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Fital to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields ;'
Think st thou to thee Napoleon's victor yields ?
Better reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords
To ploughshares, shave and wash thy Bashkir hordes,
Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout,
Than follow headlong in the fatal route,
To infest the clime whose skies and laws are pure
With thy foul legions. Spain wants no manure :
Her soil is fertile, but she feeds no foe;
Her vultures, too, were gorged not long ago;
And wouldst thou furnish them with fresher prey ?
Alas! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey.
I am Diogenes, though Russ and Hun
Stand between mine and many a myriad's sun ;
Bat were I not Diogenes, I'd wander
Rather a worm than such an Alexander!
Be slaves who will, the cynic shall be free;
His tab hath tougher walls than Sinopé :
Soil will he hold his lantern up to scan
The face of monarchs for an honest man."

Good classic Louis! is it, canst thou say,
Desirable to be the Desiré?
Why wouldst thou leave calm Hartwell's green

Apician table, and Horatian ode,
To rule a people who will not be ruled,
And love much rather to be scourged than school'd ?
Ah! thine was not the temper or the taste
For thrones; the table sees thee better placed ;
A mild Epicurcan, form’d, at best,
To be a kind host and as good a guest,
To talk of letters, and to know by heart
One half the poet's, all the gourmand's art;
A scholar always, now and then a wit,
And gentle when digestion may permit;-
But not to govern lands enslaved or free ;
The gout was martyrdom enough for thee.

XI. And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land Of ne plus ultra ultras and their band Oi mercenaries? and her noisy chambers Aud tribune, which each orator first clambers Before he finds a voice, and when 'tis found, Hears “the lie" echo for his answer round? Our British Commons sometimes deign to “hear!" A Gallic senate hath more tongue than ear; Even Constant, their sole master of debate, Must fight next day his speech to vindicate. But this costs little to true Franks, who had rather Combat than listen, were it to their father. What is the simple standing of a shot, To listening long, and interrupting not? Though this was not the method of old Romo, When Tully fulmined o’er each vocal dome, Demosthenes bas sanction'd the transaction, In saying eloquence meant Action, action!"

XIII. Shall noble Albion pass without a phrase From a bold Briton in her wonted praise ? “Arts - arms — and George — and glory — and the

islesAnd happy Britain-wealth-and Freedom's smiles, White clitfs, that held invasion far aloofContented subjects, all alike tax-proofProud Wellington, with eagle beak so curid, That nose, the hook whero he suspends the world ! And Waterloo-and trade-and -(hush ! not yet A syllable of imposts or of debt)And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh, Whose penknife slit a goose-quill t’ other dayAnd pilots who have weather'd every storm" (But, no, not even for rhyme's sake, name Reform.") These are the themes thus sung so oft before, Methinks we need not sing them any more ; Found in so many volumes far and near, There 's no occasion you should find them hero. Yet something may remain perchance to chimo With reason, and, what's stranger still, with rhyme. Even this thy genius, Canning! may permit, Who, bred a statesman, still wast born a wit, And never, even in that dull House, couldst tame To unleaven'd prose thine own poetic flame; Our last, our best, our only orator, Even I can praise thee-Tories do no more : Nay, not so much ;-they hate thee, man, because Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes. The hounds will gather to their huntsman's hollo, And where he leads the duteous pack will follow ; But not for love mistake their yelling cry; Their yelp for game is not a eulogy ; Less faithful far than the four-footed pack, A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back.


XII. But where's the monarch? hath he dined? or yet Groans beneath indigestion's heavy debt ? Have revolutionary patés risen, And turn'd the royal entrails to a prison ? Have discontented movements stirr'd the troops ? Or have no movements follow'd traitorous soups ? Have Carbonaro cooks not carbonadoed Each course enough? or doctors dire dissuaded Repletion? Ah! in thy dejected looks I read all France's treason in her cooks!


