And thus to furnish decent lining,

My own and others' bays I'm twining So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in.

TO LORD THURLOW

'I lay my branch of laurel down:
Then thus to form Apollo's crown,
Let every other bring his own.'

Lord Thurlow's lines to Mr. Rogers.

[On the same day with the preceding Byron sent to Moore the following stanzas on Lord Thurlow's lines.]

'I LAY my branch of laurel down.' Thou lay thy branch of laurel down!' Why, what thou 'st stole is not enow; And, were it lawfully thine own,

Does Rogers want it most, or thou? Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough,

Or send it back to Doctor Donne: Were justice done to both, I trow, He'd have but little, and thou

none.

'Then thus to form Apollo's crown.' A crown! why, twist it how you will, Thy chaplet must be foolscap still. When next you visit Delphi's town, Inquire amongst your fellow-lodgers, They'll tell you Phoebus gave his crown, Some before years your birth, to Rogers.

'Let every other bring his own.' When coals to Newcastle are carried, And owls sent to Athens, as wonders, From his spouse when the Regent's unmarried,

Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders; When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel, When Castlereagh's wife has an heir, Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel,

And thou shalt have plenty to spare.

ANSWER TO 'S PROFESSIONS OF AFFECTION

[First published in the Edition of 1904 from an autograph manuscript. Dated by conjecture 1814.]

Is hearts like thine ne'er may I hold a place

Till I renounce all sense, all shame, all

grace

227

IN THIS BELOVED MARBLE

VIEW'

[To John Murray, Venice, November 25, 1816. The Helen of Canova (a bust which is in the house of Madame the Countess d'Albrizzi, whom I know) is, without exception, to my mind, the most perfectly beautiful of human conceptions, and far beyond my ideas of human execution.')

In this beloved marble view

Above the works and thoughts of Man, What Nature could, but would not, do, And Beauty and Canova can! Beyond Imagination's power, Beyond the Bard's defeated art, With Immortality her dower,

Behold the Helen of the heart!

'AND DOST THOU ASK THE REASON OF MY SADNESS?'

[To George Anson Byron (?). Dated by conjecture 1816.]

AND dost thou ask the reason of my sadness?

Well, I will tell it thee, unfeeling boy! Twas ill report that urged my brain to madness,

'Twas thy tongue's venom poison'd all my joy.

The sadness which thou seest is not sorrow; My wounds are far too deep for simple grief;

The heart thus wither'd, seeks in vain to borrow

From calm reflection, comfort or relief.

The arrow's flown, and dearly shalt thou rue it;

No mortal hand can rid me of my pain: My heart is pierced, but thou canst not subdue it

Revenge is left, and is not left in vain.

'AS THE LIBERTY LADS O'ER THE SEA'

[To Thomas Moore, Venice, December 24, 1816. The riots of the so-called Luddites broke out in 1811, and were aimed chiefly at

'TO HOOK THE READER, YOU, JOHN MURRAY'

[To John Murray, March 25, 1817.] To hook the reader, you, John Murray, Have publish'd Anjou's Margaret, Which won't be sold off in a hurry

(At least, it has not been as yet); And then, still further to bewilder 'em, Without remorse you set up Ilderim ;

So mind you don't get into debt, Because as how, if you should fail, These books would be but baddish bail. And mind you do not let escape

These rhymes to Morning Post or Perry, Which would be very treacherous — very, And get me into such a scrape!

For, firstly, I should have to sally,
All in my little boat, against a Galley;
And, should I chance to slay the Assyrian
wight,

Have next to combat with the female knight.
And prick'd to death expire upon her needle,
A sort of end which I should take indeed ill !

'GOD MADDENS HIM WHOM 'TIS HIS WILL TO LOSE'

[To John Murray, April 2, 1817. 'Quem Deus vult perdere prius dementat, which may be done into English thus: '—]

GOD maddens him whom 't is his will to lose,

And gives the choice of death or phrenzy choose.

'MY BOAT IS ON THE SHORE'

[To Thomas Moore, July 10, 1817. 'This should have been written fifteen months ago the first stanza was. I am just come out from an hour's swim in the Adriatic; and I write to you with a black-eyed Venetian girl before me, reading Boccaccio.' It would not be easy to find a better example than these stanzas of Byron's facility and grace.]

My boat is on the shore,

And my bark is on the sea; But, before I go, Tom Moore,

Here's a double health to thee !

Here's a sigh to those who love me, And a smile to those who hate; And, whatever sky 's above me,

Here's a heart for every fate.

Though the ocean roar around me, Yet it still shall bear me on; Though a desert should surround me, It hath springs that may be won.

Were 't the last drop in the well,

As I gasp'd upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell,

"T is to thee that I would drink.

With that water, as this wine,
The libation I would pour
Should be peace with thine and mine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore.

[To John Murray, August 21, 1817. Murray had written to Byron: Polidori has sent me his tragedy! Do me the kindness to send by return of post a delicate declension of it, which I engage faithfully to copy.' The following is Byron's 'civil and delicate declension for the medical tragedy.']

DEAR Doctor, I have read your play,
Which is a good one in its way,
Purges the eyes and moves the bowels,
And drenches handkerchiefs like towels
With tears, that, in a flux of grief,
Afford hysterical relief

To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses,
Which your catastrophe convulses.

I like your moral and machinery;

Your plot, too, has such scope for Scenery;
Your dialogue is apt and smart;
The play's concoction full of art;

Your hero raves, your heroine cries,

All stab, and everybody dies.
In short, your tragedy would be
The very thing to hear and see;
And for a piece of publication,
If I decline on this occasion,
It is not that I am not sensible

II

20

Are drugs-mere drugs, Sir-now-a-days.
I had a heavy loss by Manuel,

Too lucky if it prove not annual,-
And Sotheby, with his damn'd Orestes

(Which, by the way, the old Bore's best is), Has lain so very long on hand

That I despair of all demand.

40

In short, sir, what with one and t'other,
I dare not venture on another.
I write in haste; excuse each blunder;
The Coaches through the street so thun-
der!

My Room's so full; we 've Gifford here
Reading MSS., with Hookham Frere,
Pronouncing on the nouns and particles
Of some of our forthcoming Articles.
The Quarterly Ah, Sir, if you
Had but the Genius to review!
A smart Critique upon St. Helena,
Or if you only would but tell in a
Short compass what-but, to resume:
As I was saying, Sir, the Room
The Room's so full of wits and bards,
Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Freres, and
Wards

And others, neither bards nor wits: My humble tenement admits

All persons in the dress of gent., From Mr. Hammond to Dog Dent.

A party dines with me to-day,

50

60

All clever men, who make their way; Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and Chantrey, Are all partakers of my pantry.

They 're at this moment in discussion

On poor De Staël's late dissolution.

Her book, they say, was in advance

Pray Heaven! she tell the truth of France! 'Tis said she certainly was married

To Rocca, and had twice miscarried,
No not miscarried, I opine,

But brought to bed at forty-nine.
Some say she died a Papist; Some
Are of opinion that's a Hum;

I don't know that the fellow, Schlegel,
Was very likely to inveigle

A dying person in compunction
To try the extremity of Unction.
But peace be with her! for a woman
Her talents surely were uncommon.

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