George, Lord Byron

(1788-1824.)

LVIII. The Vision of Judgment

The Vision of Judgment appeared in 1822, and created a great sensation owing to its terrible attack on George III., as well as its ridicule of Southey, of whose long-forgotten Vision of Judgment this is a parody.

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate;
His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull,
So little trouble had been given of late:
Not that the place by any means was full,
But since the Gallic era “eighty-eight”,
The devils had ta’en a longer, stronger pull,
And “a pull all together”, as they say
At sea—which drew most souls another way.

II.

The angels all were singing out of tune,
And hoarse with having little else to do,
Excepting to wind up the sun and moon,
Or curb a runaway young star or two,
Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon
Broke out of bounds o’er the ethereal blue,
Splitting some planet with its playful tail,
As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale.

III.

The guardian seraphs had retired on high,
Finding their charges past all care below;
Terrestrial business fill’d nought in the sky
Save the recording angel’s black bureau;
Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply
With such rapidity of vice and woe,
That he had stripp’d off both his wings in quills,
And yet was in arrear of human ills.

IV.

His business so augmented of late years,
That he was forced, against his will no doubt
(Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers),
For some resource to turn himself about,
And claim the help of his celestial peers,
To aid him ere he should be quite worn out
By the increased demand for his remarks:
Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks.

This was a handsome board—at least for heaven;
And yet they had even then enough to do,
So many conquerors’ cars were daily driven,
So many kingdoms fitted up anew;
Each day, too, slew its thousands six or seven,
Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo,
They threw their pens down in divine disgust,
The page was so besmear’d with blood and dust.

VI.

This by the way; ’tis not mine to record
What angels shrink from: even the very devil
On this occasion his own work abhorr’d,
So surfeited with the infernal revel:
Though he himself had sharpen’d every sword,
It almost quench’d his innate thirst of evil.
(Here Satan’s sole good work deserves insertion—
’Tis that he has both generals in reversion.)

VII.

Let’s skip a few short years of hollow peace,
Which peopled earth no better, hell as wont,
And heaven none—they form the tyrant’s lease,
With nothing but new names subscribed upon’t:
’Twill one day finish: meantime they increase,
“With seven heads and ten horns”, and all in front,
Like Saint John’s foretold beast; but ours are born
Less formidable in the head than horn.

VIII.

In the first year of freedom’s second dawn
Died George the Third; although no tyrant, one
Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn
Left him nor mental nor external sun:
A better farmer ne’er brush’d dew from lawn,
A worse king never left a realm undone!
He died—but left his subjects still behind,
One half as mad—and t’ other no less blind.

IX.

He died! his death made no great stir on earth:
His burial made some pomp: there was profusion
Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth
Of aught but tears—save those shed by collusion.
For these things may be bought at their true worth;
Of elegy there was the due infusion—
Bought also; and the torches, cloaks, and banners,
Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners,

Form’d a sepulchral mélodrame. Of all
The fools who flock’d to swell or see the show,
Who cared about the corpse? The funeral
Made the attraction, and the black the woe,
There throbb’d not there a thought which pierced the pall;
And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low,
It seem’d the mockery of hell to fold
The rottenness of eighty years in gold.

XI.

So mix his body with the dust! It might
Return to what it must far sooner, were
The natural compound left alone to fight
Its way back into earth, and fire, and air,
But the unnatural balsams merely blight
What nature made him at his birth, as bare
As the mere million’s base unmummied clay—
Yet all his spices but prolong decay.

XII.

He’s dead—and upper earth with him has done;
He’s buried; save the undertaker’s bill,
Or lapidary’s scrawl, the world has gone
For him, unless he left a German will.
But where’s the proctor who will ask his son?
In whom his qualities are reigning still,
Except that household virtue, most uncommon,
Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman.

XIII.

“God save the King!” It is a large economy
In God to save the like; but if He will
Be saving, all the better; for not one am I
Of those who think damnation better still;
I hardly know, too, if not quite alone am I
In this small hope of bettering future ill
By circumscribing, with some slight restriction,
The eternity of hell’s hot jurisdiction.

XIV.

I know this is unpopular; I know
’Tis blasphemous; I know one may be damn’d
For hoping no one else may e’er be so;
I know my catechism: I know we ‘re cramm’d
With the best doctrines till we quite o’erflow;
I know that all save England’s church have shamm’d;
And that the other twice two hundred churches
And synagogues have made a damn’d bad purchase.

XV.

