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 COPyRIGHT DEPOSni 
 
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 Containing only those 
 poems which time 
 has proven 
 immortal 
 
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 ilnr& Igrnn 
 
 Containing only those poems 
 
 which time has proven 
 
 immortal 
 
 NEW YORK: THI-: CLOVER PRESS, INC. 
 N ine teen- H and red- and- Tree I v e 
 
f^^ 
 
 
 Copyright, igi2, by 
 Gurtrude Flower 
 
 ©CLA3:^V5]8 
 
'There is a pleasure in the pathless Tvoods 
 There is a rapture on the lonely shore. 
 There is society where none intrudes, 
 Bp the deep Sea, and music in its roar: 
 I love not Man the less, but Nature more. 
 From these our interviews, in which I steal 
 From all I ma^ be or have been before. 
 To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
 What I can ne'er express, yet can not all conceal' 
 
 —Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. 
 
Jffnr^mnrh 
 
 LorD IBpron 
 
 HERE the poetic tide is at the full. Not since the 
 great achievement of Cadmus, and mayhap for 
 many generations to come, has one soul so played 
 upon the heart-strings of the masses. 
 
 Thus Sappho's glowing songs swayed ancient Greece ; 
 and though her fame endures, the Church with bigot hand 
 has left scarce a vestige of that peculiar perfume, which 
 wafts to all, the inimitable grace of that exhalted poetess. 
 
 Hafiz likewise occupied a poet's true kingdom, and 
 found the touchstone of human sympathies. Both Hafiz 
 and old Omar ring true. 
 
 It may be said that youth is the stamping ground 
 of Byron's literary force. Ah, well ! it is only in youth 
 that the prophetic mind takes in the full significance of— 
 
 "Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean, roll—" 
 For in the heart of youth there are no smouldering fires ; 
 there the flame of enthusiasm blazes the armies of the 
 world onward, nations are made and re-made by such 
 forces. So with the resistless sweep of a forest fire, 
 this mighty genius drove his thoughts on and on, until 
 
Page 
 Tno 
 
 they burned to their innermost core. At thirty-seven 
 Byron exemplified more than Napoleon the lines — 
 
 "there is a fire 
 And motion of the soul which will not dwell 
 In its own narrow being, but aspire 
 Beyond the fitting medium of desire; 
 And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, 
 Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire 
 Of aught but rest;" 
 
 Here we recognize that something which makes for 
 immortality in the great poets and is totally lacking in 
 those of lesser calibre. Byron truly strove for the 
 immortal "grandeur of his calling." 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Foreword 1 
 
 Introduction to Lord Byron '. 11 
 
 Darkness 15 
 
 'Maid of Athens, Ere We Part' 18 
 
 The Prisoner of Chillon 19 
 
 To D 32 
 
 'When We Two Parted' V^^ 33 
 
 Lines Inscribed Upon a Cup formed from a Skull. 34 
 
 'She Walks in Beauty' 35 
 
 To Marion 36 
 
 Lines 38 
 
 Imitated from Catullus 39 
 
 To Woman 40 
 
 Fare Thee Well 41 
 
 'My Boat is on the Shore' 43 
 
 'So We 'll Go No More a Roving' 44 
 
 'Oh! Snatcii'd Away in Beauty's Bloom' 45 
 
 A Very Mournful Ballad 46 
 
 Mazeppa 50 
 
 CiiiLDE Harold's Pilgrimage 78 
 
Selections from : 
 
 The Giaour 141 
 
 The Bride of Abydos 160 
 
 The Corsair 161 
 
 Lara 201 
 
 The Siege of Corinth 241 
 
 Parisina 270 
 
 To Inez (Childc Harold) 273 
 
 To M. S. G 274 
 
 To M. S. G ., 275 
 
 To M X/^. 276 
 
 L' Amite est L' Amour Sans Ailes 277 
 
 'When I Roved a Young- Highlander" 278 
 
 To an Oak at Newstead Abbey 279 
 
 On Parting 279 
 
 The Girl of Cadiz 280 
 
 The Island 281 
 
 Stanzas to Augusta 286 
 
 The Isles of Greece {Don Juan) A 287 
 
 Beware ! Beware ! The Black Friar ! (Don Juan) . . 290 
 
 Don Juan 292 
 
IGnrb Igrnn 
 
G 
 
 jtLorD IBptoit 
 
 EORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON, was born on the 
 22nd of January, 1788, in Holies Street, London. His 
 mother's family, the Gordons, whose name he took, 
 was Scottish but of French extraction. His father, 
 Captain Byron, a man of dissolute and extravagant habits, 
 belonged to an ancient and noble family who came to England 
 with William the Conqueror. We find the poet's pride of ancestry 
 a strong trait, serving as a shield of protection which his extreme 
 sensitiveness threw up. When Captain Byron had dissipated his 
 wife's fortune he left her, and she moved to Aberdeen with her 
 child, shortly after. Thus the poet's early reminiscences were 
 colored by his life in the Scottish Highlands. From Aberdeen 
 Byron went to Harrow, where he received his early schooling. 
 Meanwhile, the death of the old Lord Byron gave to George Gordon 
 his title at the age of ten. In 1805 he went to Trinity College, 
 Cambridge, where his reckless and defiant life and his rebellion 
 against the authorities, with neglect of studies brought few results. 
 He first attempted poetry about this time, and shortly appeared 
 his first published work, "The Hours of Idleness." 
 
 On coming of age Byron seriously considered a political career, 
 and had he persisted might have made his mark in this field. But 
 unknown to society, and with no peer to stand sponsor for him 
 in the House of Lords, his unfriended position caused him to 
 retire to Newstead Abbey and shortly after to engage with his 
 friend Sir Hobhouse to travel on the continent for two years. The 
 first two cantos of Childe Harold were the fruit of this journey, 
 and brought him immediate and astonishing popularity. The success of 
 the poem exceeded even the critic's anticipations, and as Lord 
 Byron tersely said — "I awoke one morning and found myself 
 famous." 
 
 Much of Byron's most powerful work was composed in Switzer- 
 land about 1822. "The Giaour," 'a wildly poetic fragment.' was 
 
Page 
 Twelve 
 
 followed closely by "Lara," "The Siege of Corinth" and "The 
 Corsair." All written in a surprisingly short time, these, with 
 "The Prisoner of Chillon" and "Darkness," are all poems of 
 highly approved merit and popularity. Here "are expressed many 
 of the longings and ambitions, and the tragic failure of the revo- 
 lutionary idea of reckless revolt." The interest centered about 
 these larger poems is still very great and must always remain great 
 in any inspection of literature. So might one continue to reflect 
 upon the unparalleled effect of Byron's poetry. 
 
 In 1815 came his unfortunate marriage to Miss Milbanke, at 
 Seaham, her father's country-seat. Their domestic life lasted 
 little more than one year, when Lady Byron left him for all time. 
 Byron, deeply hurt by the attitude of ostracism which society 
 assumed, resolved to leave England. So in 1816, he sailed, never 
 to see his native shores again. He traveled much through southern 
 Europe, and on one of these excursions met a "celebrated poetical 
 compeer," Percy Bysshe Shelley, at Geneva. As Byron had promised 
 himself, he plunged into pleasure and found it more pleasant than 
 he could have imagined. Life at this time was difficult for him; 
 and yet he was only twenty-four, and famous — "and to be famous 
 when one is young, — that is the dream of the Gods." 
 
 "His aggressive free-thinking, which so shocked his con- 
 temporaries, can scarcely do more than elicite a smile to-day," 
 writes one of Byron's admirable biographers. There is something 
 manly and pathetic in his allusion to the ruin of his own life, and 
 "always he puts his finger on the real source of the evil" — his lack 
 of personal limitation and his rebellion against conventions. Whereas 
 with Shelley — Tn all that he did, he, at the time of doing it, 
 believed himself justified to his own conscience.' One needs but 
 little Platonic doctrine to believe the genuine danger to morals 
 lies in this very mitigation of evil, or treacherous conscience. 
 "There was no such insidious disease in Byron's mind." 
 
 One has said, "There are four clearly defined periods in 
 Byron's life— and out of one of these grows the Byron of the 
 latter Childe Harold, who would find relief from vulgar cant of 
 the present in pensive reflection on the grandeurs of the older 
 days, and would unburden his soul of its self-engendered torture 
 in solitary communion with nature. And last of all, when these 
 
Page 
 Thirteen 
 
 fail him-the self-mocking Don Juan, with his strange mingling 
 of sweet and bitter, heavy-hearted at bottom" crymg out- 
 'And if I laugh at any mortal thing. 
 'T is that I may not weep ;' 
 But Fate drew Byron back to the "bondage from which he never 
 entirely escaped." With all the irony and pathos of Don Juan 
 it is so easily supreme an achievement, as to rank Byron, Great 
 among the strongest, if not the wisest.' 
 
 A man of morbid acuteness of feelmg, arising partly from 
 temperament, and partly from habits and circumstances; m spite 
 of his ever seeming indifference he was keenly alive to the applause 
 and censure of the world. . , „^ 
 
 Lord Byron died, April 19, 1824, in Greece. Lamented and 
 honored by all those about him, his loss was deeply felt by the 
 authorities in Greece, who decreed public honors to his memory. 
 His body was conveyed to England and deposited in the family 
 vault in the parish church, near Newstead. 
 
 •The basis of his character was undoubtedly a proud sincerity. 
 
Poetical Worki of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Fifteen 
 
 Datkne00 
 
 I had a dreeim, which was not all a dream. 
 
 The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars 
 
 Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 
 
 Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth 
 
 Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air; 
 
 Mom came and went — and came, and brought no day, 
 
 And men forgot their passions in the dread 
 
 Of this their desolation; and all hearts 
 
 Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light. 
 
 And they did live by watch fires — 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 gather'd round their blazing homes 
 
 To look once more into each other's face. 
 
 Happy were those who dwelt within the eye 
 
 Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch: 
 
 A fearful hope was all the world contain'd; 
 
 Forests were set on fire — but hour by hour 
 
 They fell and faded — and the crackling trunks 
 
 Extinguish'd with a crash — and all was black. 
 
 The brows of men by the despairing light 
 
 Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits 
 
 The flashes fell upon them; some lay down 
 
 And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest 
 
 Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled; 
 
 And others hurried to and fro, and fed 
 
 Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up 
 
 With mad disquietude on the dull sky, 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 Sixteen LORD BYRON 
 
 The pall of a past world; and then again 
 
 With 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 brutes 
 Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd 
 And 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 bought 
 With blood, and each sate sullenly apart 
 Gorging himself in gloom. No love was left; 
 All earth was but one thought — and that was death. 
 Immediate and inglorious; and the pang 
 Of famine fed upon all entrails — men 
 Died, 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 kept 
 The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay, 
 Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead 
 Lured their lank jaws. Himself sought out no food. 
 But with a piteous and perpetual moan. 
 And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand 
 Which answer'd not with a caress — he died. 
 The crowd was famish'd by degrees ; but two 
 Of an enormous city did survive. 
 And they were enemies. They met beside 
 The dying embers of an altar-place. 
 Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things 
 For an unholy usage; they raked up, 
 And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Seventeen 
 
 The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath 
 
 Blew for a little life, and made a flame 
 
 Which was a mockery. Then they lifted up 
 
 Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld 
 
 Each other's aspect — saw, and shriek'd, and died — 
 
 Even of their mutual hideousness they died, 
 
 Unknowing who he was upon whose brow 
 
 Famine 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 need 
 
 Of aid from them — She was the Universe. 
 
Page Poetical Wor^i of 
 
 Eighteen LORD BYRON 
 
 'Q^aiD of at|)en0, (Btt mt part' 
 
 Z<i)rj fiov, (Tas ayairM. 
 
 Maid of Athens, ere we part. 
 Give, oh, give me back my heart! 
 Or, since that has left my breast. 
 Keep it now, and take the rest! 
 Hear my vow before I go, 
 
 Ztuij fiov, aa^ dyaTTO). 
 
 By those tresses unconfined, 
 Woo'd by each ^gean wind; 
 By those lids whose jetty fringe 
 Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge; 
 By those wild eyes like the roe, 
 
 Zb>rj iiov, eras ayaTria. 
 
 By that lip I long to taste ; 
 By that zone-encircled waist; 
 By all the token-flowers that tell 
 What words can never speak so well; 
 By love's alternate joy and woe, 
 
 Zwrj fJLOv, <ras dyaTrw. 
 
 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! 
 Zurj IIOV, ads dyaTTw. 
 
Poatical lVorl(t of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON NmeUen 
 
 Cije Kptisionet of Cfjillon 
 
 A FABLE 
 Sonnet on 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 place, 
 
 And thy sad floor an altar; for 't was 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! 
 
 For they appeal from tyranny to God. 
 
 My hair is grey, but not with years. 
 Nor grew it white 
 In 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 those 
 To whom the goodly earth and air 
 Are bann'd, and barr'd — forbidden fare. 
 But this was for my father's faith, 
 I suffer'd chains and courted death; 
 That father perish'd at the stake 
 
Page Poetical IVor^s of 
 
 Twentxf LORD BYRON 
 
 For tenets he would not forsake; 
 And for the same his lineal race 
 In 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, 
 Their belief with blood have seal'd, 
 D5dng 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 grey. 
 Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, 
 A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 
 And through the crevice and the cleft 
 Of 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 rise 
 For years^ — I cannot count them o'er, 
 
Poetical ^orks of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Ttpent^-one 
 
 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 light 
 That made us strangers in our sight. 
 And thus together, yet apart, 
 Fetter'd in hand, but join'd in heart, 
 'T was still some solace, in the dearth 
 Of the pure elements of earth. 
 To hearken to each other's speech. 
 And each turn comforter to each 
 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 me 
 They never sounded like our own. 
 
 I was the eldest of the three. 
 
 And to uphold and cheer the rest 
 
 I 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 given 
 To him, with eyes as blue as heaven — 
 
Page Poetical Worl^t o/ 
 
 Txpeniy-lrso LORD BYRON 
 
 For him my soul was sorely moved. 
 And truly might it be distress'd 
 To see such bird in such a nest; 
 For he was beautiful as day 
 
 (When day was beautiful to me 
 
 As to young eagles being free) — 
 
 A polar day, which will not see 
 A 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 woe 
 Which 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 mood 
 Which 'gainst the world in war had stood. 
 And perish'd in the foremost rank 
 
 With joy: — but not in chains to pine: 
 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 cheer 
 Those relics of a home so dear. 
 He was a hunter of the hills. 
 
 Had foUow'd there the deer and wolf; 
 
 To him this dungeon was a gulf. 
 And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 
 
Poeiical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Twenfy-ihree 
 
 Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls: 
 A thousand feet in. depth below 
 Its massy waters meet and flow; 
 Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
 From Chillon's snow-white battlement 
 
 Which round about the wave inthrals: 
 A double dungeon wall and wave 
 Have made — and like a living grave. 
 Below the surface of the lake 
 The 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 spray 
 Wash through the bars when winds were high 
 And wanton in the happy sky; 
 
 And then the very rock hath rock'd. 
 
 And I have felt it shake, unshock'd, 
 Because I could have smiled to see 
 The 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 't was coarse and rude. 
 For we were used to hunters' fare. 
 And for the like had little care. 
 The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
 Was changed for water from the moat. 
 Our bread was such as captives' tears 
 Have moisten'd many a thousand years, 
 Since man first pent his fellow men 
 Like brutes within an iron den; 
 
p Poetical Wot\s of 
 
 TTenty-four ^ORD BYRON 
 
 But what were these to us or him? 
 These wasted not his heart or limb ; 
 My brother's soul was of that mould 
 Which in a palace had grown cold. 
 Had his free breathing been denied 
 The 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 vain, 
 To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
 He died— and they unlock'd his chain. 
 And scoop'd for him, a shallow grave 
 Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
 
 I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 
 
 His corse in dust whereon the day 
 
 Might shine— it was a foolish thought, 
 
 But then within my brain it wrought. 
 
 That even in death his freeborn breast 
 
 In 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 above 
 
 The 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, 
 
Poelical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Tivenlrfi^e 
 
 My latest care, for whom I sought 
 
 To hoard my life, that his might be 
 
 Less wretched now, and one day free; 
 
 He, too, who yet had held untired 
 
 A spirit natural or inspired — 
 
 He, too, was struck, and day by day 
 
 Was wither'd on the stalk away. 
 
 Oh, God! it is a fearful thing 
 
 To see the human soul take wing 
 
 In any shape, in any mood: — 
 
 I 've seen it rushing forth in blood, 
 
 I 've seen it on the breaking ocean 
 
 Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 
 
 I 've seen the sick and ghastly bed 
 
 Of Sin delirious with its dread: 
 
 But these were horrors — this was woe 
 
 Unmix'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 bloom 
 
 Was as a mockery of the tomb, 
 
 Whose tints as gently sunk away 
 
 As a departing rainbow's ray; 
 
 An eye of most transparent light. 
 
 That almost made the dungeon bright; 
 
 And not a word of murmur, not 
 
 A 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 — lost 
 
Poelical Works of 
 P^S^ , LORD BYRON 
 
 Txeenly-iix 
 
 In this last loss, of all the most; 
 
 And then the sighs he would suppress 
 
 Of 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 dread 
 
 Would 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 drew 
 
 The accursed breath of dungeon-dew; 
 
 The last— the sole— the dearest link 
 
 Between 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 know 
 That what we love shall ne'er be so. 
 I know not why 
 I could not die, 
 I had no earthly hope— but faith, 
 And that forbade a selfish death. 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Tvtnty-KVtn 
 
 What next befell me then and there 
 
 I 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 grey. 
 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, noi time, 
 No check, no change, no good, no crime — 
 But silence, and a stirless breath 
 Which 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; 
 It ceased, and then it came again, 
 
 The sweetest song ear ever heard, 
 And mine was thankful till my eyes 
 Ran over with the glad surprise, 
 And they that moment could not see 
 I was the mate of misery. 
 But then by dull degrees came back 
 My senses to their wonted track; 
 I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
 
Page Poetical Wor^i of 
 
 Tv>enly-eighi LORD BYRON 
 
 Close slowly round me as before, 
 
 I saw the glimmer of the sun 
 
 Creeping as it before had done, 
 
 But through the crevice where it came 
 
 That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame, 
 
 And tamer than upon the tree; 
 A lovely bird, with azure wings, 
 And song that said a thousand things. 
 
 And seem'd to say them all for me! 
 I never saw its like before, 
 I ne'er shall see its likeness more: 
 It seem'd like me to want a mate, 
 But was not half so desolate. 
 And it was come to love me when 
 None 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 while 
 Which made me both to weep and smile — 
 I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
 My brother's soul come down to me; 
 But then at last away it flew. 
 And then 't was mortal — well I knew, 
 For he would never thus have flown, 
 And left me twice so doubly lone, — 
 Lone — as the corse within its shroud. 
 