Great by courtesy) when surrounded by the Mussulmans
on the banks of the river Pruth.
[" Eight thousand men had to Asturias march'd

Beneath Count Julian's banner; the reinains
Of that brave army which in Africa
So well against the Mussulman made head,
Till sense of injuries insupportable,
And raging ihirst of vengeance, orerthrew
Their leader's noble spirit. To revenge
His quarrel, twice that number left their bones,
Slain in annatural battle on the field
Of Xeres, where the sceptre from the Goths

By righteous Heaven was rest."--Southey's Roderick.) • According to Botta, the Neapolitan republicans who, dunng the reign of King Joachim, fled to the recesses of the Abruzzi, and there formed a secret confederacy, were the first that assured the designation, since familiar all over Italy, of * Carbunari," (colliers.)]

3 [Hartwell, in Buckinghamshire-the residence of Louis XVIII., during the latter years of the Emigration.)

“Naso suspendit adunco."'-- Horace. The Roman applies it to one who merely was imperious to his acquaintance.

% [" The Pilot that weather'd the storm" is the burden of a song, in honor of Pitt, by Mr. Canning. )

© [“ I have never heard any one who fulfilled my ideal of an orator. Grattan would have been near it, but for his harlequin delivery. Pitt I never heard---Fox but once : and then he struck me as a debater, which to me seems as different from an orator as an improvisatore or a versifier from a poet. Grey is great, but it is not oratory. Canning is sometimes very like one. Whitbread was the Demosthenes of bad taste and vulgar vehemence, but strong, and English. Holland is impressive from sense and sincerity. Burdett is sweet and silvery as Belial hirnself, and, I think, the greatest favorite in Pandemonium.”- Byron Diary, 1821.)



Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure,

They roar'd, they dined, they drank, they swore they Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure ;! The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last

To die for England—why then live ?—for rent! To stumble, kick, and now and then stick fast The peace has made oue general malecontent With his great self and rider in the mud;

Of these high-market patriots; war was rent! But what of that? the animal shows blood.

Their love of country, millions all misspent,

How reconcile? by reconciling rent!

And will they not repay the treasures lent?
Alas, the country! how shall tongue or pen

No: down with every thing, and up with rent! Bewail her now uncountry gentlemen?

Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent, The last to bid the cry of warfare cease,

Being, end, aim, religion-rent, rent, rent! The first to make a malady of peace.

Thou sold'st thy birthright, Esau ! for a mess; For what were all these country patriots born?

Thou shouldst have gotten more, or eaten lese; To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn ?

Now thou hast swill'd thy pottage, thy demands But corn, like every mortal thing, must fall,

Are idle ; Israel says the bargain stands. Kings, conquerors, and markets most of all.

Such, landlords ! was your appetite for war, And must ye fall with every ear of grain ?

And, gorged with blood, you gruinble at a scur! Why would you trouble Buonaparte's reign?

What! would they spread their earthquake oven o'er

cash ? He was your great Triptolemus; his vices Destroy'd but realms, and still maintaind your Su rent may rise, bid bank and nation full,

And when laud crumbles, bid firm paper crash ? prices; He amplified to every lord's content

And found on 'Change a Fundling Hospital? The grand agrarian alchymy, hight rent.

Lo! Mother Church, while all religion writhes, Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars,

Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring, Tithes; And lower wheat to such desponding quarters?

The prelates go to—where the saints have gone, Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone?

And proud pluralities subside to ove ; The man was worth much more upon his throne.

Church, state, and faction wrestle in the dark, True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt,

Toss'd by the deluge in their common ark. But what of that? the Gaul may bear the guilt;

Shoru of her bishops, banks, and dividends, But bread was high, the farmer paid his way,

Another Babel soars--but Britain ends. And acres told upon the appointed day.

And why? to pamper the self-seeking wants, But where is now the goodly audit ale?

And prop the hill of these agrarian ants. The purse-proud tenant, never known to fail ?

“ Go to these ants, thou sluggard, and be wise;" The farm which never yet was left on hand ?

Admire their patience through each sacrifice, The marsh reclaim'd to most improving land ?

Till taught to feel the lesson of their pride, The impatient hope of the expiring lease?

