Byron had been working on a satire in 1807, known then as British Bards. In January, 1808, the Edinburgh Review published a scathing review of Byron's book of poems Hours of Idleness. [size=+1]*Byron was so incensed that he revised his original satire, renamed it English Bards and Scotch Reviewers and had it published anonymously in March, 1809. The second edition was much longer than the first, and Byron published it the same year with his own name on the title page.It is avery longsatire on the reviewers of the Edinburgh Review and others in his era, or in the past, that had ever written poetry, prose, plays, etc. --- I doubt he had left anyone out of it. . . .except, perhaps, a few of the female authors of his day.
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS A SatireByLord Byron
Still must I hear? --- shall hoarse Fitzgerald bawl His creaking couplets in a tavern hall, And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch reviews Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my muse? Prepare for rhyme --- I'll publish, right or wrong: Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.
Oh! Nature's noblest gift --- my grey goose-quill ! Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men ! The pen ! foredoom'd to aid the mental throes Of brains that labour, big with verse or prose, Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride, The lover's solace, and the author's pride. What wits, what poets dost thou daily raise ! How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise ! Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite, With all the pages which 't was thine to write. But thou, at least, mine own especial pen ! Once laid aside, but now assumed again, Our task complete, like Hamet's shall be free; Though spurn'd by others, yet beloved by me: Then let us soar to-day; no common theme, No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream Inspires --- our path, though full of thorns, is plain; Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.
When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway, Obey'd by all who nought beside obey; When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, Bedecks her cap with bells of every clime; When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail. And weigh their justice in a golden scale; E'en then the boldest start from public sneers, Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears, More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe, And shrink from ridicule, though not from law.
Such is the force of wit ! but not belong To me the arrows of satiric song; The royal vices of our age demand A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. Still there are follies, e'en for me to chase, And yield at least amusement in the race: Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame; The cry is up, and scribblers are my game. Speed, Pegasus ! --- ye strains of great and small, Ode, epic, elegy, have at you all ! I too can scrawl, and once upon a time I pour'd along the town a flood of rhyme, A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame; I printed --- older children do the same. "T is pleasant, sure to see one's name in print; A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't. Not that a title's sounding charm can save Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave: This Lambe must own, since his patrician name Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from shame. No mater, George continues still to write. Though now the name is veil'd from public sight. Moved by the great example, I pursue The self-same road, but make my own review: Not seek great Jeffrey's, yet, like him, will be Self-constituted judge of poesy. ......
I.
So, we'll go no more a roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright.
II. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest.
III. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a roving By the light of the moon. 作者: 罗亭 时间: 2006-9-2 02:29
I She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
II One shade the more, one ray the less Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in evey raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
III. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent ! 作者: 罗亭 时间: 2006-9-2 02:30
When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning Sunk chill on my brow --- It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame; I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame.
They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er me --- Why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well: --- Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met --- In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee? --- With silence and tears.作者: byronrilke 时间: 2006-9-3 02:00
这位站长倒是别出心裁设计出这些封面，不过如此花里胡哨的书摆到书店肯定有人会吓倒的作者: 罗亭 时间: 2006-9-10 22:40
I.
So, we'll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
II.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
III.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon. 作者: 罗亭 时间: 2006-9-10 22:40
My boat is on the shore,
And my bark is on the sea;
But, before I go, Tom Moore.
Here's a double health to thee !
Here's a sigh to those who love me,
And a smile to those who hate:
And, whatever sky's above me,
Here's a heart for every fate.
Though the ocean roar around me,
Yet it still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.
Were 't the last drop in the well,
As I gasp'd upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirit fell,
'Tis to thee that I would drink.
With that water, as this wine,
The libation I would pour
Should be --- peace with thine and mine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore.
[ 本帖最后由 罗亭 于 2006-9-10 10:42 PM 编辑 ]作者: 舒卷 时间: 2008-5-6 13:58
真的很好，为什么没有了呢？继续，我一直再找那首关于自然的诗
I love not man the less, but NATURE more作者: holderlin 时间: 2009-8-23 23:35
REALY THANK YOU,THOUGH I HAVE THOSE POETS FROM SOME-NETS,US.I CAN SHOW THAT TO YOU,IF YOU NEED作者: dancer 时间: 2009-11-11 13:43
太棒了，moving...