Poetical Wor^s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Tii>ent\fmne 
 
 Lone — as a solitary cloud, 
 
 A single cloud on a sunny day, 
 While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
 A frown upon the atmosphere 
 That hath no business to appear 
 
 When 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 chain 
 With links unfasten'd did remain. 
 And it was liberty to stride 
 Along 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 tread 
 My step 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 all 
 
 Who loved me in a human shape; 
 And the whole earth would henceforth be 
 A wider prison unto me. 
 No child, no sire, no kin had I, 
 
Page Poetical WoT^i of 
 
 Thirty LORD BYRON 
 
 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 ascend 
 
 To my barr'd windows, and to bend 
 
 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 snow 
 On high — their wide long lake below, 
 And the blue Rhone in fullest flow; 
 I heard the torrents leap and gush 
 O'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 growing 
 Of 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 fast 
 
 As then to me he seem'd to fly; 
 
Poetical Works of ^ag* 
 
 LORD BYRON Thirlifone 
 
 And then new tears came in my eye, 
 And I felt troubled and would fain 
 I had not left my recent chain. 
 And when I did descend again, 
 The darkness of my dim abode 
 Fell 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 oppress'd, 
 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. 
 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 grown 
 A hermitage — and all my own! 
 And half I felt as they were come 
 To 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, 
 
Page Poetical Wor^s of 
 
 Thirijf-two LORD BYRON 
 
 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 tends 
 To make us what we are: — even I 
 Regain'd my freedom with a sigh. 
 
 Co 
 
 (To George John, fifth Earl Delawarr.) 
 
 In thee, I fondly hoped to clasp 
 
 A friend, whom death alone could sever; 
 Till envy, with malignant grasp, 
 
 Detach'd thee from my breast for ever. 
 
 True, she has forced thee from my breast, 
 Yet in my heart thou keep'st thy seat; 
 
 There, there thine image still must rest, 
 Until that heart shall cease to beat. 
 
 And, when the grave restores her dead, 
 When life again to dust is given. 
 
 On thy dear breast I '11 lay my head — 
 
 Without thee, where would be my heaven? 
 
Poetical Works of p 
 
 LORD BYRON ThirtyihL 
 
 'mhtn mt Ctoo parteti' 
 
 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 
 
 Sorrow to this. 
 
 The dew of the morning 
 
 Sunk chill on my brow — 
 It felt like the warning 
 
 Of what I feel now. 
 Thy vows are all broken, 
 
 And light is thy fame; 
 I hear thy name spoken, 
 
 And 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 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. 
 
Page Poetical Worki of 
 
 Thirty-four LORD BYRON 
 
 If I should meet thee 
 
 After long years, 
 How should I greet thee? — 
 
 With silence and tears. 
 
 nines In&ctittti Opon a Cup 
 iFormeD from a ^kull 
 
 Start not — nor deem my spirit fled: 
 
 In me behold the only skull, 
 From which, unlike a living head. 
 
 Whatever flows is never dull. 
 
 I lived, I loved, I quaff 'd, like thee; 
 
 I died: let earth my bones resign: 
 Fill up — thou canst not injure me; 
 
 The worm hath fouler lips than thine. 
 
 Better to hold the sparkling grape. 
 
 Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood : 
 
 And circle in the goblet's shape 
 
 The drink of Gods, than reptile's food. 
 
 Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone. 
 In aid of others' let me shine; 
 
 And when, alas! our brains are gone, 
 What nobler substitute than wine? 
 
 Quaff while thou canst: another race, 
 
 When thou and thine like me are sped, 
 
Poetical Works of ^"ge 
 
 LORD BYRON Thirty- fne 
 
 May rescue thee from earth's embrace, 
 And rhyme and revel with the dead. 
 
 Why not? since through life's little day 
 Our heads such sad effects produce; 
 
 Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay. 
 This chance is theirs, to be of use. 
 
 '^1)0 malk$ in IBtmtf 
 
 She walks in beauty, like the night 
 
 Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 
 
 And all that's best of dark and bright 
 Meet in her aspect and her eyes: 
 
 Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
 Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 
 
 One shade the more, one ray the less. 
 Had half impair'd the nameless grace 
 
 Which waves in every raven tress. 
 Or- softly lightens o'er her face; 
 
 Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
 How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 
 
 And on that cheek, and o'er that brow. 
 So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. 
 
 The smiles that win, the tints that glow. 
 But tell of days in goodness spent, 
 
 A mind at peace with all below, 
 
 A heart whose love is innocent! 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 ThiTlyzix LORD BYRON 
 
 Co Marion 
 
 Marion, why that pensive brow? 
 
 What disgust to life hast thou? 
 
 Change that discontented air ; 
 
 Frowns become not one so fair. 
 
 'T is not love disturbs thy rest, 
 
 Love 's a stranger to thy breast; 
 
 He in dimpling smiles appears. 
 
 Or mourns in sweetly timid tears. 
 
 Or bends the lanquid eyelid down, 
 
 But shuns the cold forbidding frown. 
 
 Then resume thy former fire, 
 
 Some will love, and all admire; 
 
 While that icy aspect chills us. 
 
 Nought but cool indifference thrills us. 
 
 Wouldst thou wandering hearts beguile, 
 
 Smile at least, or seem to smile. 
 
 Eyes like thine were never meant 
 
 To hide their orbs in dark restraint; 
 
 Spite of all thou fain wouldst say. 
 
 Still in truant beams they play. 
 
 Thy lips — but here my modest Muse 
 
 Her impulse chaste must needs refuse: 
 
 She blushes, curt'sies, frowns — in short she 
 
 Dreads lest the subject should transport me; 
 
 And flying off in search of reason. 
 
 Brings prudence back in proper season. 
 
 All I shall therefore say (whate'er 
 
 I think, is neither here nor there) 
 
 Is, that such lips, of looks endearing. 
 
 Were form'd for better things than sneering. 
 
Poeiical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Thirty-seven 
 
 Of soothing compliment divested, 
 Advice at least 's disinterested; 
 Such is my artless song to thee. 
 From all the flow of flattery free; 
 Counsel like mine is as a brother's. 
 My heart is given to some others; 
 That is to say, unskill'd to cozen. 
 It shares itself among a dozen. 
 Marion, adieu! oh, pr'ythee slight not 
 This warning, though it may delight not; 
 And, lest my precepts be displeasing 
 To those who think remonstrance teasing, 
 At once I '11 tell thee our opinion 
 Concerning woman's soft dominion: 
 Howe'er we gaze with admiration 
 On eyes of blue or lips carnation, 
 Howe'er the flowing locks attract us, 
 Howe'er those beauties may distract us, 
 Still fickle, we are prone to rove. 
 These cannot fix our souls to love: 
 It is not too severe a stricture 
 To say they form a pretty picture; 
 But wouldst thou see the secret chain 
 Which binds us in your humble train, 
 To hail you queens of all creation, 
 Know, in a word, 't is ANIMATION. 
 
Page poetical Works of 
 
 Thirty-eight LORD BYRON 
 
 Lines! 
 
 Written in 'Letters to an Italian Nun and an English 
 Gentleman: by J. J. Rousseau: Founded on Facts' 
 
 'Away, away, your flattering arts 
 May now betray some simpler hearts; 
 And you will smile at their believing, 
 And they shall weep at your deceiving.' 
 
 Answer to the Foregoing, Addressed to Miss —. — 
 
 Dear, simple girl, those flattering arts, 
 
 From which thou 'dst guard frail female hearts. 
 
 Exist but in imagination, 
 
 Mere phantoms of thine own creation; 
 
 For he who views that witching grace, 
 
 That perfect form, that lovely face, 
 
 With eyes admiring, oh, believe me. 
 
 He never wishes to deceive thee! 
 
 Once in thy polish'd mirror glance. 
 
 Thou 'It there descry that elegance, 
 
 Which from our sex demands such praises, 
 
 But envy in the other raises: 
 
 Then he who tells thee of thy beauty. 
 
 Believe me, only does his duty: 
 
 Ah! fly not from the candid youth; 
 
 It is not flattery, — 't is truth. 
 
Poetical Worl(s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Thirtynint 
 
 Smttateti (torn Catullu0 
 
 TO ELLEN 
 
 Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire, 
 A million scarce would quench desire: 
 Still would I steep my lips in bliss, 
 And dwell an age on every kiss; 
 Nor then my soul should sated be, 
 Still would I kiss and cling to thee: 
 Nought should my kiss from thine dissever : 
 Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever 
 E'en though the numbers did exceed 
 The yellow harvest's countless seed. 
 To part would be a vain endeavour: 
 Could I desist? — ah! never — never! 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 FoTlyf LORD BYRON 
 
 Co Moman 
 
 Woman! experience might have told me, 
 
 That all must love thee who behold thee: 
 
 Surely experience might have taught 
 
 Thy firmest promises are nought: 
 
 But, placed in all thy charms before me. 
 
 All I forget, but to adore thee. 
 
 Oh memory! thou choicest blessing 
 
 When join'd with hope, when still possessing; 
 
 But how much cursed by every lover 
 
 When hope is fled and passion's over. 
 
 Woman, that fair and fond deceiver. 
 
 How prompt are striplings to believe her! ; 
 
 How throbs the pulse when first we view 
 
 The eye that rolls in glossy blue, 
 
 Or sparklesi black, or mildly throws 
 
 A beam from under hazel brows! 
 
 How quick we credit every oath. 
 
 And hear her plight the willing troth! 
 
 Fondly we hope 't will last for aye. 
 
 When, lo! she changes in a day. 
 
 This record will for ever stand, 
 
 'Woman, thy vows are traced in sand.' 
 
Poetical Works of 
 
 Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Fort^-one 
 
 4Fare Cfjee mtll 
 
 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 thee 
 Where thy head so oft hath lain, 
 
 While that placid sleep came o'er thee 
 Which thou ne'er canst know again: 
 
 Would that breast, by thee glanced over. 
 Every inmost thought could show! 
 
 Then thou wouldst at last discover 
 'T was not well to spurn it so. 
 
 Though the world for this commend thee- 
 
 Though it smile upon the blow. 
 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 not 
 
 Hearts can thus be torn away: 
 
 Still thine own its life retaineth — 
 
 Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; 
 
Page Poetical Worki of 
 
 Forty-two LORD BYRON 
 
 And the undying thought which paineth 
 Is — that we no more may meet. 
 
 These are words of deeper sorrow 
 
 Than the wail above the dead; 
 Both shall live, but every morrow 
 
 Wake 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 resemble 
 
 Those thou nevermore may'st see. 
 
 Then thy heart will softly tremble 
 With a pulse yet true to me. 
 
 All my faults perchance thou knowest, 
 
 All my madness none can know; 
 All my hopes, where'er thou goest, 
 
 Whither, 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 't is done — all words are idle — 
 
 Words from me are vainer still; 
 But the thoughts we cannot bridle 
 
 Force their way without the will. 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Forty-three 
 
 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. 
 
 *qip IBoat 10 on tfje ^Ijote' 
 
 My boat is on the shore, 
 
 And my bark is on the sea; 
 
 But, before I go, Tom Moore, 
 
 Here's a double health to thee! 
 
 Here's a sigh to those who love me. 
 And a smile to those who hate; 
 
 And, whatever sky 's above me. 
 Here's a heart for every fate. 
 
 Though the ocean roar around me. 
 Yet it still shall bear me on; 
 
 Though a desert should surround me. 
 It hath springs that may be won. 
 
 Were 't the last drop in the well, 
 As I gasp'd upon the brink. 
 
 Ere my fainting spirit fell, 
 
 'T is to thee that I would drink. 
 
 With that water, as this wine, 
 The libation I would pour 
 
 Should be — peace with thine and mine. 
 And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 
 
Page Poetical IVorl^s of 
 
 Forty-four LORD BYRON 
 
 So we '11 go no more a roving 
 
 So late into the night, 
 Though the heart be still as loving, 
 
 And the moon be still as bright. 
 
 For the sword outwears its sheath, 
 
 And the soul wears out the breast. 
 And the heart must pause to breathe, 
 V And Love itself have rest. 
 
 •Though the night was made for loving. 
 And the day returns too soon, 
 
 Yet we *11 go no more a roving 
 By the light of the moon. 
 
 ■ ■ 
 
Poetical Worlds of p^gg 
 
 LORD BYRON Forly,-fhe 
 
 'm^ ^natcjb'D atoap in 15eautp'0 OBloom' 
 
 Oh! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom, 
 On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; 
 But on thy turf shall roses rear 
 Their leaves, the earliest of the year; 
 And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom: 
 
 And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
 
 Shall 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. 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 FoTly-zix LORD BYRON 
 
 a l^etp Q^ournful TBallaD 
 
 The Moorish King rides up and down 
 Through Granada's royal town; 
 From Elvira's gates to those 
 Of Bivarambla on he goes. 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 Letters to the monarch tell 
 How Alhama's city fell: 
 In the fire the scroll he threw. 
 And the messenger he slew. 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 He quits his mule, and mounts his horse, 
 And through the street directs his course ; 
 Through the street of Zacatin 
 To the Alhambra spurring in. 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 When the Alhambra walls he gain'd, 
 On the moment he ordain'd 
 That the trumpet straight should sound 
 With the silver clarion round. 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 And when the hollow drums of war 
 Beat the loud alarm afar. 
 That the Moors of town and plain 
 Might answer to the martial strain, 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 Then the Moors, by this aware 
 
 That bloody Mars recall'd them there, 
 
Poelical IVorlis of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Forty-sepen 
 
 One by one, and two by two, 
 To a mighty squadron grew. 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 Out then spake an aged Moor 
 In these words the king before: 
 'Wherefore call on us, O King? 
 What may mean this gathering?' 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 'Friends! ye have, alas! to know 
 
 Of a most disastrous blow. 
 
 That the Christians, stern and bold, 
 
 Have obtain'd Alhama's hold/ 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 I 
 ' Out then spake old Alfaqui, 
 
 With his beard so white to see: 
 'Good King! thou art justly served, 
 Good King! this thou hast deserved. 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 'By thee were slain, in evil hour, 
 The Abencerrage, Granada's flower; 
 And strangers were received by thee. 
 Of Cordova the Chivalry. 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 'And for this, O King! is sent 
 On thee a double chastisement: 
 Thee and thine, thy crown and realm, 
 One last wreck shall overwhelm. 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 FoTty-eight LORD BYRON 
 
 'He who holds no laws in awe, 
 He must perish by the law; 
 And Granada must be won, 
 And thyself with her undone.' 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 Fire flash'd from out the old Moor's eyes; 
 The Monarch's wrath began to rise, 
 Because he answer'd, and because 
 He spake exceedingly well of laws. 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 'There is no law to say such things 
 As may disgust the ear of kings!' — 
 Thus, snorting with his choler, said 
 The Moorish King, and doom'd him dead. 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 Moor Alfaqui! Moor Alfaqui! 
 Though thy beard so hoary be. 
 The King hath sent to have thee seized, 
 For Alhama's loss displeased; 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 And to fix thy head upon 
 High Alhambra's loftiest stone; 
 That this for thee should be the law, 
 And others tremble when they saw. 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 'Cavalier, and man of worth! 
 Let these words of mine go forth; 
 Let the Moorish Monarch know 
 That to him I nothing owe. 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
Poetical lVorl(s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Fortynine 
 
 'But on my soul Alhama weighs. 
 And on my inmost spirit preys; 
 And if the King his land hath lost, 
 Yet others may have lost the most. 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 'Sires have lost their children, wives 
 Their lords, and valiant men their lives; 
 One what best his love might claim 
 Hath lost, another wealth, or fame. 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 'I lost a damsel in that hour. 
 Of all the land the loveliest flower; 
 Doubloons a hundred I would pay. 
 And think her ransom cheap that day.' 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 And as these things the old Moor said. 
 They sever'd from the trunk his head; 
 And to the Alhambra's wall with speed 
 'T was carried, as the King decreed. 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 And men and infants therein weep 
 Their loss, so heavy and so deep; 
 Granada's ladies, all she rears 
 Within her walls, burst into tears. 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 And from the windows o'er the walls 
 The sable web of mourning falls; 
 The King weeps as a woman o'er 
 His loss, for it is much and sore. 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
Page Poetical Worlgs of 
 
 Fifty LORD BYRON 
 
 'T was after dread Pultowa's day, 
 
 When fortune left the royal Swede, 
 Around a slaughter'd army lay. 
 
 No more to combat and to bleed. 
 The power and glory of the war, 
 
 Faithless as their vain votaries, men, 
 Had pass'd to the triumphant Czar, 
 
 And Moscow's walls were safe again. 
 Until a day more dark and drear. 
 And a more memorable year. 
 Should give to slaughter and to shame 
 A mightier host and haughtier name; 
 A greater wreck, a deeper fall, 
 A shock to one — a thunderbolt to all. 
 
 Such was the hazard of the die; 
 The wounded Charles was taught to fly 
 By day and night through field and flood, 
 Stain'd with his own and subjects' blood; 
 For thousands fell that flight to aid: 
 And not a voice was heard t' upbraid 
 Ambition in his humbled hour, 
 When truth had nought to dread from power. 
 His horse was slain, and Gieta gave 
 His own — and died the Russians' slave. 
 This too sinks after many a league 
 Of well-sustained, but vain fatigue; 
 And in the depth of forests darkling. 
 The watch-fires in the distance sparkling — 
 The beacons of surrounding foes — 
 
Poetical Works oj Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Fifty one 
 
 A king must lay his limbs at length. 
 Are these the laurels and repose 
 For which the nations strain their strength? 
 They laid hirn by a savage tree, 
 In outworn nature's agony; 
 His wounds were stiff, his limbs were stark, 
 The heavy hour was chill and dark; 
 The fever in his blood forbade 
 A transient slumber's fitful aid. 
 And thus it was; but yet through all, 
 Kinglike the monarch bore his fall. 
 And made, in this extreme of ill. 
 His pangs the vassals of his will: 
 All silent and subdued were they, 
 As once the nations round him lay. 
 
 A band of chiefs! — alas! how few. 
 
 Since but the fleeting of a day 
 Had thinn'd it; but this wreck was true 
 
 And chivalrous. Upon the clay 
 Each sate him down, all sad and mute. 
 
 Beside his monarch and his steed. 
 For danger levels man and brute. 
 
 And all are fellows in their need. 
 Among the rest, Mazeppa made 
 His pillow in an old oak's shade — 
 Himself as rough, and scarce less old, 
 The Ukraine's hetman, calm and bold. 
 But first, outspent with this long course. 
 The Cossack prince rubb'd down his horse, 
 And made for him a leafy bed. 
 
 And smooth'd his fetlocks and his mane, 
 
Page Poetical Wor\s of 
 
 Fifly-tv>o LORD BYRON 
 
 And slack'd his girth, and stripp'd his rein, 
 And joy'd to see how well he fed; 
 For until now he had the dread 
 His wearied courser might refuse 
 To browse beneath the midnight dews: 
 But he was hardy as his lord, 
 And little cared for bed and board; 
 But spirited and docile too, 
 Whate'er was to be done, would do. 
 Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb. 
 All Tartar-like he carried him; 
 Obey'd his voice, and came to call, 
 And knew him in the midst of all: 
 Though thousands were around, — and Night, 
 Without a star, pursued her flight, — 
 That steed from sunset until dawn 
 His chief would follow like a fawn. 
 
 This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak, 
 And laid his lance beneath his oak, 
 Felt if his arms in order good 
 The long day's march had well withstood — 
 If still the powder fill'd the pan, 
 
 And flints unloosen'd kept their lock — 
 His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt. 
 And whether they had chafed his belt. 
 And next the venerable man. 
 From out his havresack and can, 
 
 Prepared and spread his slender stock; 
 And to the monarch and his men 
 The whole or portion offer'd then 
 With far less of inquietude 
 
Poetical Wor^s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Fifi\,-three 
 
 Than courtiers at a banquet would. 
 
 And Charles of this his slender share 
 
 With smiles partook a moment there, 
 
 To force of cheer a greater show, 
 
 And seem above both wounds and woe. 
 
 And then he said : 'Of all our band, 
 
 Though firm of heart and strong of hand, 
 
 In skirmish, march, or forage, none 
 
 Can less have said or more have done 
 
 Than thee, Mazeppa! On the earth 
 
 So fit a pair had never birth. 
 