God help us all! God help me too! I am,
God knows, as helpless as the devil can wish,
And not a whit more difficult to damn,
Than is to bring to land a late-hooked fish,
Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb;
Not that I’m fit for such a noble dish,
As one day will be that immortal fry
Of almost everybody born to die.

XVI.

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate,
And nodded o’er his keys; when lo! there came
A wondrous noise he had not heard of late—
A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and flame;
In short, a roar of things extremely great,
Which would have made all save a saint exclaim;
But he, with first a start and then a wink,
Said, “There’s another star gone out, I think!”

XVII.

But ere he could return to his repose,
A cherub flapp’d his right wing o’er his eyes—
At which Saint Peter yawn’d and rubb’d his nose;
“Saint porter,” said the angel, “prithee rise!”
Waving a goodly wing, which glow’d, as glows
An earthly peacock’s tail, with heavenly dyes;
To which the Saint replied, “Well, what’s the matter?
Is Lucifer come back with all this clatter?”

XVIII.

“No,” quoth the cherub; “George the Third is dead.”
“And who is George the Third?” replied the apostle;
“What George? What Third?” “The King of England,” said
The angel. “Well, he won’t find kings to jostle
Him on his way; but does he wear his head?
Because the last we saw here had a tussle,
And ne’er would have got into heaven’s good graces,
Had he not flung his head in all our faces.

XIX.

“He was, if I remember, King of France,
That head of his, which could not keep a crown
On earth, yet ventured in my face to advance
A claim to those of martyrs—like my own.
If I had had my sword, as I had once
When I cut ears off, I had cut him down;
But having but my keys, and not my brand,
I only knock’d his head from out his hand.

XX.

“And then he set up such a headless howl,
That all the saints came out and took him in;
And there he sits by St. Paul, cheek by jowl;
That fellow Paul—the parvenu! The skin
Of Saint Bartholomew, which makes his cowl
In heaven, and upon earth redeem’d his sin
So as to make a martyr, never sped
Better than did that weak and wooden head.

XXI.

“But had it come up here upon its shoulders,
There would have been a different tale to tell;
The fellow-feeling in the saints’ beholders
Seems to have acted on them like a spell;
And so this very foolish head heaven solders
Back on its trunk: it may be very well,
And seems the custom here to overthrow
Whatever has been wisely done below.”

XXII.

The angel answer’d, “Peter! do not pout:
The king who comes has head and all entire,
And never knew much what it was about—
He did as doth the puppet—by its wire,
And will be judged like all the rest, no doubt:
My business and your own is not to inquire
Into such matters, but to mind our cue—
Which is to act as we are bid to do.”

XXIII.

While thus they spake, the angelic caravan,
Arriving like a rush of mighty wind,
Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swan
Some silver stream (say Ganges, Nile, or Inde,
Or Thames, or Tweed), and ’midst them an old man
With an old soul, and both extremely blind,
Halted before the gate, and in his shroud
Seated their fellow-traveller on a cloud.

XXIV.

But bringing up the rear of this bright host,
A Spirit of a different aspect waved
His wings, like thunder-clouds above some coast
Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks is paved;
His brow was like the deep when tempest-toss’d;
Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved
Eternal wrath on his immortal face,
And where he gazed, a gloom pervaded space.

XXV.

As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate
Ne’er to be enter’d more by him or Sin,
With such a glance of supernatural hate,
As made St. Peter wish himself within:
He patter’d with his keys at a great rate,
And sweated through his apostolic skin:
Of course his perspiration was but ichor,
Or some such other spiritual liquor.

XXVI.

The very cherubs huddled all together,
Like birds when soars the falcon; and they felt
A tingling to the tip of every feather,
And form’d a circle like Orion’s belt
Around their poor old charge; who scarce knew whither
His guards had led him, though they gently dealt
With royal manes (for by many stories,
And true, we learn the angels all are Tories).

XXVII.

As things were in this posture, the gate flew
Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges
Flung over space an universal hue
Of many-color’d flame, until its tinges
Reach’d even our speck of earth, and made a new
Aurora Borealis spread its fringes
O’er the North Pole, the same seen, when ice-bound,
By Captain Perry’s crew, in “Melville’s Sound”.

XXVIII.

And from the gate thrown open issued beaming
A beautiful and mighty Thing of Light,
Radiant with glory, like a banner streaming
Victorious from some world-o’erthrowing fight:
My poor comparisons must needs be teeming
With earthly likenesses, for here the night
Of clay obscures our best conceptions, saving
Johanna Southcote, or Bob Southey raving.

