches twinkling dim,
Where drunken slumbers wrap each lazy limb?
Where confidence and ease the watch disdain,
And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign?
Then hear my thought:--In deep and sullen grief
Our troops and leaders mourn their absent chief: 30
Now could the gifts and promised prize be thine,
(The deed, the danger, and the fame be mine,)
Were this decreed, beneath yon rising mound,
Methinks, an easy path, perchance, were found;
Which past, I speed my way to Pallas' walls,
And lead 苙eas from Evander's halls."
With equal ardour fir'd, and warlike joy,
His glowing friend address'd the Dardan boy:--
"These deeds, my Nisus, shalt thou dare alone?
Must all the fame, the peril, be thine own? 40
Am I by thee despis'd, and left afar,
As one unfit to share the toils of war?
Not thus his son the great Opheltes taught:
Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought;
Not thus, when Ilion fell by heavenly hate,
I track'd 苙eas through the walks of fate:
Thou know'st my deeds, my breast devoid of fear,
And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear.
Here is a soul with hope immortal burns,
And _life_, ignoble _life_, for _Glory_ spurns. [iii] 50
Fame, fame is cheaply earn'd by fleeting breath:
The price of honour, is the sleep of death."
Then Nisus:--"Calm thy bosom's fond alarms: [iv]
Thy heart beats fiercely to the din of arms.
More dear thy worth, and valour than my own,
I swear by him, who fills Olympus' throne!
So may I triumph, as I speak the truth,
And clasp again the comrade of my youth!
But should I fall,--and he, who dares advance
Through hostile legions, must abide by chance,-- 60
If some Rutulian arm, with adverse blow,
Should lay the friend, who ever lov'd thee, low,
Live thou--such beauties I would fain preserve--
Thy budding years a lengthen'd term deserve;
When humbled in the dust, let some one be,
Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for me;
Whose manly arm may snatch me back by force,
Or wealth redeem, from foes, my captive corse;
Or, if my destiny these last deny,
If, in the spoiler's power, my ashes lie; 70
Thy pious care may raise a simple tomb,
To mark thy love, and signalise my doom.
Why should thy doating wretched mother weep
Her only boy, reclin'd in endless sleep?
Who, for thy sake, the tempest's fury dar'd,
Who, for thy sake, war's deadly peril shar'd;
Who brav'd what woman never brav'd before,
And left her native, for the Latian shore."
"In vain you damp the ardour of my soul,"
Replied Euryalus; "it scorns controul; 80
Hence, let us haste!"--their brother guards arose,
Rous'd by their call, nor court again repose;
The pair, buoy'd up on Hope's exulting wing,
Their stations leave, and speed to seek the king.
Now, o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran,
And lull'd alike the cares of brute and man;
Save where the Dardan leaders, nightly, hold
Alternate converse, and their plans unfold.
On one great point the council are agreed,
An instant message to their prince decreed; 90
Each lean'd upon the lance he well could wield,
And pois'd with easy arm his ancient shield;
When Nisus and his friend their leave request,
To offer something to their high behest.
With anxious tremors, yet unaw'd by fear, [v]
The faithful pair before the throne appear;
Iulus greets them; at his kind command,
The elder, first, address'd the hoary band.
"With patience" (thus Hyrtacides began)
"Attend, nor judge, from youth, our humble plan. 100
Where yonder beacons half-expiring beam,
Our slumbering foes of future conquest dream, [vi]
Nor heed that we a secret path have trac'd,
Between the ocean and the portal plac'd;
Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke,
Whose shade, securely, our design will cloak!
If you, ye Chiefs, and Fortune will allow,
We'll bend our course to yonder mountain's brow,
Where Pallas' walls, at distance, meet the sight,
Seen o'er the glade, when not obscur'd by night: 110
Then shall 苙eas in his pride return,
While hostile matrons raise their offspring's urn;
And Latian spoils, and purpled heaps of dead
Shall mark the havoc of our Hero's tread;
Such is our purpose, not unknown the way,
Where yonder torrent's devious waters stray;
Oft have we seen, when hunting by the stream,
The distant spires above the valleys gleam."
Mature in years, for sober wisdom fam'd,
Mov'd by the speech, Alethes here exclaim'd,-- 120
"Ye parent gods! who rule the fate of Troy,
Still dwells the Dardan spirit in the boy;
When minds, like these, in striplings thus ye raise,
Yours is the godlike act, be yours the praise;
In gallant youth, my fainting hopes revive,
And Ilion's wonted glories still survive."
Then in his warm embrace the boys he press'd,
And, quivering, strain'd them to his ag閐 breast;
With tears the burning cheek of each bedew'd,
And, sobbing, thus his first discourse renew'd:-- 130
"What gift, my countrymen, what martial prize,
Can we bestow, which you may not despise?
Our Deities the first best boon have given--
Internal virtues are the gift of Heaven.
What poor rewards can bless your deeds on earth,
Doubtless await such young, exalted worth;
苙eas and Ascanius shall combine
To yield applause far, far surpassing mine."
Iulus then:--"By all the powers above!
By those Penates, who my country love! 140
By hoary Vesta's sacred Fane, I swear,
My hopes are all in you, ye generous pair!
Restore my father, to my grateful sight,
And all my sorrows, yield to one delight.
Nisus! two silver goblets are thine own,
Sav'd from Arisba's stately domes o'erthrown;
My sire secured them on that fatal day,
Nor left such bowls an Argive robber's prey.
Two massy tripods, also, shall be thine,
Two talents polish'd from the glittering mine; 150
An ancient cup, which Tyrian Dido gave,
While yet our vessels press'd the Punic wave:
But when the hostile chiefs at length bow down,
When great 苙eas wears Hesperia's crown,
The casque, the buckler, and the fiery steed
Which Turnus guides with more than mortal speed,
Are thine; no envious lot shall then be cast,
I pledge my word, irrevocably past:
Nay more, twelve slaves, and twice six captive dames,
To soothe thy softer hours with amorous flames, 160
And all the realms, which now the Latins sway,
The labours of to-night shall well repay.
But thou, my generous youth, whose tender years
Are near my own, whose worth my heart reveres,
Henceforth, affection, sweetly thus begun,
Shall join our bosoms and our souls in one;
Without thy aid, no glory shall be mine,
Without thy dear advice, no great design;
Alike, through life, esteem'd, thou godlike boy,
In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy." 170
To him Euryalus:--"No day shall shame
The rising glories which from this I claim.
Fortune may favour, or the skies may frown,
But valour, spite of fate, obtains renown.
Yet, ere from hence our eager steps depart,
One boon I beg, the nearest to my heart:
My mother, sprung from Priam's royal line,
Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine,
Nor Troy nor king Acestes' realms restrain
Her feeble age from dangers of the main; 180
Alone she came, all selfish fears above, [vii]
A bright example of maternal love.
Unknown, the secret enterprise I brave,
Lest grief should bend my parent to the grave;
From this alone no fond adieus I seek,
No fainting mother's lips have press'd my cheek;
By gloomy Night and thy right hand I vow,
Her parting tears would shake my purpose now: [viii]
Do thou, my prince, her failing age sustain,
In thee her much-lov'd child may live again; 190
Her dying hours with pious conduct bless,
Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress:
So dear a hope must all my soul enflame, [ix]
To rise in glory, or to fall in fame."
Struck with a filial care so deeply felt,
In tears at once the Trojan warriors melt;
Faster than all, Iulus' eyes o'erflow!
Such love was his, and such had been his woe.
"All thou hast ask'd, receive," the Prince replied;
"Nor this alone, but many a gift beside. 200
To cheer thy mother's years shall be my aim,
Creusa's [2] style but wanting to the dame;
Fortune an adverse wayward course may run,
But bless'd thy mother in so dear a son.
Now, by my life!--my Sire's most sacred oath--
To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth,
All the rewards which once to thee were vow'd, [x]
If thou should'st fall, on her shall be bestow'd."
Thus spoke the weeping Prince, then forth to view
A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew; 210
Lycaon's utmost skill had grac'd the steel,
For friends to envy and for foes to feel:
A tawny hide, the Moorish lion's spoil, [xi]
Slain 'midst the forest in the hunter's toil,
Mnestheus to guard the elder youth bestows, [xii]
And old Alethes' casque defends his brows;
Arm'd, thence they go, while all th' assembl'd train,
To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain. [xiii]
More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace,
Iulus holds amidst the chiefs his place: 220
His prayer he sends; but what can prayers avail,
Lost in the murmurs of the sighing gale? [xiv]
The trench is pass'd, and favour'd by the night,
Through sleeping foes, they wheel their wary flight.
When shall the sleep of many a foe be o'er?
Alas! some slumber, who shall wake no more!
Chariots and bridles, mix'd with arms, are seen,
And flowing flasks, and scatter'd troops between:
Bacchus and Mars, to rule the camp, combine;
A mingled Chaos this of war and wine. 230
"Now," cries the first, "for deeds of blood prepare,
With me the conquest and the labour share:
Here lies our path; lest any hand arise,
Watch thou, while many a dreaming chieftain dies;
I'll carve our passage, through the heedless foe,
And clear thy road, with many a deadly blow."
His whispering accents then the youth repress'd,
And pierced proud Rhamnes through his panting breast:
Stretch'd at his ease, th' incautious king repos'd;
Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had clos'd; 240
To Turnus dear, a prophet and a prince,
His omens more than augur's skill evince;
But he, who thus foretold the fate of all,
Could not avert his own untimely fall.
Next Remus' armour-bearer, hapless, fell,
And three unhappy slaves the carnage swell;
The charioteer along his courser's sides
Expires, the steel his sever'd neck divides;
And, last, his Lord is number'd with the dead:
Bounding convulsive, flies the gasping head; 250
From the swol'n veins the blackening torrents pour;
Stain'd is the couch and earth with clotting gore.
Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire,
And gay Serranus, fill'd with youthful fire;
Half the long night in childish games was pass'd; [xv]
Lull'd by the potent grape, he slept at last:
Ah! happier far, had he the morn survey'd,
And, till Aurora's dawn, his skill display'd. [xvi]
In slaughter'd folds, the keepers lost in sleep, [xvii]
His hungry fangs a lion thus may steep; 260
'Mid the sad flock, at dead of night he prowls,
With murder glutted, and in carnage rolls
Insatiate still, through teeming herds he roams; [xviii]
In seas of gore, the lordly tyrant foams.
Nor less the other's deadly vengeance came,
But falls on feeble crowds without a name;
His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can feel,
Yet wakeful Rh鎠us sees the threatening steel;
His coward breast behind a jar he hides,
And, vainly, in the weak defence confides; 270
Full in his heart, the falchion search'd his veins,
The reeking weapon bears alternate stains;
Through wine and blood, commingling as they flow,
One feeble spirit seeks the shades below.
Now where Messapus dwelt they bend their way,
Whose fires emit a faint and trembling ray;
There, unconfin'd, behold each grazing steed,
Unwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage feed: [xix]
Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm,
Too flush'd with carnage, and with conquest warm: 280
"Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is pass'd;
Full foes enough, to-night, have breath'd their last:
Soon will the Day those Eastern clouds adorn;
Now let us speed, nor tempt the rising morn."
What silver arms, with various art emboss'd,
What bowls and mantles, in confusion toss'd,
They leave regardless! yet one glittering prize
Attracts the younger Hero's wandering eyes;
The gilded harness Rhamnes' coursers felt,
The gems which stud the monarch's golden belt: 290
This from the pallid corse was quickly torn,
Once by a line of former chieftains worn.
Th' exulting boy the studded girdle wears,
Messapus' helm his head, in triumph, bears;
Then from the tents their cautious steps they bend,
To seek the vale, where safer paths extend.
Just at this hour, a band of Latian horse
To Turnus' camp pursue their destin'd course:
While the slow foot their tardy march delay,
The knights, impatient, spur along the way: 300
Three hundred mail-clad men, by Volscens led,
To Turnus with their master's promise sped:
Now they approach the trench, and view the walls,
When, on the left, a light reflection falls;
The plunder'd helmet, through the waning night,
Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright;
Volscens, with question loud, the pair alarms:--
"Stand, Stragglers! stand! why early thus in arms?
From whence? to whom?"--He meets with no reply;
Trusting the covert of the night, they fly: 310
The thicket's depth, with hurried pace, they tread,
While round the wood the hostile squadron spread.
With brakes entangled, scarce a path between,
Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene:
Euryalus his heavy spoils impede,
The boughs and winding turns his steps mislead;
But Nisus scours along the forest's maze,
To where Latinus' steeds in safety graze,
Then backward o'er the plain his eyes extend,
On every side they seek his absent friend. 320
"O God! my boy," he cries, "of me bereft, [xx]
In what impending perils art thou left!"
Listening he runs--above the waving trees,
Tumultuous voices swell the passing breeze;
The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around
Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground.
Again he turns--of footsteps hears the noise--
The sound elates--the sight his hope destroys:
The hapless boy a ruffian train surround, [xxi]
While lengthening shades his weary way confound; 330
Him, with loud shouts, the furious knights pursue,
Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. [xxii]
What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers dare?
Ah! must he rush, his comrade's fate to share?
What force, what aid, what stratagem essay,
Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey?
His life a votive ransom nobly give,
Or die with him, for whom he wish'd to live?
Poising with strength his lifted lance on high,
On Luna's orb he cast his frenzied eye:-- 340
"Goddess serene, transcending every star! [xxiii]
Queen of the sky, whose beams are seen afar!
By night Heaven owns thy sway, by day the grove,
When, as chaste Dian, here thou deign'st to rove;
If e'er myself, or Sire, have sought to grace
Thine altars, with the produce of the chase,
Speed, speed my dart to pierce yon vaunting crowd,
To free my friend, and scatter far the proud."
Thus having said, the hissing dart he flung;
Through parted shades the hurtling weapon sung; 350
The thirsty point in Sulmo's entrails lay,
Transfix'd his heart, and stretch'd him on the clay:
He sobs, he dies,--the troop in wild amaze,
Unconscious whence the death, with horror gaze;
While pale they stare, thro' Tagus' temples riven,
A second shaft, with equal force is driven:
Fierce Volscens rolls around his lowering eyes;
Veil'd by the night, secure the Trojan lies. [xxiv]
Burning with wrath, he view'd his soldiers fall.
"Thou youth accurst, thy life shall pay for all!" 360
Quick from the sheath his flaming glaive he drew,
And, raging, on the boy defenceless flew.
Nisus, no more the blackening shade conceals,
Forth, forth he starts, and all his love reveals;
Aghast, confus'd, his fears to madness rise,
And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies;
"Me, me,--your vengeance hurl on me alone;
Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your own;
Ye starry Spheres! thou conscious Heaven! attest!
He could not--durst not--lo! the guile confest! 370
All, all was mine,--his early fate suspend;
He only lov'd, too well, his hapless friend:
Spare, spare, ye Chiefs! from him your rage remove;
His fault was friendship, all his crime was love."
He pray'd in vain; the dark assassin's sword
Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gor'd;
Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad crest,
And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast:
As some young rose whose blossom scents the air,
Languid in death, expires beneath the share; 380
Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower,
Declining gently, falls a fading flower;
Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head,
And lingering Beauty hovers round the dead.
But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide,
Revenge his leader, and Despair his guide; [xxv]
Volscens he seeks amidst the gathering host,
Volscens must soon appease his comrade's ghost;
Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe;
Rage nerves his arm, Fate gleams in every blow; 390
In vain beneath unnumber'd wounds he bleeds,
Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds;
In viewless circles wheel'd his falchion flies,
Nor quits the hero's grasp till Volscens dies;
Deep in his throat its end the weapon found,
The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the wound. [xxvi]
Thus Nisus all his fond affection prov'd--
Dying, revenged the fate of him he lov'd;
Then on his bosom sought his wonted place, [xxvii]
And death was heavenly, in his friend's embrace! 400
Celestial pair! if aught my verse can claim,
Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is fame! [xxviii]
Ages on ages shall your fate admire,
No future day shall see your names expire,
While stands the Capitol, immortal dome!
And vanquished millions hail their Empress, Rome!
[Footnote 1: Lines 1-18 were first published in 'P. on V. Occasions',
under the title of "Fragment of a Translation from the 9th Book of
Virgil's '苙eid'."]
[Footnote 2: The mother of Iulus, lost on the night when Troy was
taken.]
[Footnote i:
'Him Ida sent, a hunter, now no more,
To combat foes, upon a foreign shore;
Near him, the loveliest of the Trojan band,
Did fair Euryalus, his comrade, stand;
Few are the seasons of his youthful life,
As yet a novice in the martial strife:
The Gods to him unwonted gifts impart,
A female's beatify, with a hero's heart.
['P. on V. Occasions.']
From Ida torn he left his native grove,
Through distant climes, and trackless seas to rove.'
['Hours of Idleness.']]
[Footnote ii:
'And now combin'd, the massy gate they guard'.
['P. on V. Occasions'.]
--they hold the nightly guard'.
['Hours of Idleness'.]]
[Footnote iii:
And Love, and Life alike the glory spurned.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iv:
Then Nisus, "Ah, my friend--why thus suspect
Thy youthful breast admits of no defect."
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote v:
Trembling with diffidence not awed by fear.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote vi:
The vain Rutulians lost in slumber dream.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote vii:
'Hither she came------.
['Hours of Idleness.']]
[Footnote viii:
'Her falling tears------.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote ix:
'With this assurance Fate's attempts are vain;
Fearless I dare the foes of yonder plain.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote x:
'That all the gifts which once to thee were vowed.
['MS. Newstead'.]
[Footnote xi:
'A tawny skin the furious lion's spoil.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xii:
'Mnestheus presented, and the Warrior's mask
Alethes gave a doubly temper'd casque.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xiii:
'To glad their journey, follow them in vain.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xiv:
'Dispersed and scattered on the sighing gale.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xv:
'By Bacchus' potent draught weigh'd down at last
Half the long night in childish games was past.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xvi:
'--disportive play'd.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xvii:
By hunger prest, the keeper lull'd to sleep
In slaughter thus a Lyon's fangs may steep.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xviii:
Through teeming herds unchecked, unawed, he roams.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xix:
Heedless of danger on the herbage feed.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xx:
----'of thee bereft
In what dire perils is my brother left.'
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xxi:
Then his lov'd boy the ruffian band surround
Entangled in the tufted Forest ground.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xxii:
'At length a captive to the hostile crew'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xxiii:
'The Goddess bright transcending every star'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xxiv:
'No object meets them but the earth and skies.
He burns for vengeance, rising in his wrath--
Then you, accursed, thy life shall pay for both;
Then from the sheath his flaming brand he drew,
And on the raging boy defenceless flew.
Nisus no more the blackening shade conceals,
Forth forth he rushed and all his love reveals;
Pale and confused his fear to madness grows,
And thus in accents mild he greets his Foes.
"On me, on me, direct your impious steel,
Let me and me alone your vengeance feel--
Let not a stripling's blood by Chiefs be spilt,
Be mine the Death, as mine was all the guilt.
By Heaven and Hell, the powers of Earth and Air.
Yon guiltless stripling neither could nor dare:
Spare him, oh! spare by all the Gods above,
A hapless boy whose only crime was Love."
He prayed in vain; the fierce assassin's sword
Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored;
Drooping to earth inclines his lovely head,
O'er his fair curls, the purpling stream is spread.
As some sweet lily, by the ploughshare broke
Languid in Death, sinks down beneath the stroke;
Or, as some poppy, bending with the shower,
Gently declining falls a waning flower'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xxv:
'Revenge his object'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xxvi:
'The assassin's soul'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xxvii:
'Then on his breast he sought his wonted place,
And Death was lovely in his Friend's embrace'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xxviii:
'Yours are the fairest wreaths of endless Fame.'
['MS. Newstead'.]]
TRANSLATION FROM THE "MEDEA" OF EURIPIDES [Ll. 627-660].
[Greek: Erotes hyper men agan, K.T.L.[1]]
1.
When fierce conflicting passions urge
The breast, where love is wont to glow,
What mind can stem the stormy surge
Which rolls the tide of human woe?
The hope of praise, the dread of shame,
Can rouse the tortur'd breast no more;
The wild desire, the guilty flame,
Absorbs each wish it felt before.
2.
But if affection gently thrills
The soul, by purer dreams possest,
The pleasing balm of mortal ills
In love can soothe the aching breast:
If thus thou comest in disguise, [i]
Fair Venus! from thy native heaven,
What heart, unfeeling, would despise
The sweetest boon the Gods have given?
3.
But, never from thy golden bow,
May I beneath the shaft expire!
Whose creeping venom, sure and slow,
Awakes an all-consuming fire:
Ye racking doubts! ye jealous fears!
With others wage internal war;
Repentance! source of future tears,
From me be ever distant far!
4.
May no distracting thoughts destroy
The holy calm of sacred love!
May all the hours be winged with joy,
Which hover faithful hearts above!
Fair Venus! on thy myrtle shrine
May I with some fond lover sigh!
Whose heart may mingle pure with mine,
With me to live, with me to die!
5.
My native soil! belov'd before,
Now dearer, as my peaceful home,
Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore,
A hapless banish'd wretch to roam!
This very day, this very hour,
May I resign this fleeting breath!
Nor quit my silent humble bower;
A doom, to me, far worse than death.
6.
Have I not heard the exile's sigh,
And seen the exile's silent tear,
Through distant climes condemn'd to fly,
A pensive, weary wanderer here?
Ah! hapless dame! [2] no sire bewails,
No friend thy wretched fate deplores,
No kindred voice with rapture hails
Thy steps within a stranger's doors.
7.
Perish the fiend! whose iron heart
To fair affection's truth unknown,
Bids her he fondly lov'd depart,
Unpitied, helpless, and alone;
Who ne'er unlocks with silver key, [3]
The milder treasures of his soul;
May such a friend be far from me,
And Ocean's storms between us roll!
[Footnote 1: The Greek heading does not appear in 'Hours of Idleness' or
'Poems O. and T'.]
[Footnote 2: Medea, who accompanied Jason to Corinth, was deserted by
him for the daughter of Creon, king of that city. The chorus, from which
this is taken, here addresses Medea; though a considerable liberty is
taken with the original, by expanding the idea, as also in some other
parts of the translation.]
[Footnote 3: The original is [Greek: katharan anoixanta klaeda
phren_on,] literally "disclosing the bright key of the mind."]
[Footnote i:
'If thus thou com'st in gentle guise'.
['Hours of Idleness'.]]
LACHIN Y GAIR. [1]
1.
Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses!
In you let the minions of luxury rove:
Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love:
Yet, Caledonia, belov'd are thy mountains,
Round their white summits though elements war:
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.
2.
Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy, wander'd:
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid; [2]
On chieftains, long perish'd, my memory ponder'd,
As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade;
I sought not my home, till the day's dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;
For fancy was cheer'd, by traditional story,
Disclos'd by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.
3.
"Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?"
Surely, the soul of the hero rejoices,
And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale!
Round Loch na Garr, while the stormy mist gathers,
Winter presides in his cold icy car:
Clouds, there, encircle the forms of my Fathers;
They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr.
4.
"Ill starr'd, [3] though brave, did no visions foreboding
Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?"
Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden, [4]
Victory crown'd not your fall with applause:
Still were you happy, in death's earthy slumber,
You rest with your clan, in the caves of Braemar; [5]
The Pibroch [6] resounds, to the piper's loud number,
Your deeds, on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.
5.
Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you,
Years must elapse, ere I tread you again:
Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you,
Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain:
England! thy beauties are tame and domestic,
To one who has rov'd on the mountains afar:
Oh! for the crags that are wild and majestic,
The steep, frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr. [7]
[Footnote 1: 'Lachin y Gair', or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, 'Loch
na Garr', towers proudly pre-eminent in the Northern Highlands, near
Invercauld. One of our modern tourists mentions it as the highest
mountain, perhaps, in Great Britain. Be this as it may, it is certainly
one of the most sublime and picturesque amongst our "Caledonian Alps."
Its appearance is of a dusky hue, but the summit is the seat of eternal
snows. Near Lachin y Gair I spent some of the early part of my life, the
recollection of which has given birth to the following stanzas.
[Prefixed to the poem in 'Hours of Idleness' and 'Poems O. and T.']
[Footnote 2: This word is erroneously pronounced 'plad'; the proper
pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is shown by the orthography.]
[Footnote 3: I allude here to my maternal ancestors, "the Gordons," many
of whom fought for the unfortunate Prince Charles, better known by the
name of the Pretender. This branch was nearly allied by blood, as well
as attachment, to the Stuarts. George, the second Earl of Huntley,
married the Princess Annabella Stuart, daughter of James I. of Scotland.
By her he left four sons: the third, Sir William Gordon, I have the
honour to claim as one of my progenitors.]
[Footnote 4: Whether any perished in the Battle of Culloden, I am not
certain; but, as many fell in the insurrection, I have used the name of
the principal action, "pars pro toto."]
[Footnote 5: A tract of the Highlands so called. There is also a Castle
of Braemar.]
[Footnote 6: The Bagpipe.--'Hours of Idleness'. (See note, p. 133.)]
[Footnote 7: The love of mountains to the last made Byron
"Hail in each crag a friend's familiar face,
And Loch na Garr with Ida looked o'er Troy."
'The Island' (1823), Canto II. stanza xii.]
TO ROMANCE.
1.
Parent of golden dreams, Romance!
Auspicious Queen of childish joys,
Who lead'st along, in airy dance,
Thy votive train of girls and boys;
At length, in spells no longer bound,
I break the fetters of my youth;
No more I tread thy mystic round,
But leave thy realms for those of Truth.
2.
And yet 'tis hard to quit the dreams
Which haunt the unsuspicious soul,
Where every nymph a goddess seems, [i]
Whose eyes through rays immortal roll;
While Fancy holds her boundless reign,
And all assume a varied hue;
When Virgins seem no longer vain,
And even Woman's smiles are true.
3.
And must we own thee, but a name,
And from thy hall of clouds descend?
Nor find a Sylph in every dame,
A Pylades [1] in every friend?
But leave, at once, thy realms of air [ii]
To mingling bands of fairy elves;
Confess that woman's false as fair,
And friends have feeling for--themselves?
4.
With shame, I own, I've felt thy sway;
Repentant, now thy reign is o'er;
No more thy precepts I obey,
No more on fancied pinions soar;
Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye,
And think that eye to truth was dear;
To trust a passing wanton's sigh,
And melt beneath a wanton's tear!
5.
Romance! disgusted with deceit,
Far from thy motley court I fly,
Where Affectation holds her seat,
And sickly Sensibility;
Whose silly tears can never flow
For any pangs excepting thine;
Who turns aside from real woe,
To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine.
6.
Now join with sable Sympathy,
With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds,
Who heaves with thee her simple sigh,
Whose breast for every bosom bleeds;
And call thy sylvan female choir,
To mourn a Swain for ever gone,
Who once could glow with equal fire,
But bends not now before thy throne.
7.
Ye genial Nymphs, whose ready tears [iii]
On all occasions swiftly flow;
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears,
With fancied flames and phrenzy glow
Say, will you mourn my absent name,
Apostate from your gentle train?
An infant Bard, at least, may claim
From you a sympathetic strain.
8.
Adieu, fond race! a long adieu!
The hour of fate is hovering nigh;
E'en now the gulf appears in view,
Where unlamented you must lie: [iv]
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen,
Convuls'd by gales you cannot weather,
Where you, and eke your gentle queen,
Alas! must perish altogether.
[Footnote 1: It is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades was the
companion of Orestes, and a partner in one of those friendships which,
with those of Achilles and Patroclus, Nisus and Euryalus, Damon and
Pythias, have been handed down to posterity as remarkable instances of
attachments, which in all probability never existed beyond the
imagination of the poet, or the page of an historian, or modern
novelist.]
[Footnote i:
'Where every girl--.'
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote ii:
'But quit at once thy realms of air
Thy mingling--.'
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iii:
'Auspicious bards--.'
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iv:
'Where you are doomed in death to lie.'
['MS. Newstead'.]]
THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. [1]
AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S "OSSIAN". [2]
Dear are the days of youth! Age dwells on their remembrance through the
mist of time. In the twilight he recalls the sunny hours of morn. He
lifts his spear with trembling hand. "Not thus feebly did I raise the
steel before my fathers!" Past is the race of heroes! But their fame
rises on the harp; their souls ride on the wings of the wind; they hear
the sound through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall of
clouds. Such is Calmar. The grey stone marks his narrow house. He looks
down from eddying tempests: he rolls his form in the whirlwind, and
hovers on the blast of the mountain.
In Morven dwelt the Chief; a beam of war to Fingal. His steps in the
field were marked in blood. Lochlin's sons had fled before his angry
spear; [i] but mild was the eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his
yellow locks: they streamed like the meteor of the night. No maid was
the sigh of his soul: his thoughts were given to friendship,--to
dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes! Equal were their swords in
battle; but fierce was the pride of Orla:--gentle alone to Calmar.
Together they dwelt in the cave of Oithona.
From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves. Erin's sons fell
beneath his might. Fingal roused his chiefs to combat. [ii] Their ships
cover the ocean! Their hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the
aid of Erin.
Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies. But the blazing oaks
gleam through the valley. [iii] The sons of Lochlin slept: their dreams
were of blood. They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not so
the Host of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. Calmar stood by his
side. Their spears were in their hands. Fingal called his chiefs: they
stood around. The king was in the midst. Grey were his locks, but strong
was the arm of the king. Age withered not his powers. "Sons of Morven,"
said the hero, "to-morrow we meet the foe. But where is Cuthullin, the
shield of Erin? He rests in the halls of Tura; he knows not of our
coming. Who will speed through Lochlin, to the hero, and call the chief
to arms? The path is by the swords of foes; but many are my heroes. They
are thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs! Who will arise?"
"Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed," said dark-haired Orla, "and mine
alone. What is death to me? I love the sleep of the mighty, but little
is the danger. The sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borne
Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards; and lay me by the stream
of Lubar."--"And shalt thou fall alone?" said fair-haired Calmar. "Wilt
thou leave thy friend afar? Chief of Oithona! not feeble is my arm in
fight. Could I see thee die, and not lift the spear? No, Orla! ours has
been the chase of the roebuck, and the feast of shells; ours be the path
of danger: ours has been the cave of Oithona; ours be the narrow
dwelling on the banks of Lubar."--"Calmar," said the chief of Oithona,
"why should thy yellow locks be darkened in the dust of Erin? Let me
fall alone. My father dwells in his hall of air: he will rejoice in his
boy; but the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast for her Son in Morven. She
listens to the steps of the hunter on the heath, and thinks it is the
tread of Calmar. Let her not say, 'Calmar has fallen by the steel of
Lochlin: he died with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark brow.' Why
should tears dim the azure eye of Mora? Why should her voice curse Orla,
the destroyer of Calmar? Live Calmar! Live to raise my stone of moss;
live to revenge me in the blood of Lochlin. Join the song of bards above
my grave. Sweet will be the song of Death to Orla, from the voice of
Calmar. My ghost shall smile on the notes of Praise." "Orla," said the
son of Mora, "could I raise the song of Death to my friend? Could I give
his fame to the winds? No, my heart would speak in sighs: faint and
broken are the sounds of sorrow. Orla! our souls shall hear the song
together. One cloud shall be ours on high: the bards will mingle the
names of Orla and Calmar."
They quit the circle of the Chiefs. Their steps are to the Host of
Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak dim-twinkles through the night. The
northern star points the path to Tura. Swaran, the King, rests on his
lonely hill. Here the troops are mixed: they frown in sleep; their
shields beneath their heads. Their swords gleam, at distance in heaps.
The fires are faint; their embers fail in smoke. All is hushed; but the
gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the Heroes through the
slumbering band. Half the journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his
shield, meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glistens through
the shade. His spear is raised on high. "Why dost thou bend thy brow,
chief of Oithona?" said fair-haired Calmar: "we are in the midst of
foes. Is this a time for delay?" "It is a time for vengeance," said Orla
of the gloomy brow. "Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: seest thou his spear? Its
point is dim with the gore of my father. The blood of Mathon shall reek
on mine: but shall I slay him sleeping, Son of Mora? No! he shall feel
his wound: my fame shall not soar on the blood of slumber. Rise, Mathon,
rise! The Son of Conna calls; thy life is his; rise to combat." Mathon
starts from sleep: but did he rise alone? No: the gathering Chiefs bound
on the plain. "Fly! Calmar, fly!" said dark-haired Orla. "Mathon is
mine. I shall die in joy: but Lochlin crowds around. Fly through the
shade of night." Orla turns. The helm of Mathon is cleft; his shield
falls from his arm: he shudders in his blood. [i] He rolls by the side
of the blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall: his wrath rises: his weapon
glitters on the head of Orla: but a spear pierced his eye. His brain
gushes through the wound, and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll the
waves of the Ocean on two mighty barks of the North, so pour the men of
Lochlin on the Chiefs. As, breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer the
barks of the North, so rise the Chiefs of Morven on the scattered crests
of Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes his
shield; his sons throng around; the people pour along the heath. Ryno
bounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the spear. The
eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is the clang of death!
many are the Widows of Lochlin. Morven prevails in its strength.
Morn glimmers on the hills: no living foe is seen; but the sleepers are
many; grim they lie on Erin. The breeze of Ocean lifts their locks; yet
they do not awake. The hawks scream above their prey.
Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? Bright as the gold
of the stranger, they mingle with the dark hair of his friend. 'Tis
Calmar: he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood.
Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not; but his eye is
still a flame. It glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasped in
Calmar's; but Calmar lives! he lives, though low. "Rise," said the king,
"rise, son of Mora: 'tis mine to heal the wounds of Heroes. Calmar may
yet bound on the hills of Morven." [v]
"Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven with Orla," said the
Hero. "What were the chase to me alone? Who would share the spoils of
battle with Calmar? Orla is at rest! Rough was thy soul, Orla! yet soft
to me as the dew of morn. It glared on others in lightning: to me a
silver beam of night. Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora; let it hang in my
empty hall. It is not pure from blood: but it could not save Orla. Lay
me with my friend: raise the song when I am dark!"
They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four grey stones mark the dwelling
of Orla and Calmar. When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue
waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven:--the bards raised the song.
"What Form rises on the roar of clouds? Whose dark Ghost gleams on the
red streams of tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder. 'Tis Orla, the
brown Chief of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. Peace to thy soul,
Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Calmar! Lovely wast thou, son
of blue-eyed Mora; but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave.
The Ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar!
It dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes of
Morven. Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the arch
of the rainbow, and smile through the tears of the storm. [3]
[Footnote 1: The MS. is preserved at Newstead.]
[Footnote 2: It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though
considerably varied in the catastrophe, is taken from "Nisus and
Euryalus," of which episode a translation is already given in the
present volume [see pp. 151-168].]
[Footnote 3: I fear Laing's late edition has completely overthrown every
hope that Macpherson's 'Ossian' might prove the translation of a series
of poems complete in themselves; but, while the imposture is discovered,
the merit of the work remains undisputed, though not without
faults--particularly, in some parts, turgid and bombastic diction.--The
present humble imitation will be pardoned by the admirers of the
original as an attempt, however inferior, which evinces an attachment to
their favourite author. [Malcolm Laing (1762-1818) published, in 1802, a
'History of Scotland, etc.', with a dissertation "on the supposed
authenticity of Ossian's Poems," and, in 1805, a work entitled 'The
Poems of Ossian, etc., containing the Poetical Works of James
Macpherson, Esq., in Prose and Rhyme, with Notes and Illustrations'.]
[Footnote i:
'Erin's sons--'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote ii:
'The horn of Fingal--'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iii:
'--the fires gleam--'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iv:
'He trembles in his blood. He rolls convulsive.'
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote v:
'--the mountain of Morven.'
['MS. Newstead'.]]
TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ. [i] [1]
"Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico."--HORACE.
Dear LONG, in this sequester'd scene, [ii]
While all around in slumber lie,
The joyous days, which ours have been
Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye;
Thus, if, amidst the gathering storm,
While clouds the darken'd noon deform,
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow,
I hail the sky's celestial bow,
Which spreads the sign of future peace,
And bids the war of tempests cease.
Ah! though the present brings but pain,
I think those days may come again;
Or if, in melancholy mood,
Some lurking envious fear intrude, [iii]
To check my bosom's fondest thought,
And interrupt the golden dream,
I crush the fiend with malice fraught,
And, still, indulge my wonted theme.
Although we ne'er again can trace,
In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore,
Nor through the groves of Ida chase
Our raptured visions, as before;
Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion,
And Manhood claims his stern dominion,
Age will not every hope destroy,
But yield some hours of sober joy.
Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing
Will shed around some dews of spring:
But, if his scythe must sweep the flowers
Which bloom among the fairy bowers,
Where smiling Youth delights to dwell,
And hearts with early rapture swell;
If frowning Age, with cold controul,
Confines the current of the soul,
Congeals the tear of Pity's eye,
Or checks the sympathetic sigh,
Or hears, unmov'd, Misfortune's groan
And bids me feel for self alone;
Oh! may my bosom never learn
To soothe its wonted heedless flow; [iv]
Still, still, despise the censor stern,
But ne'er forget another's woe.
Yes, as you knew me in the days,
O'er which Remembrance yet delays, [v]
Still may I rove untutor'd, wild,
And even in age, at heart a child. [vi]
Though, now, on airy visions borne,
To you my soul is still the same.
Oft has it been my fate to mourn, [vii]
And all my former joys are tame:
But, hence! ye hours of sable hue!
Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er:
By every bliss my childhood knew,
I'll think upon your shade no more.
Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past,
And caves their sullen roar enclose [viii]
We heed no more the wintry blast,
When lull'd by zephyr to repose.
Full often has my infant Muse,
Attun'd to love her languid lyre;
But, now, without a theme to choose,
The strains in stolen sighs expire.
My youthful nymphs, alas! are flown; [ix]
E----is a wife, and C----a mother,
And Carolina sighs alone,
And Mary's given to another;
And Cora's eye, which roll'd on me,
Can now no more my love recall--
In truth, dear LONG, 'twas time to flee--[x]
For Cora's eye will shine on all.
And though the Sun, with genial rays,
His beams alike to all displays,
And every lady's eye's a _sun_,
These last should be confin'd to one.
The soul's meridian don't become her, [xi]
Whose Sun displays a general _summer_!
Thus faint is every former flame,
And Passion's self is now a name; [xii] [xiii]
As, when the ebbing flames are low,
The aid which once improv'd their light,
And bade them burn with fiercer glow,
Now quenches all their sparks in night;
Thus has it been with Passion's fires,
As many a boy and girl remembers,
While all the force of love expires,
Extinguish'd with the dying embers.
But now, dear LONG, 'tis midnight's noon,
And clouds obscure the watery moon,
Whose beauties I shall not rehearse,
Describ'd in every stripling's verse;
For why should I the path go o'er
Which every bard has trod before? [xiv]
Yet ere yon silver lamp of night
Has thrice perform'd her stated round,
Has thrice retrac'd her path of light,
And chas'd away the gloom profound,
I trust, that we, my gentle Friend,
Shall see her rolling orbit wend,
Above the dear-lov'd peaceful seat,
Which once contain'd our youth's retreat;
And, then, with those our childhood knew,
We'll mingle in the festive crew;
While many a tale of former day
Shall wing the laughing hours away;
And all the flow of souls shall pour
The sacred intellectual shower,
Nor cease, till Luna's waning horn,
Scarce glimmers through the mist of Morn.
[Footnote 1: The MS. of these verses is at Newstead. Long was with Byron
at Harrow, and was the only one of his intimate friends who went up at
the same time as he did to Cambridge, where both were noted for feats of
swimming and diving. Long entered the Guards, and served in the
expedition to Copenhagen. He was drowned early in 1809, when on his way
to join the army in the Peninsula; the transport in which he sailed
being run down in the night by another of the convoy. "Long's father,"
says Byron, "wrote to me to write his son's epitaph. I promised--but I
had not the heart to complete it. He was such a good, amiable being as
rarely remains long in this world; with talent and accomplishments, too,
to make him the more regretted."--'Diary', 1821; 'Life', p. 32. See also
memorandum ('Life', p. 31, col. ii.).]
[Footnote i:
'To E. N. L. Esq.'
['Hours of Idleness. Poems O. and T.'] ]
[Footnote ii:
'Dear L----.'
['Hours of Idleness. Poems O. and T.'] ]
[Footnote iii:
'Some daring envious.'
['MS. Newstead.'] ]
[Footnote iv:
'its young romantic flow.'
['MS. Newstead.'] ]
[Footnote v:
'O'er which my fancy'--.
['MS. Newstead.'] ]
[Footnote vi:
'Still may my breast to boyhood cleave,
With every early passion heave;
Still may I rove untutored, wild,
But never cease to seem a child.'--
['MS. Newstead.'] ]
[Footnote vii:
'Since we have met, I learnt to mourn.'
['MS. Newstead.'] ]
[Footnote viii:
'And caves their sullen war'--.
['MS. Newstead.'] ]
[Footnote ix:
'--thank Heaven are flown'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote x:
'In truth dear L----'.
['Hours of Idleness. Poems O. and T.] ]
[Footnote xi:
'The glances really don't become her'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xii:
'No more I linger on its name'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xiii:
'And passion's self is but a name'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote xiv:
'And what's much worse than this I find
Have left their deepen'd tracks behind
Yet as yon'------.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
TO A LADY. [i]
1.
Oh! had my Fate been join'd with thine, [1]
As once this pledge appear'd a token,
These follies had not, then, been mine,
For, then, my peace had not been broken.
2.
To thee, these early faults I owe,
To thee, the wise and old reproving:
They know my sins, but do not know
'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving.
3.
For once my soul, like thine, was pure,
And all its rising fires could smother;
But, now, thy vows no more endure,
Bestow'd by thee upon another. [1]
4.
Perhaps, his peace I could destroy,
And spoil the blisses that await him;
Yet let my Rival smile in joy,
For thy dear sake, I cannot hate him.
5.
Ah! since thy angel form is gone,
My heart no more can rest with any;
But what it sought in thee alone,
Attempts, alas! to find in many.
6.
Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid!
'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee;
Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid,
But Pride may teach me to forget thee.
7.
Yet all this giddy waste of years,
This tiresome round of palling pleasures;
These varied loves, these matrons' fears,
These thoughtless strains to Passion's measures--
8.
If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd:--
This cheek, now pale from early riot,
With Passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd,
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet.
9.
Yes, once the rural Scene was sweet,
For Nature seem'd to smile before thee;
And once my Breast abhorr'd deceit,--
For then it beat but to adore thee.
10.
But, now, I seek for other joys--
To think, would drive my soul to madness;
In thoughtless throngs, and empty noise,
I conquer half my Bosom's sadness.
11.
Yet, even in these, a thought will steal,
In spite of every vain endeavour;
And fiends might pity what I feel--
To know that thou art lost for ever.
[Footnote 1: These verses were addressed to Mrs. Chaworth Musters.
Byron wrote in 1822,
"Our meetings were stolen ones. ... A gate leading from Mr. Chaworth's
grounds to those of my mother was the place of our interviews. The
ardour was all on my side. I was serious; she was volatile: she liked
me as a younger brother, and treated and laughed at me as a boy; she,
however, gave me her picture, and that was something to make verses
upon. Had I married her, perhaps, the whole tenour of my life would
have been different."
Medwin's 'Conversations', 1824, p. 81.]
[Footnote i:
_To------._
['Hours of Idleness. Poems O. and T.']]
* * * * * * * * *
POEMS ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED
WHEN I ROVED A YOUNG HIGHLANDER. [i]
1.
When I rov'd a young Highlander o'er the dark heath,
And climb'd thy steep summit, oh Morven of snow! [1]
To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath,
Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below; [2]
Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear,
And rude as the rocks, where my infancy grew,
No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear;
Need I say, my sweet Mary, [3] 'twas centred in you?
2.
Yet it could not be Love, for I knew not the name,--
What passion can dwell in the heart of a child?
But, still, I perceive an emotion the same
As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild:
One image, alone, on my bosom impress'd,
I lov'd my bleak regions, nor panted for new;
And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd,
And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you.
3.
I arose with the dawn, with my dog as my guide,
From mountain to mountain I bounded along;
I breasted [4] the billows of Dee's [5] rushing tide,
And heard at a distance the Highlander's song:
At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose.
No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view;
And warm to the skies my devotions arose,
For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you.
4.
I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone;
The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no more;
As the last of my race, I must wither alone,
And delight but in days, I have witness'd before:
Ah! splendour has rais'd, but embitter'd my lot;
More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew:
Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not
forgot,
Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you.
5.
When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky,
I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen; [6]
When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye,
I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene;
When, haply, some light-waving locks I behold,
That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue,
I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold,
The locks that were sacred to beauty, and you.
6.
Yet the day may arrive, when the mountains once more
Shall rise to my sight, in their mantles of snow;
But while these soar above me, unchang'd as before,
Will Mary be there to receive me?--ah, no!
Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred!
Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu!
No home in the forest shall shelter my head,--
Ah! Mary, what home could be mine, but with you?
[Footnote 1: Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire. "Gormal of snow"
is an expression frequently to be found in Ossian.]
[Footnote 2: This will not appear extraordinary to those who have been
accustomed to the mountains. It is by no means uncommon, on attaining
the top of Ben-e-vis, Ben-y-bourd, etc., to perceive, between the summit
and the valley, clouds pouring down rain, and occasionally accompanied
by lightning, while the spectator literally looks down upon the storm,
perfectly secure from its effects.]
[Footnote 3: Byron, in early youth, was "unco' wastefu'" of Marys.
There was his distant cousin, Mary Duff (afterwards Mrs. Robert
Cockburn), who lived not far from the "Plain-Stanes" at Aberdeen. Her
"brown, dark hair, and hazel eyes--her very dress," were long years
after "a perfect image" in his memory (_Life_, p. 9). Secondly, there
was the Mary of these stanzas, "with long-flowing ringlets of gold," the
"Highland Mary" of local tradition. She was (writes the Rev. J. Michie,
of The Manse, Dinnet) the daughter of James Robertson, of the farmhouse
of Ballatrich on Deeside, where Byron used to spend his summer holidays
(1796-98). She was of gentle birth, and through her mother, the daughter
of Captain Macdonald of Rineton, traced her descent to the Lord of the
Isles. "She died at Aberdeen, March 2, 1867, aged eighty-five years." A
third Mary (see "Lines to Mary," etc., p. 32) flits through the early
poems, evanescent but unspiritual. Last of all, there was Mary Anne
Chaworth, of Annesley (see "A Fragment," etc., p. 210; "The Adieu," st.
6, p. 239, etc.), whose marriage, in 1805, "threw him out again--alone
on a wide, wide sea" (Life, p. 85).]
[Footnote 4: "Breasting the lofty surge" (Shakespeare).]
[Footnote 5: The Dee is a beautiful river, which rises near Mar Lodge,
and falls into the sea at New Aberdeen.]
[Footnote 6: Colbleen is a mountain near the verge of the Highlands, not
far from the ruins of Dee Castle.]
[Footnote i:
_Song_.
[_Poems O. and T._]]
TO THE DUKE OF DORSET. [i] [1]
Dorset! whose early steps with mine have stray'd, [ii]
Exploring every path of Ida's glade;
Whom, still, affection taught me to defend,
And made me less a tyrant than a friend,
Though the harsh custom of our youthful band
Bade _thee_ obey, and gave _me_ to command; [2]
Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower
The gift of riches, and the pride of power;
E'en now a name illustrious is thine own,
Renown'd in rank, not far beneath the throne. 10
Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul [iii]
To shun fair science, or evade controul;
Though passive tutors, [3] fearful to dispraise
The titled child, whose future breath may raise,
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes,
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise.
When youthful parasites, who bend the knee
To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee,--
And even in simple boyhood's opening dawn
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn,-- 20
When these declare, "that pomp alone should wait
On one by birth predestin'd to be great;
That books were only meant for drudging fools,
That gallant spirits scorn the common rules;"
Believe them not,--they point the path to shame,
And seek to blast the honours of thy name:
Turn to the few in Ida's early throng,
Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong;
Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth,
None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth, 30
Ask thine own heart--'twill bid thee, boy, forbear!
For _well_ I know that virtue lingers there.
Yes! I have mark'd thee many a passing day,
But now new scenes invite me far away;
Yes! I have mark'd within that generous mind
A soul, if well matur'd, to bless mankind;
Ah! though myself, by nature haughty, wild,
Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child;
Though every error stamps me for her own,
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone; 40
Though my proud heart no precept, now, can tame,
I love the virtues which I cannot claim.
'Tis not enough, with other sons of power,
To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour;
To swell some peerage page in feeble pride,
With long-drawn names that grace no page beside;
Then share with titled crowds the common lot--
In life just gaz'd at, in the grave forgot;
While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead,
Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head, 50
The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the Herald's roll,
That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll,
Where Lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb may find
One spot, to leave a worthless name behind.
There sleep, unnotic'd as the gloomy vaults
That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults,
A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread,
In records destin'd never to be read.
Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes,
Exalted more among the good and wise; 60
A glorious and a long career pursue,
As first in Rank, the first in Talent too:
Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun;
Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son.
Turn to the annals of a former day;
Bright are the deeds thine earlier Sires display;
One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth,
And call'd, proud boast! the British drama forth. [4]
Another view! not less renown'd for Wit;
Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit; 70
Bold in the field, and favour'd by the Nine;
In every splendid part ordain'd to shine;
Far, far distinguished from the glittering throng,
The pride of Princes, and the boast of Song. [5]
Such were thy Fathers; thus preserve their name,
Not heir to titles only, but to Fame.
The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close,
To me, this little scene of joys and woes;
Each knell of Time now warns me to resign
Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all were mine: 80
Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue,
And gild their pinions, as the moments flew;
Peace, that reflection never frown'd away,
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day;
Friendship, whose truth let Childhood only tell;
Alas! they love not long, who love so well.
To these adieu! nor let me linger o'er
Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore,
Receding slowly, through the dark-blue deep,
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep. 90
Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part [iv]
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart;
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind.
And, yet, perhaps, in some maturer year,
Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere,
Since the same senate, nay, the same debate,
May one day claim our suffrage for the state,
We hence may meet, and pass each other by
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye. 100
For me, in future, neither friend nor foe,
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe--
With thee no more again I hope to trace
The recollection of our early race;
No more, as once, in social hours rejoice,
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice;
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught
To veil those feelings, which, perchance, it ought,
If these,--but let me cease the lengthen'd strain,--
Oh! if these wishes are not breath'd in vain, 110
The Guardian Seraph who directs thy fate
Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great.
1805.
[Footnote 1: In looking over my papers to _select_ a few additional poems
for this second edition, I found the above lines, which I had totally
forgotten, composed in the summer of 1805, a short time previous to my
departure from H[arrow]. They were addressed to a young schoolfellow of
high rank, who had been my frequent companion in some rambles through
the neighbouring country: however, he never saw the lines, and most
probably never will. As, on a re-perusal, I found them not worse than
some other pieces in the collection, I have now published them, for the
first time, after a slight revision. [The foregoing note was prefixed to
the poem in 'Poems O. and T'. George John Frederick, 4th Duke of Dorset,
born 1793, was killed by a fall from his horse when hunting, in 1815,
while on a visit to his step-father the Earl of Whitworth,
Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland. (See Byron's letter to Moore, Feb. 22,
1815).]]
[Footnote 2: At every public school the junior boys are completely
subservient to the upper forms till they attain a seat in the higher
classes. From this state of probation, very properly, no rank is exempt;
but after a certain period, they command in turn those who succeed.]
[Footnote 3: Allow me to disclaim any personal allusions, even the most
distant. I merely mention generally what is too often the weakness of
preceptors.]
[Footnote 4: "Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, was born in 1527. While
a student of the Inner Temple, he wrote his tragedy of 'Gorboduc', which
was played before Queen Elizabeth at Whitehall, in 1561. This tragedy,
and his contribution of the Induction and legend of the Duke of
Buckingham to the 'Mirrour for Magistraytes', compose the poetical
history of Sackville. The rest of it was political. In 1604, he was
created Earl of Dorset by James I. He died suddenly at the
council-table, in consequence of a dropsy on the brain."--'Specimens of
the British Poets', by Thomas Campbell, London, 1819, ii. 134, 'sq'.]
[Footnote 5: Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset [1637-1706], esteemed the
most accomplished man of his day, was alike distinguished in the
voluptuous court of Charles II. and the gloomy one of William III. He
behaved with great gallantry in the sea-fight with the Dutch in 1665; on
the day previous to which he composed his celebrated song ["'To all you
Ladies now at Land'"]. His character has been drawn in the highest
colours by Dryden, Pope, Prior, and Congreve. 'Vide' Anderson's 'British
Poets', 1793, vi. 107, 108.]
[Footnote i:
'To the Duke of D-----'.
['Poems O. and T.']]
[Footnote ii:
'D-r-t'-----.
['Poems O. and T.']]
[Footnote iii:
Yet D-r-t-----.
['Poems O. and T.']
[Footnote iv:
'D--r--t farewell.'
['Poems O. and T.']]
TO THE EARL OF CLARE. [i]
Tu semper amoris
Sis memor, et cari comitis ne abscedat imago.
VAL. FLAC. 'Argonaut', iv. 36.
1.
Friend of my youth! when young we rov'd,
Like striplings, mutually belov'd,
With Friendship's purest glow;
The bliss, which wing'd those rosy hours,
Was such as Pleasure seldom showers
On mortals here below.
2.
The recollection seems, alone,
Dearer than all the joys I've known,
When distant far from you:
Though pain, 'tis still a pleasing pain,
To trace those days and hours again,
And sigh again, adieu!
3.
My pensive mem'ry lingers o'er,
Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more,
Those scenes regretted ever;
The measure of our youth is full,
Life's evening dream is dark and dull,
And we may meet--ah! never!
4.
As when one parent spring supplies
Two streams, which from one fountain rise,
Together join'd in vain;
How soon, diverging from their source,
Each, murmuring, seeks another course,
Till mingled in the Main!
5.
Our vital streams of weal or woe,
Though near, alas! distinctly flow,
Nor mingle as before:
Now swift or slow, now black or clear,
Till Death's unfathom'd gulph appear,
And both shall quit the shore.
6.
Our souls, my Friend! which once supplied
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside,
Now flow in different channels:
Disdaining humbler rural sports,
'Tis yours to mix in polish'd courts,
And shine in Fashion's annals;
7.
'Tis mine to waste on love my time,
Or vent my reveries in rhyme,
Without the aid of Reason;
For Sense and Reason (critics know it)
Have quitted every amorous Poet,
Nor left a thought to seize on.
8.
Poor LITTLE! sweet, melodious bard!
Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard
That he, who sang before all;
He who the lore of love expanded,
By dire Reviewers should be branded,
As void of wit and moral. [1]
9.
And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine,
Harmonious favourite of the Nine!
Repine not at thy lot.
Thy soothing lays may still be read,
When Persecution's arm is dead,
And critics are forgot.
10.
Still I must yield those worthies merit
Who chasten, with unsparing spirit,
Bad rhymes, and those who write them:
And though myself may be the next
By critic sarcasm to be vext,
I really will not fight them. [2]
11.
Perhaps they would do quite as well
To break the rudely sounding shell
Of such a young beginner:
He who offends at pert nineteen,
Ere thirty may become, I ween,
A very harden'd sinner.
12.
Now, Clare, I must return to you; [ii]
And, sure, apologies are due:
Accept, then, my concession.
In truth, dear Clare, in Fancy's flight [iii]
I soar along from left to right;
My Muse admires digression.
13.
I think I said 'twould be your fate
To add one star to royal state;--
May regal smiles attend you!
And should a noble Monarch reign,
You will not seek his smiles in vain,
If worth can recommend you.
14.
Yet since in danger courts abound,
Where specious rivals glitter round,
From snares may Saints preserve you;
And grant your love or friendship ne'er
From any claim a kindred care,
But those who best deserve you!
15.
Not for a moment may you stray
From Truth's secure, unerring way!
May no delights decoy!
O'er roses may your footsteps move,
Your smiles be ever smiles of love,
Your tears be tears of joy!
16.
Oh! if you wish that happiness
Your coming days and years may bless,
And virtues crown your brow;
Be still as you were wont to be,
Spotless as you've been known to me,--
Be still as you are now. [3]
17.
And though some trifling share of praise,
To cheer my last declining days,
To me were doubly dear;
Whilst blessing your beloved name,
I'd _waive_ at once a _Poet's_ fame,
To _prove_ a _Prophet_ here.
1807.
[Footnote 1: These stanzas were written soon after the appearance of a
severe critique in a northern review, on a new publication of the
British Anacreon. (Byron refers to the article in the 'Edinburgh
Review', of July, 1807, on "'Epistles, Odes, and other Poems', by Thomas
Little, Esq.")]
[Footnote 2: A bard [Moore] ('Horresco referens') defied his reviewer
[Jeffrey] to mortal combat. If this example becomes prevalent, our
Periodical Censors must be dipped in the river Styx: for what else can
secure them from the numerous host of their enraged assailants? [Cf.
'English Bards', l. 466, 'note'.]]
[Footnote 3:
"Of all I have ever known, Clare has always been the least altered in
everything from the excellent qualities and kind affections which
attached me to him so strongly at school. I should hardly have thought
it possible for society (or the world, as it is called) to leave a
being with so little of the leaven of bad passions. I do not speak
from personal experience only, but from all I have ever heard of him
from others, during absence and distance."
'Detached Thoughts', Nov. 5, 1821; 'Life', p. 540.]
[Footnote i:
'To the Earl of-----'.
['Poems O. and T.']]
[Footnote ii:
'Now----I must'.
['Poems O. and T.']]
[Footnote iii:
'In truth dear----in fancy's flight'.
['Poems O. and T.']]
I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD. [i]
1
I would I were a careless child,
Still dwelling in my Highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,
Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave;
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon [1] pride,
Accords not with the freeborn soul,
Which loves the mountain's craggy side,
And seeks the rocks where billows roll.
2.
Fortune! take back these cultur'd lands,
Take back this name of splendid sound!
I hate the touch of servile hands,
I hate the slaves that cringe around:
Place me among the rocks I love,
Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar;
I ask but this--again to rove
Through scenes my youth hath known before.
3.
Few are my years, and yet I feel
The World was ne'er design'd for me:
Ah! why do dark'ning shades conceal
The hour when man must cease to be?
Once I beheld a splendid dream,
A visionary scene of bliss:
Truth!--wherefore did thy hated beam
Awake me to a world like this?
4.
I lov'd--but those I lov'd are gone;
Had friends--my early friends are fled:
How cheerless feels the heart alone,
When all its former hopes are dead!
Though gay companions, o'er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though Pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
The heart--the heart--is lonely still.
5.
How dull! to hear the voice of those
Whom Rank or Chance, whom Wealth or Power,
Have made, though neither friends nor foes,
Associates of the festive hour.
Give me again a faithful few,
In years and feelings still the same,
And I will fly the midnight crew,
Where boist'rous Joy is but a name.
6.
And Woman, lovely Woman! thou,
My hope, my comforter, my all!
How cold must be my bosom now,
When e'en thy smiles begin to pall!
Without a sigh would I resign,
This busy scene of splendid Woe,
To make that calm contentment mine,
Which Virtue knows, or seems to know.
7.
Fain would I fly the haunts of men [2]--
I seek to shun, not hate mankind;
My breast requires the sullen glen,
Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind.
Oh! that to me the wings were given,
Which bear the turtle to her nest!
Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven,
To flee away, and be at rest. [3]
[Footnote 1: Sassenach, or Saxon, a Gaelic word, signifying either
Lowland or English.]
[Footnote 2: Shyness was a family characteristic of the Byrons.
The poet continued in later years to have a horror of being
observed by unaccustomed eyes, and in the country would,
if possible, avoid meeting strangers on the road.]
[Footnote 3:
"And I said, O that I had wings like a dove, for then would I fly
away, and be at rest."
(Psalm iv. 6.) This verse also constitutes a part of the most beautiful
anthem in our language.]
[Footnote i:
'Stanzas'.
['Poems O. and T.']]
LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE
CHURCHYARD OF HARROW. [1] [i]
Spot of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh,
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky;
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod,
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod;
With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore,
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before:
Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill,
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still,
Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay,
And frequent mus'd the twilight hours away;
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline,
But, ah! without the thoughts which then were mine:
How do thy branches, moaning to the blast,
Invite the bosom to recall the past,
And seem to whisper, as they gently swell,
"Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell!"
When Fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd breast,
And calm its cares and passions into rest,
Oft have I thought, 'twould soothe my dying hour,--
If aught may soothe, when Life resigns her power,--
To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell,
Would hide my bosom where it lov'd to dwell;
With this fond dream, methinks 'twere sweet to die--
And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie;
Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose,
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose;
For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade,
Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd;
Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I lov'd,
Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps mov'd;
Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear,
Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here;
Deplor'd by those in early days allied,
And unremember'd by the world beside.
September 2, 1807.
[Footnote 1: On the death of his daughter, Allegra, in April, 1822,
Byron sent her remains to be buried at Harrow, "where," he says, in a
letter to Murray, "I once hoped to have laid my own." "There is," he
wrote, May 26, "a spot in the church'yard', near the footpath, on the
brow of the hill looking towards Windsor, and a tomb under a large tree
(bearing the name of Peachie, or Peachey), where I used to sit for hours
and hours when a boy. This was my favourite spot; but as I wish to erect
a tablet to her memory, the body had better be deposited in the
'church'." No tablet was, however, erected, and Allegra sleeps in her
unmarked grave inside the church, a few feet to the right of the
entrance.]
[Footnote i:
'Lines written beneath an Elm
In the Churchyard of Harrow on the Hill
September 2, 1807'.
['Poems O. and T.']]
FRAGMENT.
WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE MARRIAGE OF MISS CHAWORTH. [1]
First published in
Moore's 'Letters and Journals of Lord Byron', 1830, i. 56
1.
Hills of Annesley, Bleak and Barren,
Where my thoughtless Childhood stray'd,
How the northern Tempests, warring,
Howl above thy tufted Shade!
2.
Now no more, the Hours beguiling,
Former favourite Haunts I see;
Now no more my Mary smiling,
Makes ye seem a Heaven to Me.
1805.
[Footnote 1: Miss Chaworth was married to John Musters, Esq., in August,
1805. The stanzas were first published in Moore's _Letters and Journals
of Lord Byron_, 1830, i. 56. (See, too, _The Dream_, st. ii. 1. 9.) The
original MS. (which is in the possession of Mrs. Chaworth Musters)
formerly belonged to Miss E. B. Pigot, according to whom they "were
written by Lord Byron in 1804." "We were reading Burns' _Farewell to
Ayrshire_--
Scenes of woe and Scenes of pleasure
Scenes that former thoughts renew
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure
Now a sad and last adieu, etc.
when he said, 'I like that metre; let me try it,' and taking up a
pencil, wrote those on the other side in an instant. I read them to
Moore, and at his particular request I copied them for him."-E. B.
Pigot, 1859.
On the fly-leaf of the same volume (_Poetry of Robert Burns_, vol. iv.
Third Edition, 1802), containing the _Farewell to Ayrshire_, Byron wrote
in pencil the two stanzas "Oh! little lock of golden hue," in 1806
(_vide post_, p. 233).
It may be noted that the verses quoted, though included until recently
among his poems, were not written by Burns, but by Richard Gall, who
died in 1801, aged 25.]
REMEMBRANCE.
'Tis done!--I saw it in my dreams:
No more with Hope the future beams;
My days of happiness are few:
Chill'd by Misfortune's wintry blast,
My dawn of Life is overcast;
Love, Hope, and Joy, alike adieu!
Would I could add Remembrance too!
1806. [First published, 1832.]
TO A LADY
WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITH THE VELVET BAND WHICH BOUND HER TRESSES.
1.
This Band, which bound thy yellow hair
Is mine, sweet girl! thy pledge of love;
It claims my warmest, dearest care,
Like relics left of saints above.
2.
Oh! I will wear it next my heart;
'Twill bind my soul in bonds to thee:
From me again 'twill ne'er depart,
But mingle in the grave with me.
3.
The dew I gather from thy lip
Is not so dear to me as this;
_That_ I but for a moment sip,
And banquet on a transient bliss: [i]
4.
_This_ will recall each youthful scene,
E'en when our lives are on the wane;
The leaves of Love will still be green
When Memory bids them bud again.
1806. [First published, 1832.]
[Footnote i:
_on a transient kiss._
['MS. Newstead'.]
TO A KNOT OF UNGENEROUS CRITICS. [1]
Rail on, Rail on, ye heartless crew!
My strains were never meant for you;
Remorseless Rancour still reveal,
And damn the verse you cannot feel.
Invoke those kindred passions' aid,
Whose baleful stings your breasts pervade;
Crush, if you can, the hopes of youth,
Trampling regardless on the Truth:
Truth's Records you consult in vain,
She will not blast her native strain;
She will assist her votary's cause,
His will at least be her applause,
Your prayer the gentle Power will spurn;
To Fiction's motley altar turn,
Who joyful in the fond address
Her favoured worshippers will bless:
And lo! she holds a magic glass,
Where Images reflected pass,
Bent on your knees the Boon receive--
This will assist you to deceive--
The glittering gift was made for you,
Now hold it up to public view;
Lest evil unforeseen betide,
A Mask each canker'd brow shall hide,
(Whilst Truth my sole desire is nigh,
Prepared the danger to defy,)
"There is the Maid's perverted name,
And there the Poet's guilty Flame,
Gloaming a deep phosphoric fire,
Threatening--but ere it spreads, retire.
Says Truth Up Virgins, do not fear!
The Comet rolls its Influence here;
'Tis Scandal's Mirror you perceive,
These dazzling Meteors but deceive--
Approach and touch--Nay do not turn
It blazes there, but will not burn."--
At once the shivering Mirror flies,
Teeming no more with varnished Lies;
The baffled friends of Fiction start,
Too late desiring to depart--
Truth poising high Ithuriel's spear
Bids every Fiend unmask'd appear,
The vizard tears from every face,
And dooms them to a dire disgrace.
For e'er they compass their escape,
Each takes perforce a native shape--
The Leader of the wrathful Band,
Behold a portly Female stand!
She raves, impelled by private pique,
This mean unjust revenge to seek;
From vice to save this virtuous Age,
Thus does she vent indecent rage!
What child has she of promise fair,
Who claims a fostering Mother's care?
Whose Innocence requires defence,
Or forms at least a smooth pretence,
Thus to disturb a harmless Boy,
His humble hope, and peace annoy?
She need not fear the amorous rhyme,
Love will not tempt her future time,
For her his wings have ceased to spread,
No more he flutters round her head;
Her day's Meridian now is past,
The clouds of Age her Sun o'ercast;
To her the strain was never sent,
For feeling Souls alone 'twas meant--
The verse she seized, unask'd, unbade,
And damn'd, ere yet the whole was read!
Yes! for one single erring verse,
Pronounced an unrelenting Curse;
Yes! at a first and transient view,
Condemned a heart she never knew.--
Can such a verdict then decide,
Which springs from disappointed pride?
Without a wondrous share of Wit,
To judge is such a Matron fit?
The rest of the censorious throng
Who to this zealous Band belong,
To her a general homage pay,
And right or wrong her wish obey:
Why should I point my pen of steel
To break "such flies upon the wheel?"
With minds to Truth and Sense unknown,
Who dare not call their words their own.
Rail on, Rail on, ye heartless Crew!
Your Leader's grand design pursue:
Secure behind her ample shield,
Yours is the harvest of the field.--
My path with thorns you cannot strew,
Nay more, my warmest thanks are due;
When such as you revile my Name,
Bright beams the rising Sun of Fame,
Chasing the shades of envious night,
Outshining every critic Light.--
Such, such as you will serve to show
Each radiant tint with higher glow.
Vain is the feeble cheerless toil,
Your efforts on yourselves recoil;
Then Glory still for me you raise,
Yours is the Censure, mine the Praise.
BYRON,
December 1, 1806.
[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time
printed.
There can be little doubt that these verses were called forth by the
criticisms passed on the "Fugitive Pieces" by certain ladies of
Southwell, concerning whom, Byron wrote to Mr. Pigot (Jan. 13, 1807), on
sending him an early copy of the 'Poems',
"That 'unlucky' poem to my poor Mary has been the cause of some
animadversion from 'ladies in years'. I have not printed it in this
collection in consequence of my being pronounced a most 'profligate
sinner', in short a ''young Moore''"
'Life', p. 41.]
SOLILOQUY OF A BARD IN THE COUNTRY. [1]
'Twas now the noon of night, and all was still,
Except a hapless Rhymer and his quill.
In vain he calls each Muse in order down,
Like other females, these will sometimes frown;
He frets, be fumes, and ceasing to invoke
The Nine, in anguish'd accents thus he spoke:
Ah what avails it thus to waste my time,
To roll in Epic, or to rave in Rhyme?
What worth is some few partial readers' praise.
If ancient Virgins croaking 'censures' raise?
Where few attend, 'tis useless to indite;
Where few can read, 'tis folly sure to write;
Where none but girls and striplings dare admire,
And Critics rise in every country Squire--
But yet this last my candid Muse admits,
When Peers are Poets, Squires may well be Wits;
When schoolboys vent their amorous flames in verse,
Matrons may sure their characters asperse;
And if a little parson joins the train,
And echos back his Patron's voice again--
Though not delighted, yet I must forgive,
Parsons as well as other folks must live:--
From rage he rails not, rather say from dread,
He does not speak for Virtue, but for bread;
And this we know is in his Patron's giving,
For Parsons cannot eat without a 'Living'.
The Matron knows I love the Sex too well,
Even unprovoked aggression to repel.
What though from private pique her anger grew,
And bade her blast a heart she never knew?
What though, she said, for one light heedless line,
That Wilmot's [2] verse was far more pure than mine!
In wars like these, I neither fight nor fly,
When 'dames' accuse 'tis bootless to deny;
Her's be the harvest of the martial field,
I can't attack, where Beauty forms the shield.
But when a pert Physician loudly cries,
Who hunts for scandal, and who lives by lies,
A walking register of daily news,
Train'd to invent, and skilful to abuse--
For arts like these at bounteous tables fed,
When S----condemns a book he never read.
Declaring with a coxcomb's native air,
The 'moral's' shocking, though the 'rhymes' are fair.
Ah! must he rise unpunish'd from the feast,
Nor lash'd by vengeance into truth at least?
Such lenity were more than Man's indeed!
Those who condemn, should surely deign to read.
Yet must I spare--nor thus my pen degrade,
I quite forgot that scandal was his trade.
For food and raiment thus the coxcomb rails,
For those who fear his physic, like his _tales_.
Why should his harmless censure seem offence?
Still let him eat, although at my expense,
And join the herd to Sense and Truth unknown,
Who dare not call their very thoughts their own,
And share with these applause, a godlike bribe,
In short, do anything, except _prescribe_:--
For though in garb of Galen he appears,
His practice is not equal to his years.
Without improvement since he first began,
A young Physician, though an ancient Man--
Now let me cease--Physician, Parson, Dame,
Still urge your task, and if you can, defame.
The humble offerings of my Muse destroy,
And crush, oh! noble conquest! crush a Boy.
What though some silly girls have lov'd the strain,
And kindly bade me tune my Lyre again;
What though some feeling, or some partial few,
Nay, Men of Taste and Reputation too,
Have deign'd to praise the firstlings of my Muse--
If _you_ your sanction to the theme refuse,
If _you_ your great protection still withdraw,
Whose Praise is Glory, and whose Voice is law!
Soon must I fall an unresisting foe,
A hapless victim yielding to the blow.--
Thus Pope by Curl and Dennis was destroyed,
Thus Gray and Mason yield to furious Lloyd; [3]
From Dryden, Milbourne [4] tears the palm away,
And thus I fall, though meaner far than they.
As in the field of combat, side by side,
A Fabius and some noble Roman died.
Dec. 1806.
[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time
printed.]
[Footnote 2: John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (1647-1680). His 'Poems'
were published in the year of his death.]
[Footnote 3: Robert Lloyd (1733-1764). The following lines occur in the
first of two odes to 'Obscurity and Oblivion'--parodies of the odes of
Gray and Mason:--
"Heard ye the din of modern rhymers bray?
It was cool M----n and warm G----y,
Involv'd in tenfold smoke."]
[Footnote 4: The Rev. Luke Milbourne (died 1720) published, in 1698, his
'Notes on Dryden's Virgil', containing a venomous attack on Dryden. They
are alluded to in 'The Dunciad', and also by Dr. Johnson, who wrote
('Life of Dryden'),
"His outrages seem to be the ebullitions of a mind agitated by
stronger resentment than bad poetry can excite."]
L'AMITI? EST L'AMOUR SANS AILES. [1]
1.
Why should my anxious breast repine,
Because my youth is fled?
Days of delight may still be mine;
Affection is not dead.
In tracing back the years of youth,
One firm record, one lasting truth
Celestial consolation brings;
Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat,
Where first my heart responsive beat,--
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"
2
Through few, but deeply chequer'd years,
What moments have been mine!
Now half obscured by clouds of tears,
Now bright in rays divine;
Howe'er my future doom be cast,
My soul, enraptured with the past,
To one idea fondly clings;
Friendship! that thought is all thine own,
Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone--
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"
3
Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave
Their branches on the gale,
Unheeded heaves a simple grave,
Which tells the common tale;
Round this unconscious schoolboys stray,
Till the dull knell of childish play
From yonder studious mansion rings;
But here, whene'er my footsteps move,
My silent tears too plainly prove,
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"
4
Oh, Love! before thy glowing shrine,
My early vows were paid;
My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine,
But these are now decay'd;
For thine are pinions like the wind,
No trace of thee remains behind,
Except, alas! thy jealous stings.
Away, away! delusive power,
Thou shall not haunt my coming hour;
Unless, indeed, without thy wings.
5
Seat of my youth! [2] thy distant spire
Recalls each scene of joy;
My bosom glows with former fire,--
In mind again a boy.
Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill,
Thy every path delights me still,
Each flower a double fragrance flings;
Again, as once, in converse gay,
Each dear associate seems to say,
"Friendship is Love without his wings!'
6.
My Lycus! [3] wherefore dost thou weep?
Thy falling tears restrain;
Affection for a time may sleep,
But, oh, 'twill wake again.
Think, think, my friend, when next we meet,
Our long-wished interview, how sweet!
From this my hope of rapture springs;
While youthful hearts thus fondly swell,
Absence my friend, can only tell,
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"
7.
In one, and one alone deceiv'd,
Did I my error mourn?
No--from oppressive bonds reliev'd,
I left the wretch to scorn.
I turn'd to those my childhood knew,
With feelings warm, with bosoms true,
Twin'd with my heart's according strings;
And till those vital chords shall break,
For none but these my breast shall wake
Friendship, the power deprived of wings!
8
Ye few! my soul, my life is yours,
My memory and my hope;
Your worth a lasting love insures,
Unfetter'd in its scope;
From smooth deceit and terror sprung,
With aspect fair and honey'd tongue,
Let Adulation wait on kings;
With joy elate, by snares beset,
We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget,
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"
9
Fictions and dreams inspire the bard,
Who rolls the epic song;
Friendship and truth be my reward--
To me no bays belong;
If laurell'd Fame but dwells with lies,
Me the enchantress ever flies,
Whose heart and not whose fancy sings;
Simple and young, I dare not feign;
Mine be the rude yet heartfelt strain,
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"
December 29, 1806. [First published, 1832.]
[Footnote 1: The MS. is preserved at Newstead.]
[Footnote 2: Harrow.]
[Footnote 3: Lord Clare had written to Byron,
"I think by your last letter that you are very much piqued with most
of your friends, and, if I am not much mistaken, a little so with me.
In one part you say,
'There is little or no doubt a few years or months will render us as
politely indifferent to each other, as if we had never passed a
portion of our time together.'
Indeed, Byron, you wrong me; and I have no doubt, at least I hope, you
are wrong yourself."
'Life', p. 25.]
THE PRAYER OF NATURE. [1]
1
Father of Light! great God of Heaven!
Hear'st thou the accents of despair?
Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven?
Can vice atone for crimes by prayer?
2
Father of Light, on thee I call!
Thou see'st my soul is dark within;
Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall,
Avert from me the death of sin.
3
No shrine I seek, to sects unknown;
Oh, point to me the path of truth!
Thy dread Omnipotence I own;
Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth.
4
Let bigots rear a gloomy fane,
Let Superstition hail the pile,
Let priests, to spread their sable reign,
With tales of mystic rites beguile.
5
Shall man confine his Maker's sway
To Gothic domes of mouldering stone?
Thy temple is the face of day;
Earth, Ocean, Heaven thy boundless throne.
6
Shall man condemn his race to Hell,
Unless they bend in pompous form?
Tell us that all, for one who fell,
Must perish in the mingling storm?
7
Shall each pretend to reach the skies,
Yet doom his brother to expire,
Whose soul a different hope supplies,
Or doctrines less severe inspire?
8
Shall these, by creeds they can't expound,
Prepare a fancied bliss or woe?
Shall reptiles, groveling on the ground,
Their great Creator's purpose know?
9
Shall those, who live for self alone, [i]
Whose years float on in daily crime--
Shall they, by Faith, for guilt atone,
And live beyond the bounds of Time?
10
Father! no prophet's laws I seek,--
_Thy_ laws in Nature's works appear;--
I own myself corrupt and weak,
Yet will I _pray_, for thou wilt hear!
11
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star,
Through trackless realms of aether's space;
Who calm'st the elemental war,
Whose hand from pole to pole I trace:
12
Thou, who in wisdom plac'd me here,
Who, when thou wilt, canst take me hence,
Ah! whilst I tread this earthly sphere,
Extend to me thy wide defence.
13
To Thee, my God, to thee I call!
Whatever weal or woe betide,
By thy command I rise or fall,
In thy protection I confide.
14.
If, when this dust to dust's restor'd,
My soul shall float on airy wing,
How shall thy glorious Name ador'd
Inspire her feeble voice to sing!
15
But, if this fleeting spirit share
With clay the Grave's eternal bed,
While Life yet throbs I raise my prayer,
Though doom'd no more to quit the dead.
16
To Thee I breathe my humble strain,
Grateful for all thy mercies past,
And hope, my God, to thee again [ii]
This erring life may fly at last.
December 29, 1806.
[Footnote 1: These stanzas were first published in Moore's 'Letters and
Journals of Lord Byron', 1830, i. 106.]
[Footnote i:
Shalt these who live for self alone,
Whose years fleet on in daily crime--
Shall these by Faith for guilt atone,
Exist beyond the bounds of Time?
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote ii:
My hope, my God, in thee again
This erring life will fly at last.
['MS. Newstead']]
TRANSLATION FROM ANACREON. [1]
[Greek: Eis rodon.]
ODE 5
Mingle with the genial bowl
The Rose, the 'flow'ret' of the Soul,
The Rose and Grape together quaff'd,
How doubly sweet will be the draught!
With Roses crown our jovial brows,
While every cheek with Laughter glows;
While Smiles and Songs, with Wine incite,
To wing our moments with Delight.
Rose by far the fairest birth,
Which Spring and Nature cull from Earth--
Rose whose sweetest perfume given,
Breathes our thoughts from Earth to Heaven.
Rose whom the Deities above,
From Jove to Hebe, dearly love,
When Cytherea's blooming Boy,
Flies lightly through the dance of Joy,
With him the Graces then combine,
And rosy wreaths their locks entwine.
Then will I sing divinely crown'd,
With dusky leaves my temples bound--
Ly鎢s! in thy bowers of pleasure,
I'll wake a wildly thrilling measure.
There will my gentle Girl and I,
Along the mazes sportive fly,
Will bend before thy potent throne--
Rose, Wine, and Beauty, all my own.
1805.
[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time
printed,]
OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN IN "CARTHON." [1]
Oh! thou that roll'st above thy glorious Fire,
Round as the shield which grac'd my godlike Sire,
Whence are the beams, O Sun! thy endless blaze,
Which far eclipse each minor Glory's rays?
Forth in thy Beauty here thou deign'st to shine!
Night quits her car, the twinkling stars decline;
Pallid and cold the Moon descends to cave
Her sinking beams beneath the Western wave;
But thou still mov'st alone, of light the Source--
Who can o'ertake thee in thy fiery course?
Oaks of the mountains fall, the rocks decay,
Weighed down with years the hills dissolve away.
A certain space to yonder Moon is given,
She rises, smiles, and then is lost in Heaven.
Ocean in sullen murmurs ebbs and flows,
But thy bright beam unchanged for ever glows!
When Earth is darkened with tempestuous skies,
When Thunder shakes the sphere and Lightning flies,
Thy face, O Sun, no rolling blasts deform,
Thou look'st from clouds and laughest at the Storm.
To Ossian, Orb of Light! thou look'st in vain,
Nor cans't thou glad his ag鑔 eyes again,
Whether thy locks in Orient Beauty stream,
Or glimmer through the West with fainter gleam--
But thou, perhaps, like me with age must bend;
Thy season o'er, thy days will find their end,
No more yon azure vault with rays adorn,
Lull'd in the clouds, nor hear the voice of Morn.
Exult, O Sun, in all thy youthful strength!
Age, dark unlovely Age, appears at length,
As gleams the moonbeam through the broken cloud
While mountain vapours spread their misty shroud--
The Northern tempest howls along at last,
And wayworn strangers shrink amid the blast.
Thou rolling Sun who gild'st those rising towers,
Fair didst thou shine upon my earlier hours!
I hail'd with smiles the cheering rays of Morn,
My breast by no tumultuous Passion torn--
Now hateful are thy beams which wake no more
The sense of joy which thrill'd my breast before;
Welcome thou cloudy veil of nightly skies,
To thy bright canopy the mourner flies:
Once bright, thy Silence lull'd my frame to rest,
And Sleep my soul with gentle visions blest;
Now wakeful Grief disdains her mild controul,
Dark is the night, but darker is my Soul.
Ye warring Winds of Heav'n your fury urge,
To me congenial sounds your wintry Dirge:
Swift as your wings my happier days have past,
Keen as your storms is Sorrow's chilling blast;
To Tempests thus expos'd my Fate has been,
Piercing like yours, like yours, alas! unseen.
1805.
[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time
printed. (See 'Ossian's Poems', London, 1819, pp. xvii. 119.)]
PIGNUS AMORIS. [1]
1
As by the fix'd decrees of Heaven,
'Tis vain to hope that Joy can last;
The dearest boon that Life has given,
To me is--visions of the past.
2.
For these this toy of blushing hue
I prize with zeal before unknown,
It tells me of a Friend I knew,
Who loved me for myself alone.
3.
It tells me what how few can say
Though all the social tie commend;
Recorded in my heart 'twill lay, [2]
It tells me mine was once a Friend.
4.
Through many a weary day gone by,
With time the gift is dearer grown;
And still I view in Memory's eye
That teardrop sparkle through my own.
5.
And heartless Age perhaps will smile,
Or wonder whence those feelings sprung;
Yet let not sterner souls revile,
For Both were open, Both were young.
6.
And Youth is sure the only time,
When Pleasure blends no base alloy;
When Life is blest without a crime,
And Innocence resides with Joy.
7
Let those reprove my feeble Soul,
Who laugh to scorn Affection's name;
While these impose a harsh controul,
All will forgive who feel the same.
8
Then still I wear my simple toy,
With pious care from wreck I'll save it;
And this will form a dear employ
For dear I was to him who gave it.
? 1806.
[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time
printed.]
[Footnote 2: For the irregular use of "lay" for "lie," compare "The
Adieu" (st. 10, 1. 4, p. 241), and the much-disputed line, "And dashest
him to earth--there let him lay" ('Childe Harold', canto iv. st. 180).]
A WOMAN'S HAIR. [1]
Oh! little lock of golden hue
In gently waving ringlet curl'd,
By the dear head on which you grew,
I would not lose you for _a world_.
Not though a thousand more adorn
The polished brow where once you shone,
Like rays which guild a cloudless sky [i]
Beneath Columbia's fervid zone.
1806.
[Footnote 1: These lines are preserved in MS. at Newstead, with the
following memorandum in Miss Pigot's handwriting: "Copied from the
fly-leaf in a vol. of my Burns' books, which is written in pencil by
himself." They have hitherto been printed as stanzas 5 and 6 of the
lines "To a Lady," etc., p. 212.]
[Footnote i:
_a cloudless morn_.
['Ed'. 1832.]
STANZAS TO JESSY. [1]
1
There is a mystic thread of life
So dearly wreath'd with mine alone,
That Destiny's relentless knife
At once must sever both, or none.
2
There is a Form on which these eyes
Have fondly gazed with such delight--
By day, that Form their joy supplies,
And Dreams restore it, through the night.
3
There is a Voice whose tones inspire
Such softened feelings in my breast, [i]--
I would not hear a Seraph Choir,
Unless that voice could join the rest.
4
There is a Face whose Blushes tell
Affection's tale upon the cheek,
But pallid at our fond farewell,
Proclaims more love than words can speak.
5
There is a Lip, which mine has prest,
But none had ever prest before;
It vowed to make me sweetly blest,
That mine alone should press it more. [ii]
6
There is a Bosom all my own,
Has pillow'd oft this aching head,
A Mouth which smiles on me alone,
An Eye, whose tears with mine are shed.
7
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.
8
There are two Souls, whose equal flow
In gentle stream so calmly run,
That when they part--they part?--ah no!
They cannot part--those Souls are One.
[GEORGE GORDON, LORD] BYRON.
[Footnote 1: "Stanzas to Jessy" have often been printed, but were never
acknowledged by Byron, or included in any authorized edition of his
works. They are, however, unquestionably genuine. They appeared first in
'Monthly Literary Recreations' (July, 1807), a magazine published by B.
Crosby & Co., Stationers' Court. Crosby was London agent for Ridge, the
Newark bookseller, and, with Longman and others, "sold" the recently
issued 'Hours of Idleness'. The same number of 'Monthly Literary
Recreations' (for July, 1807) contains Byron's review of Wordsworth's
'Poems' (2 vols., 1807), and a highly laudatory notice of 'Hours of
Idleness'. The lines are headed "Stanzas to Jessy," and are signed
"George Gordon, Lord Byron." They were republished in 1824, by Knight
and Lacy, in vol. v. of the three supplementary volumes of the 'Works',
and again in the same year by John Bumpus and A. Griffin, in their
'Miscellaneous Poems', etc. A note which is prefixed to these issues,
"The following stanzas were addressed by Lord Byron to his Lady, a few
months before their separation," and three variants in the text, make it
unlikely that the pirating editors were acquainted with the text of the
magazine. The MS. ('British Museum', Eg. MSS. No. 2332) is signed
"George Gordon, Lord Byron," but the words "George Gordon, Lord" are in
another hand, and were probably added by Crosby. The following letter
(together with a wrapper addressed, "Mr. Crosby, Stationers' Court," and
sealed in red wax with Byron's arms and coronet) is attached to the
poem:--
July 21, 1807.
SIR,
I have sent according to my promise some Stanzas
for Literary Recreations. The _insert_ion I leave to the option
of the Editors. They have never appeared before. I should
wish to know whether they are admitted or not, and when
the work will appear, as I am desirous of a copy.
Etc., etc., BYRON.
P.S.--Send your answer when convenient."]
[Footnote i:
'Such thrills of Rapture'.
[Knight and Lacy, 1824, v. 56.]
[Footnote ii:
'And mine, mine only'.
[Knight and Lacy, v. 56.]]
THE ADIEU.
WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THE AUTHOR WOULD SOON DIE.
1.
Adieu, thou Hill! [1] where early joy
Spread roses o'er my brow;
Where Science seeks each loitering boy
With knowledge to endow.
Adieu, my youthful friends or foes,
Partners of former bliss or woes;
No more through Ida's paths we stray;
Soon must I share the gloomy cell,
Whose ever-slumbering inmates dwell
Unconscious of the day.
2.
Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes, [i]
Ye spires of Granta's vale,
Where Learning robed in sable reigns.
And Melancholy pale.
Ye comrades of the jovial hour,
Ye tenants of the classic bower,
On Cama's verdant margin plac'd,
Adieu! while memory still is mine,
For offerings on Oblivion's shrine,
These scenes must be effac'd.
3
Adieu, ye mountains of the clime
Where grew my youthful years;
Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime
His giant summit rears.
Why did my childhood wander forth
From you, ye regions of the North,
With sons of Pride to roam?
Why did I quit my Highland cave,
Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear wave,
To seek a Sotheron home?
4
Hall of my Sires! a long farewell--
Yet why to thee adieu?
Thy vaults will echo back my knell,
Thy towers my tomb will view:
The faltering tongue which sung thy fall,
And former glories of thy Hall,
Forgets its wonted simple note--
But yet the Lyre retains the strings,
And sometimes, on 苚lian wings,
In dying strains may float.
5.
Fields, which surround yon rustic cot, [2]
While yet I linger here,
Adieu! you are not now forgot,
To retrospection dear.
Streamlet! [3] along whose rippling surge
My youthful limbs were wont to urge,
At noontide heat, their pliant course;
Plunging with ardour from the shore,
Thy springs will lave these limbs no more,
Deprived of active force.
6.
And shall I here forget the scene,
Still nearest to my breast?
Rocks rise and rivers roll between
The spot which passion blest;
Yet Mary, [4] all thy beauties seem
Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream,
To me in smiles display'd;
Till slow disease resigns his prey
To Death, the parent of decay,
Thine image cannot fade.
7.
And thou, my Friend! whose gentle love
Yet thrills my bosom's chords,
How much thy friendship was above
Description's power of words!
Still near my breast thy gift [5] I wear [ii]
Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear,
Of Love the pure, the sacred gem:
Our souls were equal, and our lot
In that dear moment quite forgot;
Let Pride alone condemn!
8.
All, all is dark and cheerless now!
No smile of Love's deceit
Can warm my veins with wonted glow,
Can bid Life's pulses beat:
Not e'en the hope of future fame
Can wake my faint, exhausted frame,
Or crown with fancied wreaths my head.
Mine is a short inglorious race,--
To humble in the dust my face,
And mingle with the dead.
9.
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 earth,
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.
10.
When I repose beneath the sod,
Unheeded in the clay,
Where once my playful footsteps trod,
Where now my head must lay, [6]
The meed of Pity will be shed
In dew-drops o'er my narrow bed,
By nightly skies, and storms alone;
No mortal eye will deign to steep
With tears the dark sepulchral deep
Which hides a name unknown.
11.
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;
To Him address thy trembling prayer:
He, who is merciful and just,
Will not reject a child of dust,
Although His meanest care.
12.
Father of Light! to Thee I call;
My soul is dark within:
Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall,
Avert the death of sin.
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star
Who calm'st the elemental war,
Whose mantle is yon boundless sky,
My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive;
And, since I soon must cease to live,
Instruct me how to die. [iii]
1807. [First published, 1832.]
[Footnote 1: Harrow. ]
[Footnote 2: Mrs. Pigot's Cottage.]
[Footnote 3: The river Grete, at Southwell.]
[Footnote 4: Mary Chaworth.]
[Footnote 5: Compare the verses on "The Cornelian," p. 66, and
"Pignus Amoris," p. 231.]
[Footnote 6: See note to "Pignus Amoris," st. 3, l. 3, p. 232.]
[Footnote i:
'--ye regal Towers'.
['MS. Newstead'.] ]
[Footnote ii:
'The gift I wear'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iii:
'And since I must forbear to live,
Instruct me how to die.'
['MS. Newstead']
TO----[1]
1.
Oh! well I know your subtle Sex,
Frail daughters of the wanton Eve,--
While jealous pangs our Souls perplex,
No passion prompts you to relieve.
2
From Love, or Pity ne'er you fall,
By _you_, no mutual Flame is felt,
"Tis Vanity, which rules you all,
Desire alone which makes you melt.
3
I will not say no _souls_ are yours,
Aye, ye have Souls, and dark ones too,
Souls to contrive those smiling lures,
To snare our simple hearts for you.
4
Yet shall you never bind me fast,
Long to adore such brittle toys,
I'll rove along, from first to last,
And change whene'er my fancy cloys.
5
Oh! I should be a _baby_ fool,
To sigh the dupe of female art--
Woman! perhaps thou hast a _Soul_,
But where have _Demons_ hid thy _Heart_?
January, 1807.
[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time
printed.]
ON THE EYES OF MISS A----H----[1]
Anne's Eye is liken'd to the _Sun_,
From it such Beams of Beauty fall;
And _this_ can be denied by none,
For like the _Sun_, it shines on _All_.
Then do not admiration smother,
Or say these glances don't become her;
To _you_, or _I_, or _any other_
Her _Sun_, displays perpetual Summer. [2]
January 14, 1807.
[Footnote 1: Miss Anne Houson. From an autograph MS. at Newstead,
now for the first time printed.]
[Footnote 2: Compare, for the same simile, the lines "To Edward
Noel Long, Esq.," p. 187, 'ante'.]
TO A VAIN LADY. [1]
1
Ah, heedless girl! why thus disclose
What ne'er was meant for other ears;
Why thus destroy thine own repose,
And dig the source of future tears?
2
Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid,
While lurking envious foes will smile,
For all the follies thou hast said
Of those who spoke but to beguile.
3
Vain girl! thy lingering woes are nigh,
If thou believ'st what striplings say:
Oh, from the deep temptation fly,
Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey.
4
Dost thou repeat, in childish boast,
The words man utters to deceive?
Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost,
If thou canst venture to believe.
5
While now amongst thy female peers
Thou tell'st again the soothing tale,
Canst thou not mark the rising sneers
Duplicity in vain would veil?
6
These tales in secret silence hush,
Nor make thyself the public gaze:
What modest maid without a blush
Recounts a flattering coxcomb's praise?
7.
Will not the laughing boy despise
Her who relates each fond conceit--
Who, thinking Heaven is in her eyes,
Yet cannot see the slight deceit?
8.
For she who takes a soft delight
These amorous nothings in revealing,
Must credit all we say or write,
While vanity prevents concealing.
9.
Cease, if you prize your Beauty's reign!
No jealousy bids me reprove:
One, who is thus from nature vain,
I pity, but I cannot love.
January 15, 1807. [First published, 1832.]
[Footnote 1: To A Young Lady (Miss Anne Houson) whose vanity induced her
to repeat the compliments paid her by some young men of her
acquaintance.--'MS. Newstead_'.]
TO ANNE. [1]
1.
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.
2.
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.
3.
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.
4.
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.]
[Footnote 1: Miss Anne Houson.]
EGOTISM. A LETTER TO J. T. BECHER. [1]
[Greek: Heauton bur_on aeidei.]
1.
If Fate should seal my Death to-morrow,
(Though much _I_ hope she will _postpone_ it,)
I've held a share _Joy_ and _Sorrow_,
Enough for _Ten_; and _here_ I _own_ it.
2.
I've lived, as many others live,
And yet, I think, with more enjoyment;
For could I through my days again live,
I'd pass them in the 'same' employment.
3.
That 'is' to say, with 'some exception',
For though I will not make confession,
I've seen too much of man's deception
Ever again to trust profession.
4.
Some sage 'Mammas' with gesture haughty,
Pronounce me quite a youthful Sinner--
But 'Daughters' say, "although he's naughty,
You must not check a 'Young Beginner'!"
5.
I've loved, and many damsels know it--
But whom I don't intend to mention,
As 'certain stanzas' also show it,
'Some' say 'deserving Reprehension'.
6.
Some ancient Dames, of virtue fiery,
(Unless Report does much belie them,)
Have lately made a sharp Enquiry,
And much it 'grieves' me to 'deny' them.
7.
Two whom I lov'd had 'eyes' of 'Blue',
To which I hope you've no objection;
The 'Rest' had eyes of 'darker Hue'--
Each Nymph, of course, was 'all perfection'.
8.
But here I'll close my 'chaste' Description,
Nor say the deeds of animosity;
For 'silence' is the best prescription,
To 'physic' idle curiosity.
9.
Of 'Friends' I've known a 'goodly Hundred'--
For finding 'one' in each acquaintance,
By 'some deceived', by others plunder'd,
'Friendship', to me, was not 'Repentance'.
10.
At 'School' I thought like other 'Children';
Instead of 'Brains', a fine Ingredient,
'Romance', my 'youthful Head bewildering',
To 'Sense' had made me disobedient.
11.
A victim, 'nearly' from affection,
To certain 'very precious scheming',
The still remaining recollection
Has 'cured' my 'boyish soul' of 'Dreaming'.
12.
By Heaven! I rather would forswear
The Earth, and all the joys reserved me,
Than dare again the 'specious Snare',
From which 'my Fate' and 'Heaven preserved' me.
13.
Still I possess some Friends who love me--
In each a much esteemed and true one;
The Wealth of Worlds shall never move me
To quit their Friendship, for a new one.
14.
But Becher! you're a 'reverend pastor',
Now take it in consideration,
Whether for penance I should fast, or
Pray for my 'sins' in expiation.
15.
I own myself the child of 'Folly',
But not so wicked as they make me--
I soon must die of melancholy,
If 'Female' smiles should e'er forsake me.
16.
'Philosophers' have 'never doubted',
That 'Ladies' Lips' were made for 'kisses!'
For 'Love!' I could not live without it,
For such a 'cursed' place as 'This is'.
17.
Say, Becher, I shall be forgiven!
If you don't warrant my salvation,
I must resign all 'Hopes' of 'Heaven'!
For, 'Faith', I can't withstand Temptation.
P.S.--These were written between one and two, after 'midnight'. I
have not 'corrected', or 'revised'. Yours, BYRON.
[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first
time printed.]
TO ANNE. [1]
1
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.
2.
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.
3.
As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwin'd,
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.
4.
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 centred in you.
1807. [First published, 1832.]
TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET
BEGINNING "'SAD IS MY VERSE,' YOU SAY, 'AND YET NO TEAR.'"
1.
Thy verse is "sad" enough, no doubt:
A devilish deal more sad than witty!
Why we should weep I can't find out,
Unless for _thee_ we weep in pity.
2.
Yet there is one I pity more;
And much, alas! I think he needs it:
For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore,
Who, to his own misfortune, reads it.
3.
Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic,
May _once_ be read--but never after:
Yet their effect's by no means tragic,
Although by far too dull for laughter.
4.
But would you make our bosoms bleed,
And of no common pang complain--
If you would make us weep indeed,
Tell us, you'll read them o'er again.
March 8, 1807. [First published, 1832.]
ON FINDING A FAN. [1]
1.
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.
2.
As when the ebbing flames are low,
The aid which once improved their light,
And bade them burn with fiercer glow,
Now quenches all their blaze in night.
3.
Thus has it been with Passion's fires--
As many a boy and girl remembers--
While every hope of love expires,
Extinguish'd with the dying embers.
4.
The _first_, though not a spark survive,
Some careful hand may teach to burn;
The _last_, alas! can ne'er survive;
No touch can bid its warmth return.
5.
Or, if it chance to wake again,
Not always doom'd its heat to smother,
It sheds (so wayward fates ordain)
Its former warmth around another.
1807. [First published, 1832.]
[Footnote 1: Of Miss A. H. (MS. Newstead).]
FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. [i.]
1.
Thou Power! who hast ruled me through Infancy's days,
Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part;
Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays,
The coldest effusion which springs from my heart.
2.
This bosom, responsive to rapture no more,
Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing;
The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar,
Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing.
3.
Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre,
Yet even these themes are departed for ever;
No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire,
My visions are flown, to return,--alas, never!
4.
When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl,
How vain is the effort delight to prolong!
When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul, [ii]
What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song?
5.
Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone,
Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign?
Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown?
Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine.
6.
Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love? [iii]
Ah, surely Affection ennobles the strain!
But how can my numbers in sympathy move,
When I scarcely can hope to behold them again?
7.
Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done,
And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires?
For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone!
For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires!
8.
Untouch'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast--
'Tis hush'd; and my feeble endeavours are o'er;
And those who have heard it will pardon the past,
When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no more.
9.
And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot,
Since early affection and love is o'ercast:
Oh! blest had my Fate been, and happy my lot,
Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last.
10.
Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er meet; [iv]
If our songs have been languid, they surely are few:
Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet--
The present--which seals our eternal Adieu.
1807. [First published, 1832.]
[Footnote 1:
'Adieu to the Muse'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote ii:
'When cold is the form'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iii:
--'whom I lived but to love'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
[Footnote iv:
'Since we never can meet'.
['MS. Newstead'.]]
TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD. [1]
1.
Young Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground,
I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine;
That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around,
And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine.
2.
Such, such was my hope, when in Infancy's years,
On the land of my Fathers I rear'd thee with pride;
They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears,--
Thy decay, not the _weeds_ that surround thee can hide.
3.
I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour,
A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my Sire;
Till Manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power,
But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expire.
4.
Oh! hardy thou wert--even now little care
Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds gently
heal:
But thou wert not fated affection to share--
For who could suppose that a Stranger would feel?
5.
Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for a while;
Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run,
The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile,
When Infancy's years of probation are done.
6.
Oh, live then, my Oak! tow'r aloft from the weeds,
That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay,
For still in thy bosom are Life's early seeds,
And still may thy branches their beauty display.
7.
Oh! yet, if Maturity's years may be thine,
Though _I_ shall lie low in the cavern of Death,
On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine, [i]
Uninjured by Time, or the rude Winter's breath.
8.
For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave
O'er the corse of thy Lord in thy canopy laid;
While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave,
The Chief who survives may recline in thy shade.
9.
And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot,
He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread.
Oh! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot;
Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead.
10.
And here, will they say, when in Life's glowing prime,
Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lay,
And here must he sleep, till the moments of Time
Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day.
1807. [First published 1832.]
["Copied for Mr. Moore, Jan. 24, 1828."--Note by Miss Pigot.]
[Footnote 1: There is no heading to the original MS., but on the blank
leaf at the end of the poem is written,
"To an oak in the garden of Newstead Abbey, planted by the author in
the 9th year of [his] age; this tree at his last visit was in a state
of decay, though perhaps not irrecoverable."
On arriving at Newstead, in 1798, Byron, then in his
eleventh year, planted an oak, and cherished the fancy, that as the tree
flourished so should he. On revisiting the abbey, he found the oak
choked up by weeds and almost destroyed;--hence these lines. Shortly
after Colonel Wildman took possession, he said to a servant,
"Here is a fine young oak; but it must be cut down, as it grows in an
improper place."
"I hope not, sir, "replied the man, "for it's the one that my lord was
so fond of, because he set it himself."
_Life_, p. 50, note.]
[Footnote i:
_For ages may shine_.
[_MS. Newstead_]]
ON REVISITING HARROW. [1]
1.
Here once engaged the stranger's view
Young Friendship's record simply trac'd;
Few were her words,--but yet, though few,
Resentment's hand the line defac'd.
2.
Deeply she cut--but not eras'd--
The characters were still so plain,
That Friendship once return'd, and gaz'd,--
Till Memory hail'd the words again.
3.
Repentance plac'd them as before;
Forgiveness join'd her gentle name;
So fair the inscription seem'd once more,
That Friendship thought it still the same.
4.
Thus might the Record now have been;
But, ah, in spite of Hope's endeavour,
Or Friendship's tears, Pride rush'd between,
And blotted out the line for ever.
September, 1807.
[First published in Moore's 'Life and Letters, etc.', 1830, i. 102.]
[Footnote 1:
"Some years ago, when at Harrow, a friend of the author engraved on a
particular spot the names of both, with a few additional words, as a
memorial. Afterwards, on receiving some real or imaginary injury, the
author destroyed the frail record before he left Harrow. On revisiting
the place in 1807, he wrote under it these stanzas."
Moore's 'Life, etc.', i. 102.]]
TO MY SON. [1]
1.
Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue
Bright as thy mother's in their hue;
Those rosy lips, whose dimples play
And smile to steal the heart away,
Recall a scene of former joy,
And touch thy father's heart, my Boy!
2.
And thou canst lisp a father's name--
Ah, William, were thine own the same,--
No self-reproach--but, let me cease--
My care for thee shall purchase peace;
Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy,
And pardon all the past, my Boy!
3.
Her lowly grave the turf has prest,
And thou hast known a stranger's breast;
Derision sneers upon thy birth,
And yields thee scarce a name on earth;
Yet shall not these one hope destroy,--
A Father's heart is thine, my Boy!
4.
Why, let the world unfeeling frown,
Must I fond Nature's claims disown?
Ah, no--though moralists reprove,
I hail thee, dearest child of Love,
Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy--
A Father guards thy birth, my Boy!
5.
Oh,'twill be sweet in thee to trace,
Ere Age has wrinkled o'er my face,
Ere half my glass of life is run,
At once a brother and a son;
And all my wane of years employ
In justice done to thee, my Boy!
6.
Although so young thy heedless sire,
Youth will not damp parental fire;
And, wert thou still less dear to me,
While Helen's form revives in thee,
The breast, which beat to former joy,
Will ne'er desert its pledge, my Boy!
1807.
[First published in Moore's 'Life and Letters, etc.', 1830, i. 104.]
[Footnote 1: For a reminiscence of what was, possibly, an actual event,
see 'Don Juan', canto xvi. st. 61. He told Lady Byron that he had two
natural children, whom he should provide for.]
QUERIES TO CASUISTS. [1]
The Moralists tell us that Loving is Sinning,
And always are prating about and about it,
But as Love of Existence itself's the beginning,
Say, what would Existence itself be without it?
They argue the point with much furious Invective,
Though perhaps 'twere no difficult task to confute it;
But if Venus and Hymen should once prove defective,
Pray who would there be to defend or dispute it?
BYRON.
[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. (watermark 1805) at Newstead, now for
the first time printed.]
SONG.[1]
1.
Breeze of the night in gentler sighs
More softly murmur o'er the pillow;
For Slumber seals my Fanny's eyes,
And Peace must never shun her pillow.
2.
Or breathe those sweet 苚lian strains
Stolen from celestial spheres above,
To charm her ear while some remains,
And soothe her soul to dreams of love.
3.
But Breeze of night again forbear,
In softest murmurs only sigh:
Let not a Zephyr's pinion dare
To lift those auburn locks on high.
4.
Chill is thy Breath, thou breeze of night!
Oh! ruffle not those lids of Snow;
For only Morning's cheering light
May wake the beam that lurks below.
5.
Blest be that lip and azure eye!
Sweet Fanny, hallowed be thy Sleep!
Those lips shall never vent a sigh,
Those eyes may never wake to weep.
February 23rd, 1808.
[Footnote 1: From the MS. in the possession of the Earl of Lovelace.]
TO HARRIET. [1]
1.
Harriet! to see such Circumspection, [2]
In Ladies I have no objection
Concerning what they read;
An ancient Maid's a sage adviser,
Like _her_, you will be much the wiser,
In word, as well as Deed.
2.
But Harriet, I don't wish to flatter,
And really think 't would make the matter
More perfect if not quite,
If other Ladies when they preach,
Would certain Damsels also teach
More cautiously to write.
[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first
time printed.]
[Footnote 2: See the poem "To Marion," and 'note', p. 129. It would seem
that J. T. Becher addressed some flattering lines to Byron with
reference to a poem concerning Harriet Maltby, possibly the lines "To
Marion." The following note was attached by Miss Pigot to these stanzas,
which must have been written on another occasion:--
"I saw Lord B. was _flattered_ by John Becher's lines, as he read
'Apollo', etc., with a peculiar smile and emphasis; so out of _fun_,
to vex him a little, I said,
'_Apollo!_ He _should_ have said _Apollyon_.'
'Elizabeth! for Heaven's sake don't say so again! I don't
mind _you_ telling me so; but if any one _else_ got hold _of the
word_, I should never hear the end of it.'
So I laughed at him, and dropt it, for he was _red_ with agitation."]
THERE WAS A TIME, I NEED NOT NAME. [i] [1]
1.
There was a time, I need not name,
Since it will ne'er forgotten be,
When all our feelings were the same
As still my soul hath been to thee.
2.
And from that hour when first thy tongue
Confess'd a love which equall'd mine,
Though many a grief my heart hath wrung,
Unknown, and thus unfelt, by thine,
3.
None, none hath sunk so deep as this--
To think how all that love hath flown;
Transient as every faithless kiss,
But transient in thy breast alone.
4.
And yet my heart some solace knew,
When late I heard thy lips declare,
In accents once imagined true,
Remembrance of the days that were.
5.
Yes! my adored, yet most unkind!
Though thou wilt never love again,
To me 'tis doubly sweet to find
Remembrance of that love remain. [ii]
6.
Yes! 'tis a glorious thought to me,
Nor longer shall my soul repine,
Whate'er thou art or e'er shall be,
Thou hast been dearly, solely mine.
June 10, 1808. [First published, 1809]
[Footnote 1: This copy of verses, with eight others, originally appeared
in a volume published in 1809 by J. C. Hobhouse, under the title of
_Imitations and Translations, From the Ancient and Modern Classics,
Together with Original Poems never before published_. The MS. is in the
possession of the Earl of Lovelace.]
[Footnote i:
_Stanzas to the Same_.
[_Imit. and Transl._, p. 200.]]
[Footnote ii:
_The memory of that love again._
[MS. L.]]
AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN I AM LOW? [i]
1.
And wilt thou weep when I am low?
Sweet lady! speak those words again:
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so--
I would not give that bosom pain.
2.
My heart is sad, my hopes are gone,
My blood runs coldly through my breast;
And when I perish, thou alone
Wilt sigh above my place of rest.
3.
And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace
Doth through my cloud of anguish shine:
And for a while my sorrows cease,
To know thy heart hath felt for mine.
4.
Oh lady! bless鑔 be that tear--
It falls for one who cannot weep;
Such precious drops are doubly dear [ii]
To those whose eyes no tear may steep.
5.
Sweet lady! once my heart was warm
With every feeling soft as thine;
But Beauty's self hath ceased to charm
A wretch created to repine.
6. [iii]
Yet wilt thou weep when I am low?
Sweet lady! speak those words again:
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so--
I would not give that bosom pain. [1]
Aug. 12, 1808. [First published, 1809.]
[Footnote 1: It was in one of Byron's fits of melancholy that the
following verses were addressed to him by his friend John
Cam Hobhouse:--
EPISTLE TO A YOUNG NOBLEMAN IN LOVE.
Hail! generous youth, whom glory's sacred flame
Inspires, and animates to deeds of fame;
Who feel the noble wish before you die
To raise the finger of each passer-by:
Hail! may a future age admiring view
A Falkland or a Clarendon in you.
But as your blood with dangerous passion boils,
Beware! and fly from Venus' silken toils:
Ah! let the head protect the weaker heart,
And Wisdom's 苂is turn on Beauty's dart.
* * * * *
But if 'tis fix'd that every lord must pair,
And you and Newstead must not want an heir,
Lose not your pains, and scour the country round,
To find a treasure that can ne'er be found!
No! take the first the town or court affords,
Trick'd out to stock a market for the lords;
By chance perhaps your luckier choice may fall
On one, though wicked, not the worst of all:
* * * * *
One though perhaps as any Maxwell free,
Yet scarce a copy, Claribel, of thee;
Not very ugly, and not very old,
A little pert indeed, but not a scold;
One that, in short, may help to lead a life
Not farther much from comfort than from strife;
And when she dies, and disappoints your fears,
Shall leave some joys for your declining years.
But, as your early youth some time allows,
Nor custom yet demands you for a spouse,
Some hours of freedom may remain as yet,
For one who laughs alike at love and debt:
Then, why in haste? put off the evil day,
And snatch at youthful comforts while you may!
Pause! nor so soon the various bliss forego
That single souls, and such alone, can know:
Ah! why too early careless life resign,
Your morning slumber, and your evening wine;
Your loved companion, and his easy talk;
Your Muse, invoked in every peaceful walk?
What! can no more your scenes paternal please,
Scenes sacred long to wise, unmated ease?
The prospect lengthen'd o'er the distant down,
Lakes, meadows, rising woods, and all your own?
What! shall your Newstead, shall your cloister'd bowers,
The high o'erhanging arch and trembling towers!
Shall these, profaned with folly or with strife,
An ever fond, or ever angry wife!
Shall these no more confess a manly sway,
But changeful woman's changing whims obey?
Who may, perhaps, as varying humour calls,
Contract your cloisters and o'erthrow your walls;
Let Repton loose o'er all the ancient ground,
Change round to square, and square convert to round;
Root up the elms' and yews' too solemn gloom,
And fill with shrubberies gay and green their room;
Roll down the terrace to a gay parterre,
Where gravel'd walks and flowers alternate glare;
And quite transform, in every point complete,
Your Gothic abbey to a country seat.
Forget the fair one, and your fate delay;
If not avert, at least defer the day,
When you beneath the female yoke shall bend,
And lose your _wit_, your _temper_, and your _friend_. [A]
Trin. Coll. Camb., 1808.]
[Sub-Footnote A: In his mother's copy of Hobhouse's volume, Byron has
written with a pencil,
"_I have lost them all, and shall WED accordingly_. 1811. B."]
[Footnote i:
Stanzas.
[MS. L.]
To the Same.
[Imit. and Transl., p 202.]]
[Footnote ii:
For one whose life is torment here,
And only in the dust may sleep.
[MS. L.]]
[Footnote iii: The MS. _insert_s--
Lady I will not tell my tale
For it would rend thy melting heart;
'Twere pity sorrow should prevail
O'er one so gentle as thou art.
[MS. L.]]
REMIND ME NOT, REMIND ME NOT. [i]
1.
Remind me not, remind me not,
Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours,
When all my soul was given to thee;
Hours that may never be forgot,
Till Time unnerves our vital powers,
And thou and I shall cease to be.
2.
Can I forget--canst thou forget,
When playing with thy golden hair,
How quick thy fluttering heart did move?
Oh! by my soul, I see thee yet,
With eyes so languid, breast so fair,
And lips, though silent, breathing love.
3.
When thus reclining on my breast,
Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet,
As half reproach'd yet rais'd desire,
And still we near and nearer prest,
And still our glowing lips would meet,
As if in kisses to expire.
4.
And then those pensive eyes would close,
And bid their lids each other seek,
Veiling the azure orbs below;
While their long lashes' darken'd gloss
Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek,
Like raven's plumage smooth'd on snow.
5.
I dreamt last night our love return'd,
And, sooth to say, that very dream
Was sweeter in its phantasy,
Than if for other hearts I burn'd,
For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam
In Rapture's wild reality.
6.
Then tell me not, remind me not, [ii]
Of hours which, though for ever gone,
Can still a pleasing dream restore, [iii]
Till thou and I shall be forgot,
And senseless, as the mouldering stone
Which tells that we shall be no more.
Aug. 13, 1808. [First published, 1809.]
[Footnote i:
_A Love Song. To----.
[Imit. and Transl., p. 197.]
[Footnote ii:
_Remind me not, remind me not_.
[MS. L.] ]
[Footnote iii:
_Must still_.
[MS. L.] ]
TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. [i]
1.
Few years have pass'd since thou and I
Were firmest friends, at least in name,
And Childhood's gay sincerity
Preserved our feelings long the same. [ii]
2.
But now, like me, too well thou know'st [iii]
What trifles oft the heart recall;
And those who once have loved the most
Too soon forget they lov'd at all. [iv]
3.
And such the change the heart displays,
So frail is early friendship's reign, [v]
A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day's,
Will view thy mind estrang'd again. [vi]
4.
If so, it never shall be mine
To mourn the loss of such a heart;
The fault was Nature's fault, not thine,
Which made thee fickle as thou art.
5.
As rolls the Ocean's changing tide,
So human feelings ebb and flow;
And who would in a breast confide
Where stormy passions ever glow?
6.
It boots not that, together bred,
Our childish days were days of joy:
My spring of life has quickly fled;
Thou, too, hast ceas'd to be a boy.
7.
And when we bid adieu to youth,
Slaves to the specious World's controul,
We sigh a long farewell to truth;
That World corrupts the noblest soul.
8.
Ah, joyous season! when the mind [1]
Dares all things boldly but to lie;
When Thought ere spoke is unconfin'd,
And sparkles in the placid eye.
9.
Not so in Man's maturer years,
When Man himself is but a tool;
When Interest sways our hopes and fears,
And all must love and hate by rule.
10.
With fools in kindred vice the same, [vii]
We learn at length our faults to blend;
And those, and those alone, may claim
The prostituted name of friend.
11.
Such is the common lot of man:
Can we then 'scape from folly free?
Can we reverse the general plan,
Nor be what all in turn must be?
12.
No; for myself, so dark my fate
Through every turn of life hath been;
Man and the World so much I hate,
I care not when I quit the scene.
13.
But thou, with spirit frail and light,
Wilt shine awhile, and pass away;
As glow-worms sparkle through the night,
But dare not stand the test of day.
14.
Alas! whenever Folly calls
Where parasites and princes meet,
(For cherish'd first in royal halls,
The welcome vices kindly greet,)
15.
Ev'n now thou'rt nightly seen to add
One insect to the fluttering crowd;
And still thy trifling heart is glad
To join the vain and court the proud.
16.
There dost thou glide from fair to fair,
Still simpering on with eager haste,
As flies along the gay parterre,
That taint the flowers they scarcely taste.
17.
But say, what nymph will prize the flame
Which seems, as marshy vapours move,
To flit along from dame to dame,
An ignis-fatuus gleam of love?
18.
What friend for thee, howe'er inclin'd,
Will deign to own a kindred care?
Who will debase his manly mind,
For friendship every fool may share?
19.
In time forbear; amidst the throng
No more so base a thing be seen;
No more so idly pass along;
Be something, any thing, but--mean.
August 20th, 1808. [First published, 1809.]
[Footnote 1: Stanzas 8-9 are not in the _MS_.]
[Footnote i:
'To Sir W. D., on his using the expression, "Soyes constant en
amitie."'
[MS. L.] ]
[Footnote ii:
'Twere well my friend if still with thee
Through every scene of joy and woe,
That thought could ever cherish'd be
As warm as it was wont to glow.
[MS. L] ]
[Footnote iii:
_And yet like me._
[MS. L.] ]
[Footnote iv:
_Forget they ever._
[MS. L. _Imit. and Transl_., p. 185.] ]
[Footnote v:
_So short._
[MS. L.] ]
[Footnote vi:
_...a day
Will send my friendship back again._
[MS. L.]
[Footnote vii:
_Each fool whose vices are the same
Whose faults with ours may blend._
[_MS. L._]]
LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL. [1]
1.
Start not--nor deem my spirit fled:
In me behold the only skull,
From which, unlike a living head,
Whatever flows is never dull.
2.
I lived, I loved, I quaff'd, like thee:
I died: let earth my bones resign;
Fill up--thou canst not injure me;
The worm hath fouler lips than thine.
3.
Better to hold the sparkling grape,
Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood;
And circle in the goblet's shape
The drink of Gods, than reptile's food.
4.
Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone,
In aid of others' let me shine;
And when, alas! our brains are gone,
What nobler substitute than wine?
5.
Quaff while thou canst: another race,
When thou and thine, like me, are sped,
May rescue thee from earth's embrace,
And rhyme and revel with the dead.
6.
Why not? since through life's little day
Our heads such sad effects produce;
Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay,
This chance is theirs, to be of use.
Newstead Abbey, 1808.
[First published in the seventh edition of 'Childe Harold'.]
[Footnote 1: Byron gave Medwin the following account of this cup:--"The
gardener in digging [discovered] a skull that had probably belonged to
some jolly friar or monk of the abbey, about the time it was
dis-monasteried. Observing it to be of giant size, and in a perfect
state of preservation, a strange fancy seized me of having it set and
mounted as a drinking cup. I accordingly sent it to town, and it
returned with a very high polish, and of a mottled colour like
tortoiseshell."--Medwin's 'Conversations', 1824, p. 87.]
WELL! THOU ART HAPPY. [i] [1]
1.
Well! thou art happy, and I feel
That I should thus be happy too;
For still my heart regards thy weal
Warmly, as it was wont to do.
2.
Thy husband's blest--and 'twill impart
Some pangs to view his happier lot: [ii]
But let them pass--Oh! how my heart
Would hate him if he loved thee not!
3.
When late I saw thy favourite child,
I thought my jealous heart would break;
But when the unconscious infant smil'd,
I kiss'd it for its mother's sake.
4.
I kiss'd it,--and repress'd my sighs
Its father in its face to see;
But then it had its mother's eyes,
And they were all to love and me.
5. [iii]
Mary, adieu! I must away:
While thou art blest I'll not repine;
But near thee I can never stay;
My heart would soon again be thine.
6.
I deem'd that Time, I deem'd that Pride,
Had quench'd at length my boyish flame;
Nor knew, till seated by thy side,
My heart in all,--save hope,--the same.
7.
Yet was I calm: I knew the time
My breast would thrill before thy look;
But now to tremble were a crime--
We met,--and not a nerve was shook.
8.
I saw thee gaze upon my face,
Yet meet with no confusion there:
One only feeling couldst thou trace;
The sullen calmness of despair.
9.
Away! away! my early dream
Remembrance never must awake:
Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream?
My foolish heart be still, or break.
November, 1808. [First published, 1809.]
[Footnote 1: These lines were written after dining at Annesley with Mr.
and Mrs. Chaworth Musters. Their daughter, born 1806, and now Mrs.
Hamond, of Westacre, Norfolk, is still (January, 1898) living.]
[Footnote i:
_To Mrs.----_[erased].
[_MS. L._]
_To-----_.
[_Imit. and Transl_. Hobhouse, 1809.] ]
[Footnote ii:
_Some pang to see my rival's lot._
[_MS. L._] ]
[Footnote iii: MS. L. _insert_s--
_Poor little pledge of mutual love,
I would not hurt a hair of thee,
Although thy birth should chance to prove
Thy parents' bliss--my misery._]
INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG. [1]
When some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe
And storied urns record who rest below:
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been:
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth--
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth:
While Man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive Heaven.
Oh Man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on--it honours none you wish to mourn:
To mark a Friend's remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one,--and here he lies. [i]
Newstead Abbey, October 30, 1808. [First published, 1809.]
[Footnote 1: This monument is placed in the garden of Newstead.
A prose inscription precedes the verses:--
"Near this spot
Are deposited the Remains of one
Who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferocity,
And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices.
This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
If inscribed over human ashes,
Is but a just tribute to the Memory of
BOATSWAIN, a Dog,
Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803,
And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808."
Byron thus announced the death of his favourite to his friend
Hodgson:--"Boatswain is dead!--he expired in a state of madness on the
18th after suffering much, yet retaining all the gentleness of his
nature to the last; never attempting to do the least injury to any one
near him. I have now lost everything except old Murray." In the will
which the poet executed in 1811, he desired to be buried in the vault
with his dog, and Joe Murray was to have the honour of making one of the
party. When the poet was on his travels, a gentleman, to whom Murray
showed the tomb, said, "Well, old boy, you will take your place here
some twenty years hence." "I don't know that, sir," replied Joe; "if I
was sure his lordship would come here I should like it well enough, but
I should not like to lie alone with the dog."--'Life', pp. 73, 131.]
[Footnote i:
_I knew but one unchang'd--and here he lies.--
[_Imit. and Transl_., p. 191.] ]
TO A LADY, [1]
ON BEING ASKED MY REASON FOR QUITTING ENGLAND IN THE SPRING. [i]
1.
When Man, expell'd from Eden's bowers,
A moment linger'd near the gate,
Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours,
And bade him curse his future fate.
2.
But, wandering on through distant climes,
He learnt to bear his load of grief;
Just gave a sigh to other times,
And found in busier scenes relief.
3.
Thus, Lady! will it be with me, [ii]
And I must view thy charms no more;
For, while I linger near to thee,
I sigh for all I knew before.
4.
In flight I shall be surely wise,
Escaping from temptation's snare:
I cannot view my Paradise
Without the wish of dwelling there. [iii] [2]
December 2, 1808. [First published, 1809.]
[Footnote 1: Byron had written to his mother on November 2, 1808,
announcing his intention of sailing for India in the following March.
See 'Childe Harold', canto i. st. 3. See also Letter to Hodgson, Nov.
27, 1808.]
[Footnote 2: In an unpublished letter of Byron to----, dated within
a few days of his final departure from Italy to Greece, in
1823, he writes:
"Miss Chaworth was two years older than myself. She married a man of
an ancient and respectable family, but her marriage was not a happier
one than my own. Her conduct, however, was irreproachable; but there
was not sympathy between their characters. I had not seen her for many
years when an occasion offered to me, January, 1814. I was upon the
point, with her consent, of paying her a visit, when my sister, who
has always had more influence over me than any one else, persuaded me
not to do it. 'For,' said she, 'if you go you will fall in love again,
and then there will be a scene; one step will lead to another, 'et
cela fera un 閏lat''."]
[Footnote i:
'The Farewell To a Lady.'
['Imit. and Transl.']
[Footnote ii:
'Thus Mary!' (Mrs. Musters).
['MS'.]
[Footnote iii:
'Without a wish to enter there.'
['Imit. and Transl'., p. 196.] ]
FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. [i]
A SONG.
1.
Fill the goblet again! for I never before
Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core;
Let us drink!--who would not?--since, through life's varied round,
In the goblet alone no deception is found.
2.
I have tried in its turn all that life can supply;
I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye;
I have lov'd!--who has not?--but what heart can declare
That Pleasure existed while Passion was there?
3.
In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its spring,
And dreams that Affection can never take wing,
I had friends!--who has not?--but what tongue will avow,
That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou?
4.
The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange,
Friendship shifts with the sunbeam--thou never canst change;
Thou grow'st old--who does not?--but on earth what appears,
Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years?
5.
Yet if blest to the utmost that Love can bestow,
Should a rival bow down to our idol below,
We are jealous!--who's not?--thou hast no such alloy;
For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy.
6.
Then the season of youth and its vanities past,
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last;
There we find--do we not?--in the flow of the soul,
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl.
7.
When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth,
And Misery's triumph commenc'd over Mirth,
Hope was left,--was she not?--but the goblet we kiss,
And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss.
8.
Long life to the grape! for when summer is flown,
The age of our nectar shall gladden our own:
We must die--who shall not?--May our sins be forgiven,
And Hebe shall never be idle in Heaven.
[First published, 1809.]
[Footnote i:
'Song'.
['Imit. and Transl'., p. 204.]
STANZAS TO A LADY, ON LEAVING ENGLAND. [i]
1.
Tis done--and shivering in the gale
The bark unfurls her snowy sail;
And whistling o'er the bending mast,
Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast;
And I must from this land be gone,
Because I cannot love but one.
2.
But could I be what I have been,
And could I see what I have seen--
Could I repose upon the breast
Which once my warmest wishes blest--
I should not seek another zone,
Because I cannot love but one.
3.
'Tis long since I beheld that eye
Which gave me bliss or misery;
And I have striven, but in vain,
Never to think of it again:
For though I fly from Albion,
I still can only love but one.
4.
As some lone bird, without a mate,
My weary heart is desolate;
I look around, and cannot trace
One friendly smile or welcome face,
And ev'n in crowds am still alone,
Because I cannot love but one.
5.
And I will cross the whitening foam,
And I will seek a foreign home;
Till I forget a false fair face,
I ne'er shall find a resting-place;
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun,
But ever love, and love but one.
6.
The poorest, veriest wretch on earth
Still finds some hospitable hearth,
Where Friendship's or Love's softer glow
May smile in joy or soothe in woe;
But friend or leman I have none, [ii]
Because I cannot love but one.
7.
I go--but wheresoe'er I flee
There's not an eye will weep for me;
There's not a kind congenial heart,
Where I can claim the meanest part;
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone,
Wilt sigh, although I love but one.
8.
To think of every early scene,
Of what we are, and what we've been,
Would whelm some softer hearts with woe--
But mine, alas! has stood the blow;
Yet still beats on as it begun,
And never truly loves but one.
9.
And who that dear lov'd one may be,
Is not for vulgar eyes to see;
And why that early love was cross'd,
Thou know'st the best, I feel the most;
But few that dwell beneath the sun
Have loved so long, and loved but one.
10.
I've tried another's fetters too,
With charms perchance as fair to view;
And I would fain have loved as well,
But some unconquerable spell
Forbade my bleeding breast to own
A kindred care for aught but one.
11.
'Twould soothe to take one lingering view,
And bless thee in my last adieu;
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep
For him that wanders o'er the deep;
His home, his hope, his youth are gone, [iii]
Yet still he loves, and loves but one. [iv]
1809. [First published, 1809.]
[Footnote i:
'To Mrs. Musters.'
['MS.']
'To----on Leaving England.'
['Imit. and Transl.', p. 227.]
[Footnote ii:
'But friend or lover I have none'.
['Imit. and Transl'., p. 229.]]
[Footnote iii:
'Though wheresoever my bark may run,
I love but thee, I love but one.'
['Imit. and Transl.', p. 230.]
'The land recedes his Bark is gone,
Yet still he loves and laves but one.'
[MS.]
[Footnote iv:
'Yet far away he loves but one.'
[MS.]
ENGLISH BARDS, AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS;
A SATIRE.
BY
LORD BYRON.
"I had rather be a kitten, and cry, mew!
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers."
SHAKESPEARE.
"Such shameless Bards we have; and yet 'tis true,
There are as mad, abandon'd Critics, too."
POPE.
PREFACE [1]
All my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged me not to publish this
Satire with my name. If I were to be "turned from the career of my
humour by quibbles quick, and paper bullets of the brain" I should have
complied with their counsel. But I am not to be terrified by abuse, or
bullied by reviewers, with or without arms. I can safely say that I have
attacked none 'personally', who did not commence on the offensive. An
Author's works are public property: he who purchases may judge, and
publish his opinion if he pleases; and the Authors I have endeavoured to
commemorate may do by me as I have done by them. I dare say they will
succeed better in condemning my scribblings, than in mending their own.
But my object is not to prove that I can write well, but, if 'possible',
to make others write better.
As the Poem has met with far more success than I expected, I have
endeavoured in this Edition to make some additions and alterations, to
render it more worthy of public perusal.
In the First Edition of this Satire, published anonymously, fourteen
lines on the subject of Bowles's Pope were written by, and _insert_ed at
the request of, an ingenious friend of mine, [2] who has now in the
press a volume of Poetry. In the present Edition they are erased, and
some of my own substituted in their stead; my only reason for this being
that which I conceive would operate with any other person in the same
manner,--a determination not to publish with my name any production,
which was not entirely and exclusively my own composition.
With [3] regard to the real talents of many of the poetical persons
whose performances are mentioned or alluded to in the following pages,
it is presumed by the Author that there can be little difference of
opinion in the Public at large; though, like other sectaries, each has
his separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom his abilities are
over-rated, his faults overlooked, and his metrical canons received
without scruple and without consideration. But the unquestionable
possession of considerable genius by several of the writers here
censured renders their mental prostitution more to be regretted.
Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, laughed at and forgotten;
perverted powers demand the most decided reprehension. No one can wish
more than the Author that some known and able writer had undertaken
their exposure; but Mr. Gifford has devoted himself to Massinger, and,
in the absence of the regular physician, a country practitioner may, in
cases of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe his nostrum to
prevent the extension of so deplorable an epidemic, provided there be no
quackery in his treatment of the malady. A caustic is here offered; as
it is to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can recover the
numerous patients afflicted with the present prevalent and distressing
rabies for rhyming.--As to the' Edinburgh Reviewers', it would indeed
require an Hercules to crush the Hydra; but if the Author succeeds in
merely "bruising one of the heads of the serpent" though his own hand
should suffer in the encounter, he will be amply satisfied.
[Footnote 1: The Preface, as it is here printed, was prefixed to the
Second, Third, and Fourth Editions of 'English Bards, and Scotch
Reviewers'. The preface to the First Edition began with the words, "With
regard to the real talents," etc. The text of the poem follows that of
the suppressed Fifth Edition, which passed under Byron's own
supervision, and was to have been issued in 1812. From that Edition the
Preface was altogether excluded.
In an annotated copy of the Fourth Edition, of 1811, underneath the
note, "This preface was written for the Second Edition, and printed with
it. The noble author had left this country previous to the publication
of that Edition, and is not yet returned," Byron wrote, in 1816, "He is,
and gone again."--MS. Notes from this volume, which is now in Mr.
Murray's possession, are marked--B., 1816.]
[Footnote 2: John Cam Hobhouse.]
[Footnote 3: Preface to the First Edition.]
INTRODUCTION TO ENGLISH BARDS, AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS.
The article upon 'Hours of Idleness' "which Lord Brougham ... after
denying it for thirty years, confessed that he had written" ('Notes from
a Diary', by Sir M. E. Grant Duff, 1897, ii. 189), was published in the
'Edinburgh Review' of January, 1808. 'English Bards, and Scotch
Reviewers' did not appear till March, 1809. The article gave the
opportunity for the publication of the satire, but only in part provoked
its composition. Years later, Byron had not forgotten its effect on his
mind. On April 26, 1821, he wrote to Shelley: "I recollect the effect on
me of the Edinburgh on my first poem: it was rage and resistance and
redress: but not despondency nor despair." And on the same date to
Murray: "I know by experience that a savage review is hemlock to a
sucking author; and the one on me (which produced the 'English Bards',
etc.) knocked me down, but I got up again," etc. It must, however, be
remembered that Byron had his weapons ready for an attack before he used
them in defence. In a letter to Miss Pigot, dated October 26, 1807, he
says that "he has written one poem of 380 lines to be published in a few
weeks with notes. The poem ... is a Satire." It was entitled 'British
Bards', and finally numbered 520 lines. With a view to publication, or
for his own convenience, it was put up in type and printed in quarto
sheets. A single copy, which he kept for corrections and additions, was
preserved by Dallas, and is now in the British Museum. After the review
appeared, he enlarged and recast the 'British Bards', and in March,
1809, the Satire was published anonymously. Byron was at no pains to
conceal the authorship of 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', and,
before starting on his Pilgrimage, he had prepared a second and enlarged
edition, which came out in October, 1809, with his name prefixed. Two
more editions were called for in his absence, and on his return he
revised and printed a fifth, when he suddenly resolved to suppress the
work. On his homeward voyage he expressed, in a letter to Dallas, June
28, 1811, his regret at having written the Satire. A year later he
became intimate, among others, with Lord and Lady Holland, whom he had
assailed on the supposition that they were the instigators of the
article in the 'Edinburgh Review', and on being told by Rogers that they
wished the Satire to be withdrawn, he gave orders to his publisher,
Cawthorn, to burn the whole impression. A few copies escaped the flames.
One of two copies retained by Dallas, which afterwards belonged to
Murray, and is now in his grandson's possession, was the foundation of
the text of 1831, and of all subsequent issues. Another copy which
belonged to Dallas is retained in the British Museum.
Towards the close of the last century there had been an outburst of
satirical poems, written in the style of the 'Dunciad' and its offspring
the 'Rosciad', Of these, Gifford's 'Baviad' and 'Maviad' (1794-5), and
T. J. Mathias' 'Pursuits of Literature' (1794-7), were the direct
progenitors of 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', The 'Rolliad'
(1794), the 'Children of Apollo' (circ. 1794), Canning's 'New Morality'
(1798), and Wolcot's coarse but virile lampoons, must also be reckoned
among Byron's earlier models. The ministry of "All the Talents" gave
rise to a fresh batch of political 'jeux d'閟prits', and in 1807, when
Byron was still at Cambridge, the air was full of these ephemera. To
name only a few, 'All the Talents', by Polypus (Eaton Stannard Barrett),
was answered by 'All the Blocks, an antidote to All the Talents', by
Flagellum (W. H. Ireland); 'Elijah's Mantle, a tribute to the memory of
the R. H. William Pitt', by James Sayer, the caricaturist, provoked
'Melville's Mantle, being a Parody on ... Elijah's Mantle'. 'The
Simpliciad, A Satirico-Didactic Poem', and Lady Anne Hamilton's 'Epics
of the Ton', are also of the same period. One and all have perished, but
Byron read them, and in a greater or less degree they supplied the
impulse to write in the fashion of the day.
'British Bards' would have lived, but, unquestionably, the spur of the
article, a year's delay, and, above all, the advice and criticism of his
friend Hodgson, who was at work on his 'Gentle Alterative for the
Reviewers', 1809 (for further details, see vol. i., 'Letters', Letter
102, 'note' 1), produced the brilliant success of the enlarged satire.
'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers' was recognized at once as a work
of genius. It has intercepted the popularity of its great predecessors,
who are often quoted, but seldom read. It is still a popular poem, and
appeals with fresh delight to readers who know the names of many of the
"bards" only because Byron mentions them, and count others whom he
ridicules among the greatest poets of the century.
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. [1]
Still [2] must I hear?--shall hoarse [3] FITZGERALD bawl
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall,
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Reviews
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my _Muse?_
Prepare for rhyme--I'll publish, right or wrong:
Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song. [i]
Oh! Nature's noblest gift--my grey goose-quill!
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,
That mighty instrument of little men! 10
The pen! foredoomed to aid the mental throes
Of brains that labour, big with Verse or Prose;
Though Nymphs forsake, and Critics may deride,
The Lover's solace, and the Author's pride.
What Wits! what Poets dost thou daily raise!
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise!
Condemned at length to be forgotten quite,
With all the pages which 'twas thine to write.
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen! [ii]
Once laid aside, but now assumed again, 20
Our task complete, like Hamet's [4] shall be free;
Though spurned by others, yet beloved by me:
Then let us soar to-day; no common theme,
No Eastern vision, no distempered dream [5]
Inspires--our path, though full of thorns, is plain;
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.
When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway,
Obey'd by all who nought beside obey; [iii]
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,
Bedecks her cap with bells of every Clime; [iv] 30
When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail,
And weigh their Justice in a Golden Scale; [v]
E'en then the boldest start from public sneers,
Afraid of Shame, unknown to other fears,
More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe,
And shrink from Ridicule, though not from Law.
Such is the force of Wit! I but not belong
To me the arrows of satiric song;
The royal vices of our age demand
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. [vi] 40
Still there are follies, e'en for me to chase,
And yield at least amusement in the race:
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame,
The cry is up, and scribblers are my game:
Speed, Pegasus!--ye strains of great and small,
Ode! Epic! Elegy!--have at you all!
I, too, can scrawl, and once upon a time
I poured along the town a flood of rhyme,
A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame;
I printed--older children do the same. 50
'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print;
A Book's a Book, altho' there's nothing in't.
Not that a Title's sounding charm can save [vii]
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave:
This LAMB [6] must own, since his patrician name
Failed to preserve the spurious Farce from shame. [7]
No matter, GEORGE continues still to write, [8]
Tho' now the name is veiled from public sight.
Moved by the great example, I pursue
The self-same road, but make my own review: 60
Not seek great JEFFREY'S, yet like him will be
Self-constituted Judge of Poesy.
A man must serve his time to every trade
Save Censure--Critics all are ready made.
Take hackneyed jokes from MILLER, [9] got by rote,
With just enough of learning to misquote;
A man well skilled to find, or forge a fault;
A turn for punning--call it Attic salt;
To JEFFREY go, be silent and discreet,
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet: 70
Fear not to lie,'twill seem a _sharper_ hit; [viii]
Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit;
Care not for feeling--pass your proper jest,
And stand a Critic, hated yet caress'd.
And shall we own such judgment? no--as soon
Seek roses in December--ice in June;
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff,
Believe a woman or an epitaph,
Or any other thing that's false, before
You trust in Critics, who themselves are sore; 80
Or yield one single thought to be misled
By JEFFREY'S heart, or LAMB'S Boeotian head. [10]
To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced,
Combined usurpers on the Throne of Taste;
To these, when Authors bend in humble awe,
And hail their voice as Truth, their word as Law;
While these are Censors, 'twould be sin to spare; [11]
While such are Critics, why should I forbear?
But yet, so near all modern worthies run,
'Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun; 90
Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike,
Our Bards and Censors are so much alike.
Then should you ask me, [12] why I venture o'er
The path which POPE and GIFFORD [13] trod before;
If not yet sickened, you can still proceed;
Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read.
"But hold!" exclaims a friend,--"here's some neglect:
This--that--and t'other line seem incorrect."
What then? the self-same blunder Pope has got,
And careless Dryden--"Aye, but Pye has not:"-- 100
Indeed!--'tis granted, faith!--but what care I?
Better to err with POPE, than shine with PYE. [14]
Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days [15]
Ignoble themes obtained mistaken praise,
When Sense and Wit with Poesy allied,
No fabled Graces, flourished side by side,
From the same fount their inspiration drew,
And, reared by Taste, bloomed fairer as they grew.
Then, in this happy Isle, a POPE'S pure strain
Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain; 110
A polished nation's praise aspired to claim,
And raised the people's, as the poet's fame.
Like him great DRYDEN poured the tide of song,
In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong.
Then CONGREVE'S scenes could cheer, or OTWAY'S melt; [16]
For Nature then an English audience felt--
But why these names, or greater still, retrace,
When all to feebler Bards resign their place?
Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast,
When taste and reason with those times are past. 120
Now look around, and turn each trifling page,
Survey the precious works that please the age;
This truth at least let Satire's self allow,
No dearth of Bards can be complained of now. [ix]
The loaded Press beneath her labour groans, [x]
And Printers' devils shake their weary bones;
While SOUTHEY'S Epics cram the creaking shelves, [xi]
And LITTLE'S Lyrics shine in hot-pressed twelves. [17]
Thus saith the _Preacher_: "Nought beneath the sun
Is new," [18] yet still from change to change we run. 130
What varied wonders tempt us as they pass!
The Cow-pox, Tractors, Galvanism, and Gas, [19]
In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare,
Till the swoln bubble bursts--and all is air!
Nor less new schools of Poetry arise,
Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize:
O'er Taste awhile these Pseudo-bards prevail; [xii]
Each country Book-club bows the knee to Baal,
And, hurling lawful Genius from the throne,
Erects a shrine and idol of its own; [xiii] 140
Some leaden calf--but whom it matters not,
From soaring SOUTHEY, down to groveling STOTT. [20]
Behold! in various throngs the scribbling crew,
For notice eager, pass in long review:
Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace,
And Rhyme and Blank maintain an equal race;
Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode;
And Tales of Terror [21] jostle on the road;
Immeasurable measures move along;
For simpering Folly loves a varied song, 150
To strange, mysterious Dulness still the friend,
Admires the strain she cannot comprehend.
Thus Lays of Minstrels [22]--may they be the last!--
On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast.
While mountain spirits prate to river sprites,
That dames may listen to the sound at nights;
And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's [23] brood
Decoy young Border-nobles through the wood,
And skip at every step, Lord knows how high,
And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why; 160
While high-born ladies in their magic cell,
Forbidding Knights to read who cannot spell,
Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave,
And fight with honest men to shield a knave.
Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan,
The golden-crested haughty Marmion,
Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight,
Not quite a Felon, yet but half a Knight. [xiv]
The gibbet or the field prepared to grace;
A mighty mixture of the great and base. 170
And think'st thou, SCOTT! by vain conceit perchance,
On public taste to foist thy stale romance,
Though MURRAY with his MILLER may combine
To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line? [24]
No! when the sons of song descend to trade,
Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade,
Let such forego the poet's sacred name,
Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame:
Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain! [25]
And sadly gaze on Gold they cannot gain! 180
Such be their meed, such still the just reward [xv]
Of prostituted Muse and hireling bard!
For this we spurn Apollo's venal son,
And bid a long "good night to Marmion." [26]
These are the themes that claim our plaudits now;
These are the Bards to whom the Muse must bow;
While MILTON, DRYDEN, POPE, alike forgot,
Resign their hallowed Bays to WALTER SCOTT.
The time has been, when yet the Muse was young,
When HOMER swept the lyre, and MARO sung, 190
An Epic scarce ten centuries could claim,
While awe-struck nations hailed the magic name:
The work of each immortal Bard appears
The single wonder of a thousand years. [27]
Empires have mouldered from the face of earth,
Tongues have expired with those who gave them birth,
Without the glory such a strain can give,
As even in ruin bids the language live.
Not so with us, though minor Bards, content, [xvi]
On one great work a life of labour spent: 200
With eagle pinion soaring to the skies,
Behold the Ballad-monger SOUTHEY rise!
To him let CAMO薔S, MILTON, TASSO yield,
Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field.
First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance,
The scourge of England and the boast of France!
Though burnt by wicked BEDFORD for a witch,
Behold her statue placed in Glory's niche;
Her fetters burst, and just released from prison,
A virgin Phoenix from her ashes risen. 210
Next see tremendous Thalaba come on, [28]
Arabia's monstrous, wild, and wond'rous son;
Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'erthrew
More mad magicians than the world e'er knew.
Immortal Hero! all thy foes o'ercome,
For ever reign--the rival of Tom Thumb! [29]
Since startled Metre fled before thy face,
Well wert thou doomed the last of all thy race!
Well might triumphant Genii bear thee hence,
Illustrious conqueror of common sense! 220
Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails,
Cacique in Mexico, [30] and Prince in Wales;
Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do,
More old than Mandeville's, and not so true.
Oh, SOUTHEY! SOUTHEY! [31] cease thy varied song!
A bard may chaunt too often and too long:
As thou art strong in verse, in mercy, spare!
A fourth, alas! were more than we could bear.
But if, in spite of all the world can say,
Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way; 230
If still in Berkeley-Ballads most uncivil,
Thou wilt devote old women to the devil, [32]
The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue:
"God help thee," SOUTHEY, [33] and thy readers too.
Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, [34]
That mild apostate from poetic rule,
The simple WORDSWORTH, framer of a lay
As soft as evening in his favourite May,
Who warns his friend "to shake off toil and trouble,
And quit his books, for fear of growing double;" [35] 240
Who, both by precept and example, shows
That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose;
Convincing all, by demonstration plain,
Poetic souls delight in prose insane;
And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme
Contain the essence of the true sublime.
Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy,
The idiot mother of "an idiot Boy;"
A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way,
And, like his bard, confounded night with day [36] 250
So close on each pathetic part he dwells,
And each adventure so sublimely tells,
That all who view the "idiot in his glory"
Conceive the Bard the hero of the story.
Shall gentle COLERIDGE pass unnoticed here, [37]
To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear?
Though themes of innocence amuse him best,
Yet still Obscurity's a welcome guest.
If Inspiration should her aid refuse
To him who takes a Pixy for a muse, [38] 260
Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass
The bard who soars to elegize an ass:
So well the subject suits his noble mind, [xvii]
He brays, the Laureate of the long-eared kind. [xviii]
Oh! wonder-working LEWIS! [39] Monk, or Bard,
Who fain would make Parnassus a church-yard! [xix]
Lo! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow,
Thy Muse a Sprite, Apollo's sexton thou!
Whether on ancient tombs thou tak'st thy stand,
By gibb'ring spectres hailed, thy kindred band; 270
Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page,
To please the females of our modest age;
All hail, M.P.! [40] from whose infernal brain
Thin-sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train;
At whose command "grim women" throng in crowds,
And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds,
With "small grey men,"--"wild yagers," and what not,
To crown with honour thee and WALTER SCOTT:
Again, all hail! if tales like thine may please,
St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease: 280
Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell,
And in thy skull discern a deeper Hell.
Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir
Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire,
With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flushed
Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames are hushed?
'Tis LITTLE! young Catullus of his day,
As sweet, but as immoral, in his Lay!
Grieved to condemn, the Muse must still be just,
Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. 290
Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns;
From grosser incense with disgust she turns
Yet kind to youth, this expiation o'er,
She bids thee "mend thy line, and sin no more." [xx]
For thee, translator of the tinsel song,
To whom such glittering ornaments belong,
Hibernian STRANGFORD! with thine eyes of blue, [41]
And boasted locks of red or auburn hue,
Whose plaintive strain each love-sick Miss admires,
And o'er harmonious fustian half expires, [xxi] 300
Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author's sense,
Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence.
Think'st thou to gain thy verse a higher place,
By dressing Camo雗s [42] in a suit of lace?
Mend, STRANGFORD! mend thy morals and thy taste;
Be warm, but pure; be amorous, but be chaste:
Cease to deceive; thy pilfered harp restore,
Nor teach the Lusian Bard to copy MOORE.
Behold--Ye Tarts!--one moment spare the text! [xxii]--
HAYLEY'S last work, and worst--until his next; 310
Whether he spin poor couplets into plays,
Or damn the dead with purgatorial praise, [43]
His style in youth or age is still the same,
For ever feeble and for ever tame.
Triumphant first see "Temper's Triumphs" shine!
At least I'm sure they triumphed over mine.
Of "Music's Triumphs," all who read may swear
That luckless Music never triumph'd there. [44]
Moravians, rise! bestow some meet reward [45]
On dull devotion--Lo! the Sabbath Bard, 320
Sepulchral GRAHAME, [46] pours his notes sublime
In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rhyme;
Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke, [xxiii]
And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch;
And, undisturbed by conscientious qualms,
Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms.
Hail, Sympathy! thy soft idea brings" [xxiv]
A thousand visions of a thousand things,
And shows, still whimpering thro' threescore of years, [xxv]
The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers. 330
And art thou not their prince, harmonious Bowles! [47]
Thou first, great oracle of tender souls?
Whether them sing'st with equal ease, and grief, [xxvi]
The fall of empires, or a yellow leaf;
Whether thy muse most lamentably tells
What merry sounds proceed from Oxford bells, [xxvii]
Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend
In every chime that jingled from Ostend;
Ah! how much juster were thy Muse's hap,
If to thy bells thou would'st but add a cap! [xxviii] 340
Delightful BOWLES! still blessing and still blest,
All love thy strain, but children like it best.
'Tis thine, with gentle LITTLE'S moral song,
To soothe the mania of the amorous throng!
With thee our nursery damsels shed their tears,
Ere Miss as yet completes her infant years:
But in her teens thy whining powers are vain;
She quits poor BOWLES for LITTLE'S purer strain.
Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine [xxix]
The lofty numbers of a harp like thine; 350
"Awake a louder and a loftier strain," [48]
Such as none heard before, or will again!
Where all discoveries jumbled from the flood,
Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud,
By more or less, are sung in every book,
From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook.
Nor this alone--but, pausing on the road,
The Bard sighs forth a gentle episode, [xxx] [49]
And gravely tells--attend, each beauteous Miss!--
When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. 360
Bowles! in thy memory let this precept dwell,
Stick to thy Sonnets, Man!--at least they sell.
But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe,
Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a scribe:
If 'chance some bard, though once by dunces feared,
Now, prone in dust, can only be revered;
If Pope, whose fame and genius, from the first, [xxxi]
Have foiled the best of critics, needs the worst,
Do thou essay: each fault, each failing scan;
The first of poets was, alas! but man. 370
Rake from each ancient dunghill ev'ry pearl,
Consult Lord Fanny, and confide in CURLL; [50]
Let all the scandals of a former age
Perch on thy pen, and flutter o'er thy page;
Affect a candour which thou canst not feel,
Clothe envy in a garb of honest zeal;
Write, as if St. John's soul could still inspire,
And do from hate what MALLET [51] did for hire.
Oh! hadst thou lived in that congenial time,
To rave with DENNIS, and with RALPH to rhyme; [52] 380
Thronged with the rest around his living head,
Not raised thy hoof against the lion dead,
A meet reward had crowned thy glorious gains,
And linked thee to the Dunciad for thy pains. [53]
Another Epic! Who inflicts again
More books of blank upon the sons of men?
Boeotian COTTLE, rich Bristowa's boast,
Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast,
And sends his goods to market--all alive!
Lines forty thousand, Cantos twenty-five! 390
Fresh fish from Hippocrene! [54] who'll buy? who'll buy?
The precious bargain's cheap--in faith, not I.
Your turtle-feeder's verse must needs be flat, [xxxii]
Though Bristol bloat him with the verdant fat;
If Commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brain,
And AMOS COTTLE strikes the Lyre in vain.
In him an author's luckless lot behold!
Condemned to make the books which once he sold.
Oh, AMOS COTTLE!--Phoebus! what a name
To fill the speaking-trump of future fame!-- 400
Oh, AMOS COTTLE! for a moment think
What meagre profits spring from pen and ink!
When thus devoted to poetic dreams,
Who will peruse thy prostituted reams?
Oh! pen perverted! paper misapplied!
Had COTTLE [55] still adorned the counter's side,
Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils,
Been taught to make the paper which he soils,
Ploughed, delved, or plied the oar with lusty limb,
He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him. 410
As Sisyphus against the infernal steep
Rolls the huge rock whose motions ne'er may sleep,
So up thy hill, ambrosial Richmond! heaves
Dull MAURICE [56] all his granite weight of leaves:
Smooth, solid monuments of mental pain!
The petrifactions of a plodding brain,
That, ere they reach the top, fall lumbering back again.
With broken lyre and cheek serenely pale,
Lo! sad Alc鎢s wanders down the vale;
Though fair they rose, and might have bloomed at last, 420
His hopes have perished by the northern blast:
Nipped in the bud by Caledonian gales,
His blossoms wither as the blast prevails!
O'er his lost works let _classic_ SHEFFIELD weep;
May no rude hand disturb their early sleep! [57]
Yet say! why should the Bard, at once, resign [xxxiii]
His claim to favour from the sacred Nine?
For ever startled by the mingled howl
Of Northern Wolves, that still in darkness prowl;
A coward Brood, which mangle as they prey, 430
By hellish instinct, all that cross their way;
Aged or young, the living or the dead," [xxxiv]
No mercy find-these harpies must be fed.
Why do the injured unresisting yield
The calm possession of their native field?
Why tamely thus before their fangs retreat,
Nor hunt the blood-hounds back to Arthur's Seat? [58]
Health to immortal JEFFREY! once, in name,
England could boast a judge almost the same; [59]
In soul so like, so merciful, yet just, 440
Some think that Satan has resigned his trust,
And given the Spirit to the world again,
To sentence Letters, as he sentenced men.
With hand less mighty, but with heart as black,
With voice as willing to decree the rack;
Bred in the Courts betimes, though all that law
As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw,--
Since well instructed in the patriot school
To rail at party, though a party tool--
Who knows? if chance his patrons should restore 450
Back to the sway they forfeited before,
His scribbling toils some recompense may meet,
And raise this Daniel to the Judgment-Seat. [60]
Let JEFFREY'S shade indulge the pious hope,
And greeting thus, present him with a rope:
"Heir to my virtues! man of equal mind!
Skilled to condemn as to traduce mankind,
This cord receive! for thee reserved with care,
To wield in judgment, and at length to wear."
Health to great JEFFREY! Heaven preserve his life, 460
To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife,
And guard it sacred in its future wars,
Since authors sometimes seek the field of Mars!
Can none remember that eventful day, [xxxv] [61]
That ever-glorious, almost fatal fray,
When LITTLE'S leadless pistol met his eye, [62]
And Bow-street Myrmidons stood laughing by?
Oh, day disastrous! on her firm-set rock,
Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock;
Dark rolled the sympathetic waves of Forth, 470
Low groaned the startled whirlwinds of the north;
TWEED ruffled half his waves to form a tear,
The other half pursued his calm career; [63]
ARTHUR'S steep summit nodded to its base,
The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place.
The Tolbooth felt--for marble sometimes can,
On such occasions, feel as much as man--
The Tolbooth felt defrauded of his charms,
If JEFFREY died, except within her arms: [64]
Nay last, not least, on that portentous morn, 480
The sixteenth story, where himself was born,
His patrimonial garret, fell to ground,
And pale Edina shuddered at the sound:
Strewed were the streets around with milk-white reams,
Flowed all the Canongate with inky streams;
This of his candour seemed the sable dew,
That of his valour showed the bloodless hue;
And all with justice deemed the two combined
The mingled emblems of his mighty mind.
But Caledonia's goddess hovered o'er 490
The field, and saved him from the wrath of Moore;
From either pistol snatched the vengeful lead,
And straight restored it to her favourite's head;
That head, with greater than magnetic power,
Caught it, as Dan鋏 caught the golden shower,
And, though the thickening dross will scarce refine,
Augments its ore, and is itself a mine.
"My son," she cried, "ne'er thirst for gore again,
Resign the pistol and resume the pen;
O'er politics and poesy preside, 500
Boast of thy country, and Britannia's guide!
For long as Albion's heedless sons submit,
Or Scottish taste decides on English wit,
So long shall last thine unmolested reign,
Nor any dare to take thy name in vain.
Behold, a chosen band shall aid thy plan,
And own thee chieftain of the critic clan.
First in the oat-fed phalanx [65] shall be seen
The travelled Thane, Athenian Aberdeen. [66]
HERBERT shall wield THOR'S hammer, [67] and sometimes 510
In gratitude, thou'lt praise his rugged rhymes.
Smug SYDNEY [68] too thy bitter page shall seek,
And classic HALLAM, [69] much renowned for Greek;
SCOTT may perchance his name and influence lend,
And paltry PILLANS [70] shall traduce his friend;
While gay Thalia's luckless votary, LAMB, [xxxvi] [71]
Damned like the Devil--Devil-like will damn.
Known be thy name! unbounded be thy sway!
Thy HOLLAND'S banquets shall each toil repay!
While grateful Britain yields the praise she owes 520
To HOLLAND'S hirelings and to Learning's foes.
Yet mark one caution ere thy next Review
Spread its light wings of Saffron and of Blue,
Beware lest blundering BROUGHAM [72] destroy the sale,
Turn Beef to Bannocks, Cauliflowers to Kail."
Thus having said, the kilted Goddess kist
Her son, and vanished in a Scottish mist. [73]
Then prosper, JEFFREY! pertest of the train [74]
Whom Scotland pampers with her fiery grain!
Whatever blessing waits a genuine Scot, 530
In double portion swells thy glorious lot;
For thee Edina culls her evening sweets,
And showers their odours on thy candid sheets,
Whose Hue and Fragrance to thy work adhere--
This scents its pages, and that gilds its rear. [75]
Lo! blushing Itch, coy nymph, enamoured grown,
Forsakes the rest, and cleaves to thee alone,
And, too unjust to other Pictish men,
Enjoys thy person, and inspires thy pen!
Illustrious HOLLAND! hard would be his lot, 540
His hirelings mentioned, and himself forgot! [76]
HOLLAND, with HENRY PETTY [77] at his back,
The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack.
Blest be the banquets spread at Holland House,
Where Scotchmen feed, and Critics may carouse!
Long, long beneath that hospitable roof [xxxvii]
Shall Grub-street dine, while duns are kept aloof.
See honest HALLAM [78] lay aside his fork,
Resume his pen, review his Lordship's work,
And, grateful for the dainties on his plate, [xxxviii] 550
Declare his landlord can at least translate! [79]
Dunedin! view thy children with delight,
They write for food--and feed because they write: [xxxix]
And lest, when heated with the unusual grape,
Some glowing thoughts should to the press escape,
And tinge with red the female reader's cheek,
My lady skims the cream of each critique;
Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul,
Reforms each error, and refines the whole. [80]
Now to the Drama turn--Oh! motley sight! 560
What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite:
Puns, and a Prince within a barrel pent, [xl] [81]
And Dibdin's nonsense yield complete content. [82]
Though now, thank Heaven! the Rosciomania's o'er. [83]
And full-grown actors are endured once more;
Yet what avail their vain attempts to please,
While British critics suffer scenes like these;
While REYNOLDS vents his "'dammes!'" "poohs!" and
"zounds!" [xli] [84]
And common-place and common sense confounds?
While KENNEY'S [85] "World"--ah! where is KENNEY'S wit? [xlii]-- 570
Tires the sad gallery, lulls the listless Pit;
And BEAUMONT'S pilfered Caratach affords
A tragedy complete in all but words? [xliii]
Who but must mourn, while these are all the rage
The degradation of our vaunted stage?
Heavens! is all sense of shame and talent gone?
Have we no living Bard of merit?--none?
Awake, GEORGE COLMAN! [86] CUMBERLAND, awake![87]
Ring the alarum bell! let folly quake!
Oh! SHERIDAN! if aught can move thy pen, 580
Let Comedy assume her throne again; [xliv]
Abjure the mummery of German schools;
Leave new Pizarros to translating fools; [88]
Give, as thy last memorial to the age,
One classic drama, and reform the stage.
Gods! o'er those boards shall Folly rear her head,
Where GARRICK trod, and SIDDONS lives to tread? [xlv] [89]
On those shall Farce display buffoonery's mask,
And HOOK conceal his heroes in a cask? [90]
Shall sapient managers new scenes produce 590
From CHERRY, [91] SKEFFINGTON, [92] and Mother GOOSE? [xlvi] [93]
While SHAKESPEARE, OTWAY, MASSINGER, forgot,
On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot?
Lo! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim
The rival candidates for Attic fame!
In grim array though LEWIS' spectres rise,
Still SKEFFINGTON and GOOSE divide the prize.
And sure 'great' Skeffington must claim our praise,
For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays
Renowned alike; whose genius ne'er confines 600
Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay designs; [xlvii] [94]
Nor sleeps with "Sleeping Beauties," but anon
In five facetious acts comes thundering on.
While poor John Bull, bewildered with the scene,
Stares, wondering what the devil it can mean;
But as some hands applaud, a venal few!
Rather than sleep, why John applauds it too.
Such are we now. Ah! wherefore should we turn
To what our fathers were, unless to mourn?
Degenerate Britons! are ye dead to shame, 610
Or, kind to dulness, do you fear to blame?
Well may the nobles of our present race
Watch each distortion of a NALDI'S face;
Well may they smile on Italy's buffoons,
And worship CATALANI's pantaloons, [95]
Since their own Drama yields no fairer trace
Of wit than puns, of humour than grimace. [96]
Then let Ausonia, skill'd in every art
To soften manners, but corrupt the heart,
Pour her exotic follies o'er the town, 620
To sanction Vice, and hunt Decorum down:
Let wedded strumpets languish o'er DESHAYES,
And bless the promise which his form displays;
While Gayton bounds before th' enraptured looks
Of hoary Marquises, and stripling Dukes:
Let high-born lechers eye the lively Presle
Twirl her light limbs, that spurn the needless veil;
Let Angiolini bare her breast of snow,
Wave the white arm, and point the pliant toe;
Collini trill her love-inspiring song, 630
Strain her fair neck, and charm the listening throng!
Whet [97] not your scythe, Suppressors of our Vice!
Reforming Saints! too delicately nice!
By whose decrees, our sinful souls to save,
No Sunday tankards foam, no barbers shave;
And beer undrawn, and beards unmown, display
Your holy reverence for the Sabbath-day.
Or hail at once the patron and the pile
Of vice and folly, Greville and Argyle! [98]
Where yon proud palace, Fashion's hallow'd fane, 640
Spreads wide her portals for the motley train,
Behold the new Petronius [99] of the day, [xlviii]
Our arbiter of pleasure and of play!
There the hired eunuch, the Hesperian choir,
The melting lute, the soft lascivious lyre,
The song from Italy, the step from France,
The midnight orgy, and the mazy dance,
The smile of beauty, and the flush of wine,
For fops, fools, gamesters, knaves, and Lords combine:
Each to his humour--Comus all allows; 650
Champaign, dice, music, or your neighbour's spouse.
Talk not to us, ye starving sons of trade!
Of piteous ruin, which ourselves have made;
In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask,
Nor think of Poverty, except "en masque," [100]
When for the night some lately titled ass
Appears the beggar which his grandsire was,
The curtain dropped, the gay Burletta o'er,
The audience take their turn upon the floor:
Now round the room the circling dow'gers sweep, 660
Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters leap;
The first in lengthened line majestic swim,
The last display the free unfettered limb!
Those for Hibernia's lusty sons repair
With art the charms which Nature could not spare;
These after husbands wing their eager flight,
Nor leave much mystery for the nuptial night.
Oh! blest retreats of infamy and ease,
Where, all forgotten but the power to please,
Each maid may give a loose to genial thought, 670
Each swain may teach new systems, or be taught:
There the blithe youngster, just returned from Spain,
Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main;
The jovial Caster's set, and seven's the Nick,
Or--done!--a thousand on the coming trick!
If, mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire,
And all your hope or wish is to expire,
Here's POWELL'S [101] pistol ready for your life,
And, kinder still, two PAGETS for your wife: [xlix]
Fit consummation of an earthly race 680
Begun in folly, ended in disgrace,
While none but menials o'er the bed of death,
Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy wavering breath;
Traduced by liars, and forgot by all,
The mangled victim of a drunken brawl,
To live like CLODIUS, [102] and like FALKLAND fall.[103]
Truth! rouse some genuine Bard, and guide his hand
To drive this pestilence from out the land.
E'en I--least thinking of a thoughtless throng,
Just skilled to know the right and choose the wrong, 690
Freed at that age when Reason's shield is lost,
To fight my course through Passion's countless host, [104]
Whom every path of Pleasure's flow'ry way
Has lured in turn, and all have led astray--
E'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel
Such scenes, such men, destroy the public weal:
Altho' some kind, censorious friend will say,
"What art thou better, meddling fool, [105] than they?"
And every Brother Rake will smile to see
That miracle, a Moralist in me. 700
No matter--when some Bard in virtue strong,
Gifford perchance, shall raise the chastening song,
Then sleep my pen for ever! and my voice
Be only heard to hail him, and rejoice,
Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise, though I
May feel the lash that Virtue must apply.
As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals
From silly HAFIZ up to simple BOWLES, [106]
Why should we call them from their dark abode,
In Broad St. Giles's or Tottenham-Road? 710
Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare
To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street or the Square? [l]
If things of Ton their harmless lays indite,
Most wisely doomed to shun the public sight,
What harm? in spite of every critic elf,
Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself;
MILES ANDREWS [107] still his strength in couplets try,
And live in prologues, though his dramas die.
Lords too are Bards: such things at times befall,
And 'tis some praise in Peers to write at all. 720
Yet, did or Taste or Reason sway the times,
Ah! who would take their titles with their rhymes? [108]
ROSCOMMON! [109] SHEFFIELD! [110] with your spirits fled, [111]
No future laurels deck a noble head;
No Muse will cheer, with renovating smile,
The paralytic puling of CARLISLE. [li] [112]
The puny schoolboy and his early lay
Men pardon, if his follies pass away;
But who forgives the Senior's ceaseless verse,
Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow worse? 730
What heterogeneous honours deck the Peer!
Lord, rhymester, petit-ma顃re, pamphleteer! [113]
So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age,
His scenes alone had damned our sinking stage;
But Managers for once cried, "Hold, enough!"
Nor drugged their audience with the tragic stuff.
Yet at their judgment let his Lordship laugh, [lii]
And case his volumes in congenial calf;
Yes! doff that covering, where Morocco shines,
And hang a calf-skin on those recreant lines. [114] 740
With you, ye Druids! rich in native lead,
Who daily scribble for your daily bread:
With you I war not: GIFFORD'S heavy hand
Has crushed, without remorse, your numerous band.
On "All the Talents" vent your venal spleen; [115]
Want is your plea, let Pity be your screen.
Let Monodies on Fox regale your crew,
And Melville's Mantle [116] prove a Blanket too!
One common Lethe waits each hapless Bard,
And, peace be with you! 'tis your best reward. 750
Such damning fame; as Dunciads only give [liii]
Could bid your lines beyond a morning live;
But now at once your fleeting labours close,
With names of greater note in blest repose.
Far be't from me unkindly to upbraid
The lovely ROSA'S prose in masquerade,
Whose strains, the faithful echoes of her mind,
Leave wondering comprehension far behind. [117]
Though Crusca's bards no more our journals fill, [118]
Some stragglers skirmish round the columns still; 760
Last of the howling host which once was Bell's, [liv]
Matilda snivels yet, and Hafiz yells;
And Merry's [119] metaphors appear anew,
Chained to the signature of O. P. Q. [120]
When some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall,
Employs a pen less pointed than his awl,
Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of shoes,
St. Crispin quits, and cobbles for the Muse,
Heavens! how the vulgar stare! how crowds applaud!
How ladies read, and Literati laud! [121] 770
If chance some wicked wag should pass his jest,
'Tis sheer ill-nature--don't the world know best?
Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme,
And CAPEL LOFFT [122] declares 'tis quite sublime.
Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade!
Swains! quit the plough, resign the useless spade!
Lo! BURNS and BLOOMFIELD, nay, a greater far,
GIFFORD was born beneath an adverse star,
Forsook the labours of a servile state,
Stemmed the rude storm, and triumphed over Fate: 780
Then why no more? if Phoebus smiled on you,
BLOOMFIELD! why not on brother Nathan too? [123]
Him too the Mania, not the Muse, has seized;
Not inspiration, but a mind diseased:
And now no Boor can seek his last abode,
No common be inclosed without an ode.
Oh! since increased refinement deigns to smile
On Britain's sons, and bless our genial Isle,
Let Poesy go forth, pervade the whole,
Alike the rustic, and mechanic soul! 790
Ye tuneful cobblers! still your notes prolong,
Compose at once a slipper and a song;
So shall the fair your handywork peruse,
Your sonnets sure shall please--perhaps your shoes.
May Moorland weavers [124] boast Pindaric skill,
And tailors' lays be longer than their bill!
While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes,
And pay for poems--when they pay for coats.
To the famed throng now paid the tribute due, [lv]
Neglected Genius! let me turn to you. 800
Come forth, oh CAMPBELL! give thy talents scope;
Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope?
And thou, melodious ROGERS! rise at last,
Recall the pleasing memory of the past; [125]
Arise! let blest remembrance still inspire,
And strike to wonted tones thy hallowed lyre;
Restore Apollo to his vacant throne,
Assert thy country's honour and thine own.
What! must deserted Poesy still weep
Where her last hopes with pious COWPER sleep? 810
Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she turns,
To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, BURNS!
No! though contempt hath marked the spurious brood,
The race who rhyme from folly, or for food,
Yet still some genuine sons 'tis hers to boast,
Who, least affecting, still affect the most: [lvi]
Feel as they write, and write but as they feel--
Bear witness GIFFORD, [126] SOTHEBY, [127] MACNEIL. [128]
"Why slumbers GIFFORD?" once was asked in vain;
Why slumbers GIFFORD? let us ask again. [129] 820
Are there no follies for his pen to purge?
Are there no fools whose backs demand the scourge?
Are there no sins for Satire's Bard to greet?
Stalks not gigantic Vice in every street?
Shall Peers or Princes tread pollution's path,
And 'scape alike the Laws and Muse's wrath?
Nor blaze with guilty glare through future time,
Eternal beacons of consummate crime?
Arouse thee, GIFFORD! be thy promise claimed,
Make bad men better, or at least ashamed. 830
Unhappy WHITE! [130] while life was in its spring,
And thy young Muse just waved her joyous wing,
The Spoiler swept that soaring Lyre away, [lvii] [131]
Which else had sounded an immortal lay.
Oh! what a noble heart was here undone,
When Science' self destroyed her favourite son!
Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit,
She sowed the seeds, but Death has reaped the fruit.
'Twas thine own Genius gave the final blow,
And helped to plant the wound that laid thee low: 840
So the struck Eagle, stretched upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart,
And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart;
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel
He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel;
While the same plumage that had warmed his nest
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.
There be who say, in these enlightened days,
That splendid lies are all the poet's praise; 850
That strained Invention, ever on the wing,
Alone impels the modern Bard to sing:
Tis true, that all who rhyme--nay, all who write,
Shrink from that fatal word to Genius--Trite;
Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires,
And decorate the verse herself inspires:
This fact in Virtue's name let CRABBE [132] attest;
Though Nature's sternest Painter, yet the best.
And here let SHEE [133] and Genius find a place,
Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace; 860
To guide whose hand the sister Arts combine,
And trace the Poet's or the Painter's line;
Whose magic touch can bid the canvas glow,
Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow;
While honours, doubly merited, attend [lviii]
The Poet's rival, but the Painter's friend.
Blest is the man who dares approach the bower
Where dwelt the Muses at their natal hour;
Whose steps have pressed, whose eye has marked afar,
The clime that nursed the sons of song and war, 870
The scenes which Glory still must hover o'er,
Her place of birth, her own Achaian shore.
But doubly blest is he whose heart expands
With hallowed feelings for those classic lands;
Who rends the veil of ages long gone by,
And views their remnants with a poet's eye!
WRIGHT! [134] 'twas thy happy lot at once to view
Those shores of glory, and to sing them too;
And sure no common Muse inspired thy pen
To hail the land of Gods and Godlike men. 880
And you, associate Bards! [135] who snatched to light [lvix]
Those gems too long withheld from modern sight;
Whose mingling taste combined to cull the wreath
While Attic flowers Aonian odours breathe,
And all their renovated fragrance flung,
To grace the beauties of your native tongue;
Now let those minds, that nobly could transfuse
The glorious Spirit of the Grecian Muse,
Though soft the echo, scorn a borrowed tone: [lx]
Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. 890
Let these, or such as these, with just applause, [lxi]
Restore the Muse's violated laws;
But not in flimsy DARWIN'S [136] pompous chime, [lxii]
That mighty master of unmeaning rhyme,
Whose gilded cymbals, more adorned than clear,
The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear,
In show the simple lyre could once surpass,
But now, worn down, appear in native brass;
While all his train of hovering sylphs around
Evaporate in similes and sound: 900
Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die:
False glare attracts, but more offends the eye. [137]
Yet let them not to vulgar WORDSWORTH [138] stoop,
The meanest object of the lowly group,
Whose verse, of all but childish prattle void,
Seems blessed harmony to LAMB and LLOYD: [139]
Let them--but hold, my Muse, nor dare to teach
A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach:
The native genius with their being given
Will point the path, and peal their notes to heaven. 910
And thou, too, SCOTT! [140] resign to minstrels rude
The wilder Slogan of a Border feud:
Let others spin their meagre lines for hire;
Enough for Genius, if itself inspire!
Let SOUTHEY sing, altho' his teeming muse, [lxiii]
Prolific every spring, be too profuse;
Let simple WORDSWORTH [141] chime his childish verse,
And brother COLERIDGE lull the babe at nurse [lxiv]
Let Spectre-mongering LEWIS aim, at most, [lxv]
To rouse the Galleries, or to raise a ghost; 920
Let MOORE still sigh; let STRANGFORD steal from MOORE, [lxvi]
And swear that CAMO薔S sang such notes of yore;
Let HAYLEY hobble on, MONTGOMERY rave,
And godly GRAHAME chant a stupid stave;
Let sonneteering BOWLES [142] his strains refine,
And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line;
Let STOTT, CARLISLE, [143] MATILDA, and the rest
Of Grub Street, and of Grosvenor Place the best,
Scrawl on, 'till death release us from the strain,
Or Common Sense assert her rights again; 930
But Thou, with powers that mock the aid of praise,
Should'st leave to humbler Bards ignoble lays:
Thy country's voice, the voice of all the Nine,
Demand a hallowed harp--that harp is thine.
Say! will not Caledonia's annals yield
The glorious record of some nobler field,
Than the vile foray of a plundering clan,
Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man?
Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food
For SHERWOOD'S outlaw tales of ROBIN HOOD? [lxvii] 940
Scotland! still proudly claim thy native Bard,
And be thy praise his first, his best reward!
Yet not with thee alone his name should live,
But own the vast renown a world can give;
Be known, perchance, when Albion is no more,
And tell the tale of what she was before;
To future times her faded fame recall,
And save her glory, though his country fall.
Yet what avails the sanguine Poet's hope,
To conquer ages, and with time to cope? 950
New eras spread their wings, new nations rise,
And other Victors fill th' applauding skies; [144]
A few brief generations fleet along,
Whose sons forget the Poet and his song:
E'en now, what once-loved Minstrels scarce may claim
The transient mention of a dubious name!
When Fame's loud trump hath blown its noblest blast,
Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last;
And glory, like the Phoenix [145] midst her fires,
Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires. 960
Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons,
Expert in science, more expert at puns?
Shall these approach the Muse? ah, no! she flies,
Even from the tempting ore of Seaton's prize; [lxviii]
Though Printers condescend the press to soil
With rhyme by HOARE, [146] and epic blank by HOYLE: [lxix] [147]
Not him whose page, if still upheld by whist,
Requires no sacred theme to bid us list. [148]
Ye! who in Granta's honours would surpass,
Must mount her Pegasus, a full-grown ass; 970
A foal well worthy of her ancient Dam,
Whose Helicon [149] is duller than her Cam. [lxx]
There CLARKE, [150] still striving piteously "to please," [lxxi]
Forgetting doggerel leads not to degrees,
A would-be satirist, a hired Buffoon,
A monthly scribbler of some low Lampoon, [151]
Condemned to drudge, the meanest of the mean,
And furbish falsehoods for a magazine,
Devotes to scandal his congenial mind;
Himself a living libel on mankind. 980
Oh! dark asylum of a Vandal race! [152]
At once the boast of learning, and disgrace!
So lost to Phoebus, that nor Hodgson's [153] verse
Can make thee better, nor poor Hewson's [154] worse. [lxxii]
But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave,
The partial Muse delighted loves to lave;
On her green banks a greener wreath she wove, [lxxiii]
To crown the Bards that haunt her classic grove;
Where RICHARDS wakes a genuine poet's fires,
And modern Britons glory in their Sires. [155] [lxxiv] 990
For me, who, thus unasked, have dared to tell
My country, what her sons should know too well, [lxxv]
Zeal for her honour bade me here engage [lxxvi]
The host of idiots that infest her age;
No just applause her honoured name shall lose,
As first in freedom, dearest to the Muse.
Oh! would thy bards but emulate thy fame,
And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name!
What Athens was in science, Rome in power,
What Tyre appeared in her meridian hour, 1000
'Tis thine at once, fair Albion! to have been--
Earth's chief Dictatress, Ocean's lovely Queen: [lxxvii]
But Rome decayed, and Athens strewed the plain,
And Tyre's proud piers lie shattered in the main;
Like these, thy strength may sink, in ruin hurled, [lxxviii]
And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world.
But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's fate,
With warning ever scoffed at, till too late;
To themes less lofty still my lay confine,
And urge thy Bards to gain a name like thine. [156] 1010
Then, hapless Britain! be thy rulers blest,
The senate's oracles, the people's jest!
Still hear thy motley orators dispense
The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense,
While CANNING'S colleagues hate him for his wit,
And old dame PORTLAND [157] fills the place of PITT.
Yet once again, adieu! ere this the sail
That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale;
And Afric's coast and Calpe's adverse height, [158]
And Stamboul's minarets must greet my sight: 1020
Thence shall I stray through Beauty's native clime, [159]
Where Kaff [160] is clad in rocks, and crowned with snows sublime.
But should I back return, no tempting press [lxxix]
Shall drag my Journal from the desk's recess;
Let coxcombs, printing as they come from far,
Snatch his own wreath of Ridicule from Carr;
Let ABERDEEN and ELGIN [161] still pursue
The shade of fame through regions of Virt?
Waste useless thousands on their Phidian freaks,
Misshapen monuments and maimed antiques; 1030
And make their grand saloons a general mart
For all the mutilated blocks of art:
Of Dardan tours let Dilettanti tell,
I leave topography to rapid [162] GELL; [163]
And, quite content, no more shall interpose
To stun the public ear--at least with Prose. [lxxx]
Thus far I've held my undisturbed career,
Prepared for rancour, steeled 'gainst selfish fear;
This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdained to own--
Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown: 1040
My voice was heard again, though not so loud,
My page, though nameless, never disavowed;
And now at once I tear the veil away:--
Cheer on the pack! the Quarry stands at bay,
Unscared by all the din of MELBOURNE house, [164]
By LAMB'S resentment, or by HOLLAND'S spouse,
By JEFFREY'S harmless pistol, HALLAM'S rage,
Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page.
Our men in buckram shall have blows enough,
And feel they too are "penetrable stuff:" 1050
And though I hope not hence unscathed to go,
Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe.
The time hath been, when no harsh sound would fall
From lips that now may seem imbued with gall;
Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise
The meanest thing that crawled beneath my eyes:
But now, so callous grown, so changed since youth,
I've learned to think, and sternly speak the truth;
Learned to deride the critic's starch decree,
And break him on the wheel he meant for me; 1060
To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss,
Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss:
Nay more, though all my rival rhymesters frown,
I too can hunt a Poetaster down;
And, armed in proof, the gauntlet cast at once
To Scotch marauder, and to Southern dunce.
Thus much I've dared; if my incondite lay [lxxx]
Hath wronged these righteous times, let others say:
This, let the world, which knows not how to spare,
Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare. [165] 1070
[Footnote 1: "The 'binding' of this volume is considerably too valuable
for the contents. Nothing but the consideration of its being the
property of another, prevents me from consigning this miserable record
of misplaced anger and indiscriminate acrimony to the flames."--B.,
1816.]
[Footnote 2: IMITATION.
"Semper ego auditor tantum? nunquamne reponam,
Vexatus toties, rauci Theseide Codri?"
JUVENAL, 'Satire I'.l. 1.]
[Footnote 3: "'Hoarse Fitzgerald'.--"Right enough; but why notice such
a mountebank?"--B., 1816.
Mr. Fitzgerald, facetiously termed by Cobbett the "Small Beer Poet,"
inflicts his annual tribute of verse on the Literary Fund: not content
with writing, he spouts in person, after the company have imbibed a
reasonable quantity of bad port, to enable them to sustain the
operation.
[William Thomas Fitzgerald (circ. 1759-1829) played the part of
unofficial poet laureate. His loyal recitations were reported by the
newspapers. He published, 'inter alia', 'Nelson's Triumph' (1798),
'Tears of Hibernia, dispelled by the Union' (1802), and 'Nelson's Tomb'
(1806). He owes his fame to the first line of 'English Bards', and the
famous parody in 'Rejected Addresses'. The following 'jeux d閟prits'
were transcribed by R. C. Dallas on a blank leaf of a copy of the Fifth
Edition:--
"Written on a copy of 'English Bards' at the 'Alfred' by W. T.
Fitzgerald, Esq.--
I find Lord Byron scorns my Muse,
Our Fates are ill agreed;
The Verse is safe, I can't abuse
Those lines, I never read.
Signed W. T. F."
Answer written on the same page by Lord Byron--
"What's writ on me," cries Fitz, "I never read"!
What's writ by thee, dear Fitz, none will, indeed.
The case stands simply thus, then, honest Fitz,
Thou and thine enemies are fairly quits;
Or rather would be, if for time to come,
They luckily were 'deaf', or thou wert dumb;
But to their pens while scribblers add their tongues.
The Waiter only can escape their lungs. [A]]
{Sub-Footnote 0.1: Compare 'Hints from Horace', l. 808, 'note' 1.}
[Footnote 4: Cid Hamet Benengeli promises repose to his pen, in the last
chapter of 'Don Quixote'. Oh! that our voluminous gentry would follow
the example of Cid Hamet Benengeli!]
[Footnote 5: "This must have been written in the spirit of prophecy."
(B., 1816.)]
[Footnote 6: "He's a very good fellow; and, except his mother and
sister, the best of the set, to my mind."--B., 1816. [William
(1779-1848) and George (1784-1834) Lamb, sons of Sir Peniston Lamb
(Viscount Melbourne, 1828), by Elizabeth, only daughter of Sir Ralph
Milbanke, were Lady Byron's first cousins. William married, in 1805,
Lady Caroline Ponsonby, the writer of 'Glenarvon'. George, who was one
of the early contributors to the 'Edinburgh Review', married in 1809
Caroline Rosalie Adelaide St. Jules. At the time of the separation, Lady
Caroline Lamb and Mrs. George Lamb warmly espoused Lady Byron's cause,
Lady Melbourne and her daughter Lady Cowper (afterwards Lady Palmerston)
were rather against than for Lady Byron. William Lamb was discreetly
silent, and George Lamb declaimed against Lady Byron, calling her a
d----d fool. Hence Lord Byron's praises of George. Cf. line 517 of
'English Bards'.]
[Footnote 7: This ingenuous youth is mentioned more particularly, with
his production, in another place. ('Vide post', l. 516.)
"Spurious Brat" [see variant ii. p. 300], that is the farce; the
ingenuous youth who begat it is mentioned more particularly with his
offspring in another place. ['Note. MS. M.'] [The farce 'Whistle for It'
was performed two or three times at Covent Garden Theatre in 1807.]
[Footnote 8: In the 'Edinburgh Review'.]
[Footnote 9: The proverbial "Joe" Miller, an actor by profession
(1684-1738), was a man of no education, and is said to have been unable
to read. His reputation rests mainly on the book of jests compiled after
his death, and attributed to him by John Mottley. (First Edition. T.
Read. 1739.)]
[Footnote 10: Messrs. Jeffrey and Lamb are the alpha and omega, the
first and last of the 'Edinburgh Review'; the others are mentioned
hereafter.
[The MS. Note is as follows:--"Of the young gentlemen who write in the
'E.R.', I have now named the alpha and omega, the first and the last,
the best and the worst. The intermediate members are designated with due
honour hereafter."]
"This was not just. Neither the heart nor the head of these gentlemen
are at all what they are here represented. At the time this was written,
I was personally unacquainted with either."--B., 1816.
[Francis Jeffrey (1773-1850) founded the 'Edinburgh Review' in
conjunction with Sydney Smith, Brougham, and Francis Horner, in 1802. In
1803 he succeeded Smith as editor, and conducted the 'Review' till 1829.
Independence of publishers and high pay to contributors ("Ten guineas a
sheet," writes Southey to Scott, June, 1807, "instead of seven pounds
for the 'Annual'," 'Life and Corr'., iii. 125) distinguished the new
journal from the first. Jeffrey was called to the Scottish bar in 1794,
and as an advocate was especially successful with juries. He was
constantly employed, and won fame and fortune. In 1829 he was elected
Dean of the Faculty of Advocates, and the following year, when the Whigs
came into office, he became Lord Advocate. He sat as M.P. twice for
Malton (1830-1832), and, afterwards, for Edinburgh. In 1834 he was
appointed a Judge of the Court of Sessions, when he took the title of
Lord Jeffrey. Byron had attacked Jeffrey in British Bards before his
'Hours of Idleness' had been cut up by the 'Edinburgh', and when the
article appeared (Jan. 1808), under the mistaken impression that he was
the author, denounced him at large (ll. 460-528) in the first edition of
'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers'. None the less, the great critic
did not fail to do ample justice to the poet's mature work, and won from
him repeated acknowledgments of his kindness and generosity. (See
'Edinburgh Review', vol. xxii. p. 416, and Byron's comment in his
'Diary' for March 20,1814; 'Life', p. 232. See, too, 'Hints from
Horace', ll. 589-626; and 'Don Juan', canto x. st. 11-16, and canto xii.
st. 16. See also Bagehot's 'Literary Studies', vol. i. article I.)]
[Footnote 11: IMITATION.
"Stulta est dementia, cum tot ubique
------occurras peritur?parcere chart?"
JUVENAL, 'Sat. I.' ll. 17, 18.]
[Footnote 12: IMITATION.
"Cur tamen hoc potius libeat decurrere campo,
Per quem magnus equos Aurunc?flexit alumnus,
Si vacat, et placidi rationem admittitis, edam."
JUVENAL, 'Sat. I'. ll. 19-21.]
[Footnote 13: William Gifford (1756-1826), a self-taught scholar, first
a ploughboy, then boy on board a Brixham coaster, afterwards shoemaker's
apprentice, was sent by friends to Exeter College, Oxford (1779-81). In
the 'Baviad' (1794) and the 'Maeviad' (1795) he attacked many of the
smaller writers of the day, who were either silly, like the Della
Cruscan School, or discreditable, like Williams, who wrote as "Anthony
Pasquin." In his 'Epistle to Peter Pindar' (1800) he laboured to expose
the true character of John Wolcot. As editor of the 'Anti-Jacobin, or
Weekly Examiner' (November, 1797, to July, 1798), he supported the
political views of Canning and his friends. As editor of the 'Quarterly
Review', from its foundation (February, 1809) to his resignation in
September, 1824, he soon rose to literary eminence by his sound sense
and adherence to the best models, though his judgments were sometimes
narrow-minded and warped by political prejudice. His editions of
'Massinger' (1805), which superseded that of Monck Mason and Davies
(1765), of 'Ben Jonson' (1816), of 'Ford' (1827), are valuable. To his
translation of 'Juvenal' (1802) is prefixed his autobiography. His
translation of 'Persius' appeared in 1821. To Gifford, Byron usually
paid the utmost deference. "Any suggestion of yours, even if it were
conveyed," he writes to him, in 1813, "in the less tender text of the
'Baviad', or a Monck Mason note to Massinger, would be obeyed." See also
his letter (September 20, 1821, 'Life', p.531): "I know no praise which
would compensate me in my own mind for his censure." Byron was attracted
to Gifford, partly by his devotion to the classical models of
literature, partly by the outspoken frankness of his literary criticism,
partly also, perhaps, by his physical deformity.]
[Footnote 14: Henry James Pye (1745-1813), M.P. for Berkshire, and
afterwards Police Magistrate for Westminster, held the office of poet
laureate from 1790 till his death in 1813, succeeding Thomas Warton, and
succeeded by Southey. He published 'Farringdon Hill' in 1774, The
'Progress of Refinement' in 1783, and a translation of Burger's 'Lenore'
in 1795. His name recurs in the 'Vision of Judgment', stanza xcii. Lines
97-102 were _insert_ed in the Fifth Edition.]
[Footnote 15: The first edition of the Satire opened with this line; and
Byron's original intention was to prefix the following argument, first
published in 'Recollections', by R. C. Dallas (1824):--
"ARGUMENT.
"The poet considereth times past, and their poesy--makes a sudden
transition to times present--is incensed against book-makers--revileth
Walter Scott for cupidity and ballad-mongering, with notable remarks
on Master Southey--complaineth that Master Southey had inflicted three
poems, epic and otherwise, on the public--inveigheth against William
Wordsworth, but laudeth Mister Coleridge and his elegy on a young
ass--is disposed to vituperate Mr. Lewis--and greatly rebuketh Thomas
Little (the late) and Lord Strangford--recommendeth Mr. Hayley to turn
his attention to prose--and exhorteth the Moravians to glorify Mr.
Grahame--sympathiseth with the Rev. [William Bowles]--and deploreth
the melancholy fate of James Montgomery--breaketh out into invective
against the Edinburgh Reviewers--calleth them hard names, harpies and
the like--apostrophiseth Jeffrey, and prophesieth.--Episode of Jeffrey
and Moore, their jeopardy and deliverance; portents on the morn of the
combat; the Tweed, Tolbooth, Firth of Forth [and Arthur's Seat],
severally shocked; descent of a goddess to save Jeffrey; incorporation
of the bullets with his sinciput and occiput.--Edinburgh Reviews 'en
masse'.--Lord Aberdeen, Herbert, Scott, Hallam, Pillans, Lambe,
Sydney Smith, Brougham, etc.--Lord Holland applauded for dinners and
translations.--The Drama; Skeffington, Hook, Reynolds, Kenney, Cherry,
etc.--Sheridan, Colman, and Cumberland called upon [requested, MS.] to
write.--Return to poesy--scribblers of all sorts--lords sometimes
rhyme; much better not--Hafiz, Rosa Matilda, and X.Y.Z.--Rogers,
Campbell, Gifford, etc. true poets--Translators of the Greek
Anthology--Crabbe--Darwin's style--Cambridge--Seatonian
Prize--Smythe--Hodgson--Oxford--Richards--Poetaloquitur--Conclusion."]
[Footnote 16: Lines 115, 116, were a MS. addition to the printed text of
'British Bards'. An alternative version has been pencilled on the
margin:--
"Otway and Congreve mimic scenes had wove
And Waller tuned his Lyre to mighty Love."]
[Footnote 17: Thomas Little was the name under which Moore's early poems
were published, 'The Poetical Works of the late Thomas Little, Esq.'
(1801). "Twelves" refers to the "duodecimo." Sheets, after printing, are
pressed between cold or hot rollers, to impart smoothness of "surface."
Hot rolling is the more expensive process.]
[Footnote 18: Eccles. chapter i. verse 9.]
[Footnote 19: At first sight Byron appears to refer to the lighting of
streets by gas, especially as the first shop lighted with it was that of
Lardner & Co., at the corner of the Albany (June, 1805), and as lamps
were on view at the premises of the Gas Light and Coke Company in Pall
Mall from 1808 onwards. But it is almost certain that he alludes to the
"sublimating gas" of Dr. Beddoes, which his assistant, Davy, mentions in
his 'Researches' (1800) as nitrous oxide, and which was used by Southey
and Coleridge. The same four "wonders" of medical science are depicted
in Gillray's caricatures, November, 1801, and May and June, 1802, and
are satirized in Christopher Caustic's 'Terrible Tractoration! A
Poetical Petition against Galvanising Trumpery and the Perkinistit
Institution' (in 4 cantos, 1803).
Against vaccination, or cow-pox, a brisk war was still being carried on.
Gillray has a likeness of Jenner vaccinating patients.
Metallic "Tractors" were a remedy much advertised at the beginning of
the century by an American quack, Benjamin Charles Perkins, founder of
the Perkinean Institution in London, as a "cure for all Disorders, Red
Noses, Gouty Toes, Windy Bowels, Broken Legs, Hump Backs."
In Galvanism several experiments, conducted by Professor Aldini, nephew
of Galvani, are described in the 'Morning Post' for Jan. 6th, Feb. 6th,
and Jan. 22nd, 1803. The latter were made on the body of Forster the
murderer.
For the allusion to Gas, compare 'Terrible Tractoration', canto 1--
"Beddoes (bless the good doctor) has
Sent me a bag full of his gas,
Which snuff'd the nose up, makes wit brighter,
And eke a dunce an airy writer."]
[Footnote 20: Stott, better known in the 'Morning Post' by the name of
Hafiz. This personage is at present the most profound explorer of the
bathos. I remember, when the reigning family left Portugal, a special
Ode of Master Stott's, beginning thus:--('Stott loquitur quoad
Hibernia')--
"Princely offspring of Braganza,
Erin greets thee with a stanza," etc.
Also a Sonnet to Rats, well worthy of the subject, and a most thundering
Ode, commencing as follows:--
"Oh! for a Lay! loud as the surge
That lashes Lapland's sounding shore."
Lord have mercy on us! the "Lay of the Last Minstrel" was nothing to
this. [The lines "Princely Offspring," headed "Extemporaneous Verse on
the expulsion of the Prince Regent from Portugal by Gallic Tyranny,"
were published in the 'Morning Post', Dec. 30, 1807. (See 'post', l.
708, and 'note'.)] ]
[Footnote 21: See p. 317, note 1.]
[Footnote 22: See the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," 'passim'. Never was
any plan so incongruous and absurd as the groundwork of this production.
The entrance of Thunder and Lightning prologuising to Bayes' tragedy
[('vide The Rehearsal'), 'British Bards'], unfortunately takes away the
merit of originality from the dialogue between Messieurs the Spirits of
Flood and Fell in the first canto. Then we have the amiable William of
Deloraine, "a stark moss-trooper," videlicet, a happy compound of
poacher, sheep-stealer, and highwayman. The propriety of his magical
lady's injunction not to read can only be equalled by his candid
acknowledgment of his independence of the trammels of spelling,
although, to use his own elegant phrase, "'twas his neckverse at
Harribee," 'i. e.' the gallows.
The biography of Gilpin Horner, and the marvellous pedestrian page, who
travelled twice as fast as his master's horse, without the aid of
seven-leagued boots, are 'chefs d'oeuvre' in the improvement of taste.
For incident we have the invisible, but by no means sparing box on the
ear bestowed on the page, and the entrance of a Knight and Charger into
the castle, under the very natural disguise of a wain of hay. Marmion,
the hero of the latter romance, is exactly what William of Deloraine
would have been, had he been able to read and write. The poem was
manufactured for Messrs. CONSTABLE, MURRAY, and MILLER, worshipful
Booksellers, in consideration of the receipt of a sum of money; and
truly, considering the inspiration, it is a very creditable production.
If Mr. SCOTT will write for hire, let him do his best for his
paymasters, but not disgrace his genius, which is undoubtedly great, by
a repetition of Black-Letter Ballad imitations.
[Constable paid Scott a thousand pounds for 'Marmion', and
"offered one fourth of the copyright to Mr. Miller of Albemarle
Street, and one fourth to Mr. Murray of Fleet Street (see line 173).
Both publishers eagerly accepted the proposal."
...
"A severe and unjust review of 'Marmion' by Jeffrey appeared in [the
'Edinburgh Review' for April] 1808, accusing Scott of a mercenary
spirit in writing for money. ... Scott was much nettled by these
observations."
('Memoirs of John Murray', i. 76, 95). In his diary of 1813 Byron wrote
of Scott,
"He is undoubtedly the Monarch of Parnassus, and the most 'English' of
Bards."
'Life', p. 206.]]
[Footnote 23: It was the suggestion of the Countess of Dalkeith, that
Scott should write a ballad on the old border legend of 'Gilpin Horner',
which first gave shape to the poet's ideas, and led to the 'Lay of the
Last Minstrel'.]
[Footnote 24: In his strictures on Scott and Southey, Byron takes his
lead from Lady Anne Hamilton's (1766-1846, daughter of Archibald, ninth
Duke of Hamilton, and Lady-in-waiting to Caroline of Brunswick) 'Epics
of the Ton' (1807), a work which has not shared the dubious celebrity of
her 'Secret Memories of the Court', etc. (1832). Compare the following
lines (p. 9):--
"Then still might Southey sing his crazy Joan,
Or feign a Welshman o'er the Atlantic flown,
Or tell of Thalaba the wondrous matter,
Or with clown Wordsworth, chatter, chatter, chatter.
* * * * *
Good-natured Scott rehearse, in well-paid lays,
The marv'lous chiefs and elves of other days."
(For Scott's reference to "my share of flagellation among my betters,"
and an explicit statement that he had remonstrated with Jeffrey against
the "offensive criticism" of 'Hours of Idleness', because he thought it
treated with undue severity, see Introduction to 'Marmion', 1830.)]]
[Footnote 25: Lines 179, 180, in the Fifth Edition, were substituted for
variant i. p. 312.--'Leigh Hunt's annotated Copy of the Fourth Edition'.]
[Footnote 26: "Good night to Marmion"--the pathetic and also prophetic
exclamation of Henry Blount, Esquire, on the death of honest Marmion.]
[Footnote 27: As the 'Odyssey' is so closely connected with the story of
the 'Iliad', they may almost be classed as one grand historical poem. In
alluding to Milton and Tasso, we consider the 'Paradise Lost' and
'Gerusalemme Liberata' as their standard efforts; since neither the
'Jerusalem Conquered' of the Italian, nor the 'Paradise Regained' of the
English bard, obtained a proportionate celebrity to their former poems.
Query: Which of Mr. Southey's will survive?]
[Footnote 28: 'Thalaba', Mr. Southey's second poem, is written in
defiance of precedent and poetry. Mr. S. wished to produce something
novel, and succeeded to a miracle. 'Joan of Arc' was marvellous enough,
but 'Thalaba' was one of those poems "which," in the word of PORSON,
"will be read when Homer and Virgil are forgotten, but--<i<not till
then'." ["Of 'Thalaba" the wild and wondrous song"--Proem to 'Madoc',
Southey's 'Poetical Works' (1838), vol. v. 'Joan of Arc' was published
in 1796, 'Thalaba the Destroyer' in 1801, and 'Madoc' in 1805.]
[Footnote 29: The hero of Fielding's farce, 'The Tragedy of Tragedies',
'or the Life and Death of Tom Thumb the Great', first played in 1730 at
the Haymarket.]
[Footnote 30: Southey's 'Madoc' is divided into two parts--Part I.,
"Madoc in Wales;" Part II., "Madoc in Aztlan." The word "cacique"
("Cacique or cazique... a native chief or 'prince' of the aborigines in
the West Indies:" 'New Engl. Dict'., Art. "Cacique") occurs in the
translations of Spanish writers quoted by Southey in his notes, but not
in the text of the poem.]
[Footnote 31: We beg Mr. Southey's pardon: "Madoc disdains the degraded
title of Epic." See his Preface. ["It assumes not the degraded title of
Epic."--Preface to 'Madoc' (1805), Southey's 'Poetical Works' (1838),
vol. v. p. xxi.] Why is Epic degraded? and by whom? Certainly the late
Romaunts of Masters Cottle, Laureat Pye, Ogilvy, Hole,[A] and gentle
Mistress Cowley, have not exalted the Epic Muse; but, as Mr. SOUTHEY'S
poem "disdains the appellation," allow us to ask--has he substituted
anything better in its stead? or must he be content to rival Sir RICHARD
BLACKMORE in the quantity as well as quality of his verse?
[Sub-Footnote A: For "Hole," the 'MS'. and 'British Bards' read "Sir J.
B. Burgess; Cumberland."] ]
[Footnote 32: See 'The Old Woman of Berkeley', a ballad by Mr. Southey,
wherein an aged gentlewoman is carried away by Beelzebub, on a "high
trotting horse."]
[Footnote 33: The last line, "God help thee," is an evident plagiarism
from the 'Anti-Jacobin' to Mr. Southey, on his Dactylics:--
"God help thee, silly one!"
'Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin', p. 23.]
[Footnote 34: In the annotated copy of the Fourth Edition Byron has
drawn a line down the margin of the passage on Wordsworth, lines
236-248, and adds the word "Unjust." The first four lines on Coleridge
(lines 255-258) are also marked "Unjust." The recantation is, no doubt,
intended to apply to both passages from beginning to end.
"'Unjust'."--B., 1816. (See also Byron's letter to S. T. Coleridge,
March 31, 1815.)]
[Footnote 35: 'Lyrical Ballads', p. 4.--"The Tables Turned," Stanza 1.
"Up, up, my friend, and clear your looks,
Why all this toil and trouble?
Up, up, my friend, and quit your books,
Or surely you'll grow double."]
[Footnote 36: Mr. W. in his preface labours hard to prove, that prose
and verse are much the same; and certainly his precepts and practice are
strictly conformable:--
"And thus to Betty's questions he
Made answer, like a traveller bold.
'The cock did crow, to-whoo, to-whoo,
And the sun did shine so cold.'"
'Lyrical Ballads', p. 179. [Compare 'The Simpliciad', II. 295-305, and
'note'.]]
[Footnote 37: "He has not published for some years."--'British Bards'.
(A marginal note in pencil.) [Coleridge's 'Poems' (3rd edit.) appeared
in 1803; the first number of 'The Friend' on June 1, 1809.]]
[Footnote 38: COLERIDGE'S 'Poems', p. 11, "Songs of the Pixies," 'i. e.'
Devonshire Fairies; p. 42, we have "Lines to a Young Lady;" and, p. 52,
"Lines to a Young Ass." [Compare 'The Simpliciad', ll. 211, 213--
"Then in despite of scornful Folly's pother,
Ask him to live with you and hail him brother."]]
[Footnote 39: Matthew Gregory Lewis (1775-1818), known as "Monk" Lewis,
was the son of a rich Jamaica planter. During a six months' visit to
Weimar (1792-3), when he was introduced to Goethe, he applied himself to
the study of German literature, especially novels and the drama. In 1794
he was appointed 'attach? to the Embassy at the Hague, and in the
course of ten weeks wrote 'Ambrosio, or The Monk', which was published
in 1795. In 1798 he made the acquaintance of Scott, and procured his
promise of co-operation in his contemplated 'Tales of Terror'. In the
same year he published the 'Castle Spectre' (first played at Drury Lane,
Dec. 14, 1797), in which, to quote the postscript "To the Reader," he
meant (but Sheridan interposed) "to have exhibited a whole regiment of
Ghosts." 'Tales of Terror' were printed at Weybridge in 1801, and two or
three editions of 'Tales of Wonder', to which Byron refers, came out in
the same year. Lewis borrowed so freely from all sources that the
collection was called "Tales of Plunder." In the first edition (two
vols., printed by W. Bulmer for the author, 1801) the first eighteen
poems, with the exception of 'The Fire King' (xii.) by Walter Scott, are
by Lewis, either original or translated. Scott also contributed
'Glenfinlas, The Eve of St. John, Frederick and Alice, The Wild Huntsmen
(Der Wilde J鋑er). Southey contributed six poems, including 'The Old
Woman of Berkeley' (xxiv.). 'The Little Grey Man' (xix.) is by H.
Bunbury. The second volume is made up from Burns, Gray, Parnell, Glover,
Percy's 'Reliques', and other sources.
A second edition, published in 1801, which consists of thirty-two
ballads (Southey's are not included), advertises "'Tales of Terror'
printed uniform with this edition of 'Tales of Wonder'." 'Romantic
Tales', in four volumes, appeared in 1808. Of his other works, 'The
Captive, A Monodrama', was played in 1803; the 'Bravo of Venice, A
Translation from the German', in 1804; and 'Timour the Tartar' in 1811.
His 'Journal of a West Indian Proprietor' was not published till 1834.
He sat as M.P. for Hindon (1796-1802).
He had been a favourite in society before Byron appeared on the scene,
but there is no record of any intimacy or acquaintance before 1813. When
Byron was living at Geneva, Lewis visited the Maison Diodati in August,
1816, on which occasion he "translated to him Goethe's 'Faust' by word
of mouth," and drew up a codicil to his will, witnessed by Byron,
Shelley, and Polidori, which contained certain humane provisions for the
well-being of the negroes on his Jamaica estates. He also visited him at
'La Mira' in August, 1817. Byron wrote of him after his death: "He was a
good man, and a clever one, but he was a bore, a damned bore--one may
say. But I liked him."
To judge from his letters to his mother and other evidence (Scott's
testimony, for instance), he was a kindly, well-intentioned man, but
lacking in humour. When his father condemned the indecency of the
'Monk', he assured him "that he had not the slightest idea that what he
was then writing could injure the principles of any human being." "He
was," said Byron, "too great a bore to lie," and the plea is evidently
offered in good faith. As a writer, he is memorable chiefly for his
sponsorship of German literature. Scott said of him that he had the
finest ear for rhythm he ever met with--finer than Byron's; and
Coleridge, in a letter to Wordsworth, Jan., 1798 ('Letters of S. T. C.'
(1895), i. 237), and again in 'Table Talk' for March 20, 1834, commends
his verses. Certainly his ballad of "Crazy Jane," once so famous that
ladies took to wearing "Crazy Jane" hats, is of the nature of poetry.
(See 'Life', 349, 362, 491, etc.; 'Life and Correspondence' of M. G.
Lewis (1839), i. 158, etc.; 'Life of Scott', by J. G. Lockhart (1842),
pp. 80-83, 94.)] ]
[Footnote 40: "For every one knows little Matt's an M.P."--See a poem to
Mr. Lewis, in 'The Statesman', supposed to be written by Mr. Jekyll.
[Joseph Jekyll (d. 1837) was celebrated for his witticisms and metrical
'jeux d'esprit' which he contributed to the 'Morning Chronicle' and the
'Evening Statesman'. His election as M.P. for Calne in 1787, at the
nomination of Lord Lansdowne, gave rise to 'Jekyll, A Political Eclogue'
(see 'The Rottiad' (1799), pp. 219-224). He was a favourite with the
Prince Regent, at whose instance he was appointed a Master in Chancery
in 1815.]]
[Footnote 41: The reader, who may wish for an explanation of this, may
refer to "Strangford's Camo雗s," p. 127, note to p. 56, or to the last
page of the 'Edinburgh Review' of Strangford's Camo雗s.
[Percy Clinton Sydney Smythe, sixth Viscount Strangford (1780-1855),
published 'Translations from the Portuguese by Luis de Camoens' in 1803.
The note to which Byron refers is on the canzonet 'Na?sei quem
assella', "Thou hast an eye of tender blue." It runs thus:
"Locks of auburn and eyes of blue have ever been dear to the sons of
song.... Sterne even considers them as indicative of qualities the
most amiable.... The Translator does not wish to deem ... this
unfounded. He is, however, aware of the danger to which such a
confession exposes him--but he flies for protection to the temple of
AUREA VENUS."
It may be added that Byron's own locks were auburn, and his eyes a
greyish-blue.]]
[Footnote 42: It is also to be remarked, that the things given to the
public as poems of Camo雗s are no more to be found in the original
Portuguese, than in the Song of Solomon.]
[Footnote 43: See his various Biographies of defunct Painters, etc.
[William Hayley (1745-1820) published 'The Triumphs of Temper' in 1781,
and 'The Triumph of Music' in 1804. His biography of Milton appeared in
1796, of Cowper in 1803-4, of Romney in 1809. He had produced, among
other plays, 'The Happy Prescription' and 'The Two Connoisseurs' in
1784. In 1808 he would be regarded as out of date, "hobbling on" behind
younger rivals in the race (see E.B., I. 923). For his life and works,
see Southey's article in the 'Quarterly Review' (vol. xxxi. p. 263). The
appeal to "tarts" to "spare the text," is possibly an echo of 'The
Dunciad', i. 155, 156--
"Of these twelve volumes, twelve of amplest size,
Redeemed from topers and defrauded pies."
The meaning of the appeal is fixed by such a passage as this from 'The
Blues', where the company discuss Wordsworth's appointment to a
Collectorship of Stamps--
"'Inkle'.
I shall think of him oft when I buy a new hat;
There his works will appear.
"'Lady Bluemount'.
Sir, they reach to the Ganges.
"'Inkle'.
I sha'n't go so far. I can have them at Grange's."
Grange's was a well-known pastry-cook's in Piccadilly. In Pierce Egan's
'Life in London' (ed. 1821), p. 70, 'note' 1, the author writes, "As I
sincerely hope that this work will shrink from the touch of a
pastry-cook, and also avoid the foul uses of a trunk-maker ... I feel
induced now to describe, for the benefit of posterity, the pedigree of a
Dandy in 1820."]
[Footnote 44: Hayley's two most notorious verse productions are
'Triumphs of Temper' and 'The Triumph of Music'. He has also written
much Comedy in rhyme, Epistles, etc., etc. As he is rather an elegant
writer of notes and biography, let us recommend POPE'S advice to
WYCHERLEY to Mr. H.'s consideration, viz., "to convert poetry into
prose," which may be easily done by taking away the final syllable of
each couplet.]
[Footnote 45: Lines 319-326 do not form part of the original 'MS'. A
slip of paper which contains a fair copy of the lines in Byron's
handwriting has been, with other fragments, bound up with Dallas's copy
of 'British Bards'. In the 'MS'. this place is taken by a passage and
its pendant note, which Byron omitted at the request of Dallas, who was
a friend of Pratt's:--
"In verse most stale, unprofitable, flat--
Come, let us change the scene, and ''glean'' with Pratt;
In him an author's luckless lot behold,
Condemned to make the books which once he sold:
Degraded man! again resume thy trade--
The votaries of the Muse are ill repaid,
Though daily puffs once more invite to buy
A new edition of thy 'Sympathy.'"
"Mr. Pratt, once a Bath bookseller, now a London author, has written as
much, to as little purpose, as any of his scribbling contemporaries. Mr.
P.'s 'Sympathy' is in rhyme; but his prose productions are the most
voluminous."
Samuel Jackson Pratt (1749-1814), actor, itinerant lecturer, poet of the
Cruscan school, tragedian, and novelist, published a large number of
volumes. His 'Gleanings' in England, Holland, Wales, and Westphalia
attained some reputation. His 'Sympathy; a Poem' (1788) passed through
several editions. His pseudonym was Courtney Melmoth. He was a patron of
the cobbler-poet, Blacket] ]
[Footnote 46: Mr. Grahame has poured forth two volumes of Cant, under
the name of 'Sabbath Walks' and 'Biblical Pictures'. [James Grahame
(1765-1811), a lawyer, who subsequently took Holy Orders. 'The Sabbath',
a poem, was published anonymously in 1804; and to a second edition were
added 'Sabbath Walks'. 'Biblical Pictures' appeared in 1807.]
[Footnote 47: The Rev. W. Lisle Bowles (1768-1850). His edition of
Pope's 'Works', in ten vols., which stirred Byron's gall, appeared in
1807. The 'Fall of Empires', Tyre, Carthage, etc., is the subject of
part of the third book of 'The Spirit of Discovery by Sea' (1805). Lines
"To a Withered Leaf," are, perhaps, of later date; but the "sear
tresses" and "shivering leaves" of "Autumn's gradual gloom" are familiar
images in his earlier poems. Byron's senior by twenty years, he was
destined to outlive him by more than a quarter of a century; but when
'English Bards, etc.', was in progress, he was little more than
middle-aged, and the "three score years" must have been written in the
spirit of prophecy. As it chanced, the last word rested with him, and it
was a generous one. Addressing Moore, in 1824, he says ('Childe Harold's
Last Pilgrimage')--
"So Harold ends, in Greece, his pilgrimage!
There fitly ending--in that land renown'd,
Whose mighty Genius lives in Glory's page,--
He on the Muses' consecrated ground,
Sinking to rest, while his young brows are bound
With their unfading wreath!"
Among his poems are a "Sonnet to Oxford," and "Stanzas on hearing the
Bells of Ostend."]
[Footnote 48: "Awake a louder," etc., is the first line in BOWLES'S
'Spirit of Discovery': a very spirited and pretty dwarf Epic. Among
other exquisite lines we have the following:--
----"A kiss
Stole on the list'ning silence, never yet
Here heard; they trembled even as if the power," etc., etc.
That is, the woods of Madeira trembled to a kiss; very much astonished,
as well they might be, at such a phenomenon.
"Mis-quoted and misunderstood by me; but not intentionally. It was not
the 'woods,' but the people in them who trembled--why, Heaven only
knows--unless they were overheard making this prodigious smack."-B.,
1816.]
[Footnote 49: The episode above alluded to is the story of "Robert ?
Machin" and "Anna d'Arfet," a pair of constant lovers, who performed the
kiss above mentioned, that startled the woods of Madeira. [See Byron's
letter to Murray, Feb. 7, 1821, "On Bowies' Strictures," 'Life', p.
688.]]
[Footnote 50: CURLL is one of the Heroes of the 'Dunciad', and was a
bookseller. Lord Fanny is the poetical name of Lord HERVEY, author of
'Lines to the Imitator of Horace'.]
[Footnote 51: Lord BOLINGBROKE hired MALLET to traduce POPE after his
decease, because the poet had retained some copies of a work by Lord
Bolingbroke--the "Patriot King,"--which that splendid, but malignant
genius had ordered to be destroyed.]
[Footnote 52: Dennis the critic, and Ralph the rhymester:--
"Silence, ye Wolves! while Ralph to Cynthia howls,
Making Night hideous: answer him, ye owls!"
DUNCIAD.
[Book III. II. 165, 166, Pope wrote, "And makes night," etc.]]
[Footnote 53: See Bowles's late edition of Pope's works, for which he
received three hundred pounds. [Twelve hundred guineas.--'British
Bards'.] Thus Mr. B. has experienced how much easier it is to profit by
the reputation of another, than to elevate his own. ["Too savage all
this on Bowles," wrote Byron, in 1816, but he afterwards returned to his
original sentiments. "Although," he says (Feb. 7, 1821), "I regret
having published 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', the part which I
regret the least is that which regards Mr. Bowles, with reference to
Pope. Whilst I was writing that publication, in 1807 and 1808, Mr.
Hobhouse was desirous that I should express our mutual opinion of Pope,
and of Mr. Bowles's edition of his works. As I had completed my outline,
and felt lazy, I requested that 'he' would do so. He did it. His
fourteen lines on Bowles's Pope are in the first edition of 'English
Bards', and are quite as severe, and much more poetical, than my own, in
the second. On reprinting the work, as I put my name to it, I omitted
Mr. Hobhouse's lines, by which the work gained less than Mr. Bowles....
I am grieved to say that, in reading over those lines, I repent of their
having so far fallen short of what I meant to express upon the subject
of his edition of Pope's works" ('Life', pp. 688, 689). The lines
supplied by Hobhouse are here subjoined:--
"Stick to thy sonnets, man!--at least they sell.
Or take the only path that open lies
For modern worthies who would hope to rise:
Fix on some well-known name, and, bit by bit,
Pare off the merits of his worth and wit:
On each alike employ the critic's knife,
And when a comment fails, prefix a life;
Hint certain failings, faults before unknown,
Review forgotten lies, and add your own;
Let no disease, let no misfortune 'scape,
And print, if luckily deformed, his shape:
Thus shall the world, quite undeceived at last,
Cleave to their present wits, and quit their past;
Bards once revered no more with favour view,
But give their modern sonneteers their due;
Thus with the dead may living merit cope,
Thus Bowles may triumph o'er the shade of Pope."]]
[Footnote 54:
"'Helicon' is a mountain, and not a fish-pond. It should have been
'Hippocrene.'"--B., 1816.
[The correction was made in the Fifth Edition.]]
[Footnote 55: Mr. Cottle, Amos, Joseph, I don't know which, but one or
both, once sellers of books they did not write, and now writers of books
they do not sell, have published a pair of Epics--'Alfred' (poor Alfred!
Pye has been at him too!)--'Alfred' and the 'Fall of Cambria'.
"All right. I saw some letters of this fellow (Jh. Cottle) to an
unfortunate poetess, whose productions, which the poor woman by no
means thought vainly of, he attacked so roughly and bitterly, that I
could hardly regret assailing him, even were it unjust, which it is
not--for verily he is an ass."--B., 1816.
[Compare 'Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin'--
"And Cottle, not he whom that Alfred made famous,
But Joseph of Bristol, the brother of Amos."
The identity of the brothers Cottle appears to have been a matter
beneath the notice both of the authors of the 'Anti-Jacobin' and of
Byron. Amos Cottle, who died in 1800 (see Lamb's Letter to Coleridge of
Oct. 9, 1800; 'Letters of C. Lamb', 1888, i. 140), was the author of a
'Translation of the Edda of Soemund', published in 1797. Joseph Cottle,
'inter alia', published 'Alfred' in 1801, and 'The Fall of Cambria',
1807. An 'Expostulatory Epistle', in which Joseph avenges Amos and
solemnly castigates the author of 'Don Juan', was issued in 1819 (see
Lamb's Letter to Cottle, Nov. 5, 1819), and was reprinted in the Memoir
of Amos Cottle, _insert_ed in his brother's 'Early Recollections of
Coleridge' (London, 1837, i. 119). The "unfortunate poetess" was,
probably, Ann Yearsley, the Bristol milk-woman. Wordsworth, too (see
'Recollections of the Table-Talk of S. Rogers', 1856, p. 235), dissuaded
her from publishing her poems. Roughness and bitterness were not among
Cottle's faults or foibles, and it is possible that Byron misconceived
the purport of the correspondence.]]
[Footnote 56: Mr. Maurice hath manufactured the component parts of a
ponderous quarto, upon the beauties of "Richmond Hill," and the
like:--it also takes in a charming view of Turnham Green, Hammersmith,
Brentford, Old and New, and the parts adjacent. [The Rev. Thomas Maurice
(1754-1824) had this at least in common with Byron--that his 'History of
Ancient and Modern Hindostan' was severely attacked in the 'Edinburgh
Review'. He published a vindication of his work in 1805. He must have
confined his dulness to his poems ('Richmond Hill' (1807), etc.), for
his 'Memoirs' (1819) are amusing, and, though otherwise blameless, he
left behind him the reputation of an "indiscriminate enjoyment" of
literary and other society. Lady Anne Hamilton alludes to him in 'Epics
of the Ton' (1807), p. 165--
"Or warmed like Maurice by Museum fire,
From Ganges dragged a hurdy-gurdy lyre."
He was assistant keeper of MSS. at the British Museum from 1799 till his
death.]]
[Footnote 57: Poor MONTGOMERY, though praised by every English Review,
has been bitterly reviled by the 'Edinburgh'. After all, the Bard of
Sheffield is a man of considerable genius. His 'Wanderer of Switzerland'
is worth a thousand 'Lyrical Ballads', and at least fifty 'Degraded
Epics'.
[James Montgomery (1771-1854) was born in Ayrshire, but settled at
Sheffield, where he edited a newspaper, the 'Iris', a radical print,
which brought him into conflict with the authorities. His early poems
were held up to ridicule in the 'Edinburgh Review' by Jeffrey, in Jan.
1807. It was probably the following passage which provoked Byron's note:
"When every day is bringing forth some new work from the pen of Scott,
Campbell,... Wordsworth, and Southey, it is natural to feel some disgust
at the undistinguishing voracity which can swallow down these... verses
to a pillow." The 'Wanderer of Switzerland', which Byron said he
preferred to the 'Lyrical Ballads', was published in 1806. The allusion
in line 419 is to the first stanza of 'The Lyre'--
"Where the roving rill meand'red
Down the green, retiring vale,
Poor, forlorn Al鎐us wandered,
Pale with thoughts--serenely pale."
He is remembered chiefly as the writer of some admirable hymns. ('Vide
ante', p. 107, "Answer to a Beautiful Poem," and 'note'.)]
[Footnote 58: Arthur's Seat; the hill which overhangs Edinburgh.]
[Footnote 59: Lines 439-527 are not in the 'MS.' The first draft of the
passage on Jeffrey, which appears to have found a place in 'British
Bards' and to have been afterwards cut out, runs as follows:--
"Who has not heard in this enlightened age,
When all can criticise the historic page,
Who has not heard in James's Bigot Reign
Of Jefferies! monarch of the scourge, and chain,
Jefferies the wretch whose pestilential breath,
Like the dread Simoom, winged the shaft of Death;
The old, the young to Fate remorseless gave
Nor spared one victim from the common grave?
"Such was the Judge of James's iron time,
When Law was Murder, Mercy was a crime,
Till from his throne by weary millions hurled
The Despot roamed in Exile through the world.
"Years have rolled on;--in all the lists of Shame,
Who now can parallel a Jefferies' name?
With hand less mighty, but with heart as black
With voice as willing to decree the Rack,
With tongue envenomed, with intentions foul
The same in name and character and soul."
The first four lines of the above, which have been erased, are to be
found on p. 16 of 'British Bards.' Pages 17, 18, are wanting, and quarto
proofs of lines 438-527 have been _insert_ed. Lines 528-539 appear for the
first time in the Fifth Edition.]]
[Footnote 60: "Too ferocious--this is mere insanity."--B., 1816. [The
comment applies to lines 432-453.]]
[Footnote 61: "All this is bad, because personal."--B., 1816.]
[Footnote 62: In 1806, Messrs. Jeffrey and Moore met at Chalk Farm. The
duel was prevented by the interference of the Magistracy; and on
examination, the balls of the pistols were found to have evaporated.
This incident gave occasion to much waggery in the daily prints. [The
first four editions read, "the balls of the pistols, like the courage of
the combatants."]
[The following disclaimer to the foregoing note appears in the MS. in
Leigh Hunt's copy of the Fourth Edition, 1811. It was first printed in
the Fifth Edition:--]
"I am informed that Mr. Moore published at the time a disavowal of the
statements in the newspapers, as far as regarded himself; and, in
justice to him, I mention this circumstance. As I never heard of it
before, I cannot state the particulars, and was only made acquainted
with the fact very lately. November 4, 1811."
[As a matter of fact, it was Jeffrey's pistol that was found to be
leadless.]]
[Footnote 63: The Tweed here behaved with proper decorum; it would have
been highly reprehensible in the English half of the river to have shown
the smallest symptom of apprehension.]
[Footnote 64: This display of sympathy on the part of the Tolbooth (the
principal prison in Edinburgh), which truly seems to have been most
affected on this occasion, is much to be commended. It was to be
apprehended, that the many unhappy criminals executed in the front might
have rendered the Edifice more callous. She is said to be of the softer
sex, because her delicacy of feeling on this day was truly feminine,
though, like most feminine impulses, perhaps a little selfish.]
[Footnote 65: Line 508. For "oat-fed phalanx," the Quarto Proof and
Editions 1-4 read "ranks illustrious." The correction is made in
'MS'. in the Annotated Edition. It was suggested that the motto of
the 'Edinburgh Review' should have been, "Musam tenui meditamur
aven?"]
[Footnote 66: His Lordship has been much abroad, is a member of the
Athenian Society, and reviewer of Gell's 'Topography of Troy'. [George
Gordon, fourth Earl of Aberdeen (1784-1860), published in 1822 'An
Inquiry into the Principles of Beauty in Grecian Architecture'. His
grandfather purchased Gight, the property which Mrs. Byron had sold to
pay her husband's debts. This may have been an additional reason for the
introduction of his name.]]
[Footnote 67: Mr. Herbert is a translator of Icelandic and other poetry.
One of the principal pieces is a 'Song on the Recovery of Thor's
Hammer': the translation is a pleasant chant in the vulgar tongue, and
endeth thus:--
"Instead of money and rings, I wot,
The hammer's bruises were her lot.
Thus Odin's son his hammer got."
[William Herbert (1778-1847), son of the first Earl of Carnarvon, edited
'Mus?Etonenses' in 1795, whilst he was still at school. He was one of
the earliest contributors to the 'Edinburgh Review'. At the time when
Byron was writing his satire, he was M.P. for Hampshire, but in 1814 he
took Orders. He was appointed Dean of Manchester in 1840, and
republished his poetical works, and among them his Icelandic
Translations or 'Hor?Scandic?(Miscellaneous Works', 2 vols.), in
1842.]]
[Footnote 68: The Rev. SYDNEY SMITH, the reputed Author of 'Peter
Plymley's Letters', and sundry criticisms. [Sydney Smith (1771-1845),
the "witty Canon of St. Paul's," was one of the founders, and for a
short time (1802) the editor, of the 'Edinburgh Review'. His 'Letters on
the Catholicks, from Peter Plymley to his brother Abraham', appeared in
1807-8.]
[Footnote 69: Mr. HALLAM reviewed PAYNE KNIGHT'S "Taste," and was
exceedingly severe on some Greek verses therein. It was not discovered
that the lines were Pindar's till the press rendered it impossible to
cancel the critique, which still stands an everlasting monument of
Hallam's ingenuity.--['Note added to Second Edition':
Hallam is incensed because he is falsely accused, seeing that he never
dineth at Holland House. If this be true, I am sorry--not for having
said so, but on his account, as I understand his Lordship's feasts are
preferable to his compositions. If he did not review Lord HOLLAND'S
performance, I am glad; because it must have been painful to read, and
irksome to praise it. If Mr. HALLAM will tell me who did review it,
the real name shall find a place in the text; provided, nevertheless,
the said name be of two orthodox musical syllables, and will come into
the verse: till then, HALLAM must stand for want of a better.]
[Henry Hallam (1777-1859), author of 'Europe during the Middle Ages',
1808, etc.
"This," said Byron, "is the style in which history ought to be
written, if it is wished to impress it on the memory"
('Lady Blessington's Conversations with Lord Byron', 1834, p. 213). The
article in question was written by Dr. John Allen, Lord Holland's
domestic physician, and Byron was misled by the similarity of sound in
the two names (see H. C. Robinson's 'Diary', i. 277), or repeated what
Hodgson had told him (see Introduction, and Letter 102, 'note' i).
For a disproof that Hallam wrote the article, see 'Gent. Mag'., 1830,
pt. i. p. 389; and for an allusion to the mistake in the review, compare
'All the Talents', p. 96, and 'note'.
"Spare me not 'Chronicles' and 'Sunday News',
Spare me not 'Pamphleteers' and 'Scotch Reviews'"
"The best literary joke I recollect is its [the 'Edin. Rev'.] attempting
to prove some of the Grecian Pindar rank non sense, supposing it to have
been written by Mr. P. Knight."]
[Footnote 70: Pillans is a [private, 'MS'.] tutor at Eton. [James
Pillans (1778-1864), Rector of the High School, and Professor of
Humanity in the University, Edinburgh. Byron probably assumed that the
review of Hodgson's 'Translation of Juvenal', in the 'Edinburgh Review',
April, 1808, was by him.]]
Footnote 71: The Honourable G. Lambe reviewed "BERESFORD'S Miseries,"
and is moreover Author of a farce enacted with much applause at the
Priory, Stanmore; and damned with great expedition at the late theatre,
Covent Garden. It was entitled 'Whistle for It'. [See note, 'supra', on
line 57.] His review of James Beresford's 'Miseries of Human Life; or
the Last Groans of Timothy Testy and Samuel Sensitive', appeared in the
'Edinburgh Review 'for Oct. 1806.]
[Footnote: 72: Mr. Brougham, in No. XXV. of the 'Edinburgh Review',
throughout the article concerning Don Pedro de Cevallos, has displayed
more politics than policy; many of the worthy burgesses of Edinburgh
being so incensed at the infamous principles it evinces, as to have
withdrawn their subscriptions.--[Here followed, in the First Edition:
"The name of this personage is pronounced Broom in the south, but the
truly northern and 'musical' pronunciation is BROUGH-AM, in two
syllables;" but for this, Byron substituted in the Second Edition: "It
seems that Mr. Brougham is not a Pict, as I supposed, but a Borderer,
and his name is pronounced Broom, from Trent to Tay:--so be it."
The title of the work was "Exposition of the Practices and Machinations
which led to the usurpation of the Crown of Spain, and the means adopted
by the Emperor of the French to carry it into execution," by Don Pedro
Cevallos. The article, which appeared in Oct. 1808, was the joint
composition of Jeffrey and Brougham, and proved a turning-point in the
political development of the 'Review'.]]
[Footnote 73: I ought to apologise to the worthy Deities for introducing
a new Goddess with short petticoats to their notice: but, alas! what was
to be done? I could not say Caledonia's Genius, it being well known
there is no genius to be found from Clackmannan to Caithness; yet
without supernatural agency, how was Jeffrey to be saved? The national
"Kelpies" are too unpoetical, and the "Brownies" and "gude neighbours"
(spirits of a good disposition) refused to extricate him. A Goddess,
therefore, has been called for the purpose; and great ought to be the
gratitude of Jeffrey, seeing it is the only communication he ever held,
or is likely to hold, with anything heavenly.]
[Footnote 74: Lines 528-539 appeared for the first time in the Fifth
Edition.]
[Footnote 75: See the colour of the back binding of the 'Edinburgh
Review'.]
[Footnote 76: "Bad enough, and on mistaken grounds too."--B., 1816. [The
comment applies to the whole passage on Lord Holland.]
[Henry Richard Vassall, third Lord Holland (1773-1840), to whom Byron
dedicated the 'Bride of Abydos' (1813). His 'Life of Lope de Vega' (see
note 4) was published in 1806, and 'Three Comedies from the Spanish', in
1807.]]
[Footnote 77: Henry Petty (1780-1863) succeeded his brother as third
Marquis of Lansdowne in 1809. He was a regular attendant at the social
and political gatherings of his relative, Lord Holland; and as Holland
House was regarded as one of the main rallying-points of the Whig party
and of the Edinburgh Reviewers, the words, "whipper-in and hunts-man,"
probably refer to their exertions in this respect.]
[Footnote 78: See note 1, p. 337. (Footnote 69--Text Ed.)]
[Footnote 79: Lord Holland has translated some specimens of Lope de
Vega, _insert_ed in his life of the author. Both are bepraised by his
'disinterested' guests.]
[Footnote 80: Certain it is, her ladyship is suspected of having
displayed her matchless wit in the 'Edinburgh Review'. However that may
be, we know from good authority, that the manuscripts are submitted to
her perusal--no doubt, for correction.]
[Footnote 81: In the melo-drama of 'Tekeli', that heroic prince is clapt
into a barrel on the stage; a new asylum for distressed heroes.--[In the
'MS'. and 'British Bards' the note stands thus:--"In the melodrama of
'Tekeli', that heroic prince is clapt into a barrel on the stage, and
Count Everard in the fortress hides himself in a green-house built
expressly for the occasion. 'Tis a pity that Theodore Hook, who is
really a man of talent, should confine his genius to such paltry
productions as 'The Fortress, Music Mad', etc. etc." Theodore Hook
(1788-1841) produced 'Tekeli' in 1806. 'Fortress' and 'Music Mad' were
played in 1807. He had written some eight or ten popular plays before he
was twenty-one.]]
[Footnote 82: 'Vide post', 1. 591, note 3.]
[Footnote 83: William Henry West Betty (1791-1874) ("the Young Roscius")
made his first appearance on the London stage as Selim, disguised as
Achmet, in 'Barbarossa', Dec. 1, 1804, and his last, as a boy actor, in
'Tancred', and Captain Flash in 'Miss in her Teens', Mar. 17, 1806, but
acted in the provinces till 1808. So great was the excitement on the
occasion of his 'd閎ut', that the military were held in readiness to
assist in keeping order. Having made a large fortune, he finally retired
from the stage in 1824, and passed the last fifty years of his life in
retirement, surviving his fame by more than half a century.]
[Footnote 84: All these are favourite expressions of Mr. Reynolds, and
prominent in his comedies, living and defunct. [Frederick Reynolds
(1764-1841) produced nearly one hundred plays, one of the most
successful of which was 'The Caravan, or the Driver and his Dog'. The
text alludes to his endeavour to introduce the language of ordinary life
on the stage. Compare 'The Children of Apollo', p. 9--
"But in his diction Reynolds grossly errs;
For whether the love hero smiles or mourns,
'Tis oh! and ah! and ah! and oh! by turns."]]
[Footnote 85: James Kenney (1780-1849). Among his very numerous plays,
the most successful were 'Raising the Wind' (1803), and 'Sweethearts and
Wives' (1823). 'The World' was brought out at Covent Garden, March 30,
1808, and had a considerable run. He was intimate with Charles and Mary
Lamb (see 'Letters of Charles Lamb', ii. 16, 44).]
[Footnote 85a: Mr. T. Sheridan, the new Manager of Drury Lane theatre,
stripped the Tragedy of 'Bonduca' ['Caratach' in the original 'MS'.] of
the dialogue, and exhibited the scenes as the spectacle of 'Caractacus'.
Was this worthy of his sire? or of himself? [Thomas Sheridan
(1775-1817), most famous as the son of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, and
father of Lady Dufferin, Mrs. Norton, and the Duchess of Somerset, was
author of several plays. His 'Bonduca' was played at Covent Garden, May
3, 1808. The following answer to a real or fictitious correspondent, in
the 'European Magazine' for May, 1808, is an indication of contemporary
opinion: "The Fishwoman's letter to the author of 'Caractacus' on the
art of gutting is inadmissible." For anecdotes of Thomas Sheridan, see
Angelo's 'Reminiscences', 1828, ii. 170-175. See, too, 'Epics of the
Ton', p. 264.]]
[Footnote 86: George Colman, the younger (1762-1836), wrote numerous
dramas, several of which, 'e.g. The Iron Chest' (1796), 'John Bull'
(1803), 'The Heir-at-Law' (1808), have been popular with more than one
generation of playgoers. An amusing companion, and a favourite at Court,
he was appointed Lieutenant of the Yeomen of the Guard, and examiner of
plays by Royal favour, but his reckless mode of life kept him always in
difficulties. 'John Bull' is referred to in 'Hints from Horace', line
166.]]
[Footnote 87: Richard Cumberland (1732-1811), the original of Sir
Fretful Plagiary in 'The Critic', a man of varied abilities, wrote
poetry, plays, novels, classical translations, and works of religious
controversy. He was successively Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge,
secretary to the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and secretary to the Board
of Trade. His best known plays are 'The West Indian, The Wheels of
Fortune', and 'The Jew'. He published his 'Memoirs' in 1806-7.]]
[Footnote 88: Sheridan's translation of 'Pizarro', by Kotzebue, was
first played at Drury Lane, 1799. Southey wrote of it, "It is impossible
to sink below 'Pizarro'. Kotzebue's play might have passed for the worst
possible if Sheridan had not proved the possibility of making it worse"
(Southey's 'Letters', i. 87). Gifford alludes to it in a note to 'The
M鎣iad' as "the translation so maliciously attributed to Sheridan."]
[Footnote 89: In all editions, previous to the fifth, it was, "Kemble
lives to tread." Byron used to say, that, of actors, "Cooke was the most
natural, Kemble the most supernatural, Kean the medium between the two;
but that Mrs. Siddons was worth them all put together." Such effect,
however, had Kean's acting on his mind, that once, on seeing him play
Sir Giles Overreach, he was seized with a fit.]
[Footnote 90: See 'supra', line 562.]
[Footnote 91: Andrew Cherry (1762-1812) acted many parts in Ireland and
in the provinces, and for a few years appeared at Drury Lane. He was
popular in Dublin, where he was known as "Little Cherry." He was painted
as Lazarillo in Jephson's 'Two Strings to Your Bow'. He wrote 'The
Travellers' (1806), 'Peter the Great' (1807), and other plays.]]
[Footnote 92: Mr. [now Sir Lumley] Skeffington is the illustrious author
of 'The Sleeping Beauty;' and some comedies, particularly 'Maids and
Bachelors: Baccalaurii' baculo magis quam lauro digni.
[Lumley St. George (afterwards Sir Lumley) Skeffington (1768-1850).
Besides the plays mentioned in the note, he wrote 'The Maid of Honour'
(1803) and 'The Mysterious Bride' (1808). 'Amatory Verses, by Tom
Shuffleton of the Middle Temple' (1815), are attributed to his pen. They
are prefaced by a dedicatory letter to Byron, which includes a coarse
but clever skit in the style of 'English Bards'. "Great Skeffington" was
a great dandy. According to Capt. Gronow ('Reminiscences', i. 63), "he
used to paint his face so that he looked like a French toy; he dressed
'?la Robespierre', and practised all the follies;... was remarkable for
his politeness and courtly manners... You always knew of his approach by
an 'avant courier' of sweet smell." His play 'The Sleeping Beauty' had a
considerable vogue.]]
[Footnote 93: Thomas John Dibdin (1771-1841), natural son of Charles
Dibdin the elder, made his first appearance on the stage at the age of
four, playing Cupid to Mrs. Siddons' Venus at the Shakespearian Jubilee
in 1775. One of his best known pieces is 'The Jew and the Doctor'
(1798). His pantomime, 'Mother Goose', in which Grimaldi took a part,
was played at Covent Garden in 1807, and is said to have brought the
management ?0,000.]
[Footnote 94: Mr. Greenwood is, we believe, scene-painter to Drury Lane
theatre--as such, Mr. Skeffington is much indebted to him.]
[Footnote 95: Naldi and Catalani require little notice; for the visage
of the one, and the salary of the other, will enable us long to
recollect these amusing vagabonds. Besides, we are still black and blue
from the squeeze on the first night of the Lady's appearance in
trousers. [Guiseppe Naldi (1770-1820) made his 'd閎ut' on the London
stage at the King's Theatre in April, 1806. In conjunction with Catalani
and Braham, he gave concerts at Willis' Rooms. Angelica Catalani (circ.
1785-1849), a famous soprano, Italian by birth and training, made her
'd閎ut' at Venice in 1795. She remained in England for eight years
(1806-14). Her first appearance in England was at the King's Theatre, in
Portogallo's 'Semiramide,' in 1806. Her large salary was one of the
causes which provoked the O. P. (Old Prices) Riots in December, 1809, at
Covent Garden. Praed says of his 'Ball Room Belle'--
"She warbled Handel: it was grand;
She made the Catalani jealous."]
[Footnote 96: Moore says that the following twenty lines were struck off
one night after Lord Byron's return from the Opera, and sent the next
morning to the printer. The date of the letter to Dallas, with which the
lines were enclosed, suggests that the representation which provoked the
outburst was that of 'I Villegiatori Rezzani,' at the King's Theatre,
February 21, 1809. The first piece, in which Naldi and Catalani were the
principal singers, was followed by d'Egville's musical extravaganza,
'Don Quichotte, on les Noces de Gamache.' In the 'corps de ballet' were
Deshayes, for many years master of the 'ballet' at the King's Theatre;
Miss Gayton, who had played a Sylph at Drury Lane as early as 1806 (she
was married, March 18, 1809, to the Rev. William Murray, brother of Sir
James Pulteney, Bart.--'Morning Chronicle,' December 30, 1810), and
Mademoiselle Angiolini, "elegant of figure, 'petite', but finely formed,
with the manner of Vestris." Mademoiselle Presle does not seem to have
taken part in 'Don Quichotte;' but she was well known as 'premi鑢e
danseuse' in 'La Belle Laiti鑢e, La F阾e Chinoise,' and other ballets.]]
[Footnote 97: For "whet" Editions 1-5 read "raise." Lines 632-637 are
marked "good" in the Annotated Fourth Edition.]
[Footnote 98: To prevent any blunder, such as mistaking a street for a
man, I beg leave to state, that it is the institution, and not the Duke
of that name, which is here alluded to.
A gentleman, with whom I am slightly acquainted, lost in the Argyle
Rooms several thousand pounds at Backgammon.[A] It is but justice to the
manager in this instance to say, that some degree of disapprobation was
manifested: but why are the implements of gaming allowed in a place
devoted to the society of both sexes? A pleasant thing for the wives and
daughters of those who are blessed or cursed with such connections, to
hear the Billiard-Balls rattling in one room, and the dice in another!
That this is the case I myself can testify, as a late unworthy member of
an Institution which materially affects the morals of the higher orders,
while the lower may not even move to the sound of a tabor and fiddle,
without a chance of indictment for riotous behaviour. [The Argyle
Institution, founded by Colonel Greville, flourished many years before
the Argyll Rooms were built by Nash in 1818. This mention of Greville's
name caused him to demand an explanation from Byron, but the matter was
amicably settled by Moore and G. F. Leckie, who acted on behalf of the
disputants (see 'Life', pp. 160, 161).]]
[Sub-Footnote A: "True. It was Billy Way who lost the money. I knew him,
and was a subscriber to the Argyle at the time of this event."--B.,
1816.]
[Footnote 99: Petronius, "Arbiter elegantiarum" to Nero, "and a very
pretty fellow in his day," as Mr. Congreve's "Old Bachelor" saith of
Hannibal.]
[Footnote 100: "We are authorised to state that Mr. Greville, who has a
small party at his private assembly rooms at the Argyle, will receive
from 10 to 12 [p.m.] masks who have Mrs. Chichester's Institution
tickets.--Morning Post, June 7, 1809.]
[Footnote 101: See note on line 686, infra.]
[Footnote 102: 'Clodius'--"Mutato nomine de te Fabula narratur."--['MS']
[The allusion is to the well-known incidents of his intrigue with
Pompeia, C鎠ar's wife, and his sacrilegious intrusion into the mysteries
of the Bona Dea. The Romans had a proverb, "Clodius accuset Moechos?"
(Juv., 'Sat.' ii. 27). That "Steenie" should lecture on the "turpitude
of incontinence!" ('The Fortunes of Nigel,' cap. xxxii.)]]
[Footnote 103: I knew the late Lord Falkland well. On Sunday night I
beheld him presiding at his own table, in all the honest pride of
hospitality; on Wednesday morning, at three o'clock, I saw stretched
before me all that remained of courage, feeling, and a host of passions.
He was a gallant and successful officer: his faults were the faults of a
sailor--as such, Britons will forgive them. ["His behaviour on the field
was worthy of a better fate, and his conduct on the bed of death evinced
all the firmness of a man without the farce of repentance--I say the
farce of repentance, for death-bed repentance is a farce, and as little
serviceable to the soul at such a moment as the surgeon to the body,
though both may be useful if taken in time. Some hireling in the papers
forged a tale about an agonized voice, etc. On mentioning the
circumstance to Mr. Heaviside, he exclaimed, 'Good God! what absurdity
to talk in this manner of one who died like a lion!'--he did
more."--'MS'] He died like a brave man in a better cause; for had he
fallen in like manner on the deck of the frigate to which he was just
appointed, his last moments would have been held up by his countrymen as
an example to succeeding heroes.
[Charles John Carey, ninth Viscount Falkland, died from a wound received
in a duel with Mr. A. Powell on Feb. 28, 1809. (See Byron's letter to
his mother, March 6, 1809.) The story of "the agonized voice" may be
traced to a paragraph in the 'Morning Post,' March 2, 1809: "Lord
Falkland, after hearing the surgeon's opinion, said with a faltering
voice and as intelligibly as the agonized state of his body and mind
permitted, "I acquit Mr. Powell of all blame; in this transaction I
alone am culpable.'"]]
[Footnote 104: "Yes: and a precious chase they led me."--B., 1816.]
[Footnote 105: "'Fool' enough, certainly, then, and no wiser
since."--B., 1816.]
[Footnote 106: What would be the sentiments of the Persian Anacreon,
HAFIZ, could he rise from his splendid sepulchre at Sheeraz (where he
reposes with FERDOUSI and SADI, the Oriental Homer and Catullus), and
behold his name assumed by one STOTT of DROMORE, the most impudent and
execrable of literary poachers for the Daily Prints?]
[Footnote 107: Miles Peter Andrews (d. 1824) was the owner of large
powder-mills at Dartford. He was M.P. for Bewdley. He held a good social
position, but his intimate friends were actors and playwrights. His
'Better Late than Never' (which Reynolds and Topham helped him to write)
was played for the first time at Drury Lane, October 17, 1790, with
Kemble as Saville, and Mrs. Jordan as Augusta. He is mentioned in 'The
Baviad', l. 10; and in a note Gifford satirizes his prologue to
'Lorenzo', and describes him as an "industrious paragraph-monger."]]
[Footnote 108: In a manuscript fragment, bound in the same volume as
'British Bards', we find these lines:--
"In these, our times, with daily wonders big,
A Lettered peer is like a lettered pig;
Both know their Alphabet, but who, from thence,
Infers that peers or pigs have manly sense?
Still less that such should woo the graceful nine;
Parnassus was not made for lords and swine."]
[Footnote 109: Wentworth Dillon, 4th Earl of Roscommon (1634-1685),
author of many translations and minor poems, endeavoured (circ. 1663) to
found an English literary academy.]
