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Dear Doll, while the tails of our horses are plaiting,
The trunks tying on, and Papa, at the door,
Into very bad French is, as usual, translating

His English resolve not to give a sou more,

I sit down to write you a line-only think!—

A letter from France, with French pens and French ink,
How delightful! though-would you believe it, my dear?
I have seen nothing yet very wonderful here;

No adventure, no sentiment, far as we've come,

But the corn-fields and trees quite as dull as at home;
And, but for the post-boy, his boots and his queue,
I might just as well be at Clonskilty with you!
In vain, at Dessein's, did I take from my trunk

That divine fellow, Sterne, and fall reading "The Monk";
In vain did I think of his charming Dead Ass,
And remember the crust and the wallet—alas!
No monks can be had now for love or for money,
(All owing, Pa says, to that infidel Boney;)
And, though one little Neddy we saw in our drive
Out of classical Nampont, the beast was alive!

By the by, though, at Calais, Papa had a touch
Of romance on the pier, which affected me much.
At the sight of that spot, where our darling Dix-huit
Set the first of his own dear legitimate feet, *
(Modell'd out so exactly, and-God bless the mark!
'Tis a foot, Dolly, worthy so Grand a Monarque)

He exclaimed, "oh mon Roi!" and, with tear-dropping eye,
Stood to gaze on the spot-while some Jacobin, nigh,
Mutter'd out with a shrug (what an insolent thing!)
"Ma foi, he be right-'tis de Englishman's King;
And dat gros pied de cochon-begar, me vil say.
Dat de foot look mosh better, if turned toder way."
There's the pillar, too-Lord! I had nearly forgot-
What a charming idea!-raised close to the spot;
The mode being now (as you've heard, I suppose,)
To build tombs over legs, ** and raise pillars to toes.
This is all that's occurr'd sentimental as yet;
Except, indeed, some little flow'r-nymphs we've met,
Who disturb one's romance with pecuniary views,
Flinging flow'rs in your path, and then-bawling for sous!

* To commemorate the landing of Louis le Désiré from England, the impression of his foot is marked on the pier at Calais, and a pillar with an inscription raised opposite to the spot.

** Ci-gît la jambe de &c. &c.

And some picturesque beggars, whose multitudes seem
To recall the good days of the ancien régime,

All as ragged and brisk, you'll be happy to learn,
And as thin, as they were in the time of dear Sterne.

Our party consists, in a neat Calais job,
Of Papa and myself, Mr. Connor and Bob.

You remember how sheepish Bob look'd at Kilrandy,

But Lord! he's quite alter'd-they've made him a Dandy;
A thing, you know, whisker'd, great-coated, and lac'd,
Like an hour-glass, exceedingly small in the waist:
Quite a new sort of creatures, unknown yet to scholars,
With heads, so immoveably stuck in shirt-collars,

That seats like our music-stools soon must be found them,

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To twirl, when the creatures may wish to look round them!
In short, dear, "a Dandy" describes what I mean,
And Bob's far the best of the genus I've seen:

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An improving young man, fond of learning, ambitious,
And goes now to Paris to study French dishes,

Whose names-think, how quick!-he already knows pat,
A la braise, petits pâtés, and-what d'ye call that
They inflict on potatoes?-oh! maître d'hôtel-
I assure you, dear Dolly, he knows them as well
As if nothing but these all his life he had eat,
Though a bit of them Bobby has never touch'd yet;
But just knows the names of French dishes and cooks,
As dear Pa knows the titles of authors and books.

As to Pa, what d'ye think?-mind, it's all entre nous,
But you know, love, I never keep secrets from you-
Why, he's writing a book-what! a tale? a romance?
No, ye Gods, would it were!-but his Travels in France;
At the special desire (he let out t'other day)
Of his friend and his patron, my Lord C-st-r—gh,
Who said, "My dear Fudge--" I forget th' exact words,
And, it's strange, no one ever remembers my Lord's;
But 'twas something to say that, as all must allow,
A good orthodox work is much wanting just now,
To expound to the world the new-thingummie-science,
Found out by 'the-what's-its-name-Holy Alliance,
And prove to mankind that their rights are but folly,
Their freedom a joke (which it is, you know, Dolly)
"There's none," said his Lordship, "if I may be judge,
Half so fit for this great undertaking as Fudge!"

