Chapter 216 of 280 · 3737 words · ~19 min read

V.

_By day or night, in weal or woe_, _That heart no longer free_ _Must bear the love it cannot show_, _And silent turn for thee_.--[MS. M.]

[293] [Compare "Nay, now, pry'thee weep no more! you know, ... that 'tis sinful to murmur at ... Providence."--"And should not that reflection check your own, my Blanche?"--"Why are your cheeks so wet? Fie! fie, my child!"--_Romantic Tales_, by M. G. Lewis, 1808, i. 53.]

[294] [Compare "My soul is dark."--Ossian, "Oina-Morul," _The Works of Ossian_, 1765, ii. 279.]

[295] {390} ["It was generally conceived that Lord Byron's reported singularities approached on some occasions to derangement; and at one period, indeed, it was very currently asserted that his intellects were actually impaired. The report only served to amuse his Lordship. He referred to the circumstance, and declared that he would try how a _Madman_ could write: seizing the pen with eagerness, he for a moment fixed his eyes in majestic wildness on vacancy; when, like a flash of inspiration, without erasing a single word, the above verses were the result."--_Fugitive Pieces_, 1829, p. 37.]

[296] [Compare the first _Sonnet to Genevra_ (addressed to Lady Frances Wedderburn Webster), "Thine eye's blue tenderness."]

[lm] {392} _He stands amidst an earthly cloud_, _And the mist mantled o'er his floating shroud_.--[MS. erased.]

[ln] _At once and scorched beneath_----.--[MS. Copy (1, 2).]

[lo] _Bloodless are these bones_----.--[MS.]

[297] ["Since we have spoken of witches," said Lord Byron at Cephalonia, in 1823, "what think you of the witch of Endor? I have always thought this the finest and most finished witch-scene that ever was written or conceived; and you will be of my opinion, if you consider all the circumstances and the actors in the case, together with the gravity, simplicity, and dignity of the language."--_Conversations on Religion with Lord Byron_, by James Kennedy, M.D., London, 1830, p. 154.]

[lp] {393} _Heed not the carcase that lies in your path_.--[MS. Copy (1).]

[lq] ----_my shield and my bow_, _Should the ranks of your king look away from the foe_.--[MS.]

[lr] {394} _Heir to my monarchy_----.--[MS.] Note to _Heir_--Jonathan.--[Copy.]

[ls] _My father was the shepherd's son_, _Ah were my lot as lowly_ _My earthly course had softly run_.--[MS.]

[298] {395} [Compare _Childe Harold_, Canto I. stanza lxxxii. lines 8, 9--

"Full from the fount of Joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings." _Poetical Works_, 1899, ii. 73, and note 16, p. 93.]

[lt] _Ah! what hath been but what shall be_, _The same dull scene renewing?_ _And all our fathers were are we_ _In erring and undoing_.--[MS.]

[lu] _When this corroding clay is gone_.--[MS. erased.]

[lv] _The stars in their eternal way_.--[MS. L. erased.]

[lw] {396} _A conscious light that can pervade_.--[MS. erased.]

[299] {397} [Compare the lines entitled "Belshazzar" (_vide post_, p. 421), and _Don Juan_, Canto III. stanza lxv.]

[lx] ----_in the hall_.--[Copy.]

[ly] _In Israel_----.--[Copy.]

[300] {398} [It was not in his youth, but in extreme old age, that Daniel interpreted the "writing on the wall."]

[lz] _Oh king thy grave_----.--[Copy erased.]

[301] {400} [Mariamne, the wife of Herod the Great, falling under the suspicion of infidelity, was put to death by his order. Ever after, Herod was haunted by the image of the murdered Mariamne, until disorder of the mind brought on disorder of body, which led to temporary derangement. See _History of the Jews_, by H. H. Milman, 1878, pp. 236, 237. See, too, Voltaire's drama, _Mariamne_, _passim_.

Nathan, wishing "to be favoured with so many lines pathetic, some playful, others martial, etc.... one evening ... unfortunately (while absorbed for a moment in worldly affairs) requested so many _dull_ lines--meaning _plaintive_." Byron instantly caught at the expression, and exclaimed, "Well, Nathan! you have at length set me an easy task," and before parting presented him with "these beautifully pathetic lines, saying, 'Here, Nathan, I think you will find these _dull_ enough.'"--_Fugitive Pieces_, 1829, p. 51.]

[ma] _And what was rage is agony_.--[MS. erased.] _Revenge is turned_----.--[MS.]

[mb] _And deep Remorse_----.--[MS.]

[mc] _And what am I thy tyrant pleading_.--[MS. erased.]

