XII.

Is it for these ye rear this proud abode? Is it for these your superstition seeks To build a temple worthy of a god, To laud a monkey, or to worship leeks! Then be the stage to recompense your freaks, A motley chaos, jumbling age and ranks, Where Punch, the lignum-vitæ Roscius, squeaks, And Wisdom weeps and Folly plays his pranks, And moody Madness laughs and hugs the chain he clanks.

From _The Rejected Addresses_.

Following close upon _The Rejected Addresses_, by J. and H. Smith, appeared a small volume entitled,

THE GENUINE REJECTED ADDRESSES,

_Presented to the Committee of Management for Drury-Lane Theatre, preceded by that written by Lord Byron, and adopted by the Committee._ London: B. McMillan, 1812.――This contained a collection of as many of the Addresses, sent in to the Committee for the competition, as the Editor could gather from the various authors. He admits that it is not a complete collection, nor do the authors’ real names appear with every poem.

Several of the addresses were really written by authors who had been parodied in _The Rejected Addresses_, notably W. T. Fitzgerald, and Dr. Busby.

――――:o:――――

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen; Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass’d; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, But through it there roll’d not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

LORD BYRON.

――――

THE DESTRUCTION OF THE ALDERMEN. _A Mansion House Melody._

Apoplexia came down on the Alderman fold, And his cohorts were gleaming with jaundice like gold, And the sheen of the spectres that own’d his behest Glimmer’d bright as the gas at a new Lord Mayor’s feast.

Every fiend that humanity shrinks from was there, Hepatitis, Lumbago, with hollow-eyed Care, Hypochondria, and Gout, grinning ghastly with pain, And of Incubi phantoms a horrible train.

* * * * *

Then he straightway amongst them his grisly form cast, And breathed on each puffing red face as he pass’d; And the eyes of the feasters wax’d deadly and chill, And their stomachs once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And the turtle devourers were stretched on the floor―― Each cheek changed to purple――so crimson before! Their dewlaps all dabbled with red wine and ale, And extremities cold as a live fish’s tale!

And there lay the Liv’ryman, breathless and lorn, With waistcoat and new inexpressibles torn; And the Hall was all silent, the band having flown, And the waiters stared wildly on, sweating and blown.

And Cripplegate windows are loud in their wail, And Mary-Axe orphans all trembling and pale! For the Alderman glory has melted away, As mists are dispersed by the glad dawn of day.

_Punch_, November 13, 1841.

――――

A NEW SENNACHERIB.

Sir Robert came down on the Corn Laws so bold, And his backers felt savage, and sorry, and sold; But the Premier of votes had a majority, Amounting, in all, to about ninety-three.

As sheep follow the wether, submissive and mean, That host at the heels of their leader were seen; As sheep scatter wide when you leave them alone, That host, says the _Times_, are now broke and o’erthrown.

For the Iron Duke set his fate on the cast, And nailed, for the Corn-laws, his flag to the mast; And the Cabinet’s hopes felt a sensible chill, When they thought of the Duke, and his potent “I will.”

And there sat the Premier, his head on one side; His arguments pooh-poohed, his statements denied; And tho’ he tried hard, he had need of his nerve, A decent composure of face to preserve.

And there sat grim Grahame, so nervous and pale, With his hat on his head, and his mouth to his nail; And their measures were done for, their plans overthrown, And Peel had to leave his own trumpet unblown.

And Conservative gentry are loud in their wail, That the country is ruined if Peel should turn tail; And repeal of the Corn-laws, we soon shall record, Has been won, not by Peel, but a certain small lord.

_Punch_, on Sir Robert Peel and the Duke of Wellington in the struggle for the repeal of the Corn-laws in 1846.

――――

THE DESTRUCTION OF NICHOLAS.

The Russian came down like a thief in the night, And his legions were arm’d with all weapons, save Right; And the sheen of their spears to the Turks seem’d afar Like the passion that burn’d in the heart of the Czar.

Like the loaves of the baker, when breakfast is laid, That host in their armour of “plate” were array’d; Like the loaves of the baker, ere tea time next day, That host lay all “cut up,” and crumbled away!

For the warcry of England is borne on the air, And France sends her brave in the conflict to share; And link’d with the Moslem, they shout as they go, And all Europe is thrill’d with the groans of the foe.

And there lay the sea, but no more on its tide _His_ vessels shall float in their strength and their pride; And the foam of its billows shall dash o’er the graves Of the serfs, who had come to make other men _slaves_.

And there lay the Czar, all dejected and pale, With a frown on his brow, and his teeth at his nail; His palace all silent, deserted, alone; He trembled to think on his tottering throne!

And the widows of Russia are loud in their cries, Though idle the tears that may flow from their eyes; And the might of the tyrant, down-struck by the gun, Hath melted, like butter when placed in the sun.

_Diogenes._ October, 1853.

――――

THE BLIZZARD.

The blizzard came down like a thousand of brick: His breathings were cakes of ice four inches thick, And his hair streamed far out in a stiffness that bent With the swirl and the speed of the pathway he went.

His beard that found roots to the lids of his eyes Hid his face in a hairy, unpierced disguise, And spread out in ice-like rigidity far From his one eye that flashed like a pivotal star.

Unseen was the rest of the demon-like form Of the swift-moving blizzard, the god of the storm, But the presence was felt of an unconquered will, For the fast-running rivers stood suddenly still.

And the noses of people who travelled the street Turned white with affright, and the hurrying feet Were stung as with sting of a hundred bees, While the blood crept away and allowed them to freeze.

