With ponderous malice swaying to and fro,
And crushing nations with a stupid blow;
All duly anxious to leave little work
Unto the revolutionary stork.

IX.

Thrice blest Verona! since the holy three
With their imperial presence shine on thee;
Honor'd by them, thy treacherous site forgets
The vaunted tomb of "all the Capulets;
Thy Scaligers-for what was "Dog the Great,"
"Can Grande "t (which I venture to translate),
To these sublimer pugs? Thy poet too,
Catullus, whose old laurels yield to new;
Thine amphitheatre, where Romans sate;
And Dante's exile shelter'd by thy gate;
Thy good old man, whose world was all within
Thy wall, nor knew the country held him in:
Would that the royal guests it girds about
Were so far like, as never to get out!

Ay, shout inscribe! rear monuments of shame,
To tell Oppression that the world is tame!
Crowd to the theatre with loyal rage,
The comedy is not upon the stage;
The show is rich in ribbonry and stars,

Then gaze upon it through thy dungeon bars;
Clap thy permitted palms, kind Italy,

For thus much still thy fetter'd hands are free!

X.

Resplendent sight! Behold the coxcomb Czar,
The autocrat of waltzes and of war!
As eager for a plaudit as a realm,
And just as fit for flirting as the helm;
A Calmuck beauty with a Cossack wit,

And generous spirit, when 't is not frost-bit;
Now half dissolving to a liberal thaw,

But harden'd back whene'er the morning 's raw;
With no objection to true liberty,

Except that it would make the nations free.
How well the imperial dandy prates of peace!
How fain, if Greeks would be his slaves, free Greece!
How nobly gave he back the Poles their Diet,
Then told pugnacious Poland to be quiet!
How kindly would he send the mild Ukraine,
With all her pleasant pulks, to lecture Spain!
How royally show off in proud Madrid
His goodly person, from the South long hid!
A blessing cheaply purchased, the world knows,
By having Muscovites for friends or foes.
Proceed, thou namesake of great Philip's son!
La Harpe, thine Aristotle, beckons on;
And that which Scythia was to him of yore
Find with thy Scythians on Iberia's shore.
Yet think upon, thou somewhat aged youth,
Thy predecessor on the banks of Pruth;
Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be thine,
Many an old woman, but no Catherine.?
Spain, too, hath rocks, and rivers, and defiles-
The bear may rush into the lion's toils.
Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields;
Think'st thou to thee Napoleon's victor yields ?
Better reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords
To ploughshares, shave and wash thy Bashkir
hordes,

* "I have been over Verona. The amphitheatre is wonderful-beats even Greece. Of the truth of Juliet's story, they seem tenacious to a degree, insisting on the fact-giving a date (1303), and showing a tomb. It is a plain, open, and partly decayed sarcophagus, with withered leaves in it, in a wild and desolate conventual garden, once a cemetery, now ruined to the very graves. The situation struck me as very appropriate to the legend, being blighted as their love." Byron Letters, November, 1816.

+ Cane I. Della Scala, surnamed the Great, died in 1329: he was the protector of Dante, who celebrated him as "il Gran Lombardo."

Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout,
Than follow headlong in the fatal route,
To infest the clime whose skies and laws are pure
With thy foul legions. Spain wants no manure:
Her soil is fertile, but she feeds no foe;

Her vultures, too, were gorged not long ago;
And wouldst thou furnish them with fresher prey?
Alas! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey.

I am Diogenes, though Russ and Hun
Stand between mine and many a myriad's sun;
But were I not Diogenes, I'd wander
Rather a worm than such an Alexander!
Be slaves who will, the cynic shall be free;
His tub hath tougher walls than Sinopè :
Still will he hold his lantern up to scan
The face of monarchs for an "honest man."

XI.

