112 



MY LIFE 



[Chap. 



of the villagers, and some of the farmers around, used to come 

 to the house we lived in, and among them was a painter and 

 glazier, who was married while I was there, and who was sub- 

 jected to good-humoured banter when he came to the house 

 soon afterwards. These, with the necessary blacksmith and 

 carpenter, with a general shop or two and a fair number of 

 labourers, made up a little community, most of whom seemed 

 fairly well off. 



Our landlord was a Radical, and took a newspaper called 

 The Constitutional, which was published at Birmingham, and 

 contained a great deal of very interesting matter. This was 

 about the time when the dean and chapter refused to allow a 

 monument to be erected to Byron in Westminster Abbey, 

 which excited much indignation among his admirers. One of 

 these wrote some lines on the subject which struck me as being 

 so worthy of the occasion that I learnt them by heart, and by 

 constant repetition (on sleepless nights) have never forgotten 

 them. They were printed in the newspaper without a signa- 

 ture, and I have never been able to learn who was the author 

 of them. I give them here to show the kind of poetry I 

 admired then and still enjoy — 



*' Away with epitaph and sculptured bust ! 

 Leave these to decorate the mouldering dust 

 Of him who needs such substitutes for fame — 

 The chisel's pomp to deck a worthless name. 

 Away with these ! A Byron needs them not ; 

 Nature herself selects a deathless spot, 

 A nation's heart : the Poet cannot die, 

 His epitaph is Immortality. 

 What are earth's mansions to a tomb like this ? 

 When time hath swept into forgetfulness 

 Wealth-blazoned halls and gorgeous cemeteries, 

 The mouldering Abbey with its sculptured lies, 

 His name, emblazoned in the wild, the free. 

 The deep, the beautiful of earth, shall be 

 A household word with milHons. Dark and wild 

 His song at times, his spirit was the child 

 Of burning passion. Yet when he awoke 

 From his dark hours of bondage, when he broke 

 His cage and seized his harp, did he not make 

 A peal of matchless melody and shake 



