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George Gordon Byron - English Bards and Scotch Reviewers: A Satire
Work rating: Low

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And save her glory, though his country fall. 

Yet what avails the sanguine poet`s hope, 
To conquer ages, and with time to cope? 
New eras spread their wings, new nations rise, 
And other victors fill the applauding skies; 
A few brief generations fleet along, 
Whose sons forget the poet and his song: 
E`en now, what once-loved minstrels scarce may claim 
The transient mention of a dubious name! 
When fame`s loud trump hath blown it noblest blast, 
Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last; 
And glory, like the phoenix midst her fires, 
Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires. 

Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons, 
Expert in science, more expert at puns? 
Shall these approach the muse? ah, no! she flies, 
Even from the tempting ore of Seaton`s prize: 
Though printers condescend the press to soil 
With rhyme by Hoare, the epic blank by Hoyle: 
Not him whose page, if still upheld by whist, 
Requires no sacred theme to bid us list. 
Ye! who in Granta`s honours would surpass, 
Must mount her Pegasus, a full-grown ass; 
A foal well worthy of her ancient dam, 
Whose Helicon is duller than her Cam. 

There Clarke, still striving piteously `to please`, 
Forgetting doggerel leads not to degrees, 
A would-be satirist, a hired buffoon, 
A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon, 
Condemn`d to drudge, the meanest of the mean, 
And furbish falsehoods for a magazine, 
Devotes to scandal his congenial mind; 
Himself a living libel on mankind. 

Oh! dark asylum of a Vandal race! 
At once the boast of learning, and disgrace! 
So lost to Phoebus, that nor Hodgson`s verse 
Can make thee better, nor poor Hewson`s worse. 
But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave, 
The partial muse delighted loves to lave; 
On her green banks a greener wreath she wove, 
To crown the bards that haunt her classic grove: 
Where Richards wakes a genuine poet`s fires, 
And modern Britons glory in their sires. 

For me, who, thus unask`d, have dared to tell 
My country what her sons should know too well, 
Zeal for her honour bade me here engage 
The host of idiots that infest her age; 
No just applause her honour`d name shall lose, 
As first in freedom, dearest to the muse. 
Oh! would thy bards but emulate thy fame, 
And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name! 
What Athens was in science, Rome in power, 
What Tyre appear`d in her meridian hour, 
`Tis thine at once, fair Albion! to have been -- 
Earth`s chief dictatress, ocean`s lovely queen: 
But Rome decay`d, and Athens strew`d the plain, 
And Tyre`s proud piers lie shattered in the main; 
Like these, thy strength may sink, in ruin hurl`d, 
And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world. 
But let me cease, and dread Cassandra`s fate, 
With warning ever scoff`d at, till too late; 
To themes less lofty still my lay confine 
And urge thy bards to gain a name like thine. 

Then, hapless Britain! be thy rulers blest, 
The senate`s oracles, the people`s jest! 
Still hear thy motley orators dispense 
The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense, 
While Canning`s colleagues hate him for his wit, 
And old dame Portland fills the place of Pitt. 

Yet, once again, adieu! ere this the sail 
That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale; 
And Afric`s coast and Calpe`s adverse height, 
And Stamboul`s minarets must greet my sight: 
Thence shall I stray through beauty`s native clime, 
Where Kaff is clad in rocks, and crown`d with snows sublime.
But should I back return, no tempting press 
Shall drag my journal from the desk`s recess; 
Let coxcombs, printing as they come from far, 
Snatch his own wreath of ridicule from Carr; 
Let Aberdeen and Elgin still pursue 
The shade of fame through regions of virtù; 
Waste useless thousands on their Phidian freaks, 
Misshapen monuments and maim`d antiques; 
And make their grand saloons a general mart 
For all the mutilated blocks of art; 
Of Dardan tours let dilettanti tell, 
I leave topography to rapid Gell; 
And, quite content, no more shall interpose 
To stun the public ear -- at least with prose. 

Thus far I`ve held my undisturb`d career, 
Prepared for rancour, steel`d `gainst selfish fear; 
This thing of rhyme I ne`er disdain`d to own - 
Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown: 
My voice was heard again, though not so loud, 
My page, though nameless, never disavow`d; 
And now at once I tear the veil away: -- 
Cheer on the pack! the quarry stands at bay, 
Unscared by all the din of Melbourne House, 
By Lambe`s resentment, or by Holland`s spouse, 
By Jeffrey`s harmless pistol, Hallam`s rage, 
Edina`s brawny sons and brimstone page. 
Our men in buckram shall have blows enough, 
And feel they too are `penetrable stuff`: 
And though I hope not hence unscathed to go, 
Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe. 
The time hath been, when no harsh sound would fall 
From lips that now may seem imbued with gall; 
Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise 
The meanest thing that crawl`d beneath my eyes; 
But now, so callous grown, so changed since youth, 
I`ve learn`d to think, and sternly speak the truth; 
Learn`d to deride the critic`s starch decree, 
And break him on the wheel he meant for me; 
To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss, 
Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss: 
Nay more, though all my rival rhymesters frown, 
I too can hunt a poetaster down; 
And, arm`d in proof, the gauntlet cast at once 
To Scotch marauder, and to southern dunce. 
Thus much I`ve dared; if my incondite lay 
Hath wrong`d these righteous times, let others say; 
This, let the world, which knows not how to spare, 
Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare.
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