[Footnote 110: John Sheffield, Earl of Mulgrave (1658), Marquis of
Normanby (1694), Duke of Buckingham (1703) (1649-1721), wrote an 'Essay
upon Poetry', and several other works.]
[Footnote 111: Lines 727-740 were added after 'British Bards' had been
printed, and are included in the First Edition, but the appearance in
'British Bards' of lines 723-726 and 741-746, which have been cut out
from Mr. Murray's MS., forms one of many proofs as to the identity of
the text of the 'MS'. and the printed Quarto.]]
[Footnote 112: Frederick Howard, 5th Earl of Carlisle, K.G. (1748-1825),
Viceroy of Ireland, 1780-1782, and Privy Seal, etc., published
'Tragedies and Poems', 1801. He was Byron's first cousin once removed,
and his guardian. 'Poems Original and Translated,' were dedicated to
Lord Carlisle, and, as an erased MS. addition to 'British Bards'
testifies, he was to have been excepted from the roll of titled
poetasters--
"Ah, who would take their titles from their rhymes?
On 'one' alone Apollo deigns to smile,
And crowns a new Roscommon in Carlisle."
Before, however, the revised Satire was sent to the press, Carlisle
ignored his cousin's request to introduce him on taking his seat in the
House of Lords, and, to avenge the slight, eighteen lines of castigation
supplanted the flattering couplet. Lord Carlisle suffered from a nervous
disorder, and Byron was informed that some readers had scented an
allusion in the words "paralytic puling." "I thank Heaven," he
exclaimed, "I did not know it; and would not, could not, if I had. I
must naturally be the last person to be pointed on defects or maladies."
In 1814 he consulted Rogers on the chance of conciliating Carlisle, and
in 'Childe Harold', iii. 29, he laments the loss of the "young and
gallant Howard" (Carlisle's youngest son) at Waterloo, and admits that
"he did his sire some wrong." But, according to Medwin ('Conversations',
1824, p. 362), who prints an excellent parody on Carlisle's lines
addressed to Lady Holland in 1822, in which he urges her to decline the
legacy of Napoleon's snuff-box, Byron made fun of his "noble relative"
to the end of the chapter ('vide post', p. 370, 'note' 2).]]
[Footnote 113: The Earl of Carlisle has lately published an
eighteen-penny pamphlet on the state of the Stage, and offers his plan
for building a new theatre. It is to be hoped his Lordship will be
permitted to bring forward anything for the Stage--except his own
tragedies. [This pamphlet was entitled 'Thoughts upon the present
condition of the stage, and upon the construction of a new Theatre',
anon. 1808.]
Line 732. None of the earlier editions, including the fifth and Murray,
1831, _insert_ "and" between "petit-ma顃re" and "pamphleteer." No doubt
Byron sounded the final syllable of "ma顃re," 'anglic? "mailer."]]
[Footnote 114:
"Doff that lion's hide,
And hang a calf-skin on those recreant limbs."
SHAKESPEARE, 'King John.'
Lord Carlisle's works, most resplendently bound, form a conspicuous
ornament to his book-shelves:--
"The rest is all but [only, MS.] leather and prunella."
"Wrong also--the provocation was not sufficient to justify such
acerbity."--B., 1816.]
[Footnote 115: 'All the Blocks, or an Antidote to "All the Talents"' by
Flagellum (W. H. Ireland), London, 1807: 'The Groan of the Talents, or
Private Sentiments on Public Occasions,' 1807; "Gr--vile Agonistes, 'A
Dramatic Poem, 1807,' etc., etc."]
[Footnote 116: "MELVILLE'S Mantle," a parody on 'Elijah's Mantle,' a
poem. ['Elijah's Mantle, being verses occasioned by the death of that
illustrious statesman, the Right Hon. W. Pitt.' Dedicated to the Right
Rev. the Lord Bishop of Lincoln (1807), was written by James Sayer.
'Melville's Mantle, being a Parody on the poem entitled "Elijah's
Mantle"' was published by Budd, 1807. 'A Monody on the death of the R.
H. C. J. Fox,' by Richard Payne Knight, was printed for J. Payne,
1806-7. Another "Monody," 'Lines written on returning from the Funeral
of the R. H. C. J. Fox, Friday Oct'. 10, 1806, addressed to Lord
Holland, was by M. G. Lewis, and there were others.]]
[Footnote 117: This lovely little Jessica, the daughter of the noted Jew
King, seems to be a follower of the Della Crusca school, and has
published two volumes of very respectable absurdities in rhyme, as times
go; besides sundry novels in the style of the first edition of 'The
Monk.'
"She since married the 'Morning Post'--an exceeding good match; and is
now dead--which is better."--B., 1816. [The last seven words are in
pencil, and, possibly, by another hand. The novelist "Rosa," the
daughter of "Jew King," the lordly money-lender who lived in Clarges
Street, and drove a yellow chariot, may possibly be confounded with
"Rosa Matilda," Mrs. Byrne (Gronow, 'Rem.' (1889), i. 132-136). (See
note 1, p. 358.)]
[Footnote 118: Lines 759, 760 were added for the first time in the
Fourth Edition.]
[Footnote 119: Lines 756-764, with variant ii., refer to the Della
Cruscan school, attacked by Gifford in 'The Baviad' and 'The M鎣iad.'
Robert Merry (1755-1798), together with Mrs. Piozzi, Bertie Greatheed,
William Parsons, and some Italian friends, formed a literary society
called the 'Oziosi' at Florence, where they published 'The Arno
Miscellany' (1784) and 'The Florence Miscellany' (1785), consisting of
verses in which the authors "say kind things of each other" (Preface to
'The Florence Miscellany,' by Mrs. Piozzi). In 1787 Merry, who had
become a member of the Della Cruscan Academy at Florence, returned to
London, and wrote in the 'World' (then edited by Captain Topham) a
sonnet on "Love," under the signature of "Della Crusca." He was answered
by Mrs. Hannah Cowley, 'n閑' Parkhouse (1743-1809), famous as the
authoress of 'The Belles Stratagem' (acted at Covent Garden in 1782), in
a sonnet called "The Pen," signed "Anna Matilda." The poetical
correspondence which followed was published in 'The British Album'
(1789, 2 vols.) by John Bell. Other writers connected with the Della
Cruscan school were "Perdita" Robinson, 'n閑' Darby (1758-1800), who
published 'The Mistletoe' (1800) under the pseudonym "Laura Maria," and
to whom Merry addressed a poem quoted by Gifford in 'The Baviad' ('note'
to line 284); Charlotte Dacre, who married Byrne, Robinson's successor
as editor of the 'Morning Post,' wrote under the pseudonym of "Rosa
Matilda," and published poems ('Hours of Solitude,' 1805) and numerous
novels ('Confessions of the Nun of St. Omer's,' 1805; 'Zofloya;' 'The
Libertine,' etc.); and "Hafiz" (Robert Stott, of the 'Morning Post'). Of
these writers, "Della Crusca" Merry, and "Laura Maria" Robinson, were
dead; "Anna Matilda" Cowley, "Hafiz" Stott, and "Rosa Matilda" Dacre
were still living. John Bell (1745-1831), the publisher of 'The British
Album,' was also one of the proprietors of the 'Morning Post,' the
'Oracle,' and the 'World,' in all of which the Della Cruscans wrote. His
"Owls and Nightingales" are explained by a reference to 'The Baviad' (l.
284), where Gifford pretends to mistake the nightingale, to which Merry
("Arno") addressed some lines, for an owl. "On looking again, I find the
owl to be a nightingale!--N'importe."]]
[Footnote 120: These are the signatures of various worthies who figure
in the poetical departments of the newspapers.]
[Footnote 121: "This was meant for poor Blackett, who was then
patronised by A. I. B." (Lady Byron); "but 'that' I did not know, or
this would not have been written, at least I think not."--B., 1816.
[Joseph Blacket (1786-1810), said by Southey ('Letters,' i. 172) to
possess "force and rapidity," and to be endowed with "more powers than
Robert Bloomfield, and an intellect of higher pitch," was the son of a
labourer, and by trade a cobbler. He was brought into notice by S. J.
Pratt (who published Blacket's 'Remains' in 1811), and was befriended by
the Milbanke family. Miss Milbanke, afterwards Lady Byron, wrote (Sept.
2, 1809), "Seaham is at present the residence of a poet, by name Joseph
Blacket, one of the Burns-like and Dermody kind, whose genius is his
sole possession. I was yesterday in his company for the first time, and
was much pleased with his manners and conversation. He is extremely
diffident, his deportment is mild, and his countenance animated
melancholy and of a satirical turn. His poems certainly display a
superior genius and an enlarged mind...." Blacket died on the Seaham
estate in Sept., 1810, at the age of twenty-three. (See Byron's letter
to Dallas, June 28, 1811; his 'Epitaph for Joseph Blackett;' and 'Hints
from Horace,' l. 734.)]]
[Footnote 122: Capel Lofft, Esq., the M鎐enas of shoemakers, and
Preface-writer-General to distressed versemen; a kind of gratis
Accoucheur to those who wish to be delivered of rhyme, but do not know
how to bring it forth.
[Capel Lofft (1751-1824), jurist, poet, critic, and horticulturist,
honoured himself by his kindly patronage of Robert Bloomfield
(1766-1823), who was born at Honington, near Lofft's estate of Throston,
Suffolk. Robert Bloomfield was brought up by his elder brothers--
Nathaniel a tailor, and George a shoemaker. It was in the latter's
workshop that he composed 'The Farmer's Boy,' which was published (1798)
with the help of Lofft. He also wrote 'Rural Tales' (1802), 'Good
Tidings; or News from the Farm '(1804), 'The Banks of the Wye' (1811),
etc. (See 'Hints from Horace,' line 734, notes 1 and 2.)]]
[Footnote 123: See Nathaniel Bloomfield's ode, elegy, or whatever he or
any one else chooses to call it, on the enclosures of "Honington Green."
[Nathaniel Bloomfield, as a matter of fact, called it a ballad.--'Poems'
(1803).]]
[Footnote 124: Vide 'Recollections of a Weaver in the Moorlands of
Staffordshire'. [The exact title is 'The Moorland Bard; or Poetical
Recollections of a Weaver', etc. 2 vols., 1807. The author was T.
Bakewell, who also wrote 'A Domestic Guide to Insanity', 1805.]]
[Footnote 125: It would be superfluous to recall to the mind of the
reader the authors of 'The Pleasures of Memory' and 'The Pleasures of
Hope', the most beautiful didactic poems in our language, if we except
Pope's 'Essay on Man': but so many poetasters have started up, that even
the names of Campbell and Rogers are become strange.--[Beneath this note
Byron scribbled, in 1816,--
"Pretty Miss Jaqueline
Had a nose aquiline,
And would assert rude
Things of Miss Gertrude,
While Mr. Marmion
Led a great army on,
Making Kehama look
Like a fierce Mameluke."
"I have been reading," he says, in 1813, "'Memory' again, and 'Hope'
together, and retain all my preference of the former. His elegance is
really wonderful--there is no such a thing as a vulgar line in his
book." In the annotations of 1816, Byron remarks, "Rogers has not
fulfilled the promise of his first poems, but has still very great
merit."]
[Footnote 126: GIFFORD, author of the 'Baviad' and 'M鎣iad', the first
satires of the day, and translator of Juvenal, [and one (though not the
best) of the translators of Juvenal.--'British Bards'.]]
[Footnote 127: SOTHEBY, translator of WIELAND'S 'Oberon' and Virgil's
'Georgics', and author of 'Saul', an epic poem. [William Sotheby
(1757-1833) began life as a cavalry officer, but being a man of fortune,
sold out of the army and devoted himself to literature, and to the
patronage of men of letters. His translation of the 'Oberon' appeared in
1798, and of the 'Georgics' in 1800. 'Saul' was published in 1807. When
Byron was in Venice, he conceived a dislike to Sotheby, in the belief
that he had made an anonymous attack on some of his works; but, later,
his verdict was, "a good man, rhymes well (if not wisely); but is a
bore" ('Diary', 1821; 'Works', p. 509, note). He is "the solemn antique
man of rhyme" ('Beppo', st. lxiii.), and the "Botherby" of 'The Blues';
and in 'Don Juan', Canto I. st. cxvi., we read--
"Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's house
His Pegasus nor anything that's his."]]
[Footnote 128: MACNEIL, whose poems are deservedly popular, particularly
"SCOTLAND'S Scaith," and the "Waes of War," of which ten thousand copies
were sold in one month. [Hector Macneil (1746-1816) wrote in defence of
slavery in Jamaica, and was the author of several poems: 'Scotland's
Skaith, or the History of Will and Jean' (1795), 'The Waes of War, or
the Upshot of the History of Will and Jean' (1796), etc., etc.]]
[Footnote 129: Mr. GIFFORD promised publicly that the 'Baviad' and
'M鎣iad' should not be his last original works: let him remember, "Mox
in reluctantes dracones." [Cf. 'New Morality,' lines 29-42.]]
[Footnote 130: Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge, in October 1806, in
consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that would
have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and
which Death itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in
such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret that
so short a period was allotted to talents, which would have dignified
even the sacred functions he was destined to assume.
[H. K. White (1785-1806) published 'Clifton Grove' and other poems in
1803. Two volumes of his 'Remains,' consisting of poems, letters, etc.,
with a life by Southey, were issued in 1808. His tendency to epilepsy
was increased by over-work at Cambridge. He once remarked to a friend
that "were he to paint a picture of Fame, crowning a distinguished
undergraduate after the Senate house examination, he would represent her
as concealing a Death's head under a mask of Beauty" ('Life of H. K.
W.', by Southey, i. 45). By "the soaring lyre, which else had sounded an
immortal lay," Byron, perhaps, refers to the unfinished 'Christiad,'
which, says Southey, "Henry had most at heart."]]
[Footnote 131: Lines 832-834, as they stand in the text, were _insert_ed
in MS. in both the Annotated Copies of the Fourth Edition.]]
[Footnote 132: "I consider Crabbe and Coleridge as the first of these
times, in point of power and genius."--B., 1816.]
[Footnote 133: Mr. Shee, author of 'Rhymes on Art' and 'Elements of
Art'. [Sir Martin Archer Shee (1770-1850) was President of the Royal
Academy (1830-45). His 'Rhymes on Art' (1805) and 'Elements of Art'
(1809), a poem in six cantos, will hardly be regarded as worthy of
Byron's praise, which was probably quite genuine. He also wrote a novel,
'Harry Calverley', and other works.]]
[Footnote 134: Mr. Wright, late Consul-General for the Seven Islands, is
author of a very beautiful poem, just published: it is entitled 'Hor?
Ionic?, and is descriptive of the isles and the adjacent coast of
Greece. [Walter Rodwell Wright was afterwards President of the Court of
Appeal in Malta, where he died in 1826. 'Hor?Ionic? a Poem descriptive
of the Ionian Islands, and Part of the Adjacent Coast of Greece', was
published in 1809. He is mentioned in one of Byron's long notes to
'Childe Harold', canto ii., dated Franciscan Convent, Mar. 17, 1811.]]
[Footnote 135: The translators of the Anthology have since published
separate poems, which evince genius that only requires opportunity to
attain eminence. [The Rev. Robert Bland (1779-1825) published, in 1806,
'Translations chiefly from the Greek Anthology, with Tales and
Miscellaneous Poems'. In these he was assisted (see 'Life of the Rev.
Francis Hodgson', vol. i. pp. 226-260) by Denman (afterwards Chief
Justice), by Hodgson himself, and, above all, by John Herman Merivale
(1779-1844), who subsequently, in 1813, was joint editor with him of
'Collections from the Greek Anthology', etc.]]
[Footnote 136: Erasmus Darwin (1731-1802), the grandfather of Charles
Robert Darwin. Coleridge describes his poetry as "nothing but a
succession of landscapes or paintings. It arrests the attention too
often, and so prevents the rapidity necessary to pathos."--'Anima
Poet?, 1895, p. 5. His chief works are 'The Botanic Garden' (1789-92)
and 'The Temple of Nature' (1803). Byron's censure of 'The Botanic
Garden' is inconsistent with his principles, for Darwin's verse was
strictly modelled on the lines of Pope and his followers. But the 'Loves
of the Triangles' had laughed away the 'Loves of the Plants'.]]
[Footnote 137: The neglect of 'The Botanic Garden' is some proof of
returning taste. The scenery is its sole recommendation.]
[Footnote 138: This was not Byron's mature opinion, nor had he so
expressed himself in the review of Wordsworth's 'Poems' which he
contributed to 'Crosby's Magazine' in 1807 ('Life', p. 669). His scorn
was, in part, provoked by indignities offered to Pope and Dryden, and,
in part, assumed because one Lake poet called up the rest; and it was
good sport to flout and jibe at the "Fraternity." That the day would
come when the message of Wordsworth would reach his ears and awaken his
enthusiasm, he could not, of course, foresee (see 'Childe Harold', canto
iii. stanzas 72, 'et seqq.').]]
[Footnote 139: Messrs. Lamb and Lloyd, the most ignoble followers of
Southey and Co. [Charles Lloyd (1775-1839) resided for some months under
Coleridge's roof, first in Bristol, and afterwards at Nether Stowey
(1796-1797). He published, in 1796, a folio edition of his 'Poems on the
Death of Priscilla Farmer', in which a sonnet by Coleridge and a poem of
Lamb's were included. Lamb and Lloyd contributed several pieces to the
second edition of Coleridge's Poems, published in 1797; and in 1798 they
brought out a joint volume of their own composition, named 'Poems in
Blank Verse'. 'Edmund Oliver', a novel, appeared also in 1798. An
estrangement between Coleridge and Lloyd resulted in a quarrel with
Lamb, and a drawing together of Lamb, Lloyd, and Southey. But Byron
probably had in his mind nothing more than the lines in the
'Anti-Jacobin', where Lamb and Lloyd are classed with Coleridge and
Southey as advocates of French socialism:--
"Coleridge and Southey, Lloyd and Lamb and Co.,
Tune all your mystic harps to praise Lepaux."
In later life Byron expressed a very different opinion of Lamb's
literary merits. (See the preface to 'Werner', now first published.)]]
[Footnote 140: By the bye, I hope that in Mr. Scott's next poem, his
hero or heroine will be less addicted to "Gramarye," and more to
Grammar, than the Lady of the Lay and her Bravo, William of Deloraine.]
[Footnote 141: "Unjust."--B., 1816. [In 'Frost at Midnight', first
published in 1798, Coleridge twice mentions his "Cradled infant."]]
[Footnote 142: The Rev. W. L. Bowles ('vide ante', p. 323, note 2),
published, in 1789, 'Fourteen Sonnets written chiefly on Picturesque
Spots during a Journey'.]]
[Footnote 143: It may be asked, why I have censured the Earl of
CARLISLE, my guardian and relative, to whom I dedicated a volume of
puerile poems a few years ago?--The guardianship was nominal, at least
as far as I have been able to discover; the relationship I cannot help,
and am very sorry for it; but as his Lordship seemed to forget it on a
very essential occasion to me, I shall not burden my memory with the
recollection. I do not think that personal differences sanction the
unjust condemnation of a brother scribbler; but I see no reason why they
should act as a preventive, when the author, noble or ignoble, has, for
a series of years, beguiled a "discerning public" (as the advertisements
have it) with divers reams of most orthodox, imperial nonsense. Besides,
I do not step aside to vituperate the earl: no--his works come fairly in
review with those of other Patrician Literati. If, before I escaped from
my teens, I said anything in favour of his Lordship's paper books, it
was in the way of dutiful dedication, and more from the advice of others
than my own judgment, and I seize the first opportunity of pronouncing
my sincere recantation. I have heard that some persons conceive me to be
under obligations to Lord CARLISLE: if so, I shall be most particularly
happy to learn what they are, and when conferred, that they may be duly
appreciated and publicly acknowledged. What I have humbly advanced as an
opinion on his printed things, I am prepared to support, if necessary,
by quotations from Elegies, Eulogies, Odes, Episodes, and certain
facetious and dainty tragedies bearing his name and mark:--
"What can ennoble knaves, or 'fools', or cowards?
Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards."
So says Pope. Amen!--"Much too savage, whatever the foundation might
be."--B., 1816.]
[Footnote 144: Line 952. 'Note'--
"Tollere humo, victorque virum volitare per ora."
(VIRGIL.)]
[Footnote 145:
"The devil take that 'Phoenix'! How came it there?"
--B., 1816.]
[Footnote 146: The Rev. Charles James Hoare (1781-1865), a close friend
of the leaders of the Evangelical party, gained the Seatonian Prize at
Cambridge in 1807 with his poem on the 'Shipwreck of St. Paul'.]
[Footnote 147: Edmund Hoyle, the father of the modern game of whist,
lived from 1672 to 1769. The Rev. Charles Hoyle, his "poetical
namesake," was, like Hoare, a Seatonian prizeman, and wrote an epic in
thirteen books on the 'Exodus'.]
[Footnote 148: The 'Games of Hoyle', well known to the votaries of
Whist, Chess, etc., are not to be superseded by the vagaries of his
poetical namesake ["illustrious Synonime" in 'MS.' and 'British Bards'],
whose poem comprised, as expressly stated in the advertisement, all the
"Plagues of Egypt."]
[Footnote 149: Here, as in line 391, "Fresh fish from Helicon," etc.,
Byron confounds Helicon and Hippocrene.]]
[Footnote 150: This person, who has lately betrayed the most rabid
symptoms of confirmed authorship, is writer of a poem denominated 'The
Art of Pleasing', as "Lucus a non lucendo," containing little
pleasantry, and less poetry. He also acts as ["lies as" in 'MS.']
monthly stipendiary and collector of calumnies for the 'Satirist'. If
this unfortunate young man would exchange the magazines for the
mathematics, and endeavour to take a decent degree in his university, it
might eventually prove more serviceable than his present salary.]
[Note.--An unfortunate young person of Emanuel College, Cambridge,
ycleped Hewson Clarke, has lately manifested the most rabid symptoms of
confirmed Authorship. His Disorder commenced some years ago, and the
'Newcastle Herald' teemed with his precocious essays, to the great
edification of the Burgesses of Newcastle, Morpeth, and the parts
adjacent even unto Berwick upon Tweed. These have since been abundantly
scurrilous upon the [town] of Newcastle, his native spot, Mr. Mathias
and Anacreon Moore. What these men had done to offend Mr. Hewson Clarke
is not known, but surely the town in whose markets he had sold meat, and
in whose weekly journal he had written prose deserved better treatment.
Mr. H.C. should recollect the proverb "'tis a villainous bird that
defiles his own nest." He now writes in the 'Satirist'. We recommend the
young man to abandon the magazines for mathematics, and to believe that
a high degree at Cambridge will be more advantageous, as well as
profitable in the end, than his present precarious gleanings.]
[Hewson Clarke (1787-circ. 1832) was entered at Emmanuel Coll. Camb.
circ. 1806 (see 'Postscript'). He had to leave the University without
taking a degree, and migrated to London, where he devoted his not
inconsiderable talents to contributions to the 'Satirist', the
'Scourge', etc. He also wrote: 'An Impartial History of the Naval, etc.,
Events of Europe ... from the French Revolution ... to the Conclusion of
a General Peace' (1815); and a continuation of Hume's 'History of
England', 2 vols. (1832).
The 'Satirist', a monthly magazine illustrated with coloured cartoons,
was issued 1808-1814. 'Hours of Idleness' was reviewed Jan. 1808 (i.
77-81). "The Diary of a Cantab" (June, 1808, ii. 368) contains some
verses of "Lord B----n to his Bear. To the tune of Lachin y gair." The
last verse runs thus:--
"But when with the ardour of Love I am burning,
I feel for thy torments, I feel for thy care;
And weep for thy bondage, so truly discerning
What's felt by a 'Lord', may be felt by a 'Bear'."
In August, 1808 (iii. 78-86), there is a critique on 'Poems Original and
Translated', in which the bear plays many parts. The writer "is without
his bear and is himself muzzled," etc. Towards the close of the article
a solemn sentence is passed on the author for his disregard of the
advice of parents, tutors, friends; "but," adds the reviewer, "in the
paltry volume before us we think we observe some proof that the still
small voice of conscience will be heard in the cool of the day. Even now
the gay, the gallant, the accomplished bear-leader is not happy," etc.
Hence the castigation of "the sizar of Emmanuel College."]
[Footnote 151:
"Right enough: this was well deserved, and well laid on."
(B., 1816.)]
[Footnote 152:
"Into Cambridgeshire the Emperor Probus transported a considerable
body of Vandals."
(Gibbon's 'Decline and Fall', ii. 83.) There is no reason to doubt the
truth of this assertion; the breed is still in high perfection.
We see no reason to doubt the truth of this statement, as a large stock
of the same breed are to be found there at this day.--'British Bards'.
[Lines 981-984 do not occur in the 'MS'. Lines 981, 982, are _insert_ed in
MS. in 'British Bards'.]]
[Footnote 153: This gentleman's name requires no praise: the man who
[has surpassed Dryden and Gifford as a Translator.--'MS. British Bards']
in translation displays unquestionable genius may be well expected to
excel in original composition, of which, it is to be hoped, we shall
soon see a splendid specimen. [Francis Hodgson (1781-1852) was Byron's
lifelong friend. His 'Juvenal' appeared in 1807; 'Lady Jane Grey and
other Poems', in 1809; 'Sir Edgar, a Tale', in 1810. For other works and
details, see 'Life of the Rev. Francis Hodgson', by the Rev. James T.
Hodgson (1878).]]
[Footnote 154: Hewson Clarke, 'Esq'., as it is written.]
[Footnote 155: 'The Aboriginal Britons', an excellent ["most excellent"
in 'MS.'] poem, by Richards. [The Rev. George Richards, D.D.
(1769-1835), a Fellow of Oriel, and afterwards Rector of St.
Martin's-in-the-Fields. 'The Aboriginal Britons', a prize poem, was
published in 1792, and was followed by 'The Songs of the Aboriginal
Bards of Britain' (1792), and various other prose and poetical works.]]
[Footnote: 156. With this verse the satire originally ended.]
[Footnote 157: A friend of mine being asked, why his Grace of Portland
was likened to an old woman? replied, "he supposed it was because he was
past bearing." (Even Homer was a punster--a solitary pun.)--['MS'.] His
Grace is now gathered to his grandmothers, where he sleeps as sound as
ever; but even his sleep was better than his colleagues' waking. 1811.
[William Henry Cavendish, third Duke of Portland (1738-1809), Prime
Minister in 1807, on the downfall of the Ministry of "All the Talents,"
till his death in 1809, was, as the wits said, "a convenient block to
hang Whigs on," but was not, even in his vigour, a man of much
intellectual capacity. When Byron meditated a tour to India in 1808,
Portland declined to write on his behalf to the Directors of the East
India Company, and couched his refusal in terms which Byron fancied to
be offensive.]]
[Footnote 158: "Saw it August, 1809."--B., 1816. [The following notes
were omitted from the Fifth Edition:--
"Calpe is the ancient name of Gibraltar. Saw it August, 1809.--B.,
1816.
"Stamboul is the Turkish word for Constantinople. Was there the summer
1810."
To "Mount Caucasus," he adds, "Saw the distant ridge of,--1810, 1811"]]
[Footnote 159: Georgia.]
[Footnote 160: Mount Caucasus.]
[Footnote 161: Lord Elgin would fain persuade us that all the figures,
with and without noses, in his stoneshop, are the work of Phidias!
"Credat Jud鎢s!" [R. Payne Knight, in his introduction to 'Specimens of
Ancient Sculpture', published 1809, by the Dilettanti Society, throws a
doubt on the Phidian workmanship of the "Elgin" marbles. See the
Introduction to 'The Curse of Minerva'.]]
[Footnote 162: [Sir William Gell (1777-1836) published the 'Topography
of Troy' (1804), the 'Geography and Antiquities of Ithaca' (1807), and
the 'Itinerary of Greece' (1808). Byron reviewed the two last works in
the 'Monthly Review' (August, 1811), ('Life', pp. 670, 676). Fresh from
the scenes, he speaks with authority. "With Homer in his pocket and Gell
on his sumpter-mule, the Odysseus tourist may now make a very classical
and delightful excursion." The epithet in the original MS. was
"coxcomb," but becoming acquainted with Gell while the satire was in the
press, Byron changed it to "classic." In the fifth edition he altered it
to "rapid," and appended this note:--"'Rapid,' indeed! He topographised
and typographised King Priam's dominions in three days! I called him
'classic' before I saw the Troad, but since have learned better than to
tack to his name what don't belong to it."]]
[Footnote 163: Mr. Gell's 'Topography of Troy and Ithaca' cannot fail to
ensure the approbation of every man possessed of classical taste, as
well for the information Mr. Gell conveys to the mind of the reader, as
for the ability and research the respective works display.
"'Troy and Ithaca.' Visited both in 1810, 1811."--B., 1816.
"'Ithaca' passed first in 1809."--B., 1816.
"Since seeing the plain of Troy, my opinions are somewhat changed as
to the above note. Cell's survey was hasty and superficial."--B.,
1816.]
[Footnote 164:
"Singular enough, and 'din' enough, God knows."
(B., 1816).]
[Footnote 165:
"The greater part of this satire I most sincerely wish had never been
written-not only on account of the injustice of much of the critical,
and some of the personal part of it--but the tone and temper are such
as I cannot approve."
BYRON. July 14, 1816. 'Diodati, Geneva'.]
[Footnote i:
'Truth be my theme, and Censure guide my song.'
['MS. M.']
[Footnote ii:
'But thou, at least, mine own especial quill
Dipt in the dew drops from Parnassus' hill,
Shalt ever honoured and regarded be,
By more beside no doubt, yet still by me.'
['MS. M.'] ]
[Footnote iii:
'And men through life her willing slaves obey.'
['MS. Second, Third, and Fourth Editions.']]
[Footnote iv:
'Unfolds her motley store to suit the time.'--
['MS. Second, Third, and Fourth Editions.']]
[Footnote v:
'When Justice halts and Right begins to fail.'
['MS. Second, Third, and Fourth Editions.']]
[Footnote vi:
'A mortal weapon'.
['MS. M.']
[Footnote vii:
'Yet Titles sounding lineage cannot save
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave,
Lamb had his farce but that Patrician name
Failed to preserve the spurious brat from shame.'
['MS.']]
[Footnote viii:
'a lucky hit.'
['Second, Third, and Fourth Editions.']]
[Footnote ix:
'No dearth of rhyme.'
['British Bards'.] ]
[Footnote x:
'The Press oppressed.'
['British Bards'.] ]
[Footnote xi:
'While Southey's Epics load.'
['British Bards'.] ]
[Footnote xii:
'O'er taste awhile these Infidels prevail.'
['MS.']]
[Footnote xiii:
'Erect and hail an idol of their own.'
['MS.']]
[Footnote xiv:
'Not quite a footpad-----.'
['British Bards'.] ]
[Footnote xv:
'Low may they sink to merited contempt.'
['British Bards'.]]
'And Scorn reimmerate the mean attempt!'--
['MS. First to Fourth Editions']]
[Footnote xvi:
'--though lesser bards content--'
['British Bards']
[Footnote xvii:
'How well the subject.'
['MS. First to Fourth Editions.']]
[Footnote xviii:
'A fellow feeling makes us wondrous kind.'--
['British Bards, First to Fourth Editions.']]
[Footnote xix:
'Who fain would'st.'
['British Bards, First to Fifth Editions'.]]
[Footnote xx:
'Mend thy life, and sin no more.'
['MS.']]
[Footnote xxi:
'And o'er harmonious nonsense.'
['MS. First Edition.']]
[Footnote xxii:
'In many marble-covered volumes view
Hayley, in vain attempting something new,
Whether he spin his comedies in rhyme,
Or scrawls as Wood and Barclay [A] walk, 'gainst Time.'
['MS. British Bards', and 'First to Fourth Editions.']
[Sub-Footnote A: Captain Robert Barclay (1779-1854) of Ury,
agriculturalist and pedestrian, came of a family noted for physical
strength and endurance. Byron saw him win his walk against Wood at
Newmarket. (See Angelo's 'Reminiscences' (1837), vol. ii. pp. 37-44.) In
July, 1809, Barclay completed his task of walking a thousand miles in a
thousand hours, at the rate of one mile in each and every hour. (See,
too, for an account of Barclay, 'The Eccentric Review' (1812), i.
133-150.)]]
[Footnote xxiii:
'Breaks into mawkish lines each holy Book'.
['MS. First Edition'.] ]
[Footnote xxiv:
'Thy "Sympathy" that'.
['British Bards'.] ]
[Footnote xxv:
'And shows dissolved in sympathetic tears'.
'----in thine own melting tears.--'
['MS. First to Fourth Editions'.]]
[Footnote xxvi:
'Whether in sighing winds them seek'st relief
Or Consolation in a yellow leaf.--'
['MS. first to Fourth Editions.'] ]
[Footnote xxvii:
'What pretty sounds.'
['British Bards.'] ]
[Footnote xxviii:
'Thou fain woulds't----'
['British Bards.'] ]
[Footnote xxix:
'But to soft themes'.
['British Bards, First Edition'.] ]
[Footnote xxx:
'The Bard has wove'.
['British Bards'.] ]
[Footnote xxxi:
'If Pope, since mortal, not untaught to err
Again demand a dull biographer'.
['MS'.]]
[Footnote xxxii:
'Too much in Turtle Bristol's sons delight
Too much in Bowls of Rack prolong the night.--'
['MS. Second to Fourth Editions'.]
'Too much o'er Bowls.'
['Second and Third Editions'.]]
[Footnote xxxiii:
'And yet why'.
['British Bards'.] ]
[Footnote xxxiv:
'Or old or young'.
['British Bards'.] ]
[Footnote xxxv:
--'yes, I'm sure all may.'
['Quarto Proof Sheet']
[Footnote xxxvi:
'While Cloacina's holy pontiff Lambe [3]
As he himself was damned shall try to damn'.
['British Bards'.]
[Sub-Footnote A. We have heard of persons who "when the Bagpipe sings in
the nose cannot contain their urine for affection," but Mr. L. carries
it a step further than Shakespeare's diuretic amateurs, being notorious
at school and college for his inability to contain--anything. We do not
know to what "Pipe" to attribute this additional effect, but the fact is
uncontrovertible.--['Note' to Quarto Proof bound up with 'British
Bards'.]]
[Footnote xxxvii:
'Lo! long beneath'--.
['British Bards'.]]
[Footnote xxxviii:
'And grateful to the founder of the feast
Declare his landlord can translate at least'.--
['MS. British Bards. First to Fourth Editions'.]]
[Footnote xxxix:
'--are fed because they write.'
['British Bards'.]]
[Footnote xl:
'Princes in Barrels, Counts in arbours pent.--
[MS. British Bards'.]]
[Footnote xli:
'His "damme, poohs."'
['MS. First Edition.']]
[Footnote xlii:
'While Kenny's World just suffered to proceed
Proclaims the audience very kind indeed'.--
['MS. British Bards. First to Fourth Editions'.]]
[Footnote xliii:
'Resume her throne again'.--
['MS. British Bards. First to Fourth Editions.']]
[Footnote xliv:--
'and Kemble lives to tread'.--
['British Bards. First to Fourth Editions.']]
[Footnote xlv:
'St. George [A] and Goody Goose divide the prize.'--
[MS. alternative in British Bards.]
[Sub-Footnote A: We need not inform the reader that we do not allude to
the Champion of England who slew the Dragon. Our St. George is content
to draw status with a very different kind of animal.--[Pencil note to
'British Bards'.]]]
[Footnote xlvi:
'Its humble flight to splendid Pantomimes'.
['British Bards. MS']]
[Footnote xlvii:
'Behold the new Petronius of the times
The skilful Arbiter of modern crimes.'
['MS.']
[Footnote xlviii:
'----a Paget for your wife.'
['MS. First to Fourth Editions.']]
[Footnote xlix:
'From Grosvenor Place or Square'.
['MS. British Bards'.]]
[Footnote l:
'On one alone Apollo deigns to smile
And crowns a new Roscommon in Carlisle.'
['MS. Addition to British Bards.']
'Nor e'en a hackneyed Muse will deign to smile
On minor Byron, or mature Carlisle.'
[First Edition.]
[Footnote li:
'Yet at their fiat----'
'Yet at their nausea----.'
['MS. Addition to British Bards'.]]
[Footnote lii:
'Such sneering fame.'
['British Bards']
[Footnote liii:
'Though Bell has lost his nightingales and owls,
Matilda snivels still and Hafiz howls,
And Crusca's spirit rising from the dead
Revives in Laura, Quiz, and X. Y. Z.'--
['British Bards. First to Third Editions', 1810.]]
[Footnote liv:
'None since the past have claimed the tribute due'.
['British Bards. MS'.]]
[Footnote lv:
'From Albion's cliffs to Caledonia's coast.
Some few who know to write as well as feel'.
['MS'.]]
[Footnote lvi:
'The spoiler came; and all thy promise fair
Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there.--'
['First to Fourth Editions']]
[Footnote lvii:
'On him may meritorious honours tend
While doubly mingling,'.
['MS. erased'.]]
Footnote lviii:
'And you united Bards'.
['MS. Addition to British Bards'.]
'And you ye nameless'.
['MS. erased'.]]
[Footnote lvix:
'Translation's servile work at length disown
And quit Achaia's Muse to court your own'.
['MS. Addition to British Bards'.]]
[Footnote lx:
'Let these arise and anxious of applause'.
['British Bards. MS'.]]
[Footnote lxi:
'But not in heavy'.
['British Bards. MS'.]]
[Footnote lxii:
'Let prurient Southey cease'.
['MS. British Bards'.]]
[Footnote lxiii:
'still the babe at nurse'.
['MS'.]
'Let Lewis jilt our nurseries with alarm
With tales that oft disgust and never charm'.
[Footnote lxiv:
'But thou with powers--'
['MS. British Bards'.]]
[Footnote lxv:
'Let MOORE be lewd; let STRANGFORD steal from MOORE'.
['MS. First to Fourth Editions'.]]
[Footnote lxvi:
'For outlawed Sherwood's tales.'
['MS. Brit. Bards. Eds.' 1-4.]
[Footnote lxvii:
'And even spurns the great Seatonian prize.--'
['MS. First to Fourth Editions' (a correction in the Annotated Copy).]]
[Footnote lxviii:
'With odes by Smyth [A] and epic songs by Hoyle,
Hoyle whose learn'd page, if still upheld by whist
Required no sacred theme to bid us list.--'
['MS. British Bards.']
[Sub-Footnote A: William Smyth (1766-1849). Professor of Modern History
at Cambridge, published his 'English Lyrics' (in 1806), and several
other works.]
[Footnote lxix:
'Yet hold--as when by Heaven's supreme behest,
If found, ten righteous had preserved the Rest
In Sodom's fated town--for Granta's name
Let Hodgson's Genius plead and save her fame
But where fair Isis, etc.'
['MS.' and 'British Bards.']]
[Footnote lxx:
'See Clarke still striving piteously to please
Forgets that Doggrel leads not to degrees.--'
['MS. Fragment' bound up with 'British Bards'.]
[Footnote lxxi:
'So sunk in dullness and so lost in shame
That Smythe and Hodgson scarce redeem thy fame.--'
['MS. Addition to British Bards. First to Fourth Editions'.]]
[Footnote lxxii:
'----is wove.--'
[MS. British Bards' and 'First to Fourth Editions'.]]
[Footnote lxxiii:
'And modern Britons justly praise their sires.'--
['MS. British Bards' and 'First to Fourth Editions]]
[Footnote lxxiv:
'--what her sons must know too well.'
['British Bards]]
[Footnote lxxv:
'Zeal for her honour no malignant Rage,
Has bade me spurn the follies of the age.--'
['MS. British Bards'. First Edition]]
[Footnote lxxvi:
'--Ocean's lonely Queen.'
['British Bards']]
'--Ocean's mighty Queen.'
['First to Fourth Editions']]
[Footnote: lxxvii.
'Like these thy cliffs may sink in ruin hurled
The last white ramparts of a falling world'.--
['British Bards MS.']]
[Footnote: lxxviii.
'But should I back return, no lettered rage
Shall drag my common-place book on the stage:
Let vain Valentia [A] rival luckless Carr,
And equal him whose work he sought to mar.--'
['Second to Fourth Editions'.]
[Sub-Footnote: A. Lord Valentia (whose tremendous travels are
forthcoming with due decorations, graphical, topographical,
typographical) deposed, on Sir John Carr's unlucky suit, that Mr.
Dubois's satire prevented his purchase of 'The Stranger' in
Ireland.--Oh, fie, my lord! has your lordship no more feeling for a
fellow-tourist?--but "two of a trade," they say, etc. [George Annesley,
Viscount Valentia (1769-1844), published, in 1809, 'Voyages and Travels
to India, Ceylon, the Red Sea, Abyssinia, and Egypt in the Years
1802-6'. Byron calls him "vain" Valentia, because his "accounts of
ceremonies attending his lordship's interviews with several of the petty
princes" suggest the thought "that his principal errand to India was to
measure certain rank in the British peerage against the gradations of
Asiatic royalty."--'Eclectic Review', August, 1809. In August, 1808, Sir
John Carr, author of numerous 'Travels', brought an unsuccessful action
for damages against Messrs. Hood and Sharpe, the publishers of the
parody of his works by Edward Dubois,--'My Pocket Book: or Hints for a
Ryghte Merrie and Conceitede Tour, in 4to, to be called "The Stranger in
Ireland in 1805,"' By a Knight Errant, and dedicated to the papermakers.
(See Letter to Hodgson, August 6, 1809, and suppressed stanza (stanza
Ixxxvii.) of the first canto of 'Childe Harold'.)]]
[Footnote lxxix:
'To stun mankind, with Poesy or Prose'.
['Second to Fourth Editions'.]
[Footnote lxxx:
'Thus much I've dared to do, how far my lay'.--
['First to Fourth Editions'.]]
POSTSCRIPT TO THE SECOND EDITION.
I have been informed, since the present edition went to the press, that
my trusty and well-beloved cousins, the Edinburgh Reviewers, are
preparing a most vehement critique on my poor, gentle, 'unresisting'
Muse, whom they have already so be-deviled with their ungodly ribaldry;
"Tant鎛e animis coelestibus Ir?"
I suppose I must say of JEFFREY as Sir ANDREW AGUECHEEK saith, "an I had
known he was so cunning of fence, I had seen him damned ere I had fought
him." What a pity it is that I shall be beyond the Bosphorus before the
next number has passed the Tweed! But I yet hope to light my pipe with
it in Persia. [1]
My Northern friends have accused me, with justice, of personality
towards their great literary Anthropophagus, Jeffery; but what else was
to be done with him and his dirty pack, who feed by "lying and
slandering," and slake their thirst by "evil speaking"? I have adduced
facts already well known, and of JEFFREY's mind I have stated my free
opinion, nor has he thence sustained any injury:--what scavenger was
ever soiled by being pelted with mud? It may be said that I quit England
because I have censured there "persons of honour and wit about town;"
but I am coming back again, and their vengeance will keep hot till my
return. Those who know me can testify that my motives for leaving
England are very different from fears, literary or personal: those who
do not, may one day be convinced. Since the publication of this thing,
my name has not been concealed; I have been mostly in London, ready to
answer for my transgressions, and in daily expectation of sundry
cartels; but, alas! "the age of chivalry is over," or, in the vulgar
tongue, there is no spirit now-a-days.
There is a youth ycleped Hewson Clarke (subaudi 'esquire'), a sizer of
Emanuel College, and, I believe, a denizen of Berwick-upon-Tweed, whom I
have introduced in these pages to much better company than he has been
accustomed to meet; he is, notwithstanding, a very sad dog, and for no
reason that I can discover, except a personal quarrel with a bear, kept
by me at Cambridge to sit for a fellowship, and whom the jealousy of his
Trinity contemporaries prevented from success, has been abusing me, and,
what is worse, the defenceless innocent above mentioned, in the
'Satirist' for one year and some months. I am utterly unconscious of
having given him any provocation; indeed, I am guiltless of having heard
his name, till coupled with the 'Satirist'. He has therefore no reason
to complain, and I dare say that, like Sir Fretful Plagiary, he is
rather 'pleased' than otherwise. I have now mentioned all who have done
me the honour to notice me and mine, that is, my bear and my book,
except the editor of the 'Satirist', who, it seems, is a gentleman--God
wot! I wish he could impart a little of his gentility to his subordinate
scribblers. I hear that Mr. JERNINGHAM[1] is about to take up the
cudgels for his M鎐enas, Lord Carlisle. I hope not: he was one of the
few, who, in the very short intercourse I had with him, treated me with
kindness when a boy; and whatever he may say or do, "pour on, I will
endure." I have nothing further to add, save a general note of
thanksgiving to readers, purchasers, and publishers, and, in the words
of SCOTT, I wish
"To all and each a fair good night,
And rosy dreams and slumbers light."
[Footnote 1: The article never appeared, and Lord Byron, in the 'Hints
from Horace', taunted Jeffrey with a silence which seemed to indicate
that the critic was beaten from the field.]
[Footnote 2: Edward Jerningham (1727-1812), third son of Sir George
Jerningham, Bart., was an indefatigable versifier. Between the
publication of his first poem, 'The Nunnery', in 1766, and his last,
'The Old Bard's Farewell', in 1812, he sent to the press no less than
thirty separate compositions. As a contributor to the 'British Album',
Gifford handled him roughly in the 'Baviad' (lines 21, 22); and Mathias,
in a note to 'Pursuits of Literature', brackets him with Payne Knight as
"ecrivain du commun et po雝e vulgaire." He was a dandy with a literary
turn, who throughout a long life knew every one who was worth knowing.
Some of his letters have recently been published (see 'Jerningham
Letters', two vols., 1896).]
HINTS FROM HORACE: [i]
BEING AN ALLUSION IN ENGLISH VERSE TO THE EPISTLE
"AD PISONES, DE ARTE POETIC?"
AND INTENDED AS A SEQUEL TO "ENGLISH BARDS, AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS."
----"Ergo fungar vice cotis, acutum
Reddere qu?ferrum valet, exsors ipsa secandi."
HOR. 'De Arte Poet'., II. 304 and 305.
"Rhymes are difficult things--they are stubborn things, Sir."
FIELDING'S 'Amelia', Vol. iii. Book; and Chap. v.
[Footnote i:
Hints from Horace (Athens, Capuchin Convent, March 12, 1811); being an
Imitation in English Verse from the Epistle, etc.
[MS, M.]
Hints from Horace: being a Partial Imitation, in English Verse, of the
Epistle 'Ad Pisones, De Arte Poetic?; and intended as a sequel to
'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers'.
Athens, Franciscan Convent, March 12, 1811.
['Proof b'.]]
INTRODUCTION TO HINTS FROM HORACE
Three MSS. of 'Hints from Horace' are extant, two in the possession of
Lord Lovelace (MSS. L. a and b), and a third in the possession of Mr.
Murray ('MS. M'.).
Proofs of lines 173-272 and 1-272 ('Proofs a, b'), are among the Egerton
MSS. in the British Museum. They were purchased from the Rev. Alexander
Dallas, January 12, 1867, and are, doubtless, fragments of the proofs
set up in type for Cawthorn in 1811. They are in "book-form," and show
that the volume was intended to be uniform with the Fifth Edition of
'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', of 1811. The text corresponds
closely but not exactly with that adopted by Murray in 1831, and does
not embody the variants of the several MSS. It is probable that complete
proofs were in Moore's possession at the time when he included the
_select_ions from the 'Hints' in his 'Letters and Journals', pp. 263-269,
and that the text of the entire poem as published in 1831 was derived
from this source. _Select_ions, numbering in all 156 lines, had already
appeared in 'Recollections of the Life of Lord Byron', by R. C. Dallas,
1824, pp. 104-113. Byron, estimating the merit by the difficulty of the
performance, rated the 'Hints from Horace' extravagantly high. He only
forbore to publish them after the success of 'Childe Harold', because he
felt, as he states, that he should be "heaping coals of fire upon his
head" if he were in his hour of triumph to put forth a sequel to a
lampoon provoked by failure. Nine years afterwards, when he resolved to
print the work with some omissions, he gravely maintained that it
excelled the productions of his mature genius. "As far," he said, "as
versification goes, it is good; and on looking back at what I wrote
about that period, I am astonished to see how little I have trained on.
I wrote better then than now; but that comes of my having fallen into
the atrocious bad taste of the times" [September 23, 1820]. The opinion
of J. C. Hobhouse that the 'Hints' would require "a good deal of
slashing" to adapt them to the passing hour, and other considerations,
again led Byron to suspend the publication. Authors are frequently bad
judges of their own works, but of all the literary hallucinations upon
record there are none which exceed the mistaken preferences of Lord
Byron. Shortly after the appearance of 'The Corsair' he fancied that
'English Bards' was still his masterpiece; when all his greatest works
had been produced, he contended that his translation from Pulci was his
"grand performance,--the best thing he ever did in his life;" and
throughout the whole of his literary career he regarded these 'Hints
from Horace' with a special and unchanging fondness.
HINTS FROM HORACE
ATHENS: CAPUCHIN CONVENT, March. 12, 1811. [i]
Who would not laugh, if Lawrence [1], hired to grace [ii]
His costly canvas with each flattered face,
Abused his art, till Nature, with a blush,
Saw cits grow Centaurs underneath his brush?
Or, should some limner join, for show or sale,
A Maid of Honour to a Mermaid's tail? [iii]
Or low Dubost [2]--as once the world has seen--
Degrade God's creatures in his graphic spleen?
Not all that forced politeness, which defends
Fools in their faults, could gag his grinning friends. 10
Believe me, Moschus, like that picture seems [iv]
The book which, sillier than a sick man's dreams,
Displays a crowd of figures incomplete,
Poetic Nightmares, without head or feet.
Poets and painters, as all artists know, [v]
May shoot a little with a lengthened bow;
We claim this mutual mercy for our task,
And grant in turn the pardon which we ask;
But make not monsters spring from gentle dams--
Birds breed not vipers, tigers nurse not lambs. 20
A laboured, long Exordium, sometimes tends
(Like patriot speeches) but to paltry ends; [vi]
And nonsense in a lofty note goes down,
As Pertness passes with a legal gown: [vii]
Thus many a Bard describes in pompous strain [viii]
The clear brook babbling through the goodly plain:
The groves of Granta, and her Gothic halls,
King's Coll-Cam's stream-stained windows, and old walls:
Or, in adventurous numbers, neatly aims
To paint a rainbow, or the river Thames. [3] 30
You sketch a tree, and so perhaps may shine [ix]--
But daub a shipwreck like an alehouse sign;
You plan a _vase_--it dwindles to a _pot_;
Then glide down Grub-street--fasting and forgot:
Laughed into Lethe by some quaint Review,
Whose wit is never troublesome till--true.
In fine, to whatsoever you aspire,
Let it at least be simple and entire.
The greater portion of the rhyming tribe [x]
(Give ear, my friend, for thou hast been a scribe) 40
Are led astray by some peculiar lure. [xi]
I labour to be brief--become obscure;
One falls while following Elegance too fast;
Another soars, inflated with Bombast;
Too low a third crawls on, afraid to fly,
He spins his subject to Satiety;
Absurdly varying, he at last engraves
Fish in the woods, and boars beneath the waves! [xii]
Unless your care's exact, your judgment nice,
The flight from Folly leads but into Vice; 50
None are complete, all wanting in some part,
Like certain tailors, limited in art.
For galligaskins Slowshears is your man [xiii]
But coats must claim another artisan. [4]
Now this to me, I own, seems much the same
As Vulcan's feet to bear Apollo's frame;
Or, with a fair complexion, to expose
Black eyes, black ringlets, but--a bottle nose!
Dear Authors! suit your topics to your strength,
And ponder well your subject, and its length; 60
Nor lift your load, before you're quite aware
What weight your shoulders will, or will not, bear.
But lucid Order, and Wit's siren voice, [xiv]
Await the Poet, skilful in his choice;
With native Eloquence he soars along,
Grace in his thoughts, and Music in his song.
Let Judgment teach him wisely to combine
With future parts the now omitted line:
This shall the Author choose, or that reject,
Precise in style, and cautious to _select_; 70
Nor slight applause will candid pens afford
To him who furnishes a wanting word. [xv]
Then fear not, if 'tis needful, to produce
Some term unknown, or obsolete in use,
(As Pitt has furnished us a word or two, [5]
Which Lexicographers declined to do;)
So you indeed, with care,--(but be content
To take this license rarely)--may invent.
New words find credit in these latter days,
If neatly grafted on a Gallic phrase; [xvi] 80
What Chaucer, Spenser did, we scarce refuse
To Dryden's or to Pope's maturer Muse.
If you can add a little, say why not,
As well as William Pitt, and Walter Scott?
Since they, by force of rhyme and force of lungs, [xvii]
Enriched our Island's ill-united tongues;
'Tis then--and shall be--lawful to present
Reform in writing, as in Parliament.
As forests shed their foliage by degrees,
So fade expressions which in season please; 90
And we and ours, alas! are due to Fate,
And works and words but dwindle to a date.
Though as a Monarch nods, and Commerce calls, [xviii]
Impetuous rivers stagnate in canals;
Though swamps subdued, and marshes drained, sustain [xix]
The heavy ploughshare and the yellow grain,
And rising ports along the busy shore
Protect the vessel from old Ocean's roar,
All, all, must perish; but, surviving last,
The love of Letters half preserves the past. 100
True, some decay, yet not a few revive; [xx] [6]
Though those shall sink, which now appear to thrive,
As Custom arbitrates, whose shifting sway [xxi]
Our life and language must alike obey.
The immortal wars which Gods and Angels wage,
Are they not shown in Milton's sacred page?
His strain will teach what numbers best belong
To themes celestial told in Epic song. [xxii]
The slow, sad stanza will correctly paint
The Lover's anguish, or the Friend's complaint. 110
But which deserves the Laurel--Rhyme or Blank? [xxiii]
Which holds on Helicon the higher rank?
Let squabbling critics by themselves dispute
This point, as puzzling as a Chancery suit.
Satiric rhyme first sprang from selfish spleen.
You doubt--see Dryden, Pope, St. Patrick's Dean. [7]
Blank verse is now, with one consent, allied
To Tragedy, and rarely quits her side.
Though mad Almanzor [8] rhymed in Dryden's days,
No sing-song Hero rants in modern plays; 120
Whilst modest Comedy her verse foregoes
For jest and 'pun' [9] in very middling prose.
Not that our Bens or Beaumonts show the worse,
Or lose one point, because they wrote in verse.
But so Thalia pleases to appear, [xxiv]
Poor Virgin! damned some twenty times a year!
Whate'er the scene, let this advice have weight:--
Adapt your language to your Hero's state.
At times Melpomene forgets to groan,
And brisk Thalia takes a serious tone; 130
Nor unregarded will the act pass by
Where angry Townly [10] "lifts his voice on high."
Again, our Shakespeare limits verse to Kings,
When common prose will serve for common things;
And lively Hal resigns heroic ire, [xxv]--
To "hollaing Hotspur" [11] and his sceptred sire. [xxvi]
'Tis not enough, ye Bards, with all your art,
To polish poems; they must touch the heart:
Where'er the scene be laid, whate'er the song,
Still let it bear the hearer's soul along; 140
Command your audience or to smile or weep,
Whiche'er may please you--anything but sleep.
The Poet claims our tears; but, by his leave,
Before I shed them, let me see 'him' grieve.
If banished Romeo feigned nor sigh nor tear,
Lulled by his languor, I could sleep or sneer. [xxvii]
Sad words, no doubt, become a serious face,
And men look angry in the proper place.
At double meanings folks seem wondrous sly,
And Sentiment prescribes a pensive eye; 150
For Nature formed at first the inward man,
And actors copy Nature--when they can.
She bids the beating heart with rapture bound,
Raised to the Stars, or levelled with the ground;
And for Expression's aid, 'tis said, or sung, [xxviii]
She gave our mind's interpreter--the tongue,
Who, worn with use, of late would fain dispense
(At least in theatres) with common sense;
O'erwhelm with sound the Boxes, Gallery, Pit,
And raise a laugh with anything--but Wit. 160
To skilful writers it will much import,
Whence spring their scenes, from common life or Court;
Whether they seek applause by smile or tear,
To draw a Lying Valet, [12] or a Lear, [13]
A sage, or rakish youngster wild from school,
A wandering Peregrine, or plain John Bull;
All persons please when Nature's voice prevails,
Scottish or Irish, born in Wilts or Wales.
Or follow common fame, or forge a plot; [xxix]
Who cares if mimic heroes lived or not! 170
One precept serves to regulate the scene:
Make it appear as if it _might_ have _been_.
If some Drawcansir [14] you aspire to draw,
Present him raving, and above all law:
If female furies in your scheme are planned,
Macbeth's fierce dame is ready to your hand;
For tears and treachery, for good and evil,
Constance, King Richard, Hamlet, and the Devil!
But if a new design you dare essay,
And freely wander from the beaten way, 180
True to your characters, till all be past,
Preserve consistency from first to last.
Tis hard [15] to venture where our betters fail, [xxx]
Or lend fresh interest to a twice-told tale;
And yet, perchance,'tis wiser to prefer
A hackneyed plot, than choose a new, and err;
Yet copy not too closely, but record,
More justly, thought for thought than word for word;
Nor trace your Prototype through narrow ways,
But only follow where he merits praise. 190
For you, young Bard! whom luckless fate may lead [16]
To tremble on the nod of all who read,
Ere your first score of cantos Time unrolls, [xxxi]
Beware--for God's sake, don't begin like Bowles!
"Awake a louder and a loftier strain," [17]--
And pray, what follows from his boiling brain?--
He sinks to Southey's level in a trice,
Whose Epic Mountains never fail in mice!
Not so of yore awoke your mighty Sire
The tempered warblings of his master-lyre; 200
Soft as the gentler breathing of the lute,
"Of Man's first disobedience and the fruit"
He speaks, but, as his subject swells along,
Earth, Heaven, and Hades echo with the song."[xxxii]
Still to the "midst of things" he hastens on,
As if we witnessed all already done; [xxxiii]
Leaves on his path whatever seems too mean
To raise the subject, or adorn the scene;
Gives, as each page improves upon the sight,
Not smoke from brightness, but from darkness--light; 210
And truth and fiction with such art compounds,
We know not where to fix their several bounds.
If you would please the Public, deign to hear
What soothes the many-headed monster's ear: [xxxiv]
If your heart triumph when the hands of all
Applaud in thunder at the curtain's fall,
Deserve those plaudits--study Nature's page,
And sketch the striking traits of every age;
While varying Man and varying years unfold
Life's little tale, so oft, so vainly told; 220
Observe his simple childhood's dawning days,
His pranks, his prate, his playmates, and his plays:
Till time at length the mannish tyro weans,
And prurient vice outstrips his tardy teens! [xxxv]
Behold him Freshman! forced no more to groan [xxxvi]
O'er Virgil's [18] devilish verses and his own;
Prayers are too tedious, Lectures too abstruse,
He flies from Tavell's frown to "Fordham's Mews;"
(Unlucky Tavell! [19] doomed to daily cares [xxxvii]
By pugilistic pupils, and by bears,) 230
Fines, Tutors, tasks, Conventions threat in vain,
Before hounds, hunters, and Newmarket Plain.
Rough with his elders, with his equals rash,
Civil to sharpers, prodigal of cash;
Constant to nought--save hazard and a whore, [xxxviii]
Yet cursing both--for both have made him sore:
Unread (unless since books beguile disease,
The P----x becomes his passage to Degrees);
Fooled, pillaged, dunned, he wastes his terms away, [xxxix]
And unexpelled, perhaps, retires M.A.; 240
Master of Arts! as _hells_ and _clubs_ [20] proclaim, [xl]
Where scarce a blackleg bears a brighter name!
Launched into life, extinct his early fire,
He apes the selfish prudence of his Sire;
Marries for money, chooses friends for rank,
Buys land, and shrewdly trusts not to the Bank;
Sits in the Senate; gets a son and heir;
Sends him to Harrow--for himself was there.
Mute, though he votes, unless when called to cheer,
His son's so sharp--he'll see the dog a Peer! 250
Manhood declines--Age palsies every limb;
He quits the scene--or else the scene quits him;
Scrapes wealth, o'er each departing penny grieves, [xli]
And Avarice seizes all Ambition leaves;
Counts cent per cent, and smiles, or vainly frets,
O'er hoards diminished by young Hopeful's debts;
Weighs well and wisely what to sell or buy,
Complete in all life's lessons--but to die;
Peevish and spiteful, doting, hard to please,
Commending every time, save times like these; 260
Crazed, querulous, forsaken, half forgot,
Expires unwept--is buried--Let him rot!
But from the Drama let me not digress,
Nor spare my precepts, though they please you less. [xlii]
Though Woman weep, and hardest hearts are stirred, [xliii]
When what is done is rather seen than heard,
Yet many deeds preserved in History's page
Are better told than acted on the stage;
The ear sustains what shocks the timid eye,
And Horror thus subsides to Sympathy, 270
True Briton all beside, I here am French--
Bloodshed 'tis surely better to retrench:
The gladiatorial gore we teach to flow
In tragic scenes disgusts though but in show;
We hate the carnage while we see the trick,
And find small sympathy in being sick.
Not on the stage the regicide Macbeth
Appals an audience with a Monarch's death; [xliv]
To gaze when sable Hubert threats to sear
Young Arthur's eyes, can _ours_ or _Nature_ bear? 280
A haltered heroine [21] Johnson sought to slay--
We saved Irene, but half damned the play,
And (Heaven be praised!) our tolerating times
Stint Metamorphoses to Pantomimes;
And Lewis' [22] self, with all his sprites, would quake
To change Earl Osmond's negro to a snake!
Because, in scenes exciting joy or grief,
We loathe the action which exceeds belief:
And yet, God knows! what may not authors do,
Whose Postscripts prate of dyeing "heroines blue"? [23] 290
Above all things, _Dan_ Poet, if you can,
Eke out your acts, I pray, with mortal man,
Nor call a ghost, unless some cursed scrape [xlv]
Must open ten trap-doors for your escape.
Of all the monstrous things I'd fain forbid,
I loathe an Opera worse than Dennis did; [24]
Where good and evil persons, right or wrong,
Rage, love, and aught but moralise--in song.
Hail, last memorial of our foreign friends, [xlvi]
Which Gaul allows, and still Hesperia lends! 300
Napoleon's edicts no embargo lay
On whores--spies--singers--wisely shipped away.
Our giant Capital, whose squares are spread [xlvii]
Where rustics earned, and now may beg, their bread,
In all iniquity is grown so nice,
It scorns amusements which are not of price.
Hence the pert shopkeeper, whose throbbing ear
Aches with orchestras which he pays to hear, [xlviii]
Whom shame, not sympathy, forbids to snore,
His anguish doubling by his own "encore;" [xlix] 310
Squeezed in "Fop's Alley," [25] jostled by the beaux,
Teased with his hat, and trembling for his toes;
Scarce wrestles through the night, nor tastes of ease,
Till the dropped curtain gives a glad release:
Why this, and more, he suffers--can ye guess?--
Because it costs him dear, and makes him dress! [26]
So prosper eunuchs from Etruscan schools;
Give us but fiddlers, and they're sure of fools!
Ere scenes were played by many a reverend clerk, [l] [27]
(What harm, if David danced before the ark?) [li] 320
In Christmas revels, simple country folks
Were pleased with morrice-mumm'ry and coarse jokes.
Improving years, with things no longer known,
Produced blithe Punch and merry Madame Joan,
Who still frisk on with feats so lewdly low, [lii]
'Tis strange Benvolio [28] suffers such a show;
Suppressing peer! to whom each vice gives place, [liii]
Oaths, boxing, begging--all, save rout and race.
Farce followed Comedy, and reached her prime,
In ever-laughing Foote's fantastic time: [29] 330
Mad wag! who pardoned none, nor spared the best,
And turned some very serious things to jest.
Nor Church nor State escaped his public sneers,
Arms nor the Gown--Priests--Lawyers--Volunteers:
"Alas, poor Yorick!" now for ever mute!
Whoever loves a laugh must sigh for Foote.
We smile, perforce, when histrionic scenes
Ape the swoln dialogue of Kings and Queens,
When "Crononhotonthologos must die," [30]
And Arthur struts in mimic majesty. 340
Moschus! with whom once more I hope to sit, [liv]
And smile at folly, if we can't at wit;
Yes, Friend! for thee I'll quit my cynic cell,
And bear Swift's motto, "Vive la bagatelle!"
Which charmed our days in each 苂ean clime,
As oft at home, with revelry and rhyme.
Then may Euphrosyne, who sped the past,
Soothe thy Life's scenes, nor leave thee in the last;
But find in thine--like pagan Plato's bed, [lv] [31]
Some merry Manuscript of Mimes, when dead. 350
Now to the Drama let us bend our eyes,
Where fettered by whig Walpole low she lies; [32]
Corruption foiled her, for she feared her glance;
Decorum left her for an Opera dance!
Yet Chesterfield, [33] whose polished pen inveighs
'Gainst laughter, fought for freedom to our Plays;
Unchecked by Megrims of patrician brains,
And damning Dulness of Lord Chamberlains.
Repeal that act! again let Humour roam
Wild o'er the stage--we've time for tears at home; 360
Let Archer [34] plant the horns on Sullen's brows,
And Estifania gull her "Copper" [35] spouse;
The moral's scant--but that may be excused,
Men go not to be lectured, but amused.
He whom our plays dispose to Good or Ill
Must wear a head in want of Willis' skill; [36]
Aye, but Macheath's example--psha!--no more!
It formed no thieves--the thief was formed before; [37]
And spite of puritans and Collier's curse, [lvi]
Plays make mankind no better, and no worse. [38] 370
Then spare our stage, ye methodistic men!
Nor burn damned Drury if it rise again. [39]
But why to brain-scorched bigots thus appeal?
Can heavenly Mercy dwell with earthly Zeal?
For times of fire and faggot let them hope!
Times dear alike to puritan or Pope.
As pious Calvin saw Servetus blaze,
So would new sects on newer victims gaze.
E'en now the songs of Solyma begin;
Faith cants, perplexed apologist of Sin! 380
While the Lord's servant chastens whom he loves,
And Simeon kicks, [40] where Baxter only "shoves."[41]
Whom Nature guides, so writes, that every dunce [lvii],
Enraptured, thinks to do the same at once;
But after inky thumbs and bitten nails [lviii],
And twenty scattered quires, the coxcomb fails.
Let Pastoral be dumb; for who can hope
To match the youthful eclogues of our Pope?
Yet his and Philips' [42] faults, of different kind,
For Art too rude, for Nature too refined, [lix] 390
Instruct how hard the medium 'tis to hit
'Twixt too much polish and too coarse a wit.
A vulgar scribbler, certes, stands disgraced
In this nice age, when all aspire to taste;
The dirty language, and the noisome jest,
Which pleased in Swift of yore, we now detest;
Proscribed not only in the world polite [lx],
But even too nasty for a City Knight!
Peace to Swift's faults! his wit hath made them pass,
Unmatched by all, save matchless Hudibras! 400
Whose author is perhaps the first we meet,
Who from our couplet lopped two final feet;
Nor less in merit than the longer line,
This measure moves a favourite of the Nine.
Though at first view eight feet may seem in vain
Formed, save in Ode, to bear a serious strain [lxi],
Yet Scott has shown our wondering isle of late
This measure shrinks not from a theme of weight,
And, varied skilfully, surpasses far
Heroic rhyme, but most in Love and War, 410
Whose fluctuations, tender or sublime,
Are curbed too much by long-recurring rhyme.
But many a skilful judge abhors to see,
What few admire--irregularity.
This some vouchsafe to pardon; but 'tis hard
When such a word contents a British Bard.
And must the Bard his glowing thoughts confine, [lxii]
Lest Censure hover o'er some faulty line?
Remove whate'er a critic may suspect,
To gain the paltry suffrage of "Correct"? 420
Or prune the spirit of each daring phrase,
To fly from Error, not to merit Praise?
Ye, who seek finished models, never cease [lxiii],
By day and night, to read the works of Greece.
But our good Fathers never bent their brains
To heathen Greek, content with native strains.
The few who read a page, or used a pen,
Were satisfied with Chaucer and old Ben;
The jokes and numbers suited to their taste
Were quaint and careless, anything but chaste; 430
Yet, whether right or wrong the ancient rules,
It will not do to call our Fathers fools!
Though you and I, who eruditely know
To separate the elegant and low,
Can also, when a hobbling line appears,
Detect with fingers--in default of ears.
In sooth I do not know, or greatly care
To learn, who our first English strollers were;
Or if, till roofs received the vagrant art,
Our Muse, like that of Thespis, kept a cart; 440
But this is certain, since our Shakespeare's days,
There's pomp enough--if little else--in plays;
Nor will Melpomene ascend her Throne [lxiv]
Without high heels, white plume, and Bristol stone.
Old Comedies still meet with much applause,
Though too licentious for dramatic laws;
At least, we moderns, wisely, 'tis confest,
Curtail, or silence, the lascivious jest [lxv].
Whate'er their follies, and their faults beside,
Our enterprising Bards pass nought untried; 450
Nor do they merit slight applause who choose
An English subject for an English Muse,
And leave to minds which never dare invent
French flippancy and German sentiment.
Where is that living language which could claim
Poetic more, as philosophic, fame,
If all our Bards, more patient of delay,
Would stop, like Pope, to polish by the way? [43]
Lords of the quill, whose critical assaults
O'erthrow whole quartos with their quires of faults [lxvi], 460
Who soon detect, and mark where'er we fail,
And prove our marble with too nice a nail!
Democritus himself was not so bad;
He only 'thought'--but 'you' would make us--mad!
But truth to say, most rhymers rarely guard
Against that ridicule they deem so hard;
In person negligent, they wear, from sloth,
Beards of a week, and nails of annual growth;
Reside in garrets, fly from those they meet,
And walk in alleys rather than the street. 470
With little rhyme, less reason, if you please,
The name of Poet may be got with ease,
So that not tuns of helleboric juice [lxvii]
Shall ever turn your head to any use;
Write but like Wordsworth--live beside a lake,
And keep your bushy locks a year from Blake; [44]
Then print your book, once more return to town,
And boys shall hunt your Bardship up and down. [45]
Am I not wise, if such some poets' plight,
To purge in spring--like Bayes [46]--before I write? 480
If this precaution softened not my bile,
I know no scribbler with a madder style;
But since (perhaps my feelings are too nice)
I cannot purchase Fame at such a price,
I'll labour gratis as a grinders' wheel, [lxviii]
And, blunt myself, give edge to other's steel,
Nor write at all, unless to teach the art
To those rehearsing for the Poet's part;
From Horace show the pleasing paths of song, [lxix],
And from my own example--what is wrong. 490
Though modern practice sometimes differs quite,
'Tis just as well to think before you write;
Let every book that suits your theme be read,
So shall you trace it to the fountain-head.
He who has learned the duty which he owes
To friends and country, and to pardon foes;
Who models his deportment as may best
Accord with Brother, Sire, or Stranger-guest;
Who takes our Laws and Worship as they are,
Nor roars reform for Senate, Church, and Bar; 500
In practice, rather than loud precept, wise,
Bids not his tongue, but heart, philosophize:
Such is the man the Poet should rehearse,
As joint exemplar of his life and verse.
Sometimes a sprightly wit, and tale well told,
Without much grace, or weight, or art, will hold
A longer empire o'er the public mind
Than sounding trifles, empty, though refined.
Unhappy Greece! thy sons of ancient days
The Muse may celebrate with perfect praise, 510
Whose generous children narrowed not their hearts
With Commerce, given alone to Arms and Arts. [lxx]
Our boys (save those whom public schools compel
To "Long and Short" before they're taught to spell)
From frugal fathers soon imbibe by rote,
"A penny saved, my lad, 's a penny got."
Babe of a city birth! from sixpence take [lxxi]
The third, how much will the remainder make?--
"A groat."--"Ah, bravo! Dick hath done the sum! [lxxii]
He'll swell my fifty thousand to a Plum." [47] 520
They whose young souls receive this rust betimes,
'Tis clear, are fit for anything but rhymes;
And Locke will tell you, that the father's right
Who hides all verses from his children's sight;
For Poets (says this Sage [48], and many more,)
Make sad mechanics with their lyric lore: [lxxiii]
And Delphi now, however rich of old,
Discovers little silver, and less gold,
Because Parnassus, though a Mount divine,
Is poor as Irus, [49] or an Irish mine. [lxxiv] [50] 530
Two objects always should the Poet move,
Or one or both,--to please or to improve.
Whate'er you teach, be brief, if you design
For our remembrance your didactic line;
Redundance places Memory on the rack,
For brains may be o'erloaded, like the back. [lxxv]
Fiction does best when taught to look like Truth,
And fairy fables bubble none but youth:
Expect no credit for too wondrous tales,
Since Jonas only springs alive from Whales! 540
Young men with aught but Elegance dispense;
Maturer years require a little Sense.
To end at once:--that Bard for all is fit [lxxvi]
Who mingles well instruction with his wit;
For him Reviews shall smile; for him o'erflow
The patronage of Paternoster-row;
His book, with Longman's liberal aid, shall pass
(Who ne'er despises books that bring him brass);
Through three long weeks the taste of London lead,
And cross St. George's Channel and the Tweed. 550
But every thing has faults, nor is't unknown
That harps and fiddles often lose their tone,
And wayward voices, at their owner's call,
With all his best endeavours, only squall;
Dogs blink their covey, flints withhold the spark,
And double-barrels (damn them!) miss their mark. [lxxvii] [51]
Where frequent beauties strike the reader's view,
We must not quarrel for a blot or two;
But pardon equally to books or men,
The slips of Human Nature, and the Pen. 560
Yet if an author, spite of foe or friend,
Despises all advice too much to mend,
But ever twangs the same discordant string,
Give him no quarter, howsoe'er he sing.
Let Havard's [52] fate o'ertake him, who, for once,
Produced a play too dashing for a dunce:
At first none deemed it his; but when his name
Announced the fact--what then?--it lost its fame.
Though all deplore when Milton deigns to doze, [lxxviii]
In a long work 'tis fair to steal repose. 570
As Pictures, so shall Poems be; some stand
The critic eye, and please when near at hand; [lxxix]
But others at a distance strike the sight;
This seeks the shade, but that demands the light,
Nor dreads the connoisseur's fastidious view,
But, ten times scrutinised, is ten times new.
Parnassian pilgrims! ye whom chance, or choice, [lxxx]
Hath led to listen to the Muse's voice,
Receive this counsel, and be timely wise;
Few reach the Summit which before you lies. 580
Our Church and State, our Courts and Camps, concede
Reward to very moderate heads indeed!
In these plain common sense will travel far;
All are not Erskines who mislead the Bar: [lxxxi] [53]
But Poesy between the best and worst
No medium knows; you must be last or first;
For middling Poets' miserable volumes
Are damned alike by Gods, and Men, and Columns. [lxxxii]
Again, my Jeffrey--as that sound inspires, [54]
How wakes my bosom to its wonted fires! 590
Fires, such as gentle Caledonians feel
When Southrons writhe upon their critic wheel,
Or mild Eclectics, [55] when some, worse than Turks,
Would rob poor Faith to decorate "Good Works."
Such are the genial feelings them canst claim--
My Falcon flies not at ignoble game.
Mightiest of all Dunedin's beasts of chase!
For thee my Pegasus would mend his pace.
Arise, my Jeffrey! or my inkless pen
Shall never blunt its edge on meaner men; 600
Till thee or thine mine evil eye discerns,
"Alas! I cannot strike at wretched kernes." [56]
Inhuman Saxon! wilt thou then resign
A Muse and heart by choice so wholly thine?
Dear d--d contemner of my schoolboy songs,
Hast thou no vengeance for my Manhood's wrongs?
If unprovoked thou once could bid me bleed,
Hast thou no weapon for my daring deed?
What! not a word!--and am I then so low?
Wilt thou forbear, who never spared a foe? 610
Hast thou no wrath, or wish to give it vent?
No wit for Nobles, Dunces by descent?
No jest on "minors," quibbles on a name, [57]
Nor one facetious paragraph of blame?
Is it for this on Ilion I have stood,
And thought of Homer less than Holyrood?
On shore of Euxine or 苂ean sea,
My hate, untravelled, fondly turned to thee.
Ah! let me cease! in vain my bosom burns,
From Corydon unkind Alexis turns: [58] 620
Thy rhymes are vain; thy Jeffrey then forego,
Nor woo that anger which he will not show.
What then?--Edina starves some lanker son,
To write an article thou canst not shun;
Some less fastidious Scotchman shall be found,
As bold in Billingsgate, though less renowned.
As if at table some discordant dish, [59]
Should shock our optics, such as frogs for fish;
As oil in lieu of butter men decry,
And poppies please not in a modern pie; [lxxxiii] 630
If all such mixtures then be half a crime,
We must have Excellence to relish rhyme.
Mere roast and boiled no Epicure invites;
Thus Poetry disgusts, or else delights.
Who shoot not flying rarely touch a gun:
Will he who swims not to the river run?
And men unpractised in exchanging knocks
Must go to Jackson [60] ere they dare to box.
Whate'er the weapon, cudgel, fist, or foil,
None reach expertness without years of toil; 640
But fifty dunces can, with perfect ease,
Tag twenty thousand couplets, when they please.
Why not?--shall I, thus qualified to sit
For rotten boroughs, never show my wit?
Shall I, whose fathers with the "Quorum" sate, [lxxxiv]
And lived in freedom on a fair estate;
Who left me heir, with stables, kennels, packs, [lxxxv]
To 'all' their income, and to--'twice' its tax;
Whose form and pedigree have scarce a fault,
Shall I, I say, suppress my Attic Salt? 650
Thus think "the Mob of Gentlemen;" but you,
Besides all this, must have some Genius too.
Be this your sober judgment, and a rule,
And print not piping hot from Southey's school,
Who (ere another Thalaba appears),
I trust, will spare us for at least nine years.
And hark'ye, Southey! [61] pray--but don't be vexed--
Burn all your last three works--and half the next.
But why this vain advice? once published, books
Can never be recalled--from pastry-cooks! [lxxxvi] 660
Though "Madoc," with "Pucelle," [62] instead of Punk,
May travel back to Quito--on a trunk! [63]
Orpheus, we learn from Ovid and Lempriere,
Led all wild beasts but Women by the ear;
And had he fiddled at the present hour,
We'd seen the Lions waltzing in the Tower; [64]
And old Amphion, such were minstrels then,
Had built St. Paul's without the aid of Wren.
Verse too was Justice, and the Bards of Greece
Did more than constables to keep the peace; 670
Abolished cuckoldom with much applause,
Called county meetings, and enforced the laws,
Cut down crown influence with reforming scythes,
And served the Church--without demanding tithes;
And hence, throughout all Hellas and the East,
Each Poet was a Prophet and a Priest,
Whose old-established Board of Joint Controls [65]
Included kingdoms in the cure of souls.
Next rose the martial Homer, Epic's prince,
And Fighting's been in fashion ever since; 680
And old Tyrt鎢s, when the Spartans warred,
(A limping leader, but a lofty bard) [lxxxvii]
Though walled Ithome had resisted long,
Reduced the fortress by the force of song.
When Oracles prevailed, in times of old,
In song alone Apollo's will was told. [lxxxviii]
Then if your verse is what all verse should be,
And Gods were not ashamed on't, why should we?
The Muse, like mortal females, may be wooed; [66]
In turns she'll seem a Paphian, or a prude; 690
Fierce as a bride when first she feels affright,
Mild as the same upon the second night;
Wild as the wife of Alderman or Peer,
Now for His Grace, and now a grenadier!
Her eyes beseem, her heart belies, her zone--
Ice in a crowd--and Lava when alone.
If Verse be studied with some show of Art.
Kind Nature always will perform her part;
Though without Genius, and a native vein
Of wit, we loathe an artificial strain, 700
Yet Art and Nature joined will win the prize,
Unless they act like us and our allies.
The youth who trains to ride, or run a race,
Must bear privations with unruffled face,
Be called to labour when he thinks to dine,
And, harder still, leave wenching and his wine.
Ladies who sing, at least who sing at sight,
Have followed Music through her farthest flight; [lxxxix]
But rhymers tell you neither more nor less,
"I've got a pretty poem for the Press;" 710
And that's enough; then write and print so fast;--
If Satan take the hindmost, who'd be last?
They storm the Types, they publish, one and all, [xc] [67]
They leap the counter, and they leave the stall.
Provincial Maidens, men of high command,
Yea! Baronets have inked the bloody hand!
Cash cannot quell them; Pollio played this prank, [xci]
(Then Phoebus first found credit in a Bank!)
Not all the living only, but the dead,
Fool on, as fluent as an Orpheus' Head; [68] 720
Damned all their days, they posthumously thrive,
Dug up from dust, though buried when alive!
Reviews record this epidemic crime,
Those Books of Martyrs to the rage for rhyme.
Alas! woe worth the scribbler! often seen
In Morning Post, or Monthly Magazine.
There lurk his earlier lays; but soon, hot pressed, [xcii]
Behold a Quarto!--Tarts must tell the rest.
Then leave, ye wise, the Lyre's precarious chords
To muse-mad baronets, or madder lords, [cxiii] 730
Or country Crispins, now grown somewhat stale,
Twin Doric minstrels, drunk with Doric ale!
Hark to those notes, narcotically soft!
The Cobbler-Laureats [69] sing to Capel Lofft! [70]
Till, lo! that modern Midas, as he hears, [xciv]
Adds an ell growth to his egregious ears! [xcv]
There lives one Druid, who prepares in time [71]
'Gainst future feuds his poor revenge of rhyme;
Racks his dull Memory, and his duller Muse,
To publish faults which Friendship should excuse. 740
If Friendship's nothing, Self-regard might teach
More polished usage of his parts of speech.
But what is shame, or what is aught to him? [xcvi]
He vents his spleen, or gratifies his whim.
Some fancied slight has roused his lurking hate,
Some folly crossed, some jest, or some debate;
Up to his den Sir Scribbler hies, and soon
The gathered gall is voided in Lampoon.
Perhaps at some pert speech you've dared to frown,
Perhaps your Poem may have pleased the Town: 750
If so, alas! 'tis nature in the man--
May Heaven forgive you, for he never can!
Then be it so; and may his withering Bays
Bloom fresh in satire, though they fade in praise
While his lost songs no more shall steep and stink
The dullest, fattest weeds on Lethe's brink,
But springing upwards from the sluggish mould,
Be (what they never were before) be--sold!
Should some rich Bard (but such a monster now, [72]
In modern Physics, we can scarce allow), [xcvii] 760
Should some pretending scribbler of the Court,
Some rhyming Peer--there's plenty of the sort--[xcviii] [73]
All but one poor dependent priest withdrawn,
(Ah! too regardless of his Chaplain's yawn!)
Condemn the unlucky Curate to recite
Their last dramatic work by candle-light,
How would the preacher turn each rueful leaf,
Dull as his sermons, but not half so brief!
Yet, since 'tis promised at the Rector's death,
He'll risk no living for a little breath. 770
Then spouts and foams, and cries at every line,
(The Lord forgive him!) "Bravo! Grand! Divine!"
Hoarse with those praises (which, by Flatt'ry fed, [xcix]
Dependence barters for her bitter bread),
He strides and stamps along with creaking boot;
Till the floor echoes his emphatic foot,
Then sits again, then rolls his pious eye, [c]
As when the dying vicar will not die!
Nor feels, forsooth, emotion at his heart;--
But all Dissemblers overact their part. 780
Ye, who aspire to "build the lofty rhyme," [74]
Believe not all who laud your false "sublime;"
But if some friend shall hear your work, and say,
"Expunge that stanza, lop that line away,"
And, after fruitless efforts, you return
Without amendment, and he answers, "Burn!"
That instant throw your paper in the fire,
Ask not his thoughts, or follow his desire;
But (if true Bard!) you scorn to condescend, [ci]
And will not alter what you can't defend, 790
If you will breed this Bastard of your Brains, [75]
We'll have no words--I've only lost my pains.
Yet, if you only prize your favourite thought,
As critics kindly do, and authors ought;
If your cool friend annoy you now and then,
And cross whole pages with his plaguy pen;
No matter, throw your ornaments aside,--
Better let him than all the world deride.
Give light to passages too much in shade,
Nor let a doubt obscure one verse you've made; 800
Your friend's a "Johnson," not to leave one word,
However trifling, which may seem absurd;
Such erring trifles lead to serious ills,
And furnish food for critics, or their quills. [76]
As the Scotch fiddle, with its touching tune,
Or the sad influence of the angry Moon,
All men avoid bad writers' ready tongues,
As yawning waiters fly [77] Fitzscribble's lungs; [cii]
Yet on he mouths--ten minutes--tedious each [ciii] [78]
As Prelate's homily, or placeman's speech; 810
Long as the last years of a lingering lease,
When Riot pauses until Rents increase.
While such a minstrel, muttering fustian, strays
O'er hedge and ditch, through unfrequented ways,
If by some chance he walks into a well,
And shouts for succour with stentorian yell,
"A rope! help, Christians, as ye hope for grace!"
Nor woman, man, nor child will stir a pace;
For there his carcass he might freely fling, [civ]
From frenzy, or the humour of the thing. 820
Though this has happened to more Bards than one;
I'll tell you Budgell's story,--and have done.
Budgell, a rogue and rhymester, for no good,
(Unless his case be much misunderstood)
When teased with creditors' continual claims,
"To die like Cato," [79] leapt into the Thames!
And therefore be it lawful through the town
For any Bard to poison, hang, or drown.
Who saves the intended Suicide receives
Small thanks from him who loathes the life he leaves; [cv] 830
And, sooth to say, mad poets must not lose
The Glory of that death they freely choose.
Nor is it certain that some sorts of verse [cvi]
Prick not the Poet's conscience as a curse;
Dosed [80] with vile drams on Sunday he was found,
Or got a child on consecrated ground!
And hence is haunted with a rhyming rage--
Feared like a bear just bursting from his cage.
If free, all fly his versifying fit,
Fatal at once to Simpleton or Wit: 840
But 'him', unhappy! whom he seizes,--'him'
He flays with Recitation limb by limb;
Probes to the quick where'er he makes his breach,
And gorges like a Lawyer--or a Leech.
[The last page of 'MS. M.' is dated--
BYRON,
Capuchin Convent,
Athens. 'March 14th, 1811'.
The following memorandum, in Byron's handwriting, is also inscribed on
the last page:
"722 lines, and 4 _insert_ed after and now counted, in all 726.--B.
"Since this several lines are added.--B. June 14th, 1811.
"Copied fair at Malta, May 3rd, 1811.--B."
BYRON,
'March 11th and 12th',
Athens. 1811.
['MS. L. (a)'.]
BYRON, 'March 14th, 1811.'
Athens, Capuchin Convent.
['MS. L. (b)'.]]
[Footnote 1: Sir Thomas Lawrence (1769-1830) succeeded West as P.R.A. in
1820. Benjamin West (1738-1820) had been elected P.R.A. in 1792, on the
death of Sir Joshua Reynolds.]
[Footnote 2: In an English newspaper, which finds its way abroad
wherever there are Englishmen, I read an account of this dirty dauber's
caricature of Mr. H---as a "beast," and the consequent action, etc. The
circumstance is, probably, too well known to require further comment.
[Thomas Hope (1770-1831) was celebrated for his collections of pictures,
sculpture, and _bric-?brac_. He was the author of _Anastasius, or
Memoirs of a Greek, etc_., which was attributed to Byron, and, according
to Lady Blessington, excited his envy. "Low Dubost" was a French
painter, who, in revenge for some fancied injustice, caricatured Hope
and his wife as Beauty and the Beast. An exhibition of the sketch is
said to have brought in from twenty to thirty pounds a week. A brother
of Mrs. Hope (Louisa Beresford, daughter of Lord Decies, Archbishop of
Tuam) mutilated the picture, and, an action having been brought, was
ordered to pay a nominal sum of five pounds. Dubost's academy portrait
of Mrs. Hope did not please Peter Pindar.
"In Mistress Hope, Monsieur Dubost!
Thy Genius yieldeth up the Ghost."
_Works_ (1812), v. 372.]]
[Footnote 3:
"While pure Description held the place of Sense."--
Pope, _Prol. to the Sat.,_ L. 148.
"While Mr. Sol decked out all so glorious
Shines like a Beau in his Birthday Embroidery."
[Fielding, _Tom Thumb_, act i. sc. I.]--[_MS. M._]
"_Fas est et ab Hoste doceri._" In the 7th Art. of the 31st No. of the
_Edinburgh Review_ (vol. xvi. Ap. 1810) the "Observations" of an Oxford
Tutor are compared to "Children's Cradles" (page 181), then to a
"Barndoor fowl flying" (page 182), then the man himself to "a
Coach-horse on the Trottoir" (page 185) etc., etc., with a variety of
other conundrums all tending to prove that the ingenuity of comparison
increases in proportion to the dissimilarity between the things
compared.--[_MS. L. (b) erased._]]
[Footnote 4: Mere common mortals were commonly content with one Taylor
and with one bill, but the more particular gentlemen found it impossible
to confide their lower garments to the makers of their body clothes. I
speak of the beginning of 1809: what reform may have since taken place I
neither know, nor desire to know.--[_MSS. L. (b), M_.]]
[Footnote 5: Mr. Pitt was liberal in his additions to our Parliamentary
tongue; as may be seen in many publications, particularly the 'Edinburgh
Review'.
[The reference may be to financial terms, such as sinking fund (a phrase
not introduced by Pitt), the English equivalent of 'caisse
d'amortissement', or income tax ('imp魌 sur le revenu'), or to actual
French words such as 'chouannerie, projet', etc. But Pitt's "additions"
are unnoticed by Frere and other reporters and critics of his speeches.
For a satirical description of Pitt's words, "which are finer and longer
than can be conceived," see 'Rolliad', 1799; 'Political Miscellanies',
p. 421; and 'Political Eclogues', p. 195.
"And Billy best of all things loves--a trope."
Compare, too, Peter Pindar, "To Sylvanus Urban," 'Works' (1812), ii. 259.
"Lycurgus Pitt whose penetrating eyes
Behold the fount of Freedom in excise,
Whose 'patriot' logic possibly maintains
The 'identity' of 'liberty' and 'chains'."]]
[Footnote 6: Old ballads, old plays, and old women's stories, are at
present in as much request as old wine or new speeches. In fact, this is
the millennium of black letter: thanks to our Hebers, Webers, and
Scotts!
[Richard Heber (1773-1833), book-collector and man of letters, was
half-brother of the Bishop of Calcutta. He edited, 'inter alia',
'Specimens of the Early English Poets', by George Ellis, 3 vols., London:
1811.
W. H. Weber (1783-1818), a German by birth, was employed by Sir Walter
Scott as an amanuensis and "searcher." He edited, in 1810, 'Metrical
Romances of the 13th, 14th, and 15th Centuries', a work described by
Southey ('Letters', ii. 308) as "admirably edited, exceedingly curious,
and after my own heart." He also published editions of Ford, and
Beaumont and Fletcher, which were adversely criticized by Gifford. For
an account of his relations to Scott and of his melancholy end, see
Lockhart's 'Life of Scott' (1871), p. 251.]]
[Footnote 7: 'Mac Flecknoe', the 'Dunciad', and all Swift's lampooning
ballads. Whatever their other works may be, these originated in personal
feelings, and angry retort on unworthy rivals; and though the ability of
these satires elevates the poetical, their poignancy detracts from the
personal character of the writers.]
[Footnote 8: 'Almanzor: or the Conquest of Granada by the Spaniards', a
Tragedy by John Dryden. The bombastic character of the hero was severely
criticized in Dryden's own time, and was defended by him thus:
"'Tis said that Almanzor is no perfect pattern of heroic virtue, that
he is a contemner of kings, and that he is made to perform
impossibilities. I must therefore avow, in the first place, from
whence I took the character. The first image I had of him was from the
Achilles of Homer: the next from Tasso's Rinaldo, and the third from
the Artaban of Mons. Calpren鑔e.... He talks extravagantly in his
passion, but if I would take the trouble to quote from Ben Jonson's
Cethegus, I could easily show you that the rhodomontades of Almanzor
are neither so irrational as his nor so impossible to be put in
execution."
'An Essay on Heroic Plays. Works of John Dryden' (1821), iv. 23-25.]
[Footnote 9: With all the vulgar applause and critical abhorrence of
puns, they have Aristotle on their side; who permits them to orators,
and gives them consequence by a grave disquisition.
["Cicero also," says Addison, "has sprinkled several of his works with
them; and in his book on Oratory, quotes abundance of sayings as pieces
of wit, which, upon examination, prove arrant puns."--'Essay on Wit,
Works' (1888), ii. 354.]]
[Footnote 10: In Vanbrugh and Gibber's comedy of The Provoked Husband,
first played at Drury Lane, January 10, 1728.]]
[Footnote 11:
"And in his ear I'll holla--Mortimer!"
['I Henry IV'., act i. sc. 3.]]
[Footnote 12: Garrick's 'Lying Valet' was played for the first time at
Goodman's Fields, November 30, 1741.]
["Peregrine" is a character in George Colman's 'John Bull', or 'An
Englishman's Fire-Side', Covent Garden. March 5, 1803.] ]
[Footnote 13: I have Johnson's authority for making Lear a
monosyllable--
"Perhaps where Lear rav'd or Hamlet died
On flying cars new sorcerers may ride."
["Perhaps where Lear has rav'd, and Hamlet dy'd."
Prologue to 'Irene. Johnson's Works' (1806), i. 168.]
and (if it need be mentioned) the 'authority' of the epigram on Barry
and Garrick.--[Note 'erased, Proof b, British Museum'.]]
[Footnote 14:
"'Johnson'. Pray, Mr. Bayes, who is that Drawcansir?
'Bayes'. Why, Sir, a great [fierce] hero, that frights his mistress,
snubs up kings, baffles armies, and does what he will, without regard
to numbers, good sense, or justice [good manners, justice, or
numbers]."
'The Rehearsal', act iv. sc. I.
'The Rehearsal', by George Villiers, second Duke of Buckingham
(1627-1688), appeared in 1671. Sprat and others are said to have shared
the authorship. So popular was the play that "Drawcansir" passed into a
synonime for a braggadocio. It is believed that "Bayes" (that is, of
course, "laureate") was meant for a caricature of Dryden: "he himself
complains bitterly that it was so." (See 'Lives of the Poets' (1890), i.
386; and Boswell's 'Life of Johnson' (1876), p. 235, and 'note'.)]]
[Footnote 15:
"Difficile est proprie communia dicere; tuque
Rectius Iliacum carmen deducis in actus,
Quam si proferres ignota indictaque primus."
HOR: 'DE ARTE POET': 128-130.
Mons. Dacier, Mons. de S關ign? Boileau, and others, have left their
dispute on the meaning of this sentence in a tract considerably longer
than the poem of Horace. It is printed at the close of the eleventh
volume of Madame de S關ign?s Letters, edited by Grouvelle, Paris, 1806.
Presuming that all who can construe may venture an opinion on such
subjects, particularly as so many who _can't_ have taken the same
liberty, I should have held "my farthing candle" as awkwardly as
another, had not my respect for the wits of Louis 14th's Augustan
"Si鑓le" induced me to subjoin these illustrious authorities. I
therefore offer:
firstly Boileau: "Il est difficile de trailer des sujets qui sont ?la
port閑 de tout le monde d'une maniere qui vous les rende propres, ce qui
s'appelle s'approprier un sujet par le tour qu'on y donne."
2dly, Batteux: "Mais il est bien difficile de donner des traits propres
et individuels aux etres purement possibles."
3dly, Dacier: "Il est difficile de traiter convenablement ces caract鑢es
que tout le monde peut inventer."
Mr. S關ign?s opinion and translation, consisting of some thirty pages,
I omit, particularly as Mr. Grouvelle observes, "La chose est bien
remarquable, aucune de ces diverses interpretations ne parait 阾re la
veritable." But, by way of comfort, it seems, fifty years afterwards,
"Le lumineux Dumarsais" made his appearance, to set Horace on his legs
again, "dissiper tous les nuages, et concilier tous les dissentiments;"
and I suppose some fifty years hence, somebody, still more luminous,
will doubtless start up and demolish Dumarsais and his system on this
weighty affair, as if he were no better than Ptolemy or Copernicus and
comments of no more consequence than astronomical calculations. I am
happy to say, "la longueur de la dissertation" of Mr. D. prevents Mr. G.
from saying any more on the matter. A better poet than Boileau, and at
least as good a scholar as Mr. de S關ign? has said,
"A little learning is a dangerous thing."
And by the above extract, it appears that a good deal may be rendered as
useless to the Proprietors.
[Byron chose the words in question, Difficile,' etc., as a motto for the
first five cantos of 'Don Juan']
[Footnote 16: About two years ago a young man named Townsend was
announced by Mr. Cumberland, in a review (since deceased) [the 'London
Review'], as being engaged in an epic poem to be entitled "Armageddon."
The plan and specimen promise much; but I hope neither to offend Mr.
Townsend, nor his friends, by recommending to his attention the lines of
Horace to which these rhymes allude. If Mr. Townsend succeeds in his
undertaking, as there is reason to hope, how much will the world be
indebted to Mr. Cumberland for bringing him before the public! But, till
that eventful day arrives, it may be doubted whether the premature
display of his plan (sublime as the ideas confessedly are) has not,--by
raising expectation too high, or diminishing curiosity, by developing
his argument,--rather incurred the hazard of injuring Mr. Townsend's
future prospects. Mr. Cumberland (whose talents I shall not depreciate
by the humble tribute of my praise) and Mr. Townsend must not suppose me
actuated by unworthy motives in this suggestion. I wish the author all
the success he can wish himself, and shall be truly happy to see epic
poetry weighed up from the bathos where it lies sunken with Southey,
Cottle, Cowley (Mrs. or Abraham), Ogilvy, Wilkie, Pye, and all the "dull
of past and present days." Even if he is not a 'Milton', he may be
better than 'Blackmore'; if not a 'Homer', an 'Antimachus'. I should
deem myself presumptuous, as a young man, in offering advice, were it
not addressed to one still younger. Mr. Townsend has the greatest
difficulties to encounter; but in conquering them he will find
employment; in having conquered them, his reward. I know too well "the
scribbler's scoff, the critic's contumely;" and I am afraid time will
teach Mr. Townsend to know them better. Those who succeed, and those who
do not, must bear this alike, and it is hard to say which have most of
it. I trust that Mr. Townsend's share will be from 'envy'; he will soon
know mankind well enough not to attribute this expression to malice.
[This note was written [at Athens] before the author was apprised of Mr.
Cumberland's death [in May, 1811].--'MS'. (See Byron's letter to Dallas,
August 27, 1811.) The Rev. George Townsend (1788-1857) published 'Poems'
in 1810, and eight books of his 'Armageddon' in 1815. They met with the
fate which Byron had predicted. In later life he compiled numerous works
of scriptural exegesis. He was a Canon of Durham from 1825 till his
death.]]
[Footnote 17: The first line of 'A Spirit of Discovery by Sea', by the
Rev. W. Lisle Bowles, first published in 1805.]
[Footnote 18: Harvey, the 'circulator' of the 'circulation' of the
blood, used to fling away Virgil in his ecstasy of admiration and say,
"the book had a devil." Now such a character as I am copying would
probably fling it away also, but rather wish that "the devil had the
book;" not from dislike to the poet, but a well-founded horror of
hexameters. Indeed, the public school penance of "Long and Short" is
enough to beget an antipathy to poetry for the residue of a man's life,
and, perhaps, so far may be an advantage.]
[Footnote 19:
"'Infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem'."
I dare say Mr. Tavell (to whom I mean no affront) will understand me;
and it is no matter whether any one else does or no.--To the above
events, "'qu鎞ue ipse miserrima vidi, et quorum pars magna fui'," all
'times' and 'terms' bear testimony. [The Rev. G.F. Tavell was a fellow
and tutor of Trinity College, Cambridge, during Byron's residence, and
owed this notice to the "zeal with which he protested against his
juvenile vagaries." During a part of his residence at Trinity, Byron
kept a tame bear in his rooms in Neville's Court. (See 'English Bards',
l. 973, 'note', and postscript to the Second Edition, 'ante', p. 383. See
also letter to Miss Pigot, October 26, 1807.)
The following copy of a bill (no date) tells its own story:--
The Honble. Lord Byron.
To John Clarke.
To Bread & Milk for the Bear deliv'd.} ?1 9 7
to Haladay ... ... ... }
Cambridge Reve. A Clarke.]]
[Footnote 20: "Hell," a gaming-house so called, where you risk little,
and are cheated a good deal. "Club," a pleasant purgatory, where you
lose more, and are not supposed to be cheated at all.]
[Footnote 21:
"Irene had to speak two lines with the bowstring round her neck; but
the audience cried out ['Murder!'] 'Murder!' and she was obliged to go
off the stage alive."
'Boswell's Johnson' [1876, p. 60].
[Irene (first played February 6, 1749) for the future was put to death
behind the scenes. The strangling her, contrary to Horace's rule, 'coram
populo', was suggested by Garrick. (See Davies' 'Life of Garrick'
(1808), i. 157.)]]
[Footnote 22: Matthew Gregory Lewis (1775-1818). ('Vide English Bards,
etc'., l. 265, n. 8.) The character of Hassan, "my misanthropic negro,"
as Lewis called him, was said by the critics of the day to have been
borrowed from Zanga in Young's 'Revenge'. Lewis, in his "Address to the
Reader," quoted by Byron (in 'note' 3), defends the originality of the
conception.]
[Footnote 23: In the postscript to _The Castle Spectre_, Mr. Lewis tells
us, that though blacks were unknown in England at the period of his
action, yet he has made the anachronism to set off the scene: and if he
could have produced the effect "by making his heroine blue,"--I quote
him--"blue he would have made her!" [_The Castle Spectre_, by M.G.
Lewis, Esq., M.P., London, 1798, page 102.]]
[Footnote 24: In 1706 John Dennis, the critic (1657-1734), wrote an
'Essay on the Operas after the Italian manner, which are about to be
established on the English Stage'; to show that they were more immoral
than the most licentious play.]
[Footnote 25: One of the gangways in the Opera House, where the young
men of fashion used to assemble. (See letter to Murray, Nov. 9, 1820;
_Life_, p. 62.)]
[Footnote 26: In the year 1808, happening at the opera to tread on the
toes of a very well-dressed man, I turned round to apologize, when, to
my utter astonishment, I recognized the face of the porter of the very
hotel where I then lodged in Albemarle Street. So here was a gentleman
who ran every morning forty errands for half a crown, throwing away half
a guinea at night, besides the expense of his habiliments, and the hire
of his "Chapeau de Bras."--[_MS. L. (a)_.]]
[Footnote 27: The first theatrical representations, entitled "Mysteries
and Moralities," were generally enacted at Christmas, by monks (as the
only persons who could read), and latterly by the clergy and students of
the universities. The dramatis personae were usually Adam, Pater
Coelestis, Faith, Vice, and sometimes an angel or two; but these were
eventually superseded by 'Gammer Gurton's Needle'.--'Vide' Warton's
'History of English Poetry [passim]'.--['MSS. M., L. (b)'.]]
[Footnote 28: 'Benvolio' [Lord Grosvenor, 'MS. L'. ('b')] does not bet;
but every man who maintains racehorses is a promoter of all the
concomitant evils of the turf. Avoiding to bet is a little pharisaical.
Is it an exculpation? I think not. I never yet heard a bawd praised for
chastity, because 'she herself' did not commit fornication.
[Robert, second Earl Grosvenor (1767-1845), was created Marquis of
Westminster in 1831. Like his father, Gifford's patron, the first Earl
Grosvenor, he was a breeder of racehorses, and a patron of the turf. As
Lord Belgrave, he brought forward a motion for the suppression of Sunday
newspapers, June 11, 1799, denouncing them in a violent speech. The
motion was lost; but many years after, in a speech delivered in the
House of Lords, January 2, 1807, he returned to the charge. (See 'Parl.
Hist'., 34. 1006, 1010; and 'Parl. Deb'., 8. 286.) (For a skit on Lord
Belgrave's sabbatarian views, see Peter Pindar, 'Works' (1812), iv.
519.)]]
[Footnote 29: Samuel Foote (1720-1777), actor and playwright. His solo
entertainments, in 'The Dish of Tea, An Auction of Pictures', 1747-8
(see his comedy 'Taste'), were the precursors of 'Mathews at Home', and
a long line of successors. His farces and curtain-pieces were often
"spiced-up" with more or less malicious character-sketches of living
persons. Among his better known pieces are 'The Minor' (1760),
ridiculing Whitefield and the Methodists, and 'The Mayor of Garratt'
(1763), in which he played the part of Sturgeon (Byron used this piece,
for an illustration in his speech on the Frame-workers Bill, February
27, 1812). 'The Lyar', first played at Covent Garden, January 12, 1762,
was the latest to hold the stage. It was reproduced at the Opera Comique
in 1877.]
[Footnote 30: Henry Carey, poet and musician (d. 1743), a natural son of
George Savile, Marquis of Halifax, was the author of
_Chrononhotonthologos_, "the most tragical tragedy ever yet tragedised
by any company of tragedians," which was first played at the Haymarket,
February 22, 1734. The well-known lines, "Go, call a coach, and let a
coach be called," etc., which Scott prefixed to the first chapter of
_The Antiquary_, are from the last scene, in which Bombardinion fights
with and kills the King Chrononhotonthologos. But his one achievement
was _Sally in our Alley_, of which he wrote both the words and the
music. The authorship of "God Save the King" has been attributed to him,
probably under a misapprehension.]
[Footnote 31: Under Plato's pillow a volume of the 'Mimes' of Sophron
was found the day he died.--'Vide' Barth閘閙i, De Pauw, or Diogenes
La雛tius, [Lib. iii. p. 168--Chouet 1595] if agreeable. De Pauw calls it
a jest-book. Cumberland, in his 'Observer', terms it moral, like the
sayings of Publius Syrus.]
[Footnote 32: In 1737 the manager of Goodman's Fields Theatre having
brought Sir Robert Walpole a farce called 'The Golden Rump', the
minister detained the copy. He then made extracts of the most offensive
passages, read them to the house, and brought in a bill to limit the
number of playhouses and to subject all dramatic writings to the
inspection of the Lord Chamberlain. Horace Walpole ascribed 'The Golden
Rump' to Fielding, and said that he had found an imperfect copy of the
play among his father's papers. But this has been questioned. (See 'A
Book of the Play', by Dutton Cook (1881), p. 27.)]]
[Footnote 33: His speech on the Licensing Act [in which he opposed the
Bill], is reckoned one of his most eloquent efforts.
[The following sentences have been extracted from the speech which was
delivered:--
"The bill is not only an encroachment upon liberty, it is likewise an
encroachment on property. Wit, my lords, is a sort of property; it is
the property of those who have it, and too often the only property
they have to depend on...
"Those gentlemen who have any such property are all, I hope, our
friends; do not let us subject them to any unnecessary or arbitrary
restraint...
"The stage and the press, my lord, are two of our out-sentries; if we
remove them, if we hoodwink them, if we throw them into fetters, the
enemy may surprise us. Therefore I must now look upon the bill before
us as a step for introducing arbitrary power into this kingdom."
Lord Chesterfield's sentiments with regard to laughter are contained in
an apophthegm, repeated more than once in his correspondence: "The
vulgar laugh aloud, but never smile; on the contrary, people of fashion
often smile, but seldom or never laugh aloud."--'Chesterfield's Letters
to his Godson', Oxford, 1890, p. 27.]]
[Footnote 34: Archer and Squire Sullen are characters in Farquhar's
play (1678-1707), 'The Beaux' Stratagem', March 8, 1707.]]
[Footnote 35: Michael Perez, the "Copper Captain," in [Fletcher's]
'Rule a Wife and Have a Wife' [licensed October 19, 1624].]
[Footnote 36: The Rev. Dr. Francis Willis died in 1807, in the 90th year
of his age. He attended George III. in his first attack of madness in
1788. The power of his eye on other persons is illustrated by a story
related by Frederick Reynolds ('Life and Times', ii. 23), who describes
how Edmund Burke quailed under his look. His son, John Willis, was
entrusted with the entire charge of the king in 1811. Compare Shelley's
'Peter Bell the Third', part vi.--
"Let him shave his head:
Where's Dr. Willis?"
(See, too, 'Bland-Burges Papers' (1885), pp. 113-115, and 'Life of
George IV'., by Percy Fitzgerald (1881), ii. 18.)]]
[Footnote 37: Dr. Johnson was of the like opinion.
"Highwaymen and housebreakers," he says, in his Life of Gay, "seldom
frequent the playhouse, or mingle in any elegant diversion; nor is it
possible for any one to imagine that he may rob with safety, because
he sees Macheath reprieved upon the stage."
'Lives of the Poets', by Samuel Johnson (1890), ii. 266. It was
asserted, on the other hand, by Sir John Fielding, the Bow-street
magistrate, that on every run of the piece, 'The Beggar's Opera', an
increased number of highwaymen were brought to his office; and so strong
was his conviction, that in 1772 he remonstrated against the performance
with the managers of both the houses.]
[Footnote 38: Jerry Collier's controversy with Congreve, etc., on the
subject of the drama, is too well known to require further comment.
[Jeremy Collier (1650-1756), non-juring bishop and divine. The occasion
of his controversy with Congreve was the publication of his 'Short View
of the Immorality and Profaneness of the English Stage' (1697-8).
Congreve, who had been attacked by name, replied in a tract entitled
'Amendments upon Mr. Collier's false and imperfect citations from the'
OLD BATCHELEUR, etc.]]
[Footnote 39: A few months after lines 370-381 were added to 'The
Hints', in September, 1812, Byron, at the request of Lord Holland, wrote
the address delivered on the opening of the theatre, which had been
rebuilt after the fire of February 24, 1809. He subsequently joined the
Committee of Management]
[Footnote 40: Mr. Simeon is the very bully of beliefs, and castigator of
"good works." He is ably supported by John Stickles, a labourer in the
same vineyard:--but I say no more, for, according to Johnny in full
congregation,'"No hopes for them as laughs."'
[The Rev. Charles Simeon (1758-1836) was the leader of the evangelical
movement in Cambridge. The reference may be to the rigour with which he
repelled a charge brought against him by Dr. Edwards, the Master of
Sidney Sussex, that a sermon which he had preached in November, 1809,
savoured of antinomianism. It may be noted that a friend (the Rev. W.
Parish), to whom he submitted the MS. of a rejoinder to Pearson's
'Cautions, etc.', advised him to print it, "especially if you should
rather keep down a lash or two which might irritate." Simeon was
naturally irascible, and, in reply to a friend who had mildly reproved
him for some display of temper, signed himself, in humorous penitence,
"Charles proud and irritable." (See 'Memoirs of the Life of the Rev. Mr.
Simeon', by Rev. W. Carus (1847), pp. 195, 282, etc.)]]
[Footnote 41: 'Baxter's Shove to heavy-a--d Christians', the veritable
title of a book once in good repute, and likely enough to be so again.
["Baxter" is a slip of the pen. The tract or sermon, 'An Effectual Shove
to the heavy-arse Christian', was, according to the title-page, written
by William Bunyan, minister of the gospel in South Wales, and "printed
for the author" in London in 1768.]]
[Footnote 42: Ambrose Philips (1675?-1749) published his 'Epistle to the
Earl of Dorset' and his 'Pastorals' in 1709. It is said that Pope
attacked him in his satires in consequence of an article in the
'Guardian', in which the 'Pastorals' were unduly extolled. His verses,
addressed to the children of his patron, Lord Carteret, were parodied by
Henry Carey, in 'Namby Pamby, or a Panegyric on the New
Versification'.]
[Footnote 43: See letters to Murray, Sept. 15, 1817; Jan. 25, 1819; Mar.
29, 1820; Nov. 4, 1820; etc. See also the two 'Letters' against Bowles,
written at Ravenna, Feb. 7 and Mar. 21, 1821, in which Byron's
enthusiastic reverence for Pope is the dominant note.]
[Footnote 44: As famous a tonsor as Licinus himself, and better paid
[and may be like him a senator, one day or other: no disparagement to
the High Court of Parliament.--'MS.L.(b)'], and may, like him, be one
day a senator, having a better qualification than one half of the heads
he crops, viz.--Independence.
[According to the Scholiast, Cassar made his barber Licinus a senator,
"quod odisset Pompeium." Blake (see Letter to Murray, Nov. 9, 1820) was,
presumably, Benjamin Blake, a perfumer, who lived at 46, Park Street,
Grosvenor Square.]]
[Footnote 45: There was some foundation for this. When Wordsworth and
his sister Dorothy called on Daniel Stuart, editor of the 'Courier', at
his fine new house in Harley Street, the butler would not admit them
further than the hall, and was not a little taken aback when he
witnessed the deference shown to these strangely-attired figures by his
master.--Personal Reminiscence of the late Miss Stuart, of 106, Harley
Street.]
[Footnote 46:
"'Bayes'. If I am to write familiar things, as sonnets to Armida, and
the like, I make use of stewed prunes only; but when I have a grand
design in hand, I ever take physic and let blood; for when you would
have pure swiftness of thought, and fiery flights of fancy, you must
have a care of the pensive part. In fine, you must purge."
'Rehearsal', act ii. sc. 1.
This passage is instanced by Johnson as a proof that "Bayes" was a
caricature of Dryden.
"Bayes, when he is to write, is blooded and purged; this, as Lamotte
relates, ... was the real practice of the poet."
'Lives of the Poets' 1890), i. 388.]]
[Footnote 47: Cant term for ?00,000.]
[Footnote 48: I have not the original by me, but the Italian translation
runs as follows:--
"E una cosa a mio credere molto stravagante, che un Padre desideri, o
permetta, che suo figliuolo coltivi e perfezioni questo talento."
A little further on:
"Si trovano di rado nel Parnaso le miniere d' oro e d' argento,"
'Educazione dei Fanciulli del Signer Locke' (Venice, 1782), ii. 87.
["If the child have a poetic vein, it is to me the strangest thing in
the world, that the father should desire or suffer it to be cherished
or improved."--"It is very seldom seen, that any one discovers mines
of gold or silver on Parnassus."
'Some Thoughts concerning Education', by John Locke (1880), p. 152.]]
[Footnote 49: "Iro pauperior:" a proverb: this is the same beggar who
boxed with Ulysses for a pound of kid's fry, which he lost and half a
dozen teeth besides. (See 'Odyssey', xviii. 98.)]
[Footnote 50: The Irish gold mine in Wicklow, which yields just ore
enough to swear by, or gild a bad guinea.]
[Footnote 51: As Mr. Pope took the liberty of damning Homer, to whom he
was under great obligations--"'And Homer (damn him!) calls'"--it may be
presumed that anybody or anything may be damned in verse by poetical
licence [I shall suppose one may damn anything else in verse with
impunity.--'MS. L. (b)']; and, in case of accident, I beg leave to plead
so illustrious a precedent.]
[Footnote 52: For the story of Billy Havard's tragedy, see Davies's
'Life of Garrick'. I believe it is 'Regulus', or 'Charles the First'
[Lincoln's Inn Fields, March 1, 1737]. The moment it was known to be his
the theatre thinned, and the book-seller refused to give the customary
sum for the copyright. [See 'Life of Garrick', by Thomas Davies (1808),
ii. 205.]
[Footnote 53: Thomas Erskine (third son of the fifth Earl of Buchan)
afterwards Lord Erskine (1750-1823), Lord Chancellor (1806-7), an
eloquent orator, a supremely great advocate, was, by comparison, a
failure as a judge. His power over a jury, "his little twelvers," as he
would sometimes address them, was practically unlimited. (See
'Recollections of the Table-Talk of Samuel Rogers' (1856), p. 126.)]]
[Footnote 54: Lines 589-626 are not in the 'Murray MS'., nor in either
of the 'Lovelace MSS'.]]
[Footnote 55: To the Eclectic or Christian Reviewers I have to return
thanks for the fervour of that charity which, in 1809, induced them to
express a hope that a thing then published by me might lead to certain
consequences, which, although natural enough, surely came but rashly
from reverend lips. I refer them to their own pages, where they
congratulated themselves on the prospect of a tilt between Mr. Jeffrey
and myself, from which some great good was to accrue, provided one or
both were knocked on the head. Having survived two years and a half
those "Elegies" which they were kindly preparing to review, I have no
peculiar gusto to give them "so joyful a trouble," except, indeed, "upon
compulsion, Hal;" but if, as David says in 'The Rivals', it should come
to "bloody sword and gun fighting," we "won't run, will we, Sir Lucius?"
[Byron, writing at Athens, away from his books, misquotes 'The Rivals'.
The words, "Sir Lucius, we--we--we--we won't run," are spoken by Acres,
not by David.] I do not know what I had done to these Eclectic
gentlemen: my works are their lawful perquisite, to be hewn in pieces
like Agag, if it seem meet unto them: but why they should be in such a
hurry to kill off their author, I am ignorant. "The race is not always
to the swift, nor the battle to the strong:" and now, as these
Christians have "smote me on one cheek," I hold them up the other; and,
in return for their good wishes, give them an opportunity of repeating
them. Had any other set of men expressed such sentiments, I should have
smiled, and left them to the "recording angel;" but from the pharisees
of Christianity decency might be expected. I can assure these brethren,
that, publican and sinner as I am, I would not have treated "mine
enemy's dog thus." To show them the superiority of my brotherly love, if
ever the Reverend Messrs. Simeon or Ramsden should be engaged in such a
conflict as that in which they requested me to fall, I hope they may
escape with being "winged" only, and that Heaviside may be at hand to
extract the ball.
["If, however, the noble Lord and the learned advocate have the
courage requisite to sustain their mutual insults, we shall probably
soon hear the explosions of another kind of 'paper' war, after the
fashion of the ever-memorable duel which the latter is said to have
fought, or seemed to fight, with 'Little' Moore. We confess there is
sufficient provocation, if not in the critique, at least in the
satire, to urge a 'man of honour' to defy his assailant to mortal
combat, and perhaps to warrant a man of law to 'declare' war in
Westminster Hall. Of this we shall no doubt hear more in due time"
('Eclectic Review', May, 1809). Byron pretends to believe that the
"Christian" Reviewers, actuated by stern zeal for piety, were making
mischief in sober earnest. "Heaviside" (see last line of Byron's note)
was the surgeon in attendance at the duel between Lord Falkland and Mr.
A. Powell. (See 'English Bards', 1. 686, note 2.)]]
[Footnote 56: _Macbeth_, act v. sc. 7.]
[Footnote 57: See the critique of the 'Edinburgh Review' on 'Hours of
Idleness', January, 1808.]
[Footnote 58: "Invenies alium, si te hic fastidit, Alexin."]
[Footnote 59: Here 'MS. L.' (a) recommences.]
[Footnote 60: John Jackson (1769-1845), better known as "Gentleman"
Jackson, was champion of England from 1795 to 1803. His three fights
were against Fewterel (1788), George Ingleston, nicknamed "the Brewer"
(1789), and Mendoza (1795). In 1803 he retired from the ring. His rooms
at 13, Bond Street, became the head-quarters of the Pugilistic Club.
(See Pierce Egan's 'Life in London', pp. 252-254, where the rooms are
described, and a drawing of them by Cruikshank is given.) Jackson's
character stood high.
"From the highest to the lowest person in the Sporting World, his
'decision' is law."
He was Byron's guest at Cambridge, Newstead, and Brighton; received from
him many letters; and is described by him, in a note to 'Don Juan' (xi.
19), as:
"my old friend and corporeal pastor and master."]
[Footnote 61: Mr. Southey has lately tied another canister to his tail
in 'The Curse of Kehama', maugre the neglect of 'Madoc', etc., and has
in one instance had a wonderful effect. A literary friend of mine,
walking out one lovely evening last summer, on the eleventh bridge of
the Paddington canal, was alarmed by the cry of "one in jeopardy:" he
rushed along, collected a body of Irish haymakers (supping on
butter-milk in an adjacent paddock), procured three rakes, one eel-spear
and a landing net, and at last ('horresco referens') pulled out--his own
publisher. The unfortunate man was gone for ever, and so was a large
quarto wherewith he had taken the leap, which proved, on inquiry, to
have been Mr. Southey's last work. Its "alacrity of sinking" was so
great, that it has never since been heard of; though some maintain that
it is at this moment concealed at Alderman Birch's pastry premises,
Cornhill. Be this as it may, the coroner's inquest brought in a verdict
of "'Felo de bibliopol?" against a "quarto unknown;" and circumstantial
evidence being since strong against 'The Curse of Kehama' (of which the
above words are an exact description), it will be tried by its peers
next session, in Grub-street--Arthur, Alfred, Davideis, Richard Coeur de
Lion, Exodus, Exodiad, Epigoniad, Calvary, Fall of Cambria, Siege of
Acre, Don Roderick, and Tom Thumb the Great, are the names of the twelve
jurors. The judges are Pye, Bowles, and the bell-man of St. Sepulchre's.
The same advocates, pro and con, will be employed as are now engaged in
Sir F. Burdett's celebrated cause in the Scotch courts. The public
anxiously await the result, and all 'live' publishers will be subpoenaed
as witnesses.--But Mr. Southey has published 'The Curse of Kehama',--an
inviting title to quibblers. By the bye, it is a good deal beneath Scott
and Campbell, and not much above Southey, to allow the booby Ballantyne
to entitle them, in the 'Edinburgh Annual Register' (of which, by the
bye, Southey is editor) "the grand poetical triumvirate of the day."
But, on second thoughts, it can be no great degree of praise to be the
one-eyed leaders of the blind, though they might as well keep to
themselves "Scott's thirty thousand copies sold," which must sadly
discomfort poor Southey's unsaleables. Poor Southey, it should seem, is
the "Lepidus" of this poetical triumvirate. I am only surprised to see
him in such good company.
"Such things, we know, are neither rich nor rare,
But wonder how the devil 'he' came there."
The trio are well defined in the sixth proposition of Euclid:--
"Because, in the triangles D B C, A C B; D B is equal to A C; and B C
common to both; the two sides D B, B C, are equal to the two A C, C B,
each to each, and the angle D B C is equal to the angle A C B:
therefore, the base D C is equal to the base A B, and the triangle D B
C (Mr. Southey) is equal to the triangle A C B, the less to the
greater, which is absurd" etc.
The editor of the 'Edinburgh Register' will find the rest of the theorem
hard by his stabling; he has only to cross the river; 'tis the first
turnpike t' other side 'Pons Asinorum.'[A]
['The Curse of Kehama', by Robert Southey, was published 1810;
'Arthur, or The Northern Enchantment', by the Rev. Richard Hole, in 1789;
'Alfred', by Joseph Cottle, in 1801;
'Davideis`', by Abraham Cowley, in 1656;
'Richard the First', by Sir James Bland Surges, in 1801;
'Exodiad', by Sir J. Bland Surges and R. Cumberland, in 1808;
'Exodus', by Charles Hoyle, in 1802;
'Epigoniad', by W. Wilkie, D.D., in 1757;
'Calvary', by R. Cumberland, in 1792;
'Fall of Cambria', by Joseph Cottle, in 1809;
'Siege of Acre', by Hannah Cowley, in 1801;
'The Vision of Don Roderick', by Sir Walter Scott, in 1811;
'Tom Thumb the Great', by Henry Fielding, in 1730.
The 'Courier' of July 16, 1811, reports in full the first stage of the
case Sir F. Burdett 'v.' William Scott ('vide supra'), which was brought
before Lord Meadowbank as ordinary in the outer court. Jeffrey was
counsel for the pursuer, who sought to recover a sum of ?000 lent under
a bond. For the defence it was alleged that the money had been entrusted
for a particular purpose, namely, the maintenance of an infant. Jeffrey
denied the existence of any such claim, and maintained that whatever was
scandalous or calumnious in the defence was absolutely untrue. The case,
which was not included in the Scottish Law Reports, was probably settled
out of court. Evidently the judge held that on technical grounds an
action did not lie. Burdett's enemies were not slow in turning the
scandal to account. (See a contemporary pamphlet, 'Adultery and
Patriotism', London, 1811.)] ]
[Sub-Footnote A: This Latin has sorely puzzled the University of
Edinburgh. Ballantyne said it meant the "Bridge of Berwick," but
Southey claimed it as half English; Scott swore it was the "Brig o'
Stirling:" he had just passed two King James's and a dozen Douglasses
over it. At last it was decided by Jeffrey, that it meant nothing more
nor less than the "counter of Archy Constable's shop."]
[Footnote 62: Voltaire's 'Pucelle' is not quite so immaculate as Mr.
Southey's 'Joan of Arc', and yet I am afraid the Frenchman has both more
truth and poetry too on his side--(they rarely go together)--than our
patriotic minstrel, whose first essay was in praise of a fanatical
French strumpet, whose title of witch would be correct with the change
of the first letter.]
[Footnote 63: Like Sir Bland Burges's 'Richard'; the tenth book of
which I read at Malta, on a trunk of Eyre's, 19, Cockspur-street.
If this be doubted, I shall buy a portmanteau to quote from.
[Sir James Bland Burges (1752-1824), who assumed, in 1821, the name of
Lamb, married, as his first wife, the Hon. Elizabeth Noel, daughter of
Lord Wentworth, and younger sister of Byron's mother-in-law, Lady
Milbanke. He was called to the bar in 1777, and in the same year was
appointed a Commissioner in Bankruptcy. In 1787 he was returned M.P. for
the borough of Helleston; and from 1789 to 1795 held office as
Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs. In 1795, at the instance of his
chief, Lord Grenville, he vacated his post, and by way of compensation
was created a baronet with a sinecure post as Knight-Marshal of the
Royal Household. Thenceforth he devoted himself to literature. In 1796
he wrote the 'Birth and Triumph of Love', by way of letter-press to some
elegant designs of the Princess Elizabeth. (For 'Richard the First' and
the 'Exodiad', see note, p. 436.) His plays, 'Riches and Tricks for
Travellers', appeared in 1810, and there were other works. In spite of
Wordsworth's testimony (Wordsworth signed, but Coleridge dictated and no
doubt composed, the letter: see 'Thomas Poole and His Friends', ii. 27)
"to a pure and unmixed vein of native English" in 'Richard the First
(Bland-Burges Papers', 1885, p. 308), Burges as a poet awaits
rediscovery. His diaries, portions of which were published in 1885, are
lively and instructive. He has been immortalized in Person's
Macaronics--
"Poetis nos l鎡amur tribus,
Pye, Petro Pindar, parvo Pybus.
Si ulterius ire pergis,
Adde his Sir James Bland Burges!"]
[Footnote 64: [Charles Lamb, in "Christ's Hospital Five and Thirty Years
Ago" (_Prose Works_, 1836, ii. 30), records his repeated visits, as a
Blue Coat boy, "to the Lions in the Tower--to whose lev閑, by courtesy
immemorial, we had a prescriptive title to admission."]
[Footnote 65: Lines 677, 678 are not in 'MS. L. (a)'.]
[Footnote 66: Lines 689-696 are not in 'MS. L. (a)' or 'MS. L. (b)'.]
[Footnote 67: 'MS. L.' ('a' and 'b') continue at line 758.]
[Footnote 68:
"Tum quoque marmorea caput a cervice revulsum,
Gurgite cum medio portans OEagrius Hebrus,
Volveret Eurydicen vox ipsa, et frigida lingua;
Ah, miseram Eurydicen! anim?fugiente vocabat;
Eurydicen toto referebant flumine rip?"
'Georgic', iv. 523-527.]
[Footnote 69: I beg Nathaniel's pardon: he is not a cobbler; 'it' is a
'tailor', but begged Capel Lofft to sink the profession in his preface
to two pair of panta--psha!--of cantos, which he wished the public to
try on; but the sieve of a patron let it out, and so far saved the
expense of an advertisement to his country customers--Merry's
"Moorfields whine" was nothing to all this. The "Delia Cruscans" were
people of some education, and no profession; but these Arcadians
("Arcades ambo"--bumpkins both) send out their native nonsense without
the smallest alloy, and leave all the shoes and small-clothes in the
parish unrepaired, to patch up Elegies on Enclosures, and P鎍ns to
Gunpowder. Sitting on a shop-board, they describe the fields of battle,
when the only blood they ever saw was shed from the finger; and an
"Essay on War" is produced by the ninth part of a "poet;"
"And own that 'nine' such poets made a Tate."
Did Nathan ever read that line of Pope? and if he did, why not take it
as his motto?
['An Essay on War; Honington Green, a Ballad ... an Elegy and other
Poems,' was published in 1803.]]
[Footnote 70: This well-meaning gentleman has spoiled some excellent
shoemakers, and been accessory to the poetical undoing of many of the
industrious poor. Nathaniel Bloomfield and his brother Bobby have set
all Somersetshire singing; nor has the malady confined itself to one
county. Pratt too (who once was wiser) has caught the contagion of
patronage, and decoyed a poor fellow named Blackett into poetry; but he
died during the operation, leaving one child and two volumes of
"Remains" utterly destitute. The girl, if she don't take a poetical
twist, and come forth as a shoemaking Sappho, may do well; but the
"tragedies" are as ricketty as if they had been the offspring of an Earl
or a Seatonian prize poet. The patrons of this poor lad are certainly
answerable for his end; and it ought to be an indictable offence. But
this is the least they have done: for, by a refinement of barbarity,
they have made the (late) man posthumously ridiculous, by printing what
he would have had sense enough never to print himself. Certes these
rakers of "Remains" come under the statute against "resurrection men."
What does it signify whether a poor dear dead dunce is to be stuck up in
Surgeons' or in Stationers' Hall? Is it so bad to unearth his bones as
his blunders? Is it not better to gibbet his body on a heath, than his
soul in an octavo? "We know what we are, but we know not what we may
be;" and it is to be hoped we never shall know, if a man who has passed
through life with a sort of 閏lat is to find himself a mountebank on the
other side of Styx, and made, like poor Joe Blackett, the laughing-stock
of purgatory. The plea of publication is to provide for the child; now,
might not some of this 'Sutor ultra Crepidaitis' friends and seducers
have done a decent action without inveigling Pratt into biography? And
then his inscription split into so many modicums!--"To the Duchess of
Somuch, the Right Hon. So-and-So, and Mrs. and Miss Somebody, these
volumes are," etc. etc.--why, this is doling out the "soft milk of
dedication" in gills,--there is but a quart, and he divides it among a
dozen. Why, Pratt, hadst thou not a puff left? Dost thou think six
families of distinction can share this in quiet? There is a child, a
book, and a dedication: send the girl to her grace, the volumes to the
grocer, and the dedication to the devil.
[For Robert Bloomfield, see 'English Bards', ll. 774-786, and note 2.
For Joseph Blacket, see 'English Bards', ll. 765-770, and note 1.
Blacket's 'Remains', with Life by Pratt, appeared in 1811. The work was
dedicated "To Her Grace the Duchess of Leeds, Lady Milbanke and Family,
Benevolent Patrons of the Author," etc.]]
[Footnote 71: Lines 737-758 are not in either of the three original MSS.
of 'Hints from Horace', and were probably written in the autumn of 1811.
They appear among a sheet of "alterations to 'English Bards, and S.
Reviewers', continued with additions" ('MSS. L.'}, drawn up for the
fifth edition, and they are _insert_ed on a separate sheet in 'MS. M.' A
second sheet ('MSS. L.') of "scraps of rhyme ... principally additions
and corrections for 'English Bards', etc." (for the fifth edition), some
of which are dated 1810, does not give the whole passage, but includes
the following variants (erased) of lines 753-756:--
(i.)
"Then let thy ponderous quarto steep and stink,
The dullest fattest weed on Lethe's brink.
Down with that volume to the depths of hell!
Oblivion seems rewarding it too well."
(ii.)
"Yet then thy quarto still may," etc.
A "Druid" (see 'English Bards', line 741) was Byron's name for a
scribbler who wrote for his living. In 'MS. M.', "scribbler" has been
erased, and "Druid" substituted. It is doubtful to whom the passage, in
its final shape, was intended to apply, but it is possible that the
erased lines, in which "ponderous quarto" stands for "lost songs," were
aimed at Southey (see 'ante', line 657, 'note' 1).]
[Footnote 72: 'MS. L. (a)' recommences at line 758.]
[Footnote 73: Here will Mr. Gifford allow me to introduce once more to
his notice the sole survivor, the "ultimus Romanorum," the last of the
Cruscanti--"Edwin" the "profound" by our Lady of Punishment! here he is,
as lively as in the days of "well said Baviad the Correct." I thought
Fitzgerald had been the tail of poesy; but, alas! he is only the
penultimate.
A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO THE EDITOR OF THE "MORNING CHRONICLE."
"What reams of paper, floods of ink,"
Do some men spoil, who never think!
And so perhaps you'll say of me,
In which your readers may agree.
Still I write on, and tell you why;
Nothing's so bad, you can't deny,
But may instruct or entertain
Without the risk of giving pain, etc., etc.
ON SOME MODERN QUACKS AND REFORMISTS.
In tracing of the human mind
Through all its various courses,
Though strange, 'tis true, we often find
It knows not its resources:
And men through life assume a part
For which no talents they possess,
Yet wonder that, with all their art,
They meet no better with success, etc., etc.]
['A Familiar Epistle, etc.', by T. Vaughan, Esq., was published in the
'Morning Chronicle', October 7, 1811. Gifford, in the 'Baviad' (l. 350),
speaks of "Edwin's mewlings," and in a note names "Edwin" as the
"profound Mr. T. Vaughan." 'Love's Metamorphoses', by T. Vaughan, was
played at Drury Lane, April 15, 1776. He also wrote 'The Hotel, or
Double Valet', November 26, 1776, which Jephson rewrote under the title
of 'The Servant with Two Masters.' Compare 'Children of Apollo', p. 49:--
"Jephson, who has no humour of his own,
Thinks it no crime to borrow from the town;
The farce (almost forgot) of 'The Hotel'
Or 'Double Valet' seems to answer well.
This and his own make 'Two Strings to his Bow'."]]
[Footnote 74: See Milton's 'Lycidas'.]
[Footnote 75: Minerva being the first by Jupiter's head-piece, and a
variety of equally unaccountable parturitions upon earth, such as Madoc,
etc. etc.]
[Footnote 76:
"A crust for the critics."
'Bayes, in "the Rehearsal"' [act ii. sc. 2].
[Footnote 77: And the "waiters" are the only fortunate people who can
"fly" from them; all the rest, viz. the sad subscribers to the "Literary
Fund," being compelled, by courtesy, to sit out the recitation without a
hope of exclaiming, "Sic" (that is, by choking Fitz. with bad wine, or
worse poetry) "me servavit Apollo!"
[See 'English Bards', line 1 and 'note' 3.]]
[Footnote 78: Lines 813-816 not in 'MS. L. (a)' or 'MS. L. (b)'.]
[Footnote 79: On his table were found these words:--"What Cato did, and
Addison approved, cannot be wrong." But Addison did not "approve;" and
if he had, it would not have mended the matter. He had invited his
daughter on the same water-party; but Miss Budgell, by some accident,
escaped this last paternal attention. Thus fell the sycophant of
"Atticus," and the enemy of Pope!
[Eustace Budgell (1686-1737), a friend and relative of Addison's, "leapt
into the Thames" to escape the dishonour which attached to him in
connection with Dr. Tindal's will, and the immediate pressure of money
difficulties. He was, more or less, insane.
"We talked (says Boswell) of a man's drowning himself. I put the case
of Eustace Budgell.
'Suppose, sir,' said I, 'that a man is absolutely sure that, if he
lives a few days longer, he shall be detected in a fraud, the
consequence of which will be utter disgrace, and expulsion from
society?'
JOHNSON. 'Then, sir, let him go abroad to a distant country; let him
go to some place where he is 'not' known. Don't let him go to the
devil, where he 'is' known.'"
Boswell's 'Life of Johnson' (1886), p. 281.]]
[Footnote 80: If "dosed with," etc. be censured as low, I beg leave to
refer to the original for something still lower; and if any reader will
translate "Minxerit in patrios cineres," etc. into a decent couplet, I
will _insert_ said couplet in lieu of the present.]
[Footnote i:
ATHENS, 'March 2nd, 1811'.
['MS. L.' (a).]
ATHENS, 'March 12th, 1811'.
['MS. L. (i), MS. M.']]
[Footnote ii:
'If [A] West or Lawrence, (take whichever you will)
Sons of the Brush, supreme in graphic skill,
Should clap a human head-piece on a mare,
How would our Exhibition's loungers stare!
Or should some dashing limner set to sale
My Lady's likeness with a Mermaid's tail.'
['MS. L.' (a).]
'The features finished, should superbly deck
My Lady's likeness with a Filly's neck;
Or should some limner mad or maudlin group
A Mermaid's tail and Maid of Honour's Hoop.'
['MS. L. '(b).] ]
[Sub-Footnote A: I have been obliged to dive into the "Bathos" for the
simile, as I could not find a description of these Painters' merits
above ground.
"Si liceat parvis
Componere magna"--
"Like London's column pointing to the skies
Like a 'tall Bully', lifts its head and lies"
I was in hopes might bear me out, if the monument be like a Bully.
West's glory may be reduced by the scale of comparison. If not, let me
have recourse to 'Tom Thumb the Great' [Fielding's farce, first
played 1730] to keep my simile in countenance.--['MS. L. (b) erased]]
[Footnote iii: After line 6, the following lines (erased) were _insert_ed:--
'Or patch a Mammoth up with wings and limbs,
And fins of aught that flies or walks or swims'.
['MS. M'.]
Another variant ran--
'Or paint (astray from Truth and Nature led)
A Judge with wings, a Statesman with a Head'!
['MS. M'.]]
[Footnote iv:
'Believe me, Hobhouse'.
['MS. M'.]]
[Footnote v:
'as we scribblers'.
['MSS. L'. ('a' and 'b'), 'MS. M'.]]
[Footnote vi:
'Like Wardle's'[A] 'speeches'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]]
[Sub-Footnote A: [Gwyllim Lloyd Wardle (1762-1834), who served in
Ireland in 1798, as Colonel of the Welsh Fusiliers, known as "Wynne's
lambs," was M.P. for Okehampton 1807-12. In January, 1809, he brought
forward a motion for a parliamentary investigation into the exercise
of military patronage by the Duke of York, and the supposed influence
of the Duke's mistress, Mary Anne Clarke.]]
[Footnote vii:
'As pertness lurks beneath a legal gown.
And nonsense in a lofty note goes down'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]]
or,
'Which covers all things like a Prelate's gown'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]]
or,
'Which wraps presumption'.
['MS. M. erased'.]]
[Footnote viii:
'As when the poet to description yields
Of waters gliding through the goodly fields;
The Groves of Granta and her Gothic Halls,
Oxford and Christchurch, London and St. Pauls,
Or with a ruder flight he feebly aims
To paint a rainbow or the River Thames.
Perhaps you draw a fir tree or a beech,
But then a landscape is beyond your reach;
Or, if that allegory please you not,
Take this--you'ld form a vase, but make a pot'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]]
[Footnote ix:
'Although you sketch a tree which Taste endures,
Your ill-daubed Shipwreck shocks the Connoisseurs.'
['MS. M.']]
[Footnote x:
'The greater portion of the men of rhyme
Parents and children or their Sires sublime'.
['MS. M'.]]
[Footnote xi:
'But change the malady they strive to cure'.
['MS. L. (a').]]
[Footnote xii:
'Fish in the woods and wild-boars in the waves'.
['MS. M'.]]
[Footnote xiii:
'For Coat and waistcoat Slowshears is your man,
But Breeches claim another Artisan;
Now this to me I own seems much the same
As one leg perfect and the other lame'.
['MSS. M., L. (a').]
'Sweitzer is your man'.
[MS. M. 'erased'.]]
[Footnote xiv:
'Him who hath sense to make a skilful choice
Nor lucid Order, nor the Siren Voice
Of Eloquence shall shun, and Wit and Grace
(Or I'm deceived) shall aid him in the Race:
These too will teach him to defer or join
To future parts the now omitted line:
This shall the Author like or that reject,
Sparing in words and cautious to _select_:
Nor slight applause will candid pens afford
To him who well compounds a wanting word,
And if, by chance, 'tis needful to produce
Some term long laid and obsolete in use'.--
['MSS. M., L'. ('a' and 'b'). 'The last line partly erased.']
[Footnote xv:
'The dextrous Coiner of a' wanting 'word'.--
['Proof b, British Museum'.]]
[Footnote xvi:
'Adroitly grafted.'
['Proof b, British Museum'.]]
[Footnote xvii:
'Since they enriched our language in their time
In modern speeches or Black letter rhyme.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote xviii:
'Though at a Monarch's nod, and Traffic's call
Reluctant rivers deviate to Canal'.
['MSS. M., L'. ('a' and 'b').]]
[Footnote xix:
'marshes dried, sustain'.
['Proof b, British Museum'.]]
[Footnote xx:
'Thus--future years dead volumes shall revive'.
['Proof b, British Museum'.]]
[Footnote xxi:
'As Custom fluctuates whose Iron Sway
Though ever changing Mortals must obey'.
['MS. M'.]]
[Footnote xxii:
'To mark the Majesty of Epic song'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]]
[Footnote xxiii:
'But which is preferable rhyme or blank
Which holds in poesy'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]
[Footnote xxiv:
--'ventures to appear.--'
['MS. Corr. in Proof b, British Museum'.]
[Footnote xxv:
'And Harry Monmouth, till the scenes require,
Resigns heroics to his sceptred Sire.'
['MS. L'. (a).]]
[Footnote xxvi:
'To "hollaing Hotspur" and the sceptred sire.'--
['MS. Corr. in Proof b, British Museum'.]]
[Footnote xxvii:
'Dull as an Opera, I should sleep or sneer.'
['MS. M'.]]
[Footnote xxviii:
'And for Emotion's aid 'tis said and sung'.
['MS. L, (a)'.]]
[Footnote xxix:
'or form a plot'.
['Proof b, British Museum'.]]
[Footnote xxx:
'Whate'er the critic says or poet sings
'Tis no slight task to write on common things'.
['MS. L. (a).']]
[Footnote xxxi:
'Ere o'er our heads your Muse's Thunder rolls.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote xxxii:
'Earth, Heaven and Hell, are shaken with the Song.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote xxxiii:
'Through deeds we know not, though already done,'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote xxxiv:
'What soothes the people's, Peer's, and Critic's ear.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote xxxv:
'And Vice buds forth developed with his Teens.'
[MS. M.]]
[Footnote xxxvi:
'The beardless Tyro freed at length from school.
[MSS. L. (b), M. erased'.]
'And blushing Birch disdains all College rule.
[MS. M. erased'.]
'And dreaded Birch.
[MS. L.' (a' and 'b').]]
[Footnote xxxvii:
'Unlucky Tavell! damned to daily cares
By pugilistic Freshmen, and by Bears.'
['MS. M. erased'.]]
[Footnote xxxviii:
'Ready to quit whatever he loved before,
Constant to nought, save hazard and a whore.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote xxxix:
'The better years of youth he wastes away.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote xl:
'Master of Arts, as all the Clubs proclaim.'
['MS. L. (b)'.]]
[Footnote xli:
'Scrapes wealth, o'er Grandam's endless jointure grieves.'
['MS. erased'.]
'O'er Grandam's mortgage, or young hopeful's debts.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
'O'er Uncle's mortgage.'
['MS. L. (b)'.]]
[Footnote xlii:
'Your plot is told or acted more or less.'
['MS. M.']]
[Footnote xliii:
'To greater sympathy our feelings rise
When what is done is done before our eyes.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote xliv:
'Appalls an audience with the work of Death--
To gaze when Hubert simply threats to sere.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote xlv:
'Nor call a Ghost, unless some cursed hitch
Requires a trapdoor Goblin or a Witch.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote xlvi:
'This comes from Commerce with our foreign friends
These are the precious fruits Ausonia sends.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote xlvii:
'Our Giant Capital where streets still spread
Where once our simpler sins were bred.'
['MS. L. (a).']
'Our fields where once the rustic earned his bread.'
['MS. L. (b)'.]]
[Footnote xlviii:
'Aches with the Orchestra he pays to hear.
[MS. M.']]
[Footnote xlix:
'Scarce kept awake by roaring out encore.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote l:
'Ere theatres were built and reverend clerks
Wrote plays as some old book remarks.'
[MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote li:
'Who did what Vestris--yet, at least,--cannot,
And cut his kingly capers "Sans culotte."'
['MS. M.']]
[Footnote lii:
'Who yet squeaks on nor fears to be forgot
If good Earl Grosvenor supersede them not'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]
'Who still frisk on with feats so vastly low
'Tis strange Earl Grosvenor suffers such a show'.
['MS. M'.]]
[Footnote liii:
'Suppressing Peer! to whom all vice gives place,
Save Gambling--for his Lordship loves a Race'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]]
[Footnote liv:
'Hobhouse, since we have roved through Eastern climes,
While all the 苂ean echoed to our rhymes,
And bound to Momus by some pagan spell
Laughed, sang and quaffed to "Vive la Bagatelle!'"--
['MS. L'. ('a').]
'Hobhouse, with whom once more I hope to sit
And smile at what our Stage retails for wit.
Since few, I know, enjoy a laugh so well
Sardonic slave to "Vive la Bagatelle"
So that in your's like Pagan Plato's bed
They'll find some book of Epigrams when dead'.
['MS. L'. ('b').]]
[Footnote lv:
'My wayward Spirit weakly yields to gloom,
But thine will waft thee lightly to the Tomb,
So that in thine, like Pagan Plato's, bed
They'll find some Manuscript of Mimes, when dead'.
['MS. M'.]]
[Footnote lvi:
'And spite of Methodism and Collier's curse'.
['MS. M'.]
'He who's seduced by plays must be a fool'
'If boys want teaching let them stay at school'.
[MS. L. (a).]]
[Footnote lvii:
'Whom Nature guides so writes that he who sees
Enraptured thinks to do the same with ease'.
['MS. M'.]]
[Footnote lviii:
'But after toil-inked thumbs and bitten nails
Scratched head, ten quires--the easy scribbler fails'.--
['MS. L'. ('a').]
[Footnote lix:
'The one too rustic, t'other too refined'.
['MS. L'. ('a' and 'b').]]
[Footnotes lx:
'Offensive most to men with house and land
Possessed of Pedigree and bloody hand'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]]
Footnote lxi:
'Composed for any but the lightest strain'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]]
Footnote lxii:
'And must I then my'--
['MS.L'. ('a').]
[Footnote lxiii:
'Ye who require Improvement'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]]
[Footnote lxiv:
'And Tragedy, whatever stuff he spoke
Now wants high heels, long sword and velvet cloak'.--
['MS. L'. ('a') 'erased'.]]
[Footnote lxv:
'Curtail or silence the offensive jest'.
['MS. M'.]
'Curtail the personal or smutty jest'.
['MS. L'. ('a') 'erased'.]]
[Footnote lxvi:
'Overthrow whole books with all their hosts of faults'.--
['MS. L'. ('a').]]
[Footnotes lxvii:
'So that not Hellebore with all its juice'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]]
[Footnote lxviii:
'I'll act instead of whetstone--blunted, but
Of use to make another's razor cut'.
['MS. L.' ('a').]]
[Footnote lxix:
'From Horace show the better arts of song'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]]
[Footnote lxx:
'To Trade, but gave their hours to arms and arts'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]
'With traffic'.
['MS. L'. ('b').]]
[Footnote lxxi:
'Babe of old Thelusson' [A]----.
['MS. L'. ('a' and 'b').]]
[Sub-Footnote A: [Peter Isaac Thellusson, banker (died July 21, 1797),
by his will directed that his property should accumulate for the
benefit of the unborn heir of an unborn grandson. The will was,
finally, upheld, but, meanwhile, on July 28, 1800, an act (39 and 40
Geo. III.c.98) was passed limiting such executory devises.]]
[Footnote lxxii:
'A groat--ah bravo! Dick's the boy for sums
He'll swell my fifty thousand into plums'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]]
[Footnote lxxiii:
'Are idle dogs and (damn them!) always poor'.--
['MS. L'. ('a' and 'b').]]
[Footnote lxxiv:
'Unlike Potosi holds no silver mine'.
['MS. L'. ('a').]
'Keeps back his ingots like'}
'Is rather costive--like' } 'an Irish Mine'.
'Is no Potosi, but' }
['MS. L'. ('b').]]
[Footnote lxxv:
'Write but recite not, e'en Apollo's song
Mouthed in a mortal ear would seem too long,
Long as the last year of a lingering lease,
When Revel pauses until Rents increase'.
['MS. M. erased'.]]
[Footnote lxxvi:
'To finish all'.
['MS. L'. ('b').]
'That Bard the mask will fit'.
['MS. L'. ('b').]]
[Footnote lxxvii:
'Revenge defeats its object in the dark
And pistols (courage bullies!) miss their mark.'
['MS. L. (a).']
And pistols (courage duellists!) miss their mark.
['MS. L. (b)'.]]
[Footnote lxxviii:
'Though much displeased.'
['MS. L. (a and b)'.]]
[Footnote lxxix:
'The scrutiny.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote lxxx:
'Oh ye aspiring youths whom fate or choice.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
[Footnote lxxxi:
'All are not Erskines who adorn the bar.'
['MS. M'.]]
[Footnote lxxxii:
'With very middling verses to offend
The Devil and Jeffrey grant but to a friend.'
['MS. L. (a).']
'Though what "Gods, men, and columns" interdict,
The Devil and Jeffrey [A] pardon--in a Pict.'
['MS. M.']]
[Sub-Footnote A: "The Devil and Jeffrey are here placed antithetically
to gods and men, such being their usual position, and their due
one--according to the facetious saying, 'If God won't take you, the
Devil must;' and I am sure no one durst object to his taking the
poetry, which, rejected by Horace, is accepted by Jeffrey. That these
gentlemen are in some cases kinder,--the one to countrymen, and the
other from his odd propensity to prefer evil to good,--than the 'gods,
men, and columns' of Horace, may be seen by a reference to the review
of Campbell's 'Gertrude of Wyoming'; and in No. 31 of the 'Edinburgh
Review' (given to me the other day by the captain of an English
frigate off Salamis), there is a similar concession to the mediocrity
of Jamie Graham's 'British Georgics'. It is fortunate for Campbell,
that his fame neither depends on his last poem, nor the puff of the
'Edinburgh Review'. The catalogues of our English are also less
fastidious than the pillars of the Roman librarians. A word more with
the author of 'Gertrude of Wyoming'. At the end of a poem, and even of
a couplet, we have generally 'that unmeaning thing we call a thought;'
so Mr. Campbell concludes with a thought in such a manner as to fulfil
the whole of Pope's prescription, and be as 'unmeaning' as the best of
his brethren:--
'Because I may not 'stain' with grief
The death-song of an Indian chief.'
"When I was in the fifth form, I carried to my master the translation
of a chorus in Prometheus, wherein was a pestilent expression about
'staining a voice,' which met with no quarter. Little did I think that
Mr. Campbell would have adopted my fifth form 'sublime'--at least in
so conspicuous a situation. 'Sorrow' has been 'dry' (in proverbs), and
'wet' (in sonnets), this many a day; and now it ''stains',' and stains
a sound, of all feasible things! To be sure, death-songs might have
been stained with that same grief to very good purpose, if Outalissi
had clapped down his stanzas on wholesome paper for the 'Edinburgh
Evening Post', or any other given hyperborean gazette; or if the said
Outalissi had been troubled with the slightest second sight of his own
notes embodied on the last proof of an overcharged quarto; but as he
is supposed to have been an improvisatore on this occasion, and
probably to the last tune he ever chanted in this world, it would have
done him no discredit to have made his exit with a mouthful of common
sense. Talking of ''staining'' (as Caleb Quotem says) 'puts me in
mind' of a certain couplet, which Mr. Campbell will find in a writer
for whom he, and his school, have no small contempt:--
'E'en copious Dryden wanted, or forgot,
The last and greatest art--the art to 'blot'!'"
['MS. M'.]]
[Footnote lxxxiii:
'And mustard rarely pleases in a pie.'
['MS. L. '(a).]]
[Footnote lxxxiv:
'At the Sessions'.
['MS. L.' (b), 'in pencil'.] ]
[Footnote lxxxv: Lines 647-650--
Whose character contains no glaring fault...
Shall I, I say.
[MS. L. (a).]]
[Footnote lxxxvi: After 660--
'But why this hint-what author e'er could stop
His poems' progress in a Grocers shop.'
['MS. L. (a).'] ]
[Footnote lxxxvii:
'As lame as I am, but a better bard.'
['MS. M.']]
[Footnote lxxxviii:
'Apollo's song the fate of men foretold.'
['MS. L. (a).']]
[Footnote lxxxix:
'Have studied with a Master day and night'.
['MS. L. (a, b).']]
[Footnote xc:
'They storm Bolt Court, they publish one and all'.--
['MS. M. erased.']]
[Footnote xci:
'Rogers played this prank'.
['MS. M.']]
[Footnote xcii:
'There see their sonnets first--but Spring--hot prest
Beholds a Quarto--Tarts must tell the Rest.'
['MS. M. erased.']]
[Footnote xciii:
'To fuddled Esquires or to flippant Lords.'
['MS. M.']]
[Footnote xciv:
'Till lo! that modern Midas of the swains--
Feels his ears lengthen--with the lengthening strains'.--
['MS. M. erased'.]]
[Footnote xcv:
'Adds a week's growth to his enormous ears'.
['MS. M. erased.']]
[Footnote xcvi:
'But what are these? Benefits might bind
Some decent ties about a manly mind'.
['MS. M.']]
[Footnote xcvii:
'Our modern sceptics can no more allow.'
['MS. L. (a).']]
[Footnote xcviii:
'Some rhyming peer--Carlisle or Carysfort.'[A]
['MS. M.']]
[Sub-Footnote A: [To variant ii. (p. 444) (this footnote) is subjoined
this note:
"Of 'John Joshua, Earl of Carysfort,' I know nothing at present, but
from an advertisement in an old newspaper of certain Poems and
Tragedies by his Lordship, which I saw by accident in the Morea.
Being a rhymer himself, he will forgive the liberty I take with his
name, seeing, as he must, how very commodious it is at the close of
that couplet; and as for what follows and goes before, let him place
it to the account of the other Thane; since I cannot, under these
circumstances, augur pro or con the contents of his 'foolscap crown
octavos.'"
[John Joshua Proby, first Earl of Carysfort, was joint
postmaster-general in 1805, envoy to Berlin in 1806, and ambassador to
Petersburgh in 1807. Besides his poems ('Dramatic and Miscellaneous
Works', 1810), he published two pamphlets (1780,1783), to show the
necessity of universal suffrage and short parliaments. He died in
1828.]]
[Footnote xcix:
'Hoarse with bepraising, and half choaked with lies,
Sweat on his brow and tear drops in his eyes.'
['MS. L. (a).']]
[Footnote c:
'Then sits again, then shakes his piteous head
As if the Vicar were already dead.'
['MS. L. (a).']]
[Footnote ci:
'But if you're too conceited to amend.'
['MS. L. (a).]']
[Footnote cii:
'On pain of suffering from their pen or tongues.'
['MS. M. erased.']
'--fly Fitzgerald's lungs.'
['MS. M.']]
[Footnote ciii:
'Ah when Bards mouth! how sympathetic Time
Stagnates, and Hours stand still to hear their rhyme.'
['MS. M. erased'.]]
[Footnote civ:
'Besides how know ye? that he did not fling
Himself there--for the humour of the thing.'
['MS. M'.]]
[Footnote cv:
'Small thanks, unwelcome life he quickly leaves;
And raving poets--really should not lose.'
['MS. M'.]
[Footnote cvi:
'Nor is it clearly understood that verse
Has not been given the poet for a curse;
Perhaps he sent the parson's pig to pound,
Or got a child on consecrated ground;
But, be this as it may, his rhyming rage
Exceeds a Bear who strives to break his cage.
If free, all fly his versifying fit;
The young, the old, the simpleton and wit.'
['MS. L. (a)'.]]
THE CURSE OF MINERVA.
--"Pallas te hoc vulnere, Pallas
Immolat, et poenam scelerato ex sanguine sumit."
_Aeneid_, lib. xii, 947, 948.
NOTE I.
In 'The Malediction of Minerva (New Monthly Magazine', vol. iii. p. 240)
additional footnotes are appended
(1) to line 106, recording the obliteration of Lord Elgin's name, "which
had been inscribed on a pillar of one of the principal temples," while
that of Lady Elgin had been left untouched; and
(2) to line 196, giving quotations from pp. 158, 269, 419 of Eustace's
'Classical Tour in Italy'.
After line 130, which reads, "And well I know within that murky land"
('i.e'. Caledonia), the following apology for a hiatus was _insert_ed:
"Here follows in the original certain lines which the editor has
exercised his discretion by suppressing; inasmuch as they comprise
national reflections which the bard's justifiable indignation has made
him pour forth against a people which, if not universally of an
amiable, is generally of a respectable character, and deserves not in
this case to be censured 'en masse' for the faults of an
individual."
NOTE II.
The text of 'The Curse of Minerva' is based on that of the quarto
printed by T. Davison in 1813. With the exception of the variants, as
noted, the text corresponds with the MS. in the possession of Lord
Stanhope. Doubtless it represents Byron's final revision. The text of an
edition of 'The Curse, etc'., Philadelphia, 1815, 8vo [printed by De
Silver and Co.], was followed by Galignani (third edit., 1818, etc.).
The same text is followed, but not invariably, in the _select_ions printed
by Hone in 1816 (111 lines); Wilson, 1818 (112 lines); and Knight and
Lacy, 1824 (111 lines). It exhibits the following variants from the
quarto of 1813:--
Line. Variant.
56.----'lands and main.'
81. 'Her helm was deep indented and her lance.'
94. 'Seek'st thou the cause? O mortal, look around.'
102. 'That Hadrian----'
116. 'The last base brute----'
143. 'Ten thousand schemes of petulance and pride.'
152. '----victors o'er the grave.'
162. '----Time shall tell the rest.'
199. 'Loath'd throughout life--scarce pardon'd in the dust.'
203. 'Erostratus and Elgin, etc.'
206. '----viler than the first.
222. 'Shall shake your usurpation to its base.'
233. 'While Lusitania----'
273. 'Then in the Senates----'
290. '----decorate his fall.'
The following variants may also be noted:--
Line. Variant. Publisher
1. 'Slow sinks now lovely, etc.' Hone
110. 'The Gothic monarch and the British----.' Wilson
'----and his fit compeer.'
131. 'And well I know within that murky land.
...
Dispatched her reckoning children far and wide. Hone
And well I know, albeit afar, the land,
Where starving Avarice keeps her chosen band;
Or sends their hungry numbers eager forth.
...
And aye accursed, etc.' Wilson
INTRODUCTION TO _THE CURSE OF MINERVA_
'The Curse of Minerva', which was written at Athens, and is dated March
17, 1811, remained unpublished, as a whole, in this country, during
Byron's life-time. The arrangement which had been made with Cawthorn, to
bring out a fifth edition of 'English Bards', included the issue of a
separate volume, containing 'Hints from Horace' and 'The Curse of
Minerva;' and, as Moore intimates, it was the withdrawal of the latter,
in deference to the wishes of Lord Elgin or his connections, which led
to the suppression of the other satires.
The quarto edition of The 'Curse of Minerva', printed by T. Davison in
1812, was probably set up at the same time as Murray's quarto edition of
'Childe Harold', and reserved for private circulation. With or without
Byron's consent, the poem as a whole was published in Philadelphia by De
Silver and Co., 1815, 8vo (for variants, see p. 453, 'note'). In a letter
to Murray, March 6, 1816, he says that he "disowns" 'The Curse, etc.',
"as stolen and published in a miserable and villainous copy in the
magazine." The reference is to 'The Malediction of Minerva, or The
Athenian Marble-Market', which appeared in the 'New Monthly Magazine'
for April, 1818, vol. iii. 240. It numbers 111 lines, and is signed
"Steropes" (The Lightner, a Cyclops). The text of the magazine, with the
same additional footnotes, but under the title of 'The Curse', etc., was
republished in the eighth edition of 'Poems on His Domestic
Circumstances', W. Hone, London, 1816, 8vo, and, thenceforth, in other
piratical issues. Whatever may have been his feelings or intentions in
1812, four years later Byron was well aware that 'The Curse of Minerva'
would not increase his reputation as a poet, while the object of his
satire--the exposure and denunciation of Lord Elgin--had been
accomplished by the scathing stanzas (canto ii. 10-15), with their
accompanying note, in 'Childe Harold'. "Disown" it as he might, his
words were past recall, and both indictments stand in his name.
Byron was prejudiced against Elgin before he started on his tour. He
had, perhaps, glanced at the splendid folio, 'Specimens of Ancient
Sculpture', which was issued by the Dilettanti Society in 1809. Payne
Knight wrote the preface, in which he maintains that the friezes and
metopes of the Parthenon were not the actual work of Phidias, "but ...
architectural studies ... probably by workmen scarcely ranked among
artists." So judged the leader of the 'cognoscenti', and, in accordance
with his views, Elgin and Aberdeen are held up to ridicule in 'English
Bards' (second edition, October, 1809, 1. 1007, and 'note') as credulous
and extravagant collectors of "maimed antiques." It was, however, not
till the first visit to Athens (December, 1809-March, 1810), when he saw
with his own eyes the "ravages of barbarous and antiquarian despoilers"
(Lord Broughton's 'Travels in Albania', 1858, i. 259), that contempt
gave way to indignation, and his wrath found vent in the pages of
'Childe Harold'.
Byron cared as little for ancient buildings as he did for the
authorities, or for patriotic enterprise, but he was stirred to the
quick by the marks of fresh and, as he was led to believe, wanton injury
to "Athena's poor remains." The southern side of the half-wrecked
Parthenon had been deprived of its remaining metopes, which had suffered
far less from the weather than the other sides which are still in the
building; all that remained of the frieze had been stripped from the
three sides of the cella, and the eastern pediment had been despoiled of
its diminished and mutilated, but still splendid, group of figures; and,
though five or six years had gone by, the blank spaces between the
triglyphs must have revealed their recent exposure to the light, and the
shattered edges of the cornice, which here and there had been raised and
demolished to permit the dislodgment of the metopes, must have caught
the eye as they sparkled in the sun. Nor had the removal and deportation
of friezes and statues come to an end. The firman which Dr. Hunt, the
chaplain to the embassy, had obtained in 1801, which empowered Elgin and
his agents to take away 'qualche pezzi di pietra', still ran, and Don
Tita Lusieri, the Italian artist, who remained in Elgin's service, was
still, like the 'canes venatici' (American? "smell-dogs") employed by
Verres in Sicily (see 'Childe Harold', canto ii. st. 12, 'note'),
finding fresh relics, and still bewailing to sympathetic travellers the
hard fate which compelled him to despoil the temples 'malgr?lui'. The
feelings of the inhabitants themselves were not much in question, but
their opinions were quoted for and against the removal of the marbles.
Elgin's secretary and prime agent, W.R. Hamilton, testifies, from
personal knowledge, that, "so far from exciting any unpleasant
sensations, the people seemed to feel it as the means of bringing
foreigners into the country, and of having money spent there" ('Memoir
on the Earl of Elgin's Pursuits in Greece', 1811). On the other hand,
the traveller, Edward Daniel Clarke, with whom Byron corresponded (see
'Childe Harold', canto ii. st. 12, 'note'), speaks of the attachment of
the Turks to the Parthenon, and their religious veneration for the
building as a mosque, and tells a pathetic story of the grief of the
Disdar when "a metope was lowered, and the adjacent masonry scattered
its white fragments with thundering noise among the ruins" ('Travels in
Various Countries', part ii, sect. ii, p. 483).
Other travellers of less authority than Clarke--Dodwell, for instance,
who visited the Parthenon before it had been dismantled, and,
afterwards, was present at the removal of metopes; and Hughes, who came
after Byron (autumn, 1813)--make use of such phrases as "shattered
desolation," "wanton devastation and avidity of plunder." Even
Michaelis, the great archaeologist, who denounces 'The Curse of Minerva'
as a "'libellous' poem," and affirms "that only blind passion could
doubt that Lord Elgin's act was an act of preservation," admits that
"the removal of several metopes and of the statue from the Erechtheion
had severely injured the surrounding architecture" ('Ancient Marbles in
Great Britain', by A. Michaelis, translated by C.A.M. Fennell, 1882, p.
135). Highly coloured and emotional as some of these phrases may be,
they explain, if they do not justify, the 's鎣a indignatio' of Byron's
satire.
It is almost, if not quite, unnecessary to state the facts on the other
side. History regards Lord Elgin as a disinterested official, who at
personal loss (at least thirty-five thousand pounds on his own showing),
and in spite of opposition and disparagement, secured for his own
country and the furtherance of art the perishable fragments of Phidian
workmanship, which, but for his intervention, might have perished
altogether. If they had eluded the clutches of Turkish mason and Greek
dealer in antiquities--if, by some happy chance, they had escaped the
ravages of war, the gradual but gradually increasing assaults of rain
and frost would have already left their effacing scars on the "Elgin
marbles." As it is, the progress of decay has been arrested, and all the
world is the gainer. Byron was neither a prophet nor an archaeologist,
and time and knowledge have put him in the wrong. But in 1810 the gaps
in the entablature of the Parthenon were new, the Phidian marbles were
huddled in a "damp dirty penthouse" in Park Lane (see 'Life of Haydon',
i. 84), and the logic of events had not justified a sad necessity.
THE CURSE OF MINERVA.
Pallas te hoc Vulnere Pallas
Immolat et poenam scelerato ex Sanguine Sumit.
ATHENS: CAPUCHIN CONVENT, _March_ 17, 1811.
Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, [1]
Along Morea's hills the setting Sun;
Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light;
O'er the hushed deep the yellow beam he throws, [i]
Gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows;
On old 苂ina's rock and Hydra's isle [2]
The God of gladness sheds his parting smile;
O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine,
Though there his altars are no more divine. [ii] 10
Descending fast, the mountain-shadows kiss
Thy glorious Gulf, unconquered Salamis!
Their azure arches through the long expanse, [iii]
More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance,
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven,
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of Heaven;
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep,
Behind his Delphian rock he sinks to sleep. [iv]
On such an eve his palest beam he cast
When, Athens! here thy Wisest looked his last. 20
How watched thy better sons his farewell ray,
That closed their murdered Sage's [3] latest day!
Not yet--not yet--Sol pauses on the hill,
The precious hour of parting lingers still;
But sad his light to agonizing eyes,
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes;
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seemed to pour,
The land where Phoebus never frowned before;
But ere he sunk below Cithaeron's head,
The cup of Woe was quaffed--the Spirit fled; 30
The soul of Him that scorned to fear or fly, [v]
Who lived and died as none can live or die.
But lo! from high Hymettus to the plain
The Queen of Night asserts her silent reign; [vi] [4]
No murky vapour, herald of the storm, [vii]
Hides her fair face, or girds her glowing form;
With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play,
There the white column greets her grateful ray,
And bright around, with quivering beams beset,
Her emblem sparkles o'er the Minaret; 40
The groves of olive scattered dark and wide,
Where meek Cephisus sheds his scanty tide,
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque,
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk, [5]
And sad and sombre 'mid the holy calm,
Near Theseus' fane, yon solitary palm;
All, tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye;
And dull were his that passed them heedless by. [6]
Again the 苂ean, heard no more afar,
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war: 50
Again his waves in milder tints unfold
Their long expanse of sapphire and of gold,
Mixed with the shades of many a distant isle
That frown, where gentler Ocean deigns to smile. [viii]
As thus, within the walls of Pallas' fane,
I marked the beauties of the land and main,
Alone, and friendless, on the magic shore,
Whose arts and arms but live in poets' lore;
Oft as the matchless dome I turned to scan,
Sacred to Gods, but not secure from Man, 60
The Past returned, the Present seemed to cease,
And Glory knew no clime beyond her Greece!
Hour rolled along, and Dian's orb on high
Had gained the centre of her softest sky;
And yet unwearied still my footsteps trod
O'er the vain shrine of many a vanished God: [ix]
But chiefly, Pallas! thine, when Hecate's glare
Checked by thy columns, fell more sadly fair
O'er the chill marble, where the startling tread
Thrills the lone heart like echoes from the dead. 70
Long had I mused, and treasured every trace
The wreck of Greece recorded of her race,
When, lo! a giant-form before me strode,
And Pallas hailed me in her own Abode!
Yes,'twas Minerva's self; but, ah! how changed,
Since o'er the Dardan field in arms she ranged!
Not such as erst, by her divine command,
Her form appeared from Phidias' plastic hand:
Gone were the terrors of her awful brow,
Her idle 苂is bore no Gorgon now; 80
Her helm was dinted, and the broken lance
Seemed weak and shaftless e'en to mortal glance;
The Olive Branch, which still she deigned to clasp,
Shrunk from her touch, and withered in her grasp;
And, ah! though still the brightest of the sky,
Celestial tears bedimmed her large blue eye;
Round the rent casque her owlet circled slow,
And mourned his mistress with a shriek of woe!
"Mortal!"--'twas thus she spake--"that blush of shame
Proclaims thee Briton, once a noble name; 90
First of the mighty, foremost of the free, [x]
Now honoured 'less' by all, and 'least' by me:
Chief of thy foes shall Pallas still be found.
Seek'st thou the cause of loathing!--look around.
Lo! here, despite of war and wasting fire,
I saw successive Tyrannies expire;
'Scaped from the ravage of the Turk and Goth, [xi]
Thy country sends a spoiler worse than both.
Survey this vacant, violated fane;
Recount the relics torn that yet remain: 100
'These' Cecrops placed, 'this' Pericles adorned, [7]
'That' Adrian reared when drooping Science mourned.
What more I owe let Gratitude attest--
Know, Alaric and Elgin did the rest.
That all may learn from whence the plunderer came,
The insulted wall sustains his hated name: [8]
For Elgin's fame thus grateful Pallas pleads,
Below, his name--above, behold his deeds!
Be ever hailed with equal honour here
The Gothic monarch and the Pictish peer: [xii] 110
Arms gave the first his right, the last had none,
But basely stole what less barbarians won.
So when the Lion quits his fell repast,
Next prowls the Wolf, the filthy Jackal last: [xiii]
Flesh, limbs, and blood the former make their own,
The last poor brute securely gnaws the bone.
Yet still the Gods are just, and crimes are crossed:
See here what Elgin won, and what he lost!
Another name with _his_ pollutes my shrine:
Behold where Dian's beams disdain to shine! 120
Some retribution still might Pallas claim,
When Venus half avenged Minerva's shame." [9]
She ceased awhile, and thus I dared reply,
To soothe the vengeance kindling in her eye:
"Daughter of Jove! in Britain's injured name, [xiv]
A true-born Briton may the deed disclaim.
Frown not on England; England owns him not:
Athena, no! thy plunderer was a Scot.
Ask'st thou the difference? From fair Phyles' towers
Survey Boeotia;--Caledonia's ours. 130
And well I know within that bastard land [10]
Hath Wisdom's goddess never held command;
A barren soil, where Nature's germs, confined
To stern sterility, can stint the mind;
Whose thistle well betrays the niggard earth,
Emblem of all to whom the Land gives birth;
Each genial influence nurtured to resist;
A land of meanness, sophistry, and mist. [xv]
Each breeze from foggy mount and marshy plain
Dilutes with drivel every drizzly brain, 140
Till, burst at length, each wat'ry head o'erflows,
Foul as their soil, and frigid as their snows:
Then thousand schemes of petulance and pride
Despatch her scheming children far and wide;
Some East, some West, some--everywhere but North!
In quest of lawless gain, they issue forth.
And thus--accursed be the day and year!
She sent a Pict to play the felon here.
Yet Caledonia claims some native worth, [11]
As dull Boeotia gave a Pindar birth; 150
So may her few, the lettered and the brave,
Bound to no clime, and victors of the grave,
Shake off the sordid dust of such a land,
And shine like children of a happier strand;
As once, of yore, in some obnoxious place,
Ten names (if found) had saved a wretched race."
"Mortal!" the blue-eyed maid resumed, "once more
Bear back my mandate to thy native shore. [12]
Though fallen, alas! this vengeance yet is mine,
To turn my counsels far from lands like thine. 160
Hear then in silence Pallas' stern behest;
Hear and believe, for Time will tell the rest.
"First on the head of him who did this deed
My curse shall light,--on him and all his seed:
Without one spark of intellectual fire,
Be all the sons as senseless as the sire:
If one with wit the parent brood disgrace,
Believe him bastard of a brighter race:
Still with his hireling artists let him prate,
And Folly's praise repay for Wisdom's hate; 170
Long of their Patron's gusto let them tell,
Whose noblest, _native_ gusto is--to sell:
To sell, and make--may shame record the day!--
The State--Receiver of his pilfered prey.
Meantime, the flattering, feeble dotard, West,
Europe's worst dauber, and poor Britain's best,
With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er,
And own himself an infant of fourscore. [13]
Be all the Bruisers culled from all St. Giles',
That Art and Nature may compare their styles; [xvi] 180
While brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare,
And marvel at his Lordship's 'stone shop' there. [14]
Round the thronged gate shall sauntering coxcombs creep
To lounge and lucubrate, to prate and peep;
While many a languid maid, with longing sigh,
On giant statues casts the curious eye;
The room with transient glance appears to skim,
Yet marks the mighty back and length of limb;
Mourns o'er the difference of _now_ and _then_;
Exclaims, 'These Greeks indeed were proper men!' 190
Draws slight comparisons of 'these' with 'those', [xvii]
And envies La颭 all her Attic beaux.
When shall a modern maid have swains like these? [xviii]
Alas! Sir Harry is no Hercules!
And last of all, amidst the gaping crew,
Some calm spectator, as he takes his view,
In silent indignation mixed with grief,
Admires the plunder, but abhors the thief.
Oh, loathed in life, nor pardoned in the dust,
May Hate pursue his sacrilegious lust! 200
Linked with the fool that fired the Ephesian dome,
Shall vengeance follow far beyond the tomb, [15]
And Eratostratus [16] and Elgin shine
In many a branding page and burning line;
Alike reserved for aye to stand accursed,
Perchance the second blacker than the first.
"So let him stand, through ages yet unborn,
Fixed statue on the pedestal of Scorn;
Though not for him alone revenge shall wait,
But fits thy country for her coming fate: 210
Hers were the deeds that taught her lawless son
To do what oft Britannia's self had done.
Look to the Baltic--blazing from afar,
Your old Ally yet mourns perfidious war. [17]
Not to such deeds did Pallas lend her aid,
Or break the compact which herself had made;
Far from such counsels, from the faithless field
She fled--but left behind her Gorgon shield;
A fatal gift that turned your friends to stone,
And left lost Albion hated and alone. 220
"Look to the East, [18] where Ganges' swarthy race
Shall shake your tyrant empire to its base;
Lo! there Rebellion rears her ghastly head,
And glares the Nemesis of native dead;
Till Indus rolls a deep purpureal flood,
And claims his long arrear of northern blood.
So may ye perish!--Pallas, when she gave
Your free-born rights, forbade ye to enslave.
"Look on your Spain!--she clasps the hand she hates,
But boldly clasps, and thrusts you from her gates. 230
Bear witness, bright Barossa! [19] thou canst tell
Whose were the sons that bravely fought and fell.
But Lusitania, kind and dear ally,
Can spare a few to fight, and sometimes fly.
Oh glorious field! by Famine fiercely won,
The Gaul retires for once, and all is done!
But when did Pallas teach, that one retreat
Retrieved three long Olympiads of defeat?
"Look last at home--ye love not to look there
On the grim smile of comfortless despair: 240
Your city saddens: loud though Revel howls,
Here Famine faints, and yonder Rapine prowls.
See all alike of more or less bereft;
No misers tremble when there's nothing left.
'Blest paper credit;' [20] who shall dare to sing?
It clogs like lead Corruption's weary wing.
Yet Pallas pluck'd each Premier by the ear,
Who Gods and men alike disdained to hear;
But one, repentant o'er a bankrupt state,
On Pallas calls,--but calls, alas! too late: 250
Then raves for'----'; to that Mentor bends,
Though he and Pallas never yet were friends.
Him senates hear, whom never yet they heard,
Contemptuous once, and now no less absurd.
So, once of yore, each reasonable frog,
Swore faith and fealty to his sovereign 'log.'
Thus hailed your rulers their patrician clod,
As Egypt chose an onion [21] for a God.
"Now fare ye well! enjoy your little hour;
Go, grasp the shadow of your vanished power; 260
Gloss o'er the failure of each fondest scheme;
Your strength a name, your bloated wealth a dream.
Gone is that Gold, the marvel of mankind.
And Pirates barter all that's left behind. [22]
No more the hirelings, purchased near and far,
Crowd to the ranks of mercenary war.
The idle merchant on the useless quay
Droops o'er the bales no bark may bear away;
Or, back returning, sees rejected stores
Rot piecemeal on his own encumbered shores: 270
The starved mechanic breaks his rusting loom,
And desperate mans him 'gainst the coming doom.
Then in the Senates of your sinking state
Show me the man whose counsels may have weight.
Vain is each voice where tones could once command;
E'en factions cease to charm a factious land:
Yet jarring sects convulse a sister Isle,
And light with maddening hands the mutual pile.
"'Tis done, 'tis past--since Pallas warns in vain;
The Furies seize her abdicated reign: 280
Wide o'er the realm they wave their kindling brands,
And wring her vitals with their fiery hands.
But one convulsive struggle still remains, [xix]
And Gaul shall weep ere Albion wear her chains,
The bannered pomp of war, the glittering files, [xx]
O'er whose gay trappings stern Bellona smiles;
The brazen trump, the spirit-stirring drum,
That bid the foe defiance ere they come;
The hero bounding at his country's call,
The glorious death that consecrates his fall, 290
Swell the young heart with visionary charms.
And bid it antedate the joys of arms.
But know, a lesson you may yet be taught,
With death alone are laurels cheaply bought;
Not in the conflict Havoc seeks delight,
His day of mercy is the day of fight.
But when the field is fought, the battle won,
Though drenched with gore, his woes are but begun:
His deeper deeds as yet ye know by name;
The slaughtered peasant and the ravished dame, 300
The rifled mansion and the foe-reaped field,
Ill suit with souls at home, untaught to yield.
Say with what eye along the distant down
Would flying burghers mark the blazing town?
How view the column of ascending flames
Shake his red shadow o'er the startled Thames?
Nay, frown not, Albion! for the torch was thine
That lit such pyres from Tagus to the Rhine:
Now should they burst on thy devoted coast,
Go, ask thy bosom who deserves them most? 310
The law of Heaven and Earth is life for life,
And she who raised, in vain regrets, the strife."
[Footnote 1: The lines (1-54) with which the Satire begins, down to "As
thus, within the walls of Pallas' fane," first appeared (1814) as the
opening stanza of the Third Canto of 'The Corsair'. At that time the
publication of 'The Curse of Minerva' had been abandoned. (See Byron's
'note' to 'The Corsair', Canto III. st. i. line i.)]
[Footnote 2: Idra; 'The Corsair', III. st. i. line 7. Hydra, or Hydrea,
is an island on the east coast of the Peloponnese, between the gulfs of
Nauplia and 苂ina. As an "isle of Greece" it had almost no history
until the War of Independence, when its chief town became a "city of
refuge" for the inhabitants of the Morea and Northern Greece. Byron was,
perhaps, the first poet to give it a name in song.]
[Footnote 3: Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset (the
hour of execution), notwithstanding the entreaties of his disciples to
wait till the sun went down.]
[Footnote 4: The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our own
country; the days in winter are longer, but in summer of less duration.]
[Footnote 5: The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house; the palm is without
the present walls of Athens, not far from the temple of Theseus, between
which and the tree the wall intervenes. Cephisus' stream is indeed
scanty, and Ilissus has no stream at all.]
[Footnote 6:
"The Temple of Theseus is the most perfect ancient edifice in the
world. In this fabric, the most enduring stability, and a simplicity
of design peculiarly striking, are united with the highest elegance
and accuracy of workmanship."
'Travels in Albania, etc.', by Lord Broughton (1858), i. 259.]
[Footnote 7: This is spoken of the city in general, and not of the
Acropolis in particular. The temple of Jupiter Olympius, by some
supposed the Pantheon, was finished by Hadrian; sixteen columns are
standing, of the most beautiful marble and architecture.]
[Footnote 8: The following lines, of which the first two were written on
the original 'MS'., are in Byron's handwriting:--
"Aspice quos Scoto Pallas concedit honores;
Subter stat nomen, facta superque vide.
Scote miser! quamvis nocuisti Palladis 鎑i,
Infandum facinus vindicat ipsa Venus.
Pygmalion statuam pro spons?arsisse refertur;
Tu statuam rapias, Scote, sed uxor abest."
Compare 'Horace in London', by the authors of 'Rejected Addresses'
(James and Horace Smith), London, 1813, ode xv., "The Parthenon,"
"'Pastor quum traheret per freta navibus'."
"And Hymen shall thy nuptial hopes consume,
Unless, like fond Pygmalion, thou canst wed
Statues thy hand could never give to bloom.
In wifeless wedlock shall thy life be led,
No marriage joys to bless thy solitary bed."
[Lord Elgin's first marriage with Mary, daughter of William Hamilton
Nisbet, was dissolved by Act of Parliament in 1808.]]
[Footnote 9: His lordship's name, and that of one who no longer bears
it, are carved conspicuously on the Parthenon; above, in a part not far
distant, are the torn remnants of the bassorelievos, destroyed in a vain
attempt to remove them.
[On the Erechtheum there was deeply cut in a plaster wall the words--
"QUOD NON FECERUNT GOTI,
HOC FECERUNT SCOTI."]]
[Footnote 10: "Irish bastards," according to Sir Callaghan O'Brallaghan.
["A wild Irish soldier in the Prussian Army," in Macklin's
'Love-?la-Mode' (first played December 12, 1759).]]
[Footnote 11: Lines 149-156 not in original 'MS'.]
[Footnote 12: Compare 'Horace in London', ode xv:--
"All who behold my mutilated pile,
Shall brand its ravages with classic rage;
And soon a titled bard from Britain's isle
Thy country's praise and suffrage shall engage,
And fire with Athens' wrongs an angry age."]
[Footnote 13: Mr. West, on seeing the "Elgin Collection," (I suppose we
shall hear of the "Abershaw" and "Jack Shephard" collection) declared
himself a "mere tyro" in art.
[Compare Letters of Benjamin West to the Earl of Elgin, February 6,
1809, March 20, 1811, published in W.R. Hamilton's 'Memorandum', 1811.]]
[Footnote 14: Poor Crib was sadly puzzled when the marbles were first
exhibited at Elgin House; he asked if it was not "a stone shop?"--He was
right; it 'is' a shop.]
[Footnote 15: Lines 202-265 are not in the MS.]
[Footnote 16: Herostratus or Eratostratus fired the temple of Artemis on
the same night that Alexander the Great was born. (See Plut.,
'Alex'., 3, etc.)]
[Footnote 17: The affair of Copenhagen. Copenhagen was bombarded by sea
by Admiral Lord Gambier (1756-1833), and by land by General Lord
Cathcart (1755-1843), September 2-8, 1807. The citadel was given up to
the English, and the Danes surrendered their fleet, with all the naval
stores, and their arsenals and dockyards. The expedition was "promptly
and secretly equipped" by the British Government "with an activity and
celerity," says Koch ('Hist. of Europe', p. 214), "such as they had
never displayed in sending aid to their allies," with a view to
anticipate the seizure and appropriation of the Danish fleet by Napoleon
and Alexander (Green's 'Hist. English People' (1875), p. 799).]]
[Footnote 18: "The East" is brought within range of Minerva's curse,
'symmetriae caus?, and it is hard to say to which "rebellion" she
refers. A choice lies between the mutiny which broke out in 1809, during
Sir George Barlow's presidency of Madras, among the officers of the
Company's service, and which at one time threatened the continuance of
British sway in India; and later troubles, in 1810, arising from the
Pind醨?hordes, who laid waste the villages of Central India and
Hindostan, and from the Pathans, who invaded Berar under Ameer Khan. But
here, as in lines 245-258 ('vide infra', p. 470, 'note' i), Byron is
taking toll of a note to 'Epics of the Ton', pp. 246, 247, which
enlarges on the mutiny of native soldiers which took place at Vellore in
1806, where several "European officers and a considerable portion of the
69th Regiment were massacred," in consequence of "an injudicious order
with respect to the dress of the Sepoys."--Gleig's 'History of the
British Empire in India' (1835), iii. 233, 'note'.]]
[Footnote 19: The victory of "bright Barossa," March 5, 1811, was
achieved by the sudden determination--"an inspiration rather than a
resolution," says Napier--of the British commander, General Graham
(Thomas, Lord Lynedoch, 1750-1843), to counter-march his troops, and
force the eminence known as the Cerro de Puerco, or hill of Barosa,
which had fallen into the hands of the French under Ruffin. Graham was
at this time second in command to the Spanish Captain-general, La Pe馻,
and at his orders, but under the impression that the hill would be
guarded by the Spanish troops, was making his way to a neighbouring
height. Meantime La Pe馻 had withdrawn the corps of battle to a
distance, and left the hill covered with baggage and imperfectly
protected. Graham recaptured Barosa, and repulsed the French with heavy
loss, in an hour and a half. Napier affirms that La Pe馻 "looked idly
on, neither sending his cavalry nor his horse artillery to the
assistance of his ally;" and testifies "that no stroke in aid of the
British was struck by a Spanish sabre that day."
"Famine" may have raised the devil in the English troops, but it
prevented them from following up the victory. A further charge against
the Spaniards was that, after Barosa had been won, the English were left
for hours without food, and, as they had marched through the night
before they came into action, they could only look on while the French
made good their retreat.
Two companies of the 20th Portuguese formed part of the British
contingent, and took part in the engagement. The year before, at Busaco
(September 27, 1810), the Portuguese had displayed signal bravery; but
at Gebora (February 19, 1811) "Madden's Portuguese, regardless of his
example and reproaches, shamefully turned their backs" (Napier's
'History of the Peninsular War' (1890), iii. 26, 98, 102-107).]
[Footnote 20:
"Blest paper credit! last and best supply,
That lends Corruption lighter wings to fly."
(POPE.)
[In February, 1811, a _select_ committee of the House of Commons "on
commercial credit" recommended an advance of ?,000,000 to manufacturers
who were suffering from over-speculation. "Did they not know," asked
Lord Grenville, in the House of Lords, March 21, "that they were adding
to the mass of paper at this moment in existence a sum of ?,000,000, as
if there was not paper enough already in the country, in order to
protect their commerce and manufactures from destruction?" Nevertheless,
the measure passed. The year before (February 19, 1810), a committee
which had sat under the presidency of Francis Horner, to inquire into
the cause of the high price of gold bullion (gold was worth ?. 10s. an
ounce), returned (June 10) a report urging the resumption of cash
payment at the end of two years.
It has been suggested to the editor that the asterisks ('----') in line
251 (which are not filled up in Lord Stanhope's MS. of 'The Curse of
Minerva') stand for "Horner," and that Byron, writing at Athens in
March, 1811, was under the impression that Perceval would adopt sound
views on the currency question, and was not aware that he was strongly
anti-bullionist. On that supposition the two premiers are Portland and
Perceval, Horner is the Mentor, and Perceval (line 257) the "patrician
clod." To what extent Byron was 'au courant' with home politics when he
wrote the lines, it is impossible to say, and without such knowledge
some doubt must rest on any interpretation of the passage. But of its
genesis there is no doubt. Lady Ann Hamilton, in her estimate of Lord
Henry Petty, in 'Epics of the Ton' (p. 139), has something to say on
budget "figures"--
"Those imps which make the senses reel, and zounds!
Mistake a cypher for a thousand pounds;"
and her note-writer comments thus: "It somewhat hurts the feelings to
see a minister stand up in his place, and after a very pretty exordium
to the budget, take up a bundle of papers from the table, gaze at the
incomprehensible calculations before him, stammer out a few confused
numbers, and then, with a rueful face, look over his shoulder to
V--ns--rt for assistance. How often have I grieved to see unhappy
A--d--g--n in this lamentable predicament!" Again, on Thellusson being
raised to the peerage as Lord Rendlesham, she asks--
"Say, shall we bend to titles thus bestowed,
And like the Egyptians, hail the calf a god?
With toads, asps, onions, ornament the shrine,
And reptiles own and pot-herbs things divine?"
It is evident that Byron, uninspired by Pallas, turned to the 'Epics of
the Ton' for "copy," but whether he left a blank on purpose because
"Vansittart" (to whom Perceval did turn) would not scan, or, misled by
old newspapers, would have written "Horner," must remain a mystery.]]
[Footnote 21: See the portrait of Spencer Perceval in the National
Portrait Gallery.]
[Footnote 22: The Deal and Dover traffickers in specie.]
[Footnote i:
'O'er the blue ocean way his'.
['MS.'][A]]
[Sub-Footnote A: The only MS. of 'The Curse of Minerva' which the
editor has seen, is in the possession of the Earl of Stanhope. A
second MS., formerly in the possession of the Duke of Newcastle, is
believed to have perished in a fire which broke out at Clumber in
1879.]
[Footnote ii:
'Nor yet forbears each long-abandoned shrine'.
['MS.']]
[Footnote iii:
'Their 'varying azure mingled with the sky
Beneath his rays assumes a deeper dye'.
['MS.']]
[Footnote iv:
'Behind his Delphian cliff'----.
['Corsair', III. st. i. l. 18.]]
[Footnote v:
'The soul of him who'----.
['Corsair, III. st. i. 1. 31.']]
[Footnote vi:
'silver reign'.
['MS.']]
[Footnote vii:
'How sweet and Silent, not a passing cloud
Hides her fair face with intervening shroud'.
['MS.']]
[Footnote viii:
'seems to smile',
['Corsair', III. st. i. 1. 54.]]
[Footnote ix:
'Sad shrine'.
['MS.']]
[Footnote x:
'Welcome to slaves, and foremost'.
['MS'.] ]
[Footnote xi:
'Ah, Athens! scarce escaped from Turk and Goth,
Hell sends a paltry Scotchman worse than both.'
['MS'.]]
[Footnote xii:
'British peer'.
['MS'.] ]
[Footnote xiii:
'Sneaking Jackal'.
['MS'.] ]
[Footnote xiv:
'guilty name'.
['MS'.]]
[Footnote xv:
'A land of liars, mountebanks, and Mist'.
['MS'.]]
[Footnote xvi:
'That Art may measure old and modern styles'.
['MS'.]]
[Footnote xvii:
'shy comparisons'.
['MS'.]
[Footnote xviii:
'In sooth the Nymph 'twere no slight task to please
Since young Sir Harry, etc.'
['MS'.]]
[Footnote xix:
'Fallen is each dear bought friend on Foreign Coast
Or leagued to add you to the world you lost'.
['MS'.]]
[Footnote xx:
'----'the glittering file
The martial sounds that animate the while'.
['MS'.]]
INTRODUCTION TO 'THE WALTZ'
Byron spent the autumn of 1812 "by the waters of Cheltenham," and,
besides writing to order his 'Song of Drury Lane' (the address spoken at
the opening of the theatre, Oct. 10, 1812), he put in hand a 'Satire on
Waltzing'. It was published anonymously in the following spring; but,
possibly, because it was somewhat coolly received, he told Murray (April
21, 1813) "to contradict the report that he was the author of a certain
malicious publication on waltzing." In his memoranda "chiefly with
reference to my Byron," Moore notes "Byron's hatred of waltzing," and
records a passage of arms between "the lame boy" and Mary Chaworth,
which arose from her "dancing with some person who was unknown to her."
Then, and always, he must have experienced the bitter sense of exclusion
from active amusements; but it is a hasty assumption that Byron only
denounced waltzing because he was unable to waltz himself. To modern
sentiment, on the moral side, waltzing is unassailable; but the first
impressions of spectators, to whom it was a novelty, were distinctly
unfavourable.
In a letter from Germany (May 17, 1799) Coleridge describes a dance
round the maypole at R黚eland.
"The dances were reels and the waltzes, but chiefly the latter; this
dance is in the higher circles sufficiently voluptuous, but here the
motions of it were 'far' more faithful interpreters of the passions."
A year later, H.C. Robinson, writing from Frankfort in 1800 ('Diary and
Letters', i. 76), says, "The dancing is unlike anything you ever saw.
You must have heard of it under the name of waltzing, that is rolling
and turning, though the rolling is not horizontal but perpendicular. Yet
Werther, after describing his first waltz with Charlotte, says, and I
say so too, 'I felt that if I were married my wife should waltz (or
roll) with no one but myself.'" Ten years later, Gillray publishes a
caricature of the waltz, as a French dance, which he styles, "Le bon
Genre." It is not a pretty picture. By degrees, however, and with some
reluctance, society yielded to the fascinations of the stranger.
"My cousin Hartington," writes Lady Caroline Lamb, in 1812 ('Memoirs
of Viscount Melbourne', by W.T. McCullagh Torrens, i. 105), "wanted to
have waltzes and quadrilles; and at Devonshire House it could not be
allowed, so we had them in the great drawing-room at Whitehall. All
the 'bon ton' assembled there continually. There was nothing so
fashionable."
"No event," says Thomas Raikes ('Personal Reminiscences', p. 284), ever
produced so great a sensation in English society as the introduction of
the German waltz.... Old and young returned to school, and the mornings
were now absorbed at home in practising the figures of a French
quadrille or whirling a chair round the room to learn the step and
measure of the German waltz. The anti-waltzing party took the alarm,
cried it down; mothers forbad it, and every ballroom became a scene of
feud and contention. The foreigners were not idle in forming their
'閘鑦es'; Baron Tripp, Neumann, St. Aldegonde, etc., persevered in spite
of all prejudices which were marshalled against them. It was not,
however, till Byron's "malicious publication" had been issued and
forgotten that the new dance received full recognition. "When," Raikes
concludes, "the Emperor Alexander was seen waltzing round the room at
Almack's with his tight uniform and numerous decorations," or [Gronow,
'Recollections', 1860, pp. 32, 33] "Lord Palmerston might have been seen
describing an infinite number of circles with Madame de Lieven," insular
prejudices gave way, and waltzing became general.
THE WALTZ:
AN APOSTROPHIC HYMN.
BY HORACE HORNEM, ESQ.
"Qualis in Eurot?ripis, aut per juga Cynthi,
Exercet DIANA choros."
VIRGIL, '苙'. i. 502.
"Such on Eurotas's banks, or Cynthus's height,
Diana seems: and so she charms the sight,
When in the dance the graceful goddess leads
The quire of nymphs, and overtops their heads."
DRYDEN'S _Virgil_.
NOTE.
The title-page of the first edition (4to.) of _The Waltz_ bears the
imprint:
London:
Printed by S. Gosnell,
Little Queen Street, Holborn.
For Sherwood, Neely and Jones,
Paternoster Row. 1813.
(Price Three Shillings.)
Successive Revises had run as follows:--
i. London: Printed for John Murray, Albemarle Street, Piccadilly. By S.
Gosnell, Little Queen Street. 1813.
ii. Cambridge: Printed by G. Maitland. For John Murray, etc.
iii. Cambridge: Printed by G. Maitland. For Sherwood, Neely and Jones,
Paternoster Row. 1813.
For the Bibliography of _The Waltz_, see vol. vi. of the present issue.
TO THE PUBLISHER.
SIR,
I am a country Gentleman of a midland county. I might have been a
Parliament-man for a certain borough; having had the offer of as many
votes as General T. at the general election in 1812. [1] But I was all
for domestic happiness; as, fifteen years ago, on a visit to London, I
married a middle-aged Maid of Honour. We lived happily at Hornem Hall
till last Season, when my wife and I were invited by the Countess of
Waltzaway (a distant relation of my Spouse) to pass the winter in town.
Thinking no harm, and our Girls being come to a marriageable (or, as
they call it, 'marketable') age, and having besides a Chancery suit
inveterately entailed upon the family estate, we came up in our old
chariot,--of which, by the bye, my wife grew so ashamed in less than a
week, that I was obliged to buy a second-hand barouche, of which I might
mount the box, Mrs. H. says, if I could drive, but never see the
inside--that place being reserved for the Honourable Augustus Tiptoe,
her partner-general and Opera-knight. Hearing great praises of Mrs. H.'s
dancing (she was famous for birthnight minuets in the latter end of the
last century), I unbooted, and went to a ball at the Countess's,
expecting to see a country dance, or, at most, Cotillons, reels, and all
the old paces to the newest tunes, But, judge of my surprise, on
arriving, to see poor dear Mrs. Hornem with her arms half round the
loins of a huge hussar-looking gentleman I never set eyes on before; and
his, to say truth, rather more than half round her waist, turning round,
and round, to a d----d see-saw up-and-down sort of tune, that reminded
me of the "Black Joke," only more "'affettuoso'"[1] till it made me
quite giddy with wondering they were not so. By and by they stopped a
bit, and I thought they would sit or fall down:--but no; with Mrs. H.'s
hand on his shoulder, "'Quam familiariter'"[2] (as Terence said, when I
was at school,) they walked about a minute, and then at it again, like
two cock-chafers spitted on the same bodkin. I asked what all this
meant, when, with a loud laugh, a child no older than our Wilhelmina (a
name I never heard but in the 'Vicar of Wakefield', though her mother
would call her after the Princess of Swappenbach,) said, "L--d! Mr.
Hornem, can't you see they're valtzing?" or waltzing (I forget which);
and then up she got, and her mother and sister, and away they went, and
round-abouted it till supper-time. Now that I know what it is, I like it
of all things, and so does Mrs. H. (though I have broken my shins, and
four times overturned Mrs. Hornem's maid, in practising the preliminary
steps in a morning). Indeed, so much do I like it, that having a turn
for rhyme, tastily displayed in some election ballads, and songs in
honour of all the victories (but till lately I have had little practice
in that way), I sat down, and with the aid of William Fitzgerald, Esq.,
and a few hints from Dr. Busby, (whose recitations I attend, and am
monstrous fond of Master Busby's manner of delivering his father's late
successful "Drury Lane Address,")[1] I composed the following hymn,
wherewithal to make my sentiments known to the Public; whom,
nevertheless, I heartily despise, as well as the critics.
I am, Sir, yours, etc., etc.
HORACE HORNEM.
[Footnote 1: State of the poll (last day) 5.
[General Tarleton (1754-1833) contested Liverpool in October, 1812. For
three days the poll stood at five, and on the last day, eleven. Canning
and Gascoigne were the successful candidates.]]
[Footnote 2: More expressive.--[_MS_.]
[Footnote 3: My Latin is all forgotten, if a man can be said to have
forgotten what he never remembered; but I bought my title-page motto of
a Catholic priest for a three-shilling bank token, after much haggling
for the even sixpence. I grudged the money to a papist, being all for
the memory of Perceval and "No popery," and quite regretting the
downfall of the pope, because we can't burn him any more.--[Revise No.
2.] ]
[Footnote 4: See 'Rejected Addresses'.]
THE WALTZ
Muse of the many-twinkling feet! [1] whose charms
Are now extended up from legs to arms;
Terpsichore!--too long misdeemed a maid--
Reproachful term--bestowed but to upbraid--
Henceforth in all the bronze of brightness shine, [i]
The least a Vestal of the Virgin Nine.
Far be from thee and thine the name of Prude:
Mocked yet triumphant; sneered at, unsubdued;
Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly,
If but thy coats are reasonably high! 10
Thy breast--if bare enough--requires no shield;
Dance forth--_sans armour_ thou shalt take the field
And own--impregnable to _most_ assaults,
Thy not too lawfully begotten "Waltz."
Hail, nimble Nymph! to whom the young hussar, [2]
The whiskered votary of Waltz and War,
His night devotes, despite of spur and boots;
A sight unmatched since Orpheus and his brutes:
Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz!--beneath whose banners
A modern hero fought for modish manners; 20
On Hounslow's heath to rival Wellesley's [3] fame,
Cocked, fired, and missed his man--but gained his aim;
Hail, moving muse! to whom the fair one's breast
Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest.
Oh! for the flow of Busby, [4] or of Fitz,
The latter's loyalty, the former's wits,
To "energise the object I pursue,"
And give both Belial and his Dance their due! [ii]
Imperial Waltz! imported from the Rhine
(Famed for the growth of pedigrees and wine), 30
Long be thine import from all duty free,
And Hock itself be less esteemed than thee;
In some few qualities alike--for Hock
Improves our cellar--_thou_ our living stock.
The head to Hock belongs--thy subtler art
Intoxicates alone the heedless heart:
Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims,
And wakes to Wantonness the willing limbs.
Oh, Germany! how much to thee we owe,
As heaven-born Pitt can testify below, 40
Ere cursed Confederation made thee France's,
And only left us thy d--d debts and dances! [5]
Of subsidies and Hanover bereft,
We bless thee still--George the Third is left!
Of kings the best--and last, not least in worth,
For graciously begetting George the Fourth.
To Germany, and Highnesses serene,
Who owe us millions--don't we owe the Queen?
To Germany, what owe we not besides?
So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides; 50
Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood,
Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud:
Who sent us--so be pardoned all her faults--
A dozen dukes, some kings, a Queen--and Waltz.
But peace to her--her Emperor and Diet,
Though now transferred to Buonapart?s "fiat!"
Back to my theme--O muse of Motion! say,
How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way?
Borne on the breath of Hyperborean gales,
From Hamburg's port (while Hamburg yet had _mails_), 60
Ere yet unlucky Fame--compelled to creep
To snowy Gottenburg-was chilled to sleep;
Or, starting from her slumbers, deigned arise,
Heligoland! to stock thy mart with lies; [iii]
While unburnt Moscow [6] yet had news to send,
Nor owed her fiery Exit to a friend,
She came--Waltz came--and with her certain sets
Of true despatches, and as true Gazettes;
Then flamed of Austerlitz the blest despatch, [7]
Which _Moniteur_ nor _Morning Post_ can match 70
And--almost crushed beneath the glorious news--
Ten plays, and forty tales of Kotzebue's; [8]
One envoy's letters, six composer's airs,
And loads from Frankfort and from Leipsic fairs:
Meiners' four volumes upon Womankind, [9]
Like Lapland witches to ensure a wind;
Brunck's heaviest tome for ballast, [10] and, to back it,
Of Heyn? [11] such as should not sink the packet. [iv]
Fraught with this cargo--and her fairest freight,
Delightful Waltz, on tiptoe for a Mate, 80
The welcome vessel reached the genial strand,
And round her flocked the daughters of the land.
Not decent David, when, before the ark,
His grand _Pas-seul_ excited some remark;
Not love-lorn Quixote, when his Sancho thought
The knight's _Fandango_ friskier than it ought;
Not soft Herodias, when, with winning tread,
Her nimble feet danced off another's head;
Not Cleopatra on her Galley's Deck,
Displayed so much of _leg_ or more of _neck_, 90
Than Thou, ambrosial Waltz, when first the Moon
Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune!
To You, ye husbands of ten years! whose brows
Ache with the annual tributes of a spouse;
To you of nine years less, who only bear
The budding sprouts of those that you _shall_ wear,
With added ornaments around them rolled
Of native brass, or law-awarded gold;
To You, ye Matrons, ever on the watch
To mar a son's, or make a daughter's match; 100
To You, ye children of--whom chance accords--
_Always_ the Ladies, and _sometimes_ their Lords;
To You, ye single gentlemen, who seek
Torments for life, or pleasures for a week;
As Love or Hymen your endeavours guide,
To gain your own, or snatch another's bride;--
To one and all the lovely Stranger came,
And every Ball-room echoes with her name.
Endearing Waltz!--to thy more melting tune
Bow Irish Jig, and ancient Rigadoon. [12] 110
Scotch reels, avaunt! and Country-dance forego
Your future claims to each fantastic toe!
Waltz--Waltz alone--both legs and arms demands,
Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands;
Hands which may freely range in public sight
Where ne'er before--but--pray "put out the light."
Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier
Shines much too far--or I am much too near;
And true, though strange--Waltz whispers this remark,
"My slippery steps are safest in the dark!" 120
But here the Muse with due decorum halts,
And lends her longest petticoat to "Waltz."
Observant Travellers of every time!
Ye Quartos published upon every clime!
0 say, shall dull _Romaika's_ heavy round,
_Fandango's_ wriggle, or _Bolero's_ bound;
Can Egypt's _Almas_ [13]--tantalising group--
Columbia's caperers to the warlike Whoop--
Can aught from cold Kamschatka to Cape Horn
With Waltz compare, or after Waltz be born? 130
Ah, no! from Morier's pages down to Galt's, [14]
Each tourist pens a paragraph for "Waltz."
Shades of those Belles whose reign began of yore,
With George the Third's--and ended long before!--
Though in your daughters' daughters yet you thrive, [v]
Burst from your lead, and be yourselves alive!
Back to the Ball-room speed your spectred host,
Fool's Paradise is dull to that you lost. [vi]
No treacherous powder bids Conjecture quake;
No stiff-starched stays make meddling fingers ache; [vii] 140
(Transferred to those ambiguous things that ape
Goats in their visage, [15] women in their shape;)
No damsel faints when rather closely pressed,
But more caressing seems when most caressed;
Superfluous Hartshorn, and reviving Salts,
Both banished by the sovereign cordial "Waltz."
Seductive Waltz!--though on thy native shore
Even Werter's self proclaimed thee half a whore;
Werter--to decent vice though much inclined,
Yet warm, not wanton; dazzled, but not blind-- 150
Though gentle Genlis, [16] in her strife with Sta雔,
Would even proscribe thee from a Paris ball;
The fashion hails--from Countesses to Queens,
And maids and valets waltz behind the scenes;
Wide and more wide thy witching circle spreads,
And turns--if nothing else--at least our _heads_;
With thee even clumsy cits attempt to bounce,
And cockney's practise what they can't pronounce.
Gods! how the glorious theme my strain exalts,
And Rhyme finds partner Rhyme in praise of "Waltz!" 160
Blest was the time Waltz chose for her _d閎ut_!
The Court, the Regent, like herself were new; [17]
New face for friends, for foes some new rewards;
New ornaments for black-and royal Guards; [viii]
New laws to hang the rogues that roared for bread;
New coins (most new) [18] to follow those that fled;
New victories--nor can we prize them less,
Though Jenky [19] wonders at his own success;
New wars, because the old succeed so well,
That most survivors envy those who fell; 170
New mistresses--no, old--and yet 'tis true,
Though they be _old_, the _thing_ is something new;
Each new, quite new--(except some ancient tricks), [20]
New white-sticks--gold-sticks--broom-sticks--_all new sticks_!
With vests or ribands--decked alike in hue,
New troopers strut, new turncoats blush in blue:
So saith the Muse: my----, [21] what say you?
Such was the time when Waltz might best maintain
Her new preferments in this novel reign;
Such was the time, nor ever yet was such; 180
Hoops are _ more_, and petticoats _not much_;
Morals and Minuets, Virtue and her stays,
And tell-tale powder--all have had their days.
The Ball begins--the honours of the house
First duly done by daughter or by spouse,
Some Potentate--or royal or serene--
With Kent's gay grace, or sapient Gloster's mien, [ix]
Leads forth the ready dame, whose rising flush
Might once have been mistaken for a blush.
From where the garb just leaves the bosom free, 190
That spot where hearts [22] were once supposed to be;
Round all the confines of the yielded waist,
The strangest hand may wander undisplaced:
The lady's in return may grasp as much
As princely paunches offer to her touch.
Pleased round the chalky floor how well they trip
One hand reposing on the royal hip! [23]
The other to the shoulder no less royal
Ascending with affection truly loyal!
Thus front to front the partners move or stand, 200
The foot may rest, but none withdraw the hand;
And all in turn may follow in their rank,
The Earl of--Asterisk--and Lady--Blank;
Sir--Such-a-one--with those of fashion's host, [x] [24]
For whose blest surnames--vide "Morning Post."
(Or if for that impartial print too late,
Search Doctors' Commons six months from my date)--
Thus all and each, in movement swift or slow,
The genial contact gently undergo;
Till some might marvel, with the modest Turk, 210
If "nothing follows all this palming work?" [25]
True, honest Mirza!--you may trust my rhyme--
Something does follow at a fitter time;
The breast thus publicly resigned to man,
In private may resist him--if it can.
O ye who loved our Grandmothers of yore,
Fitzpatrick, [26] Sheridan, and many more!
And thou, my Prince! whose sovereign taste and will [xi]
It is to love the lovely beldames still!
Thou Ghost of Queensberry! [27] whose judging Sprite 220
Satan may spare to peep a single night,
Pronounce--if ever in your days of bliss
Asmodeus struck so bright a stroke as this;
To teach the young ideas how to rise,
Flush in the cheek, and languish in the eyes;
Rush to the heart, and lighten through the frame,
With half-told wish, and ill-dissembled flame,
For prurient Nature still will storm the breast--
_Who_, tempted thus, can answer for the rest?
But ye--who never felt a single thought 230
For what our Morals are to be, or ought;
Who wisely wish the charms you view to reap,
Say--would you make those beauties quite so cheap?
Hot from the hands promiscuously applied,
Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side,
Where were the rapture then to clasp the form
From this lewd grasp and lawless contact warm? [xii]
At once Love's most endearing thought resign,
To press the hand so pressed by none but thine;
To gaze upon that eye which never met 240
Another's ardent look without regret;
Approach the lip which all, without restraint,
Come near enough--if not to touch--to taint;
If such thou lovest--love her then no more,
Or give--like her--caresses to a score;
Her Mind with these is gone, and with it go
The little left behind it to bestow.
Voluptuous Waltz! and dare I thus blaspheme?
Thy bard forgot thy praises were his theme.
Terpsichore forgive!--at every Ball 250
My wife _now_ waltzes--and my daughters _shall_;
_My_ son--(or stop--'tis needless to inquire--
These little accidents should ne'er transpire;
Some ages hence our genealogic tree [xiii]
Will wear as green a bough for him as me)--
Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amends
Grandsons for me--in heirs to all his friends.
[Footnote 1: "Glance their many-twinkling feet."--GRAY.]
[Footnote 2: Lines 15-28 do not appear in the MS., but ten lines
(omitting lines 21-24) were _insert_ed in Proof No. 1.]
[Footnote 3: To rival Lord Wellesley's, or his nephew's, as the reader
pleases:--the one gained a pretty woman, whom he deserved, by fighting
for; and the other has been fighting in the Peninsula many a long day,
"by Shrewsbury clock," without gaining anything in 'that' country but
the title of "the Great Lord," and "the Lord;" which savours of
profanation, having been hitherto applied only to that Being to whom
"'Te Deums'" for carnage are the rankest blasphemy.--It is to be
presumed the general will one day return to his Sabine farm: there
"To tame the genius of the stubborn plain,
'Almost as quickly' as he conquer'd Spain!"
The Lord Peterborough conquered continents in a summer; we do more--we
contrive both to conquer and lose them in a shorter season. If the
"great Lord's" 'Cincinnatian' progress in agriculture be no speedier
than the proportional average of time in Pope's couplet, it will,
according to the farmer's proverb, be "ploughing with dogs."
By the bye--one of this illustrious person's new titles is forgotten--it
is, however, worth remembering--"'Salvador del mundo!" credite,
posteri'! If this be the appellation annexed by the inhabitants of the
Peninsula to the name of a 'man' who has not yet saved them--query--are
they worth saving, even in this world? for, according to the mildest
modifications of any Christian creed, those three words make the odds
much against them in the next--"Saviour of the world," quotha!--it were
to be wished that he, or any one else, could save a corner of it--his
country. Yet this stupid misnomer, although it shows the near connection
between superstition and impiety, so far has its use, that it proves
there can be little to dread from those Catholics (inquisitorial
Catholics too) who can confer such an appellation on a 'Protestant'. I
suppose next year he will be entitled the "Virgin Mary;" if so, Lord
George Gordon himself would have nothing to object to such liberal
bastards of our Lady of Babylon.
[William Pole-Wellesley (1785?-1857), afterwards fourth Lord Mornington,
a nephew of the great Duke of Wellington, married, in March, 1812,
Catharine, daughter and heiress of Sir Tylney Long, Bart. On his
marriage he added his wife's double surname to his own, and, thereby,
gave the wits their chance. In 'Rejected Addresses' Fitzgerald is made
to exclaim--
"Bless every man possess'd of aught to give,
Long may Long-Tilney-Wellesley-Long-Pole live."
The principals in the duel to which Byron alludes were Wellesley-Pole
and Lord Kilworth. The occasion of the quarrel was a misconception of
some expression of Pole's at an assembly at Lady Hawarden's (August 6,
1811). A meeting took place on Wimbledon Common (August 9), at which the
seconds intervened, and everything was "amicably adjusted." Some days
later a letter appeared in the 'Morning Post' (August 14, 1811), signed
"Kilworth," to the effect that an apology had been offered and accepted.
This led to a second meeting on Hounslow Heath (August 15), when shots
were exchanged. Again the seconds intervened, and, after more
explanations, matters were finally arranged. A 'jeu d'esprit' which
appeared in the 'Morning Chronicle' (August 16, 1811) connects the
"mortal fracas" with Pole's prowess in waltzing at a f阾e at Wanstead
House, near Hackney, where, when the heiress had been wooed and won, his
guests used to dine at midnight after the opera.
"Mid the tumult of waltzing and wild Irish reels,
A prime dancer, I'm sure to get at her--
And by Love's graceful movements to trip up her heels,
Is the Long and the short of the matter."]
[Footnote 4: Thomas Busby, Mus. Doc. (1755-1838), musical composer, and
author of 'A New and Complete Musical Dictionary', 1801, etc. He was
also a versifier. As early as 1785 he published 'The Age of Genius, A
Satire'; and, after he had ceased to compose music for the stage,
brought out a translation of Lucretius, which had long been in MS. His
"rejected address" on the reopening of Drury Lane Theatre, would have
been recited by his son (October 15), but the gallery refused to hear it
out. On the next night (October 16) "Master" Busby was more successful.
Byron's parody of Busby's address, which began with the line, "When
energising objects men pursue," is headed, "Parenthetical Address. By
Dr. Plagiary."]
[Footnote 5: The Confederation of the Rhine (1803-1813), by which the
courts of W黵temberg and Bavaria, together with some lesser
principalities, detached themselves from the Germanic Body, and accepted
the immediate protection of France.]
[Footnote 6: The patriotic arson of our amiable allies cannot be
sufficiently commended--nor subscribed for. Amongst other details
omitted in the various [A] despatches of our eloquent ambassador, he did
not state (being too much occupied with the exploits of Colonel C----,
in swimming rivers frozen, and galloping over roads impassable,) that
one entire province perished by famine in the most melancholy manner, as
follows:--In General Rostopchin's consummate conflagration, the
consumption of tallow and train oil was so great, that the market was
inadequate to the demand: and thus one hundred and thirty-three thousand
persons were starved to death, by being reduced to wholesome diet! the
lamp-lighters of London have since subscribed a pint (of oil) a piece,
and the tallow-chandlers have unanimously voted a quantity of best
moulds (four to the pound), to the relief of the surviving
Scythians;--the scarcity will soon, by such exertions, and a proper
attention to the 'quality' rather than the quantity of provision, be
totally alleviated. It is said, in return, that the untouched Ukraine
has subscribed sixty thousand beeves for a day's meal to our suffering
manufacturers.
[Hamburg fell to Napoleon's forces in 1810, and thence-forward the mails
from the north of Europe were despatched from Anholt, or Gothenberg, or
Heligoland. In 1811 an attempt to enforce the conscription resulted in
the emigration of numbers of young men of suitable age for military
service. The unfortunate city was deprived of mails and males at the
same time. Heligoland, which was taken by the British in 1807, and
turned into a depot for the importation of smuggled goods to French
territory, afforded a meeting-place for British and continental traders.
Mails from Heligoland detailed rumours of what was taking place at the
centres of war; but the newspapers occasionally threw doubts on the
information obtained from this source. Lord Cathcart's despatch, dated
November 23, appeared in the 'Gazette' December 16, 1812. The paragraph
which appealed to Byron's sense of humour is as follows: "The expedition
of Colonel Chernichef ('sic') [the Czar's aide-de-camp] was a continued
and extraordinary exertion, he having marched seven hundred wersts
('sic') in five days, and swam several rivers."]
[Sub-Footnote A: Veracious despatches.--['MS. M'.] ]
[Footnote 7: Austerlitz was fought on Dec. 2, 1805. On Dec. 20 the
'Morning Chronicle' published a communication from a correspondent,
giving the substance of Napoleon's "Proclamation to the Army," issued on
the evening after the battle, which had reached Bourrienne, the French
minister at Hamburg. "An army," ran the proclamation, "of 100,000 men,
which was commanded by the Emperors of Russia and Austria, has been in
less than four hours either cut off or dispersed." It was an official
note of this "blest despatch," forwarded by courier to Bath, which
brought "the heavy news" to Pitt, and, it is believed, hastened his
death.]
[Footnote 8: August Frederick Ferdinand von Kotzebue (1761-1819), whom
Coleridge appraised as "the German Beaumont and Fletcher without their
poetic powers," and Carlyle as "a bundle of dyed rags," wrote over a
hundred plays, publishing twenty within a few years.
An adaptation of 'Misanthropy and Repentance' as 'The Stranger',
Sheridan's 'Pizarro', and Lewis' 'Castle Spectre' are well-known
instances of his powerful influence on English dramatists.
"The Present," writes Sara Coleridge, in a note to one of her father's
letters, "will ever have her special votaries in the world of letters,
who collect into their focus, by a kind of burning-glass, the feelings
of the day. Amongst such Kotzebue holds a high rank. Those 'dyed rags'
of his once formed gorgeous banners, and flaunted in the eyes of
refined companies from London to Madrid, from Paris to
Moscow."
Coleridge's 'Biographia Literaria' (1847), ii. 227.]
[Footnote 9: A translation of Christopher Meiner's 'History of the
Female Sex', in four volumes, was published in London in 1808. Lapland
wizards, not witches, were said to raise storms by knotting pieces of
string, which they exposed to the wind.]
[Footnote 10: Richard Franz Philippe Brunck (1729-1803). His editions of
the 'Anthologia Gr鎐a', and of the Greek dramatists are among his best
known works. Compare Sheridan's doggerel--
"Huge leaves of that great commentator, old Brunck,
Perhaps is the paper that lined my poor 'Trunk'."]
[Footnote 11: Christian Gottlob Heyne (1729-1812) published editions of
'Virgil' (1767-1775), 'Pindar' (1773), and 'Opuscula Academica', in six
vols. (1785-1812).]
[Footnote 12: A lively dance for one couple, characterized by a peculiar
jumping step. It probably originated in Provence.]
[Footnote 13: Dancing girls--who do for hire what Waltz doth gratis.
[The Romaika is a modern Greek dance, characterized by serpentining
figures and handkerchief-throwing among the dancers. The Fandango
(Spaniards use the word "seguidilla") was of Moorish origin. The Bolero
was brought from Provence, circ. 1780.
"The Bolero intoxicates, the Fandango
inflames"
('Hist. of Dancing', by G. Vuillier-Heinemann, 1898).]]
[Footnote 14: For Morier, see note to line 211. Galt has a paragraph
descriptive of the waltzing Dervishes ('Voyages and Travels' (1812),
p.190).]
[Footnote 15: It cannot be complained now, as in the Lady Baussi鑢e's
time, of the "Sieur de la Croix," that there be "no whiskers;" but how
far these are indications of valour in the field, or elsewhere, may
still be questionable. Much may be, and hath been;[A] avouched on both
sides. In the olden time philosophers had whiskers, and soldiers
none--Scipio himself was shaven--Hannibal thought his one eye handsome
enough without a beard; but Adrian, the emperor, wore a beard (having
warts on his chin, which neither the Empress Sabina nor even the
courtiers could abide)--Turenne had whiskers, Marlborough
none--Buonaparte is unwhiskered, the Regent whiskered; "'argal'"
greatness of mind and whiskers may or may not go together; but certainly
the different occurrences, since the growth of the last mentioned, go
further in behalf of whiskers than the anathema of Anselm did
'against' long hair in the reign of Henry I.--Formerly, 'red'
was a favourite colour. See Lodowick Barrey's comedy of 'Ram
Alley', 1661; Act I. Scene I.
'Taffeta'. Now for a wager--What coloured beard comes next by the
window?
'Adriana'. A black man's, I think.
'Taffeta'. I think not so: I think a 'red', for that is most in
fashion.
There is "nothing new under the sun:" but 'red', then a 'favourite', has
now subsided into a favourite's colour. [This is, doubtless, an allusion
to Lord Yarmouth, whose fiery whiskers gained him the nickname of "Red
Herrings."]
[Sub-Footnote A: The paragraph "Much may be" down to "reign of Henry
I." was added in Revise 1, and the remainder of the note in Revise 2.]]
[Footnote 16: Madame Genlis (Stephanie F閘icit?Ducrest, Marquise de
Sillery), commenting on the waltz, writes,
"As a foreigner, I shall not take the liberty to censure this kind of
dance; but this I can say, that it appears intolerable to German
writers of superior merits who are not accused of severity of
manners,"
and by way of example instances M. Jacobi, who affirms that "Werther
('Sorrows of Werther', Letter ix.), the lover of Charlotte, swears that,
were he to perish for it, never should a girl for whom he entertained
any affection, and on whom he had honourable views, dance the waltz with
any other man besides himself."--'_Select_ions from the Works of Madame de
Genlis' (1806), p. 65.
Compare, too, "Faulkland" on country-dances in 'The Rivals', act ii. sc.
I,
"Country-dances! jigs and reels! ... A minuet I could have forgiven
... Zounds! had she made one in a cotillon--I believe I could have
forgiven even that--but to be monkey-led for a night! to run the
gauntlet through a string of amorous palming puppies ... Oh, Jack,
there never can be but one man in the world whom a truly modest and
delicate woman ought to pair with in a country-dance; and even then,
the rest of the couples should be her great-uncles and aunts!"]
[Footnote 17: An anachronism--Waltz and the battle of Austerlitz are
before said to have opened the ball together; the bard means (if he
means anything), Waltz was not so much in vogue till the Regent attained
the acme of his popularity. Waltz, the comet, whiskers, and the new
government, illuminated heaven and earth, in all their glory, much about
the same time: of these the comet only has disappeared; the other three
continue to astonish us still.--'Printers Devil'.
[As the 'Printer's Devil' intimates, the various novelties of the age of
"Waltz" are somewhat loosely enumerated. The Comet, which signalized
1811, the year of the restricted Regency, had disappeared before the
Prince and his satellites burst into full blaze in 1812. It was (see
'Historical Record of the Life Guards', 1835, p.177) in 1812 that the
Prince Regent commanded the following alterations to be made in the
equipments of the regiment of Life Guards: "Cocked hats with feathers to
be discontinued, and brass helmets with black horsehair crests
substituted. Long coats, trimmed with gold lace across the front. Shirts
and cuffs to be replaced by short coatees," etc., etc. In the same
branch of the service, whiskers were already in vogue. The "new laws"
were those embodied in the "Frame-work Bill," which Byron denounced in
his speech in the House of Lords, Feb. 27, 1812. Formerly the breaking
of frames had been treated "as a minor felony, punishable by
transportation for fourteen years," and the object of the bill was to
make such offences capital. The bill passed into law on March 5, and as
a result we read ('Annual Register', 1812, pp. 38, 39) that on May 24 a
special commission for the rioters of Cheshire was opened by Judge
Dallas at Chester. "His lordship passed the awful sentence of death upon
sixteen, and in a most impressioned address, held out not the smallest
hope of mercy." Of these five 'only' were hanged.
Owing to the scarcity of silver coinage, the Bank of England was
empowered to issue bank-tokens for various sums (Mr. Hornem bought his
motto for 'The Waltz' with a three-shilling bank-token; see 'note' to
Preface) which came into circulation on July 9, 1811. The "new
ninepences" which were said to be forthcoming never passed into
circulation at all. A single "pattern" coin (on the obverse, 'Bank
Token, Ninepence, 1812') is preserved in the British Museum (see
privately printed 'Catalogue', by W. Boyne (1866), p.11). The "new
victories" were the fall of Ciudad Rodrigo (Jan. 17), the capture of
Badajoz (April 7), and the Battle of Salamanca (July 12, 1812). By way
of "new wars," the President of the United States declared war with
Great Britain on June 18, and Great Britain with the United States, Oct.
13, 1812. As to "new mistresses," for a reference to "'Our' Sultan's"
"she-promotions" of "those only plump and sage, Who've reached the
regulation age," see 'Intercepted Letters, or the Twopenny Post-bag', by
Thomas Brown the Younger, 1813, and for "gold sticks," etc., see
"Promotions" in the 'Annual Register' for March, 1812, in which a long
list of Household appointments is duly recorded.]]
[Footnote 18: Amongst others a new ninepence--a creditable coin now
forthcoming, worth a pound, in paper, at the fairest calculation.]
[Footnote 19: Robert Banks Jenkinson, second Earl of Liverpool, was
Secretary at War and for the Colonies from 1809 to 1812, in Spencer
Perceval's administration, and, on the assassination of the premier,
undertook the government. Both as Secretary at War and as Prime Minister
his chief efforts were devoted to the support of Wellington in the
Peninsula.]
[Footnote 20: "Oh that 'right' should thus overcome 'might!'" Who does
not remember the "delicate investigation" in the 'Merry Wives of
Windsor'?--
'Ford'. Pray you, come near; if I suspect without cause, why then make
sport at me; then let me be your jest; I deserve it. How now? whither
bear you this?
'Mrs. Ford'. What have you to do whither they bear it?--You were best
meddle with buck-washing."
[Act iii. sc. 3.]
[Footnote 21: The gentle, or ferocious, reader may fill up the blank as
he pleases--there are several dissyllabic names at 'his' service (being
already in the Regent's): it would not be fair to back any peculiar
initial against the alphabet, as every month will add to the list now
entered for the sweep-stakes;--a distinguished consonant is said to be
the favourite, much against the wishes of the 'knowing ones'.--['Revise']
[In the Revise the line, which is not in the MS., ran, "So saith the
Muse; my M----what say you?" The name intended to be supplied is
"Moira."
On Perceval's death (May 11 1812), Lord Liverpool became Prime Minister,
but was unable to carry on the government. Accordingly the Prince Regent
desired the Marquis Wellesley and Canning to approach Lords Grey and
Grenville with regard to the formation of a coalition ministry. They
were unsuccessful, and as a next step Lord Moira (Francis Rawdon, first
Marquis of Hastings, 1754-1826) was empowered to make overtures in the
same quarter. The Whig Lords stipulated that the regulation of the
Household should rest with ministers, and to this Moira would not
consent, possibly because the Prince's favourite, Lord Yarmouth, was
Vice-Chamberlain. Negotiations were again broken off, and on June 9
Liverpool began his long term of office as Prime Minister.
"I sate," writes Byron, "in the debate or rather discussion in the
House of Lords on that question (the second negotiation) immediately
behind Moira, who, while Grey was speaking, turned round to me
repeatedly, and asked me whether I agreed with him. It was an awkward
question to me, who had not heard both sides. Moira kept repeating to
me, 'It is 'not' so; it is so and so,'" etc.
(Letter to W. Bankes (undated), 'Life', p. 162). Hence the question, "My
Moira, what say you?"]
[Footnote 22:
"We have changed all that," says the Mock Doctor--'tis all
gone--Asmodeus knows where. After all, it is of no great importance
how women's hearts are disposed of; they have nature's privilege to
distribute them as absurdly as possible. But there are also some men
with hearts so thoroughly bad, as to remind us of those phenomena
often mentioned in natural history; viz. a mass of solid stone--only
to be opened by force--and when divided, you discover a _toad_ in the
centre, lively, and with the reputation of being venomous."
[In the MS. the last sentence stood: "In this country there is _one man_
with a heart so thoroughly bad that it reminds us of those unaccountable
petrifactions often mentioned in natural history," etc. The couplet--
"Such things we know are neither rich nor rare,
But wonder how the Devil they got there,"
which was affixed to the note, was subsequently erased.]]
[Footnote 23: Compare Sheridan's lines on waltzing, which Moore
heard him "repeat in a drawing-room"--
"With tranquil step, and timid downcast glance,
Behold the well-pair'd couple now advance.
In such sweet posture our first parents moved,
While, hand in hand, through Eden's bower they roved.
Ere yet the devil, with promise fine and false,
Turned their poor heads, and taught them how to waltz.
One hand grasps hers, the other holds her hip.
...
For so the law's laid down by Baron Trip."]
[Footnote 24: Lines 204-207 are not in the MS., but were added in a
revise.]
[Footnote 25: In Turkey a pertinent--here an impertinent and superfluous
question--literally put, as in the text, by a Persian to Morier, on
seeing a Waltz in Pera. [See 'A Journey through Persia', etc. By James
Morier, London (1812), p. 365.]
[Footnote 26: Richard Fitzpatrick (1747-1813), second son of John, first
Earl of Ossory, served in the first American War at the battles of
Brandywine and Germanstown. He sat as M.P. for Tavistock for
thirty-three years. The chosen friend and companion of Fox, he was a
prominent member of the opposition during the close of the eighteenth
century. In the ministry of "All the Talents" he was Secretary at War.
He dabbled in literature, was one of the authors of the 'Rolliad', and
in 1775 published 'Dorinda: A Town Eclogue'. He was noted for his social
gifts, and in recognition, it is said, of his "fine manners and polite
address," inherited a handsome annuity from the Duke of Queensberry.
Byron associates him with Sheridan as 'un homme galant' and leader of
'ton' of the past generation.]
[Footnote 27: William Douglas, third Earl of March and fourth Duke of
Queensberry (1724-1810), otherwise "old Q.," was conspicuous as a
"blood" and evil liver from youth to extreme old age. He was a patron of
the turf, a connoisseur of Italian Opera, and 'surtout' an inveterate
libertine. As a Whig, he held office in the Household during North's
Coalition Ministry, but throughout George the Third's first illness in
1788, displayed such indecent partisanship with the Prince of Wales,
that, when the king recovered, he lost his post. His dukedom died with
him, and his immense fortune was divided between the heirs to his other
titles and his friends. Lord Yarmouth, whose wife, Maria Fagniani, he
believed to be his natural daughter, was one of the principal legatees.]
[Footnote i:
'Henceforth with due unblushing brightness shine'.
['MS. M'.] ]
[Footnote ii:
'And weave a couplet worthy them and you.'
['Proof'.] ]
[Footnote iii:
'To make Heligoland the mart for lies'.
['MS. M'.]
[Footnote iv:
'As much of Heyne as should not sink the packet'.
['MS. M'.]]
[Footnote v:
'Who in your daughters' daughters yet survive
Like Banquo's spirit be yourselves alive.'
['MS. M.']]
[Footnote vi:
'Elysium's ill exchanged for that you lost'.
['MS. M.']]
[Footnote vii:
'No stiff-starched stays make meddling lovers ache'.
['MS. M'.]]
[Footnote viii:
'New caps and Jackets for the royal Guards'.
['MS. M.']]
[Footnote ix:
'With K--t's gay grace, or silly-Billy's mien'.
['MS. M.']
'With K--t's gay grace, or G--r's booby mien'.
['MS. erased'.]
[Footnote x:
'Sir--Such a one--with Mrs.--Miss So-so'.
['Revise'.]]
[Footnote xi:
'And thou my Prince whose undisputed will'.
[MS. M.]]
[Footnote xii:
'From this abominable contact warm'.
['MS. M.']]
[Footnote xiii:
'Some generations hence our Pedigree
Will never look the worse for him or me.'
['MS, erased'.]]
Contents
To Ianthe
Canto the First
Canto the Second
Canto the Third
Canto the Fourth
TO IANTHE. {1}
Not in those climes where I have late been straying,
Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deemed,
Not in those visions to the heart displaying
Forms which it sighs but to have only dreamed,
Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seemed:
Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek
To paint those charms which varied as they beamed -
To such as see thee not my words were weak;
To those who gaze on thee, what language could they speak?
Ah! mayst thou ever be what now thou art,
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring,
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart,
Love's image upon earth without his wing,
And guileless beyond Hope's imagining!
And surely she who now so fondly rears
Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening,
Beholds the rainbow of her future years,
Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears.
Young Peri of the West!--'tis well for me
My years already doubly number thine;
My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee,
And safely view thy ripening beauties shine:
Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline;
Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed
Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign
To those whose admiration shall succeed,
But mixed with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours decreed.
Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle's,
Now brightly bold or beautifully shy,
Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells,
Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny
That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh,
Could I to thee be ever more than friend:
This much, dear maid, accord; nor question why
To one so young my strain I would commend,
But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend.
Such is thy name with this my verse entwined;
And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast
On Harold's page, Ianthe's here enshrined
Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last:
My days once numbered, should this homage past
Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre
Of him who hailed thee, loveliest as thou wast,
Such is the most my memory may desire;
Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less require?
CANTO THE FIRST.
I.
Oh, thou, in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth,
Muse, formed or fabled at the minstrel's will!
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill:
Yet there I've wandered by thy vaunted rill;
Yes! sighed o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine
To grace so plain a tale--this lowly lay of mine.
II.
Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth,
Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight;
But spent his days in riot most uncouth,
And vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.
Ah, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight,
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee;
Few earthly things found favour in his sight
Save concubines and carnal companie,
And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree.
III.
Childe Harold was he hight: --but whence his name
And lineage long, it suits me not to say;
Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame,
And had been glorious in another day:
But one sad losel soils a name for aye,
However mighty in the olden time;
Nor all that heralds rake from coffined clay,
Nor florid prose, nor honeyed lines of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.
IV.
Childe Harold basked him in the noontide sun,
Disporting there like any other fly,
Nor deemed before his little day was done
One blast might chill him into misery.
But long ere scarce a third of his passed by,
Worse than adversity the Childe befell;
He felt the fulness of satiety:
Then loathed he in his native land to dwell,
Which seemed to him more lone than eremite's sad cell.
V.
For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run,
Nor made atonement when he did amiss,
Had sighed to many, though he loved but one,
And that loved one, alas, could ne'er be his.
Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kiss
Had been pollution unto aught so chaste;
Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss,
And spoiled her goodly lands to gild his waste,
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to taste.
VI.
And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;
'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,
But pride congealed the drop within his e'e:
Apart he stalked in joyless reverie,
And from his native land resolved to go,
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;
With pleasure drugged, he almost longed for woe,
And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below.
VII.
The Childe departed from his father's hall;
It was a vast and venerable pile;
So old, it seemed only not to fall,
Yet strength was pillared in each massy aisle.
Monastic dome! condemned to uses vile!
Where superstition once had made her den,
Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile;
And monks might deem their time was come agen,
If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.
VIII.
Yet ofttimes in his maddest mirthful mood,
Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow,
As if the memory of some deadly feud
Or disappointed passion lurked below:
But this none knew, nor haply cared to know;
For his was not that open, artless soul
That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow;
Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole,
Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control.
IX.
And none did love him: though to hall and bower
He gathered revellers from far and near,
He knew them flatterers of the festal hour;
The heartless parasites of present cheer.
Yea, none did love him--not his lemans dear -
But pomp and power alone are woman's care,
And where these are light Eros finds a feere;
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,
And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.
X.
Childe Harold had a mother--not forgot,
Though parting from that mother he did shun;
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not
Before his weary pilgrimage begun:
If friends he had, he bade adieu to none.
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel;
Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel
Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.
XI.
His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,
The laughing dames in whom he did delight,
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands,
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite,
And long had fed his youthful appetite;
His goblets brimmed with every costly wine,
And all that mote to luxury invite,
Without a sigh he left to cross the brine,
And traverse Paynim shores, and pass earth's central line.
XII.
The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew
As glad to waft him from his native home;
And fast the white rocks faded from his view,
And soon were lost in circumambient foam;
And then, it may be, of his wish to roam
Repented he, but in his bosom slept
The silent thought, nor from his lips did come
One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept,
And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept.
XIII.
But when the sun was sinking in the sea,
He seized his harp, which he at times could string,
And strike, albeit with untaught melody,
When deemed he no strange ear was listening:
And now his fingers o'er it he did fling,
And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight,
While flew the vessel on her snowy wing,
And fleeting shores receded from his sight,
Thus to the elements he poured his last 'Good Night.'
Adieu, adieu! my native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue;
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.
Yon sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My Native Land--Good Night!
A few short hours, and he will rise
To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,
Its hearth is desolate;
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall,
My dog howls at the gate.
'Come hither, hither, my little page:
Why dost thou weep and wail?
Or dost thou dread the billow's rage,
Or tremble at the gale?
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye,
Our ship is swift and strong;
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly
More merrily along.'
'Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,
I fear not wave nor wind;
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I
Am sorrowful in mind;
For I have from my father gone,
A mother whom I love,
And have no friend, save these alone,
But thee--and One above.
'My father blessed me fervently,
Yet did not much complain;
But sorely will my mother sigh
Till I come back again.' -
'Enough, enough, my little lad!
Such tears become thine eye;
If I thy guileless bosom had,
Mine own would not be dry.
'Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,
Why dost thou look so pale?
Or dost thou dread a French foeman,
Or shiver at the gale?' -
'Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?
Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;
But thinking on an absent wife
Will blanch a faithful cheek.
'My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,
Along the bordering lake;
And when they on their father call,
What answer shall she make?' -
'Enough, enough, my yeoman good,
Thy grief let none gainsay;
But I, who am of lighter mood,
Will laugh to flee away.'
For who would trust the seeming sighs
Of wife or paramour?
Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes
We late saw streaming o'er.
For pleasures past I do not grieve,
Nor perils gathering near;
My greatest grief is that I leave
No thing that claims a tear.
And now I'm in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea;
But why should I for others groan,
When none will sigh for me?
Perchance my dog will whine in vain
Till fed by stranger hands;
But long ere I come back again
He'd tear me where he stands.
With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine;
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,
So not again to mine.
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves!
And when you fail my sight,
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!
My Native Land--Good Night!
XIV.
On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone,
And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay.
Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon,
New shores descried make every bosom gay;
And Cintra's mountain greets them on their way,
And Tagus dashing onward to the deep,
His fabled golden tribute bent to pay;
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap,
And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap.
XV.
Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see
What Heaven hath done for this delicious land!
What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree!
What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand!
But man would mar them with an impious hand:
And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge
'Gainst those who most transgress his high command,
With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge
Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge.
XVI.
What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold!
Her image floating on that noble tide,
Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold,
But now whereon a thousand keels did ride
Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied,
And to the Lusians did her aid afford
A nation swoll'n with ignorance and pride,
Who lick, yet loathe, the hand that waves the sword.
To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing lord.
XVII.
But whoso entereth within this town,
That, sheening far, celestial seems to be,
Disconsolate will wander up and down,
Mid many things unsightly to strange e'e;
For hut and palace show like filthily;
The dingy denizens are reared in dirt;
No personage of high or mean degree
Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt,
Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, unwashed, unhurt.
XVIII.
Poor, paltry slaves! yet born midst noblest scenes -
Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men?
Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes
In variegated maze of mount and glen.
Ah me! what hand can pencil guide, or pen,
To follow half on which the eye dilates
Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken
Than those whereof such things the bard relates,
Who to the awe-struck world unlocked Elysium's gates?
XIX.
The horrid crags, by toppling convent crowned,
The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep,
The mountain moss by scorching skies imbrowned,
The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep,
The tender azure of the unruffled deep,
The orange tints that gild the greenest bough,
The torrents that from cliff to valley leap,
The vine on high, the willow branch below,
Mixed in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow.
XX.
Then slowly climb the many-winding way,
And frequent turn to linger as you go,
From loftier rocks new loveliness survey,
And rest ye at 'Our Lady's House of Woe;'
Where frugal monks their little relics show,
And sundry legends to the stranger tell:
Here impious men have punished been; and lo,
Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell,
In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell.
XXI.
And here and there, as up the crags you spring,
Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path;
Yet deem not these devotion's offering -
These are memorials frail of murderous wrath;
For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath
Poured forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife,
Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath;
And grove and glen with thousand such are rife
Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life!
XXII.
On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath,
Are domes where whilom kings did make repair;
But now the wild flowers round them only breathe:
Yet ruined splendour still is lingering there.
And yonder towers the prince's palace fair:
There thou, too, Vathek! England's wealthiest son,
Once formed thy Paradise, as not aware
When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done,
Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun.
XXIII.
Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure plan.
Beneath yon mountain's ever beauteous brow;
But now, as if a thing unblest by man,
Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou!
Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow
To halls deserted, portals gaping wide;
Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how
Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied;
Swept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentle tide.
XXIV.
Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened!
Oh! dome displeasing unto British eye!
With diadem hight foolscap, lo! a fiend,
A little fiend that scoffs incessantly,
There sits in parchment robe arrayed, and by
His side is hung a seal and sable scroll,
Where blazoned glare names known to chivalry,
And sundry signatures adorn the roll,
Whereat the urchin points, and laughs with all his soul.
XXV.
Convention is the dwarfish demon styled
That foiled the knights in Marialva's dome:
Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled,
And turned a nation's shallow joy to gloom.
Here Folly dashed to earth the victor's plume,
And Policy regained what Arms had lost:
For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom!
Woe to the conquering, not the conquered host,
Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's coast.
XXVI.
And ever since that martial synod met,
Britannia sickens, Cintra, at thy name;
And folks in office at the mention fret,
And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame.
How will posterity the deed proclaim!
Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer,
To view these champions cheated of their fame,
By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here,
Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming year?
XXVII.
So deemed the Childe, as o'er the mountains he
Did take his way in solitary guise:
Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee,
More restless than the swallow in the skies:
Though here awhile he learned to moralise,
For Meditation fixed at times on him,
And conscious Reason whispered to despise
His early youth misspent in maddest whim;
But as he gazed on Truth, his aching eyes grew dim.
XXVIII.
To horse! to horse! he quits, for ever quits
A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul:
Again he rouses from his moping fits,
But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl.
Onward he flies, nor fixed as yet the goal
Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage;
And o'er him many changing scenes must roll,
Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage,
Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage.
XXIX.
Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay,
Where dwelt of yore the Lusians' luckless queen;
And church and court did mingle their array,
And mass and revel were alternate seen;
Lordlings and freres--ill-sorted fry, I ween!
But here the Babylonian whore had built
A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen,
That men forget the blood which she hath spilt,
And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to garnish guilt.
XXX.
O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills,
(Oh that such hills upheld a free-born race!)
Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills,
Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place.
Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase,
And marvel men should quit their easy chair,
The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace.
Oh, there is sweetness in the mountain air
And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share.
XXXI.
More bleak to view the hills at length recede,
And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend:
Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed!
Far as the eye discerns, withouten end,
Spain's realms appear, whereon her shepherds tend
Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader knows -
Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend:
For Spain is compassed by unyielding foes,
And all must shield their all, or share Subjection's woes.
XXXII.
Where Lusitania and her Sister meet,
Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide?
Or e'er the jealous queens of nations greet,
Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide?
Or dark sierras rise in craggy pride?
Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall? -
Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide,
Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall
Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land from Gaul
XXXIII.
But these between a silver streamlet glides,
And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook,
Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides.
Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook,
And vacant on the rippling waves doth look,
That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow:
For proud each peasant as the noblest duke:
Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know
'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low.
XXXIV.
But ere the mingling bounds have far been passed,
Dark Guadiana rolls his power along
In sullen billows, murmuring and vast,
So noted ancient roundelays among.
Whilome upon his banks did legions throng
Of Moor and Knight, in mailed splendour drest;
Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the strong;
The Paynim turban and the Christian crest
Mixed on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppressed.
XXXV.
Oh, lovely Spain! renowned, romantic land!
Where is that standard which Pelagio bore,
When Cava's traitor-sire first called the band
That dyed thy mountain-streams with Gothic gore?
Where are those bloody banners which of yore
Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale,
And drove at last the spoilers to their shore?
Red gleamed the cross, and waned the crescent pale,
While Afric's echoes thrilled with Moorish matrons' wail.
XXXVI.
Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale?
Ah! such, alas, the hero's amplest fate!
When granite moulders and when records fail,
A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date.
Pride! bend thine eye from heaven to thine estate,
See how the mighty shrink into a song!
Can volume, pillar, pile, preserve thee great?
Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue,
When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does thee wrong?
XXXVII.
Awake, ye sons of Spain! awake! advance
Lo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries,
But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance,
Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies:
Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies,
And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar!
In every peal she calls--'Awake! arise!'
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore,
When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore?
XXXVIII.
Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note?
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath?
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote;
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves?--the fires of death,
The bale-fires flash on high: --from rock to rock
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe:
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,
Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock.
XXXIX.
Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,
His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun,
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon;
Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon
Flashing afar,--and at his iron feet
Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done;
For on this morn three potent nations meet,
To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.
XL.
By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there)
Their rival scarfs of mixed embroidery,
Their various arms that glitter in the air!
What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair,
And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey!
All join the chase, but few the triumph share:
The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away,
And Havoc scarce for joy can cumber their array.
XLI.
Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies.
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory!
