Note 8. Stanza Ixii. Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone, St Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins were still extant in 1816, and may be so yet as much as ever. Note 9. Stanza lxxxi. Who butcher'd half the earth, and bullied 'other. India. America. CANTO XI. praising the « drapery» of an «untochered» but «pretty virginities» (like Mrs Anne Page) of the then day, which has now been some years yesterday:—she assured me that the thing was common in London; and as her own thousands, and blooming looks, and rich simplicity of array, put any suspicion in her own case out of the question, I confess I gave some credit to the allegation. If necessary, authorities might be cited, in which case I could quote both «drapery» and the wearers. Let us hope, however, that it is now obsolete. Note 5. Stanza lx. "Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article. « Divinæ particulam auræ.>> Note 1. Stanza xix. Who on a lark, with black-eyed Sal (his blowing), So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing? The advance of science and of language has rendered it unnecessary to translate the above good and true English, spoken in its original purity by the select mobility and their patrons. The following is a stanza of a song which was very popular, at least in my early days: On the high toby-spice flash the muzzle, If you at the spelken can't hustle, You'll be hobbled in making a Clout. Then your blowing will was gallows haughty, That her Jack may be regular weight.. If there be any gem'man so ignorant as to require a traduction, I refer him to my old friend and corporeal pastor and master, John Jackson, Esq., Professor of pugilism; who I trust still retains the strength and symmetry of his model of a form, together with his good humour, and athletic as well as mental accomplishments. CANTO XII. Note 1. Stanza xix. Gives, with Greek truth, the good old Greek the lie. See MITFORD's Greece. « Græcia Verax.» His great pleasure consists in praising tyrants, abusing Plutarch, spelling oddly, and writing quaintly; and what is strange after all, his is the best modern history of Greece in any language, and he is perhaps the best of all modern historians whatsoever. Having named his sins, it is but fair to state his virtues-learning, labour, research, wrath, and partiality. I call the latter virtues in a writer, because they make him write in earnest. The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in bis gullet, It would have taught him humanity at least. This sentimental savage, whom it is a mode to quote (amongst the novelists) to show their sympathy for innocent sports and old songs, teaches how to sew up frogs, and break their legs by way of experiment, in addition to the art of angling, the cruellest, the coldest, and the stupidest of pretended sports. They may talk about the beauties of nature, but the angler merely thinks of his dish of fish; he has no leisure to take his eyes from off the streams, and a single bite is worth to him more than all the scenery around. Besides, some fish bite best on a rainy day. The whale, the shark, and the tunny fishery have somewhat of noble and perilous in them; even netfishing, trawling, etc. are more humane and useful-but angling!-No angler can be a good man. <«< One of the best men I ever knew-as humane, delicate-minded, generous, and excellent a creature as any in the world-was an angler: true, he angled with painted flies, and would have been incapable of the extravagances of I. Walton.>> The above addition was made by a friend in reading over the MS.« Audi alteram partem»-I leave it to counterbalance my own observation. Note 2. Stanza xlviii. Go to the coffee-house, and take another. In SWIFT's or HORACE WALPOLE'S Letters I think it is mentioned that somebody regretting the loss of a friend, was answered by an universal Pylades: «When I lose one, I go to the Saint James's Coffee-house, and take another.>> I recollect having heard an anecdote of the same kind. Sir W. D. was a great gamester. Coming in one day to the club of which he was a member, he was observed to look melancholy. «What is the matter, Sir William?» cried Hare, of facetious memory. «Ah!» replied Sir W. «I have just lost poor Lady D.»> « Lost! What atQuinze or Hazard?» was the consolatory rejoinder of the querist. Note 3. Stanza lix. And I refer you to wise Oxenstiern. The famous Chancellor Oxenstiern said to his son, on the latter expressing his surprise upon the great effects arising from petty causes in the presumed mystery of politics: «< You see by this, my son, with how little wisdom the kingdoms of the world are governed.>> CANTO XV. Note 1. Stanza xviii. And thou, Diviner still, Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken. As it is necessary in these times to avoid ambiguity, I say, that I mean, by « Diviner still,»> CHRIST. If ever God was Man-or Man God-he was both. I never ar raigned his creed, but the use-or abuse-made of it. Mr Canning one day quoted Christianity to sanction Negro Slavery, and Mr Wilberforce had little to say in reply. And was Christ crucified, that black men might be scourged? If so, he had better been born a Mulatto, to give both colours an equal chance of freedom, or at least salvation. Note 2. Stanza xxxv. When Rapp the Harmonist embargoed marriage In his harmonious settlement. This extraordinary and flourishing German colony in America does not entirely exclude matrimony, as the <«<Shakers» do; but lays such restrictions upon it as prevent more than a certain quantum of births within a certain number of years; which births (as Mr Hulme observes) generally arrive « in a little flock like those of a farmer's lambs, all within the same month perhaps.»> These Harmonists (so called from the name of their settlement) are represented as a remarkably flourishing, pious, and quiet people. See the various recent writers on America. Note 3. Stanza xxxviii. Nor canvass what so eminent a hand, meant. Jacob Tonson, according to Mr Pope, was accustomed to call his writers «< able pens»-« persons of honour," and especially « eminent hands. >> Vide Correspond-languages (it was some years before the peace, ere all ence, etc. etc. Note 4. Stanza lxvi. While great Lucullus' (robe triomphale) muffles- A dish « à la Lucullus.