And intriguers and Leaguers are loud in their wail,
And Coercion has carried the day o'er "Repale";
For till whittled away into Councils and Boards

The scheme of Home Rule has no chance in the Lords.
The Weekly Dispatch, April 18, 1886.
C. RENZ.

THE CUTTING OF THE KNOT.

GREAT Gladstone came down his new Bill to unfold,
And his cohorts awaited their Leader so bold,
And the noise of their cheers was like tars of the sea,
When they're given the toast of old England's navee.

Like the geese of the farm-yard when summer is green,
The Cock-a-Hoop Tories at noon-day were seen,
Like the geese of the farm-yard when autumn has come,
Those Tories at midnight were nerveless and dumb.

For the King of Debate his opponents did blast,
And glared in the face of each foeman aghast,
And the hopes of the Tories waxed presently chill;
And their groans but once rose, then for ever grew still.

And the sturdy Home Rulers are loud in their cheers,
And the faces are blank in the House of the Peers.
And the knot of the hour, uncut by the sword;
Dissolves at the touch of the Cabinet's Lord!

:0:

F. B. D., 1886.

The two parodies following are written partly in imitation of Byron's The Dream, and partly after Darkness, which commences thus :

DARKNESS.

I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream.

The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,

Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;

Morn came and went-and came, and brought no day,

And men forgot their passions in the dread

Of this their desolation; and all hearts

Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light;

And they did live by watchfires-and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings—the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons.

MY OLD HAT.

I HAD a hat-it was not all a hat,
Part of the brim was gone-yet still I wore
It on, and people wondered as I passed.
Some turned to gaze-others just cast an eye
And soon withdrew it, as 'twere in contempt.
But still my hat, although so fashionless
In complement extern, had that within
Surpassing show - my head continued warm;
Being sheltered from the weather, spite of all
The want (as has been said before) of brim.

A change came o'er the colour of my hat.

That which was black grew brown-and then men stared
With both their eyes (they stared with one before)
The wonder now was twofold; and it seemed
Strange that a thing so torn and old should still
Be worn by one who might-but let that pass!
I had my reasons, which might be revealed
But for some counter-reasons, far more strong,
Which tied my tongue to silence. Time passed on.

Green spring, and flowery summer, autumn brown.
And frosty winter came,-and went and came,
And still through all the seasons of two years,

In park and city, yea at parties-balls

The hat was worn and borne. Then folks grew wild
With curiosity, and whispers rose,

And questions passed about-how one so trim

In coats, boots, ties, gloves, trousers, could insconce
His caput in a covering so vile.

A change came o'er the nature of my hat.
Grease spots appeared-but, still in silence, on

I wore it, and then family, and friends
Glared madly at each other. There was one
Who said-but hold-no matter what was said;
A time may come when I-away, away-
Not till the season's ripe can I reveal
Thoughts that do lie too deep for common minds-
Till then the world shall not pluck out the heart
Of this my mystery. When I will, I will!
The hat was now greasy, and old, and torn,
But torn, old greasy, still I wore it on.

A change came o'er the business of this hat.
Women, and men, and children scowled on me-
My company was shunned-I was alone!
None would associate with such a hat-
Friendship itself proved faithless for a hat.
She that I loved, within whose gentle breast
I treasured up my heart, looked cold as death-
Love's fires went out-extinguished by a hat,
Of those who knew me best, some turned aside,
And scudded down dark lanes; one man did place
His finger on his nose's side, and jeered ;
Others in horrid mockery laughed outright;
Yea, dogs, deceived by instinct's dubious ray,
Fixing their swart glare on my ragged hat,
Mistook me for a beggar, and they barked.
Thus women, men, friends, strangers, lovers, dogs,
One thought pervaded all-it was my hat.

A change, it was the last, came o'er this hat,

For lo! at length the circling months went round :
The period was accomplished-and one day
This tattered, brown old greasy coverture
(Time had endeared its vileness) was transferred
To the possession of a wandering son

Of Israel's fated race-and friends once more
Greeted my digits with the wonted squeeze :

Once more I went my way, along, along,

And plucked no wondering gaze; the hand of scorn

With its annoying finger, men, and dogs,

Once more grew pointless, jokeless, laughless, growlless

And at last, not least of rescued blessings, love!

