Selected Poems
Page 9
‘Tantæne animis cœlestibus irae!’
I suppose I must say of Jeffrey as Sir Andrew Aguecheek saith, ‘an I had known he was so cunning of fence, I had seen him damned ere I had fought him.’ What a pity it is that I shall be beyond the Bosphorus before the next number has passed the Tweed! But I yet hope to light my pipe with it in Persia.
My northern friends have accused me, with justice, of personality towards their great literary anthropophagus, Jeffrey; but what else was to be done with him and his dirty pack, who feed by ‘lying and slandering?’ and slake their thirst by ‘evil speaking?’ I have adduced facts already well known, and of Jeffrey’s mind I have stated my free opinion, nor has he thence sustained any injury; – what scavenger was ever soiled by being pelted with mud? It may be said that I quit England because I have censured there ‘persons of honour and wit about town;’ but I am coming back again, and their vengeance will keep hot till my return. Those who know me can testify that my motives for leaving England are very different from fears, literary or personal: those who do not, may one day be convinced. Since the publication of this thing, my name has not been concealed; I have been mostly in London, ready to answer for my transgressions, and in daily expectation of sundry cartels; but, alas! ‘the age of chivalry is over,’ or, in the vulgar tongue, there is no spirit now-a-days.
There is a youth ycleped Hewson Clarke (subaudi esquire), a sizer of Emanuel College, and, I believe, a denizen of Berwick-upon-Tweed, whom I have introduced in these pages to much better company than he has been accustomed to meet; he is, notwithstanding, a very sad dog, and for no reason that I can discover, except a personal quarrel with a bear, kept by me at Cambridge to sit for a fellowship, and whom the jealousy of his Trinity contemporaries prevented from success, has been abusing me, and, what is worse, the defenceless innocent above mentioned, in ‘The Satiris’ for one year and some months. I am utterly unconscious of having given him any provocation; indeed, I am guiltless of having heard his name till coupled with ‘The Satiris’. He has therefore no reason to complain, and I dare say that, like Sir Fretful Plagiary, he is rather pleased than otherwise. I have now mentioned all who have done me the honour to notice me and mine, that is, my bear and my book, except the editor of ‘The Satirist, ‘ who, it seems, is a gentleman – God wot! I wish he could impart a little of his gentility to his subordinate scribblers. I hear that Mr Jerningham is about to take up the cudgels for his Mæcenas, Lord Carlisle: I hope not: he was one of the few, who, in the very short intercourse I had with him, treated me with kindness when a boy; and whatever he may say or do, ‘pour on, I will endure.’ I have nothing further to add, save a general note of thanksgiving to readers, purchasers, and publishers, and, in the words of Scott, I wish
‘To all and each a fair good night,
And rosy dreams and slumbers light.’
Lines to Mr Hodgson
WRITTEN ON BOARD THE LISBON PACKET
Huzza! Hodgson, we are going,
Our embargo’s off at last;
Favourable breezes blowing
Bend the canvass o’er the mast.
5
From aloft the signal’s streaming,
Hark! the farewell gun is fired;
Women screeching, tars blaspheming,
Tell us that our time’s expired.
Here’s a rascal
10
Come to task all,
Prying from the custom-house;
Trunks unpacking,
Cases cracking,
Not a corner for a mouse
15
’Scapes unsearch’d amid the racket,
Ere we sail on board the Packet.
Now our boatmen quit their mooring,
And all hands must ply the oar;
Baggage from the quay is lowering,
20
We’re impatient – push from shore.
‘Have a care! that case holds liquor –
Stop the boat – I’m sick – oh Lord!’
‘Sick, ma’am, damme, you’ll be sicker
Ere you’ve been an hour on board.’
25
Thus are screaming
Men and women,
Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks;
Here entangling,
All are wrangling,
30
Stuck together close as wax. –
Such the general noise and racket,
Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet.
Now we’ve reach’d her, lo! the captain,
Gallant Kidd, commands the crew;
35
Passengers their berths are clapt in,
Some to grumble, some to spew.
‘Hey day! call you that a cabin?
Why ’tis hardly three feet square;
Not enough to stow Queen Mab in –
40
Who the deuce can harbour there?’
‘Who, sir? plenty –
Nobles twenty
Did at once my vessel fill.’ –
‘Did they? Jesus,
45
How you squeeze us!
Would to God they did so still:
Then I’d scape the heat and racket
Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet.’
Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you?
50
Stretch’d along the deck like logs –
Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you!
Here’s a rope’s end for the dogs.
Hobhouse muttering fearful curses,
As the hatchway down he rolls,
55
Now his breakfast, now his verses,
Vomits forth – and damns our souls.
‘Here’s a stanza
On Braganza –
Help!’ – ‘A couplet?’ – ‘No, a cup
60
Of warm water –’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Zounds! my liver’s coming up;
I shall not survive the racket
Of this brutal Lisbon Packet.’
