The Works of Lord Byron Complete in One Volume

That strain'd invention, ever on the wing,
Alone impels the modern bard to sing:
'Tis true that all who rhyme, nay, all who

write,

Whose gilded cymbals, more adorn'd than
clear,

The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear,
In show the simple lyre could once surpass,

Shrink from that fatal word to Genius-But now, worn down, appear in native brass; While all his strain of hovering sylphs around,

trite;

Yet truth sometimes will lend her noblest

fires,

Evaporate in similies and sound :
Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die:

And decorate the verse herself inspires:
This fact in Virtue's name let CRABBE attest-False glare attracts,but more offends the eye.
Though nature's sternest painter, yet the best.

And brotherCOLERIDGE lull the babe at nurse;
Let spectre-mongering LEWIS aim, at most,
To rouse the galleries, or to raise a ghost;
Let MOORE be lew'd; let STRANGFORD steal
from MOORE,

Who rends the veil of ages long gone by,
And views their remnants with a poet's eye!
WRIGHT! 'twas thy happy lot at once to view
Those shores of glory, and to sing them too;
And sure no common muse inspired thy pen | And swear that CAMOENS sang snch notes
To hail the land of gods and godlike men.

And you, associate Bards! who snatch'd to light Those gems too long withheld from modern sight;

Whose mingling taste combined to cull
the wreath

Where Attic flowers Aonian odours breathe,
And all their renovated fragrance flung,
To grace the beauties of your native tongue;
Now let those minds that nobly could

transfuse

The glorious spirit of the Grecian muse,
Though soft the echo, scorn a borrow'd tone:
Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own.

applause,

of yore;

Let HAYLEY hobble on, MONTGOMERY гave,
And godly GRAHAM chaunt a stupid stave;
Let sonnetteering BowLES his strains refine,
And whine and whimper to the fourteenth
line;

Let STOTT, CARLISLE, MATILDA, and the rest
Of Grub-street, and of Grosvenor-Place the
best,

Scrawl on, 'till death release us from the strain,

Or common-sense assert her rights again; But thou, with powers that mock the aid of praise,

Shouldst leave to humbler bards ignoble
lays:

Thy country's voice,the voice of all the Nine,
Demand a hallow'd harp—that harp is thine.
Say! will not Caledonia's annals yield

Let these, or such as these, with just The glorious record of some nobler field,
Than the vile foray of a plundering clan,
Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name
of man?

Restore the Muse's violated laws:

But not in flimsy Darwin's pompous chime,
That mighty master of unmeaning rhyme;|Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food

For outlaw'd SHERWOOD's tales of Robin | To crown the bards that haunt her classic Hood? grove,

Scotland! still proudly claim thy native Where RICHARDS wakes a genuine poet's

Bard,

And be thy praise his first, his best reward! Yet not with thee alone his name should live, But own the vast renown a world can give; Be known, perchance, when Albion is no more,

And tell the tale of what she was before; To future times her faded fame recal, And save her glory, though his country fall.

Yet what avails the sanguine poet's hope To conquer ages, and with time to cope? New eras spread their wings, new nations

rise, And other victors fill the applauding skies: A few brief generations fleet along, Whose sons forget the poet and his song: E'en now what once-loved minstrels scarce may claim

The transient mention of a dubious name! When Fame's loud trump hath blown it's noblest blast,

Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last,

And Glory, like the Phonix midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires.

Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons, Expert in science, more expert at puns? Shall these approach the Muse? ah, no! she flies,

And even spurns the great Seatonian prize,
Though printers condescend the press to soil
With rhyme by HOARE, and epic blank by
HOYLE:

Not him whose page,if still upheld by whist,
Requires no sacred theme to bid us list.
Ye who in Granta's honours would surpass,
Must mount her Pegasus, a fullgrown ass~
A foal well worthy of her ancient dam,
Whose Helicon is duller than her Cam.
There CLARKE, still striving piteously "to
please,"

Forgetting doggrel leads not to degrees,
A would-be satirist a hired buffoon,
A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon,
Condemn'd to drudge, the meanest of the

fires,

And modern Britons justly praise their sires.

For me, My country Zeal for her honour bade me here engage The host of idiots that infest her age. No just applause her honour'd name shall lose,

who thus unask'd have dared to tell

what her sons should know too well,

As first in freedom, dearest to the Muse. Oh, would thy bards but emulate thy fame, And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name! What Athens was in science, Rome in power, What Tyre appear'd in her meridian hour, 'Tis thine at once, fair Albion, to have been, Earth's chief dictatress, Ocean's mighty queen:

But Rome decay'd, and Athens strew'd the plain,

And Tyre's proud piers lie shatter'd in the inain:

Like these thy strength may sink in ruin hurl'd,

And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world. But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's fate, With warning ever scoff'd at, till too late; To themes less lofty still my lay confine, And urge thy bards to gain a name like thine.