_Columbus Dispatch._

――――

THE ROUT OF BELGRAVIA.

The Belgravians came down on the Queen in her hold, And their costumes were gleaming with purple and gold, And the sheen of their jewels was like stars on the sea, As their chariots roll’d proudly down Piccadill-ee.

Like the leaves of _Le Follet_ when summer is green, That host in its glory at noon-tide was seen; Like the leaves of a toy-book all thumb-marked and worn, That host four hours later was tattered and torn.

For the crush of the crowd, which was eager and vast, Had rumpled and ruin’d and wreck’d as it pass’d; And the eyes of the wearer wax’d angry in haste, As a dress but once-worn was dragged out of waist.

And there lay the feather and fan, side by side, But no longer they nodded or waved in their pride; And there lay lace flounces, and ruching in slips, And spur-torn material in plentiful strips.

And there were odd gauntlets, and pieces of hair; And fragments of back-combs, and slippers were there; And the gay were all silent; their mirth was all hush’d; Whilst the dew-drops stood out on the brows of the crush’d.

And the dames of Belgravia were loud in their wail, And the matrons of Mayfair all took up the tale; And they vow, as they hurry, unnerved, from the scene, That it’s no trifling matter to call on the Queen.

_Jon Duan._

――――

THE DESTRUCTION OF A CAT.

Miss Pussy jumped down, like a thief in the night, From the cream in the cupboard with eyes gleaming bright; And the ends of her whiskers bedabbled her face, When Somnus had chloroform’d Europa’s race.

Like all guilty creatures, she feared to be seen, And crawled o’er the carpet so spotlessly clean; Like the streaks of the sunlight so daintily thrown, The whiskers of Pussy a demon had drawn.

This image of death spread its wings o’er the cat, And rising on tip-toe he lifted his hat; But the eyes of Miss Pussy grew deadly and chill, For something had told her――and told her still――

That she had ta’en poison, there could be no doubt, For there she lay gasping and rolling about, And as she lay sprawling and thumping the floor, The demon arose and went out at the door.

And then Puss was silent, distorted, and pale, From the point of her nose to the end of her tail, And all the night long she lay there all alone, Till out of the window at last she was thrown.

And the maid in the kitchen is loud in her joy, For now “There’s no ’orrible cat to annoy,” “No dishes is broke,” and “Missus can’t say As ever I put the poor Pussy away.”

DON DIEGO.

――――

_Truth_ for January 25, 1877 contained a long parody on “Sennacherib.” It related to the Conference, and commenced:――

The Diplomats came like a wolf on the fold, With their uniforms gleaming in green, blue and gold; And they all were picked men, there was never a fool, That recently met to confer in Stamboul.

――――

IROQUOIS.

The Yankee came down with long Fred on his back, And his colours were gleaming with cherry and black. He flashed to the front, and the British Star paled, As the field died away, and the favourite failed. Like the leaves of the summer when summer is green, The faces of _Peregrine’s_ backers were seen; Like the leaves of the autumn when autumn is red, Flushed the cheeks of the Yanks as their champion led. Iroquois!!!――then the shoutings shook heaven’s blue dome, As the legs of the Tinman safe lifted him home. Oh! A was an Archer, A 1 at this fun. And A was America, too,――and _A won_! And B was the Briton who, ready to melt, A sort of a _je ne sais_ (_Iro_)-_quois_ felt, To see his Blue Riband to Yankeeland go, B too, none the less, was the hearty “Bravo!” Which, per _Punch_, he despatched to “our kin o’er the sea,” Who, for not the first time, get the pull of J. B. The Brokers of Wall Street are loud in delight, And the _belles_ of New York grow more beamingly bright; Fizz creams like the foam of the storm-beaten surf, To Jonathan’s triumph on John’s native turf, And _Punch_ brims _his_ beaker in Sparkling Champagne, Your health Brother J.! Come and beat us again! And cold grudge at a victory honestly scored Melts away like the snow when the wine is outpoured.

_Punch_, June 11, 1881.

――――

THE MELTING OF THE IRON DUKE.

“The effect produced by the erection of a life-size _silhouette_ of the statue of the Iron Duke and his war-steed opposite the St. James’s Park front of the Horse Guards has quickly resulted in a decision to melt down Mr. Wyatt’s equestrian effort, and to shape the materials into another, and, it is hoped, a better statue.”――_Weekly Paper._

All the papers came down, like a wolf on the fold, And their leaders were trenchant, and fearlessly bold; And their cynical sneers were as lively and free As the shrimps on the foreshore of Gravesend-on-Sea.

Thick as leaves of the Forest, when Epping is green, Had the jokes and the jeers of the “comics” been seen; Thick as leaves in the Park when the season has flown Had the jibes of the critics been ruthlessly thrown.

For the chosen Committee an effort had made, And put up a Duke on the Horse Guards Parade; But one sight of this model more ludicrous still, Made those who passed by feel dejected and ill.

For there stood the steed with his nostril all wide, And his nose all turned up in his evident pride, And his tail that seemed dressed with the stiffest of starch, Stood out ’midst the trees, as it had on the Arch.

And there sat the rider, distorted and stern, That long years of scoffing had failed to o’erturn, And his hat was still cocked at the angle of yore, And the same scrubby cape on his shoulders he wore.

And those that passed by gave one shuddering look, And vowed such a Duke they no longer would brook. They cried, “Take him off to some near melting-pot!” And hastened forthwith from the terrible spot.

