Italy versus England

by Lord Byron


With all its sinful doings, I must say,
     That Italy’s a pleasant place to me,
Who love to see the sun shine every day,
     And vines (not nailed to walls) from tree to tree
Festooned, much like the back scene of a play,
     Or melodrame, which people flock to see,
When the first act is ended by a dance
In vineyards copied from the South of France.
I like on autumn evenings to ride out,
     Without being forced to bid my groom be sure
My cloak is round his middle strapped about,
      Because the skies are not the most secure ;
I know too that, if stopped upon my route,
     Where the green alleys windingly allure,
Reeling with grapes red wagons choke the way.—
In England ’twould be dung, dust, or a dray.
I also like to dine on becaficas,
     To see the sun set, sure he’ll rise to-morrow,
Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as
      A drunken man’s dead eye in maudlin sorrow,
But with all Heaven to himself ; the day will break as
      Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow
That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers
Where reeking London’s smoky cauldron simmers.
I love the language, that soft bastard Latin,
      Which melts like kisses from a female mouth,
And sounds as if it should be writ on satin,
      With syllables which breathe of the sweet South,
And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in,
      That not a single accent seems uncouth,
Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural,
Which we’re obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all.
I like the women too (forgive my folly!),
     From the rich peasant cheek of ruddy bronze,
And large black eyes that flash on you a volley
     Of rays that say a thousand things at once,
To the high Dama’s brow, more melancholy,
     But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance,
Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes,
Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies.
Eve of the land which still is Paradise !
     Italian Beauty ! didst thou not inspire
Raphael, who died in thy embrace, and vies
     With all we know of Heaven, or can desire,
In what he had bequeathed us ?—in what guise,
     Though flashing from the fervour of the lyre,
Would words described thy past and present glow,
While yet Canova can create below ?
‘England ! with all thy faults I love thee still’,
     I said at Calais, and have not forgot it ;
I like to speak and lucubrate my fill ;
     I like the government (but that is not it) ;
I like the freedom of the press and quill ;
     I like the Habeas Corpus (when we’ve got it) ;
I like a Parliamentary debate,
Particularly when ’tis not too late ;
I like the taxes, when they’re not too many ;
     I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear ;
I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any ;
     Have no objection to a pot of beer ;
I like the weather,—when it is not rainy,
     That is, I like two months of every year.
And so God save the Regent, Church, and King !
Which means that I like all and every thing.
Our standing army, and disbanded seamen,
     Poor’s rate, Reform, my own, the nation’s debt,
Our little riots just to show we’re free men,
     Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette,
Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women,
     All these I can forgive, and those forget,
And greatly venerate our recent glories,
And wish they were not owing to the Tories.
Lord Byron | Classic Poems

Destruction of the Sennacherib ] Growing Old ] She Walks in Beauty ] [ Italy versus England ] The Eve of Waterloo ] from The Prisoner of Chillon ] The Isles of Greece ] from Don Juan ]






 Poems by Cameron Self | About Us | Contact Us Advertise on PG

© Cameron Self 2003-2014.  All rights reserved.                                                                                                                                  Hosted by UK Web.Solutions Direct