FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO THOMAS MOORE.

"WHAT say I?"—not a syllable further in prose; I'm your man "of all measures," dear Tom,-so here goes!

Here goes, for a swim on the stream of old Time,

On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of rhyme. If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in the flood,

We are smothered, at least, in respectable mud,

Where the divers of Bathos lie drowned in a heap,
And Southey's last Pæan has pillowed his sleep;
That Felo de se who, half drunk with his Malmsey,
Walked out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea,
Singing "Glory to God" in a spick and span stanza,
The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) never man
saw.1

10

The papers have told you, no doubt, of the fusses, The fêtes, and the gapings to get at these Russes,2Of his Majesty's suite, up from coachman to Hetman,-~ And what dignity decks the flat face of the great man.

1. [The two first stanzas of Southey's "Carmen Triumphale, for the Commencement of the Year 1814," end with the line

"Glory to God-Deliverance for Mankind!"]

2. ["The newspapers will tell you all that is to be told of emperors, etc. They have dined, and supped, and shown their flat faces in all thoroughfares and several saloons."-Letter to Moore, June 14, 1814, Letters, 1899, iii. 93, 94.

From June 6 to June 27, 1814, the Emperor of Russia, and the King of Prussia were in England. Huge crowds watched all day and night outside the Pulteney Hotel (105, Piccadilly), where the Emperor of Russia stayed. Among the foreigners in London were Nesselrode, Metternich, Blücher, and Platoff, Hetman of the Cossacks. The two latter were the heroes of the mob. Ibid., p. 93, note x.]

I saw him, last week, at two balls and a party,-
For a Prince, his demeanour was rather too hearty.
You know, we are used to quite different graces,

The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter and brisker, But then he is sadly deficient in whisker;

And wore but a starless blue coat, and in kersey

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mere breeches whisked round, in a waltz with the Jersey,' Who, lovely as ever, seemed just as delighted With Majesty's presence as those she invited.

June, 1814.

[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, i. 561, 562 (note).]

ANSWER TO 'S PROFESSIONS OF
AFFECTION.

In hearts like thine ne'er may I hold a place
Till I renounce all sense, all shame, all grace-
That seat,-like seats, the bane of Freedom's realm
But dear to those presiding at the helm—

Is basely purchased, not with gold alone;
Add Conscience, too, this bargain is your own—
'T is thine to offer with corrupting art
The rotten borough of the human heart.

? 1814.

[From an autograph MS., now for the first time printed.]

1. ["The Emperor," says Lady Vernon (Journal of Mary Frampton, pp. 225, 226), "is fond of dancing. . . He waltzed with Lady Jersey, whom he admires, to the great discomposure of the Regent, who has quarrelled with her."]

2. [The phrase, "rotten borough," was used by Sir F. Burdett, Examiner, October 12, 1812.]

ON NAPOLEON'S ESCAPE FROM ELBA.1

ONCE fairly set out on his party of pleasure,

Taking towns at his liking, and crowns at his leisure, From Elba to Lyons and Paris he goes,

Making balls for the ladies, and bows to his foes.

March 27, 1815.

[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, i. 611.]

ENDORSEMENT TO THE DEED OF
SEPARATION, IN THE APRIL OF 1816.

A YEAR ago you swore, fond she!

"To love, to honour," and so forth: Such was the vow you pledged to me, And here 's exactly what 't is worth.

[First published, Poetical Works, 1831, vi. 454.]

[TO GEORGE ANSON BYRON (?) 2]

'I.

AND, dost thou ask the reason of my sadness?
Well, I will tell it thee, unfeeling boy!

1. [It may be taken for granted that the "source" of this epigram was a paragraph in the Morning Chronicle of March 27, 1815: "In the Moniteur of Thursday we find the Emperor's own account of his jaunt from the Island of Elba to the palace of the Thuilleries. It seems certainly more like a jaunt of pleasure than the progress of an invader through a country to be gained."]

2. ["A short time before Lord Byron quitted England, in 1816, he addressed these lines to an individual by whom he deemed himself injured; they are but little known."-Nicnac, March 25, 1823.]

'T was ill report that urged my brain to madness, 'T was thy tongue's venom poisoned all my joy.

2.

The sadness which thou seest is not sorrow;
My wounds are far too deep for simple grief;
The heart thus withered, seeks in vain to borrow
From calm reflection, comfort or relief.

3.

The arrow 's flown, and dearly shalt thou rue it;
No mortal hand can rid me of my pain :

My heart is pierced, but thou canst not subdue it--
Revenge is left, and is not left in vain.

? 1816.

[First published, Nienac, March 25, 1823.]

SONG FOR THE LUDDITES.'

I.

As the Liberty lads o'er the sea

Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood,
So we, boys, we

Will die fighting, or live free,

And down with all kings but King Ludd!

1. [The term "Luddites" dates from 1811, and was applied first to frame-breakers, and then to the disaffected in general. It was derived from a half-witted lad named Ned Lud, who entered a house in a fit of passion, and destroyed a couple of stocking-frames. The song was an impromptu, enclosed in a letter to Moore of December 24, 1816. "I have written it principally," he says, "to shock your neighbour [Hodgson ?] who is all clergy and loyaltymirth and innocence-milk and water." See Letters, 1900, iv. 30; and for General Lud and "Luddites," see Letters, 1898, ii. 97, note 1.]

2.

When the web that we weave is complete,
And the shuttle exchanged for the sword,
We will fling the winding sheet
O'er the despot at our feet,

And dye it deep in the gore he has poured.

3.

Though black as his heart its hue,
Since his veins are corrupted to mud,
Yet this is the dew

Which the tree shall renew

Of Liberty, planted by Ludd!

December 24, 1816.

[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 58.]

TO THOMAS MOORE.

WHAT are you doing now,

Oh Thomas Moore ?
What are you doing now,
Oh Thomas Moore ?
Sighing or suing now,
Rhyming or wooing now,
Billing or cooing now,

Which, Thomas Moore ?

But the Carnival's coming,
Oh Thomas Moore !
The Carnival's coming,

Oh Thomas Moore !