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Skin all sallow, flesh all sodden,-
Form the devil would frighten God in.
Is't a corpse stuck up for show,
Galvanised at times to go?
With the Scripture in connection,
New proof of the resurrection?
Vampire, ghost, or goul, what is it?
I would walk ten miles to miss it.

ANSWER.

Many passengers arrest one,
To demand the same free question.
Shorter's my reply, and franker,-
That's the Bard, the Beau, the Banker.
Yet if you could bring about
Just to turn him inside out,
Satan's self would seem less sooty,
And his present aspect-Beauty.
Mark that (as he masks the bilious
Air, so softly supercilious)
Chasten'd bow, and mock humility,
Almost sicken to servility;

Hear his tone (which is to talking
That which creeping is to walking,
Now on all-fours, now on tip-toe);
Hear the tales he lends his lip to;
Little hints of heavy scandals;
Every friend in turn he handles;
All which women or which men do,
Glides forth in an inuendo,

Clothed in odds and ends of humour-
Herald of each paltry rumour,
From divorces down to dresses,
Women's frailties, men's excesses,
All which life presents of evil
Make for him a constant revel.
You're his foe, for that he fears you,
And in absence blasts and sears you:
You're his friend-for that he hates you,
First caresses, and then baits you-
Darting on the opportunity
When to do it with impunity:

every calumny. We have been led to make these remarks from seeing, lately, a most malignant and atrocious satire against Mr. Rogers, which must have been written at the time the noble bard was publicly bedaubing his friend with flattery. We certainly are of opinion with those who think the slaver' of the flattery more injurious than the 'bite' of the libel. But the slander can do no injury to Mr. Ro. gers. The united voices of, perhaps, the most numerous circle of friends possessed by any man in England will indignantly repel the calumny, which will merely be remem bered as another item in the almost incalculable list of the mean and dirty qualities of its author. We would, however, recommend as a curiosity to the readers of the satire the encomiastic sonnet (p. 862, ante) written by Lord Byron on the same gentleman on whom he has, in the lampoon, emptied all the venom which even his black bile could generate, "One thing is certain, that the true account of Lord Byron is yet to be written; for though his real character peeps out through all the mist with which the incense of flattery or friendship has enveloped it, a faithful picture is still wanting in justice to the man himself, whose character requires explanation, and to the world, who have been absurdly accused of using him worse than he deserved."

The Examiner designates the lines as unmannerly and inhuman, and, after alluding to the contrast they present with the writer's eulogy on the same person, proceeds thus:"Let us turn from Lord Byron's vilification of Mr. Rogers, to Mr. Rogers's touching lines on the death of Lord Byron, written, certainly, when he would not have credited the treachery of his noble friend. In the passage on Bologna, in his Italy, he says of Byron :

You are neither-then he'll flatter,
Till he finds some trait for satire;
Hunts your weak point out, then shows it
Where it injures to disclose it,
In the mode that's most invidious,
Adding every trait that's hideous-
From the bile, whose blackening river
Rushes through his Stygian liver.
Then he thinks himself a lover-
Why? I really can't discover,
In his mind, age, face, or figure;
Viper-broth might give him vigour,-
Let him keep the cauldron steady,
He the venom has already.
For his faults-he has but one,-
'Tis but envy, when all's done.
He but pays the pain he suffers,
Clipping, like a pair of snuffers,
Lights which ought to burn the brighter
For this temporary blighter.
He's the cancer of his species,
And will eat himself to pieces,-
Plague personified, and famine,—
Devil, whose sole delight is damning.
For his merits, would you know 'em?
Once he wrote a pretty Poem.

ON LADY MILBANKE'S DOG TRIM.(1)
ALAS! poor Trim;
I'm sorry for him:
I had rather by half
It had been Sir Ralph.

LINES TO LADY HOLLAND. (2)
LADY, accept the gift a hero wore,
In spite of all this elegiac stuff;
Let not seven stanzas, written by a bore,
Prevent your Ladyship from taking snuff.

'Yet thy heart, methinks,
Was generous, noble-noble in its scorn,
Of all things low or little, nothing there
Sordid or servile. If imagined wrongs
Pursued thee, urging thee sometimes to do
Things long regretted, oft, as many know,
None more than I, thy gratitude would build
On slight foundations."

