Chapter 4

Chapter 43,802 wordsPublic domain

These locks, which fondly thus entwine, In firmer chains our hearts confine, Than all th' unmeaning protestations Which swell with nonsense, love orations. Our love is fix'd, I think we've prov'd it; Nor time, nor place, nor art have mov'd it; Then wherefore should we sigh and whine, With groundless jealousy repine; With silly whims, and fancies frantic, Merely to make our love romantic? Why should you weep, like _Lydia Languish_, And fret with self-created anguish? Or doom the lover you have chosen, On winter nights to sigh half frozen; In leafless shades, to sue for pardon, Only because the scene's a garden? For gardens seem, by one consent, (Since Shakespeare set the precedent; Since Juliet first declar'd her passion) To form the place of assignation. Oh! would some modern muse inspire, And seat her by a _sea-coal_ fire; Or had the bard at Christmas written, And laid the scene of love in Britain; He surely, in commiseration, Had chang'd the place of declaration. In Italy, I've no objection, Warm nights are proper for reflection; But here our climate is so rigid, That love itself, is rather frigid: Think on our chilly situation, And curb this rage for imitation. Then let us meet, as oft we've done, Beneath the influence of the sun; Or, if at midnight I must meet you, Within your mansion let me greet you: [i.] 'There', we can love for hours together, Much better, in such snowy weather, Than plac'd in all th' Arcadian groves, That ever witness'd rural loves; 'Then', if my passion fail to please, [ii.] Next night I'll be content to freeze; No more I'll give a loose to laughter, But curse my fate, for ever after. [2]

[Footnote 1: These lines are addressed to the same Mary referred to in the lines beginning, "This faint resemblance of thy charms." ('Vide ante', p. 32.)]

[Footnote 2: In the above little piece the author has been accused by some 'candid readers' of introducing the name of a lady [Julia Leacroft] from whom he was some hundred miles distant at the time this was written; and poor Juliet, who has slept so long in "the tomb of all the Capulets," has been converted, with a trifling alteration of her name, into an English damsel, walking in a garden of their own creation, during the month of 'December', in a village where the author never passed a winter. Such has been the candour of some ingenious critics. We would advise these 'liberal' commentators on taste and arbiters of decorum to read 'Shakespeare'.

Having heard that a very severe and indelicate censure has been passed on the above poem, I beg leave to reply in a quotation from an admired work, 'Carr's Stranger in France'.--"As we were contemplating a painting on a large scale, in which, among other figures, is the uncovered whole length of a warrior, a prudish-looking lady, who seemed to have touched the age of desperation, after having attentively surveyed it through her glass, observed to her party that there was a great deal of indecorum in that picture. Madame S. shrewdly whispered in my ear 'that the indecorum was in the remark.'"--[Ed. 1803, cap. xvi, p. 171. Compare the note on verses addressed "To a Knot of Ungenerous Critics," p. 213.]]

[Footnote i:

'Oh! let me in your chamber greet you.'

[4to]]

[Footnote ii:

'There if my passion'

[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions]]

TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER. [1]

Sweet girl! though only once we met, That meeting I shall ne'er forget; And though we ne'er may meet again, Remembrance will thy form retain; I would not say, "I love," but still, My senses struggle with my will: In vain to drive thee from my breast, My thoughts are more and more represt; In vain I check the rising sighs, Another to the last replies: Perhaps, this is not love, but yet, Our meeting I can ne'er forget.

What, though we never silence broke, Our eyes a sweeter language spoke; The tongue in flattering falsehood deals, And tells a tale it never feels: Deceit, the guilty lips impart, And hush the mandates of the heart; But soul's interpreters, the eyes, Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise. As thus our glances oft convers'd, And all our bosoms felt rehears'd, No _spirit_, from within, reprov'd us, Say rather, "'twas the _spirit mov'd_ us." Though, what they utter'd, I repress, Yet I conceive thou'lt partly guess; For as on thee, my memory ponders, Perchance to me, thine also wanders. This, for myself, at least, I'll say, Thy form appears through night, through day; Awake, with it my fancy teems, In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams; The vision charms the hours away, And bids me curse Aurora's ray For breaking slumbers of delight, Which make me wish for endless night. Since, oh! whate'er my future fate, Shall joy or woe my steps await; Tempted by love, by storms beset, Thine image, I can ne'er forget.