 Since Alexander's days till now, 
 
 As thy Bucephalus and thou. 
 
 All Scythia's fame to thine should yield 
 
 For pricking on o'er flood and field.' 
 
 Mazeppa answer'd, '111 betide 
 
 The school wherein I leam'd to ride!' 
 
 Quoth Charles, 'Old Hetman, wherefore so. 
 
 Since thou hast learn'd the art so well?' 
 
 Mazeppa said, * 'T were long to tell ; 
 
 And we have many a league tO' go. 
 
 With every now and then a blow, 
 
 And ten to one at least the foe, 
 
 Before our steeds may graze at ease 
 
 Beyond the swift Borysthenes. 
 
 And, sire, your limbs have need of rest. 
 
 And I will be the sentinel 
 
 Of this your troop.' — 'But I request,' 
 
 Said Sweden's monarch, 'thou wilt tell 
 
 This tale of thine, and I may reap. 
 
 Perchance, from this the boon of sleep; 
 
Page Poetical Work^ of 
 
 Fifty- four LORD BYRON 
 
 For at this moment from my eyes 
 The hope of present slumber flies.' 
 
 'Well, sire, with such a hope, I'll track 
 My seventy years of memory back. 
 I think 't was in my twentieth spring, — 
 Ay, 't was, — when Casimir was king — 
 John Casimir, — I was his page 
 Six summers, in my earlier age, 
 A learned monarch, faith ! was he. 
 And most unlike your majesty: 
 He made no wars, and did not gain 
 New realms to lose them back again; 
 And (save debates in Warsaw's diet) 
 He reign'd in most unseemly quiet. 
 Not that he had no cares to vex. 
 He loved the muses and the sex; 
 And sometimes these so froward are. 
 They made him wish himself at war; 
 But soon his wrath being o'er, he took 
 Another mistress, or new book. 
 And then he gave prodigious fetes — 
 All Warsaw gather'd round his gates 
 To gaze upon his splendid court, 
 And dames, and chiefs, of princely port- 
 He was the Polish Solomon, — 
 So sung his poets, all but one. 
 Who, being unpension'd, made a satire. 
 And boasted that he could not flatter. 
 It was a court of jousts and mimes. 
 Where every courtier tried at rhymes; 
 Even I for once produced some verses. 
 
Poetical JVor^s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Fifti,-five 
 
 And sign'd my odes "Despairing Thyrsis." 
 There was a certain Palatine, 
 
 A count of far and high descent, 
 Rich as a salt or silver mine; 
 And he was proud, ye may divine, 
 
 As if from heaven he had been sent. 
 He had such wealth in blood and ore 
 
 As few could match beneath the throne; 
 And he would gaze upon his store, 
 And o'er his pedigree would pore. 
 Until by some confusion led. 
 Which almost look'd like want of head. 
 
 He thought their merits were his own. 
 His wife was not of his opinion — 
 
 His junior she by thirty years — 
 Grew daily tired of his dominion; 
 
 And, after wishes, hopes, and fears. 
 
 To virtue a few farewell tears, 
 A restless dream or two, some glances 
 At Warsaw's youth, some songs, and dances, 
 Awaited but the usual chances 
 (Those happy accidents which render 
 The coldest dames so very tender). 
 To deck her Count with titles given, 
 'T is said, as passports into heaven; 
 But, strange to say, they rarely boast 
 Of these, who have deserved them most. 
 
 'I was a goodly stripling then; 
 
 At seventy years I so may say. 
 That there were few, or boys or men, 
 
 Who, in my dawning time of day, 
 
Page Poetical Worlis of 
 
 Fifiy-iix LORD BYRON 
 
 Of vassal or of knight's degree, 
 Could vie in vanities with me. 
 For I had strength, youth, gaiety, 
 A port, not like to this ye see, 
 But smooth, as all is rugged now; 
 
 For time, and care, and war, have plough'd 
 My very soul from out my brow; 
 
 And thus I should be disavow'd 
 By all my kind and kin, could they 
 Compare my day and yesterday. 
 This change was wrought, too, long ere age 
 Had ta'en my features for his page: 
 With years, ye know, have not declined 
 My strength, my courage, or my mind, 
 Or at this hour I should not be 
 Telling old tales beneath a tree. 
 With starless skies my canopy. 
 But let me on: Theresa's form^ — 
 Methinks it glides before me now, 
 Between me and yon chestnut's bough, 
 The memory is so quick and warm; 
 And yet I find no words to tell 
 The shape of her I loved so well. 
 She had the Asiatic eye. 
 
 Such as our Turkish neighbourhood 
 
 Had mingled with our Polish blood. 
 Dark as above us is the sky; 
 But through it stole a tender light. 
 Like the first moonrise of midnight; 
 Large, dark, and swimming in the stream, 
 Which seem'd to melt to its own beam; 
 All love, half languor, and half fire, 
 
Poetical Worlds of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON F{ft\f -seven 
 
 Like saints that at the stake expire, 
 And lift their raptured looks on high 
 As though it were a joy to die; — 
 A brow like a midsummer lake, 
 
 Transparent with the sun therein. 
 When waves no murmur dare to make. 
 
 And heaven beholds her face within; — 
 A cheek and lip — but why proceed? 
 
 I loved her then — I love her still; 
 And such as I am love indeed 
 
 In fierce extremes — in good and ill. 
 But still we love even in our rage, 
 And haunted to our very age 
 With the vain shadow of the past. 
 As is Mazeppa to the last. 
 
 'We met, we gazed — I saw, and sigh'd; 
 
 She did not speak, and yet replied. 
 
 There are ten thousand tones and signs 
 
 We hear and see, but none defines — 
 
 Involuntary sparks of thought. 
 
 Which strike from out the heart o'erwrought 
 
 And form a strange intelligence 
 
 Alike mysterious and intense. 
 
 Which link the burning chain that binds, 
 
 Without their will, young hearts and minds; 
 
 Conveying, as the electric wire. 
 
 We know not how, the absorbing fire. 
 
 I saw, and sigh'd — in silence wept; 
 
 And still reluctant distance kept, 
 
 Until I was made known to her. 
 
 And we might then and there confer 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 Fifty-eighl LORD BYRON 
 
 Without suspicion — then, even then, 
 
 I long'd, and was resolved to speak; 
 But on my lips they died again. 
 
 The accents tremulous and weak, 
 Until one hour. — There is a game, 
 
 A frivolous and foolish play, 
 
 Wherewith we while away the day ; 
 It is — I have forgot the name — 
 And we to this, it seems, were set, 
 By some strange chance, which I forget. 
 I reck'd not if I won or lost, 
 
 It was enough for me to be 
 
 So near to hear, and oh! to see 
 The being whom I loved the most. 
 I watch'd her as a sentinel 
 (May ours this dark night watch as well!), 
 
 Until I saw, and thus it was, 
 That she was pensive, nor perceived 
 Her occupation, nor was grieved 
 Nor glad to lose or gain; but still 
 Play'd on for hours, as if her will 
 Yet bound her to the place, though not 
 That hers might be the winning lot. 
 
 Then through my brain the thought did pass 
 Even as a flash of lightning there, 
 That there was something in her air 
 Which would not doom me to despair; 
 
 And on the thought my words broke forth, 
 All incoherent as they were — 
 
 Their eloquence was little worth. 
 But yet she listen'd — 't is enough, 
 
 Who listens once will listen twice; 
 
Poetical WorJ(s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Fim-nine 
 
 Her heart, be sure, is not of ice, 
 And one refusal no rebuff. 
 
 'I loved, and was beloved again — 
 
 They tell me. Sire, you never knew 
 Those gentle frailties; if 't is true, 
 
 I shorten all my joy or pain; 
 
 To you 't would seem absurd as vain : 
 
 But all men are not born to reign. 
 
 Or o'er their passions, or as you. 
 
 Thus o'er themselves and nations too. 
 
 I am — or rather was — a prince, 
 
 A chief of thousands, and could lead 
 Them on where each would foremost bleed ; 
 
 But could not o'er myself evince 
 
 The like control. — But to resume: 
 I loved and was beloved again; 
 
 In sooth, it is a happy doom, 
 
 But yet where happiest ends in pain. 
 
 We met in secret, and the hour 
 
 Which led me to that lady's bower 
 
 Was fiery Expectation's dower. 
 
 My days and nights were nothing, all 
 
 Except that hour which doth recall 
 
 In the long lapse from youth to age 
 No other like itself — I 'd give 
 The Ukraine back again to live 
 
 It o'er once more; and be a page. 
 
 The happy page, who was the lord 
 
 Of one soft heart and his own sword, 
 
 And had no other gem nor wealth 
 
 Save nature's gift of youth and health. 
 
Page Poetical WorJis of 
 
 Sixty, LORD BYRON 
 
 We met in secret — doubly sweet, 
 Some say, they find it so to meet; 
 I know not that — I would have given 
 
 My life but to have call'd her mine 
 In the full view of earth and heaven; 
 
 For I did oft and long repine 
 That we could only meet by stealth. 
 
 'For lovers there are many eyes. 
 
 And such there were on us; the devil 
 
 On such occasions should be civil; 
 The devil! — I 'm loth to do him wrong, 
 
 It might be some untoward saint. 
 Who would not be at rest too long 
 
 But to his pious bile gave vent — 
 But one fair night, some lurking spies 
 Surprised and seized us both. 
 The Count was something more than wroth; 
 I was unarm'd; but if in steel. 
 All cap-a-pie from head to heel. 
 What 'gainst their numbers could I do ? — 
 'T was near his castle, far away 
 
 From city or from succour near, 
 And almost on the break of day. 
 I did not think to see another. 
 
 My moments seem'd reduced to few; 
 And with one prayer to Mary Mother, 
 
 And, it may be, a saint or two. 
 As I resign'd me to my fate, 
 They led me to the castle gate: 
 
 Theresa's doom I never knew. 
 Our lot was henceforth separate. 
 
Poetical Worlds of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Sixty-one 
 
 An angry man, ye may opine, 
 
 Was he, the proud Count Palatine; 
 
 And he had reason good to be, 
 
 But he was most enraged lest such 
 An accident should chance to touch 
 
 Upon his future pedigree; 
 
 Nor less amazed, that such a blot 
 
 His noble 'scutcheon should have got, 
 
 While he was highest of his line; 
 Because unto himself he seem'd 
 The first of men, nor less he deem'd 
 
 In others' eyes, and most in mine. 
 
 'Sdeath! with a page — perchance a king 
 
 Had reconciled him to the thing; 
 
 But with a stripling of a page! 
 
 I felt — but cannot paint his rage. 
 
 * "Bring forth the horse!" — the horse was brought; 
 
 In truth he was a noble steed, 
 
 A Tartar of the Ukraine breed. 
 Who look'd as though the speed of thought 
 Were in his limbs; but he was wild. 
 
 Wild as the wild deer, and untaught. 
 With spur and bridle undefiled — 
 
 'T was but a day he had been caught. 
 And snorting, with erected mane, 
 And struggling fiercely, but in vain. 
 In the full foam of wrath and dread 
 To me the desert-born was led. 
 They bound me on, that menial throng. 
 Upon his back with many a thong; 
 Then loosed him with a sudden lash : 
 
Page Poetical iVorks of 
 
 Sixty-tTvo LORD BYRON 
 
 Away! — away! — and on we dash! — 
 Torrents less rapid and less rash, 
 
 'Away! — away! — My breath was gone — 
 
 I saw not where he hurried on: 
 
 'T was scarcely yet the break of day, 
 
 And on he foam'd — away! — away! 
 
 The last of human sounds which rose, 
 
 As I was darted from my foes, 
 
 Was the wild shout of savage laughter, 
 
 Which on the wind came roaring after 
 
 A moment from that rabble rout. 
 
 With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head, 
 
 And snapp'd the cord, which to the mane 
 Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, 
 
 And, writhing half my form about, 
 
 Howl'd back my curse; but 'midst the tread. 
 
 The thunder of my courser's speed, 
 
 Perchance they did not hear nor heed: 
 
 It vexes me, for I would fain 
 
 Have paid their insult back again. 
 
 I paid it well in after days : 
 
 There is not of that castle gate. 
 
 Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight. 
 
 Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left; 
 
 Nor of its field a blade of grass. 
 
 Save what grows on a ridge of wall, 
 Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall; 
 
 And many a time ye there might pass. 
 
 Nor dream that e'er that fortress was. 
 
 I saw its turrets in a blaze. 
 
 Their crackling battlements all cleft. 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Sixt},-three 
 
 And the hot leaa pour down like rain 
 From off the scorch'd and blackening roof, 
 Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. 
 
 They little thought that day of pain, 
 When launch'd, as on the lightning's flash, 
 They bade me to destruction dash, 
 
 That one day I should come again, 
 With twice five thousand horse, to thank 
 
 The Count for his uncourteous ride. 
 They play'd me then a bitter prank. 
 
 When, with the wild horse for my guide, 
 They bound me to his foaming flank. 
 For time at last sets all things even — 
 
 And if we do but watch the hour. 
 
 There never yet was human power 
 Which could evade, if unforgiven. 
 The patient search and vigil long 
 Of him who treasures up a wrong. 
 
 'Away, away, my steed and I, 
 
 Upon the pinions of the wind. 
 
 All human dwellings left behind; 
 We sped like meteors through the sky. 
 When with its crackling sound the night 
 Is chequer'd with the northern light. 
 Town — village — none were on our track, 
 
 But a wild plain of far extent, 
 And bounded by a forest black; 
 
 And, save the scarce seen battlement 
 On distant heights of some strong hold. 
 Against the Tartars built of old, 
 No trace of man: the year before 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 Sixty-four LORD BYRON 
 
 A Turkish army had march'd o'er; 
 And where the Spahi's hoof had trod, 
 The verdure flies the bloody sod. 
 The sky was dull, and dim, and gray, 
 
 And a low breeze crept moaning by — 
 
 I could have answer'd with a sigh; 
 But fast we fled, away, away— 
 And I could neither sigh nor pray; 
 And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain 
 Upon the courser's bristling mane. 
 But, snorting still with rage and fear, 
 He flew upon his far career: 
 At times I almost thought, indeed. 
 He must have slacken'd in his speed; 
 But no — my bound and slender frame 
 
 Was nothing to his angry might, 
 And merely like a spur became. 
 Each motion which I made to free 
 My swoln limbs from their agony 
 
 Increased his fury and affright: 
 I tried my voice, — 't was faint and low. 
 But yet he swerved as from a blow; 
 And, starting to each accent, sprang 
 As from a sudden trumpet's clang. 
 Meantime my cords were wet with gore. 
 Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er; 
 And in my tongue the thirst became 
 A something fierier far than flame. 
 
 'We near'd the wild wood: 't was so wide, 
 
 I saw no bounds on either side; 
 
 'T was studded with old sturdy trees, 
 
Poelical Works of ^a?e 
 
 LORD BYRON Sixt^-five 
 
 That bent not to the roughest breeze 
 
 Which howls down from Siberia's waste 
 
 And strips the forest in its haste; 
 
 But these were few and far between, 
 
 Set thick with shrubs more young and green, 
 
 Luxuriant with their annual leaves. 
 
 Ere strown by those autumnal eves 
 
 That nip the forest's foliage dead, 
 
 Discolour'd with a lifeless red, 
 
 Which stands thereon like stiffen'd gore 
 
 Upon the slain when battle's o'er, 
 
 And some long winter's night hath shed 
 
 Its frost o'er every tombless head, 
 
 So cold and stark the raven's beak 
 
 May peck unpierced each frozen cheek. 
 
 'T was a wild waste of underwood, 
 
 And here and there a chestnut stood. 
 
 The strong oak, and the hardy pine; 
 
 But far apart — and well it were, 
 Or else a different lot were mine: 
 
 The boughs gave way, and did not tear 
 My limbs; and I found strength to bear 
 My wounds already scarr'd with cold — 
 My bonds forbade to loose my hold. 
 We rustled through the leaves like wind, 
 Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind; 
 By night I heard them on the track. 
 Their troop came hard upon our back. 
 With their long gallop which can tire 
 The hound's deep hate and hunter's fire. 
 Where'er we flew they follow'd on. 
 Nor left us with the morning sun; 
 
p Poetical Worki of 
 
 \,r^ . LORD BYRON 
 
 Behind I saw them, scarce a rood, 
 At day-break winding through the wood, 
 And through the night had heard their feet 
 Their stealing, rustling step repeat. 
 Oh! how I wish'd for spear or sword, 
 At least to die amidst the horde, 
 And perish — if it must be so — 
 At bay, destroying many a foe. 
 When first my courser's race begun, 
 I wish'd the goal already won; 
 But now I doubted strength and speed. 
 Vain doubt! his swift and savage breed 
 Had nerved him like the mountain-roe; 
 Nor faster falls the blinding snow 
 Which whelms the peasant near the door 
 Whose threshold he shall cross no more, 
 Bewilder'd with the dazzling blast. 
 Than through the forest-paths he past— 
 Untired, untamed, and worse than wild ; 
 All furious as a favour'd child 
 Balk'd of its wish; or fiercer still, 
 A woman piqued who has her will. 
 
 'The wood was past; 't was more than noon. 
 
 But chill the air although in June; 
 
 Or it might be my veins ran cold — 
 
 Prolong'd endurance tames the bold; 
 
 And I was then not what I seem. 
 
 But headlong as a wintry stream, 
 
 And wore my feelings out before 
 
 I well could count their causes o'er. 
 
 And what with fury, fear and wrath, 
 
Page 
 Poetical Works of 
 
 LORD BYRON ^"''^""^'^ 
 
 The tortures which beset my path, 
 Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress, 
 Thus bound in nature's nakedness 
 (Sprung from a race whose rising blood 
 When stirr'd beyond its calmer mood, 
 And trodden hard upon, is like 
 The rattle-snake's in act to strike), 
 What marvel if this worn-out trunk 
 Beneath its woes a moment sunk? 
 The earth gave way, the skies roll'd round, 
 I seem'd to sink upon the ground; 
 
 But err'd, for I was fastly bound. 
 
 My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore. 
 
 And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more : 
 
 The skies spun like a mighty wheel ; 
 
 I saw the trees like drunkards reel, 
 
 And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes, 
 
 Which saw no farther : he who dies 
 
 Can die no more than then I died. 
 
 O'ertortured by that ghastly ride, 
 
 I felt the blackness come and go, 
 
 And strove to wake; but could not make 
 
 My senses climb up from below. 
 
 I felt as on a plank at sea. 
 
 When all the waves that dash o'er thee, 
 
 At the same time upheave and whelm, 
 
 And hurl thee toward a desert realm. 
 
 My undulating life was as 
 
 The fancied lights that flitting pass 
 Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when 
 Fever begins upon the brain; 
 But soon it pass'd, with little pain, 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 Sixly-eight LORD BYRON 
 
 But a confusion worse than such: 
 I own that I should deem it much, 
 
 Dying, to feel the same again; 
 
 And yet I do suppose we must 
 
 Feel far more ere we turn to dust. 
 
 No matter; I have bared my brow 
 
 Full in Death's face — before — and now. 
 
 'My thoughts came back; where was I? Cold, 
 And numb, and giddy: pulse by pulse 
 
 Life reassumed its lingering hold. 
 
 And throb by throb: till grown a pang 
 Which for a moment would convulse, 
 My blood reflow'd though thick and chill; 
 
 My ear with uncouth noises rang, 
 
 My heart began once more to thrill ; 
 
 My sight retum'd, though dim, alas! 
 