And he concludes:

'Ah! who, among us all,

Could say he had not err'd as much, and more."

How consummately the noble lord must have played the hypocrite, little of hypocrisy as there seemed in his character; yet must he have worn his disguise under his abandonment."-P. E.

(1) When Lord Byron, soon after his marriage, was on a visit at the house of his father-in-law in Leicestershire, he was much annoyed by the frequent quarrels of Sir Ralph Milbanke and his lady. One morning, Lady Milbanke came into Lord Byron's room, and weeping for the loss of her favourite dog, earnestly requested him, as soon as convenient, to write an epitaph. His Lordship replied, "I shall never be more at leisure than at the present moment:" and immediately wrote the above.-P. E.

(2) These lines were composed, on reading in the news. papers an address to Lady Holland, by the Earl of Carlisle, persuading her to reject the snuff-box bequeathed to her by Napoleon, beginning:

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ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTYSIXTH YEAR.

Missolonghi, Jan. 22, 1824.(1)

"Tis time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it hath 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!

The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze-
A funeral pile!

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.

But 'tis not thus-and 't is not here

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now,

(I) "This morning Lord Byron came from his bed-room into the apartment where Colonel Stanhope and some friends were assembled, and said with a smile-You were com. plaining, the other day, that I never write any poetry now. This is my birth-day, and I have just finished something, which, I think, is better than what I usually write.' He then produced these noble and affecting verses." Count Gamba.-L. E.

(2) "Taking into consideration every thing connected with these verses.--the last tender aspirations of a loving spirit which they breathe, the self-devotion to a noble cause

Where glory decks the hero's bier,
Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece-she is awake!)
Awake, my spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood!-unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of Beauty be.

If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live?
The land of honourable death

Is here:-up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

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. (2)

which they so nobly express, and that consciousness of a near grave glimmering sadly through the whole, there is perhaps no production within the range of mere human composition, round which the circumstances and feelings ander which it was written cast so touching an interest." Moore. -L. E.

"We perceive," says Count Gamba, "from these lines as well as from his daily conversations, that his ambition and his hope were irrevocably fixed upon the glorious ob jects of his expedition to Greece, and that he had made up his mind to return victorious or return no more."-P. E.

Attributed Poems.

TO JESSY. (1)

THERE is a mystic thread of life

So dearly wreathed with mine alone, That destiny's relentless knife

At once must sever both or none. There is a form, on which these eyes Have often gazed with fond delightBy day that form their joy supplies,

And dreams restore it through the night.
There is a voice, whose tones inspire
Such thrills of rapture through my breast-
I would not hear a seraph choir,

Unless that voice could join the rest.
There is a face, whose blushes tell
Affection's tale upon the cheek-
But pallid at one fond farewell,

Proclaims more love than words can speak.
There is a lip, which mine hath press'd,
And none had ever press'd before,

(1) These stanzas are said to have been addressed by Lord Byron to his Lady a few months before their separation.-P. E.

It vow'd to make me sweetly blest,
And mine-mine only press'd it more.
There is a bosom-all my own-
Hath pillow'd oft this aching head;

A mouth which smiles on me alone,

An eye, whose tears with mine are shed. There are two hearts, whose movements thrill In unison so closely sweet,

That, pulse to pulse responsive still,

They both must heave, or cease to beat. There are two souls, whose equal flow In gentle streams so calmly run, That when they part-they part!—ah! no, They cannot part-those souls are one.

LINES

POUND IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT CHAMOUXL
How many number'd are, how few agreed,
In age, or clime, or character, or creed!
Here wandering Genius leaves a deathless name,
And Folly writes-for others do the same.
Italian treachery, and English pride,

Dutch craft, and German dulness, side by side!

