George Gordon, Lord Byron
¶[1788-1824]
465 Youth and Age
¶THERE'S not a joy the world can give like that it takes awayWhen the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast,But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.
¶Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happinessAre driven o'er the shoals of guilt, or ocean of excess:The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vainThe shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.
¶Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears,And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.
¶Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe,All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath.
¶O could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been,Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd scene,—As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me!
The Destruction of Sennacherib
¶THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
¶Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,That host with their banners at sunset were seen:Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
¶For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
¶And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
¶And there lay the rider distorted and pale,With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
¶And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
Elegy on Thyrza
¶AND thou art dead, as young and fairAs aught of mortal birth;And forms so soft and charms so rareToo soon return'd to Earth!Though Earth received them in her bed,And o'er the spot the crowd may treadIn carelessness or mirth,There is an eye which could not brookA moment on that grave to look.[786]I will not ask where thou liest lowNor gaze upon the spot;There flowers or weeds at will may growSo I behold them not:It is enough for me to proveThat what I loved, and long must loveLike common earth can rot;To me there needs no stone to tell'Tis Nothing that I loved so well.
¶Yet did I love thee to the last,As fervently as thouWho didst not change through all the pastAnd canst not alter now.The love where Death has set his sealNor age can chill, nor rival steal,Nor falsehood disavow:And, what were worse, thou canst not seeOr 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 lours,Shall never more be thine.The silence of that dreamless sleepI envy now too much to weep;Nor need I to repineThat all those charms have pass'd awayI might have watch'd through long decay.
¶The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'dMust fall the earliest prey;Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,The leaves must drop away.And yet it were a greater griefTo watch it withering, leaf by leaf,Than see it pluck'd today;Since earthly eye but ill can bearTo trace the change to foul from fair.[787]I know not if I could have borneTo see thy beauties fade;The night that follow'd such a moraHad worn a deeper shade:Thy day without a cloud hath past,And thou wert lovely to the last,Extinguish'd, not decay'd;As stars that shoot along the skyShine brightest as they fall from high.
¶As once I wept, if I could weep,My tears might well be shedTo think I was not near, to keepOne 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 remainThan thus remember thee!The all of thine that cannot dieThrough dark and dread EternityReturns again to me,And more thy buried love endearsThan aught except its living years.
WHEN WE Two PARTED
¶WHEN we two parted
¶In silence and tears,Half broken-hearted,To sever for years,Pale grew thy cheek and cold,Colder thy kiss;Truly that hour foretoldSorrow to this![788]The dew of the morningSunk chill on my brow;It felt like the warningOf what I feel now.Thy vows are all broken,And light is thy fame:I hear thy name spokenAnd share in its shame.
¶They name thee before me,A knell to mine ear;A shudder comes o'er me—Why wert thou so dear?They know not I knew theeWho knew thee too well:Long, long shall I rue theeToo deeply to tell.
¶In secret we met:In silence I grieveThat thy heart could forget,Thy spirit deceive.If I should meet theeAfter long years,How should I greet thee?—With silence and tears.
For Music
¶THERE be none of Beauty's daughtersWith a magic like thee;And like music on the watersIs thy sweet voice to me:When, as if its sound were causingThe charmed ocean's pausing,The waves lie still and gleaming,And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:
¶And the midnight moon is weavingHer bright chain o'er the deep,Whose breast is gently heavingAs an infant's asleep:[789]So the spirit bows before theeTo listen and adore thee;With a full but soft emotion,Like the swell of Summer's ocean.
She Walks in Beauty
¶SHE walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies,And all that's best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes;Thus mellow'd to that tender lightWhich heaven to gaudy day denies.
¶One shade the more, one ray the less,Had half impair'd the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tressOr softly lightens o'er her face,Where thoughts serenely sweet expressHow pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
¶And on that cheek and o'er that browSo soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glowBut tell of days in goodness spent,—A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent.
All for Love
¶O TALK not to me of a name great in story;The days of our youth are the days of our glory;And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twentyAre worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
¶What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled:Then away with all such from the head that is hoary—What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?
¶Oh Fame!—if I e'er took delight in thy praises,'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,[790]Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discoverShe thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
¶There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.
