The Works of Lord Byron Volume I Part 60

'Life', p. 41.]

SOLILOQUY OF A BARD IN THE COUNTRY. [1]

'Twas now the noon of night, and all was still, Except a hapless Rhymer and his quill.

In vain he calls each Muse in order down, Like other females, these will sometimes frown; He frets, be fumes, and ceasing to invoke The Nine, in anguish'd accents thus he spoke: Ah what avails it thus to waste my time, To roll in Epic, or to rave in Rhyme?

What worth is some few partial readers' praise.

If ancient Virgins croaking 'censures' raise?

Where few attend, 'tis useless to indite; Where few can read, 'tis folly sure to write; Where none but girls and striplings dare admire, And Critics rise in every country Squire-- But yet this last my candid Muse admits, When Peers are Poets, Squires may well be Wits; When schoolboys vent their amorous flames in verse, Matrons may sure their characters asperse; And if a little parson joins the train, And echos back his Patron's voice again-- Though not delighted, yet I must forgive, Parsons as well as other folks must live:-- From rage he rails not, rather say from dread, He does not speak for Virtue, but for bread; And this we know is in his Patron's giving, For Parsons cannot eat without a 'Living'.

The Matron knows I love the s.e.x too well, Even unprovoked aggression to repel.

What though from private pique her anger grew, And bade her blast a heart she never knew?

What though, she said, for one light heedless line, That Wilmot's [2] verse was far more pure than mine!

In wars like these, I neither fight nor fly, When 'dames' accuse 'tis bootless to deny; Her's be the harvest of the martial field, I can't attack, where Beauty forms the shield.

But when a pert Physician loudly cries, Who hunts for scandal, and who lives by lies, A walking register of daily news, Train'd to invent, and skilful to abuse-- For arts like these at bounteous tables fed, When S----condemns a book he never read.

Declaring with a c.o.xcomb's native air, The 'moral's' shocking, though the 'rhymes' are fair.

Ah! must he rise unpunish'd from the feast, Nor lash'd by vengeance into truth at least?

Such lenity were more than Man's indeed!

Those who condemn, should surely deign to read.

Yet must I spare--nor thus my pen degrade, I quite forgot that scandal was his trade.

For food and raiment thus the c.o.xcomb rails, For those who fear his physic, like his _tales_.

Why should his harmless censure seem offence?

Still let him eat, although at my expense, And join the herd to Sense and Truth unknown, Who dare not call their very thoughts their own, And share with these applause, a G.o.dlike bribe, In short, do anything, except _prescribe_:-- For though in garb of Galen he appears, His practice is not equal to his years.

Without improvement since he first began, A young Physician, though an ancient Man-- Now let me cease--Physician, Parson, Dame, Still urge your task, and if you can, defame.

The humble offerings of my Muse destroy, And crush, oh! n.o.ble conquest! crush a Boy.

What though some silly girls have lov'd the strain, And kindly bade me tune my Lyre again; What though some feeling, or some partial few, Nay, Men of Taste and Reputation too, Have deign'd to praise the firstlings of my Muse-- If _you_ your sanction to the theme refuse, If _you_ your great protection still withdraw, Whose Praise is Glory, and whose Voice is law!

Soon must I fall an unresisting foe, A hapless victim yielding to the blow.-- Thus Pope by Curl and Dennis was destroyed, Thus Gray and Mason yield to furious Lloyd; [3]

From Dryden, Milbourne [4] tears the palm away, And thus I fall, though meaner far than they.

As in the field of combat, side by side, A Fabius and some n.o.ble Roman died.

Dec. 1806.

[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time printed.]

[Footnote 2: John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (1647-1680). His 'Poems'

were published in the year of his death.]

[Footnote 3: Robert Lloyd (1733-1764). The following lines occur in the first of two odes to 'Obscurity and Oblivion'--parodies of the odes of Gray and Mason:--

"Heard ye the din of modern rhymers bray?

It was cool M----n and warm G----y, Involv'd in tenfold smoke."]

[Footnote 4: The Rev. Luke Milbourne (died 1720) published, in 1698, his 'Notes on Dryden's Virgil', containing a venomous attack on Dryden. They are alluded to in 'The Dunciad', and also by Dr. Johnson, who wrote ('Life of Dryden'),

"His outrages seem to be the ebullitions of a mind agitated by stronger resentment than bad poetry can excite."]

L'AMITIe, EST L'AMOUR SANS AILES. [1]

1.

Why should my anxious breast repine, Because my youth is fled?

Days of delight may still be mine; Affection is not dead.

In tracing back the years of youth, One firm record, one lasting truth Celestial consolation brings; Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat, Where first my heart responsive beat,-- "Friendship is Love without his wings!"

2

Through few, but deeply chequer'd years, What moments have been mine!

Now half obscured by clouds of tears, Now bright in rays divine; Howe'er my future doom be cast, My soul, enraptured with the past, To one idea fondly clings; Friendship! that thought is all thine own, Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone-- "Friendship is Love without his wings!"

3

Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave Their branches on the gale, Unheeded heaves a simple grave, Which tells the common tale; Round this unconscious schoolboys stray, Till the dull knell of childish play From yonder studious mansion rings; But here, whene'er my footsteps move, My silent tears too plainly prove, "Friendship is Love without his wings!"

4

Oh, Love! before thy glowing shrine, My early vows were paid; My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine, But these are now decay'd; For thine are pinions like the wind, No trace of thee remains behind, Except, alas! thy jealous stings.

Away, away! delusive power, Thou shall not haunt my coming hour; Unless, indeed, without thy wings.

5

Seat of my youth! [2] thy distant spire Recalls each scene of joy; My bosom glows with former fire,-- In mind again a boy.

Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill, Thy every path delights me still, Each flower a double fragrance flings; Again, as once, in converse gay, Each dear a.s.sociate seems to say, "Friendship is Love without his wings!'

6.