2.

So the Doctor being found

A little unsound

In his doctrine, at least as a teacher,
And kicked from one stool

As a knave or a fool,

He mounted another as preacher.

3.

In that Gown (like the Skin
With no Lion within)

He still for the Bench would be driving;
And roareth away,

A new Vicar of Bray,
Except that his bray lost his living.

4.

"Gainst Freethinkers," he roars,

"You should all block your doors

Or be named in the Devil's indentures:
And here I agree,

For who e'er would be

A Guest where old Simony enters ?

5.

Let the Priest, who beguiled
His own Sovereign's child

To his own dirty views of promotion,
Wear his Sheep's cloathing still
Among flocks to his will,

And dishonour the Cause of devotion.

other private property. Lady Anne Hamilton is not an accurate or trustworthy authority, but her extremely circumstantial narrative was, no doubt, an expansion of the contemporary scandal to which Byron's lampoon gave currency.]

6.

The Altar and Throne

Are in danger alone

From such as himself, who would render

The Altar itself

But a step up to Pelf,

And pray God to pay his defender.

7

But, Doctor, one word

Which perhaps you have heard

"He should never throw stones who has windows

Of Glass to be broken,

And by this same token

As a sinner, you can't care what Sin does.

8.

But perhaps you do well:

Your own windows, they tell,

Have long ago sufferéd censure;
Not a fragment remains

Of your character's panes,
Since the Regent refused you a glazier.

9.

Though your visions of lawn

Have all been withdrawn,

And you missed your bold stroke for a mitre;

In a very snug way

You may still preach and pray,

And from bishop sink into backbiter!"

[First published, Works (Galignani), 1831, p. 116.]

LUCIETTA. A FRAGMENT.

LUCIETTA, my deary,
That fairest of faces!
Is made up of kisses;
But, in love, oft the case is
Even stranger than this is-
There's another, that 's slyer,
Who touches me nigher,—
A Witch, an intriguer,
Whose manner and figure
Now piques me, excites me,

Torments and delights me―

Cætera desunt.

[From an autograph MS. in the possession of Mr. Murray, now for the first time printed.]

EPIGRAMS.

OH, Castlereagh! thou art a patriot now;
Cato died for his country, so did'st thou :
He perished rather than see Rome enslaved,
Thou cut'st thy throat that Britain may be saved!

So Castlereagh has cut his throat!-The worst
Of this is, that his own was not the first.

So He has cut his throat at last!-He! Who?
The man who cut his country's long ago.

?August, 1822.

[First published, The Libera, No. I., October 18, 1822, p. 164.]

VOL. VII.

G

THE CONQUEST.1

THE Son of Love and Lord of War I sing;
Him who bade England bow to Normandy,
And left the name of Conqueror more than King
To his unconquerable dynasty.

Not fanned alone by Victory's fleeting wing,

He reared his bold and brilliant throne on high; The Bastard kept, like lions, his prey fast,

And Britain's bravest Victor was the last.

March 8-9, 1823.

[First published, Lord Byron's Works, 1833, xvii. 246.]

IMPROMPTU.2

BENEATH Blessington's eyes

The reclaimed Paradise

Should be free as the former from evil;

But if the new Eve

For an Apple should grieve,

What mortal would not play the Devil?

April, 1823.

[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 635.]

1. [This fragment was found amongst Lord Byron's papers, after his departure from Genoa for Greece.]

2. [With the view of inducing these friends [Lord and Lady Blessington] to prolong their stay at Genoa, he suggested their taking a pretty villa, called "Il Paradiso," in the neighbourhood of his own, and accompanied them to look at it. Upon that occasion it was that, on the lady expressing some intention of residing there, he produced the following impromptu.—Life, 577.]

JOURNAL IN CEPHALONIA.

THE dead have been awakened-shall I sleep?
The World's at war with tyrants-shall I crouch?
The harvest 's ripe-and shall I pause to reap?
I slumber not; the thorn is in my Couch;
Each day a trumpet soundeth in mine ear,
Its echo in my heart-

June 19, 1823.

[First published, Letters, 1901, vi. 238.]

SONG TO THE SULIOTES.

I.

UP to battle! Sons of Suli

Up, and do your duty duly !

There the wall-and there the Moat is:

Bouwah! Bouwah! Suliotes!

There is booty-there is Beauty,

Up my boys and do your duty.

2.

By the sally and the rally
Which defied the arms of Ali ;
By your own dear native Highlands,
By your children in the islands,
Up and charge, my Stratiotes,
Bouwah!-Bouwah !-Suliotes!

I. "Bouwah!" is their war-cry.