4j2 Elegy
¶O SNATCH'D away in beauty's bloom!On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;But on thy turf shall roses rearTheir leaves, the earliest of the year,And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:
¶And oft by yon blue gushing streamShall Sorrow lean her drooping head,And feed deep thought with many a dream,And lingering pause and lightly tread;Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead.
¶Away! we know that tears are vain,That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:Will this unteach us to complain?Or make one mourner weep the less?And thou, who tell'st me to forget,Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.
To AUGUSTA
¶THOUGH the day of my destiny's over,And the star of my fate hath declined,Thy soft heart refused to discoverThe faults which so many could find.Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,It shrunk not to share it with me,And the love which my spirit hath paintedIt never hath found but in thee.
¶Then when nature around me is smiling,The last smile which answers to mine,[791]I do not believe it beguiling,Because it reminds me of thine;And when winds are at war with the ocean,As the breasts I believed in with me,If their billows excite an emotion,It is that they bear me from thee.
¶Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,And its fragments are sunk in the wave,Though I feel that my soul is deliveredTo pain—it shall not be its slave.There is many a pang to pursue me:They may crush, but they shall not contemn;They may torture, but shall not subdue me;'Tis of thee that I think—not of them.
¶Though human, thou didst not deceive me,Though woman, thou didst not forsake,Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,Though slander'd, thou never couldst shake;Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,Though parted, it was not to fly,Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me,Nor, mute, that the world might belie.
¶Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,Nor the war of the many with one;If my soul was not fitted to prize it,'Twas folly not sooner to shun:And if dearly that error hath cost me,And more than I once could foresee,I have found that, whatever it lost me,It could not deprive me of thee.
¶From the wreck of the past, which hath perish'd,Thus much I at least may recall,It hath taught me that what I most cherish'dDeserved to be dearest of all:In the desert a fountain is springing,In the wide waste there still is a tree,And a bird in the solitude singing,Which speaks to my spirit of thee.
Epistle to Augusta
¶MY sister! my sweet sister! if a nameDearer and purer were, it should be thine;Mountains and seas divide us, but I claimNo tears, but tenderness to answer mine:Go where I will, to me thou art the same—A loved regret which I would not resign.There yet are two things in my destiny,—A world to roam through, and a home with thee.
¶The first were nothing—had I still the last,It were the haven of my happiness;But other claims and other ties thou hast,And mine is not the wish to make them less.A strange doom is thy father's son's, and pastRecalling, as it lies beyond redress;Reversed for him our grandsire's fate of yore,—He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore.
¶If my inheritance of storms hath beenIn other elements, and on the rocksOf perils, overlook'd or unforeseen,I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks,The fault was mine; nor do I seek to screenMy errors with defensive paradox;I have been cunning in mine overthrow,The careful pilot of my proper woe.
¶Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward.My whole life was a contest, since the dayThat gave me being, gave me that which marr'dThe gift,—a fate, or will, that walk'd astray;And I at times have found the struggle hard,And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay:But now I fain would for a time survive,If but to see what next can well arrive.
¶Kingdoms and empires in my little dayI have outlived, and yet I am not old:[793]And when I look on this, the petty sprayOf my own years of trouble, which have roll'dLike a wild bay of breakers, melts away:Something—I know not what—does still upholdA spirit of slight patience;—not in vain,Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain.
¶Perhaps the workings of defiance stirWithin me,—or perhaps a cold despair,Brought when ills habitually recur,—Perhaps a kindlier clime, or purer air,(For even to this may change of soul refer,And with light armour we may learn to bear),Have taught me a strange quiet, which was notThe chief companion of a calmer lot.
¶I feel almost at times as I have feltIn happy childhood; trees, and flowers, and brooks,Which do remember me of where I dweltEre my young mind was sacrificed to books,Come as of yore upon me, and can meltMy heart with recognition of their looks;And even at moments I could think I seeSome living thing to love—but none like thee.
¶Here are the Alpine landscapes which createA fund for contemplation—to admireIs a brief feeling of a trivial date;But something worthier do such scenes inspire;Here to be lonely is not desolate,For much I view which I could most desire,And, above all, a lake I can beholdLovelier, not dearer, than our own of old.
