The Works of Lord Byron: Letters and Journals, Volume 2

(2) To LORD BYRON (’Morning Post’, February 7, 1814).

  “Bard of ungentle wayward mood! 
    ’Tis said of thee, when in the lap,
  Thy nurse to tempt thee to thy food,
    Would squeeze a lemon in thy pap.

  “At vinegar how danc’d thine eyes,
    Before thy tongue a want could utter,
  And oft the dame to stop thy cries,
    Strew’d wormwood on thy bread and butter.

  “And when in childhood’s frolic hour,
    Thou’dst plait a garland for thy hair;
  The nettle bloom’d a chosen flow’r,
    And native thistles flourish’d there.

  “For sugar-plum thou ne’er did’st pine,
    Thy teeth no sweet-meat ever hurt—­
  The sloe’s juice was thy favourite wine,
    And bitter almonds thy desert.

  “Mustard, how strong so e’er the sort is,
    Can draw no moisture from thine eye;
  Not vinegar nor aqua-fortis
    Could ever set thy face awry.

  “Thus train’d a Satirist—­thy mind
    Soon caught the bitter, sharp, and sour,
  And all their various pow’rs combin’d,
    Produc’d ‘Childe Harold’, and the ’Giaour’.”

(3) LORD BYRON (’Morning Post’, February 8, 1814).

We are very much surprized, and we are not the only persons who feel disgust as well as astonishment, at the uncalled for avowal Lord Byron has made of being the Author of some insolent lines, by inserting them at the end of his new Poem, entitled “The Corsair.”  The lines we allude to begin “Weep, Daughter of a Royal Line.”  Nothing can be more repugnant to every good heart, as well as to the moral and religious feelings of a country, which we are proud to say still cherishes every right sentiment, than an attempt to lower a father in the eyes of his child.  Lord Byron is a young man, and from the tenor of his writings, has, we fear, adopted principles very contrary to those of Christianity.  But as a man of honour and of feeling, which latter character he affects outrageously, he ought never to have been guilty of so unamiable and so unprovoked an attack.  Should so gross an insult to her Royal Father ever meet the eyes of the illustrious young Lady, for whose perusal it was intended, we trust her own good sense and good heart will teach her to consider it with the contempt and abhorrence it so well merits.  Will she weep for the disgrace of a Father who has saved Europe from bondage, and has accumulated, in the short space of two years, more glory than can be found in any other period of British history?  Will she “weep for a realm’s decay,” when that realm is hourly emerging under the Government of her father, from the complicated embarrassments in which he found it involved?  But all this is too evident to need being particularised.  What seems most surprising is, that Lord Byron should chuse to avow Irish trash at a moment when every thing conspires to give it the lie.  It is for the organ of the Party alone, or a few insane admirers of Bonaparte and defamers of their own country and its rulers, to applaud him.  We know it is now the fashion for our young Gentlemen to become Poets, and a very innocent amusement it is, while they confine themselves to putting their travels into verse, like Childe Harolde, and Lord Nugent’s Portugal.  Nor is there any harm in Turkish tales, nor wonderful ditties, of ghosts and hobgoblins.  We cannot say so much for all Mr. Moore’s productions, admired as he is by Lord Byron.  In short, the whole galaxy of minor poets, Lords Nugent and Byron, with Messrs. Rogers, Lewis, and Moore, would do well to keep to rhyme, and not presume to meddle with politics, for which they seem mighty little qualified.  We must repeat, that it is innocent to write tales and travels in verse, but calumny can never be so, whether written by poets in St. James’s-street, Albany, or Grub-street.