The Works of Lord Byron Volume I Part 108

Cash cannot quell them; Pollio played this prank, [xci]

(Then Phoebus first found credit in a Bank!) Not all the living only, but the dead, Fool on, as fluent as an Orpheus' Head; [68] 720 d.a.m.ned all their days, they posthumously thrive, Dug up from dust, though buried when alive!

Reviews record this epidemic crime, Those Books of Martyrs to the rage for rhyme.

Alas! woe worth the scribbler! often seen In Morning Post, or Monthly Magazine.

There lurk his earlier lays; but soon, hot pressed, [xcii]

Behold a Quarto!--Tarts must tell the rest.

Then leave, ye wise, the Lyre's precarious chords To muse-mad baronets, or madder lords, [cxiii] 730 Or country Crispins, now grown somewhat stale, Twin Doric minstrels, drunk with Doric ale!

Hark to those notes, narcotically soft!

The Cobbler-Laureats [69] sing to Capel Lofft! [70]

Till, lo! that modern Midas, as he hears, [xciv]

Adds an ell growth to his egregious ears! [xcv]

There lives one Druid, who prepares in time [71]

'Gainst future feuds his poor revenge of rhyme; Racks his dull Memory, and his duller Muse, To publish faults which Friends.h.i.+p should excuse. 740 If Friends.h.i.+p's nothing, Self-regard might teach More polished usage of his parts of speech.

But what is shame, or what is aught to him? [xcvi]

He vents his spleen, or gratifies his whim.

Some fancied slight has roused his lurking hate, Some folly crossed, some jest, or some debate; Up to his den Sir Scribbler hies, and soon The gathered gall is voided in Lampoon.

Perhaps at some pert speech you've dared to frown, Perhaps your Poem may have pleased the Town: 750 If so, alas! 'tis nature in the man-- May Heaven forgive you, for he never can!

Then be it so; and may his withering Bays Bloom fresh in satire, though they fade in praise While his lost songs no more shall steep and stink The dullest, fattest weeds on Lethe's brink, But springing upwards from the sluggish mould, Be (what they never were before) be--sold!

Should some rich Bard (but such a monster now, [72]

In modern Physics, we can scarce allow), [xcvii] 760 Should some pretending scribbler of the Court, Some rhyming Peer--there's plenty of the sort--[xcviii] [73]

All but one poor dependent priest withdrawn, (Ah! too regardless of his Chaplain's yawn!) Condemn the unlucky Curate to recite Their last dramatic work by candle-light, How would the preacher turn each rueful leaf, Dull as his sermons, but not half so brief!

Yet, since 'tis promised at the Rector's death, He'll risk no living for a little breath. 770 Then spouts and foams, and cries at every line, (The Lord forgive him!) "Bravo! Grand! Divine!"

Hoa.r.s.e with those praises (which, by Flatt'ry fed, [xcix]

Dependence barters for her bitter bread), He strides and stamps along with creaking boot; Till the floor echoes his emphatic foot, Then sits again, then rolls his pious eye, [c]

As when the dying vicar will not die!

Nor feels, forsooth, emotion at his heart;-- But all Dissemblers overact their part. 780

Ye, who aspire to "build the lofty rhyme," [74]

Believe not all who laud your false "sublime;"

But if some friend shall hear your work, and say, "Expunge that stanza, lop that line away,"

And, after fruitless efforts, you return Without amendment, and he answers, "Burn!"

That instant throw your paper in the fire, Ask not his thoughts, or follow his desire; But (if true Bard!) you scorn to condescend, [ci]

And will not alter what you can't defend, 790 If you will breed this b.a.s.t.a.r.d of your Brains, [75]

We'll have no words--I've only lost my pains.

Yet, if you only prize your favourite thought, As critics kindly do, and authors ought; If your cool friend annoy you now and then, And cross whole pages with his plaguy pen; No matter, throw your ornaments aside,-- Better let him than all the world deride.

