In his doctrine, at least as a teacher, As a knave and a fool, In that gown, like a skin With no lion within, He still for the bench would be driving, And roareth away, A true Vicar of Bray, Except that his bray lost his living. "'Gainst free-thinkers," he roars, "You should all shut your doors, Or be bound in the Devil's indentures." And here I agree, For who ever would be A guest where old Simony enters! (1) "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,' etc. with other hints and howls for an oration, which I leave Douglas, who is an orator, to answer."-Lord B. to Mr. Murray, Aug. 23, 1821. -L. E. "The argument of the above [stanzas] is that he wanted to ⚫stint me of my sizeings,' as Lear says,-that is to say, not TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. You have ask'd for a verse-the request, What Lawrence has pencill'd so well; I am ashes where once I was fire, There are moments which act as a plough; And there is not a furrow appears But is deep in my soul as my brow. Let the young and the brilliant aspire The string which was worthy the strain.(5) to propose an extravagant price for an extravagant poem, as is becoming." Lord B. to Mr. Moore, Ravenna, 1822.-L. E. (2) These lines were written on reading in the newspapers, that Lady Byron had been patroness of a ball in aid of some charity at Hinckley.-P. E. (3) Marino Faliero, which, if not actually "damned" in the theatrical acceptation of the term, was to all intents and purposes a failure, as far as regards stage representation.-P. E. (4) Dr. Nott, tutor to the late Princess Charlotte of Wales, who preached a Sermon denouncing Lord Byron's Cain as a blasphemous production.-L. E. (5) The verses were composed December 1, 1819. "They are so unworthy the author," says Lady Blessington, "that STANZAS. (1) Ou!-my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pillow! Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover? And my head droops over thee like the willow! Oh! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow! Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from breaking, In return for the tears I shed upon thee waking; Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow. Then if thou wilt-no more my lonely Pillow, In one embrace let these arms again enfold him, And then expire of the joy--but to behold him! Oh! my lone bosom!-oh! my lonely Pillow! THE CONQUEST. (2) 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 Britons' bravest victor was the last. March 8-9, 1821. they are merely given as proof that the greatest genius can sometimes write bad verses, as even Homer nods." The following was Lady Blessington's answer: "When I ask'd for a verse, pray believe, 'T was not vanity urged the desire; Time has touch'd with rude fingers my brow, Then it surely were folly, if now I the praise due to beauty should seek. But as pilgrims who visit the shrine Of some saint bear a relic away, I sought a memorial of thine, As a treasure when distant I stray. Oh! say not that lyre is unstrung, Whose chords can such raptures bestow. From whence music and poetry flow. And though Sorrow, ere yet youth has fled, The bays that encircle the head Hide the ravisher's marks from our view.”—P. E. (1) These verses were written by Lord Byron, and giver to the Countess Guiccioli, a little before he left Italy for Greece. They were meant to suit the Hindostanee air-" Alla Malla Punca," which the Countess was fond of singing. - L. E. (2) This fragment was found amongst Lord Byron's papers, after his departure from Genoa for Greece.-L. E. (3) In Lady Blessington's Conversations with Lord Byron we find these lines thus introduced: "I will give you some stanzas I wrote yesterday (said Byron; they are as simple as even Wordsworth himself could write, and would do for music."-P. E. (4) This lampoon upon the author of The Pleasures of Memory, the most perfect specimen extant of Lord Byron's skill in caricature, is, for obvious reasons omitted in the London Editions, but was maliciously given to the world by Fraser's Magazine, which delights in all kinds of literary mischief. The publication attracted the notice of the Times and the Examiner, both of which dealt severely with the noble satirist. We subjoin their observations, after the following note, which was prefixed to the lampoon by Fraser. The lines are dated 1818, without month or place. ["Lord Byron abused every body he knew, and the closer the intimacy the grosser the abuse. As Sam Rogers was among his most intimate friends, (You (Rogers) and I were NOSE and chin would shame a knocker; never correspondents (says Byron in one of his letters to him), but always something better-which is, very good friends,') it could not be expected that he should escape, and it was well known in all literary circles that one of the most stinging and personal little satires ever written by his Lordship was directed against