¶Oh that thou wert but with me!—but I growThe fool of my own wishes, and forgetThe solitude, which I have vaunted so,Has lost its praise in this but one regret;There may be others which I less may show!—I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet[794]I feel an ebb in my philosophy,And the tide rising in my alter'd eye.
¶I did remind thee of our own dear Lake,By the old Hall which may be mine no more.Leman's is fair; but think not I forsakeThe sweet remembrance of a dearer shore;Sad havoc Time must with my memory make,Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before;Though, like all things which I have loved, they areResign'd for ever, or divided far.
¶The world is all before me; I but askOf Nature that with which she will comply—It is but in her summer's sun to bask,To mingle with the quiet of her sky,To see her gentle face without a mask,And never gaze on it with apathy.She was my early friend, and now shall beMy sister—till I look again on thee.
¶I can reduce all feeling but this one;And that I would not;—for at length I seeSuch scenes as those wherein my life begun.The earliest—even the only paths for me—Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun,I had been better than I now can be;The passions which have torn me would have slept;/ had not suffer'd and thou hadst not wept.
¶With false Ambition what had I to do?Little with Love, and least of all with Fame;And yet they came unsought, and with me grew,And made me all which they can make—a name.Yet this was not the end I did pursue;Surely I once beheld a nobler aim.But all is over—I am one the moreTo baffled millions which have gone before.
¶And for the future, this world's future mayFrom me demand but little of my care;[795]I have outlived myself by many a day;Having survived so many things that were;My years have been no slumber, but the preyOf ceaseless vigils; for I had the shareOf life which might have fill'd a century,Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by.
¶And for the remnant which may be to comeI am content; and for the past I feelNot thankless,—for within the crowded sumOf struggles, happiness at times would steal,And for the present, I would not benumbMy feelings farther.—Nor shall I concealThat with all this I still can look around,And worship Nature with a thought profound.
¶For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heartI know myself secure, as thou in mine.We were and are—I am, even as thou art—Beings who ne'er each other can resign:It is the same, together or apart,From life's commencement to its slow declineWe are entwined—let death come slow or fast,The tie which bound the first endures the last!
Maid of Athens
¶MAID of Athens, ere we part,Give, oh, give me back my heart IOr, since that has left my breast,Keep it now, and take the rest!Hear my vow, before I go,
¶Ziiri ftov, eras &yaTw.
¶By those tresses unconfined,Woo'd by each iEgean wind;By those lids whose jetty fringeKiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge;By those wild eyes like the roe,
¶7,iiri fiov, aas &ya,Tu.[796]By that lip I long to taste;By that zone-encircled waist;By all the token-flowers that tellWhat words can never speak so well;By love's alternate joy and woe,
¶Zcoi; fiov, ads aia.iru>.
¶Maid of Athens! I am gone:Think of me, sweet! when alone.Though I fly to Istambol,Athens holds my heart and soul;Can I cease to love thee? No!
¶ZtoTj nod, cds &7a7rd>.
Darkness
¶I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream,The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the starsDid wander darkling in the eternal space,Rayless, and pathless; and the icy earthSwung blind and blackening in the moonless airMorn came and went—and came, and brought no <And men forgot their passions in the dreadOf this their desolation: and all heartsWere chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones,The palaces of crowned kings—the huts,The habitations of all things which dwell,Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed,And men were gathered round their blazing homesTo look once more into each other's faceHappy were those who dwelt within the eyeOf the volcanoes, and their mountain-torch:A fearful hope was all the world contained;Forests were set on fire—but hour by hourThey fell and faded—and the crackling trunksExtinguish'd with a crash—and all was black.The brows of men by the despairing lightWore an unearthly aspect, as by fitsThe flashes fell upon them; some lay downAnd hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest[797]Their chins upon their clenched hands and smiled;And others hurried to and fro, and fedTheir funeral piles with fuel, and look'd upWith mad disquietude on the dull sky,The pall of a past world; and then againWith curses cast them down upon the dust,And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd,And, terrified, did flutter on the ground.And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutesCame tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'dAnd twined themselves among the multitude,Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food:And War, which for a moment was no more,Did glut himself again:—a meal was boughtWith blood, and each sate sullenly apartGorging himself in gloom: no love was left;All earth was but one thought—and that was deathImmediate and inglorious; and the pangOf famine fed upon all entrails—menDied, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,And he was faithful to a corse, and keptThe birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,Till hunger clung them, or the dropping deadLured their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,But with a piteous and perpetual moan,And a quick desolate cry, licking the handWhich answer'd not with a caress—he died.The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but twoOf an enormous city did survive,And they were enemies: they met besideThe dying embers of an altar-place,Where had been heap'd a mass of holy thingsFor an unholy usage; they raked up,And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton handsThe feeble ashes, and their feeble breathBlew for a little life, and made a flameWhich was a mockery; then they lifted upTheir eyes as it grew lighter, and beheldEach other's aspects—saw and shriek'd, and died—[798]Ev'n of their mutual hideousness they died,Unknowing who he was upon whose browFamine had written Fiend. The world was void,The populous, and the powerful was a lump,Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless,A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay.The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still,And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they dropp'd,They slept on the abyss without a surge—The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,The Moon, their mistress, had expired before;The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no needOf aid from them—She was the Universe!