Give light to pa.s.sages too much in shade, Nor let a doubt obscure one verse you've made; 800 Your friend's a "Johnson," not to leave one word, However trifling, which may seem absurd; Such erring trifles lead to serious ills, And furnish food for critics, or their quills. [76]

As the Scotch fiddle, with its touching tune, Or the sad influence of the angry Moon, All men avoid bad writers' ready tongues, As yawning waiters fly [77] Fitzscribble's lungs; [cii]

Yet on he mouths--ten minutes--tedious each [ciii] [78]

As Prelate's homily, or placeman's speech; 810 Long as the last years of a lingering lease, When Riot pauses until Rents increase.

While such a minstrel, muttering fustian, strays O'er hedge and ditch, through unfrequented ways, If by some chance he walks into a well, And shouts for succour with stentorian yell, "A rope! help, Christians, as ye hope for grace!"

Nor woman, man, nor child will stir a pace; For there his carca.s.s he might freely fling, [civ]

From frenzy, or the humour of the thing. 820 Though this has happened to more Bards than one; I'll tell you Budgell's story,--and have done.

Budgell, a rogue and rhymester, for no good, (Unless his case be much misunderstood) When teased with creditors' continual claims, "To die like Cato," [79] leapt into the Thames!

And therefore be it lawful through the town For any Bard to poison, hang, or drown.

Who saves the intended Suicide receives Small thanks from him who loathes the life he leaves; [cv] 830 And, sooth to say, mad poets must not lose The Glory of that death they freely choose.

Nor is it certain that some sorts of verse [cvi]

p.r.i.c.k not the Poet's conscience as a curse; Dosed [80] with vile drams on Sunday he was found, Or got a child on consecrated ground!

And hence is haunted with a rhyming rage-- Feared like a bear just bursting from his cage.

If free, all fly his versifying fit, Fatal at once to Simpleton or Wit: 840 But 'him', unhappy! whom he seizes,--'him'

He flays with Recitation limb by limb; Probes to the quick where'er he makes his breach, And gorges like a Lawyer--or a Leech.

[The last page of 'MS. M.' is dated--

BYRON,

Capuchin Convent,

Athens. 'March 14th, 1811'.

The following memorandum, in Byron's handwriting, is also inscribed on the last page:

"722 lines, and 4 inserted after and now counted, in all 726.--B.

"Since this several lines are added.--B. June 14th, 1811.

"Copied fair at Malta, May 3rd, 1811.--B."

BYRON,

'March 11th and 12th', Athens. 1811.

['MS. L. (a)'.]

BYRON, 'March 14th, 1811.'

Athens, Capuchin Convent.

['MS. L. (b)'.]]

[Footnote 1: Sir Thomas Lawrence (1769-1830) succeeded West as P.R.A. in 1820. Benjamin West (1738-1820) had been elected P.R.A. in 1792, on the death of Sir Joshua Reynolds.]

[Footnote 2: In an English newspaper, which finds its way abroad wherever there are Englishmen, I read an account of this dirty dauber's caricature of Mr. H---as a "beast," and the consequent action, etc. The circ.u.mstance is, probably, too well known to require further comment.

[Thomas Hope (1770-1831) was celebrated for his collections of pictures, sculpture, and _bric-a-brac_. He was the author of _Anastasius, or Memoirs of a Greek, etc_., which was attributed to Byron, and, according to Lady Blessington, excited his envy. "Low Dubost" was a French painter, who, in revenge for some fancied injustice, caricatured Hope and his wife as Beauty and the Beast. An exhibition of the sketch is said to have brought in from twenty to thirty pounds a week. A brother of Mrs. Hope (Louisa Beresford, daughter of Lord Decies, Archbishop of Tuam) mutilated the picture, and, an action having been brought, was ordered to pay a nominal sum of five pounds. Dubost's academy portrait of Mrs. Hope did not please Peter Pindar.

"In Mistress Hope, Monsieur Dubost!

Thy Genius yieldeth up the Ghost."

_Works_ (1812), v. 372.]]