Love smiled on me again, when I assumed

A brand new chapeau of the Melton build;

And then the laugh was mine, for, then out came
The secret of this strangeness-'twas a bet,—
A friend had laid me fifty pounds to ten,
Three years I would not wear it—and I did !

THE GENIUS OF SMOKING.

ANONYMOUS.

[We have been favored with the following defence of smoking, by an intimate literary friend of Lord Byron, who assures us it is selected from several unpublished juvenile trifles, written at various times in his album by the noble bard.]

I HAD a dream-it was not all a dream;
Methought I sat beneath the silver beam

Of the sweet moon, and you were with me there,

And everything around was free and fair;

And from our mouths upcurled the fragrant smoke, Whose light blue wreaths can all our pleasures yoke,

In sweetest union to young Fancy's car,

And waft the soul out thro' a good cigar.
There as we sat and puff'd the hours away,
And talked and laughed about life's little day,

And built our golden castles in the air,

And sigh'd to think what transient things they were,
As the light smoke around our heads was thrown,
Amidst its folds a little figure shone,

An elfin sprite, who held within her hand
A small cigar, her sceptre of command.

Her hair above her brow was twisted tight off,
Like a cigar's end, which you must bite off;
Her eyes were red, and twinkling like the light
Of Eastern Hookah, or Meerchaum, by night;
A green tobacco leaf her shoulders graced,
And dried tobacco hung about her waist;
Her voice breathed softly, like the easy puffing
Of an old smoker, after he's been stuffing.
Thus as she rolled aside the wanton smoke,
To us, her awe-struck votaries she spoke,—
'Hail, faithful slaves! my choicest joys descend
On him who joins the smoker to the friend,
Yours is a pleasure that shall never vanish
Provided that you smoke the best of Spanish ;

66

Puff forth your clouds "-(with that we puff 'd amain)
"Sweet is their fragrance "-(then we puff'd again)
"How have I hung, with most intense delight,
Over your heads when you have smoked at night,
And gratefully imparted all my powers

To bless and consecrate those happy hours;
Smoke on," she said. I started and awoke,
And with my dream she vanished into smoke.

:0:

ANONYMOUS.

ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY

THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR.

Missolonghi, Jan. 22, 1824.

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it has ceased to move;

Yet, though I cannot be beloved,

Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf,

The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief,
Are mine alone!

the other day that I never draw any pleadings now. This is my birthday, and I have just finished something which I think is better than I usually write.' He then produced these noble and affecting verses;—

'Tis time that I should be removed,
And the position I can prove.

For since by me there's nothing moved,
I'd better move.

My gown is in the yellow leaf,

The curls from out my wig are gone,
The bands, the stock, the dummy brief,
Are mine alone.

The debts that on my bosom prey,

Have hopeless been this long, long while;
The bills which I can never pay

Are on that file.

Lord Byron was married in January, 1815, and about the middle of January, 1816, Lady Byron left London for her father's house in Leicestershire, on the understanding But her that Lord Byron was shortly to follow her. father immediately wrote to acquaint Lord Byron that she would never return to him. The reasons for this conduct bave never been satisfactorily explained, and though Lord Byron, and his friends, tried their utmost to bring about a reconciliation, all attempts to alter Lady Byron's decision were in vain. This domestic misfortune supplied the enemies of Lord Byron with a pretext for the the gratification of their envious and malignant feelings towards him. The press teemed with slanderous and abominable insinuations in explanation of the conjugal feud. The majority of his acquaintances declared against him; and the proud spirit of the noble poet, stung to the

quick, impelled him to leave his country. On the 25th of April, 1816, Lord Byron left England, never to return.

A short time prior to his final departure from his native land, he published the "Siege of Corinth" and "Parisina." He also wrote two short poems, which were highly popular, and which first appeared in the public papers"Fare Thee Well," and "A Sketch from Private Life."

In "Fare thee Well," Byron pathetically alludes to his daughter, Augusta Ada, the only child of his unfortunate marriage, who was born on December 10, 1815.

FARE THEE WELL.

FARE thee well! and if for ever,

Still for ever, fare thee well;

Even though unforgiving, never

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. Would that breast were bared before thee Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o'er thee Which thou ne'er canst know again: Would that breast, by thee glanced over, Every inmost thought could show ! Then thou wouldst at last discover 'Twas not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee-
Though it smile upon the blow,

Even its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe :

Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found,

Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?

Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not:
Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away;
Still thine own its life retaineth-

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;
And the undying thought which paineth
Is that we no more may meet.

These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead;
Both shall live, but every morrow
Wake us from a widow'd bed.

And when thou wouldst solace gather,
When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!
Though his care she must forego?
When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is pressed,

Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
Think of him thy love had bless'd!

Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou never more mayst see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest,
All my madness none can know ;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,
Wither, yet with thee they go.
Every feeling hath been shaken;

Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee-by thee forsaken,
Even my soul forsakes me now :

LADY BYRON'S REPLY TO LORD BYRON'S
"FARE THEE WELL."

"As to the author of the reply, I have for years been trying to find out, but unsuccessfully. One or two gentlemen, whose opinions on this subject are well worthy of attention, have said in a joking way that the author must be Byron himself, as the lines are so very beautiful and appropriate. I certainly do not think Lady Byron was the author. From all that I can glean from the oldest inhabitants in this neighbourhood she was always held in the highest respect, a good, kind, domestic lady; but no one seems to give her credit for much poetic taste, let alone faculty."

YES, farewell; farewell for ever;

Thou thyself hast fixed our doom;
Bade hope's fairest blossom wither,
Never more for me to bloom!
Unforgiving thou hast called me;
Didst thou ever say forgive?

For the wretch whose wiles enthralled thee,
Thou didst seem alone to live.

Short the space which Time had given
To complete thy love's decay!
By unhallowed passion driven,
Soon thy wishes wildly stray.
Lived for me that feeling tender,

Which thy verse so well can show?
From my arms why didst thou wander-
My endearments why forego?
Rapt in dreams of joy abiding,

On thy breast my head hath lain,
In thy love and truth confiding-
Bliss I ne'er can know again!
When thy heart, by me glanced over,
First displayed the guilty stain,
Would these eyes had closed for ever,
Not to weep thy crimes again!
But by Heaven's recording spirit
May that wish forgotten be!
Life, though now a load, I'd bear it
For the babe I've born to thee-

In whose lovely features (let me

All my weakness here confess),
While the struggling tears permit me,
All her father's I can trace;

His, whose image never leaves me,

Whose remembrance yet I prize;
Who this bitterest feeling gives me-
Loving where I most despise.
With regret and sorrow, rather,

When our child's first accents flow,
I shall teach her to say "Father"-
Bat his guilt she ne'er shall know.

Whilst to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Wake me to a widowed bed;

In another's arms no sorrow

Wilt thou feel, no tears wilt shed.

For the world's applause I sought not
When I tore myself from thee;
Of its praise or blame I thought not-
What is blame or praise to me?
He in whom my soul delighted,

From his breast my image drove ;
With contempt my truth requited,
And preferred a wanton love.

Thou art proud-and mark me, Byron !
Proud is my soul as thine own;
Soft to love-but hard as iron
When despite is on me thrown.

But, 'tis past!-I'll not upbraid thee,
Nor shall ever wish thee ill;

Wretched though thy crimes have made me,
If thou canst, be happy still!

Another reply was published entitled

ANONYMOUS.

LADY BYRON'S RESPONSE TO "FARE THEE WELL."

"What reader of Pope's celebrated Eloise ever thought that poem really the work of its heroine? or who for a moment will conceive the following to be the production of Lady Byron's pen?"

AND fare Thee well, too-if, for ever

How dread the thought !-still fare thee well!

Yet think not time or space can sever

The heart that wont on thine to dwell!

O cherish not the sad illusion,

All thy high-wrought hopes deceiving,
Which whispers thee, that heart's profusion
Of love can end in "unforgiving!"

Too well I know thy conscious breast,

That form'd, how brief! my "placid" pillow,
Hath wandered from its ark of rest,

Far stretching o'er life's cheerless billow.

(This is dated April 29, 1816, and consists of twentythree verses in all. It is unnecessary to quote the remainder, but the poem can be found in the British Museum Library, 11642 b.b.b. 58.)

Vain are now thy magic verses,

None to pity can they move; Better far to send me curses

Than the mockery of love.

