*•©< 3©© o» ♦ c c % •'§ % 3 w 3 ^ 3 i» 3 c 'M 3 € % 3 3 y 3 3 3 ® 3 m 3 3 m 3 to 3 © 3 3 fii 3 3 3 9QQ^g§ THE WILLIAM R. PERKINS LIBRARY OF DUKE UNIVERSITY Rare Books / who are celebrated in this satire, have heretofore; committed overt acts of hostility against lord By- ron, it is impossible to refuse him the motive of * See their review of the Giaour, t " Til publish— right or wrong." XiX andant provocation to his attack. It will not be easy, however, to reconcile his late change of meanor with any ostensible cause of sufficient in- cement. He has certainly taken every pains to ppress the satire in question; going so far in one stance as to prevent the edition of a whole im- •ession, which was already printed;— and he is not dy on terms of good fellowship with his former •itics, but has actually become a visitant at Hol- nd house— the known place of rendezvous to the dinburgh Reviewers. Moore and lord Holland ere both abused m his satire; and have both re- vived the homage of a dedication to some of his absequent poems.* « Qu* haec spectant?" Either is lordship has received some honourable amend arough the medium of epistolary communication, r personal conference; or the favourable criticisms f his subsequent productions are considered as a ufficient retribution; or,— in short, he has become econciled to his enemies; and, for our own parts, ye care very little how the reconciliation was ef- fectuated. We are now to estimate the merits of the English Bards and Scotch Reviewers— considered merely is a literary performance. And here we cannot * The order was reversed in respeet to the earl of Carlisle* a> guardian and relative: he first received a dedication ami foen a lampoon. See line 907, &c. help repeating an observation made by Dr. Jol! son on a similar occasion,—" that personal resei merit, though no laudable motive to satire, can a great weight to general principles." There is « tainly nothing in the Hours of Idleness which wot lead us to believe the noble author capable of pi ducing such a satire: nor is there any part of 1 ! subsequent works conceived with any thing like tf spirit and vigour that is here displayed. To tb remark we make an exception in favour of one c 1 two of his late productions — the Sketch from Ptf vate/Life,and the Curse of Minerva— both of whicl however, serve to corroborate our position, that 1 personal resentment must be attributed a great de? of the excellence belonging to these poems; and thai they cannot, therefore, be exhibited as exactly fai specimens of the author's original genius for poetr^ Had Pope written nothing but The Dunciad, o< Byron nothing but the English Bards and*>Scotcl Reviewers, perhaps neither would have descended to posterity as very eminent poets. Yet in thif opinion we know ourselves to be venturing on con' troversia! ground; and we frankly confess, we shouh? be almost willing to risk a name for immortality upon a production equal in merit to either of these celebrated satires. i Pope and Gilford were both much versed in the 1 composition or in the translation of poetry, before* XXI f produced The Dunciad and Baviad: yet here poem equal in almost every respect to either of ie satires — written, nevertheless, hy a person »se age was only just arrived at manhood, and > had apparently but very little experience in I kind of verse in which he has chosen for the duction, or indeed in verse of any description itsoever. It seldom rises to the refinement of »e, and never falls to the coarseness of Gilford; ile the metre is not so formal as that of the for- r, nor so dissolute as that of the latter: preserv- in this particular a medium between the two, .eh, among many, will give it the preference to h. There is not an affected antithesis, or a stiff i in the whole poem: his pen seems to be a good iductor of his thoughts; and every thing which ;g in his mind, flows out immediately upon the per, and seems to fall naturally into rhyme. His riness is opened without etiquette in the very * line: he stops just long enough to make a short I vigorous apostrophe to his quill; and then pro- jds with an independent and manly demarchf, e a literary Thrasybulus, to drive the thirty ty- lts from the throne of Taste. About simultaneously with the publication of s satire, lord Byron became of age, and accord- jly took his seat in the house of peers. His con- et soon showed, however; that this step was not xxii 'taken with a view to exereise the privilege of bei hereditary counsellor to the crown,— inasmuch in 1809 he left his place in parliament, and trav led two years in the south and east of Europe; 1 marking the countries through which he pass with the eye of a poet, — though, from evidenc both internal and external, of the poems to w hi- nts observations have given rise, we are inclined ' think that he was not in a very appropriate mo* to enjoy the beauties which he so vigorously d scribes. How far conjecture should be indulged < such subjects, we are not exactly qualified to dete 1 mine; but if the various little effusions of persona 1 ty, which we find interspersed among the more v luminous productions of his muse, are not to be co* sidered as altogether fictitious, we are greatly m? taken if a disappointment in the expected recipr 1 cation of a tender passion was not the chief indue ment to his resolution of travelling. It is certain th' in the fore part of the Hours of Idleness, he is ve^ vehemently attached to and that in some subs' quentodesoflhe same volume he quite as vehement 1 repents thai attachment; while at the same time I pathetically bewails his unhappy lot, and declar 1 that the unfaithfulness of his mistress had chang< the unity of his worship into a downright pohth -isticai adoration of the female sex. * » H XXU1 * 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.-p. 126, vol. i. diilde Harold, too, can seldom make a reflection thout turning it at last into strains very similar to ese; but all personalities in this melancholy tourist ve been formally disavowed; and, as we feel our- lves to be meddling in affairs with which we have ry little to do, we will hasten to what more im- ediately concerns us. Lord Byron travelled in com- my with Mr. Hobhouse; who, together with him- lf have given us almost the only information respect- g a country, which, although " in sight of Italy," as (when Gibbon wrote) " less known than the iterior of our own America." We have little doubt urselves, that his lordship's adventures in Alba- ia, were prompted by the romantic spirit which, ; we may judge from his writings, forms a veryes- ential ingredient in the composition of his charae- er . a spirit that must have found itself at home imong the dangers from which he made such hair- n-eadth 'scapes, and which he has so faithfully de- leted both in prose and rhyme. " An Athenian blockhead (said Johnson, in one >f his soliloquies) is the worst of all blockheads;" mi observation with which lord Byron seems to iiave been very deeply impressed, and which he xxiv has very facetiously illustrated in exposing the eon' temptable squabbles of the antiquarians for th c ruins of dilapidated Athens. We are of opinion, how* ever, that his lordship has rushed into the opposit extreme of indifference while attempting to escap from the eager curiosity which characterised thi 1 rest of his countrymen; or rather, perhaps, tha 1 his veneration for the ancient city of Minerva ha : led him to vituperate the very measures which an* calculated to preserve its relics. His vindictive anil mosity against lord Elgin, can hardly be founded in his affection for fallen Athens; and, indeed. we can think of nothing but personal antipathy that could have induced him to commence so virulent 1 an attack upon the noble antiquarian while he was in Greece, and to continue it with such augmented bitterness after he had returned to England. Of almost all the splendid cities which adorned the an- cient world, not only are no monuments now re- maining, but the spots on which they stood have been utterly obliterated; and when lord Byron quotes the scriptural prophecy respecting the utter disappearance of Babylon (p. 188) he might surely have spared some of his satire against those who were endeavouring to save a fragment or two of' Athens from the general wreck of ancient magnifi- cence. It is, by his own account, in danger of speedy demolition from the hands of Turks and of XXV le; and we see no good reason why Britons should t wish to horde a few relics of a city from which jy derived their learning and their civilization. But, he this as it may, it is yet certain that d Byron has written some very vigorous stan- I not only upon the antiquarian direption of his tntrymen, but upon almost every thing else ich he saw in the course of his travelling. There 10 descriptive poem of modern times which can ad in competition with Childe Harold's Pil- mage. The poet employs few circumstances; I he always selects such- as are calculated to strike i most forcibly, and then rapidly combines them i manner that places the whole picture strongly I vividly before our eyes. The stanza of Spen- is dignified and harmonious; but it has, at the le time, quite too much of an uniformity; and are particularly apt to sicken at the monotonous urrence of ** the full resounding line." There bis other objection to the measure— that it sub- is the writer to the necessity of causing every ught to