Sublimest of
volcanoes!
Byron
Gebliart, chap.
vii.
, "Le Sac de Rome en 1527," p.
245. ]
[ds]
_Hush! don't let him hear you_
_Or he might take you off before your time_. --[MS. ]
[248] {521}["We got with the greatest difficulty to the gate of the
castle. . . . I ascended to the keep, and, at the same instant, Pope
Clement came in through the corridors into the castle; he had refused to
leave the palace of St. Peter earlier, being unable to believe that his
enemies would effect their entrance into Rome. "--_Life of Benvenuto
Cellini_, translated by J. A. Symonds, 1888, i. 114, 115.
So, too, Jacques Buonaparte (_Le Sac de Rome_, 1836, p. 202): "Le Pape
Clement, avoit entendu les cris des soldats; il se sauvoit
precipitamment par un long corridor pratique dans un mur double et se
laissoit emporter de son palais an chateau Saint-Ange. "]
[249] {526}[Penthesilea, Queen of the Amazons, was slain by Achilles,
who wept over her as she lay a-dying, bewailing her beauty and her
daring. For the picture, see Pausanias, _Descriptio Graeciae_, lib, v.
cap. 11, 2. ]
[250] {527}[See _Gen_. vi. 2, the motto of _Heaven and Earth, ante_, p,
277. ]
[251] ["It came to pass the same day, that in Echatane a city of Media,
Sara the daughter of Raguel was also reproached by her father's maids;
because that she had been married to seven husbands, whom Asmodeus the
evil spirit had killed before they had lain with her. . . . And as he went,
he remembered the words of Raphael, and took the ashes of the perfumes,
and put the heart and the liver of the fish thereupon, and made smoke
therewith. The which smell when the evil spirit had smelled, he fled
into the utmost parts of Egypt. "--_Tobit_ iii. 7, 8; viii. 2, 3. ]
[dt] {528} _The first born who burst the winter sun_. --[MS. ]
[du] ----_through the brine_. --[MS. ]
[252] {533}[Lucifer or Mephistopheles, renamed Caesar, wears the shape of
the Deformed Arnold. It may be that Byron intended to make Olimpia
bestow her affections, not on the glorious Achilles, but the witty and
interesting Hunchback. ]
THE AGE OF BRONZE;
OR,
CARMEN SECULARE ET ANNUS HAUD MIRABILIS. [dv]
"Impar _Congressus_ Achilli. "[253]
INTRODUCTION TO _THE AGE OF BRONZE_.
_The Age of Bronze_ was begun in December, 1822, and finished on January
10, 1823. "I have sent," he writes (letter to Leigh Hunt, _Letters_,
1901, vi. 160), "to Mrs. S[helley], for the benefit of being copied, a
poem of about seven hundred and fifty lines length--The Age of
Bronze,--or _Carmen Seculare et Annus haud Mirabilis_, with this
Epigraph--'Impar _Congressus_ Achilli. ' It is calculated for the reading
part of the million, being all on politics, etc. , etc. , etc. , and a
review of the day in general,--in my early _English Bards_ style, but a
little more stilted, and somewhat too full of 'epithets of war' and
classical and historical allusions. If notes are necessary, they can be
added. "
On March 5th he forwarded the "Proof in Slips" ("and certainly the
_Slips_ are the most conspicuous part of it") to his new publisher, John
Hunt; and, on April 1, 1823, _The Age of Bronze_ was published, but not
with the author's name.
Ten years had gone by since he had published, only to disclaim, the
latest of his boyish satires, _The Waltz_, and more than six years since
he had written, "at the request of Douglas Kinnaird," the stilted and
laboured _Monody on the Death of . . . Sheridan_. In the interval
(1816-1822) he had essayed any and every measure but the heroic, and, at
length, as a tardy recognition of his allegiance to "the great moral
poet of all times, of all climes, of all feelings, and of all stages of
existence" (_Observations upon "Observations,"_ _Letters_, 1901, v.
590), he reverts, as he believes, to his "early _English Bards_ style,"
the style of Pope.
The brazen age, the "Annus Haud Mirabilis," which the satirist would
hold up to scorn, was 1822, the year after Napoleon's death, which
witnessed a revolution in Spain, and the Congress of Allied Sovereigns
at Verona. Earlier in the year, the publication of Las Cases' _Memorial
de S^te^ Helene_, and of O'Meara's _Napoleon in Exile, or a Voice from
St. Helena_, had created a sensation on both sides of the Channel.
Public opinion had differed as to the system on which Napoleon should be
treated--and, since his death, there had been a conflict of evidence as
to the manner in which he had been treated, at St. Helena. Tories
believed that an almost excessive lenience and indulgence had been
wasted on a graceless and thankless intriguer, while the "Opposition,"
Liberals or Radicals, were moved to indignation at the hardships and
restrictions which were ruthlessly and needlessly imposed on a fallen
and powerless foe. It was, and is, a very pretty quarrel; and Byron,
whose lifelong admiration for his "Heros de Roman" was tempered by
reason, approached the Longwood controversy somewhat in the spirit of a
partisan.
In _The Age of Bronze_ (sects, iii. -v. ) he touches on certain incidents
of the "Last Phase" of Napoleon's career, and proceeds to recapitulate,
in a sort of _Memoria Technica_, the chief events of his history, from
the dawn at Marengo to the sunset at "bloody and most bootless
Waterloo," and draws the unimpeachable moral that "Honesty is the best
policy," even when the "game is Empire" and "the stakes are thrones"!
From the rise and fall, the tyranny and captivity of Napoleon, he passes
on to the Congress of Allied Powers, which met at Verona in November,
1822.
The "Congress" is the object of his satire. It had assembled with a
parade of power and magnificence, and had dispersed with little or
nothing accomplished. It was "impar Achilli" (_vide ante_, p. 535,
note 1), an empty menace, ill-matched with the revolutionary spirit,
and in pitiful contrast to the _Sic volo, sic jubeo_ of the dead
Napoleon.
The immediate and efficient cause of the Congress of Verona was the
success of the revolution in Spain. The point at issue between Spanish
Liberals and Royalists, or _serviles_, was the adherence to, or the
evasion of, the democratic Constitution of 1812. At the moment the
Liberals were in the ascendant, and, as Chateaubriand puts it, had
driven King Ferdinand into captivity, at Urgel, in Catalonia, to the
tune of the Spanish Marseillaise, "_Tragala, Tragala_" "swallow it,
swallow it," that is, "accept the Constitution. " On July 7, 1822, a
government was established under the name of the "Supreme Regency of
Spain during the Captivity of the King," and, hence, the consternation
of the partners of the Holy Alliance, especially France, who conceived,
or feigned to conceive, that revolution next door was a source of danger
to constitutional government at home. To meet the emergency, a Congress
was summoned in the first instance at Vienna, and afterwards at Verona.
Thither came the sovereigns of Europe, great and small, accompanied by
their chancellors and ministers. The Czar Alexander was attended by
Count Nesselrode and Count Pozzo di Borgo; the Emperor Francis of
Austria, by Metternich and Prince Esterhazy; the King of Prussia
(Frederic William III. ), by Count Bernstorff and Baron Humboldt. George
IV. of Great Britain, and Louis XVIII. of France, being elderly and
gouty, sent as their plenipotentiaries the Duke of Wellington and the
Vicomte de Montmorenci, accompanied, and, finally, superseded by, the
French ambassador, M. de Chateaubriand. Thither, too, came the smaller
fry, Kings of the Two Sicilies and of Sardinia; and last, but not least,
Marie Louise of Austria, Archduchess of Parma, _ci-devant_ widow of
Napoleon, and wife _sub rosa_ of her one-eyed chamberlain, Count de
Neipperg. They met, they debated, they went to the theatre in state, and
finally decided to send monitory despatches to Spain, and to leave to
France a free hand to look after her own interests, and to go to war or
not, as she was pleased to determine. There was one dissentient, the
Duke of Wellington, who refused to sign the _proces verbaux_. His
Britannic Majesty had been advised to let the Spaniards alone, and not
to meddle with their internal affairs. The final outcome of the
Congress, the French invasion of Spain, could not be foreseen; and,
apparently, all that the Congress had accomplished was to refuse to
prohibit the exportation of negroes from Africa to America, and to
decline to receive the Greek deputies.
As the _Morning Chronicle_ (November 7, 1822) was pleased to put it,
"the Royal vultures have been deprived of their anticipated meal. "
From the Holy Alliance and its antagonist, "the revolutionary stork,"
Byron turns to the landed and agricultural "interest" of Great Britain.
With the cessation of war and the resumption of cash payments in 1819,
prices had fallen some 50 per cent. , and rents were beginning to fall.
Wheat, which in 1818 had fetched 80s. a quarter, in December, 1822, was
quoted at 39s. 11d. ; consols were at 80. Poor rates had risen from
? 2,000,000 in 1792 to ? 8,000,000 in 1822. How was the distress which
these changes involved to be met? By retrenchment and reform, by the
repeal of taxes, the reduction of salaries, by the landlords and
farmers, who had profited by war prices, submitting to the inevitable
reaction; or by sliding scales, by a return to an inflated currency,
perhaps by a repudiation of a portion of the funded debt?
The point of Byron's diatribe is that Squire Dives had enjoyed good
things during the war, and, now that the war was over, he had no
intention to let Lazarus have his turn; that, whoever suffered, it
should not be Dives; that patriotism had brought grist to his mill; and
that he proposed to suck no small advantage out of peace.
"Year after year they voted cent. per cent. ,
Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions--why? for rent?
They roared, they dined, they drank, they swore they meant
To die for England--why then live? --for rent! "
It is easier to divine the "Sources" and the inspiration of _The Age of
Bronze_ than to place the reader _au courant_ with the literary and
political _causerie_ of the day. Byron wrote with O'Meara's book at his
elbow, and with batches of _Galignani's Messenger_, the _Morning
Chronicle_, and _Cobbett's Weekly Register_ within his reach. He was
under the impression that his lines would appear as an anonymous
contribution to _The Liberal_, and, in any case, he felt that he could
speak out, unchecked and uncriticized by friend or publisher. He was, so
to speak, unmuzzled.
