Chapter 13

Rail on, Rail on, ye heartless crew! My strains were never meant for you; Remorseless Rancour still reveal, And damn the verse you cannot feel. Invoke those kindred passions' aid, Whose baleful stings your breasts pervade; Crush, if you can, the hopes of youth, Trampling regardless on the Truth: Truth's Records you consult in vain, She will not blast her native strain; She will assist her votary's cause, His will at least be her applause, Your prayer the gentle Power will spurn; To Fiction's motley altar turn, Who joyful in the fond address Her favoured worshippers will bless: And lo! she holds a magic glass, Where Images reflected pass, Bent on your knees the Boon receive-- This will assist you to deceive-- The glittering gift was made for you, Now hold it up to public view; Lest evil unforeseen betide, A Mask each canker'd brow shall hide, (Whilst Truth my sole desire is nigh, Prepared the danger to defy,) "There is the Maid's perverted name, And there the Poet's guilty Flame, Gloaming a deep phosphoric fire, Threatening--but ere it spreads, retire. Says Truth Up Virgins, do not fear! The Comet rolls its Influence here; 'Tis Scandal's Mirror you perceive, These dazzling Meteors but deceive-- Approach and touch--Nay do not turn It blazes there, but will not burn."-- At once the shivering Mirror flies, Teeming no more with varnished Lies; The baffled friends of Fiction start, Too late desiring to depart-- Truth poising high Ithuriel's spear Bids every Fiend unmask'd appear, The vizard tears from every face, And dooms them to a dire disgrace. For e'er they compass their escape, Each takes perforce a native shape-- The Leader of the wrathful Band, Behold a portly Female stand! She raves, impelled by private pique, This mean unjust revenge to seek; From vice to save this virtuous Age, Thus does she vent indecent rage! What child has she of promise fair, Who claims a fostering Mother's care? Whose Innocence requires defence, Or forms at least a smooth pretence, Thus to disturb a harmless Boy, His humble hope, and peace annoy? She need not fear the amorous rhyme, Love will not tempt her future time, For her his wings have ceased to spread, No more he flutters round her head; Her day's Meridian now is past, The clouds of Age her Sun o'ercast; To her the strain was never sent, For feeling Souls alone 'twas meant-- The verse she seized, unask'd, unbade, And damn'd, ere yet the whole was read! Yes! for one single erring verse, Pronounced an unrelenting Curse; Yes! at a first and transient view, Condemned a heart she never knew.-- Can such a verdict then decide, Which springs from disappointed pride? Without a wondrous share of Wit, To judge is such a Matron fit? The rest of the censorious throng Who to this zealous Band belong, To her a general homage pay, And right or wrong her wish obey: Why should I point my pen of steel To break "such flies upon the wheel?" With minds to Truth and Sense unknown, Who dare not call their words their own. Rail on, Rail on, ye heartless Crew! Your Leader's grand design pursue: Secure behind her ample shield, Yours is the harvest of the field.-- My path with thorns you cannot strew, Nay more, my warmest thanks are due; When such as you revile my Name, Bright beams the rising Sun of Fame, Chasing the shades of envious night, Outshining every critic Light.-- Such, such as you will serve to show Each radiant tint with higher glow. Vain is the feeble cheerless toil, Your efforts on yourselves recoil; Then Glory still for me you raise, Yours is the Censure, mine the Praise.

BYRON,

December 1, 1806.

[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time printed.

There can be little doubt that these verses were called forth by the criticisms passed on the "Fugitive Pieces" by certain ladies of Southwell, concerning whom, Byron wrote to Mr. Pigot (Jan. 13, 1807), on sending him an early copy of the 'Poems',

"That 'unlucky' poem to my poor Mary has been the cause of some animadversion from 'ladies in years'. I have not printed it in this collection in consequence of my being pronounced a most 'profligate sinner', in short a ''young Moore''"

'Life', p. 41.]

