The Miscellaneous Writings and Speeches-3 [82]
he flies:--shame on those cruel eyes That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war. Ho! comrades, scour the plain; and, ere ye strip the slain, First give another stab to make your search secure, Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and lockets, The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor. Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold, When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day; And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the rocks, Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey. Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate, And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades, Your perfum'd satin clothes, your catches and your oaths, Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades? Down, down, for ever down with the mitre and the crown, With the Belial of the Court and the Mammon of the Pope; There is woe in Oxford halls: there is wail in Durham's Stalls: The Jesuit smites his bosom: the Bishop rends his cope. And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children's ills, And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's sword; And the Kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word. ...
SERMON IN A CHURCHYARD. (1825.) Let pious Damon take his seat, With mincing step and languid smile, And scatter from his 'kerchief sweet, Sabaean odours o'er the aisle; And spread his little jewelled hand, And smile round all the parish beauties, And pat his curls, and smooth his band, Meet prelude to his saintly duties. Let the thronged audience press and stare, Let stifled maidens ply the fan, Admire his doctrines, and his hair, And whisper, "What a good young man!" While he explains what seems most clear, So clearly that it seems perplexed, I'll stay and read my sermon here; And skulls, and bones, shall be the text. Art thou the jilted dupe of fame? Dost thou with jealous anger pine Whene'er she sounds some other name, With fonder emphasis than thine? To thee I preach; draw near; attend! Look on these bones, thou fool, and see Where all her scorns and favours end, What Byron is, and thou must be. Dost thou revere, or praise, or trust Some clod like those that here we spurn; Some thing that sprang like thee from dust, And shall like thee to dust return? Dost thou rate statesmen, heroes, wits, At one sear leaf, or wandering feather? Behold the black, damp narrow pits, Where they and thou must lie together. Dost thou beneath the smile or frown Of some vain woman bend thy knee? Here take thy stand, and trample down Things that were once as fair as she. Here rave of her ten thousand graces, Bosom, and lip, and eye, and chin, While, as in scorn, the fleshless faces Of Hamiltons and Waldegraves grin. Whate'er thy losses or thy gains, Whate'er thy projects or thy fears, Whate'er the joys, whate'er the pains, That prompt thy baby smiles and tears; Come to my school, and thou shalt learn, In one short hour of placid thought, A stoicism, more deep, more stern, Than ever Zeno's porch hath taught. The plots and feats of those that press To seize on titles, wealth, or power, Shall seem to thee a game of chess, Devised to pass a tedious hour. What matters it to him who fights For shows of unsubstantial good, Whether his Kings, and Queens, and Knights, Be things of flesh, or things of wood? We check, and take; exult, and fret; Our plans extend, our passions rise, Till in our ardour we forget How worthless is the victor's prize. Soon fades the spell, soon comes the night: Say will it not be then the same, Whether we played the black or white, Whether we lost or won the game? Dost thou among these hillocks stray, O'er some dear idol's tomb to moan? Know that thy foot is on the clay Of hearts once wretched as thy own. How many a father's anxious schemes, How many rapturous thoughts of lovers, How many a mother's cherished dreams, The swelling turf before thee covers! Here for the living, and the dead, The weepers and the friends they weep, Hath been ordained the same
SERMON IN A CHURCHYARD. (1825.) Let pious Damon take his seat, With mincing step and languid smile, And scatter from his 'kerchief sweet, Sabaean odours o'er the aisle; And spread his little jewelled hand, And smile round all the parish beauties, And pat his curls, and smooth his band, Meet prelude to his saintly duties. Let the thronged audience press and stare, Let stifled maidens ply the fan, Admire his doctrines, and his hair, And whisper, "What a good young man!" While he explains what seems most clear, So clearly that it seems perplexed, I'll stay and read my sermon here; And skulls, and bones, shall be the text. Art thou the jilted dupe of fame? Dost thou with jealous anger pine Whene'er she sounds some other name, With fonder emphasis than thine? To thee I preach; draw near; attend! Look on these bones, thou fool, and see Where all her scorns and favours end, What Byron is, and thou must be. Dost thou revere, or praise, or trust Some clod like those that here we spurn; Some thing that sprang like thee from dust, And shall like thee to dust return? Dost thou rate statesmen, heroes, wits, At one sear leaf, or wandering feather? Behold the black, damp narrow pits, Where they and thou must lie together. Dost thou beneath the smile or frown Of some vain woman bend thy knee? Here take thy stand, and trample down Things that were once as fair as she. Here rave of her ten thousand graces, Bosom, and lip, and eye, and chin, While, as in scorn, the fleshless faces Of Hamiltons and Waldegraves grin. Whate'er thy losses or thy gains, Whate'er thy projects or thy fears, Whate'er the joys, whate'er the pains, That prompt thy baby smiles and tears; Come to my school, and thou shalt learn, In one short hour of placid thought, A stoicism, more deep, more stern, Than ever Zeno's porch hath taught. The plots and feats of those that press To seize on titles, wealth, or power, Shall seem to thee a game of chess, Devised to pass a tedious hour. What matters it to him who fights For shows of unsubstantial good, Whether his Kings, and Queens, and Knights, Be things of flesh, or things of wood? We check, and take; exult, and fret; Our plans extend, our passions rise, Till in our ardour we forget How worthless is the victor's prize. Soon fades the spell, soon comes the night: Say will it not be then the same, Whether we played the black or white, Whether we lost or won the game? Dost thou among these hillocks stray, O'er some dear idol's tomb to moan? Know that thy foot is on the clay Of hearts once wretched as thy own. How many a father's anxious schemes, How many rapturous thoughts of lovers, How many a mother's cherished dreams, The swelling turf before thee covers! Here for the living, and the dead, The weepers and the friends they weep, Hath been ordained the same