In hopes of everlasting fame

A finished madrigal would frame

Or couplets more ingenious still;

Time was, a valiant general might

Serve who could neither read nor write.

XI.

Time was, in style magniloquent

Authors replete with sacred fire

Their heroes used to represent

All that perfection could desire;

Ever by adverse fate oppressed,

Their idols they were wont to invest

With intellect, a taste refined,

And handsome countenance combined,

A heart wherein pure passion burnt;

The excited hero in a trice

Was ready for self-sacrifice,

And in the final tome we learnt,

Vice had due punishment awarded,

Virtue was with a bride rewarded.

XII.

But now our minds are mystified

And Virtue acts as a narcotic,

Vice in romance is glorified

And triumphs in career erotic.

The monsters of the British Muse

Deprive our schoolgirls of repose,

The idols of their adoration

A Vampire fond of meditation,

Or Melmoth, gloomy wanderer he,

The Eternal Jew or the Corsair

Or the mysterious Sbogar.(33)

Byron's capricious phantasy

Could in romantic mantle drape

E'en hopeless egoism's dark shape.