The Works of Lord Byron Volume I Part 87

Of piteous ruin, which ourselves have made; In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask, Nor think of Poverty, except "en masque," [100]

When for the night some lately t.i.tled a.s.s Appears the beggar which his grandsire was, The curtain dropped, the gay Burletta o'er, The audience take their turn upon the floor: Now round the room the circling dow'gers sweep, 660 Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters leap; The first in lengthened line majestic swim, The last display the free unfettered limb!

Those for Hibernia's l.u.s.ty sons repair With art the charms which Nature could not spare; These after husbands wing their eager flight, Nor leave much mystery for the nuptial night.

Oh! blest retreats of infamy and ease, Where, all forgotten but the power to please, Each maid may give a loose to genial thought, 670 Each swain may teach new systems, or be taught: There the blithe youngster, just returned from Spain, Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main; The jovial Caster's set, and seven's the Nick, Or--done!--a thousand on the coming trick!

If, mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire, And all your hope or wish is to expire, Here's POWELL'S [101] pistol ready for your life, And, kinder still, two PAGETS for your wife: [xlix]

Fit consummation of an earthly race 680 Begun in folly, ended in disgrace, While none but menials o'er the bed of death, Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy wavering breath; Traduced by liars, and forgot by all, The mangled victim of a drunken brawl, To live like CLODIUS, [102] and like FALKLAND fall.[103]

Truth! rouse some genuine Bard, and guide his hand To drive this pestilence from out the land.

E'en I--least thinking of a thoughtless throng, Just skilled to know the right and choose the wrong, 690 Freed at that age when Reason's shield is lost, To fight my course through Pa.s.sion's countless host, [104]

Whom every path of Pleasure's flow'ry way Has lured in turn, and all have led astray-- E'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel Such scenes, such men, destroy the public weal: Altho' some kind, censorious friend will say, "What art thou better, meddling fool, [105] than they?"

And every Brother Rake will smile to see That miracle, a Moralist in me. 700 No matter--when some Bard in virtue strong, Gifford perchance, shall raise the chastening song, Then sleep my pen for ever! and my voice Be only heard to hail him, and rejoice, Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise, though I May feel the lash that Virtue must apply.

As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals From silly HAFIZ up to simple BOWLES, [106]

Why should we call them from their dark abode, In Broad St. Giles's or Tottenham-Road? 710 Or (since some men of fashion n.o.bly dare To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street or the Square? [l]

If things of Ton their harmless lays indite, Most wisely doomed to shun the public sight, What harm? in spite of every critic elf, Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself; MILES ANDREWS [107] still his strength in couplets try, And live in prologues, though his dramas die.

Lords too are Bards: such things at times befall, And 'tis some praise in Peers to write at all. 720 Yet, did or Taste or Reason sway the times, Ah! who would take their t.i.tles with their rhymes? [108]

ROSCOMMON! [109] SHEFFIELD! [110] with your spirits fled, [111]

No future laurels deck a n.o.ble head; No Muse will cheer, with renovating smile, The paralytic puling of CARLISLE. [li] [112]

The puny schoolboy and his early lay Men pardon, if his follies pa.s.s away; But who forgives the Senior's ceaseless verse, Whose hairs grow h.o.a.ry as his rhymes grow worse? 730 What heterogeneous honours deck the Peer!

Lord, rhymester, pet.i.t-maitre, pamphleteer! [113]

So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age, His scenes alone had d.a.m.ned our sinking stage; But Managers for once cried, "Hold, enough!"

Nor drugged their audience with the tragic stuff.

Yet at their judgment let his Lordship laugh, [lii]

And case his volumes in congenial calf; Yes! doff that covering, where Morocco shines, And hang a calf-skin on those recreant lines. [114] 740

With you, ye Druids! rich in native lead, Who daily scribble for your daily bread: With you I war not: GIFFORD'S heavy hand Has crushed, without remorse, your numerous band.

On "All the Talents" vent your venal spleen; [115]

Want is your plea, let Pity be your screen.

Let Monodies on Fox regale your crew, And Melville's Mantle [116] prove a Blanket too!