[md] _Thou art not dead--they could not dare_ _Obey my jealous Frenzy's raving_.--[MS.]

[me] _But yet in death my soul enslaving_.--[MS. erased.]

[mf] {401} _Oh I have earned_----.--[MS.]

[mg] ----_that looks o'er thy once holy dome_.--[MS.]

[mh] ----_o'er thy once holy wall_ _I beheld thee O Sion the day of thy fall_.--[MS. erased.]

[mi] _And forgot in their ruin_----.--[MS. erased.]

[mj] {402} _And the red bolt_----.--[MS. erased.] _And the thunderbolt crashed_----.--[MS.]

[302] [The following note, in Byron's handwriting, is prefixed to the copy in Lady Byron's handwriting:--

"Dear Kinnaird,--Take only _one_ of these marked 1 and 2 [i.e. 'By the Rivers,' etc.; and 'By the waters,' _vide_ p. 404], as both are but different versions of the _same thought_--leave the choice to any important person you like. Yours, B."]

[303] [Landor, in his "Dialogue between Southey and Porson" (_Works_, 1846, i. 69), attempted to throw ridicule on the opening lines of this "Melody."

"A prey in 'the hue of his slaughters'! This is very pathetic; but not more so than the thought it suggested to me, which is plainer--

'We sat down and wept by the waters Of Camus, and thought of the day When damsels would show their red garters In their hurry to scamper away.'"]

[mk] {403} _Our mute harps were hung on the willow_ _That grew by the stream of our foe_, _And in sadness we gazed on each billow_ _That rolled on in freedom below_.--[MS, erased.]

[ml] _On the willow that harp still hangs mutely_ _Oh Salem its sound was for thee_.--[MS. erased.]

[304] {405} [Compare--"As leaves in autumn, so the bodies fell." _The Barons' Wars_, by Michael Drayton, Bk. II. stanza lvii.; Anderson's _British Poets_, iii. 38.]

[mm] _And the foam of his bridle lay cold on the earth_.--[MS.]

[mn] ----_of the cliff-beating surf_.--[MS.]

[mo] _With the crow on his breast_----.--[MS.]

[mp] _And the widows of Babel_----.--[MS. erased.]

[mq] _And the voices of Israel are joyous and high_.--[MS. erased.]

POEMS 1814-1816.

FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER.

Farewell! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal availed on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky. 'Twere vain to speak--to weep--to sigh: Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, When wrung from Guilt's expiring eye,[305] Are in that word--Farewell!--Farewell!

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry; But in my breast and in my brain, Awake the pangs that pass not by, The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, Though Grief and Passion there rebel: I only know we loved in vain-- I only feel--Farewell!--Farewell!

[First published, _Corsair_, Second Edition, 1814.]

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 foretold[mr] Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning[ms] Sunk chill on my brow-- It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken,[mt] And light is thy fame: I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame.

3.[mu]

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 thee, Who knew thee too well:-- Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met-- In silence I grieve. That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee[mv] After long years, How should I greet thee?-- With silence and tears.

[First published, _Poems_, 1816.]

[LOVE AND GOLD.[306]]

I cannot talk of Love to thee, Though thou art young and free and fair! There is a spell thou dost not see, That bids a genuine love despair.

And yet that spell invites each youth, For thee to sigh, or seem to sigh; Makes falsehood wear the garb of truth, And Truth itself appear a lie.

If ever Doubt a place possest In woman's heart, 'twere wise in thine: Admit not Love into thy breast, Doubt others' love, nor trust in mine.

Perchance 'tis feigned, perchance sincere, But false or true thou canst not tell; So much hast thou from all to fear, In that unconquerable spell.

Of all the herd that throng around, Thy simpering or thy sighing train, Come tell me who to thee is bound By Love's or Plutus' heavier chain.

In some 'tis Nature, some 'tis Art That bids them worship at thy shrine; But thou deserv'st a better heart, Than they or I can give for thine.

For thee, and such as thee, behold, Is Fortune painted truly--blind! Who doomed thee to be bought or sold, Has proved too bounteous to be kind.

Each day some tempter's crafty suit Would woo thee to a loveless bed: I see thee to the altar's foot A decorated victim led.

Adieu, dear maid! I must not speak Whate'er my secret thoughts may be; Though thou art all that man can reck I dare not talk of Love to _thee_.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.[307]

I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name,[mw] There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame: But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart.

2.[mx]

Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace, Were those hours--can their joy or their bitterness cease? We repent, we abjure, we will break from our chain,-- We will part, we will fly to--unite it again!

Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt![my] Forgive me, adored one!--forsake, if thou wilt;-- But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased[mz] And _man_ shall not break it--whatever _thou_ mayst.[na]

And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee, This soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall be:[nb] And our days seem as swift, and our moments more sweet, With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet.

