 | Verses to Byron |  |
212
[“Byron]
1
“Byron, while you make gay what circle fits ye,Bandy Venetian slang with the Benzôn,
Or play at company with the Albrizzi,
The self-pleas'd peasant, and patrician crone,
Grinanis, Mocenijas, Baltis, Rizzi,
Compassionate our cruel case,—alone—
Our pleasure an academy of frogs,
Who nightly serenade us from the bogs.
2
“‘'Twixt Adige and 'twixt Brenta, by those hills,Whose scenes the wandering Trojan so delighted,
With their sulphureous veins and gentle rills,
And meads, and fields with fruitful furrows dighted,
That he for these the pools which Zanthus fills,
And Ida and the lov'd Ascanius slighted;’ —
E'en from this spot I date my sad advices,
But I can't sympathise with good Anchises;
213
3
“So take the picture from another hand,And look at least for truth in my relation;
See a dull level for two miles expand,
Then hills, which break all healthy ventilation:
Hot ditches, and green pools, which stink and stand,
And reek with a mephitish exhalation;
(Fenc'd to the North, expos'd to the Scirocco)
Add the congenial climate of Morocco.
4
“One glance at home!—We're chamber'd in a garret,Because the other rooms were painted late;
Our sole resource the Poodle and the Parrot;
But Buffo 's cut his paw and ‘keeps his state’
And Jacquot molts—for food; there's not a carrot,
Or pea within two miles; our soup is late
And seedy cabbage, mix'd in what's call'd rotten-pot.
As for our wine; it might checkmate a Hottentot.
5
“And yet we dine at half past one or two;Not that we've either heart, or hope to eat,
But that we do not know what else to do;
For when at that long wish'd for hour we meet,
We gaze despondingly on roast and stew,
Exchange sad looks and curse the carrion-meat,
The stall which bred it, and the grass which fill'd it,
The slave who cook'd it, and the knave who kill'd it.
6
“We look upon eternal flats of clover,Without variety of paths, or smells;
See nought that's life beyond a beast or drover;
And only change our frogs for chimes and bells.
We've read what books we brought at least twice over.
But as I write, my list of miseries swells.
A life more melancholy never bred rhyme;
'Tis all we can to get it to be bed-time;
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