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And since not even our Rogers' praise
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,
TO LORD THURLOW.
"I lay my branch of laurel down: Then thus to form Apollo's crown, Let every other bring his own."
Lord Thurlow's lines to Mr. Rogers.
"I lay my branch of laurel down." Thou lay thy branch of laurel down!" Why, what thou 'st stole is not enow; And, were it lawfully thine own,
Does Rogers want it most, or thou? Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough,
Or send it back to Doctor Donne: Were justice done to both, I trow,
He'd have but little, and thou-none.
"Then thus to form Apollo's crown.”
Inquire amongst your fellow-lodgers,
"Let every other bring his own." When coals to Newscatle are carried,
And owls sent to Athens, as wonders, From his spouse when the Regent's unmarried, Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders : When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel, When Castlereagh's wife has an heir, Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel,
And thou shalt have plenty to spare.
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 afreshtill 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."-Moore
TO THOMAS MOORE;
WRITTEN THE EVENING BEFORE, HIS VISIT
Oн you, who in all names can tickle the town, Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown,For hang me ifl know of which you may most brag, Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Two-penny Post Bag;
But now to my letter-to yours 't is an answer—
And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers;
And you'll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra.(1)
With such an aspect, by his colours blent,
The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn-
December 17, 1813. (1)
SONNET, TO THE SAME.
THY cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress:
December 17, 1813.
FROM THE PORTUGUESE.
"Tu mi chamas."
IN moments to delight devoted,
"My life!" with tenderest tone, you cry;
THE DEVIL'S DRIVE;
AN UNFINISHED RHAPSODY. (2)
And sausages made of a self-slain Jew-
"And," quoth he, "I'll take a drive.
And I'll see how my favourites thrive.
"And what shall I ride in ?" quoth Lucifer then-
I should mount in a waggon of wounded men,
But first as he flew, I forgot to say,
And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare
That he perch'd on a mountain of slain;
Nor his work done half as well;
For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead,
You call me still your life.-Oh! change the word-"Methinks they have here little need of me!"
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.
(1) "Redde some Italian, and wrote two sonnets. ( never wrote but one sonnet before, and that was not in earnest, and many years ago, as an exercise-and I will never write another. They are the most puling, petrifying, stupidly platonic compositions." Diary, 1815.-E.
But these will be furnish'd again and again,
"I have a state-coach at Carlton House,
A chariot in Seymour Place;
But they're lent to two friends, who make me
And making a jump from Moscow to France,
But the softest note that soothed his ear
Was the sound of a widow sighing;
Of a maid by her lover lying-
THE devil return'd to hell by two,
And he stay'd at home till five;
When he dined on some homicides done in ragout, With its hollow cheek, and eyes half shut,
(2) I have lately written a wild, rambling, unfinished rhap sody, called The Devil's Drive,' the notion of which I took from Porson's Devil's Walk" B. Diary, 1813.-"This strange wild poem," says Moore, " is, for the most part, rather clumsily executed, wanting the point and condensation of those clever
And the carnage, begun when resistance is done, And the Devil was shock'd-and quoth he, “I
But the Devil has reach'd our cliffs so white,
If his eyes were good, he but saw by night
But he made a tour, and kept a journal
Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal,
And he sold it in shares to the men of the Row,
So instead of a pistol he cock'd his tail,
And seized him by the throat:
And bade him have no fear,
But be true to his club, and stanch to his rein,
Next to seeing a lord at the council-board,
The devil gat next to Westminster,
And he turn'd to" the room" of the Commons;
And he thought, as a "quondam aristocrat,"
And he walk'd up the house so like one of our own,
The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly,
Because the Catholics would not rise,
In spite of his prayers and his prophecies;
verses of Mr. Coleridge, which Lord Byron, adopting a notion
(1) "I cannot conceive how the Vault has got about-but so
(2) "To day I have boxed one hour-written an Ode to Na-
Produce the urn that Hannibal contains,
And weigh the mighty dust which yet remains:
For I find we have much better manners below;
(5) "I don't know-but I think 1, even 1 (an insect compared
The triumph, and the vanity,
The rapture of the strife (1) —
To thee the breath of life;
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway
All quell'd!-Dark Spirit! what must be
The desolator desolate!