Then, hapless Britain ! be thy rulers blest, The senate's oracles, the people's jest! Still hear thy motley orators dispense The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense, While CANNING's colleagues hate him for his wit,

And old dame PORTLAND fills the place of PITT.

Yet once again adieu! ere this the sail That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale: And Afric's coast and Calpe's adverse height, And Stamboul's minarets must greet my sight:

Thence shall I stray through beauty's
native clime,
Where Kaff is clad in rocks, and crown'd
with snows sublime.
But should I back return, no letter'd rage
Shall drag my common-place-book on the
stage:

Let vain VALENTIA rival luckless CARR,
And equal him whose work he sought to mar;
Let ABERDEEN and ELGIN still pursue
The shade of fame through regions of Virtu;
Waste useless thousands on their Phidian
freaks,

Misshapen monuments and maim'd antiques ;

And make their grand saloons a general | And though I hope not hence unscathed to go,

mart

For all the mutilated blocks of art:
Of Dardan tours let dilettanti tell,
I leave topography to classic GELL;
And quite content, no more shall interpose
To stun mankind with poesy or prose.

Thus far I've held my undisturb'd career, Prepared for rancour, steel'd 'gainst selfish fear:

This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdain'd to

own

Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe. The time hath been, when no harsh sound would fall

From lips that now may seem imbued with gall,

Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise The meanest thing that crawl'd beneath my eyes: callous grown, so changed since youth,

But now, so I've learned to think and sternly speak the truth;

Learn'd to deride the critic's starch decree,

Though not obtrusive, yet not quite un-And break him on the wheel he meant for me; To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss, Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or

known:

My voice was heard again, though not so loud;

My page, though nameless, never disavow'd; And now at once I tear the veil away: Cheer on the pack! the quarry stands at bay, Unscared by all the din of MELBOURNE-house, By LAMB's resentment, or by HOLLAND'S

spouse,

hiss:

Nay, more, though all my rival rhymesters frown,

I too can hunt a poetaster down;
And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet cast at once
TO Scotch marauder, and to Southern dunce.
Thus much I've dared to do; how far my lay
Hath wrong'd these righteous times, let
others say;

By JEFFREY's harmless pistol,HALLAM's rage,
EDINA'S brawny sons and brimstone page.
Our men in buckram shall have blows This let the world, which knows not how
to spare,

enough,

And feel they too are "penetrable stuff:"Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare.

THE CURSE OF MINERVA.

Pallas te hac vulnere, Pallas

Immolat, et pœnam scelerato ex sanguiné sumit.

SLOW sinks, more lovely ere his race Mark his gay course and own the hues of

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 Egina'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 gulph, unconquer'd Salamis!
Their azure arches through the long expanse,
More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing
glance,

And tenderest tints, along their summits driven,

heaven;

Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep.

On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, When, Athens! here thy wisest look'd his last:

How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray,
That closed their murder'd sage's latest day!
Not yet-not yet-Sol pauses on the hill-
The precious hour of parting lingers still:
But sad his light to agonizing eyes,
And dark the mountain's once delightful
dyes;

Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, The land where Phœbus never frown'd before;

But ere he sunk below Citharon's head,

The cup of woe was quaff'd—the spirit fled; | Not such as erst, by her divine command,
The soul of him that scorn'd to fear or fly- Her form appear'd from Phidias' plastic
Who lived and died as none can live or die!
hand;

Gone were the terrors of her awful brow,
Her idle Ægis bore no Gorgon now;
Her helm was deep indented, and her lance
Seem'd weak and shaftless, e'en to mortal
glance;

But, lo! from high Hymettus to the plain, The queen of night asserts her silent reign; No murky vapour, herald of the storm, Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing The olive-branch, which still she deign'd

form:

to clasp,

With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams Shrunk from her touch and wither'd in her

play,

There the white column greets her grateful

grasp: And,ah! though still the brightest of the sky, Celestial tears bedimm'd her large blue eye; Round the rent casque her owlet circled slow,

And mourn'd his mistress with a shriek of woe.

"Mortal! ('twas thus she spake) that blush of shame

Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret:
The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide
Where meek Cephisus sheds his scanty tide,
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque,
The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk,
Proclaims thee Briton-once a noble name-
And, dun and sombre mid the holy calm, First of the mighty, foremost of the free,
Near Theseus' fane, yon solitary palm, Now honour'd less by all-and least by me:
All tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye-Chief of thy foes shall Pallas still be found:-
And dull were his that pass'd them heed-Seekst thou the cause? O mortal, look

less by.

Again the Ægean, heard no more afar, Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war; Again his waves in milder tints unfold Their long array of sapphire and of gold, Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle, That frown-where gentler ocean seems to smile.

