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,
Bick 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, Even on board the Lisbon Packet?

LINES IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT OR. CHOMENUS.

IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN :

"FAIR Albion smiling, sees her son depart To trace the birth and nursery of art: Noble his object, glorious is his aim:

He comes to Athens, and he writes his name."

BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED THE FOLLOWING REPLY:

THE modest bard, like many a bard unknown, ymes on our names, but wisely hides his own: But yet whoe'er he be, to say no worse,

His name would bring more credit than his verse.

ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE.

A FARCICAL EPIGRAM.

I've seen my bride another's bride,----
Have seen her seated by his side,-
Have seen the infant, which she bore,
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore
When she and I in youth have smiled
As fond and faultless as her child;-
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain,
Ask if I felt no secret pain.

And I have acted well my part,
And made my cheek belie my heart,
Return'd the freezing glance she gave,
Yet felt the while that woman's slave;-
Have kiss'd, as if without design,
The babe which ought to have been mine,
And show'd, alas! in each caress
Time had not made me love the less.

But let this pass-I'll whine no more
Nor seek again an eastern shore;
The world befits a busy brain,-
I'll hie me to its haunts again.
But if, in some succeeding year,
When Britain's May is in the sere,"
Thou hear'st of one, whose deep'ning crimes
Suit with the sablest of the times,
Of one, whom love nor pity sways,
Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise,
One, who in stern ambition's pr.de,
Perchance not blood shall turn aside,
One rank'd in some recording page.
With the worst anarchs of the age,
Him wilt thou know-and knowing pause,
Nor will the effect forget the cause.

Newstead Abbey, Oct. 11, 1811.

"Ori banish care"-such ever be
The motto of thy revelry!

Perchance of mine, when wassail nights
Renew those riotous delights,
Wherewith the children of Despair
Lull the lone heart, and “banish care.”
But not in morn's reflecting hour,
When present, past, and future lower,
When all I loved is changed or gone,
Mock with such taunts the woes of one,
Whose every thought-but let them pass
Thou know'st I am not what I was.
But, above all, if thou wouldst hold
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold,
By all the powers that men revere,
By all unto thy bosom dear,
Thy joys below, thy hopes above,
Speak-speak of anything but love.
'I'vere ong to tell, and vain to hear,
The tale of one who scorns a tear;
And there is little in that tale
Which better bosoms would bewail.
But mine has suffer'd more than well
T would suit philosophy to tell.

WHEN Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sen*, (I hope I am not violent,)

Nor men nor gods knew what he meant.
2.

And since not ev'n our Rogers' praise
To common sense his thoughts could raise-
Why would they let him print his lays?

And, were it lawfully thine own,

Does Rogers want it most, or thou?
Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough,

Or send i back to Doctor Donne-
Were justice done to both, I trow,
He'd have but little, and thou-none.
2.

"Then thus to form Apollo's crown.”
A crown! why, twist it how you will,
Thy chaplet must be foolscap still.
When next you visit Delphi's town,

Inquire among your fellow-lodgers, They'll tell you Phoebus gave his crown, Some years before your birth, to Rogers.

3.

"Let every other bring his own."

When coals to Newcastle are carried,
And owls sent to Athens as wonders,
From his spouse when the Regent's unmarried,
Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders;
When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel,
When Castlereagh's wife has an heir,
Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel,

And thou shalt have plenty to spare.

TO THOMAS MOORE.

WRITTEN THE EVENING beforE HIS VISIT, IN COMPANY WITH LORD BYRON, TO MR. LEIGH HUNT IN COLD BATH FIELDS PRISON, MAY 19, 1813.

Он you, who in all names can tickle the town, Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown,For 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 dress'd for proceeding to spunge on
According to compact) the wit in the dungeon-
Pray Phoebus at length our political malice
May not get us lodgings within the same palace!
I suppose that to-night you 're engaged with some
codgers,

And for Sotheby's Blues 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.
But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scurra,
And you'll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra.

"WHAT say I?"-not a syllable further in prose;
I'm your man "of all measures," dear Tom,-so, here
goes!

