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The Devil gat next to Westminster,

And he turn'd to "the room" of the Commons; But he heard, as he purposed to enter in there,

That "the Lords" had received a summons;
And he thought, as a " quondam aristocrat," [flat;
He might peep at the peers, though to hear them were
And he walk'd up the house so like one of our own,
That they say that he stood pretty near the throne.
He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise,

The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly,
And Johnny of Norfolk-a man of some size.
And Chatham, so like his friend Billy ;

1 ["I cannot conceive how the Vault has got about; but so it is. It is too farouche; but truth to say, my sallies are not very playful." Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, March 12. 1814.]

And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon's eyes, Because the Catholics would not rise,

In spite of his prayers and his prophecies; And he heard-which set Satan himself a staringA certain Chief Justice say something like swearing. And the Devil was shock'd — and quoth he, “I must For I find we have much better manners below: [go, If thus he harangues when he passes my border,

I shall hint to friend Moloch to call him to order."

WINDSOR POETICS.

Lines composed on the occasion of his Royal Highness the Prince Regent being seen standing between the coffins of Henry VIII. and Charles I., in the royal vault at Windsor.

FAMED for contemptuous breach of sacred ties, By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies; Between them stands another sceptred thingIt moves, it reigns-in all but name, a king:

Charles to his people, Henry to his wife,
-In him the double tyrant starts to life:
Justice and death have mix'd their dust in vain,
Each royal vampire wakes to life again.

Ah, what can tombs avail !-since these disgorge
The blood and dust of both-to mould a George. 1

STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 2

I SPEAK not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name, There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame : But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart. Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace Were those hours-can their joy or their bitterness [chain,

cease?

We repent we abjure-we will break from our
We will part, we will fly to unite it again!
Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt!
Forgive me, adored one!-forsake, if thou wilt;
But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased,
And man shall not break it-whatever thou may'st.

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And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee,
This soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall be;
And our days seem as swift, and our moments more
sweet,
With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet.
One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love,
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove;
And the heartless may wonder at all I resign -
Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine.
May, 1814.

ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE RECITED AT
THE CALEDONIAN MEETING.

WHO hath not glow'd above the page where fame
Hath fix'd high Caledon's unconquer'd name;
The mountain-land which spurn'd the Roman chain,
And baffled back the fiery-crested Dane,

2 ["Thou hast asked me for a song, and I enclose you an experiment, which has cost me something more than trouble, and is, therefore, less likely to be worth your taking any in your proposed setting. Now, if it be so, throw it into the fire without phrase." -Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, May 10. 1814.]

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-SO

FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO THOMAS MOORE. "WHAT say I?"-not a syllable further in prose; I'm your man "of all measures," dear Tom,here goes! Here goes, for a swim on the stream of old Time, On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of rhyme. If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in the flood,

We are smother'd, at least, in respectable mud,
Where the Divers of Bathos lie drown'd in a heap,
And Southey's last Pæan has pillow'd his sleep;
That "Felo de se" who, half drunk with his malmsey,
Walk'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea,
Singing" Glory to God" in a spick and span stanza,
The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) never

man saw.

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I saw him, last week, at two balls and a party, — For a prince, his demeanour was rather too hearty. You know, we are used to quite different graces,

The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter and brisker,
But then he is sadly deficient in whisker;
And wore but a starless blue coat, and in kersey-
-mere breeches whisk'd round, in a waltz with the
Jersey,

Who, lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted
With majesty's presence as those she invited.

CONDOLATORY ADDRESS

TO SARAH COUNTESS OF JERSEY, ON THE PRINCE REGENT'S RETURNING HER PICTURE TO MRS. MEE. 2

June, 1814.

WHEN the vain triumph of the imperial lord,
Whom servile Rome obey'd, and yet abhorr'd,
Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust,
That left a likeness of the brave, or just;
What most admired each scrutinising eye
Of all that deck'd that passing pageantry?
What spread from face to face that wondering air?
The thought of Brutus-for his was not there!
That absence proved his worth, that absence fix'd
His memory on the longing mind, unmix'd;
And more decreed his glory to endure,
Than all a gold Colossus could secure.