And the chosen Committee itself had to own That nought could the horse’s appearance condone; Whilst as to the rider, they had to confess That melting alone could his failings redress.

So it straightway decided no site could be found For this effigy vile of a warrior renowned; And ere very long they put forth a decree That the Duke and his charger both melted should be!

* * * * *

And the Statues of London were loud in their wail, And the Griffin, in agony, waggled his tail, Exclaiming, “Alas! if the Duke’s melted thus, What chance can there be, then, for eyesores like us?”

_Truth_, August 16, 1883.

――――

THE DESTRUCTION OF THE TORY (NOT SENNACHERIB’S) ARMY.

The Tories came forth in their pride and their strength, And flooded the land through its breadth and its length With speeches whose burden no varying knew―― “Down with Gladstone the traitor and all his base crew!”

Like leaves of the forest when summer is green, The hosts of the Tories in August were seen; Like leaves of the forest when autumn has blown, These hosts in September were withered and strown.

For “Gladstone the traitor” went up to the North, And tackled the foe on the banks of the Forth; And the hopes of the Tories waxed deadly and chill, And their tongues wagged but once, and for ever were still.

And the Tory old women are loud in their whines, For their idols are broke, both at Hatfield and Pynes; And their army, unsmote by the sword or the lance, Has melted like snow at old Gladstone’s advance.

ALICK SINCLAIR. _The Weekly Dispatch_, September 14, 1884.

――――

MR. GLADSTONE’S HOME RULE BILL.

The Premier came down to the House as of old, With a smile on his face and a step light and bold, And the cheers of the Parnellites smote on the air As he rose in his place and saluted the Chair.

And the senators sat like men under a spell While the rythmical tones of his voice rose and fell. Like sleepers who wake from their dreams at the dawn, Sober reason returned when the glamour was gone.

For the false light that blinded has vanished at last, Revealing the pitfalls all round as it passed; The Magician has failed in his task, and the wand Has dropped from the “old parliamentary hand.”

And intriguers and Leaguers are loud in their wail, And Coercion has carried the day o’er “Repale”; For till whittled away into Councils and Boards The scheme of Home Rule has no chance in the Lords.

C. RENZ. _The Weekly Dispatch_, April 18, 1886.

――――

THE CUTTING OF THE KNOT.

Great Gladstone came down his new Bill to unfold, And his cohorts awaited their Leader so bold, And the noise of their cheers was like tars of the sea, When they’re given the toast of old England’s nav_ee_.

Like the geese of the farm-yard when summer is green, The Cock-a-Hoop Tories at noon-day were seen, Like the geese of the farm-yard when autumn has come, Those Tories at midnight were nerveless and dumb.

For the King of Debate his opponents did blast, And glared in the face of each foeman aghast, And the hopes of the Tories waxed presently chill; And their groans but once rose, then for ever grew still.

And the sturdy Home Rulers are loud in their cheers, And the faces are blank in the House of the Peers. And the knot of the hour, uncut by the sword; Dissolves at the touch of the Cabinet’s Lord!

F. B. D., 1886.

――――:o:――――

The two parodies following are written partly in imitation of Byron’s _The Dream_, and partly after _Darkness_, which commences thus:――

DARKNESS.

I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space, Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air; Morn came and went――and came, and brought no day, And men forgot their passions in the dread Of this their desolation; and all hearts Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light; And they did live by watchfires――and the thrones, The palaces of crowned kings――the huts, The habitations of all things which dwell, Were burnt for beacons.

* * * * *

MY OLD HAT.

I had a hat――it was not all a hat, Part of the brim was gone――yet still I wore It on, and people wondered as I passed. Some turned to gaze――others just cast an eye And soon withdrew it, as ’twere in contempt. But still my hat, although so fashionless In complement extern, had that within Surpassing show――my head continued warm; Being sheltered from the weather, spite of all The want (as has been said before) of brim.

A change came o’er the colour of my hat. That which was black grew brown――and then men stared With both their eyes (they stared with one before) The wonder now was twofold; and it seemed Strange that a thing so torn and old should still Be worn by one who might――――but let that pass! I had my reasons, which might be revealed But for some counter-reasons, far more strong, Which tied my tongue to silence. Time passed on.

Green spring, and flowery summer, autumn brown. And frosty winter came,――and went and came, And still through all the seasons of two years, In park and city, yea at parties――balls―― The hat was worn and borne. Then folks grew wild With curiosity, and whispers rose, And questions passed about――how one so trim In coats, boots, ties, gloves, trousers, could insconce His caput in a covering so vile.

A change came o’er the nature of my hat. Grease spots appeared――but, still in silence, on I wore it, and then family, and friends Glared madly at each other. There was one Who said――but hold――no matter what was said; A time may come when I――away, away―― Not till the season’s ripe can I reveal Thoughts that do lie too deep for common minds―― Till then the world shall not pluck out the heart Of this my mystery. When I will, I will! The hat was now greasy, and old, and torn, But torn, old greasy, still I wore it on.

A change came o’er the business of this hat. Women, and men, and children scowled on me―― My company was shunned――I was alone! None would associate with such a hat―― Friendship itself proved faithless for a hat. She that I loved, within whose gentle breast I treasured up my heart, looked cold as death―― Love’s fires went out――extinguished by a hat, Of those who knew me best, some turned aside, And scudded down dark lanes; one man did place His finger on his nose’s side, and jeered; Others in horrid mockery laughed outright; Yea, dogs, deceived by instinct’s dubious ray, Fixing their swart glare on my ragged hat, Mistook me for a beggar, and they barked. Thus women, men, friends, strangers, lovers, dogs, One thought pervaded all――it was my hat.