And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land
Of ne plus ultra ultras and their band
Of mercenaries? and her noisy chambers
And tribune, which each orator first clambers
Before he finds a voice, and when 't is found,
Hears "the lie " echo for his answer round?
Our British Commons sometimes deign to "hear!"
A Gallic senate hath more tongue than ear;
Even Constant, their sole master of debate,
Must fight next day his speech to vindicate.
But this costs little to true Franks, who'd rather
Combat than listen, were it to their father.
What is the simple standing of a shot,
To listening long, and interrupting not?
Though this was not the method of old Rome,
When Tully fulmined o'er each vocal dome,
Demosthenes has sanction'd the transaction,
In saying eloquence meant "Action, action!"

XII.

But where's the monarch? hath he dined? or yet
Groans beneath indigestion's heavy debt?
Have revolutionary patés risen,

And turn'd the royal entrails to a prison?
Have discontented movements stirr'd the troops?
Or have no movements follow'd traitorous soups?
Have Carbonaro || cooks not carbonadoed
Each course enough? or doctors dire dissuaded
Repletion? Ah! in thy dejected looks

I read all France's treason in her cooks!
Good classic Louis! is it, canst thou say,
Desirable to be the "Desiré "?

Why wouldst thou leave calm Hartwell's green abode,¶

Apician table, and Horatian ode,

To rule a people who will not be ruled,
And love much rather to be scourged than school'd?
Ah! thine was not the temper or the taste
For thrones; the table sees thee better placed;
A mild Epicurean, form'd, at best,
To be a kind host and as good a guest,
To talk of letters, and to know by heart
One-half the poet's, all the gourmand's art:
A scholar always, now and then a wit,
And gentle when digestion may permit;-
But not to govern lands enslaved or free;
The gout was martyrdom enough for thee.

The emperor Alexander; who died in 1825.

The dexterity of Catherine extricated Peter (called the Great by courtesy), when surrounded by the Mussulmans on the banks of the river Pruth.

According to Botta, the Neapolitan republicans who, during the reign of King Joachim, fled to the recesses of the Abruzzi, and there formed a secret confederacy, were the first that assumed the designation, since familiar all over Italy, of Carbonari" (colliers).

Hartwell, in Buckinghamshire-the residence of Louis XVIII. during the latter years of the Emigration.

And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh, Whose penknife slit a goose-quill t'other day— And pilots who have weather'd every storm '*(But, no, not even for rhyme's sake, name Reform)."

These are the themes thus sung so oft before,
Methinks we need not sing them any more;
Found in so many volumes far and near,
There's no occasion you should find them here.
Yet something may remain perchance to chime
With reason, and, what's stranger still, with rhyme.
Even this thy genius, Canning! may permit,
Who, bred a statesman, still wast born a wit,
And never, even in that dull House, couldst tame
To unleaven❜d prose thine own poetic flame:
Our last, our best, our only orator,
Even I can praise thee-Tories do no more:
Nay, not so much;-they hate thee, man, because
Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes.
The hounds will gather to their huntsman's hollo,
And where he leads the duteous pack will follow:
But not for love mistake their yelling cry;
Their yelp for game is not an eulogy;
Less faithful far than the four-footed pack,
A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back.
Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure,
Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure; †
The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last
To stumble, kick, and now and then stick fast
With his great self and rider in the mud;
But what of that? the animal shows blood.

XIV.

Alas, the country! how shall tongue or pen
Bewail her now uncountry gentlemen?
The last to bid the cry of warfare cease,
The first to make a malady of peace.

For what were all these country patriots born?
To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn?
But corn, like every mortal thing, must fall,
Kings, conquerors, and markets most of all.
And must ye fall with every ear of grain?
Why would you trouble Buonaparte's reign?
He was your great Triptolemus; his vices
Destroy'd but realms, and still maintain'd
prices;

your

He amplified to every lord's content
The grand agrarian alchemy, high rent.
Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars,
And lower wheat to such desponding quarters?
Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone?
The man was worth much more upon his throne.
True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt,
But what of that? the Gaul may bear the guilt;
But bread was high, the farmer paid his way,
And acres told upon the appointed day.

