Selected Poems by Byron

2
Dunedin! view thy children with delight,
They write for food – and feed because they write:
And lest, when heated with the unusual grape,
555
Some glowing thoughts should to the press escape,
And tinge with red the female reader’s cheek,
My lady skims the cream of each critique;
Breathes o’er the page her purity of soul,
Reforms each error, and refines the whole. 3
560
Now to the Drama turn – Oh! motley sight!
What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite!
Puns, and a prince within a barrel pent, 4
And Dibdin’s nonsense yield complete content.
Though now, thank Heaven! the Rosciomania’s o’er,
565
And full-grown actors are endured once more;
Yet what avail their vain attempts to please,
While British critics suffer scenes like these;
While Reynolds vents his ‘dammes!’ ‘poohs!’ and ‘zounds!’ 1
And common-place and common sense confounds?
570
While Kenney’s ‘World’ – ah! where is Kenney’s wit? –
Tires the sad gallery, lulls the listless pit;
And Beaumont’s pilfer’d Caratach affords
A tragedy complete in all but words? 2
Who but must mourn, while these are all the rage,
575
The degradation of our vaunted stage!
Heavens! is all sense of shame and talent gone?
Have we no living bard of merit? – none!
Awake, George Colman! Cumberland, awake!
Ring the alarum bell! let folly quake!
580
Oh, Sheridan! if aught can move thy pen,
Let Comedy assume her throne again;
Abjure the mummery of the German schools;
Leave new Pizarros to translating fools;
Give, as thy last memorial to the age,
585
One classic drama, and reform the stage.
Gods! o’er those boards shall Folly rear her head,
Where Garrick trod, and Siddons lives to tread?
On those shall Farce display Buffoon’ry’s mask,
And Hook conceal his heroes in a cask?
590
Shall sapient managers new scenes produce
From Cherry, Skeffington, and Mother Goose?
While Shakspeare, Otway, Massinger, forgot,
On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot?
Lo! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim
595
The rival candidates for Attic fame!
In grim array though Lewis’ spectres rise,
Still Skeffington and Goose divide the prize.
And sure great Skeffington must claim our praise,
For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays
600
Renown’d alike; whose genius ne’er confines
Her flight to garnish Greenwood’s gay designs; 1
Nor sleeps with ‘Sleeping Beauties,’ but anon
In five facetious acts comes thundering on, 2
While poor John Bull, bewilder’d with the scene,
605
Stares, wondering what the devil it can mean;
But as some hands applaud, a venal few!
Rather than sleep, why John applauds it too.
Such are we now. Ah! wherefore should we turn
To what our fathers were unless to mourn?
610
Degenerate Britons! are ye dead to shame,
Or kind to dulness do you fear to blame?
Well may the nobles of our present race
Watch each distortion of a Naldi’s face;
Well may they smile on Italy’s buffoons,
615
And worship Catalani’s pantaloons, 3
Since their own drama yields no fairer trace
Of wit than puns, of humour than grimace.
Then let Ausonia, skill’d in every art
To soften manners, but corrupt the heart,
620
Pour her exotic follies o’er the town,
To sanction Vice, and hunt Decorum down:
Let wedded strumpets languish o’er Deshayes,
And bless the promise which his form displays;
While Gayton bounds before th’ enraptured looks
625
Of hoary marquises and stripling dukes:
Let high-born lechers eye the lively Prêsle
Twirl her light limbs, that spurn the needless veil;
Let Angiolini bare her breast of snow,
Wave the white arm, and point the pliant toe;
630
Collini trill her love-inspiring song,
Strain her fair neck, and charm the listening throng!
Whet not your scythe, suppressors of our vice!
Reforming saints! too delicately nice!
By whose decrees, our sinful souls to save,
635
No Sunday tankards foam no barbers shave;
And beer undrawn, and beards unmown, display
Your holy reverence for the Sabbath-day.
Or hail at once the patron and the pile
Of vice and