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Spread-spread for Vitellius, the royal repast,
Till the gluttonous despot be stuff'd to the gorge!
The Fourth of the fools and oppressors call'd "George!"
Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan!
Till they groan like thy people, through ages of woe!
But let not his name be thine idol alone
On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears!
Till now, when the isle which should blush for his birth,
Without one single ray of her genius, without
If she did—let her long-boasted proverb be hush'd,
Shout, drink, feast, and flatter! Oh! Erin, how low
8 ["The last line-‘A name never spoke but with curses or jeers,' must run, either 'A name only uttered with curses or jeers,' or, 'A wretch never named but with curses or jeers,' becase as how 'spoke' is not grammar, except in the House of Commons. So pray put your poetical pen through the MS., and take the least bad of the emendations. Also, if there be any further breaking of Priscian's head, will you apply a plaster ?"—Lord B. to Mr. Moore, September 19.]
My voice, though but humble, was raised for thy right,
And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still for thee!
Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my land,
For happy are they now reposing afar,
Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, all
Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves!
Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetterless clay.
Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore,
Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled;
Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour
My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore, Which though trod like the worm will not turn upon power, 'Tis the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore!
STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE
Он, talk not to me of a name great in story;
9 ["I composed these stanzas (except the fourth, added now) a few days ago, on the
road from Florence to Pisa.”—B. Diary, Pisa, 6th November, 1821.]
What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?
Oh FAME!-if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
STANZAS TO A HINDOO AIR.1
Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover?
Oh! my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pillow!
Oh! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow!
Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from breaking,
Then if thou wilt-no more my lonely Pillow,
Oh! my lone bosom!-oh! my lonely Pillow!
[These verses were written by Lord Byron a little before he left Italy for Greece. They were meant to suit the Hindostanee air-"Alla Malla Punca," which the Countess Guiccioli was fond of singing.]
BENEATH Blessington's eyes
The reclaimed Paradise
Should be free as the former from evil;
For an Apple should grieve,
What mortal would not play the Devil ? 3
TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON.
You have ask'd for a verse:-the request
Were I now as I I had sung
I am ashes where once I was fire,
And the bard in my bosom is dead;
My life is not dated by years
There are moments which act as a plough,
And there is not a furrow appears
But is deep in my soul as my brow.
[This impromptu was uttered by Lord Byron on going with Lord and Lady Blessington to a villa at Genoa called "Il Paradiso," which his companions thought of renting.]
3 [The Genoese wits had already applied this threadbare jest to himself. Taking it into their heads that this villa had been the one fixed on for his own residence, they said, "Il Diavolo è ancora entrato in Paradiso.”—MOORE.]
Let the young and the brilliant aspire
To sing what I gaze on in vain ;
The string which was worthy the strain.
ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR.
MISSOLONGHI, Jan. 22, 1824.*
'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it hath ceased to move:
My days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of love are gone ;
The fire that on my bosom preys
The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
But 'tis not thus-and 'tis not here
Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now
Or binds his brow.
[This morning Lord Byron came from his bedroom into the apartment where Colonel Stanhope and some friends were assembled, and said with a smile-"You were complaining, the other day, that I never write any poetry now. This is my birthday, and I have just finished something, which, I think, is better than what I usually write." He then produced these noble and affecting verses.-COUNT GAMBA.]