In his doctrine, at least as a teacher, And kick'd from one stool As a knave and a fool, Has mounted another as preacher! In that gown, like a skin With no lion within, He still for the bench would be driving, And roareth away, A true Vicar of Bray, Except that his bray lost his living. "Gainst free-thinkers,' he roars, "You should all shut your doors, Or be bound in the Devil's indentures." And here I agree, For who ever would be A guest where old Simony enters! Let the Priest who beguiled To his own dirty views of promotion, And dishonour the cause of devotion. The Altar and Throne Are in peril alone From such as yourself, who would render Though your visions of lawn And you miss'd your bold stroke for a mitre, You may still preach and pray, And from bishop sink into backbiter! TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. You have ask'd for a verse-the request, In a rhymer, 't were strange to deny; But my Hyppocrene was but my breast, And my feelings (its fountain) are dry. Were I now as I was, I had sung What Lawrence has pencill'd so well; But the strain would expire on my tongue, And the theme is too soft for my shell. I am ashes where once I was fire, My life is not dated by years; There are moments which act as a plough; Let the young and the brilliant aspire For sorrow has torn from my lyre The string which was worthy the strain. (2) STANZAS. (3) OH!-my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pillow! Where is my lover? where is my lover? Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover? Far far away! and alone along the billow? Oh! my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pillow! Why must my head ache where his gentle brow lay? How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly, And my head droops over thee like the willow! Oh! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow! Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from breaking, In return for the tears I shed upon thee waking; Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow. Then if thou wilt-no more my lonely Pillow, In one embrace let these arms again enfold him! And then expire of the joy-but to behold him! Oh! my lone bosom!-oh! my lonely Pillow! (3) Written by Lord Byron, and given to the Countess Guiccioli, a little before he left Italy for Greece. They were meant to suit the Hindostanee air-"Alla Malla Punca," which the Countess was fond of singing.-E. THE CONQUEST. (1) THE Son of Love and Lord of War I sing; Not fann'd alone by Victory's fleeting wing, He rear'd his bold and brilliant throne on high: The Bastard kept, like lions, his prey fast, And Britons' bravest victor was the last. March 8-9, 1821. BUT once I dared to lift my eyes, To lift my eyes to thee; And, since that day, beneath the skies, No other sight they see. In vain sleep shuts them in the night, The night grows day to me, Presenting idly to my sight What still a dream must be. A fatal dream-for many a bar Divides thy fate from mine; And still my passions wake and war, But peace be still with thine. ON SAM ROGERS.(2) Question and Answer. QUESTION. NOSE and chin would shame a knocker; ANSWER. Many passengers arrest one, To demand the same free question. (1) This fragment was found amongst Lord Byron's papers, after his departure from Genoa for Greece.-E. (2) The author of The Pleasures of Memory, Italy, etc. Shorter's my reply, and franker,— Clothed in odds and ends of humour- In the mode that 's most invidious, For his merits, would you know 'em? Once he wrote a pretty Poem. ON LADY MILBANKE'S DOG TRIM.(1) ALAS! poor Trim; It had been Sir Ralph. LINES TO LADY HOLLAND. (2) LADY, accept the gift a hero wore, In spite of all this elegiac stuff; Let not seven stanzas, written by a bore, Prevent your Ladyship from taking snuff ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR. Missolonghi, Jan. 22, 1824. (5) 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move: My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The fire that on my bosom preys The hope, the fear, the jealous care, But wear the chain. But 't is not thus-and 't is not here Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor Where glory decks the hero's bier, Or binds his brow. The sword, the banner, and the field, Glory and Greece, around me see! The Spartan, borne upon his shield, Was not more free. [now, Awake! (not Greece-she is awake!) (1) Sir Ralph Milbanke and his Lady were addicted to frequent domestic quarrels. The Lady had a dog, hight Trim, on whose death she requested her son-in-law to write an epitaph, on which he immediately produced the above.