The ghosts fled gibbering, for their own dominions."

His poem on a lady who maligned him to his wife, seems to show that he
did not well distinguish where the humorous ends and the ludicrous
begins. He represents her--

"With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown
A cheek of parchment and an eye of stone,
Mark how the channels of her yellow blood
Ooze at her skin, and stagnate there to mud,
Cased like the centipede in saffron mail,
A darker greenness of the scorpion's scale,
Look on her features! and behold her mind
As in a mirror of itself defined."

No one suffered more than Byron from his humour being misapprehended.
His letters abound with jests and _jeux d'esprit_, which were often
taken seriously as admissions of an immoral character. We gladly turn to
something pleasanter--to some of the few humorous pieces he wrote in a
genial tone--

EPIGRAM.

The world is a bundle of hay
Mankind are the asses who pull
Each tugs in a different way,
The greatest of all is John Bull.

Lines to Mr. Hodgson (afterwards Provost of Eton) written on board the
packet for Lisbon,

Huzza! Hodgson, we are going,
Our embargo's off at last,
Favourable breezes blowing
Bend the canvas o'er the mast,
From aloft the signal's streaming
Hark! the farewell gun is fired,
Women screeching, tars blaspheming,
Tell us that our time's expired.
Here's a rascal
Come to task all,
Prying from the custom house;
Trunks unpacking,
Cases cracking,
Not a corner for a mouse,
'Scapes unsearched amid the racket
Ere we sail on board the packet....

Now our boatmen quit the mooring,
And all hands must ply the oar:
Baggage from the quay is lowering,
We're impatient, push from shore.
"Have a care that case holds liquor--
Stop the boat--I'm sick--oh Lord!"
"Sick, ma'am, d--me, you'll be sicker,
Ere you've been an hour on board."
Thus are screaming
Men and women,
Gemmen, ladies, servants, tacks;
Here entangling,
All are wrangling,
Stuck together close as wax,
Such the general noise and racket
Ere we reach the Lisbon packet.

Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you?
Stretched along the deck like logs--
Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you!
Here's a rope's end for the dogs.
Hobhouse muttering fearful curses
As the hatchway down he rolls,
Now his breakfast, now his