 And thicken'd, as it were, with glass. 
 
 Methought the dash of waves was nigh: 
 
 There was a gleam too of the sky. 
 
 Studded with stars ; — it is no dream ; 
 
 The wild horse swims the wilder stream! 
 
 The bright broad river's gushing tide 
 
 Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide, 
 
 And we are half-way, struggling o'er 
 
 To yon unknown and silent shore. 
 
 The waters broke my hollow trance. 
 
 And with a temporary strength 
 
 My stiffen'd limbs were rebaptized. 
 
 My courser's broad breast proudly braves 
 
 And dashes off the ascending waves. 
 
 And onward we advance! 
 
Poetical Wor^s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Sixiy-ninc 
 
 We reach the slippery shore at length, 
 
 A haven I but little prized, 
 For all behind was dark and drear, 
 And all before was night and fear. 
 How many hours of night or day 
 In those suspended pangs I lay, 
 I could not tell; I scarcely knew 
 If this were human breath I drew. 
 
 'With glossy skin, and dripping mane. 
 
 And reeling limbs, and reeking flank, 
 The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain 
 Up the repelling bank. 
 We gain the top: a boundless plain 
 Spreads through the shadow of the night, 
 
 And onward, onward, onward, seems, 
 
 Like precipices in our dreams. 
 To stretch beyond the sight; 
 And here and there a speck of white. 
 
 Or scatter'd spot of dusky green, 
 In masses broke into the light. 
 As rose the moon upon my right. 
 
 But nought distinctly seen 
 In the dim waste would indicate 
 The omen of a cottage gate; 
 No twinkling taper from afar 
 Stood like a hospitable star; 
 Not even an ignis-fatuus rose 
 To make him merry with my woes: 
 
 That very cheat had cheer'd me then! 
 Although detected, welcome still. 
 
Page Poetical IVorl^s of 
 
 Seventy LORD BYRON 
 
 Reminding me, through every ill, 
 Of the abodes of men. 
 
 'Onward we went — but slack and slow; 
 
 His savage force at length o'erspent, 
 The drooping courser, faint and low. 
 
 All feebly foaming went. 
 A sickly infant had had power 
 To guide him forward in that hour; 
 
 But useless all to me, 
 His new-born tameness nought avail'd — 
 My limbs were bound; my force had fail'd, 
 
 Perchance, had they been free. 
 With feeble effort still I tried 
 To rend the bonds so starkly tied. 
 
 But still it was in vain; 
 My limbs were only wrung the more, 
 And soon the idle strife gave o'er. 
 
 Which but prolong'd their pain. 
 The dizzy race seem'd almost done, 
 Although no goal was nearly won : 
 Some streaks announced the coming sun — 
 
 How slow, alas, he came ! 
 Methought that mist of dawning gray 
 Would never dapple into day; 
 How heavily it roll'd away — 
 
 Before the eastern flame 
 Rose crimson, and deposed the stars. 
 And call'd the radiance from their cars. 
 And fill'd the earth, from his deep throne. 
 With lonely lustre, all his own. 
 
Poetical Wor^i of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Ssventy-one 
 
 'Up rose the sun ; the mists were curl'd 
 Back from the solitary world 
 Which lay around — behind — before; 
 What booted it to traverse o'er 
 Plain, forest, river? Man nor brute. 
 Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot. 
 Lay in the wild luxuriant soil; 
 No sign of travel, none of toil; 
 The very air was mute ; 
 And not an insect's shrill small horn, 
 Nor matin bird's new voice was borne 
 From herb nor thicket. Many a werst, 
 Panting as if his heart would burst. 
 The weary brute still stagger'd on; 
 And still we were — or seem'd — alone. 
 At length, while reeling on our way, 
 Methought I heard a courser neigh 
 From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 
 Is it the wind those branches stirs? 
 No, no! from out the forest prance 
 
 A trampling troop ; I see them come ! 
 In one vast squadron they advance ! 
 
 I strove to cry — my lips were dumb. 
 The steeds rush on in plunging pride; 
 But where are they the reins to guide? 
 A thousand horse — and none to ride! 
 With flowing tail, and flying mane. 
 Wide nostrils never stretch'd by pain, 
 Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein, 
 And feet that iron never shod, 
 And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod, 
 A thousand horse, the wild, the free. 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 Sevenfy-too LORD BYRON 
 
 Like waves that follow o'er the sea, 
 
 Came thickly thundering on, 
 As if our faint approach to meet. 
 The sight re-nerved my courser's feet, 
 A moment staggering, feebly fleet, 
 A moment, with a faint low neigh, 
 
 He answer'd, and then fell; 
 With gasps and glazing eyes he lay. 
 
 And reeking limbs immoveable — 
 His first and last career is done! 
 On come the troop — they saw him stoop. 
 
 They saw me strangely bound along 
 
 His back with many a bloody thong. 
 They stop — they start— they snuff the air, 
 Gallop a moment here and there. 
 Approach, retire, wheel round and round, 
 Then plunging back with sudden bound. 
 Headed by one black mighty steed 
 Who seem'd the patriarch of his breed. 
 
 Without a single speck or hair 
 Of white upon his shaggy hide. 
 They snort — they foam— neigh — swerve aside, 
 And backward to the forest fly. 
 By instinct, from a human eye. 
 
 They left me there to my despair, 
 Link'd to the dead and stiffening wretch. 
 Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch, 
 Relieved from that unwonted weight. 
 From whence I could not extricate 
 Nor him nor me — and there we lay 
 
 The dying on the dead! 
 
Poetical Works of ^^S" 
 
 LORD BYRON Seventy, -three 
 
 I little deem'd another day 
 
 Would see my houseless, helpless head. 
 
 'And there from morn till twilight bound, 
 
 I felt the heavy hours toil round. 
 
 With just enough of life to see 
 
 My last of suns go down on me. 
 
 In hopeless certainty of mind, 
 
 That makes us feel at length resign'd 
 
 To that which our foreboding years 
 
 Presents the worst and last of fears 
 
 Inevitable — even a boon. 
 
 Nor more unkind for coming soon; 
 
 Yet shunn'd and dreaded with such care, 
 
 As if it only were a snare 
 
 That prudence might escape: 
 At times both wish'd for and implored. 
 At times sought with self-pointed sword, 
 Yet still a dark and hideous close 
 To even intolerable woes. 
 
 And welcome in no shape. ■■^■-'' 
 
 And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure. 
 They who have revell'd beyond measure 
 In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure, 
 Die calm, or calmer oft than he 
 Whose heritage was misery: 
 
 For he who hath in turn run through 
 
 All that was beautiful and new. 
 
 Hath nought to hope, and nought to leave; 
 
 And, save the future (which is view'd 
 
 Not quite as men are base or good. 
 
 But as their nerves may be endued), 
 
Page PoeiicaLPVorki of 
 
 5even/p-/our LORD BYRON 
 
 With nought perhaps to grieve: — 
 The wretch still hopes his woes must end, 
 And Death, whom he should deem his friend, 
 Appears, to his distemper'd eyes, 
 Arrived to rob him of his prize. 
 The tree of his new Paradise. 
 To-morrow would have given him all, 
 Repaid his pangs, repair'd his fall; 
 To-morrow would have been the first 
 Of days no more deplored or curst, 
 But bright, and long, and beckoning years. 
 Seen dazzling through the mist of tears. 
 Guerdon of many a painful hour; 
 To-morrow would have given him power 
 To rule, to shine, to sniite, to save — 
 And must it dawn upon his grave? 
 
 'The sun was sinking — still I lay 
 
 Chain'd to the chill and stiffening steed; 
 I thought to mingle there our clay; 
 
 And my dim eyes of death had need, 
 
 No hope arose of being freed. 
 I cast my last looks up the sky, 
 
 And there between me and the sun 
 I saw the expecting raven fly. 
 Who scarce would wait till both should die 
 
 Ere his repast begun. 
 He flew, and perch'd, then flew once more, 
 And each time nearer than before; 
 I saw his wing through twilight flit. 
 And once so near me he alit 
 
 I could have smote, but lack'd the strength; 
 
Poetical Works of Pog' 
 
 LORD BYRON Seventy- fn>e 
 
 But the slight motion of my hand, 
 And feeble scratching of the sand, 
 The exerted throat's faint struggling noise. 
 Which scarcely could be call'd a voice. 
 
 Together scared him off at length. — 
 I know no more — my latest dream 
 
 Is something of a lovely star 
 
 Which fix'd my dull eyes from afar. 
 And went and came with wandering beam, 
 And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense 
 Sensation of recurring sense. 
 
 And then subsiding back to death. 
 
 And then again a little breath, 
 A little thrill, a short suspense, 
 
 An icy sickness curdling o'er 
 My heart, and sparks that cross'd my brain — 
 A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, 
 
 A sigh, and nothing more. 
 
 'I woke— Where was I? —Do I see 
 A human face look down on me? 
 And doth a roof above me close? 
 Do these limbs on a couch repose? 
 Is this a chamber where I lie? 
 And is it mortal, yon bright eye 
 That watches me with gentle glance? 
 
 I closed my own again once more. 
 As doubtful that the former trance 
 
 Could not as yet be o'er. 
 A slender girl, long-hair'd, and tall, 
 Sate watching by the cottage wall: 
 The sparkle of her eye I caught. 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 Seven/y-six LORD BYRON 
 
 Even with my first return of thought; 
 For ever and anon she threw 
 
 A prying, pitying glance on me 
 
 With her black eyes so wild and free. 
 I gazed, and gazed, until I knew 
 
 No vision it could be ; 
 But that I lived, and was released 
 From adding to the vulture's feast. 
 And when the Cossack maid beheld 
 My heavy eyes at length unseal'd, 
 She smiled — and I essay'd to speak, 
 
 But fail'd — and she approach'd, and made 
 
 With lip and finger signs that said, 
 I must not strive as yet to break 
 The silence, till my strength should be 
 Enough to leave my accents free. 
 And then her hand on mine she laid. 
 And smooth'd the pillow for my head. 
 And stole along on tiptoe tread, 
 
 And gently oped the door, and spake 
 In whispers — ne'er was voice so sweet! 
 Even music follow'd her light feet. 
 
 But those she call'd were not awake, 
 And she went forth; but, ere she pass'd, 
 Another look on me she cast. 
 
 Another sign she made, to say. 
 That I had nought to fear, that all 
 Were near at my command or call, 
 
 And she would not delay 
 Her due return: — while she was gone, 
 Methought I felt too much alone. 
 
Poetical Works of ' ^"^^ 
 
 LORD BYRON Seventy-seven 
 
 'She came with mother and with sire— 
 What need of more?— I will not tire 
 With long recital of the rest, 
 Since I became the Cossack's guest. 
 They found me senseless on the plain, 
 
 They bore me to the nearest hut, 
 They brought me into life again, 
 Me — one day o'er their realm to reign! 
 
 Thus the vain fool who strove to glut 
 His rage, refining on my pain. 
 
 Sent me forth to the wilderness. 
 Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone, 
 To pass the desert to a throne, — 
 
 What mortal his own doom may guess? 
 
 Let none despond, let none despair! 
 To-morrow the Borysthenes 
 May see our coursers graze at ease 
 Upon his Turkish bank,— and never 
 Had I such welcome for a river 
 
 As I shall yield when safely there. 
 Comrades, good night!'— The Hetman threw 
 
 His length beneath the oak-tree shade. 
 
 With leafy couch already made, 
 A bed nor comfortless nor new 
 To him who took his rest whene'er 
 The hour arrived, no matter where : 
 
 His eyes the hastening slumbers steep. 
 And if ye marvel Charles forgot 
 To thank his tale, he wonder'd not, — 
 The king had been an hour asleep. 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 Seventy-eight LORD BYRON 
 
 CftilDe ^aroID's! Pilgrimage 
 
 Oh, thou! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth, 
 Muse! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will! 
 Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth. 
 Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill: 
 Yet there I've wander'd by thy vaunted rill; 
 Yes! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine, 
 Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still; 
 Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine 
 To grace so plain a tale, this lowly lay of mine. 
 
 Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, 
 Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight; 
 But spent his days in riot most uncouth. 
 And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of Night. 
 Ah me! in sooth he was a shameless wight. 
 Sore given to revel and ungodly glee; 
 Few earthly things found favour in his sight 
 Save concubines and carnal companie, 
 And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. 
 
 Childe Harold was he hight: — but whence his name 
 And lineage long, it suits me not to say; 
 SufBce it, that perchance they were of fame, 
 And had been glorious in another day: 
 But one sad losel soils a name for aye. 
 However mighty in the olden time; 
 Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay. 
 Nor florid prose, nor honey'd lies of rhyme, 
 Can blazon evil deeds or consecrate a crime. 
 
Poetical Wor^s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON 5<sven<p-nm<- 
 
 And now Childe Harold was sore and sick at heart, 
 And from his fellow bacchanals would flee; 
 'T said, at times the sullen tear would start, 
 But Pride congeal'd the drop within his ee. 
 Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie. 
 And from his native land resolved to go, 
 And visit scorching climes beyond the sea; 
 With pleasure drugg'd, he almost long'd for woe, 
 And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades 
 below. 
 
 And none did love him; though to hall and bower 
 He gather'd revellers from far and near. 
 He knew them flatt'rers of the festal hour, 
 The heartless parasites of present cheer. 
 Yea! none did love him — not his lemans dear — 
 But pomp and power alone are woman's care, 
 And where these are light Eros finds a feere; 
 Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare. 
 And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair. 
 
 His house, his home, his heritage, his lands. 
 The laughing dames in whom he did delight. 
 Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands, 
 Might shake the saintship of an anchorite. 
 And long had fed his youthful appetite; 
 His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine. 
 And not that mote to luxury invite. 
 Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine 
 And traverse Paynim shores and pass Earth's central line. 
 
 But when the sun was sinking in the sea 
 
 He seized his harp, which he at times could string 
 
Page Poetical Worki of 
 
 Eighty LORD BYRON 
 
 And strike, albeit with untaught melody, 
 When deem'd he no strange ear was listening. 
 And now his fingers o'er it he did fling. 
 And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight; — 
 While flew the vessel on her snowy wing, 
 And fleeting shores receded from his sight. 
 Thus to the elements he pour'd his last 'Good Night' 
 
 'Adieu, adieu! my native shore 
 
 Fades o'er the waters blue 
 The Night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 
 
 And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 
 Yon Sun that sets upon the sea 
 
 We follow in his flight; 
 Farewell awhile to him and thee. 
 
 My native Land — Good Night! 
 
 *A few short hours and He will rise 
 
 To give the Morrow birth; 
 And I shall hail the main and skies. 
 
 But not my mother Earth. 
 Deserted is my own good hall. 
 
 Its hearth is desolate; 
 Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; 
 
 My dog howls at the gate. 
 
 'Come hither, hither, my little page! 
 
 Why dost thou weep and wail? 
 Or dost thou dread the billows' rage. 
 
 Or tremble at the gaJe? 
 But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; 
 
 Our ship is swift and strong, 
 Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly 
 
 More merrily along.' — 
 
 'Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, 
 
 I fear not wave nor wind; 
 Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I 
 
 Am sorrowful in mind; 
 
Poetical IVor^s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Eighty,-one 
 
 For I have from my father gone, 
 
 A mother whom I love, 
 And have no friend, save these alone. 
 
 But thee — and one above. 
 
 'My father bless'd me fervently, 
 
 Yet did not much complain; 
 But sorely will my mother sigh 
 
 Till I come back again.' — 
 'Enough, enough, my little lad! 
 
 Such tears become thine eye; 
 If I thy guileless bosom had. 
 
 Mine own would not be dry. — 
 
 'Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, 
 
 Why dost thou look so pale? 
 Or dost thou dread a French foeman? 
 
 Or shiver at the gale?' — 
 'Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? 
 
 Sir Childe, I 'm not so weak; 
 But thinking on an absent wife 
 
 Will blanch a faithful cheek. 
 
 'My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall. 
 
 Along the bordering lake. 
 And when they on their father call. 
 
 What answer shall she make?' — 
 'Enough, enough, my yeoman good. 
 
 Thy grief let none gainsay; 
 But I, who am of lighter mood. 
 
 Will laugh to flee away. 
 
 'For who would trust the seeming sighs 
 
 Of wife or paramour? 
 Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes 
 
 We late saw streaming o'er. 
 For pleasures past I do not grieve, 
 
 Nor perils gathering near; 
 My greatest grief is that I leave 
 
 No thing that claims a tear. 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 Eighiyt-uo LORD BYRON 
 
 'And now I 'm in the world alone. 
 
 Upon the wide, wide sea; 
 But why should I for others groan, 
 
 When none will sigh for me? 
 Perchance my dog will whine in vain, 
 
 Till fed by stranger hands; 
 But long ere I come back again 
 
 He 'd tear me where he stands, 
 
 'With thee, my bark, I '11 swiftly go 
 
 Athwart the foaming brine; 
 Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, 
 
 So not again to mine. 
 Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves! 
 
 And when you fail my sight, 
 Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves! 
 
 My native land — Good Night!* 
 
 On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, 
 And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay. 
 Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon. 
 New shores descried make every bosom gay; 
 And Cintra's mountain greets them on their way, 
 And Tagus dashing onward to the deep, 
 His fabled golden tribute bent to pay; 
 And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap, 
 And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap. 
 
 On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath. 
 
 Are domes where whilome kings did make repair; 
 
 But now the wild flowers round them only breathe; 
 
 Yet ruin'd splendour still is lingering there. 
 
 And yonder towers the Prince's palace fair: 
 
 There thou too, Vathek! England's wealthiest son. 
 
 Once form'd thy Paradise, as not aware 
 
Poetical Works of Pag' 
 
 LORD BYRON Eighfy-lhree 
 
 When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done, 
 Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun. 
 
 Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure plan. 
 Beneath yon mountain's ever beauteous brow; 
 But now, as if a thing unblest by Man, 
 Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou! 
 Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow 
 To halls deserted, portals gaping wide — 
 Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how 
 Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied, 
 Swept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentle tide! 
 
 O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills 
 (Oh, that such hills upheld a freebom race!), 
 Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, 
 Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place. 
 Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, 
 And marvel men should quit their easy chair, 
 The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace, 
 Oh! there is sweetness in the mountain air. 
 And life that bloated Ease can never hope to share. 
 
 Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way 
 Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued; 
 Yet is she free— the spoiler's wished-for prey! 
 Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude. 
 Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude. 
 Inevitable hour! 'Gainst fate to strive 
 Where Desolation plants her famish'd brood 
 Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre might yet survive. 
 And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive. 
 
Page Poetical Wot^s of 
 
 Eighl^-four LORD BYRON 
 
 Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast 
 Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days; 
 But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, 
 Calls forth a sweeter though ignoble praise. 
 Ah, Vice, how soft are thy voluptuous ways! 
 While boyish blood is mantling, who can 'scape 
 The fascination of thy magic gaze? 
 A Cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, 
 And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape. 
 
 All have their fooleries; not alike are thine, 
 Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea ! 
 Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine, 
 Thy saint adorers count the rosary. 
 Much is the Virgin teased to shrive them free 
 (Well do I ween the only virgin there) 
 From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be; 
 Then to the crowded circus forth they fare; 
 Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share. 
 
 The lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd, 
 Thousands on thousands piled are seated round; 
 Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard, 
 No vacant space for lated wight is found. 
 Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound, 
 Skill'd in the ogle of a roguish eye. 
 Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound; 
 None through their cold disdain are doom'd to die, 
 As moon-struck bards complain, by Love's sad archery. 
 