>> This hero, who conquered the East, has left his more extended celebrity to the transplantation of cherries (which he first brought into Europe) and the nomenclature of some very good dishes; -and I am not sure that (barring indigestion) he has not done more service to mankind by his cookery than by his conquests. A cherry-tree may weigh against a bloody laurel; besides, he has contrived to earn celebrity from both. somewhat surfeited with a similar display from foreign parts, did rather indecorously break through the applauses of an intelligent audience-intelligent, I mean, as to music,-for the words, besides being in recondite the world had travelled, and while I was a collegian)were sorely disguised by the performers;-this mayoress, I say, broke out with, «Rot your Italianos! for my part, I loves a simple ballat!» Rossini will go a good way to bring most people to the same opinion, some day. Who would imagine that he was to be the suc cessor of Mozart? However, I state this with diffidence, and of much of Rossini's: but we may say, as the conas a liege and loyal admirer of Italian music in general, noisseur did of painting, in the Vicar of Wakefield, << that the picture would be better painted if the painter had taken more pains.>> A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass. I think that it was a carpet on which Diogenes trod, See the account of the ghost of the uncle of Prince with-<<Thus I trample on the pride of Plato!»-«With Charles of Saxony raised by Schroepfer-« Kar!-Karl greater pride,» as the other replied. But as carpets-was-walt wolt mich?»> are meant to be trodden upon, my memory probably misgives me, and it might be a robe, or tapestry, or a table-cloth, or some other expensive and uncynical piece of furniture. Note 3. Stanza xlv. With Tu mi chamas's from Portingale, To soothe our ears, lest Italy should fail. I remember that the mayoress of a provincial town, Note 9. Stanza cxx. How odd, a single hobgoblia's non-entity Should cause more fear than a whole host's identity! Shadows to-night Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard Se. Richard III. Poems. [Although never publicly acknowledged by Lord Byron, the following have been generally attributed to his pen: and, aware of the interest attached to his most trifling efforts, the Publishers, without vouching for their authenticity, have not hesitated to add them to this edition.] WHEN slow Disease with all her host of pains, ODE ΤΟ THE ISLAND OF ST HELENA. PEACE to thee, isle of the ocean! Hail to thy breezes and billows! Where, rolling its tides in perpetual devotion, The white wave its plumy surf pillows! Rich shall the chaplet be history shall weave thee! Whose undying verdure shall bloom on thy brow, When nations that now in obscurity leave thee, To the wand of oblivion alternately bow! Unchanged in thy glory-unstain'd in thy fameThe homage of ages shall hallow thy name! Hail to the chief who reposes On thee the rich weight of his glory! Hygeian breezes shall fan thee- Pilgrims from nations far distant shall man thee- On thy far gleaming strand the wanderer shall stay him Whose were the hands that enslaved him? him, Never till now had subdued him! Monarchs-who oft to his clemency stooping, Received back their crowns from the plunder of warThe vanquisher vanquish'd-the eagle now droopingWould quench with their sternness the ray of his star! But cloth'd in new splendour thy glory appearsAnd rules the ascendant-the planet of years! Pure be the heath of thy mountains! Rich be the green of thy pastures! Limpid and lasting the streams of thy fountains! Thine annals unstain'd by disasters! Thy rock beach the rage of the tempest repelling- Fade shall the lily, now blooming Where is the hand which can nurse it? For no patriot vigour was there, No arm to support the weak flower; Destruction pursued its dark herald-Despair, And wither'd its grace in an hour. Yet there were who pretended to grieve, Oh! thou land of the lily! in vain Nations who rear'd it shall watch its consuming-The faded bud never shall blossom again Untimely mildews shall curse it. Then shall the violet that blooms in the vallies Impart to the gale its reviving perfume Then, when the spirit of liberty rallies To chant forth its anthems on tyranny's tomb, Wide Europe shall fear lest thy star should break forth, Eclipsing the pestilent orbs of the north! The violet will bloom in its stead! As thou scatterest thy leaf to the wind- And yield, as thou fadest, for the use of mankind, TO THE LILY OF FRANCE. Ere thou scatterest thy leaf to the wind, False emblem of innocence, stay And yield as thou fadest, for the use of mankind, The lesson that marks thy decay. Thou wert fair as the beam of the morn, Thy charms are all faded, and hatred and scorn, Thou wert gay in the smiles of the world, But now thy bright blossom is shrivell'd and curl'd— For corruption hath fed on thy leaf, And bigotry weaken'd thy stem; MADAME LAVALETTE. Let Edinburgh critics o'erwhelm with their praises Then fill high the wine cup, e'en virtue shall bless it, And hallow the goblet which foams to her name; The warm lip of beauty shall piously press it, And Hymen shall honour the pledge to her fame: To the health of the woman, who freedom and life too Has risk'd for her husband, we'll pay the just debt; And hail with applauses the heroine and wife too, The constant, the noble, the fair LAVALETTE. Her foes have awarded, in impotent malice, To their captive a doom which all Europe abhors, Now those who have fear'd thee shall smile at thy grief, And turns from the stairs of the priest-haunted palace, And those who adored thee condemn. The valley that gave thee thy birth Shall weep for the hope of its soil; The legions, that fought for thy beauty and worth, Shall hasten to share in thy spoil. As a by-word, thy blossom shall be A mock and a jest among men; The proverb of slaves, and the sneer of the free, In city, and mountain, and glen. Oh! It was Tyranny's pestilent gale That scatter'd thy buds on the ground; That threw the blood-stain on the virgin-white veil, And pierced thee with many a wound! Then the puny leaf shook to the wind, While those who replaced them there blush for their cause. But in ages to come, when the blood-tarnish'd glory Of dukes, and of marshals, in darkness hath set, Hearts shall throb, eyes shall glisten, at reading the story Of the fond self-devotion of fair LAVALETTE. ADIEU TO MALTA. ADIEU the joys of La Valette: Adieu thou palace, rarely enter'd; |