65
Now at length we’re off for Turkey,
Lord knows when we shall come back!
Breezes foul and tempests murky
May unship us in a crack.
But, since life at most a jest is,
70
As philosophers allow,
Still to laugh by far the best is,
Then laugh on – as I do now.
Laugh at all things,
Great and small things,
75
Sick or well, at sea or shore;
While we’re quaffing,
Let’s have laughing –
Who the devil cares for more? –
Some good wine! and who would lack it,
80
Ev’n on board the Lisbon Packet?
Falmouth Roads, June 30, 1809.
Maid of Athens, ere we part
Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh, give me back my heart!
Or, since that has left my breast,
Keep it now, and take the rest!
5
Hear my vow before I go,
By those tresses unconfined,
Woo’d by each Ægean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
10
Kiss thy soft cheeks’ blooming tinge;
By those wild eyes like the roe,
By that lip I long to taste;
By that zone-encircled waist;
15
By all the token-flowers1 that tell
What words can never speak so well;
By love’s alternate joy and woe,
Maid of Athens! I am gone:
20
Think of me, sweet! when alone.
Though I fly to Istambol,2
Athens holds my heart and soul:
Can I cease to love thee? No!
Athens, 1810.
Written after Swimming from Sestos to Abydos1
If, in the month of dark
December,
Leander, who was nightly wont
(What maid will not the tale remember?)
To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont!
5
If, when the wintry tempest roar’d,
He sped to Hero, nothing loth,
And thus of old thy current pour’d,
Fair Venus! how I pity both!
For me, degenerate modern wretch,
10
Though in the genial month of May,
My dripping limbs I faintly stretch,
And think I’ve done a feat to-day.
But since he cross’d the rapid tide,
According to the doubtful story,
15
To woo, – and – Lord knows what beside,
And swam for Love, as I for Glory;
‘Twere hard to say who fared the best:
Sad mortals! thus the Gods still plague you!
He lost his labour, I my jest:
20
For he was drown’d, and I’ve the ague.
May 9, 1810.
To Thyrza
Without a stone to mark the spot,
And say, what Truth might well have said,
By all, save one, perchance forgot,
Ah! wherefore art thou lowly laid?
5
By many a shore and many a sea
Divided, yet beloved in vain;
The past, the future fled to thee
To bid us meet – no – ne’er again!
Could this have been – a word, a look
10
That softly said, ‘We part in peace,’
Had taught my bosom how to brook,
With fainter sighs, thy soul’s release.
And didst thou not, since Death for thee
Prepared a light and pangless dart,
15
Once long for him thou ne’er shalt see,
Who held, and holds thee in his heart?
Oh! who like him had watch’d thee here?
Or sadly mark’d thy glazing eye,
In that dread hour ere death appear,
20
When silent sorrow fears to sigh,
Till all was past? But when no more
‘Twas thine to reck of human woe,
Affection’s heart-drops, gushing o’er,
Had flow’d as fast – as now they flow.
25
Shall they not flow, when many a day
In these, to me, deserted towers,
Ere call’d but for a time away,
Affection’s mingling tears were ours?
Ours too the glance none saw beside;
30
The smile none else might understand;
The whisper’d thought of hearts allied,
The pressure of the thrilling hand;
The kiss, so guiltless and refined
That Love each warmer wish forebore;
35
Those eyes proclaim’d so pure a mind,
Even passion blush’d to plead for more.
The tone, that taught me to rejoice,
When prone, unlike thee, to repine;
The song, celestial from thy voice,
40
But sweet to me from none but thine;
The pledge we wore – I wear it still,
But where is thine? – Ah! where art thou?
Oft have I borne the weight of ill,
But never bent beneath till now!
45
Well hast thou left in life’s best bloom
The cup of woe for me to drain.
If rest alone be in the tomb,
I would not wish thee here again;
But if in worlds more blest than this
50
Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere,
Impart some portion of thy bliss,
To wean me from mine anguish here.
Teach me – too early taught by thee!
To bear, forgiving and forgiven:
55
On earth thy love was such to me;
It fain would form my hope in heaven!
October 11, 1811.
CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE
A Romaunt, Cantos I–II
L’univers est une espèce de livre, dont on n’a lu que la première page quand on n’a vu que son pays. J’en ai feuilleté un assez grand nombre, que j’ai trouvé également mauvaises. Cet examen ne m’a point été infructueux. Je haïssais ma patrie. Toutes les impertinences des peuples divers, parmi lesquels j’ai vécu, m’ont reconcilié avec elle. Quand je n’aurais tiré d’autre bénéfice de mes voyages que celui-là, je n’en regretterais ni les frais ni les fatigues.
