EPIGRAMS OF LORD BYRON.
TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET BEGINNING "'SAD IS MY VERSE,' YOU SAY, 'AND YET NO TEAR.'"
Thy verse is "sad" enough, no doubt,
A devilish deal more sad than witty!
Why should we weep, I can't find out,
Unless for THEE we weep in pity.
Yet there is one I pity more,
And much, alas! I think he needs it—
For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore,
Who, to his own misfortune, reads it.
The rhymes, without the aid of magic,
May ONCE be read—but never after;
Yet their effect's by no means tragic,
Although by far too dull for laughter.
But would you make our bosoms bleed,
And of no common pang complain?
If you would make us weep indeed,
Tell us you'll read them o'er again.
WINDSOR POETICS.
On the Prince Regent being seen standing between the coffins of Henry
VIII. and Charles I, in the royal vault at Windsor.
Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties,
By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies;
Between them stands another sceptered thing—
It moves, it reigns—in all but name, a king;
Charles to his people, Henry to his wife,
—In him the double tyrant starts to life;
Justice and death have mixed their dust in vain,
Each royal vampyre wakes to life again.
Ah! what can tombs avail, since these disgorge
The blood and dust of both to mold a George?
ON A CARRIER WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS.
John Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell,
A carrier who carried his can to his mouth well;
He carried so much, and he carried so fast,
He could carry no more—so was carried at last;
For the liquor he drank, being too much for one,
He could not carry off—so he's now carriON.