Byron's+Longest...

And Thou Art Dead, As Young and Fair, first published in 1812

And thou art dead, as young and fair As aught of mortal birth; And form so soft, and charms so rare, Too soon return'd to Earth! Though Earth receiv'd them in her bed, And o'er the spot the crowd may tread In carelessness or mirth, There is an eye which could not brook A moment on that grave to look. I will not ask where thou liest low, Nor gaze upon the spot; There flowers or weeds at will may grow, So I behold them not: It is enough for me to prove That what I lov'd, and long must love, Like common earth can rot; To me there needs no stone to tell, 'T is Nothing that I lov'd so well. Yet did I love thee to the last As fervently as thou, Who didst not change through all the past, And canst not alter now. The love where Death has set his seal, Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, Nor falsehood disavow: And, what were worse, thou canst not see Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. The better days of life were ours; The worst can be but mine: The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, Shall never more be thine. The silence of that dreamless sleep I envy now too much to weep; Nor need I to repine That all those charms have pass'd away, I might have watch'd through long decay. The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd Must fall the earliest prey; Though by no hand untimely snatch'd, The leaves must drop away: And yet it were a greater grief To watch it withering, leaf by leaf, Than see it pluck'd to-day; Since earthly eye but ill can bear To trace the change to foul from fair. I know not if I could have borne To see thy beauties fade; The night that follow'd such a morn Had worn a deeper shade: Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd, And thou wert lovely to the last, Extinguish'd, not decay'd; As stars that shoot along the sky Shine brightest as they fall from high. As once I wept, if I could weep, My tears might well be shed, To think I was not near to keep One vigil o'er thy bed; To gaze, how fondly! on thy face, To fold thee in a faint embrace, Uphold thy drooping head; And show that love, however vain, Nor thou nor I can feel again. Yet how much less it were to gain, Though thou hast left me free, The loveliest things that still remain, Than thus remember thee! The all of thine that cannot die Through dark and dread Eternity Returns again to me, And more thy buried love endears Than aught except its living years.

Analysis by the following group members: Tara Bizri, Sherif Maktabi, Katerina Zakka, Natalie Tayim, & Aliya Zaki

It is evident that the speaker of this poem is re miniscing. He/She speaks of a girl that passed away at an early age.

Yet did I love thee to the last As fervently as thou, Who didst not change through all the past, And canst not alter now. The previous lines prove that no matter whether th girl is dead or alive, the speaker loves her equally. In the fifth stanza, the speaker juxtoposes leavesthat must drop away, thus nature, to the fair young girl. The atmosphere created is somewhat melancholic, regretful, and the readers get a sense that the speaker is suffering from guilt. The speaker suffers from guilt because he hasn't been able to take care of her in the way she deserved to be taken care of. Now that she is gone, the speaker is helpless, and it is obvious that his/her guilt will taunt him/her forever.

**__Dear Doctor, I Have Read Your Play,__** published 1830 Dear Doctor, I have read your play, Which is a good one in its way, Purges the eyes, and moves the bowels, And drenches handkerchiefs like towels With tears that, in a flux of grief, Afford hysterical relief To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses, Which your catastrophe convulses. I like your moral and machinery; Your plot, too, has such scope for scenery! Your dialogue is apt and smart; The play's concoction full of art; Your hero raves, your heroine cries, All stab, and everybody dies; In short, your tragedy would be The very thing to hear and see; And for a piece of publication, If I decline on this occasion, It is not that I am not sensible To merits in themselves ostensible, But--and I grieve to speak it--plays Are drugs--mere drugs, Sir, nowadays. I had a heavy loss by Manuel -- Too lucky if it prove not annual-- And Sotheby, with his damn'd Orestes (Which, by the way, the old bore's best is), Has lain so very long on hand That I despair of all demand; I've advertis'd--but see my books, Or only watch my shopman's looks; Still Ivan, Ina and such lumber My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber. There's Byron too, who once did better, Has sent me--folded in a letter-- A sort of--it's no more a drama Than Darnley, Ivan or Kehama : So alter'd since last year his pen is, I think he's lost his wits at Venice, Or drain'd his brains away as stallion To some dark-eyed and warm Italian; In short, Sir, what with one and t'other, I dare not venture on another. I write in haste; excuse each blunder; The coaches through the street so thunder! My room's so full; we've Gifford here Reading MSS with Hookham Frere, Pronouncing on the nouns and particles Of some of our forthcoming articles, The Quarterly --ah, Sir, if you Had but the genius to review! A smart critique upon St. Helena, Or if you only would but tell in a Short compass what--but, to resume; As I was saying, Sir, the room-- The room's so full of wits and bards, Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Freres and Wards, And others, neither bards nor wits-- My humble tenement admits All persons in the dress of Gent., From Mr. Hammond to Dog Dent. A party dines with me today, All clever men who make their way: Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton and Chantrey Are all partakers of my pantry. They're at this moment in discussion On poor De Sta{:e}l's late dissolution. Her book, they say, was in advance-- Pray Heaven she tell the truth of France! 'Tis said she certainly was married To Rocca, and had twice miscarried, No--not miscarried, I opine-- But brought to bed at forty nine. Some say she died a Papist; some Are of opinion that's a hum; I don't know that--the fellow, Schlegel, Was very likely to inveigle A dying person in compunction To try the extremity of unction. But peace be with her! for a woman Her talents surely were uncommon. Her publisher (and public too) The hour of her demise may rue, For never more within his shop he-- Pray--was she not interr'd at Coppet? Thus run our time and tongues away; But, to return, Sir, to your play; Sorry, Sir, but I cannot deal, Unless 'twere acted by O'Neill. My hands are full--my head so busy, I'm almost dead--and always dizzy; And so, with endless truth and hurry, Dear Doctor, I am yours,

JOHN MURRAY

Explaining "Dear Doctor":

This poem was writen by Lord Byron and requested by John Murray. John Murray is a publisher that lived durring the time of Byron. John Murrray asked him to write for him a "dehcate declension" for a play (a tragedy) writen by Byron's friend: Dr. K. W. Polidori. Instead of giving a normal literary criticism for a play, Byron sent John Murray a poem that included the criticism of the play.

In this poem, Byron refers to many other unseccuesful plays. For example: the plays writen by Sotheby (also mentioned in the poem), Orestes, Ivan, Death of Darnley.

Vers 45 and 46 refer to a room where John Murray made his business transaction (at 50 albermarle Street). Gifford is a satiric poet who was published by Murray.

Vers 60 refers to George Hammond, the associate of Murray and the founder of the Quarterly Review.

In vers 63: Malcom is Sir John Malcom who is a historian and a soldier. He was also the friend of murray.

Vers 66: Madame de Satael is one of the most famous french writer durring his time who Byron met once and she has just died.

Vers 70: Rocca is Madame de Satel's husband who she has married secretly.

Vers 75: Schegel refers to August Wilhelm Schegel who is a german critic. He has writen many poems and is a translator.

Vers 88: O'neil is Elizabeth O'neil. An important actress.

The above is written by Sherif Maktabi; he had his own analysis on the play and I have a different one explained below. However, the allusions made my Sherif are all true. This poem is a sardonic poem written by Byron as if it was written by John Murray, a publishing company, with which Byron had faught. This poem by Byron discusses consumer and what they demand in the market – how shallow and trivial works consumers demand. This poem is a poem written by Byron in the voice of John Murray. Byron, prior to writing this poem had fought with John Murthe public were demanding.

'Dear Doctor, I Have Read Your Play' is a sarcastic poem displaying the shallowness of the present. Murray, a publishing company who would not publish his poems as they were "too deep".