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WHY, how now, Billy Bowles?

Sure the priest is maudlin!

(To the public) How can you, d-n your souls!
Listen to his twaddling?

February 22, 1821.


OH, Castlereagh! thou art a patriot now;
Cato died for his country, so didst thou:
He perish'd rather than see Rome enslaved,
Thou cutt'st thy throat that Britain may be saved!

So Castlereagh has cut his throat!—The worst
Of this is, that his own was not the first.

So He has cut his throat at last!- He! Who?
The man who cut his country's long ago.

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1 [It was pretended at the time, that the death of sarcastic article on his poetry in the Quarterly Review. that he died of consumption and not of criticism.]

Keats was occasioned by a

All the world knows now

Who shot the arrow?

"The poet priest Milman (So ready to kill man),

"Or Southey, or Barrow.


July, 1821.

March 8-9, 1823.

THE Son of Love and Lord of War I sing;
Him who bade England bow to Normandy,
And left the name of conqueror more than king
To his unconquerable dynasty.

Not fann'd alone by Victory's fleeting wing,

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.



FOR Orford and for Waldegrave*

You give much more than me you gave;
Which is not fairly to behave,

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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,
So, if you will, I shan't be shamin'd,
And if you won't, you may be damn'd,
My Murray.


"And Ireland, like a bastinadoed elephant, kneeling to receive the paltry rider."-CURRAN.

ERE the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave,
And her ashes still float to their home o'er the tide,
Lo! George the triumphant speeds over the wave,
To the long-cherish'd isle which he loved like his-bride.

True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone,
The rain-bow-like epoch where Freedom could pause
For the few little years, out of centuries won,

Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not her cause.

True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags,
The castle still stands, and the senate's no more,
And the famine which dwelt on her freedomless crags
Is extending its steps to her desolate shore.

To her desolate shore-where the emigrant stands
For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth;
Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from his hands,
For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth.

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.]

"["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!

Like a goodly Leviathan roll'd from the waves;
Then receive him as best such an advent becomes,

With a legion of cooks, and an army of slaves!

He comes in the promise and bloom of threescore,
To perform in the pageant the sovereign's part—
But long live the shamrock, which shadows him o'er!
Could the green in his hat be transferr'd to his heart!

Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again,
And a new spring of noble affections arise―
Then might freedom forgive thee this dance in thy chain,
And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the skies.

Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now?
Where he God-as he is but the commonest clay,
With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow-
Such servile devotion might shame him away.

Ay, roar in his train! let thine orators lash
Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride—
Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash
His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied."

Ever glorious Grattan! the best of the good!
So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest!
With all which Demosthenes wanted endued,
And his rival or victor in all he possess'd.

Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome,

Though unequall'd, preceded, the task was begun-
But 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;
With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind;
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 fetters from millions of Catholic limbs ?

Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of all

The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with hymns?

Ay! "build him a dwelling!" let each give his mite!
Till, like Babel, the new royal doom hath arisen!
Let thy beggars and helots their pittance unite-
And a palace bestow for a poor-house and prison !

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