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,
Are met--as if at home they could not die -
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain,
And fertilise the field that each pretends to gain.
XLII.
There shall they rot--Ambition's honoured fools!
Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay!
Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools,
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away
By myriads, when they dare to pave their way
With human hearts--to what?--a dream alone.
Can despots compass aught that hails their sway?
Or call with truth one span of earth their own,
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone?
XLIII.
O Albuera, glorious field of grief!
As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim pricked his steed,
Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief,
A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed.
Peace to the perished! may the warrior's meed
And tears of triumph their reward prolong!
Till others fall where other chieftains lead,
Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng,
And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song.
XLIV.
Enough of Battle's minions! let them play
Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame:
Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay,
Though thousands fall to deck some single name.
In sooth, 'twere sad to thwart their noble aim
Who strike, blest hirelings! for their country's good,
And die, that living might have proved her shame;
Perished, perchance, in some domestic feud,
Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursued.
XLV.
Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way
Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued:
Yet is she free--the spoiler's wished-for prey!
Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude,
Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude.
Inevitable hour! 'Gainst fate to strive
Where Desolation plants her famished brood
Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre, might yet survive,
And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive.
XLVI.
But all unconscious of the coming doom,
The feast, the song, the revel here abounds;
Strange modes of merriment the hours consume,
Nor bleed these patriots with their country's wounds;
Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck sounds;
Here Folly still his votaries enthralls,
And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds:
Girt with the silent crimes of capitals,
Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tottering walls.
XLVII.
Not so the rustic: with his trembling mate
He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar,
Lest he should view his vineyard desolate,
Blasted below the dun hot breath of war.
No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star
Fandango twirls his jocund castanet:
Ah, monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar,
Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret;
The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy yet.
XLVIII.
How carols now the lusty muleteer?
Of love, romance, devotion is his lay,
As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer,
His quick bells wildly jingling on the way?
No! as he speeds, he chants 'Viva el Rey!'
And checks his song to execrate Godoy,
The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day
When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy,
And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate joy.
XLIX.
On yon long level plain, at distance crowned
With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest,
Wide scattered hoof-marks dint the wounded ground;
And, scathed by fire, the greensward's darkened vest
Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest:
Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host,
Here the brave peasant stormed the dragon's nest;
Still does he mark it with triumphant boast,
And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost.
L.
And whomsoe'er along the path you meet
Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue,
Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet:
Woe to the man that walks in public view
Without of loyalty this token true:
Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke;
And sorely would the Gallic foemen rue,
If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloak,
Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's smoke.
LI.
At every turn Morena's dusky height
Sustains aloft the battery's iron load;
And, far as mortal eye can compass sight,
The mountain-howitzer, the broken road,
The bristling palisade, the fosse o'erflowed,
The stationed bands, the never-vacant watch,
The magazine in rocky durance stowed,
The holstered steed beneath the shed of thatch,
The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match,
LII.
Portend the deeds to come: --but he whose nod
Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway,
A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod;
A little moment deigneth to delay:
Soon will his legions sweep through these the way;
The West must own the Scourger of the world.
Ah, Spain! how sad will be thy reckoning day,
When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings unfurled,
And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurled.
LIII.
And must they fall--the young, the proud, the brave -
To swell one bloated chief's unwholesome reign?
No step between submission and a grave?
The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain?
And doth the Power that man adores ordain
Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal?
Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain?
And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal,
The veteran's skill, youth's fire, and manhood's heart of steel?
LIV.
Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused,
Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar,
And, all unsexed, the anlace hath espoused,
Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war?
And she, whom once the semblance of a scar
Appalled, an owlet's larum chilled with dread,
Now views the column-scattering bayonet jar,
The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead
Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to tread.
LV.
Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale,
Oh! had you known her in her softer hour,
Marked her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil,
Heard her light, lively tones in lady's bower,
Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power,
Her fairy form, with more than female grace,
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower
Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face,
Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chase.
LVI.
Her lover sinks--she sheds no ill-timed tear;
Her chief is slain--she fills his fatal post;
Her fellows flee--she checks their base career;
The foe retires--she heads the sallying host:
Who can appease like her a lover's ghost?
Who can avenge so well a leader's fall?
What maid retrieve when man's flushed hope is lost?
Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul,
Foiled by a woman's hand, before a battered wall?
LVII.
Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons,
But formed for all the witching arts of love:
Though thus in arms they emulate her sons,
And in the horrid phalanx dare to move,
'Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove,
Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate:
In softness as in firmness far above
Remoter females, famed for sickening prate;
Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great.
LVIII.
The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impressed
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch:
Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest,
Bid man be valiant ere he merit such:
Her glance, how wildly beautiful! how much
Hath Phoebus wooed in vain to spoil her cheek
Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch!
Who round the North for paler dames would seek?
How poor their forms appear? how languid, wan, and weak!
LIX.
Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud;
Match me, ye harems! of the land where now
I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud
Beauties that even a cynic must avow!
Match me those houris, whom ye scarce allow
To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind,
With Spain's dark-glancing daughters--deign to know,
There your wise Prophet's paradise we find,
His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind.
LX.
O thou, Parnassus! whom I now survey,
Not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye,
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay,
But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky,
In the wild pomp of mountain majesty!
What marvel if I thus essay to sing?
The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by
Would gladly woo thine echoes with his string,
Though from thy heights no more one muse will wave her wing.
LXI.
Oft have I dreamed of thee! whose glorious name
Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore:
And now I view thee, 'tis, alas, with shame
That I in feeblest accents must adore.
When I recount thy worshippers of yore
I tremble, and can only bend the knee;
Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar,
But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy
In silent joy to think at last I look on thee!
LXII.
Happier in this than mightiest bards have been,
Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot,
Shall I unmoved behold the hallowed scene,
Which others rave of, though they know it not?
Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot,
And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave,
Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot,
Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave,
And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave.
LXIII.
Of thee hereafter.--Even amidst my strain
I turned aside to pay my homage here;
Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain;
Her fate, to every free-born bosom dear;
And hailed thee, not perchance without a tear.
Now to my theme--but from thy holy haunt
Let me some remnant, some memorial bear;
Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant,
Nor let thy votary's hope be deemed an idle vaunt.
LXIV.
But ne'er didst thou, fair mount, when Greece was young,
See round thy giant base a brighter choir;
Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung
The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire,
Behold a train more fitting to inspire
The song of love than Andalusia's maids,
Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire:
Ah! that to these were given such peaceful shades
As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her glades.
LXV.
Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast
Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days,
But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast,
Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise.
Ah, Vice! how soft are thy voluptuous ways!
While boyish blood is mantling, who can 'scape
The fascination of thy magic gaze?
A cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape,
And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape.
LXVI.
When Paphos fell by Time--accursed Time!
The Queen who conquers all must yield to thee -
The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime;
And Venus, constant to her native sea,
To nought else constant, hither deigned to flee,
And fixed her shrine within these walls of white;
Though not to one dome circumscribeth she
Her worship, but, devoted to her rite,
A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright.
LXVII.
From morn till night, from night till startled morn
Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew,
The song is heard, the rosy garland worn;
Devices quaint, and frolics ever new,
Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu
He bids to sober joy that here sojourns:
Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu
Of true devotion monkish incense burns,
And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns.
LXVIII.
The sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest;
What hallows it upon this Christian shore?
Lo! it is sacred to a solemn feast:
Hark! heard you not the forest monarch's roar?
Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore
Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn:
The thronged arena shakes with shouts for more;
Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn,
Nor shrinks the female eye, nor e'en affects to mourn.
LXIX.
The seventh day this; the jubilee of man.
London! right well thou know'st the day of prayer:
Then thy spruce citizen, washed artizan,
And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air:
Thy coach of hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair,
And humblest gig, through sundry suburbs whirl;
To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make repair;
Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl,
Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl.
LXX.
Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribboned fair,
Others along the safer turnpike fly;
Some Richmond Hill ascend, some scud to Ware,
And many to the steep of Highgate hie.
Ask ye, Boeotian shades, the reason why?
'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn,
Grasped in the holy hand of Mystery,
In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn,
And consecrate the oath with draught and dance till morn.
LXXI.
All have their fooleries; not alike are thine,
Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea!
Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine,
Thy saint adorers count the rosary:
Much is the Virgin teased to shrive them free
(Well do I ween the only virgin there)
From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be;
Then to the crowded circus forth they fare:
Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share.
LXXII.
The lists are oped, the spacious area cleared,
Thousands on thousands piled are seated round;
Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard,
No vacant space for lated wight is found:
Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound,
Skilled in the ogle of a roguish eye,
Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound;
None through their cold disdain are doomed to die,
As moon-struck bards complain, by Love's sad archery.
LXXIII.
Hushed is the din of tongues--on gallant steeds,
With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised lance,
Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds,
And lowly bending to the lists advance;
Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance:
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day,
The crowd's loud shout, and ladies' lovely glance,
Best prize of better acts, they bear away,
And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay.
LXXIV.
In costly sheen and gaudy cloak arrayed,
But all afoot, the light-limbed matadore
Stands in the centre, eager to invade
The lord of lowing herds; but not before
The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er,
Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed:
His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more
Can man achieve without the friendly steed -
Alas! too oft condemned for him to bear and bleed.
LXXV.
Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls,
The den expands, and expectation mute
Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls.
Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute,
And wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot,
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe:
Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit
His first attack, wide waving to and fro
His angry tail; red rolls his eye's dilated glow.
LXXVI.
Sudden he stops; his eye is fixed: away,
Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear;
Now is thy time to perish, or display
The skill that yet may check his mad career.
With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer;
On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes;
Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear:
He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes:
Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellowings speak his woes.
LXXVII.
Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail,
Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse;
Though man and man's avenging arms assail,
Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force.
One gallant steed is stretched a mangled corse;
Another, hideous sight! unseamed appears,
His gory chest unveils life's panting source;
Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears;
Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharmed he bears.
LXXVIII.
Foiled, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last,
Full in the centre stands the bull at bay,
Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast,
And foes disabled in the brutal fray:
And now the matadores around him play,
Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand:
Once more through all he bursts his thundering way -
Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand,
Wraps his fierce eye--'tis past--he sinks upon the sand.
LXXIX.
Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine,
Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies.
He stops--he starts--disdaining to decline:
Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries,
Without a groan, without a struggle dies.
The decorated car appears on high:
The corse is piled--sweet sight for vulgar eyes;
Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy,
Hurl the dark bull along, scarce seen in dashing by.
LXXX.
Such the ungentle sport that oft invites
The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain:
Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights
In vengeance, gloating on another's pain.
What private feuds the troubled village stain!
Though now one phalanxed host should meet the foe,
Enough, alas, in humble homes remain,
To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow,
For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm stream must flow.
LXXXI.
But Jealousy has fled: his bars, his bolts,
His withered sentinel, duenna sage!
And all whereat the generous soul revolts,
Which the stern dotard deemed he could encage,
Have passed to darkness with the vanished age.
Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen
(Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage),
With braided tresses bounding o'er the green,
While on the gay dance shone Night's lover-loving Queen?
LXXXII.
Oh! many a time and oft had Harold loved,
Or dreamed he loved, since rapture is a dream;
But now his wayward bosom was unmoved,
For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream:
And lately had he learned with truth to deem
Love has no gift so grateful as his wings:
How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem,
Full from the fount of joy's delicious springs
Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.
LXXXIII.
Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind,
Though now it moved him as it moves the wise;
Not that Philosophy on such a mind
E'er deigned to bend her chastely-awful eyes:
But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies;
And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb,
Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise:
Pleasure's palled victim! life-abhorring gloom
Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting doom.
LXXXIV.
Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng;
But viewed them not with misanthropic hate;
Fain would he now have joined the dance, the song,
But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate?
Nought that he saw his sadness could abate:
Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's sway,
And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sate,
Poured forth this unpremeditated lay,
To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier day.
TO INEZ.
Nay, smile not at my sullen brow,
Alas! I cannot smile again:
Yet Heaven avert that ever thou
Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain.
And dost thou ask what secret woe
I bear, corroding joy and youth?
And wilt thou vainly seek to know
A pang even thou must fail to soothe?
It is not love, it is not hate,
Nor low Ambition's honours lost,
That bids me loathe my present state,
And fly from all I prized the most:
It is that weariness which springs
From all I meet, or hear, or see:
To me no pleasure Beauty brings;
Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me.
It is that settled, ceaseless gloom
The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore,
That will not look beyond the tomb,
But cannot hope for rest before.
What exile from himself can flee?
To zones, though more and more remote,
Still, still pursues, where'er I be,
The blight of life--the demon Thought.
Yet others rapt in pleasure seem,
And taste of all that I forsake:
Oh! may they still of transport dream,
And ne'er, at least like me, awake!
Through many a clime 'tis mine to go,
With many a retrospection curst;
And all my solace is to know,
Whate'er betides, I've known the worst.
What is that worst? Nay, do not ask -
In pity from the search forbear:
Smile on--nor venture to unmask
Man's heart, and view the hell that's there.
LXXXV.
Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu!
Who may forget how well thy walls have stood?
When all were changing, thou alone wert true,
First to be free, and last to be subdued.
And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude,
Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye,
A traitor only fell beneath the feud:
Here all were noble, save nobility;
None hugged a conqueror's chain save fallen Chivalry!
LXXXVI.
Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate!
They fight for freedom, who were never free;
A kingless people for a nerveless state,
Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee,
True to the veriest slaves of Treachery;
Fond of a land which gave them nought but life,
Pride points the path that leads to liberty;
Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife,
War, war is still the cry, 'War even to the knife!'
LXXXVII.
Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know,
Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife:
Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on foreign foe
Can act, is acting there against man's life:
From flashing scimitar to secret knife,
War mouldeth there each weapon to his need -
So may he guard the sister and the wife,
So may he make each curst oppressor bleed,
So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed!
LXXXVIII.
Flows there a tear of pity for the dead?
Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain:
Look on the hands with female slaughter red;
Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain,
Then to the vulture let each corse remain;
Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw,
Let their bleached bones, and blood's unbleaching stain,
Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe:
Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw!
LXXXIX.
Nor yet, alas, the dreadful work is done;
Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees:
It deepens still, the work is scarce begun,
Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees.
Fall'n nations gaze on Spain: if freed, she frees
More than her fell Pizarros once enchained.
Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease
Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustained,
While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder unrestrained.
XC.
Not all the blood at Talavera shed,
Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight,
Not Albuera lavish of the dead,
Have won for Spain her well-asserted right.
When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight?
When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil?
How many a doubtful day shall sink in night,
Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil,
And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil?
XCI.
And thou, my friend! since unavailing woe
Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain -
Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low,
Pride might forbid e'en Friendship to complain:
But thus unlaurelled to descend in vain,
By all forgotten, save the lonely breast,
And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain,
While glory crowns so many a meaner crest!
What hadst thou done, to sink so peacefully to rest?
XCII.
Oh, known the earliest, and esteemed the most!
Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear!
Though to my hopeless days for ever lost,
In dreams deny me not to see thee here!
And Morn in secret shall renew the tear
Of Consciousness awaking to her woes,
And Fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier,
Till my frail frame return to whence it rose,
And mourned and mourner lie united in repose.
XCIII.
Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage.
Ye who of him may further seek to know,
Shall find some tidings in a future page,
If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe.
Is this too much? Stern critic, say not so:
Patience! and ye shall hear what he beheld
In other lands, where he was doomed to go:
Lands that contain the monuments of eld,
Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were quelled.
CANTO THE SECOND.
I.
Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven!--but thou, alas,
Didst never yet one mortal song inspire -
Goddess of Wisdom! here thy temple was,
And is, despite of war and wasting fire,
And years, that bade thy worship to expire:
But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow,
Is the drear sceptre and dominion dire
Of men who never felt the sacred glow
That thoughts of thee and thine on polished breasts bestow.
II.
Ancient of days! august Athena! where,
Where are thy men of might, thy grand in soul?
Gone--glimmering through the dream of things that were:
First in the race that led to Glory's goal,
They won, and passed away--is this the whole?
A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour!
The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole
Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower,
Dim with the mist of years, grey flits the shade of power.
III.
Son of the morning, rise! approach you here!
Come--but molest not yon defenceless urn!
Look on this spot--a nation's sepulchre!
Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn.
E'en gods must yield--religions take their turn:
'Twas Jove's--'tis Mahomet's; and other creeds
Will rise with other years, till man shall learn
Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds;
Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on reeds.
IV.
Bound to the earth, he lifts his eyes to heaven -
Is't not enough, unhappy thing, to know
Thou art? Is this a boon so kindly given,
That being, thou wouldst be again, and go,
Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what region, so
On earth no more, but mingled with the skies!
Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe?
Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies:
That little urn saith more than thousand homilies.
V.
Or burst the vanished hero's lofty mound;
Far on the solitary shore he sleeps;
He fell, and falling nations mourned around;
But now not one of saddening thousands weeps,
Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps
Where demi-gods appeared, as records tell.
Remove yon skull from out the scattered heaps:
Is that a temple where a God may dwell?
Why, e'en the worm at last disdains her shattered cell!
VI.
Look on its broken arch, its ruined wall,
Its chambers desolate, and portals foul:
Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall,
The dome of Thought, the Palace of the Soul.
Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole,
The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit,
And Passion's host, that never brooked control:
Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ,
People this lonely tower, this tenement refit?
VII.
Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son!
'All that we know is, nothing can be known.'
Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun?
Each hath its pang, but feeble sufferers groan
With brain-born dreams of evil all their own.
Pursue what chance or fate proclaimeth best;
Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron:
There no forced banquet claims the sated guest,
But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest.
VIII.
Yet if, as holiest men have deemed, there be
A land of souls beyond that sable shore,
To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee
And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore;
How sweet it were in concert to adore
With those who made our mortal labours light!
To hear each voice we feared to hear no more!
Behold each mighty shade revealed to sight,
The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right!
IX.
There, thou!--whose love and life together fled,
Have left me here to love and live in vain -
Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead,
When busy memory flashes on my brain?
Well--I will dream that we may meet again,
And woo the vision to my vacant breast:
If aught of young Remembrance then remain,
Be as it may Futurity's behest,
For me 'twere bliss enough to know thy spirit blest!
X.
Here let me sit upon this mossy stone,
The marble column's yet unshaken base!
Here, son of Saturn, was thy favourite throne!
Mightiest of many such! Hence let me trace
The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place.
It may not be: nor even can Fancy's eye
Restore what time hath laboured to deface.
Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh;
Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by.
XI.
But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane
On high, where Pallas lingered, loth to flee
The latest relic of her ancient reign -
The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he?
Blush, Caledonia! such thy son could be!
England! I joy no child he was of thine:
Thy free-born men should spare what once was free;
Yet they could violate each saddening shrine,
And bear these altars o'er the long reluctant brine.
XII.
But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast,
To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath spared:
Cold as the crags upon his native coast,
His mind as barren and his heart as hard,
Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prepared,
Aught to displace Athena's poor remains:
Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard,
Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains,
And never knew, till then, the weight of Despot's chains.
XIII.
What! shall it e'er be said by British tongue
Albion was happy in Athena's tears?
Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung,
Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears;
The ocean queen, the free Britannia, bears
The last poor plunder from a bleeding land:
Yes, she, whose generous aid her name endears,
Tore down those remnants with a harpy's hand.
Which envious eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand.
XIV.
Where was thine aegis, Pallas, that appalled
Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way?
Where Peleus' son? whom Hell in vain enthralled,
His shade from Hades upon that dread day
Bursting to light in terrible array!
What! could not Pluto spare the chief once more,
To scare a second robber from his prey?
Idly he wandered on the Stygian shore,
Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before.
XV.
Cold is the heart, fair Greece, that looks on thee,
Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved;
Dull is the eye that will not weep to see
Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed
By British hands, which it had best behoved
To guard those relics ne'er to be restored.
Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved,
And once again thy hapless bosom gored,
And snatched thy shrinking gods to northern climes abhorred!
XVI.
But where is Harold? shall I then forget
To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave?
Little recked he of all that men regret;
No loved one now in feigned lament could rave;
No friend the parting hand extended gave,
Ere the cold stranger passed to other climes.
Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave;
But Harold felt not as in other times,
And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes.
XVII.
He that has sailed upon the dark blue sea,
Has viewed at times, I ween, a full fair sight;
When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be,
The white sails set, the gallant frigate tight,
Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right,
The glorious main expanding o'er the bow,
The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight,
The dullest sailer wearing bravely now,
So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow.
XVIII.
And oh, the little warlike world within!
The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy,
The hoarse command, the busy humming din,
When, at a word, the tops are manned on high:
Hark to the boatswain's call, the cheering cry,
While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides
Or schoolboy midshipman that, standing by,
Strains his shrill pipe, as good or ill betides,
And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides.
XIX.
White is the glassy deck, without a stain,
Where on the watch the staid lieutenant walks:
Look on that part which sacred doth remain
For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks,
Silent and feared by all: not oft he talks
With aught beneath him, if he would preserve
That strict restraint, which broken, ever baulks
Conquest and Fame: but Britons rarely swerve
From law, however stern, which tends their strength to nerve.
XX.
Blow, swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale,
Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray;
Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail,
That lagging barks may make their lazy way.
Ah! grievance sore, and listless dull delay,
To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze!
What leagues are lost before the dawn of day,
Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas,
The flapping sails hauled down to halt for logs like these!
XXI.
The moon is up; by Heaven, a lovely eve!
Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand!
Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe:
Such be our fate when we return to land!
Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand
Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love:
A circle there of merry listeners stand,
Or to some well-known measure featly move,
Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove.
XXII.
Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore;
Europe and Afric, on each other gaze!
Lands of the dark-eyed maid and dusky Moor,
Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze:
How softly on the Spanish shore she plays,
Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown,
Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase:
But Mauritania's giant-shadows frown,
From mountain-cliff to coast descending sombre down.
XXIII.
'Tis night, when Meditation bids us feel
We once have loved, though love is at an end:
The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal,
Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend.
Who with the weight of years would wish to bend,
When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy?
Alas! when mingling souls forget to blend,
Death hath but little left him to destroy!
Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
XXIV.
Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side,
To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere,
The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride,
And flies unconscious o'er each backward year.
None are so desolate but something dear,
Dearer than self, possesses or possessed
A thought, and claims the homage of a tear;
A flashing pang! of which the weary breast
Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest.
XXV.
To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,
Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been;
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,
With the wild flock that never needs a fold;
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean:
This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold
Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled.
XXVI.
But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,
And roam along, the world's tired denizen,
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;
Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!
None that, with kindred consciousness endued,
If we were not, would seem to smile the less
Of all that flattered, followed, sought, and sued:
This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!
XXVII.
More blest the life of godly eremite,
Such as on lonely Athos may be seen,
Watching at eve upon the giant height,
Which looks o'er waves so blue, skies so serene,
That he who there at such an hour hath been,
Will wistful linger on that hallowed spot;
Then slowly tear him from the witching scene,
Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot,
Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot.
XXVIII.
Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track
Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind;
Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack,
And each well-known caprice of wave and wind;
Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find,
Cooped in their winged sea-girt citadel;
The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind,
As breezes rise and fall, and billows swell,
Till on some jocund morn--lo, land! and all is well.
XXIX.
But not in silence pass Calypso's isles,
The sister tenants of the middle deep;
There for the weary still a haven smiles,
Though the fair goddess long has ceased to weep,
And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep
For him who dared prefer a mortal bride:
Here, too, his boy essayed the dreadful leap
Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide;
While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen doubly sighed.
XXX.
Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone:
But trust not this; too easy youth, beware!
A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne,
And thou mayst find a new Calypso there.
Sweet Florence! could another ever share
This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine:
But checked by every tie, I may not dare
To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine,
Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine.
XXXI.
Thus Harold deemed, as on that lady's eye
He looked, and met its beam without a thought,
Save Admiration glancing harmless by:
Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote,
Who knew his votary often lost and caught,
But knew him as his worshipper no more,
And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought:
Since now he vainly urged him to adore,
Well deemed the little god his ancient sway was o'er.
XXXII.
Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze,
One who, 'twas said, still sighed to all he saw,
Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze,
Which others hailed with real or mimic awe,
Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law:
All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims:
And much she marvelled that a youth so raw
Nor felt, nor feigned at least, the oft-told flames,
Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely anger dames.
XXXIII.
Little knew she that seeming marble heart,
Now masked by silence or withheld by pride,
Was not unskilful in the spoiler's art,
And spread its snares licentious far and wide;
Nor from the base pursuit had turned aside,
As long as aught was worthy to pursue:
But Harold on such arts no more relied;
And had he doted on those eyes so blue,
Yet never would he join the lover's whining crew.
XXXIV.
Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast,
Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs;
What careth she for hearts when once possessed?
Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes,
But not too humbly, or she will despise
Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes;
Disguise e'en tenderness, if thou art wise;
Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes;
Pique her and soothe in turn, soon Passion crowns thy hopes.
XXXV.
'Tis an old lesson: Time approves it true,
And those who know it best deplore it most;
When all is won that all desire to woo,
The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost:
Youth wasted, minds degraded, honour lost,
These are thy fruits, successful Passion! these!
If, kindly cruel, early hope is crossed,
Still to the last it rankles, a disease,
Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to please.
XXXVI.
Away! nor let me loiter in my song,
For we have many a mountain path to tread,
And many a varied shore to sail along,
By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led -
Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head
Imagined in its little schemes of thought;
Or e'er in new Utopias were read:
To teach man what he might be, or he ought;
If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught.
XXXVII.
Dear Nature is the kindest mother still;
Though always changing, in her aspect mild:
From her bare bosom let me take my fill,
Her never-weaned, though not her favoured child.
Oh! she is fairest in her features wild,
Where nothing polished dares pollute her path:
To me by day or night she ever smiled,
Though I have marked her when none other hath,
And sought her more and more, and loved her best in wrath.
XXXVIII.
Land of Albania! where Iskander rose;
Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise,
And he his namesake, whose oft-baffled foes,
Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprise:
Land of Albania! let me bend mine eyes
On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men!
The cross descends, thy minarets arise,
And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen,
Through many a cypress grove within each city's ken.
XXXIX.
Childe Harold sailed, and passed the barren spot
Where sad Penelope o'erlooked the wave;
And onward viewed the mount, not yet forgot,
The lover's refuge, and the Lesbian's grave.
Dark Sappho! could not verse immortal save
That breast imbued with such immortal fire?
Could she not live who life eternal gave?
If life eternal may await the lyre,
That only Heaven to which Earth's children may aspire.
XL.
'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve,
Childe Harold hailed Leucadia's cape afar;
A spot he longed to see, nor cared to leave:
Oft did he mark the scenes of vanished war,
Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar:
Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight
(Born beneath some remote inglorious star)
In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight,
But loathed the bravo's trade, and laughed at martial wight.
XLI.
But when he saw the evening star above
Leucadia's far-projecting rock of woe,
And hailed the last resort of fruitless love,
He felt, or deemed he felt, no common glow:
And as the stately vessel glided slow
Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount,
He watched the billows' melancholy flow,
And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont,
More placid seemed his eye, and smooth his pallid front.
XLII.
Morn dawns; and with it stern Albania's hills,
Dark Suli's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak,
Robed half in mist, bedewed with snowy rills,
Arrayed in many a dun and purple streak,
Arise; and, as the clouds along them break,
Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer;
Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak,
Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear,
And gathering storms around convulse the closing year.
XLIII.
Now Harold felt himself at length alone,
And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu:
Now he adventured on a shore unknown,
Which all admire, but many dread to view:
His breast was armed 'gainst fate, his wants were few:
Peril he sought not, but ne'er shrank to meet:
The scene was savage, but the scene was new;
This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet,
Beat back keen winter's blast; and welcomed summer's heat.
XLIV.
Here the red cross, for still the cross is here,
Though sadly scoffed at by the circumcised,
Forgets that pride to pampered priesthood dear;
Churchman and votary alike despised.
Foul Superstition! howsoe'er disguised,
Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross,
For whatsoever symbol thou art prized,
Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss!
Who from true worship's gold can separate thy dross.
XLV.
Ambracia's gulf behold, where once was lost
A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing!
In yonder rippling bay, their naval host
Did many a Roman chief and Asian king
To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter, bring
Look where the second Caesar's trophies rose,
Now, like the hands that reared them, withering;
Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes!
God! was thy globe ordained for such to win and lose?
XLVI.
From the dark barriers of that rugged clime,
E'en to the centre of Illyria's vales,
Childe Harold passed o'er many a mount sublime,
Through lands scarce noticed in historic tales:
Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales
Are rarely seen; nor can fair Tempe boast
A charm they know not; loved Parnassus fails,
Though classic ground, and consecrated most,
To match some spots that lurk within this lowering coast.
XLVII.
He passed bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake,
And left the primal city of the land,
And onwards did his further journey take
To greet Albania's chief, whose dread command
Is lawless law; for with a bloody hand
He sways a nation, turbulent and bold:
Yet here and there some daring mountain-band
Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold
Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold.
XLVIII.
Monastic Zitza! from thy shady brow,
Thou small, but favoured spot of holy ground!
Where'er we gaze, around, above, below,
What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found!
Rock, river, forest, mountain all abound,
And bluest skies that harmonise the whole:
Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound
Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll
Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please the soul.
XLIX.
Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill,
Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh
Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still,
Might well itself be deemed of dignity,
The convent's white walls glisten fair on high;
Here dwells the caloyer, nor rude is he,
Nor niggard of his cheer: the passer-by
Is welcome still; nor heedless will he flee
From hence, if he delight kind Nature's sheen to see.
L.
Here in the sultriest season let him rest,
Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees;
Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast,
From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze:
The plain is far beneath--oh! let him seize
Pure pleasure while he can; the scorching ray
Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease:
Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay,
And gaze, untired, the morn, the noon, the eve away.
LI.
Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight,
Nature's volcanic amphitheatre,
Chimera's alps extend from left to right:
Beneath, a living valley seems to stir;
Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain fir
Nodding above; behold black Acheron!
Once consecrated to the sepulchre.
Pluto! if this be hell I look upon,
Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek for none.
LII.
No city's towers pollute the lovely view;
Unseen is Yanina, though not remote,
Veiled by the screen of hills: here men are few,
Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot;
But, peering down each precipice, the goat
Browseth: and, pensive o'er his scattered flock,
The little shepherd in his white capote
Doth lean his boyish form along the rock,
Or in his cave awaits the tempest's short-lived shock.
LIII.
Oh! where, Dodona, is thine aged grove,
Prophetic fount, and oracle divine?
What valley echoed the response of Jove?
What trace remaineth of the Thunderer's shrine?
All, all forgotten--and shall man repine
That his frail bonds to fleeting life are broke?
Cease, fool! the fate of gods may well be thine:
Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak,
When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink beneath the stroke?
LIV.
Epirus' bounds recede, and mountains fail;
Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye
Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale
As ever Spring yclad in grassy dye:
E'en on a plain no humble beauties lie,
Where some bold river breaks the long expanse,
And woods along the banks are waving high,
Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance,
Or with the moonbeam sleep in Midnight's solemn trance.
LV.
The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit,
The Laos wide and fierce came roaring by;
The shades of wonted night were gathering yet,
When, down the steep banks winding wearily
Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky,
The glittering minarets of Tepalen,
Whose walls o'erlook the stream; and drawing nigh,
He heard the busy hum of warrior-men
Swelling the breeze that sighed along the lengthening glen.
LVI.
He passed the sacred harem's silent tower,
And underneath the wide o'erarching gate
Surveyed the dwelling of this chief of power
Where all around proclaimed his high estate.
Amidst no common pomp the despot sate,
While busy preparation shook the court;
Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons wait;
Within, a palace, and without a fort,
Here men of every clime appear to make resort.
LVII.
Richly caparisoned, a ready row
Of armed horse, and many a warlike store,
Circled the wide-extending court below;
Above, strange groups adorned the corridor;
And ofttimes through the area's echoing door,
Some high-capped Tartar spurred his steed away;
The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor,
Here mingled in their many-hued array,
While the deep war-drum's sound announced the close of day.
LVIII.
The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee,
With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun,
And gold-embroidered garments, fair to see:
The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon;
The Delhi with his cap of terror on,
And crooked glaive; the lively, supple Greek;
And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son;
The bearded Turk, that rarely deigns to speak,
Master of all around, too potent to be meek,
LIX.
Are mixed conspicuous: some recline in groups,
Scanning the motley scene that varies round;
There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops,
And some that smoke, and some that play are found;
Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground;
Half-whispering there the Greek is heard to prate;
Hark! from the mosque the nightly solemn sound,
The muezzin's call doth shake the minaret,
'There is no god but God!--to prayer--lo! God is great!'
LX.
Just at this season Ramazani's fast
Through the long day its penance did maintain.
But when the lingering twilight hour was past,
Revel and feast assumed the rule again:
Now all was bustle, and the menial train
Prepared and spread the plenteous board within;
The vacant gallery now seemed made in vain,
But from the chambers came the mingling din,
As page and slave anon were passing out and in.
LXI.
Here woman's voice is never heard: apart
And scarce permitted, guarded, veiled, to move,
She yields to one her person and her heart,
Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove;
For, not unhappy in her master's love,
And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares,
Blest cares! all other feelings far above!
Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears,
Who never quits the breast, no meaner passion shares.
LXII.
In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring
Of living water from the centre rose,
Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling,
And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose,
Ali reclined, a man of war and woes:
Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace,
While Gentleness her milder radiance throws
Along that aged venerable face,
The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with disgrace.
LXIII.
It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard
Ill suits the passions which belong to youth:
Love conquers age--so Hafiz hath averred,
So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth -
But crimes that scorn the tender voice of ruth,
Beseeming all men ill, but most the man
In years, have marked him with a tiger's tooth:
Blood follows blood, and through their mortal span,
In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood began.
LXIV.
Mid many things most new to ear and eye,
The pilgrim rested here his weary feet,
And gazed around on Moslem luxury,
Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat
Of Wealth and Wantonness, the choice retreat
Of sated Grandeur from the city's noise:
And were it humbler, it in sooth were sweet;
But Peace abhorreth artificial joys,
And Pleasure, leagued with Pomp, the zest of both destroys.
LXV.
Fierce are Albania's children, yet they lack
Not virtues, were those virtues more mature.
Where is the foe that ever saw their back?
Who can so well the toil of war endure?
Their native fastnesses not more secure
Than they in doubtful time of troublous need:
Their wrath how deadly! but their friendship sure,
When Gratitude or Valour bids them bleed,
Unshaken rushing on where'er their chief may lead.
LXVI.
Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain's tower,
Thronging to war in splendour and success;
And after viewed them, when, within their power,
Himself awhile the victim of distress;
That saddening hour when bad men hotlier press:
But these did shelter him beneath their roof,
When less barbarians would have cheered him less,
And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof -
In aught that tries the heart how few withstand the proof!
LXVII.
It chanced that adverse winds once drove his bark
Full on the coast of Suli's shaggy shore,
When all around was desolate and dark;
To land was perilous, to sojourn more;
Yet for awhile the mariners forbore,
Dubious to trust where treachery might lurk:
At length they ventured forth, though doubting sore
That those who loathe alike the Frank and Turk
Might once again renew their ancient butcher-work.
LXVIII.
Vain fear! the Suliotes stretched the welcome hand,
Led them o'er rocks and past the dangerous swamp,
Kinder than polished slaves, though not so bland,
And piled the hearth, and wrung their garments damp,
And filled the bowl, and trimmed the cheerful lamp,
And spread their fare: though homely, all they had:
Such conduct bears Philanthropy's rare stamp -
To rest the weary and to soothe the sad,
Doth lesson happier men, and shames at least the bad.
LXIX.
It came to pass, that when he did address
Himself to quit at length this mountain land,
Combined marauders half-way barred egress,
And wasted far and near with glaive and brand;
And therefore did he take a trusty band
To traverse Acarnania forest wide,
In war well-seasoned, and with labours tanned,
Till he did greet white Achelous' tide,
And from his farther bank AEtolia's wolds espied.
LXX.
Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove,
And weary waves retire to gleam at rest,
How brown the foliage of the green hill's grove,
Nodding at midnight o'er the calm bay's breast,
As winds come whispering lightly from the west,
Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene:
Here Harold was received a welcome guest;
Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene,
For many a joy could he from night's soft presence glean.
LXXI.
On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly blazed,
The feast was done, the red wine circling fast,
And he that unawares had there ygazed
With gaping wonderment had stared aghast;
For ere night's midmost, stillest hour was past,
The native revels of the troop began;
Each palikar his sabre from him cast,
And bounding hand in hand, man linked to man,
Yelling their uncouth dirge, long danced the kirtled clan.
LXXII.
Childe Harold at a little distance stood,
And viewed, but not displeased, the revelrie,
Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude:
In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see
Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee:
And as the flames along their faces gleamed,
Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing free,
The long wild locks that to their girdles streamed,
While thus in concert they this lay half sang, half screamed:
Tambourgi! Tambourgi! thy larum afar
Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war;
All the sons of the mountains arise at the note,
Chimariot, Illyrian, and dark Suliote!
Oh! who is more brave than a dark Suliote,
To his snowy camese and his shaggy capote?
To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock,
And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock.
Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive
The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live?
Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego?
What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe?
Macedonia sends forth her invincible race;
For a time they abandon the cave and the chase:
But those scarves of blood-red shall be redder, before
The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o'er.
Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the waves,
And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves,
Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar,
And track to his covert the captive on shore.
I ask not the pleasure that riches supply,
My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy:
Shall win the young bride with her long flowing hair,
And many a maid from her mother shall tear.
I love the fair face of the maid in her youth;
Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall soothe:
Let her bring from her chamber the many-toned lyre,
And sing us a song on the fall of her sire.
Remember the moment when Previsa fell,
The shrieks of the conquered, the conqueror's yell;
The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared,
The wealthy we slaughtered, the lovely we spared.
I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear;
He neither must know who would serve the Vizier;
Since the days of our prophet, the crescent ne'er saw
A chief ever glorious like Ali Pasha.
Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped,
Let the yellow-haired Giaours view his horsetail with dread;
When his Delhis come dashing in blood o'er the banks,
How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks!
Selictar! unsheath then our chief's scimitar:
Tambourgi! thy larum gives promise of war.
Ye mountains that see us descend to the shore,
Shall view us as victors, or view us no more!
LXXIII.
Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth!
Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great!
Who now shall lead thy scattered children forth,
And long accustomed bondage uncreate?
Not such thy sons who whilome did await,
The hopeless warriors of a willing doom,
In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait -
Oh, who that gallant spirit shall resume,
Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb?
LXXIV.
Spirit of Freedom! when on Phyle's brow
Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train,
Couldst thou forbode the dismal hour which now
Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain?
Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain,
But every carle can lord it o'er thy land;
Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain,
Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand,
From birth till death enslaved; in word, in deed, unmanned.
LXXV.
In all save form alone, how changed! and who
That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye,
Who would but deem their bosom burned anew
With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty!
And many dream withal the hour is nigh
That gives them back their fathers' heritage:
For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh,
Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage,
Or tear their name defiled from Slavery's mournful page.
LXXVI.
Hereditary bondsmen! know ye not
Who would be free themselves must strike the blow?
By their right arms the conquest must be wrought?
Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye? No!
True, they may lay your proud despoilers low,
But not for you will Freedom's altars flame.
Shades of the Helots! triumph o'er your foe:
Greece! change thy lords, thy state is still the same;
Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thy years of shame.
LXXVII.
The city won for Allah from the Giaour,
The Giaour from Othman's race again may wrest;
And the Serai's impenetrable tower
Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest;
Or Wahab's rebel brood, who dared divest
The Prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil,
May wind their path of blood along the West;
But ne'er will Freedom seek this fated soil,
But slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil.
LXXVIII.
Yet mark their mirth--ere lenten days begin,
That penance which their holy rites prepare
To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin,
By daily abstinence and nightly prayer;
But ere his sackcloth garb Repentance wear,
Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all,
To take of pleasaunce each his secret share,
In motley robe to dance at masking ball,
And join the mimic train of merry Carnival.
LXXIX.
And whose more rife with merriment than thine,
O Stamboul! once the empress of their reign?
Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine
And Greece her very altars eyes in vain:
(Alas! her woes will still pervade my strain!)
Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng,
All felt the common joy they now must feign;
Nor oft I've seen such sight, nor heard such song,
As wooed the eye, and thrilled the Bosphorus along.
LXXX.
Loud was the lightsome tumult on the shore;
Oft Music changed, but never ceased her tone,
And timely echoed back the measured oar,
And rippling waters made a pleasant moan:
The Queen of tides on high consenting shone;
And when a transient breeze swept o'er the wave,
'Twas as if, darting from her heavenly throne,
A brighter glance her form reflected gave,
Till sparkling billows seemed to light the banks they lave.
LXXXI.
Glanced many a light caique along the foam,
Danced on the shore the daughters of the land,
No thought had man or maid of rest or home,
While many a languid eye and thrilling hand
Exchanged the look few bosoms may withstand,
Or gently pressed, returned the pressure still:
Oh Love! young Love! bound in thy rosy band,
Let sage or cynic prattle as he will,
These hours, and only these, redeemed Life's years of ill!
LXXXII.
But, midst the throng in merry masquerade,
Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain,
E'en through the closest searment half-betrayed?
To such the gentle murmurs of the main
Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain;
To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd
Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain:
How do they loathe the laughter idly loud,
And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud!
LXXXIII.
This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece,
If Greece one true-born patriot can boast:
Not such as prate of war but skulk in peace,
The bondsman's peace, who sighs for all he lost,
Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost,
And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword:
Ah, Greece! they love thee least who owe thee most -
Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record
Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde!
LXXXIV.
When riseth Lacedaemon's hardihood,
When Thebes Epaminondas rears again,
When Athens' children are with hearts endued,
When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men,
Then mayst thou be restored; but not till then.
A thousand years scarce serve to form a state;
An hour may lay it in the dust: and when
Can man its shattered splendour renovate,
Recall its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fate?
LXXXV.
And yet how lovely in thine age of woe,
Land of lost gods and godlike men, art thou!
Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow,
Proclaim thee Nature's varied favourite now;
Thy fanes, thy temples to the surface bow,
Commingling slowly with heroic earth,
Broke by the share of every rustic plough:
So perish monuments of mortal birth,
So perish all in turn, save well-recorded worth;
LXXXVI.
Save where some solitary column mourns
Above its prostrate brethren of the cave;
Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns
Colonna's cliff, and gleams along the wave;
Save o'er some warrior's half-forgotten grave,
Where the grey stones and unmolested grass
Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave,
While strangers only not regardless pass,
Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh 'Alas!'
LXXXVII.
Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild:
Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields,
Thine olives ripe as when Minerva smiled,
And still his honeyed wealth Hymettus yields;
There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds,
The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain air;
Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds,
Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare;
Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair.
LXXXVIII.
Where'er we tread, 'tis haunted, holy ground;
No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould,
But one vast realm of wonder spreads around,
And all the Muse's tales seem truly told,
Till the sense aches with gazing to behold
The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon:
Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold,
Defies the power which crushed thy temples gone:
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.
LXXXIX.
The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same;
Unchanged in all except its foreign lord -
Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame;
The battle-field, where Persia's victim horde
First bowed beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword,
As on the morn to distant Glory dear,
When Marathon became a magic word;
Which uttered, to the hearer's eye appear
The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career.
XC.
The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow;
The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear;
Mountains above, Earth's, Ocean's plain below;
Death in the front, Destruction in the rear!
Such was the scene--what now remaineth here?
What sacred trophy marks the hallowed ground,
Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear?
The rifled urn, the violated mound,
The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger! spurns around.
XCI.
Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng:
Long shall the voyager, with th' Ionian blast,
Hail the bright clime of battle and of song;
Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore:
Boast of the aged! lesson of the young!
Which sages venerate and bards adore,
As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore.
XCII.
The parted bosom clings to wonted home,
If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth;
He that is lonely, hither let him roam,
And gaze complacent on congenial earth.
Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth;
But he whom Sadness sootheth may abide,
And scarce regret the region of his birth,
When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side,
Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died.
XCIII.
Let such approach this consecrated land,
And pass in peace along the magic waste:
But spare its relics--let no busy hand
Deface the scenes, already how defaced!
Not for such purpose were these altars placed.
Revere the remnants nations once revered;
So may our country's name be undisgraced,
So mayst thou prosper where thy youth was reared,
By every honest joy of love and life endeared!
XCIV.
For thee, who thus in too protracted song
Hath soothed thine idlesse with inglorious lays,
Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng
Of louder minstrels in these later days:
To such resign the strife for fading bays -
Ill may such contest now the spirit move
Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise,
Since cold each kinder heart that might approve,
And none are left to please where none are left to love.
XCV.
Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one!
Whom youth and youth's affections bound to me;
Who did for me what none beside have done,
Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee.
What is my being? thou hast ceased to be!
Nor stayed to welcome here thy wanderer home,
Who mourns o'er hours which we no more shall see -
Would they had never been, or were to come!
Would he had ne'er returned to find fresh cause to roam!
XCVI.
Oh! ever loving, lovely, and beloved!
How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past,
And clings to thoughts now better far removed!
But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last.
All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death, thou hast:
The parent, friend, and now the more than friend;
Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast,
And grief with grief continuing still to blend,
Hath snatched the little joy that life had yet to lend.
XCVII.
Then must I plunge again into the crowd,
And follow all that Peace disdains to seek?
Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly loud,
False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek,
To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak!
Still o'er the features, which perforce they cheer,
To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique;
Smiles form the channel of a future tear,
Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled sneer.
XCVIII.
What is the worst of woes that wait on age?
What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow?
To view each loved one blotted from life's page,
And be alone on earth, as I am now.
Before the Chastener humbly let me bow,
O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroyed:
Roll on, vain days! full reckless may ye flow,
Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoyed,
And with the ills of eld mine earlier years alloyed.
CANTO THE THIRD.
I.
Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child!
Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart?
When last I saw thy young blue eyes, they smiled,
And then we parted,--not as now we part,
But with a hope. -
Awaking with a start,
The waters heave around me; and on high
The winds lift up their voices: I depart,
Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by,
When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.
II.
Once more upon the waters! yet once more!
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar!
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead!
Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed,
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale,
Still must I on; for I am as a weed,
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail
Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail.
III.
In my youth's summer I did sing of One,
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind;
Again I seize the theme, then but begun,
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind
Bears the cloud onwards: in that tale I find
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears,
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind,
O'er which all heavily the journeying years
Plod the last sands of life--where not a flower appears.
IV.
Since my young days of passion--joy, or pain,
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string,
And both may jar: it may be, that in vain
I would essay as I have sung to sing.
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling,
So that it wean me from the weary dream
Of selfish grief or gladness--so it fling
Forgetfulness around me--it shall seem
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme.
V.
He who, grown aged in this world of woe,
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life,
So that no wonder waits him; nor below
Can love or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife,
Cut to his heart again with the keen knife
Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell
Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife
With airy images, and shapes which dwell
Still unimpaired, though old, in the soul's haunted cell.
VI.
'Tis to create, and in creating live
A being more intense, that we endow
With form our fancy, gaining as we give
The life we image, even as I do now.
What am I? Nothing: but not so art thou,
Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth,
Invisible but gazing, as I glow
Mixed with thy spirit, blended with thy birth,
And feeling still with thee in my crushed feelings' dearth.
VII.
Yet must I think less wildly: I HAVE thought
Too long and darkly, till my brain became,
In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought,
A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame:
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame,
My springs of life were poisoned. 'Tis too late!
Yet am I changed; though still enough the same
In strength to bear what time cannot abate,
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing fate.
VIII.
Something too much of this: but now 'tis past,
And the spell closes with its silent seal.
Long-absent Harold reappears at last;
He of the breast which fain no more would feel,
Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne'er heal;
Yet Time, who changes all, had altered him
In soul and aspect as in age: years steal
Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb;
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.
IX.
His had been quaffed too quickly, and he found
The dregs were wormwood; but he filled again,
And from a purer fount, on holier ground,
And deemed its spring perpetual; but in vain!
Still round him clung invisibly a chain
Which galled for ever, fettering though unseen,
And heavy though it clanked not; worn with pain,
Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen,
Entering with every step he took through many a scene.
X.
Secure in guarded coldness, he had mixed
Again in fancied safety with his kind,
And deemed his spirit now so firmly fixed
And sheathed with an invulnerable mind,
That, if no joy, no sorrow lurked behind;
And he, as one, might midst the many stand
Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find
Fit speculation; such as in strange land
He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's hand.
XI.
But who can view the ripened rose, nor seek
To wear it? who can curiously behold
The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek,
Nor feel the heart can never all grow old?
Who can contemplate fame through clouds unfold
The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb?
Harold, once more within the vortex rolled
On with the giddy circle, chasing Time,
Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond prime.
XII.
But soon he knew himself the most unfit
Of men to herd with Man; with whom he held
Little in common; untaught to submit
His thoughts to others, though his soul was quelled,
In youth by his own thoughts; still uncompelled,
He would not yield dominion of his mind
To spirits against whom his own rebelled;
Proud though in desolation; which could find
A life within itself, to breathe without mankind.
XIII.
Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends;
Where rolled the ocean, thereon was his home;
Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends,
He had the passion and the power to roam;
The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam,
Were unto him companionship; they spake
A mutual language, clearer than the tome
Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake
For nature's pages glassed by sunbeams on the lake.
XIV.
Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars,
Till he had peopled them with beings bright
As their own beams; and earth, and earth-born jars,
And human frailties, were forgotten quite:
Could he have kept his spirit to that flight,
He had been happy; but this clay will sink
Its spark immortal, envying it the light
To which it mounts, as if to break the link
That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its brink.
XV.
But in Man's dwellings he became a thing
Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome,
Drooped as a wild-born falcon with clipt wing,
To whom the boundless air alone were home:
Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome,
As eagerly the barred-up bird will beat
His breast and beak against his wiry dome
Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat
Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat.
XVI.
Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again,
With naught of hope left, but with less of gloom;
The very knowledge that he lived in vain,
That all was over on this side the tomb,
Had made Despair a smilingness assume,
Which, though 'twere wild--as on the plundered wreck
When mariners would madly meet their doom
With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck -
Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check.
XVII.
Stop! for thy tread is on an empire's dust!
An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below!
Is the spot marked with no colossal bust?
Nor column trophied for triumphal show?
None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so,
As the ground was before, thus let it be; -
How that red rain hath made the harvest grow!
And is this all the world has gained by thee,
Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory?
XVIII.
And Harold stands upon this place of skulls,
The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo!
How in an hour the power which gave annuls
Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too!
In 'pride of place' here last the eagle flew,
Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain,
Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through:
Ambition's life and labours all were vain;
He wears the shattered links of the world's broken chain.
XIX.
Fit retribution! Gaul may champ the bit,
And foam in fetters, but is Earth more free?
Did nations combat to make ONE submit;
Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty?
What! shall reviving thraldom again be
The patched-up idol of enlightened days?
Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we
Pay the Wolf homage? proffering lowly gaze
And servile knees to thrones? No; PROVE before ye praise!
XX.
If not, o'er one fall'n despot boast no more!
In vain fair cheeks were furrowed with hot tears
For Europe's flowers long rooted up before
The trampler of her vineyards; in vain years
Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears,
Have all been borne, and broken by the accord
Of roused-up millions: all that most endears
Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword
Such as Harmodius drew on Athens' tyrant lord.
XXI.
There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell;
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
XXII.
Did ye not hear it?--No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet.
But hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! arm! it is--it is--the cannon's opening roar!
XXIII.
Within a windowed niche of that high hall
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound, the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.
XXIV.
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated: who would guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!
XXV.
And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering, with white lips--'The foe! They come! they come!'
XXVI.
And wild and high the 'Cameron's gathering' rose,
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With the fierce native daring which instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years,
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears.
XXVII.
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,
Over the unreturniug brave,--alas!
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
Of living valour, rolling on the foe,
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.
XXVIII.
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms,--the day
Battle's magnificently stern array!
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent
The earth is covered thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
Rider and horse,--friend, foe,--in one red burial blent!
XXIX.
Their praise is hymned by loftier harps than mine;
Yet one I would _select_ from that proud throng,
Partly because they blend me with his line,
And partly that I did his sire some wrong,
And partly that bright names will hallow song;
And his was of the bravest, and when showered
The death-bolts deadliest the thinned files along,
Even where the thickest of war's tempest lowered,
They reached no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant Howard!
XXX.
There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee,
And mine were nothing, had I such to give;
But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree,
Which living waves where thou didst cease to live,
And saw around me the wild field revive
With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring
Come forth her work of gladness to contrive,
With all her reckless birds upon the wing,
I turned from all she brought to those she could not bring.
XXXI.
I turned to thee, to thousands, of whom each
And one as all a ghastly gap did make
In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach
Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake;
The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake
Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of Fame
May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake
The fever of vain longing, and the name
So honoured, but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim.
XXXII.
They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, mourn:
The tree will wither long before it fall:
The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn;
The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall
In massy hoariness; the ruined wall
Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone;
The bars survive the captive they enthral;
The day drags through though storms keep out the sun;
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on:
XXXIII.
E'en as a broken mirror, which the glass
In every fragment multiplies; and makes
A thousand images of one that was,
The same, and still the more, the more it breaks;
And thus the heart will do which not forsakes,
Living in shattered guise, and still, and cold,
And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches,
Yet withers on till all without is old,
Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold.
XXXIV.
There is a very life in our despair,
Vitality of poison,--a quick root
Which feeds these deadly branches; for it were
As nothing did we die; but life will suit
Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit,
Like to the apples on the Dead Sea shore,
All ashes to the taste: Did man compute
Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er
Such hours 'gainst years of life,--say, would he name threescore?
XXXV.
The Psalmist numbered out the years of man:
They are enough: and if thy tale be TRUE,
Thou, who didst grudge him e'en that fleeting span,
More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo!
Millions of tongues record thee, and anew
Their children's lips shall echo them, and say,
'Here, where the sword united nations drew,
Our countrymen were warring on that day!'
And this is much, and all which will not pass away.
XXXVI.
There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men,
Whose spirit anithetically mixed
One moment of the mightiest, and again
On little objects with like firmness fixed;
Extreme in all things! hadst thou been betwixt,
Thy throne had still been thine, or never been;
For daring made thy rise as fall: thou seek'st
Even now to reassume the imperial mien,
And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene!
XXXVII.
Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou!
She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name
Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now
That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame,
Who wooed thee once, thy vassal, and became
The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert
A god unto thyself; nor less the same
To the astounded kingdoms all inert,
Who deemed thee for a time whate'er thou didst assert.
XXXVIII.
Oh, more or less than man--in high or low,
Battling with nations, flying from the field;
Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool, now
More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield:
An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild,
But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor,
However deeply in men's spirits skilled,
Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war,
Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star.
XXXIX.
Yet well thy soul hath brooked the turning tide
With that untaught innate philosophy,
Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride,
Is gall and wormwood to an enemy.
When the whole host of hatred stood hard by,
To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled
With a sedate and all-enduring eye;
When Fortune fled her spoiled and favourite child,
He stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled.
XL.
Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them
Ambition steeled thee on to far too show
That just habitual scorn, which could contemn
Men and their thoughts; 'twas wise to feel, not so
To wear it ever on thy lip and brow,
And spurn the instruments thou wert to use
Till they were turned unto thine overthrow:
'Tis but a worthless world to win or lose;
So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose.
XLI.
If, like a tower upon a headland rock,
Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone,
Such scorn of man had helped to brave the shock;
But men's thoughts were the steps which paved thy throne,
THEIR admiration thy best weapon shone;
The part of Philip's son was thine, not then
(Unless aside thy purple had been thrown)
Like stern Diogenes to mock at men;
For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den.
XLII.
But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell,
And THERE hath been thy bane; there is a fire
And motion of the soul, which will not dwell
In its own narrow being, but aspire
Beyond the fitting medium of desire;
And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore,
Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire
Of aught but rest; a fever at the core,
Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore.
XLIII.
This makes the madmen who have made men mad
By their contagion! Conquerors and Kings,
Founders of sects and systems, to whom add
Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things
Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs,
And are themselves the fools to those they fool;
Envied, yet how unenviable! what stings
Are theirs! One breast laid open were a school
Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule:
XLIV.
Their breath is agitation, and their life
A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last,
And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife,
That should their days, surviving perils past,
Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast
With sorrow and supineness, and so die;
Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste
With its own flickering, or a sword laid by,
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.
XLV.
He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow;
He who surpasses or subdues mankind,
Must look down on the hate of those below.
Though high ABOVE the sun of glory glow,
And far BENEATH the earth and ocean spread,
ROUND him are icy rocks, and loudly blow
Contending tempests on his naked head,
And thus reward the toils which to those summits led.
XLVI.
Away with these; true Wisdom's world will be
Within its own creation, or in thine,
Maternal Nature! for who teems like thee,
Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine?
There Harold gazes on a work divine,
A blending of all beauties; streams and dells,
Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, corn-field, mountain, vine,
And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells
From grey but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells.
XLVII.
And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind,
Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd,
All tenantless, save to the crannying wind,
Or holding dark communion with the cloud.
There was a day when they were young and proud,
Banners on high, and battles passed below;
But they who fought are in a bloody shroud,
And those which waved are shredless dust ere now,
And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow.
XLVIII.
Beneath these battlements, within those walls,
Power dwelt amidst her passions; in proud state
Each robber chief upheld his armed halls,
Doing his evil will, nor less elate
Than mightier heroes of a longer date.
What want these outlaws conquerors should have
But History's purchased page to call them great?
A wider space, an ornamented grave?
Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full as brave.
XLIX.
In their baronial feuds and single fields,
What deeds of prowess unrecorded died!
And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields,
With emblems well devised by amorous pride,
Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide;
But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on
Keen contest and destruction near allied,
And many a tower for some fair mischief won,
Saw the discoloured Rhine beneath its ruin run.
L.
But thou, exulting and abounding river!
Making thy waves a blessing as they flow
Through banks whose beauty would endure for ever,
Could man but leave thy bright creation so,
Nor its fair promise from the surface mow
With the sharp scythe of conflict,--then to see
Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know
Earth paved like Heaven; and to seem such to me
Even now what wants thy stream?--that it should Lethe be.
LI.
A thousand battles have assailed thy banks,
But these and half their fame have passed away,
And Slaughter heaped on high his weltering ranks:
Their very graves are gone, and what are they?
Thy tide washed down the blood of yesterday,
And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream
Glassed with its dancing light the sunny ray;
But o'er the blackened memory's blighting dream
Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem.
LII.
Thus Harold inly said, and passed along,
Yet not insensible to all which here
Awoke the jocund birds to early song
In glens which might have made e'en exile dear:
Though on his brow were graven lines austere,
And tranquil sternness which had ta'en the place
Of feelings fierier far but less severe,
Joy was not always absent from his face,
But o'er it in such scenes would steal with transient trace.
LIII.
Nor was all love shut from him, though his days
Of passion had consumed themselves to dust.
It is in vain that we would coldly gaze
On such as smile upon us; the heart must
Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust
Hath weaned it from all worldlings: thus he felt,
For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust
In one fond breast, to which his own would melt,
And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt.
LIV.
And he had learned to love,--I know not why,
For this in such as him seems strange of mood, -
The helpless looks of blooming infancy,
Even in its earliest nurture; what subdued,
To change like this, a mind so far imbued
With scorn of man, it little boots to know;
But thus it was; and though in solitude
Small power the nipped affections have to grow,
In him this glowed when all beside had ceased to glow.
LV.
And there was one soft breast, as hath been said,
Which unto his was bound by stronger ties
Than the church links withal; and, though unwed,
THAT love was pure, and, far above disguise,
Had stood the test of mortal enmities
Still undivided, and cemented more
By peril, dreaded most in female eyes;
But this was firm, and from a foreign shore
Well to that heart might his these absent greetings pour!
The castled crag of Drachenfels
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine.
Whose breast of waters broadly swells
Between the banks which bear the vine,
And hills all rich with blossomed trees,
And fields which promise corn and wine,
And scattered cities crowning these,
Whose far white walls along them shine,
Have strewed a scene, which I should see
With double joy wert THOU with me!
And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes,
And hands which offer early flowers,
Walk smiling o'er this paradise;
Above, the frequent feudal towers
Through green leaves lift their walls of grey,
And many a rock which steeply lours,
And noble arch in proud decay,
Look o'er this vale of vintage bowers:
But one thing want these banks of Rhine, -
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!
I send the lilies given to me;
Though long before thy hand they touch,
I know that they must withered be,
But yet reject them not as such;
For I have cherished them as dear,
Because they yet may meet thine eye,
And guide thy soul to mine e'en here,
When thou behold'st them drooping nigh,
And know'st them gathered by the Rhine,
And offered from my heart to thine!
The river nobly foams and flows,
The charm of this enchanted ground,
And all its thousand turns disclose
Some fresher beauty varying round;
The haughtiest breast its wish might bound
Through life to dwell delighted here;
Nor could on earth a spot be found
To Nature and to me so dear,
Could thy dear eyes in following mine
Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine!
LVI.
By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground,
There is a small and simple pyramid,
Crowning the summit of the verdant mound;
Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid,
Our enemy's,--but let not that forbid
Honour to Marceau! o'er whose early tomb
Tears, big tears, gushed from the rough soldier's lid,
Lamenting and yet envying such a doom,
Falling for France, whose rights he battled to resume.
LVI.
Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career, -
His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes;
And fitly may the stranger lingering here
Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose;
For he was Freedom's champion, one of those,
The few in number, who had not o'erstept
The charter to chastise which she bestows
On such as wield her weapons; he had kept
The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept.
LVIII.
Here Ehrenbreitstein, with her shattered wall
Black with the miner's blast, upon her height
Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball
Rebounding idly on her strength did light;
A tower of victory! from whence the flight
Of baffled foes was watched along the plain;
But Peace destroyed what War could never blight,
And laid those proud roofs bare to Summer's rain -
On which the iron shower for years had poured in vain.
LIX.
Adieu to thee, fair Rhine! How long, delighted,
The stranger fain would linger on his way;
Thine is a scene alike where souls united
Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray;
And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey
On self-condemning bosoms, it were here,
Where Nature, not too sombre nor too gay,
Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere,
Is to the mellow earth as autumn to the year.
LX.
Adieu to thee again! a vain adieu!
There can be no farewell to scene like thine;
The mind is coloured by thy every hue;
And if reluctantly the eyes resign
Their cherished gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine!
'Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise;
More mighty spots may rise--more glaring shine,
But none unite in one attaching maze
The brilliant, fair, and soft;--the glories of old days.
LXI.
The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom
Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen,
The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom,
The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between,
The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been
In mockery of man's art; and these withal
A race of faces happy as the scene,
Whose fertile bounties here extend to all,
Still springing o'er thy banks, though empires near them fall.
LXII.
But these recede. Above me are the Alps,
The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,
And throned Eternity in icy halls
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls
The avalanche--the thunderbolt of snow!
All that expands the spirit, yet appals,
Gathers around these summits, as to show
How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below.
LXIII.
But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan,
There is a spot should not be passed in vain, -
Morat! the proud, the patriot field! where man
May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain,
Nor blush for those who conquered on that plain;
Here Burgundy bequeathed his tombless host,
A bony heap, through ages to remain,
Themselves their monument;--the Stygian coast
Unsepulchred they roamed, and shrieked each wandering ghost.
LXIV.
While Waterloo with Cannae's carnage vies,
Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand;
They were true Glory's stainless victories,
Won by the unambitious heart and hand
Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band,
All unbought champions in no princely cause
Of vice-entailed Corruption; they no land
Doomed to bewail the blasphemy of laws
Making king's rights divine, by some Draconic clause.
LXV.
By a lone wall a lonelier column rears
A grey and grief-worn aspect of old days
'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years,
And looks as with the wild bewildered gaze
Of one to stone converted by amaze,
Yet still with consciousness; and there it stands,
Making a marvel that it not decays,
When the coeval pride of human hands,
Levelled Aventicum, hath strewed her subject lands.
LXVI.
And there--oh! sweet and sacred be the name! -
Julia--the daughter, the devoted--gave
Her youth to Heaven; her heart, beneath a claim
Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave.
Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would crave
The life she lived in; but the judge was just,
And then she died on him she could not save.
Their tomb was simple, and without a bust,
And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one dust.
LXVII.
But these are deeds which should not pass away,
And names that must not wither, though the earth
Forgets her empires with a just decay,
The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and birth;
The high, the mountain-majesty of worth,
Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe,
And from its immortality look forth
In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow,
Imperishably pure beyond all things below.
LXVIII.
Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face,
The mirror where the stars and mountains view
The stillness of their aspect in each trace
Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue:
There is too much of man here, to look through
With a fit mind the might which I behold;
But soon in me shall Loneliness renew
Thoughts hid, but not less cherished than of old,
Ere mingling with the herd had penned me in their fold.
LXIX.
To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind;
All are not fit with them to stir and toil,
Nor is it discontent to keep the mind
Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil
In one hot throng, where we become the spoil
Of our infection, till too late and long
We may deplore and struggle with the coil,
In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong
Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong.
LXX.
There, in a moment, we may plunge our years
In fatal penitence, and in the blight
Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears,
And colour things to come with hues of Night;
The race of life becomes a hopeless flight
To those that walk in darkness: on the sea,
The boldest steer but where their ports invite,
But there are wanderers o'er Eternity
Whose bark drives on and on, and anchored ne'er shall be.
LXXI.
Is it not better, then, to be alone,
And love Earth only for its earthly sake?
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone,
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake,
Which feeds it as a mother who doth make
A fair but froward infant her own care,
Kissing its cries away as these awake; -
Is it not better thus our lives to wear,
Than join the crushing crowd, doomed to inflict or bear?
LXXII.
I live not in myself, but I become
Portion of that around me; and to me,
High mountains are a feeling, but the hum
Of human cities torture: I can see
Nothing to loathe in Nature, save to be
A link reluctant in a fleshly chain,
Classed among creatures, when the soul can flee,
And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain.
LXXIII.
And thus I am absorbed, and this is life:
I look upon the peopled desert Past,
As on a place of agony and strife,
Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast,
To act and suffer, but remount at last
With a fresh pinion; which I felt to spring,
Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the blast
Which it would cope with, on delighted wing,
Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling.
LXXIV.
And when, at length, the mind shall be all free
From what it hates in this degraded form,
Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be
Existent happier in the fly and worm, -
When elements to elements conform,
And dust is as it should be, shall I not
Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm?
The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each spot?
Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot?
LXXV.
Are not the mountains, waves, and skies a part
Of me and of my soul, as I of them?
Is not the love of these deep in my heart
With a pure passion? should I not contemn
All objects, if compared with these? and stem
A tide of suffering, rather than forego
Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm
Of those whose eyes are only turned below,
Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow?
LXXVI.
But this is not my theme; and I return
To that which is immediate, and require
Those who find contemplation in the urn,
To look on One whose dust was once all fire,
A native of the land where I respire
The clear air for awhile--a passing guest,
Where he became a being,--whose desire
Was to be glorious; 'twas a foolish quest,
The which to gain and keep he sacrificed all rest.
LXXVII.
Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau,
The apostle of affliction, he who threw
Enchantment over passion, and from woe
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew
The breath which made him wretched; yet he knew
How to make madness beautiful, and cast
O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue
Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past
The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast.
LXXVIII.
His love was passion's essence--as a tree
On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame
Kindled he was, and blasted; for to be
Thus, and enamoured, were in him the same.
But his was not the love of living dame,
Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams,
But of Ideal beauty, which became
In him existence, and o'erflowing teems
Along his burning page, distempered though it seems.
LXXIX.
THIS breathed itself to life in Julie, THIS
Invested her with all that's wild and sweet;
This hallowed, too, the memorable kiss
Which every morn his fevered lip would greet,
From hers, who but with friendship his would meet:
But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast
Flashed the thrilled spirit's love-devouring heat;
In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest,
Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest.
LXXX.
His life was one long war with self-sought foes,
Or friends by him self-banished; for his mind
Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose
For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind,
'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind.
But he was frenzied,--wherefore, who may know?
Since cause might be which skill could never find;
But he was frenzied by disease or woe
To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show.
LXXXI.
For then he was inspired, and from him came,
As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore,
Those oracles which set the world in flame,
Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more:
Did he not this for France, which lay before
Bowed to the inborn tyranny of years?
Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore,
Till by the voice of him and his compeers
Roused up to too much wrath, which follows o'ergrown fears?
LXXXII.
They made themselves a fearful monument!
The wreck of old opinions--things which grew,
Breathed from the birth of time: the veil they rent,
And what behind it lay, all earth shall view.
But good with ill they also overthrew,
Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild
Upon the same foundation, and renew
Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour refilled,
As heretofore, because ambition was self-willed.
LXXXIII.
But this will not endure, nor be endured!
Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt.
They might have used it better, but, allured
By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt
On one another; Pity ceased to melt
With her once natural charities. But they,
Who in Oppression's darkness caved had dwelt,
They were not eagles, nourished with the day;
What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey?
LXXXIV.
What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear
That which disfigures it; and they who war
With their own hopes, and have been vanquished, bear
Silence, but not submission: in his lair
Fixed Passion holds his breath, until the hour
Which shall atone for years; none need despair:
It came, it cometh, and will come,--the power
To punish or forgive--in ONE we shall be slower.
LXXXV.
Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake,
With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring.
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing
To waft me from distraction; once I loved
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring
Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved,
That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved.
LXXXVI.
It is the hush of night, and all between
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,
Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen.
Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear
Precipitously steep; and drawing near,
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore,
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar,
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more;
LXXXVII.
He is an evening reveller, who makes
His life an infancy, and sings his fill;
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes
Starts into voice a moment, then is still.
There seems a floating whisper on the hill,
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews
All silently their tears of love instil,
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues.
LXXXVIII.
Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven,
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate
Of men and empires,--'tis to be forgiven,
That in our aspirations to be great,
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state,
And claim a kindred with you; for ye are
A beauty and a mystery, and create
In us such love and reverence from afar,
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.
LXXXIX.
All heaven and earth are still--though not in sleep,
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most;
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep: -
All heaven and earth are still: from the high host
Of stars, to the lulled lake and mountain-coast,
All is concentered in a life intense,
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,
But hath a part of being, and a sense
Of that which is of all Creator and defence.
XC.
Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt
In solitude, where we are LEAST alone;
A truth, which through our being then doth melt,
And purifies from self: it is a tone,
The soul and source of music, which makes known
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm,
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone,
Binding all things with beauty;--'twould disarm
The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm.
XCI.
Nor vainly did the early Persian make
His altar the high places and the peak
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and thus take
A fit and unwalled temple, there to seek
The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak,
Upreared of human hands. Come, and compare
Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek,
With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air,
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer!
XCII.
The sky is changed!--and such a change! O night,
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,
Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud,
But every mountain now hath found a tongue;
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud,
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!
XCIII.
And this is in the night: --Most glorious night!
Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight -
A portion of the tempest and of thee!
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!
And now again 'tis black,--and now, the glee
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.
XCIV.
Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between
Heights which appear as lovers who have parted
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene,
That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted;
Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted,
Love was the very root of the fond rage
Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed:
Itself expired, but leaving them an age
Of years all winters--war within themselves to wage.
XCV.
Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way,
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand;
For here, not one, but many, make their play,
And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand,
Flashing and cast around: of all the band,
The brightest through these parted hills hath forked
His lightnings, as if he did understand
That in such gaps as desolation worked,
There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurked.
XCVI.
Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye,
With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul
To make these felt and feeling, well may be
Things that have made me watchful; the far roll
Of your departing voices, is the knoll
Of what in me is sleepless,--if I rest.
But where of ye, O tempests! is the goal?
Are ye like those within the human breast?
Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest?
XCVII.
Could I embody and unbosom now
That which is most within me,--could I wreak
My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw
Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak,
All that I would have sought, and all I seek,
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe--into one word,
And that one word were lightning, I would speak;
But as it is, I live and die unheard,
With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword.
XCVIII.
The morn is up again, the dewy morn,
With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom,
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn,
And living as if earth contained no tomb, -
And glowing into day: we may resume
The march of our existence: and thus I,
Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room
And food for meditation, nor pass by
Much, that may give us pause, if pondered fittingly.
XCIX.
Clarens! sweet Clarens! birthplace of deep Love!
Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought;
Thy trees take root in love; the snows above
The very glaciers have his colours caught,
And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought
By rays which sleep there lovingly: the rocks,
The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought
In them a refuge from the worldly shocks,
Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then mocks.
C.
Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod, -
Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne
To which the steps are mountains; where the god
Is a pervading life and light,--so shown
Not on those summits solely, nor alone
In the still cave and forest; o'er the flower
His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown,
His soft and summer breath, whose tender power
Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour.
CI.
All things are here of HIM; from the black pines,
Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar
Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines
Which slope his green path downward to the shore,
Where the bowed waters meet him, and adore,
Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood,
The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar,
But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood,
Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude.
CII.
A populous solitude of bees and birds,
And fairy-formed and many coloured things,
Who worship him with notes more sweet than words,
And innocently open their glad wings,
Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs,
And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend
Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings
The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend,
Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end.
CIII.
He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore,
And make his heart a spirit: he who knows
That tender mystery, will love the more,
For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes,
And the world's waste, have driven him far from those,
For 'tis his nature to advance or die;
He stands not still, but or decays, or grows
Into a boundless blessing, which may vie
With the immortal lights, in its eternity!
CIV.
'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot,
Peopling it with affections; but he found
It was the scene which passion must allot
To the mind's purified beings; 'twas the ground
Where early Love his Psyche's zone unbound,
And hallowed it with loveliness: 'tis lone,
And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound,
And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone
Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have reared a throne.
CV.
Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes
Of names which unto you bequeathed a name;
Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads,
A path to perpetuity of fame:
They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim
Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile
Thoughts which should call down thunder, and the flame
Of Heaven, again assailed, if Heaven the while
On man and man's research could deign do more than smile.
CVI.
The one was fire and fickleness, a child
Most mutable in wishes, but in mind
A wit as various,--gay, grave, sage, or wild, -
Historian, bard, philosopher combined:
He multiplied himself among mankind,
The Proteus of their talents: But his own
Breathed most in ridicule,--which, as the wind,
Blew where it listed, laying all things prone, -
Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne.
CVII.
The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought,
And hiving wisdom with each studious year,
In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought,
And shaped his weapon with an edge severe,
Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer;
The lord of irony,--that master spell,
Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear,
And doomed him to the zealot's ready hell,
Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well.
CVIII.
Yet, peace be with their ashes,--for by them,
If merited, the penalty is paid;
It is not ours to judge, far less condemn;
The hour must come when such things shall be made
Known unto all,--or hope and dread allayed
By slumber on one pillow, in the dust,
Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decayed;
And when it shall revive, as is our trust,
'Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just.
CIX.
But let me quit man's works, again to read
His Maker's spread around me, and suspend
This page, which from my reveries I feed,
Until it seems prolonging without end.
The clouds above me to the white Alps tend,
And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er
May be permitted, as my steps I bend
To their most great and growing region, where
The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air.
CX.
Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee
Full flashes on the soul the light of ages,
Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee,
To the last halo of the chiefs and sages
Who glorify thy consecrated pages;
Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; still,
The fount at which the panting mind assuages
Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill,
Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill.
CXI.
Thus far have I proceeded in a theme
Renewed with no kind auspices: --to feel
We are not what we have been, and to deem
We are not what we should be, and to steel
The heart against itself; and to conceal,
With a proud caution, love or hate, or aught, -
Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal, -
Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought,
Is a stern task of soul: --No matter,--it is taught.
CXII.
And for these words, thus woven into song,
It may be that they are a harmless wile, -
The colouring of the scenes which fleet along,
Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile
My breast, or that of others, for a while.
Fame is the thirst of youth,--but I am not
So young as to regard men's frown or smile
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot;
I stood and stand alone,--remembered or forgot.
CXIII.
I have not loved the world, nor the world me;
I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed
To its idolatries a patient knee, -
Nor coined my cheek to smiles, nor cried aloud
In worship of an echo; in the crowd
They could not deem me one of such; I stood
Among them, but not of them; in a shroud
Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could,
Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued.
CXIV.
I have not loved the world, nor the world me, -
But let us part fair foes; I do believe,
Though I have found them not, that there may be
Words which are things,--hopes which will not deceive,
And virtues which are merciful, nor weave
Snares for the falling: I would also deem
O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve;
That two, or one, are almost what they seem, -
That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream.
CXV.
My daughter! with thy name this song begun -
My daughter! with thy name this much shall end -
I see thee not, I hear thee not,--but none
Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend
To whom the shadows of far years extend:
Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold,
My voice shall with thy future visions blend,
And reach into thy heart, when mine is cold, -
A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould.
CXVI.
To aid thy mind's development,--to watch
Thy dawn of little joys,--to sit and see
Almost thy very growth,--to view thee catch
Knowledge of objects, wonders yet to thee!
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee,
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, -
This, it should seem, was not reserved for me
Yet this was in my nature: --As it is,
I know not what is there, yet something like to this.
CXVII.
Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught,
I know that thou wilt love me; though my name
Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught
With desolation, and a broken claim:
Though the grave closed between us,--'twere the same,
I know that thou wilt love me: though to drain
MY blood from out thy being were an aim,
And an attainment,--all would be in vain, -
Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain.
CXVIII.
The child of love,--though born in bitterness,
And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire
These were the elements, and thine no less.
As yet such are around thee; but thy fire
Shall be more tempered, and thy hope far higher.
Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! O'er the sea,
And from the mountains where I now respire,
Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee,
As, with a sigh, I deem thou mightst have been to me!
CANTO THE FOURTH.
I.
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
A palace and a prison on each hand:
I saw from out the wave her structures rise
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand:
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying glory smiles
O'er the far times when many a subject land
Looked to the winged Lion's marble piles,
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles!
II.
She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,
Rising with her tiara of proud towers
At airy distance, with majestic motion,
A ruler of the waters and their powers:
And such she was; her daughters had their dowers
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East
Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers.
In purple was she robed, and of her feast
Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased.
III.
In Venice, Tasso's echoes are no more,
And silent rows the songless gondolier;
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,
And music meets not always now the ear:
Those days are gone--but beauty still is here.
States fall, arts fade--but Nature doth not die,
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,
The pleasant place of all festivity,
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!
IV.
But unto us she hath a spell beyond
Her name in story, and her long array
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond
Above the dogeless city's vanished sway;
Ours is a trophy which will not decay
With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor,
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away -
The keystones of the arch! though all were o'er,
For us repeopled were the solitary shore.
V.
The beings of the mind are not of clay;
Essentially immortal, they create
And multiply in us a brighter ray
And more beloved existence: that which Fate
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state
Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied,
First exiles, then replaces what we hate;
Watering the heart whose early flowers have died,
And with a fresher growth replenishing the void.
VI.
Such is the refuge of our youth and age,
The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy;
And this worn feeling peoples many a page,
And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye:
Yet there are things whose strong reality
Outshines our fairy-land; in shape and hues
More beautiful than our fantastic sky,
And the strange constellations which the Muse
O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse:
VII.
I saw or dreamed of such,--but let them go -
They came like truth, and disappeared like dreams;
And whatsoe'er they were--are now but so;
I could replace them if I would: still teems
My mind with many a form which aptly seems
Such as I sought for, and at moments found;
Let these too go--for waking reason deems
Such overweening phantasies unsound,
And other voices speak, and other sights surround.
VIII.
I've taught me other tongues, and in strange eyes
Have made me not a stranger; to the mind
Which is itself, no changes bring surprise;
Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find
A country with--ay, or without mankind;
Yet was I born where men are proud to be,
Not without cause; and should I leave behind
The inviolate island of the sage and free,
And seek me out a home by a remoter sea,
IX.
Perhaps I loved it well: and should I lay
My ashes in a soil which is not mine,
My spirit shall resume it--if we may
Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine
My hopes of being remembered in my line
With my land's language: if too fond and far
These aspirations in their scope incline, -
If my fame should be, as my fortunes are,
Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar.
X.
My name from out the temple where the dead
Are honoured by the nations--let it be -
And light the laurels on a loftier head!
And be the Spartan's epitaph on me -
'Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.'
Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need;
The thorns which I have reaped are of the tree
I planted,--they have torn me, and I bleed:
I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.
XI.
The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord;
And, annual marriage now no more renewed,
The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored,
Neglected garment of her widowhood!
St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood
Stand, but in mockery of his withered power,
Over the proud place where an Emperor sued,
And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour
When Venice was a queen with an unequalled dower.
XII.
The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns -
An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt;
Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains
Clank over sceptred cities; nations melt
From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt
The sunshine for a while, and downward go
Like lauwine loosened from the mountain's belt:
Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo!
The octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe.
XIII.
Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass,
Their gilded collars glittering in the sun;
But is not Doria's menace come to pass?
Are they not BRIDLED?--Venice, lost and won,
Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done,
Sinks, like a seaweed, into whence she rose!
Better be whelmed beneath the waves, and shun,
Even in Destruction's depth, her foreign foes,
From whom submission wrings an infamous repose.
XIV.
In youth she was all glory,--a new Tyre, -
Her very byword sprung from victory,
The 'Planter of the Lion,' which through fire
And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea;
Though making many slaves, herself still free
And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite:
Witness Troy's rival, Candia! Vouch it, ye
Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight!
For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight.
XV.
Statues of glass--all shivered--the long file
Of her dead doges are declined to dust;
But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile
Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust;
Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust,
Have yielded to the stranger: empty halls,
Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must
Too oft remind her who and what enthrals,
Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls.
XVI.
When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse,
And fettered thousands bore the yoke of war,
Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse,
Her voice their only ransom from afar:
See! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car
Of the o'ermastered victor stops, the reins
Fall from his hands--his idle scimitar
Starts from its belt--he rends his captive's chains,
And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains.
XVII.
Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine,
Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot,
Thy choral memory of the bard divine,
Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot
Which ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy lot
Is shameful to the nations,--most of all,
Albion! to thee: the Ocean Queen should not
Abandon Ocean's children; in the fall
Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall.
XVIII.
I loved her from my boyhood: she to me
Was as a fairy city of the heart,
Rising like water-columns from the sea,
Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart
And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art,
Had stamped her image in me, and e'en so,
Although I found her thus, we did not part,
Perchance e'en dearer in her day of woe,
Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show.
XIX.
I can repeople with the past--and of
The present there is still for eye and thought,
And meditation chastened down, enough;
And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought;
And of the happiest moments which were wrought
Within the web of my existence, some
From thee, fair Venice! have their colours caught:
There are some feelings Time cannot benumb,
Nor torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb.
XX.
But from their nature will the tannen grow
Loftiest on loftiest and least sheltered rocks,
Rooted in barrenness, where nought below
Of soil supports them 'gainst the Alpine shocks
Of eddying storms; yet springs the trunk, and mocks
The howling tempest, till its height and frame
Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks
Of bleak, grey granite, into life it came,
And grew a giant tree;--the mind may grow the same.
XXI.
Existence may be borne, and the deep root
Of life and sufferance make its firm abode
In bare and desolate bosoms: mute
The camel labours with the heaviest load,
And the wolf dies in silence. Not bestowed
In vain should such examples be; if they,
Things of ignoble or of savage mood,
Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay
May temper it to bear,--it is but for a day.
XXII.
All suffering doth destroy, or is destroyed,
Even by the sufferer; and, in each event,
Ends: --Some, with hope replenished and rebuoyed,
Return to whence they came--with like intent,
And weave their web again; some, bowed and bent,
Wax grey and ghastly, withering ere their time,
And perish with the reed on which they leant;
Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime,
According as their souls were formed to sink or climb.
XXIII.
But ever and anon of griefs subdued
There comes a token like a scorpion's sting,
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued;
And slight withal may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside for ever: it may be a sound -
A tone of music--summer's eve--or spring -
A flower--the wind--the ocean--which shall wound,
Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.
XXIV.
And how and why we know not, nor can trace
Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind,
But feel the shock renewed, nor can efface
The blight and blackening which it leaves behind,
Which out of things familiar, undesigned,
When least we deem of such, calls up to view
The spectres whom no exorcism can bind, -
The cold--the changed--perchance the dead--anew,
The mourned, the loved, the lost--too many!--yet how few!
XXV.
But my soul wanders; I demand it back
To meditate amongst decay, and stand
A ruin amidst ruins; there to track
Fall'n states and buried greatness, o'er a land
Which WAS the mightiest in its old command,
And IS the loveliest, and must ever be
The master-mould of Nature's heavenly hand,
Wherein were cast the heroic and the free,
The beautiful, the brave--the lords of earth and sea.
XXVI.
The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome!
And even since, and now, fair Italy!
Thou art the garden of the world, the home
Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree;
Even in thy desert, what is like to thee?
Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste
More rich than other climes' fertility;
Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced
With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced.
XXVII.
The moon is up, and yet it is not night -
Sunset divides the sky with her--a sea
Of glory streams along the Alpine height
Of blue Friuli's mountains; Heaven is free
From clouds, but of all colours seems to be -
Melted to one vast Iris of the West,
Where the day joins the past eternity;
While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest
Floats through the azure air--an island of the blest!
XXVIII.
A single star is at her side, and reigns
With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains
Rolled o'er the peak of the far Rhaetian hill,
As Day and Night contending were, until
Nature reclaimed her order: --gently flows
The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil
The odorous purple of a new-born rose,
Which streams upon her stream, and glassed within it glows,
XXIX.
Filled with the face of heaven, which, from afar,
Comes down upon the waters; all its hues,
From the rich sunset to the rising star,
Their magical variety diffuse:
And now they change; a paler shadow strews
Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues
With a new colour as it gasps away,
The last still loveliest, till--'tis gone--and all is grey.
XXX.
There is a tomb in Arqua;--reared in air,
Pillared in their sarcophagus, repose
The bones of Laura's lover: here repair
Many familiar with his well-sung woes,
The pilgrims of his genius. He arose
To raise a language, and his land reclaim
From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes:
Watering the tree which bears his lady's name
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame.
XXXI.
They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died;
The mountain-village where his latter days
Went down the vale of years; and 'tis their pride -
An honest pride--and let it be their praise,
To offer to the passing stranger's gaze
His mansion and his sepulchre; both plain
And venerably simple, such as raise
A feeling more accordant with his strain,
Than if a pyramid formed his monumental fane.
XXXII.
And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt
Is one of that complexion which seems made
For those who their mortality have felt,
And sought a refuge from their hopes decayed
In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade,
Which shows a distant prospect far away
Of busy cities, now in vain displayed,
For they can lure no further; and the ray
Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday.
XXXIII.
Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers
And shining in the brawling brook, where-by,
Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours
With a calm languor, which, though to the eye
Idlesse it seem, hath its morality,
If from society we learn to live,
'Tis solitude should teach us how to die;
It hath no flatterers; vanity can give
No hollow aid; alone--man with his God must strive:
XXXIV.
Or, it may be, with demons, who impair
The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey
In melancholy bosoms, such as were
Of moody texture from their earliest day,
And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay,
Deeming themselves predestined to a doom
Which is not of the pangs that pass away;
Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb,
The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom.
XXXV.
Ferrara! in thy wide and grass-grown streets,
Whose symmetry was not for solitude,
There seems as 'twere a curse upon the seat's
Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood
Of Este, which for many an age made good
Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore
Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood
Of petty power impelled, of those who wore
The wreath which Dante's brow alone had worn before.
XXXVI.
And Tasso is their glory and their shame.
Hark to his strain! and then survey his cell!
And see how dearly earned Torquato's fame,
And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell.
The miserable despot could not quell
The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend
With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell
Where he had plunged it. Glory without end
Scattered the clouds away--and on that name attend
XXXVII.
The tears and praises of all time, while thine
Would rot in its oblivion--in the sink
Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line
Is shaken into nothing; but the link
Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think
Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn -
Alfonso! how thy ducal pageants shrink
From thee! if in another station born,
Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st to mourn:
XXXVIII.
THOU! formed to eat, and be despised, and die,
Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou
Hadst a more splendid trough, and wider sty:
HE! with a glory round his furrowed brow,
Which emanated then, and dazzles now
In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire,
And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow
No strain which shamed his country's creaking lyre,
That whetstone of the teeth--monotony in wire!
XXXIX.
Peace to Torquato's injured shade! 'twas his
In life and death to be the mark where Wrong
Aimed with their poisoned arrows--but to miss.
Oh, victor unsurpassed in modern song!
Each year brings forth its millions; but how long
The tide of generations shall roll on,
And not the whole combined and countless throng
Compose a mind like thine? Though all in one
Condensed their scattered rays, they would not form a sun.
XL.
Great as thou art, yet paralleled by those
Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine,
The bards of Hell and Chivalry: first rose
The Tuscan father's comedy divine;
Then, not unequal to the Florentine,
The Southern Scott, the minstrel who called forth
A new creation with his magic line,
And, like the Ariosto of the North,
Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly worth.
XLI.
The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust
The iron crown of laurel's mimicked leaves;
Nor was the ominous element unjust,
For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves
Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves,
And the false semblance but disgraced his brow;
Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieves,
Know that the lightning sanctifies below
Whate'er it strikes;--yon head is doubly sacred now.
XLII.
Italia! O Italia! thou who hast
The fatal gift of beauty, which became
A funeral dower of present woes and past,
On thy sweet brow is sorrow ploughed by shame,
And annals graved in characters of flame.
Oh God! that thou wert in thy nakedness
Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim
Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press
To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress;
XLIII.
Then mightst thou more appal; or, less desired,
Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored
For thy destructive charms; then, still untired,
Would not be seen the armed torrents poured
Down the deep Alps; nor would the hostile horde
Of many-nationed spoilers from the Po
Quaff blood and water; nor the stranger's sword
Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so,
Victor or vanquished, thou the slave of friend or foe.
XLIV.
Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him,
The Roman friend of Rome's least mortal mind,
The friend of Tully: as my bark did skim
The bright blue waters with a fanning wind,
Came Megara before me, and behind
AEgina lay, Piraeus on the right,
And Corinth on the left; I lay reclined
Along the prow, and saw all these unite
In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight;
XLV.
For time hath not rebuilt them, but upreared
Barbaric dwellings on their shattered site,
Which only make more mourned and more endeared
The few last rays of their far-scattered light,
And the crushed relics of their vanished might.
The Roman saw these tombs in his own age,
These sepulchres of cities, which excite
Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page
The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage.
XLVI.
That page is now before me, and on mine
HIS country's ruin added to the mass
Of perished states he mourned in their decline,
And I in desolation: all that WAS
Of then destruction IS; and now, alas!
Rome--Rome imperial, bows her to the storm,
In the same dust and blackness, and we pass
The skeleton of her Titanic form,
Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm.
XLVII.
Yet, Italy! through every other land
Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side;
Mother of Arts! as once of Arms; thy hand
Was then our Guardian, and is still our guide;
Parent of our religion! whom the wide
Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven!
Europe, repentant of her parricide,
Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven,
Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven.
XLVIII.
But Arno wins us to the fair white walls,
Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps
A softer feeling for her fairy halls.
Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps
Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps
To laughing life, with her redundant horn.
Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps,
Was modern Luxury of Commerce born,
And buried Learning rose, redeemed to a new morn.
XLIX.
There, too, the goddess loves in stone, and fills
The air around with beauty; we inhale
The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils
Part of its immortality; the veil
Of heaven is half undrawn; within the pale
We stand, and in that form and face behold
What Mind can make, when Nature's self would fail;
And to the fond idolaters of old
Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould:
L.
We gaze and turn away, and know not where,
Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart
Reels with its fulness; there--for ever there -
Chained to the chariot of triumphal Art,
We stand as captives, and would not depart.
Away!--there need no words, nor terms precise,
The paltry jargon of the marble mart,
Where Pedantry gulls Folly--we have eyes:
Blood, pulse, and breast, confirm the Dardan Shepherd's prize.
LI.
Appearedst thou not to Paris in this guise?
Or to more deeply blest Anchises? or,
In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies
Before thee thy own vanquished Lord of War?
And gazing in thy face as toward a star,
Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn,
Feeding on thy sweet cheek! while thy lips are
With lava kisses melting while they burn,
Showered on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from an urn!
LII.
Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love,
Their full divinity inadequate
That feeling to express, or to improve,
The gods become as mortals, and man's fate
Has moments like their brightest! but the weight
Of earth recoils upon us;--let it go!
We can recall such visions, and create
From what has been, or might be, things which grow,
Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below.
LIII.
I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands,
The artist and his ape, to teach and tell
How well his connoisseurship understands
The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell:
Let these describe the undescribable:
I would not their vile breath should crisp the stream
Wherein that image shall for ever dwell;
The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream
That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam.
LIV.
In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie
Ashes which make it holier, dust which is
E'en in itself an immortality,
Though there were nothing save the past, and this
The particle of those sublimities
Which have relapsed to chaos: --here repose
Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his,
The starry Galileo, with his woes;
Here Machiavelli's earth returned to whence it rose.
LV.
These are four minds, which, like the elements,
Might furnish forth creation: --Italy!
Time, which hath wronged thee with ten thousand rents
Of thine imperial garment, shall deny,
And hath denied, to every other sky,
Spirits which soar from ruin: --thy decay
Is still impregnate with divinity,
Which gilds it with revivifying ray;
Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day.
LVI.
But where repose the all Etruscan three -
Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they,
The Bard of Prose, creative spirit! he
Of the Hundred Tales of love--where did they lay
Their bones, distinguished from our common clay
In death as life? Are they resolved to dust,
And have their country's marbles nought to say?
Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust?
Did they not to her breast their filial earth entrust?
LVII.
Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar,
Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore;
Thy factions, in their worse than civil war,
Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore
Their children's children would in vain adore
With the remorse of ages; and the crown
Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore,
Upon a far and foreign soil had grown,
His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled--not thine own.
LVIII.
Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeathed
His dust,--and lies it not her great among,
With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed
O'er him who formed the Tuscan's siren tongue?
That music in itself, whose sounds are song,
The poetry of speech? No;--even his tomb
Uptorn, must bear the hyaena bigots' wrong,
No more amidst the meaner dead find room,
Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for WHOM?
LIX.
And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust;
Yet for this want more noted, as of yore
The Caesar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust,
Did but of Rome's best son remind her more:
Happier Ravenna! on thy hoary shore,
Fortress of falling empire! honoured sleeps
The immortal exile;--Arqua, too, her store
Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps,
While Florence vainly begs her banished dead, and weeps.
LX.
What is her pyramid of precious stones?
Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues
Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones
Of merchant-dukes? the momentary dews
Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse
Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead,
Whose names are mausoleums of the Muse,
Are gently prest with far more reverent tread
Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely head.
LXI.
There be more things to greet the heart and eyes
In Arno's dome of Art's most princely shrine,
Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister vies;
There be more marvels yet--but not for mine;
For I have been accustomed to entwine
My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields
Than Art in galleries: though a work divine
Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields
Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields
LXII.
Is of another temper, and I roam
By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles
Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home;
For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles
Come back before me, as his skill beguiles
The host between the mountains and the shore,
Where Courage falls in her despairing files,
And torrents, swoll'n to rivers with their gore,
Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scattered o'er,
LXIII.
Like to a forest felled by mountain winds;
And such the storm of battle on this day,
And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds
To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray,
An earthquake reeled unheededly away!
None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet,
And yawning forth a grave for those who lay
Upon their bucklers for a winding-sheet;
Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet.
LXIV.
The Earth to them was as a rolling bark
Which bore them to Eternity; they saw
The Ocean round, but had no time to mark
The motions of their vessel: Nature's law,
In them suspended, recked not of the awe
Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the birds
Plunge in the clouds for refuge, and withdraw
From their down-toppling nests; and bellowing herds
Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath no words.
LXV.
Far other scene is Thrasimene now;
Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain
Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough;
Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain
Lay where their roots are; but a brook hath ta'en -
A little rill of scanty stream and bed -
A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain;
And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead
Made the earth wet, and turned the unwilling waters red.
LXVI.
But thou, Clitumnus! in thy sweetest wave
Of the most living crystal that was e'er
The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave
Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear
Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer
Grazes; the purest god of gentle waters!
And most serene of aspect, and most clear:
Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters,
A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daughters!
LXVII.
And on thy happy shore a temple still,
Of small and delicate proportion, keeps,
Upon a mild declivity of hill,
Its memory of thee; beneath it sweeps
Thy current's calmness; oft from out it leaps
The finny darter with the glittering scales,
Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps;
While, chance, some scattered water-lily sails
Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling tales.
LXVIII.
Pass not unblest the genius of the place!
If through the air a zephyr more serene
Win to the brow, 'tis his; and if ye trace
Along his margin a more eloquent green,
If on the heart the freshness of the scene
Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust
Of weary life a moment lave it clean
With Nature's baptism,--'tis to him ye must
Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust.
LXIX.
The roar of waters!--from the headlong height
Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice;
The fall of waters! rapid as the light
The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss;
The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss,
And boil in endless torture; while the sweat
Of their great agony, wrung out from this
Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet
That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set,
LXX.
And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again
Returns in an unceasing shower, which round,
With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain,
Is an eternal April to the ground,
Making it all one emerald. How profound
The gulf! and how the giant element
From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound,
Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent
With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent
LXXI.
To the broad column which rolls on, and shows
More like the fountain of an infant sea
Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes
Of a new world, than only thus to be
Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly,
With many windings through the vale: --Look back!
Lo! where it comes like an eternity,
As if to sweep down all things in its track,
Charming the eye with dread,--a matchless cataract,
LXXII.
Horribly beautiful! but on the verge,
From side to side, beneath the glittering morn,
An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge,
Like Hope upon a deathbed, and, unworn
Its steady dyes, while all around is torn
By the distracted waters, bears serene
Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn:
Resembling, mid the torture of the scene,
Love watching Madness with unalterable mien.
LXXIII.
Once more upon the woody Apennine,
The infant Alps, which--had I not before
Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine
Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar
The thundering lauwine--might be worshipped more;
But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear
Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar
Glaciers of bleak Mont Blanc both far and near,
And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear,
LXXIV.
The Acroceraunian mountains of old name;
And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly
Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame,
For still they soared unutterably high:
I've looked on Ida with a Trojan's eye;
Athos, Olympus, AEtna, Atlas, made
These hills seem things of lesser dignity,
All, save the lone Soracte's height displayed,
Not NOW in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid
LXXV.
For our remembrance, and from out the plain
Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break,
And on the curl hangs pausing: not in vain
May he who will his recollections rake,
And quote in classic raptures, and awake
The hills with Latian echoes; I abhorred
Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake,
The drilled dull lesson, forced down word by word
In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record
LXXVI.
Aught that recalls the daily drug which turned
My sickening memory; and, though Time hath taught
My mind to meditate what then it learned,
Yet such the fixed inveteracy wrought
By the impatience of my early thought,
That, with the freshness wearing out before
My mind could relish what it might have sought,
If free to choose, I cannot now restore
Its health; but what it then detested, still abhor.
LXXVII.
Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so,
Not for thy faults, but mine; it is a curse
To understand, not feel, thy lyric flow,
To comprehend, but never love thy verse,
Although no deeper moralist rehearse
Our little life, nor bard prescribe his art,
Nor livelier satirist the conscience pierce,
Awakening without wounding the touched heart,
Yet fare thee well--upon Soracte's ridge we part.
LXXVIII.
O Rome! my country! city of the soul!
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee,
Lone mother of dead empires! and control
In their shut breasts their petty misery.
What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way
O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye!
Whose agonies are evils of a day--
A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay.
LXXIX.
The Niobe of nations! there she stands,
Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe;
An empty urn within her withered hands,
Whose holy dust was scattered long ago;
The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now;
The very sepulchres lie tenantless
Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow,
Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness?
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress!
LXXX.
The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire,
Have dwelt upon the seven-hilled city's pride:
She saw her glories star by star expire,
And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride,
Where the car climbed the Capitol; far and wide
Temple and tower went down, nor left a site; -
Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void,
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light,
And say, 'Here was, or is,' where all is doubly night?
LXXXI.
The double night of ages, and of her,
Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt, and wrap
All round us; we but feel our way to err:
The ocean hath its chart, the stars their map;
And knowledge spreads them on her ample lap;
But Rome is as the desert, where we steer
Stumbling o'er recollections: now we clap
Our hands, and cry, 'Eureka!' it is clear -
When but some false mirage of ruin rises near.
LXXXII.
Alas, the lofty city! and alas
The trebly hundred triumphs! and the day
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass
The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away!
Alas for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay,
And Livy's pictured page! But these shall be
Her resurrection; all beside--decay.
Alas for Earth, for never shall we see
That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free!
LXXXIII.
O thou, whose chariot rolled on Fortune's wheel,
Triumphant Sylla! Thou, who didst subdue
Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst pause to feel
The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due
Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew
O'er prostrate Asia;--thou, who with thy frown
Annihilated senates--Roman, too,
With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down
With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown -
LXXXIV.
The dictatorial wreath,--couldst thou divine
To what would one day dwindle that which made
Thee more than mortal? and that so supine
By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid?
She who was named eternal, and arrayed
Her warriors but to conquer--she who veiled
Earth with her haughty shadow, and displayed
Until the o'er-canopied horizon failed,
Her rushing wings--Oh! she who was almighty hailed!
LXXXV.
Sylla was first of victors; but our own,
The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell!--he
Too swept off senates while he hewed the throne
Down to a block--immortal rebel! See
What crimes it costs to be a moment free
And famous through all ages! But beneath
His fate the moral lurks of destiny;
His day of double victory and death
Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield his breath.
LXXXVI.
The third of the same moon whose former course
Had all but crowned him, on the self-same day
Deposed him gently from his throne of force,
And laid him with the earth's preceding clay.
And showed not Fortune thus how fame and sway,
And all we deem delightful, and consume
Our souls to compass through each arduous way,
Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb?
Were they but so in man's, how different were his doom!
LXXXVII.
And thou, dread statue! yet existent in
The austerest form of naked majesty,
Thou who beheldest, mid the assassins' din,
At thy bathed base the bloody Caesar lie,
Folding his robe in dying dignity,
An offering to thine altar from the queen
Of gods and men, great Nemesis! did he die,
And thou, too, perish, Pompey? have ye been
Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene?
LXXXVIII.
And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome!
She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart
The milk of conquest yet within the dome
Where, as a monument of antique art,
Thou standest: --Mother of the mighty heart,
Which the great founder sucked from thy wild teat,
Scorched by the Roman Jove's ethereal dart,
And thy limbs blacked with lightning--dost thou yet
Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget?
LXXXIX.
Thou dost;--but all thy foster-babes are dead -
The men of iron; and the world hath reared
Cities from out their sepulchres: men bled
In imitation of the things they feared,
And fought and conquered, and the same course steered,
At apish distance; but as yet none have,
Nor could, the same supremacy have neared,
Save one vain man, who is not in the grave,
But, vanquished by himself, to his own slaves a slave,
XC.
The fool of false dominion--and a kind
Of bastard Caesar, following him of old
With steps unequal; for the Roman's mind
Was modelled in a less terrestrial mould,
With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold,
And an immortal instinct which redeemed
The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold.
Alcides with the distaff now he seemed
At Cleopatra's feet, and now himself he beamed.
XCI.
And came, and saw, and conquered. But the man
Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee,
Like a trained falcon, in the Gallic van,
Which he, in sooth, long led to victory,
With a deaf heart which never seemed to be
A listener to itself, was strangely framed;
With but one weakest weakness--vanity:
Coquettish in ambition, still he aimed
At what? Can he avouch, or answer what he claimed?
XCII.
And would be all or nothing--nor could wait
For the sure grave to level him; few years
Had fixed him with the Caesars in his fate,
On whom we tread: For THIS the conqueror rears
The arch of triumph! and for this the tears
And blood of earth flow on as they have flowed,
An universal deluge, which appears
Without an ark for wretched man's abode,
And ebbs but to reflow!--Renew thy rainbow, God!
XCIII.
What from this barren being do we reap?
Our senses narrow, and our reason frail,
Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep,
And all things weighed in custom's falsest scale;
Opinion an omnipotence, whose veil
Mantles the earth with darkness, until right
And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale
Lest their own judgments should become too bright,
And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too much light.
XCIV.
And thus they plod in sluggish misery,
Rotting from sire to son, and age to age,
Proud of their trampled nature, and so die,
Bequeathing their hereditary rage
To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage
War for their chains, and rather than be free,
Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage
Within the same arena where they see
Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree.
XCV.
I speak not of men's creeds--they rest between
Man and his Maker--but of things allowed,
Averred, and known,--and daily, hourly seen -
The yoke that is upon us doubly bowed,
And the intent of tyranny avowed,
The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown
The apes of him who humbled once the proud,
And shook them from their slumbers on the throne;
Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done.
XCVI.
Can tyrants but by tyrants conquered be,
And Freedom find no champion and no child
Such as Columbia saw arise when she
Sprung forth a Pallas, armed and undefiled?
Or must such minds be nourished in the wild,
Deep in the unpruned forest, midst the roar
Of cataracts, where nursing nature smiled
On infant Washington? Has Earth no more
Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore?
XCVII.
But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime,
And fatal have her Saturnalia been
To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime;
Because the deadly days which we have seen,
And vile Ambition, that built up between
Man and his hopes an adamantine wall,
And the base pageant last upon the scene,
Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall
Which nips Life's tree, and dooms man's worst--his second fall.
XCVIII.
Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying,
Streams like the thunder-storm AGAINST the wind;
Thy trumpet-voice, though broken now and dying,
The loudest still the tempest leaves behind;
Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind,
Chopped by the axe, looks rough and little worth,
But the sap lasts,--and still the seed we find
Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North;
So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth.
XCIX.
There is a stern round tower of other days,
Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone,
Such as an army's baffled strength delays,
Standing with half its battlements alone,
And with two thousand years of ivy grown,
The garland of eternity, where wave
The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown:
What was this tower of strength? within its cave
What treasure lay so locked, so hid?--A woman's grave.
C.
But who was she, the lady of the dead,
Tombed in a palace? Was she chaste and fair?
Worthy a king's--or more--a Roman's bed?
What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear?
What daughter of her beauties was the heir?
How lived--how loved--how died she? Was she not
So honoured--and conspicuously there,
Where meaner relics must not dare to rot,
Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot?
CI.
Was she as those who love their lords, or they
Who love the lords of others? such have been
Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say.
Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien,
Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen,
Profuse of joy; or 'gainst it did she war,
Inveterate in virtue? Did she lean
To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar
Love from amongst her griefs?--for such the affections are.
CII.
Perchance she died in youth: it may be, bowed
With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb
That weighed upon her gentle dust, a cloud
Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom
In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom
Heaven gives its favourites--early death; yet shed
A sunset charm around her, and illume
With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead,
Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red.
CIII.
Perchance she died in age--surviving all,
Charms, kindred, children--with the silver grey
On her long tresses, which might yet recall,
It may be, still a something of the day
When they were braided, and her proud array
And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed
By Rome--But whither would Conjecture stray?
Thus much alone we know--Metella died,
The wealthiest Roman's wife: Behold his love or pride!
CIV.
I know not why--but standing thus by thee
It seems as if I had thine inmate known,
Thou Tomb! and other days come back on me
With recollected music, though the tone
Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan
Of dying thunder on the distant wind;
Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone
Till I had bodied forth the heated mind,
Forms from the floating wreck which ruin leaves behind;
CV.
And from the planks, far shattered o'er the rocks,
Built me a little bark of hope, once more
To battle with the ocean and the shocks
Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar
Which rushes on the solitary shore
Where all lies foundered that was ever dear:
But could I gather from the wave-worn store
Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer?
There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here.
CVI.
Then let the winds howl on! their harmony
Shall henceforth be my music, and the night
The sound shall temper with the owlet's cry,
As I now hear them, in the fading light
Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site,
Answer each other on the Palatine,
With their large eyes, all glistening grey and bright,
And sailing pinions.--Upon such a shrine
What are our petty griefs?--let me not number mine.
CVII.
Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown
Matted and massed together, hillocks heaped
On what were chambers, arch crushed, column strown
In fragments, choked-up vaults, and frescoes steeped
In subterranean damps, where the owl peeped,
Deeming it midnight: --Temples, baths, or halls?
Pronounce who can; for all that Learning reaped
From her research hath been, that these are walls -
Behold the Imperial Mount! 'tis thus the mighty falls.
CVIII.
There is the moral of all human tales:
'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past,
First Freedom, and then Glory--when that fails,
Wealth, vice, corruption--barbarism at last.
And History, with all her volumes vast,
Hath but ONE page,--'tis better written here,
Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amassed
All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear,
Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask--Away with words! draw near,
CIX.
Admire, exult--despise--laugh, weep--for here
There is such matter for all feeling: --Man!
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear,
Ages and realms are crowded in this span,
This mountain, whose obliterated plan
The pyramid of empires pinnacled,
Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van
Till the sun's rays with added flame were filled!
Where are its golden roofs? where those who dared to build?
CX.
Tully was not so eloquent as thou,
Thou nameless column with the buried base!
What are the laurels of the Caesar's brow?
Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place.
Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face,
Titus or Trajan's? No; 'tis that of Time:
Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace,
Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb
To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime,
CXI.
Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome,
And looking to the stars; they had contained
A spirit which with these would find a home,
The last of those who o'er the whole earth reigned,
The Roman globe, for after none sustained
But yielded back his conquests: --he was more
Than a mere Alexander, and unstained
With household blood and wine, serenely wore
His sovereign virtues--still we Trajan's name adore.
CXII.
Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place
Where Rome embraced her heroes? where the steep
Tarpeian--fittest goal of Treason's race,
The promontory whence the traitor's leap
Cured all ambition? Did the Conquerors heap
Their spoils here? Yes; and in yon field below,
A thousand years of silenced factions sleep -
The Forum, where the immortal accents glow,
And still the eloquent air breathes--burns with Cicero!
CXIII.
The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood:
Here a proud people's passions were exhaled,
From the first hour of empire in the bud
To that when further worlds to conquer failed;
But long before had Freedom's face been veiled,
And Anarchy assumed her attributes:
Till every lawless soldier who assailed
Trod on the trembling Senate's slavish mutes,
Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes.
CXIV.
Then turn we to our latest tribune's name,
From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee,
Redeemer of dark centuries of shame -
The friend of Petrarch--hope of Italy -
Rienzi! last of Romans! While the tree
Of freedom's withered trunk puts forth a leaf,
Even for thy tomb a garland let it be--
The forum's champion, and the people's chief -
Her new-born Numa thou, with reign, alas! too brief.
CXV.
Egeria! sweet creation of some heart
Which found no mortal resting-place so fair
As thine ideal breast; whate'er thou art
Or wert,--a young Aurora of the air,
The nympholepsy of some fond despair;
Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth,
Who found a more than common votary there
Too much adoring; whatsoe'er thy birth,
Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth.
CXVI.
The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled
With thine Elysian water-drops; the face
Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled,
Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place,
Whose green wild margin now no more erase
Art's works; nor must the delicate waters sleep,
Prisoned in marble, bubbling from the base
Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap
The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy creep,
CXVII.
Fantastically tangled; the green hills
Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass
The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills
Of summer birds sing welcome as ye pass;
Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class,
Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes
Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass;
The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes,
Kissed by the breath of heaven, seems coloured by its skies.
CXVIII.
Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover,
Egeria! thy all heavenly bosom beating
For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover;
The purple Midnight veiled that mystic meeting
With her most starry canopy, and seating
Thyself by thine adorer, what befell?
This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting
Of an enamoured Goddess, and the cell
Haunted by holy Love--the earliest oracle!
CXIX.
And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying,
Blend a celestial with a human heart;
And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing,
Share with immortal transports? could thine art
Make them indeed immortal, and impart
The purity of heaven to earthly joys,
Expel the venom and not blunt the dart -
The dull satiety which all destroys--
And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys?
CXX.
Alas! our young affections run to waste,
Or water but the desert: whence arise
But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste,
Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes,
Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies,
And trees whose gums are poison; such the plants
Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies
O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants
For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants.
CXXI.
O Love! no habitant of earth thou art -
An unseen seraph, we believe in thee,--
A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart,
But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see,
The naked eye, thy form, as it should be;
The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven,
Even with its own desiring phantasy,
And to a thought such shape and image given,
As haunts the unquenched soul--parched--wearied--wrung--and riven.
CXXII.
Of its own beauty is the mind diseased,
And fevers into false creation;--where,
Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized?
In him alone. Can Nature show so fair?
Where are the charms and virtues which we dare
Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men,
The unreached Paradise of our despair,
Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen,
And overpowers the page where it would bloom again.
CXXIII.
Who loves, raves--'tis youth's frenzy--but the cure
Is bitterer still; as charm by charm unwinds
Which robed our idols, and we see too sure
Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's
Ideal shape of such; yet still it binds
The fatal spell, and still it draws us on,
Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds;
The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun,
Seems ever near the prize--wealthiest when most undone.
CXXIV.
We wither from our youth, we gasp away -
Sick--sick; unfound the boon, unslaked the thirst,
Though to the last, in verge of our decay,
Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first -
But all too late,--so are we doubly curst.
Love, fame, ambition, avarice--'tis the same -
Each idle, and all ill, and none the worst -
For all are meteors with a different name,
And death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame.
CXXV.
Few--none--find what they love or could have loved:
Though accident, blind contact, and the strong
Necessity of loving, have removed
Antipathies--but to recur, ere long,
Envenomed with irrevocable wrong;
And Circumstance, that unspiritual god
And miscreator, makes and helps along
Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod,
Whose touch turns hope to dust--the dust we all have trod.
CXXVI.
Our life is a false nature--'tis not in
The harmony of things,--this hard decree,
This uneradicable taint of sin,
This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree,
Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be
The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew -
Disease, death, bondage, all the woes we see--
And worse, the woes we see not--which throb through
The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new.
CXXVII.
Yet let us ponder boldly--'tis a base
Abandonment of reason to resign
Our right of thought--our last and only place
Of refuge; this, at least, shall still be mine:
Though from our birth the faculty divine
Is chained and tortured--cabined, cribbed, confined,
And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine
Too brightly on the unprepared mind,
The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the blind.
CXXVIII.
Arches on arches! as it were that Rome,
Collecting the chief trophies of her line,
Would build up all her triumphs in one dome,
Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams shine
As 'twere its natural torches, for divine
Should be the light which streams here, to illume
This long explored but still exhaustless mine
Of contemplation; and the azure gloom
Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume
CXXIX.
Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven,
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument,
And shadows forth its glory. There is given
Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent,
A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power
And magic in the ruined battlement,
For which the palace of the present hour
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower.
CXXX.
O Time! the beautifier of the dead,
Adorner of the ruin, comforter
And only healer when the heart hath bled -
Time! the corrector where our judgments err,
The test of truth, love,--sole philosopher,
For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift,
Which never loses though it doth defer -
Time, the avenger! unto thee I lift
My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift:
CXXXI.
Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine
And temple more divinely desolate,
Among thy mightier offerings here are mine,
Ruins of years--though few, yet full of fate:
If thou hast ever seen me too elate,
Hear me not; but if calmly I have borne
Good, and reserved my pride against the hate
Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn
This iron in my soul in vain--shall THEY not mourn?
CXXXII.
And thou, who never yet of human wrong
Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis!
Here, where the ancients paid thee homage long -
Thou, who didst call the Furies from the abyss,
And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss
For that unnatural retribution--just,
Had it but been from hands less near--in this
Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust!
Dost thou not hear my heart?--Awake! thou shalt, and must.
CXXXIII.
It is not that I may not have incurred
For my ancestral faults or mine the wound
I bleed withal, and had it been conferred
With a just weapon, it had flowed unbound.
But now my blood shall not sink in the ground;
To thee I do devote it--THOU shalt take
The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found,
Which if _I_ have not taken for the sake -
But let that pass--I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake.
CXXXIV.
And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now
I shrink from what is suffered: let him speak
Who hath beheld decline upon my brow,
Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak;
But in this page a record will I seek.
Not in the air shall these my words disperse,
Though I be ashes; a far hour shall wreak
The deep prophetic fulness of this verse,
And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse!
CXXXV.
That curse shall be forgiveness.--Have I not -
Hear me, my mother Earth! behold it, Heaven! -
Have I not had to wrestle with my lot?
Have I not suffered things to be forgiven?
Have I not had my brain seared, my heart riven,
Hopes sapped, name blighted, Life's life lied away?
And only not to desperation driven,
Because not altogether of such clay
As rots into the souls of those whom I survey.
CXXXVI.
From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy
Have I not seen what human things could do?
From the loud roar of foaming calumny
To the small whisper of the as paltry few
And subtler venom of the reptile crew,
The Janus glance of whose significant eye,
Learning to lie with silence, would SEEM true,
And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh,
Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy.
CXXXVII.
But I have lived, and have not lived in vain:
My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire,
And my frame perish even in conquering pain,
But there is that within me which shall tire
Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire:
Something unearthly, which they deem not of,
Like the remembered tone of a mute lyre,
Shall on their softened spirits sink, and move
In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love.
CXXXVIII.
The seal is set.--Now welcome, thou dread Power
Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here
Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour
With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear:
Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear
Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene
Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear
That we become a part of what has been,
And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen.
CXXXIX.
And here the buzz of eager nations ran,
In murmured pity, or loud-roared applause,
As man was slaughtered by his fellow-man.
And wherefore slaughtered? wherefore, but because
Such were the bloody circus' genial laws,
And the imperial pleasure.--Wherefore not?
What matters where we fall to fill the maws
Of worms--on battle-plains or listed spot?
Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot.
CXL.
I see before me the Gladiator lie:
He leans upon his hand--his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony,
And his drooped head sinks gradually low -
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now
The arena swims around him: he is gone,
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.
CXLI.
He heard it, but he heeded not--his eyes
Were with his heart, and that was far away;
He recked not of the life he lost nor prize,
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,
THERE were his young barbarians all at play,
THERE was their Dacian mother--he, their sire,
Butchered to make a Roman holiday -
All this rushed with his blood--Shall he expire,
And unavenged?--Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!
CXLII.
But here, where murder breathed her bloody steam;
And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways,
And roared or murmured like a mountain-stream
Dashing or winding as its torrent strays;
Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise
Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd,
My voice sounds much--and fall the stars' faint rays
On the arena void--seats crushed, walls bowed,
And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud.
CXLIII.
A ruin--yet what ruin! from its mass
Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been reared;
Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass,
And marvel where the spoil could have appeared.
Hath it indeed been plundered, or but cleared?
Alas! developed, opens the decay,
When the colossal fabric's form is neared:
It will not bear the brightness of the day,
Which streams too much on all, years, man, have reft away.
CXLIV.
But when the rising moon begins to climb
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there;
When the stars twinkle through the loops of time,
And the low night-breeze waves along the air,
The garland-forest, which the grey walls wear,
Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head;
When the light shines serene, but doth not glare,
Then in this magic circle raise the dead:
Heroes have trod this spot--'tis on their dust ye tread.
CXLV.
'While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand;
When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall;
And when Rome falls--the World.' From our own land
Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall
In Saxon times, which we are wont to call
Ancient; and these three mortal things are still
On their foundations, and unaltered all;
Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill,
The World, the same wide den--of thieves, or what ye will.
CXLVI.
Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime -
Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods,
From Jove to Jesus--spared and blest by time;
Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods
Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods
His way through thorns to ashes--glorious dome!
Shalt thou not last?--Time's scythe and tyrants' rods
Shiver upon thee--sanctuary and home
Of art and piety--Pantheon!--pride of Rome!
CXLVII.
Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts!
Despoiled yet perfect, with thy circle spreads
A holiness appealing to all hearts--
To art a model; and to him who treads
Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds
Her light through thy sole aperture; to those
Who worship, here are altars for their beads;
And they who feel for genius may repose
Their eyes on honoured forms, whose busts around them close.
CXLVIII.
There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light
What do I gaze on? Nothing: Look again!
Two forms are slowly shadowed on my sight -
Two insulated phantoms of the brain:
It is not so: I see them full and plain -
An old man, and a female young and fair,
Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein
The blood is nectar: --but what doth she there,
With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and bare?
CXLIX.
Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life,
Where ON the heart and FROM the heart we took
Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife,
Blest into mother, in the innocent look,
Or even the piping cry of lips that brook
No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives
Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook
She sees her little bud put forth its leaves -
What may the fruit be yet?--I know not--Cain was Eve's.
CL.
But here youth offers to old age the food,
The milk of his own gift: --it is her sire
To whom she renders back the debt of blood
Born with her birth. No; he shall not expire
While in those warm and lovely veins the fire
Of health and holy feeling can provide
Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises higher
Than Egypt's river: --from that gentle side
Drink, drink and live, old man! heaven's realm holds no such tide.
CLI.
The starry fable of the milky way
Has not thy story's purity; it is
A constellation of a sweeter ray,
And sacred Nature triumphs more in this
Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss
Where sparkle distant worlds: --Oh, holiest nurse!
No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss
To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source
With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe.
CLII.
Turn to the mole which Hadrian reared on high,
Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles,
Colossal copyist of deformity,
Whose travelled phantasy from the far Nile's
Enormous model, doomed the artist's toils
To build for giants, and for his vain earth,
His shrunken ashes, raise this dome: How smiles
The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth,
To view the huge design which sprung from such a birth!
CLIII.
But lo! the dome--the vast and wondrous dome,
To which Diana's marvel was a cell--
Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb!
I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle--
Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell
The hyaena and the jackal in their shade;
I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell
Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have surveyed
Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem prayed;
CLIV.
But thou, of temples old, or altars new,
Standest alone--with nothing like to thee -
Worthiest of God, the holy and the true,
Since Zion's desolation, when that he
Forsook his former city, what could be,
Of earthly structures, in his honour piled,
Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty,
Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are aisled
In this eternal ark of worship undefiled.
CLV.
Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not;
And why? it is not lessened; but thy mind,
Expanded by the genius of the spot,
Has grown colossal, and can only find
A fit abode wherein appear enshrined
Thy hopes of immortality; and thou
Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined,
See thy God face to face, as thou dost now
His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow.
CLVI.
Thou movest--but increasing with th' advance,
Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise,
Deceived by its gigantic elegance;
Vastness which grows--but grows to harmonise -
All musical in its immensities;
Rich marbles--richer painting--shrines where flame
The lamps of gold--and haughty dome which vies
In air with Earth's chief structures, though their frame
Sits on the firm-set ground--and this the clouds must claim.
CLVII.
Thou seest not all; but piecemeal thou must break
To separate contemplation, the great whole;
And as the ocean many bays will make,
That ask the eye--so here condense thy soul
To more immediate objects, and control
Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart
Its eloquent proportions, and unroll
In mighty graduations, part by part,
The glory which at once upon thee did not dart.
CLVIII.
Not by its fault--but thine: Our outward sense
Is but of gradual grasp--and as it is
That what we have of feeling most intense
Outstrips our faint expression; e'en so this
Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice
Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great
Defies at first our nature's littleness,
Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate
Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate.
CLIX.
Then pause and be enlightened; there is more
In such a survey than the sating gaze
Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore
The worship of the place, or the mere praise
Of art and its great masters, who could raise
What former time, nor skill, nor thought could plan;
The fountain of sublimity displays
Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man
Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions can.
CLX.
Or, turning to the Vatican, go see
Laocoon's torture dignifying pain -
A father's love and mortal's agony
With an immortal's patience blending: --Vain
The struggle; vain, against the coiling strain
And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp,
The old man's clench; the long envenomed chain
Rivets the living links,--the enormous asp
Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp.
CLXI.
Or view the Lord of the unerring bow,
The God of life, and poesy, and light -
The Sun in human limbs arrayed, and brow
All radiant from his triumph in the fight;
The shaft hath just been shot--the arrow bright
With an immortal's vengeance; in his eye
And nostril beautiful disdain, and might
And majesty, flash their full lightnings by,
Developing in that one glance the Deity.
CLXII.
But in his delicate form--a dream of Love,
Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast
Longed for a deathless lover from above,
And maddened in that vision--are expressed
All that ideal beauty ever blessed
The mind within its most unearthly mood,
When each conception was a heavenly guest -
A ray of immortality--and stood
Starlike, around, until they gathered to a god?
CLXIII.
And if it be Prometheus stole from heaven
The fire which we endure, it was repaid
By him to whom the energy was given
Which this poetic marble hath arrayed
With an eternal glory--which, if made
By human hands, is not of human thought
And Time himself hath hallowed it, nor laid
One ringlet in the dust--nor hath it caught
A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 'twas wrought.
CLXIV.
But where is he, the pilgrim of my song,
The being who upheld it through the past?
Methinks he cometh late and tarries long.
He is no more--these breathings are his last;
His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast,
And he himself as nothing: --if he was
Aught but a phantasy, and could be classed
With forms which live and suffer--let that pass -
His shadow fades away into Destruction's mass,
CLXV.
Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all
That we inherit in its mortal shroud,
And spreads the dim and universal pall
Thro' which all things grow phantoms; and the cloud
Between us sinks and all which ever glowed,
Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays
A melancholy halo scarce allowed
To hover on the verge of darkness; rays
Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze,
CLXVI.
And send us prying into the abyss,
To gather what we shall be when the frame
Shall be resolved to something less than this
Its wretched essence; and to dream of fame,
And wipe the dust from off the idle name
We never more shall hear,--but never more,
Oh, happier thought! can we be made the same:
It is enough, in sooth, that ONCE we bore
These fardels of the heart--the heart whose sweat was gore.
CLXVII.
Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds,
A long, low distant murmur of dread sound,
Such as arises when a nation bleeds
With some deep and immedicable wound;
Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground.
The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief
Seems royal still, though with her head discrowned,
And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief
She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief.
CLXVIII.
Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou?
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead?
Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low
Some less majestic, less beloved head?
In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled,
The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy,
Death hushed that pang for ever: with thee fled
The present happiness and promised joy
Which filled the imperial isles so full it seemed to cloy.
CLXIX.
Peasants bring forth in safety.--Can it be,
O thou that wert so happy, so adored!
Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee,
And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard
Her many griefs for One; for she had poured
Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head
Beheld her Iris.--Thou, too, lonely lord,
And desolate consort--vainly wert thou wed!
The husband of a year! the father of the dead!
CLXX.
Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made:
Thy bridal's fruit is ashes; in the dust
The fair-haired Daughter of the Isles is laid,
The love of millions! How we did entrust
Futurity to her! and, though it must
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deemed
Our children should obey her child, and blessed
Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seemed
Like star to shepherd's eyes; 'twas but a meteor beamed.
CLXXI.
Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well:
The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue
Of hollow counsel, the false oracle,
Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung
Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstrung
Nations have armed in madness, the strange fate
Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung
Against their blind omnipotence a weight
Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late, -
CLXXII.
These might have been her destiny; but no,
Our hearts deny it: and so young, so fair,
Good without effort, great without a foe;
But now a bride and mother--and now THERE!
How many ties did that stern moment tear!
From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast
Is linked the electric chain of that despair,
Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and oppressed
The land which loved thee so, that none could love thee best.
CLXXIII.
Lo, Nemi! navelled in the woody hills
So far, that the uprooting wind which tears
The oak from his foundation, and which spills
The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears
Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares
The oval mirror of thy glassy lake;
And, calm as cherished hate, its surface wears
A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake,
All coiled into itself and round, as sleeps the snake.
CLXXIV.
And near Albano's scarce divided waves
Shine from a sister valley;--and afar
The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves
The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war,
'Arms and the Man,' whose reascending star
Rose o'er an empire,--but beneath thy right
Tully reposed from Rome;--and where yon bar
Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight,
The Sabine farm was tilled, the weary bard's delight.
CLXXV.
But I forget.--My pilgrim's shrine is won,
And he and I must part,--so let it be, -
His task and mine alike are nearly done;
Yet once more let us look upon the sea:
The midland ocean breaks on him and me,
And from the Alban mount we now behold
Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when we
Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold
Those waves, we followed on till the dark Euxine rolled
CLXXVI.
Upon the blue Symplegades: long years -
Long, though not very many--since have done
Their work on both; some suffering and some tears
Have left us nearly where we had begun:
Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run,
We have had our reward--and it is here;
That we can yet feel gladdened by the sun,
And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear
As if there were no man to trouble what is clear.
CLXXVII.
Oh! that the Desert were my dwelling-place,
With one fair Spirit for my minister,
That I might all forget the human race,
And, hating no one, love but only her!
Ye Elements!--in whose ennobling stir
I feel myself exalted--can ye not
Accord me such a being? Do I err
In deeming such inhabit many a spot?
Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot.
CLXXVIII.
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes,
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:
I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
CLXXIX.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean--roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin--his control
Stops with the shore;--upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.
CLXXX.
His steps are not upon thy paths,--thy fields
Are not a spoil for him,--thou dost arise
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth: --there let him lay.
CLXXXI.
The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals.
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war;
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.
CLXXXII.
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee -
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
Thy waters washed them power while they were free
And many a tyrant since: their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts: not so thou,
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play -
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow -
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.
CLXXXIII.
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
Calm or convulsed--in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving;--boundless, endless, and sublime -
The image of Eternity--the throne
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone
Obeys thee: thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
CLXXXIV.
And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
I wantoned with thy breakers--they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror--'twas a pleasing fear,
For I was as it were a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane--as I do here.
CLXXXV.
My task is done--my song hath ceased--my theme
Has died into an echo; it is fit
The spell should break of this protracted dream.
The torch shall be extinguished which hath lit
My midnight lamp--and what is writ, is writ -
Would it were worthier! but I am not now
That which I have been--and my visions flit
Less palpably before me--and the glow
Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low.
CLXXXVI.
Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been -
A sound which makes us linger; yet, farewell!
Ye, who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene
Which is his last, if in your memories dwell
A thought which once was his, if on ye swell
A single recollection, not in vain
He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop shell;
Farewell! with HIM alone may rest the pain,
If such there were--with YOU, the moral of his strain.
Footnotes:
{1} Lady Charlotte Harley, daughter of the Earl of Oxford.
To Ianthe
Canto the First
Canto the Second
Canto the Third
Canto the Fourth
TO IANTHE. {1}
Not in those climes where I have late been straying,
Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deemed,
Not in those visions to the heart displaying
Forms which it sighs but to have only dreamed,
Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seemed:
Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek
To paint those charms which varied as they beamed -
To such as see thee not my words were weak;
To those who gaze on thee, what language could they speak?
Ah! mayst thou ever be what now thou art,
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring,
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart,
Love's image upon earth without his wing,
And guileless beyond Hope's imagining!
And surely she who now so fondly rears
Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening,
Beholds the rainbow of her future years,
Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears.
Young Peri of the West!--'tis well for me
My years already doubly number thine;
My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee,
And safely view thy ripening beauties shine:
Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline;
Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed
Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign
To those whose admiration shall succeed,
But mixed with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours decreed.
Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle's,
Now brightly bold or beautifully shy,
Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells,
Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny
That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh,
Could I to thee be ever more than friend:
This much, dear maid, accord; nor question why
To one so young my strain I would commend,
But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend.
Such is thy name with this my verse entwined;
And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast
On Harold's page, Ianthe's here enshrined
Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last:
My days once numbered, should this homage past
Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre
Of him who hailed thee, loveliest as thou wast,
Such is the most my memory may desire;
Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less require?
CANTO THE FIRST.
I.
Oh, thou, in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth,
Muse, formed or fabled at the minstrel's will!
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill:
Yet there I've wandered by thy vaunted rill;
Yes! sighed o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine
To grace so plain a tale--this lowly lay of mine.
II.
Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth,
Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight;
But spent his days in riot most uncouth,
And vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.
Ah, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight,
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee;
Few earthly things found favour in his sight
Save concubines and carnal companie,
And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree.
III.
Childe Harold was he hight: --but whence his name
And lineage long, it suits me not to say;
Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame,
And had been glorious in another day:
But one sad losel soils a name for aye,
However mighty in the olden time;
Nor all that heralds rake from coffined clay,
Nor florid prose, nor honeyed lines of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.
IV.
Childe Harold basked him in the noontide sun,
Disporting there like any other fly,
Nor deemed before his little day was done
One blast might chill him into misery.
But long ere scarce a third of his passed by,
Worse than adversity the Childe befell;
He felt the fulness of satiety:
Then loathed he in his native land to dwell,
Which seemed to him more lone than eremite's sad cell.
V.
For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run,
Nor made atonement when he did amiss,
Had sighed to many, though he loved but one,
And that loved one, alas, could ne'er be his.
Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kiss
Had been pollution unto aught so chaste;
Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss,
And spoiled her goodly lands to gild his waste,
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to taste.
VI.
And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;
'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,
But pride congealed the drop within his e'e:
Apart he stalked in joyless reverie,
And from his native land resolved to go,
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;
With pleasure drugged, he almost longed for woe,
And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below.
VII.
The Childe departed from his father's hall;
It was a vast and venerable pile;
So old, it seemed only not to fall,
Yet strength was pillared in each massy aisle.
Monastic dome! condemned to uses vile!
Where superstition once had made her den,
Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile;
And monks might deem their time was come agen,
If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.
VIII.
Yet ofttimes in his maddest mirthful mood,
Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow,
As if the memory of some deadly feud
Or disappointed passion lurked below:
But this none knew, nor haply cared to know;
For his was not that open, artless soul
That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow;
Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole,
Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control.
IX.
And none did love him: though to hall and bower
He gathered revellers from far and near,
He knew them flatterers of the festal hour;
The heartless parasites of present cheer.
Yea, none did love him--not his lemans dear -
But pomp and power alone are woman's care,
And where these are light Eros finds a feere;
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,
And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.
X.
Childe Harold had a mother--not forgot,
Though parting from that mother he did shun;
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not
Before his weary pilgrimage begun:
If friends he had, he bade adieu to none.
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel;
Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel
Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.
XI.
His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,
The laughing dames in whom he did delight,
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands,
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite,
And long had fed his youthful appetite;
His goblets brimmed with every costly wine,
And all that mote to luxury invite,
Without a sigh he left to cross the brine,
And traverse Paynim shores, and pass earth's central line.
XII.
The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew
As glad to waft him from his native home;
And fast the white rocks faded from his view,
And soon were lost in circumambient foam;
And then, it may be, of his wish to roam
Repented he, but in his bosom slept
The silent thought, nor from his lips did come
One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept,
And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept.
XIII.
But when the sun was sinking in the sea,
He seized his harp, which he at times could string,
And strike, albeit with untaught melody,
When deemed he no strange ear was listening:
And now his fingers o'er it he did fling,
And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight,
While flew the vessel on her snowy wing,
And fleeting shores receded from his sight,
Thus to the elements he poured his last 'Good Night.'
Adieu, adieu! my native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue;
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.
Yon sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My Native Land--Good Night!
A few short hours, and he will rise
To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,
Its hearth is desolate;
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall,
My dog howls at the gate.
'Come hither, hither, my little page:
Why dost thou weep and wail?
Or dost thou dread the billow's rage,
Or tremble at the gale?
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye,
Our ship is swift and strong;
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly
More merrily along.'
'Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,
I fear not wave nor wind;
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I
Am sorrowful in mind;
For I have from my father gone,
A mother whom I love,
And have no friend, save these alone,
But thee--and One above.
'My father blessed me fervently,
Yet did not much complain;
But sorely will my mother sigh
Till I come back again.' -
'Enough, enough, my little lad!
Such tears become thine eye;
If I thy guileless bosom had,
Mine own would not be dry.
'Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,
Why dost thou look so pale?
Or dost thou dread a French foeman,
Or shiver at the gale?' -
'Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?
Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;
But thinking on an absent wife
Will blanch a faithful cheek.
'My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,
Along the bordering lake;
And when they on their father call,
What answer shall she make?' -
'Enough, enough, my yeoman good,
Thy grief let none gainsay;
But I, who am of lighter mood,
Will laugh to flee away.'
For who would trust the seeming sighs
Of wife or paramour?
Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes
We late saw streaming o'er.
For pleasures past I do not grieve,
Nor perils gathering near;
My greatest grief is that I leave
No thing that claims a tear.
And now I'm in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea;
But why should I for others groan,
When none will sigh for me?
Perchance my dog will whine in vain
Till fed by stranger hands;
But long ere I come back again
He'd tear me where he stands.
With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine;
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,
So not again to mine.
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves!
And when you fail my sight,
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!
My Native Land--Good Night!
XIV.
On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone,
And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay.
Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon,
New shores descried make every bosom gay;
And Cintra's mountain greets them on their way,
And Tagus dashing onward to the deep,
His fabled golden tribute bent to pay;
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap,
And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap.
XV.
Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see
What Heaven hath done for this delicious land!
What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree!
What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand!
But man would mar them with an impious hand:
And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge
'Gainst those who most transgress his high command,
With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge
Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge.
XVI.
What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold!
Her image floating on that noble tide,
Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold,
But now whereon a thousand keels did ride
Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied,
And to the Lusians did her aid afford
A nation swoll'n with ignorance and pride,
Who lick, yet loathe, the hand that waves the sword.
To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing lord.
XVII.
But whoso entereth within this town,
That, sheening far, celestial seems to be,
Disconsolate will wander up and down,
Mid many things unsightly to strange e'e;
For hut and palace show like filthily;
The dingy denizens are reared in dirt;
No personage of high or mean degree
Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt,
Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, unwashed, unhurt.
XVIII.
Poor, paltry slaves! yet born midst noblest scenes -
Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men?
Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes
In variegated maze of mount and glen.
Ah me! what hand can pencil guide, or pen,
To follow half on which the eye dilates
Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken
Than those whereof such things the bard relates,
Who to the awe-struck world unlocked Elysium's gates?
XIX.
The horrid crags, by toppling convent crowned,
The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep,
The mountain moss by scorching skies imbrowned,
The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep,
The tender azure of the unruffled deep,
The orange tints that gild the greenest bough,
The torrents that from cliff to valley leap,
The vine on high, the willow branch below,
Mixed in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow.
XX.
Then slowly climb the many-winding way,
And frequent turn to linger as you go,
From loftier rocks new loveliness survey,
And rest ye at 'Our Lady's House of Woe;'
Where frugal monks their little relics show,
And sundry legends to the stranger tell:
Here impious men have punished been; and lo,
Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell,
In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell.
XXI.
And here and there, as up the crags you spring,
Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path;
Yet deem not these devotion's offering -
These are memorials frail of murderous wrath;
For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath
Poured forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife,
Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath;
And grove and glen with thousand such are rife
Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life!
XXII.
On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath,
Are domes where whilom kings did make repair;
But now the wild flowers round them only breathe:
Yet ruined splendour still is lingering there.
And yonder towers the prince's palace fair:
There thou, too, Vathek! England's wealthiest son,
Once formed thy Paradise, as not aware
When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done,
Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun.
XXIII.
Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure plan.
Beneath yon mountain's ever beauteous brow;
But now, as if a thing unblest by man,
Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou!
Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow
To halls deserted, portals gaping wide;
Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how
Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied;
Swept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentle tide.
XXIV.
Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened!
Oh! dome displeasing unto British eye!
With diadem hight foolscap, lo! a fiend,
A little fiend that scoffs incessantly,
There sits in parchment robe arrayed, and by
His side is hung a seal and sable scroll,
Where blazoned glare names known to chivalry,
And sundry signatures adorn the roll,
Whereat the urchin points, and laughs with all his soul.
XXV.
Convention is the dwarfish demon styled
That foiled the knights in Marialva's dome:
Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled,
And turned a nation's shallow joy to gloom.
Here Folly dashed to earth the victor's plume,
And Policy regained what Arms had lost:
For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom!
Woe to the conquering, not the conquered host,
Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's coast.
XXVI.
And ever since that martial synod met,
Britannia sickens, Cintra, at thy name;
And folks in office at the mention fret,
And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame.
How will posterity the deed proclaim!
Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer,
To view these champions cheated of their fame,
By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here,
Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming year?
XXVII.
So deemed the Childe, as o'er the mountains he
Did take his way in solitary guise:
Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee,
More restless than the swallow in the skies:
Though here awhile he learned to moralise,
For Meditation fixed at times on him,
And conscious Reason whispered to despise
His early youth misspent in maddest whim;
But as he gazed on Truth, his aching eyes grew dim.
XXVIII.
To horse! to horse! he quits, for ever quits
A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul:
Again he rouses from his moping fits,
But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl.
Onward he flies, nor fixed as yet the goal
Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage;
And o'er him many changing scenes must roll,
Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage,
Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage.
XXIX.
Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay,
Where dwelt of yore the Lusians' luckless queen;
And church and court did mingle their array,
And mass and revel were alternate seen;
Lordlings and freres--ill-sorted fry, I ween!
But here the Babylonian whore had built
A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen,
That men forget the blood which she hath spilt,
And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to garnish guilt.
XXX.
O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills,
(Oh that such hills upheld a free-born race!)
Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills,
Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place.
Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase,
And marvel men should quit their easy chair,
The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace.
Oh, there is sweetness in the mountain air
And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share.
XXXI.
More bleak to view the hills at length recede,
And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend:
Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed!
Far as the eye discerns, withouten end,
Spain's realms appear, whereon her shepherds tend
Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader knows -
Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend:
For Spain is compassed by unyielding foes,
And all must shield their all, or share Subjection's woes.
XXXII.
Where Lusitania and her Sister meet,
Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide?
Or e'er the jealous queens of nations greet,
Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide?
Or dark sierras rise in craggy pride?
Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall? -
Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide,
Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall
Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land from Gaul
XXXIII.
But these between a silver streamlet glides,
And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook,
Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides.
Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook,
And vacant on the rippling waves doth look,
That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow:
For proud each peasant as the noblest duke:
Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know
'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low.
XXXIV.
But ere the mingling bounds have far been passed,
Dark Guadiana rolls his power along
In sullen billows, murmuring and vast,
So noted ancient roundelays among.
Whilome upon his banks did legions throng
Of Moor and Knight, in mailed splendour drest;
Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the strong;
The Paynim turban and the Christian crest
Mixed on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppressed.
XXXV.
Oh, lovely Spain! renowned, romantic land!
Where is that standard which Pelagio bore,
When Cava's traitor-sire first called the band
That dyed thy mountain-streams with Gothic gore?
Where are those bloody banners which of yore
Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale,
And drove at last the spoilers to their shore?
Red gleamed the cross, and waned the crescent pale,
While Afric's echoes thrilled with Moorish matrons' wail.
XXXVI.
Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale?
Ah! such, alas, the hero's amplest fate!
When granite moulders and when records fail,
A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date.
Pride! bend thine eye from heaven to thine estate,
See how the mighty shrink into a song!
Can volume, pillar, pile, preserve thee great?
Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue,
When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does thee wrong?
XXXVII.
Awake, ye sons of Spain! awake! advance
Lo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries,
But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance,
Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies:
Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies,
And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar!
In every peal she calls--'Awake! arise!'
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore,
When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore?
XXXVIII.
Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note?
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath?
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote;
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves?--the fires of death,
The bale-fires flash on high: --from rock to rock
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe:
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,
Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock.
XXXIX.
Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,
His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun,
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon;
Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon
Flashing afar,--and at his iron feet
Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done;
For on this morn three potent nations meet,
To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.
XL.
By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there)
Their rival scarfs of mixed embroidery,
Their various arms that glitter in the air!
What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair,
And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey!
All join the chase, but few the triumph share:
The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away,
And Havoc scarce for joy can cumber their array.
XLI.
Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies.
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory!
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,
Are met--as if at home they could not die -
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain,
And fertilise the field that each pretends to gain.
XLII.
There shall they rot--Ambition's honoured fools!
Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay!
Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools,
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away
By myriads, when they dare to pave their way
With human hearts--to what?--a dream alone.
Can despots compass aught that hails their sway?
Or call with truth one span of earth their own,
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone?
XLIII.
O Albuera, glorious field of grief!
As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim pricked his steed,
Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief,
A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed.
Peace to the perished! may the warrior's meed
And tears of triumph their reward prolong!
Till others fall where other chieftains lead,
Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng,
And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song.
XLIV.
Enough of Battle's minions! let them play
Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame:
Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay,
Though thousands fall to deck some single name.
In sooth, 'twere sad to thwart their noble aim
Who strike, blest hirelings! for their country's good,
And die, that living might have proved her shame;
Perished, perchance, in some domestic feud,
Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursued.
XLV.
Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way
Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued:
Yet is she free--the spoiler's wished-for prey!
Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude,
Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude.
Inevitable hour! 'Gainst fate to strive
Where Desolation plants her famished brood
Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre, might yet survive,
And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive.
XLVI.
But all unconscious of the coming doom,
The feast, the song, the revel here abounds;
Strange modes of merriment the hours consume,
Nor bleed these patriots with their country's wounds;
Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck sounds;
Here Folly still his votaries enthralls,
And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds:
Girt with the silent crimes of capitals,
Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tottering walls.
XLVII.
Not so the rustic: with his trembling mate
He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar,
Lest he should view his vineyard desolate,
Blasted below the dun hot breath of war.
No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star
Fandango twirls his jocund castanet:
Ah, monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar,
Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret;
The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy yet.
XLVIII.
How carols now the lusty muleteer?
Of love, romance, devotion is his lay,
As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer,
His quick bells wildly jingling on the way?
No! as he speeds, he chants 'Viva el Rey!'
And checks his song to execrate Godoy,
The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day
When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy,
And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate joy.
XLIX.
On yon long level plain, at distance crowned
With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest,
Wide scattered hoof-marks dint the wounded ground;
And, scathed by fire, the greensward's darkened vest
Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest:
Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host,
Here the brave peasant stormed the dragon's nest;
Still does he mark it with triumphant boast,
And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost.
L.
And whomsoe'er along the path you meet
Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue,
Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet:
Woe to the man that walks in public view
Without of loyalty this token true:
Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke;
And sorely would the Gallic foemen rue,
If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloak,
Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's smoke.
LI.
At every turn Morena's dusky height
Sustains aloft the battery's iron load;
And, far as mortal eye can compass sight,
The mountain-howitzer, the broken road,
The bristling palisade, the fosse o'erflowed,
The stationed bands, the never-vacant watch,
The magazine in rocky durance stowed,
The holstered steed beneath the shed of thatch,
The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match,
LII.
Portend the deeds to come: --but he whose nod
Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway,
A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod;
A little moment deigneth to delay:
Soon will his legions sweep through these the way;
The West must own the Scourger of the world.
Ah, Spain! how sad will be thy reckoning day,
When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings unfurled,
And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurled.
LIII.
And must they fall--the young, the proud, the brave -
To swell one bloated chief's unwholesome reign?
No step between submission and a grave?
The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain?
And doth the Power that man adores ordain
Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal?
Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain?
And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal,
The veteran's skill, youth's fire, and manhood's heart of steel?
LIV.
Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused,
Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar,
And, all unsexed, the anlace hath espoused,
Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war?
And she, whom once the semblance of a scar
Appalled, an owlet's larum chilled with dread,
Now views the column-scattering bayonet jar,
The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead
Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to tread.
LV.
Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale,
Oh! had you known her in her softer hour,
Marked her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil,
Heard her light, lively tones in lady's bower,
Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power,
Her fairy form, with more than female grace,
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower
Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face,
Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chase.
LVI.
Her lover sinks--she sheds no ill-timed tear;
Her chief is slain--she fills his fatal post;
Her fellows flee--she checks their base career;
The foe retires--she heads the sallying host:
Who can appease like her a lover's ghost?
Who can avenge so well a leader's fall?
What maid retrieve when man's flushed hope is lost?
Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul,
Foiled by a woman's hand, before a battered wall?
LVII.
Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons,
But formed for all the witching arts of love:
Though thus in arms they emulate her sons,
And in the horrid phalanx dare to move,
'Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove,
Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate:
In softness as in firmness far above
Remoter females, famed for sickening prate;
Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great.
LVIII.
The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impressed
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch:
Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest,
Bid man be valiant ere he merit such:
Her glance, how wildly beautiful! how much
Hath Phoebus wooed in vain to spoil her cheek
Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch!
Who round the North for paler dames would seek?
How poor their forms appear? how languid, wan, and weak!
LIX.
Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud;
Match me, ye harems! of the land where now
I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud
Beauties that even a cynic must avow!
Match me those houris, whom ye scarce allow
To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind,
With Spain's dark-glancing daughters--deign to know,
There your wise Prophet's paradise we find,
His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind.
LX.
O thou, Parnassus! whom I now survey,
Not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye,
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay,
But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky,
In the wild pomp of mountain majesty!
What marvel if I thus essay to sing?
The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by
Would gladly woo thine echoes with his string,
Though from thy heights no more one muse will wave her wing.
LXI.
Oft have I dreamed of thee! whose glorious name
Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore:
And now I view thee, 'tis, alas, with shame
That I in feeblest accents must adore.
When I recount thy worshippers of yore
I tremble, and can only bend the knee;
Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar,
But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy
In silent joy to think at last I look on thee!
LXII.
Happier in this than mightiest bards have been,
Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot,
Shall I unmoved behold the hallowed scene,
Which others rave of, though they know it not?
Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot,
And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave,
Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot,
Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave,
And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave.
LXIII.
Of thee hereafter.--Even amidst my strain
I turned aside to pay my homage here;
Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain;
Her fate, to every free-born bosom dear;
And hailed thee, not perchance without a tear.
Now to my theme--but from thy holy haunt
Let me some remnant, some memorial bear;
Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant,
Nor let thy votary's hope be deemed an idle vaunt.
LXIV.
But ne'er didst thou, fair mount, when Greece was young,
See round thy giant base a brighter choir;
Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung
The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire,
Behold a train more fitting to inspire
The song of love than Andalusia's maids,
Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire:
Ah! that to these were given such peaceful shades
As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her glades.
LXV.
Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast
Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days,
But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast,
Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise.
Ah, Vice! how soft are thy voluptuous ways!
While boyish blood is mantling, who can 'scape
The fascination of thy magic gaze?
A cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape,
And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape.
LXVI.
When Paphos fell by Time--accursed Time!
The Queen who conquers all must yield to thee -
The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime;
And Venus, constant to her native sea,
To nought else constant, hither deigned to flee,
And fixed her shrine within these walls of white;
Though not to one dome circumscribeth she
Her worship, but, devoted to her rite,
A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright.
LXVII.
From morn till night, from night till startled morn
Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew,
The song is heard, the rosy garland worn;
Devices quaint, and frolics ever new,
Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu
He bids to sober joy that here sojourns:
Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu
Of true devotion monkish incense burns,
And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns.
LXVIII.
The sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest;
What hallows it upon this Christian shore?
Lo! it is sacred to a solemn feast:
Hark! heard you not the forest monarch's roar?
Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore
Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn:
The thronged arena shakes with shouts for more;
Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn,
Nor shrinks the female eye, nor e'en affects to mourn.
LXIX.
The seventh day this; the jubilee of man.
London! right well thou know'st the day of prayer:
Then thy spruce citizen, washed artizan,
And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air:
Thy coach of hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair,
And humblest gig, through sundry suburbs whirl;
To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make repair;
Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl,
Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl.
LXX.
Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribboned fair,
Others along the safer turnpike fly;
Some Richmond Hill ascend, some scud to Ware,
And many to the steep of Highgate hie.
Ask ye, Boeotian shades, the reason why?
'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn,
Grasped in the holy hand of Mystery,
In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn,
And consecrate the oath with draught and dance till morn.
LXXI.
All have their fooleries; not alike are thine,
Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea!
Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine,
Thy saint adorers count the rosary:
Much is the Virgin teased to shrive them free
(Well do I ween the only virgin there)
From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be;
Then to the crowded circus forth they fare:
Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share.
LXXII.
The lists are oped, the spacious area cleared,
Thousands on thousands piled are seated round;
Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard,
No vacant space for lated wight is found:
Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound,
Skilled in the ogle of a roguish eye,
Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound;
None through their cold disdain are doomed to die,
As moon-struck bards complain, by Love's sad archery.
LXXIII.
Hushed is the din of tongues--on gallant steeds,
With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised lance,
Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds,
And lowly bending to the lists advance;
Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance:
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day,
The crowd's loud shout, and ladies' lovely glance,
Best prize of better acts, they bear away,
And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay.
LXXIV.
In costly sheen and gaudy cloak arrayed,
But all afoot, the light-limbed matadore
Stands in the centre, eager to invade
The lord of lowing herds; but not before
The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er,
Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed:
His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more
Can man achieve without the friendly steed -
Alas! too oft condemned for him to bear and bleed.
LXXV.
Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls,
The den expands, and expectation mute
Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls.
Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute,
And wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot,
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe:
Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit
His first attack, wide waving to and fro
His angry tail; red rolls his eye's dilated glow.
LXXVI.
Sudden he stops; his eye is fixed: away,
Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear;
Now is thy time to perish, or display
The skill that yet may check his mad career.
With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer;
On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes;
Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear:
He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes:
Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellowings speak his woes.
LXXVII.
Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail,
Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse;
Though man and man's avenging arms assail,
Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force.
One gallant steed is stretched a mangled corse;
Another, hideous sight! unseamed appears,
His gory chest unveils life's panting source;
Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears;
Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharmed he bears.
LXXVIII.
Foiled, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last,
Full in the centre stands the bull at bay,
Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast,
And foes disabled in the brutal fray:
And now the matadores around him play,
Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand:
Once more through all he bursts his thundering way -
Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand,
Wraps his fierce eye--'tis past--he sinks upon the sand.
LXXIX.
Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine,
Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies.
He stops--he starts--disdaining to decline:
Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries,
Without a groan, without a struggle dies.
The decorated car appears on high:
The corse is piled--sweet sight for vulgar eyes;
Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy,
Hurl the dark bull along, scarce seen in dashing by.
LXXX.
Such the ungentle sport that oft invites
The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain:
Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights
In vengeance, gloating on another's pain.
What private feuds the troubled village stain!
Though now one phalanxed host should meet the foe,
Enough, alas, in humble homes remain,
To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow,
For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm stream must flow.
LXXXI.
But Jealousy has fled: his bars, his bolts,
His withered sentinel, duenna sage!
And all whereat the generous soul revolts,
Which the stern dotard deemed he could encage,
Have passed to darkness with the vanished age.
Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen
(Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage),
With braided tresses bounding o'er the green,
While on the gay dance shone Night's lover-loving Queen?
LXXXII.
Oh! many a time and oft had Harold loved,
Or dreamed he loved, since rapture is a dream;
But now his wayward bosom was unmoved,
For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream:
And lately had he learned with truth to deem
Love has no gift so grateful as his wings:
How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem,
Full from the fount of joy's delicious springs
Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.
LXXXIII.
Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind,
Though now it moved him as it moves the wise;
Not that Philosophy on such a mind
E'er deigned to bend her chastely-awful eyes:
But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies;
And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb,
Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise:
Pleasure's palled victim! life-abhorring gloom
Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting doom.
LXXXIV.
Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng;
But viewed them not with misanthropic hate;
Fain would he now have joined the dance, the song,
But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate?
Nought that he saw his sadness could abate:
Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's sway,
And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sate,
Poured forth this unpremeditated lay,
To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier day.
TO INEZ.
Nay, smile not at my sullen brow,
Alas! I cannot smile again:
Yet Heaven avert that ever thou
Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain.
And dost thou ask what secret woe
I bear, corroding joy and youth?
And wilt thou vainly seek to know
A pang even thou must fail to soothe?
It is not love, it is not hate,
Nor low Ambition's honours lost,
That bids me loathe my present state,
And fly from all I prized the most:
It is that weariness which springs
From all I meet, or hear, or see:
To me no pleasure Beauty brings;
Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me.
It is that settled, ceaseless gloom
The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore,
That will not look beyond the tomb,
But cannot hope for rest before.
What exile from himself can flee?
To zones, though more and more remote,
Still, still pursues, where'er I be,
The blight of life--the demon Thought.
Yet others rapt in pleasure seem,
And taste of all that I forsake:
Oh! may they still of transport dream,
And ne'er, at least like me, awake!
Through many a clime 'tis mine to go,
With many a retrospection curst;
And all my solace is to know,
Whate'er betides, I've known the worst.
What is that worst? Nay, do not ask -
In pity from the search forbear:
Smile on--nor venture to unmask
Man's heart, and view the hell that's there.
LXXXV.
Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu!
Who may forget how well thy walls have stood?
When all were changing, thou alone wert true,
First to be free, and last to be subdued.
And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude,
Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye,
A traitor only fell beneath the feud:
Here all were noble, save nobility;
None hugged a conqueror's chain save fallen Chivalry!
LXXXVI.
Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate!
They fight for freedom, who were never free;
A kingless people for a nerveless state,
Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee,
True to the veriest slaves of Treachery;
Fond of a land which gave them nought but life,
Pride points the path that leads to liberty;
Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife,
War, war is still the cry, 'War even to the knife!'
LXXXVII.
Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know,
Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife:
Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on foreign foe
Can act, is acting there against man's life:
From flashing scimitar to secret knife,
War mouldeth there each weapon to his need -
So may he guard the sister and the wife,
So may he make each curst oppressor bleed,
So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed!
LXXXVIII.
Flows there a tear of pity for the dead?
Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain:
Look on the hands with female slaughter red;
Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain,
Then to the vulture let each corse remain;
Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw,
Let their bleached bones, and blood's unbleaching stain,
Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe:
Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw!
LXXXIX.
Nor yet, alas, the dreadful work is done;
Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees:
It deepens still, the work is scarce begun,
Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees.
Fall'n nations gaze on Spain: if freed, she frees
More than her fell Pizarros once enchained.
Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease
Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustained,
While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder unrestrained.
XC.
Not all the blood at Talavera shed,
Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight,
Not Albuera lavish of the dead,
Have won for Spain her well-asserted right.
When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight?
When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil?
How many a doubtful day shall sink in night,
Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil,
And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil?
XCI.
And thou, my friend! since unavailing woe
Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain -
Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low,
Pride might forbid e'en Friendship to complain:
But thus unlaurelled to descend in vain,
By all forgotten, save the lonely breast,
And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain,
While glory crowns so many a meaner crest!
What hadst thou done, to sink so peacefully to rest?
XCII.
Oh, known the earliest, and esteemed the most!
Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear!
Though to my hopeless days for ever lost,
In dreams deny me not to see thee here!
And Morn in secret shall renew the tear
Of Consciousness awaking to her woes,
And Fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier,
Till my frail frame return to whence it rose,
And mourned and mourner lie united in repose.
XCIII.
Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage.
Ye who of him may further seek to know,
Shall find some tidings in a future page,
If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe.
Is this too much? Stern critic, say not so:
Patience! and ye shall hear what he beheld
In other lands, where he was doomed to go:
Lands that contain the monuments of eld,
Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were quelled.
CANTO THE SECOND.
I.
Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven!--but thou, alas,
Didst never yet one mortal song inspire -
Goddess of Wisdom! here thy temple was,
And is, despite of war and wasting fire,
And years, that bade thy worship to expire:
But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow,
Is the drear sceptre and dominion dire
Of men who never felt the sacred glow
That thoughts of thee and thine on polished breasts bestow.
II.
Ancient of days! august Athena! where,
Where are thy men of might, thy grand in soul?
Gone--glimmering through the dream of things that were:
First in the race that led to Glory's goal,
They won, and passed away--is this the whole?
A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour!
The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole
Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower,
Dim with the mist of years, grey flits the shade of power.
III.
Son of the morning, rise! approach you here!
Come--but molest not yon defenceless urn!
Look on this spot--a nation's sepulchre!
Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn.
E'en gods must yield--religions take their turn:
'Twas Jove's--'tis Mahomet's; and other creeds
Will rise with other years, till man shall learn
Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds;
Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on reeds.
IV.
Bound to the earth, he lifts his eyes to heaven -
Is't not enough, unhappy thing, to know
Thou art? Is this a boon so kindly given,
That being, thou wouldst be again, and go,
Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what region, so
On earth no more, but mingled with the skies!
Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe?
Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies:
That little urn saith more than thousand homilies.
V.
Or burst the vanished hero's lofty mound;
Far on the solitary shore he sleeps;
He fell, and falling nations mourned around;
But now not one of saddening thousands weeps,
Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps
Where demi-gods appeared, as records tell.
Remove yon skull from out the scattered heaps:
Is that a temple where a God may dwell?
Why, e'en the worm at last disdains her shattered cell!
VI.
Look on its broken arch, its ruined wall,
Its chambers desolate, and portals foul:
Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall,
The dome of Thought, the Palace of the Soul.
Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole,
The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit,
And Passion's host, that never brooked control:
Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ,
People this lonely tower, this tenement refit?
VII.
Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son!
'All that we know is, nothing can be known.'
Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun?
Each hath its pang, but feeble sufferers groan
With brain-born dreams of evil all their own.
Pursue what chance or fate proclaimeth best;
Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron:
There no forced banquet claims the sated guest,
But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest.
VIII.
Yet if, as holiest men have deemed, there be
A land of souls beyond that sable shore,
To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee
And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore;
How sweet it were in concert to adore
With those who made our mortal labours light!
To hear each voice we feared to hear no more!
Behold each mighty shade revealed to sight,
The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right!
IX.
There, thou!--whose love and life together fled,
Have left me here to love and live in vain -
Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead,
When busy memory flashes on my brain?
Well--I will dream that we may meet again,
And woo the vision to my vacant breast:
If aught of young Remembrance then remain,
Be as it may Futurity's behest,
For me 'twere bliss enough to know thy spirit blest!
X.
Here let me sit upon this mossy stone,
The marble column's yet unshaken base!
Here, son of Saturn, was thy favourite throne!
Mightiest of many such! Hence let me trace
The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place.
It may not be: nor even can Fancy's eye
Restore what time hath laboured to deface.
Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh;
Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by.
XI.
But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane
On high, where Pallas lingered, loth to flee
The latest relic of her ancient reign -
The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he?
Blush, Caledonia! such thy son could be!
England! I joy no child he was of thine:
Thy free-born men should spare what once was free;
Yet they could violate each saddening shrine,
And bear these altars o'er the long reluctant brine.
XII.
But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast,
To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath spared:
Cold as the crags upon his native coast,
His mind as barren and his heart as hard,
Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prepared,
Aught to displace Athena's poor remains:
Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard,
Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains,
And never knew, till then, the weight of Despot's chains.
XIII.
What! shall it e'er be said by British tongue
Albion was happy in Athena's tears?
Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung,
Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears;
The ocean queen, the free Britannia, bears
The last poor plunder from a bleeding land:
Yes, she, whose generous aid her name endears,
Tore down those remnants with a harpy's hand.
Which envious eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand.
XIV.
Where was thine aegis, Pallas, that appalled
Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way?
Where Peleus' son? whom Hell in vain enthralled,
His shade from Hades upon that dread day
Bursting to light in terrible array!
What! could not Pluto spare the chief once more,
To scare a second robber from his prey?
Idly he wandered on the Stygian shore,
Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before.
XV.
Cold is the heart, fair Greece, that looks on thee,
Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved;
Dull is the eye that will not weep to see
Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed
By British hands, which it had best behoved
To guard those relics ne'er to be restored.
Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved,
And once again thy hapless bosom gored,
And snatched thy shrinking gods to northern climes abhorred!
XVI.
But where is Harold? shall I then forget
To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave?
Little recked he of all that men regret;
No loved one now in feigned lament could rave;
No friend the parting hand extended gave,
Ere the cold stranger passed to other climes.
Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave;
But Harold felt not as in other times,
And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes.
XVII.
He that has sailed upon the dark blue sea,
Has viewed at times, I ween, a full fair sight;
When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be,
The white sails set, the gallant frigate tight,
Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right,
The glorious main expanding o'er the bow,
The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight,
The dullest sailer wearing bravely now,
So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow.
XVIII.
And oh, the little warlike world within!
The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy,
The hoarse command, the busy humming din,
When, at a word, the tops are manned on high:
Hark to the boatswain's call, the cheering cry,
While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides
Or schoolboy midshipman that, standing by,
Strains his shrill pipe, as good or ill betides,
And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides.
XIX.
White is the glassy deck, without a stain,
Where on the watch the staid lieutenant walks:
Look on that part which sacred doth remain
For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks,
Silent and feared by all: not oft he talks
With aught beneath him, if he would preserve
That strict restraint, which broken, ever baulks
Conquest and Fame: but Britons rarely swerve
From law, however stern, which tends their strength to nerve.
XX.
Blow, swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale,
Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray;
Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail,
That lagging barks may make their lazy way.
Ah! grievance sore, and listless dull delay,
To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze!
What leagues are lost before the dawn of day,
Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas,
The flapping sails hauled down to halt for logs like these!
XXI.
The moon is up; by Heaven, a lovely eve!
Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand!
Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe:
Such be our fate when we return to land!
Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand
Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love:
A circle there of merry listeners stand,
Or to some well-known measure featly move,
Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove.
XXII.
Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore;
Europe and Afric, on each other gaze!
Lands of the dark-eyed maid and dusky Moor,
Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze:
How softly on the Spanish shore she plays,
Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown,
Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase:
But Mauritania's giant-shadows frown,
From mountain-cliff to coast descending sombre down.
XXIII.
'Tis night, when Meditation bids us feel
We once have loved, though love is at an end:
The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal,
Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend.
Who with the weight of years would wish to bend,
When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy?
Alas! when mingling souls forget to blend,
Death hath but little left him to destroy!
Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
XXIV.
Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side,
To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere,
The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride,
And flies unconscious o'er each backward year.
None are so desolate but something dear,
Dearer than self, possesses or possessed
A thought, and claims the homage of a tear;
A flashing pang! of which the weary breast
Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest.
XXV.
To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,
Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been;
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,
With the wild flock that never needs a fold;
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean:
This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold
Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled.
XXVI.
But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,
And roam along, the world's tired denizen,
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;
Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!
None that, with kindred consciousness endued,
If we were not, would seem to smile the less
Of all that flattered, followed, sought, and sued:
This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!
XXVII.
More blest the life of godly eremite,
Such as on lonely Athos may be seen,
Watching at eve upon the giant height,
Which looks o'er waves so blue, skies so serene,
That he who there at such an hour hath been,
Will wistful linger on that hallowed spot;
Then slowly tear him from the witching scene,
Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot,
Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot.
XXVIII.
Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track
Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind;
Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack,
And each well-known caprice of wave and wind;
Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find,
Cooped in their winged sea-girt citadel;
The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind,
As breezes rise and fall, and billows swell,
Till on some jocund morn--lo, land! and all is well.
XXIX.
But not in silence pass Calypso's isles,
The sister tenants of the middle deep;
There for the weary still a haven smiles,
Though the fair goddess long has ceased to weep,
And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep
For him who dared prefer a mortal bride:
Here, too, his boy essayed the dreadful leap
Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide;
While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen doubly sighed.
XXX.
Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone:
But trust not this; too easy youth, beware!
A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne,
And thou mayst find a new Calypso there.
Sweet Florence! could another ever share
This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine:
But checked by every tie, I may not dare
To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine,
Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine.
XXXI.
Thus Harold deemed, as on that lady's eye
He looked, and met its beam without a thought,
Save Admiration glancing harmless by:
Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote,
Who knew his votary often lost and caught,
But knew him as his worshipper no more,
And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought:
Since now he vainly urged him to adore,
Well deemed the little god his ancient sway was o'er.
XXXII.
Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze,
One who, 'twas said, still sighed to all he saw,
Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze,
Which others hailed with real or mimic awe,
Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law:
All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims:
And much she marvelled that a youth so raw
Nor felt, nor feigned at least, the oft-told flames,
Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely anger dames.
XXXIII.
Little knew she that seeming marble heart,
Now masked by silence or withheld by pride,
Was not unskilful in the spoiler's art,
And spread its snares licentious far and wide;
Nor from the base pursuit had turned aside,
As long as aught was worthy to pursue:
But Harold on such arts no more relied;
And had he doted on those eyes so blue,
Yet never would he join the lover's whining crew.
XXXIV.
Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast,
Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs;
What careth she for hearts when once possessed?
Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes,
But not too humbly, or she will despise
Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes;
Disguise e'en tenderness, if thou art wise;
Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes;
Pique her and soothe in turn, soon Passion crowns thy hopes.
XXXV.
'Tis an old lesson: Time approves it true,
And those who know it best deplore it most;
When all is won that all desire to woo,
The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost:
Youth wasted, minds degraded, honour lost,
These are thy fruits, successful Passion! these!
If, kindly cruel, early hope is crossed,
Still to the last it rankles, a disease,
Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to please.
XXXVI.
Away! nor let me loiter in my song,
For we have many a mountain path to tread,
And many a varied shore to sail along,
By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led -
Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head
Imagined in its little schemes of thought;
Or e'er in new Utopias were read:
To teach man what he might be, or he ought;
If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught.
XXXVII.
Dear Nature is the kindest mother still;
Though always changing, in her aspect mild:
From her bare bosom let me take my fill,
Her never-weaned, though not her favoured child.
Oh! she is fairest in her features wild,
Where nothing polished dares pollute her path:
To me by day or night she ever smiled,
Though I have marked her when none other hath,
And sought her more and more, and loved her best in wrath.
XXXVIII.
Land of Albania! where Iskander rose;
Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise,
And he his namesake, whose oft-baffled foes,
Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprise:
Land of Albania! let me bend mine eyes
On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men!
The cross descends, thy minarets arise,
And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen,
Through many a cypress grove within each city's ken.
XXXIX.
Childe Harold sailed, and passed the barren spot
Where sad Penelope o'erlooked the wave;
And onward viewed the mount, not yet forgot,
The lover's refuge, and the Lesbian's grave.
Dark Sappho! could not verse immortal save
That breast imbued with such immortal fire?
Could she not live who life eternal gave?
If life eternal may await the lyre,
That only Heaven to which Earth's children may aspire.
XL.
'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve,
Childe Harold hailed Leucadia's cape afar;
A spot he longed to see, nor cared to leave:
Oft did he mark the scenes of vanished war,
Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar:
Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight
(Born beneath some remote inglorious star)
In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight,
But loathed the bravo's trade, and laughed at martial wight.
XLI.
But when he saw the evening star above
Leucadia's far-projecting rock of woe,
And hailed the last resort of fruitless love,
He felt, or deemed he felt, no common glow:
And as the stately vessel glided slow
Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount,
He watched the billows' melancholy flow,
And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont,
More placid seemed his eye, and smooth his pallid front.
XLII.
Morn dawns; and with it stern Albania's hills,
Dark Suli's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak,
Robed half in mist, bedewed with snowy rills,
Arrayed in many a dun and purple streak,
Arise; and, as the clouds along them break,
Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer;
Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak,
Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear,
And gathering storms around convulse the closing year.
XLIII.
Now Harold felt himself at length alone,
And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu:
Now he adventured on a shore unknown,
Which all admire, but many dread to view:
His breast was armed 'gainst fate, his wants were few:
Peril he sought not, but ne'er shrank to meet:
The scene was savage, but the scene was new;
This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet,
Beat back keen winter's blast; and welcomed summer's heat.
XLIV.
Here the red cross, for still the cross is here,
Though sadly scoffed at by the circumcised,
Forgets that pride to pampered priesthood dear;
Churchman and votary alike despised.
Foul Superstition! howsoe'er disguised,
Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross,
For whatsoever symbol thou art prized,
Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss!
Who from true worship's gold can separate thy dross.
XLV.
Ambracia's gulf behold, where once was lost
A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing!
In yonder rippling bay, their naval host
Did many a Roman chief and Asian king
To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter, bring
Look where the second Caesar's trophies rose,
Now, like the hands that reared them, withering;
Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes!
God! was thy globe ordained for such to win and lose?
XLVI.
From the dark barriers of that rugged clime,
E'en to the centre of Illyria's vales,
Childe Harold passed o'er many a mount sublime,
Through lands scarce noticed in historic tales:
Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales
Are rarely seen; nor can fair Tempe boast
A charm they know not; loved Parnassus fails,
Though classic ground, and consecrated most,
To match some spots that lurk within this lowering coast.
XLVII.
He passed bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake,
And left the primal city of the land,
And onwards did his further journey take
To greet Albania's chief, whose dread command
Is lawless law; for with a bloody hand
He sways a nation, turbulent and bold:
Yet here and there some daring mountain-band
Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold
Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold.
XLVIII.
Monastic Zitza! from thy shady brow,
Thou small, but favoured spot of holy ground!
Where'er we gaze, around, above, below,
What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found!
Rock, river, forest, mountain all abound,
And bluest skies that harmonise the whole:
Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound
Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll
Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please the soul.
XLIX.
Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill,
Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh
Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still,
Might well itself be deemed of dignity,
The convent's white walls glisten fair on high;
Here dwells the caloyer, nor rude is he,
Nor niggard of his cheer: the passer-by
Is welcome still; nor heedless will he flee
From hence, if he delight kind Nature's sheen to see.
L.
Here in the sultriest season let him rest,
Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees;
Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast,
From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze:
The plain is far beneath--oh! let him seize
Pure pleasure while he can; the scorching ray
Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease:
Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay,
And gaze, untired, the morn, the noon, the eve away.
LI.
Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight,
Nature's volcanic amphitheatre,
Chimera's alps extend from left to right:
Beneath, a living valley seems to stir;
Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain fir
Nodding above; behold black Acheron!
Once consecrated to the sepulchre.
Pluto! if this be hell I look upon,
Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek for none.
LII.
No city's towers pollute the lovely view;
Unseen is Yanina, though not remote,
Veiled by the screen of hills: here men are few,
Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot;
But, peering down each precipice, the goat
Browseth: and, pensive o'er his scattered flock,
The little shepherd in his white capote
Doth lean his boyish form along the rock,
Or in his cave awaits the tempest's short-lived shock.
LIII.
Oh! where, Dodona, is thine aged grove,
Prophetic fount, and oracle divine?
What valley echoed the response of Jove?
What trace remaineth of the Thunderer's shrine?
All, all forgotten--and shall man repine
That his frail bonds to fleeting life are broke?
Cease, fool! the fate of gods may well be thine:
Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak,
When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink beneath the stroke?
LIV.
Epirus' bounds recede, and mountains fail;
Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye
Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale
As ever Spring yclad in grassy dye:
E'en on a plain no humble beauties lie,
Where some bold river breaks the long expanse,
And woods along the banks are waving high,
Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance,
Or with the moonbeam sleep in Midnight's solemn trance.
LV.
The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit,
The Laos wide and fierce came roaring by;
The shades of wonted night were gathering yet,
When, down the steep banks winding wearily
Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky,
The glittering minarets of Tepalen,
Whose walls o'erlook the stream; and drawing nigh,
He heard the busy hum of warrior-men
Swelling the breeze that sighed along the lengthening glen.
LVI.
He passed the sacred harem's silent tower,
And underneath the wide o'erarching gate
Surveyed the dwelling of this chief of power
Where all around proclaimed his high estate.
Amidst no common pomp the despot sate,
While busy preparation shook the court;
Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons wait;
Within, a palace, and without a fort,
Here men of every clime appear to make resort.
LVII.
Richly caparisoned, a ready row
Of armed horse, and many a warlike store,
Circled the wide-extending court below;
Above, strange groups adorned the corridor;
And ofttimes through the area's echoing door,
Some high-capped Tartar spurred his steed away;
The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor,
Here mingled in their many-hued array,
While the deep war-drum's sound announced the close of day.
LVIII.
The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee,
With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun,
And gold-embroidered garments, fair to see:
The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon;
The Delhi with his cap of terror on,
And crooked glaive; the lively, supple Greek;
And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son;
The bearded Turk, that rarely deigns to speak,
Master of all around, too potent to be meek,
LIX.
Are mixed conspicuous: some recline in groups,
Scanning the motley scene that varies round;
There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops,
And some that smoke, and some that play are found;
Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground;
Half-whispering there the Greek is heard to prate;
Hark! from the mosque the nightly solemn sound,
The muezzin's call doth shake the minaret,
'There is no god but God!--to prayer--lo! God is great!'
LX.
Just at this season Ramazani's fast
Through the long day its penance did maintain.
But when the lingering twilight hour was past,
Revel and feast assumed the rule again:
Now all was bustle, and the menial train
Prepared and spread the plenteous board within;
The vacant gallery now seemed made in vain,
But from the chambers came the mingling din,
As page and slave anon were passing out and in.
LXI.
Here woman's voice is never heard: apart
And scarce permitted, guarded, veiled, to move,
She yields to one her person and her heart,
Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove;
For, not unhappy in her master's love,
And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares,
Blest cares! all other feelings far above!
Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears,
Who never quits the breast, no meaner passion shares.
LXII.
In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring
Of living water from the centre rose,
Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling,
And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose,
Ali reclined, a man of war and woes:
Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace,
While Gentleness her milder radiance throws
Along that aged venerable face,
The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with disgrace.
LXIII.
It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard
Ill suits the passions which belong to youth:
Love conquers age--so Hafiz hath averred,
So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth -
But crimes that scorn the tender voice of ruth,
Beseeming all men ill, but most the man
In years, have marked him with a tiger's tooth:
Blood follows blood, and through their mortal span,
In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood began.
LXIV.
Mid many things most new to ear and eye,
The pilgrim rested here his weary feet,
And gazed around on Moslem luxury,
Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat
Of Wealth and Wantonness, the choice retreat
Of sated Grandeur from the city's noise:
And were it humbler, it in sooth were sweet;
But Peace abhorreth artificial joys,
And Pleasure, leagued with Pomp, the zest of both destroys.
LXV.
Fierce are Albania's children, yet they lack
Not virtues, were those virtues more mature.
Where is the foe that ever saw their back?
Who can so well the toil of war endure?
Their native fastnesses not more secure
Than they in doubtful time of troublous need:
Their wrath how deadly! but their friendship sure,
When Gratitude or Valour bids them bleed,
Unshaken rushing on where'er their chief may lead.
LXVI.
Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain's tower,
Thronging to war in splendour and success;
And after viewed them, when, within their power,
Himself awhile the victim of distress;
That saddening hour when bad men hotlier press:
But these did shelter him beneath their roof,
When less barbarians would have cheered him less,
And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof -
In aught that tries the heart how few withstand the proof!
LXVII.
It chanced that adverse winds once drove his bark
Full on the coast of Suli's shaggy shore,
When all around was desolate and dark;
To land was perilous, to sojourn more;
Yet for awhile the mariners forbore,
Dubious to trust where treachery might lurk:
At length they ventured forth, though doubting sore
That those who loathe alike the Frank and Turk
Might once again renew their ancient butcher-work.
LXVIII.
Vain fear! the Suliotes stretched the welcome hand,
Led them o'er rocks and past the dangerous swamp,
Kinder than polished slaves, though not so bland,
And piled the hearth, and wrung their garments damp,
And filled the bowl, and trimmed the cheerful lamp,
And spread their fare: though homely, all they had:
Such conduct bears Philanthropy's rare stamp -
To rest the weary and to soothe the sad,
Doth lesson happier men, and shames at least the bad.
LXIX.
It came to pass, that when he did address
Himself to quit at length this mountain land,
Combined marauders half-way barred egress,
And wasted far and near with glaive and brand;
And therefore did he take a trusty band
To traverse Acarnania forest wide,
In war well-seasoned, and with labours tanned,
Till he did greet white Achelous' tide,
And from his farther bank AEtolia's wolds espied.
LXX.
Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove,
And weary waves retire to gleam at rest,
How brown the foliage of the green hill's grove,
Nodding at midnight o'er the calm bay's breast,
As winds come whispering lightly from the west,
Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene:
Here Harold was received a welcome guest;
Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene,
For many a joy could he from night's soft presence glean.
LXXI.
On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly blazed,
The feast was done, the red wine circling fast,
And he that unawares had there ygazed
With gaping wonderment had stared aghast;
For ere night's midmost, stillest hour was past,
The native revels of the troop began;
Each palikar his sabre from him cast,
And bounding hand in hand, man linked to man,
Yelling their uncouth dirge, long danced the kirtled clan.
LXXII.
Childe Harold at a little distance stood,
And viewed, but not displeased, the revelrie,
Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude:
In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see
Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee:
And as the flames along their faces gleamed,
Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing free,
The long wild locks that to their girdles streamed,
While thus in concert they this lay half sang, half screamed:
Tambourgi! Tambourgi! thy larum afar
Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war;
All the sons of the mountains arise at the note,
Chimariot, Illyrian, and dark Suliote!
Oh! who is more brave than a dark Suliote,
To his snowy camese and his shaggy capote?
To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock,
And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock.
Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive
The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live?
Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego?
What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe?
Macedonia sends forth her invincible race;
For a time they abandon the cave and the chase:
But those scarves of blood-red shall be redder, before
The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o'er.
Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the waves,
And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves,
Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar,
And track to his covert the captive on shore.
I ask not the pleasure that riches supply,
My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy:
Shall win the young bride with her long flowing hair,
And many a maid from her mother shall tear.
I love the fair face of the maid in her youth;
Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall soothe:
Let her bring from her chamber the many-toned lyre,
And sing us a song on the fall of her sire.
Remember the moment when Previsa fell,
The shrieks of the conquered, the conqueror's yell;
The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared,
The wealthy we slaughtered, the lovely we spared.
I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear;
He neither must know who would serve the Vizier;
Since the days of our prophet, the crescent ne'er saw
A chief ever glorious like Ali Pasha.
Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped,
Let the yellow-haired Giaours view his horsetail with dread;
When his Delhis come dashing in blood o'er the banks,
How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks!
Selictar! unsheath then our chief's scimitar:
Tambourgi! thy larum gives promise of war.
Ye mountains that see us descend to the shore,
Shall view us as victors, or view us no more!
LXXIII.
Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth!
Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great!
Who now shall lead thy scattered children forth,
And long accustomed bondage uncreate?
Not such thy sons who whilome did await,
The hopeless warriors of a willing doom,
In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait -
Oh, who that gallant spirit shall resume,
Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb?
LXXIV.
Spirit of Freedom! when on Phyle's brow
Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train,
Couldst thou forbode the dismal hour which now
Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain?
Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain,
But every carle can lord it o'er thy land;
Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain,
Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand,
From birth till death enslaved; in word, in deed, unmanned.
LXXV.
In all save form alone, how changed! and who
That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye,
Who would but deem their bosom burned anew
With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty!
And many dream withal the hour is nigh
That gives them back their fathers' heritage:
For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh,
Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage,
Or tear their name defiled from Slavery's mournful page.
LXXVI.
Hereditary bondsmen! know ye not
Who would be free themselves must strike the blow?
By their right arms the conquest must be wrought?
Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye? No!
True, they may lay your proud despoilers low,
But not for you will Freedom's altars flame.
Shades of the Helots! triumph o'er your foe:
Greece! change thy lords, thy state is still the same;
Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thy years of shame.
LXXVII.
The city won for Allah from the Giaour,
The Giaour from Othman's race again may wrest;
And the Serai's impenetrable tower
Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest;
Or Wahab's rebel brood, who dared divest
The Prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil,
May wind their path of blood along the West;
But ne'er will Freedom seek this fated soil,
But slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil.
LXXVIII.
Yet mark their mirth--ere lenten days begin,
That penance which their holy rites prepare
To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin,
By daily abstinence and nightly prayer;
But ere his sackcloth garb Repentance wear,
Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all,
To take of pleasaunce each his secret share,
In motley robe to dance at masking ball,
And join the mimic train of merry Carnival.
LXXIX.
And whose more rife with merriment than thine,
O Stamboul! once the empress of their reign?
Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine
And Greece her very altars eyes in vain:
(Alas! her woes will still pervade my strain!)
Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng,
All felt the common joy they now must feign;
Nor oft I've seen such sight, nor heard such song,
As wooed the eye, and thrilled the Bosphorus along.
LXXX.
Loud was the lightsome tumult on the shore;
Oft Music changed, but never ceased her tone,
And timely echoed back the measured oar,
And rippling waters made a pleasant moan:
The Queen of tides on high consenting shone;
And when a transient breeze swept o'er the wave,
'Twas as if, darting from her heavenly throne,
A brighter glance her form reflected gave,
Till sparkling billows seemed to light the banks they lave.
LXXXI.
Glanced many a light caique along the foam,
Danced on the shore the daughters of the land,
No thought had man or maid of rest or home,
While many a languid eye and thrilling hand
Exchanged the look few bosoms may withstand,
Or gently pressed, returned the pressure still:
Oh Love! young Love! bound in thy rosy band,
Let sage or cynic prattle as he will,
These hours, and only these, redeemed Life's years of ill!
LXXXII.
But, midst the throng in merry masquerade,
Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain,
E'en through the closest searment half-betrayed?
To such the gentle murmurs of the main
Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain;
To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd
Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain:
How do they loathe the laughter idly loud,
And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud!
LXXXIII.
This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece,
If Greece one true-born patriot can boast:
Not such as prate of war but skulk in peace,
The bondsman's peace, who sighs for all he lost,
Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost,
And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword:
Ah, Greece! they love thee least who owe thee most -
Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record
Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde!
LXXXIV.
When riseth Lacedaemon's hardihood,
When Thebes Epaminondas rears again,
When Athens' children are with hearts endued,
When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men,
Then mayst thou be restored; but not till then.
A thousand years scarce serve to form a state;
An hour may lay it in the dust: and when
Can man its shattered splendour renovate,
Recall its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fate?
LXXXV.
And yet how lovely in thine age of woe,
Land of lost gods and godlike men, art thou!
Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow,
Proclaim thee Nature's varied favourite now;
Thy fanes, thy temples to the surface bow,
Commingling slowly with heroic earth,
Broke by the share of every rustic plough:
So perish monuments of mortal birth,
So perish all in turn, save well-recorded worth;
LXXXVI.
Save where some solitary column mourns
Above its prostrate brethren of the cave;
Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns
Colonna's cliff, and gleams along the wave;
Save o'er some warrior's half-forgotten grave,
Where the grey stones and unmolested grass
Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave,
While strangers only not regardless pass,
Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh 'Alas!'
LXXXVII.
Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild:
Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields,
Thine olives ripe as when Minerva smiled,
And still his honeyed wealth Hymettus yields;
There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds,
The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain air;
Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds,
Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare;
Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair.
LXXXVIII.
Where'er we tread, 'tis haunted, holy ground;
No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould,
But one vast realm of wonder spreads around,
And all the Muse's tales seem truly told,
Till the sense aches with gazing to behold
The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon:
Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold,
Defies the power which crushed thy temples gone:
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.
LXXXIX.
The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same;
Unchanged in all except its foreign lord -
Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame;
The battle-field, where Persia's victim horde
First bowed beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword,
As on the morn to distant Glory dear,
When Marathon became a magic word;
Which uttered, to the hearer's eye appear
The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career.
XC.
The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow;
The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear;
Mountains above, Earth's, Ocean's plain below;
Death in the front, Destruction in the rear!
Such was the scene--what now remaineth here?
What sacred trophy marks the hallowed ground,
Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear?
The rifled urn, the violated mound,
The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger! spurns around.
XCI.
Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng:
Long shall the voyager, with th' Ionian blast,
Hail the bright clime of battle and of song;
Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore:
Boast of the aged! lesson of the young!
Which sages venerate and bards adore,
As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore.
XCII.
The parted bosom clings to wonted home,
If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth;
He that is lonely, hither let him roam,
And gaze complacent on congenial earth.
Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth;
But he whom Sadness sootheth may abide,
And scarce regret the region of his birth,
When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side,
Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died.
XCIII.
Let such approach this consecrated land,
And pass in peace along the magic waste:
But spare its relics--let no busy hand
Deface the scenes, already how defaced!
Not for such purpose were these altars placed.
Revere the remnants nations once revered;
So may our country's name be undisgraced,
So mayst thou prosper where thy youth was reared,
By every honest joy of love and life endeared!
XCIV.
For thee, who thus in too protracted song
Hath soothed thine idlesse with inglorious lays,
Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng
Of louder minstrels in these later days:
To such resign the strife for fading bays -
Ill may such contest now the spirit move
Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise,
Since cold each kinder heart that might approve,
And none are left to please where none are left to love.
XCV.
Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one!
Whom youth and youth's affections bound to me;
Who did for me what none beside have done,
Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee.
What is my being? thou hast ceased to be!
Nor stayed to welcome here thy wanderer home,
Who mourns o'er hours which we no more shall see -
Would they had never been, or were to come!
Would he had ne'er returned to find fresh cause to roam!
XCVI.
Oh! ever loving, lovely, and beloved!
How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past,
And clings to thoughts now better far removed!
But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last.
All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death, thou hast:
The parent, friend, and now the more than friend;
Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast,
And grief with grief continuing still to blend,
Hath snatched the little joy that life had yet to lend.
XCVII.
Then must I plunge again into the crowd,
And follow all that Peace disdains to seek?
Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly loud,
False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek,
To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak!
Still o'er the features, which perforce they cheer,
To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique;
Smiles form the channel of a future tear,
Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled sneer.
XCVIII.
What is the worst of woes that wait on age?
What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow?
To view each loved one blotted from life's page,
And be alone on earth, as I am now.
Before the Chastener humbly let me bow,
O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroyed:
Roll on, vain days! full reckless may ye flow,
Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoyed,
And with the ills of eld mine earlier years alloyed.
CANTO THE THIRD.
I.
Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child!
Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart?
When last I saw thy young blue eyes, they smiled,
And then we parted,--not as now we part,
But with a hope. -
Awaking with a start,
The waters heave around me; and on high
The winds lift up their voices: I depart,
Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by,
When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.
II.
Once more upon the waters! yet once more!
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar!
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead!
Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed,
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale,
Still must I on; for I am as a weed,
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail
Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail.
III.
In my youth's summer I did sing of One,
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind;
Again I seize the theme, then but begun,
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind
Bears the cloud onwards: in that tale I find
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears,
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind,
O'er which all heavily the journeying years
Plod the last sands of life--where not a flower appears.
IV.
Since my young days of passion--joy, or pain,
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string,
And both may jar: it may be, that in vain
I would essay as I have sung to sing.
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling,
So that it wean me from the weary dream
Of selfish grief or gladness--so it fling
Forgetfulness around me--it shall seem
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme.
V.
He who, grown aged in this world of woe,
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life,
So that no wonder waits him; nor below
Can love or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife,
Cut to his heart again with the keen knife
Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell
Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife
With airy images, and shapes which dwell
Still unimpaired, though old, in the soul's haunted cell.
VI.
'Tis to create, and in creating live
A being more intense, that we endow
With form our fancy, gaining as we give
The life we image, even as I do now.
What am I? Nothing: but not so art thou,
Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth,
Invisible but gazing, as I glow
Mixed with thy spirit, blended with thy birth,
And feeling still with thee in my crushed feelings' dearth.
VII.
Yet must I think less wildly: I HAVE thought
Too long and darkly, till my brain became,
In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought,
A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame:
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame,
My springs of life were poisoned. 'Tis too late!
Yet am I changed; though still enough the same
In strength to bear what time cannot abate,
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing fate.
VIII.
Something too much of this: but now 'tis past,
And the spell closes with its silent seal.
Long-absent Harold reappears at last;
He of the breast which fain no more would feel,
Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne'er heal;
Yet Time, who changes all, had altered him
In soul and aspect as in age: years steal
Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb;
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.
IX.
His had been quaffed too quickly, and he found
The dregs were wormwood; but he filled again,
And from a purer fount, on holier ground,
And deemed its spring perpetual; but in vain!
Still round him clung invisibly a chain
Which galled for ever, fettering though unseen,
And heavy though it clanked not; worn with pain,
Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen,
Entering with every step he took through many a scene.
X.
Secure in guarded coldness, he had mixed
Again in fancied safety with his kind,
And deemed his spirit now so firmly fixed
And sheathed with an invulnerable mind,
That, if no joy, no sorrow lurked behind;
And he, as one, might midst the many stand
Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find
Fit speculation; such as in strange land
He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's hand.
XI.
But who can view the ripened rose, nor seek
To wear it? who can curiously behold
The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek,
Nor feel the heart can never all grow old?
Who can contemplate fame through clouds unfold
The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb?
Harold, once more within the vortex rolled
On with the giddy circle, chasing Time,
Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond prime.
XII.
But soon he knew himself the most unfit
Of men to herd with Man; with whom he held
Little in common; untaught to submit
His thoughts to others, though his soul was quelled,
In youth by his own thoughts; still uncompelled,
He would not yield dominion of his mind
To spirits against whom his own rebelled;
Proud though in desolation; which could find
A life within itself, to breathe without mankind.
XIII.
Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends;
Where rolled the ocean, thereon was his home;
Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends,
He had the passion and the power to roam;
The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam,
Were unto him companionship; they spake
A mutual language, clearer than the tome
Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake
For nature's pages glassed by sunbeams on the lake.
XIV.
Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars,
Till he had peopled them with beings bright
As their own beams; and earth, and earth-born jars,
And human frailties, were forgotten quite:
Could he have kept his spirit to that flight,
He had been happy; but this clay will sink
Its spark immortal, envying it the light
To which it mounts, as if to break the link
That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its brink.
XV.
But in Man's dwellings he became a thing
Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome,
Drooped as a wild-born falcon with clipt wing,
To whom the boundless air alone were home:
Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome,
As eagerly the barred-up bird will beat
His breast and beak against his wiry dome
Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat
Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat.
XVI.
Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again,
With naught of hope left, but with less of gloom;
The very knowledge that he lived in vain,
That all was over on this side the tomb,
Had made Despair a smilingness assume,
Which, though 'twere wild--as on the plundered wreck
When mariners would madly meet their doom
With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck -
Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check.
XVII.
Stop! for thy tread is on an empire's dust!
An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below!
Is the spot marked with no colossal bust?
Nor column trophied for triumphal show?
None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so,
As the ground was before, thus let it be; -
How that red rain hath made the harvest grow!
And is this all the world has gained by thee,
Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory?
XVIII.
And Harold stands upon this place of skulls,
The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo!
How in an hour the power which gave annuls
Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too!
In 'pride of place' here last the eagle flew,
Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain,
Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through:
Ambition's life and labours all were vain;
He wears the shattered links of the world's broken chain.
XIX.
Fit retribution! Gaul may champ the bit,
And foam in fetters, but is Earth more free?
Did nations combat to make ONE submit;
Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty?
What! shall reviving thraldom again be
The patched-up idol of enlightened days?
Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we
Pay the Wolf homage? proffering lowly gaze
And servile knees to thrones? No; PROVE before ye praise!
XX.
If not, o'er one fall'n despot boast no more!
In vain fair cheeks were furrowed with hot tears
For Europe's flowers long rooted up before
The trampler of her vineyards; in vain years
Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears,
Have all been borne, and broken by the accord
Of roused-up millions: all that most endears
Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword
Such as Harmodius drew on Athens' tyrant lord.
XXI.
There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell;
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
XXII.
Did ye not hear it?--No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet.
But hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! arm! it is--it is--the cannon's opening roar!
XXIII.
Within a windowed niche of that high hall
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound, the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.
XXIV.
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated: who would guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!
XXV.
And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering, with white lips--'The foe! They come! they come!'
XXVI.
And wild and high the 'Cameron's gathering' rose,
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With the fierce native daring which instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years,
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears.
XXVII.
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,
Over the unreturniug brave,--alas!
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
Of living valour, rolling on the foe,
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.
XXVIII.
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms,--the day
Battle's magnificently stern array!
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent
The earth is covered thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
Rider and horse,--friend, foe,--in one red burial blent!
XXIX.
Their praise is hymned by loftier harps than mine;
Yet one I would _select_ from that proud throng,
Partly because they blend me with his line,
And partly that I did his sire some wrong,
And partly that bright names will hallow song;
And his was of the bravest, and when showered
The death-bolts deadliest the thinned files along,
Even where the thickest of war's tempest lowered,
They reached no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant Howard!
XXX.
There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee,
And mine were nothing, had I such to give;
But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree,
Which living waves where thou didst cease to live,
And saw around me the wild field revive
With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring
Come forth her work of gladness to contrive,
With all her reckless birds upon the wing,
I turned from all she brought to those she could not bring.
XXXI.
I turned to thee, to thousands, of whom each
And one as all a ghastly gap did make
In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach
Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake;
The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake
Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of Fame
May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake
The fever of vain longing, and the name
So honoured, but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim.
XXXII.
They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, mourn:
The tree will wither long before it fall:
The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn;
The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall
In massy hoariness; the ruined wall
Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone;
The bars survive the captive they enthral;
The day drags through though storms keep out the sun;
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on:
XXXIII.
E'en as a broken mirror, which the glass
In every fragment multiplies; and makes
A thousand images of one that was,
The same, and still the more, the more it breaks;
And thus the heart will do which not forsakes,
Living in shattered guise, and still, and cold,
And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches,
Yet withers on till all without is old,
Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold.
XXXIV.
There is a very life in our despair,
Vitality of poison,--a quick root
Which feeds these deadly branches; for it were
As nothing did we die; but life will suit
Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit,
Like to the apples on the Dead Sea shore,
All ashes to the taste: Did man compute
Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er
Such hours 'gainst years of life,--say, would he name threescore?
XXXV.
The Psalmist numbered out the years of man:
They are enough: and if thy tale be TRUE,
Thou, who didst grudge him e'en that fleeting span,
More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo!
Millions of tongues record thee, and anew
Their children's lips shall echo them, and say,
'Here, where the sword united nations drew,
Our countrymen were warring on that day!'
And this is much, and all which will not pass away.
XXXVI.
There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men,
Whose spirit anithetically mixed
One moment of the mightiest, and again
On little objects with like firmness fixed;
Extreme in all things! hadst thou been betwixt,
Thy throne had still been thine, or never been;
For daring made thy rise as fall: thou seek'st
Even now to reassume the imperial mien,
And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene!
XXXVII.
Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou!
She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name
Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now
That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame,
Who wooed thee once, thy vassal, and became
The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert
A god unto thyself; nor less the same
To the astounded kingdoms all inert,
Who deemed thee for a time whate'er thou didst assert.
XXXVIII.
Oh, more or less than man--in high or low,
Battling with nations, flying from the field;
Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool, now
More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield:
An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild,
But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor,
However deeply in men's spirits skilled,
Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war,
Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star.
XXXIX.
Yet well thy soul hath brooked the turning tide
With that untaught innate philosophy,
Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride,
Is gall and wormwood to an enemy.
When the whole host of hatred stood hard by,
To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled
With a sedate and all-enduring eye;
When Fortune fled her spoiled and favourite child,
He stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled.
XL.
Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them
Ambition steeled thee on to far too show
That just habitual scorn, which could contemn
Men and their thoughts; 'twas wise to feel, not so
To wear it ever on thy lip and brow,
And spurn the instruments thou wert to use
Till they were turned unto thine overthrow:
'Tis but a worthless world to win or lose;
So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose.
XLI.
If, like a tower upon a headland rock,
Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone,
Such scorn of man had helped to brave the shock;
But men's thoughts were the steps which paved thy throne,
THEIR admiration thy best weapon shone;
The part of Philip's son was thine, not then
(Unless aside thy purple had been thrown)
Like stern Diogenes to mock at men;
For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den.
XLII.
But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell,
And THERE hath been thy bane; there is a fire
And motion of the soul, which will not dwell
In its own narrow being, but aspire
Beyond the fitting medium of desire;
And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore,
Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire
Of aught but rest; a fever at the core,
Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore.
XLIII.
This makes the madmen who have made men mad
By their contagion! Conquerors and Kings,
Founders of sects and systems, to whom add
Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things
Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs,
And are themselves the fools to those they fool;
Envied, yet how unenviable! what stings
Are theirs! One breast laid open were a school
Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule:
XLIV.
Their breath is agitation, and their life
A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last,
And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife,
That should their days, surviving perils past,
Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast
With sorrow and supineness, and so die;
Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste
With its own flickering, or a sword laid by,
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.
XLV.
He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow;
He who surpasses or subdues mankind,
Must look down on the hate of those below.
Though high ABOVE the sun of glory glow,
And far BENEATH the earth and ocean spread,
ROUND him are icy rocks, and loudly blow
Contending tempests on his naked head,
And thus reward the toils which to those summits led.
XLVI.
Away with these; true Wisdom's world will be
Within its own creation, or in thine,
Maternal Nature! for who teems like thee,
Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine?
There Harold gazes on a work divine,
A blending of all beauties; streams and dells,
Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, corn-field, mountain, vine,
And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells
From grey but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells.
XLVII.
And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind,
Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd,
All tenantless, save to the crannying wind,
Or holding dark communion with the cloud.
There was a day when they were young and proud,
Banners on high, and battles passed below;
But they who fought are in a bloody shroud,
And those which waved are shredless dust ere now,
And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow.
XLVIII.
Beneath these battlements, within those walls,
Power dwelt amidst her passions; in proud state
Each robber chief upheld his armed halls,
Doing his evil will, nor less elate
Than mightier heroes of a longer date.
What want these outlaws conquerors should have
But History's purchased page to call them great?
A wider space, an ornamented grave?
Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full as brave.
XLIX.
In their baronial feuds and single fields,
What deeds of prowess unrecorded died!
And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields,
With emblems well devised by amorous pride,
Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide;
But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on
Keen contest and destruction near allied,
And many a tower for some fair mischief won,
Saw the discoloured Rhine beneath its ruin run.
L.
But thou, exulting and abounding river!
Making thy waves a blessing as they flow
Through banks whose beauty would endure for ever,
Could man but leave thy bright creation so,
Nor its fair promise from the surface mow
With the sharp scythe of conflict,--then to see
Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know
Earth paved like Heaven; and to seem such to me
Even now what wants thy stream?--that it should Lethe be.
LI.
A thousand battles have assailed thy banks,
But these and half their fame have passed away,
And Slaughter heaped on high his weltering ranks:
Their very graves are gone, and what are they?
Thy tide washed down the blood of yesterday,
And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream
Glassed with its dancing light the sunny ray;
But o'er the blackened memory's blighting dream
Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem.
LII.
Thus Harold inly said, and passed along,
Yet not insensible to all which here
Awoke the jocund birds to early song
In glens which might have made e'en exile dear:
Though on his brow were graven lines austere,
And tranquil sternness which had ta'en the place
Of feelings fierier far but less severe,
Joy was not always absent from his face,
But o'er it in such scenes would steal with transient trace.
LIII.
Nor was all love shut from him, though his days
Of passion had consumed themselves to dust.
It is in vain that we would coldly gaze
On such as smile upon us; the heart must
Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust
Hath weaned it from all worldlings: thus he felt,
For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust
In one fond breast, to which his own would melt,
And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt.
LIV.
And he had learned to love,--I know not why,
For this in such as him seems strange of mood, -
The helpless looks of blooming infancy,
Even in its earliest nurture; what subdued,
To change like this, a mind so far imbued
With scorn of man, it little boots to know;
But thus it was; and though in solitude
Small power the nipped affections have to grow,
In him this glowed when all beside had ceased to glow.
LV.
And there was one soft breast, as hath been said,
Which unto his was bound by stronger ties
Than the church links withal; and, though unwed,
THAT love was pure, and, far above disguise,
Had stood the test of mortal enmities
Still undivided, and cemented more
By peril, dreaded most in female eyes;
But this was firm, and from a foreign shore
Well to that heart might his these absent greetings pour!
The castled crag of Drachenfels
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine.
Whose breast of waters broadly swells
Between the banks which bear the vine,
And hills all rich with blossomed trees,
And fields which promise corn and wine,
And scattered cities crowning these,
Whose far white walls along them shine,
Have strewed a scene, which I should see
With double joy wert THOU with me!
And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes,
And hands which offer early flowers,
Walk smiling o'er this paradise;
Above, the frequent feudal towers
Through green leaves lift their walls of grey,
And many a rock which steeply lours,
And noble arch in proud decay,
Look o'er this vale of vintage bowers:
But one thing want these banks of Rhine, -
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!
I send the lilies given to me;
Though long before thy hand they touch,
I know that they must withered be,
But yet reject them not as such;
For I have cherished them as dear,
Because they yet may meet thine eye,
And guide thy soul to mine e'en here,
When thou behold'st them drooping nigh,
And know'st them gathered by the Rhine,
And offered from my heart to thine!
The river nobly foams and flows,
The charm of this enchanted ground,
And all its thousand turns disclose
Some fresher beauty varying round;
The haughtiest breast its wish might bound
Through life to dwell delighted here;
Nor could on earth a spot be found
To Nature and to me so dear,
Could thy dear eyes in following mine
Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine!
LVI.
By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground,
There is a small and simple pyramid,
Crowning the summit of the verdant mound;
Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid,
Our enemy's,--but let not that forbid
Honour to Marceau! o'er whose early tomb
Tears, big tears, gushed from the rough soldier's lid,
Lamenting and yet envying such a doom,
Falling for France, whose rights he battled to resume.
LVI.
Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career, -
His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes;
And fitly may the stranger lingering here
Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose;
For he was Freedom's champion, one of those,
The few in number, who had not o'erstept
The charter to chastise which she bestows
On such as wield her weapons; he had kept
The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept.
LVIII.
Here Ehrenbreitstein, with her shattered wall
Black with the miner's blast, upon her height
Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball
Rebounding idly on her strength did light;
A tower of victory! from whence the flight
Of baffled foes was watched along the plain;
But Peace destroyed what War could never blight,
And laid those proud roofs bare to Summer's rain -
On which the iron shower for years had poured in vain.
LIX.
Adieu to thee, fair Rhine! How long, delighted,
The stranger fain would linger on his way;
Thine is a scene alike where souls united
Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray;
And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey
On self-condemning bosoms, it were here,
Where Nature, not too sombre nor too gay,
Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere,
Is to the mellow earth as autumn to the year.
LX.
Adieu to thee again! a vain adieu!
There can be no farewell to scene like thine;
The mind is coloured by thy every hue;
And if reluctantly the eyes resign
Their cherished gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine!
'Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise;
More mighty spots may rise--more glaring shine,
But none unite in one attaching maze
The brilliant, fair, and soft;--the glories of old days.
LXI.
The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom
Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen,
The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom,
The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between,
The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been
In mockery of man's art; and these withal
A race of faces happy as the scene,
Whose fertile bounties here extend to all,
Still springing o'er thy banks, though empires near them fall.
LXII.
But these recede. Above me are the Alps,
The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,
And throned Eternity in icy halls
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls
The avalanche--the thunderbolt of snow!
All that expands the spirit, yet appals,
Gathers around these summits, as to show
How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below.
LXIII.
But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan,
There is a spot should not be passed in vain, -
Morat! the proud, the patriot field! where man
May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain,
Nor blush for those who conquered on that plain;
Here Burgundy bequeathed his tombless host,
A bony heap, through ages to remain,
Themselves their monument;--the Stygian coast
Unsepulchred they roamed, and shrieked each wandering ghost.
LXIV.
While Waterloo with Cannae's carnage vies,
Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand;
They were true Glory's stainless victories,
Won by the unambitious heart and hand
Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band,
All unbought champions in no princely cause
Of vice-entailed Corruption; they no land
Doomed to bewail the blasphemy of laws
Making king's rights divine, by some Draconic clause.
LXV.
By a lone wall a lonelier column rears
A grey and grief-worn aspect of old days
'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years,
And looks as with the wild bewildered gaze
Of one to stone converted by amaze,
Yet still with consciousness; and there it stands,
Making a marvel that it not decays,
When the coeval pride of human hands,
Levelled Aventicum, hath strewed her subject lands.
LXVI.
And there--oh! sweet and sacred be the name! -
Julia--the daughter, the devoted--gave
Her youth to Heaven; her heart, beneath a claim
Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave.
Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would crave
The life she lived in; but the judge was just,
And then she died on him she could not save.
Their tomb was simple, and without a bust,
And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one dust.
LXVII.
But these are deeds which should not pass away,
And names that must not wither, though the earth
Forgets her empires with a just decay,
The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and birth;
The high, the mountain-majesty of worth,
Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe,
And from its immortality look forth
In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow,
Imperishably pure beyond all things below.
LXVIII.
Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face,
The mirror where the stars and mountains view
The stillness of their aspect in each trace
Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue:
There is too much of man here, to look through
With a fit mind the might which I behold;
But soon in me shall Loneliness renew
Thoughts hid, but not less cherished than of old,
Ere mingling with the herd had penned me in their fold.
LXIX.
To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind;
All are not fit with them to stir and toil,
Nor is it discontent to keep the mind
Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil
In one hot throng, where we become the spoil
Of our infection, till too late and long
We may deplore and struggle with the coil,
In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong
Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong.
LXX.
There, in a moment, we may plunge our years
In fatal penitence, and in the blight
Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears,
And colour things to come with hues of Night;
The race of life becomes a hopeless flight
To those that walk in darkness: on the sea,
The boldest steer but where their ports invite,
But there are wanderers o'er Eternity
Whose bark drives on and on, and anchored ne'er shall be.
LXXI.
Is it not better, then, to be alone,
And love Earth only for its earthly sake?
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone,
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake,
Which feeds it as a mother who doth make
A fair but froward infant her own care,
Kissing its cries away as these awake; -
Is it not better thus our lives to wear,
Than join the crushing crowd, doomed to inflict or bear?
LXXII.
I live not in myself, but I become
Portion of that around me; and to me,
High mountains are a feeling, but the hum
Of human cities torture: I can see
Nothing to loathe in Nature, save to be
A link reluctant in a fleshly chain,
Classed among creatures, when the soul can flee,
And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain.
LXXIII.
And thus I am absorbed, and this is life:
I look upon the peopled desert Past,
As on a place of agony and strife,
Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast,
To act and suffer, but remount at last
With a fresh pinion; which I felt to spring,
Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the blast
Which it would cope with, on delighted wing,
Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling.
LXXIV.
And when, at length, the mind shall be all free
From what it hates in this degraded form,
Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be
Existent happier in the fly and worm, -
When elements to elements conform,
And dust is as it should be, shall I not
Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm?
The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each spot?
Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot?
LXXV.
Are not the mountains, waves, and skies a part
Of me and of my soul, as I of them?
Is not the love of these deep in my heart
With a pure passion? should I not contemn
All objects, if compared with these? and stem
A tide of suffering, rather than forego
Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm
Of those whose eyes are only turned below,
Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow?
LXXVI.
But this is not my theme; and I return
To that which is immediate, and require
Those who find contemplation in the urn,
To look on One whose dust was once all fire,
A native of the land where I respire
The clear air for awhile--a passing guest,
Where he became a being,--whose desire
Was to be glorious; 'twas a foolish quest,
The which to gain and keep he sacrificed all rest.
LXXVII.
Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau,
The apostle of affliction, he who threw
Enchantment over passion, and from woe
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew
The breath which made him wretched; yet he knew
How to make madness beautiful, and cast
O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue
Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past
The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast.
LXXVIII.
His love was passion's essence--as a tree
On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame
Kindled he was, and blasted; for to be
Thus, and enamoured, were in him the same.
But his was not the love of living dame,
Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams,
But of Ideal beauty, which became
In him existence, and o'erflowing teems
Along his burning page, distempered though it seems.
LXXIX.
THIS breathed itself to life in Julie, THIS
Invested her with all that's wild and sweet;
This hallowed, too, the memorable kiss
Which every morn his fevered lip would greet,
From hers, who but with friendship his would meet:
But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast
Flashed the thrilled spirit's love-devouring heat;
In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest,
Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest.
LXXX.
His life was one long war with self-sought foes,
Or friends by him self-banished; for his mind
Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose
For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind,
'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind.
But he was frenzied,--wherefore, who may know?
Since cause might be which skill could never find;
But he was frenzied by disease or woe
To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show.
LXXXI.
For then he was inspired, and from him came,
As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore,
Those oracles which set the world in flame,
Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more:
Did he not this for France, which lay before
Bowed to the inborn tyranny of years?
Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore,
Till by the voice of him and his compeers
Roused up to too much wrath, which follows o'ergrown fears?
LXXXII.
They made themselves a fearful monument!
The wreck of old opinions--things which grew,
Breathed from the birth of time: the veil they rent,
And what behind it lay, all earth shall view.
But good with ill they also overthrew,
Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild
Upon the same foundation, and renew
Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour refilled,
As heretofore, because ambition was self-willed.
LXXXIII.
But this will not endure, nor be endured!
Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt.
They might have used it better, but, allured
By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt
On one another; Pity ceased to melt
With her once natural charities. But they,
Who in Oppression's darkness caved had dwelt,
They were not eagles, nourished with the day;
What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey?
LXXXIV.
What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear
That which disfigures it; and they who war
With their own hopes, and have been vanquished, bear
Silence, but not submission: in his lair
Fixed Passion holds his breath, until the hour
Which shall atone for years; none need despair:
It came, it cometh, and will come,--the power
To punish or forgive--in ONE we shall be slower.
LXXXV.
Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake,
With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring.
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing
To waft me from distraction; once I loved
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring
Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved,
That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved.
LXXXVI.
It is the hush of night, and all between
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,
Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen.
Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear
Precipitously steep; and drawing near,
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore,
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar,
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more;
LXXXVII.
He is an evening reveller, who makes
His life an infancy, and sings his fill;
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes
Starts into voice a moment, then is still.
There seems a floating whisper on the hill,
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews
All silently their tears of love instil,
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues.
LXXXVIII.
Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven,
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate
Of men and empires,--'tis to be forgiven,
That in our aspirations to be great,
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state,
And claim a kindred with you; for ye are
A beauty and a mystery, and create
In us such love and reverence from afar,
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.
LXXXIX.
All heaven and earth are still--though not in sleep,
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most;
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep: -
All heaven and earth are still: from the high host
Of stars, to the lulled lake and mountain-coast,
All is concentered in a life intense,
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,
But hath a part of being, and a sense
Of that which is of all Creator and defence.
XC.
Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt
In solitude, where we are LEAST alone;
A truth, which through our being then doth melt,
And purifies from self: it is a tone,
The soul and source of music, which makes known
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm,
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone,
Binding all things with beauty;--'twould disarm
The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm.
XCI.
Nor vainly did the early Persian make
His altar the high places and the peak
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and thus take
A fit and unwalled temple, there to seek
The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak,
Upreared of human hands. Come, and compare
Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek,
With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air,
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer!
XCII.
The sky is changed!--and such a change! O night,
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,
Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud,
But every mountain now hath found a tongue;
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud,
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!
XCIII.
And this is in the night: --Most glorious night!
Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight -
A portion of the tempest and of thee!
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!
And now again 'tis black,--and now, the glee
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.
XCIV.
Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between
Heights which appear as lovers who have parted
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene,
That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted;
Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted,
Love was the very root of the fond rage
Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed:
Itself expired, but leaving them an age
Of years all winters--war within themselves to wage.
XCV.
Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way,
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand;
For here, not one, but many, make their play,
And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand,
Flashing and cast around: of all the band,
The brightest through these parted hills hath forked
His lightnings, as if he did understand
That in such gaps as desolation worked,
There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurked.
XCVI.
Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye,
With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul
To make these felt and feeling, well may be
Things that have made me watchful; the far roll
Of your departing voices, is the knoll
Of what in me is sleepless,--if I rest.
But where of ye, O tempests! is the goal?
Are ye like those within the human breast?
Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest?
XCVII.
Could I embody and unbosom now
That which is most within me,--could I wreak
My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw
Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak,
All that I would have sought, and all I seek,
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe--into one word,
And that one word were lightning, I would speak;
But as it is, I live and die unheard,
With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword.
XCVIII.
The morn is up again, the dewy morn,
With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom,
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn,
And living as if earth contained no tomb, -
And glowing into day: we may resume
The march of our existence: and thus I,
Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room
And food for meditation, nor pass by
Much, that may give us pause, if pondered fittingly.
XCIX.
Clarens! sweet Clarens! birthplace of deep Love!
Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought;
Thy trees take root in love; the snows above
The very glaciers have his colours caught,
And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought
By rays which sleep there lovingly: the rocks,
The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought
In them a refuge from the worldly shocks,
Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then mocks.
C.
Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod, -
Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne
To which the steps are mountains; where the god
Is a pervading life and light,--so shown
Not on those summits solely, nor alone
In the still cave and forest; o'er the flower
His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown,
His soft and summer breath, whose tender power
Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour.
CI.
All things are here of HIM; from the black pines,
Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar
Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines
Which slope his green path downward to the shore,
Where the bowed waters meet him, and adore,
Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood,
The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar,
But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood,
Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude.
CII.
A populous solitude of bees and birds,
And fairy-formed and many coloured things,
Who worship him with notes more sweet than words,
And innocently open their glad wings,
Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs,
And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend
Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings
The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend,
Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end.
CIII.
He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore,
And make his heart a spirit: he who knows
That tender mystery, will love the more,
For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes,
And the world's waste, have driven him far from those,
For 'tis his nature to advance or die;
He stands not still, but or decays, or grows
Into a boundless blessing, which may vie
With the immortal lights, in its eternity!
CIV.
'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot,
Peopling it with affections; but he found
It was the scene which passion must allot
To the mind's purified beings; 'twas the ground
Where early Love his Psyche's zone unbound,
And hallowed it with loveliness: 'tis lone,
And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound,
And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone
Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have reared a throne.
CV.
Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes
Of names which unto you bequeathed a name;
Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads,
A path to perpetuity of fame:
They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim
Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile
Thoughts which should call down thunder, and the flame
Of Heaven, again assailed, if Heaven the while
On man and man's research could deign do more than smile.
CVI.
The one was fire and fickleness, a child
Most mutable in wishes, but in mind
A wit as various,--gay, grave, sage, or wild, -
Historian, bard, philosopher combined:
He multiplied himself among mankind,
The Proteus of their talents: But his own
Breathed most in ridicule,--which, as the wind,
Blew where it listed, laying all things prone, -
Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne.
CVII.
The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought,
And hiving wisdom with each studious year,
In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought,
And shaped his weapon with an edge severe,
Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer;
The lord of irony,--that master spell,
Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear,
And doomed him to the zealot's ready hell,
Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well.
CVIII.
Yet, peace be with their ashes,--for by them,
If merited, the penalty is paid;
It is not ours to judge, far less condemn;
The hour must come when such things shall be made
Known unto all,--or hope and dread allayed
By slumber on one pillow, in the dust,
Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decayed;
And when it shall revive, as is our trust,
'Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just.
CIX.
But let me quit man's works, again to read
His Maker's spread around me, and suspend
This page, which from my reveries I feed,
Until it seems prolonging without end.
The clouds above me to the white Alps tend,
And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er
May be permitted, as my steps I bend
To their most great and growing region, where
The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air.
CX.
Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee
Full flashes on the soul the light of ages,
Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee,
To the last halo of the chiefs and sages
Who glorify thy consecrated pages;
Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; still,
The fount at which the panting mind assuages
Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill,
Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill.
CXI.
Thus far have I proceeded in a theme
Renewed with no kind auspices: --to feel
We are not what we have been, and to deem
We are not what we should be, and to steel
The heart against itself; and to conceal,
With a proud caution, love or hate, or aught, -
Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal, -
Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought,
Is a stern task of soul: --No matter,--it is taught.
CXII.
And for these words, thus woven into song,
It may be that they are a harmless wile, -
The colouring of the scenes which fleet along,
Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile
My breast, or that of others, for a while.
Fame is the thirst of youth,--but I am not
So young as to regard men's frown or smile
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot;
I stood and stand alone,--remembered or forgot.
CXIII.
I have not loved the world, nor the world me;
I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed
To its idolatries a patient knee, -
Nor coined my cheek to smiles, nor cried aloud
In worship of an echo; in the crowd
They could not deem me one of such; I stood
Among them, but not of them; in a shroud
Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could,
Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued.
CXIV.
I have not loved the world, nor the world me, -
But let us part fair foes; I do believe,
Though I have found them not, that there may be
Words which are things,--hopes which will not deceive,
And virtues which are merciful, nor weave
Snares for the falling: I would also deem
O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve;
That two, or one, are almost what they seem, -
That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream.
CXV.
My daughter! with thy name this song begun -
My daughter! with thy name this much shall end -
I see thee not, I hear thee not,--but none
Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend
To whom the shadows of far years extend:
Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold,
My voice shall with thy future visions blend,
And reach into thy heart, when mine is cold, -
A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould.
CXVI.
To aid thy mind's development,--to watch
Thy dawn of little joys,--to sit and see
Almost thy very growth,--to view thee catch
Knowledge of objects, wonders yet to thee!
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee,
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, -
This, it should seem, was not reserved for me
Yet this was in my nature: --As it is,
I know not what is there, yet something like to this.
CXVII.
Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught,
I know that thou wilt love me; though my name
Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught
With desolation, and a broken claim:
Though the grave closed between us,--'twere the same,
I know that thou wilt love me: though to drain
MY blood from out thy being were an aim,
And an attainment,--all would be in vain, -
Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain.
CXVIII.
The child of love,--though born in bitterness,
And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire
These were the elements, and thine no less.
As yet such are around thee; but thy fire
Shall be more tempered, and thy hope far higher.
Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! O'er the sea,
And from the mountains where I now respire,
Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee,
As, with a sigh, I deem thou mightst have been to me!
CANTO THE FOURTH.
I.
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
A palace and a prison on each hand:
I saw from out the wave her structures rise
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand:
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying glory smiles
O'er the far times when many a subject land
Looked to the winged Lion's marble piles,
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles!
II.
She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,
Rising with her tiara of proud towers
At airy distance, with majestic motion,
A ruler of the waters and their powers:
And such she was; her daughters had their dowers
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East
Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers.
In purple was she robed, and of her feast
Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased.
III.
In Venice, Tasso's echoes are no more,
And silent rows the songless gondolier;
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,
And music meets not always now the ear:
Those days are gone--but beauty still is here.
States fall, arts fade--but Nature doth not die,
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,
The pleasant place of all festivity,
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!
IV.
But unto us she hath a spell beyond
Her name in story, and her long array
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond
Above the dogeless city's vanished sway;
Ours is a trophy which will not decay
With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor,
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away -
The keystones of the arch! though all were o'er,
For us repeopled were the solitary shore.
V.
The beings of the mind are not of clay;
Essentially immortal, they create
And multiply in us a brighter ray
And more beloved existence: that which Fate
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state
Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied,
First exiles, then replaces what we hate;
Watering the heart whose early flowers have died,
And with a fresher growth replenishing the void.
VI.
Such is the refuge of our youth and age,
The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy;
And this worn feeling peoples many a page,
And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye:
Yet there are things whose strong reality
Outshines our fairy-land; in shape and hues
More beautiful than our fantastic sky,
And the strange constellations which the Muse
O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse:
VII.
I saw or dreamed of such,--but let them go -
They came like truth, and disappeared like dreams;
And whatsoe'er they were--are now but so;
I could replace them if I would: still teems
My mind with many a form which aptly seems
Such as I sought for, and at moments found;
Let these too go--for waking reason deems
Such overweening phantasies unsound,
And other voices speak, and other sights surround.
VIII.
I've taught me other tongues, and in strange eyes
Have made me not a stranger; to the mind
Which is itself, no changes bring surprise;
Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find
A country with--ay, or without mankind;
Yet was I born where men are proud to be,
Not without cause; and should I leave behind
The inviolate island of the sage and free,
And seek me out a home by a remoter sea,
IX.
Perhaps I loved it well: and should I lay
My ashes in a soil which is not mine,
My spirit shall resume it--if we may
Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine
My hopes of being remembered in my line
With my land's language: if too fond and far
These aspirations in their scope incline, -
If my fame should be, as my fortunes are,
Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar.
X.
My name from out the temple where the dead
Are honoured by the nations--let it be -
And light the laurels on a loftier head!
And be the Spartan's epitaph on me -
'Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.'
Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need;
The thorns which I have reaped are of the tree
I planted,--they have torn me, and I bleed:
I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.
XI.
The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord;
And, annual marriage now no more renewed,
The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored,
Neglected garment of her widowhood!
St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood
Stand, but in mockery of his withered power,
Over the proud place where an Emperor sued,
And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour
When Venice was a queen with an unequalled dower.
XII.
The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns -
An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt;
Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains
Clank over sceptred cities; nations melt
From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt
The sunshine for a while, and downward go
Like lauwine loosened from the mountain's belt:
Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo!
The octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe.
XIII.
Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass,
Their gilded collars glittering in the sun;
But is not Doria's menace come to pass?
Are they not BRIDLED?--Venice, lost and won,
Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done,
Sinks, like a seaweed, into whence she rose!
Better be whelmed beneath the waves, and shun,
Even in Destruction's depth, her foreign foes,
From whom submission wrings an infamous repose.
XIV.
In youth she was all glory,--a new Tyre, -
Her very byword sprung from victory,
The 'Planter of the Lion,' which through fire
And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea;
Though making many slaves, herself still free
And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite:
Witness Troy's rival, Candia! Vouch it, ye
Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight!
For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight.
XV.
Statues of glass--all shivered--the long file
Of her dead doges are declined to dust;
But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile
Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust;
Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust,
Have yielded to the stranger: empty halls,
Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must
Too oft remind her who and what enthrals,
Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls.
XVI.
When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse,
And fettered thousands bore the yoke of war,
Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse,
Her voice their only ransom from afar:
See! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car
Of the o'ermastered victor stops, the reins
Fall from his hands--his idle scimitar
Starts from its belt--he rends his captive's chains,
And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains.
XVII.
Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine,
Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot,
Thy choral memory of the bard divine,
Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot
Which ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy lot
Is shameful to the nations,--most of all,
Albion! to thee: the Ocean Queen should not
Abandon Ocean's children; in the fall
Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall.
XVIII.
I loved her from my boyhood: she to me
Was as a fairy city of the heart,
Rising like water-columns from the sea,
Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart
And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art,
Had stamped her image in me, and e'en so,
Although I found her thus, we did not part,
Perchance e'en dearer in her day of woe,
Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show.
XIX.
I can repeople with the past--and of
The present there is still for eye and thought,
And meditation chastened down, enough;
And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought;
And of the happiest moments which were wrought
Within the web of my existence, some
From thee, fair Venice! have their colours caught:
There are some feelings Time cannot benumb,
Nor torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb.
XX.
But from their nature will the tannen grow
Loftiest on loftiest and least sheltered rocks,
Rooted in barrenness, where nought below
Of soil supports them 'gainst the Alpine shocks
Of eddying storms; yet springs the trunk, and mocks
The howling tempest, till its height and frame
Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks
Of bleak, grey granite, into life it came,
And grew a giant tree;--the mind may grow the same.
XXI.
Existence may be borne, and the deep root
Of life and sufferance make its firm abode
In bare and desolate bosoms: mute
The camel labours with the heaviest load,
And the wolf dies in silence. Not bestowed
In vain should such examples be; if they,
Things of ignoble or of savage mood,
Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay
May temper it to bear,--it is but for a day.
XXII.
All suffering doth destroy, or is destroyed,
Even by the sufferer; and, in each event,
Ends: --Some, with hope replenished and rebuoyed,
Return to whence they came--with like intent,
And weave their web again; some, bowed and bent,
Wax grey and ghastly, withering ere their time,
And perish with the reed on which they leant;
Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime,
According as their souls were formed to sink or climb.
XXIII.
But ever and anon of griefs subdued
There comes a token like a scorpion's sting,
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued;
And slight withal may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside for ever: it may be a sound -
A tone of music--summer's eve--or spring -
A flower--the wind--the ocean--which shall wound,
Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.
XXIV.
And how and why we know not, nor can trace
Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind,
But feel the shock renewed, nor can efface
The blight and blackening which it leaves behind,
Which out of things familiar, undesigned,
When least we deem of such, calls up to view
The spectres whom no exorcism can bind, -
The cold--the changed--perchance the dead--anew,
The mourned, the loved, the lost--too many!--yet how few!
XXV.
But my soul wanders; I demand it back
To meditate amongst decay, and stand
A ruin amidst ruins; there to track
Fall'n states and buried greatness, o'er a land
Which WAS the mightiest in its old command,
And IS the loveliest, and must ever be
The master-mould of Nature's heavenly hand,
Wherein were cast the heroic and the free,
The beautiful, the brave--the lords of earth and sea.
XXVI.
The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome!
And even since, and now, fair Italy!
Thou art the garden of the world, the home
Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree;
Even in thy desert, what is like to thee?
Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste
More rich than other climes' fertility;
Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced
With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced.
XXVII.
The moon is up, and yet it is not night -
Sunset divides the sky with her--a sea
Of glory streams along the Alpine height
Of blue Friuli's mountains; Heaven is free
From clouds, but of all colours seems to be -
Melted to one vast Iris of the West,
Where the day joins the past eternity;
While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest
Floats through the azure air--an island of the blest!
XXVIII.
A single star is at her side, and reigns
With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains
Rolled o'er the peak of the far Rhaetian hill,
As Day and Night contending were, until
Nature reclaimed her order: --gently flows
The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil
The odorous purple of a new-born rose,
Which streams upon her stream, and glassed within it glows,
XXIX.
Filled with the face of heaven, which, from afar,
Comes down upon the waters; all its hues,
From the rich sunset to the rising star,
Their magical variety diffuse:
And now they change; a paler shadow strews
Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues
With a new colour as it gasps away,
The last still loveliest, till--'tis gone--and all is grey.
XXX.
There is a tomb in Arqua;--reared in air,
Pillared in their sarcophagus, repose
The bones of Laura's lover: here repair
Many familiar with his well-sung woes,
The pilgrims of his genius. He arose
To raise a language, and his land reclaim
From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes:
Watering the tree which bears his lady's name
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame.
XXXI.
They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died;
The mountain-village where his latter days
Went down the vale of years; and 'tis their pride -
An honest pride--and let it be their praise,
To offer to the passing stranger's gaze
His mansion and his sepulchre; both plain
And venerably simple, such as raise
A feeling more accordant with his strain,
Than if a pyramid formed his monumental fane.
XXXII.
And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt
Is one of that complexion which seems made
For those who their mortality have felt,
And sought a refuge from their hopes decayed
In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade,
Which shows a distant prospect far away
Of busy cities, now in vain displayed,
For they can lure no further; and the ray
Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday.
XXXIII.
Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers
And shining in the brawling brook, where-by,
Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours
With a calm languor, which, though to the eye
Idlesse it seem, hath its morality,
If from society we learn to live,
'Tis solitude should teach us how to die;
It hath no flatterers; vanity can give
No hollow aid; alone--man with his God must strive:
XXXIV.
Or, it may be, with demons, who impair
The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey
In melancholy bosoms, such as were
Of moody texture from their earliest day,
And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay,
Deeming themselves predestined to a doom
Which is not of the pangs that pass away;
Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb,
The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom.
XXXV.
Ferrara! in thy wide and grass-grown streets,
Whose symmetry was not for solitude,
There seems as 'twere a curse upon the seat's
Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood
Of Este, which for many an age made good
Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore
Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood
Of petty power impelled, of those who wore
The wreath which Dante's brow alone had worn before.
XXXVI.
And Tasso is their glory and their shame.
Hark to his strain! and then survey his cell!
And see how dearly earned Torquato's fame,
And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell.
The miserable despot could not quell
The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend
With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell
Where he had plunged it. Glory without end
Scattered the clouds away--and on that name attend
XXXVII.
The tears and praises of all time, while thine
Would rot in its oblivion--in the sink
Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line
Is shaken into nothing; but the link
Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think
Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn -
Alfonso! how thy ducal pageants shrink
From thee! if in another station born,
Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st to mourn:
XXXVIII.
THOU! formed to eat, and be despised, and die,
Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou
Hadst a more splendid trough, and wider sty:
HE! with a glory round his furrowed brow,
Which emanated then, and dazzles now
In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire,
And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow
No strain which shamed his country's creaking lyre,
That whetstone of the teeth--monotony in wire!
XXXIX.
Peace to Torquato's injured shade! 'twas his
In life and death to be the mark where Wrong
Aimed with their poisoned arrows--but to miss.
Oh, victor unsurpassed in modern song!
Each year brings forth its millions; but how long
The tide of generations shall roll on,
And not the whole combined and countless throng
Compose a mind like thine? Though all in one
Condensed their scattered rays, they would not form a sun.
XL.
Great as thou art, yet paralleled by those
Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine,
The bards of Hell and Chivalry: first rose
The Tuscan father's comedy divine;
Then, not unequal to the Florentine,
The Southern Scott, the minstrel who called forth
A new creation with his magic line,
And, like the Ariosto of the North,
Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly worth.
XLI.
The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust
The iron crown of laurel's mimicked leaves;
Nor was the ominous element unjust,
For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves
Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves,
And the false semblance but disgraced his brow;
Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieves,
Know that the lightning sanctifies below
Whate'er it strikes;--yon head is doubly sacred now.
XLII.
Italia! O Italia! thou who hast
The fatal gift of beauty, which became
A funeral dower of present woes and past,
On thy sweet brow is sorrow ploughed by shame,
And annals graved in characters of flame.
Oh God! that thou wert in thy nakedness
Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim
Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press
To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress;
XLIII.
Then mightst thou more appal; or, less desired,
Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored
For thy destructive charms; then, still untired,
Would not be seen the armed torrents poured
Down the deep Alps; nor would the hostile horde
Of many-nationed spoilers from the Po
Quaff blood and water; nor the stranger's sword
Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so,
Victor or vanquished, thou the slave of friend or foe.
XLIV.
Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him,
The Roman friend of Rome's least mortal mind,
The friend of Tully: as my bark did skim
The bright blue waters with a fanning wind,
Came Megara before me, and behind
AEgina lay, Piraeus on the right,
And Corinth on the left; I lay reclined
Along the prow, and saw all these unite
In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight;
XLV.
For time hath not rebuilt them, but upreared
Barbaric dwellings on their shattered site,
Which only make more mourned and more endeared
The few last rays of their far-scattered light,
And the crushed relics of their vanished might.
The Roman saw these tombs in his own age,
These sepulchres of cities, which excite
Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page
The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage.
XLVI.
That page is now before me, and on mine
HIS country's ruin added to the mass
Of perished states he mourned in their decline,
And I in desolation: all that WAS
Of then destruction IS; and now, alas!
Rome--Rome imperial, bows her to the storm,
In the same dust and blackness, and we pass
The skeleton of her Titanic form,
Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm.
XLVII.
Yet, Italy! through every other land
Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side;
Mother of Arts! as once of Arms; thy hand
Was then our Guardian, and is still our guide;
Parent of our religion! whom the wide
Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven!
Europe, repentant of her parricide,
Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven,
Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven.
XLVIII.
But Arno wins us to the fair white walls,
Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps
A softer feeling for her fairy halls.
Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps
Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps
To laughing life, with her redundant horn.
Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps,
Was modern Luxury of Commerce born,
And buried Learning rose, redeemed to a new morn.
XLIX.
There, too, the goddess loves in stone, and fills
The air around with beauty; we inhale
The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils
Part of its immortality; the veil
Of heaven is half undrawn; within the pale
We stand, and in that form and face behold
What Mind can make, when Nature's self would fail;
And to the fond idolaters of old
Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould:
L.
We gaze and turn away, and know not where,
Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart
Reels with its fulness; there--for ever there -
Chained to the chariot of triumphal Art,
We stand as captives, and would not depart.
Away!--there need no words, nor terms precise,
The paltry jargon of the marble mart,
Where Pedantry gulls Folly--we have eyes:
Blood, pulse, and breast, confirm the Dardan Shepherd's prize.
LI.
Appearedst thou not to Paris in this guise?
Or to more deeply blest Anchises? or,
In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies
Before thee thy own vanquished Lord of War?
And gazing in thy face as toward a star,
Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn,
Feeding on thy sweet cheek! while thy lips are
With lava kisses melting while they burn,
Showered on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from an urn!
LII.
Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love,
Their full divinity inadequate
That feeling to express, or to improve,
The gods become as mortals, and man's fate
Has moments like their brightest! but the weight
Of earth recoils upon us;--let it go!
We can recall such visions, and create
From what has been, or might be, things which grow,
Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below.
LIII.
I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands,
The artist and his ape, to teach and tell
How well his connoisseurship understands
The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell:
Let these describe the undescribable:
I would not their vile breath should crisp the stream
Wherein that image shall for ever dwell;
The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream
That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam.
LIV.
In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie
Ashes which make it holier, dust which is
E'en in itself an immortality,
Though there were nothing save the past, and this
The particle of those sublimities
Which have relapsed to chaos: --here repose
Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his,
The starry Galileo, with his woes;
Here Machiavelli's earth returned to whence it rose.
LV.
These are four minds, which, like the elements,
Might furnish forth creation: --Italy!
Time, which hath wronged thee with ten thousand rents
Of thine imperial garment, shall deny,
And hath denied, to every other sky,
Spirits which soar from ruin: --thy decay
Is still impregnate with divinity,
Which gilds it with revivifying ray;
Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day.
LVI.
But where repose the all Etruscan three -
Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they,
The Bard of Prose, creative spirit! he
Of the Hundred Tales of love--where did they lay
Their bones, distinguished from our common clay
In death as life? Are they resolved to dust,
And have their country's marbles nought to say?
Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust?
Did they not to her breast their filial earth entrust?
LVII.
Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar,
Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore;
Thy factions, in their worse than civil war,
Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore
Their children's children would in vain adore
With the remorse of ages; and the crown
Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore,
Upon a far and foreign soil had grown,
His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled--not thine own.
LVIII.
Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeathed
His dust,--and lies it not her great among,
With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed
O'er him who formed the Tuscan's siren tongue?
That music in itself, whose sounds are song,
The poetry of speech? No;--even his tomb
Uptorn, must bear the hyaena bigots' wrong,
No more amidst the meaner dead find room,
Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for WHOM?
LIX.
And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust;
Yet for this want more noted, as of yore
The Caesar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust,
Did but of Rome's best son remind her more:
Happier Ravenna! on thy hoary shore,
Fortress of falling empire! honoured sleeps
The immortal exile;--Arqua, too, her store
Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps,
While Florence vainly begs her banished dead, and weeps.
LX.
What is her pyramid of precious stones?
Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues
Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones
Of merchant-dukes? the momentary dews
Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse
Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead,
Whose names are mausoleums of the Muse,
Are gently prest with far more reverent tread
Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely head.
LXI.
There be more things to greet the heart and eyes
In Arno's dome of Art's most princely shrine,
Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister vies;
There be more marvels yet--but not for mine;
For I have been accustomed to entwine
My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields
Than Art in galleries: though a work divine
Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields
Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields
LXII.
Is of another temper, and I roam
By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles
Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home;
For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles
Come back before me, as his skill beguiles
The host between the mountains and the shore,
Where Courage falls in her despairing files,
And torrents, swoll'n to rivers with their gore,
Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scattered o'er,
LXIII.
Like to a forest felled by mountain winds;
And such the storm of battle on this day,
And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds
To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray,
An earthquake reeled unheededly away!
None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet,
And yawning forth a grave for those who lay
Upon their bucklers for a winding-sheet;
Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet.
LXIV.
The Earth to them was as a rolling bark
Which bore them to Eternity; they saw
The Ocean round, but had no time to mark
The motions of their vessel: Nature's law,
In them suspended, recked not of the awe
Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the birds
Plunge in the clouds for refuge, and withdraw
From their down-toppling nests; and bellowing herds
Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath no words.
LXV.
Far other scene is Thrasimene now;
Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain
Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough;
Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain
Lay where their roots are; but a brook hath ta'en -
A little rill of scanty stream and bed -
A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain;
And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead
Made the earth wet, and turned the unwilling waters red.
LXVI.
But thou, Clitumnus! in thy sweetest wave
Of the most living crystal that was e'er
The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave
Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear
Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer
Grazes; the purest god of gentle waters!
And most serene of aspect, and most clear:
Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters,
A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daughters!
LXVII.
And on thy happy shore a temple still,
Of small and delicate proportion, keeps,
Upon a mild declivity of hill,
Its memory of thee; beneath it sweeps
Thy current's calmness; oft from out it leaps
The finny darter with the glittering scales,
Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps;
While, chance, some scattered water-lily sails
Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling tales.
LXVIII.
Pass not unblest the genius of the place!
If through the air a zephyr more serene
Win to the brow, 'tis his; and if ye trace
Along his margin a more eloquent green,
If on the heart the freshness of the scene
Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust
Of weary life a moment lave it clean
With Nature's baptism,--'tis to him ye must
Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust.
LXIX.
The roar of waters!--from the headlong height
Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice;
The fall of waters! rapid as the light
The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss;
The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss,
And boil in endless torture; while the sweat
Of their great agony, wrung out from this
Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet
That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set,
LXX.
And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again
Returns in an unceasing shower, which round,
With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain,
Is an eternal April to the ground,
Making it all one emerald. How profound
The gulf! and how the giant element
From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound,
Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent
With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent
LXXI.
To the broad column which rolls on, and shows
More like the fountain of an infant sea
Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes
Of a new world, than only thus to be
Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly,
With many windings through the vale: --Look back!
Lo! where it comes like an eternity,
As if to sweep down all things in its track,
Charming the eye with dread,--a matchless cataract,
LXXII.
Horribly beautiful! but on the verge,
From side to side, beneath the glittering morn,
An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge,
Like Hope upon a deathbed, and, unworn
Its steady dyes, while all around is torn
By the distracted waters, bears serene
Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn:
Resembling, mid the torture of the scene,
Love watching Madness with unalterable mien.
LXXIII.
Once more upon the woody Apennine,
The infant Alps, which--had I not before
Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine
Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar
The thundering lauwine--might be worshipped more;
But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear
Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar
Glaciers of bleak Mont Blanc both far and near,
And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear,
LXXIV.
The Acroceraunian mountains of old name;
And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly
Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame,
For still they soared unutterably high:
I've looked on Ida with a Trojan's eye;
Athos, Olympus, AEtna, Atlas, made
These hills seem things of lesser dignity,
All, save the lone Soracte's height displayed,
Not NOW in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid
LXXV.
For our remembrance, and from out the plain
Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break,
And on the curl hangs pausing: not in vain
May he who will his recollections rake,
And quote in classic raptures, and awake
The hills with Latian echoes; I abhorred
Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake,
The drilled dull lesson, forced down word by word
In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record
LXXVI.
Aught that recalls the daily drug which turned
My sickening memory; and, though Time hath taught
My mind to meditate what then it learned,
Yet such the fixed inveteracy wrought
By the impatience of my early thought,
That, with the freshness wearing out before
My mind could relish what it might have sought,
If free to choose, I cannot now restore
Its health; but what it then detested, still abhor.
LXXVII.
Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so,
Not for thy faults, but mine; it is a curse
To understand, not feel, thy lyric flow,
To comprehend, but never love thy verse,
Although no deeper moralist rehearse
Our little life, nor bard prescribe his art,
Nor livelier satirist the conscience pierce,
Awakening without wounding the touched heart,
Yet fare thee well--upon Soracte's ridge we part.
LXXVIII.
O Rome! my country! city of the soul!
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee,
Lone mother of dead empires! and control
In their shut breasts their petty misery.
What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way
O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye!
Whose agonies are evils of a day--
A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay.
LXXIX.
The Niobe of nations! there she stands,
Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe;
An empty urn within her withered hands,
Whose holy dust was scattered long ago;
The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now;
The very sepulchres lie tenantless
Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow,
Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness?
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress!
LXXX.
The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire,
Have dwelt upon the seven-hilled city's pride:
She saw her glories star by star expire,
And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride,
Where the car climbed the Capitol; far and wide
Temple and tower went down, nor left a site; -
Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void,
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light,
And say, 'Here was, or is,' where all is doubly night?
LXXXI.
The double night of ages, and of her,
Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt, and wrap
All round us; we but feel our way to err:
The ocean hath its chart, the stars their map;
And knowledge spreads them on her ample lap;
But Rome is as the desert, where we steer
Stumbling o'er recollections: now we clap
Our hands, and cry, 'Eureka!' it is clear -
When but some false mirage of ruin rises near.
LXXXII.
Alas, the lofty city! and alas
The trebly hundred triumphs! and the day
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass
The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away!
Alas for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay,
And Livy's pictured page! But these shall be
Her resurrection; all beside--decay.
Alas for Earth, for never shall we see
That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free!
LXXXIII.
O thou, whose chariot rolled on Fortune's wheel,
Triumphant Sylla! Thou, who didst subdue
Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst pause to feel
The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due
Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew
O'er prostrate Asia;--thou, who with thy frown
Annihilated senates--Roman, too,
With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down
With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown -
LXXXIV.
The dictatorial wreath,--couldst thou divine
To what would one day dwindle that which made
Thee more than mortal? and that so supine
By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid?
She who was named eternal, and arrayed
Her warriors but to conquer--she who veiled
Earth with her haughty shadow, and displayed
Until the o'er-canopied horizon failed,
Her rushing wings--Oh! she who was almighty hailed!
LXXXV.
Sylla was first of victors; but our own,
The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell!--he
Too swept off senates while he hewed the throne
Down to a block--immortal rebel! See
What crimes it costs to be a moment free
And famous through all ages! But beneath
His fate the moral lurks of destiny;
His day of double victory and death
Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield his breath.
LXXXVI.
The third of the same moon whose former course
Had all but crowned him, on the self-same day
Deposed him gently from his throne of force,
And laid him with the earth's preceding clay.
And showed not Fortune thus how fame and sway,
And all we deem delightful, and consume
Our souls to compass through each arduous way,
Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb?
Were they but so in man's, how different were his doom!
LXXXVII.
And thou, dread statue! yet existent in
The austerest form of naked majesty,
Thou who beheldest, mid the assassins' din,
At thy bathed base the bloody Caesar lie,
Folding his robe in dying dignity,
An offering to thine altar from the queen
Of gods and men, great Nemesis! did he die,
And thou, too, perish, Pompey? have ye been
Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene?