As thus within the walls of Pallas' 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,

AndGlory knew no clime beyond her Greece.
Hours roll'd along, and Dian's orb on high
Had gain'd the centre of her softest sky,
And yet unwearied still my footsteps trod
O'er the vain shrine of many a vanish'd god;
But chiefly, Pallas! thine, when Hecate's
glare,

Check'd by thy columns, fell more sadly fair
O'er the chill marble, where the startling
tread

Thrills the lone heart like echoes from

the dead.
Long had I mused, and measured every trace
The wreck of Greece recorded of her race,
When, lo! a giant-form before me strode,
And Pallas hail'd me in her own abode.
Yes, 'twas Minerva's self, but, ah! how

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'd:

What more I owe let gratitude attest-
Know, Alaric and Elgin did the rest.
That all may learn from whence the plun-
derer came,

Th' insulted wall sustains his hated name.
For Elgin's fame thus grateful Pallas pleads:
Below, his name-above, behold his deeds!
Be ever hail'd with equal honour here
The Gothic monarch and the Pictish peer.
Arms gave the first his right-the last had

none,

But basely stole what less barbarians won!
So when the lion quits his fell repast,
Next prowls the wolf-the filthy jackal last :
Flesh, limbs, and blood, the former make
their own;

The last base brute securely gnaws the bone.
Yet still the gods are just, and crimes are

crost

See here what Elgin won, and what he lost!
Another name with his pollutes my shrine,
Behold where Dian's beams disdain to shine!
Some retribution still might Pallas claim,
When Venus half avenged Minerva's shame.”

She ceased awhile, and thus I dared reply, To soothe the vengeance kindling in her

eye:

"Daughter of Jove! inBritain's injured name, | Europe's worst dauber and poorBritain's best, A true-born Briton may the deed disclaim! With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er, Frown not on England—England owns him And own himself an infant of fourscore: Be all the bruisers call'd from all St. Giles, That art and nature may compare their styles;

not

Athene, no! the plunderer was a Scot! Ask'st thou the difference? From fair Phyle's

towers

Survey Baotia- Caledonia's ours;
And well I know within that bastard-land
Hath wisdom's goddess never held command:
A barren soil, where nature's germs,confined,
To stern sterility can stint the mind;
Whose thistle well betrays the niggard
earth,

Emblem of all to whom the land gives birth.
Each genial influence nurtured to resist,
A land of meanness, sophistry, and mist:
Each breeze from foggy mount and marshy
plain

Dilutes with drivel every drizzling brain, Till burst at length each watery head o'erflows,

Foul as their soil, and frigid as their snows:
Ten thousand schemes of petulance and pride
Despatch her scheming children far and wide;
Some east, some west, some-every where
but north,

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,
As dull Bootia gave a Pindar birth—
So may her few, the letter'd and the brave,
Bound to no clime, and victors o'er the grave,
Shake off the sordid dust of such a land,
And shine like children of a happier strand :
As once of yore, in some obnoxious place,
Ten names (if found) had saved a wretched

Bear back my mandate to thy native shore; Though fallen, alas! this vengeance still is mine,

To turn my counsels far from lands like thine.

Hear then in silence Pallas' stern behest;
Hear and believe, for time shall tell the rest.
First on the head of him who did the deed
My curse shall light,—on him and all his
seed:

Without one spark of intellectual fire,
Be all the sons as senseless as the sire:
If one with wit the parent brood disgrace,
Believe him bastard of a brighter race;
Still with his hireling artists let him prate,
And folly's praise repay for wisdom's hate!
Long of their patron's gusto let them tell,
Whose noblest native gusto-is to sell:
To sell, and make (may shame record the
day!)

The state receiver of his pilfer'd prey!
Meantime, the flattering feeble dotard, West,

While brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare, And marvel at his lordship's stone-shop there. Round the throng'd gate shall sauntering coxcombs creep,

To lounge and lucubrate, to prate and peep: While many a languid maid, with longing sigh,

On giant-statues casts the curious eye; The room with transient glance appear to skim,

Yet marks the mighty back and length ef limb;

Mourns o'er the difference of now and then; Exclaims, "these Greeks indeed were proper men;"

Draws slight comparisons of these with those,

And envies Laïs all her Attic beaux: When shall a modern maid have swains like these?

Alas! Sir Harry is no Hercules!
And last of all, amidst the gaping crew,
Some calm spectator, as he takes his view,
In silent indignation, mix'd with grief,
Admires the plunder, but abhors the thief.
Loathed throughout life-scarce pardon'd
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 him 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: Hers 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;

Far 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.
Look to the east, where Ganges' swarthy race
Shall shake your usurpation to its base;
Lo! there rebellion rears her ghastly head,
And glares the Nemesis of native dead,
Till Indus rolls a deep purpureal flood,
And claims his long arrear of northern blood.

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