If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze
Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze,
Amidst those pictured charms, whose loveliness,
Bright though they be, thine own had render'd less;
If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits
Heir of his father's crown, and of his wits,
If his corrupted eye, and wither'd heart,
Could with thy gentle image bear depart;
That tasteless shame be his, and ours the grief,
To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief:
Yet comfort still one selfish thought imparts,
We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts.
What can his vaulted gallery now disclose ?
A garden with all flowers except the rose ;-
A fount that only wants its living stream;
A night, with every star, save Dian's beam.
Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be,
That turn from tracing them to dream of thee;
And more on that recall'd resemblance pause,
Than all he shall not force on our applause.
Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine,
With all that Virtue asks of Homage thine:
The symmetry of youth- the grace of mien—
The eye that gladdens and the brow serene;
The glossy darkness of that clustering hair,
Which shades, yet shows that forehead more than fair!
Each glance that wins us, and the life that throws
A spell which will not let our looks repose,

2 ["The newspapers have got hold (I know not how) of the Condolatory Address to Lady Jersey on the picture-abduction by our Regent, and have published them with my name, too, smack-without even asking leave, or inquiring whether or no! D-n their impudence, and d-n every thing. It has put me out of patience, and so I shall say no more about it."-Byron Letters.]

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ought to have felt now, but could not-set me pondering, and finally into the train of thought which you have in your hands. I wrote them with a view to your setting them, and as a present to Power, if he would accept the words, and you did not think yourself degraded, for once in a way, by marrying them to music. I don't care what Power says to secure the property of the song, so that it is not complimentary to me, nor any thing about 'condescending' or noble author' - both vile phrases,' as Polonius says."- Lord Byron to Mr. Moore.]

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2 ["I can forgive the rogue for utterly falsifying every line of mine Ode which I take to be the last and uttermost stretch of human magnanimity. Do you remember the story of a certain abbé, who wrote a treatise on the Swedish constitution, and proved it indissoluble and eternal? Just as he had corrected the last sheet, news came that Gustavus the Third had destroyed this immortal government. Sir,' quoth the abbe, the King of Sweden may overthrow the constitution, but not my book!! I think of the abbé, but not with him. Making every allowance for talent and most consummate daring, there is, after all, a good deal in luck or destiny. might have been stopped by our frigates, or wrecked in the Gulf of Lyons, which is particularly tempestuous-or-a

He

ODE FROM THE FRENCH.

I.

We do not curse thee, Waterloo !
Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew;

There 't was shed, but is not sunk
Rising from each gory trunk,
Like the water-spout from ocean,
With a strong and growing motion
It soars, and mingles in the air,
With that of lost Labedoyère —
With that of him whose honour'd grave
Contains the "bravest of the brave."
A crimson cloud it spreads and glows,
But shall return to whence it rose;
When 't is full 't will burst asunder
Never yet was heard such thunder,
As then shall shake the world with wonder
Never yet was seen such lightning
As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning!
Like the Wormwood Star foretold
By the sainted Seer of old,
Show'ring down a fiery flood,
Turning rivers into blood. 3
II.
The chief has fallen, but not by you,
Vanquishers of Waterloo !
When the soldier citizen
Sway'd not o'er his fellow-men-
Save in deeds that led them on
Where Glory smiled on Freedom's son-
Who, of all the despots banded,

With that youthful chief competed ?
Who could boast o'er France defeated,
Till lone Tyranny commanded ?
Till, goaded by ambition's sting,
The Hero sunk into the King?
Then he fell-so perish all,
Who would men by man enthrall !

III.