the poetical banker. This poem was in Moore's hands; but he, having the fear of exclusion from Rogers's table before his eyes, would not publish it; it was also in Murray's bands; but he, having the fear of the bawling of those Whig folks who infest his sanctum before his optics, could not muster nerve enough to give it to the world. As it is one of the best things in its way that fell from his Lordship's pen, we thought it a pity that the public should be deprived of it; and after having sought for it for some time in vain, we are now enabled, by the kindness of a fair friend, whose name must be a secret, but which if published would be an ornament to our pages, to lay it before our readers."] The Times visits the author with the following flagellation: "Every body who has read Lord Byron's life and poems with attention, however slight, will feel little surprise that a person so destitute of sound principles, and combining, with = the utmost levity of thinking, the most obstinate and usreasoning self-will, should utter the most contradictory opinions, both of men and things, according to the caprice of the moment, or, perhaps, no better cause than the inf ence of the wind. It is notorious to all who knew him that he lampooned his dearest friends, and amused one set of companions by caricatures of another, whom he, in tara. favoured with ludicrous representations of the first. Every body knew that this was the condition of all acquaintance with him, and nobody was stupid enough to suppose that the weakest of mankind could be capable of sincerity, much less of so firm and sacred a relation as friendship. His mind. highly gifted as it was with various talents, had no intellectual dignity, and was incapable of appreciating the higier duties and virtues of life. He was like a child with a coll -now dressing it with all the finery at hand, and caressing it with all the endearments within the reach of its fauey, then dashing it to pieces because a pin or a plait was out o place. It is obvious that the praise or censure of such a man, however ably written, cannot be of the least worth or injury to any human creature, as it may always be presumed that in his Lordship's portfolio, if not in his printed works, some set-off will be found for every panegyric and Skin all sallow, flesh all sodden,- ANSWER. Many passengers arrest one, Hear his tone (which is to talking Clothed in odds and ends of humour- every calumny. We have been led to make these remarks from seeing, lately, a most malignant and atrocious satire against Mr. Rogers, which must have been written at the time the noble bard was publicly bedaubing his friend with flattery. We certainly are of opinion with those who think the slaver' of the flattery more injurious than the 'bite' of the libel. But the slander can do no injury to Mr. Rogers. The united voices of, perhaps, the most numerous circle of friends possessed by any man in England will indignantly repel the calumny, which will merely be remembered as another item in the almost incalculable list of the mean and dirty qualities of its author. We would, however, recommend as a curiosity to the readers of the satire the encomiastic sonnet (p. 862, ante) written by Lord Byron on the same gentleman on whom he has, in the lampoon, emptied all the venom which even his black bile could generate. "One thing is certain, that the true account of Lord Byron is yet to be written; for though his real character peeps out through all the mist with which the incense of flattery or friendship has enveloped it, a faithful picture is still wanting in justice to the man himself, whose character requires explanation, and to the world, who have been absurdly accused of using him worse than he deserved." The Examiner designates the lines as unmannerly and inhuman, and, after alluding to the contrast they present with the writer's eulogy on the same person, proceeds thus:"Let us turn from Lord Byron's vilification of Mr. Rogers, to Mr. Rogers's touching lines on the death of Lord Byron, written, certainly, when he would not have credited the treachery of his noble friend. In the passage on Bologna, in his Italy, he says of Byron : You are neither-then he'll flatter, ON LADY MILBANKE'S DOG TRIM.(1) ALAS! poor Trim; I'm sorry for him: LINES TO LADY HOLLAND. (2) Yet thy heart, methinks, And he concludes: "Ah! who, among us all, Could say he had not err'd as much, and more." How consummately the noble lord must have played the hypocrite, little of hypocrisy as there seemed in his character; yet must he have worn his disguise under his abandonment."-P. E. (1) When Lord Byron, soon after his marriage, was on a visit at the house of his father-in-law in Leicestershire, he was much annoyed by the frequent quarrels of Sir Ralph Milbanke and his lady. One morning, Lady Milbanke came into Lord Byron's room, and weeping for the loss of her favourite dog, earnestly requested him, as soon as convenient, to write an epitaph. His Lordship replied, "I shall never be more at leisure than at the present moment:" and immediately wrote the above.