Longing
¶THE castled crag of DrachenfelsFrowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,Whose breast of waters broadly swellsBetween the banks which bear the vine.And hills all rich with blossom'd trees,And fields which promise corn and wine,And scatter'd cities crowning these,Whose far white walls along them shine,Have strew'd a scene, which I should seeWith double joy wert thou with me.
¶And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes,And hands which offer early flowers,Walk smiling o'er this paradise:Above, the frequent feudal towersThrough green leaves lift their walls of gray;And many a rock which steeply lowers,And noble arch in proud decay,Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers;But one thing want these banks of Rhine,—Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine![799]I send the lilies given to me;Though long before thy hand they touch,I know that they must wither'd be,But yet reject them not as such;For I have cherish'd them as dear,Because they yet may meet thine eye,And guide thy soul to mine even here,When thou behold'st them, drooping nigh,And know'st them gather'd by the Rhine,And offer'd from my heart to thine!
¶The river nobly foams and flows,The charm of this enchanted ground,And all its thousand turns discloseSome fresher beauty varying round:The haughtiest breast its wish might boundThrough life to dwell delighted here;Nor could on earth a spot be foundTo nature and to me so dear,Could thy dear eyes in following mineStill sweeten more these banks of Rhine!
Fare Thee Well
¶FARE thee well! and if for ever,Still for ever, fare thee well:Even though unforgiving, never'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.
¶Would that breast were bared before theeWhere thy head so oft hath lain,While that placid sleep came o'er theeWhich thou ne'er canst know again:
¶Would that breast, by thee glanced over,Every inmost thought could show!Then thou wouldst at last discover'Twas not well to spurn it so.
¶Though the world for this commend thee—Though it smile upon the blow,[800]Even its praises must offend thee,Founded on another's woe:
¶Though my many faults defaced me,Could no other arm be found,Than the one which once embraced me,To inflict a cureless wound?
¶Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not;Love may sink by slow decay,But by sudden wrench, believe notHearts can thus be torn away:
¶Still thine own its life retaineth,Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;And the undying thought which painethIs—that we no more may meet.
¶These are words of deeper sorrowThan the wail above the dead;Both shall live, but every morrowWake us from a widow'd bed.
¶And when thou wouldst solace gather,When our child's first accents flow,Wilt thou teach her to say 'Father!'Though his care she must forego?
¶When her little hands shall press thee,When her lip to thine is press'd,Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,Think of him thy love had bless'd!
¶Should her lineaments resembleThose thou never more may'st see,Then thy heart will softly trembleWith a pulse yet true to me.
¶All my faults perchance thou knowest,All my madness none can know;[801]All my hopes, where'er thou goest,Wither, yet with thee they go.
¶Every feeling hath been shaken;Pride, which not a world could bow,Bows to thee—by thee forsaken,Even my soul forsakes me now:
¶But 'tis done—all words are idle—Words from me are vainer still;But the thoughts we cannot bridleForce their way without the will.
¶Fare thee well! thus disunited,Torn from every nearer tie,Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted,More than this I scarce can die.