The price of taxes and of homicide ; The doubling rental? What an evil's peace!

Admire their justice, which would fain deny In vain the prize excites the ploughman's skill,

The debt of nations :-pray who made it high?
In vain the Commons pass their patriot bill;
The landed interest—(you may understand
The phrase much better leaving out the land)-

The land self-interest groans from shore to shore, Or turn to sail between those shifting rocks,
For fear that plenty should attain the poor.

The new Symplegades—the crushing Stocks,
Up, up again, ye rents! exalt your notes,

Where Midas might again his wish behold Or else the ministry will lose their votes,

In real paper or imagined gold. And patriotism, so delicately nice,

That magic palace of Alcina shows
Her loaves will lower to the market price ;

More wealth than Britain ever had to lose,
For ah ! " the loaves and fishes," once so high, Were all her atoms of unleaven'd ore,
Are gone--their oven closed, their ocean dry, And all her pebbles from Puctolus' shore.
And naught remains of all the millious spent,

There Fortune plays, while Rumor holds the stake, Excepting to grow moderate and content.

And the world trembles to bid brokers break. They who are not so, had their turn-and turn How rich is Brituju! not indeed in mines, About still flows from Fortune's equal urn;

Or peace or plenty, corn or oil, or wines; Now let their virtue be its own reward,

No land of Canaan, full of milk and honey, And share the blessings which themselves prepared. Nor (save in paper shekels) ready money : See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm,

But let us not to own the truth refuse, Farmers of war, dictators of the farm ;

Was ever Christian land so rich in Jews? Their ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands, Those parted with their teeth to good King John, Their fields manured by gore of other lands;

And now, ye kings! they livdly draw your own ; Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent

All states, all things, all sovereigns they control, Their brethren out to battle-why? for rent!

And waft a loan “ from Indus to the pole." Year after year they voted cent. per cent.,

The banker-broker-baron-brethren, speed Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions—why ? for rent! To aid these bankrupt tyrants in their need.

2 [On the suicide of Lord Londonderry, in August, 1892, abandon the foreign poliry of his predecessor-to break up Mr. Canning, who had prepared to sail for India as Gover the Tory party by a coalition with the Wharge--iind to prenor-General, was made Secretary of State for Foreign Af pare the way tor Resuro in Parlimeni.) fairs,-not much, it was alleged, to the personal satisfaction • {The head of the illustrioue house of Montenegri hus of George the Fourth, or of the high Tories in the cabinet usually been designato le premier baron Iliretien, He lived to verify some of the predictions of the poet-to ancestor having, it is supposed, been the first noule concert

Nor these alone; Columbia feels no less
Fresh speculations follow each success;
And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain
Her inild per-centage from exhausted Spain.
Not without Abraham's sced can Russia march;
Tis gold, not steel, that rears the conqueror's arch.
Two Jews, a chosen people, can command
In every realm their scripture-promised land :-
Two Jews keep down the Romans, and uphold
The accursed Hun, more brutal than of old :
Tko Jews-but not Samaritans-direct
The world, with all the spirit of their sect.
What is the happiness of rarth to them?

A congress forins their “ New Jerusalem,"
! Where baronies and orders both invite-
05, holy Abraham! dost thou see the sight?
Thy followers mingling with these royal swine,
Who spit not " on their Jewish gaberdine,"
Bat honor them as portion of the show-
Where now, oh pope! is thy forsaken toe?
Could it not favor Judah with some kicks?
Or has it ceased to " kick against the pricks ?'')
On Shylock's shore behold them stand afresh,
To cut from nations' hearts their “ pound of flesh.”

