Lord Byron Poem

Farewell Petition to J.C.H., Esq

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O thou yclep’d by vulgar sons of Men
Cam Hobhouse! but by wags Byzantian Ben!
Twin sacred titles, which combined appear
To grace thy volume’s front, and gild its rear,
Since now thou put’st thyself and work to Sea
And leav’st all Greece to Fletcher and to me,
Oh, hear my single muse our sorrows tell,
One song for self and Fletcher quite as well.

First to the Castle of that man of woes
Dispatch the letter which I must enclose,
And when his lone Penelope shall say
Why, where , and wherefore doth my William stay?
Spare not to move her pity, or her pride —
By all that Hero suffered, or defied;
The chicken’s toughness , and the lack of ale ,
The stoney mountain and the miry vale ,
The Garlick steams, which half his meals enrich,
The impending vermin , and the threaten’d Itch ,
That ever breaking Bed, beyond repair!
The hat too old , the coat too cold to wear,
The Hunger, which repulsed from Sally’s door
Pursues her grumbling half from shore to shore,
Be these the themes to greet his faithful Rib,
So may thy pen be smooth, thy tongue be glib!
This duty done, let me in turn demand
Some friendly office in my native land,
Yet let me ponder well, before I ask,
And set thee swearing at the tedious task.

First the Miscellany! — to Southwell town
Per coach for Mrs. Pigot frank it down,
So may’st thou prosper in the paths of Sale,
And Longman smirk and critics cease to rail.

All hail to Matthews! wash his reverend feet,
And in my name the man of Method greet, —
Tell him, my Guide, Philosopher, and Friend,
Who cannot love me, and who will not mend,
Tell him, that not in vain I shall assay
To tread and trace our ” old Horatian way,”
And be (with prose supply my dearth of rhymes)
What better men have been in better times.

Here let me cease, for why should I prolong
My notes, and vex a Singer with a Song?
Oh thou with pen perpetual in thy fist!
Dubb’d for thy sins a stark Miscellanist,
So pleased the printer’s orders to perform
For Messrs. Longman, Hurst and Rees and Orme .
Go — Get thee hence to Paternoster Row,
Thy patrons wave a duodecimo!
(Best form for letters from a distant land,
It fits the pocket, nor fatigues the hand.)
Then go, once more the joyous work commence
With stores of anecdote, and grains of sense.
Oh may Mammas relent, and Sires forgive!
And scribbling Songs grow dutiful and live!

Translation Of The Nurse’s Dole In The Medea Of Euripides
To Dives. A Fragment


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