occupy just so much room; and accord- y he is obliged to condense one idea too greatly dilate another too far — to give us very little in* nation on some subjects, and to extend the ex- lation of others beyond what is anywise need. We may as well remark here, likewise, that re is often a grossness and vulgarity in some of B XXVI his descriptions which, detract very much from t general dignity of the poem; — such as in the 1 lowing lines: And folks in office at the mention frete Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest: And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air* and a great many others which we have not sps to transcribe. There is another obvious general remark whi we ought not to omit: — the poem contains too gr< a portion of scenery, unenlivened and unreliev by the feelings or adventures of human beings. resembles more than any thing else a series beautiful landscapes which the poet raises up, c after another, and descants upon, like a mod* lecturer on botany. This was perhaps the ur voidable result of the author's circumstances; wl as he himself tells us, composed the greater p= of the work as he went along, and who could n of course, perceive that the descriptions which him were relished in the full extent of their beau by being intermittent and detached, would sc be apt to cloy his readers, when confined and gested into a single volume. He has, indeed, tempted to counteract this effect by mingling 1 acts and sufferings of what was meant for a hum being with the scenes which he describes; but f adventures and remarks of this personage are on xxvn o rare to answer the purpose of their introduce 3n; and are, moreover, of a character that is lit— e calculated to relieve one from disagreeable poe- y; for he goes grumbling along through the most teresting countries,—" seeing undelighted all de- >ht," and making just such reflections as a certain iher tourist did while passing through a paradise i earth. He is a sated sensualist: every species of easure had been to work in laying waste the jod qualities of his mind; and nothing but remorse as now remaining to haunt the ruins of mental isolation. All the regions of delight which his sra country displayed had been already overrun; id there was now no recourse but either to sit awn, like Alexander, and weep, because no other orlds of pleasure were to be conquered — or to >ek that variety abroad which was now no longer > be found at home. We may take this occasion to ?mark, that, besides the noble author's disavowal F any identity between himself and his hero, there no more necessity that Childe Harold in the Pil- nmage should be concluded to personate lord By- )n, than that the Devil in Paradise Lost should be ipposed to represent Milton. Childe Harold's Pilgrimage was published in J12: in the following year, The Giaour, The Bride 'Abydos, and The Corsair; and subsequently to tat period, Lara, The Siege of Corinth, and Para- XXV111 sina. Of these it will not be necessary to ent< into a particular and detailed examination — bol because they are all too short and irregular f< epic criticism, and because they are so very sim. lar to each other, that our observations upon or would (mutatis mutandis) be applicable to all tt rest. The noble author has on one occasion di played his taste for fragments: and as every thin else is now-a-days published monthly or quarterl; we almost wonder that he did not think of prt serving the same names through all his successh poems, and of issuing the whole as one epic, in pt riodical numbers. Lord Byron declared that the two cautos of Child Harold's Pilgrimage were merely experimental and that a favourable reception of these would pre, voke the remainder of the contemplated work:- but this condition was long ago fulfilled; and yc we have heard no more from his lordship on th 1 subject of the promised continuation! We are in, clined to think, that the noble author became full aware of the heaviness and monotony of such work as the Rotnaunt; and was resolved to give greater scope for personal incident by dividing th promised 6equel into a number of individual poem, each comprising a short dramatic act simplex die, laxat et unum, and recounting the actions of th same character under different names and in diffe XXIX t circumstances. The choice was a judicious e; — for we question whether the fame of the ■iter would have been greatly augmented by a eond exhibition of mere picturesque scenery. 11 his subsequent poems are employed in detailing e transactions of the beings who inhabit the coun- es through which his lordship travelled; and of urse he has the same opportunity of describing e physical features of nature as she appears in ose regions, while on the other hand we are not liged to avert our eye3 from the rich pictures fore us, because we are tired of viewing scenery enlivened by the business and sufferings of hu- an life. The poet has thus acquired the double vantage of describing men as well as things, at e same time that he avoids the tedium of repre- ttting the one without the other. The great and leading peculiarity of lord Byron a poet, consists \n a power of conveying the most :ense and excruciating passion in the strongest nceivable modes of expression. He has invented ery circumstance that is calculated to try the tience of nature:— nor will he suffer her to es- pe his torments till he is sure of having pushed x to the last extremity of suffering, short of ac- al expiration. She shrieks; but the inexorable >et still holds to the wreck; and seems to enjoy a alicious pleasure in beholding her writhe under XXX the infliction of his torture. Hence there is selj dom a character in his poems which is not all thtj time on the very hoi*ders of hyperbole. His heroes undergo calamities which seem to be beyond th« sufferance of ordinary men; and yet in the midst of their extravagance we 6ee enough of attribute! i similar to our own to make us recognise them ail the offspring of human nature. His lordship sees every thing with a keen, yej deliberate eye; and almost always surprises us witl 3 the exhibition of those circumstances which, in ou^ own perusal, we just noticed enough to make us re member that we should have noticed them more It is this quality, after all, which constitutes th« true indication of genius. The reason why we rea«' the descriptions of ordinary men without mucl emotion, is, that they seldom see any mere of ai object than our own heedless eyes; and we 6001 begin to nod over a work which is calculated ti' keep no faculty awake except an inert and passirr memory. Far different is the case in perusing tin 1 works of the true genius. By seizing on those in cidents which are all but invisible to eommon op tics, they sustain a continual call for the active ef forts of our recollection; and while we reprov< our own apathy in disregarding what we now per ceive can be turned to so good account, we ar paying a compliment to the superiority of the wrj XXXI r, who could thus remark the circumstances which /ourselves had overlooked. Thus when Dryden Us us, in describing the approach of a fleet- That every ship in swift proportion grows: e event is placed most vividly before our eyes; id yet we have but a very faint and indefinite re- lembrance of ever having remarked the circum- ance contained in the three last inimitable words. o again in Lord Byron's description of a boat iriking on the beach, Till grates her keel upon the yellow sand: be grating of the keel is admirably calculated to epresent the operation: — but it is a sound which riginally just struck the timpanum of our dull ears, ebounded, and was never thought of more. From these general observations upon his lord- hip's poetry we must descend to the more particu- ar consideration of his poems. Instead of pub- ishing a multitude of short and imperfect produc- tions, — it is to be regretted that the noble poet did lot abstain from the press till he had completed a ;ood long old-fashioned epic. He has been ex- hausting and dispersing his strength upon a thou- sand little works, such as Hebrew Melodies, odes to this and that person, upon this and that event,—- which all contain, to be sure the unequivocal evi- XXXII denees of a brilliant genius; but it is a brilliant g nius employed in little things, and we are compe led to think what Seneca would have been if I had wasted his whole life in picking up pebble Occasionally, we confess, his lordship has given ji a poem of tolerable length:— but it is all imperfec, he is roused for a moment; makes a vigorous, bi. transient effort; and then sinks into his original ii, activity, without half completing his work. Henc his predilection for short stories, or for fragment of long ones; in which he generally carries so fa the principle of hurrying us into the midst of affair (vapit in mediae res,) as not only to suppose w, are acquainted with the narrative up to the conci xnencement of the poem, but to fail of developin, the unknown circumstances in some subsequen part of the work. His characters strut their hou upon the stage; and then suddenly disappear, leaV ing us in total ignorance as to motive and mannei either of their exits or their entrances: — and a: we know about them is, that during the brief perio< of their exhibition, they have been instrumental L, some of the most villanous as well as in some of th most virtuous transactions of which man is