The Works of Lord Byron, Vol. 7. Poetry

The Works of Lord Byron, Vol. 7. Poetry

PREFACE TO THE SEVENTH VOLUME

Of the seventy-three "Epigrams and Jeux d'Esprit," which are printed at the commencement of this volume, forty-five were included in Murray's one-volume edition of 1837, eighteen have been collected from various publications, and ten are printed and published for the first time.

The "Devil's Drive," which appears in Moore's Letters and Journals, and in the sixth volume of the Collected Edition of 1831 as an "Unfinished Fragment" of ninety-seven lines, is now printed and published for the first time in its entirety (248 lines), from a MS. in the possession of the Earl of Ilchester. "A Farewell Petition to J. C. H. Esq.;" "My Boy Hobbie O;" "[Love and Death];" and "Last Words on Greece," are reprinted from the first volume of Murray's Magazine (1887).

A few imperfect and worthless poems remain in MS.; but with these and one or two other unimportant exceptions, the present edition of the Poetical Works may be regarded as complete.

In compiling a "Bibliography of the successive Editions and Translations of Lord Byron's Poetical Works," I have endeavoured, in the first instance, to give a full and particular account of the collected editions and separate issues of the poems and dramas which were open to my inspection; and, secondly, to extract from general bibliographies, catalogues of public and private libraries, and other sources bibliographical records of editions which I have been unable to examine, and were known to me only at second-hand. It will be observed that the title-pages of editions which have passed through my hands are aligned; the titles of all other editions are italicized.

I cannot pretend that this assortment of bibliographical entries is even approximately exhaustive; but as "a sample" of a bibliography it will, I trust, with all its imperfections, be of service to the student of literature, if not to the amateur or bibliophile. With regard to nomenclature and other technicalities, my aim has been to put the necessary information as clearly and as concisely as possible, rather than to comply with the requirements of this or that formula. But the path of the bibliographer is beset with difficulties. "Al Sirat's arch" – "the bridge of breadth narrower than the thread of a famished spider, and sharper than the edge of a sword" (see The Giaour, line 483, note 1) – affords an easier and a safer foothold.

To the general reader a bibliography says little or nothing; but, in one respect, a bibliography of Byron is of popular import. It affords scientific proof of an almost unexampled fame, of a far-reaching and still potent influence. Teuton and Latin and Slav have taken Byron to themselves, and have made him their own. No other English poet except Shakespeare has been so widely read and so frequently translated. Of Manfred I reckon one Bohemian translation, two Danish, two Dutch, three French, nine German, three Hungarian, three Italian, two Polish, one Romaic, one Roumanian, four Russian, and three Spanish translations, and, in all probability, there are others which have escaped my net. The question, the inevitable question, arises – What was, what is, the secret of Byron's Continental vogue? and why has his fame gone out into all lands? Why did Goethe enshrine him, in the second part of Faust, "as the representative of the modern era … undoubtedly to be regarded as the greatest genius of our century?" (Conversations of Goethe, 1874, p. 265).

It is said, and with truth, that Byron's revolutionary politics commended him to oppressed nationalities and their sympathizers; that he was against "the tramplers" – Castlereagh, and the Duke of Wellington, and the Holy Alliance; that he stood for liberty. Another point in his favour was his freedom from cant, his indifference to the pieties and proprieties of the Britannic Muse; that he had the courage of his opinions. Doubtless in a time of trouble he was welcomed as the champion of revolt, but deeper reasons must be sought for an almost exclusive preference for the works of one poet and a comparative indifference to the works of his rivals and contemporaries. He fulfilled another, perhaps a greater ideal. An Englishman turns to poetry for the expression in beautiful words of his happier and better feelings, and he is not contented unless poetry tends to make him happier or better – happier because better than he would be otherwise. His favourite poems are psalms, or at least metrical paraphrases, of life. Men of other nations are less concerned about their feelings and their souls. They regard the poet as the creator, the inventor, the maker par excellence, and he who can imagine or make the greatest eidolon is the greatest poet. Childe Harold and The Corsair, Mazeppa and Manfred, Cain and Sardanapalus were new creations, new types, forms more real than living man, which appealed to their artistic sense, and led their imaginations captive. "It is a mark," says Goethe (Aus meinem Leben: Dichtung und Wahreit, 1876, iii. 125), "of true poetry, that, as a secular gospel, it knows how to free us from the earthly burdens which press upon us, by inward serenity, by outward charm… The most lively, as well as the gravest works have the same end – to moderate both pleasure and pain through a happy mental representation." It is passion translated into action, the pageantry of history, the transfiguration into visible lineaments of living moods and breathing thoughts which are the notes of this "secular gospel," and for one class of minds work out a secular redemption.

