Sidor som bilder

. pride;"

If e'er the sinking Stage could condescend

“O British poesy, whose powers inspire" To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend,

My verse—or I'm a fool-and Fame's a liar,
All past reproach may present scenes refute, “Thee we invoke, your sister arts implore"
And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute!(1) With « smiles,” and “lyres” and “pencils,” and
Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws,

much more.
Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause; These, if we win the Graces, too, we gain
So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers, Disgraces, too ! "inseparable train!”
And reason's voice be echo'd back by ours !

“ Three who have stolen their witching airs from

Cupid" This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd,

(You all know what I mean, unless you're stupid): The Drama's homage by her herald paid,

“ Harmonious throng” that I have kept in petto, Receive our welcome too, whose every tone

Now to produce in a "divine sestetto !!" Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own.

« While Poesy," with these delightful dosies, The curtain rises—may our stage unfold

“Sustains her part” in all the upper” boxes! Scenes not unworthy. Drury's days of old!

« Thus lifted gloriously, you'll soar along," Britons our judges, Nature for our guide,

Borne in the vast balloon of Busby's song; Still may we please—long, long may you preside!(2)

“Shine in your farce, masque, scenery, and play

(For this last line George had a holiday). PARENTHETICAL ADDRESS (3)

« Old Drury never, never soar'd so high,"

So says the manager, and so say I.

“But hold, you say, this self-complacent boast ; Half stolen, with acknowledgments, to be spoken in an in- Is this the poem which the public lost? articulate voice by Master B. at the opening of the next 1 u Trne_trne

| “ True-true-that lowers at once our mounting Dew theatre. Stolen parts marked with the inverted commas of quotation-thus "- ".

But lo!-the papers print what you deride. “Waen energiging objects men pursue,"

“ 'Tis ours to look on you--you hold the prize," Then Lord knows what is writ by Lord knows who.

'T is twenty guineas, as they advertise! A modest monologue you here survey."

“A double blessing your rewards impart" — Hiss'd from the theatre the “other day,"

I wish I had them, then, with all my heart! As if Sir Fretful wrote the slumberous” verse,

“Our twofold feeling owns its twofold cause," And gave his son “the rubbish” to rehearse.

Why son and I both beg for your applause. - Yet at the thing you'd never be amazed,"

“ When in your fostering beams you bid us live," Knew you the rumpus which the author raised;

My next subscription-list shall say how much you give! Nor even here your smiles would be represt,"

October, 1812. Knew you these lines—the badness of the best. - "Flame! fire! and flame!!” (words borrow'd from

Lucretius,) - "Dread metaphors, which open wounds” like issues! "And sleeping pangs awake_and—but away!"

| VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMER-HOUSE AT (Confound me if I know what next to say).

HALES-OWEN.(4) "Lo, Hope reviving re-expands her wings," And Master G--recites what Doctor Busby sings !-

| When Dryden's fool, "unknowing what he sought," (5) "If mighty things with small we may compare."

His hours in whistling spent, “ for want of thought,” (Translated from the grammar for the fair!)

This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense Dramatic “spirit drives a conquering car,"

Supplied, and amply too, by innocence;

Did modern swains, possessid of Cymon's powers, And burn'd poor Moscow like a tub of “tar." * This spirit Wellington has shown in Spain,"

In Cymon's manner waste their leisure hours, To furnish melo-drames for Drury Lane.

The offended guests would not, with blushing, see “Another Marlborough points to Blenheim's story,"

These fair green walks disgraced by infamy.

Severe the fate of modern fools, alas! And George and I will dramatise it for ye.

When vice and folly mark them as they pass. "In arts and sciences our isle hath shone"

Like noxious reptiles o'er the whiten'd wall, (This deep discovery is mine alone).

The filth they leave still points out where they crawl.

(1) The following lines were omitted by the Committee: ron, did you know that amongst the writers of addresses

was Whitbread himself?' I answered by an inquiry of « Nay, lower still, the Drama yet deplores

what sort of an address he had made. Of that,' replied That late she deign'd to crawl upon all-fours. When Richard roars at Bosworth for a horse,

Sheridan, I remember little, except that there was a phoIf you command, the steed must come in course.

nix in it.'- A phenix !! Well, how did he describe it?' If you decree, the stage must condescend

-Like a poulterer,' answered Sheridan: 'it was green, and To soothe the sickly taste we dare not mend.

yellow, and red, and blue: be did not let us off for a single Blame not our judgment should we acquiesce,

feather.'B. Letters, 1821.-L.E. And gratify you more by showing less ;

(3) Among the addresses sent in to the Drury Lane ComThe past reproach let present scenes refute, Nor shift from man to babe, from babe to brute."

mittee, was one by Dr. Busby, entitled “A Monologue,” of

which the above is a parody. It began as follows:1s Whitbread," said Lord Byron, “determined to cas.