capable and that they appear to be a rare mixture of th* noblest and the meanest attributes of human na ture. XXXfll It is owing we apprehend, to the frequent repe- ition of short-lived efforts, more than to the mis- inthropie and repulsive character of his poetry, — hat lord Byron is not so popular a writer as his •ival, Walter Scott. " I think, (says Junius, in a private letter to 'Wilkes) I should not make my- self cheap hy walking in the streets so much as jrou do." This pithy hut voluminous sentence dis- plays at once the abasing effect of too frequent ap- pearance in public; and to those who know how Bonstantly lord Byron has been running to the press arith some short poetical trifle or another, we need aot further explain the causes which have made bim a writer of comparative unpopularity. When Mr. Scott has published a poem, we generally see kirn no more for about two years: before the ex- piration of that time, we begin to feel how neces- sary a personage he is; and when he announces another production, we cannot be easy till we have got a copy. A new poem from the pen of lord Byron produces not half this anxiety. We know from experience that it must be a short story told in a short way; the possession of which is not worth much solicitude, especially as we generally expect a mere continuation of the same old thing. Mr. Scott seldom prints till he can give us a pretty voluminous poem;— and the very magnitude of his b 2 XXXIV productions ensures their circulation and perms nency. In the composition as well as in the publication of his poems the noble author has voluntarily sub- jected himself to disadvantage in the race of popu- larity. It is hardly to be expected that the same writer will be an adept in all the different kinds of versification; and we are therefore obliged to think, that, while lord Byron has endeavoured to secure a more extensive circulation of his works by com- posing them in every sort of metre, he has adopted the very scheme which is calculated to impair both. *heir present and their future popularity. He be- gan this miscellaneous versification in the Hours of Idleness; and has continued it, more or less, through all his succeeding publications. There can be very little dispute, however, about that in which he suc- ceeds best: — the heroic verse seems, far more than any other, to comport with the elevated char- acter of his thoughts; and whenever he yields to the prevailing taste for octosyllabic poetry, he forces Iiis readers to make some unfavourable compari- sons; — ] ie appears to be confined in too narrow a channel; and is obliged now and then to burst out into hexameters and alexandrines. We have no hesitation in declaring that in our opinion lord Byron has more native poetical genius than Mr. Scott; and that he hns very imprudently attempt- XXXV ed to rival that master in a department of popular composition which he alone seems capable of occu- pying,— and which he had already occupied, when the noble author first made his appearance. In- stead, therefore, of contending with an antagonist who had as much to gain as himself, he was oblig- ed to combat one who joined to nearly equa original abilities, all the stubborn auxiliaries of long- established possession. Hence the octosyllabic poems of his lordship sound almost uniformly harsh: not because they are so abstractedly,— but because we must, in spite of ourselves, compare them with the productions to which they challenge a rival- ship. In heroic versification he stands alone; and had he bent the whole current of his thoughts into that kind of metre, he might have been one of the greatest English poets, either ancient or modern. In spite of all his unsteady and irregular efforts, he is decidedly without an equal among the heroic poets of our own times; and perhaps there are few even of his predecessors who are far superior to himself in what he calls ' the good old and now-ne- glected* versification of ten syllables. We come now to touch upon the most painful part of his lordship's life. In January 1815, he married Miss Anne-Isabella Milbanke, the only child of sir Ralph Milbanke (now lord Noel.) One daughter is the pledge of a union which* at XXXVI its commencement seemed to promise a life of con- nubial felicity, — but which, by some unfortunate domestic indiscretion on one side or the other, has J been very violently,— and therefore we hope, very | transiently, torn asunder. This event has produc- ed great agitation among the fashionable circles of: Great Britain; and we have -patiently followed all the most respectable journalists in their attempts, to ascertain the side on which the blame may lie; ! but have seen little else than mutual recrimination; a great deal of bad logic, with little admixture of t fact,— and quite too much intermeddling in an af- fair from which common decency should have led I the combatants to abstain. We shall only add, for ' the consolation of those who wish well to lord By- > ron as well in the capacity of a husband as in that of a poet, that Mr. Leigh Hunt, an intimate friend of his lordship's, has repeatedly stated that, from facts within his own personal knowledge, a recon- ciliation of the parties may be expected very soon to take place. It is a pretty general fact, that such sudden ruptures of domestic peace are succeeded by quite as sudden reparations and reunions: — Love may sink by slow decay, But by sudden wrench, believe not, Hearts can thus be torn away. Fare thee xcelU Since we have quoted this celebrated little effusion we may as well add that, for the expression of xxxvn »en heart-aching passion, it has not heen equalled r any similar production of modern times; while ,e second and third stanzas may challenge a com- arison with any other in the whole compass of nglish poetry. Taken as a whole, it is calculated , stick where it strikes; and lady Byron will find rankling in her bosom, if ever she feels disposed > regret the separation. * C'est une fieche qui ercera son cccur et qu'elle portera avec lui.' We ought, perhaps, to state that, whatever night have been the real cause of the separation n question, a report has been circulated in Eng- and by his lordship's friends that it was the result »f a formal conspiracy against his domestic peace; in assertion which has in like manner been con- xadicted on the other side of the dispute. All the uformdytion now public with regard to the affair,— t is very scanty to be sure— may be gathered from ;he following correspondence which passed be- tween lord Noel and James Perry, the editor of the Chronicle: — « We have authority from sir Ralph Milbanke for saying, that he knows of no conspiracy against the domestic peace of lord Byron. We cheerfully yield to the honourable baronet's desire to insert this declaration, of the truth of which no man, who is acquainted with him, can doubt. The editor of a Sunday Journal brought the false accusations against the noble lord; and his efforts have been followed by more than one of the daily writers. XXXV111 We felt it our duty to vindicate the ill-treated no Meman from the aspersions so wantonly throwi, out against him. Sir Ralph assures us, that thes.< insinuations have been published, not only withoui his knowledge, but also much to his disquiet ant condemnation. We know them to be false, and repeat that if these continued slanders shall mak« the publication of all the circumstances of the un- happy dispute necessary, every impartial reader will agree with us, that nothing but the most gross representation and malignant influence on a deli- cate mind, could have operated the separation that has taken place."— Chronicle, Thursday. In the Chronicle of Saturday the following let- ters appeared; On Thursday evening we received the following letter from sir Ralph Noel:— " Mivart's hotel, Lower Brook-street. -April 18, 1816. Sir— I observe with the greatest dissatisfac- tion the manner in which you have inserted, in the Morning Chronicle of to-day, the unqualified con- tradiction f gave you yesterday of the paragraph in your former paper, which stated the existence of a conspiracy against lord Byron's domestic peace. I did not say that I knew of no conspiracy against lord Byron's domestic peace, but I told vou in the most decided manner, that I knew no conspiracy of the kind had ever existed; that the report was utterly false; and I gave you my word of honour, that the step taken by lady Byron, was the result of her own unbiassed judgment, and that her pa- rents and friends interfered only when called upon by her to afford her their support. In the neces- sity of the step, indeed, her friends f-.il!v concur- XXXIX •d; but. in the suggestion of it they had no concern: iving given you this assurance in the most solemn anner, I called upon you to contradict the para- 'aph on my authority; you have done so, but in manner utterly unsatisfactory; and I have to re- aest that you will insert this letter in your paper f to-morrow, in which I repeat, that no conspi- »cy whatever ever existed against lord Byron s omestic peace. «« You also, in another part of the conversation hich ensued, entirely mistook me 1 never stat- il that the publication in a Sunday Journal was. mnch to my disquiet and condemnation;' but, in eply to some observations of yours, it was assert- d merely as a fact, that no paragraphs hostile to >rd Byron had originated with lady Byron or her