5

And thou, too, of the snow-white plume! +
Whose realm refused thee ev'n a tomb;
Better hadst thou still been leading
France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding,
Than sold thyself to death and shame
For a meanly royal name;

Such as he of Naples wears,

Who thy blood-bought title bears. Little didst thou deem, when dashing

On thy war-horse through the ranks Like a stream which burst its banks, While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing,

thousand things. But he is certainly fortune's favourite.". Byron Letters, March, 1815.]

v.

3 See Rev. chap. viii. v. 7, &c. "The first angel sourded, and there followed hail and fire mingled with blood," &c. 8. "And the second angel sounded, and as it were a great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea; and the third part of the sea became blood," &c. v. "And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp; and it fell upon the third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters." v. 11. And the name of the star is called Wormwood: and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter."

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Once - as the Moon sways o'er the tide,
It roll'd in air, the warrior's guide;
Through the smoke-created night
Of the black and sulphurous fight,
The soldier raised his seeking eye
To catch that crest's ascendency
And as it onward rolling rose,
So moved his heart upon our foes.
There, where death's brief pang was quickest,
And the battle's wreck lay thickest,
Strew'd beneath the advancing banner

Of the eagle's burning crest—
(There with thunder-clouds to fan her,
Who could then her wing arrest-
Victory beaming from her breast?)
While the broken line enlarging

Fell, or fled along the plain;
There be sure was Murat charging!
There he ne'er shall charge again!
IV.

O'er glories gone the invaders march,
Weeps Triumph o'er each levell'd arch
But let Freedom rejoice,
With her heart in her voice;

But, her hand on her sword,
Doubly shall she be adored;
France hath twice too well been taught
The "moral lesson" dearly bought.
Her safety sits not on a throne,

With Capet or Napoleon!

But in equal rights and laws,

Hearts and hands in one great cause.
Freedom, such as God hath given
Unto all beneath his heaven,

With their breath, and from their birth,
Though Guilt would sweep it from the earth;
With a fierce and lavish hand
Scattering nations' wealth like sand;
Pouring nations' blood like water,
In imperial seas of slaughter!

V.

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FROM THE FRENCH. Must thou go, my glorious Chief, 2 Sever'd from thy faithful few ? Who can tell thy warrior's grief,

Maddening o'er that long adieu ? Woman's love, and friendship's zeal, Dear as both have been to me What are they to all I feel,

With a soldier's faith for thee?

Idol of the soldier's soul!

First in fight, but mightiest now : Many could a world control;

Thee alone no doom can bow. By thy side for years I dared

Death; and envied those who fell, When their dying shout was heard,

Blessing him they served so well. 3 Would that I were cold with those, Since this hour I live to see; When the doubts of coward foes

Scarce dare trust a man with thee, Dreading each should set thee free! Oh! although in dungeons pent, All their chains were light to me, Gazing on thy soul unbent.

Would the sycophants of him

Now so deaf to duty's prayer, Were his borrow'd glories dim,

In his native darkness share? Were that world this hour his own, All thou calmly dost resign, Could he purchase with that throne

Hearts like those which still are thine?

My chief, my king, my friend, adieu !
Never did I droop before;
Never to my sovereign sue,

As his foes I now implore:
All I ask is to divide

Every peril he must brave; Sharing by the hero's side

His fall, his exile, and his grave.

ON THE STAR OF "THE LEGION OF HONOUR."

FROM THE FRENCH.

STAR of the brave!-whose beam hath shed

Such glory o'er the quick and dead—
Thou radiant and adored deceit !
Which millions rush'd in arms to grect,-
Wild meteor of immortal birth!

Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth?
Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays;
Eternity flash'd through thy blaze;

who had been exalted from the ranks by Buonaparte. He clung to his master's knees; wrote a letter to Lord Keith, entreating permission to accompany him, even in the most menial capacity, which could not be admitted."

3" At Waterloo, one man was seen, whose left arm was shattered by a cannon ball, to wrench it off with the other, and throwing it up in the air, exclaimed to his comrades, Vive l'Empereur, jusqu'à la mort!' There were many other instances of the like: this, however, you may depend on as true."-Private Letter from Brussels.

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