SOLILOQUY OF A BARD IN THE COUNTRY. [1]

'Twas now the noon of night, and all was still, Except a hapless Rhymer and his quill. In vain he calls each Muse in order down, Like other females, these will sometimes frown; He frets, be fumes, and ceasing to invoke The Nine, in anguish'd accents thus he spoke: Ah what avails it thus to waste my time, To roll in Epic, or to rave in Rhyme? What worth is some few partial readers' praise. If ancient Virgins croaking 'censures' raise? Where few attend, 'tis useless to indite; Where few can read, 'tis folly sure to write; Where none but girls and striplings dare admire, And Critics rise in every country Squire-- But yet this last my candid Muse admits, When Peers are Poets, Squires may well be Wits; When schoolboys vent their amorous flames in verse, Matrons may sure their characters asperse; And if a little parson joins the train, And echos back his Patron's voice again-- Though not delighted, yet I must forgive, Parsons as well as other folks must live:-- From rage he rails not, rather say from dread, He does not speak for Virtue, but for bread; And this we know is in his Patron's giving, For Parsons cannot eat without a 'Living'. The Matron knows I love the Sex too well, Even unprovoked aggression to repel. What though from private pique her anger grew, And bade her blast a heart she never knew? What though, she said, for one light heedless line, That Wilmot's [2] verse was far more pure than mine! In wars like these, I neither fight nor fly, When 'dames' accuse 'tis bootless to deny; Her's be the harvest of the martial field, I can't attack, where Beauty forms the shield. But when a pert Physician loudly cries, Who hunts for scandal, and who lives by lies, A walking register of daily news, Train'd to invent, and skilful to abuse-- For arts like these at bounteous tables fed, When S----condemns a book he never read. Declaring with a coxcomb's native air, The 'moral's' shocking, though the 'rhymes' are fair. Ah! must he rise unpunish'd from the feast, Nor lash'd by vengeance into truth at least? Such lenity were more than Man's indeed! Those who condemn, should surely deign to read. Yet must I spare--nor thus my pen degrade, I quite forgot that scandal was his trade. For food and raiment thus the coxcomb rails, For those who fear his physic, like his _tales_. Why should his harmless censure seem offence? Still let him eat, although at my expense, And join the herd to Sense and Truth unknown, Who dare not call their very thoughts their own, And share with these applause, a godlike bribe, In short, do anything, except _prescribe_:-- For though in garb of Galen he appears, His practice is not equal to his years. Without improvement since he first began, A young Physician, though an ancient Man-- Now let me cease--Physician, Parson, Dame, Still urge your task, and if you can, defame. The humble offerings of my Muse destroy, And crush, oh! noble conquest! crush a Boy. What though some silly girls have lov'd the strain, And kindly bade me tune my Lyre again; What though some feeling, or some partial few, Nay, Men of Taste and Reputation too, Have deign'd to praise the firstlings of my Muse-- If _you_ your sanction to the theme refuse, If _you_ your great protection still withdraw, Whose Praise is Glory, and whose Voice is law! Soon must I fall an unresisting foe, A hapless victim yielding to the blow.-- Thus Pope by Curl and Dennis was destroyed, Thus Gray and Mason yield to furious Lloyd; [3] From Dryden, Milbourne [4] tears the palm away, And thus I fall, though meaner far than they. As in the field of combat, side by side, A Fabius and some noble Roman died.

Dec. 1806.

[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time printed.]

[Footnote 2: John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (1647-1680). His 'Poems' were published in the year of his death.]

[Footnote 3: Robert Lloyd (1733-1764). The following lines occur in the first of two odes to 'Obscurity and Oblivion'--parodies of the odes of Gray and Mason:--

"Heard ye the din of modern rhymers bray? It was cool M----n and warm G----y, Involv'd in tenfold smoke."]

[Footnote 4: The Rev. Luke Milbourne (died 1720) published, in 1698, his 'Notes on Dryden's Virgil', containing a venomous attack on Dryden. They are alluded to in 'The Dunciad', and also by Dr. Johnson, who wrote ('Life of Dryden'),

"His outrages seem to be the ebullitions of a mind agitated by stronger resentment than bad poetry can excite."]

L'AMITIÉ, EST L'AMOUR SANS AILES. [1]

1.

Why should my anxious breast repine, Because my youth is fled? Days of delight may still be mine; Affection is not dead. In tracing back the years of youth, One firm record, one lasting truth Celestial consolation brings; Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat, Where first my heart responsive beat,-- "Friendship is Love without his wings!"

