Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties,
By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies;
Between them stands another sceptred thing —
It moves, it reigns – in all but name, a king:
Charles to his people, Henry to his wife,
– In him the double tyrant starts to life:
Justice and Death have mixed their dust in vain,
Each royal Vampire wakes to life again.
Ah, what can tombs avail! – since these disgorge
The blood and dust of both – to mould a George.55
[First published, Poetical Works, Paris, 1819, vi. 125.]
Famed for their civil and domestic quarrels
See heartless Henry lies by headless Charles;
Between them stands another sceptred thing,
It lives, it reigns – "aye, every inch a king."
Charles to his people, Henry to his wife,
In him the double tyrant starts to life:
Justice and Death have mixed their dust in vain.
The royal Vampires join and rise again.
What now can tombs avail, since these disgorge
The blood and dirt57 of both to mould a George!
From this emblem what variance your motto evinces,
For the Man is his country's – the Arms are the Prince's!
?1814.[From an autograph MS. in the possession of Mr. A. H. Hallam Murray, now for the first time printed.]
When the vain triumph of the imperial lord,
Whom servile Rome obeyed, and yet abhorred,
Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust,
That left a likeness of the brave, or just;
What most admired each scrutinising eye
Of all that decked that passing pageantry?
What spread from face to face that wondering air?
The thought of Brutus59– for his was not there!
That absence proved his worth, – that absence fixed10
His memory on the longing mind, unmixed;
And more decreed his glory to endure,
Than all a gold Colossus could secure.
If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze
Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze,
Amidst those pictured charms, whose loveliness,
Bright though they be, thine own had rendered less:
If he, that Vain Old Man, whom truth admits
Heir of his father's crown, and of his wits,
If his corrupted eye, and withered heart,20
Could with thy gentle image bear to part;
That tasteless shame be his, and ours the grief,
To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief:
Yet Comfort still one selfish thought imparts,
We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts.
What can his vaulted gallery now disclose?
A garden with all flowers – except the rose; —
A fount that only wants its living stream;
A night, with every star, save Dian's beam.
Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be,30
That turn from tracing them to dream of thee;
And more on that recalled resemblance pause,
Than all he shall not force on our applause.
Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine,
With all that Virtue asks of Homage thine:
The symmetry of youth – the grace of mien —
The eye that gladdens – and the brow serene;
The glossy darkness of that clustering hair,60
Which shades, yet shows that forehead more than fair!
Each glance that wins us, and the life that throws40
A spell which will not let our looks repose,
But turn to gaze again, and find anew
Some charm that well rewards another view.
These are not lessened, these are still as bright,
Albeit too dazzling for a dotard's sight;
And those must wait till ev'ry charm is gone,
To please the paltry heart that pleases none; —
That dull cold sensualist, whose sickly eye
In envious dimness passed thy portrait by;
Who racked his little spirit to combine50
Its hate of Freedom's loveliness, and thine.
May 29, 1814.[First published in The Champion, July 31, 1814.]
"What say I?" – not a syllable further in prose;
I'm your man "of all measures," dear Tom, – so here goes!
Here goes, for a swim on the stream of old Time,
On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of rhyme.
If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in the flood,
We are smothered, at least, in respectable mud,
Where the divers of Bathos lie drowned in a heap,
And Southey's last Pæan has pillowed his sleep;
That Felo de se who, half drunk with his Malmsey,
Walked out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea,10
Singing "Glory to God" in a spick and span stanza,
The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) never man saw.61
The papers have told you, no doubt, of the fusses,
The fêtes, and the gapings to get at these Russes,62—
Of his Majesty's suite, up from coachman to Hetman, —
And what dignity decks the flat face of the great man.
I saw him, last week, at two balls and a party, —
For a Prince, his demeanour was rather too hearty.
You know, we are used to quite different graces,
The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter and brisker,21
But then he is sadly deficient in whisker;
And wore but a starless blue coat, and in kersey-
mere breeches whisked round, in a waltz with the Jersey,63
Who, lovely as ever, seemed just as delighted
With Majesty's presence as those she invited.
June, 1814.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, i. 561, 562 (note).]
In hearts like thine ne'er may I hold a place
Till I renounce all sense, all shame, all grace —
That seat, – like seats, the bane of Freedom's realm,
But dear to those presiding at the helm —
Is basely purchased, not with gold alone;
Add Conscience, too, this bargain is your own —
'T is thine to offer with corrupting art
The rotten borough64 of the human heart.
?1814.[From an autograph MS., now for the first time printed.]
Once fairly set out on his party of pleasure,
Taking towns at his liking, and crowns at his leisure,
From Elba to Lyons and Paris he goes,
Making balls for the ladies, and bows to his foes.
March 27, 1815.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, i. 611.]
A year ago you swore, fond she!
"To love, to honour," and so forth:
Such was the vow you pledged to me,
And here's exactly what 't is worth.
[First published, Poetical Works, 1831, vi. 454.]
And, dost thou ask the reason of my sadness?