A change, it was the last, came o’er this hat, For lo! at length the circling months went round: The period was accomplished――and one day This tattered, brown old greasy coverture (Time had endeared its vileness) was transferred To the possession of a wandering son Of Israel’s fated race――and friends once more Greeted my digits with the wonted squeeze: Once more I went my way, along, along, And plucked no wondering gaze; the hand of scorn With its annoying finger, men, and dogs, Once more grew pointless, jokeless, laughless, growlless―― And at last, not least of rescued blessings, love! Love smiled on me again, when I assumed A brand new chapeau of the Melton build; And then the laugh was mine, for, then out came The secret of this strangeness――’twas _a bet_,―― A friend had laid me fifty pounds to ten, Three years I would not wear it――_and I did_!

ANONYMOUS.

――――

THE GENIUS OF SMOKING.

[_We have been favored with the following defence of smoking, by an intimate literary friend of Lord Byron, who assures us it is selected from several unpublished juvenile trifles, written at various times in his album by the noble bard._]

I had a dream――it was not all a dream; Methought I sat beneath the silver beam Of the sweet moon, and you were with me there, And everything around was free and fair; And from our mouths upcurled the fragrant smoke, Whose light blue wreaths can all our pleasures yoke, In sweetest union to young Fancy’s car, And waft the soul out thro’ a good cigar. There as we sat and puff’d the hours away, And talked and laughed about life’s little day, And built our golden castles in the air, And sigh’d to think what transient things they were, As the light smoke around our heads was thrown, Amidst its folds a little figure shone, An elfin sprite, who held within her hand A small cigar, her sceptre of command.

Her hair above her brow was twisted tight off, Like a cigar’s end, which you must bite off; Her eyes were red, and twinkling like the light Of Eastern Hookah, or Meerchaum, by night; A green tobacco leaf her shoulders graced, And dried tobacco hung about her waist; Her voice breathed softly, like the easy puffing Of an old smoker, after he’s been stuffing. Thus as she rolled aside the wanton smoke, To us, her awe-struck votaries she spoke,―― “Hail, faithful slaves! my choicest joys descend On him who joins the smoker to the friend, Yours is a pleasure that shall never vanish Provided that you smoke the best of Spanish; Puff forth your clouds”――(with that we puff’d amain) “Sweet is their fragrance”――(then we puff’d again) “How have I hung, with most intense delight, Over your heads when you have smoked at night, And gratefully imparted all my powers To bless and consecrate those happy hours; Smoke on,” she said. I started and awoke, And with my dream she vanished into smoke.

ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR.

_Missolonghi_, Jan. 22, 1824.

’Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it has ceased to move; Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love! My days are in the yellow leaf, The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief, Are mine alone!

* * * * *

Seek out――less often sought than found―― A soldier’s grave, for thee the best, Then look around, and choose thy ground, And take thy rest.

BYRON.

――――

A LEAF FROM THE ALBUM OF MR. BRIEFLESS.

The following stanzas have no other heading than the pathetic words: “_On this day I complete my forty-sixth year_.” A friend who was with him at the time, made the following entry in his Dunn and Duncan’s diary: “This morning Mr. Briefless came from his bedroom into the apartment where Mr. Dunup and some other friends were sitting, and said, with a smile, ‘You were remarking the other day that I never draw any pleadings now. This is my birthday, and I have just finished something which I think is better than I usually write.’ He then produced these noble and affecting verses;――

’Tis time that I should be removed, And the position I can prove. For since by me there’s nothing moved, I’d better move.

My gown is in the yellow leaf, The curls from out my wig are gone, The bands, the stock, the dummy brief, Are mine alone.

The debts that on my bosom prey, Have hopeless been this long, long while; The bills which I can never pay Are on that file.

The stamp’d receipt――the quittance fair, The exacted portion of debts’ ills, I never am allowed to share, But keep the bills,

But ’tis not thus――and ’tis not here, I should succumb to maddening thought, At Westminster I will appear This day in Court.

The wig, the bands, the stock, the gown, All, all around me still I see; To Westminster I’ll hurry down―― I will be free!

Awake! (not law, that’s wide awake,) Awake myself! this very day, The Exchequer’s roof my voice shall shake, Yes――fire away.

Talk each opposing counsel down. Unworthy Briefless――unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown Of Judges be.

If thou regret’st thy youth――why pause, The way to occupation’s short, There stands the place to find a cause; The County Court.

Start not――less often sought than found, A little fish will always please; Sure shillings beat the uncertain pound, Take lower fees.

_Punch’s Pocket Book_, 1856.

――――:o:――――

Lord Byron was married in January, 1815, and about the middle of January, 1816, Lady Byron left London for her father’s house in Leicestershire, on the understanding that Lord Byron was shortly to follow her. But her father immediately wrote to acquaint Lord Byron that she would never return to him. The reasons for this conduct have never been satisfactorily explained, and though Lord Byron, and his friends, tried their utmost to bring about a reconciliation, all attempts to alter Lady Byron’s decision were in vain. This domestic misfortune supplied the enemies of Lord Byron with a pretext for the gratification of their envious and malignant feelings towards him. The press teemed with slanderous and abominable insinuations in explanation of the conjugal feud. The majority of his acquaintances declared against him; and the proud spirit of the noble poet, stung to the quick, impelled him to leave his country. On the 25th of April, 1816, Lord Byron left England, never to return.

