Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Byron

  There Rembrandt made his darkness equal light,

  Or gloomy Caravaggio’s gloomier stain

  Bronzed o’er some lean and stoic anchorite: —

  But, lo! a Teniers woos, and not in vain,

  Your eyes to revel in a livelier sight:

  His bell-mouth’d goblet makes me feel quite Danish

  Or Dutch with thirst — What, ho! a flask of Rhenish.

  LXXIII

  O reader! if that thou canst read, — and know,

  ’T is not enough to spell, or even to read,

  To constitute a reader; there must go

  Virtues of which both you and I have need; —

  Firstly, begin with the beginning (though

  That clause is hard); and secondly, proceed;

  Thirdly, commence not with the end — or, sinning

  In this sort, end at least with the beginning.

  LXXIV

  But, reader, thou hast patient been of late,

  While I, without remorse of rhyme, or fear,

  Have built and laid out ground at such a rate,

  Dan Phoebus takes me for an auctioneer.

  That poets were so from their earliest date,

  By Homer’s “Catalogue of ships” is clear;

  But a mere modern must be moderate —

  I spare you then the furniture and plate.

  LXXV

  The mellow autumn came, and with it came

  The promised party, to enjoy its sweets.

  The corn is cut, the manor full of game;

  The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats

  In russet jacket: — lynx-like is his aim;

  Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats.

  Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants!

  And ah, ye poachers! — ‘T is no sport for peasants.

  LXXVI

  An English autumn, though it hath no vines,

  Blushing with Bacchant coronals along

  The paths, o’er which the far festoon entwines

  The red grape in the sunny lands of song,

  Hath yet a purchased choice of choicest wines;

  The claret light, and the Madeira strong.

  If Britain mourn her bleakness, we can tell her,

  The very best of vineyards is the cellar.

  LXXVII

  Then, if she hath not that serene decline

  Which makes the southern autumn’s day appear

  As if ‘t would to a second spring resign

  The season, rather than to winter drear,

  Of in-door comforts still she hath a mine, —

  The sea-coal fires the “earliest of the year;”

  Without doors, too, she may compete in mellow,

  As what is lost in green is gain’d in yellow.

  LXXVIII

  And for the effeminate villeggiatura —

  Rife with more horns than hounds — she hath the chase,

  So animated that it might allure

  Saint from his beads to join the jocund race;

  Even Nimrod’s self might leave the plains of Dura,

  And wear the Melton jacket for a space:

  If she hath no wild boars, she hath a tame

  Preserve of bores, who ought to be made game.

  LXXIX

  The noble guests, assembled at the Abbey,

  Consisted of — we give the sex the pas —

  The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke; the Countess Crabby;

  The Ladies Scilly, Busey; — Miss Eclat,

  Miss Bombazeen, Miss Mackstay, Miss O’Tabby,

  And Mrs. Rabbi, the rich banker’s squaw;

  Also the honourable Mrs. Sleep,

  Who look’d a white lamb, yet was a black sheep:

  LXXX

  With other Countesses of Blank — but rank;

  At once the “lie” and the “élite” of crowds;

  Who pass like water filter’d in a tank,

  All purged and pious from their native clouds;

  Or paper turn’d to money by the Bank:

  No matter how or why, the passport shrouds

  The “passée” and the past; for good society

  Is no less famed for tolerance than piety, —

  LXXXI

  That is, up to a certain point; which point

  Forms the most difficult in punctuation.

  Appearances appear to form the joint

  On which it hinges in a higher station;

  And so that no explosion cry “Aroint

  Thee, witch!” or each Medea has her Jason;

  Or (to the point with Horace and with Pulci)

  “Omne tulit punctum, quæ miscuit utile dulci.”

  LXXXII

  I can’t exactly trace their rule of right,

  Which hath a little leaning to a lottery.

  I’ve seen a virtuous woman put down quite

  By the mere combination of a coterie;

  Also a so-so matron boldly fight

  Her way back to the world by dint of plottery,

  And shine the very Siria of the spheres,

  Escaping with a few slight, scarless sneers.

  LXXXIII

  I have seen more than I’ll say: — but we will see

  How our villeggiatura will get on.

  The party might consist of thirty-three

  Of highest caste — the Brahmins of the ton.

  I have named a few, not foremost in degree,

  But ta’en at hazard as the rhyme may run.

  By way of sprinkling, scatter’d amongst these,

  There also were some Irish absentees.

  LXXXIV

  There was Parolles, too, the legal bully,

  Who limits all his battles to the bar

  And senate: when invited elsewhere, truly,

  He shows more appetite for words than war.