LXXXVIII.
And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome!
She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart
The milk of conquest yet within the dome
Where, as a monument of antique art,
Thou standest: --Mother of the mighty heart,
Which the great founder sucked from thy wild teat,
Scorched by the Roman Jove's ethereal dart,
And thy limbs blacked with lightning--dost thou yet
Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget?
LXXXIX.
Thou dost;--but all thy foster-babes are dead -
The men of iron; and the world hath reared
Cities from out their sepulchres: men bled
In imitation of the things they feared,
And fought and conquered, and the same course steered,
At apish distance; but as yet none have,
Nor could, the same supremacy have neared,
Save one vain man, who is not in the grave,
But, vanquished by himself, to his own slaves a slave,
XC.
The fool of false dominion--and a kind
Of bastard Caesar, following him of old
With steps unequal; for the Roman's mind
Was modelled in a less terrestrial mould,
With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold,
And an immortal instinct which redeemed
The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold.
Alcides with the distaff now he seemed
At Cleopatra's feet, and now himself he beamed.
XCI.
And came, and saw, and conquered. But the man
Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee,
Like a trained falcon, in the Gallic van,
Which he, in sooth, long led to victory,
With a deaf heart which never seemed to be
A listener to itself, was strangely framed;
With but one weakest weakness--vanity:
Coquettish in ambition, still he aimed
At what? Can he avouch, or answer what he claimed?
XCII.
And would be all or nothing--nor could wait
For the sure grave to level him; few years
Had fixed him with the Caesars in his fate,
On whom we tread: For THIS the conqueror rears
The arch of triumph! and for this the tears
And blood of earth flow on as they have flowed,
An universal deluge, which appears
Without an ark for wretched man's abode,
And ebbs but to reflow!--Renew thy rainbow, God!
XCIII.
What from this barren being do we reap?
Our senses narrow, and our reason frail,
Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep,
And all things weighed in custom's falsest scale;
Opinion an omnipotence, whose veil
Mantles the earth with darkness, until right
And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale
Lest their own judgments should become too bright,
And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too much light.
XCIV.
And thus they plod in sluggish misery,
Rotting from sire to son, and age to age,
Proud of their trampled nature, and so die,
Bequeathing their hereditary rage
To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage
War for their chains, and rather than be free,
Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage
Within the same arena where they see
Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree.
XCV.
I speak not of men's creeds--they rest between
Man and his Maker--but of things allowed,
Averred, and known,--and daily, hourly seen -
The yoke that is upon us doubly bowed,
And the intent of tyranny avowed,
The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown
The apes of him who humbled once the proud,
And shook them from their slumbers on the throne;
Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done.
XCVI.
Can tyrants but by tyrants conquered be,
And Freedom find no champion and no child
Such as Columbia saw arise when she
Sprung forth a Pallas, armed and undefiled?
Or must such minds be nourished in the wild,
Deep in the unpruned forest, midst the roar
Of cataracts, where nursing nature smiled
On infant Washington? Has Earth no more
Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore?
XCVII.
But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime,
And fatal have her Saturnalia been
To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime;
Because the deadly days which we have seen,
And vile Ambition, that built up between
Man and his hopes an adamantine wall,
And the base pageant last upon the scene,
Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall
Which nips Life's tree, and dooms man's worst--his second fall.
XCVIII.
Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying,
Streams like the thunder-storm AGAINST the wind;
Thy trumpet-voice, though broken now and dying,
The loudest still the tempest leaves behind;
Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind,
Chopped by the axe, looks rough and little worth,
But the sap lasts,--and still the seed we find
Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North;
So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth.
XCIX.
There is a stern round tower of other days,
Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone,
Such as an army's baffled strength delays,
Standing with half its battlements alone,
And with two thousand years of ivy grown,
The garland of eternity, where wave
The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown:
What was this tower of strength? within its cave
What treasure lay so locked, so hid?--A woman's grave.
C.
But who was she, the lady of the dead,
Tombed in a palace? Was she chaste and fair?
Worthy a king's--or more--a Roman's bed?
What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear?
What daughter of her beauties was the heir?
How lived--how loved--how died she? Was she not
So honoured--and conspicuously there,
Where meaner relics must not dare to rot,
Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot?
CI.
Was she as those who love their lords, or they
Who love the lords of others? such have been
Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say.
Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien,
Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen,
Profuse of joy; or 'gainst it did she war,
Inveterate in virtue? Did she lean
To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar
Love from amongst her griefs?--for such the affections are.
CII.
Perchance she died in youth: it may be, bowed
With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb
That weighed upon her gentle dust, a cloud
Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom
In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom
Heaven gives its favourites--early death; yet shed
A sunset charm around her, and illume
With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead,
Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red.
CIII.
Perchance she died in age--surviving all,
Charms, kindred, children--with the silver grey
On her long tresses, which might yet recall,
It may be, still a something of the day
When they were braided, and her proud array
And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed
By Rome--But whither would Conjecture stray?
Thus much alone we know--Metella died,
The wealthiest Roman's wife: Behold his love or pride!
CIV.
I know not why--but standing thus by thee
It seems as if I had thine inmate known,
Thou Tomb! and other days come back on me
With recollected music, though the tone
Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan
Of dying thunder on the distant wind;
Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone
Till I had bodied forth the heated mind,
Forms from the floating wreck which ruin leaves behind;
CV.
And from the planks, far shattered o'er the rocks,
Built me a little bark of hope, once more
To battle with the ocean and the shocks
Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar
Which rushes on the solitary shore
Where all lies foundered that was ever dear:
But could I gather from the wave-worn store
Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer?
There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here.
CVI.
Then let the winds howl on! their harmony
Shall henceforth be my music, and the night
The sound shall temper with the owlet's cry,
As I now hear them, in the fading light
Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site,
Answer each other on the Palatine,
With their large eyes, all glistening grey and bright,
And sailing pinions.--Upon such a shrine
What are our petty griefs?--let me not number mine.
CVII.
Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown
Matted and massed together, hillocks heaped
On what were chambers, arch crushed, column strown
In fragments, choked-up vaults, and frescoes steeped
In subterranean damps, where the owl peeped,
Deeming it midnight: --Temples, baths, or halls?
Pronounce who can; for all that Learning reaped
From her research hath been, that these are walls -
Behold the Imperial Mount! 'tis thus the mighty falls.
CVIII.
There is the moral of all human tales:
'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past,
First Freedom, and then Glory--when that fails,
Wealth, vice, corruption--barbarism at last.
And History, with all her volumes vast,
Hath but ONE page,--'tis better written here,
Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amassed
All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear,
Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask--Away with words! draw near,
CIX.
Admire, exult--despise--laugh, weep--for here
There is such matter for all feeling: --Man!
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear,
Ages and realms are crowded in this span,
This mountain, whose obliterated plan
The pyramid of empires pinnacled,
Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van
Till the sun's rays with added flame were filled!
Where are its golden roofs? where those who dared to build?
CX.
Tully was not so eloquent as thou,
Thou nameless column with the buried base!
What are the laurels of the Caesar's brow?
Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place.
Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face,
Titus or Trajan's? No; 'tis that of Time:
Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace,
Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb
To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime,
CXI.
Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome,
And looking to the stars; they had contained
A spirit which with these would find a home,
The last of those who o'er the whole earth reigned,
The Roman globe, for after none sustained
But yielded back his conquests: --he was more
Than a mere Alexander, and unstained
With household blood and wine, serenely wore
His sovereign virtues--still we Trajan's name adore.
CXII.
Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place
Where Rome embraced her heroes? where the steep
Tarpeian--fittest goal of Treason's race,
The promontory whence the traitor's leap
Cured all ambition? Did the Conquerors heap
Their spoils here? Yes; and in yon field below,
A thousand years of silenced factions sleep -
The Forum, where the immortal accents glow,
And still the eloquent air breathes--burns with Cicero!
CXIII.
The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood:
Here a proud people's passions were exhaled,
From the first hour of empire in the bud
To that when further worlds to conquer failed;
But long before had Freedom's face been veiled,
And Anarchy assumed her attributes:
Till every lawless soldier who assailed
Trod on the trembling Senate's slavish mutes,
Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes.
CXIV.
Then turn we to our latest tribune's name,
From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee,
Redeemer of dark centuries of shame -
The friend of Petrarch--hope of Italy -
Rienzi! last of Romans! While the tree
Of freedom's withered trunk puts forth a leaf,
Even for thy tomb a garland let it be--
The forum's champion, and the people's chief -
Her new-born Numa thou, with reign, alas! too brief.
CXV.
Egeria! sweet creation of some heart
Which found no mortal resting-place so fair
As thine ideal breast; whate'er thou art
Or wert,--a young Aurora of the air,
The nympholepsy of some fond despair;
Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth,
Who found a more than common votary there
Too much adoring; whatsoe'er thy birth,
Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth.
CXVI.
The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled
With thine Elysian water-drops; the face
Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled,
Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place,
Whose green wild margin now no more erase
Art's works; nor must the delicate waters sleep,
Prisoned in marble, bubbling from the base
Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap
The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy creep,
CXVII.
Fantastically tangled; the green hills
Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass
The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills
Of summer birds sing welcome as ye pass;
Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class,
Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes
Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass;
The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes,
Kissed by the breath of heaven, seems coloured by its skies.
CXVIII.
Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover,
Egeria! thy all heavenly bosom beating
For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover;
The purple Midnight veiled that mystic meeting
With her most starry canopy, and seating
Thyself by thine adorer, what befell?
This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting
Of an enamoured Goddess, and the cell
Haunted by holy Love--the earliest oracle!
CXIX.
And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying,
Blend a celestial with a human heart;
And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing,
Share with immortal transports? could thine art
Make them indeed immortal, and impart
The purity of heaven to earthly joys,
Expel the venom and not blunt the dart -
The dull satiety which all destroys--
And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys?
CXX.
Alas! our young affections run to waste,
Or water but the desert: whence arise
But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste,
Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes,
Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies,
And trees whose gums are poison; such the plants
Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies
O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants
For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants.
CXXI.
O Love! no habitant of earth thou art -
An unseen seraph, we believe in thee,--
A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart,
But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see,
The naked eye, thy form, as it should be;
The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven,
Even with its own desiring phantasy,
And to a thought such shape and image given,
As haunts the unquenched soul--parched--wearied--wrung--and riven.
CXXII.
Of its own beauty is the mind diseased,
And fevers into false creation;--where,
Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized?
In him alone. Can Nature show so fair?
Where are the charms and virtues which we dare
Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men,
The unreached Paradise of our despair,
Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen,
And overpowers the page where it would bloom again.
CXXIII.
Who loves, raves--'tis youth's frenzy--but the cure
Is bitterer still; as charm by charm unwinds
Which robed our idols, and we see too sure
Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's
Ideal shape of such; yet still it binds
The fatal spell, and still it draws us on,
Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds;
The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun,
Seems ever near the prize--wealthiest when most undone.
CXXIV.
We wither from our youth, we gasp away -
Sick--sick; unfound the boon, unslaked the thirst,
Though to the last, in verge of our decay,
Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first -
But all too late,--so are we doubly curst.
Love, fame, ambition, avarice--'tis the same -
Each idle, and all ill, and none the worst -
For all are meteors with a different name,
And death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame.
CXXV.
Few--none--find what they love or could have loved:
Though accident, blind contact, and the strong
Necessity of loving, have removed
Antipathies--but to recur, ere long,
Envenomed with irrevocable wrong;
And Circumstance, that unspiritual god
And miscreator, makes and helps along
Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod,
Whose touch turns hope to dust--the dust we all have trod.
CXXVI.
Our life is a false nature--'tis not in
The harmony of things,--this hard decree,
This uneradicable taint of sin,
This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree,
Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be
The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew -
Disease, death, bondage, all the woes we see--
And worse, the woes we see not--which throb through
The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new.
CXXVII.
Yet let us ponder boldly--'tis a base
Abandonment of reason to resign
Our right of thought--our last and only place
Of refuge; this, at least, shall still be mine:
Though from our birth the faculty divine
Is chained and tortured--cabined, cribbed, confined,
And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine
Too brightly on the unprepared mind,
The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the blind.
CXXVIII.
Arches on arches! as it were that Rome,
Collecting the chief trophies of her line,
Would build up all her triumphs in one dome,
Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams shine
As 'twere its natural torches, for divine
Should be the light which streams here, to illume
This long explored but still exhaustless mine
Of contemplation; and the azure gloom
Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume
CXXIX.
Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven,
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument,
And shadows forth its glory. There is given
Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent,
A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power
And magic in the ruined battlement,
For which the palace of the present hour
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower.
CXXX.
O Time! the beautifier of the dead,
Adorner of the ruin, comforter
And only healer when the heart hath bled -
Time! the corrector where our judgments err,
The test of truth, love,--sole philosopher,
For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift,
Which never loses though it doth defer -
Time, the avenger! unto thee I lift
My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift:
CXXXI.
Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine
And temple more divinely desolate,
Among thy mightier offerings here are mine,
Ruins of years--though few, yet full of fate:
If thou hast ever seen me too elate,
Hear me not; but if calmly I have borne
Good, and reserved my pride against the hate
Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn
This iron in my soul in vain--shall THEY not mourn?
CXXXII.
And thou, who never yet of human wrong
Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis!
Here, where the ancients paid thee homage long -
Thou, who didst call the Furies from the abyss,
And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss
For that unnatural retribution--just,
Had it but been from hands less near--in this
Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust!
Dost thou not hear my heart?--Awake! thou shalt, and must.
CXXXIII.
It is not that I may not have incurred
For my ancestral faults or mine the wound
I bleed withal, and had it been conferred
With a just weapon, it had flowed unbound.
But now my blood shall not sink in the ground;
To thee I do devote it--THOU shalt take
The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found,
Which if _I_ have not taken for the sake -
But let that pass--I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake.
CXXXIV.
And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now
I shrink from what is suffered: let him speak
Who hath beheld decline upon my brow,
Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak;
But in this page a record will I seek.
Not in the air shall these my words disperse,
Though I be ashes; a far hour shall wreak
The deep prophetic fulness of this verse,
And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse!
CXXXV.
That curse shall be forgiveness.--Have I not -
Hear me, my mother Earth! behold it, Heaven! -
Have I not had to wrestle with my lot?
Have I not suffered things to be forgiven?
Have I not had my brain seared, my heart riven,
Hopes sapped, name blighted, Life's life lied away?
And only not to desperation driven,
Because not altogether of such clay
As rots into the souls of those whom I survey.
CXXXVI.
From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy
Have I not seen what human things could do?
From the loud roar of foaming calumny
To the small whisper of the as paltry few
And subtler venom of the reptile crew,
The Janus glance of whose significant eye,
Learning to lie with silence, would SEEM true,
And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh,
Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy.
CXXXVII.
But I have lived, and have not lived in vain:
My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire,
And my frame perish even in conquering pain,
But there is that within me which shall tire
Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire:
Something unearthly, which they deem not of,
Like the remembered tone of a mute lyre,
Shall on their softened spirits sink, and move
In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love.
CXXXVIII.
The seal is set.--Now welcome, thou dread Power
Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here
Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour
With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear:
Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear
Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene
Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear
That we become a part of what has been,
And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen.
CXXXIX.
And here the buzz of eager nations ran,
In murmured pity, or loud-roared applause,
As man was slaughtered by his fellow-man.
And wherefore slaughtered? wherefore, but because
Such were the bloody circus' genial laws,
And the imperial pleasure.--Wherefore not?
What matters where we fall to fill the maws
Of worms--on battle-plains or listed spot?
Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot.
CXL.
I see before me the Gladiator lie:
He leans upon his hand--his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony,
And his drooped head sinks gradually low -
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now
The arena swims around him: he is gone,
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.
CXLI.
He heard it, but he heeded not--his eyes
Were with his heart, and that was far away;
He recked not of the life he lost nor prize,
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,
THERE were his young barbarians all at play,
THERE was their Dacian mother--he, their sire,
Butchered to make a Roman holiday -
All this rushed with his blood--Shall he expire,
And unavenged?--Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!
CXLII.
But here, where murder breathed her bloody steam;
And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways,
And roared or murmured like a mountain-stream
Dashing or winding as its torrent strays;
Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise
Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd,
My voice sounds much--and fall the stars' faint rays
On the arena void--seats crushed, walls bowed,
And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud.
CXLIII.
A ruin--yet what ruin! from its mass
Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been reared;
Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass,
And marvel where the spoil could have appeared.
Hath it indeed been plundered, or but cleared?
Alas! developed, opens the decay,
When the colossal fabric's form is neared:
It will not bear the brightness of the day,
Which streams too much on all, years, man, have reft away.
CXLIV.
But when the rising moon begins to climb
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there;
When the stars twinkle through the loops of time,
And the low night-breeze waves along the air,
The garland-forest, which the grey walls wear,
Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head;
When the light shines serene, but doth not glare,
Then in this magic circle raise the dead:
Heroes have trod this spot--'tis on their dust ye tread.
CXLV.
'While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand;
When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall;
And when Rome falls--the World.' From our own land
Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall
In Saxon times, which we are wont to call
Ancient; and these three mortal things are still
On their foundations, and unaltered all;
Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill,
The World, the same wide den--of thieves, or what ye will.
CXLVI.
Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime -
Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods,
From Jove to Jesus--spared and blest by time;
Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods
Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods
His way through thorns to ashes--glorious dome!
Shalt thou not last?--Time's scythe and tyrants' rods
Shiver upon thee--sanctuary and home
Of art and piety--Pantheon!--pride of Rome!
CXLVII.
Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts!
Despoiled yet perfect, with thy circle spreads
A holiness appealing to all hearts--
To art a model; and to him who treads
Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds
Her light through thy sole aperture; to those
Who worship, here are altars for their beads;
And they who feel for genius may repose
Their eyes on honoured forms, whose busts around them close.
CXLVIII.
There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light
What do I gaze on? Nothing: Look again!
Two forms are slowly shadowed on my sight -
Two insulated phantoms of the brain:
It is not so: I see them full and plain -
An old man, and a female young and fair,
Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein
The blood is nectar: --but what doth she there,
With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and bare?
CXLIX.
Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life,
Where ON the heart and FROM the heart we took
Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife,
Blest into mother, in the innocent look,
Or even the piping cry of lips that brook
No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives
Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook
She sees her little bud put forth its leaves -
What may the fruit be yet?--I know not--Cain was Eve's.
CL.
But here youth offers to old age the food,
The milk of his own gift: --it is her sire
To whom she renders back the debt of blood
Born with her birth. No; he shall not expire
While in those warm and lovely veins the fire
Of health and holy feeling can provide
Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises higher
Than Egypt's river: --from that gentle side
Drink, drink and live, old man! heaven's realm holds no such tide.
CLI.
The starry fable of the milky way
Has not thy story's purity; it is
A constellation of a sweeter ray,
And sacred Nature triumphs more in this
Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss
Where sparkle distant worlds: --Oh, holiest nurse!
No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss
To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source
With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe.
CLII.
Turn to the mole which Hadrian reared on high,
Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles,
Colossal copyist of deformity,
Whose travelled phantasy from the far Nile's
Enormous model, doomed the artist's toils
To build for giants, and for his vain earth,
His shrunken ashes, raise this dome: How smiles
The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth,
To view the huge design which sprung from such a birth!
CLIII.
But lo! the dome--the vast and wondrous dome,
To which Diana's marvel was a cell--
Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb!
I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle--
Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell
The hyaena and the jackal in their shade;
I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell
Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have surveyed
Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem prayed;
CLIV.
But thou, of temples old, or altars new,
Standest alone--with nothing like to thee -
Worthiest of God, the holy and the true,
Since Zion's desolation, when that he
Forsook his former city, what could be,
Of earthly structures, in his honour piled,
Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty,
Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are aisled
In this eternal ark of worship undefiled.
CLV.
Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not;
And why? it is not lessened; but thy mind,
Expanded by the genius of the spot,
Has grown colossal, and can only find
A fit abode wherein appear enshrined
Thy hopes of immortality; and thou
Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined,
See thy God face to face, as thou dost now
His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow.
CLVI.
Thou movest--but increasing with th' advance,
Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise,
Deceived by its gigantic elegance;
Vastness which grows--but grows to harmonise -
All musical in its immensities;
Rich marbles--richer painting--shrines where flame
The lamps of gold--and haughty dome which vies
In air with Earth's chief structures, though their frame
Sits on the firm-set ground--and this the clouds must claim.
CLVII.
Thou seest not all; but piecemeal thou must break
To separate contemplation, the great whole;
And as the ocean many bays will make,
That ask the eye--so here condense thy soul
To more immediate objects, and control
Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart
Its eloquent proportions, and unroll
In mighty graduations, part by part,
The glory which at once upon thee did not dart.
CLVIII.
Not by its fault--but thine: Our outward sense
Is but of gradual grasp--and as it is
That what we have of feeling most intense
Outstrips our faint expression; e'en so this
Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice
Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great
Defies at first our nature's littleness,
Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate
Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate.
CLIX.
Then pause and be enlightened; there is more
In such a survey than the sating gaze
Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore
The worship of the place, or the mere praise
Of art and its great masters, who could raise
What former time, nor skill, nor thought could plan;
The fountain of sublimity displays
Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man
Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions can.
CLX.
Or, turning to the Vatican, go see
Laocoon's torture dignifying pain -
A father's love and mortal's agony
With an immortal's patience blending: --Vain
The struggle; vain, against the coiling strain
And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp,
The old man's clench; the long envenomed chain
Rivets the living links,--the enormous asp
Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp.
CLXI.
Or view the Lord of the unerring bow,
The God of life, and poesy, and light -
The Sun in human limbs arrayed, and brow
All radiant from his triumph in the fight;
The shaft hath just been shot--the arrow bright
With an immortal's vengeance; in his eye
And nostril beautiful disdain, and might
And majesty, flash their full lightnings by,
Developing in that one glance the Deity.
CLXII.
But in his delicate form--a dream of Love,
Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast
Longed for a deathless lover from above,
And maddened in that vision--are expressed
All that ideal beauty ever blessed
The mind within its most unearthly mood,
When each conception was a heavenly guest -
A ray of immortality--and stood
Starlike, around, until they gathered to a god?
CLXIII.
And if it be Prometheus stole from heaven
The fire which we endure, it was repaid
By him to whom the energy was given
Which this poetic marble hath arrayed
With an eternal glory--which, if made
By human hands, is not of human thought
And Time himself hath hallowed it, nor laid
One ringlet in the dust--nor hath it caught
A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 'twas wrought.
CLXIV.
But where is he, the pilgrim of my song,
The being who upheld it through the past?
Methinks he cometh late and tarries long.
He is no more--these breathings are his last;
His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast,
And he himself as nothing: --if he was
Aught but a phantasy, and could be classed
With forms which live and suffer--let that pass -
His shadow fades away into Destruction's mass,
CLXV.
Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all
That we inherit in its mortal shroud,
And spreads the dim and universal pall
Thro' which all things grow phantoms; and the cloud
Between us sinks and all which ever glowed,
Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays
A melancholy halo scarce allowed
To hover on the verge of darkness; rays
Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze,
CLXVI.
And send us prying into the abyss,
To gather what we shall be when the frame
Shall be resolved to something less than this
Its wretched essence; and to dream of fame,
And wipe the dust from off the idle name
We never more shall hear,--but never more,
Oh, happier thought! can we be made the same:
It is enough, in sooth, that ONCE we bore
These fardels of the heart--the heart whose sweat was gore.
CLXVII.
Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds,
A long, low distant murmur of dread sound,
Such as arises when a nation bleeds
With some deep and immedicable wound;
Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground.
The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief
Seems royal still, though with her head discrowned,
And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief
She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief.
CLXVIII.
Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou?
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead?
Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low
Some less majestic, less beloved head?
In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled,
The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy,
Death hushed that pang for ever: with thee fled
The present happiness and promised joy
Which filled the imperial isles so full it seemed to cloy.
CLXIX.
Peasants bring forth in safety.--Can it be,
O thou that wert so happy, so adored!
Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee,
And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard
Her many griefs for One; for she had poured
Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head
Beheld her Iris.--Thou, too, lonely lord,
And desolate consort--vainly wert thou wed!
The husband of a year! the father of the dead!
CLXX.
Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made:
Thy bridal's fruit is ashes; in the dust
The fair-haired Daughter of the Isles is laid,
The love of millions! How we did entrust
Futurity to her! and, though it must
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deemed
Our children should obey her child, and blessed
Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seemed
Like star to shepherd's eyes; 'twas but a meteor beamed.
CLXXI.
Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well:
The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue
Of hollow counsel, the false oracle,
Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung
Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstrung
Nations have armed in madness, the strange fate
Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung
Against their blind omnipotence a weight
Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late, -
CLXXII.
These might have been her destiny; but no,
Our hearts deny it: and so young, so fair,
Good without effort, great without a foe;
But now a bride and mother--and now THERE!
How many ties did that stern moment tear!
From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast
Is linked the electric chain of that despair,
Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and oppressed
The land which loved thee so, that none could love thee best.
CLXXIII.
Lo, Nemi! navelled in the woody hills
So far, that the uprooting wind which tears
The oak from his foundation, and which spills
The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears
Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares
The oval mirror of thy glassy lake;
And, calm as cherished hate, its surface wears
A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake,
All coiled into itself and round, as sleeps the snake.
CLXXIV.
And near Albano's scarce divided waves
Shine from a sister valley;--and afar
The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves
The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war,
'Arms and the Man,' whose reascending star
Rose o'er an empire,--but beneath thy right
Tully reposed from Rome;--and where yon bar
Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight,
The Sabine farm was tilled, the weary bard's delight.
CLXXV.
But I forget.--My pilgrim's shrine is won,
And he and I must part,--so let it be, -
His task and mine alike are nearly done;
Yet once more let us look upon the sea:
The midland ocean breaks on him and me,
And from the Alban mount we now behold
Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when we
Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold
Those waves, we followed on till the dark Euxine rolled
CLXXVI.
Upon the blue Symplegades: long years -
Long, though not very many--since have done
Their work on both; some suffering and some tears
Have left us nearly where we had begun:
Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run,
We have had our reward--and it is here;
That we can yet feel gladdened by the sun,
And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear
As if there were no man to trouble what is clear.
CLXXVII.
Oh! that the Desert were my dwelling-place,
With one fair Spirit for my minister,
That I might all forget the human race,
And, hating no one, love but only her!
Ye Elements!--in whose ennobling stir
I feel myself exalted--can ye not
Accord me such a being? Do I err
In deeming such inhabit many a spot?
Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot.
CLXXVIII.
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes,
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:
I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
CLXXIX.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean--roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin--his control
Stops with the shore;--upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.
CLXXX.
His steps are not upon thy paths,--thy fields
Are not a spoil for him,--thou dost arise
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth: --there let him lay.
CLXXXI.
The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals.
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war;
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.
CLXXXII.
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee -
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
Thy waters washed them power while they were free
And many a tyrant since: their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts: not so thou,
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play -
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow -
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.
CLXXXIII.
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
Calm or convulsed--in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving;--boundless, endless, and sublime -
The image of Eternity--the throne
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone
Obeys thee: thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
CLXXXIV.
And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
I wantoned with thy breakers--they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror--'twas a pleasing fear,
For I was as it were a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane--as I do here.
CLXXXV.
My task is done--my song hath ceased--my theme
Has died into an echo; it is fit
The spell should break of this protracted dream.
The torch shall be extinguished which hath lit
My midnight lamp--and what is writ, is writ -
Would it were worthier! but I am not now
That which I have been--and my visions flit
Less palpably before me--and the glow
Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low.
CLXXXVI.
Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been -
A sound which makes us linger; yet, farewell!
Ye, who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene
Which is his last, if in your memories dwell
A thought which once was his, if on ye swell
A single recollection, not in vain
He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop shell;
Farewell! with HIM alone may rest the pain,
If such there were--with YOU, the moral of his strain.
Footnotes:
{1} Lady Charlotte Harley, daughter of the Earl of Oxford.
DEDICATION
Bob Southey! You're a poet, poet laureate,
And representative of all the race.
Although 'tis true that you turned out a Tory at
Last, yours has lately been a common case.
And now my epic renegade, what are ye at
With all the lakers, in and out of place?
A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye
Like four and twenty blackbirds in a pye,
Which pye being opened they began to sing'
(This old song and new simile holds good),
'A dainty dish to set before the King'
Or Regent, who admires such kind of food.
And Coleridge too has lately taken wing,
But like a hawk encumbered with his hood,
Explaining metaphysics to the nation.
I wish he would explain his explanation.
You, Bob, are rather insolent, you know,
At being disappointed in your wish
To supersede all warblers here below,
And be the only blackbird in the dish.
And then you overstrain yourself, or so,
And tumble downward like the flying fish
Gasping on deck, because you soar too high,
Bob, And fall for lack of moisture quite a dry Bob.
And Wordsworth in a rather long Excursion
(I think the quarto holds five hundred pages)
Has given a sample from the vasty version
Of his new system to perplex the sages.
'Tis poetry, at least by his assertion,
And may appear so when the Dog Star rages,
And he who understands it would be able
To add a story to the tower of Babel.
You gentlemen, by dint of long seclusion
From better company, have kept your own
At Keswick, and through still continued fusion
Of one another's minds at last have grown
To deem, as a most logical conclusion,
That poesy has wreaths for you alone.
There is a narrowness in such a notion,
Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes for ocean.
I would not imitate the petty thought,
Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice,
For all the glory your conversion brought,
Since gold alone should not have been its price.
You have your salary; was't for that you wrought?
And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise.
You're shabby fellows--true--but poets still
And duly seated on the immortal hill.
Your bays may hide the baldness of your brows,
Perhaps some virtuous blushes; let them go.
To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs,
And for the fame you would engross below,
The field is universal and allows
Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow.
Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe will try
'Gainst you the question with posterity.
For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses,
Contend not with you on the winged' steed,
I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses,
The fame you envy and the skill you need.
And recollect a poet nothing loses
In giving to his brethren their full meed
Of merit, and complaint of present days
Is not the certain path to future praise.
He that reserves his laurels for posterity
(Who does not often claim the bright reversion)
Has generally no great crop to spare it, he
Being only injured by his own assertion.
And although here and there some glorious rarity
Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion,
The major part of such appellants go
To--God knows where--for no one else can know.
If fallen in evil days on evil tongues,
Milton appealed to the avenger, Time,
If Time, the avenger, execrates his wrongs
And makes the word Miltonic mean sublime,
He deigned not to belie his soul in songs,
Nor turn his very talent to a crime.
He did not loathe the sire to laud the son,
But closed the tyrant-hater he begun.
Think'st thou, could he, the blind old man, arise
Like Samuel from the grave to freeze once more
The blood of monarchs with his prophecies,
Or be alive again--again all hoar
With time and trials, and those helpless eyes
And heartless daughters--worn and pale and poor,
Would he adore a sultan? He obey
The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh?
Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant!
Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's gore,
And thus for wider carnage taught to pant,
Transferred to gorge upon a sister shore,
The vulgarest tool that tyranny could want,
With just enough of talent and no more,
To lengthen fetters by another fixed
And offer poison long already mixed.
An orator of such set trash of phrase,
Ineffably, legitimately vile,
That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise,
Nor foes--all nations--condescend to smile.
Not even a sprightly blunder's spark can blaze
From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil,
That turns and turns to give the world a notion
Of endless torments and perpetual motion.
A bungler even in its disgusting trade,
And botching, patching, leaving still behind
Something of which its masters are afraid,
States to be curbed and thoughts to be confined,
Conspiracy or congress to be made,
Cobbling at manacles for all mankind,
A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains,
With God and man's abhorrence for its gains.
If we may judge of matter by the mind,
Emasculated to the marrow, it
Hath but two objects, how to serve and bind,
Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit,
Eutropius of its many masters, blind
To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit,
Fearless, because no feeling dwells in ice;
Its very courage stagnates to a vice.
Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds,
For I will never feel them. Italy,
Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds
Beneath the lie this state-thing breathed o'er thee.
Thy clanking chain and Erin's yet green wounds
Have voices, tongues to cry aloud for me.
Europe has slaves, allies, kings, armies still,
And Southey lives to sing them very ill.
Meantime, Sir Laureate, I proceed to dedicate
In honest simple verse this song to you.
And if in flattering strains I do not predicate,
'Tis that I still retain my buff and blue;
My politics as yet are all to educate.
Apostasy's so fashionable too,
To keep one creed's a task grown quite
Herculean Is it not so, my Tory, ultra-Julian?
CANTO THE FIRST
I want a hero: an uncommon want,
When every year and month sends forth a new one,
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,
The age discovers he is not the true one;
Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,
I 'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan--
We all have seen him, in the pantomime,
Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time.
Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke,
Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe,
Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk,
And fill'd their sign posts then, like Wellesley now;
Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk,
Followers of fame, 'nine farrow' of that sow:
France, too, had Buonaparte and Dumourier
Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier.
Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau,
Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette,
Were French, and famous people, as we know:
And there were others, scarce forgotten yet,
Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, Moreau,
With many of the military set,
Exceedingly remarkable at times,
But not at all adapted to my rhymes.
Nelson was once Britannia's god of war,
And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd;
There 's no more to be said of Trafalgar,
'T is with our hero quietly inurn'd;
Because the army 's grown more popular,
At which the naval people are concern'd;
Besides, the prince is all for the land-service,
Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis.
Brave men were living before Agamemnon
And since, exceeding valorous and sage,
A good deal like him too, though quite the same none;
But then they shone not on the poet's page,
And so have been forgotten:--I condemn none,
But can't find any in the present age
Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one);
So, as I said, I 'll take my friend Don Juan.
Most epic poets plunge 'in medias res'
(Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road),
And then your hero tells, whene'er you please,
What went before--by way of episode,
While seated after dinner at his ease,
Beside his mistress in some soft abode,
Palace, or garden, paradise, or cavern,
Which serves the happy couple for a tavern.
That is the usual method, but not mine--
My way is to begin with the beginning;
The regularity of my design
Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning,
And therefore I shall open with a line
(Although it cost me half an hour in spinning)
Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father,
And also of his mother, if you 'd rather.
In Seville was he born, a pleasant city,
Famous for oranges and women--he
Who has not seen it will be much to pity,
So says the proverb--and I quite agree;
Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty,
Cadiz perhaps--but that you soon may see;
Don Juan's parents lived beside the river,
A noble stream, and call'd the Guadalquivir.
His father's name was Jose--Don, of course,--
A true Hidalgo, free from every stain
Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source
Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain;
A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse,
Or, being mounted, e'er got down again,
Than Jose, who begot our hero, who
Begot--but that 's to come--Well, to renew:
His mother was a learned lady, famed
For every branch of every science known
In every Christian language ever named,
With virtues equall'd by her wit alone,
She made the cleverest people quite ashamed,
And even the good with inward envy groan,
Finding themselves so very much exceeded
In their own way by all the things that she did.
Her memory was a mine: she knew by heart
All Calderon and greater part of Lope,
So that if any actor miss'd his part
She could have served him for the prompter's copy;
For her Feinagle's were an useless art,
And he himself obliged to shut up shop--he
Could never make a memory so fine as
That which adorn'd the brain of Donna Inez.
Her favourite science was the mathematical,
Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity,
Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all,
Her serious sayings darken'd to sublimity;
In short, in all things she was fairly what I call
A prodigy--her morning dress was dimity,
Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin,
And other stuffs, with which I won't stay puzzling.
She knew the Latin--that is, 'the Lord's prayer,'
And Greek--the alphabet--I 'm nearly sure;
She read some French romances here and there,
Although her mode of speaking was not pure;
For native Spanish she had no great care,
At least her conversation was obscure;
Her thoughts were theorems, her words a problem,
As if she deem'd that mystery would ennoble 'em.
She liked the English and the Hebrew tongue,
And said there was analogy between 'em;
She proved it somehow out of sacred song,
But I must leave the proofs to those who 've seen 'em;
But this I heard her say, and can't be wrong
And all may think which way their judgments lean 'em,
''T is strange--the Hebrew noun which means "I am,"
Some women use their tongues--she look'd a lecture,
Each eye a sermon, and her brow a homily,
An all-in-all sufficient self-director,
Like the lamented late Sir Samuel Romilly,
The Law's expounder, and the State's corrector,
Whose suicide was almost an anomaly--
One sad example more, that 'All is vanity'
(The jury brought their verdict in 'Insanity').
In short, she was a walking calculation,
Miss Edgeworth's novels stepping from their covers,
Or Mrs. Trimmer's books on education,
Or 'Coelebs' Wife' set out in quest of lovers,
Morality's prim personification,
In which not Envy's self a flaw discovers;
To others' share let 'female errors fall,'
For she had not even one--the worst of all.
O! she was perfect past all parallel--
Of any modern female saint's comparison;
So far above the cunning powers of hell,
Her guardian angel had given up his garrison;
Even her minutest motions went as well
As those of the best time-piece made by Harrison:
In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her,
Save thine 'incomparable oil,' Macassar!
Perfect she was, but as perfection is
Insipid in this naughty world of ours,
Where our first parents never learn'd to kiss
Till they were exiled from their earlier bowers,
Where all was peace, and innocence, and bliss
(I wonder how they got through the twelve hours),
Don Jose, like a lineal son of Eve,
Went plucking various fruit without her leave.
He was a mortal of the careless kind,
With no great love for learning, or the learn'd,
Who chose to go where'er he had a mind,
And never dream'd his lady was concern'd;
The world, as usual, wickedly inclined
To see a kingdom or a house o'erturn'd,
Whisper'd he had a mistress, some said two--
But for domestic quarrels one will do.
Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit,
A great opinion of her own good qualities;
Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it,
And such, indeed, she was in her moralities;
But then she had a devil of a spirit,
And sometimes mix'd up fancies with realities,
And let few opportunities escape
Of getting her liege lord into a scrape.
This was an easy matter with a man
Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard;
And even the wisest, do the best they can,
Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared,
That you might 'brain them with their lady's fan;'
And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard,
And fans turn into falchions in fair hands,
And why and wherefore no one understands.
'T is pity learned virgins ever wed
With persons of no sort of education,
Or gentlemen, who, though well born and bred,
Grow tired of scientific conversation:
I don't choose to say much upon this head,
I 'm a plain man, and in a single station,
But--Oh! ye lords of ladies intellectual,
Inform us truly, have they not hen-peck'd you all?
Don Jose and his lady quarrell'd--why,
Not any of the many could divine,
Though several thousand people chose to try,
'T was surely no concern of theirs nor mine;
I loathe that low vice--curiosity;
But if there 's anything in which I shine,
'T is in arranging all my friends' affairs,
Not having of my own domestic cares.
And so I interfered, and with the best
Intentions, but their treatment was not kind;
I think the foolish people were possess'd,
For neither of them could I ever find,
Although their porter afterwards confess'd--
But that 's no matter, and the worst 's behind,
For little Juan o'er me threw, down stairs,
A pail of housemaid's water unawares.
A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing,
And mischief-making monkey from his birth;
His parents ne'er agreed except in doting
Upon the most unquiet imp on earth;
Instead of quarrelling, had they been but both in
Their senses, they 'd have sent young master forth
To school, or had him soundly whipp'd at home,
To teach him manners for the time to come.
Don Jose and the Donna Inez led
For some time an unhappy sort of life,
Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead;
They lived respectably as man and wife,
Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred,
And gave no outward signs of inward strife,
Until at length the smother'd fire broke out,
And put the business past all kind of doubt.
For Inez call'd some druggists and physicians,
And tried to prove her loving lord was mad;
But as he had some lucid intermissions,
She next decided he was only bad;
Yet when they ask'd her for her depositions,
No sort of explanation could be had,
Save that her duty both to man and God
Required this conduct--which seem'd very odd.
She kept a journal, where his faults were noted,
And open'd certain trunks of books and letters,
All which might, if occasion served, be quoted;
And then she had all Seville for abettors,
Besides her good old grandmother (who doted);
The hearers of her case became repeaters,
Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges,
Some for amusement, others for old grudges.
And then this best and weakest woman bore
With such serenity her husband's woes,
Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore,
Who saw their spouses kill'd, and nobly chose
Never to say a word about them more--
Calmly she heard each calumny that rose,
And saw his agonies with such sublimity,
That all the world exclaim'd, 'What magnanimity!'
No doubt this patience, when the world is damning us,
Is philosophic in our former friends;
'T is also pleasant to be deem'd magnanimous,
The more so in obtaining our own ends;
And what the lawyers call a 'malus animus'
Conduct like this by no means comprehends;
Revenge in person 's certainly no virtue,
But then 't is not my fault, if others hurt you.
And if your quarrels should rip up old stories,
And help them with a lie or two additional,
I 'm not to blame, as you well know--no more is
Any one else--they were become traditional;
Besides, their resurrection aids our glories
By contrast, which is what we just were wishing all:
And science profits by this resurrection--
Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection.
Their friends had tried at reconciliation,
Then their relations, who made matters worse.
('T were hard to tell upon a like occasion
To whom it may be best to have recourse--
I can't say much for friend or yet relation):
The lawyers did their utmost for divorce,
But scarce a fee was paid on either side
Before, unluckily, Don Jose died.
He died: and most unluckily, because,
According to all hints I could collect
From counsel learned in those kinds of laws
(Although their talk 's obscure and circumspect),
His death contrived to spoil a charming cause;
A thousand pities also with respect
To public feeling, which on this occasion
Was manifested in a great sensation.
But, ah! he died; and buried with him lay
The public feeling and the lawyers' fees:
His house was sold, his servants sent away,
A Jew took one of his two mistresses,
A priest the other--at least so they say:
I ask'd the doctors after his disease--
He died of the slow fever call'd the tertian,
And left his widow to her own aversion.
Yet Jose was an honourable man,
That I must say who knew him very well;
Therefore his frailties I 'll no further scan
Indeed there were not many more to tell;
And if his passions now and then outran
Discretion, and were not so peaceable
As Numa's (who was also named Pompilius),
He had been ill brought up, and was born bilious.
Whate'er might be his worthlessness or worth,
Poor fellow! he had many things to wound him.
Let 's own--since it can do no good on earth--
It was a trying moment that which found him
Standing alone beside his desolate hearth,
Where all his household gods lay shiver'd round him:
No choice was left his feelings or his pride,
Save death or Doctors' Commons--so he died.
Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir
To a chancery suit, and messuages, and lands,
Which, with a long minority and care,
Promised to turn out well in proper hands:
Inez became sole guardian, which was fair,
And answer'd but to nature's just demands;
An only son left with an only mother
Is brought up much more wisely than another.
Sagest of women, even of widows, she
Resolved that Juan should be quite a paragon,
And worthy of the noblest pedigree
(His sire was of Castile, his dam from Aragon):
Then for accomplishments of chivalry,
In case our lord the king should go to war again,
He learn'd the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery,
And how to scale a fortress--or a nunnery.
But that which Donna Inez most desired,
And saw into herself each day before all
The learned tutors whom for him she hired,
Was, that his breeding should be strictly moral;
Much into all his studies she inquired,
And so they were submitted first to her, all,
Arts, sciences, no branch was made a mystery
To Juan's eyes, excepting natural history.
The languages, especially the dead,
The sciences, and most of all the abstruse,
The arts, at least all such as could be said
To be the most remote from common use,
In all these he was much and deeply read;
But not a page of any thing that 's loose,
Or hints continuation of the species,
Was ever suffer'd, lest he should grow vicious.
His classic studies made a little puzzle,
Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses,
Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle,
But never put on pantaloons or bodices;
His reverend tutors had at times a tussle,
And for their AEneids, Iliads, and Odysseys,
Were forced to make an odd sort! of apology,
For Donna Inez dreaded the Mythology.
Ovid 's a rake, as half his verses show him,
Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample,
Catullus scarcely has a decent poem,
I don't think Sappho's Ode a good example,
Although Longinus tells us there is no hymn
Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample:
But Virgil's songs are pure, except that horrid one
Beginning with 'Formosum Pastor Corydon.'
Lucretius' irreligion is too strong,
For early stomachs, to prove wholesome food;
I can't help thinking Juvenal was wrong,
Although no doubt his real intent was good,
For speaking out so plainly in his song,
So much indeed as to be downright rude;
And then what proper person can be partial
To all those nauseous epigrams of Martial?
Juan was taught from out the best edition,
Expurgated by learned men, who place
Judiciously, from out the schoolboy's vision,
The grosser parts; but, fearful to deface
Too much their modest bard by this omission,
And pitying sore his mutilated case,
They only add them all in an appendix,
Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index;
For there we have them all 'at one fell swoop,'
Instead of being scatter'd through the Pages;
They stand forth marshall'd in a handsome troop,
To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages,
Till some less rigid editor shall stoop
To call them back into their separate cages,
Instead of standing staring all together,
Like garden gods--and not so decent either.
The Missal too (it was the family Missal)
Was ornamented in a sort of way
Which ancient mass-books often are, and this all
Kinds of grotesques illumined; and how they,
Who saw those figures on the margin kiss all,
Could turn their optics to the text and pray,
Is more than I know--But Don Juan's mother
Kept this herself, and gave her son another.
Sermons he read, and lectures he endured,
And homilies, and lives of all the saints;
To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured,
He did not take such studies for restraints;
But how faith is acquired, and then ensured,
So well not one of the aforesaid paints
As Saint Augustine in his fine Confessions,
Which make the reader envy his transgressions.
This, too, was a seal'd book to little Juan--
I can't but say that his mamma was right,
If such an education was the true one.
She scarcely trusted him from out her sight;
Her maids were old, and if she took a new one,
You might be sure she was a perfect fright;
She did this during even her husband's life--
I recommend as much to every wife.
Young Juan wax'd in goodliness and grace;
At six a charming child, and at eleven
With all the promise of as fine a face
As e'er to man's maturer growth was given:
He studied steadily, and grew apace,
And seem'd, at least, in the right road to heaven,
For half his days were pass'd at church, the other
Between his tutors, confessor, and mother.
At six, I said, he was a charming child,
At twelve he was a fine, but quiet boy;
Although in infancy a little wild,
They tamed him down amongst them: to destroy
His natural spirit not in vain they toil'd,
At least it seem'd so; and his mother's joy
Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady,
Her young philosopher was grown already.
I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still,
But what I say is neither here nor there:
I knew his father well, and have some skill
In character--but it would not be fair
From sire to son to augur good or ill:
He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair--
But scandal 's my aversion--I protest
Against all evil speaking, even in jest.
For my part I say nothing--nothing--but
This I will say--my reasons are my own--
That if I had an only son to put
To school (as God be praised that I have none),
'T is not with Donna Inez I would shut
Him up to learn his catechism alone,
No--no--I 'd send him out betimes to college,
For there it was I pick'd up my own knowledge.
For there one learns--'t is not for me to boast,
Though I acquired--but I pass over that,
As well as all the Greek I since have lost:
I say that there 's the place--but 'Verbum sat.'
I think I pick'd up too, as well as most,
Knowledge of matters--but no matter what--
I never married--but, I think, I know
That sons should not be educated so.
Young Juan now was sixteen years of age,
Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit: he seem'd
Active, though not so sprightly, as a page;
And everybody but his mother deem'd
Him almost man; but she flew in a rage
And bit her lips (for else she might have scream'd)
If any said so, for to be precocious
Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious.
Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all
_Select_ed for discretion and devotion,
There was the Donna Julia, whom to call
Pretty were but to give a feeble notion
Of many charms in her as natural
As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean,
Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid
(But this last simile is trite and stupid).
The darkness of her Oriental eye
Accorded with her Moorish origin
(Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by;
In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin);
When proud Granada fell, and, forced to fly,
Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin
Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain,
Her great-great-grandmamma chose to remain.
She married (I forget the pedigree)
With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down
His blood less noble than such blood should be;
At such alliances his sires would frown,
In that point so precise in each degree
That they bred in and in, as might be shown,
Marrying their cousins--nay, their aunts, and nieces,
Which always spoils the breed, if it increases.
This heathenish cross restored the breed again,
Ruin'd its blood, but much improved its flesh;
For from a root the ugliest in Old Spain
Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh;
The sons no more were short, the daughters plain:
But there 's a rumour which I fain would hush,
'T is said that Donna Julia's grandmamma
Produced her Don more heirs at love than law.
However this might be, the race went on
Improving still through every generation,
Until it centred in an only son,
Who left an only daughter; my narration
May have suggested that this single one
Could be but Julia (whom on this occasion
I shall have much to speak about), and she
Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three.
Her eye (I 'm very fond of handsome eyes)
Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire
Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise
Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire,
And love than either; and there would arise
A something in them which was not desire,
But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul
Which struggled through and chasten'd down the whole.
Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow
Bright with intelligence, and fair, and smooth;
Her eyebrow's shape was like th' aerial bow,
Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth,
Mounting at times to a transparent glow,
As if her veins ran lightning; she, in sooth,
Possess'd an air and grace by no means common:
Her stature tall--I hate a dumpy woman.
Wedded she was some years, and to a man
Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty;
And yet, I think, instead of such a ONE
'T were better to have TWO of five-and-twenty,
Especially in countries near the sun:
And now I think on 't, 'mi vien in mente,'
Ladies even of the most uneasy virtue
Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty.
'T is a sad thing, I cannot choose but say,
And all the fault of that indecent sun,
Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay,
But will keep baking, broiling, burning on,
That howsoever people fast and pray,
The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone:
What men call gallantry, and gods adultery,
Is much more common where the climate 's sultry.
Happy the nations of the moral North!
Where all is virtue, and the winter season
Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth
('T was snow that brought St. Anthony to reason);
Where juries cast up what a wife is worth,
By laying whate'er sum in mulct they please on
The lover, who must pay a handsome price,
Because it is a marketable vice.
Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord,
A man well looking for his years, and who
Was neither much beloved nor yet abhorr'd:
They lived together, as most people do,
Suffering each other's foibles by accord,
And not exactly either one or two;
Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it,
For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.
Julia was--yet I never could see why--
With Donna Inez quite a favourite friend;
Between their tastes there was small sympathy,
For not a line had Julia ever penn'd:
Some people whisper but no doubt they lie,
For malice still imputes some private end,
That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage,
Forgot with him her very prudent carriage;
And that still keeping up the old connection,
Which time had lately render'd much more chaste,
She took his lady also in affection,
And certainly this course was much the best:
She flatter'd Julia with her sage protection,
And complimented Don Alfonso's taste;
And if she could not (who can?) silence scandal,
At least she left it a more slender handle.
I can't tell whether Julia saw the affair
With other people's eyes, or if her own
Discoveries made, but none could be aware
Of this, at least no symptom e'er was shown;
Perhaps she did not know, or did not care,
Indifferent from the first or callous grown:
I 'm really puzzled what to think or say,
She kept her counsel in so close a way.
Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child,
Caress'd him often--such a thing might be
Quite innocently done, and harmless styled,
When she had twenty years, and thirteen he;
But I am not so sure I should have smiled
When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three;
These few short years make wondrous alterations,
Particularly amongst sun-burnt nations.
Whate'er the cause might be, they had become
Changed; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy,
Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb,
And much embarrassment in either eye;
There surely will be little doubt with some
That Donna Julia knew the reason why,
But as for Juan, he had no more notion
Than he who never saw the sea of ocean.
Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind,
And tremulously gentle her small hand
Withdrew itself from his, but left behind
A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland
And slight, so very slight, that to the mind
'T was but a doubt; but ne'er magician's wand
Wrought change with all Armida's fairy art
Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart.
And if she met him, though she smiled no more,
She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile,
As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store
She must not own, but cherish'd more the while
For that compression in its burning core;
Even innocence itself has many a wile,
And will not dare to trust itself with truth,
And love is taught hypocrisy from youth.
But passion most dissembles, yet betrays
Even by its darkness; as the blackest sky
Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays
Its workings through the vainly guarded eye,
And in whatever aspect it arrays
Itself, 't is still the same hypocrisy;
Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate,
Are masks it often wears, and still too late.
Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression,
And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft,
And burning blushes, though for no transgression,
Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left;
All these are little preludes to possession,
Of which young passion cannot be bereft,
And merely tend to show how greatly love is
Embarrass'd at first starting with a novice.
Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state;
She felt it going, and resolved to make
The noblest efforts for herself and mate,
For honour's, pride's, religion's, virtue's sake;
Her resolutions were most truly great,
And almost might have made a Tarquin quake:
She pray'd the Virgin Mary for her grace,
As being the best judge of a lady's case.
She vow'd she never would see Juan more,
And next day paid a visit to his mother,
And look'd extremely at the opening door,
Which, by the Virgin's grace, let in another;
Grateful she was, and yet a little sore--
Again it opens, it can be no other,
'T is surely Juan now--No! I 'm afraid
That night the Virgin was no further pray'd.
She now determined that a virtuous woman
Should rather face and overcome temptation,
That flight was base and dastardly, and no man
Should ever give her heart the least sensation;
That is to say, a thought beyond the common
Preference, that we must feel upon occasion
For people who are pleasanter than others,
But then they only seem so many brothers.
And even if by chance--and who can tell?
The devil 's so very sly--she should discover
That all within was not so very well,
And, if still free, that such or such a lover
Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell
Such thoughts, and be the better when they 're over;
And if the man should ask, 't is but denial:
I recommend young ladies to make trial.
And then there are such things as love divine,
Bright and immaculate, unmix'd and pure,
Such as the angels think so very fine,
And matrons who would be no less secure,
Platonic, perfect, 'just such love as mine;'
Thus Julia said--and thought so, to be sure;
And so I 'd have her think, were I the man
On whom her reveries celestial ran.
Such love is innocent, and may exist
Between young persons without any danger.
A hand may first, and then a lip be kist;
For my part, to such doings I 'm a stranger,
But hear these freedoms form the utmost list
Of all o'er which such love may be a ranger:
If people go beyond, 't is quite a crime,
But not my fault--I tell them all in time.
Love, then, but love within its proper limits,
Was Julia's innocent determination
In young Don Juan's favour, and to him its
Exertion might be useful on occasion;
And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its
Ethereal lustre, with what sweet persuasion
He might be taught, by love and her together--
I really don't know what, nor Julia either.
Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced
In mail of proof--her purity of soul--
She, for the future of her strength convinced.
And that her honour was a rock, or mole,
Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed
With any kind of troublesome control;
But whether Julia to the task was equal
Is that which must be mention'd in the sequel.
Her plan she deem'd both innocent and feasible,
And, surely, with a stripling of sixteen
Not scandal's fangs could fix on much that 's seizable,
Or if they did so, satisfied to mean
Nothing but what was good, her breast was peaceable--
A quiet conscience makes one so serene!
Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded
That all the Apostles would have done as they did.
And if in the mean time her husband died,
But Heaven forbid that such a thought should cross
Her brain, though in a dream! (and then she sigh'd)
Never could she survive that common loss;
But just suppose that moment should betide,
I only say suppose it--inter nos.
(This should be entre nous, for Julia thought
In French, but then the rhyme would go for naught.)
I only say suppose this supposition:
Juan being then grown up to man's estate
Would fully suit a widow of condition,
Even seven years hence it would not be too late;
And in the interim (to pursue this vision)
The mischief, after all, could not be great,
For he would learn the rudiments of love,
I mean the seraph way of those above.
So much for Julia. Now we 'll turn to Juan.
Poor little fellow! he had no idea
Of his own case, and never hit the true one;
In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea,
He puzzled over what he found a new one,
But not as yet imagined it could be
Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming,
Which, with a little patience, might grow charming.
Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow,
His home deserted for the lonely wood,
Tormented with a wound he could not know,
His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude:
I 'm fond myself of solitude or so,
But then, I beg it may be understood,
By solitude I mean a sultan's, not
A hermit's, with a haram for a grot.
'Oh Love! in such a wilderness as this,
Where transport and security entwine,
Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss,
And here thou art a god indeed divine.'
The bard I quote from does not sing amiss,
With the exception of the second line,
For that same twining 'transport and security'
Are twisted to a phrase of some obscurity.
The poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals
To the good sense and senses of mankind,
The very thing which every body feels,
As all have found on trial, or may find,
That no one likes to be disturb'd at meals
Or love.--I won't say more about 'entwined'
Or 'transport,' as we knew all that before,
But beg 'Security' will bolt the door.
Young Juan wander'd by the glassy brooks,
Thinking unutterable things; he threw
Himself at length within the leafy nooks
Where the wild branch of the cork forest grew;
There poets find materials for their books,
And every now and then we read them through,
So that their plan and prosody are eligible,
Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible.
He, Juan (and not Wordsworth), so pursued
His self-communion with his own high soul,
Until his mighty heart, in its great mood,
Had mitigated part, though not the whole
Of its disease; he did the best he could
With things not very subject to control,
And turn'd, without perceiving his condition,
Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician.
He thought about himself, and the whole earth
Of man the wonderful, and of the stars,
And how the deuce they ever could have birth;
And then he thought of earthquakes, and of wars,
How many miles the moon might have in girth,
Of air-balloons, and of the many bars
To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies;--
And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes.
In thoughts like these true wisdom may discern
Longings sublime, and aspirations high,
Which some are born with, but the most part learn
To plague themselves withal, they know not why:
'T was strange that one so young should thus concern
His brain about the action of the sky;
If you think 't was philosophy that this did,
I can't help thinking puberty assisted.
He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers,
And heard a voice in all the winds; and then
He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowers,
And how the goddesses came down to men:
He miss'd the pathway, he forgot the hours,
And when he look'd upon his watch again,
He found how much old Time had been a winner--
He also found that he had lost his dinner.
Sometimes he turn'd to gaze upon his book,
Boscan, or Garcilasso;--by the wind
Even as the page is rustled while we look,
So by the poesy of his own mind
Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook,
As if 't were one whereon magicians bind
Their spells, and give them to the passing gale,
According to some good old woman's tale.
Thus would he while his lonely hours away
Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he wanted;
Nor glowing reverie, nor poet's lay,
Could yield his spirit that for which it panted,
A bosom whereon he his head might lay,
And hear the heart beat with the love it granted,
With--several other things, which I forget,
Or which, at least, I need not mention yet.
Those lonely walks, and lengthening reveries,
Could not escape the gentle Julia's eyes;
She saw that Juan was not at his ease;
But that which chiefly may, and must surprise,
Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease
Her only son with question or surmise:
Whether it was she did not see, or would not,
Or, like all very clever people, could not.
This may seem strange, but yet 't is very common;
For instance--gentlemen, whose ladies take
Leave to o'erstep the written rights of woman,
And break the--Which commandment is 't they break?
(I have forgot the number, and think no man
Should rashly quote, for fear of a mistake.)
I say, when these same gentlemen are jealous,
They make some blunder, which their ladies tell us.
A real husband always is suspicious,
But still no less suspects in the wrong place,
Jealous of some one who had no such wishes,
Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace,
By harbouring some dear friend extremely vicious;
The last indeed 's infallibly the case:
And when the spouse and friend are gone off wholly,
He wonders at their vice, and not his folly.
Thus parents also are at times short-sighted;
Though watchful as the lynx, they ne'er discover,
The while the wicked world beholds delighted,
Young Hopeful's mistress, or Miss Fanny's lover,
Till some confounded escapade has blighted
The plan of twenty years, and all is over;
And then the mother cries, the father swears,
And wonders why the devil he got heirs.
But Inez was so anxious, and so clear
Of sight, that I must think, on this occasion,
She had some other motive much more near
For leaving Juan to this new temptation;
But what that motive was, I sha'n't say here;
Perhaps to finish Juan's education,
Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes,
In case he thought his wife too great a prize.
It was upon a day, a summer's day;-
Summer's indeed a very dangerous season,
And so is spring about the end of May;
The sun, no doubt, is the prevailing reason;
But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say,
And stand convicted of more truth than treason,
That there are months which nature grows more merry in,--
March has its hares, and May must have its heroine.
'T was on a summer's day--the sixth of June:--
I like to be particular in dates,
Not only of the age, and year, but moon;
They are a sort of post-house, where the Fates
Change horses, making history change its tune,
Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states,
Leaving at last not much besides chronology,
Excepting the post-obits of theology.
'T was on the sixth of June, about the hour
Of half-past six--perhaps still nearer seven--
When Julia sate within as pretty a bower
As e'er held houri in that heathenish heaven
Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore,
To whom the lyre and laurels have been given,
With all the trophies of triumphant song--
He won them well, and may he wear them long!
She sate, but not alone; I know not well
How this same interview had taken place,
And even if I knew, I should not tell--
People should hold their tongues in any case;
No matter how or why the thing befell,
But there were she and Juan, face to face--
When two such faces are so, 't would be wise,
But very difficult, to shut their eyes.
How beautiful she look'd! her conscious heart
Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong.
O Love! how perfect is thy mystic art,
Strengthening the weak, and trampling on the strong,
How self-deceitful is the sagest part
Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along--
The precipice she stood on was immense,
So was her creed in her own innocence.
She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth,
And of the folly of all prudish fears,
Victorious virtue, and domestic truth,
And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years:
I wish these last had not occurr'd, in sooth,
Because that number rarely much endears,
And through all climes, the snowy and the sunny,
Sounds ill in love, whate'er it may in money.
When people say, 'I've told you fifty times,'
They mean to scold, and very often do;
When poets say, 'I've written fifty rhymes,'
They make you dread that they 'll recite them too;
In gangs of fifty, thieves commit their crimes;
At fifty love for love is rare, 't is true,
But then, no doubt, it equally as true is,
A good deal may be bought for fifty Louis.
Julia had honour, virtue, truth, and love,
For Don Alfonso; and she inly swore,
By all the vows below to powers above,
She never would disgrace the ring she wore,
Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove;
And while she ponder'd this, besides much more,
One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown,
Quite by mistake--she thought it was her own;
Unconsciously she lean'd upon the other,
Which play'd within the tangles of her hair:
And to contend with thoughts she could not smother
She seem'd by the distraction of her air.
'T was surely very wrong in Juan's mother
To leave together this imprudent pair,
She who for many years had watch'd her son so--
I 'm very certain mine would not have done so.
The hand which still held Juan's, by degrees
Gently, but palpably confirm'd its grasp,
As if it said, 'Detain me, if you please;'
Yet there 's no doubt she only meant to clasp
His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze:
She would have shrunk as from a toad, or asp,
Had she imagined such a thing could rouse
A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse.
I cannot know what Juan thought of this,
But what he did, is much what you would do;
His young lip thank'd it with a grateful kiss,
And then, abash'd at its own joy, withdrew
In deep despair, lest he had done amiss,--
Love is so very timid when 't is new:
She blush'd, and frown'd not, but she strove to speak,
And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak.
The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon:
The devil 's in the moon for mischief; they
Who call'd her CHASTE, methinks, began too soon
Their nomenclature; there is not a day,
The longest, not the twenty-first of June,
Sees half the business in a wicked way
On which three single hours of moonshine smile--
And then she looks so modest all the while.
There is a dangerous silence in that hour,
A stillness, which leaves room for the full soul
To open all itself, without the power
Of calling wholly back its self-control;
The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower,
Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the whole,
Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws
A loving languor, which is not repose.
And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced
And half retiring from the glowing arm,
Which trembled like the bosom where 't was placed;
Yet still she must have thought there was no harm,
Or else 't were easy to withdraw her waist;
But then the situation had its charm,
And then--God knows what next--I can't go on;
I 'm almost sorry that I e'er begun.
O Plato! Plato! you have paved the way,
With your confounded fantasies, to more
Immoral conduct by the fancied sway
Your system feigns o'er the controulless core
Of human hearts, than all the long array
Of poets and romancers:--You 're a bore,
A charlatan, a coxcomb--and have been,
At best, no better than a go-between.
And Julia's voice was lost, except in sighs,
Until too late for useful conversation;
The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes,
I wish indeed they had not had occasion,
But who, alas! can love, and then be wise?
Not that remorse did not oppose temptation;
A little still she strove, and much repented
And whispering 'I will ne'er consent'--consented.
'T is said that Xerxes offer'd a reward
To those who could invent him a new pleasure:
Methinks the requisition 's rather hard,
And must have cost his majesty a treasure:
For my part, I 'm a moderate-minded bard,
Fond of a little love (which I call leisure);
I care not for new pleasures, as the old
Are quite enough for me, so they but hold.
O Pleasure! you are indeed a pleasant thing,
Although one must be damn'd for you, no doubt:
I make a resolution every spring
Of reformation, ere the year run out,
But somehow, this my vestal vow takes wing,
Yet still, I trust it may be kept throughout:
I 'm very sorry, very much ashamed,
And mean, next winter, to be quite reclaim'd.
Here my chaste Muse a liberty must take--
Start not! still chaster reader--she 'll be nice hence--
Forward, and there is no great cause to quake;
This liberty is a poetic licence,
Which some irregularity may make
In the design, and as I have a high sense
Of Aristotle and the Rules, 't is fit
To beg his pardon when I err a bit.
This licence is to hope the reader will
Suppose from June the sixth (the fatal day,
Without whose epoch my poetic skill
For want of facts would all be thrown away),
But keeping Julia and Don Juan still
In sight, that several months have pass'd; we 'll say
'T was in November, but I 'm not so sure
About the day--the era 's more obscure.
We 'll talk of that anon.--'T is sweet to hear
At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep
The song and oar of Adria's gondolier,
By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep;
'T is sweet to see the evening star appear;
'T is sweet to listen as the night-winds creep
From leaf to leaf; 't is sweet to view on high
The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.
'T is sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark
Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home;
'T is sweet to know there is an eye will mark
Our coming, and look brighter when we come;
'T is sweet to be awaken'd by the lark,
Or lull'd by falling waters; sweet the hum
Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds,
The lisp of children, and their earliest words.
Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes
In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth,
Purple and gushing: sweet are our escapes
From civic revelry to rural mirth;
Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps,
Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth,
Sweet is revenge--especially to women,
Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen.
Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet
The unexpected death of some old lady
Or gentleman of seventy years complete,
Who 've made 'us youth' wait too--too long already
For an estate, or cash, or country seat,
Still breaking, but with stamina so steady
That all the Israelites are fit to mob its
Next owner for their double-damn'd post-obits.
'T is sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels,
By blood or ink; 't is sweet to put an end
To strife; 't is sometimes sweet to have our quarrels,
Particularly with a tiresome friend:
Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels;
Dear is the helpless creature we defend
Against the world; and dear the schoolboy spot
We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot.
But sweeter still than this, than these, than all,
Is first and passionate love--it stands alone,
Like Adam's recollection of his fall;
The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd--all 's known--
And life yields nothing further to recall
Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown,
No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven
Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven.
Man 's a strange animal, and makes strange use
Of his own nature, and the various arts,
And likes particularly to produce
Some new experiment to show his parts;
This is the age of oddities let loose,
Where different talents find their different marts;
You 'd best begin with truth, and when you 've lost your
Labour, there 's a sure market for imposture.
What opposite discoveries we have seen!
(Signs of true genius, and of empty pockets.)
One makes new noses, one a guillotine,
One breaks your bones, one sets them in their sockets;
But vaccination certainly has been
A kind antithesis to Congreve's rockets,
With which the Doctor paid off an old pox,
By borrowing a new one from an ox.
Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes;
And galvanism has set some corpses grinning,
But has not answer'd like the apparatus
Of the Humane Society's beginning
By which men are unsuffocated gratis:
What wondrous new machines have late been spinning!
I said the small-pox has gone out of late;
Perhaps it may be follow'd by the great.
'T is said the great came from America;
Perhaps it may set out on its return,--
The population there so spreads, they say
'T is grown high time to thin it in its turn,
With war, or plague, or famine, any way,
So that civilisation they may learn;
And which in ravage the more loathsome evil is--
Their real lues, or our pseudo-syphilis?
This is the patent-age of new inventions
For killing bodies, and for saving souls,
All propagated with the best intentions;
Sir Humphry Davy's lantern, by which coals
Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions,
Tombuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles,
Are ways to benefit mankind, as true,
Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo.
Man 's a phenomenon, one knows not what,
And wonderful beyond all wondrous measure;
'T is pity though, in this sublime world, that
Pleasure 's a sin, and sometimes sin 's a pleasure;
Few mortals know what end they would be at,
But whether glory, power, or love, or treasure,
The path is through perplexing ways, and when
The goal is gain'd, we die, you know--and then--
What then?--I do not know, no more do you--
And so good night.--Return we to our story:
'T was in November, when fine days are few,
And the far mountains wax a little hoary,
And clap a white cape on their mantles blue;
And the sea dashes round the promontory,
And the loud breaker boils against the rock,
And sober suns must set at five o'clock.
'T was, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night;
No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud
By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was bright
With the piled wood, round which the family crowd;
There 's something cheerful in that sort of light,
Even as a summer sky 's without a cloud:
I 'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that,
A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat.
'T was midnight--Donna Julia was in bed,
Sleeping, most probably,--when at her door
Arose a clatter might awake the dead,
If they had never been awoke before,
And that they have been so we all have read,
And are to be so, at the least, once more;--
The door was fasten'd, but with voice and fist
First knocks were heard, then 'Madam--Madam--hist!
'For God's sake, Madam--Madam--here 's my master,
With more than half the city at his back--
Was ever heard of such a curst disaster!
'T is not my fault--I kept good watch--Alack!
Do pray undo the bolt a little faster--
They 're on the stair just now, and in a crack
Will all be here; perhaps he yet may fly--
Surely the window 's not so very high!'
By this time Don Alfonso was arrived,
With torches, friends, and servants in great number;
The major part of them had long been wived,
And therefore paused not to disturb the slumber
Of any wicked woman, who contrived
By stealth her husband's temples to encumber:
Examples of this kind are so contagious,
Were one not punish'd, all would be outrageous.
I can't tell how, or why, or what suspicion
Could enter into Don Alfonso's head;
But for a cavalier of his condition
It surely was exceedingly ill-bred,
Without a word of previous admonition,
To hold a levee round his lady's bed,
And summon lackeys, arm'd with fire and sword,
To prove himself the thing he most abhorr'd.
Poor Donna Julia, starting as from sleep
(Mind--that I do not say--she had not slept),
Began at once to scream, and yawn, and weep;
Her maid Antonia, who was an adept,
Contrived to fling the bed-clothes in a heap,
As if she had just now from out them crept:
I can't tell why she should take all this trouble
To prove her mistress had been sleeping double.
But Julia mistress, and Antonia maid,
Appear'd like two poor harmless women, who
Of goblins, but still more of men afraid,
Had thought one man might be deterr'd by two,
And therefore side by side were gently laid,
Until the hours of absence should run through,
And truant husband should return, and say,
'My dear, I was the first who came away.'
Now Julia found at length a voice, and cried,
'In heaven's name, Don Alfonso, what d' ye mean?
Has madness seized you? would that I had died
Ere such a monster's victim I had been!
What may this midnight violence betide,
A sudden fit of drunkenness or spleen?
Dare you suspect me, whom the thought would kill?
Search, then, the room!'--Alfonso said, 'I will.'
He search'd, they search'd, and rummaged everywhere,
Closet and clothes' press, chest and window-seat,
And found much linen, lace, and several pair
Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete,
With other articles of ladies fair,
To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat:
Arras they prick'd and curtains with their swords,
And wounded several shutters, and some boards.
Under the bed they search'd, and there they found--
No matter what--it was not that they sought;
They open'd windows, gazing if the ground
Had signs or footmarks, but the earth said nought;
And then they stared each other's faces round:
'T is odd, not one of all these seekers thought,
And seems to me almost a sort of blunder,
Of looking in the bed as well as under.
During this inquisition, Julia's tongue
Was not asleep--'Yes, search and search,' she cried,
'Insult on insult heap, and wrong on wrong!
It was for this that I became a bride!
For this in silence I have suffer'd long
A husband like Alfonso at my side;
But now I 'll bear no more, nor here remain,
If there be law or lawyers in all Spain.
'Yes, Don Alfonso! husband now no more,
If ever you indeed deserved the name,
Is 't worthy of your years?--you have threescore--
Fifty, or sixty, it is all the same--
Is 't wise or fitting, causeless to explore
For facts against a virtuous woman's fame?
Ungrateful, perjured, barbarous Don Alfonso,
How dare you think your lady would go on so?
'Is it for this I have disdain'd to hold
The common privileges of my sex?
That I have chosen a confessor so old
And deaf, that any other it would vex,
And never once he has had cause to scold,
But found my very innocence perplex
So much, he always doubted I was married--
How sorry you will be when I 've miscarried!
'Was it for this that no Cortejo e'er
I yet have chosen from out the youth of Seville?
Is it for this I scarce went anywhere,
Except to bull-fights, mass, play, rout, and revel?
Is it for this, whate'er my suitors were,
I favor'd none--nay, was almost uncivil?
Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly,
Who took Algiers, declares I used him vilely?
'Did not the Italian Musico Cazzani
Sing at my heart six months at least in vain?
Did not his countryman, Count Corniani,
Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain?
Were there not also Russians, English, many?
The Count Strongstroganoff I put in pain,
And Lord Mount Coffeehouse, the Irish peer,
Who kill'd himself for love (with wine) last year.
'Have I not had two bishops at my feet,
The Duke of Ichar, and Don Fernan Nunez?
And is it thus a faithful wife you treat?
I wonder in what quarter now the moon is:
I praise your vast forbearance not to beat
Me also, since the time so opportune is--
O, valiant man! with sword drawn and cock'd trigger,
Now, tell me, don't you cut a pretty figure?
'Was it for this you took your sudden journey.
Under pretence of business indispensable
With that sublime of rascals your attorney,
Whom I see standing there, and looking sensible
Of having play'd the fool? though both I spurn, he
Deserves the worst, his conduct 's less defensible,
Because, no doubt, 't was for his dirty fee,
And not from any love to you nor me.
'If he comes here to take a deposition,
By all means let the gentleman proceed;
You 've made the apartment in a fit condition:
There 's pen and ink for you, sir, when you need--
Let every thing be noted with precision,
I would not you for nothing should be fee'd--
But, as my maid 's undrest, pray turn your spies out.'
'Oh!' sobb'd Antonia, 'I could tear their eyes out.'
'There is the closet, there the toilet, there
The antechamber--search them under, over;
There is the sofa, there the great arm-chair,
The chimney--which would really hold a lover.
I wish to sleep, and beg you will take care
And make no further noise, till you discover
The secret cavern of this lurking treasure--
And when 't is found, let me, too, have that pleasure.
'And now, Hidalgo! now that you have thrown
Doubt upon me, confusion over all,
Pray have the courtesy to make it known
Who is the man you search for? how d' ye cal
Him? what 's his lineage? let him but be shown--
I hope he 's young and handsome--is he tall?
Tell me--and be assured, that since you stain
My honour thus, it shall not be in vain.
'At least, perhaps, he has not sixty years,
At that age he would be too old for slaughter,
Or for so young a husband's jealous fears
(Antonia! let me have a glass of water).
I am ashamed of having shed these tears,
They are unworthy of my father's daughter;
My mother dream'd not in my natal hour
That I should fall into a monster's power.
'Perhaps 't is of Antonia you are jealous,
You saw that she was sleeping by my side
When you broke in upon us with your fellows:
Look where you please--we 've nothing, sir, to hide;
Only another time, I trust, you 'll tell us,
Or for the sake of decency abide
A moment at the door, that we may be
Drest to receive so much good company.
'And now, sir, I have done, and say no more;
The little I have said may serve to show
The guileless heart in silence may grieve o'er
The wrongs to whose exposure it is slow:
I leave you to your conscience as before,
'T will one day ask you why you used me so?
God grant you feel not then the bitterest grief!-
Antonia! where 's my pocket-handkerchief?'
She ceased, and turn'd upon her pillow; pale
She lay, her dark eyes flashing through their tears,
Like skies that rain and lighten; as a veil,
Waved and o'ershading her wan cheek, appears
Her streaming hair; the black curls strive, but fail,
To hide the glossy shoulder, which uprears
Its snow through all;--her soft lips lie apart,
And louder than her breathing beats her heart.
The Senhor Don Alfonso stood confused;
Antonia bustled round the ransack'd room,
And, turning up her nose, with looks abused
Her master and his myrmidons, of whom
Not one, except the attorney, was amused;
He, like Achates, faithful to the tomb,
So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause,
Knowing they must be settled by the laws.
With prying snub-nose, and small eyes, he stood,
Following Antonia's motions here and there,
With much suspicion in his attitude;
For reputations he had little care;
So that a suit or action were made good,
Small pity had he for the young and fair,
And ne'er believed in negatives, till these
Were proved by competent false witnesses.
But Don Alfonso stood with downcast looks,
And, truth to say, he made a foolish figure;
When, after searching in five hundred nooks,
And treating a young wife with so much rigour,
He gain'd no point, except some self-rebukes,
Added to those his lady with such vigour
Had pour'd upon him for the last half-hour,
Quick, thick, and heavy--as a thunder-shower.
At first he tried to hammer an excuse,
To which the sole reply was tears and sobs,
And indications of hysterics, whose
Prologue is always certain throes, and throbs,
Gasps, and whatever else the owners choose:
Alfonso saw his wife, and thought of Job's;
He saw too, in perspective, her relations,
And then he tried to muster all his patience.
He stood in act to speak, or rather stammer,
But sage Antonia cut him short before
The anvil of his speech received the hammer,
With 'Pray, sir, leave the room, and say no more,
Or madam dies.'--Alfonso mutter'd, 'D--n her,'
But nothing else, the time of words was o'er;
He cast a rueful look or two, and did,
He knew not wherefore, that which he was bid.
With him retired his 'posse comitatus,'
The attorney last, who linger'd near the door
Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late as
Antonia let him--not a little sore
At this most strange and unexplain'd 'hiatus'
In Don Alfonso's facts, which just now wore
An awkward look; as he revolved the case,
The door was fasten'd in his legal face.
No sooner was it bolted, than--Oh shame!
O sin! Oh sorrow! and oh womankind!
How can you do such things and keep your fame,
Unless this world, and t' other too, be blind?
Nothing so dear as an unfilch'd good name!
But to proceed--for there is more behind:
With much heartfelt reluctance be it said,
Young Juan slipp'd half-smother'd, from the bed.
He had been hid--I don't pretend to say
How, nor can I indeed describe the where--
Young, slender, and pack'd easily, he lay,
No doubt, in little compass, round or square;
But pity him I neither must nor may
His suffocation by that pretty pair;
'T were better, sure, to die so, than be shut
With maudlin Clarence in his Malmsey butt.
And, secondly, I pity not, because
He had no business to commit a sin,
Forbid by heavenly, fined by human laws,
At least 't was rather early to begin;
But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws
So much as when we call our old debts in
At sixty years, and draw the accompts of evil,
And find a deuced balance with the devil.
Of his position I can give no notion:
'T is written in the Hebrew Chronicle,
How the physicians, leaving pill and potion,
Prescribed, by way of blister, a young belle,
When old King David's blood grew dull in motion,
And that the medicine answer'd very well;
Perhaps 't was in a different way applied,
For David lived, but Juan nearly died.
What 's to be done? Alfonso will be back
The moment he has sent his fools away.
Antonia's skill was put upon the rack,
But no device could be brought into play--
And how to parry the renew'd attack?
Besides, it wanted but few hours of day:
Antonia puzzled; Julia did not speak,
But press'd her bloodless lip to Juan's cheek.
He turn'd his lip to hers, and with his hand
Call'd back the tangles of her wandering hair;
Even then their love they could not all command,
And half forgot their danger and despair:
Antonia's patience now was at a stand--
'Come, come, 't is no time now for fooling there,'
She whisper'd, in great wrath--'I must deposit
This pretty gentleman within the closet:
'Pray, keep your nonsense for some luckier night--
Who can have put my master in this mood?
What will become on 't--I 'm in such a fright,
The devil 's in the urchin, and no good--
Is this a time for giggling? this a plight?
Why, don't you know that it may end in blood?
You 'll lose your life, and I shall lose my place,
My mistress all, for that half-girlish face.
'Had it but been for a stout cavalier
Of twenty-five or thirty (come, make haste)--
But for a child, what piece of work is here!
I really, madam, wonder at your taste
(Come, sir, get in)--my master must be near:
There, for the present, at the least, he's fast,
And if we can but till the morning keep
Our counsel--(Juan, mind, you must not sleep).'
Now, Don Alfonso entering, but alone,
Closed the oration of the trusty maid:
She loiter'd, and he told her to be gone,
An order somewhat sullenly obey'd;
However, present remedy was none,
And no great good seem'd answer'd if she stay'd:
Regarding both with slow and sidelong view,
She snuff'd the candle, curtsied, and withdrew.
Alfonso paused a minute--then begun
Some strange excuses for his late proceeding;
He would not justify what he had done,
To say the best, it was extreme ill-breeding;
But there were ample reasons for it, none
Of which he specified in this his pleading:
His speech was a fine sample, on the whole,
Of rhetoric, which the learn'd call 'rigmarole.'
Julia said nought; though all the while there rose
A ready answer, which at once enables
A matron, who her husband's foible knows,
By a few timely words to turn the tables,
Which, if it does not silence, still must pose,--
Even if it should comprise a pack of fables;
'T is to retort with firmness, and when he
Suspects with one, do you reproach with three.
Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds,--
Alfonso's loves with Inez were well known,
But whether 't was that one's own guilt confounds--
But that can't be, as has been often shown,
A lady with apologies abounds;--
It might be that her silence sprang alone
From delicacy to Don Juan's ear,
To whom she knew his mother's fame was dear.
There might be one more motive, which makes two;
Alfonso ne'er to Juan had alluded,--
Mention'd his jealousy but never who
Had been the happy lover, he concluded,
Conceal'd amongst his premises; 't is true,
His mind the more o'er this its mystery brooded;
To speak of Inez now were, one may say,
Like throwing Juan in Alfonso's way.
A hint, in tender cases, is enough;
Silence is best, besides there is a tact
(That modern phrase appears to me sad stuff,
But it will serve to keep my verse compact)-
Which keeps, when push'd by questions rather rough,
A lady always distant from the fact:
The charming creatures lie with such a grace,
There 's nothing so becoming to the face.
They blush, and we believe them; at least I
Have always done so; 't is of no great use,
In any case, attempting a reply,
For then their eloquence grows quite profuse;
And when at length they 're out of breath, they sigh,
And cast their languid eyes down, and let loose
A tear or two, and then we make it up;
And then--and then--and then--sit down and sup.
Alfonso closed his speech, and begg'd her pardon,
Which Julia half withheld, and then half granted,
And laid conditions he thought very hard on,
Denying several little things he wanted:
He stood like Adam lingering near his garden,
With useless penitence perplex'd and haunted,
Beseeching she no further would refuse,
When, lo! he stumbled o'er a pair of shoes.
A pair of shoes!--what then? not much, if they
Are such as fit with ladies' feet, but these
(No one can tell how much I grieve to say)
Were masculine; to see them, and to seize,
Was but a moment's act.--Ah! well-a-day!
My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freeze--
Alfonso first examined well their fashion,
And then flew out into another passion.
He left the room for his relinquish'd sword,
And Julia instant to the closet flew.
'Fly, Juan, fly! for heaven's sake--not a word--
The door is open--you may yet slip through
The passage you so often have explored--
Here is the garden-key--Fly--fly--Adieu!
Haste--haste! I hear Alfonso's hurrying feet--
Day has not broke--there 's no one in the street:
None can say that this was not good advice,
The only mischief was, it came too late;
Of all experience 't is the usual price,
A sort of income-tax laid on by fate:
Juan had reach'd the room-door in a. trice,
And might have done so by the garden-gate,
But met Alfonso in his dressing-gown,
Who threaten'd death--so Juan knock'd him down.
Dire was the scuffle, and out went the light;
Antonia cried out 'Rape!' and Julia 'Fire!'
But not a servant stirr'd to aid the fight.
Alfonso, pommell'd to his heart's desire,
Swore lustily he'd be revenged this night;
And Juan, too, blasphemed an octave higher;
His blood was up: though young, he was a Tartar,
And not at all disposed to prove a martyr.
Alfonso's sword had dropp'd ere he could draw it,
And they continued battling hand to hand,
For Juan very luckily ne'er saw it;
His temper not being under great command,
If at that moment he had chanced to claw it,
Alfonso's days had not been in the land
Much longer.--Think of husbands', lovers' lives!
And how ye may be doubly widows--wives!
Alfonso grappled to detain the foe,
And Juan throttled him to get away,
And blood ('t was from the nose) began to flow;
At last, as they more faintly wrestling lay,
Juan contrived to give an awkward blow,
And then his only garment quite gave way;
He fled, like Joseph, leaving it; but there,
I doubt, all likeness ends between the pair.
Lights came at length, and men, and maids, who found
An awkward spectacle their eyes before;
Antonia in hysterics, Julia swoon'd,
Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door;
Some half-torn drapery scatter'd on the ground,
Some blood, and several footsteps, but no more:
Juan the gate gain'd, turn'd the key about,
And liking not the inside, lock'd the out.
Here ends this canto.--Need I sing, or say,
How Juan naked, favour'd by the night,
Who favours what she should not, found his way,
And reach'd his home in an unseemly plight?
The pleasant scandal which arose next day,
The nine days' wonder which was brought to light,
And how Alfonso sued for a divorce,
Were in the English newspapers, of course.
If you would like to see the whole proceedings,
The depositions, and the cause at full,
The names of all the witnesses, the pleadings
Of counsel to nonsuit, or to annul,
There 's more than one edition, and the readings
Are various, but they none of them are dull;
The best is that in short-hand ta'en by Gurney,
Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey.
But Donna Inez, to divert the train
Of one of the most circulating scandals
That had for centuries been known in Spain,
At least since the retirement of the Vandals,
First vow'd (and never had she vow'd in vain)
To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles;
And then, by the advice of some old ladies,
She sent her son to be shipp'd off from Cadiz.
She had resolved that he should travel through
All European climes, by land or sea,
To mend his former morals, and get new,
Especially in France and Italy
(At least this is the thing most people do).
Julia was sent into a convent: she
Grieved, but, perhaps, her feelings may be better
Shown in the following copy of her Letter:--
'They tell me 't is decided; you depart:
'T is wise--'t is well, but not the less a pain;
I have no further claim on your young heart,
Mine is the victim, and would be again;
To love too much has been the only art
I used;--I write in haste, and if a stain
Be on this sheet, 't is not what it appears;
My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears.
'I loved, I love you, for this love have lost
State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem,
And yet can not regret what it hath cost,
So dear is still the memory of that dream;
Yet, if I name my guilt, 't is not to boast,
None can deem harshlier of me than I deem:
I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest--
I 've nothing to reproach, or to request.
'Man's love is of man's life a thing apart,
'T is woman's whole existence; man may range
The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart;
Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange
Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart,
And few there are whom these cannot estrange;
Men have all these resources, we but one,
To love again, and be again undone.
'You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride,
Beloved and loving many; all is o'er
For me on earth, except some years to hide
My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core;
These I could bear, but cannot cast aside
The passion which still rages as before--
And so farewell--forgive me, love me--No,
That word is idle now--but let it go.
'My breast has been all weakness, is so yet;
But still I think I can collect my mind;
My blood still rushes where my spirit 's set,
As roll the waves before the settled wind;
My heart is feminine, nor can forget--
To all, except one image, madly blind;
So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole,
As vibrates my fond heart to my fix'd soul.
'I have no more to say, but linger still,
And dare not set my seal upon this sheet,
And yet I may as well the task fulfil,
My misery can scarce be more complete:
I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill;
Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet,
And I must even survive this last adieu,
And bear with life, to love and pray for you!'
This note was written upon gilt-edged paper
With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new:
Her small white hand could hardly reach the taper,
It trembled as magnetic needles do,
And yet she did not let one tear escape her;
The seal a sun-flower; 'Elle vous suit partout,'
The motto cut upon a white cornelian;
The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion.
This was Don Juan's earliest scrape; but whether
I shall proceed with his adventures is
Dependent on the public altogether;
We 'll see, however, what they say to this:
Their favour in an author's cap 's a feather,
And no great mischief 's done by their caprice;
And if their approbation we experience,
Perhaps they 'll have some more about a year hence.
My poem 's epic, and is meant to be
Divided in twelve books; each book containing,
With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea,
A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning,
New characters; the episodes are three:
A panoramic view of hell 's in training,
After the style of Virgil and of Homer,
So that my name of Epic 's no misnomer.
All these things will be specified in time,
With strict regard to Aristotle's rules,
The Vade Mecum of the true sublime,
Which makes so many poets, and some fools:
Prose poets like blank-verse, I 'm fond of rhyme,
Good workmen never quarrel with their tools;
I 've got new mythological machinery,
And very handsome supernatural scenery.
There 's only one slight difference between
Me and my epic brethren gone before,
And here the advantage is my own, I ween
(Not that I have not several merits more,
But this will more peculiarly be seen);
They so embellish, that 't is quite a bore
Their labyrinth of fables to thread through,
Whereas this story 's actually true.
If any person doubt it, I appeal
To history, tradition, and to facts,
To newspapers, whose truth all know and feel,
To plays in five, and operas in three acts;
All these confirm my statement a good deal,
But that which more completely faith exacts
Is that myself, and several now in Seville,
Saw Juan's last elopement with the devil.
If ever I should condescend to prose,
I 'll write poetical commandments, which
Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those
That went before; in these I shall enrich
My text with many things that no one knows,
And carry precept to the highest pitch:
I 'll call the work 'Longinus o'er a Bottle,
Or, Every Poet his own Aristotle.'
Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope;
Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey;
Because the first is crazed beyond all hope,
The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthy:
With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope,
And Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy:
Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor
Commit--flirtation with the muse of Moore.
Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's Muse,
His Pegasus, nor anything that 's his;
Thou shalt not bear false witness like 'the Blues'
(There 's one, at least, is very fond of this);
Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I choose:
This is true criticism, and you may kiss--
Exactly as you please, or not,--the rod;
If any person should presume to assert
This story is not moral, first, I pray,
That they will not cry out before they 're hurt,
Then that they 'll read it o'er again, and say
(But, doubtless, nobody will be so pert)
That this is not a moral tale, though gay;
Besides, in Canto Twelfth, I mean to show
The very place where wicked people go.
If, after all, there should be some so blind
To their own good this warning to despise,
Led by some tortuosity of mind,
Not to believe my verse and their own eyes,
And cry that they 'the moral cannot find,'
I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies;
Should captains the remark, or critics, make,
They also lie too--under a mistake.
The public approbation I expect,
And beg they 'll take my word about the moral,
Which I with their amusement will connect
(So children cutting teeth receive a coral);
Meantime, they 'll doubtless please to recollect
My epical pretensions to the laurel:
For fear some prudish readers should grow skittish,
I 've bribed my grandmother's review--the British.
I sent it in a letter to the Editor,
Who thank'd me duly by return of post--
I 'm for a handsome article his creditor;
Yet, if my gentle Muse he please to roast,
And break a promise after having made it her,
Denying the receipt of what it cost,
And smear his page with gall instead of honey,
All I can say is--that he had the money.
I think that with this holy new alliance
I may ensure the public, and defy
All other magazines of art or science,
Daily, or monthly, or three monthly; I
Have not essay'd to multiply their clients,
Because they tell me 't were in vain to try,
And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly
Treat a dissenting author very martyrly.
'Non ego hoc ferrem calida juventa
Consule Planco,' Horace said, and so
Say I; by which quotation there is meant a
Hint that some six or seven good years ago
(Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brenta)
I was most ready to return a blow,
And would not brook at all this sort of thing
In my hot youth--when George the Third was King.
But now at thirty years my hair is grey
(I wonder what it will be like at forty?
I thought of a peruke the other day)--
My heart is not much greener; and, in short, I
Have squander'd my whole summer while 't was May,
And feel no more the spirit to retort; I
Have spent my life, both interest and principal,
And deem not, what I deem'd, my soul invincible.
No more--no more--Oh! never more on me
The freshness of the heart can fall like dew,
Which out of all the lovely things we see
Extracts emotions beautiful and new,
Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee:
Think'st thou the honey with those objects grew?
Alas! 't was not in them, but in thy power
To double even the sweetness of a flower.
No more--no more--Oh! never more, my heart,
Canst thou be my sole world, my universe!
Once all in all, but now a thing apart,
Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse:
The illusion 's gone for ever, and thou art
Insensible, I trust, but none the worse,
And in thy stead I 've got a deal of judgment,
Though heaven knows how it ever found a lodgment.
My days of love are over; me no more
The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow,
Can make the fool of which they made before,--
In short, I must not lead the life I did do;
The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er,
The copious use of claret is forbid too,
So for a good old-gentlemanly vice,
I think I must take up with avarice.
Ambition was my idol, which was broken
Before the shrines of Sorrow, and of Pleasure;
And the two last have left me many a token
O'er which reflection may be made at leisure:
Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, I 've spoken,
'Time is, Time was, Time 's past:'--a chymic treasure
Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes--
My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.
What is the end of Fame? 't is but to fill
A certain portion of uncertain paper:
Some liken it to climbing up a hill,
Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour;
For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill,
And bards burn what they call their 'midnight taper,'
To have, when the original is dust,
A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.
What are the hopes of man? Old Egypt's King
Cheops erected the first pyramid
And largest, thinking it was just the thing
To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid;
But somebody or other rummaging,
Burglariously broke his coffin's lid:
Let not a monument give you or me hopes,
Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops.
But I being fond of true philosophy,
Say very often to myself, 'Alas!
All things that have been born were born to die,
And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass;
You 've pass'd your youth not so unpleasantly,
And if you had it o'er again--'t would pass--
So thank your stars that matters are no worse,
And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse.'
But for the present, gentle reader! and
Still gentler purchaser! the bard--that 's I--
Must, with permission, shake you by the hand,
And so 'Your humble servant, and good-b'ye!'
We meet again, if we should understand
Each other; and if not, I shall not try
Your patience further than by this short sample--
'T were well if others follow'd my example.
'Go, little book, from this my solitude!
I cast thee on the waters--go thy ways!
And if, as I believe, thy vein be good,
The world will find thee after many days.'
When Southey's read, and Wordsworth understood,
I can't help putting in my claim to praise--
The four first rhymes are Southey's every line:
For God's sake, reader! take them not for mine.
[Illustration: Canto 2]
CANTO THE SECOND.
O ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations,
Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain,
I pray ye flog them upon all occasions,
It mends their morals, never mind the pain:
The best of mothers and of educations
In Juan's case were but employ'd in vain,
Since, in a way that 's rather of the oddest, he
Became divested of his native modesty.
Had he but been placed at a public school,
In the third form, or even in the fourth,
His daily task had kept his fancy cool,
At least, had he been nurtured in the north;
Spain may prove an exception to the rule,
But then exceptions always prove its worth--
A lad of sixteen causing a divorce
Puzzled his tutors very much, of course.
I can't say that it puzzles me at all,
If all things be consider'd: first, there was
His lady--mother, mathematical,
A--never mind; his tutor, an old ass;
A pretty woman (that 's quite natural,
Or else the thing had hardly come to pass);
A husband rather old, not much in unity
With his young wife--a time, and opportunity.
Well--well, the world must turn upon its axis,
And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails,
And live and die, make love and pay our taxes,
And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails;
The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us,
The priest instructs, and so our life exhales,
A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame,
Fighting, devotion, dust,--perhaps a name.
I said that Juan had been sent to Cadiz--
A pretty town, I recollect it well--
'T is there the mart of the colonial trade is
(Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel),
And such sweet girls--I mean, such graceful ladies,
Their very walk would make your bosom swell;
I can't describe it, though so much it strike,
Nor liken it--I never saw the like:
An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb
New broke, a cameleopard, a gazelle,
No--none of these will do;--and then their garb!
Their veil and petticoat--Alas! to dwell
Upon such things would very near absorb
A canto--then their feet and ankles,--well,
Thank Heaven I 've got no metaphor quite ready
(And so, my sober Muse--come, let 's be steady--
Chaste Muse!--well, if you must, you must)--the veil
Thrown back a moment with the glancing hand,
While the o'erpowering eye, that turns you pale,
Flashes into the heart:--All sunny land
Of love! when I forget you, may I fail
To--say my prayers--but never was there plann'd
A dress through which the eyes give such a volley,
Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli.
But to our tale: the Donna Inez sent
Her son to Cadiz only to embark;
To stay there had not answer'd her intent,
But why?--we leave the reader in the dark--
'T was for a voyage that the young man was meant,
As if a Spanish ship were Noah's ark,
To wean him from the wickedness of earth,
And send him like a dove of promise forth.
Don Juan bade his valet pack his things
According to direction, then received
A lecture and some money: for four springs
He was to travel; and though Inez grieved
(As every kind of parting has its stings),
She hoped he would improve--perhaps believed:
A letter, too, she gave (he never read it)
Of good advice--and two or three of credit.
In the mean time, to pass her hours away,
Brave Inez now set up a Sunday school
For naughty children, who would rather play
(Like truant rogues) the devil, or the fool;
Infants of three years old were taught that day,
Dunces were whipt, or set upon a stool:
The great success of Juan's education,
Spurr'd her to teach another generation.
Juan embark'd--the ship got under way,
The wind was fair, the water passing rough:
A devil of a sea rolls in that bay,
As I, who 've cross'd it oft, know well enough;
And, standing upon deck, the dashing spray
Flies in one's face, and makes it weather-tough:
And there he stood to take, and take again,
His first--perhaps his last--farewell of Spain.
I can't but say it is an awkward sight
To see one's native land receding through
The growing waters; it unmans one quite,
Especially when life is rather new:
I recollect Great Britain's coast looks white,
But almost every other country 's blue,
When gazing on them, mystified by distance,
We enter on our nautical existence.
So Juan stood, bewilder'd on the deck:
The wind sung, cordage strain'd, and sailors swore,
And the ship creak'd, the town became a speck,
From which away so fair and fast they bore.
The best of remedies is a beef-steak
Against sea-sickness: try it, sir, before
You sneer, and I assure you this is true,
For I have found it answer--so may you.
Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stern,
Beheld his native Spain receding far:
First partings form a lesson hard to learn,
Even nations feel this when they go to war;
There is a sort of unexprest concern,
A kind of shock that sets one's heart ajar:
At leaving even the most unpleasant people
And places, one keeps looking at the steeple.
But Juan had got many things to leave,
His mother, and a mistress, and no wife,
So that he had much better cause to grieve
Than many persons more advanced in life;
And if we now and then a sigh must heave
At quitting even those we quit in strife,
No doubt we weep for those the heart endears--
That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears.
So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews
By Babel's waters, still remembering Sion:
I 'd weep,--but mine is not a weeping Muse,
And such light griefs are not a thing to die on;
Young men should travel, if but to amuse
Themselves; and the next time their servants tie on
Behind their carriages their new portmanteau,
Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto.
And Juan wept, and much he sigh'd and thought,
While his salt tears dropp'd into the salt sea,
'Sweets to the sweet' (I like so much to quote;
You must excuse this extract, 't is where she,
The Queen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought
Flowers to the grave); and, sobbing often, he
Reflected on his present situation,
And seriously resolved on reformation.
'Farewell, my Spain! a long farewell!' he cried,
'Perhaps I may revisit thee no more,
But die, as many an exiled heart hath died,
Of its own thirst to see again thy shore:
Farewell, where Guadalquivir's waters glide!
Farewell, my mother! and, since all is o'er,
Farewell, too, dearest Julia!--(Here he drew
Her letter out again, and read it through.)
'And, oh! if e'er I should forget, I swear--
But that 's impossible, and cannot be--
Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air,
Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea,
Than I resign thine image, oh, my fair!
Or think of any thing excepting thee;
A mind diseased no remedy can physic
(Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew sea-sick).
'Sooner shall heaven kiss earth (here he fell sicker),
O, Julia! what is every other wo?
(For God's sake let me have a glass of liquor;
Pedro, Battista, help me down below.)
Julia, my love! (you rascal, Pedro, quicker)--
O, Julia! (this curst vessel pitches so)--
Beloved Julia, hear me still beseeching!'
(Here he grew inarticulate with retching.)
He felt that chilling heaviness of heart,
Or rather stomach, which, alas! attends,
Beyond the best apothecary's art,
The loss of love, the treachery of friends,
Or death of those we dote on, when a part
Of us dies with them as each fond hope ends:
No doubt he would have been much more pathetic,
But the sea acted as a strong emetic. I
Love 's a capricious power: I 've known it hold
Out through a fever caused by its own heat,
But be much puzzled by a cough and cold,
And find a quincy very hard to treat;
Against all noble maladies he 's bold,
But vulgar illnesses don't like to meet,
Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh,
Nor inflammations redden his blind eye.
But worst of all is nausea, or a pain
About the lower region of the bowels;
Love, who heroically breathes a vein,
Shrinks from the application of hot towels,
And purgatives are dangerous to his reign,
Sea-sickness death: his love was perfect, how else
Could Juan's passion, while the billows roar,
Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before?
The ship, call'd the most holy 'Trinidada,'
Was steering duly for the port Leghorn;
For there the Spanish family Moncada
Were settled long ere Juan's sire was born:
They were relations, and for them he had a
Letter of introduction, which the morn
Of his departure had been sent him by
His Spanish friends for those in Italy.
His suite consisted of three servants and
A tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo,
Who several languages did understand,
But now lay sick and speechless on his pillow,
And rocking in his hammock, long'd for land,
His headache being increased by every billow;
And the waves oozing through the port-hole made
His berth a little damp, and him afraid.
'T was not without some reason, for the wind
Increased at night, until it blew a gale;
And though 't was not much to a naval mind,
Some landsmen would have look'd a little pale,
For sailors are, in fact, a different kind:
At sunset they began to take in sail,
For the sky show'd it would come on to blow,
And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so.
At one o'clock the wind with sudden shift
Threw the ship right into the trough of the sea,
Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift,
Started the stern-post, also shatter'd the
Whole of her stern-frame, and, ere she could lift
Herself from out her present jeopardy,
The rudder tore away: 't was time to sound
The pumps, and there were four feet water found.
One gang of people instantly was put
Upon the pumps and the remainder set
To get up part of the cargo, and what not;
But they could not come at the leak as yet;
At last they did get at it really, but
Still their salvation was an even bet:
The water rush'd through in a way quite puzzling,
While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of muslin,
Into the opening; but all such ingredients
Would have been vain, and they must have gone down,
Despite of all their efforts and expedients,
But for the pumps: I 'm glad to make them known
To all the brother tars who may have need hence,
For fifty tons of water were upthrown
By them per hour, and they had all been undone,
But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London.
As day advanced the weather seem'd to abate,
And then the leak they reckon'd to reduce,
And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet
Kept two hand and one chain-pump still in use.
The wind blew fresh again: as it grew late
A squall came on, and while some guns broke loose,
A gust--which all descriptive power transcends--
Laid with one blast the ship on her beam ends.
There she lay motionless, and seem'd upset;
The water left the hold, and wash'd the decks,
And made a scene men do not soon forget;
For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks,
Or any other thing that brings regret,
Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necks:
Thus drownings are much talk'd of by the divers,
And swimmers, who may chance to be survivors.
Immediately the masts were cut away,
Both main and mizen; first the mizen went,
The main-mast follow'd: but the ship still lay
Like a mere log, and baffled our intent.
Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and they
Eased her at last (although we never meant
To part with all till every hope was blighted),
And then with violence the old ship righted.
It may be easily supposed, while this
Was going on, some people were unquiet,
That passengers would find it much amiss
To lose their lives, as well as spoil their diet;
That even the able seaman, deeming his
Days nearly o'er, might be disposed to riot,
As upon such occasions tars will ask
For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask.
There 's nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms
As rum and true religion: thus it was,
Some plunder'd, some drank spirits, some sung psalms,
The high wind made the treble, and as bas
The hoarse harsh waves kept time; fright cured the qualms
Of all the luckless landsmen's sea-sick maws:
Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion,
Clamour'd in chorus to the roaring ocean.
Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for
Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his years,
Got to the spirit-room, and stood before
It with a pair of pistols; and their fears,
As if Death were more dreadful by his door
Of fire than water, spite of oaths and tears,
Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk,
Thought it would be becoming to die drunk.
'Give us more grog,' they cried, 'for it will be
All one an hour hence.' Juan answer'd, 'No!
'T is true that death awaits both you and me,
But let us die like men, not sink below
Like brutes;'--and thus his dangerous post kept he,
And none liked to anticipate the blow;
And even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor,
Was for some rum a disappointed suitor.
The good old gentleman was quite aghast,
And made a loud and pious lamentation;
Repented all his sins, and made a last
Irrevocable vow of reformation;
Nothing should tempt him more (this peril past)
To quit his academic occupation,
In cloisters of the classic Salamanca,
To follow Juan's wake, like Sancho Panca.
But now there came a flash of hope once more;
Day broke, and the wind lull'd: the masts were gone,
The leak increased; shoals round her, but no shore,
The vessel swam, yet still she held her own.
They tried the pumps again, and though before
Their desperate efforts seem'd all useless grown,
A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to bale--
The stronger pump'd, the weaker thrumm'd a sail.
Under the vessel's keel the sail was past,
And for the moment it had some effect;
But with a leak, and not a stick of mast,
Nor rag of canvas, what could they expect?
But still 't is best to struggle to the last,
'T is never too late to be wholly wreck'd:
And though 't is true that man can only die once,
'T is not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons.
There winds and waves had hurl'd them, and from thence,
Without their will, they carried them away;
For they were forced with steering to dispense,
And never had as yet a quiet day
On which they might repose, or even commence
A jurymast or rudder, or could say
The ship would swim an hour, which, by good luck,
Still swam--though not exactly like a duck.
The wind, in fact, perhaps was rather less,
But the ship labour'd so, they scarce could hope
To weather out much longer; the distress
Was also great with which they had to cope
For want of water, and their solid mess
Was scant enough: in vain the telescope
Was used--nor sail nor shore appear'd in sight,
Nought but the heavy sea, and coming night.
Again the weather threaten'd,--again blew
A gale, and in the fore and after hold
Water appear'd; yet, though the people knew
All this, the most were patient, and some bold,
Until the chains and leathers were worn through
Of all our pumps:--a wreck complete she roll'd,
At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are
Like human beings during civil war.
Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears
In his rough eyes, and told the captain he
Could do no more: he was a man in years,
And long had voyaged through many a stormy sea,
And if he wept at length, they were not fears
That made his eyelids as a woman's be,
But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children,--
Two things for dying people quite bewildering.
The ship was evidently settling now
Fast by the head; and, all distinction gone,
Some went to prayers again, and made a vow
Of candles to their saints--but there were none
To pay them with; and some look'd o'er the bow;
Some hoisted out the boats; and there was one
That begg'd Pedrillo for an absolution,
Who told him to be damn'd--in his confusion.
Some lash'd them in their hammocks; some put on
Their best clothes, as if going to a fair;
Some cursed the day on which they saw the sun,
And gnash'd their teeth, and, howling, tore their hair;
And others went on as they had begun,
Getting the boats out, being well aware
That a tight boat will live in a rough sea,
Unless with breakers close beneath her lee.
The worst of all was, that in their condition,
Having been several days in great distress,
'T was difficult to get out such provision
As now might render their long suffering less:
Men, even when dying, dislike inanition;
Their stock was damaged by the weather's stress:
Two casks of biscuit and a keg of butter
Were all that could be thrown into the cutter.
But in the long-boat they contrived to stow
Some pounds of bread, though injured by the wet;
Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so;
Six flasks of wine; and they contrived to get
A portion of their beef up from below,
And with a piece of pork, moreover, met,
But scarce enough to serve them for a luncheon--
Then there was rum, eight gallons in a puncheon.
The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had
Been stove in the beginning of the gale;
And the long-boat's condition was but bad,
As there were but two blankets for a sail,
And one oar for a mast, which a young lad
Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail;
And two boats could not hold, far less be stored,
To save one half the people then on board.
'T was twilight, and the sunless day went down
Over the waste of waters; like a veil,
Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown
Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail,
Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown,
And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale,
And the dim desolate deep: twelve days had Fear
Been their familiar, and now Death was here.
Some trial had been making at a raft,
With little hope in such a rolling sea,
A sort of thing at which one would have laugh'd,
If any laughter at such times could be,
Unless with people who too much have quaff'd,
And have a kind of wild and horrid glee,
Half epileptical and half hysterical:--
Their preservation would have been a miracle.
At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hencoops, spars,
And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose,
That still could keep afloat the struggling tars,
For yet they strove, although of no great use:
There was no light in heaven but a few stars,
The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews;
She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port,
And, going down head foremost--sunk, in short.
Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell--
Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave,
Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell,
As eager to anticipate their grave;
And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell,
And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave,
Like one who grapples with his enemy,
And strives to strangle him before he die.
And first one universal shriek there rush'd,
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash
Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush'd,
Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash
Of billows; but at intervals there gush'd,
Accompanied with a convulsive splash,
A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry
Of some strong swimmer in his agony.
The boats, as stated, had got off before,
And in them crowded several of the crew;
And yet their present hope was hardly more
Than what it had been, for so strong it blew
There was slight chance of reaching any shore;
And then they were too many, though so few--
Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat,
Were counted in them when they got afloat.
All the rest perish'd; near two hundred souls
Had left their bodies; and what 's worse, alas!
When over Catholics the ocean rolls,
They must wait several weeks before a mass
Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals,
Because, till people know what 's come to pass,
They won't lay out their money on the dead--
It costs three francs for every mass that 's said.
Juan got into the long-boat, and there
Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place;
It seem'd as if they had exchanged their care,
For Juan wore the magisterial face
Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's pair
Of eyes were crying for their owner's case:
Battista; though (a name call'd shortly Tita),
Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita.
Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save,
But the same cause, conducive to his loss,
Left him so drunk, he jump'd into the wave
As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross,
And so he found a wine-and-watery grave;
They could not rescue him although so close,
Because the sea ran higher every minute,
And for the boat--the crew kept crowding in it.
A small old spaniel,--which had been Don Jose's,
His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think,
For on such things the memory reposes
With tenderness--stood howling on the brink,
Knowing (dogs have such intellectual noses!),
No doubt, the vessel was about to sink;
And Juan caught him up, and ere he stepp'd
Off, threw him in, then after him he leap'd.
He also stuff'd his money where he could
About his person, and Pedrillo's too,
Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would,
Not knowing what himself to say, or do,
As every rising wave his dread renew'd;
But Juan, trusting they might still get through,
And deeming there were remedies for any ill,
Thus re-embark'd his tutor and his spaniel.
'T was a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet,
That the sail was becalm'd between the seas,
Though on the wave's high top too much to set,
They dared not take it in for all the breeze:
Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept them wet,
And made them bale without a moment's ease,
So that themselves as well as hopes were damp'd,
And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd.
Nine souls more went in her: the long-boat still
Kept above water, with an oar for mast,
Two blankets stitch'd together, answering ill
Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast:
Though every wave roll'd menacing to fill,
And present peril all before surpass'd,
They grieved for those who perish'd with the cutter,
And also for the biscuit-casks and butter.
The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign
Of the continuance of the gale: to run
Before the sea until it should grow fine,
Was all that for the present could be done:
A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wine
Were served out to the people, who begun
To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags,
And most of them had little clothes but rags.
They counted thirty, crowded in a space
Which left scarce room for motion or exertion;
They did their best to modify their case,
One half sate up, though numb'd with the immersion,
While t'other half were laid down in their place
At watch and watch; thus, shivering like the tertian
Ague in its cold fit, they fill'd their boat,
With nothing but the sky for a great coat.
'T is very certain the desire of life
Prolongs it: this is obvious to physicians,
When patients, neither plagued with friends nor wife,
Survive through very desperate conditions,
Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife
Nor shears of Atropos before their visions:
Despair of all recovery spoils longevity,
And makes men miseries miseries of alarming brevity.
'T is said that persons living on annuities
Are longer lived than others,--God knows why,
Unless to plague the grantors,--yet so true it is,
That some, I really think, do never die;
Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is,
And that 's their mode of furnishing supply:
In my young days they lent me cash that way,
Which I found very troublesome to pay.
'T is thus with people in an open boat,
They live upon the love of life, and bear
More than can be believed, or even thought,
And stand like rocks the tempest's wear and tear;
And hardship still has been the sailor's lot,
Since Noah's ark went cruising here and there;
She had a curious crew as well as cargo,
Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo.
But man is a carnivorous production,
And must have meals, at least one meal a day;
He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction,
But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey;
Although his anatomical construction
Bears vegetables, in a grumbling way,
Your labouring people think beyond all question,
Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion.
And thus it was with this our hapless crew;
For on the third day there came on a calm,
And though at first their strength it might renew,
And lying on their weariness like balm,
Lull'd them like turtles sleeping on the blue
Of ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm,
And fell all ravenously on their provision,
Instead of hoarding it with due precision.
The consequence was easily foreseen--
They ate up all they had, and drank their wine,
In spite of all remonstrances, and then
On what, in fact, next day were they to dine?
They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish men!
And carry them to shore; these hopes were fine,
But as they had but one oar, and that brittle,
It would have been more wise to save their victual.
The fourth day came, but not a breath of air,
And Ocean slumber'd like an unwean'd child:
The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there,
The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and mild--
With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair)
What could they do? and hunger's rage grew wild:
So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating,
Was kill'd and portion'd out for present eating.
On the sixth day they fed upon his hide,
And Juan, who had still refused, because
The creature was his father's dog that died,
Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws,
With some remorse received (though first denied)
As a great favour one of the fore-paws,
Which he divided with Pedrillo, who
Devour'd it, longing for the other too.
The seventh day, and no wind--the burning sun
Blister'd and scorch'd, and, stagnant on the sea,
They lay like carcasses; and hope was none,
Save in the breeze that came not; savagely
They glared upon each other--all was done,
Water, and wine, and food,--and you might see
The longings of the cannibal arise
(Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes.
At length one whisper'd his companion, who
Whisper'd another, and thus it went round,
And then into a hoarser murmur grew,
An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound;
And when his comrade's thought each sufferer knew,
'T was but his own, suppress'd till now, he found:
And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood,
And who should die to be his fellow's food.
But ere they came to this, they that day shared
Some leathern caps, and what remain'd of shoes;
And then they look'd around them and despair'd,
And none to be the sacrifice would choose;
At length the lots were torn up, and prepared,
But of materials that much shock the Muse--
Having no paper, for the want of better,
They took by force from Juan Julia's letter.
The lots were made, and mark'd, and mix'd, and handed,
In silent horror, and their distribution
Lull'd even the savage hunger which demanded,
Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution;
None in particular had sought or plann'd it,
'T was nature gnaw'd them to this resolution,
By which none were permitted to be neuter--
And the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor.
He but requested to be bled to death:
The surgeon had his instruments, and bled
Pedrillo, and so gently ebb'd his breath,
You hardly could perceive when he was dead.
He died as born, a Catholic in faith,
Like most in the belief in which they 're bred,
And first a little crucifix he kiss'd,
And then held out his jugular and wrist.
The surgeon, as there was no other fee,
Had his first choice of morsels for his pains;
But being thirstiest at the moment, he
Preferr'd a draught from the fast-flowing veins:
Part was divided, part thrown in the sea,
And such things as the entrails and the brains
Regaled two sharks, who follow'd o'er the billow--
The sailors ate the rest of poor Pedrillo.
The sailors ate him, all save three or four,
Who were not quite so fond of animal food;
To these was added Juan, who, before
Refusing his own spaniel, hardly could
Feel now his appetite increased much more;
'T was not to be expected that he should,
Even in extremity of their disaster,
Dine with them on his pastor and his master.
'T was better that he did not; for, in fact,
The consequence was awful in the extreme;
For they, who were most ravenous in the act,
Went raging mad--Lord! how they did blaspheme!
And foam and roll, with strange convulsions rack'd,
Drinking salt water like a mountain-stream,
Tearing, and grinning, howling, screeching, swearing,
And, with hyaena-laughter, died despairing.
Their numbers were much thinn'd by this infliction,
And all the rest were thin enough, Heaven knows;
And some of them had lost their recollection,
Happier than they who still perceived their woes;
But others ponder'd on a new dissection,
As if not warn'd sufficiently by those
Who had already perish'd, suffering madly,
For having used their appetites so sadly.
And next they thought upon the master's mate,
As fattest; but he saved himself, because,
Besides being much averse from such a fate,
There were some other reasons: the first was,
He had been rather indisposed of late;
And that which chiefly proved his saving clause
Was a small present made to him at Cadiz,
By general subscription of the ladies.
Of poor Pedrillo something still remain'd,
But was used sparingly,--some were afraid,
And others still their appetites constrain'd,
Or but at times a little supper made;
All except Juan, who throughout abstain'd,
Chewing a piece of bamboo and some lead:
At length they caught two boobies and a noddy,
And then they left off eating the dead body.
And if Pedrillo's fate should shocking be,
Remember Ugolino condescends
To eat the head of his arch-enemy
The moment after he politely ends
His tale: if foes be food in hell, at sea
'T is surely fair to dine upon our friends,
When shipwreck's short allowance grows too scanty,
Without being much more horrible than Dante.
And the same night there fell a shower of rain,
For which their mouths gaped, like the cracks of earth
When dried to summer dust; till taught by pain
Men really know not what good water 's worth;
If you had been in Turkey or in Spain,
Or with a famish'd boat's-crew had your berth,
Or in the desert heard the camel's bell,
You 'd wish yourself where Truth is--in a well.
It pour'd down torrents, but they were no richer
Until they found a ragged piece of sheet,
Which served them as a sort of spongy pitcher,
And when they deem'd its moisture was complete
They wrung it out, and though a thirsty ditcher
Might not have thought the scanty draught so sweet
As a full pot of porter, to their thinking
They ne'er till now had known the joys of drinking.
And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack,
Suck'd in the moisture, which like nectar stream'd;
Their throats were ovens, their swoln tongues were black,
As the rich man's in hell, who vainly scream'd
To beg the beggar, who could not rain back
A drop of dew, when every drop had seem'd
To taste of heaven--If this be true, indeed
Some Christians have a comfortable creed.
There were two fathers in this ghastly crew,
And with them their two sons, of whom the one
Was more robust and hardy to the view,
But he died early; and when he was gone,
His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw
One glance at him, and said, 'Heaven's will be done!
I can do nothing,' and he saw him thrown
Into the deep without a tear or groan.
The other father had a weaklier child,
Of a soft cheek and aspect delicate;
But the boy bore up long, and with a mild
And patient spirit held aloof his fate;
Little he said, and now and then he smiled,
As if to win a part from off the weight
He saw increasing on his father's heart,
With the deep deadly thought that they must part.
And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised
His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam
From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed,
And when the wish'd-for shower at length was come,
And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed,
Brighten'd, and for a moment seem'd to roam,
He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain
Into his dying child's mouth--but in vain.
The boy expired--the father held the clay,
And look'd upon it long, and when at last
Death left no doubt, and the dead burthen lay
Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past,
He watch'd it wistfully, until away
'T was borne by the rude wave wherein 't was cast;
Then he himself sunk down all dumb and shivering,
And gave no sign of life, save his limbs quivering.
Now overhead a rainbow, bursting through
The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the dark sea,
Resting its bright base on the quivering blue;
And all within its arch appear'd to be
Clearer than that without, and its wide hue
Wax'd broad and waving, like a banner free,
Then changed like to a bow that 's bent, and then
Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwreck'd men.
It changed, of course; a heavenly chameleon,
The airy child of vapour and the sun,
Brought forth in purple, cradled in vermilion,
Baptized in molten gold, and swathed in dun,
Glittering like crescents o'er a Turk's pavilion,
And blending every colour into one,
Just like a black eye in a recent scuffle
(For sometimes we must box without the muffle).
Our shipwreck'd seamen thought it a good omen--
It is as well to think so, now and then;
'T was an old custom of the Greek and Roman,
And may become of great advantage when
Folks are discouraged; and most surely no men
Had greater need to nerve themselves again
Than these, and so this rainbow look'd like hope--
Quite a celestial kaleidoscope.
About this time a beautiful white bird,
Webfooted, not unlike a dove in size
And plumage (probably it might have err'd
Upon its course), pass'd oft before their eyes,
And tried to perch, although it saw and heard
The men within the boat, and in this guise
It came and went, and flutter'd round them till
Night fell: this seem'd a better omen still.
But in this case I also must remark,
'T was well this bird of promise did not perch,
Because the tackle of our shatter'd bark
Was not so safe for roosting as a church;
And had it been the dove from Noah's ark,
Returning there from her successful search,
Which in their way that moment chanced to fall,
They would have eat her, olive-branch and all.
With twilight it again came on to blow,
But not with violence; the stars shone out,
The boat made way; yet now they were so low,
They knew not where nor what they were about;
Some fancied they saw land, and some said 'No!'
The frequent fog-banks gave them cause to doubt--
Some swore that they heard breakers, others guns,
And all mistook about the latter once.
As morning broke, the light wind died away,
When he who had the watch sung out and swore,
If 't was not land that rose with the sun's ray,
He wish'd that land he never might see more;
And the rest rubb'd their eyes and saw a bay,
Or thought they saw, and shaped their course for shore;
For shore it was, and gradually grew
Distinct, and high, and palpable to view.
And then of these some part burst into tears,
And others, looking with a stupid stare,
Could not yet separate their hopes from fears,
And seem'd as if they had no further care;
While a few pray'd (the first time for some years)--
And at the bottom of the boat three were
Asleep: they shook them by the hand and head,
And tried to awaken them, but found them dead.
The day before, fast sleeping on the water,
They found a turtle of the hawk's-bill kind,
And by good fortune, gliding softly, caught her,
Which yielded a day's life, and to their mind
Proved even still a more nutritious matter,
Because it left encouragement behind:
They thought that in such perils, more than chance
Had sent them this for their deliverance.
The land appear'd a high and rocky coast,
And higher grew the mountains as they drew,
Set by a current, toward it: they were lost
In various conjectures, for none knew
To what part of the earth they had been tost,
So changeable had been the winds that blew;
Some thought it was Mount AEtna, some the highlands,
Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands.
Meantime the current, with a rising gale,
Still set them onwards to the welcome shore,
Like Charon's bark of spectres, dull and pale:
Their living freight was now reduced to four,
And three dead, whom their strength could not avail
To heave into the deep with those before,
Though the two sharks still follow'd them, and dash'd
The spray into their faces as they splash'd.
Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat, had done
Their work on them by turns, and thinn'd them to
Such things a mother had not known her son
Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew;
By night chill'd, by day scorch'd, thus one by one
They perish'd, until wither'd to these few,
But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter,
In washing down Pedrillo with salt water.
As they drew nigh the land, which now was seen
Unequal in its aspect here and there,
They felt the freshness of its growing green,
That waved in forest-tops, and smooth'd the air,
And fell upon their glazed eyes like a screen
From glistening waves, and skies so hot and bare--
Lovely seem'd any object that should sweep
Away the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep.
The shore look'd wild, without a trace of man,
And girt by formidable waves; but they
Were mad for land, and thus their course they ran,
Though right ahead the roaring breakers lay:
A reef between them also now began
To show its boiling surf and bounding spray,
But finding no place for their landing better,
They ran the boat for shore,--and overset her.
But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir,
Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont;
And having learnt to swim in that sweet river,
Had often turn'd the art to some account:
A better swimmer you could scarce see ever,
He could, perhaps, have pass'd the Hellespont,
As once (a feat on which ourselves we prided)
Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did.
So here, though faint, emaciated, and stark,
He buoy'd his boyish limbs, and strove to ply
With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was dark,
The beach which lay before him, high and dry:
The greatest danger here was from a shark,
That carried off his neighbour by the thigh;
As for the other two, they could not swim,
So nobody arrived on shore but him.
Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar,
Which, providentially for him, was wash'd
Just as his feeble arms could strike no more,
And the hard wave o'erwhelm'd him as 't was dash'd
Within his grasp; he clung to it, and sore
The waters beat while he thereto was lash'd;
At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, he
Roll'd on the beach, half-senseless, from the sea:
There, breathless, with his digging nails he clung
Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave,
From whose reluctant roar his life he wrung,
Should suck him back to her insatiate grave:
And there he lay, full length, where he was flung,
Before the entrance of a cliff-worn cave,
With just enough of life to feel its pain,
And deem that it was saved, perhaps in vain.
With slow and staggering effort he arose,
But sunk again upon his bleeding knee
And quivering hand; and then he look'd for those
Who long had been his mates upon the sea;
But none of them appear'd to share his woes,
Save one, a corpse, from out the famish'd three,
Who died two days before, and now had found
An unknown barren beach for burial ground.
And as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast,
And down he sunk; and as he sunk, the sand
Swam round and round, and all his senses pass'd:
He fell upon his side, and his stretch'd hand
Droop'd dripping on the oar (their jurymast),
And, like a wither'd lily, on the land
His slender frame and pallid aspect lay,
As fair a thing as e'er was form'd of clay.
How long in his damp trance young Juan lay
He knew not, for the earth was gone for him,
And Time had nothing more of night nor day
For his congealing blood, and senses dim;
And how this heavy faintness pass'd away
He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb,
And tingling vein, seem'd throbbing back to life,
For Death, though vanquish'd, still retired with strife.
His eyes he open'd, shut, again unclosed,
For all was doubt and dizziness; he thought
He still was in the boat and had but dozed,
And felt again with his despair o'erwrought,
And wish'd it death in which he had reposed;
And then once more his feelings back were brought,
And slowly by his swimming eyes was seen
A lovely female face of seventeen.
'T was bending dose o'er his, and the small mouth
Seem'd almost prying into his for breath;
And chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth
Recall'd his answering spirits back from death;
And, bathing his chill temples, tried to soothe
Each pulse to animation, till beneath
Its gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh
To these kind efforts made a low reply.
Then was the cordial pour'd, and mantle flung
Around his scarce-clad limbs; and the fair arm
Raised higher the faint head which o'er it hung;
And her transparent cheek, all pure and warm,
Pillow'd his death-like forehead; then she wrung
His dewy curls, long drench'd by every storm;
And watch'd with eagerness each throb that drew
A sigh from his heaved bosom--and hers, too.
And lifting him with care into the cave,
The gentle girl and her attendant,--one
Young, yet her elder, and of brow less grave,
And more robust of figure,--then begun
To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave
Light to the rocks that roof'd them, which the sun
Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er
She was, appear'd distinct, and tall, and fair.
Her brow was overhung with coins of gold,
That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair--
Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were roll'd
In braids behind; and though her stature were
Even of the highest for a female mould,
They nearly reach'd her heel; and in her air
There was a something which bespoke command,
As one who was a lady in the land.
Her hair, I said, was auburn; but her eyes
Were black as death, their lashes the same hue,
Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies
Deepest attraction; for when to the view
Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies,
Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew;
'T is as the snake late coil'd, who pours his length,
And hurls at once his venom and his strength.
Her brow was white and low, her cheek's pure dye
Like twilight rosy still with the set sun;
Short upper lip--sweet lips! that make us sigh
Ever to have seen such; for she was one
Fit for the model of a statuary
(A race of mere impostors, when all 's done--
I 've seen much finer women, ripe and real,
Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal).
I 'll tell you why I say so, for 't is just
One should not rail without a decent cause:
There was an Irish lady, to whose bust
I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was
A frequent model; and if e'er she must
Yield to stern Time and Nature's wrinkling laws,
They will destroy a face which mortal thought
Ne'er compass'd, nor less mortal chisel wrought.
And such was she, the lady of the cave:
Her dress was very different from the Spanish,
Simpler, and yet of colours not so grave;
For, as you know, the Spanish women banish
Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while wave
Around them (what I hope will never vanish)
The basquina and the mantilla, they
Seem at the same time mystical and gay.
But with our damsel this was not the case:
Her dress was many-colour'd, finely spun;
Her locks curl'd negligently round her face,
But through them gold and gems profusely shone:
Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace
Flow'd in her veil, and many a precious stone
Flash'd on her little hand; but, what was shocking,
Her small snow feet had slippers, but no stocking.
The other female's dress was not unlike,
But of inferior materials: she
Had not so many ornaments to strike,
Her hair had silver only, bound to be
Her dowry; and her veil, in form alike,
Was coarser; and her air, though firm, less free;
Her hair was thicker, but less long; her eyes
As black, but quicker, and of smaller size.
And these two tended him, and cheer'd him both
With food and raiment, and those soft attentions,
Which are (as I must own) of female growth,
And have ten thousand delicate inventions:
They made a most superior mess of broth,
A thing which poesy but seldom mentions,
But the best dish that e'er was cook'd since Homer's
Achilles ordered dinner for new comers.
I 'll tell you who they were, this female pair,
Lest they should seem princesses in disguise;
Besides, I hate all mystery, and that air
Of clap-trap which your recent poets prize;
And so, in short, the girls they really were
They shall appear before your curious eyes,
Mistress and maid; the first was only daughter
Of an old man who lived upon the water.
A fisherman he had been in his youth,
And still a sort of fisherman was he;
But other speculations were, in sooth,
Added to his connection with the sea,
Perhaps not so respectable, in truth:
A little smuggling, and some piracy,
Left him, at last, the sole of many masters
Of an ill-gotten million of piastres.
A fisher, therefore, was he,--though of men,
Like Peter the Apostle,--and he fish'd
For wandering merchant-vessels, now and then,
And sometimes caught as many as he wish'd;
The cargoes he confiscated, and gain
He sought in the slave-market too, and dish'd
Full many a morsel for that Turkish trade,
By which, no doubt, a good deal may be made.
He was a Greek, and on his isle had built
(One of the wild and smaller Cyclades)
A very handsome house from out his guilt,
And there he lived exceedingly at ease;
Heaven knows what cash he got or blood he spilt,
A sad old fellow was he, if you please;
But this I know, it was a spacious building,
Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding.
He had an only daughter, call'd Haidee,
The greatest heiress of the Eastern Isles;
Besides, so very beautiful was she,
Her dowry was as nothing to her smiles:
Still in her teens, and like a lovely tree
She grew to womanhood, and between whiles
Rejected several suitors, just to learn
How to accept a better in his turn.
And walking out upon the beach, below
The cliff, towards sunset, on that day she found,
Insensible,--not dead, but nearly so,--
Don Juan, almost famish'd, and half drown'd;
But being naked, she was shock'd, you know,
Yet deem'd herself in common pity bound,
As far as in her lay, 'to take him in,
A stranger' dying, with so white a skin.
But taking him into her father's house
Was not exactly the best way to save,
But like conveying to the cat the mouse,
Or people in a trance into their grave;
Because the good old man had so much 'nous,'
Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave,
He would have hospitably cured the stranger,
And sold him instantly when out of danger.
And therefore, with her maid, she thought it best
(A virgin always on her maid relies)
To place him in the cave for present rest:
And when, at last, he open'd his black eyes,
Their charity increased about their guest;
And their compassion grew to such a size,
It open'd half the turnpike-gates to heaven
(St. Paul says, 't is the toll which must be given).
They made a fire,--but such a fire as they
Upon the moment could contrive with such
Materials as were cast up round the bay,--
Some broken planks, and oars, that to the touch
Were nearly tinder, since so long they lay
A mast was almost crumbled to a crutch;
But, by God's grace, here wrecks were in such plenty,
That there was fuel to have furnish'd twenty.
He had a bed of furs, and a pelisse,
For Haidee stripped her sables off to make
His couch; and, that he might be more at ease,
And warm, in case by chance he should awake,
They also gave a petticoat apiece,
She and her maid--and promised by daybreak
To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish
For breakfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and fish.
And thus they left him to his lone repose:
Juan slept like a top, or like the dead,
Who sleep at last, perhaps (God only knows),
Just for the present; and in his lull'd head
Not even a vision of his former woes
Throbb'd in accursed dreams, which sometimes spread
Unwelcome visions of our former years,
Till the eye, cheated, opens thick with tears.
Young Juan slept all dreamless:--but the maid,
Who smooth'd his pillow, as she left the den
Look'd back upon him, and a moment stay'd,
And turn'd, believing that he call'd again.
He slumber'd; yet she thought, at least she said
(The heart will slip, even as the tongue and pen),
He had pronounced her name--but she forgot
That at this moment Juan knew it not.
And pensive to her father's house she went,
Enjoining silence strict to Zoe, who
Better than her knew what, in fact, she meant,
She being wiser by a year or two:
A year or two 's an age when rightly spent,
And Zoe spent hers, as most women do,
In gaining all that useful sort of knowledge
Which is acquired in Nature's good old college.
The morn broke, and found Juan slumbering still
Fast in his cave, and nothing clash'd upon
His rest; the rushing of the neighbouring rill,
And the young beams of the excluded sun,
Troubled him not, and he might sleep his fill;
And need he had of slumber yet, for none
Had suffer'd more--his hardships were comparative
To those related in my grand-dad's 'Narrative.'
Not so Haidee: she sadly toss'd and tumbled,
And started from her sleep, and, turning o'er
Dream'd of a thousand wrecks, o'er which she stumbled,
And handsome corpses strew'd upon the shore;
And woke her maid so early that she grumbled,
And call'd her father's old slaves up, who swore
In several oaths--Armenian, Turk, and Greek--
They knew not what to think of such a freak.
But up she got, and up she made them get,
With some pretence about the sun, that makes
Sweet skies just when he rises, or is set;
And 't is, no doubt, a sight to see when breaks
Bright Phoebus, while the mountains still are wet
With mist, and every bird with him awakes,
And night is flung off like a mourning suit
Worn for a husband,--or some other brute.
I say, the sun is a most glorious sight,
I 've seen him rise full oft, indeed of late
I have sat up on purpose all the night,
Which hastens, as physicians say, one's fate;
And so all ye, who would be in the right
In health and purse, begin your day to date
From daybreak, and when coffin'd at fourscore,
Engrave upon the plate, you rose at four.
And Haidee met the morning face to face;
Her own was freshest, though a feverish flush
Had dyed it with the headlong blood, whose race
From heart to cheek is curb'd into a blush,
Like to a torrent which a mountain's base,
That overpowers some Alpine river's rush,
Checks to a lake, whose waves in circles spread;
Or the Red Sea--but the sea is not red.
And down the cliff the island virgin came,
And near the cave her quick light footsteps drew,
While the sun smiled on her with his first flame,
And young Aurora kiss'd her lips with dew,
Taking her for a sister; just the same
Mistake you would have made on seeing the two,
Although the mortal, quite as fresh and fair,
Had all the advantage, too, of not being air.
And when into the cavern Haidee stepp'd
All timidly, yet rapidly, she saw
That like an infant Juan sweetly slept;
And then she stopp'd, and stood as if in awe
(For sleep is awful), and on tiptoe crept
And wrapt him closer, lest the air, too raw,
Should reach his blood, then o'er him still as death
Bent with hush'd lips, that drank his scarce-drawn breath.
And thus like to an angel o'er the dying
Who die in righteousness, she lean'd; and there
All tranquilly the shipwreck'd boy was lying,
As o'er him the calm and stirless air:
But Zoe the meantime some eggs was frying,
Since, after all, no doubt the youthful pair
Must breakfast--and betimes, lest they should ask it,
She drew out her provision from the basket.
She knew that the best feelings must have victual,
And that a shipwreck'd youth would hungry be;
Besides, being less in love, she yawn'd a little,
And felt her veins chill'd by the neighbouring sea;
And so, she cook'd their breakfast to a tittle;
I can't say that she gave them any tea,
But there were eggs, fruit, coffee, bread, fish, honey,
With Scio wine,--and all for love, not money.
And Zoe, when the eggs were ready, and
The coffee made, would fain have waken'd Juan;
But Haidee stopp'd her with her quick small hand,
And without word, a sign her finger drew on
Her lip, which Zoe needs must understand;
And, the first breakfast spoilt, prepared a new one,
Because her mistress would not let her break
That sleep which seem'd as it would ne'er awake.
For still he lay, and on his thin worn cheek
A purple hectic play'd like dying day
On the snow-tops of distant hills; the streak
Of sufferance yet upon his forehead lay,
Where the blue veins look'd shadowy, shrunk, and weak;
And his black curls were dewy with the spray,
Which weigh'd upon them yet, all damp and salt,
Mix'd with the stony vapours of the vault.
And she bent o'er him, and he lay beneath,
Hush'd as the babe upon its mother's breast,
Droop'd as the willow when no winds can breathe,
Lull'd like the depth of ocean when at rest,
Fair as the crowning rose of the whole wreath,
Soft as the callow cygnet in its nest;
In short, he was a very pretty fellow,
Although his woes had turn'd him rather yellow.
He woke and gazed, and would have slept again,
But the fair face which met his eyes forbade
Those eyes to close, though weariness and pain
Had further sleep a further pleasure made;
For woman's face was never form'd in vain
For Juan, so that even when he pray'd
He turn'd from grisly saints, and martyrs hairy,
To the sweet portraits of the Virgin Mary.
And thus upon his elbow he arose,
And look'd upon the lady, in whose cheek
The pale contended with the purple rose,
As with an effort she began to speak;
Her eyes were eloquent, her words would pose,
Although she told him, in good modern Greek,
With an Ionian accent, low and sweet,
That he was faint, and must not talk, but eat.
Now Juan could not understand a word,
Being no Grecian; but he had an ear,
And her voice was the warble of a bird,
So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear,
That finer, simpler music ne'er was heard;
The sort of sound we echo with a tear,
Without knowing why--an overpowering tone,
Whence Melody descends as from a throne.
And Juan gazed as one who is awoke
By a distant organ, doubting if he be
Not yet a dreamer, till the spell is broke
By the watchman, or some such reality,
Or by one's early valet's cursed knock;
At least it is a heavy sound to me,
Who like a morning slumber--for the night
Shows stars and women in a better light.
And Juan, too, was help'd out from his dream,
Or sleep, or whatso'er it was, by feeling
A most prodigious appetite: the steam
Of Zoe's cookery no doubt was stealing
Upon his senses, and the kindling beam
Of the new fire, which Zoe kept up, kneeling
To stir her viands, made him quite awake
And long for food, but chiefly a beef-steak.
But beef is rare within these oxless isles;
Goat's flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton;
And, when a holiday upon them smiles,
A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on:
But this occurs but seldom, between whiles,
For some of these are rocks with scarce a hut on;
Others are fair and fertile, among which
This, though not large, was one of the most rich.
I say that beef is rare, and can't help thinking
That the old fable of the Minotaur--
From which our modern morals rightly shrinking
Condemn the royal lady's taste who wore
A cow's shape for a mask--was only (sinking
The allegory) a mere type, no more,
That Pasiphae promoted breeding cattle,
To make the Cretans bloodier in battle.
For we all know that English people are
Fed upon beef--I won't say much of beer,
Because 't is liquor only, and being far
From this my subject, has no business here;
We know, too, they very fond of war,
A pleasure--like all pleasures--rather dear;
So were the Cretans--from which I infer
That beef and battles both were owing to her.
But to resume. The languid Juan raised
His head upon his elbow, and he saw
A sight on which he had not lately gazed,
As all his latter meals had been quite raw,
Three or four things, for which the Lord he praised,
And, feeling still the famish'd vulture gnaw,
He fell upon whate'er was offer'd, like
A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike.
He ate, and he was well supplied: and she,
Who watch'd him like a mother, would have fed
Him past all bounds, because she smiled to see
Such appetite in one she had deem'd dead;
But Zoe, being older than Haidee,
Knew (by tradition, for she ne'er had read)
That famish'd people must be slowly nurst,
And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.
And so she took the liberty to state,
Rather by deeds than words, because the case
Was urgent, that the gentleman, whose fate
Had made her mistress quit her bed to trace
The sea-shore at this hour, must leave his plate,
Unless he wish'd to die upon the place--
She snatch'd it, and refused another morsel,
Saying, he had gorged enough to make a horse ill.
Next they--he being naked, save a tatter'd
Pair of scarce decent trowsers--went to work,
And in the fire his recent rags they scatter'd,
And dress'd him, for the present, like a Turk,
Or Greek--that is, although it not much matter'd,
Omitting turban, slippers, pistols, dirk,--
They furnish'd him, entire, except some stitches,
With a clean shirt, and very spacious breeches.
And then fair Haidee tried her tongue at speaking,
But not a word could Juan comprehend,
Although he listen'd so that the young Greek in
Her earnestness would ne'er have made an end;
And, as he interrupted not, went eking
Her speech out to her protege and friend,
Till pausing at the last her breath to take,
She saw he did not understand Romaic.
And then she had recourse to nods, and signs,
And smiles, and sparkles of the speaking eye,
And read (the only book she could) the lines
Of his fair face, and found, by sympathy,
The answer eloquent, where soul shines
And darts in one quick glance a long reply;
And thus in every look she saw exprest
A world of words, and things at which she guess'd.
And now, by dint of fingers and of eyes,
And words repeated after her, he took
A lesson in her tongue; but by surmise,
No doubt, less of her language than her look:
As he who studies fervently the skies
Turns oftener to the stars than to his book,
Thus Juan learn'd his alpha beta better
From Haidee's glance than any graven letter.
'T is pleasing to be school'd in a strange tongue
By female lips and eyes--that is, I mean,
When both the teacher and the taught are young,
As was the case, at least, where I have been;
They smile so when one 's right, and when one 's wrong
They smile still more, and then there intervene
Pressure of hands, perhaps even a chaste kiss;--
I learn'd the little that I know by this:
That is, some words of Spanish, Turk, and Greek,
Italian not at all, having no teachers;
Much English I cannot pretend to speak,
Learning that language chiefly from its preachers,
Barrow, South, Tillotson, whom every week
I study, also Blair, the highest reachers
Of eloquence in piety and prose--
I hate your poets, so read none of those.
As for the ladies, I have nought to say,
A wanderer from the British world of fashion,
Where I, like other 'dogs, have had my day,'
Like other men, too, may have had my passion--
But that, like other things, has pass'd away,
And all her fools whom I could lay the lash on:
Foes, friends, men, women, now are nought to me
But dreams of what has been, no more to be.
Return we to Don Juan. He begun
To hear new words, and to repeat them; but
Some feelings, universal as the sun,
Were such as could not in his breast be shut
More than within the bosom of a nun:
He was in love,--as you would be, no doubt,
With a young benefactress,--so was she,
Just in the way we very often see.
And every day by daybreak--rather early
For Juan, who was somewhat fond of rest--
She came into the cave, but it was merely
To see her bird reposing in his nest;
And she would softly stir his locks so curly,
Without disturbing her yet slumbering guest,
Breathing all gently o'er his cheek and mouth,
As o'er a bed of roses the sweet south.
And every morn his colour freshlier came,
And every day help'd on his convalescence;
'T was well, because health in the human frame
Is pleasant, besides being true love's essence,
For health and idleness to passion's flame
Are oil and gunpowder; and some good lessons
Are also learnt from Ceres and from Bacchus,
Without whom Venus will not long attack us.
While Venus fills the heart (without heart really
Love, though good always, is not quite so good),
Ceres presents a plate of vermicelli,--
For love must be sustain'd like flesh and blood,--
While Bacchus pours out wine, or hands a jelly:
Eggs, oysters, too, are amatory food;
But who is their purveyor from above
Heaven knows,--it may be Neptune, Pan, or Jove.
When Juan woke he found some good things ready,
A bath, a breakfast, and the finest eyes
That ever made a youthful heart less steady,
Besides her maid's as pretty for their size;
But I have spoken of all this already--
And repetition 's tiresome and unwise,--
Well--Juan, after bathing in the sea,
Came always back to coffee and Haidee.
Both were so young, and one so innocent,
That bathing pass'd for nothing; Juan seem'd
To her, as 'twere, the kind of being sent,
Of whom these two years she had nightly dream'd,
A something to be loved, a creature meant
To be her happiness, and whom she deem'd
To render happy; all who joy would win
Must share it,--Happiness was born a twin.
It was such pleasure to behold him, such
Enlargement of existence to partake
Nature with him, to thrill beneath his touch,
To watch him slumbering, and to see him wake:
To live with him forever were too much;
But then the thought of parting made her quake;
He was her own, her ocean-treasure, cast
Like a rich wreck--her first love, and her last.
And thus a moon roll'd on, and fair Haidee
Paid daily visits to her boy, and took
Such plentiful precautions, that still he
Remain'd unknown within his craggy nook;
At last her father's prows put out to sea
For certain merchantmen upon the look,
Not as of yore to carry off an Io,
But three Ragusan vessels, bound for Scio.
Then came her freedom, for she had no mother,
So that, her father being at sea, she was
Free as a married woman, or such other
Female, as where she likes may freely pass,
Without even the incumbrance of a brother,
The freest she that ever gazed on glass;
I speak of Christian lands in this comparison,
Where wives, at least, are seldom kept in garrison.
Now she prolong'd her visits and her talk
(For they must talk), and he had learnt to say
So much as to propose to take a walk,--
For little had he wander'd since the day
On which, like a young flower snapp'd from the stalk,
Drooping and dewy on the beach he lay,--
And thus they walk'd out in the afternoon,
And saw the sun set opposite the moon.
It was a wild and breaker-beaten coast,
With cliffs above, and a broad sandy shore,
Guarded by shoals and rocks as by an host,
With here and there a creek, whose aspect wore
A better welcome to the tempest-tost;
And rarely ceased the haughty billow's roar,
Save on the dead long summer days, which make
The outstretch'd ocean glitter like a lake.
And the small ripple spilt upon the beach
Scarcely o'erpass'd the cream of your champagne,
When o'er the brim the sparkling bumpers reach,
That spring-dew of the spirit! the heart's rain!
Few things surpass old wine; and they may preach
Who please,--the more because they preach in vain,--
Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter,
Sermons and soda-water the day after.
Man, being reasonable, must get drunk;
The best of life is but intoxication:
Glory, the grape, love, gold, in these are sunk
The hopes of all men, and of every nation;
Without their sap, how branchless were the trunk
Of life's strange tree, so fruitful on occasion:
But to return,--Get very drunk; and when
You wake with headache, you shall see what then.
Ring for your valet--bid him quickly bring
Some hock and soda-water, then you 'll know
A pleasure worthy Xerxes the great king;
For not the bless'd sherbet, sublimed with snow,
Nor the first sparkle of the desert-spring,
Nor Burgundy in all its sunset glow,
After long travel, ennui, love, or slaughter,
Vie with that draught of hock and soda-water.
The coast--I think it was the coast that
Was just describing--Yes, it was the coast--
Lay at this period quiet as the sky,
The sands untumbled, the blue waves untost,
And all was stillness, save the sea-bird's cry,
And dolphin's leap, and little billow crost
By some low rock or shelve, that made it fret
Against the boundary it scarcely wet.
And forth they wander'd, her sire being gone,
As I have said, upon an expedition;
And mother, brother, guardian, she had none,
Save Zoe, who, although with due precision
She waited on her lady with the sun,
Thought daily service was her only mission,
Bringing warm water, wreathing her long tresses,
And asking now and then for cast-off dresses.
It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded
Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill,
Which then seems as if the whole earth it bounded,
Circling all nature, hush'd, and dim, and still,
With the far mountain-crescent half surrounded
On one side, and the deep sea calm and chill
Upon the other, and the rosy sky,
With one star sparkling through it like an eye.
And thus they wander'd forth, and hand in hand,
Over the shining pebbles and the shells,
Glided along the smooth and harden'd sand,
And in the worn and wild receptacles
Work'd by the storms, yet work'd as it were plann'd,
In hollow halls, with sparry roofs and cells,
They turn'd to rest; and, each clasp'd by an arm,
Yielded to the deep twilight's purple charm.
They look'd up to the sky, whose floating glow
Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright;
They gazed upon the glittering sea below,
Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight;
They heard the wave's splash, and the wind so low,
And saw each other's dark eyes darting light
Into each other--and, beholding this,
Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss;
A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love,
And beauty, all concentrating like rays
Into one focus, kindled from above;
Such kisses as belong to early days,
Where heart, and soul, and sense, in concert move,
And the blood 's lava, and the pulse a blaze,
Each kiss a heart-quake,--for a kiss's strength,
I think, it must be reckon'd by its length.
By length I mean duration; theirs endured
Heaven knows how long--no doubt they never reckon'd;
And if they had, they could not have secured
The sum of their sensations to a second:
They had not spoken; but they felt allured,
As if their souls and lips each other beckon'd,
Which, being join'd, like swarming bees they clung--
Their hearts the flowers from whence the honey sprung.
They were alone, but not alone as they
Who shut in chambers think it loneliness;
The silent ocean, and the starlight bay,
The twilight glow which momently grew less,
The voiceless sands and dropping caves, that lay
Around them, made them to each other press,
As if there were no life beneath the sky
Save theirs, and that their life could never die.
They fear'd no eyes nor ears on that lone beach,
They felt no terrors from the night, they were
All in all to each other: though their speech
Was broken words, they thought a language there,--
And all the burning tongues the passions teach
Found in one sigh the best interpreter
Of nature's oracle--first love,--that all
Which Eve has left her daughters since her fall.
Haidde spoke not of scruples, ask'd no vows,
Nor offer'd any; she had never heard
Of plight and promises to be a spouse,
Or perils by a loving maid incurr'd;
She was all which pure ignorance allows,
And flew to her young mate like a young bird;
And, never having dreamt of falsehood, she
Had not one word to say of constancy.
She loved, and was beloved--she adored,
And she was worshipp'd; after nature's fashion,
Their intense souls, into each other pour'd,
If souls could die, had perish'd in that passion,--
But by degrees their senses were restored,
Again to be o'ercome, again to dash on;
And, beating 'gainst his bosom, Haidee's heart
Felt as if never more to beat apart.
Alas! they were so young, so beautiful,
So lonely, loving, helpless, and the hour
Was that in which the heart is always full,
And, having o'er itself no further power,
Prompts deeds eternity can not annul,
But pays off moments in an endless shower
Of hell-fire--all prepared for people giving
Pleasure or pain to one another living.
Alas! for Juan and Haidee! they were
So loving and so lovely--till then never,
Excepting our first parents, such a pair
Had run the risk of being damn'd for ever;
And Haidee, being devout as well as fair,
Had, doubtless, heard about the Stygian river,
And hell and purgatory--but forgot
Just in the very crisis she should not.
They look upon each other, and their eyes
Gleam in the moonlight; and her white arm clasps
Round Juan's head, and his around her lies
Half buried in the tresses which it grasps;
She sits upon his knee, and drinks his sighs,
He hers, until they end in broken gasps;
And thus they form a group that 's quite antique,
Half naked, loving, natural, and Greek.
And when those deep and burning moments pass'd,
And Juan sunk to sleep within her arms,
She slept not, but all tenderly, though fast,
Sustain'd his head upon her bosom's charms;
And now and then her eye to heaven is cast,
And then on the pale cheek her breast now warms,
Pillow'd on her o'erflowing heart, which pants
With all it granted, and with all it grants.
An infant when it gazes on a light,
A child the moment when it drains the breast,
A devotee when soars the Host in sight,
An Arab with a stranger for a guest,
A sailor when the prize has struck in fight,
A miser filling his most hoarded chest,
Feel rapture; but not such true joy are reaping
As they who watch o'er what they love while sleeping.
For there it lies so tranquil, so beloved,
All that it hath of life with us is living;
So gentle, stirless, helpless, and unmoved,
And all unconscious of the joy 't is giving;
All it hath felt, inflicted, pass'd, and proved,
Hush'd into depths beyond the watcher's diving:
There lies the thing we love with all its errors
And all its charms, like death without its terrors.
The lady watch'd her lover--and that hour
Of Love's, and Night's, and Ocean's solitude,
O'erflow'd her soul with their united power;
Amidst the barren sand and rocks so rude
She and her wave-worn love had made their bower,
Where nought upon their passion could intrude,
And all the stars that crowded the blue space
Saw nothing happier than her glowing face.
Alas! the love of women! it is known
To be a lovely and a fearful thing;
For all of theirs upon that die is thrown,
And if 't is lost, life hath no more to bring
To them but mockeries of the past alone,
And their revenge is as the tiger's spring,
Deadly, and quick, and crushing; yet, as real
Torture is theirs, what they inflict they feel.
They are right; for man, to man so oft unjust,
Is always so to women; one sole bond
Awaits them, treachery is all their trust;
Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts despond
Over their idol, till some wealthier lust
Buys them in marriage--and what rests beyond?
A thankless husband, next a faithless lover,
Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all 's over.
Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers,
Some mind their household, others dissipation,
Some run away, and but exchange their cares,
Losing the advantage of a virtuous station;
Few changes e'er can better their affairs,
Theirs being an unnatural situation,
From the dull palace to the dirty hovel:
Some play the devil, and then write a novel.
Haidee was Nature's bride, and knew not this;
Haidee was Passion's child, born where the sun
Showers triple light, and scorches even the kiss
Of his gazelle-eyed daughters; she was one
Made but to love, to feel that she was his
Who was her chosen: what was said or done
Elsewhere was nothing. She had naught to fear,
Hope, care, nor love, beyond, her heart beat here.
And oh! that quickening of the heart, that beat!
How much it costs us! yet each rising throb
Is in its cause as its effect so sweet,
That Wisdom, ever on the watch to rob
Joy of its alchymy, and to repeat
Fine truths; even Conscience, too, has a tough job
To make us understand each good old maxim,
So good--I wonder Castlereagh don't tax 'em.
And now 't was done--on the lone shore were plighted
Their hearts; the stars, their nuptial torches, shed
Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted:
Ocean their witness, and the cave their bed,
By their own feelings hallow'd and united,
Their priest was Solitude, and they were wed:
And they were happy, for to their young eyes
Each was an angel, and earth paradise.
O, Love! of whom great Caesar was the suitor,
Titus the master, Antony the slave,
Horace, Catullus, scholars, Ovid tutor,
Sappho the sage blue-stocking, in whose grave
All those may leap who rather would be neuter
(Leucadia's rock still overlooks the wave)--
O, Love! thou art the very god of evil,
For, after all, we cannot call thee devil.
Thou mak'st the chaste connubial state precarious,
And jestest with the brows of mightiest men:
Caesar and Pompey, Mahomet, Belisarius,
Have much employ'd the muse of history's pen;
Their lives and fortunes were extremely various,
Such worthies Time will never see again;
Yet to these four in three things the same luck holds,
They all were heroes, conquerors, and cuckolds.
Thou mak'st philosophers; there 's Epicurus
And Aristippus, a material crew!
Who to immoral courses would allure us
By theories quite practicable too;
If only from the devil they would insure us,
How pleasant were the maxim (not quite new),
'Eat, drink, and love, what can the rest avail us?'
So said the royal sage Sardanapalus.
But Juan! had he quite forgotten Julia?
And should he have forgotten her so soon?
I can't but say it seems to me most truly
Perplexing question; but, no doubt, the moon
Does these things for us, and whenever newly
Strong palpitation rises, 't is her boon,
Else how the devil is it that fresh features
Have such a charm for us poor human creatures?
I hate inconstancy--I loathe, detest,
Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal made
Of such quicksilver clay that in his breast
No permanent foundation can be laid;
Love, constant love, has been my constant guest,
And yet last night, being at a masquerade,
I saw the prettiest creature, fresh from Milan,
Which gave me some sensations like a villain.
But soon Philosophy came to my aid,
And whisper'd, 'Think of every sacred tie!'
'I will, my dear Philosophy!' I said,
'But then her teeth, and then, oh, Heaven! her eye!
I'll just inquire if she be wife or maid,
Or neither--out of curiosity.'
'Stop!' cried Philosophy, with air so Grecian
(Though she was masqued then as a fair Venetian);
'Stop!' so I stopp'd.--But to return: that which
Men call inconstancy is nothing more
Than admiration due where nature's rich
Profusion with young beauty covers o'er
Some favour'd object; and as in the niche
A lovely statue we almost adore,
This sort of adoration of the real
Is but a heightening of the 'beau ideal.'
'T is the perception of the beautiful,
A fine extension of the faculties,
Platonic, universal, wonderful,
Drawn from the stars, and filter'd through the skies,
Without which life would be extremely dull;
In short, it is the use of our own eyes,
With one or two small senses added, just
To hint that flesh is form'd of fiery dust.
Yet 't is a painful feeling, and unwilling,
For surely if we always could perceive
In the same object graces quite as killing
As when she rose upon us like an Eve,
'T would save us many a heartache, many a shilling
(For we must get them any how or grieve),
Whereas if one sole lady pleased for ever,
How pleasant for the heart as well as liver!
The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven,
But changes night and day, too, like the sky;
Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven,
And darkness and destruction as on high:
But when it hath been scorch'd, and pierced, and riven,
Its storms expire in water-drops; the eye
Pours forth at last the heart's blood turn'd to tears,
Which make the English climate of our years.
The liver is the lazaret of bile,
But very rarely executes its function,
For the first passion stays there such a while,
That all the rest creep in and form a junction,
Life knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil,--
Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunction,--
So that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail,
Like earthquakes from the hidden fire call'd 'central,'
In the mean time, without proceeding more
In this anatomy, I 've finish'd now
Two hundred and odd stanzas as before,
That being about the number I 'll allow
Each canto of the twelve, or twenty-four;
And, laying down my pen, I make my bow,
Leaving Don Juan and Haidee to plead
For them and theirs with all who deign to read.
[Illustration: Canto 3]
CANTO THE THIRD.
Hail, Muse! et cetera.--We left Juan sleeping,
Pillow'd upon a fair and happy breast,
And watch'd by eyes that never yet knew weeping,
And loved by a young heart, too deeply blest
To feel the poison through her spirit creeping,
Or know who rested there, a foe to rest,
Had soil'd the current of her sinless years,
And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to tears!
O, Love! what is it in this world of ours
Which makes it fatal to be loved? Ah, why
With cypress branches hast thou Wreathed thy bowers,
And made thy best interpreter a sigh?
As those who dote on odours pluck the flowers,
And place them on their breast--but place to die--
Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish
Are laid within our bosoms but to perish.
In her first passion woman loves her lover,
In all the others all she loves is love,
Which grows a habit she can ne'er get over,
And fits her loosely--like an easy glove,
As you may find, whene'er you like to prove her:
One man alone at first her heart can move;
She then prefers him in the plural number,
Not finding that the additions much encumber.
I know not if the fault be men's or theirs;
But one thing 's pretty sure; a woman planted
(Unless at once she plunge for life in prayers)
After a decent time must be gallanted;
Although, no doubt, her first of love affairs
Is that to which her heart is wholly granted;
Yet there are some, they say, who have had none,
But those who have ne'er end with only one.
'T is melancholy, and a fearful sign
Of human frailty, folly, also crime,
That love and marriage rarely can combine,
Although they both are born in the same clime;
Marriage from love, like vinegar from wine--
A sad, sour, sober beverage--by time
Is sharpen'd from its high celestial flavour
Down to a very homely household savour.
There 's something of antipathy, as 't were,
Between their present and their future state;
A kind of flattery that 's hardly fair
Is used until the truth arrives too late--
Yet what can people do, except despair?
The same things change their names at such a rate;
For instance--passion in a lover 's glorious,
But in a husband is pronounced uxorious.
Men grow ashamed of being so very fond;
They sometimes also get a little tired
(But that, of course, is rare), and then despond:
The same things cannot always be admired,
Yet 't is 'so nominated in the bond,'
That both are tied till one shall have expired.
Sad thought! to lose the spouse that was adorning
Our days, and put one's servants into mourning.
There 's doubtless something in domestic doings
Which forms, in fact, true love's antithesis;
Romances paint at full length people's wooings,
But only give a bust of marriages;
For no one cares for matrimonial cooings,
There 's nothing wrong in a connubial kiss:
Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife,
He would have written sonnets all his life?
All tragedies are finish'd by a death,
All comedies are ended by a marriage;
The future states of both are left to faith,
For authors fear description might disparage
The worlds to come of both, or fall beneath,
And then both worlds would punish their miscarriage;
So leaving each their priest and prayer-book ready,
They say no more of Death or of the Lady.
The only two that in my recollection
Have sung of heaven and hell, or marriage, are
Dante and Milton, and of both the affection
Was hapless in their nuptials, for some bar
Of fault or temper ruin'd the connection
(Such things, in fact, it don't ask much to mar):
But Dante's Beatrice and Milton's Eve
Were not drawn from their spouses, you conceive.
Some persons say that Dante meant theology
By Beatrice, and not a mistress--I,
Although my opinion may require apology,
Deem this a commentator's fantasy,
Unless indeed it was from his own knowledge he
Decided thus, and show'd good reason why;
I think that Dante's more abstruse ecstatics
Meant to personify the mathematics.
Haidee and Juan were not married, but
The fault was theirs, not mine; it is not fair,
Chaste reader, then, in any way to put
The blame on me, unless you wish they were;
Then if you 'd have them wedded, please to shut
The book which treats of this erroneous pair,
Before the consequences grow too awful;
'T is dangerous to read of loves unlawful.
Yet they were happy,--happy in the illicit
Indulgence of their innocent desires;
But more imprudent grown with every visit,
Haidee forgot the island was her sire's;
When we have what we like, 't is hard to miss it,
At least in the beginning, ere one tires;
Thus she came often, not a moment losing,
Whilst her piratical papa was cruising.
Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange,
Although he fleeced the flags of every nation,
For into a prime minister but change
His title, and 't is nothing but taxation;
But he, more modest, took an humbler range
Of life, and in an honester vocation
Pursued o'er the high seas his watery journey,
And merely practised as a sea-attorney.
The good old gentleman had been detain'd
By winds and waves, and some important captures;
And, in the hope of more, at sea remain'd,
Although a squall or two had damp'd his raptures,
By swamping one of the prizes; he had chain'd
His prisoners, dividing them like chapters
In number'd lots; they all had cuffs and collars,
And averaged each from ten to a hundred dollars.
Some he disposed of off Cape Matapan,
Among his friends the Mainots; some he sold
To his Tunis correspondents, save one man
Toss'd overboard unsaleable (being old);
The rest--save here and there some richer one,
Reserved for future ransom--in the hold
Were link'd alike, as for the common people he
Had a large order from the Dey of Tripoli.
The merchandise was served in the same way,
Pieced out for different marts in the Levant;
Except some certain portions of the prey,
Light classic articles of female want,
French stuffs, lace, tweezers, toothpicks, teapot, tray,
Guitars and castanets from Alicant,
All which _select_ed from the spoil he gathers,
Robb'd for his daughter by the best of fathers.
A monkey, a Dutch mastiff, a mackaw,
Two parrots, with a Persian cat and kittens,
He chose from several animals he saw--
A terrier, too, which once had been a Briton's,
Who dying on the coast of Ithaca,
The peasants gave the poor dumb thing a pittance;
These to secure in this strong blowing weather,
He caged in one huge hamper altogether.
Then having settled his marine affairs,
Despatching single cruisers here and there,
His vessel having need of some repairs,
He shaped his course to where his daughter fair
Continued still her hospitable cares;
But that part of the coast being shoal and bare,
And rough with reefs which ran out many a mile,
His port lay on the other side o' the isle.
And there he went ashore without delay,
Having no custom-house nor quarantine
To ask him awkward questions on the way
About the time and place where he had been:
He left his ship to be hove down next day,
With orders to the people to careen;
So that all hands were busy beyond measure,
In getting out goods, ballast, guns, and treasure.
Arriving at the summit of a hill
Which overlook'd the white walls of his home,
He stopp'd.--What singular emotions fill
Their bosoms who have been induced to roam!
With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill--
With love for many, and with fears for some;
All feelings which o'erleap the years long lost,
And bring our hearts back to their starting-post.
The approach of home to husbands and to sires,
After long travelling by land or water,
Most naturally some small doubt inspires--
A female family 's a serious matter
(None trusts the sex more, or so much admires--
But they hate flattery, so I never flatter);
Wives in their husbands' absences grow subtler,
And daughters sometimes run off with the butler.
An honest gentleman at his return
May not have the good fortune of Ulysses;
Not all lone matrons for their husbands mourn,
Or show the same dislike to suitors' kisses;
The odds are that he finds a handsome urn
To his memory--and two or three young misses
Born to some friend, who holds his wife and riches,--
And that his Argus--bites him by the breeches.
If single, probably his plighted fair
Has in his absence wedded some rich miser;
But all the better, for the happy pair
May quarrel, and the lady growing wiser,
He may resume his amatory care
As cavalier servente, or despise her;
And that his sorrow may not be a dumb one,
Write odes on the Inconstancy of Woman.
And oh! ye gentlemen who have already
Some chaste liaison of the kind--I mean
An honest friendship with a married lady--
The only thing of this sort ever seen
To last--of all connections the most steady,
And the true Hymen (the first 's but a screen)--
Yet for all that keep not too long away,
I 've known the absent wrong'd four times a day.
Lambro, our sea-solicitor, who had
Much less experience of dry land than ocean,
On seeing his own chimney-smoke, felt glad;
But not knowing metaphysics, had no notion
Of the true reason of his not being sad,
Or that of any other strong emotion;
He loved his child, and would have wept the loss of her,
But knew the cause no more than a philosopher.
He saw his white walls shining in the sun,
His garden trees all shadowy and green;
He heard his rivulet's light bubbling run,
The distant dog-bark; and perceived between
The umbrage of the wood so cool and dun
The moving figures, and the sparkling sheen
Of arms (in the East all arm)--and various dyes
Of colour'd garbs, as bright as butterflies.
And as the spot where they appear he nears,
Surprised at these unwonted signs of idling,
He hears--alas! no music of the spheres,
But an unhallow'd, earthly sound of fiddling!
A melody which made him doubt his ears,
The cause being past his guessing or unriddling;
A pipe, too, and a drum, and shortly after,
A most unoriental roar of laughter.
And still more nearly to the place advancing,
Descending rather quickly the declivity,
Through the waved branches o'er the greensward glancing,
'Midst other indications of festivity,
Seeing a troop of his domestics dancing
Like dervises, who turn as on a pivot, he
Perceived it was the Pyrrhic dance so martial,
To which the Levantines are very partial.
And further on a group of Grecian girls,
The first and tallest her white kerchief waving,
Were strung together like a row of pearls,
Link'd hand in hand, and dancing; each too having
Down her white neck long floating auburn curls
(The least of which would set ten poets raving);
Their leader sang--and bounded to her song,
With choral step and voice, the virgin throng.
And here, assembled cross-legg'd round their trays,
Small social parties just begun to dine;
Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze,
And flasks of Samian and of Chian wine,
And sherbet cooling in the porous vase;
Above them their dessert grew on its vine,
The orange and pomegranate nodding o'er
Dropp'd in their laps, scarce pluck'd, their mellow store.
A band of children, round a snow-white ram,
There wreathe his venerable horns with flowers;
While peaceful as if still an unwean'd lamb,
The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers
His sober head, majestically tame,
Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers
His brow, as if in act to butt, and then
Yielding to their small hands, draws back again.
Their classical profiles, and glittering dresses,
Their large black eyes, and soft seraphic cheeks,
Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long tresses,
The gesture which enchants, the eye that speaks,
The innocence which happy childhood blesses,
Made quite a picture of these little Greeks;
So that the philosophical beholder
Sigh'd for their sakes--that they should e'er grow older.
Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales
To a sedate grey circle of old smokers,
Of secret treasures found in hidden vales,
Of wonderful replies from Arab jokers,
Of charms to make good gold and cure bad ails,
Of rocks bewitch'd that open to the knockers,
Of magic ladies who, by one sole act,
Transform'd their lords to beasts (but that 's a fact).
Here was no lack of innocent diversion
For the imagination or the senses,
Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the Persian,
All pretty pastimes in which no offence is;
But Lambro saw all these things with aversion,
Perceiving in his absence such expenses,
Dreading that climax of all human ills,
The inflammation of his weekly bills.
Ah! what is man? what perils still environ
The happiest mortals even after dinner--
A day of gold from out an age of iron
Is all that life allows the luckiest sinner;
Pleasure (whene'er she sings, at least) 's a siren,
That lures, to flay alive, the young beginner;
Lambro's reception at his people's banquet
Was such as fire accords to a wet blanket.
He--being a man who seldom used a word
Too much, and wishing gladly to surprise
(In general he surprised men with the sword)
His daughter--had not sent before to advise
Of his arrival, so that no one stirr'd;
And long he paused to re-assure his eyes
In fact much more astonish'd than delighted,
To find so much good company invited.
He did not know (alas! how men will lie)
That a report (especially the Greeks)
Avouch'd his death (such people never die),
And put his house in mourning several weeks,--
But now their eyes and also lips were dry;
The bloom, too, had return'd to Haidee's cheeks,
Her tears, too, being return'd into their fount,
She now kept house upon her own account.
Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and fiddling,
Which turn'd the isle into a place of pleasure;
The servants all were getting drunk or idling,
A life which made them happy beyond measure.
Her father's hospitality seem'd middling,
Compared with what Haidee did with his treasure;
'T was wonderful how things went on improving,
While she had not one hour to spare from loving.
Perhaps you think in stumbling on this feast
He flew into a passion, and in fact
There was no mighty reason to be pleased;
Perhaps you prophesy some sudden act,
The whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least,
To teach his people to be more exact,
And that, proceeding at a very high rate,
He show'd the royal penchants of a pirate.
You 're wrong.--He was the mildest manner'd man
That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat:
With such true breeding of a gentleman,
You never could divine his real thought;
No courtier could, and scarcely woman can
Gird more deceit within a petticoat;
Pity he loved adventurous life's variety,
He was so great a loss to good society.
Advancing to the nearest dinner tray,
Tapping the shoulder of the nighest guest,
With a peculiar smile, which, by the way,
Boded no good, whatever it express'd,
He ask'd the meaning of this holiday;
The vinous Greek to whom he had address'd
His question, much too merry to divine
The questioner, fill'd up a glass of wine,
And without turning his facetious head,
Over his shoulder, with a Bacchant air,
Presented the o'erflowing cup, and said,
'Talking 's dry work, I have no time to spare.'
A second hiccup'd, 'Our old master 's dead,
You 'd better ask our mistress who 's his heir.'
'Our mistress!' quoth a third: 'Our mistress!--pooh!-
You mean our master--not the old, but new.'
These rascals, being new comers, knew not whom
They thus address'd--and Lambro's visage fell--
And o'er his eye a momentary gloom
Pass'd, but he strove quite courteously to quell
The expression, and endeavouring to resume
His smile, requested one of them to tell
The name and quality of his new patron,
Who seem'd to have turn'd Haidee into a matron.
'I know not,' quoth the fellow, 'who or what
He is, nor whence he came--and little care;
But this I know, that this roast capon 's fat,
And that good wine ne'er wash'd down better fare;
And if you are not satisfied with that,
Direct your questions to my neighbour there;
He 'll answer all for better or for worse,
For none likes more to hear himself converse.'
I said that Lambro was a man of patience,
And certainly he show'd the best of breeding,
Which scarce even France, the paragon of nations,
E'er saw her most polite of sons exceeding;
He bore these sneers against his near relations,
His own anxiety, his heart, too, bleeding,
The insults, too, of every servile glutton,
Who all the time was eating up his mutton.
Now in a person used to much command--
To bid men come, and go, and come again--
To see his orders done, too, out of hand--
Whether the word was death, or but the chain--
It may seem strange to find his manners bland;
Yet such things are, which I can not explain,
Though doubtless he who can command himself
Is good to govern--almost as a Guelf.
Not that he was not sometimes rash or so,
But never in his real and serious mood;
Then calm, concentrated, and still, and slow,
He lay coil'd like the boa in the wood;
With him it never was a word and blow,
His angry word once o'er, he shed no blood,
But in his silence there was much to rue,
And his one blow left little work for two.
He ask'd no further questions, and proceeded
On to the house, but by a private way,
So that the few who met him hardly heeded,
So little they expected him that day;
If love paternal in his bosom pleaded
For Haidee's sake, is more than I can say,
But certainly to one deem'd dead, returning,
This revel seem'd a curious mode of mourning.
If all the dead could now return to life
(Which God forbid!) or some, or a great many,
For instance, if a husband or his wife
(Nuptial examples are as good as any),
No doubt whate'er might be their former strife,
The present weather would be much more rainy--
Tears shed into the grave of the connection
Would share most probably its resurrection.
He enter'd in the house no more his home,
A thing to human feelings the most trying,
And harder for the heart to overcome,
Perhaps, than even the mental pangs of dying;
To find our hearthstone turn'd into a tomb,
And round its once warm precincts palely lying
The ashes of our hopes, is a deep grief,
Beyond a single gentleman's belief.
He enter'd in the house--his home no more,
For without hearts there is no home; and felt
The solitude of passing his own door
Without a welcome; there he long had dwelt,
There his few peaceful days Time had swept o'er,
There his worn bosom and keen eye would melt
Over the innocence of that sweet child,
His only shrine of feelings undefiled.
He was a man of a strange temperament,
Of mild demeanour though of savage mood,
Moderate in all his habits, and content
With temperance in pleasure, as in food,
Quick to perceive, and strong to bear, and meant
For something better, if not wholly good;
His country's wrongs and his despair to save her
Had stung him from a slave to an enslaver.
The love of power, and rapid gain of gold,
The hardness by long habitude produced,
The dangerous life in which he had grown old,
The mercy he had granted oft abused,
The sights he was accustom'd to behold,
The wild seas, and wild men with whom he cruised,
Had cost his enemies a long repentance,
And made him a good friend, but bad acquaintance.
But something of the spirit of old Greece
Flash'd o'er his soul a few heroic rays,
Such as lit onward to the Golden Fleece
His predecessors in the Colchian days;
T is true he had no ardent love for peace--
Alas! his country show'd no path to praise:
Hate to the world and war with every nation
He waged, in vengeance of her degradation.
Still o'er his mind the influence of the clime
Shed its Ionian elegance, which show'd
Its power unconsciously full many a time,--
A taste seen in the choice of his abode,
A love of music and of scenes sublime,
A pleasure in the gentle stream that flow'd
Past him in crystal, and a joy in flowers,
Bedew'd his spirit in his calmer hours.
But whatsoe'er he had of love reposed
On that beloved daughter; she had been
The only thing which kept his heart unclosed
Amidst the savage deeds he had done and seen;
A lonely pure affection unopposed:
There wanted but the loss of this to wean
His feelings from all milk of human kindness,
And turn him like the Cyclops mad with blindness.
The cubless tigress in her jungle raging
Is dreadful to the shepherd and the flock;
The ocean when its yeasty war is waging
Is awful to the vessel near the rock;
But violent things will sooner bear assuaging,
Their fury being spent by its own shock,
Than the stern, single, deep, and wordless ire
Of a strong human heart, and in a sire.
It is a hard although a common case
To find our children running restive--they
In whom our brightest days we would retrace,
Our little selves re-form'd in finer clay,
Just as old age is creeping on apace,
And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day,
They kindly leave us, though not quite alone,
But in good company--the gout or stone.
Yet a fine family is a fine thing
(Provided they don't come in after dinner);
'T is beautiful to see a matron bring
Her children up (if nursing them don't thin her);
Like cherubs round an altar-piece they cling
To the fire-side (a sight to touch a sinner).
A lady with her daughters or her nieces
Shines like a guinea and seven-shilling pieces.
Old Lambro pass'd unseen a private gate,
And stood within his hall at eventide;
Meantime the lady and her lover sate
At wassail in their beauty and their pride:
An ivory inlaid table spread with state
Before them, and fair slaves on every side;
Gems, gold, and silver, form'd the service mostly,
Mother of pearl and coral the less costly.
The dinner made about a hundred dishes;
Lamb and pistachio nuts--in short, all meats,
And saffron soups, and sweetbreads; and the fishes
Were of the finest that e'er flounced in nets,
Drest to a Sybarite's most pamper'd wishes;
The beverage was various sherbets
Of raisin, orange, and pomegranate juice,
Squeezed through the rind, which makes it best for use.
These were ranged round, each in its crystal ewer,
And fruits, and date-bread loaves closed the repast,
And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure,
In small fine China cups, came in at last;
Gold cups of filigree made to secure
The hand from burning underneath them placed,
Cloves, cinnamon, and saffron too were boil'd
Up with the coffee, which (I think) they spoil'd.
The hangings of the room were tapestry, made
Of velvet panels, each of different hue,
And thick with damask flowers of silk inlaid;
And round them ran a yellow border too;
The upper border, richly wrought, display'd,
Embroider'd delicately o'er with blue,
Soft Persian sentences, in lilac letters,
From poets, or the moralists their betters.
These Oriental writings on the wall,
Quite common in those countries, are a kind
Of monitors adapted to recall,
Like skulls at Memphian banquets, to the mind
The words which shook Belshazzar in his hall,
And took his kingdom from him: You will find,
Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure,
There is no sterner moralist than Pleasure.
A beauty at the season's close grown hectic,
A genius who has drunk himself to death,
A rake turn'd methodistic, or Eclectic
(For that 's the name they like to pray beneath)--
But most, an alderman struck apoplectic,
Are things that really take away the breath,--
And show that late hours, wine, and love are able
To do not much less damage than the table.
Haidee and Juan carpeted their feet
On crimson satin, border'd with pale blue;
Their sofa occupied three parts complete
Of the apartment--and appear'd quite new;
The velvet cushions (for a throne more meet)
Were scarlet, from whose glowing centre grew
A sun emboss'd in gold, whose rays of tissue,
Meridian-like, were seen all light to issue.
Crystal and marble, plate and porcelain,
Had done their work of splendour; Indian mats
And Persian carpets, which the heart bled to stain,
Over the floors were spread; gazelles and cats,
And dwarfs and blacks, and such like things, that gain
Their bread as ministers and favourites (that 's
To say, by degradation) mingled there
As plentiful as in a court, or fair.
There was no want of lofty mirrors, and
The tables, most of ebony inlaid
With mother of pearl or ivory, stood at hand,
Or were of tortoise-shell or rare woods made,
Fretted with gold or silver:--by command,
The greater part of these were ready spread
With viands and sherbets in ice--and wine--
Kept for all comers at all hours to dine.
Of all the dresses I _select_ Haidee's:
She wore two jelicks--one was of pale yellow;
Of azure, pink, and white was her chemise--
'Neath which her breast heaved like a little billow;
With buttons form'd of pearls as large as peas,
All gold and crimson shone her jelick's fellow,
And the striped white gauze baracan that bound her,
Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flow'd round her.
One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely arm,
Lockless--so pliable from the pure gold
That the hand stretch'd and shut it without harm,
The limb which it adorn'd its only mould;
So beautiful--its very shape would charm;
And, clinging as if loath to lose its hold,
The purest ore enclosed the whitest skin
That e'er by precious metal was held in.
Around, as princess of her father's land,
A like gold bar above her instep roll'd
Announced her rank; twelve rings were on her hand;
Her hair was starr'd with gems; her veil's fine fold
Below her breast was fasten'd with a band
Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told;
Her orange silk full Turkish trousers furl'd
About the prettiest ankle in the world.
Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel
Flow'd like an Alpine torrent which the sun
Dyes with his morning light,--and would conceal
Her person if allow'd at large to run,
And still they seem resentfully to feel
The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun
Their bonds whene'er some Zephyr caught began
To offer his young pinion as her fan.
Round her she made an atmosphere of life,
The very air seem'd lighter from her eyes,
They were so soft and beautiful, and rife
With all we can imagine of the skies,
And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife--
Too pure even for the purest human ties;
Her overpowering presence made you feel
It would not be idolatry to kneel.
Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tinged
(It is the country's custom), but in vain;
For those large black eyes were so blackly fringed,
The glossy rebels mock'd the jetty stain,
And in their native beauty stood avenged:
Her nails were touch'd with henna; but again
The power of art was turn'd to nothing, for
They could not look more rosy than before.
The henna should be deeply dyed to make
The skin relieved appear more fairly fair;
She had no need of this, day ne'er will break
On mountain tops more heavenly white than her:
The eye might doubt if it were well awake,
She was so like a vision; I might err,
But Shakspeare also says, 't is very silly
'To gild refined gold, or paint the lily'
Juan had on a shawl of black and gold,
But a white baracan, and so transparent
The sparkling gems beneath you might behold,
Like small stars through the milky way apparent;
His turban, furl'd in many a graceful fold,
An emerald aigrette with Haidee's hair in 't
Surmounted as its clasp--a glowing crescent,
Whose rays shone ever trembling, but incessant.
And now they were diverted by their suite,
Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuchs, and a poet,
Which made their new establishment complete;
The last was of great fame, and liked to show it:
His verses rarely wanted their due feet;
And for his theme--he seldom sung below it,
He being paid to satirize or flatter,
As the psalm says, 'inditing a good matter.'
He praised the present, and abused the past,
Reversing the good custom of old days,
An Eastern anti-jacobin at last
He turn'd, preferring pudding to no praise--
For some few years his lot had been o'ercast
By his seeming independent in his lays,
But now he sung the Sultan and the Pacha
With truth like Southey, and with verse like Crashaw.
He was a man who had seen many changes,
And always changed as true as any needle;
His polar star being one which rather ranges,
And not the fix'd--he knew the way to wheedle:
So vile he 'scaped the doom which oft avenges;
And being fluent (save indeed when fee'd ill),
He lied with such a fervour of intention--
There was no doubt he earn'd his laureate pension.
But he had genius,--when a turncoat has it,
The 'Vates irritabilis' takes care
That without notice few full moons shall pass it;
Even good men like to make the public stare:--
But to my subject--let me see--what was it?-
O!--the third canto--and the pretty pair--
Their loves, and feasts, and house, and dress, and mode
Of living in their insular abode.
Their poet, a sad trimmer, but no less
In company a very pleasant fellow,
Had been the favourite of full many a mess
Of men, and made them speeches when half mellow;
And though his meaning they could rarely guess,
Yet still they deign'd to hiccup or to bellow
The glorious meed of popular applause,
Of which the first ne'er knows the second cause.
But now being lifted into high society,
And having pick'd up several odds and ends
Of free thoughts in his travels for variety,
He deem'd, being in a lone isle, among friends,
That, without any danger of a riot, he
Might for long lying make himself amends;
And, singing as he sung in his warm youth,
Agree to a short armistice with truth.
He had travell'd 'mongst the Arabs, Turks, and Franks,
And knew the self-loves of the different nations;
And having lived with people of all ranks,
Had something ready upon most occasions--
Which got him a few presents and some thanks.
He varied with some skill his adulations;
To 'do at Rome as Romans do,' a piece
Of conduct was which he observed in Greece.
Thus, usually, when he was ask'd to sing,
He gave the different nations something national;
'T was all the same to him--'God save the king,'
Or 'Ca ira,' according to the fashion all:
His muse made increment of any thing,
From the high lyric down to the low rational:
If Pindar sang horse-races, what should hinder
Himself from being as pliable as Pindar?
In France, for instance, he would write a chanson;
In England a six canto quarto tale;
In Spain, he'd make a ballad or romance on
The last war--much the same in Portugal;
In Germany, the Pegasus he 'd prance on
Would be old Goethe's (see what says De Stael);
In Italy he 'd ape the 'Trecentisti;'
In Greece, he sing some sort of hymn like this t' ye:
THE ISLES OF GREECE.
The isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.
The Scian and the Teian muse,
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo further west
Than your sires' 'Islands of the Blest.'
The mountains look on Marathon--
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,
I dream'd that Greece might still be free;
For standing on the Persians' grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.
A king sate on the rocky brow
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;
And ships, by thousands, lay below,
And men in nations;--all were his!
He counted them at break of day--
And when the sun set where were they?
And where are they? and where art thou,
My country? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic lay is tuneless now--
The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?
'T is something, in the dearth of fame,
Though link'd among a fetter'd race,
To feel at least a patriot's shame,
Even as I sing, suffuse my face;
For what is left the poet here?
For Greeks a blush--for Greece a tear.
Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
Must we but blush?--Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylae!
What, silent still? and silent all?
Ah! no;--the voices of the dead
Sound like a distant torrent's fall,
And answer, 'Let one living head,
But one arise,--we come, we come!'
'T is but the living who are dumb.
In vain--in vain: strike other chords;
Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,
And shed the blood of Scio's vine!
Hark! rising to the ignoble call--
How answers each bold Bacchanal!
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget
The nobler and the manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave--
Think ye he meant them for a slave?
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
We will not think of themes like these!
It made Anacreon's song divine:
He served--but served Polycrates--
A tyrant; but our masters then
Were still, at least, our countrymen.
The tyrant of the Chersonese
Was freedom's best and bravest friend;
That tyrant was Miltiades!
O! that the present hour would lend
Another despot of the kind!
Such chains as his were sure to bind.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore,
Exists the remnant of a line
Such as the Doric mothers bore;
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown,
The Heracleidan blood might own.
Trust not for freedom to the Franks--
They have a king who buys and sells;
In native swords, and native ranks,
The only hope of courage dwells;
But Turkish force, and Latin fraud,
Would break your shield, however broad.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
Our virgins dance beneath the shade--
I see their glorious black eyes shine;
But gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves,
To think such breasts must suckle slaves
Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,
Where nothing, save the waves and I,
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
There, swan-like, let me sing and die:
A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine--
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!
Thus sung, or would, or could, or should have sung,
The modern Greek, in tolerable verse;
If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was young,
Yet in these times he might have done much worse:
His strain display'd some feeling--right or wrong;
And feeling, in a poet, is the source
Of others' feeling; but they are such liars,
And take all colours--like the hands of dyers.
But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think;
'T is strange, the shortest letter which man uses
Instead of speech, may form a lasting link
Of ages; to what straits old Time reduces
Frail man, when paper--even a rag like this,
Survives himself, his tomb, and all that 's his.
And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank,
His station, generation, even his nation,
Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank
In chronological commemoration,
Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank,
Or graven stone found in a barrack's station
In digging the foundation of a closet,
May turn his name up, as a rare deposit.
And glory long has made the sages smile;
'T is something, nothing, words, illusion, wind--
Depending more upon the historian's style
Than on the name a person leaves behind:
Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to Hoyle:
The present century was growing blind
To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks,
Until his late life by Archdeacon Coxe.
Milton 's the prince of poets--so we say;
A little heavy, but no less divine:
An independent being in his day--
Learn'd, pious, temperate in love and wine;
But, his life falling into Johnson's way,
We 're told this great high priest of all the Nine
Was whipt at college--a harsh sire--odd spouse,
For the first Mrs. Milton left his house.
All these are, certes, entertaining facts,
Like Shakspeare's stealing deer, Lord Bacon's bribes;
Like Titus' youth, and Caesar's earliest acts;
Like Burns (whom Doctor Currie well describes);
Like Cromwell's pranks;--but although truth exacts
These amiable descriptions from the scribes,
As most essential to their hero's story,
They do not much contribute to his glory.
All are not moralists, like Southey, when
He prated to the world of 'Pantisocracy;'
Or Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who then
Season'd his pedlar poems with democracy;
Or Coleridge, long before his flighty pen
Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy;
When he and Southey, following the same path,
Espoused two partners (milliners of Bath).
Such names at present cut a convict figure,
The very Botany Bay in moral geography;
Their loyal treason, renegado rigour,
Are good manure for their more bare biography.
Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is bigger
Than any since the birthday of typography;
A drowsy frowzy poem, call'd the 'Excursion.'
Writ in a manner which is my aversion.
He there builds up a formidable dyke
Between his own and others' intellect;
But Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, like
Joanna Southcote's Shiloh, and her sect,
Are things which in this century don't strike
The public mind,--so few are the elect;
And the new births of both their stale virginities
Have proved but dropsies, taken for divinities.
But let me to my story: I must own,
If I have any fault, it is digression--
Leaving my people to proceed alone,
While I soliloquize beyond expression;
But these are my addresses from the throne,
Which put off business to the ensuing session:
Forgetting each omission is a loss to
The world, not quite so great as Ariosto.
I know that what our neighbours call 'longueurs'
(We 've not so good a word, but have the thing
In that complete perfection which ensures
An epic from Bob Southey every spring),
Form not the true temptation which allures
The reader; but 't would not be hard to bring
Some fine examples of the epopee,
To prove its grand ingredient is ennui.
We learn from Horace, 'Homer sometimes sleeps;'
We feel without him, Wordsworth sometimes wakes,--
To show with what complacency he creeps,
With his dear 'Waggoners,' around his lakes.
He wishes for 'a boat' to sail the deeps--
Of ocean?--No, of air; and then he makes
Another outcry for 'a little boat,'
And drivels seas to set it well afloat.
If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal plain,
And Pegasus runs restive in his 'Waggon,'
Could he not beg the loan of Charles's Wain?
Or pray Medea for a single dragon?
Or if, too classic for his vulgar brain,
He fear'd his neck to venture such a nag on,
And he must needs mount nearer to the moon,
Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon?
'Pedlars,' and 'Boats,' and 'Waggons!' Oh! ye shades
Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this?
That trash of such sort not alone evades
Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss
Floats scumlike uppermost, and these Jack Cades
Of sense and song above your graves may hiss--
The 'little boatman' and his 'Peter Bell'
Can sneer at him who drew 'Achitophel'!
T' our tale.--The feast was over, the slaves gone,
The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired;
The Arab lore and poet's song were done,
And every sound of revelry expired;
The lady and her lover, left alone,
The rosy flood of twilight's sky admired;--
Ave Maria! o'er the earth and sea,
That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee!
Ave Maria! blessed be the hour!
The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft
Have felt that moment in its fullest power
Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft,
While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,
Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft,
And not a breath crept through the rosy air,
And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer.
Ave Maria! 't is the hour of prayer!
Ave Maria! 't is the hour of love!
Ave Maria! may our spirits dare
Look up to thine and to thy Son's above!
Ave Maria! oh that face so fair!
Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty dove--
What though 't is but a pictured image?--strike--
That painting is no idol,--'t is too like.
Some kinder casuists are pleased to say,
In nameless print--that I have no devotion;
But set those persons down with me to pray,
And you shall see who has the properest notion
Of getting into heaven the shortest way;
My altars are the mountains and the ocean,
Earth, air, stars,--all that springs from the great Whole,
Who hath produced, and will receive the soul.
Sweet hour of twilight!--in the solitude
Of the pine forest, and the silent shore
Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood,
Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er,
To where the last Caesarean fortress stood,
Evergreen forest! which Boccaccio's lore
And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me,
How have I loved the twilight hour and thee!
The shrill cicadas, people of the pine,
Making their summer lives one ceaseless song,
Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine,
And vesper bell's that rose the boughs along;
The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line,
His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng
Which learn'd from this example not to fly
From a true lover,--shadow'd my mind's eye.
O, Hesperus! thou bringest all good things--
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer,
To the young bird the parent's brooding wings,
The welcome stall to the o'erlabour'd steer;
Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings,
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear,
Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest;
Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast.
Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day
When they from their sweet friends are torn apart;
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way
As the far bell of vesper makes him start,
Seeming to weep the dying day's decay;
Is this a fancy which our reason scorns?
Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns!
When Nero perish'd by the justest doom
Which ever the destroyer yet destroy'd,
Amidst the roar of liberated Rome,
Of nations freed, and the world overjoy'd,
Some hands unseen strew'd flowers upon his tomb:
Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void
Of feeling for some kindness done, when power
Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour.
But I 'm digressing; what on earth has Nero,
Or any such like sovereign buffoons,
To do with the transactions of my hero,
More than such madmen's fellow man--the moon's?
Sure my invention must be down at zero,
And I grown one of many 'wooden spoons'
Of verse (the name with which we Cantabs please
To dub the last of honours in degrees).
I feel this tediousness will never do--
'T is being too epic, and I must cut down
(In copying) this long canto into two;
They 'll never find it out, unless I own
The fact, excepting some experienced few;
And then as an improvement 't will be shown:
I 'll prove that such the opinion of the critic is
From Aristotle passim.--See poietikes.
CANTO THE FOURTH.
Nothing so difficult as a beginning
In poesy, unless perhaps the end;
For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning
The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend,
Like Lucifer when hurl'd from heaven for sinning;
Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend,
Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far,
Till our own weakness shows us what we are.
But Time, which brings all beings to their level,
And sharp Adversity, will teach at last
Man,--and, as we would hope,--perhaps the devil,
That neither of their intellects are vast:
While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel,
We know not this--the blood flows on too fast;
But as the torrent widens towards the ocean,
We ponder deeply on each past emotion.
As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow,
And wish'd that others held the same opinion;
They took it up when my days grew more mellow,
And other minds acknowledged my dominion:
Now my sere fancy 'falls into the yellow
Leaf,' and Imagination droops her pinion,
And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk
Turns what was once romantic to burlesque.
And if I laugh at any mortal thing,
'T is that I may not weep; and if I weep,
'T is that our nature cannot always bring
Itself to apathy, for we must steep
Our hearts first in the depths of Lethe's spring,
Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep:
Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx;
A mortal mother would on Lethe fix.
Some have accused me of a strange design
Against the creed and morals of the land,
And trace it in this poem every line:
I don't pretend that I quite understand
My own meaning when I would be very fine;
But the fact is that I have nothing plann'd,
Unless it were to be a moment merry,
A novel word in my vocabulary.
To the kind reader of our sober clime
This way of writing will appear exotic;
Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme,
Who sang when chivalry was more Quixotic,
And revell'd in the fancies of the time,
True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, kings despotic:
But all these, save the last, being obsolete,
I chose a modern subject as more meet.
How I have treated it, I do not know;
Perhaps no better than they have treated me
Who have imputed such designs as show
Not what they saw, but what they wish'd to see:
But if it gives them pleasure, be it so;
This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free:
Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear,
And tells me to resume my story here.
Young Juan and his lady-love were left
To their own hearts' most sweet society;
Even Time the pitiless in sorrow cleft
With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms; he
Sigh'd to behold them of their hours bereft,
Though foe to love; and yet they could not be
Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring,
Before one charm or hope had taken wing.
Their faces were not made for wrinkles, their
Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts to fail;
The blank grey was not made to blast their hair,
But like the climes that know nor snow nor hail
They were all summer: lightning might assail
And shiver them to ashes, but to trail
A long and snake-like life of dull decay
Was not for them--they had too little day.
They were alone once more; for them to be
Thus was another Eden; they were never
Weary, unless when separate: the tree
Cut from its forest root of years--the river
Damm'd from its fountain--the child from the knee
And breast maternal wean'd at once for ever,--
Would wither less than these two torn apart;
Alas! there is no instinct like the heart--
The heart--which may be broken: happy they!
Thrice fortunate! who of that fragile mould,
The precious porcelain of human clay,
Break with the first fall: they can ne'er behold
The long year link'd with heavy day on day,
And all which must be borne, and never told;
While life's strange principle will often lie
Deepest in those who long the most to die.
'Whom the gods love die young,' was said of yore,
And many deaths do they escape by this:
The death of friends, and that which slays even more--
The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is,
Except mere breath; and since the silent shore
Awaits at last even those who longest miss
The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early grave
Which men weep over may be meant to save.
Haidee and Juan thought not of the dead--
The heavens, and earth, and air, seem'd made for them:
They found no fault with Time, save that he fled;
They saw not in themselves aught to condemn:
Each was the other's mirror, and but read
Joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem,
And knew such brightness was but the reflection
Of their exchanging glances of affection.
The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch,
The least glance better understood than words,
Which still said all, and ne'er could say too much;
A language, too, but like to that of birds,
Known but to them, at least appearing such
As but to lovers a true sense affords;
Sweet playful phrases, which would seem absurd
To those who have ceased to hear such, or ne'er heard,--
All these were theirs, for they were children still,
And children still they should have ever been;
They were not made in the real world to fill
A busy character in the dull scene,
But like two beings born from out a rill,
A nymph and her beloved, all unseen
To pass their lives in fountains and on flowers,
And never know the weight of human hours.
Moons changing had roll'd on, and changeless found
Those their bright rise had lighted to such joys
As rarely they beheld throughout their round;
And these were not of the vain kind which cloys,
For theirs were buoyant spirits, never bound
By the mere senses; and that which destroys
Most love, possession, unto them appear'd
A thing which each endearment more endear'd.
O beautiful! and rare as beautiful
But theirs was love in which the mind delights
To lose itself when the old world grows dull,
And we are sick of its hack sounds and sights,
Intrigues, adventures of the common school,
Its petty passions, marriages, and flights,
Where Hymen's torch but brands one strumpet more,
Whose husband only knows her not a wh--re.
Hard words; harsh truth; a truth which many know.
Enough.--The faithful and the fairy pair,
Who never found a single hour too slow,
What was it made them thus exempt from care?
Young innate feelings all have felt below,
Which perish in the rest, but in them were
Inherent--what we mortals call romantic,
And always envy, though we deem it frantic.
This is in others a factitious state,
An opium dream of too much youth and reading,
But was in them their nature or their fate:
No novels e'er had set their young hearts bleeding,
For Haidee's knowledge was by no means great,
And Juan was a boy of saintly breeding;
So that there was no reason for their loves
More than for those of nightingales or doves.
They gazed upon the sunset; 't is an hour
Dear unto all, but dearest to their eyes,
For it had made them what they were: the power
Of love had first o'erwhelm'd them from such skies,
When happiness had been their only dower,
And twilight saw them link'd in passion's ties;
Charm'd with each other, all things charm'd that brought
The past still welcome as the present thought.
I know not why, but in that hour to-night,
Even as they gazed, a sudden tremor came,
And swept, as 't were, across their hearts' delight,
Like the wind o'er a harp-string, or a flame,
When one is shook in sound, and one in sight;
And thus some boding flash'd through either frame,
And call'd from Juan's breast a faint low sigh,
While one new tear arose in Haidee's eye.
That large black prophet eye seem'd to dilate
And follow far the disappearing sun,
As if their last day! of a happy date
With his broad, bright, and dropping orb were gone;
Juan gazed on her as to ask his fate--
He felt a grief, but knowing cause for none,
His glance inquired of hers for some excuse
For feelings causeless, or at least abstruse.
She turn'd to him, and smiled, but in that sort
Which makes not others smile; then turn'd aside:
Whatever feeling shook her, it seem'd short,
And master'd by her wisdom or her pride;
When Juan spoke, too--it might be in sport--
Of this their mutual feeling, she replied--
'If it should be so,--but--it cannot be--
Or I at least shall not survive to see.'
Juan would question further, but she press'd
His lip to hers, and silenced him with this,
And then dismiss'd the omen from her breast,
Defying augury with that fond kiss;
And no doubt of all methods 't is the best:
Some people prefer wine--'t is not amiss;
I have tried both; so those who would a part take
May choose between the headache and the heartache.
One of the two, according to your choice,
Woman or wine, you 'll have to undergo;
Both maladies are taxes on our joys:
But which to choose, I really hardly know;
And if I had to give a casting voice,
For both sides I could many reasons show,
And then decide, without great wrong to either,
It were much better to have both than neither.
Juan and Haidee gazed upon each other
With swimming looks of speechless tenderness,
Which mix'd all feelings, friend, child, lover, brother,
All that the best can mingle and express
When two pure hearts are pour'd in one another,
And love too much, and yet can not love less;
But almost sanctify the sweet excess
By the immortal wish and power to bless.
Mix'd in each other's arms, and heart in heart,
Why did they not then die?--they had lived too long
Should an hour come to bid them breathe apart;
Years could but bring them cruel things or wrong;
The world was not for them, nor the world's art
For beings passionate as Sappho's song;
Love was born with them, in them, so intense,
It was their very spirit--not a sense.
They should have lived together deep in woods,
Unseen as sings the nightingale; they were
Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes
Call'd social, haunts of Hate, and Vice, and Care:
How lonely every freeborn creature broods!
The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair;
The eagle soars alone; the gull and crow
Flock o'er their carrion, just like men below.
Now pillow'd cheek to cheek, in loving sleep,
Haidee and Juan their siesta took,
A gentle slumber, but it was not deep,
For ever and anon a something shook
Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would creep;
And Haidee's sweet lips murmur'd like a brook
A wordless music, and her face so fair
Stirr'd with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air.
Or as the stirring of a deep dear stream
Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind
Walks o'er it, was she shaken by the dream,
The mystical usurper of the mind--
O'erpowering us to be whate'er may seem
Good to the soul which we no more can bind;
Strange state of being! (for 't is still to be)
Senseless to feel, and with seal'd eyes to see.
She dream'd of being alone on the sea-shore,
Chain'd to a rock; she knew not how, but stir
She could not from the spot, and the loud roar
Grew, and each wave rose roughly, threatening her;
And o'er her upper lip they seem'd to pour,
Until she sobb'd for breath, and soon they were
Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and high--
Each broke to drown her, yet she could not die.
Anon--she was released, and then she stray'd
O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet,
And stumbled almost every step she made;
And something roll'd before her in a sheet,
Which she must still pursue howe'er afraid:
'T was white and indistinct, nor stopp'd to meet
Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed, and grasp'd,
And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd.
The dream changed:--in a cave she stood, its walls
Were hung with marble icicles, the work
Of ages on its water-fretted halls,
Where waves might wash, and seals might breed and lurk;
Her hair was dripping, and the very balls
Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, and mirk
The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they caught,
Which froze to marble as it fell,--she thought.
And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet,
Pale as the foam that froth'd on his dead brow,
Which she essay'd in vain to clear (how sweet
Were once her cares, how idle seem'd they now!),
Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat
Of his quench'd heart; and the sea dirges low
Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid's song,
And that brief dream appear'd a life too long.
And gazing on the dead, she thought his face
Faded, or alter'd into something new--
Like to her father's features, till each trace--
More like and like to Lambro's aspect grew--
With all his keen worn look and Grecian grace;
And starting, she awoke, and what to view?
O! Powers of Heaven! what dark eye meets she there?
'T is--'t is her father's--fix'd upon the pair!
Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking fell,
With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to see
Him whom she deem'd a habitant where dwell
The ocean-buried, risen from death, to be
Perchance the death of one she loved too well:
Dear as her father had been to Haidee,
It was a moment of that awful kind--
I have seen such--but must not call to mind.
Up Juan sprung to Haidee's bitter shriek,
And caught her falling, and from off the wall
Snatch'd down his sabre, in hot haste to wreak
Vengeance on him who was the cause of all:
Then Lambro, who till now forbore to speak,
Smiled scornfully, and said, 'Within my call,
A thousand scimitars await the word;
Put up, young man, put up your silly sword.'
And Haidee clung around him; 'Juan, 't is--
'T is Lambro--'t is my father! Kneel with me--
He will forgive us--yes--it must be--yes.
O! dearest father, in this agony
Of pleasure and of pain--even while I kiss
Thy garment's hem with transport, can it be
That doubt should mingle with my filial joy?
Deal with me as thou wilt, but spare this boy.'
High and inscrutable the old man stood,
Calm in his voice, and calm within his eye--
Not always signs with him of calmest mood:
He look'd upon her, but gave no reply;
Then turn'd to Juan, in whose cheek the blood
Oft came and went, as there resolved to die;
In arms, at least, he stood, in act to spring
On the first foe whom Lambro's call might bring.
'Young man, your sword;' so Lambro once more said:
Juan replied, 'Not while this arm is free.'
The old man's cheek grew pale, but not with dread,
And drawing from his belt a pistol, he
Replied, 'Your blood be then on your own head.'
Then look'd dose at the flint, as if to see
'T was fresh--for he had lately used the lock--
And next proceeded quietly to cock.
It has a strange quick jar upon the ear,
That cocking of a pistol, when you know
A moment more will bring the sight to bear
Upon your person, twelve yards off, or so;
A gentlemanly distance, not too near,
If you have got a former friend for foe;
But after being fired at once or twice,
The ear becomes more Irish, and less nice.
Lambro presented, and one instant more
Had stopp'd this Canto, and Don Juan's breath,
When Haidee threw herself her boy before;
Stern as her sire: 'On me,' she cried, 'let death
Descend--the fault is mine; this fatal shore
He found--but sought not. I have pledged my faith;
I love him--I will die with him: I knew
Your nature's firmness--know your daughter's too.'
A minute past, and she had been all tears,
And tenderness, and infancy; but now
She stood as one who champion'd human fears--
Pale, statue-like, and stern, she woo'd the blow;
And tall beyond her sex, and their compeers,
She drew up to her height, as if to show
A fairer mark; and with a fix'd eye scann'd
Her father's face--but never stopp'd his hand.
He gazed on her, and she on him; 't was strange
How like they look'd! the expression was the same;
Serenely savage, with a little change
In the large dark eye's mutual-darted flame;
For she, too, was as one who could avenge,
If cause should be--a lioness, though tame.
Her father's blood before her father's face
Boil'd up, and proved her truly of his race.
I said they were alike, their features and
Their stature, differing but in sex and years;
Even to the delicacy of their hand
There was resemblance, such as true blood wears;
And now to see them, thus divided, stand
In fix'd ferocity, when joyous tears
And sweet sensations should have welcomed both,
Show what the passions are in their full growth.
The father paused a moment, then withdrew
His weapon, and replaced it; but stood still,
And looking on her, as to look her through,
'Not I,' he said, 'have sought this stranger's ill;
Not I have made this desolation: few
Would bear such outrage, and forbear to kill;
But I must do my duty--how thou hast
Done thine, the present vouches for the past.
'Let him disarm; or, by my father's head,
His own shall roll before you like a ball!'
He raised his whistle, as the word he said,
And blew; another answer'd to the call,
And rushing in disorderly, though led,
And arm'd from boot to turban, one and all,
Some twenty of his train came, rank on rank;
He gave the word,--'Arrest or slay the Frank.'
Then, with a sudden movement, he withdrew
His daughter; while compress'd within his clasp,
'Twixt her and Juan interposed the crew;
In vain she struggled in her father's grasp--
His arms were like a serpent's coil: then flew
Upon their prey, as darts an angry asp,
The file of pirates; save the foremost, who
Had fallen, with his right shoulder half cut through.
The second had his cheek laid open; but
The third, a wary, cool old sworder, took
The blows upon his cutlass, and then put
His own well in; so well, ere you could look,
His man was floor'd, and helpless at his foot,
With the blood running like a little brook
From two smart sabre gashes, deep and red--
One on the arm, the other on the head.
And then they bound him where he fell, and bore
Juan from the apartment: with a sign
Old Lambro bade them take him to the shore,
Where lay some ships which were to sail at nine.
They laid him in a boat, and plied the oar
Until they reach'd some galliots, placed in line;
On board of one of these, and under hatches,
They stow'd him, with strict orders to the watches.
The world is full of strange vicissitudes,
And here was one exceedingly unpleasant:
A gentleman so rich in the world's goods,
Handsome and young, enjoying all the present,
Just at the very time when he least broods
On such a thing is suddenly to sea sent,
Wounded and chain'd, so that he cannot move,
And all because a lady fell in love.
Here I must leave him, for I grow pathetic,
Moved by the Chinese nymph of tears, green tea!
Than whom Cassandra was not more prophetic;
For if my pure libations exceed three,
I feel my heart become so sympathetic,
That I must have recourse to black Bohea:
'T is pity wine should be so _delete_rious,
For tea and coffee leave us much more serious,
Unless when qualified with thee, Cogniac!
Sweet Naiad of the Phlegethontic rill!
Ah! why the liver wilt thou thus attack,
And make, like other nymphs, thy lovers ill?
I would take refuge in weak punch, but rack
(In each sense of the word), whene'er I fill
My mild and midnight beakers to the brim,
Wakes me next morning with its synonym.
I leave Don Juan for the present, safe--
Not sound, poor fellow, but severely wounded;
Yet could his corporal pangs amount to half
Of those with which his Haidee's bosom bounded?
She was not one to weep, and rave, and chafe,
And then give way, subdued because surrounded;
Her mother was a Moorish maid, from Fez,
Where all is Eden, or a wilderness.
There the large olive rains its amber store
In marble fonts; there grain, and flower, and fruit,
Gush from the earth until the land runs o'er;
But there, too, many a poison-tree has root,
And midnight listens to the lion's roar,
And long, long deserts scorch the camel's foot,
Or heaving whelm the helpless caravan;
And as the soil is, so the heart of man.
Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth
Her human day is kindled; full of power
For good or evil, burning from its birth,
The Moorish blood partakes the planet's hour,
And like the soil beneath it will bring forth:
Beauty and love were Haidee's mother's dower;
But her large dark eye show'd deep Passion's force,
Though sleeping like a lion near a source.
Her daughter, temper'd with a milder ray,
Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and fair,
Till slowly charged with thunder they display
Terror to earth, and tempest to the air,
Had held till now her soft and milky way;
But overwrought with passion and despair,
The fire burst forth from her Numidian veins,
Even as the Simoom sweeps the blasted plains.
The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore,
And he himself o'ermaster'd and cut down;
His blood was running on the very floor
Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own;
Thus much she view'd an instant and no more,--
Her struggles ceased with one convulsive groan;
On her sire's arm, which until now scarce held
Her writhing, fell she like a cedar fell'd.
A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes
Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er;
And her head droop'd as when the lily lies
O'ercharged with rain: her summon'd handmaids bore
Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes;
Of herbs and cordials they produced their store,
But she defied all means they could employ,
Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy.
Days lay she in that state unchanged, though chill--
With nothing livid, still her lips were red;
She had no pulse, but death seem'd absent still;
No hideous sign proclaim'd her surely dead;
Corruption came not in each mind to kill
All hope; to look upon her sweet face bred
New thoughts of life, for it seem'd full of soul--
She had so much, earth could not claim the whole.
The ruling passion, such as marble shows
When exquisitely chisell'd, still lay there,
But fix'd as marble's unchanged aspect throws
O'er the fair Venus, but for ever fair;
O'er the Laocoon's all eternal throes,
And ever-dying Gladiator's air,
Their energy like life forms all their fame,
Yet looks not life, for they are still the same.
She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake,
Rather the dead, for life seem'd something new,
A strange sensation which she must partake
Perforce, since whatsoever met her view
Struck not on memory, though a heavy ache
Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat still true
Brought back the sense of pain without the cause,
For, for a while, the furies made a pause.
She look'd on many a face with vacant eye,
On many a token without knowing what;
She saw them watch her without asking why,
And reck'd not who around her pillow sat;
Not speechless, though she spoke not; not a sigh
Relieved her thoughts; dull silence and quick chat
Were tried in vain by those who served; she gave
No sign, save breath, of having left the grave.
Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not;
Her father watch'd, she turn'd her eyes away;
She recognized no being, and no spot,
However dear or cherish'd in their day;
They changed from room to room--but all forgot--
Gentle, but without memory she lay;
At length those eyes, which they would fain be weaning
Back to old thoughts, wax'd full of fearful meaning.
And then a slave bethought her of a harp;
The harper came, and tuned his instrument;
At the first notes, irregular and sharp,
On him her flashing eyes a moment bent,
Then to the wall she turn'd as if to warp
Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re-sent;
And he begun a long low island song
Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong.
Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall
In time to his old tune; he changed the theme,
And sung of love; the fierce name struck through all
Her recollection; on her flash'd the dream
Of what she was, and is, if ye could call
To be so being; in a gushing stream
The tears rush'd forth from her o'erclouded brain,
Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain.
Short solace, vain relief!--thought came too quick,
And whirl'd her brain to madness; she arose
As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick,
And flew at all she met, as on her foes;
But no one ever heard her speak or shriek,
Although her paroxysm drew towards its dose;--
Hers was a phrensy which disdain'd to rave,
Even when they smote her, in the hope to save.
Yet she betray'd at times a gleam of sense;
Nothing could make her meet her father's face,
Though on all other things with looks intense
She gazed, but none she ever could retrace;
Food she refused, and raiment; no pretence
Avail'd for either; neither change of place,
Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her
Senses to sleep--the power seem'd gone for ever.
Twelve days and nights she wither'd thus; at last,
Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show
A parting pang, the spirit from her past:
And they who watch'd her nearest could not know
The very instant, till the change that cast
Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow,
Glazed o'er her eyes--the beautiful, the black--
O! to possess such lustre--and then lack!
She died, but not alone; she held within
A second principle of life, which might
Have dawn'd a fair and sinless child of sin;
But closed its little being without light,
And went down to the grave unborn, wherein
Blossom and bough lie wither'd with one blight;
In vain the dews of Heaven descend above
The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of love.
Thus lived--thus died she; never more on her
Shall sorrow light, or shame. She was not made
Through years or moons the inner weight to bear,
Which colder hearts endure till they are laid
By age in earth: her days and pleasures were
Brief, but delightful--such as had not staid
Long with her destiny; but she sleeps well
By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to dwell.
That isle is now all desolate and bare,
Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd away;
None but her own and father's grave is there,
And nothing outward tells of human clay;
Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair,
No stone is there to show, no tongue to say
What was; no dirge, except the hollow sea's,
Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades.
But many a Greek maid in a loving song
Sighs o'er her name; and many an islander
With her sire's story makes the night less long;
Valour was his, and beauty dwelt with her:
If she loved rashly, her life paid for wrong--
A heavy price must all pay who thus err,
In some shape; let none think to fly the danger,
For soon or late Love is his own avenger.
But let me change this theme which grows too sad,
And lay this sheet of sorrows on the shelf;
I don't much like describing people mad,
For fear of seeming rather touch'd myself--
Besides, I 've no more on this head to add;
And as my Muse is a capricious elf,
We 'll put about, and try another tack
With Juan, left half-kill'd some stanzas back.
Wounded and fetter'd, 'cabin'd, cribb'd, confined,'
Some days and nights elapsed before that he
Could altogether call the past to mind;
And when he did, he found himself at sea,
Sailing six knots an hour before the wind;
The shores of Ilion lay beneath their lee--
Another time he might have liked to see 'em,
But now was not much pleased with Cape Sigaeum.
There, on the green and village-cotted hill, is
(Flank'd by the Hellespont and by the sea)
Entomb'd the bravest of the brave, Achilles;
They say so (Bryant says the contrary):
And further downward, tall and towering still, is
The tumulus--of whom? Heaven knows! 't may be
Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus--
All heroes, who if living still would slay us.
High barrows, without marble or a name,
A vast, untill'd, and mountain-skirted plain,
And Ida in the distance, still the same,
And old Scamander (if 't is he) remain;
The situation seems still form'd for fame--
A hundred thousand men might fight again
With case; but where I sought for Ilion's walls,
The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise crawls;
Troops of untended horses; here and there
Some little hamlets, with new names uncouth;
Some shepherds (unlike Paris) led to stare
A moment at the European youth
Whom to the spot their school-boy feelings bear;
A turk, with beads in hand and pipe in mouth,
Extremely taken with his own religion,
Are what I found there--but the devil a Phrygian.
Don Juan, here permitted to emerge
From his dull cabin, found himself a slave;
Forlorn, and gazing on the deep blue surge,
O'ershadow'd there by many a hero's grave;
Weak still with loss of blood, he scarce could urge
A few brief questions; and the answers gave
No very satisfactory information
About his past or present situation.
He saw some fellow captives, who appear'd
To be Italians, as they were in fact;
From them, at least, their destiny he heard,
Which was an odd one; a troop going to act
In Sicily (all singers, duly rear'd
In their vocation) had not been attack'd
In sailing from Livorno by the pirate,
But sold by the impresario at no high rate.
By one of these, the buffo of the party,
Juan was told about their curious case;
For although destined to the Turkish mart, he
Still kept his spirits up--at least his face;
The little fellow really look'd quite hearty,
And bore him with some gaiety and grace,
Showing a much more reconciled demeanour,
Than did the prima donna and the tenor.
In a few words he told their hapless story,
Saying, 'Our Machiavellian impresario,
Making a signal off some promontory,
Hail'd a strange brig--Corpo di Caio Mario!
We were transferr'd on board her in a hurry,
Without a Single scudo of salario;
But if the Sultan has a taste for song,
We will revive our fortunes before long.
'The prima donna, though a little old,
And haggard with a dissipated life,
And subject, when the house is thin, to cold,
Has some good notes; and then the tenor's wife,
With no great voice, is pleasing to behold;
Last carnival she made a deal of strife
By carrying off Count Cesare Cicogna
From an old Roman princess at Bologna.
'And then there are the dancers; there 's the Nini,
With more than one profession, gains by all;
Then there 's that laughing slut the Pelegrini,
She, too, was fortunate last carnival,
And made at least five hundred good zecchini,
But spends so fast, she has not now a paul;
And then there 's the Grotesca--such a dancer!
Where men have souls or bodies she must answer.
'As for the figuranti, they are like
The rest of all that tribe; with here and there
A pretty person, which perhaps may strike,
The rest are hardly fitted for a fair;
There 's one, though tall and stiffer than a pike,
Yet has a sentimental kind of air
Which might go far, but she don't dance with vigour;
The more 's the pity, with her face and figure.
'As for the men, they are a middling set;
The musico is but a crack'd old basin,
But being qualified in one way yet,
May the seraglio do to set his face in,
And as a servant some preferment get;
His singing I no further trust can place in:
From all the Pope makes yearly 't would perplex
To find three perfect pipes of the third sex.
'The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation,
And for the bass, the beast can only bellow;
In fact, he had no singing education,
An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow;
But being the prima donna's near relation,
Who swore his voice was very rich and mellow,
They hired him, though to hear him you 'd believe
An ass was practising recitative.
''T would not become myself to dwell upon
My own merits, and though young--I see, Sir--you
Have got a travell'd air, which speaks you one
To whom the opera is by no means new:
You 've heard of Raucocanti?--I 'm the man;
The time may come when you may hear me too;
You was not last year at the fair of Lugo,
But next, when I 'm engaged to sing there--do go.
'Our baritone I almost had forgot,
A pretty lad, but bursting with conceit;
With graceful action, science not a jot,
A voice of no great compass, and not sweet,
He always is complaining of his lot,
Forsooth, scarce fit for ballads in the street;
In lovers' parts his passion more to breathe,
Having no heart to show, he shows his teeth.'
Here Raucocanti's eloquent recital
Was interrupted by the pirate crew,
Who came at stated moments to invite all
The captives back to their sad berths; each threw
A rueful glance upon the waves (which bright all
From the blue skies derived a double blue,
Dancing all free and happy in the sun),
And then went down the hatchway one by one.
They heard next day--that in the Dardanelles,
Waiting for his Sublimity's firman,
The most imperative of sovereign spells,
Which every body does without who can,
More to secure them in their naval cells,
Lady to lady, well as man to man,
Were to be chain'd and lotted out per couple,
For the slave market of Constantinople.
It seems when this allotment was made out,
There chanced to be an odd male, and odd female,
Who (after some discussion and some doubt,
If the soprano might be deem'd to be male,
They placed him o'er the women as a scout)
Were link'd together, and it happen'd the male
Was Juan,--who, an awkward thing at his age,
Pair'd off with a Bacchante blooming visage.
With Raucocanti lucklessly was chain'd
The tenor; these two hated with a hate
Found only on the stage, and each more pain'd
With this his tuneful neighbour than his fate;
Sad strife arose, for they were so cross-grain'd,
Instead of bearing up without debate,
That each pull'd different ways with many an oath,
'Arcades ambo,' id est--blackguards both.
Juan's companion was a Romagnole,
But bred within the March of old Ancona,
With eyes that look'd into the very soul
(And other chief points of a 'bella donna'),
Bright--and as black and burning as a coal;
And through her dear brunette complexion shone
Great wish to please--a most attractive dower,
Especially when added to the power.
But all that power was wasted upon him,
For sorrow o'er each sense held stern command;
Her eye might flash on his, but found it dim;
And though thus chain'd, as natural her hand
Touch'd his, nor that--nor any handsome limb
(And she had some not easy to withstand)
Could stir his pulse, or make his faith feel brittle;
Perhaps his recent wounds might help a little.
No matter; we should ne'er too much enquire,
But facts are facts: no knight could be more true,
And firmer faith no ladye--love desire;
We will omit the proofs, save one or two:
'T is said no one in hand 'can hold a fire
By thought of frosty Caucasus;' but few,
I really think; yet Juan's then ordeal
Was more triumphant, and not much less real.
Here I might enter on a chaste description,
Having withstood temptation in my youth,
But hear that several people take exception
At the first two books having too much truth;
Therefore I 'll make Don Juan leave the ship soon,
Because the publisher declares, in sooth,
Through needles' eyes it easier for the camel is
To pass, than those two cantos into families.
'T is all the same to me; I 'm fond of yielding,
And therefore leave them to the purer page
Of Smollett, Prior, Ariosto, Fielding,
Who say strange things for so correct an age;
I once had great alacrity in wielding
My pen, and liked poetic war to wage,
And recollect the time when all this cant
Would have provoked remarks which now it shan't.
As boys love rows, my boyhood liked a squabble;
But at this hour I wish to part in peace,
Leaving such to the literary rabble:
Whether my verse's fame be doom'd to cease
While the right hand which wrote it still is able,
Or of some centuries to take a lease,
The grass upon my grave will grow as long,
And sigh to midnight winds, but not to song.
Of poets who come down to us through distance
Of time and tongues, the foster-babes of Fame,
Life seems the smallest portion of existence;
Where twenty ages gather o'er a name,
'T is as a snowball which derives assistance
From every flake, and yet rolls on the same,
Even till an iceberg it may chance to grow;
But, after all, 't is nothing but cold snow.
And so great names are nothing more than nominal,
And love of glory 's but an airy lust,
Too often in its fury overcoming all
Who would as 't were identify their dust
From out the wide destruction, which, entombing all,
Leaves nothing till 'the coming of the just'-
Save change: I 've stood upon Achilles' tomb,
And heard Troy doubted; time will doubt of Rome.
The very generations of the dead
Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb,
Until the memory of an age is fled,
And, buried, sinks beneath its offspring's doom:
Where are the epitaphs our fathers read?
Save a few glean'd from the sepulchral gloom
Which once-named myriads nameless lie beneath,
And lose their own in universal death.
I canter by the spot each afternoon
Where perish'd in his fame the hero-boy,
Who lived too long for men, but died too soon
For human vanity, the young De Foix!
A broken pillar, not uncouthly hewn,
But which neglect is hastening to destroy,
Records Ravenna's carnage on its face,
While weeds and ordure rankle round the base.
I pass each day where Dante's bones are laid:
A little cupola, more neat than solemn,
Protects his dust, but reverence here is paid
To the bard's tomb, and not the warrior's column.
The time must come, when both alike decay'd,
The chieftain's trophy, and the poet's volume,
Will sink where lie the songs and wars of earth,
Before Pelides' death, or Homer's birth.
With human blood that column was cemented,
With human filth that column is defiled,
As if the peasant's coarse contempt were vented
To show his loathing of the spot he soil'd:
Thus is the trophy used, and thus lamented
Should ever be those blood-hounds, from whose wild
Instinct of gore and glory earth has known
Those sufferings Dante saw in hell alone.
Yet there will still be bards: though fame is smoke,
Its fumes are frankincense to human thought;
And the unquiet feelings, which first woke
Song in the world, will seek what then they sought;
As on the beach the waves at last are broke,
Thus to their extreme verge the passions brought
Dash into poetry, which is but passion,
Or at least was so ere it grew a fashion.
If in the course of such a life as was
At once adventurous and contemplative,
Men, who partake all passions as they pass,
Acquire the deep and bitter power to give
Their images again as in a glass,
And in such colours that they seem to live;
You may do right forbidding them to show 'em,
But spoil (I think) a very pretty poem.
O! ye, who make the fortunes of all books!
Benign Ceruleans of the second sex!
Who advertise new poems by your looks,
Your 'imprimatur' will ye not annex?
What! must I go to the oblivious cooks,
Those Cornish plunderers of Parnassian wrecks?
Ah! must I then the only minstrel be,
Proscribed from tasting your Castalian tea!
What! can I prove 'a lion' then no more?
A ball-room bard, a foolscap, hot-press darling?
To bear the compliments of many a bore,
And sigh, 'I can't get out,' like Yorick's starling;
Why then I 'll swear, as poet Wordy swore
(Because the world won't read him, always snarling),
That taste is gone, that fame is but a lottery,
Drawn by the blue-coat misses of a coterie.
O! 'darkly, deeply, beautifully blue,'
As some one somewhere sings about the sky,
And I, ye learned ladies, say of you;
They say your stockings are so (Heaven knows why,
I have examined few pair of that hue);
Blue as the garters which serenely lie
Round the Patrician left-legs, which adorn
The festal midnight, and the levee morn.
Yet some of you are most seraphic creatures--
But times are alter'd since, a rhyming lover,
You read my stanzas, and I read your features:
And--but no matter, all those things are over;
Still I have no dislike to learned natures,
For sometimes such a world of virtues cover;
I knew one woman of that purple school,
The loveliest, chastest, best, but--quite a fool.
Humboldt, 'the first of travellers,' but not
The last, if late accounts be accurate,
Invented, by some name I have forgot,
As well as the sublime discovery's date,
An airy instrument, with which he sought
To ascertain the atmospheric state,
By measuring 'the intensity of blue:'
O, Lady Daphne! let me measure you!
But to the narrative:--The vessel bound
With slaves to sell off in the capital,
After the usual process, might be found
At anchor under the seraglio wall;
Her cargo, from the plague being safe and sound,
Were landed in the market, one and all,
And there with Georgians, Russians, and Circassians,
Bought up for different purposes and passions.
Some went off dearly; fifteen hundred dollars
For one Circassian, a sweet girl, were given,
Warranted virgin; beauty's brightest colours
Had deck'd her out in all the hues of heaven:
Her sale sent home some disappointed bawlers,
Who bade on till the hundreds reach'd eleven;
But when the offer went beyond, they knew
'T was for the Sultan, and at once withdrew.
Twelve negresses from Nubia brought a price
Which the West Indian market scarce would bring;
Though Wilberforce, at last, has made it twice
What 't was ere Abolition; and the thing
Need not seem very wonderful, for vice
Is always much more splendid than a king:
The virtues, even the most exalted, Charity,
Are saving--vice spares nothing for a rarity.
But for the destiny of this young troop,
How some were bought by pachas, some by Jews,
How some to burdens were obliged to stoop,
And others rose to the command of crews
As renegadoes; while in hapless group,
Hoping no very old vizier might choose,
The females stood, as one by one they pick'd 'em,
To make a mistress, or fourth wife, or victim:
All this must be reserved for further song;
Also our hero's lot, howe'er unpleasant
(Because this Canto has become too long),
Must be postponed discreetly for the present;
I 'm sensible redundancy is wrong,
But could not for the muse of me put less in 't:
And now delay the progress of Don Juan,
Till what is call'd in Ossian the fifth Juan.
[Illustration: Canto 5]
CANTO THE FIFTH.
When amatory poets sing their loves
In liquid lines mellifluously bland,
And pair their rhymes as Venus yokes her doves,
They little think what mischief is in hand;
The greater their success the worse it proves,
As Ovid's verse may give to understand;
Even Petrarch's self, if judged with due severity,
Is the Platonic pimp of all posterity.
I therefore do denounce all amorous writing,
Except in such a way as not to attract;
Plain--simple--short, and by no means inviting,
But with a moral to each error tack'd,
Form'd rather for instructing than delighting,
And with all passions in their turn attack'd;
Now, if my Pegasus should not be shod ill,
This poem will become a moral model.
The European with the Asian shore
Sprinkled with palaces; the ocean stream
Here and there studded with a seventy-four;
Sophia's cupola with golden gleam;
The cypress groves; Olympus high and hoar;
The twelve isles, and the more than I could dream,
Far less describe, present the very view
Which charm'd the charming Mary Montagu.
I have a passion for the name of 'Mary,'
For once it was a magic sound to me;
And still it half calls up the realms of fairy,
Where I beheld what never was to be;
All feelings changed, but this was last to vary,
A spell from which even yet I am not quite free:
But I grow sad--and let a tale grow cold,
Which must not be pathetically told.
The wind swept down the Euxine, and the wave
Broke foaming o'er the blue Symplegades;
'T is a grand sight from off 'the Giant's Grave
To watch the progress of those rolling seas
Between the Bosphorus, as they lash and lave
Europe and Asia, you being quite at ease;
There 's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in,
Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine.
'T was a raw day of Autumn's bleak beginning,
When nights are equal, but not so the days;
The Parcae then cut short the further spinning
Of seamen's fates, and the loud tempests raise
The waters, and repentance for past sinning
In all, who o'er the great deep take their ways:
They vow to amend their lives, and yet they don't;
Because if drown'd, they can't--if spared, they won't.
A crowd of shivering slaves of every nation,
And age, and sex, were in the market ranged;
Each bevy with the merchant in his station:
Poor creatures! their good looks were sadly changed.
All save the blacks seem'd jaded with vexation,
From friends, and home, and freedom far estranged;
The negroes more philosophy display'd,--
Used to it, no doubt, as eels are to be flay'd.
Juan was juvenile, and thus was full,
As most at his age are, of hope and health;
Yet I must own he looked a little dull,
And now and then a tear stole down by stealth;
Perhaps his recent loss of blood might pull
His spirit down; and then the loss of wealth,
A mistress, and such comfortable quarters,
To be put up for auction amongst Tartars,
Were things to shake a stoic; ne'ertheless,
Upon the whole his carriage was serene:
His figure, and the splendour of his dress,
Of which some gilded remnants still were seen,
Drew all eyes on him, giving them to guess
He was above the vulgar by his mien;
And then, though pale, he was so very handsome;
And then--they calculated on his ransom.
Like a backgammon board the place was dotted
With whites and blacks, in groups on show for sale,
Though rather more irregularly spotted:
Some bought the jet, while others chose the pale.
It chanced amongst the other people lotted,
A man of thirty rather stout and hale,
With resolution in his dark grey eye,
Next Juan stood, till some might choose to buy.
He had an English look; that is, was square
In make, of a complexion white and ruddy,
Good teeth, with curling rather dark brown hair,
And, it might be from thought or toil or study,
An open brow a little mark'd with care:
One arm had on a bandage rather bloody;
And there he stood with such sang-froid, that greater
Could scarce be shown even by a mere spectator.
But seeing at his elbow a mere lad,
Of a high spirit evidently, though
At present weigh'd down by a doom which had
O'erthrown even men, he soon began to show
A kind of blunt compassion for the sad
Lot of so young a partner in the woe,
Which for himself he seem'd to deem no worse
Than any other scrape, a thing of course.
'My boy!' said he, 'amidst this motley crew
Of Georgians, Russians, Nubians, and what not,
All ragamuffins differing but in hue,
With whom it is our luck to cast our lot,
The only gentlemen seem I and you;
So let us be acquainted, as we ought:
If I could yield you any consolation,
'T would give me pleasure.--Pray, what is your nation?'
When Juan answer'd--'Spanish!' he replied,
'I thought, in fact, you could not be a Greek;
Those servile dogs are not so proudly eyed:
Fortune has play'd you here a pretty freak,
But that 's her way with all men, till they 're tried;
But never mind,--she 'll turn, perhaps, next week;
She has served me also much the same as you,
Except that I have found it nothing new.'
'Pray, sir,' said Juan, 'if I may presume,
What brought you here?'--'Oh! nothing very rare--
Six Tartars and a drag-chain.'--'To this doom
But what conducted, if the question's fair,
Is that which I would learn.'--'I served for some
Months with the Russian army here and there,
And taking lately, by Suwarrow's bidding,
A town, was ta'en myself instead of Widdin.'
'Have you no friends?'--'I had--but, by God's blessing,
Have not been troubled with them lately. Now
I have answer'd all your questions without pressing,
And you an equal courtesy should show.'
'Alas!' said Juan, ''t were a tale distressing,
And long besides.'--'Oh! if 't is really so,
You 're right on both accounts to hold your tongue;
A sad tale saddens doubly, when 't is long.
'But droop not: Fortune at your time of life,
Although a female moderately fickle,
Will hardly leave you (as she 's not your wife)
For any length of days in such a pickle.
To strive, too, with our fate were such a strife
As if the corn-sheaf should oppose the sickle:
Men are the sport of circumstances, when
The circumstances seem the sport of men.'
''T is not,' said Juan, 'for my present doom
I mourn, but for the past;--I loved a maid:'-
He paused, and his dark eye grew full of gloom;
A single tear upon his eyelash staid
A moment, and then dropp'd; 'but to resume,
'T is not my present lot, as I have said,
Which I deplore so much; for I have borne
Hardships which have the hardiest overworn,
'On the rough deep. But this last blow-' and here
He stopp'd again, and turn'd away his face.
'Ay,' quoth his friend, 'I thought it would appear
That there had been a lady in the case;
And these are things which ask a tender tear,
Such as I, too, would shed if in your place:
I cried upon my first wife's dying day,
And also when my second ran away:
'My third-'--'Your third!' quoth Juan, turning round;
'You scarcely can be thirty: have you three?'
'No--only two at present above ground:
Surely 't is nothing wonderful to see
One person thrice in holy wedlock bound!'
'Well, then, your third,' said Juan; 'what did she?
She did not run away, too,--did she, sir?'
'No, faith.'--'What then?'--'I ran away from her.'
'You take things coolly, sir,' said Juan. 'Why,'
Replied the other, 'what can a man do?
There still are many rainbows in your sky,
But mine have vanish'd. All, when life is new,
Commence with feelings warm, and prospects high;
But time strips our illusions of their hue,
And one by one in turn, some grand mistake
Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake.
''T is true, it gets another bright and fresh,
Or fresher, brighter; but the year gone through,
This skin must go the way, too, of all flesh,
Or sometimes only wear a week or two;--
Love 's the first net which spreads its deadly mesh;
Ambition, Avarice, Vengeance, Glory, glue
The glittering lime-twigs of our latter days,
Where still we flutter on for pence or praise.'
'All this is very fine, and may be true,'
Said Juan; 'but I really don't see how
It betters present times with me or you.'
'No?' quoth the other; 'yet you will allow
By setting things in their right point of view,
Knowledge, at least, is gain'd; for instance, now,
We know what slavery is, and our disasters
May teach us better to behave when masters.'
'Would we were masters now, if but to try
Their present lessons on our Pagan friends here,'
Said Juan,--swallowing a heart-burning sigh:
'Heaven help the scholar whom his fortune sends here!'
'Perhaps we shall be one day, by and by,'
Rejoin'd the other, when our bad luck mends here;
Meantime (yon old black eunuch seems to eye us)
'But after all, what is our present state?
'T is bad, and may be better--all men's lot:
Most men are slaves, none more so than the great,
To their own whims and passions, and what not;
Society itself, which should create
Kindness, destroys what little we had got:
To feel for none is the true social art
Of the world's stoics--men without a heart.'
Just now a black old neutral personage
Of the third sex stept up, and peering over
The captives, seem'd to mark their looks and age,
And capabilities, as to discover
If they were fitted for the purposed cage:
No lady e'er is ogled by a lover,
Horse by a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor,
Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailor,
As is a slave by his intended bidder.
'T is pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures;
And all are to be sold, if you consider
Their passions, and are dext'rous; some by features
Are bought up, others by a warlike leader,
Some by a place--as tend their years or natures;
The most by ready cash--but all have prices,
From crowns to kicks, according to their vices.
The eunuch, having eyed them o'er with care,
Turn'd to the merchant, and begun to bid
First but for one, and after for the pair;
They haggled, wrangled, swore, too--so they did!
As though they were in a mere Christian fair
Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lamb, or kid;
So that their bargain sounded like a battle
For this superior yoke of human cattle.
At last they settled into simple grumbling,
And pulling out reluctant purses, and
Turning each piece of silver o'er, and tumbling
Some down, and weighing others in their hand,
And by mistake sequins with paras jumbling,
Until the sum was accurately scann'd,
And then the merchant giving change, and signing
Receipts in full, began to think of dining.
I wonder if his appetite was good?
Or, if it were, if also his digestion?
Methinks at meals some odd thoughts might intrude,
And conscience ask a curious sort of question,
About the right divine how far we should
Sell flesh and blood. When dinner has opprest one,
I think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour
Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four.
Voltaire says 'No:' he tells you that Candide
Found life most tolerable after meals;
He 's wrong--unless man were a pig, indeed,
Repletion rather adds to what he feels,
Unless he 's drunk, and then no doubt he 's freed
From his own brain's oppression while it reels.
Of food I think with Philip's son, or rather
Ammon's (ill pleased with one world and one father);
I think with Alexander, that the act
Of eating, with another act or two,
Makes us feel our mortality in fact
Redoubled; when a roast and a ragout,
And fish, and soup, by some side dishes back'd,
Can give us either pain or pleasure, who
Would pique himself on intellects, whose use
Depends so much upon the gastric juice?
The other evening ('t was on Friday last)--
This is a fact and no poetic fable--
Just as my great coat was about me cast,
My hat and gloves still lying on the table,
I heard a shot--'t was eight o'clock scarce past--
And, running out as fast as I was able,
I found the military commandant
Stretch'd in the street, and able scarce to pant.
Poor fellow! for some reason, surely bad,
They had slain him with five slugs; and left him there
To perish on the pavement: so I had
Him borne into the house and up the stair,
And stripp'd and look'd to--But why should I ad
More circumstances? vain was every care;
The man was gone: in some Italian quarrel
Kill'd by five bullets from an old gun-barrel.
I gazed upon him, for I knew him well;
And though I have seen many corpses, never
Saw one, whom such an accident befell,
So calm; though pierced through stomach, heart, and liver,
He seem'd to sleep,--for you could scarcely tell
(As he bled inwardly, no hideous river
Of gore divulged the cause) that he was dead:
So as I gazed on him, I thought or said--
'Can this be death? then what is life or death?
Speak!' but he spoke not: 'Wake!' but still he slept:--
'But yesterday and who had mightier breath?
A thousand warriors by his word were kept
In awe: he said, as the centurion saith,
"Go," and he goeth; "come," and forth he stepp'd.
The trump and bugle till he spake were dumb--
And now nought left him but the muffled drum.'
And they who waited once and worshipp'd--they
With their rough faces throng'd about the bed
To gaze once more on the commanding clay
Which for the last, though not the first, time bled:
And such an end! that he who many a day
Had faced Napoleon's foes until they fled,--
The foremost in the charge or in the sally,
Should now be butcher'd in a civic alley.
The scars of his old wounds were near his new,
Those honourable scars which brought him fame;
And horrid was the contrast to the view--
But let me quit the theme; as such things claim
Perhaps even more attention than is due
From me: I gazed (as oft I have gazed the same)
To try if I could wrench aught out of death
Which should confirm, or shake, or make a faith;
But it was all a mystery. Here we are,
And there we go:--but where? five bits of lead,
Or three, or two, or one, send very far!
And is this blood, then, form'd but to be shed?
Can every element our elements mar?
And air--earth--water--fire live--and we dead?
We whose minds comprehend all things? No more;
But let us to the story as before.
The purchaser of Juan and acquaintance
Bore off his bargains to a gilded boat,
Embark'd himself and them, and off they went thence
As fast as oars could pull and water float;
They look'd like persons being led to sentence,
Wondering what next, till the caique was brought
Up in a little creek below a wall
O'ertopp'd with cypresses, dark-green and tall.
Here their conductor tapping at the wicket
Of a small iron door, 't was open'd, and
He led them onward, first through a low thicket
Flank'd by large groves, which tower'd on either hand:
They almost lost their way, and had to pick it--
For night was dosing ere they came to land.
The eunuch made a sign to those on board,
Who row'd off, leaving them without a word.
As they were plodding on their winding way
Through orange bowers, and jasmine, and so forth
(Of which I might have a good deal to say,
There being no such profusion in the North
Of oriental plants, 'et cetera,'
But that of late your scribblers think it worth
Their while to rear whole hotbeds in their works
Because one poet travell'd 'mongst the Turks)--
As they were threading on their way, there came
Into Don Juan's head a thought, which he
Whisper'd to his companion:--'t was the same
Which might have then occurr'd to you or me.
'Methinks,' said he, 'it would be no great shame
If we should strike a stroke to set us free;
Let 's knock that old black fellow on the head,
And march away--'t were easier done than said.'
'Yes,' said the other, 'and when done, what then?
How get out? how the devil got we in?
And when we once were fairly out, and when
From Saint Bartholomew we have saved our skin,
To-morrow 'd see us in some other den,
And worse off than we hitherto have been;
Besides, I 'm hungry, and just now would take,
Like Esau, for my birthright a beef-steak.
'We must be near some place of man's abode;--
For the old negro's confidence in creeping,
With his two captives, by so queer a road,
Shows that he thinks his friends have not been sleeping;
A single cry would bring them all abroad:
'T is therefore better looking before leaping--
And there, you see, this turn has brought us through,
By Jove, a noble palace!--lighted too.'
It was indeed a wide extensive building
Which open'd on their view, and o'er the front
There seem'd to be besprent a deal of gilding
And various hues, as is the Turkish wont,--
A gaudy taste; for they are little skill'd in
The arts of which these lands were once the font:
Each villa on the Bosphorus looks a screen
New painted, or a pretty opera-scene.
And nearer as they came, a genial savour
Of certain stews, and roast-meats, and pilaus,
Things which in hungry mortals' eyes find favour,
Made Juan in his harsh intentions pause,
And put himself upon his good behaviour:
His friend, too, adding a new saving clause,
Said, 'In Heaven's name let's get some supper now,
And then I 'm with you, if you 're for a row.'
Some talk of an appeal unto some passion,
Some to men's feelings, others to their reason;
The last of these was never much the fashion,
For reason thinks all reasoning out of season.
Some speakers whine, and others lay the lash on,
But more or less continue still to tease on,
With arguments according to their 'forte;'
But no one dreams of ever being short.-
But I digress: of all appeals,--although
I grant the power of pathos, and of gold,
Of beauty, flattery, threats, a shilling,--no
Method 's more sure at moments to take hold
Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow
More tender, as we every day behold,
Than that all-softening, overpowering knell,
The tocsin of the soul--the dinner-bell.
Turkey contains no bells, and yet men dine;
And Juan and his friend, albeit they heard
No Christian knoll to table, saw no line
Of lackeys usher to the feast prepared,
Yet smelt roast-meat, beheld a huge fire shine,
And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared,
And gazed around them to the left and right
With the prophetic eye of appetite.
And giving up all notions of resistance,
They follow'd close behind their sable guide,
Who little thought that his own crack'd existence
Was on the point of being set aside:
He motion'd them to stop at some small distance,
And knocking at the gate, 't was open'd wide,
And a magnificent large hall display'd
The Asian pomp of Ottoman parade.
I won't describe; description is my forte,
But every fool describes in these bright days
His wondrous journey to some foreign court,
And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise--
Death to his publisher, to him 't is sport;
While Nature, tortured twenty thousand ways,
Resigns herself with exemplary patience
To guide-books, rhymes, tours, sketches, illustrations.
Along this hall, and up and down, some, squatted
Upon their hams, were occupied at chess;
Others in monosyllable talk chatted,
And some seem'd much in love with their own dress.
And divers smoked superb pipes decorated
With amber mouths of greater price or less;
And several strutted, others slept, and some
Prepared for supper with a glass of rum.
As the black eunuch enter'd with his brace
Of purchased Infidels, some raised their eyes
A moment without slackening from their pace;
But those who sate ne'er stirr'd in anywise:
One or two stared the captives in the face,
Just as one views a horse to guess his price;
Some nodded to the negro from their station,
But no one troubled him with conversation.
He leads them through the hall, and, without stopping,
On through a farther range of goodly rooms,
Splendid but silent, save in one, where, dropping,
A marble fountain echoes through the glooms
Of night which robe the chamber, or where popping
Some female head most curiously presumes
To thrust its black eyes through the door or lattice,
As wondering what the devil a noise that is.
Some faint lamps gleaming from the lofty walls
Gave light enough to hint their farther way,
But not enough to show the imperial halls,
In all the flashing of their full array;
Perhaps there 's nothing--I 'll not say appals,
But saddens more by night as well as day,
Than an enormous room without a soul
To break the lifeless splendour of the whole.
Two or three seem so little, one seems nothing:
In deserts, forests, crowds, or by the shore,
There solitude, we know, has her full growth in
The spots which were her realms for evermore;
But in a mighty hall or gallery, both in
More modern buildings and those built of yore,
A kind of death comes o'er us all alone,
Seeing what 's meant for many with but one.
A neat, snug study on a winter's night,
A book, friend, single lady, or a glass
Of claret, sandwich, and an appetite,
Are things which make an English evening pass;
Though certes by no means so grand a sight
As is a theatre lit up by gas.
I pass my evenings in long galleries solely,
And that 's the reason I 'm so melancholy.
Alas! man makes that great which makes him little:
I grant you in a church 't is very well:
What speaks of Heaven should by no means be brittle,
But strong and lasting, till no tongue can tell
Their names who rear'd it; but huge houses fit ill--
And huge tombs worse--mankind, since Adam fell:
Methinks the story of the tower of Babel
Might teach them this much better than I 'm able.
Babel was Nimrod's hunting-box, and then
A town of gardens, walls, and wealth amazing,
Where Nabuchadonosor, king of men,
Reign'd, till one summer's day he took to grazing,
And Daniel tamed the lions in their den,
The people's awe and admiration raising;
'T was famous, too, for Thisbe and for Pyramus,
And the calumniated queen Semiramis.
That injured Queen by chroniclers so coarse
Has been accused (I doubt not by conspiracy)
Of an improper friendship for her horse
(Love, like religion, sometimes runs to heresy):
This monstrous tale had probably its source
(For such exaggerations here and there I see)
In writing 'Courser' by mistake for 'Courier:'
I wish the case could come before a jury here.
But to resume,--should there be (what may not
Be in these days?) some infidels, who don't,
Because they can't find out the very spot
Of that same Babel, or because they won't
(Though Claudius Rich, Esquire, some bricks has got,
And written lately two memoirs upon't),
Believe the Jews, those unbelievers, who
Must be believed, though they believe not you,
Yet let them think that Horace has exprest
Shortly and sweetly the masonic folly
Of those, forgetting the great place of rest,
Who give themselves to architecture wholly;
We know where things and men must end at best:
A moral (like all morals) melancholy,
And 'Et sepulchri immemor struis domos'
Shows that we build when we should but entomb us.