But where is now the goodly audit ale?
The purse-proud tenant, never known to fail?
The farm which never yet was left on hand?
The marsh reclaim'd to most improving land?
The impatient hope of the expiring lease?
The doubling rental? What an evil's peace!
In vain the prize excites the ploughman's skill,
In vain the Commons pass their patriot bill;
The landed interest-(you may understand
The phrase much better leaving out the land)--
The land self-interest groans from shore to shore,
For fear that plenty should attain the poor.
Up, up again, ye rents! exalt your notes,
Or else the ministry will lose their votes,
And patriotism, so delicately nice,
Her loaves will lower to the market price;
For ah! "the loaves and fishes," once so high,
Are gone their oven closed, their ocean dry,
And nought remains of all the millions spent,
Excepting to grow moderate and content.
They who are not so, had their turn-and turn
About still flows from Fortune's equal urn;
Now let their virtue be its own reward,
And share the blessings which themselves pre-
pared.

See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm,
Farmers of war, dictators of the farm;
Their ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands,
Their fields manured by gore of other lands;
Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent
Their brethren out to battle-why? for rent!
Year after year they voted cent. per cent.,
Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions-why? for

rent!

They roar'd, they dined, they drank, they swore they meant

To die for England-why then live?-for rent!
The peace has made one general malcontent
Of these high-market patriots; war was rent!
Their love of country, millions all misspent,
How reconcile? by reconciling rent!

And will they not repay the treasures lent?
No: down with everything, and up with rent!
Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent,
Being, end, aim, religion,-rent, rent, rent!
Thou sold'st thy birthright, Esau! for a mess;
Thou shouldst have gotten more, or eaten less;
Now thou hast swill'd thy pottage, thy demands
Are idle; Israel says the bargain stands.
Such, landlords! was your appetite for war,
And, gorged with blood, you grumble at a scar!
What! would they spread their earthquake even
o'er cash?

And when land crumbles, bid firm paper crash?
So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall,
And found on 'Change a Fundling Hospital?
Lo! Mother Church, while all religion writhes,
Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring, Tithes;
The prelates go to-where the saints have gone,
And proud pluralities subside to one;

Church, state, and faction, wrestle in the dark,
Toss'd by the deluge in their common ark.
Shorn of her bishops, banks, and dividends,
Another Babel soars-but Britain ends.
And why? to pamper the self-seeking wants,
And prop the hill of these agrarian ants.
"Go to these ants, thou sluggard, and be wise;"
Admire their patience through each sacrifice,
Till taught to feel the lesson of their pride,
The price of taxes and of homicide;

On the suicide of Lord Londonderry, in August, 1822, Mr. Canning, who had prepared to sail for India as governorgeneral, was made Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs,-not much, it was alleged, to the personal satisfaction of

lived to verify some of the predictions of the poet-to abaadon the foreign policy of his predecessor-to break up the Tory party by a coalition with the Whigs-and to prepare the way for Reform in Parliament.

Admire their justice, which would fain deny The debt of nations:-pray, who made it high?

XV.

Or turn to sail between those shifting rocks,
The new Symplegades-the crushing Stocks,
Where Midas might again his wish behold
In real paper or imagined gold.
That magic palace of Alcina shows
More wealth than Britain ever had to lose,
Were all her atoms of unleaven❜d ore,
And all her pebbles from Pactolus' shore.