The mother of the hero's hope, the boy,
The young Astyanax of modern Troy ;)
The still pale shadow of the loftiest queen
That earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen;
She flits amidst the phantoms of the hour,
The theme of pity, and the wreck of power.
Oh, cruel mockery! Conld not Austria spare
A daughter? What did France's widow there?
Her fitter place was by St. Helen's wave,
Hero only throne is in Napoleon's grave.
But, no,-she still must hold a petty reign,
Flank'd by her formidable chamberlain ;
The martial Argus, whose not hundred eyes
Must watch her through these paltry pageantries;
What though she share no more, and shared in vain,
A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne,
Which swept from Moscow to the southern seas;
Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese,
Where Parma views the traveller resort,
To note the trappings of her mimic court.
But she appears! Verona sees her shorn
Of all her beams-whilo nations gaze and mourn
Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time
To chill in their inhospitable clime ;
(If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold ;-
But no, their embers soon will burst the mould :)
She comes !-the Andromache, (but not Racino's,
Nor Homer's,) — Lo! on Pyrrhus' arm she leans !
Yes! the right arm, yet red from Waterloo,
Which cut her lord's half-shatter'd sceptre through,
Is offer'd and accepted! Could a slave
Do more? or less ?-and he in his new grave!
Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strise,
And the ex-empress grows as er a wife!
So much for human ties in royal breasts !
Why spare men's feelings, when their own are jests ?

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XVI. Strange sight this Congress! destined to unite All that's incongruous, all that 's opposite. I speak not of the Sovereigns—they're alike, A cominon coin as ever mint could strike: Bat those who sway the puppets, pull the strings, Have more of motley than their heavy kings. Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, combine, While Europe wouders at the vast design: There Metteraich, power's foremost parasite, Cajoles; there Wellington forgets to fight; There Chateaubriand forins new books of martyrs ;' And subtle Greeks intrigue for stupid Tartars ; There Montmorenci, the sworn foe to charters, Tarns a diplomatist of great éclat, To furnish articles for the “ Débats ;" Of war so certain-yet not quite so sure As his dismissal in the “ Moniteur." Alas! how could his cabinet thus err? Can peace be worth an ultra-minister? He falls indeed, perhaps to rise again, Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain.”


XVIII. But, tired of foreign follies, I turn home, And sketch the group-the picture 's yet to come. My muse 'gan werp, but, ere a tear was spilt, She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt! While throng'd the chiefs of every Highland clan To bail their brother, Vich Ian Alderman! Guildhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse roar, While all the Common Council cry “ Claymore !" To see proud Albyn's tartans as a belt Gird the gross sirloin of a city Celt, She burst into a laughter so extreme, That I awoke--and lo! it was no dream!

XVII. Epongh of this a sight more mournful woos | The averted eve of the reluctant muse. | The imperial daughter, the imperial bride, The imperial victim-sacrifice to pride;

Here, reader, will we pause :—if there's no harm in This first-you'll have, perhaps, a second “Carmen."

to Christianity in France. Lord Byron perhaps alludes to the well-known joke of Talleyrand, who, mecting the Duke of Montmorenci at the same party with M. Rothschild, soon after the latter bad been ennobled by the Emperor of Austria, is said to have begged leave to present M. le premier baron Inj w 3l, le premier baron Chretien.)

1 Monsieur Chateaubriand, who has not forgotten the author in the ininister. received a handsome compliment at Vetona from a literary sovereign : "Ah! Monsieur C., are you related to that Chateaubriand who-who-who has written I esriething?" (crit quique chose! It is said that the author of Atala repented him for a moment of his legitimacy.

2 [Count Capo d'Istrias--afterwards President of Greece. The count was murdered in September, 1831, by the brother and son of a Mainoie chief whom he had imprisoned.] 3 [The Duke de Montmorenci-Laval.) *[From Pope's verses on Lord Peterborough :

“ And he, whose lightning pierced the Iberian lines,

Now forms my quincunx, and now ranks my vines,
Or tames ihe genus of ihe stubborn plain.

Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain.") 5 [Napoleon François Charles Joseph, Duke of Reichstadt, died at the palace of Schönbrunn, July 22, 1832, having just attained his twenty-first year.]

8 [Count Neipperg, chainberlain and second husband to Maria-Louisa, had but one eye. The count died in 1831. See antè, p. 471.)

