by Lord Byron
Thy teeth no sweet-meat ever hurt —
The sloe’s juice was thy favourite wine,
And bitter almonds thy desert.
Mustard, how strong so e’er the sort is,
Can draw no moisture from thine eye;
Not vinegar nor aqua-fortis
Could ever set thy face awry.
Thus train’d a Satirist — thy mind
Soon caught the bitter, sharp, and sour,
And all their various pow’rs combin’d,
Produc’d Childe Harold, and the Giaour.”
(3) Lord Byron (Morning Post, February 8, 1814)
We are very much surprized, and we are not the only persons who feel disgust as well as astonishment, at the uncalled for avowal Lord Byron has made of being the Author of some insolent lines, by inserting them at the end of his new Poem, entitled “The Corsair.” The lines we allude to begin “Weep, Daughter of a Royal Line.” Nothing can be more repugnant to every good heart, as well as to the moral and religious feelings of a country, which we are proud to say still cherishes every right sentiment, than an attempt to lower a father in the eyes of his child. Lord Byron is a young man, and from the tenor of his writings, has, we fear, adopted principles very contrary to those of Christianity. But as a man of honour and of feeling, which latter character he affects outrageously, he ought never to have been guilty of so unamiable and so unprovoked an attack. Should so gross an insult to her Royal Father ever meet the eyes of the illustrious young Lady, for whose perusal it was intended, we trust her own good sense and good heart will teach her to consider it with the contempt and abhorrence it so well merits. Will she weep for the disgrace of a Father who has saved Europe from bondage, and has accumulated, in the short space of two years, more glory than can be found in any other period of British history? Will she “weep for a realm’s decay,” when that realm is hourly emerging under the Government of her father, from the complicated embarrassments in which he found it involved? But all this is too evident to need being particularised. What seems most surprising is, that Lord Byron should chuse to avow Irish trash at a moment when every thing conspires to give it the lie. It is for the organ of the Party alone, or a few insane admirers of Bonaparte and defamers of their own country and its rulers, to applaud him. We know it is now the fashion for our young Gentlemen to become Poets, and a very innocent amusement it is, while they confine themselves to putting their travels into verse, like Childe Harolde, and Lord Nugent’s Portugal. Nor is there any harm in Turkish tales, nor wonderful ditties, of ghosts and hobgoblins. We cannot say so much for all Mr. Moore’s productions, admired as he is by Lord Byron. In short, the whole galaxy of minor poets, Lords Nugent and Byron, with Messrs. Rogers, Lewis, and Moore, would do well to keep to rhyme, and not presume to meddle with politics, for which they seem mighty little qualified. We must repeat, that it is innocent to write tales and travels in verse, but calumny can never be so, whether written by poets in St. James’s-street, Albany, or Grub-street.
(4) Lines (Morning Post, February 8, 1814).
Written on reading the insolent verses published by Lord Byron at the end of his new poem, “The Corsair” beginning
“Weep, Daughter of a Royal Line.”
“Unblest by nature in thy mien,
Pity might still have play’d her part,
For oft compassion has been seen,
To soften into love the heart.
But when thy gloomy lines we read,
And see display’d without controul,
Th’ ungentle thought, the Atheist creed,
And all the rancour of the soul.
When bold and shameless ev’ry tie,
That God has twin’d around the heart,
Thy malice teaches to defy,
And act on earth a Demon’s part.
Oh! then from misanthropic pride
We shrink — but pity too the fate
Of youth and talents misapplied,
Which, if admired, we still must hate.”
(5) Lines (Morning Post, February 11, 1814)
Suggested by perusing Lord Byron’s small Poem, at the end of his “Corsair” addressed to a Lady weeping, beginning:
“Weep, Daughter of a Royal Line.”
“To Lord Byron.
“Were he the man thy verse would paint,
‘A Sire’s disgrace, a realm’s decay;’
Art thou the meek, the pious saint,
That prates of feeling night and day?
Stern as the Pirate’s heart is thine,
Without one ray to cheer its gloom;
And shall that Daughter once repine,
Because thy rude, unhallow’d line,
Would on her virtuous cause presume?
Hide, Byron! in the shades of night —
Hide in thy own congenial cell
The mind that would a fiend affright,
And shock the dunnest realms of hell!
No; she will never weep the tears
Which thou would’st Virtue’s deign to call;
Nor will they, in remoter years,
Molest her Father’s heart at all.
Dark-vision’d man! thy moody vein
Tends only to thy mental pain,
And cloud the talents Heav’n had meant
To prove the source of true content;
Much better were it for thy soul,
Both here and in the realms of bliss,
To check the glooms that now controul
Those talents, which might still repay
The wrongs of many a luckless day,
In such a cheerless clime as this.
But never strive to lure the heart
From one to which ‘tis ever nearest,
Lest from its duty it depart,
And shun the Pow’r which should be dearest:
For heav’n may sting thy heart in turn,
And rob thee of thy sweetest treasure
But, Byron! thou hast yet to learn,
That Virtue is the source of pleasure!”