There Fortune plays, while Rumor holds the stake,
And the world trembles to bid brokers break.
How rich is Britain! not indeed in mines,
Or peace or plenty, corn or oil, or wines;
No land of Canaan, full of milk and honey,
Nor (save in paper shekels) ready money:
But let us not to own the truth refuse,
Was ever Christian land so rich in Jews?
Those parted with their teeth to good King John,
And now, ye kings! they kindly draw your own;
All states, all things, all sovereigns they control,
And waft a loan from Indus to the pole."
The banker-broker-baron*-brethren, speed
To aid these bankrupt tyrants in their need.
Nor these alone; Columbia feels no less
Fresh speculations follow each success;
And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain
Her mild percentage from exhausted Spain.
Not without Abraham's seed can Russia march;
'Tis gold, not steel, that rears the conqueror's arch.
Two Jews, a chosen people, can command
In every realm their scripture-promised land:-
Two Jews keep down the Romans, and uphold
The accursed Hun, more brutal than of old:
Two Jews—but not Samaritans-direct
The world, with all the spirit of their sect.
What is the happiness of earth to them?
A congress forms their "New Jerusalem,"
Where baronies and orders both invite-
Oh, holy Abraham! dost thou see the sight?
Thy followers mingling with these royal swine,
Who spit not on their Jewish gaberdine,"
But honor them as portion of the show-
(Where now, oh, Pope! is thy forsaken toe?
Could it not favor Judah with some kicks?
Or has it ceased to "kick against the pricks"?)
On Shylock's shore behold them stand afresh,

66

To cut from nations' hearts their "pound of flesh."

XVI.

Strange sight this congress! destined to unite
All that's incongruous, all that 's opposite.
I speak not of the sovereigns-they're alike,
A common coin as ever mint could strike;

But those who sway the puppets, pull the strings,
Have more of motley than their heavy kings.
Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, combine,
While Europe wonders at the vast design:
There Metternich, power's foremost parasite,
Cajoles; there Wellington forgets to fight;
There Chateaubriand forms new books of martyrs;†
And subtle Greeks‡ intrigue for stupid Tartars;
There Montmorenci, the sworn foe to charters,?
Turns a diplomatist of great éclat,
To furnish articles for the "Débats;

*The head of the illustrious house of Montmorenci has usually been designated "le premier baron Chrétien;" his ancestor having, it is supposed, been the first noble convert to Christianity in France. Lord Byron perhaps alludes to the well-known joke of Talleyrand, who, meeting the Duke of Montmorenci at the same party with M. Rothschild, soon after the latter had been ennobled by the emperor of Austria, is said to have begged leave to present M. le premier baron Juif to M. le premier baron Chrétien.

+ Monsieur Chateaubriand, who has not forgotten the au

Of war so certain-yet not quite so sure
As his dismissal in the "Moniteur."
Alas! how could his cabinet thus err?
Can peace be worth an ultra-minister?
He falls indeed, perhaps to rise again,
"Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain."
XVII.

Enough of this-a sight more mournful woos
The averted eye of the reluctant muse.
The imperial daughter, the imperial bride,
The imperial victim-sacrifice to pride;
The mother of the hero's hope, the boy,
The young Astyanax of modern Troy;
The still pale shadow of the loftiest queen
That earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen;
She flits amidst the phantoms of the hour,
The theme of pity, and the wreck of power.
Oh, cruel mockery! Could not Austria spare
A daughter? What did France's widow there?
Her fitter place was by Saint Helen's wave,
Her only throne is in Napoleon's grave.
But, no-she still must hold a petty reign,
Flank'd by her formidable chamberlain;
The martial Argus, whose not hundred eyes
Must watch her through these paltry pageantries.
What though she share no more, and shared in

vain,

A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne,

Which swept from Moscow to the southern seas!
Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese,
Where Parma views the traveller resort,
To note the trappings of her mimic court.
But she appears! Verona sees her shorn

Of all her beams-while nations gaze and mourn-
Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time
To chill in their inhospitable clime;

(If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold;-
But no,-their embers soon will burst the mould ;)
She comes!-the Andromache (but not Racine's,
Nor Homer's,)-Lo! on Pyrrhus' arm she leans!
Yes! the right arm, yet red from Waterloo,
Which cut her lord's half-shatter'd sceptre through.
Is offer'd and accepted! Could a slave
Do more? or less?-and he in his new grave!
Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strife,
And the ex-empress grows as ex a wife!
So much for human ties in royal breasts!
Why spare men's feelings, when their own are jests ?
XVIII.