The hardy Russian hails congenial snow;
The Spaniard shivers as these breezes blow.
Knew men the objects of this varied crew,
To stare how many, and to feel how few!
Here Nature's child, ecstatic from her school,
And travelling problems, that admire by rule;
The timorous poet woes his modest muse,
And thanks his stars he's safe from all reviews;
The pedant drags from out his motley store
A line some hundred hills have heard before.
Here critics too (for where's the happy spot
So blest by nature as to have them not?)
Spit their vile slander o'er some simple phrase
Of foolish wonder or of honest praise;
Some pompous hint, some comment on mine host,
Some direful failure, or some empty boast:
Not blacker spleen could fill these furious men,
If Jeffrey's soul had perch'd on Gifford's pen.
Here envy, hatred, and the fool of fame,
Join'd in one act of wonder when they came:
Here beauty's worshipper in flesh or rock,
The incarnate fancy, or the breathing block,
Sees the white giant, in his robe of light,
Stretch his huge form to look o'er Jura's height;
And stops, while hastening to the blest remains
And calmer beauties of the classic plains.
And here, whom hope beguiling bids to seek
Ease for his breast, and colour for his cheek,
Still steals a moment from Ausonia's sky,
And views and wonders on his way-to die.

But he, the author of these idle lines, What passion leads him, and what tie confines? For him what friend is true, what mistress blooms, What joy elates him, and what grief consumes? Impassion'd, senseless, vigorous, or old, What matters!-bootless were his story told. Some praise at least one act of sense may claim; He wrote these verses, but he hid his name.

TO LADY CAROLINE LAMB. AND say'st thou that I have not felt, Whilst thou wert thus estranged from me? Nor know'st how dearly I have dwelt

On one unbroken dream of thee? But love like ours must never be, And I will learn to prize thee less, As thou hast fled, so let me flee,

And change the heart thou mayst not bless. They'll tell thee, Clara! I have seem'd, Of late, another's charms to woo, Nor sigh'd, nor frown'd, as if I deem'd

That thou wert banish'd from my view. Clara! this struggle to undo

What thou hast done too well, for me-
This mask before the babbling crew-
This treachery-was truth to thee!

I have not wept while thou wert gone,
Nor worn one look of sullen woe;
But sought, in many, all that one

(Ah! need I name her!) could bestow. It is a duty which I owe

To thine-to thee-to man-to God, To crush, to quench this guilty glow,

Ere yet the path of crime be trod.

But, since my breast is not so pure,
Since still the vulture tears my heart,
Let me this agony endure,

Not thee, oh! dearest as thou art!
In mercy, Clara! let us part,

And I will seek, yet know not how,
To shun, in time, the threatening dart;
Guilt must not aim at such as thou.
But thou must aid me in the task,

And nobly thus exert thy power;
Then spurn me hence-'t is all I ask-
Ere time mature a guiltier hour;
Ere wrath's impending vials shower
Remorse redoubled on my head;
Ere fires unquenchably devour

A heart whose hope has long been dead. Deceive no more thyself and me,

Deceive not better hearts than mine; Ah, shouldst thou, whither wouldst thou flee, From woe like ours-from shame like thine! And if there be a wrath divine,

A pang beyond this fleeting breath, E'en now all future hope resign:

Such thoughts are guilt-such guilt is death!

THE PRINCE OF WHALES.

Io Pean! Jo! sing

To the finny people's king-
Not a mightier whale than this
In the vast Atlantic is;
Not a fatter fish than he
Flounders round the Polar sea:
See his blubber-at his gills
What a world of drink he swills,
From his trunk as from a spout!
Which next moment he pours out.
Such his person: next declare,
Muse! who his companions are.
Every fish of generous kind
Scuds aside or slinks behind,
But about his person keep
All the monsters of the deep;
Mermaids, with their tales and singing,
His delighted fancy stinging;
Crooked dolphins, they surround him;
Dog-like seals, they fawn around him:
Following hard, the progress mark
Of the intolerant salt sea-shark-
For his solace and relief

Flat fish are his courtiers chief;-
Last and lowest of his train,
Ink-fish, libellers of the main,
Their black liquor shed in spite-
(Such on earth the things that write).
In his stomach, some do say

No good thing can ever stay;

Had it been the fortune of it

To have swallow'd the old prophet,
Three days there he'd not have dwell'd.
But in one have been expell'd.
Hapless mariners are they
Who, beguiled, as seamen say,
Deeming it some rock or island,
Footing sure, safe spot, and dry land,
Anchor in his scaly rind;

Soon the difference they find,

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Sudden, plump, he sinks beneath them—
Does to ruthless waves bequeath them.
Name or title, what has he?
Is he regent of the sea?
From the difficulty free us,
Buffon, Banks, or sage Linnæus!
With his wondrous attributes
Say what appellation suits?
By his bulk and by his size,
By his oily qualities,

This, or else my eye-sight fails,

This should be the Prince of Whales.