At last they reach'd a quarter most retired,
Where echo woke as if from a long slumber;
Though full of all things which could be desired,
One wonder'd what to do with such a number
Of articles which nobody required;
Here wealth had done its utmost to encumber
With furniture an exquisite apartment,
Which puzzled Nature much to know what Art meant.
It seem'd, however, but to open on
A range or suite of further chambers, which
Might lead to heaven knows where; but in this one
The movables were prodigally rich:
Sofas 't was half a sin to sit upon,
So costly were they; carpets every stitch
Of workmanship so rare, they made you wish
You could glide o'er them like a golden fish.
The black, however, without hardly deigning
A glance at that which wrapt the slaves in wonder,
Trampled what they scarce trod for fear of staining,
As if the milky way their feet was under
With all its stars; and with a stretch attaining
A certain press or cupboard niched in yonder--
In that remote recess which you may see--
Or if you don't the fault is not in me,--
I wish to be perspicuous; and the black,
I say, unlocking the recess, pull'd forth
A quantity of clothes fit for the back
Of any Mussulman, whate'er his worth;
And of variety there was no lack--
And yet, though I have said there was no dearth,
He chose himself to point out what he thought
Most proper for the Christians he had bought.
The suit he thought most suitable to each
Was, for the elder and the stouter, first
A Candiote cloak, which to the knee might reach,
And trousers not so tight that they would burst,
But such as fit an Asiatic breech;
A shawl, whose folds in Cashmire had been nurst,
Slippers of saffron, dagger rich and handy;
In short, all things which form a Turkish Dandy.
While he was dressing, Baba, their black friend,
Hinted the vast advantages which they
Might probably attain both in the end,
If they would but pursue the proper way
Which fortune plainly seem'd to recommend;
And then he added, that he needs must say,
''T would greatly tend to better their condition,
If they would condescend to circumcision.
'For his own part, he really should rejoice
To see them true believers, but no less
Would leave his proposition to their choice.'
The other, thanking him for this excess
Of goodness, in thus leaving them a voice
In such a trifle, scarcely could express
'Sufficiently' (he said) 'his approbation
Of all the customs of this polish'd nation.
'For his own share--he saw but small objection
To so respectable an ancient rite;
And, after swallowing down a slight refection,
For which he own'd a present appetite,
He doubted not a few hours of reflection
Would reconcile him to the business quite.'
'Will it?' said Juan, sharply: 'Strike me dead,
But they as soon shall circumcise my head!
'Cut off a thousand heads, before-'--'Now, pray,'
Replied the other, 'do not interrupt:
You put me out in what I had to say.
Sir!--as I said, as soon as I have supt,
I shall perpend if your proposal may
Be such as I can properly accept;
Provided always your great goodness still
Remits the matter to our own free-will.'
Baba eyed Juan, and said, 'Be so good
As dress yourself-' and pointed out a suit
In which a Princess with great pleasure would
Array her limbs; but Juan standing mute,
As not being in a masquerading mood,
Gave it a slight kick with his Christian foot;
And when the old negro told him to 'Get ready,'
Replied, 'Old gentleman, I 'm not a lady.'
'What you may be, I neither know nor care,'
Said Baba; 'but pray do as I desire:
I have no more time nor many words to spare.'
'At least,' said Juan, 'sure I may enquire
The cause of this odd travesty?'--'Forbear,'
Said Baba, 'to be curious; 't will transpire,
No doubt, in proper place, and time, and season:
I have no authority to tell the reason.'
'Then if I do,' said Juan, 'I 'll be-'--'Hold!'
Rejoin'd the negro, 'pray be not provoking;
This spirit 's well, but it may wax too bold,
And you will find us not top fond of joking.'
'What, sir!' said Juan, 'shall it e'er be told
That I unsex'd my dress?' But Baba, stroking
The things down, said, 'Incense me, and I call
Those who will leave you of no sex at all.
'I offer you a handsome suit of clothes:
A woman's, true; but then there is a cause
Why you should wear them.'--'What, though my soul loathes
The effeminate garb?'--thus, after a short pause,
Sigh'd Juan, muttering also some slight oaths,
'What the devil shall I do with all this gauze?'
Thus he profanely term'd the finest lace
Which e'er set off a marriage-morning face.
And then he swore; and, sighing, on he slipp'd
A pair of trousers of flesh-colour'd silk;
Next with a virgin zone he was equipp'd,
Which girt a slight chemise as white as milk;
But tugging on his petticoat, he tripp'd,
Which--as we say--or, as the Scotch say, whilk
(The rhyme obliges me to this; sometimes
Monarchs are less imperative than rhymes)--
Whilk, which (or what you please), was owing to
His garment's novelty, and his being awkward:
And yet at last he managed to get through
His toilet, though no doubt a little backward:
The negro Baba help'd a little too,
When some untoward part of raiment stuck hard;
And, wrestling both his arms into a gown,
He paused, and took a survey up and down.
One difficulty still remain'd--his hair
Was hardly long enough; but Baba found
So many false long tresses all to spare,
That soon his head was most completely crown'd,
After the manner then in fashion there;
And this addition with such gems was bound
As suited the ensemble of his toilet,
While Baba made him comb his head and oil it.
And now being femininely all array'd,
With some small aid from scissors, paint, and tweezers,
He look'd in almost all respects a maid,
And Baba smilingly exclaim'd, 'You see, sirs,
A perfect transformation here display'd;
And now, then, you must come along with me, sirs,
That is--the Lady:' clapping his hands twice,
Four blacks were at his elbow in a trice.
'You, sir,' said Baba, nodding to the one,
'Will please to accompany those gentlemen
To supper; but you, worthy Christian nun,
Will follow me: no trifling, sir; for when
I say a thing, it must at once be done.
What fear you? think you this a lion's den?
Why, 't is a palace; where the truly wise
Anticipate the Prophet's paradise.
'You fool! I tell you no one means you harm.'
'So much the better,' Juan said, 'for them;
Else they shall feel the weight of this my arm,
Which is not quite so light as you may deem.
I yield thus far; but soon will break the charm
If any take me for that which I seem:
So that I trust for everybody's sake,
That this disguise may lead to no mistake.'
'Blockhead! come on, and see,' quoth Baba; while
Don Juan, turning to his comrade, who
Though somewhat grieved, could scarce forbear a smile
Upon the metamorphosis in view,--
'Farewell!' they mutually exclaim'd: 'this soil
Seems fertile in adventures strange and new;
One 's turn'd half Mussulman, and one a maid,
By this old black enchanter's unsought aid.'
'Farewell!' said Juan: 'should we meet no more,
I wish you a good appetite.'--'Farewell!'
Replied the other; 'though it grieves me sore;
When we next meet we 'll have a tale to tell:
We needs must follow when Fate puts from shore.
Keep your good name; though Eve herself once fell.'
'Nay,' quoth the maid, 'the Sultan's self shan't carry me,
Unless his highness promises to marry me.
And thus they parted, each by separate doors;
Baba led Juan onward room by room
Through glittering galleries and o'er marble floors,
Till a gigantic portal through the gloom,
Haughty and huge, along the distance lowers;
And wafted far arose a rich perfume:
It seem'd as though they came upon a shrine,
For all was vast, still, fragrant, and divine.
The giant door was broad, and bright, and high,
Of gilded bronze, and carved in curious guise;
Warriors thereon were battling furiously;
Here stalks the victor, there the vanquish'd lies;
There captives led in triumph droop the eye,
And in perspective many a squadron flies:
It seems the work of times before the line
Of Rome transplanted fell with Constantine.
This massy portal stood at the wide close
Of a huge hall, and on its either side
Two little dwarfs, the least you could suppose,
Were sate, like ugly imps, as if allied
In mockery to the enormous gate which rose
O'er them in almost pyramidic pride:
The gate so splendid was in all its features,
You never thought about those little creatures,
Until you nearly trod on them, and then
You started back in horror to survey
The wondrous hideousness of those small men,
Whose colour was not black, nor white, nor grey,
But an extraneous mixture, which no pen
Can trace, although perhaps the pencil may;
They were mis-shapen pigmies, deaf and dumb--
Monsters, who cost a no less monstrous sum.
Their duty was--for they were strong, and though
They look'd so little, did strong things at times--
To ope this door, which they could really do,
The hinges being as smooth as Rogers' rhymes;
And now and then, with tough strings of the bow,
As is the custom of those Eastern climes,
To give some rebel Pacha a cravat;
For mutes are generally used for that.
They spoke by signs--that is, not spoke at all;
And looking like two incubi, they glared
As Baba with his fingers made them fall
To heaving back the portal folds: it scared
Juan a moment, as this pair so small
With shrinking serpent optics on him stared;
It was as if their little looks could poison
Or fascinate whome'er they fix'd their eyes on.
Before they enter'd, Baba paused to hint
To Juan some slight lessons as his guide:
'If you could just contrive,' he said, 'to stint
That somewhat manly majesty of stride,
'T would be as well, and (though there 's not much in 't)
To swing a little less from side to side,
Which has at times an aspect of the oddest;--
And also could you look a little modest,
''T would be convenient; for these mutes have eyes
Like needles, which may pierce those petticoats;
And if they should discover your disguise,
You know how near us the deep Bosphorus floats;
And you and I may chance, ere morning rise,
To find our way to Marmora without boats,
Stitch'd up in sacks--a mode of navigation
A good deal practised here upon occasion.'
With this encouragement, he led the way
Into a room still nobler than the last;
A rich confusion form'd a disarray
In such sort, that the eye along it cast
Could hardly carry anything away,
Object on object flash'd so bright and fast;
A dazzling mass of gems, and gold, and glitter,
Magnificently mingled in a litter.
Wealth had done wonders--taste not much; such things
Occur in Orient palaces, and even
In the more chasten'd domes of Western kings
(Of which I have also seen some six or seven),
Where I can't say or gold or diamond flings
Great lustre, there is much to be forgiven;
Groups of bad statues, tables, chairs, and pictures,
On which I cannot pause to make my strictures.
In this imperial hall, at distance lay
Under a canopy, and there reclined
Quite in a confidential queenly way,
A lady; Baba stopp'd, and kneeling sign'd
To Juan, who though not much used to pray,
Knelt down by instinct, wondering in his mind,
What all this meant: while Baba bow'd and bended
His head, until the ceremony ended.
The lady rising up with such an air
As Venus rose with from the wave, on them
Bent like an antelope a Paphian pair
Of eyes, which put out each surrounding gem;
And raising up an arm as moonlight fair,
She sign'd to Baba, who first kiss'd the hem
Of her deep purple robe, and speaking low,
Pointed to Juan who remain'd below.
Her presence was as lofty as her state;
Her beauty of that overpowering kind,
Whose force description only would abate:
I 'd rather leave it much to your own mind,
Than lessen it by what I could relate
Of forms and features; it would strike you blind
Could I do justice to the full detail;
So, luckily for both, my phrases fail.
Thus much however I may add,--her years
Were ripe, they might make six-and-twenty springs;
But there are forms which Time to touch forbears,
And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things,
Such as was Mary's Queen of Scots; true--tears
And love destroy; and sapping sorrow wrings
Charms from the charmer, yet some never grow
Ugly; for instance--Ninon de l'Enclos.
She spake some words to her attendants, who
Composed a choir of girls, ten or a dozen,
And were all clad alike; like Juan, too,
Who wore their uniform, by Baba chosen;
They form'd a very nymph-like looking crew,
Which might have call'd Diana's chorus 'cousin,'
As far as outward show may correspond;
I won't be bail for anything beyond.
They bow'd obeisance and withdrew, retiring,
But not by the same door through which came in
Baba and Juan, which last stood admiring,
At some small distance, all he saw within
This strange saloon, much fitted for inspiring
Marvel and praise; for both or none things win;
And I must say, I ne'er could see the very
Great happiness of the 'Nil Admirari.'
'Not to admire is all the art I know
(Plain truth, dear Murray, needs few flowers of speech)
To make men happy, or to keep them so'
(So take it in the very words of Creech)--
Thus Horace wrote we all know long ago;
And thus Pope quotes the precept to re-teach
From his translation; but had none admired,
Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired?
Baba, when all the damsels were withdrawn,
Motion'd to Juan to approach, and then
A second time desired him to kneel down,
And kiss the lady's foot; which maxim when
He heard repeated, Juan with a frown
Drew himself up to his full height again,
And said, 'It grieved him, but he could not stoop
To any shoe, unless it shod the Pope.'
Baba, indignant at this ill-timed pride,
Made fierce remonstrances, and then a threat
He mutter'd (but the last was given aside)
About a bow-string--quite in vain; not yet
Would Juan bend, though 't were to Mahomet's bride:
There 's nothing in the world like etiquette
In kingly chambers or imperial halls,
As also at the race and county balls.
He stood like Atlas, with a world of words
About his ears, and nathless would not bend:
The blood of all his line 's Castilian lords
Boil'd in his veins, and rather than descend
To stain his pedigree a thousand swords
A thousand times of him had made an end;
At length perceiving the 'foot' could not stand,
Baba proposed that he should kiss the hand.
Here was an honourable compromise,
A half-way house of diplomatic rest,
Where they might meet in much more peaceful guise;
And Juan now his willingness exprest
To use all fit and proper courtesies,
Adding, that this was commonest and best,
For through the South the custom still commands
The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands.
And he advanced, though with but a bad grace,
Though on more thorough-bred or fairer fingers
No lips e'er left their transitory trace;
On such as these the lip too fondly lingers,
And for one kiss would fain imprint a brace,
As you will see, if she you love shall bring hers
In contact; and sometimes even a fair stranger's
An almost twelvemonth's constancy endangers.
The lady eyed him o'er and o'er, and bade
Baba retire, which he obey'd in style,
As if well used to the retreating trade;
And taking hints in good part all the while,
He whisper'd Juan not to be afraid,
And looking on him with a sort of smile,
Took leave, with such a face of satisfaction
As good men wear who have done a virtuous action.
When he was gone, there was a sudden change:
I know not what might be the lady's thought,
But o'er her bright brow flash'd a tumult strange,
And into her dear cheek the blood was brought,
Blood-red as sunset summer clouds which range
The verge of Heaven; and in her large eyes wrought,
A mixture of sensations might be scann'd,
Of half voluptuousness and half command.
Her form had all the softness of her sex,
Her features all the sweetness of the devil,
When he put on the cherub to perplex
Eve, and paved (God knows how) the road to evil;
The sun himself was scarce more free from specks
Than she from aught at which the eye could cavil;
Yet, somehow, there was something somewhere wanting,
As if she rather order'd than was granting.
Something imperial, or imperious, threw
A chain o'er all she did; that is, a chain
Was thrown as 't were about the neck of you,--
And rapture's self will seem almost a pain
With aught which looks like despotism in view:
Our souls at least are free, and 't is in vain
We would against them make the flesh obey--
The spirit in the end will have its way.
Her very smile was haughty, though so sweet;
Her very nod was not an inclination;
There was a self-will even in her small feet,
As though they were quite conscious of her station--
They trod as upon necks; and to complete
Her state (it is the custom of her nation),
A poniard deck'd her girdle, as the sign
She was a sultan's bride (thank Heaven, not mine!).
'To hear and to obey' had been from birth
The law of all around her; to fulfill
All phantasies which yielded joy or mirth,
Had been her slaves' chief pleasure, as her will;
Her blood was high, her beauty scarce of earth:
Judge, then, if her caprices e'er stood still;
Had she but been a Christian, I 've a notion
We should have found out the 'perpetual motion.'
Whate'er she saw and coveted was brought;
Whate'er she did not see, if she supposed
It might be seen, with diligence was sought,
And when 't was found straightway the bargain closed;
There was no end unto the things she bought,
Nor to the trouble which her fancies caused;
Yet even her tyranny had such a grace,
The women pardon'd all except her face.
Juan, the latest of her whims, had caught
Her eye in passing on his way to sale;
She order'd him directly to be bought,
And Baba, who had ne'er been known to fail
In any kind of mischief to be wrought,
At all such auctions knew how to prevail:
She had no prudence, but he had; and this
Explains the garb which Juan took amiss.
His youth and features favour'd the disguise,
And, should you ask how she, a sultan's bride,
Could risk or compass such strange phantasies,
This I must leave sultanas to decide:
Emperors are only husbands in wives' eyes,
And kings and consorts oft are mystified,
As we may ascertain with due precision,
Some by experience, others by tradition.
But to the main point, where we have been tending:--
She now conceived all difficulties past,
And deem'd herself extremely condescending
When, being made her property at last,
Without more preface, in her blue eyes blending
Passion and power, a glance on him she cast,
And merely saying, 'Christian, canst thou love?'
Conceived that phrase was quite enough to move
And so it was, in proper time and place;
But Juan, who had still his mind o'erflowing
With Haidee's isle and soft Ionian face,
Felt the warm blood, which in his face was glowing,
Rush back upon his heart, which fill'd apace,
And left his cheeks as pale as snowdrops blowing;
These words went through his soul like Arab-spears,
So that he spoke not, but burst into tears.
She was a good deal shock'd; not shock'd at tears,
For women shed and use them at their liking;
But there is something when man's eye appears
Wet, still more disagreeable and striking;
A woman's tear-drop melts, a man's half sears,
Like molten lead, as if you thrust a pike in
His heart to force it out, for (to be shorter)
To them 't is a relief, to us a torture.
And she would have consoled, but knew not how:
Having no equals, nothing which had e'er
Infected her with sympathy till now,
And never having dreamt what 't was to bear
Aught of a serious, sorrowing kind, although
There might arise some pouting petty care
To cross her brow, she wonder'd how so near
Her eyes another's eye could shed a tear.
But nature teaches more than power can spoil,
And, when a strong although a strange sensation
Moves--female hearts are such a genial soil
For kinder feelings, whatsoe'er their nation,
They naturally pour the 'wine and oil,'
Samaritans in every situation;
And thus Gulbeyaz, though she knew not why,
Felt an odd glistening moisture in her eye.
But tears must stop like all things else; and soon
Juan, who for an instant had been moved
To such a sorrow by the intrusive tone
Of one who dared to ask if 'he had loved,'
Call'd back the stoic to his eyes, which shone
Bright with the very weakness he reproved;
And although sensitive to beauty, he
Felt most indignant still at not being free.
Gulbeyaz, for the first time in her days,
Was much embarrass'd, never having met
In all her life with aught save prayers and praise;
And as she also risk'd her life to get
Him whom she meant to tutor in love's ways
Into a comfortable tete-a-tete,
To lose the hour would make her quite a martyr,
And they had wasted now almost a quarter.
I also would suggest the fitting time
To gentlemen in any such like case,
That is to say in a meridian clime--
With us there is more law given to the chase,
But here a small delay forms a great crime:
So recollect that the extremest grace
Is just two minutes for your declaration--
A moment more would hurt your reputation.
Juan's was good; and might have been still better,
But he had got Haidee into his head:
However strange, he could not yet forget her,
Which made him seem exceedingly ill-bred.
Gulbeyaz, who look'd on him as her debtor
For having had him to her palace led,
Began to blush up to the eyes, and then
Grow deadly pale, and then blush back again.
At length, in an imperial way, she laid
Her hand on his, and bending on him eyes
Which needed not an empire to persuade,
Look'd into his for love, where none replies:
Her brow grew black, but she would not upbraid,
That being the last thing a proud woman tries;
She rose, and pausing one chaste moment, threw
Herself upon his breast, and there she grew.
This was an awkward test, as Juan found,
But he was steel'd by sorrow, wrath, and pride:
With gentle force her white arms he unwound,
And seated her all drooping by his side,
Then rising haughtily he glanced around,
And looking coldly in her face, he cried,
'The prison'd eagle will not pair, nor
Serve a Sultana's sensual phantasy.
'Thou ask'st if I can love? be this the proof
How much I have loved--that I love not thee!
In this vile garb, the distaff, web, and woof,
Were fitter for me: Love is for the free!
I am not dazzled by this splendid roof,
Whate'er thy power, and great it seems to be;
Heads bow, knees bend, eyes watch around a throne,
And hands obey--our hearts are still our own.'
This was a truth to us extremely trite;
Not so to her, who ne'er had heard such things:
She deem'd her least command must yield delight,
Earth being only made for queens and kings.
If hearts lay on the left side or the right
She hardly knew, to such perfection brings
Legitimacy its born votaries, when
Aware of their due royal rights o'er men.
Besides, as has been said, she was so fair
As even in a much humbler lot had made
A kingdom or confusion anywhere,
And also, as may be presumed, she laid
Some stress on charms, which seldom are, if e'er,
By their possessors thrown into the shade:
She thought hers gave a double 'right divine;'
And half of that opinion 's also mine.
Remember, or (if you can not) imagine,
Ye, who have kept your chastity when young,
While some more desperate dowager has been waging
Love with you, and been in the dog-days stung
By your refusal, recollect her raging!
Or recollect all that was said or sung
On such a subject; then suppose the face
Of a young downright beauty in this case.
Suppose,--but you already have supposed,
The spouse of Potiphar, the Lady Booby,
Phaedra, and all which story has disclosed
Of good examples; pity that so few by
Poets and private tutors are exposed,
To educate--ye youth of Europe--you by!
But when you have supposed the few we know,
You can't suppose Gulbeyaz' angry brow.
A tigress robb'd of young, a lioness,
Or any interesting beast of prey,
Are similes at hand for the distress
Of ladies who can not have their own way;
But though my turn will not be served with less,
These don't express one half what I should say:
For what is stealing young ones, few or many,
To cutting short their hopes of having any?
The love of offspring 's nature's general law,
From tigresses and cubs to ducks and ducklings;
There 's nothing whets the beak, or arms the claw
Like an invasion of their babes and sucklings;
And all who have seen a human nursery, saw
How mothers love their children's squalls and chucklings;
This strong extreme effect (to tire no longer
Your patience) shows the cause must still be stronger.
If I said fire flash'd from Gulbeyaz' eyes,
'T were nothing--for her eyes flash'd always fire;
Or said her cheeks assumed the deepest dyes,
I should but bring disgrace upon the dyer,
So supernatural was her passion's rise;
For ne'er till now she knew a check'd desire:
Even ye who know what a check'd woman is
(Enough, God knows!) would much fall short of this.
Her rage was but a minute's, and 't was well--
A moment's more had slain her; but the while
It lasted 't was like a short glimpse of hell:
Nought 's more sublime than energetic bile,
Though horrible to see yet grand to tell,
Like ocean warring 'gainst a rocky isle;
And the deep passions flashing through her form
Made her a beautiful embodied storm.
A vulgar tempest 't were to a typhoon
To match a common fury with her rage,
And yet she did not want to reach the moon,
Like moderate Hotspur on the immortal page;
Her anger pitch'd into a lower tune,
Perhaps the fault of her soft sex and age--
Her wish was but to 'kill, kill, kill,' like Lear's,
And then her thirst of blood was quench'd in tears.
A storm it raged, and like the storm it pass'd,
Pass'd without words--in fact she could not speak;
And then her sex's shame broke in at last,
A sentiment till then in her but weak,
But now it flow'd in natural and fast,
As water through an unexpected leak;
For she felt humbled--and humiliation
Is sometimes good for people in her station
It teaches them that they are flesh and blood,
It also gently hints to them that others,
Although of clay, are yet not quite of mud;
That urns and pipkins are but fragile brothers,
And works of the same pottery, bad or good,
Though not all born of the same sires and mothers:
It teaches--Heaven knows only what it teaches,
But sometimes it may mend, and often reaches.
Her first thought was to cut off Juan's head;
Her second, to cut only his--acquaintance;
Her third, to ask him where he had been bred;
Her fourth, to rally him into repentance;
Her fifth, to call her maids and go to bed;
Her sixth, to stab herself; her seventh, to sentence
The lash to Baba:--but her grand resource
Was to sit down again, and cry of course.
She thought to stab herself, but then she had
The dagger close at hand, which made it awkward;
For Eastern stays are little made to pad,
So that a poniard pierces if 't is stuck hard:
She thought of killing Juan--but, poor lad!
Though he deserved it well for being so backward,
The cutting off his head was not the art
Most likely to attain her aim--his heart.
Juan was moved; he had made up his mind
To be impaled, or quarter'd as a dish
For dogs, or to be slain with pangs refined,
Or thrown to lions, or made baits for fish,
And thus heroically stood resign'd,
Rather than sin--except to his own wish:
But all his great preparatives for dying
Dissolved like snow before a woman crying.
As through his palms Bob Acres' valour oozed,
So Juan's virtue ebb'd, I know not how;
And first he wonder'd why he had refused;
And then, if matters could be made up now;
And next his savage virtue he accused,
Just as a friar may accuse his vow,
Or as a dame repents her of her oath,
Which mostly ends in some small breach of both.
So he began to stammer some excuses;
But words are not enough in such a matter,
Although you borrow'd all that e'er the muses
Have sung, or even a Dandy's dandiest chatter,
Or all the figures Castlereagh abuses;
Just as a languid smile began to flatter
His peace was making, but before he ventured
Further, old Baba rather briskly enter'd.
'Bride of the Sun! and Sister of the Moon!'
('T was thus he spake) 'and Empress of the Earth!
Whose frown would put the spheres all out of tune,
Whose smile makes all the planets dance with mirth,
Your slave brings tidings--he hopes not too soon--
Which your sublime attention may be worth:
The Sun himself has sent me like a ray,
To hint that he is coming up this way.'
'Is it,' exclaim'd Gulbeyaz, 'as you say?
I wish to heaven he would not shine till morning!
But bid my women form the milky way.
Hence, my old comet! give the stars due warning--
And, Christian! mingle with them as you may,
And as you 'd have me pardon your past scorning-'
Here they were interrupted by a humming
Sound, and then by a cry, 'The Sultan 's coming!'
First came her damsels, a decorous file,
And then his Highness' eunuchs, black and white;
The train might reach a quarter of a mile:
His majesty was always so polite
As to announce his visits a long while
Before he came, especially at night;
For being the last wife of the Emperour,
She was of course the favorite of the four.
His Highness was a man of solemn port,
Shawl'd to the nose, and bearded to the eyes,
Snatch'd from a prison to preside at court,
His lately bowstrung brother caused his rise;
He was as good a sovereign of the sort
As any mention'd in the histories
Of Cantemir, or Knolles, where few shine
Save Solyman, the glory of their line.
He went to mosque in state, and said his prayers
With more than 'Oriental scrupulosity;'
He left to his vizier all state affairs,
And show'd but little royal curiosity:
I know not if he had domestic cares--
No process proved connubial animosity;
Four wives and twice five hundred maids, unseen,
Were ruled as calmly as a Christian queen.
If now and then there happen'd a slight slip,
Little was heard of criminal or crime;
The story scarcely pass'd a single lip--
The sack and sea had settled all in time,
From which the secret nobody could rip:
The Public knew no more than does this rhyme;
No scandals made the daily press a curse--
Morals were better, and the fish no worse.
He saw with his own eyes the moon was round,
Was also certain that the earth was square,
Because he had journey'd fifty miles, and found
No sign that it was circular anywhere;
His empire also was without a bound:
'T is true, a little troubled here and there,
By rebel pachas, and encroaching giaours,
But then they never came to 'the Seven Towers;'
Except in shape of envoys, who were sent
To lodge there when a war broke out, according
To the true law of nations, which ne'er meant
Those scoundrels, who have never had a sword in
Their dirty diplomatic hands, to vent
Their spleen in making strife, and safely wording
Their lies, yclep'd despatches, without risk or
The singeing of a single inky whisker.
He had fifty daughters and four dozen sons,
Of whom all such as came of age were stow'd,
The former in a palace, where like nuns
They lived till some Bashaw was sent abroad,
When she, whose turn it was, was wed at once,
Sometimes at six years old--though it seems odd,
'T is true; the reason is, that the Bashaw
Must make a present to his sire in law.
His sons were kept in prison, till they grew
Of years to fill a bowstring or the throne,
One or the other, but which of the two
Could yet be known unto the fates alone;
Meantime the education they went through
Was princely, as the proofs have always shown:
So that the heir apparent still was found
No less deserving to be hang'd than crown'd.
His majesty saluted his fourth spouse
With all the ceremonies of his rank,
Who clear'd her sparkling eyes and smooth'd her brows,
As suits a matron who has play'd a prank;
These must seem doubly mindful of their vows,
To save the credit of their breaking bank:
To no men are such cordial greetings given
As those whose wives have made them fit for heaven.
His Highness cast around his great black eyes,
And looking, as he always look'd, perceived
Juan amongst the damsels in disguise,
At which he seem'd no whit surprised nor grieved,
But just remark'd with air sedate and wise,
While still a fluttering sigh Gulbeyaz heaved,
'I see you 've bought another girl; 't is pity
That a mere Christian should be half so pretty.'
This compliment, which drew all eyes upon
The new-bought virgin, made her blush and shake.
Her comrades, also, thought themselves undone:
O! Mahomet! that his majesty should take
Such notice of a giaour, while scarce to one
Of them his lips imperial ever spake!
There was a general whisper, toss, and wriggle,
But etiquette forbade them all to giggle.
The Turks do well to shut--at least, sometimes--
The women up, because, in sad reality,
Their chastity in these unhappy climes
Is not a thing of that astringent quality
Which in the North prevents precocious crimes,
And makes our snow less pure than our morality;
The sun, which yearly melts the polar ice,
Has quite the contrary effect on vice.
Thus in the East they are extremely strict,
And Wedlock and a Padlock mean the same;
Excepting only when the former 's pick'd
It ne'er can be replaced in proper frame;
Spoilt, as a pipe of claret is when prick'd:
But then their own Polygamy 's to blame;
Why don't they knead two virtuous souls for life
Into that moral centaur, man and wife?
Thus far our chronicle; and now we pause,
Though not for want of matter; but 't is time
According to the ancient epic laws,
To slacken sail, and anchor with our rhyme.
Let this fifth canto meet with due applause,
The sixth shall have a touch of the sublime;
Meanwhile, as Homer sometimes sleeps, perhaps
You 'll pardon to my muse a few short naps.
CANTO THE SIXTH.
'There is a tide in the affairs of men
Which,--taken at the flood,'--you know the rest,
And most of us have found it now and then;
At least we think so, though but few have guess'd
The moment, till too late to come again.
But no doubt every thing is for the best--
Of which the surest sign is in the end:
When things are at the worst they sometimes mend.
There is a tide in the affairs of women
Which, taken at the flood, leads--God knows where:
Those navigators must be able seamen
Whose charts lay down its current to a hair;
Not all the reveries of Jacob Behmen
With its strange whirls and eddies can compare:
Men with their heads reflect on this and that--
But women with their hearts on heaven knows what!
And yet a headlong, headstrong, downright she,
Young, beautiful, and daring--who would risk
A throne, the world, the universe, to be
Beloved in her own way, and rather whisk
The stars from out the sky, than not be free
As are the billows when the breeze is brisk--
Though such a she 's a devil (if that there be one),
Yet she would make full many a Manichean.
Thrones, worlds, et cetera, are so oft upset
By commonest ambition, that when passion
O'erthrows the same, we readily forget,
Or at the least forgive, the loving rash one.
If Antony be well remember'd yet,
'Tis not his conquests keep his name in fashion,
But Actium, lost for Cleopatra's eyes,
Outbalances all Caesar's victories.
He died at fifty for a queen of forty;
I wish their years had been fifteen and twenty,
For then wealth, kingdoms, worlds are but a sport--I
Remember when, though I had no great plenty
Of worlds to lose, yet still, to pay my court, I
Gave what I had--a heart: as the world went, I
Gave what was worth a world; for worlds could never
Restore me those pure feelings, gone forever.
'Twas the boy's 'mite,' and, like the 'widow's,' may
Perhaps be weigh'd hereafter, if not now;
But whether such things do or do not weigh,
All who have loved, or love, will still allow
Life has nought like it. God is love, they say,
And Love 's a god, or was before the brow
Of earth was wrinkled by the sins and tears
Of--but Chronology best knows the years.
We left our hero and third heroine in
A kind of state more awkward than uncommon,
For gentlemen must sometimes risk their skin
For that sad tempter, a forbidden woman:
Sultans too much abhor this sort of sin,
And don't agree at all with the wise Roman,
Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious,
Who lent his lady to his friend Hortensius.
I know Gulbeyaz was extremely wrong;
I own it, I deplore it, I condemn it;
But I detest all fiction even in song,
And so must tell the truth, howe'er you blame it.
Her reason being weak, her passions strong,
She thought that her lord's heart (even could she claim it)
Was scarce enough; for he had fifty-nine
Years, and a fifteen-hundredth concubine.
I am not, like Cassio, 'an arithmetician,'
But by 'the bookish theoric' it appears,
If 'tis summ'd up with feminine precision,
That, adding to the account his Highness' years,
The fair Sultana err'd from inanition;
For, were the Sultan just to all his dears,
She could but claim the fifteen-hundredth part
Of what should be monopoly--the heart.
It is observed that ladies are litigious
Upon all legal objects of possession,
And not the least so when they are religious,
Which doubles what they think of the transgression:
With suits and prosecutions they besiege us,
As the tribunals show through many a session,
When they suspect that any one goes shares
In that to which the law makes them sole heirs.
Now, if this holds good in a Christian land,
The heathen also, though with lesser latitude,
Are apt to carry things with a high hand,
And take what kings call 'an imposing attitude,'
And for their rights connubial make a stand,
When their liege husbands treat them with ingratitude:
And as four wives must have quadruple claims,
The Tigris hath its jealousies like Thames.
Gulbeyaz was the fourth, and (as I said)
The favourite; but what 's favour amongst four?
Polygamy may well be held in dread,
Not only as a sin, but as a bore:
Most wise men, with one moderate woman wed,
Will scarcely find philosophy for more;
And all (except Mahometans) forbear
To make the nuptial couch a 'Bed of Ware.'
His Highness, the sublimest of mankind,--
So styled according to the usual forms
Of every monarch, till they are consign'd
To those sad hungry jacobins the worms,
Who on the very loftiest kings have dined,--
His Highness gazed upon Gulbeyaz' charms,
Expecting all the welcome of a lover
(A 'Highland welcome' all the wide world over).
Now here we should distinguish; for howe'er
Kisses, sweet words, embraces, and all that,
May look like what is--neither here nor there,
They are put on as easily as a hat,
Or rather bonnet, which the fair sex wear,
Trimm'd either heads or hearts to decorate,
Which form an ornament, but no more part
Of heads, than their caresses of the heart.
A slight blush, a soft tremor, a calm kind
Of gentle feminine delight, and shown
More in the eyelids than the eyes, resign'd
Rather to hide what pleases most unknown,
Are the best tokens (to a modest mind)
Of love, when seated on his loveliest throne,
A sincere woman's breast,--for over-warm
Or over-cold annihilates the charm.
For over-warmth, if false, is worse than truth;
If true, 'tis no great lease of its own fire;
For no one, save in very early youth,
Would like (I think) to trust all to desire,
Which is but a precarious bond, in sooth,
And apt to be transferr'd to the first buyer
At a sad discount: while your over chilly
Women, on t' other hand, seem somewhat silly.
That is, we cannot pardon their bad taste,
For so it seems to lovers swift or slow,
Who fain would have a mutual flame confess'd,
And see a sentimental passion glow,
Even were St. Francis' paramour their guest,
In his monastic concubine of snow;--
In short, the maxim for the amorous tribe is
Horatian, 'Medio tu tutissimus ibis.'
The 'tu' 's too much,--but let it stand,--the verse
Requires it, that 's to say, the English rhyme,
And not the pink of old hexameters;
But, after all, there 's neither tune nor time
In the last line, which cannot well be worse,
And was thrust in to close the octave's chime:
I own no prosody can ever rate it
As a rule, but truth may, if you translate it.
If fair Gulbeyaz overdid her part,
I know not--it succeeded, and success
Is much in most things, not less in the heart
Than other articles of female dress.
Self-love in man, too, beats all female art;
They lie, we lie, all lie, but love no less;
And no one virtue yet, except starvation,
Could stop that worst of vices--propagation.
We leave this royal couple to repose:
A bed is not a throne, and they may sleep,
Whate'er their dreams be, if of joys or woes:
Yet disappointed joys are woes as deep
As any man's day mixture undergoes.
Our least of sorrows are such as we weep;
'Tis the vile daily drop on drop which wears
The soul out (like the stone) with petty cares.
A scolding wife, a sullen son, a bill
To pay, unpaid, protested, or discounted
At a per-centage; a child cross, dog ill,
A favourite horse fallen lame just as he 's mounted,
A bad old woman making a worse will,
Which leaves you minus of the cash you counted
As certain;--these are paltry things, and yet
I 've rarely seen the man they did not fret.
I 'm a philosopher; confound them all!
Bills, beasts, and men, and--no! not womankind!
With one good hearty curse I vent my gall,
And then my stoicism leaves nought behind
Which it can either pain or evil call,
And I can give my whole soul up to mind;
Though what is soul or mind, their birth or growth,
Is more than I know--the deuce take them both!
As after reading Athanasius' curse,
Which doth your true believer so much please:
I doubt if any now could make it worse
O'er his worst enemy when at his knees,
'Tis so sententious, positive, and terse,
And decorates the book of Common Prayer,
As doth a rainbow the just clearing air.
Gulbeyaz and her lord were sleeping, or
At least one of them!--Oh, the heavy night,
When wicked wives, who love some bachelor,
Lie down in dudgeon to sigh for the light
Of the gray morning, and look vainly for
Its twinkle through the lattice dusky quite--
To toss, to tumble, doze, revive, and quake
Lest their too lawful bed-fellow should wake!
These are beneath the canopy of heaven,
Also beneath the canopy of beds
Four-posted and silk curtain'd, which are given
For rich men and their brides to lay their heads
Upon, in sheets white as what bards call 'driven
Snow.' Well! 'tis all hap-hazard when one weds.
Gulbeyaz was an empress, but had been
Perhaps as wretched if a peasant's quean.
Don Juan in his feminine disguise,
With all the damsels in their long array,
Had bow'd themselves before th' imperial eyes,
And at the usual signal ta'en their way
Back to their chambers, those long galleries
In the seraglio, where the ladies lay
Their delicate limbs; a thousand bosoms there
Beating for love, as the caged bird's for air.
I love the sex, and sometimes would reverse
The tyrant's wish, 'that mankind only had
One neck, which he with one fell stroke might pierce:'
My wish is quite as wide, but not so bad,
And much more tender on the whole than fierce;
It being (not now, but only while a lad)
That womankind had but one rosy mouth,
To kiss them all at once from North to South.
O, enviable Briareus! with thy hands
And heads, if thou hadst all things multiplied
In such proportion!--But my Muse withstands
The giant thought of being a Titan's bride,
Or travelling in Patagonian lands;
So let us back to Lilliput, and guide
Our hero through the labyrinth of love
In which we left him several lines above.
He went forth with the lovely Odalisques,
At the given signal join'd to their array;
And though he certainly ran many risks,
Yet he could not at times keep, by the way
(Although the consequences of such frisks
Are worse than the worst damages men pay
In moral England, where the thing 's a tax),
From ogling all their charms from breasts to backs.
Still he forgot not his disguise:--along
The galleries from room to room they walk'd,
A virgin-like and edifying throng,
By eunuchs flank'd; while at their head there stalk'd
A dame who kept up discipline among
The female ranks, so that none stirr'd or talk'd
Without her sanction on their she-parades:
Her title was 'the Mother of the Maids.'
Whether she was a 'mother,' I know not,
Or whether they were 'maids' who call'd her mother;
But this is her seraglio title, got
I know not how, but good as any other;
So Cantemir can tell you, or De Tott:
Her office was to keep aloof or smother
All bad propensities in fifteen hundred
Young women, and correct them when they blunder'd.
A goodly sinecure, no doubt! but made
More easy by the absence of all men--
Except his majesty, who, with her aid,
And guards, and bolts, and walls, and now and then
A slight example, just to cast a shade
Along the rest, contrived to keep this den
Of beauties cool as an Italian convent,
Where all the passions have, alas! but one vent.
And what is that? Devotion, doubtless--how
Could you ask such a question?--but we will
Continue. As I said, this goodly row
Of ladies of all countries at the will
Of one good man, with stately march and slow,
Like water-lilies floating down a rill--
Or rather lake, for rills do not run slowly--
Paced on most maiden-like and melancholy.
But when they reach'd their own apartments, there,
Like birds, or boys, or bedlamites broke loose,
Waves at spring-tide, or women anywhere
When freed from bonds (which are of no great use
After all), or like Irish at a fair,
Their guards being gone, and as it were a truce
Establish'd between them and bondage, they
Began to sing, dance, chatter, smile, and play.
Their talk, of course, ran most on the new comer;
Her shape, her hair, her air, her everything:
Some thought her dress did not so much become her,
Or wonder'd at her ears without a ring;
Some said her years were getting nigh their summer,
Others contended they were but in spring;
Some thought her rather masculine in height,
While others wish'd that she had been so quite.
But no one doubted on the whole, that she
Was what her dress bespoke, a damsel fair,
And fresh, and 'beautiful exceedingly,'
Who with the brightest Georgians might compare:
They wonder'd how Gulbeyaz, too, could be
So silly as to buy slaves who might share
(If that his Highness wearied of his bride)
Her throne and power, and every thing beside.
But what was strangest in this virgin crew,
Although her beauty was enough to vex,
After the first investigating view,
They all found out as few, or fewer, specks
In the fair form of their companion new,
Than is the custom of the gentle sex,
When they survey, with Christian eyes or Heathen,
In a new face 'the ugliest creature breathing.'
And yet they had their little jealousies,
Like all the rest; but upon this occasion,
Whether there are such things as sympathies
Without our knowledge or our approbation,
Although they could not see through his disguise,
All felt a soft kind of concatenation,
Like magnetism, or devilism, or what
You please--we will not quarrel about that:
But certain 'tis they all felt for their new
Companion something newer still, as 'twere
A sentimental friendship through and through,
Extremely pure, which made them all concur
In wishing her their sister, save a few
Who wish'd they had a brother just like her,
Whom, if they were at home in sweet Circassia,
They would prefer to Padisha or Pacha.
Of those who had most genius for this sort
Of sentimental friendship, there were three,
Lolah, Katinka, and Dudu; in short
(To save description), fair as fair can be
Were they, according to the best report,
Though differing in stature and degree,
And clime and time, and country and complexion;
They all alike admired their new connection.
Lolah was dusk as India and as warm;
Katinka was a Georgian, white and red,
With great blue eyes, a lovely hand and arm,
And feet so small they scarce seem'd made to tread,
But rather skim the earth; while Dudu's form
Look'd more adapted to be put to bed,
Being somewhat large, and languishing, and lazy,
Yet of a beauty that would drive you crazy.
A kind of sleepy Venus seem'd Dudu,
Yet very fit to 'murder sleep' in those
Who gazed upon her cheek's transcendent hue,
Her Attic forehead, and her Phidian nose:
Few angles were there in her form, 'tis true,
Thinner she might have been, and yet scarce lose;
Yet, after all, 'twould puzzle to say where
It would not spoil some separate charm to pare.
She was not violently lively, but
Stole on your spirit like a May-day breaking;
Her eyes were not too sparkling, yet, half-shut,
They put beholders in a tender taking;
She look'd (this simile 's quite new) just cut
From marble, like Pygmalion's statue waking,
The mortal and the marble still at strife,
And timidly expanding into life.
Lolah demanded the new damsel's name--
'Juanna.'--Well, a pretty name enough.
Katinka ask'd her also whence she came--
'From Spain.'--'But where is Spain?'--'Don't ask such stuff,
Nor show your Georgian ignorance--for shame!'
Said Lolah, with an accent rather rough,
To poor Katinka: 'Spain 's an island near
Morocco, betwixt Egypt and Tangier.'
Dudu said nothing, but sat down beside
Juanna, playing with her veil or hair;
And looking at her steadfastly, she sigh'd,
As if she pitied her for being there,
A pretty stranger without friend or guide,
And all abash'd, too, at the general stare
Which welcomes hapless strangers in all places,
With kind remarks upon their mien and faces.
But here the Mother of the Maids drew near,
With, 'Ladies, it is time to go to rest.
I 'm puzzled what to do with you, my dear,'
She added to Juanna, their new guest:
'Your coming has been unexpected here,
And every couch is occupied; you had best
Partake of mine; but by to-morrow early
We will have all things settled for you fairly.'
Here Lolah interposed--'Mamma, you know
You don't sleep soundly, and I cannot bear
That anybody should disturb you so;
I 'll take Juanna; we 're a slenderer pair
Than you would make the half of;--don't say no;
And I of your young charge will take due care.'
But here Katinka interfered, and said,
'She also had compassion and a bed.
'Besides, I hate to sleep alone,' quoth she.
The matron frown'd: 'Why so?'--'For fear of ghosts,'
Replied Katinka; 'I am sure I see
A phantom upon each of the four posts;
And then I have the worst dreams that can be,
Of Guebres, Giaours, and Ginns, and Gouls in hosts.'
The dame replied, 'Between your dreams and you,
I fear Juanna's dreams would be but few.
'You, Lolah, must continue still to lie
Alone, for reasons which don't matter; you
The same, Katinka, until by and by;
And I shall place Juanna with Dudu,
Who 's quiet, inoffensive, silent, shy,
And will not toss and chatter the night through.
What say you, child?'--Dudu said nothing, as
Her talents were of the more silent class;
But she rose up, and kiss'd the matron's brow
Between the eyes, and Lolah on both cheeks,
Katinka, too; and with a gentle bow
(Curt'sies are neither used by Turks nor Greeks)
She took Juanna by the hand to show
Their place of rest, and left to both their piques,
The others pouting at the matron's preference
Of Dudu, though they held their tongues from deference.
It was a spacious chamber (Oda is
The Turkish title), and ranged round the wall
Were couches, toilets--and much more than this
I might describe, as I have seen it all,
But it suffices--little was amiss;
'Twas on the whole a nobly furnish'd hall,
With all things ladies want, save one or two,
And even those were nearer than they knew.
Dudu, as has been said, was a sweet creature,
Not very dashing, but extremely winning,
With the most regulated charms of feature,
Which painters cannot catch like faces sinning
Against proportion--the wild strokes of nature
Which they hit off at once in the beginning,
Full of expression, right or wrong, that strike,
And pleasing or unpleasing, still are like.
But she was a soft landscape of mild earth,
Where all was harmony, and calm, and quiet,
Luxuriant, budding; cheerful without mirth,
Which, if not happiness, is much more nigh it
Than are your mighty passions and so forth,
Which some call 'the sublime:' I wish they 'd try it:
I 've seen your stormy seas and stormy women,
And pity lovers rather more than seamen.
But she was pensive more than melancholy,
And serious more than pensive, and serene,
It may be, more than either--not unholy
Her thoughts, at least till now, appear to have been.
The strangest thing was, beauteous, she was wholly
Unconscious, albeit turn'd of quick seventeen,
That she was fair, or dark, or short, or tall;
She never thought about herself at all.
And therefore was she kind and gentle as
The Age of Gold (when gold was yet unknown,
By which its nomenclature came to pass;
Thus most appropriately has been shown
'Lucus a non lucendo,' not what was,
But what was not; a sort of style that 's grown
Extremely common in this age, whose metal
The devil may decompose, but never settle:
I think it may be of 'Corinthian Brass,'
Which was a mixture of all metals, but
The brazen uppermost). Kind reader! pass
This long parenthesis: I could not shut
It sooner for the soul of me, and class
My faults even with your own! which meaneth, Put
A kind construction upon them and me:
But that you won't--then don't--I am not less free.
'Tis time we should return to plain narration,
And thus my narrative proceeds:--Dudu,
With every kindness short of ostentation,
Show'd Juan, or Juanna, through and through
This labyrinth of females, and each station
Described--what 's strange--in words extremely few:
I have but one simile, and that 's a blunder,
For wordless woman, which is silent thunder.
And next she gave her (I say her, because
The gender still was epicene, at least
In outward show, which is a saving clause)
An outline of the customs of the East,
With all their chaste integrity of laws,
By which the more a haram is increased,
The stricter doubtless grow the vestal duties
Of any supernumerary beauties.
And then she gave Juanna a chaste kiss:
Dudu was fond of kissing--which I 'm sure
That nobody can ever take amiss,
Because 'tis pleasant, so that it be pure,
And between females means no more than this--
That they have nothing better near, or newer.
'Kiss' rhymes to 'bliss' in fact as well as verse--
I wish it never led to something worse.
In perfect innocence she then unmade
Her toilet, which cost little, for she was
A child of Nature, carelessly array'd:
If fond of a chance ogle at her glass,
'Twas like the fawn, which, in the lake display'd,
Beholds her own shy, shadowy image pass,
When first she starts, and then returns to peep,
Admiring this new native of the deep.
And one by one her articles of dress
Were laid aside; but not before she offer'd
Her aid to fair Juanna, whose excess
Of modesty declined the assistance proffer'd:
Which pass'd well off--as she could do no less;
Though by this politesse she rather suffer'd,
Pricking her fingers with those cursed pins,
Which surely were invented for our sins,--
Making a woman like a porcupine,
Not to be rashly touch'd. But still more dread,
O ye! whose fate it is, as once 'twas mine,
In early youth, to turn a lady's maid;--
I did my very boyish best to shine
In tricking her out for a masquerade;
The pins were placed sufficiently, but not
Stuck all exactly in the proper spot.
But these are foolish things to all the wise,
And I love wisdom more than she loves me;
My tendency is to philosophise
On most things, from a tyrant to a tree;
But still the spouseless virgin Knowledge flies.
What are we? and whence came we? what shall be
Our ultimate existence? what 's our present?
Are questions answerless, and yet incessant.
There was deep silence in the chamber: dim
And distant from each other burn'd the lights,
And slumber hover'd o'er each lovely limb
Of the fair occupants: if there be sprites,
They should have walk'd there in their sprightliest trim,
By way of change from their sepulchral sites,
And shown themselves as ghosts of better taste
Than haunting some old ruin or wild waste.
Many and beautiful lay those around,
Like flowers of different hue, and dime, and root,
In some exotic garden sometimes found,
With cost, and care, and warmth induced to shoot.
One with her auburn tresses lightly bound,
And fair brows gently drooping, as the fruit
Nods from the tree, was slumbering with soft breath,
And lips apart, which show'd the pearls beneath.
One with her flush'd cheek laid on her white arm,
And raven ringlets gather'd in dark crowd
Above her brow, lay dreaming soft and warm;
And smiling through her dream, as through a cloud
The moon breaks, half unveil'd each further charm,
As, slightly stirring in her snowy shroud,
Her beauties seized the unconscious hour of night
All bashfully to struggle into light.
This is no bull, although it sounds so; for
'Twas night, but there were lamps, as hath been said.
A third's all pallid aspect offer'd more
The traits of sleeping sorrow, and betray'd
Through the heaved breast the dream of some far shore
Beloved and deplored; while slowly stray'd
(As night-dew, on a cypress glittering, tinges
The black bough) tear-drops through her eyes' dark fringes.
A fourth as marble, statue-like and still,
Lay in a breathless, hush'd, and stony sleep;
White, cold, and pure, as looks a frozen rill,
Or the snow minaret on an Alpine steep,
Or Lot's wife done in salt,--or what you will;--
My similes are gather'd in a heap,
So pick and choose--perhaps you 'll be content
With a carved lady on a monument.
And lo! a fifth appears;--and what is she?
A lady of a 'certain age,' which means
Certainly aged--what her years might be
I know not, never counting past their teens;
But there she slept, not quite so fair to see,
As ere that awful period intervenes
Which lays both men and women on the shelf,
To meditate upon their sins and self.
But all this time how slept, or dream'd, Dudu?
With strict inquiry I could ne'er discover,
And scorn to add a syllable untrue;
But ere the middle watch was hardly over,
Just when the fading lamps waned dim and blue,
And phantoms hover'd, or might seem to hover,
To those who like their company, about
The apartment, on a sudden she scream'd out:
And that so loudly, that upstarted all
The Oda, in a general commotion:
Matron and maids, and those whom you may call
Neither, came crowding like the waves of ocean,
One on the other, throughout the whole hall,
All trembling, wondering, without the least notion
More than I have myself of what could make
The calm Dudu so turbulently wake.
But wide awake she was, and round her bed,
With floating draperies and with flying hair,
With eager eyes, and light but hurried tread,
And bosoms, arms, and ankles glancing bare,
And bright as any meteor ever bred
By the North Pole,--they sought her cause of care,
For she seem'd agitated, flush'd, and frighten'd,
Her eye dilated and her colour heighten'd.
But what was strange--and a strong proof how great
A blessing is sound sleep--Juanna lay
As fast as ever husband by his mate
In holy matrimony snores away.
Not all the clamour broke her happy state
Of slumber, ere they shook her,--so they say
At least,--and then she, too, unclosed her eyes,
And yawn'd a good deal with discreet surprise.
And now commenced a strict investigation,
Which, as all spoke at once and more than once,
Conjecturing, wondering, asking a narration,
Alike might puzzle either wit or dunce
To answer in a very clear oration.
Dudu had never pass'd for wanting sense,
But, being 'no orator as Brutus is,'
Could not at first expound what was amiss.
At length she said, that in a slumber sound
She dream'd a dream, of walking in a wood--
A 'wood obscure,' like that where Dante found
Himself in at the age when all grow good;
Life's half-way house, where dames with virtue crown'd
Run much less risk of lovers turning rude;
And that this wood was full of pleasant fruits,
And trees of goodly growth and spreading roots;
And in the midst a golden apple grew,--
A most prodigious pippin,--but it hung
Rather too high and distant; that she threw
Her glances on it, and then, longing, flung
Stones and whatever she could pick up, to
Bring down the fruit, which still perversely clung
To its own bough, and dangled yet in sight,
But always at a most provoking height;--
That on a sudden, when she least had hope,
It fell down of its own accord before
Her feet; that her first movement was to stoop
And pick it up, and bite it to the core;
That just as her young lip began to ope
Upon the golden fruit the vision bore,
A bee flew out and stung her to the heart,
And so--she awoke with a great scream and start.
All this she told with some confusion and
Dismay, the usual consequence of dreams
Of the unpleasant kind, with none at hand
To expound their vain and visionary gleams.
I 've known some odd ones which seem'd really plann'd
Prophetically, or that which one deems
A 'strange coincidence,' to use a phrase
By which such things are settled now-a-days.
The damsels, who had thoughts of some great harm,
Began, as is the consequence of fear,
To scold a little at the false alarm
That broke for nothing on their sleeping car.
The matron, too, was wroth to leave her warm
Bed for the dream she had been obliged to hear,
And chafed at poor Dudu, who only sigh'd,
And said that she was sorry she had cried.
'I 've heard of stories of a cock and bull;
But visions of an apple and a bee,
To take us from our natural rest, and pull
The whole Oda from their beds at half-past three,
Would make us think the moon is at its full.
You surely are unwell, child! we must see,
To-morrow, what his Highness's physician
Will say to this hysteric of a vision.
'And poor Juanna, too--the child's first night
Within these walls to be broke in upon
With such a clamour! I had thought it right
That the young stranger should not lie alone,
And, as the quietest of all, she might
With you, Dudu, a good night's rest have known;
But now I must transfer her to the charge
Of Lolah--though her couch is not so large.'
Lolah's eyes sparkled at the proposition;
But poor Dudu, with large drops in her own,
Resulting from the scolding or the vision,
Implored that present pardon might be shown
For this first fault, and that on no condition
(She added in a soft and piteous tone)
Juanna should be taken from her, and
Her future dreams should all be kept in hand.
She promised never more to have a dream,
At least to dream so loudly as just now;
She wonder'd at herself how she could scream--
'Twas foolish, nervous, as she must allow,
A fond hallucination, and a theme
For laughter--but she felt her spirits low,
And begg'd they would excuse her; she 'd get over
This weakness in a few hours, and recover.
And here Juanna kindly interposed,
And said she felt herself extremely well
Where she then was, as her sound sleep disclosed
When all around rang like a tocsin bell:
She did not find herself the least disposed
To quit her gentle partner, and to dwell
Apart from one who had no sin to show,
Save that of dreaming once 'mal-a-propos.'
As thus Juanna spoke, Dudu turn'd round
And hid her face within Juanna's breast:
Her neck alone was seen, but that was found
The colour of a budding rose's crest.
I can't tell why she blush'd, nor can expound
The mystery of this rupture of their rest;
All that I know is, that the facts I state
Are true as truth has ever been of late.
And so good night to them,--or, if you will,
Good morrow--for the cock had crown, and light
Began to clothe each Asiatic hill,
And the mosque crescent struggled into sight
Of the long caravan, which in the chill
Of dewy dawn wound slowly round each height
That stretches to the stony belt, which girds
Asia, where Kaff looks down upon the Kurds.
With the first ray, or rather grey of morn,
Gulbeyaz rose from restlessness; and pale
As passion rises, with its bosom worn,
Array'd herself with mantle, gem, and veil.
The nightingale that sings with the deep thorn,
Which fable places in her breast of wail,
Is lighter far of heart and voice than those
Whose headlong passions form their proper woes.
And that 's the moral of this composition,
If people would but see its real drift;--
But that they will not do without suspicion,
Because all gentle readers have the gift
Of closing 'gainst the light their orbs of vision;
While gentle writers also love to lift
Their voices 'gainst each other, which is natural,
The numbers are too great for them to flatter all.
Rose the sultana from a bed of splendour,
Softer than the soft Sybarite's, who cried
Aloud because his feelings were too tender
To brook a ruffled rose-leaf by his side,--
So beautiful that art could little mend her,
Though pale with conflicts between love and pride;--
So agitated was she with her error,
She did not even look into the mirror.
Also arose about the self-same time,
Perhaps a little later, her great lord,
Master of thirty kingdoms so sublime,
And of a wife by whom he was abhorr'd;
A thing of much less import in that clime--
At least to those of incomes which afford
The filling up their whole connubial cargo--
Than where two wives are under an embargo.
He did not think much on the matter, nor
Indeed on any other: as a man
He liked to have a handsome paramour
At hand, as one may like to have a fan,
And therefore of Circassians had good store,
As an amusement after the Divan;
Though an unusual fit of love, or duty,
Had made him lately bask in his bride's beauty.
And now he rose; and after due ablutions
Exacted by the customs of the East,
And prayers and other pious evolutions,
He drank six cups of coffee at the least,
And then withdrew to hear about the Russians,
Whose victories had recently increased
In Catherine's reign, whom glory still adores,
But oh, thou grand legitimate Alexander!
Her son's son, let not this last phrase offend
Thine ear, if it should reach--and now rhymes wander
Almost as far as Petersburgh and lend
A dreadful impulse to each loud meander
Of murmuring Liberty's wide waves, which blend
Their roar even with the Baltic's--so you be
Your father's son, 'tis quite enough for me.
To call men love-begotten or proclaim
Their mothers as the antipodes of Timon,
That hater of mankind, would be a shame,
A libel, or whate'er you please to rhyme on:
But people's ancestors are history's game;
And if one lady's slip could leave a crime on
All generations, I should like to know
What pedigree the best would have to show?
Had Catherine and the sultan understood
Their own true interests, which kings rarely know
Until 'tis taught by lessons rather rude,
There was a way to end their strife, although
Perhaps precarious, had they but thought good,
Without the aid of prince or plenipo:
She to dismiss her guards and he his haram,
And for their other matters, meet and share 'em.
But as it was, his Highness had to hold
His daily council upon ways and means
How to encounter with this martial scold,
This modern Amazon and queen of queans;
And the perplexity could not be told
Of all the pillars of the state, which leans
Sometimes a little heavy on the backs
Of those who cannot lay on a new tax.
Meantime Gulbeyaz, when her king was gone,
Retired into her boudoir, a sweet place
For love or breakfast; private, pleasing, lone,
And rich with all contrivances which grace
Those gay recesses:--many a precious stone
Sparkled along its roof, and many a vase
Of porcelain held in the fetter'd flowers,
Those captive soothers of a captive's hours.
Mother of pearl, and porphyry, and marble,
Vied with each other on this costly spot;
And singing birds without were heard to warble;
And the stain'd glass which lighted this fair grot
Varied each ray;--but all descriptions garble
The true effect, and so we had better not
Be too minute; an outline is the best,--
A lively reader's fancy does the rest.
And here she summon'd Baba, and required
Don Juan at his hands, and information
Of what had pass'd since all the slaves retired,
And whether he had occupied their station;
If matters had been managed as desired,
And his disguise with due consideration
Kept up; and above all, the where and how
He had pass'd the night, was what she wish'd to know.
Baba, with some embarrassment, replied
To this long catechism of questions, ask'd
More easily than answer'd,--that he had tried
His best to obey in what he had been task'd;
But there seem'd something that he wish'd to hide,
Which hesitation more betray'd than mask'd;
He scratch'd his ear, the infallible resource
To which embarrass'd people have recourse.
Gulbeyaz was no model of true patience,
Nor much disposed to wait in word or deed;
She liked quick answers in all conversations;
And when she saw him stumbling like a steed
In his replies, she puzzled him for fresh ones;
And as his speech grew still more broken-kneed,
Her cheek began to flush, her eyes to sparkle,
And her proud brow's blue veins to swell and darkle.
When Baba saw these symptoms, which he knew
To bode him no great good, he deprecated
Her anger, and beseech'd she 'd hear him through--
He could not help the thing which he related:
Then out it came at length, that to Dudu
Juan was given in charge, as hath been stated;
But not by Baba's fault, he said, and swore on
The holy camel's hump, besides the Koran.
The chief dame of the Oda, upon whom
The discipline of the whole haram bore,
As soon as they re-enter'd their own room,
For Baba's function stopt short at the door,
Had settled all; nor could he then presume
(The aforesaid Baba) just then to do more,
Without exciting such suspicion as
Might make the matter still worse than it was.
He hoped, indeed he thought, he could be sure
Juan had not betray'd himself; in fact
'Twas certain that his conduct had been pure,
Because a foolish or imprudent act
Would not alone have made him insecure,
But ended in his being found out and sack'd,
And thrown into the sea.--Thus Baba spoke
Of all save Dudu's dream, which was no joke.
This he discreetly kept in the background,
And talk'd away--and might have talk'd till now,
For any further answer that he found,
So deep an anguish wrung Gulbeyaz' brow:
Her cheek turn'd ashes, ears rung, brain whirl'd round,
As if she had received a sudden blow,
And the heart's dew of pain sprang fast and chilly
O'er her fair front, like Morning's on a lily.
Although she was not of the fainting sort,
Baba thought she would faint, but there he err'd--
It was but a convulsion, which though short
Can never be described; we all have heard,
And some of us have felt thus 'all amort,'
When things beyond the common have occurr'd;--
Gulbeyaz proved in that brief agony
What she could ne'er express--then how should I?
She stood a moment as a Pythones
Stands on her tripod, agonised, and full
Of inspiration gather'd from distress,
When all the heart-strings like wild horses pull
The heart asunder;--then, as more or lees
Their speed abated or their strength grew dull,
She sunk down on her seat by slow degrees,
And bow'd her throbbing head o'er trembling knees.
Her face declined and was unseen; her hair
Fell in long tresses like the weeping willow,
Sweeping the marble underneath her chair,
Or rather sofa (for it was all pillow,
A low soft ottoman), and black despair
Stirr'd up and down her bosom like a billow,
Which rushes to some shore whose shingles check
Its farther course, but must receive its wreck.
Her head hung down, and her long hair in stooping
Conceal'd her features better than a veil;
And one hand o'er the ottoman lay drooping,
White, waxen, and as alabaster pale:
Would that I were a painter! to be grouping
All that a poet drags into detail
O that my words were colours! but their tints
May serve perhaps as outlines or slight hints.
Baba, who knew by experience when to talk
And when to hold his tongue, now held it till
This passion might blow o'er, nor dared to balk
Gulbeyaz' taciturn or speaking will.
At length she rose up, and began to walk
Slowly along the room, but silent still,
And her brow clear'd, but not her troubled eye;
The wind was down, but still the sea ran high.
She stopp'd, and raised her head to speak--but paused,
And then moved on again with rapid pace;
Then slacken'd it, which is the march most caused
By deep emotion:--you may sometimes trace
A feeling in each footstep, as disclosed
By Sallust in his Catiline, who, chased
By all the demons of all passions, show'd
Their work even by the way in which he trode.
Gulbeyaz stopp'd and beckon'd Baba:--'Slave!
Bring the two slaves!' she said in a low tone,
But one which Baba did not like to brave,
And yet he shudder'd, and seem'd rather prone
To prove reluctant, and begg'd leave to crave
(Though he well knew the meaning) to be shown
What slaves her highness wish'd to indicate,
For fear of any error, like the late.
'The Georgian and her paramour,' replied
The imperial bride--and added, 'Let the boat
Be ready by the secret portal's side:
You know the rest.' The words stuck in her throat,
Despite her injured love and fiery pride;
And of this Baba willingly took note,
And begg'd by every hair of Mahomet's beard,
She would revoke the order he had heard.
'To hear is to obey,' he said; 'but still,
Sultana, think upon the consequence:
It is not that I shall not all fulfil
Your orders, even in their severest sense;
But such precipitation may end ill,
Even at your own imperative expense:
I do not mean destruction and exposure,
In case of any premature disclosure;
'But your own feelings. Even should all the rest
Be hidden by the rolling waves, which hide
Already many a once love-beaten breast
Deep in the caverns of the deadly tide--
You love this boyish, new, seraglio guest,
And if this violent remedy be tried--
Excuse my freedom, when I here assure you,
That killing him is not the way to cure you.'
'What dost thou know of love or feeling?--Wretch!
Begone!' she cried, with kindling eyes--'and do
My bidding!' Baba vanish'd, for to stretch
His own remonstrance further he well knew
Might end in acting as his own 'Jack Ketch;'
And though he wish'd extremely to get through
This awkward business without harm to others,
He still preferr'd his own neck to another's.
Away he went then upon his commission,
Growling and grumbling in good Turkish phrase
Against all women of whate'er condition,
Especially sultanas and their ways;
Their obstinacy, pride, and indecision,
Their never knowing their own mind two days,
The trouble that they gave, their immorality,
Which made him daily bless his own neutrality.
And then he call'd his brethren to his aid,
And sent one on a summons to the pair,
That they must instantly be well array'd,
And above all be comb'd even to a hair,
And brought before the empress, who had made
Inquiries after them with kindest care:
At which Dudu look'd strange, and Juan silly;
But go they must at once, and will I--nill I.
And here I leave them at their preparation
For the imperial presence, wherein whether
Gulbeyaz show'd them both commiseration,
Or got rid of the parties altogether,
Like other angry ladies of her nation,--
Are things the turning of a hair or feather
May settle; but far be 't from me to anticipate
In what way feminine caprice may dissipate.
I leave them for the present with good wishes,
Though doubts of their well doing, to arrange
Another part of history; for the dishes
Of this our banquet we must sometimes change;
And trusting Juan may escape the fishes,
Although his situation now seems strange
And scarce secure, as such digressions are fair,
The Muse will take a little touch at warfare.
[Illustration: Canto 7]
CANTO THE SEVENTH.
O Love! O Glory! what are ye who fly
Around us ever, rarely to alight?
There 's not a meteor in the polar sky
Of such transcendent and more fleeting flight.
Chill, and chain'd to cold earth, we lift on high
Our eyes in search of either lovely light;
A thousand and a thousand colours they
Assume, then leave us on our freezing way.
And such as they are, such my present tale is,
A non-descript and ever-varying rhyme,
A versified Aurora Borealis,
Which flashes o'er a waste and icy clime.
When we know what all are, we must bewail us,
But ne'ertheless I hope it is no crime
To laugh at all things--for I wish to know
What, after all, are all things--but a show?
They accuse me--Me--the present writer of
The present poem--of--I know not what--
A tendency to under-rate and scoff
At human power and virtue, and all that;
And this they say in language rather rough.
Good God! I wonder what they would be at!
I say no more than hath been said in Dante's
Verse, and by Solomon and by Cervantes;
By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault,
By Fenelon, by Luther, and by Plato;
By Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau,
Who knew this life was not worth a potato.
'T is not their fault, nor mine, if this be so--
For my part, I pretend not to be Cato,
Nor even Diogenes.--We live and die,
But which is best, you know no more than I.
Socrates said, our only knowledge was
'To know that nothing could be known;' a pleasant
Science enough, which levels to an ass
Each man of wisdom, future, past, or present.
Newton (that proverb of the mind), alas!
Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent,
That he himself felt only 'like a youth
Picking up shells by the great ocean--Truth.'
Ecclesiastes said, 'that all is vanity'-
Most modern preachers say the same, or show it
By their examples of true Christianity:
In short, all know, or very soon may know it;
And in this scene of all-confess'd inanity,
By saint, by sage, by preacher, and by poet,
Must I restrain me, through the fear of strife,
From holding up the nothingness of life?
Dogs, or men!--for I flatter you in saying
That ye are dogs--your betters far--ye may
Read, or read not, what I am now essaying
To show ye what ye are in every way.
As little as the moon stops for the baying
Of wolves, will the bright muse withdraw one ray
From out her skies--then howl your idle wrath!
While she still silvers o'er your gloomy path.
'Fierce loves and faithless wars'--I am not sure
If this be the right reading--'t is no matter;
The fact 's about the same, I am secure;
I sing them both, and am about to batter
A town which did a famous siege endure,
And was beleaguer'd both by land and water
By Souvaroff, or Anglice Suwarrow,
Who loved blood as an alderman loves marrow.
The fortress is call'd Ismail, and is placed
Upon the Danube's left branch and left bank,
With buildings in the Oriental taste,
But still a fortress of the foremost rank,
Or was at least, unless 't is since defaced,
Which with your conquerors is a common prank:
It stands some eighty versts from the high sea,
And measures round of toises thousands three.
Within the extent of this fortification
A borough is comprised along the height
Upon the left, which from its loftier station
Commands the city, and upon its site
A Greek had raised around this elevation
A quantity of palisades upright,
So placed as to impede the fire of those
Who held the place, and to assist the foe's.
This circumstance may serve to give a notion
Of the high talents of this new Vauban:
But the town ditch below was deep as ocean,
The rampart higher than you 'd wish to hang:
But then there was a great want of precaution
(Prithee, excuse this engineering slang),
Nor work advanced, nor cover'd way was there,
To hint at least 'Here is no thoroughfare.'
But a stone bastion, with a narrow gorge,
And walls as thick as most skulls born as yet;
Two batteries, cap-a-pie, as our St. George,
Case-mated one, and t' other 'a barbette,'
Of Danube's bank took formidable charge;
While two and twenty cannon duly set
Rose over the town's right side, in bristling tier,
Forty feet high, upon a cavalier.
But from the river the town 's open quite,
Because the Turks could never be persuaded
A Russian vessel e'er would heave in sight;
And such their creed was, till they were invaded,
When it grew rather late to set things right.
But as the Danube could not well be waded,
They look'd upon the Muscovite flotilla,
And only shouted, 'Allah!' and 'Bis Millah!'
The Russians now were ready to attack:
But oh, ye goddesses of war and glory!
How shall I spell the name of each Cossacque
Who were immortal, could one tell their story?
Alas! what to their memory can lack?
Achilles' self was not more grim and gory
Than thousands of this new and polish'd nation,
Whose names want nothing but--pronunciation.
Still I 'll record a few, if but to increase
Our euphony: there was Strongenoff, and Strokonoff,
Meknop, Serge Lwow, Arsniew of modern Greece,
And Tschitsshakoff, and Roguenoff, and Chokenoff,
And others of twelve consonants apiece;
And more might be found out, if I could poke enough
Into gazettes; but Fame (capricious strumpet),
It seems, has got an ear as well as trumpet,
And cannot tune those discords of narration,
Which may be names at Moscow, into rhyme;
Yet there were several worth commemoration,
As e'er was virgin of a nuptial chime;
Soft words, too, fitted for the peroration
Of Londonderry drawling against time,
Ending in 'ischskin,' 'ousckin,' 'iffskchy,' 'ouski:
Of whom we can _insert_ but Rousamouski,
Scherematoff and Chrematoff, Koklophti,
Koclobski, Kourakin, and Mouskin Pouskin,
All proper men of weapons, as e'er scoff'd high
Against a foe, or ran a sabre through skin:
Little cared they for Mahomet or Mufti,
Unless to make their kettle-drums a new skin
Out of their hides, if parchment had grown dear,
And no more handy substitute been near.
Then there were foreigners of much renown,
Of various nations, and all volunteers;
Not fighting for their country or its crown,
But wishing to be one day brigadiers;
Also to have the sacking of a town,--
A pleasant thing to young men at their years.
'Mongst them were several Englishmen of pith,
Sixteen call'd Thomson, and nineteen named Smith.
Jack Thomson and Bill Thomson; all the rest
Had been call'd 'Jemmy,' after the great bard;
I don't know whether they had arms or crest,
But such a godfather 's as good a card.
Three of the Smiths were Peters; but the best
Amongst them all, hard blows to inflict or ward,
Was he, since so renown'd 'in country quarters
At Halifax;' but now he served the Tartars.
The rest were jacks and Gills and Wills and Bills;
But when I 've added that the elder jack Smith
Was born in Cumberland among the hills,
And that his father was an honest blacksmith,
I 've said all I know of a name that fills
Three lines of the despatch in taking 'Schmacksmith,'
A village of Moldavia's waste, wherein
He fell, immortal in a bulletin.
I wonder (although Mars no doubt 's a god
Praise) if a man's name in a bulletin
May make up for a bullet in his body?
I hope this little question is no sin,
Because, though I am but a simple noddy,
I think one Shakspeare puts the same thought in
The mouth of some one in his plays so doting,
Which many people pass for wits by quoting.
Then there were Frenchmen, gallant, young, and gay:
But I 'm too great a patriot to record
Their Gallic names upon a glorious day;
I 'd rather tell ten lies than say a word
Of truth;--such truths are treason; they betray
Their country; and as traitors are abhorr'd
Who name the French in English, save to show
How Peace should make John Bull the Frenchman's foe.
The Russians, having built two batteries on
An isle near Ismail, had two ends in view;
The first was to bombard it, and knock down
The public buildings and the private too,
No matter what poor souls might be undone.
The city's shape suggested this, 't is true;
Form'd like an amphitheatre, each dwelling
Presented a fine mark to throw a shell in.
The second object was to profit by
The moment of the general consternation,
To attack the Turk's flotilla, which lay nigh
Extremely tranquil, anchor'd at its station:
But a third motive was as probably
To frighten them into capitulation;
A phantasy which sometimes seizes warriors,
Unless they are game as bull-dogs and fox-terriers.
A habit rather blamable, which is
That of despising those we combat with,
Common in many cases, was in this
The cause of killing Tchitchitzkoff and Smith;
One of the valorous 'Smiths' whom we shall miss
Out of those nineteen who late rhymed to 'pith;'
But 't is a name so spread o'er 'Sir' and 'Madam,'
That one would think the first who bore it 'Adam.'
The Russian batteries were incomplete,
Because they were constructed in a hurry;
Thus the same cause which makes a verse want feet,
And throws a cloud o'er Longman and John Murray,
When the sale of new books is not so fleet
As they who print them think is necessary,
May likewise put off for a time what story
Sometimes calls 'murder,' and at others 'glory.'
Whether it was their engineer's stupidity,
Their haste, or waste, I neither know nor care,
Or some contractor's personal cupidity,
Saving his soul by cheating in the ware
Of homicide, but there was no solidity
In the new batteries erected there;
They either miss'd, or they were never miss'd,
And added greatly to the missing list.
A sad miscalculation about distance
Made all their naval matters incorrect;
Three fireships lost their amiable existence
Before they reach'd a spot to take effect:
The match was lit too soon, and no assistance
Could remedy this lubberly defect;
They blew up in the middle of the river,
While, though 't was dawn, the Turks slept fast as ever.
At seven they rose, however, and survey'd
The Russ flotilla getting under way;
'T was nine, when still advancing undismay'd,
Within a cable's length their vessels lay
Off Ismail, and commenced a cannonade,
Which was return'd with interest, I may say,
And by a fire of musketry and grape,
And shells and shot of every size and shape.
For six hours bore they without intermission
The Turkish fire, and aided by their own
Land batteries, work'd their guns with great precision:
At length they found mere cannonade alone
By no means would produce the town's submission,
And made a signal to retreat at one.
One bark blew up, a second near the works
Running aground, was taken by the Turks.
The Moslem, too, had lost both ships and men;
But when they saw the enemy retire,
Their Delhis mann'd some boats, and sail'd again,
And gall'd the Russians with a heavy fire,
And tried to make a landing on the main;
But here the effect fell short of their desire:
Count Damas drove them back into the water
Pell-mell, and with a whole gazette of slaughter.
'If' (says the historian here) 'I could report
All that the Russians did upon this day,
I think that several volumes would fall short,
And I should still have many things to say;'
And so he says no more--but pays his court
To some distinguish'd strangers in that fray;
The Prince de Ligne, and Langeron, and Damas,
Names great as any that the roll of Fame has.
This being the case, may show us what Fame is:
For out of these three 'preux Chevaliers,' how
Many of common readers give a guess
That such existed? (and they may live now
For aught we know.) Renown 's all hit or miss;
There 's fortune even in fame, we must allow.
'T is true the Memoirs of the Prince de Ligne
Have half withdrawn from him oblivion's screen.
But here are men who fought in gallant actions
As gallantly as ever heroes fought,
But buried in the heap of such transactions
Their names are rarely found, nor often sought.
Thus even good fame may suffer sad contractions,
And is extinguish'd sooner than she ought:
Of all our modern battles, I will bet
You can't repeat nine names from each Gazette.
In short, this last attack, though rich in glory,
Show'd that somewhere, somehow, there was a fault,
And Admiral Ribas (known in Russian story)
Most strongly recommended an assault;
In which he was opposed by young and hoary,
Which made a long debate; but I must halt,
For if I wrote down every warrior's speech,
I doubt few readers e'er would mount the breach.
There was a man, if that he was a man,
Not that his manhood could be call'd in question,
For had he not been Hercules, his span
Had been as short in youth as indigestion
Made his last illness, when, all worn and wan,
He died beneath a tree, as much unblest on
The soil of the green province he had wasted,
As e'er was locust on the land it blasted.
This was Potemkin--a great thing in days
When homicide and harlotry made great;
If stars and titles could entail long praise,
His glory might half equal his estate.
This fellow, being six foot high, could raise
A kind of phantasy proportionate
In the then sovereign of the Russian people,
Who measured men as you would do a steeple.
While things were in abeyance, Ribas sent
A courier to the prince, and he succeeded
In ordering matters after his own bent;
I cannot tell the way in which he pleaded,
But shortly he had cause to be content.
In the mean time, the batteries proceeded,
And fourscore cannon on the Danube's border
Were briskly fired and answer'd in due order.
But on the thirteenth, when already part
Of the troops were embark'd, the siege to raise,
A courier on the spur inspired new heart
Into all panters for newspaper praise,
As well as dilettanti in war's art,
By his despatches couch'd in pithy phrase;
Announcing the appointment of that lover of
Battles to the command, Field-Marshal Souvaroff.
The letter of the prince to the same marshal
Was worthy of a Spartan, had the cause
Been one to which a good heart could be partial--
Defence of freedom, country, or of laws;
But as it was mere lust of power to o'er-arch all
With its proud brow, it merits slight applause,
Save for its style, which said, all in a trice,
'You will take Ismail at whatever price.'
'Let there be light! said God, and there was light!'
'Let there be blood!' says man, and there 's a seal
The fiat of this spoil'd child of the Night
(For Day ne'er saw his merits) could decree
More evil in an hour, than thirty bright
Summers could renovate, though they should be
Lovely as those which ripen'd Eden's fruit;
For war cuts up not only branch, but root.
Our friends the Turks, who with loud 'Allahs' now
Began to signalise the Russ retreat,
Were damnably mistaken; few are slow
In thinking that their enemy is beat
(Or beaten, if you insist on grammar, though
I never think about it in a heat),
But here I say the Turks were much mistaken,
Who hating hogs, yet wish'd to save their bacon.
For, on the sixteenth, at full gallop, drew
In sight two horsemen, who were deem'd Cossacques
For some time, till they came in nearer view.
They had but little baggage at their backs,
For there were but three shirts between the two;
But on they rode upon two Ukraine hacks,
Till, in approaching, were at length descried
In this plain pair, Suwarrow and his guide.
'Great joy to London now!' says some great fool,
When London had a grand illumination,
Which to that bottle-conjurer, John Bull,
Is of all dreams the first hallucination;
So that the streets of colour'd lamps are full,
That Sage (said john) surrenders at discretion
His purse, his soul, his sense, and even his nonsense,
To gratify, like a huge moth, this one sense.
'T is strange that he should farther 'damn his eyes,'
For they are damn'd; that once all-famous oath
Is to the devil now no farther prize,
Since John has lately lost the use of both.
Debt he calls wealth, and taxes Paradise;
And Famine, with her gaunt and bony growth,
Which stare him in the face, he won't examine,
Or swears that Ceres hath begotten Famine.
But to the tale:--great joy unto the camp!
To Russian, Tartar, English, French, Cossacque,
O'er whom Suwarrow shone like a gas lamp,
Presaging a most luminous attack;
Or like a wisp along the marsh so damp,
Which leads beholders on a boggy walk,
He flitted to and fro a dancing light,
Which all who saw it follow'd, wrong or right.
But certes matters took a different face;
There was enthusiasm and much applause,
The fleet and camp saluted with great grace,
And all presaged good fortune to their cause.
Within a cannon-shot length of the place
They drew, constructed ladders, repair'd flaws
In former works, made new, prepared fascines,
And all kinds of benevolent machines.
'T is thus the spirit of a single mind
Makes that of multitudes take one direction,
As roll the waters to the breathing wind,
Or roams the herd beneath the bull's protection;
Or as a little dog will lead the blind,
Or a bell-wether form the flock's connection
By tinkling sounds, when they go forth to victual;
Such is the sway of your great men o'er little.
The whole camp rung with joy; you would have thought
That they were going to a marriage feast
(This metaphor, I think, holds good as aught,
Since there is discord after both at least):
There was not now a luggage boy but sought
Danger and spoil with ardour much increased;
And why? because a little--odd--old man,
Stript to his shirt, was come to lead the van.
But so it was; and every preparation
Was made with all alacrity: the first
Detachment of three columns took its station,
And waited but the signal's voice to burst
Upon the foe: the second's ordination
Was also in three columns, with a thirst
For glory gaping o'er a sea of slaughter:
The third, in columns two, attack'd by water.
New batteries were erected, and was held
A general council, in which unanimity,
That stranger to most councils, here prevail'd,
As sometimes happens in a great extremity;
And every difficulty being dispell'd,
Glory began to dawn with due sublimity,
While Souvaroff, determined to obtain it,
Was teaching his recruits to use the bayonet
It is an actual fact, that he, commander
In chief, in proper person deign'd to drill
The awkward squad, and could afford to squander
His time, a corporal's duty to fulfil:
Just as you 'd break a sucking salamander
To swallow flame, and never take it ill:
He show'd them how to mount a ladder (which
Was not like Jacob's) or to cross a ditch.
Also he dress'd up, for the nonce, fascines
Like men with turbans, scimitars, and dirks,
And made them charge with bayonet these machines,
By way of lesson against actual Turks:
And when well practised in these mimic scenes,
He judged them proper to assail the works;
At which your wise men sneer'd in phrases witty:
He made no answer; but he took the city.
Most things were in this posture on the eve
Of the assault, and all the camp was in
A stern repose; which you would scarce conceive;
Yet men resolved to dash through thick and thin
Are very silent when they once believe
That all is settled:--there was little din,
For some were thinking of their home and friends,
And others of themselves and latter ends.
Suwarrow chiefly was on the alert,
Surveying, drilling, ordering, jesting, pondering;
For the man was, we safely may assert,
A thing to wonder at beyond most wondering;
Hero, buffoon, half-demon, and half-dirt,
Praying, instructing, desolating, plundering;
Now Mars, now Momus; and when bent to storm
A fortress, Harlequin in uniform.
The day before the assault, while upon drill--
For this great conqueror play'd the corporal--
Some Cossacques, hovering like hawks round a hill,
Had met a party towards the twilight's fall,
One of whom spoke their tongue--or well or ill,
'T was much that he was understood at all;
But whether from his voice, or speech, or manner,
They found that he had fought beneath their banner.
Whereon immediately at his request
They brought him and his comrades to head-quarters;
Their dress was Moslem, but you might have guess'd
That these were merely masquerading Tartars,
And that beneath each Turkish-fashion'd vest
Lurk'd Christianity; which sometimes barters
Her inward grace for outward show, and makes
It difficult to shun some strange mistakes.
Suwarrow, who was standing in his shirt
Before a company of Calmucks, drilling,
Exclaiming, fooling, swearing at the inert,
And lecturing on the noble art of killing,--
For deeming human clay but common dirt,
This great philosopher was thus instilling
His maxims, which to martial comprehension
Proved death in battle equal to a pension;--
Suwarrow, when he saw this company
Of Cossacques and their prey, turn'd round and cast
Upon them his slow brow and piercing eye:--
'Whence come ye?'--'From Constantinople last,
Captives just now escaped,' was the reply.
'What are ye?'--'What you see us.' Briefly pass'd
This dialogue; for he who answer'd knew
To whom he spoke, and made his words but few.
'Your names?'--'Mine 's Johnson, and my comrade 's Juan;
The other two are women, and the third
Is neither man nor woman.' The chief threw on
The party a slight glance, then said, 'I have heard
Your name before, the second is a new one:
To bring the other three here was absurd:
But let that pass:--I think I have heard your name
In the Nikolaiew regiment?'--'The same.'
'You served at Widdin?'--'Yes.'--'You led the attack?'
'I did.'--'What next?'--'I really hardly know.'
'You were the first i' the breach?'--'I was not slack
At least to follow those who might be so.'
'What follow'd?'--'A shot laid me on my back,
And I became a prisoner to the foe.'
'You shall have vengeance, for the town surrounded
Is twice as strong as that where you were wounded.
'Where will you serve?'--'Where'er you please.'--'I know
You like to be the hope of the forlorn,
And doubtless would be foremost on the foe
After the hardships you 've already borne.
And this young fellow--say what can he do?
He with the beardless chin and garments torn?'
'Why, general, if he hath no greater fault
In war than love, he had better lead the assault.'
'He shall if that he dare.' Here Juan bow'd
Low as the compliment deserved. Suwarrow
Continued: 'Your old regiment's allow'd,
By special providence, to lead to-morrow,
Or it may be to-night, the assault: I have vow'd
To several saints, that shortly plough or harrow
Shall pass o'er what was Ismail, and its tusk
Be unimpeded by the proudest mosque.
'So now, my lads, for glory!'--Here he turn'd
And drill'd away in the most classic Russian,
Until each high, heroic bosom burn'd
For cash and conquest, as if from a cushion
A preacher had held forth (who nobly spurn'd
All earthly goods save tithes) and bade them push on
To slay the Pagans who resisted, battering
The armies of the Christian Empress Catherine.
Johnson, who knew by this long colloquy
Himself a favourite, ventured to address
Suwarrow, though engaged with accents high
In his resumed amusement. 'I confess
My debt in being thus allow'd to die
Among the foremost; but if you 'd express
Explicitly our several posts, my friend
And self would know what duty to attend.'
'Right! I was busy, and forgot. Why, you
Will join your former regiment, which should be
Now under arms. Ho! Katskoff, take him to
(Here he call'd up a Polish orderly)
His post, I mean the regiment Nikolaiew:
The stranger stripling may remain with me;
He 's a fine boy. The women may be sent
To the other baggage, or to the sick tent.'
But here a sort of scene began to ensue:
The ladies,--who by no means had been bred
To be disposed of in a way so new,
Although their haram education led
Doubtless to that of doctrines the most true,
Passive obedience,--now raised up the head,
With flashing eyes and starting tears, and flung
Their arms, as hens their wings about their young,
O'er the promoted couple of brave men
Who were thus honour'd by the greatest chief
That ever peopled hell with heroes slain,
Or plunged a province or a realm in grief.
O, foolish mortals! Always taught in vain!
O, glorious laurel! since for one sole leaf
Of thine imaginary deathless tree,
Of blood and tears must flow the unebbing sea.
Suwarrow, who had small regard for tears,
And not much sympathy for blood, survey'd
The women with their hair about their ears
And natural agonies, with a slight shade
Of feeling: for however habit sears
Men's hearts against whole millions, when their trade
Is butchery, sometimes a single sorrow
Will touch even heroes--and such was Suwarrow.
He said,--and in the kindest Calmuck tone,--
'Why, Johnson, what the devil do you mean
By bringing women here? They shall be shown
All the attention possible, and seen
In safety to the waggons, where alone
In fact they can be safe. You should have been
Aware this kind of baggage never thrives:
Save wed a year, I hate recruits with wives.'
'May it please your excellency,' thus replied
Our British friend, 'these are the wives of others,
And not our own. I am too qualified
By service with my military brothers
To break the rules by bringing one's own bride
Into a camp: I know that nought so bothers
The hearts of the heroic on a charge,
As leaving a small family at large.
'But these are but two Turkish ladies, who
With their attendant aided our escape,
And afterwards accompanied us through
A thousand perils in this dubious shape.
To me this kind of life is not so new;
To them, poor things, it is an awkward scrape.
I therefore, if you wish me to fight freely,
Request that they may both be used genteelly.'
Meantime these two poor girls, with swimming eyes,
Look'd on as if in doubt if they could trust
Their own protectors; nor was their surprise
Less than their grief (and truly not less just)
To see an old man, rather wild than wise
In aspect, plainly clad, besmear'd with dust,
Stript to his waistcoat, and that not too clean,
More fear'd than all the sultans ever seen.
For every thing seem'd resting on his nod,
As they could read in all eyes. Now to them,
Who were accustom'd, as a sort of god,
To see the sultan, rich in many a gem,
Like an imperial peacock stalk abroad
(That royal bird, whose tail 's a diadem),
With all the pomp of power, it was a doubt
How power could condescend to do without.
John Johnson, seeing their extreme dismay,
Though little versed in feelings oriental,
Suggested some slight comfort in his way:
Don Juan, who was much more sentimental,
Swore they should see him by the dawn of day,
Or that the Russian army should repent all:
And, strange to say, they found some consolation
In this--for females like exaggeration.
And then with tears, and sighs, and some slight kisses,
They parted for the present--these to await,
According to the artillery's hits or misses,
What sages call Chance, Providence, or Fate
(Uncertainty is one of many blisses,
A mortgage on Humanity's estate)--
While their beloved friends began to arm,
To burn a town which never did them harm.
Suwarrow,--who but saw things in the gross,
Being much too gross to see them in detail,
Who calculated life as so much dross,
And as the wind a widow'd nation's wail,
And cared as little for his army's loss
(So that their efforts should at length prevail)
As wife and friends did for the boils of job,--
What was 't to him to hear two women sob?
Nothing.--The work of glory still went on
In preparations for a cannonade
As terrible as that of Ilion,
If Homer had found mortars ready made;
But now, instead of slaying Priam's son,
We only can but talk of escalade,
Bombs, drums, guns, bastions, batteries, bayonets, bullets,--
Hard words, which stick in the soft Muses' gullets.
O, thou eternal Homer! who couldst charm
All cars, though long; all ages, though so short,
By merely wielding with poetic arm
Arms to which men will never more resort,
Unless gunpowder should be found to harm
Much less than is the hope of every court,
Which now is leagued young Freedom to annoy;
But they will not find Liberty a Troy:--
O, thou eternal Homer! I have now
To paint a siege, wherein more men were slain,
With deadlier engines and a speedier blow,
Than in thy Greek gazette of that campaign;
And yet, like all men else, I must allow,
To vie with thee would be about as vain
As for a brook to cope with ocean's flood;
But still we moderns equal you in blood;
If not in poetry, at least in fact;
And fact is truth, the grand desideratum!
Of which, howe'er the Muse describes each act,
There should be ne'ertheless a slight substratum.
But now the town is going to be attack'd;
Great deeds are doing--how shall I relate 'em?
Souls of immortal generals! Phoebus watches
To colour up his rays from your despatches.
O, ye great bulletins of Bonaparte!
O, ye less grand long lists of kill'd and wounded!
Shade of Leonidas, who fought so hearty,
When my poor Greece was once, as now, surrounded!
O, Caesar's Commentaries! now impart, ye
Shadows of glory! (lest I be confounded)
A portion of your fading twilight hues,
So beautiful, so fleeting, to the Muse.
When I call 'fading' martial immortality,
I mean, that every age and every year,
And almost every day, in sad reality,
Some sucking hero is compell'd to rear,
Who, when we come to sum up the totality
Of deeds to human happiness most dear,
Turns out to be a butcher in great business,
Afflicting young folks with a sort of dizziness.
Medals, rank, ribands, lace, embroidery, scarlet,
Are things immortal to immortal man,
As purple to the Babylonian harlot:
An uniform to boys is like a fan
To women; there is scarce a crimson varlet
But deems himself the first in Glory's van.
But Glory's glory; and if you would find
What that is--ask the pig who sees the wind!
At least he feels it, and some say he sees,
Because he runs before it like a pig;
Or, if that simple sentence should displease,
Say, that he scuds before it like a brig,
A schooner, or--but it is time to ease
This Canto, ere my Muse perceives fatigue.
The next shall ring a peal to shake all people,
Like a bob-major from a village steeple.
Hark! through the silence of the cold, dull night,
The hum of armies gathering rank on rank!
Lo! dusky masses steal in dubious sight
Along the leaguer'd wall and bristling bank
Of the arm'd river, while with straggling light
The stars peep through the vapours dim and dank,
Which curl in curious wreaths:--how soon the smoke
Of Hell shall pall them in a deeper cloak!
Here pause we for the present--as even then
That awful pause, dividing life from death,
Struck for an instant on the hearts of men,
Thousands of whom were drawing their last breath!
A moment--and all will be life again!
The march! the charge! the shouts of either faith!
Hurra! and Allah! and--one moment more,
The death-cry drowning in the battle's roar.
[Illustration: Canto 8]
CANTO THE EIGHTH.
O blood and thunder! and oh blood and wounds!
These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem,
Too gentle reader! and most shocking sounds:
And so they are; yet thus is Glory's dream
Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds
At present such things, since they are her theme,
So be they her inspirers! Call them Mars,
Bellona, what you will--they mean but wars.
All was prepared--the fire, the sword, the men
To wield them in their terrible array.
The army, like a lion from his den,
March'd forth with nerve and sinews bent to slay,--
A human Hydra, issuing from its fen
To breathe destruction on its winding way,
Whose heads were heroes, which cut off in vain
Immediately in others grew again.
History can only take things in the gross;
But could we know them in detail, perchance
In balancing the profit and the loss,
War's merit it by no means might enhance,
To waste so much gold for a little dross,
As hath been done, mere conquest to advance.
The drying up a single tear has more
Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore.
And why?--because it brings self-approbation;
Whereas the other, after all its glare,
Shouts, bridges, arches, pensions from a nation,
Which (it may be) has not much left to spare,
A higher title, or a loftier station,
Though they may make Corruption gape or stare,
Yet, in the end, except in Freedom's battles,
Are nothing but a child of Murder's rattles.
And such they are--and such they will be found:
Not so Leonidas and Washington,
Whose every battle-field is holy ground,
Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds undone.
How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound!
While the mere victor's may appal or stun
The servile and the vain, such names will be
A watchword till the future shall be free.
The night was dark, and the thick mist allow'd
Nought to be seen save the artillery's flame,
Which arch'd the horizon like a fiery cloud,
And in the Danube's waters shone the same--
A mirror'd hell! the volleying roar, and loud
Long booming of each peal on peal, o'ercame
The ear far more than thunder; for Heaven's flashes
Spare, or smite rarely--man's make millions ashes!
The column order'd on the assault scarce pass'd
Beyond the Russian batteries a few toises,
When up the bristling Moslem rose at last,
Answering the Christian thunders with like voices:
Then one vast fire, air, earth, and stream embraced,
Which rock'd as 't were beneath the mighty noises;
While the whole rampart blazed like Etna, when
The restless Titan hiccups in his den.
And one enormous shout of 'Allah!' rose
In the same moment, loud as even the roar
Of war's most mortal engines, to their foes
Hurling defiance: city, stream, and shore
Resounded 'Allah!' and the clouds which close
With thick'ning canopy the conflict o'er,
Vibrate to the Eternal name. Hark! through
All sounds it pierceth 'Allah! Allah! Hu!'
The columns were in movement one and all,
But of the portion which attack'd by water,
Thicker than leaves the lives began to fall,
Though led by Arseniew, that great son of slaughter,
As brave as ever faced both bomb and ball.
'Carnage' (so Wordsworth tells you) 'is God's daughter:'
If he speak truth, she is Christ's sister, and
Just now behaved as in the Holy Land.
The Prince de Ligne was wounded in the knee;
Count Chapeau-Bras, too, had a ball between
His cap and head, which proves the head to be
Aristocratic as was ever seen,
Because it then received no injury
More than the cap; in fact, the ball could mean
No harm unto a right legitimate head:
'Ashes to ashes'--why not lead to lead?
Also the General Markow, Brigadier,
Insisting on removal of the prince
Amidst some groaning thousands dying near,--
All common fellows, who might writhe and wince,
And shriek for water into a deaf ear,--
The General Markow, who could thus evince
His sympathy for rank, by the same token,
To teach him greater, had his own leg broken.
Three hundred cannon threw up their emetic,
And thirty thousand muskets flung their pills
Like hail, to make a bloody diuretic.
Mortality! thou hast thy monthly bills;
Thy plagues, thy famines, thy physicians, yet tick,
Like the death-watch, within our ears the ills
Past, present, and to come;--but all may yield
To the true portrait of one battle-field.
There the still varying pangs, which multiply
Until their very number makes men hard
By the infinities of agony,
Which meet the gaze whate'er it may regard--
The groan, the roll in dust, the all-white eye
Turn'd back within its socket,--these reward
Your rank and file by thousands, while the rest
May win perhaps a riband at the breast!
Yet I love glory;--glory 's a great thing:--
Think what it is to be in your old age
Maintain'd at the expense of your good king:
A moderate pension shakes full many a sage,
And heroes are but made for bards to sing,
Which is still better; thus in verse to wage
Your wars eternally, besides enjoying
Half-pay for life, make mankind worth destroying.
The troops, already disembark'd, push'd on
To take a battery on the right; the others,
Who landed lower down, their landing done,
Had set to work as briskly as their brothers:
Being grenadiers, they mounted one by one,
Cheerful as children climb the breasts of mothers,
O'er the entrenchment and the palisade,
Quite orderly, as if upon parade.
And this was admirable; for so hot
The fire was, that were red Vesuvius loaded,
Besides its lava, with all sorts of shot
And shells or hells, it could not more have goaded.
Of officers a third fell on the spot,
A thing which victory by no means boded
To gentlemen engaged in the assault:
Hounds, when the huntsman tumbles, are at fault.
But here I leave the general concern,
To track our hero on his path of fame:
He must his laurels separately earn;
For fifty thousand heroes, name by name,
Though all deserving equally to turn
A couplet, or an elegy to claim,
Would form a lengthy lexicon of glory,
And what is worse still, a much longer story:
And therefore we must give the greater number
To the Gazette--which doubtless fairly dealt
By the deceased, who lie in famous slumber
In ditches, fields, or wheresoe'er they felt
Their clay for the last time their souls encumber;--
Thrice happy he whose name has been well spelt
In the despatch: I knew a man whose loss
Was printed Grove, although his name was Grose.
Juan and Johnson join'd a certain corps,
And fought away with might and main, not knowing
The way which they had never trod before,
And still less guessing where they might be going;
But on they march'd, dead bodies trampling o'er,
Firing, and thrusting, slashing, sweating, glowing,
But fighting thoughtlessly enough to win,
To their two selves, one whole bright bulletin.
Thus on they wallow'd in the bloody mire
Of dead and dying thousands,--sometimes gaining
A yard or two of ground, which brought them nigher
To some odd angle for which all were straining;
At other times, repulsed by the close fire,
Which really pour'd as if all hell were raining
Instead of heaven, they stumbled backwards o'er
A wounded comrade, sprawling in his gore.
Though 't was Don Juan's first of fields, and though
The nightly muster and the silent march
In the chill dark, when courage does not glow
So much as under a triumphal arch,
Perhaps might make him shiver, yawn, or throw
A glance on the dull clouds (as thick as starch,
Which stiffen'd heaven) as if he wish'd for day;--
Yet for all this he did not run away.
Indeed he could not. But what if he had?
There have been and are heroes who begun
With something not much better, or as bad:
Frederic the Great from Molwitz deign'd to run,
For the first and last time; for, like a pad,
Or hawk, or bride, most mortals after one
Warm bout are broken into their new tricks,
And fight like fiends for pay or politics.
He was what Erin calls, in her sublime
Old Erse or Irish, or it may be Punic
(The antiquarians who can settle time,
Which settles all things, Roman, Greek, or Runic,
Swear that Pat's language sprung from the same clime
With Hannibal, and wears the Tyrian tunic
Of Dido's alphabet; and this is rational
As any other notion, and not national);--
But Juan was quite 'a broth of a boy,'
A thing of impulse and a child of song;
Now swimming in the sentiment of joy,
Or the sensation (if that phrase seem wrong),
And afterward, if he must needs destroy,
In such good company as always throng
To battles, sieges, and that kind of pleasure,
No less delighted to employ his leisure;
But always without malice: if he warr'd
Or loved, it was with what we call 'the best
Intentions,' which form all mankind's trump card,
To be produced when brought up to the test.
The statesman, hero, harlot, lawyer--ward
Off each attack, when people are in quest
Of their designs, by saying they meant well;
'T is pity 'that such meaning should pave hell.'
I almost lately have begun to doubt
Whether hell's pavement--if it be so paved--
Must not have latterly been quite worn out,
Not by the numbers good intent hath saved,
But by the mass who go below without
Those ancient good intentions, which once shaved
And smooth'd the brimstone of that street of hell
Which bears the greatest likeness to Pall Mall.
Juan, by some strange chance, which oft divides
Warrior from warrior in their grim career,
Like chastest wives from constant husbands' sides
Just at the close of the first bridal year,
By one of those odd turns of Fortune's tides,
Was on a sudden rather puzzled here,
When, after a good deal of heavy firing,
He found himself alone, and friends retiring.
I don't know how the thing occurr'd--it might
Be that the greater part were kill'd or wounded,
And that the rest had faced unto the right
About; a circumstance which has confounded
Caesar himself, who, in the very sight
Of his whole army, which so much abounded
In courage, was obliged to snatch a shield,
And rally back his Romans to the field.
Juan, who had no shield to snatch, and was
No Caesar, but a fine young lad, who fought
He knew not why, arriving at this pass,
Stopp'd for a minute, as perhaps he ought
For a much longer time; then, like an as
(Start not, kind reader; since great Homer thought
This simile enough for Ajax, Juan
Perhaps may find it better than a new one)--
Then, like an ass, he went upon his way,
And, what was stranger, never look'd behind;
But seeing, flashing forward, like the day
Over the hills, a fire enough to blind
Those who dislike to look upon a fray,
He stumbled on, to try if he could find
A path, to add his own slight arm and forces
To corps, the greater part of which were corses.
Perceiving then no more the commandant
Of his own corps, nor even the corps, which had
Quite disappear'd--the gods know howl (I can't
Account for every thing which may look bad
In history; but we at least may grant
It was not marvellous that a mere lad,
In search of glory, should look on before,
Nor care a pinch of snuff about his corps):--
Perceiving nor commander nor commanded,
And left at large, like a young heir, to make
His way to--where he knew not--single handed;
As travellers follow over bog and brake
An 'ignis fatuus;' or as sailors stranded
Unto the nearest hut themselves betake;
So Juan, following honour and his nose,
Rush'd where the thickest fire announced most foes.
He knew not where he was, nor greatly cared,
For he was dizzy, busy, and his veins
Fill'd as with lightning--for his spirit shared
The hour, as is the case with lively brains;
And where the hottest fire was seen and heard,
And the loud cannon peal'd his hoarsest strains,
He rush'd, while earth and air were sadly shaken
By thy humane discovery, Friar Bacon!
And as he rush'd along, it came to pass he
Fell in with what was late the second column,
Under the orders of the General Lascy,
But now reduced, as is a bulky volume
Into an elegant extract (much less massy)
Of heroism, and took his place with solemn
Air 'midst the rest, who kept their valiant faces
And levell'd weapons still against the glacis.
Just at this crisis up came Johnson too,
Who had 'retreated,' as the phrase is when
Men run away much rather than go through
Destruction's jaws into the devil's den;
But Johnson was a clever fellow, who
Knew when and how 'to cut and come again,'
And never ran away, except when running
Was nothing but a valorous kind of cunning.
And so, when all his corps were dead or dying,
Except Don Juan, a mere novice, whose
More virgin valour never dreamt of flying
From ignorance of danger, which indues
Its votaries, like innocence relying
On its own strength, with careless nerves and thews,--
Johnson retired a little, just to rally
Those who catch cold in 'shadows of Death's valley.'
And there, a little shelter'd from the shot,
Which rain'd from bastion, battery, parapet,
Rampart, wall, casement, house,--for there was not
In this extensive city, sore beset
By Christian soldiery, a single spot
Which did not combat like the devil, as yet,
He found a number of Chasseurs, all scatter'd
By the resistance of the chase they batter'd.
And these he call'd on; and, what 's strange, they came
Unto his call, unlike 'the spirits from
The vasty deep,' to whom you may exclaim,
Says Hotspur, long ere they will leave their home.
Their reasons were uncertainty, or shame
At shrinking from a bullet or a bomb,
And that odd impulse, which in wars or creeds
Makes men, like cattle, follow him who leads.
By Jove! he was a noble fellow, Johnson,
And though his name, than Ajax or Achilles,
Sounds less harmonious, underneath the sun soon
We shall not see his likeness: he could kill his
Man quite as quietly as blows the monsoon
Her steady breath (which some months the same still is):
Seldom he varied feature, hue, or muscle,
And could be very busy without bustle;
And therefore, when he ran away, he did so
Upon reflection, knowing that behind
He would find others who would fain be rid so
Of idle apprehensions, which like wind
Trouble heroic stomachs. Though their lids so
Oft are soon closed, all heroes are not blind,
But when they light upon immediate death,
Retire a little, merely to take breath.
But Johnson only ran off, to return
With many other warriors, as we said,
Unto that rather somewhat misty bourn,
Which Hamlet tells us is a pass of dread.
To Jack howe'er this gave but slight concern:
His soul (like galvanism upon the dead)
Acted upon the living as on wire,
And led them back into the heaviest fire.
Egad! they found the second time what they
The first time thought quite terrible enough
To fly from, malgre all which people say
Of glory, and all that immortal stuff
Which fills a regiment (besides their pay,
That daily shilling which makes warriors tough)--
They found on their return the self-same welcome,
Which made some think, and others know, a hell come.
They fell as thick as harvests beneath hail,
Grass before scythes, or corn below the sickle,
Proving that trite old truth, that life 's as frail
As any other boon for which men stickle.
The Turkish batteries thrash'd them like a flail,
Or a good boxer, into a sad pickle
Putting the very bravest, who were knock'd
Upon the head, before their guns were cock'd.
The Turks, behind the traverses and flanks
Of the next bastion, fired away like devils,
And swept, as gales sweep foam away, whole ranks:
However, Heaven knows how, the Fate who levels
Towns, nations, worlds, in her revolving pranks,
So order'd it, amidst these sulphury revels,
That Johnson and some few who had not scamper'd,
Reach'd the interior talus of the rampart.
First one or two, then five, six, and a dozen,
Came mounting quickly up, for it was now
All neck or nothing, as, like pitch or rosin,
Flame was shower'd forth above, as well 's below,
So that you scarce could say who best had chosen,
The gentlemen that were the first to show
Their martial faces on the parapet,
Or those who thought it brave to wait as yet.
But those who scaled, found out that their advance
Was favour'd by an accident or blunder:
The Greek or Turkish Cohorn's ignorance
Had palisado'd in a way you 'd wonder
To see in forts of Netherlands or France
(Though these to our Gibraltar must knock under)--
Right in the middle of the parapet
Just named, these palisades were primly set:
So that on either side some nine or ten
Paces were left, whereon you could contrive
To march; a great convenience to our men,
At least to all those who were left alive,
Who thus could form a line and fight again;
And that which farther aided them to strive
Was, that they could kick down the palisades,
Which scarcely rose much higher than grass blades.
Among the first,--I will not say the first,
For such precedence upon such occasions
Will oftentimes make deadly quarrels burst
Out between friends as well as allied nations:
The Briton must be bold who really durst
Put to such trial John Bull's partial patience,
As say that Wellington at Waterloo
Was beaten--though the Prussians say so too;--
And that if Blucher, Bulow, Gneisenau,
And God knows who besides in 'au' and 'ow,'
Had not come up in time to cast an awe
Into the hearts of those who fought till now
As tigers combat with an empty craw,
The Duke of Wellington had ceased to show
His orders, also to receive his pensions,
Which are the heaviest that our history mentions.
But never mind;--'God save the king!' and kings!
For if he don't, I doubt if men will longer--
I think I hear a little bird, who sings
The people by and by will be the stronger:
The veriest jade will wince whose harness wrings
So much into the raw as quite to wrong her
Beyond the rules of posting,--and the mob
At last fall sick of imitating Job.
At first it grumbles, then it swears, and then,
Like David, flings smooth pebbles 'gainst a giant;
At last it takes to weapons such as men
Snatch when despair makes human hearts less pliant.
Then comes 'the tug of war;'--'t will come again,
I rather doubt; and I would fain say 'fie on 't,'
If I had not perceived that revolution
Alone can save the earth from hell's pollution.
But to continue:--I say not the first,
But of the first, our little friend Don Juan
Walk'd o'er the walls of Ismail, as if nursed
Amidst such scenes--though this was quite a new one
To him, and I should hope to most. The thirst
Of glory, which so pierces through and through one,
Pervaded him--although a generous creature,
As warm in heart as feminine in feature.
And here he was--who upon woman's breast,
Even from a child, felt like a child; howe'er
The man in all the rest might be confest,
To him it was Elysium to be there;
And he could even withstand that awkward test
Which Rousseau points out to the dubious fair,
'Observe your lover when he leaves your arms;'
But Juan never left them, while they had charms,
Unless compell'd by fate, or wave, or wind,
Or near relations, who are much the same.
But here he was!--where each tie that can bind
Humanity must yield to steel and flame:
And he whose very body was all mind,
Flung here by fate or circumstance, which tame
The loftiest, hurried by the time and place,
Dash'd on like a spurr'd blood-horse in a race.
So was his blood stirr'd while he found resistance,
As is the hunter's at the five-bar gate,
Or double post and rail, where the existence
Of Britain's youth depends upon their weight,
The lightest being the safest: at a distance
He hated cruelty, as all men hate
Blood, until heated--and even then his own
At times would curdle o'er some heavy groan.
The General Lascy, who had been hard press'd,
Seeing arrive an aid so opportune
As were some hundred youngsters all abreast,
Who came as if just dropp'd down from the moon,
To Juan, who was nearest him, address'd
His thanks, and hopes to take the city soon,
Not reckoning him to be a 'base Bezonian'
(As Pistol calls it), but a young Livonian.
Juan, to whom he spoke in German, knew
As much of German as of Sanscrit, and
In answer made an inclination to
The general who held him in command;
For seeing one with ribands, black and blue,
Stars, medals, and a bloody sword in hand,
Addressing him in tones which seem'd to thank,
He recognised an officer of rank.
Short speeches pass between two men who speak
No common language; and besides, in time
Of war and taking towns, when many a shriek
Rings o'er the dialogue, and many a crime
Is perpetrated ere a word can break
Upon the ear, and sounds of horror chime
In like church-bells, with sigh, howl, groan, yell, prayer,
There cannot be much conversation there.
And therefore all we have related in
Two long octaves, pass'd in a little minute;
But in the same small minute, every sin
Contrived to get itself comprised within it.
The very cannon, deafen'd by the din,
Grew dumb, for you might almost hear a linnet,
As soon as thunder, 'midst the general noise
Of human nature's agonising voice!
The town was enter'd. Oh eternity!-
'God made the country and man made the town,'
So Cowper says--and I begin to be
Of his opinion, when I see cast down
Rome, Babylon, Tyre, Carthage, Nineveh,
All walls men know, and many never known;
And pondering on the present and the past,
To deem the woods shall be our home at last
Of all men, saving Sylla the man-slayer,
Who passes for in life and death most lucky,
Of the great names which in our faces stare,
The General Boon, back-woodsman of Kentucky,
Was happiest amongst mortals anywhere;
For killing nothing but a bear or buck, he
Enjoy'd the lonely, vigorous, harmless days
Of his old age in wilds of deepest maze.
Crime came not near him--she is not the child
Of solitude; Health shrank not from him--for
Her home is in the rarely trodden wild,
Where if men seek her not, and death be more
Their choice than life, forgive them, as beguiled
By habit to what their own hearts abhor--
In cities caged. The present case in point I
Cite is, that Boon lived hunting up to ninety;
And what 's still stranger, left behind a name
For which men vainly decimate the throng,
Not only famous, but of that good fame,
Without which glory 's but a tavern song--
Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame,
Which hate nor envy e'er could tinge with wrong;
An active hermit, even in age the child
Of Nature, or the man of Ross run wild.
'T is true he shrank from men even of his nation,
When they built up unto his darling trees,--
He moved some hundred miles off, for a station
Where there were fewer houses and more ease;
The inconvenience of civilisation
Is, that you neither can be pleased nor please;
But where he met the individual man,
He show'd himself as kind as mortal can.
He was not all alone: around him grew
A sylvan tribe of children of the chase,
Whose young, unwaken'd world was ever new,
Nor sword nor sorrow yet had left a trace
On her unwrinkled brow, nor could you view
A frown on Nature's or on human face;
The free-born forest found and kept them free,
And fresh as is a torrent or a tree.
And tall, and strong, and swift of foot were they,
Beyond the dwarfing city's pale abortions,
Because their thoughts had never been the prey
Of care or gain: the green woods were their portions;
No sinking spirits told them they grew grey,
No fashion made them apes of her distortions;
Simple they were, not savage; and their rifles,
Though very true, were not yet used for trifles.
Motion was in their days, rest in their slumbers,
And cheerfulness the handmaid of their toil;
Nor yet too many nor too few their numbers;
Corruption could not make their hearts her soil;
The lust which stings, the splendour which encumbers,
With the free foresters divide no spoil;
Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes
Of this unsighing people of the woods.
So much for Nature:--by way of variety,
Now back to thy great joys, Civilisation!
And the sweet consequence of large society,
War, pestilence, the despot's desolation,
The kingly scourge, the lust of notoriety,
The millions slain by soldiers for their ration,
The scenes like Catherine's boudoir at threescore,
With Ismail's storm to soften it the more.
The town was enter'd: first one column made
Its sanguinary way good--then another;
The reeking bayonet and the flashing blade
Clash'd 'gainst the scimitar, and babe and mother
With distant shrieks were heard Heaven to upbraid:
Still closer sulphury clouds began to smother
The breath of morn and man, where foot by foot
The madden'd Turks their city still dispute.
Koutousow, he who afterward beat back
(With some assistance from the frost and snow)
Napoleon on his bold and bloody track,
It happen'd was himself beat back just now;
He was a jolly fellow, and could crack
His jest alike in face of friend or foe,
Though life, and death, and victory were at stake;
But here it seem'd his jokes had ceased to take:
For having thrown himself into a ditch,
Follow'd in haste by various grenadiers,
Whose blood the puddle greatly did enrich,
He climb'd to where the parapet appears;
But there his project reach'd its utmost pitch
('Mongst other deaths the General Ribaupierre's
Was much regretted), for the Moslem men
Threw them all down into the ditch again.
And had it not been for some stray troops landing
They knew not where, being carried by the stream
To some spot, where they lost their understanding,
And wander'd up and down as in a dream,
Until they reach'd, as daybreak was expanding,
That which a portal to their eyes did seem,--
The great and gay Koutousow might have lain
Where three parts of his column yet remain.
And scrambling round the rampart, these same troops,
After the taking of the 'Cavalier,'
Just as Koutousow's most 'forlorn' of 'hopes'
Took like chameleons some slight tinge of fear,
Open'd the gate call'd 'Kilia,' to the groups
Of baffled heroes, who stood shyly near,
Sliding knee-deep in lately frozen mud,
Now thaw'd into a marsh of human blood.
The Kozacks, or, if so you please, Cossacques
(I don't much pique myself upon orthography,
So that I do not grossly err in facts,
Statistics, tactics, politics, and geography)--
Having been used to serve on horses' backs,
And no great dilettanti in topography
Of fortresses, but fighting where it pleases
Their chiefs to order,--were all cut to pieces.
Their column, though the Turkish batteries thunder'd
Upon them, ne'ertheless had reach'd the rampart,
And naturally thought they could have plunder'd
The city, without being farther hamper'd;
But as it happens to brave men, they blunder'd--
The Turks at first pretended to have scamper'd,
Only to draw them 'twixt two bastion corners,
From whence they sallied on those Christian scorners.
Then being taken by the tail--a taking
Fatal to bishops as to soldiers--these
Cossacques were all cut off as day was breaking,
And found their lives were let at a short lease--
But perish'd without shivering or shaking,
Leaving as ladders their heap'd carcasses,
O'er which Lieutenant-Colonel Yesouskoi
March'd with the brave battalion of Polouzki:--
This valiant man kill'd all the Turks he met,
But could not eat them, being in his turn
Slain by some Mussulmans, who would not yet,
Without resistance, see their city burn.
The walls were won, but 't was an even bet
Which of the armies would have cause to mourn:
'T was blow for blow, disputing inch by inch,
For one would not retreat, nor t' other flinch.
Another column also suffer'd much:--
And here we may remark with the historian,
You should but give few cartridges to such
Troops as are meant to march with greatest glory on:
When matters must be carried by the touch
Of the bright bayonet, and they all should hurry on,
They sometimes, with a hankering for existence,
Keep merely firing at a foolish distance.
A junction of the General Meknop's men
(Without the General, who had fallen some time
Before, being badly seconded just then)
Was made at length with those who dared to climb
The death-disgorging rampart once again;
And though the Turk's resistance was sublime,
They took the bastion, which the Seraskier
Defended at a price extremely dear.
Juan and Johnson, and some volunteers,
Among the foremost, offer'd him good quarter,
A word which little suits with Seraskiers,
Or at least suited not this valiant Tartar.
He died, deserving well his country's tears,
A savage sort of military martyr.
An English naval officer, who wish'd
To make him prisoner, was also dish'd:
For all the answer to his proposition
Was from a pistol-shot that laid him dead;
On which the rest, without more intermission,
Began to lay about with steel and lead--
The pious metals most in requisition
On such occasions: not a single head
Was spared;--three thousand Moslems perish'd here,
And sixteen bayonets pierced the Seraskier.
The city 's taken--only part by part--
And death is drunk with gore: there 's not a street
Where fights not to the last some desperate heart
For those for whom it soon shall cease to beat.
Here War forgot his own destructive art
In more destroying Nature; and the heat
Of carnage, like the Nile's sun-sodden slime,
Engender'd monstrous shapes of every crime.
A Russian officer, in martial tread
Over a heap of bodies, felt his heel
Seized fast, as if 't were by the serpent's head
Whose fangs Eve taught her human seed to feel:
In vain he kick'd, and swore, and writhed, and bled,
And howl'd for help as wolves do for a meal--
The teeth still kept their gratifying hold,
As do the subtle snakes described of old.
A dying Moslem, who had felt the foot
Of a foe o'er him, snatch'd at it, and bit
The very tendon which is most acute
(That which some ancient Muse or modern wit
Named after thee, Achilles), and quite through 't
He made the teeth meet, nor relinquish'd it
Even with his life--for (but they lie) 't is said
To the live leg still clung the sever'd head.
However this may be, 't is pretty sure
The Russian officer for life was lamed,
For the Turk's teeth stuck faster than a skewer,
And left him 'midst the invalid and maim'd:
The regimental surgeon could not cure
His patient, and perhaps was to be blamed
More than the head of the inveterate foe,
Which was cut off, and scarce even then let go.
But then the fact 's a fact--and 't is the part
Of a true poet to escape from fiction
Whene'er he can; for there is little art
In leaving verse more free from the restriction
Of truth than prose, unless to suit the mart
For what is sometimes called poetic diction,
And that outrageous appetite for lies
Which Satan angles with for souls, like flies.
The city 's taken, but not render'd!--No!
There 's not a Moslem that hath yielded sword:
The blood may gush out, as the Danube's flow
Rolls by the city wall; but deed nor word
Acknowledge aught of dread of death or foe:
In vain the yell of victory is roar'd
By the advancing Muscovite--the groan
Of the last foe is echoed by his own.
The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves,
And human lives are lavish'd everywhere,
As the year closing whirls the scarlet leaves
When the stripp'd forest bows to the bleak air,
And groans; and thus the peopled city grieves,
Shorn of its best and loveliest, and left bare;
But still it falls in vast and awful splinters,
As oaks blown down with all their thousand winters.
It is an awful topic--but 't is not
My cue for any time to be terrific:
For checker'd as is seen our human lot
With good, and bad, and worse, alike prolific
Of melancholy merriment, to quote
Too much of one sort would be soporific;--
Without, or with, offence to friends or foes,
I sketch your world exactly as it goes.
And one good action in the midst of crimes
Is 'quite refreshing,' in the affected phrase
Of these ambrosial, Pharisaic times,
With all their pretty milk-and-water ways,
And may serve therefore to bedew these rhymes,
A little scorch'd at present with the blaze
Of conquest and its consequences, which
Make epic poesy so rare and rich.
Upon a taken bastion, where there lay
Thousands of slaughter'd men, a yet warm group
Of murder'd women, who had found their way
To this vain refuge, made the good heart droop
And shudder;--while, as beautiful as May,
A female child of ten years tried to stoop
And hide her little palpitating breast
Amidst the bodies lull'd in bloody rest.
Two villainous Cossacques pursued the child
With flashing eyes and weapons: match'd with them,
The rudest brute that roams Siberia's wild
Has feelings pure and polish'd as a gem,--
The bear is civilised, the wolf is mild;
And whom for this at last must we condemn?
Their natures? or their sovereigns, who employ
All arts to teach their subjects to destroy?
Their sabres glitter'd o'er her little head,
Whence her fair hair rose twining with affright,
Her hidden face was plunged amidst the dead:
When Juan caught a glimpse of this sad sight,
I shall not say exactly what he said,
Because it might not solace 'ears polite;'
But what he did, was to lay on their backs,
The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacques.
One's hip he slash'd, and split the other's shoulder,
And drove them with their brutal yells to seek
If there might be chirurgeons who could solder
The wounds they richly merited, and shriek
Their baffled rage and pain; while waxing colder
As he turn'd o'er each pale and gory cheek,
Don Juan raised his little captive from
The heap a moment more had made her tomb.
And she was chill as they, and on her face
A slender streak of blood announced how near
Her fate had been to that of all her race;
For the same blow which laid her mother here
Had scarr'd her brow, and left its crimson trace,
As the last link with all she had held dear;
But else unhurt, she open'd her large eyes,
And gazed on Juan with a wild surprise.
Just at this instant, while their eyes were fix'd
Upon each other, with dilated glance,
In Juan's look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, mix'd
With joy to save, and dread of some mischance
Unto his protege; while hers, transfix'd
With infant terrors, glared as from a trance,
A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face,
Like to a lighted alabaster vase;--
Up came John Johnson (I will not say 'Jack,'
For that were vulgar, cold, and commonplace
On great occasions, such as an attack
On cities, as hath been the present case):
Up Johnson came, with hundreds at his back,
Exclaiming;--'Juan! Juan! On, boy! brace
Your arm, and I 'll bet Moscow to a dollar
That you and I will win St. George's collar.
'The Seraskier is knock'd upon the head,
But the stone bastion still remains, wherein
The old Pacha sits among some hundreds dead,
Smoking his pipe quite calmly 'midst the din
Of our artillery and his own: 't is said
Our kill'd, already piled up to the chin,
Lie round the battery; but still it batters,
And grape in volleys, like a vineyard, scatters.
'Then up with me!'--But Juan answer'd, 'Look
Upon this child--I saved her--must not leave
Her life to chance; but point me out some nook
Of safety, where she less may shrink and grieve,
And I am with you.'--Whereon Johnson took
A glance around--and shrugg'd--and twitch'd his sleeve
And black silk neckcloth--and replied, 'You 're right;
Poor thing! what 's to be done? I 'm puzzled quite.'
Said Juan: 'Whatsoever is to be
Done, I 'll not quit her till she seems secure
Of present life a good deal more than we.'
Quoth Johnson: 'Neither will I quite ensure;
But at the least you may die gloriously.'
Juan replied: 'At least I will endure
Whate'er is to be borne--but not resign
This child, who is parentless, and therefore mine.'
Johnson said: 'Juan, we 've no time to lose;
The child 's a pretty child--a very pretty--
I never saw such eyes--but hark! now choose
Between your fame and feelings, pride and pity;--
Hark! how the roar increases!--no excuse
Will serve when there is plunder in a city;--
I should be loth to march without you, but,
By God! we 'll be too late for the first cut.'
But Juan was immovable; until
Johnson, who really loved him in his way,
Pick'd out amongst his followers with some skill
Such as he thought the least given up to prey;
And swearing if the infant came to ill
That they should all be shot on the next day;
But if she were deliver'd safe and sound,
They should at least have fifty rubles round,
And all allowances besides of plunder
In fair proportion with their comrades;--then
Juan consented to march on through thunder,
Which thinn'd at every step their ranks of men:
And yet the rest rush'd eagerly--no wonder,
For they were heated by the hope of gain,
A thing which happens everywhere each day--
No hero trusteth wholly to half pay.
And such is victory, and such is man!
At least nine tenths of what we call so;--God
May have another name for half we scan
As human beings, or his ways are odd.
But to our subject: a brave Tartar khan--
Or 'sultan,' as the author (to whose nod
In prose I bend my humble verse) doth call
This chieftain--somehow would not yield at all:
But flank'd by five brave sons (such is polygamy,
That she spawns warriors by the score, where none
Are prosecuted for that false crime bigamy),
He never would believe the city won
While courage clung but to a single twig.--Am I
Describing Priam's, Peleus', or Jove's son?
Neither--but a good, plain, old, temperate man,
Who fought with his five children in the van.
To take him was the point. The truly brave,
When they behold the brave oppress'd with odds,
Are touch'd with a desire to shield and save;--
A mixture of wild beasts and demigods
Are they--now furious as the sweeping wave,
Now moved with pity: even as sometimes nods
The rugged tree unto the summer wind,
Compassion breathes along the savage mind.
But he would not be taken, and replied
To all the propositions of surrender
By mowing Christians down on every side,
As obstinate as Swedish Charles at Bender.
His five brave boys no less the foe defied;
Whereon the Russian pathos grew less tender,
As being a virtue, like terrestrial patience,
Apt to wear out on trifling provocations.
And spite of Johnson and of Juan, who
Expended all their Eastern phraseology
In begging him, for God's sake, just to show
So much less fight as might form an apology
For them in saving such a desperate foe--
He hew'd away, like doctors of theology
When they dispute with sceptics; and with curses
Struck at his friends, as babies beat their nurses.
Nay, he had wounded, though but slightly, both
Juan and Johnson; whereupon they fell,
The first with sighs, the second with an oath,
Upon his angry sultanship, pell-mell,
And all around were grown exceeding wroth
At such a pertinacious infidel,
And pour'd upon him and his sons like rain,
Which they resisted like a sandy plain
That drinks and still is dry. At last they perish'd--
His second son was levell'd by a shot;
His third was sabred; and the fourth, most cherish'd
Of all the five, on bayonets met his lot;
The fifth, who, by a Christian mother nourish'd,
Had been neglected, ill-used, and what not,
Because deform'd, yet died all game and bottom,
To save a sire who blush'd that he begot him.
The eldest was a true and tameless Tartar,
As great a scorner of the Nazarene
As ever Mahomet pick'd out for a martyr,
Who only saw the black-eyed girls in green,
Who make the beds of those who won't take quarter
On earth, in Paradise; and when once seen,
Those houris, like all other pretty creatures,
Do just whate'er they please, by dint of features.
And what they pleased to do with the young khan
In heaven I know not, nor pretend to guess;
But doubtless they prefer a fine young man
To tough old heroes, and can do no less;
And that 's the cause no doubt why, if we scan
A field of battle's ghastly wilderness,
For one rough, weather-beaten, veteran body,
You 'll find ten thousand handsome coxcombs bloody.
Your houris also have a natural pleasure
In lopping off your lately married men,
Before the bridal hours have danced their measure
And the sad, second moon grows dim again,
Or dull repentance hath had dreary leisure
To wish him back a bachelor now and then.
And thus your houri (it may be) disputes
Of these brief blossoms the immediate fruits.
Thus the young khan, with houris in his sight,
Thought not upon the charms of four young brides,
But bravely rush'd on his first heavenly night.
In short, howe'er our better faith derides,
These black-eyed virgins make the Moslems fight,
As though there were one heaven and none besides,--
Whereas, if all be true we hear of heaven
And hell, there must at least be six or seven.
So fully flash'd the phantom on his eyes,
That when the very lance was in his heart,
He shouted 'Allah!' and saw Paradise
With all its veil of mystery drawn apart,
And bright eternity without disguise
On his soul, like a ceaseless sunrise, dart:--
With prophets, houris, angels, saints, descried
In one voluptuous blaze,--and then he died,
But with a heavenly rapture on his face.
The good old khan, who long had ceased to see
Houris, or aught except his florid race
Who grew like cedars round him gloriously--
When he beheld his latest hero grace
The earth, which he became like a fell'd tree,
Paused for a moment, from the fight, and cast
A glance on that slain son, his first and last.
The soldiers, who beheld him drop his point,
Stopp'd as if once more willing to concede
Quarter, in case he bade them not 'aroynt!'
As he before had done. He did not heed
Their pause nor signs: his heart was out of joint,
And shook (till now unshaken) like a reed,
As he look'd down upon his children gone,
And felt--though done with life--he was alone
But 't was a transient tremor;--with a spring
Upon the Russian steel his breast he flung,
As carelessly as hurls the moth her wing
Against the light wherein she dies: he clung
Closer, that all the deadlier they might wring,
Unto the bayonets which had pierced his young;
And throwing back a dim look on his sons,
In one wide wound pour'd forth his soul at once.
'T is strange enough--the rough, tough soldiers, who
Spared neither sex nor age in their career
Of carnage, when this old man was pierced through,
And lay before them with his children near,
Touch'd by the heroism of him they slew,
Were melted for a moment: though no tear
Flow'd from their bloodshot eyes, all red with strife,
They honour'd such determined scorn of life.
But the stone bastion still kept up its fire,
Where the chief pacha calmly held his post:
Some twenty times he made the Russ retire,
And baffled the assaults of all their host;
At length he condescended to inquire
If yet the city's rest were won or lost;
And being told the latter, sent a bey
To answer Ribas' summons to give way.
In the mean time, cross-legg'd, with great sang-froid,
Among the scorching ruins he sat smoking
Tobacco on a little carpet;--Troy
Saw nothing like the scene around:--yet looking
With martial stoicism, nought seem'd to annoy
His stern philosophy; but gently stroking
His beard, he puff'd his pipe's ambrosial gales,
As if he had three lives, as well as tails.
The town was taken--whether he might yield
Himself or bastion, little matter'd now:
His stubborn valour was no future shield.
Ismail 's no more! The crescent's silver bow
Sunk, and the crimson cross glared o'er the field,
But red with no redeeming gore: the glow
Of burning streets, like moonlight on the water,
Was imaged back in blood, the sea of slaughter.
All that the mind would shrink from of excesses;
All that the body perpetrates of bad;
All that we read, hear, dream, of man's distresses;
All that the devil would do if run stark mad;
All that defies the worst which pen expresses;
All by which hell is peopled, or as sad
As hell--mere mortals who their power abuse--
Was here (as heretofore and since) let loose.
If here and there some transient trait of pity
Was shown, and some more noble heart broke through
Its bloody bond, and saved perhaps some pretty
Child, or an aged, helpless man or two--
What 's this in one annihilated city,
Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties grew?
Cockneys of London! Muscadins of Paris!
Just ponder what a pious pastime war is.
Think how the joys of reading a Gazette
Are purchased by all agonies and crimes:
Or if these do not move you, don't forget
Such doom may be your own in aftertimes.
Meantime the Taxes, Castlereagh, and Debt,
Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes.
Read your own hearts and Ireland's present story,
Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley's glory.
But still there is unto a patriot nation,
Which loves so well its country and its king,
A subject of sublimest exultation--
Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing!
Howe'er the mighty locust, Desolation,
Strip your green fields, and to your harvests cling,
Gaunt famine never shall approach the throne--
Though Ireland starve, great George weighs twenty stone.
But let me put an end unto my theme:
There was an end of Ismail--hapless town!
Far flash'd her burning towers o'er Danube's stream,
And redly ran his blushing waters down.
The horrid war-whoop and the shriller scream
Rose still; but fainter were the thunders grown:
Of forty thousand who had mann'd the wall,
Some hundreds breathed--the rest were silent all!
In one thing ne'ertheless 't is fit to praise
The Russian army upon this occasion,
A virtue much in fashion now-a-days,
And therefore worthy of commemoration:
The topic 's tender, so shall be my phrase--
Perhaps the season's chill, and their long station
In winter's depth, or want of rest and victual,
Had made them chaste;--they ravish'd very little.
Much did they slay, more plunder, and no less
Might here and there occur some violation
In the other line;--but not to such excess
As when the French, that dissipated nation,
Take towns by storm: no causes can I guess,
Except cold weather and commiseration;
But all the ladies, save some twenty score,
Were almost as much virgins as before.
Some odd mistakes, too, happen'd in the dark,
Which show'd a want of lanterns, or of taste--
Indeed the smoke was such they scarce could mark
Their friends from foes,--besides such things from haste
Occur, though rarely, when there is a spark
Of light to save the venerably chaste:
But six old damsels, each of seventy years,
Were all deflower'd by different grenadiers.
But on the whole their continence was great;
So that some disappointment there ensued
To those who had felt the inconvenient state
Of 'single blessedness,' and thought it good
(Since it was not their fault, but only fate,
To bear these crosses) for each waning prude
To make a Roman sort of Sabine wedding,
Without the expense and the suspense of bedding.
Some voices of the buxom middle-aged
Were also heard to wonder in the din
(Widows of forty were these birds long caged)
'Wherefore the ravishing did not begin!'
But while the thirst for gore and plunder raged,
There was small leisure for superfluous sin;
But whether they escaped or no, lies hid
In darkness--I can only hope they did.
Suwarrow now was conqueror--a match
For Timour or for Zinghis in his trade.
While mosques and streets, beneath his eyes, like thatch
Blazed, and the cannon's roar was scarce allay'd,
With bloody hands he wrote his first despatch;
And here exactly follows what he said:--
'Glory to God and to the Empress!' (Powers
Eternal! such names mingled!) 'Ismail 's ours.'
Methinks these are the most tremendous words,
Since 'Mene, Mene, Tekel,' and 'Upharsin,'
Which hands or pens have ever traced of swords.
Heaven help me! I 'm but little of a parson:
What Daniel read was short-hand of the Lord's,
Severe, sublime; the prophet wrote no farce on
The fate of nations;--but this Russ so witty
Could rhyme, like Nero, o'er a burning city.
He wrote this Polar melody, and set it,
Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans,
Which few will sing, I trust, but none forget it--
For I will teach, if possible, the stones
To rise against earth's tyrants. Never let it
Be said that we still truckle unto thrones;--
But ye--our children's children! think how we
Show'd what things were before the world was free!
That hour is not for us, but 't is for you:
And as, in the great joy of your millennium,
You hardly will believe such things were true
As now occur, I thought that I would pen you 'em;
But may their very memory perish too!-
Yet if perchance remember'd, still disdain you 'em
More than you scorn the savages of yore,
Who painted their bare limbs, but not with gore.
And when you hear historians talk of thrones,
And those that sate upon them, let it be
As we now gaze upon the mammoth's bones,
'And wonder what old world such things could see,
Or hieroglyphics on Egyptian stones,
The pleasant riddles of futurity--
Guessing at what shall happily be hid,
As the real purpose of a pyramid.
Reader! I have kept my word,--at least so far
As the first Canto promised. You have now
Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, war--
All very accurate, you must allow,
And epic, if plain truth should prove no bar;
For I have drawn much less with a long bow
Than my forerunners. Carelessly I sing,
But Phoebus lends me now and then a string,
With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle.
What farther hath befallen or may befall
The hero of this grand poetic riddle,
I by and by may tell you, if at all:
But now I choose to break off in the middle,
Worn out with battering Ismail's stubborn wall,
While Juan is sent off with the despatch,
For which all Petersburgh is on the watch.
This special honour was conferr'd, because
He had behaved with courage and humanity--
Which last men like, when they have time to pause
From their ferocities produced by vanity.
His little captive gain'd him some applause
For saving her amidst the wild insanity
Of carnage,--and I think he was more glad in her
Safety, than his new order of St. Vladimir.
The Moslem orphan went with her protector,
For she was homeless, houseless, helpless; all
Her friends, like the sad family of Hector,
Had perish'd in the field or by the wall:
Her very place of birth was but a spectre
Of what it had been; there the Muezzin's cal
To prayer was heard no more!--and Juan wept,
And made a vow to shield her, which he kept.
[Illustration: Canto 9]
CANTO THE NINTH.
O, Wellington! (or 'Villainton'--for Fame
Sounds the heroic syllables both ways;
France could not even conquer your great name,
But punn'd it down to this facetious phrase--
Beating or beaten she will laugh the same),
You have obtain'd great pensions and much praise:
Glory like yours should any dare gainsay,
Humanity would rise, and thunder 'Nay!'
I don't think that you used Kinnaird quite well
In Marinet's affair--in fact, 't was shabby,
And like some other things won't do to tell
Upon your tomb in Westminster's old abbey.
Upon the rest 't is not worth while to dwell,
Such tales being for the tea-hours of some tabby;
But though your years as man tend fast to zero,
In fact your grace is still but a young hero.
Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much,
Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more:
You have repair'd Legitimacy's crutch,
A prop not quite so certain as before:
The Spanish, and the French, as well as Dutch,
Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore;
And Waterloo has made the world your debtor
(I wish your bards would sing it rather better).
You are 'the best of cut-throats:'--do not start;
The phrase is Shakspeare's, and not misapplied:
War 's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art,
Unless her cause by right be sanctified.
If you have acted once a generous part,
The world, not the world's masters, will decide,
And I shall be delighted to learn who,
Save you and yours, have gain'd by Waterloo?
I am no flatterer--you 've supp'd full of flattery:
They say you like it too--'t is no great wonder.
He whose whole life has been assault and battery,
At last may get a little tired of thunder;
And swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he
May like being praised for every lucky blunder,
Call'd 'Saviour of the Nations'--not yet saved,
And 'Europe's Liberator'--still enslaved.
I 've done. Now go and dine from off the plate
Presented by the Prince of the Brazils,
And send the sentinel before your gate
A slice or two from your luxurious meals:
He fought, but has not fed so well of late.
Some hunger, too, they say the people feels:--
There is no doubt that you deserve your ration,
But pray give back a little to the nation.
I don't mean to reflect--a man so great as
You, my lord duke! is far above reflection:
The high Roman fashion, too, of Cincinnatus,
With modern history has but small connection:
Though as an Irishman you love potatoes,
You need not take them under your direction;
And half a million for your Sabine farm
Is rather dear!--I 'm sure I mean no harm.
Great men have always scorn'd great recompenses:
Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died,
Not leaving even his funeral expenses:
George Washington had thanks and nought beside,
Except the all-cloudless glory which few men's is
To free his country: Pitt too had his pride,
And as a high-soul'd minister of state is
Renown'd for ruining Great Britain gratis.
Never had mortal man such opportunity,
Except Napoleon, or abused it more:
You might have freed fallen Europe from the unity
Of tyrants, and been blest from shore to shore:
And now--what is your fame? Shall the Muse tune it ye?
Now--that the rabble's first vain shouts are o'er?
Go! hear it in your famish'd country's cries!
Behold the world! and curse your victories!
As these new cantos touch on warlike feats,
To you the unflattering Muse deigns to inscribe
Truths, that you will not read in the Gazettes,
But which 't is time to teach the hireling tribe
Who fatten on their country's gore, and debts,
Must be recited, and--without a bribe.
You did great things; but not being great in mind,
Have left undone the greatest--and mankind.
Death laughs--Go ponder o'er the skeleton
With which men image out the unknown thing
That hides the past world, like to a set sun
Which still elsewhere may rouse a brighter spring--
Death laughs at all you weep for:--look upon
This hourly dread of all! whose threaten'd sting
Turns life to terror, even though in its sheath:
Mark how its lipless mouth grins without breath!
Mark how it laughs and scorns at all you are!
And yet was what you are: from ear to ear
It laughs not--there is now no fleshy bar
So call'd; the Antic long hath ceased to hear,
But still he smiles; and whether near or far,
He strips from man that mantle (far more dear
Than even the tailor's), his incarnate skin,
White, black, or copper--the dead bones will grin.
And thus Death laughs,--it is sad merriment,
But still it is so; and with such example
Why should not Life be equally content
With his superior, in a smile to trample
Upon the nothings which are daily spent
Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample
Than the eternal deluge, which devours
Suns as rays--worlds like atoms--years like hours?
'To be, or not to be? that is the question,'
Says Shakspeare, who just now is much in fashion.
I am neither Alexander nor Hephaestion,
Nor ever had for abstract fame much passion;
But would much rather have a sound digestion
Than Buonaparte's cancer: could I dash on
Through fifty victories to shame or fame--
Without a stomach what were a good name?
'O dura ilia messorum!'--'Oh
Ye rigid guts of reapers!' I translate
For the great benefit of those who know
What indigestion is--that inward fate
Which makes all Styx through one small liver flow.
A peasant's sweat is worth his lord's estate:
Let this one toil for bread--that rack for rent,
He who sleeps best may be the most content.
'To be, or not to be?'--Ere I decide,
I should be glad to know that which is being?
'T is true we speculate both far and wide,
And deem, because we see, we are all-seeing:
For my part, I 'll enlist on neither side,
Until I see both sides for once agreeing.
For me, I sometimes think that life is death,
Rather than life a mere affair of breath.
'Que scais-je?' was the motto of Montaigne,
As also of the first academicians:
That all is dubious which man may attain,
Was one of their most favourite positions.
There 's no such thing as certainty, that 's plain
As any of Mortality's conditions;
So little do we know what we 're about in
This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting.
It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float,
Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation;
But what if carrying sail capsize the boat?
Your wise men don't know much of navigation;
And swimming long in the abyss of thought
Is apt to tire: a calm and shallow station
Well nigh the shore, where one stoops down and gathers
Some pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers.
'But heaven,' as Cassio says, 'is above all--
No more of this, then,--let us pray!' We have
Souls to save, since Eve's slip and Adam's fall,
Which tumbled all mankind into the grave,
Besides fish, beasts, and birds. 'The sparrow's fall
Is special providence,' though how it gave
Offence, we know not; probably it perch'd
Upon the tree which Eve so fondly search'd.
O, ye immortal gods! what is theogony?
O, thou too, mortal man! what is philanthropy?
O, world! which was and is, what is cosmogony?
Some people have accused me of misanthropy;
And yet I know no more than the mahogany
That forms this desk, of what they mean; lykanthropy
I comprehend, for without transformation
Men become wolves on any slight occasion.
But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind,
Like Moses, or Melancthon, who have ne'er
Done anything exceedingly unkind,--
And (though I could not now and then forbear
Following the bent of body or of mind)
Have always had a tendency to spare,--
Why do they call me misanthrope? Because
They hate me, not I them.--and here we 'll pause.
'T is time we should proceed with our good poem,--
For I maintain that it is really good,
Not only in the body but the proem,
However little both are understood
Just now,--but by and by the Truth will show 'em
Herself in her sublimest attitude:
And till she doth, I fain must be content
To share her beauty and her banishment.
Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader, yours)
Was left upon his way to the chief city
Of the immortal Peter's polish'd boors
Who still have shown themselves more brave than witty.
I know its mighty empire now allures
Much flattery--even Voltaire's, and that 's a pity.
For me, I deem an absolute autocrat
Not a barbarian, but much worse than that.
And I will war, at least in words (and--should
My chance so happen--deeds), with all who war
With Thought;--and of Thought's foes by far most rude,
Tyrants and sycophants have been and are.
I know not who may conquer: if I could
Have such a prescience, it should be no bar
To this my plain, sworn, downright detestation
Of every depotism in every nation.
It is not that I adulate the people:
Without me, there are demagogues enough,
And infidels, to pull down every steeple,
And set up in their stead some proper stuff.
Whether they may sow scepticism to reap hell,
As is the Christian dogma rather rough,
I do not know;--I wish men to be free
As much from mobs as kings--from you as me.
The consequence is, being of no party,
I shall offend all parties: never mind!
My words, at least, are more sincere and hearty
Than if I sought to sail before the wind.
He who has nought to gain can have small art: he
Who neither wishes to be bound nor bind,
May still expatiate freely, as will I,
Nor give my voice to slavery's jackal cry.
That 's an appropriate simile, that jackal;--
I 've heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl
By night, as do that mercenary pack all,
Power's base purveyors, who for pickings prowl,
And scent the prey their masters would attack all.
However, the poor jackals are less foul
(As being the brave lions' keen providers)
Than human insects, catering for spiders.
Raise but an arm! 't will brush their web away,
And without that, their poison and their claws
Are useless. Mind, good people! what I say
(Or rather peoples)--go on without pause!
The web of these tarantulas each day
Increases, till you shall make common cause:
None, save the Spanish fly and Attic bee,
As yet are strongly stinging to be free.
Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter,
Was left upon his way with the despatch,
Where blood was talk'd of as we would of water;
And carcasses that lay as thick as thatch
O'er silenced cities, merely served to flatter
Fair Catherine's pastime--who look'd on the match
Between these nations as a main of cocks,
Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks.
And there in a kibitka he roll'd on
(A cursed sort of carriage without springs,
Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole bone),
Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings,
And orders, and on all that he had done--
And wishing that post-horses had the wings
Of Pegasus, or at the least post-chaises
Had feathers, when a traveller on deep ways is.
At every jolt--and they were many--still
He turn'd his eyes upon his little charge,
As if he wish'd that she should fare less ill
Than he, in these sad highways left at large
To ruts, and flints, and lovely Nature's skill,
Who is no paviour, nor admits a barge
On her canals, where God takes sea and land,
Fishery and farm, both into his own hand.
At least he pays no rent, and has best right
To be the first of what we used to call
'Gentlemen farmer'--a race worn out quite,
Since lately there have been no rents at all,
And 'gentlemen' are in a piteous plight,
And 'farmers' can't raise Ceres from her fall:
She fell with Buonaparte--What strange thoughts
Arise, when we see emperors fall with oats!
But Juan turn'd his eyes on the sweet child
Whom he had saved from slaughter--what a trophy
O! ye who build up monuments, defiled
With gore, like Nadir Shah, that costive sophy,
Who, after leaving Hindostan a wild,
And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee
To soothe his woes withal, was slain, the sinner!
Because he could no more digest his dinner;--
O ye! or we! or he! or she! reflect,
That one life saved, especially if young
Or pretty, is a thing to recollect
Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung
From the manure of human clay, though deck'd
With all the praises ever said or sung:
Though hymn'd by every harp, unless within
Your heart joins chorus, Fame is but a din.
O! ye great authors luminous, voluminous!
Ye twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes!
Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers, illumine us!
Whether you 're paid by government in bribes,
To prove the public debt is not consuming us--
Or, roughly treading on the 'courtier's kibes'
With clownish heel, your popular circulation
Feeds you by printing half the realm's starvation;--
O, ye great authors!--'Apropos des bottes,'-
I have forgotten what I meant to say,
As sometimes have been greater sages' lots;
'T was something calculated to allay
All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots:
Certes it would have been but thrown away,
And that 's one comfort for my lost advice,
Although no doubt it was beyond all price.
But let it go:--it will one day be found
With other relics of 'a former world,'
When this world shall be former, underground,
Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisp'd, and curl'd,
Baked, fried, or burnt, turn'd inside-out, or drown'd,
Like all the worlds before, which have been hurl'd
First out of, and then back again to chaos,
The superstratum which will overlay us.
So Cuvier says;--and then shall come again
Unto the new creation, rising out
From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain
Of things destroy'd and left in airy doubt:
Like to the notions we now entertain
Of Titans, giants, fellows of about
Some hundred feet in height, not to say miles,
And mammoths, and your winged crocodiles.
Think if then George the Fourth should be dug up!
How the new worldlings of the then new East
Will wonder where such animals could sup!
(For they themselves will be but of the least:
Even worlds miscarry, when too oft they pup,
And every new creation hath decreased
In size, from overworking the material--
Men are but maggots of some huge Earth's burial.)
How will--to these young people, just thrust out
From some fresh Paradise, and set to plough,
And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves about,
And plant, and reap, and spin, and grind, and sow,
Till all the arts at length are brought about,
Especially of war and taxing,--how,
I say, will these great relics, when they see 'em,
Look like the monsters of a new museum?
But I am apt to grow too metaphysical:
'The time is out of joint,'--and so am I;
I quite forget this poem 's merely quizzical,
And deviate into matters rather dry.
I ne'er decide what I shall say, and this I cal
Much too poetical: men should know why
They write, and for what end; but, note or text,
I never know the word which will come next.
So on I ramble, now and then narrating,
Now pondering:--it is time we should narrate.
I left Don Juan with his horses baiting--
Now we 'll get o'er the ground at a great rate.
I shall not be particular in stating
His journey, we 've so many tours of late:
Suppose him then at Petersburgh; suppose
That pleasant capital of painted snows;
Suppose him in a handsome uniform,--
A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume,
Waving, like sails new shiver'd in a storm,
Over a cock'd hat in a crowded room,
And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme,
Of yellow casimere we may presume,
White stocking drawn uncurdled as new milk
O'er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk;
Suppose him sword by side, and hat in hand,
Made up by youth, fame, and an army tailor--
That great enchanter, at whose rod's command
Beauty springs forth, and Nature's self turns paler,
Seeing how Art can make her work more grand
(When she don't pin men's limbs in like a gaoler),--
Behold him placed as if upon a pillar! He
Seems Love turn'd a lieutenant of artillery:--
His bandage slipp'd down into a cravat;
His wings subdued to epaulettes; his quiver
Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at
His side as a small sword, but sharp as ever;
His bow converted into a cock'd hat;
But still so like, that Psyche were more clever
Than some wives (who make blunders no less stupid),
If she had not mistaken him for Cupid.
The courtiers stared, the ladies whisper'd, and
The empress smiled: the reigning favourite frown'd--
I quite forget which of them was in hand
Just then; as they are rather numerous found,
Who took by turns that difficult command
Since first her majesty was singly crown'd:
But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows,
All fit to make a Patagonian jealous.
Juan was none of these, but slight and slim,
Blushing and beardless; and yet ne'ertheless
There was a something in his turn of limb,
And still more in his eye, which seem'd to express,
That though he look'd one of the seraphim,
There lurk'd a man beneath the spirit's dress.
Besides, the empress sometimes liked a boy,
And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi.
No wonder then that Yermoloff, or Momonoff,
Or Scherbatoff, or any other off
Or on, might dread her majesty had not room enough
Within her bosom (which was not too tough)
For a new flame; a thought to cast of gloom enough
Along the aspect, whether smooth or rough,
Of him who, in the language of his station,
Then held that 'high official situation.'
O, gentle ladies! should you seek to know
The import of this diplomatic phrase,
Bid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquess show
His parts of speech; and in the strange displays
Of that odd string of words, all in a row,
Which none divine, and every one obeys,
Perhaps you may pick out some queer no meaning,
Of that weak wordy harvest the sole gleaning.
I think I can explain myself without
That sad inexplicable beast of prey--
That Sphinx, whose words would ever be a doubt,
Did not his deeds unriddle them each day--
That monstrous hieroglyphic--that long spout
Of blood and water, leaden Castlereagh!
And here I must an anecdote relate,
But luckily of no great length or weight.
An English lady ask'd of an Italian,
What were the actual and official duties
Of the strange thing some women set a value on,
Which hovers oft about some married beauties,
Called 'Cavalier servente?'--a Pygmalion
Whose statues warm (I fear, alas! too true 't is)
Beneath his art. The dame, press'd to disclose them,
Said--'Lady, I beseech you to suppose them.'
And thus I supplicate your supposition,
And mildest, matron-like interpretation,
Of the imperial favourite's condition.
'T was a high place, the highest in the nation
In fact, if not in rank; and the suspicion
Of any one's attaining to his station,
No doubt gave pain, where each new pair of shoulders,
If rather broad, made stocks rise and their holders.
Juan, I said, was a most beauteous boy,
And had retain'd his boyish look beyond
The usual hirsute seasons which destroy,
With beards and whiskers, and the like, the fond
Parisian aspect which upset old Troy
And founded Doctors' Commons:--I have conn'd
The history of divorces, which, though chequer'd,
Calls Ilion's the first damages on record.
And Catherine, who loved all things (save her lord,
Who was gone to his place), and pass'd for much
Admiring those (by dainty dames abhorr'd)
Gigantic gentlemen, yet had a touch
Of sentiment; and he she most adored
Was the lamented Lanskoi, who was such
A lover as had cost her many a tear,
And yet but made a middling grenadier.
O thou 'teterrima causa' of all 'belli'-
Thou gate of life and death--thou nondescript!
Whence is our exit and our entrance,--well I
May pause in pondering how all souls are dipt
In thy perennial fountain:--how man fell I
Know not, since knowledge saw her branches stript
Of her first fruit; but how he falls and rises
Since, thou hast settled beyond all surmises.
Some call thee 'the worst cause of war,' but I
Maintain thou art the best: for after all
From thee we come, to thee we go, and why
To get at thee not batter down a wall,
Or waste a world? since no one can deny
Thou dost replenish worlds both great and small:
With, or without thee, all things at a stand
Are, or would be, thou sea of life's dry land!
Catherine, who was the grand epitome
Of that great cause of war, or peace, or what
You please (it causes all the things which be,
So you may take your choice of this or that)--
Catherine, I say, was very glad to see
The handsome herald, on whose plumage sat
Victory; and pausing as she saw him kneel
With his despatch, forgot to break the seal.
Then recollecting the whole empress, nor
forgetting quite the woman (which composed
At least three parts of this great whole), she tore
The letter open with an air which posed
The court, that watch'd each look her visage wore,
Until a royal smile at length disclosed
Fair weather for the day. Though rather spacious,
Her face was noble, her eyes fine, mouth gracious.
Great joy was hers, or rather joys: the first
Was a ta'en city, thirty thousand slain.
Glory and triumph o'er her aspect burst,
As an East Indian sunrise on the main.
These quench'd a moment her ambition's thirst--
So Arab deserts drink in summer's rain:
In vain!--As fall the dews on quenchless sands,
Blood only serves to wash Ambition's hands!
Her next amusement was more fanciful;
She smiled at mad Suwarrow's rhymes, who threw
Into a Russian couplet rather dull
The whole gazette of thousands whom he slew.
Her third was feminine enough to annul
The shudder which runs naturally through
Our veins, when things call'd sovereigns think it best
To kill, and generals turn it into jest.
The two first feelings ran their course complete,
And lighted first her eye, and then her mouth:
The whole court look'd immediately most sweet,
Like flowers well water'd after a long drouth.
But when on the lieutenant at her feet
Her majesty, who liked to gaze on youth
Almost as much as on a new despatch,
Glanced mildly, all the world was on the watch.
Though somewhat large, exuberant, and truculent,
When wroth--while pleased, she was as fine a figure
As those who like things rosy, ripe, and succulent,
Would wish to look on, while they are in vigour.
She could repay each amatory look you lent
With interest, and in turn was wont with rigour
To exact of Cupid's bills the full amount
At sight, nor would permit you to discount.
With her the latter, though at times convenient,
Was not so necessary; for they tell
That she was handsome, and though fierce look'd lenient,
And always used her favourites too well.
If once beyond her boudoir's precincts in ye went,
Your 'fortune' was in a fair way 'to swell
A man' (as Giles says); for though she would widow all
Nations, she liked man as an individual.
What a strange thing is man? and what a stranger
Is woman! What a whirlwind is her head,
And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger
Is all the rest about her! Whether wed
Or widow, maid or mother, she can change her
Mind like the wind: whatever she has said
Or done, is light to what she 'll say or do;--
The oldest thing on record, and yet new!
O Catherine! (for of all interjections,
To thee both oh! and ah! belong of right
In love and war) how odd are the connections
Of human thoughts, which jostle in their flight!
Just now yours were cut out in different sections:
First Ismail's capture caught your fancy quite;
Next of new knights, the fresh and glorious batch;
And thirdly he who brought you the despatch!
Shakspeare talks of 'the herald Mercury
New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;'
And some such visions cross'd her majesty,
While her young herald knelt before her still.
'T is very true the hill seem'd rather high,
For a lieutenant to climb up; but skill
Smooth'd even the Simplon's steep, and by God's blessing
With youth and health all kisses are 'heaven-kissing.'
Her majesty look'd down, the youth look'd up--
And so they fell in love;--she with his face,
His grace, his God-knows-what: for Cupid's cup
With the first draught intoxicates apace,
A quintessential laudanum or 'black drop,'
Which makes one drunk at once, without the base
Expedient of full bumpers; for the eye
In love drinks all life's fountains (save tears) dry.
He, on the other hand, if not in love,
Fell into that no less imperious passion,
Self-love--which, when some sort of thing above
Ourselves, a singer, dancer, much in fashion,
Or duchess, princess, empress, 'deigns to prove'
('T is Pope's phrase) a great longing, though a rash one,
For one especial person out of many,
Makes us believe ourselves as good as any.
Besides, he was of that delighted age
Which makes all female ages equal--when
We don't much care with whom we may engage,
As bold as Daniel in the lion's den,
So that we can our native sun assuage
In the next ocean, which may flow just then,
To make a twilight in, just as Sol's heat is
Quench'd in the lap of the salt sea, or Thetis.
And Catherine (we must say thus much for Catherine),
Though bold and bloody, was the kind of thing
Whose temporary passion was quite flattering,
Because each lover look'd a sort of king,
Made up upon an amatory pattern,
A royal husband in all save the ring--
Which, being the damn'dest part of matrimony,
Seem'd taking out the sting to leave the honey.
And when you add to this, her womanhood
In its meridian, her blue eyes or gray
(The last, if they have soul, are quite as good,
Or better, as the best examples say:
Napoleon's, Mary's (queen of Scotland), should
Lend to that colour a transcendent ray;
And Pallas also sanctions the same hue,
Too wise to look through optics black or blue)--
Her sweet smile, and her then majestic figure,
Her plumpness, her imperial condescension,
Her preference of a boy to men much bigger
(Fellows whom Messalina's self would pension),
Her prime of life, just now in juicy vigour,
With other extras, which we need not mention,--
All these, or any one of these, explain
Enough to make a stripling very vain.
And that 's enough, for love is vanity,
Selfish in its beginning as its end,
Except where 't is a mere insanity,
A maddening spirit which would strive to blend
Itself with beauty's frail inanity,
On which the passion's self seems to depend:
And hence some heathenish philosophers
Make love the main spring of the universe.
Besides Platonic love, besides the love
Of God, the love of sentiment, the loving
Of faithful pairs (I needs must rhyme with dove,
That good old steam-boat which keeps verses moving
'Gainst reason--Reason ne'er was hand-and-glove
With rhyme, but always leant less to improving
The sound than sense)--beside all these pretences
To love, there are those things which words name senses;
Those movements, those improvements in our bodies
Which make all bodies anxious to get out
Of their own sand-pits, to mix with a goddess,
For such all women are at first no doubt.
How beautiful that moment! and how odd is
That fever which precedes the languid rout
Of our sensations! What a curious way
The whole thing is of clothing souls in clay!
The noblest kind of love is love Platonical,
To end or to begin with; the next grand
Is that which may be christen'd love canonical,
Because the clergy take the thing in hand;
The third sort to be noted in our chronicle
As flourishing in every Christian land,
Is when chaste matrons to their other ties
Add what may be call'd marriage in disguise.
Well, we won't analyse--our story must
Tell for itself: the sovereign was smitten,
Juan much flatter'd by her love, or lust;--
I cannot stop to alter words once written,
And the two are so mix'd with human dust,
That he who names one, both perchance may hit on:
But in such matters Russia's mighty empress
Behaved no better than a common sempstress.
The whole court melted into one wide whisper,
And all lips were applied unto all ears!
The elder ladies' wrinkles curl'd much crisper
As they beheld; the younger cast some leers
On one another, and each lovely lisper
Smiled as she talk'd the matter o'er; but tears
Of rivalship rose in each clouded eye
Of all the standing army who stood by.
All the ambassadors of all the powers
Enquired, Who was this very new young man,
Who promised to be great in some few hours?
Which is full soon--though life is but a span.
Already they beheld the silver showers
Of rubles rain, as fast as specie can,
Upon his cabinet, besides the presents
Of several ribands, and some thousand peasants.
Catherine was generous,--all such ladies are:
Love, that great opener of the heart and all
The ways that lead there, be they near or far,
Above, below, by turnpikes great or small,--
Love (though she had a cursed taste for war,
And was not the best wife, unless we call
Such Clytemnestra, though perhaps 't is better
That one should die, than two drag on the fetter)--
Love had made Catherine make each lover's fortune,
Unlike our own half-chaste Elizabeth,
Whose avarice all disbursements did importune,
If history, the grand liar, ever saith
The truth; and though grief her old age might shorten,
Because she put a favourite to death,
Her vile, ambiguous method of flirtation,
And stinginess, disgrace her sex and station.
But when the levee rose, and all was bustle
In the dissolving circle, all the nations'
Ambassadors began as 't were to hustle
Round the young man with their congratulations.
Also the softer silks were heard to rustle
Of gentle dames, among whose recreations
It is to speculate on handsome faces,
Especially when such lead to high places.
Juan, who found himself, he knew not how,
A general object of attention, made
His answers with a very graceful bow,
As if born for the ministerial trade.
Though modest, on his unembarrass'd brow
Nature had written 'gentleman.' He said
Little, but to the purpose; and his manner
Flung hovering graces o'er him like a banner.
An order from her majesty consign'd
Our young lieutenant to the genial care
Of those in office: all the world look'd kind
(As it will look sometimes with the first stare,
Which youth would not act ill to keep in mind),
As also did Miss Protasoff then there,
Named from her mystic office 'l'Eprouveuse,'
A term inexplicable to the Muse.
With her then, as in humble duty bound,
Juan retired,--and so will I, until
My Pegasus shall tire of touching ground.
We have just lit on a 'heaven-kissing hill,'
So lofty that I feel my brain turn round,
And all my fancies whirling like a mill;
Which is a signal to my nerves and brain,
To take a quiet ride in some green Lane.
[Illustration: Canto 10]
CANTO THE TENTH.
When Newton saw an apple fall, he found
In that slight startle from his contemplation--
'T is said (for I 'll not answer above ground
For any sage's creed or calculation)--
A mode of proving that the earth turn'd round
In a most natural whirl, called 'gravitation;'
And this is the sole mortal who could grapple,
Since Adam, with a fall or with an apple.
Man fell with apples, and with apples rose,
If this be true; for we must deem the mode
In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose
Through the then unpaved stars the turnpike road,
A thing to counterbalance human woes:
For ever since immortal man hath glow'd
With all kinds of mechanics, and full soon
Steam-engines will conduct him to the moon.
And wherefore this exordium?--Why, just now,
In taking up this paltry sheet of paper,
My bosom underwent a glorious glow,
And my internal spirit cut a caper:
And though so much inferior, as I know,
To those who, by the dint of glass and vapour,
Discover stars and sail in the wind's eye,
I wish to do as much by poesy.
In the wind's eye I have sail'd, and sail; but for
The stars, I own my telescope is dim:
But at least I have shunn'd the common shore,
And leaving land far out of sight, would skim
The ocean of eternity: the roar
Of breakers has not daunted my slight, trim,
But still sea-worthy skiff; and she may float
Where ships have founder'd, as doth many a boat.
We left our hero, Juan, in the bloom
Of favouritism, but not yet in the blush;
And far be it from my Muses to presume
(For I have more than one Muse at a push)
To follow him beyond the drawing-room:
It is enough that Fortune found him flush
Of youth, and vigour, beauty, and those things
Which for an instant clip enjoyment's wings.
But soon they grow again and leave their nest.
'Oh!' saith the Psalmist, 'that I had a dove's
Pinions to flee away, and be at rest!'
And who that recollects young years and loves,--
Though hoary now, and with a withering breast,
And palsied fancy, which no longer roves
Beyond its dimm'd eye's sphere,--but would much rather
Sigh like his son, than cough like his grandfather?
But sighs subside, and tears (even widows') shrink,
Like Arno in the summer, to a shallow,
So narrow as to shame their wintry brink,
Which threatens inundations deep and yellow!
Such difference doth a few months make. You 'd think
Grief a rich field which never would lie fallow;
No more it doth, its ploughs but change their boys,
Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys.
But coughs will come when sighs depart--and now
And then before sighs cease; for oft the one
Will bring the other, ere the lake-like brow
Is ruffled by a wrinkle, or the sun
Of life reach'd ten o'clock: and while a glow,
Hectic and brief as summer's day nigh done,
O'erspreads the cheek which seems too pure for clay,
Thousands blaze, love, hope, die,--how happy they!
But Juan was not meant to die so soon.
We left him in the focus of such glory
As may be won by favour of the moon
Or ladies' fancies--rather transitory
Perhaps; but who would scorn the month of June,
Because December, with his breath so hoary,
Must come? Much rather should he court the ray,
To hoard up warmth against a wintry day.
Besides, he had some qualities which fix
Middle-aged ladies even more than young:
The former know what 's what; while new-fledged chicks
Know little more of love than what is sung
In rhymes, or dreamt (for fancy will play tricks)
In visions of those skies from whence Love sprung.
Some reckon women by their suns or years,
I rather think the moon should date the dears.
And why? because she 's changeable and chaste.
I know no other reason, whatsoe'er
Suspicious people, who find fault in haste,
May choose to tax me with; which is not fair,
Nor flattering to 'their temper or their taste,'
As my friend Jeffrey writes with such an air:
However, I forgive him, and I trust
He will forgive himself;--if not, I must.
Old enemies who have become new friends
Should so continue--'t is a point of honour;
And I know nothing which could make amends
For a return to hatred: I would shun her
Like garlic, howsoever she extends
Her hundred arms and legs, and fain outrun her.
Old flames, new wives, become our bitterest foes--
Converted foes should scorn to join with those.
This were the worst desertion:--renegadoes,
Even shuffling Southey, that incarnate lie,
Would scarcely join again the 'reformadoes,'
Whom he forsook to fill the laureate's sty:
And honest men from Iceland to Barbadoes,
Whether in Caledon or Italy,
Should not veer round with every breath, nor seize
To pain, the moment when you cease to please.
The lawyer and the critic but behold
The baser sides of literature and life,
And nought remains unseen, but much untold,
By those who scour those double vales of strife.
While common men grow ignorantly old,
The lawyer's brief is like the surgeon's knife,
Dissecting the whole inside of a question,
And with it all the process of digestion.
A legal broom 's a moral chimney-sweeper,
And that 's the reason he himself 's so dirty;
The endless soot bestows a tint far deeper
Than can be hid by altering his shirt; he
Retains the sable stains of the dark creeper,
At least some twenty-nine do out of thirty,
In all their habits;--not so you, I own;
As Caesar wore his robe you wear your gown.
And all our little feuds, at least all mine,
Dear Jefferson, once my most redoubted foe
(As far as rhyme and criticism combine
To make such puppets of us things below),
Are over: Here 's a health to 'Auld Lang Syne!'
I do not know you, and may never know
Your face--but you have acted on the whole
Most nobly, and I own it from my soul.
And when I use the phrase of 'Auld Lang Syne!'
'T is not address'd to you--the more 's the pity
For me, for I would rather take my wine
With you, than aught (save Scott) in your proud city.
But somehow,--it may seem a schoolboy's whine,
And yet I seek not to be grand nor witty,
But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred
A whole one, and my heart flies to my head,--
As 'Auld Lang Syne' brings Scotland, one and all,
Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, and clear streams,
The Dee, the Don, Balgounie's brig's black wall,
All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams
Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall,
Like Banquo's offspring;--floating past me seems
My childhood in this childishness of mine:
I care not--'t is a glimpse of 'Auld Lang Syne.'
And though, as you remember, in a fit
Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly,
I rail'd at Scots to show my wrath and wit,
Which must be own'd was sensitive and surly,
Yet 't is in vain such sallies to permit,
They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early:
I 'scotch'd not kill'd' the Scotchman in my blood,
And love the land of 'mountain and of flood.'
Don Juan, who was real, or ideal,--
For both are much the same, since what men think
Exists when the once thinkers are less real
Than what they thought, for mind can never sink,
And 'gainst the body makes a strong appeal;
And yet 't is very puzzling on the brink
Of what is call'd eternity, to stare,
And know no more of what is here, than there;--
Don Juan grew a very polish'd Russian--
How we won't mention, why we need not say:
Few youthful minds can stand the strong concussion
Of any slight temptation in their way;
But his just now were spread as is a cushion
Smooth'd for a monarch's seat of honour; gay
Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money,
Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny.
The favour of the empress was agreeable;
And though the duty wax'd a little hard,
Young people at his time of life should be able
To come off handsomely in that regard.
He was now growing up like a green tree, able
For love, war, or ambition, which reward
Their luckier votaries, till old age's tedium
Make some prefer the circulating medium.
About this time, as might have been anticipated,
Seduced by youth and dangerous examples,
Don Juan grew, I fear, a little dissipated;
Which is a sad thing, and not only tramples
On our fresh feelings, but--as being participated
With all kinds of incorrigible samples
Of frail humanity--must make us selfish,
And shut our souls up in us like a shell-fish.
This we pass over. We will also pass
The usual progress of intrigues between
Unequal matches, such as are, alas!
A young lieutenant's with a not old queen,
But one who is not so youthful as she was
In all the royalty of sweet seventeen.
Sovereigns may sway materials, but not matter,
And Death, the sovereign's sovereign, though the great
Gracchus of all mortality, who levels
With his Agrarian laws the high estate
Of him who feasts, and fights, and roars, and revels,
To one small grass-grown patch (which must await
Corruption for its crop) with the poor devils
Who never had a foot of land till now,--
Death 's a reformer, all men must allow.
He lived (not Death, but Juan) in a hurry
Of waste, and haste, and glare, and gloss, and glitter,
In this gay clime of bear-skins black and furry--
Which (though I hate to say a thing that 's bitter)
Peep out sometimes, when things are in a flurry,
Through all the 'purple and fine linen,' fitter
For Babylon's than Russia's royal harlot--
And neutralize her outward show of scarlet.
And this same state we won't describe: we would
Perhaps from hearsay, or from recollection;
But getting nigh grim Dante's 'obscure wood,'
That horrid equinox, that hateful section
Of human years, that half-way house, that rude
Hut, whence wise travellers drive with circumspection
Life's sad post-horses o'er the dreary frontier
Of age, and looking back to youth, give one tear;--
I won't describe,--that is, if I can help
Description; and I won't reflect,--that is,
If I can stave off thought, which--as a whelp
Clings to its teat--sticks to me through the abyss
Of this odd labyrinth; or as the kelp
Holds by the rock; or as a lover's kiss
Drains its first draught of lips:--but, as I said,
I won't philosophise, and will be read.
Juan, instead of courting courts, was courted,--
A thing which happens rarely: this he owed
Much to his youth, and much to his reported
Valour; much also to the blood he show'd,
Like a race-horse; much to each dress he sported,
Which set the beauty off in which he glow'd,
As purple clouds befringe the sun; but most
He owed to an old woman and his post.
He wrote to Spain:--and all his near relations,
Perceiving fie was in a handsome way
Of getting on himself, and finding stations
For cousins also, answer'd the same day.
Several prepared themselves for emigrations;
And eating ices, were o'erheard to say,
That with the addition of a slight pelisse,
Madrid's and Moscow's climes were of a piece.
His mother, Donna Inez, finding, too,
That in the lieu of drawing on his banker,
Where his assets were waxing rather few,
He had brought his spending to a handsome anchor,--
Replied, 'that she was glad to see him through
Those pleasures after which wild youth will hanker;
As the sole sign of man's being in his senses
Is, learning to reduce his past expenses.
'She also recommended him to God,
And no less to God's Son, as well as Mother,
Warn'd him against Greek worship, which looks odd
In Catholic eyes; but told him, too, to smother
Outward dislike, which don't look well abroad;
Inform'd him that he had a little brother
Born in a second wedlock; and above
All, praised the empress's maternal love.
'She could not too much give her approbation
Unto an empress, who preferr'd young men
Whose age, and what was better still, whose nation
And climate, stopp'd all scandal (now and then):--
At home it might have given her some vexation;
But where thermometers sunk down to ten,
Or five, or one, or zero, she could never
Believe that virtue thaw'd before the river.'
O for a forty-parson power to chant
Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh for a hymn
Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt,
Not practise! Oh for trumps of cherubim!
Or the ear-trumpet of my good old aunt,
Who, though her spectacles at last grew dim,
Drew quiet consolation through its hint,
When she no more could read the pious print.
She was no hypocrite at least, poor soul,
But went to heaven in as sincere a way
As any body on the elected roll,
Which portions out upon the judgment day
Heaven's freeholds, in a sort of doomsday scroll,
Such as the conqueror William did repay
His knights with, lotting others' properties
Into some sixty thousand new knights' fees.
I can't complain, whose ancestors are there,
Erneis, Radulphus--eight-and-forty manors
(If that my memory doth not greatly err)
Were their reward for following Billy's banners:
And though I can't help thinking 't was scarce fair
To strip the Saxons of their hydes, like tanners;
Yet as they founded churches with the produce,
You 'll deem, no doubt, they put it to a good use.
The gentle Juan flourish'd, though at times
He felt like other plants called sensitive,
Which shrink from touch, as monarchs do from rhymes,
Save such as Southey can afford to give.
Perhaps he long'd in bitter frosts for climes
In which the Neva's ice would cease to live
Before May-day: perhaps, despite his duty,
In royalty's vast arms he sigh d for beauty:
Perhaps--but, sans perhaps, we need not seek
For causes young or old: the canker-worm
Will feed upon the fairest, freshest cheek,
As well as further drain the wither'd form:
Care, like a housekeeper, brings every week
His bills in, and however we may storm,
They must be paid: though six days smoothly run,
The seventh will bring blue devils or a dun.
I don't know how it was, but he grew sick:
The empress was alarm'd, and her physician
(The same who physick'd Peter) found the tick
Of his fierce pulse betoken a condition
Which augur'd of the dead, however quick
Itself, and show'd a feverish disposition;
At which the whole court was extremely troubled,
The sovereign shock'd, and all his medicines doubled.
Low were the whispers, manifold the rumours:
Some said he had been poison'd by Potemkin;
Others talk'd learnedly of certain tumours,
Exhaustion, or disorders of the same kin;
Some said 't was a concoction of the humours,
Which with the blood too readily will claim kin;
Others again were ready to maintain,
''T was only the fatigue of last campaign.'
But here is one prescription out of many:
'Sodae sulphat. 3vj. 3fs. Mannae optim.
Aq. fervent. f. 3ifs. 3ij. tinct. Sennae
Haustus' (And here the surgeon came and cupp'd him)
'Rx Pulv Com gr. iij. Ipecacuanhae'
(With more beside if Juan had not stopp'd 'em).
'Bolus Potassae Sulphuret. sumendus,
Et haustus ter in die capiendus.'
This is the way physicians mend or end us,
Secundum artem: but although we sneer
In health--when ill, we call them to attend us,
Without the least propensity to jeer:
While that 'hiatus maxime deflendus'
To be fill'd up by spade or mattock's near,
Instead of gliding graciously down Lethe,
We tease mild Baillie, or soft Abernethy.
Juan demurr'd at this first notice to
Quit; and though death had threaten'd an ejection,
His youth and constitution bore him through,
And sent the doctors in a new direction.
But still his state was delicate: the hue
Of health but flicker'd with a faint reflection
Along his wasted cheek, and seem'd to gravel
The faculty--who said that he must travel.
The climate was too cold, they said, for him,
Meridian-born, to bloom in. This opinion
Made the chaste Catherine look a little grim,
Who did not like at first to lose her minion:
But when she saw his dazzling eye wax dim,
And drooping like an eagle's with clipt pinion,
She then resolved to send him on a mission,
But in a style becoming his condition.
There was just then a kind of a discussion,
A sort of treaty or negotiation
Between the British cabinet and Russian,
Maintain'd with all the due prevarication
With which great states such things are apt to push on;
Something about the Baltic's navigation,
Hides, train-oil, tallow, and the rights of Thetis,
Which Britons deem their 'uti possidetis.'
So Catherine, who had a handsome way
Of fitting out her favourites, conferr'd
This secret charge on Juan, to display
At once her royal splendour, and reward
His services. He kiss'd hands the next day,
Received instructions how to play his card,
Was laden with all kinds of gifts and honours,
Which show'd what great discernment was the donor's.
But she was lucky, and luck 's all. Your queens
Are generally prosperous in reigning;
Which puzzles us to know what Fortune means.
But to continue: though her years were waning
Her climacteric teased her like her teens;
And though her dignity brook'd no complaining,
So much did Juan's setting off distress her,
She could not find at first a fit successor.
But time, the comforter, will come at last;
And four-and-twenty hours, and twice that number
Of candidates requesting to be placed,
Made Catherine taste next night a quiet slumber:--
Not that she meant to fix again in haste,
Nor did she find the quantity encumber,
But always choosing with deliberation,
Kept the place open for their emulation.
While this high post of honour 's in abeyance,
For one or two days, reader, we request
You 'll mount with our young hero the conveyance
Which wafted him from Petersburgh: the best
Barouche, which had the glory to display once
The fair czarina's autocratic crest,
When, a new lphigene, she went to Tauris,
Was given to her favourite, and now bore his.
A bull-dog, and a bullfinch, and an ermine,
All private favourites of Don Juan;--for
(Let deeper sages the true cause determine)
He had a kind of inclination, or
Weakness, for what most people deem mere vermin,
Live animals: an old maid of threescore
For cats and birds more penchant ne'er display'd,
Although he was not old, nor even a maid;--
The animals aforesaid occupied
Their station: there were valets, secretaries,
In other vehicles; but at his side
Sat little Leila, who survived the parries
He made 'gainst Cossacque sabres, in the wide
Slaughter of Ismail. Though my wild Muse varies
Her note, she don't forget the infant girl
Whom he preserved, a pure and living pearl
Poor little thing! She was as fair as docile,
And with that gentle, serious character,
As rare in living beings as a fossile
Man, 'midst thy mouldy mammoths, 'grand Cuvier!'
Ill fitted was her ignorance to jostle
With this o'erwhelming world, where all must err:
But she was yet but ten years old, and therefore
Was tranquil, though she knew not why or wherefore.
Don Juan loved her, and she loved him, as
Nor brother, father, sister, daughter love.
I cannot tell exactly what it was;
He was not yet quite old enough to prove
Parental feelings, and the other class,
Call'd brotherly affection, could not move
His bosom,--for he never had a sister:
Ah! if he had, how much he would have miss'd her!
And still less was it sensual; for besides
That he was not an ancient debauchee
(Who like sour fruit, to stir their veins' salt tides,
As acids rouse a dormant alkali),
Although ('t will happen as our planet guides)
His youth was not the chastest that might be,
There was the purest Platonism at bottom
Of all his feelings--only he forgot 'em.
Just now there was no peril of temptation;
He loved the infant orphan he had saved,
As patriots (now and then) may love a nation;
His pride, too, felt that she was not enslaved
Owing to him;--as also her salvation
Through his means and the church's might be paved.
But one thing 's odd, which here must be _insert_ed,
The little Turk refused to be converted.
'T was strange enough she should retain the impression
Through such a scene of change, and dread, and slaughter;
But though three bishops told her the transgression,
She show'd a great dislike to holy water:
She also had no passion for confession;
Perhaps she had nothing to confess:--no matter,
Whate'er the cause, the church made little of it--
She still held out that Mahomet was a prophet.
In fact, the only Christian she could bear
Was Juan; whom she seem'd to have _select_ed
In place of what her home and friends once were.
He naturally loved what he protected:
And thus they form'd a rather curious pair,
A guardian green in years, a ward connected
In neither clime, time, blood, with her defender;
And yet this want of ties made theirs more tender.
They journey'd on through Poland and through Warsaw,
Famous for mines of salt and yokes of iron:
Through Courland also, which that famous farce saw
Which gave her dukes the graceless name of 'Biron.'
'T is the same landscape which the modern Mars saw,
Who march'd to Moscow, led by Fame, the siren!
To lose by one month's frost some twenty years
Of conquest, and his guard of grenadiers.
Let this not seem an anti-climax:--'Oh!
My guard! my old guard exclaim'd!' exclaim'd that god of day.
Think of the Thunderer's falling down below
Carotid-artery-cutting Castlereagh!
Alas, that glory should be chill'd by snow!
But should we wish to warm us on our way
Through Poland, there is Kosciusko's name
Might scatter fire through ice, like Hecla's flame.
From Poland they came on through Prussia Proper,
And Konigsberg the capital, whose vaunt,
Besides some veins of iron, lead, or copper,
Has lately been the great Professor Kant.
Juan, who cared not a tobacco-stopper
About philosophy, pursued his jaunt
To Germany, whose somewhat tardy millions
Have princes who spur more than their postilions.
And thence through Berlin, Dresden, and the like,
Until he reach'd the castellated Rhine:--
Ye glorious Gothic scenes! how much ye strike
All phantasies, not even excepting mine;
A grey wall, a green ruin, rusty pike,
Make my soul pass the equinoctial line
Between the present and past worlds, and hover
Upon their airy confine, half-seas-over.
But Juan posted on through Manheim, Bonn,
Which Drachenfels frowns over like a spectre
Of the good feudal times forever gone,
On which I have not time just now to lecture.
From thence he was drawn onwards to Cologne,
A city which presents to the inspector
Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone,
The greatest number flesh hath ever known.
From thence to Holland's Hague and Helvoetsluys,
That water-land of Dutchmen and of ditches,
Where juniper expresses its best juice,
The poor man's sparkling substitute for riches.
Senates and sages have condemn'd its use--
But to deny the mob a cordial, which is
Too often all the clothing, meat, or fuel,
Good government has left them, seems but cruel.
Here he embark'd, and with a flowing sail
Went bounding for the island of the free,
Towards which the impatient wind blew half a gale;
High dash'd the spray, the bows dipp'd in the sea,
And sea-sick passengers turn'd somewhat pale;
But Juan, season'd, as he well might be,
By former voyages, stood to watch the skiffs
Which pass'd, or catch the first glimpse of the cliffs.
At length they rose, like a white wall along
The blue sea's border; and I Don Juan felt--
What even young strangers feel a little strong
At the first sight of Albion's chalky belt--
A kind of pride that he should be among
Those haughty shopkeepers, who sternly dealt
Their goods and edicts out from pole to pole,
And made the very billows pay them toll.
I 've no great cause to love that spot of earth,
Which holds what might have been the noblest nation;
But though I owe it little but my birth,
I feel a mix'd regret and veneration
For its decaying fame and former worth.
Seven years (the usual term of transportation)
Of absence lay one's old resentments level,
When a man's country 's going to the devil.
Alas! could she but fully, truly, know
How her great name is now throughout abhorr'd:
How eager all the earth is for the blow
Which shall lay bare her bosom to the sword;
How all the nations deem her their worst foe,
That worse than worst of foes, the once adored
False friend, who held out freedom to mankind,
And now would chain them, to the very mind:--
Would she be proud, or boast herself the free,
Who is but first of slaves? The nations are
In prison,--but the gaoler, what is he?
No less a victim to the bolt and bar.
Is the poor privilege to turn the key
Upon the captive, freedom? He 's as far
From the enjoyment of the earth and air
Who watches o'er the chain, as they who wear.
Don Juan now saw Albion's earliest beauties,
Thy cliffs, dear Dover! harbour, and hotel;
Thy custom-house, with all its delicate duties;
Thy waiters running mucks at every bell;
Thy packets, all whose passengers are booties
To those who upon land or water dwell;
And last, not least, to strangers uninstructed,
Thy long, long bills, whence nothing is deducted.
Juan, though careless, young, and magnifique,
And rich in rubles, diamonds, cash, and credit,
Who did not limit much his bills per week,
Yet stared at this a little, though he paid it
(His Maggior Duomo, a smart, subtle Greek,
Before him summ'd the awful scroll and read it);
But doubtless as the air, though seldom sunny,
Is free, the respiration's worth the money.
On with the horses! Off to Canterbury!
Tramp, tramp o'er pebble, and splash, splash through puddle;
Hurrah! how swiftly speeds the post so merry!
Not like slow Germany, wherein they muddle
Along the road, as if they went to bury
Their fare; and also pause besides, to fuddle
With 'schnapps'--sad dogs! whom 'Hundsfot,' or 'Verflucter,'
Affect no more than lightning a conductor.
Now there is nothing gives a man such spirits,
Leavening his blood as cayenne doth a curry,
As going at full speed--no matter where its
Direction be, so 't is but in a hurry,
And merely for the sake of its own merits;
For the less cause there is for all this flurry,
The greater is the pleasure in arriving
At the great end of travel--which is driving.
They saw at Canterbury the cathedral;
Black Edward's helm, and Becket's bloody stone,
Were pointed out as usual by the bedral,
In the same quaint, uninterested tone:--
There 's glory again for you, gentle reader! All
Ends in a rusty casque and dubious bone,
Half-solved into these sodas or magnesias;
Which form that bitter draught, the human species.
The effect on Juan was of course sublime:
He breathed a thousand Cressys, as he saw
That casque, which never stoop'd except to Time.
Even the bold Churchman's tomb excited awe,
Who died in the then great attempt to climb
O'er kings, who now at least must talk of law
Before they butcher. Little Leila gazed,
And ask'd why such a structure had been raised:
And being told it was 'God's house,' she said
He was well lodged, but only wonder'd how
He suffer'd Infidels in his homestead,
The cruel Nazarenes, who had laid low
His holy temples in the lands which bred
The True Believers:--and her infant brow
Was bent with grief that Mahomet should resign
A mosque so noble, flung like pearls to swine.
O! oh! through meadows managed like a garden,
A paradise of hops and high production;
For after years of travel by a bard in
Countries of greater heat, but lesser suction,
A green field is a sight which makes him pardon
The absence of that more sublime construction,
Which mixes up vines, olives, precipices,
Glaciers, volcanos, oranges, and ices.
And when I think upon a pot of beer--
But I won't weep!--and so drive on, postilions!
As the smart boys spurr'd fast in their career,
Juan admired these highways of free millions;
A country in all senses the most dear
To foreigner or native, save some silly ones,
Who 'kick against the pricks' just at this juncture,
And for their pains get only a fresh puncture.
What a delightful thing 's a turnpike road!
So smooth, so level, such a mode of shaving
The earth, as scarce the eagle in the broad
Air can accomplish, with his wide wings waving.
Had such been cut in Phaeton's time, the god
Had told his son to satisfy his craving
With the York mail;--but onward as we roll,
'Surgit amari aliquid'--the toll
Alas, how deeply painful is all payment!
Take lives, take wives, take aught except men's purses:
As Machiavel shows those in purple raiment,
Such is the shortest way to general curses.
They hate a murderer much less than a claimant
On that sweet ore which every body nurses;--
Kill a man's family, and he may brook it,
But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.
So said the Florentine: ye monarchs, hearken
To your instructor. Juan now was borne,
Just as the day began to wane and darken,
O'er the high hill, which looks with pride or scorn
Toward the great city.--Ye who have a spark in
Your veins of Cockney spirit, smile or mourn
According as you take things well or ill;--
Bold Britons, we are now on Shooter's Hill!
The sun went down, the smoke rose up, as from
A half-unquench'd volcano, o'er a space
Which well beseem'd the 'Devil's drawing-room,'
As some have qualified that wondrous place:
But Juan felt, though not approaching home,
As one who, though he were not of the race,
Revered the soil, of those true sons the mother,
Who butcher'd half the earth, and bullied t' other.
A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping,
Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye
Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping
In sight, then lost amidst the forestry
Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping
On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy;
A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown
On a fool's head--and there is London Town!
But Juan saw not this: each wreath of smoke
Appear'd to him but as the magic vapour
Of some alchymic furnace, from whence broke
The wealth of worlds (a wealth of tax and paper):
The gloomy clouds, which o'er it as a yoke
Are bow'd, and put the sun out like a taper,
Were nothing but the natural atmosphere,
Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear.
He paused--and so will I; as doth a crew
Before they give their broadside. By and by,
My gentle countrymen, we will renew
Our old acquaintance; and at least I 'll try
To tell you truths you will not take as true,
Because they are so;--a male Mrs. Fry,
With a soft besom will I sweep your halls,
And brush a web or two from off the walls.
O Mrs. Fry! Why go to Newgate? Why
Preach to poor rogues? And wherefore not begin
With Carlton, or with other houses? Try
Your head at harden'd and imperial sin.
To mend the people 's an absurdity,
A jargon, a mere philanthropic din,
Unless you make their betters better:--Fy!
I thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry.
Teach them the decencies of good threescore;
Cure them of tours, hussar and highland dresses;
Tell them that youth once gone returns no more,
That hired huzzas redeem no land's distresses;
Tell them Sir William Curtis is a bore,
Too dull even for the dullest of excesses,
The witless Falstaff of a hoary Hal,
A fool whose bells have ceased to ring at all.
Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late,
On life's worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated,
To set up vain pretence of being great,
'T is not so to be good; and be it stated,
The worthiest kings have ever loved least state;
And tell them--But you won't, and I have prated
Just now enough; but by and by I 'll prattle
Like Roland's horn in Roncesvalles' battle.
[Illustration: Canto 11]
CANTO THE ELEVENTH.
When Bishop Berkeley said 'there was no matter,'
And proved it--'t was no matter what he said:
They say his system 't is in vain to batter,
Too subtle for the airiest human head;
And yet who can believe it? I would shatter
Gladly all matters down to stone or lead,
Or adamant, to find the world a spirit,
And wear my head, denying that I wear it.
What a sublime discovery 't was to make the
Universe universal egotism,
That all 's ideal--all ourselves: I 'll stake the
World (be it what you will) that that 's no schism.
O Doubt!--if thou be'st Doubt, for which some take thee;
But which I doubt extremely--thou sole prism
Of the Truth's rays, spoil not my draught of spirit!
Heaven's brandy, though our brain can hardly bear it.
For ever and anon comes Indigestion,
(Not the most 'dainty Ariel') and perplexes
Our soarings with another sort of question:
And that which after all my spirit vexes,
Is, that I find no spot where man can rest eye on,
Without confusion of the sorts and sexes,
Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder,
The world, which at the worst 's a glorious blunder--
If it be chance; or if it be according
To the old text, still better:--lest it should
Turn out so, we 'll say nothing 'gainst the wording,
As several people think such hazards rude.
They 're right; our days are too brief for affording
Space to dispute what no one ever could
Decide, and every body one day will
Know very clearly--or at least lie still.
And therefore will I leave off metaphysical
Discussion, which is neither here nor there:
If I agree that what is, is; then this I call
Being quite perspicuous and extremely fair;
The truth is, I 've grown lately rather phthisical:
I don't know what the reason is--the air
Perhaps; but as I suffer from the shocks
Of illness, I grow much more orthodox.
The first attack at once proved the Divinity
(But that I never doubted, nor the Devil);
The next, the Virgin's mystical virginity;
The third, the usual Origin of Evil;
The fourth at once establish'd the whole Trinity
On so uncontrovertible a level,
That I devoutly wish'd the three were four,
On purpose to believe so much the more.
To our Theme.--The man who has stood on the Acropolis,
And look'd down over Attica; or he
Who has sail'd where picturesque Constantinople is,
Or seen Timbuctoo, or hath taken tea
In small-eyed China's crockery-ware metropolis,
Or sat amidst the bricks of Nineveh,
May not think much of London's first appearance--
But ask him what he thinks of it a year hence?
Don Juan had got out on Shooter's Hill;
Sunset the time, the place the same declivity
Which looks along that vale of good and ill
Where London streets ferment in full activity;
While every thing around was calm and still,
Except the creak of wheels, which on their pivot he
Heard,--and that bee-like, bubbling, busy hum
Of cities, that boil over with their scum:--
I say, Don Juan, wrapt in contemplation,
Walk'd on behind his carriage, o'er the summit,
And lost in wonder of so great a nation,
Gave way to 't, since he could not overcome it.
'And here,' he cried, 'is Freedom's chosen station;
Here peals the people's voice, nor can entomb it
Racks, prisons, inquisitions; resurrection
Awaits it, each new meeting or election.
'Here are chaste wives, pure lives; here people pay
But what they please; and if that things be dear,
'T is only that they love to throw away
Their cash, to show how much they have a-year.
Here laws are all inviolate; none lay
Traps for the traveller; every highway 's clear:
Here-' he was interrupted by a knife,
With,--'Damn your eyes! your money or your life!'
These freeborn sounds proceeded from four pads
In ambush laid, who had perceived him loiter
Behind his carriage; and, like handy lads,
Had seized the lucky hour to reconnoitre,
In which the heedless gentleman who gads
Upon the road, unless he prove a fighter,
May find himself within that isle of riches
Exposed to lose his life as well as breeches.
Juan, who did not understand a word
Of English, save their shibboleth, 'God damn!'
And even that he had so rarely heard,
He sometimes thought 't was only their 'Salam,'
Or 'God be with you!'--and 't is not absurd
To think so: for half English as I am
(To my misfortune), never can I say
I heard them wish 'God with you,' save that way;--
Juan yet quickly understood their gesture,
And being somewhat choleric and sudden,
Drew forth a pocket pistol from his vesture,
And fired it into one assailant's pudding--
Who fell, as rolls an ox o'er in his pasture,
And roar'd out, as he writhed his native mud in,
Unto his nearest follower or henchman,
'Oh Jack! I 'm floor'd by that 'ere bloody Frenchman!'
On which Jack and his train set off at speed,
And Juan's suite, late scatter'd at a distance,
Came up, all marvelling at such a deed,
And offering, as usual, late assistance.
Juan, who saw the moon's late minion bleed
As if his veins would pour out his existence,
Stood calling out for bandages and lint,
And wish'd he had been less hasty with his flint.
'Perhaps,' thought he, 'it is the country's wont
To welcome foreigners in this way: now
I recollect some innkeepers who don't
Differ, except in robbing with a bow,
In lieu of a bare blade and brazen front.
But what is to be done? I can't allow
The fellow to lie groaning on the road:
So take him up; I 'll help you with the load.'
But ere they could perform this pious duty,
The dying man cried, 'Hold! I 've got my gruel!
O for a glass of max! We 've miss'd our booty;
Let me die where I am!' And as the fuel
Of life shrunk in his heart, and thick and sooty
The drops fell from his death-wound, and he drew ill
His breath,--he from his swelling throat untied
A kerchief, crying, 'Give Sal that!'--and died.
The cravat stain'd with bloody drops fell down
Before Don Juan's feet: he could not tell
Exactly why it was before him thrown,
Nor what the meaning of the man's farewell.
Poor Tom was once a kiddy upon town,
A thorough varmint, and a real swell,
Full flash, all fancy, until fairly diddled,
His pockets first and then his body riddled.
Don Juan, having done the best he could
In all the circumstances of the case,
As soon as 'Crowner's quest' allow'd, pursued
His travels to the capital apace;--
Esteeming it a little hard he should
In twelve hours' time, and very little space,
Have been obliged to slay a freeborn native
In self-defence: this made him meditative.
He from the world had cut off a great man,
Who in his time had made heroic bustle.
Who in a row like Tom could lead the van,
Booze in the ken, or at the spellken hustle?
Who queer a flat? Who (spite of Bow Street's ban)
On the high toby-spice so flash the muzzle?
Who on a lark, with black-eyed Sal (his blowing),
So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing?
But Tom's no more--and so no more of Tom.
Heroes must die; and by God's blessing 't is
Not long before the most of them go home.
Hail! Thamis, Hail! Upon thy verge it is
That Juan's chariot, rolling like a drum
In thunder, holds the way it can't well miss,
Through Kennington and all the other 'tons,'
Which makes us wish ourselves in town at once;--
Through Groves, so call'd as being void of trees
(Like lucus from no light); through prospects named
Mount Pleasant, as containing nought to please,
Nor much to climb; through little boxes framed
Of bricks, to let the dust in at your ease,
With 'To be let' upon their doors proclaim'd;
Through 'Rows' most modestly call'd 'Paradise,'
Which Eve might quit without much sacrifice;--
Through coaches, drays, choked turnpikes, and a whirl
Of wheels, and roar of voices, and confusion;
Here taverns wooing to a pint of 'purl,'
There mails fast flying off like a delusion;
There barbers' blocks with periwigs in curl
In windows; here the lamplighter's infusion
Slowly distill'd into the glimmering glass
(For in those days we had not got to gas);--
Through this, and much, and more, is the approach
Of travellers to mighty Babylon:
Whether they come by horse, or chaise, or coach,
With slight exceptions, all the ways seem one.
I could say more, but do not choose to encroach
Upon the Guide-book's privilege. The sun
Had set some time, and night was on the ridge
Of twilight, as the party cross'd the bridge,--
That 's rather fine. The gentle sound of Thamis--
Who vindicates a moment, too, his stream,
Though hardly heard through multifarious 'damme's'-
The lamps of Westminster's more regular gleam,
The breadth of pavement, and yon shrine where fame is
A spectral resident--whose pallid beam
In shape of moonshine hovers o'er the pile--
Make this a sacred part of Albion's isle.
The Druids' groves are gone--so much the better:
Stone-Henge is not--but what the devil is it?-
But Bedlam still exists with its sage fetter,
That madmen may not bite you on a visit;
The Bench too seats or suits full many a debtor;
The Mansion House too (though some people quiz it)
To me appears a stiff yet grand erection;
But then the Abbey 's worth the whole collection.
The line of lights, too, up to Charing Cross,
Pall Mall, and so forth, have a coruscation
Like gold as in comparison to dross,
Match'd with the Continent's illumination,
Whose cities Night by no means deigns to gloss.
The French were not yet a lamp-lighting nation,
And when they grew so--on their new-found lantern,
Instead of wicks, they made a wicked man turn.
A row of gentlemen along the streets
Suspended may illuminate mankind,
As also bonfires made of country seats;
But the old way is best for the purblind:
The other looks like phosphorus on sheets,
A sort of ignis fatuus to the mind,
Which, though 't is certain to perplex and frighten,
Must burn more mildly ere it can enlighten.
But London 's so well lit, that if Diogenes
Could recommence to hunt his honest man,
And found him not amidst the various progenies
Of this enormous city's spreading span,
'T were not for want of lamps to aid his dodging his
Yet undiscover'd treasure. What I can,
I 've done to find the same throughout life's journey,
But see the world is only one attorney.
Over the stones still rattling up Pall Mall,
Through crowds and carriages, but waxing thinner
As thunder'd knockers broke the long seal'd spell
Of doors 'gainst duns, and to an early dinner
Admitted a small party as night fell,--
Don Juan, our young diplomatic sinner,
Pursued his path, and drove past some hotels,
St. James's Palace and St. James's 'Hells.'
They reach'd the hotel: forth stream'd from the front door
A tide of well-clad waiters, and around
The mob stood, and as usual several score
Of those pedestrian Paphians who abound
In decent London when the daylight 's o'er;
Commodious but immoral, they are found
Useful, like Malthus, in promoting marriage.-
But Juan now is stepping from his carriage
Into one of the sweetest of hotels,
Especially for foreigners--and mostly
For those whom favour or whom fortune swells,
And cannot find a bill's small items costly.
There many an envoy either dwelt or dwells
(The den of many a diplomatic lost lie),
Until to some conspicuous square they pass,
And blazon o'er the door their names in brass.
Juan, whose was a delicate commission,
Private, though publicly important, bore
No title to point out with due precision
The exact affair on which he was sent o'er.
'T was merely known, that on a secret mission
A foreigner of rank had graced our shore,
Young, handsome, and accomplish'd, who was said
(In whispers) to have turn'd his sovereign's head.
Some rumour also of some strange adventures
Had gone before him, and his wars and loves;
And as romantic heads are pretty painters,
And, above all, an Englishwoman's roves
Into the excursive, breaking the indentures
Of sober reason wheresoe'er it moves,
He found himself extremely in the fashion,
Which serves our thinking people for a passion.
I don't mean that they are passionless, but quite
The contrary; but then 't is in the head;
Yet as the consequences are as bright
As if they acted with the heart instead,
What after all can signify the site
Of ladies' lucubrations? So they lead
In safety to the place for which you start,
What matters if the road be head or heart?
Juan presented in the proper place,
To proper placemen, every Russ credential;
And was received with all the due grimace
By those who govern in the mood potential,
Who, seeing a handsome stripling with smooth face,
Thought (what in state affairs is most essential)
That they as easily might do the youngster,
As hawks may pounce upon a woodland songster.
They err'd, as aged men will do; but by
And by we 'll talk of that; and if we don't,
'T will be because our notion is not high
Of politicians and their double front,
Who live by lies, yet dare not boldly lie:--
Now what I love in women is, they won't
Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it
So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it.
And, after all, what is a lie? 'T is but
The truth in masquerade; and I defy
Historians, heroes, lawyers, priests, to put
A fact without some leaven of a lie.
The very shadow of true Truth would shut
Up annals, revelations, poesy,
And prophecy--except it should be dated
Some years before the incidents related.
Praised be all liars and all lies! Who now
Can tax my mild Muse with misanthropy?
She rings the world's 'Te Deum,' and her brow
Blushes for those who will not:--but to sigh
Is idle; let us like most others bow,
Kiss hands, feet, any part of majesty,
After the good example of 'Green Erin,'
Whose shamrock now seems rather worse for wearing.
Don Juan was presented, and his dress
And mien excited general admiration--
I don't know which was more admired or less:
One monstrous diamond drew much observation,
Which Catherine in a moment of 'ivresse'
(In love or brandy's fervent fermentation)
Bestow'd upon him, as the public learn'd;
And, to say truth, it had been fairly earn'd.
Besides the ministers and underlings,
Who must be courteous to the accredited
Diplomatists of rather wavering kings,
Until their royal riddle 's fully read,
The very clerks,--those somewhat dirty springs
Of office, or the house of office, fed
By foul corruption into streams,--even they
Were hardly rude enough to earn their pay:
And insolence no doubt is what they are
Employ'd for, since it is their daily labour,
In the dear offices of peace or war;
And should you doubt, pray ask of your next neighbour,
When for a passport, or some other bar
To freedom, he applied (a grief and a bore),
If he found not his spawn of taxborn riches,
But Juan was received with much 'empressement:'-
These phrases of refinement I must borrow
From our next neighbours' land, where, like a chessman,
There is a move set down for joy or sorrow
Not only in mere talking, but the press. Man
In islands is, it seems, downright and thorough,
More than on continents--as if the sea
(See Billingsgate) made even the tongue more free.
And yet the British 'Damme' 's rather Attic:
Your continental oaths are but incontinent,
And turn on things which no aristocratic
Spirit would name, and therefore even I won't anent
This subject quote; as it would be schismatic
In politesse, and have a sound affronting in 't:--
But 'Damme' 's quite ethereal, though too daring--
Platonic blasphemy, the soul of swearing.
For downright rudeness, ye may stay at home;
For true or false politeness (and scarce that
Now) you may cross the blue deep and white foam--
The first the emblem (rarely though) of what
You leave behind, the next of much you come
To meet. However, 't is no time to chat
On general topics: poems must confine
Themselves to unity, like this of mine.
In the great world,--which, being interpreted,
Meaneth the west or worst end of a city,
And about twice two thousand people bred
By no means to be very wise or witty,
But to sit up while others lie in bed,
And look down on the universe with pity,--
Juan, as an inveterate patrician,
Was well received by persons of condition.
He was a bachelor, which is a matter
Of import both to virgin and to bride,
The former's hymeneal hopes to flatter;
And (should she not hold fast by love or pride)
'T is also of some moment to the latter:
A rib 's a thorn in a wed gallant's side,
Requires decorum, and is apt to double
The horrid sin--and what 's still worse, the trouble.
But Juan was a bachelor--of arts,
And parts, and hearts: he danced and sung, and had
An air as sentimental as Mozart's
Softest of melodies; and could be sad
Or cheerful, without any 'flaws or starts,'
Just at the proper time; and though a lad,
Had seen the world--which is a curious sight,
And very much unlike what people write.
Fair virgins blush'd upon him; wedded dames
Bloom'd also in less transitory hues;
For both commodities dwell by the Thames,
The painting and the painted; youth, ceruse,
Against his heart preferr'd their usual claims,
Such as no gentleman can quite refuse:
Daughters admired his dress, and pious mothers
Inquired his income, and if he had brothers.
The milliners who furnish 'drapery Misses'
Throughout the season, upon speculation
Of payment ere the honey-moon's last kisses
Have waned into a crescent's coruscation,
Thought such an opportunity as this is,
Of a rich foreigner's initiation,
Not to be overlook'd--and gave such credit,
That future bridegrooms swore, and sigh'd, and paid it.
The Blues, that tender tribe who sigh o'er sonnets,
And with the pages of the last Review
Line the interior of their heads or bonnets,
Advanced in all their azure's highest hue:
They talk'd bad French or Spanish, and upon its
Late authors ask'd him for a hint or two;
And which was softest, Russian or Castilian?
And whether in his travels he saw Ilion?
Juan, who was a little superficial,
And not in literature a great Drawcansir,
Examined by this learned and especial
Jury of matrons, scarce knew what to answer:
His duties warlike, loving or official,
His steady application as a dancer,
Had kept him from the brink of Hippocrene,
Which now he found was blue instead of green.
However, he replied at hazard, with
A modest confidence and calm assurance,
Which lent his learned lucubrations pith,
And pass'd for arguments of good endurance.
That prodigy, Miss Araminta Smith
(Who at sixteen translated 'Hercules Furens'
Into as furious English), with her best look,
Set down his sayings in her common-place book.
Juan knew several languages--as well
He might--and brought them up with skill, in time
To save his fame with each accomplish'd belle,
Who still regretted that he did not rhyme.
There wanted but this requisite to swell
His qualities (with them) into sublime:
Lady Fitz-Frisky, and Miss Maevia Mannish,
Both long'd extremely to be sung in Spanish.
However, he did pretty well, and was
Admitted as an aspirant to all
The coteries, and, as in Banquo's glass,
At great assemblies or in parties small,
He saw ten thousand living authors pass,
That being about their average numeral;
Also the eighty 'greatest living poets,'
As every paltry magazine can show its.
In twice five years the 'greatest living poet,'
Like to the champion in the fisty ring,
Is call'd on to support his claim, or show it,
Although 't is an imaginary thing.
Even I--albeit I 'm sure I did not know it,
Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king--
Was reckon'd a considerable time,
The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme.
But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero
My Leipsic, and my Mount Saint Jean seems Cain:
'La Belle Alliance' of dunces down at zero,
Now that the Lion 's fall'n, may rise again:
But I will fall at least as fell my hero;
Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reign;
Or to some lonely isle of gaolers go,
With turncoat Southey for my turnkey Lowe.
Sir Walter reign'd before me; Moore and Campbell
Before and after; but now grown more holy,
The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble
With poets almost clergymen, or wholly;
And Pegasus hath a psalmodic amble
Beneath the very Reverend Rowley Powley,
Who shoes the glorious animal with stilts,
A modern Ancient Pistol--by the hilts?
Then there 's my gentle Euphues, who, they say,
Sets up for being a sort of moral me;
He 'll find it rather difficult some day
To turn out both, or either, it may be.
Some persons think that Coleridge hath the sway;
And Wordsworth has supporters, two or three;
And that deep-mouth'd Boeotian 'Savage Landor'
Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander.
John Keats, who was kill'd off by one critique,
Just as he really promised something great,
If not intelligible, without Greek
Contrived to talk about the gods of late,
Much as they might have been supposed to speak.
Poor fellow! His was an untoward fate;
'T is strange the mind, that very fiery particle,
Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article.
The list grows long of live and dead pretenders
To that which none will gain--or none will know
The conqueror at least; who, ere Time renders
His last award, will have the long grass grow
Above his burnt-out brain, and sapless cinders.
If I might augur, I should rate but low
Their chances; they 're too numerous, like the thirty
Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd but dirty.
This is the literary lower empire,
Where the praetorian bands take up the matter;--
A 'dreadful trade,' like his who 'gathers samphire,'
The insolent soldiery to soothe and flatter,
With the same feelings as you 'd coax a vampire.
Now, were I once at home, and in good satire,
I 'd try conclusions with those Janizaries,
And show them what an intellectual war is.
I think I know a trick or two, would turn
Their flanks;--but it is hardly worth my while
With such small gear to give myself concern:
Indeed I 've not the necessary bile;
My natural temper 's really aught but stern,
And even my Muse's worst reproof 's a smile;
And then she drops a brief and modern curtsy,
And glides away, assured she never hurts ye.
My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril
Amongst live poets and blue ladies, past
With some small profit through that field so sterile,
Being tired in time, and, neither least nor last,
Left it before he had been treated very ill;
And henceforth found himself more gaily class'd
Amongst the higher spirits of the day,
The sun's true son, no vapour, but a ray.
His morns he pass'd in business--which, dissected,
Was like all business a laborious nothing
That leads to lassitude, the most infected
And Centaur Nessus garb of mortal clothing,
And on our sofas makes us lie dejected,
And talk in tender horrors of our loathing
All kinds of toil, save for our country's good--
Which grows no better, though 't is time it should.
His afternoons he pass'd in visits, luncheons,
Lounging and boxing; and the twilight hour
In riding round those vegetable puncheons
Call'd 'Parks,' where there is neither fruit nor flower
Enough to gratify a bee's slight munchings;
But after all it is the only 'bower'
(In Moore's phrase), where the fashionable fair
Can form a slight acquaintance with fresh air.
Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the world!
Then glare the lamps, then whirl the wheels, then roar
Through street and square fast flashing chariots hurl'd
Like harness'd meteors; then along the floor
Chalk mimics painting; then festoons are twirl'd;
Then roll the brazen thunders of the door,
Which opens to the thousand happy few
An earthly paradise of 'Or Molu.'
There stands the noble hostess, nor shall sink
With the three-thousandth curtsy; there the waltz,
The only dance which teaches girls to think,
Makes one in love even with its very faults.
Saloon, room, hall, o'erflow beyond their brink,
And long the latest of arrivals halts,
'Midst royal dukes and dames condemn'd to climb,
And gain an inch of staircase at a time.
Thrice happy he who, after a survey
Of the good company, can win a corner,
A door that's in or boudoir out of the way,
Where he may fix himself like small 'Jack Horner,'
And let the Babel round run as it may,
And look on as a mourner, or a scorner,
Or an approver, or a mere spectator,
Yawning a little as the night grows later.
But this won't do, save by and by; and he
Who, like Don Juan, takes an active share,
Must steer with care through all that glittering sea
Of gems and plumes and pearls and silks, to where
He deems it is his proper place to be;
Dissolving in the waltz to some soft air,
Or proudlier prancing with mercurial skill
Where Science marshals forth her own quadrille.
Or, if he dance not, but hath higher views
Upon an heiress or his neighbour's bride,
Let him take care that that which he pursues
Is not at once too palpably descried.
Full many an eager gentleman oft rues
His haste: impatience is a blundering guide,
Amongst a people famous for reflection,
Who like to play the fool with circumspection.
But, if you can contrive, get next at supper;
Or, if forestalled, get opposite and ogle:--
O, ye ambrosial moments! always upper
In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle,
Which sits for ever upon memory's crupper,
The ghost of vanish'd pleasures once in vogue! Ill
Can tender souls relate the rise and fall
Of hopes and fears which shake a single ball.
But these precautionary hints can touch
Only the common run, who must pursue,
And watch, and ward; whose plans a word too much
Or little overturns; and not the few
Or many (for the number's sometimes such)
Whom a good mien, especially if new,
Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense, or nonsense,
Permits whate'er they please, or did not long since.
Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome,
Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger,
Like other slaves of course must pay his ransom,
Before he can escape from so much danger
As will environ a conspicuous man. Some
Talk about poetry, and 'rack and manger,'
And ugliness, disease, as toil and trouble;--
I wish they knew the life of a young noble.
They are young, but know not youth--it is anticipated;
Handsome but wasted, rich without a sou;
Their vigour in a thousand arms is dissipated;
Their cash comes from, their wealth goes to a Jew;
Both senates see their nightly votes participated
Between the tyrant's and the tribunes' crew;
And having voted, dined, drunk, gamed, and whored,
The family vault receives another lord.
'Where is the world?' cries Young, at eighty--'Where
The world in which a man was born? 'Alas!
Where is the world of eight years past? 'T was there--
I look for it--'t is gone, a globe of glass!
Crack'd, shiver'd, vanish'd, scarcely gazed on, ere
A silent change dissolves the glittering mass.
Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings,
And dandies, all are gone on the wind's wings.
Where is Napoleon the Grand? God knows.
Where little Castlereagh? The devil can tell:
Where Grattan, Curran, Sheridan, all those
Who bound the bar or senate in their spell?
Where is the unhappy Queen, with all her woes?
And where the Daughter, whom the Isles loved well?
Where are those martyr'd saints the Five per Cents?
And where--oh, where the devil are the rents?
Where 's Brummel? Dish'd. Where 's Long Pole Wellesley? Diddled.
Where 's Whitbread? Romilly? Where 's George the Third?
Where is his will? (That 's not so soon unriddled.)
And where is 'Fum' the Fourth, our 'royal bird?'
Gone down, it seems, to Scotland to be fiddled
Unto by Sawney's violin, we have heard:
'Caw me, caw thee'--for six months hath been hatching
This scene of royal itch and loyal scratching.
Where is Lord This? And where my Lady That?
The Honourable Mistresses and Misses?
Some laid aside like an old Opera hat,
Married, unmarried, and remarried (this is
An evolution oft performed of late).
Where are the Dublin shouts--and London hisses?
Where are the Grenvilles? Turn'd as usual. Where
My friends the Whigs? Exactly where they were.
Where are the Lady Carolines and Franceses?
Divorced or doing thereanent. Ye annals
So brilliant, where the list of routs and dances is,--
Thou Morning Post, sole record of the panels
Broken in carriages, and all the phantasies
Of fashion,--say what streams now fill those channels?
Some die, some fly, some languish on the Continent,
Because the times have hardly left them one tenant.
Some who once set their caps at cautious dukes,
Have taken up at length with younger brothers:
Some heiresses have bit at sharpers' hooks:
Some maids have been made wives, some merely mothers;
Others have lost their fresh and fairy looks:
In short, the list of alterations bothers.
There 's little strange in this, but something strange is
The unusual quickness of these common changes.
Talk not of seventy years as age; in seven
I have seen more changes, down from monarchs to
The humblest individual under heaven,
Than might suffice a moderate century through.
I knew that nought was lasting, but now even
Change grows too changeable, without being new:
Nought 's permanent among the human race,
Except the Whigs not getting into place.
I have seen Napoleon, who seem'd quite a Jupiter,
Shrink to a Saturn. I have seen a Duke
(No matter which) turn politician stupider,
If that can well be, than his wooden look.
But it is time that I should hoist my 'blue Peter,'
And sail for a new theme:--I have seen--and shook
To see it--the king hiss'd, and then caress'd;
But don't pretend to settle which was best.
I have seen the Landholders without a rap--
I have seen Joanna Southcote--I have seen--
The House of Commons turn'd to a tax-trap--
I have seen that sad affair of the late Queen--
I have seen crowns worn instead of a fool's cap--
I have seen a Congress doing all that 's mean--
I have seen some nations like o'erloaded asses
Kick off their burthens, meaning the high classes.
I have seen small poets, and great prosers, and
Interminable--not eternal--speakers--
I have seen the funds at war with house and land--
I have seen the country gentlemen turn squeakers--
I have seen the people ridden o'er like sand
By slaves on horseback--I have seen malt liquors
Exchanged for 'thin potations' by John Bull--
I have seen john half detect himself a fool.-
But 'carpe diem,' Juan, 'carpe, carpe!'
To-morrow sees another race as gay
And transient, and devour'd by the same harpy.
'Life 's a poor player,'--then 'play out the play,
Ye villains!' above all keep a sharp eye
Much less on what you do than what you say:
Be hypocritical, be cautious, be
Not what you seem, but always what you see.
But how shall I relate in other cantos
Of what befell our hero in the land,
Which 't is the common cry and lie to vaunt as
A moral country? But I hold my hand--
For I disdain to write an Atalantis;
But 't is as well at once to understand,
You are not a moral people, and you know it
Without the aid of too sincere a poet.
What Juan saw and underwent shall be
My topic, with of course the due restriction
Which is required by proper courtesy;
And recollect the work is only fiction,
And that I sing of neither mine nor me,
Though every scribe, in some slight turn of diction,
Will hint allusions never meant. Ne'er doubt
This--when I speak, I don't hint, but speak out.
Whether he married with the third or fourth
Offspring of some sage husband-hunting countess,
Or whether with some virgin of more worth
(I mean in Fortune's matrimonial bounties)
He took to regularly peopling Earth,
Of which your lawful awful wedlock fount is,--
Or whether he was taken in for damages,
For being too excursive in his homages,--
Is yet within the unread events of time.
Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I will back
Against the same given quantity of rhyme,
For being as much the subject of attack
As ever yet was any work sublime,
By those who love to say that white is black.
So much the better!--I may stand alone,
But would not change my free thoughts for a throne.
[Illustration: Canto 12]
CANTO THE TWELTH.
Of all the barbarous middle ages, that
Which is most barbarous is the middle age
Of man; it is--I really scarce know what;
But when we hover between fool and sage,
And don't know justly what we would be at--
A period something like a printed page,
Black letter upon foolscap, while our hair
Grows grizzled, and we are not what we were;--
Too old for youth,--too young, at thirty-five,
To herd with boys, or hoard with good threescore,--
I wonder people should be left alive;
But since they are, that epoch is a bore:
Love lingers still, although 't were late to wive;
And as for other love, the illusion 's o'er;
And money, that most pure imagination,
Gleams only through the dawn of its creation.
O Gold! Why call we misers miserable?
Theirs is the pleasure that can never pall;
Theirs is the best bower anchor, the chain cable
Which holds fast other pleasures great and small.
Ye who but see the saving man at table,
And scorn his temperate board, as none at all,
And wonder how the wealthy can be sparing,
Know not what visions spring from each cheese-paring.
Love or lust makes man sick, and wine much sicker;
Ambition rends, and gaming gains a loss;
But making money, slowly first, then quicker,
And adding still a little through each cross
(Which will come over things), beats love or liquor,
The gamester's counter, or the statesman's dross.
O Gold! I still prefer thee unto paper,
Which makes bank credit like a bank of vapour.
Who hold the balance of the world? Who reign
O'er congress, whether royalist or liberal?
Who rouse the shirtless patriots of Spain?
(That make old Europe's journals squeak and gibber all.)
Who keep the world, both old and new, in pain
Or pleasure? Who make politics run glibber all?
The shade of Buonaparte's noble daring?-
Jew Rothschild, and his fellow-Christian, Baring.
Those, and the truly liberal Lafitte,
Are the true lords of Europe. Every loan
Is not a merely speculative hit,
But seats a nation or upsets a throne.
Republics also get involved a bit;
Columbia's stock hath holders not unknown
On 'Change; and even thy silver soil, Peru,
Must get itself discounted by a Jew.
Why call the miser miserable? as
I said before: the frugal life is his,
Which in a saint or cynic ever was
The theme of praise: a hermit would not miss
Canonization for the self-same cause,
And wherefore blame gaunt wealth's austerities?
Because, you 'll say, nought calls for such a trial;--
Then there 's more merit in his self-denial.
He is your only poet;--passion, pure
And sparkling on from heap to heap, displays,
Possess'd, the ore, of which mere hopes allure
Nations athwart the deep: the golden rays
Flash up in ingots from the mine obscure;
On him the diamond pours its brilliant blaze,
While the mild emerald's beam shades down the dies
Of other stones, to soothe the miser's eyes.
The lands on either side are his; the ship
From Ceylon, Inde, or far Cathay, unloads
For him the fragrant produce of each trip;
Beneath his cars of Ceres groan the roads,
And the vine blushes like Aurora's lip;
His very cellars might be kings' abodes;
While he, despising every sensual call,
Commands--the intellectual lord of all.
Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind,
To build a college, or to found a race,
A hospital, a church,--and leave behind
Some dome surmounted by his meagre face:
Perhaps he fain would liberate mankind
Even with the very ore which makes them base;
Perhaps he would be wealthiest of his nation,
Or revel in the joys of calculation.
But whether all, or each, or none of these
May be the hoarder's principle of action,
The fool will call such mania a disease:--
What is his own? Go--look at each transaction,
Wars, revels, loves--do these bring men more ease
Than the mere plodding through each 'vulgar fraction'?
Or do they benefit mankind? Lean miser!
Let spendthrifts' heirs enquire of yours--who 's wiser?
How beauteous are rouleaus! how charming chests
Containing ingots, bags of dollars, coins
(Not of old victors, all whose heads and crests
Weigh not the thin ore where their visage shines,
But) of fine unclipt gold, where dully rests
Some likeness, which the glittering cirque confines,
Of modern, reigning, sterling, stupid stamp:--
Yes! ready money is Aladdin's lamp.
'Love rules the camp, the court, the grove,'--'for love
Is heaven, and heaven is love:'--so sings the bard;
Which it were rather difficult to prove
(A thing with poetry in general hard).
Perhaps there may be something in 'the grove,'
At least it rhymes to 'love;' but I 'm prepared
To doubt (no less than landlords of their rental)
If 'courts' and 'camps' be quite so sentimental.
But if Love don't, Cash does, and Cash alone:
Cash rules the grove, and fells it too besides;
Without cash, camps were thin, and courts were none;
Without cash, Malthus tells you--'take no brides.'
So Cash rules Love the ruler, on his own
High ground, as virgin Cynthia sways the tides:
And as for Heaven 'Heaven being Love,' why not say honey
Is wax? Heaven is not Love, 't is Matrimony.
Is not all love prohibited whatever,
Excepting marriage? which is love, no doubt,
After a sort; but somehow people never
With the same thought the two words have help'd out:
Love may exist with marriage, and should ever,
And marriage also may exist without;
But love sans bans is both a sin and shame,
And ought to go by quite another name.
Now if the 'court,' and 'camp,' and 'grove,' be not
Recruited all with constant married men,
Who never coveted their neighbour's lot,
I say that line 's a lapsus of the pen;--
Strange too in my 'buon camerado' Scott,
So celebrated for his morals, when
My Jeffrey held him up as an example
To me;--of whom these morals are a sample.
Well, if I don't succeed, I have succeeded,
And that 's enough; succeeded in my youth,
The only time when much success is needed:
And my success produced what I, in sooth,
Cared most about; it need not now be pleaded--
Whate'er it was, 't was mine; I 've paid, in truth,
Of late the penalty of such success,
But have not learn'd to wish it any less.
That suit in Chancery,--which some persons plead
In an appeal to the unborn, whom they,
In the faith of their procreative creed,
Baptize posterity, or future clay,--
To me seems but a dubious kind of reed
To lean on for support in any way;
Since odds are that posterity will know
No more of them, than they of her, I trow.
Why, I 'm posterity--and so are you;
And whom do we remember? Not a hundred.
Were every memory written down all true,
The tenth or twentieth name would be but blunder'd;
Even Plutarch's Lives have but pick'd out a few,
And 'gainst those few your annalists have thunder'd;
And Mitford in the nineteenth century
Gives, with Greek truth, the good old Greek the lie.
Good people all, of every degree,
Ye gentle readers and ungentle writers,
In this twelfth Canto 't is my wish to be
As serious as if I had for inditers
Malthus and Wilberforce:--the last set free
The Negroes and is worth a million fighters;
While Wellington has but enslaved the Whites,
And Malthus does the thing 'gainst which he writes.
I 'm serious--so are all men upon paper;
And why should I not form my speculation,
And hold up to the sun my little taper?
Mankind just now seem wrapt in mediation
On constitutions and steam-boats of vapour;
While sages write against all procreation,
Unless a man can calculate his means
Of feeding brats the moment his wife weans.
That 's noble! That 's romantic! For my part,
I think that 'Philo-genitiveness' is
(Now here 's a word quite after my own heart,
Though there 's a shorter a good deal than this,
If that politeness set it not apart;
But I 'm resolved to say nought that 's amiss)--
I say, methinks that 'Philo-genitiveness'
Might meet from men a little more forgiveness.
And now to business.--O my gentle Juan,
Thou art in London--in that pleasant place,
Where every kind of mischief 's daily brewing,
Which can await warm youth in its wild race.
'T is true, that thy career is not a new one;
Thou art no novice in the headlong chase
Of early life; but this is a new land,
Which foreigners can never understand.
What with a small diversity of climate,
Of hot or cold, mercurial or sedate,
I could send forth my mandate like a primate
Upon the rest of Europe's social state;
But thou art the most difficult to rhyme at,
Great Britain, which the Muse may penetrate.
All countries have their 'Lions,' but in the
There is but one superb menagerie.
But I am sick of politics. Begin,
'Paulo Majora.' Juan, undecided
Amongst the paths of being 'taken in,'
Above the ice had like a skater glided:
When tired of play, he flirted without sin
With some of those fair creatures who have prided
Themselves on innocent tantalisation,
And hate all vice except its reputation.
But these are few, and in the end they make
Some devilish escapade or stir, which shows
That even the purest people may mistake
Their way through virtue's primrose paths of snows;
And then men stare, as if a new ass spake
To Balaam, and from tongue to ear o'erflows
Quicksilver small talk, ending (if you note it)
With the kind world's amen--'Who would have thought it?'
The little Leila, with her orient eyes,
And taciturn Asiatic disposition
(Which saw all western things with small surprise,
To the surprise of people of condition,
Who think that novelties are butterflies
To be pursued as food for inanition),
Her charming figure and romantic history
Became a kind of fashionable mystery.
The women much divided--as is usual
Amongst the sex in little things or great.
Think not, fair creatures, that I mean to abuse you all--
I have always liked you better than I state:
Since I 've grown moral, still I must accuse you all
Of being apt to talk at a great rate;
And now there was a general sensation
Amongst you, about Leila's education.
In one point only were you settled--and
You had reason; 't was that a young child of grace,
As beautiful as her own native land,
And far away, the last bud of her race,
Howe'er our friend Don Juan might command
Himself for five, four, three, or two years' space,
Would be much better taught beneath the eye
Of peeresses whose follies had run dry.
So first there was a generous emulation,
And then there was a general competition,
To undertake the orphan's education.
As Juan was a person of condition,
It had been an affront on this occasion
To talk of a subscription or petition;
But sixteen dowagers, ten unwed she sages,
Whose tale belongs to 'Hallam's Middle Ages,'
And one or two sad, separate wives, without
A fruit to bloom upon their withering bough--
Begg'd to bring up the little girl and 'out,'-
For that 's the phrase that settles all things now,
Meaning a virgin's first blush at a rout,
And all her points as thorough-bred to show:
And I assure you, that like virgin honey
Tastes their first season (mostly if they have money).
How all the needy honourable misters,
Each out-at-elbow peer, or desperate dandy,
The watchful mothers, and the careful sisters
(Who, by the by, when clever, are more handy
At making matches, where ''t is gold that glisters,'
Than their he relatives), like flies o'er candy
Buzz round 'the Fortune' with their busy battery,
To turn her head with waltzing and with flattery!
Each aunt, each cousin, hath her speculation;
Nay, married dames will now and then discover
Such pure disinterestedness of passion,
I 've known them court an heiress for their lover.
'Tantaene!' Such the virtues of high station,
Even in the hopeful Isle, whose outlet 's 'Dover!'
While the poor rich wretch, object of these cares,
Has cause to wish her sire had had male heirs.
Some are soon bagg'd, and some reject three dozen.
'T is fine to see them scattering refusals
And wild dismay o'er every angry cousin
(Friends of the party), who begin accusals,
Such as--'Unless Miss (Blank) meant to have chosen
Poor Frederick, why did she accord perusals
To his billets? Why waltz with him? Why, I pray,
Look yes last night, and yet say no to-day?
'Why?--Why?--Besides, Fred really was attach'd;
'T was not her fortune--he has enough without:
The time will come she 'll wish that she had snatch'd
So good an opportunity, no doubt:--
But the old marchioness some plan had hatch'd,
As I 'll tell Aurea at to-morrow's rout:
And after all poor Frederick may do better--
Pray did you see her answer to his letter?'
Smart uniforms and sparkling coronets
Are spurn'd in turn, until her turn arrives,
After male loss of time, and hearts, and bets
Upon the sweepstakes for substantial wives;
And when at last the pretty creature gets
Some gentleman, who fights, or writes, or drives,
It soothes the awkward squad of the rejected
To find how very badly she _select_ed.
For sometimes they accept some long pursuer,
Worn out with importunity; or fall
(But here perhaps the instances are fewer)
To the lot of him who scarce pursued at all.
A hazy widower turn'd of forty 's sure
(If 't is not vain examples to recall)
To draw a high prize: now, howe'er he got her, I
See nought more strange in this than t' other lottery.
I, for my part (one 'modern instance' more,
'True, 't is a pity--pity 't is, 't is true'),
Was chosen from out an amatory score,
Albeit my years were less discreet than few;
But though I also had reform'd before
Those became one who soon were to be two,
I 'll not gainsay the generous public's voice,
That the young lady made a monstrous choice.
O, pardon my digression--or at least
Peruse! 'T is always with a moral end
That I dissert, like grace before a feast:
For like an aged aunt, or tiresome friend,
A rigid guardian, or a zealous priest,
My Muse by exhortation means to mend
All people, at all times, and in most places,
Which puts my Pegasus to these grave paces.
But now I 'm going to be immoral; now
I mean to show things really as they are,
Not as they ought to be: for I avow,
That till we see what 's what in fact, we 're far
From much improvement with that virtuous plough
Which skims the surface, leaving scarce a scar
Upon the black loam long manured by Vice,
Only to keep its corn at the old price.
But first of little Leila we 'll dispose;
For like a day-dawn she was young and pure,
Or like the old comparison of snows,
Which are more pure than pleasant to be sure.
Like many people everybody knows,
Don Juan was delighted to secure
A goodly guardian for his infant charge,
Who might not profit much by being at large.
Besides, he had found out he was no tutor
(I wish that others would find out the same);
And rather wish'd in such things to stand neuter,
For silly wards will bring their guardians blame:
So when he saw each ancient dame a suitor
To make his little wild Asiatic tame,
Consulting 'the Society for Vice
Suppression,' Lady Pinchbeck was his choice.
Olden she was--but had been very young;
Virtuous she was--and had been, I believe;
Although the world has such an evil tongue
That--but my chaster ear will not receive
An echo of a syllable that 's wrong:
In fact, there 's nothing makes me so much grieve,
As that abominable tittle-tattle,
Which is the cud eschew'd by human cattle.
Moreover I 've remark'd (and I was once
A slight observer in a modest way),
And so may every one except a dunce,
That ladies in their youth a little gay,
Besides their knowledge of the world, and sense
Of the sad consequence of going astray,
Are wiser in their warnings 'gainst the woe
Which the mere passionless can never know.
While the harsh prude indemnifies her virtue
By railing at the unknown and envied passion,
Seeking far less to save you than to hurt you,
Or, what 's still worse, to put you out of fashion,--
The kinder veteran with calm words will court you,
Entreating you to pause before you dash on;
Expounding and illustrating the riddle
Of epic Love's beginning, end, and middle.
Now whether it be thus, or that they are stricter,
As better knowing why they should be so,
I think you 'll find from many a family picture,
That daughters of such mothers as may know
The world by experience rather than by lecture,
Turn out much better for the Smithfield Show
Of vestals brought into the marriage mart,
Than those bred up by prudes without a heart.
I said that Lady Pinchbeck had been talk'd about--
As who has not, if female, young, and pretty?
But now no more the ghost of Scandal stalk'd about;
She merely was deem'd amiable and witty,
And several of her best bon-mots were hawk'd about:
Then she was given to charity and pity,
And pass'd (at least the latter years of life)
For being a most exemplary wife.
High in high circles, gentle in her own,
She was the mild reprover of the young,
Whenever--which means every day--they 'd shown
An awkward inclination to go wrong.
The quantity of good she did 's unknown,
Or at the least would lengthen out my song:
In brief, the little orphan of the East
Had raised an interest in her, which increased.
Juan, too, was a sort of favourite with her,
Because she thought him a good heart at bottom,
A little spoil'd, but not so altogether;
Which was a wonder, if you think who got him,
And how he had been toss'd, he scarce knew whither:
Though this might ruin others, it did not him,
At least entirely--for he had seen too many
Changes in youth, to be surprised at any.
And these vicissitudes tell best in youth;
For when they happen at a riper age,
People are apt to blame the Fates, forsooth,
And wonder Providence is not more sage.
Adversity is the first path to truth:
He who hath proved war, storm, or woman's rage,
Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty,
Hath won the experience which is deem'd so weighty.
How far it profits is another matter.-
Our hero gladly saw his little charge
Safe with a lady, whose last grown-up daughter
Being long married, and thus set at large,
Had left all the accomplishments she taught her
To be transmitted, like the Lord Mayor's barge,
To the next comer; or--as it will tell
More Muse-like--like to Cytherea's shell.
I call such things transmission; for there is
A floating balance of accomplishment
Which forms a pedigree from Miss to Miss,
According as their minds or backs are bent.
Some waltz; some draw; some fathom the abyss
Of metaphysics; others are content
With music; the most moderate shine as wits;
While others have a genius turn'd for fits.
But whether fits, or wits, or harpsichords,
Theology, fine arts, or finer stays,
May be the baits for gentlemen or lords
With regular descent, in these our days,
The last year to the new transfers its hoards;
New vestals claim men's eyes with the same praise
Of 'elegant' et caetera, in fresh batches--
All matchless creatures, and yet bent on matches.
But now I will begin my poem. 'T is
Perhaps a little strange, if not quite new,
That from the first of Cantos up to this
I 've not begun what we have to go through.
These first twelve books are merely flourishes,
Preludios, trying just a string or two
Upon my lyre, or making the pegs sure;
And when so, you shall have the overture.
My Muses do not care a pinch of rosin
About what 's call'd success, or not succeeding:
Such thoughts are quite below the strain they have chosen;
'T is a 'great moral lesson' they are reading.
I thought, at setting off, about two dozen
Cantos would do; but at Apollo's pleading,
If that my Pegasus should not be founder'd,
I think to canter gently through a hundred.
Don Juan saw that microcosm on stilts,
Yclept the Great World; for it is the least,
Although the highest: but as swords have hilts
By which their power of mischief is increased,
When man in battle or in quarrel tilts,
Thus the low world, north, south, or west, or east,
Must still obey the high--which is their handle,
Their moon, their sun, their gas, their farthing candle.
He had many friends who had many wives, and was
Well look'd upon by both, to that extent
Of friendship which you may accept or pass,
It does nor good nor harm being merely meant
To keep the wheels going of the higher class,
And draw them nightly when a ticket 's sent:
And what with masquerades, and fetes, and balls,
For the first season such a life scarce palls.
A young unmarried man, with a good name
And fortune, has an awkward part to play;
For good society is but a game,
'The royal game of Goose,' as I may say,
Where every body has some separate aim,
An end to answer, or a plan to lay--
The single ladies wishing to be double,
The married ones to save the virgins trouble.
I don't mean this as general, but particular
Examples may be found of such pursuits:
Though several also keep their perpendicular
Like poplars, with good principles for roots;
Yet many have a method more reticular--
'Fishers for men,' like sirens with soft lutes:
For talk six times with the same single lady,
And you may get the wedding dresses ready.
Perhaps you 'll have a letter from the mother,
To say her daughter's feelings are trepann'd;
Perhaps you 'll have a visit from the brother,
All strut, and stays, and whiskers, to demand
What 'your intentions are?'--One way or other
It seems the virgin's heart expects your hand:
And between pity for her case and yours,
You 'll add to Matrimony's list of cures.
I 've known a dozen weddings made even thus,
And some of them high names: I have also known
Young men who--though they hated to discuss
Pretensions which they never dream'd to have shown--
Yet neither frighten'd by a female fuss,
Nor by mustachios moved, were let alone,
And lived, as did the broken-hearted fair,
In happier plight than if they form'd a pair.
There 's also nightly, to the uninitiated,
A peril--not indeed like love or marriage,
But not the less for this to be depreciated:
It is--I meant and mean not to disparage
The show of virtue even in the vitiated--
It adds an outward grace unto their carriage--
But to denounce the amphibious sort of harlot,
'Couleur de rose,' who 's neither white nor scarlet.
Such is your cold coquette, who can't say 'No,'
And won't say 'Yes,' and keeps you on and off-ing
On a lee-shore, till it begins to blow--
Then sees your heart wreck'd, with an inward scoffing.
This works a world of sentimental woe,
And sends new Werters yearly to their coffin;
But yet is merely innocent flirtation,
Not quite adultery, but adulteration.
'Ye gods, I grow a talker!' Let us prate.
The next of perils, though I place it sternest,
Is when, without regard to 'church or state,'
A wife makes or takes love in upright earnest.
Abroad, such things decide few women's fate--
(Such, early traveller! is the truth thou learnest)--
But in old England, when a young bride errs,
Poor thing! Eve's was a trifling case to hers.
For 't is a low, newspaper, humdrum, lawsuit
Country, where a young couple of the same ages
Can't form a friendship, but the world o'erawes it.
A verdict--grievous foe to those who cause it!-
Forms a sad climax to romantic homages;
Besides those soothing speeches of the pleaders,
And evidences which regale all readers.
But they who blunder thus are raw beginners;
A little genial sprinkling of hypocrisy
Has saved the fame of thousand splendid sinners,
The loveliest oligarchs of our gynocracy;
You may see such at all the balls and dinners,
Among the proudest of our aristocracy,
So gentle, charming, charitable, chaste--
And all by having tact as well as taste.
Juan, who did not stand in the predicament
Of a mere novice, had one safeguard more;
For he was sick--no, 't was not the word sick I meant--
But he had seen so much love before,
That he was not in heart so very weak;--I meant
But thus much, and no sneer against the shore
Of white cliffs, white necks, blue eyes, bluer stockings,
Tithes, taxes, duns, and doors with double knockings.
But coming young from lands and scenes romantic,
Where lives, not lawsuits, must be risk'd for Passion,
And Passion's self must have a spice of frantic,
Into a country where 't is half a fashion,
Seem'd to him half commercial, half pedantic,
Howe'er he might esteem this moral nation:
Besides (alas! his taste--forgive and pity!)
At first he did not think the women pretty.
I say at first--for he found out at last,
But by degrees, that they were fairer far
Than the more glowing dames whose lot is cast
Beneath the influence of the eastern star.
A further proof we should not judge in haste;
Yet inexperience could not be his bar
To taste:--the truth is, if men would confess,
That novelties please less than they impress.
Though travell'd, I have never had the luck to
Trace up those shuffling negroes, Nile or Niger,
To that impracticable place, Timbuctoo,
Where Geography finds no one to oblige her
With such a chart as may be safely stuck to--
For Europe ploughs in Afric like 'bos piger:'
But if I had been at Timbuctoo, there
No doubt I should be told that black is fair.
It is. I will not swear that black is white;
But I suspect in fact that white is black,
And the whole matter rests upon eyesight.
Ask a blind man, the best judge. You 'll attack
Perhaps this new position--but I 'm right;
Or if I 'm wrong, I 'll not be ta'en aback:--
He hath no morn nor night, but all is dark
Within; and what seest thou? A dubious spark.
But I 'm relapsing into metaphysics,
That labyrinth, whose clue is of the same
Construction as your cures for hectic phthisics,
Those bright moths fluttering round a dying flame;
And this reflection brings me to plain physics,
And to the beauties of a foreign dame,
Compared with those of our pure pearls of price,
Those polar summers, all sun, and some ice.
Or say they are like virtuous mermaids, whose
Beginnings are fair faces, ends mere fishes;--
Not that there 's not a quantity of those
Who have a due respect for their own wishes.
Like Russians rushing from hot baths to snows
Are they, at bottom virtuous even when vicious:
They warm into a scrape, but keep of course,
As a reserve, a plunge into remorse.
But this has nought to do with their outsides.
I said that Juan did not think them pretty
At the first blush; for a fair Briton hides
Half her attractions--probably from pity--
And rather calmly into the heart glides,
Than storms it as a foe would take a city;
But once there (if you doubt this, prithee try)
She keeps it for you like a true ally.
She cannot step as does an Arab barb,
Or Andalusian girl from mass returning,
Nor wear as gracefully as Gauls her garb,
Nor in her eye Ausonia's glance is burning;
Her voice, though sweet, is not so fit to warb--
le those bravuras (which I still am learning
To like, though I have been seven years in Italy,
And have, or had, an ear that served me prettily);--
She cannot do these things, nor one or two
Others, in that off-hand and dashing style
Which takes so much--to give the devil his due;
Nor is she quite so ready with her smile,
Nor settles all things in one interview
(A thing approved as saving time and toil);--
But though the soil may give you time and trouble,
Well cultivated, it will render double.
And if in fact she takes to a 'grande passion,'
It is a very serious thing indeed:
Nine times in ten 't is but caprice or fashion,
Coquetry, or a wish to take the lead,
The pride of a mere child with a new sash on,
Or wish to make a rival's bosom bleed:
But the tenth instance will be a tornado,
For there 's no saying what they will or may do.
The reason 's obvious; if there 's an eclat,
They lose their caste at once, as do the Parias;
And when the delicacies of the law
Have fill'd their papers with their comments various,
Society, that china without flaw
(The hypocrite!), will banish them like Marius,
To sit amidst the ruins of their guilt:
For Fame 's a Carthage not so soon rebuilt.
Perhaps this is as it should be;--it is
A comment on the Gospel's 'Sin no more,
And be thy sins forgiven:'--but upon this
I leave the saints to settle their own score.
Abroad, though doubtless they do much amiss,
An erring woman finds an opener door
For her return to Virtue--as they cal
That lady, who should be at home to all.
For me, I leave the matter where I find it,
Knowing that such uneasy virtue leads
People some ten times less in fact to mind it,
And care but for discoveries and not deeds.
And as for chastity, you 'll never bind it
By all the laws the strictest lawyer pleads,
But aggravate the crime you have not prevented,
By rendering desperate those who had else repented.
But Juan was no casuist, nor had ponder'd
Upon the moral lessons of mankind:
Besides, he had not seen of several hundred
A lady altogether to his mind.
A little 'blase'--'t is not to be wonder'd
At, that his heart had got a tougher rind:
And though not vainer from his past success,
No doubt his sensibilities were less.
He also had been busy seeing sights--
The Parliament and all the other houses;
Had sat beneath the gallery at nights,
To hear debates whose thunder roused (not rouses)
The world to gaze upon those northern lights
Which flash'd as far as where the musk-bull browses;
He had also stood at times behind the throne--
But Grey was not arrived, and Chatham gone.
He saw, however, at the closing session,
That noble sight, when really free the nation,
A king in constitutional possession
Of such a throne as is the proudest station,
Though despots know it not--till the progression
Of freedom shall complete their education.
'T is not mere splendour makes the show august
To eye or heart--it is the people's trust.
There, too, he saw (whate'er he may be now)
A Prince, the prince of princes at the time,
With fascination in his very bow,
And full of promise, as the spring of prime.
Though royalty was written on his brow,
He had then the grace, too, rare in every clime,
Of being, without alloy of fop or beau,
A finish'd gentleman from top to toe.
And Juan was received, as hath been said,
Into the best society: and there
Occurr'd what often happens, I 'm afraid,
However disciplined and debonnaire:--
The talent and good humour he display'd,
Besides the mark'd distinction of his air,
Exposed him, as was natural, to temptation,
Even though himself avoided the occasion.
But what, and where, with whom, and when, and why,
Is not to be put hastily together;
And as my object is morality
(Whatever people say), I don't know whether
I 'll leave a single reader's eyelid dry,
But harrow up his feelings till they wither,
And hew out a huge monument of pathos,
As Philip's son proposed to do with Athos.
Here the twelfth Canto of our introduction
Ends. When the body of the book 's begun,
You 'll find it of a different construction
From what some people say 't will be when done:
The plan at present 's simply in concoction,
I can't oblige you, reader, to read on;
That 's your affair, not mine: a real spirit
Should neither court neglect, nor dread to bear it.