XXIX.

’Twas the archangel Michael: all men know
The make of angels and archangels, since
There’s scarce a scribbler has not one to show,
From the fiends’ leader to the angels’ prince.
There also are some altar-pieces, though
I really can’t say that they much evince
One’s inner notions of immortal spirits;
But let the connoisseurs explain their merits.

XXX.

Michael flew forth in glory and in good,
A goodly work of Him from whom all glory
And good arise: the portal pass’d—he stood
Before him the young cherubs and saints hoary—
(I say young, begging to be understood
By looks, not years, and should be very sorry
To state, they were not older than St. Peter,
But merely that they seem’d a little sweeter).

XXXI.

The cherubs and the saints bow’d down before
That archangelic hierarch, the first
Of essences angelical, who wore
The aspect of a god; but this ne’er nursed
Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core
No thought, save for his Maker’s service, durst
Intrude, however glorified and high;
He knew him but the viceroy of the sky.

XXXII.

He and the sombre silent Spirit met—
They knew each other both for good and ill;
Such was their power that neither could forget
His former friend and future foe; but still
There was a high, immortal, proud regret
In either’s eye, as if’t were less their will
Than destiny to make the eternal years
Their date of war, and their champ clos the spheres.

XXXIII.

But here they were in neutral space: we know
From Job, that Satan hath the power to pay
A heavenly visit thrice a year or so;
And that “the sons of God”, like those of clay,
Must keep him company; and we might show
From the same book, in how polite a way
The dialogue is held between the powers
Of Good and Evil—but ’twould take up hours.

XXXIV.

And this is not a theologic tract,
To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic,
If Job be allegory or a fact,
But a true narrative; and thus I pick
From out the whole but such and such an act,
As sets aside the slightest thought of trick.
’Tis every tittle true, beyond suspicion,
And accurate as any other vision.

LIX. The Waltz

Published in 1813 and described by its author as an “Apostrophic Hymn”.

Muse of the many-twinkling feet! whose charms
Are now extended up from legs to arms;
Terpsichore!—too long misdeem’d a maid—
Reproachful term—bestow’d but to upbraid—
Henceforth in all the bronze of brightness shine,
The least a vestal of the virgin Nine.
Far be from thee and thine the name of prude;
Mock’d, yet triumphant; sneer’d at, unsubdued;
Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly,
If but thy coats are reasonably high;
Thy breast, if bare enough, requires no shield:
Dance forth—sans armour thou shalt take the field,
And own—impregnable to most assaults,
Thy not too lawfully begotten “Waltz”.

Hail, nimble nymph! to whom the young huzzar,
The whisker’d votary of waltz and war,
His night devotes, despite of spurs and boots;
A sight unmatch’d since Orpheus and his brutes:
Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz! beneath whose banners
A modern hero fought for modish manners;
On Hounslow’s heath to rival Wellesley’s fame,
Cock’d, fired, and miss’d his man—but gain’d his aim:
Hail, moving muse! to whom the fair one’s breast
Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest.
Oh, for the flow of Busby or of Fitz,
The latter’s loyalty, the former’s wits,
To “energize the object I pursue”,
And give both Belial and his dance their due!

Imperial Waltz! imported from the Rhine
(Famed for the growth of pedigree and wine),
Long be thine import from all duty free,
And hock itself be less esteem’d than thee;
In some few qualities alike—for hock
Improves our cellar—thou our living stock.
The head to hock belongs—thy subtler art
Intoxicates alone the heedless heart:
Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims,
And wakes to wantonness the willing limbs.

O Germany! how much to thee we owe,
As heaven-born Pitt can testify below.
Ere cursed confederation made thee France’s,
And only left us thy d—d debts and dances!
Of subsidies and Hanover bereft,
We bless thee still—for George the Third is left!
Of kings the best, and last not least in worth,
For graciously begetting George the Fourth.
To Germany, and highnesses serene,
Who owe us millions—don’t we owe the queen?
To Germany, what owe we not besides?
So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides:
Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood,
Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud;
Who sent us—so be pardon’d all our faults—
A dozen dukes, some kings, a queen—and Waltz.

But peace to her, her emperor and diet,
Though now transferr’d to Bonaparte’s “fiat!”
Back to thy theme—O Muse of motion! say,
How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way?

