Selected Poems

by Byron

Whose remedy only must kill ere it cures:

  5

  Those villains, the Weavers, are all grown refractory,

  Asking some succour for Charity’s sake –

  So hang them in clusters round each Manufactory,

  That will at once put an end to mistake.

  The rascals, perhaps, may betake them to robbing,

  10

  The dogs to be sure have got nothing to eat –

  So if we can hang them for breaking a bobbin,

  ‘Twill save all the Government’s money and meat:

  Men are more easily made than machinery –

  Stockings fetch better prices than lives –

  15

  Gibbets on Sherwood will heighten the scenery,

  Showing how Commerce, how Liberty thrives!

  Justice is now in pursuit of the wretches,

  Grenadiers, Volunteers, Bow-street Police,

  Twenty-two Regiments, a score of Jack Ketches,

  20

  Three of the Quorum and two of the Peace;

  Some Lords, to be sure, would have summoned the Judges,

  To take their opinion, but that they ne’er shall,

  For LIVERPOOL such a concession begrudges,

  So now they’re condemned by no Judges at all.

  25

  Some folks for certain have thought it was shocking,

  When Famine appeals, and when Poverty groans,

  That life should be valued at less than a stocking,

  And breaking of frames lead to breaking of bones.

  If it should prove so, I trust, by this token,

  30

  (And who will refuse to partake in the hope?)

  That the frames of the fools may be first to be broken,

  Who, when asked for a remedy, sent down a rope.

  Lines to a Lady Weeping

  Weep, daughter of a royal line,

  A Sire’s disgrace, a realm’s decay;

  Ah! happy if each tear of thine

  Could wash a father’s fault away!

  5

  Weep – for thy tears are Virtue’s tears –

  Auspicious to these suffering isles;

  And be each drop in future years

  Repaid thee by thy people’s smiles!

  March, 1812.

  THE WALTZ

  An Apostrophic Hymn

  ‘Qualis in Eurotæ ripis, aut per juga Cynthi, Exercet Diana choros.’

  VIRGIL.

  ‘Such on Eurota’s banks, or Cynthia’s height, Diana seems: and so she charms the sight, When in the dance the graceful goddess leads The quire of nymphs, and overtops their heads.’

  DRYDEN’S VIRGIL.

  TO THE PUBLISHER

  SIR,

  I am a country gentleman of a midland county. I might have been a parliament-man for a certain borough; having had the offer of as many votes as General T. at the general election in 1812. But I was all for domestic happiness; as, fifteen years ago, on a visit to London, I married a middle-aged maid of honour. We lived happily at Hornem Hall till last season, when my wife and I were invited by the Countess of Waltzaway (a distant relation of my spouse) to pass the winter in town. Thinking no harm, and our girls being come to a marriageable (or, as they call it, marketable) age, and having besides a Chancery suit inveterately entailed upon the family estate, we came up in our old chariot, – of which, by the bye, my wife grew so much ashamed in less than a week, that I was obliged to buy a second-hand barouche, of which I might mount the box, Mrs H. says, if I could drive, but never see the inside – that place being reserved for the Honourable Augustus Tiptoe, her partner-general and opera-knight. Hearing great praises of Mrs H.’s dancing (she was famous for birthnight minuets in the latter end of the last century), I unbooted, and went to a ball at the Countess’s,

  expecting to see a country dance, or, at most, cotillions, reels, and all the old paces to the newest tunes. But, judge of my surprise, on arriving, to see poor dear Mrs Hornem with her arms half round the loins of a huge hussar-looking gentleman I never set eyes on before; and his, to say truth, rather more than half round her waist, turning round, and round, and round, to a d—d see-saw up-and-down sort of tune, that reminded me of the ‘Black joke,’ only more ‘affettuoso,’ till it made me quite giddy with wondering they were not so. By-and-by they stopped a bit, and I thought they would sit or fall down: – but no; with Mrs H.’s hand on his shoulder, ‘quam familiariter’1 (as Terence said, when I was at school), they walked about a minute, and then at it again, like two cockchafers spitted on the same bodkin. I asked what all this meant, when, with a loud laugh, a child no older than our Wilhelmina (a name I never heard but in the Vicar of Wakefield, though her mother would call her after the Princess of Swappenbach,) said, ‘Lord! Mr Hornem, can’t you see they are valtzing?’ or waltzing (I forget which); and then up she got, and her mother and sister, and away they went, and round-abouted it till supper-time. Now, that I know what it is, I like it of all things, and so does Mrs H. (though I have broken my shins, and four times overturned Mrs Hornem’s maid, in practising the preliminary steps in a morning). Indeed, so much do I like it, that having a turn for rhyme, tastily displayed in some election ballads, and songs in honour of all the victories (but till lately I have had little practice in that way), I sat down, and with the aid of William Fitzgerald, Esq., and a few hints from Dr Busby, (whose recitations I attend, and am monstrous fond of Master Busby’s manner of delivering his father’s late successful ‘Drury Lane Address’) I composed the following hymn,

  wherewithal to make my sentiments known to the public; whom, nevertheless, I heartily despise, as well as the critics.