A short time prior to his final departure from his native land, he published the “Siege of Corinth” and “Parisina.” He also wrote two short poems, which were highly popular, and which first appeared in the public papers――“Fare Thee Well,” and “A Sketch from Private Life.”

In “Fare thee Well,” Byron pathetically alludes to his daughter, Augusta Ada, the only child of his unfortunate marriage, who was born on December 10, 1815.

FARE THEE WELL.

Fare thee well! and if for ever, Still for ever, fare _thee well_; Even though unforgiving, never ’Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Would that breast were bared before thee Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o’er thee Which thou ne’er canst know again:

Would that breast, by thee glanced over, Every inmost thought could show! Then thou wouldst at last discover ’Twas not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee―― Though it smile upon the blow, Even its praises must offend thee, Founded on another’s woe:

Though my many faults defaced me, Could no other arm be found, Than the one which once embraced me, To inflict a cureless wound?

Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not: Love may sink by slow decay, But by sudden wrench, believe not Hearts can thus be torn away;

Still thine own its life retaineth―― Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth Is――that we no more may meet.

These are words of deeper sorrow Than the wail above the dead; Both shall live, but every morrow Wake us from a widow’d bed.

And when thou wouldst solace gather, When our child’s first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say “Father!” Though his care she must forego?

When her little hands shall press thee, When her lip to thine is pressed, Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, Think of him thy love had bless’d!

Should her lineaments resemble Those thou never more mayst see, Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest, All my madness none can know; All my hopes, where’er thou goest, Wither, yet with _thee_ they go.

Every feeling hath been shaken; Pride, which not a world could bow, Bows to thee――by thee forsaken, Even my soul forsakes me now:

But ’tis done――all words are idle―― Words from me are vainer still; But the thoughts we cannot bridle Force their way without the will.

Fare thee well!――thus disunited, Torn from every nearer tie, Sear’d in heart, and lone, and blighted, More than this I scarce can die.

BYRON.

――――

LADY BYRON’S REPLY TO LORD BYRON’S “FARE THEE WELL.”

“As to the author of the reply, I have for years been trying to find out, but unsuccessfully. One or two gentlemen, whose opinions on this subject are well worthy of attention, have said in a joking way that the author must be Byron himself, as the lines are so very beautiful and appropriate. I certainly do not think Lady Byron was the author. From all that I can glean from the oldest inhabitants in this neighbourhood she was always held in the highest respect, a good, kind, domestic lady; but no one seems to give her credit for much poetic taste, let alone faculty.”

Yes, farewell; farewell for ever; Thou thyself hast fixed our doom; Bade hope’s fairest blossom wither, Never more for me to bloom!

Unforgiving thou hast called me; Didst thou ever say forgive? For the wretch whose wiles enthralled thee, Thou didst seem alone to live.

Short the space which Time had given To complete thy love’s decay! By unhallowed passion driven, Soon thy wishes wildly stray.

Lived for me that feeling tender, Which thy verse so well can show? From my arms why didst thou wander―― My endearments why forego?

Rapt in dreams of joy abiding, On thy breast my head hath lain, In thy love and truth confiding―― Bliss I ne’er can know again!

When thy heart, by me glanced over, First displayed the guilty stain, Would these eyes had closed for ever, Not to weep thy crimes again!

But by Heaven’s recording spirit May that wish forgotten be! Life, though now a load, I’d bear it For the babe I’ve born to thee――

In whose lovely features (let me All my weakness here confess), While the struggling tears permit me, All her father’s I can trace;

His, whose image never leaves me, Whose remembrance yet I prize; Who this bitterest feeling gives me―― Loving where I most despise.

With regret and sorrow, rather, When our child’s first accents flow, I shall teach her to say “Father”―― But his guilt she ne’er shall know.

Whilst to-morrow, and to-morrow, Wake me to a widowed bed; In another’s arms no sorrow Wilt thou feel, no tears wilt shed.

For the world’s applause I sought not When I tore myself from thee; Of its praise or blame I thought not―― What is blame or praise to me?

He in whom my soul delighted, From his breast my image drove; With contempt my truth requited, And preferred a wanton love.

Thou art proud――and mark me, Byron! Proud is my soul as thine own; Soft to love――but hard as iron When despite is on me thrown.

But, ’tis past!――I’ll not upbraid thee, Nor shall ever wish thee ill; Wretched though thy crimes have made me, If thou canst, be happy still!

ANONYMOUS.

――――

Another reply was published entitled――

LADY BYRON’S RESPONSE TO “FARE THEE WELL.”

“What reader of Pope’s celebrated _Eloise_ ever thought that poem really the work of its heroine? or who for a moment will conceive the following to be the production of _Lady Byron’s_ pen?”

And fare _Thee_ well, too――if, for ever―― How dread the thought!――still fare thee well! Yet think not time or space can sever The heart that wont on thine to dwell!

O cherish not the sad illusion, All thy high-wrought hopes deceiving, Which whispers thee, _that_ heart’s profusion Of love can end in “unforgiving!”

Too well I know thy conscious breast, That form’d, how brief! my “placid” pillow, Hath wandered from its ark of rest, Far stretching o’er life’s cheerless billow.

(This is dated April 29, 1816, and consists of twenty-three verses in all. It is unnecessary to quote the remainder, but the poem can be found in the British Museum Library, 11642 b.b.b. 58.)