Alas! again no more we meet, No more our former looks repeat; Then, let me breathe this parting prayer, The dictate of my bosom's care: "May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker, That anguish never can o'ertake her; That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her, But bliss be aye her heart's partaker! Oh! may the happy mortal, fated [i] To be, by dearest ties, related, For _her_, each hour, _new joys_ discover, [ii] And lose the husband in the lover! May that fair bosom never know What 'tis to feel the restless woe, Which stings the soul, with vain regret, Of him, who never can forget!"

1806.

[Footnote 1:

_Whom the author saw at Harrowgate_.

Annotated copy of 'P. on V. Occasions', p. 64 (British Museum).]

[Footnote i: The Quarto inserts the following lines:--

_"No jealous passion shall invade, No envy that pure heart pervade;" For he that revels in such charms, Can never seek another's arms._]

[Footnote ii:

new joy _discover_.

[4to]]

TO LESBIA! [i] [1]

LESBIA! since far from you I've rang'd, [ii] Our souls with fond affection glow not; You say, 'tis I, not you, have chang'd, I'd tell you why,--but yet I know not.

Your polish'd brow no cares have crost; And Lesbia! we are not much older, [iii] Since, trembling, first my heart I lost, Or told my love, with hope grown bolder.

Sixteen was then our utmost age, Two years have lingering pass'd away, love! And now new thoughts our minds engage, At least, I feel disposed to stray, love!

"Tis _I_ that am alone to blame, _I_, that am guilty of love's treason; Since your sweet breast is still the same, Caprice must be my only reason.

I do not, love! suspect your truth, With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not; Warm was the passion of my youth, One trace of dark deceit it leaves not.

No, no, my flame was not pretended; For, oh! I lov'd you most sincerely; And though our dream at last is ended My bosom still esteems you dearly.

No more we meet in yonder bowers; Absence has made me prone to roving; [iv] But older, firmer _hearts_ than ours Have found monotony in loving.

Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd, New beauties, still, are daily bright'ning, Your eye, for conquest beams prepar'd, [v] The forge of love's resistless lightning.

Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed, Many will throng, to sigh like me, love! More constant they may prove, indeed; Fonder, alas! they ne'er can be, love!

1806.

[Footnote 1: "The lady's name was Julia Leacroft" ('Note by Miss E. Pigot'). The word "Julia" (?) is added, in a lady's hand, in the annotated copy of 'P. on V. Occasions', p. 52 (British Museum)]

[Footnote i: 'To Julia'. [4to]]

[Footnote ii: 'Julia since'. [4to]]

[Footnote iii: 'And Julia'. [4to]]

[Footnote iv:

_Perhaps my soul's too pure for roving_.

[4to]]

[Footnote v:

_Your eye for conquest comes prepar'd_.

[4to]]

TO WOMAN.

Woman! experience might have told me [i] That all must love thee, who behold thee: Surely experience might have taught Thy firmest promises are nought; [ii] But, plac'd in all thy charms before me, All I forget, but to _adore_ thee. Oh memory! thou choicest blessing, When join'd with hope, when still possessing; [iii] But how much curst by every lover When hope is fled, and passion's over. Woman, that fair and fond deceiver, How prompt are striplings to believe her! How throbs the pulse, when first we view The eye that rolls in glossy blue, Or sparkles black, or mildly throws A beam from under hazel brows! How quick we credit every oath, And hear her plight the willing troth! Fondly we hope 'twill last for ay, When, lo! she changes in a day. This record will for ever stand,' "Woman, thy vows are trac'd in sand." [1] [iv]

[Footnote i:

_Surely, experience_.

[4to]]

[Footnote ii:

_A woman's promises are naught_.

[4to]]

[Footnote iii: Here follows, in the Quarto, an additional couplet:--

_Thou whisperest, as our hearts are beating, "What oft we've done, we're still repeating_,"]

[Footnote iv:

_This Record will for ever stand That Woman's vows are writ in sand_.

[4to]]

[Footnote 1: The last line is almost a literal translation from a Spanish proverb.

(The last line is not "almost a literal translation from a Spanish proverb," but an adaptation of part of a stanza from the 'Diana' of Jorge de Montemajor--

"Mirà, el Amor, lo que ordena; Que os viene a hazer creer Cosas dichas por muger, Y escriptas en el arena."

