Lord Byron Poem

Lord Byron’s Verses On Sam Rogers.

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    Nose and Chin that make a knocker,
    Wrinkles that would puzzle Cocker;
    Mouth that marks the envious Scorner,
    With a Scorpion in each corner
    Curling up his tail to sting you,
    In the place that most may wring you;
    Eyes of lead-like hue and gummy,
    Carcase stolen from some mummy,
    Bowels – (but they were forgotten,
    Save the Liver, and that’s rotten),
    Skin all sallow, flesh all sodden,
    Form the Devil would frighten G – d in.
    Is’t a Corpse stuck up for show,
    Galvanized at times to go?
    With the Scripture has’t connection,
    New proof of the Resurrection?
    Vampire, Ghost, or Goul (sic), what is it?
    I would walk ten miles to miss it.


    Many passengers arrest one,
    To demand the same free question.
    Shorter’s my reply and franker, –
    That’s the Bard, and Beau, and Banker:
    Yet, if you could bring about
    Just to turn him inside out,
    Satan’s self would seem less sooty,
    And his present aspect – Beauty.
    Mark that (as he masks the bilious)
    Air so softly supercilious,
    Chastened bow, and mock humility,
    Almost sickened to Servility:
    Hear his tone (which is to talking
    That which creeping is to walking –
    Now on all fours, now on tiptoe):
    Hear the tales he lends his lip to –
    Little hints of heavy scandals –
    Every friend by turns he handles:
    All that women or that men do
    Glides forth in an inuendo (sic) –
    Clothed in odds and ends of humour,
    Herald of each paltry rumour –
    From divorces down to dresses,
    Woman’s frailties, Man’s excesses:
    All that life presents of evil
    Make for him a constant revel.
    You’re his foe – for that he fears you,
    And in absence blasts and sears you:
    You’re his friend – for that he hates you,
    First obliges, and then baits you,
    Darting on the opportunity
    When to do it with impunity:
    You are neither – then he’ll flatter,
    Till he finds some trait for satire;
    Hunts your weak point out, then shows it,
    Where it injures, to expose it
    In the mode that’s most insidious,
    Adding every trait that’s hideous –
    From the bile, whose blackening river
    Rushes through his Stygian liver.

    Then he thinks himself a lover –
    Why? I really can’t discover,
    In his mind, age, face, or figure;
    Viper broth might give him vigour:
    Let him keep the cauldron steady,
    He the venom has already.

    For his faults – he has but one;
    ‘Tis but Envy, when all’s done:
    He but pays the pain he suffers,
    Clipping, like a pair of Snuffers,
    Light that ought to burn the brighter
    For this temporary blighter.
    He’s the Cancer of his Species,
    And will eat himself to pieces, –
    Plague personified and Famine, –
    Devil, whose delight is damning.
    For his merits – don’t you know ’em?
    Once he wrote a pretty Poem.


                [First published, Fraser’s Magazine, January, 1833, vol. vii. pp. 88-84.]

The Duel.
So We'll Go No More A-Roving


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