Lord Byron (1788–1824). Poetry of Byron. 1881.
IV. SatiricThings Sweet
’T
Bay deep-mouth’d welcome as we draw near home;
’Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark
Our coming, and look brighter when we come;
’Tis sweet to be awaken’d by the lark,
Or lull’d by falling waters; sweet the hum
Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds,
The lisp of children, and their earliest words.
In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth Purple and gushing: sweet are our escapes From civic revelry to rural mirth; Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps, Sweet to the father is his first-born’s birth, Sweet is revenge—especially to women, Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. The unexpected death of some old lady Or gentleman of seventy years complete, Who’ve made “us youth” wait too—too long already For an estate, or cash, or country-seat, Still breaking, but with stamina so steady, That all the Israelites are fit to mob its Next owner for their double-damn’d post-obits. By blood or ink; ’tis sweet to put an end To strife; ’tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, Particularly with a tiresome friend: Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels; Dear is the helpless creature we defend Against the world; and dear the schoolboy spot We ne’er forget, though there we are forgot. Is first and passionate love—it stands alone, Like Adam’s recollection of his fall; The tree of knowledge has been pluck’d—all’s known— And life yields nothing further to recall Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown, No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven Fire which Prometheus filch’d for us from heaven.