 Hush'd is the din of tongues ; on gallant steeds. 
 With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light poised 
 lance. 
 
Poetical Worlds of Poetical Wot^s of 
 
 LORD BYRON Eight],-five 
 
 Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, 
 And lowly bending to the lists advance; 
 Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance: 
 If in the dangerous game they shine today, 
 The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance, 
 Best prize of better acts, they bear away. 
 And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay. 
 
 In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd. 
 But all afoot, the light-limb'd Matadore 
 Stands in the centre, eager to evade 
 The lord of lowing herds; but not before 
 The ground with cautious tread is traversed o'er, 
 Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed: 
 His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more 
 Can man achieve without the friendly steed — 
 Alas! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed. 
 
 Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls, 
 The den expands, the Expectation mute 
 Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. 
 Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute. 
 And, wildly staring, spurns with sounding foot 
 The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe : 
 Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit 
 His first attack, wide waving to and fro 
 His angry tail; red rolls his eye's dilated glow. 
 
 Sudden he stops ; his eye is fix'd : away. 
 
 Away, thou heedless boy ! prepare the spear : 
 
 Now is thy time, to perish, or display 
 
 The skill that yet may check his. mad career. 
 
 With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer; 
 
Page Poetical Wor^s of 
 
 Eighty,-six LORD BYRON 
 
 On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes; 
 Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear: 
 He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes; 
 Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellowings speak his 
 
 Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail, 
 Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse; 
 Though man and man's avenging arms assail, 
 Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. 
 One gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled corse; 
 Another, hideous sight! unseam'd appears, 
 His gory chest unveils life's panting source; 
 Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears ; 
 Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm'd he bears. 
 
 Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last. 
 Full in the centre stands the bull at bay. 
 Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast. 
 And foes disabled in the brutal fray: 
 And now the Matadores around him play. 
 Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand: 
 Once more through all he bursts his thundering way — 
 Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand. 
 Wraps his fierce eye — 't is past — he sinks upon the sand ! 
 
 Where his cast neck just mingles with the spine, 
 
 Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies. 
 
 He stops, he starts, disdaining to decline; 
 
 Slowly he falls amidst triumphant cries. 
 
 Without a groan, without a struggle dies. 
 
 The decorated car appears, on high 
 
 The corse is piled — sweet sight for vulgar eyes; 
 
Poetical WotI^s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Eighl^-seven 
 
 Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, 
 Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by. 
 
 Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea; a long adieu! 
 Who may forget how well thy walls have stood? 
 When all were changing thou alone wert true, 
 First to be free and last to be subdued. 
 And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude, 
 Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye, 
 A traitor only fell beneath the feud: 
 Here all were noble, save Nobility; 
 None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen Chivalry! 
 
 Ye who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, 
 Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife; 
 Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on foreign foe 
 Can act, is acting there against man's life: 
 From flashing scimitar to secret knife, 
 War mouldeth there each weapon to his need — 
 So may he guard the sister and the wife, 
 So may he make each curst oppressor bleed, 
 So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed! 
 
 V ^ ¥ V V ^ 
 
 Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven! — but thou, alas. 
 Didst never yet one mortal song inspire — 
 Goddess of Wisdom! here thy temple was, 
 And is, despite of war and wasting fire. 
 And years, that bade thy worship to expire: 
 But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow. 
 Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
 Of men who never felt the sacred glow 
 That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts 
 bestow. 
 
Page Poeiical Worlds of 
 
 Eighiy^-eight LORD BYRON 
 
 Ancient of days ! august Athena ! where, 
 
 Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul? 
 
 Gone — gUmmering through the dream of things that 
 
 were: 
 First in the race that led to Glory's goal, 
 They won, and pass'd away — is this the whole? 
 A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour! 
 The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole 
 Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower, 
 Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power. 
 
 Son of the morning, rise! approach you here! 
 Come — but molest not yon defenceless urn: 
 Look on this spot — a nation's sepulchre! 
 Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn. 
 Even gods must yield, religions take their turn; 
 'T was Jove's, 't is Mahomet's, and other creeds 
 Will rise with other years, till man shall learn 
 Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds, — 
 Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on 
 reeds. 
 
 Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heaven — 
 Is 't not enough, unhappy thing, to know 
 Thou art? Is this a boon so kindly given. 
 That, being, thou wouldst be again, and go. 
 Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what region, so 
 On earth no more, but mingled with the skies? 
 Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe? 
 Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies. 
 That little urn said more than thousand homilies. 
 
 Or burst the vanish'd Hero's lofty mound ; 
 Far on the solitary shore he sleeps: 
 
Poetical Worlds of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Eighty-nine 
 
 He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around; 
 But now not one of saddening thousands weeps, 
 Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps 
 Where demi-gods appear'd, as records tell. 
 Remove yon skull from out the scatter'd heaps: 
 Is that a temple where a God may dwell? 
 Why ev'n the worm at last disdains her shatter'd cell ! 
 
 Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall, 
 Its chambers desolate, and portals foul : 
 Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall. 
 The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul. 
 Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole. 
 The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit 
 And Passion's host, that never brook'd control: 
 Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, 
 People this lonely tower, this tenement refit? 
 
 Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son! 
 'All that we know is, nothing can be known.' 
 Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun? 
 Each hath his pang, but feeble sufferers groan 
 With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. 
 Pursue what Chance or Fate proclaimeth best; 
 Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron: 
 There no forced banquet claims the sated guest, 
 But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest. 
 
 Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be 
 A land of souls beyond that sable shore, 
 To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee 
 And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore; 
 How sweet it were in concert to adore 
 
Page Poetical W^orlfi of 
 
 Ninel\f LORD BYRON 
 
 With those who made our mortal labours light ! 
 To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more! 
 Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight, 
 The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the 
 right ! 
 
 There, thou! — whose love and life, together fled, 
 Have left me here to love and live in vain — 
 Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead, 
 When busy Memory flashes on my brain? 
 Well — I will dream that we may meet again, 
 And woo the vision to my vacant breast: 
 If aught of young Remembrance then remain. 
 Be as it may Futurity's behest, 
 For me 't were bliss enough to know thy spirit blest ! 
 
 Here let me sit upon this massy stone. 
 The marble column's yet unshaken base; 
 Here, son of Saturn, was thy fav'rite throne. 
 Mightiest of many such! Hence let me trace 
 The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place. 
 It may not be: nor ev'n can Fancy's eye 
 Restore what Time hath labour'd to deface. 
 Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh; 
 Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by. 
 
 Cold is the heart, fair Greece, that looks on thee, 
 
 Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved; 
 
 Dull is the eye that will not weep to see 
 
 Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed 
 
 By British hands, v/hich it had best behoved 
 
 To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. 
 
 Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved, 
 
Poetical IVorlfs of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Nincty-one 
 
 And once again thy hapless bosom gored, 
 And snatch'd thy shrinking Gods to northern cHmes 
 abhorr'd ! 
 
 But where is Harold? shall I then forget 
 To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave? 
 Little reck'd he of all that men regret; 
 No loved-one now in feign'd lament could rave; 
 No friend the parting hand extended gave, 
 Ere the cold stranger pass'd to other climes : 
 Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave; 
 But Harold felt not as in other times. 
 And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes. 
 
 He that has sail'd upon the dark blue sea 
 Has view'd at times, I ween, a full fair sight; 
 When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be, 
 The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight; 
 Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right. 
 The glorious main expanding o'er the bow, 
 The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight, 
 The dullest sailer wearing bravely now. 
 So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow. 
 
 The moon is up; by Heaven, a lovely eve! 
 
 Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand; 
 
 Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe 
 
 Such be our fate when we return to land! 
 Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand! 
 Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love; 
 A circle there of merry listeners stand. 
 Or to some well-known measure featly move, 
 Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove. 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 Nineiy-iwo LORD BYRON 
 
 'T is night, when Meditation bids us feel 
 We once have loved, though love is at an end; 
 The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal. 
 Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend. 
 Who with the weight of years would wish to bend, 
 When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy? 
 Alas, when mingling souls forget to blend, 
 Death hath but little left him to destroy ! 
 Ah, happy years ! once more who would not be a boy? 
 
 Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side. 
 To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere, 
 The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride, 
 And flies unconscious o'er each backward year. 
 None are so desolate but something dear. 
 Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd 
 A thought, and claims the homage of a tear ; 
 A flashing pang! of which the weary breast 
 Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest. 
 
 To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell. 
 To slowly trace the forest's shady scene. 
 Where things that own not man's dominion dwell. 
 And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been; 
 To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, 
 With the wild flock that never needs a fold; 
 Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean; 
 This is not solitude, 't is but to hold 
 Converse with Nature's charms and view her stores 
 unroU'd. 
 
 But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, 
 To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Ninety-three 
 
 And roam along, the world's tired denizen, 
 With none who bless us, none whom we can bless; 
 Minions of splendour shrinking from distress! 
 None that, with kindred consciousness endued, 
 If we were not would seem to smile the less. 
 Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and sued; 
 This is to be alone; this, this is solitude! 
 
 Pass we the long unvarying course, the track 
 Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind; 
 Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack. 
 And each well known caprice of wave and wind; 
 Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find, 
 Coop'd in their winged sea-girt citadel; 
 The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind. 
 As breezes rise and fall and billows swell, 
 Till on some jocund morn — lo, land! and all is well. 
 
 But not in silence pass Calypso's isles. 
 The sister tenants of the middle deep; 
 There for the weary still a haven smiles. 
 Though the fair goddess long hath ceased to weep 
 And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep 
 For him who dared prefer a mortal bride: 
 Here, too, his boy essay'd the dreadful leap 
 Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide; 
 While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen doubly 
 sigh'd. 
 
 Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone: 
 But trust not this; too easy youth, beware! 
 A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne, 
 And thou may'st find a new Calypso there. 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 Ninety- four LORD BYRON 
 
 4 
 
 Sweet Florence, could another ever share 
 This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine : 
 But, check'd by every tie, I may not dare 
 To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine, 
 Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine. 
 
 Thus Harold deem'd, as on that lady's eye 
 He look'd and met its beam without a thought. 
 Save Admiration glancing harmless by : 
 Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote, 
 Who knew his votary often lost and caught. 
 But knew him as his worshipper no more : 
 And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought: 
 Since now he vainly urged him to adore, 
 Well deem'd the little God his ancient sway was o'er. 
 
 Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze. 
 One who, 't was said, still sigh'd to all he saw. 
 Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze. 
 Which others hail'd with real or mimic awe. 
 Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law. 
 All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims : 
 And much she marvell'd that a youth so raw 
 Nor felt, nor feign'd at least, the oft-told flames, 
 Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely anger 
 dames. 
 
 Little knew she that seeming marble heart. 
 Now mask'd in silence or withheld by pride. 
 Was not unskilful in the spoiler's art. 
 And spread its snares licentious far and wide; 
 Nor from the base pursuit had turn'd aside, 
 As long as aught was worthy to pursue: 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Ninety-fhc 
 
 But Harold on such arts no more relied; 
 And had he doted on those eyes so blue, 
 Yet never would he join the lovers' whining crew. 
 
 Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast. 
 Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs; 
 What careth she for hearts when once possess'd? 
 Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes, 
 But not too humbly or she will despise 
 Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes: 
 Disguise ev'n tenderness if thou art wise; 
 Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes; 
 Pique her and soothe in turn, soon Passion crowns thy 
 hopes. 
 
 'T is an old lesson; Time approves it true, 
 And those who know it best, deplore it most; 
 When all is won that all desire to woo, 
 The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost: 
 Youth wasted, minds degraded, honour lost. 
 These are thy fruits, successful Passion, these! 
 If, kindly cruel, early Hope is crost, 
 Still to the last it rankles, a disease, 
 Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to please. 
 
 Away! nor let me loiter in my song. 
 For we have many a mountain-path to tread, 
 And many a varied shore to sail along. 
 By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led, — 
 Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head 
 Imagined in its little schemes of thought; 
 Or e'er in new Utopias were ared, 
 To teach man what he might be, or he ought ; 
 If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught. 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 Nineiy)-six LORD BYRON 
 
 Dear Nature is the kindest mother still, 
 Though always changing in her aspect mild; 
 From her bare bosom let me take my fill, 
 Her never-wean'd, though not her favour'd child. 
 Oh, she is fairest in her features wild, 
 Where nothing polish'd dares pollute her path! 
 To me by day or night she ever smiled. 
 Though I have mark'd her when none other hath, 
 And sought her more and more, and loved her best in 
 wrath. 
 
 Monastic Zitza, from thy shady brow. 
 Thou small, but favour'd spot of holy ground! 
 Where'er we gaze, around, above, below. 
 What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found ! 
 Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound. 
 And bluest skies that harmonise the whole; 
 Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound 
 Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll 
 Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please the 
 soul. 
 
 Here in the sultriest season let him rest, 
 Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees; 
 Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast, 
 From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze. 
 The plain is far beneath — oh! let him seize 
 Pure pleasure while he can; the scorching ray 
 Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease : 
 Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay, 
 And gaze, untired, the morn, the noon, the eve away. 
 
Poetical Wor\s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Ninei^-seven 
 
 Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove, 
 And weary waves retire to gleam at rest. 
 How brown the foliage of the green hill's grove, 
 Nodding at midnight o'er the calm bay's breast, 
 As winds come lightly whispering from the west, 
 Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene: — 
 Here Harold was received a welcome guest; 
 Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene, 
 For many a joy could he from Night's soft presence 
 glean. 
 
 On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly blazed, 
 The feast was done, the red wine circling fast, 
 And he that unawares had there ygazed 
 With gaping wonderment had stared aghast; 
 For ere night's midmost, stillest hour was past. 
 The native revels of the troop began; 
 Each Palikar his sabre from him cast. 
 And bounding hand in hand, man link'd to man, 
 Yelling their uncouth dirge, long daunced the kirtled 
 clan. 
 
 Childe Harold at a little distance stood, 
 And view'd, but not displeased, the revelrie. 
 Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude: 
 In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see 
 Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee. 
 And, as the flames along their faces gleam'd, 
 Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing free. 
 The long wild locks that to their girdles stream'd, 
 While thus in concert they this lay half sang, half 
 scream'd : — 
 
Page Poetical Wor^s of 
 
 Ninety-eight LORD BYRON 
 
 Tambourgi! Tambourgi! thy 'larum afar 
 Gives hope to the valiant and promise of war; 
 All the sons of the mountains arise at the note, 
 Chimariot, Illyrian, and dark Suliote! 
 
 Oh! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, 
 
 In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote? 
 
 To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock, 
 
 And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock. 
 
 Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive 
 The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live? 
 Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego? 
 What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe? 
 
 Macedonia sends forth her invincible race; 
 For a time they abondon the cave and the chase: 
 But those scarfs of blood-red shall be redder, before 
 The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o'er. 
 
 Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the waves 
 And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves, 
 Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar. 
 And track to his covert the captive on shore. 
 
 I ask not the pleasures that riches supply. 
 My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy; 
 Shall win the young bride with her long flowing hair. 
 And many a maid from her mother shall tear. 
 
 I love the fair face of the maid in her youth. 
 Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall soothe; 
 Let her bring from the chamber her many-toned lyre. 
 And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. 
 
 Remember the moment when Previsa fell. 
 The shrieks of the conquer'd, the conquerors' yell; 
 The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared. 
 The wealthy we slaughter'd, the lovely we spared. 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Mneiy-mnc 
 
 I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear; 
 He neither must know who would serve the Vizier: 
 Since the days of our prophet the Crescent ne'er saw 
 A chief ever glorious like Ali Pashaw. 
 
 Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, 
 Let the yellow-hair'd Giaours view his horsetail with dread; 
 When his Delhis come dashing in blood o'er the banks, 
 How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks! 
 
 Selictar, unsheathe then our chief's scimitar: 
 Tambourgi, thy 'larum gives promise of war; 
 Ye mountains, that see us descend to the shore. 
 Shall view us as victors, or view us no more! 
 
 Fair Greece, sad relic of departed worth! 
 Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great! 
 Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children forth. 
 And long accustom'd bondage uncreate? 
 Not such thy sons who whilome did await, 
 The hopeless warriors of a willing doom. 
 In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait — 
 Oh! who that gallant spirit shall resume, 
 Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb? 
 
 And whose more rife with merriment than thine. 
 Oh Stamboul, once the empress of their reign? 
 Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine. 
 And Greece her very alters eyes in vain; 
 (Alas, her woes will still pervade my strain!) 
 Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng. 
 All felt the common joy they now must feign. 
 Nor oft I 've seen such sight nor heard such song, 
 As woo'd the eye and thrill'd the Bosphorus along. 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 One Hundred LORD BYRON 
 
 Glanced many a light caique along the foam. 
 Danced on the shore the daughters of the land, 
 Ne thought had man or maid of rest or home, 
 While many a languid eye and thrilling hand 
 Exchanged the look few bosoms may withstand, 
 Or gently prest, return'd the pressure still : 
 Oh Love ! young Love ! bound in thy rosy band, 
 Let sage or cynic prattle as he will, 
 These hours, and only these, redeem Life's years of ill! 
 
 But, midst the throng in merry masquerade. 
 Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain, 
 Even through the closest searment half betray'd? 
 To such the gentle murmurs of the main 
 Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain; 
 To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd 
 Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain : 
 How do they loathe the laughter idly loud, 
 And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud! 
 
 And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, 
 Land of lost gods and godlike men, art thou! 
 Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow. 
 Proclaim thee Nature's varied favourite now; 
 Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow. 
 Commingling slowly with heroic earth. 
 Broke by the share of every rustic plough 
 (So perish monuments of mortal birth. 
 So perish all in turn, save well-recorded Worth). 
 
 Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild ; 
 Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields. 
 Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled. 
 
Poetical Worlds of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and One 
 
 And still his honied wealth Hymettus yields; 
 There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds. 
 The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain-air; 
 Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds, 
 Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare; 
 Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair. 
 
 Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past 
 Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng; 
 Long shall the voyager, with th' Ionian blast. 
 Hail the bright clime of battle and of song; 
 Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue 
 Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore; 
 Boast of the aged! lesson of the young! 
 Which sages venerate and bards adore. 
 As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore. 
 
 Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one ! 
 Whom youth and youth's affections bound to me ; 
 Who did for me what none beside have done. 
 Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. 
 What is my being? thou hast ceased to be! 
 Nor staid to welcome here thy wanderer home, 
 Who mourns o'er hours which we no more shall see — 
 Would they had never been, or were to come ! 
 Would he had ne'er return'd to find fresh cause to roam ! 
 
 Oh, ever loving, lovely, and beloved! 
 How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past. 
 And clings to thoughts now better far removed! 
 But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last. 
 All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death, thou 
 hast, — 
 
Page Poetical Wor^s of 
 
 One Hundred and Two LORD BYRON 
 
 The parent, friend, and now the more than friend ; 
 Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast, 
 And grief with grief continuing still to blend. 
 Hath snatch'd the little joy that life had yet to lend. 
 
 Then must I plunge again into the crowd, 
 And follow all that Peace disdains to seek? 
 Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly loud, 
 False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek. 
 To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak! 
 Still o'er the features, which perforce they cheer. 
 To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique, 
 Smiles form the channel of a future tear. 
 Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled sneer. 
 
 What is the worst of woes that wait on age? 
 What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? 
 To view each loved one blotted from life's page, 
 And be alone on earth, as I am now. 
 Before the Chastener humbly let me bow, 
 O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroy'd: 
 Roll on, vain days ! full reckless may ye flow. 
 Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoy'd. 
 And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy'd. 
 
 Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child, 
 Ada, sole daughter of my house and heart? 
 When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled. 
 And then we parted, — not as now we part, 
 But with a hope. — 
 
 Awaking with a start, 
 The waters heave around me, and on high 
 
Poetical Worlds of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Three 
 
 The winds lift up their voices: I depart, 
 Whither I know not; but the hour 's gone by, 
 When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine 
 eye. 
 
 Once more upon the waters, yet once more! 
 And the waves bound beneath me as a steed 
 That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar! 
 Swift be their guidance wheresoe'er it lead! 
 Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed, 
 And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, 
 Still must I on; for I am as a weed, 
 Flung from the rock on Ocean's foam to sail 
 Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath 
 prevail. 
 
 Since my young dayi of passion — joy, or pain, 
 Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string. 
 And both may jar; it may be that in vain 
 I would essay as I have sung to sing. 
 Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling. 
 So that it wean me from the weary dream 
 Of selfish grief or gladness — so it fling 
 Forgetfulness around me — it shall seem 
 To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. 
 
 He, who grown aged in this world of woe, 
 
 In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, 
 
 So that no wonder waits him; nor below 
 
 Can l«ve, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife, 
 
 Cut to his heart again with the keen knife 
 
 Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell 
 
 Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife 
 
Page Poetical Wor^s of 
 
 One Hundred and Four LORD BYRON 
 
 With airy images, and shapes which dwell 
 Still unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted cell. 
 
 'T is to create, and in creating live 
 A being more intense, that we endow 
 With form our fancy, gaining as we give 
 The life we image, even as I do now. 
 What am I? Nothing: but not so art thou, 
 Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth, 
 Invisible but gazing, as I glow 
 Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, 
 And feeling still with thee in my crush'd feelings' dearth. 
 
 Yet must I think less wildly: — I have thought 
 Too long and darkly, till my brain became. 
 In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, 
 A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame: 
 And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame. 
 My springs of life were poison'd. 'T is too late ! 
 Yet am I changed; though still enough the same 
 In strength to bear what time can not abate. 
 And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate. 
 
 Something too much of this : but now 't is past, 
 And the spell closes with its silent seal. 
 Long absent HAROLD re-appears at last, — 
 He of the breast which fain no more would feel, 
 Wrung with the wounds which kill not but ne'er heal ; 
 Yet Time, who changes all, had alter'd him 
 In soul and aspect as in age : years steal 
 Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb. 
 And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. 
 
Poetical IVorJis of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Five 
 
 His had been quafF'd too quickly, and he found 
 The dregs were wormwood; but he fill'd again, 
 And from a purer fount, on holier ground. 
 And deem'd its spring perpetual — but in vain! 
 Still round him clung invisibly a chain 
 Which gall'd for ever, fettering though unseen. 
 And heavy though it clank'd not; worn with pain. 
 Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen. 
 Entering with every step he took through many a scene. 
 
 Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd 
 Again in fancied safety with his kind, 
 And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd 
 And sheathed with an invulnerable mind. 
 That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind; 
 And he, as one, might 'midst the many stand 
 Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find 
 Fit speculation, such as in strange land 
 He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's hand. 
 
 But who can view the ripen'd rose nor seek 
 To wear it? who can curiously behold 
 The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek. 
 Nor feel the heart can never all grow old? 
 Who can contemplate Fame through clouds unfold 
 The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb? 
 Harold, once more within the vortex, roll'd 
 On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, 
 Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond prime. 
 
 Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends; 
 Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was his home; 
 Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends. 
 
Page Poetical fVor^s of 
 
 One Hundred and Six LORD BYRON 
 
 He had the passion and the power to roam; 
 The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, 
 Were unto him companionship; they spake 
 A mutual language, clearer than the tome 
 Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake 
 For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams on the lake. 
 
 Like the Chaldean he could watch the stars, 
 Till he had peopled them with beings bright 
 As their own beams ; and earth, and earth-born jars, 
 And human frailties, were forgotten quite. 
 Could he have kept his spirit to that flight 
 He had been happy; but this clay will sink 
 Its spark immortal, envying it the light 
 To which it mounts, as if to break the link 
 That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its 
 brink. 
 
 But in Man's dwellings he became a thing 
 Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome, 
 Droop'd as a wild-born falcon with dipt wing, 
 To whom the boundless air alone were home. 
 Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome. 
 As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat 
 His breast and beak against his wiry dome 
 Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat 
 Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat. 
 
 Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again, 
 
 With nought of hope left, but with less of gloom; 
 
 The very knowledge that he lived in vain, 
 
 That all was over on this side the tomb, 
 
 Had made Despair a smilingness assume, 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Seven 
 
 Which, though 't were wild, — as on the plunder'd 
 
 wreck 
 When mariners would madly meet their doom 
 With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck, — 
 Did yet inspire a cheer which he forbore to check. 
 
 Stop! — for thy tread is on an Empire's dust! 
 An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below! 
 Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust. 
 Nor column trophied for triumphal show? 
 None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so, 
 As the ground was before, thus let it be ; — 
 How that red rain hath made the harvest grow ! 
 And is this all the world has gained by thee, ( 
 
 Thou first and last of fields, king-making Victory? 5 
 
 And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, / 
 
 The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo ! 
 How in an hour the power which gave annuls 
 Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too ! 
 In 'pride of place' here last the eagle flew. 
 Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain, 
 Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through; 
 Ambition's life and labours all were vain; 
 He wears the shatter'd links of the world's broken chain. 
 
 There was a sound of revelry by night. 
 
 And Belgium's capital had gather 'd then 
 
 Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
 
 The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; 
 
 A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
 
 Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
 
 Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, 
 
Page Poetical Wot\s of 
 
 One Hundred and Eight LORD BYRON 
 
 And all went merry as a marriage-bell; — 
 But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! 
 
 Did ye not hear it? — No; 't was but the wind, 
 Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; 
 On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; 
 No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet 
 To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet — 
 But hark! — that heavy sound breaks in once more 
 As if the clouds its echo would repeat; 
 And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! 
 Arm! Arm! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar! 
 
 Within a window'd niche of that high hall 
 Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear 
 That sound the first amidst the festival, 
 And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; 
 And when they smiled because he deem'd it near. 
 His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
 Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier. 
 And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: 
 He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. 
 
 Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro. 
 And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
 And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
 Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; 
 And there were sudden partings, such as press 
 The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
 Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess 
 If ever more should meet those mutual eyes. 
 Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise! 
 
Poelical Works of P"^* 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Nine 
 
 And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, 
 The mustering squadron, and the clattering car. 
 Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
 And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; 
 And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; 
 And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
 Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; 
 While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, 
 Or whispering, with white lips— 'The foe! They come! 
 they come!' 
 
 And wild and high the 'Cameron's gathering' rose! 
 The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
 Have heard, and heard too have her Saxon foes : — 
 How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, 
 Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills 
 Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
 With the fierce native daring which instils 
 The stirring memory of a thousand years, 
 And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears ! 
 
 And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, 
 Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
 Grrieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
 Over the unreturning brave, — alas! 
 Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
 Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
 In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
 Of Hving valour, rolling on the foe 
 And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. 
 
 Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
 Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay. 
 
Page Poetical Worlfs of 
 
 One Hundred and Ten LORD B YRON 
 
 The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, 
 The morn the marshalling in arms, — the day 
 Battle's magnificently-stern array! 
 The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent 
 The earth is cover'd thick with other clay. 
 Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent. 
 Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent! 
 
 Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine; 
 Yet one I would select from that proud throng. 
 Partly because they blend me with his line. 
 And partly that I did his sire some wrong, 
 And partly that bright names will hallow song; 
 And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd 
 The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along, 
 Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd. 
 They reach'd no nobler breast than thine, young gallant 
 Howard ! 
 
 There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee. 
 And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; 
 But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, 
 Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, 
 And sav/ around me the wide field revive 
 With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring 
 Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, 
 With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
 I turn'd from all she brought to those she could not bring. 
 
 I turn'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each 
 And one as all a ghastly gap did make 
 In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach 
 Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake; 
 
Poetical Worlds of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Eleven 
 
 The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake 
 Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of 
 
 Fame 
 May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake 
 The fever of vain longing, and the name 
 So honour'd but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim. 
 
 They mourn, but smile at length ; and, smiling, mourn : 
 The tree will wither long before it fall; 
 The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn ; 
 The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall 
 In massy hoariness; the ruin'd wall 
 Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone; 
 The bars survive the captive they enthral; 
 The day drags through though storms keep out the 
 sun; 
 And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on : 
 
 Even as a broken mirror, which the glass 
 In every fragment multiplies; and makes 
 A thousand images of one that was. 
 The same, and still the more, the more it breaks; 
 And thus the heart will do which not forsakes, 
 Living in shatter'd guise, and still, and cold, 
 And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, 
 Yet withers on till all without is old, 
 Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold. 
 
 There is a very life in our despair. 
 Vitality of poison, a quick root 
 Which feeds these deadly branches: for it were 
 As nothing did we die; but Life will suit 
 Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit. 
 
Page Poetical WoT^i of 
 
 One Hundred and Twelve LORD BYRON 
 
 Like to the apples of the Dead Sea's shore, 
 All ashes to the taste. Did man compute 
 Existence by enjo5mient, and count o'er 
 Such hours 'gainst years of life, — say, would he name 
 threescore? 
 
 The Psalmist number'd out the years of man : 
 They are enough, and if thy tale be true, 
 Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleeting span, 
 More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo! 
 Millions of tongues record thee, and anew 
 Their children's lips shall echo them, and say — 
 'Here, where the sword united nations drew. 
 Our countrymen were warring on that day!' 
 And this is much, and all which will not pass away. 
 
 There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men. 
 Whose spirit antithetically mixt 
 One moment of the mightiest, and again 
 On little objects with like firmness fixt, 
 Extreme in all things! hadst thou been betwixt. 
 Thy throne had still been thine, or never been ; 
 For daring made thy rise as fall : thou seek'st 
 Even now to re-assume the imperial mien, 
 And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene ! 
 
 Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou! 
 She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name 
 Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now 
 That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame, 
 Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and became 
 The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert 
 A god unto thyself; nor less the same 
 
Poelical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Thirteen 
 
 To the astounded kingdoms all inert, 
 Who deem'd thee for a time whate'er thou didst assert. 
 
 Oh, more or less than man — in high or low. 
 Battling with nations, flying from the field; 
 Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool, now 
 More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield: 
 An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild, 
 But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor. 
 However deeply in men's spirit skill'd, 
 Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war. 
 Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star. 
 
 Yet well thy soul hath brook'd the turning tide 
 With that untaught innate philosophy. 
 Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, 
 Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. 
 When the whole host of hatred stood hard by, 
 To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled 
 With a sedate and all-enduring eye; 
 When Fortune fled her spoil'd and favourite child. 
 He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him piled. 
 
 Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them 
 Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show 
 That just habitual scorn, which could contemn 
 Men and their thoughts ; 't was wise to feel, not so 
 To wear it ever on thy lip and brow. 
 And spurn the instruments thou wert to use 
 Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow: 
 'T is but a worthless world to win or lose. 
 So hath it proved to thee and all such lot who choose. 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 One Hundred and Fourteen LORD BYRON 
 
 If, like a tower upon a headlong rock, 
 Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone. 
 Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the shock; 
 But men's thoughts were the steps which paved thy 
 
 throne. 
 Their admiration thy best weapon shone; 
 The part of Philip's son was thine, not then 
 (Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) 
 Like stem Diogenes to mock at men; 
 For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den. 
 
 But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell, 
 And there hath been thy bane; there is a fire 
 And motion of the soul which will not dwell 
 In its own narrow being, but aspire 
 Beyond the fitting medium of desire ; 
 And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, 
 Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire 
 Of aught but rest; a fever at the core. 
 Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. 
 
 This makes the madmen who have made men mad 
 By their contagion, — Conquerors and Kings, 
 Founders of sects and systems, to whom add 
 Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things 
 Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs, 
 And are themselves the fools to those they fool ; 
 Envied, yet how unenviable ! what stings 
 Are theirs! One breast laid open were a school 
 Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule. 
 
 Their breath is agitation, and their life 
 
 A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last; 
 
Poetical IVor^s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Fifteen 
 
 And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife, 
 That should their days, surviving perils past, 
 Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast 
 With sorrow and supineness, and so die; 
 Even as a flame unfed which runs to waste 
 With its own flickering, or a sword laid by, 
 Which eats into itself and rusts ingloriously. 
 
 He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find 
 The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow ; 
 He who surpasses or subdues mankind, 
 Must look down on the hate of those below. 
 Though high above the sun of glory glow. 
 And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, 
 Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
 Contending tempests on his naked head. 
 And thus reward the toils which to those summits led. 
 
 Away with these! true Wisdom's world will be 
 Within its own creation, or in thine, 
 Maternal Nature! for who teems like thee. 
 Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine? 
 There Harold gazes on a work divine, 
 A blending of all beauties, — streams and dells. 
 Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, cornfield, mountain, vine, 
 And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells 
 From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells. 
 
 And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, 
 Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd. 
 All tenantless, save to the crannying wind. 
 Or holding dark communion with the cloud. 
 There was a day when they were young and proud, 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 One Hundred and Sixteen LORD BYRON 
 
 Banners on high, and battles pass'd below ; 
 But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, 
 And those which waved are shredless dust ere now. 
 And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow. 
 
 But Thou, exulting and abounding river! 
 Making thy waves a blessing as they flow 
 Through banks whose beauty would endure for ever, 
 Could man but leave thy bright creation so. 
 Nor its fair promise from the surface mow 
 With the sharp scythe of conflict, — then to see 
 Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know 
 Earth paved like Heaven; and to seem such to me, 
 Even now what wants thy stream? — that it should 
 Lethe be. 
 
 A thousand battles have assail'd thy banks, 
 But these and half their fame have pass'd away. 
 And Slaughter heap'd on high his weltering ranks; 
 Their very graves are gone, and what are they? 
 Thy tide wash'd down the blood of yesterday, 
 And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream 
 Glass'd with its dancing light the sunny ray; 
 But o'er the blacken'd memory's blighting dream 
 Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem. 
 
 Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along. 
 
 Yet not insensibly to all which here 
 
 Awoke the jocund birds to early song 
 
 In glens which might have made even exile dear. 
 
 Though on his brow were graven lines austere. 
 
 And tranquil sternness which had ta'en the place 
 
 Of feelings fierier far but less severe. 
 
Poetical Worlds of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Seventeen 
 
 Joy was not always absent from his face, 
 But o'er it in such scenes would steal with transient trace. 
 
 Nor was all love shut from him, though his days 
 Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. 
 It is in vain that we would coldly gaze \- 
 
 On such as smile upon us ; the heart must ^ 
 
 Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust 
 Hath wean'd it from all wordlings: thus he felt, 
 For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust 
 In one fond breast to which his own would melt. 
 And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt. 
 
 And he had learn'd to love (I know not why. 
 For this in such as him seems strange of mood) 
 The helpless looks of blooming infancy, 
 Even in its earliest nurture; what subdued. 
 To change like this, a mind so far imbued 
 With scorn of man, it little boots to know ; 
 But thus it was ; and though in solitude 
 Small power the nipp'd affections have to grow, 
 In him this glow'd when all beside had ceased to glow. 
 
 And there was one soft breast, as hath been said, 
 Which unto his was bound by stronger ties 
 Then the church links withal; and, though unwed, 
 That love was pure, and, far above disguise, 
 Had stood the test of mortal enmities 
 Still undivided, and cemented more 
 By peril, dreaded most in female eyes; 
 But this was firm, and from a foreign shore 
 Well to that heart might his these absent greetings pour ! 
 
Page Poetical Wor^s of 
 
 One Hundred and Eighteen LORD BYRON 
 
 The castled crag of Drachenfels 
 Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, 
 Whose breast of waters broadly swells 
 Between 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 see 
 With 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 towers 
 
 Through 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! 
 
 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 disclose 
 
 Some fresher beauty varying round: 
 
 The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 
 
 Through life to dwell delighted here; 
 
Poetical IVorki of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Nineteen 
 
 Nor could on earth a spot be found 
 To nature and to me so dear, 
 Could thy dear eyes in following mine 
 Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine! 
 
 Adieu to thee, fair Rhine ! How long delighted 
 The stranger fain would linger on his way! 
 Thine is a scene alike where souls united 
 Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray; 
 And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey 
 On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, 
 Where Nature, nor too sombre nor too gay. 
 Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, 
 Is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the year. 
 
 Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, 
 With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
 Which warns me with its stillness to forsake 
 Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
 This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
 To waft me from distraction ; once I Ibved 
 Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
 Sounds sweet as if a Sister's voice reproved. 
 That I with stern delights should e'er have been so 
 moved. 
 
 It is the hush of night, and all between 
 
 Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
 
 Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen. 
 
 Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear 
 
 Precipitously steep; and drawing near. 
 
 There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, 
 
 Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 One Hundred and T&enfp LORD BYRON 
 
 Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 
 Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more : — 
 
 Ye stars, which are the poetry of heaven ! 
 If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
 Of men and empires, — 't is to be forgiven. 
 That in our aspirations to be great. 
 Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 
 And claim a kindred with you; for ye are 
 A beauty and a mystery, and create 
 In us such love and reverence from afar 
 That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves 
 a star. 
 
 All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep, 
 But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; 
 And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep : — 
 All heaven and earth are still. From the high host 
 Of stars to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast. 
 All is concentred in a life intense. 
 Where not a beam nor air nor leaf is lost, 
 But hath a part of being, and a sense 
 Of that which is of all Creator and defence. 
 
 Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 
 In solitude where we are least alone ; 
 A truth, which through our being then doth melt 
 And purifies from self: it is a tone, 
 The soul and source of music, which makes known 
 Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm. 
 Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone. 
 Binding all things with beauty; — 't would disarm 
 The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm. 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Tv>enfy-one 
 
 The sky is changed! — and such a change! Oh night, 
 And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, 
 Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
 Of a dark eye in woman! Far along. 
 From peak to peak the rattling crags among. 
 Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, 
 But every mountain now hath found a tongue. 
 And Jura answers, through her misty shroud. 
 Back to the joyous Alps who call to her aloud! 
 
 And this is in the night: — Most glorious night! 
 Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be 
 A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, 
 A portion of the tempest and of thee! 
 How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, 
 And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! 
 And now again 't is black, — and now, the glee 
 Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth. 
 As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. 
 
 Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between 
 Heights which appear as lovers who have parted 
 In hate, whose mining depths so intervene 
 That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted! 
 Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, 
 Love was the very root of the fond rage 
 Which blighted their life's bloom and then departed — 
 Itself expired, but leaving them an age 
 Of years all winters, war within themselves to wage: — 
 
 The morn is up again, the dewy morn. 
 
 With breath all incense and with cheek all bloom, 
 
 Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn. 
 
Page Poetical Wor^s of 
 
 One Hundred and Twenty-two LORD BYRON 
 
 And living as if earth contain'd no tomb, — 
 And glowing into day. We may resume 
 The march of our existence; and thus I, 
 Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room 
 And food for meditation, nor pass by 
 Much that may give us pause if ponder'd fittingly. 
 
 He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore. 
 And make his heart a spirit; he who knows 
 That tender mystery, will love the more, 
 For this is Love's recess, \vhere vain men's woes 
 And the world's waste have driven him far from those, 
 For 't is his nature to advance or die; 
 He stands not still, but or decays or grows 
 Into a boundless blessing, which may vie 
 With the immortal lights in its eternity! 
 