One common Lethe waits each hapless Bard, And, peace be with you! 'tis your best reward. 750 Such d.a.m.ning fame; as Dunciads only give [liii]

Could bid your lines beyond a morning live; But now at once your fleeting labours close, With names of greater note in blest repose.

Far be't from me unkindly to upbraid The lovely ROSA'S prose in masquerade, Whose strains, the faithful echoes of her mind, Leave wondering comprehension far behind. [117]

Though Crusca's bards no more our journals fill, [118]

Some stragglers skirmish round the columns still; 760 Last of the howling host which once was Bell's, [liv]

Matilda snivels yet, and Hafiz yells; And Merry's [119] metaphors appear anew, Chained to the signature of O. P. Q. [120]

When some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall, Employs a pen less pointed than his awl, Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of shoes, St. Crispin quits, and cobbles for the Muse, Heavens! how the vulgar stare! how crowds applaud!

How ladies read, and Literati laud! [121] 770 If chance some wicked wag should pa.s.s his jest, 'Tis sheer ill-nature--don't the world know best?

Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme, And CAPEL LOFFT [122] declares 'tis quite sublime.

Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade!

Swains! quit the plough, resign the useless spade!

Lo! BURNS and BLOOMFIELD, nay, a greater far, GIFFORD was born beneath an adverse star, Forsook the labours of a servile state, Stemmed the rude storm, and triumphed over Fate: 780 Then why no more? if Phoebus smiled on you, BLOOMFIELD! why not on brother Nathan too? [123]

Him too the Mania, not the Muse, has seized; Not inspiration, but a mind diseased: And now no Boor can seek his last abode, No common be inclosed without an ode.

Oh! since increased refinement deigns to smile On Britain's sons, and bless our genial Isle, Let Poesy go forth, pervade the whole, Alike the rustic, and mechanic soul! 790 Ye tuneful cobblers! still your notes prolong, Compose at once a slipper and a song; So shall the fair your handywork peruse, Your sonnets sure shall please--perhaps your shoes.

May Moorland weavers [124] boast Pindaric skill, And tailors' lays be longer than their bill!

While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, And pay for poems--when they pay for coats.

To the famed throng now paid the tribute due, [lv]

Neglected Genius! let me turn to you. 800 Come forth, oh CAMPBELL! give thy talents scope; Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope?

And thou, melodious ROGERS! rise at last, Recall the pleasing memory of the past; [125]

Arise! let blest remembrance still inspire, And strike to wonted tones thy hallowed lyre; Restore Apollo to his vacant throne, a.s.sert thy country's honour and thine own.

What! must deserted Poesy still weep Where her last hopes with pious COWPER sleep? 810 Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she turns, To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, BURNS!

No! though contempt hath marked the spurious brood, The race who rhyme from folly, or for food, Yet still some genuine sons 'tis hers to boast, Who, least affecting, still affect the most: [lvi]

Feel as they write, and write but as they feel-- Bear witness GIFFORD, [126] SOTHEBY, [127] MACNEIL. [128]

"Why slumbers GIFFORD?" once was asked in vain; Why slumbers GIFFORD? let us ask again. [129] 820 Are there no follies for his pen to purge?

Are there no fools whose backs demand the scourge?

Are there no sins for Satire's Bard to greet?

Stalks not gigantic Vice in every street?

Shall Peers or Princes tread pollution's path, And 'scape alike the Laws and Muse's wrath?

Nor blaze with guilty glare through future time, Eternal beacons of consummate crime?

Arouse thee, GIFFORD! be thy promise claimed, Make bad men better, or at least ashamed. 830

Unhappy WHITE! [130] while life was in its spring, And thy young Muse just waved her joyous wing, The Spoiler swept that soaring Lyre away, [lvii] [131]

Which else had sounded an immortal lay.

Oh! what a n.o.ble heart was here undone, When Science' self destroyed her favourite son!

Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, She sowed the seeds, but Death has reaped the fruit.

'Twas thine own Genius gave the final blow, And helped to plant the wound that laid thee low: 840 So the struck Eagle, stretched upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart; Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel; While the same plumage that had warmed his nest Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.