Here goes, for a swim on the stream of old Time,
On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of rhyme.
If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in the
flood,

We are smother'd, at least, in respectable mud,
Where the Divers of Bathos lie drown'd in a heap,
And Southey's last ræan has pillow'd his sleep;-
That "Felo de se" who, half drunk with his malmsey,
Wa'k'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea,

THE DEVIL'S DRIVE.

[Of this strange, wild poem, which extends to about two hundred and fifty lines, the only copy that Lord Byron, I believe, ever wrote, he presented to Lord Holland. Though with a good deal of vigour and imagination, it is, for the most part, rather clumsily executed, wanting the point and condensation of those clever verses of Mr. Coleridge which Lord Byron, adopt ing a notion long prevalent, has attributed to Professor Porson. There are, however, some of the stanzas of "The Devil's Drive" well worth preserving.]-Moore.

I.

THE Devil return'd to hell by two,

And he staid at home till five; Where he dined on some homicides done in ragout, And a rebel or so in an Irish stew, And sausages made of a self-slain Jew, And bethought himself what next to do; And," quoth he, "I'll take a drive.

I walk'd in the morning, I'll ride to-night;
In darkness my children take most delight,
And I'll see how my favourites thrive.
2.

"And what shall I ride in ?" quoth Lucifer, then"If I follow'd my taste, indeed,

I should mount in a wagon of wounded men,
And smile to see them bleed.

But these will be furnish'd again and again,
And at present my purpose is speed;
To see my manor as much as I may,
And watch that no souls shall be poach'd away.
3.

"I have a state-coach at Carlton House,

A chariot in Seymour-place;

But they're lent to two friends, who make me amends

By driving my favourite pace:

And they handle their reins with such a grace,

I have something for both at the end of their ase. 4.

"So now for the earth to take my chance.”
Then up to the earth sprung he;
And making a jump from Moscow to France
He stepp'd across the sea,

And rested his hoof on a turnpike road,
No very great way from a bishop's abode

5.

But first as he flew, I forgot to say,
That he hover'd a moment upon his way

To look upon Leipsic plain;

And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare, And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair,

That he perch'd on a mountain of slain:
And he gazed with delight from its growing height,
Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight,
Nor his work done half so well:

For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead,
That it blush'd like the waves of hell!
Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'd he:
"Methinks they have here little need of me!"

8.

But the softest note that soothed his ear
Was the sound of a widow sighing;
And the sweetest sight was the icy tear,
Which horror froze in the blue eye clear
Of a maid by her lover lying-

As round her fell her long fair hair:

And she look'd to heaven with that frenzied air
Which seem'd to ask if a God were there!

And, stretch'd by the wall of a ruin'd, hut,
With its hollow cheek, and eyes half shut,
A child of famine dying:

And the carnage begun, when resistance is done,
And the fall of the vainly flying!

10.

But the Devil has reach'd our cliffs so white,
And what did he there, I pray?

If his eyes were good, he but saw by night
What we see every day;

But he made a tour, and kept a journal
Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal,

And he sold it in shares to the Men of the Row, Who bid pretty well-but they cheated him, though! 11.

The Devil first saw, as he thought, the Mail,
Its coachman and his coat;

So instead of a pistol he cock'd his tail,
And seized him by the throat:

"Aha," quoth he, "what have we here?
"Tis a new barouche, and an ancient peer!"
So he sat him on his box again,

And bade him have no fear,

But be true to his club, and staunch to his rein, His brothel, and his beer;

"Next to seeing a lord at the council board, I would rather see him here."

17.

The Devil gat next to Westminster,

And he turn'd "to the room" of the Commons; But he heard, as he proposed to enter in there, That "the Lords" had received a summons; And he thought as a “quondam aristocrat," He might peep at the peers, though to hear them were flat;

And he walk'd up the house so like one of our

own,

T'hat they say that he stood pretty near the throne. 18.

He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise,
The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly,
And Johnnv of Norfolk-a man of some size--
And Chatham. so like his friend Billy;

And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon's eyes,
Because the Catholics would not rise,

In spite of his prayers and his prophecies;
And he heard-which set Satan himself a staring-
A certain chief justice say something like swear.

ing.

