Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Byron

  Since others it hath ceased to move:

  Yet, though I cannot be beloved,

  Still let me love!

  My days are in the yellow leaf;

  The flowers and fruits of love are gone;

  The worm, the canker, and the grief

  Are mine alone!

  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,

  The exalted portion of the pain

  And power of love, I cannot share,

  But wear the chain.

  But ‘tis not thus—and ‘tis not here—

  Such thoughts should shake my soul nor now,

  Where glory decks the hero’s bier,

  Or binds his brow.

  The sword, the banner, and the field,

  Glory and Greece, around me see!

  The Spartan, borne upon his shield,

  Was not more free.

  Awake! (not Greece—she is awake!)

  Awake, my spirit! Think through whom

  Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,

  And then strike home!

  Tread those reviving passions down,

  Unworthy manhood!—unto thee

  Indifferent should the smile or frown

  Of beauty be.

  If thou regrett’st thy youth, why live?

  The land of honourable death

  Is here:—up to the field, and give

  Away thy breath!

  Seek out—less often sought than found—

  A soldier’s grave, for thee the best;

  Then look around, and choose thy ground,

  And take thy rest.

  SATIRES

  CONTENTS

  ENGLISH BARDS, AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS;

  PREFACE

  INTRODUCTION TO ENGLISH BARDS, AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS.

  ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS.

  HINTS FROM HORACE

  INTRODUCTION

  HINTS FROM HORACE

  THE CURSE OF MINERVA.

  INTRODUCTION

  THE CURSE OF MINERVA.

  THE WALTZ

  INTRODUCTION

  THE WALTZ

  TO THE PUBLISHER.

  THE WALTZ

  THE BLUES

  INTRODUCTION

  THE BLUES

  ECLOGUE THE FIRST.

  ECLOGUE THE SECOND.

  THE VISION OF JUDGMENT.

  INTRODUCTION

  PREFACE

  THE VISION OF JUDGMENT.

  THE AGE OF BRONZE

  INTRODUCTION

  THE AGE OF BRONZE.

  Portrait of Annabella Byron, the poet’s wife

  ENGLISH BARDS, AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS;

  A SATIRE.

  ”I had rather be a kitten, and cry, mew!

  Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers.”

  SHAKESPEARE.

  ”Such shameless Bards we have; and yet ‘tis true,

  There are as mad, abandon’d Critics, too.”

  POPE.

  PREFACE

  All my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged me not to publish this Satire with my name. If I were to be “turned from the career of my humour by quibbles quick, and paper bullets of the brain” I should have complied with their counsel. But I am not to be terrified by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, with or without arms. I can safely say that I have attacked none ‘personally’, who did not commence on the offensive. An Author’s works are public property: he who purchases may judge, and publish his opinion if he pleases; and the Authors I have endeavoured to commemorate may do by me as I have done by them. I dare say they will succeed better in condemning my scribblings, than in mending their own. But my object is not to prove that I can write well, but, if ‘possible’, to make others write better.

  As the Poem has met with far more success than I expected, I have endeavoured in this Edition to make some additions and alterations, to render it more worthy of public perusal.

  In the First Edition of this Satire, published anonymously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles’s Pope were written by, and inserted at the request of, an ingenious friend of mine, who has now in the press a volume of Poetry. In the present Edition they are erased, and some of my own substituted in their stead; my only reason for this being that which I conceive would operate with any other person in the same manner, — a determination not to publish with my name any production, which was not entirely and exclusively my own composition.

  With regard to the real talents of many of the poetical persons whose performances are mentioned or alluded to in the following pages, it is presumed by the Author that there can be little difference of opinion in the Public at large; though, like other sectaries, each has his separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom his abilities are over-rated, his faults overlooked, and his metrical canons received without scruple and without consideration. But the unquestionable possession of considerable genius by several of the writers here censured renders their mental prostitution more to be regretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, laughed at and forgotten; perverted powers demand the most decided reprehension. No one can wish more than the Author that some known and able writer had undertaken their exposure; but Mr. Gifford has devoted himself to Massinger, and, in the absence of the regular physician, a country practitioner may, in cases of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe his nostrum to prevent the extension of so deplorable an epidemic, provided there be no quackery in his treatment of the malady. A caustic is here offered; as it is to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can recover the numerous patients afflicted with the present prevalent and distressing rabies for rhyming. — As to the’ Edinburgh Reviewers’, it would indeed require an Hercules to crush the Hydra; but if the Author succeeds in merely “bruising one of the heads of the serpent” though his own hand should suffer in the encounter, he will be amply satisfied.

  INTRODUCTION TO ENGLISH BARDS, AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS.