With regard to the style and quality of his new satire, Byron was under
an amiable delusion. His couplets, he imagined, were in his "early
_English Bards_ style," but "more stilted. " He did not realize that,
whatever the intervening years had taken away, they had "left behind"
experience and passion, and that he had learned to think and to feel.
The fault of the poem is that too much matter is packed into too small a
compass, and that, in parts, every line implies a minute acquaintance
with contemporary events, and requires an explanatory note. But, even
so, in _The Age of Bronze_ Byron has wedded "a striking passage of
history" to striking and imperishable verse.
_The Age of Bronze_ was reviewed in the _Scots Magazine_, April, 1823,
N. S. , vol. xii. pp. 483-488; the _Monthly Review_, April, 1823, E. S. ,
vol. 100, pp. 430-433; the _Monthly Magazine_, May, 1823, vol. 55, pp.
322-325; the _Examiner_, March 30, 1823; the _Literary Chronicle_, April
5, 1823; and the _Literary Gazette_, April 5, 1823.
THE AGE OF BRONZE.
I.
The "good old times"--all times when old are good--
Are gone; the present might be if they would;
Great things have been, and are, and greater still
Want little of mere mortals but their will:[dw]
A wider space, a greener field, is given
To those who play their "tricks before high heaven. "[254]
I know not if the angels weep, but men
Have wept enough--for what? --to weep again!
II.
All is exploded--be it good or bad.
Reader! remember when thou wert a lad, 10
Then Pitt was all; or, if not all, so much,
His very rival almost deemed him such. [255]
We--we have seen the intellectual race
Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face--
Athos and Ida, with a dashing sea
Of eloquence between, which flowed all free,
As the deep billows of the AEgean roar
Betwixt the Hellenic and the Phrygian shore.
But where are they--the rivals! a few feet
Of sullen earth divide each winding sheet. [256] 20
How peaceful and how powerful is the grave,
Which hushes all! a calm, unstormy wave,
Which oversweeps the World. The theme is old
Of "Dust to Dust," but half its tale untold:
Time tempers not its terrors--still the worm
Winds its cold folds, the tomb preserves its form,
Varied above, but still alike below;
The urn may shine--the ashes will not glow--
Though Cleopatra's mummy cross the sea[257]
O'er which from empire she lured Anthony; 30
Though Alexander's urn[258] a show be grown
On shores he wept to conquer, though unknown--[259]
How vain, how worse than vain, at length appear
The madman's wish, the Macedonian's tear!
He wept for worlds to conquer--half the earth
Knows not his name, or but his death, and birth,
And desolation; while his native Greece
Hath all of desolation, save its peace.
He "wept for worlds to conquer! " he who ne'er
Conceived the Globe, he panted not to spare! 40
With even the busy Northern Isle unknown,
Which holds his urn--and never knew his throne.
III.
But where is he, the modern, mightier far,
Who, born no king, made monarchs draw his car;
The new Sesostris, whose unharnessed kings,[260]
Freed from the bit, believe themselves with wings,
And spurn the dust o'er which they crawled of late,
Chained to the chariot of the Chieftain's state?
Yes! where is he, "the champion and the child"[261]
Of all that's great or little--wise or wild; 50
Whose game was Empire, and whose stakes were thrones;
Whose table Earth--whose dice were human bones?
Behold the grand result in yon lone Isle,
And, as thy nature urges--weep or smile.
Sigh to behold the Eagle's lofty rage
Reduced to nibble at his narrow cage;
Smile to survey the queller of the nations
Now daily squabbling o'er disputed rations;[dx][262]
Weep to perceive him mourning, as he dines,
O'er curtailed dishes and o'er stinted wines; 60
O'er petty quarrels upon petty things.
Is this the Man who scourged or feasted kings?
Behold the scales in which his fortune hangs,
A surgeon's[263] statement, and an earl's[264] harangues!
A bust delayed,[265]--a book[266] refused, can shake
The sleep of Him who kept the world awake.
Is this indeed the tamer of the Great,[dy]
Now slave of all could tease or irritate--
The paltry gaoler[267] and the prying spy,
The staring stranger with his note-book nigh? [268] 70
Plunged in a dungeon, he had still been great;
How low, how little was this middle state,
Between a prison and a palace, where
How few could feel for what he had to bear!
Vain his complaint,--My Lord presents his bill,
His food and wine were doled out duly still;
Vain was his sickness, never was a clime
So free from homicide--to doubt's crime;
And the stiff surgeon,[269] who maintained his cause,
Hath lost his place, and gained the world's applause. 80
But smile--though all the pangs of brain and heart
Disdain, defy, the tardy aid of art;
Though, save the few fond friends and imaged face
Of that fair boy his Sire shall ne'er embrace,
None stand by his low bed--though even the mind
Be wavering, which long awed and awes mankind:
Smile--for the fettered Eagle breaks his chain,
And higher Worlds than this are his again. [270]
IV.
How, if that soaring Spirit still retain
A conscious twilight of his blazing reign, 90
How must he smile, on looking down, to see
The little that he was and sought to be!
What though his Name a wider empire found
Than his Ambition, though with scarce a bound;
Though first in glory, deepest in reverse,
He tasted Empire's blessings and its curse;
Though kings, rejoicing in their late escape
From chains, would gladly be _their_ Tyrant's ape;
How must he smile, and turn to yon lone grave,
The proudest Sea-mark that o'ertops the wave! 100
What though his gaoler, duteous to the last,
Scarce deemed the coffin's lead could keep him fast,
Refusing one poor line[271] along the lid,
To date the birth and death of all it hid;
That name shall hallow the ignoble shore,
A talisman to all save him who bore:
The fleets that sweep before the eastern blast
Shall hear their sea-boys[272] hail it from the mast;
When Victory's Gallic column[273] shall but rise,
Like Pompey's pillar[274], in a desert's skies, 110
The rocky Isle that holds or held his dust,
Shall crown the Atlantic like the Hero's bust,
And mighty Nature o'er his obsequies
Do more than niggard Envy still denies.
But what are these to him? Can Glory's lust
Touch the freed spirit or the fettered dust?
Small care hath he of what his tomb consists;
Nought if he sleeps--nor more if he exists:
Alike the better-seeing Shade will smile
On the rude cavern[275] of the rocky isle, 120
As if his ashes found their latest home
In Rome's Pantheon or Gaul's mimic dome[276].
He wants not this; but France shall feel the want
Of this last consolation, though so scant:
Her Honour--Fame--and Faith demand his bones,
To rear above a Pyramid of thrones;
Or carried onward in the battle's van,
To form, like Guesclin's dust, her Talisman[277].
But be it as it is--the time may come
His name shall beat the alarm, like Ziska's drum[278]. 130
V.
Oh Heaven! of which he was in power a feature;
Oh Earth! of which he was a noble creature;
Thou Isle! to be remembered long and well,
That saw'st the unfledged eaglet chip his shell!
Ye Alps which viewed him in his dawning flights
Hover, the Victor of a hundred fights!
Thou Rome, who saw'st thy Caesar's deeds outdone!
Alas! why passed he too the Rubicon--
The Rubicon of Man's awakened rights,
To herd with vulgar kings and parasites? 140
Egypt! from whose all dateless tombs arose
Forgotten Pharaohs from their long repose,
And shook within their pyramids to hear
A new Cambyses thundering in their ear;
While the dark shades of Forty Ages stood
Like startled giants by Nile's famous flood[279];
Or from the Pyramid's tall pinnacle
Beheld the desert peopled, as from hell,
With clashing hosts, who strewed the barren sand,
To re-manure the uncultivated land! 150
Spain! which, a moment mindless of the Cid,
Beheld his banner flouting thy Madrid[280]!
Austria! which saw thy twice-ta'en capital[281]
Twice spared to be the traitress of his fall!
Ye race of Frederic! --Frederics but in name
And falsehood--heirs to all except his fame:
Who, crushed at Jena, crouched at Berlin[282], fell
First, and but rose to follow! Ye who dwell
Where Kosciusko dwelt, remembering yet
The unpaid amount of Catherine's bloody debt[283]! 160
Poland! o'er which the avenging Angel past,
But left thee as he found thee,[284] still a waste,
Forgetting all thy still enduring claim,
Thy lotted people and extinguished name,
Thy sigh for freedom, thy long-flowing tear,
That sound that crashes in the tyrant's ear--
Kosciusko! [285] On--on--on--the thirst of War
Gasps for the gore of serfs and of their Czar.
The half barbaric Moscow's minarets
Gleam in the sun, but 'tis a sun that sets! 170
Moscow! thou limit of his long career,
For which rude Charles had wept his frozen tear[286]
To see in vain--_he_ saw thee--how? with spire
And palace fuel to one common fire.
To this the soldier lent his kindling match,
To this the peasant gave his cottage thatch,
To this the merchant flung his hoarded store,
The prince his hall--and Moscow was no more!
Sublimest of volcanoes! Etna's flame
Pales before thine, and quenchless Hecla's tame; 180
Vesuvius shows his blaze,[287] an usual sight
For gaping tourists, from his hackneyed height:[dz]
Thou stand'st alone unrivalled, till the Fire
To come, in which all empires shall expire!
Thou other Element! as strong and stern,
To teach a lesson conquerors will not learn! --
Whose icy wing flapped o'er the faltering foe,
Till fell a hero with each flake of snow;
How did thy numbing beak and silent fang,
Pierce, till hosts perished with a single pang! 190
In vain shall Seine look up along his banks
For the gay thousands of his dashing ranks!
In vain shall France recall beneath her vines
Her Youth--their blood flows faster than her wines;
Or stagnant in their human ice remains
In frozen mummies on the Polar plains.