-E. (2) Written on reading in the newspapers an address to Lady Holland, by the Earl of Carlisle, persuading her to reject the snuff-box bequeathed to her by Napoleon, beginning: "Lady, reject the gift," etc.-E. (3) This morning Lord Byron came from his bed-room into the apartment where Colonel Stanhope and some friends were assembled, and said with a smile-You were complaining, the Tread those reviving passions down, Unworthy manhood!-unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown Of Beauty be. If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live? Seek out-less often sought than found- TO JESSY. (5) THERE is a mystic thread of life So dearly wreathed with mine alone, That destiny's relentless knife At once must sever both or none. There is a form, on which these eyes Such thrills of rapture through my breast I would not hear a seraph choir, Unless that voice could join the rest. There is a face, whose blushes tell Affection's tale upon the cheek But pallid at one fond farewell, Proclaims more love than words can speak. There is a lip, which mine hath press'd, And none had ever press'd before, Hath pillow'd oft this aching head; An eye, whose tears with mine are shed. There are two hearts, whose movements thrill In unison so closely sweet, That, pulse to pulse responsive still, They both must heave, or cease to beat. other day, that I never write any poetry now. This is my birthday, and I have just finished something, which, I think, is better than what I usually write.' He then produced these noble and affecting verses." Count Camba.-E. (4)" We perceive, from these lines as well as from his daily conversations, that his ambition and his hope were irrevocably fixe! apon the glorious objects of his expedition to Greece, and that he had made up his mind to return victorious or return no more." Ibid. (5) Supposed to have been addressed to Lady Byron but a few months ere their fatal separation. There are two souls, whose equal flow LINES FOUND IN THe travellerS' BOOK AT CHAMOUNI. Dutch craft, and German dulness, side by side! But he, the author of these idle lines, What joy elates him, and what grief consumes ? TO LADY CAROLINE LAMB. AND say'st thou that I have not felt, Whilst thou wert thus estranged from me? Nor know'st how dearly I have dwelt And I will learn to prize thee less, And change the heart thou mayst not bless. What thou hast done too well, for me- I have not wept while thou wert gone, (Ah! need I name her!) could bestow. It is a duty which I owe To thine to thee-to man-to God, To crush, to quench this guilty glow, Ere yet the path of crime be trod. But, since my breast is not so pure, Since still the vulture tears my heart, Let me this agony endure, Not thee, oh! dearest as thou art! In mercy, Clara! let us part, And I will seek, yet know not how, To shun, in time, the threatening dart; Guilt must not aim at such as thou. But thou must aid me in the task, And nobly thus exert thy power; Then spurn me hence-'t is all I askEre time mature a guiltier hour; Ere wrath's impending vials shower Remorse redoubled on my head; Ere fires unquenchably devour A heart whose hope has long been dead. Deceive no more thyself and me, Deceive not better hearts than mine; Ah, shouldst thou, whither wouldst thou flee, From woe like ours-from shame like thine! And if there be a wrath divine, A pang beyond this fleeting breath, E'en now all future hope resign: Such thoughts are guilt-such guilt is death! THE PRINCE OF WHALES. lo Paan! lo! sing To the finny people's king- Not a fatter fish than he From his trunk as from a spout! Flat fish are his courtiers chief; To have swallow'd the old prophet, Hapless mariners are they Is he regent of the sea? From the difficulty free us, Buffon, Banks, or sage Linnæus! 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. TO MY DEAR MARY ANNE. ADIEU to sweet Mary for ever! From her I must quickly depart: Is far purer than Cupid bestows. I HEARD thy fate without a tear, I know not what hath sear'd mine eye: Falls dreary on my heart. They sink, and turn to care; ON THE LETTER I. (Written in a Lady's Scrap-Book.) I AM not in youth, nor in manhood, nor age, I'm a stranger alike to the fool and the sage, I am not in earth, nor the sun, nor the moon; You may plainly perceive me-for, like a balloon, I am always in riches, and yet I am told I dwell with the miser, but not with his gold, |