ON THE LETTER I.
(Written in a Lady's Scrap-Book.)

I AM not in youth, nor in manhood, nor age,
But in infancy ever am known;

I'm a stranger alike to the fool and the sage,
And though I'm distinguish'd in history's page,
I always am greatest alone.

I am not in earth, nor the sun, nor the moon;
You may search all the sky-I'm not there:

In the morning and evening-though not in the noon,
You may plainly perceive me-for, like a balloon,
I am midway suspended in air.

I am always in riches, and yet I am told

Wealth ne'er did my presence desire;

I dwell with the miser, but not with his gold,
And sometimes I stand in his chimney so cold,
Though I serve as a part of the fire.

I often am met in political life

In my absence no kingdom can be;

And they say there can neither be friendship nor strife, No one can live single, no one take a wife,

Without interfering with me.

My brethren are many, and of my whole race
Not one is more slender and tall;

And though not the eldest, I hold the first place,
And even in dishonour, despair, and disgrace,
I boldly appear 'mong them all.

Though disease may possess me, and sickness and pain,
I am never in sorrow or gloom;
Though in wit and in wisdom I equally reign,
I'm the heart of all sin, and have long lived in vain,
Yet I ne'er shall be found in the tomb.

TO MY DEAR MARY ANNE. ADIEU to sweet Mary for ever!

From her I must quickly depart:
Though the fates us from each other sever,
Still her image shall dwell in my heart.

The flame that within my breast burns
Is unlike what in lovers' hearts glows;
The love which for Mary I feel

Is far purer than Cupid bestows.

I wish not your peace to disturb,
I wish not your joys to molest;
Mistake not my passion for love,

"T is your friendship alone I request. Not ten thousand lovers could feel

The friendship my bosom contains; It will ever within my heart dwell,

While the warm blood flows through my veins. May the Ruler of Heaven look down, And my Mary from evil defend ! May she ne'er know adversity's frown! May her happiness ne'er have an end! Once more, my sweet Mary, adieu! Farewell! I with anguish repeat; For ever I'll think upon you,

While this heart in my bosom shall beat.

STANZAS.

I HEARD thy fate without a tear,
Thy loss with scarce a sigh;
And yet thou wert surpassing dear-
Too loved of all to die.

I know not what hath sear'd mine eye:
The tears refuse to start;

But every drop its lids deny

Falls dreary on my heart.
Yes-deep and heavy, one by one,
They sink, and turn to care;
As cavern'd waters wear the stone,
Yet, dropping, harden there.
They cannot petrify more fast

Than feelings sunk remain,
Which, coldly fix'd, regard the past,
But never melt again.

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Abencerrage, 570, 889.
Aberdeen, town of, xii. 720 n.
Aberdeen (George Hamilton Gor-
don), fourth earl of, 56, 65, 85 n.
Abernethy, John, esq. surgeon, 722.
Abruzzi, the, 327.

Absalom and Achitophel, 646, 802.
Absence, results of, 638.

Absent friend, pleasure of defend-
ing, 777.

Abydos, Bride of, 210, 660 n.
Acarnania, 89, 91.

Achelons, river, xviii. 89, 91.
Acheron, lake, 89.
Acherusia, 89.

Achilles, 648; his person, 492;
Tomb of, 216, 656, 659.
Achitophel, 646.
Achmet III., 262 n.
Acroceraunian mountains, 135.
Acropolis of Athens, 83 n. 96, 727.
Actium, gulf of, xviii. Remains of
the town of, 88 n. Sea-fight of
88, 681.
Ada, 111. See Byron, Augusta-
Ada.

Adams, John, a carrier, who died of

drunkenness, 'Epitaph on,' 845.
Addison, Joseph, 728 n. His con-
versation, 824. His 'Drummer,'|
834. His account of a remark-
able dream, 651 n. His 'faint
praise,' 777.

Esietes, tomb of, 216 n.
Æsop, 571.
Ætna, 135.
Ætolia, 89, 91.