In vain will Italy's broad sun awaken
Her offspring chilled; its beams are now forsaken.
Of all the trophies gathered from the war,
What shall return? the Conqueror's broken car! [288] 200
The Conqueror's yet unbroken heart! Again
The horn of Roland[289] sounds, and not in vain.
Lutzen, where fell the Swede of victory,[290]
Beholds him conquer, but, alas! not die:
Dresden[291] surveys three despots fly once more
Before their sovereign,--sovereign as before;[ea]
But there exhausted Fortune quits the field,
And Leipsic's[292] treason bids the unvanquished yield;
The Saxon jackal leaves the lion's side
To turn the bear's, and wolf's, and fox's guide; 210
And backward to the den of his despair
The forest monarch shrinks, but finds no lair!
Oh ye! and each, and all! Oh France! who found
Thy long fair fields ploughed up as hostile ground,
Disputed foot by foot, till Treason, still
His only victor, from Montmartre's hill[293]
Looked down o'er trampled Paris! and thou Isle,
Which seest Etruria from thy ramparts smile,
Thou momentary shelter of his pride,
Till wooed by danger, his yet weeping bride! 220
Oh, France! retaken by a single march,
Whose path was through one long triumphal arch!
Oh bloody and most bootless Waterloo!
Which proves how fools may have their fortune too,
Won half by blunder, half by treachery:
Oh dull Saint Helen! with thy gaoler nigh--
Hear! hear Prometheus[294] from his rock appeal
To Earth,--Air,--Ocean,--all that felt or feel
His power and glory, all who yet shall hear
A name eternal as the rolling year; 230
He teaches them the lesson taught so long,
So oft, so vainly--learn to do no wrong!
A single step into the right had made
This man the Washington of worlds betrayed:
A single step into the wrong has given
His name a doubt to all the winds of heaven;
The reed of Fortune, and of thrones the rod,
Of Fame the Moloch or the demigod;
His country's Caesar, Europe's Hannibal,
Without their decent dignity of fall. 240
Yet Vanity herself had better taught
A surer path even to the fame he sought,
By pointing out on History's fruitless page
Ten thousand conquerors for a single sage.
While Franklin's quiet memory climbs to Heaven,
Calming the lightning which he thence hath riven,
Or drawing from the no less kindled earth
Freedom and peace to that which boasts his birth;[295]
While Washington's a watchword, such as ne'er
Shall sink while there's an echo left to air:[296] 250
While even the Spaniard's thirst of gold and war
Forgets Pizarro to shout Bolivar! [297]
Alas! why must the same Atlantic wave
Which wafted freedom gird a tyrant's grave--
The king of kings, and yet of slaves the slave,
Who burst the chains of millions to renew
The very fetters which his arm broke through,
And crushed the rights of Europe and his own,
To flit between a dungeon and a throne?
VI.
But 'twill not be--the spark's awakened--lo! 260
The swarthy Spaniard feels his former glow;
The same high spirit which beat back the Moor
Through eight long ages of alternate gore
Revives--and where? in that avenging clime
Where Spain was once synonymous with crime,
Where Cortes' and Pizarro's banner flew,
The infant world redeems her name of "_New_. "
'Tis the _old_ aspiration breathed afresh,
To kindle souls within degraded flesh,
Such as repulsed the Persian from the shore 270
Where Greece _was_--No! she still is Greece once more.
One common cause makes myriads of one breast,
Slaves of the East, or helots of the West:
On Andes'[298] and on Athos' peaks unfurled,
The self-same standard streams o'er either world:
The Athenian[299] wears again Harmodius' sword;
The Chili chief[300] abjures his foreign lord;
The Spartan knows himself once more a Greek,[301]
Young Freedom plumes the crest of each cacique;
Debating despots, hemmed on either shore, 280
Shrink vainly from the roused Atlantic's roar;
Through Calpe's strait the rolling tides advance,
Sweep slightly by the half-tamed land of France,
Dash o'er the old Spaniard's cradle, and would fain
Unite Ausonia to the mighty main:
But driven from thence awhile, yet not for aye,
Break o'er th' AEgean, mindful of the day
Of Salamis! --there, there the waves arise,
Not to be lulled by tyrant victories.
Lone, lost, abandoned in their utmost need 290
By Christians, unto whom they gave their creed,
The desolated lands, the ravaged isle,
The fostered feud encouraged to beguile,
The aid evaded, and the cold delay,
Prolonged but in the hope to make a prey[302];--
These, these shall tell the tale, and Greece can show
The false friend worse than the infuriate foe.
But this is well: Greeks only should free Greece,
Not the barbarian, with his masque of peace.
How should the Autocrat of bondage be 300
The king of serfs, and set the nations free?
Better still serve the haughty Mussulman,
Than swell the Cossaque's prowling caravan;
Better still toil for masters, than await,
The slave of slaves, before a Russian gate,--
Numbered by hordes, a human capital,
A live estate, existing but for thrall,
Lotted by thousands, as a meet reward
For the first courtier in the Czar's regard;
While their immediate owner never tastes 310
His sleep, _sans_ dreaming of Siberia's wastes:
Better succumb even to their own despair,
And drive the Camel--than purvey the Bear.
VII.
But not alone within the hoariest clime
Where Freedom dates her birth with that of Time,
And not alone where, plunged in night, a crowd
Of Incas darken to a dubious cloud[eb],
The dawn revives: renowned, romantic Spain
Holds back the invader from her soil again.
Not now the Roman tribe nor Punic horde[ec] 320
Demands her fields as lists to prove the sword;
Not now the Vandal or the Visigoth
Pollute the plains, alike abhorring both[ed];
Nor old Pelayo[303] on his mountain rears
The warlike fathers of a thousand years.
That seed is sown and reaped, as oft the Moor
Sighs to remember on his dusky shore.
Long in the peasant's song or poet's page
Has dwelt the memory of Abencerrage;
The Zegri[304], and the captive victors, flung 330
Back to the barbarous realm from whence they sprung.
But these are gone--their faith, their swords, their sway,
Yet left more anti-christian foes than they[ee];
The bigot monarch, and the butcher priest[305],
The Inquisition, with her burning feast,
The Faith's red "Auto," fed with human fuel,
While sate the catholic Moloch, calmly cruel,
Enjoying, with inexorable eye,[ef]
That fiery festival of Agony!
The stern or feeble sovereign, one or both 340
By turns; the haughtiness whose pride was sloth;
The long degenerate noble; the debased
Hidalgo, and the peasant less disgraced,
But more degraded; the unpeopled realm;
The once proud navy which forgot the helm;
The once impervious phalanx disarrayed;
The idle forge that formed Toledo's blade;
The foreign wealth that flowed on every shore,
Save hers who earned it with the native's gore;
The very language which might vie with Rome's, 350
And once was known to nations like their homes,
Neglected or forgotten:--such _was_ Spain;
But such she is not, nor shall be again.
These worst, these _home_ invaders, felt and feel
The new Numantine soul of old Castile[eg],
Up! up again! undaunted Tauridor!
The bull of Phalaris renews his roar[eh];
Mount, chivalrous Hidalgo! not in vain
Revive the cry--"Iago! and close Spain! "[306]
Yes, close her with your armed bosoms round, 360
And form the barrier which Napoleon found,--
The exterminating war, the desert plain,
The streets without a tenant, save the slain;
The wild Sierra, with its wilder troop[ei]
Of vulture-plumed Guerrillas, on the stoop[ej]
For their incessant prey; the desperate wall
Of Saragossa, mightiest in her fall;
The Man nerved to a spirit, and the Maid
Waving her more than Amazonian blade[307];
The knife of Arragon, Toledo's steel; 370
The famous lance of chivalrous Castile[308];
The unerring rifle of the Catalan;
The Andalusian courser in the van;
The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid;
And in each heart the spirit of the Cid:--
Such have been, such shall be, such are. Advance,
And win--not Spain! but thine own freedom, France!
VIII.
But lo! a Congress[309]! What! that hallowed name
Which freed the Atlantic! May we hope the same
For outworn Europe? With the sound arise, 380
Like Samuel's shade to Saul's monarchic eyes,
The prophets of young Freedom, summoned far
From climes of Washington and Bolivar;
Henry, the forest-born Demosthenes,
Whose thunder shook the Philip of the seas[310];
And stoic Franklin's energetic shade,
Robed in the lightnings which his hand allayed;
And Washington, the tyrant-tamer, wake,
To bid us blush for these old chains, or break.
But _who_ compose this Senate of the few 390
That should redeem the many? _Who_ renew
This consecrated name, till now assigned
To councils held to benefit mankind?
Who now assemble at the holy call?
The blest Alliance, which says three are all!
An earthly Trinity! which wears the shape
Of Heaven's, as man is mimicked by the ape.
A pious Unity! in purpose one--
To melt three fools to a Napoleon[ek].
Why, Egypt's Gods were rational to these; 400
Their dogs and oxen knew their own degrees,
And, quiet in their kennel or their shed,
Cared little, so that they were duly fed;
But these, more hungry, must have something more--
The power to bark and bite, to toss and gore.
Ah, how much happier were good AEsop's frogs
Than we! for ours are animated logs,
With ponderous malice swaying to and fro,
And crushing nations with a stupid blow;
All dully anxious to leave little work 410
Unto the revolutionary stork.
IX.
Thrice blest Verona! since the holy three
With their imperial presence shine on thee!
Honoured by them, thy treacherous site forgets[el]
The vaunted tomb of "all the Capulets! "[311]
Thy Scaligers--for what was "Dog the Great,"
"Can Grande,"[312] (which I venture to translate,)
To these sublimer pugs? Thy poet too,
Catullus, whose old laurels yield to new;[313]
Thine amphitheatre, where Romans sate; 420
And Dante's exile sheltered by thy gate;
Thy good old man, whose world was all within
Thy wall, nor knew the country held him in;[314]
Would that the royal guests it girds about
Were so far like, as never to get out!