Southey, in his 'Letters from Spain', 1797, pp. 87-91, gives a specimen of the 'Diana', and renders the lines in question thus--

"And Love beheld us from his secret stand, And mark'd his triumph, laughing, to behold me, To see me trust a writing traced in sand, To see me credit what a woman told me."

Byron, who at this time had little or no knowledge of Spanish literature, seems to have been struck with Southey's paraphrase, and compressed the quatrain into an epigram.]

AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE,

DELIVERED BY THE AUTHOR PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE OF "THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE" AT A PRIVATE THEATRE. [1]

Since the refinement of this polish'd age Has swept immoral raillery from the stage; Since taste has now expung'd licentious wit, Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ; Since, now, to please with purer scenes we seek, Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek; Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim, And meet indulgence--though she find not fame. Still, not for _her_ alone, we wish respect, [i] _Others_ appear more conscious of defect: To-night no _vet'ran Roscii_ you behold, In all the arts of scenic action old; No COOKE, no KEMBLE, can salute you here, No SIDDONS draw the sympathetic tear; To-night you throng to witness the _début_ Of embryo Actors, to the Drama new: Here, then, our almost unfledg'd wings we try; Clip not our _pinions_, ere the _birds can fly_: Failing in this our first attempt to soar, Drooping, alas! we fall to rise no more. Not one poor trembler, only, fear betrays, Who hopes, yet almost dreads to meet your praise; But all our Dramatis Personæ wait, In fond suspense this crisis of their fate. No venal views our progress can retard, Your generous plaudits are our sole reward; For these, each _Hero_ all his power displays, [ii] Each timid _Heroine_ shrinks before your gaze: Surely the last will some protection find? [iii] None, to the softer sex, can prove unkind: While Youth and Beauty form the female shield, [iv] The sternest Censor to the fair must yield. [v] Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail, Should, _after all_, our best endeavours fail; Still, let some mercy in your bosoms live, And, if you can't applaud, at least _forgive_.

[Footnote 1. "I enacted Penruddock, in 'The Wheel of Fortune', and Tristram Fickle, in the farce of 'The Weathercock', for three nights, in some private theatricals at Southwell, in 1806, with great applause. The occasional prologue for our volunteer play was also of my composition."--'Diary; Life', p. 38. The prologue was written by him, between stages, on his way from Harrogate. On getting into the carriage at Chesterfield, he said to his companion, "Now, Pigot, I'll spin a prologue for our play;" and before they reached Mansfield he had completed his task,--interrupting only once his rhyming reverie, to ask the proper pronunciation of the French word 'début'; and, on being told it, exclaiming, "Aye, that will do for rhyme to ''new'.'"--'Life', p. 39. "The Prologue was spoken by G. Wylde, Esq."--Note by Miss E. PIGOT.]

[Footnote i. _But not for her alone_.--[4to]

[Footnote ii: _For them each Hero_.--[4to]]

[Footnote iii: _Surely these last_.--[4to]]

[Footnote iv: _Whilst Youth_.--[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]

[Footnote v: _The sternest critic_.--[4to]]

TO ELIZA. [i]

Eliza! [1] what fools are the Mussulman sect, Who, to woman, deny the soul's future existence; Could they see thee, Eliza! they'd own their defect, And this doctrine would meet with a general resistance. [ii]

Had their Prophet possess'd half an atom of sense, [iii] He ne'er would have _woman_ from Paradise driven; Instead of his _Houris_, a flimsy pretence, [iv] With _woman alone_ he had peopled his Heaven.

Yet, still, to increase your calamities more, [v] Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit, He allots one poor husband to share amongst four! [vi]-- With _souls_ you'd dispense; but, this last, who could bear it?

His religion to please neither party is made; On _husbands_ 'tis _hard_, to the wives most uncivil; Still I can't contradict, [vii] what so oft has been said, "Though women are angels, yet wedlock's the devil."

This terrible truth, even Scripture has told, [2] Ye Benedicks! hear me, and listen with rapture; If a glimpse of redemption you wish to behold, Of ST. MATT.--read the second and twentieth chapter.

'Tis surely enough upon earth to be vex'd, With wives who eternal confusion are spreading; "But in Heaven" (so runs the Evangelists' Text) "We neither have giving in marriage, or wedding."

From this we suppose, (as indeed well we may,) That should Saints after death, with their spouses put up more, And wives, as in life, aim at absolute sway, All Heaven would ring with the conjugal uproar.

