The Works of Lord Byron, Vol. 7. Poetry. George Gordon Byron

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      And though I never can redeem

      The vision thus endeared to me;

      I scarcely can regret my dream,

      When realised again by thee.

      There is no more for me to hope,

      There is no more for thee to fear;

      And, if I give my Sorrow scope,

      That Sorrow thou shalt never hear.

      Why did I hold thy love so dear?

      Why shed for such a heart one tear?

      Let deep and dreary silence be

      My only memory of thee!

      When all are fled who flatter now,

      Save thoughts which will not flatter then;

      And thou recall'st the broken vow

      To him who must not love again —

      Each hour of now forgotten years

      Thou, then, shalt number with thy tears;

      And every drop of grief shall be

      A vain remembrancer of me!

      Oh you, who in all names can tickle the town,

      Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown, —26

      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 dressed for proceeding to spunge on

      (According to compact) the wit in the dungeon —27

      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 Blues28 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;29

      But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scurra,

      And you'll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra.30

      When Thurlow this damned nonsense sent,

      (I hope I am not violent)

      Nor men nor gods knew what he meant.

      And since not even our Rogers' praise

      To common sense his thoughts could raise —

      Why would they let him print his lays?

      To me, divine Apollo, grant – O!

      Hermilda's32 first and second canto,

      I'm fitting up a new portmanteau;

      And thus to furnish decent lining,

      My own and others' bays I'm twining, —

      So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in.

      "I lay my branch of laurel down."

      "Thou lay thy branch of laurel down!"

      Why, what thou'st stole is not enow;

      And, were it lawfully thine own,

      Does Rogers want it most, or thou?

      Keep to thyself thy withered bough,

      Or send it back to Doctor Donne:34

      Were justice done to both, I trow,

      He'd have but little, and thou – none.

      "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,

      Enquire amongst your fellow-lodgers,

      They'll tell you Phoebus gave his crown,

      Some years before your birth, to Rogers.

      "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.

      The Devil returned to Hell by two,

      And he stayed at home till five;

      When he dined on some homicides done in ragoût,

      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 walked in the morning, I'll ride to-night;

      In darkness my children take most delight,10

      And I'll see how my favourites thrive.

      "And what shall I ride in?" quoth Lucifer, then —

      "If I followed my taste, indeed,

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