Aye, shout! inscribe! [315] rear monuments of shame,
To tell Oppression that the world is tame!
Crowd to the theatre with loyal rage,
The comedy is not upon the stage;
The show is rich in ribandry and stars, 430
Then gaze upon it through thy dungeon bars;
Clap thy permitted palms, kind Italy,
For thus much still thy fettered hands are free!
X.
Resplendent sight! Behold the coxcomb Czar,[316]
The Autocrat of waltzes[317] and of war!
As eager for a plaudit as a realm,
And just as fit for flirting as the helm;
A Calmuck beauty with a Cossack wit,
And generous spirit, when 'tis not frost-bit;
Now half dissolving to a liberal thaw,[em] 440
But hardened back whene'er the morning's raw;
With no objection to true Liberty,
Except that it would make the nations free.
How well the imperial dandy prates of peace!
How fain, if Greeks would be his slaves, free Greece!
How nobly gave he back the Poles their Diet,
Then told pugnacious Poland to be quiet!
How kindly would he send the mild Ukraine,
With all her pleasant Pulks,[318] to lecture Spain!
How royally show off in proud Madrid 450
His goodly person, from the South long hid!
A blessing cheaply purchased, the world knows,
By having Muscovites for friends or foes.
Proceed, thou namesake of great Philip's son!
La Harpe, thine Aristotle, beckons on;[319]
And that which Scythia was to him of yore
Find with thy Scythians on Iberia's shore.
Yet think upon, thou somewhat aged youth,
Thy predecessor on the banks of Pruth;
Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be thine, 460
Many an old woman,[320] but not Catherine. [321]
Spain, too, hath rocks, and rivers, and defiles--
The Bear may rush into the Lion's toils.
Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields;[322]
Think'st thou to thee Napoleon's victor yields?
Better reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords
To ploughshares, shave and wash thy Bashkir[323] hordes,
Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout,
Than follow headlong in the fatal route,
To infest the clime whose skies and laws are pure 470
With thy foul legions. Spain wants no manure:
Her soil is fertile, but she feeds no foe:
Her vultures, too, were gorged not long ago;
And wouldst thou furnish them with fresher prey?
Alas! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey.
I am Diogenes, though Russ and Hun[324]
Stand between mine and many a myriad's sun;
But were I not Diogenes, I'd wander
Rather a worm than _such_ an Alexander!
Be slaves who will, the cynic shall be free; 480
His tub hath tougher walls than Sinope:[en]
Still will he hold his lantern up to scan
The face of monarchs for an "honest man. "[325]
XI.
And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land
Of _ne plus ultra_ ultras and their band
Of mercenaries? and her noisy chambers
And tribune, which each orator first clambers
Before he finds a voice, and when 'tis found,
Hears "the lie" echo for his answer round?
Our British Commons sometimes deign to "hear! " 490
A Gallic senate hath more tongue than ear;
Even Constant,[326] their sole master of debate,
Must fight next day his speech to vindicate.
But this costs little to true Franks, who'd rather
Combat than listen, were it to their father.
What is the simple standing of a shot,
To listening long, and interrupting not?
Though this was not the method of old Rome,
When Tully fulmined o'er each vocal dome,
Demosthenes has sanctioned the transaction, 500
In saying eloquence meant "Action, action! "
XII.
But where's the monarch? [327] hath he dined? or yet
Groans beneath indigestion's heavy debt?
Have revolutionary pates risen,
And turned the royal entrails to a prison?
Have discontented movements stirred the troops?
Or have _no_ movements followed traitorous soups?
Have Carbonaro[328] cooks not carbonadoed
Each course enough? or doctors dire dissuaded
Repletion? Ah! in thy dejected looks 510
I read all France's treason in her cooks!
Good classic Louis! is it, canst thou say,
Desirable to be the "Desire? "
Why wouldst thou leave calm Hartwell's green abode,
Apician table, and Horatian ode,
To rule a people who will not be ruled,
And love much rather to be scourged than schooled?
Ah! thine was not the temper or the taste
For thrones; the table sees thee better placed:
A mild Epicurean, formed, at best, 520
To be a kind host and as good a guest,
To talk of Letters, and to know by heart
One _half_ the Poet's, _all_ the Gourmand's art;
A scholar always, now and then a wit,
And gentle when Digestion may permit;--
But not to govern lands enslaved or free;
The gout was martyrdom enough for thee.
XIII.
Shall noble Albion pass without a phrase
From a bold Briton in her wonted praise?
"Arts--arms--and George--and glory--and the Isles, 530
And happy Britain, wealth, and Freedom's smiles,
White cliffs, that held invasion far aloof,
Contented subjects, all alike tax-proof,
Proud Wellington, with eagle beak so curled,[eo]
That nose, the hook where he suspends the world! [329]
And Waterloo, and trade, and----(hush! not yet
A syllable of imposts or of debt)----
And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh,[330]
Whose penknife slit a goose-quill t'other day--[ep]
And, 'pilots who have weathered every storm'--[331] 540
(But, no, not even for rhyme's sake, name Reform). "
These are the themes thus sung so oft before,
Methinks we need not sing them any more;
Found in so many volumes far and near,
There's no occasion you should find them here.
Yet something may remain perchance to chime
With reason, and, what's stranger still, with rhyme. [eq]
Even this thy genius, Canning! [332] may permit,
Who, bred a statesman, still wast born a wit,
And never, even in that dull House, couldst tame 550
To unleavened prose thine own poetic flame;
Our last, our best, our only orator,
Even I can praise thee--Tories do no more:
Nay, not so much;--they hate thee, man, because
Thy Spirit less upholds them than it awes.
The hounds will gather to their huntsman's hollo,
And where he leads the duteous pack will follow;
But not for love mistake their yelling cry;
Their yelp for game is not an eulogy;
Less faithful far than the four-footed pack, 560
A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back.
Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure,
Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure;
The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last
To stumble, kick--and now and then stick fast
With his great Self and Rider in the mud;
But what of that? the animal shows blood.
XIV.
Alas, the Country! how shall tongue or pen
Bewail her now _un_country gentlemen?
The last to bid the cry of warfare cease, 570
The first to make a malady of peace.
For what were all these country patriots born?
To hunt--and vote--and raise the price of corn?
But corn, like every mortal thing, must fall,
Kings--Conquerors--and markets most of all.
And must ye fall with every ear of grain?
Why would you trouble Buonaparte's reign?
He was your great Triptolemus;[333] his vices
Destroyed but realms, and still maintained your prices;
He amplified to every lord's content 580
The grand agrarian alchymy, high _rent_. [er]
Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars,
And lower wheat to such desponding quarters?
Why did you chain him on yon Isle so lone?
The man was worth much more upon his throne.
True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt,
But what of that? the Gaul may bear the guilt;
But bread was high, the farmer paid his way,
And acres told upon the appointed day. [es]
But where is now the goodly audit ale? 590
The purse-proud tenant, never known to fail?
The farm which never yet was left on hand?
The marsh reclaimed to most improving land?
The impatient hope of the expiring lease?
The doubling rental? What an evil's peace!
In vain the prize excites the ploughman's skill,
In vain the Commons pass their patriot bill;[334]
The _Landed Interest_--(you may understand
The phrase much better leaving out the _land_)--
The land self-interest groans from shore to shore, 600
For fear that plenty should attain the poor. [et]
Up, up again, ye rents, exalt your notes,
Or else the Ministry will lose their votes,
And patriotism, so delicately nice,
Her loaves will lower to the market price;[eu]
For ah! "the loaves and fishes," once so high,
Are gone--their oven closed, their ocean dry,[ev]
And nought remains of all the millions spent,
Excepting to grow moderate and content.
They who are not so, _had_ their turn--and turn 610
About still flows from Fortune's equal urn;
Now let their virtue be its own reward,
And share the blessings which themselves prepared.
See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm,
Farmers of war, dictators of the farm;
_Their_ ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands,
_Their_ fields manured by gore of other lands;
Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent
Their brethren out to battle--why? for rent!
Year after year they voted cent. per cent. 620
Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions--why? --for rent!
They roared, they dined, they drank, they swore they meant
To die for England--why then live? --for rent!
The peace has made one general malcontent
Of these high-market patriots; war was rent!
Their love of country, millions all mis-spent,
How reconcile? by reconciling rent!
And will they not repay the treasures lent?
No: down with everything, and up with rent!
Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent, 630
Being, end, aim, religion--_rent_--_rent_--_rent_!
Thou sold'st thy birthright, Esau! for a mess;
Thou shouldst have gotten more, or eaten less;
Now thou hast swilled thy pottage, thy demands
Are idle; Israel says the bargain stands.
Such, landlords! was your appetite for war,
And gorged with blood, you grumble at a scar!
What! would they spread their earthquake even o'er cash?
And when land crumbles, bid firm paper crash? [335]
So rent may rise, bid Bank and Nation fall, 640
And found on 'Change a _Fundling_ Hospital?
Lo, Mother Church, while all religion writhes,
Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring--Tithes;[336]
The Prelates go to--where the Saints have gone,
And proud pluralities subside to one;
Church, state, and faction wrestle in the dark,
Tossed by the deluge in their common ark.
Shorn of her bishops, banks, and dividends,
Another Babel soars--but Britain ends.
And why? to pamper the self-seeking wants, 650
And prop the hill of these agrarian ants.
"Go to these ants, thou sluggard, and be wise;"
Admire their patience through each sacrifice,
Till taught to feel the lesson of their pride,
The price of taxes and of homicide;
Admire their justice, which would fain deny
The debt of nations:--pray _who made it high? _[337]
XV.
Or turn to sail between those shifting rocks,
The new Symplegades[338]--the crushing Stocks,
Where Midas might again his wish behold 660
In real paper or imagined gold.
That magic palace of Alcina[339] shows
More wealth than Britain ever had to lose,
Were all her atoms of unleavened ore,
And all her pebbles from Pactolus' shore.
There Fortune plays, while Rumour holds the stake
And the World trembles to bid brokers break.