Though the world to soothe endeavour,
Though it sorrow for my pain
Can it, Byron, can it ever

Make thy false heart true again?

No! a heart once dead to feeling
True again can never prove,
And the wound that knows no healing
Is a woman's trampled love.

Oh! to banish recollection

Of that early love of mine,

When my young heart's deep affection
Thought it met the same in thine.
When in tones of gentle kindness

That false tongue love's accents pour'd Could I think my love was blindness? Could I doubt I was adored?

Still there is a tie that binds me
To respect thy once loved name,
Though each passing morrow finds thee
Deeper still in guilt and shame.
Yes-our little infant smiling

As she climbs upon my knee,
Lisping with her voice beguiling,
Teaches me to think of thee.

When, as twilight's shadows gather
She repeats her ev'ning prayer,
Then she prays for thee, her father,
Tho' she sees no father there.

Thus it is, though love has vanished
From this torn and bleeding heart,
That the feeling is not banished
That thou still my husband art.

Fare thee well, and, if for ever
In this world of grief and pain,
I will hope that those who sever
Here, will meet elsewhere again.
Lyrics and Lays, by Pips. Wyman Bros., Hare Street,
Calcutta, 1867.

ANOTHER REPLY TO "FARE THEE WELL."

FARE thee well, and if for ever,
Then for ever let it be ;

For again, false Byron, never
Canst thou be beloved by me.

If thy breast were bared before me,
What a cruel heart 'twould show ;
False to her who did adore thee-

Cold as Russia's wastes of snow.

'Twas not I who rent asunder

Ties which should have lived till death. Thou hast been a wide world's wonder For thy scorn of love and faith.

Whatever were the causes of the separation of Lady Byron from her husband (and many reasons have been assigned) will probably never be known, nor do they concern us here, except in so far as regards the statements made by Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe. In 1869 it pleased this American authoress to contribute an article to a London magazine, in which she deliberately accused Lord Byron of having committed the foulest crimes imaginable, and stated that although Lady Byron was aware of his depravity from their very wedding day, she yet continued to reside with him until after the birth of their daughter. A violent controversy ensued, many old scandals were revived, and whilst Mrs. Stowe's statements were generally disbelieved, Byron's reputation suffered considerably. For this result Thomas Moore was mainly to blame, he having destroyed the memoirs entrusted to him by Lord Byron. Had these memoirs been published, it is very improbable that Mrs. Stowe's article would have ever have

It is

been written. Moore was imprudent enough to show these memoirs to several people, as well as the concluding five Cantos of Don Juan, before he destroyed them, and it is said that Lady Burghersh made copies of them. possible, therefore that Byron's view of the circumstances may yet be given to the world, but however that may be, nothing can excuse the action of Mrs. Stowe, whose article could serve no other purpose than that of blackening the memory of a great but ill-used and unfortunate man :THE UN-TRUE STORY.

Dedicated to Mrs. Stowe.

KNOW ye the land where the novelists blurt all
The family secrets they learn in our clime;
Where skill in romance will contrive to convert all
The deeds of our bard to the blackest of crime?
Know ye the land of the dollar divine,

Where Beecher's considered a speaker sublime;
Where the dark wings of scandle will even presume
To flap o'er the great, long at rest in the tomb;
Where writers and editors all "high falute,"
And the voice of the slanderer never is mute,
Where all, who as authors or speakers stand high,
Though varied in views, in "tall-talking" may vie,
And the principal journal can stoop to a lie;
While lucre and puffs to support it combine
(Though Low and Macmillan adopt the same line)?
'Tis the clime of the west, 'tis the land of a STOWE :
Can ye marvel her libels have angered us so?
Oh! false as all things merely written to sell

Are the statements they make, and the tales which they tell!

Punch and Judy (London) February 12, 1870.

Here's a bond for those who'll lend m,
And a bill at six month's date-
I'll sign whate'er you send me-
Get the cash at any rate!

Though boring duns surround me,
They still must trust me on,
Till you the cash have found me—
"Call again," to every one!
Each knock I know full well,

And my fainting spirits sink
When they pull the area bell,
So be off, and fetch the chink !
Mind and bring me back by one,
Of thousands half a score,-
Hark! there's another dun,-
Adieu! adieu! Tom Moore !

The National Omnibus, December 9, 1831.