" When energising objects men pursue, trate all my cavalry lines? I do implore, for my own grati.

What are the prodigies they cannot do ? fication, one lash on those accursed quadrupeds- a long

A magic edifice you here survey, shot, Sir Lucius, if you love me.' "-L.E.

Shot from the ruins of the other day!", etc.-L. E. (2) « Soon after the Rejected Addresses scene in 1812, il () In Warwickshire.--L. E. met Sheridan. In the course of dinner, he said, 'Lord By (6) See Cynnon and Iphigenia.--L. E.

VERSES.(1) REMEMBER thee! remember thee!

Till Lethe quench life's burning stream Remorse and shame shall cling to thee,

And haunt thee like a feverish dream! Remember thee! Ay, doubt it not.

Thy husband too shall think of thee: By neither shalt thou be forgot,

Thou false to him, thou fiend to me!

ON LORD ELGIN.(2) Noseless himself, he brings home noseless blocks, To show at once the ravages of time and pox.

TO TIME. TIME! on whose arbitrary wing

The varying hours must flag or fly,
Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring,

But drag or drive us on to die
Hail thou ! who on my birth bestow'd

Those boons to all that know thee known; Yet better I sustain thy load,

For now I bear the weight alone.
I would not one fond heart should share

The bitter moments thou hast given;
And pardon thee, since thou couldst spare

All that I loved, to peace or heaven. To them be joy or rest, on me

Thy future ills shall press in vain;
I nothing owe but years to thee,

A debt already paid in pain.
Yet even that pain was some relief;

It felt, but still forgot, thy power:
The active agony of grief

Retards, but never counts the hour. In joy I've sigh'd to think thy flight

Would soou subside from swift to slow; Thy cloud could overcast the light,

But could not add a night to woe; For then, however drear and dark,

My soul was suited to thy sky;
One star alone shot forth a spark

To prove thee-not Eternity.
That beam hath sunk, and now thou art

A blank; a thing to count and curse
Through each dull tedious trifling part,

Which all regret, yet all rehearse. One scene even thou canst not deform;

The limit of thy sloth or speed When future wanderers bear the storm

Which we shall sleep too sound to heed: And I can smile to think how weak

Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, When all the vengeance thou canst wreak

Must fall upon-a nameless stone.


Ah! Love was never yet without
The pang, the agony, the doubt
Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh,
While day and night roll darkling by.
Without one friend to hear my woe,
I faint, I die beneath the blow.
That Love had arrows, well I knew;
Alas! I find them poison'd too.
Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net
Which Love around your haunts hath set;
Or, circled by his fatal fire,
Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire.
A bird of free and careless wing
Was 1, through many a smiling spring;
But caught within the subtle snare,
I burn, and feebly flutter there.
Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain,
Can neither feel nor pity pain,
The cold repulse, the look askance,
The lightning of Love's angry glance.
In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine;
Now hope, and he who hoped, decline;
Like melting way, or withering flower,
I feel my passion, and thy power.
My light of life! ah, tell me why
That pouting lip, and alter'd eye?
My bird of Love! my beauteous mate!
And art thou changed, and canst thou bate?
Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow:
What wretch with me would barter wee?
My bird! relent: one note could give
A charm, to bid thy lover live.
My curdling blood, my maddening brain,
In silent anguish I sustain;
And still thy heart, without partaking
One pang, exults—while mine is breaking.
Pour me the poison ; fear not thou!
Thou canst not murder more than now:
I've lived to curse my natal day,
And Love, that thus can lingering slay.
My wounded soul, my bleeding breast,
Can patience preach thee into rest?
Alas! too late, I dearly know
That joy is harbinger of woe.