Tyrtæus
G — n-street, Feb. 9, 1814.
(6) To Lord Byron (Morning Post, February 15, 1814)
.
Occasioned by reading his Poem, at the end of The Corsair, beginning:
“Weep, Daughter of a Royal Line.”
Shame on the verse that dares intrude
On Virtue’s uncorrupted way-
That smiles upon Ingratitude,
And charms us only to betray!
For this does Byron’s muse employ
The calm unbroken hours of night?
And wou’d she basely thus destroy
The source of all that’s just-upright?
Traitor to every moral law!
Think what thy own cold heart wou’d feel,
If some insidious mind should draw
Thy daughter from her filial zeal.
“And dost thou bid the offspring shun
Its father’s fond, incessant care?
Why, every sister, sire, and son,
Must loathe thee as the poison’d air!
Byron! thy dark, unhallow’d mind,
Stor’d as it is with Atheist writ,
Will surely, never, never find,
One convert to admire its wit!
Thou art a planet boding woe,
Attractive for thy novel mien —
A calm, but yet a deadly foe,
Most baneful when thou’rt most serene!
Tho’ fortune on thy course may shine,
Strive not to lead the mind astray,
Nor let one impious verse of thine,
The unsuspecting heart betray!
But rather let thy talents aim
To lead incautious youth aright;
Thus shall thy works acquire that fame,
Which ought to be thy chief delight.
“The verse, however smooth it flow,
Must be abhorr’d, abjur’d, despis’d,
When Virtue feels a secret blow,
And order finds her course surpris’d.”
Horatio
Fitzroy-square, Feb. 13.
(7) To Lord Byron (Morning Post, February 16, 1814)
.
“Bard of the pallid front, and curling hair,
To London taste, and northern critics dear,
Friend of the dog, companion of the bear,
Apollo drest in trimmest Turkish gear.
“‘Tis thine to eulogize the fell Corsair,
Scorning all laws that God or man can frame;
And yet so form’d to please the gentle fair,
That reading misses wish their Loves the same.
“Thou prov’st that laws are made to aid the strong,
That murderers and thieves alone are brave,
That all religion is an idle song,
Which troubles life, and leaves us at the grave.
“That men and dogs have equal claims on Heav’n,
Though dogs but bark, and men more wisely prate,
That to thyself one friend alone was giv’n,
That Friend a Dog, now snatch’d away by Fate.
“And last can tell how daughters best may shew
Their love and duty to their fathers dear,
By reckoning up what stream of filial woe
Will give to every crime a cleansing tear.
“Long may’st thou please this wonder-seeking age,
By Murray purchas’d, and by Moore admir’d;
May fashion never quit thy classic page,
Nor e’er be with thy Turkomania tir’d.”
Unus Multorum.
(8) Verses Addressed To Lord Byron (Morning Post, February 16, 1814).
“Lord Byron! Lord Byron!
Your heart’s made of iron,
As hard and unfeeling as cold.
Half human, half bird,
From Virgil we’ve heard,
Were form’d the fam’d harpies of old.
“Like those monsters you chatter,
Friends and foes you bespatter,
And dirty, like them, what you eat:
The Hollands, your muse
Does most grossly abuse,
Tho’ you feed on their wine and their meat.
“Your friend, little Moore,
You have dirtied before,
But you know that in safety you write:
You’ve declared in your lines,
That revenge he declines,
For the poor little man will not fight.
“At Carlisle you sneer,
That worthy old Peer,
Though united by every tie;
But you act as you preach,
And do what you teach,
And your God and your duty defy.
“As long as your aim
Was alone to defame,
The nearest relation you own;
At your malice he smil’d,
But he won’t see defil’d,
By your harpy bespatt’rings, the Throne.”
(9) Patronage Extraordinary (Morning Post, February 17, 1814)
“Procul este profani — !”
“A friendship subsisted, no friendship was closer,
‘Twixt the heir of a Peer and the son of a Grocer;
‘Tis true, though so wide was their difference of station,
For, we always find truth in a long dedication.
Atheistical doctrines in verse we are told,
The former sold wholesale, was daring and bold;
While the latter (whatever he offer’d for sale)
Like papa, he disposed of — of course by retail!
First — scraps of indecency, next disaffection,
Disguised by the knave from his fear of detection;
To court party favour, then, sonnets he wrote;
Set political squibs to the harpsichord’s note.
One, as patron was chosen by his brother Poet,
The Peer, to be sure, from his rank we may know it;
Not the low and indecent composer of jigs —
Yes! yes! ‘twas the son of the seller of Figs!!
Did the Peer then possess no respectable friend
To add weight to his name, and his works recommend?!
Atheistical writings we well may believe,
None of worth from the Author would deign to receive;
So — to cover the faults of his friend he essays,
By daubing him thickly all over with praise.
But, parents, attend! if your daughters you love,
The works of these serpents take care to remove:
Their infernal attacks from your mansions repel,
Where filial affection and modesty dwell.”