Distraction and Discord would follow in course, Nor MATTHEW, nor MARK, nor ST. PAUL, can deny it, The only expedient is general divorce, To prevent universal disturbance and riot.

But though husband and wife, shall at length be disjoin'd, Yet woman and man ne'er were meant to dissever, Our chains once dissolv'd, and our hearts unconfin'd, We'll love without bonds, but we'll love you for ever.

10.

Though souls are denied you by fools and by rakes, Should you own it yourselves, I would even then doubt you, Your nature so much of _celestial_ partakes, The Garden of Eden would wither without you.

Southwell, _October_ 9, 1806.

[Footnote 1: The letters "E. B. P." are added, in a lady's hand, in the annotated copy of _P. on V. Occasions_, p. 26 (_British Museum_). The initials stand for Miss Elizabeth Pigot.]

[Footnote 2: Stanzas 5-10, which appear in the Quarto, were never reprinted.]

[Footnote i:

_To Miss E. P._ [4to] _To Miss_---. [_P. on V. Occasions._]]

[Footnote ii:

_Did they know but yourself they would bend with respect, And this doctrine must meet_---.

[_MS. Newstead_.]]

[Footnote iii: _But an atom of sense_. [4to]]

[Footnote iv: _But instead of his_ Houris. [4to]]

[Footnote v: _But still to increase_. [4to]]

[Footnote vi: _He allots but one husband. [4to]]

[Footnote vii: _But I can't---._ [4to]]

THE TEAR.

O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater Felix! in imo qui scatentem Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit. [1]

GRAY, 'Alcaic Fragment'.

When Friendship or Love Our sympathies move; When Truth, in a glance, should appear, The lips may beguile, With a dimple or smile, But the test of affection's a _Tear_.

Too oft is a smile But the hypocrite's wile, To mask detestation, or fear; Give me the soft sigh, Whilst the soul-telling eye Is dimm'd, for a time, with a _Tear_.

Mild Charity's glow, To us mortals below, Shows the soul from barbarity clear; Compassion will melt, Where this virtue is felt, And its dew is diffused in a _Tear_.

The man, doom'd to sail With the blast of the gale, Through billows Atlantic to steer, As he bends o'er the wave Which may soon be his grave, The green sparkles bright with a _Tear_.

The Soldier braves death For a fanciful wreath In Glory's romantic career; But he raises the foe When in battle laid low, And bathes every wound with a _Tear_.

If, with high-bounding pride,[i] He return to his bride! Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear; All his toils are repaid When, embracing the maid, From her eyelid he kisses the _Tear_.

Sweet scene of my youth! [2] Seat of Friendship and Truth, Where Love chas'd each fast-fleeting year; Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd, For a last look I turn'd, But thy spire was scarce seen through a _Tear_.

Though my vows I can pour, To my Mary no more, [3] My Mary, to Love once so dear, In the shade of her bow'r, I remember the hour, She rewarded those vows with a _Tear_.

By another possest, May she live ever blest! Her name still my heart must revere: With a sigh I resign, What I once thought was mine, And forgive her deceit with a _Tear_.

10.

Ye friends of my heart, Ere from you I depart, This hope to my breast is most near: If again we shall meet, In this rural retreat, May we _meet_, as we _part_, with a _Tear_.

11.

When my soul wings her flight To the regions of night, And my corse shall recline on its bier; [ii] As ye pass by the tomb, Where my ashes consume, Oh! moisten their dust with a _Tear_.

12.

May no marble bestow The splendour of woe, Which the children of Vanity rear; No fiction of fame Shall blazon my name, All I ask, all I wish, is a _Tear_.

October 26, 1806. [iii]

[Footnote 1: The motto was prefixed in 'Hours of Idleness'.]

[Footnote 2: Harrow.]

[Footnote 3: Miss Chaworth was married in 1805.]

[Footnote i:

_When with high-bounding pride, He returns_----.

[4to]]

[Footnote ii:

_And my body shall sleep on its bier_.

[4to. _P. on V. Occasions_.]]

[Footnote iii:

BYRON, October 26, 1806.

[4to]]

REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J. M. B. PIGOT, ESQ., ON THE CRUELTY OF HIS MISTRESS. [1]

Why, Pigot, complain Of this damsel's disdain, Why thus in despair do you fret? For months you may try, Yet, believe me, a _sigh_ [i] Will never obtain a _coquette_.