And if my thunderbolt not always rattles,
Remember, reader! you have had before
The worst of tempests and the best of battles
That e'er were brew'd from elements or gore,
Besides the most sublime of--Heaven knows what else:
An usurer could scarce expect much more--
But my best canto, save one on astronomy,
Will turn upon 'political economy.'
That is your present theme for popularity:
Now that the public hedge hath scarce a stake,
It grows an act of patriotic charity,
To show the people the best way to break.
My plan (but I, if but for singularity,
Reserve it) will be very sure to take.
Meantime, read all the national debt-sinkers,
And tell me what you think of your great thinkers.
[Illustration: Canto 13]
CANTO THE THIRTEENTH.
I now mean to be serious;--it is time,
Since laughter now-a-days is deem'd too serious.
A jest at Vice by Virtue 's call'd a crime,
And critically held as _delete_rious:
Besides, the sad 's a source of the sublime,
Although when long a little apt to weary us;
And therefore shall my lay soar high and solemn,
As an old temple dwindled to a column.
The Lady Adeline Amundeville
('Tis an old Norman name, and to be found
In pedigrees, by those who wander still
Along the last fields of that Gothic ground)
Was high-born, wealthy by her father's will,
And beauteous, even where beauties most abound,
In Britain--which of course true patriots find
The goodliest soil of body and of mind.
I 'll not gainsay them; it is not my cue;
I 'll leave them to their taste, no doubt the best:
An eye 's an eye, and whether black or blue,
Is no great matter, so 't is in request,
'T is nonsense to dispute about a hue--
The kindest may be taken as a test.
The fair sex should be always fair; and no man,
Till thirty, should perceive there 's a plain woman.
And after that serene and somewhat dull
Epoch, that awkward corner turn'd for days
More quiet, when our moon 's no more at full,
We may presume to criticise or praise;
Because indifference begins to lull
Our passions, and we walk in wisdom's ways;
Also because the figure and the face
Hint, that 't is time to give the younger place.
I know that some would fain postpone this era,
Reluctant as all placemen to resign
Their post; but theirs is merely a chimera,
For they have pass'd life's equinoctial line:
But then they have their claret and Madeira
To irrigate the dryness of decline;
And county meetings, and the parliament,
And debt, and what not, for their solace sent.
And is there not religion, and reform,
Peace, war, the taxes, and what 's call'd the 'Nation'?
The struggle to be pilots in a storm?
The landed and the monied speculation?
The joys of mutual hate to keep them warm,
Instead of love, that mere hallucination?
Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure;
Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.
Rough Johnson, the great moralist, profess'd,
Right honestly, 'he liked an honest hater!'-
The only truth that yet has been confest
Within these latest thousand years or later.
Perhaps the fine old fellow spoke in jest:--
For my part, I am but a mere spectator,
And gaze where'er the palace or the hovel is,
Much in the mode of Goethe's Mephistopheles;
But neither love nor hate in much excess;
Though 't was not once so. If I sneer sometimes,
It is because I cannot well do less,
And now and then it also suits my rhymes.
I should be very willing to redress
Men's wrongs, and rather check than punish crimes,
Had not Cervantes, in that too true tale
Of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fail.
Of all tales 't is the saddest--and more sad,
Because it makes us smile: his hero 's right,
And still pursues the right;--to curb the bad
His only object, and 'gainst odds to fight
His guerdon: 't is his virtue makes him mad!
But his adventures form a sorry sight;
A sorrier still is the great moral taught
By that real epic unto all who have thought.
Redressing injury, revenging wrong,
To aid the damsel and destroy the caitiff;
Opposing singly the united strong,
From foreign yoke to free the helpless native:--
Alas! must noblest views, like an old song,
Be for mere fancy's sport a theme creative,
A jest, a riddle, Fame through thin and thick sought!
And Socrates himself but Wisdom's Quixote?
Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away;
A single laugh demolish'd the right arm
Of his own country;--seldom since that day
Has Spain had heroes. While Romance could charm,
The world gave ground before her bright array;
And therefore have his volumes done such harm,
That all their glory, as a composition,
Was dearly purchased by his land's perdition.
I 'm 'at my old lunes'--digression, and forget
The Lady Adeline Amundeville;
The fair most fatal Juan ever met,
Although she was not evil nor meant ill;
But Destiny and Passion spread the net
(Fate is a good excuse for our own will),
And caught them;--what do they not catch, methinks?
But I 'm not OEdipus, and life 's a Sphinx.
I tell the tale as it is told, nor dare
To venture a solution: 'Davus sum!'
And now I will proceed upon the pair.
Sweet Adeline, amidst the gay world's hum,
Was the Queen-Bee, the glass of all that 's fair;
Whose charms made all men speak, and women dumb.
The last 's a miracle, and such was reckon'd,
And since that time there has not been a second.
Chaste was she, to detraction's desperation,
And wedded unto one she had loved well--
A man known in the councils of the nation,
Cool, and quite English, imperturbable,
Though apt to act with fire upon occasion,
Proud of himself and her: the world could tell
Nought against either, and both seem'd secure--
She in her virtue, he in his hauteur.
It chanced some diplomatical relations,
Arising out of business, often brought
Himself and Juan in their mutual stations
Into close contact. Though reserved, nor caught
By specious seeming, Juan's youth, and patience,
And talent, on his haughty spirit wrought,
And form'd a basis of esteem, which ends
In making men what courtesy calls friends.
And thus Lord Henry, who was cautious as
Reserve and pride could make him, and full slow
In judging men--when once his judgment was
Determined, right or wrong, on friend or foe,
Had all the pertinacity pride has,
Which knows no ebb to its imperious flow,
And loves or hates, disdaining to be guided,
Because its own good pleasure hath decided.
His friendships, therefore, and no less aversions,
Though oft well founded, which confirm'd but more
His prepossessions, like the laws of Persians
And Medes, would ne'er revoke what went before.
His feelings had not those strange fits, like tertians,
Of common likings, which make some deplore
What they should laugh at--the mere ague still
Of men's regard, the fever or the chill.
''T is not in mortals to command success:
But do you more, Sempronius--don't deserve it,'
And take my word, you won't have any less.
Be wary, watch the time, and always serve it;
Give gently way, when there 's too great a press;
And for your conscience, only learn to nerve it,
For, like a racer, or a boxer training,
'T will make, if proved, vast efforts without paining.
Lord Henry also liked to be superior,
As most men do, the little or the great;
The very lowest find out an inferior,
At least they think so, to exert their state
Upon: for there are very few things wearier
Than solitary Pride's oppressive weight,
Which mortals generously would divide,
By bidding others carry while they ride.
In birth, in rank, in fortune likewise equal,
O'er Juan he could no distinction claim;
In years he had the advantage of time's sequel;
And, as he thought, in country much the same--
Because bold Britons have a tongue and free quill,
At which all modern nations vainly aim;
And the Lord Henry was a great debater,
So that few members kept the house up later.
These were advantages: and then he thought--
It was his foible, but by no means sinister--
That few or none more than himself had caught
Court mysteries, having been himself a minister:
He liked to teach that which he had been taught,
And greatly shone whenever there had been a stir;
And reconciled all qualities which grace man,
Always a patriot, and sometimes a placeman.
He liked the gentle Spaniard for his gravity;
He almost honour'd him for his docility;
Because, though young, he acquiesced with suavity,
Or contradicted but with proud humility.
He knew the world, and would not see depravity
In faults which sometimes show the soil's fertility,
If that the weeds o'erlive not the first crop--
For then they are very difficult to stop.
And then he talk'd with him about Madrid,
Constantinople, and such distant places;
Where people always did as they were bid,
Or did what they should not with foreign graces.
Of coursers also spake they: Henry rid
Well, like most Englishmen, and loved the races;
And Juan, like a true-born Andalusian,
Could back a horse, as despots ride a Russian.
And thus acquaintance grew, at noble routs,
And diplomatic dinners, or at other--
For Juan stood well both with Ins and Outs,
As in freemasonry a higher brother.
Upon his talent Henry had no doubts;
His manner show'd him sprung from a high mother;
And all men like to show their hospitality
To him whose breeding matches with his quality.
At Blank-Blank Square;--for we will break no squares
By naming streets: since men are so censorious,
And apt to sow an author's wheat with tares,
Reaping allusions private and inglorious,
Where none were dreamt of, unto love's affairs,
Which were, or are, or are to be notorious,
That therefore do I previously declare,
Lord Henry's mansion was in Blank-Blank Square.
Also there bin another pious reason
For making squares and streets anonymous;
Which is, that there is scarce a single season
Which doth not shake some very splendid house
With some slight heart-quake of domestic treason--
A topic scandal doth delight to rouse:
Such I might stumble over unawares,
Unless I knew the very chastest squares.
'T is true, I might have chosen Piccadilly,
A place where peccadillos are unknown;
But I have motives, whether wise or silly,
For letting that pure sanctuary alone.
Therefore I name not square, street, place, until I
Find one where nothing naughty can be shown,
A vestal shrine of innocence of heart:
At Henry's mansion then, in Blank-Blank Square,
Was Juan a recherche, welcome guest,
As many other noble scions were;
And some who had but talent for their crest;
Or wealth, which is a passport every where;
Or even mere fashion, which indeed 's the best
Recommendation; and to be well drest
Will very often supersede the rest.
And since 'there 's safety in a multitude
Of counsellors,' as Solomon has said,
Or some one for him, in some sage, grave mood;--
Indeed we see the daily proof display'd
In senates, at the bar, in wordy feud,
Where'er collective wisdom can parade,
Which is the only cause that we can guess
Of Britain's present wealth and happiness;--
But as 'there 's safety' grafted in the number
'Of counsellors' for men, thus for the sex
A large acquaintance lets not Virtue slumber;
Or should it shake, the choice will more perplex--
Variety itself will more encumber.
'Midst many rocks we guard more against wrecks;
And thus with women: howsoe'er it shocks some's
Self-love, there 's safety in a crowd of coxcombs.
But Adeline had not the least occasion
For such a shield, which leaves but little merit
To virtue proper, or good education.
Her chief resource was in her own high spirit,
Which judged mankind at their due estimation;
And for coquetry, she disdain'd to wear it:
Secure of admiration, its impression
Was faint, as of an every-day possession.
To all she was polite without parade;
To some she show'd attention of that kind
Which flatters, but is flattery convey'd
In such a sort as cannot leave behind
A trace unworthy either wife or maid;--
A gentle, genial courtesy of mind,
To those who were, or pass'd for meritorious,
Just to console sad glory for being glorious;
Which is in all respects, save now and then,
A dull and desolate appendage. Gaze
Upon the shades of those distinguish'd men
Who were or are the puppet-shows of praise,
The praise of persecution; gaze again
On the most favour'd; and amidst the blaze
Of sunset halos o'er the laurel-brow'd,
What can ye recognise?--a gilded cloud.
There also was of course in Adeline
That calm patrician polish in the address,
Which ne'er can pass the equinoctial line
Of any thing which nature would express;
Just as a mandarin finds nothing fine,--
At least his manner suffers not to guess
That any thing he views can greatly please.
Perhaps we have borrow'd this from the Chinese--
Perhaps from Horace: his 'Nil admirari'
Was what he call'd the 'Art of Happiness;'
An art on which the artists greatly vary,
And have not yet attain'd to much success.
However, 't is expedient to be wary:
Indifference certes don't produce distress;
And rash enthusiasm in good society
Were nothing but a moral inebriety.
But Adeline was not indifferent: for
(Now for a common-place!) beneath the snow,
As a volcano holds the lava more
Within--et caetera. Shall I go on?--No!
I hate to hunt down a tired metaphor,
So let the often-used volcano go.
Poor thing! How frequently, by me and others,
It hath been stirr'd up till its smoke quite smothers!
I 'll have another figure in a trice:--
What say you to a bottle of champagne?
Frozen into a very vinous ice,
Which leaves few drops of that immortal rain,
Yet in the very centre, past all price,
About a liquid glassful will remain;
And this is stronger than the strongest grape
Could e'er express in its expanded shape:
'T is the whole spirit brought to a quintessence;
And thus the chilliest aspects may concentre
A hidden nectar under a cold presence.
And such are many--though I only meant her
From whom I now deduce these moral lessons,
On which the Muse has always sought to enter.
And your cold people are beyond all price,
When once you have broken their confounded ice.
But after all they are a North-West Passage
Unto the glowing India of the soul;
And as the good ships sent upon that message
Have not exactly ascertain'd the Pole
(Though Parry's efforts look a lucky presage),
Thus gentlemen may run upon a shoal;
For if the Pole 's not open, but all frost
(A chance still), 't is a voyage or vessel lost.
And young beginners may as well commence
With quiet cruising o'er the ocean woman;
While those who are not beginners should have sense
Enough to make for port, ere time shall summon
With his grey signal-flag; and the past tense,
The dreary 'Fuimus' of all things human,
Must be declined, while life's thin thread 's spun out
Between the gaping heir and gnawing gout.
But heaven must be diverted; its diversion
Is sometimes truculent--but never mind:
The world upon the whole is worth the assertion
(If but for comfort) that all things are kind:
And that same devilish doctrine of the Persian,
Of the two principles, but leaves behind
As many doubts as any other doctrine
Has ever puzzled Faith withal, or yoked her in.
The English winter--ending in July,
To recommence in August--now was done.
'T is the postilion's paradise: wheels fly;
On roads, east, south, north, west, there is a run.
But for post-horses who finds sympathy?
Man's pity 's for himself, or for his son,
Always premising that said son at college
Has not contracted much more debt than knowledge.
The London winter 's ended in July--
Sometimes a little later. I don't err
In this: whatever other blunders lie
Upon my shoulders, here I must aver
My Muse a glass of weatherology;
For parliament is our barometer:
Let radicals its other acts attack,
Its sessions form our only almanack.
When its quicksilver 's down at zero,--lo
Coach, chariot, luggage, baggage, equipage!
Wheels whirl from Carlton palace to Soho,
And happiest they who horses can engage;
The turnpikes glow with dust; and Rotten Row
Sleeps from the chivalry of this bright age;
And tradesmen, with long bills and longer faces,
Sigh--as the postboys fasten on the traces.
They and their bills, 'Arcadians both,' are left
To the Greek kalends of another session.
Alas! to them of ready cash bereft,
What hope remains? Of hope the full possession,
Or generous draft, conceded as a gift,
At a long date--till they can get a fresh one--
Hawk'd about at a discount, small or large;
Also the solace of an overcharge.
But these are trifles. Downward flies my lord,
Nodding beside my lady in his carriage.
Away! away! 'Fresh horses!' are the word,
And changed as quickly as hearts after marriage;
The obsequious landlord hath the change restored;
The postboys have no reason to disparage
Their fee; but ere the water'd wheels may hiss hence,
The ostler pleads too for a reminiscence.
'T is granted; and the valet mounts the dickey--
That gentleman of lords and gentlemen;
Also my lady's gentlewoman, tricky,
Trick'd out, but modest more than poet's pen
Can paint,--'Cosi viaggino i Ricchi!'
(Excuse a foreign slipslop now and then,
If but to show I 've travell'd; and what 's travel,
Unless it teaches one to quote and cavil?)
The London winter and the country summer
Were well nigh over. 'T is perhaps a pity,
When nature wears the gown that doth become her,
To lose those best months in a sweaty city,
And wait until the nightingale grows dumber,
Listening debates not very wise or witty,
Ere patriots their true country can remember;--
But there 's no shooting (save grouse) till September.
I 've done with my tirade. The world was gone;
The twice two thousand, for whom earth was made,
Were vanish'd to be what they call alone--
That is, with thirty servants for parade,
As many guests, or more; before whom groan
As many covers, duly, daily, laid.
Let none accuse Old England's hospitality--
Its quantity is but condensed to quality.
Lord Henry and the Lady Adeline
Departed like the rest of their compeers,
The peerage, to a mansion very fine;
The Gothic Babel of a thousand years.
None than themselves could boast a longer line,
Where time through heroes and through beauties steers;
And oaks as olden as their pedigree
Told of their sires, a tomb in every tree.
A paragraph in every paper told
Of their departure: such is modern fame:
'T is pity that it takes no farther hold
Than an advertisement, or much the same;
When, ere the ink be dry, the sound grows cold.
The Morning Post was foremost to proclaim--
'Departure, for his country seat, to-day,
Lord H. Amundeville and Lady A.
'We understand the splendid host intends
To entertain, this autumn, a _select_
And numerous party of his noble friends;
'Midst whom we have heard, from sources quite correct,
With many more by rank and fashion deck'd;
Also a foreigner of high condition,
The envoy of the secret Russian mission.'
And thus we see--who doubts the Morning Post?
(Whose articles are like the 'Thirty-nine,'
Which those most swear to who believe them most)--
Our gay Russ Spaniard was ordain'd to shine,
Deck'd by the rays reflected from his host,
With those who, Pope says, 'greatly daring dine.'
'T is odd, but true,--last war the News abounded
More with these dinners than the kill'd or wounded;--
As thus: 'On Thursday there was a grand dinner;
Present, Lords A. B. C.'--Earls, dukes, by name
Announced with no less pomp than victory's winner:
Then underneath, and in the very same
Column; date, 'Falmouth. There has lately been here
The Slap-dash regiment, so well known to fame,
Whose loss in the late action we regret:
The vacancies are fill'd up--see Gazette.'
To Norman Abbey whirl'd the noble pair,--
An old, old monastery once, and now
Still older mansion; of a rich and rare
Mix'd Gothic, such as artists all allow
Few specimens yet left us can compare
Withal: it lies perhaps a little low,
Because the monks preferr'd a hill behind,
To shelter their devotion from the wind.
It stood embosom'd in a happy valley,
Crown'd by high woodlands, where the Druid oak
Stood like Caractacus in act to rally
His host, with broad arms 'gainst the thunderstroke;
And from beneath his boughs were seen to sally
The dappled foresters--as day awoke,
The branching stag swept down with all his herd,
To quaff a brook which murmur'd like a bird.
Before the mansion lay a lucid lake,
Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed
By a river, which its soften'd way did take
In currents through the calmer water spread
Around: the wildfowl nestled in the brake
And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed:
The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and stood
With their green faces fix'd upon the flood.
Its outlet dash'd into a deep cascade,
Sparkling with foam, until again subsiding,
Its shriller echoes--like an infant made
Quiet--sank into softer ripples, gliding
Into a rivulet; and thus allay'd,
Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now hiding
Its windings through the woods; now clear, now blue,
According as the skies their shadows threw.
A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile
(While yet the church was Rome's) stood half apart
In a grand arch, which once screen'd many an aisle.
These last had disappear'd--a loss to art:
The first yet frown'd superbly o'er the soil,
And kindled feelings in the roughest heart,
Which mourn'd the power of time's or tempest's march,
In gazing on that venerable arch.
Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle,
Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone;
But these had fallen, not when the friars fell,
But in the war which struck Charles from his throne,
When each house was a fortalice, as tell
The annals of full many a line undone,--
The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain
For those who knew not to resign or reign.
But in a higher niche, alone, but crowned,
The Virgin Mother of the God-born Child,
With her Son in her blessed arms, look'd round,
Spared by some chance when all beside was spoil'd;
She made the earth below seem holy ground.
This may be superstition, weak or wild,
But even the faintest relics of a shrine
Of any worship wake some thoughts divine.
A mighty window, hollow in the centre,
Shorn of its glass of thousand colourings,
Through which the deepen'd glories once could enter,
Streaming from off the sun like seraph's wings,
Now yawns all desolate: now loud, now fainter,
The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft sings
The owl his anthem, where the silenced quire
Lie with their hallelujahs quench'd like fire.
But in the noontide of the moon, and when
The wind is winged from one point of heaven,
There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then
Is musical--a dying accent driven
Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again.
Some deem it but the distant echo given
Back to the night wind by the waterfall,
And harmonised by the old choral wall:
Others, that some original shape, or form
Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power
(Though less than that of Memnon's statue, warm
In Egypt's rays, to harp at a fix'd hour)
To this grey ruin, with a voice to charm.
Sad, but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower;
The cause I know not, nor can solve; but such
The fact:--I 've heard it--once perhaps too much.
Amidst the court a Gothic fountain play'd,
Symmetrical, but deck'd with carvings quaint--
Strange faces, like to men in masquerade,
And here perhaps a monster, there a saint:
The spring gush'd through grim mouths of granite made,
And sparkled into basins, where it spent
Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles,
Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles.
The mansion's self was vast and venerable,
With more of the monastic than has been
Elsewhere preserved: the cloisters still were stable,
The cells, too, and refectory, I ween:
An exquisite small chapel had been able,
Still unimpair'd, to decorate the scene;
The rest had been reform'd, replaced, or sunk,
And spoke more of the baron than the monk.
Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, join'd
By no quite lawful marriage of the arts,
Might shock a connoisseur; but when combined,
Form'd a whole which, irregular in parts,
Yet left a grand impression on the mind,
At least of those whose eyes are in their hearts:
We gaze upon a giant for his stature,
Nor judge at first if all be true to nature.
Steel barons, molten the next generation
To silken rows of gay and garter'd earls,
Glanced from the walls in goodly preservation;
And Lady Marys blooming into girls,
With fair long locks, had also kept their station;
And countesses mature in robes and pearls:
Also some beauties of Sir Peter Lely,
Whose drapery hints we may admire them freely.
Judges in very formidable ermine
Were there, with brows that did not much invite
The accused to think their lordships would determine
His cause by leaning much from might to right:
Bishops, who had not left a single sermon:
Attorneys-general, awful to the sight,
As hinting more (unless our judgments warp us)
Of the 'Star Chamber' than of 'Habeas Corpus.'
Generals, some all in armour, of the old
And iron time, ere lead had ta'en the lead;
Others in wigs of Marlborough's martial fold,
Huger than twelve of our degenerate breed:
Lordlings, with staves of white or keys of gold:
Nimrods, whose canvass scarce contain'd the steed;
And here and there some stern high patriot stood,
Who could not get the place for which he sued.
But ever and anon, to soothe your vision,
Fatigued with these hereditary glories,
There rose a Carlo Dolce or a Titian,
Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's;
Here danced Albano's boys, and here the sea shone
In Vernet's ocean lights; and there the stories
Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted
His brush with all the blood of all the sainted.
Here sweetly spread a landscape of Lorraine;
There Rembrandt made his darkness equal light,
Or gloomy Caravaggio's gloomier stain
Bronzed o'er some lean and stoic anchorite:--
But, lo! a Teniers woos, and not in vain,
Your eyes to revel in a livelier sight:
His bell-mouth'd goblet makes me feel quite Danish
Or Dutch with thirst--What, ho! a flask of Rhenish.
O reader! if that thou canst read,--and know,
'T is not enough to spell, or even to read,
To constitute a reader; there must go
Virtues of which both you and I have need;--
Firstly, begin with the beginning (though
That clause is hard); and secondly, proceed;
Thirdly, commence not with the end--or, sinning
In this sort, end at least with the beginning.
But, reader, thou hast patient been of late,
While I, without remorse of rhyme, or fear,
Have built and laid out ground at such a rate,
Dan Phoebus takes me for an auctioneer.
That poets were so from their earliest date,
By Homer's 'Catalogue of ships' is clear;
But a mere modern must be moderate--
I spare you then the furniture and plate.
The mellow autumn came, and with it came
The promised party, to enjoy its sweets.
The corn is cut, the manor full of game;
The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats
In russet jacket:--lynx-like is his aim;
Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats.
Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants!
And ah, ye poachers!--'T is no sport for peasants.
An English autumn, though it hath no vines,
Blushing with Bacchant coronals along
The paths, o'er which the far festoon entwines
The red grape in the sunny lands of song,
Hath yet a purchased choice of choicest wines;
The claret light, and the Madeira strong.
If Britain mourn her bleakness, we can tell her,
The very best of vineyards is the cellar.
Then, if she hath not that serene decline
Which makes the southern autumn's day appear
As if 't would to a second spring resign
The season, rather than to winter drear,
Of in-door comforts still she hath a mine,--
The sea-coal fires the 'earliest of the year;'
Without doors, too, she may compete in mellow,
As what is lost in green is gain'd in yellow.
And for the effeminate villeggiatura--
Rife with more horns than hounds--she hath the chase,
So animated that it might allure
Saint from his beads to join the jocund race;
Even Nimrod's self might leave the plains of Dura,
And wear the Melton jacket for a space:
If she hath no wild boars, she hath a tame
Preserve of bores, who ought to be made game.
The noble guests, assembled at the Abbey,
Consisted of--we give the sex the pas--
The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke; the Countess Crabby;
The Ladies Scilly, Busey;--Miss Eclat,
Miss Bombazeen, Miss Mackstay, Miss O'Tabby,
And Mrs. Rabbi, the rich banker's squaw;
Also the honourable Mrs. Sleep,
Who look'd a white lamb, yet was a black sheep:
With other Countesses of Blank--but rank;
At once the 'lie' and the 'elite' of crowds;
Who pass like water filter'd in a tank,
All purged and pious from their native clouds;
Or paper turn'd to money by the Bank:
No matter how or why, the passport shrouds
The 'passee' and the past; for good society
Is no less famed for tolerance than piety,--
That is, up to a certain point; which point
Forms the most difficult in punctuation.
Appearances appear to form the joint
On which it hinges in a higher station;
And so that no explosion cry 'Aroint
Thee, witch!' or each Medea has her Jason;
Or (to the point with Horace and with Pulci)
'Omne tulit punctum, quae miscuit utile dulci.'
I can't exactly trace their rule of right,
Which hath a little leaning to a lottery.
I 've seen a virtuous woman put down quite
By the mere combination of a coterie;
Also a so-so matron boldly fight
Her way back to the world by dint of plottery,
And shine the very Siria of the spheres,
Escaping with a few slight, scarless sneers.
I have seen more than I 'll say:--but we will see
How our villeggiatura will get on.
The party might consist of thirty-three
Of highest caste--the Brahmins of the ton.
I have named a few, not foremost in degree,
But ta'en at hazard as the rhyme may run.
By way of sprinkling, scatter'd amongst these,
There also were some Irish absentees.
There was Parolles, too, the legal bully,
Who limits all his battles to the bar
And senate: when invited elsewhere, truly,
He shows more appetite for words than war.
There was the young bard Rackrhyme, who had newly
Come out and glimmer'd as a six weeks' star.
There was Lord Pyrrho, too, the great freethinker;
And Sir John Pottledeep, the mighty drinker.
There was the Duke of Dash, who was a--duke,
'Ay, every inch a' duke; there were twelve peers
Like Charlemagne's--and all such peers in look
And intellect, that neither eyes nor ears
For commoners had ever them mistook.
There were the six Miss Rawbolds--pretty dears!
All song and sentiment; whose hearts were set
Less on a convent than a coronet.
There were four Honourable Misters, whose
Honour was more before their names than after;
There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse,
Whom France and Fortune lately deign'd to waft here,
Whose chiefly harmless talent was to amuse;
But the clubs found it rather serious laughter,
Because--such was his magic power to please--
The dice seem'd charm'd, too, with his repartees.
There was Dick Dubious, the metaphysician,
Who loved philosophy and a good dinner;
Angle, the soi-disant mathematician;
Sir Henry Silvercup, the great race-winner.
There was the Reverend Rodomont Precisian,
Who did not hate so much the sin as sinner;
And Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet,
Good at all things, but better at a bet.
There was jack jargon, the gigantic guardsman;
And General Fireface, famous in the field,
A great tactician, and no less a swordsman,
Who ate, last war, more Yankees than he kill'd.
There was the waggish Welsh Judge, Jefferies Hardsman,
In his grave office so completely skill'd,
That when a culprit came far condemnation,
He had his judge's joke for consolation.
Good company 's a chess-board--there are kings,
Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns; the world 's a game;
Save that the puppets pull at their own strings,
Methinks gay Punch hath something of the same.
My Muse, the butterfly hath but her wings,
Not stings, and flits through ether without aim,
Alighting rarely:--were she but a hornet,
Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it.
I had forgotten--but must not forget--
An orator, the latest of the session,
Who had deliver'd well a very set
Smooth speech, his first and maidenly transgression
Upon debate: the papers echoed yet
With his debut, which made a strong impression,
And rank'd with what is every day display'd--
'The best first speech that ever yet was made.'
Proud of his 'Hear hims!' proud, too, of his vote
And lost virginity of oratory,
Proud of his learning (just enough to quote),
He revell'd in his Ciceronian glory:
With memory excellent to get by rote,
With wit to hatch a pun or tell a story,
Graced with some merit, and with more effrontery,
'His country's pride,' he came down to the country.
There also were two wits by acclamation,
Longbow from Ireland, Strongbow from the Tweed,
Both lawyers and both men of education;
But Strongbow's wit was of more polish'd breed:
Longbow was rich in an imagination
As beautiful and bounding as a steed,
But sometimes stumbling over a potato,--
While Strongbow's best things might have come from Cato.
Strongbow was like a new-tuned harpsichord;
But Longbow wild as an AEolian harp,
With which the winds of heaven can claim accord,
And make a music, whether flat or sharp.
Of Strongbow's talk you would not change a word:
At Longbow's phrases you might sometimes carp:
Both wits--one born so, and the other bred--
This by his heart, his rival by his head.
If all these seem a heterogeneous mas
To be assembled at a country seat,
Yet think, a specimen of every class
Is better than a humdrum tete-a-tete.
The days of Comedy are gone, alas!
When Congreve's fool could vie with Moliere's bete:
Society is smooth'd to that excess,
That manners hardly differ more than dress.
Our ridicules are kept in the back-ground--
Ridiculous enough, but also dull;
Professions, too, are no more to be found
Professional; and there is nought to cull
Of folly's fruit; for though your fools abound,
They're barren, and not worth the pains to pull.
Society is now one polish'd horde,
Form'd of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored.
But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning
The scanty but right-well thresh'd ears of truth;
And, gentle reader! when you gather meaning,
You may be Boaz, and I--modest Ruth.
Farther I 'd quote, but Scripture intervening
Forbids. Its great impression in my youth
Was made by Mrs. Adams, where she cries,
'That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies.'
But what we can we glean in this vile age
Of chaff, although our gleanings be not grist.
I must not quite omit the talking sage,
Kit-Cat, the famous Conversationist,
Who, in his common-place book, had a page
Prepared each morn for evenings. 'List, oh, list!'-
'Alas, poor ghost!'--What unexpected woes
Await those who have studied their bon-mots!
Firstly, they must allure the conversation
By many windings to their clever clinch;
And secondly, must let slip no occasion,
Nor bate (abate) their hearers of an inch,
But take an ell--and make a great sensation,
If possible; and thirdly, never flinch
When some smart talker puts them to the test,
But seize the last word, which no doubt 's the best.
Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts;
The party we have touch'd on were the guests:
Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts
To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts.
I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts,
Albeit all human history attests
That happiness for man--the hungry sinner!-
Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner.
Witness the lands which 'flow'd with milk and honey,'
Held out unto the hungry Israelites;
To this we have added since, the love of money,
The only sort of pleasure which requites.
Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny;
We tire of mistresses and parasites;
But oh, ambrosial cash! Ah! who would lose thee?
When we no more can use, or even abuse thee!
The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot,
Or hunt: the young, because they liked the sport--
The first thing boys like after play and fruit;
The middle-aged to make the day more short;
For ennui is a growth of English root,
Though nameless in our language:--we retort
The fact for words, and let the French translate
That awful yawn which sleep can not abate.
The elderly walk'd through the library,
And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures,
Or saunter'd through the gardens piteously,
And made upon the hot-house several strictures,
Or rode a nag which trotted not too high,
Or on the morning papers read their lectures,
Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix,
Longing at sixty for the hour of six.
But none were 'gene:' the great hour of union
Was rung by dinner's knell; till then all were
Masters of their own time--or in communion,
Or solitary, as they chose to bear
The hours, which how to pass is but to few known.
Each rose up at his own, and had to spare
What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast
When, where, and how he chose for that repast.
The ladies--some rouged, some a little pale--
Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode,
Or walk'd; if foul, they read, or told a tale,
Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad;
Discuss'd the fashion which might next prevail,
And settled bonnets by the newest code,
Or cramm'd twelve sheets into one little letter,
To make each correspondent a new debtor.
For some had absent lovers, all had friends.
The earth has nothing like a she epistle,
And hardly heaven--because it never ends.
I love the mystery of a female missal,
Which, like a creed, ne'er says all it intends,
But full of cunning as Ulysses' whistle,
When he allured poor Dolon:--you had better
Take care what you reply to such a letter.
Then there were billiards; cards, too, but no dice;--
Save in the clubs no man of honour plays;--
Boats when 't was water, skating when 't was ice,
And the hard frost destroy'd the scenting days:
And angling, too, that solitary vice,
Whatever Izaak Walton sings or says;
The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet
Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.
With evening came the banquet and the wine;
The conversazione; the duet,
Attuned by voices more or less divine
(My heart or head aches with the memory yet).
The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would shine;
But the two youngest loved more to be set
Down to the harp--because to music's charms
They added graceful necks, white hands and arms.
Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field days,
For then the gentlemen were rather tired)
Display'd some sylph-like figures in its maze;
Then there was small-talk ready when required;
Flirtation--but decorous; the mere praise
Of charms that should or should not be admired.
The hunters fought their fox-hunt o'er again,
And then retreated soberly--at ten.
The politicians, in a nook apart,
Discuss'd the world, and settled all the spheres;
The wits watch'd every loophole for their art,
To introduce a bon-mot head and ears;
Small is the rest of those who would be smart,
A moment's good thing may have cost them years
Before they find an hour to introduce it;
And then, even then, some bore may make them lose it.
But all was gentle and aristocratic
In this our party; polish'd, smooth, and cold,
As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic.
There now are no Squire Westerns as of old;
And our Sophias are not so emphatic,
But fair as then, or fairer to behold.
We have no accomplish'd blackguards, like Tom Jones,
But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones.
They separated at an early hour;
That is, ere midnight--which is London's noon:
But in the country ladies seek their bower
A little earlier than the waning moon.
Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower--
May the rose call back its true colour soon!
Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters,
And lower the price of rouge--at least some winters.
[Illustration: Canto 14]
CANTO THE FOURTEENTH.
If from great nature's or our own abyss
Of thought we could but snatch a certainty,
Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss--
But then 't would spoil much good philosophy.
One system eats another up, and this
Much as old Saturn ate his progeny;
For when his pious consort gave him stones
In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones.
But System doth reverse the Titan's breakfast,
And eats her parents, albeit the digestion
Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast,
After due search, your faith to any question?
Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast
You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one.
Nothing more true than not to trust your senses;
And yet what are your other evidences?
For me, I know nought; nothing I deny,
Admit, reject, contemn; and what know you,
Except perhaps that you were born to die?
And both may after all turn out untrue.
An age may come, Font of Eternity,
When nothing shall be either old or new.
Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men weep,
And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep.
A sleep without dreams, after a rough day
Of toil, is what we covet most; and yet
How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay!
The very Suicide that pays his debt
At once without instalments (an old way
Of paying debts, which creditors regret)
Lets out impatiently his rushing breath,
Less from disgust of life than dread of death.
'T is round him, near him, here, there, every where;
And there 's a courage which grows out of fear,
Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare
The worst to know it:--when the mountains rear
Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there
You look down o'er the precipice, and drear
The gulf of rock yawns,--you can't gaze a minute
Without an awful wish to plunge within it.
'T is true, you don't--but, pale and struck with terror,
Retire: but look into your past impression!
And you will find, though shuddering at the mirror
Of your own thoughts, in all their self-confession,
The lurking bias, be it truth or error,
To the unknown; a secret prepossession,
To plunge with all your fears--but where? You know not,
And that's the reason why you do--or do not.
But what 's this to the purpose? you will say.
Gent. reader, nothing; a mere speculation,
For which my sole excuse is--'t is my way;
Sometimes with and sometimes without occasion
I write what 's uppermost, without delay:
This narrative is not meant for narration,
But a mere airy and fantastic basis,
To build up common things with common places.
You know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith,
'Fling up a straw, 't will show the way the wind blows;'
And such a straw, borne on by human breath,
Is poesy, according as the mind glows;
A paper kite which flies 'twixt life and death,
A shadow which the onward soul behind throws:
And mine 's a bubble, not blown up for praise,
But just to play with, as an infant plays.
The world is all before me--or behind;
For I have seen a portion of that same,
And quite enough for me to keep in mind;--
Of passions, too, I have proved enough to blame,
To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind,
Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame;
For I was rather famous in my time,
Until I fairly knock'd it up with rhyme.
I have brought this world about my ears, and eke
The other; that 's to say, the clergy, who
Upon my head have bid their thunders break
In pious libels by no means a few.
And yet I can't help scribbling once a week,
Tiring old readers, nor discovering new.
In youth I wrote because my mind was full,
And now because I feel it growing dull.
But 'why then publish?'--There are no rewards
Of fame or profit when the world grows weary.
I ask in turn,--Why do you play at cards?
Why drink? Why read?--To make some hour less dreary.
It occupies me to turn back regards
On what I 've seen or ponder'd, sad or cheery;
And what I write I cast upon the stream,
To swim or sink--I have had at least my dream.
I think that were I certain of success,
I hardly could compose another line:
So long I 've battled either more or less,
That no defeat can drive me from the Nine.
This feeling 't is not easy to express,
And yet 't is not affected, I opine.
In play, there are two pleasures for your choosing--
The one is winning, and the other losing.
Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction:
She gathers a repertory of facts,
Of course with some reserve and slight restriction,
But mostly sings of human things and acts--
And that 's one cause she meets with contradiction;
For too much truth, at first sight, ne'er attracts;
And were her object only what 's call'd glory,
With more ease too she 'd tell a different story.
Love, war, a tempest--surely there 's variety;
Also a seasoning slight of lucubration;
A bird's-eye view, too, of that wild, Society;
A slight glance thrown on men of every station.
If you have nought else, here 's at least satiety
Both in performance and in preparation;
And though these lines should only line portmanteaus,
Trade will be all the better for these Cantos.
The portion of this world which I at present
Have taken up to fill the following sermon,
Is one of which there 's no description recent.
The reason why is easy to determine:
Although it seems both prominent and pleasant,
There is a sameness in its gems and ermine,
A dull and family likeness through all ages,
Of no great promise for poetic pages.
With much to excite, there 's little to exalt;
Nothing that speaks to all men and all times;
A sort of varnish over every fault;
A kind of common-place, even in their crimes;
Factitious passions, wit without much salt,
A want of that true nature which sublimes
Whate'er it shows with truth; a smooth monotony
Of character, in those at least who have got any.
Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers off parade,
They break their ranks and gladly leave the drill;
But then the roll-call draws them back afraid,
And they must be or seem what they were: still
Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade;
But when of the first sight you have had your fill,
It palls--at least it did so upon me,
This paradise of pleasure and ennui.
When we have made our love, and gamed our gaming,
Drest, voted, shone, and, may be, something more;
With dandies dined; heard senators declaiming;
Seen beauties brought to market by the score,
Sad rakes to sadder husbands chastely taming;
There 's little left but to be bored or bore.
Witness those 'ci-devant jeunes hommes' who stem
The stream, nor leave the world which leaveth them.
'T is said--indeed a general complaint--
That no one has succeeded in describing
The monde, exactly as they ought to paint:
Some say, that authors only snatch, by bribing
The porter, some slight scandals strange and quaint,
To furnish matter for their moral gibing;
And that their books have but one style in common--
My lady's prattle, filter'd through her woman.
But this can't well be true, just now; for writers
Are grown of the beau monde a part potential:
I 've seen them balance even the scale with fighters,
Especially when young, for that 's essential.
Why do their sketches fail them as inditers
Of what they deem themselves most consequential,
The real portrait of the highest tribe?
'T is that, in fact, there 's little to describe.
'Haud ignara loquor;' these are Nugae, 'quarum
Pars parva fui,' but still art and part.
Now I could much more easily sketch a harem,
A battle, wreck, or history of the heart,
Than these things; and besides, I wish to spare 'em,
For reasons which I choose to keep apart.
'Vetabo Cereris sacrum qui vulgarit--'
Which means that vulgar people must not share it.
And therefore what I throw off is ideal--
Lower'd, leaven'd, like a history of freemasons;
Which bears the same relation to the real,
As Captain Parry's voyage may do to Jason's.
The grand arcanum 's not for men to see all;
My music has some mystic diapasons;
And there is much which could not be appreciated
In any manner by the uninitiated.
Alas! worlds fall--and woman, since she fell'd
The world (as, since that history less polite
Than true, hath been a creed so strictly held)
Has not yet given up the practice quite.
Poor thing of usages! coerced, compell'd,
Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right,
Condemn'd to child-bed, as men for their sins
Have shaving too entail'd upon their chins,--
A daily plague, which in the aggregate
May average on the whole with parturition.
But as to women, who can penetrate
The real sufferings of their she condition?
Man's very sympathy with their estate
Has much of selfishness, and more suspicion.
Their love, their virtue, beauty, education,
But form good housekeepers, to breed a nation.
All this were very well, and can't be better;
But even this is difficult, Heaven knows,
So many troubles from her birth beset her,
Such small distinction between friends and foes,
The gilding wears so soon from off her fetter,
That--but ask any woman if she'd choose
(Take her at thirty, that is) to have been
Female or male? a schoolboy or a queen?
'Petticoat influence' is a great reproach,
Which even those who obey would fain be thought
To fly from, as from hungry pikes a roach;
But since beneath it upon earth we are brought,
By various joltings of life's hackney coach,
I for one venerate a petticoat--
A garment of a mystical sublimity,
No matter whether russet, silk, or dimity.
Much I respect, and much I have adored,
In my young days, that chaste and goodly veil,
Which holds a treasure, like a miser's hoard,
And more attracts by all it doth conceal--
A golden scabbard on a Damasque sword,
A loving letter with a mystic seal,
A cure for grief--for what can ever rankle
Before a petticoat and peeping ankle?
And when upon a silent, sullen day,
With a sirocco, for example, blowing,
When even the sea looks dim with all its spray,
And sulkily the river's ripple 's flowing,
And the sky shows that very ancient gray,
The sober, sad antithesis to glowing,--
'T is pleasant, if then any thing is pleasant,
To catch a glimpse even of a pretty peasant.
We left our heroes and our heroines
In that fair clime which don't depend on climate,
Quite independent of the Zodiac's signs,
Though certainly more difficult to rhyme at,
Because the sun, and stars, and aught that shines,
Mountains, and all we can be most sublime at,
Are there oft dull and dreary as a dun--
Whether a sky's or tradesman's is all one.
An in-door life is less poetical;
And out of door hath showers, and mists, and sleet,
With which I could not brew a pastoral.
But be it as it may, a bard must meet
All difficulties, whether great or small,
To spoil his undertaking or complete,
And work away like spirit upon matter,
Embarrass'd somewhat both with fire and water.
Juan--in this respect, at least, like saints--
Was all things unto people of all sorts,
And lived contentedly, without complaints,
In camps, in ships, in cottages, or courts--
Born with that happy soul which seldom faints,
And mingling modestly in toils or sports.
He likewise could be most things to all women,
Without the coxcombry of certain she men.
A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange;
'T is also subject to the double danger
Of tumbling first, and having in exchange
Some pleasant jesting at the awkward stranger:
But Juan had been early taught to range
The wilds, as doth an Arab turn'd avenger,
So that his horse, or charger, hunter, hack,
Knew that he had a rider on his back.
And now in this new field, with some applause,
He clear'd hedge, ditch, and double post, and rail,
And never craned, and made but few 'faux pas,'
And only fretted when the scent 'gan fail.
He broke, 't is true, some statutes of the laws
Of hunting--for the sagest youth is frail;
Rode o'er the hounds, it may be, now and then,
And once o'er several country gentlemen.
But on the whole, to general admiration
He acquitted both himself and horse: the squires
Marvell'd at merit of another nation;
The boors cried 'Dang it? who 'd have thought it?'--Sires,
The Nestors of the sporting generation,
Swore praises, and recall'd their former fires;
The huntsman's self relented to a grin,
And rated him almost a whipper-in.
Such were his trophies--not of spear and shield,
But leaps, and bursts, and sometimes foxes' brushes;
Yet I must own,--although in this I yield
To patriot sympathy a Briton's blushes,--
He thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield,
Who, after a long chase o'er hills, dales, bushes,
And what not, though he rode beyond all price,
Ask'd next day, 'If men ever hunted twice?'
He also had a quality uncommon
To early risers after a long chase,
Who wake in winter ere the cock can summon
December's drowsy day to his dull race,--
A quality agreeable to woman,
When her soft, liquid words run on apace,
Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner,--
He did not fall asleep just after dinner;
But, light and airy, stood on the alert,
And shone in the best part of dialogue,
By humouring always what they might assert,
And listening to the topics most in vogue;
Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert;
And smiling but in secret--cunning rogue!
He ne'er presumed to make an error clearer;--
In short, there never was a better hearer.
And then he danced;--all foreigners excel
The serious Angles in the eloquence
Of pantomime;--he danced, I say, right well,
With emphasis, and also with good sense--
A thing in footing indispensable;
He danced without theatrical pretence,
Not like a ballet-master in the van
Of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman.
Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound,
And elegance was sprinkled o'er his figure;
Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm'd the ground,
And rather held in than put forth his vigour;
And then he had an ear for music's sound,
Which might defy a crotchet critic's rigour.
Such classic pas--sans flaws--set off our hero,
He glanced like a personified Bolero;
Or, like a flying Hour before Aurora,
In Guido's famous fresco which alone
Is worth a tour to Rome, although no more a
Remnant were there of the old world's sole throne.
The 'tout ensemble' of his movements wore a
Grace of the soft ideal, seldom shown,
And ne'er to be described; for to the dolour
Of bards and prosers, words are void of colour.
No marvel then he was a favourite;
A full-grown Cupid, very much admired;
A little spoilt, but by no means so quite;
At least he kept his vanity retired.
Such was his tact, he could alike delight
The chaste, and those who are not so much inspired.
The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke, who loved 'tracasserie,'
Began to treat him with some small 'agacerie.'
She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde,
Desirable, distinguish'd, celebrated
For several winters in the grand, grand monde.
I 'd rather not say what might be related
Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground;
Besides there might be falsehood in what 's stated:
Her late performance had been a dead set
At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.
This noble personage began to look
A little black upon this new flirtation;
But such small licences must lovers brook,
Mere freedoms of the female corporation.
Woe to the man who ventures a rebuke!
'T will but precipitate a situation
Extremely disagreeable, but common
To calculators when they count on woman.
The circle smiled, then whisper'd, and then sneer'd;
The Misses bridled, and the matrons frown'd;
Some hoped things might not turn out as they fear'd;
Some would not deem such women could be found;
Some ne'er believed one half of what they heard;
Some look'd perplex'd, and others look'd profound;
And several pitied with sincere regret
Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.
But what is odd, none ever named the duke,
Who, one might think, was something in the affair;
True, he was absent, and, 't was rumour'd, took
But small concern about the when, or where,
Or what his consort did: if he could brook
Her gaieties, none had a right to stare:
Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt,
Which never meets, and therefore can't fall out.
But, oh! that I should ever pen so sad a line!
Fired with an abstract love of virtue, she,
My Dian of the Ephesians, Lady Adeline,
Began to think the duchess' conduct free;
Regretting much that she had chosen so bad a line,
And waxing chiller in her courtesy,
Look'd grave and pale to see her friend's fragility,
For which most friends reserve their sensibility.
There 's nought in this bad world like sympathy:
'T is so becoming to the soul and face,
Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh,
And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels lace.
Without a friend, what were humanity,
To hunt our errors up with a good grace?
Consoling us with--'Would you had thought twice!
Ah, if you had but follow'd my advice!'
O job! you had two friends: one 's quite enough,
Especially when we are ill at ease;
They are but bad pilots when the weather 's rough,
Doctors less famous for their cures than fees.
Let no man grumble when his friends fall off,
As they will do like leaves at the first breeze:
When your affairs come round, one way or t' other,
Go to the coffee-house, and take another.
But this is not my maxim: had it been,
Some heart-aches had been spared me: yet I care not--
I would not be a tortoise in his screen
Of stubborn shell, which waves and weather wear not.
'T is better on the whole to have felt and seen
That which humanity may bear, or bear not:
'T will teach discernment to the sensitive,
And not to pour their ocean in a sieve.
Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe,
Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast,
Is that portentous phrase, 'I told you so,'
Utter'd by friends, those prophets of the past,
Who, 'stead of saying what you now should do,
Own they foresaw that you would fall at last,
And solace your slight lapse 'gainst 'bonos mores,'
With a long memorandum of old stories.
The Lady Adeline's serene severity
Was not confined to feeling for her friend,
Whose fame she rather doubted with posterity,
Unless her habits should begin to mend:
But Juan also shared in her austerity,
But mix'd with pity, pure as e'er was penn'd:
His inexperience moved her gentle ruth,
And (as her junior by six weeks) his youth.
These forty days' advantage of her years--
And hers were those which can face calculation,
Boldly referring to the list of peers
And noble births, nor dread the enumeration--
Gave her a right to have maternal fears
For a young gentleman's fit education,
Though she was far from that leap year, whose leap,
In female dates, strikes Time all of a heap.
This may be fix'd at somewhere before thirty--
Say seven-and-twenty; for I never knew
The strictest in chronology and virtue
Advance beyond, while they could pass for new.
O Time! why dost not pause? Thy scythe, so dirty
With rust, should surely cease to hack and hew.
Reset it; shave more smoothly, also slower,
If but to keep thy credit as a mower.
But Adeline was far from that ripe age,
Whose ripeness is but bitter at the best:
'T was rather her experience made her sage,
For she had seen the world and stood its test,
As I have said in--I forget what page;
My Muse despises reference, as you have guess'd
By this time;--but strike six from seven-and-twenty,
And you will find her sum of years in plenty.
At sixteen she came out; presented, vaunted,
She put all coronets into commotion:
At seventeen, too, the world was still enchanted
With the new Venus of their brilliant ocean:
At eighteen, though below her feet still panted
A hecatomb of suitors with devotion,
She had consented to create again
That Adam, call'd 'The happiest of men.'
Since then she had sparkled through three glowing winters,
Admired, adored; but also so correct,
That she had puzzled all the acutest hinters,
Without the apparel of being circumspect:
They could not even glean the slightest splinters
From off the marble, which had no defect.
She had also snatch'd a moment since her marriage
To bear a son and heir--and one miscarriage.
Fondly the wheeling fire-flies flew around her,
Those little glitterers of the London night;
But none of these possess'd a sting to wound her--
She was a pitch beyond a coxcomb's flight.
Perhaps she wish'd an aspirant profounder;
But whatsoe'er she wish'd, she acted right;
And whether coldness, pride, or virtue dignify
A woman, so she 's good, what does it signify?
I hate a motive, like a lingering bottle
Which with the landlord makes too long a stand,
Leaving all-claretless the unmoisten'd throttle,
Especially with politics on hand;
I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle,
Who whirl the dust as simooms whirl the sand;
I hate it, as I hate an argument,
A laureate's ode, or servile peer's 'content.'
'T is sad to hack into the roots of things,
They are so much intertwisted with the earth;
So that the branch a goodly verdure flings,
I reck not if an acorn gave it birth.
To trace all actions to their secret springs
Would make indeed some melancholy mirth;
But this is not at present my concern,
And I refer you to wise Oxenstiern.
With the kind view of saving an eclat,
Both to the duchess and diplomatist,
The Lady Adeline, as soon 's she saw
That Juan was unlikely to resist
(For foreigners don't know that a faux pas
In England ranks quite on a different list
From those of other lands unblest with juries,
Whose verdict for such sin a certain cure is);--
The Lady Adeline resolved to take
Such measures as she thought might best impede
The farther progress of this sad mistake.
She thought with some simplicity indeed;
But innocence is bold even at the stake,
And simple in the world, and doth not need
Nor use those palisades by dames erected,
Whose virtue lies in never being detected.
It was not that she fear'd the very worst:
His Grace was an enduring, married man,
And was not likely all at once to burst
Into a scene, and swell the clients' clan
Of Doctors' Commons: but she dreaded first
The magic of her Grace's talisman,
And next a quarrel (as he seem'd to fret)
With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.
Her Grace, too, pass'd for being an intrigante,
And somewhat mechante in her amorous sphere;
One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt
A lover with caprices soft and dear,
That like to make a quarrel, when they can't
Find one, each day of the delightful year;
Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow,
And--what is worst of all--won't let you go:
The sort of thing to turn a young man's head,
Or make a Werter of him in the end.
No wonder then a purer soul should dread
This sort of chaste liaison for a friend;
It were much better to be wed or dead,
Than wear a heart a woman loves to rend.
'T is best to pause, and think, ere you rush on,
If that a 'bonne fortune' be really 'bonne.'
And first, in the o'erflowing of her heart,
Which really knew or thought it knew no guile,
She call'd her husband now and then apart,
And bade him counsel Juan. With a smile
Lord Henry heard her plans of artless art
To wean Don Juan from the siren's wile;
And answer'd, like a statesman or a prophet,
In such guise that she could make nothing of it.
Firstly, he said, 'he never interfered
In any body's business but the king's:'
Next, that 'he never judged from what appear'd,
Without strong reason, of those sort of things:'
Thirdly, that 'Juan had more brain than beard,
And was not to be held in leading strings;'
And fourthly, what need hardly be said twice,
'That good but rarely came from good advice.'
And, therefore, doubtless to approve the truth
Of the last axiom, he advised his spouse
To leave the parties to themselves, forsooth--
At least as far as bienseance allows:
That time would temper Juan's faults of youth;
That young men rarely made monastic vows;
That opposition only more attaches--
But here a messenger brought in despatches:
And being of the council call'd 'the Privy,'
Lord Henry walk'd into his cabinet,
To furnish matter for some future Livy
To tell how he reduced the nation's debt;
And if their full contents I do not give ye,
It is because I do not know them yet;
But I shall add them in a brief appendix,
To come between mine epic and its index.
But ere he went, he added a slight hint,
Another gentle common-place or two,
Such as are coin'd in conversation's mint,
And pass, for want of better, though not new:
Then broke his packet, to see what was in 't,
And having casually glanced it through,
Retired; and, as went out, calmly kiss'd her,
Less like a young wife than an aged sister.
He was a cold, good, honourable man,
Proud of his birth, and proud of every thing;
A goodly spirit for a state divan,
A figure fit to walk before a king;
Tall, stately, form'd to lead the courtly van
On birthdays, glorious with a star and string;
The very model of a chamberlain--
And such I mean to make him when I reign.
But there was something wanting on the whole--
I don't know what, and therefore cannot tell--
Which pretty women--the sweet souls!--call soul.
Certes it was not body; he was well
Proportion'd, as a poplar or a pole,
A handsome man, that human miracle;
And in each circumstance of love or war
Had still preserved his perpendicular.
Still there was something wanting, as I 've said--
That undefinable 'Je ne scais quoi,'
Which, for what I know, may of yore have led
To Homer's Iliad, since it drew to Troy
The Greek Eve, Helen, from the Spartan's bed;
Though on the whole, no doubt, the Dardan boy
Was much inferior to King Menelaus:--
But thus it is some women will betray us.
There is an awkward thing which much perplexes,
Unless like wise Tiresias we had proved
By turns the difference of the several sexes;
Neither can show quite how they would be loved.
The sensual for a short time but connects us,
The sentimental boasts to be unmoved;
But both together form a kind of centaur,
Upon whose back 't is better not to venture.
A something all-sufficient for the heart
Is that for which the sex are always seeking:
But how to fill up that same vacant part?
There lies the rub--and this they are but weak in.
Frail mariners afloat without a chart,
They run before the wind through high seas breaking;
And when they have made the shore through every shock,
'T is odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock.
There is a flower call'd 'Love in Idleness,'
For which see Shakspeare's everblooming garden;--
I will not make his great description less,
And beg his British godship's humble pardon,
If in my extremity of rhyme's distress,
I touch a single leaf where he is warden;--
But though the flower is different, with the French
Or Swiss Rousseau, cry 'Voila la Pervenche!'
Eureka! I have found it! What I mean
To say is, not that love is idleness,
But that in love such idleness has been
An accessory, as I have cause to guess.
Hard labour's an indifferent go-between;
Your men of business are not apt to express
Much passion, since the merchant-ship, the Argo,
Convey'd Medea as her supercargo.
'Beatus ille procul!' from 'negotiis,'
Saith Horace; the great little poet 's wrong;
His other maxim, 'Noscitur a sociis,'
Is much more to the purpose of his song;
Though even that were sometimes too ferocious,
Unless good company be kept too long;
But, in his teeth, whate'er their state or station,
Thrice happy they who have an occupation!
Adam exchanged his Paradise for ploughing,
Eve made up millinery with fig leaves--
The earliest knowledge from the tree so knowing,
As far as I know, that the church receives:
And since that time it need not cost much showing,
That many of the ills o'er which man grieves,
And still more women, spring from not employing
Some hours to make the remnant worth enjoying.
And hence high life is oft a dreary void,
A rack of pleasures, where we must invent
A something wherewithal to be annoy'd.
Bards may sing what they please about Content;
Contented, when translated, means but cloy'd;
And hence arise the woes of sentiment,
Blue devils, and blue-stockings, and romances
Reduced to practice, and perform'd like dances.
I do declare, upon an affidavit,
Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen;
Nor, if unto the world I ever gave it,
Would some believe that such a tale had been:
But such intent I never had, nor have it;
Some truths are better kept behind a screen,
Especially when they would look like lies;
I therefore deal in generalities.
'An oyster may be cross'd in love,'--and why?
Because he mopeth idly in his shell,
And heaves a lonely subterraqueous sigh,
Much as a monk may do within his cell:
And a-propos of monks, their piety
With sloth hath found it difficult to dwell;
Those vegetables of the Catholic creed
Are apt exceedingly to run to seed.
O Wilberforce! thou man of black renown,
Whose merit none enough can sing or say,
Thou hast struck one immense Colossus down,
Thou moral Washington of Africa!
But there 's another little thing, I own,
Which you should perpetrate some summer's day,
And set the other halt of earth to rights;
You have freed the blacks--now pray shut up the whites.
Shut up the bald-coot bully Alexander!
Ship off the Holy Three to Senegal;
Teach them that 'sauce for goose is sauce for gander,'
And ask them how they like to be in thrall?
Shut up each high heroic salamander,
Who eats fire gratis (since the pay 's but small);
Shut up--no, not the King, but the Pavilion,
Or else 't will cost us all another million.
Shut up the world at large, let Bedlam out;
And you will be perhaps surprised to find
All things pursue exactly the same route,
As now with those of soi-disant sound mind.
This I could prove beyond a single doubt,
Were there a jot of sense among mankind;
But till that point d'appui is found, alas!
Like Archimedes, I leave earth as 't was.
Our gentle Adeline had one defect--
Her heart was vacant, though a splendid mansion;
Her conduct had been perfectly correct,
As she had seen nought claiming its expansion.
A wavering spirit may be easier wreck'd,
Because 't is frailer, doubtless, than a stanch one;
But when the latter works its own undoing,
Its inner crash is like an earthquake's ruin.
She loved her lord, or thought so; but that love
Cost her an effort, which is a sad toil,
The stone of Sisyphus, if once we move
Our feelings 'gainst the nature of the soil.
She had nothing to complain of, or reprove,
No bickerings, no connubial turmoil:
Their union was a model to behold,
Serene and noble,--conjugal, but cold.
There was no great disparity of years,
Though much in temper; but they never clash'd:
They moved like stars united in their spheres,
Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters wash'd,
Where mingled and yet separate appears
The river from the lake, all bluely dash'd
Through the serene and placid glassy deep,
Which fain would lull its river-child to sleep.
Now when she once had ta'en an interest
In any thing, however she might flatter
Herself that her intentions were the best,
Intense intentions are a dangerous matter:
Impressions were much stronger than she guess'd,
And gather'd as they run like growing water
Upon her mind; the more so, as her breast
Was not at first too readily impress'd.
But when it was, she had that lurking demon
Of double nature, and thus doubly named--
Firmness yclept in heroes, kings, and seamen,
That is, when they succeed; but greatly blamed
As obstinacy, both in men and women,
Whene'er their triumph pales, or star is tamed:--
And 't will perplex the casuist in morality
To fix the due bounds of this dangerous quality.
Had Buonaparte won at Waterloo,
It had been firmness; now 't is pertinacity:
Must the event decide between the two?
I leave it to your people of sagacity
To draw the line between the false and true,
If such can e'er be drawn by man's capacity:
My business is with Lady Adeline,
Who in her way too was a heroine.
She knew not her own heart; then how should I?
I think not she was then in love with Juan:
If so, she would have had the strength to fly
The wild sensation, unto her a new one:
She merely felt a common sympathy
(I will not say it was a false or true one)
In him, because she thought he was in danger,--
Her husband's friend, her own, young, and a stranger,
She was, or thought she was, his friend--and this
Without the farce of friendship, or romance
Of Platonism, which leads so oft amiss
Ladies who have studied friendship but in France,
Or Germany, where people purely kiss.
To thus much Adeline would not advance;
But of such friendship as man's may to man be
She was as capable as woman can be.
No doubt the secret influence of the sex
Will there, as also in the ties of blood,
An innocent predominance annex,
And tune the concord to a finer mood.
If free from passion, which all friendship checks,
And your true feelings fully understood,
No friend like to a woman earth discovers,
So that you have not been nor will be lovers.
Love bears within its breast the very germ
Of change; and how should this be otherwise?
That violent things more quickly find a term
Is shown through nature's whole analogies;
And how should the most fierce of all be firm?
Would you have endless lightning in the skies?
Methinks Love's very title says enough:
How should 'the tender passion' e'er be tough?
Alas! by all experience, seldom yet
(I merely quote what I have heard from many)
Had lovers not some reason to regret
The passion which made Solomon a zany.
I 've also seen some wives (not to forget
The marriage state, the best or worst of any)
Who were the very paragons of wives,
Yet made the misery of at least two lives.
I 've also seen some female friends ( 't is odd,
But true--as, if expedient, I could prove)
That faithful were through thick and thin, abroad,
At home, far more than ever yet was Love--
Who did not quit me when Oppression trod
Upon me; whom no scandal could remove;
Who fought, and fight, in absence, too, my battles,
Despite the snake Society's loud rattles.
Whether Don Juan and chaste Adeline
Grew friends in this or any other sense,
Will be discuss'd hereafter, I opine:
At present I am glad of a pretence
To leave them hovering, as the effect is fine,
And keeps the atrocious reader in suspense;
The surest way for ladies and for books
To bait their tender, or their tenter, hooks.
Whether they rode, or walk'd, or studied Spanish
To read Don Quixote in the original,
A pleasure before which all others vanish;
Whether their talk was of the kind call'd 'small,'
Or serious, are the topics I must banish
To the next Canto; where perhaps I shall
Say something to the purpose, and display
Considerable talent in my way.
Above all, I beg all men to forbear
Anticipating aught about the matter:
They 'll only make mistakes about the fair,
And Juan too, especially the latter.
And I shall take a much more serious air
Than I have yet done, in this epic satire.
It is not clear that Adeline and Juan
Will fall; but if they do, 't will be their ruin.
But great things spring from little:--Would you think,
That in our youth, as dangerous a passion
As e'er brought man and woman to the brink
Of ruin, rose from such a slight occasion,
As few would ever dream could form the link
Of such a sentimental situation?
You 'll never guess, I 'll bet you millions, milliards--
It all sprung from a harmless game at billiards.
'T is strange,--but true; for truth is always strange;
Stranger than fiction; if it could be told,
How much would novels gain by the exchange!
How differently the world would men behold!
How oft would vice and virtue places change!
The new world would be nothing to the old,
If some Columbus of the moral seas
Would show mankind their souls' antipodes.
What 'antres vast and deserts idle' then
Would be discover'd in the human soul!
What icebergs in the hearts of mighty men,
With self-love in the centre as their pole!
What Anthropophagi are nine of ten
Of those who hold the kingdoms in control
Were things but only call'd by their right name,
Caesar himself would be ashamed of fame.
CANTO THE FIFTEENTH.
Ah!--What should follow slips from my reflection;
Whatever follows ne'ertheless may be
As _?propos_ of hope or retrospection,
As though the lurking thought had follow'd free.
All present life is but an interjection,
An 'Oh!' or 'Ah!' of joy or misery,
Or a 'Ha! ha!' or 'Bah!'--a yawn, or 'Pooh!'
Of which perhaps the latter is most true.
But, more or less, the whole 's a syncope
Or a singultus--emblems of emotion,
The grand antithesis to great ennui,
Wherewith we break our bubbles on the ocean,--
That watery outline of eternity,
Or miniature at least, as is my notion,
Which ministers unto the soul's delight,
In seeing matters which are out of sight.
But all are better than the sigh supprest,
Corroding in the cavern of the heart,
Making the countenance a masque of rest,
And turning human nature to an art.
Few men dare show their thoughts of worst or best;
Dissimulation always sets apart
A corner for herself; and therefore fiction
Is that which passes with least contradiction.
Ah! who can tell? Or rather, who can not
Remember, without telling, passion's errors?
The drainer of oblivion, even the sot,
Hath got blue devils for his morning mirrors:
What though on Lethe's stream he seem to float,
He cannot sink his tremors or his terrors;
The ruby glass that shakes within his hand
Leaves a sad sediment of Time's worst sand.
And as for love--O love!--We will proceed.
The Lady Adeline Amundeville,
A pretty name as one would wish to read,
Must perch harmonious on my tuneful quill.
There 's music in the sighing of a reed;
There 's music in the gushing of a rill;
There 's music in all things, if men had ears:
Their earth is but an echo of the spheres.
The Lady Adeline, right honourable;
And honour'd, ran a risk of growing less so;
For few of the soft sex are very stable
In their resolves--alas! that I should say so!
They differ as wine differs from its label,
When once decanted;--I presume to guess so,
But will not swear: yet both upon occasion,
Till old, may undergo adulteration.
But Adeline was of the purest vintage,
The unmingled essence of the grape; and yet
Bright as a new Napoleon from its mintage,
Or glorious as a diamond richly set;
A page where Time should hesitate to print age,
And for which Nature might forego her debt--
Sole creditor whose process doth involve in 't
The luck of finding every body solvent.
O Death! thou dunnest of all duns! thou daily
Knockest at doors, at first with modest tap,
Like a meek tradesman when, approaching palely,
Some splendid debtor he would take by sap:
But oft denied, as patience 'gins to fail, he
Advances with exasperated rap,
And (if let in) insists, in terms unhandsome,
On ready money, or 'a draft on Ransom.'
Whate'er thou takest, spare a while poor Beauty!
She is so rare, and thou hast so much prey.
What though she now and then may slip from duty,
The more 's the reason why you ought to stay.
Gaunt Gourmand! with whole nations for your booty,
You should be civil in a modest way:
Suppress, then, some slight feminine diseases,
And take as many heroes as Heaven pleases.
Fair Adeline, the more ingenuous
Where she was interested (as was said),
Because she was not apt, like some of us,
To like too readily, or too high bred
To show it (points we need not now discuss)--
Would give up artlessly both heart and head
Unto such feelings as seem'd innocent,
For objects worthy of the sentiment.
Some parts of Juan's history, which Rumour,
That live gazette, had scatter'd to disfigure,
She had heard; but women hear with more good humour
Such aberrations than we men of rigour:
Besides, his conduct, since in England, grew more
Strict, and his mind assumed a manlier vigour;
Because he had, like Alcibiades,
The art of living in all climes with ease.
His manner was perhaps the more seductive,
Because he ne'er seem'd anxious to seduce;
Nothing affected, studied, or constructive
Of coxcombry or conquest: no abuse
Of his attractions marr'd the fair perspective,
To indicate a Cupidon broke loose,
And seem to say, 'Resist us if you can'-
Which makes a dandy while it spoils a man.
They are wrong--that 's not the way to set about it;
As, if they told the truth, could well be shown.
But, right or wrong, Don Juan was without it;
In fact, his manner was his own alone;
Sincere he was--at least you could not doubt it,
In listening merely to his voice's tone.
The devil hath not in all his quiver's choice
An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.
By nature soft, his whole address held off
Suspicion: though not timid, his regard
Was such as rather seem'd to keep aloof,
To shield himself than put you on your guard:
Perhaps 't was hardly quite assured enough,
But modesty 's at times its own reward,
Like virtue; and the absence of pretension
Will go much farther than there 's need to mention.
Serene, accomplish'd, cheerful but not loud;
Insinuating without insinuation;
Observant of the foibles of the crowd,
Yet ne'er betraying this in conversation;
Proud with the proud, yet courteously proud,
So as to make them feel he knew his station
And theirs:--without a struggle for priority,
He neither brook'd nor claim'd superiority.
That is, with men: with women he was what
They pleased to make or take him for; and their
Imagination 's quite enough for that:
So that the outline 's tolerably fair,
They fill the canvas up--and 'verbum sat.'
If once their phantasies be brought to bear
Upon an object, whether sad or playful,
They can transfigure brighter than a Raphael.
Adeline, no deep judge of character,
Was apt to add a colouring from her own:
'T is thus the good will amiably err,
And eke the wise, as has been often shown.
Experience is the chief philosopher,
But saddest when his science is well known:
And persecuted sages teach the schools
Their folly in forgetting there are fools.
Was it not so, great Locke? and greater Bacon?
Great Socrates? And thou, Diviner still,
Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken,
And thy pure creed made sanction of all ill?
Redeeming worlds to be by bigots shaken,
How was thy toil rewarded? We might fill
Volumes with similar sad illustrations,
But leave them to the conscience of the nations.
I perch upon an humbler promontory,
Amidst life's infinite variety:
With no great care for what is nicknamed glory,
But speculating as I cast mine eye
On what may suit or may not suit my story,
And never straining hard to versify,
I rattle on exactly as I 'd talk
With any body in a ride or walk.
I don't know that there may be much ability
Shown in this sort of desultory rhyme;
But there 's a conversational facility,
Which may round off an hour upon a time.
Of this I 'm sure at least, there 's no servility
In mine irregularity of chime,
Which rings what 's uppermost of new or hoary,
Just as I feel the 'Improvvisatore.'
'Omnia vult belle Matho dicere--dic aliquando
Et bene, dic neutrum, dic aliquando male.'
The first is rather more than mortal can do;
The second may be sadly done or gaily;
The third is still more difficult to stand to;
The fourth we hear, and see, and say too, daily.
The whole together is what I could wish
To serve in this conundrum of a dish.
A modest hope--but modesty 's my forte,
And pride my feeble:--let us ramble on.
I meant to make this poem very short,
But now I can't tell where it may not run.
No doubt, if I had wish' to pay my court
To critics, or to hail the setting sun
Of tyranny of all kinds, my concision
Were more;--but I was born for opposition.
But then 't is mostly on the weaker side;
So that I verily believe if they
Who now are basking in their full-blown pride
Were shaken down, and 'dogs had had their day,'
Though at the first I might perchance deride
Their tumble, I should turn the other way,
And wax an ultra-royalist in loyalty,
Because I hate even democratic royalty.
I think I should have made a decent spouse,
If I had never proved the soft condition;
I think I should have made monastic vows,
But for my own peculiar superstition:
'Gainst rhyme I never should have knock'd my brows,
Nor broken my own head, nor that of Priscian,
Nor worn the motley mantle of a poet,
If some one had not told me to forego it.
But 'laissez aller'--knights and dames I sing,
Such as the times may furnish. 'T is a flight
Which seems at first to need no lofty wing,
Plumed by Longinus or the Stagyrite:
The difficultly lies in colouring
(Keeping the due proportions still in sight)
With nature manners which are artificial,
And rend'ring general that which is especial.
The difference is, that in the days of old
Men made the manners; manners now make men--
Pinn'd like a flock, and fleeced too in their fold,
At least nine, and a ninth beside of ten.
Now this at all events must render cold
Your writers, who must either draw again
Days better drawn before, or else assume
The present, with their common-place costume.
We 'll do our best to make the best on 't:--March!
March, my Muse! If you cannot fly, yet flutter;
And when you may not be sublime, be arch,
Or starch, as are the edicts statesmen utter.
We surely may find something worth research:
Columbus found a new world in a cutter,
Or brigantine, or pink, of no great tonnage,
While yet America was in her non-age.
When Adeline, in all her growing sense
Of Juan's merits and his situation,
Felt on the whole an interest intense,--
Partly perhaps because a fresh sensation,
Or that he had an air of innocence,
Which is for innocence a sad temptation,--
As women hate half measures, on the whole,
She 'gan to ponder how to save his soul.
She had a good opinion of advice,
Like all who give and eke receive it gratis,
For which small thanks are still the market price,
Even where the article at highest rate is:
She thought upon the subject twice or thrice,
And morally decided, the best state is
For morals, marriage; and this question carried,
She seriously advised him to get married.
Juan replied, with all becoming deference,
He had a predilection for that tie;
But that, at present, with immediate reference
To his own circumstances, there might lie
Some difficulties, as in his own preference,
Or that of her to whom he might apply:
That still he 'd wed with such or such a lady,
If that they were not married all already.
Next to the making matches for herself,
And daughters, brothers, sisters, kith or kin,
Arranging them like books on the same shelf,
There 's nothing women love to dabble in
More (like a stock-holder in growing pelf)
Than match-making in general: 't is no sin
Certes, but a preventative, and therefore
That is, no doubt, the only reason wherefore.
But never yet (except of course a miss
Unwed, or mistress never to be wed,
Or wed already, who object to this)
Was there chaste dame who had not in her head
Some drama of the marriage unities,
Observed as strictly both at board and bed
As those of Aristotle, though sometimes
They turn out melodrames or pantomimes.
They generally have some only son,
Some heir to a large property, some friend
Of an old family, some gay Sir john,
Or grave Lord George, with whom perhaps might end
A line, and leave posterity undone,
Unless a marriage was applied to mend
The prospect and their morals: and besides,
They have at hand a blooming glut of brides.
From these they will be careful to _select_,
For this an heiress, and for that a beauty;
For one a songstress who hath no defect,
For t' other one who promises much duty;
For this a lady no one can reject,
Whose sole accomplishments were quite a booty;
A second for her excellent connections;
A third, because there can be no objections.
When Rapp the Harmonist embargo'd marriage
In his harmonious settlement (which flourishes
Strangely enough as yet without miscarriage,
Because it breeds no more mouths than it nourishes,
Without those sad expenses which disparage
What Nature naturally most encourages)--
Why call'd he 'Harmony' a state sans wedlock?
Now here I 've got the preacher at a dead lock.
Because he either meant to sneer at harmony
Or marriage, by divorcing them thus oddly.
But whether reverend Rapp learn'd this in Germany
Or no, 't is said his sect is rich and godly,
Pious and pure, beyond what I can term any
Of ours, although they propagate more broadly.
My objection 's to his title, not his ritual,
Although I wonder how it grew habitual.
But Rapp is the reverse of zealous matrons,
Who favour, malgre Malthus, generation--
Professors of that genial art, and patrons
Of all the modest part of propagation;
Which after all at such a desperate rate runs,
That half its produce tends to emigration,
That sad result of passions and potatoes--
Two weeds which pose our economic Catos.
Had Adeline read Malthus? I can't tell;
I wish she had: his book 's the eleventh commandment,
Which says, 'Thou shalt not marry,' unless well:
This he (as far as I can understand) meant.
'T is not my purpose on his views to dwell
Nor canvass what so 'eminent a hand' meant;
But certes it conducts to lives ascetic,
Or turning marriage into arithmetic.
But Adeline, who probably presumed
That Juan had enough of maintenance,
Or separate maintenance, in case 't was doom'd--
As on the whole it is an even chance
That bridegrooms, after they are fairly groom'd,
May retrograde a little in the dance
Of marriage (which might form a painter's fame,
Like Holbein's 'Dance of Death'--but 't is the same);--
But Adeline determined Juan's wedding
In her own mind, and that 's enough for woman:
But then, with whom? There was the sage Miss Reading,
Miss Raw, Miss Flaw, Miss Showman, and Miss Knowman.
And the two fair co-heiresses Giltbedding.
She deem'd his merits something more than common:
All these were unobjectionable matches,
And might go on, if well wound up, like watches.
There was Miss Millpond, smooth as summer's sea,
That usual paragon, an only daughter,
Who seem'd the cream of equanimity
Till skimm'd--and then there was some milk and water,
With a slight shade of blue too, it might be,
Beneath the surface; but what did it matter?
Love 's riotous, but marriage should have quiet,
And being consumptive, live on a milk diet.
And then there was the Miss Audacia Shoestring,
A dashing demoiselle of good estate,
Whose heart was fix'd upon a star or blue string;
But whether English dukes grew rare of late,
Or that she had not harp'd upon the true string,
By which such sirens can attract our great,
She took up with some foreign younger brother,
A Russ or Turk--the one 's as good as t' other.
And then there was--but why should I go on,
Unless the ladies should go off?--there was
Indeed a certain fair and fairy one,
Of the best class, and better than her class,--
Aurora Raby, a young star who shone
O'er life, too sweet an image for such glass,
A lovely being, scarcely form'd or moulded,
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded;
Rich, noble, but an orphan; left an only
Child to the care of guardians good and kind;
But still her aspect had an air so lonely!
Blood is not water; and where shall we find
Feelings of youth like those which overthrown lie
By death, when we are left, alas! behind,
To feel, in friendless palaces, a home
Is wanting, and our best ties in the tomb?
Early in years, and yet more infantine
In figure, she had something of sublime
In eyes which sadly shone, as seraphs' shine.
All youth--but with an aspect beyond time;
Radiant and grave--as pitying man's decline;
Mournful--but mournful of another's crime,
She look'd as if she sat by Eden's door.
And grieved for those who could return no more.
She was a Catholic, too, sincere, austere,
As far as her own gentle heart allow'd,
And deem'd that fallen worship far more dear
Perhaps because 't was fallen: her sires were proud
Of deeds and days when they had fill'd the ear
Of nations, and had never bent or bow'd
To novel power; and as she was the last,
She held their old faith and old feelings fast.
She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew,
As seeking not to know it; silent, lone,
As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew,
And kept her heart serene within its zone.
There was awe in the homage which she drew;
Her spirit seem'd as seated on a throne
Apart from the surrounding world, and strong
In its own strength--most strange in one so young!
Now it so happen'd, in the catalogue
Of Adeline, Aurora was omitted,
Although her birth and wealth had given her vogue
Beyond the charmers we have already cited;
Her beauty also seem'd to form no clog
Against her being mention'd as well fitted,
By many virtues, to be worth the trouble
Of single gentlemen who would be double.
And this omission, like that of the bust
Of Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius,
Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must.
This he express'd half smiling and half serious;
When Adeline replied with some disgust,
And with an air, to say the least, imperious,
She marvell'd 'what he saw in such a baby
As that prim, silent, cold Aurora Raby?'
Juan rejoin'd--'She was a Catholic,
And therefore fittest, as of his persuasion;
Since he was sure his mother would fall sick,
And the Pope thunder excommunication,
If-' But here Adeline, who seem'd to pique
Herself extremely on the inoculation
Of others with her own opinions, stated--
As usual--the same reason which she late did.
And wherefore not? A reasonable reason,
If good, is none the worse for repetition;
If bad, the best way 's certainly to tease on,
And amplify: you lose much by concision,
Whereas insisting in or out of season
Convinces all men, even a politician;
Or--what is just the same--it wearies out.
So the end 's gain'd, what signifies the route?
Why Adeline had this slight prejudice--
For prejudice it was--against a creature
As pure as sanctity itself from vice,
With all the added charm of form and feature,
For me appears a question far too nice,
Since Adeline was liberal by nature;
But nature 's nature, and has more caprices
Than I have time, or will, to take to pieces.
Perhaps she did not like the quiet way
With which Aurora on those baubles look'd,
Which charm most people in their earlier day:
For there are few things by mankind less brook'd,
And womankind too, if we so may say,
Than finding thus their genius stand rebuked,
Like 'Anthony's by Caesar,' by the few
Who look upon them as they ought to do.
It was not envy--Adeline had none;
Her place was far beyond it, and her mind.
It was not scorn--which could not light on one
Whose greatest fault was leaving few to find.
It was not jealousy, I think: but shun
Following the 'ignes fatui' of mankind.
It was not--but 't is easier far, alas!
To say what it was not than what it was.
Little Aurora deem'd she was the theme
Of such discussion. She was there a guest;
A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream
Of rank and youth, though purer than the rest,
Which flow'd on for a moment in the beam
Time sheds a moment o'er each sparkling crest.
Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled--
She had so much, or little, of the child.
The dashing and proud air of Adeline
Imposed not upon her: she saw her blaze
Much as she would have seen a glow-worm shine,
Then turn'd unto the stars for loftier rays.
Juan was something she could not divine,
Being no sibyl in the new world's ways;
Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor,
Because she did not pin her faith on feature.
His fame too,--for he had that kind of fame
Which sometimes plays the deuce with womankind,
A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame,
Half virtues and whole vices being combined;
Faults which attract because they are not tame;
Follies trick'd out so brightly that they blind:--
These seals upon her wax made no impression,
Such was her coldness or her self-possession.
Juan knew nought of such a character--
High, yet resembling not his lost Haidee;
Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere:
The island girl, bred up by the lone sea,
More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere,
Was Nature's all: Aurora could not be,
Nor would be thus:--the difference in them
Was such as lies between a flower and gem.
Having wound up with this sublime comparison,
Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative,
And, as my friend Scott says, 'I sound my warison;'
Scott, the superlative of my comparative--
Scott, who can paint your Christian knight or Saracen,
Serf, lord, man, with such skill as none would share it, if
There had not been one Shakspeare and Voltaire,
Of one or both of whom he seems the heir.
I say, in my slight way I may proceed
To play upon the surface of humanity.
I write the world, nor care if the world read,
At least for this I cannot spare its vanity.
My Muse hath bred, and still perhaps may breed
More foes by this same scroll: when I began it, I
Thought that it might turn out so--now I know it,
But still I am, or was, a pretty poet.
The conference or congress (for it ended
As congresses of late do) of the Lady
Adeline and Don Juan rather blended
Some acids with the sweets--for she was heady;
But, ere the matter could be marr'd or mended,
The silvery bell rang, not for 'dinner ready,
But for that hour, call'd half-hour, given to dress,
Though ladies' robes seem scant enough for less.
Great things were now to be achieved at table,
With massy plate for armour, knives and forks
For weapons; but what Muse since Homer 's able
(His feasts are not the worst part of his works)
To draw up in array a single day-bill
Of modern dinners? where more mystery lurks,
In soups or sauces, or a sole ragout,
There was a goodly 'soupe a la bonne femme,'
Though God knows whence it came from; there was, too,
A turbot for relief of those who cram,
Relieved with 'dindon a la Parigeux;'
How shall I get this gourmand stanza through?-
'Soupe a la Beauveau,' whose relief was dory,
Relieved itself by pork, for greater glory.
But I must crowd all into one grand mess
Or mass; for should I stretch into detail,
My Muse would run much more into excess,
Than when some squeamish people deem her frail.
But though a 'bonne vivante,' I must confess
Her stomach 's not her peccant part; this tale
However doth require some slight refection,
Just to relieve her spirits from dejection.
Fowls 'a la Conde,' slices eke of salmon,
With 'sauces Genevoises,' and haunch of venison;
Wines too, which might again have slain young Ammon--
A man like whom I hope we shan't see many soon;
They also set a glazed Westphalian ham on,
Whereon Apicius would bestow his benison;
And then there was champagne with foaming whirls,
As white as Cleopatra's melted pearls.
Then there was God knows what 'a l'Allemande,'
'A l'Espagnole,' 'timballe,' and 'salpicon'-
With things I can't withstand or understand,
Though swallow'd with much zest upon the whole;
And 'entremets' to piddle with at hand,
Gently to lull down the subsiding soul;
While great Lucullus' Robe triumphal muffles
(There 's fame) young partridge fillets, deck'd with truffles.
What are the fillets on the victor's brow
To these? They are rags or dust. Where is the arch
Which nodded to the nation's spoils below?
Where the triumphal chariots' haughty march?
Gone to where victories must like dinners go.
Farther I shall not follow the research:
But oh! ye modern heroes with your cartridges,
When will your names lend lustre e'en to partridges?
Those truffles too are no bad accessaries,
Follow'd by 'petits puits d'amour'--a dish
Of which perhaps the cookery rather varies,
So every one may dress it to his wish,
According to the best of dictionaries,
Which encyclopedize both flesh and fish;
But even sans 'confitures,' it no less true is,
There 's pretty picking in those 'petits puits.'
The mind is lost in mighty contemplation
Of intellect expanded on two courses;
And indigestion's grand multiplication
Requires arithmetic beyond my forces.
Who would suppose, from Adam's simple ration,
That cookery could have call'd forth such resources,
As form a science and a nomenclature
From out the commonest demands of nature?
The glasses jingled, and the palates tingled;
The diners of celebrity dined well;
The ladies with more moderation mingled
In the feast, pecking less than I can tell;
Also the younger men too: for a springald
Can't, like ripe age, in gormandize excel,
But thinks less of good eating than the whisper
(When seated next him) of some pretty lisper.
Alas! I must leave undescribed the gibier,
The salmi, the consomme, the puree,
All which I use to make my rhymes run glibber
Than could roast beef in our rough John Bull way:
I must not introduce even a spare rib here,
'Bubble and squeak' would spoil my liquid lay:
But I have dined, and must forego, Alas!
The chaste description even of a 'becasse;'
And fruits, and ice, and all that art refines
From nature for the service of the gout--
Taste or the gout,--pronounce it as inclines
Your stomach! Ere you dine, the French will do;
But after, there are sometimes certain signs
Which prove plain English truer of the two.
Hast ever had the gout? I have not had it--
But I may have, and you too, reader, dread it.
The simple olives, best allies of wine,
Must I pass over in my bill of fare?
I must, although a favourite 'plat' of mine
In Spain, and Lucca, Athens, every where:
On them and bread 't was oft my luck to dine,
The grass my table-cloth, in open-air,
On Sunium or Hymettus, like Diogenes,
Of whom half my philosophy the progeny is.
Amidst this tumult of fish, flesh, and 'fowl,
And vegetables, all in masquerade,
The guests were placed according to their roll,
But various as the various meats display'd:
Don Juan sat next 'an l'Espagnole'-
No damsel, but a dish, as hath been said;
But so far like a lady, that 't was drest
Superbly, and contain'd a world of zest.
By some odd chance too, he was placed between
Aurora and the Lady Adeline--
A situation difficult, I ween,
For man therein, with eyes and heart, to dine.
Also the conference which we have seen
Was not such as to encourage him to shine;
For Adeline, addressing few words to him,
With two transcendent eyes seem'd to look through him.
I sometimes almost think that eyes have ears:
This much is sure, that, out of earshot, things
Are somehow echoed to the pretty dears,
Of which I can't tell whence their knowledge springs.
Like that same mystic music of the spheres,
Which no one bears, so loudly though it rings,
'T is wonderful how oft the sex have heard
Long dialogues--which pass'd without a word!
Aurora sat with that indifference
Which piques a preux chevalier--as it ought:
Of all offences that 's the worst offence,
Which seems to hint you are not worth a thought.
Now Juan, though no coxcomb in pretence,
Was not exactly pleased to be so caught;
Like a good ship entangled among ice,
And after so much excellent advice.
To his gay nothings, nothing was replied,
Or something which was nothing, as urbanity
Required. Aurora scarcely look'd aside,
Nor even smiled enough for any vanity.
The devil was in the girl! Could it be pride?
Or modesty, or absence, or inanity?
Heaven knows? But Adeline's malicious eyes
Sparkled with her successful prophecies,
And look'd as much as if to say, 'I said it;'
A kind of triumph I 'll not recommend,
Because it sometimes, as I have seen or read it,
Both in the case of lover and of friend,
Will pique a gentleman, for his own credit,
To bring what was a jest to a serious end:
For all men prophesy what is or was,
And hate those who won't let them come to pass.
Juan was drawn thus into some attentions,
Slight but _select_, and just enough to express,
To females of perspicuous comprehensions,
That he would rather make them more than less.
Aurora at the last (so history mentions,
Though probably much less a fact than guess)
So far relax'd her thoughts from their sweet prison,
As once or twice to smile, if not to listen.
From answering she began to question; this
With her was rare: and Adeline, who as yet
Thought her predictions went not much amiss,
Began to dread she'd thaw to a coquette--
So very difficult, they say, it is
To keep extremes from meeting, when once set
In motion; but she here too much refined--
Aurora's spirit was not of that kind.
But Juan had a sort of winning way,
A proud humility, if such there be,
Which show'd such deference to what females say,
As if each charming word were a decree.
His tact, too, temper'd him from grave to gay,
And taught him when to be reserved or free:
He had the art of drawing people out,
Without their seeing what he was about.
Aurora, who in her indifference
Confounded him in common with the crowd
Of flatterers, though she deem'd he had more sense
Than whispering foplings, or than witlings loud--
Commenced (from such slight things will great commence)
To feel that flattery which attracts the proud
Rather by deference than compliment,
And wins even by a delicate dissent.
And then he had good looks;--that point was carried
Nem. con. amongst the women, which I grieve
To say leads oft to crim. con. with the married--
A case which to the juries we may leave,
Since with digressions we too long have tarried.
Now though we know of old that looks deceive,
And always have done, somehow these good looks
Make more impression than the best of books.
Aurora, who look'd more on books than faces,
Was very young, although so very sage,
Admiring more Minerva than the Graces,
Especially upon a printed page.
But Virtue's self, with all her tightest laces,
Has not the natural stays of strict old age;
And Socrates, that model of all duty,
Own'd to a penchant, though discreet, for beauty.
And girls of sixteen are thus far Socratic,
But innocently so, as Socrates;
And really, if the sage sublime and Attic
At seventy years had phantasies like these,
Which Plato in his dialogues dramatic
Has shown, I know not why they should displease
In virgins--always in a modest way,
Observe; for that with me 's a 'sine qua.'
Also observe, that, like the great Lord Coke
(See Littleton), whene'er I have express'd
Opinions two, which at first sight may look
Twin opposites, the second is the best.
Perhaps I have a third, too, in a nook,
Or none at all--which seems a sorry jest:
But if a writer should be quite consistent,
How could he possibly show things existent?
If people contradict themselves, can
Help contradicting them, and every body,
Even my veracious self?--But that 's a lie:
I never did so, never will--how should I?
He who doubts all things nothing can deny:
Truth's fountains may be clear--her streams are muddy,
And cut through such canals of contradiction,
That she must often navigate o'er fiction.
Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable,
Are false, but may he render'd also true,
By those who sow them in a land that 's arable.
'T is wonderful what fable will not do!
'T is said it makes reality more bearable:
But what 's reality? Who has its clue?
Philosophy? No: she too much rejects.
Religion? Yes; but which of all her sects?
Some millions must be wrong, that 's pretty dear;
Perhaps it may turn out that all were right.
God help us! Since we have need on our career
To keep our holy beacons always bright,
'T is time that some new prophet should appear,
Or old indulge man with a second sight.
Opinions wear out in some thousand years,
Without a small refreshment from the spheres.
But here again, why will I thus entangle
Myself with metaphysics? None can hate
So much as I do any kind of wrangle;
And yet, such is my folly, or my fate,
I always knock my head against some angle
About the present, past, or future state.
Yet I wish well to Trojan and to Tyrian,
For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian.
But though I am a temperate theologian,
And also meek as a metaphysician,
Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan,
As Eldon on a lunatic commission--
In politics my duty is to show John
Bull something of the lower world's condition.
It makes my blood boil like the springs of Hecla,
To see men let these scoundrel sovereigns break law.
But politics, and policy, and piety,
Are topics which I sometimes introduce,
Not only for the sake of their variety,
But as subservient to a moral use;
Because my business is to dress society,
And stuff with sage that very verdant goose.
And now, that we may furnish with some matter all
Tastes, we are going to try the supernatural.
And now I will give up all argument;
And positively henceforth no temptation
Shall 'fool me to the top up of my bent:'-
Yes, I' ll begin a thorough reformation.
Indeed, I never knew what people meant
By deeming that my Muse's conversation
Was dangerous;--I think she is as harmless
As some who labour more and yet may charm less.
Grim reader! did you ever see a ghost?
No; but you have heard--I understand--be dumb!
And don't regret the time you may have lost,
For you have got that pleasure still to come:
And do not think I mean to sneer at most
Of these things, or by ridicule benumb
That source of the sublime and the mysterious:--
For certain reasons my belief is serious.
Serious? You laugh;--you may: that will I not;
My smiles must be sincere or not at all.
I say I do believe a haunted spot
Exists--and where? That shall I not recall,
Because I 'd rather it should be forgot,
'Shadows the soul of Richard' may appal.
In short, upon that subject I 've some qualms very
Like those of the philosopher of Malmsbury.
The night (I sing by night--sometimes an owl,
And now and then a nightingale) is dim,
And the loud shriek of sage Minerva's fowl
Rattles around me her discordant hymn:
Old portraits from old walls upon me scowl--
I wish to heaven they would not look so grim;
The dying embers dwindle in the grate--
I think too that I have sate up too late:
And therefore, though 't is by no means my way
To rhyme at noon--when I have other things
To think of, if I ever think--I say
I feel some chilly midnight shudderings,
And prudently postpone, until mid-day,
Treating a topic which, alas! but brings
Shadows;--but you must be in my condition
Before you learn to call this superstition.
CANTO THE SIXTEENTH.
The antique Persians taught three useful things,
To draw the bow, to ride, and speak the truth.
This was the mode of Cyrus, best of kings--
A mode adopted since by modern youth.
Bows have they, generally with two strings;
Horses they ride without remorse or ruth;
At speaking truth perhaps they are less clever,
But draw the long bow better now than ever.
The cause of this effect, or this defect,--
'For this effect defective comes by cause,'-
Is what I have not leisure to inspect;
But this I must say in my own applause,
Of all the Muses that I recollect,
Whate'er may be her follies or her flaws
In some things, mine 's beyond all contradiction
The most sincere that ever dealt in fiction.
And as she treats all things, and ne'er retreats
From any thing, this epic will contain
A wilderness of the most rare conceits,
Which you might elsewhere hope to find in vain.
'T is true there be some bitters with the sweets,
Yet mix'd so slightly, that you can't complain,
But wonder they so few are, since my tale is
'De rebus cunctis et quibusdam aliis.'
But of all truths which she has told, the most
True is that which she is about to tell.
I said it was a story of a ghost--
What then? I only know it so befell.
Have you explored the limits of the coast,
Where all the dwellers of the earth must dwell?
'T is time to strike such puny doubters dumb as
The sceptics who would not believe Columbus.
Some people would impose now with authority,
Turpin's or Monmouth Geoffry's Chronicle;
Men whose historical superiority
Is always greatest at a miracle.
But Saint Augustine has the great priority,
Who bids all men believe the impossible,
Because 't is so. Who nibble, scribble, quibble, he
Quiets at once with 'quia impossibile.'
And therefore, mortals, cavil not at all;
Believe:--if 't is improbable you must,
And if it is impossible, you shall:
'T is always best to take things upon trust.
I do not speak profanely, to recall
Those holier mysteries which the wise and just
Receive as gospel, and which grow more rooted,
As all truths must, the more they are disputed:
I merely mean to say what Johnson said,
That in the course of some six thousand years,
All nations have believed that from the dead
A visitant at intervals appears;
And what is strangest upon this strange head,
Is, that whatever bar the reason rears
'Gainst such belief, there 's something stronger still
In its behalf, let those deny who will.
The dinner and the soiree too were done,
The supper too discuss'd, the dames admired,
The banqueteers had dropp'd off one by one--
The song was silent, and the dance expired:
The last thin petticoats were vanish'd, gone
Like fleecy Clouds into the sky retired,
And nothing brighter gleam'd through the saloon
Than dying tapers--and the peeping moon.
The evaporation of a joyous day
Is like the last glass of champagne, without
The foam which made its virgin bumper gay;
Or like a system coupled with a doubt;
Or like a soda bottle when its spray
Has sparkled and let half its spirit out;
Or like a billow left by storms behind,
Without the animation of the wind;
Or like an opiate, which brings troubled rest,
Or none; or like--like nothing that I know
Except itself;--such is the human breast;
A thing, of which similitudes can show
No real likeness,--like the old Tyrian vest
Dyed purple, none at present can tell how,
If from a shell-fish or from cochineal.
So perish every tyrant's robe piece-meal!
But next to dressing for a rout or ball,
Undressing is a woe; our robe de chambre
May sit like that of Nessus, and recall
Thoughts quite as yellow, but less clear than amber.
Titus exclaim'd, 'I 've lost a day!' Of all
The nights and days most people can remember
(I have had of both, some not to be disdain'd),
I wish they 'd state how many they have gain'd.
And Juan, on retiring for the night,
Felt restless, and perplex'd, and compromised:
He thought Aurora Raby's eyes more bright
Than Adeline (such is advice) advised;
If he had known exactly his own plight,
He probably would have philosophised:
A great resource to all, and ne'er denied
Till wanted; therefore Juan only sigh'd.
He sigh'd;--the next resource is the full moon,
Where all sighs are deposited; and now
It happen'd luckily, the chaste orb shone
As clear as such a climate will allow;
And Juan's mind was in the proper tone
To hail her with the apostrophe--'O thou!'
Of amatory egotism the Tuism,
Which further to explain would be a truism.
But lover, poet, or astronomer,
Shepherd, or swain, whoever may behold,
Feel some abstraction when they gaze on her:
Great thoughts we catch from thence (besides a cold
Sometimes, unless my feelings rather err);
Deep secrets to her rolling light are told;
The ocean's tides and mortals' brains she sways,
And also hearts, if there be truth in lays.
Juan felt somewhat pensive, and disposed
For contemplation rather than his pillow:
The Gothic chamber, where he was enclosed,
Let in the rippling sound of the lake's billow,
With all the mystery by midnight caused;
Below his window waved (of course) a willow;
And he stood gazing out on the cascade
That flash'd and after darken'd in the shade.
Upon his table or his toilet,--which
Of these is not exactly ascertain'd
(I state this, for I am cautious to a pitch
Of nicety, where a fact is to be gain'd),--
A lamp burn'd high, while he leant from a niche,
Where many a Gothic ornament remain'd,
In chisell'd stone and painted glass, and all
That time has left our fathers of their hall.
Then, as the night was clear though cold, he threw
His chamber door wide open--and went forth
Into a gallery, of a sombre hue,
Long, furnish'd with old pictures of great worth,
Of knights and dames heroic and chaste too,
As doubtless should be people of high birth.
But by dim lights the portraits of the dead
Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread.
The forms of the grim knight and pictured saint
Look living in the moon; and as you turn
Backward and forward to the echoes faint
Of your own footsteps--voices from the urn
Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint
Start from the frames which fence their aspects stern,
As if to ask how you can dare to keep
A vigil there, where all but death should sleep.
And the pale smile of beauties in the grave,
The charms of other days, in starlight gleams,
Glimmer on high; their buried locks still wave
Along the canvas; their eyes glance like dreams
On ours, or spars within some dusky cave,
But death is imaged in their shadowy beams.
A picture is the past; even ere its frame
Be gilt, who sate hath ceased to be the same.
As Juan mused on mutability,
Or on his mistress--terms synonymous--
No sound except the echo of his sigh
Or step ran sadly through that antique house;
When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh,
A supernatural agent--or a mouse,
Whose little nibbling rustle will embarrass
Most people as it plays along the arras.
It was no mouse, but lo! a monk, array'd
In cowl and beads and dusky garb, appear'd,
Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shade,
With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard;
His garments only a slight murmur made;
He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird,
But slowly; and as he pass'd Juan by,
Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye.
Juan was petrified; he had heard a hint
Of such a spirit in these halls of old,
But thought, like most men, there was nothing in 't
Beyond the rumour which such spots unfold,
Coin'd from surviving superstition's mint,
Which passes ghosts in currency like gold,
But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper.
And did he see this? or was it a vapour?
Once, twice, thrice pass'd, repass'd--the thing of air,
Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t' other place;
And Juan gazed upon it with a stare,
Yet could not speak or move; but, on its base
As stands a statue, stood: he felt his hair
Twine like a knot of snakes around his face;
He tax'd his tongue for words, which were not granted,
To ask the reverend person what he wanted.
The third time, after a still longer pause,
The shadow pass'd away--but where? the hall
Was long, and thus far there was no great cause
To think his vanishing unnatural:
Doors there were many, through which, by the laws
Of physics, bodies whether short or tall
Might come or go; but Juan could not state
Through which the spectre seem'd to evaporate.
He stood--how long he knew not, but it seem'd
An age--expectant, powerless, with his eyes
Strain'd on the spot where first the figure gleam'd;
Then by degrees recall'd his energies,
And would have pass'd the whole off as a dream,
But could not wake; he was, he did surmise,
Waking already, and return'd at length
Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength.
All there was as he left it: still his taper
Burnt, and not blue, as modest tapers use,
Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapour;
He rubb'd his eyes, and they did not refuse
Their office; he took up an old newspaper;
The paper was right easy to peruse;
He read an article the king attacking,
And a long eulogy of 'patent blacking.'
This savour'd of this world; but his hand shook--
He shut his door, and after having read
A paragraph, I think about Horne Tooke,
Undrest, and rather slowly went to bed.
There, couch'd all snugly on his pillow's nook,
With what he had seen his phantasy he fed;
And though it was no opiate, slumber crept
Upon him by degrees, and so he slept.
He woke betimes; and, as may be supposed,
Ponder'd upon his visitant or vision,
And whether it ought not to be disclosed,
At risk of being quizz'd for superstition.
The more he thought, the more his mind was posed:
In the mean time, his valet, whose precision
Was great, because his master brook'd no less,
Knock'd to inform him it was time to dress.
He dress'd; and like young people he was wont
To take some trouble with his toilet, but
This morning rather spent less time upon 't;
Aside his very mirror soon was put;
His curls fell negligently o'er his front,
His clothes were not curb'd to their usual cut,
His very neckcloth's Gordian knot was tied
Almost an hair's breadth too much on one side.
And when he walk'd down into the saloon,
He sate him pensive o'er a dish of tea,
Which he perhaps had not discover'd soon,
Had it not happen'd scalding hot to be,
Which made him have recourse unto his spoon;
So much distrait he was, that all could see
That something was the matter--Adeline
The first--but what she could not well divine.
She look'd, and saw him pale, and turn'd as pale
Herself; then hastily look'd down, and mutter'd
Something, but what 's not stated in my tale.
Lord Henry said his muffin was ill butter'd;
The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke play'd with her veil,
And look'd at Juan hard, but nothing utter'd.
Aurora Raby with her large dark eyes
Survey'd him with a kind of calm surprise.
But seeing him all cold and silent still,
And everybody wondering more or less,
Fair Adeline enquired, 'If he were ill?'
He started, and said, 'Yes--no--rather--yes.'
The family physician had great skill,
And being present, now began to express
His readiness to feel his pulse and tell
The cause, but Juan said, 'He was quite well.'
'Quite well; yes,--no.'--These answers were mysterious,
And yet his looks appear'd to sanction both,
However they might savour of delirious;
Something like illness of a sudden growth
Weigh'd on his spirit, though by no means serious:
But for the rest, as he himself seem'd loth
To state the case, it might be ta'en for granted
It was not the physician that he wanted.
Lord Henry, who had now discuss'd his chocolate,
Also the muffin whereof he complain'd,
Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate,
At which he marvell'd, since it had not rain'd;
Then ask'd her Grace what news were of the duke of late?
Her Grace replied, his Grace was rather pain'd
With some slight, light, hereditary twinges
Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges.
Then Henry turn'd to Juan, and address'd
A few words of condolence on his state:
'You look,' quoth he, 'as if you had had your rest
Broke in upon by the Black Friar of late.'
'What friar?' said Juan; and he did his best
To put the question with an air sedate,
Or careless; but the effort was not valid
To hinder him from growing still more pallid.
'Oh! have you never heard of the Black Friar?
The spirit of these walls?'--'In truth not I.'
'Why Fame--but Fame you know 's sometimes a liar--
Tells an odd story, of which by and by:
Whether with time the spectre has grown shyer,
Or that our sires had a more gifted eye
For such sights, though the tale is half believed,
The friar of late has not been oft perceived.
(Who watch'd the changes of Don Juan's brow,
And from its context thought she could divine
Connexions stronger then he chose to avow
With this same legend)--'if you but design
To jest, you 'll choose some other theme just now,
Because the present tale has oft been told,
And is not much improved by growing old.'
'Jest!' quoth Milor; 'why, Adeline, you know
That we ourselves--'t was in the honey-moon--
But, come, I 'll set your story to a tune.'
Graceful as Dian, when she draws her bow,
She seized her harp, whose strings were kindled soon
As touch'd, and plaintively began to play
The air of ''T was a Friar of Orders Gray.'
'But add the words,' cried Henry, 'which you made;
For Adeline is half a poetess,'
Turning round to the rest, he smiling said.
Of course the others could not but express
In courtesy their wish to see display'd
By one three talents, for there were no less--
The voice, the words, the harper's skill, at once
Could hardly be united by a dunce.
After some fascinating hesitation,--
The charming of these charmers, who seem bound,
I can't tell why, to this dissimulation,--
Fair Adeline, with eyes fix'd on the ground
At first, then kindling into animation,
Added her sweet voice to the lyric sound,
And sang with much simplicity,--a merit
Not the less precious, that we seldom hear it.
Beware! beware! of the Black Friar,
Who sitteth by Norman stone,
For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air,
And his mass of the days that are gone.
When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville,
Made Norman Church his prey,
And expell'd the friars, one friar still
Would not be driven away.
Though he came in his might, with King Henry's right,
To turn church lands to lay,
With sword in hand, and torch to light
Their walls, if they said nay;
A monk remain'd, unchased, unchain'd,
And he did not seem form'd of clay,
For he 's seen in the porch, and he 's seen in the church,
Though he is not seen by day.
And whether for good, or whether for ill,
It is not mine to say;
But still with the house of Amundeville
He abideth night and day.
By the marriage-bed of their lords, 't is said,
He flits on the bridal eve;
And 't is held as faith, to their bed of death
He comes--but not to grieve.
When an heir is born, he 's heard to mourn,
And when aught is to befall
That ancient line, in the "we moonshine
He walks from hall to hall.
His form you may trace, but not his face,
'T is shadow'd by his cowl;
But his eyes may be seen from the folds between,
And they seem of a parted soul.
But beware! beware! of the Black Friar,
He still retains his sway,
For he is yet the church's heir
Whoever may be the lay.
Amundeville is lord by day,
But the monk is lord by night;
Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal
To question that friar's right.
Say nought to him as he walks the hall,
And he 'll say nought to you;
He sweeps along in his dusky pall,
As o'er the grass the dew.
Then grammercy! for the Black Friar;
Heaven sain him, fair or foul!
And whatsoe'er may be his prayer,
Let ours be for his soul.
The lady's voice ceased, and the thrilling wires
Died from the touch that kindled them to sound;
And the pause follow'd, which when song expires
Pervades a moment those who listen round;
And then of course the circle much admires,
Nor less applauds, as in politeness bound,
The tones, the feeling, and the execution,
To the performer's diffident confusion.
Fair Adeline, though in a careless way,
As if she rated such accomplishment
As the mere pastime of an idle day,
Pursued an instant for her own content,
Would now and then as 't were without display,
Yet with display in fact, at times relent
To such performances with haughty smile,
To show she could, if it were worth her while.
Now this (but we will whisper it aside)
Was--pardon the pedantic illustration--
Trampling on Plato's pride with greater pride,
As did the Cynic on some like occasion;
Deeming the sage would be much mortified,
Or thrown into a philosophic passion,
For a spoil'd carpet--but the 'Attic Bee'
Was much consoled by his own repartee.
Thus Adeline would throw into the shade
(By doing easily, whene'er she chose,
What dilettanti do with vast parade)
Their sort of half profession; for it grows
To something like this when too oft display'd;
And that it is so everybody knows
Who have heard Miss That or This, or Lady T'other,
Show off--to please their company or mother.
O! the long evenings of duets and trios!
The admirations and the speculations;
The 'Mamma Mia's!' and the 'Amor Mio's!'
The 'Tanti palpiti's' on such occasions:
The 'Lasciami's,' and quavering 'Addio's!'
Amongst our own most musical of nations;
With 'Tu mi chamas's' from Portingale,
To soothe our ears, lest Italy should fail.
In Babylon's bravuras--as the home
Heart-ballads of Green Erin or Gray Highlands,
That bring Lochaber back to eyes that roam
O'er far Atlantic continents or islands,
The calentures of music which o'ercome
All mountaineers with dreams that they are nigh lands,
No more to be beheld but in such visions--
Was Adeline well versed, as compositions.
She also had a twilight tinge of 'Blue,'
Could write rhymes, and compose more than she wrote,
Made epigrams occasionally too
Upon her friends, as everybody ought.
But still from that sublimer azure hue,
So much the present dye, she was remote;
Was weak enough to deem Pope a great poet,
And what was worse, was not ashamed to show it.
Aurora--since we are touching upon taste,
Which now-a-days is the thermometer
By whose degrees all characters are class'd--
Was more Shakspearian, if I do not err.
The worlds beyond this world's perplexing waste
Had more of her existence, for in her
There was a depth of feeling to embrace
Thoughts, boundless, deep, but silent too as Space.
Not so her gracious, graceful, graceless Grace,
The full-grown Hebe of Fitz-Fulke, whose mind,
If she had any, was upon her face,
And that was of a fascinating kind.
A little turn for mischief you might trace
Also thereon,--but that 's not much; we find
Few females without some such gentle leaven,
For fear we should suppose us quite in heaven.
I have not heard she was at all poetic,
Though once she was seen reading the 'Bath Guide,'
And 'Hayley's Triumphs,' which she deem'd pathetic,
Because she said her temper had been tried
So much, the bard had really been prophetic
Of what she had gone through with--since a bride.
But of all verse, what most ensured her praise
Were sonnets to herself, or 'bouts rimes.'
'T were difficult to say what was the object
Of Adeline, in bringing this same lay
To bear on what appear'd to her the subject
Of Juan's nervous feelings on that day.
Perhaps she merely had the simple project
To laugh him out of his supposed dismay;
Perhaps she might wish to confirm him in it,
Though why I cannot say--at least this minute.
But so far the immediate effect
Was to restore him to his self-propriety,
A thing quite necessary to the elect,
Who wish to take the tone of their society:
In which you cannot be too circumspect,
Whether the mode be persiflage or piety,
But wear the newest mantle of hypocrisy,
On pain of much displeasing the gynocracy.
And therefore Juan now began to rally
His spirits, and without more explanation
To jest upon such themes in many a sally.
Her Grace, too, also seized the same occasion,
With various similar remarks to tally,
But wish'd for a still more detail'd narration
Of this same mystic friar's curious doings,
About the present family's deaths and wooings.
Of these few could say more than has been said;
They pass'd as such things do, for superstition
With some, while others, who had more in dread
The theme, half credited the strange tradition;
And much was talk'd on all sides on that head:
But Juan, when cross-question'd on the vision,
Which some supposed (though he had not avow'd it)
Had stirr'd him, answer'd in a way to cloud it.
And then, the mid-day having worn to one,
The company prepared to separate;
Some to their several pastimes, or to none,
Some wondering 't was so early, some so late.
There was a goodly match too, to be run
Between some greyhounds on my lord's estate,
And a young race-horse of old pedigree
Match'd for the spring, whom several went to see.
There was a picture-dealer who had brought
A special Titian, warranted original,
So precious that it was not to be bought,
Though princes the possessor were besieging all.
The king himself had cheapen'd it, but thought
The civil list he deigns to accept (obliging all
His subjects by his gracious acceptation)
Too scanty, in these times of low taxation.
But as Lord Henry was a connoisseur,--
The friend of artists, if not arts,--the owner,
With motives the most classical and pure,
So that he would have been the very donor,
Rather than seller, had his wants been fewer,
So much he deem'd his patronage an honour,
Had brought the capo d'opera, not for sale,
But for his judgment--never known to fail.
There was a modern Goth, I mean a Gothic
Bricklayer of Babel, call'd an architect,
Brought to survey these grey walls, which though so thick,
Might have from time acquired some slight defect;
Who after rummaging the Abbey through thick
And thin, produced a plan whereby to erect
New buildings of correctest conformation,
And throw down old--which he call'd restoration.
The cost would be a trifle--an 'old song,'
Set to some thousands ('t is the usual burden
Of that same tune, when people hum it long)--
The price would speedily repay its worth in
An edifice no less sublime than strong,
By which Lord Henry's good taste would go forth in
Its glory, through all ages shining sunny,
For Gothic daring shown in English money.
There were two lawyers busy on a mortgage
Lord Henry wish'd to raise for a new purchase;
Also a lawsuit upon tenures burgage,
And one on tithes, which sure are Discord's torches,
Kindling Religion till she throws down her gage,
'Untying' squires 'to fight against the churches;'
There was a prize ox, a prize pig, and ploughman,
For Henry was a sort of Sabine showman.
There were two poachers caught in a steel trap,
Ready for gaol, their place of convalescence;
There was a country girl in a close cap
And scarlet cloak (I hate the sight to see, since--
Since--since--in youth, I had the sad mishap--
But luckily I have paid few parish fees since):
That scarlet cloak, alas! unclosed with rigour,
Presents the problem of a double figure.
A reel within a bottle is a mystery,
One can't tell how it e'er got in or out;
Therefore the present piece of natural history
I leave to those who are fond of solving doubt;
And merely state, though not for the consistory,
Lord Henry was a justice, and that Scout
The constable, beneath a warrant's banner,
Had bagg'd this poacher upon Nature's manor.
Now justices of peace must judge all pieces
Of mischief of all kinds, and keep the game
And morals of the country from caprices
Of those who have not a license for the same;
And of all things, excepting tithes and leases,
Perhaps these are most difficult to tame:
Preserving partridges and pretty wenches
Are puzzles to the most precautious benches.
The present culprit was extremely pale,
Pale as if painted so; her cheek being red
By nature, as in higher dames less hale
'T is white, at least when they just rise from bed.
Perhaps she was ashamed of seeming frail,
Poor soul! for she was country born and bred,
And knew no better in her immorality
Than to wax white--for blushes are for quality.
Her black, bright, downcast, yet espiegle eye,
Had gather'd a large tear into its corner,
Which the poor thing at times essay'd to dry,
For she was not a sentimental mourner
Parading all her sensibility,
Nor insolent enough to scorn the scorner,
But stood in trembling, patient tribulation,
To be call'd up for her examination.
Of course these groups were scatter'd here and there,
Not nigh the gay saloon of ladies gent.
The lawyers in the study; and in air
The prize pig, ploughman, poachers; the men sent
From town, viz., architect and dealer, were
Both busy (as a general in his tent
Writing despatches) in their several stations,
Exulting in their brilliant lucubrations.
But this poor girl was left in the great hall,
While Scout, the parish guardian of the frail,
Discuss'd (he hated beer yclept the 'small')
A mighty mug of moral double ale.
She waited until justice could recall
Its kind attentions to their proper pale,
To name a thing in nomenclature rather
Perplexing for most virgins--a child's father.
You see here was enough of occupation
For the Lord Henry, link'd with dogs and horses.
There was much bustle too, and preparation
Below stairs on the score of second courses;
Because, as suits their rank and situation,
Those who in counties have great land resources
Have 'Public days,' when all men may carouse,
Though not exactly what 's call'd 'open house.'
But once a week or fortnight, uninvited
(Thus we translate a general invitation),
All country gentlemen, esquired or knighted,
May drop in without cards, and take their station
At the full board, and sit alike delighted
With fashionable wines and conversation;
And, as the isthmus of the grand connection,
Talk o'er themselves the past and next election.
Lord Henry was a great electioneerer,
Burrowing for boroughs like a rat or rabbit;
But county contests cost him rather dearer,
Because the neighbouring Scotch Earl of Giftgabbit
Had English influence in the self-same sphere here;
His son, the Honourable Dick Dicedrabbit,
Was member for the 'other interest' (meaning
The same self-interest, with a different leaning).
Courteous and cautious therefore in his county,
He was all things to all men, and dispensed
To some civility, to others bounty,
And promises to all--which last commenced
To gather to a somewhat large amount, he
Not calculating how much they condensed;
But what with keeping some, and breaking others,
His word had the same value as another's.
A friend to freedom and freeholders--yet
No less a friend to government--he held,
That he exactly the just medium hit
'Twixt place and patriotism--albeit compell'd,
Such was his sovereign's pleasure (though unfit,
He added modestly, when rebels rail'd),
To hold some sinecures he wish'd abolish'd,
But that with them all law would be demolish'd.
He was 'free to confess' (whence comes this phrase?
Is 't English? No--'t is only parliamentary)
That innovation's spirit now-a-days
Had made more progress than for the last century.
He would not tread a factious path to praise,
Though for the public weal disposed to venture high;
As for his place, he could but say this of it,
That the fatigue was greater than the profit.
Heaven, and his friends, knew that a private life
Had ever been his sole and whole ambition;
But could he quit his king in times of strife,
Which threaten'd the whole country with perdition?
When demagogues would with a butcher's knife
Cut through and through (oh! damnable incision!)
The Gordian or the Geordi-an knot, whose strings
Have tied together commons, lords, and kings.
Sooner 'come lace into the civil list
And champion him to the utmost'--he would keep it,
Till duly disappointed or dismiss'd:
Profit he care not for, let others reap it;
But should the day come when place ceased to exist,
The country would have far more cause to weep it:
For how could it go on? Explain who can!
He gloried in the name of Englishman.
He was as independent--ay, much more--
Than those who were not paid for independence,
As common soldiers, or a common--shore,
Have in their several arts or parts ascendance
O'er the irregulars in lust or gore,
Who do not give professional attendance.
Thus on the mob all statesmen are as eager
To prove their pride, as footmen to a beggar.
All this (save the last stanza) Henry said,
And thought. I say no more--I 've said too much;
For all of us have either heard or read--
Off--or upon the hustings--some slight such
Hints from the independent heart or head
Of the official candidate. I 'll touch
No more on this--the dinner-bell hath rung,
And grace is said; the grace I should have sung--
But I 'm too late, and therefore must make play.
'T was a great banquet, such as Albion old
Was wont to boast--as if a glutton's tray
Were something very glorious to behold.
But 't was a public feast and public day,--
Quite full, right dull, guests hot, and dishes cold,
Great plenty, much formality, small cheer,
And every body out of their own sphere.
The squires familiarly formal, and
My lords and ladies proudly condescending;
The very servants puzzling how to hand
Their plates--without it might be too much bending
From their high places by the sideboard's stand--
Yet, like their masters, fearful of offending.
For any deviation from the graces
Might cost both man and master too--their places.
There were some hunters bold, and coursers keen,
Whose hounds ne'er err'd, nor greyhounds deign'd to lurch;
Some deadly shots too, Septembrizers, seen
Earliest to rise, and last to quit the search
Of the poor partridge through his stubble screen.
There were some massy members of the church,
Takers of tithes, and makers of good matches,
And several who sung fewer psalms than catches.
There were some country wags too--and, alas!
Some exiles from the town, who had been driven
To gaze, instead of pavement, upon grass,
And rise at nine in lieu of long eleven.
And lo! upon that day it came to pass,
I sate next that o'erwhelming son of heaven,
The very powerful parson, Peter Pith,
The loudest wit I e'er was deafen'd with.
I knew him in his livelier London days,
A brilliant diner out, though but a curate;
And not a joke he cut but earn'd its praise,
Until preferment, coming at a sure rate
(O Providence! how wondrous are thy ways!
Who would suppose thy gifts sometimes obdurate?),
Gave him, to lay the devil who looks o'er Lincoln,
A fat fen vicarage, and nought to think on.
His jokes were sermons, and his sermons jokes;
But both were thrown away amongst the fens;
For wit hath no great friend in aguish folks.
No longer ready ears and short-hand pens
Imbibed the gay bon-mot, or happy hoax:
The poor priest was reduced to common sense,
Or to coarse efforts very loud and long,
To hammer a horse laugh from the thick throng.
There is a difference, says the song, 'between
A beggar and a queen,' or was (of late
The latter worse used of the two we 've seen--
But we 'll say nothing of affairs of state);
A difference ''twixt a bishop and a dean,'
A difference between crockery ware and plate,
As between English beef and Spartan broth--
And yet great heroes have been bred by both.
But of all nature's discrepancies, none
Upon the whole is greater than the difference
Beheld between the country and the town,
Of which the latter merits every preference
From those who have few resources of their own,
And only think, or act, or feel, with reference
To some small plan of interest or ambition--
Both which are limited to no condition.
But 'en avant!' The light loves languish o'er
Long banquets and too many guests, although
A slight repast makes people love much more,
Bacchus and Ceres being, as we know
Even from our grammar upwards, friends of yore
With vivifying Venus, who doth owe
To these the invention of champagne and truffles:
Temperance delights her, but long fasting ruffles.
Dully past o'er the dinner of the day;
And Juan took his place, he knew not where,
Confused, in the confusion, and distrait,
And sitting as if nail'd upon his chair:
Though knives and forks clank'd round as in a fray,
He seem'd unconscious of all passing there,
Till some one, with a groan, exprest a wish
(Unheeded twice) to have a fin of fish.
On which, at the third asking of the bans,
He started; and perceiving smiles around
Broadening to grins, he colour'd more than once,
And hastily--as nothing can confound
A wise man more than laughter from a dunce--
Inflicted on the dish a deadly wound,
And with such hurry, that ere he could curb it
He had paid his neighbour's prayer with half a turbot.
This was no bad mistake, as it occurr'd,
The supplicator being an amateur;
But others, who were left with scarce a third,
Were angry--as they well might, to be sure.
They wonder'd how a young man so absurd
Lord Henry at his table should endure;
And this, and his not knowing how much oats
Had fallen last market, cost his host three votes.
They little knew, or might have sympathised,
That he the night before had seen a ghost,
A prologue which but slightly harmonised
With the substantial company engross'd
By matter, and so much materialised,
That one scarce knew at what to marvel most
Of two things--how (the question rather odd is)
Such bodies could have souls, or souls such bodies.
But what confused him more than smile or stare
From all the 'squires and 'squiresses around,
Who wonder'd at the abstraction of his air,
Especially as he had been renown'd
For some vivacity among the fair,
Even in the country circle's narrow bound
(For little things upon my lord's estate
Were good small talk for others still less great)--
Was, that he caught Aurora's eye on his,
And something like a smile upon her cheek.
Now this he really rather took amiss:
In those who rarely smile, their smiles bespeak
A strong external motive; and in this
Smile of Aurora's there was nought to pique
Or hope, or love, with any of the wiles
Which some pretend to trace in ladies' smiles.
'T was a mere quiet smile of contemplation,
Indicative of some surprise and pity;
And Juan grew carnation with vexation,
Which was not very wise, and still less witty,
Since he had gain'd at least her observation,
A most important outwork of the city--
As Juan should have known, had not his senses
By last night's ghost been driven from their defences.
But what was bad, she did not blush in turn,
Nor seem embarrass'd--quite the contrary;
Her aspect was as usual, still--not stern--
And she withdrew, but cast not down, her eye,
Yet grew a little pale--with what? concern?
I know not; but her colour ne'er was high--
Though sometimes faintly flush'd--and always clear,
As deep seas in a sunny atmosphere.
But Adeline was occupied by fame
This day; and watching, witching, condescending
To the consumers of fish, fowl, and game,
And dignity with courtesy so blending,
As all must blend whose part it is to aim
(Especially as the sixth year is ending)
At their lord's, son's, or similar connection's
Safe conduct through the rocks of re-elections.
Though this was most expedient on the whole,
And usual--Juan, when he cast a glance
On Adeline while playing her grand role,
Which she went through as though it were a dance,
Betraying only now and then her soul
By a look scarce perceptibly askance
(Of weariness or scorn), began to feel
Some doubt how much of Adeline was real;
So well she acted all and every part
By turns--with that vivacious versatility,
Which many people take for want of heart.
They err--'t is merely what is call'd mobility,
A thing of temperament and not of art,
Though seeming so, from its supposed facility;
And false--though true; for surely they 're sincerest
Who are strongly acted on by what is nearest.
This makes your actors, artists, and romancers,
Heroes sometimes, though seldom--sages never;
But speakers, bards, diplomatists, and dancers,
Little that 's great, but much of what is clever;
Most orators, but very few financiers,
Though all Exchequer chancellors endeavour,
Of late years, to dispense with Cocker's rigours,
And grow quite figurative with their figures.
The poets of arithmetic are they
Who, though they prove not two and two to be
Five, as they might do in a modest way,
Have plainly made it out that four are three,
Judging by what they take, and what they pay.
The Sinking Fund's unfathomable sea,
That most unliquidating liquid, leaves
The debt unsunk, yet sinks all it receives.
While Adeline dispensed her airs and graces,
The fair Fitz-Fulke seem'd very much at ease;
Though too well bred to quiz men to their faces,
Her laughing blue eyes with a glance could seize
The ridicules of people in all places--
That honey of your fashionable bees--
And store it up for mischievous enjoyment;
And this at present was her kind employment.
However, the day closed, as days must close;
The evening also waned--and coffee came.
Each carriage was announced, and ladies rose,
And curtsying off, as curtsies country dame,
Retired: with most unfashionable bows
Their docile esquires also did the same,
Delighted with their dinner and their host,
But with the Lady Adeline the most.
Some praised her beauty; others her great grace;
The warmth of her politeness, whose sincerity
Was obvious in each feature of her face,
Whose traits were radiant with the rays of verity.
Yes; she was truly worthy her high place!
No one could envy her deserved prosperity.
And then her dress--what beautiful simplicity
Draperied her form with curious felicity!
Meanwhile Sweet Adeline deserved their praises,
By an impartial indemnification
For all her past exertion and soft phrases,
In a most edifying conversation,
Which turn'd upon their late guests' miens and faces,
And families, even to the last relation;
Their hideous wives, their horrid selves and dresses,
And truculent distortion of their tresses.
True, she said little--'t was the rest that broke
Forth into universal epigram;
But then 't was to the purpose what she spoke:
Like Addison's 'faint praise,' so wont to damn,
Her own but served to set off every joke,
As music chimes in with a melodrame.
How sweet the task to shield an absent friend!
I ask but this of mine, to--not defend.
There were but two exceptions to this keen
Skirmish of wits o'er the departed; one
Aurora, with her pure and placid mien;
And Juan, too, in general behind none
In gay remark on what he had heard or seen,
Sate silent now, his usual spirits gone:
In vain he heard the others rail or rally,
He would not join them in a single sally.
'T is true he saw Aurora look as though
She approved his silence; she perhaps mistook
Its motive for that charity we owe
But seldom pay the absent, nor would look
Farther--it might or might not be so.
But Juan, sitting silent in his nook,
Observing little in his reverie,
Yet saw this much, which he was glad to see.
The ghost at least had done him this much good,
In making him as silent as a ghost,
If in the circumstances which ensued
He gain'd esteem where it was worth the most.
And certainly Aurora had renew'd
In him some feelings he had lately lost,
Or harden'd; feelings which, perhaps ideal,
Are so divine, that I must deem them real:--
The love of higher things and better days;
The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance
Of what is call'd the world, and the world's ways;
The moments when we gather from a glance
More joy than from all future pride or praise,
Which kindle manhood, but can ne'er entrance
The heart in an existence of its own,
Of which another's bosom is the zone.
Who would not sigh Ai ai Tan Kuuerheian
That hath a memory, or that had a heart?
Alas! her star must fade like that of Dian:
Ray fades on ray, as years on years depart.
Anacreon only had the soul to tie an
Unwithering myrtle round the unblunted dart
Of Eros: but though thou hast play'd us many tricks,
Still we respect thee, 'Alma Venus Genetrix!'
And full of sentiments, sublime as billows
Heaving between this world and worlds beyond,
Don Juan, when the midnight hour of pillows
Arrived, retired to his; but to despond
Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willows
Waved o'er his couch; he meditated, fond
Of those sweet bitter thoughts which banish sleep,
And make the worldling sneer, the youngling weep.
The night was as before: he was undrest,
Saving his night-gown, which is an undress;
Completely 'sans culotte,' and without vest;
In short, he hardly could be clothed with less:
But apprehensive of his spectral guest,
He sate with feelings awkward to express
(By those who have not had such visitations),
Expectant of the ghost's fresh operations.
And not in vain he listen'd;--Hush! what 's that?
I see--I see--Ah, no!--'t is not--yet 't is--
Ye powers! it is the--the--the--Pooh! the cat!
The devil may take that stealthy pace of his!
So like a spiritual pit-a-pat,
Or tiptoe of an amatory Miss,
Gliding the first time to a rendezvous,
And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe.
Again--what is 't? The wind? No, no--this time
It is the sable friar as before,
With awful footsteps regular as rhyme,
Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more.
Again through shadows of the night sublime,
When deep sleep fell on men, and the world wore
The starry darkness round her like a girdle
Spangled with gems--the monk made his blood curdle.
A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass,
Which sets the teeth on edge; and a slight clatter,
Like showers which on the midnight gusts will pass,
Sounding like very supernatural water,
Came over Juan's ear, which throbb'd, alas!
For immaterialism 's a serious matter;
So that even those whose faith is the most great
In souls immortal, shun them tete-a-tete.
Were his eyes open?--Yes! and his mouth too.
Surprise has this effect--to make one dumb,
Yet leave the gate which eloquence slips through
As wide as if a long speech were to come.
Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew,
Tremendous to a mortal tympanum:
His eyes were open, and (as was before
Stated) his mouth. What open'd next?--the door.
It open'd with a most infernal creak,
Like that of hell. 'Lasciate ogni speranza
Voi che entrate!' The hinge seem'd to speak,
Dreadful as Dante's rhima, or this stanza;
Or--but all words upon such themes are weak:
A single shade 's sufficient to entrance
Hero--for what is substance to a spirit?
Or how is 't matter trembles to come near it?
The door flew wide,--not swiftly, but, as fly
The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight,
And then swung back, nor close, but stood awry,
Half letting in long shadows on the light,
Which still in Juan's candlesticks burned high,
For he had two, both tolerably bright,
And in the doorway, darkening darkness, stood
The sable Friar in his solemn hood.
Between two worlds life hovers like a star,
'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.
How little do we know that which we are!
How less what we may be! The eternal surge
Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar
Our bubbles; as the old burst, new emerge,
Lash'd from the foam of ages; while the graves
Of empires heave but like some passing waves.
Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken
The night before, but being sick of shaking,
He first inclined to think he had been mistaken,
And then to be ashamed of such mistaking.
His own internal ghost began to awaken
Within him and to quell his corporal quaking,
Hinting that soul and body on the whole
Were odds against a disembodied soul.
And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce,
And he arose, advanced. The shade retreated,
But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce,
Followed, his veins no longer cold, but heated,
Resolved to thrust the mystery carte and tierce,
At whatsoever risk of being defeated.
The ghost stopped, menaced, then retired, until
He reached the ancient wall, then stood stone still.
Juan put forth one arm. Eternal powers!
It touched no soul nor body, but the wall,
On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers
Checkered with all the tracery of the hall.
He shuddered, as no doubt the bravest cowers
When he can't tell what 'tis that doth appal.
How odd, a single hobgoblin's nonentity
Should cause more fear than a whole host's identity.
But still the shade remained, the blue eyes glared,
And rather variably for stony death.
Yet one thing rather good the grave had spared;
The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath.
A straggling curl showed he had been fair-haired.
A red lip with two rows of pearls beneath
Gleamed forth, as through the casement's ivy shroud
The moon peeped, just escaped from a grey cloud.
And Juan, puzzled but still curious, thrust
His other arm forth. Wonder upon wonder!
It pressed upon a hard but glowing bust,
Which beat as if there was a warm heart under.
He found, as people on most trials must,
That he had made at first a silly blunder
And that in his confusion he had caught
Only the wall, instead of what he sought
The ghost, if ghost it were, seemed a sweet soul
As ever lurked beneath a holy hood.
A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory stole
Forth into something much like flesh and blood.
Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl
And they revealed, alas, that ere they should,
In full, voluptuous, but not o'ergrown bulk,
The phantom of her frolic Grace--Fita-Fulke!
[The end of the 1857 edition]
* * * * *
CANTO THE SEVENTEENTH.
The world is full of orphans: firstly, those
Who are so in the strict sense of the phrase
(But many a lonely tree the loftier grows
Than others crowded in the forest's maze);
The next are such as are not doomed to lose
Their tender parents in their budding days,
But merely their parental tenderness,
Which leaves them orphans of the heart no less.
The next are 'only children', as they are styled,
Who grow up children only, since the old saw
Pronounces that an 'only' 's a spoilt child.
But not to go too far, I hold it law
That where their education, harsh or mild,
'Transgresses the great bounds of love or awe,
The sufferers, be't in heart or intellect,
Whate'er the cause are orphans in effect.
But to return unto the stricter rule
(As far as words make rules), our common notion
Of orphans paints at once a parish school,
A half-starved babe, a wreck upon life's ocean,
A human (what the Italians nickname) 'mule',
A theme for pity or some worse emotion;
Yet, if examined, it might be admitted
The wealthiest orphans are to be more pitied.
Too soon they are parents to themselves; for what
Are tutors, guardians, and so forth, compared
With Nature's genial genitors, so that
A child of Chancery, that Star Chamber ward
(I'll take the likeness I can first come at),
Is like a duckling by Dame Partlett reared
And frights, especially if 'tis a daughter,
The old hen by running headlong to the water.
There is a commonplace book argument,
Which glibly glides from every vulgar tongue
When any dare a new light to present:
'If you are right, then everybody's wrong.'
Suppose the converse of this precedent
So often urged, so loudly and so long:
'If you are wrong, then everybody's right.'
Was ever everybody yet so quite?
Therefore I would solicit free discussion
Upon all points, no matter what or whose,
Because as ages upon ages push on,
The last is apt the former to accuse
Of pillowing its head on a pincushion,
Heedless of pricks because it was obtuse.
What was a paradox becomes a truth or
A something like it, as bear witness Luther.
The sacraments have been reduced to two
And witches unto none, though somewhat late
Since burning aged women (save a few,
Not witches, only bitches, who create
Mischief in families, as some know or knew,
Should still be singed, but slightly let me state)
Has been declared an act of inurbanity,
Malg? Sir Matthew Hale's great humanity.
Great Galileo was debarred the sun,
Because he fixed it, and to stop his talking
How earth could round the solar orbit run,
Found his own legs embargoed from mere walking.
The man was well nigh dead, ere men begun
To think his skull had not some need of caulking,
But now it seems he's right, his notion just,
No doubt a consolation to his dust.
Pythagoras, Locke, Socrates--but pages
Might be filled up, as vainly as before,
With the sad usage of all sorts of sages,
Who in his lifetime each was deemed a bore.
The loftiest minds outrun their tardy ages;
This they must bear with and perhaps much more.
The wise man's sure when he no more can share it, he
Will have a firm post-obit on posterity.
If such doom waits each intellectual giant,
We little people in our lesser way
To life's small rubs should surely be more pliant,
And so for one will I, as well I may.
Would that I were less bilious--but oh fie on't!
Just as I make my mind up everyday
To be a totus teres stoic, sage,
The wind shifts and I fly into a rage.
Temperate I am, yet never had a temper;
Modest I am, yet with some slight assurance;
Changeable too, yet somehow idem semper;
Patient, but not enamoured of endurance;
Cheerful, but sometimes rather apt to whimper;
Mild, but at times a sort of Hercules furens;
So that I almost think that the same skin
For one without has two or three within.
Our hero was in canto the sixteenth
Left in a tender moonlight situation,
Such as enables man to show his strength
Moral or physical On this occasion
Whether his virtue triumphed, or at length
His vice--for he was of a kindling nation--
Is more than I shall venture to describe,
Unless some beauty with a kiss should bribe.
I leave the thing a problem, like all things.
The morning came, and breakfast, tea and toast,
Of which most men partake, but no one sings.
The company, whose birth, wealth, worth have cost
My trembling lyre already several strings,
Assembled with our hostess and mine host.
The guests dropped in, the last but one, Her Grace,
The latest, Juan with his virgin face.
Which best is to encounter, ghost or none,
'Twere difficult to say, but Juan looked
As if he had combated with more than one,
Being wan and worn, with eyes that hardly brooked
The light that through the Gothic windows shone.
Her Grace too had a sort of air rebuked,
Seemed pale and shivered, as if she had kept
A vigil or dreamt rather more than slept.
Bob Southey! You're a poet, poet laureate,
And representative of all the race.
Although 'tis true that you turned out a Tory at
Last, yours has lately been a common case.
And now my epic renegade, what are ye at
With all the lakers, in and out of place?
A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye
Like four and twenty blackbirds in a pye,
Which pye being opened they began to sing'
(This old song and new simile holds good),
'A dainty dish to set before the King'
Or Regent, who admires such kind of food.
And Coleridge too has lately taken wing,
But like a hawk encumbered with his hood,
Explaining metaphysics to the nation.
I wish he would explain his explanation.
You, Bob, are rather insolent, you know,
At being disappointed in your wish
To supersede all warblers here below,
And be the only blackbird in the dish.
And then you overstrain yourself, or so,
And tumble downward like the flying fish
Gasping on deck, because you soar too high,
Bob, And fall for lack of moisture quite a dry Bob.
And Wordsworth in a rather long Excursion
(I think the quarto holds five hundred pages)
Has given a sample from the vasty version
Of his new system to perplex the sages.
'Tis poetry, at least by his assertion,
And may appear so when the Dog Star rages,
And he who understands it would be able
To add a story to the tower of Babel.
You gentlemen, by dint of long seclusion
From better company, have kept your own
At Keswick, and through still continued fusion
Of one another's minds at last have grown
To deem, as a most logical conclusion,
That poesy has wreaths for you alone.
There is a narrowness in such a notion,
Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes for ocean.
I would not imitate the petty thought,
Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice,
For all the glory your conversion brought,
Since gold alone should not have been its price.
You have your salary; was't for that you wrought?
And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise.
You're shabby fellows--true--but poets still
And duly seated on the immortal hill.
Your bays may hide the baldness of your brows,
Perhaps some virtuous blushes; let them go.
To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs,
And for the fame you would engross below,
The field is universal and allows
Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow.
Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe will try
'Gainst you the question with posterity.
For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses,
Contend not with you on the winged' steed,
I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses,
The fame you envy and the skill you need.
And recollect a poet nothing loses
In giving to his brethren their full meed
Of merit, and complaint of present days
Is not the certain path to future praise.
He that reserves his laurels for posterity
(Who does not often claim the bright reversion)
Has generally no great crop to spare it, he
Being only injured by his own assertion.
And although here and there some glorious rarity
Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion,
The major part of such appellants go
To--God knows where--for no one else can know.
If fallen in evil days on evil tongues,
Milton appealed to the avenger, Time,
If Time, the avenger, execrates his wrongs
And makes the word Miltonic mean sublime,
He deigned not to belie his soul in songs,
Nor turn his very talent to a crime.
He did not loathe the sire to laud the son,
But closed the tyrant-hater he begun.
Think'st thou, could he, the blind old man, arise
Like Samuel from the grave to freeze once more
The blood of monarchs with his prophecies,
Or be alive again--again all hoar
With time and trials, and those helpless eyes
And heartless daughters--worn and pale and poor,
Would he adore a sultan? He obey
The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh?
Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant!
Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's gore,
And thus for wider carnage taught to pant,
Transferred to gorge upon a sister shore,
The vulgarest tool that tyranny could want,
With just enough of talent and no more,
To lengthen fetters by another fixed
And offer poison long already mixed.
An orator of such set trash of phrase,
Ineffably, legitimately vile,
That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise,
Nor foes--all nations--condescend to smile.
Not even a sprightly blunder's spark can blaze
From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil,
That turns and turns to give the world a notion
Of endless torments and perpetual motion.
A bungler even in its disgusting trade,
And botching, patching, leaving still behind
Something of which its masters are afraid,
States to be curbed and thoughts to be confined,
Conspiracy or congress to be made,
Cobbling at manacles for all mankind,
A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains,
With God and man's abhorrence for its gains.
If we may judge of matter by the mind,
Emasculated to the marrow, it
Hath but two objects, how to serve and bind,
Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit,
Eutropius of its many masters, blind
To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit,
Fearless, because no feeling dwells in ice;
Its very courage stagnates to a vice.
Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds,
For I will never feel them. Italy,
Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds
Beneath the lie this state-thing breathed o'er thee.
Thy clanking chain and Erin's yet green wounds
Have voices, tongues to cry aloud for me.
Europe has slaves, allies, kings, armies still,
And Southey lives to sing them very ill.
Meantime, Sir Laureate, I proceed to dedicate
In honest simple verse this song to you.
And if in flattering strains I do not predicate,
'Tis that I still retain my buff and blue;
My politics as yet are all to educate.
Apostasy's so fashionable too,
To keep one creed's a task grown quite
Herculean Is it not so, my Tory, ultra-Julian?
CANTO THE FIRST
I want a hero: an uncommon want,
When every year and month sends forth a new one,
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,
The age discovers he is not the true one;
Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,
I 'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan--
We all have seen him, in the pantomime,
Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time.
Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke,
Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe,
Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk,
And fill'd their sign posts then, like Wellesley now;
Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk,
Followers of fame, 'nine farrow' of that sow:
France, too, had Buonaparte and Dumourier
Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier.
Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau,
Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette,
Were French, and famous people, as we know:
And there were others, scarce forgotten yet,
Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, Moreau,
With many of the military set,
Exceedingly remarkable at times,
But not at all adapted to my rhymes.
Nelson was once Britannia's god of war,
And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd;
There 's no more to be said of Trafalgar,
'T is with our hero quietly inurn'd;
Because the army 's grown more popular,
At which the naval people are concern'd;
Besides, the prince is all for the land-service,
Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis.
Brave men were living before Agamemnon
And since, exceeding valorous and sage,
A good deal like him too, though quite the same none;
But then they shone not on the poet's page,
And so have been forgotten:--I condemn none,
But can't find any in the present age
Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one);
So, as I said, I 'll take my friend Don Juan.
Most epic poets plunge 'in medias res'
(Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road),
And then your hero tells, whene'er you please,
What went before--by way of episode,
While seated after dinner at his ease,
Beside his mistress in some soft abode,
Palace, or garden, paradise, or cavern,
Which serves the happy couple for a tavern.
That is the usual method, but not mine--
My way is to begin with the beginning;
The regularity of my design
Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning,
And therefore I shall open with a line
(Although it cost me half an hour in spinning)
Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father,
And also of his mother, if you 'd rather.
In Seville was he born, a pleasant city,
Famous for oranges and women--he
Who has not seen it will be much to pity,
So says the proverb--and I quite agree;
Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty,
Cadiz perhaps--but that you soon may see;
Don Juan's parents lived beside the river,
A noble stream, and call'd the Guadalquivir.
His father's name was Jose--Don, of course,--
A true Hidalgo, free from every stain
Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source
Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain;
A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse,
Or, being mounted, e'er got down again,
Than Jose, who begot our hero, who
Begot--but that 's to come--Well, to renew:
His mother was a learned lady, famed
For every branch of every science known
In every Christian language ever named,
With virtues equall'd by her wit alone,
She made the cleverest people quite ashamed,
And even the good with inward envy groan,
Finding themselves so very much exceeded
In their own way by all the things that she did.
Her memory was a mine: she knew by heart
All Calderon and greater part of Lope,
So that if any actor miss'd his part
She could have served him for the prompter's copy;
For her Feinagle's were an useless art,
And he himself obliged to shut up shop--he
Could never make a memory so fine as
That which adorn'd the brain of Donna Inez.
Her favourite science was the mathematical,
Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity,
Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all,
Her serious sayings darken'd to sublimity;
In short, in all things she was fairly what I call
A prodigy--her morning dress was dimity,
Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin,
And other stuffs, with which I won't stay puzzling.
She knew the Latin--that is, 'the Lord's prayer,'
And Greek--the alphabet--I 'm nearly sure;
She read some French romances here and there,
Although her mode of speaking was not pure;
For native Spanish she had no great care,
At least her conversation was obscure;
Her thoughts were theorems, her words a problem,
As if she deem'd that mystery would ennoble 'em.
She liked the English and the Hebrew tongue,
And said there was analogy between 'em;
She proved it somehow out of sacred song,
But I must leave the proofs to those who 've seen 'em;
But this I heard her say, and can't be wrong
And all may think which way their judgments lean 'em,
''T is strange--the Hebrew noun which means "I am,"
Some women use their tongues--she look'd a lecture,
Each eye a sermon, and her brow a homily,
An all-in-all sufficient self-director,
Like the lamented late Sir Samuel Romilly,
The Law's expounder, and the State's corrector,
Whose suicide was almost an anomaly--
One sad example more, that 'All is vanity'
(The jury brought their verdict in 'Insanity').
In short, she was a walking calculation,
Miss Edgeworth's novels stepping from their covers,
Or Mrs. Trimmer's books on education,
Or 'Coelebs' Wife' set out in quest of lovers,
Morality's prim personification,
In which not Envy's self a flaw discovers;
To others' share let 'female errors fall,'
For she had not even one--the worst of all.
O! she was perfect past all parallel--
Of any modern female saint's comparison;
So far above the cunning powers of hell,
Her guardian angel had given up his garrison;
Even her minutest motions went as well
As those of the best time-piece made by Harrison:
In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her,
Save thine 'incomparable oil,' Macassar!
Perfect she was, but as perfection is
Insipid in this naughty world of ours,
Where our first parents never learn'd to kiss
Till they were exiled from their earlier bowers,
Where all was peace, and innocence, and bliss
(I wonder how they got through the twelve hours),
Don Jose, like a lineal son of Eve,
Went plucking various fruit without her leave.
He was a mortal of the careless kind,
With no great love for learning, or the learn'd,
Who chose to go where'er he had a mind,
And never dream'd his lady was concern'd;
The world, as usual, wickedly inclined
To see a kingdom or a house o'erturn'd,
Whisper'd he had a mistress, some said two--
But for domestic quarrels one will do.
Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit,
A great opinion of her own good qualities;
Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it,
And such, indeed, she was in her moralities;
But then she had a devil of a spirit,
And sometimes mix'd up fancies with realities,
And let few opportunities escape
Of getting her liege lord into a scrape.
This was an easy matter with a man
Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard;
And even the wisest, do the best they can,
Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared,
That you might 'brain them with their lady's fan;'
And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard,
And fans turn into falchions in fair hands,
And why and wherefore no one understands.
'T is pity learned virgins ever wed
With persons of no sort of education,
Or gentlemen, who, though well born and bred,
Grow tired of scientific conversation:
I don't choose to say much upon this head,
I 'm a plain man, and in a single station,
But--Oh! ye lords of ladies intellectual,
Inform us truly, have they not hen-peck'd you all?
Don Jose and his lady quarrell'd--why,
Not any of the many could divine,
Though several thousand people chose to try,
'T was surely no concern of theirs nor mine;
I loathe that low vice--curiosity;
But if there 's anything in which I shine,
'T is in arranging all my friends' affairs,
Not having of my own domestic cares.
And so I interfered, and with the best
Intentions, but their treatment was not kind;
I think the foolish people were possess'd,
For neither of them could I ever find,
Although their porter afterwards confess'd--
But that 's no matter, and the worst 's behind,
For little Juan o'er me threw, down stairs,
A pail of housemaid's water unawares.
A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing,
And mischief-making monkey from his birth;
His parents ne'er agreed except in doting
Upon the most unquiet imp on earth;
Instead of quarrelling, had they been but both in
Their senses, they 'd have sent young master forth
To school, or had him soundly whipp'd at home,
To teach him manners for the time to come.
Don Jose and the Donna Inez led
For some time an unhappy sort of life,
Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead;
They lived respectably as man and wife,
Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred,
And gave no outward signs of inward strife,
Until at length the smother'd fire broke out,
And put the business past all kind of doubt.
For Inez call'd some druggists and physicians,
And tried to prove her loving lord was mad;
But as he had some lucid intermissions,
She next decided he was only bad;
Yet when they ask'd her for her depositions,
No sort of explanation could be had,
Save that her duty both to man and God
Required this conduct--which seem'd very odd.
She kept a journal, where his faults were noted,
And open'd certain trunks of books and letters,
All which might, if occasion served, be quoted;
And then she had all Seville for abettors,
Besides her good old grandmother (who doted);
The hearers of her case became repeaters,
Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges,
Some for amusement, others for old grudges.
And then this best and weakest woman bore
With such serenity her husband's woes,
Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore,
Who saw their spouses kill'd, and nobly chose
Never to say a word about them more--
Calmly she heard each calumny that rose,
And saw his agonies with such sublimity,
That all the world exclaim'd, 'What magnanimity!'
No doubt this patience, when the world is damning us,
Is philosophic in our former friends;
'T is also pleasant to be deem'd magnanimous,
The more so in obtaining our own ends;
And what the lawyers call a 'malus animus'
Conduct like this by no means comprehends;
Revenge in person 's certainly no virtue,
But then 't is not my fault, if others hurt you.
And if your quarrels should rip up old stories,
And help them with a lie or two additional,
I 'm not to blame, as you well know--no more is
Any one else--they were become traditional;
Besides, their resurrection aids our glories
By contrast, which is what we just were wishing all:
And science profits by this resurrection--
Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection.
Their friends had tried at reconciliation,
Then their relations, who made matters worse.
('T were hard to tell upon a like occasion
To whom it may be best to have recourse--
I can't say much for friend or yet relation):
The lawyers did their utmost for divorce,
But scarce a fee was paid on either side
Before, unluckily, Don Jose died.
He died: and most unluckily, because,
According to all hints I could collect
From counsel learned in those kinds of laws
(Although their talk 's obscure and circumspect),
His death contrived to spoil a charming cause;
A thousand pities also with respect
To public feeling, which on this occasion
Was manifested in a great sensation.
But, ah! he died; and buried with him lay
The public feeling and the lawyers' fees:
His house was sold, his servants sent away,
A Jew took one of his two mistresses,
A priest the other--at least so they say:
I ask'd the doctors after his disease--
He died of the slow fever call'd the tertian,
And left his widow to her own aversion.
Yet Jose was an honourable man,
That I must say who knew him very well;
Therefore his frailties I 'll no further scan
Indeed there were not many more to tell;
And if his passions now and then outran
Discretion, and were not so peaceable
As Numa's (who was also named Pompilius),
He had been ill brought up, and was born bilious.
Whate'er might be his worthlessness or worth,
Poor fellow! he had many things to wound him.
Let 's own--since it can do no good on earth--
It was a trying moment that which found him
Standing alone beside his desolate hearth,
Where all his household gods lay shiver'd round him:
No choice was left his feelings or his pride,
Save death or Doctors' Commons--so he died.
Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir
To a chancery suit, and messuages, and lands,
Which, with a long minority and care,
Promised to turn out well in proper hands:
Inez became sole guardian, which was fair,
And answer'd but to nature's just demands;
An only son left with an only mother
Is brought up much more wisely than another.
Sagest of women, even of widows, she
Resolved that Juan should be quite a paragon,
And worthy of the noblest pedigree
(His sire was of Castile, his dam from Aragon):
Then for accomplishments of chivalry,
In case our lord the king should go to war again,
He learn'd the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery,
And how to scale a fortress--or a nunnery.
But that which Donna Inez most desired,
And saw into herself each day before all
The learned tutors whom for him she hired,
Was, that his breeding should be strictly moral;
Much into all his studies she inquired,
And so they were submitted first to her, all,
Arts, sciences, no branch was made a mystery
To Juan's eyes, excepting natural history.
The languages, especially the dead,
The sciences, and most of all the abstruse,
The arts, at least all such as could be said
To be the most remote from common use,
In all these he was much and deeply read;
But not a page of any thing that 's loose,
Or hints continuation of the species,
Was ever suffer'd, lest he should grow vicious.
His classic studies made a little puzzle,
Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses,
Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle,
But never put on pantaloons or bodices;
His reverend tutors had at times a tussle,
And for their AEneids, Iliads, and Odysseys,
Were forced to make an odd sort! of apology,
For Donna Inez dreaded the Mythology.
Ovid 's a rake, as half his verses show him,
Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample,
Catullus scarcely has a decent poem,
I don't think Sappho's Ode a good example,
Although Longinus tells us there is no hymn
Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample:
But Virgil's songs are pure, except that horrid one
Beginning with 'Formosum Pastor Corydon.'
Lucretius' irreligion is too strong,
For early stomachs, to prove wholesome food;
I can't help thinking Juvenal was wrong,
Although no doubt his real intent was good,
For speaking out so plainly in his song,
So much indeed as to be downright rude;
And then what proper person can be partial
To all those nauseous epigrams of Martial?
Juan was taught from out the best edition,
Expurgated by learned men, who place
Judiciously, from out the schoolboy's vision,
The grosser parts; but, fearful to deface
Too much their modest bard by this omission,
And pitying sore his mutilated case,
They only add them all in an appendix,
Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index;
For there we have them all 'at one fell swoop,'
Instead of being scatter'd through the Pages;
They stand forth marshall'd in a handsome troop,
To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages,
Till some less rigid editor shall stoop
To call them back into their separate cages,
Instead of standing staring all together,
Like garden gods--and not so decent either.
The Missal too (it was the family Missal)
Was ornamented in a sort of way
Which ancient mass-books often are, and this all
Kinds of grotesques illumined; and how they,
Who saw those figures on the margin kiss all,
Could turn their optics to the text and pray,
Is more than I know--But Don Juan's mother
Kept this herself, and gave her son another.
Sermons he read, and lectures he endured,
And homilies, and lives of all the saints;
To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured,
He did not take such studies for restraints;
But how faith is acquired, and then ensured,
So well not one of the aforesaid paints
As Saint Augustine in his fine Confessions,
Which make the reader envy his transgressions.
This, too, was a seal'd book to little Juan--
I can't but say that his mamma was right,
If such an education was the true one.
She scarcely trusted him from out her sight;
Her maids were old, and if she took a new one,
You might be sure she was a perfect fright;
She did this during even her husband's life--
I recommend as much to every wife.
Young Juan wax'd in goodliness and grace;
At six a charming child, and at eleven
With all the promise of as fine a face
As e'er to man's maturer growth was given:
He studied steadily, and grew apace,
And seem'd, at least, in the right road to heaven,
For half his days were pass'd at church, the other
Between his tutors, confessor, and mother.
At six, I said, he was a charming child,
At twelve he was a fine, but quiet boy;
Although in infancy a little wild,
They tamed him down amongst them: to destroy
His natural spirit not in vain they toil'd,
At least it seem'd so; and his mother's joy
Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady,
Her young philosopher was grown already.
I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still,
But what I say is neither here nor there:
I knew his father well, and have some skill
In character--but it would not be fair
From sire to son to augur good or ill:
He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair--
But scandal 's my aversion--I protest
Against all evil speaking, even in jest.
For my part I say nothing--nothing--but
This I will say--my reasons are my own--
That if I had an only son to put
To school (as God be praised that I have none),
'T is not with Donna Inez I would shut
Him up to learn his catechism alone,
No--no--I 'd send him out betimes to college,
For there it was I pick'd up my own knowledge.
For there one learns--'t is not for me to boast,
Though I acquired--but I pass over that,
As well as all the Greek I since have lost:
I say that there 's the place--but 'Verbum sat.'
I think I pick'd up too, as well as most,
Knowledge of matters--but no matter what--
I never married--but, I think, I know
That sons should not be educated so.
Young Juan now was sixteen years of age,
Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit: he seem'd
Active, though not so sprightly, as a page;
And everybody but his mother deem'd
Him almost man; but she flew in a rage
And bit her lips (for else she might have scream'd)
If any said so, for to be precocious
Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious.
Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all
_Select_ed for discretion and devotion,
There was the Donna Julia, whom to call
Pretty were but to give a feeble notion
Of many charms in her as natural
As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean,
Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid
(But this last simile is trite and stupid).
The darkness of her Oriental eye
Accorded with her Moorish origin
(Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by;
In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin);
When proud Granada fell, and, forced to fly,
Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin
Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain,
Her great-great-grandmamma chose to remain.
She married (I forget the pedigree)
With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down
His blood less noble than such blood should be;
At such alliances his sires would frown,
In that point so precise in each degree
That they bred in and in, as might be shown,
Marrying their cousins--nay, their aunts, and nieces,
Which always spoils the breed, if it increases.
This heathenish cross restored the breed again,
Ruin'd its blood, but much improved its flesh;
For from a root the ugliest in Old Spain
Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh;
The sons no more were short, the daughters plain:
But there 's a rumour which I fain would hush,
'T is said that Donna Julia's grandmamma
Produced her Don more heirs at love than law.
However this might be, the race went on
Improving still through every generation,
Until it centred in an only son,
Who left an only daughter; my narration
May have suggested that this single one
Could be but Julia (whom on this occasion
I shall have much to speak about), and she
Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three.
Her eye (I 'm very fond of handsome eyes)
Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire
Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise
Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire,
And love than either; and there would arise
A something in them which was not desire,
But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul
Which struggled through and chasten'd down the whole.
Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow
Bright with intelligence, and fair, and smooth;
Her eyebrow's shape was like th' aerial bow,
Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth,
Mounting at times to a transparent glow,
As if her veins ran lightning; she, in sooth,
Possess'd an air and grace by no means common:
Her stature tall--I hate a dumpy woman.
Wedded she was some years, and to a man
Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty;
And yet, I think, instead of such a ONE
'T were better to have TWO of five-and-twenty,
Especially in countries near the sun:
And now I think on 't, 'mi vien in mente,'
Ladies even of the most uneasy virtue
Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty.
'T is a sad thing, I cannot choose but say,
And all the fault of that indecent sun,
Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay,
But will keep baking, broiling, burning on,
That howsoever people fast and pray,
The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone:
What men call gallantry, and gods adultery,
Is much more common where the climate 's sultry.
Happy the nations of the moral North!
Where all is virtue, and the winter season
Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth
('T was snow that brought St. Anthony to reason);
Where juries cast up what a wife is worth,
By laying whate'er sum in mulct they please on
The lover, who must pay a handsome price,
Because it is a marketable vice.
Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord,
A man well looking for his years, and who
Was neither much beloved nor yet abhorr'd:
They lived together, as most people do,
Suffering each other's foibles by accord,
And not exactly either one or two;
Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it,
For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.
Julia was--yet I never could see why--
With Donna Inez quite a favourite friend;
Between their tastes there was small sympathy,
For not a line had Julia ever penn'd:
Some people whisper but no doubt they lie,
For malice still imputes some private end,
That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage,
Forgot with him her very prudent carriage;
And that still keeping up the old connection,
Which time had lately render'd much more chaste,
She took his lady also in affection,
And certainly this course was much the best:
She flatter'd Julia with her sage protection,
And complimented Don Alfonso's taste;
And if she could not (who can?) silence scandal,
At least she left it a more slender handle.
I can't tell whether Julia saw the affair
With other people's eyes, or if her own
Discoveries made, but none could be aware
Of this, at least no symptom e'er was shown;
Perhaps she did not know, or did not care,
Indifferent from the first or callous grown:
I 'm really puzzled what to think or say,
She kept her counsel in so close a way.
Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child,
Caress'd him often--such a thing might be
Quite innocently done, and harmless styled,
When she had twenty years, and thirteen he;
But I am not so sure I should have smiled
When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three;
These few short years make wondrous alterations,
Particularly amongst sun-burnt nations.
Whate'er the cause might be, they had become
Changed; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy,
Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb,
And much embarrassment in either eye;
There surely will be little doubt with some
That Donna Julia knew the reason why,
But as for Juan, he had no more notion
Than he who never saw the sea of ocean.
Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind,
And tremulously gentle her small hand
Withdrew itself from his, but left behind
A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland
And slight, so very slight, that to the mind
'T was but a doubt; but ne'er magician's wand
Wrought change with all Armida's fairy art
Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart.
And if she met him, though she smiled no more,
She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile,
As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store
She must not own, but cherish'd more the while
For that compression in its burning core;
Even innocence itself has many a wile,
And will not dare to trust itself with truth,
And love is taught hypocrisy from youth.
But passion most dissembles, yet betrays
Even by its darkness; as the blackest sky
Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays
Its workings through the vainly guarded eye,
And in whatever aspect it arrays
Itself, 't is still the same hypocrisy;
Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate,
Are masks it often wears, and still too late.
Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression,
And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft,
And burning blushes, though for no transgression,
Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left;
All these are little preludes to possession,
Of which young passion cannot be bereft,
And merely tend to show how greatly love is
Embarrass'd at first starting with a novice.
Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state;
She felt it going, and resolved to make
The noblest efforts for herself and mate,
For honour's, pride's, religion's, virtue's sake;
Her resolutions were most truly great,
And almost might have made a Tarquin quake:
She pray'd the Virgin Mary for her grace,
As being the best judge of a lady's case.
She vow'd she never would see Juan more,
And next day paid a visit to his mother,
And look'd extremely at the opening door,
Which, by the Virgin's grace, let in another;
Grateful she was, and yet a little sore--
Again it opens, it can be no other,
'T is surely Juan now--No! I 'm afraid
That night the Virgin was no further pray'd.
She now determined that a virtuous woman
Should rather face and overcome temptation,
That flight was base and dastardly, and no man
Should ever give her heart the least sensation;
That is to say, a thought beyond the common
Preference, that we must feel upon occasion
For people who are pleasanter than others,
But then they only seem so many brothers.
And even if by chance--and who can tell?
The devil 's so very sly--she should discover
That all within was not so very well,
And, if still free, that such or such a lover
Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell
Such thoughts, and be the better when they 're over;
And if the man should ask, 't is but denial:
I recommend young ladies to make trial.
And then there are such things as love divine,
Bright and immaculate, unmix'd and pure,
Such as the angels think so very fine,
And matrons who would be no less secure,
Platonic, perfect, 'just such love as mine;'
Thus Julia said--and thought so, to be sure;
And so I 'd have her think, were I the man
On whom her reveries celestial ran.
Such love is innocent, and may exist
Between young persons without any danger.
A hand may first, and then a lip be kist;
For my part, to such doings I 'm a stranger,
But hear these freedoms form the utmost list
Of all o'er which such love may be a ranger:
If people go beyond, 't is quite a crime,
But not my fault--I tell them all in time.
Love, then, but love within its proper limits,
Was Julia's innocent determination
In young Don Juan's favour, and to him its
Exertion might be useful on occasion;
And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its
Ethereal lustre, with what sweet persuasion
He might be taught, by love and her together--
I really don't know what, nor Julia either.
Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced
In mail of proof--her purity of soul--
She, for the future of her strength convinced.
And that her honour was a rock, or mole,
Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed
With any kind of troublesome control;
But whether Julia to the task was equal
Is that which must be mention'd in the sequel.
Her plan she deem'd both innocent and feasible,
And, surely, with a stripling of sixteen
Not scandal's fangs could fix on much that 's seizable,
Or if they did so, satisfied to mean
Nothing but what was good, her breast was peaceable--
A quiet conscience makes one so serene!
Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded
That all the Apostles would have done as they did.
And if in the mean time her husband died,
But Heaven forbid that such a thought should cross
Her brain, though in a dream! (and then she sigh'd)
Never could she survive that common loss;
But just suppose that moment should betide,
I only say suppose it--inter nos.
(This should be entre nous, for Julia thought
In French, but then the rhyme would go for naught.)
I only say suppose this supposition:
Juan being then grown up to man's estate
Would fully suit a widow of condition,
Even seven years hence it would not be too late;
And in the interim (to pursue this vision)
The mischief, after all, could not be great,
For he would learn the rudiments of love,
I mean the seraph way of those above.
So much for Julia. Now we 'll turn to Juan.
Poor little fellow! he had no idea
Of his own case, and never hit the true one;
In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea,
He puzzled over what he found a new one,
But not as yet imagined it could be
Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming,
Which, with a little patience, might grow charming.
Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow,
His home deserted for the lonely wood,
Tormented with a wound he could not know,
His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude:
I 'm fond myself of solitude or so,
But then, I beg it may be understood,
By solitude I mean a sultan's, not
A hermit's, with a haram for a grot.
'Oh Love! in such a wilderness as this,
Where transport and security entwine,
Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss,
And here thou art a god indeed divine.'
The bard I quote from does not sing amiss,
With the exception of the second line,
For that same twining 'transport and security'
Are twisted to a phrase of some obscurity.
The poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals
To the good sense and senses of mankind,
The very thing which every body feels,
As all have found on trial, or may find,
That no one likes to be disturb'd at meals
Or love.--I won't say more about 'entwined'
Or 'transport,' as we knew all that before,
But beg 'Security' will bolt the door.
Young Juan wander'd by the glassy brooks,
Thinking unutterable things; he threw
Himself at length within the leafy nooks
Where the wild branch of the cork forest grew;
There poets find materials for their books,
And every now and then we read them through,
So that their plan and prosody are eligible,
Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible.
He, Juan (and not Wordsworth), so pursued
His self-communion with his own high soul,
Until his mighty heart, in its great mood,
Had mitigated part, though not the whole
Of its disease; he did the best he could
With things not very subject to control,
And turn'd, without perceiving his condition,
Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician.
He thought about himself, and the whole earth
Of man the wonderful, and of the stars,
And how the deuce they ever could have birth;
And then he thought of earthquakes, and of wars,
How many miles the moon might have in girth,
Of air-balloons, and of the many bars
To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies;--
And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes.
In thoughts like these true wisdom may discern
Longings sublime, and aspirations high,
Which some are born with, but the most part learn
To plague themselves withal, they know not why:
'T was strange that one so young should thus concern
His brain about the action of the sky;
If you think 't was philosophy that this did,
I can't help thinking puberty assisted.
He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers,
And heard a voice in all the winds; and then
He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowers,
And how the goddesses came down to men:
He miss'd the pathway, he forgot the hours,
And when he look'd upon his watch again,
He found how much old Time had been a winner--
He also found that he had lost his dinner.
Sometimes he turn'd to gaze upon his book,
Boscan, or Garcilasso;--by the wind
Even as the page is rustled while we look,
So by the poesy of his own mind
Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook,
As if 't were one whereon magicians bind
Their spells, and give them to the passing gale,
According to some good old woman's tale.
Thus would he while his lonely hours away
Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he wanted;
Nor glowing reverie, nor poet's lay,
Could yield his spirit that for which it panted,
A bosom whereon he his head might lay,
And hear the heart beat with the love it granted,
With--several other things, which I forget,
Or which, at least, I need not mention yet.
Those lonely walks, and lengthening reveries,
Could not escape the gentle Julia's eyes;
She saw that Juan was not at his ease;
But that which chiefly may, and must surprise,
Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease
Her only son with question or surmise:
Whether it was she did not see, or would not,
Or, like all very clever people, could not.
This may seem strange, but yet 't is very common;
For instance--gentlemen, whose ladies take
Leave to o'erstep the written rights of woman,
And break the--Which commandment is 't they break?
(I have forgot the number, and think no man
Should rashly quote, for fear of a mistake.)
I say, when these same gentlemen are jealous,
They make some blunder, which their ladies tell us.
A real husband always is suspicious,
But still no less suspects in the wrong place,
Jealous of some one who had no such wishes,
Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace,
By harbouring some dear friend extremely vicious;
The last indeed 's infallibly the case:
And when the spouse and friend are gone off wholly,
He wonders at their vice, and not his folly.
Thus parents also are at times short-sighted;
Though watchful as the lynx, they ne'er discover,
The while the wicked world beholds delighted,
Young Hopeful's mistress, or Miss Fanny's lover,
Till some confounded escapade has blighted
The plan of twenty years, and all is over;
And then the mother cries, the father swears,
And wonders why the devil he got heirs.
But Inez was so anxious, and so clear
Of sight, that I must think, on this occasion,
She had some other motive much more near
For leaving Juan to this new temptation;
But what that motive was, I sha'n't say here;
Perhaps to finish Juan's education,
Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes,
In case he thought his wife too great a prize.
It was upon a day, a summer's day;-
Summer's indeed a very dangerous season,
And so is spring about the end of May;
The sun, no doubt, is the prevailing reason;
But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say,
And stand convicted of more truth than treason,
That there are months which nature grows more merry in,--
March has its hares, and May must have its heroine.
'T was on a summer's day--the sixth of June:--
I like to be particular in dates,
Not only of the age, and year, but moon;
They are a sort of post-house, where the Fates
Change horses, making history change its tune,
Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states,
Leaving at last not much besides chronology,
Excepting the post-obits of theology.
'T was on the sixth of June, about the hour
Of half-past six--perhaps still nearer seven--
When Julia sate within as pretty a bower
As e'er held houri in that heathenish heaven
Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore,
To whom the lyre and laurels have been given,
With all the trophies of triumphant song--
He won them well, and may he wear them long!
She sate, but not alone; I know not well
How this same interview had taken place,
And even if I knew, I should not tell--
People should hold their tongues in any case;
No matter how or why the thing befell,
But there were she and Juan, face to face--
When two such faces are so, 't would be wise,
But very difficult, to shut their eyes.
How beautiful she look'd! her conscious heart
Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong.
O Love! how perfect is thy mystic art,
Strengthening the weak, and trampling on the strong,
How self-deceitful is the sagest part
Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along--
The precipice she stood on was immense,
So was her creed in her own innocence.
She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth,
And of the folly of all prudish fears,
Victorious virtue, and domestic truth,
And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years:
I wish these last had not occurr'd, in sooth,
Because that number rarely much endears,
And through all climes, the snowy and the sunny,
Sounds ill in love, whate'er it may in money.
When people say, 'I've told you fifty times,'
They mean to scold, and very often do;
When poets say, 'I've written fifty rhymes,'
They make you dread that they 'll recite them too;
In gangs of fifty, thieves commit their crimes;
At fifty love for love is rare, 't is true,
But then, no doubt, it equally as true is,
A good deal may be bought for fifty Louis.
Julia had honour, virtue, truth, and love,
For Don Alfonso; and she inly swore,
By all the vows below to powers above,
She never would disgrace the ring she wore,
Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove;
And while she ponder'd this, besides much more,
One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown,
Quite by mistake--she thought it was her own;
Unconsciously she lean'd upon the other,
Which play'd within the tangles of her hair:
And to contend with thoughts she could not smother
She seem'd by the distraction of her air.
'T was surely very wrong in Juan's mother
To leave together this imprudent pair,
She who for many years had watch'd her son so--
I 'm very certain mine would not have done so.
The hand which still held Juan's, by degrees
Gently, but palpably confirm'd its grasp,
As if it said, 'Detain me, if you please;'
Yet there 's no doubt she only meant to clasp
His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze:
She would have shrunk as from a toad, or asp,
Had she imagined such a thing could rouse
A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse.
I cannot know what Juan thought of this,
But what he did, is much what you would do;
His young lip thank'd it with a grateful kiss,
And then, abash'd at its own joy, withdrew
In deep despair, lest he had done amiss,--
Love is so very timid when 't is new:
She blush'd, and frown'd not, but she strove to speak,
And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak.
The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon:
The devil 's in the moon for mischief; they
Who call'd her CHASTE, methinks, began too soon
Their nomenclature; there is not a day,
The longest, not the twenty-first of June,
Sees half the business in a wicked way
On which three single hours of moonshine smile--
And then she looks so modest all the while.
There is a dangerous silence in that hour,
A stillness, which leaves room for the full soul
To open all itself, without the power
Of calling wholly back its self-control;
The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower,
Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the whole,
Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws
A loving languor, which is not repose.
And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced
And half retiring from the glowing arm,
Which trembled like the bosom where 't was placed;
Yet still she must have thought there was no harm,
Or else 't were easy to withdraw her waist;
But then the situation had its charm,
And then--God knows what next--I can't go on;
I 'm almost sorry that I e'er begun.
O Plato! Plato! you have paved the way,
With your confounded fantasies, to more
Immoral conduct by the fancied sway
Your system feigns o'er the controulless core
Of human hearts, than all the long array
Of poets and romancers:--You 're a bore,
A charlatan, a coxcomb--and have been,
At best, no better than a go-between.
And Julia's voice was lost, except in sighs,
Until too late for useful conversation;
The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes,
I wish indeed they had not had occasion,
But who, alas! can love, and then be wise?
Not that remorse did not oppose temptation;
A little still she strove, and much repented
And whispering 'I will ne'er consent'--consented.
'T is said that Xerxes offer'd a reward
To those who could invent him a new pleasure:
Methinks the requisition 's rather hard,
And must have cost his majesty a treasure:
For my part, I 'm a moderate-minded bard,
Fond of a little love (which I call leisure);
I care not for new pleasures, as the old
Are quite enough for me, so they but hold.
O Pleasure! you are indeed a pleasant thing,
Although one must be damn'd for you, no doubt:
I make a resolution every spring
Of reformation, ere the year run out,
But somehow, this my vestal vow takes wing,
Yet still, I trust it may be kept throughout:
I 'm very sorry, very much ashamed,
And mean, next winter, to be quite reclaim'd.
Here my chaste Muse a liberty must take--
Start not! still chaster reader--she 'll be nice hence--
Forward, and there is no great cause to quake;
This liberty is a poetic licence,
Which some irregularity may make
In the design, and as I have a high sense
Of Aristotle and the Rules, 't is fit
To beg his pardon when I err a bit.
This licence is to hope the reader will
Suppose from June the sixth (the fatal day,
Without whose epoch my poetic skill
For want of facts would all be thrown away),
But keeping Julia and Don Juan still
In sight, that several months have pass'd; we 'll say
'T was in November, but I 'm not so sure
About the day--the era 's more obscure.
We 'll talk of that anon.--'T is sweet to hear
At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep
The song and oar of Adria's gondolier,
By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep;
'T is sweet to see the evening star appear;
'T is sweet to listen as the night-winds creep
From leaf to leaf; 't is sweet to view on high
The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.
'T is sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark
Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home;
'T is sweet to know there is an eye will mark
Our coming, and look brighter when we come;
'T is sweet to be awaken'd by the lark,
Or lull'd by falling waters; sweet the hum
Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds,
The lisp of children, and their earliest words.
Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes
In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth,
Purple and gushing: sweet are our escapes
From civic revelry to rural mirth;
Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps,
Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth,
Sweet is revenge--especially to women,
Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen.
Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet
The unexpected death of some old lady
Or gentleman of seventy years complete,
Who 've made 'us youth' wait too--too long already
For an estate, or cash, or country seat,
Still breaking, but with stamina so steady
That all the Israelites are fit to mob its
Next owner for their double-damn'd post-obits.
'T is sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels,
By blood or ink; 't is sweet to put an end
To strife; 't is sometimes sweet to have our quarrels,
Particularly with a tiresome friend:
Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels;
Dear is the helpless creature we defend
Against the world; and dear the schoolboy spot
We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot.
But sweeter still than this, than these, than all,
Is first and passionate love--it stands alone,
Like Adam's recollection of his fall;
The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd--all 's known--
And life yields nothing further to recall
Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown,
No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven
Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven.
Man 's a strange animal, and makes strange use
Of his own nature, and the various arts,
And likes particularly to produce
Some new experiment to show his parts;
This is the age of oddities let loose,
Where different talents find their different marts;
You 'd best begin with truth, and when you 've lost your
Labour, there 's a sure market for imposture.
What opposite discoveries we have seen!
(Signs of true genius, and of empty pockets.)
One makes new noses, one a guillotine,
One breaks your bones, one sets them in their sockets;
But vaccination certainly has been
A kind antithesis to Congreve's rockets,
With which the Doctor paid off an old pox,
By borrowing a new one from an ox.
Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes;
And galvanism has set some corpses grinning,
But has not answer'd like the apparatus
Of the Humane Society's beginning
By which men are unsuffocated gratis:
What wondrous new machines have late been spinning!
I said the small-pox has gone out of late;
Perhaps it may be follow'd by the great.
'T is said the great came from America;
Perhaps it may set out on its return,--
The population there so spreads, they say
'T is grown high time to thin it in its turn,
With war, or plague, or famine, any way,
So that civilisation they may learn;
And which in ravage the more loathsome evil is--
Their real lues, or our pseudo-syphilis?
This is the patent-age of new inventions
For killing bodies, and for saving souls,
All propagated with the best intentions;
Sir Humphry Davy's lantern, by which coals
Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions,
Tombuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles,
Are ways to benefit mankind, as true,
Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo.
Man 's a phenomenon, one knows not what,
And wonderful beyond all wondrous measure;
'T is pity though, in this sublime world, that
Pleasure 's a sin, and sometimes sin 's a pleasure;
Few mortals know what end they would be at,
But whether glory, power, or love, or treasure,
The path is through perplexing ways, and when
The goal is gain'd, we die, you know--and then--
What then?--I do not know, no more do you--
And so good night.--Return we to our story:
'T was in November, when fine days are few,
And the far mountains wax a little hoary,
And clap a white cape on their mantles blue;
And the sea dashes round the promontory,
And the loud breaker boils against the rock,
And sober suns must set at five o'clock.
'T was, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night;
No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud
By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was bright
With the piled wood, round which the family crowd;
There 's something cheerful in that sort of light,
Even as a summer sky 's without a cloud:
I 'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that,
A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat.
'T was midnight--Donna Julia was in bed,
Sleeping, most probably,--when at her door
Arose a clatter might awake the dead,
If they had never been awoke before,
And that they have been so we all have read,
And are to be so, at the least, once more;--
The door was fasten'd, but with voice and fist
First knocks were heard, then 'Madam--Madam--hist!
'For God's sake, Madam--Madam--here 's my master,
With more than half the city at his back--
Was ever heard of such a curst disaster!
'T is not my fault--I kept good watch--Alack!
Do pray undo the bolt a little faster--
They 're on the stair just now, and in a crack
Will all be here; perhaps he yet may fly--
Surely the window 's not so very high!'
By this time Don Alfonso was arrived,
With torches, friends, and servants in great number;
The major part of them had long been wived,
And therefore paused not to disturb the slumber
Of any wicked woman, who contrived
By stealth her husband's temples to encumber:
Examples of this kind are so contagious,
Were one not punish'd, all would be outrageous.
I can't tell how, or why, or what suspicion
Could enter into Don Alfonso's head;
But for a cavalier of his condition
It surely was exceedingly ill-bred,
Without a word of previous admonition,
To hold a levee round his lady's bed,
And summon lackeys, arm'd with fire and sword,
To prove himself the thing he most abhorr'd.
Poor Donna Julia, starting as from sleep
(Mind--that I do not say--she had not slept),
Began at once to scream, and yawn, and weep;
Her maid Antonia, who was an adept,
Contrived to fling the bed-clothes in a heap,
As if she had just now from out them crept:
I can't tell why she should take all this trouble
To prove her mistress had been sleeping double.
But Julia mistress, and Antonia maid,
Appear'd like two poor harmless women, who
Of goblins, but still more of men afraid,
Had thought one man might be deterr'd by two,
And therefore side by side were gently laid,
Until the hours of absence should run through,
And truant husband should return, and say,
'My dear, I was the first who came away.'
Now Julia found at length a voice, and cried,
'In heaven's name, Don Alfonso, what d' ye mean?
Has madness seized you? would that I had died
Ere such a monster's victim I had been!
What may this midnight violence betide,
A sudden fit of drunkenness or spleen?
Dare you suspect me, whom the thought would kill?
Search, then, the room!'--Alfonso said, 'I will.'
He search'd, they search'd, and rummaged everywhere,
Closet and clothes' press, chest and window-seat,
And found much linen, lace, and several pair
Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete,
With other articles of ladies fair,
To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat:
Arras they prick'd and curtains with their swords,
And wounded several shutters, and some boards.
Under the bed they search'd, and there they found--
No matter what--it was not that they sought;
They open'd windows, gazing if the ground
Had signs or footmarks, but the earth said nought;
And then they stared each other's faces round:
'T is odd, not one of all these seekers thought,
And seems to me almost a sort of blunder,
Of looking in the bed as well as under.
During this inquisition, Julia's tongue
Was not asleep--'Yes, search and search,' she cried,
'Insult on insult heap, and wrong on wrong!
It was for this that I became a bride!
For this in silence I have suffer'd long
A husband like Alfonso at my side;
But now I 'll bear no more, nor here remain,
If there be law or lawyers in all Spain.
'Yes, Don Alfonso! husband now no more,
If ever you indeed deserved the name,
Is 't worthy of your years?--you have threescore--
Fifty, or sixty, it is all the same--
Is 't wise or fitting, causeless to explore
For facts against a virtuous woman's fame?
Ungrateful, perjured, barbarous Don Alfonso,
How dare you think your lady would go on so?
'Is it for this I have disdain'd to hold
The common privileges of my sex?
That I have chosen a confessor so old
And deaf, that any other it would vex,
And never once he has had cause to scold,
But found my very innocence perplex
So much, he always doubted I was married--
How sorry you will be when I 've miscarried!
'Was it for this that no Cortejo e'er
I yet have chosen from out the youth of Seville?
Is it for this I scarce went anywhere,
Except to bull-fights, mass, play, rout, and revel?
Is it for this, whate'er my suitors were,
I favor'd none--nay, was almost uncivil?
Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly,
Who took Algiers, declares I used him vilely?
'Did not the Italian Musico Cazzani
Sing at my heart six months at least in vain?
Did not his countryman, Count Corniani,
Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain?
Were there not also Russians, English, many?
The Count Strongstroganoff I put in pain,
And Lord Mount Coffeehouse, the Irish peer,
Who kill'd himself for love (with wine) last year.
'Have I not had two bishops at my feet,
The Duke of Ichar, and Don Fernan Nunez?
And is it thus a faithful wife you treat?
I wonder in what quarter now the moon is:
I praise your vast forbearance not to beat
Me also, since the time so opportune is--
O, valiant man! with sword drawn and cock'd trigger,
Now, tell me, don't you cut a pretty figure?
'Was it for this you took your sudden journey.
Under pretence of business indispensable
With that sublime of rascals your attorney,
Whom I see standing there, and looking sensible
Of having play'd the fool? though both I spurn, he
Deserves the worst, his conduct 's less defensible,
Because, no doubt, 't was for his dirty fee,
And not from any love to you nor me.
'If he comes here to take a deposition,
By all means let the gentleman proceed;
You 've made the apartment in a fit condition:
There 's pen and ink for you, sir, when you need--
Let every thing be noted with precision,
I would not you for nothing should be fee'd--
But, as my maid 's undrest, pray turn your spies out.'
'Oh!' sobb'd Antonia, 'I could tear their eyes out.'
'There is the closet, there the toilet, there
The antechamber--search them under, over;
There is the sofa, there the great arm-chair,
The chimney--which would really hold a lover.
I wish to sleep, and beg you will take care
And make no further noise, till you discover
The secret cavern of this lurking treasure--
And when 't is found, let me, too, have that pleasure.
'And now, Hidalgo! now that you have thrown
Doubt upon me, confusion over all,
Pray have the courtesy to make it known
Who is the man you search for? how d' ye cal
Him? what 's his lineage? let him but be shown--
I hope he 's young and handsome--is he tall?
Tell me--and be assured, that since you stain
My honour thus, it shall not be in vain.
'At least, perhaps, he has not sixty years,
At that age he would be too old for slaughter,
Or for so young a husband's jealous fears
(Antonia! let me have a glass of water).
I am ashamed of having shed these tears,
They are unworthy of my father's daughter;
My mother dream'd not in my natal hour
That I should fall into a monster's power.
'Perhaps 't is of Antonia you are jealous,
You saw that she was sleeping by my side
When you broke in upon us with your fellows:
Look where you please--we 've nothing, sir, to hide;
Only another time, I trust, you 'll tell us,
Or for the sake of decency abide
A moment at the door, that we may be
Drest to receive so much good company.
'And now, sir, I have done, and say no more;
The little I have said may serve to show
The guileless heart in silence may grieve o'er
The wrongs to whose exposure it is slow:
I leave you to your conscience as before,
'T will one day ask you why you used me so?
God grant you feel not then the bitterest grief!-
Antonia! where 's my pocket-handkerchief?'
She ceased, and turn'd upon her pillow; pale
She lay, her dark eyes flashing through their tears,
Like skies that rain and lighten; as a veil,
Waved and o'ershading her wan cheek, appears
Her streaming hair; the black curls strive, but fail,
To hide the glossy shoulder, which uprears
Its snow through all;--her soft lips lie apart,
And louder than her breathing beats her heart.
The Senhor Don Alfonso stood confused;
Antonia bustled round the ransack'd room,
And, turning up her nose, with looks abused
Her master and his myrmidons, of whom
Not one, except the attorney, was amused;
He, like Achates, faithful to the tomb,
So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause,
Knowing they must be settled by the laws.
With prying snub-nose, and small eyes, he stood,
Following Antonia's motions here and there,
With much suspicion in his attitude;
For reputations he had little care;
So that a suit or action were made good,
Small pity had he for the young and fair,
And ne'er believed in negatives, till these
Were proved by competent false witnesses.
But Don Alfonso stood with downcast looks,
And, truth to say, he made a foolish figure;
When, after searching in five hundred nooks,
And treating a young wife with so much rigour,
He gain'd no point, except some self-rebukes,
Added to those his lady with such vigour
Had pour'd upon him for the last half-hour,
Quick, thick, and heavy--as a thunder-shower.
At first he tried to hammer an excuse,
To which the sole reply was tears and sobs,
And indications of hysterics, whose
Prologue is always certain throes, and throbs,
Gasps, and whatever else the owners choose:
Alfonso saw his wife, and thought of Job's;
He saw too, in perspective, her relations,
And then he tried to muster all his patience.
He stood in act to speak, or rather stammer,
But sage Antonia cut him short before
The anvil of his speech received the hammer,
With 'Pray, sir, leave the room, and say no more,
Or madam dies.'--Alfonso mutter'd, 'D--n her,'
But nothing else, the time of words was o'er;
He cast a rueful look or two, and did,
He knew not wherefore, that which he was bid.
With him retired his 'posse comitatus,'
The attorney last, who linger'd near the door
Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late as
Antonia let him--not a little sore
At this most strange and unexplain'd 'hiatus'
In Don Alfonso's facts, which just now wore
An awkward look; as he revolved the case,
The door was fasten'd in his legal face.
No sooner was it bolted, than--Oh shame!
O sin! Oh sorrow! and oh womankind!
How can you do such things and keep your fame,
Unless this world, and t' other too, be blind?
Nothing so dear as an unfilch'd good name!
But to proceed--for there is more behind:
With much heartfelt reluctance be it said,
Young Juan slipp'd half-smother'd, from the bed.
He had been hid--I don't pretend to say
How, nor can I indeed describe the where--
Young, slender, and pack'd easily, he lay,
No doubt, in little compass, round or square;
But pity him I neither must nor may
His suffocation by that pretty pair;
'T were better, sure, to die so, than be shut
With maudlin Clarence in his Malmsey butt.
And, secondly, I pity not, because
He had no business to commit a sin,
Forbid by heavenly, fined by human laws,
At least 't was rather early to begin;
But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws
So much as when we call our old debts in
At sixty years, and draw the accompts of evil,
And find a deuced balance with the devil.
Of his position I can give no notion:
'T is written in the Hebrew Chronicle,
How the physicians, leaving pill and potion,
Prescribed, by way of blister, a young belle,
When old King David's blood grew dull in motion,
And that the medicine answer'd very well;
Perhaps 't was in a different way applied,
For David lived, but Juan nearly died.
What 's to be done? Alfonso will be back
The moment he has sent his fools away.
Antonia's skill was put upon the rack,
But no device could be brought into play--
And how to parry the renew'd attack?
Besides, it wanted but few hours of day:
Antonia puzzled; Julia did not speak,
But press'd her bloodless lip to Juan's cheek.
He turn'd his lip to hers, and with his hand
Call'd back the tangles of her wandering hair;
Even then their love they could not all command,
And half forgot their danger and despair:
Antonia's patience now was at a stand--
'Come, come, 't is no time now for fooling there,'
She whisper'd, in great wrath--'I must deposit
This pretty gentleman within the closet:
'Pray, keep your nonsense for some luckier night--
Who can have put my master in this mood?
What will become on 't--I 'm in such a fright,
The devil 's in the urchin, and no good--
Is this a time for giggling? this a plight?
Why, don't you know that it may end in blood?
You 'll lose your life, and I shall lose my place,
My mistress all, for that half-girlish face.
'Had it but been for a stout cavalier
Of twenty-five or thirty (come, make haste)--
But for a child, what piece of work is here!
I really, madam, wonder at your taste
(Come, sir, get in)--my master must be near:
There, for the present, at the least, he's fast,
And if we can but till the morning keep
Our counsel--(Juan, mind, you must not sleep).'
Now, Don Alfonso entering, but alone,
Closed the oration of the trusty maid:
She loiter'd, and he told her to be gone,
An order somewhat sullenly obey'd;
However, present remedy was none,
And no great good seem'd answer'd if she stay'd:
Regarding both with slow and sidelong view,
She snuff'd the candle, curtsied, and withdrew.
Alfonso paused a minute--then begun
Some strange excuses for his late proceeding;
He would not justify what he had done,
To say the best, it was extreme ill-breeding;
But there were ample reasons for it, none
Of which he specified in this his pleading:
His speech was a fine sample, on the whole,
Of rhetoric, which the learn'd call 'rigmarole.'
Julia said nought; though all the while there rose
A ready answer, which at once enables
A matron, who her husband's foible knows,
By a few timely words to turn the tables,
Which, if it does not silence, still must pose,--
Even if it should comprise a pack of fables;
'T is to retort with firmness, and when he
Suspects with one, do you reproach with three.
Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds,--
Alfonso's loves with Inez were well known,
But whether 't was that one's own guilt confounds--
But that can't be, as has been often shown,
A lady with apologies abounds;--
It might be that her silence sprang alone
From delicacy to Don Juan's ear,
To whom she knew his mother's fame was dear.
There might be one more motive, which makes two;
Alfonso ne'er to Juan had alluded,--
Mention'd his jealousy but never who
Had been the happy lover, he concluded,
Conceal'd amongst his premises; 't is true,
His mind the more o'er this its mystery brooded;
To speak of Inez now were, one may say,
Like throwing Juan in Alfonso's way.
A hint, in tender cases, is enough;
Silence is best, besides there is a tact
(That modern phrase appears to me sad stuff,
But it will serve to keep my verse compact)-
Which keeps, when push'd by questions rather rough,
A lady always distant from the fact:
The charming creatures lie with such a grace,
There 's nothing so becoming to the face.
They blush, and we believe them; at least I
Have always done so; 't is of no great use,
In any case, attempting a reply,
For then their eloquence grows quite profuse;
And when at length they 're out of breath, they sigh,
And cast their languid eyes down, and let loose
A tear or two, and then we make it up;
And then--and then--and then--sit down and sup.
Alfonso closed his speech, and begg'd her pardon,
Which Julia half withheld, and then half granted,
And laid conditions he thought very hard on,
Denying several little things he wanted:
He stood like Adam lingering near his garden,
With useless penitence perplex'd and haunted,
Beseeching she no further would refuse,
When, lo! he stumbled o'er a pair of shoes.
A pair of shoes!--what then? not much, if they
Are such as fit with ladies' feet, but these
(No one can tell how much I grieve to say)
Were masculine; to see them, and to seize,
Was but a moment's act.--Ah! well-a-day!
My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freeze--
Alfonso first examined well their fashion,
And then flew out into another passion.
He left the room for his relinquish'd sword,
And Julia instant to the closet flew.
'Fly, Juan, fly! for heaven's sake--not a word--
The door is open--you may yet slip through
The passage you so often have explored--
Here is the garden-key--Fly--fly--Adieu!
Haste--haste! I hear Alfonso's hurrying feet--
Day has not broke--there 's no one in the street:
None can say that this was not good advice,
The only mischief was, it came too late;
Of all experience 't is the usual price,
A sort of income-tax laid on by fate:
Juan had reach'd the room-door in a. trice,
And might have done so by the garden-gate,
But met Alfonso in his dressing-gown,
Who threaten'd death--so Juan knock'd him down.
Dire was the scuffle, and out went the light;
Antonia cried out 'Rape!' and Julia 'Fire!'
But not a servant stirr'd to aid the fight.
Alfonso, pommell'd to his heart's desire,
Swore lustily he'd be revenged this night;
And Juan, too, blasphemed an octave higher;
His blood was up: though young, he was a Tartar,
And not at all disposed to prove a martyr.
Alfonso's sword had dropp'd ere he could draw it,
And they continued battling hand to hand,
For Juan very luckily ne'er saw it;
His temper not being under great command,
If at that moment he had chanced to claw it,
Alfonso's days had not been in the land
Much longer.--Think of husbands', lovers' lives!
And how ye may be doubly widows--wives!
Alfonso grappled to detain the foe,
And Juan throttled him to get away,
And blood ('t was from the nose) began to flow;
At last, as they more faintly wrestling lay,
Juan contrived to give an awkward blow,
And then his only garment quite gave way;
He fled, like Joseph, leaving it; but there,
I doubt, all likeness ends between the pair.
Lights came at length, and men, and maids, who found
An awkward spectacle their eyes before;
Antonia in hysterics, Julia swoon'd,
Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door;
Some half-torn drapery scatter'd on the ground,
Some blood, and several footsteps, but no more:
Juan the gate gain'd, turn'd the key about,
And liking not the inside, lock'd the out.
Here ends this canto.--Need I sing, or say,
How Juan naked, favour'd by the night,
Who favours what she should not, found his way,
And reach'd his home in an unseemly plight?
The pleasant scandal which arose next day,
The nine days' wonder which was brought to light,
And how Alfonso sued for a divorce,
Were in the English newspapers, of course.
If you would like to see the whole proceedings,
The depositions, and the cause at full,
The names of all the witnesses, the pleadings
Of counsel to nonsuit, or to annul,
There 's more than one edition, and the readings
Are various, but they none of them are dull;
The best is that in short-hand ta'en by Gurney,
Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey.
But Donna Inez, to divert the train
Of one of the most circulating scandals
That had for centuries been known in Spain,
At least since the retirement of the Vandals,
First vow'd (and never had she vow'd in vain)
To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles;
And then, by the advice of some old ladies,
She sent her son to be shipp'd off from Cadiz.
She had resolved that he should travel through
All European climes, by land or sea,
To mend his former morals, and get new,
Especially in France and Italy
(At least this is the thing most people do).
Julia was sent into a convent: she
Grieved, but, perhaps, her feelings may be better
Shown in the following copy of her Letter:--
'They tell me 't is decided; you depart:
'T is wise--'t is well, but not the less a pain;
I have no further claim on your young heart,
Mine is the victim, and would be again;
To love too much has been the only art
I used;--I write in haste, and if a stain
Be on this sheet, 't is not what it appears;
My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears.
'I loved, I love you, for this love have lost
State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem,
And yet can not regret what it hath cost,
So dear is still the memory of that dream;
Yet, if I name my guilt, 't is not to boast,
None can deem harshlier of me than I deem:
I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest--
I 've nothing to reproach, or to request.
'Man's love is of man's life a thing apart,
'T is woman's whole existence; man may range
The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart;
Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange
Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart,
And few there are whom these cannot estrange;
Men have all these resources, we but one,
To love again, and be again undone.
'You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride,
Beloved and loving many; all is o'er
For me on earth, except some years to hide
My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core;
These I could bear, but cannot cast aside
The passion which still rages as before--
And so farewell--forgive me, love me--No,
That word is idle now--but let it go.
'My breast has been all weakness, is so yet;
But still I think I can collect my mind;
My blood still rushes where my spirit 's set,
As roll the waves before the settled wind;
My heart is feminine, nor can forget--
To all, except one image, madly blind;
So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole,
As vibrates my fond heart to my fix'd soul.
'I have no more to say, but linger still,
And dare not set my seal upon this sheet,
And yet I may as well the task fulfil,
My misery can scarce be more complete:
I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill;
Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet,
And I must even survive this last adieu,
And bear with life, to love and pray for you!'
This note was written upon gilt-edged paper
With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new:
Her small white hand could hardly reach the taper,
It trembled as magnetic needles do,
And yet she did not let one tear escape her;
The seal a sun-flower; 'Elle vous suit partout,'
The motto cut upon a white cornelian;
The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion.
This was Don Juan's earliest scrape; but whether
I shall proceed with his adventures is
Dependent on the public altogether;
We 'll see, however, what they say to this:
Their favour in an author's cap 's a feather,
And no great mischief 's done by their caprice;
And if their approbation we experience,
Perhaps they 'll have some more about a year hence.
My poem 's epic, and is meant to be
Divided in twelve books; each book containing,
With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea,
A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning,
New characters; the episodes are three:
A panoramic view of hell 's in training,
After the style of Virgil and of Homer,
So that my name of Epic 's no misnomer.
All these things will be specified in time,
With strict regard to Aristotle's rules,
The Vade Mecum of the true sublime,
Which makes so many poets, and some fools:
Prose poets like blank-verse, I 'm fond of rhyme,
Good workmen never quarrel with their tools;
I 've got new mythological machinery,
And very handsome supernatural scenery.
There 's only one slight difference between
Me and my epic brethren gone before,
And here the advantage is my own, I ween
(Not that I have not several merits more,
But this will more peculiarly be seen);
They so embellish, that 't is quite a bore
Their labyrinth of fables to thread through,
Whereas this story 's actually true.
If any person doubt it, I appeal
To history, tradition, and to facts,
To newspapers, whose truth all know and feel,
To plays in five, and operas in three acts;
All these confirm my statement a good deal,
But that which more completely faith exacts
Is that myself, and several now in Seville,
Saw Juan's last elopement with the devil.
If ever I should condescend to prose,
I 'll write poetical commandments, which
Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those
That went before; in these I shall enrich
My text with many things that no one knows,
And carry precept to the highest pitch:
I 'll call the work 'Longinus o'er a Bottle,
Or, Every Poet his own Aristotle.'
Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope;
Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey;
Because the first is crazed beyond all hope,
The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthy:
With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope,
And Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy:
Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor
Commit--flirtation with the muse of Moore.
Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's Muse,
His Pegasus, nor anything that 's his;
Thou shalt not bear false witness like 'the Blues'
(There 's one, at least, is very fond of this);
Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I choose:
This is true criticism, and you may kiss--
Exactly as you please, or not,--the rod;
If any person should presume to assert
This story is not moral, first, I pray,
That they will not cry out before they 're hurt,
Then that they 'll read it o'er again, and say
(But, doubtless, nobody will be so pert)
That this is not a moral tale, though gay;
Besides, in Canto Twelfth, I mean to show
The very place where wicked people go.
If, after all, there should be some so blind
To their own good this warning to despise,
Led by some tortuosity of mind,
Not to believe my verse and their own eyes,
And cry that they 'the moral cannot find,'
I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies;
Should captains the remark, or critics, make,
They also lie too--under a mistake.
The public approbation I expect,
And beg they 'll take my word about the moral,
Which I with their amusement will connect
(So children cutting teeth receive a coral);
Meantime, they 'll doubtless please to recollect
My epical pretensions to the laurel:
For fear some prudish readers should grow skittish,
I 've bribed my grandmother's review--the British.
I sent it in a letter to the Editor,
Who thank'd me duly by return of post--
I 'm for a handsome article his creditor;
Yet, if my gentle Muse he please to roast,
And break a promise after having made it her,
Denying the receipt of what it cost,
And smear his page with gall instead of honey,
All I can say is--that he had the money.
I think that with this holy new alliance
I may ensure the public, and defy
All other magazines of art or science,
Daily, or monthly, or three monthly; I
Have not essay'd to multiply their clients,
Because they tell me 't were in vain to try,
And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly
Treat a dissenting author very martyrly.
'Non ego hoc ferrem calida juventa
Consule Planco,' Horace said, and so
Say I; by which quotation there is meant a
Hint that some six or seven good years ago
(Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brenta)
I was most ready to return a blow,
And would not brook at all this sort of thing
In my hot youth--when George the Third was King.
But now at thirty years my hair is grey
(I wonder what it will be like at forty?
I thought of a peruke the other day)--
My heart is not much greener; and, in short, I
Have squander'd my whole summer while 't was May,
And feel no more the spirit to retort; I
Have spent my life, both interest and principal,
And deem not, what I deem'd, my soul invincible.
No more--no more--Oh! never more on me
The freshness of the heart can fall like dew,
Which out of all the lovely things we see
Extracts emotions beautiful and new,
Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee:
Think'st thou the honey with those objects grew?
Alas! 't was not in them, but in thy power
To double even the sweetness of a flower.
No more--no more--Oh! never more, my heart,
Canst thou be my sole world, my universe!
Once all in all, but now a thing apart,
Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse:
The illusion 's gone for ever, and thou art
Insensible, I trust, but none the worse,
And in thy stead I 've got a deal of judgment,
Though heaven knows how it ever found a lodgment.
My days of love are over; me no more
The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow,
Can make the fool of which they made before,--
In short, I must not lead the life I did do;
The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er,
The copious use of claret is forbid too,
So for a good old-gentlemanly vice,
I think I must take up with avarice.
Ambition was my idol, which was broken
Before the shrines of Sorrow, and of Pleasure;
And the two last have left me many a token
O'er which reflection may be made at leisure:
Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, I 've spoken,
'Time is, Time was, Time 's past:'--a chymic treasure
Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes--
My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.
What is the end of Fame? 't is but to fill
A certain portion of uncertain paper:
Some liken it to climbing up a hill,
Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour;
For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill,
And bards burn what they call their 'midnight taper,'
To have, when the original is dust,
A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.
What are the hopes of man? Old Egypt's King
Cheops erected the first pyramid
And largest, thinking it was just the thing
To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid;
But somebody or other rummaging,
Burglariously broke his coffin's lid:
Let not a monument give you or me hopes,
Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops.
But I being fond of true philosophy,
Say very often to myself, 'Alas!
All things that have been born were born to die,
And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass;
You 've pass'd your youth not so unpleasantly,
And if you had it o'er again--'t would pass--
So thank your stars that matters are no worse,
And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse.'
But for the present, gentle reader! and
Still gentler purchaser! the bard--that 's I--
Must, with permission, shake you by the hand,
And so 'Your humble servant, and good-b'ye!'
We meet again, if we should understand
Each other; and if not, I shall not try
Your patience further than by this short sample--
'T were well if others follow'd my example.
'Go, little book, from this my solitude!
I cast thee on the waters--go thy ways!
And if, as I believe, thy vein be good,
The world will find thee after many days.'
When Southey's read, and Wordsworth understood,
I can't help putting in my claim to praise--
The four first rhymes are Southey's every line:
For God's sake, reader! take them not for mine.
[Illustration: Canto 2]
CANTO THE SECOND.
O ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations,
Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain,
I pray ye flog them upon all occasions,
It mends their morals, never mind the pain:
The best of mothers and of educations
In Juan's case were but employ'd in vain,
Since, in a way that 's rather of the oddest, he
Became divested of his native modesty.
Had he but been placed at a public school,
In the third form, or even in the fourth,
His daily task had kept his fancy cool,
At least, had he been nurtured in the north;
Spain may prove an exception to the rule,
But then exceptions always prove its worth--
A lad of sixteen causing a divorce
Puzzled his tutors very much, of course.
I can't say that it puzzles me at all,
If all things be consider'd: first, there was
His lady--mother, mathematical,
A--never mind; his tutor, an old ass;
A pretty woman (that 's quite natural,
Or else the thing had hardly come to pass);
A husband rather old, not much in unity
With his young wife--a time, and opportunity.
Well--well, the world must turn upon its axis,
And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails,
And live and die, make love and pay our taxes,
And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails;
The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us,
The priest instructs, and so our life exhales,
A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame,
Fighting, devotion, dust,--perhaps a name.
I said that Juan had been sent to Cadiz--
A pretty town, I recollect it well--
'T is there the mart of the colonial trade is
(Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel),
And such sweet girls--I mean, such graceful ladies,
Their very walk would make your bosom swell;
I can't describe it, though so much it strike,
Nor liken it--I never saw the like:
An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb
New broke, a cameleopard, a gazelle,
No--none of these will do;--and then their garb!
Their veil and petticoat--Alas! to dwell
Upon such things would very near absorb
A canto--then their feet and ankles,--well,
Thank Heaven I 've got no metaphor quite ready
(And so, my sober Muse--come, let 's be steady--
Chaste Muse!--well, if you must, you must)--the veil
Thrown back a moment with the glancing hand,
While the o'erpowering eye, that turns you pale,
Flashes into the heart:--All sunny land
Of love! when I forget you, may I fail
To--say my prayers--but never was there plann'd
A dress through which the eyes give such a volley,
Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli.
But to our tale: the Donna Inez sent
Her son to Cadiz only to embark;
To stay there had not answer'd her intent,
But why?--we leave the reader in the dark--
'T was for a voyage that the young man was meant,
As if a Spanish ship were Noah's ark,
To wean him from the wickedness of earth,
And send him like a dove of promise forth.
Don Juan bade his valet pack his things
According to direction, then received
A lecture and some money: for four springs
He was to travel; and though Inez grieved
(As every kind of parting has its stings),
She hoped he would improve--perhaps believed:
A letter, too, she gave (he never read it)
Of good advice--and two or three of credit.
In the mean time, to pass her hours away,
Brave Inez now set up a Sunday school
For naughty children, who would rather play
(Like truant rogues) the devil, or the fool;
Infants of three years old were taught that day,
Dunces were whipt, or set upon a stool:
The great success of Juan's education,
Spurr'd her to teach another generation.
Juan embark'd--the ship got under way,
The wind was fair, the water passing rough:
A devil of a sea rolls in that bay,
As I, who 've cross'd it oft, know well enough;
And, standing upon deck, the dashing spray
Flies in one's face, and makes it weather-tough:
And there he stood to take, and take again,
His first--perhaps his last--farewell of Spain.
I can't but say it is an awkward sight
To see one's native land receding through
The growing waters; it unmans one quite,
Especially when life is rather new:
I recollect Great Britain's coast looks white,
But almost every other country 's blue,
When gazing on them, mystified by distance,
We enter on our nautical existence.
So Juan stood, bewilder'd on the deck:
The wind sung, cordage strain'd, and sailors swore,
And the ship creak'd, the town became a speck,
From which away so fair and fast they bore.
The best of remedies is a beef-steak
Against sea-sickness: try it, sir, before
You sneer, and I assure you this is true,
For I have found it answer--so may you.
Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stern,
Beheld his native Spain receding far:
First partings form a lesson hard to learn,
Even nations feel this when they go to war;
There is a sort of unexprest concern,
A kind of shock that sets one's heart ajar:
At leaving even the most unpleasant people
And places, one keeps looking at the steeple.
But Juan had got many things to leave,
His mother, and a mistress, and no wife,
So that he had much better cause to grieve
Than many persons more advanced in life;
And if we now and then a sigh must heave
At quitting even those we quit in strife,
No doubt we weep for those the heart endears--
That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears.
So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews
By Babel's waters, still remembering Sion:
I 'd weep,--but mine is not a weeping Muse,
And such light griefs are not a thing to die on;
Young men should travel, if but to amuse
Themselves; and the next time their servants tie on
Behind their carriages their new portmanteau,
Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto.
And Juan wept, and much he sigh'd and thought,
While his salt tears dropp'd into the salt sea,
'Sweets to the sweet' (I like so much to quote;
You must excuse this extract, 't is where she,
The Queen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought
Flowers to the grave); and, sobbing often, he
Reflected on his present situation,
And seriously resolved on reformation.
'Farewell, my Spain! a long farewell!' he cried,
'Perhaps I may revisit thee no more,
But die, as many an exiled heart hath died,
Of its own thirst to see again thy shore:
Farewell, where Guadalquivir's waters glide!
Farewell, my mother! and, since all is o'er,
Farewell, too, dearest Julia!--(Here he drew
Her letter out again, and read it through.)
'And, oh! if e'er I should forget, I swear--
But that 's impossible, and cannot be--
Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air,
Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea,
Than I resign thine image, oh, my fair!
Or think of any thing excepting thee;
A mind diseased no remedy can physic
(Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew sea-sick).
'Sooner shall heaven kiss earth (here he fell sicker),
O, Julia! what is every other wo?
(For God's sake let me have a glass of liquor;
Pedro, Battista, help me down below.)
Julia, my love! (you rascal, Pedro, quicker)--
O, Julia! (this curst vessel pitches so)--
Beloved Julia, hear me still beseeching!'
(Here he grew inarticulate with retching.)
He felt that chilling heaviness of heart,
Or rather stomach, which, alas! attends,
Beyond the best apothecary's art,
The loss of love, the treachery of friends,
Or death of those we dote on, when a part
Of us dies with them as each fond hope ends:
No doubt he would have been much more pathetic,
But the sea acted as a strong emetic. I
Love 's a capricious power: I 've known it hold
Out through a fever caused by its own heat,
But be much puzzled by a cough and cold,
And find a quincy very hard to treat;
Against all noble maladies he 's bold,
But vulgar illnesses don't like to meet,
Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh,
Nor inflammations redden his blind eye.
But worst of all is nausea, or a pain
About the lower region of the bowels;
Love, who heroically breathes a vein,
Shrinks from the application of hot towels,
And purgatives are dangerous to his reign,
Sea-sickness death: his love was perfect, how else
Could Juan's passion, while the billows roar,
Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before?
The ship, call'd the most holy 'Trinidada,'
Was steering duly for the port Leghorn;
For there the Spanish family Moncada
Were settled long ere Juan's sire was born:
They were relations, and for them he had a
Letter of introduction, which the morn
Of his departure had been sent him by
His Spanish friends for those in Italy.
His suite consisted of three servants and
A tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo,
Who several languages did understand,
But now lay sick and speechless on his pillow,
And rocking in his hammock, long'd for land,
His headache being increased by every billow;
And the waves oozing through the port-hole made
His berth a little damp, and him afraid.
'T was not without some reason, for the wind
Increased at night, until it blew a gale;
And though 't was not much to a naval mind,
Some landsmen would have look'd a little pale,
For sailors are, in fact, a different kind:
At sunset they began to take in sail,
For the sky show'd it would come on to blow,
And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so.
At one o'clock the wind with sudden shift
Threw the ship right into the trough of the sea,
Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift,
Started the stern-post, also shatter'd the
Whole of her stern-frame, and, ere she could lift
Herself from out her present jeopardy,
The rudder tore away: 't was time to sound
The pumps, and there were four feet water found.
One gang of people instantly was put
Upon the pumps and the remainder set
To get up part of the cargo, and what not;
But they could not come at the leak as yet;
At last they did get at it really, but
Still their salvation was an even bet:
The water rush'd through in a way quite puzzling,
While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of muslin,
Into the opening; but all such ingredients
Would have been vain, and they must have gone down,
Despite of all their efforts and expedients,
But for the pumps: I 'm glad to make them known
To all the brother tars who may have need hence,
For fifty tons of water were upthrown
By them per hour, and they had all been undone,
But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London.
As day advanced the weather seem'd to abate,
And then the leak they reckon'd to reduce,
And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet
Kept two hand and one chain-pump still in use.
The wind blew fresh again: as it grew late
A squall came on, and while some guns broke loose,
A gust--which all descriptive power transcends--
Laid with one blast the ship on her beam ends.
There she lay motionless, and seem'd upset;
The water left the hold, and wash'd the decks,
And made a scene men do not soon forget;
For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks,
Or any other thing that brings regret,
Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necks:
Thus drownings are much talk'd of by the divers,
And swimmers, who may chance to be survivors.
Immediately the masts were cut away,
Both main and mizen; first the mizen went,
The main-mast follow'd: but the ship still lay
Like a mere log, and baffled our intent.
Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and they
Eased her at last (although we never meant
To part with all till every hope was blighted),
And then with violence the old ship righted.
It may be easily supposed, while this
Was going on, some people were unquiet,
That passengers would find it much amiss
To lose their lives, as well as spoil their diet;
That even the able seaman, deeming his
Days nearly o'er, might be disposed to riot,
As upon such occasions tars will ask
For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask.
There 's nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms
As rum and true religion: thus it was,
Some plunder'd, some drank spirits, some sung psalms,
The high wind made the treble, and as bas
The hoarse harsh waves kept time; fright cured the qualms
Of all the luckless landsmen's sea-sick maws:
Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion,
Clamour'd in chorus to the roaring ocean.
Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for
Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his years,
Got to the spirit-room, and stood before
It with a pair of pistols; and their fears,
As if Death were more dreadful by his door
Of fire than water, spite of oaths and tears,
Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk,
Thought it would be becoming to die drunk.
'Give us more grog,' they cried, 'for it will be
All one an hour hence.' Juan answer'd, 'No!
'T is true that death awaits both you and me,
But let us die like men, not sink below
Like brutes;'--and thus his dangerous post kept he,
And none liked to anticipate the blow;
And even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor,
Was for some rum a disappointed suitor.
The good old gentleman was quite aghast,
And made a loud and pious lamentation;
Repented all his sins, and made a last
Irrevocable vow of reformation;
Nothing should tempt him more (this peril past)
To quit his academic occupation,
In cloisters of the classic Salamanca,
To follow Juan's wake, like Sancho Panca.
But now there came a flash of hope once more;
Day broke, and the wind lull'd: the masts were gone,
The leak increased; shoals round her, but no shore,
The vessel swam, yet still she held her own.
They tried the pumps again, and though before
Their desperate efforts seem'd all useless grown,
A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to bale--
The stronger pump'd, the weaker thrumm'd a sail.
Under the vessel's keel the sail was past,
And for the moment it had some effect;
But with a leak, and not a stick of mast,
Nor rag of canvas, what could they expect?
But still 't is best to struggle to the last,
'T is never too late to be wholly wreck'd:
And though 't is true that man can only die once,
'T is not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons.
There winds and waves had hurl'd them, and from thence,
Without their will, they carried them away;
For they were forced with steering to dispense,
And never had as yet a quiet day
On which they might repose, or even commence
A jurymast or rudder, or could say
The ship would swim an hour, which, by good luck,
Still swam--though not exactly like a duck.
The wind, in fact, perhaps was rather less,
But the ship labour'd so, they scarce could hope
To weather out much longer; the distress
Was also great with which they had to cope
For want of water, and their solid mess
Was scant enough: in vain the telescope
Was used--nor sail nor shore appear'd in sight,
Nought but the heavy sea, and coming night.
Again the weather threaten'd,--again blew
A gale, and in the fore and after hold
Water appear'd; yet, though the people knew
All this, the most were patient, and some bold,
Until the chains and leathers were worn through
Of all our pumps:--a wreck complete she roll'd,
At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are
Like human beings during civil war.
Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears
In his rough eyes, and told the captain he
Could do no more: he was a man in years,
And long had voyaged through many a stormy sea,
And if he wept at length, they were not fears
That made his eyelids as a woman's be,
But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children,--
Two things for dying people quite bewildering.
The ship was evidently settling now
Fast by the head; and, all distinction gone,
Some went to prayers again, and made a vow
Of candles to their saints--but there were none
To pay them with; and some look'd o'er the bow;
Some hoisted out the boats; and there was one
That begg'd Pedrillo for an absolution,
Who told him to be damn'd--in his confusion.
Some lash'd them in their hammocks; some put on
Their best clothes, as if going to a fair;
Some cursed the day on which they saw the sun,
And gnash'd their teeth, and, howling, tore their hair;
And others went on as they had begun,
Getting the boats out, being well aware
That a tight boat will live in a rough sea,
Unless with breakers close beneath her lee.
The worst of all was, that in their condition,
Having been several days in great distress,
'T was difficult to get out such provision
As now might render their long suffering less:
Men, even when dying, dislike inanition;
Their stock was damaged by the weather's stress:
Two casks of biscuit and a keg of butter
Were all that could be thrown into the cutter.
But in the long-boat they contrived to stow
Some pounds of bread, though injured by the wet;
Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so;
Six flasks of wine; and they contrived to get
A portion of their beef up from below,
And with a piece of pork, moreover, met,
But scarce enough to serve them for a luncheon--
Then there was rum, eight gallons in a puncheon.
The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had
Been stove in the beginning of the gale;
And the long-boat's condition was but bad,
As there were but two blankets for a sail,
And one oar for a mast, which a young lad
Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail;
And two boats could not hold, far less be stored,
To save one half the people then on board.
'T was twilight, and the sunless day went down
Over the waste of waters; like a veil,
Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown
Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail,
Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown,
And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale,
And the dim desolate deep: twelve days had Fear
Been their familiar, and now Death was here.
Some trial had been making at a raft,
With little hope in such a rolling sea,
A sort of thing at which one would have laugh'd,
If any laughter at such times could be,
Unless with people who too much have quaff'd,
And have a kind of wild and horrid glee,
Half epileptical and half hysterical:--
Their preservation would have been a miracle.
At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hencoops, spars,
And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose,
That still could keep afloat the struggling tars,
For yet they strove, although of no great use:
There was no light in heaven but a few stars,
The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews;
She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port,
And, going down head foremost--sunk, in short.
Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell--
Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave,
Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell,
As eager to anticipate their grave;
And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell,
And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave,
Like one who grapples with his enemy,
And strives to strangle him before he die.
And first one universal shriek there rush'd,
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash
Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush'd,
Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash
Of billows; but at intervals there gush'd,
Accompanied with a convulsive splash,
A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry
Of some strong swimmer in his agony.
The boats, as stated, had got off before,
And in them crowded several of the crew;
And yet their present hope was hardly more
Than what it had been, for so strong it blew
There was slight chance of reaching any shore;
And then they were too many, though so few--
Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat,
Were counted in them when they got afloat.
All the rest perish'd; near two hundred souls
Had left their bodies; and what 's worse, alas!
When over Catholics the ocean rolls,
They must wait several weeks before a mass
Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals,
Because, till people know what 's come to pass,
They won't lay out their money on the dead--
It costs three francs for every mass that 's said.
Juan got into the long-boat, and there
Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place;
It seem'd as if they had exchanged their care,
For Juan wore the magisterial face
Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's pair
Of eyes were crying for their owner's case:
Battista; though (a name call'd shortly Tita),
Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita.
Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save,
But the same cause, conducive to his loss,
Left him so drunk, he jump'd into the wave
As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross,
And so he found a wine-and-watery grave;
They could not rescue him although so close,
Because the sea ran higher every minute,
And for the boat--the crew kept crowding in it.
A small old spaniel,--which had been Don Jose's,
His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think,
For on such things the memory reposes
With tenderness--stood howling on the brink,
Knowing (dogs have such intellectual noses!),
No doubt, the vessel was about to sink;
And Juan caught him up, and ere he stepp'd
Off, threw him in, then after him he leap'd.
He also stuff'd his money where he could
About his person, and Pedrillo's too,
Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would,
Not knowing what himself to say, or do,
As every rising wave his dread renew'd;
But Juan, trusting they might still get through,
And deeming there were remedies for any ill,
Thus re-embark'd his tutor and his spaniel.
'T was a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet,
That the sail was becalm'd between the seas,
Though on the wave's high top too much to set,
They dared not take it in for all the breeze:
Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept them wet,
And made them bale without a moment's ease,
So that themselves as well as hopes were damp'd,
And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd.
Nine souls more went in her: the long-boat still
Kept above water, with an oar for mast,
Two blankets stitch'd together, answering ill
Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast:
Though every wave roll'd menacing to fill,
And present peril all before surpass'd,
They grieved for those who perish'd with the cutter,
And also for the biscuit-casks and butter.
The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign
Of the continuance of the gale: to run
Before the sea until it should grow fine,
Was all that for the present could be done:
A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wine
Were served out to the people, who begun
To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags,
And most of them had little clothes but rags.
They counted thirty, crowded in a space
Which left scarce room for motion or exertion;
They did their best to modify their case,
One half sate up, though numb'd with the immersion,
While t'other half were laid down in their place
At watch and watch; thus, shivering like the tertian
Ague in its cold fit, they fill'd their boat,
With nothing but the sky for a great coat.
'T is very certain the desire of life
Prolongs it: this is obvious to physicians,
When patients, neither plagued with friends nor wife,
Survive through very desperate conditions,
Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife
Nor shears of Atropos before their visions:
Despair of all recovery spoils longevity,
And makes men miseries miseries of alarming brevity.
'T is said that persons living on annuities
Are longer lived than others,--God knows why,
Unless to plague the grantors,--yet so true it is,
That some, I really think, do never die;
Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is,
And that 's their mode of furnishing supply:
In my young days they lent me cash that way,
Which I found very troublesome to pay.
'T is thus with people in an open boat,
They live upon the love of life, and bear
More than can be believed, or even thought,
And stand like rocks the tempest's wear and tear;
And hardship still has been the sailor's lot,
Since Noah's ark went cruising here and there;
She had a curious crew as well as cargo,
Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo.
But man is a carnivorous production,
And must have meals, at least one meal a day;
He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction,
But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey;
Although his anatomical construction
Bears vegetables, in a grumbling way,
Your labouring people think beyond all question,
Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion.
And thus it was with this our hapless crew;
For on the third day there came on a calm,
And though at first their strength it might renew,
And lying on their weariness like balm,
Lull'd them like turtles sleeping on the blue
Of ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm,
And fell all ravenously on their provision,
Instead of hoarding it with due precision.
The consequence was easily foreseen--
They ate up all they had, and drank their wine,
In spite of all remonstrances, and then
On what, in fact, next day were they to dine?
They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish men!
And carry them to shore; these hopes were fine,
But as they had but one oar, and that brittle,
It would have been more wise to save their victual.
The fourth day came, but not a breath of air,
And Ocean slumber'd like an unwean'd child:
The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there,
The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and mild--
With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair)
What could they do? and hunger's rage grew wild:
So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating,
Was kill'd and portion'd out for present eating.
On the sixth day they fed upon his hide,
And Juan, who had still refused, because
The creature was his father's dog that died,
Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws,
With some remorse received (though first denied)
As a great favour one of the fore-paws,
Which he divided with Pedrillo, who
Devour'd it, longing for the other too.
The seventh day, and no wind--the burning sun
Blister'd and scorch'd, and, stagnant on the sea,
They lay like carcasses; and hope was none,
Save in the breeze that came not; savagely
They glared upon each other--all was done,
Water, and wine, and food,--and you might see
The longings of the cannibal arise
(Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes.
At length one whisper'd his companion, who
Whisper'd another, and thus it went round,
And then into a hoarser murmur grew,
An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound;
And when his comrade's thought each sufferer knew,
'T was but his own, suppress'd till now, he found:
And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood,
And who should die to be his fellow's food.
But ere they came to this, they that day shared
Some leathern caps, and what remain'd of shoes;
And then they look'd around them and despair'd,
And none to be the sacrifice would choose;
At length the lots were torn up, and prepared,
But of materials that much shock the Muse--
Having no paper, for the want of better,
They took by force from Juan Julia's letter.
The lots were made, and mark'd, and mix'd, and handed,
In silent horror, and their distribution
Lull'd even the savage hunger which demanded,
Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution;
None in particular had sought or plann'd it,
'T was nature gnaw'd them to this resolution,
By which none were permitted to be neuter--
And the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor.
He but requested to be bled to death:
The surgeon had his instruments, and bled
Pedrillo, and so gently ebb'd his breath,
You hardly could perceive when he was dead.
He died as born, a Catholic in faith,
Like most in the belief in which they 're bred,
And first a little crucifix he kiss'd,
And then held out his jugular and wrist.
The surgeon, as there was no other fee,
Had his first choice of morsels for his pains;
But being thirstiest at the moment, he
Preferr'd a draught from the fast-flowing veins:
Part was divided, part thrown in the sea,
And such things as the entrails and the brains
Regaled two sharks, who follow'd o'er the billow--
The sailors ate the rest of poor Pedrillo.
The sailors ate him, all save three or four,
Who were not quite so fond of animal food;
To these was added Juan, who, before
Refusing his own spaniel, hardly could
Feel now his appetite increased much more;
'T was not to be expected that he should,
Even in extremity of their disaster,
Dine with them on his pastor and his master.
'T was better that he did not; for, in fact,
The consequence was awful in the extreme;
For they, who were most ravenous in the act,
Went raging mad--Lord! how they did blaspheme!
And foam and roll, with strange convulsions rack'd,
Drinking salt water like a mountain-stream,
Tearing, and grinning, howling, screeching, swearing,
And, with hyaena-laughter, died despairing.
Their numbers were much thinn'd by this infliction,
And all the rest were thin enough, Heaven knows;
And some of them had lost their recollection,
Happier than they who still perceived their woes;
But others ponder'd on a new dissection,
As if not warn'd sufficiently by those
Who had already perish'd, suffering madly,
For having used their appetites so sadly.
And next they thought upon the master's mate,
As fattest; but he saved himself, because,
Besides being much averse from such a fate,
There were some other reasons: the first was,
He had been rather indisposed of late;
And that which chiefly proved his saving clause
Was a small present made to him at Cadiz,
By general subscription of the ladies.
Of poor Pedrillo something still remain'd,
But was used sparingly,--some were afraid,
And others still their appetites constrain'd,
Or but at times a little supper made;
All except Juan, who throughout abstain'd,
Chewing a piece of bamboo and some lead:
At length they caught two boobies and a noddy,
And then they left off eating the dead body.
And if Pedrillo's fate should shocking be,
Remember Ugolino condescends
To eat the head of his arch-enemy
The moment after he politely ends
His tale: if foes be food in hell, at sea
'T is surely fair to dine upon our friends,
When shipwreck's short allowance grows too scanty,
Without being much more horrible than Dante.
And the same night there fell a shower of rain,
For which their mouths gaped, like the cracks of earth
When dried to summer dust; till taught by pain
Men really know not what good water 's worth;
If you had been in Turkey or in Spain,
Or with a famish'd boat's-crew had your berth,
Or in the desert heard the camel's bell,
You 'd wish yourself where Truth is--in a well.
It pour'd down torrents, but they were no richer
Until they found a ragged piece of sheet,
Which served them as a sort of spongy pitcher,
And when they deem'd its moisture was complete
They wrung it out, and though a thirsty ditcher
Might not have thought the scanty draught so sweet
As a full pot of porter, to their thinking
They ne'er till now had known the joys of drinking.
And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack,
Suck'd in the moisture, which like nectar stream'd;
Their throats were ovens, their swoln tongues were black,
As the rich man's in hell, who vainly scream'd
To beg the beggar, who could not rain back
A drop of dew, when every drop had seem'd
To taste of heaven--If this be true, indeed
Some Christians have a comfortable creed.
There were two fathers in this ghastly crew,
And with them their two sons, of whom the one
Was more robust and hardy to the view,
But he died early; and when he was gone,
His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw
One glance at him, and said, 'Heaven's will be done!
I can do nothing,' and he saw him thrown
Into the deep without a tear or groan.
The other father had a weaklier child,
Of a soft cheek and aspect delicate;
But the boy bore up long, and with a mild
And patient spirit held aloof his fate;
Little he said, and now and then he smiled,
As if to win a part from off the weight
He saw increasing on his father's heart,
With the deep deadly thought that they must part.
And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised
His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam
From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed,
And when the wish'd-for shower at length was come,
And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed,
Brighten'd, and for a moment seem'd to roam,
He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain
Into his dying child's mouth--but in vain.
The boy expired--the father held the clay,
And look'd upon it long, and when at last
Death left no doubt, and the dead burthen lay
Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past,
He watch'd it wistfully, until away
'T was borne by the rude wave wherein 't was cast;
Then he himself sunk down all dumb and shivering,
And gave no sign of life, save his limbs quivering.
Now overhead a rainbow, bursting through
The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the dark sea,
Resting its bright base on the quivering blue;
And all within its arch appear'd to be
Clearer than that without, and its wide hue
Wax'd broad and waving, like a banner free,
Then changed like to a bow that 's bent, and then
Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwreck'd men.
It changed, of course; a heavenly chameleon,
The airy child of vapour and the sun,
Brought forth in purple, cradled in vermilion,
Baptized in molten gold, and swathed in dun,
Glittering like crescents o'er a Turk's pavilion,
And blending every colour into one,
Just like a black eye in a recent scuffle
(For sometimes we must box without the muffle).
Our shipwreck'd seamen thought it a good omen--
It is as well to think so, now and then;
'T was an old custom of the Greek and Roman,
And may become of great advantage when
Folks are discouraged; and most surely no men
Had greater need to nerve themselves again
Than these, and so this rainbow look'd like hope--
Quite a celestial kaleidoscope.
About this time a beautiful white bird,
Webfooted, not unlike a dove in size
And plumage (probably it might have err'd
Upon its course), pass'd oft before their eyes,
And tried to perch, although it saw and heard
The men within the boat, and in this guise
It came and went, and flutter'd round them till
Night fell: this seem'd a better omen still.
But in this case I also must remark,
'T was well this bird of promise did not perch,
Because the tackle of our shatter'd bark
Was not so safe for roosting as a church;
And had it been the dove from Noah's ark,
Returning there from her successful search,
Which in their way that moment chanced to fall,
They would have eat her, olive-branch and all.
With twilight it again came on to blow,
But not with violence; the stars shone out,
The boat made way; yet now they were so low,
They knew not where nor what they were about;
Some fancied they saw land, and some said 'No!'
The frequent fog-banks gave them cause to doubt--
Some swore that they heard breakers, others guns,
And all mistook about the latter once.
As morning broke, the light wind died away,
When he who had the watch sung out and swore,
If 't was not land that rose with the sun's ray,
He wish'd that land he never might see more;
And the rest rubb'd their eyes and saw a bay,
Or thought they saw, and shaped their course for shore;
For shore it was, and gradually grew
Distinct, and high, and palpable to view.
And then of these some part burst into tears,
And others, looking with a stupid stare,
Could not yet separate their hopes from fears,
And seem'd as if they had no further care;
While a few pray'd (the first time for some years)--
And at the bottom of the boat three were
Asleep: they shook them by the hand and head,
And tried to awaken them, but found them dead.
The day before, fast sleeping on the water,
They found a turtle of the hawk's-bill kind,
And by good fortune, gliding softly, caught her,
Which yielded a day's life, and to their mind
Proved even still a more nutritious matter,
Because it left encouragement behind:
They thought that in such perils, more than chance
Had sent them this for their deliverance.
The land appear'd a high and rocky coast,
And higher grew the mountains as they drew,
Set by a current, toward it: they were lost
In various conjectures, for none knew
To what part of the earth they had been tost,
So changeable had been the winds that blew;
Some thought it was Mount AEtna, some the highlands,
Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands.
Meantime the current, with a rising gale,
Still set them onwards to the welcome shore,
Like Charon's bark of spectres, dull and pale:
Their living freight was now reduced to four,
And three dead, whom their strength could not avail
To heave into the deep with those before,
Though the two sharks still follow'd them, and dash'd
The spray into their faces as they splash'd.
Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat, had done
Their work on them by turns, and thinn'd them to
Such things a mother had not known her son
Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew;
By night chill'd, by day scorch'd, thus one by one
They perish'd, until wither'd to these few,
But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter,
In washing down Pedrillo with salt water.
As they drew nigh the land, which now was seen
Unequal in its aspect here and there,
They felt the freshness of its growing green,
That waved in forest-tops, and smooth'd the air,
And fell upon their glazed eyes like a screen
From glistening waves, and skies so hot and bare--
Lovely seem'd any object that should sweep
Away the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep.
The shore look'd wild, without a trace of man,
And girt by formidable waves; but they
Were mad for land, and thus their course they ran,
Though right ahead the roaring breakers lay:
A reef between them also now began
To show its boiling surf and bounding spray,
But finding no place for their landing better,
They ran the boat for shore,--and overset her.
But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir,
Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont;
And having learnt to swim in that sweet river,
Had often turn'd the art to some account:
A better swimmer you could scarce see ever,
He could, perhaps, have pass'd the Hellespont,
As once (a feat on which ourselves we prided)
Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did.
So here, though faint, emaciated, and stark,
He buoy'd his boyish limbs, and strove to ply
With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was dark,
The beach which lay before him, high and dry:
The greatest danger here was from a shark,
That carried off his neighbour by the thigh;
As for the other two, they could not swim,
So nobody arrived on shore but him.
Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar,
Which, providentially for him, was wash'd
Just as his feeble arms could strike no more,
And the hard wave o'erwhelm'd him as 't was dash'd
Within his grasp; he clung to it, and sore
The waters beat while he thereto was lash'd;
At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, he
Roll'd on the beach, half-senseless, from the sea:
There, breathless, with his digging nails he clung
Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave,
From whose reluctant roar his life he wrung,
Should suck him back to her insatiate grave:
And there he lay, full length, where he was flung,
Before the entrance of a cliff-worn cave,
With just enough of life to feel its pain,
And deem that it was saved, perhaps in vain.
With slow and staggering effort he arose,
But sunk again upon his bleeding knee
And quivering hand; and then he look'd for those
Who long had been his mates upon the sea;
But none of them appear'd to share his woes,
Save one, a corpse, from out the famish'd three,
Who died two days before, and now had found
An unknown barren beach for burial ground.
And as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast,
And down he sunk; and as he sunk, the sand
Swam round and round, and all his senses pass'd:
He fell upon his side, and his stretch'd hand
Droop'd dripping on the oar (their jurymast),
And, like a wither'd lily, on the land
His slender frame and pallid aspect lay,
As fair a thing as e'er was form'd of clay.
How long in his damp trance young Juan lay
He knew not, for the earth was gone for him,
And Time had nothing more of night nor day
For his congealing blood, and senses dim;
And how this heavy faintness pass'd away
He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb,
And tingling vein, seem'd throbbing back to life,
For Death, though vanquish'd, still retired with strife.
His eyes he open'd, shut, again unclosed,
For all was doubt and dizziness; he thought
He still was in the boat and had but dozed,
And felt again with his despair o'erwrought,
And wish'd it death in which he had reposed;
And then once more his feelings back were brought,
And slowly by his swimming eyes was seen
A lovely female face of seventeen.
'T was bending dose o'er his, and the small mouth
Seem'd almost prying into his for breath;
And chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth
Recall'd his answering spirits back from death;
And, bathing his chill temples, tried to soothe
Each pulse to animation, till beneath
Its gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh
To these kind efforts made a low reply.
Then was the cordial pour'd, and mantle flung
Around his scarce-clad limbs; and the fair arm
Raised higher the faint head which o'er it hung;
And her transparent cheek, all pure and warm,
Pillow'd his death-like forehead; then she wrung
His dewy curls, long drench'd by every storm;
And watch'd with eagerness each throb that drew
A sigh from his heaved bosom--and hers, too.
And lifting him with care into the cave,
The gentle girl and her attendant,--one
Young, yet her elder, and of brow less grave,
And more robust of figure,--then begun
To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave
Light to the rocks that roof'd them, which the sun
Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er
She was, appear'd distinct, and tall, and fair.
Her brow was overhung with coins of gold,
That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair--
Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were roll'd
In braids behind; and though her stature were
Even of the highest for a female mould,
They nearly reach'd her heel; and in her air
There was a something which bespoke command,
As one who was a lady in the land.
Her hair, I said, was auburn; but her eyes
Were black as death, their lashes the same hue,
Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies
Deepest attraction; for when to the view
Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies,
Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew;
'T is as the snake late coil'd, who pours his length,
And hurls at once his venom and his strength.
Her brow was white and low, her cheek's pure dye
Like twilight rosy still with the set sun;
Short upper lip--sweet lips! that make us sigh
Ever to have seen such; for she was one
Fit for the model of a statuary
(A race of mere impostors, when all 's done--
I 've seen much finer women, ripe and real,
Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal).
I 'll tell you why I say so, for 't is just
One should not rail without a decent cause:
There was an Irish lady, to whose bust
I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was
A frequent model; and if e'er she must
Yield to stern Time and Nature's wrinkling laws,
They will destroy a face which mortal thought
Ne'er compass'd, nor less mortal chisel wrought.
And such was she, the lady of the cave:
Her dress was very different from the Spanish,
Simpler, and yet of colours not so grave;
For, as you know, the Spanish women banish
Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while wave
Around them (what I hope will never vanish)
The basquina and the mantilla, they
Seem at the same time mystical and gay.
But with our damsel this was not the case:
Her dress was many-colour'd, finely spun;
Her locks curl'd negligently round her face,
But through them gold and gems profusely shone:
Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace
Flow'd in her veil, and many a precious stone
Flash'd on her little hand; but, what was shocking,
Her small snow feet had slippers, but no stocking.
The other female's dress was not unlike,
But of inferior materials: she
Had not so many ornaments to strike,
Her hair had silver only, bound to be
Her dowry; and her veil, in form alike,
Was coarser; and her air, though firm, less free;
Her hair was thicker, but less long; her eyes
As black, but quicker, and of smaller size.
And these two tended him, and cheer'd him both
With food and raiment, and those soft attentions,
Which are (as I must own) of female growth,
And have ten thousand delicate inventions:
They made a most superior mess of broth,
A thing which poesy but seldom mentions,
But the best dish that e'er was cook'd since Homer's
Achilles ordered dinner for new comers.
I 'll tell you who they were, this female pair,
Lest they should seem princesses in disguise;
Besides, I hate all mystery, and that air
Of clap-trap which your recent poets prize;
And so, in short, the girls they really were
They shall appear before your curious eyes,
Mistress and maid; the first was only daughter
Of an old man who lived upon the water.
A fisherman he had been in his youth,
And still a sort of fisherman was he;
But other speculations were, in sooth,
Added to his connection with the sea,
Perhaps not so respectable, in truth:
A little smuggling, and some piracy,
Left him, at last, the sole of many masters
Of an ill-gotten million of piastres.
A fisher, therefore, was he,--though of men,
Like Peter the Apostle,--and he fish'd
For wandering merchant-vessels, now and then,
And sometimes caught as many as he wish'd;
The cargoes he confiscated, and gain
He sought in the slave-market too, and dish'd
Full many a morsel for that Turkish trade,
By which, no doubt, a good deal may be made.
He was a Greek, and on his isle had built
(One of the wild and smaller Cyclades)
A very handsome house from out his guilt,
And there he lived exceedingly at ease;
Heaven knows what cash he got or blood he spilt,
A sad old fellow was he, if you please;
But this I know, it was a spacious building,
Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding.
He had an only daughter, call'd Haidee,
The greatest heiress of the Eastern Isles;
Besides, so very beautiful was she,
Her dowry was as nothing to her smiles:
Still in her teens, and like a lovely tree
She grew to womanhood, and between whiles
Rejected several suitors, just to learn
How to accept a better in his turn.
And walking out upon the beach, below
The cliff, towards sunset, on that day she found,
Insensible,--not dead, but nearly so,--
Don Juan, almost famish'd, and half drown'd;
But being naked, she was shock'd, you know,
Yet deem'd herself in common pity bound,
As far as in her lay, 'to take him in,
A stranger' dying, with so white a skin.
But taking him into her father's house
Was not exactly the best way to save,
But like conveying to the cat the mouse,
Or people in a trance into their grave;
Because the good old man had so much 'nous,'
Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave,
He would have hospitably cured the stranger,
And sold him instantly when out of danger.
And therefore, with her maid, she thought it best
(A virgin always on her maid relies)
To place him in the cave for present rest:
And when, at last, he open'd his black eyes,
Their charity increased about their guest;
And their compassion grew to such a size,
It open'd half the turnpike-gates to heaven
(St. Paul says, 't is the toll which must be given).
They made a fire,--but such a fire as they
Upon the moment could contrive with such
Materials as were cast up round the bay,--
Some broken planks, and oars, that to the touch
Were nearly tinder, since so long they lay
A mast was almost crumbled to a crutch;
But, by God's grace, here wrecks were in such plenty,
That there was fuel to have furnish'd twenty.
He had a bed of furs, and a pelisse,
For Haidee stripped her sables off to make
His couch; and, that he might be more at ease,
And warm, in case by chance he should awake,
They also gave a petticoat apiece,
She and her maid--and promised by daybreak
To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish
For breakfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and fish.
And thus they left him to his lone repose:
Juan slept like a top, or like the dead,
Who sleep at last, perhaps (God only knows),
Just for the present; and in his lull'd head
Not even a vision of his former woes
Throbb'd in accursed dreams, which sometimes spread
Unwelcome visions of our former years,
Till the eye, cheated, opens thick with tears.
Young Juan slept all dreamless:--but the maid,
Who smooth'd his pillow, as she left the den
Look'd back upon him, and a moment stay'd,
And turn'd, believing that he call'd again.
He slumber'd; yet she thought, at least she said
(The heart will slip, even as the tongue and pen),
He had pronounced her name--but she forgot
That at this moment Juan knew it not.
And pensive to her father's house she went,
Enjoining silence strict to Zoe, who
Better than her knew what, in fact, she meant,
She being wiser by a year or two:
A year or two 's an age when rightly spent,
And Zoe spent hers, as most women do,
In gaining all that useful sort of knowledge
Which is acquired in Nature's good old college.
The morn broke, and found Juan slumbering still
Fast in his cave, and nothing clash'd upon
His rest; the rushing of the neighbouring rill,
And the young beams of the excluded sun,
Troubled him not, and he might sleep his fill;
And need he had of slumber yet, for none
Had suffer'd more--his hardships were comparative
To those related in my grand-dad's 'Narrative.'
Not so Haidee: she sadly toss'd and tumbled,
And started from her sleep, and, turning o'er
Dream'd of a thousand wrecks, o'er which she stumbled,
And handsome corpses strew'd upon the shore;
And woke her maid so early that she grumbled,
And call'd her father's old slaves up, who swore
In several oaths--Armenian, Turk, and Greek--
They knew not what to think of such a freak.
But up she got, and up she made them get,
With some pretence about the sun, that makes
Sweet skies just when he rises, or is set;
And 't is, no doubt, a sight to see when breaks
Bright Phoebus, while the mountains still are wet
With mist, and every bird with him awakes,
And night is flung off like a mourning suit
Worn for a husband,--or some other brute.
I say, the sun is a most glorious sight,
I 've seen him rise full oft, indeed of late
I have sat up on purpose all the night,
Which hastens, as physicians say, one's fate;
And so all ye, who would be in the right
In health and purse, begin your day to date
From daybreak, and when coffin'd at fourscore,
Engrave upon the plate, you rose at four.
And Haidee met the morning face to face;
Her own was freshest, though a feverish flush
Had dyed it with the headlong blood, whose race
From heart to cheek is curb'd into a blush,
Like to a torrent which a mountain's base,
That overpowers some Alpine river's rush,
Checks to a lake, whose waves in circles spread;
Or the Red Sea--but the sea is not red.
And down the cliff the island virgin came,
And near the cave her quick light footsteps drew,
While the sun smiled on her with his first flame,
And young Aurora kiss'd her lips with dew,
Taking her for a sister; just the same
Mistake you would have made on seeing the two,
Although the mortal, quite as fresh and fair,
Had all the advantage, too, of not being air.
And when into the cavern Haidee stepp'd
All timidly, yet rapidly, she saw
That like an infant Juan sweetly slept;
And then she stopp'd, and stood as if in awe
(For sleep is awful), and on tiptoe crept
And wrapt him closer, lest the air, too raw,
Should reach his blood, then o'er him still as death
Bent with hush'd lips, that drank his scarce-drawn breath.
And thus like to an angel o'er the dying
Who die in righteousness, she lean'd; and there
All tranquilly the shipwreck'd boy was lying,
As o'er him the calm and stirless air:
But Zoe the meantime some eggs was frying,
Since, after all, no doubt the youthful pair
Must breakfast--and betimes, lest they should ask it,
She drew out her provision from the basket.
She knew that the best feelings must have victual,
And that a shipwreck'd youth would hungry be;
Besides, being less in love, she yawn'd a little,
And felt her veins chill'd by the neighbouring sea;
And so, she cook'd their breakfast to a tittle;
I can't say that she gave them any tea,
But there were eggs, fruit, coffee, bread, fish, honey,
With Scio wine,--and all for love, not money.
And Zoe, when the eggs were ready, and
The coffee made, would fain have waken'd Juan;
But Haidee stopp'd her with her quick small hand,
And without word, a sign her finger drew on
Her lip, which Zoe needs must understand;
And, the first breakfast spoilt, prepared a new one,
Because her mistress would not let her break
That sleep which seem'd as it would ne'er awake.
For still he lay, and on his thin worn cheek
A purple hectic play'd like dying day
On the snow-tops of distant hills; the streak
Of sufferance yet upon his forehead lay,
Where the blue veins look'd shadowy, shrunk, and weak;
And his black curls were dewy with the spray,
Which weigh'd upon them yet, all damp and salt,
Mix'd with the stony vapours of the vault.
And she bent o'er him, and he lay beneath,
Hush'd as the babe upon its mother's breast,
Droop'd as the willow when no winds can breathe,
Lull'd like the depth of ocean when at rest,
Fair as the crowning rose of the whole wreath,
Soft as the callow cygnet in its nest;
In short, he was a very pretty fellow,
Although his woes had turn'd him rather yellow.
He woke and gazed, and would have slept again,
But the fair face which met his eyes forbade
Those eyes to close, though weariness and pain
Had further sleep a further pleasure made;
For woman's face was never form'd in vain
For Juan, so that even when he pray'd
He turn'd from grisly saints, and martyrs hairy,
To the sweet portraits of the Virgin Mary.