  I am, Sir, yours, &c. &c.,

  HORACE HORNEM.

  Muse of the many-twinkling feet!1 whose charms

  Are now extended up from legs to arms;

  Terpsichore! – too long misdeem’d a maid –

  Reproachful term – bestow’d but to upbraid –

  5

  Henceforth in all the bronze of brightness shine,

  The least a vestal of the virgin Nine.

  Far be from thee and thine the name of prude;

  Mock’d, yet triumphant; sneer’d at, unsubdued;

  Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly,

  10

  If but thy coats are reasonably high;

  Thy breast – if bare enough – requires no shield;

  Dance forth – sans armour thou shalt take the field,

  And own – impregnable to most assaults,

  Thy not too lawfully begotten ‘Waltz.’

  15

  Hail, nimble nymph! to whom the young hussar,

  The whisker’d votary of waltz and war,

  His night devotes, despite of spur and boots;

  A sight unmatch’d since Orpheus and his brutes:

  Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz! – beneath whose banners

  20

  A modern hero fought for modish manners;

  On Hounslow’s heath to rival Wellesley’s2 fame,

  Cock’d – fired – and miss’d his man – but gain’d his aim;

  Hail, moving Muse! to whom the fair one’s breast

  Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest.

  25

  Oh! for the flow of Busby, or of Fitz,

  The latter’s loyalty, the former’s wits,

  To ‘energise the object I pursue,’

  And give both Belial and his dance their due!

  Imperial Waltz! imported from the Rhine

  30

  (Famed for the growth of pedigrees and wine),

  Long be thine import from all duty free,

  And hock itself be less esteem’d than thee;

  In some few qualities alike – for hock

  Improves our cellar – thou our living stock.

  35

  The head to hock belongs – thy subtler art

  Intoxicates alone the heedless heart:

  Through the full veins thy gentle
r poison swims,

  And wakes to wantonness the willing limbs.

  Oh, Germany! how much to thee we owe,

  40

  As heaven-born Pitt can testify below,

  Ere cursed confederation made thee France’s,

  And only left us thy d—d debts and dances!

  Of subsidies and Hanover bereft,

  We bless thee still – for George the Third is left!

  45

  Of kings the best – and last, not least in worth,

  For graciously begetting George the Fourth.

  To Germany and highnesses serene,

  Who owe us millions – don’t we owe the queen?

  To Germany, what owe we not besides?

  50

  So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides;

  Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood,

  Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud:

  Who sent us – so be pardon’d all her faults –

  A dozen dukes, some kings, a queen – and Waltz.

  55

  But peace to her – her emperor and diet,

  Though now transferr’d to Buonaparte’s ‘fiat!’

  Back to my theme – O Muse of motion! say,

  How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way?

  Borne on the breath of hyperborean gales,

  60

  From Hamburg’s port (while Hamburg yet had mails),

  Ere yet unlucky Fame – compell’d to creep

  To snowy Gottenburg – was chill’d to sleep;

  Or, starting from her slumbers, deign’d arise,

  Heligoland! to stock thy mart with lies;

  65

  While unburnt Moscow1 yet had news to send,

  Nor owed her fiery exit to a friend,

  She came – Waltz came – and with her certain sets

  Of true despatches, and as true gazettes;

  Then flamed of Austerlitz the blest despatch,

  70

  Which Moniteur nor Morning Post can match;

  And – almost crush’d beneath the glorious news –

  Ten plays, and forty tales of Kotzebue’s;

  One envoy’s letters, six composers’ airs,

  And loads from Frankfort and from Leipsic fairs;

  75

  Meiner’s four volumes upon womankind,

  Like Lapland witches to ensure a wind;

  Brunck’s heaviest tome for ballast, and, to back it,

  Of Heyné, such as should not sink the packet.

  Fraught with this cargo – and her fairest freight,

  80

  Delightful Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate,

  The welcome vessel reach’d the genial strand,

  And round her flock’d the daughters of the land.

  Not decent David, when, before the ark,

  His grand pas-seul excited some remark;

  85

  Not love-lorn Quixote, when his Sancho thought

  The knight’s fandango friskier than it ought;

  Not soft Herodias, when, with winning tread,

  Her nimble feet danced off another’s head;

  Not Cleopatra on her galley’s deck,

  90

  Display’d so much of leg, or more of neck,

  Than thou, ambrosial Waltz, when first the moon

  Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune!

  To you, ye husbands often years! whose brows

  Ache with the annual tributes of a spouse;

  95

  To you of nine years less, who only bear

  The budding sprouts of those that you shall wear,

  With added ornaments around them roll’d

  Of native brass, or law-awarded gold;

  To you, ye matrons, ever on the watch

  100

  To mar a son’s, or make a daughter’s, match;

  To you, ye children of – whom chance accords –

  Always the ladies, and sometimes their lords;

  To you, ye single gentlemen, who seek

  Torments for life, or pleasures for a week;

  105

  As Love or Hymen your endeavours guide,

  To gain your own, or snatch another’s bride; –

  To one and all the lovely stranger came,

  And every ball-room echoes with her name.