How rich is Britain!
245. ]
[ds]
_Hush! don't let him hear you_
_Or he might take you off before your time_. --[MS. ]
[248] {521}["We got with the greatest difficulty to the gate of the
castle. . . . I ascended to the keep, and, at the same instant, Pope
Clement came in through the corridors into the castle; he had refused to
leave the palace of St. Peter earlier, being unable to believe that his
enemies would effect their entrance into Rome. "--_Life of Benvenuto
Cellini_, translated by J. A. Symonds, 1888, i. 114, 115.
So, too, Jacques Buonaparte (_Le Sac de Rome_, 1836, p. 202): "Le Pape
Clement, avoit entendu les cris des soldats; il se sauvoit
precipitamment par un long corridor pratique dans un mur double et se
laissoit emporter de son palais an chateau Saint-Ange. "]
[249] {526}[Penthesilea, Queen of the Amazons, was slain by Achilles,
who wept over her as she lay a-dying, bewailing her beauty and her
daring. For the picture, see Pausanias, _Descriptio Graeciae_, lib, v.
cap. 11, 2. ]
[250] {527}[See _Gen_. vi. 2, the motto of _Heaven and Earth, ante_, p,
277. ]
[251] ["It came to pass the same day, that in Echatane a city of Media,
Sara the daughter of Raguel was also reproached by her father's maids;
because that she had been married to seven husbands, whom Asmodeus the
evil spirit had killed before they had lain with her. . . . And as he went,
he remembered the words of Raphael, and took the ashes of the perfumes,
and put the heart and the liver of the fish thereupon, and made smoke
therewith. The which smell when the evil spirit had smelled, he fled
into the utmost parts of Egypt. "--_Tobit_ iii. 7, 8; viii. 2, 3. ]
[dt] {528} _The first born who burst the winter sun_. --[MS. ]
[du] ----_through the brine_. --[MS. ]
[252] {533}[Lucifer or Mephistopheles, renamed Caesar, wears the shape of
the Deformed Arnold. It may be that Byron intended to make Olimpia
bestow her affections, not on the glorious Achilles, but the witty and
interesting Hunchback. ]
THE AGE OF BRONZE;
OR,
CARMEN SECULARE ET ANNUS HAUD MIRABILIS. [dv]
"Impar _Congressus_ Achilli. "[253]
INTRODUCTION TO _THE AGE OF BRONZE_.
_The Age of Bronze_ was begun in December, 1822, and finished on January
10, 1823. "I have sent," he writes (letter to Leigh Hunt, _Letters_,
1901, vi. 160), "to Mrs. S[helley], for the benefit of being copied, a
poem of about seven hundred and fifty lines length--The Age of
Bronze,--or _Carmen Seculare et Annus haud Mirabilis_, with this
Epigraph--'Impar _Congressus_ Achilli. ' It is calculated for the reading
part of the million, being all on politics, etc. , etc. , etc. , and a
review of the day in general,--in my early _English Bards_ style, but a
little more stilted, and somewhat too full of 'epithets of war' and
classical and historical allusions. If notes are necessary, they can be
added. "
On March 5th he forwarded the "Proof in Slips" ("and certainly the
_Slips_ are the most conspicuous part of it") to his new publisher, John
Hunt; and, on April 1, 1823, _The Age of Bronze_ was published, but not
with the author's name.
Ten years had gone by since he had published, only to disclaim, the
latest of his boyish satires, _The Waltz_, and more than six years since
he had written, "at the request of Douglas Kinnaird," the stilted and
laboured _Monody on the Death of . . . Sheridan_. In the interval
(1816-1822) he had essayed any and every measure but the heroic, and, at
length, as a tardy recognition of his allegiance to "the great moral
poet of all times, of all climes, of all feelings, and of all stages of
existence" (_Observations upon "Observations,"_ _Letters_, 1901, v.
590), he reverts, as he believes, to his "early _English Bards_ style,"
the style of Pope.
The brazen age, the "Annus Haud Mirabilis," which the satirist would
hold up to scorn, was 1822, the year after Napoleon's death, which
witnessed a revolution in Spain, and the Congress of Allied Sovereigns
at Verona. Earlier in the year, the publication of Las Cases' _Memorial
de S^te^ Helene_, and of O'Meara's _Napoleon in Exile, or a Voice from
St. Helena_, had created a sensation on both sides of the Channel.
Public opinion had differed as to the system on which Napoleon should be
treated--and, since his death, there had been a conflict of evidence as
to the manner in which he had been treated, at St. Helena. Tories
believed that an almost excessive lenience and indulgence had been
wasted on a graceless and thankless intriguer, while the "Opposition,"
Liberals or Radicals, were moved to indignation at the hardships and
restrictions which were ruthlessly and needlessly imposed on a fallen
and powerless foe. It was, and is, a very pretty quarrel; and Byron,
whose lifelong admiration for his "Heros de Roman" was tempered by
reason, approached the Longwood controversy somewhat in the spirit of a
partisan.
In _The Age of Bronze_ (sects, iii. -v. ) he touches on certain incidents
of the "Last Phase" of Napoleon's career, and proceeds to recapitulate,
in a sort of _Memoria Technica_, the chief events of his history, from
the dawn at Marengo to the sunset at "bloody and most bootless
Waterloo," and draws the unimpeachable moral that "Honesty is the best
policy," even when the "game is Empire" and "the stakes are thrones"!
From the rise and fall, the tyranny and captivity of Napoleon, he passes
on to the Congress of Allied Powers, which met at Verona in November,
1822.
The "Congress" is the object of his satire. It had assembled with a
parade of power and magnificence, and had dispersed with little or
nothing accomplished. It was "impar Achilli" (_vide ante_, p. 535,
note 1), an empty menace, ill-matched with the revolutionary spirit,
and in pitiful contrast to the _Sic volo, sic jubeo_ of the dead
Napoleon.
The immediate and efficient cause of the Congress of Verona was the
success of the revolution in Spain. The point at issue between Spanish
Liberals and Royalists, or _serviles_, was the adherence to, or the
evasion of, the democratic Constitution of 1812. At the moment the
Liberals were in the ascendant, and, as Chateaubriand puts it, had
driven King Ferdinand into captivity, at Urgel, in Catalonia, to the
tune of the Spanish Marseillaise, "_Tragala, Tragala_" "swallow it,
swallow it," that is, "accept the Constitution. " On July 7, 1822, a
government was established under the name of the "Supreme Regency of
Spain during the Captivity of the King," and, hence, the consternation
of the partners of the Holy Alliance, especially France, who conceived,
or feigned to conceive, that revolution next door was a source of danger
to constitutional government at home. To meet the emergency, a Congress
was summoned in the first instance at Vienna, and afterwards at Verona.
Thither came the sovereigns of Europe, great and small, accompanied by
their chancellors and ministers. The Czar Alexander was attended by
Count Nesselrode and Count Pozzo di Borgo; the Emperor Francis of
Austria, by Metternich and Prince Esterhazy; the King of Prussia
(Frederic William III. ), by Count Bernstorff and Baron Humboldt. George
IV. of Great Britain, and Louis XVIII. of France, being elderly and
gouty, sent as their plenipotentiaries the Duke of Wellington and the
Vicomte de Montmorenci, accompanied, and, finally, superseded by, the
French ambassador, M. de Chateaubriand. Thither, too, came the smaller
fry, Kings of the Two Sicilies and of Sardinia; and last, but not least,
Marie Louise of Austria, Archduchess of Parma, _ci-devant_ widow of
Napoleon, and wife _sub rosa_ of her one-eyed chamberlain, Count de
Neipperg. They met, they debated, they went to the theatre in state, and
finally decided to send monitory despatches to Spain, and to leave to
France a free hand to look after her own interests, and to go to war or
not, as she was pleased to determine. There was one dissentient, the
Duke of Wellington, who refused to sign the _proces verbaux_. His
Britannic Majesty had been advised to let the Spaniards alone, and not
to meddle with their internal affairs. The final outcome of the
Congress, the French invasion of Spain, could not be foreseen; and,
apparently, all that the Congress had accomplished was to refuse to
prohibit the exportation of negroes from Africa to America, and to
decline to receive the Greek deputies.
As the _Morning Chronicle_ (November 7, 1822) was pleased to put it,
"the Royal vultures have been deprived of their anticipated meal. "
From the Holy Alliance and its antagonist, "the revolutionary stork,"
Byron turns to the landed and agricultural "interest" of Great Britain.
With the cessation of war and the resumption of cash payments in 1819,
prices had fallen some 50 per cent. , and rents were beginning to fall.
Wheat, which in 1818 had fetched 80s. a quarter, in December, 1822, was
quoted at 39s. 11d. ; consols were at 80. Poor rates had risen from
? 2,000,000 in 1792 to ? 8,000,000 in 1822. How was the distress which
these changes involved to be met? By retrenchment and reform, by the
repeal of taxes, the reduction of salaries, by the landlords and
farmers, who had profited by war prices, submitting to the inevitable
reaction; or by sliding scales, by a return to an inflated currency,
perhaps by a repudiation of a portion of the funded debt?
The point of Byron's diatribe is that Squire Dives had enjoyed good
things during the war, and, now that the war was over, he had no
intention to let Lazarus have his turn; that, whoever suffered, it
should not be Dives; that patriotism had brought grist to his mill; and
that he proposed to suck no small advantage out of peace.
"Year after year they voted cent. per cent. ,
Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions--why? for rent?
They roared, they dined, they drank, they swore they meant
To die for England--why then live? --for rent! "
It is easier to divine the "Sources" and the inspiration of _The Age of
Bronze_ than to place the reader _au courant_ with the literary and
political _causerie_ of the day. Byron wrote with O'Meara's book at his
elbow, and with batches of _Galignani's Messenger_, the _Morning
Chronicle_, and _Cobbett's Weekly Register_ within his reach. He was
under the impression that his lines would appear as an anonymous
contribution to _The Liberal_, and, in any case, he felt that he could
speak out, unchecked and uncriticized by friend or publisher. He was, so
to speak, unmuzzled.