Thou art not false, but thou art fickle,

To those thyself so foudly sought;,
The tears that thou hast forced to trickle

Are doubly bitter from that thought: "Tis this which breaks the heart thoa grietest, Too well thou lov'st-too soon thou leavest,

(1) « The sequel of a temporary liaison, formed by Lord I ship was from home; but finding Vathek on the Byron during his gay but brief career in London, occasioned lady wrote in the first page of the volume the the composition of this Impromptu. On the cessation of memher me!' Byron immediately wrote under the the connection, the fair one, actuated by jealousy, called | warning these two stanzas." Medwin.-P.L. one morning at her quondam lover's apartments. His Lord (2) See Curse of Minerva, p. 187.-P.E.

athes on the table, the Volume the words Frote under the sings

The wholly false the heart despises,

And spurns deceiver and deceit; But she who not a thought disguises,

Whose love is as sincere as sweet, When she can change who loved so truly, It feels what mine has felt so newly. To dream of joy, and wake to sorrow,

Is doom'd to all who love or live; And if, when conscious on the morrow,

We scarce our fancy can forgive, That cheated us in slumber only, To leave the waking soul more lonely, What must they feel whom no false vision,

But truest tenderest passion, warm'd? Sincere, but swift in sad transition ;

As if a dream alone had charm’d? Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming, And all thy change can be but dreaming!

Oh, God! that we had met in time,

Our hearts as fond, thy band more free; When thou hadst loved without a crime,

And I been less unworthy thee! Far may thy days, as heretofore,

From this our gaudy world be pass'd! And that too bitter moment o'er,

Oh! may such trial be thy last! This heart, alas! perverted long,

Itself destroy'd might there destroy; To meet thee in the glittering throng,

Would wake Presumption's hope of joy. Then to the things whose bliss or woe,

Like mine, is wild and worthless all, That world resign-—such scenes forego,

Where those who feel must surely fall. Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness,

Thy soul from long seclusion pure; From what even here hath pass'd, may guess

What there thy bosom must endure. Oh! pardon that imploring tear,

Since not by Virtue shed in vain, My frenzy drew from eyes so dear;

For me they shall not weep again. Though long and mournful must it be,

The thought that we no more may meet; Yet I deserve the stern decree,

And almost deem the sentence sweet.
Still, had I loved thee less, my heart

Had then less sacrificed to thine;
It felt not half so much to part,
As if its guilt had made thee mine.



The "Origin of Love!"-Ah, why

That cruel question ask of me,
When thou mayst read in many an eye

He starts to life on seeing thee?
And shouldst thou seek his end to know:

My heart forebodes, my fears foresee, He'll linger long in silent woe;

But live-until I cease to be.

REMEMBER him, whom passion's power

Severely, deeply, vainly proved :
Remember thou that dangerous hour

When peither fell, though both were loved. That yielding breast, that melting eye,

Too much invited to be bless'd: That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh,

The wilder wish reproved, repress'd. Oh! let me feel that all I lost

But saved thee all that couscience fears; And blash for every pang it cost

To spare the vain remorse of years. Yet think of this when many a tongue,

Whose busy accents whisper blame, Would do the heart that loved thee wrong,

And brand a nearly blighted name. Think that, whate'er to others, thou

Hast seen each selfish thought subdued : I bless thy purer soul even now,

Even now, in midnight solitude.

ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS.(1) Wuen Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent (I hope I am not violent), Nor men nor gods knew what he meant. And since not even our Rogers' praise To common sense his thoughts could raiseWhy would they let him print his lays ?

To me, divine Apollo, grant-0! Hermilda's first and second canto, I'm fitting up a new portmanteau; And thus to furnish decent lining, My own and others' bays I'm twiningSo, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in.

The poems in question, as Moore states, “were written professedly in imitation of the old English writers, and con. tained, like many of these models, a good deal that was striking and beautiful, mixed up with much that was trifling, fantastie, and absurd. In vain did Mr. Rogers (to whom a copy of the work had been presented), in justice to the author, endeavour to direct our attention to some of the beauties of the work. One of the poems was a warm and, I need not add, well-deserved panegyric on himself. The opening line of the poem was, as well as I can recollect,

• When Rogers o'er this labour bent.' And Lord Byron undertook to read it aloud; but he found it impossible to get beyond the first two words. Our laughter had now increased to such a pitch that nothing could restrain it. Two or three times he began, but, no sooner had the words. When Rogers' passed his lips, than our fit burst forth afresh-till even Mr. Rogers himself, with all his feeling of our injustice, found it impossible not to join us; and had the author himself been of the party, I question much whether he could have resisted the infection."-P. B.