The Prisoner of Chillon
¶MY hair is gray, but not with years,Nor grew it whiteIn a single night,As men's have grown from sudden fears;My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil,But rusted with a vile repose,For they have been a dungeon's spoil,And mine has been the fate of thoseTo whom the goodly earth and airAre bann'd, and barr'd—forbidden fare;But this was for my father's faithI suffer'd chains and courted death;That father perish'd at the stakeFor tenets he would not forsake;And for the same his lineal raceIn darkness found a dwelling-place.We were seven—who now are one,Six in youth, and one in age,Finish'd as they had begun,Proud of Persecution's rage;One in fire, and two in field[802]Their belief with blood have seal'd,Dying as their father died,For the God their foes denied;Three were in a dungeon cast,Of whom this wreck is left the last.
¶There are seven pillars of Gothic mould,In Chillon's dungeons deep and old,There are seven columns, massy and giDim with a dull imprison'd ray,A sunbeam which hath lost its way,And through the crevice and the cleftOf the thick wall is fallen and left;Creeping o'er the floor so damp,Like a marsh's meteor lamp.And in each pillar there is a ring,And in each ring there is a chain;That iron is a cankering thing,For in these limbs its teeth remain,With marks that will not wear away,Till I have done with this new day,Which now is painful to these eyes,Which have not seen the sun so riseFor years—I cannot count them o'er,I lost their long and heavy score,When my last brother droop'd and died,And I lay living by his side.
¶They chain'd us each to a column stone,And we were three—yet, each alone;We could not move a single pace,We could not see each other's face,But with that pale and livid lightThat made us strangers in our sight:And thus together—yet apart,Fetter'd in hand, but join'd in heart,'Twas still some solace, in the dearthOf the pure elements of earth,To hearken to each other's speech,And each turn comforter to each[803]With some new hope, or legend old,Or song heroically bold;But even these at length grew cold,Our voices took a dreary tone,An echo of the dungeon stone,A grating sound, not full and free,As they of yore were wont to be;It might be fancy, but to meThey never sounded like our own.
¶I was the eldest of the three,And to uphold and cheer the restI ought to do—and did my best;And each did well in his degree.The youngest, whom my father loved,Because our mother's brow was givenTo him, with eyes as blue as heaven—For him my soul was sorely moved;And truly might it be distress'dTo see such bird in such a nest;For he was beautiful as day(When day was beautiful to meAs to young eagles, being free)—A polar day, which will not seeA sunset till its summer's gone,Its sleepless summer of long light,The snow-clad offspring of the sun:And thus he was as pure and bright,And in his natural spirit gay,With tears for nought but others' ills;And then they flow'd like mountain rills,Unless he could assuage the woeWhich he abhorr'd to view below.
¶The other was as pure of mind,But form'd to combat with his kind;Strong in his frame, and of a moodWhich 'gainst the world in war had stood,And perish'd in the foremost rankWith joy:—but not in chains to pine:[804]His spirit wither'd with their clank,I saw it silently decline—And so perchance in sooth did mine:But yet I forced it on to cheerThose relics of a home so dear.He was a hunter of the hills,Had follow'd there the deer and wolf;To him this dungeon was a gulf,And fetter'd feet the worst of ills.
¶Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls:A thousand feet in depth belowIts massy waters meet and flow;Thus much the fathom-line was sentFrom Chillon's snow-white battlementWhich round about the wave inthrals:A double dungeon wall and waveHave made—and like a living grave.Below the surface of the lakeThe dark vault lies wherein we lay,We heard it ripple night and day;Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd;And I have felt the winter's sprayWash through the bars when winds wereAnd wanton in the happy sky;And then the very rock hath rock'd,And I have felt it shake, unshock'dBecause I could have smiled to seeThe death that would have set me free.