With regard to the style and quality of his new satire, Byron was under
an amiable delusion. His couplets, he imagined, were in his "early
_English Bards_ style," but "more stilted. " He did not realize that,
whatever the intervening years had taken away, they had "left behind"
experience and passion, and that he had learned to think and to feel.
The fault of the poem is that too much matter is packed into too small a
compass, and that, in parts, every line implies a minute acquaintance
with contemporary events, and requires an explanatory note. But, even
so, in _The Age of Bronze_ Byron has wedded "a striking passage of
history" to striking and imperishable verse.
_The Age of Bronze_ was reviewed in the _Scots Magazine_, April, 1823,
N. S. , vol. xii. pp. 483-488; the _Monthly Review_, April, 1823, E. S. ,
vol. 100, pp. 430-433; the _Monthly Magazine_, May, 1823, vol. 55, pp.
322-325; the _Examiner_, March 30, 1823; the _Literary Chronicle_, April
5, 1823; and the _Literary Gazette_, April 5, 1823.
THE AGE OF BRONZE.
I.
The "good old times"--all times when old are good--
Are gone; the present might be if they would;
Great things have been, and are, and greater still
Want little of mere mortals but their will:[dw]
A wider space, a greener field, is given
To those who play their "tricks before high heaven. "[254]
I know not if the angels weep, but men
Have wept enough--for what? --to weep again!
II.
All is exploded--be it good or bad.
Reader! remember when thou wert a lad, 10
Then Pitt was all; or, if not all, so much,
His very rival almost deemed him such. [255]
We--we have seen the intellectual race
Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face--
Athos and Ida, with a dashing sea
Of eloquence between, which flowed all free,
As the deep billows of the AEgean roar
Betwixt the Hellenic and the Phrygian shore.
But where are they--the rivals! a few feet
Of sullen earth divide each winding sheet. [256] 20
How peaceful and how powerful is the grave,
Which hushes all! a calm, unstormy wave,
Which oversweeps the World. The theme is old
Of "Dust to Dust," but half its tale untold:
Time tempers not its terrors--still the worm
Winds its cold folds, the tomb preserves its form,
Varied above, but still alike below;
The urn may shine--the ashes will not glow--
Though Cleopatra's mummy cross the sea[257]
O'er which from empire she lured Anthony; 30
Though Alexander's urn[258] a show be grown
On shores he wept to conquer, though unknown--[259]
How vain, how worse than vain, at length appear
The madman's wish, the Macedonian's tear!
He wept for worlds to conquer--half the earth
Knows not his name, or but his death, and birth,
And desolation; while his native Greece
Hath all of desolation, save its peace.
He "wept for worlds to conquer! " he who ne'er
Conceived the Globe, he panted not to spare! 40
With even the busy Northern Isle unknown,
Which holds his urn--and never knew his throne.
III.
But where is he, the modern, mightier far,
Who, born no king, made monarchs draw his car;
The new Sesostris, whose unharnessed kings,[260]
Freed from the bit, believe themselves with wings,
And spurn the dust o'er which they crawled of late,
Chained to the chariot of the Chieftain's state?
Yes! where is he, "the champion and the child"[261]
Of all that's great or little--wise or wild; 50
Whose game was Empire, and whose stakes were thrones;
Whose table Earth--whose dice were human bones?
Behold the grand result in yon lone Isle,
And, as thy nature urges--weep or smile.
Sigh to behold the Eagle's lofty rage
Reduced to nibble at his narrow cage;
Smile to survey the queller of the nations
Now daily squabbling o'er disputed rations;[dx][262]
Weep to perceive him mourning, as he dines,
O'er curtailed dishes and o'er stinted wines; 60
O'er petty quarrels upon petty things.
Is this the Man who scourged or feasted kings?
Behold the scales in which his fortune hangs,
A surgeon's[263] statement, and an earl's[264] harangues!
A bust delayed,[265]--a book[266] refused, can shake
The sleep of Him who kept the world awake.
Is this indeed the tamer of the Great,[dy]
Now slave of all could tease or irritate--
The paltry gaoler[267] and the prying spy,
The staring stranger with his note-book nigh? [268] 70
Plunged in a dungeon, he had still been great;
How low, how little was this middle state,
Between a prison and a palace, where
How few could feel for what he had to bear!
Vain his complaint,--My Lord presents his bill,
His food and wine were doled out duly still;
Vain was his sickness, never was a clime
So free from homicide--to doubt's crime;
And the stiff surgeon,[269] who maintained his cause,
Hath lost his place, and gained the world's applause. 80
But smile--though all the pangs of brain and heart
Disdain, defy, the tardy aid of art;
Though, save the few fond friends and imaged face
Of that fair boy his Sire shall ne'er embrace,
None stand by his low bed--though even the mind
Be wavering, which long awed and awes mankind:
Smile--for the fettered Eagle breaks his chain,
And higher Worlds than this are his again. [270]
IV.
How, if that soaring Spirit still retain
A conscious twilight of his blazing reign, 90
How must he smile, on looking down, to see
The little that he was and sought to be!
What though his Name a wider empire found
Than his Ambition, though with scarce a bound;
Though first in glory, deepest in reverse,
He tasted Empire's blessings and its curse;
Though kings, rejoicing in their late escape
From chains, would gladly be _their_ Tyrant's ape;
How must he smile, and turn to yon lone grave,
The proudest Sea-mark that o'ertops the wave! 100
What though his gaoler, duteous to the last,
Scarce deemed the coffin's lead could keep him fast,
Refusing one poor line[271] along the lid,
To date the birth and death of all it hid;
That name shall hallow the ignoble shore,
A talisman to all save him who bore:
The fleets that sweep before the eastern blast
Shall hear their sea-boys[272] hail it from the mast;
When Victory's Gallic column[273] shall but rise,
Like Pompey's pillar[274], in a desert's skies, 110
The rocky Isle that holds or held his dust,
Shall crown the Atlantic like the Hero's bust,
And mighty Nature o'er his obsequies
Do more than niggard Envy still denies.
But what are these to him? Can Glory's lust
Touch the freed spirit or the fettered dust?
Small care hath he of what his tomb consists;
Nought if he sleeps--nor more if he exists:
Alike the better-seeing Shade will smile
On the rude cavern[275] of the rocky isle, 120
As if his ashes found their latest home
In Rome's Pantheon or Gaul's mimic dome[276].
He wants not this; but France shall feel the want
Of this last consolation, though so scant:
Her Honour--Fame--and Faith demand his bones,
To rear above a Pyramid of thrones;
Or carried onward in the battle's van,
To form, like Guesclin's dust, her Talisman[277].
But be it as it is--the time may come
His name shall beat the alarm, like Ziska's drum[278]. 130
V.
Oh Heaven! of which he was in power a feature;
Oh Earth! of which he was a noble creature;
Thou Isle! to be remembered long and well,
That saw'st the unfledged eaglet chip his shell!
Ye Alps which viewed him in his dawning flights
Hover, the Victor of a hundred fights!
Thou Rome, who saw'st thy Caesar's deeds outdone!
Alas! why passed he too the Rubicon--
The Rubicon of Man's awakened rights,
To herd with vulgar kings and parasites? 140
Egypt! from whose all dateless tombs arose
Forgotten Pharaohs from their long repose,
And shook within their pyramids to hear
A new Cambyses thundering in their ear;
While the dark shades of Forty Ages stood
Like startled giants by Nile's famous flood[279];
Or from the Pyramid's tall pinnacle
Beheld the desert peopled, as from hell,
With clashing hosts, who strewed the barren sand,
To re-manure the uncultivated land! 150
Spain! which, a moment mindless of the Cid,
Beheld his banner flouting thy Madrid[280]!
Austria! which saw thy twice-ta'en capital[281]
Twice spared to be the traitress of his fall!
Ye race of Frederic! --Frederics but in name
And falsehood--heirs to all except his fame:
Who, crushed at Jena, crouched at Berlin[282], fell
First, and but rose to follow! Ye who dwell
Where Kosciusko dwelt, remembering yet
The unpaid amount of Catherine's bloody debt[283]! 160
Poland! o'er which the avenging Angel past,
But left thee as he found thee,[284] still a waste,
Forgetting all thy still enduring claim,
Thy lotted people and extinguished name,
Thy sigh for freedom, thy long-flowing tear,
That sound that crashes in the tyrant's ear--
Kosciusko! [285] On--on--on--the thirst of War
Gasps for the gore of serfs and of their Czar.
The half barbaric Moscow's minarets
Gleam in the sun, but 'tis a sun that sets! 170
Moscow! thou limit of his long career,
For which rude Charles had wept his frozen tear[286]
To see in vain--_he_ saw thee--how? with spire
And palace fuel to one common fire.
To this the soldier lent his kindling match,
To this the peasant gave his cottage thatch,
To this the merchant flung his hoarded store,
The prince his hall--and Moscow was no more!
Sublimest of volcanoes! Etna's flame
Pales before thine, and quenchless Hecla's tame; 180
Vesuvius shows his blaze,[287] an usual sight
For gaping tourists, from his hackneyed height:[dz]
Thou stand'st alone unrivalled, till the Fire
To come, in which all empires shall expire!
Thou other Element! as strong and stern,
To teach a lesson conquerors will not learn! --
Whose icy wing flapped o'er the faltering foe,
Till fell a hero with each flake of snow;
How did thy numbing beak and silent fang,
Pierce, till hosts perished with a single pang! 190
In vain shall Seine look up along his banks
For the gay thousands of his dashing ranks!
In vain shall France recall beneath her vines
Her Youth--their blood flows faster than her wines;
Or stagnant in their human ice remains
In frozen mummies on the Polar plains.
In vain will Italy's broad sun awaken
Her offspring chilled; its beams are now forsaken.