Would you teach her to love? For a time seem to rove; At first she may _frown_ in a _pet;_ But leave her awhile, She shortly will smile, And then you may _kiss_ your _coquette_.

For such are the airs Of these fanciful fairs, They think all our _homage_ a _debt_: Yet a partial neglect [ii] Soon takes an effect, And humbles the proudest _coquette_.

Dissemble your pain, And lengthen your chain, And seem her _hauteur_ to _regret;_ [iii] If again you shall sigh, She no more will deny, That _yours_ is the rosy _coquette_.

If still, from false pride, [iv] Your pangs she deride, This whimsical virgin forget; Some _other_ admire, Who will _melt_ with your _fire_, And laugh at the _little coquette_.

For _me_, I adore Some _twenty_ or more, And love them most dearly; but yet, Though my heart they enthral, I'd abandon them all, Did they act like your blooming _coquette_.

No longer repine, Adopt this design, [v] And break through her slight-woven net! Away with despair, No longer forbear To fly from the captious _coquette_.

Then quit her, my friend! Your bosom defend, Ere quite with her snares you're beset: Lest your deep-wounded heart, When incens'd by the smart, Should lead you to _curse_ the _coquette_.

October 27, 1806. [vi]

[Footnote 1: The letters "C. B. F. J. B. M." are added, in a lady's hand, in the annotated copy of 'P. on V. Occasions', p. 14 (British Museum).]

[Footnote i: _But believe me_. [4to]]

[Footnote ii: _But a partial_. [4to]]

[Footnote iii: _Nor seem_. [4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]]

[Footnote iv: _But if from false pride._ [4to]]

[Footnote v: _But form this design._ [4to]]

[Footnote vi: BYRON, October 27, 1806. [4to]

GRANTA. A MEDLEY.

[Greek: Argureais logchaisi machou kai panta krataese_o.] [1]

(Reply of the Pythian Oracle to Philip of Macedon.)

Oh! could LE SAGE'S [2] demon's gift Be realis'd at my desire, This night my trembling form he'd lift To place it on St. Mary's spire. [i]

Then would, unroof'd, old Granta's halls, Pedantic inmates full display; _Fellows_ who dream on _lawn_ or _stalls_, The price of venal votes to pay. [ii]

Then would I view each rival wight, PETTY and PALMERSTON survey; Who canvass there, with all their might, [iii] Against the next elective day. [3]

Lo! candidates and voters lie [iv] All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number! A race renown'd for piety, Whose conscience won't disturb their slumber.

Lord H---[4] indeed, may not demur; Fellows are sage, reflecting men: They know preferment can occur, But very seldom,--_now_ and _then_.

They know the Chancellor has got Some pretty livings in disposal: Each hopes that _one_ may be his _lot_, And, therefore, smiles on his proposal. [v]

Now from the soporific scene [vi] I'll turn mine eye, as night grows later, To view, unheeded and unseen, [vii] The studious sons of Alma Mater.

There, in apartments small and damp, The candidate for college prizes, Sits poring by the midnight lamp; Goes late to bed, yet early rises. [viii]

He surely well deserves to gain them, With all the honours of his college, [ix] Who, striving hardly to obtain them, Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge:

10.

Who sacrifices hours of rest, To scan precisely metres Attic; Or agitates his anxious breast, [x] In solving problems mathematic:

11.

Who reads false quantities in Seale, [5] Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle; Depriv'd of many a wholesome meal; [xi] In _barbarous Latin_ [6] doom'd to wrangle:

12.

Renouncing every pleasing page, From authors of historic use; Preferring to the letter'd sage, The square of the hypothenuse. [7]

13.

Still, harmless are these occupations, [xii] That hurt none but the hapless student, Compar'd with other recreations, Which bring together the imprudent;

14.

Whose daring revels shock the sight, When vice and infamy combine, When Drunkenness and dice invite, [xiii] As every sense is steep'd in wine.

15.

Not so the methodistic crew, Who plans of reformation lay: In humble attitude they sue, And for the sins of others pray:

16.

Forgetting that their pride of spirit, Their exultation in their trial, [xiv] Detracts most largely from the merit Of all their boasted self-denial.

17.

'Tis morn:--from these I turn my sight: What scene is this which meets the eye? A numerous crowd array'd in white, [8] Across the green in numbers fly.

18.

Loud rings in air the chapel bell; 'Tis hush'd:--what sounds are these I hear? The organ's soft celestial swell Rolls deeply on the listening ear.

19.