mmediate friends, or were published with their ;nowledge; and that I should lament very much the lecessity of making this subject the theme of fur- her discussion in the public papers, which I have tlways disapproved of in questions that concern the elations of private life. Such were my observa- ions. In the present instance, I conceive these liseussions have sprung from the publication of ord Byron's verses, as I do not remember that he subject was ever canvassed before — they have jertainly not originated with lady Byron I am, sir, your humble servant, « , Perry, Esq. " Ralph Noel." " P. S. My friend, colonel Doyle, who was present with me, concurs in his recollection of the move having been the sentiments which I expres- sed." To this letter the editor returned the following answer:—- xl " Thursday evening, 1 1 o'cloci "Sib, " On coming to ray office, I find your letter containing an animadversion on the paragraph ir serted in my paper, as the result of the conversj tion last night, and I should have no hesitation i publishing it according to your desire, if I were nc morally certain that it would lead inevitably to th publication of the whole correspondence, from lad; Byron's first letter, dated from Kirkby, to the las document, prepared for legal proceedings, if ne cessary. I stop it, therefore, for one day, to ena ble you to reflect on the propriety of pushing th< matter to this extremity; and, in the mean time, beg leave to say, that I published the result o the long conversation that passed between us, anc not the detail, from motives of the most anxiou* concern for all parties. You certainly said in the first instance, that ' no conspiracy had ever existed against the domestic peace of lord Byron,' to which you will do me the justice to recollect I answered. 1 that you could speak to this only from the best oi your own knowledge and belief,' and that I per- fectly acquitted you of all participation in it, but that I remained fully convinced, from circumstan- oes within my own knowledge, that nothing but gross misrepresentation and malignant influence could have prevailed on a wife, whose duty it was to cleave to her husband, and particularly such a wife as lord Byron always described his lady to be, to take the step which she did, aud to remain ap- parently implacable to all the overtures of recon- ciliation that have since been made. Both you and colonel Doyle acknowledged that you could not expect me to give up the conviction of my mind, and you appeared to me perfectly to acqui- xli see in the way that I put it, which was, that I had our authority to declare that no conspiracy, to our knowledge, existed against the noble lord. " I did not wish to aggravate the unhappy thf- jrenee by going into all the conversation which aok place, nor state the impression which was tiade on my feelings by your declaration, that lady J.'s separation from her husband was ■ the result f her own unbiassed judgment,' a step which I aid, from respect to the lady, I could not have upposed possible; my own ideas of the conduct of i noble-minded woman being so contrary; and uch conduct being at the same time so inconsist- :nt with the expressions used by herself to the last noment of their domestic intercourse. " if I had gone into the whole detail, I must lave stated the question put to you: why no reply was given to the application made to your family to specify the charges against lord B. that he might have an opportunity to vindicate himself from the calumnies so industriously propagated igainst him?— To this you answered, that lady By- ron acted in this by the advice of Dr. Lushington. What — a wife tears herself from the bosom of her husband, and acts by the cold caution of a lawyer Father than by the dictates of her own heart! " As to the expression of the disquiet at and eondemnation of the infamous aspersions which provoked me to vindicate the noble lord, I certain- ly conceived you to declare that they not only were not authorized by lady Byron's friends, but that you regretted and condemned them. 1 trust you do not mean to withdraw this declaration, or to diminish the import of these words. " If in the course of to-morrow I shall receive your instructions to print the letter, you may de> xlii pend on the publication on Saturday, together wit! my own recollection of all that passed between u:, yesterday, and which, that yon may be satisfied eel its fairness, I shall be ready to submit before hanci to your perusal My anxiety is to prevent the" breach from being widened, and to avoid the eon ' sequences to which the publication of your letter. 1 and the continuance of such slanders as daily ap- pear in some of the papers, must lead. " I have the honour to be, With perfect respect for yourself. " Sir,^-our faithful servant, Ja. Pehby «* Sir Ralph Noel, Bart &c &c. &c. Strand, April 18, 1816." "Mivarfs Hotel, April 19, 1816 Sin— -I cannot withdraw my request, that yot will insert the letter of explanation which I yes- tei'day sent you. You must take the responsibility upon yourself of whatever you may choose to pub- lish, and 1 must decline any previous communica- tion on the subject " I am, sir, your humble servant, Ralph JfoiL. ,: As the correspondence of lord Noel and Mr. Perry can be but of temporary interest at the best, and, moreover, contains very little information as to the causes of lord Byron's disagreement with his lady, it will be omitted in the complete edition of his works. xliii *% As the aboTe article was intended for the full edition of rd Byron's works, which is to appear in a week or two nee, it has been necessarily drawn up for the present pubh- tion with more haste than is consistent with any thing like eeant composition. It shall undergo a revision before its >xt appearance; and will also be enriched with some addi- jnal particulars which have been promsied us by an acquaint- ice of lord Byron's. AREWELL TO ENGLAND. '• While now I take my last adieu, " Heave thou no sigh, nor shed a tear, " Lest yet my tearful eye should view, " An object feat deserves my eare. M FAREWELL TO ENGLAND! 1. UH! land of my fathers, and mine! The noblest, the best, and the bravest — Heart-broken and lorn, I resign The joys and the hopes which thou gavest? 2. Dear mother of freedom! farewell! Even freedom is irksome to me— Be calm, throbbing heart, nor rebel — For Reason approves the decree. 3. Bid I love? — Be my witness, high heaven! That mark'd all my frailties and fears — I ador'd-^but the magic is riven — Be the memory expung'd by my tear*! 48 4. The moment of rapture how bright — How dazzling — how transient its glare — A comet in splendor and flight— The herald of darkness and care— 5. Recollections of tenderness gone, — Of pleasure no more to return— A wanderer — an outcast alone — Oh! leave me, untortur'd, to mourn. 6. Where — where shall my heart find repose? A refuge from memory and grief; The gangrene, wherever it goes, Disdains a fictitious relief. 7. Could I trace out that fabulous stream, Which washes remembrance away — Again might the eye of Hope gleam The dawn of a happier day. 8. Hath wine an oblivious power? — Can it pluck out the sting from the brain? The draught may beguile for an hour— But still leaves behind it the pain. 49 9. ©an distanee or time heal the heart . That bleeds from its innermost pore? Or intemperance lessen its smart — Or a cerate apply to its sore? 10. If I rush to the ultimate pole, The form I adore will be there— A phantom to torture my soul — Aud mock at my bootless despair. 11. The zephyr of eve, as it flies, Will whisper her voice in mine ear— And, moist with her sorrows and sighs, Demand for Love's altar a tear. 12. And still in the dreams of the day— And still in the visions of night- Will Fancy her beauties display — Disordering — deceiving — the sight. 13. Hence, vain fleeting images, hence! Grim phantoms that 'wilder my braio^r* Mere frauds upon Reason and Sense — EBgender'd by Foil} and Pain! 50 14. Did I swear on the altar of heaven My fealty to her I adored? Did she give back the vows I had giv'n— And plight back the plight of her lord? 15. If 1 err'd for a moment from love, The error I flew to retrieve — Kiss'd the heart I had wounded, and strove To sooth, ere it ventur'd to grieve. 16. Did I bend, who had ne'er bent before? Did I sue, who was us'd to command? Love forc'd me to weep and implore — And Pride was too weak to withstand— 17. Then why should one frailty, like mine, Repented, and wash'd with my tears, Erase those impressions divine, — The faith and affection of years? 18. Was it well, between anger and love, That Pride the stern umpire should be— And that heart should its fliDtiness prove On none, till it prov'd it on me? 51 19. And, ah! was it well, when I knelt, Thy tenderness so to conceal, That witnessing all which I felt, Thy sternness forbad thee to feel? 20. Then, when the dear pledge of our love Look'd up to her mother and smil'd— Say, was there no impulse that strove To back the appeal of the child? 21. That bosom, so callous and chill- So treacherous to love and to me— Ah! felt it no heart-rending thrill, As it turn'd from the innocent's plea? 22. • That ear which was open to all Was ruthlessly clos'd to its lord— Those accents which fiends would enthral, Jiefus'd a sweet peace-giving word. 23. And think'st thou, dear object — for still To my bosom thou only art life, And, spite of my pride and my will, I bless thee — I woo thee — my wife— 52 24. Oh! think'st thou that absence shall bring The balm which will give thee relief— Or time, on its life-wasting wing, An antidote yield for thy grief? 