5.[nc]

One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love,[nd] Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove; And the heartless may wonder at all I resign-- Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to _mine_.

_May_ 4, 1814. [First published, _Letters and Journals_, 1830, i. 554.]

ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE RECITED AT THE CALEDONIAN MEETING.[308]

Who hath not glowed above the page where Fame Hath fixed high Caledon's unconquered name; The mountain-land which spurned the Roman chain, And baffled back the fiery-crested Dane, Whose bright claymore and hardihood of hand No foe could tame--no tyrant could command? That race is gone--but still their children breathe, And Glory crowns them with redoubled wreath: O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine, And, England! add their stubborn strength to thine. The blood which flowed with Wallace flows as free, But now 'tis only shed for Fame and thee! Oh! pass not by the northern veteran's claim, But give support--the world hath given him fame!

The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled While cheerly following where the Mighty led--[309] Who sleep beneath the undistinguished sod Where happier comrades in their triumph trod, To us bequeath--'tis all their fate allows-- The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse: She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise The tearful eye in melancholy gaze, Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose The Highland Seer's anticipated woes, The bleeding phantom of each martial form Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm;[310] While sad, she chaunts the solitary song, The soft lament for him who tarries long-- For him, whose distant relics vainly crave The Coronach's wild requiem to the brave!

'Tis Heaven--not man--must charm away the woe, Which bursts when Nature's feelings newly flow; Yet Tenderness and Time may rob the tear Of half its bitterness for one so dear; A Nation's gratitude perchance may spread A thornless pillow for the widowed head; May lighten well her heart's maternal care, And wean from Penury the soldier's heir; Or deem to living war-worn Valour just[311] Each wounded remnant--Albion's cherished trust-- Warm his decline with those endearing rays, Whose bounteous sunshine yet may gild his days-- So shall that Country--while he sinks to rest-- His hand hath fought for--by his heart be blest!

_May_, 1814. [First published, _Letters and Journals_, 1830, i. 559.]

ELEGIAC STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER, BART.[312]

There is a tear for all that die,[313] A mourner o'er the humblest grave; But nations swell the funeral cry, And Triumph weeps above the brave.

For them is Sorrow's purest sigh O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent: In vain their bones unburied lie, All earth becomes their monument!

A tomb is theirs on every page, An epitaph on every tongue: The present hours, the future age, For them bewail, to them belong.

For them the voice of festal mirth Grows hushed, _their name_ the only sound; While deep Remembrance pours to Worth The goblet's tributary round.

A theme to crowds that knew them not, Lamented by admiring foes, Who would not share their glorious lot? Who would not die the death they chose?

And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be; And early valour, glowing, find A model in thy memory.

But there are breasts that bleed with thee In woe, that glory cannot quell; And shuddering hear of victory, Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell.

Where shall they turn to mourn thee less? When cease to hear thy cherished name? Time cannot teach forgetfulness, While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame.

Alas! for them, though not for thee, They cannot choose but weep the more; Deep for the dead the grief must be, Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before.

_October_ 7, 1814. [First published, _Morning Chronicle_, October 7, 1814.]

JULIAN [A FRAGMENT].[314]

The Night came on the Waters--all was rest On Earth--but Rage on Ocean's troubled Heart. The Waves arose and rolled beneath the blast; The Sailors gazed upon their shivered Mast. In that dark Hour a long loud gathered cry From out the billows pierced the sable sky, And borne o'er breakers reached the craggy shore-- The Sea roars on--that Cry is heard no more.

There is no vestige, in the Dawning light, Of those that shrieked thro' shadows of the Night. The Bark--the Crew--the very Wreck is gone, Marred--mutilated--traceless--all save one. In him there still is Life, the Wave that dashed On shore the plank to which his form was lashed, Returned unheeding of its helpless Prey-- The lone survivor of that Yesterday-- The one of Many whom the withering Gale Hath left unpunished to record their Tale. But who shall hear it? on that barren Sand None comes to stretch the hospitable hand. That shore reveals no print of human foot, Nor e'en the pawing of the wilder Brute; And niggard vegetation will not smile, All sunless on that solitary Isle.

The naked Stranger rose, and wrung his hair, And that first moment passed in silent prayer. Alas! the sound--he sunk into Despair-- He was on Earth--but what was Earth to him, Houseless and homeless--bare both breast and limb? Cut off from all but Memory he curst His fate--his folly--but himself the worst. What was his hope? he looked upon the Wave-- Despite--of all--it still may be his Grave!