  The article upon ‘Hours of Idleness’ “which Lord Brougham … after denying it for thirty years, confessed that he had written” (‘Notes from a Diary’, by Sir M. E. Grant Duff, 1897, ii. 189), was published in the ‘Edinburgh Review’ of January, 1808. ‘English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers’ did not appear till March, 1809. The article gave the opportunity for the publication of the satire, but only in part provoked its composition. Years later, Byron had not forgotten its effect on his mind. On April 26, 1821, he wrote to Shelley: “I recollect the effect on me of the Edinburgh on my first poem: it was rage and resistance and redress: but not despondency nor despair.” And on the same date to Murray: “I know by experience that a savage review is hemlock to a sucking author; and the one on me (which produced the ‘English Bards’, etc.) knocked me down, but I got up again,” etc. It must, however, be remembered that Byron had his weapons ready for an attack before he used them in defence. In a letter to Miss Pigot, dated October 26, 1807, he says that “he has written one poem of 380 lines to be published in a few weeks with notes. The poem … is a Satire.” It was entitled ‘British Bards’, and finally numbered 520 lines. With a view to publication, or for his own convenience, it was put up in type and printed in quarto sheets. A single copy, which he kept for corrections and additions, was preserved by Dallas, and is now in the British Museum. After the review appeared, he enlarged and recast the ‘British Bards’, and in March, 1809, the Satire was published anonymously. Byron was at no pains to conceal the authorship of ‘English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers’, and, before starting on his Pilgrimage, he had prepared a second and enlarged edition, which came out in October, 1809, with his name prefixed. Two more editions were called for in his absence, and on his return he revised and printed a fifth, when he suddenly resolved to suppress the work. On his homeward voyage he expressed, in a lette
r to Dallas, June 28, 1811, his regret at having written the Satire. A year later he became intimate, among others, with Lord and Lady Holland, whom he had assailed on the supposition that they were the instigators of the article in the ‘Edinburgh Review’, and on being told by Rogers that they wished the Satire to be withdrawn, he gave orders to his publisher, Cawthorn, to burn the whole impression. A few copies escaped the flames. One of two copies retained by Dallas, which afterwards belonged to Murray, and is now in his grandson’s possession, was the foundation of the text of 1831, and of all subsequent issues. Another copy which belonged to Dallas is retained in the British Museum.

  Towards the close of the last century there had been an outburst of satirical poems, written in the style of the ‘Dunciad’ and its offspring the ‘Rosciad’, Of these, Gifford’s ‘Baviad’ and ‘Maviad’ (1794-5), and T. J. Mathias’ ‘Pursuits of Literature’ (1794-7), were the direct progenitors of ‘English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers’, The ‘Rolliad’ (1794), the ‘Children of Apollo’ (circ. 1794), Canning’s ‘New Morality’ (1798), and Wolcot’s coarse but virile lampoons, must also be reckoned among Byron’s earlier models. The ministry of “All the Talents” gave rise to a fresh batch of political ‘jeux d’ésprits’, and in 1807, when Byron was still at Cambridge, the air was full of these ephemera. To name only a few, ‘All the Talents’, by Polypus (Eaton Stannard Barrett), was answered by ‘All the Blocks, an antidote to All the Talents’, by Flagellum (W. H. Ireland); ‘Elijah’s Mantle, a tribute to the memory of the R. H. William Pitt’, by James Sayer, the caricaturist, provoked ‘Melville’s Mantle, being a Parody on … Elijah’s Mantle’. ‘The Simpliciad, A Satirico-Didactic Poem’, and Lady Anne Hamilton’s ‘Epics of the Ton’, are also of the same period. One and all have perished, but Byron read them, and in a greater or less degree they supplied the impulse to write in the fashion of the day.

  ‘British Bards’ would have lived, but, unquestionably, the spur of the article, a year’s delay, and, above all, the advice and criticism of his friend Hodgson, who was at work on his ‘Gentle Alterative for the Reviewers’, 1809 (for further details, see vol. i., ‘Letters’, Letter 102, ‘note’ 1), produced the brilliant success of the enlarged satire. ‘English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers’ was recognized at once as a work of genius. It has intercepted the popularity of its great predecessors, who are often quoted, but seldom read. It is still a popular poem, and appeals with fresh delight to readers who know the names of many of the “bards” only because Byron mentions them, and count others whom he ridicules among the greatest poets of the century.

  ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS.

  Still must I hear? — shall hoarse FITZGERALD bawl

  His creaking couplets in a tavern hall,

  And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Reviews

  Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my Muse?

  Prepare for rhyme — I’ll publish, right or wrong:

  Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song.

  Oh! Nature’s noblest gift — my grey goose-quill!

  Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,

  Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,

  That mighty instrument of little men! 10

  The pen! foredoomed to aid the mental throes

  Of brains that labour, big with Verse or Prose;

  Though Nymphs forsake, and Critics may deride,

  The Lover’s solace, and the Author’s pride.

  What Wits! what Poets dost thou daily raise!

  How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise!

  Condemned at length to be forgotten quite,

  With all the pages which ‘twas thine to write.

  But thou, at least, mine own especial pen!