Well, I will tell it thee, unfeeling boy!
'Twas ill report that urged my brain to madness,
'Twas thy tongue's venom poisoned all my joy.
The sadness which thou seest is not sorrow;
My wounds are far too deep for simple grief;
The heart thus withered, seeks in vain to borrow
From calm reflection, comfort or relief.
The arrow's flown, and dearly shalt thou rue it;
No mortal hand can rid me of my pain:
My heart is pierced, but thou canst not subdue it —
Revenge is left, and is not left in vain.
?1816.[First published, Nicnac, March 25, 1823.]
As the Liberty lads o'er the sea
Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood,
So we, boys, we
Will die fighting, or live free,
And down with all kings but King Ludd!
When the web that we weave is complete,
And the shuttle exchanged for the sword,
We will fling the winding sheet
O'er the despot at our feet,
And dye it deep in the gore he has poured.
Though black as his heart its hue,
Since his veins are corrupted to mud,
Yet this is the dew
Which the tree shall renew
Of Liberty, planted by Ludd!
December 24, 1816.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 58.]
What are you doing now,
Oh Thomas Moore?
What are you doing now,
Oh Thomas Moore?
Sighing or suing now,
Rhyming or wooing now,
Billing or cooing now,
Which, Thomas Moore?
But the Carnival's coming,
Oh Thomas Moore!
The Carnival's coming,
Oh Thomas Moore!
Masking and humming,
Fifing and drumming,
Guitarring and strumming,
Oh Thomas Moore!
December 24, 1816.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 58, 59.]
To hook the Reader, you, John Murray,
Have published "Anjou's Margaret,"68
Which won't be sold off in a hurry
(At least, it has not been as yet);
And then, still further to bewilder him,
Without remorse, you set up "Ilderim;"69
So mind you don't get into debt, —
Because – as how – if you should fail,
These books would be but baddish bail.
And mind you do not let escape
These rhymes to Morning Post or Perry,
Which would be very treacherous —very,
And get me into such a scrape!
For, firstly, I should have to sally,
All in my little boat, against a Galley;
And, should I chance to slay the Assyrian wight,
Have next to combat with the female Knight:
And pricked to death expire upon her needle,
A sort of end which I should take indeed ill!
March 25, 1817.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 91.]
I read the "Christabel;"70
Very well:
I read the "Missionary;"71
Pretty – very:
I tried at "Ilderim;"
Ahem!
I read a sheet of "Marg'ret of Anjou;"
Can you?
I turned a page of Webster's "Waterloo;"72
Pooh! pooh!
I looked at Wordsworth's milk-white "Rylstone Doe;"73
Hillo!
I read "Glenarvon," too, by Caro Lamb;74
God damn!
March 25, 1817.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 87.]
God maddens him whom't is his will to lose,
And gives the choice of death or phrenzy – choose.
[First published, Letters, 1900, iv. 93.]
My boat is on the shore,
And my bark is on the sea;
But, before I go, Tom Moore,
Here's a double health to thee!
Here's a sigh to those who love me,
And a smile to those who hate;
And, whatever sky's above me,
Here's a heart for every fate.
Though the Ocean roar around me,
Yet it still shall bear me on;
Though a desert shall surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.
Were't the last drop in the well,
As I gasped upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirit fell,
'T is to thee that I would drink.
With that water, as this wine,
The libation I would pour
Should be – peace with thine and mine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore.76
July, 1817.[First published, Waltz, London, W. Benbow, 1821, p. 29.]
Dear Doctor, I have read your play,
Which is a good one in its way, —
Purges the eyes, and moves the bowels,
And drenches handkerchiefs like towels
With tears, that, in a flux of grief,
Afford hysterical relief
To shattered nerves and quickened pulses,
Which your catastrophe convulses.
I like your moral and machinery;10
Your plot, too, has such scope for Scenery!
Your dialogue is apt and smart;
The play's concoction full of art;
Your hero raves, your heroine cries,
All stab, and every body dies.
In short, your tragedy would be
The very thing to hear and see:
And for a piece of publication,
If I decline on this occasion,
It is not that I am not sensible20
To merits in themselves ostensible,
But – and I grieve to speak it – plays
Are drugs – mere drugs, Sir – now-a-days.
I had a heavy loss by Manuel—78
Too lucky if it prove not annual, —
And Sotheby, with his Orestes,79
(Which, by the way, the old Bore's best is),
Has lain so very long on hand,
That I despair of all demand;
I've advertised, but see my books,30
Or only watch my Shopman's looks; —
Still Ivan, Ina,80 and such lumber,
My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber.
There's Byron too, who once did better,
Has sent me, folded in a letter,
A sort of – it's no more a drama
Than Darnley, Ivan, or Kehama;
So altered since last year his pen is,
I think he's lost his wits at Venice.
In short, Sir, what with one and t' other,40
I dare not venture on another.
I write in haste; excuse each blunder;
The Coaches through the street so thunder!
My room's so full – we've Gifford here
Reading MS., with Hookham Frere,
Pronouncing on the nouns and particles,
Of some of our forthcoming Articles.