 I have not loved the world, nor the world me ; 
 I have not f^atter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd 
 To its idolatries a patient knee. 
 Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, nor cried aloud 
 In worship of an echo; in the crowd 
 They could not deem me one of such: I stood 
 Among them, but not of them; in a shroud 
 Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still 
 could. 
 Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued. 
 
 •!• T* V V T« V 
 
 I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs, 
 A palace and a prison on each hand; 
 I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
 As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: 
 
Poetical Works of Pogt 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Twent^-Oiree 
 
 A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
 Around me, and a dying Glory smiles 
 O'er the far times, when many a subject land 
 Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, 
 Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles ! 
 
 She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, 
 Rising with her tiara of proud towers 
 At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
 A ruler of the waters and their powers. 
 And such she was ; — her daughters had their dowers 
 From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East 
 Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers : 
 In purple was she robed, and of her feast 
 Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity increased. 
 
 In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, 
 And silent rows the songless gondolier; 
 Her palaces are crumbling to the shore. 
 And music meets not always now the ear; 
 Those days are gone, but Beauty still is here; 
 States fall, arts fade, but Nature doth not die, 
 Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear. 
 The pleasant place of all festivity. 
 The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy ! 
 
 The beings of the mind are not of clay; 
 
 Essentially immortal, they create 
 
 And multiply in us a brighter ray 
 
 And more beloved existence. That which Fate 
 
 Prohibits to dull life in this our state 
 
 Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied, 
 
 First exiles, then replaces what we hate; 
 
Page Poetical Wor^s of 
 
 One Hundred and Twenly-iour LORD BYRON 
 
 Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, 
 And with a fresher growth replenishing the void. 
 
 I 've taught me other tongues, and in strange eyes 
 Have made me not a stranger — to the mind 
 Which is itself, no changes bring surprise; 
 Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find 
 A country with — ay, or without mankind; 
 Yet was I born where men are proud to be, 
 Not without cause ; and should I leave behind 
 The inviolate island of the sage and free, 
 And seek me out a home by a remoter sea. 
 
 Perhaps I loved it well; and should I lay 
 My ashes in a soil which is not mine. 
 My spirit shall resume it — if we may 
 Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine 
 My hopes of being remember'd in my line 
 With my land's language : if too fond and far 
 These aspirations in their scope incline, — 
 If my fame should be, as my fortunes are. 
 Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar. 
 
 My name from out the temple where the dead 
 Are honour'd by the nations — let it be. 
 And light the laurels on a loftier head! 
 And be the Spartan's epitaph on me, 
 •Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.' 
 Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need; 
 The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree 
 I planted, — they have torn me — and I bleed: 
 I should have known what fruit would spring from such 
 a seed. 
 
Poetical lVor}(s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Twenty-five 
 
 But my soul wanders; I demand it back 
 To meditate amongst decay, and stand 
 A ruin amidst ruins; there to track 
 Fall'n states and buried greatness, o'er a land 
 Which Tvas the mightiest in its old command, 
 And is the loveliest, and must ever be 
 The master-mould of Nature's heavenly hand. 
 Wherein were cast the heroic and the free. 
 The beautiful, the brave — the lords of earth and sea. 
 
 The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome! 
 And even since, and now, fair Italy, 
 Thou art the garden of the world, the home 
 Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree; 
 Even in thy desert, what is like to thee? 
 Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste 
 More rich than other climes' fertility; 
 Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced 
 With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced. 
 
 The moon is up, and yet it is not night — 
 Sunset divides the sky with her, a sea 
 Of glory streams along the Alpine height 
 Of blue Friuli's mountains, Heaven is free 
 From clouds, but of all colours seems to be 
 Melted to one vast Iris of the West, 
 Where the Day joins the past Eternity; 
 While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest 
 Floats through the azure air, an island of the blest! 
 
 A single star is at her side, and reigns 
 With her o'er half the lovely heaven ; but still 
 Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
 
Page Poelical Wor^i of 
 
 One Hundred and Twent^-six LORD BYRON 
 
 Roll'd o'er the peak of the far Rhaetian hill, 
 As Day and Night contending were, until 
 Nature reclaim'd her order gently flows 
 The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil 
 The odorous purple of a new-born rose, 
 Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it 
 glows. 
 
 Italia! oh Italia! thou who hast 
 The fatal gift of beauty, which became 
 A funeral dower of present woes and past, 
 On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough'd by shame. 
 And annals graved in characters of flame. 
 Oh, God! that thou wert in thy nakedness 
 Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim 
 Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press 
 To shed thy blood and drink the tears of thy distress. 
 
 Oh Rome, my country! city of the soul! 
 The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, 
 Lone mother of dead empires, and control 
 In their shut breasts their petty misery. 
 What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see 
 The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way 
 O'er steps of broken thrones and temples. Ye ! 
 Whose agonies are evils of a day — 
 A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 
 
 The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood and Fire, 
 Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride; 
 She saw her glories star by star expire, 
 And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride 
 Where the car climb'd the capitol; far and wide 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Twenty-seven 
 
 Temple and tower went down, nor left a site: — 
 Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void, 
 O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, 
 And say, 'here was, or is,' where all is doubly night? 
 
 I speak not of men's creeds — they rest between 
 Man and his Maker — but of things allow'd, 
 Averr'd, and known — and daily, hourly seen — 
 The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd 
 And the intent of tyranny avow'd, 
 The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown 
 The apes of him who humbled once the proud 
 And shook them from their slumbers on the throne; 
 Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done. 
 
 Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be. 
 And Freedom find no champion and no child 
 Such as Columbia saw arise when she 
 Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled? 
 Or must such minds be nourish'd in the wild, / 
 Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar 
 Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled 
 On infant Washington? Has Earth no more 
 Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore? 
 
 Yet, Freedom, yet thy banner, torn but flying, 
 Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind; 
 Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying. 
 The loudest still the tempest leaves behind: 
 Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 
 Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and little worth. 
 But the sap lasts, — and still the seed we find 
 
Page Poetical IVorJ^s of 
 
 One Hundred and Twenty-eight LORD BYRON 
 
 Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North; 
 So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth. 
 
 And from the planks, far shatter'd o'er the rocks. 
 Built me a little bark of hope, once more 
 To battle with the ocean and the shocks 
 Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar 
 Which rushes on the solitary shore 
 Where all lies founder'd that was ever dear. 
 But could I gather from the wave-worn store 
 Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer? 
 There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is 
 here. 
 
 Then let the winds howl on! their harmony 
 Shall henceforth be my music, and the night 
 The sound shall temper with the owlets' cry, 
 As I now hear them, in the fading light 
 Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site. 
 Answering each other on the Palatine, 
 With their large eyes all glistening gray and bright. 
 And sailing pinions. Upon such a shrine 
 What are our petty griefs? — let me not number mine. 
 
 Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown 
 Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd 
 On what were chambers, arch crush'd, column strown 
 In fragments, choked up vaults, and frescos steep'd 
 In subterranean damps where the owl peep'd. 
 Deeming it midnight: — ^Temples, baths, or halls? 
 Pronounce who can; for all that Learning reap'd 
 From her research hath been, that these are walls — 
 Behold the Imperial Mount! 't is thus the mighty falls. 
 
Poetical WorJis of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Tii>eni\fnme 
 
 There is the moral of all human tales; 
 'T is but the same rehearsal of the past, 
 First Freedom and then Glory — when that fails, 
 Wealth, vice, corruption, — barbarism at last. 
 And History, with all her volumes vast, 
 Hath but one page, — 't is better written here 
 Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amass'd 
 All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, 
 Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask. — Away with words, 
 draw near, 
 
 Admire, exult — despise — laugh, weep, — for here 
 There is such matter for all feeling : — Man ! 
 Thou pendulum bewixt a smile and tear. 
 Ages and realms are crowded in this span. 
 This mountain, whose obliterated plan 
 The pyramid of empires pinnacled. 
 Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van 
 Till the sun's rays with added flame were fill'd! 
 Where are its golden roofs? where those who dared to 
 build? 
 
 We wither from our youth, we gasp away — 
 Sick — sick; unfound the boon — unslaked the thirst, 
 Though to the last, in verge of our decay, 
 Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first — 
 But all too late, — so are we doubly curst. 
 Love, fame, ambition, avarice — 't is the same. 
 Each idle, and all ill, and none the worst — 
 For all are meteors with a different name. 
 And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame. 
 
Page Poetical IVorl^s of 
 
 One Hundred and Thirty LORD BYRON 
 
 Few — none — find what they love or could have loved, 
 Though accident, blind contact, and the strong 
 Necessity of loving, have removed 
 Anthipathies — but to recur, ere long, 
 Envenom'd with irrevocable wrong; 
 And Circumstance, that unspiritual god 
 And miscreator, makes and helps along 
 Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod. 
 Whose touch turns Hope to dust, — -the dust we all have 
 trod. 
 
 Arches on arches ! as it were that Rome, 
 Collecting the chief trophies of her line, 
 Would build up all her triumphs in one dome, — 
 Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams shine 
 As 't were its natural torches, for divine 
 Should be the light which streams here, to illume 
 This long-explored but still exhaustless mine 
 Of contemplation; and the azure gloom 
 Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume 
 
 Hues which have words and speak to ye of heaven, 
 Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument, 
 And shadows forth its glory. There is given 
 Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent, 
 A spirit's feeling; and where he hath leant 
 His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power 
 And magic in the ruin'd battlement. 
 For which the palace of the present hour 
 Must yield its pomp and wait till ages are its dower. 
 
 Oh, Time! the beautifier of the dead, 
 Adorner of the ruin, comforter 
 
PoeticalWorki of ^°^' 
 
 LORD BYRON ^"* Hundred and Thirty-one 
 
 And only healer when the heart hath bled— 
 Time ! the corrector where our judgments err, 
 The test of truth, love,— sole philosopher, 
 For all besides are sophists, from thy thrift 
 Which never loses though it doth defer— 
 Time, the avenger! unto thee I lift 
 My hands and eyes and heart, and crave of thee a gift : 
 Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine 
 And temple more divinely desolate, 
 Among thy mightier offerings here are mine. 
 Ruins of years— though few, yet full of fate:— 
 If thou hast ever seen me too elate, 
 Hear me not; but if calmly I have borne 
 Good, and reserved my pride against the hate 
 Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn 
 This iron in my soul in vain— shall the]) not mourn? 
 But I have lived, and have not lived in vain : 
 My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire. 
 And my frame perish even in conquering pain; 
 But there is that within me which shall tire 
 Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire; 
 Something unearthly which they deem not of, 
 Like the remember'd tone of a mute lyre, 
 Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and move 
 In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. 
 And here the buzz of eager nations ran. 
 In murmur'd pity or loud-roar'd applause, 
 As man was slaughter'd by his fellow man. 
 And wherefore slaughter'd? wherefore, but because 
 Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws. 
 And the imperial pleasure.— Wherefore not? 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 One Hundred and Thniy-iioo LORD BYRON 
 
 What matters where we fall to fill the maws 
 
 Of worms — on battle-plains or listed spot? 
 
 Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. 
 
 I see before me the Gladiator lie : 
 He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
 Consents to death, but conquers agony, 
 And his droop'd head sinks gradually low — 
 And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
 From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, 
 Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now 
 The arena swims around him — he is gone, 
 Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch 
 who won. 
 
 He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 
 Were with his heart and that was far away; 
 He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize. 
 But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, 
 There were his young barbarians all at play. 
 There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, 
 Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday — 
 All this rush'd with his blood. — Shall he expire 
 And unavenged? — Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire! 
 
 But here, where Murder breathed her bloody steam; 
 And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways, 
 And roar'd or murmur'd like a mountain stream 
 Dashing or winding as its torrent strays; 
 Here, where the Roman millions' blame or praise 
 Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd, 
 My voice sounds much, and fall the stars' faint rays 
 On the arena void — seats crush'd — walls bow'd — 
 And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely 
 loud. 
 
Poetical Worlds of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Thirly-lhree 
 
 A ruin — yet what ruin! From its mass 
 Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been rear'd; 
 Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, 
 And marvel where the spoil could have appear'd. 
 Hath it indeed been plunder'd, or but clear'd? 
 Alas! developed, opens the decay, 
 When the colossal fabric's form is near'd: 
 It will not bear the brightness of the day. 
 Which streams too much on all years, man, have reft 
 away. 
 
 But when the rising moon begins to climb 
 Its topmost arch and gently pauses there; 
 When the stars twinkle through the loops of time. 
 And the low night-breeze waves along the air 
 The garland forest, which the gray walls wear 
 Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head; 
 When the light shines serene but doth not glare. 
 Then in this magic circle raise the dead: 
 Heroes have trod this spot — 't is on their dust ye tread. 
 
 'While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand; 
 When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; 
 And when Rome falls — the World.' From our own land 
 Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall 
 In Saxon times, which we are wont to call 
 Ancient; and these three mortal things are still 
 On their foundations, and unalter'd all; 
 Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill, 
 The World, the same wide den — of thieves, or what ye 
 will. 
 
 Oh that the Dessert were my dwelling-place. 
 With one fair Spirit for my minister, 
 
Page Poetical IVorlfi of 
 
 One Hundred and Thirl\f'four LORD BYRON 
 
 That I might all forget the human race, 
 And, hating no one, love but only her! 
 Ye Elements, in whose ennobling stir 
 I feel myself exalted, can ye not 
 Accord me such a being? Do I err 
 In deeming such inhabit many a spot. 
 Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot? 
 
 There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
 There is a rapture on the lonely shore. 
 There is society where none intrudes. 
 By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: 
 I love not Man the less, but Nature more. 
 From these our interviews, in which I steal 
 From all I may be or have been before, 
 To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
 What I can ne'er express, yet can not all conceal. 
 
 Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean, roll ! 
 Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; 
 Man marks the earth with ruin, his control 
 Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain 
 The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
 A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
 When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
 He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan. 
 Without a grave, unknell'd, uncofBn'd, and unknown. 
 
 His steps are not upon thy paths, thy fields 
 
 Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise 
 
 And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields 
 
 For earth's destruction thou dost all despise. 
 
 Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 
 
 And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray 
 
Poetical Worki of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Thirty- fi\>e 
 
 And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies 
 His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
 And dashest him again to earth: — there let him lay. 
 
 The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
 Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake 
 And monarchs tremble in their capitals, 
 The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
 Their clay creator the vain title take 
 Of lord of thee and arbiter of war, — 
 These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 
 They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
 Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar, 
 
 Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — 
 Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? 
 Thy waters wash'd them power while they were free. 
 And many a tyrant since; their shores obey. 
 The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay 
 Has dried up realms to deserts: — not so thou. 
 Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play; 
 Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow; 
 Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 
 
 Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
 Glasses itself in tempests; in all time. 
 Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm. 
 Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
 Dark-heaving; — boundless, endless, and sublime — 
 The image of Eternity — the throne 
 Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime 
 The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
 Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 One Hundred and Thirfy-six LORD BYRON 
 
 And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy 
 Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
 Borne, like thy bubbles, onward. From a boy 
 I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to me 
 Were a delight; and if the freshening sea 
 Made them a terror — 't was a pleasing fear, 
 For I was as it were a child of thee. 
 And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
 And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 
 
 My task is done — my song hath ceased — ^my theme 
 Has died into an echo; it is fit 
 
 The spell should break of this protracted dream. 
 The torch shall be extinguish'd which hath lit 
 My midnight lamp — and what is writ, is writ, — 
 Would it were worthier! but I am not now 
 That which I have been — and my visions flit 
 Less palpably before me — and the glow 
 Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low. 
 
 Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been— 
 A sound which makes us linger; — yet — farewell! 
 Ye, who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene 
 Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 
 A thought which once was his, if on ye swell 
 A single recollection, not in vain 
 He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop-shell; 
 Farewell! with him alone may rest the pain, 
 If such there were — with you, the moral of his strain ! 
 
titttxxxnB 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Fori\f-one 
 
 A Fragment of a Turkish tale 
 
 No breath of air to break the wave 
 That rolls below the Athenian's grave, 
 That tomb which, gleaming o'er the cliff. 
 First greets the homeward-veering skiff, 
 High o'er the land he saved in vain: 
 When shall such hero live again? 
 
 Who thundering comes on blackest steed, 
 With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed? 
 Beneath the clattering iron's sound 
 The cavern'd echoes wake around 
 In lash for lash, and bound for bound; 
 The foam that streaks the courser's side 
 Seems gather'd from the ocean-tide. 
 Though weary waves are sunk to rest, 
 There's none within his rider's breast; 
 And though to-morrow's tempest lower, 
 'T is calmer than thy heart, young Giaour! 
 I know thee not, I loathe thy race. 
 But in thy lineaments I trace 
 What time shall strengthen, not efface: 
 Though young and pale, that sallow front 
 Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt; 
 Though bent on earth thine evil eye, 
 As meteor-like thou glidest by. 
 Right well I view and deem thee one 
 Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun. 
 
Page Poetical Wor^s of 
 
 One Hundred and Fortyiwo LORD BYRON 
 
 On — on he hasten'd, and he drew 
 My gaze of wonder as he flew: 
 Though like a demon of the night 
 He pass'd, and vanish'd from my sight^ 
 His aspect and his air impress'd 
 A troubled memory on my breast, 
 And long upon my startled ear 
 Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. 
 He spurs his steed; he nears the steep, 
 That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep; 
 He winds around; he hurries by; 
 The rock relieves him from mine eye; 
 For well I ween unwelcome he 
 Whose glance is fix'd on those that flee; 
 And not a star but shines too bright 
 On him who takes such timeless flight. 
 He wound along; but ere he pass'd 
 One glance he snatch'd, as if his last, 
 A moment check'd his wheeling steed, 
 A moment breathed him from his speed, 
 A moment on his stirrup stood — 
 Why looks he o'er the olive wood? 
 The crescent glimmers on the hill, 
 The Mosque's high lamps are quivering still: 
 Though too remote for sound to wake 
 In echoes of the far tophaike. 
 The flashes of each joyous peal 
 Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal, 
 To-night, set Rhamazani's sun; 
 To-night, the Bairam feast's begun; 
 To-night — but who and what art thou 
 Of foreign garb and fearful brow? 
 And what are these to thine or thee. 
 That thou should'st either pause or flee? 
 
Poetical IVor^s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Forly-ihrec 
 
 He stood — some dread was on his face; 
 Soon Hatred settled in its place: 
 It rose not with the reddening flush 
 Of transient Anger's hasty blush, 
 But pale as marble o'er the tomb, 
 Whose ghostly whiteness aids its gloom. 
 His brow was bent^ his eye was glazed; 
 He raised his arm and fiercely raised, 
 And sternly shook his hand on high, 
 As doubting to return or fly: 
 Impatient of his flight delay'd. 
 Here loud his raven charger neigh'd — 
 Down glanced that hand, and grasp'd his blade; 
 That sound had burst his waking dream. 
 As Slumber starts at owlet's scream. 
 The spur hath lanced his courser's sides; 
 Away, away, for life he rides: 
 Swift as the hurl'd on high jereed 
 Springs to the touch his startled steed; 
 The rock is doubled, and the shore 
 Shakes with the clattering tramp no more; 
 The crag is won, no more is seen 
 His Christian crest and haughty mien. 
 'T was but an instant he restrain'd 
 That fiery barb so sternly rein'd; 
 'T was but a moment that he stood, 
 Then sped as if by death pursued: 
 But in that instant o'er his soul 
 Winters of Memory seem'd to roll. 
 And gather in that drop of time 
 A life of pain, an age of crime. 
 O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears. 
 Such moment pours the grief of years: 
 
Paga Poetical Work^ oj 
 
 One Hundred and Fort), -four LORD B YRON 
 
 What felt he then, at once opprest 
 
 By all that most distracts the breast? 
 
