ANSWER. WHY, how now, Billy Bowles? (To the public) How can you, d-n your souls! February 22, 1821. EPIGRAMS. Он, Castlereagh! thou art a patriot now; So Castlereagh has cut his throat ! The worst So He has cut his throat at last! - He! Who? ΕΡΙΤΑΡΗ. POSTERITY will ne'er survey A nobler grave than this: JOHN KEATS.1 WHO kill'd John Keats? "I," says the Quarterly, 1 [It was pretended at the time, that the death of Keats was occasioned by a sarcastic article on his poetry in the Quarterly Review. All the world knows now that he died of consumption and not of criticism.] Who shot the arrow? THE CONQUEST. July, 1821. March 8-9, 1823. THE SON Of Love and Lord of War I sing; Him who bade England bow to Normandy, He rear'd his bold and brilliant throne on high: The bastard kept, like lions, his prey fast, And Britain's bravest victor was the last. TO MR. MURRAY. FOR Orford and for Waldegrave1 My Murray. Because if a live dog, 'tis said, Be worth a lion fairly sped, A live lord must be worth two dead, My Murray. And if, as the opinion goes, Verse hath a better sale than prose, Certes, I should have more than those, My Murray. 2 [This fragment was found amongst Lord Byron's papers, after his departure from Genoa for Greece.] 3 [Horace Walpole's Memoirs of the last nine Years of the Reign of George II.] 4 [Memoirs by James Earl Waldegrave, Governor of George III. when Prince of Wales.] But now this sheet is nearly cramm'd, THE IRISH AVATAR. "And Ireland, like a bastinadoed elephant, kneeling to receive the paltry rider." CURRAN. ERE the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave, To the long-cherish'd isle which he loved like his-bride. True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone, Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not her cause. True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags, To her desolate shore-where the emigrant stands 5 ["Can't accept your courteous offer. These matters must be arranged with Mr. Douglas Kinnaird. He is my trustee, and a man of honour. To him you can state all your mercantile reasons, which you might not like to state to me personally, such as 'heavy season'-'flat public'-'don't go off '-' lordship writes too much'-' won't take advice'-'declining popularity' - ' deduction for the trade'- 'make very little''generally lose by him'-'pirated edition'-'foreign edition'- ' severe criticisms,' &c., with other hints and howls for an oration, which I leave Douglas, who is an orator, to answer."-Lord B. to Mr. Murray, August 23, 1821.] 6["The enclosed lines, as you will directly perceive, are written by the Rev. W. L. Bowles. Of course it is for him to deny them, if they are not." - Lord B. to Mr. Moore, September 17, 1821.] But he comes! the Messiah of royalty comes! He comes in the promise and bloom of threescore, Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again, Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now? Ay, roar in his train! let thine orators lash Ever glorious Grattan! the best of the good! Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome, Though unequall'd, preceded, the task was begunBut Grattan sprung up like a god from the tomb Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the one! 7 ["After the stanza on Grattan, will it please you to cause to insert the following addenda, which I dreamed of during to-day's siesta."-Lord B. to Mr. Moore, September 20, 1821.] With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute; Even Tyranny listening sate melted or mute, And Corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glance of his mind. But back to our theme! Back to despots and slaves! Feasts furnish'd by Famine! rejoicings by Pain ! True freedom but welcomes, while slavery still raves, When a week's saturnalia hath loosen'd her chain. Let the poor squalid splendour thy wreck can afford, (As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would hide) Gild over the palace, Lo! Erin, thy lord! Kiss his foot with thy blessing, his blessings denied ! Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last, If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay, Must what terror or policy wring forth be class'd With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves yield their prey? Each brute hath its nature; a king's is to reign, — To reign! in that word see, ye ages, comprised The cause of the curses all annals contain, From Cæsar the dreaded to George the despised! Wear, Fingal, thy trapping! O'Connell, proclaim His accomplishments! His!!! and thy country convince Half an age's contempt was an error of fame, And that "Hal is the rascaliest, sweetest young prince!" Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with hymns? Ay! "build him a dwelling!" let each give his mite! |