2

Through few, but deeply chequer'd years, What moments have been mine! Now half obscured by clouds of tears, Now bright in rays divine; Howe'er my future doom be cast, My soul, enraptured with the past, To one idea fondly clings; Friendship! that thought is all thine own, Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone-- "Friendship is Love without his wings!"

3

Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave Their branches on the gale, Unheeded heaves a simple grave, Which tells the common tale; Round this unconscious schoolboys stray, Till the dull knell of childish play From yonder studious mansion rings; But here, whene'er my footsteps move, My silent tears too plainly prove, "Friendship is Love without his wings!"

4

Oh, Love! before thy glowing shrine, My early vows were paid; My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine, But these are now decay'd; For thine are pinions like the wind, No trace of thee remains behind, Except, alas! thy jealous stings. Away, away! delusive power, Thou shall not haunt my coming hour; Unless, indeed, without thy wings.

5

Seat of my youth! [2] thy distant spire Recalls each scene of joy; My bosom glows with former fire,-- In mind again a boy. Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill, Thy every path delights me still, Each flower a double fragrance flings; Again, as once, in converse gay, Each dear associate seems to say, "Friendship is Love without his wings!'

6.

My Lycus! [3] wherefore dost thou weep? Thy falling tears restrain; Affection for a time may sleep, But, oh, 'twill wake again. Think, think, my friend, when next we meet, Our long-wished interview, how sweet! From this my hope of rapture springs; While youthful hearts thus fondly swell, Absence my friend, can only tell, "Friendship is Love without his wings!"

7.

In one, and one alone deceiv'd, Did I my error mourn? No--from oppressive bonds reliev'd, I left the wretch to scorn. I turn'd to those my childhood knew, With feelings warm, with bosoms true, Twin'd with my heart's according strings; And till those vital chords shall break, For none but these my breast shall wake Friendship, the power deprived of wings!

8

Ye few! my soul, my life is yours, My memory and my hope; Your worth a lasting love insures, Unfetter'd in its scope; From smooth deceit and terror sprung, With aspect fair and honey'd tongue, Let Adulation wait on kings; With joy elate, by snares beset, We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget, "Friendship is Love without his wings!"

9

Fictions and dreams inspire the bard, Who rolls the epic song; Friendship and truth be my reward-- To me no bays belong; If laurell'd Fame but dwells with lies, Me the enchantress ever flies, Whose heart and not whose fancy sings; Simple and young, I dare not feign; Mine be the rude yet heartfelt strain, "Friendship is Love without his wings!"

December 29, 1806. [First published, 1832.]

[Footnote 1: The MS. is preserved at Newstead.]

[Footnote 2: Harrow.]

[Footnote 3: Lord Clare had written to Byron,

"I think by your last letter that you are very much piqued with most of your friends, and, if I am not much mistaken, a little so with me. In one part you say,

'There is little or no doubt a few years or months will render us as politely indifferent to each other, as if we had never passed a portion of our time together.'

Indeed, Byron, you wrong me; and I have no doubt, at least I hope, you are wrong yourself."

'Life', p. 25.]

THE PRAYER OF NATURE. [1]

1

Father of Light! great God of Heaven! Hear'st thou the accents of despair? Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven? Can vice atone for crimes by prayer?

2

Father of Light, on thee I call! Thou see'st my soul is dark within; Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall, Avert from me the death of sin.

3

No shrine I seek, to sects unknown; Oh, point to me the path of truth! Thy dread Omnipotence I own; Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth.

4

Let bigots rear a gloomy fane, Let Superstition hail the pile, Let priests, to spread their sable reign, With tales of mystic rites beguile.

5

Shall man confine his Maker's sway To Gothic domes of mouldering stone? Thy temple is the face of day; Earth, Ocean, Heaven thy boundless throne.

6

Shall man condemn his race to Hell, Unless they bend in pompous form? Tell us that all, for one who fell, Must perish in the mingling storm?

7

Shall each pretend to reach the skies, Yet doom his brother to expire, Whose soul a different hope supplies, Or doctrines less severe inspire?

8

Shall these, by creeds they can't expound, Prepare a fancied bliss or woe? Shall reptiles, groveling on the ground, Their great Creator's purpose know?