The Quarterly– Ah, Sir, if you
Had but the Genius to review! —
A smart Critique upon St. Helena,50
Or if you only would but tell in a
Short compass what – but to resume;
As I was saying, Sir, the Room —
The Room's so full of wits and bards,
Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Freres, and Wards
And others, neither bards nor wits:
My humble tenement admits
All persons in the dress of Gent.,
From Mr. Hammond to Dog Dent.81
A party dines with me to-day,60
All clever men, who make their way:
Crabbe, Malcolm,82 Hamilton,83 and Chantrey,
Are all partakers of my pantry.
They're at this moment in discussion
On poor De Staël's late dissolution.
Her book,84 they say, was in advance —
Pray Heaven, she tell the truth of France!
'T is said she certainly was married
To Rocca, and had twice miscarried,
No – not miscarried, I opine, – 70
But brought to bed at forty-nine.
Some say she died a Papist; some
Are of opinion that's a Hum;
I don't know that – the fellows Schlegel,85
Are very likely to inveigle
A dying person in compunction
To try th' extremity of Unction.
But peace be with her! for a woman
Her talents surely were uncommon,
Her Publisher (and Public too)80
The hour of her demise may rue —
For never more within his shop he —
Pray – was not she interred at Coppet?
Thus run our time and tongues away; —
But, to return, Sir, to your play:
Sorry, Sir, but I cannot deal,
Unless 't were acted by O'Neill.
My hands are full – my head so busy,
I'm almost dead – and always dizzy;
And so, with endless truth and hurry,90
Dear Doctor, I am yours,
JOHN MURRAY.
August 21, 1817.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 139-141.Lines 67-82 first published, Letters, 1900, iv. 161.]
My dear Mr. Murray,
You're in a damned hurry
To set up this ultimate Canto;86
But (if they don't rob us)
You'll see Mr. Hobhouse
Will bring it safe in his portmanteau.
For the Journal you hint of,87
As ready to print off,
No doubt you do right to commend it;
But as yet I have writ off
The devil a bit of
Our "Beppo: " – when copied, I'll send it.
Then you've Sotheby's Tour, —90
No great things, to be sure, —
You could hardly begin with a less work;
For the pompous rascallion,
Who don't speak Italian
Nor French, must have scribbled by guess-work.
No doubt he's a rare man
Without knowing German
Translating his way up Parnassus,
And now still absurder
He meditates Murder
As you'll see in the trash he calls Tasso's.
But you've others his betters
The real men of letters
Your Orators – Critics – and Wits —
And I'll bet that your Journal
(Pray is it diurnal?)
Will pay with your luckiest hits.
Then you've General Gordon,93
Who girded his sword on,
To serve with a Muscovite Master,
And help him to polish
A nation so owlish,
They thought shaving their beards a disaster.
For the man, "poor and shrewd,"94
With whom you'd conclude
A compact without more delay,
Perhaps some such pen is
Still extant in Venice;
But please, Sir, to mention your pay.
Now tell me some news
Of your friends and the Muse,
Of the Bar, or the Gown, or the House,
From Canning, the tall wit,
To Wilmot,95 the small wit,
Ward's creeping Companion and Louse,
Who's so damnably bit
With fashion and Wit,
That he crawls on the surface like Vermin,
But an Insect in both, —
By his Intellect's growth,
Of what size you may quickly determine.96
Venice, January 8, 1818.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 156, 157;stanzas 3, 5, 6, 10, 11, first published, Letters, 1900, iv. 191-193.]
His father's sense, his mother's grace,
In him, I hope, will always fit so;
With – still to keep him in good case —
The health and appetite of Rizzo.
February 20, 1818.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 134.]
Of rhymes I printed seven volumes —98
The list concludes John Murray's columns:
Of these there have been few translations99
For Gallic or Italian nations;
And one or two perhaps in German —
But in this last I can't determine.
But then I only sung of passions
That do not suit with modern fashions;
Of Incest and such like diversions
Permitted only to the Persians,
Or Greeks to bring upon their stages —
But that was in the earlier ages
Besides my style is the romantic,
Which some call fine, and some call frantic;
While others are or would seem as sick
Of repetitions nicknamed Classic.
For my part all men must allow
Whatever I was, I'm classic now.
I saw and left my fault in time,
And chose a topic all sublime —
Wondrous as antient war or hero —
Then played and sung away like Nero,
Who sang of Rome, and I of Rizzo:
The subject has improved my wit so,
The first four lines the poet sees
Start forth in fourteen languages!
Though of seven volumes none before
Could ever reach the fame of four,
Henceforth I sacrifice all Glory
To the Rinaldo of my Story:
I've sung his health and appetite
(The last word's not translated right —
He's turned it, God knows how, to vigour)100
I'll sing them in a book that's bigger.
Oh! Muse prepare for thy Ascension!
And generous Rizzo! thou my pension.
February, 1818.[From an autograph MS. in the possession of Mr. Murray,now for the first time printed.]