  Endearing Waltz! – to thy more melting tune

  110

  Bow Irish jig, and ancient rigadoon.

  Scotch reels, avaunt! and country-dance, forego

  Your future claims to each fantastic toe!

  Waltz – Waltz alone – both legs and arms demands,

  Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands;

  115

  Hands which may freely range in public sight

  Where ne’er before – but – pray ‘put out the light.’

  Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier

  Shines much too far – or I am much too near;

  And true, though strange – Waltz whispers this remark,

  120

  ‘My slippery steps are safest in the dark!’

  But here the Muse with due decorum halts,

  And lends her longest petticoat to Waltz.

  Observant travellers of every time!

  Ye quartos publish’d upon every clime!

  125

  O say, shall dull Romaika’s heavy round,

  Fandango’s wriggle, or Bolero’s bound;

  Can Egypt’s Almas1 – tantalising group –

  Columbia’s caperers to the warlike whoop –

  Can aught from cold Kamschatka to Cape Horn

  130

  With Waltz compare, or after Waltz be borne?

  Ah, no! from Morier’s pages down to Galt’s,

  Each tourist pens a paragraph for ‘Waltz.’

  Shades of those belles whose reign began of yore,

  With George the Third’s – and ended long before! –

  135

  Though in your daughters’ daughters yet you thrive,

  Burst from your lead, and be yourselves alive!

  Back to the ball-room speed your spectred host:

  Fool’s Paradise is dull to that you lost.

  No treacherous powder bids conjecture quake;

  140

  No stiff-starch’d stays make meddling fingers ache;

  (Transferr’d to those ambiguous things that ape

  Goats in their visage,1 women in their shape;)

  No damsel faints when rather closely press’d,

  But more caressing seems when most caress’d;

  145

  Superfluous hartshorn, and reviving salts,

  Both banish’d by the sovereign cordial ‘Waltz.’

  Seductive Waltz! – though on thy native shore

  Even Werter’s self proclaim’d thee half a whore;

  Werter – to decent vice though much inclined,

  150

  Yet warm, not wanton; dazzled, but not blind –

  Thouh entle Genlis in her strife with Stael

  Would even proscribe thee from a Paris ball;

  The fashion hails – from countesses to queens,

  And maids and valets waltz behind the scenes;

  155

  Wide and more wide thy witching circle spreads,

  And turns – if nothing else – at least our heads;

  With thee even clumsy cits attempt to bounce,

  And cockneys practise what they can’t pronounce.

  Gods! how the glorious theme my strain exalts,

  160

  And rhyme finds partner rhyme in praise of ‘Waltz!’

  Blest was the time Waltz chose for her début;

  The court, the Regent, like herself were new;1

  New face for friends, for foes some new rewards;

  New ornaments for black and royal guards;

  165

  New laws to hang the rogues that roar’d for bread:

  New coins (most new) 2 to follow those that fled;

&nb
sp; New victories – nor can we prize them less,

  Though Jenky wonders at his own success;

  New wars, because the old succeed so well,

  170

  That most survivors envy those who fell;

  New mistresses – no, old – and yet ’tis true,

  Though they be old, the thing is something new;

  Each new, quite new – (except some ancient tricks),3

  New white-sticks, gold-sticks, broom-sticks, all new sticks!

  175

  With vests or ribands – deck’d alike in hue,

  New troopers strut, new turncoats blush in blue:

  So saith the muse: my –,1 what say you?

  Such was the time when Waltz might best maintain

  Her new preferments in this novel reign;

  180

  Such was the time, nor ever yet was such;

  Hoops are no more, and petticoats not much;

  Morals and minuets, virtue and her stays,

  And tell-tale powder – all have had their days.

  The ball beins – the honours of the house

  185

  First duly done by daughter or by spouse,

  Some potentate – or royal or serene –

  With Kent’s gay grace, or sapient Gloster’s mien,

  Leads forth the ready dame, whose rising flush

  Might once have been mistaken for a blush.

  190

  From where the garb just leaves the bosom free,

  That spot where hearts2 were once supposed to be;

  Round all the confines of the yielded waist,

  The strangest hand may wander undisplaced;

  The lady’s in return may grasp as much

  195

  As princely paunches offer to her touch.

  Pleased round the chalky floor how well they trip,

  One hand reposing on the royal hip;

  The other to the shoulder no less royal

  Ascending with affection truly loyal!

  200

  Thus front to front the partners move or stand,

  The foot may rest, but none withdraw the hand;

  And all in turn may follow in their rank,

  The Earl of – Asterisk – and Lady – Blank;

  Sir – Such-a-one – with those of fashion’s host,

  205

  For whose blest surnames – vide ‘Morning Post’

  (Or if for that impartial print too late,

  Search Doctors’ Commons six months from my date) –

  Thus all and each, in movement swift or slow,

  The genial contact gently undergo;

  210

  Till some might marvel, with the modest Turk,

  If ‘nothing follows all this palming work?’1

  True, honest Mirza! – you may trust my rhyme –

  Something does follow at a fitter time;