But, tired of foreign follies, I turn home,
And sketch the group-the picture 's yet to come.
My muse 'gan weep, but, ere a tear was spilt,
She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt!
While throng'd the chiefs of every Highland clan
To hail their brother, Vich Ian Alderman!
Guildhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse roar,
While all the Common Council cry "Claymore!
To see proud Albyn's tartans as a belt
Gird the gross sirloin of a city Celt,
She burst into a laughter so extreme,
That I awoke-and lo! it was no dream!

Here, reader, will we pause:-if there's no harm in This first you'll have, perhaps, a second "Car

men.

thor in the minister, received a handsome compliment at Verona from a literary sovereign: "Ah! Monsieur C., are you related to that Chateaubriand who-who-who has written something?" (écrit quelque chose!) It is said that the author of Atala repented him for a moment of his legitimacy.

Count Capo d'Istrias, afterwards president of Greece. The count was murdered in September, 1831, by the brother and son of a Mainote chief whom he had imprisoned. The Duke de Montmorenci-Laval.

[From Pope's verses on Lord Peterborough.]

THE ADIEU.

WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THE
AUTHOR WOULD SOON DIE.

ADIEU, thou Hill!* where early joy
Spread roses o'er my brow;
Where Science seeks each loitering boy
With knowledge to endow.
Adieu, my youthful friends or foes,
Partners of former bliss or woes;

No more through Ida's paths we stray;
Soon must I share the gloomy cell,
Whose ever-slumbering inmates dwell
Unconscious of the day.

Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes,

Ye spires of Granta's vale,
Where Learning robed in sable reigns,
And Melancholy pale.
Ye comrades of the jovial hour,
Ye tenants of the classic bower,

On Cama's verdant margin placed,
Adieu! while memory still is mine,
For, offerings on Oblivion's shrine,
These scenes must be effaced.

Adieu, ye mountains of the clime
Where grew my youthful years;
Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime
His giant summit rears.

Why did my childhood wander forth
From you, ye regions of the North,
With sons of pride to roam?
Why did I quit my Highland cave,

Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear wave,
To seek a Southern home?

Hall of my Sires! a long farewell-
Yet why to thee adieu ?

Thy vaults will echo back my knell,

Thy towers my tomb will view:

The faltering tongue which sung thy fall,
And former glories of thy Hall,†

Forgets its wonted simple note-
But yet the Lyre retains the strings,
And sometimes, on Æolian wings,
In dying strains may float.

Fields, which surround yon rustic cot,
While yet I linger here,
Adieu! you are not now forgot,
To retrospection dear.

Streamlet along whose rippling surge
My youthful limbs were wont to urge

At noontide heat their pliant course;
Plunging with ardor from the shore,
Thy springs will lave these limbs no more,
Deprived of active force.

And shall I here forget the scene,
Still nearest to my breast?
Rocks rise and rivers roll between

The spot which passion blest;
Yet, Mary, all thy beauties seem
Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream,
To me in smiles display'd:
Till slow disease resigns his prey
To Death, the parent of decay,
Thine image cannot fade.

And thou, my Friend! whose gentle love
Yet thrills my bosom's chords,
How much thy friendship was above
Description's power of words!

Still near my breast thy gift I wear
Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear,

Of Love the pure, the sacred gem;
Our souls were equal, and our lot
In that dear moment quite forgot;
Let Pride alone condemn!

All, all is dark and cheerless now!
No smile of Love's deceit

Can warm my veins with wonted glow,
Can bid Life's pulses beat:

Not e'en the hope of future fame
Can wake my faint, exhausted frame,

Or crown with fancied wreaths my head.
Mine is a short inglorious race,-
To humble in the dust my face,
And mingle with the dead.

Oh, Fame! thou goddess of my heart;
On him who gains thy praise,
Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart,
Consumed in Glory's blaze;

But me she beckons from the earth,
My name obscure, unmark'd my birth,
My life a short and vulgar dream :
Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd,
My hopes recline within a shroud,
My fate is Lethe's stream.