――――

ANOTHER REPLY TO “FARE THEE WELL.”

Fare thee well, and if for ever, Then for ever let it be; For again, false Byron, never Canst thou be beloved by me.

If thy breast were bared before me, What a cruel heart ’twould show; False to her who did adore thee―― Cold as Russia’s wastes of snow.

’Twas not I who rent asunder Ties which should have lived till death. Thou hast been a wide world’s wonder For thy scorn of love and faith.

Vain are now thy magic verses, None to pity can they move; Better far to send me curses Than the mockery of love.

Though the world to soothe endeavour, Though it sorrow for my pain Can it, Byron, can it ever Make thy false heart true again?

No! a heart once dead to feeling True again can never prove, And the wound that knows no healing Is a woman’s trampled love.

Oh! to banish recollection Of that early love of mine, When my young heart’s deep affection Thought it met the same in thine.

When in tones of gentle kindness That false tongue love’s accents pour’d Could I think my love was blindness? Could I doubt I was adored?

Still there is a tie that binds me To respect thy once loved name, Though each passing morrow finds thee Deeper still in guilt and shame.

Yes――our little infant smiling As she climbs upon my knee, Lisping with her voice beguiling, Teaches me to think of thee.

When, as twilight’s shadows gather She repeats her ev’ning prayer, Then she prays for thee, her father, Tho’ she sees no father there.

Thus it is, though love has vanished From this torn and bleeding heart, That the feeling is not banished That thou still my husband art.

Fare thee well, and, if for ever In this world of grief and pain, I will hope that those who sever Here, will meet elsewhere again.

_Lyrics and Lays_, by Pips. Wyman Bros., Hare Street, Calcutta, 1867.

――――

Whatever were the causes of the separation of Lady Byron from her husband (and many reasons have been assigned) will probably never be known, nor do they concern us here, except in so far as regards the statements made by Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe. In 1869 it pleased this American authoress to contribute an article to a London magazine, in which she deliberately accused Lord Byron of having committed the foulest crimes imaginable, and stated that although Lady Byron was aware of his depravity from their very wedding day, she yet continued to reside with him until after the birth of their daughter. A violent controversy ensued, many old scandals were revived, and whilst Mrs. Stowe’s statements were generally disbelieved, Byron’s reputation suffered considerably. For this result Thomas Moore was mainly to blame, he having destroyed the memoirs entrusted to him by Lord Byron. Had these memoirs been published, it is very improbable that Mrs. Stowe’s article would have ever have been written. Moore was imprudent enough to show these memoirs to several people, as well as the concluding five Cantos of Don Juan, before he destroyed them, and it is said that Lady Burghersh made copies of them. It is possible, therefore that Byron’s view of the circumstances may yet be given to the world, but however that may be, nothing can excuse the action of Mrs. Stowe, whose article could serve no other purpose than that of blackening the memory of a great but ill-used and unfortunate man:――

THE UN-TRUE STORY. _Dedicated to Mrs. Stowe._

Know ye the land where the novelists _blurt_ all The family secrets they learn in our clime; Where skill in romance will contrive to _convert_ all The deeds of our bard to the blackest of crime? Know ye the land of the dollar divine, Where Beecher’s considered a speaker sublime; Where the dark wings of scandle will even presume To flap o’er the great, long at rest in the tomb; Where writers and editors all “high falute,” And the voice of the slanderer never is mute, Where all, who as authors or speakers stand high, Though varied in views, in “tall-talking” may vie, And the principal journal can stoop to a lie; While lucre and puffs to support it combine (Though Low and Macmillan adopt the same line)? ’Tis the clime of the west, ’tis the land of a STOWE: Can ye marvel her libels have angered us so? Oh! false as all things merely written to sell Are the statements they make, and the tales which they tell!

_Punch and Judy_ (London) February 12, 1870.

――――:o:――――

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.

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.

LORD BYRON.

――――

A NOBLE LORD TO HIS CREDITORS.

My cab is at the door, Thou must raise the wind for me, But ere you go, Tom Moore, Here’s a snug douceur for thee!

Here’s a bond for those who’ll lend me, And a bill at six month’s date―― I’ll sign whate’er you send me―― Get the cash at any rate!

Though boring duns surround me, They still must trust me on, Till you the cash have found me―― “Call again,” to every one!

Each knock I know full well, And my fainting spirits sink When they pull the area bell, So be off, and fetch the chink!

Mind and bring me back by one, Of thousands half a score,―― Hark! there’s another dun,―― Adieu! adieu! Tom Moore!

_The National Omnibus_, December 9, 1831.

――――

LES ADIEUX DU PREMIER.[106]

My cab is at the door, Of my red-box here’s the key, But before I go John Russell, Here’s some good advice for thee,

Act, that honest hearts may love thee; Act, that party knaves may hate; And from office when they shove thee, Have a heart to meet thy fate.

Tho’ Protection roar around thee, As loud as roar it can, Tho’ they set on to confound thee, “Young Ben,” that “nice young man.――”

Tho’ county members yell, Tho’ you sever Party’s link, Tho’ Bedchamber Lords rebel, Speak out boldly what you think.

Tho’ for shorter term than mine, Quite sufficient of a bore You’ll find office, I opine, And be glad when it is o’er.

_Punch_, 1846.

――――

WARD HUNT AFTER BYRON.

My boat has run ashore, And my barque’s beneath the sea And I’m told I never more Must rule the Admiraltee.

