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Nor these alone; Columbia feels no less
Fresh speculations follow each success;
And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain
Her mild per-centage from exhausted Spain.
Not without Abraham's seed can Russia march;
'Tis gold, not steel, that rears the conqueror's arch.
Two Jews, a chosen people, can command
In every realm their scripture-promised land: -
Two Jews keep down the Romans, and uphold
The accursed Hun, more brutal than of old:
Two Jews but not Samaritans - direct
The world, with all the spirit of their sect.
What is the happiness of earth to them?
A congress forms their " New Jerusalem,"
Where baronies and orders both invite-
Oh, holy Abraham! dost thou see the sight?
Thy followers mingling with these royal swine,
Who spit not " on their Jewish gaberdine,"
But honour them as portion of the show-
(Where now, oh pope! is thy forsaken toe?
Could it not favour Judah with some kicks?
Or has it ceased to "kick against the pricks?")
On Shylock's shore behold them stand afresh,
To cut from nations' hearts their "pound of flesh."


Strange sight this Congress ! destined to unite
All that 's incongruous, all that's opposite.

I speak not of the Sovereigns - they're alike,
A common coin as ever mint could strike:
But those who sway the puppets, pull the strings,
Have more of motley than their heavy kings.
Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, combine,
While Europe wonders at the vast design:
There Metternich, power's foremost parasite,
Cajoles; there Wellington forgets to fight;
There Chateaubriand forms new books of martyrs; 1
And subtle Greeks 2 intrigue for stupid Tartars;
There Montmorenci, the sworn foe to charters, s
Turns a diplomatist of great éclat,
To furnish articles for the "Débats; "
Of war so certain - yet not quite so sure
As his dismissal in the "Moniteur."
Alas! how could his cabinet thus err?
Can peace be worth an ultra-minister?
He falls indeed, perhaps to rise again,
"Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain." 4

Enough of this a sight more mournful woos
The averted eye of the reluctant muse.
The imperial daughter, the imperial bride,
The imperial victim-sacrifice to pride;

to Christianity in France. Lord Byron perhaps alludes to the well-known joke of Talleyrand, who, meeting the Duke of Montmorenci at the same party with M. Rothschild, soon after the latter had been ennobled by the Emperor of Austria, is said to have begged leave to present M. le premier baron Juif to M. le premier baron Chrétien.]

Monsieur Chateaubriand, who has not forgotten the author in the minister, received a handsome compliment at Verona from a literary sovereign: "Ah! Monsieur C., are you related to that Chateaubriand who-who-who has written something?" (écrit quelque chose!) It is said that the author of Atala repented him for a moment of his legitimacy.

2 [Count Capo d'Istrias-afterwards President of Greece. The count was murdered in September, 1831, by the brother and son of a Mainote chief whom he had imprisoned.]

3 [The Duke de Montmorenci-Laval.]

[From Pope's verses on Lord Peterborough:

The mother of the hero's hope, the boy,
The young Astyanax of modern Troy;
The still pale shadow of the loftiest queen
That earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen;
She flits amidst the phantoms of the hour,
The theme of pity, and the wreck of power.
Oh, cruel mockery! Could not Austria spare
A daughter? What did France's widow there?
Her fitter place was by St. Helen's wave,
Her only throne is in Napoleon's grave.
But, no, she still must hold a petty reign,
Flank'd by her formidable chamberlain ;
The martial Argus, whose not hundred eyes
Must watch her through these paltry pageantries; 6
What though she share no more, and shared in vain,
A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne,
Which swept from Moscow to the southern seas;
Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese,
Where Parma views the traveller resort,

To note the trappings of her mimic court.
But she appears! Verona sees her shorn
Of all her beams-while nations gaze and mourn -
Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time
To chill in their inhospitable clime;

(If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold;
But no,
their embers soon will burst the mould;)
She comes! the Andromache (but not Racine's,
Nor Homer's,)-Lo! on Pyrrhus' arm she leans !
Yes! the right arm, yet red from Waterloo,
Which cut her lord's half-shatter'd sceptre through,
Is offer'd and accepted! Could a slave

Do more? or less? and he in his new grave!
Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strife,
And the ex-empress grows as er a wife!
So much for human ties in royal breasts!

Why spare men's feelings, when their own are jests?

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But, tired of foreign follies, I turn home,

And sketch the group- the picture's yet to come.
My muse 'gan weep, but, ere a tear was spilt,
She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt!
While throng'd the chiefs of every Highland clan
To hail their brother, Vich Ian Alderman!
Guildhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse roar,
While all the Common Council cry "Claymore!"
To see proud Albyn's tartans as a belt
Gird the gross sirloin of a city Celt, 7
She burst into a laughter so extreme,
That I awoke and lo! it was no dream!

Here, reader, will we pause:- if there's no harm in This first- you'll have, perhaps, a second" Carmen."

"And he, whose lightning pierced the Iberian lines,
Now forms my quincunx, and now ranks my vines,
Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain,
Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain."]

5 [Napoleon François Charles Joseph, Duke of Reichstadt, died at the palace of Schönbrunn, July 22. 1832, having just attained his twenty-first year.]

6 [Count Neipperg, chamberlain and second husband to Maria-Louisa, had but one eye. The count died in 1831. See antè, p. 461.]