  There was the young bard Rackrhyme, who had newly

  Come out and glimmer’d as a six weeks’ star.

  There was Lord Pyrrho, too, the great freethinker;

  And Sir John Pottledeep, the mighty drinker.

  LXXXV

  There was the Duke of Dash, who was a — duke,

  ”Ay, every inch a” duke; there were twelve peers

  Like Charlemagne’s — and all such peers in look

  And intellect, that neither eyes nor ears

  For commoners had ever them mistook.

  There were the six Miss Rawbolds — pretty dears!

  All song and sentiment; whose hearts were set

  Less on a convent than a coronet.

  LXXXVI

  There were four Honourable Misters, whose

  Honour was more before their names than after;

  There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse,

  Whom France and Fortune lately deign’d to waft here,

  Whose chiefly harmless talent was to amuse;

  But the clubs found it rather serious laughter,

  Because — such was his magic power to please —

  The dice seem’d charm’d, too, with his repartees.

  LXXXVII

  There was Dick Dubious, the metaphysician,

  Who loved philosophy and a good dinner;

  Angle, the soi-disant mathematician;

  Sir Henry Silvercup, the great race-winner.

  There was the Reverend Rodomont Precisian,

  Who did not hate so much the sin as sinner;

  And Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet,

  Good at all things, but better at a bet.

  LXXXVIII

  There was jack jargon, the gigantic guardsman;

  And General Fireface, famous in the field,

  A great tactician, and no less a swordsman,

  Who ate, last war, more Yankees than he kill’d.

  There was the waggish Welsh Judge, Jefferies Hardsman,

  In his gra
ve office so completely skill’d,

  That when a culprit came far condemnation,

  He had his judge’s joke for consolation.

  LXXXIX

  Good company’s a chess-board — there are kings,

  Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns; the world’s a game;

  Save that the puppets pull at their own strings,

  Methinks gay Punch hath something of the same.

  My Muse, the butterfly hath but her wings,

  Not stings, and flits through ether without aim,

  Alighting rarely: — were she but a hornet,

  Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it.

  XC

  I had forgotten — but must not forget —

  An orator, the latest of the session,

  Who had deliver’d well a very set

  Smooth speech, his first and maidenly transgression

  Upon debate: the papers echoed yet

  With his début, which made a strong impression,

  And rank’d with what is every day display’d —

  “The best first speech that ever yet was made.”

  XCI

  Proud of his “Hear hims!” proud, too, of his vote

  And lost virginity of oratory,

  Proud of his learning (just enough to quote),

  He revell’d in his Ciceronian glory:

  With memory excellent to get by rote,

  With wit to hatch a pun or tell a story,

  Graced with some merit, and with more effrontery,

  “His country’s pride,” he came down to the country.

  XCII

  There also were two wits by acclamation,

  Longbow from Ireland, Strongbow from the Tweed,

  Both lawyers and both men of education;

  But Strongbow’s wit was of more polish’d breed:

  Longbow was rich in an imagination

  As beautiful and bounding as a steed,

  But sometimes stumbling over a potato, —

  While Strongbow’s best things might have come from Cato.

  XCIII

  Strongbow was like a new-tuned harpsichord;

  But Longbow wild as an Æolian harp,

  With which the winds of heaven can claim accord,

  And make a music, whether flat or sharp.

  Of Strongbow’s talk you would not change a word:

  At Longbow’s phrases you might sometimes carp:

  Both wits — one born so, and the other bred —

  This by his heart, his rival by his head.

  XCIV

  If all these seem a heterogeneous mass

  To be assembled at a country seat,

  Yet think, a specimen of every class

  Is better than a humdrum tete-a-tete.

  The days of Comedy are gone, alas!

  When Congreve’s fool could vie with Molière’s bête:

  Society is smooth’d to that excess,

  That manners hardly differ more than dress.

  XCV

  Our ridicules are kept in the back-ground —

  Ridiculous enough, but also dull;

  Professions, too, are no more to be found

  Professional; and there is nought to cull

  Of folly’s fruit; for though your fools abound,

  They’re barren, and not worth the pains to pull.

  Society is now one polish’d horde,

  Form’d of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored.

  XCVI

  But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning

  The scanty but right-well thresh’d ears of truth;

  And, gentle reader! when you gather meaning,

  You may be Boaz, and I — modest Ruth.

  Farther I’d quote, but Scripture intervening

  Forbids. A great impression in my youth

  Was made by Mrs. Adams, where she cries,

  “That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies.”

  XCVII

  But what we can we glean in this vile age

  Of chaff, although our gleanings be not grist.