There’s a sigh from those who love me, And a smile from those who hate; And the man who’s put above me Will tremble at my fate.

But though Commons rail around me, They still shall hear me on; Though the Upper House confound me, It hath seats that may be won.

My boat has run ashore, And my barque’s beneath the sea, And I fear I never more Shall rule the Admiraltee!

_Punch_, November, 1875.

――――:o:――――

THE CATHOLIC CANDIDATE.

Dan O’Connell came down like a wolf on the fold, And his priest-ridden voters look’d bloody and bold; And the noise of their cheering resembled the roar Of galley-slaves plying the criminal oar.

Like the fell rebel Orr, in his livery of green, O’Connell and Catholic Clergy were seen; And their hopes and their actions, ’tis very well known, Are to level our Church, and to hurl down the Throne.

But the _Protestant_ voice came strong on the blast, And O’Connell and Treason grew sick as it passed, And the hopes of his traitorous party grew chill, And their hearts quaked with sorrow, their voices were still.

* * * * *

And the precious _Cat_._Ass_. were loud in their wail, And mute was the Corn-Exchange temple of Baal; For the might of the party, in spite of big words, Must melt like the snow before Protestant Lords.

From “_Spirit of the Age Newspaper_” for 1828.

――――:o:――――

CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE.

_Canto I._

“Adieu, adieu! my native shore Fades o’er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild sea-mew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight: Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native Land――Good Night! * * * * * “With thee, my bark, I’ll swiftly go Athwart the foaming brine; Nor care what land thou bear’st me to, So not again to mine. Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves! And when you fail my sight, Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves! My native land――Good Night!”

BYRON.

AS SUNG BY LORD GREY.

Adieu, adieu! place once so sure, Sounds through the house I see, The Whigs must sigh, the Tories roar, And shrieks the new M.P. Yon tax they’ve taken off the malt, We follow in its flight, Farewell! ’twere vain to try and halt, My premiership, good night.

With thee, my Brough’m, I’ll swiftly go And some new scheme design, Nor care what shifts they put us to, So ’tis not to resign. Welcome, welcome, ye Whiggish slaves, But should you fail to fight, Welcome, ye ratting Tory knaves, My premiership, good night.

_Figaro in London_, May 4, 1833.

――――

THE FLIGHT OF THE ALDERMEN.

A! doo, A! doo, my fav’rite scheme Low in the market falls; The lawyers sigh, the brokers scream, They ask in vain for calls. Yon bubble, bursting on the sea, We follow in his flight: Farewell! my simple allottee; My engineer! good night.

With thee, my cash, I’ll swiftly go, Athwart the foaming brine; Nor care should fortune take me to The equinoctial line. Welcome, welcome! ye bulls and bears; And when I’m out of sight, You’re welcome to my worthless shares, My Capel Court, good night!

_Punch_, 1846.

(_The above refers to the Railway Panic in 1846._)

――――:o:――――

THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium’s capital had gather’d 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 look’d love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell[107] But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

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!

Within a window’d niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick’s fated Chieftain: he did hear That sound, the first amid’st the festival, And caught its tone with Death’s prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deem’d it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretch’d his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rush’d into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blush’d at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne’er might be repeated: who would guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet, such awful morn could rise.

And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war: And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While throng’d the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips――“The foe! they come! they come!”

* * * * *

CHILDE HAROLD, _Canto III_.

――――

THE RAILWAY PANIC.

There was a sound that ceased not day or night, Of Speculation. London gathered then Unwonted crowds and moved by promise bright, To Capel Court rushed women, boys and, men, All seeking railway shares and scrip; and when The market rose, how many a lad could tell, With joyous glance, and eyes that spake again, ’Twas e’en more lucrative than marrying well;―― When, hark! that warning voice strikes like a rising knell.

Nay, it is nothing, empty as the wind, But a ‘bear’ whisper down Throgmorton street; Wild enterprise shall still be unconfined; No rest for us, when rising premiums greet The morn, to pour their treasures at our feet; When, hark; that solemn sound is heard once more, The gathering “bears” its echoes yet repeat―― ’Tis but too true, is now the general roar, The Bank has raised her rate, as she has done before,

And then and there were hurryings to and fro, And anxious thoughts and signs of sad distress, Faces all pale, that but an hour ago Smiled at the thought of their own craftiness. And there were sudden partings, such as press The coin from hungry pockets,――mutual sighs Of brokers and their clients. Who can guess How many a “stag” already panting flies, When upon times so bright such awful panics rise?

(_This alludes to the panic subsequent on the Railway Mania of_ 1845-6)

From “_Our Iron Roads_,” by F. S Williams. London: Bemrose and Sons.

――――

WATERLOO AT ASTLEY’S THEATRE.

“According to the latest Astley authorities, dated last June, the Battle of Waterloo occupied six minutes exactly. Several French soldiers walked undisguisedly into the quarters of the English army before the fight commenced; and some, at the extreme back of the scene, fought indiscriminately on either side, as occasion required. But the gravest circumstance is, that in the heat of the action the Duke of Wellington, approaching Marshall Soult, said to him, ‘Don’t let your fellows fire until mine have’! a course which must have led them to destruction, had not General Widdicombe roared, with a voice of thunder, ‘what the devil are you doing there, you stupid asses?’ which produced the last grand charge. The following beautiful lines are but little known, and well deserve a place in this report. They are the production of Lord Byron, and were written at the request of the late Andrew Ducrow, Esq., describing the scene immediately before the commencement of the battle.”