25. Thy hopes will be frail as the dream Which cheats the long moments of night. But melts in the glare of the beam Which breaks from the portal of light. 26. For when on thy babe's smiling face, Thy features and mine intertwin'd, The finger of Fancy shall trace— The spell shall resistlessly bind— 27. The dimple that dwells on her cheek— The glances that beam from her eye— The lisp, as she struggles to speak — Shall dash every smile with a sigh. 28. Tken I, though whole oceans between 1 hei- (ilowy barriers may rear— Shalt triumph, though fa»- a»0 unseen— Vnsonssious — uncall'd— shall be there- S3 29. The cruelty sprang not from thee, 'Twas foreign and foul to thy heart — That leveil'd its arrow at me, And fix'd the incurable smart. 30. Ah no! 'twas another than thine, The hand which assail'd my repose — It struck — and too fatally mine The wound, and its offspring of woes. SI. They hated us both, who destroyed The buds and the promise of Spring— For who, to replenish the void, New ties — new affections — can bring? 32. Alas! to the heart that is rent, What nostrums can soundness restore? Or what, to the bow over-bent, The spring which it carried before? 33. The rent heart will fester and bleed, And fade like the leaf in the blast— The crack'd yew no more will recede, Though vig'rous and tough to the last. 54 34. I wander — it matters not where — No clime can restore me my peace— Or snatch from the frown of Despair, A cheering — a fleeting release! 35. How slowly the moments will move! How tedious the footsteps of years! When valley and mountain and grove Shall ehange but the scene of my tears! 36. The classic memorials which nod — The spot dear to Science and Lore — Sarcophagus — temple — and sod — Excite me and ravish no more! 37. The stork on the perishing wall, Is better and happier than 1 — Content in his ivy -built hall, He hangs out his home iu the sty. 38. But houseless and heartless, I rove, My bosom all bar'd to the wind— The victim of pride, and of love— I seek — but, ah! where can I fiad 1 55 39. I seek what no tribes can bestow— I ask what no clime can impart— A charm which can neutralize wo, And dry up the tears of the heart. 40. I ask it— I seek it— in vain — From Ind to the northernmost pole, Unheeded— unpitied— complain, And pour out the grief of my soul, 41. What bosom shall heave when I sigh? What tears shall respond when I weep? Te my waitings what wail shall reply? What eye mark the vigils I keep? 42. Even thou— as thou learnest to prate — Dear babe — while remotely I rove — Shalt count it a duty— to hate Where Nature commands thee to love'/ 43. The foul tongue of Malice shall peal My vices — my faults — in tbine ear— And teach thee, with dsemon-like zeal, A father's affection to fear. 66 44. And oh! if in some distant day, Thine ear may be struck with my lyre, And Nature's true index may say — It may be— it must be — my sire!" — « t< 45. Perchance to thy prejudiced eye, Obnoxious my form may appear- Even Nature be deaf to my sigh — And Duty refuse me a tear. 46. Yet sure in this isle, where my songs Have echoed from mountain and dell, Some tongue the sad tale of my wrongs With grateful emotion may tell. 47. Some youth, who had valued my lay, And warm'd o'er the tale as it ran, To thee, even, may venture to say — " His frailties were those of a man!" 48. They were;— -they were human — but swell'd By Envy and Malice and ^corn — Each feeling of nature rebell'd, And hated the mask it had worn. 57 49. Though human the fault— how severe, How harsh the stern sentence pronounc'd- Ev'n Pride dropp'd a niggardly tear, My love as it grimly denounc'd! 50. 'Tis past! — the great struggle is o'er! The war of my bosom subsides! And Passion's strong current no more Impels its impetuous tides. 51. *Tis past! my affections give way— - The ties of ray nature are broke— The summons of Pride I obey. And break Love's degenerate yoke. 5£ I fly, like a bird of the air, In search of a home and a rest; A balm for the sickness of Care— » A bliss for a bosom unblest. 53. And swift as the swallow that floats— And bold as the eagle that soars- Yet dull as the owlet, whose notes The dark fiend of midnight deplores! c 2 53 54. WTiere gleam the gay splendors of east, The dance and the bountiful board, Fll bear me to Luxury's feast, To exile the form I ador'd. 55. In full brimming goblets, 111 quaff The sweets of the Lethean spring, And join in the Bacchanal's laugh — And trip in the fairy-form'd ring! 5o\ Where Pleasure invites will I roam, To drown the dull memory of Care— • An exile from Hope and from home — A fugitive ehas'd by Despair. — 57. Farewell to thee, land of the brave! Farewell to thee, land of my birthJ When tempests around thee shall rave, Still— still— may they homage thy worthf 58. Wife — infant — and country— and friend — Ye wizard my fancy no more— I fly from your solace, and wend To "weep «n some kindlier shore. 69 5D. The grim-visag'd fiend of the storm That raves in this agoniz'd breast — Still raises his pestilent form — Titt Death calm the tumult to rest, Jest a* this volume was going to press, we were polkel] voured by a friend of lord Byron's with a complete copy of Curse of Minerva, containing about two hundred more lir than those which have already been published— together wi several other poems whieh have never before appeared in pri The last stanza of " A Lady Weeping" (vol. i p. 206) is ken from a manuscript copy of the verses, and is now pi ■ ished for the first time. THE CURSE OF MINERVA. Stow sinks, more lovely ere bis race be run, Along Morea's hills the setting sun; Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, But one unclouded blaze of living light; O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws, Gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows; On old iEgina's rock and Idra's isle, 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. Descending fast, the mountain-shadows kiss Thy glorious gulf, unconquered Salamis! Their azure arches, through the long expanse, More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance, And tenderest tints along their summits driven Mark his gay course, and own the hues of Heaven 61 darkly shaded from the land and deep, lind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep, such an eve, his palest heam he cast jen, Athens! here thy wisest look'd his last! w watch'd thy hetter sons his farewell ray at clos'd their murder'd sage's latest day! I yet not yet — Sol pauses on the hill, I precious hour of parting lingers still; t sad his light to agonizing eyes, id dark the mountain's once delightful dyes, oom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, je land where Phcehus never frownM before; I ere he sunk beneath Cithjeron's head, ie cup of wo was quaff'd— the spirit fled; ae soul of him who scorn'd to fear or fly, Tio liv'd and died as none can live or die. But lo! from high Hymettus to the plain he Queen of Night asserts her silent reign;* o murky vapour, herald of the storm, jdes her fair face, or girds her glowing form: Pith cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play— 'here the white cotumn greets her grateful ray, ,nd bright around with quivering beams beset, [er emblem sparkles o'er the minaret. * The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our own country. The days in winter are longer, but m summer of less duration. 62 The groves of olive, scatter'd dark and wide, Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide, The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque; The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk,* And sad and sombre 'mid the hohj calm, Near Theseus' fame, yon solitary palm; All ting'd with varied hues arrest the eye, And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by Again the iEgean, heard no more afar, Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war; Again his waves in milder tints unfold Their long expanse of sapphire and of gold, Mixt with the shades of many a distant isle That frown where gentler ocean deigns to smile As thu9 within the walls of Pattas' fane I mark'd the beauties of the land and main, Alone and friendless on the magic shore, Whose arts and arms but live in poet's lore; Oft as the matchless dome I turn'd to scan, Sacred to Gods, but not secure from man, The past return'd, the present seem'd to cease, And Glory knew no clime beyond her Greece. * The kiosk is a Turkish summei^house— the palm is wi out the present walls of Alhens, not far from the temple Theseus, between which and the tree the wall intervene* Cepbisus's stream i> indeed scanty, and Ilissus has no ttret at a!2. 