FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO THOMAS MOORE. "WHAT Say I? not a syllable further in prose; I'm your man “of all measures,” dear Tom, here goes! So, 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 Pæan has pillow'd his sleep ;That "Felo de se" who, half drunk with his malmsey, Walk'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea, Singing "Glory to God" in a spick and span stanza, The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) never man saw. The man, [man. And what dignity decks the flat face of the great I saw him, last week, at two balls and a party, For a prince, his demeanour was rather too hearty. You know, we are used to quite different graces, The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter and brisker, But then he is sadly deficient in whisker; And wore but a starless blue coat, and in kersey-mere breeches whisk'd round, in a waltz with the Jersey, Who, lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted CONDOLATORY ADDRESS TO SARAH, COUNT- WHEN the vain triumph of the imperial lord, Than all a gold Colossus could secure. (1) ["The newspapers have got hold (I know not how) of the Condolatory Address to Lady Jersey on the picture-abduction by our Regent, and have published them—with my name, too, smack-without even asking leave, or enquiring whether or no! D-n their impudence, and d-n every thing. It has put me out of patience, and so I shall say no more about it."- B. Letters.] If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze, What can his vaulted gallery now disclose? Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine, 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, August, 1814. TO BELSHAZZAR. BELSHAZZAR! from the banquet turn, Crown'd and anointed from on high; Go! dash the roses from thy brow Grey hairs but poorly wreathe with them; Where thou hast tarnish'd every gem:. And learn like better men to die! Oh! early in the balance weigh'd, ELEGIAC STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER, BART. (1) THERE is a tear for all that die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave; For them is Sorrow's purest sigh All earth becomes their monument! (1) [This gallant officer fell in August, 1814, in his twenty-ninth year, whilst commanding, on shore, a party belonging to his ship, the Menelaus, and animating them, in storming the American camp near Baltimore. He was Lord Byron's first cousin; but they had never met since boyhood. -E] |