  Once laid aside, but now assumed again, 20

  Our task complete, like Hamet’s shall be free;

  Though spurned by others, yet beloved by me:

  Then let us soar to-day; no common theme,

  No Eastern vision, no distempered dream

  Inspires — our path, though full of thorns, is plain;

  Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.

  When Vice triumphant holds her sov’reign sway,

  Obey’d by all who nought beside obey;

  When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,

  Bedecks her cap with bells of every Clime; 30

  When knaves and fools combined o’er all prevail,

  And weigh their Justice in a Golden Scale;

  E’en then the boldest start from public sneers,

  Afraid of Shame, unknown to other fears,

  More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe,

  And shrink from Ridicule, though not from Law.

  Such is the force of Wit! I but not belong

  To me the arrows of satiric song;

  The royal vices of our age demand

  A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. 40

  Still there are follies, e’en for me to chase,

  And yield at least amusement in the race:

  Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame,

  The cry is up, and scribblers are my game:

  Speed, Pegasus! — ye strains of great and small,

  Ode! Epic! Elegy! — have at you all!

  I, too, can scrawl, and once upon a time

  I poured along the town a flood of rhyme,

  A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame;

  I printed — older children do the same. 50

  ’Tis pleasant, sure, to see one’s name in print;

  A Book’s a Book, altho’ there’s nothing in’t.

  Not that a Title’s sounding charm can save

  Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave:

  This LAMB must own, since his patrician name

  Failed to preserve the spurious Farce from shame.

  No matter, GEORGE continues still to write,

  Tho’ now the name is veiled from public sight.

  Moved by the great example, I pursue

  The self-same road, but make my own review: 60

  Not seek great JEFFREY’S, yet like him will be

  Self-constituted Judge of Poesy.

  A man must serve his time to every trade

  Save Censure — Critics all are ready made.

  Take hackneyed jokes from MILLER, got by rote,

  With just enough of learning to misquote;

  A man well skilled to find, or forge a fault;

  A turn for punning — call it Attic salt;

  To JEFFREY go, be silent and discreet,

  His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet: 70

  Fear not to lie,’twill seem a sharper hit;

  Shrink not from blasphemy, ‘twill pass for wit;

  Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest,

  And stand a Critic, hated yet caress’d.

  And shall we own such judgment? no — as soon

  Seek roses in December — ice in June;

  Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff,

  Believe a woman or an epitaph,

  Or any other thing that’s false, before

  You trust in Critics, who themselves are sore; 80

  Or yield one single thought to be misled

  By JEFFREY’S heart, or LAMB’S Boeotian head.

  To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced,

  Combined usurpers on the Throne of Taste;

  To these, when Authors bend in humble awe,

  And hail their voice as Truth, their word as Law;

  While these are Censors, ‘twould be sin to spare;

  While such are Critics, why should I forbear?

  But yet, so near all modern worthies run,

  ’Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun; 90

  Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike,

  Our Bards and Censors are so much alike.

  Then should you ask me, why I venture o’er
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  The path which POPE and GIFFORD trod before;

  If not yet sickened, you can still proceed;

  Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read.

  ”But hold!” exclaims a friend, — ”here’s some neglect:

  This — that — and t’other line seem incorrect.”

  What then? the self-same blunder Pope has got,

  And careless Dryden — ”Aye, but Pye has not:” — 100

  Indeed! — ’tis granted, faith! — but what care I?

  Better to err with POPE, than shine with PYE.

  Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days

  Ignoble themes obtained mistaken praise,

  When Sense and Wit with Poesy allied,

  No fabled Graces, flourished side by side,

  From the same fount their inspiration drew,

  And, reared by Taste, bloomed fairer as they grew.

  Then, in this happy Isle, a POPE’S pure strain

  Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain; 110

  A polished nation’s praise aspired to claim,

  And raised the people’s, as the poet’s fame.

  Like him great DRYDEN poured the tide of song,

  In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong.

  Then CONGREVE’S scenes could cheer, or OTWAY’S melt;

  For Nature then an English audience felt —

  But why these names, or greater still, retrace,

  When all to feebler Bards resign their place?

  Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast,

  When taste and reason with those times are past. 120

  Now look around, and turn each trifling page,

  Survey the precious works that please the age;

  This truth at least let Satire’s self allow,

  No dearth of Bards can be complained of now.

  The loaded Press beneath her labour groans,

  And Printers’ devils shake their weary bones;

  While SOUTHEY’S Epics cram the creaking shelves,

  And LITTLE’S Lyrics shine in hot-pressed twelves.

  Thus saith the Preacher: “Nought beneath the sun

  Is new,” yet still from change to change we run. 130

  What varied wonders tempt us as they pass!

  The Cow-pox, Tractors, Galvanism, and Gas,

  In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare,

  Till the swoln bubble bursts — and all is air!

  Nor less new schools of Poetry arise,