63 tours roll'd along, and Dian's orb on high 1 gain'd the centre of her softest sky, 1 yet unwearied still my footsteps trod p the vain shrine of many a vanish'd god: chiefly Pallas! thine: when Hecate's glare jck'd by the columns, fell more sadly fair r the chili marble, where the startling tread rills the lone heart, like echoes from the dead. u ong had I mused and treasured every trace e wreck of Greece recorded of her race, hen lo! a giant-form before me strode, ,d Pallas harl'd me in her own abode. s _ 'twas Minerva's self— but ah! how changed ice o'er the Dardan field in arms she ranged! >t such a3 erst by her divine command, »r form appear' d from Phidias' plastic hand, >ne were the terrors of her awful brow,. er idle aegis bore no Gorgon now; er helm was deep indented, and hei* lanee jem'd weak and shaftless e'eu to mortal glance: he olive branch, which still she deign'd to clasp, iiruuk from her hand and withered in her grasp, nd ah: though still the brightest of the sky, elestial tears bedew'd her large blue eye; tound her rent casque her owlet circled slow; md mouxo'd his mistress with a fehviek of wo, 64 *' Mortal!" ('twas thus she spoke) " that blus!, shame Proclaims thee Briton — once a noble name- First of the mighty, foremost of the free, Now honour'd less by all, but least by me; Chief of thy foes shall Pallas still be found: Seek'st thou the cause? oh, Mortal! look around, Lo! here, despite of war and wasting fire, I saw successive tyrannies expire; 'Scaped from the ravage of the Turk and Goth, Thy country sends a spoiler worse than both. Survey this vacant violated fane, Recount the relics torn that yet remain;— These Cecrops placed — this Pericles adorn'd— That Hadrian rear'd when drooping Science mourn What more I owe let gratitude attest, Know, Alaric and Elgin did the rest- That all may learn from whence the plunderer can Th' insulted wall sustains his hated name.* * It is related by a late oriental traveller that when tf wholesale spoliator visited Athens, he caused his own nam with that of his wife, to be inscribed on a pillar of one of til principal temples: this inscription was executed in a very co: spicuous maimer, and deeply engraved in the marble, at a vei considerable elevation. Notwithstanding which precaution some person (doubtless inspired by the patron-goddess) hi been at the pains to get himself raised up to the requisii height, and has obliterated the name of the laird, but left thi of the lady untouched. The traveller in question accompanie this story by a remark, that it must have cost some labour ar contrivance to get at the place, and could only have been e fected by much zeal and determination. 65 Elgin's fame thus grateful P alias pleads, >w, his name; above, behold his deeds, jver hail'd with equal honour here, Gothic monarch, and the British peer. is gave the first his right, the last had none, basely stole what less barbarians won: when the lion quits his fell repast, t prowls the wolf, the filthy jackal last; h, limbs, and blood, the former make their own, last base brute securely gnaws the bone, still the Gods are just, and crimes are crost: here, what Elgin won, and what he lost, ther name with his polices my shrine; old, where Dian's beams disdaiu to shine:— e retribution still might PiMtAs claim, en Ventts haif-aveng'd Minerva's shame."* he ceased awhile, and thus I dared reply, sooth the vengeance kindling in her eye:— ghter of Jove! in Britain's injur'd name, K ue born Briton may the deed disclaim. urn not on England — England owns him not:— bna? go — the plunderer was a Scot.f ,' The portrait of sir Wm- VAvenant illustrates this line. I The plaster wall ois the west side of the temple of Miner- folios bears the following inscription, cut in very deep Meters:— . " Quad rum fecerunt God Hocfecerunt Scoti.'' , — Uobhouse'* Travels m Greece. &c. p. 345. 66 Ask'st thou the difference? from fair Phyle's tow Survey Bceotia: — Caledonia's ours — And well I know within that murky land Hath Wisdom's goddess never held command; A Darren soil where nature's germs confin'd To stern sterility can stint the mind; Where thistle well betrays the niggard earth, Emblem of all to whom the land gives birth j Each genial influence nurtured to resist A land of liars, mountebanks and mist, Each breeze from foggy mount and marshy plaii Dilutes with drivel every drizzly brain, Till burst at length, eachwat'ry head o'erflows, Foul as their soil and frigid as their snows; Ten thousand schemes of pfetulance and pride Despatch her reckoning children far and wide: Some east, some west, some — every where but n< 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, And dull Boeotia gave a Pisbab birth. So may her few, the letter'd and the brave, Bound to no clime, and victors o'er the grave, Shake off the mossy slime of such a land, And shine like children of a happier strand. 67 bnce of yore, in some obnoxious place, i names (if found) had savM a wretched race. i fortal! (the blue-eyed maid resumed once more) r back my mandate to thy native shore; >ugh fallen, alas! this vengeance yet is mine, turn my counsels far from lands like thine. ir, then, in silence, Pallas' stern behe6t, ir and believe, for time will tell the rest: ^t on the head of him who did the deed curse shall light, on him and all his seed; ihout one spark of intellectual fire, all his sons as senseless as their sire: ne with wit the parent breed disgrace, ieve him bastard of a better race: 1 with his hireling artists let him prate, I Folly's praise repay for Wisdom's hate.* i * " Nor will this conduct [the sacrilegious plunder of ancient fices] appear wonderful in men, either by birth, or by habits I grovelling passions, barbarians, fi. e. Goths) when in our a times, and almost before our own eyes, persons of rank 1 education have not hesitated to disfigure the most ancient . the most venerable monuments of Grecian architecture; to I the works of Phidias and Praxiteles from their original po- rn, and demolish fabrics, which time, war, and barbarism, [ respected during twenty centuries. The French, whose •acity the voice of Europe has so loudly and so justly cen- ed, did not incur the guilt of dismantling ancient edifices: y spared the walls, and contented themselves with statues i paintings, and even these they have collected and arranged rails and galleries, for the inspection of travellers of all na- is; while, if report does not deceive us, our plunderers have 68 Long of their -patron's guaio let them tell, Whose noblest native gusto— is to sell: To sell, and make (may shame record the day) The state receiver of his pilferM prey! ransacked the temples of Greece to sell their booty to the hig bidder, or, at best, to piece the walls of some obscure old n sion with fragments of Parian marble, and of attic sculptu (Eustace's Classical Tour through Italy, p. 158). *****" alas! all the monuments of Roman magnificence, all the mains of Grecian taste, so dear to the artist, the historian, antiquary; all depend on the will of an arbitrary sovere and that will is influenced too often by interest or vanity, 1 nephew, or a sycophant. Is a new palace to be erected Rome) for an upstart family? the Coliseum is stripped to nish materials. Does a foreign minister wish to adorn bleak walls- of a northern castle with antiques.' the temple Theseus or Minerva must be dismantled, and the works of 1 dias or Praxiteles be torn from the shattered frieze. Ths decrepid uncle, wrapt up in the religious dHties of his age station, should listen to the suggestions of an interested phew, is natural; and that an oriental despot should undervt the master-pieces of Grecian art, is to be expected; thoug both eases the consequences of such weakness are much ti lamented; but that the minister of a nation, famed for its kn ledge of the language, audits veneration for the monument ancient Greece, should have been the prompter and the ins ment of these destructions is almost incredible. Such rapa is a crime against all ages and all generations: it deprives past, of the trophies of their genius and the title-deeds of t fame; the present, of the strongest inducements to exen the noblest exhibitions that curiosity can contemplate; future, of the master-pieces of art, the models of imitation, guard against the repetition of such depredations is the wis ever)' man of genius, the duty of every man in power, and common interest of every civilized nation." (Ibid. p. S » * * * ■ This attempt to transplant the temple of V from Italy to England may. perhaps, do honour to the late BristoPs patriotism, or to his magnificence; but it cannot considered as an indication of either taste or judgment." (I p. 419). 69 ntime, the flattering feeble dotard West, pe's worst dauber, and poor Britain's best, I palsied hand shall turn each model o'er, own himself an infant of fourscore*— II the bruisers call'd from all St. Giles, : Art and Nature may compare their styles: le brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare marvel at bis lordship's " stone shop" there - }" id tbe throng'd gate shall sauntering eoxeombs creep ounge and lucubrate, to prate and peep, le many a languid maid with longing sigh, ■iant statues easts the curious eye — room with transient glance appears to skim, marks the mighty back and length of limb, ms o'er the difference of now and then, aims — " These Greeks, indeed, were proper menh- irs sly comparisons of these with those, envies Lais all her Attic beaux, rn shall a modern maid have swains like thesef would Sir Harry were yon Hercules! Mr. West, on seeing the " Elgin collection" (I suppose hall hear of the Aber-show and " Jack Shephard's eollec- declared himself a mere " Tyro in art" Poor Crib was sadly puzzled when exhibited at E. Houser sked if it was not a M a stone shop."