And I, though with cold I have nearly my death gate

Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heatherte, "I lay my branch of laurel down :

But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scarra, Then thus to form Apollo's crown,

And you'll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra.(2) Let every other bring his own.”

Lord Thurlow's lines to Mr. Rogers. " I lay my branch of laurel down."

IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND. Thou "lay thy branch of laurel down!" Why, what thou'st stole is not enow;

When, from the heart where Sorrow sits, And, were it lawfully thine own,

Her dusky shadow mounts too high, Does Rogers want it most, or thou?

And o'er the changing aspect fits, Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough,

And clouds the brow, or fills the eye; Or send it back to Doctor Donne:

Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink : Were justice done to both, I trow,

My thoughts their dungeon know too well; He'd have but little, and thou—none.

Back to my breast the wanderers shrink,

And droop within their silent cell. (3) Then thus to form Apollo's crown."

September, 1813. A crown! why, twist it how you will, Thy chaplet must be foolscap still. When next you visit Delphi's town,

SONNET, TO GENEVRA. Inquire amongst your fellow-lodgers,

Think eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, They'll tell you Phoebus gave his crown,

And the wan lustre of thy features--caught Some years before your birth, to Rogers.

From contemplation—where serenely wrought, “Let every other bring his own."

Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair When coals to Newcastle are carried,

Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air, And owls sent to Athens, as wonders,

That-but I know thy blessed bosom fraught From his spouse when the Regent's unmarried,

With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought

I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders; When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel,

With such an aspect, by his colours blent,

When from his beauty-breathing pencil bora, When Castlereagh's wife has an heir, Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel,

(Except that thou hast nothing to repent) And thou shalt have plenty to spare.

The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn-
Such seem'st thou-but how much more excellent!

With nought Remorse can claim-nor Virtue soura


SONNET, TO THE SAME. 19, 1813. (1)

Thy cheek is pale with thought, bat not from woe, On you, who in all names can tickle the town,

And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown, Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, For hang me if I know of which you may most brag, My heart would wish away that ruder glow: Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Two-penny Post Bag; | And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes--but, oh!

While gazing on them sterner eyes will gusti, But now to my letter - to yours 'tis an answer

And into mine my mother's weakness rush, To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir,

Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge on | For, through thy long dark lashes low depending, (According to compact) the wit in the dungeon

The soul of melancholy Gentleness Pray Phæbus at length our political malice

Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending, May not get us lodgings within the same palace! Above all pain, yet pitying all distress; I suppose that to-night you're engaged with some At once such majesty with sweetness blending, codgers,

I worship more, but cannot love thee less. And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers;

December 17, 1812

(1) It was in Horsemonger-lane prison, and not in Cold lit had a deeper cause than habit or constitutional Icepe Bath Fields.--P.E.

ment. It was obviously of a degree incalculably more kan (2) The reader who wishes to understand the full force

ous than that alluded to by Prince Arthur of this scandalous insinuation, is referred to Moretus's notes

'I remember, when I was in France, on a celebrated poem of Catullus, entitled In Cæsarem; but

Young gentlemen would be as sad as night consisting, in fact, of savagely scornful abuse of the favourite

Only for wantonness.' Mamurra :

But, howsoever derived, this, joined to Lord Byron's ar * Quis hoc potest videre ? quis potest pati,

mingling in amusements and sports as if he context Nisi impudicus et vorax et helluo ? Mamurram habere quod comata Gallia

elt that his sphere was far above the frivol Habebat unctum, et ultima Britannia ?" etc.-L. E.

crowd which surrounded him, gave a strong etter

louring to a character whose tints were otherwise MSDL (3) “These verses are said to have dropped from the Walter Scott.-L.E. poet's pen, to excuse a transient expression of melancholy (4) “Redde some Italian, and wrote two sono which overclouded the general gaiety. It was impossible to never wrote but one sonnet before, and that was observe his interesting countenance, expressive of a dejection earnest, and many years ago, as an exercise belonging neither to his rank, his age, nor his success, never write another. They are the most puling, perre without feeling an indefinable curiosity to ascertain whether stupidly platonic compositions." Diary, 1813.

strong effect of a

Sonnel hat was a Sandi

Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'd he:
“Methinks they have here little need of me!"