¶I said my nearer brother pined,I said his mighty heart declined,He loathed and put away his food;It was not that 'twas coarse and rude,For we were used to hunter's fare,And for the like had little care.The milk drawn from the mountain goatWas changed for water from the moat,Our bread was such as captives' tearsHave moistened many a thousand years,[805]Since man first pent his fellow menLike brutes within an iron den;But what were these to us or him?These wasted not his heart or limb;My brother's soul was of that mouldWhich in a palace had grown cold,Had his free breathing been deniedThe range of the steep mountain's side.But why delay the truth? —he died.I saw, and could not hold his head,Nor reach his dying hand—nor dead, —Though hard I strove, but strove in vainTo rend and gnash my bonds in twain.He died,—and they unlock'd his chain,And scoop'd for him a shallow graveEven from the cold earth of our cave.I begg'd them, as a boon, to layHis corse in dust whereon the dayMight shine—it was a foolish thought,But then within my brain it wrought,That even in death his freeborn breastIn such a dungeon could not rest.I might have spared my idle prayer;They coldly laugh'd—and laid him there:The flat and turfless earth aboveThe being we so much did love;His empty chain above it leant,Such murder's fitting monument!
¶But he, the favourite and the flower,Most cherish'd since his natal hour,His mother's image in fair face,The infant love of all his race,His martyr'd father's dearest thought,My latest care for whom I soughtTo hoard my life, that his might beLess wretched now, and one day free; •He, too, who yet had held untiredA spirit natural or inspired—He, too, was struck, and day by day[806]Was wither'd on the stalk away.Oh, God! it is a fearful thingTo see the human soul take wingIn any shape, in any mood:—I've seen it rushing forth in blood,I've seen it on the breaking oceanStrive with a swoln convulsive motion,I've seen the sick and ghastly bedOf Sin delirious with its dread:But these were horrors—this was woeUnmix'd with such—but sure and slow.He faded, and so calm and meek,So softly worn, so sweetly weak,So tearless, yet so tender—kind,And grieved for those he left behind;With all the while a cheek whose bloomWas as a mockery of the tomb,Whose tints as gently sunk awayAs a departing rainbow's ray;An eye of most transparent light,That almost made the dungeon bright;And not a word of murmur, notA groan o'er his untimely lot,—A little talk of better days,A little hope my own to raise,For I was sunk in silence—lostIn this last loss, of all the most;And then the sighs he would suppressOf fainting nature's feebleness,More slowly drawn, grew less and less.I listen'd, but I could not hear—I call'd, for I was wild with fear;I knew't was hopeless, but my dreadWould not be thus admonished.I call'd, and thought I heard a sound—I burst my chain with one strong bound,And rush'd to him:—I found him not,/ only stirr'd in this black spot,/ only lived, / only drewThe accursed breath of dungeon-dew;[807]The last—the sole—the dearest linkBetween me and the eternal brink,Which bound me to my failing race,Was broken in this fatal place.One on the earth, and one beneath—My brothers—both had ceased to breathe:I took that hand which lay so still,Alas! my own was full as chill;I had not strength to stir, or strive,But felt that I was still alive—A frantic feeling, when we knowThat what we love shall ne'er be so.I know not whyI could not die,I had no earthly hope—but faith,And that forbade a selfish death.
¶What next befell me then and thereI know not well—I never knew;First came the loss of light, and air,And then of darkness too:I had no thought, no feeling—none—Among the stones, I stood a stone,And was, scarce conscious what I wist,As shrubless crags within the mist;For all was blank, and bleak, and gray;It was not night—it was not day;It was not even the dungeon-light,So hateful to my heavy sight,But vacancy absorbing space,And fixedness—without a place;There were no stars, no earth, no time,No check, no change, no good, no crime,But silence, and a stirless breathWhich neither was of life nor death;A sea of stagnant idleness,Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless!
¶A light broke in upon my brain,—It was the carol of a bird;[808]It ceased, and then it came again,The sweetest song ear ever heard,And mine was thankful till my eyesRan over with the glad surprise,And they that moment could not seeI was the mate of misery.But then by dull degrees came backMy senses to their wonted track;I saw the dungeon walls and floorClose slowly round me as before,I saw the glimmer of the sunCreeping as it before had done,But through the crevice where it cameThat bird was perched, as fond and tame,And tamer than upon the tree;A lovely bird, with azure wings,And song that said a thousand things,And seemed to say them all for melI never saw its like before,I ne'er shall see its likeness more;It seemed like me to want a mate,But was not half so desolate,And it was come to love me whenNone lived to love me so again,And cheering from my dungeon's brink,Had brought me back to feel and think.