-He was right— it is a 70 And last of all, amid the gaping crew, Some calm spectator, as he takes his view* In silent admiration, mix'd with grief, Admires the plunder, hut abhors the thief. Loathed in life, scarce pardoned in the dust, May hate pursue his sacrilegious lust; Link'd with the fool who fired th' Ephesian dome, Shall vengeance follow far beyond the tomb. Erostratus and Elgin e'er shall shine In many a branding page and burning line. Alike condemn'd, for aye to stand accursed, Perchance the second viler than the first; So let hira stand, through ages yet unborn, Fix'd statue on the pedestal of Scorn! Though not for him alone revenge shall wait, But fits thy country for her coming fate; Her's 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 — Not to such deeds did Pallas lend her aid, Or break the compact which herself had made; Par from such councils, from the faithless field She fled — but left behind her Gorgon shield, A fatal gift, that turn'd your friends to stone, And left lost Albion hated and alone. * Un sot trouve tonjours un flas sot qui l'admiie;— (Boila La RvchefoucaulU &e.) 71* Liook to the east, where Ganges' swarthy race ill shake your tyrant empire to its base, ! there Rebellion rears her ghastly head, d glares the Nemesis of native dead, 1 Indus rolls a deep purpureal flood, d claims his long arrear of northern blood may ye perish— Pallas, when she gave ii' free born rights, forbade ye to enslave. )kon yon Spain, she clasps the hand she hates, t coldly clasps, and thrusts you from her gates — br witness, bright Barossa! thou can'st tell jiose were the sons that bravely fought and fell— I Lusitania, kip.d and dear ally! ^ spare a few to fight, and sometimes fly; glorious field! by famine fiercely won, p Gaul retires for once, and all is done! 1 when did Pallas teach that one retreat jrieved three long Olympiads of defeat. (k last at home— ye love not to look there, the grim smile of comfortless Despair; . . ;V city saddens, loud though revel howls, je Famine faints, and yonder Rapine prowls, i all alike of more or less bereft — misers tremble when there's nothing left lest paper credit," who shall dare to sing? »ogs like lead Corruption's weary wing; Yet Fallas pluck'd each premier by the ear, Who gods aud men alike disdained to hear. But oue repentant o'er a bankrupt state, On Pallas calls, but calls, alas! too late; Then raves for Stanhope, 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 hail'd your rulers their patrician clod, As Egypt chose an onion for a god. Now fare ye well! enjoy your little hour, Go grasp the shadow of your vanish'd power: 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;* No more the hirelings, purchas'd near and far, Crowd to the rauks 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 Rob piecemeal on his own encumbered shores; The starv'd mechanic breaks his rusting loom, And desperate mans him 'g;»inst the common dooH * The Deal and Dover trafickers in spe«ie. 7^ en, in the senate of your sinking state, >w me the man whose counsels may have weight; n is each voice, where tones could once command, ;n factions cease to charm a factious land; t jarring sects convulse a sister isle, d light with maddening hands the mutual pile. s done — 'tis past — since Pallas warns in vain e Furies seize her abdicated reign; de o'er the realm they wake their kindling brands, d wring her vitals with their fiery hands, t one convulsive struggle still remains, id Gaul shall weep ere Albion wear her chains; e banner'd pomp of war, the glittering files, ;r whose gay trappings stern Bellona smiles; e brazen trump, the spirit-stirring drum, »at bids the foe defiance e'er they come, ie hero bounding at his country's call, ie glorious death that decorates his fall, ell the young heart with visionary charms, id bids it antedate the joys of arms; it know a lesson you may yet be taught, ith death alone are laurels cheaply bought; )t in the conflict Havoc seeks delight, s day of mercy is the day of fight; it when the field is fought, the battle won, lough drench'd in gore, his woes are but begun, s deeper deeds as yet ye know by name, ie slaughter'd peasant and the ravish'd dame, D 74 The rifled mansion, and the foe-reap'd field 111 suit with souls at home untaught to yield. Say, with -what eye along the distant down Would flying hurghers 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 fr :m Tagus to the Rhine: Now, should they burst on thy devoted coast, Go, ask thy bosom who deserves them most — The law of heaven and earth is life for life, And she who rais'd in vain regrets the strife. 75 ODE TO 'HE ISLAND OF ST. HELENA. I. ! PEACE to thee, isle of the ocean! Hail to thy breezes and billows! Where, rolling its tides, in perpetual devotioe, The white wave its plumy surf pillows' a shall the chaplet be history shall weave thee! yhose undying verdure shall bloom on thy brow* en nations that now in obscurity leave thee, o the wand of oblivion alternately bow! hang'd in thy glory — unstainM in thy fame-j- | homage of ages shall hallow thy name! 2. ! Hail to the chief who reposes On thee the rich weight of his glory! .When fill'd to its limit, life's chronicle closes, His deeds shall be sacred in story! 76 His prowess shall rank with the first of all agea J And monarchs hereafter shall bow to his woi" The songs of the poets — the lessons of sages, — Shall hold him the wonder and grace of the < The meteors of history before thee shall fall — Eclips'd by thy splendor — thou meteor of Gaul! 3. Hygeian breezes shall fan thee— Island of glory resplendant! Pilgrims from nations far distant shall man tt Tribes, as thy waves, independent! ©n thy far gleaming strand the wanderer shal him To snatch a brief glance at a spot so renown*! Each turf and each stone, and eaeh cliff shall him, Where the step of thy exile hath hallow'd ground! From him shalt thou borrow a lustre divine — The wane of his sun was the rising of thine! 4. Whose were the hands that enslav'd him?' Hands which had weakly withstood him Nations which while they had oftentimes I him, Itever till now had subdued him! 77 archs — who oft to his clemency stooping, pceivM back their crowns from the plunder of war — vanquisher vanquish'd — the eagle now droop- ing— iTould quench with their sternness the ray of his star! cloth'd in new splendor the glory appears — . rules the ascendant — the planet of years, 5. Pure be the health of thy mountains! Rich be the green of thy pastures! Limpid and lasting the streams of thy fountains! Thine annals unstain'd by disasters! reme in the ocean a rich altar swelling SThose shrine shall be hail'd by the prayers of man- kind — rock beach thetrage of the tempest repelling — he wide wasting contest of wave and of wind — ft on thy battlements long be unfurlM 2 eagle that decks thee — the pride of the world! 6. Pade shall the lily, now blooming — Where is the hand which can nurse it' Uations who rear'd it shall watch its consuming — Untimely mildews shall curse it. 78 Then shall the violet that blooms in the valhes Impart to the gale its reviving perfume — Then when the spirit of liberty rallies To chant forth its anthems on tyranny's tomb, Wide Europe shall fear lest thy star should br forth, Eclipsing the pestilent orbs of the north! TO MY DAUGHTER, ON THE MORNING OF HER BIRTH. 1. HAIL— to this teeming stage of strife- Hail, lovely miniature of life! Pilgrim of many cares untold! Lamb of the world's extended foldl Fountain of hopes and doubts and fearti Sweet promise of ecstatic years! How could I fainly bend the knee, And turn idolater to thee! 2. 'Tis nature's worship — felt — confess'd, Far as the life which warms the breast: — . The sturdy savage, 'midst his clan, The rudest portraiture of man, In trackless woods and boundless plains, Where everlasting wildness reigns, Owns the still tbrob — the secret start — The hidden impulse of the heart- 3. Dear babe! ere yet upon thy years The soil of human vice appears— Ere Passion hath disturb'd thy cheek, And prompted what thou dai^st not speak- Ere that pale lip is blanch'd with Care, Or from those eyes shoot fierce Despair, Would I could wake thine untun'd ear, And gust it with a father's pray'r. 4. But little reck'st thou, oh my child! Of travail on life's thorny wild! Of all the dangers — -all the woes Each tottering footstep which inclose— Ah, little reck'st thou of the scene So darkly wrought that spreads between The little all we here can find, And the dark mystic sphere behind! 5. Little reck'st thou, my earliest born— Of clouds which gather round thy morn— Of acts to lure thy soul astray— Of snares that intersect thy way — Of secret foes — of friends untrue — Of fiends who stab the hearts they woo — SI Little thou reck'st of this sad store- Would thou might'st never reck them more! 6. But thou -wilt hurst this transient sleep— And thou wilt wake, my babe, to weep— The tenant of a frail abode, Thy tears must flow, as mine have flow'd— Beguil'd by follies, every day, Sorrow must wash the faults away — And thou may'st wake perchance, to prove. The pang of unrequited lore. f. Unconscious babe! though on that brow No half-fledgM misery nestles now- Scarce round those placid lips a smile Maternal fondness shall beguile, Ere the moist footsteps of a tear Shall plant their dewy traces there, And prematurely pave the way For sorrows of a riper day. 8. Oh! could a father's pray'r repel The eye's sad grief— the bosom's swell' Or could a father hope to bear A darling child's allotted care— D 2 82 Then thou, my babe, shoulcfst slumber still, Exempted from all human ill, A parent's love thy peace should free, And ask its wounds again for thee. 9. Sleep on, my child; the slumber brief Too soon shall melt away to grief — Too soon the dawn of wo shall break, And briny rills bedew that cheek — Too soon shall Sadness quench those eyes — That breast be agoniz'd with sighs — And Anguish o'er the beams of noon Lead clouds of Care — ah! much too soon! 10. Soon wilt thou reck of cares unknown— Of wants and sorrows all their own— Of many a pang, and many a wo, That thy dear sex alone can know — r Of many an ill — untold — unsung; — That will not — may not find a tongue— But kept conceal'd, without control, Spread the fell cancers of the soul! 11. Yet be thy lot, my babe, more blest — May Joy still animate thy breast! 