It was not only the questionable belief that he was on the side of the people, or his ethical and theological audacities, or his prolonged Continental exile, which won for Byron a greater name abroad than he has retained at home; but the character of his poetry. "The English may think of Byron as they please" (Conversations of Goethe, 1874, p. 171), "but this is certain, that they can show no poet who is to be compared to him. He is different from all the others, and, for the most part, greater." The English may think of him as they please! and for them, or some of them, there is "a better oenomel," a vinum Dæmonum, which Byron has not in his gift. The evidence of a world-wide fame will not endear a poet to a people and a generation who care less for the matter than the manner of verse, or who believe in poetry as the symbol or "credo" of the imagination or the spirit; but it should arrest attention and invite inquiry. A bibliography is a dull epilogue to a poet's works, but it speaks with authority, and it speaks last. Finis coronat opus!

I must be permitted to renew my thanks to Mr. G. F. Barwick, Superintendent of the Reading Room, Mr. Cyril Davenport, and other officials of the British Museum, of all grades and classes, for their generous and courteous assistance in the preparation and completion of the Bibliography. The consultation of many hundreds of volumes of one author, and the permission to retain a vast number in daily use, have entailed exceptional labour on a section of the staff. I have every reason to be grateful.

I am indebted to Mr. A. W. Pollard, of the British Museum, for advice and direction with regard to bibliographical formulas; to Mr. G. L. Calderon, late of the staff, for the collection and transcription of the title-pages of Polish, Russian, and Servian translations; and to Mr. R. Nisbet Bain for the supervision and correction of the proofs of Slavonic titles.

To Mr. W. P. Courtney, the author of Bibliotheca Cornubiensis, I owe many valuable hints and suggestions, and the opportunity of consulting some important works of reference.

I have elsewhere acknowledged the valuable information with regard to certain rare editions and pamphlets which I have received from Mr. H. Buxton Forman, C.B.

My especial thanks for laborious researches undertaken on my behalf, and for information not otherwise attainable, are due to M. J. E. Aynard, of Lyons; Signor F. Bianco; Professor Max von Förster, of Wurtzburg; Professor Lajos Gurnesovitz, of Buda Pest; Dr. Holzhausen, of Bonn; Mr. Leonard Mackall, of Berlin; Miss Peacock; Miss K. Schlesinger; M. Voynich, of Soho Square; Mr. Theodore Bartholomew, of the University Library of Cambridge; Mr. T. D. Stewart, of the Croydon Public Library; and the Librarians of Trinity College, Cambridge, and University College, St. Andrews.

I have also to thank, for special and generous assistance, Mr. J. P. Anderson, late of the British Museum, the author of the "Bibliography of Byron's Works" attached to the Life of Lord Byron by the Hon. Roden Noel (1890); Miss Grace Reed, of Philadelphia, for bibliographical entries of early American editions; and Professor Vladimir Hrabar, of the University of Dorpat, for the collection and transcription of numerous Russian translations of Byron's Works.

To Messrs. Clowes, the printers of these volumes, and to their reader, Mr. F. T. Peachey, I am greatly indebted for the transcription of Slavonic titles included in the Summary of the Bibliography, and for interesting and useful information during the progress of the work.

In conclusion, I must once more express my acknowment of the industry and literary ability of my friend Mr. F. E. Taylor, of Chertsey, who has read the proofs of this and the six preceding volumes.

The Index is the work of Mr. C. Eastlake Smith.

ERNEST HARTLEY COLERIDGE

November, 1903.

JEUX D'ESPRIT AND MINOR POEMS, 1798-1824

EPIGRAM ON AN OLD LADY WHO HAD SOME CURIOUS NOTIONS RESPECTING THE SOUL

In Nottingham county there lives at Swan Green,1As curst an old Lady as ever was seen;And when she does die, which I hope will be soon,She firmly believes she will go to the Moon!1798.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, i. 28.]

EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS, OF SOUTHWELL, A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS

John Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell,A Carrier who carried his can to his mouth well;He carried so much and he carried so fast,He could carry no more – so was carried at last;For the liquor he drank being too much for one,He could not carry off; – so he's now carri-on. September, 1807.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, i. 106.]

A VERSION OF OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN. FROM THE POEM "CARTHON."

O thou! who rollest in yon azure field,Round as the orb of my forefather's shield,Whence are thy beams? From what eternal storeDost thou, O Sun! thy vast effulgence pour?In awful grandeur, when thou movest on high,The stars start back and hide them in the sky;The pale Moon sickens in thy brightening blaze,And in the western wave avoids thy gaze.Alone thou shinest forth – for who can riseCompanion of thy splendour in the skies!The mountain oaks are seen to fall away —Mountains themselves by length of years decay —With ebbs and flows is the rough Ocean tost;In heaven the Moon is for a season lost,But thou, amidst the fullness of thy joy,The same art ever, blazing in the sky!When tempests wrap the world from pole to pole,When vivid lightnings flash and thunders roll,Thou far above their utmost fury borne,Look'st forth in beauty, laughing them to scorn.But vainly now on me thy beauties blaze —Ossian no longer can enraptured gaze!Whether at morn, in lucid lustre gay,On eastern clouds thy yellow tresses play,Or else at eve, in radiant glory drest,Thou tremblest at the portals of the west,I see no more! But thou mayest fail at length,Like Ossian lose thy beauty and thy strength,Like him – but for a season – in thy sphereTo shine with splendour, then to disappear!Thy years shall have an end, and thou no moreBright through the world enlivening radiance pour,But sleep within thy clouds, and fail to rise,Heedless when Morning calls thee to the skies!Then now exult, O Sun! and gaily shine,While Youth and Strength and Beauty all are thine.For Age is dark, unlovely, as the lightShed by the Moon when clouds deform the night,Glimmering uncertain as they hurry past.Loud o'er the plain is heard the northern blast,Mists shroud the hills, and 'neath the growing gloom,The weary traveller shrinks and sighs for home.1806.[First published, Atlantic Monthly, December, 1898. 2]

LINES TO MR. HODGSON.

WRITTEN ON BOARD THE LISBON PACKET

1Huzza! Hodgson3, we are going,Our embargo's off at last;Favourable breezes blowingBend the canvas o'er the mast.From aloft the signal's streaming,Hark! the farewell gun is fired;Women screeching, tars blaspheming,Tell us that our time's expired.Here's a rascalCome to task all,Prying from the Custom-house;Trunks unpackingCases cracking,Not a corner for a mouseScapes unsearched amid the racket,Ere we sail on board the Packet.2Now our boatmen quit their mooring,And all hands must ply the oar;Baggage from the quay is lowering,We're impatient, push from shore."Have a care! that case holds liquor —Stop the boat – I'm sick – oh Lord!""Sick, Ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker,Ere you've been an hour on board."Thus are screamingMen and women,Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks;Here entangling,All are wrangling,Stuck together close as wax. —Such the general noise and racket,Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet.3Now we've reached her, lo! the Captain,Gallant Kidd,4 commands the crew;Passengers their berths are clapt in,Some to grumble, some to spew."Hey day! call you that a cabin?Why't is hardly three feet square!Not enough to stow Queen Mab in —Who the deuce can harbour there?""Who, sir? plenty —Nobles twentyDid at once my vessel fill." —"Did they? Jesus,How you squeeze us!Would to God they did so still!Then I'd 'scape the heat and racketOf the good ship, Lisbon Packet."4Fletcher! Murray! Bob!5 where are you?Stretched along the deck like logs —Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you!Here's a rope's end for the dogs.Hobhouse muttering fearful curses,As the hatchway down he rolls,Now his breakfast, now his verses,Vomits forth – and damns our souls."Here's a stanza6On Braganza —Help!" – "A couplet?" – "No, a cupOf warm water – ""What's the matter?""Zounds! my liver's coming up;I shall not survive the racketOf this brutal Lisbon Packet."5Now at length we're off for Turkey,Lord knows when we shall come back!Breezes foul and tempests murkyMay unship us in a crack.But, since Life at most a jest is,As philosophers allow,Still to laugh by far the best is,Then laugh on – as I do now.Laugh at all things,Great and small things,Sick or well, at sea or shore;While we're quaffing,Let's have laughing —Who the devil cares for more? —Some good wine! and who would lack it,Ev'n on board the Lisbon Packet?Falmouth Roads, June 30, 1809.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, i. 230-232.]

