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TO A KNOT OF UNGENEROUS CRITICS

[First printed in Edition of 1898 from a manuscript in possession of Mr. Murray.] RAIL on, Rail on, ye heartless Crew! My strains were never meant for you; Remorseless Rancour still reveal, And damn the verse you cannot feel. Invoke those kindred passions' aid, Whose baleful stings your breasts pervade; Crush, if you can, the hopes of youth, Trampling regardless on the Truth. Truth's Records you consult in vain, She will not blast her native strain; She will assist her votary's cause, His will at least be her applause, Your prayer the gentle Power will spurn.

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To Fiction's motley altar turn,
Who joyful in the fond address
Her favour'd worshippers will bless:
And lo! she holds a magic glass,
Where Images reflected pass,
Bent on your knees the Boon receive -
This will assist you to deceive
The glittering gift was made for you,
Now hold it up to public view;
Lest evil unforeseen betide,

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A Mask each canker'd brow shall hide
(Whilst Truth my sole desire is nigh,
Prepared the danger to defy),
'There is the Maid's perverted name,
And there the Poet's guilty Flame,
Gloaming a deep phosphoric fire,
Threatening but ere it spreads, retire.' 30
Says Truth Up Virgins, do not fear!
The Comet rolls its Influence here;
'Tis Scandal's Mirror you perceive,
These dazzling Meteors but deceive
Approach and touch - Nay do not turn,
It blazes there but will not burn.'
At once the shivering Mirror flies,
Teeming no more with varnish'd Lies;
The baffled friends of Fiction start,
Too late desiring to depart
Truth poising high Ithuriel's spear
Bids every Fiend unmask'd appear,
The vizard tears from every face,
And dooms them to a dire disgrace.
For ere they compass their escape,
Each takes perforce a native shape -
The Leader of the wrathful Band,
Behold a portly Female stand!
She raves, impell'd by private pique,
This mean unjust revenge to seek;
From vice to save this virtuous Age,
Thus does she vent indecent rage!
What child has she of promise fair,
Who claims a fostering Mother's care?
Whose Innocence requires defence,
Or forms at least a smooth pretence,
Thus to disturb a harmless Boy,
His humble hope, and peace annoy ?
She need not fear the amorous rhyme,
Love will not tempt her future time,
For her his wings have ceased to spread,
No more he flutters round her head;
Her day's Meridian now is past,
The clouds of Age her Sun o'ercast;
To her the strain was never sent,
For feeling Souls alone 't was meant -
The verse she seized, unask'd, unbade,
And damn'd, ere yet the whole was read i

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Yes! for one single erring verse,
Pronounced an unrelenting Curse;
Yes! at a first and transient view,
Condemn'd a heart she never knew.
Can such a verdict then decide,
Which springs from disappointed pride?
Without a wondrous share of Wit,
To judge is such a Matron fit?
The rest of the censorious throng
Who to this zealous Band belong,
To her a general homage pay,
And right or wrong her wish obey:
Why should I point my pen of steel
To break such flies upon the wheel'?
With minds to Truth and Sense unknown,
Who dare not call their words their own.
Rail on, Rail on, ye heartless Crew!
Your Leader's grand design pursue:
Secure behind her ample shield,
Yours is the harvest of the field.
My path with thorns you cannot strew,
Nay more, my warmest thanks are due; 90
When such as you revile my Name,
Bright beams the rising Sun of Fame,
Chasing the shades of envious night,
Outshining every critic Light.
Such, such as you will serve to show
Each radiant tint with higher glow.
Vain is the feeble cheerless toil,
Your efforts on yourselves recoil;
Then Glory still for me you raise,
Yours is the Censure, mine the Praise.
December 1, 1806.

100

SOLILOQUY OF A BARD IN THE COUNTRY

[First printed in Edition of 1898 from a manuscript in possession of Mr. Murray.] 'T.WAS now the noon of night, and all was still,

Except a hapless Rhymer and his quill.
In vain he calls each Muse in order down,
Like other females, these will sometimes
frown;

He frets, he fumes, and ceasing to invoke
The Nine, in anguish'd accents thus he spoke:
Ah what avails it thus to waste my time,
To roll in Epic, or to rave in Rhyme ?
What worth is some few partial readers'
praise,

If ancient Virgins croaking censures raise? Where few attend, 't is useless to indite; Where few can read, 't is folly sure to write;

Where none but girls and striplings dare

admire,

And Critics rise in every country Squire But yet this last my candid Muse admits, When Peers are Poets, Squires may well be Wits;

When schoolboys vent their amorous flames in verse,

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Matrons may sure their characters asperse;
And if a little parson joins the train,
And echoes back his Patron's voice again
Though not delighted, yet I must forgive,
Parsons as well as other folks must live:
From rage he rails not, rather say from
dread,

He does not speak for Virtue, but for bread;
And this we know is in his Patron's giving,
For Parsons cannot eat without a Living.
The Matron knows I love the Sex too well,
Even unprovok'd aggression to repel.
What though from private pique her anger

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The humble offerings of my Muse destroy, And crush, oh! noble conquest! crush a Boy.

What though some silly girls have loved the strain,

And kindly bade me tune my Lyre again; What though some feeling, or some partial few,

Nay, Men of Taste and Reputation too, 70
Have deign'd to praise the firstlings of my
Muse

If you your sanction to the theme refuse,
If you your great protection still withdraw,
Whose Praise is Glory, and whose Voice is
law,

Soon must I fall an unresisting foe,
A hapless victim yielding to the blow.
Thus Pope by Curl and Dennis was de-
stroy'd,

Thus Gray and Mason yield to furious
Loyd;

From Dryden, Milbourne tears the palm

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Then do not admiration smother,

Or say these glances don't become her; To you, or I, or any other

Her Sun displays perpetual Summer. January 14, 1807.

STANZAS TO JESSY

[These stanzas, which appeared originally in Monthly Literary Recollections of July, 1807, have always been attributed to Byron but were never acknowledged by him later in life. They were signed in the magazine 'George Gordon, Lord Byron.']

THERE is a mystic thread of life

So dearly wreathed with mine alone, That Destiny's relentless knife

At once must sever both, or none.

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