Of all the trophies gathered from the war,
What shall return? the Conqueror's broken car! [288] 200
The Conqueror's yet unbroken heart! Again
The horn of Roland[289] sounds, and not in vain.
Lutzen, where fell the Swede of victory,[290]
Beholds him conquer, but, alas! not die:
Dresden[291] surveys three despots fly once more
Before their sovereign,--sovereign as before;[ea]
But there exhausted Fortune quits the field,
And Leipsic's[292] treason bids the unvanquished yield;
The Saxon jackal leaves the lion's side
To turn the bear's, and wolf's, and fox's guide; 210
And backward to the den of his despair
The forest monarch shrinks, but finds no lair!
Oh ye! and each, and all! Oh France! who found
Thy long fair fields ploughed up as hostile ground,
Disputed foot by foot, till Treason, still
His only victor, from Montmartre's hill[293]
Looked down o'er trampled Paris! and thou Isle,
Which seest Etruria from thy ramparts smile,
Thou momentary shelter of his pride,
Till wooed by danger, his yet weeping bride! 220
Oh, France! retaken by a single march,
Whose path was through one long triumphal arch!
Oh bloody and most bootless Waterloo!
Which proves how fools may have their fortune too,
Won half by blunder, half by treachery:
Oh dull Saint Helen! with thy gaoler nigh--
Hear! hear Prometheus[294] from his rock appeal
To Earth,--Air,--Ocean,--all that felt or feel
His power and glory, all who yet shall hear
A name eternal as the rolling year; 230
He teaches them the lesson taught so long,
So oft, so vainly--learn to do no wrong!
A single step into the right had made
This man the Washington of worlds betrayed:
A single step into the wrong has given
His name a doubt to all the winds of heaven;
The reed of Fortune, and of thrones the rod,
Of Fame the Moloch or the demigod;
His country's Caesar, Europe's Hannibal,
Without their decent dignity of fall. 240
Yet Vanity herself had better taught
A surer path even to the fame he sought,
By pointing out on History's fruitless page
Ten thousand conquerors for a single sage.
While Franklin's quiet memory climbs to Heaven,
Calming the lightning which he thence hath riven,
Or drawing from the no less kindled earth
Freedom and peace to that which boasts his birth;[295]
While Washington's a watchword, such as ne'er
Shall sink while there's an echo left to air:[296] 250
While even the Spaniard's thirst of gold and war
Forgets Pizarro to shout Bolivar! [297]
Alas! why must the same Atlantic wave
Which wafted freedom gird a tyrant's grave--
The king of kings, and yet of slaves the slave,
Who burst the chains of millions to renew
The very fetters which his arm broke through,
And crushed the rights of Europe and his own,
To flit between a dungeon and a throne?
VI.
But 'twill not be--the spark's awakened--lo! 260
The swarthy Spaniard feels his former glow;
The same high spirit which beat back the Moor
Through eight long ages of alternate gore
Revives--and where? in that avenging clime
Where Spain was once synonymous with crime,
Where Cortes' and Pizarro's banner flew,
The infant world redeems her name of "_New_. "
'Tis the _old_ aspiration breathed afresh,
To kindle souls within degraded flesh,
Such as repulsed the Persian from the shore 270
Where Greece _was_--No! she still is Greece once more.
One common cause makes myriads of one breast,
Slaves of the East, or helots of the West:
On Andes'[298] and on Athos' peaks unfurled,
The self-same standard streams o'er either world:
The Athenian[299] wears again Harmodius' sword;
The Chili chief[300] abjures his foreign lord;
The Spartan knows himself once more a Greek,[301]
Young Freedom plumes the crest of each cacique;
Debating despots, hemmed on either shore, 280
Shrink vainly from the roused Atlantic's roar;
Through Calpe's strait the rolling tides advance,
Sweep slightly by the half-tamed land of France,
Dash o'er the old Spaniard's cradle, and would fain
Unite Ausonia to the mighty main:
But driven from thence awhile, yet not for aye,
Break o'er th' AEgean, mindful of the day
Of Salamis! --there, there the waves arise,
Not to be lulled by tyrant victories.
Lone, lost, abandoned in their utmost need 290
By Christians, unto whom they gave their creed,
The desolated lands, the ravaged isle,
The fostered feud encouraged to beguile,
The aid evaded, and the cold delay,
Prolonged but in the hope to make a prey[302];--
These, these shall tell the tale, and Greece can show
The false friend worse than the infuriate foe.
But this is well: Greeks only should free Greece,
Not the barbarian, with his masque of peace.
How should the Autocrat of bondage be 300
The king of serfs, and set the nations free?
Better still serve the haughty Mussulman,
Than swell the Cossaque's prowling caravan;
Better still toil for masters, than await,
The slave of slaves, before a Russian gate,--
Numbered by hordes, a human capital,
A live estate, existing but for thrall,
Lotted by thousands, as a meet reward
For the first courtier in the Czar's regard;
While their immediate owner never tastes 310
His sleep, _sans_ dreaming of Siberia's wastes:
Better succumb even to their own despair,
And drive the Camel--than purvey the Bear.
VII.
But not alone within the hoariest clime
Where Freedom dates her birth with that of Time,
And not alone where, plunged in night, a crowd
Of Incas darken to a dubious cloud[eb],
The dawn revives: renowned, romantic Spain
Holds back the invader from her soil again.
Not now the Roman tribe nor Punic horde[ec] 320
Demands her fields as lists to prove the sword;
Not now the Vandal or the Visigoth
Pollute the plains, alike abhorring both[ed];
Nor old Pelayo[303] on his mountain rears
The warlike fathers of a thousand years.
That seed is sown and reaped, as oft the Moor
Sighs to remember on his dusky shore.
Long in the peasant's song or poet's page
Has dwelt the memory of Abencerrage;
The Zegri[304], and the captive victors, flung 330
Back to the barbarous realm from whence they sprung.
But these are gone--their faith, their swords, their sway,
Yet left more anti-christian foes than they[ee];
The bigot monarch, and the butcher priest[305],
The Inquisition, with her burning feast,
The Faith's red "Auto," fed with human fuel,
While sate the catholic Moloch, calmly cruel,
Enjoying, with inexorable eye,[ef]
That fiery festival of Agony!
The stern or feeble sovereign, one or both 340
By turns; the haughtiness whose pride was sloth;
The long degenerate noble; the debased
Hidalgo, and the peasant less disgraced,
But more degraded; the unpeopled realm;
The once proud navy which forgot the helm;
The once impervious phalanx disarrayed;
The idle forge that formed Toledo's blade;
The foreign wealth that flowed on every shore,
Save hers who earned it with the native's gore;
The very language which might vie with Rome's, 350
And once was known to nations like their homes,
Neglected or forgotten:--such _was_ Spain;
But such she is not, nor shall be again.
These worst, these _home_ invaders, felt and feel
The new Numantine soul of old Castile[eg],
Up! up again! undaunted Tauridor!
The bull of Phalaris renews his roar[eh];
Mount, chivalrous Hidalgo! not in vain
Revive the cry--"Iago! and close Spain! "[306]
Yes, close her with your armed bosoms round, 360
And form the barrier which Napoleon found,--
The exterminating war, the desert plain,
The streets without a tenant, save the slain;
The wild Sierra, with its wilder troop[ei]
Of vulture-plumed Guerrillas, on the stoop[ej]
For their incessant prey; the desperate wall
Of Saragossa, mightiest in her fall;
The Man nerved to a spirit, and the Maid
Waving her more than Amazonian blade[307];
The knife of Arragon, Toledo's steel; 370
The famous lance of chivalrous Castile[308];
The unerring rifle of the Catalan;
The Andalusian courser in the van;
The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid;
And in each heart the spirit of the Cid:--
Such have been, such shall be, such are. Advance,
And win--not Spain! but thine own freedom, France!
VIII.
But lo! a Congress[309]! What! that hallowed name
Which freed the Atlantic! May we hope the same
For outworn Europe? With the sound arise, 380
Like Samuel's shade to Saul's monarchic eyes,
The prophets of young Freedom, summoned far
From climes of Washington and Bolivar;
Henry, the forest-born Demosthenes,
Whose thunder shook the Philip of the seas[310];
And stoic Franklin's energetic shade,
Robed in the lightnings which his hand allayed;
And Washington, the tyrant-tamer, wake,
To bid us blush for these old chains, or break.
But _who_ compose this Senate of the few 390
That should redeem the many? _Who_ renew
This consecrated name, till now assigned
To councils held to benefit mankind?
Who now assemble at the holy call?
The blest Alliance, which says three are all!
An earthly Trinity! which wears the shape
Of Heaven's, as man is mimicked by the ape.
A pious Unity! in purpose one--
To melt three fools to a Napoleon[ek].
Why, Egypt's Gods were rational to these; 400
Their dogs and oxen knew their own degrees,
And, quiet in their kennel or their shed,
Cared little, so that they were duly fed;
But these, more hungry, must have something more--
The power to bark and bite, to toss and gore.
Ah, how much happier were good AEsop's frogs
Than we! for ours are animated logs,
With ponderous malice swaying to and fro,
And crushing nations with a stupid blow;
All dully anxious to leave little work 410
Unto the revolutionary stork.
IX.
Thrice blest Verona! since the holy three
With their imperial presence shine on thee!
Honoured by them, thy treacherous site forgets[el]
The vaunted tomb of "all the Capulets! "[311]
Thy Scaligers--for what was "Dog the Great,"
"Can Grande,"[312] (which I venture to translate,)
To these sublimer pugs? Thy poet too,
Catullus, whose old laurels yield to new;[313]
Thine amphitheatre, where Romans sate; 420
And Dante's exile sheltered by thy gate;
Thy good old man, whose world was all within
Thy wall, nor knew the country held him in;[314]
Would that the royal guests it girds about
Were so far like, as never to get out!
Aye, shout! inscribe! [315] rear monuments of shame,
To tell Oppression that the world is tame!