Verax.
(10) Lord Byron (Morning Post, February 18, 1814).
If it was the object of Lord Byron to stamp his character, and to bring his name forward by a single act of his life into general notoriety, it must be confessed that he has completely succeeded. We do not recollect any former instance in which a Peer has stood forth as the libeller of his Sovereign. If he disapproves the measures of his Ministers, the House of Parliament, in which he has an hereditary right to sit, is the place where his opinions may with propriety be uttered. If he thinks he can avert any danger to his country by a personal conference with his Sovereign, he has a right to demand it. The Peers are the natural advisers of the Crown, but the Constitution which has granted them such extraordinary privileges, makes it doubly criminal in them to attack the authority from which it is derived, and to insult the power which it is their peculiar province to uphold and protect. What then must we think of the foolish vanity, or the bad taste of a titled Poet, who is the first to proclaim himself the Author of a Libel, because he is fearful it will not be sufficiently read without his avowal. We perfectly remember having read the verses in question a year ago; but we could not then suppose them the offspring of patrician bile, nor should we now believe it without the Author’s special authority. It seems by some late quotations from his Lordship’s works, which have been rescued from that oblivion to which they were hastening with a rapid step, by one of our co-equals, that this peerless Peer has already gone through a complete course of private ingratitude. The inimitable Hogarth has traced the gradual workings of an unfeeling heart in his progress of cruelty. He has shewn, that malevolence is progressive in its operation, and that a man who begins life by impaling flies, will find a delight in torturing his fellow creatures before he closes it. We have heard that even at school these poetical propensities were strongly manifested in Lord Byron, and that he began his satirical career against those persons to whom the formation of his mind was entrusted. From his schoolmaster he turned the œstrum of his opening genius to his guardian and uncle, the Earl of Carlisle. We cannot believe that the Noble Person’s conduct has in this instance been a perfect contrast to the general tenor of his life. We have heard, that during his guardianship he tripled the amount of his nephew’s fortune. If the Earl of Carlisle was satisfied with his own conscia mens recti, if he wanted no thanks, he must at least have been much surprised to find such attentions and services rewarded with a libel, in which not only his literary accomplishments, but his bodily infirmities, were made the subject of public ridicule. The Noble Earl was certainly at liberty to treat such personal attacks with the contempt which they deserve, but since his Sovereign is become the object of a vile and unprovoked libel, he will no doubt draw the attention of his Peers to a new case of outrage to good order and government, which has been unfortunately furnished by his own nephew.
III: The Sun
(1) The Sun, February 4, 1814.
That poetical Peer, Lord Byron, knowing full well that anything insulting to his Prince or injurious to his country would be most thankfully received and published by the Mor
ning Chronicle, did in March, 1812, send the following loyal and patriotic lines to that loyal and patriotic Paper, in which of course they appeared: “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!
“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!”
These lines the Morning Chronicle, in the following paragraph of yesterday, informs us were aimed at the Prince Regent, and addressed to the Princess Charlotte:
“The Courier is indignant at the discovery now made by Lord Byron, that he was the author of ‘the Verses to a Young Lady weeping,’ which were inserted about a twelvemonth ago in the Morning Chronicle. The Editor thinks it audacious in a hereditary Counsellor of the King to admonish the Heir Apparent. It may not be courtly, but it is certainly British, and we wish the kingdom had more such honest advisers.”
No wonder the Courier, and every loyal man, should be indignant at the discovery (made by the republication of these worthless lines, in the Noble Lord’s new Volume) that this gross insult came from the pen of “a hereditary Counsellor of the King! “No wonder every good subject should execrate this novel and disagreeable mode of “admonishing the Heir Apparent,” which is further from being British than it is from being Courtly; for, from Courtier baseness may be expected, but from a Briton no such infamous dereliction of his duty as is involved in a malignant, anonymous attack by a Peer of the Realm upon the person exercising the Sovereign Authority of his Country. But the assertions of Lord Byron are as false as they are audacious. What was the “Sire’s Disgrace” to be thus bewept? He preferred the independence of the Crown to the arrogant dictation of a haughty Aristocracy, who desired to hold him in Leading-strings. It was then, amid a “Realm’s (fancied) decay,” because this Faction were not admitted to supreme power, that his Royal Highness’s early friends drunk his health in contemptuous silence, while their more vulgar partizans “at the lower end of the Hall” hissed and hooted the royal name. But mark the reverse since March, 1812, a reverse which it might have been thought would have induced the Noble Lord, from prudent motives, to have withheld this ill-timed publication! How is his Royal Highness’s health toasted now? With universal shouts and acclamations. Treason itself dare not interpose a single discordant sound save in its own private orgies! Where is now the realm’s decay? oh short-sighted prognosticators of the prophecies! look around, and dread the fate of the speakers of falsehood among the Jews of old, who were stoned to death by the people! The wide world furnishes the answer to your selfish croakings, and tells Lord Byron that he is destitute of at least one of the qualities of an inspired Bard.