? [George the Fourth is said to have been somewhat annoyed, on entering the levee-room at Holyrool (Aug. 1822) in full Stuart tartan, to see only one figure similærly atured (and of similar bulk)-that of Sir William Curtis. 'The city knight had every thing complete--even the knife stuck in the garter. He asked the King, if he did not think him wel! dressed. “Yes!" replied his Majesty, "only you have no spoon in your hose.The devourer of turtle had a fine engraving executed of himself in his Celtic attire.]

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ADIEU, thou Hill!' where early joy

Spread roses o'er my brow;
Where Science seeks each loitering boy

With knowledge to endow.
Adieu, my youthful friends or foes,
Partners of former bliss or woes;

No more through Ida's paths we stray ;
Soon must I share the gloomy cell,
Whose ever-slumbering inmates dwell

Unconscious of the day.
Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes,

Ye spires of Granta's vale,
Where Learning robed in sable reigns,

And Melancholy pale.
Yo comrades of the jovial hour,
Ye tenants of the classic bower,

On Cama's verdant margin placed,
Adieu! while memory still is mine,
For, offerings on Oblivion's shrine,

These scenes must be effaced.
Adieu, ye mountains of the clime

Where grew my youthful years;
Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime

His giant summit rears.
Why did my childhood wander forth
From you, ye regions of the North,

With sons of pride to roam ?
Why did I quit my Highland cave,
Marr’s dusky heath, and Dee's clear wave,

To seek a Sotheron home?
Hall of my Sires ! a long farewell —

Yet why to thee adieu ?
Thy vaults will echo back my knell,

Thy towers my tomb will view:
The faltering tongue which sung thy fall,
And former glories of thy Hall

Forgets its wonted simple note-
But yet the Lyre retains the strings,
And sometimes, on Æolian wings,

In dying strains may float.
Fields, which surround yon rustic cot,

While yet I linger here,
Adieu! you are not now forgot,

To retrospection dear.
Streamlet !3 along whose rippling surge,
My youthful limbs were wont to urge

Ai noontide heat their pliant course ;
Plunging with ardor from the shore,
Thy springs will lave these limbs no more,

Deprived of active force.
And shall I here forget the scene,

Still nearest to my breast ?

Rocks rise, and rivers roll between

The spot which passion bless'd;
Yet, Mary,' all thy beauties seem
Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream,

To me in smiles display'd;
Till slow disease resigns his prey
To Death, the parent of decay,

Thine image cannot fade. And thou, my Friend! whose gentlo love,

Yet thrills my bosom's chords, How much thy friendship was above

Description's power of words !
Still near my breast thy gift I wear
Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear,

Of Love the pure, the sacred gem;
Our souls were equal, and our lot
In that dear moment quito forgot;

Let Pride alone condemn!
All, all is dark and cheerless now!

No smile of Love's deceit
Can warm my veins with wonted glow,

Can bid Life's pulses beat:
Not e'en the hope of future fame,
Can wake my faint, exhausted frame,

Or crown with fancied wreaths my head.
Mine is a short inglorious race,-
To humble in the dust my face,

And mingle with the dead.
Oh Fame! thou goddess of my heart;

On him who gains thy praise,
Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart,

Consumed in Glory's blaze;
But me she beckons from the earth,
My name obscure, unmark'd my birth,

My life a short and vulgar dream;
Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd,
My hopes recline within a shroud,

My fate is Lethe's stream.
When I repose beneath the sod,

Unheeded in the clay,
Where once my playful footsteps trod,

Where now my head must lay;
The meed of Pity will be shed
In dew-drops o'er my narrow bed,

By nightly skies, and storms alone ;
No mortal eye will deign to steep
With tears the dark sepulchral deep

Which hides a name unknown. Forget this world, my restless sprite,

Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven: There must thou soon direct thy flight,

If errors are forgiven. To bigots and to sects unknown, Bow down beneath the Almighty's 'Throne;

1 (Harrow.]

[? See antė, pp. 388, 412.) 9 (The river Grete, at Southwell.]

* (Mary Duff. See antė, p. 426, note.] 6 [Eddlestone, the Cambridge chorister. See ante, p, 408 )

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