Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 32 "There are hills beyond Pentland and lands If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's chiefs in the North; There are wild Duniewassals19 three thousand Will cry hoigh! for the bonnet of Bonny Come fill up my cup, etc. "There's brass on the target of barkened 20 bull-hide; There's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside; The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free, 'Tis to him we love most, And avaunt ye, base carles! Here's a health to King Charles. Though he wanders through dangers, Estranged from his own; Let such honours abound And the hand on the sword; And weigh their Justice in a Golden Scale; Such is the force of Wit! but not belong This satire is in part a retort which Byron was 'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; No matter, George continues still to write, 60 A man must serve his time to every trade Save Censure-Critics all are ready made. Take hackneyed jokes from Miller, got by rote, With just enough of learning to misquote; A mind well skilled to find, or forge a fault; A turn for punning-call it Attic salt;3 To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet, His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet: Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a sharper hit; 70 Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit; Care not for feeling-pass your proper jest, And stand a Critic, hated yet caressed. While such are Critics, why should I forbear? Behold! in various throngs the scribbling crew, For notice eager, pass in long review: And Rhyme and Blank maintain an equal race; 150 | Immeasurable measures move along;* For simpering Folly loves a varied song, To strange, mysterious Dulness still the friend, Admires the strain she cannot comprehend. Thus Lays of Minstrels-may they be the last! On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast, While mountain spirits prate to river sprites, While high-born ladies in their magic cell, 160 On public taste to foist thy stale romance, 5 By "Monk" Lewis (Eng. Lit., 204). 180 6 Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel (1805) grew out of a suggestion for a ballad derived from an absurd old Border legend of Gilpin Horner. 7 Publishers. 8 i. e.. this bought Orpheus (Scott) 9 Marmion, line 869. * This is a sneer at the new anapestic metres. See Eng. Lit., p. 243. These are the themes that claim our plaudits | A bard may chaunt too often and too long; now; As thou art strong in verse, in merey spare! These are the Bards to whom the Muse must A fourth, alas! were more than we could bear. bow; While Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike forgot, Resign their hallowed Bays to Walter Scott. But if, in spite of all the world can say, 231 The time has been, when yet the Muse was The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue: "God help thee," Southey, and thy readers too. young, 189 When Homer swept the lyre, and Maro10 sung, An Epic scarce ten centuries could claim, While awe-struck nations hailed the magic name: The work of each immortal Bard appears Without the glory such a strain can give, field.12 First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance, The scourge of England and the boast France! 200 Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, That mild apostate from poetic rule, The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay As soft as evening in his favourite May, Who warns his friend19 "to shake off toil and trouble, 239 And quit his books, for fear of growing double''; 251 the A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way, of 210 Though burnt by wicked Bedford13 for a witch, 10 Virgil 11 Object of "claim." 220 She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express 6 And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, How pure, how dear, their dwelling-place. 12 Hath melted like snow in the glance of the STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BE TWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-andtwenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. With that water, as this wine, SONNET ON CHILLON Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! 20 4 What are garlands and crowns to the brow that And when thy sons to fetters are consigned— is wrinkled? To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew be- Their country conquers with their martyrdom, sprinkled. And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. Then away with all such from the head that is [Chillon!† thy prison is a holy place, hoary! What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory! 8 Oh, Fame!—if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover, She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. 12 There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee; When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright my story, I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. TO THOMAS MOORE* 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 gasped upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell, 'Tis to thee that I would drink. 16 And thy sad floor an altar-for 't was trod, THE PRISONER OF CHILLON‡ My hair is gray, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears; For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 8 16 The first stanza of this poem was written in 1816, when Byron left England for the last time, 10 This French word has no very marked accent on either syllable. Byron usually ac cents the first. François de Bonivard was a republican of Geneva who resisted the domination of the Duke of Savoy and was imprisoned for six years (1530-1536) in the castle of Chillon, on the Lake of Geneva (Leman). When the castle was captured by his republican friends, he was released. Byron has greatly idealized the character and has invented the circumstance of the imprisonment and death of the brothers. The poem was composed in two days. Of it Dr. F. I. Carpenter writes: "There is very little action: there is very little ornament; the narrative evolves from within, and is presented with high dramatic fidelity, and with subtle gradation and progression. The situation in itself is bare and simple: the art with which the poet develops it is masterly Who else, except Dante perhaps, as in the Ugolino episode [Inferno 33], could do so much with so little?" |