-P. E. (2) These lines were composed on reading in the newspapers an address to Lady Holland, by the Earl of Carlisle, persuading her to reject the snuff-box bequeathed to her by Napoleon, beginning: ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY SIXTH YEAR. Missolonghi, Jan. 22, 1824.(1) '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 Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze A funeral pile! The hope, the fear, the jealous care, But 'tis not thus-and 't is not here Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, (1) "This morning Lord Byron came from his bed-room 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 birth-day, and I have just finished something, which, I think, is better than what I usually write.' then produced these noble and affecting verses." Camba.-L. E. Не Count (2) "Taking into consideration every thing connected with these verses,--the last tender aspirations of a loving spirit which they breathe, the self-devotion to a noble cause Where glory decks the hero's bier, The sword, the banner, and the field, Awake! (not Greece-she is awake!) Tread those reviving passions down, If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live? Is here:-up to the field, and give Seek out-less often sought than found- which they so nobly express, and that consciousness of a near grave glimmering sadly through the whole,-there is perhaps no production within the range of mere human composition, round which the circumstances and feelings under | which it was written cast so touching an interest." Moore. -L. E. "We perceive," says Count Gamba, "from these lines as well as from his daily conversations, that his ambition and his hope were irrevocably fixed upon the glorious objects of his expedition to Greece, and that he had made up his mind to return victorious or return no more."-P. E. Attributed Poems. TO JESSY. (1) THERE is a mystic thread of life So dearly wreathed with mine alone, That destiny's relentless knife At once must sever both or none. There is a form, on which these eyes Have often gazed with fond delight-By day that form their joy supplies, And dreams restore it through the night. There is a voice, whose tones inspire Such thrills of rapture through my breastI would not hear a seraph choir, Unless that voice could join the rest. There is a face, whose blushes tell Affection's tale upon the cheek— But pallid at one fond farewell, Proclaims more love than words can speak. There is a lip, which mine hath press'd, And none had ever press'd before, (1) These stanzas are said to have been addressed by Lord Byron to his Lady a few months before their separation.-P. E. It vow'd to make me sweetly blest, Hath pillow'd oft this aching head; A mouth which smiles on me alone, An eye, whose tears with mine are shed. There are two hearts, whose movements thrill In unison so closely sweet, That, pulse to pulse responsive still, They both must heave, or cease to beat. LINES POUND IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT CHAMOUNI. Dutch craft, and German dulness, side by side! The hardy Russian hails congenial snow; But he, the author of these idle lines, What passion leads him, and what tie confines? For him what friend is true, what mistress blooms, What joy elates him, and what grief consumes? Impassion'd, senseless, vigorous, or old, What matters!-bootless were his story told. Some praise at least one act of sense may claim; He wrote these verses, but he hid his name. TO LADY CAROLINE LAMB. AND say'st thou that I have not felt, Whilst thou wert thus estranged from me? Nor know'st how dearly I have dwelt On one unbroken dream of thee? But love like ours must never be, And I will learn to prize thee less, As thou hast fled, so let me flee, And change the heart thou mayst not bless. They'll tell thee, Clara! I have seem'd, That thou wert banish'd from my view. What thou hast done too well, for me- I have not wept while thou wert gone, To thine-to thee-to man-to God, But, since my breast is not so pure, Not thee, oh! dearest as thou art! And I will seek, yet know not how, And nobly thus exert thy power; A heart whose hope has long been dead. Deceive no more thyself and me, Deceive not better hearts than mine; Ah, shouldst thou, whither wouldst thou flee, From woe like ours-from shame like thine! And if there be a wrath divine, A pang beyond this fleeting breath, E'en now all future hope resign: Such thoughts are guilt-such guilt is death! THE PRINCE OF WHALES. Io Paan! Io! sing To the finny people's king— progress Crooked dolphins, they surround him; In his stomach, some do say No good thing can ever stay; Had it been the fortune of it To have swallow'd the old prophet, Soon the difference they find, |