The victor overthrown!
A suppliant for his own!
Is it some yet imperial hope
That with such change can calmly cope?
To die a prince-or live a slave-
rate it worth a ducat. Psha! 'something too much of this. But
(2) "Out of town six days. On my return, find my poor little It is his own fault. pagod, Napoleon, pushed off his pedestal Like Milo, he would rend the oak; but it closed again, wedged his hands, and now the beasts-lion, bear, down to the dirtiest jackall-may all tear him. That Muscovite winter wedged his arms;-ever since, he has fought with his feet and teeth. The last may still leave their marks: and I guess now' (as the Yankees say), that he will yet play them a pass." B. Diary, April 8. (5) Sylla.-[We find the germ of this stanza in the diary of the evening before it was written :- Methinks Sylla did better; for he revenged, and resigned in the height of his sway, red with the slaughter of his foes-the finest instance of glorious contempt of the rascals upon record. Dioclesian did well too Amurath not amiss, had he become aught except a dervise--
Charles the Fifth but so so; but Napoleon worst of all." B Diary, April, 9].
(4) “Alter *potent speil' to 'quickening spell:' the first (as Polonius says) is a vile phrase,' and means nothing, besides being common-place and Kosa-Matildaish. After the resolu tion of not publishing, though our Ode is a thing of little length and less consequence, it will be better altogether that it is anonymous." Lord B. to Mr. M. April 11.—E.
(5) Charles the Fifth, Emperor of Germany, and King of Spain, resigned, in 1555, his imperial crown to his brother Ferdinand, and the kingdom of Spain to his son Philip, and retired to a monastery in Estremadura, where he conformed, in his manner of living, to all the rigour of monastic austerity. Not satished with this, he dressed himself in his shroud, was laid in his coffin with much solemnity, joined in the prayers which were offered up for the rest of his soul, and mingled his tears with these which his attendants shed, as if they had been celebrating a real funeral.-E.
(6) "I looked," says Boswell, "into Lord Kaimes's Sketches of the History of Man, and mentioned to Dr. Johnson his censure of Charles the Fifth, for celebrating his funeral obsequies
And monarchs bow'd the trembling limb,
In humblest guise have shown.
Thine evil deeds are writ in gore,
If thou hadst died as honour dies,
To shame the world again-
Weigh'd in the balance, hero-dust
Thy scales, Mortality! are just
To all that pass away:
But yet methought the living great
To dazzle and dismay:
Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth
And she, proud Austria's mournful flower,
How bears her breast the torturing hour?
Must she too bend, must she too share
Thou throneless homicide?
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem,
And gaze upon the sea;
That element may meet thy smile-
in his life-time, which, I told him, I had been used to think a
But who would rise in brightest day
(2) Count Neipperg, a gentleman in the suite of the Emperor of Austria, who was first presented to Maria Louisa within a few days after Napoleon's abdication, became, in the sequel, her Chamberlain, and then her husband. He is said to have been a man of remarkably plain appearance. The Count died in 1831.-E.
(3) Dionysius the Younger, esteemed a greater tyrant than his father, on being for the second time banished from Syracuse, retired to Corinth, where he was obliged to turn schoolmaster for a subsistence.-E.
(4) The cage of Bajazet, by order of Tamerlane.
--"The very fiend's arch mock
To lip a wanton, and suppose her chaste."-Shakspeare. [We believe there is no doubt of the anecdote here alluded to -of Napoleon's having found leisure for an unworthy amour, the very evening of his arrival at Fontainebleau.-E.]
(8) The three last stanzas, which Lord Byron had been solicited by Mr. Murray to write, to avoid the stamp duty then imposed upon publications not exceeding a sheet, were not published with the rest of the poem. "I don't like them at all," says Lord Byron, and they had better be left out. The fact is, I can't do any thing I am asked to do, however gladly I would; and at the end of a week my interest in a composition goes off."-E.