9

Shall those, who live for self alone, [i] Whose years float on in daily crime-- Shall they, by Faith, for guilt atone, And live beyond the bounds of Time?

10

Father! no prophet's laws I seek,-- _Thy_ laws in Nature's works appear;-- I own myself corrupt and weak, Yet will I _pray_, for thou wilt hear!

11

Thou, who canst guide the wandering star, Through trackless realms of aether's space; Who calm'st the elemental war, Whose hand from pole to pole I trace:

12

Thou, who in wisdom plac'd me here, Who, when thou wilt, canst take me hence, Ah! whilst I tread this earthly sphere, Extend to me thy wide defence.

13

To Thee, my God, to thee I call! Whatever weal or woe betide, By thy command I rise or fall, In thy protection I confide.

14.

If, when this dust to dust's restor'd, My soul shall float on airy wing, How shall thy glorious Name ador'd Inspire her feeble voice to sing!

15

But, if this fleeting spirit share With clay the Grave's eternal bed, While Life yet throbs I raise my prayer, Though doom'd no more to quit the dead.

16

To Thee I breathe my humble strain, Grateful for all thy mercies past, And hope, my God, to thee again [ii] This erring life may fly at last.

December 29, 1806.

[Footnote 1: These stanzas were first published in Moore's 'Letters and Journals of Lord Byron', 1830, i. 106.]

[Footnote i:

Shalt these who live for self alone, Whose years fleet on in daily crime-- Shall these by Faith for guilt atone, Exist beyond the bounds of Time?

['MS. Newstead'.]]

[Footnote ii:

My hope, my God, in thee again This erring life will fly at last.

['MS. Newstead']]

TRANSLATION FROM ANACREON. [1]

[Greek: Eis rodon.]

ODE 5

Mingle with the genial bowl The Rose, the 'flow'ret' of the Soul, The Rose and Grape together quaff'd, How doubly sweet will be the draught! With Roses crown our jovial brows, While every cheek with Laughter glows; While Smiles and Songs, with Wine incite, To wing our moments with Delight. Rose by far the fairest birth, Which Spring and Nature cull from Earth-- Rose whose sweetest perfume given, Breathes our thoughts from Earth to Heaven. Rose whom the Deities above, From Jove to Hebe, dearly love, When Cytherea's blooming Boy, Flies lightly through the dance of Joy, With him the Graces then combine, And rosy wreaths their locks entwine. Then will I sing divinely crown'd, With dusky leaves my temples bound-- Lyæus! in thy bowers of pleasure, I'll wake a wildly thrilling measure. There will my gentle Girl and I, Along the mazes sportive fly, Will bend before thy potent throne-- Rose, Wine, and Beauty, all my own.

1805.

[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time printed,]

OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN IN "CARTHON." [1]

Oh! thou that roll'st above thy glorious Fire, Round as the shield which grac'd my godlike Sire, Whence are the beams, O Sun! thy endless blaze, Which far eclipse each minor Glory's rays? Forth in thy Beauty here thou deign'st to shine! Night quits her car, the twinkling stars decline; Pallid and cold the Moon descends to cave Her sinking beams beneath the Western wave; But thou still mov'st alone, of light the Source-- Who can o'ertake thee in thy fiery course? Oaks of the mountains fall, the rocks decay, Weighed down with years the hills dissolve away. A certain space to yonder Moon is given, She rises, smiles, and then is lost in Heaven. Ocean in sullen murmurs ebbs and flows, But thy bright beam unchanged for ever glows! When Earth is darkened with tempestuous skies, When Thunder shakes the sphere and Lightning flies, Thy face, O Sun, no rolling blasts deform, Thou look'st from clouds and laughest at the Storm. To Ossian, Orb of Light! thou look'st in vain, Nor cans't thou glad his agèd eyes again, Whether thy locks in Orient Beauty stream, Or glimmer through the West with fainter gleam-- But thou, perhaps, like me with age must bend; Thy season o'er, thy days will find their end, No more yon azure vault with rays adorn, Lull'd in the clouds, nor hear the voice of Morn. Exult, O Sun, in all thy youthful strength! Age, dark unlovely Age, appears at length, As gleams the moonbeam through the broken cloud While mountain vapours spread their misty shroud-- The Northern tempest howls along at last, And wayworn strangers shrink amid the blast. Thou rolling Sun who gild'st those rising towers, Fair didst thou shine upon my earlier hours! I hail'd with smiles the cheering rays of Morn, My breast by no tumultuous Passion torn-- Now hateful are thy beams which wake no more The sense of joy which thrill'd my breast before; Welcome thou cloudy veil of nightly skies, To thy bright canopy the mourner flies: Once bright, thy Silence lull'd my frame to rest, And Sleep my soul with gentle visions blest; Now wakeful Grief disdains her mild controul, Dark is the night, but darker is my Soul. Ye warring Winds of Heav'n your fury urge, To me congenial sounds your wintry Dirge: Swift as your wings my happier days have past, Keen as your storms is Sorrow's chilling blast; To Tempests thus expos'd my Fate has been, Piercing like yours, like yours, alas! unseen.