Crowd to the theatre with loyal rage,
The comedy is not upon the stage;
The show is rich in ribandry and stars, 430
Then gaze upon it through thy dungeon bars;
Clap thy permitted palms, kind Italy,
For thus much still thy fettered hands are free!
X.
Resplendent sight! Behold the coxcomb Czar,[316]
The Autocrat of waltzes[317] and of war!
As eager for a plaudit as a realm,
And just as fit for flirting as the helm;
A Calmuck beauty with a Cossack wit,
And generous spirit, when 'tis not frost-bit;
Now half dissolving to a liberal thaw,[em] 440
But hardened back whene'er the morning's raw;
With no objection to true Liberty,
Except that it would make the nations free.
How well the imperial dandy prates of peace!
How fain, if Greeks would be his slaves, free Greece!
How nobly gave he back the Poles their Diet,
Then told pugnacious Poland to be quiet!
How kindly would he send the mild Ukraine,
With all her pleasant Pulks,[318] to lecture Spain!
How royally show off in proud Madrid 450
His goodly person, from the South long hid!
A blessing cheaply purchased, the world knows,
By having Muscovites for friends or foes.
Proceed, thou namesake of great Philip's son!
La Harpe, thine Aristotle, beckons on;[319]
And that which Scythia was to him of yore
Find with thy Scythians on Iberia's shore.
Yet think upon, thou somewhat aged youth,
Thy predecessor on the banks of Pruth;
Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be thine, 460
Many an old woman,[320] but not Catherine. [321]
Spain, too, hath rocks, and rivers, and defiles--
The Bear may rush into the Lion's toils.
Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields;[322]
Think'st thou to thee Napoleon's victor yields?
Better reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords
To ploughshares, shave and wash thy Bashkir[323] hordes,
Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout,
Than follow headlong in the fatal route,
To infest the clime whose skies and laws are pure 470
With thy foul legions. Spain wants no manure:
Her soil is fertile, but she feeds no foe:
Her vultures, too, were gorged not long ago;
And wouldst thou furnish them with fresher prey?
Alas! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey.
I am Diogenes, though Russ and Hun[324]
Stand between mine and many a myriad's sun;
But were I not Diogenes, I'd wander
Rather a worm than _such_ an Alexander!
Be slaves who will, the cynic shall be free; 480
His tub hath tougher walls than Sinope:[en]
Still will he hold his lantern up to scan
The face of monarchs for an "honest man. "[325]
XI.
And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land
Of _ne plus ultra_ ultras and their band
Of mercenaries? and her noisy chambers
And tribune, which each orator first clambers
Before he finds a voice, and when 'tis found,
Hears "the lie" echo for his answer round?
Our British Commons sometimes deign to "hear! " 490
A Gallic senate hath more tongue than ear;
Even Constant,[326] their sole master of debate,
Must fight next day his speech to vindicate.
But this costs little to true Franks, who'd rather
Combat than listen, were it to their father.
What is the simple standing of a shot,
To listening long, and interrupting not?
Though this was not the method of old Rome,
When Tully fulmined o'er each vocal dome,
Demosthenes has sanctioned the transaction, 500
In saying eloquence meant "Action, action! "
XII.
But where's the monarch? [327] hath he dined? or yet
Groans beneath indigestion's heavy debt?
Have revolutionary pates risen,
And turned the royal entrails to a prison?
Have discontented movements stirred the troops?
Or have _no_ movements followed traitorous soups?
Have Carbonaro[328] cooks not carbonadoed
Each course enough? or doctors dire dissuaded
Repletion? Ah! in thy dejected looks 510
I read all France's treason in her cooks!
Good classic Louis! is it, canst thou say,
Desirable to be the "Desire? "
Why wouldst thou leave calm Hartwell's green abode,
Apician table, and Horatian ode,
To rule a people who will not be ruled,
And love much rather to be scourged than schooled?
Ah! thine was not the temper or the taste
For thrones; the table sees thee better placed:
A mild Epicurean, formed, at best, 520
To be a kind host and as good a guest,
To talk of Letters, and to know by heart
One _half_ the Poet's, _all_ the Gourmand's art;
A scholar always, now and then a wit,
And gentle when Digestion may permit;--
But not to govern lands enslaved or free;
The gout was martyrdom enough for thee.
XIII.
Shall noble Albion pass without a phrase
From a bold Briton in her wonted praise?
"Arts--arms--and George--and glory--and the Isles, 530
And happy Britain, wealth, and Freedom's smiles,
White cliffs, that held invasion far aloof,
Contented subjects, all alike tax-proof,
Proud Wellington, with eagle beak so curled,[eo]
That nose, the hook where he suspends the world! [329]
And Waterloo, and trade, and----(hush! not yet
A syllable of imposts or of debt)----
And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh,[330]
Whose penknife slit a goose-quill t'other day--[ep]
And, 'pilots who have weathered every storm'--[331] 540
(But, no, not even for rhyme's sake, name Reform). "
These are the themes thus sung so oft before,
Methinks we need not sing them any more;
Found in so many volumes far and near,
There's no occasion you should find them here.
Yet something may remain perchance to chime
With reason, and, what's stranger still, with rhyme. [eq]
Even this thy genius, Canning! [332] may permit,
Who, bred a statesman, still wast born a wit,
And never, even in that dull House, couldst tame 550
To unleavened prose thine own poetic flame;
Our last, our best, our only orator,
Even I can praise thee--Tories do no more:
Nay, not so much;--they hate thee, man, because
Thy Spirit less upholds them than it awes.
The hounds will gather to their huntsman's hollo,
And where he leads the duteous pack will follow;
But not for love mistake their yelling cry;
Their yelp for game is not an eulogy;
Less faithful far than the four-footed pack, 560
A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back.
Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure,
Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure;
The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last
To stumble, kick--and now and then stick fast
With his great Self and Rider in the mud;
But what of that? the animal shows blood.
XIV.
Alas, the Country! how shall tongue or pen
Bewail her now _un_country gentlemen?
The last to bid the cry of warfare cease, 570
The first to make a malady of peace.
For what were all these country patriots born?
To hunt--and vote--and raise the price of corn?
But corn, like every mortal thing, must fall,
Kings--Conquerors--and markets most of all.
And must ye fall with every ear of grain?
Why would you trouble Buonaparte's reign?
He was your great Triptolemus;[333] his vices
Destroyed but realms, and still maintained your prices;
He amplified to every lord's content 580
The grand agrarian alchymy, high _rent_. [er]
Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars,
And lower wheat to such desponding quarters?
Why did you chain him on yon Isle so lone?
The man was worth much more upon his throne.
True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt,
But what of that? the Gaul may bear the guilt;
But bread was high, the farmer paid his way,
And acres told upon the appointed day. [es]
But where is now the goodly audit ale? 590
The purse-proud tenant, never known to fail?
The farm which never yet was left on hand?
The marsh reclaimed to most improving land?
The impatient hope of the expiring lease?
The doubling rental? What an evil's peace!
In vain the prize excites the ploughman's skill,
In vain the Commons pass their patriot bill;[334]
The _Landed Interest_--(you may understand
The phrase much better leaving out the _land_)--
The land self-interest groans from shore to shore, 600
For fear that plenty should attain the poor. [et]
Up, up again, ye rents, exalt your notes,
Or else the Ministry will lose their votes,
And patriotism, so delicately nice,
Her loaves will lower to the market price;[eu]
For ah! "the loaves and fishes," once so high,
Are gone--their oven closed, their ocean dry,[ev]
And nought remains of all the millions spent,
Excepting to grow moderate and content.
They who are not so, _had_ their turn--and turn 610
About still flows from Fortune's equal urn;
Now let their virtue be its own reward,
And share the blessings which themselves prepared.
See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm,
Farmers of war, dictators of the farm;
_Their_ ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands,
_Their_ fields manured by gore of other lands;
Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent
Their brethren out to battle--why? for rent!
Year after year they voted cent. per cent. 620
Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions--why? --for rent!
They roared, they dined, they drank, they swore they meant
To die for England--why then live? --for rent!
The peace has made one general malcontent
Of these high-market patriots; war was rent!
Their love of country, millions all mis-spent,
How reconcile? by reconciling rent!
And will they not repay the treasures lent?
No: down with everything, and up with rent!
Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent, 630
Being, end, aim, religion--_rent_--_rent_--_rent_!
Thou sold'st thy birthright, Esau! for a mess;
Thou shouldst have gotten more, or eaten less;
Now thou hast swilled thy pottage, thy demands
Are idle; Israel says the bargain stands.
Such, landlords! was your appetite for war,
And gorged with blood, you grumble at a scar!
What! would they spread their earthquake even o'er cash?
And when land crumbles, bid firm paper crash? [335]
So rent may rise, bid Bank and Nation fall, 640
And found on 'Change a _Fundling_ Hospital?
Lo, Mother Church, while all religion writhes,
Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring--Tithes;[336]
The Prelates go to--where the Saints have gone,
And proud pluralities subside to one;
Church, state, and faction wrestle in the dark,
Tossed by the deluge in their common ark.
Shorn of her bishops, banks, and dividends,
Another Babel soars--but Britain ends.
And why? to pamper the self-seeking wants, 650
And prop the hill of these agrarian ants.
"Go to these ants, thou sluggard, and be wise;"
Admire their patience through each sacrifice,
Till taught to feel the lesson of their pride,
The price of taxes and of homicide;
Admire their justice, which would fain deny
The debt of nations:--pray _who made it high? _[337]
XV.
Or turn to sail between those shifting rocks,
The new Symplegades[338]--the crushing Stocks,
Where Midas might again his wish behold 660
In real paper or imagined gold.
That magic palace of Alcina[339] shows
More wealth than Britain ever had to lose,
Were all her atoms of unleavened ore,
And all her pebbles from Pactolus' shore.
There Fortune plays, while Rumour holds the stake
And the World trembles to bid brokers break.
How rich is Britain!