Africa, and Africans, described, 653.
Agamemnon, 593,
Agatha, St., 155.
Age, 112, 372.

·

Age of Bronze; or, Carmen Se-
culare et Annus haud Mirabilis,'
567.

Age of Gold, 685.

Ages, changes produced by the lapse
of, 648.
Agesilaus, 583 n.

Agilulf, duke of Turin, 156.
Agis, King of Sparta, 385.
Aglietti, Dr., 126, 386 n.
Agostini, Leonard, 156.
Agrarian law, 721.
Agrippa, 164 n.

Ajax, 84. Sepulchre of, 656.
Alamanni, 387 n.
Alaric, 85, 188.
Alban Hill, description of, 146, 169.
Albania, xvii. xviii. 88, 96.
Albanian dialect of the Illyric, speci-
mens of, 98.

Albanians, their character and man-
ners, 90, 91, 92, 97. Their re-
semblance to the Highlanders of
Scotland, 97.
Albano, 146.

Albano, the painter, 748.
Albion, sensations at the first sight
of her chalky belt, 724.

Albrizzi, Guiseppe, 386 n.
Albuera, battle of, 77, 83.
Alcibiades, beauty of his person,
491. General charm of his name,
491 n. His character, 761.

'Address, spoken at the opening of Albrizzi, Countess, 386 n. 891 n.
Drury Lane Theatre,' 862.
'Address, intended to be recited at
the Caledonian Meeting,' 871.
"Adieu, the; written under the im-
pression that the author would
soon die,' 842.
'Adieu, adieu! my native shore,' 71.
Admiration, 635, 671.
Adrian, 192; 'his address to his soul

when dying,' translation of, 5.
Adriatic, the, 128.

Adversity, 640, 739, 756.
Advice, 610, 762.

Egean Sea, the, 99, 188.
Egina, 131, 235.
Emilius Paulus, 167 n.
Eschylus, his 'Medea,' 300 n.

His 'Prometheus,' 300 n. 569.
His 'Seven before Thebes,' 300 n.
Translation from his 'Prometheus
Vinctus,' 6. His 'Persians,' 644.

Alexander the Great. His visit to
the tomb of Achilles, 216, 656 n. |
His sarcophagus, 567. His chas-
tity, 632 n., 644. His reply to
Parmenio after the battle of Is-
sus, 677.

86 n. His memory dear to the
Italians, 157. His 'Life' quoted,
126.

Alfonso III., 130, 304 n. His wife
Isabella, 241.

Algiers, 157, 607 n.
Alhambra, the, 889.

Ali Pacha of Yanina, account of,
89 n., 91, 92, 96, 823. Lord By-
ron's visit to, xviii. 91 n. His
letter in Latin to Lord Byron, 91n.
His assassination, ib. His mur-
der of Giaffar, pacha of Argyro-
Castro, 218 n. The original of
Lambro, 640 n. 652n.

'All is vanity, saith the Preacher,'
257.

'Alla Hu!' 204, 699.
Allegorical stories, 3 n.
Allegra (Lord Byron's natural daugh-

ter), 723 n. Her death, xxviii.
Her interment at Harrow, 45 n.
Alliance, the Holy, xxvii. 571, 680.
Almachius, the monk, 168.
Alpheus, the river, 90 n.
Alpinula, Julia, her death, and af-

fecting epitaph, 119.
Alpnacht, flying tree at, 396 n.
Alps, the, xii. 118, 135.
Alterkirchen, 118 n.
Alypius, 168.

Amber, susceptible of a perfume,

216 n.

Ambition, 115, 116, 138, 296,
492, 716.

Ambracian Gulf, 'Stanzas written in

passing the,' 853. Reflections on
the past and present state of, 88.
Ambrosian library at Milan, 153.
America, 137, 763 n., 895.
'Amitié est l'Amour sans Ailes,' 39.
Amulets, the belief in, universal in
the East, 216.
Anacreon, 644, 678. His ‘Θέλω
λέγειν Ατρείδας translated, 6.
His ‘Μεσονυκτίεις ποθ' ὥραις
translated, 6.
His morals worse
than those of Ovid, 598.

Alexander, Emperor of Russia, 571, 'Anastasius,' Mr. Hope's, 171 n.

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