Borne on thy breath of hyperborean gales
From Hamburg’s port (while Hamburg yet had mails),
Ere yet unlucky Fame, compelled to creep
To snowy Gottenburg was chill’d to sleep;
Or, starting from her slumbers, deign’d arise,
Heligoland, to stock thy mart with lies;
While unburnt Moscow yet had news to send,
Nor owed her fiery exit to a friend.
She came—Waltz came—and with her certain sets
Of true despatches, and as true gazettes:
Then flamed of Austerlitz the blest despatch,
Which Moniteur nor Morning Post can match;
And, almost crush’d beneath the glorious news,
Ten plays, and forty tales of Kotzebue’s;
One envoy’s letters, six composers’ airs,
And loads from Frankfort and from Leipsic fairs:
Meiner’s four volumes upon womankind,
Like Lapland witches to ensure a wind;
Brunck’s heaviest tome for ballast, and, to back it,
Of Heynè, such as should not sink the packet.

Fraught with this cargo, and her fairest freight,
Delightful Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate,
The welcome vessel reach’d the genial strand,
And round her flock’d the daughters of the land.
Not decent David, when, before the ark,
His grand pas-seul excited some remark,
Not love-lorn Quixote, when his Sancho thought
The knight’s fandango friskier than it ought;
Not soft Herodias, when, with winning tread,
Her nimble feet danced off another’s head;
Not Cleopatra on her galley’s deck,
Display’d so much of leg, or more of neck,
Than thou ambrosial Waltz, when first the moon
Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune!

To you, ye husbands of ten years whose brows
Ache with the annual tributes of a spouse;
To you of nine years less, who only bear
The budding sprouts of those that you shall wear,
With added ornaments around them roll’d
Of native brass, or law-awarded gold:
To you, ye matrons, ever on the watch
To mar a son’s, or make a daughter’s match;
To you, ye children of—whom chance accords—
Always the ladies, and sometimes their lords;
To you, ye single gentlemen, who seek
Torments for life, or pleasures for a week;
As Love or Hymen your endeavours guide,
To gain your own, or snatch another’s bride;—
To one and all the lovely stranger came,
And every ball-room echoes with her name.

Endearing Waltz! to thy more melting tune
Bow Irish jig and ancient rigadoon.
Scotch reels, avaunt! and country dance forego
Your future claims to each fantastic toe!
Waltz, Waltz alone, both legs and arms demands,
Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands;
Hands which may freely range in public sight
Where ne’er before—but—pray “put out the light”.
Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier
Shines much too far, or I am much too near;
And true, though strange, Waltz whispers this remark,
“My slippery steps are safest in the dark!”
But here the Muse with due decorum halts,
And lends her longest petticoat to Waltz.

Observant travellers of every time!
Ye quartos publish’d upon every clime!
Oh, say, shall dull Romaika’s heavy round,
Fandango’s wriggle, or Bolero’s bound;
Can Egypt’s Almas—tantalizing group—
Columbia’s caperers to the warlike whoop—
Can aught from cold Kamschatka to Cape Horn
With Waltz compare, or after Waltz be borne?
Ah, no! from Morier’s pages down to Galt’s,
Each tourist pens a paragraph for “Waltz”.

Shades of those belles whose reign began of yore,
With George the Third’s—and ended long before!—
Though in your daughters’ daughters yet you thrive,
Burst from your lead, and be yourselves alive!
Back to the ball-room speed your spectred host;
Fools’ Paradise is dull to that you lost.
No treacherous powder bids conjecture quake;
No stiff-starch’d stays make meddling fingers ache
(Transferr’d to those ambiguous things that ape
Goats in their visage, women in their shape):
No damsel faints when rather closely press’d,
But more caressing seems when most caress’d;
Superfluous hartshorn and reviving salts;
Both banished, by the sovereign cordial, “Waltz”.

Seductive Waltz!—though on thy native shore
Even Werter’s self proclaim’d thee half a whore:
Werter—to decent vice though much inclined,
Yet warm, not wanton; dazzled, but not blind—
Though gentle Genlis, in her strife with Staël,
Would even proscribe thee from a Paris ball;
The fashion hails—from countesses to queens,
And maids and valets waltz behind the scenes;
Wide and more wide thy witching circle spreads,
And turns—if nothing else—at least our heads;
With thee even clumsy cits attempt to bounce,
And cockneys practise what they can’t pronounce.
Gods! how the glorious theme my strain exalts,
And rhyme finds partner rhyme in praise of “Waltz!”