Tu mi chamas." In moments to delight devoted,

“My life!” with tenderest tone, you cry; Dear words! on which my heart had doted,

If youth could neither fade nor die.
To death even hours like these must roll,

Ah! then repeat those accents never;
Or change my life!” into “my soul! »
Which, like my love, exists for ever.

You call me still your life.-Oh! change the word-

Life is as transient as the inconstant sigh:
Say rather I'm your soul; more just that name,

For, like the soul, my love can never die.

But the softest note that soothed his ear

Was the sound of a widow sighing;
And the sweetest sight was the icy tear,
Which horror froze in the blue eye clear

Of a maid by her lover lying-
As round her fell her long fair hair;
And she look'd to heaven with that frenzied air,
Which seem'd to ask if a God were there!
And, stretch'd by the wall of a ruin'd hut,
With its hollow cheek, and eyes balf shut,

A child of famine dying:
And the carnage, begun when resistance is done,

And the fall of the vainly flying!


But the Devil has reach'd our cliffs so white,

And what did he there, I pray ?
The Devil return'd to hell by two,

If his eyes were good, he but saw by night

What we see every day :
And he stay'd at home till five;
When he dined on some homicides done in ragout,

But he made a tour, and kept a journal

Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal, And a rebel or so in an Irish stew,

And he sold it in shares to the men of the Row, And sausages made of a self-slain Jew

Who bid pretty well—but they chealed him, though! And bethought himself what next to do. "And," quoth he, “I'll take a drive.

The Devil first saw, as he thought, the mail, I walk'd in the morning, I'll ride to-night;

Its coachman and his coat; In darkness my children take most delight,

So instead of a pistol he cock'd his tail, And I'll see how my favourites thrive.

And seized him by the throat: * And what shall I ride in ?" quoth Lacifer then

“Aha!” quoth he, “wbat have we here? "If I follow'd my taste, indeed,

'T is a new barouche, and an ancient peer!" I should mount in a waggon of wounded men,

So he sat him on his box again,
And smile to see them bleed.
But these will be furnish'd again and again,

And bade him have no fear,

But be true to his club, and stanch to his rein, And at present my purpose is speed;

His brothel, and his beer; To see my manor as much as I may,

"Next to seeing a lord at the council-board, And watch that do souls shall be poach'd away.

I would rather see him here." “I have a state-coach at Carlton House, A chariot in Seymour Place;

The Devil gat next to Westminster, But they're lent to two friends, who make me amends

1 And he turn'd to “ the room” of the Commons; By driving my favourite pace:

But he heard, as he purposed to enter in there, And they handle their reins with such a grace,

That “the Lords" bad received a summons; I have something for both at the end of their race.

And he thought, as a “ quondam aristocrat," "So now for the earth, to take my chance !"

He might peep at the peers, though to hear them Then up to the earth sprung he;

were flat; And making a jump from Moscow to France,

And he walk'd up the house so like one of our own, He stepp'd across the sea,

That they say that he stood pretty year the throue. And rested his hoof on a turnpike road,

He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise, No very great way from a bishop's abode.

The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly, Bat first as he flew, I forgot to say,

And Johnny of Norfolk- a man of some sizeThat he hover'd a moment upon his way

And Chatham, so like his friend Billy; To look upon Leipsic plain;

And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon's eyes, And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare, Because the Catholics would not rise, And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair,

In spite of his prayers and his prophecies; That he perch'd on a mountain of slain;

And he heard—which set Satan himself a staringAnd he gazed with delight from its growing height: A certain Chief Justice say something like swearing. Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight,

And the Devil was shock'd-and quoth he, “I must Nor his work done half as well;

For I find we have much better manners below; [go, For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead, | If thus he harangues when he passes my border, That it blush'd like the waves of hell!

I shall hint to friend Moloch to call him to order."

“I have lately written a wild, rambling, unfinished land. Though with a good deal of vigour and imagination, rhapsody, called "The Devil's Drive,' the notion of which I l it is, for the most part, rather clumsily executed, wanting took from Porson's Devil's Walk.B. Diary, 1813.-“ of tbe point and condensation of those clever verses of Mr. this strange wild poem,” says Moore, “the only copy that Coleridge, which Lord Byron, adopting a notion long preLord Byron, I believe, ever wrote, he presented to Lord Hol- | valent, has attributed to Professor Porson."-L. E.

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