And thus upon his elbow he arose,
And look'd upon the lady, in whose cheek
The pale contended with the purple rose,
As with an effort she began to speak;
Her eyes were eloquent, her words would pose,
Although she told him, in good modern Greek,
With an Ionian accent, low and sweet,
That he was faint, and must not talk, but eat.
Now Juan could not understand a word,
Being no Grecian; but he had an ear,
And her voice was the warble of a bird,
So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear,
That finer, simpler music ne'er was heard;
The sort of sound we echo with a tear,
Without knowing why--an overpowering tone,
Whence Melody descends as from a throne.
And Juan gazed as one who is awoke
By a distant organ, doubting if he be
Not yet a dreamer, till the spell is broke
By the watchman, or some such reality,
Or by one's early valet's cursed knock;
At least it is a heavy sound to me,
Who like a morning slumber--for the night
Shows stars and women in a better light.
And Juan, too, was help'd out from his dream,
Or sleep, or whatso'er it was, by feeling
A most prodigious appetite: the steam
Of Zoe's cookery no doubt was stealing
Upon his senses, and the kindling beam
Of the new fire, which Zoe kept up, kneeling
To stir her viands, made him quite awake
And long for food, but chiefly a beef-steak.
But beef is rare within these oxless isles;
Goat's flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton;
And, when a holiday upon them smiles,
A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on:
But this occurs but seldom, between whiles,
For some of these are rocks with scarce a hut on;
Others are fair and fertile, among which
This, though not large, was one of the most rich.
I say that beef is rare, and can't help thinking
That the old fable of the Minotaur--
From which our modern morals rightly shrinking
Condemn the royal lady's taste who wore
A cow's shape for a mask--was only (sinking
The allegory) a mere type, no more,
That Pasiphae promoted breeding cattle,
To make the Cretans bloodier in battle.
For we all know that English people are
Fed upon beef--I won't say much of beer,
Because 't is liquor only, and being far
From this my subject, has no business here;
We know, too, they very fond of war,
A pleasure--like all pleasures--rather dear;
So were the Cretans--from which I infer
That beef and battles both were owing to her.
But to resume. The languid Juan raised
His head upon his elbow, and he saw
A sight on which he had not lately gazed,
As all his latter meals had been quite raw,
Three or four things, for which the Lord he praised,
And, feeling still the famish'd vulture gnaw,
He fell upon whate'er was offer'd, like
A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike.
He ate, and he was well supplied: and she,
Who watch'd him like a mother, would have fed
Him past all bounds, because she smiled to see
Such appetite in one she had deem'd dead;
But Zoe, being older than Haidee,
Knew (by tradition, for she ne'er had read)
That famish'd people must be slowly nurst,
And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.
And so she took the liberty to state,
Rather by deeds than words, because the case
Was urgent, that the gentleman, whose fate
Had made her mistress quit her bed to trace
The sea-shore at this hour, must leave his plate,
Unless he wish'd to die upon the place--
She snatch'd it, and refused another morsel,
Saying, he had gorged enough to make a horse ill.
Next they--he being naked, save a tatter'd
Pair of scarce decent trowsers--went to work,
And in the fire his recent rags they scatter'd,
And dress'd him, for the present, like a Turk,
Or Greek--that is, although it not much matter'd,
Omitting turban, slippers, pistols, dirk,--
They furnish'd him, entire, except some stitches,
With a clean shirt, and very spacious breeches.
And then fair Haidee tried her tongue at speaking,
But not a word could Juan comprehend,
Although he listen'd so that the young Greek in
Her earnestness would ne'er have made an end;
And, as he interrupted not, went eking
Her speech out to her protege and friend,
Till pausing at the last her breath to take,
She saw he did not understand Romaic.
And then she had recourse to nods, and signs,
And smiles, and sparkles of the speaking eye,
And read (the only book she could) the lines
Of his fair face, and found, by sympathy,
The answer eloquent, where soul shines
And darts in one quick glance a long reply;
And thus in every look she saw exprest
A world of words, and things at which she guess'd.
And now, by dint of fingers and of eyes,
And words repeated after her, he took
A lesson in her tongue; but by surmise,
No doubt, less of her language than her look:
As he who studies fervently the skies
Turns oftener to the stars than to his book,
Thus Juan learn'd his alpha beta better
From Haidee's glance than any graven letter.
'T is pleasing to be school'd in a strange tongue
By female lips and eyes--that is, I mean,
When both the teacher and the taught are young,
As was the case, at least, where I have been;
They smile so when one 's right, and when one 's wrong
They smile still more, and then there intervene
Pressure of hands, perhaps even a chaste kiss;--
I learn'd the little that I know by this:
That is, some words of Spanish, Turk, and Greek,
Italian not at all, having no teachers;
Much English I cannot pretend to speak,
Learning that language chiefly from its preachers,
Barrow, South, Tillotson, whom every week
I study, also Blair, the highest reachers
Of eloquence in piety and prose--
I hate your poets, so read none of those.
As for the ladies, I have nought to say,
A wanderer from the British world of fashion,
Where I, like other 'dogs, have had my day,'
Like other men, too, may have had my passion--
But that, like other things, has pass'd away,
And all her fools whom I could lay the lash on:
Foes, friends, men, women, now are nought to me
But dreams of what has been, no more to be.
Return we to Don Juan. He begun
To hear new words, and to repeat them; but
Some feelings, universal as the sun,
Were such as could not in his breast be shut
More than within the bosom of a nun:
He was in love,--as you would be, no doubt,
With a young benefactress,--so was she,
Just in the way we very often see.
And every day by daybreak--rather early
For Juan, who was somewhat fond of rest--
She came into the cave, but it was merely
To see her bird reposing in his nest;
And she would softly stir his locks so curly,
Without disturbing her yet slumbering guest,
Breathing all gently o'er his cheek and mouth,
As o'er a bed of roses the sweet south.
And every morn his colour freshlier came,
And every day help'd on his convalescence;
'T was well, because health in the human frame
Is pleasant, besides being true love's essence,
For health and idleness to passion's flame
Are oil and gunpowder; and some good lessons
Are also learnt from Ceres and from Bacchus,
Without whom Venus will not long attack us.
While Venus fills the heart (without heart really
Love, though good always, is not quite so good),
Ceres presents a plate of vermicelli,--
For love must be sustain'd like flesh and blood,--
While Bacchus pours out wine, or hands a jelly:
Eggs, oysters, too, are amatory food;
But who is their purveyor from above
Heaven knows,--it may be Neptune, Pan, or Jove.
When Juan woke he found some good things ready,
A bath, a breakfast, and the finest eyes
That ever made a youthful heart less steady,
Besides her maid's as pretty for their size;
But I have spoken of all this already--
And repetition 's tiresome and unwise,--
Well--Juan, after bathing in the sea,
Came always back to coffee and Haidee.
Both were so young, and one so innocent,
That bathing pass'd for nothing; Juan seem'd
To her, as 'twere, the kind of being sent,
Of whom these two years she had nightly dream'd,
A something to be loved, a creature meant
To be her happiness, and whom she deem'd
To render happy; all who joy would win
Must share it,--Happiness was born a twin.
It was such pleasure to behold him, such
Enlargement of existence to partake
Nature with him, to thrill beneath his touch,
To watch him slumbering, and to see him wake:
To live with him forever were too much;
But then the thought of parting made her quake;
He was her own, her ocean-treasure, cast
Like a rich wreck--her first love, and her last.
And thus a moon roll'd on, and fair Haidee
Paid daily visits to her boy, and took
Such plentiful precautions, that still he
Remain'd unknown within his craggy nook;
At last her father's prows put out to sea
For certain merchantmen upon the look,
Not as of yore to carry off an Io,
But three Ragusan vessels, bound for Scio.
Then came her freedom, for she had no mother,
So that, her father being at sea, she was
Free as a married woman, or such other
Female, as where she likes may freely pass,
Without even the incumbrance of a brother,
The freest she that ever gazed on glass;
I speak of Christian lands in this comparison,
Where wives, at least, are seldom kept in garrison.
Now she prolong'd her visits and her talk
(For they must talk), and he had learnt to say
So much as to propose to take a walk,--
For little had he wander'd since the day
On which, like a young flower snapp'd from the stalk,
Drooping and dewy on the beach he lay,--
And thus they walk'd out in the afternoon,
And saw the sun set opposite the moon.
It was a wild and breaker-beaten coast,
With cliffs above, and a broad sandy shore,
Guarded by shoals and rocks as by an host,
With here and there a creek, whose aspect wore
A better welcome to the tempest-tost;
And rarely ceased the haughty billow's roar,
Save on the dead long summer days, which make
The outstretch'd ocean glitter like a lake.
And the small ripple spilt upon the beach
Scarcely o'erpass'd the cream of your champagne,
When o'er the brim the sparkling bumpers reach,
That spring-dew of the spirit! the heart's rain!
Few things surpass old wine; and they may preach
Who please,--the more because they preach in vain,--
Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter,
Sermons and soda-water the day after.
Man, being reasonable, must get drunk;
The best of life is but intoxication:
Glory, the grape, love, gold, in these are sunk
The hopes of all men, and of every nation;
Without their sap, how branchless were the trunk
Of life's strange tree, so fruitful on occasion:
But to return,--Get very drunk; and when
You wake with headache, you shall see what then.
Ring for your valet--bid him quickly bring
Some hock and soda-water, then you 'll know
A pleasure worthy Xerxes the great king;
For not the bless'd sherbet, sublimed with snow,
Nor the first sparkle of the desert-spring,
Nor Burgundy in all its sunset glow,
After long travel, ennui, love, or slaughter,
Vie with that draught of hock and soda-water.
The coast--I think it was the coast that
Was just describing--Yes, it was the coast--
Lay at this period quiet as the sky,
The sands untumbled, the blue waves untost,
And all was stillness, save the sea-bird's cry,
And dolphin's leap, and little billow crost
By some low rock or shelve, that made it fret
Against the boundary it scarcely wet.
And forth they wander'd, her sire being gone,
As I have said, upon an expedition;
And mother, brother, guardian, she had none,
Save Zoe, who, although with due precision
She waited on her lady with the sun,
Thought daily service was her only mission,
Bringing warm water, wreathing her long tresses,
And asking now and then for cast-off dresses.
It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded
Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill,
Which then seems as if the whole earth it bounded,
Circling all nature, hush'd, and dim, and still,
With the far mountain-crescent half surrounded
On one side, and the deep sea calm and chill
Upon the other, and the rosy sky,
With one star sparkling through it like an eye.
And thus they wander'd forth, and hand in hand,
Over the shining pebbles and the shells,
Glided along the smooth and harden'd sand,
And in the worn and wild receptacles
Work'd by the storms, yet work'd as it were plann'd,
In hollow halls, with sparry roofs and cells,
They turn'd to rest; and, each clasp'd by an arm,
Yielded to the deep twilight's purple charm.
They look'd up to the sky, whose floating glow
Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright;
They gazed upon the glittering sea below,
Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight;
They heard the wave's splash, and the wind so low,
And saw each other's dark eyes darting light
Into each other--and, beholding this,
Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss;
A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love,
And beauty, all concentrating like rays
Into one focus, kindled from above;
Such kisses as belong to early days,
Where heart, and soul, and sense, in concert move,
And the blood 's lava, and the pulse a blaze,
Each kiss a heart-quake,--for a kiss's strength,
I think, it must be reckon'd by its length.
By length I mean duration; theirs endured
Heaven knows how long--no doubt they never reckon'd;
And if they had, they could not have secured
The sum of their sensations to a second:
They had not spoken; but they felt allured,
As if their souls and lips each other beckon'd,
Which, being join'd, like swarming bees they clung--
Their hearts the flowers from whence the honey sprung.
They were alone, but not alone as they
Who shut in chambers think it loneliness;
The silent ocean, and the starlight bay,
The twilight glow which momently grew less,
The voiceless sands and dropping caves, that lay
Around them, made them to each other press,
As if there were no life beneath the sky
Save theirs, and that their life could never die.
They fear'd no eyes nor ears on that lone beach,
They felt no terrors from the night, they were
All in all to each other: though their speech
Was broken words, they thought a language there,--
And all the burning tongues the passions teach
Found in one sigh the best interpreter
Of nature's oracle--first love,--that all
Which Eve has left her daughters since her fall.
Haidde spoke not of scruples, ask'd no vows,
Nor offer'd any; she had never heard
Of plight and promises to be a spouse,
Or perils by a loving maid incurr'd;
She was all which pure ignorance allows,
And flew to her young mate like a young bird;
And, never having dreamt of falsehood, she
Had not one word to say of constancy.
She loved, and was beloved--she adored,
And she was worshipp'd; after nature's fashion,
Their intense souls, into each other pour'd,
If souls could die, had perish'd in that passion,--
But by degrees their senses were restored,
Again to be o'ercome, again to dash on;
And, beating 'gainst his bosom, Haidee's heart
Felt as if never more to beat apart.
Alas! they were so young, so beautiful,
So lonely, loving, helpless, and the hour
Was that in which the heart is always full,
And, having o'er itself no further power,
Prompts deeds eternity can not annul,
But pays off moments in an endless shower
Of hell-fire--all prepared for people giving
Pleasure or pain to one another living.
Alas! for Juan and Haidee! they were
So loving and so lovely--till then never,
Excepting our first parents, such a pair
Had run the risk of being damn'd for ever;
And Haidee, being devout as well as fair,
Had, doubtless, heard about the Stygian river,
And hell and purgatory--but forgot
Just in the very crisis she should not.
They look upon each other, and their eyes
Gleam in the moonlight; and her white arm clasps
Round Juan's head, and his around her lies
Half buried in the tresses which it grasps;
She sits upon his knee, and drinks his sighs,
He hers, until they end in broken gasps;
And thus they form a group that 's quite antique,
Half naked, loving, natural, and Greek.
And when those deep and burning moments pass'd,
And Juan sunk to sleep within her arms,
She slept not, but all tenderly, though fast,
Sustain'd his head upon her bosom's charms;
And now and then her eye to heaven is cast,
And then on the pale cheek her breast now warms,
Pillow'd on her o'erflowing heart, which pants
With all it granted, and with all it grants.
An infant when it gazes on a light,
A child the moment when it drains the breast,
A devotee when soars the Host in sight,
An Arab with a stranger for a guest,
A sailor when the prize has struck in fight,
A miser filling his most hoarded chest,
Feel rapture; but not such true joy are reaping
As they who watch o'er what they love while sleeping.
For there it lies so tranquil, so beloved,
All that it hath of life with us is living;
So gentle, stirless, helpless, and unmoved,
And all unconscious of the joy 't is giving;
All it hath felt, inflicted, pass'd, and proved,
Hush'd into depths beyond the watcher's diving:
There lies the thing we love with all its errors
And all its charms, like death without its terrors.
The lady watch'd her lover--and that hour
Of Love's, and Night's, and Ocean's solitude,
O'erflow'd her soul with their united power;
Amidst the barren sand and rocks so rude
She and her wave-worn love had made their bower,
Where nought upon their passion could intrude,
And all the stars that crowded the blue space
Saw nothing happier than her glowing face.
Alas! the love of women! it is known
To be a lovely and a fearful thing;
For all of theirs upon that die is thrown,
And if 't is lost, life hath no more to bring
To them but mockeries of the past alone,
And their revenge is as the tiger's spring,
Deadly, and quick, and crushing; yet, as real
Torture is theirs, what they inflict they feel.
They are right; for man, to man so oft unjust,
Is always so to women; one sole bond
Awaits them, treachery is all their trust;
Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts despond
Over their idol, till some wealthier lust
Buys them in marriage--and what rests beyond?
A thankless husband, next a faithless lover,
Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all 's over.
Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers,
Some mind their household, others dissipation,
Some run away, and but exchange their cares,
Losing the advantage of a virtuous station;
Few changes e'er can better their affairs,
Theirs being an unnatural situation,
From the dull palace to the dirty hovel:
Some play the devil, and then write a novel.
Haidee was Nature's bride, and knew not this;
Haidee was Passion's child, born where the sun
Showers triple light, and scorches even the kiss
Of his gazelle-eyed daughters; she was one
Made but to love, to feel that she was his
Who was her chosen: what was said or done
Elsewhere was nothing. She had naught to fear,
Hope, care, nor love, beyond, her heart beat here.
And oh! that quickening of the heart, that beat!
How much it costs us! yet each rising throb
Is in its cause as its effect so sweet,
That Wisdom, ever on the watch to rob
Joy of its alchymy, and to repeat
Fine truths; even Conscience, too, has a tough job
To make us understand each good old maxim,
So good--I wonder Castlereagh don't tax 'em.
And now 't was done--on the lone shore were plighted
Their hearts; the stars, their nuptial torches, shed
Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted:
Ocean their witness, and the cave their bed,
By their own feelings hallow'd and united,
Their priest was Solitude, and they were wed:
And they were happy, for to their young eyes
Each was an angel, and earth paradise.
O, Love! of whom great Caesar was the suitor,
Titus the master, Antony the slave,
Horace, Catullus, scholars, Ovid tutor,
Sappho the sage blue-stocking, in whose grave
All those may leap who rather would be neuter
(Leucadia's rock still overlooks the wave)--
O, Love! thou art the very god of evil,
For, after all, we cannot call thee devil.
Thou mak'st the chaste connubial state precarious,
And jestest with the brows of mightiest men:
Caesar and Pompey, Mahomet, Belisarius,
Have much employ'd the muse of history's pen;
Their lives and fortunes were extremely various,
Such worthies Time will never see again;
Yet to these four in three things the same luck holds,
They all were heroes, conquerors, and cuckolds.
Thou mak'st philosophers; there 's Epicurus
And Aristippus, a material crew!
Who to immoral courses would allure us
By theories quite practicable too;
If only from the devil they would insure us,
How pleasant were the maxim (not quite new),
'Eat, drink, and love, what can the rest avail us?'
So said the royal sage Sardanapalus.
But Juan! had he quite forgotten Julia?
And should he have forgotten her so soon?
I can't but say it seems to me most truly
Perplexing question; but, no doubt, the moon
Does these things for us, and whenever newly
Strong palpitation rises, 't is her boon,
Else how the devil is it that fresh features
Have such a charm for us poor human creatures?
I hate inconstancy--I loathe, detest,
Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal made
Of such quicksilver clay that in his breast
No permanent foundation can be laid;
Love, constant love, has been my constant guest,
And yet last night, being at a masquerade,
I saw the prettiest creature, fresh from Milan,
Which gave me some sensations like a villain.
But soon Philosophy came to my aid,
And whisper'd, 'Think of every sacred tie!'
'I will, my dear Philosophy!' I said,
'But then her teeth, and then, oh, Heaven! her eye!
I'll just inquire if she be wife or maid,
Or neither--out of curiosity.'
'Stop!' cried Philosophy, with air so Grecian
(Though she was masqued then as a fair Venetian);
'Stop!' so I stopp'd.--But to return: that which
Men call inconstancy is nothing more
Than admiration due where nature's rich
Profusion with young beauty covers o'er
Some favour'd object; and as in the niche
A lovely statue we almost adore,
This sort of adoration of the real
Is but a heightening of the 'beau ideal.'
'T is the perception of the beautiful,
A fine extension of the faculties,
Platonic, universal, wonderful,
Drawn from the stars, and filter'd through the skies,
Without which life would be extremely dull;
In short, it is the use of our own eyes,
With one or two small senses added, just
To hint that flesh is form'd of fiery dust.
Yet 't is a painful feeling, and unwilling,
For surely if we always could perceive
In the same object graces quite as killing
As when she rose upon us like an Eve,
'T would save us many a heartache, many a shilling
(For we must get them any how or grieve),
Whereas if one sole lady pleased for ever,
How pleasant for the heart as well as liver!
The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven,
But changes night and day, too, like the sky;
Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven,
And darkness and destruction as on high:
But when it hath been scorch'd, and pierced, and riven,
Its storms expire in water-drops; the eye
Pours forth at last the heart's blood turn'd to tears,
Which make the English climate of our years.
The liver is the lazaret of bile,
But very rarely executes its function,
For the first passion stays there such a while,
That all the rest creep in and form a junction,
Life knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil,--
Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunction,--
So that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail,
Like earthquakes from the hidden fire call'd 'central,'
In the mean time, without proceeding more
In this anatomy, I 've finish'd now
Two hundred and odd stanzas as before,
That being about the number I 'll allow
Each canto of the twelve, or twenty-four;
And, laying down my pen, I make my bow,
Leaving Don Juan and Haidee to plead
For them and theirs with all who deign to read.
[Illustration: Canto 3]
CANTO THE THIRD.
Hail, Muse! et cetera.--We left Juan sleeping,
Pillow'd upon a fair and happy breast,
And watch'd by eyes that never yet knew weeping,
And loved by a young heart, too deeply blest
To feel the poison through her spirit creeping,
Or know who rested there, a foe to rest,
Had soil'd the current of her sinless years,
And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to tears!
O, Love! what is it in this world of ours
Which makes it fatal to be loved? Ah, why
With cypress branches hast thou Wreathed thy bowers,
And made thy best interpreter a sigh?
As those who dote on odours pluck the flowers,
And place them on their breast--but place to die--
Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish
Are laid within our bosoms but to perish.
In her first passion woman loves her lover,
In all the others all she loves is love,
Which grows a habit she can ne'er get over,
And fits her loosely--like an easy glove,
As you may find, whene'er you like to prove her:
One man alone at first her heart can move;
She then prefers him in the plural number,
Not finding that the additions much encumber.
I know not if the fault be men's or theirs;
But one thing 's pretty sure; a woman planted
(Unless at once she plunge for life in prayers)
After a decent time must be gallanted;
Although, no doubt, her first of love affairs
Is that to which her heart is wholly granted;
Yet there are some, they say, who have had none,
But those who have ne'er end with only one.
'T is melancholy, and a fearful sign
Of human frailty, folly, also crime,
That love and marriage rarely can combine,
Although they both are born in the same clime;
Marriage from love, like vinegar from wine--
A sad, sour, sober beverage--by time
Is sharpen'd from its high celestial flavour
Down to a very homely household savour.
There 's something of antipathy, as 't were,
Between their present and their future state;
A kind of flattery that 's hardly fair
Is used until the truth arrives too late--
Yet what can people do, except despair?
The same things change their names at such a rate;
For instance--passion in a lover 's glorious,
But in a husband is pronounced uxorious.
Men grow ashamed of being so very fond;
They sometimes also get a little tired
(But that, of course, is rare), and then despond:
The same things cannot always be admired,
Yet 't is 'so nominated in the bond,'
That both are tied till one shall have expired.
Sad thought! to lose the spouse that was adorning
Our days, and put one's servants into mourning.
There 's doubtless something in domestic doings
Which forms, in fact, true love's antithesis;
Romances paint at full length people's wooings,
But only give a bust of marriages;
For no one cares for matrimonial cooings,
There 's nothing wrong in a connubial kiss:
Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife,
He would have written sonnets all his life?
All tragedies are finish'd by a death,
All comedies are ended by a marriage;
The future states of both are left to faith,
For authors fear description might disparage
The worlds to come of both, or fall beneath,
And then both worlds would punish their miscarriage;
So leaving each their priest and prayer-book ready,
They say no more of Death or of the Lady.
The only two that in my recollection
Have sung of heaven and hell, or marriage, are
Dante and Milton, and of both the affection
Was hapless in their nuptials, for some bar
Of fault or temper ruin'd the connection
(Such things, in fact, it don't ask much to mar):
But Dante's Beatrice and Milton's Eve
Were not drawn from their spouses, you conceive.
Some persons say that Dante meant theology
By Beatrice, and not a mistress--I,
Although my opinion may require apology,
Deem this a commentator's fantasy,
Unless indeed it was from his own knowledge he
Decided thus, and show'd good reason why;
I think that Dante's more abstruse ecstatics
Meant to personify the mathematics.
Haidee and Juan were not married, but
The fault was theirs, not mine; it is not fair,
Chaste reader, then, in any way to put
The blame on me, unless you wish they were;
Then if you 'd have them wedded, please to shut
The book which treats of this erroneous pair,
Before the consequences grow too awful;
'T is dangerous to read of loves unlawful.
Yet they were happy,--happy in the illicit
Indulgence of their innocent desires;
But more imprudent grown with every visit,
Haidee forgot the island was her sire's;
When we have what we like, 't is hard to miss it,
At least in the beginning, ere one tires;
Thus she came often, not a moment losing,
Whilst her piratical papa was cruising.
Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange,
Although he fleeced the flags of every nation,
For into a prime minister but change
His title, and 't is nothing but taxation;
But he, more modest, took an humbler range
Of life, and in an honester vocation
Pursued o'er the high seas his watery journey,
And merely practised as a sea-attorney.
The good old gentleman had been detain'd
By winds and waves, and some important captures;
And, in the hope of more, at sea remain'd,
Although a squall or two had damp'd his raptures,
By swamping one of the prizes; he had chain'd
His prisoners, dividing them like chapters
In number'd lots; they all had cuffs and collars,
And averaged each from ten to a hundred dollars.
Some he disposed of off Cape Matapan,
Among his friends the Mainots; some he sold
To his Tunis correspondents, save one man
Toss'd overboard unsaleable (being old);
The rest--save here and there some richer one,
Reserved for future ransom--in the hold
Were link'd alike, as for the common people he
Had a large order from the Dey of Tripoli.
The merchandise was served in the same way,
Pieced out for different marts in the Levant;
Except some certain portions of the prey,
Light classic articles of female want,
French stuffs, lace, tweezers, toothpicks, teapot, tray,
Guitars and castanets from Alicant,
All which _select_ed from the spoil he gathers,
Robb'd for his daughter by the best of fathers.
A monkey, a Dutch mastiff, a mackaw,
Two parrots, with a Persian cat and kittens,
He chose from several animals he saw--
A terrier, too, which once had been a Briton's,
Who dying on the coast of Ithaca,
The peasants gave the poor dumb thing a pittance;
These to secure in this strong blowing weather,
He caged in one huge hamper altogether.
Then having settled his marine affairs,
Despatching single cruisers here and there,
His vessel having need of some repairs,
He shaped his course to where his daughter fair
Continued still her hospitable cares;
But that part of the coast being shoal and bare,
And rough with reefs which ran out many a mile,
His port lay on the other side o' the isle.
And there he went ashore without delay,
Having no custom-house nor quarantine
To ask him awkward questions on the way
About the time and place where he had been:
He left his ship to be hove down next day,
With orders to the people to careen;
So that all hands were busy beyond measure,
In getting out goods, ballast, guns, and treasure.
Arriving at the summit of a hill
Which overlook'd the white walls of his home,
He stopp'd.--What singular emotions fill
Their bosoms who have been induced to roam!
With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill--
With love for many, and with fears for some;
All feelings which o'erleap the years long lost,
And bring our hearts back to their starting-post.
The approach of home to husbands and to sires,
After long travelling by land or water,
Most naturally some small doubt inspires--
A female family 's a serious matter
(None trusts the sex more, or so much admires--
But they hate flattery, so I never flatter);
Wives in their husbands' absences grow subtler,
And daughters sometimes run off with the butler.
An honest gentleman at his return
May not have the good fortune of Ulysses;
Not all lone matrons for their husbands mourn,
Or show the same dislike to suitors' kisses;
The odds are that he finds a handsome urn
To his memory--and two or three young misses
Born to some friend, who holds his wife and riches,--
And that his Argus--bites him by the breeches.
If single, probably his plighted fair
Has in his absence wedded some rich miser;
But all the better, for the happy pair
May quarrel, and the lady growing wiser,
He may resume his amatory care
As cavalier servente, or despise her;
And that his sorrow may not be a dumb one,
Write odes on the Inconstancy of Woman.
And oh! ye gentlemen who have already
Some chaste liaison of the kind--I mean
An honest friendship with a married lady--
The only thing of this sort ever seen
To last--of all connections the most steady,
And the true Hymen (the first 's but a screen)--
Yet for all that keep not too long away,
I 've known the absent wrong'd four times a day.
Lambro, our sea-solicitor, who had
Much less experience of dry land than ocean,
On seeing his own chimney-smoke, felt glad;
But not knowing metaphysics, had no notion
Of the true reason of his not being sad,
Or that of any other strong emotion;
He loved his child, and would have wept the loss of her,
But knew the cause no more than a philosopher.
He saw his white walls shining in the sun,
His garden trees all shadowy and green;
He heard his rivulet's light bubbling run,
The distant dog-bark; and perceived between
The umbrage of the wood so cool and dun
The moving figures, and the sparkling sheen
Of arms (in the East all arm)--and various dyes
Of colour'd garbs, as bright as butterflies.
And as the spot where they appear he nears,
Surprised at these unwonted signs of idling,
He hears--alas! no music of the spheres,
But an unhallow'd, earthly sound of fiddling!
A melody which made him doubt his ears,
The cause being past his guessing or unriddling;
A pipe, too, and a drum, and shortly after,
A most unoriental roar of laughter.
And still more nearly to the place advancing,
Descending rather quickly the declivity,
Through the waved branches o'er the greensward glancing,
'Midst other indications of festivity,
Seeing a troop of his domestics dancing
Like dervises, who turn as on a pivot, he
Perceived it was the Pyrrhic dance so martial,
To which the Levantines are very partial.
And further on a group of Grecian girls,
The first and tallest her white kerchief waving,
Were strung together like a row of pearls,
Link'd hand in hand, and dancing; each too having
Down her white neck long floating auburn curls
(The least of which would set ten poets raving);
Their leader sang--and bounded to her song,
With choral step and voice, the virgin throng.
And here, assembled cross-legg'd round their trays,
Small social parties just begun to dine;
Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze,
And flasks of Samian and of Chian wine,
And sherbet cooling in the porous vase;
Above them their dessert grew on its vine,
The orange and pomegranate nodding o'er
Dropp'd in their laps, scarce pluck'd, their mellow store.
A band of children, round a snow-white ram,
There wreathe his venerable horns with flowers;
While peaceful as if still an unwean'd lamb,
The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers
His sober head, majestically tame,
Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers
His brow, as if in act to butt, and then
Yielding to their small hands, draws back again.
Their classical profiles, and glittering dresses,
Their large black eyes, and soft seraphic cheeks,
Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long tresses,
The gesture which enchants, the eye that speaks,
The innocence which happy childhood blesses,
Made quite a picture of these little Greeks;
So that the philosophical beholder
Sigh'd for their sakes--that they should e'er grow older.
Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales
To a sedate grey circle of old smokers,
Of secret treasures found in hidden vales,
Of wonderful replies from Arab jokers,
Of charms to make good gold and cure bad ails,
Of rocks bewitch'd that open to the knockers,
Of magic ladies who, by one sole act,
Transform'd their lords to beasts (but that 's a fact).
Here was no lack of innocent diversion
For the imagination or the senses,
Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the Persian,
All pretty pastimes in which no offence is;
But Lambro saw all these things with aversion,
Perceiving in his absence such expenses,
Dreading that climax of all human ills,
The inflammation of his weekly bills.
Ah! what is man? what perils still environ
The happiest mortals even after dinner--
A day of gold from out an age of iron
Is all that life allows the luckiest sinner;
Pleasure (whene'er she sings, at least) 's a siren,
That lures, to flay alive, the young beginner;
Lambro's reception at his people's banquet
Was such as fire accords to a wet blanket.
He--being a man who seldom used a word
Too much, and wishing gladly to surprise
(In general he surprised men with the sword)
His daughter--had not sent before to advise
Of his arrival, so that no one stirr'd;
And long he paused to re-assure his eyes
In fact much more astonish'd than delighted,
To find so much good company invited.
He did not know (alas! how men will lie)
That a report (especially the Greeks)
Avouch'd his death (such people never die),
And put his house in mourning several weeks,--
But now their eyes and also lips were dry;
The bloom, too, had return'd to Haidee's cheeks,
Her tears, too, being return'd into their fount,
She now kept house upon her own account.
Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and fiddling,
Which turn'd the isle into a place of pleasure;
The servants all were getting drunk or idling,
A life which made them happy beyond measure.
Her father's hospitality seem'd middling,
Compared with what Haidee did with his treasure;
'T was wonderful how things went on improving,
While she had not one hour to spare from loving.
Perhaps you think in stumbling on this feast
He flew into a passion, and in fact
There was no mighty reason to be pleased;
Perhaps you prophesy some sudden act,
The whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least,
To teach his people to be more exact,
And that, proceeding at a very high rate,
He show'd the royal penchants of a pirate.
You 're wrong.--He was the mildest manner'd man
That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat:
With such true breeding of a gentleman,
You never could divine his real thought;
No courtier could, and scarcely woman can
Gird more deceit within a petticoat;
Pity he loved adventurous life's variety,
He was so great a loss to good society.
Advancing to the nearest dinner tray,
Tapping the shoulder of the nighest guest,
With a peculiar smile, which, by the way,
Boded no good, whatever it express'd,
He ask'd the meaning of this holiday;
The vinous Greek to whom he had address'd
His question, much too merry to divine
The questioner, fill'd up a glass of wine,
And without turning his facetious head,
Over his shoulder, with a Bacchant air,
Presented the o'erflowing cup, and said,
'Talking 's dry work, I have no time to spare.'
A second hiccup'd, 'Our old master 's dead,
You 'd better ask our mistress who 's his heir.'
'Our mistress!' quoth a third: 'Our mistress!--pooh!-
You mean our master--not the old, but new.'
These rascals, being new comers, knew not whom
They thus address'd--and Lambro's visage fell--
And o'er his eye a momentary gloom
Pass'd, but he strove quite courteously to quell
The expression, and endeavouring to resume
His smile, requested one of them to tell
The name and quality of his new patron,
Who seem'd to have turn'd Haidee into a matron.
'I know not,' quoth the fellow, 'who or what
He is, nor whence he came--and little care;
But this I know, that this roast capon 's fat,
And that good wine ne'er wash'd down better fare;
And if you are not satisfied with that,
Direct your questions to my neighbour there;
He 'll answer all for better or for worse,
For none likes more to hear himself converse.'
I said that Lambro was a man of patience,
And certainly he show'd the best of breeding,
Which scarce even France, the paragon of nations,
E'er saw her most polite of sons exceeding;
He bore these sneers against his near relations,
His own anxiety, his heart, too, bleeding,
The insults, too, of every servile glutton,
Who all the time was eating up his mutton.
Now in a person used to much command--
To bid men come, and go, and come again--
To see his orders done, too, out of hand--
Whether the word was death, or but the chain--
It may seem strange to find his manners bland;
Yet such things are, which I can not explain,
Though doubtless he who can command himself
Is good to govern--almost as a Guelf.
Not that he was not sometimes rash or so,
But never in his real and serious mood;
Then calm, concentrated, and still, and slow,
He lay coil'd like the boa in the wood;
With him it never was a word and blow,
His angry word once o'er, he shed no blood,
But in his silence there was much to rue,
And his one blow left little work for two.
He ask'd no further questions, and proceeded
On to the house, but by a private way,
So that the few who met him hardly heeded,
So little they expected him that day;
If love paternal in his bosom pleaded
For Haidee's sake, is more than I can say,
But certainly to one deem'd dead, returning,
This revel seem'd a curious mode of mourning.
If all the dead could now return to life
(Which God forbid!) or some, or a great many,
For instance, if a husband or his wife
(Nuptial examples are as good as any),
No doubt whate'er might be their former strife,
The present weather would be much more rainy--
Tears shed into the grave of the connection
Would share most probably its resurrection.
He enter'd in the house no more his home,
A thing to human feelings the most trying,
And harder for the heart to overcome,
Perhaps, than even the mental pangs of dying;
To find our hearthstone turn'd into a tomb,
And round its once warm precincts palely lying
The ashes of our hopes, is a deep grief,
Beyond a single gentleman's belief.
He enter'd in the house--his home no more,
For without hearts there is no home; and felt
The solitude of passing his own door
Without a welcome; there he long had dwelt,
There his few peaceful days Time had swept o'er,
There his worn bosom and keen eye would melt
Over the innocence of that sweet child,
His only shrine of feelings undefiled.
He was a man of a strange temperament,
Of mild demeanour though of savage mood,
Moderate in all his habits, and content
With temperance in pleasure, as in food,
Quick to perceive, and strong to bear, and meant
For something better, if not wholly good;
His country's wrongs and his despair to save her
Had stung him from a slave to an enslaver.
The love of power, and rapid gain of gold,
The hardness by long habitude produced,
The dangerous life in which he had grown old,
The mercy he had granted oft abused,
The sights he was accustom'd to behold,
The wild seas, and wild men with whom he cruised,
Had cost his enemies a long repentance,
And made him a good friend, but bad acquaintance.
But something of the spirit of old Greece
Flash'd o'er his soul a few heroic rays,
Such as lit onward to the Golden Fleece
His predecessors in the Colchian days;
T is true he had no ardent love for peace--
Alas! his country show'd no path to praise:
Hate to the world and war with every nation
He waged, in vengeance of her degradation.
Still o'er his mind the influence of the clime
Shed its Ionian elegance, which show'd
Its power unconsciously full many a time,--
A taste seen in the choice of his abode,
A love of music and of scenes sublime,
A pleasure in the gentle stream that flow'd
Past him in crystal, and a joy in flowers,
Bedew'd his spirit in his calmer hours.
But whatsoe'er he had of love reposed
On that beloved daughter; she had been
The only thing which kept his heart unclosed
Amidst the savage deeds he had done and seen;
A lonely pure affection unopposed:
There wanted but the loss of this to wean
His feelings from all milk of human kindness,
And turn him like the Cyclops mad with blindness.
The cubless tigress in her jungle raging
Is dreadful to the shepherd and the flock;
The ocean when its yeasty war is waging
Is awful to the vessel near the rock;
But violent things will sooner bear assuaging,
Their fury being spent by its own shock,
Than the stern, single, deep, and wordless ire
Of a strong human heart, and in a sire.
It is a hard although a common case
To find our children running restive--they
In whom our brightest days we would retrace,
Our little selves re-form'd in finer clay,
Just as old age is creeping on apace,
And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day,
They kindly leave us, though not quite alone,
But in good company--the gout or stone.
Yet a fine family is a fine thing
(Provided they don't come in after dinner);
'T is beautiful to see a matron bring
Her children up (if nursing them don't thin her);
Like cherubs round an altar-piece they cling
To the fire-side (a sight to touch a sinner).
A lady with her daughters or her nieces
Shines like a guinea and seven-shilling pieces.
Old Lambro pass'd unseen a private gate,
And stood within his hall at eventide;
Meantime the lady and her lover sate
At wassail in their beauty and their pride:
An ivory inlaid table spread with state
Before them, and fair slaves on every side;
Gems, gold, and silver, form'd the service mostly,
Mother of pearl and coral the less costly.
The dinner made about a hundred dishes;
Lamb and pistachio nuts--in short, all meats,
And saffron soups, and sweetbreads; and the fishes
Were of the finest that e'er flounced in nets,
Drest to a Sybarite's most pamper'd wishes;
The beverage was various sherbets
Of raisin, orange, and pomegranate juice,
Squeezed through the rind, which makes it best for use.
These were ranged round, each in its crystal ewer,
And fruits, and date-bread loaves closed the repast,
And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure,
In small fine China cups, came in at last;
Gold cups of filigree made to secure
The hand from burning underneath them placed,
Cloves, cinnamon, and saffron too were boil'd
Up with the coffee, which (I think) they spoil'd.
The hangings of the room were tapestry, made
Of velvet panels, each of different hue,
And thick with damask flowers of silk inlaid;
And round them ran a yellow border too;
The upper border, richly wrought, display'd,
Embroider'd delicately o'er with blue,
Soft Persian sentences, in lilac letters,
From poets, or the moralists their betters.
These Oriental writings on the wall,
Quite common in those countries, are a kind
Of monitors adapted to recall,
Like skulls at Memphian banquets, to the mind
The words which shook Belshazzar in his hall,
And took his kingdom from him: You will find,
Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure,
There is no sterner moralist than Pleasure.
A beauty at the season's close grown hectic,
A genius who has drunk himself to death,
A rake turn'd methodistic, or Eclectic
(For that 's the name they like to pray beneath)--
But most, an alderman struck apoplectic,
Are things that really take away the breath,--
And show that late hours, wine, and love are able
To do not much less damage than the table.
Haidee and Juan carpeted their feet
On crimson satin, border'd with pale blue;
Their sofa occupied three parts complete
Of the apartment--and appear'd quite new;
The velvet cushions (for a throne more meet)
Were scarlet, from whose glowing centre grew
A sun emboss'd in gold, whose rays of tissue,
Meridian-like, were seen all light to issue.
Crystal and marble, plate and porcelain,
Had done their work of splendour; Indian mats
And Persian carpets, which the heart bled to stain,
Over the floors were spread; gazelles and cats,
And dwarfs and blacks, and such like things, that gain
Their bread as ministers and favourites (that 's
To say, by degradation) mingled there
As plentiful as in a court, or fair.
There was no want of lofty mirrors, and
The tables, most of ebony inlaid
With mother of pearl or ivory, stood at hand,
Or were of tortoise-shell or rare woods made,
Fretted with gold or silver:--by command,
The greater part of these were ready spread
With viands and sherbets in ice--and wine--
Kept for all comers at all hours to dine.
Of all the dresses I _select_ Haidee's:
She wore two jelicks--one was of pale yellow;
Of azure, pink, and white was her chemise--
'Neath which her breast heaved like a little billow;
With buttons form'd of pearls as large as peas,
All gold and crimson shone her jelick's fellow,
And the striped white gauze baracan that bound her,
Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flow'd round her.
One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely arm,
Lockless--so pliable from the pure gold
That the hand stretch'd and shut it without harm,
The limb which it adorn'd its only mould;
So beautiful--its very shape would charm;
And, clinging as if loath to lose its hold,
The purest ore enclosed the whitest skin
That e'er by precious metal was held in.
Around, as princess of her father's land,
A like gold bar above her instep roll'd
Announced her rank; twelve rings were on her hand;
Her hair was starr'd with gems; her veil's fine fold
Below her breast was fasten'd with a band
Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told;
Her orange silk full Turkish trousers furl'd
About the prettiest ankle in the world.
Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel
Flow'd like an Alpine torrent which the sun
Dyes with his morning light,--and would conceal
Her person if allow'd at large to run,
And still they seem resentfully to feel
The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun
Their bonds whene'er some Zephyr caught began
To offer his young pinion as her fan.
Round her she made an atmosphere of life,
The very air seem'd lighter from her eyes,
They were so soft and beautiful, and rife
With all we can imagine of the skies,
And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife--
Too pure even for the purest human ties;
Her overpowering presence made you feel
It would not be idolatry to kneel.
Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tinged
(It is the country's custom), but in vain;
For those large black eyes were so blackly fringed,
The glossy rebels mock'd the jetty stain,
And in their native beauty stood avenged:
Her nails were touch'd with henna; but again
The power of art was turn'd to nothing, for
They could not look more rosy than before.
The henna should be deeply dyed to make
The skin relieved appear more fairly fair;
She had no need of this, day ne'er will break
On mountain tops more heavenly white than her:
The eye might doubt if it were well awake,
She was so like a vision; I might err,
But Shakspeare also says, 't is very silly
'To gild refined gold, or paint the lily'
Juan had on a shawl of black and gold,
But a white baracan, and so transparent
The sparkling gems beneath you might behold,
Like small stars through the milky way apparent;
His turban, furl'd in many a graceful fold,
An emerald aigrette with Haidee's hair in 't
Surmounted as its clasp--a glowing crescent,
Whose rays shone ever trembling, but incessant.
And now they were diverted by their suite,
Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuchs, and a poet,
Which made their new establishment complete;
The last was of great fame, and liked to show it:
His verses rarely wanted their due feet;
And for his theme--he seldom sung below it,
He being paid to satirize or flatter,
As the psalm says, 'inditing a good matter.'
He praised the present, and abused the past,
Reversing the good custom of old days,
An Eastern anti-jacobin at last
He turn'd, preferring pudding to no praise--
For some few years his lot had been o'ercast
By his seeming independent in his lays,
But now he sung the Sultan and the Pacha
With truth like Southey, and with verse like Crashaw.
He was a man who had seen many changes,
And always changed as true as any needle;
His polar star being one which rather ranges,
And not the fix'd--he knew the way to wheedle:
So vile he 'scaped the doom which oft avenges;
And being fluent (save indeed when fee'd ill),
He lied with such a fervour of intention--
There was no doubt he earn'd his laureate pension.
But he had genius,--when a turncoat has it,
The 'Vates irritabilis' takes care
That without notice few full moons shall pass it;
Even good men like to make the public stare:--
But to my subject--let me see--what was it?-
O!--the third canto--and the pretty pair--
Their loves, and feasts, and house, and dress, and mode
Of living in their insular abode.
Their poet, a sad trimmer, but no less
In company a very pleasant fellow,
Had been the favourite of full many a mess
Of men, and made them speeches when half mellow;
And though his meaning they could rarely guess,
Yet still they deign'd to hiccup or to bellow
The glorious meed of popular applause,
Of which the first ne'er knows the second cause.
But now being lifted into high society,
And having pick'd up several odds and ends
Of free thoughts in his travels for variety,
He deem'd, being in a lone isle, among friends,
That, without any danger of a riot, he
Might for long lying make himself amends;
And, singing as he sung in his warm youth,
Agree to a short armistice with truth.
He had travell'd 'mongst the Arabs, Turks, and Franks,
And knew the self-loves of the different nations;
And having lived with people of all ranks,
Had something ready upon most occasions--
Which got him a few presents and some thanks.
He varied with some skill his adulations;
To 'do at Rome as Romans do,' a piece
Of conduct was which he observed in Greece.
Thus, usually, when he was ask'd to sing,
He gave the different nations something national;
'T was all the same to him--'God save the king,'
Or 'Ca ira,' according to the fashion all:
His muse made increment of any thing,
From the high lyric down to the low rational:
If Pindar sang horse-races, what should hinder
Himself from being as pliable as Pindar?
In France, for instance, he would write a chanson;
In England a six canto quarto tale;
In Spain, he'd make a ballad or romance on
The last war--much the same in Portugal;
In Germany, the Pegasus he 'd prance on
Would be old Goethe's (see what says De Stael);
In Italy he 'd ape the 'Trecentisti;'
In Greece, he sing some sort of hymn like this t' ye:
THE ISLES OF GREECE.
The isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.
The Scian and the Teian muse,
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo further west
Than your sires' 'Islands of the Blest.'
The mountains look on Marathon--
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,
I dream'd that Greece might still be free;
For standing on the Persians' grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.
A king sate on the rocky brow
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;
And ships, by thousands, lay below,
And men in nations;--all were his!
He counted them at break of day--
And when the sun set where were they?
And where are they? and where art thou,
My country? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic lay is tuneless now--
The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?
'T is something, in the dearth of fame,
Though link'd among a fetter'd race,
To feel at least a patriot's shame,
Even as I sing, suffuse my face;
For what is left the poet here?
For Greeks a blush--for Greece a tear.
Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
Must we but blush?--Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylae!
What, silent still? and silent all?
Ah! no;--the voices of the dead
Sound like a distant torrent's fall,
And answer, 'Let one living head,
But one arise,--we come, we come!'
'T is but the living who are dumb.
In vain--in vain: strike other chords;
Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,
And shed the blood of Scio's vine!
Hark! rising to the ignoble call--
How answers each bold Bacchanal!
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget
The nobler and the manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave--
Think ye he meant them for a slave?
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
We will not think of themes like these!
It made Anacreon's song divine:
He served--but served Polycrates--
A tyrant; but our masters then
Were still, at least, our countrymen.
The tyrant of the Chersonese
Was freedom's best and bravest friend;
That tyrant was Miltiades!
O! that the present hour would lend
Another despot of the kind!
Such chains as his were sure to bind.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore,
Exists the remnant of a line
Such as the Doric mothers bore;
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown,
The Heracleidan blood might own.
Trust not for freedom to the Franks--
They have a king who buys and sells;
In native swords, and native ranks,
The only hope of courage dwells;
But Turkish force, and Latin fraud,
Would break your shield, however broad.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
Our virgins dance beneath the shade--
I see their glorious black eyes shine;
But gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves,
To think such breasts must suckle slaves
Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,
Where nothing, save the waves and I,
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
There, swan-like, let me sing and die:
A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine--
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!
Thus sung, or would, or could, or should have sung,
The modern Greek, in tolerable verse;
If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was young,
Yet in these times he might have done much worse:
His strain display'd some feeling--right or wrong;
And feeling, in a poet, is the source
Of others' feeling; but they are such liars,
And take all colours--like the hands of dyers.
But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think;
'T is strange, the shortest letter which man uses
Instead of speech, may form a lasting link
Of ages; to what straits old Time reduces
Frail man, when paper--even a rag like this,
Survives himself, his tomb, and all that 's his.
And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank,
His station, generation, even his nation,
Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank
In chronological commemoration,
Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank,
Or graven stone found in a barrack's station
In digging the foundation of a closet,
May turn his name up, as a rare deposit.
And glory long has made the sages smile;
'T is something, nothing, words, illusion, wind--
Depending more upon the historian's style
Than on the name a person leaves behind:
Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to Hoyle:
The present century was growing blind
To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks,
Until his late life by Archdeacon Coxe.
Milton 's the prince of poets--so we say;
A little heavy, but no less divine:
An independent being in his day--
Learn'd, pious, temperate in love and wine;
But, his life falling into Johnson's way,
We 're told this great high priest of all the Nine
Was whipt at college--a harsh sire--odd spouse,
For the first Mrs. Milton left his house.
All these are, certes, entertaining facts,
Like Shakspeare's stealing deer, Lord Bacon's bribes;
Like Titus' youth, and Caesar's earliest acts;
Like Burns (whom Doctor Currie well describes);
Like Cromwell's pranks;--but although truth exacts
These amiable descriptions from the scribes,
As most essential to their hero's story,
They do not much contribute to his glory.
All are not moralists, like Southey, when
He prated to the world of 'Pantisocracy;'
Or Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who then
Season'd his pedlar poems with democracy;
Or Coleridge, long before his flighty pen
Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy;
When he and Southey, following the same path,
Espoused two partners (milliners of Bath).
Such names at present cut a convict figure,
The very Botany Bay in moral geography;
Their loyal treason, renegado rigour,
Are good manure for their more bare biography.
Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is bigger
Than any since the birthday of typography;
A drowsy frowzy poem, call'd the 'Excursion.'
Writ in a manner which is my aversion.
He there builds up a formidable dyke
Between his own and others' intellect;
But Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, like
Joanna Southcote's Shiloh, and her sect,
Are things which in this century don't strike
The public mind,--so few are the elect;
And the new births of both their stale virginities
Have proved but dropsies, taken for divinities.
But let me to my story: I must own,
If I have any fault, it is digression--
Leaving my people to proceed alone,
While I soliloquize beyond expression;
But these are my addresses from the throne,
Which put off business to the ensuing session:
Forgetting each omission is a loss to
The world, not quite so great as Ariosto.
I know that what our neighbours call 'longueurs'
(We 've not so good a word, but have the thing
In that complete perfection which ensures
An epic from Bob Southey every spring),
Form not the true temptation which allures
The reader; but 't would not be hard to bring
Some fine examples of the epopee,
To prove its grand ingredient is ennui.
We learn from Horace, 'Homer sometimes sleeps;'
We feel without him, Wordsworth sometimes wakes,--
To show with what complacency he creeps,
With his dear 'Waggoners,' around his lakes.
He wishes for 'a boat' to sail the deeps--
Of ocean?--No, of air; and then he makes
Another outcry for 'a little boat,'
And drivels seas to set it well afloat.
If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal plain,
And Pegasus runs restive in his 'Waggon,'
Could he not beg the loan of Charles's Wain?
Or pray Medea for a single dragon?
Or if, too classic for his vulgar brain,
He fear'd his neck to venture such a nag on,
And he must needs mount nearer to the moon,
Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon?
'Pedlars,' and 'Boats,' and 'Waggons!' Oh! ye shades
Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this?
That trash of such sort not alone evades
Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss
Floats scumlike uppermost, and these Jack Cades
Of sense and song above your graves may hiss--
The 'little boatman' and his 'Peter Bell'
Can sneer at him who drew 'Achitophel'!
T' our tale.--The feast was over, the slaves gone,
The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired;
The Arab lore and poet's song were done,
And every sound of revelry expired;
The lady and her lover, left alone,
The rosy flood of twilight's sky admired;--
Ave Maria! o'er the earth and sea,
That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee!
Ave Maria! blessed be the hour!
The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft
Have felt that moment in its fullest power
Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft,
While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,
Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft,
And not a breath crept through the rosy air,
And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer.
Ave Maria! 't is the hour of prayer!
Ave Maria! 't is the hour of love!
Ave Maria! may our spirits dare
Look up to thine and to thy Son's above!
Ave Maria! oh that face so fair!
Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty dove--
What though 't is but a pictured image?--strike--
That painting is no idol,--'t is too like.
Some kinder casuists are pleased to say,
In nameless print--that I have no devotion;
But set those persons down with me to pray,
And you shall see who has the properest notion
Of getting into heaven the shortest way;
My altars are the mountains and the ocean,
Earth, air, stars,--all that springs from the great Whole,
Who hath produced, and will receive the soul.
Sweet hour of twilight!--in the solitude
Of the pine forest, and the silent shore
Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood,
Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er,
To where the last Caesarean fortress stood,
Evergreen forest! which Boccaccio's lore
And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me,
How have I loved the twilight hour and thee!
The shrill cicadas, people of the pine,
Making their summer lives one ceaseless song,
Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine,
And vesper bell's that rose the boughs along;
The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line,
His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng
Which learn'd from this example not to fly
From a true lover,--shadow'd my mind's eye.
O, Hesperus! thou bringest all good things--
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer,
To the young bird the parent's brooding wings,
The welcome stall to the o'erlabour'd steer;
Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings,
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear,
Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest;
Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast.
Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day
When they from their sweet friends are torn apart;
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way
As the far bell of vesper makes him start,
Seeming to weep the dying day's decay;
Is this a fancy which our reason scorns?
Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns!
When Nero perish'd by the justest doom
Which ever the destroyer yet destroy'd,
Amidst the roar of liberated Rome,
Of nations freed, and the world overjoy'd,
Some hands unseen strew'd flowers upon his tomb:
Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void
Of feeling for some kindness done, when power
Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour.
But I 'm digressing; what on earth has Nero,
Or any such like sovereign buffoons,
To do with the transactions of my hero,
More than such madmen's fellow man--the moon's?
Sure my invention must be down at zero,
And I grown one of many 'wooden spoons'
Of verse (the name with which we Cantabs please
To dub the last of honours in degrees).
I feel this tediousness will never do--
'T is being too epic, and I must cut down
(In copying) this long canto into two;
They 'll never find it out, unless I own
The fact, excepting some experienced few;
And then as an improvement 't will be shown:
I 'll prove that such the opinion of the critic is
From Aristotle passim.--See poietikes.
CANTO THE FOURTH.
Nothing so difficult as a beginning
In poesy, unless perhaps the end;
For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning
The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend,
Like Lucifer when hurl'd from heaven for sinning;
Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend,
Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far,
Till our own weakness shows us what we are.
But Time, which brings all beings to their level,
And sharp Adversity, will teach at last
Man,--and, as we would hope,--perhaps the devil,
That neither of their intellects are vast:
While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel,
We know not this--the blood flows on too fast;
But as the torrent widens towards the ocean,
We ponder deeply on each past emotion.
As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow,
And wish'd that others held the same opinion;
They took it up when my days grew more mellow,
And other minds acknowledged my dominion:
Now my sere fancy 'falls into the yellow
Leaf,' and Imagination droops her pinion,
And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk
Turns what was once romantic to burlesque.
And if I laugh at any mortal thing,
'T is that I may not weep; and if I weep,
'T is that our nature cannot always bring
Itself to apathy, for we must steep
Our hearts first in the depths of Lethe's spring,
Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep:
Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx;
A mortal mother would on Lethe fix.
Some have accused me of a strange design
Against the creed and morals of the land,
And trace it in this poem every line:
I don't pretend that I quite understand
My own meaning when I would be very fine;
But the fact is that I have nothing plann'd,
Unless it were to be a moment merry,
A novel word in my vocabulary.
To the kind reader of our sober clime
This way of writing will appear exotic;
Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme,
Who sang when chivalry was more Quixotic,
And revell'd in the fancies of the time,
True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, kings despotic:
But all these, save the last, being obsolete,
I chose a modern subject as more meet.
How I have treated it, I do not know;
Perhaps no better than they have treated me
Who have imputed such designs as show
Not what they saw, but what they wish'd to see:
But if it gives them pleasure, be it so;
This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free:
Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear,
And tells me to resume my story here.
Young Juan and his lady-love were left
To their own hearts' most sweet society;
Even Time the pitiless in sorrow cleft
With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms; he
Sigh'd to behold them of their hours bereft,
Though foe to love; and yet they could not be
Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring,
Before one charm or hope had taken wing.
Their faces were not made for wrinkles, their
Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts to fail;
The blank grey was not made to blast their hair,
But like the climes that know nor snow nor hail
They were all summer: lightning might assail
And shiver them to ashes, but to trail
A long and snake-like life of dull decay
Was not for them--they had too little day.
They were alone once more; for them to be
Thus was another Eden; they were never
Weary, unless when separate: the tree
Cut from its forest root of years--the river
Damm'd from its fountain--the child from the knee
And breast maternal wean'd at once for ever,--
Would wither less than these two torn apart;
Alas! there is no instinct like the heart--
The heart--which may be broken: happy they!
Thrice fortunate! who of that fragile mould,
The precious porcelain of human clay,
Break with the first fall: they can ne'er behold
The long year link'd with heavy day on day,
And all which must be borne, and never told;
While life's strange principle will often lie
Deepest in those who long the most to die.
'Whom the gods love die young,' was said of yore,
And many deaths do they escape by this:
The death of friends, and that which slays even more--
The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is,
Except mere breath; and since the silent shore
Awaits at last even those who longest miss
The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early grave
Which men weep over may be meant to save.
Haidee and Juan thought not of the dead--
The heavens, and earth, and air, seem'd made for them:
They found no fault with Time, save that he fled;
They saw not in themselves aught to condemn:
Each was the other's mirror, and but read
Joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem,
And knew such brightness was but the reflection
Of their exchanging glances of affection.
The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch,
The least glance better understood than words,
Which still said all, and ne'er could say too much;
A language, too, but like to that of birds,
Known but to them, at least appearing such
As but to lovers a true sense affords;
Sweet playful phrases, which would seem absurd
To those who have ceased to hear such, or ne'er heard,--
All these were theirs, for they were children still,
And children still they should have ever been;
They were not made in the real world to fill
A busy character in the dull scene,
But like two beings born from out a rill,
A nymph and her beloved, all unseen
To pass their lives in fountains and on flowers,
And never know the weight of human hours.
Moons changing had roll'd on, and changeless found
Those their bright rise had lighted to such joys
As rarely they beheld throughout their round;
And these were not of the vain kind which cloys,
For theirs were buoyant spirits, never bound
By the mere senses; and that which destroys
Most love, possession, unto them appear'd
A thing which each endearment more endear'd.
O beautiful! and rare as beautiful
But theirs was love in which the mind delights
To lose itself when the old world grows dull,
And we are sick of its hack sounds and sights,
Intrigues, adventures of the common school,
Its petty passions, marriages, and flights,
Where Hymen's torch but brands one strumpet more,
Whose husband only knows her not a wh--re.
Hard words; harsh truth; a truth which many know.
Enough.--The faithful and the fairy pair,
Who never found a single hour too slow,
What was it made them thus exempt from care?
Young innate feelings all have felt below,
Which perish in the rest, but in them were
Inherent--what we mortals call romantic,
And always envy, though we deem it frantic.
This is in others a factitious state,
An opium dream of too much youth and reading,
But was in them their nature or their fate:
No novels e'er had set their young hearts bleeding,
For Haidee's knowledge was by no means great,
And Juan was a boy of saintly breeding;
So that there was no reason for their loves
More than for those of nightingales or doves.
They gazed upon the sunset; 't is an hour
Dear unto all, but dearest to their eyes,
For it had made them what they were: the power
Of love had first o'erwhelm'd them from such skies,
When happiness had been their only dower,
And twilight saw them link'd in passion's ties;
Charm'd with each other, all things charm'd that brought
The past still welcome as the present thought.
I know not why, but in that hour to-night,
Even as they gazed, a sudden tremor came,
And swept, as 't were, across their hearts' delight,
Like the wind o'er a harp-string, or a flame,
When one is shook in sound, and one in sight;
And thus some boding flash'd through either frame,
And call'd from Juan's breast a faint low sigh,
While one new tear arose in Haidee's eye.
That large black prophet eye seem'd to dilate
And follow far the disappearing sun,
As if their last day! of a happy date
With his broad, bright, and dropping orb were gone;
Juan gazed on her as to ask his fate--
He felt a grief, but knowing cause for none,
His glance inquired of hers for some excuse
For feelings causeless, or at least abstruse.
She turn'd to him, and smiled, but in that sort
Which makes not others smile; then turn'd aside:
Whatever feeling shook her, it seem'd short,
And master'd by her wisdom or her pride;
When Juan spoke, too--it might be in sport--
Of this their mutual feeling, she replied--
'If it should be so,--but--it cannot be--
Or I at least shall not survive to see.'
Juan would question further, but she press'd
His lip to hers, and silenced him with this,
And then dismiss'd the omen from her breast,
Defying augury with that fond kiss;
And no doubt of all methods 't is the best:
Some people prefer wine--'t is not amiss;
I have tried both; so those who would a part take
May choose between the headache and the heartache.
One of the two, according to your choice,
Woman or wine, you 'll have to undergo;
Both maladies are taxes on our joys:
But which to choose, I really hardly know;
And if I had to give a casting voice,
For both sides I could many reasons show,
And then decide, without great wrong to either,
It were much better to have both than neither.
Juan and Haidee gazed upon each other
With swimming looks of speechless tenderness,
Which mix'd all feelings, friend, child, lover, brother,
All that the best can mingle and express
When two pure hearts are pour'd in one another,
And love too much, and yet can not love less;
But almost sanctify the sweet excess
By the immortal wish and power to bless.
Mix'd in each other's arms, and heart in heart,
Why did they not then die?--they had lived too long
Should an hour come to bid them breathe apart;
Years could but bring them cruel things or wrong;
The world was not for them, nor the world's art
For beings passionate as Sappho's song;
Love was born with them, in them, so intense,
It was their very spirit--not a sense.
They should have lived together deep in woods,
Unseen as sings the nightingale; they were
Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes
Call'd social, haunts of Hate, and Vice, and Care:
How lonely every freeborn creature broods!
The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair;
The eagle soars alone; the gull and crow
Flock o'er their carrion, just like men below.
Now pillow'd cheek to cheek, in loving sleep,
Haidee and Juan their siesta took,
A gentle slumber, but it was not deep,
For ever and anon a something shook
Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would creep;
And Haidee's sweet lips murmur'd like a brook
A wordless music, and her face so fair
Stirr'd with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air.
Or as the stirring of a deep dear stream
Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind
Walks o'er it, was she shaken by the dream,
The mystical usurper of the mind--
O'erpowering us to be whate'er may seem
Good to the soul which we no more can bind;
Strange state of being! (for 't is still to be)
Senseless to feel, and with seal'd eyes to see.
She dream'd of being alone on the sea-shore,
Chain'd to a rock; she knew not how, but stir
She could not from the spot, and the loud roar
Grew, and each wave rose roughly, threatening her;
And o'er her upper lip they seem'd to pour,
Until she sobb'd for breath, and soon they were
Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and high--
Each broke to drown her, yet she could not die.
Anon--she was released, and then she stray'd
O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet,
And stumbled almost every step she made;
And something roll'd before her in a sheet,
Which she must still pursue howe'er afraid:
'T was white and indistinct, nor stopp'd to meet
Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed, and grasp'd,
And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd.
The dream changed:--in a cave she stood, its walls
Were hung with marble icicles, the work
Of ages on its water-fretted halls,
Where waves might wash, and seals might breed and lurk;
Her hair was dripping, and the very balls
Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, and mirk
The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they caught,
Which froze to marble as it fell,--she thought.
And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet,
Pale as the foam that froth'd on his dead brow,
Which she essay'd in vain to clear (how sweet
Were once her cares, how idle seem'd they now!),
Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat
Of his quench'd heart; and the sea dirges low
Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid's song,
And that brief dream appear'd a life too long.
And gazing on the dead, she thought his face
Faded, or alter'd into something new--
Like to her father's features, till each trace--
More like and like to Lambro's aspect grew--
With all his keen worn look and Grecian grace;
And starting, she awoke, and what to view?
O! Powers of Heaven! what dark eye meets she there?
'T is--'t is her father's--fix'd upon the pair!
Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking fell,
With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to see
Him whom she deem'd a habitant where dwell
The ocean-buried, risen from death, to be
Perchance the death of one she loved too well:
Dear as her father had been to Haidee,
It was a moment of that awful kind--
I have seen such--but must not call to mind.
Up Juan sprung to Haidee's bitter shriek,
And caught her falling, and from off the wall
Snatch'd down his sabre, in hot haste to wreak
Vengeance on him who was the cause of all:
Then Lambro, who till now forbore to speak,
Smiled scornfully, and said, 'Within my call,
A thousand scimitars await the word;
Put up, young man, put up your silly sword.'
And Haidee clung around him; 'Juan, 't is--
'T is Lambro--'t is my father! Kneel with me--
He will forgive us--yes--it must be--yes.
O! dearest father, in this agony
Of pleasure and of pain--even while I kiss
Thy garment's hem with transport, can it be
That doubt should mingle with my filial joy?
Deal with me as thou wilt, but spare this boy.'
High and inscrutable the old man stood,
Calm in his voice, and calm within his eye--
Not always signs with him of calmest mood:
He look'd upon her, but gave no reply;
Then turn'd to Juan, in whose cheek the blood
Oft came and went, as there resolved to die;
In arms, at least, he stood, in act to spring
On the first foe whom Lambro's call might bring.
'Young man, your sword;' so Lambro once more said:
Juan replied, 'Not while this arm is free.'
The old man's cheek grew pale, but not with dread,
And drawing from his belt a pistol, he
Replied, 'Your blood be then on your own head.'
Then look'd dose at the flint, as if to see
'T was fresh--for he had lately used the lock--
And next proceeded quietly to cock.
It has a strange quick jar upon the ear,
That cocking of a pistol, when you know
A moment more will bring the sight to bear
Upon your person, twelve yards off, or so;
A gentlemanly distance, not too near,
If you have got a former friend for foe;
But after being fired at once or twice,
The ear becomes more Irish, and less nice.
Lambro presented, and one instant more
Had stopp'd this Canto, and Don Juan's breath,
When Haidee threw herself her boy before;
Stern as her sire: 'On me,' she cried, 'let death
Descend--the fault is mine; this fatal shore
He found--but sought not. I have pledged my faith;
I love him--I will die with him: I knew
Your nature's firmness--know your daughter's too.'
A minute past, and she had been all tears,
And tenderness, and infancy; but now
She stood as one who champion'd human fears--
Pale, statue-like, and stern, she woo'd the blow;
And tall beyond her sex, and their compeers,
She drew up to her height, as if to show
A fairer mark; and with a fix'd eye scann'd
Her father's face--but never stopp'd his hand.
He gazed on her, and she on him; 't was strange
How like they look'd! the expression was the same;
Serenely savage, with a little change
In the large dark eye's mutual-darted flame;
For she, too, was as one who could avenge,
If cause should be--a lioness, though tame.
Her father's blood before her father's face
Boil'd up, and proved her truly of his race.
I said they were alike, their features and
Their stature, differing but in sex and years;
Even to the delicacy of their hand
There was resemblance, such as true blood wears;
And now to see them, thus divided, stand
In fix'd ferocity, when joyous tears
And sweet sensations should have welcomed both,
Show what the passions are in their full growth.
The father paused a moment, then withdrew
His weapon, and replaced it; but stood still,
And looking on her, as to look her through,
'Not I,' he said, 'have sought this stranger's ill;
Not I have made this desolation: few
Would bear such outrage, and forbear to kill;
But I must do my duty--how thou hast
Done thine, the present vouches for the past.
'Let him disarm; or, by my father's head,
His own shall roll before you like a ball!'
He raised his whistle, as the word he said,
And blew; another answer'd to the call,
And rushing in disorderly, though led,
And arm'd from boot to turban, one and all,
Some twenty of his train came, rank on rank;
He gave the word,--'Arrest or slay the Frank.'
Then, with a sudden movement, he withdrew
His daughter; while compress'd within his clasp,
'Twixt her and Juan interposed the crew;
In vain she struggled in her father's grasp--
His arms were like a serpent's coil: then flew
Upon their prey, as darts an angry asp,
The file of pirates; save the foremost, who
Had fallen, with his right shoulder half cut through.
The second had his cheek laid open; but
The third, a wary, cool old sworder, took
The blows upon his cutlass, and then put
His own well in; so well, ere you could look,
His man was floor'd, and helpless at his foot,
With the blood running like a little brook
From two smart sabre gashes, deep and red--
One on the arm, the other on the head.
And then they bound him where he fell, and bore
Juan from the apartment: with a sign
Old Lambro bade them take him to the shore,
Where lay some ships which were to sail at nine.
They laid him in a boat, and plied the oar
Until they reach'd some galliots, placed in line;
On board of one of these, and under hatches,
They stow'd him, with strict orders to the watches.
The world is full of strange vicissitudes,
And here was one exceedingly unpleasant:
A gentleman so rich in the world's goods,
Handsome and young, enjoying all the present,
Just at the very time when he least broods
On such a thing is suddenly to sea sent,
Wounded and chain'd, so that he cannot move,
And all because a lady fell in love.
Here I must leave him, for I grow pathetic,
Moved by the Chinese nymph of tears, green tea!
Than whom Cassandra was not more prophetic;
For if my pure libations exceed three,
I feel my heart become so sympathetic,
That I must have recourse to black Bohea:
'T is pity wine should be so _delete_rious,
For tea and coffee leave us much more serious,
Unless when qualified with thee, Cogniac!
Sweet Naiad of the Phlegethontic rill!
Ah! why the liver wilt thou thus attack,
And make, like other nymphs, thy lovers ill?
I would take refuge in weak punch, but rack
(In each sense of the word), whene'er I fill
My mild and midnight beakers to the brim,
Wakes me next morning with its synonym.
I leave Don Juan for the present, safe--
Not sound, poor fellow, but severely wounded;
Yet could his corporal pangs amount to half
Of those with which his Haidee's bosom bounded?
She was not one to weep, and rave, and chafe,
And then give way, subdued because surrounded;
Her mother was a Moorish maid, from Fez,
Where all is Eden, or a wilderness.
There the large olive rains its amber store
In marble fonts; there grain, and flower, and fruit,
Gush from the earth until the land runs o'er;
But there, too, many a poison-tree has root,
And midnight listens to the lion's roar,
And long, long deserts scorch the camel's foot,
Or heaving whelm the helpless caravan;
And as the soil is, so the heart of man.
Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth
Her human day is kindled; full of power
For good or evil, burning from its birth,
The Moorish blood partakes the planet's hour,
And like the soil beneath it will bring forth:
Beauty and love were Haidee's mother's dower;
But her large dark eye show'd deep Passion's force,
Though sleeping like a lion near a source.
Her daughter, temper'd with a milder ray,
Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and fair,
Till slowly charged with thunder they display
Terror to earth, and tempest to the air,
Had held till now her soft and milky way;
But overwrought with passion and despair,
The fire burst forth from her Numidian veins,
Even as the Simoom sweeps the blasted plains.
The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore,
And he himself o'ermaster'd and cut down;
His blood was running on the very floor
Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own;
Thus much she view'd an instant and no more,--
Her struggles ceased with one convulsive groan;
On her sire's arm, which until now scarce held
Her writhing, fell she like a cedar fell'd.
A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes
Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er;
And her head droop'd as when the lily lies
O'ercharged with rain: her summon'd handmaids bore
Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes;
Of herbs and cordials they produced their store,
But she defied all means they could employ,
Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy.
Days lay she in that state unchanged, though chill--
With nothing livid, still her lips were red;
She had no pulse, but death seem'd absent still;
No hideous sign proclaim'd her surely dead;
Corruption came not in each mind to kill
All hope; to look upon her sweet face bred
New thoughts of life, for it seem'd full of soul--
She had so much, earth could not claim the whole.
The ruling passion, such as marble shows
When exquisitely chisell'd, still lay there,
But fix'd as marble's unchanged aspect throws
O'er the fair Venus, but for ever fair;
O'er the Laocoon's all eternal throes,
And ever-dying Gladiator's air,
Their energy like life forms all their fame,
Yet looks not life, for they are still the same.
She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake,
Rather the dead, for life seem'd something new,
A strange sensation which she must partake
Perforce, since whatsoever met her view
Struck not on memory, though a heavy ache
Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat still true
Brought back the sense of pain without the cause,
For, for a while, the furies made a pause.
She look'd on many a face with vacant eye,
On many a token without knowing what;
She saw them watch her without asking why,
And reck'd not who around her pillow sat;
Not speechless, though she spoke not; not a sigh
Relieved her thoughts; dull silence and quick chat
Were tried in vain by those who served; she gave
No sign, save breath, of having left the grave.
Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not;
Her father watch'd, she turn'd her eyes away;
She recognized no being, and no spot,
However dear or cherish'd in their day;
They changed from room to room--but all forgot--
Gentle, but without memory she lay;
At length those eyes, which they would fain be weaning
Back to old thoughts, wax'd full of fearful meaning.
And then a slave bethought her of a harp;
The harper came, and tuned his instrument;
At the first notes, irregular and sharp,
On him her flashing eyes a moment bent,
Then to the wall she turn'd as if to warp
Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re-sent;
And he begun a long low island song
Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong.
Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall
In time to his old tune; he changed the theme,
And sung of love; the fierce name struck through all
Her recollection; on her flash'd the dream
Of what she was, and is, if ye could call
To be so being; in a gushing stream
The tears rush'd forth from her o'erclouded brain,
Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain.
Short solace, vain relief!--thought came too quick,
And whirl'd her brain to madness; she arose
As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick,
And flew at all she met, as on her foes;
But no one ever heard her speak or shriek,
Although her paroxysm drew towards its dose;--
Hers was a phrensy which disdain'd to rave,
Even when they smote her, in the hope to save.
Yet she betray'd at times a gleam of sense;
Nothing could make her meet her father's face,
Though on all other things with looks intense
She gazed, but none she ever could retrace;
Food she refused, and raiment; no pretence
Avail'd for either; neither change of place,
Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her
Senses to sleep--the power seem'd gone for ever.
Twelve days and nights she wither'd thus; at last,
Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show
A parting pang, the spirit from her past:
And they who watch'd her nearest could not know
The very instant, till the change that cast
Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow,
Glazed o'er her eyes--the beautiful, the black--
O! to possess such lustre--and then lack!
She died, but not alone; she held within
A second principle of life, which might
Have dawn'd a fair and sinless child of sin;
But closed its little being without light,
And went down to the grave unborn, wherein
Blossom and bough lie wither'd with one blight;
In vain the dews of Heaven descend above
The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of love.
Thus lived--thus died she; never more on her
Shall sorrow light, or shame. She was not made
Through years or moons the inner weight to bear,
Which colder hearts endure till they are laid
By age in earth: her days and pleasures were
Brief, but delightful--such as had not staid
Long with her destiny; but she sleeps well
By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to dwell.
That isle is now all desolate and bare,
Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd away;
None but her own and father's grave is there,
And nothing outward tells of human clay;
Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair,
No stone is there to show, no tongue to say
What was; no dirge, except the hollow sea's,
Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades.
But many a Greek maid in a loving song
Sighs o'er her name; and many an islander
With her sire's story makes the night less long;
Valour was his, and beauty dwelt with her:
If she loved rashly, her life paid for wrong--
A heavy price must all pay who thus err,
In some shape; let none think to fly the danger,
For soon or late Love is his own avenger.
But let me change this theme which grows too sad,
And lay this sheet of sorrows on the shelf;
I don't much like describing people mad,
For fear of seeming rather touch'd myself--
Besides, I 've no more on this head to add;
And as my Muse is a capricious elf,
We 'll put about, and try another tack
With Juan, left half-kill'd some stanzas back.
Wounded and fetter'd, 'cabin'd, cribb'd, confined,'
Some days and nights elapsed before that he
Could altogether call the past to mind;
And when he did, he found himself at sea,
Sailing six knots an hour before the wind;
The shores of Ilion lay beneath their lee--
Another time he might have liked to see 'em,
But now was not much pleased with Cape Sigaeum.
There, on the green and village-cotted hill, is
(Flank'd by the Hellespont and by the sea)
Entomb'd the bravest of the brave, Achilles;
They say so (Bryant says the contrary):
And further downward, tall and towering still, is
The tumulus--of whom? Heaven knows! 't may be
Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus--
All heroes, who if living still would slay us.
High barrows, without marble or a name,
A vast, untill'd, and mountain-skirted plain,
And Ida in the distance, still the same,
And old Scamander (if 't is he) remain;
The situation seems still form'd for fame--
A hundred thousand men might fight again
With case; but where I sought for Ilion's walls,
The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise crawls;
Troops of untended horses; here and there
Some little hamlets, with new names uncouth;
Some shepherds (unlike Paris) led to stare
A moment at the European youth
Whom to the spot their school-boy feelings bear;
A turk, with beads in hand and pipe in mouth,
Extremely taken with his own religion,
Are what I found there--but the devil a Phrygian.
Don Juan, here permitted to emerge
From his dull cabin, found himself a slave;
Forlorn, and gazing on the deep blue surge,
O'ershadow'd there by many a hero's grave;
Weak still with loss of blood, he scarce could urge
A few brief questions; and the answers gave
No very satisfactory information
About his past or present situation.
He saw some fellow captives, who appear'd
To be Italians, as they were in fact;
From them, at least, their destiny he heard,
Which was an odd one; a troop going to act
In Sicily (all singers, duly rear'd
In their vocation) had not been attack'd
In sailing from Livorno by the pirate,
But sold by the impresario at no high rate.
By one of these, the buffo of the party,
Juan was told about their curious case;
For although destined to the Turkish mart, he
Still kept his spirits up--at least his face;
The little fellow really look'd quite hearty,
And bore him with some gaiety and grace,
Showing a much more reconciled demeanour,
Than did the prima donna and the tenor.
In a few words he told their hapless story,
Saying, 'Our Machiavellian impresario,
Making a signal off some promontory,
Hail'd a strange brig--Corpo di Caio Mario!
We were transferr'd on board her in a hurry,
Without a Single scudo of salario;
But if the Sultan has a taste for song,
We will revive our fortunes before long.
'The prima donna, though a little old,
And haggard with a dissipated life,
And subject, when the house is thin, to cold,
Has some good notes; and then the tenor's wife,
With no great voice, is pleasing to behold;
Last carnival she made a deal of strife
By carrying off Count Cesare Cicogna
From an old Roman princess at Bologna.
'And then there are the dancers; there 's the Nini,
With more than one profession, gains by all;
Then there 's that laughing slut the Pelegrini,
She, too, was fortunate last carnival,
And made at least five hundred good zecchini,
But spends so fast, she has not now a paul;
And then there 's the Grotesca--such a dancer!
Where men have souls or bodies she must answer.
'As for the figuranti, they are like
The rest of all that tribe; with here and there
A pretty person, which perhaps may strike,
The rest are hardly fitted for a fair;
There 's one, though tall and stiffer than a pike,
Yet has a sentimental kind of air
Which might go far, but she don't dance with vigour;
The more 's the pity, with her face and figure.
'As for the men, they are a middling set;
The musico is but a crack'd old basin,
But being qualified in one way yet,
May the seraglio do to set his face in,
And as a servant some preferment get;
His singing I no further trust can place in:
From all the Pope makes yearly 't would perplex
To find three perfect pipes of the third sex.
'The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation,
And for the bass, the beast can only bellow;
In fact, he had no singing education,
An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow;
But being the prima donna's near relation,
Who swore his voice was very rich and mellow,
They hired him, though to hear him you 'd believe
An ass was practising recitative.
''T would not become myself to dwell upon
My own merits, and though young--I see, Sir--you
Have got a travell'd air, which speaks you one
To whom the opera is by no means new:
You 've heard of Raucocanti?--I 'm the man;
The time may come when you may hear me too;
You was not last year at the fair of Lugo,
But next, when I 'm engaged to sing there--do go.
'Our baritone I almost had forgot,
A pretty lad, but bursting with conceit;
With graceful action, science not a jot,
A voice of no great compass, and not sweet,
He always is complaining of his lot,
Forsooth, scarce fit for ballads in the street;
In lovers' parts his passion more to breathe,
Having no heart to show, he shows his teeth.'
Here Raucocanti's eloquent recital
Was interrupted by the pirate crew,
Who came at stated moments to invite all
The captives back to their sad berths; each threw
A rueful glance upon the waves (which bright all
From the blue skies derived a double blue,
Dancing all free and happy in the sun),
And then went down the hatchway one by one.
They heard next day--that in the Dardanelles,
Waiting for his Sublimity's firman,
The most imperative of sovereign spells,
Which every body does without who can,
More to secure them in their naval cells,
Lady to lady, well as man to man,
Were to be chain'd and lotted out per couple,
For the slave market of Constantinople.
It seems when this allotment was made out,
There chanced to be an odd male, and odd female,
Who (after some discussion and some doubt,
If the soprano might be deem'd to be male,
They placed him o'er the women as a scout)
Were link'd together, and it happen'd the male
Was Juan,--who, an awkward thing at his age,
Pair'd off with a Bacchante blooming visage.
With Raucocanti lucklessly was chain'd
The tenor; these two hated with a hate
Found only on the stage, and each more pain'd
With this his tuneful neighbour than his fate;
Sad strife arose, for they were so cross-grain'd,
Instead of bearing up without debate,
That each pull'd different ways with many an oath,
'Arcades ambo,' id est--blackguards both.
Juan's companion was a Romagnole,
But bred within the March of old Ancona,
With eyes that look'd into the very soul
(And other chief points of a 'bella donna'),
Bright--and as black and burning as a coal;
And through her dear brunette complexion shone
Great wish to please--a most attractive dower,
Especially when added to the power.
But all that power was wasted upon him,
For sorrow o'er each sense held stern command;
Her eye might flash on his, but found it dim;
And though thus chain'd, as natural her hand
Touch'd his, nor that--nor any handsome limb
(And she had some not easy to withstand)
Could stir his pulse, or make his faith feel brittle;
Perhaps his recent wounds might help a little.
No matter; we should ne'er too much enquire,
But facts are facts: no knight could be more true,
And firmer faith no ladye--love desire;
We will omit the proofs, save one or two:
'T is said no one in hand 'can hold a fire
By thought of frosty Caucasus;' but few,
I really think; yet Juan's then ordeal
Was more triumphant, and not much less real.
Here I might enter on a chaste description,
Having withstood temptation in my youth,
But hear that several people take exception
At the first two books having too much truth;
Therefore I 'll make Don Juan leave the ship soon,
Because the publisher declares, in sooth,
Through needles' eyes it easier for the camel is
To pass, than those two cantos into families.
'T is all the same to me; I 'm fond of yielding,
And therefore leave them to the purer page
Of Smollett, Prior, Ariosto, Fielding,
Who say strange things for so correct an age;
I once had great alacrity in wielding
My pen, and liked poetic war to wage,
And recollect the time when all this cant
Would have provoked remarks which now it shan't.
As boys love rows, my boyhood liked a squabble;
But at this hour I wish to part in peace,
Leaving such to the literary rabble:
Whether my verse's fame be doom'd to cease
While the right hand which wrote it still is able,
Or of some centuries to take a lease,
The grass upon my grave will grow as long,
And sigh to midnight winds, but not to song.
Of poets who come down to us through distance
Of time and tongues, the foster-babes of Fame,
Life seems the smallest portion of existence;
Where twenty ages gather o'er a name,
'T is as a snowball which derives assistance
From every flake, and yet rolls on the same,
Even till an iceberg it may chance to grow;
But, after all, 't is nothing but cold snow.
And so great names are nothing more than nominal,
And love of glory 's but an airy lust,
Too often in its fury overcoming all
Who would as 't were identify their dust
From out the wide destruction, which, entombing all,
Leaves nothing till 'the coming of the just'-
Save change: I 've stood upon Achilles' tomb,
And heard Troy doubted; time will doubt of Rome.
The very generations of the dead
Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb,
Until the memory of an age is fled,
And, buried, sinks beneath its offspring's doom:
Where are the epitaphs our fathers read?
Save a few glean'd from the sepulchral gloom
Which once-named myriads nameless lie beneath,
And lose their own in universal death.
I canter by the spot each afternoon
Where perish'd in his fame the hero-boy,
Who lived too long for men, but died too soon
For human vanity, the young De Foix!
A broken pillar, not uncouthly hewn,
But which neglect is hastening to destroy,
Records Ravenna's carnage on its face,
While weeds and ordure rankle round the base.
I pass each day where Dante's bones are laid:
A little cupola, more neat than solemn,
Protects his dust, but reverence here is paid
To the bard's tomb, and not the warrior's column.
The time must come, when both alike decay'd,
The chieftain's trophy, and the poet's volume,
Will sink where lie the songs and wars of earth,
Before Pelides' death, or Homer's birth.
With human blood that column was cemented,
With human filth that column is defiled,
As if the peasant's coarse contempt were vented
To show his loathing of the spot he soil'd:
Thus is the trophy used, and thus lamented
Should ever be those blood-hounds, from whose wild
Instinct of gore and glory earth has known
Those sufferings Dante saw in hell alone.
Yet there will still be bards: though fame is smoke,
Its fumes are frankincense to human thought;
And the unquiet feelings, which first woke
Song in the world, will seek what then they sought;
As on the beach the waves at last are broke,
Thus to their extreme verge the passions brought
Dash into poetry, which is but passion,
Or at least was so ere it grew a fashion.
If in the course of such a life as was
At once adventurous and contemplative,
Men, who partake all passions as they pass,
Acquire the deep and bitter power to give
Their images again as in a glass,
And in such colours that they seem to live;
You may do right forbidding them to show 'em,
But spoil (I think) a very pretty poem.
O! ye, who make the fortunes of all books!
Benign Ceruleans of the second sex!
Who advertise new poems by your looks,
Your 'imprimatur' will ye not annex?
What! must I go to the oblivious cooks,
Those Cornish plunderers of Parnassian wrecks?
Ah! must I then the only minstrel be,
Proscribed from tasting your Castalian tea!
What! can I prove 'a lion' then no more?
A ball-room bard, a foolscap, hot-press darling?
To bear the compliments of many a bore,
And sigh, 'I can't get out,' like Yorick's starling;
Why then I 'll swear, as poet Wordy swore
(Because the world won't read him, always snarling),
That taste is gone, that fame is but a lottery,
Drawn by the blue-coat misses of a coterie.
O! 'darkly, deeply, beautifully blue,'
As some one somewhere sings about the sky,
And I, ye learned ladies, say of you;
They say your stockings are so (Heaven knows why,
I have examined few pair of that hue);
Blue as the garters which serenely lie
Round the Patrician left-legs, which adorn
The festal midnight, and the levee morn.
Yet some of you are most seraphic creatures--
But times are alter'd since, a rhyming lover,
You read my stanzas, and I read your features:
And--but no matter, all those things are over;
Still I have no dislike to learned natures,
For sometimes such a world of virtues cover;
I knew one woman of that purple school,
The loveliest, chastest, best, but--quite a fool.
Humboldt, 'the first of travellers,' but not
The last, if late accounts be accurate,
Invented, by some name I have forgot,
As well as the sublime discovery's date,
An airy instrument, with which he sought
To ascertain the atmospheric state,
By measuring 'the intensity of blue:'
O, Lady Daphne! let me measure you!
But to the narrative:--The vessel bound
With slaves to sell off in the capital,
After the usual process, might be found
At anchor under the seraglio wall;
Her cargo, from the plague being safe and sound,
Were landed in the market, one and all,
And there with Georgians, Russians, and Circassians,
Bought up for different purposes and passions.
Some went off dearly; fifteen hundred dollars
For one Circassian, a sweet girl, were given,
Warranted virgin; beauty's brightest colours
Had deck'd her out in all the hues of heaven:
Her sale sent home some disappointed bawlers,
Who bade on till the hundreds reach'd eleven;
But when the offer went beyond, they knew
'T was for the Sultan, and at once withdrew.
Twelve negresses from Nubia brought a price
Which the West Indian market scarce would bring;
Though Wilberforce, at last, has made it twice
What 't was ere Abolition; and the thing
Need not seem very wonderful, for vice
Is always much more splendid than a king:
The virtues, even the most exalted, Charity,
Are saving--vice spares nothing for a rarity.
But for the destiny of this young troop,
How some were bought by pachas, some by Jews,
How some to burdens were obliged to stoop,
And others rose to the command of crews
As renegadoes; while in hapless group,
Hoping no very old vizier might choose,
The females stood, as one by one they pick'd 'em,
To make a mistress, or fourth wife, or victim:
All this must be reserved for further song;
Also our hero's lot, howe'er unpleasant
(Because this Canto has become too long),
Must be postponed discreetly for the present;
I 'm sensible redundancy is wrong,
But could not for the muse of me put less in 't:
And now delay the progress of Don Juan,
Till what is call'd in Ossian the fifth Juan.
[Illustration: Canto 5]
CANTO THE FIFTH.
When amatory poets sing their loves
In liquid lines mellifluously bland,
And pair their rhymes as Venus yokes her doves,
They little think what mischief is in hand;
The greater their success the worse it proves,
As Ovid's verse may give to understand;
Even Petrarch's self, if judged with due severity,
Is the Platonic pimp of all posterity.
I therefore do denounce all amorous writing,
Except in such a way as not to attract;
Plain--simple--short, and by no means inviting,
But with a moral to each error tack'd,
Form'd rather for instructing than delighting,
And with all passions in their turn attack'd;
Now, if my Pegasus should not be shod ill,
This poem will become a moral model.
The European with the Asian shore
Sprinkled with palaces; the ocean stream
Here and there studded with a seventy-four;
Sophia's cupola with golden gleam;
The cypress groves; Olympus high and hoar;
The twelve isles, and the more than I could dream,
Far less describe, present the very view
Which charm'd the charming Mary Montagu.
I have a passion for the name of 'Mary,'
For once it was a magic sound to me;
And still it half calls up the realms of fairy,
Where I beheld what never was to be;
All feelings changed, but this was last to vary,
A spell from which even yet I am not quite free:
But I grow sad--and let a tale grow cold,
Which must not be pathetically told.
The wind swept down the Euxine, and the wave
Broke foaming o'er the blue Symplegades;
'T is a grand sight from off 'the Giant's Grave
To watch the progress of those rolling seas
Between the Bosphorus, as they lash and lave
Europe and Asia, you being quite at ease;
There 's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in,
Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine.
'T was a raw day of Autumn's bleak beginning,
When nights are equal, but not so the days;
The Parcae then cut short the further spinning
Of seamen's fates, and the loud tempests raise
The waters, and repentance for past sinning
In all, who o'er the great deep take their ways:
They vow to amend their lives, and yet they don't;
Because if drown'd, they can't--if spared, they won't.
A crowd of shivering slaves of every nation,
And age, and sex, were in the market ranged;
Each bevy with the merchant in his station:
Poor creatures! their good looks were sadly changed.
All save the blacks seem'd jaded with vexation,
From friends, and home, and freedom far estranged;
The negroes more philosophy display'd,--
Used to it, no doubt, as eels are to be flay'd.
Juan was juvenile, and thus was full,
As most at his age are, of hope and health;
Yet I must own he looked a little dull,
And now and then a tear stole down by stealth;
Perhaps his recent loss of blood might pull
His spirit down; and then the loss of wealth,
A mistress, and such comfortable quarters,
To be put up for auction amongst Tartars,
Were things to shake a stoic; ne'ertheless,
Upon the whole his carriage was serene:
His figure, and the splendour of his dress,
Of which some gilded remnants still were seen,
Drew all eyes on him, giving them to guess
He was above the vulgar by his mien;
And then, though pale, he was so very handsome;
And then--they calculated on his ransom.
Like a backgammon board the place was dotted
With whites and blacks, in groups on show for sale,
Though rather more irregularly spotted:
Some bought the jet, while others chose the pale.
It chanced amongst the other people lotted,
A man of thirty rather stout and hale,
With resolution in his dark grey eye,
Next Juan stood, till some might choose to buy.
He had an English look; that is, was square
In make, of a complexion white and ruddy,
Good teeth, with curling rather dark brown hair,
And, it might be from thought or toil or study,
An open brow a little mark'd with care:
One arm had on a bandage rather bloody;
And there he stood with such sang-froid, that greater
Could scarce be shown even by a mere spectator.
But seeing at his elbow a mere lad,
Of a high spirit evidently, though
At present weigh'd down by a doom which had
O'erthrown even men, he soon began to show
A kind of blunt compassion for the sad
Lot of so young a partner in the woe,
Which for himself he seem'd to deem no worse
Than any other scrape, a thing of course.
'My boy!' said he, 'amidst this motley crew
Of Georgians, Russians, Nubians, and what not,
All ragamuffins differing but in hue,
With whom it is our luck to cast our lot,
The only gentlemen seem I and you;
So let us be acquainted, as we ought:
If I could yield you any consolation,
'T would give me pleasure.--Pray, what is your nation?'
When Juan answer'd--'Spanish!' he replied,
'I thought, in fact, you could not be a Greek;
Those servile dogs are not so proudly eyed:
Fortune has play'd you here a pretty freak,
But that 's her way with all men, till they 're tried;
But never mind,--she 'll turn, perhaps, next week;
She has served me also much the same as you,
Except that I have found it nothing new.'
'Pray, sir,' said Juan, 'if I may presume,
What brought you here?'--'Oh! nothing very rare--
Six Tartars and a drag-chain.'--'To this doom
But what conducted, if the question's fair,
Is that which I would learn.'--'I served for some
Months with the Russian army here and there,
And taking lately, by Suwarrow's bidding,
A town, was ta'en myself instead of Widdin.'
'Have you no friends?'--'I had--but, by God's blessing,
Have not been troubled with them lately. Now
I have answer'd all your questions without pressing,
And you an equal courtesy should show.'
'Alas!' said Juan, ''t were a tale distressing,
And long besides.'--'Oh! if 't is really so,
You 're right on both accounts to hold your tongue;
A sad tale saddens doubly, when 't is long.
'But droop not: Fortune at your time of life,
Although a female moderately fickle,
Will hardly leave you (as she 's not your wife)
For any length of days in such a pickle.
To strive, too, with our fate were such a strife
As if the corn-sheaf should oppose the sickle:
Men are the sport of circumstances, when
The circumstances seem the sport of men.'
''T is not,' said Juan, 'for my present doom
I mourn, but for the past;--I loved a maid:'-
He paused, and his dark eye grew full of gloom;
A single tear upon his eyelash staid
A moment, and then dropp'd; 'but to resume,
'T is not my present lot, as I have said,
Which I deplore so much; for I have borne
Hardships which have the hardiest overworn,
'On the rough deep. But this last blow-' and here
He stopp'd again, and turn'd away his face.
'Ay,' quoth his friend, 'I thought it would appear
That there had been a lady in the case;
And these are things which ask a tender tear,
Such as I, too, would shed if in your place:
I cried upon my first wife's dying day,
And also when my second ran away:
'My third-'--'Your third!' quoth Juan, turning round;
'You scarcely can be thirty: have you three?'
'No--only two at present above ground:
Surely 't is nothing wonderful to see
One person thrice in holy wedlock bound!'
'Well, then, your third,' said Juan; 'what did she?
She did not run away, too,--did she, sir?'
'No, faith.'--'What then?'--'I ran away from her.'
'You take things coolly, sir,' said Juan. 'Why,'
Replied the other, 'what can a man do?
There still are many rainbows in your sky,
But mine have vanish'd. All, when life is new,
Commence with feelings warm, and prospects high;
But time strips our illusions of their hue,
And one by one in turn, some grand mistake
Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake.
''T is true, it gets another bright and fresh,
Or fresher, brighter; but the year gone through,
This skin must go the way, too, of all flesh,
Or sometimes only wear a week or two;--
Love 's the first net which spreads its deadly mesh;
Ambition, Avarice, Vengeance, Glory, glue
The glittering lime-twigs of our latter days,
Where still we flutter on for pence or praise.'
'All this is very fine, and may be true,'
Said Juan; 'but I really don't see how
It betters present times with me or you.'
'No?' quoth the other; 'yet you will allow
By setting things in their right point of view,
Knowledge, at least, is gain'd; for instance, now,
We know what slavery is, and our disasters
May teach us better to behave when masters.'
'Would we were masters now, if but to try
Their present lessons on our Pagan friends here,'
Said Juan,--swallowing a heart-burning sigh:
'Heaven help the scholar whom his fortune sends here!'
'Perhaps we shall be one day, by and by,'
Rejoin'd the other, when our bad luck mends here;
Meantime (yon old black eunuch seems to eye us)
'But after all, what is our present state?
'T is bad, and may be better--all men's lot:
Most men are slaves, none more so than the great,
To their own whims and passions, and what not;
Society itself, which should create
Kindness, destroys what little we had got:
To feel for none is the true social art
Of the world's stoics--men without a heart.'
Just now a black old neutral personage
Of the third sex stept up, and peering over
The captives, seem'd to mark their looks and age,
And capabilities, as to discover
If they were fitted for the purposed cage:
No lady e'er is ogled by a lover,
Horse by a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor,
Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailor,
As is a slave by his intended bidder.
'T is pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures;
And all are to be sold, if you consider
Their passions, and are dext'rous; some by features
Are bought up, others by a warlike leader,
Some by a place--as tend their years or natures;
The most by ready cash--but all have prices,
From crowns to kicks, according to their vices.
The eunuch, having eyed them o'er with care,
Turn'd to the merchant, and begun to bid
First but for one, and after for the pair;
They haggled, wrangled, swore, too--so they did!
As though they were in a mere Christian fair
Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lamb, or kid;
So that their bargain sounded like a battle
For this superior yoke of human cattle.
At last they settled into simple grumbling,
And pulling out reluctant purses, and
Turning each piece of silver o'er, and tumbling
Some down, and weighing others in their hand,
And by mistake sequins with paras jumbling,
Until the sum was accurately scann'd,
And then the merchant giving change, and signing
Receipts in full, began to think of dining.
I wonder if his appetite was good?
Or, if it were, if also his digestion?
Methinks at meals some odd thoughts might intrude,
And conscience ask a curious sort of question,
About the right divine how far we should
Sell flesh and blood. When dinner has opprest one,
I think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour
Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four.
Voltaire says 'No:' he tells you that Candide
Found life most tolerable after meals;
He 's wrong--unless man were a pig, indeed,
Repletion rather adds to what he feels,
Unless he 's drunk, and then no doubt he 's freed
From his own brain's oppression while it reels.
Of food I think with Philip's son, or rather
Ammon's (ill pleased with one world and one father);
I think with Alexander, that the act
Of eating, with another act or two,
Makes us feel our mortality in fact
Redoubled; when a roast and a ragout,
And fish, and soup, by some side dishes back'd,
Can give us either pain or pleasure, who
Would pique himself on intellects, whose use
Depends so much upon the gastric juice?
The other evening ('t was on Friday last)--
This is a fact and no poetic fable--
Just as my great coat was about me cast,
My hat and gloves still lying on the table,
I heard a shot--'t was eight o'clock scarce past--
And, running out as fast as I was able,
I found the military commandant
Stretch'd in the street, and able scarce to pant.
Poor fellow! for some reason, surely bad,
They had slain him with five slugs; and left him there
To perish on the pavement: so I had
Him borne into the house and up the stair,
And stripp'd and look'd to--But why should I ad
More circumstances? vain was every care;
The man was gone: in some Italian quarrel
Kill'd by five bullets from an old gun-barrel.
I gazed upon him, for I knew him well;
And though I have seen many corpses, never
Saw one, whom such an accident befell,
So calm; though pierced through stomach, heart, and liver,
He seem'd to sleep,--for you could scarcely tell
(As he bled inwardly, no hideous river
Of gore divulged the cause) that he was dead:
So as I gazed on him, I thought or said--
'Can this be death? then what is life or death?
Speak!' but he spoke not: 'Wake!' but still he slept:--
'But yesterday and who had mightier breath?
A thousand warriors by his word were kept
In awe: he said, as the centurion saith,
"Go," and he goeth; "come," and forth he stepp'd.
The trump and bugle till he spake were dumb--
And now nought left him but the muffled drum.'
And they who waited once and worshipp'd--they
With their rough faces throng'd about the bed
To gaze once more on the commanding clay
Which for the last, though not the first, time bled:
And such an end! that he who many a day
Had faced Napoleon's foes until they fled,--
The foremost in the charge or in the sally,
Should now be butcher'd in a civic alley.
The scars of his old wounds were near his new,
Those honourable scars which brought him fame;
And horrid was the contrast to the view--
But let me quit the theme; as such things claim
Perhaps even more attention than is due
From me: I gazed (as oft I have gazed the same)
To try if I could wrench aught out of death
Which should confirm, or shake, or make a faith;
But it was all a mystery. Here we are,
And there we go:--but where? five bits of lead,
Or three, or two, or one, send very far!
And is this blood, then, form'd but to be shed?
Can every element our elements mar?
And air--earth--water--fire live--and we dead?
We whose minds comprehend all things? No more;
But let us to the story as before.
The purchaser of Juan and acquaintance
Bore off his bargains to a gilded boat,
Embark'd himself and them, and off they went thence
As fast as oars could pull and water float;
They look'd like persons being led to sentence,
Wondering what next, till the caique was brought
Up in a little creek below a wall
O'ertopp'd with cypresses, dark-green and tall.
Here their conductor tapping at the wicket
Of a small iron door, 't was open'd, and
He led them onward, first through a low thicket
Flank'd by large groves, which tower'd on either hand:
They almost lost their way, and had to pick it--
For night was dosing ere they came to land.
The eunuch made a sign to those on board,
Who row'd off, leaving them without a word.
As they were plodding on their winding way
Through orange bowers, and jasmine, and so forth
(Of which I might have a good deal to say,
There being no such profusion in the North
Of oriental plants, 'et cetera,'
But that of late your scribblers think it worth
Their while to rear whole hotbeds in their works
Because one poet travell'd 'mongst the Turks)--
As they were threading on their way, there came
Into Don Juan's head a thought, which he
Whisper'd to his companion:--'t was the same
Which might have then occurr'd to you or me.
'Methinks,' said he, 'it would be no great shame
If we should strike a stroke to set us free;
Let 's knock that old black fellow on the head,
And march away--'t were easier done than said.'
'Yes,' said the other, 'and when done, what then?
How get out? how the devil got we in?
And when we once were fairly out, and when
From Saint Bartholomew we have saved our skin,
To-morrow 'd see us in some other den,
And worse off than we hitherto have been;
Besides, I 'm hungry, and just now would take,
Like Esau, for my birthright a beef-steak.
'We must be near some place of man's abode;--
For the old negro's confidence in creeping,
With his two captives, by so queer a road,
Shows that he thinks his friends have not been sleeping;
A single cry would bring them all abroad:
'T is therefore better looking before leaping--
And there, you see, this turn has brought us through,
By Jove, a noble palace!--lighted too.'
It was indeed a wide extensive building
Which open'd on their view, and o'er the front
There seem'd to be besprent a deal of gilding
And various hues, as is the Turkish wont,--
A gaudy taste; for they are little skill'd in
The arts of which these lands were once the font:
Each villa on the Bosphorus looks a screen
New painted, or a pretty opera-scene.
And nearer as they came, a genial savour
Of certain stews, and roast-meats, and pilaus,
Things which in hungry mortals' eyes find favour,
Made Juan in his harsh intentions pause,
And put himself upon his good behaviour:
His friend, too, adding a new saving clause,
Said, 'In Heaven's name let's get some supper now,
And then I 'm with you, if you 're for a row.'
Some talk of an appeal unto some passion,
Some to men's feelings, others to their reason;
The last of these was never much the fashion,
For reason thinks all reasoning out of season.
Some speakers whine, and others lay the lash on,
But more or less continue still to tease on,
With arguments according to their 'forte;'
But no one dreams of ever being short.-
But I digress: of all appeals,--although
I grant the power of pathos, and of gold,
Of beauty, flattery, threats, a shilling,--no
Method 's more sure at moments to take hold
Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow
More tender, as we every day behold,
Than that all-softening, overpowering knell,
The tocsin of the soul--the dinner-bell.
Turkey contains no bells, and yet men dine;
And Juan and his friend, albeit they heard
No Christian knoll to table, saw no line
Of lackeys usher to the feast prepared,
Yet smelt roast-meat, beheld a huge fire shine,
And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared,
And gazed around them to the left and right
With the prophetic eye of appetite.
And giving up all notions of resistance,
They follow'd close behind their sable guide,
Who little thought that his own crack'd existence
Was on the point of being set aside:
He motion'd them to stop at some small distance,
And knocking at the gate, 't was open'd wide,
And a magnificent large hall display'd
The Asian pomp of Ottoman parade.
I won't describe; description is my forte,
But every fool describes in these bright days
His wondrous journey to some foreign court,
And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise--
Death to his publisher, to him 't is sport;
While Nature, tortured twenty thousand ways,
Resigns herself with exemplary patience
To guide-books, rhymes, tours, sketches, illustrations.
Along this hall, and up and down, some, squatted
Upon their hams, were occupied at chess;
Others in monosyllable talk chatted,
And some seem'd much in love with their own dress.
And divers smoked superb pipes decorated
With amber mouths of greater price or less;
And several strutted, others slept, and some
Prepared for supper with a glass of rum.
As the black eunuch enter'd with his brace
Of purchased Infidels, some raised their eyes
A moment without slackening from their pace;
But those who sate ne'er stirr'd in anywise:
One or two stared the captives in the face,
Just as one views a horse to guess his price;
Some nodded to the negro from their station,
But no one troubled him with conversation.
He leads them through the hall, and, without stopping,
On through a farther range of goodly rooms,
Splendid but silent, save in one, where, dropping,
A marble fountain echoes through the glooms
Of night which robe the chamber, or where popping
Some female head most curiously presumes
To thrust its black eyes through the door or lattice,
As wondering what the devil a noise that is.
Some faint lamps gleaming from the lofty walls
Gave light enough to hint their farther way,
But not enough to show the imperial halls,
In all the flashing of their full array;
Perhaps there 's nothing--I 'll not say appals,
But saddens more by night as well as day,
Than an enormous room without a soul
To break the lifeless splendour of the whole.
Two or three seem so little, one seems nothing:
In deserts, forests, crowds, or by the shore,
There solitude, we know, has her full growth in
The spots which were her realms for evermore;
But in a mighty hall or gallery, both in
More modern buildings and those built of yore,
A kind of death comes o'er us all alone,
Seeing what 's meant for many with but one.
A neat, snug study on a winter's night,
A book, friend, single lady, or a glass
Of claret, sandwich, and an appetite,
Are things which make an English evening pass;
Though certes by no means so grand a sight
As is a theatre lit up by gas.
I pass my evenings in long galleries solely,
And that 's the reason I 'm so melancholy.
Alas! man makes that great which makes him little:
I grant you in a church 't is very well:
What speaks of Heaven should by no means be brittle,
But strong and lasting, till no tongue can tell
Their names who rear'd it; but huge houses fit ill--
And huge tombs worse--mankind, since Adam fell:
Methinks the story of the tower of Babel
Might teach them this much better than I 'm able.
Babel was Nimrod's hunting-box, and then
A town of gardens, walls, and wealth amazing,
Where Nabuchadonosor, king of men,
Reign'd, till one summer's day he took to grazing,
And Daniel tamed the lions in their den,
The people's awe and admiration raising;
'T was famous, too, for Thisbe and for Pyramus,
And the calumniated queen Semiramis.
That injured Queen by chroniclers so coarse
Has been accused (I doubt not by conspiracy)
Of an improper friendship for her horse
(Love, like religion, sometimes runs to heresy):
This monstrous tale had probably its source
(For such exaggerations here and there I see)
In writing 'Courser' by mistake for 'Courier:'
I wish the case could come before a jury here.
But to resume,--should there be (what may not
Be in these days?) some infidels, who don't,
Because they can't find out the very spot
Of that same Babel, or because they won't
(Though Claudius Rich, Esquire, some bricks has got,
And written lately two memoirs upon't),
Believe the Jews, those unbelievers, who
Must be believed, though they believe not you,
Yet let them think that Horace has exprest
Shortly and sweetly the masonic folly
Of those, forgetting the great place of rest,
Who give themselves to architecture wholly;
We know where things and men must end at best:
A moral (like all morals) melancholy,
And 'Et sepulchri immemor struis domos'
Shows that we build when we should but entomb us.
At last they reach'd a quarter most retired,
Where echo woke as if from a long slumber;
Though full of all things which could be desired,
One wonder'd what to do with such a number
Of articles which nobody required;
Here wealth had done its utmost to encumber
With furniture an exquisite apartment,
Which puzzled Nature much to know what Art meant.
It seem'd, however, but to open on
A range or suite of further chambers, which
Might lead to heaven knows where; but in this one
The movables were prodigally rich:
Sofas 't was half a sin to sit upon,
So costly were they; carpets every stitch
Of workmanship so rare, they made you wish
You could glide o'er them like a golden fish.
The black, however, without hardly deigning
A glance at that which wrapt the slaves in wonder,
Trampled what they scarce trod for fear of staining,
As if the milky way their feet was under
With all its stars; and with a stretch attaining
A certain press or cupboard niched in yonder--
In that remote recess which you may see--
Or if you don't the fault is not in me,--
I wish to be perspicuous; and the black,
I say, unlocking the recess, pull'd forth
A quantity of clothes fit for the back
Of any Mussulman, whate'er his worth;
And of variety there was no lack--
And yet, though I have said there was no dearth,
He chose himself to point out what he thought
Most proper for the Christians he had bought.
The suit he thought most suitable to each
Was, for the elder and the stouter, first
A Candiote cloak, which to the knee might reach,
And trousers not so tight that they would burst,
But such as fit an Asiatic breech;
A shawl, whose folds in Cashmire had been nurst,
Slippers of saffron, dagger rich and handy;
In short, all things which form a Turkish Dandy.
While he was dressing, Baba, their black friend,
Hinted the vast advantages which they
Might probably attain both in the end,
If they would but pursue the proper way
Which fortune plainly seem'd to recommend;
And then he added, that he needs must say,
''T would greatly tend to better their condition,
If they would condescend to circumcision.
'For his own part, he really should rejoice
To see them true believers, but no less
Would leave his proposition to their choice.'
The other, thanking him for this excess
Of goodness, in thus leaving them a voice
In such a trifle, scarcely could express
'Sufficiently' (he said) 'his approbation
Of all the customs of this polish'd nation.
'For his own share--he saw but small objection
To so respectable an ancient rite;
And, after swallowing down a slight refection,
For which he own'd a present appetite,
He doubted not a few hours of reflection
Would reconcile him to the business quite.'
'Will it?' said Juan, sharply: 'Strike me dead,
But they as soon shall circumcise my head!
'Cut off a thousand heads, before-'--'Now, pray,'
Replied the other, 'do not interrupt:
You put me out in what I had to say.
Sir!--as I said, as soon as I have supt,
I shall perpend if your proposal may
Be such as I can properly accept;
Provided always your great goodness still
Remits the matter to our own free-will.'
Baba eyed Juan, and said, 'Be so good
As dress yourself-' and pointed out a suit
In which a Princess with great pleasure would
Array her limbs; but Juan standing mute,
As not being in a masquerading mood,
Gave it a slight kick with his Christian foot;
And when the old negro told him to 'Get ready,'
Replied, 'Old gentleman, I 'm not a lady.'
'What you may be, I neither know nor care,'
Said Baba; 'but pray do as I desire:
I have no more time nor many words to spare.'
'At least,' said Juan, 'sure I may enquire
The cause of this odd travesty?'--'Forbear,'
Said Baba, 'to be curious; 't will transpire,
No doubt, in proper place, and time, and season:
I have no authority to tell the reason.'
'Then if I do,' said Juan, 'I 'll be-'--'Hold!'
Rejoin'd the negro, 'pray be not provoking;
This spirit 's well, but it may wax too bold,
And you will find us not top fond of joking.'
'What, sir!' said Juan, 'shall it e'er be told
That I unsex'd my dress?' But Baba, stroking
The things down, said, 'Incense me, and I call
Those who will leave you of no sex at all.
'I offer you a handsome suit of clothes:
A woman's, true; but then there is a cause
Why you should wear them.'--'What, though my soul loathes
The effeminate garb?'--thus, after a short pause,
Sigh'd Juan, muttering also some slight oaths,
'What the devil shall I do with all this gauze?'
Thus he profanely term'd the finest lace
Which e'er set off a marriage-morning face.
And then he swore; and, sighing, on he slipp'd
A pair of trousers of flesh-colour'd silk;
Next with a virgin zone he was equipp'd,
Which girt a slight chemise as white as milk;
But tugging on his petticoat, he tripp'd,
Which--as we say--or, as the Scotch say, whilk
(The rhyme obliges me to this; sometimes
Monarchs are less imperative than rhymes)--
Whilk, which (or what you please), was owing to
His garment's novelty, and his being awkward:
And yet at last he managed to get through
His toilet, though no doubt a little backward:
The negro Baba help'd a little too,
When some untoward part of raiment stuck hard;
And, wrestling both his arms into a gown,
He paused, and took a survey up and down.
One difficulty still remain'd--his hair
Was hardly long enough; but Baba found
So many false long tresses all to spare,
That soon his head was most completely crown'd,
After the manner then in fashion there;
And this addition with such gems was bound
As suited the ensemble of his toilet,
While Baba made him comb his head and oil it.
And now being femininely all array'd,
With some small aid from scissors, paint, and tweezers,
He look'd in almost all respects a maid,
And Baba smilingly exclaim'd, 'You see, sirs,
A perfect transformation here display'd;
And now, then, you must come along with me, sirs,
That is--the Lady:' clapping his hands twice,
Four blacks were at his elbow in a trice.
'You, sir,' said Baba, nodding to the one,
'Will please to accompany those gentlemen
To supper; but you, worthy Christian nun,
Will follow me: no trifling, sir; for when
I say a thing, it must at once be done.
What fear you? think you this a lion's den?
Why, 't is a palace; where the truly wise
Anticipate the Prophet's paradise.
'You fool! I tell you no one means you harm.'
'So much the better,' Juan said, 'for them;
Else they shall feel the weight of this my arm,
Which is not quite so light as you may deem.
I yield thus far; but soon will break the charm
If any take me for that which I seem:
So that I trust for everybody's sake,
That this disguise may lead to no mistake.'
'Blockhead! come on, and see,' quoth Baba; while
Don Juan, turning to his comrade, who
Though somewhat grieved, could scarce forbear a smile
Upon the metamorphosis in view,--
'Farewell!' they mutually exclaim'd: 'this soil
Seems fertile in adventures strange and new;
One 's turn'd half Mussulman, and one a maid,
By this old black enchanter's unsought aid.'
'Farewell!' said Juan: 'should we meet no more,
I wish you a good appetite.'--'Farewell!'
Replied the other; 'though it grieves me sore;
When we next meet we 'll have a tale to tell:
We needs must follow when Fate puts from shore.
Keep your good name; though Eve herself once fell.'
'Nay,' quoth the maid, 'the Sultan's self shan't carry me,
Unless his highness promises to marry me.
And thus they parted, each by separate doors;
Baba led Juan onward room by room
Through glittering galleries and o'er marble floors,
Till a gigantic portal through the gloom,
Haughty and huge, along the distance lowers;
And wafted far arose a rich perfume:
It seem'd as though they came upon a shrine,
For all was vast, still, fragrant, and divine.
The giant door was broad, and bright, and high,
Of gilded bronze, and carved in curious guise;
Warriors thereon were battling furiously;
Here stalks the victor, there the vanquish'd lies;
There captives led in triumph droop the eye,
And in perspective many a squadron flies:
It seems the work of times before the line
Of Rome transplanted fell with Constantine.
This massy portal stood at the wide close
Of a huge hall, and on its either side
Two little dwarfs, the least you could suppose,
Were sate, like ugly imps, as if allied
In mockery to the enormous gate which rose
O'er them in almost pyramidic pride:
The gate so splendid was in all its features,
You never thought about those little creatures,
Until you nearly trod on them, and then
You started back in horror to survey
The wondrous hideousness of those small men,
Whose colour was not black, nor white, nor grey,
But an extraneous mixture, which no pen
Can trace, although perhaps the pencil may;
They were mis-shapen pigmies, deaf and dumb--
Monsters, who cost a no less monstrous sum.
Their duty was--for they were strong, and though
They look'd so little, did strong things at times--
To ope this door, which they could really do,
The hinges being as smooth as Rogers' rhymes;
And now and then, with tough strings of the bow,
As is the custom of those Eastern climes,
To give some rebel Pacha a cravat;
For mutes are generally used for that.
They spoke by signs--that is, not spoke at all;
And looking like two incubi, they glared
As Baba with his fingers made them fall
To heaving back the portal folds: it scared
Juan a moment, as this pair so small
With shrinking serpent optics on him stared;
It was as if their little looks could poison
Or fascinate whome'er they fix'd their eyes on.
Before they enter'd, Baba paused to hint
To Juan some slight lessons as his guide:
'If you could just contrive,' he said, 'to stint
That somewhat manly majesty of stride,
'T would be as well, and (though there 's not much in 't)
To swing a little less from side to side,
Which has at times an aspect of the oddest;--
And also could you look a little modest,
''T would be convenient; for these mutes have eyes
Like needles, which may pierce those petticoats;
And if they should discover your disguise,
You know how near us the deep Bosphorus floats;
And you and I may chance, ere morning rise,
To find our way to Marmora without boats,
Stitch'd up in sacks--a mode of navigation
A good deal practised here upon occasion.'
With this encouragement, he led the way
Into a room still nobler than the last;
A rich confusion form'd a disarray
In such sort, that the eye along it cast
Could hardly carry anything away,
Object on object flash'd so bright and fast;
A dazzling mass of gems, and gold, and glitter,
Magnificently mingled in a litter.
Wealth had done wonders--taste not much; such things
Occur in Orient palaces, and even
In the more chasten'd domes of Western kings
(Of which I have also seen some six or seven),
Where I can't say or gold or diamond flings
Great lustre, there is much to be forgiven;
Groups of bad statues, tables, chairs, and pictures,
On which I cannot pause to make my strictures.
In this imperial hall, at distance lay
Under a canopy, and there reclined
Quite in a confidential queenly way,
A lady; Baba stopp'd, and kneeling sign'd
To Juan, who though not much used to pray,
Knelt down by instinct, wondering in his mind,
What all this meant: while Baba bow'd and bended
His head, until the ceremony ended.
The lady rising up with such an air
As Venus rose with from the wave, on them
Bent like an antelope a Paphian pair
Of eyes, which put out each surrounding gem;
And raising up an arm as moonlight fair,
She sign'd to Baba, who first kiss'd the hem
Of her deep purple robe, and speaking low,
Pointed to Juan who remain'd below.
Her presence was as lofty as her state;
Her beauty of that overpowering kind,
Whose force description only would abate:
I 'd rather leave it much to your own mind,
Than lessen it by what I could relate
Of forms and features; it would strike you blind
Could I do justice to the full detail;
So, luckily for both, my phrases fail.
Thus much however I may add,--her years
Were ripe, they might make six-and-twenty springs;
But there are forms which Time to touch forbears,
And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things,
Such as was Mary's Queen of Scots; true--tears
And love destroy; and sapping sorrow wrings
Charms from the charmer, yet some never grow
Ugly; for instance--Ninon de l'Enclos.
She spake some words to her attendants, who
Composed a choir of girls, ten or a dozen,
And were all clad alike; like Juan, too,
Who wore their uniform, by Baba chosen;
They form'd a very nymph-like looking crew,
Which might have call'd Diana's chorus 'cousin,'
As far as outward show may correspond;
I won't be bail for anything beyond.
They bow'd obeisance and withdrew, retiring,
But not by the same door through which came in
Baba and Juan, which last stood admiring,
At some small distance, all he saw within
This strange saloon, much fitted for inspiring
Marvel and praise; for both or none things win;
And I must say, I ne'er could see the very
Great happiness of the 'Nil Admirari.'
'Not to admire is all the art I know
(Plain truth, dear Murray, needs few flowers of speech)
To make men happy, or to keep them so'
(So take it in the very words of Creech)--
Thus Horace wrote we all know long ago;
And thus Pope quotes the precept to re-teach
From his translation; but had none admired,
Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired?
Baba, when all the damsels were withdrawn,
Motion'd to Juan to approach, and then
A second time desired him to kneel down,
And kiss the lady's foot; which maxim when
He heard repeated, Juan with a frown
Drew himself up to his full height again,
And said, 'It grieved him, but he could not stoop
To any shoe, unless it shod the Pope.'
Baba, indignant at this ill-timed pride,
Made fierce remonstrances, and then a threat
He mutter'd (but the last was given aside)
About a bow-string--quite in vain; not yet
Would Juan bend, though 't were to Mahomet's bride:
There 's nothing in the world like etiquette
In kingly chambers or imperial halls,
As also at the race and county balls.
He stood like Atlas, with a world of words
About his ears, and nathless would not bend:
The blood of all his line 's Castilian lords
Boil'd in his veins, and rather than descend
To stain his pedigree a thousand swords
A thousand times of him had made an end;
At length perceiving the 'foot' could not stand,
Baba proposed that he should kiss the hand.
Here was an honourable compromise,
A half-way house of diplomatic rest,
Where they might meet in much more peaceful guise;
And Juan now his willingness exprest
To use all fit and proper courtesies,
Adding, that this was commonest and best,
For through the South the custom still commands
The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands.
And he advanced, though with but a bad grace,
Though on more thorough-bred or fairer fingers
No lips e'er left their transitory trace;
On such as these the lip too fondly lingers,
And for one kiss would fain imprint a brace,
As you will see, if she you love shall bring hers
In contact; and sometimes even a fair stranger's
An almost twelvemonth's constancy endangers.
The lady eyed him o'er and o'er, and bade
Baba retire, which he obey'd in style,
As if well used to the retreating trade;
And taking hints in good part all the while,
He whisper'd Juan not to be afraid,
And looking on him with a sort of smile,
Took leave, with such a face of satisfaction
As good men wear who have done a virtuous action.
When he was gone, there was a sudden change:
I know not what might be the lady's thought,
But o'er her bright brow flash'd a tumult strange,
And into her dear cheek the blood was brought,
Blood-red as sunset summer clouds which range
The verge of Heaven; and in her large eyes wrought,
A mixture of sensations might be scann'd,
Of half voluptuousness and half command.
Her form had all the softness of her sex,
Her features all the sweetness of the devil,
When he put on the cherub to perplex
Eve, and paved (God knows how) the road to evil;
The sun himself was scarce more free from specks
Than she from aught at which the eye could cavil;
Yet, somehow, there was something somewhere wanting,
As if she rather order'd than was granting.
Something imperial, or imperious, threw
A chain o'er all she did; that is, a chain
Was thrown as 't were about the neck of you,--
And rapture's self will seem almost a pain
With aught which looks like despotism in view:
Our souls at least are free, and 't is in vain
We would against them make the flesh obey--
The spirit in the end will have its way.
Her very smile was haughty, though so sweet;
Her very nod was not an inclination;
There was a self-will even in her small feet,
As though they were quite conscious of her station--
They trod as upon necks; and to complete
Her state (it is the custom of her nation),
A poniard deck'd her girdle, as the sign
She was a sultan's bride (thank Heaven, not mine!).
'To hear and to obey' had been from birth
The law of all around her; to fulfill
All phantasies which yielded joy or mirth,
Had been her slaves' chief pleasure, as her will;
Her blood was high, her beauty scarce of earth:
Judge, then, if her caprices e'er stood still;
Had she but been a Christian, I 've a notion
We should have found out the 'perpetual motion.'
Whate'er she saw and coveted was brought;
Whate'er she did not see, if she supposed
It might be seen, with diligence was sought,
And when 't was found straightway the bargain closed;
There was no end unto the things she bought,
Nor to the trouble which her fancies caused;
Yet even her tyranny had such a grace,
The women pardon'd all except her face.
Juan, the latest of her whims, had caught
Her eye in passing on his way to sale;
She order'd him directly to be bought,
And Baba, who had ne'er been known to fail
In any kind of mischief to be wrought,
At all such auctions knew how to prevail:
She had no prudence, but he had; and this
Explains the garb which Juan took amiss.
His youth and features favour'd the disguise,
And, should you ask how she, a sultan's bride,
Could risk or compass such strange phantasies,
This I must leave sultanas to decide:
Emperors are only husbands in wives' eyes,
And kings and consorts oft are mystified,
As we may ascertain with due precision,
Some by experience, others by tradition.
But to the main point, where we have been tending:--
She now conceived all difficulties past,
And deem'd herself extremely condescending
When, being made her property at last,
Without more preface, in her blue eyes blending
Passion and power, a glance on him she cast,
And merely saying, 'Christian, canst thou love?'
Conceived that phrase was quite enough to move
And so it was, in proper time and place;
But Juan, who had still his mind o'erflowing
With Haidee's isle and soft Ionian face,
Felt the warm blood, which in his face was glowing,
Rush back upon his heart, which fill'd apace,
And left his cheeks as pale as snowdrops blowing;
These words went through his soul like Arab-spears,
So that he spoke not, but burst into tears.
She was a good deal shock'd; not shock'd at tears,
For women shed and use them at their liking;
But there is something when man's eye appears
Wet, still more disagreeable and striking;
A woman's tear-drop melts, a man's half sears,
Like molten lead, as if you thrust a pike in
His heart to force it out, for (to be shorter)
To them 't is a relief, to us a torture.
And she would have consoled, but knew not how:
Having no equals, nothing which had e'er
Infected her with sympathy till now,
And never having dreamt what 't was to bear
Aught of a serious, sorrowing kind, although
There might arise some pouting petty care
To cross her brow, she wonder'd how so near
Her eyes another's eye could shed a tear.
But nature teaches more than power can spoil,
And, when a strong although a strange sensation
Moves--female hearts are such a genial soil
For kinder feelings, whatsoe'er their nation,
They naturally pour the 'wine and oil,'
Samaritans in every situation;
And thus Gulbeyaz, though she knew not why,
Felt an odd glistening moisture in her eye.
But tears must stop like all things else; and soon
Juan, who for an instant had been moved
To such a sorrow by the intrusive tone
Of one who dared to ask if 'he had loved,'
Call'd back the stoic to his eyes, which shone
Bright with the very weakness he reproved;
And although sensitive to beauty, he
Felt most indignant still at not being free.
Gulbeyaz, for the first time in her days,
Was much embarrass'd, never having met
In all her life with aught save prayers and praise;
And as she also risk'd her life to get
Him whom she meant to tutor in love's ways
Into a comfortable tete-a-tete,
To lose the hour would make her quite a martyr,
And they had wasted now almost a quarter.
I also would suggest the fitting time
To gentlemen in any such like case,
That is to say in a meridian clime--
With us there is more law given to the chase,
But here a small delay forms a great crime:
So recollect that the extremest grace
Is just two minutes for your declaration--
A moment more would hurt your reputation.
Juan's was good; and might have been still better,
But he had got Haidee into his head:
However strange, he could not yet forget her,
Which made him seem exceedingly ill-bred.
Gulbeyaz, who look'd on him as her debtor
For having had him to her palace led,
Began to blush up to the eyes, and then
Grow deadly pale, and then blush back again.
At length, in an imperial way, she laid
Her hand on his, and bending on him eyes
Which needed not an empire to persuade,
Look'd into his for love, where none replies:
Her brow grew black, but she would not upbraid,
That being the last thing a proud woman tries;
She rose, and pausing one chaste moment, threw
Herself upon his breast, and there she grew.
This was an awkward test, as Juan found,
But he was steel'd by sorrow, wrath, and pride:
With gentle force her white arms he unwound,
And seated her all drooping by his side,
Then rising haughtily he glanced around,
And looking coldly in her face, he cried,
'The prison'd eagle will not pair, nor
Serve a Sultana's sensual phantasy.
'Thou ask'st if I can love? be this the proof
How much I have loved--that I love not thee!
In this vile garb, the distaff, web, and woof,
Were fitter for me: Love is for the free!
I am not dazzled by this splendid roof,
Whate'er thy power, and great it seems to be;
Heads bow, knees bend, eyes watch around a throne,
And hands obey--our hearts are still our own.'
This was a truth to us extremely trite;
Not so to her, who ne'er had heard such things:
She deem'd her least command must yield delight,
Earth being only made for queens and kings.
If hearts lay on the left side or the right
She hardly knew, to such perfection brings
Legitimacy its born votaries, when
Aware of their due royal rights o'er men.
Besides, as has been said, she was so fair
As even in a much humbler lot had made
A kingdom or confusion anywhere,
And also, as may be presumed, she laid
Some stress on charms, which seldom are, if e'er,
By their possessors thrown into the shade:
She thought hers gave a double 'right divine;'
And half of that opinion 's also mine.
Remember, or (if you can not) imagine,
Ye, who have kept your chastity when young,
While some more desperate dowager has been waging
Love with you, and been in the dog-days stung
By your refusal, recollect her raging!
Or recollect all that was said or sung
On such a subject; then suppose the face
Of a young downright beauty in this case.
Suppose,--but you already have supposed,
The spouse of Potiphar, the Lady Booby,
Phaedra, and all which story has disclosed
Of good examples; pity that so few by
Poets and private tutors are exposed,
To educate--ye youth of Europe--you by!
But when you have supposed the few we know,
You can't suppose Gulbeyaz' angry brow.
A tigress robb'd of young, a lioness,
Or any interesting beast of prey,
Are similes at hand for the distress
Of ladies who can not have their own way;
But though my turn will not be served with less,
These don't express one half what I should say:
For what is stealing young ones, few or many,
To cutting short their hopes of having any?
The love of offspring 's nature's general law,
From tigresses and cubs to ducks and ducklings;
There 's nothing whets the beak, or arms the claw
Like an invasion of their babes and sucklings;
And all who have seen a human nursery, saw
How mothers love their children's squalls and chucklings;
This strong extreme effect (to tire no longer
Your patience) shows the cause must still be stronger.
If I said fire flash'd from Gulbeyaz' eyes,
'T were nothing--for her eyes flash'd always fire;
Or said her cheeks assumed the deepest dyes,
I should but bring disgrace upon the dyer,
So supernatural was her passion's rise;
For ne'er till now she knew a check'd desire:
Even ye who know what a check'd woman is
(Enough, God knows!) would much fall short of this.
Her rage was but a minute's, and 't was well--
A moment's more had slain her; but the while
It lasted 't was like a short glimpse of hell:
Nought 's more sublime than energetic bile,
Though horrible to see yet grand to tell,
Like ocean warring 'gainst a rocky isle;
And the deep passions flashing through her form
Made her a beautiful embodied storm.
A vulgar tempest 't were to a typhoon
To match a common fury with her rage,
And yet she did not want to reach the moon,
Like moderate Hotspur on the immortal page;
Her anger pitch'd into a lower tune,
Perhaps the fault of her soft sex and age--
Her wish was but to 'kill, kill, kill,' like Lear's,
And then her thirst of blood was quench'd in tears.
A storm it raged, and like the storm it pass'd,
Pass'd without words--in fact she could not speak;
And then her sex's shame broke in at last,
A sentiment till then in her but weak,
But now it flow'd in natural and fast,
As water through an unexpected leak;
For she felt humbled--and humiliation
Is sometimes good for people in her station
It teaches them that they are flesh and blood,
It also gently hints to them that others,
Although of clay, are yet not quite of mud;
That urns and pipkins are but fragile brothers,
And works of the same pottery, bad or good,
Though not all born of the same sires and mothers:
It teaches--Heaven knows only what it teaches,
But sometimes it may mend, and often reaches.
Her first thought was to cut off Juan's head;
Her second, to cut only his--acquaintance;
Her third, to ask him where he had been bred;
Her fourth, to rally him into repentance;
Her fifth, to call her maids and go to bed;
Her sixth, to stab herself; her seventh, to sentence
The lash to Baba:--but her grand resource
Was to sit down again, and cry of course.
She thought to stab herself, but then she had
The dagger close at hand, which made it awkward;
For Eastern stays are little made to pad,
So that a poniard pierces if 't is stuck hard:
She thought of killing Juan--but, poor lad!
Though he deserved it well for being so backward,
The cutting off his head was not the art
Most likely to attain her aim--his heart.
Juan was moved; he had made up his mind
To be impaled, or quarter'd as a dish
For dogs, or to be slain with pangs refined,
Or thrown to lions, or made baits for fish,
And thus heroically stood resign'd,
Rather than sin--except to his own wish:
But all his great preparatives for dying
Dissolved like snow before a woman crying.
As through his palms Bob Acres' valour oozed,
So Juan's virtue ebb'd, I know not how;
And first he wonder'd why he had refused;
And then, if matters could be made up now;
And next his savage virtue he accused,
Just as a friar may accuse his vow,
Or as a dame repents her of her oath,
Which mostly ends in some small breach of both.
So he began to stammer some excuses;
But words are not enough in such a matter,
Although you borrow'd all that e'er the muses
Have sung, or even a Dandy's dandiest chatter,
Or all the figures Castlereagh abuses;
Just as a languid smile began to flatter
His peace was making, but before he ventured
Further, old Baba rather briskly enter'd.
'Bride of the Sun! and Sister of the Moon!'
('T was thus he spake) 'and Empress of the Earth!
Whose frown would put the spheres all out of tune,
Whose smile makes all the planets dance with mirth,
Your slave brings tidings--he hopes not too soon--
Which your sublime attention may be worth:
The Sun himself has sent me like a ray,
To hint that he is coming up this way.'
'Is it,' exclaim'd Gulbeyaz, 'as you say?
I wish to heaven he would not shine till morning!
But bid my women form the milky way.
Hence, my old comet! give the stars due warning--
And, Christian! mingle with them as you may,
And as you 'd have me pardon your past scorning-'
Here they were interrupted by a humming
Sound, and then by a cry, 'The Sultan 's coming!'
First came her damsels, a decorous file,
And then his Highness' eunuchs, black and white;
The train might reach a quarter of a mile:
His majesty was always so polite
As to announce his visits a long while
Before he came, especially at night;
For being the last wife of the Emperour,
She was of course the favorite of the four.
His Highness was a man of solemn port,
Shawl'd to the nose, and bearded to the eyes,
Snatch'd from a prison to preside at court,
His lately bowstrung brother caused his rise;
He was as good a sovereign of the sort
As any mention'd in the histories
Of Cantemir, or Knolles, where few shine
Save Solyman, the glory of their line.
He went to mosque in state, and said his prayers
With more than 'Oriental scrupulosity;'
He left to his vizier all state affairs,
And show'd but little royal curiosity:
I know not if he had domestic cares--
No process proved connubial animosity;
Four wives and twice five hundred maids, unseen,
Were ruled as calmly as a Christian queen.
If now and then there happen'd a slight slip,
Little was heard of criminal or crime;
The story scarcely pass'd a single lip--
The sack and sea had settled all in time,
From which the secret nobody could rip:
The Public knew no more than does this rhyme;
No scandals made the daily press a curse--
Morals were better, and the fish no worse.
He saw with his own eyes the moon was round,
Was also certain that the earth was square,
Because he had journey'd fifty miles, and found
No sign that it was circular anywhere;
His empire also was without a bound:
'T is true, a little troubled here and there,
By rebel pachas, and encroaching giaours,
But then they never came to 'the Seven Towers;'
Except in shape of envoys, who were sent
To lodge there when a war broke out, according
To the true law of nations, which ne'er meant
Those scoundrels, who have never had a sword in
Their dirty diplomatic hands, to vent
Their spleen in making strife, and safely wording
Their lies, yclep'd despatches, without risk or
The singeing of a single inky whisker.
He had fifty daughters and four dozen sons,
Of whom all such as came of age were stow'd,
The former in a palace, where like nuns
They lived till some Bashaw was sent abroad,
When she, whose turn it was, was wed at once,
Sometimes at six years old--though it seems odd,
'T is true; the reason is, that the Bashaw
Must make a present to his sire in law.
His sons were kept in prison, till they grew
Of years to fill a bowstring or the throne,
One or the other, but which of the two
Could yet be known unto the fates alone;
Meantime the education they went through
Was princely, as the proofs have always shown:
So that the heir apparent still was found
No less deserving to be hang'd than crown'd.
His majesty saluted his fourth spouse
With all the ceremonies of his rank,
Who clear'd her sparkling eyes and smooth'd her brows,
As suits a matron who has play'd a prank;
These must seem doubly mindful of their vows,
To save the credit of their breaking bank:
To no men are such cordial greetings given
As those whose wives have made them fit for heaven.
His Highness cast around his great black eyes,
And looking, as he always look'd, perceived
Juan amongst the damsels in disguise,
At which he seem'd no whit surprised nor grieved,
But just remark'd with air sedate and wise,
While still a fluttering sigh Gulbeyaz heaved,
'I see you 've bought another girl; 't is pity
That a mere Christian should be half so pretty.'
This compliment, which drew all eyes upon
The new-bought virgin, made her blush and shake.
Her comrades, also, thought themselves undone:
O! Mahomet! that his majesty should take
Such notice of a giaour, while scarce to one
Of them his lips imperial ever spake!
There was a general whisper, toss, and wriggle,
But etiquette forbade them all to giggle.
The Turks do well to shut--at least, sometimes--
The women up, because, in sad reality,
Their chastity in these unhappy climes
Is not a thing of that astringent quality
Which in the North prevents precocious crimes,
And makes our snow less pure than our morality;
The sun, which yearly melts the polar ice,
Has quite the contrary effect on vice.
Thus in the East they are extremely strict,
And Wedlock and a Padlock mean the same;
Excepting only when the former 's pick'd
It ne'er can be replaced in proper frame;
Spoilt, as a pipe of claret is when prick'd:
But then their own Polygamy 's to blame;
Why don't they knead two virtuous souls for life
Into that moral centaur, man and wife?
Thus far our chronicle; and now we pause,
Though not for want of matter; but 't is time
According to the ancient epic laws,
To slacken sail, and anchor with our rhyme.
Let this fifth canto meet with due applause,
The sixth shall have a touch of the sublime;
Meanwhile, as Homer sometimes sleeps, perhaps
You 'll pardon to my muse a few short naps.
CANTO THE SIXTH.
'There is a tide in the affairs of men
Which,--taken at the flood,'--you know the rest,
And most of us have found it now and then;
At least we think so, though but few have guess'd
The moment, till too late to come again.
But no doubt every thing is for the best--
Of which the surest sign is in the end:
When things are at the worst they sometimes mend.
There is a tide in the affairs of women
Which, taken at the flood, leads--God knows where:
Those navigators must be able seamen
Whose charts lay down its current to a hair;
Not all the reveries of Jacob Behmen
With its strange whirls and eddies can compare:
Men with their heads reflect on this and that--
But women with their hearts on heaven knows what!
And yet a headlong, headstrong, downright she,
Young, beautiful, and daring--who would risk
A throne, the world, the universe, to be
Beloved in her own way, and rather whisk
The stars from out the sky, than not be free
As are the billows when the breeze is brisk--
Though such a she 's a devil (if that there be one),
Yet she would make full many a Manichean.
Thrones, worlds, et cetera, are so oft upset
By commonest ambition, that when passion
O'erthrows the same, we readily forget,
Or at the least forgive, the loving rash one.
If Antony be well remember'd yet,
'Tis not his conquests keep his name in fashion,
But Actium, lost for Cleopatra's eyes,
Outbalances all Caesar's victories.
He died at fifty for a queen of forty;
I wish their years had been fifteen and twenty,
For then wealth, kingdoms, worlds are but a sport--I
Remember when, though I had no great plenty
Of worlds to lose, yet still, to pay my court, I
Gave what I had--a heart: as the world went, I
Gave what was worth a world; for worlds could never
Restore me those pure feelings, gone forever.
'Twas the boy's 'mite,' and, like the 'widow's,' may
Perhaps be weigh'd hereafter, if not now;
But whether such things do or do not weigh,
All who have loved, or love, will still allow
Life has nought like it. God is love, they say,
And Love 's a god, or was before the brow
Of earth was wrinkled by the sins and tears
Of--but Chronology best knows the years.
We left our hero and third heroine in
A kind of state more awkward than uncommon,
For gentlemen must sometimes risk their skin
For that sad tempter, a forbidden woman:
Sultans too much abhor this sort of sin,
And don't agree at all with the wise Roman,
Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious,
Who lent his lady to his friend Hortensius.
I know Gulbeyaz was extremely wrong;
I own it, I deplore it, I condemn it;
But I detest all fiction even in song,
And so must tell the truth, howe'er you blame it.
Her reason being weak, her passions strong,
She thought that her lord's heart (even could she claim it)
Was scarce enough; for he had fifty-nine
Years, and a fifteen-hundredth concubine.
I am not, like Cassio, 'an arithmetician,'
But by 'the bookish theoric' it appears,
If 'tis summ'd up with feminine precision,
That, adding to the account his Highness' years,
The fair Sultana err'd from inanition;
For, were the Sultan just to all his dears,
She could but claim the fifteen-hundredth part
Of what should be monopoly--the heart.
It is observed that ladies are litigious
Upon all legal objects of possession,
And not the least so when they are religious,
Which doubles what they think of the transgression:
With suits and prosecutions they besiege us,
As the tribunals show through many a session,
When they suspect that any one goes shares
In that to which the law makes them sole heirs.
Now, if this holds good in a Christian land,
The heathen also, though with lesser latitude,
Are apt to carry things with a high hand,
And take what kings call 'an imposing attitude,'
And for their rights connubial make a stand,
When their liege husbands treat them with ingratitude:
And as four wives must have quadruple claims,
The Tigris hath its jealousies like Thames.
Gulbeyaz was the fourth, and (as I said)
The favourite; but what 's favour amongst four?
Polygamy may well be held in dread,
Not only as a sin, but as a bore:
Most wise men, with one moderate woman wed,
Will scarcely find philosophy for more;
And all (except Mahometans) forbear
To make the nuptial couch a 'Bed of Ware.'
His Highness, the sublimest of mankind,--
So styled according to the usual forms
Of every monarch, till they are consign'd
To those sad hungry jacobins the worms,
Who on the very loftiest kings have dined,--
His Highness gazed upon Gulbeyaz' charms,
Expecting all the welcome of a lover
(A 'Highland welcome' all the wide world over).
Now here we should distinguish; for howe'er
Kisses, sweet words, embraces, and all that,
May look like what is--neither here nor there,
They are put on as easily as a hat,
Or rather bonnet, which the fair sex wear,
Trimm'd either heads or hearts to decorate,
Which form an ornament, but no more part
Of heads, than their caresses of the heart.
A slight blush, a soft tremor, a calm kind
Of gentle feminine delight, and shown
More in the eyelids than the eyes, resign'd
Rather to hide what pleases most unknown,
Are the best tokens (to a modest mind)
Of love, when seated on his loveliest throne,
A sincere woman's breast,--for over-warm
Or over-cold annihilates the charm.
For over-warmth, if false, is worse than truth;
If true, 'tis no great lease of its own fire;
For no one, save in very early youth,
Would like (I think) to trust all to desire,
Which is but a precarious bond, in sooth,
And apt to be transferr'd to the first buyer
At a sad discount: while your over chilly
Women, on t' other hand, seem somewhat silly.
That is, we cannot pardon their bad taste,
For so it seems to lovers swift or slow,
Who fain would have a mutual flame confess'd,
And see a sentimental passion glow,
Even were St. Francis' paramour their guest,
In his monastic concubine of snow;--
In short, the maxim for the amorous tribe is
Horatian, 'Medio tu tutissimus ibis.'
The 'tu' 's too much,--but let it stand,--the verse
Requires it, that 's to say, the English rhyme,
And not the pink of old hexameters;
But, after all, there 's neither tune nor time
In the last line, which cannot well be worse,
And was thrust in to close the octave's chime:
I own no prosody can ever rate it
As a rule, but truth may, if you translate it.
If fair Gulbeyaz overdid her part,
I know not--it succeeded, and success
Is much in most things, not less in the heart
Than other articles of female dress.
Self-love in man, too, beats all female art;
They lie, we lie, all lie, but love no less;
And no one virtue yet, except starvation,
Could stop that worst of vices--propagation.
We leave this royal couple to repose:
A bed is not a throne, and they may sleep,
Whate'er their dreams be, if of joys or woes:
Yet disappointed joys are woes as deep
As any man's day mixture undergoes.
Our least of sorrows are such as we weep;
'Tis the vile daily drop on drop which wears
The soul out (like the stone) with petty cares.
A scolding wife, a sullen son, a bill
To pay, unpaid, protested, or discounted
At a per-centage; a child cross, dog ill,
A favourite horse fallen lame just as he 's mounted,
A bad old woman making a worse will,
Which leaves you minus of the cash you counted
As certain;--these are paltry things, and yet
I 've rarely seen the man they did not fret.
I 'm a philosopher; confound them all!
Bills, beasts, and men, and--no! not womankind!
With one good hearty curse I vent my gall,
And then my stoicism leaves nought behind
Which it can either pain or evil call,
And I can give my whole soul up to mind;
Though what is soul or mind, their birth or growth,
Is more than I know--the deuce take them both!
As after reading Athanasius' curse,
Which doth your true believer so much please:
I doubt if any now could make it worse
O'er his worst enemy when at his knees,
'Tis so sententious, positive, and terse,
And decorates the book of Common Prayer,
As doth a rainbow the just clearing air.
Gulbeyaz and her lord were sleeping, or
At least one of them!--Oh, the heavy night,
When wicked wives, who love some bachelor,
Lie down in dudgeon to sigh for the light
Of the gray morning, and look vainly for
Its twinkle through the lattice dusky quite--
To toss, to tumble, doze, revive, and quake
Lest their too lawful bed-fellow should wake!
These are beneath the canopy of heaven,
Also beneath the canopy of beds
Four-posted and silk curtain'd, which are given
For rich men and their brides to lay their heads
Upon, in sheets white as what bards call 'driven
Snow.' Well! 'tis all hap-hazard when one weds.
Gulbeyaz was an empress, but had been
Perhaps as wretched if a peasant's quean.
Don Juan in his feminine disguise,
With all the damsels in their long array,
Had bow'd themselves before th' imperial eyes,
And at the usual signal ta'en their way
Back to their chambers, those long galleries
In the seraglio, where the ladies lay
Their delicate limbs; a thousand bosoms there
Beating for love, as the caged bird's for air.
I love the sex, and sometimes would reverse
The tyrant's wish, 'that mankind only had
One neck, which he with one fell stroke might pierce:'
My wish is quite as wide, but not so bad,
And much more tender on the whole than fierce;
It being (not now, but only while a lad)
That womankind had but one rosy mouth,
To kiss them all at once from North to South.
O, enviable Briareus! with thy hands
And heads, if thou hadst all things multiplied
In such proportion!--But my Muse withstands
The giant thought of being a Titan's bride,
Or travelling in Patagonian lands;
So let us back to Lilliput, and guide
Our hero through the labyrinth of love
In which we left him several lines above.
He went forth with the lovely Odalisques,
At the given signal join'd to their array;
And though he certainly ran many risks,
Yet he could not at times keep, by the way
(Although the consequences of such frisks
Are worse than the worst damages men pay
In moral England, where the thing 's a tax),
From ogling all their charms from breasts to backs.
Still he forgot not his disguise:--along
The galleries from room to room they walk'd,
A virgin-like and edifying throng,
By eunuchs flank'd; while at their head there stalk'd
A dame who kept up discipline among
The female ranks, so that none stirr'd or talk'd
Without her sanction on their she-parades:
Her title was 'the Mother of the Maids.'
Whether she was a 'mother,' I know not,
Or whether they were 'maids' who call'd her mother;
But this is her seraglio title, got
I know not how, but good as any other;
So Cantemir can tell you, or De Tott:
Her office was to keep aloof or smother
All bad propensities in fifteen hundred
Young women, and correct them when they blunder'd.
A goodly sinecure, no doubt! but made
More easy by the absence of all men--
Except his majesty, who, with her aid,
And guards, and bolts, and walls, and now and then
A slight example, just to cast a shade
Along the rest, contrived to keep this den
Of beauties cool as an Italian convent,
Where all the passions have, alas! but one vent.
And what is that? Devotion, doubtless--how
Could you ask such a question?--but we will
Continue. As I said, this goodly row
Of ladies of all countries at the will
Of one good man, with stately march and slow,
Like water-lilies floating down a rill--
Or rather lake, for rills do not run slowly--
Paced on most maiden-like and melancholy.
But when they reach'd their own apartments, there,
Like birds, or boys, or bedlamites broke loose,
Waves at spring-tide, or women anywhere
When freed from bonds (which are of no great use
After all), or like Irish at a fair,
Their guards being gone, and as it were a truce
Establish'd between them and bondage, they
Began to sing, dance, chatter, smile, and play.
Their talk, of course, ran most on the new comer;
Her shape, her hair, her air, her everything:
Some thought her dress did not so much become her,
Or wonder'd at her ears without a ring;
Some said her years were getting nigh their summer,
Others contended they were but in spring;
Some thought her rather masculine in height,
While others wish'd that she had been so quite.
But no one doubted on the whole, that she
Was what her dress bespoke, a damsel fair,
And fresh, and 'beautiful exceedingly,'
Who with the brightest Georgians might compare:
They wonder'd how Gulbeyaz, too, could be
So silly as to buy slaves who might share
(If that his Highness wearied of his bride)
Her throne and power, and every thing beside.
But what was strangest in this virgin crew,
Although her beauty was enough to vex,
After the first investigating view,
They all found out as few, or fewer, specks
In the fair form of their companion new,
Than is the custom of the gentle sex,
When they survey, with Christian eyes or Heathen,
In a new face 'the ugliest creature breathing.'
And yet they had their little jealousies,
Like all the rest; but upon this occasion,
Whether there are such things as sympathies
Without our knowledge or our approbation,
Although they could not see through his disguise,
All felt a soft kind of concatenation,
Like magnetism, or devilism, or what
You please--we will not quarrel about that:
But certain 'tis they all felt for their new
Companion something newer still, as 'twere
A sentimental friendship through and through,
Extremely pure, which made them all concur
In wishing her their sister, save a few
Who wish'd they had a brother just like her,
Whom, if they were at home in sweet Circassia,
They would prefer to Padisha or Pacha.
Of those who had most genius for this sort
Of sentimental friendship, there were three,
Lolah, Katinka, and Dudu; in short
(To save description), fair as fair can be
Were they, according to the best report,
Though differing in stature and degree,
And clime and time, and country and complexion;
They all alike admired their new connection.
Lolah was dusk as India and as warm;
Katinka was a Georgian, white and red,
With great blue eyes, a lovely hand and arm,
And feet so small they scarce seem'd made to tread,
But rather skim the earth; while Dudu's form
Look'd more adapted to be put to bed,
Being somewhat large, and languishing, and lazy,
Yet of a beauty that would drive you crazy.
A kind of sleepy Venus seem'd Dudu,
Yet very fit to 'murder sleep' in those
Who gazed upon her cheek's transcendent hue,
Her Attic forehead, and her Phidian nose:
Few angles were there in her form, 'tis true,
Thinner she might have been, and yet scarce lose;
Yet, after all, 'twould puzzle to say where
It would not spoil some separate charm to pare.
She was not violently lively, but
Stole on your spirit like a May-day breaking;
Her eyes were not too sparkling, yet, half-shut,
They put beholders in a tender taking;
She look'd (this simile 's quite new) just cut
From marble, like Pygmalion's statue waking,
The mortal and the marble still at strife,
And timidly expanding into life.
Lolah demanded the new damsel's name--
'Juanna.'--Well, a pretty name enough.
Katinka ask'd her also whence she came--
'From Spain.'--'But where is Spain?'--'Don't ask such stuff,
Nor show your Georgian ignorance--for shame!'
Said Lolah, with an accent rather rough,
To poor Katinka: 'Spain 's an island near
Morocco, betwixt Egypt and Tangier.'
Dudu said nothing, but sat down beside
Juanna, playing with her veil or hair;
And looking at her steadfastly, she sigh'd,
As if she pitied her for being there,
A pretty stranger without friend or guide,
And all abash'd, too, at the general stare
Which welcomes hapless strangers in all places,
With kind remarks upon their mien and faces.
But here the Mother of the Maids drew near,
With, 'Ladies, it is time to go to rest.
I 'm puzzled what to do with you, my dear,'
She added to Juanna, their new guest:
'Your coming has been unexpected here,
And every couch is occupied; you had best
Partake of mine; but by to-morrow early
We will have all things settled for you fairly.'
Here Lolah interposed--'Mamma, you know
You don't sleep soundly, and I cannot bear
That anybody should disturb you so;
I 'll take Juanna; we 're a slenderer pair
Than you would make the half of;--don't say no;
And I of your young charge will take due care.'
But here Katinka interfered, and said,
'She also had compassion and a bed.
'Besides, I hate to sleep alone,' quoth she.
The matron frown'd: 'Why so?'--'For fear of ghosts,'
Replied Katinka; 'I am sure I see
A phantom upon each of the four posts;
And then I have the worst dreams that can be,
Of Guebres, Giaours, and Ginns, and Gouls in hosts.'
The dame replied, 'Between your dreams and you,
I fear Juanna's dreams would be but few.
'You, Lolah, must continue still to lie
Alone, for reasons which don't matter; you
The same, Katinka, until by and by;
And I shall place Juanna with Dudu,
Who 's quiet, inoffensive, silent, shy,
And will not toss and chatter the night through.
What say you, child?'--Dudu said nothing, as
Her talents were of the more silent class;
But she rose up, and kiss'd the matron's brow
Between the eyes, and Lolah on both cheeks,
Katinka, too; and with a gentle bow
(Curt'sies are neither used by Turks nor Greeks)
She took Juanna by the hand to show
Their place of rest, and left to both their piques,
The others pouting at the matron's preference
Of Dudu, though they held their tongues from deference.
It was a spacious chamber (Oda is
The Turkish title), and ranged round the wall
Were couches, toilets--and much more than this
I might describe, as I have seen it all,
But it suffices--little was amiss;
'Twas on the whole a nobly furnish'd hall,
With all things ladies want, save one or two,
And even those were nearer than they knew.
Dudu, as has been said, was a sweet creature,
Not very dashing, but extremely winning,
With the most regulated charms of feature,
Which painters cannot catch like faces sinning
Against proportion--the wild strokes of nature
Which they hit off at once in the beginning,
Full of expression, right or wrong, that strike,
And pleasing or unpleasing, still are like.
But she was a soft landscape of mild earth,
Where all was harmony, and calm, and quiet,
Luxuriant, budding; cheerful without mirth,
Which, if not happiness, is much more nigh it
Than are your mighty passions and so forth,
Which some call 'the sublime:' I wish they 'd try it:
I 've seen your stormy seas and stormy women,
And pity lovers rather more than seamen.
But she was pensive more than melancholy,
And serious more than pensive, and serene,
It may be, more than either--not unholy
Her thoughts, at least till now, appear to have been.
The strangest thing was, beauteous, she was wholly
Unconscious, albeit turn'd of quick seventeen,
That she was fair, or dark, or short, or tall;
She never thought about herself at all.
And therefore was she kind and gentle as
The Age of Gold (when gold was yet unknown,
By which its nomenclature came to pass;
Thus most appropriately has been shown
'Lucus a non lucendo,' not what was,
But what was not; a sort of style that 's grown
Extremely common in this age, whose metal
The devil may decompose, but never settle:
I think it may be of 'Corinthian Brass,'
Which was a mixture of all metals, but
The brazen uppermost). Kind reader! pass
This long parenthesis: I could not shut
It sooner for the soul of me, and class
My faults even with your own! which meaneth, Put
A kind construction upon them and me:
But that you won't--then don't--I am not less free.
'Tis time we should return to plain narration,
And thus my narrative proceeds:--Dudu,
With every kindness short of ostentation,
Show'd Juan, or Juanna, through and through
This labyrinth of females, and each station
Described--what 's strange--in words extremely few:
I have but one simile, and that 's a blunder,
For wordless woman, which is silent thunder.
And next she gave her (I say her, because
The gender still was epicene, at least
In outward show, which is a saving clause)
An outline of the customs of the East,
With all their chaste integrity of laws,
By which the more a haram is increased,
The stricter doubtless grow the vestal duties
Of any supernumerary beauties.
And then she gave Juanna a chaste kiss:
Dudu was fond of kissing--which I 'm sure
That nobody can ever take amiss,
Because 'tis pleasant, so that it be pure,
And between females means no more than this--
That they have nothing better near, or newer.
'Kiss' rhymes to 'bliss' in fact as well as verse--
I wish it never led to something worse.
In perfect innocence she then unmade
Her toilet, which cost little, for she was
A child of Nature, carelessly array'd:
If fond of a chance ogle at her glass,
'Twas like the fawn, which, in the lake display'd,
Beholds her own shy, shadowy image pass,
When first she starts, and then returns to peep,
Admiring this new native of the deep.
And one by one her articles of dress
Were laid aside; but not before she offer'd
Her aid to fair Juanna, whose excess
Of modesty declined the assistance proffer'd:
Which pass'd well off--as she could do no less;
Though by this politesse she rather suffer'd,
Pricking her fingers with those cursed pins,
Which surely were invented for our sins,--
Making a woman like a porcupine,
Not to be rashly touch'd. But still more dread,
O ye! whose fate it is, as once 'twas mine,
In early youth, to turn a lady's maid;--
I did my very boyish best to shine
In tricking her out for a masquerade;
The pins were placed sufficiently, but not
Stuck all exactly in the proper spot.
But these are foolish things to all the wise,
And I love wisdom more than she loves me;
My tendency is to philosophise
On most things, from a tyrant to a tree;
But still the spouseless virgin Knowledge flies.
What are we? and whence came we? what shall be
Our ultimate existence? what 's our present?
Are questions answerless, and yet incessant.
There was deep silence in the chamber: dim
And distant from each other burn'd the lights,
And slumber hover'd o'er each lovely limb
Of the fair occupants: if there be sprites,
They should have walk'd there in their sprightliest trim,
By way of change from their sepulchral sites,
And shown themselves as ghosts of better taste
Than haunting some old ruin or wild waste.
Many and beautiful lay those around,
Like flowers of different hue, and dime, and root,
In some exotic garden sometimes found,
With cost, and care, and warmth induced to shoot.
One with her auburn tresses lightly bound,
And fair brows gently drooping, as the fruit
Nods from the tree, was slumbering with soft breath,
And lips apart, which show'd the pearls beneath.
One with her flush'd cheek laid on her white arm,
And raven ringlets gather'd in dark crowd
Above her brow, lay dreaming soft and warm;
And smiling through her dream, as through a cloud
The moon breaks, half unveil'd each further charm,
As, slightly stirring in her snowy shroud,
Her beauties seized the unconscious hour of night
All bashfully to struggle into light.
This is no bull, although it sounds so; for
'Twas night, but there were lamps, as hath been said.
A third's all pallid aspect offer'd more
The traits of sleeping sorrow, and betray'd
Through the heaved breast the dream of some far shore
Beloved and deplored; while slowly stray'd
(As night-dew, on a cypress glittering, tinges
The black bough) tear-drops through her eyes' dark fringes.
A fourth as marble, statue-like and still,
Lay in a breathless, hush'd, and stony sleep;
White, cold, and pure, as looks a frozen rill,
Or the snow minaret on an Alpine steep,
Or Lot's wife done in salt,--or what you will;--
My similes are gather'd in a heap,
So pick and choose--perhaps you 'll be content
With a carved lady on a monument.
And lo! a fifth appears;--and what is she?
A lady of a 'certain age,' which means
Certainly aged--what her years might be
I know not, never counting past their teens;
But there she slept, not quite so fair to see,
As ere that awful period intervenes
Which lays both men and women on the shelf,
To meditate upon their sins and self.
But all this time how slept, or dream'd, Dudu?
With strict inquiry I could ne'er discover,
And scorn to add a syllable untrue;
But ere the middle watch was hardly over,
Just when the fading lamps waned dim and blue,
And phantoms hover'd, or might seem to hover,
To those who like their company, about
The apartment, on a sudden she scream'd out:
And that so loudly, that upstarted all
The Oda, in a general commotion:
Matron and maids, and those whom you may call
Neither, came crowding like the waves of ocean,
One on the other, throughout the whole hall,
All trembling, wondering, without the least notion
More than I have myself of what could make
The calm Dudu so turbulently wake.
But wide awake she was, and round her bed,
With floating draperies and with flying hair,
With eager eyes, and light but hurried tread,
And bosoms, arms, and ankles glancing bare,
And bright as any meteor ever bred
By the North Pole,--they sought her cause of care,
For she seem'd agitated, flush'd, and frighten'd,
Her eye dilated and her colour heighten'd.
But what was strange--and a strong proof how great
A blessing is sound sleep--Juanna lay
As fast as ever husband by his mate
In holy matrimony snores away.
Not all the clamour broke her happy state
Of slumber, ere they shook her,--so they say
At least,--and then she, too, unclosed her eyes,
And yawn'd a good deal with discreet surprise.
And now commenced a strict investigation,
Which, as all spoke at once and more than once,
Conjecturing, wondering, asking a narration,
Alike might puzzle either wit or dunce
To answer in a very clear oration.
Dudu had never pass'd for wanting sense,
But, being 'no orator as Brutus is,'
Could not at first expound what was amiss.
At length she said, that in a slumber sound
She dream'd a dream, of walking in a wood--
A 'wood obscure,' like that where Dante found
Himself in at the age when all grow good;
Life's half-way house, where dames with virtue crown'd
Run much less risk of lovers turning rude;
And that this wood was full of pleasant fruits,
And trees of goodly growth and spreading roots;
And in the midst a golden apple grew,--
A most prodigious pippin,--but it hung
Rather too high and distant; that she threw
Her glances on it, and then, longing, flung
Stones and whatever she could pick up, to
Bring down the fruit, which still perversely clung
To its own bough, and dangled yet in sight,
But always at a most provoking height;--
That on a sudden, when she least had hope,
It fell down of its own accord before
Her feet; that her first movement was to stoop
And pick it up, and bite it to the core;
That just as her young lip began to ope
Upon the golden fruit the vision bore,
A bee flew out and stung her to the heart,
And so--she awoke with a great scream and start.
All this she told with some confusion and
Dismay, the usual consequence of dreams
Of the unpleasant kind, with none at hand
To expound their vain and visionary gleams.
I 've known some odd ones which seem'd really plann'd
Prophetically, or that which one deems
A 'strange coincidence,' to use a phrase
By which such things are settled now-a-days.
The damsels, who had thoughts of some great harm,
Began, as is the consequence of fear,
To scold a little at the false alarm
That broke for nothing on their sleeping car.
The matron, too, was wroth to leave her warm
Bed for the dream she had been obliged to hear,
And chafed at poor Dudu, who only sigh'd,
And said that she was sorry she had cried.
'I 've heard of stories of a cock and bull;
But visions of an apple and a bee,
To take us from our natural rest, and pull
The whole Oda from their beds at half-past three,
Would make us think the moon is at its full.
You surely are unwell, child! we must see,
To-morrow, what his Highness's physician
Will say to this hysteric of a vision.
'And poor Juanna, too--the child's first night
Within these walls to be broke in upon
With such a clamour! I had thought it right
That the young stranger should not lie alone,
And, as the quietest of all, she might
With you, Dudu, a good night's rest have known;
But now I must transfer her to the charge
Of Lolah--though her couch is not so large.'
Lolah's eyes sparkled at the proposition;
But poor Dudu, with large drops in her own,
Resulting from the scolding or the vision,
Implored that present pardon might be shown
For this first fault, and that on no condition
(She added in a soft and piteous tone)
Juanna should be taken from her, and
Her future dreams should all be kept in hand.
She promised never more to have a dream,
At least to dream so loudly as just now;
She wonder'd at herself how she could scream--
'Twas foolish, nervous, as she must allow,
A fond hallucination, and a theme
For laughter--but she felt her spirits low,
And begg'd they would excuse her; she 'd get over
This weakness in a few hours, and recover.
And here Juanna kindly interposed,
And said she felt herself extremely well
Where she then was, as her sound sleep disclosed
When all around rang like a tocsin bell:
She did not find herself the least disposed
To quit her gentle partner, and to dwell
Apart from one who had no sin to show,
Save that of dreaming once 'mal-a-propos.'
As thus Juanna spoke, Dudu turn'd round
And hid her face within Juanna's breast:
Her neck alone was seen, but that was found
The colour of a budding rose's crest.
I can't tell why she blush'd, nor can expound
The mystery of this rupture of their rest;
All that I know is, that the facts I state
Are true as truth has ever been of late.
And so good night to them,--or, if you will,
Good morrow--for the cock had crown, and light
Began to clothe each Asiatic hill,
And the mosque crescent struggled into sight
Of the long caravan, which in the chill
Of dewy dawn wound slowly round each height
That stretches to the stony belt, which girds
Asia, where Kaff looks down upon the Kurds.
With the first ray, or rather grey of morn,
Gulbeyaz rose from restlessness; and pale
As passion rises, with its bosom worn,
Array'd herself with mantle, gem, and veil.
The nightingale that sings with the deep thorn,
Which fable places in her breast of wail,
Is lighter far of heart and voice than those
Whose headlong passions form their proper woes.
And that 's the moral of this composition,
If people would but see its real drift;--
But that they will not do without suspicion,
Because all gentle readers have the gift
Of closing 'gainst the light their orbs of vision;
While gentle writers also love to lift
Their voices 'gainst each other, which is natural,
The numbers are too great for them to flatter all.
Rose the sultana from a bed of splendour,
Softer than the soft Sybarite's, who cried
Aloud because his feelings were too tender
To brook a ruffled rose-leaf by his side,--
So beautiful that art could little mend her,
Though pale with conflicts between love and pride;--
So agitated was she with her error,
She did not even look into the mirror.
Also arose about the self-same time,
Perhaps a little later, her great lord,
Master of thirty kingdoms so sublime,
And of a wife by whom he was abhorr'd;
A thing of much less import in that clime--
At least to those of incomes which afford
The filling up their whole connubial cargo--
Than where two wives are under an embargo.
He did not think much on the matter, nor
Indeed on any other: as a man
He liked to have a handsome paramour
At hand, as one may like to have a fan,
And therefore of Circassians had good store,
As an amusement after the Divan;
Though an unusual fit of love, or duty,
Had made him lately bask in his bride's beauty.
And now he rose; and after due ablutions
Exacted by the customs of the East,
And prayers and other pious evolutions,
He drank six cups of coffee at the least,
And then withdrew to hear about the Russians,
Whose victories had recently increased
In Catherine's reign, whom glory still adores,
But oh, thou grand legitimate Alexander!
Her son's son, let not this last phrase offend
Thine ear, if it should reach--and now rhymes wander
Almost as far as Petersburgh and lend
A dreadful impulse to each loud meander
Of murmuring Liberty's wide waves, which blend
Their roar even with the Baltic's--so you be
Your father's son, 'tis quite enough for me.
To call men love-begotten or proclaim
Their mothers as the antipodes of Timon,
That hater of mankind, would be a shame,
A libel, or whate'er you please to rhyme on:
But people's ancestors are history's game;
And if one lady's slip could leave a crime on
All generations, I should like to know
What pedigree the best would have to show?
Had Catherine and the sultan understood
Their own true interests, which kings rarely know
Until 'tis taught by lessons rather rude,
There was a way to end their strife, although
Perhaps precarious, had they but thought good,
Without the aid of prince or plenipo:
She to dismiss her guards and he his haram,
And for their other matters, meet and share 'em.
But as it was, his Highness had to hold
His daily council upon ways and means
How to encounter with this martial scold,
This modern Amazon and queen of queans;
And the perplexity could not be told
Of all the pillars of the state, which leans
Sometimes a little heavy on the backs
Of those who cannot lay on a new tax.
Meantime Gulbeyaz, when her king was gone,
Retired into her boudoir, a sweet place
For love or breakfast; private, pleasing, lone,
And rich with all contrivances which grace
Those gay recesses:--many a precious stone
Sparkled along its roof, and many a vase
Of porcelain held in the fetter'd flowers,
Those captive soothers of a captive's hours.
Mother of pearl, and porphyry, and marble,
Vied with each other on this costly spot;
And singing birds without were heard to warble;
And the stain'd glass which lighted this fair grot
Varied each ray;--but all descriptions garble
The true effect, and so we had better not
Be too minute; an outline is the best,--
A lively reader's fancy does the rest.
And here she summon'd Baba, and required
Don Juan at his hands, and information
Of what had pass'd since all the slaves retired,
And whether he had occupied their station;
If matters had been managed as desired,
And his disguise with due consideration
Kept up; and above all, the where and how
He had pass'd the night, was what she wish'd to know.
Baba, with some embarrassment, replied
To this long catechism of questions, ask'd
More easily than answer'd,--that he had tried
His best to obey in what he had been task'd;
But there seem'd something that he wish'd to hide,
Which hesitation more betray'd than mask'd;
He scratch'd his ear, the infallible resource
To which embarrass'd people have recourse.
Gulbeyaz was no model of true patience,
Nor much disposed to wait in word or deed;
She liked quick answers in all conversations;
And when she saw him stumbling like a steed
In his replies, she puzzled him for fresh ones;
And as his speech grew still more broken-kneed,
Her cheek began to flush, her eyes to sparkle,
And her proud brow's blue veins to swell and darkle.
When Baba saw these symptoms, which he knew
To bode him no great good, he deprecated
Her anger, and beseech'd she 'd hear him through--
He could not help the thing which he related:
Then out it came at length, that to Dudu
Juan was given in charge, as hath been stated;
But not by Baba's fault, he said, and swore on
The holy camel's hump, besides the Koran.
The chief dame of the Oda, upon whom
The discipline of the whole haram bore,
As soon as they re-enter'd their own room,
For Baba's function stopt short at the door,
Had settled all; nor could he then presume
(The aforesaid Baba) just then to do more,
Without exciting such suspicion as
Might make the matter still worse than it was.
He hoped, indeed he thought, he could be sure
Juan had not betray'd himself; in fact
'Twas certain that his conduct had been pure,
Because a foolish or imprudent act
Would not alone have made him insecure,
But ended in his being found out and sack'd,
And thrown into the sea.--Thus Baba spoke
Of all save Dudu's dream, which was no joke.
This he discreetly kept in the background,
And talk'd away--and might have talk'd till now,
For any further answer that he found,
So deep an anguish wrung Gulbeyaz' brow:
Her cheek turn'd ashes, ears rung, brain whirl'd round,
As if she had received a sudden blow,
And the heart's dew of pain sprang fast and chilly
O'er her fair front, like Morning's on a lily.
Although she was not of the fainting sort,
Baba thought she would faint, but there he err'd--
It was but a convulsion, which though short
Can never be described; we all have heard,
And some of us have felt thus 'all amort,'
When things beyond the common have occurr'd;--
Gulbeyaz proved in that brief agony
What she could ne'er express--then how should I?
She stood a moment as a Pythones
Stands on her tripod, agonised, and full
Of inspiration gather'd from distress,
When all the heart-strings like wild horses pull
The heart asunder;--then, as more or lees
Their speed abated or their strength grew dull,
She sunk down on her seat by slow degrees,
And bow'd her throbbing head o'er trembling knees.
Her face declined and was unseen; her hair
Fell in long tresses like the weeping willow,
Sweeping the marble underneath her chair,
Or rather sofa (for it was all pillow,
A low soft ottoman), and black despair
Stirr'd up and down her bosom like a billow,
Which rushes to some shore whose shingles check
Its farther course, but must receive its wreck.
Her head hung down, and her long hair in stooping
Conceal'd her features better than a veil;
And one hand o'er the ottoman lay drooping,
White, waxen, and as alabaster pale:
Would that I were a painter! to be grouping
All that a poet drags into detail
O that my words were colours! but their tints
May serve perhaps as outlines or slight hints.
Baba, who knew by experience when to talk
And when to hold his tongue, now held it till
This passion might blow o'er, nor dared to balk
Gulbeyaz' taciturn or speaking will.
At length she rose up, and began to walk
Slowly along the room, but silent still,
And her brow clear'd, but not her troubled eye;
The wind was down, but still the sea ran high.
She stopp'd, and raised her head to speak--but paused,
And then moved on again with rapid pace;
Then slacken'd it, which is the march most caused
By deep emotion:--you may sometimes trace
A feeling in each footstep, as disclosed
By Sallust in his Catiline, who, chased
By all the demons of all passions, show'd
Their work even by the way in which he trode.
Gulbeyaz stopp'd and beckon'd Baba:--'Slave!
Bring the two slaves!' she said in a low tone,
But one which Baba did not like to brave,
And yet he shudder'd, and seem'd rather prone
To prove reluctant, and begg'd leave to crave
(Though he well knew the meaning) to be shown
What slaves her highness wish'd to indicate,
For fear of any error, like the late.
'The Georgian and her paramour,' replied
The imperial bride--and added, 'Let the boat
Be ready by the secret portal's side:
You know the rest.' The words stuck in her throat,
Despite her injured love and fiery pride;
And of this Baba willingly took note,
And begg'd by every hair of Mahomet's beard,
She would revoke the order he had heard.
'To hear is to obey,' he said; 'but still,
Sultana, think upon the consequence:
It is not that I shall not all fulfil
Your orders, even in their severest sense;
But such precipitation may end ill,
Even at your own imperative expense:
I do not mean destruction and exposure,
In case of any premature disclosure;
'But your own feelings. Even should all the rest
Be hidden by the rolling waves, which hide
Already many a once love-beaten breast
Deep in the caverns of the deadly tide--
You love this boyish, new, seraglio guest,
And if this violent remedy be tried--
Excuse my freedom, when I here assure you,
That killing him is not the way to cure you.'
'What dost thou know of love or feeling?--Wretch!
Begone!' she cried, with kindling eyes--'and do
My bidding!' Baba vanish'd, for to stretch
His own remonstrance further he well knew
Might end in acting as his own 'Jack Ketch;'
And though he wish'd extremely to get through
This awkward business without harm to others,
He still preferr'd his own neck to another's.
Away he went then upon his commission,
Growling and grumbling in good Turkish phrase
Against all women of whate'er condition,
Especially sultanas and their ways;
Their obstinacy, pride, and indecision,
Their never knowing their own mind two days,
The trouble that they gave, their immorality,
Which made him daily bless his own neutrality.
And then he call'd his brethren to his aid,
And sent one on a summons to the pair,
That they must instantly be well array'd,
And above all be comb'd even to a hair,
And brought before the empress, who had made
Inquiries after them with kindest care:
At which Dudu look'd strange, and Juan silly;
But go they must at once, and will I--nill I.
And here I leave them at their preparation
For the imperial presence, wherein whether
Gulbeyaz show'd them both commiseration,
Or got rid of the parties altogether,
Like other angry ladies of her nation,--
Are things the turning of a hair or feather
May settle; but far be 't from me to anticipate
In what way feminine caprice may dissipate.
I leave them for the present with good wishes,
Though doubts of their well doing, to arrange
Another part of history; for the dishes
Of this our banquet we must sometimes change;
And trusting Juan may escape the fishes,
Although his situation now seems strange
And scarce secure, as such digressions are fair,
The Muse will take a little touch at warfare.
[Illustration: Canto 7]
CANTO THE SEVENTH.
O Love! O Glory! what are ye who fly
Around us ever, rarely to alight?
There 's not a meteor in the polar sky
Of such transcendent and more fleeting flight.
Chill, and chain'd to cold earth, we lift on high
Our eyes in search of either lovely light;
A thousand and a thousand colours they
Assume, then leave us on our freezing way.
And such as they are, such my present tale is,
A non-descript and ever-varying rhyme,
A versified Aurora Borealis,
Which flashes o'er a waste and icy clime.
When we know what all are, we must bewail us,
But ne'ertheless I hope it is no crime
To laugh at all things--for I wish to know
What, after all, are all things--but a show?
They accuse me--Me--the present writer of
The present poem--of--I know not what--
A tendency to under-rate and scoff
At human power and virtue, and all that;
And this they say in language rather rough.
Good God! I wonder what they would be at!
I say no more than hath been said in Dante's
Verse, and by Solomon and by Cervantes;
By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault,
By Fenelon, by Luther, and by Plato;
By Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau,
Who knew this life was not worth a potato.
'T is not their fault, nor mine, if this be so--
For my part, I pretend not to be Cato,
Nor even Diogenes.--We live and die,
But which is best, you know no more than I.
Socrates said, our only knowledge was
'To know that nothing could be known;' a pleasant
Science enough, which levels to an ass
Each man of wisdom, future, past, or present.
Newton (that proverb of the mind), alas!
Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent,
That he himself felt only 'like a youth
Picking up shells by the great ocean--Truth.'
Ecclesiastes said, 'that all is vanity'-
Most modern preachers say the same, or show it
By their examples of true Christianity:
In short, all know, or very soon may know it;
And in this scene of all-confess'd inanity,
By saint, by sage, by preacher, and by poet,
Must I restrain me, through the fear of strife,
From holding up the nothingness of life?
Dogs, or men!--for I flatter you in saying
That ye are dogs--your betters far--ye may
Read, or read not, what I am now essaying
To show ye what ye are in every way.
As little as the moon stops for the baying
Of wolves, will the bright muse withdraw one ray
From out her skies--then howl your idle wrath!
While she still silvers o'er your gloomy path.
'Fierce loves and faithless wars'--I am not sure
If this be the right reading--'t is no matter;
The fact 's about the same, I am secure;
I sing them both, and am about to batter
A town which did a famous siege endure,
And was beleaguer'd both by land and water
By Souvaroff, or Anglice Suwarrow,
Who loved blood as an alderman loves marrow.
The fortress is call'd Ismail, and is placed
Upon the Danube's left branch and left bank,
With buildings in the Oriental taste,
But still a fortress of the foremost rank,
Or was at least, unless 't is since defaced,
Which with your conquerors is a common prank:
It stands some eighty versts from the high sea,
And measures round of toises thousands three.
Within the extent of this fortification
A borough is comprised along the height
Upon the left, which from its loftier station
Commands the city, and upon its site
A Greek had raised around this elevation
A quantity of palisades upright,
So placed as to impede the fire of those
Who held the place, and to assist the foe's.
This circumstance may serve to give a notion
Of the high talents of this new Vauban:
But the town ditch below was deep as ocean,
The rampart higher than you 'd wish to hang:
But then there was a great want of precaution
(Prithee, excuse this engineering slang),
Nor work advanced, nor cover'd way was there,
To hint at least 'Here is no thoroughfare.'
But a stone bastion, with a narrow gorge,
And walls as thick as most skulls born as yet;
Two batteries, cap-a-pie, as our St. George,
Case-mated one, and t' other 'a barbette,'
Of Danube's bank took formidable charge;
While two and twenty cannon duly set
Rose over the town's right side, in bristling tier,
Forty feet high, upon a cavalier.
But from the river the town 's open quite,
Because the Turks could never be persuaded
A Russian vessel e'er would heave in sight;
And such their creed was, till they were invaded,
When it grew rather late to set things right.
But as the Danube could not well be waded,
They look'd upon the Muscovite flotilla,
And only shouted, 'Allah!' and 'Bis Millah!'
The Russians now were ready to attack:
But oh, ye goddesses of war and glory!
How shall I spell the name of each Cossacque
Who were immortal, could one tell their story?
Alas! what to their memory can lack?
Achilles' self was not more grim and gory
Than thousands of this new and polish'd nation,
Whose names want nothing but--pronunciation.
Still I 'll record a few, if but to increase
Our euphony: there was Strongenoff, and Strokonoff,
Meknop, Serge Lwow, Arsniew of modern Greece,
And Tschitsshakoff, and Roguenoff, and Chokenoff,
And others of twelve consonants apiece;
And more might be found out, if I could poke enough
Into gazettes; but Fame (capricious strumpet),
It seems, has got an ear as well as trumpet,
And cannot tune those discords of narration,
Which may be names at Moscow, into rhyme;
Yet there were several worth commemoration,
As e'er was virgin of a nuptial chime;
Soft words, too, fitted for the peroration
Of Londonderry drawling against time,
Ending in 'ischskin,' 'ousckin,' 'iffskchy,' 'ouski:
Of whom we can _insert_ but Rousamouski,
Scherematoff and Chrematoff, Koklophti,
Koclobski, Kourakin, and Mouskin Pouskin,
All proper men of weapons, as e'er scoff'd high
Against a foe, or ran a sabre through skin:
Little cared they for Mahomet or Mufti,
Unless to make their kettle-drums a new skin
Out of their hides, if parchment had grown dear,
And no more handy substitute been near.
Then there were foreigners of much renown,
Of various nations, and all volunteers;
Not fighting for their country or its crown,
But wishing to be one day brigadiers;
Also to have the sacking of a town,--
A pleasant thing to young men at their years.
'Mongst them were several Englishmen of pith,
Sixteen call'd Thomson, and nineteen named Smith.
Jack Thomson and Bill Thomson; all the rest
Had been call'd 'Jemmy,' after the great bard;
I don't know whether they had arms or crest,
But such a godfather 's as good a card.
Three of the Smiths were Peters; but the best
Amongst them all, hard blows to inflict or ward,
Was he, since so renown'd 'in country quarters
At Halifax;' but now he served the Tartars.
The rest were jacks and Gills and Wills and Bills;
But when I 've added that the elder jack Smith
Was born in Cumberland among the hills,
And that his father was an honest blacksmith,
I 've said all I know of a name that fills
Three lines of the despatch in taking 'Schmacksmith,'
A village of Moldavia's waste, wherein
He fell, immortal in a bulletin.
I wonder (although Mars no doubt 's a god
Praise) if a man's name in a bulletin
May make up for a bullet in his body?
I hope this little question is no sin,
Because, though I am but a simple noddy,
I think one Shakspeare puts the same thought in
The mouth of some one in his plays so doting,
Which many people pass for wits by quoting.
Then there were Frenchmen, gallant, young, and gay:
But I 'm too great a patriot to record
Their Gallic names upon a glorious day;
I 'd rather tell ten lies than say a word
Of truth;--such truths are treason; they betray
Their country; and as traitors are abhorr'd
Who name the French in English, save to show
How Peace should make John Bull the Frenchman's foe.
The Russians, having built two batteries on
An isle near Ismail, had two ends in view;
The first was to bombard it, and knock down
The public buildings and the private too,
No matter what poor souls might be undone.
The city's shape suggested this, 't is true;
Form'd like an amphitheatre, each dwelling
Presented a fine mark to throw a shell in.
The second object was to profit by
The moment of the general consternation,
To attack the Turk's flotilla, which lay nigh
Extremely tranquil, anchor'd at its station:
But a third motive was as probably
To frighten them into capitulation;
A phantasy which sometimes seizes warriors,
Unless they are game as bull-dogs and fox-terriers.
A habit rather blamable, which is
That of despising those we combat with,
Common in many cases, was in this
The cause of killing Tchitchitzkoff and Smith;
One of the valorous 'Smiths' whom we shall miss
Out of those nineteen who late rhymed to 'pith;'
But 't is a name so spread o'er 'Sir' and 'Madam,'
That one would think the first who bore it 'Adam.'
The Russian batteries were incomplete,
Because they were constructed in a hurry;
Thus the same cause which makes a verse want feet,
And throws a cloud o'er Longman and John Murray,
When the sale of new books is not so fleet
As they who print them think is necessary,
May likewise put off for a time what story
Sometimes calls 'murder,' and at others 'glory.'
Whether it was their engineer's stupidity,
Their haste, or waste, I neither know nor care,
Or some contractor's personal cupidity,
Saving his soul by cheating in the ware
Of homicide, but there was no solidity
In the new batteries erected there;
They either miss'd, or they were never miss'd,
And added greatly to the missing list.
A sad miscalculation about distance
Made all their naval matters incorrect;
Three fireships lost their amiable existence
Before they reach'd a spot to take effect:
The match was lit too soon, and no assistance
Could remedy this lubberly defect;
They blew up in the middle of the river,
While, though 't was dawn, the Turks slept fast as ever.
At seven they rose, however, and survey'd
The Russ flotilla getting under way;
'T was nine, when still advancing undismay'd,
Within a cable's length their vessels lay
Off Ismail, and commenced a cannonade,
Which was return'd with interest, I may say,
And by a fire of musketry and grape,
And shells and shot of every size and shape.
For six hours bore they without intermission
The Turkish fire, and aided by their own
Land batteries, work'd their guns with great precision:
At length they found mere cannonade alone
By no means would produce the town's submission,
And made a signal to retreat at one.
One bark blew up, a second near the works
Running aground, was taken by the Turks.
The Moslem, too, had lost both ships and men;
But when they saw the enemy retire,
Their Delhis mann'd some boats, and sail'd again,
And gall'd the Russians with a heavy fire,
And tried to make a landing on the main;
But here the effect fell short of their desire:
Count Damas drove them back into the water
Pell-mell, and with a whole gazette of slaughter.
'If' (says the historian here) 'I could report
All that the Russians did upon this day,
I think that several volumes would fall short,
And I should still have many things to say;'
And so he says no more--but pays his court
To some distinguish'd strangers in that fray;
The Prince de Ligne, and Langeron, and Damas,
Names great as any that the roll of Fame has.
This being the case, may show us what Fame is:
For out of these three 'preux Chevaliers,' how
Many of common readers give a guess
That such existed? (and they may live now
For aught we know.) Renown 's all hit or miss;
There 's fortune even in fame, we must allow.
'T is true the Memoirs of the Prince de Ligne
Have half withdrawn from him oblivion's screen.
But here are men who fought in gallant actions
As gallantly as ever heroes fought,
But buried in the heap of such transactions
Their names are rarely found, nor often sought.
Thus even good fame may suffer sad contractions,
And is extinguish'd sooner than she ought:
Of all our modern battles, I will bet
You can't repeat nine names from each Gazette.
In short, this last attack, though rich in glory,
Show'd that somewhere, somehow, there was a fault,
And Admiral Ribas (known in Russian story)
Most strongly recommended an assault;
In which he was opposed by young and hoary,
Which made a long debate; but I must halt,
For if I wrote down every warrior's speech,
I doubt few readers e'er would mount the breach.
There was a man, if that he was a man,
Not that his manhood could be call'd in question,
For had he not been Hercules, his span
Had been as short in youth as indigestion
Made his last illness, when, all worn and wan,
He died beneath a tree, as much unblest on
The soil of the green province he had wasted,
As e'er was locust on the land it blasted.
This was Potemkin--a great thing in days
When homicide and harlotry made great;
If stars and titles could entail long praise,
His glory might half equal his estate.
This fellow, being six foot high, could raise
A kind of phantasy proportionate
In the then sovereign of the Russian people,
Who measured men as you would do a steeple.
While things were in abeyance, Ribas sent
A courier to the prince, and he succeeded
In ordering matters after his own bent;
I cannot tell the way in which he pleaded,
But shortly he had cause to be content.
In the mean time, the batteries proceeded,
And fourscore cannon on the Danube's border
Were briskly fired and answer'd in due order.
But on the thirteenth, when already part
Of the troops were embark'd, the siege to raise,
A courier on the spur inspired new heart
Into all panters for newspaper praise,
As well as dilettanti in war's art,
By his despatches couch'd in pithy phrase;
Announcing the appointment of that lover of
Battles to the command, Field-Marshal Souvaroff.
The letter of the prince to the same marshal
Was worthy of a Spartan, had the cause
Been one to which a good heart could be partial--
Defence of freedom, country, or of laws;
But as it was mere lust of power to o'er-arch all
With its proud brow, it merits slight applause,
Save for its style, which said, all in a trice,
'You will take Ismail at whatever price.'
'Let there be light! said God, and there was light!'
'Let there be blood!' says man, and there 's a seal
The fiat of this spoil'd child of the Night
(For Day ne'er saw his merits) could decree
More evil in an hour, than thirty bright
Summers could renovate, though they should be
Lovely as those which ripen'd Eden's fruit;
For war cuts up not only branch, but root.
Our friends the Turks, who with loud 'Allahs' now
Began to signalise the Russ retreat,
Were damnably mistaken; few are slow
In thinking that their enemy is beat
(Or beaten, if you insist on grammar, though
I never think about it in a heat),
But here I say the Turks were much mistaken,
Who hating hogs, yet wish'd to save their bacon.
For, on the sixteenth, at full gallop, drew
In sight two horsemen, who were deem'd Cossacques
For some time, till they came in nearer view.
They had but little baggage at their backs,
For there were but three shirts between the two;
But on they rode upon two Ukraine hacks,
Till, in approaching, were at length descried
In this plain pair, Suwarrow and his guide.
'Great joy to London now!' says some great fool,
When London had a grand illumination,
Which to that bottle-conjurer, John Bull,
Is of all dreams the first hallucination;
So that the streets of colour'd lamps are full,
That Sage (said john) surrenders at discretion
His purse, his soul, his sense, and even his nonsense,
To gratify, like a huge moth, this one sense.
'T is strange that he should farther 'damn his eyes,'
For they are damn'd; that once all-famous oath
Is to the devil now no farther prize,
Since John has lately lost the use of both.
Debt he calls wealth, and taxes Paradise;
And Famine, with her gaunt and bony growth,
Which stare him in the face, he won't examine,
Or swears that Ceres hath begotten Famine.
But to the tale:--great joy unto the camp!
To Russian, Tartar, English, French, Cossacque,
O'er whom Suwarrow shone like a gas lamp,
Presaging a most luminous attack;
Or like a wisp along the marsh so damp,
Which leads beholders on a boggy walk,
He flitted to and fro a dancing light,
Which all who saw it follow'd, wrong or right.
But certes matters took a different face;
There was enthusiasm and much applause,
The fleet and camp saluted with great grace,
And all presaged good fortune to their cause.
Within a cannon-shot length of the place
They drew, constructed ladders, repair'd flaws
In former works, made new, prepared fascines,
And all kinds of benevolent machines.
'T is thus the spirit of a single mind
Makes that of multitudes take one direction,
As roll the waters to the breathing wind,
Or roams the herd beneath the bull's protection;
Or as a little dog will lead the blind,
Or a bell-wether form the flock's connection
By tinkling sounds, when they go forth to victual;
Such is the sway of your great men o'er little.
The whole camp rung with joy; you would have thought
That they were going to a marriage feast
(This metaphor, I think, holds good as aught,
Since there is discord after both at least):
There was not now a luggage boy but sought
Danger and spoil with ardour much increased;
And why? because a little--odd--old man,
Stript to his shirt, was come to lead the van.
But so it was; and every preparation
Was made with all alacrity: the first
Detachment of three columns took its station,
And waited but the signal's voice to burst
Upon the foe: the second's ordination
Was also in three columns, with a thirst
For glory gaping o'er a sea of slaughter:
The third, in columns two, attack'd by water.
New batteries were erected, and was held
A general council, in which unanimity,
That stranger to most councils, here prevail'd,
As sometimes happens in a great extremity;
And every difficulty being dispell'd,
Glory began to dawn with due sublimity,
While Souvaroff, determined to obtain it,
Was teaching his recruits to use the bayonet
It is an actual fact, that he, commander
In chief, in proper person deign'd to drill
The awkward squad, and could afford to squander
His time, a corporal's duty to fulfil:
Just as you 'd break a sucking salamander
To swallow flame, and never take it ill:
He show'd them how to mount a ladder (which
Was not like Jacob's) or to cross a ditch.
Also he dress'd up, for the nonce, fascines
Like men with turbans, scimitars, and dirks,
And made them charge with bayonet these machines,
By way of lesson against actual Turks:
And when well practised in these mimic scenes,
He judged them proper to assail the works;
At which your wise men sneer'd in phrases witty:
He made no answer; but he took the city.
Most things were in this posture on the eve
Of the assault, and all the camp was in
A stern repose; which you would scarce conceive;
Yet men resolved to dash through thick and thin
Are very silent when they once believe
That all is settled:--there was little din,
For some were thinking of their home and friends,
And others of themselves and latter ends.
Suwarrow chiefly was on the alert,
Surveying, drilling, ordering, jesting, pondering;
For the man was, we safely may assert,
A thing to wonder at beyond most wondering;
Hero, buffoon, half-demon, and half-dirt,
Praying, instructing, desolating, plundering;
Now Mars, now Momus; and when bent to storm
A fortress, Harlequin in uniform.
The day before the assault, while upon drill--
For this great conqueror play'd the corporal--
Some Cossacques, hovering like hawks round a hill,
Had met a party towards the twilight's fall,
One of whom spoke their tongue--or well or ill,
'T was much that he was understood at all;
But whether from his voice, or speech, or manner,
They found that he had fought beneath their banner.
Whereon immediately at his request
They brought him and his comrades to head-quarters;
Their dress was Moslem, but you might have guess'd
That these were merely masquerading Tartars,
And that beneath each Turkish-fashion'd vest
Lurk'd Christianity; which sometimes barters
Her inward grace for outward show, and makes
It difficult to shun some strange mistakes.
Suwarrow, who was standing in his shirt
Before a company of Calmucks, drilling,
Exclaiming, fooling, swearing at the inert,
And lecturing on the noble art of killing,--
For deeming human clay but common dirt,
This great philosopher was thus instilling
His maxims, which to martial comprehension
Proved death in battle equal to a pension;--
Suwarrow, when he saw this company
Of Cossacques and their prey, turn'd round and cast
Upon them his slow brow and piercing eye:--
'Whence come ye?'--'From Constantinople last,
Captives just now escaped,' was the reply.
'What are ye?'--'What you see us.' Briefly pass'd
This dialogue; for he who answer'd knew
To whom he spoke, and made his words but few.
'Your names?'--'Mine 's Johnson, and my comrade 's Juan;
The other two are women, and the third
Is neither man nor woman.' The chief threw on
The party a slight glance, then said, 'I have heard
Your name before, the second is a new one:
To bring the other three here was absurd:
But let that pass:--I think I have heard your name
In the Nikolaiew regiment?'--'The same.'
'You served at Widdin?'--'Yes.'--'You led the attack?'
'I did.'--'What next?'--'I really hardly know.'
'You were the first i' the breach?'--'I was not slack
At least to follow those who might be so.'
'What follow'd?'--'A shot laid me on my back,
And I became a prisoner to the foe.'
'You shall have vengeance, for the town surrounded
Is twice as strong as that where you were wounded.
'Where will you serve?'--'Where'er you please.'--'I know
You like to be the hope of the forlorn,
And doubtless would be foremost on the foe
After the hardships you 've already borne.
And this young fellow--say what can he do?
He with the beardless chin and garments torn?'
'Why, general, if he hath no greater fault
In war than love, he had better lead the assault.'
'He shall if that he dare.' Here Juan bow'd
Low as the compliment deserved. Suwarrow
Continued: 'Your old regiment's allow'd,
By special providence, to lead to-morrow,
Or it may be to-night, the assault: I have vow'd
To several saints, that shortly plough or harrow
Shall pass o'er what was Ismail, and its tusk
Be unimpeded by the proudest mosque.
'So now, my lads, for glory!'--Here he turn'd
And drill'd away in the most classic Russian,
Until each high, heroic bosom burn'd
For cash and conquest, as if from a cushion
A preacher had held forth (who nobly spurn'd
All earthly goods save tithes) and bade them push on
To slay the Pagans who resisted, battering
The armies of the Christian Empress Catherine.
Johnson, who knew by this long colloquy
Himself a favourite, ventured to address
Suwarrow, though engaged with accents high
In his resumed amusement. 'I confess
My debt in being thus allow'd to die
Among the foremost; but if you 'd express
Explicitly our several posts, my friend
And self would know what duty to attend.'
'Right! I was busy, and forgot. Why, you
Will join your former regiment, which should be
Now under arms. Ho! Katskoff, take him to
(Here he call'd up a Polish orderly)
His post, I mean the regiment Nikolaiew:
The stranger stripling may remain with me;
He 's a fine boy. The women may be sent
To the other baggage, or to the sick tent.'
But here a sort of scene began to ensue:
The ladies,--who by no means had been bred
To be disposed of in a way so new,
Although their haram education led
Doubtless to that of doctrines the most true,
Passive obedience,--now raised up the head,
With flashing eyes and starting tears, and flung
Their arms, as hens their wings about their young,
O'er the promoted couple of brave men
Who were thus honour'd by the greatest chief
That ever peopled hell with heroes slain,
Or plunged a province or a realm in grief.
O, foolish mortals! Always taught in vain!
O, glorious laurel! since for one sole leaf
Of thine imaginary deathless tree,
Of blood and tears must flow the unebbing sea.
Suwarrow, who had small regard for tears,
And not much sympathy for blood, survey'd
The women with their hair about their ears
And natural agonies, with a slight shade
Of feeling: for however habit sears
Men's hearts against whole millions, when their trade
Is butchery, sometimes a single sorrow
Will touch even heroes--and such was Suwarrow.
He said,--and in the kindest Calmuck tone,--
'Why, Johnson, what the devil do you mean
By bringing women here? They shall be shown
All the attention possible, and seen
In safety to the waggons, where alone
In fact they can be safe. You should have been
Aware this kind of baggage never thrives:
Save wed a year, I hate recruits with wives.'
'May it please your excellency,' thus replied
Our British friend, 'these are the wives of others,
And not our own. I am too qualified
By service with my military brothers
To break the rules by bringing one's own bride
Into a camp: I know that nought so bothers
The hearts of the heroic on a charge,
As leaving a small family at large.
'But these are but two Turkish ladies, who
With their attendant aided our escape,
And afterwards accompanied us through
A thousand perils in this dubious shape.
To me this kind of life is not so new;
To them, poor things, it is an awkward scrape.
I therefore, if you wish me to fight freely,
Request that they may both be used genteelly.'
Meantime these two poor girls, with swimming eyes,
Look'd on as if in doubt if they could trust
Their own protectors; nor was their surprise
Less than their grief (and truly not less just)
To see an old man, rather wild than wise
In aspect, plainly clad, besmear'd with dust,
Stript to his waistcoat, and that not too clean,
More fear'd than all the sultans ever seen.
For every thing seem'd resting on his nod,
As they could read in all eyes. Now to them,
Who were accustom'd, as a sort of god,
To see the sultan, rich in many a gem,
Like an imperial peacock stalk abroad
(That royal bird, whose tail 's a diadem),
With all the pomp of power, it was a doubt
How power could condescend to do without.
John Johnson, seeing their extreme dismay,
Though little versed in feelings oriental,
Suggested some slight comfort in his way:
Don Juan, who was much more sentimental,
Swore they should see him by the dawn of day,
Or that the Russian army should repent all:
And, strange to say, they found some consolation
In this--for females like exaggeration.
And then with tears, and sighs, and some slight kisses,
They parted for the present--these to await,
According to the artillery's hits or misses,
What sages call Chance, Providence, or Fate
(Uncertainty is one of many blisses,
A mortgage on Humanity's estate)--
While their beloved friends began to arm,
To burn a town which never did them harm.
Suwarrow,--who but saw things in the gross,
Being much too gross to see them in detail,
Who calculated life as so much dross,
And as the wind a widow'd nation's wail,
And cared as little for his army's loss
(So that their efforts should at length prevail)
As wife and friends did for the boils of job,--
What was 't to him to hear two women sob?
Nothing.--The work of glory still went on
In preparations for a cannonade
As terrible as that of Ilion,
If Homer had found mortars ready made;
But now, instead of slaying Priam's son,
We only can but talk of escalade,
Bombs, drums, guns, bastions, batteries, bayonets, bullets,--
Hard words, which stick in the soft Muses' gullets.
O, thou eternal Homer! who couldst charm
All cars, though long; all ages, though so short,
By merely wielding with poetic arm
Arms to which men will never more resort,
Unless gunpowder should be found to harm
Much less than is the hope of every court,
Which now is leagued young Freedom to annoy;
But they will not find Liberty a Troy:--
O, thou eternal Homer! I have now
To paint a siege, wherein more men were slain,
With deadlier engines and a speedier blow,
Than in thy Greek gazette of that campaign;
And yet, like all men else, I must allow,
To vie with thee would be about as vain
As for a brook to cope with ocean's flood;
But still we moderns equal you in blood;
If not in poetry, at least in fact;
And fact is truth, the grand desideratum!
Of which, howe'er the Muse describes each act,
There should be ne'ertheless a slight substratum.
But now the town is going to be attack'd;
Great deeds are doing--how shall I relate 'em?
Souls of immortal generals! Phoebus watches
To colour up his rays from your despatches.
O, ye great bulletins of Bonaparte!
O, ye less grand long lists of kill'd and wounded!
Shade of Leonidas, who fought so hearty,
When my poor Greece was once, as now, surrounded!
O, Caesar's Commentaries! now impart, ye
Shadows of glory! (lest I be confounded)
A portion of your fading twilight hues,
So beautiful, so fleeting, to the Muse.
When I call 'fading' martial immortality,
I mean, that every age and every year,
And almost every day, in sad reality,
Some sucking hero is compell'd to rear,
Who, when we come to sum up the totality
Of deeds to human happiness most dear,
Turns out to be a butcher in great business,
Afflicting young folks with a sort of dizziness.
Medals, rank, ribands, lace, embroidery, scarlet,
Are things immortal to immortal man,
As purple to the Babylonian harlot:
An uniform to boys is like a fan
To women; there is scarce a crimson varlet
But deems himself the first in Glory's van.
But Glory's glory; and if you would find
What that is--ask the pig who sees the wind!
At least he feels it, and some say he sees,
Because he runs before it like a pig;
Or, if that simple sentence should displease,
Say, that he scuds before it like a brig,
A schooner, or--but it is time to ease
This Canto, ere my Muse perceives fatigue.
The next shall ring a peal to shake all people,
Like a bob-major from a village steeple.
Hark! through the silence of the cold, dull night,
The hum of armies gathering rank on rank!
Lo! dusky masses steal in dubious sight
Along the leaguer'd wall and bristling bank
Of the arm'd river, while with straggling light
The stars peep through the vapours dim and dank,
Which curl in curious wreaths:--how soon the smoke
Of Hell shall pall them in a deeper cloak!
Here pause we for the present--as even then
That awful pause, dividing life from death,
Struck for an instant on the hearts of men,
Thousands of whom were drawing their last breath!
A moment--and all will be life again!
The march! the charge! the shouts of either faith!
Hurra! and Allah! and--one moment more,
The death-cry drowning in the battle's roar.
[Illustration: Canto 8]
CANTO THE EIGHTH.
O blood and thunder! and oh blood and wounds!
These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem,
Too gentle reader! and most shocking sounds:
And so they are; yet thus is Glory's dream
Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds
At present such things, since they are her theme,
So be they her inspirers! Call them Mars,
Bellona, what you will--they mean but wars.
All was prepared--the fire, the sword, the men
To wield them in their terrible array.
The army, like a lion from his den,
March'd forth with nerve and sinews bent to slay,--
A human Hydra, issuing from its fen
To breathe destruction on its winding way,
Whose heads were heroes, which cut off in vain
Immediately in others grew again.
History can only take things in the gross;
But could we know them in detail, perchance
In balancing the profit and the loss,
War's merit it by no means might enhance,
To waste so much gold for a little dross,
As hath been done, mere conquest to advance.
The drying up a single tear has more
Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore.
And why?--because it brings self-approbation;
Whereas the other, after all its glare,
Shouts, bridges, arches, pensions from a nation,
Which (it may be) has not much left to spare,
A higher title, or a loftier station,
Though they may make Corruption gape or stare,
Yet, in the end, except in Freedom's battles,
Are nothing but a child of Murder's rattles.
And such they are--and such they will be found:
Not so Leonidas and Washington,
Whose every battle-field is holy ground,
Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds undone.
How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound!
While the mere victor's may appal or stun
The servile and the vain, such names will be
A watchword till the future shall be free.
The night was dark, and the thick mist allow'd
Nought to be seen save the artillery's flame,
Which arch'd the horizon like a fiery cloud,
And in the Danube's waters shone the same--
A mirror'd hell! the volleying roar, and loud
Long booming of each peal on peal, o'ercame
The ear far more than thunder; for Heaven's flashes
Spare, or smite rarely--man's make millions ashes!
The column order'd on the assault scarce pass'd
Beyond the Russian batteries a few toises,
When up the bristling Moslem rose at last,
Answering the Christian thunders with like voices:
Then one vast fire, air, earth, and stream embraced,
Which rock'd as 't were beneath the mighty noises;
While the whole rampart blazed like Etna, when
The restless Titan hiccups in his den.
And one enormous shout of 'Allah!' rose
In the same moment, loud as even the roar
Of war's most mortal engines, to their foes
Hurling defiance: city, stream, and shore
Resounded 'Allah!' and the clouds which close
With thick'ning canopy the conflict o'er,
Vibrate to the Eternal name. Hark! through
All sounds it pierceth 'Allah! Allah! Hu!'
The columns were in movement one and all,
But of the portion which attack'd by water,
Thicker than leaves the lives began to fall,
Though led by Arseniew, that great son of slaughter,
As brave as ever faced both bomb and ball.
'Carnage' (so Wordsworth tells you) 'is God's daughter:'
If he speak truth, she is Christ's sister, and
Just now behaved as in the Holy Land.
The Prince de Ligne was wounded in the knee;
Count Chapeau-Bras, too, had a ball between
His cap and head, which proves the head to be
Aristocratic as was ever seen,
Because it then received no injury
More than the cap; in fact, the ball could mean
No harm unto a right legitimate head:
'Ashes to ashes'--why not lead to lead?
Also the General Markow, Brigadier,
Insisting on removal of the prince
Amidst some groaning thousands dying near,--
All common fellows, who might writhe and wince,
And shriek for water into a deaf ear,--
The General Markow, who could thus evince
His sympathy for rank, by the same token,
To teach him greater, had his own leg broken.
Three hundred cannon threw up their emetic,
And thirty thousand muskets flung their pills
Like hail, to make a bloody diuretic.
Mortality! thou hast thy monthly bills;
Thy plagues, thy famines, thy physicians, yet tick,
Like the death-watch, within our ears the ills
Past, present, and to come;--but all may yield
To the true portrait of one battle-field.
There the still varying pangs, which multiply
Until their very number makes men hard
By the infinities of agony,
Which meet the gaze whate'er it may regard--
The groan, the roll in dust, the all-white eye
Turn'd back within its socket,--these reward
Your rank and file by thousands, while the rest
May win perhaps a riband at the breast!
Yet I love glory;--glory 's a great thing:--
Think what it is to be in your old age
Maintain'd at the expense of your good king:
A moderate pension shakes full many a sage,
And heroes are but made for bards to sing,
Which is still better; thus in verse to wage
Your wars eternally, besides enjoying
Half-pay for life, make mankind worth destroying.
The troops, already disembark'd, push'd on
To take a battery on the right; the others,
Who landed lower down, their landing done,
Had set to work as briskly as their brothers:
Being grenadiers, they mounted one by one,
Cheerful as children climb the breasts of mothers,
O'er the entrenchment and the palisade,
Quite orderly, as if upon parade.
And this was admirable; for so hot
The fire was, that were red Vesuvius loaded,
Besides its lava, with all sorts of shot
And shells or hells, it could not more have goaded.
Of officers a third fell on the spot,
A thing which victory by no means boded
To gentlemen engaged in the assault:
Hounds, when the huntsman tumbles, are at fault.
But here I leave the general concern,
To track our hero on his path of fame:
He must his laurels separately earn;
For fifty thousand heroes, name by name,
Though all deserving equally to turn
A couplet, or an elegy to claim,
Would form a lengthy lexicon of glory,
And what is worse still, a much longer story:
And therefore we must give the greater number
To the Gazette--which doubtless fairly dealt
By the deceased, who lie in famous slumber
In ditches, fields, or wheresoe'er they felt
Their clay for the last time their souls encumber;--
Thrice happy he whose name has been well spelt
In the despatch: I knew a man whose loss
Was printed Grove, although his name was Grose.
Juan and Johnson join'd a certain corps,
And fought away with might and main, not knowing
The way which they had never trod before,
And still less guessing where they might be going;
But on they march'd, dead bodies trampling o'er,
Firing, and thrusting, slashing, sweating, glowing,
But fighting thoughtlessly enough to win,
To their two selves, one whole bright bulletin.
Thus on they wallow'd in the bloody mire
Of dead and dying thousands,--sometimes gaining
A yard or two of ground, which brought them nigher
To some odd angle for which all were straining;
At other times, repulsed by the close fire,
Which really pour'd as if all hell were raining
Instead of heaven, they stumbled backwards o'er
A wounded comrade, sprawling in his gore.
Though 't was Don Juan's first of fields, and though
The nightly muster and the silent march
In the chill dark, when courage does not glow
So much as under a triumphal arch,
Perhaps might make him shiver, yawn, or throw
A glance on the dull clouds (as thick as starch,
Which stiffen'd heaven) as if he wish'd for day;--
Yet for all this he did not run away.
Indeed he could not. But what if he had?
There have been and are heroes who begun
With something not much better, or as bad:
Frederic the Great from Molwitz deign'd to run,
For the first and last time; for, like a pad,
Or hawk, or bride, most mortals after one
Warm bout are broken into their new tricks,
And fight like fiends for pay or politics.
He was what Erin calls, in her sublime
Old Erse or Irish, or it may be Punic
(The antiquarians who can settle time,
Which settles all things, Roman, Greek, or Runic,
Swear that Pat's language sprung from the same clime
With Hannibal, and wears the Tyrian tunic
Of Dido's alphabet; and this is rational
As any other notion, and not national);--
But Juan was quite 'a broth of a boy,'
A thing of impulse and a child of song;
Now swimming in the sentiment of joy,
Or the sensation (if that phrase seem wrong),
And afterward, if he must needs destroy,
In such good company as always throng
To battles, sieges, and that kind of pleasure,
No less delighted to employ his leisure;
But always without malice: if he warr'd
Or loved, it was with what we call 'the best
Intentions,' which form all mankind's trump card,
To be produced when brought up to the test.
The statesman, hero, harlot, lawyer--ward
Off each attack, when people are in quest
Of their designs, by saying they meant well;
'T is pity 'that such meaning should pave hell.'
I almost lately have begun to doubt
Whether hell's pavement--if it be so paved--
Must not have latterly been quite worn out,
Not by the numbers good intent hath saved,
But by the mass who go below without
Those ancient good intentions, which once shaved
And smooth'd the brimstone of that street of hell
Which bears the greatest likeness to Pall Mall.
Juan, by some strange chance, which oft divides
Warrior from warrior in their grim career,
Like chastest wives from constant husbands' sides
Just at the close of the first bridal year,
By one of those odd turns of Fortune's tides,
Was on a sudden rather puzzled here,
When, after a good deal of heavy firing,
He found himself alone, and friends retiring.
I don't know how the thing occurr'd--it might
Be that the greater part were kill'd or wounded,
And that the rest had faced unto the right
About; a circumstance which has confounded
Caesar himself, who, in the very sight
Of his whole army, which so much abounded
In courage, was obliged to snatch a shield,
And rally back his Romans to the field.
Juan, who had no shield to snatch, and was
No Caesar, but a fine young lad, who fought
He knew not why, arriving at this pass,
Stopp'd for a minute, as perhaps he ought
For a much longer time; then, like an as
(Start not, kind reader; since great Homer thought
This simile enough for Ajax, Juan
Perhaps may find it better than a new one)--
Then, like an ass, he went upon his way,
And, what was stranger, never look'd behind;
But seeing, flashing forward, like the day
Over the hills, a fire enough to blind
Those who dislike to look upon a fray,
He stumbled on, to try if he could find
A path, to add his own slight arm and forces
To corps, the greater part of which were corses.
Perceiving then no more the commandant
Of his own corps, nor even the corps, which had
Quite disappear'd--the gods know howl (I can't
Account for every thing which may look bad
In history; but we at least may grant
It was not marvellous that a mere lad,
In search of glory, should look on before,
Nor care a pinch of snuff about his corps):--
Perceiving nor commander nor commanded,
And left at large, like a young heir, to make
His way to--where he knew not--single handed;
As travellers follow over bog and brake
An 'ignis fatuus;' or as sailors stranded
Unto the nearest hut themselves betake;
So Juan, following honour and his nose,
Rush'd where the thickest fire announced most foes.
He knew not where he was, nor greatly cared,
For he was dizzy, busy, and his veins
Fill'd as with lightning--for his spirit shared
The hour, as is the case with lively brains;
And where the hottest fire was seen and heard,
And the loud cannon peal'd his hoarsest strains,
He rush'd, while earth and air were sadly shaken
By thy humane discovery, Friar Bacon!
And as he rush'd along, it came to pass he
Fell in with what was late the second column,
Under the orders of the General Lascy,
But now reduced, as is a bulky volume
Into an elegant extract (much less massy)
Of heroism, and took his place with solemn
Air 'midst the rest, who kept their valiant faces
And levell'd weapons still against the glacis.
Just at this crisis up came Johnson too,
Who had 'retreated,' as the phrase is when
Men run away much rather than go through
Destruction's jaws into the devil's den;
But Johnson was a clever fellow, who
Knew when and how 'to cut and come again,'
And never ran away, except when running
Was nothing but a valorous kind of cunning.
And so, when all his corps were dead or dying,
Except Don Juan, a mere novice, whose
More virgin valour never dreamt of flying
From ignorance of danger, which indues
Its votaries, like innocence relying
On its own strength, with careless nerves and thews,--
Johnson retired a little, just to rally
Those who catch cold in 'shadows of Death's valley.'
And there, a little shelter'd from the shot,
Which rain'd from bastion, battery, parapet,
Rampart, wall, casement, house,--for there was not
In this extensive city, sore beset
By Christian soldiery, a single spot
Which did not combat like the devil, as yet,
He found a number of Chasseurs, all scatter'd
By the resistance of the chase they batter'd.
And these he call'd on; and, what 's strange, they came
Unto his call, unlike 'the spirits from
The vasty deep,' to whom you may exclaim,
Says Hotspur, long ere they will leave their home.
Their reasons were uncertainty, or shame
At shrinking from a bullet or a bomb,
And that odd impulse, which in wars or creeds
Makes men, like cattle, follow him who leads.
By Jove! he was a noble fellow, Johnson,
And though his name, than Ajax or Achilles,
Sounds less harmonious, underneath the sun soon
We shall not see his likeness: he could kill his
Man quite as quietly as blows the monsoon
Her steady breath (which some months the same still is):
Seldom he varied feature, hue, or muscle,
And could be very busy without bustle;
And therefore, when he ran away, he did so
Upon reflection, knowing that behind
He would find others who would fain be rid so
Of idle apprehensions, which like wind
Trouble heroic stomachs. Though their lids so
Oft are soon closed, all heroes are not blind,
But when they light upon immediate death,
Retire a little, merely to take breath.
But Johnson only ran off, to return
With many other warriors, as we said,
Unto that rather somewhat misty bourn,
Which Hamlet tells us is a pass of dread.
To Jack howe'er this gave but slight concern:
His soul (like galvanism upon the dead)
Acted upon the living as on wire,
And led them back into the heaviest fire.
Egad! they found the second time what they
The first time thought quite terrible enough
To fly from, malgre all which people say
Of glory, and all that immortal stuff
Which fills a regiment (besides their pay,
That daily shilling which makes warriors tough)--
They found on their return the self-same welcome,
Which made some think, and others know, a hell come.
They fell as thick as harvests beneath hail,
Grass before scythes, or corn below the sickle,
Proving that trite old truth, that life 's as frail
As any other boon for which men stickle.
The Turkish batteries thrash'd them like a flail,
Or a good boxer, into a sad pickle
Putting the very bravest, who were knock'd
Upon the head, before their guns were cock'd.
The Turks, behind the traverses and flanks
Of the next bastion, fired away like devils,
And swept, as gales sweep foam away, whole ranks:
However, Heaven knows how, the Fate who levels
Towns, nations, worlds, in her revolving pranks,
So order'd it, amidst these sulphury revels,
That Johnson and some few who had not scamper'd,
Reach'd the interior talus of the rampart.
First one or two, then five, six, and a dozen,
Came mounting quickly up, for it was now
All neck or nothing, as, like pitch or rosin,
Flame was shower'd forth above, as well 's below,
So that you scarce could say who best had chosen,
The gentlemen that were the first to show
Their martial faces on the parapet,
Or those who thought it brave to wait as yet.
But those who scaled, found out that their advance
Was favour'd by an accident or blunder:
The Greek or Turkish Cohorn's ignorance
Had palisado'd in a way you 'd wonder
To see in forts of Netherlands or France
(Though these to our Gibraltar must knock under)--
Right in the middle of the parapet
Just named, these palisades were primly set:
So that on either side some nine or ten
Paces were left, whereon you could contrive
To march; a great convenience to our men,
At least to all those who were left alive,
Who thus could form a line and fight again;
And that which farther aided them to strive
Was, that they could kick down the palisades,
Which scarcely rose much higher than grass blades.
Among the first,--I will not say the first,
For such precedence upon such occasions
Will oftentimes make deadly quarrels burst
Out between friends as well as allied nations:
The Briton must be bold who really durst
Put to such trial John Bull's partial patience,
As say that Wellington at Waterloo
Was beaten--though the Prussians say so too;--
And that if Blucher, Bulow, Gneisenau,
And God knows who besides in 'au' and 'ow,'
Had not come up in time to cast an awe
Into the hearts of those who fought till now
As tigers combat with an empty craw,
The Duke of Wellington had ceased to show
His orders, also to receive his pensions,
Which are the heaviest that our history mentions.
But never mind;--'God save the king!' and kings!
For if he don't, I doubt if men will longer--
I think I hear a little bird, who sings
The people by and by will be the stronger:
The veriest jade will wince whose harness wrings
So much into the raw as quite to wrong her
Beyond the rules of posting,--and the mob
At last fall sick of imitating Job.
At first it grumbles, then it swears, and then,
Like David, flings smooth pebbles 'gainst a giant;
At last it takes to weapons such as men
Snatch when despair makes human hearts less pliant.
Then comes 'the tug of war;'--'t will come again,
I rather doubt; and I would fain say 'fie on 't,'
If I had not perceived that revolution
Alone can save the earth from hell's pollution.
But to continue:--I say not the first,
But of the first, our little friend Don Juan
Walk'd o'er the walls of Ismail, as if nursed
Amidst such scenes--though this was quite a new one
To him, and I should hope to most. The thirst
Of glory, which so pierces through and through one,
Pervaded him--although a generous creature,
As warm in heart as feminine in feature.
And here he was--who upon woman's breast,
Even from a child, felt like a child; howe'er
The man in all the rest might be confest,
To him it was Elysium to be there;
And he could even withstand that awkward test
Which Rousseau points out to the dubious fair,
'Observe your lover when he leaves your arms;'
But Juan never left them, while they had charms,
Unless compell'd by fate, or wave, or wind,
Or near relations, who are much the same.
But here he was!--where each tie that can bind
Humanity must yield to steel and flame:
And he whose very body was all mind,
Flung here by fate or circumstance, which tame
The loftiest, hurried by the time and place,
Dash'd on like a spurr'd blood-horse in a race.
So was his blood stirr'd while he found resistance,
As is the hunter's at the five-bar gate,
Or double post and rail, where the existence
Of Britain's youth depends upon their weight,
The lightest being the safest: at a distance
He hated cruelty, as all men hate
Blood, until heated--and even then his own
At times would curdle o'er some heavy groan.
The General Lascy, who had been hard press'd,
Seeing arrive an aid so opportune
As were some hundred youngsters all abreast,
Who came as if just dropp'd down from the moon,
To Juan, who was nearest him, address'd
His thanks, and hopes to take the city soon,
Not reckoning him to be a 'base Bezonian'
(As Pistol calls it), but a young Livonian.
Juan, to whom he spoke in German, knew
As much of German as of Sanscrit, and
In answer made an inclination to
The general who held him in command;
For seeing one with ribands, black and blue,
Stars, medals, and a bloody sword in hand,
Addressing him in tones which seem'd to thank,
He recognised an officer of rank.
Short speeches pass between two men who speak
No common language; and besides, in time
Of war and taking towns, when many a shriek
Rings o'er the dialogue, and many a crime
Is perpetrated ere a word can break
Upon the ear, and sounds of horror chime
In like church-bells, with sigh, howl, groan, yell, prayer,
There cannot be much conversation there.
And therefore all we have related in
Two long octaves, pass'd in a little minute;
But in the same small minute, every sin
Contrived to get itself comprised within it.
The very cannon, deafen'd by the din,
Grew dumb, for you might almost hear a linnet,
As soon as thunder, 'midst the general noise
Of human nature's agonising voice!
The town was enter'd. Oh eternity!-
'God made the country and man made the town,'
So Cowper says--and I begin to be
Of his opinion, when I see cast down
Rome, Babylon, Tyre, Carthage, Nineveh,
All walls men know, and many never known;
And pondering on the present and the past,
To deem the woods shall be our home at last
Of all men, saving Sylla the man-slayer,
Who passes for in life and death most lucky,
Of the great names which in our faces stare,
The General Boon, back-woodsman of Kentucky,
Was happiest amongst mortals anywhere;
For killing nothing but a bear or buck, he
Enjoy'd the lonely, vigorous, harmless days
Of his old age in wilds of deepest maze.
Crime came not near him--she is not the child
Of solitude; Health shrank not from him--for
Her home is in the rarely trodden wild,
Where if men seek her not, and death be more
Their choice than life, forgive them, as beguiled
By habit to what their own hearts abhor--
In cities caged. The present case in point I
Cite is, that Boon lived hunting up to ninety;
And what 's still stranger, left behind a name
For which men vainly decimate the throng,
Not only famous, but of that good fame,
Without which glory 's but a tavern song--
Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame,
Which hate nor envy e'er could tinge with wrong;
An active hermit, even in age the child
Of Nature, or the man of Ross run wild.
'T is true he shrank from men even of his nation,
When they built up unto his darling trees,--
He moved some hundred miles off, for a station
Where there were fewer houses and more ease;
The inconvenience of civilisation
Is, that you neither can be pleased nor please;
But where he met the individual man,
He show'd himself as kind as mortal can.
He was not all alone: around him grew
A sylvan tribe of children of the chase,
Whose young, unwaken'd world was ever new,
Nor sword nor sorrow yet had left a trace
On her unwrinkled brow, nor could you view
A frown on Nature's or on human face;
The free-born forest found and kept them free,
And fresh as is a torrent or a tree.
And tall, and strong, and swift of foot were they,
Beyond the dwarfing city's pale abortions,
Because their thoughts had never been the prey
Of care or gain: the green woods were their portions;
No sinking spirits told them they grew grey,
No fashion made them apes of her distortions;
Simple they were, not savage; and their rifles,
Though very true, were not yet used for trifles.
Motion was in their days, rest in their slumbers,
And cheerfulness the handmaid of their toil;
Nor yet too many nor too few their numbers;
Corruption could not make their hearts her soil;
The lust which stings, the splendour which encumbers,
With the free foresters divide no spoil;
Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes
Of this unsighing people of the woods.
So much for Nature:--by way of variety,
Now back to thy great joys, Civilisation!
And the sweet consequence of large society,
War, pestilence, the despot's desolation,
The kingly scourge, the lust of notoriety,
The millions slain by soldiers for their ration,
The scenes like Catherine's boudoir at threescore,
With Ismail's storm to soften it the more.
The town was enter'd: first one column made
Its sanguinary way good--then another;
The reeking bayonet and the flashing blade
Clash'd 'gainst the scimitar, and babe and mother
With distant shrieks were heard Heaven to upbraid:
Still closer sulphury clouds began to smother
The breath of morn and man, where foot by foot
The madden'd Turks their city still dispute.
Koutousow, he who afterward beat back
(With some assistance from the frost and snow)
Napoleon on his bold and bloody track,
It happen'd was himself beat back just now;
He was a jolly fellow, and could crack
His jest alike in face of friend or foe,
Though life, and death, and victory were at stake;
But here it seem'd his jokes had ceased to take:
For having thrown himself into a ditch,
Follow'd in haste by various grenadiers,
Whose blood the puddle greatly did enrich,
He climb'd to where the parapet appears;
But there his project reach'd its utmost pitch
('Mongst other deaths the General Ribaupierre's
Was much regretted), for the Moslem men
Threw them all down into the ditch again.
And had it not been for some stray troops landing
They knew not where, being carried by the stream
To some spot, where they lost their understanding,
And wander'd up and down as in a dream,
Until they reach'd, as daybreak was expanding,
That which a portal to their eyes did seem,--
The great and gay Koutousow might have lain
Where three parts of his column yet remain.
And scrambling round the rampart, these same troops,
After the taking of the 'Cavalier,'
Just as Koutousow's most 'forlorn' of 'hopes'
Took like chameleons some slight tinge of fear,
Open'd the gate call'd 'Kilia,' to the groups
Of baffled heroes, who stood shyly near,
Sliding knee-deep in lately frozen mud,
Now thaw'd into a marsh of human blood.
The Kozacks, or, if so you please, Cossacques
(I don't much pique myself upon orthography,
So that I do not grossly err in facts,
Statistics, tactics, politics, and geography)--
Having been used to serve on horses' backs,
And no great dilettanti in topography
Of fortresses, but fighting where it pleases
Their chiefs to order,--were all cut to pieces.
Their column, though the Turkish batteries thunder'd
Upon them, ne'ertheless had reach'd the rampart,
And naturally thought they could have plunder'd
The city, without being farther hamper'd;
But as it happens to brave men, they blunder'd--
The Turks at first pretended to have scamper'd,
Only to draw them 'twixt two bastion corners,
From whence they sallied on those Christian scorners.
Then being taken by the tail--a taking
Fatal to bishops as to soldiers--these
Cossacques were all cut off as day was breaking,
And found their lives were let at a short lease--
But perish'd without shivering or shaking,
Leaving as ladders their heap'd carcasses,
O'er which Lieutenant-Colonel Yesouskoi
March'd with the brave battalion of Polouzki:--
This valiant man kill'd all the Turks he met,
But could not eat them, being in his turn
Slain by some Mussulmans, who would not yet,
Without resistance, see their city burn.
The walls were won, but 't was an even bet
Which of the armies would have cause to mourn:
'T was blow for blow, disputing inch by inch,
For one would not retreat, nor t' other flinch.
Another column also suffer'd much:--
And here we may remark with the historian,
You should but give few cartridges to such
Troops as are meant to march with greatest glory on:
When matters must be carried by the touch
Of the bright bayonet, and they all should hurry on,
They sometimes, with a hankering for existence,
Keep merely firing at a foolish distance.
A junction of the General Meknop's men
(Without the General, who had fallen some time
Before, being badly seconded just then)
Was made at length with those who dared to climb
The death-disgorging rampart once again;
And though the Turk's resistance was sublime,
They took the bastion, which the Seraskier
Defended at a price extremely dear.
Juan and Johnson, and some volunteers,
Among the foremost, offer'd him good quarter,
A word which little suits with Seraskiers,
Or at least suited not this valiant Tartar.
He died, deserving well his country's tears,
A savage sort of military martyr.
An English naval officer, who wish'd
To make him prisoner, was also dish'd:
For all the answer to his proposition
Was from a pistol-shot that laid him dead;
On which the rest, without more intermission,
Began to lay about with steel and lead--
The pious metals most in requisition
On such occasions: not a single head
Was spared;--three thousand Moslems perish'd here,
And sixteen bayonets pierced the Seraskier.
The city 's taken--only part by part--
And death is drunk with gore: there 's not a street
Where fights not to the last some desperate heart
For those for whom it soon shall cease to beat.
Here War forgot his own destructive art
In more destroying Nature; and the heat
Of carnage, like the Nile's sun-sodden slime,
Engender'd monstrous shapes of every crime.
A Russian officer, in martial tread
Over a heap of bodies, felt his heel
Seized fast, as if 't were by the serpent's head
Whose fangs Eve taught her human seed to feel:
In vain he kick'd, and swore, and writhed, and bled,
And howl'd for help as wolves do for a meal--
The teeth still kept their gratifying hold,
As do the subtle snakes described of old.
A dying Moslem, who had felt the foot
Of a foe o'er him, snatch'd at it, and bit
The very tendon which is most acute
(That which some ancient Muse or modern wit
Named after thee, Achilles), and quite through 't
He made the teeth meet, nor relinquish'd it
Even with his life--for (but they lie) 't is said
To the live leg still clung the sever'd head.
However this may be, 't is pretty sure
The Russian officer for life was lamed,
For the Turk's teeth stuck faster than a skewer,
And left him 'midst the invalid and maim'd:
The regimental surgeon could not cure
His patient, and perhaps was to be blamed
More than the head of the inveterate foe,
Which was cut off, and scarce even then let go.
But then the fact 's a fact--and 't is the part
Of a true poet to escape from fiction
Whene'er he can; for there is little art
In leaving verse more free from the restriction
Of truth than prose, unless to suit the mart
For what is sometimes called poetic diction,
And that outrageous appetite for lies
Which Satan angles with for souls, like flies.
The city 's taken, but not render'd!--No!
There 's not a Moslem that hath yielded sword:
The blood may gush out, as the Danube's flow
Rolls by the city wall; but deed nor word
Acknowledge aught of dread of death or foe:
In vain the yell of victory is roar'd
By the advancing Muscovite--the groan
Of the last foe is echoed by his own.
The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves,
And human lives are lavish'd everywhere,
As the year closing whirls the scarlet leaves
When the stripp'd forest bows to the bleak air,
And groans; and thus the peopled city grieves,
Shorn of its best and loveliest, and left bare;
But still it falls in vast and awful splinters,
As oaks blown down with all their thousand winters.
It is an awful topic--but 't is not
My cue for any time to be terrific:
For checker'd as is seen our human lot
With good, and bad, and worse, alike prolific
Of melancholy merriment, to quote
Too much of one sort would be soporific;--
Without, or with, offence to friends or foes,
I sketch your world exactly as it goes.
And one good action in the midst of crimes
Is 'quite refreshing,' in the affected phrase
Of these ambrosial, Pharisaic times,
With all their pretty milk-and-water ways,
And may serve therefore to bedew these rhymes,
A little scorch'd at present with the blaze
Of conquest and its consequences, which
Make epic poesy so rare and rich.
Upon a taken bastion, where there lay
Thousands of slaughter'd men, a yet warm group
Of murder'd women, who had found their way
To this vain refuge, made the good heart droop
And shudder;--while, as beautiful as May,
A female child of ten years tried to stoop
And hide her little palpitating breast
Amidst the bodies lull'd in bloody rest.
Two villainous Cossacques pursued the child
With flashing eyes and weapons: match'd with them,
The rudest brute that roams Siberia's wild
Has feelings pure and polish'd as a gem,--
The bear is civilised, the wolf is mild;
And whom for this at last must we condemn?
Their natures? or their sovereigns, who employ
All arts to teach their subjects to destroy?
Their sabres glitter'd o'er her little head,
Whence her fair hair rose twining with affright,
Her hidden face was plunged amidst the dead:
When Juan caught a glimpse of this sad sight,
I shall not say exactly what he said,
Because it might not solace 'ears polite;'
But what he did, was to lay on their backs,
The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacques.
One's hip he slash'd, and split the other's shoulder,
And drove them with their brutal yells to seek
If there might be chirurgeons who could solder
The wounds they richly merited, and shriek
Their baffled rage and pain; while waxing colder
As he turn'd o'er each pale and gory cheek,
Don Juan raised his little captive from
The heap a moment more had made her tomb.
And she was chill as they, and on her face
A slender streak of blood announced how near
Her fate had been to that of all her race;
For the same blow which laid her mother here
Had scarr'd her brow, and left its crimson trace,
As the last link with all she had held dear;
But else unhurt, she open'd her large eyes,
And gazed on Juan with a wild surprise.
Just at this instant, while their eyes were fix'd
Upon each other, with dilated glance,
In Juan's look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, mix'd
With joy to save, and dread of some mischance
Unto his protege; while hers, transfix'd
With infant terrors, glared as from a trance,
A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face,
Like to a lighted alabaster vase;--
Up came John Johnson (I will not say 'Jack,'
For that were vulgar, cold, and commonplace
On great occasions, such as an attack
On cities, as hath been the present case):
Up Johnson came, with hundreds at his back,
Exclaiming;--'Juan! Juan! On, boy! brace
Your arm, and I 'll bet Moscow to a dollar
That you and I will win St. George's collar.
'The Seraskier is knock'd upon the head,
But the stone bastion still remains, wherein
The old Pacha sits among some hundreds dead,
Smoking his pipe quite calmly 'midst the din
Of our artillery and his own: 't is said
Our kill'd, already piled up to the chin,
Lie round the battery; but still it batters,
And grape in volleys, like a vineyard, scatters.
'Then up with me!'--But Juan answer'd, 'Look
Upon this child--I saved her--must not leave
Her life to chance; but point me out some nook
Of safety, where she less may shrink and grieve,
And I am with you.'--Whereon Johnson took
A glance around--and shrugg'd--and twitch'd his sleeve
And black silk neckcloth--and replied, 'You 're right;
Poor thing! what 's to be done? I 'm puzzled quite.'
Said Juan: 'Whatsoever is to be
Done, I 'll not quit her till she seems secure
Of present life a good deal more than we.'
Quoth Johnson: 'Neither will I quite ensure;
But at the least you may die gloriously.'
Juan replied: 'At least I will endure
Whate'er is to be borne--but not resign
This child, who is parentless, and therefore mine.'
Johnson said: 'Juan, we 've no time to lose;
The child 's a pretty child--a very pretty--
I never saw such eyes--but hark! now choose
Between your fame and feelings, pride and pity;--
Hark! how the roar increases!--no excuse
Will serve when there is plunder in a city;--
I should be loth to march without you, but,
By God! we 'll be too late for the first cut.'
But Juan was immovable; until
Johnson, who really loved him in his way,
Pick'd out amongst his followers with some skill
Such as he thought the least given up to prey;
And swearing if the infant came to ill
That they should all be shot on the next day;
But if she were deliver'd safe and sound,
They should at least have fifty rubles round,
And all allowances besides of plunder
In fair proportion with their comrades;--then
Juan consented to march on through thunder,
Which thinn'd at every step their ranks of men:
And yet the rest rush'd eagerly--no wonder,
For they were heated by the hope of gain,
A thing which happens everywhere each day--
No hero trusteth wholly to half pay.
And such is victory, and such is man!
At least nine tenths of what we call so;--God
May have another name for half we scan
As human beings, or his ways are odd.
But to our subject: a brave Tartar khan--
Or 'sultan,' as the author (to whose nod
In prose I bend my humble verse) doth call
This chieftain--somehow would not yield at all:
But flank'd by five brave sons (such is polygamy,
That she spawns warriors by the score, where none
Are prosecuted for that false crime bigamy),
He never would believe the city won
While courage clung but to a single twig.--Am I
Describing Priam's, Peleus', or Jove's son?
Neither--but a good, plain, old, temperate man,
Who fought with his five children in the van.
To take him was the point. The truly brave,
When they behold the brave oppress'd with odds,
Are touch'd with a desire to shield and save;--
A mixture of wild beasts and demigods
Are they--now furious as the sweeping wave,
Now moved with pity: even as sometimes nods
The rugged tree unto the summer wind,
Compassion breathes along the savage mind.
But he would not be taken, and replied
To all the propositions of surrender
By mowing Christians down on every side,
As obstinate as Swedish Charles at Bender.
His five brave boys no less the foe defied;
Whereon the Russian pathos grew less tender,
As being a virtue, like terrestrial patience,
Apt to wear out on trifling provocations.
And spite of Johnson and of Juan, who
Expended all their Eastern phraseology
In begging him, for God's sake, just to show
So much less fight as might form an apology
For them in saving such a desperate foe--
He hew'd away, like doctors of theology
When they dispute with sceptics; and with curses
Struck at his friends, as babies beat their nurses.
Nay, he had wounded, though but slightly, both
Juan and Johnson; whereupon they fell,
The first with sighs, the second with an oath,
Upon his angry sultanship, pell-mell,
And all around were grown exceeding wroth
At such a pertinacious infidel,
And pour'd upon him and his sons like rain,
Which they resisted like a sandy plain
That drinks and still is dry. At last they perish'd--
His second son was levell'd by a shot;
His third was sabred; and the fourth, most cherish'd
Of all the five, on bayonets met his lot;
The fifth, who, by a Christian mother nourish'd,
Had been neglected, ill-used, and what not,
Because deform'd, yet died all game and bottom,
To save a sire who blush'd that he begot him.
The eldest was a true and tameless Tartar,
As great a scorner of the Nazarene
As ever Mahomet pick'd out for a martyr,
Who only saw the black-eyed girls in green,
Who make the beds of those who won't take quarter
On earth, in Paradise; and when once seen,
Those houris, like all other pretty creatures,
Do just whate'er they please, by dint of features.
And what they pleased to do with the young khan
In heaven I know not, nor pretend to guess;
But doubtless they prefer a fine young man
To tough old heroes, and can do no less;
And that 's the cause no doubt why, if we scan
A field of battle's ghastly wilderness,
For one rough, weather-beaten, veteran body,
You 'll find ten thousand handsome coxcombs bloody.
Your houris also have a natural pleasure
In lopping off your lately married men,
Before the bridal hours have danced their measure
And the sad, second moon grows dim again,
Or dull repentance hath had dreary leisure
To wish him back a bachelor now and then.
And thus your houri (it may be) disputes
Of these brief blossoms the immediate fruits.
Thus the young khan, with houris in his sight,
Thought not upon the charms of four young brides,
But bravely rush'd on his first heavenly night.
In short, howe'er our better faith derides,
These black-eyed virgins make the Moslems fight,
As though there were one heaven and none besides,--
Whereas, if all be true we hear of heaven
And hell, there must at least be six or seven.
So fully flash'd the phantom on his eyes,
That when the very lance was in his heart,
He shouted 'Allah!' and saw Paradise
With all its veil of mystery drawn apart,
And bright eternity without disguise
On his soul, like a ceaseless sunrise, dart:--
With prophets, houris, angels, saints, descried
In one voluptuous blaze,--and then he died,
But with a heavenly rapture on his face.
The good old khan, who long had ceased to see
Houris, or aught except his florid race
Who grew like cedars round him gloriously--
When he beheld his latest hero grace
The earth, which he became like a fell'd tree,
Paused for a moment, from the fight, and cast
A glance on that slain son, his first and last.
The soldiers, who beheld him drop his point,
Stopp'd as if once more willing to concede
Quarter, in case he bade them not 'aroynt!'
As he before had done. He did not heed
Their pause nor signs: his heart was out of joint,
And shook (till now unshaken) like a reed,
As he look'd down upon his children gone,
And felt--though done with life--he was alone
But 't was a transient tremor;--with a spring
Upon the Russian steel his breast he flung,
As carelessly as hurls the moth her wing
Against the light wherein she dies: he clung
Closer, that all the deadlier they might wring,
Unto the bayonets which had pierced his young;
And throwing back a dim look on his sons,
In one wide wound pour'd forth his soul at once.
'T is strange enough--the rough, tough soldiers, who
Spared neither sex nor age in their career
Of carnage, when this old man was pierced through,
And lay before them with his children near,
Touch'd by the heroism of him they slew,
Were melted for a moment: though no tear
Flow'd from their bloodshot eyes, all red with strife,
They honour'd such determined scorn of life.
But the stone bastion still kept up its fire,
Where the chief pacha calmly held his post:
Some twenty times he made the Russ retire,
And baffled the assaults of all their host;
At length he condescended to inquire
If yet the city's rest were won or lost;
And being told the latter, sent a bey
To answer Ribas' summons to give way.
In the mean time, cross-legg'd, with great sang-froid,
Among the scorching ruins he sat smoking
Tobacco on a little carpet;--Troy
Saw nothing like the scene around:--yet looking
With martial stoicism, nought seem'd to annoy
His stern philosophy; but gently stroking
His beard, he puff'd his pipe's ambrosial gales,
As if he had three lives, as well as tails.
The town was taken--whether he might yield
Himself or bastion, little matter'd now:
His stubborn valour was no future shield.
Ismail 's no more! The crescent's silver bow
Sunk, and the crimson cross glared o'er the field,
But red with no redeeming gore: the glow
Of burning streets, like moonlight on the water,
Was imaged back in blood, the sea of slaughter.
All that the mind would shrink from of excesses;
All that the body perpetrates of bad;
All that we read, hear, dream, of man's distresses;
All that the devil would do if run stark mad;
All that defies the worst which pen expresses;
All by which hell is peopled, or as sad
As hell--mere mortals who their power abuse--
Was here (as heretofore and since) let loose.
If here and there some transient trait of pity
Was shown, and some more noble heart broke through
Its bloody bond, and saved perhaps some pretty
Child, or an aged, helpless man or two--
What 's this in one annihilated city,
Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties grew?
Cockneys of London! Muscadins of Paris!
Just ponder what a pious pastime war is.
Think how the joys of reading a Gazette
Are purchased by all agonies and crimes:
Or if these do not move you, don't forget
Such doom may be your own in aftertimes.
Meantime the Taxes, Castlereagh, and Debt,
Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes.
Read your own hearts and Ireland's present story,
Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley's glory.
But still there is unto a patriot nation,
Which loves so well its country and its king,
A subject of sublimest exultation--
Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing!
Howe'er the mighty locust, Desolation,
Strip your green fields, and to your harvests cling,
Gaunt famine never shall approach the throne--
Though Ireland starve, great George weighs twenty stone.
But let me put an end unto my theme:
There was an end of Ismail--hapless town!
Far flash'd her burning towers o'er Danube's stream,
And redly ran his blushing waters down.
The horrid war-whoop and the shriller scream
Rose still; but fainter were the thunders grown:
Of forty thousand who had mann'd the wall,
Some hundreds breathed--the rest were silent all!
In one thing ne'ertheless 't is fit to praise
The Russian army upon this occasion,
A virtue much in fashion now-a-days,
And therefore worthy of commemoration:
The topic 's tender, so shall be my phrase--
Perhaps the season's chill, and their long station
In winter's depth, or want of rest and victual,
Had made them chaste;--they ravish'd very little.
Much did they slay, more plunder, and no less
Might here and there occur some violation
In the other line;--but not to such excess
As when the French, that dissipated nation,
Take towns by storm: no causes can I guess,
Except cold weather and commiseration;
But all the ladies, save some twenty score,
Were almost as much virgins as before.
Some odd mistakes, too, happen'd in the dark,
Which show'd a want of lanterns, or of taste--
Indeed the smoke was such they scarce could mark
Their friends from foes,--besides such things from haste
Occur, though rarely, when there is a spark
Of light to save the venerably chaste:
But six old damsels, each of seventy years,
Were all deflower'd by different grenadiers.
But on the whole their continence was great;
So that some disappointment there ensued
To those who had felt the inconvenient state
Of 'single blessedness,' and thought it good
(Since it was not their fault, but only fate,
To bear these crosses) for each waning prude
To make a Roman sort of Sabine wedding,
Without the expense and the suspense of bedding.
Some voices of the buxom middle-aged
Were also heard to wonder in the din
(Widows of forty were these birds long caged)
'Wherefore the ravishing did not begin!'
But while the thirst for gore and plunder raged,
There was small leisure for superfluous sin;
But whether they escaped or no, lies hid
In darkness--I can only hope they did.
Suwarrow now was conqueror--a match
For Timour or for Zinghis in his trade.
While mosques and streets, beneath his eyes, like thatch
Blazed, and the cannon's roar was scarce allay'd,
With bloody hands he wrote his first despatch;
And here exactly follows what he said:--
'Glory to God and to the Empress!' (Powers
Eternal! such names mingled!) 'Ismail 's ours.'
Methinks these are the most tremendous words,
Since 'Mene, Mene, Tekel,' and 'Upharsin,'
Which hands or pens have ever traced of swords.
Heaven help me! I 'm but little of a parson:
What Daniel read was short-hand of the Lord's,
Severe, sublime; the prophet wrote no farce on
The fate of nations;--but this Russ so witty
Could rhyme, like Nero, o'er a burning city.
He wrote this Polar melody, and set it,
Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans,
Which few will sing, I trust, but none forget it--
For I will teach, if possible, the stones
To rise against earth's tyrants. Never let it
Be said that we still truckle unto thrones;--
But ye--our children's children! think how we
Show'd what things were before the world was free!
That hour is not for us, but 't is for you:
And as, in the great joy of your millennium,
You hardly will believe such things were true
As now occur, I thought that I would pen you 'em;
But may their very memory perish too!-
Yet if perchance remember'd, still disdain you 'em
More than you scorn the savages of yore,
Who painted their bare limbs, but not with gore.
And when you hear historians talk of thrones,
And those that sate upon them, let it be
As we now gaze upon the mammoth's bones,
'And wonder what old world such things could see,
Or hieroglyphics on Egyptian stones,
The pleasant riddles of futurity--
Guessing at what shall happily be hid,
As the real purpose of a pyramid.
