Chapter 16

1.

Fill the goblet again! for I never before Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core; Let us drink!--who would not?--since, through life's varied round, In the goblet alone no deception is found.

2.

I have tried in its turn all that life can supply; I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye; I have lov'd!--who has not?--but what heart can declare That Pleasure existed while Passion was there?

3.

In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its spring, And dreams that Affection can never take wing, I had friends!--who has not?--but what tongue will avow, That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou?

4.

The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, Friendship shifts with the sunbeam--thou never canst change; Thou grow'st old--who does not?--but on earth what appears, Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years?

5.

Yet if blest to the utmost that Love can bestow, Should a rival bow down to our idol below, We are jealous!--who's not?--thou hast no such alloy; For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy.

6.

Then the season of youth and its vanities past, For refuge we fly to the goblet at last; There we find--do we not?--in the flow of the soul, That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl.

7.

When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth, And Misery's triumph commenc'd over Mirth, Hope was left,--was she not?--but the goblet we kiss, And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss.

8.

Long life to the grape! for when summer is flown, The age of our nectar shall gladden our own: We must die--who shall not?--May our sins be forgiven, And Hebe shall never be idle in Heaven.

[First published, 1809.]

[Footnote i:

'Song'.

['Imit. and Transl'., p. 204.]

STANZAS TO A LADY, ON LEAVING ENGLAND. [i]

1.

Tis done--and shivering in the gale The bark unfurls her snowy sail; And whistling o'er the bending mast, Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast; And I must from this land be gone, Because I cannot love but one.

2.

But could I be what I have been, And could I see what I have seen-- Could I repose upon the breast Which once my warmest wishes blest-- I should not seek another zone, Because I cannot love but one.

3.

'Tis long since I beheld that eye Which gave me bliss or misery; And I have striven, but in vain, Never to think of it again: For though I fly from Albion, I still can only love but one.

4.

As some lone bird, without a mate, My weary heart is desolate; I look around, and cannot trace One friendly smile or welcome face, And ev'n in crowds am still alone, Because I cannot love but one.

5.

And I will cross the whitening foam, And I will seek a foreign home; Till I forget a false fair face, I ne'er shall find a resting-place; My own dark thoughts I cannot shun, But ever love, and love but one.

6.

The poorest, veriest wretch on earth Still finds some hospitable hearth, Where Friendship's or Love's softer glow May smile in joy or soothe in woe; But friend or leman I have none, [ii] Because I cannot love but one.

7.

I go--but wheresoe'er I flee There's not an eye will weep for me; There's not a kind congenial heart, Where I can claim the meanest part; Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone, Wilt sigh, although I love but one.

8.

To think of every early scene, Of what we are, and what we've been, Would whelm some softer hearts with woe-- But mine, alas! has stood the blow; Yet still beats on as it begun, And never truly loves but one.

9.

And who that dear lov'd one may be, Is not for vulgar eyes to see; And why that early love was cross'd, Thou know'st the best, I feel the most; But few that dwell beneath the sun Have loved so long, and loved but one.

10.

I've tried another's fetters too, With charms perchance as fair to view; And I would fain have loved as well, But some unconquerable spell Forbade my bleeding breast to own A kindred care for aught but one.

11.

'Twould soothe to take one lingering view, And bless thee in my last adieu; Yet wish I not those eyes to weep For him that wanders o'er the deep; His home, his hope, his youth are gone, [iii] Yet still he loves, and loves but one. [iv]

1809. [First published, 1809.]

[Footnote i:

'To Mrs. Musters.'

['MS.']

'To----on Leaving England.'

['Imit. and Transl.', p. 227.]

[Footnote ii:

'But friend or lover I have none'.

['Imit. and Transl'., p. 229.]]

[Footnote iii:

'Though wheresoever my bark may run, I love but thee, I love but one.'

['Imit. and Transl.', p. 230.]

'The land recedes his Bark is gone, Yet still he loves and laves but one.'

[MS.]

[Footnote iv:

'Yet far away he loves but one.'

[MS.]

ENGLISH BARDS, AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS;

A SATIRE.

