1821
                                    DON JUAN
                                by George Byron
DEDICATION
                 DEDICATION.

  BOB SOUTHEY! You 're a poet- Poet-laureate,
    And representative of all the race,
  Although 't is true that you turn'd out a Tory at
    Last,- yours has lately been a common case;
  And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye at?
    With all the Lakers, in and out of place?
  A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye
  Like 'four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye;'

  'Which pye being open'd they began to sing'
    (This old song and new simile holds good),
  'A dainty dish to set before the King,'
    Or Regent, who admires such kind of food;-
  And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing,
    But like a hawk encumber'd with his hood,-
  Explaining metaphysics to the nation-
  I wish he would explain his Explanation.

  You, Bob! are rather insolent, you know,
    At being disappointed in your wish
  To supersede all warblers here below,
    And be the only Blackbird in the dish;
  And then you overstrain yourself, or so,
    And tumble downward like the flying fish
  Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob,
  And fall, for lack of moisture, quite a-dry, Bob!

  And Wordsworth, in a rather long Excursion
    (I think the quarto holds five hundred pages),
  Has given a sample from the vasty version
    Of his new system to perplex the sages;
  'T is poetry- at least by his assertion,
    And may appear so when the dog-star rages-
  And he who understands it would be able
  To add a story to the Tower of Babel.

  You- Gentlemen! by dint of long seclusion
    From better company, have kept your own
  At Keswick, and, through still continued fusion
    Of one another's minds, at last have grown
  To deem as a most logical conclusion,
    That Poesy has wreaths for you alone:
  There is a narrowness in such a notion,
  Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes for ocean.

  I would not imitate the petty thought,
    Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice,
  For all the glory your conversion brought,
    Since gold alone should not have been its price.
  You have your salary; was 't for that you wrought?
    And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise.
  You're shabby fellows- true- but poets still,
  And duly seated on the immortal hill.

  Your bays may hide the baldness of your brows-
    Perhaps some virtuous blushes;- let them go-
  To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs-
    And for the fame you would engross below,
  The field is universal, and allows
    Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow:
  Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe will try
  'Gainst you the question with posterity.

  For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses,
    Contend not with you on the winged steed,
  I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses,
    The fame you envy and the skill you need;
  And recollect a poet nothing loses
    In giving to his brethren their full meed
  Of merit, and complaint of present days
  Is not the certain path to future praise.

  He that reserves his laurels for posterity
    (Who does not often claim the bright reversion)
  Has generally no great crop to spare it, he
    Being only injured by his own assertion;
  And although here and there some glorious rarity
    Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion,
  The major part of such appelants go
  To- God knows where- for no one else can know.

  If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues,
    Milton appeal'd to the Avenger, Time,
  If Time, the Avenger, execrates his wrongs,
    And makes the word Miltonic' mean 'sublime,'
  He deign'd not to belie his soul in songs,
    Nor turn his very talent to a crime;
  He did not loathe the Sire to laud the Son,
  But closed the tyrant-hater he begun.

  Think'st thou, could he- the blind Old Man- arise
    Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze once more
  The blood of monarchs with his prophecies,
    Or be alive again- again all hoar