[TO DIVES.7 A FRAGMENT.]

Unhappy Dives! in an evil hour'Gainst Nature's voice seduced to deeds accurst!Once Fortune's minion now thou feel'st her power;Wrath's vial on thy lofty head hath burst.In Wit, in Genius, as in Wealth the first,How wondrous bright thy blooming morn arose!But thou wert smitten with th' unhallowed thirstOf Crime unnamed, and thy sad noon must closeIn scorn and solitude unsought the worst of woes.1809.[First published, Lord Byron's Works, 1833, xvii. 241.]

FAREWELL PETITION TO R. C. H., ESQRE

O thou yclep'd by vulgar sons of MenCam Hobhouse!8 but by wags Byzantian Ben!Twin sacred titles, which combined appearTo grace thy volume's front, and gild its rear,Since now thou put'st thyself and work to SeaAnd leav'st all Greece to Fletcher9 and to me,Oh, hear my single muse our sorrows tell,One song for self and Fletcher quite as well —First to the Castle of that man of woesDispatch the letter which I must enclose,And when his lone Penelope shall sayWhy, where, and wherefore doth my William stay?Spare not to move her pity, or her pride —By all that Hero suffered, or defied;The chicken's toughness, and the lack of aleThe stoney mountain and the miry valeThe Garlick steams, which half his meals enrich,The impending vermin, and the threatened Itch,That ever breaking Bed, beyond repair!The hat too old, the coat too cold to wear,The Hunger, which repulsed from Sally's doorPursues her grumbling half from shore to shore,Be these the themes to greet his faithful RibSo may thy pen be smooth, thy tongue be glib!This duty done, let me in turn demandSome friendly office in my native land,Yet let me ponder well, before I ask,And set thee swearing at the tedious task.First the Miscellany!10– to Southwell townPer coach for Mrs. Pigot frank it down,So may'st them prosper in the paths of Sale,11And Longman smirk and critics cease to rail.All hail to Matthews!12 wash his reverend feet,And in my name the man of Method greet, —Tell him, my Guide, Philosopher, and Friend,Who cannot love me, and who will not mend,Tell him, that not in vain I shall assayTo tread and trace our "old Horatian way,"13And be (with prose supply my dearth of rhymes)What better men have been in better times.Here let me cease, for why should I prolongMy notes, and vex a Singer with a Song?Oh thou with pen perpetual in thy fist!Dubbed for thy sins a stark Miscellanist,So pleased the printer's orders to performFor Messrs. Longman, Hurst and Rees and Orme.Go – Get thee hence to Paternoster Row,Thy patrons wave a duodecimo!(Best form for letters from a distant land,It fits the pocket, nor fatigues the hand.)Then go, once more the joyous work commence14With stores of anecdote, and grains of sense,Oh may Mammas relent, and Sires forgive!And scribbling Sons grow dutiful and live!Constantinople, June 7th, 1810.[First published, Murray's Magazine, 1887, vol. i. pp. 290, 291.]

TRANSLATION OF THE NURSE'S DOLE IN THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES

Oh how I wish that an embargoHad kept in port the good ship Argo!Who, still unlaunched from Grecian docks,Had never passed the Azure rocks;But now I fear her trip will be aDamn'd business for my Miss Medea, etc., etc.15 June, 1810.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, i. 227.]

MY EPITAPH.16

Youth, Nature, and relenting Jove,To keep my lamp in strongly strove;But Romanelli was so stout,He beat all three – and blew it out. October, 1810.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, i. 240.]

SUBSTITUTE FOR AN EPITAPH

Kind Reader! take your choice to cry or laugh;Here Harold lies – but where's his Epitaph?If such you seek, try Westminster, and viewTen thousand just as fit for him as you.Athens, 1810.[First published, Lord Byron's Works, 1832, ix. 4.]

EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKET, LATE POET AND SHOEMAKER.17

Stranger! behold, interred together,The souls of learning and of leather.Poor Joe is gone, but left his all:You'll find his relics in a stall.His works were neat, and often foundWell stitched, and with morocco bound.Tread lightly – where the bard is laid —He cannot mend the shoe he made;Yet is he happy in his hole,With verse immortal as his sole.But still to business he held fast,And stuck to Phoebus to the last.Then who shall say so good a fellowWas only "leather and prunella?"For character – he did not lack it;And if he did, 'twere shame to "Black-it."Malta, May 16, 1811.[First published, Lord Byron's Works, 1832, ix. 10.]

ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE, OR FARCICAL OPERA.18

Good plays are scarce,So Moore writes farce:The poet's fame grows brittle19—We knew beforeThat Little's Moore,But now't is Moore that's little. September 14, 1811.[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, i. 295 (note).]

[R. C. DALLAS.]20

Yes! wisdom shines in all his mien,Which would so captivate, I ween,Wisdom's own goddess Pallas;That she'd discard her fav'rite owl,And take for pet a brother fowl,Sagacious R. C. Dallas.[First published, Life, Writings, Opinions, etc., 1825, ii. 192.]

AN ODE21 TO THE FRAMERS OF THE FRAME BILL.22

1Oh well done Lord E – n! and better done R – r!23Britannia must prosper with councils like yours;Hawkesbury, Harrowby, help you to guide her,Whose remedy only must kill ere it cures:Those villains; the Weavers, are all grown refractory,Asking some succour for Charity's sake —So hang them in clusters round each Manufactory,That will at once put an end to mistake.242The rascals, perhaps, may betake them to robbing,The dogs to be sure have got nothing to eat —So if we can hang them for breaking a bobbin,'T will save all the Government's money and meat:Men are more easily made than machinery —Stockings fetch better prices than lives —Gibbets on Sherwood will heighten the scenery,Shewing how Commerce, how Liberty thrives!3Justice is now in pursuit of the wretches,Grenadiers, Volunteers, Bow-street Police,Twenty-two Regiments, a score of Jack Ketches,Three of the Quorum and two of the Peace;Some Lords, to be sure, would have summoned the Judges,To take their opinion, but that they ne'er shall,For Liverpool such a concession begrudges,So now they're condemned by no Judges at all.4Some folks for certain have thought it was shocking,When Famine appeals and when Poverty groans,That Life should be valued at less than a stocking,And breaking of frames lead to breaking of bones.If it should prove so, I trust, by this token,(And who will refuse to partake in the hope?)That the frames of the fools may be first to be broken,Who, when asked for a remedy, sent down a rope.[First published, Morning Chronicle, Monday, March 2, 1812.][See a Political Ode by Lord Byron, hitherto unknown as his production, London, John Pearson, 46, Pall Mall, 1880, 8º. See, too, Mr. Pearson's prefatory Note, pp. 5, etc.]

TO THE HONBLE MRS GEORGE LAMB.25

1The sacred song that on mine earYet vibrates from that voice of thine,I heard, before, from one so dear —'T is strange it still appears divine.2But, oh! so sweet that look and toneTo her and thee alike is given;It seemed as if for me aloneThat both had been recalled from Heaven!3And though I never can redeemThe vision thus endeared to me;I scarcely can regret my dream,When realised again by thee.1812.[First published in The Two Duchesses, by Vere Foster, 1898, p. 374.]

[LA REVANCHE.]

1There is no more for me to hope,There is no more for thee to fear;And, if I give my Sorrow scope,That Sorrow thou shalt never hear.Why did I hold thy love so dear?Why shed for such a heart one tear?Let deep and dreary silence beMy only memory of thee!2When all are fled who flatter now,Save thoughts which will not flatter then;And thou recall'st the broken vowTo him who must not love again —Each hour of now forgotten yearsThou, then, shalt number with thy tears;And every drop of grief shall beA vain remembrancer of me!Undated, ?1812.[From an autograph MS. in the possession of Mr. Murray, now for the first time printed.]

TO THOMAS MOORE.

WRITTEN THE EVENING BEFORE HIS VISIT TO MR. LEIGH HUNT IN HORSEMONGER LANE GAOL, MAY 19, 1813

Oh you, who in all names can tickle the town,Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown, —26For hang me if I know of which you may most brag,Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Two-penny Post Bag;But now to my letter – to yours 'tis an answer —To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir,All ready and dressed for proceeding to spunge on(According to compact) the wit in the dungeon —27Pray Phoebus at length our political maliceMay not get us lodgings within the same palace!I suppose that to-night you're engaged with some codgers,And for Sotheby's Blues28 have deserted Sam Rogers;And I, though with cold I have nearly my death got,Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote;29But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scurra,And you'll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra.30[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, i. 401.]

ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS.31