When I repose beneath the sod,
Unheeded in the clay,
Where once my playful footsteps trod.
Where now my head must lay,
The meed of Pity will be shed
In dew-drops o'er my narrow bed,

Mary Duff. See ante, p. 337, note.

■ Eddlestone, the Cambridge chorister.

By nightly skies, and storms alone; No mortal eye will deign to steep With tears the dark sepulchral deep Which hides a name unknown.

Forget this world, my restless sprite,
Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven:
There must thou soon direct thy flight,
If errors are forgiven.

To bigots and to sects unknown,

Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne;
To him address thy trembling prayer:
He, who is merciful and just,
Will not reject a child of dust,
Although his meanest care.

Father of Light! to thee I call;
My soul is dark within:

Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall,
Avert the death of sin.

Thou, who canst guide the wandering star, Who calm'st the elemental war,

Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive; And, since I soon must cease to live, Instruct me how to die.

[1807. First published, 1832.]

TO ANNE.

OH, Anne! your offences to me have been grievous: I thought from my wrath no atonement could save you;

But woman is made to command and deceive usI look'd in your face, and I almost forgave you.

I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect you, Yet thought that a day's separation was long; When we met, I determined again to suspect youYour smile soon convinced me suspicion was

wrong.

I swore, in a transport of young indignation,
With fervent contempt evermore to disdain you:
I saw you-my anger became admiration;

And now all my wish, all my hope, 's to regain

you.

With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the contention!

Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness before you; At once to conclude such a fruitless dissension, Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease to adore you! [January 16, 1807. First published, 1832.]

TO A VAIN LADY.

Aн, heedless girl! why thus disclose
What ne'er was meant for other ears?
Why thus destroy thine own repose,

And dig the source of future tears?

Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid,
While lurking envious foes will smile,
For all the follies thou hast said

Of those who spoke but to beguile.

Vain girl! thy ling'ring woes are nigh,
If thou believ'st what striplings say:
Oh, from the deep temptation fly,

Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey.
Dost thou repeat, in childish boast,
The words man utters to deceive?
Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost,
If thou canst venture to believe.

While now amongst thy female peers

Thou tell'st again the soothing tale, Canst thou not mark the rising sneers Duplicity in vain would veil?

These tales in secret silence hush,

Nor make thyself the public gaze:
What modest maid without a blush
Recounts a flattering coxcomb's praise?

Will not the laughing boy despise

Her who relates each fond conceitWho, thinking heaven is in her eyes, Yet cannot see the slight deceit ?

For she who takes a soft delight

These amorous nothings in revealing,
Must credit all we say or write,
While vanity prevents concealing.
Cease, if you prize your beauty's reign!
No jealousy bids me reprove:
One, who is thus from nature vain,
I pity, but I cannot love.

[January 15, 1807. First published, 1832.]

TO THE SAME.

OH, say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed

The heart which adores you should wish to dis

sever;

Such Fates were to me most unkind ones indeed,-
To bear me from love and from beauty for ever.

Your frowns, lovely girl, are the Fates which alone
Could bid me from fond admiration refrain;
By these, every hope, every wish were o'erthrown,
Till smiles should restore me to rapture again.

As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined,
The rage of the tempest united must weather;
My love and my life were by nature design'd
To flourish alike, or to perish together.

Then say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed

Your lover should bid you a lasting adieu; Till Fate can ordain that his bosom shall bleed, His soul, his existence, are centred in you. [1807. First published, 1832.]

TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET
BEGINNING,

"SAD IS MY VERSE,' YOU SAY, AND YET NO

TEAR.'"

THY verse is "sad" enough, no doubt: A devilish deal more sad than witty! Why we should weep I can't find out, Unless for thee we weep in pity.

Yet there is one I pity more;

And much, alas! I think he needs it; For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore, Who, to his own misfortune, reads it. Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic, May once be read-but never after: Yet their effect 's by no means tragic, Although by far too dull for laughter.