1805.

[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time printed. (See 'Ossian's Poems', London, 1819, pp. xvii. 119.)]

PIGNUS AMORIS. [1]

1

As by the fix'd decrees of Heaven, 'Tis vain to hope that Joy can last; The dearest boon that Life has given, To me is--visions of the past.

2.

For these this toy of blushing hue I prize with zeal before unknown, It tells me of a Friend I knew, Who loved me for myself alone.

3.

It tells me what how few can say Though all the social tie commend; Recorded in my heart 'twill lay, [2] It tells me mine was once a Friend.

4.

Through many a weary day gone by, With time the gift is dearer grown; And still I view in Memory's eye That teardrop sparkle through my own.

5.

And heartless Age perhaps will smile, Or wonder whence those feelings sprung; Yet let not sterner souls revile, For Both were open, Both were young.

6.

And Youth is sure the only time, When Pleasure blends no base alloy; When Life is blest without a crime, And Innocence resides with Joy.

7

Let those reprove my feeble Soul, Who laugh to scorn Affection's name; While these impose a harsh controul, All will forgive who feel the same.

8

Then still I wear my simple toy, With pious care from wreck I'll save it; And this will form a dear employ For dear I was to him who gave it.

? 1806.

[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time printed.]

[Footnote 2: For the irregular use of "lay" for "lie," compare "The Adieu" (st. 10, 1. 4, p. 241), and the much-disputed line, "And dashest him to earth--there let him lay" ('Childe Harold', canto iv. st. 180).]

A WOMAN'S HAIR. [1]

Oh! little lock of golden hue In gently waving ringlet curl'd, By the dear head on which you grew, I would not lose you for _a world_.

Not though a thousand more adorn The polished brow where once you shone, Like rays which guild a cloudless sky [i] Beneath Columbia's fervid zone.

1806.

[Footnote 1: These lines are preserved in MS. at Newstead, with the following memorandum in Miss Pigot's handwriting: "Copied from the fly-leaf in a vol. of my Burns' books, which is written in pencil by himself." They have hitherto been printed as stanzas 5 and 6 of the lines "To a Lady," etc., p. 212.]

[Footnote i:

_a cloudless morn_.

['Ed'. 1832.]

STANZAS TO JESSY. [1]

1

There is a mystic thread of life So dearly wreath'd with mine alone, That Destiny's relentless knife At once must sever both, or none.

2

There is a Form on which these eyes Have fondly gazed with such delight-- By day, that Form their joy supplies, And Dreams restore it, through the night.

3

There is a Voice whose tones inspire Such softened feelings in my breast, [i]-- I would not hear a Seraph Choir, Unless that voice could join the rest.

4

There is a Face whose Blushes tell Affection's tale upon the cheek, But pallid at our fond farewell, Proclaims more love than words can speak.

5

There is a Lip, which mine has prest, But none had ever prest before; It vowed to make me sweetly blest, That mine alone should press it more. [ii]

6

There is a Bosom all my own, Has pillow'd oft this aching head, A Mouth which smiles on me alone, An Eye, whose tears with mine are shed.

7

There are two Hearts whose movements thrill, In unison so closely sweet, That Pulse to Pulse responsive still They Both must heave, or cease to beat.

8

There are two Souls, whose equal flow In gentle stream so calmly run, That when they part--they part?--ah no! They cannot part--those Souls are One.

[GEORGE GORDON, LORD] BYRON.