Skin all sallow, flesh all sodden,-- ANSWER. Many passengers arrest one, Hear his tone (which is to talking Clothed in odds and ends of humour- You're his foe, for that he fears you, 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. Rogers. 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, In the mode that's most invidious, ON LADY MILBANKE'S DOG TRIM.(1) ALAS! poor Trim; I'm sorry for him: LINES TO LADY HOLLAND. (2) Yet thy heart, methinks, 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 aban. donment."-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 newspapers an address to Lady Holland, by the Earl of Carlisle, persuading her to reject the snuff-box bequeathed to her by Napoleon, beginning: "Lady, reject the gift," etc.-P. E. 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: My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle; The hope, the fear, the jealous care, But 'tis not thus-and 't is not here Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, (1) "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.' then produced these noble and affecting verses." Gamba.-L. E. lle Count (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, The sword, the banner, and the field, Awake! (not Greece-she is awake!) Tread those reviving passions down, If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live? Is here:-up to the field, and give Seek out-less often sought than found- 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 under 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 objects 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 breastI would not hear a seraph choir, Unless that voice could join the rest. There is a face, whose blushes tell Proclaims more love than words can speak. It vow'd to make me sweetly blest, 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 YOUND IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT CHAMOUNI. Dutch craft, and German dulaess, side by side! The hardy Russian hails congenial snow; 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, That thou wert banish'd from my view. What thou hast done too well, for meThis mask before the babbling crewThis treachery-was truth to thee! I have not wept while thou wert gone, (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, Not thee, oh! dearest as thou art! And I will seek, yet know not how, And nobly thus exert thy power; 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 Pæan! Jo! sing To the finny people's king- Flat fish are his courtiers chief;- 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. Soon the difference they find, Sudden, plump, he sinks beneath them- This, or else my eye-sight fails, This should be the Prince of Whales. ON THE LETTER I. I AM not in youth, nor in manhood, nor age, I'm a stranger alike to the fool and the sage, I am not in earth, nor the sun, nor the moon; In the morning and evening-though not in the noon, 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, I often am met in political life In my absence no kingdom can be; And they say there can neither be friendship nor strife, My brethren are many, and of my whole race And though not the eldest, I hold the first place, Though disease may possess me, and sickness and pain, TO MY DEAR MARY ANNE. Is far purer than Cupid bestows. I wish not your peace to disturb, "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, I know not what hath sear'd mine eye: But every drop its lids deny Falls dreary on my heart. Than feelings sunk remain, THE END. Index. ABELARD, 587. A. Abencerrage, 570, 889. Absalom and Achitophel, 646, 802. Absent friend, pleasure of defend- Abydos, Bride of, 210, 660 n. Achelous, river, xviii. 89, 91. Achilles, 648; his person, 492; Ada, 111. See Byron, Augusta- Adams, John, a carrier, who died of Æsietes, tomb of, 21 n. Africa, and Africans, described, 653. Age of Bronze; or, 'Carmen Se- Age of Gold, 685. Agilulf, duke of Turin, 156. Ajax, 84. Sepulchre of, 656. 86 n. His memory dear to the Alfonso III., 130, 304 n. His wife Ali Pacha of Yanina, account of, 'All is vanity, saith the Preacher,' 'Alla Hu!' 204, 699. ter), 723 n. Her death, xxviii. Alban Hill, description of, 146, 169. Alpheus, the river, 90 n. Albrizzi, Guiseppe, 386 n. 'Address, spoken at the opening of Albrizzi, Countess, 386 n. 891 n. 'Adieu, adieu! my native shore,' 71. when dying,' translation of, 5. Adversity, 640, 739, 756. Advice, 610, 762. Egean Sea, the, 99, 188. 491. General charm of his name, Alexander, Emperor of Russia, 571, Alexander III., submission of Bar- Alfieri, Vittorio, xxii. His early love, Alpinula, Julia, her death, and af- Amber, susceptible of a perfume, Ambition, 115, 116, 138, 296, Ambracian Gulf, 'Stanzas written in passing the,' 853. Reflections on ་ λέγειν Ατρείδας translated, 6. 'And wilt thou weep when I am of Santa Croce, 133. Coinci-And thou art dead, as young and fair,' 860. And thou wert sad!' 886. |