There be who say, in these enlightened days, That splendid lies are all the poet's praise; 850 That strained Invention, ever on the wing, Alone impels the modern Bard to sing: Tis true, that all who rhyme--nay, all who write, Shrink from that fatal word to Genius--Trite; Yet Truth sometimes will lend her n.o.blest fires, And decorate the verse herself inspires: This fact in Virtue's name let CRABBE [132] attest; Though Nature's sternest Painter, yet the best.

And here let SHEE [133] and Genius find a place, Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace; 860 To guide whose hand the sister Arts combine, And trace the Poet's or the Painter's line; Whose magic touch can bid the canvas glow, Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow; While honours, doubly merited, attend [lviii]

The Poet's rival, but the Painter's friend.

Blest is the man who dares approach the bower Where dwelt the Muses at their natal hour; Whose steps have pressed, whose eye has marked afar, The clime that nursed the sons of song and war, 870 The scenes which Glory still must hover o'er, Her place of birth, her own Achaian sh.o.r.e.

But doubly blest is he whose heart expands With hallowed feelings for those cla.s.sic lands; Who rends the veil of ages long gone by, And views their remnants with a poet's eye!

WRIGHT! [134] 'twas thy happy lot at once to view Those sh.o.r.es of glory, and to sing them too; And sure no common Muse inspired thy pen To hail the land of G.o.ds and G.o.dlike men. 880

And you, a.s.sociate Bards! [135] who s.n.a.t.c.hed to light [lvix]

Those gems too long withheld from modern sight; Whose mingling taste combined to cull the wreath While Attic flowers Aonian odours breathe, And all their renovated fragrance flung, To grace the beauties of your native tongue; Now let those minds, that n.o.bly could transfuse The glorious Spirit of the Grecian Muse, Though soft the echo, scorn a borrowed tone: [lx]

Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. 890

Let these, or such as these, with just applause, [lxi]

Restore the Muse's violated laws; But not in flimsy DARWIN'S [136] pompous chime, [lxii]

That mighty master of unmeaning rhyme, Whose gilded cymbals, more adorned than clear, The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear, In show the simple lyre could once surpa.s.s, But now, worn down, appear in native bra.s.s; While all his train of hovering sylphs around Evaporate in similes and sound: 900 Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die: False glare attracts, but more offends the eye. [137]

Yet let them not to vulgar WORDSWORTH [138] stoop, The meanest object of the lowly group, Whose verse, of all but childish prattle void, Seems blessed harmony to LAMB and LLOYD: [139]

Let them--but hold, my Muse, nor dare to teach A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach: The native genius with their being given Will point the path, and peal their notes to heaven. 910

And thou, too, SCOTT! [140] resign to minstrels rude The wilder Slogan of a Border feud: Let others spin their meagre lines for hire; Enough for Genius, if itself inspire!

Let SOUTHEY sing, altho' his teeming muse, [lxiii]

Prolific every spring, be too profuse; Let simple WORDSWORTH [141] chime his childish verse, And brother COLERIDGE lull the babe at nurse [lxiv]

Let Spectre-mongering LEWIS aim, at most, [lxv]

To rouse the Galleries, or to raise a ghost; 920 Let MOORE still sigh; let STRANGFORD steal from MOORE, [lxvi]

And swear that CAMOeNS sang such notes of yore; Let HAYLEY hobble on, MONTGOMERY rave, And G.o.dly GRAHAME chant a stupid stave; Let sonneteering BOWLES [142] his strains refine, And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line; Let STOTT, CARLISLE, [143] 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 a.s.sert her rights again; 930 But Thou, with powers that mock the aid of praise, Should'st leave to humbler Bards ign.o.ble lays: Thy country's voice, the voice of all the Nine, Demand a hallowed harp--that harp is thine.

Say! will not Caledonia's annals yield The glorious record of some n.o.bler field, Than the vile foray of a plundering clan, Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man?

Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food For SHERWOOD'S outlaw tales of ROBIN HOOD? [lxvii] 940 Scotland! still proudly claim thy native 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 recall, And save her glory, though his country fall.

Yet what avails the sanguine Poet's hope, To conquer ages, and with time to cope? 950 New eras spread their wings, new nations rise, And other Victors fill th' applauding skies; [144]

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!