¶I know not if it late were free,Or broke its cage to perch on mine,But knowing well captivity,Sweet bird! I could not wish for thine!Or if it were, in winged guise,A visitant from Paradise;For—Heaven forgive that thought! the whileWhich made me both to weep and smile—I sometimes deem'd that it might beMy brother's soul come down to me;But then at last away it flew,And then 'twas mortal well I knew,For he would never thus have flown,[809]And left me twice so doubly lone,Lone—as the corse within its shroud,Lone—as a solitary cloud,A single cloud on a sunny day,While all the rest of heaven is clear,A frown upon the atmosphereThat hath no business to appearWhen skies are blue and earth is gay.
¶A kind of change came in my fate,My keepers grew compassionate;I know not what had made them so,They were inured to sights of woe,But so it was:—my broken chainWith links unfasten'd did remain,And it was liberty to strideAlong my cell from side to side,And up and down, and then athwart,And tread it over every part;And round the pillars one by one,Returning where my walk begun,Avoiding only, as I trod,My brothers' graves without a sod;For if I thought with heedless treadMy steps profaned their lowly bed,My breath came gaspingly and thick,And my crush'd heart fell blind and sick.
¶I made a footing in the wall,It was not therefrom to escape,For I had buried one and allWho loved me in a human shape;And the whole earth would henceforth beA wider prison unto me:No child, no sire, no kin had I,No partner in my misery;I thought of this, and I was glad,For thought of them had made me mad;But I was curious to ascendTo my barr'd windows, and to bend[810]Once more, upon the mountains high,The quiet of a loving eye.I saw them—and they were the same.They were not changed like me in frame;I saw their thousand years of snowOn high—their wide long lake below,And the blue Rhone in fullest flow;I heard the torrents leap and gushO'er channell'd rock and broken bush;I saw the white-wall'd distant town,And whiter sails go skimming down;And then there was a little isle,Which in my very face did smile,The only one in view;A small green isle, it seem'd no more,Scarce broader than my dungeon floor,But in it there were three tall trees,And o'er it blew the mountain breeze,And by it there were waters flowing,And on it there were young flowers growingOf gentle breath and hue.The fish swam by the castle wall,And they seem'd joyous each and all;The eagle rode the rising blast,Methought he never flew so fastAs then to me he seem'd to fly;And then new tears came in my eye,And I felt troubled and would fainI had not left my recent chain.And when I did descend again,The darkness of my dim abodeFell on me as a heavy load;It was as is a new-dug grave,Closing o'er one we sought to save;And yet my glance, too much opprest,Had almost need of such a rest.
¶It might be months, or years, or days—I kept no count, I took no note,I had no hope my eyes to raise,And clear them of their dreary mote.[811]At last men came to set me free;I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where,It was at length the same to me,Fetter'd or fetterless to be,I learn'd to love despair.And thus when they appear'd at last,And all my bonds aside were cast,These heavy walls to me had grownA hermitage—and all my own!And half I felt as they were comeTo tear me from a second home:With spiders I had friendship made,And watch'd them in their sullen trade,Had seen the mice by moonlight play,And why should I feel less than they?We were all inmates of one place,And I, the monarch of each race,Had power to kill—yet, strange to tell!In quiet we had learn'd to dwell—My very chains and I grew friends,So much a long communion tendsTo make us what we are:—even IRegain'd my freedom with a sigh.
On the Castle of Chillon
¶ETERNAL Spirit of the chainless Mind!Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art,—For there thy habitation is the heart—The heart which love of Thee alone can bind;
¶And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd,To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,Their country conquers with their martyrdom,And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind*
¶Chillon! thy prison is a holy placeAnd thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod,Until his very steps have left a trace
¶Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod,By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface 1For they appeal from tyranny to God.
Song of Saul Before His Last Battle
¶WARRIORS and chiefs! should the shaft or the swordPierce me in leading the host of the Lord,Heed not the corse, though a king's in your path:Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath!
¶Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow,Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe,Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet!Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet.
¶Farewell to others, but never we part,Heir to my royalty, son of my heart!Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway,Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day!