Blest was the time Waltz chose for her début:
The court, the Regent, like herself, were new,
New face for friends, for foes some new rewards;
New ornaments for black and royal guards;
New laws to hang the rogues that roar’d for bread;
New coins (most new) to follow those that fled;
New victories—nor can we prize them less,
Though Jenky wonders at his own success;
New wars, because the old succeed so well,
That most survivors envy those who fell;
New mistresses—no, old—and yet ’tis true,
Though they be old, the thing is something new;
Each new, quite new—(except some ancient tricks),
New white-sticks, gold-sticks, broom-sticks, all new sticks!
With vests or ribbons, deck’d alike in hue,
New troopers strut, new turncoats blush in blue;
So saith the muse! my ——, what say you?
Such was the time when Waltz might best maintain
Her new preferments in this novel reign;
Such was the time, nor ever yet was such:
Hoops are no more, and petticoats not much:
Morals and minuets, virtue and her stays,
And tell-tale powder—all have had their days.
The ball begins—the honours of the house
First duly done by daughter or by spouse,
Some potentate—or royal or serene—
With Kent’s gay grace, or sapient Glo’ster’s mien,
Leads forth the ready dame, whose rising flush
Might once have been mistaken for a blush,
From where the garb just leaves the bosom free,
That spot where hearts were once supposed to be;
Round all the confines of the yielded waist,
The stranger’s hand may wander undisplaced;
The lady’s in return may grasp as much
As princely paunches offer to her touch.
Pleased round the chalky floor how well they trip,
One hand reposing on the royal hip:
The other to the shoulder no less royal
Ascending with affection truly loyal!
Thus front to front the partners move or stand,
The foot may rest, but none withdraw the hand;
And all in turn may follow in their rank,
The Earl of—Asterisk—and Lady—Blank;
Sir—Such-a-one—with those of fashion’s host,
For whose blest surnames—vide Morning Post
(Or if for that impartial print too late,
Search Doctors’ Commons six months from my date)—
Thus all and each, in movement swift or slow,
The genial contact gently undergo;
Till some might marvel, with the modest Turk,
If “nothing follows all this palming work”.
True, honest Mirza!—you may trust my rhyme—
Something does follow at a fitter time;
The breast thus publicly resign’d to man
In private may resist him—if it can.

O ye who loved our grandmothers of yore,
Fitzpatrick, Sheridan, and many more!
And thou, my prince! whose sovereign taste and will
It is to love the lovely beldames still!
Thou ghost of Queensbury! whose judging sprite
Satan may spare to peep a single night,
Pronounce—if ever in your days of bliss
Asmodeus struck so bright a stroke as this;
To teach the young ideas how to rise,
Flush in the cheek, and languish in the eyes;
Rush to the heart, and lighten through the frame,
With half-told wish and ill-dissembled flame;
For prurient nature still will storm the breast—
Who, tempted thus, can answer for the rest?

But ye, who never felt a single thought,
For what our morals are to be, or ought;
Who wisely wish the charms you view to reap,
Say—would you make those beauties quite so cheap?
Hot from the hands promiscuously applied,
Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side,
Where were the rapture then to clasp the form
From this lewd grasp and lawless contact warm?
At once love’s most endearing thought resign,
To press the hand so press’d by none but thine;
To gaze upon that eye which never met
Another’s ardent look without regret;
Approach the lip which all, without restraint,
Come near enough—if not to touch—to taint;
If such thou lovest—love her then no more,
Or give—like her—caresses to a score;
Her mind with these is gone, and with it go
The little left behind it to bestow.

Voluptuous Waltz! and dare I thus blaspheme?
The bard forgot thy praises were his theme.
Terpsichore, forgive!—at every ball
My wife now waltzes—and my daughters shall;
My son—(or stop—’tis needless to inquire—
These little accidents should ne’er transpire;
Some ages hence our genealogic tree
Will wear as green a bough for him as me)—
Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amends,
Grandsons for me—in heirs to all his friends.

LX. “The Dedication” in Don Juan

Southey as Poet Laureate was a favourite target for satirical quips and cranks on the part of Byron. This “Dedication” was not published until after the author’s death.

Bob Southey! You’re a poet—Poet-laureate,
And representative of all the race;
Although ’tis true that you turn’d out a Tory
Last—yours has lately been a common case—
And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye at?
With all the Lakers, in and out of place?
A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye
Like “four-and-twenty Blackbirds in a pie;

II.

“Which pie being open’d they began to sing”
(This old song and new simile holds good),
“A dainty dish to set before the King”,
Or Regent, who admires such kind of food—
And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing,
But like a hawk encumber’d with his hood—
Explaining metaphysics to the nation—
I wish he would explain his Explanation.