And the Devil was shock'd-and quoth he, "I must go,

For I find we have much better manners below. If thus he harangues when he passes my border, I shall hint to friend Moloch to call him to order. December, 1813.

ADDITIONAL STANZAS, TO THE ODE TO NAPOLEON BONAPARTE,

17.

THERE was a day-there was an hour, While earth was Gaul's-Gaul thine-When that immeasurable power

Unsated to resign

Had been an act of purer fame

Than gathers round Marengo's name

And gilded thy decline,

Through the long twilight of all time, Despite some passing clouds of crime

18.

But thou forsooth must be a king
And don the purple vest,
As if that foolish robe could wring
Remembrance from thy breast.
Where is that faded garment? where
The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear,
The star-the string-the crest?
Vain froward child of empire! say,
Are all thy playthings snatch'd away?

19.

Where may the wearied eye repose,
When gazing on the great;

Where neither guilty glory glows,

Nor despicable state?

Yes-one-the first-the last-the best-
The Cincinnatus of the West,
Whom envy dared not hate,
Bequeath'd the name of Washington,

To make man blush there was but onel
April, 1814

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 may'st 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. Ciara! this struggle-to undo

What thou hast done too well, for me This mask before the babbling crewThis 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-'tis all I ask-
Ere time n.ature 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 hopes resign,

Such thoughts are guilt-such guilt is death.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 1.

ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE FECITED AT THE
DDF
CALEDONIAN MEETING.

WHO hath not glow'd above the page where fame
Hath fix'd high Caledon's unconquer'd name;
The mountain-land which spurn'd the Roman chain
And baffled back the fiery-crested Dane,
Whose bright claymore and hardihood of hand
No foe could tame-no tyrant could command?
That race is gone-but still their children breathe,
And glory crowns them with redoubled wreath:
O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine,
And England! add their stubborn strength to thine.
The blood which flow'd with Wallace flows as free,
But now 't is only shed for fame and thee!
Oh! pass not by the northern veteran's claim,
But give support-the world hath given him fame!
The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled
While cheerly following where the mighty led,
Who sleep beneath the undistinguish'd sod
Where happier comrades in their triumph trod,
To us bequeath-'t is all their fate allows-
The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse:
She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise
The tearful eye in melancholy gaze,
Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose.
The Highland seer's anticipated woes,
The bleeding phantom of each martial form
Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm;
The soft lament for him who tarries long-
While sad, she chants the solitary song,
For him, whose distant relics vainly crave
The Coronach's wild requiem to the brave.
'Tis Heaven-not man-must charm away the woe
Which bursts when Nature's feelings newly flow.
Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear
Of half its bitterness for one so dear;
A nation's gratitude perchance may spread
A thornless pillow for the widow'd head;
May lighten well her heart's maternal care,
And wean from penury the soldier's heir.

May, 1814.

ON THE PRINCE REGENT'S RETURNING THE PICTURE OF SARAH, COUNTESS OF JERSEY TO MRS. MEE.

WHEN the vain triumph of the imperial lord,

chain,

Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust,
That left a likeness of the brave or just;
What most admired each scrutinizing eye
Of all that deck'd that passing pageantry?
What spread from face to face that wondering air?
The thought of Brutus-for his was not there!
That absence proved his worth,-that absence fixu
His memory on the longing mind, unmix'd;
And more decreed his glory to endure,
Than all a gold Colossus could secure.

Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze,
If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze
Bright though they be, thine own had render'd less
Amid those pictured charms, whose loveliness,
If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits
Heir of his father's throne and shatter'd wits,
If his corrupted eye and wither'd heart
Could with thy gentle image bear depart,
That tasteless shame be his, and ours the griet
To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief:

Yet comfort still one selfish thought imparts,
We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts.
What can his vaulted gallery now disclose?
A garden with all flowers-except the rose;-
A fount that only wants its living stream;
And night, with every star, save Dian's beam.
Lost to our eyes the presen、 forms shall be,
That turn from tracing them to dream of thee;
And more on that recall'd resemblance pause,
Than all he shall not force on our applause.
Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine,
With all that Virtue asks of Homage thine:
The symmetry of youth-the grace of mien-
The eye that gladdens-and the brow serene;
The glossy darkness of that clustering ha...”,
Which shades, yet shows that forehead more than fair!
Each glance that wins us, and the life that throws
A spell which will not let our looks repose,
But turn to gaze again, and find anew
Some charm that well rewards another view.
These are not lessen'd, these are still as bright,
Albeit too dazzling for a dotard's sight;

And these must wait till every charm is gone
To please the paltry heart that pleases none,
That dull cold sensualist, whose sickly eye
In envious dimness pass'd thy portrait by;
Who rack'd his little spirit to combine
Its hate of Freedom's loveliness, and thine.

TO BELSHAZZAR, 1.

July, 1814.

BELSHAZZAR! from the banquet turn,
Nor in thy sensual fullness fall:
Behold! while yet before thee burn
The graven words, the glowing wall.
Many a despot men miscall,

Crown'd and anointed from on high; But thou, the weakest, worst of all— Is it not written, thou must die?

2.

Go! dash the roses from thy brow

Gray hairs but poorly wreathe with them; Youth's garlands misbecome thee now,

More than thy very diadem,
Where thou hast tarnish'd every gem :-
Then throw the worthless bauble by,
Which, worn by thee, ev'n slaves contemn;
And learn like better men to die.
3.

Oh early in the balance weigh'd,
And ever light of word and worth,
Whose soul expired ere youth decay'd,
And left thee but a mass of earth.
L'o see thee moves a scorner's mirth:
But tears in Hope's averted eye
Lament that even thou hadst birth-
Unfit to govern, live, or die.

HEBREW MELODIES.

AN the valley of waters we wept o'er the day
When the host of the stranger made Salem his prey;
And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay,
And our hearts were so full of the land far away.
The song they demanded in vain-it lay still

They called for the harp, but our blood they shall spill,
Ere our right hand shall teach them one tone of their skill

All stringlessly hung on the willow's sad tree
As dead as her dead leaf those mute harps must be;
Our hands may be fetter'd, our tears still are free,
For our God and our glory, and Sion! for thee.
October, 1814.

THEY say that Hope is happiness,

But genuine Love must prize the past;
And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless-
They rose the first, they set the last

And all that Memory loves the most
Was once our only hope to be;
And all that hope adored and lost
Hath melted into memory.

Alas! it is delusion all,

The future cheats us from afar, Nor can we be what we recall,

Nor dare we think on what we are. October, 1814

LINES INTENDED FOR THE OPENING OF “THE
SIEGE OF CORINTH."

In the year since Jesus died for men,
Eighteen hundred years and ten,

We were a gallant company,

Riding 'er land, and sailing o'er sea.
Oh! but we went merrily!

We forded the river and clomb the high hill,
Never our steeds for a day stood still;
Whether we lay in the cave or the shed,
Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed;
Whether we couch'd in our rough capote,
On the rougher plank of our gliding boat,
Or stretch'd on the beach, or our saddles spread
As a pillow beneath the resting head,
Fresh we woke upon the morrow:

All our thoughts and words had scope,
We had health, and we had hope,
Toil and travel, but no sorrow.
We were of all tongues al creeds;-
Some were those who coun.ed beads,
Some of mosque, and some of church,

And some, or I mis-say, of neither;
Yet through the wide world might ye search,
Nor find a motlier crew nor blither.
But some are dead, and some are gone,
And some are scatter'd and alone,
And some are rebels on the hills*
That look along Epirus' valleys,
Where freedom still at moments rallies,
And pays in blood oppression's ills;
And some are in a far country,
And some all restlessly at home;
But never more, oh! never we
Shall meet to revel and to roam.
But those hardy days flew cheerily,
And when they now fall drearily,
My thoughts, like swallows, skim the mair.
And bear my spirit back again

Over the earth, and through the air,

A wild bird, and a wanderer.