The Isles of Greece
¶THE isles of Greece! the isles of Greece!Where burning Sappho loved and sung,Where grew the arts of war and peace,Where Delos rose, and Phcebus sprung!Eternal summer gilds them yet,But all, except their sun, is set.
¶The Scian and the Teian muse,The hero's harp, the lover's lute,Have found the fame your shores refuse:Their place of birth alone is muteTo sounds which echo further westThan your sires' 'Islands of the Blest.'
¶The mountains look on Marathon—And Marathon looks on the sea;And musing there an hour alone,I dream'd that Greece might still be free;For standing on the Persians' grave,I could not deem myself a slave.[813]A king sate on the rocky browWhich looks o'er sea-born Salamis;And ships, by thousands, lay below,And men in nations;—all were his!He counted them at break of day—And when the sun set, where were they?
¶And where are they ? and where art thou,My country? On thy voiceless shoreThe heroic lay is tuneless now—The heroic bosom beats no more!And must thy lyre, so long divine,Degenerate into hands like mine?
¶'Tis something in the dearth of fame,Though link'd among a fetter'd race,To feel at least a patriot's shame,Even as I sing, suffuse my face;For what is left the poet here?For Greeks a blush—for Greece a tear.
¶Must we but weep o'er days more blest?Must we but blush?—Our fathers bled.Earth! render back from out thy breastA remnant of our Spartan dead!Of the three hundred grant but three,To make a new Thermopylae!
¶What, silent still? and silent all?Ah! no;—the voices of the deadSound like a distant torrent's fall,And answer, 'Let one living head,But one, arise,—we come, we come!''Tis but the living who are dumb.
¶In vain—in vain: strike other.chords;Fill high the cup with Samian wine!Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,And shed the blood of Scio's vine!Hark! rising to the ignoble call—How answers each bold Bacchanal![814]You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet;Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?Of two such lessons, why forgetThe nobler and the manlier one?You have the letters Cadmus gave—Think ye he meant them for a slave?
¶Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!We will not think of themes like these!It made Anacreon's song divine:He served—but served Polycrates—A tyrant; but our masters thenWere still, at least, our countrymen.
¶The tyrant of the ChersoneseWas freedom's best and bravest friend;That tyrant was Miltiades!O that the present hour would lendAnother despot of the kind!Such chains as his were sure to bind.
¶Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore,Exists the remnant of a lineSuch as the Doric mothers bore;And there, perhaps, some seed is sown,The Heracleidan blood might own.
¶Trust not for freedom to the Franks—They have a king who buys and sells;In native swords and native ranksThe only hope of courage dwells:But Turkish force and Latin fraudWould break your shield, however broad.
¶Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!Our virgins dance beneath the shade—I see their glorious black eyes shine;But gazing on each glowing maid,My own the burning tear-drop laves,To think such breasts must suckle slaves.[815]Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,Where nothing, save the waves and I,May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;There, swan-like, let me sing and die:A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine—Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!
On This Day I Complete My Thirty-sixth Year
¶'TIS time this heart should be unmoved,Since others it hath ceased to move:Yet, though I cannot be beloved,Still let me love!
¶My days are in the yellow leaf;The flowers and fruits of love are gone;The worm, the canker, and the griefAre mine alone!
¶The fire that on my bosom preysIs lone as some volcanic isle;No torch is kindled at its blaze—A funeral pile.
¶The hope, the fear, the jealous care,The exalted portion of the painAnd power of love, I cannot share,But wear the chain.
¶But 'tis not thus—and 'tis not here—
¶The sword, the banner, and the field,Glory and Greece, around me see!The Spartan, borne upon his shield,Was not more free.
¶Awake! (not Greece—she is awake!)Awake, my spirit! Think throughThy life-blood tracks its parent lake,And then strike home![816]Tread those reviving passions down,Unworthy manhood!—unto theeIndifferent should the smile or frownOf beauty be.
p. 816¶If thou regret'st thy youth, why live?The land of honourable deathIs here:—up to the field, and giveAway thy breath!
¶Seek out—less often sought than found—A soldier's grave, for thee the best;Then look around, and choose thy ground,And take thy rest.
¶A T MISSOLONGHI, January 22, 1824.