The matter's soon settled-Pa flies to the Row,
(The first stage your tourists now usually go)
Settles all for his quarto-advertisements, praises-
Starts post from the door, with his tablets-French phrases-
"Scott's Visit," of course-in short, ev'rything he has
Ar author can want, except words and ideas:—
And, lo! the first thing in the spring of the year,
Is Phil. Fudge at the front of a Quarto, my dear!

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But, bless me, my paper's near out, so I'd better
Draw fast to a close-this exceeding long letter
You owe to a déjeuner à la fourchette,

Which Bobby would have, and is hard at it yet.—
What's next? oh, the tutor, the last of the party,
Young Connor:-they say he's so like Bonaparte,
His nose and his chin,-which Papa rather dreads,
As the Bourbons, you know, are suppressing all heads
That resemble old Nap's, and who knows but their honours
May think, in their fright, of suppressing poor Connor's?
Au reste, (as we say) the young lad's well enough,
Only talks much of Athens, Rome, virtue, and stuff;
A third cousin of ours, by the way-poor as Job
(Though of royal descent by the side of Mamma),
And for charity made private tutor to Bob-

Entre nous, too, a Papist-how lib'ral of Pa!

This is all, dear-forgive me for breaking off thus;
But Bob's déjeûner's done, and Papa's in a fuss.

P.S.

B. F.

How provoking of Pa! he will not let me stop
Just to run in and rummage some milliner's shop;
And my débût in Paris, I blush to think on it,
Must now, Doll, be made in a hideous low bonnet,
But Paris, dear Paris!-oh, there will be joy,

And romance, and high bonnets, and Madame le Roi!*

LORD BYRON

(1788-1824).

Aus: CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE.

CANTO I.

(Verf. Okt. 1809; veröff. März 1812.)

I.

Oh, thou! in Hellas deemed by heavenly birth,
Muse! formed or fabled by the Minstrel's will!
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred Hill:
Yet there I've wandered by thy vaunted rill;
Yes! sighed o'er Delphi's long deserted shrine,
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine
To grace so plain a tale-this lowly lay of mine.
* A celebrated mantua-maker in Paris.

II.

Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth,
Who ne in Virtue's ways did take delight;
But spent his days in riot most uncouth,

And vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.
Ah me! in sooth he was a shameless wight,
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee;

Few earthly things found favour in his sight
Save concubines and carnal companie,

And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree.

III.

Childe Harold was he hight:-but whence his name
And lineage long, it suits me not to say;
Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame,
And had been glorious in another day:
But one sad losel soils a name for ay,
However mighty in the olden time;

Nor all that heralds rake from coffined clay,
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.

IV.

Childe Harold bathed him in the Noontide sun,
Disporting there like any other fly;

Nor deemed before his little day was done
One blast might chill him into misery.

But long ere scarce a third of his passed by,
Worse than Adversity the Childe befell;

He felt the fulness of Satiety:

Then loathed he in his native land to dwell,

Which seemed to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell,

V.

For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run,
Nor made atonement when he did amiss,
Had sighed to many though he loved but one,
And that loved one, alas! could ne'er be his.
Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kiss
Had been pollution unto aught so chaste;
Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss,
And spoiled her goodly lands to gild his waste,
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to taste.

VI.

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,
And from his fellow Bacchanals would flee;
'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,
But Pride congealed the drop within his ee:
Apart he stalked in joyless reverie,

And from his native land resolved to go,

And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;

With pleasure drugged, he almost longed for woe,

And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below.

VII.

The Childe departed from his father's hall :

It was a vast and venerable pile;

So old, it seeméd only not to fall,

Yet strength was pillared in each massy aisle.
Monastic dome! condemned to uses vile!

Where Superstition once had made her den
Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile;
And monks might deem their time was come agen,
If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.

VIII.

Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood

Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow,

As if the Memory of some deadly feud

Or disappointed passion lurked below:

But this none knew, nor haply cared to know;
For his was not that open, artless soul

That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow,

Nor sought he friend' to counsel or condole,

Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control.

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CANTO III.

(Verf. Mai—Juni 1816; veröff. Nov. 1816.)

XXI.

There was a sound of revelry by night,

And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry-and bright

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when

Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell;

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

XXII.

Did ye not hear it?-No-'twas but the Wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet

To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet

But, hark!-that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer-clearer-deadlier than before!
Arm! Arm! it is-it is-the cannon's opening roar!