'Tis to him we love most, And to all who love him. Brave gallants, stand up, And avaunt ye, base carles! Were there death in the cup, Here's a health to King Charles. Though he wanders through dangers, Dependent on strangers, . Let such honours abound And the hand on the sword; And weigh their Justice in a Golden Scale; Such is the force of Wit! but not belong A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. *This satire is in part a retort which Byron was stung into making by the ridicule with which the Edinburgh Review in January, 1808, received his youthful volume of verses, Hours of Idleness; though he had before planned a satirical poem upon contemporary English poets. In later years he regretted his severity, and especially his treatment of Francis Jeffrey, the editor of the journal, whom he had wrongly suspected of writing the offending article. See Eng. Lit., p. 246. And yield at least amusement in the race: 49 I, too, can scrawl, and once upon a time No matter, George continues still to write, A man must serve his time to every trade Save Censure Critics all are ready made. 60 Take hackneyed jokes from Miller, got by rote, While such are Critics, why should I forbear? Behold! in various throngs the scribbling crew, For notice eager, pass in long review: Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace, 150 And Rhyme and Blank maintain an equal race; On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast, While mountain spirits prate to river sprites, That dames may listen to the sound at nights; And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's brood, Decoy young Border-nobles through the wood, And skip at every step, Lord knows how high, And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why; While high-born ladies in their magic cell, Forbidding Knights to read who cannot spell, Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave, And fight with honest men to shield a knave. 160 On public taste to foist thy stale romance, 5 By "Monk" Lewis (Eng. Lit., 204). 180 6 Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel (1805) grew out of a suggestion for a ballad derived from an absurd old Border legend of Gilpin Horner. 7 Publishers. 8 i. e., this bought Orpheus (Scott) 9 Marmion, line 869. * This is a sneer at the new anapestic metres. See Eng. Lit., p. 243. These are the themes that claim our plaudits | A bard may chaunt too often and too long; now; As thou art strong in verse, in merey spare! These are the Bards to whom the Muse must A fourth, alas! were more than we could bear. bow; While Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike forgot, But if, in spite of all the world can say, The time has been, when yet the Muse was The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue: young, 231 189"God help thee," Southey, and thy readers too. When Homer swept the lyre, and Maro10 sung, name: The work of each immortal Bard appears Without the glory such a strain can give, field.12 First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance, France! 200 Next comes the dull disciple of thy school. That mild apostate from poetic rule, The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay As soft as evening in his favourite May, Who warns his friend19 to shake off toil and trouble, 239 And quit his books, for fear of growing double''; Who, both by precept20 and example, shows of 210 Though burnt by wicked Bedford13 for a witch, 10 Virgil 11 Object of "claim." 220 251 18 In Southey's ballad, The Old Woman of Berkeley, the old woman is carried off by the Devil. 19 In The Tables Turned. 20 In his preface to Lyrical Ballads. 21 In Songs of the Piries, containing "Lines to a Young Ass." 1 "My life, I love you." Hear my vow before I go, Ζωη μου, σας αγαπω. By those tresses unconfined, Wooed by each gean wind; By those lids whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge; By that lip I long to taste; By all the token-flowers that tell By love's alternate joy and woe, Maid of Athens! I am gone: Athens holds my heart and soul; Ζωη μου, σας αγαπω. 6 12 18 No! 24 SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; One shade the more, one ray the less, Or softly lightens o'er her face; How pure, how dear, their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, A mind at peace with all below, 6 A heart whose love is innocent! SO WE'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING So we'll go no more a roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BE TWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-andtwenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. 4 With that water, as this wine, SONNET ON CHILLON Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! What are garlands and crowns to the brow that And when thy sons to fetters are consigned— is wrinkled? 20 To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew be- Their country conquers with their martyrdom, sprinkled. And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. Then away with all such from the head that is Chillon!† thy prison is a holy place, hoary! What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory! 8 Oh, Fame!—if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, And thy sad floor an altar-for 't was trod, THE PRISONER OF CHILLON‡ Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one My hair is gray, but not with years, discover, She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. 12 There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee; Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears; For they have been a dungeon's spoil, When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in Are banned, and barred-forbidden fare; my story, I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. TO THOMAS MOORE* My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea; But, before I go, Tom Moore, Here's a double health to thee! Here's a sigh to those who love me, Yet it still shall bear me on; Were't the last drop in the well, As I gasped upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell, "Tis to thee that I would drink. 16 16 The first stanza of this poem was written in 1816, when Byron left England for the last time. 8 François de Bonivard was a republican of Geneva who resisted the domination of the Duke of Savoy and was imprisoned for six years (1530-1536) in the castle of Chillon, on the Lake of Geneva (Leman). When the castle was captured by his republican friends, he was released. Byron has greatly idealized the character and has invented the circumstance of the imprisonment and death of the brothers. The poem was composed in two days. Of it Dr. F. I. Carpenter writes: "There is very little action; there is very little ornament; the narrative evolves from within, and is presented with high dramatic fidelity, and with subtle gradation and progression. The situation in itself is bare and simple; the art with which the poet develops it is masterly Who else, except Dante perhaps, as in the Ugolino episode [Inferno 33], could do so much with so little?" |