83 Still, 'midst thy least propitious days, Shedding its rich inspiring rays! A father's heart shall daily bear Thy name upon its secret pray'r — And as he seeks his last repose, Thine image ease life's parting throes. 12. Then hail, sweet miniature of life! Hail, to this teeming stage of strife! Pilgrim of many cares untold! Lamb of the world's extended fold! Fountain of hopes and doubts and fears! Sweet promise of extatic years! How could I fainly bend the knee, And turn idolater to thee! M TO THE LILY OF FRANCE. I. JErE thou scatterest thy leaf to the wind, False emblem of innocence, stay — And yield as thou fad'st, for the use of mankind, The lesson that marks thy decay. 2. Thou wert fair as the beam of the morn— And rich as the pride of the mine:— Thy charms are all faded, and hatred and scorn — The curses of Freedom, are thine. 3. Thou wert gay in the smiles of the world—* Thy shadow protection and power- But now thy bright blossom is shrivell'd and curl'd- The grace of thy country no more. 4. For Corruption hath fed on thy leaf — And, Bigotry weaken'd thy stem — §5 those who have fearM thee, shall smile at thy grief, ^nd those who ador'd thee condemn. 5. e valley that gave thee thy birth Shall weep for the hope of its soil— e legions, that fought for thy beauty and worth, Shall hasten to share in thy spoil. 6. a bye-word, thy blossom shall be A mock and a jest among men — e proverb of slaves, and the sneer of the free, in city, and mountain, and glen. 7. ! 'twas Tyranny's pestilent gale rhat scatter'd thy buds on the ground — at threw the blood-stain on thy virgin-white veil — - And pierc'd thee with many a wound! 8. ien thy puny leaf shook to the wind— I*hy stem gave its strength to the blast,— ty full bursting blossom its promise resign'd, And fell to the storm as it pass'd. 8G For no patriot vigour was there — No arm to support the weak flow'r, Destruction pursued its dark herald — Despair— And wither'd its grace in an hour. 10. Yet there were who pretended to grieve — There were who pretended to save — Mere shallow empyrics who came to deceive — To revel and sport on its grave— 11. Oh thou land of the lily, in vain Thou strugglest to raise its pale head! The faded bud never shall blossom again— The violet will bloom in its stead! 12. As thou scatterest thy leaf to the wind — False emblem of innocence, stay — And yield, as thou fad'st, for the use of mankind This lesson to mark thy decay! 87 MADAME LAV ALETTE. ST Edinburgh critics overwhelm with their praises Their Madame de Staee, and their fam'd L'Epinasse: ike a meteor at best, proud Philosophy blazes, And the fame of a Wit is as brittie as glass: it cheering* s the beam, and unfading the splendour Of thy torch, Wedded Love! and it never has yet aone with lustre more holy, more pure, or more tender, Than it sheds on the name of the fair Lay alette. hen fill high the wine-cup, e'en Virtue shall bless it, And hallow the goblet which foams to her name; ? he warm lip of Beauty shall piously press it, And Hymen shall honour the pledge to her fame: 'o the health of the Woman, who freedom and life too Has risk'd for her Husband, we'll pay the just debt; ind hail with applauses the Heroine and Wife too, The constant, the noble, the fair Lavalette. ier foes have awarded, in impotent malice, To their captive a doom, which all Europe abhors- ss And turns from the stairs of the Priest-haunted pal While those who replaced them there, blush their cause: But, in ages to come, when the blood-tarnish' d gloi Of dukes, and of marshals, in darkness hath set, Hearts shall throb, eyes shall glisten, at reading i story Of the fond self-devotion of fair Lav alette. 89 ADIEU TO MALTA. Ldieu the joys of La Valette; Ldieu sirocco, sun, and sweat; Ldieu thou palace, rarely eutered; Ldieu ye mansions, where I've ventured.; Ldieu ye cursed streets of stairs — low surely he who mounts them swears; Ldeiu ye merchants, often failing; kdieu thou mob, for ever railing; Ldieu ye packets without letters; Ldieu ye fools, who ape your betters: Ldieu thou damn'dest quarantine, rhat gave me fever and the spleen: Ldieu that stage which makes us yawn, sirs; Ldieu his excellency's dancers; Ldieu to Peter, whom no fault's in, lut could not teach a colonel waltzing; Ldieu ye females, fraught with graces; Ldieu red coats, and redder faces; Ldieu the supercilious air, )f all that strut en miliiaire; go — but God knows where or why— •o §moky towns .and cloudy sky; 90 To things, the honest truth to say, As bad, but in a different way: — Farewell to these, but not adieu Triumphant sons of truest blue, While either Adriatic shore, And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more, And nightly smiles, and daily dinners, Proclaim you war and women's winners. Pardon my muse, who apt to prate is; And take my rhyme because 'tis gratis: And bow I've got to Mrs. Fraser, Perhaps you think I mean to praise hen And were I vain enough to think My praise was worth this drop of ink, A line or two were no hard matter, As here, indeed, I need not flatter: But she must be content to shine In better praises than in mine: "With lively air and open heart, And fashion's ease without its art, Her hours can gajly gbde along, Nor ask the aid of idle song. And now, Oh, Malta! since thou'st got us, Thou little military hot-house! I'll not offend with words uncivil, And wish thee rudely at the devil — 91 tat only stare from, out my easement, ind ask— for what is such a place meant; hen, in my solitary nook, teturn to scribbling, or a book; >r take my physio, while I'm able, 'wo spoonfuls, hourly, by this label; 'efer my nightcap to my beaver, ind bless my stars, I've got a fe^er, 92 THE TRIUMPH OF THE WHALI Io Paean! Io'. sing To the finny people's king — Not a mightier whale than this In the vast Atlantic is; Not a fatter fish than he Flounders round the polar sea; See his blubher — at his gills What a world of drink he swills! From his trunk as from a spout Which next moment he pours out. Such his person: next declare Muse! who his companions are; Every fish of generous kind Scuds aside or slinks behind. But about his person keep All the monsters of the deep; Mermaids with their tails and singing His delighted fancy stinging — Crooked dolphins, they surround him, Dog like seals, they fawn around him: Following hard, the progress mark Of the intolerant salt sea shark — For his solace and relief Flat-fish are his courtiers chief— 93 Last, and lowest in his train; Ink fish, libellers of the main, Their black liquor shed in spite — (Such on earth the things that write) In his stomach, some do say No good thing can ever stay; Had it been the fortune of it To have swallowed the old prophet, Three days there he'd not have dwell'd, But in one have been expell'd. Hapless mariners are they Who beguil'd, as seamen say, Deeming it some rock or island, Footing sure, safe spot and dry land, Anchor in his scaly rind; Soon the difference they find, Sudden, plump, he sinks beneath them— - Does to ruthless waves bequeath them: ;Name or title, what has he? Ife he regent of the sea? From the difficulty free ub Buffon, Banks, or sage Linnxus! With his wondrous attributes, iSay — what appellation suits? By his bulk, and by his size, By his oily qualities, This, or else my eye-sight fails — This should be the Prince of Whales/ 94 LINES, On a visit to the tombs of the Capulets: Fam'd for their civil and domestic quarrels See heartless Henry lies by headless Charles: Between them stands another scepter'd thing, It lives, it moves, in all but name, a king- Charles to his people— Henry to his wife, The double tyrant starts again to life- Justice and Death have mix'd their dust in vain Each royal vampire wakes to life again. — Ah! what can tombs avail, when these disgorge Two such to make a R # ***xinaG****« 95 following lines -were -written by Mr. Fitzgerald, In a copy of English Bards and Scotch fievietv- srs: — fibtd lord Byron scorns my muse— Our fates are ill agreed! is verse is safe — I can't abuse Those lines I never read. W. F. F. lordship accidently fell upon the copy, and sub- joined the folio-wing pungent reply:— it's writ on me, cried Fitz, I never read — it's wrote by thee, dear Fitz, none will indeed— case stands simply thus, then, honest Fitz! a and thine enemies are fairly quits.— ather -would be, if for time to come, y luckily were deaf, or thou wert dumb-* lo their pens, while scribblers add their tongues, waiter only can escape their lungs. 96 ADDITIONAL STAKZA TO A LADY WEEPING. Blest omens of a happy reign In swift succession hourly rise, Deserted friends, vows made in Tain, A daughter's tears, a nation's sighs' \i *m , . • L ,*«E II s ■ m Bttn 4M* SB wzm