Reader! I have kept my word,--at least so far
As the first Canto promised. You have now
Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, war--
All very accurate, you must allow,
And epic, if plain truth should prove no bar;
For I have drawn much less with a long bow
Than my forerunners. Carelessly I sing,
But Phoebus lends me now and then a string,
With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle.
What farther hath befallen or may befall
The hero of this grand poetic riddle,
I by and by may tell you, if at all:
But now I choose to break off in the middle,
Worn out with battering Ismail's stubborn wall,
While Juan is sent off with the despatch,
For which all Petersburgh is on the watch.
This special honour was conferr'd, because
He had behaved with courage and humanity--
Which last men like, when they have time to pause
From their ferocities produced by vanity.
His little captive gain'd him some applause
For saving her amidst the wild insanity
Of carnage,--and I think he was more glad in her
Safety, than his new order of St. Vladimir.
The Moslem orphan went with her protector,
For she was homeless, houseless, helpless; all
Her friends, like the sad family of Hector,
Had perish'd in the field or by the wall:
Her very place of birth was but a spectre
Of what it had been; there the Muezzin's cal
To prayer was heard no more!--and Juan wept,
And made a vow to shield her, which he kept.
[Illustration: Canto 9]
CANTO THE NINTH.
O, Wellington! (or 'Villainton'--for Fame
Sounds the heroic syllables both ways;
France could not even conquer your great name,
But punn'd it down to this facetious phrase--
Beating or beaten she will laugh the same),
You have obtain'd great pensions and much praise:
Glory like yours should any dare gainsay,
Humanity would rise, and thunder 'Nay!'
I don't think that you used Kinnaird quite well
In Marinet's affair--in fact, 't was shabby,
And like some other things won't do to tell
Upon your tomb in Westminster's old abbey.
Upon the rest 't is not worth while to dwell,
Such tales being for the tea-hours of some tabby;
But though your years as man tend fast to zero,
In fact your grace is still but a young hero.
Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much,
Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more:
You have repair'd Legitimacy's crutch,
A prop not quite so certain as before:
The Spanish, and the French, as well as Dutch,
Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore;
And Waterloo has made the world your debtor
(I wish your bards would sing it rather better).
You are 'the best of cut-throats:'--do not start;
The phrase is Shakspeare's, and not misapplied:
War 's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art,
Unless her cause by right be sanctified.
If you have acted once a generous part,
The world, not the world's masters, will decide,
And I shall be delighted to learn who,
Save you and yours, have gain'd by Waterloo?
I am no flatterer--you 've supp'd full of flattery:
They say you like it too--'t is no great wonder.
He whose whole life has been assault and battery,
At last may get a little tired of thunder;
And swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he
May like being praised for every lucky blunder,
Call'd 'Saviour of the Nations'--not yet saved,
And 'Europe's Liberator'--still enslaved.
I 've done. Now go and dine from off the plate
Presented by the Prince of the Brazils,
And send the sentinel before your gate
A slice or two from your luxurious meals:
He fought, but has not fed so well of late.
Some hunger, too, they say the people feels:--
There is no doubt that you deserve your ration,
But pray give back a little to the nation.
I don't mean to reflect--a man so great as
You, my lord duke! is far above reflection:
The high Roman fashion, too, of Cincinnatus,
With modern history has but small connection:
Though as an Irishman you love potatoes,
You need not take them under your direction;
And half a million for your Sabine farm
Is rather dear!--I 'm sure I mean no harm.
Great men have always scorn'd great recompenses:
Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died,
Not leaving even his funeral expenses:
George Washington had thanks and nought beside,
Except the all-cloudless glory which few men's is
To free his country: Pitt too had his pride,
And as a high-soul'd minister of state is
Renown'd for ruining Great Britain gratis.
Never had mortal man such opportunity,
Except Napoleon, or abused it more:
You might have freed fallen Europe from the unity
Of tyrants, and been blest from shore to shore:
And now--what is your fame? Shall the Muse tune it ye?
Now--that the rabble's first vain shouts are o'er?
Go! hear it in your famish'd country's cries!
Behold the world! and curse your victories!
As these new cantos touch on warlike feats,
To you the unflattering Muse deigns to inscribe
Truths, that you will not read in the Gazettes,
But which 't is time to teach the hireling tribe
Who fatten on their country's gore, and debts,
Must be recited, and--without a bribe.
You did great things; but not being great in mind,
Have left undone the greatest--and mankind.
Death laughs--Go ponder o'er the skeleton
With which men image out the unknown thing
That hides the past world, like to a set sun
Which still elsewhere may rouse a brighter spring--
Death laughs at all you weep for:--look upon
This hourly dread of all! whose threaten'd sting
Turns life to terror, even though in its sheath:
Mark how its lipless mouth grins without breath!
Mark how it laughs and scorns at all you are!
And yet was what you are: from ear to ear
It laughs not--there is now no fleshy bar
So call'd; the Antic long hath ceased to hear,
But still he smiles; and whether near or far,
He strips from man that mantle (far more dear
Than even the tailor's), his incarnate skin,
White, black, or copper--the dead bones will grin.
And thus Death laughs,--it is sad merriment,
But still it is so; and with such example
Why should not Life be equally content
With his superior, in a smile to trample
Upon the nothings which are daily spent
Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample
Than the eternal deluge, which devours
Suns as rays--worlds like atoms--years like hours?
'To be, or not to be? that is the question,'
Says Shakspeare, who just now is much in fashion.
I am neither Alexander nor Hephaestion,
Nor ever had for abstract fame much passion;
But would much rather have a sound digestion
Than Buonaparte's cancer: could I dash on
Through fifty victories to shame or fame--
Without a stomach what were a good name?
'O dura ilia messorum!'--'Oh
Ye rigid guts of reapers!' I translate
For the great benefit of those who know
What indigestion is--that inward fate
Which makes all Styx through one small liver flow.
A peasant's sweat is worth his lord's estate:
Let this one toil for bread--that rack for rent,
He who sleeps best may be the most content.
'To be, or not to be?'--Ere I decide,
I should be glad to know that which is being?
'T is true we speculate both far and wide,
And deem, because we see, we are all-seeing:
For my part, I 'll enlist on neither side,
Until I see both sides for once agreeing.
For me, I sometimes think that life is death,
Rather than life a mere affair of breath.
'Que scais-je?' was the motto of Montaigne,
As also of the first academicians:
That all is dubious which man may attain,
Was one of their most favourite positions.
There 's no such thing as certainty, that 's plain
As any of Mortality's conditions;
So little do we know what we 're about in
This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting.
It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float,
Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation;
But what if carrying sail capsize the boat?
Your wise men don't know much of navigation;
And swimming long in the abyss of thought
Is apt to tire: a calm and shallow station
Well nigh the shore, where one stoops down and gathers
Some pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers.
'But heaven,' as Cassio says, 'is above all--
No more of this, then,--let us pray!' We have
Souls to save, since Eve's slip and Adam's fall,
Which tumbled all mankind into the grave,
Besides fish, beasts, and birds. 'The sparrow's fall
Is special providence,' though how it gave
Offence, we know not; probably it perch'd
Upon the tree which Eve so fondly search'd.
O, ye immortal gods! what is theogony?
O, thou too, mortal man! what is philanthropy?
O, world! which was and is, what is cosmogony?
Some people have accused me of misanthropy;
And yet I know no more than the mahogany
That forms this desk, of what they mean; lykanthropy
I comprehend, for without transformation
Men become wolves on any slight occasion.
But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind,
Like Moses, or Melancthon, who have ne'er
Done anything exceedingly unkind,--
And (though I could not now and then forbear
Following the bent of body or of mind)
Have always had a tendency to spare,--
Why do they call me misanthrope? Because
They hate me, not I them.--and here we 'll pause.
'T is time we should proceed with our good poem,--
For I maintain that it is really good,
Not only in the body but the proem,
However little both are understood
Just now,--but by and by the Truth will show 'em
Herself in her sublimest attitude:
And till she doth, I fain must be content
To share her beauty and her banishment.
Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader, yours)
Was left upon his way to the chief city
Of the immortal Peter's polish'd boors
Who still have shown themselves more brave than witty.
I know its mighty empire now allures
Much flattery--even Voltaire's, and that 's a pity.
For me, I deem an absolute autocrat
Not a barbarian, but much worse than that.
And I will war, at least in words (and--should
My chance so happen--deeds), with all who war
With Thought;--and of Thought's foes by far most rude,
Tyrants and sycophants have been and are.
I know not who may conquer: if I could
Have such a prescience, it should be no bar
To this my plain, sworn, downright detestation
Of every depotism in every nation.
It is not that I adulate the people:
Without me, there are demagogues enough,
And infidels, to pull down every steeple,
And set up in their stead some proper stuff.
Whether they may sow scepticism to reap hell,
As is the Christian dogma rather rough,
I do not know;--I wish men to be free
As much from mobs as kings--from you as me.
The consequence is, being of no party,
I shall offend all parties: never mind!
My words, at least, are more sincere and hearty
Than if I sought to sail before the wind.
He who has nought to gain can have small art: he
Who neither wishes to be bound nor bind,
May still expatiate freely, as will I,
Nor give my voice to slavery's jackal cry.
That 's an appropriate simile, that jackal;--
I 've heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl
By night, as do that mercenary pack all,
Power's base purveyors, who for pickings prowl,
And scent the prey their masters would attack all.
However, the poor jackals are less foul
(As being the brave lions' keen providers)
Than human insects, catering for spiders.
Raise but an arm! 't will brush their web away,
And without that, their poison and their claws
Are useless. Mind, good people! what I say
(Or rather peoples)--go on without pause!
The web of these tarantulas each day
Increases, till you shall make common cause:
None, save the Spanish fly and Attic bee,
As yet are strongly stinging to be free.
Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter,
Was left upon his way with the despatch,
Where blood was talk'd of as we would of water;
And carcasses that lay as thick as thatch
O'er silenced cities, merely served to flatter
Fair Catherine's pastime--who look'd on the match
Between these nations as a main of cocks,
Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks.
And there in a kibitka he roll'd on
(A cursed sort of carriage without springs,
Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole bone),
Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings,
And orders, and on all that he had done--
And wishing that post-horses had the wings
Of Pegasus, or at the least post-chaises
Had feathers, when a traveller on deep ways is.
At every jolt--and they were many--still
He turn'd his eyes upon his little charge,
As if he wish'd that she should fare less ill
Than he, in these sad highways left at large
To ruts, and flints, and lovely Nature's skill,
Who is no paviour, nor admits a barge
On her canals, where God takes sea and land,
Fishery and farm, both into his own hand.
At least he pays no rent, and has best right
To be the first of what we used to call
'Gentlemen farmer'--a race worn out quite,
Since lately there have been no rents at all,
And 'gentlemen' are in a piteous plight,
And 'farmers' can't raise Ceres from her fall:
She fell with Buonaparte--What strange thoughts
Arise, when we see emperors fall with oats!
But Juan turn'd his eyes on the sweet child
Whom he had saved from slaughter--what a trophy
O! ye who build up monuments, defiled
With gore, like Nadir Shah, that costive sophy,
Who, after leaving Hindostan a wild,
And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee
To soothe his woes withal, was slain, the sinner!
Because he could no more digest his dinner;--
O ye! or we! or he! or she! reflect,
That one life saved, especially if young
Or pretty, is a thing to recollect
Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung
From the manure of human clay, though deck'd
With all the praises ever said or sung:
Though hymn'd by every harp, unless within
Your heart joins chorus, Fame is but a din.
O! ye great authors luminous, voluminous!
Ye twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes!
Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers, illumine us!
Whether you 're paid by government in bribes,
To prove the public debt is not consuming us--
Or, roughly treading on the 'courtier's kibes'
With clownish heel, your popular circulation
Feeds you by printing half the realm's starvation;--
O, ye great authors!--'Apropos des bottes,'-
I have forgotten what I meant to say,
As sometimes have been greater sages' lots;
'T was something calculated to allay
All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots:
Certes it would have been but thrown away,
And that 's one comfort for my lost advice,
Although no doubt it was beyond all price.
But let it go:--it will one day be found
With other relics of 'a former world,'
When this world shall be former, underground,
Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisp'd, and curl'd,
Baked, fried, or burnt, turn'd inside-out, or drown'd,
Like all the worlds before, which have been hurl'd
First out of, and then back again to chaos,
The superstratum which will overlay us.
So Cuvier says;--and then shall come again
Unto the new creation, rising out
From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain
Of things destroy'd and left in airy doubt:
Like to the notions we now entertain
Of Titans, giants, fellows of about
Some hundred feet in height, not to say miles,
And mammoths, and your winged crocodiles.
Think if then George the Fourth should be dug up!
How the new worldlings of the then new East
Will wonder where such animals could sup!
(For they themselves will be but of the least:
Even worlds miscarry, when too oft they pup,
And every new creation hath decreased
In size, from overworking the material--
Men are but maggots of some huge Earth's burial.)
How will--to these young people, just thrust out
From some fresh Paradise, and set to plough,
And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves about,
And plant, and reap, and spin, and grind, and sow,
Till all the arts at length are brought about,
Especially of war and taxing,--how,
I say, will these great relics, when they see 'em,
Look like the monsters of a new museum?
But I am apt to grow too metaphysical:
'The time is out of joint,'--and so am I;
I quite forget this poem 's merely quizzical,
And deviate into matters rather dry.
I ne'er decide what I shall say, and this I cal
Much too poetical: men should know why
They write, and for what end; but, note or text,
I never know the word which will come next.
So on I ramble, now and then narrating,
Now pondering:--it is time we should narrate.
I left Don Juan with his horses baiting--
Now we 'll get o'er the ground at a great rate.
I shall not be particular in stating
His journey, we 've so many tours of late:
Suppose him then at Petersburgh; suppose
That pleasant capital of painted snows;
Suppose him in a handsome uniform,--
A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume,
Waving, like sails new shiver'd in a storm,
Over a cock'd hat in a crowded room,
And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme,
Of yellow casimere we may presume,
White stocking drawn uncurdled as new milk
O'er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk;
Suppose him sword by side, and hat in hand,
Made up by youth, fame, and an army tailor--
That great enchanter, at whose rod's command
Beauty springs forth, and Nature's self turns paler,
Seeing how Art can make her work more grand
(When she don't pin men's limbs in like a gaoler),--
Behold him placed as if upon a pillar! He
Seems Love turn'd a lieutenant of artillery:--
His bandage slipp'd down into a cravat;
His wings subdued to epaulettes; his quiver
Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at
His side as a small sword, but sharp as ever;
His bow converted into a cock'd hat;
But still so like, that Psyche were more clever
Than some wives (who make blunders no less stupid),
If she had not mistaken him for Cupid.
The courtiers stared, the ladies whisper'd, and
The empress smiled: the reigning favourite frown'd--
I quite forget which of them was in hand
Just then; as they are rather numerous found,
Who took by turns that difficult command
Since first her majesty was singly crown'd:
But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows,
All fit to make a Patagonian jealous.
Juan was none of these, but slight and slim,
Blushing and beardless; and yet ne'ertheless
There was a something in his turn of limb,
And still more in his eye, which seem'd to express,
That though he look'd one of the seraphim,
There lurk'd a man beneath the spirit's dress.
Besides, the empress sometimes liked a boy,
And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi.
No wonder then that Yermoloff, or Momonoff,
Or Scherbatoff, or any other off
Or on, might dread her majesty had not room enough
Within her bosom (which was not too tough)
For a new flame; a thought to cast of gloom enough
Along the aspect, whether smooth or rough,
Of him who, in the language of his station,
Then held that 'high official situation.'
O, gentle ladies! should you seek to know
The import of this diplomatic phrase,
Bid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquess show
His parts of speech; and in the strange displays
Of that odd string of words, all in a row,
Which none divine, and every one obeys,
Perhaps you may pick out some queer no meaning,
Of that weak wordy harvest the sole gleaning.
I think I can explain myself without
That sad inexplicable beast of prey--
That Sphinx, whose words would ever be a doubt,
Did not his deeds unriddle them each day--
That monstrous hieroglyphic--that long spout
Of blood and water, leaden Castlereagh!
And here I must an anecdote relate,
But luckily of no great length or weight.
An English lady ask'd of an Italian,
What were the actual and official duties
Of the strange thing some women set a value on,
Which hovers oft about some married beauties,
Called 'Cavalier servente?'--a Pygmalion
Whose statues warm (I fear, alas! too true 't is)
Beneath his art. The dame, press'd to disclose them,
Said--'Lady, I beseech you to suppose them.'
And thus I supplicate your supposition,
And mildest, matron-like interpretation,
Of the imperial favourite's condition.
'T was a high place, the highest in the nation
In fact, if not in rank; and the suspicion
Of any one's attaining to his station,
No doubt gave pain, where each new pair of shoulders,
If rather broad, made stocks rise and their holders.
Juan, I said, was a most beauteous boy,
And had retain'd his boyish look beyond
The usual hirsute seasons which destroy,
With beards and whiskers, and the like, the fond
Parisian aspect which upset old Troy
And founded Doctors' Commons:--I have conn'd
The history of divorces, which, though chequer'd,
Calls Ilion's the first damages on record.
And Catherine, who loved all things (save her lord,
Who was gone to his place), and pass'd for much
Admiring those (by dainty dames abhorr'd)
Gigantic gentlemen, yet had a touch
Of sentiment; and he she most adored
Was the lamented Lanskoi, who was such
A lover as had cost her many a tear,
And yet but made a middling grenadier.
O thou 'teterrima causa' of all 'belli'-
Thou gate of life and death--thou nondescript!
Whence is our exit and our entrance,--well I
May pause in pondering how all souls are dipt
In thy perennial fountain:--how man fell I
Know not, since knowledge saw her branches stript
Of her first fruit; but how he falls and rises
Since, thou hast settled beyond all surmises.
Some call thee 'the worst cause of war,' but I
Maintain thou art the best: for after all
From thee we come, to thee we go, and why
To get at thee not batter down a wall,
Or waste a world? since no one can deny
Thou dost replenish worlds both great and small:
With, or without thee, all things at a stand
Are, or would be, thou sea of life's dry land!
Catherine, who was the grand epitome
Of that great cause of war, or peace, or what
You please (it causes all the things which be,
So you may take your choice of this or that)--
Catherine, I say, was very glad to see
The handsome herald, on whose plumage sat
Victory; and pausing as she saw him kneel
With his despatch, forgot to break the seal.
Then recollecting the whole empress, nor
forgetting quite the woman (which composed
At least three parts of this great whole), she tore
The letter open with an air which posed
The court, that watch'd each look her visage wore,
Until a royal smile at length disclosed
Fair weather for the day. Though rather spacious,
Her face was noble, her eyes fine, mouth gracious.
Great joy was hers, or rather joys: the first
Was a ta'en city, thirty thousand slain.
Glory and triumph o'er her aspect burst,
As an East Indian sunrise on the main.
These quench'd a moment her ambition's thirst--
So Arab deserts drink in summer's rain:
In vain!--As fall the dews on quenchless sands,
Blood only serves to wash Ambition's hands!
Her next amusement was more fanciful;
She smiled at mad Suwarrow's rhymes, who threw
Into a Russian couplet rather dull
The whole gazette of thousands whom he slew.
Her third was feminine enough to annul
The shudder which runs naturally through
Our veins, when things call'd sovereigns think it best
To kill, and generals turn it into jest.
The two first feelings ran their course complete,
And lighted first her eye, and then her mouth:
The whole court look'd immediately most sweet,
Like flowers well water'd after a long drouth.
But when on the lieutenant at her feet
Her majesty, who liked to gaze on youth
Almost as much as on a new despatch,
Glanced mildly, all the world was on the watch.
Though somewhat large, exuberant, and truculent,
When wroth--while pleased, she was as fine a figure
As those who like things rosy, ripe, and succulent,
Would wish to look on, while they are in vigour.
She could repay each amatory look you lent
With interest, and in turn was wont with rigour
To exact of Cupid's bills the full amount
At sight, nor would permit you to discount.
With her the latter, though at times convenient,
Was not so necessary; for they tell
That she was handsome, and though fierce look'd lenient,
And always used her favourites too well.
If once beyond her boudoir's precincts in ye went,
Your 'fortune' was in a fair way 'to swell
A man' (as Giles says); for though she would widow all
Nations, she liked man as an individual.
What a strange thing is man? and what a stranger
Is woman! What a whirlwind is her head,
And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger
Is all the rest about her! Whether wed
Or widow, maid or mother, she can change her
Mind like the wind: whatever she has said
Or done, is light to what she 'll say or do;--
The oldest thing on record, and yet new!
O Catherine! (for of all interjections,
To thee both oh! and ah! belong of right
In love and war) how odd are the connections
Of human thoughts, which jostle in their flight!
Just now yours were cut out in different sections:
First Ismail's capture caught your fancy quite;
Next of new knights, the fresh and glorious batch;
And thirdly he who brought you the despatch!
Shakspeare talks of 'the herald Mercury
New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;'
And some such visions cross'd her majesty,
While her young herald knelt before her still.
'T is very true the hill seem'd rather high,
For a lieutenant to climb up; but skill
Smooth'd even the Simplon's steep, and by God's blessing
With youth and health all kisses are 'heaven-kissing.'
Her majesty look'd down, the youth look'd up--
And so they fell in love;--she with his face,
His grace, his God-knows-what: for Cupid's cup
With the first draught intoxicates apace,
A quintessential laudanum or 'black drop,'
Which makes one drunk at once, without the base
Expedient of full bumpers; for the eye
In love drinks all life's fountains (save tears) dry.
He, on the other hand, if not in love,
Fell into that no less imperious passion,
Self-love--which, when some sort of thing above
Ourselves, a singer, dancer, much in fashion,
Or duchess, princess, empress, 'deigns to prove'
('T is Pope's phrase) a great longing, though a rash one,
For one especial person out of many,
Makes us believe ourselves as good as any.
Besides, he was of that delighted age
Which makes all female ages equal--when
We don't much care with whom we may engage,
As bold as Daniel in the lion's den,
So that we can our native sun assuage
In the next ocean, which may flow just then,
To make a twilight in, just as Sol's heat is
Quench'd in the lap of the salt sea, or Thetis.
And Catherine (we must say thus much for Catherine),
Though bold and bloody, was the kind of thing
Whose temporary passion was quite flattering,
Because each lover look'd a sort of king,
Made up upon an amatory pattern,
A royal husband in all save the ring--
Which, being the damn'dest part of matrimony,
Seem'd taking out the sting to leave the honey.
And when you add to this, her womanhood
In its meridian, her blue eyes or gray
(The last, if they have soul, are quite as good,
Or better, as the best examples say:
Napoleon's, Mary's (queen of Scotland), should
Lend to that colour a transcendent ray;
And Pallas also sanctions the same hue,
Too wise to look through optics black or blue)--
Her sweet smile, and her then majestic figure,
Her plumpness, her imperial condescension,
Her preference of a boy to men much bigger
(Fellows whom Messalina's self would pension),
Her prime of life, just now in juicy vigour,
With other extras, which we need not mention,--
All these, or any one of these, explain
Enough to make a stripling very vain.
And that 's enough, for love is vanity,
Selfish in its beginning as its end,
Except where 't is a mere insanity,
A maddening spirit which would strive to blend
Itself with beauty's frail inanity,
On which the passion's self seems to depend:
And hence some heathenish philosophers
Make love the main spring of the universe.
Besides Platonic love, besides the love
Of God, the love of sentiment, the loving
Of faithful pairs (I needs must rhyme with dove,
That good old steam-boat which keeps verses moving
'Gainst reason--Reason ne'er was hand-and-glove
With rhyme, but always leant less to improving
The sound than sense)--beside all these pretences
To love, there are those things which words name senses;
Those movements, those improvements in our bodies
Which make all bodies anxious to get out
Of their own sand-pits, to mix with a goddess,
For such all women are at first no doubt.
How beautiful that moment! and how odd is
That fever which precedes the languid rout
Of our sensations! What a curious way
The whole thing is of clothing souls in clay!
The noblest kind of love is love Platonical,
To end or to begin with; the next grand
Is that which may be christen'd love canonical,
Because the clergy take the thing in hand;
The third sort to be noted in our chronicle
As flourishing in every Christian land,
Is when chaste matrons to their other ties
Add what may be call'd marriage in disguise.
Well, we won't analyse--our story must
Tell for itself: the sovereign was smitten,
Juan much flatter'd by her love, or lust;--
I cannot stop to alter words once written,
And the two are so mix'd with human dust,
That he who names one, both perchance may hit on:
But in such matters Russia's mighty empress
Behaved no better than a common sempstress.
The whole court melted into one wide whisper,
And all lips were applied unto all ears!
The elder ladies' wrinkles curl'd much crisper
As they beheld; the younger cast some leers
On one another, and each lovely lisper
Smiled as she talk'd the matter o'er; but tears
Of rivalship rose in each clouded eye
Of all the standing army who stood by.
All the ambassadors of all the powers
Enquired, Who was this very new young man,
Who promised to be great in some few hours?
Which is full soon--though life is but a span.
Already they beheld the silver showers
Of rubles rain, as fast as specie can,
Upon his cabinet, besides the presents
Of several ribands, and some thousand peasants.
Catherine was generous,--all such ladies are:
Love, that great opener of the heart and all
The ways that lead there, be they near or far,
Above, below, by turnpikes great or small,--
Love (though she had a cursed taste for war,
And was not the best wife, unless we call
Such Clytemnestra, though perhaps 't is better
That one should die, than two drag on the fetter)--
Love had made Catherine make each lover's fortune,
Unlike our own half-chaste Elizabeth,
Whose avarice all disbursements did importune,
If history, the grand liar, ever saith
The truth; and though grief her old age might shorten,
Because she put a favourite to death,
Her vile, ambiguous method of flirtation,
And stinginess, disgrace her sex and station.
But when the levee rose, and all was bustle
In the dissolving circle, all the nations'
Ambassadors began as 't were to hustle
Round the young man with their congratulations.
Also the softer silks were heard to rustle
Of gentle dames, among whose recreations
It is to speculate on handsome faces,
Especially when such lead to high places.
Juan, who found himself, he knew not how,
A general object of attention, made
His answers with a very graceful bow,
As if born for the ministerial trade.
Though modest, on his unembarrass'd brow
Nature had written 'gentleman.' He said
Little, but to the purpose; and his manner
Flung hovering graces o'er him like a banner.
An order from her majesty consign'd
Our young lieutenant to the genial care
Of those in office: all the world look'd kind
(As it will look sometimes with the first stare,
Which youth would not act ill to keep in mind),
As also did Miss Protasoff then there,
Named from her mystic office 'l'Eprouveuse,'
A term inexplicable to the Muse.
With her then, as in humble duty bound,
Juan retired,--and so will I, until
My Pegasus shall tire of touching ground.
We have just lit on a 'heaven-kissing hill,'
So lofty that I feel my brain turn round,
And all my fancies whirling like a mill;
Which is a signal to my nerves and brain,
To take a quiet ride in some green Lane.
[Illustration: Canto 10]
CANTO THE TENTH.
When Newton saw an apple fall, he found
In that slight startle from his contemplation--
'T is said (for I 'll not answer above ground
For any sage's creed or calculation)--
A mode of proving that the earth turn'd round
In a most natural whirl, called 'gravitation;'
And this is the sole mortal who could grapple,
Since Adam, with a fall or with an apple.
Man fell with apples, and with apples rose,
If this be true; for we must deem the mode
In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose
Through the then unpaved stars the turnpike road,
A thing to counterbalance human woes:
For ever since immortal man hath glow'd
With all kinds of mechanics, and full soon
Steam-engines will conduct him to the moon.
And wherefore this exordium?--Why, just now,
In taking up this paltry sheet of paper,
My bosom underwent a glorious glow,
And my internal spirit cut a caper:
And though so much inferior, as I know,
To those who, by the dint of glass and vapour,
Discover stars and sail in the wind's eye,
I wish to do as much by poesy.
In the wind's eye I have sail'd, and sail; but for
The stars, I own my telescope is dim:
But at least I have shunn'd the common shore,
And leaving land far out of sight, would skim
The ocean of eternity: the roar
Of breakers has not daunted my slight, trim,
But still sea-worthy skiff; and she may float
Where ships have founder'd, as doth many a boat.
We left our hero, Juan, in the bloom
Of favouritism, but not yet in the blush;
And far be it from my Muses to presume
(For I have more than one Muse at a push)
To follow him beyond the drawing-room:
It is enough that Fortune found him flush
Of youth, and vigour, beauty, and those things
Which for an instant clip enjoyment's wings.
But soon they grow again and leave their nest.
'Oh!' saith the Psalmist, 'that I had a dove's
Pinions to flee away, and be at rest!'
And who that recollects young years and loves,--
Though hoary now, and with a withering breast,
And palsied fancy, which no longer roves
Beyond its dimm'd eye's sphere,--but would much rather
Sigh like his son, than cough like his grandfather?
But sighs subside, and tears (even widows') shrink,
Like Arno in the summer, to a shallow,
So narrow as to shame their wintry brink,
Which threatens inundations deep and yellow!
Such difference doth a few months make. You 'd think
Grief a rich field which never would lie fallow;
No more it doth, its ploughs but change their boys,
Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys.
But coughs will come when sighs depart--and now
And then before sighs cease; for oft the one
Will bring the other, ere the lake-like brow
Is ruffled by a wrinkle, or the sun
Of life reach'd ten o'clock: and while a glow,
Hectic and brief as summer's day nigh done,
O'erspreads the cheek which seems too pure for clay,
Thousands blaze, love, hope, die,--how happy they!
But Juan was not meant to die so soon.
We left him in the focus of such glory
As may be won by favour of the moon
Or ladies' fancies--rather transitory
Perhaps; but who would scorn the month of June,
Because December, with his breath so hoary,
Must come? Much rather should he court the ray,
To hoard up warmth against a wintry day.
Besides, he had some qualities which fix
Middle-aged ladies even more than young:
The former know what 's what; while new-fledged chicks
Know little more of love than what is sung
In rhymes, or dreamt (for fancy will play tricks)
In visions of those skies from whence Love sprung.
Some reckon women by their suns or years,
I rather think the moon should date the dears.
And why? because she 's changeable and chaste.
I know no other reason, whatsoe'er
Suspicious people, who find fault in haste,
May choose to tax me with; which is not fair,
Nor flattering to 'their temper or their taste,'
As my friend Jeffrey writes with such an air:
However, I forgive him, and I trust
He will forgive himself;--if not, I must.
Old enemies who have become new friends
Should so continue--'t is a point of honour;
And I know nothing which could make amends
For a return to hatred: I would shun her
Like garlic, howsoever she extends
Her hundred arms and legs, and fain outrun her.
Old flames, new wives, become our bitterest foes--
Converted foes should scorn to join with those.
This were the worst desertion:--renegadoes,
Even shuffling Southey, that incarnate lie,
Would scarcely join again the 'reformadoes,'
Whom he forsook to fill the laureate's sty:
And honest men from Iceland to Barbadoes,
Whether in Caledon or Italy,
Should not veer round with every breath, nor seize
To pain, the moment when you cease to please.
The lawyer and the critic but behold
The baser sides of literature and life,
And nought remains unseen, but much untold,
By those who scour those double vales of strife.
While common men grow ignorantly old,
The lawyer's brief is like the surgeon's knife,
Dissecting the whole inside of a question,
And with it all the process of digestion.
A legal broom 's a moral chimney-sweeper,
And that 's the reason he himself 's so dirty;
The endless soot bestows a tint far deeper
Than can be hid by altering his shirt; he
Retains the sable stains of the dark creeper,
At least some twenty-nine do out of thirty,
In all their habits;--not so you, I own;
As Caesar wore his robe you wear your gown.
And all our little feuds, at least all mine,
Dear Jefferson, once my most redoubted foe
(As far as rhyme and criticism combine
To make such puppets of us things below),
Are over: Here 's a health to 'Auld Lang Syne!'
I do not know you, and may never know
Your face--but you have acted on the whole
Most nobly, and I own it from my soul.
And when I use the phrase of 'Auld Lang Syne!'
'T is not address'd to you--the more 's the pity
For me, for I would rather take my wine
With you, than aught (save Scott) in your proud city.
But somehow,--it may seem a schoolboy's whine,
And yet I seek not to be grand nor witty,
But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred
A whole one, and my heart flies to my head,--
As 'Auld Lang Syne' brings Scotland, one and all,
Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, and clear streams,
The Dee, the Don, Balgounie's brig's black wall,
All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams
Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall,
Like Banquo's offspring;--floating past me seems
My childhood in this childishness of mine:
I care not--'t is a glimpse of 'Auld Lang Syne.'
And though, as you remember, in a fit
Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly,
I rail'd at Scots to show my wrath and wit,
Which must be own'd was sensitive and surly,
Yet 't is in vain such sallies to permit,
They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early:
I 'scotch'd not kill'd' the Scotchman in my blood,
And love the land of 'mountain and of flood.'
Don Juan, who was real, or ideal,--
For both are much the same, since what men think
Exists when the once thinkers are less real
Than what they thought, for mind can never sink,
And 'gainst the body makes a strong appeal;
And yet 't is very puzzling on the brink
Of what is call'd eternity, to stare,
And know no more of what is here, than there;--
Don Juan grew a very polish'd Russian--
How we won't mention, why we need not say:
Few youthful minds can stand the strong concussion
Of any slight temptation in their way;
But his just now were spread as is a cushion
Smooth'd for a monarch's seat of honour; gay
Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money,
Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny.
The favour of the empress was agreeable;
And though the duty wax'd a little hard,
Young people at his time of life should be able
To come off handsomely in that regard.
He was now growing up like a green tree, able
For love, war, or ambition, which reward
Their luckier votaries, till old age's tedium
Make some prefer the circulating medium.
About this time, as might have been anticipated,
Seduced by youth and dangerous examples,
Don Juan grew, I fear, a little dissipated;
Which is a sad thing, and not only tramples
On our fresh feelings, but--as being participated
With all kinds of incorrigible samples
Of frail humanity--must make us selfish,
And shut our souls up in us like a shell-fish.
This we pass over. We will also pass
The usual progress of intrigues between
Unequal matches, such as are, alas!
A young lieutenant's with a not old queen,
But one who is not so youthful as she was
In all the royalty of sweet seventeen.
Sovereigns may sway materials, but not matter,
And Death, the sovereign's sovereign, though the great
Gracchus of all mortality, who levels
With his Agrarian laws the high estate
Of him who feasts, and fights, and roars, and revels,
To one small grass-grown patch (which must await
Corruption for its crop) with the poor devils
Who never had a foot of land till now,--
Death 's a reformer, all men must allow.
He lived (not Death, but Juan) in a hurry
Of waste, and haste, and glare, and gloss, and glitter,
In this gay clime of bear-skins black and furry--
Which (though I hate to say a thing that 's bitter)
Peep out sometimes, when things are in a flurry,
Through all the 'purple and fine linen,' fitter
For Babylon's than Russia's royal harlot--
And neutralize her outward show of scarlet.
And this same state we won't describe: we would
Perhaps from hearsay, or from recollection;
But getting nigh grim Dante's 'obscure wood,'
That horrid equinox, that hateful section
Of human years, that half-way house, that rude
Hut, whence wise travellers drive with circumspection
Life's sad post-horses o'er the dreary frontier
Of age, and looking back to youth, give one tear;--
I won't describe,--that is, if I can help
Description; and I won't reflect,--that is,
If I can stave off thought, which--as a whelp
Clings to its teat--sticks to me through the abyss
Of this odd labyrinth; or as the kelp
Holds by the rock; or as a lover's kiss
Drains its first draught of lips:--but, as I said,
I won't philosophise, and will be read.
Juan, instead of courting courts, was courted,--
A thing which happens rarely: this he owed
Much to his youth, and much to his reported
Valour; much also to the blood he show'd,
Like a race-horse; much to each dress he sported,
Which set the beauty off in which he glow'd,
As purple clouds befringe the sun; but most
He owed to an old woman and his post.
He wrote to Spain:--and all his near relations,
Perceiving fie was in a handsome way
Of getting on himself, and finding stations
For cousins also, answer'd the same day.
Several prepared themselves for emigrations;
And eating ices, were o'erheard to say,
That with the addition of a slight pelisse,
Madrid's and Moscow's climes were of a piece.
His mother, Donna Inez, finding, too,
That in the lieu of drawing on his banker,
Where his assets were waxing rather few,
He had brought his spending to a handsome anchor,--
Replied, 'that she was glad to see him through
Those pleasures after which wild youth will hanker;
As the sole sign of man's being in his senses
Is, learning to reduce his past expenses.
'She also recommended him to God,
And no less to God's Son, as well as Mother,
Warn'd him against Greek worship, which looks odd
In Catholic eyes; but told him, too, to smother
Outward dislike, which don't look well abroad;
Inform'd him that he had a little brother
Born in a second wedlock; and above
All, praised the empress's maternal love.
'She could not too much give her approbation
Unto an empress, who preferr'd young men
Whose age, and what was better still, whose nation
And climate, stopp'd all scandal (now and then):--
At home it might have given her some vexation;
But where thermometers sunk down to ten,
Or five, or one, or zero, she could never
Believe that virtue thaw'd before the river.'
O for a forty-parson power to chant
Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh for a hymn
Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt,
Not practise! Oh for trumps of cherubim!
Or the ear-trumpet of my good old aunt,
Who, though her spectacles at last grew dim,
Drew quiet consolation through its hint,
When she no more could read the pious print.
She was no hypocrite at least, poor soul,
But went to heaven in as sincere a way
As any body on the elected roll,
Which portions out upon the judgment day
Heaven's freeholds, in a sort of doomsday scroll,
Such as the conqueror William did repay
His knights with, lotting others' properties
Into some sixty thousand new knights' fees.
I can't complain, whose ancestors are there,
Erneis, Radulphus--eight-and-forty manors
(If that my memory doth not greatly err)
Were their reward for following Billy's banners:
And though I can't help thinking 't was scarce fair
To strip the Saxons of their hydes, like tanners;
Yet as they founded churches with the produce,
You 'll deem, no doubt, they put it to a good use.
The gentle Juan flourish'd, though at times
He felt like other plants called sensitive,
Which shrink from touch, as monarchs do from rhymes,
Save such as Southey can afford to give.
Perhaps he long'd in bitter frosts for climes
In which the Neva's ice would cease to live
Before May-day: perhaps, despite his duty,
In royalty's vast arms he sigh d for beauty:
Perhaps--but, sans perhaps, we need not seek
For causes young or old: the canker-worm
Will feed upon the fairest, freshest cheek,
As well as further drain the wither'd form:
Care, like a housekeeper, brings every week
His bills in, and however we may storm,
They must be paid: though six days smoothly run,
The seventh will bring blue devils or a dun.
I don't know how it was, but he grew sick:
The empress was alarm'd, and her physician
(The same who physick'd Peter) found the tick
Of his fierce pulse betoken a condition
Which augur'd of the dead, however quick
Itself, and show'd a feverish disposition;
At which the whole court was extremely troubled,
The sovereign shock'd, and all his medicines doubled.
Low were the whispers, manifold the rumours:
Some said he had been poison'd by Potemkin;
Others talk'd learnedly of certain tumours,
Exhaustion, or disorders of the same kin;
Some said 't was a concoction of the humours,
Which with the blood too readily will claim kin;
Others again were ready to maintain,
''T was only the fatigue of last campaign.'
But here is one prescription out of many:
'Sodae sulphat. 3vj. 3fs. Mannae optim.
Aq. fervent. f. 3ifs. 3ij. tinct. Sennae
Haustus' (And here the surgeon came and cupp'd him)
'Rx Pulv Com gr. iij. Ipecacuanhae'
(With more beside if Juan had not stopp'd 'em).
'Bolus Potassae Sulphuret. sumendus,
Et haustus ter in die capiendus.'
This is the way physicians mend or end us,
Secundum artem: but although we sneer
In health--when ill, we call them to attend us,
Without the least propensity to jeer:
While that 'hiatus maxime deflendus'
To be fill'd up by spade or mattock's near,
Instead of gliding graciously down Lethe,
We tease mild Baillie, or soft Abernethy.
Juan demurr'd at this first notice to
Quit; and though death had threaten'd an ejection,
His youth and constitution bore him through,
And sent the doctors in a new direction.
But still his state was delicate: the hue
Of health but flicker'd with a faint reflection
Along his wasted cheek, and seem'd to gravel
The faculty--who said that he must travel.
The climate was too cold, they said, for him,
Meridian-born, to bloom in. This opinion
Made the chaste Catherine look a little grim,
Who did not like at first to lose her minion:
But when she saw his dazzling eye wax dim,
And drooping like an eagle's with clipt pinion,
She then resolved to send him on a mission,
But in a style becoming his condition.
There was just then a kind of a discussion,
A sort of treaty or negotiation
Between the British cabinet and Russian,
Maintain'd with all the due prevarication
With which great states such things are apt to push on;
Something about the Baltic's navigation,
Hides, train-oil, tallow, and the rights of Thetis,
Which Britons deem their 'uti possidetis.'
So Catherine, who had a handsome way
Of fitting out her favourites, conferr'd
This secret charge on Juan, to display
At once her royal splendour, and reward
His services. He kiss'd hands the next day,
Received instructions how to play his card,
Was laden with all kinds of gifts and honours,
Which show'd what great discernment was the donor's.
But she was lucky, and luck 's all. Your queens
Are generally prosperous in reigning;
Which puzzles us to know what Fortune means.
But to continue: though her years were waning
Her climacteric teased her like her teens;
And though her dignity brook'd no complaining,
So much did Juan's setting off distress her,
She could not find at first a fit successor.
But time, the comforter, will come at last;
And four-and-twenty hours, and twice that number
Of candidates requesting to be placed,
Made Catherine taste next night a quiet slumber:--
Not that she meant to fix again in haste,
Nor did she find the quantity encumber,
But always choosing with deliberation,
Kept the place open for their emulation.
While this high post of honour 's in abeyance,
For one or two days, reader, we request
You 'll mount with our young hero the conveyance
Which wafted him from Petersburgh: the best
Barouche, which had the glory to display once
The fair czarina's autocratic crest,
When, a new lphigene, she went to Tauris,
Was given to her favourite, and now bore his.
A bull-dog, and a bullfinch, and an ermine,
All private favourites of Don Juan;--for
(Let deeper sages the true cause determine)
He had a kind of inclination, or
Weakness, for what most people deem mere vermin,
Live animals: an old maid of threescore
For cats and birds more penchant ne'er display'd,
Although he was not old, nor even a maid;--
The animals aforesaid occupied
Their station: there were valets, secretaries,
In other vehicles; but at his side
Sat little Leila, who survived the parries
He made 'gainst Cossacque sabres, in the wide
Slaughter of Ismail. Though my wild Muse varies
Her note, she don't forget the infant girl
Whom he preserved, a pure and living pearl
Poor little thing! She was as fair as docile,
And with that gentle, serious character,
As rare in living beings as a fossile
Man, 'midst thy mouldy mammoths, 'grand Cuvier!'
Ill fitted was her ignorance to jostle
With this o'erwhelming world, where all must err:
But she was yet but ten years old, and therefore
Was tranquil, though she knew not why or wherefore.
Don Juan loved her, and she loved him, as
Nor brother, father, sister, daughter love.
I cannot tell exactly what it was;
He was not yet quite old enough to prove
Parental feelings, and the other class,
Call'd brotherly affection, could not move
His bosom,--for he never had a sister:
Ah! if he had, how much he would have miss'd her!
And still less was it sensual; for besides
That he was not an ancient debauchee
(Who like sour fruit, to stir their veins' salt tides,
As acids rouse a dormant alkali),
Although ('t will happen as our planet guides)
His youth was not the chastest that might be,
There was the purest Platonism at bottom
Of all his feelings--only he forgot 'em.
Just now there was no peril of temptation;
He loved the infant orphan he had saved,
As patriots (now and then) may love a nation;
His pride, too, felt that she was not enslaved
Owing to him;--as also her salvation
Through his means and the church's might be paved.
But one thing 's odd, which here must be _insert_ed,
The little Turk refused to be converted.
'T was strange enough she should retain the impression
Through such a scene of change, and dread, and slaughter;
But though three bishops told her the transgression,
She show'd a great dislike to holy water:
She also had no passion for confession;
Perhaps she had nothing to confess:--no matter,
Whate'er the cause, the church made little of it--
She still held out that Mahomet was a prophet.
In fact, the only Christian she could bear
Was Juan; whom she seem'd to have _select_ed
In place of what her home and friends once were.
He naturally loved what he protected:
And thus they form'd a rather curious pair,
A guardian green in years, a ward connected
In neither clime, time, blood, with her defender;
And yet this want of ties made theirs more tender.
They journey'd on through Poland and through Warsaw,
Famous for mines of salt and yokes of iron:
Through Courland also, which that famous farce saw
Which gave her dukes the graceless name of 'Biron.'
'T is the same landscape which the modern Mars saw,
Who march'd to Moscow, led by Fame, the siren!
To lose by one month's frost some twenty years
Of conquest, and his guard of grenadiers.
Let this not seem an anti-climax:--'Oh!
My guard! my old guard exclaim'd!' exclaim'd that god of day.
Think of the Thunderer's falling down below
Carotid-artery-cutting Castlereagh!
Alas, that glory should be chill'd by snow!
But should we wish to warm us on our way
Through Poland, there is Kosciusko's name
Might scatter fire through ice, like Hecla's flame.
From Poland they came on through Prussia Proper,
And Konigsberg the capital, whose vaunt,
Besides some veins of iron, lead, or copper,
Has lately been the great Professor Kant.
Juan, who cared not a tobacco-stopper
About philosophy, pursued his jaunt
To Germany, whose somewhat tardy millions
Have princes who spur more than their postilions.
And thence through Berlin, Dresden, and the like,
Until he reach'd the castellated Rhine:--
Ye glorious Gothic scenes! how much ye strike
All phantasies, not even excepting mine;
A grey wall, a green ruin, rusty pike,
Make my soul pass the equinoctial line
Between the present and past worlds, and hover
Upon their airy confine, half-seas-over.
But Juan posted on through Manheim, Bonn,
Which Drachenfels frowns over like a spectre
Of the good feudal times forever gone,
On which I have not time just now to lecture.
From thence he was drawn onwards to Cologne,
A city which presents to the inspector
Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone,
The greatest number flesh hath ever known.
From thence to Holland's Hague and Helvoetsluys,
That water-land of Dutchmen and of ditches,
Where juniper expresses its best juice,
The poor man's sparkling substitute for riches.
Senates and sages have condemn'd its use--
But to deny the mob a cordial, which is
Too often all the clothing, meat, or fuel,
Good government has left them, seems but cruel.
Here he embark'd, and with a flowing sail
Went bounding for the island of the free,
Towards which the impatient wind blew half a gale;
High dash'd the spray, the bows dipp'd in the sea,
And sea-sick passengers turn'd somewhat pale;
But Juan, season'd, as he well might be,
By former voyages, stood to watch the skiffs
Which pass'd, or catch the first glimpse of the cliffs.
At length they rose, like a white wall along
The blue sea's border; and I Don Juan felt--
What even young strangers feel a little strong
At the first sight of Albion's chalky belt--
A kind of pride that he should be among
Those haughty shopkeepers, who sternly dealt
Their goods and edicts out from pole to pole,
And made the very billows pay them toll.
I 've no great cause to love that spot of earth,
Which holds what might have been the noblest nation;
But though I owe it little but my birth,
I feel a mix'd regret and veneration
For its decaying fame and former worth.
Seven years (the usual term of transportation)
Of absence lay one's old resentments level,
When a man's country 's going to the devil.
Alas! could she but fully, truly, know
How her great name is now throughout abhorr'd:
How eager all the earth is for the blow
Which shall lay bare her bosom to the sword;
How all the nations deem her their worst foe,
That worse than worst of foes, the once adored
False friend, who held out freedom to mankind,
And now would chain them, to the very mind:--
Would she be proud, or boast herself the free,
Who is but first of slaves? The nations are
In prison,--but the gaoler, what is he?
No less a victim to the bolt and bar.
Is the poor privilege to turn the key
Upon the captive, freedom? He 's as far
From the enjoyment of the earth and air
Who watches o'er the chain, as they who wear.
Don Juan now saw Albion's earliest beauties,
Thy cliffs, dear Dover! harbour, and hotel;
Thy custom-house, with all its delicate duties;
Thy waiters running mucks at every bell;
Thy packets, all whose passengers are booties
To those who upon land or water dwell;
And last, not least, to strangers uninstructed,
Thy long, long bills, whence nothing is deducted.
Juan, though careless, young, and magnifique,
And rich in rubles, diamonds, cash, and credit,
Who did not limit much his bills per week,
Yet stared at this a little, though he paid it
(His Maggior Duomo, a smart, subtle Greek,
Before him summ'd the awful scroll and read it);
But doubtless as the air, though seldom sunny,
Is free, the respiration's worth the money.
On with the horses! Off to Canterbury!
Tramp, tramp o'er pebble, and splash, splash through puddle;
Hurrah! how swiftly speeds the post so merry!
Not like slow Germany, wherein they muddle
Along the road, as if they went to bury
Their fare; and also pause besides, to fuddle
With 'schnapps'--sad dogs! whom 'Hundsfot,' or 'Verflucter,'
Affect no more than lightning a conductor.
Now there is nothing gives a man such spirits,
Leavening his blood as cayenne doth a curry,
As going at full speed--no matter where its
Direction be, so 't is but in a hurry,
And merely for the sake of its own merits;
For the less cause there is for all this flurry,
The greater is the pleasure in arriving
At the great end of travel--which is driving.
They saw at Canterbury the cathedral;
Black Edward's helm, and Becket's bloody stone,
Were pointed out as usual by the bedral,
In the same quaint, uninterested tone:--
There 's glory again for you, gentle reader! All
Ends in a rusty casque and dubious bone,
Half-solved into these sodas or magnesias;
Which form that bitter draught, the human species.
The effect on Juan was of course sublime:
He breathed a thousand Cressys, as he saw
That casque, which never stoop'd except to Time.
Even the bold Churchman's tomb excited awe,
Who died in the then great attempt to climb
O'er kings, who now at least must talk of law
Before they butcher. Little Leila gazed,
And ask'd why such a structure had been raised:
And being told it was 'God's house,' she said
He was well lodged, but only wonder'd how
He suffer'd Infidels in his homestead,
The cruel Nazarenes, who had laid low
His holy temples in the lands which bred
The True Believers:--and her infant brow
Was bent with grief that Mahomet should resign
A mosque so noble, flung like pearls to swine.
O! oh! through meadows managed like a garden,
A paradise of hops and high production;
For after years of travel by a bard in
Countries of greater heat, but lesser suction,
A green field is a sight which makes him pardon
The absence of that more sublime construction,
Which mixes up vines, olives, precipices,
Glaciers, volcanos, oranges, and ices.
And when I think upon a pot of beer--
But I won't weep!--and so drive on, postilions!
As the smart boys spurr'd fast in their career,
Juan admired these highways of free millions;
A country in all senses the most dear
To foreigner or native, save some silly ones,
Who 'kick against the pricks' just at this juncture,
And for their pains get only a fresh puncture.
What a delightful thing 's a turnpike road!
So smooth, so level, such a mode of shaving
The earth, as scarce the eagle in the broad
Air can accomplish, with his wide wings waving.
Had such been cut in Phaeton's time, the god
Had told his son to satisfy his craving
With the York mail;--but onward as we roll,
'Surgit amari aliquid'--the toll
Alas, how deeply painful is all payment!
Take lives, take wives, take aught except men's purses:
As Machiavel shows those in purple raiment,
Such is the shortest way to general curses.
They hate a murderer much less than a claimant
On that sweet ore which every body nurses;--
Kill a man's family, and he may brook it,
But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.
So said the Florentine: ye monarchs, hearken
To your instructor. Juan now was borne,
Just as the day began to wane and darken,
O'er the high hill, which looks with pride or scorn
Toward the great city.--Ye who have a spark in
Your veins of Cockney spirit, smile or mourn
According as you take things well or ill;--
Bold Britons, we are now on Shooter's Hill!
The sun went down, the smoke rose up, as from
A half-unquench'd volcano, o'er a space
Which well beseem'd the 'Devil's drawing-room,'
As some have qualified that wondrous place:
But Juan felt, though not approaching home,
As one who, though he were not of the race,
Revered the soil, of those true sons the mother,
Who butcher'd half the earth, and bullied t' other.
A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping,
Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye
Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping
In sight, then lost amidst the forestry
Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping
On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy;
A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown
On a fool's head--and there is London Town!
But Juan saw not this: each wreath of smoke
Appear'd to him but as the magic vapour
Of some alchymic furnace, from whence broke
The wealth of worlds (a wealth of tax and paper):
The gloomy clouds, which o'er it as a yoke
Are bow'd, and put the sun out like a taper,
Were nothing but the natural atmosphere,
Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear.
He paused--and so will I; as doth a crew
Before they give their broadside. By and by,
My gentle countrymen, we will renew
Our old acquaintance; and at least I 'll try
To tell you truths you will not take as true,
Because they are so;--a male Mrs. Fry,
With a soft besom will I sweep your halls,
And brush a web or two from off the walls.
O Mrs. Fry! Why go to Newgate? Why
Preach to poor rogues? And wherefore not begin
With Carlton, or with other houses? Try
Your head at harden'd and imperial sin.
To mend the people 's an absurdity,
A jargon, a mere philanthropic din,
Unless you make their betters better:--Fy!
I thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry.
Teach them the decencies of good threescore;
Cure them of tours, hussar and highland dresses;
Tell them that youth once gone returns no more,
That hired huzzas redeem no land's distresses;
Tell them Sir William Curtis is a bore,
Too dull even for the dullest of excesses,
The witless Falstaff of a hoary Hal,
A fool whose bells have ceased to ring at all.
Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late,
On life's worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated,
To set up vain pretence of being great,
'T is not so to be good; and be it stated,
The worthiest kings have ever loved least state;
And tell them--But you won't, and I have prated
Just now enough; but by and by I 'll prattle
Like Roland's horn in Roncesvalles' battle.
[Illustration: Canto 11]
CANTO THE ELEVENTH.
When Bishop Berkeley said 'there was no matter,'
And proved it--'t was no matter what he said:
They say his system 't is in vain to batter,
Too subtle for the airiest human head;
And yet who can believe it? I would shatter
Gladly all matters down to stone or lead,
Or adamant, to find the world a spirit,
And wear my head, denying that I wear it.
What a sublime discovery 't was to make the
Universe universal egotism,
That all 's ideal--all ourselves: I 'll stake the
World (be it what you will) that that 's no schism.
O Doubt!--if thou be'st Doubt, for which some take thee;
But which I doubt extremely--thou sole prism
Of the Truth's rays, spoil not my draught of spirit!
Heaven's brandy, though our brain can hardly bear it.
For ever and anon comes Indigestion,
(Not the most 'dainty Ariel') and perplexes
Our soarings with another sort of question:
And that which after all my spirit vexes,
Is, that I find no spot where man can rest eye on,
Without confusion of the sorts and sexes,
Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder,
The world, which at the worst 's a glorious blunder--
If it be chance; or if it be according
To the old text, still better:--lest it should
Turn out so, we 'll say nothing 'gainst the wording,
As several people think such hazards rude.
They 're right; our days are too brief for affording
Space to dispute what no one ever could
Decide, and every body one day will
Know very clearly--or at least lie still.
And therefore will I leave off metaphysical
Discussion, which is neither here nor there:
If I agree that what is, is; then this I call
Being quite perspicuous and extremely fair;
The truth is, I 've grown lately rather phthisical:
I don't know what the reason is--the air
Perhaps; but as I suffer from the shocks
Of illness, I grow much more orthodox.
The first attack at once proved the Divinity
(But that I never doubted, nor the Devil);
The next, the Virgin's mystical virginity;
The third, the usual Origin of Evil;
The fourth at once establish'd the whole Trinity
On so uncontrovertible a level,
That I devoutly wish'd the three were four,
On purpose to believe so much the more.
To our Theme.--The man who has stood on the Acropolis,
And look'd down over Attica; or he
Who has sail'd where picturesque Constantinople is,
Or seen Timbuctoo, or hath taken tea
In small-eyed China's crockery-ware metropolis,
Or sat amidst the bricks of Nineveh,
May not think much of London's first appearance--
But ask him what he thinks of it a year hence?
Don Juan had got out on Shooter's Hill;
Sunset the time, the place the same declivity
Which looks along that vale of good and ill
Where London streets ferment in full activity;
While every thing around was calm and still,
Except the creak of wheels, which on their pivot he
Heard,--and that bee-like, bubbling, busy hum
Of cities, that boil over with their scum:--
I say, Don Juan, wrapt in contemplation,
Walk'd on behind his carriage, o'er the summit,
And lost in wonder of so great a nation,
Gave way to 't, since he could not overcome it.
'And here,' he cried, 'is Freedom's chosen station;
Here peals the people's voice, nor can entomb it
Racks, prisons, inquisitions; resurrection
Awaits it, each new meeting or election.
'Here are chaste wives, pure lives; here people pay
But what they please; and if that things be dear,
'T is only that they love to throw away
Their cash, to show how much they have a-year.
Here laws are all inviolate; none lay
Traps for the traveller; every highway 's clear:
Here-' he was interrupted by a knife,
With,--'Damn your eyes! your money or your life!'
These freeborn sounds proceeded from four pads
In ambush laid, who had perceived him loiter
Behind his carriage; and, like handy lads,
Had seized the lucky hour to reconnoitre,
In which the heedless gentleman who gads
Upon the road, unless he prove a fighter,
May find himself within that isle of riches
Exposed to lose his life as well as breeches.
Juan, who did not understand a word
Of English, save their shibboleth, 'God damn!'
And even that he had so rarely heard,
He sometimes thought 't was only their 'Salam,'
Or 'God be with you!'--and 't is not absurd
To think so: for half English as I am
(To my misfortune), never can I say
I heard them wish 'God with you,' save that way;--
Juan yet quickly understood their gesture,
And being somewhat choleric and sudden,
Drew forth a pocket pistol from his vesture,
And fired it into one assailant's pudding--
Who fell, as rolls an ox o'er in his pasture,
And roar'd out, as he writhed his native mud in,
Unto his nearest follower or henchman,
'Oh Jack! I 'm floor'd by that 'ere bloody Frenchman!'
On which Jack and his train set off at speed,
And Juan's suite, late scatter'd at a distance,
Came up, all marvelling at such a deed,
And offering, as usual, late assistance.
Juan, who saw the moon's late minion bleed
As if his veins would pour out his existence,
Stood calling out for bandages and lint,
And wish'd he had been less hasty with his flint.
'Perhaps,' thought he, 'it is the country's wont
To welcome foreigners in this way: now
I recollect some innkeepers who don't
Differ, except in robbing with a bow,
In lieu of a bare blade and brazen front.
But what is to be done? I can't allow
The fellow to lie groaning on the road:
So take him up; I 'll help you with the load.'
But ere they could perform this pious duty,
The dying man cried, 'Hold! I 've got my gruel!
O for a glass of max! We 've miss'd our booty;
Let me die where I am!' And as the fuel
Of life shrunk in his heart, and thick and sooty
The drops fell from his death-wound, and he drew ill
His breath,--he from his swelling throat untied
A kerchief, crying, 'Give Sal that!'--and died.
The cravat stain'd with bloody drops fell down
Before Don Juan's feet: he could not tell
Exactly why it was before him thrown,
Nor what the meaning of the man's farewell.
Poor Tom was once a kiddy upon town,
A thorough varmint, and a real swell,
Full flash, all fancy, until fairly diddled,
His pockets first and then his body riddled.
Don Juan, having done the best he could
In all the circumstances of the case,
As soon as 'Crowner's quest' allow'd, pursued
His travels to the capital apace;--
Esteeming it a little hard he should
In twelve hours' time, and very little space,
Have been obliged to slay a freeborn native
In self-defence: this made him meditative.
He from the world had cut off a great man,
Who in his time had made heroic bustle.
Who in a row like Tom could lead the van,
Booze in the ken, or at the spellken hustle?
Who queer a flat? Who (spite of Bow Street's ban)
On the high toby-spice so flash the muzzle?
Who on a lark, with black-eyed Sal (his blowing),
So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing?
But Tom's no more--and so no more of Tom.
Heroes must die; and by God's blessing 't is
Not long before the most of them go home.
Hail! Thamis, Hail! Upon thy verge it is
That Juan's chariot, rolling like a drum
In thunder, holds the way it can't well miss,
Through Kennington and all the other 'tons,'
Which makes us wish ourselves in town at once;--
Through Groves, so call'd as being void of trees
(Like lucus from no light); through prospects named
Mount Pleasant, as containing nought to please,
Nor much to climb; through little boxes framed
Of bricks, to let the dust in at your ease,
With 'To be let' upon their doors proclaim'd;
Through 'Rows' most modestly call'd 'Paradise,'
Which Eve might quit without much sacrifice;--
Through coaches, drays, choked turnpikes, and a whirl
Of wheels, and roar of voices, and confusion;
Here taverns wooing to a pint of 'purl,'
There mails fast flying off like a delusion;
There barbers' blocks with periwigs in curl
In windows; here the lamplighter's infusion
Slowly distill'd into the glimmering glass
(For in those days we had not got to gas);--
Through this, and much, and more, is the approach
Of travellers to mighty Babylon:
Whether they come by horse, or chaise, or coach,
With slight exceptions, all the ways seem one.
I could say more, but do not choose to encroach
Upon the Guide-book's privilege. The sun
Had set some time, and night was on the ridge
Of twilight, as the party cross'd the bridge,--
That 's rather fine. The gentle sound of Thamis--
Who vindicates a moment, too, his stream,
Though hardly heard through multifarious 'damme's'-
The lamps of Westminster's more regular gleam,
The breadth of pavement, and yon shrine where fame is
A spectral resident--whose pallid beam
In shape of moonshine hovers o'er the pile--
Make this a sacred part of Albion's isle.
The Druids' groves are gone--so much the better:
Stone-Henge is not--but what the devil is it?-
But Bedlam still exists with its sage fetter,
That madmen may not bite you on a visit;
The Bench too seats or suits full many a debtor;
The Mansion House too (though some people quiz it)
To me appears a stiff yet grand erection;
But then the Abbey 's worth the whole collection.
The line of lights, too, up to Charing Cross,
Pall Mall, and so forth, have a coruscation
Like gold as in comparison to dross,
Match'd with the Continent's illumination,
Whose cities Night by no means deigns to gloss.
The French were not yet a lamp-lighting nation,
And when they grew so--on their new-found lantern,
Instead of wicks, they made a wicked man turn.
A row of gentlemen along the streets
Suspended may illuminate mankind,
As also bonfires made of country seats;
But the old way is best for the purblind:
The other looks like phosphorus on sheets,
A sort of ignis fatuus to the mind,
Which, though 't is certain to perplex and frighten,
Must burn more mildly ere it can enlighten.
But London 's so well lit, that if Diogenes
Could recommence to hunt his honest man,
And found him not amidst the various progenies
Of this enormous city's spreading span,
'T were not for want of lamps to aid his dodging his
Yet undiscover'd treasure. What I can,
I 've done to find the same throughout life's journey,
But see the world is only one attorney.
Over the stones still rattling up Pall Mall,
Through crowds and carriages, but waxing thinner
As thunder'd knockers broke the long seal'd spell
Of doors 'gainst duns, and to an early dinner
Admitted a small party as night fell,--
Don Juan, our young diplomatic sinner,
Pursued his path, and drove past some hotels,
St. James's Palace and St. James's 'Hells.'
They reach'd the hotel: forth stream'd from the front door
A tide of well-clad waiters, and around
The mob stood, and as usual several score
Of those pedestrian Paphians who abound
In decent London when the daylight 's o'er;
Commodious but immoral, they are found
Useful, like Malthus, in promoting marriage.-
But Juan now is stepping from his carriage
Into one of the sweetest of hotels,
Especially for foreigners--and mostly
For those whom favour or whom fortune swells,
And cannot find a bill's small items costly.
There many an envoy either dwelt or dwells
(The den of many a diplomatic lost lie),
Until to some conspicuous square they pass,
And blazon o'er the door their names in brass.
Juan, whose was a delicate commission,
Private, though publicly important, bore
No title to point out with due precision
The exact affair on which he was sent o'er.
'T was merely known, that on a secret mission
A foreigner of rank had graced our shore,
Young, handsome, and accomplish'd, who was said
(In whispers) to have turn'd his sovereign's head.
Some rumour also of some strange adventures
Had gone before him, and his wars and loves;
And as romantic heads are pretty painters,
And, above all, an Englishwoman's roves
Into the excursive, breaking the indentures
Of sober reason wheresoe'er it moves,
He found himself extremely in the fashion,
Which serves our thinking people for a passion.
I don't mean that they are passionless, but quite
The contrary; but then 't is in the head;
Yet as the consequences are as bright
As if they acted with the heart instead,
What after all can signify the site
Of ladies' lucubrations? So they lead
In safety to the place for which you start,
What matters if the road be head or heart?
Juan presented in the proper place,
To proper placemen, every Russ credential;
And was received with all the due grimace
By those who govern in the mood potential,
Who, seeing a handsome stripling with smooth face,
Thought (what in state affairs is most essential)
That they as easily might do the youngster,
As hawks may pounce upon a woodland songster.
They err'd, as aged men will do; but by
And by we 'll talk of that; and if we don't,
'T will be because our notion is not high
Of politicians and their double front,
Who live by lies, yet dare not boldly lie:--
Now what I love in women is, they won't
Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it
So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it.
And, after all, what is a lie? 'T is but
The truth in masquerade; and I defy
Historians, heroes, lawyers, priests, to put
A fact without some leaven of a lie.
The very shadow of true Truth would shut
Up annals, revelations, poesy,
And prophecy--except it should be dated
Some years before the incidents related.
Praised be all liars and all lies! Who now
Can tax my mild Muse with misanthropy?
She rings the world's 'Te Deum,' and her brow
Blushes for those who will not:--but to sigh
Is idle; let us like most others bow,
Kiss hands, feet, any part of majesty,
After the good example of 'Green Erin,'
Whose shamrock now seems rather worse for wearing.
Don Juan was presented, and his dress
And mien excited general admiration--
I don't know which was more admired or less:
One monstrous diamond drew much observation,
Which Catherine in a moment of 'ivresse'
(In love or brandy's fervent fermentation)
Bestow'd upon him, as the public learn'd;
And, to say truth, it had been fairly earn'd.
Besides the ministers and underlings,
Who must be courteous to the accredited
Diplomatists of rather wavering kings,
Until their royal riddle 's fully read,
The very clerks,--those somewhat dirty springs
Of office, or the house of office, fed
By foul corruption into streams,--even they
Were hardly rude enough to earn their pay:
And insolence no doubt is what they are
Employ'd for, since it is their daily labour,
In the dear offices of peace or war;
And should you doubt, pray ask of your next neighbour,
When for a passport, or some other bar
To freedom, he applied (a grief and a bore),
If he found not his spawn of taxborn riches,
But Juan was received with much 'empressement:'-
These phrases of refinement I must borrow
From our next neighbours' land, where, like a chessman,
There is a move set down for joy or sorrow
Not only in mere talking, but the press. Man
In islands is, it seems, downright and thorough,
More than on continents--as if the sea
(See Billingsgate) made even the tongue more free.
And yet the British 'Damme' 's rather Attic:
Your continental oaths are but incontinent,
And turn on things which no aristocratic
Spirit would name, and therefore even I won't anent
This subject quote; as it would be schismatic
In politesse, and have a sound affronting in 't:--
But 'Damme' 's quite ethereal, though too daring--
Platonic blasphemy, the soul of swearing.
For downright rudeness, ye may stay at home;
For true or false politeness (and scarce that
Now) you may cross the blue deep and white foam--
The first the emblem (rarely though) of what
You leave behind, the next of much you come
To meet. However, 't is no time to chat
On general topics: poems must confine
Themselves to unity, like this of mine.
In the great world,--which, being interpreted,
Meaneth the west or worst end of a city,
And about twice two thousand people bred
By no means to be very wise or witty,
But to sit up while others lie in bed,
And look down on the universe with pity,--
Juan, as an inveterate patrician,
Was well received by persons of condition.
He was a bachelor, which is a matter
Of import both to virgin and to bride,
The former's hymeneal hopes to flatter;
And (should she not hold fast by love or pride)
'T is also of some moment to the latter:
A rib 's a thorn in a wed gallant's side,
Requires decorum, and is apt to double
The horrid sin--and what 's still worse, the trouble.
But Juan was a bachelor--of arts,
And parts, and hearts: he danced and sung, and had
An air as sentimental as Mozart's
Softest of melodies; and could be sad
Or cheerful, without any 'flaws or starts,'
Just at the proper time; and though a lad,
Had seen the world--which is a curious sight,
And very much unlike what people write.
Fair virgins blush'd upon him; wedded dames
Bloom'd also in less transitory hues;
For both commodities dwell by the Thames,
The painting and the painted; youth, ceruse,
Against his heart preferr'd their usual claims,
Such as no gentleman can quite refuse:
Daughters admired his dress, and pious mothers
Inquired his income, and if he had brothers.
The milliners who furnish 'drapery Misses'
Throughout the season, upon speculation
Of payment ere the honey-moon's last kisses
Have waned into a crescent's coruscation,
Thought such an opportunity as this is,
Of a rich foreigner's initiation,
Not to be overlook'd--and gave such credit,
That future bridegrooms swore, and sigh'd, and paid it.
The Blues, that tender tribe who sigh o'er sonnets,
And with the pages of the last Review
Line the interior of their heads or bonnets,
Advanced in all their azure's highest hue:
They talk'd bad French or Spanish, and upon its
Late authors ask'd him for a hint or two;
And which was softest, Russian or Castilian?
And whether in his travels he saw Ilion?
Juan, who was a little superficial,
And not in literature a great Drawcansir,
Examined by this learned and especial
Jury of matrons, scarce knew what to answer:
His duties warlike, loving or official,
His steady application as a dancer,
Had kept him from the brink of Hippocrene,
Which now he found was blue instead of green.
However, he replied at hazard, with
A modest confidence and calm assurance,
Which lent his learned lucubrations pith,
And pass'd for arguments of good endurance.
That prodigy, Miss Araminta Smith
(Who at sixteen translated 'Hercules Furens'
Into as furious English), with her best look,
Set down his sayings in her common-place book.
Juan knew several languages--as well
He might--and brought them up with skill, in time
To save his fame with each accomplish'd belle,
Who still regretted that he did not rhyme.
There wanted but this requisite to swell
His qualities (with them) into sublime:
Lady Fitz-Frisky, and Miss Maevia Mannish,
Both long'd extremely to be sung in Spanish.
However, he did pretty well, and was
Admitted as an aspirant to all
The coteries, and, as in Banquo's glass,
At great assemblies or in parties small,
He saw ten thousand living authors pass,
That being about their average numeral;
Also the eighty 'greatest living poets,'
As every paltry magazine can show its.
In twice five years the 'greatest living poet,'
Like to the champion in the fisty ring,
Is call'd on to support his claim, or show it,
Although 't is an imaginary thing.
Even I--albeit I 'm sure I did not know it,
Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king--
Was reckon'd a considerable time,
The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme.
But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero
My Leipsic, and my Mount Saint Jean seems Cain:
'La Belle Alliance' of dunces down at zero,
Now that the Lion 's fall'n, may rise again:
But I will fall at least as fell my hero;
Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reign;
Or to some lonely isle of gaolers go,
With turncoat Southey for my turnkey Lowe.
Sir Walter reign'd before me; Moore and Campbell
Before and after; but now grown more holy,
The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble
With poets almost clergymen, or wholly;
And Pegasus hath a psalmodic amble
Beneath the very Reverend Rowley Powley,
Who shoes the glorious animal with stilts,
A modern Ancient Pistol--by the hilts?
Then there 's my gentle Euphues, who, they say,
Sets up for being a sort of moral me;
He 'll find it rather difficult some day
To turn out both, or either, it may be.
Some persons think that Coleridge hath the sway;
And Wordsworth has supporters, two or three;
And that deep-mouth'd Boeotian 'Savage Landor'
Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander.
John Keats, who was kill'd off by one critique,
Just as he really promised something great,
If not intelligible, without Greek
Contrived to talk about the gods of late,
Much as they might have been supposed to speak.
Poor fellow! His was an untoward fate;
'T is strange the mind, that very fiery particle,
Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article.
The list grows long of live and dead pretenders
To that which none will gain--or none will know
The conqueror at least; who, ere Time renders
His last award, will have the long grass grow
Above his burnt-out brain, and sapless cinders.
If I might augur, I should rate but low
Their chances; they 're too numerous, like the thirty
Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd but dirty.
This is the literary lower empire,
Where the praetorian bands take up the matter;--
A 'dreadful trade,' like his who 'gathers samphire,'
The insolent soldiery to soothe and flatter,
With the same feelings as you 'd coax a vampire.
Now, were I once at home, and in good satire,
I 'd try conclusions with those Janizaries,
And show them what an intellectual war is.
I think I know a trick or two, would turn
Their flanks;--but it is hardly worth my while
With such small gear to give myself concern:
Indeed I 've not the necessary bile;
My natural temper 's really aught but stern,
And even my Muse's worst reproof 's a smile;
And then she drops a brief and modern curtsy,
And glides away, assured she never hurts ye.
My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril
Amongst live poets and blue ladies, past
With some small profit through that field so sterile,
Being tired in time, and, neither least nor last,
Left it before he had been treated very ill;
And henceforth found himself more gaily class'd
Amongst the higher spirits of the day,
The sun's true son, no vapour, but a ray.
His morns he pass'd in business--which, dissected,
Was like all business a laborious nothing
That leads to lassitude, the most infected
And Centaur Nessus garb of mortal clothing,
And on our sofas makes us lie dejected,
And talk in tender horrors of our loathing
All kinds of toil, save for our country's good--
Which grows no better, though 't is time it should.
His afternoons he pass'd in visits, luncheons,
Lounging and boxing; and the twilight hour
In riding round those vegetable puncheons
Call'd 'Parks,' where there is neither fruit nor flower
Enough to gratify a bee's slight munchings;
But after all it is the only 'bower'
(In Moore's phrase), where the fashionable fair
Can form a slight acquaintance with fresh air.
Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the world!
Then glare the lamps, then whirl the wheels, then roar
Through street and square fast flashing chariots hurl'd
Like harness'd meteors; then along the floor
Chalk mimics painting; then festoons are twirl'd;
Then roll the brazen thunders of the door,
Which opens to the thousand happy few
An earthly paradise of 'Or Molu.'
There stands the noble hostess, nor shall sink
With the three-thousandth curtsy; there the waltz,
The only dance which teaches girls to think,
Makes one in love even with its very faults.
Saloon, room, hall, o'erflow beyond their brink,
And long the latest of arrivals halts,
'Midst royal dukes and dames condemn'd to climb,
And gain an inch of staircase at a time.
Thrice happy he who, after a survey
Of the good company, can win a corner,
A door that's in or boudoir out of the way,
Where he may fix himself like small 'Jack Horner,'
And let the Babel round run as it may,
And look on as a mourner, or a scorner,
Or an approver, or a mere spectator,
Yawning a little as the night grows later.
But this won't do, save by and by; and he
Who, like Don Juan, takes an active share,
Must steer with care through all that glittering sea
Of gems and plumes and pearls and silks, to where
He deems it is his proper place to be;
Dissolving in the waltz to some soft air,
Or proudlier prancing with mercurial skill
Where Science marshals forth her own quadrille.
Or, if he dance not, but hath higher views
Upon an heiress or his neighbour's bride,
Let him take care that that which he pursues
Is not at once too palpably descried.
Full many an eager gentleman oft rues
His haste: impatience is a blundering guide,
Amongst a people famous for reflection,
Who like to play the fool with circumspection.
But, if you can contrive, get next at supper;
Or, if forestalled, get opposite and ogle:--
O, ye ambrosial moments! always upper
In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle,
Which sits for ever upon memory's crupper,
The ghost of vanish'd pleasures once in vogue! Ill
Can tender souls relate the rise and fall
Of hopes and fears which shake a single ball.
But these precautionary hints can touch
Only the common run, who must pursue,
And watch, and ward; whose plans a word too much
Or little overturns; and not the few
Or many (for the number's sometimes such)
Whom a good mien, especially if new,
Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense, or nonsense,
Permits whate'er they please, or did not long since.
Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome,
Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger,
Like other slaves of course must pay his ransom,
Before he can escape from so much danger
As will environ a conspicuous man. Some
Talk about poetry, and 'rack and manger,'
And ugliness, disease, as toil and trouble;--
I wish they knew the life of a young noble.
They are young, but know not youth--it is anticipated;
Handsome but wasted, rich without a sou;
Their vigour in a thousand arms is dissipated;
Their cash comes from, their wealth goes to a Jew;
Both senates see their nightly votes participated
Between the tyrant's and the tribunes' crew;
And having voted, dined, drunk, gamed, and whored,
The family vault receives another lord.
'Where is the world?' cries Young, at eighty--'Where
The world in which a man was born? 'Alas!
Where is the world of eight years past? 'T was there--
I look for it--'t is gone, a globe of glass!
Crack'd, shiver'd, vanish'd, scarcely gazed on, ere
A silent change dissolves the glittering mass.
Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings,
And dandies, all are gone on the wind's wings.
Where is Napoleon the Grand? God knows.
Where little Castlereagh? The devil can tell:
Where Grattan, Curran, Sheridan, all those
Who bound the bar or senate in their spell?
Where is the unhappy Queen, with all her woes?
And where the Daughter, whom the Isles loved well?
Where are those martyr'd saints the Five per Cents?
And where--oh, where the devil are the rents?
Where 's Brummel? Dish'd. Where 's Long Pole Wellesley? Diddled.
Where 's Whitbread? Romilly? Where 's George the Third?
Where is his will? (That 's not so soon unriddled.)
And where is 'Fum' the Fourth, our 'royal bird?'
Gone down, it seems, to Scotland to be fiddled
Unto by Sawney's violin, we have heard:
'Caw me, caw thee'--for six months hath been hatching
This scene of royal itch and loyal scratching.
Where is Lord This? And where my Lady That?
The Honourable Mistresses and Misses?
Some laid aside like an old Opera hat,
Married, unmarried, and remarried (this is
An evolution oft performed of late).
Where are the Dublin shouts--and London hisses?
Where are the Grenvilles? Turn'd as usual. Where
My friends the Whigs? Exactly where they were.
Where are the Lady Carolines and Franceses?
Divorced or doing thereanent. Ye annals
So brilliant, where the list of routs and dances is,--
Thou Morning Post, sole record of the panels
Broken in carriages, and all the phantasies
Of fashion,--say what streams now fill those channels?
Some die, some fly, some languish on the Continent,
Because the times have hardly left them one tenant.
Some who once set their caps at cautious dukes,
Have taken up at length with younger brothers:
Some heiresses have bit at sharpers' hooks:
Some maids have been made wives, some merely mothers;
Others have lost their fresh and fairy looks:
In short, the list of alterations bothers.
There 's little strange in this, but something strange is
The unusual quickness of these common changes.
Talk not of seventy years as age; in seven
I have seen more changes, down from monarchs to
The humblest individual under heaven,
Than might suffice a moderate century through.
I knew that nought was lasting, but now even
Change grows too changeable, without being new:
Nought 's permanent among the human race,
Except the Whigs not getting into place.
I have seen Napoleon, who seem'd quite a Jupiter,
Shrink to a Saturn. I have seen a Duke
(No matter which) turn politician stupider,
If that can well be, than his wooden look.
But it is time that I should hoist my 'blue Peter,'
And sail for a new theme:--I have seen--and shook
To see it--the king hiss'd, and then caress'd;
But don't pretend to settle which was best.
I have seen the Landholders without a rap--
I have seen Joanna Southcote--I have seen--
The House of Commons turn'd to a tax-trap--
I have seen that sad affair of the late Queen--
I have seen crowns worn instead of a fool's cap--
I have seen a Congress doing all that 's mean--
I have seen some nations like o'erloaded asses
Kick off their burthens, meaning the high classes.
I have seen small poets, and great prosers, and
Interminable--not eternal--speakers--
I have seen the funds at war with house and land--
I have seen the country gentlemen turn squeakers--
I have seen the people ridden o'er like sand
By slaves on horseback--I have seen malt liquors
Exchanged for 'thin potations' by John Bull--
I have seen john half detect himself a fool.-
But 'carpe diem,' Juan, 'carpe, carpe!'
To-morrow sees another race as gay
And transient, and devour'd by the same harpy.
'Life 's a poor player,'--then 'play out the play,
Ye villains!' above all keep a sharp eye
Much less on what you do than what you say:
Be hypocritical, be cautious, be
Not what you seem, but always what you see.
But how shall I relate in other cantos
Of what befell our hero in the land,
Which 't is the common cry and lie to vaunt as
A moral country? But I hold my hand--
For I disdain to write an Atalantis;
But 't is as well at once to understand,
You are not a moral people, and you know it
Without the aid of too sincere a poet.
What Juan saw and underwent shall be
My topic, with of course the due restriction
Which is required by proper courtesy;
And recollect the work is only fiction,
And that I sing of neither mine nor me,
Though every scribe, in some slight turn of diction,
Will hint allusions never meant. Ne'er doubt
This--when I speak, I don't hint, but speak out.
Whether he married with the third or fourth
Offspring of some sage husband-hunting countess,
Or whether with some virgin of more worth
(I mean in Fortune's matrimonial bounties)
He took to regularly peopling Earth,
Of which your lawful awful wedlock fount is,--
Or whether he was taken in for damages,
For being too excursive in his homages,--
Is yet within the unread events of time.
Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I will back
Against the same given quantity of rhyme,
For being as much the subject of attack
As ever yet was any work sublime,
By those who love to say that white is black.
So much the better!--I may stand alone,
But would not change my free thoughts for a throne.
[Illustration: Canto 12]
CANTO THE TWELTH.
Of all the barbarous middle ages, that
Which is most barbarous is the middle age
Of man; it is--I really scarce know what;
But when we hover between fool and sage,
And don't know justly what we would be at--
A period something like a printed page,
Black letter upon foolscap, while our hair
Grows grizzled, and we are not what we were;--
Too old for youth,--too young, at thirty-five,
To herd with boys, or hoard with good threescore,--
I wonder people should be left alive;
But since they are, that epoch is a bore:
Love lingers still, although 't were late to wive;
And as for other love, the illusion 's o'er;
And money, that most pure imagination,
Gleams only through the dawn of its creation.
O Gold! Why call we misers miserable?
Theirs is the pleasure that can never pall;
Theirs is the best bower anchor, the chain cable
Which holds fast other pleasures great and small.
Ye who but see the saving man at table,
And scorn his temperate board, as none at all,
And wonder how the wealthy can be sparing,
Know not what visions spring from each cheese-paring.
Love or lust makes man sick, and wine much sicker;
Ambition rends, and gaming gains a loss;
But making money, slowly first, then quicker,
And adding still a little through each cross
(Which will come over things), beats love or liquor,
The gamester's counter, or the statesman's dross.
O Gold! I still prefer thee unto paper,
Which makes bank credit like a bank of vapour.
Who hold the balance of the world? Who reign
O'er congress, whether royalist or liberal?
Who rouse the shirtless patriots of Spain?
(That make old Europe's journals squeak and gibber all.)
Who keep the world, both old and new, in pain
Or pleasure? Who make politics run glibber all?
The shade of Buonaparte's noble daring?-
Jew Rothschild, and his fellow-Christian, Baring.
Those, and the truly liberal Lafitte,
Are the true lords of Europe. Every loan
Is not a merely speculative hit,
But seats a nation or upsets a throne.
Republics also get involved a bit;
Columbia's stock hath holders not unknown
On 'Change; and even thy silver soil, Peru,
Must get itself discounted by a Jew.
Why call the miser miserable? as
I said before: the frugal life is his,
Which in a saint or cynic ever was
The theme of praise: a hermit would not miss
Canonization for the self-same cause,
And wherefore blame gaunt wealth's austerities?
Because, you 'll say, nought calls for such a trial;--
Then there 's more merit in his self-denial.
He is your only poet;--passion, pure
And sparkling on from heap to heap, displays,
Possess'd, the ore, of which mere hopes allure
Nations athwart the deep: the golden rays
Flash up in ingots from the mine obscure;
On him the diamond pours its brilliant blaze,
While the mild emerald's beam shades down the dies
Of other stones, to soothe the miser's eyes.
The lands on either side are his; the ship
From Ceylon, Inde, or far Cathay, unloads
For him the fragrant produce of each trip;
Beneath his cars of Ceres groan the roads,
And the vine blushes like Aurora's lip;
His very cellars might be kings' abodes;
While he, despising every sensual call,
Commands--the intellectual lord of all.
Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind,
To build a college, or to found a race,
A hospital, a church,--and leave behind
Some dome surmounted by his meagre face:
Perhaps he fain would liberate mankind
Even with the very ore which makes them base;
Perhaps he would be wealthiest of his nation,
Or revel in the joys of calculation.
But whether all, or each, or none of these
May be the hoarder's principle of action,
The fool will call such mania a disease:--
What is his own? Go--look at each transaction,
Wars, revels, loves--do these bring men more ease
Than the mere plodding through each 'vulgar fraction'?
Or do they benefit mankind? Lean miser!
Let spendthrifts' heirs enquire of yours--who 's wiser?
How beauteous are rouleaus! how charming chests
Containing ingots, bags of dollars, coins
(Not of old victors, all whose heads and crests
Weigh not the thin ore where their visage shines,
But) of fine unclipt gold, where dully rests
Some likeness, which the glittering cirque confines,
Of modern, reigning, sterling, stupid stamp:--
Yes! ready money is Aladdin's lamp.
'Love rules the camp, the court, the grove,'--'for love
Is heaven, and heaven is love:'--so sings the bard;
Which it were rather difficult to prove
(A thing with poetry in general hard).
Perhaps there may be something in 'the grove,'
At least it rhymes to 'love;' but I 'm prepared
To doubt (no less than landlords of their rental)
If 'courts' and 'camps' be quite so sentimental.
But if Love don't, Cash does, and Cash alone:
Cash rules the grove, and fells it too besides;
Without cash, camps were thin, and courts were none;
Without cash, Malthus tells you--'take no brides.'
So Cash rules Love the ruler, on his own
High ground, as virgin Cynthia sways the tides:
And as for Heaven 'Heaven being Love,' why not say honey
Is wax? Heaven is not Love, 't is Matrimony.
Is not all love prohibited whatever,
Excepting marriage? which is love, no doubt,
After a sort; but somehow people never
With the same thought the two words have help'd out:
Love may exist with marriage, and should ever,
And marriage also may exist without;
But love sans bans is both a sin and shame,
And ought to go by quite another name.
Now if the 'court,' and 'camp,' and 'grove,' be not
Recruited all with constant married men,
Who never coveted their neighbour's lot,
I say that line 's a lapsus of the pen;--
Strange too in my 'buon camerado' Scott,
So celebrated for his morals, when
My Jeffrey held him up as an example
To me;--of whom these morals are a sample.
Well, if I don't succeed, I have succeeded,
And that 's enough; succeeded in my youth,
The only time when much success is needed:
And my success produced what I, in sooth,
Cared most about; it need not now be pleaded--
Whate'er it was, 't was mine; I 've paid, in truth,
Of late the penalty of such success,
But have not learn'd to wish it any less.
That suit in Chancery,--which some persons plead
In an appeal to the unborn, whom they,
In the faith of their procreative creed,
Baptize posterity, or future clay,--
To me seems but a dubious kind of reed
To lean on for support in any way;
Since odds are that posterity will know
No more of them, than they of her, I trow.
Why, I 'm posterity--and so are you;
And whom do we remember? Not a hundred.
Were every memory written down all true,
The tenth or twentieth name would be but blunder'd;
Even Plutarch's Lives have but pick'd out a few,
And 'gainst those few your annalists have thunder'd;
And Mitford in the nineteenth century
Gives, with Greek truth, the good old Greek the lie.
Good people all, of every degree,
Ye gentle readers and ungentle writers,
In this twelfth Canto 't is my wish to be
As serious as if I had for inditers
Malthus and Wilberforce:--the last set free
The Negroes and is worth a million fighters;
While Wellington has but enslaved the Whites,
And Malthus does the thing 'gainst which he writes.
I 'm serious--so are all men upon paper;
And why should I not form my speculation,
And hold up to the sun my little taper?
Mankind just now seem wrapt in mediation
On constitutions and steam-boats of vapour;
While sages write against all procreation,
Unless a man can calculate his means
Of feeding brats the moment his wife weans.
That 's noble! That 's romantic! For my part,
I think that 'Philo-genitiveness' is
(Now here 's a word quite after my own heart,
Though there 's a shorter a good deal than this,
If that politeness set it not apart;
But I 'm resolved to say nought that 's amiss)--
I say, methinks that 'Philo-genitiveness'
Might meet from men a little more forgiveness.
And now to business.--O my gentle Juan,
Thou art in London--in that pleasant place,
Where every kind of mischief 's daily brewing,
Which can await warm youth in its wild race.
'T is true, that thy career is not a new one;
Thou art no novice in the headlong chase
Of early life; but this is a new land,
Which foreigners can never understand.
What with a small diversity of climate,
Of hot or cold, mercurial or sedate,
I could send forth my mandate like a primate
Upon the rest of Europe's social state;
But thou art the most difficult to rhyme at,
Great Britain, which the Muse may penetrate.
All countries have their 'Lions,' but in the
There is but one superb menagerie.
But I am sick of politics. Begin,
'Paulo Majora.' Juan, undecided
Amongst the paths of being 'taken in,'
Above the ice had like a skater glided:
When tired of play, he flirted without sin
With some of those fair creatures who have prided
Themselves on innocent tantalisation,
And hate all vice except its reputation.
But these are few, and in the end they make
Some devilish escapade or stir, which shows
That even the purest people may mistake
Their way through virtue's primrose paths of snows;
And then men stare, as if a new ass spake
To Balaam, and from tongue to ear o'erflows
Quicksilver small talk, ending (if you note it)
With the kind world's amen--'Who would have thought it?'
The little Leila, with her orient eyes,
And taciturn Asiatic disposition
(Which saw all western things with small surprise,
To the surprise of people of condition,
Who think that novelties are butterflies
To be pursued as food for inanition),
Her charming figure and romantic history
Became a kind of fashionable mystery.
The women much divided--as is usual
Amongst the sex in little things or great.
Think not, fair creatures, that I mean to abuse you all--
I have always liked you better than I state:
Since I 've grown moral, still I must accuse you all
Of being apt to talk at a great rate;
And now there was a general sensation
Amongst you, about Leila's education.
In one point only were you settled--and
You had reason; 't was that a young child of grace,
As beautiful as her own native land,
And far away, the last bud of her race,
Howe'er our friend Don Juan might command
Himself for five, four, three, or two years' space,
Would be much better taught beneath the eye
Of peeresses whose follies had run dry.
So first there was a generous emulation,
And then there was a general competition,
To undertake the orphan's education.
As Juan was a person of condition,
It had been an affront on this occasion
To talk of a subscription or petition;
But sixteen dowagers, ten unwed she sages,
Whose tale belongs to 'Hallam's Middle Ages,'
And one or two sad, separate wives, without
A fruit to bloom upon their withering bough--
Begg'd to bring up the little girl and 'out,'-
For that 's the phrase that settles all things now,
Meaning a virgin's first blush at a rout,
And all her points as thorough-bred to show:
And I assure you, that like virgin honey
Tastes their first season (mostly if they have money).
How all the needy honourable misters,
Each out-at-elbow peer, or desperate dandy,
The watchful mothers, and the careful sisters
(Who, by the by, when clever, are more handy
At making matches, where ''t is gold that glisters,'
Than their he relatives), like flies o'er candy
Buzz round 'the Fortune' with their busy battery,
To turn her head with waltzing and with flattery!
Each aunt, each cousin, hath her speculation;
Nay, married dames will now and then discover
Such pure disinterestedness of passion,
I 've known them court an heiress for their lover.
'Tantaene!' Such the virtues of high station,
Even in the hopeful Isle, whose outlet 's 'Dover!'
While the poor rich wretch, object of these cares,
Has cause to wish her sire had had male heirs.
Some are soon bagg'd, and some reject three dozen.
'T is fine to see them scattering refusals
And wild dismay o'er every angry cousin
(Friends of the party), who begin accusals,
Such as--'Unless Miss (Blank) meant to have chosen
Poor Frederick, why did she accord perusals
To his billets? Why waltz with him? Why, I pray,
Look yes last night, and yet say no to-day?
'Why?--Why?--Besides, Fred really was attach'd;
'T was not her fortune--he has enough without:
The time will come she 'll wish that she had snatch'd
So good an opportunity, no doubt:--
But the old marchioness some plan had hatch'd,
As I 'll tell Aurea at to-morrow's rout:
And after all poor Frederick may do better--
Pray did you see her answer to his letter?'
Smart uniforms and sparkling coronets
Are spurn'd in turn, until her turn arrives,
After male loss of time, and hearts, and bets
Upon the sweepstakes for substantial wives;
And when at last the pretty creature gets
Some gentleman, who fights, or writes, or drives,
It soothes the awkward squad of the rejected
To find how very badly she _select_ed.
For sometimes they accept some long pursuer,
Worn out with importunity; or fall
(But here perhaps the instances are fewer)
To the lot of him who scarce pursued at all.
A hazy widower turn'd of forty 's sure
(If 't is not vain examples to recall)
To draw a high prize: now, howe'er he got her, I
See nought more strange in this than t' other lottery.
I, for my part (one 'modern instance' more,
'True, 't is a pity--pity 't is, 't is true'),
Was chosen from out an amatory score,
Albeit my years were less discreet than few;
But though I also had reform'd before
Those became one who soon were to be two,
I 'll not gainsay the generous public's voice,
That the young lady made a monstrous choice.
O, pardon my digression--or at least
Peruse! 'T is always with a moral end
That I dissert, like grace before a feast:
For like an aged aunt, or tiresome friend,
A rigid guardian, or a zealous priest,
My Muse by exhortation means to mend
All people, at all times, and in most places,
Which puts my Pegasus to these grave paces.
But now I 'm going to be immoral; now
I mean to show things really as they are,
Not as they ought to be: for I avow,
That till we see what 's what in fact, we 're far
From much improvement with that virtuous plough
Which skims the surface, leaving scarce a scar
Upon the black loam long manured by Vice,
Only to keep its corn at the old price.
But first of little Leila we 'll dispose;
For like a day-dawn she was young and pure,
Or like the old comparison of snows,
Which are more pure than pleasant to be sure.
Like many people everybody knows,
Don Juan was delighted to secure
A goodly guardian for his infant charge,
Who might not profit much by being at large.
Besides, he had found out he was no tutor
(I wish that others would find out the same);
And rather wish'd in such things to stand neuter,
For silly wards will bring their guardians blame:
So when he saw each ancient dame a suitor
To make his little wild Asiatic tame,
Consulting 'the Society for Vice
Suppression,' Lady Pinchbeck was his choice.
Olden she was--but had been very young;
Virtuous she was--and had been, I believe;
Although the world has such an evil tongue
That--but my chaster ear will not receive
An echo of a syllable that 's wrong:
In fact, there 's nothing makes me so much grieve,
As that abominable tittle-tattle,
Which is the cud eschew'd by human cattle.
Moreover I 've remark'd (and I was once
A slight observer in a modest way),
And so may every one except a dunce,
That ladies in their youth a little gay,
Besides their knowledge of the world, and sense
Of the sad consequence of going astray,
Are wiser in their warnings 'gainst the woe
Which the mere passionless can never know.
While the harsh prude indemnifies her virtue
By railing at the unknown and envied passion,
Seeking far less to save you than to hurt you,
Or, what 's still worse, to put you out of fashion,--
The kinder veteran with calm words will court you,
Entreating you to pause before you dash on;
Expounding and illustrating the riddle
Of epic Love's beginning, end, and middle.
Now whether it be thus, or that they are stricter,
As better knowing why they should be so,
I think you 'll find from many a family picture,
That daughters of such mothers as may know
The world by experience rather than by lecture,
Turn out much better for the Smithfield Show
Of vestals brought into the marriage mart,
Than those bred up by prudes without a heart.
I said that Lady Pinchbeck had been talk'd about--
As who has not, if female, young, and pretty?
But now no more the ghost of Scandal stalk'd about;
She merely was deem'd amiable and witty,
And several of her best bon-mots were hawk'd about:
Then she was given to charity and pity,
And pass'd (at least the latter years of life)
For being a most exemplary wife.
High in high circles, gentle in her own,
She was the mild reprover of the young,
Whenever--which means every day--they 'd shown
An awkward inclination to go wrong.
The quantity of good she did 's unknown,
Or at the least would lengthen out my song:
In brief, the little orphan of the East
Had raised an interest in her, which increased.
Juan, too, was a sort of favourite with her,
Because she thought him a good heart at bottom,
A little spoil'd, but not so altogether;
Which was a wonder, if you think who got him,
And how he had been toss'd, he scarce knew whither:
Though this might ruin others, it did not him,
At least entirely--for he had seen too many
Changes in youth, to be surprised at any.
And these vicissitudes tell best in youth;
For when they happen at a riper age,
People are apt to blame the Fates, forsooth,
And wonder Providence is not more sage.
Adversity is the first path to truth:
He who hath proved war, storm, or woman's rage,
Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty,
Hath won the experience which is deem'd so weighty.
How far it profits is another matter.-
Our hero gladly saw his little charge
Safe with a lady, whose last grown-up daughter
Being long married, and thus set at large,
Had left all the accomplishments she taught her
To be transmitted, like the Lord Mayor's barge,
To the next comer; or--as it will tell
More Muse-like--like to Cytherea's shell.
I call such things transmission; for there is
A floating balance of accomplishment
Which forms a pedigree from Miss to Miss,
According as their minds or backs are bent.
Some waltz; some draw; some fathom the abyss
Of metaphysics; others are content
With music; the most moderate shine as wits;
While others have a genius turn'd for fits.
But whether fits, or wits, or harpsichords,
Theology, fine arts, or finer stays,
May be the baits for gentlemen or lords
With regular descent, in these our days,
The last year to the new transfers its hoards;
New vestals claim men's eyes with the same praise
Of 'elegant' et caetera, in fresh batches--
All matchless creatures, and yet bent on matches.
But now I will begin my poem. 'T is
Perhaps a little strange, if not quite new,
That from the first of Cantos up to this
I 've not begun what we have to go through.
These first twelve books are merely flourishes,
Preludios, trying just a string or two
Upon my lyre, or making the pegs sure;
And when so, you shall have the overture.
My Muses do not care a pinch of rosin
About what 's call'd success, or not succeeding:
Such thoughts are quite below the strain they have chosen;
'T is a 'great moral lesson' they are reading.
I thought, at setting off, about two dozen
Cantos would do; but at Apollo's pleading,
If that my Pegasus should not be founder'd,
I think to canter gently through a hundred.
Don Juan saw that microcosm on stilts,
Yclept the Great World; for it is the least,
Although the highest: but as swords have hilts
By which their power of mischief is increased,
When man in battle or in quarrel tilts,
Thus the low world, north, south, or west, or east,
Must still obey the high--which is their handle,
Their moon, their sun, their gas, their farthing candle.
He had many friends who had many wives, and was
Well look'd upon by both, to that extent
Of friendship which you may accept or pass,
It does nor good nor harm being merely meant
To keep the wheels going of the higher class,
And draw them nightly when a ticket 's sent:
And what with masquerades, and fetes, and balls,
For the first season such a life scarce palls.
A young unmarried man, with a good name
And fortune, has an awkward part to play;
For good society is but a game,
'The royal game of Goose,' as I may say,
Where every body has some separate aim,
An end to answer, or a plan to lay--
The single ladies wishing to be double,
The married ones to save the virgins trouble.
I don't mean this as general, but particular
Examples may be found of such pursuits:
Though several also keep their perpendicular
Like poplars, with good principles for roots;
Yet many have a method more reticular--
'Fishers for men,' like sirens with soft lutes:
For talk six times with the same single lady,
And you may get the wedding dresses ready.
Perhaps you 'll have a letter from the mother,
To say her daughter's feelings are trepann'd;
Perhaps you 'll have a visit from the brother,
All strut, and stays, and whiskers, to demand
What 'your intentions are?'--One way or other
It seems the virgin's heart expects your hand:
And between pity for her case and yours,
You 'll add to Matrimony's list of cures.
I 've known a dozen weddings made even thus,
And some of them high names: I have also known
Young men who--though they hated to discuss
Pretensions which they never dream'd to have shown--
Yet neither frighten'd by a female fuss,
Nor by mustachios moved, were let alone,
And lived, as did the broken-hearted fair,
In happier plight than if they form'd a pair.
There 's also nightly, to the uninitiated,
A peril--not indeed like love or marriage,
But not the less for this to be depreciated:
It is--I meant and mean not to disparage
The show of virtue even in the vitiated--
It adds an outward grace unto their carriage--
But to denounce the amphibious sort of harlot,
'Couleur de rose,' who 's neither white nor scarlet.
Such is your cold coquette, who can't say 'No,'
And won't say 'Yes,' and keeps you on and off-ing
On a lee-shore, till it begins to blow--
Then sees your heart wreck'd, with an inward scoffing.
This works a world of sentimental woe,
And sends new Werters yearly to their coffin;
But yet is merely innocent flirtation,
Not quite adultery, but adulteration.
'Ye gods, I grow a talker!' Let us prate.
The next of perils, though I place it sternest,
Is when, without regard to 'church or state,'
A wife makes or takes love in upright earnest.
Abroad, such things decide few women's fate--
(Such, early traveller! is the truth thou learnest)--
But in old England, when a young bride errs,
Poor thing! Eve's was a trifling case to hers.
For 't is a low, newspaper, humdrum, lawsuit
Country, where a young couple of the same ages
Can't form a friendship, but the world o'erawes it.
A verdict--grievous foe to those who cause it!-
Forms a sad climax to romantic homages;
Besides those soothing speeches of the pleaders,
And evidences which regale all readers.
But they who blunder thus are raw beginners;
A little genial sprinkling of hypocrisy
Has saved the fame of thousand splendid sinners,
The loveliest oligarchs of our gynocracy;
You may see such at all the balls and dinners,
Among the proudest of our aristocracy,
So gentle, charming, charitable, chaste--
And all by having tact as well as taste.
Juan, who did not stand in the predicament
Of a mere novice, had one safeguard more;
For he was sick--no, 't was not the word sick I meant--
But he had seen so much love before,
That he was not in heart so very weak;--I meant
But thus much, and no sneer against the shore
Of white cliffs, white necks, blue eyes, bluer stockings,
Tithes, taxes, duns, and doors with double knockings.
But coming young from lands and scenes romantic,
Where lives, not lawsuits, must be risk'd for Passion,
And Passion's self must have a spice of frantic,
Into a country where 't is half a fashion,
Seem'd to him half commercial, half pedantic,
Howe'er he might esteem this moral nation:
Besides (alas! his taste--forgive and pity!)
At first he did not think the women pretty.
I say at first--for he found out at last,
But by degrees, that they were fairer far
Than the more glowing dames whose lot is cast
Beneath the influence of the eastern star.
A further proof we should not judge in haste;
Yet inexperience could not be his bar
To taste:--the truth is, if men would confess,
That novelties please less than they impress.
Though travell'd, I have never had the luck to
Trace up those shuffling negroes, Nile or Niger,
To that impracticable place, Timbuctoo,
Where Geography finds no one to oblige her
With such a chart as may be safely stuck to--
For Europe ploughs in Afric like 'bos piger:'
But if I had been at Timbuctoo, there
No doubt I should be told that black is fair.
It is. I will not swear that black is white;
But I suspect in fact that white is black,
And the whole matter rests upon eyesight.
Ask a blind man, the best judge. You 'll attack
Perhaps this new position--but I 'm right;
Or if I 'm wrong, I 'll not be ta'en aback:--
He hath no morn nor night, but all is dark
Within; and what seest thou? A dubious spark.
But I 'm relapsing into metaphysics,
That labyrinth, whose clue is of the same
Construction as your cures for hectic phthisics,
Those bright moths fluttering round a dying flame;
And this reflection brings me to plain physics,
And to the beauties of a foreign dame,
Compared with those of our pure pearls of price,
Those polar summers, all sun, and some ice.
Or say they are like virtuous mermaids, whose
Beginnings are fair faces, ends mere fishes;--
Not that there 's not a quantity of those
Who have a due respect for their own wishes.
Like Russians rushing from hot baths to snows
Are they, at bottom virtuous even when vicious:
They warm into a scrape, but keep of course,
As a reserve, a plunge into remorse.
But this has nought to do with their outsides.
I said that Juan did not think them pretty
At the first blush; for a fair Briton hides
Half her attractions--probably from pity--
And rather calmly into the heart glides,
Than storms it as a foe would take a city;
But once there (if you doubt this, prithee try)
She keeps it for you like a true ally.
She cannot step as does an Arab barb,
Or Andalusian girl from mass returning,
Nor wear as gracefully as Gauls her garb,
Nor in her eye Ausonia's glance is burning;
Her voice, though sweet, is not so fit to warb--
le those bravuras (which I still am learning
To like, though I have been seven years in Italy,
And have, or had, an ear that served me prettily);--
She cannot do these things, nor one or two
Others, in that off-hand and dashing style
Which takes so much--to give the devil his due;
Nor is she quite so ready with her smile,
Nor settles all things in one interview
(A thing approved as saving time and toil);--
But though the soil may give you time and trouble,
Well cultivated, it will render double.
And if in fact she takes to a 'grande passion,'
It is a very serious thing indeed:
Nine times in ten 't is but caprice or fashion,
Coquetry, or a wish to take the lead,
The pride of a mere child with a new sash on,
Or wish to make a rival's bosom bleed:
But the tenth instance will be a tornado,
For there 's no saying what they will or may do.
The reason 's obvious; if there 's an eclat,
They lose their caste at once, as do the Parias;
And when the delicacies of the law
Have fill'd their papers with their comments various,
Society, that china without flaw
(The hypocrite!), will banish them like Marius,
To sit amidst the ruins of their guilt:
For Fame 's a Carthage not so soon rebuilt.
Perhaps this is as it should be;--it is
A comment on the Gospel's 'Sin no more,
And be thy sins forgiven:'--but upon this
I leave the saints to settle their own score.
Abroad, though doubtless they do much amiss,
An erring woman finds an opener door
For her return to Virtue--as they cal
That lady, who should be at home to all.
For me, I leave the matter where I find it,
Knowing that such uneasy virtue leads
People some ten times less in fact to mind it,
And care but for discoveries and not deeds.
And as for chastity, you 'll never bind it
By all the laws the strictest lawyer pleads,
But aggravate the crime you have not prevented,
By rendering desperate those who had else repented.
But Juan was no casuist, nor had ponder'd
Upon the moral lessons of mankind:
Besides, he had not seen of several hundred
A lady altogether to his mind.
A little 'blase'--'t is not to be wonder'd
At, that his heart had got a tougher rind:
And though not vainer from his past success,
No doubt his sensibilities were less.
He also had been busy seeing sights--
The Parliament and all the other houses;
Had sat beneath the gallery at nights,
To hear debates whose thunder roused (not rouses)
The world to gaze upon those northern lights
Which flash'd as far as where the musk-bull browses;
He had also stood at times behind the throne--
But Grey was not arrived, and Chatham gone.
He saw, however, at the closing session,
That noble sight, when really free the nation,
A king in constitutional possession
Of such a throne as is the proudest station,
Though despots know it not--till the progression
Of freedom shall complete their education.
'T is not mere splendour makes the show august
To eye or heart--it is the people's trust.
There, too, he saw (whate'er he may be now)
A Prince, the prince of princes at the time,
With fascination in his very bow,
And full of promise, as the spring of prime.
Though royalty was written on his brow,
He had then the grace, too, rare in every clime,
Of being, without alloy of fop or beau,
A finish'd gentleman from top to toe.
And Juan was received, as hath been said,
Into the best society: and there
Occurr'd what often happens, I 'm afraid,
However disciplined and debonnaire:--
The talent and good humour he display'd,
Besides the mark'd distinction of his air,
Exposed him, as was natural, to temptation,
Even though himself avoided the occasion.
But what, and where, with whom, and when, and why,
Is not to be put hastily together;
And as my object is morality
(Whatever people say), I don't know whether
I 'll leave a single reader's eyelid dry,
But harrow up his feelings till they wither,
And hew out a huge monument of pathos,
As Philip's son proposed to do with Athos.
Here the twelfth Canto of our introduction
Ends. When the body of the book 's begun,
You 'll find it of a different construction
From what some people say 't will be when done:
The plan at present 's simply in concoction,
I can't oblige you, reader, to read on;
That 's your affair, not mine: a real spirit
Should neither court neglect, nor dread to bear it.
And if my thunderbolt not always rattles,
Remember, reader! you have had before
The worst of tempests and the best of battles
That e'er were brew'd from elements or gore,
Besides the most sublime of--Heaven knows what else:
An usurer could scarce expect much more--
But my best canto, save one on astronomy,
Will turn upon 'political economy.'
That is your present theme for popularity:
Now that the public hedge hath scarce a stake,
It grows an act of patriotic charity,
To show the people the best way to break.
My plan (but I, if but for singularity,
Reserve it) will be very sure to take.
Meantime, read all the national debt-sinkers,
And tell me what you think of your great thinkers.
[Illustration: Canto 13]
CANTO THE THIRTEENTH.
I now mean to be serious;--it is time,
Since laughter now-a-days is deem'd too serious.
A jest at Vice by Virtue 's call'd a crime,
And critically held as _delete_rious:
Besides, the sad 's a source of the sublime,
Although when long a little apt to weary us;
And therefore shall my lay soar high and solemn,
As an old temple dwindled to a column.
The Lady Adeline Amundeville
('Tis an old Norman name, and to be found
In pedigrees, by those who wander still
Along the last fields of that Gothic ground)
Was high-born, wealthy by her father's will,
And beauteous, even where beauties most abound,
In Britain--which of course true patriots find
The goodliest soil of body and of mind.
I 'll not gainsay them; it is not my cue;
I 'll leave them to their taste, no doubt the best:
An eye 's an eye, and whether black or blue,
Is no great matter, so 't is in request,
'T is nonsense to dispute about a hue--
The kindest may be taken as a test.
The fair sex should be always fair; and no man,
Till thirty, should perceive there 's a plain woman.
And after that serene and somewhat dull
Epoch, that awkward corner turn'd for days
More quiet, when our moon 's no more at full,
We may presume to criticise or praise;
Because indifference begins to lull
Our passions, and we walk in wisdom's ways;
Also because the figure and the face
Hint, that 't is time to give the younger place.
I know that some would fain postpone this era,
Reluctant as all placemen to resign
Their post; but theirs is merely a chimera,
For they have pass'd life's equinoctial line:
But then they have their claret and Madeira
To irrigate the dryness of decline;
And county meetings, and the parliament,
And debt, and what not, for their solace sent.
And is there not religion, and reform,
Peace, war, the taxes, and what 's call'd the 'Nation'?
The struggle to be pilots in a storm?
The landed and the monied speculation?
The joys of mutual hate to keep them warm,
Instead of love, that mere hallucination?
Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure;
Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.
Rough Johnson, the great moralist, profess'd,
Right honestly, 'he liked an honest hater!'-
The only truth that yet has been confest
Within these latest thousand years or later.
Perhaps the fine old fellow spoke in jest:--
For my part, I am but a mere spectator,
And gaze where'er the palace or the hovel is,
Much in the mode of Goethe's Mephistopheles;
But neither love nor hate in much excess;
Though 't was not once so. If I sneer sometimes,
It is because I cannot well do less,
And now and then it also suits my rhymes.
I should be very willing to redress
Men's wrongs, and rather check than punish crimes,
Had not Cervantes, in that too true tale
Of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fail.
Of all tales 't is the saddest--and more sad,
Because it makes us smile: his hero 's right,
And still pursues the right;--to curb the bad
His only object, and 'gainst odds to fight
His guerdon: 't is his virtue makes him mad!
But his adventures form a sorry sight;
A sorrier still is the great moral taught
By that real epic unto all who have thought.
Redressing injury, revenging wrong,
To aid the damsel and destroy the caitiff;
Opposing singly the united strong,
From foreign yoke to free the helpless native:--
Alas! must noblest views, like an old song,
Be for mere fancy's sport a theme creative,
A jest, a riddle, Fame through thin and thick sought!
And Socrates himself but Wisdom's Quixote?
Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away;
A single laugh demolish'd the right arm
Of his own country;--seldom since that day
Has Spain had heroes. While Romance could charm,
The world gave ground before her bright array;
And therefore have his volumes done such harm,
That all their glory, as a composition,
Was dearly purchased by his land's perdition.
I 'm 'at my old lunes'--digression, and forget
The Lady Adeline Amundeville;
The fair most fatal Juan ever met,
Although she was not evil nor meant ill;
But Destiny and Passion spread the net
(Fate is a good excuse for our own will),
And caught them;--what do they not catch, methinks?
But I 'm not OEdipus, and life 's a Sphinx.
I tell the tale as it is told, nor dare
To venture a solution: 'Davus sum!'
And now I will proceed upon the pair.
Sweet Adeline, amidst the gay world's hum,
Was the Queen-Bee, the glass of all that 's fair;
Whose charms made all men speak, and women dumb.
The last 's a miracle, and such was reckon'd,
And since that time there has not been a second.
Chaste was she, to detraction's desperation,
And wedded unto one she had loved well--
A man known in the councils of the nation,
Cool, and quite English, imperturbable,
Though apt to act with fire upon occasion,
Proud of himself and her: the world could tell
Nought against either, and both seem'd secure--
She in her virtue, he in his hauteur.
It chanced some diplomatical relations,
Arising out of business, often brought
Himself and Juan in their mutual stations
Into close contact. Though reserved, nor caught
By specious seeming, Juan's youth, and patience,
And talent, on his haughty spirit wrought,
And form'd a basis of esteem, which ends
In making men what courtesy calls friends.
And thus Lord Henry, who was cautious as
Reserve and pride could make him, and full slow
In judging men--when once his judgment was
Determined, right or wrong, on friend or foe,
Had all the pertinacity pride has,
Which knows no ebb to its imperious flow,
And loves or hates, disdaining to be guided,
Because its own good pleasure hath decided.
His friendships, therefore, and no less aversions,
Though oft well founded, which confirm'd but more
His prepossessions, like the laws of Persians
And Medes, would ne'er revoke what went before.
His feelings had not those strange fits, like tertians,
Of common likings, which make some deplore
What they should laugh at--the mere ague still
Of men's regard, the fever or the chill.
''T is not in mortals to command success:
But do you more, Sempronius--don't deserve it,'
And take my word, you won't have any less.
Be wary, watch the time, and always serve it;
Give gently way, when there 's too great a press;
And for your conscience, only learn to nerve it,
For, like a racer, or a boxer training,
'T will make, if proved, vast efforts without paining.
Lord Henry also liked to be superior,
As most men do, the little or the great;
The very lowest find out an inferior,
At least they think so, to exert their state
Upon: for there are very few things wearier
Than solitary Pride's oppressive weight,
Which mortals generously would divide,
By bidding others carry while they ride.
In birth, in rank, in fortune likewise equal,
O'er Juan he could no distinction claim;
In years he had the advantage of time's sequel;
And, as he thought, in country much the same--
Because bold Britons have a tongue and free quill,
At which all modern nations vainly aim;
And the Lord Henry was a great debater,
So that few members kept the house up later.
These were advantages: and then he thought--
It was his foible, but by no means sinister--
That few or none more than himself had caught
Court mysteries, having been himself a minister:
He liked to teach that which he had been taught,
And greatly shone whenever there had been a stir;
And reconciled all qualities which grace man,
Always a patriot, and sometimes a placeman.
He liked the gentle Spaniard for his gravity;
He almost honour'd him for his docility;
Because, though young, he acquiesced with suavity,
Or contradicted but with proud humility.
He knew the world, and would not see depravity
In faults which sometimes show the soil's fertility,
If that the weeds o'erlive not the first crop--
For then they are very difficult to stop.
And then he talk'd with him about Madrid,
Constantinople, and such distant places;
Where people always did as they were bid,
Or did what they should not with foreign graces.
Of coursers also spake they: Henry rid
Well, like most Englishmen, and loved the races;
And Juan, like a true-born Andalusian,
Could back a horse, as despots ride a Russian.
And thus acquaintance grew, at noble routs,
And diplomatic dinners, or at other--
For Juan stood well both with Ins and Outs,
As in freemasonry a higher brother.
Upon his talent Henry had no doubts;
His manner show'd him sprung from a high mother;
And all men like to show their hospitality
To him whose breeding matches with his quality.
At Blank-Blank Square;--for we will break no squares
By naming streets: since men are so censorious,
And apt to sow an author's wheat with tares,
Reaping allusions private and inglorious,
Where none were dreamt of, unto love's affairs,
Which were, or are, or are to be notorious,
That therefore do I previously declare,
Lord Henry's mansion was in Blank-Blank Square.
Also there bin another pious reason
For making squares and streets anonymous;
Which is, that there is scarce a single season
Which doth not shake some very splendid house
With some slight heart-quake of domestic treason--
A topic scandal doth delight to rouse:
Such I might stumble over unawares,
Unless I knew the very chastest squares.
'T is true, I might have chosen Piccadilly,
A place where peccadillos are unknown;
But I have motives, whether wise or silly,
For letting that pure sanctuary alone.
Therefore I name not square, street, place, until I
Find one where nothing naughty can be shown,
A vestal shrine of innocence of heart:
At Henry's mansion then, in Blank-Blank Square,
Was Juan a recherche, welcome guest,
As many other noble scions were;
And some who had but talent for their crest;
Or wealth, which is a passport every where;
Or even mere fashion, which indeed 's the best
Recommendation; and to be well drest
Will very often supersede the rest.
And since 'there 's safety in a multitude
Of counsellors,' as Solomon has said,
Or some one for him, in some sage, grave mood;--
Indeed we see the daily proof display'd
In senates, at the bar, in wordy feud,
Where'er collective wisdom can parade,
Which is the only cause that we can guess
Of Britain's present wealth and happiness;--
But as 'there 's safety' grafted in the number
'Of counsellors' for men, thus for the sex
A large acquaintance lets not Virtue slumber;
Or should it shake, the choice will more perplex--
Variety itself will more encumber.
'Midst many rocks we guard more against wrecks;
And thus with women: howsoe'er it shocks some's
Self-love, there 's safety in a crowd of coxcombs.
But Adeline had not the least occasion
For such a shield, which leaves but little merit
To virtue proper, or good education.
Her chief resource was in her own high spirit,
Which judged mankind at their due estimation;
And for coquetry, she disdain'd to wear it:
Secure of admiration, its impression
Was faint, as of an every-day possession.
To all she was polite without parade;
To some she show'd attention of that kind
Which flatters, but is flattery convey'd
In such a sort as cannot leave behind
A trace unworthy either wife or maid;--
A gentle, genial courtesy of mind,
To those who were, or pass'd for meritorious,
Just to console sad glory for being glorious;
Which is in all respects, save now and then,
A dull and desolate appendage. Gaze
Upon the shades of those distinguish'd men
Who were or are the puppet-shows of praise,
The praise of persecution; gaze again
On the most favour'd; and amidst the blaze
Of sunset halos o'er the laurel-brow'd,
What can ye recognise?--a gilded cloud.
There also was of course in Adeline
That calm patrician polish in the address,
Which ne'er can pass the equinoctial line
Of any thing which nature would express;
Just as a mandarin finds nothing fine,--
At least his manner suffers not to guess
That any thing he views can greatly please.
Perhaps we have borrow'd this from the Chinese--
Perhaps from Horace: his 'Nil admirari'
Was what he call'd the 'Art of Happiness;'
An art on which the artists greatly vary,
And have not yet attain'd to much success.
However, 't is expedient to be wary:
Indifference certes don't produce distress;
And rash enthusiasm in good society
Were nothing but a moral inebriety.
But Adeline was not indifferent: for
(Now for a common-place!) beneath the snow,
As a volcano holds the lava more
Within--et caetera. Shall I go on?--No!
I hate to hunt down a tired metaphor,
So let the often-used volcano go.
Poor thing! How frequently, by me and others,
It hath been stirr'd up till its smoke quite smothers!
I 'll have another figure in a trice:--
What say you to a bottle of champagne?
Frozen into a very vinous ice,
Which leaves few drops of that immortal rain,
Yet in the very centre, past all price,
About a liquid glassful will remain;
And this is stronger than the strongest grape
Could e'er express in its expanded shape:
'T is the whole spirit brought to a quintessence;
And thus the chilliest aspects may concentre
A hidden nectar under a cold presence.
And such are many--though I only meant her
From whom I now deduce these moral lessons,
On which the Muse has always sought to enter.
And your cold people are beyond all price,
When once you have broken their confounded ice.
But after all they are a North-West Passage
Unto the glowing India of the soul;
And as the good ships sent upon that message
Have not exactly ascertain'd the Pole
(Though Parry's efforts look a lucky presage),
Thus gentlemen may run upon a shoal;
For if the Pole 's not open, but all frost
(A chance still), 't is a voyage or vessel lost.
And young beginners may as well commence
With quiet cruising o'er the ocean woman;
While those who are not beginners should have sense
Enough to make for port, ere time shall summon
With his grey signal-flag; and the past tense,
The dreary 'Fuimus' of all things human,
Must be declined, while life's thin thread 's spun out
Between the gaping heir and gnawing gout.
But heaven must be diverted; its diversion
Is sometimes truculent--but never mind:
The world upon the whole is worth the assertion
(If but for comfort) that all things are kind:
And that same devilish doctrine of the Persian,
Of the two principles, but leaves behind
As many doubts as any other doctrine
Has ever puzzled Faith withal, or yoked her in.
The English winter--ending in July,
To recommence in August--now was done.
'T is the postilion's paradise: wheels fly;
On roads, east, south, north, west, there is a run.
But for post-horses who finds sympathy?
Man's pity 's for himself, or for his son,
Always premising that said son at college
Has not contracted much more debt than knowledge.
The London winter 's ended in July--
Sometimes a little later. I don't err
In this: whatever other blunders lie
Upon my shoulders, here I must aver
My Muse a glass of weatherology;
For parliament is our barometer:
Let radicals its other acts attack,
Its sessions form our only almanack.
When its quicksilver 's down at zero,--lo
Coach, chariot, luggage, baggage, equipage!
Wheels whirl from Carlton palace to Soho,
And happiest they who horses can engage;
The turnpikes glow with dust; and Rotten Row
Sleeps from the chivalry of this bright age;
And tradesmen, with long bills and longer faces,
Sigh--as the postboys fasten on the traces.
They and their bills, 'Arcadians both,' are left
To the Greek kalends of another session.
Alas! to them of ready cash bereft,
What hope remains? Of hope the full possession,
Or generous draft, conceded as a gift,
At a long date--till they can get a fresh one--
Hawk'd about at a discount, small or large;
Also the solace of an overcharge.
But these are trifles. Downward flies my lord,
Nodding beside my lady in his carriage.
Away! away! 'Fresh horses!' are the word,
And changed as quickly as hearts after marriage;
The obsequious landlord hath the change restored;
The postboys have no reason to disparage
Their fee; but ere the water'd wheels may hiss hence,
The ostler pleads too for a reminiscence.
'T is granted; and the valet mounts the dickey--
That gentleman of lords and gentlemen;
Also my lady's gentlewoman, tricky,
Trick'd out, but modest more than poet's pen
Can paint,--'Cosi viaggino i Ricchi!'
(Excuse a foreign slipslop now and then,
If but to show I 've travell'd; and what 's travel,
Unless it teaches one to quote and cavil?)
The London winter and the country summer
Were well nigh over. 'T is perhaps a pity,
When nature wears the gown that doth become her,
To lose those best months in a sweaty city,
And wait until the nightingale grows dumber,
Listening debates not very wise or witty,
Ere patriots their true country can remember;--
But there 's no shooting (save grouse) till September.
I 've done with my tirade. The world was gone;
The twice two thousand, for whom earth was made,
Were vanish'd to be what they call alone--
That is, with thirty servants for parade,
As many guests, or more; before whom groan
As many covers, duly, daily, laid.
Let none accuse Old England's hospitality--
Its quantity is but condensed to quality.
Lord Henry and the Lady Adeline
Departed like the rest of their compeers,
The peerage, to a mansion very fine;
The Gothic Babel of a thousand years.
None than themselves could boast a longer line,
Where time through heroes and through beauties steers;
And oaks as olden as their pedigree
Told of their sires, a tomb in every tree.
A paragraph in every paper told
Of their departure: such is modern fame:
'T is pity that it takes no farther hold
Than an advertisement, or much the same;
When, ere the ink be dry, the sound grows cold.
The Morning Post was foremost to proclaim--
'Departure, for his country seat, to-day,
Lord H. Amundeville and Lady A.
'We understand the splendid host intends
To entertain, this autumn, a _select_
And numerous party of his noble friends;
'Midst whom we have heard, from sources quite correct,
With many more by rank and fashion deck'd;
Also a foreigner of high condition,
The envoy of the secret Russian mission.'
And thus we see--who doubts the Morning Post?
(Whose articles are like the 'Thirty-nine,'
Which those most swear to who believe them most)--
Our gay Russ Spaniard was ordain'd to shine,
Deck'd by the rays reflected from his host,
With those who, Pope says, 'greatly daring dine.'
'T is odd, but true,--last war the News abounded
More with these dinners than the kill'd or wounded;--
As thus: 'On Thursday there was a grand dinner;
Present, Lords A. B. C.'--Earls, dukes, by name
Announced with no less pomp than victory's winner:
Then underneath, and in the very same
Column; date, 'Falmouth. There has lately been here
The Slap-dash regiment, so well known to fame,
Whose loss in the late action we regret:
The vacancies are fill'd up--see Gazette.'
To Norman Abbey whirl'd the noble pair,--
An old, old monastery once, and now
Still older mansion; of a rich and rare
Mix'd Gothic, such as artists all allow
Few specimens yet left us can compare
Withal: it lies perhaps a little low,
Because the monks preferr'd a hill behind,
To shelter their devotion from the wind.
It stood embosom'd in a happy valley,
Crown'd by high woodlands, where the Druid oak
Stood like Caractacus in act to rally
His host, with broad arms 'gainst the thunderstroke;
And from beneath his boughs were seen to sally
The dappled foresters--as day awoke,
The branching stag swept down with all his herd,
To quaff a brook which murmur'd like a bird.
Before the mansion lay a lucid lake,
Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed
By a river, which its soften'd way did take
In currents through the calmer water spread
Around: the wildfowl nestled in the brake
And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed:
The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and stood
With their green faces fix'd upon the flood.
Its outlet dash'd into a deep cascade,
Sparkling with foam, until again subsiding,
Its shriller echoes--like an infant made
Quiet--sank into softer ripples, gliding
Into a rivulet; and thus allay'd,
Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now hiding
Its windings through the woods; now clear, now blue,
According as the skies their shadows threw.
A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile
(While yet the church was Rome's) stood half apart
In a grand arch, which once screen'd many an aisle.
These last had disappear'd--a loss to art:
The first yet frown'd superbly o'er the soil,
And kindled feelings in the roughest heart,
Which mourn'd the power of time's or tempest's march,
In gazing on that venerable arch.
Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle,
Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone;
But these had fallen, not when the friars fell,
But in the war which struck Charles from his throne,
When each house was a fortalice, as tell
The annals of full many a line undone,--
The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain
For those who knew not to resign or reign.
But in a higher niche, alone, but crowned,
The Virgin Mother of the God-born Child,
With her Son in her blessed arms, look'd round,
Spared by some chance when all beside was spoil'd;
She made the earth below seem holy ground.
This may be superstition, weak or wild,
But even the faintest relics of a shrine
Of any worship wake some thoughts divine.
A mighty window, hollow in the centre,
Shorn of its glass of thousand colourings,
Through which the deepen'd glories once could enter,
Streaming from off the sun like seraph's wings,
Now yawns all desolate: now loud, now fainter,
The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft sings
The owl his anthem, where the silenced quire
Lie with their hallelujahs quench'd like fire.
But in the noontide of the moon, and when
The wind is winged from one point of heaven,
There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then
Is musical--a dying accent driven
Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again.
Some deem it but the distant echo given
Back to the night wind by the waterfall,
And harmonised by the old choral wall:
Others, that some original shape, or form
Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power
(Though less than that of Memnon's statue, warm
In Egypt's rays, to harp at a fix'd hour)
To this grey ruin, with a voice to charm.
Sad, but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower;
The cause I know not, nor can solve; but such
The fact:--I 've heard it--once perhaps too much.
Amidst the court a Gothic fountain play'd,
Symmetrical, but deck'd with carvings quaint--
Strange faces, like to men in masquerade,
And here perhaps a monster, there a saint:
The spring gush'd through grim mouths of granite made,
And sparkled into basins, where it spent
Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles,
Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles.
The mansion's self was vast and venerable,
With more of the monastic than has been
Elsewhere preserved: the cloisters still were stable,
The cells, too, and refectory, I ween:
An exquisite small chapel had been able,
Still unimpair'd, to decorate the scene;
The rest had been reform'd, replaced, or sunk,
And spoke more of the baron than the monk.
Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, join'd
By no quite lawful marriage of the arts,
Might shock a connoisseur; but when combined,
Form'd a whole which, irregular in parts,
Yet left a grand impression on the mind,
At least of those whose eyes are in their hearts:
We gaze upon a giant for his stature,
Nor judge at first if all be true to nature.
Steel barons, molten the next generation
To silken rows of gay and garter'd earls,
Glanced from the walls in goodly preservation;
And Lady Marys blooming into girls,
With fair long locks, had also kept their station;
And countesses mature in robes and pearls:
Also some beauties of Sir Peter Lely,
Whose drapery hints we may admire them freely.
Judges in very formidable ermine
Were there, with brows that did not much invite
The accused to think their lordships would determine
His cause by leaning much from might to right:
Bishops, who had not left a single sermon:
Attorneys-general, awful to the sight,
As hinting more (unless our judgments warp us)
Of the 'Star Chamber' than of 'Habeas Corpus.'
Generals, some all in armour, of the old
And iron time, ere lead had ta'en the lead;
Others in wigs of Marlborough's martial fold,
Huger than twelve of our degenerate breed:
Lordlings, with staves of white or keys of gold:
Nimrods, whose canvass scarce contain'd the steed;
And here and there some stern high patriot stood,
Who could not get the place for which he sued.
But ever and anon, to soothe your vision,
Fatigued with these hereditary glories,
There rose a Carlo Dolce or a Titian,
Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's;
Here danced Albano's boys, and here the sea shone
In Vernet's ocean lights; and there the stories
Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted
His brush with all the blood of all the sainted.
Here sweetly spread a landscape of Lorraine;
There Rembrandt made his darkness equal light,
Or gloomy Caravaggio's gloomier stain
Bronzed o'er some lean and stoic anchorite:--
But, lo! a Teniers woos, and not in vain,
Your eyes to revel in a livelier sight:
His bell-mouth'd goblet makes me feel quite Danish
Or Dutch with thirst--What, ho! a flask of Rhenish.
O reader! if that thou canst read,--and know,
'T is not enough to spell, or even to read,
To constitute a reader; there must go
Virtues of which both you and I have need;--
Firstly, begin with the beginning (though
That clause is hard); and secondly, proceed;
Thirdly, commence not with the end--or, sinning
In this sort, end at least with the beginning.
But, reader, thou hast patient been of late,
While I, without remorse of rhyme, or fear,
Have built and laid out ground at such a rate,
Dan Phoebus takes me for an auctioneer.
That poets were so from their earliest date,
By Homer's 'Catalogue of ships' is clear;
But a mere modern must be moderate--
I spare you then the furniture and plate.
The mellow autumn came, and with it came
The promised party, to enjoy its sweets.
The corn is cut, the manor full of game;
The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats
In russet jacket:--lynx-like is his aim;
Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats.
Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants!
And ah, ye poachers!--'T is no sport for peasants.
An English autumn, though it hath no vines,
Blushing with Bacchant coronals along
The paths, o'er which the far festoon entwines
The red grape in the sunny lands of song,
Hath yet a purchased choice of choicest wines;
The claret light, and the Madeira strong.
If Britain mourn her bleakness, we can tell her,
The very best of vineyards is the cellar.
Then, if she hath not that serene decline
Which makes the southern autumn's day appear
As if 't would to a second spring resign
The season, rather than to winter drear,
Of in-door comforts still she hath a mine,--
The sea-coal fires the 'earliest of the year;'
Without doors, too, she may compete in mellow,
As what is lost in green is gain'd in yellow.
And for the effeminate villeggiatura--
Rife with more horns than hounds--she hath the chase,
So animated that it might allure
Saint from his beads to join the jocund race;
Even Nimrod's self might leave the plains of Dura,
And wear the Melton jacket for a space:
If she hath no wild boars, she hath a tame
Preserve of bores, who ought to be made game.
The noble guests, assembled at the Abbey,
Consisted of--we give the sex the pas--
The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke; the Countess Crabby;
The Ladies Scilly, Busey;--Miss Eclat,
Miss Bombazeen, Miss Mackstay, Miss O'Tabby,
And Mrs. Rabbi, the rich banker's squaw;
Also the honourable Mrs. Sleep,
Who look'd a white lamb, yet was a black sheep:
With other Countesses of Blank--but rank;
At once the 'lie' and the 'elite' of crowds;
Who pass like water filter'd in a tank,
All purged and pious from their native clouds;
Or paper turn'd to money by the Bank:
No matter how or why, the passport shrouds
The 'passee' and the past; for good society
Is no less famed for tolerance than piety,--
That is, up to a certain point; which point
Forms the most difficult in punctuation.
Appearances appear to form the joint
On which it hinges in a higher station;
And so that no explosion cry 'Aroint
Thee, witch!' or each Medea has her Jason;
Or (to the point with Horace and with Pulci)
'Omne tulit punctum, quae miscuit utile dulci.'
I can't exactly trace their rule of right,
Which hath a little leaning to a lottery.
I 've seen a virtuous woman put down quite
By the mere combination of a coterie;
Also a so-so matron boldly fight
Her way back to the world by dint of plottery,
And shine the very Siria of the spheres,
Escaping with a few slight, scarless sneers.
I have seen more than I 'll say:--but we will see
How our villeggiatura will get on.
The party might consist of thirty-three
Of highest caste--the Brahmins of the ton.
I have named a few, not foremost in degree,
But ta'en at hazard as the rhyme may run.
By way of sprinkling, scatter'd amongst these,
There also were some Irish absentees.
There was Parolles, too, the legal bully,
Who limits all his battles to the bar
And senate: when invited elsewhere, truly,
He shows more appetite for words than war.
There was the young bard Rackrhyme, who had newly
Come out and glimmer'd as a six weeks' star.
There was Lord Pyrrho, too, the great freethinker;
And Sir John Pottledeep, the mighty drinker.
There was the Duke of Dash, who was a--duke,
'Ay, every inch a' duke; there were twelve peers
Like Charlemagne's--and all such peers in look
And intellect, that neither eyes nor ears
For commoners had ever them mistook.
There were the six Miss Rawbolds--pretty dears!
All song and sentiment; whose hearts were set
Less on a convent than a coronet.
There were four Honourable Misters, whose
Honour was more before their names than after;
There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse,
Whom France and Fortune lately deign'd to waft here,
Whose chiefly harmless talent was to amuse;
But the clubs found it rather serious laughter,
Because--such was his magic power to please--
The dice seem'd charm'd, too, with his repartees.
There was Dick Dubious, the metaphysician,
Who loved philosophy and a good dinner;
Angle, the soi-disant mathematician;
Sir Henry Silvercup, the great race-winner.
There was the Reverend Rodomont Precisian,
Who did not hate so much the sin as sinner;
And Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet,
Good at all things, but better at a bet.
There was jack jargon, the gigantic guardsman;
And General Fireface, famous in the field,
A great tactician, and no less a swordsman,
Who ate, last war, more Yankees than he kill'd.
There was the waggish Welsh Judge, Jefferies Hardsman,
In his grave office so completely skill'd,
That when a culprit came far condemnation,
He had his judge's joke for consolation.
Good company 's a chess-board--there are kings,
Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns; the world 's a game;
Save that the puppets pull at their own strings,
Methinks gay Punch hath something of the same.
My Muse, the butterfly hath but her wings,
Not stings, and flits through ether without aim,
Alighting rarely:--were she but a hornet,
Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it.
I had forgotten--but must not forget--
An orator, the latest of the session,
Who had deliver'd well a very set
Smooth speech, his first and maidenly transgression
Upon debate: the papers echoed yet
With his debut, which made a strong impression,
And rank'd with what is every day display'd--
'The best first speech that ever yet was made.'
Proud of his 'Hear hims!' proud, too, of his vote
And lost virginity of oratory,
Proud of his learning (just enough to quote),
He revell'd in his Ciceronian glory:
With memory excellent to get by rote,
With wit to hatch a pun or tell a story,
Graced with some merit, and with more effrontery,
'His country's pride,' he came down to the country.
There also were two wits by acclamation,
Longbow from Ireland, Strongbow from the Tweed,
Both lawyers and both men of education;
But Strongbow's wit was of more polish'd breed:
Longbow was rich in an imagination
As beautiful and bounding as a steed,
But sometimes stumbling over a potato,--
While Strongbow's best things might have come from Cato.
Strongbow was like a new-tuned harpsichord;
But Longbow wild as an AEolian harp,
With which the winds of heaven can claim accord,
And make a music, whether flat or sharp.
Of Strongbow's talk you would not change a word:
At Longbow's phrases you might sometimes carp:
Both wits--one born so, and the other bred--
This by his heart, his rival by his head.
If all these seem a heterogeneous mas
To be assembled at a country seat,
Yet think, a specimen of every class
Is better than a humdrum tete-a-tete.
The days of Comedy are gone, alas!
When Congreve's fool could vie with Moliere's bete:
Society is smooth'd to that excess,
That manners hardly differ more than dress.
Our ridicules are kept in the back-ground--
Ridiculous enough, but also dull;
Professions, too, are no more to be found
Professional; and there is nought to cull
Of folly's fruit; for though your fools abound,
They're barren, and not worth the pains to pull.
Society is now one polish'd horde,
Form'd of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored.
But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning
The scanty but right-well thresh'd ears of truth;
And, gentle reader! when you gather meaning,
You may be Boaz, and I--modest Ruth.
Farther I 'd quote, but Scripture intervening
Forbids. Its great impression in my youth
Was made by Mrs. Adams, where she cries,
'That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies.'
But what we can we glean in this vile age
Of chaff, although our gleanings be not grist.
I must not quite omit the talking sage,
Kit-Cat, the famous Conversationist,
Who, in his common-place book, had a page
Prepared each morn for evenings. 'List, oh, list!'-
'Alas, poor ghost!'--What unexpected woes
Await those who have studied their bon-mots!
Firstly, they must allure the conversation
By many windings to their clever clinch;
And secondly, must let slip no occasion,
Nor bate (abate) their hearers of an inch,
But take an ell--and make a great sensation,
If possible; and thirdly, never flinch
When some smart talker puts them to the test,
But seize the last word, which no doubt 's the best.
Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts;
The party we have touch'd on were the guests:
Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts
To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts.
I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts,
Albeit all human history attests
That happiness for man--the hungry sinner!-
Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner.
Witness the lands which 'flow'd with milk and honey,'
Held out unto the hungry Israelites;
To this we have added since, the love of money,
The only sort of pleasure which requites.
Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny;
We tire of mistresses and parasites;
But oh, ambrosial cash! Ah! who would lose thee?
When we no more can use, or even abuse thee!
The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot,
Or hunt: the young, because they liked the sport--
The first thing boys like after play and fruit;
The middle-aged to make the day more short;
For ennui is a growth of English root,
Though nameless in our language:--we retort
The fact for words, and let the French translate
That awful yawn which sleep can not abate.
The elderly walk'd through the library,
And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures,
Or saunter'd through the gardens piteously,
And made upon the hot-house several strictures,
Or rode a nag which trotted not too high,
Or on the morning papers read their lectures,
Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix,
Longing at sixty for the hour of six.
But none were 'gene:' the great hour of union
Was rung by dinner's knell; till then all were
Masters of their own time--or in communion,
Or solitary, as they chose to bear
The hours, which how to pass is but to few known.
Each rose up at his own, and had to spare
What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast
When, where, and how he chose for that repast.
The ladies--some rouged, some a little pale--
Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode,
Or walk'd; if foul, they read, or told a tale,
Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad;
Discuss'd the fashion which might next prevail,
And settled bonnets by the newest code,
Or cramm'd twelve sheets into one little letter,
To make each correspondent a new debtor.
For some had absent lovers, all had friends.
The earth has nothing like a she epistle,
And hardly heaven--because it never ends.
I love the mystery of a female missal,
Which, like a creed, ne'er says all it intends,
But full of cunning as Ulysses' whistle,
When he allured poor Dolon:--you had better
Take care what you reply to such a letter.
Then there were billiards; cards, too, but no dice;--
Save in the clubs no man of honour plays;--
Boats when 't was water, skating when 't was ice,
And the hard frost destroy'd the scenting days:
And angling, too, that solitary vice,
Whatever Izaak Walton sings or says;
The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet
Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.
With evening came the banquet and the wine;
The conversazione; the duet,
Attuned by voices more or less divine
(My heart or head aches with the memory yet).
The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would shine;
But the two youngest loved more to be set
Down to the harp--because to music's charms
They added graceful necks, white hands and arms.
Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field days,
For then the gentlemen were rather tired)
Display'd some sylph-like figures in its maze;
Then there was small-talk ready when required;
Flirtation--but decorous; the mere praise
Of charms that should or should not be admired.
The hunters fought their fox-hunt o'er again,
And then retreated soberly--at ten.
The politicians, in a nook apart,
Discuss'd the world, and settled all the spheres;
The wits watch'd every loophole for their art,
To introduce a bon-mot head and ears;
Small is the rest of those who would be smart,
A moment's good thing may have cost them years
Before they find an hour to introduce it;
And then, even then, some bore may make them lose it.
But all was gentle and aristocratic
In this our party; polish'd, smooth, and cold,
As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic.
There now are no Squire Westerns as of old;
And our Sophias are not so emphatic,
But fair as then, or fairer to behold.
We have no accomplish'd blackguards, like Tom Jones,
But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones.
They separated at an early hour;
That is, ere midnight--which is London's noon:
But in the country ladies seek their bower
A little earlier than the waning moon.
Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower--
May the rose call back its true colour soon!
Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters,
And lower the price of rouge--at least some winters.
[Illustration: Canto 14]
CANTO THE FOURTEENTH.
If from great nature's or our own abyss
Of thought we could but snatch a certainty,
Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss--
But then 't would spoil much good philosophy.
One system eats another up, and this
Much as old Saturn ate his progeny;
For when his pious consort gave him stones
In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones.
But System doth reverse the Titan's breakfast,
And eats her parents, albeit the digestion
Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast,
After due search, your faith to any question?
Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast
You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one.
Nothing more true than not to trust your senses;
And yet what are your other evidences?
For me, I know nought; nothing I deny,
Admit, reject, contemn; and what know you,
Except perhaps that you were born to die?
And both may after all turn out untrue.
An age may come, Font of Eternity,
When nothing shall be either old or new.
Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men weep,
And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep.
A sleep without dreams, after a rough day
Of toil, is what we covet most; and yet
How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay!
The very Suicide that pays his debt
At once without instalments (an old way
Of paying debts, which creditors regret)
Lets out impatiently his rushing breath,
Less from disgust of life than dread of death.
'T is round him, near him, here, there, every where;
And there 's a courage which grows out of fear,
Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare
The worst to know it:--when the mountains rear
Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there
You look down o'er the precipice, and drear
The gulf of rock yawns,--you can't gaze a minute
Without an awful wish to plunge within it.
'T is true, you don't--but, pale and struck with terror,
Retire: but look into your past impression!
And you will find, though shuddering at the mirror
Of your own thoughts, in all their self-confession,
The lurking bias, be it truth or error,
To the unknown; a secret prepossession,
To plunge with all your fears--but where? You know not,
And that's the reason why you do--or do not.
But what 's this to the purpose? you will say.
Gent. reader, nothing; a mere speculation,
For which my sole excuse is--'t is my way;
Sometimes with and sometimes without occasion
I write what 's uppermost, without delay:
This narrative is not meant for narration,
But a mere airy and fantastic basis,
To build up common things with common places.
You know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith,
'Fling up a straw, 't will show the way the wind blows;'
And such a straw, borne on by human breath,
Is poesy, according as the mind glows;
A paper kite which flies 'twixt life and death,
A shadow which the onward soul behind throws:
And mine 's a bubble, not blown up for praise,
But just to play with, as an infant plays.
The world is all before me--or behind;
For I have seen a portion of that same,
And quite enough for me to keep in mind;--
Of passions, too, I have proved enough to blame,
To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind,
Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame;
For I was rather famous in my time,
Until I fairly knock'd it up with rhyme.
I have brought this world about my ears, and eke
The other; that 's to say, the clergy, who
Upon my head have bid their thunders break
In pious libels by no means a few.
And yet I can't help scribbling once a week,
Tiring old readers, nor discovering new.
In youth I wrote because my mind was full,
And now because I feel it growing dull.
But 'why then publish?'--There are no rewards
Of fame or profit when the world grows weary.
I ask in turn,--Why do you play at cards?
Why drink? Why read?--To make some hour less dreary.
It occupies me to turn back regards
On what I 've seen or ponder'd, sad or cheery;
And what I write I cast upon the stream,
To swim or sink--I have had at least my dream.
I think that were I certain of success,
I hardly could compose another line:
So long I 've battled either more or less,
That no defeat can drive me from the Nine.
This feeling 't is not easy to express,
And yet 't is not affected, I opine.
In play, there are two pleasures for your choosing--
The one is winning, and the other losing.
Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction:
She gathers a repertory of facts,
Of course with some reserve and slight restriction,
But mostly sings of human things and acts--
And that 's one cause she meets with contradiction;
For too much truth, at first sight, ne'er attracts;
And were her object only what 's call'd glory,
With more ease too she 'd tell a different story.
Love, war, a tempest--surely there 's variety;
Also a seasoning slight of lucubration;
A bird's-eye view, too, of that wild, Society;
A slight glance thrown on men of every station.
If you have nought else, here 's at least satiety
Both in performance and in preparation;
And though these lines should only line portmanteaus,
Trade will be all the better for these Cantos.
The portion of this world which I at present
Have taken up to fill the following sermon,
Is one of which there 's no description recent.
The reason why is easy to determine:
Although it seems both prominent and pleasant,
There is a sameness in its gems and ermine,
A dull and family likeness through all ages,
Of no great promise for poetic pages.
With much to excite, there 's little to exalt;
Nothing that speaks to all men and all times;
A sort of varnish over every fault;
A kind of common-place, even in their crimes;
Factitious passions, wit without much salt,
A want of that true nature which sublimes
Whate'er it shows with truth; a smooth monotony
Of character, in those at least who have got any.
Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers off parade,
They break their ranks and gladly leave the drill;
But then the roll-call draws them back afraid,
And they must be or seem what they were: still
Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade;
But when of the first sight you have had your fill,
It palls--at least it did so upon me,
This paradise of pleasure and ennui.
When we have made our love, and gamed our gaming,
Drest, voted, shone, and, may be, something more;
With dandies dined; heard senators declaiming;
Seen beauties brought to market by the score,
Sad rakes to sadder husbands chastely taming;
There 's little left but to be bored or bore.
Witness those 'ci-devant jeunes hommes' who stem
The stream, nor leave the world which leaveth them.
'T is said--indeed a general complaint--
That no one has succeeded in describing
The monde, exactly as they ought to paint:
Some say, that authors only snatch, by bribing
The porter, some slight scandals strange and quaint,
To furnish matter for their moral gibing;
And that their books have but one style in common--
My lady's prattle, filter'd through her woman.
But this can't well be true, just now; for writers
Are grown of the beau monde a part potential:
I 've seen them balance even the scale with fighters,
Especially when young, for that 's essential.
Why do their sketches fail them as inditers
Of what they deem themselves most consequential,
The real portrait of the highest tribe?
'T is that, in fact, there 's little to describe.
'Haud ignara loquor;' these are Nugae, 'quarum
Pars parva fui,' but still art and part.
Now I could much more easily sketch a harem,
A battle, wreck, or history of the heart,
Than these things; and besides, I wish to spare 'em,
For reasons which I choose to keep apart.
'Vetabo Cereris sacrum qui vulgarit--'
Which means that vulgar people must not share it.
And therefore what I throw off is ideal--
Lower'd, leaven'd, like a history of freemasons;
Which bears the same relation to the real,
As Captain Parry's voyage may do to Jason's.
The grand arcanum 's not for men to see all;
My music has some mystic diapasons;
And there is much which could not be appreciated
In any manner by the uninitiated.
Alas! worlds fall--and woman, since she fell'd
The world (as, since that history less polite
Than true, hath been a creed so strictly held)
Has not yet given up the practice quite.
Poor thing of usages! coerced, compell'd,
Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right,
Condemn'd to child-bed, as men for their sins
Have shaving too entail'd upon their chins,--
A daily plague, which in the aggregate
May average on the whole with parturition.
But as to women, who can penetrate
The real sufferings of their she condition?
Man's very sympathy with their estate
Has much of selfishness, and more suspicion.
Their love, their virtue, beauty, education,
But form good housekeepers, to breed a nation.
All this were very well, and can't be better;
But even this is difficult, Heaven knows,
So many troubles from her birth beset her,
Such small distinction between friends and foes,
The gilding wears so soon from off her fetter,
That--but ask any woman if she'd choose
(Take her at thirty, that is) to have been
Female or male? a schoolboy or a queen?
'Petticoat influence' is a great reproach,
Which even those who obey would fain be thought
To fly from, as from hungry pikes a roach;
But since beneath it upon earth we are brought,
By various joltings of life's hackney coach,
I for one venerate a petticoat--
A garment of a mystical sublimity,
No matter whether russet, silk, or dimity.
Much I respect, and much I have adored,
In my young days, that chaste and goodly veil,
Which holds a treasure, like a miser's hoard,
And more attracts by all it doth conceal--
A golden scabbard on a Damasque sword,
A loving letter with a mystic seal,
A cure for grief--for what can ever rankle
Before a petticoat and peeping ankle?
And when upon a silent, sullen day,
With a sirocco, for example, blowing,
When even the sea looks dim with all its spray,
And sulkily the river's ripple 's flowing,
And the sky shows that very ancient gray,
The sober, sad antithesis to glowing,--
'T is pleasant, if then any thing is pleasant,
To catch a glimpse even of a pretty peasant.
We left our heroes and our heroines
In that fair clime which don't depend on climate,
Quite independent of the Zodiac's signs,
Though certainly more difficult to rhyme at,
Because the sun, and stars, and aught that shines,
Mountains, and all we can be most sublime at,
Are there oft dull and dreary as a dun--
Whether a sky's or tradesman's is all one.
An in-door life is less poetical;
And out of door hath showers, and mists, and sleet,
With which I could not brew a pastoral.
But be it as it may, a bard must meet
All difficulties, whether great or small,
To spoil his undertaking or complete,
And work away like spirit upon matter,
Embarrass'd somewhat both with fire and water.
Juan--in this respect, at least, like saints--
Was all things unto people of all sorts,
And lived contentedly, without complaints,
In camps, in ships, in cottages, or courts--
Born with that happy soul which seldom faints,
And mingling modestly in toils or sports.
He likewise could be most things to all women,
Without the coxcombry of certain she men.
A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange;
'T is also subject to the double danger
Of tumbling first, and having in exchange
Some pleasant jesting at the awkward stranger:
But Juan had been early taught to range
The wilds, as doth an Arab turn'd avenger,
So that his horse, or charger, hunter, hack,
Knew that he had a rider on his back.
And now in this new field, with some applause,
He clear'd hedge, ditch, and double post, and rail,
And never craned, and made but few 'faux pas,'
And only fretted when the scent 'gan fail.
He broke, 't is true, some statutes of the laws
Of hunting--for the sagest youth is frail;
Rode o'er the hounds, it may be, now and then,
And once o'er several country gentlemen.
But on the whole, to general admiration
He acquitted both himself and horse: the squires
Marvell'd at merit of another nation;
The boors cried 'Dang it? who 'd have thought it?'--Sires,
The Nestors of the sporting generation,
Swore praises, and recall'd their former fires;
The huntsman's self relented to a grin,
And rated him almost a whipper-in.
Such were his trophies--not of spear and shield,
But leaps, and bursts, and sometimes foxes' brushes;
Yet I must own,--although in this I yield
To patriot sympathy a Briton's blushes,--
He thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield,
Who, after a long chase o'er hills, dales, bushes,
And what not, though he rode beyond all price,
Ask'd next day, 'If men ever hunted twice?'
He also had a quality uncommon
To early risers after a long chase,
Who wake in winter ere the cock can summon
December's drowsy day to his dull race,--
A quality agreeable to woman,
When her soft, liquid words run on apace,
Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner,--
He did not fall asleep just after dinner;
But, light and airy, stood on the alert,
And shone in the best part of dialogue,
By humouring always what they might assert,
And listening to the topics most in vogue;
Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert;
And smiling but in secret--cunning rogue!
He ne'er presumed to make an error clearer;--
In short, there never was a better hearer.
And then he danced;--all foreigners excel
The serious Angles in the eloquence
Of pantomime;--he danced, I say, right well,
With emphasis, and also with good sense--
A thing in footing indispensable;
He danced without theatrical pretence,
Not like a ballet-master in the van
Of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman.
Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound,
And elegance was sprinkled o'er his figure;
Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm'd the ground,
And rather held in than put forth his vigour;
And then he had an ear for music's sound,
Which might defy a crotchet critic's rigour.
Such classic pas--sans flaws--set off our hero,
He glanced like a personified Bolero;
Or, like a flying Hour before Aurora,
In Guido's famous fresco which alone
Is worth a tour to Rome, although no more a
Remnant were there of the old world's sole throne.
The 'tout ensemble' of his movements wore a
Grace of the soft ideal, seldom shown,
And ne'er to be described; for to the dolour
Of bards and prosers, words are void of colour.
No marvel then he was a favourite;
A full-grown Cupid, very much admired;
A little spoilt, but by no means so quite;
At least he kept his vanity retired.
Such was his tact, he could alike delight
The chaste, and those who are not so much inspired.
The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke, who loved 'tracasserie,'
Began to treat him with some small 'agacerie.'
She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde,
Desirable, distinguish'd, celebrated
For several winters in the grand, grand monde.
I 'd rather not say what might be related
Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground;
Besides there might be falsehood in what 's stated:
Her late performance had been a dead set
At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.
This noble personage began to look
A little black upon this new flirtation;
But such small licences must lovers brook,
Mere freedoms of the female corporation.
Woe to the man who ventures a rebuke!
'T will but precipitate a situation
Extremely disagreeable, but common
To calculators when they count on woman.
The circle smiled, then whisper'd, and then sneer'd;
The Misses bridled, and the matrons frown'd;
Some hoped things might not turn out as they fear'd;
Some would not deem such women could be found;
Some ne'er believed one half of what they heard;
Some look'd perplex'd, and others look'd profound;
And several pitied with sincere regret
Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.
But what is odd, none ever named the duke,
Who, one might think, was something in the affair;
True, he was absent, and, 't was rumour'd, took
But small concern about the when, or where,
Or what his consort did: if he could brook
Her gaieties, none had a right to stare:
Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt,
Which never meets, and therefore can't fall out.
But, oh! that I should ever pen so sad a line!
Fired with an abstract love of virtue, she,
My Dian of the Ephesians, Lady Adeline,
Began to think the duchess' conduct free;
Regretting much that she had chosen so bad a line,
And waxing chiller in her courtesy,
Look'd grave and pale to see her friend's fragility,
For which most friends reserve their sensibility.
There 's nought in this bad world like sympathy:
'T is so becoming to the soul and face,
Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh,
And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels lace.
Without a friend, what were humanity,
To hunt our errors up with a good grace?
Consoling us with--'Would you had thought twice!
Ah, if you had but follow'd my advice!'
O job! you had two friends: one 's quite enough,
Especially when we are ill at ease;
They are but bad pilots when the weather 's rough,
Doctors less famous for their cures than fees.
Let no man grumble when his friends fall off,
As they will do like leaves at the first breeze:
When your affairs come round, one way or t' other,
Go to the coffee-house, and take another.
But this is not my maxim: had it been,
Some heart-aches had been spared me: yet I care not--
I would not be a tortoise in his screen
Of stubborn shell, which waves and weather wear not.
'T is better on the whole to have felt and seen
That which humanity may bear, or bear not:
'T will teach discernment to the sensitive,
And not to pour their ocean in a sieve.
Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe,
Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast,
Is that portentous phrase, 'I told you so,'
Utter'd by friends, those prophets of the past,
Who, 'stead of saying what you now should do,
Own they foresaw that you would fall at last,
And solace your slight lapse 'gainst 'bonos mores,'
With a long memorandum of old stories.
The Lady Adeline's serene severity
Was not confined to feeling for her friend,
Whose fame she rather doubted with posterity,
Unless her habits should begin to mend:
But Juan also shared in her austerity,
But mix'd with pity, pure as e'er was penn'd:
His inexperience moved her gentle ruth,
And (as her junior by six weeks) his youth.
These forty days' advantage of her years--
And hers were those which can face calculation,
Boldly referring to the list of peers
And noble births, nor dread the enumeration--
Gave her a right to have maternal fears
For a young gentleman's fit education,
Though she was far from that leap year, whose leap,
In female dates, strikes Time all of a heap.
This may be fix'd at somewhere before thirty--
Say seven-and-twenty; for I never knew
The strictest in chronology and virtue
Advance beyond, while they could pass for new.
O Time! why dost not pause? Thy scythe, so dirty
With rust, should surely cease to hack and hew.
Reset it; shave more smoothly, also slower,
If but to keep thy credit as a mower.
But Adeline was far from that ripe age,
Whose ripeness is but bitter at the best:
'T was rather her experience made her sage,
For she had seen the world and stood its test,
As I have said in--I forget what page;
My Muse despises reference, as you have guess'd
By this time;--but strike six from seven-and-twenty,
And you will find her sum of years in plenty.
At sixteen she came out; presented, vaunted,
She put all coronets into commotion:
At seventeen, too, the world was still enchanted
With the new Venus of their brilliant ocean:
At eighteen, though below her feet still panted
A hecatomb of suitors with devotion,
She had consented to create again
That Adam, call'd 'The happiest of men.'
Since then she had sparkled through three glowing winters,
Admired, adored; but also so correct,
That she had puzzled all the acutest hinters,
Without the apparel of being circumspect:
They could not even glean the slightest splinters
From off the marble, which had no defect.
She had also snatch'd a moment since her marriage
To bear a son and heir--and one miscarriage.
Fondly the wheeling fire-flies flew around her,
Those little glitterers of the London night;
But none of these possess'd a sting to wound her--
She was a pitch beyond a coxcomb's flight.
Perhaps she wish'd an aspirant profounder;
But whatsoe'er she wish'd, she acted right;
And whether coldness, pride, or virtue dignify
A woman, so she 's good, what does it signify?
I hate a motive, like a lingering bottle
Which with the landlord makes too long a stand,
Leaving all-claretless the unmoisten'd throttle,
Especially with politics on hand;
I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle,
Who whirl the dust as simooms whirl the sand;
I hate it, as I hate an argument,
A laureate's ode, or servile peer's 'content.'
'T is sad to hack into the roots of things,
They are so much intertwisted with the earth;
So that the branch a goodly verdure flings,
I reck not if an acorn gave it birth.
To trace all actions to their secret springs
Would make indeed some melancholy mirth;
But this is not at present my concern,
And I refer you to wise Oxenstiern.
With the kind view of saving an eclat,
Both to the duchess and diplomatist,
The Lady Adeline, as soon 's she saw
That Juan was unlikely to resist
(For foreigners don't know that a faux pas
In England ranks quite on a different list
From those of other lands unblest with juries,
Whose verdict for such sin a certain cure is);--
The Lady Adeline resolved to take
Such measures as she thought might best impede
The farther progress of this sad mistake.
She thought with some simplicity indeed;
But innocence is bold even at the stake,
And simple in the world, and doth not need
Nor use those palisades by dames erected,
Whose virtue lies in never being detected.
It was not that she fear'd the very worst:
His Grace was an enduring, married man,
And was not likely all at once to burst
Into a scene, and swell the clients' clan
Of Doctors' Commons: but she dreaded first
The magic of her Grace's talisman,
And next a quarrel (as he seem'd to fret)
With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.
Her Grace, too, pass'd for being an intrigante,
And somewhat mechante in her amorous sphere;
One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt
A lover with caprices soft and dear,
That like to make a quarrel, when they can't
Find one, each day of the delightful year;
Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow,
And--what is worst of all--won't let you go:
The sort of thing to turn a young man's head,
Or make a Werter of him in the end.
No wonder then a purer soul should dread
This sort of chaste liaison for a friend;
It were much better to be wed or dead,
Than wear a heart a woman loves to rend.
'T is best to pause, and think, ere you rush on,
If that a 'bonne fortune' be really 'bonne.'
And first, in the o'erflowing of her heart,
Which really knew or thought it knew no guile,
She call'd her husband now and then apart,
And bade him counsel Juan. With a smile
Lord Henry heard her plans of artless art
To wean Don Juan from the siren's wile;
And answer'd, like a statesman or a prophet,
In such guise that she could make nothing of it.
Firstly, he said, 'he never interfered
In any body's business but the king's:'
Next, that 'he never judged from what appear'd,
Without strong reason, of those sort of things:'
Thirdly, that 'Juan had more brain than beard,
And was not to be held in leading strings;'
And fourthly, what need hardly be said twice,
'That good but rarely came from good advice.'
And, therefore, doubtless to approve the truth
Of the last axiom, he advised his spouse
To leave the parties to themselves, forsooth--
At least as far as bienseance allows:
That time would temper Juan's faults of youth;
That young men rarely made monastic vows;
That opposition only more attaches--
But here a messenger brought in despatches:
And being of the council call'd 'the Privy,'
Lord Henry walk'd into his cabinet,
To furnish matter for some future Livy
To tell how he reduced the nation's debt;
And if their full contents I do not give ye,
It is because I do not know them yet;
But I shall add them in a brief appendix,
To come between mine epic and its index.
But ere he went, he added a slight hint,
Another gentle common-place or two,
Such as are coin'd in conversation's mint,
And pass, for want of better, though not new:
Then broke his packet, to see what was in 't,
And having casually glanced it through,
Retired; and, as went out, calmly kiss'd her,
Less like a young wife than an aged sister.
He was a cold, good, honourable man,
Proud of his birth, and proud of every thing;
A goodly spirit for a state divan,
A figure fit to walk before a king;
Tall, stately, form'd to lead the courtly van
On birthdays, glorious with a star and string;
The very model of a chamberlain--
And such I mean to make him when I reign.
But there was something wanting on the whole--
I don't know what, and therefore cannot tell--
Which pretty women--the sweet souls!--call soul.
Certes it was not body; he was well
Proportion'd, as a poplar or a pole,
A handsome man, that human miracle;
And in each circumstance of love or war
Had still preserved his perpendicular.
Still there was something wanting, as I 've said--
That undefinable 'Je ne scais quoi,'
Which, for what I know, may of yore have led
To Homer's Iliad, since it drew to Troy
The Greek Eve, Helen, from the Spartan's bed;
Though on the whole, no doubt, the Dardan boy
Was much inferior to King Menelaus:--
But thus it is some women will betray us.
There is an awkward thing which much perplexes,
Unless like wise Tiresias we had proved
By turns the difference of the several sexes;
Neither can show quite how they would be loved.
The sensual for a short time but connects us,
The sentimental boasts to be unmoved;
But both together form a kind of centaur,
Upon whose back 't is better not to venture.
A something all-sufficient for the heart
Is that for which the sex are always seeking:
But how to fill up that same vacant part?
There lies the rub--and this they are but weak in.
Frail mariners afloat without a chart,
They run before the wind through high seas breaking;
And when they have made the shore through every shock,
'T is odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock.
There is a flower call'd 'Love in Idleness,'
For which see Shakspeare's everblooming garden;--
I will not make his great description less,
And beg his British godship's humble pardon,
If in my extremity of rhyme's distress,
I touch a single leaf where he is warden;--
But though the flower is different, with the French
Or Swiss Rousseau, cry 'Voila la Pervenche!'
Eureka! I have found it! What I mean
To say is, not that love is idleness,
But that in love such idleness has been
An accessory, as I have cause to guess.
Hard labour's an indifferent go-between;
Your men of business are not apt to express
Much passion, since the merchant-ship, the Argo,
Convey'd Medea as her supercargo.
'Beatus ille procul!' from 'negotiis,'
Saith Horace; the great little poet 's wrong;
His other maxim, 'Noscitur a sociis,'
Is much more to the purpose of his song;
Though even that were sometimes too ferocious,
Unless good company be kept too long;
But, in his teeth, whate'er their state or station,
Thrice happy they who have an occupation!
Adam exchanged his Paradise for ploughing,
Eve made up millinery with fig leaves--
The earliest knowledge from the tree so knowing,
As far as I know, that the church receives:
And since that time it need not cost much showing,
That many of the ills o'er which man grieves,
And still more women, spring from not employing
Some hours to make the remnant worth enjoying.
And hence high life is oft a dreary void,
A rack of pleasures, where we must invent
A something wherewithal to be annoy'd.
Bards may sing what they please about Content;
Contented, when translated, means but cloy'd;
And hence arise the woes of sentiment,
Blue devils, and blue-stockings, and romances
Reduced to practice, and perform'd like dances.
I do declare, upon an affidavit,
Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen;
Nor, if unto the world I ever gave it,
Would some believe that such a tale had been:
But such intent I never had, nor have it;
Some truths are better kept behind a screen,
Especially when they would look like lies;
I therefore deal in generalities.
'An oyster may be cross'd in love,'--and why?
Because he mopeth idly in his shell,
And heaves a lonely subterraqueous sigh,
Much as a monk may do within his cell:
And a-propos of monks, their piety
With sloth hath found it difficult to dwell;
Those vegetables of the Catholic creed
Are apt exceedingly to run to seed.
O Wilberforce! thou man of black renown,
Whose merit none enough can sing or say,
Thou hast struck one immense Colossus down,
Thou moral Washington of Africa!
But there 's another little thing, I own,
Which you should perpetrate some summer's day,
And set the other halt of earth to rights;
You have freed the blacks--now pray shut up the whites.
Shut up the bald-coot bully Alexander!
Ship off the Holy Three to Senegal;
Teach them that 'sauce for goose is sauce for gander,'
And ask them how they like to be in thrall?
Shut up each high heroic salamander,
Who eats fire gratis (since the pay 's but small);
Shut up--no, not the King, but the Pavilion,
Or else 't will cost us all another million.
Shut up the world at large, let Bedlam out;
And you will be perhaps surprised to find
All things pursue exactly the same route,
As now with those of soi-disant sound mind.
This I could prove beyond a single doubt,
Were there a jot of sense among mankind;
But till that point d'appui is found, alas!
Like Archimedes, I leave earth as 't was.
Our gentle Adeline had one defect--
Her heart was vacant, though a splendid mansion;
Her conduct had been perfectly correct,
As she had seen nought claiming its expansion.
A wavering spirit may be easier wreck'd,
Because 't is frailer, doubtless, than a stanch one;
But when the latter works its own undoing,
Its inner crash is like an earthquake's ruin.
She loved her lord, or thought so; but that love
Cost her an effort, which is a sad toil,
The stone of Sisyphus, if once we move
Our feelings 'gainst the nature of the soil.
She had nothing to complain of, or reprove,
No bickerings, no connubial turmoil:
Their union was a model to behold,
Serene and noble,--conjugal, but cold.
There was no great disparity of years,
Though much in temper; but they never clash'd:
They moved like stars united in their spheres,
Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters wash'd,
Where mingled and yet separate appears
The river from the lake, all bluely dash'd
Through the serene and placid glassy deep,
Which fain would lull its river-child to sleep.
Now when she once had ta'en an interest
In any thing, however she might flatter
Herself that her intentions were the best,
Intense intentions are a dangerous matter:
Impressions were much stronger than she guess'd,
And gather'd as they run like growing water
Upon her mind; the more so, as her breast
Was not at first too readily impress'd.
But when it was, she had that lurking demon
Of double nature, and thus doubly named--
Firmness yclept in heroes, kings, and seamen,
That is, when they succeed; but greatly blamed
As obstinacy, both in men and women,
Whene'er their triumph pales, or star is tamed:--
And 't will perplex the casuist in morality
To fix the due bounds of this dangerous quality.
Had Buonaparte won at Waterloo,
It had been firmness; now 't is pertinacity:
Must the event decide between the two?
I leave it to your people of sagacity
To draw the line between the false and true,
If such can e'er be drawn by man's capacity:
My business is with Lady Adeline,
Who in her way too was a heroine.
She knew not her own heart; then how should I?
I think not she was then in love with Juan:
If so, she would have had the strength to fly
The wild sensation, unto her a new one:
She merely felt a common sympathy
(I will not say it was a false or true one)
In him, because she thought he was in danger,--
Her husband's friend, her own, young, and a stranger,
She was, or thought she was, his friend--and this
Without the farce of friendship, or romance
Of Platonism, which leads so oft amiss
Ladies who have studied friendship but in France,
Or Germany, where people purely kiss.
To thus much Adeline would not advance;
But of such friendship as man's may to man be
She was as capable as woman can be.
No doubt the secret influence of the sex
Will there, as also in the ties of blood,
An innocent predominance annex,
And tune the concord to a finer mood.
If free from passion, which all friendship checks,
And your true feelings fully understood,
No friend like to a woman earth discovers,
So that you have not been nor will be lovers.
Love bears within its breast the very germ
Of change; and how should this be otherwise?
That violent things more quickly find a term
Is shown through nature's whole analogies;
And how should the most fierce of all be firm?
Would you have endless lightning in the skies?
Methinks Love's very title says enough:
How should 'the tender passion' e'er be tough?
Alas! by all experience, seldom yet
(I merely quote what I have heard from many)
Had lovers not some reason to regret
The passion which made Solomon a zany.
I 've also seen some wives (not to forget
The marriage state, the best or worst of any)
Who were the very paragons of wives,
Yet made the misery of at least two lives.
I 've also seen some female friends ( 't is odd,
But true--as, if expedient, I could prove)
That faithful were through thick and thin, abroad,
At home, far more than ever yet was Love--
Who did not quit me when Oppression trod
Upon me; whom no scandal could remove;
Who fought, and fight, in absence, too, my battles,
Despite the snake Society's loud rattles.
Whether Don Juan and chaste Adeline
Grew friends in this or any other sense,
Will be discuss'd hereafter, I opine:
At present I am glad of a pretence
To leave them hovering, as the effect is fine,
And keeps the atrocious reader in suspense;
The surest way for ladies and for books
To bait their tender, or their tenter, hooks.
Whether they rode, or walk'd, or studied Spanish
To read Don Quixote in the original,
A pleasure before which all others vanish;
Whether their talk was of the kind call'd 'small,'
Or serious, are the topics I must banish
To the next Canto; where perhaps I shall
Say something to the purpose, and display
Considerable talent in my way.
Above all, I beg all men to forbear
Anticipating aught about the matter:
They 'll only make mistakes about the fair,
And Juan too, especially the latter.
And I shall take a much more serious air
Than I have yet done, in this epic satire.
It is not clear that Adeline and Juan
Will fall; but if they do, 't will be their ruin.
But great things spring from little:--Would you think,
That in our youth, as dangerous a passion
As e'er brought man and woman to the brink
Of ruin, rose from such a slight occasion,
As few would ever dream could form the link
Of such a sentimental situation?
You 'll never guess, I 'll bet you millions, milliards--
It all sprung from a harmless game at billiards.
'T is strange,--but true; for truth is always strange;
Stranger than fiction; if it could be told,
How much would novels gain by the exchange!
How differently the world would men behold!
How oft would vice and virtue places change!
The new world would be nothing to the old,
If some Columbus of the moral seas
Would show mankind their souls' antipodes.
What 'antres vast and deserts idle' then
Would be discover'd in the human soul!
What icebergs in the hearts of mighty men,
With self-love in the centre as their pole!
What Anthropophagi are nine of ten
Of those who hold the kingdoms in control
Were things but only call'd by their right name,
Caesar himself would be ashamed of fame.
CANTO THE FIFTEENTH.
Ah!--What should follow slips from my reflection;
Whatever follows ne'ertheless may be
As _?propos_ of hope or retrospection,
As though the lurking thought had follow'd free.
All present life is but an interjection,
An 'Oh!' or 'Ah!' of joy or misery,
Or a 'Ha! ha!' or 'Bah!'--a yawn, or 'Pooh!'
Of which perhaps the latter is most true.
But, more or less, the whole 's a syncope
Or a singultus--emblems of emotion,
The grand antithesis to great ennui,
Wherewith we break our bubbles on the ocean,--
That watery outline of eternity,
Or miniature at least, as is my notion,
Which ministers unto the soul's delight,
In seeing matters which are out of sight.
But all are better than the sigh supprest,
Corroding in the cavern of the heart,
Making the countenance a masque of rest,
And turning human nature to an art.
Few men dare show their thoughts of worst or best;
Dissimulation always sets apart
A corner for herself; and therefore fiction
Is that which passes with least contradiction.
Ah! who can tell? Or rather, who can not
Remember, without telling, passion's errors?
The drainer of oblivion, even the sot,
Hath got blue devils for his morning mirrors:
What though on Lethe's stream he seem to float,
He cannot sink his tremors or his terrors;
The ruby glass that shakes within his hand
Leaves a sad sediment of Time's worst sand.
And as for love--O love!--We will proceed.
The Lady Adeline Amundeville,
A pretty name as one would wish to read,
Must perch harmonious on my tuneful quill.
There 's music in the sighing of a reed;
There 's music in the gushing of a rill;
There 's music in all things, if men had ears:
Their earth is but an echo of the spheres.
The Lady Adeline, right honourable;
And honour'd, ran a risk of growing less so;
For few of the soft sex are very stable
In their resolves--alas! that I should say so!
They differ as wine differs from its label,
When once decanted;--I presume to guess so,
But will not swear: yet both upon occasion,
Till old, may undergo adulteration.
But Adeline was of the purest vintage,
The unmingled essence of the grape; and yet
Bright as a new Napoleon from its mintage,
Or glorious as a diamond richly set;
A page where Time should hesitate to print age,
And for which Nature might forego her debt--
Sole creditor whose process doth involve in 't
The luck of finding every body solvent.
O Death! thou dunnest of all duns! thou daily
Knockest at doors, at first with modest tap,
Like a meek tradesman when, approaching palely,
Some splendid debtor he would take by sap:
But oft denied, as patience 'gins to fail, he
Advances with exasperated rap,
And (if let in) insists, in terms unhandsome,
On ready money, or 'a draft on Ransom.'
Whate'er thou takest, spare a while poor Beauty!
She is so rare, and thou hast so much prey.
What though she now and then may slip from duty,
The more 's the reason why you ought to stay.
Gaunt Gourmand! with whole nations for your booty,
You should be civil in a modest way:
Suppress, then, some slight feminine diseases,
And take as many heroes as Heaven pleases.
Fair Adeline, the more ingenuous
Where she was interested (as was said),
Because she was not apt, like some of us,
To like too readily, or too high bred
To show it (points we need not now discuss)--
Would give up artlessly both heart and head
Unto such feelings as seem'd innocent,
For objects worthy of the sentiment.
Some parts of Juan's history, which Rumour,
That live gazette, had scatter'd to disfigure,
She had heard; but women hear with more good humour
Such aberrations than we men of rigour:
Besides, his conduct, since in England, grew more
Strict, and his mind assumed a manlier vigour;
Because he had, like Alcibiades,
The art of living in all climes with ease.
His manner was perhaps the more seductive,
Because he ne'er seem'd anxious to seduce;
Nothing affected, studied, or constructive
Of coxcombry or conquest: no abuse
Of his attractions marr'd the fair perspective,
To indicate a Cupidon broke loose,
And seem to say, 'Resist us if you can'-
Which makes a dandy while it spoils a man.
They are wrong--that 's not the way to set about it;
As, if they told the truth, could well be shown.
But, right or wrong, Don Juan was without it;
In fact, his manner was his own alone;
Sincere he was--at least you could not doubt it,
In listening merely to his voice's tone.
The devil hath not in all his quiver's choice
An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.
By nature soft, his whole address held off
Suspicion: though not timid, his regard
Was such as rather seem'd to keep aloof,
To shield himself than put you on your guard:
Perhaps 't was hardly quite assured enough,
But modesty 's at times its own reward,
Like virtue; and the absence of pretension
Will go much farther than there 's need to mention.
Serene, accomplish'd, cheerful but not loud;
Insinuating without insinuation;
Observant of the foibles of the crowd,
Yet ne'er betraying this in conversation;
Proud with the proud, yet courteously proud,
So as to make them feel he knew his station
And theirs:--without a struggle for priority,
He neither brook'd nor claim'd superiority.
That is, with men: with women he was what
They pleased to make or take him for; and their
Imagination 's quite enough for that:
So that the outline 's tolerably fair,
They fill the canvas up--and 'verbum sat.'
If once their phantasies be brought to bear
Upon an object, whether sad or playful,
They can transfigure brighter than a Raphael.
Adeline, no deep judge of character,
Was apt to add a colouring from her own:
'T is thus the good will amiably err,
And eke the wise, as has been often shown.
Experience is the chief philosopher,
But saddest when his science is well known:
And persecuted sages teach the schools
Their folly in forgetting there are fools.
Was it not so, great Locke? and greater Bacon?
Great Socrates? And thou, Diviner still,
Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken,
And thy pure creed made sanction of all ill?
Redeeming worlds to be by bigots shaken,
How was thy toil rewarded? We might fill
Volumes with similar sad illustrations,
But leave them to the conscience of the nations.
I perch upon an humbler promontory,
Amidst life's infinite variety:
With no great care for what is nicknamed glory,
But speculating as I cast mine eye
On what may suit or may not suit my story,
And never straining hard to versify,
I rattle on exactly as I 'd talk
With any body in a ride or walk.
I don't know that there may be much ability
Shown in this sort of desultory rhyme;
But there 's a conversational facility,
Which may round off an hour upon a time.
Of this I 'm sure at least, there 's no servility
In mine irregularity of chime,
Which rings what 's uppermost of new or hoary,
Just as I feel the 'Improvvisatore.'
'Omnia vult belle Matho dicere--dic aliquando
Et bene, dic neutrum, dic aliquando male.'
The first is rather more than mortal can do;
The second may be sadly done or gaily;
The third is still more difficult to stand to;
The fourth we hear, and see, and say too, daily.
The whole together is what I could wish
To serve in this conundrum of a dish.
A modest hope--but modesty 's my forte,
And pride my feeble:--let us ramble on.
I meant to make this poem very short,
But now I can't tell where it may not run.
No doubt, if I had wish' to pay my court
To critics, or to hail the setting sun
Of tyranny of all kinds, my concision
Were more;--but I was born for opposition.
But then 't is mostly on the weaker side;
So that I verily believe if they
Who now are basking in their full-blown pride
Were shaken down, and 'dogs had had their day,'
Though at the first I might perchance deride
Their tumble, I should turn the other way,
And wax an ultra-royalist in loyalty,
Because I hate even democratic royalty.
I think I should have made a decent spouse,
If I had never proved the soft condition;
I think I should have made monastic vows,
But for my own peculiar superstition:
'Gainst rhyme I never should have knock'd my brows,
Nor broken my own head, nor that of Priscian,
Nor worn the motley mantle of a poet,
If some one had not told me to forego it.
But 'laissez aller'--knights and dames I sing,
Such as the times may furnish. 'T is a flight
Which seems at first to need no lofty wing,
Plumed by Longinus or the Stagyrite:
The difficultly lies in colouring
(Keeping the due proportions still in sight)
With nature manners which are artificial,
And rend'ring general that which is especial.
The difference is, that in the days of old
Men made the manners; manners now make men--
Pinn'd like a flock, and fleeced too in their fold,
At least nine, and a ninth beside of ten.
Now this at all events must render cold
Your writers, who must either draw again
Days better drawn before, or else assume
The present, with their common-place costume.
We 'll do our best to make the best on 't:--March!
March, my Muse! If you cannot fly, yet flutter;
And when you may not be sublime, be arch,
Or starch, as are the edicts statesmen utter.
We surely may find something worth research:
Columbus found a new world in a cutter,
Or brigantine, or pink, of no great tonnage,
While yet America was in her non-age.
When Adeline, in all her growing sense
Of Juan's merits and his situation,
Felt on the whole an interest intense,--
Partly perhaps because a fresh sensation,
Or that he had an air of innocence,
Which is for innocence a sad temptation,--
As women hate half measures, on the whole,
She 'gan to ponder how to save his soul.
She had a good opinion of advice,
Like all who give and eke receive it gratis,
For which small thanks are still the market price,
Even where the article at highest rate is:
She thought upon the subject twice or thrice,
And morally decided, the best state is
For morals, marriage; and this question carried,
She seriously advised him to get married.
Juan replied, with all becoming deference,
He had a predilection for that tie;
But that, at present, with immediate reference
To his own circumstances, there might lie
Some difficulties, as in his own preference,
Or that of her to whom he might apply:
That still he 'd wed with such or such a lady,
If that they were not married all already.
Next to the making matches for herself,
And daughters, brothers, sisters, kith or kin,
Arranging them like books on the same shelf,
There 's nothing women love to dabble in
More (like a stock-holder in growing pelf)
Than match-making in general: 't is no sin
Certes, but a preventative, and therefore
That is, no doubt, the only reason wherefore.
But never yet (except of course a miss
Unwed, or mistress never to be wed,
Or wed already, who object to this)
Was there chaste dame who had not in her head
Some drama of the marriage unities,
Observed as strictly both at board and bed
As those of Aristotle, though sometimes
They turn out melodrames or pantomimes.
They generally have some only son,
Some heir to a large property, some friend
Of an old family, some gay Sir john,
Or grave Lord George, with whom perhaps might end
A line, and leave posterity undone,
Unless a marriage was applied to mend
The prospect and their morals: and besides,
They have at hand a blooming glut of brides.
From these they will be careful to _select_,
For this an heiress, and for that a beauty;
For one a songstress who hath no defect,
For t' other one who promises much duty;
For this a lady no one can reject,
Whose sole accomplishments were quite a booty;
A second for her excellent connections;
A third, because there can be no objections.
When Rapp the Harmonist embargo'd marriage
In his harmonious settlement (which flourishes
Strangely enough as yet without miscarriage,
Because it breeds no more mouths than it nourishes,
Without those sad expenses which disparage
What Nature naturally most encourages)--
Why call'd he 'Harmony' a state sans wedlock?
Now here I 've got the preacher at a dead lock.
Because he either meant to sneer at harmony
Or marriage, by divorcing them thus oddly.
But whether reverend Rapp learn'd this in Germany
Or no, 't is said his sect is rich and godly,
Pious and pure, beyond what I can term any
Of ours, although they propagate more broadly.
My objection 's to his title, not his ritual,
Although I wonder how it grew habitual.
But Rapp is the reverse of zealous matrons,
Who favour, malgre Malthus, generation--
Professors of that genial art, and patrons
Of all the modest part of propagation;
Which after all at such a desperate rate runs,
That half its produce tends to emigration,
That sad result of passions and potatoes--
Two weeds which pose our economic Catos.
Had Adeline read Malthus? I can't tell;
I wish she had: his book 's the eleventh commandment,
Which says, 'Thou shalt not marry,' unless well:
This he (as far as I can understand) meant.
'T is not my purpose on his views to dwell
Nor canvass what so 'eminent a hand' meant;
But certes it conducts to lives ascetic,
Or turning marriage into arithmetic.
But Adeline, who probably presumed
That Juan had enough of maintenance,
Or separate maintenance, in case 't was doom'd--
As on the whole it is an even chance
That bridegrooms, after they are fairly groom'd,
May retrograde a little in the dance
Of marriage (which might form a painter's fame,
Like Holbein's 'Dance of Death'--but 't is the same);--
But Adeline determined Juan's wedding
In her own mind, and that 's enough for woman:
But then, with whom? There was the sage Miss Reading,
Miss Raw, Miss Flaw, Miss Showman, and Miss Knowman.
And the two fair co-heiresses Giltbedding.
She deem'd his merits something more than common:
All these were unobjectionable matches,
And might go on, if well wound up, like watches.
There was Miss Millpond, smooth as summer's sea,
That usual paragon, an only daughter,
Who seem'd the cream of equanimity
Till skimm'd--and then there was some milk and water,
With a slight shade of blue too, it might be,
Beneath the surface; but what did it matter?
Love 's riotous, but marriage should have quiet,
And being consumptive, live on a milk diet.
And then there was the Miss Audacia Shoestring,
A dashing demoiselle of good estate,
Whose heart was fix'd upon a star or blue string;
But whether English dukes grew rare of late,
Or that she had not harp'd upon the true string,
By which such sirens can attract our great,
She took up with some foreign younger brother,
A Russ or Turk--the one 's as good as t' other.
And then there was--but why should I go on,
Unless the ladies should go off?--there was
Indeed a certain fair and fairy one,
Of the best class, and better than her class,--
Aurora Raby, a young star who shone
O'er life, too sweet an image for such glass,
A lovely being, scarcely form'd or moulded,
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded;
Rich, noble, but an orphan; left an only
Child to the care of guardians good and kind;
But still her aspect had an air so lonely!
Blood is not water; and where shall we find
Feelings of youth like those which overthrown lie
By death, when we are left, alas! behind,
To feel, in friendless palaces, a home
Is wanting, and our best ties in the tomb?
Early in years, and yet more infantine
In figure, she had something of sublime
In eyes which sadly shone, as seraphs' shine.
All youth--but with an aspect beyond time;
Radiant and grave--as pitying man's decline;
Mournful--but mournful of another's crime,
She look'd as if she sat by Eden's door.
And grieved for those who could return no more.
She was a Catholic, too, sincere, austere,
As far as her own gentle heart allow'd,
And deem'd that fallen worship far more dear
Perhaps because 't was fallen: her sires were proud
Of deeds and days when they had fill'd the ear
Of nations, and had never bent or bow'd
To novel power; and as she was the last,
She held their old faith and old feelings fast.
She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew,
As seeking not to know it; silent, lone,
As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew,
And kept her heart serene within its zone.
There was awe in the homage which she drew;
Her spirit seem'd as seated on a throne
Apart from the surrounding world, and strong
In its own strength--most strange in one so young!
Now it so happen'd, in the catalogue
Of Adeline, Aurora was omitted,
Although her birth and wealth had given her vogue
Beyond the charmers we have already cited;
Her beauty also seem'd to form no clog
Against her being mention'd as well fitted,
By many virtues, to be worth the trouble
Of single gentlemen who would be double.
And this omission, like that of the bust
Of Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius,
Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must.
This he express'd half smiling and half serious;
When Adeline replied with some disgust,
And with an air, to say the least, imperious,
She marvell'd 'what he saw in such a baby
As that prim, silent, cold Aurora Raby?'
Juan rejoin'd--'She was a Catholic,
And therefore fittest, as of his persuasion;
Since he was sure his mother would fall sick,
And the Pope thunder excommunication,
If-' But here Adeline, who seem'd to pique
Herself extremely on the inoculation
Of others with her own opinions, stated--
As usual--the same reason which she late did.
And wherefore not? A reasonable reason,
If good, is none the worse for repetition;
If bad, the best way 's certainly to tease on,
And amplify: you lose much by concision,
Whereas insisting in or out of season
Convinces all men, even a politician;
Or--what is just the same--it wearies out.
So the end 's gain'd, what signifies the route?
Why Adeline had this slight prejudice--
For prejudice it was--against a creature
As pure as sanctity itself from vice,
With all the added charm of form and feature,
For me appears a question far too nice,
Since Adeline was liberal by nature;
But nature 's nature, and has more caprices
Than I have time, or will, to take to pieces.
Perhaps she did not like the quiet way
With which Aurora on those baubles look'd,
Which charm most people in their earlier day:
For there are few things by mankind less brook'd,
And womankind too, if we so may say,
Than finding thus their genius stand rebuked,
Like 'Anthony's by Caesar,' by the few
Who look upon them as they ought to do.
It was not envy--Adeline had none;
Her place was far beyond it, and her mind.
It was not scorn--which could not light on one
Whose greatest fault was leaving few to find.
It was not jealousy, I think: but shun
Following the 'ignes fatui' of mankind.
It was not--but 't is easier far, alas!
To say what it was not than what it was.
Little Aurora deem'd she was the theme
Of such discussion. She was there a guest;
A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream
Of rank and youth, though purer than the rest,
Which flow'd on for a moment in the beam
Time sheds a moment o'er each sparkling crest.
Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled--
She had so much, or little, of the child.
The dashing and proud air of Adeline
Imposed not upon her: she saw her blaze
Much as she would have seen a glow-worm shine,
Then turn'd unto the stars for loftier rays.
Juan was something she could not divine,
Being no sibyl in the new world's ways;
Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor,
Because she did not pin her faith on feature.
His fame too,--for he had that kind of fame
Which sometimes plays the deuce with womankind,
A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame,
Half virtues and whole vices being combined;
Faults which attract because they are not tame;
Follies trick'd out so brightly that they blind:--
These seals upon her wax made no impression,
Such was her coldness or her self-possession.
Juan knew nought of such a character--
High, yet resembling not his lost Haidee;
Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere:
The island girl, bred up by the lone sea,
More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere,
Was Nature's all: Aurora could not be,
Nor would be thus:--the difference in them
Was such as lies between a flower and gem.
Having wound up with this sublime comparison,
Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative,
And, as my friend Scott says, 'I sound my warison;'
Scott, the superlative of my comparative--
Scott, who can paint your Christian knight or Saracen,
Serf, lord, man, with such skill as none would share it, if
There had not been one Shakspeare and Voltaire,
Of one or both of whom he seems the heir.
I say, in my slight way I may proceed
To play upon the surface of humanity.
I write the world, nor care if the world read,
At least for this I cannot spare its vanity.
My Muse hath bred, and still perhaps may breed
More foes by this same scroll: when I began it, I
Thought that it might turn out so--now I know it,
But still I am, or was, a pretty poet.
The conference or congress (for it ended
As congresses of late do) of the Lady
Adeline and Don Juan rather blended
Some acids with the sweets--for she was heady;
But, ere the matter could be marr'd or mended,
The silvery bell rang, not for 'dinner ready,
But for that hour, call'd half-hour, given to dress,
Though ladies' robes seem scant enough for less.
Great things were now to be achieved at table,
With massy plate for armour, knives and forks
For weapons; but what Muse since Homer 's able
(His feasts are not the worst part of his works)
To draw up in array a single day-bill
Of modern dinners? where more mystery lurks,
In soups or sauces, or a sole ragout,
There was a goodly 'soupe a la bonne femme,'
Though God knows whence it came from; there was, too,
A turbot for relief of those who cram,
Relieved with 'dindon a la Parigeux;'
How shall I get this gourmand stanza through?-
'Soupe a la Beauveau,' whose relief was dory,
Relieved itself by pork, for greater glory.
But I must crowd all into one grand mess
Or mass; for should I stretch into detail,
My Muse would run much more into excess,
Than when some squeamish people deem her frail.
But though a 'bonne vivante,' I must confess
Her stomach 's not her peccant part; this tale
However doth require some slight refection,
Just to relieve her spirits from dejection.
Fowls 'a la Conde,' slices eke of salmon,
With 'sauces Genevoises,' and haunch of venison;
Wines too, which might again have slain young Ammon--
A man like whom I hope we shan't see many soon;
They also set a glazed Westphalian ham on,
Whereon Apicius would bestow his benison;
And then there was champagne with foaming whirls,
As white as Cleopatra's melted pearls.
Then there was God knows what 'a l'Allemande,'
'A l'Espagnole,' 'timballe,' and 'salpicon'-
With things I can't withstand or understand,
Though swallow'd with much zest upon the whole;
And 'entremets' to piddle with at hand,
Gently to lull down the subsiding soul;
While great Lucullus' Robe triumphal muffles
(There 's fame) young partridge fillets, deck'd with truffles.
What are the fillets on the victor's brow
To these? They are rags or dust. Where is the arch
Which nodded to the nation's spoils below?
Where the triumphal chariots' haughty march?
Gone to where victories must like dinners go.
Farther I shall not follow the research:
But oh! ye modern heroes with your cartridges,
When will your names lend lustre e'en to partridges?
Those truffles too are no bad accessaries,
Follow'd by 'petits puits d'amour'--a dish
Of which perhaps the cookery rather varies,
So every one may dress it to his wish,
According to the best of dictionaries,
Which encyclopedize both flesh and fish;
But even sans 'confitures,' it no less true is,
There 's pretty picking in those 'petits puits.'
The mind is lost in mighty contemplation
Of intellect expanded on two courses;
And indigestion's grand multiplication
Requires arithmetic beyond my forces.
Who would suppose, from Adam's simple ration,
That cookery could have call'd forth such resources,
As form a science and a nomenclature
From out the commonest demands of nature?
The glasses jingled, and the palates tingled;
The diners of celebrity dined well;
The ladies with more moderation mingled
In the feast, pecking less than I can tell;
Also the younger men too: for a springald
Can't, like ripe age, in gormandize excel,
But thinks less of good eating than the whisper
(When seated next him) of some pretty lisper.
Alas! I must leave undescribed the gibier,
The salmi, the consomme, the puree,
All which I use to make my rhymes run glibber
Than could roast beef in our rough John Bull way:
I must not introduce even a spare rib here,
'Bubble and squeak' would spoil my liquid lay:
But I have dined, and must forego, Alas!
The chaste description even of a 'becasse;'
And fruits, and ice, and all that art refines
From nature for the service of the gout--
Taste or the gout,--pronounce it as inclines
Your stomach! Ere you dine, the French will do;
But after, there are sometimes certain signs
Which prove plain English truer of the two.
Hast ever had the gout? I have not had it--
But I may have, and you too, reader, dread it.
The simple olives, best allies of wine,
Must I pass over in my bill of fare?
I must, although a favourite 'plat' of mine
In Spain, and Lucca, Athens, every where:
On them and bread 't was oft my luck to dine,
The grass my table-cloth, in open-air,
On Sunium or Hymettus, like Diogenes,
Of whom half my philosophy the progeny is.
Amidst this tumult of fish, flesh, and 'fowl,
And vegetables, all in masquerade,
The guests were placed according to their roll,
But various as the various meats display'd:
Don Juan sat next 'an l'Espagnole'-
No damsel, but a dish, as hath been said;
But so far like a lady, that 't was drest
Superbly, and contain'd a world of zest.
By some odd chance too, he was placed between
Aurora and the Lady Adeline--
A situation difficult, I ween,
For man therein, with eyes and heart, to dine.
Also the conference which we have seen
Was not such as to encourage him to shine;
For Adeline, addressing few words to him,
With two transcendent eyes seem'd to look through him.
I sometimes almost think that eyes have ears:
This much is sure, that, out of earshot, things
Are somehow echoed to the pretty dears,
Of which I can't tell whence their knowledge springs.
Like that same mystic music of the spheres,
Which no one bears, so loudly though it rings,
'T is wonderful how oft the sex have heard
Long dialogues--which pass'd without a word!
Aurora sat with that indifference
Which piques a preux chevalier--as it ought:
Of all offences that 's the worst offence,
Which seems to hint you are not worth a thought.
Now Juan, though no coxcomb in pretence,
Was not exactly pleased to be so caught;
Like a good ship entangled among ice,
And after so much excellent advice.
To his gay nothings, nothing was replied,
Or something which was nothing, as urbanity
Required. Aurora scarcely look'd aside,
Nor even smiled enough for any vanity.
The devil was in the girl! Could it be pride?
Or modesty, or absence, or inanity?
Heaven knows? But Adeline's malicious eyes
Sparkled with her successful prophecies,
And look'd as much as if to say, 'I said it;'
A kind of triumph I 'll not recommend,
Because it sometimes, as I have seen or read it,
Both in the case of lover and of friend,
Will pique a gentleman, for his own credit,
To bring what was a jest to a serious end:
For all men prophesy what is or was,
And hate those who won't let them come to pass.
Juan was drawn thus into some attentions,
Slight but _select_, and just enough to express,
To females of perspicuous comprehensions,
That he would rather make them more than less.
Aurora at the last (so history mentions,
Though probably much less a fact than guess)
So far relax'd her thoughts from their sweet prison,
As once or twice to smile, if not to listen.
From answering she began to question; this
With her was rare: and Adeline, who as yet
Thought her predictions went not much amiss,
Began to dread she'd thaw to a coquette--
So very difficult, they say, it is
To keep extremes from meeting, when once set
In motion; but she here too much refined--
Aurora's spirit was not of that kind.
But Juan had a sort of winning way,
A proud humility, if such there be,
Which show'd such deference to what females say,
As if each charming word were a decree.
His tact, too, temper'd him from grave to gay,
And taught him when to be reserved or free:
He had the art of drawing people out,
Without their seeing what he was about.
Aurora, who in her indifference
Confounded him in common with the crowd
Of flatterers, though she deem'd he had more sense
Than whispering foplings, or than witlings loud--
Commenced (from such slight things will great commence)
To feel that flattery which attracts the proud
Rather by deference than compliment,
And wins even by a delicate dissent.
And then he had good looks;--that point was carried
Nem. con. amongst the women, which I grieve
To say leads oft to crim. con. with the married--
A case which to the juries we may leave,
Since with digressions we too long have tarried.
Now though we know of old that looks deceive,
And always have done, somehow these good looks
Make more impression than the best of books.
Aurora, who look'd more on books than faces,
Was very young, although so very sage,
Admiring more Minerva than the Graces,
Especially upon a printed page.
But Virtue's self, with all her tightest laces,
Has not the natural stays of strict old age;
And Socrates, that model of all duty,
Own'd to a penchant, though discreet, for beauty.
And girls of sixteen are thus far Socratic,
But innocently so, as Socrates;
And really, if the sage sublime and Attic
At seventy years had phantasies like these,
Which Plato in his dialogues dramatic
Has shown, I know not why they should displease
In virgins--always in a modest way,
Observe; for that with me 's a 'sine qua.'
Also observe, that, like the great Lord Coke
(See Littleton), whene'er I have express'd
Opinions two, which at first sight may look
Twin opposites, the second is the best.
Perhaps I have a third, too, in a nook,
Or none at all--which seems a sorry jest:
But if a writer should be quite consistent,
How could he possibly show things existent?
If people contradict themselves, can
Help contradicting them, and every body,
Even my veracious self?--But that 's a lie:
I never did so, never will--how should I?
He who doubts all things nothing can deny:
Truth's fountains may be clear--her streams are muddy,
And cut through such canals of contradiction,
That she must often navigate o'er fiction.
Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable,
Are false, but may he render'd also true,
By those who sow them in a land that 's arable.
'T is wonderful what fable will not do!
'T is said it makes reality more bearable:
But what 's reality? Who has its clue?
Philosophy? No: she too much rejects.
Religion? Yes; but which of all her sects?
Some millions must be wrong, that 's pretty dear;
Perhaps it may turn out that all were right.
God help us! Since we have need on our career
To keep our holy beacons always bright,
'T is time that some new prophet should appear,
Or old indulge man with a second sight.
Opinions wear out in some thousand years,
Without a small refreshment from the spheres.
But here again, why will I thus entangle
Myself with metaphysics? None can hate
So much as I do any kind of wrangle;
And yet, such is my folly, or my fate,
I always knock my head against some angle
About the present, past, or future state.
Yet I wish well to Trojan and to Tyrian,
For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian.
But though I am a temperate theologian,
And also meek as a metaphysician,
Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan,
As Eldon on a lunatic commission--
In politics my duty is to show John
Bull something of the lower world's condition.
It makes my blood boil like the springs of Hecla,
To see men let these scoundrel sovereigns break law.
But politics, and policy, and piety,
Are topics which I sometimes introduce,
Not only for the sake of their variety,
But as subservient to a moral use;
Because my business is to dress society,
And stuff with sage that very verdant goose.
And now, that we may furnish with some matter all
Tastes, we are going to try the supernatural.
And now I will give up all argument;
And positively henceforth no temptation
Shall 'fool me to the top up of my bent:'-
Yes, I' ll begin a thorough reformation.
Indeed, I never knew what people meant
By deeming that my Muse's conversation
Was dangerous;--I think she is as harmless
As some who labour more and yet may charm less.
Grim reader! did you ever see a ghost?
No; but you have heard--I understand--be dumb!
And don't regret the time you may have lost,
For you have got that pleasure still to come:
And do not think I mean to sneer at most
Of these things, or by ridicule benumb
That source of the sublime and the mysterious:--
For certain reasons my belief is serious.
Serious? You laugh;--you may: that will I not;
My smiles must be sincere or not at all.
I say I do believe a haunted spot
Exists--and where? That shall I not recall,
Because I 'd rather it should be forgot,
'Shadows the soul of Richard' may appal.
In short, upon that subject I 've some qualms very
Like those of the philosopher of Malmsbury.
The night (I sing by night--sometimes an owl,
And now and then a nightingale) is dim,
And the loud shriek of sage Minerva's fowl
Rattles around me her discordant hymn:
Old portraits from old walls upon me scowl--
I wish to heaven they would not look so grim;
The dying embers dwindle in the grate--
I think too that I have sate up too late:
And therefore, though 't is by no means my way
To rhyme at noon--when I have other things
To think of, if I ever think--I say
I feel some chilly midnight shudderings,
And prudently postpone, until mid-day,
Treating a topic which, alas! but brings
Shadows;--but you must be in my condition
Before you learn to call this superstition.
CANTO THE SIXTEENTH.
The antique Persians taught three useful things,
To draw the bow, to ride, and speak the truth.
This was the mode of Cyrus, best of kings--
A mode adopted since by modern youth.
Bows have they, generally with two strings;
Horses they ride without remorse or ruth;
At speaking truth perhaps they are less clever,
But draw the long bow better now than ever.
The cause of this effect, or this defect,--
'For this effect defective comes by cause,'-
Is what I have not leisure to inspect;
But this I must say in my own applause,
Of all the Muses that I recollect,
Whate'er may be her follies or her flaws
In some things, mine 's beyond all contradiction
The most sincere that ever dealt in fiction.
And as she treats all things, and ne'er retreats
From any thing, this epic will contain
A wilderness of the most rare conceits,
Which you might elsewhere hope to find in vain.
'T is true there be some bitters with the sweets,
Yet mix'd so slightly, that you can't complain,
But wonder they so few are, since my tale is
'De rebus cunctis et quibusdam aliis.'
But of all truths which she has told, the most
True is that which she is about to tell.
I said it was a story of a ghost--
What then? I only know it so befell.
Have you explored the limits of the coast,
Where all the dwellers of the earth must dwell?
'T is time to strike such puny doubters dumb as
The sceptics who would not believe Columbus.
Some people would impose now with authority,
Turpin's or Monmouth Geoffry's Chronicle;
Men whose historical superiority
Is always greatest at a miracle.
But Saint Augustine has the great priority,
Who bids all men believe the impossible,
Because 't is so. Who nibble, scribble, quibble, he
Quiets at once with 'quia impossibile.'
And therefore, mortals, cavil not at all;
Believe:--if 't is improbable you must,
And if it is impossible, you shall:
'T is always best to take things upon trust.
I do not speak profanely, to recall
Those holier mysteries which the wise and just
Receive as gospel, and which grow more rooted,
As all truths must, the more they are disputed:
I merely mean to say what Johnson said,
That in the course of some six thousand years,
All nations have believed that from the dead
A visitant at intervals appears;
And what is strangest upon this strange head,
Is, that whatever bar the reason rears
'Gainst such belief, there 's something stronger still
In its behalf, let those deny who will.
The dinner and the soiree too were done,
The supper too discuss'd, the dames admired,
The banqueteers had dropp'd off one by one--
The song was silent, and the dance expired:
The last thin petticoats were vanish'd, gone
Like fleecy Clouds into the sky retired,
And nothing brighter gleam'd through the saloon
Than dying tapers--and the peeping moon.
The evaporation of a joyous day
Is like the last glass of champagne, without
The foam which made its virgin bumper gay;
Or like a system coupled with a doubt;
Or like a soda bottle when its spray
Has sparkled and let half its spirit out;
Or like a billow left by storms behind,
Without the animation of the wind;
Or like an opiate, which brings troubled rest,
Or none; or like--like nothing that I know
Except itself;--such is the human breast;
A thing, of which similitudes can show
No real likeness,--like the old Tyrian vest
Dyed purple, none at present can tell how,
If from a shell-fish or from cochineal.
So perish every tyrant's robe piece-meal!
But next to dressing for a rout or ball,
Undressing is a woe; our robe de chambre
May sit like that of Nessus, and recall
Thoughts quite as yellow, but less clear than amber.
Titus exclaim'd, 'I 've lost a day!' Of all
The nights and days most people can remember
(I have had of both, some not to be disdain'd),
I wish they 'd state how many they have gain'd.
And Juan, on retiring for the night,
Felt restless, and perplex'd, and compromised:
He thought Aurora Raby's eyes more bright
Than Adeline (such is advice) advised;
If he had known exactly his own plight,
He probably would have philosophised:
A great resource to all, and ne'er denied
Till wanted; therefore Juan only sigh'd.
He sigh'd;--the next resource is the full moon,
Where all sighs are deposited; and now
It happen'd luckily, the chaste orb shone
As clear as such a climate will allow;
And Juan's mind was in the proper tone
To hail her with the apostrophe--'O thou!'
Of amatory egotism the Tuism,
Which further to explain would be a truism.
But lover, poet, or astronomer,
Shepherd, or swain, whoever may behold,
Feel some abstraction when they gaze on her:
Great thoughts we catch from thence (besides a cold
Sometimes, unless my feelings rather err);
Deep secrets to her rolling light are told;
The ocean's tides and mortals' brains she sways,
And also hearts, if there be truth in lays.
Juan felt somewhat pensive, and disposed
For contemplation rather than his pillow:
The Gothic chamber, where he was enclosed,
Let in the rippling sound of the lake's billow,
With all the mystery by midnight caused;
Below his window waved (of course) a willow;
And he stood gazing out on the cascade
That flash'd and after darken'd in the shade.
Upon his table or his toilet,--which
Of these is not exactly ascertain'd
(I state this, for I am cautious to a pitch
Of nicety, where a fact is to be gain'd),--
A lamp burn'd high, while he leant from a niche,
Where many a Gothic ornament remain'd,
In chisell'd stone and painted glass, and all
That time has left our fathers of their hall.
Then, as the night was clear though cold, he threw
His chamber door wide open--and went forth
Into a gallery, of a sombre hue,
Long, furnish'd with old pictures of great worth,
Of knights and dames heroic and chaste too,
As doubtless should be people of high birth.
But by dim lights the portraits of the dead
Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread.
The forms of the grim knight and pictured saint
Look living in the moon; and as you turn
Backward and forward to the echoes faint
Of your own footsteps--voices from the urn
Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint
Start from the frames which fence their aspects stern,
As if to ask how you can dare to keep
A vigil there, where all but death should sleep.
And the pale smile of beauties in the grave,
The charms of other days, in starlight gleams,
Glimmer on high; their buried locks still wave
Along the canvas; their eyes glance like dreams
On ours, or spars within some dusky cave,
But death is imaged in their shadowy beams.
A picture is the past; even ere its frame
Be gilt, who sate hath ceased to be the same.
As Juan mused on mutability,
Or on his mistress--terms synonymous--
No sound except the echo of his sigh
Or step ran sadly through that antique house;
When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh,
A supernatural agent--or a mouse,
Whose little nibbling rustle will embarrass
Most people as it plays along the arras.
It was no mouse, but lo! a monk, array'd
In cowl and beads and dusky garb, appear'd,
Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shade,
With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard;
His garments only a slight murmur made;
He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird,
But slowly; and as he pass'd Juan by,
Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye.
Juan was petrified; he had heard a hint
Of such a spirit in these halls of old,
But thought, like most men, there was nothing in 't
Beyond the rumour which such spots unfold,
Coin'd from surviving superstition's mint,
Which passes ghosts in currency like gold,
But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper.
And did he see this? or was it a vapour?
Once, twice, thrice pass'd, repass'd--the thing of air,
Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t' other place;
And Juan gazed upon it with a stare,
Yet could not speak or move; but, on its base
As stands a statue, stood: he felt his hair
Twine like a knot of snakes around his face;
He tax'd his tongue for words, which were not granted,
To ask the reverend person what he wanted.
The third time, after a still longer pause,
The shadow pass'd away--but where? the hall
Was long, and thus far there was no great cause
To think his vanishing unnatural:
Doors there were many, through which, by the laws
Of physics, bodies whether short or tall
Might come or go; but Juan could not state
Through which the spectre seem'd to evaporate.
He stood--how long he knew not, but it seem'd
An age--expectant, powerless, with his eyes
Strain'd on the spot where first the figure gleam'd;
Then by degrees recall'd his energies,
And would have pass'd the whole off as a dream,
But could not wake; he was, he did surmise,
Waking already, and return'd at length
Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength.
All there was as he left it: still his taper
Burnt, and not blue, as modest tapers use,
Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapour;
He rubb'd his eyes, and they did not refuse
Their office; he took up an old newspaper;
The paper was right easy to peruse;
He read an article the king attacking,
And a long eulogy of 'patent blacking.'
This savour'd of this world; but his hand shook--
He shut his door, and after having read
A paragraph, I think about Horne Tooke,
Undrest, and rather slowly went to bed.
There, couch'd all snugly on his pillow's nook,
With what he had seen his phantasy he fed;
And though it was no opiate, slumber crept
Upon him by degrees, and so he slept.
He woke betimes; and, as may be supposed,
Ponder'd upon his visitant or vision,
And whether it ought not to be disclosed,
At risk of being quizz'd for superstition.
The more he thought, the more his mind was posed:
In the mean time, his valet, whose precision
Was great, because his master brook'd no less,
Knock'd to inform him it was time to dress.
He dress'd; and like young people he was wont
To take some trouble with his toilet, but
This morning rather spent less time upon 't;
Aside his very mirror soon was put;
His curls fell negligently o'er his front,
His clothes were not curb'd to their usual cut,
His very neckcloth's Gordian knot was tied
Almost an hair's breadth too much on one side.
And when he walk'd down into the saloon,
He sate him pensive o'er a dish of tea,
Which he perhaps had not discover'd soon,
Had it not happen'd scalding hot to be,
Which made him have recourse unto his spoon;
So much distrait he was, that all could see
That something was the matter--Adeline
The first--but what she could not well divine.
She look'd, and saw him pale, and turn'd as pale
Herself; then hastily look'd down, and mutter'd
Something, but what 's not stated in my tale.
Lord Henry said his muffin was ill butter'd;
The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke play'd with her veil,
And look'd at Juan hard, but nothing utter'd.
Aurora Raby with her large dark eyes
Survey'd him with a kind of calm surprise.
But seeing him all cold and silent still,
And everybody wondering more or less,
Fair Adeline enquired, 'If he were ill?'
He started, and said, 'Yes--no--rather--yes.'
The family physician had great skill,
And being present, now began to express
His readiness to feel his pulse and tell
The cause, but Juan said, 'He was quite well.'
'Quite well; yes,--no.'--These answers were mysterious,
And yet his looks appear'd to sanction both,
However they might savour of delirious;
Something like illness of a sudden growth
Weigh'd on his spirit, though by no means serious:
But for the rest, as he himself seem'd loth
To state the case, it might be ta'en for granted
It was not the physician that he wanted.
Lord Henry, who had now discuss'd his chocolate,
Also the muffin whereof he complain'd,
Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate,
At which he marvell'd, since it had not rain'd;
Then ask'd her Grace what news were of the duke of late?
Her Grace replied, his Grace was rather pain'd
With some slight, light, hereditary twinges
Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges.
Then Henry turn'd to Juan, and address'd
A few words of condolence on his state:
'You look,' quoth he, 'as if you had had your rest
Broke in upon by the Black Friar of late.'
'What friar?' said Juan; and he did his best
To put the question with an air sedate,
Or careless; but the effort was not valid
To hinder him from growing still more pallid.
'Oh! have you never heard of the Black Friar?
The spirit of these walls?'--'In truth not I.'
'Why Fame--but Fame you know 's sometimes a liar--
Tells an odd story, of which by and by:
Whether with time the spectre has grown shyer,
Or that our sires had a more gifted eye
For such sights, though the tale is half believed,
The friar of late has not been oft perceived.
(Who watch'd the changes of Don Juan's brow,
And from its context thought she could divine
Connexions stronger then he chose to avow
With this same legend)--'if you but design
To jest, you 'll choose some other theme just now,
Because the present tale has oft been told,
And is not much improved by growing old.'
'Jest!' quoth Milor; 'why, Adeline, you know
That we ourselves--'t was in the honey-moon--
But, come, I 'll set your story to a tune.'
Graceful as Dian, when she draws her bow,
She seized her harp, whose strings were kindled soon
As touch'd, and plaintively began to play
The air of ''T was a Friar of Orders Gray.'
'But add the words,' cried Henry, 'which you made;
For Adeline is half a poetess,'
Turning round to the rest, he smiling said.
Of course the others could not but express
In courtesy their wish to see display'd
By one three talents, for there were no less--
The voice, the words, the harper's skill, at once
Could hardly be united by a dunce.
After some fascinating hesitation,--
The charming of these charmers, who seem bound,
I can't tell why, to this dissimulation,--
Fair Adeline, with eyes fix'd on the ground
At first, then kindling into animation,
Added her sweet voice to the lyric sound,
And sang with much simplicity,--a merit
Not the less precious, that we seldom hear it.
Beware! beware! of the Black Friar,
Who sitteth by Norman stone,
For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air,
And his mass of the days that are gone.
When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville,
Made Norman Church his prey,
And expell'd the friars, one friar still
Would not be driven away.
Though he came in his might, with King Henry's right,
To turn church lands to lay,
With sword in hand, and torch to light
Their walls, if they said nay;
A monk remain'd, unchased, unchain'd,
And he did not seem form'd of clay,
For he 's seen in the porch, and he 's seen in the church,
Though he is not seen by day.
And whether for good, or whether for ill,
It is not mine to say;
But still with the house of Amundeville
He abideth night and day.
By the marriage-bed of their lords, 't is said,
He flits on the bridal eve;
And 't is held as faith, to their bed of death
He comes--but not to grieve.
When an heir is born, he 's heard to mourn,
And when aught is to befall
That ancient line, in the "we moonshine
He walks from hall to hall.
His form you may trace, but not his face,
'T is shadow'd by his cowl;
But his eyes may be seen from the folds between,
And they seem of a parted soul.
But beware! beware! of the Black Friar,
He still retains his sway,
For he is yet the church's heir
Whoever may be the lay.
Amundeville is lord by day,
But the monk is lord by night;
Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal
To question that friar's right.
Say nought to him as he walks the hall,
And he 'll say nought to you;
He sweeps along in his dusky pall,
As o'er the grass the dew.
Then grammercy! for the Black Friar;
Heaven sain him, fair or foul!
And whatsoe'er may be his prayer,
Let ours be for his soul.
The lady's voice ceased, and the thrilling wires
Died from the touch that kindled them to sound;
And the pause follow'd, which when song expires
Pervades a moment those who listen round;
And then of course the circle much admires,
Nor less applauds, as in politeness bound,
The tones, the feeling, and the execution,
To the performer's diffident confusion.
Fair Adeline, though in a careless way,
As if she rated such accomplishment
As the mere pastime of an idle day,
Pursued an instant for her own content,
Would now and then as 't were without display,
Yet with display in fact, at times relent
To such performances with haughty smile,
To show she could, if it were worth her while.
Now this (but we will whisper it aside)
Was--pardon the pedantic illustration--
Trampling on Plato's pride with greater pride,
As did the Cynic on some like occasion;
Deeming the sage would be much mortified,
Or thrown into a philosophic passion,
For a spoil'd carpet--but the 'Attic Bee'
Was much consoled by his own repartee.
Thus Adeline would throw into the shade
(By doing easily, whene'er she chose,
What dilettanti do with vast parade)
Their sort of half profession; for it grows
To something like this when too oft display'd;
And that it is so everybody knows
Who have heard Miss That or This, or Lady T'other,
Show off--to please their company or mother.
O! the long evenings of duets and trios!
The admirations and the speculations;
The 'Mamma Mia's!' and the 'Amor Mio's!'
The 'Tanti palpiti's' on such occasions:
The 'Lasciami's,' and quavering 'Addio's!'
Amongst our own most musical of nations;
With 'Tu mi chamas's' from Portingale,
To soothe our ears, lest Italy should fail.
In Babylon's bravuras--as the home
Heart-ballads of Green Erin or Gray Highlands,
That bring Lochaber back to eyes that roam
O'er far Atlantic continents or islands,
The calentures of music which o'ercome
All mountaineers with dreams that they are nigh lands,
No more to be beheld but in such visions--
Was Adeline well versed, as compositions.
She also had a twilight tinge of 'Blue,'
Could write rhymes, and compose more than she wrote,
Made epigrams occasionally too
Upon her friends, as everybody ought.
But still from that sublimer azure hue,
So much the present dye, she was remote;
Was weak enough to deem Pope a great poet,
And what was worse, was not ashamed to show it.
Aurora--since we are touching upon taste,
Which now-a-days is the thermometer
By whose degrees all characters are class'd--
Was more Shakspearian, if I do not err.
The worlds beyond this world's perplexing waste
Had more of her existence, for in her
There was a depth of feeling to embrace
Thoughts, boundless, deep, but silent too as Space.
Not so her gracious, graceful, graceless Grace,
The full-grown Hebe of Fitz-Fulke, whose mind,
If she had any, was upon her face,
And that was of a fascinating kind.
A little turn for mischief you might trace
Also thereon,--but that 's not much; we find
Few females without some such gentle leaven,
For fear we should suppose us quite in heaven.
I have not heard she was at all poetic,
Though once she was seen reading the 'Bath Guide,'
And 'Hayley's Triumphs,' which she deem'd pathetic,
Because she said her temper had been tried
So much, the bard had really been prophetic
Of what she had gone through with--since a bride.
But of all verse, what most ensured her praise
Were sonnets to herself, or 'bouts rimes.'
'T were difficult to say what was the object
Of Adeline, in bringing this same lay
To bear on what appear'd to her the subject
Of Juan's nervous feelings on that day.
Perhaps she merely had the simple project
To laugh him out of his supposed dismay;
Perhaps she might wish to confirm him in it,
Though why I cannot say--at least this minute.
But so far the immediate effect
Was to restore him to his self-propriety,
A thing quite necessary to the elect,
Who wish to take the tone of their society:
In which you cannot be too circumspect,
Whether the mode be persiflage or piety,
But wear the newest mantle of hypocrisy,
On pain of much displeasing the gynocracy.
And therefore Juan now began to rally
His spirits, and without more explanation
To jest upon such themes in many a sally.
Her Grace, too, also seized the same occasion,
With various similar remarks to tally,
But wish'd for a still more detail'd narration
Of this same mystic friar's curious doings,
About the present family's deaths and wooings.
Of these few could say more than has been said;
They pass'd as such things do, for superstition
With some, while others, who had more in dread
The theme, half credited the strange tradition;
And much was talk'd on all sides on that head:
But Juan, when cross-question'd on the vision,
Which some supposed (though he had not avow'd it)
Had stirr'd him, answer'd in a way to cloud it.
And then, the mid-day having worn to one,
The company prepared to separate;
Some to their several pastimes, or to none,
Some wondering 't was so early, some so late.
There was a goodly match too, to be run
Between some greyhounds on my lord's estate,
And a young race-horse of old pedigree
Match'd for the spring, whom several went to see.
There was a picture-dealer who had brought
A special Titian, warranted original,
So precious that it was not to be bought,
Though princes the possessor were besieging all.
The king himself had cheapen'd it, but thought
The civil list he deigns to accept (obliging all
His subjects by his gracious acceptation)
Too scanty, in these times of low taxation.
But as Lord Henry was a connoisseur,--
The friend of artists, if not arts,--the owner,
With motives the most classical and pure,
So that he would have been the very donor,
Rather than seller, had his wants been fewer,
So much he deem'd his patronage an honour,
Had brought the capo d'opera, not for sale,
But for his judgment--never known to fail.
There was a modern Goth, I mean a Gothic
Bricklayer of Babel, call'd an architect,
Brought to survey these grey walls, which though so thick,
Might have from time acquired some slight defect;
Who after rummaging the Abbey through thick
And thin, produced a plan whereby to erect
New buildings of correctest conformation,
And throw down old--which he call'd restoration.
The cost would be a trifle--an 'old song,'
Set to some thousands ('t is the usual burden
Of that same tune, when people hum it long)--
The price would speedily repay its worth in
An edifice no less sublime than strong,
By which Lord Henry's good taste would go forth in
Its glory, through all ages shining sunny,
For Gothic daring shown in English money.
There were two lawyers busy on a mortgage
Lord Henry wish'd to raise for a new purchase;
Also a lawsuit upon tenures burgage,
And one on tithes, which sure are Discord's torches,
Kindling Religion till she throws down her gage,
'Untying' squires 'to fight against the churches;'
There was a prize ox, a prize pig, and ploughman,
For Henry was a sort of Sabine showman.
There were two poachers caught in a steel trap,
Ready for gaol, their place of convalescence;
There was a country girl in a close cap
And scarlet cloak (I hate the sight to see, since--
Since--since--in youth, I had the sad mishap--
But luckily I have paid few parish fees since):
That scarlet cloak, alas! unclosed with rigour,
Presents the problem of a double figure.
A reel within a bottle is a mystery,
One can't tell how it e'er got in or out;
Therefore the present piece of natural history
I leave to those who are fond of solving doubt;
And merely state, though not for the consistory,
Lord Henry was a justice, and that Scout
The constable, beneath a warrant's banner,
Had bagg'd this poacher upon Nature's manor.
Now justices of peace must judge all pieces
Of mischief of all kinds, and keep the game
And morals of the country from caprices
Of those who have not a license for the same;
And of all things, excepting tithes and leases,
Perhaps these are most difficult to tame:
Preserving partridges and pretty wenches
Are puzzles to the most precautious benches.
The present culprit was extremely pale,
Pale as if painted so; her cheek being red
By nature, as in higher dames less hale
'T is white, at least when they just rise from bed.
Perhaps she was ashamed of seeming frail,
Poor soul! for she was country born and bred,
And knew no better in her immorality
Than to wax white--for blushes are for quality.
Her black, bright, downcast, yet espiegle eye,
Had gather'd a large tear into its corner,
Which the poor thing at times essay'd to dry,
For she was not a sentimental mourner
Parading all her sensibility,
Nor insolent enough to scorn the scorner,
But stood in trembling, patient tribulation,
To be call'd up for her examination.
Of course these groups were scatter'd here and there,
Not nigh the gay saloon of ladies gent.
The lawyers in the study; and in air
The prize pig, ploughman, poachers; the men sent
From town, viz., architect and dealer, were
Both busy (as a general in his tent
Writing despatches) in their several stations,
Exulting in their brilliant lucubrations.
But this poor girl was left in the great hall,
While Scout, the parish guardian of the frail,
Discuss'd (he hated beer yclept the 'small')
A mighty mug of moral double ale.
She waited until justice could recall
Its kind attentions to their proper pale,
To name a thing in nomenclature rather
Perplexing for most virgins--a child's father.
You see here was enough of occupation
For the Lord Henry, link'd with dogs and horses.
There was much bustle too, and preparation
Below stairs on the score of second courses;
Because, as suits their rank and situation,
Those who in counties have great land resources
Have 'Public days,' when all men may carouse,
Though not exactly what 's call'd 'open house.'
But once a week or fortnight, uninvited
(Thus we translate a general invitation),
All country gentlemen, esquired or knighted,
May drop in without cards, and take their station
At the full board, and sit alike delighted
With fashionable wines and conversation;
And, as the isthmus of the grand connection,
Talk o'er themselves the past and next election.
Lord Henry was a great electioneerer,
Burrowing for boroughs like a rat or rabbit;
But county contests cost him rather dearer,
Because the neighbouring Scotch Earl of Giftgabbit
Had English influence in the self-same sphere here;
His son, the Honourable Dick Dicedrabbit,
Was member for the 'other interest' (meaning
The same self-interest, with a different leaning).
Courteous and cautious therefore in his county,
He was all things to all men, and dispensed
To some civility, to others bounty,
And promises to all--which last commenced
To gather to a somewhat large amount, he
Not calculating how much they condensed;
But what with keeping some, and breaking others,
His word had the same value as another's.
A friend to freedom and freeholders--yet
No less a friend to government--he held,
That he exactly the just medium hit
'Twixt place and patriotism--albeit compell'd,
Such was his sovereign's pleasure (though unfit,
He added modestly, when rebels rail'd),
To hold some sinecures he wish'd abolish'd,
But that with them all law would be demolish'd.
He was 'free to confess' (whence comes this phrase?
Is 't English? No--'t is only parliamentary)
That innovation's spirit now-a-days
Had made more progress than for the last century.
He would not tread a factious path to praise,
Though for the public weal disposed to venture high;
As for his place, he could but say this of it,
That the fatigue was greater than the profit.
Heaven, and his friends, knew that a private life
Had ever been his sole and whole ambition;
But could he quit his king in times of strife,
Which threaten'd the whole country with perdition?
When demagogues would with a butcher's knife
Cut through and through (oh! damnable incision!)
The Gordian or the Geordi-an knot, whose strings
Have tied together commons, lords, and kings.
Sooner 'come lace into the civil list
And champion him to the utmost'--he would keep it,
Till duly disappointed or dismiss'd:
Profit he care not for, let others reap it;
But should the day come when place ceased to exist,
The country would have far more cause to weep it:
For how could it go on? Explain who can!
He gloried in the name of Englishman.
He was as independent--ay, much more--
Than those who were not paid for independence,
As common soldiers, or a common--shore,
Have in their several arts or parts ascendance
O'er the irregulars in lust or gore,
Who do not give professional attendance.
Thus on the mob all statesmen are as eager
To prove their pride, as footmen to a beggar.
All this (save the last stanza) Henry said,
And thought. I say no more--I 've said too much;
For all of us have either heard or read--
Off--or upon the hustings--some slight such
Hints from the independent heart or head
Of the official candidate. I 'll touch
No more on this--the dinner-bell hath rung,
And grace is said; the grace I should have sung--
But I 'm too late, and therefore must make play.
'T was a great banquet, such as Albion old
Was wont to boast--as if a glutton's tray
Were something very glorious to behold.
But 't was a public feast and public day,--
Quite full, right dull, guests hot, and dishes cold,
Great plenty, much formality, small cheer,
And every body out of their own sphere.
The squires familiarly formal, and
My lords and ladies proudly condescending;
The very servants puzzling how to hand
Their plates--without it might be too much bending
From their high places by the sideboard's stand--
Yet, like their masters, fearful of offending.
For any deviation from the graces
Might cost both man and master too--their places.
There were some hunters bold, and coursers keen,
Whose hounds ne'er err'd, nor greyhounds deign'd to lurch;
Some deadly shots too, Septembrizers, seen
Earliest to rise, and last to quit the search
Of the poor partridge through his stubble screen.
There were some massy members of the church,
Takers of tithes, and makers of good matches,
And several who sung fewer psalms than catches.
There were some country wags too--and, alas!
Some exiles from the town, who had been driven
To gaze, instead of pavement, upon grass,
And rise at nine in lieu of long eleven.
And lo! upon that day it came to pass,
I sate next that o'erwhelming son of heaven,
The very powerful parson, Peter Pith,
The loudest wit I e'er was deafen'd with.
I knew him in his livelier London days,
A brilliant diner out, though but a curate;
And not a joke he cut but earn'd its praise,
Until preferment, coming at a sure rate
(O Providence! how wondrous are thy ways!
Who would suppose thy gifts sometimes obdurate?),
Gave him, to lay the devil who looks o'er Lincoln,
A fat fen vicarage, and nought to think on.
His jokes were sermons, and his sermons jokes;
But both were thrown away amongst the fens;
For wit hath no great friend in aguish folks.
No longer ready ears and short-hand pens
Imbibed the gay bon-mot, or happy hoax:
The poor priest was reduced to common sense,
Or to coarse efforts very loud and long,
To hammer a horse laugh from the thick throng.
There is a difference, says the song, 'between
A beggar and a queen,' or was (of late
The latter worse used of the two we 've seen--
But we 'll say nothing of affairs of state);
A difference ''twixt a bishop and a dean,'
A difference between crockery ware and plate,
As between English beef and Spartan broth--
And yet great heroes have been bred by both.
But of all nature's discrepancies, none
Upon the whole is greater than the difference
Beheld between the country and the town,
Of which the latter merits every preference
From those who have few resources of their own,
And only think, or act, or feel, with reference
To some small plan of interest or ambition--
Both which are limited to no condition.
But 'en avant!' The light loves languish o'er
Long banquets and too many guests, although
A slight repast makes people love much more,
Bacchus and Ceres being, as we know
Even from our grammar upwards, friends of yore
With vivifying Venus, who doth owe
To these the invention of champagne and truffles:
Temperance delights her, but long fasting ruffles.
Dully past o'er the dinner of the day;
And Juan took his place, he knew not where,
Confused, in the confusion, and distrait,
And sitting as if nail'd upon his chair:
Though knives and forks clank'd round as in a fray,
He seem'd unconscious of all passing there,
Till some one, with a groan, exprest a wish
(Unheeded twice) to have a fin of fish.
On which, at the third asking of the bans,
He started; and perceiving smiles around
Broadening to grins, he colour'd more than once,
And hastily--as nothing can confound
A wise man more than laughter from a dunce--
Inflicted on the dish a deadly wound,
And with such hurry, that ere he could curb it
He had paid his neighbour's prayer with half a turbot.
This was no bad mistake, as it occurr'd,
The supplicator being an amateur;
But others, who were left with scarce a third,
Were angry--as they well might, to be sure.
They wonder'd how a young man so absurd
Lord Henry at his table should endure;
And this, and his not knowing how much oats
Had fallen last market, cost his host three votes.
They little knew, or might have sympathised,
That he the night before had seen a ghost,
A prologue which but slightly harmonised
With the substantial company engross'd
By matter, and so much materialised,
That one scarce knew at what to marvel most
Of two things--how (the question rather odd is)
Such bodies could have souls, or souls such bodies.
But what confused him more than smile or stare
From all the 'squires and 'squiresses around,
Who wonder'd at the abstraction of his air,
Especially as he had been renown'd
For some vivacity among the fair,
Even in the country circle's narrow bound
(For little things upon my lord's estate
Were good small talk for others still less great)--
Was, that he caught Aurora's eye on his,
And something like a smile upon her cheek.
Now this he really rather took amiss:
In those who rarely smile, their smiles bespeak
A strong external motive; and in this
Smile of Aurora's there was nought to pique
Or hope, or love, with any of the wiles
Which some pretend to trace in ladies' smiles.
'T was a mere quiet smile of contemplation,
Indicative of some surprise and pity;
And Juan grew carnation with vexation,
Which was not very wise, and still less witty,
Since he had gain'd at least her observation,
A most important outwork of the city--
As Juan should have known, had not his senses
By last night's ghost been driven from their defences.
But what was bad, she did not blush in turn,
Nor seem embarrass'd--quite the contrary;
Her aspect was as usual, still--not stern--
And she withdrew, but cast not down, her eye,
Yet grew a little pale--with what? concern?
I know not; but her colour ne'er was high--
Though sometimes faintly flush'd--and always clear,
As deep seas in a sunny atmosphere.
But Adeline was occupied by fame
This day; and watching, witching, condescending
To the consumers of fish, fowl, and game,
And dignity with courtesy so blending,
As all must blend whose part it is to aim
(Especially as the sixth year is ending)
At their lord's, son's, or similar connection's
Safe conduct through the rocks of re-elections.
Though this was most expedient on the whole,
And usual--Juan, when he cast a glance
On Adeline while playing her grand role,
Which she went through as though it were a dance,
Betraying only now and then her soul
By a look scarce perceptibly askance
(Of weariness or scorn), began to feel
Some doubt how much of Adeline was real;
So well she acted all and every part
By turns--with that vivacious versatility,
Which many people take for want of heart.
They err--'t is merely what is call'd mobility,
A thing of temperament and not of art,
Though seeming so, from its supposed facility;
And false--though true; for surely they 're sincerest
Who are strongly acted on by what is nearest.
This makes your actors, artists, and romancers,
Heroes sometimes, though seldom--sages never;
But speakers, bards, diplomatists, and dancers,
Little that 's great, but much of what is clever;
Most orators, but very few financiers,
Though all Exchequer chancellors endeavour,
Of late years, to dispense with Cocker's rigours,
And grow quite figurative with their figures.
The poets of arithmetic are they
Who, though they prove not two and two to be
Five, as they might do in a modest way,
Have plainly made it out that four are three,
Judging by what they take, and what they pay.
The Sinking Fund's unfathomable sea,
That most unliquidating liquid, leaves
The debt unsunk, yet sinks all it receives.
While Adeline dispensed her airs and graces,
The fair Fitz-Fulke seem'd very much at ease;
Though too well bred to quiz men to their faces,
Her laughing blue eyes with a glance could seize
The ridicules of people in all places--
That honey of your fashionable bees--
And store it up for mischievous enjoyment;
And this at present was her kind employment.
However, the day closed, as days must close;
The evening also waned--and coffee came.
Each carriage was announced, and ladies rose,
And curtsying off, as curtsies country dame,
Retired: with most unfashionable bows
Their docile esquires also did the same,
Delighted with their dinner and their host,
But with the Lady Adeline the most.
Some praised her beauty; others her great grace;
The warmth of her politeness, whose sincerity
Was obvious in each feature of her face,
Whose traits were radiant with the rays of verity.
Yes; she was truly worthy her high place!
No one could envy her deserved prosperity.
And then her dress--what beautiful simplicity
Draperied her form with curious felicity!
Meanwhile Sweet Adeline deserved their praises,
By an impartial indemnification
For all her past exertion and soft phrases,
In a most edifying conversation,
Which turn'd upon their late guests' miens and faces,
And families, even to the last relation;
Their hideous wives, their horrid selves and dresses,
And truculent distortion of their tresses.
True, she said little--'t was the rest that broke
Forth into universal epigram;
But then 't was to the purpose what she spoke:
Like Addison's 'faint praise,' so wont to damn,
Her own but served to set off every joke,
As music chimes in with a melodrame.
How sweet the task to shield an absent friend!
I ask but this of mine, to--not defend.
There were but two exceptions to this keen
Skirmish of wits o'er the departed; one
Aurora, with her pure and placid mien;
And Juan, too, in general behind none
In gay remark on what he had heard or seen,
Sate silent now, his usual spirits gone:
In vain he heard the others rail or rally,
He would not join them in a single sally.
'T is true he saw Aurora look as though
She approved his silence; she perhaps mistook
Its motive for that charity we owe
But seldom pay the absent, nor would look
Farther--it might or might not be so.
But Juan, sitting silent in his nook,
Observing little in his reverie,
Yet saw this much, which he was glad to see.
The ghost at least had done him this much good,
In making him as silent as a ghost,
If in the circumstances which ensued
He gain'd esteem where it was worth the most.
And certainly Aurora had renew'd
In him some feelings he had lately lost,
Or harden'd; feelings which, perhaps ideal,
Are so divine, that I must deem them real:--
The love of higher things and better days;
The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance
Of what is call'd the world, and the world's ways;
The moments when we gather from a glance
More joy than from all future pride or praise,
Which kindle manhood, but can ne'er entrance
The heart in an existence of its own,
Of which another's bosom is the zone.
Who would not sigh Ai ai Tan Kuuerheian
That hath a memory, or that had a heart?
Alas! her star must fade like that of Dian:
Ray fades on ray, as years on years depart.
Anacreon only had the soul to tie an
Unwithering myrtle round the unblunted dart
Of Eros: but though thou hast play'd us many tricks,
Still we respect thee, 'Alma Venus Genetrix!'
And full of sentiments, sublime as billows
Heaving between this world and worlds beyond,
Don Juan, when the midnight hour of pillows
Arrived, retired to his; but to despond
Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willows
Waved o'er his couch; he meditated, fond
Of those sweet bitter thoughts which banish sleep,
And make the worldling sneer, the youngling weep.
The night was as before: he was undrest,
Saving his night-gown, which is an undress;
Completely 'sans culotte,' and without vest;
In short, he hardly could be clothed with less:
But apprehensive of his spectral guest,
He sate with feelings awkward to express
(By those who have not had such visitations),
Expectant of the ghost's fresh operations.
And not in vain he listen'd;--Hush! what 's that?
I see--I see--Ah, no!--'t is not--yet 't is--
Ye powers! it is the--the--the--Pooh! the cat!
The devil may take that stealthy pace of his!
So like a spiritual pit-a-pat,
Or tiptoe of an amatory Miss,
Gliding the first time to a rendezvous,
And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe.
Again--what is 't? The wind? No, no--this time
It is the sable friar as before,
With awful footsteps regular as rhyme,
Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more.
Again through shadows of the night sublime,
When deep sleep fell on men, and the world wore
The starry darkness round her like a girdle
Spangled with gems--the monk made his blood curdle.
A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass,
Which sets the teeth on edge; and a slight clatter,
Like showers which on the midnight gusts will pass,
Sounding like very supernatural water,
Came over Juan's ear, which throbb'd, alas!
For immaterialism 's a serious matter;
So that even those whose faith is the most great
In souls immortal, shun them tete-a-tete.
Were his eyes open?--Yes! and his mouth too.
Surprise has this effect--to make one dumb,
Yet leave the gate which eloquence slips through
As wide as if a long speech were to come.
Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew,
Tremendous to a mortal tympanum:
His eyes were open, and (as was before
Stated) his mouth. What open'd next?--the door.
It open'd with a most infernal creak,
Like that of hell. 'Lasciate ogni speranza
Voi che entrate!' The hinge seem'd to speak,
Dreadful as Dante's rhima, or this stanza;
Or--but all words upon such themes are weak:
A single shade 's sufficient to entrance
Hero--for what is substance to a spirit?
Or how is 't matter trembles to come near it?
The door flew wide,--not swiftly, but, as fly
The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight,
And then swung back, nor close, but stood awry,
Half letting in long shadows on the light,
Which still in Juan's candlesticks burned high,
For he had two, both tolerably bright,
And in the doorway, darkening darkness, stood
The sable Friar in his solemn hood.
Between two worlds life hovers like a star,
'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.
How little do we know that which we are!
How less what we may be! The eternal surge
Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar
Our bubbles; as the old burst, new emerge,
Lash'd from the foam of ages; while the graves
Of empires heave but like some passing waves.
Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken
The night before, but being sick of shaking,
He first inclined to think he had been mistaken,
And then to be ashamed of such mistaking.
His own internal ghost began to awaken
Within him and to quell his corporal quaking,
Hinting that soul and body on the whole
Were odds against a disembodied soul.
And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce,
And he arose, advanced. The shade retreated,
But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce,
Followed, his veins no longer cold, but heated,
Resolved to thrust the mystery carte and tierce,
At whatsoever risk of being defeated.
The ghost stopped, menaced, then retired, until
He reached the ancient wall, then stood stone still.
Juan put forth one arm. Eternal powers!
It touched no soul nor body, but the wall,
On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers
Checkered with all the tracery of the hall.
He shuddered, as no doubt the bravest cowers
When he can't tell what 'tis that doth appal.
How odd, a single hobgoblin's nonentity
Should cause more fear than a whole host's identity.
But still the shade remained, the blue eyes glared,
And rather variably for stony death.
Yet one thing rather good the grave had spared;
The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath.
A straggling curl showed he had been fair-haired.
A red lip with two rows of pearls beneath
Gleamed forth, as through the casement's ivy shroud
The moon peeped, just escaped from a grey cloud.
And Juan, puzzled but still curious, thrust
His other arm forth. Wonder upon wonder!
It pressed upon a hard but glowing bust,
Which beat as if there was a warm heart under.
He found, as people on most trials must,
That he had made at first a silly blunder
And that in his confusion he had caught
Only the wall, instead of what he sought
The ghost, if ghost it were, seemed a sweet soul
As ever lurked beneath a holy hood.
A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory stole
Forth into something much like flesh and blood.
Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl
And they revealed, alas, that ere they should,
In full, voluptuous, but not o'ergrown bulk,
The phantom of her frolic Grace--Fita-Fulke!
[The end of the 1857 edition]
* * * * *
CANTO THE SEVENTEENTH.
The world is full of orphans: firstly, those
Who are so in the strict sense of the phrase
(But many a lonely tree the loftier grows
Than others crowded in the forest's maze);
The next are such as are not doomed to lose
Their tender parents in their budding days,
But merely their parental tenderness,
Which leaves them orphans of the heart no less.
The next are 'only children', as they are styled,
Who grow up children only, since the old saw
Pronounces that an 'only' 's a spoilt child.
But not to go too far, I hold it law
That where their education, harsh or mild,
'Transgresses the great bounds of love or awe,
The sufferers, be't in heart or intellect,
Whate'er the cause are orphans in effect.
But to return unto the stricter rule
(As far as words make rules), our common notion
Of orphans paints at once a parish school,
A half-starved babe, a wreck upon life's ocean,
A human (what the Italians nickname) 'mule',
A theme for pity or some worse emotion;
Yet, if examined, it might be admitted
The wealthiest orphans are to be more pitied.
Too soon they are parents to themselves; for what
Are tutors, guardians, and so forth, compared
With Nature's genial genitors, so that
A child of Chancery, that Star Chamber ward
(I'll take the likeness I can first come at),
Is like a duckling by Dame Partlett reared
And frights, especially if 'tis a daughter,
The old hen by running headlong to the water.
There is a commonplace book argument,
Which glibly glides from every vulgar tongue
When any dare a new light to present:
'If you are right, then everybody's wrong.'
Suppose the converse of this precedent
So often urged, so loudly and so long:
'If you are wrong, then everybody's right.'
Was ever everybody yet so quite?
Therefore I would solicit free discussion
Upon all points, no matter what or whose,
Because as ages upon ages push on,
The last is apt the former to accuse
Of pillowing its head on a pincushion,
Heedless of pricks because it was obtuse.
What was a paradox becomes a truth or
A something like it, as bear witness Luther.
The sacraments have been reduced to two
And witches unto none, though somewhat late
Since burning aged women (save a few,
Not witches, only bitches, who create
Mischief in families, as some know or knew,
Should still be singed, but slightly let me state)
Has been declared an act of inurbanity,
Malg? Sir Matthew Hale's great humanity.
Great Galileo was debarred the sun,
Because he fixed it, and to stop his talking
How earth could round the solar orbit run,
Found his own legs embargoed from mere walking.
The man was well nigh dead, ere men begun
To think his skull had not some need of caulking,
But now it seems he's right, his notion just,
No doubt a consolation to his dust.
Pythagoras, Locke, Socrates--but pages
Might be filled up, as vainly as before,
With the sad usage of all sorts of sages,
Who in his lifetime each was deemed a bore.
The loftiest minds outrun their tardy ages;
This they must bear with and perhaps much more.
The wise man's sure when he no more can share it, he
Will have a firm post-obit on posterity.
If such doom waits each intellectual giant,
We little people in our lesser way
To life's small rubs should surely be more pliant,
And so for one will I, as well I may.
Would that I were less bilious--but oh fie on't!
Just as I make my mind up everyday
To be a totus teres stoic, sage,
The wind shifts and I fly into a rage.
Temperate I am, yet never had a temper;
Modest I am, yet with some slight assurance;
Changeable too, yet somehow idem semper;
Patient, but not enamoured of endurance;
Cheerful, but sometimes rather apt to whimper;
Mild, but at times a sort of Hercules furens;
So that I almost think that the same skin
For one without has two or three within.
Our hero was in canto the sixteenth
Left in a tender moonlight situation,
Such as enables man to show his strength
Moral or physical On this occasion
Whether his virtue triumphed, or at length
His vice--for he was of a kindling nation--
Is more than I shall venture to describe,
Unless some beauty with a kiss should bribe.
I leave the thing a problem, like all things.
The morning came, and breakfast, tea and toast,
Of which most men partake, but no one sings.
The company, whose birth, wealth, worth have cost
My trembling lyre already several strings,
Assembled with our hostess and mine host.
The guests dropped in, the last but one, Her Grace,
The latest, Juan with his virgin face.
Which best is to encounter, ghost or none,
'Twere difficult to say, but Juan looked
As if he had combated with more than one,
Being wan and worn, with eyes that hardly brooked
The light that through the Gothic windows shone.
Her Grace too had a sort of air rebuked,
Seemed pale and shivered, as if she had kept
A vigil or dreamt rather more than slept.