III.

You, Bob, are rather insolent, you know
At being disappointed in your wish
To supersede all warblers here below,
And be the only blackbird in the dish;
And then you overstrain yourself, or so,
And tumble downward like the flying fish
Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob,
And fall, for lack of moisture quite a-dry, Bob!

IV.

And Wordsworth, in a rather long “Excursion”
(I think the quarto holds five hundred pages),
Has given a sample from the vasty version
Of his new system to perplex the sages;
’Tis poetry—at least by his assertion,
And may appear so when the dog-star rages—
And he who understands it would be able
To add a story to the Tower of Babel.

You—Gentlemen! by dint of long seclusion
From better company, have kept your own
At Keswick, and, through still continued fusion
Of one another’s minds, at last have grown
To deem as a most logical conclusion,
That Poesy has wreaths for you alone;
There is a narrowness in such a notion,
Which makes me wish you’d change your lakes for ocean.

VI.

I would not imitate the petty thought,
Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice,
For all the glory your conversion brought,
Since gold alone should not have been its price,
You have your salary; was’t for that you wrought?
And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise!
You’re shabby fellows—true—but poets still,
And duly seated on the immortal hill.

VII.

Your bays may hide the baldness of your brows—
Perhaps some virtuous blushes, let them go—
To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs,
And for the fame you would engross below,
The field is universal, and allows
Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow;
Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe, will try
’Gainst you the question with posterity.

VIII.

For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses,
Contend not with you on the winged steed,
I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses,
The fame you envy and the skill you need;
And recollect a poet nothing loses
In giving to his brethren their full meed
Of merit, and complaint of present days
Is not the certain path to future praise.

IX.

He that reserves his laurels for posterity
(Who does not often claim the bright reversion)
Has generally no great crop to spare it, he
Being only injured by his own assertion;
And although here and there some glorious rarity
Arise like Titan from the sea’s immersion,
The major part of such appellants go
To—God knows where—for no one else can know.

If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues,
Milton appealed to the Avenger, Time,
If Time, the Avenger, execrates his wrongs,
And makes the word “Miltonic” mean “sublime”,
He deign’d not to belie his soul in songs,
Nor turn his very talent to a crime;
He did not loathe the sire to laud the son,
But closed the tyrant-hater he begun.

XI.

Think’st thou, could he—the blind old man—arise,
Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze once more
The blood of monarchs with his prophecies,
Or be alive again—again all hoar
With time and trials, and those helpless eyes,
And heartless daughters—worn—and pale—and poor:
Would he adore a sultan? he obey
The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh?

XII.

Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant!
Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin’s gore,
And thus for wider carnage taught to pant,
Transferr’d to gorge upon a sister shore,
The vulgarest tool that Tyranny could want,
With just enough of talent, and no more,
To lengthen fetters by another fix’d.
And offer poison long already mix’d.

XIII.

An orator of such set trash of phrase
Ineffably—legitimately vile,
That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise,
Nor foes—all nations—condescend to smile;
Not even a sprightly blunder’s spark can blaze
From that Ixion grindstone’s ceaseless toil,
That turns and turns to give the world a notion
Of endless torments and perpetual motion.

XIV.

A bungler even in its disgusting trade,
And botching, patching, leaving still behind
Something of which its masters are afraid,
States to be curb’d, and thoughts to be confined,
Conspiracy or Congress to be made—
Cobbling at manacles for all mankind—
A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains,
With God and man’s abhorrence for its gains.

XV.

If we may judge of matter by the mind,
Emasculated to the marrow It
Hath but two objects, how to serve, and bind,
Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit,
Eutropius of its many masters,—blind
To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit,
Fearless—because no feeling dwells in ice,
Its very courage stagnates to a vice.

XVI.

Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds,
For I will never feel them:—Italy!
Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds
Beneath the lie this State-thing breathed o’er thee—
Thy clanking chain, and Erin’s yet green wounds,
Have voices—tongues to cry aloud for me.
Europe has slaves—allies—kings—armies still,
And Southey lives to sing them very ill.

XVII.

Meantime, Sir Laureate, I proceed to dedicate,
In honest simple verse, this song to you.
And if in flattering strains I do not predicate,
’Tis that I still retain my “buff and blue”;
My politics as yet are all to educate:
Apostasy’s so fashionable, too,
To keep one creed’s a task grown quite Herculean:
Is it not so, my Tory, Ultra-Julian?

VENICE, September 16, 1818.

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