LE COSMOPOLITE
PREFACE TO THE FIRST AND SECOND CANTOS
The following poem was written, for the most part, amidst the scenes which it attempts to describe. It was begun in Albania; and the parts relative to Spain and Portugal were composed from the author’s observations in those countries. Thus much it may be necessary to state for the correctness of the descriptions. The scenes attempted to be sketched are in Spain, Portugal, Epirus, Acarnania, and Greece. There, for the present, the poem stops: its reception will determine whether the author may venture to conduct his readers to the capital of the East, through Ionia and Phrygia: these two cantos are merely experimental.
A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of giving some connection to the piece; which, however, makes no pretension to regularity. It has been suggested to me by friends, on whose opinions I set a high value, that in this fictitious character, ‘Childe Harold,’ I may incur the suspicion of having intended some real personage: this I beg leave, once for all, to disclaim – Harold is the child of imagination, for the purpose I have stated. In some very trivial particulars, and those merely local, there might be grounds for such a notion; but in the main points, I should hope, none whatever.
It is almost superfluous to mention that the appellation ‘Childe,’ as ‘Childe Waters,’ ‘Childe Childers,’ &c. is used as more consonant with the old structure of versification which I have adopted. The ‘Good Night,’ in the beginning of the first canto, was suggested by ‘Lord Maxwell’s Good Night,’ in the Border Minstrelsy, edited by Mr Scott.
With the different poems which have been published on Spanish subjects, there may be found some slight coincidence in the first part, which treats of the Peninsula, but it can only be casual; as, with the exception of a few concluding stanzas, the whole of this poem was written in the Levant.
The stanza of Spenser, according to one of our most successful poets, admits of every variety. Dr Beattie makes the following observation: – ‘Not long ago I began a poem in the style and stanza of Spenser, in which I propose to give full scope to my inclination, and be either droll or pathetic, descriptive or sentimental, tender or satirical, as the humour strikes me; for, if I mistake not, the measure which I have adopted admits equally of all these kinds of composition.’ – Strengthened in my opinion by such authority, and by the example of some in the highest order of Italian poets, I shall make no apology for attempts at similar variations in the following composition; satisfied that, if they are unsuccessful, their failure must be in the execution, rather than in the design sanctioned by the practice of Ariosto, Thomson, and Beattie.
London, February, 1812.
ADDITION TO THE PREFACE
I have now waited till almost all our periodical journals have distributed their usual portion of criticism. To the justice of the generality of their criticisms I have nothing to object: it would ill become me to quarrel with their very slight degree of censure, when, perhaps, if they had been less kind they had been more candid. Returning, therefore, to all and each my best thanks for their liberality, on one point alone shall I venture an observation. Amongst the many objections justly urged to the very indifferent character of the ‘vagrant Childe’ (whom, notwithstanding many hints to the contrary, I still maintain to be a fictitious personage), it has been stated, that, besides the an
achronism, he is very unknightly, as the times of the Knights were times of Love, Honour, and so forth. Now, it so happens that the good old times, when l’amour du bon vieux temps, l’amour antique’ flourished, were the most profligate of all possible centuries. Those who have any doubts on this subject may consult Sainte-Palaye, passim, and more particularly vol. ii. p.69. The vows of chivalry were no better kept than any other vows whatsoever; and the songs of the Troubadours were not more decent, and certainly were much less refined, than those of Ovid. The ‘Cours d’amour, parlemens d’amour, ou de courtésie et de gentilesse’ had much more of love than of courtesy or gentleness. See Roland on the same subject with Sainte-Palaye. Whatever other objection may be urged to that most unamiable personage Childe Harold, he was so far perfectly knightly in his attributes – ‘No waiter, but a knight templar.’ By the by, I fear that Sir Tristrem and Sir Lancelot were no better than they should be, although very poetical personages and true knights ‘sans peur,’ though not ‘sans reproche.’ If the story of the institution of the ‘Garter’ be not a fable, the knights of that order have for several centuries borne the badge of a Countess of Salisbury, of indifferent memory. So much for chivalry. Burke need not have regretted that its days are over, though Marie-Antoinette was quite as chaste as most of those in whose honours lances were shivered, and knights unhorsed.
Before the days of Bayard, and down to those of Sir Joseph Banks (the most chaste and celebrated of ancient and modern times), few exceptions will be found to this statement; and I fear a little investigation will teach us not to regret these monstrous mummeries of the middle ages.
I now leave ‘Childe Harold’ to live his day, such as he is; it had been more agreeable, and certainly more easy, to have drawn an amiable character. It had been easy to varnish over his faults, to make him do more and express less, but he never was intended as an example, further than to show, that early perversion of mind and morals leads to satiety of past pleasures and disappointment in new ones, and that even the beauties of nature, and the stimulus of travel (except ambition, the most powerful of all excitements) are lost on a soul so constituted, or rather misdirected. Had I proceeded with the poem, this character would have deepened as he drew to the close; for the outline which I once meant to fill up for him was, with some exceptions, the sketch of a modern Timon, perhaps a poetical Zeluco.
London, 1813.
To Ianthe
Not in those climes where I have late been straying,
Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deem’d;
Not in those visions to the heart displaying