BY

LORD BYRON.

"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 [1]

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, [2] 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 [3] 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.

[Footnote 1: The Preface, as it is here printed, was prefixed to the Second, Third, and Fourth Editions of 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers'. The preface to the First Edition began with the words, "With regard to the real talents," etc. The text of the poem follows that of the suppressed Fifth Edition, which passed under Byron's own supervision, and was to have been issued in 1812. From that Edition the Preface was altogether excluded.

In an annotated copy of the Fourth Edition, of 1811, underneath the note, "This preface was written for the Second Edition, and printed with it. The noble author had left this country previous to the publication of that Edition, and is not yet returned," Byron wrote, in 1816, "He is, and gone again."--MS. Notes from this volume, which is now in Mr. Murray's possession, are marked--B., 1816.]

[Footnote 2: John Cam Hobhouse.]

[Footnote 3: Preface to the First Edition.]

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 letter 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. [1]

Still [2] must I hear?--shall hoarse [3] 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. [i]

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! [ii] Once laid aside, but now assumed again, 20 Our task complete, like Hamet's [4] 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 [5] 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; [iii] When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, Bedecks her cap with bells of every Clime; [iv] 30 When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail, And weigh their Justice in a Golden Scale; [v] 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. [vi] 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 [vii] Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave: This LAMB [6] must own, since his patrician name Failed to preserve the spurious Farce from shame. [7] No matter, GEORGE continues still to write, [8] 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, [9] 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; [viii] 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. [10] 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; [11] 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, [12] why I venture o'er The path which POPE and GIFFORD [13] 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. [14]

Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days [15] 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; [16] 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. [ix] The loaded Press beneath her labour groans, [x] And Printers' devils shake their weary bones; While SOUTHEY'S Epics cram the creaking shelves, [xi] And LITTLE'S Lyrics shine in hot-pressed twelves. [17] Thus saith the _Preacher_: "Nought beneath the sun Is new," [18] yet still from change to change we run. 130 What varied wonders tempt us as they pass! The Cow-pox, Tractors, Galvanism, and Gas, [19] In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare, Till the swoln bubble bursts--and all is air! Nor less new schools of Poetry arise, Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize: O'er Taste awhile these Pseudo-bards prevail; [xii] Each country Book-club bows the knee to Baal, And, hurling lawful Genius from the throne, Erects a shrine and idol of its own; [xiii] 140 Some leaden calf--but whom it matters not, From soaring SOUTHEY, down to groveling STOTT. [20]

Behold! in various throngs the scribbling crew, For notice eager, pass in long review: Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace, And Rhyme and Blank maintain an equal race; Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode; And Tales of Terror [21] jostle on the road; Immeasurable measures move along; For simpering Folly loves a varied song, 150 To strange, mysterious Dulness still the friend, Admires the strain she cannot comprehend. Thus Lays of Minstrels [22]--may they be the last!-- On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast. While mountain spirits prate to river sprites, That dames may listen to the sound at nights; And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's [23] brood Decoy young Border-nobles through the wood, And skip at every step, Lord knows how high, And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why; 160 While high-born ladies in their magic cell, Forbidding Knights to read who cannot spell, Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave, And fight with honest men to shield a knave.

Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan, The golden-crested haughty Marmion, Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, Not quite a Felon, yet but half a Knight. [xiv] The gibbet or the field prepared to grace; A mighty mixture of the great and base. 170 And think'st thou, SCOTT! by vain conceit perchance, On public taste to foist thy stale romance, Though MURRAY with his MILLER may combine To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line? [24] No! when the sons of song descend to trade, Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade, Let such forego the poet's sacred name, Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame: Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain! [25] And sadly gaze on Gold they cannot gain! 180 Such be their meed, such still the just reward [xv] Of prostituted Muse and hireling bard! For this we spurn Apollo's venal son, And bid a long "good night to Marmion." [26]

These are the themes that claim our plaudits now; These are the Bards to whom the Muse must bow; While MILTON, DRYDEN, POPE, alike forgot, Resign their hallowed Bays to WALTER SCOTT.