7 [George the Fourth is said to have been somewhat annoyed, on entering the levee-room at Holyrood (Aug. 1822) in full Stuart tartan, to see only one figure similarly attired (and of similar bulk)- that of Sir William Curtis. The city knight had every thing complete-even the knife stuck in the garter. He asked the King, if he did not think him well dressed. "Yes!" replied his Majesty, "only you have no spoon in your hose." The devourer of turtle had a fine engraving executed of himself in his Celtic attire.]

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To Him address thy trembling prayer: He, who is merciful and just, Will not reject a child of dust,

Although his meanest care.

Father of Light! to Thee I call,
My soul is dark within:

Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall,
Avert the death of sin.

Thou, who canst guide the wandering star, Who calm'st the elemental war,

Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive; And, since I soon must cease to live, Instruct me how to die.

1807. [First published, 1832.]


Aн, heedless girl! why thus disclose What ne'er was meant for other ears: Why thus destroy thine own repose,

And dig the source of future tears? Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid, While lurking envious foes will smile, For all the follies thou hast said

Of those who spoke but to beguile. Vain girl thy ling'ring woes are nigh, If thou believ'st what striplings say: Oh, from the deep temptation fly,

Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey. Dost thou repeat, in childish boast,

The words man utters to deceive? Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost,

If thou canst venture to believe. While now amongst thy female peers Thou tell'st again the soothing tale, Canst thou not mark the rising sneers Duplicity in vain would veil ?

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Yet there is one I pity more ;

And much, alas! I think he needs it: For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore, Who, to his own misfortune, reads it. Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic,

May once be read but never after: Yet their effect's by no means tragic,

Although by far too dull for laughter. But would you make our bosoms bleed, And of no common pang complainIf you would make us weep indeed, Tell us, you'll read them o'er again.


A devilish deal more sad than witty!
Why we should weep I can't find out,
Unless for thee we weep in pity.

March 8. 1807. [First published, 1832.]


IN one who felt as once he felt,

This might, perhaps, have fann'd the flame; But now his heart no more will melt, Because that heart is not the same.

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1 [Lord Byron, on his first arrival at Newstead, in 1798, planted an oak in the garden, and nourished the fancy, that as the tree flourished so should he. On revisiting the abbey, during Lord Grey de Ruthven's residence there, he found the oak choked up by weeds, and almost destroyed; hence these lines. Shortly after Colonel Wildman, the present proprietor, took possession, he one day noticed it, and said to the servant who was with him, "Here is a fine young oak;

And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot,
Since early affection and love are o'ercast:
Oh! blest had my fate been, and happy my lot,

Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last! Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er meet ;

If our songs have been languid, they surely are few: Let us hope that the present at least will be sweetThe present-which seals our eternal Adieu.

1807. [First published, 1832.]

TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD. 1 YOUNG Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground, I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine; That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around, And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's years,

On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride: They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears, Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide.

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I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour,
A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sirc;
Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power,
But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expire.
Oh! hardy thou wert. -even now little care
Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds
gently heal:

But thou wert not fated affection to share

For who could suppose that a Stranger would feel? Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for a while;

Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run, The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile,

When Infancy's years of probation are done.

Oh, live then, my Oak! tow'r aloft from the weeds, That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay, For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds,

And still may thy branches their beauty display.

Oh! yet, if maturity's years may be thine,

Though I shall lie low in the cavern of death, On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine, Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath. For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave

C'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid; While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave, The chief who survives may recline in thy shade. And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot,

He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread. Oh surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot:

Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead.

And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime, Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lay, And here must he sleep, till the moments of time Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day.

1807. [First published, 1832.]

but it must be cut down, as it grows in an improper place." "I hope not, sir," replied the man; "for it's the one that my lord was so fond of, because he set it himself." The Colonel has, of course, taken every possible care of it. It is already inquired after, by strangers, as "THE BYRON OAK," and promises to share, in after times, the celebrity of Shakspeare's mulberry, and Pope's willow.]

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THOSE flaxen locks, those eyes of blue,
Bright as thy mother's in their hue;
Those rosy lips, whose dimples play
And smile to steal the heart away,
Recall a scene of former joy,
And touch thy father's heart, my Boy!
And thou canst lisp a father's name-
Ah, William, were thine own the same,
No self-reproach-but, let me cease —
My care for thee shall purchase peace;
Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy,
And pardon all the past, my Boy!

Her lowly grave the turf has prest,
And thou hast known a stranger's breast.
Derision sneers upon thy birth,
And yields thee scarce a name on earth;
Yet shall not these one hope destroy,-
A Father's heart is thine, my Boy!

Why, let the world unfeeling frown,
Must I fond Nature's claim disown?
Ah, no- though moralists reprove,
I hail thee, dearest child of love,
Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy-
A Father guards thy birth, my Boy!

Some years ago, when at Harrow, a friend of the author engraved on a particular spot the names of both, with a few additional words, as a memorial. Afterwards, on receiving some real or imagined injury, the author destroyed the frail record before he left Harrow. On revisiting the place in 1807, he wrote under it these stanzas.

2 ["Whether these verses are, in any degree, founded on fact, I have no accurate means of determining. Fond as Lord Byron was of recording every particular of his youth,

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such an event, or rather era, as is here commemorated, would have been, of all others, the least likely to pass unmentioned by him; and yet neither in conversation nor in any of his writings do I remember even an allusion to it. On the other hand, so entirely was all that he wrote, making allowance for the embellishments of fancy,-the transcript of his actual life and feelings, that it is not easy to suppose a poem, so full of natural tenderness, to have been indebted for its origin to imagination alone."-MOORE. But see post, Don Juan, canto xvi. st. 61.]

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