  I must not quite omit the talking sage,

  Kit-Cat, the famous Conversationist,

  Who, in his common-place book, had a page

  Prepared each morn for evenings. “List, oh, list!” —

  “Alas, poor ghost!” — What unexpected woes

  Await those who have studied their bons-mots!

  XCVIII

  Firstly, they must allure the conversation

  By many windings to their clever clinch;

  And secondly, must let slip no occasion,

  Nor bate (abate) their hearers of an inch,

  But take an ell — and make a great sensation,

  If possible; and thirdly, never flinch

  When some smart talker puts them to the test,

  But seize the last word, which no doubt’s the best.

  XCIX

  Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts;

  The party we have touch’d on were the guests:

  Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts

  To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts.

  I will not dwell upon ragoûts or roasts,

  Albeit all human history attests

  That happiness for man — the hungry sinner! —

  Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner.

  C

  Witness the lands which “flow’d with milk and honey,”

  Held out unto the hungry Israelites;

  To this we have added since, the love of money,

  The only sort of pleasure which requites.

  Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny;

  We tire of mistresses and parasites;

  But oh, ambrosial cash! Ah! who would lose thee?

  When we no more can use, or even abuse thee!

  CI

  The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot,

  Or hunt: the young, because they liked the sport —

  The first thing boys like after play and fruit;

  The middle-aged to make the day more short;

  For ennui is a growth of English root,

  Though nameless in our language: — we retort

  The fact for words, and let the French translate

  That awful yawn which sleep can not abate.

  CII

  The elderly walk’d through the library,

  And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures,

  Or saunter’d through the gardens piteously,

  And made upon the hot-house several strictures,

  Or rode a nag which trotted not too high,

  Or on the morning papers read their lectures,

  Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix,

  Longing at sixty for the hour of six.

  CIII

  But none were “gêné:” the great hour of union

  Was rung by dinner’s knell; till then all were

  Masters of their own time — or in communion,

  Or solitary, as they chose to bear

  The hours, which how to pass is but to few known.

  Each rose up at his own, and had to spare

  What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast

  When, where, and how he chose for that repast.

  CIV

  The ladies — some rouged, some a little pale —

  Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode,

  Or walk’d; if foul, they read, or told a tale,

  Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad;

  Discuss’d the fashion which might next prevail,

  And settled bonnets by the newest code,

  Or cramm’d twelve sheets into one little letter,

  To make each correspondent a new debtor.

  CV

  For some had absent lovers, all had friends.

 
; The earth has nothing like a she epistle,

  And hardly heaven — because it never ends.

  I love the mystery of a female missal,

  Which, like a creed, ne’er says all it intends,

  But full of cunning as Ulysses’ whistle,

  When he allured poor Dolon: — you had better

  Take care what you reply to such a letter.

  CVI

  Then there were billiards; cards, too, but no dice; —

  Save in the clubs no man of honour plays; —

  Boats when ‘t was water, skating when ‘t was ice,

  And the hard frost destroy’d the scenting days:

  And angling, too, that solitary vice,

  Whatever Izaak Walton sings or says;

  The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet

  Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.

  CVII

  With evening came the banquet and the wine;

  The conversazione; the duet,

  Attuned by voices more or less divine

  (My heart or head aches with the memory yet).

  The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would shine;

  But the two youngest loved more to be set

  Down to the harp — because to music’s charms

  They added graceful necks, white hands and arms.

  CVIII

  Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field days,

  For then the gentlemen were rather tired)

  Display’d some sylph-like figures in its maze;

  Then there was small-talk ready when required;

  Flirtation — but decorous; the mere praise

  Of charms that should or should not be admired.

  The hunters fought their fox-hunt o’er again,

  And then retreated soberly — at ten.

  CIX

  The politicians, in a nook apart,

  Discuss’d the world, and settled all the spheres;

  The wits watch’d every loophole for their art,

  To introduce a bon-mot head and ears;

  Small is the rest of those who would be smart,

  A moment’s good thing may have cost them years

  Before they find an hour to introduce it;

  And then, even then, some bore may make them lose it.

  CX

  But all was gentle and aristocratic

  In this our party; polish’d, smooth, and cold,

  As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic.

  There now are no Squire Westerns as of old;

  And our Sophias are not so emphatic,

  But fair as then, or fairer to behold.

  We have no accomplish’d blackguards, like Tom Jones,

  But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones.

  CXI

  They separated at an early hour;

  That is, ere midnight — which is London’s noon:

  But in the country ladies seek their bower

  A little earlier than the waning moon.