There was a sound of revelry by night; And Astley’s Manager had gathered then His supers and his cavalry; and bright The gas blazed o’er tall women and loud men. The audience waited happily, and when The orchestra broke forth with brazen swell, Apples were sold for most extensive gain; And ginger beer popped merrily as well!―― But hush! hark! what’s that noise, just like our parlour bell?

Did ye not hear it?――No, sir!――Never mind, P’haps it was the Atlas bus to Oxford Street. Strike up, you fiddlers! Now, young feller, mind! Don’t scrouge, or you shall go where police meet, To chase the knowing thieves with flying feet!―― But hark! that sound is heard again――once more! And boys, with whistle shrill, its note repeat; And nearer, clearer, queerer than before! Hats off!――It is, it is――the bell from prompter’s door!

Ah! then was hurry-skurry, to and fro; And authors’ oaths, and symptoms of a mess; And men as soldiers, who, two nights ago, Went round the circus in a Chinese dress! And there were rapid paintings, such as press On those who ply the arts, with choking size, Which ne’er might be completed! Who could guess How all would look before the public eyes, When on that “Street in Brussels” the act drop would rise!

From _George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack_, 1846.

――――

A Farewell to Jenny Lind, after the Farewell to Thomas Moore, in five verses, appeared in _Punch_, September, 1848, and a long parody entitled “The Battle of the Opera,” in _Punch_, May 19, 1849, commenced thus:――

“There was a sound――’tis JENNY LIND’S last night! And England’s capital had gathered then, Her beauty, rank, fashion and wealth――and bright The gas shone o’er fair women and spruce men.”

* * * * *

――――

THE CHINESE WAR, 1856-7.[108]

There was a sound of orat’ry by night, And Britain’s capital had gathered then Her parliament’ry chivalry, and bright The gas shone o’er these intellectual men; Six hundred hearts beat hopefully; and when Cobden arose, that slaughter-hating swell, Dark eyes flash’d fire at eyes which flash’d again, And Cobden felt a second William Tell, Obsequious Hayter paled, and Pam’s bold visage fell!

Had’st thou but heard, O gentle reader mine, The whispering talk, the noise of shuffling feet―― But mark’d the looks of men who wished to dine, And dared not, for their lives, move from their seat, Chafing within, without, with fervent heat, Thou would’st have envied orators no more―― Thou would’st have owned no eyes could ever meet A sight suggesting stronger the word “bore,” And turned thee to thy bed contentedly to snore.

Ah! then and there were hurryings to and fro, And notes delivered in a shocking mess, And gents grew pale who, but a week ago, Esteemed themselves “the cheese,” and nothing less; And there were sudden partings――I confess These coalitions, ruptures, did surprise The public gen’rally. Could any guess That villain Yeh would break old English ties, And British statesmen stoop to puff his Chinese lies?

Then ye might see cabs hurrying in hot haste To Paddington, and Shoreditch, Euston-square, And all the other stations――for no waste Of time made Pam, nor did he even spare His co-mates; for the ripen’d wheat and tare Must grow and bloom together here, until The reck’ning comes, and men’s hearts are laid bare. And well did Ministers their own plots till, And sway the supple country at their lordly will!

Within a niche of Romulus’s halls Sat Manchester’s sick member. He did hear The news by telegraph, and loud he calls For ink and paper; and he dropt a tear (Of course well’d up by sentiment, not fear) Upon the sheet which stated he would stand Once more for that great town he loved so dear. Ungrateful Manchester, I say――for it Saw its sick member _stand_, and would not bid him _sit_![109]

And Thames’ waves murmur as the members leave, And sigh beneath its bridges as they pass, Grieving (if aught so muddy e’er can grieve) Over the unreturning brave――alas! So shortly to be stript of all their brass As well as tin, and, friendless, left to go O’er the wide, gloomy world――consigned, _en masse_, To vile obscurity by heartless foe, Shorn of their proud “M.P.” by base elector’s “No!”

Last session found them full of lusty strife, Last month in House of Commons blythe and gay―― The guns of Canton signall’d forth the strife And called ’em all to arms. And “Gov’nor Yeh!” The war-cry was which led them on that day; The husting’s mob closed round them――forth they went Their hopes all wither’d, crush’d, in dust low lay―― To mourn their factious folly and repent Were Gibson, Cobden, Bright, by angry England sent.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

BILLIARDS AT OXFORD.

There was a clash of billiard balls by night, And University had gathered then Her members for a handicap, and bright The lamps shone o’er fair tables and dark men; A hundred went up rapidly; and when The clock struck nine a wild tumultuous yell Bade them play on until the hour of ten Brought into sound the evening chapel bell; But hush! hark! a deep voice strikes like a rising knell.

Did ye not hear it? No; ’twas but a moke, Or a cad yelling from the distant street; On with the game! don’t interrupt the stroke; No one should budge when two such players meet To give us all an exhibition treat―― But hark! that fatal sound breaks in once more, Alas! no pen its terrors could repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Fly! fly! it is-it is――the Proctor at the door!

Within a windowed niche of those low walls Sate Univ.’s famous dandy; he did hear That sound the first amidst the billiard balls, And caught its tones with sad, prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that sound too well Which cost his father several pounds a year, And roused the instinct flight alone could quell He rushed into the street, and foremost victim fell.

A. HASKETT SMITH, _Univ. Coll: Oxford_.

――――

THE FIRST NIGHT OF “OTHELLO.”