He rose and with a feeble effort shaped His course unto the billows--late escaped: But weakness conquered--swam his dizzy glance, And down to Earth he sunk in silent trance. How long his senses bore its chilling chain, He knew not--but, recalled to Life again, A stranger stood beside his shivering form-- And what was he? had he too scaped the storm?

He raised young Julian. "Is thy Cup so full Of bitterness--thy Hope--thy heart so dull That thou shouldst from Thee dash the Draught of Life, So late escaped the elemental strife! Rise--tho' these shores few aids to Life supply, Look upon me, and know thou shalt not die. Thou gazest in mute wonder--more may be Thy marvel when thou knowest mine and me. But come--The bark that bears us hence shall find Her Haven, soon, despite the warning Wind."

He raised young Julian from the sand, and such Strange power of healing dwelt within the touch, That his weak limbs grew light with freshened Power, As he had slept not fainted in that hour, And woke from Slumber--as the Birds awake, Recalled at morning from the branchéd brake, When the day's promise heralds early Spring, And Heaven unfolded woos their soaring wing: So Julian felt, and gazed upon his Guide, With honest Wonder what might next betide.

Dec. 12, 1814.

TO BELSHAZZAR.

1.[ne]

Belshazzar! from the banquet turn, Nor in thy sensual fulness fall; Behold! while yet before thee burn The graven words, the glowing wall,[nf] Many a despot men miscall Crowned and anointed from on high; But thou, the weakest, worst of all-- Is it not written, thou must die?[ng]

Go! dash the roses from thy brow-- Grey hairs but poorly wreathe with them; Youth's garlands misbecome thee now, More than thy very diadem,[nh] Where thou hast tarnished every gem:-- Then throw the worthless bauble by, Which, worn by thee, ev'n slaves contemn; And learn like better men to die!

Oh! early in the balance weighed, And ever light of word and worth, Whose soul expired ere youth decayed, And left thee but a mass of earth. To see thee moves the scorner's mirth: But tears in Hope's averted eye Lament that even thou hadst birth-- Unfit to govern, live, or die.

_February_ 12, 1815. [First published, 1831.]

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.[315]

"O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros Ducentium ortus ex animo: quater Felix! in imo qui scatentem Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit." Gray's _Poemata_. [Motto to "The Tear," _Poetical Works_, 1898, i. 49.]

There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away, When 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,[ni] But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere Youth itself be past.

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess: The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain The shore to which their shivered 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 ruined turret wreath[nj][316] All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey beneath.

Oh, 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 vanished scene; As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be, So, midst the withered waste of life, those tears would flow to me.

_March, 1815._ [First published, _Poems, 1816._]

ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF DORSET.[317]

I heard thy fate without a tear, Thy loss with scarce a sigh; And yet thou wast surpassing dear, Too loved of all to die. I know not what hath seared my eye-- Its tears refuse to start; But every drop, it bids me dry, Falls dreary on my heart.

Yes, dull and heavy, one by one, They sink and turn to care, As caverned waters wear the stone, Yet dropping harden there: They cannot petrify more fast, Than feelings sunk remain, Which coldly fixed regard the past, But never melt again.

[1815.]

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

Bright be the place of thy soul! No lovelier spirit than thine E'er burst from its mortal control, In the orbs of the blessed to shine. On earth thou wert all but divine, As thy soul shall immortally be;[nk] And our sorrow may cease to repine When we know that thy God is with thee.

Light be the turf of thy tomb![nl][318] May its verdure like emeralds be![nm] There should not be the shadow of gloom In aught that reminds us of thee. Young flowers and an evergreen tree[nn] May spring from the spot of thy rest: But nor cypress nor yew let us see; For why should we mourn for the blest?

[First published, _Examiner_, June 4, 1815.]

NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL.[319]

[FROM THE FRENCH.]

Farewell to the Land, where the gloom of my Glory Arose and o'ershadowed the earth with her name-- She abandons me now--but the page of her story, The brightest or blackest, is filled with my fame.[no] I have warred with a World which vanquished me only When the meteor of conquest allured me too far; I have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely, The last single Captive to millions in war.

Farewell to thee, France! when thy diadem crowned me, I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth,-- But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee,[np] Decayed in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth. Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted In strife with the storm, when their battles were won-- Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted Had still soared with eyes fixed on Victory's sun![nq]

Farewell to thee, France!--but when Liberty rallies Once more in thy regions, remember me then,-- The Violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys; Though withered, thy tear will unfold it again-- Yet, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us, And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice-- There are links which must break in the chain that has bound us, _Then_ turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice!

_July_ 25, 1815. London. [First published, _Examiner_, July 30, 1815.]

FROM THE FRENCH.[320]