STANZAS.

WHEN a man hath no freedom to fight for at home,
Let him combat for that of his neighbours;

If thou art bent to know the primal root
From whence our love gat being, I will do
As one, who weeps and tells his tale. One day,
For our delight, we read of Lancelot,

How him love thrall'd. Alone we were, and no
Suspicion near us. Ofttimes by that reading
Our eyes were drawn together, and the hue
Fled from our alter'd cheek. But at one point
Alone we fell. When of that smile we read,
The wished smile, so rapturously kiss'd
By one so deep in love, then he, who ne'er
From me shall separate, at once my lips
All trembling kiss'd. The book and writer both
Were love's purveyors. In its leaves that day
We read no more." While thus one spirit spake,
The other wail'd so sorely, that heart-struck,
I, through compassion fainting, seem'd not far
From death, and like a corse fell to the ground."

The story of Francesca and Paolo is a great favourite with the Italians. It is noticed by all the historians of Ravenna. Petrarch introduces it, in his Trionfi d' Amore, among his examples of calamitous passion; and Tassoni, in his Secchia Rapita, represents Paolo Malatesta as leading the troops of Rimini, and describes him, when mounted on his charger, as contemplating a golden sword-chain, presented to him by Francesca :

"Rimini vien con la bandiera sesta,
Guida mille cavalli, e mille fanti —
Halu donata al dispartir Francesca
L'aurea catena, à cui la spada appende.
La vì mirando al misero, e rinfresca
Quel foco ognor, che l' anima gli accende,
Quanto cerca fuggir, tanto s' invesca."
"To him Francesca gave the golden chain

At parting-time, from which his sword was hung;
The wretched lover gazed at it with pain,
Adding new pangs to those his heart had wrung;

The more he sought to fly the luscious bane,

The firmer he was bound, the deeper stung."]

Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome,
And get knock'd on the head for his labours.

To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan,
And is always as nobly requited;

Then battle for freedom wherever you can,

And, if not shot or hang'd, you'll get knighted.

November, 1820.

EPIGRAM.

THE world is a bundle of hay,
Mankind are the asses who pull;

Each tugs it a different way,

And the greatest of all is John Bull.

THE CHARITY BALL.

WHAT matter the pangs of a husband and father,
If his sorrows in exile be great or be small,
So the Pharisee's glories around her she gather,
And the saint patronizes her "charity ball!"

What matters -a heart which, though faulty, was feeling,

Be driven to excesses which once could appal That the sinner should suffer is only fair dealing, As the saint keeps her charity back for "the ball!" 1

[These lines were written on reading in the newspapers, that Lady Byron had been patroness of a ball in aid of some charity at Hinckley.]

EPIGRAM ON MY WEDDING.DAY.

TO PENELOPE.

THIS day, of all our days, has done
The worst for me and you :

'Tis just six years since we were one,

And five since we were two.

January 2, 1821.

ON MY THIRTY-THIRD BIRTH-DAY.

JANUARY 22. 1821. 1

THROUGH life's dull road, so dim and dirty,
I have dragg'd to three and thirty.
What have these years left to me?
Nothing except thirty-three.

1 [In Lord Byron's MS. Diary of the preceding day, we find the following entry: January 21. 1821. Dined visitedcame home-read. Remarked on an anecdote in Grimm's Correspondence, which says, that Regnard et la plupart des poëtes comiques étaient gens bilieux et mélancoliques; et que M. de Voltaire, qui est très-gai, n'a jamais fait que des tragédies et que la comédie gaie est le seul genre où il n'ait point réussi. C'est que celui qui rit et celui qui fait rire sont deux hommes fort différens!' At this moment I feel as bilious as the best comic writer of them all (even as Regnard himself, the next to Molière, who has written some of the best comedies in any language, and who is supposed to have committed suicide), and am not in spirits to contínue my proposed tragedy. To-morrow is my birth-daythat is to say, at twelve o' the clock, midnight; i. e. in twelve minutes, I shall have completed thirty and three years of age!!! --and I go to my bed with a heaviness of heart at having lived so long, and to so little purpose. *

*

It is hree minutes past twelve-Tis the middle of night by the stle-clock,' and I am now thirty-three!

EPIGRAM.

ON THE BRAZIERS' COMPANY HAVING RESOLVED TO
PRESENT AN ADDRESS TO QUEEN CAROLINE. 1

THE braziers, it seems, are preparing to pass
An address, and present it themselves all in brass;
A superfluous pageant for, by the Lord Harry!
They'll find where they 're going much more than they
carry. 2

MARTIAL, LIB. I. EPIG. I.

"Hic est, quem legis, ille, quem requiris,
Tota notus in orbe Martialis," &c.

HE, unto whom thou art so partial,
Oh, reader! is the well-known Martial,
The Epigrammatist: while living,
Give him the fame thou wouldst be giving;
So shall he hear, and feel, and know it
Post-obits rarely reach a poet.

"Eheu, fugaces, Posthume, Posthume,
Labuntur anni;'-

but I don't regret them so much for what I have done, as for what I might have done."]

1 [The procession of the Braziers to Brandenburgh House was one of the most absurd fooleries of the time of Queen Caroline's trial.]

2 ["There is an epigram for you, is it not?— worthy
Of Wordsworth, the grand metaquizzical poet,
A man of vast merit, though few people know it;
The perusal of whom (as I told you at Mestri)
I owe, in great part, to my passion for pastry.'

Byron Letters, January 22. 1821.]

BOWLES AND CAMPBELL.

To the tune of "Why, how now, saucy jade ?"

WHY, how now, saucy Tom?

If you thus must ramble,

I will publish some

Remarks on Mister Campbell.

ANSWER.

WHY, how now, Billy Bowles?

Sure the priest is maudlin!

(To the public) How can you, d-n your souls! Listen to his twaddling?

February 22. 1821.1

EPIGRAMS.

OH, Castlereagh! thou art a patriot now;
Cato died for his country, so didst thou:
He perish'd rather than see Rome enslaved,

Thou cutt'st thy throat that Britain may be saved!

So Castlereagh has cut his throat!

The worst

Of this is, - that his own was not the first.

So He has cut his throat at last! - He! Who?
The man who cut his country's long ago.

1["Excuse haste,I write with my spurs putting on."d Byrm to Mr. Moore, Feb. 22. 1821.]