 That pause, which ponder'd o'er his fate, 
 
 Oh, who its dreary length shall date! 
 
 Though in Time's record nearly nought. 
 
 It was Eternity to Thought! 
 
 For infinite as boundless space 
 
 The thought that Conscience must embrace. 
 
 Which in itself can comprehend 
 
 Woe without name, or hope, or end. 
 
 The hour is past, the Giaour is gone; 
 And did he fly or fall alone? 
 Woe to that hour he came or went! 
 The curse for Hassan's sin was sent 
 To turn a palace to a tomb; 
 He came, he went, like the Simoon, 
 That harbinger of fate and gloom. 
 Beneath whose widely-wasting breath 
 The very cypress droops to death — 
 Dark tree, still sad when others' grief is fled. 
 The only constant mourner o'er the dead! 
 
 I hear the sound of coming feet, 
 But not a voice mine ear to greet; 
 More near — each turban I can scan, 
 And silver-sheathed ataghan; 
 The foremost of the band is seen 
 An Emir by his garb of green : 
 'Ho! who art thou?'— 'This low salam 
 Replies of Moslem faith I am.' — 
 'The burthen ye so gently bear 
 Seems one that claims your utmost care, 
 
Poetical Worlds of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Forly-five 
 
 And, doubtless, holds some precious freight, 
 My humble bark would gladly wait.' 
 
 'Thou speakest sooth: thy skiff unmoor, 
 And waft us from the silent shore; 
 Nay, leave the sail still furl'd, and ply 
 The nearest oar that 's scatter'd by. 
 And midway to those rocks where sleep 
 The channell'd waters dark and deep. 
 Rest from your task — so — bravely done, 
 Our course has been right swiftly run; 
 Yet 't is the longest voyage, I trow, 
 That one of— 
 
 Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank, 
 The calm wave rippled to the bank; 
 I watch'd it as it sank, methought 
 Some motion from the current caught 
 Bestirr'd it more, — 't was but the beam 
 That checker'd o'er the living stream. 
 I gazed, till vanishing from view, 
 Like lessening pebble it withdrew; 
 Still less and less, a speck of white 
 That gemm'd the tide, then mock'd the sight; 
 And all its hidden secrets sleep. 
 Known but to Genii of the deep. 
 Which, trembling in their coral caves. 
 They dare not whisper to the waves. 
 
 Black Hassan from the Haram flies, 
 Nor bends on woman's form his eyes; 
 The unwonted chase each hour employs. 
 Yet shares he not the hunter's joys. 
 
Page Poetical WorJii of 
 
 One Hundred and Forty-six LORD BYRON 
 
 Not thus was Hassan wont to fly 
 
 When Leila dwelt in his Serai. 
 
 Doth Leila there no longer dwell? 
 
 That tale can only Hassan tell: 
 
 Strange rumours in our city say 
 
 Upon that eve she fled away 
 
 When Rhamazan's last sun was set. 
 
 And flashing from each minaret 
 
 Millions of lamps proclaim'd the feast 
 
 Of Bairam through the boundless East. 
 
 'T was then she went as to the bath. 
 
 Which Hassan vainly search'd in wrath; 
 
 For she was flown her master's rage 
 
 In likeness of a Georgian page, 
 
 And far beyond the Moslem's power 
 
 Had wrong'd him with the faithless Giaour. 
 
 Somewhat of this had Hassan deem'd; 
 
 But still so fond, so fair she seem'd, 
 
 Too well he trusted to the slave 
 
 Whose treachery deserved a grave: 
 
 And on that eve had gone to mosque, 
 
 And thence to feast in his kiosk. 
 
 Such is the tale his Nubians tell. 
 
 Who did not watch their charge too well; 
 
 But others say, that on that night, 
 
 By pale Phingari's trembling light, 
 
 The Giaour upon his jet-black steed 
 
 Was seen, but seen alone to speed 
 
 With bloody spur along the shore. 
 
 Nor maid nor page behind him bore. 
 
 Her eye's dark charm 't were vain to tell, 
 But gaze on that of the Gazelle, 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Fortj;-seven 
 
 It will assist thy fancy well; 
 
 As large, as languishingly dark, 
 
 But Soul beam'd forth in every spark 
 
 That darted from beneath the lid, 
 
 Bright as the jewel of Giamschid. 
 
 Yea, Soul, and should our prophet say 
 
 That form was nought but breathing clay, 
 
 By Alia! I would answer nay; 
 
 Though on Al-Sirat's arch I stood. 
 
 Which totters o'er the fiery flood, 
 
 With Paradise within my view, 
 
 And all his Houris beckoning through. 
 
 Oh! who young Leila's glance could read 
 
 And keep that portion of his creed. 
 
 Which saith that woman is but dust, 
 
 A soulless toy for tyrant's lust? 
 
 On her might Muftis gaze, and own 
 
 That through her eye the Immortal shone; 
 
 On her fair cheek's unfading hue 
 
 The young pomegranate's blossoms strew 
 
 Their bloom in blushes ever new; 
 
 Her hair in hyacinthine flow, 
 
 When left to roll its folds below. 
 
 As midst her handmaids in the hall 
 
 She stood superior to them all, 
 
 Hath swept the marble where her feet 
 
 Gleam'd whiter than the mountain sleet, 
 
 Ere from the cloud that gave it birth 
 
 It fell, and caught one stain of earth. 
 
 The cygnet nobly walks the water; 
 
 So moved on earth Circassia's daughter, 
 
 The loveliest bird of Franguestan ! 
 
 As rears her crest the ruffled Swan, 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 One Hundred and Forty-eight LORD BYRON 
 
 And spurns the wave with wings of pride, 
 When pass the steps of stranger man 
 
 Along the banks that bound her tide ; 
 Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck: — 
 Thus arm'd with beauty would she check 
 Intrusion's glance, till Folly's gaze 
 Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise. 
 Thus high and graceful was her gait; 
 Her heart as tender to her mate; 
 Her mate — stern Hassan, who was he? 
 Alas! that name was not for thee! 
 
 Stern Hassan hath a journey ta'en 
 With twenty vassals in his train. 
 Each arm'd, as best becomes a man, 
 With arquebuss and ataghan; 
 The chief before, as deck'd for war. 
 Bears in his belt the scimitar 
 Stain'd with the best of Arnaut blood. 
 When in the pass the rebels stood, 
 And few return'd to tell the tale 
 Of what befell in Parne's vale. 
 The pistols which his girdle bore 
 Were those that once a pasha wore, 
 Which still, though gemm'd and boss'd with gold. 
 Even robbers tremble to behold. 
 'T is said he goes to woo a bride 
 More true than her who left his side; 
 The faithless slave that broke her bower. 
 And, worse than faithless, for a Giaour! 
 
 The sun's last rays are on the hill, 
 And sparkle in the fountain rill. 
 
Poetical Works of p 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Fori.-Z 
 
 Whose welcome waters, cool and clear, 
 Draw blessings from the mountaineer. 
 Here may the loitering merchant Greek 
 Find that repose 't were vain to seek 
 In cities lodged too near his lord, 
 And trembling for his secret hoard- 
 Here may he rest where none can see, 
 In crowds a slave, in deserts free; 
 And with forbidden wine may stain 
 The bowl a Moslem must not drain. 
 
 The foremost Tartar's in the gap. 
 Conspicuous by his yellow cap; 
 The rest in lengthening line the while 
 Wind slowly through the long defile. 
 Above, the mountain rears a peak, 
 Where vultures whet the thirsty beak. 
 And theirs may be a feast to-night 
 Shall tempt them down ere morrow's light; 
 Beneath, a river's wintry stream 
 Has shrunk before the summer beam. 
 And left a channel bleak and bare, 
 Save shrubs that spring to perish there. 
 Each side the midway path there lay 
 Small broken crags of granite gray. 
 By time, or mountain lightning, riven 
 From summits clad in mists of heaven ; 
 For where is he that hath beheld 
 The peak of Liakura unveil'd? 
 
 They reach the grove of pine at last; 
 'Bismillah! now the peril's .past; 
 For yonder view the opening plain. 
 
Page Poetical IVor^t of 
 
 One Hundred and Fifty LORD BYRON 
 
 And there we '11 prick our steeds amain:' 
 The Chiaus spake, and as he said, 
 A bullet whistled o'er his head; 
 The foremost Tartar bites the ground! 
 
 Scarce had they time to check the rein, 
 Swift from their steeds the riders bound; 
 
 But three shall never mount again: 
 Unseen the foes that gave the wound, 
 
 The dying ask revenge in vain. 
 With steel unsheathed, and carbine bent, 
 Some o'er their courser's harness leant, 
 
 Half shelter'd by the steed; 
 Some fly behind the nearest rock, 
 And there await the coming shock, 
 
 Nor tamely stand to bleed 
 Beneath the shaft of foes unseen, 
 Who dare not quit their craggy screen. 
 Stern Hassan only from his horse 
 Disdains to light, and keeps his course, 
 Till fiery flashes in the van 
 Proclaim too sure the robber-clan 
 Have well secured the only way 
 Could now avail the promised prey. 
 Then curl'd his very beard with ire, 
 And glared his eye with fiercer fire: 
 'Though far and near the bullets hiss, 
 I've 'scaped a bloodier hour than this.' 
 And now the foe their covert quit, 
 And call his vassals to submit; 
 But Hassan's frown and furious word 
 Are dreaded more than hostile sword, 
 Nor of his little band a man 
 Resign'd carbine or ataghan, 
 
Poelical Work^ of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Fifl^-one 
 
 Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun! 
 In fuller sight, more near and near, 
 The lately ambush'd foes appear. 
 And, issuing from the grove, advance 
 Some who on battle-charger prance. 
 Who leads them on with foreign brand 
 Far flashing in his red right hand? 
 ' 'T is he ! 't is he ! I know him now ; 
 I know him by his pallid brow; 
 I know him by the evil eye 
 That aids his envious treachery; 
 I know him by his jet-black barb : 
 Though now array'd in Arnaut garb. 
 Apostate from his own vile faith. 
 It shall not save him from the death : 
 'T is he! well met in any hour, 
 Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour!' 
 
 As rolls the river into ocean, 
 In sable torrent wildly streaming; 
 
 As the sea-tide's opposing motion, 
 In azure column proudly gleaming, 
 Beats back the current many a rood. 
 In curling foam and mingling flood, 
 While eddying whirl and breaking wave. 
 Roused by the blast of winter, rave; 
 Through sparkling spray, in thundering clash. 
 The lightnings of the waters flash 
 In awful whiteness o'er the shore, 
 That shines and shakes beneath the roar; 
 Thus — as the stream and ocean greet. 
 With waves that madden as they meet — 
 Thus join the bands, whom mutual wrong. 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 One Hundred and Fifiyiwo LORD BYRON 
 
 And fate, and fury, drive along. 
 The bickering sabres' shivering jar; 
 
 And pealing wide or ringing near 
 
 Its echoes on the throbbing ear. 
 The deathshot hissing from afar; 
 The shock, the shout, the groan of war, 
 
 Reverberate along that vale, 
 
 More suited to the shepherd's tale: 
 Though few the numbers — theirs the strife, 
 That neither spares nor speaks for life! 
 Ah! fondly youthful hearts can press. 
 To seize and share the dear caress: 
 But Love itself could never pant 
 For all that Beauty sighs to grant 
 With half the fervour Hate bestows 
 Upon the last embrace of foes. 
 When grappling in the fight they fold 
 Those arms that ne'er shall lose their hold: 
 Friends meet to part; Love laughs at faith; 
 True foes, once met, are join'd till death! 
 
 With sabre shiver'd to the hilt. 
 Yet dripping with the blood he spilt; 
 Yet strain'd within the sever'd hand 
 Which quivers round that faithless brand; 
 His turban far behind him roll'd, 
 And cleft in twain its firmest fold; 
 His flowing robe by falchion torn, 
 And crimson as those clouds of morn 
 That, streak'd with dusky red, portend 
 The day shall have a stormy end; 
 A stain on every bush that bore t 
 
 A fragment of his palampore, 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Fifty-three 
 
 His breast with wounds unnumber'd riven, 
 
 His back to earth, his face to heaven, 
 
 Fall'n Hassan lies — his unclosed eye 
 
 Yet lowering on his enemy, 
 
 As if the hour that seal'd his fate 
 
 Surviving left his quenchless hate; 
 
 And o'er him bends that foe with brow 
 
 As dark as his that bled below. 
 
 'Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave, 
 But his shall be a redder grave; 
 Her spirit pointed well the steel 
 Which taught that felon heart to feel. 
 He call'd the Prophet, but his power 
 Was vain against the vengeful Giaour: 
 He call'd on Alia — but the word 
 Arose unheeded or unheard. 
 Thou Paynim fool! could Leila's prayer 
 Be pass'd, and thine accorded there? 
 I watch'd my time, I leagued with these, 
 The traitor in his turn to seize; 
 My wrath is wreak'd, the deed is done, 
 And now I go — but go alone.' 
 
 The browsing camels' bells are tinkling: 
 His Mother look'd from her lattice high, 
 
 She saw the dews of eve besprinkling 
 The pasture green beneath her eye, 
 
 She saw the planets faintly twinkling: 
 ' 'T is twilight — sure his train is nigh.' 
 She could not rest in the garden-bower, 
 
Page Poetical Wor^s of 
 
 One Hundred and Fifly-f our LORD BYRON 
 
 But gazed through the grate of his steepest tower : 
 
 'Why comes he not? his steeds are fleet, 
 
 Nor shrink they from the summer heat; 
 
 Why sends not the Bridegroom his promised gift: 
 
 Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift? 
 
 Oh, false reproach! yon Tartar now 
 
 Has gain'd our nearest mountain's brow, 
 
 And warily the steep descends, 
 
 And now within the valley bends; 
 
 And he bears the gift at his saddle bow — 
 
 How could I deem his courser slow? 
 
 Right well my largess shall repay 
 
 His welcome speed, and weary way.' 
 
 The Tartar lighted at the gate, 
 But scarce upheld his fainting weight: 
 His swarthy visage spake distress. 
 But this might be from weariness; 
 His garb with sanguine spots was dyed, 
 But these might be from his courser's side; 
 He drew the token from his vest — 
 Angle of Death! 't is Hassan's cloven crest! 
 His calpac rent — his caftan red — 
 'Lady, a fearful bride thy Son hath wed: 
 Me, not from mercy, did they spare. 
 But this empurpled pledge to bear. 
 Peace to the brave! whose blood is spilt; 
 Woe to the Giaour! for his the guilt.' 
 
 A turban carved in coarsest stone, 
 A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown. 
 Whereon can now be scarcely read 
 The Koran verse that mourns the dead, 
 
Poetical Wor^s of Page 
 
 LORD B YRON One Hundred and FiH^-ftve 
 
 Point out the spot where Hassan fell 
 
 A victim in that lonely dell. 
 
 There sleeps as true an Osmanlie 
 
 As e'er at Mecca bent the knee ; 
 
 As ever scorn'd forbidden wine, 
 
 Or pray'd with face towards the shrine, 
 
 In orisons resumed anew 
 
 At solemn sound of 'Alia Huh!' 
 
 Yet died he by a stranger's hand, 
 
 And stranger in his native land; 
 
 Yet died he as in arms he stood, 
 
 And unavenged, at least in blood. 
 
 But him the maids of Paradise 
 
 Impatient to their halls invite, 
 And the dark Heaven of Houris' eyes 
 
 On him shall glance for ever bright; 
 They come — their kerchiefs green they wave. 
 And welcome with a kiss the brave ! 
 Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour 
 Is worthiest an immortal bower. 
 
 'How name ye yon lone Caloyer? 
 
 His features I have scann'd before 
 In mine own land : 't is many a year, 
 
 Since, dashing by the lonely shore, 
 I saw him urge as fleet a steed 
 As ever served a horseman's need. 
 But once I saw that face, yet then 
 It was so mark'd with inward pain, 
 I could not pass it by again; 
 It breathes the same dark spirit now. 
 As death were stamp'd upon his brow.' 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 One Hundred and F'lfly-six LORD BYRON 
 
 * 'T is twice three years at summer tide 
 
 Since first among our freres he came; 
 And here it soothes him to abide 
 
 For some dark deed he will not name. 
 But never at our vesper prayer, 
 Nor e'er before confession chair 
 Kneels he, nor recks he when arise 
 Incense or anthem to the skies, 
 But broods within his cell alone, 
 His faith and race alike unknown. 
 The sea from Paynim land he crost. 
 And here ascended from the coast; 
 Yet seems he not of Othman race, 
 But only Christian in his face: 
 I 'd judge him some stray renegade. 
 Repentant of the change he made. 
 Save that he shuns our holy shrine, 
 Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine. 
 Great largess to these walls he brought 
 And thus our Abbot's favour bought; 
 But were I Prior, not a day 
 Should brook such stranger's further stay, 
 Or pent within our penance cell 
 Should doom him there for aye to dwell. 
 Much in his visions mutters he 
 Of maiden whelm'd beneath the sea; 
 Of sabres clashing, foemen flying, 
 Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying. 
 On cliff he hath been known to stand. 
 And rave as to some bloody hand 
 Fresh sever'd from its parent limb, 
 Invisible to all but him, 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and F if t\,-seven 
 
 Which beckons onward to his grave, 
 And lures to leap into the wave.' 
 
 'I loved her, Friar! nay, adored — 
 
 But these are words that all can use — 
 I proved it more in deed than word; 
 There 's blood upon that dinted sword, 
 
 A stain its steel can never lose: 
 'T was shed for her who died for me. 
 
 It warm'd the heart of one abhorr'd. 
 Nay, start not — no — nor bend thy knee, 
 
 Nor midst my sins such act record; 
 Thou wilt absolve me from the deed. 
 For he was hostile to thy creed! 
 The very name of Nazarene 
 Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen. 
 Ungrateful fool! since but for brands 
 Well wielded in some hardy hands. 
 And wounds by Galileans given. 
 The surest pass to Turkish heaven, 
 For him his Houris still might wait 
 Impatient at the Prophet's gate. 
 I loved her — love will find its way 
 Through paths where wolves would fear to prey; 
 And if it dares enough, 't were hard 
 If passion met not some reward — 
 No matter how, or where, or why, 
 I did not vainly seek, nor sigh: 
 Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain 
 I wish she had not loved again. 
 
Page Poetical Wor^s of 
 
 One Hundred and Fift^-eight LORD BYRON 
 
 'The cold in clime are cold in blood, 
 
 Their love can scarce deserve the name; 
 But mine was like a lava flood 
 
 That boils in Etna's breast of flame. 
 I cannot prate in puling strain 
 Of ladye-love, and beauty's chain: 
 If changing cheek, and scorching vein, 
 Lips taught to writhe, but not complain. 
 If bursting heart, and madd'ning brain, 
 And daring deed, and vengeful steel. 
 And all that I have felt, and feel. 
 Betoken love — that love was mine. 
 And shown by many a bitter sign. 
 'T is true, I could not whine or sigh, 
 I knew but to obtain or die. 
 I die — but first I have possess'd, 
 And come what may, I hava been blest. 
 
 'Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven; 
 
 A spark of that immortal fire 
 With angels shared, by Alia given, 
 
 To lift from earth our low desire. 
 Devotion wafts the mind above. 
 But Heaven itself descends in love; 
 A feeling from the Godhead caught. 
 To wean from self each sordid thought; 
 A Ray of him who form'd the whole ; 
 A Glory circling round the soul! 
 I grant mp love imperfect, all 
 That mortals by the name miscall; 
 Then deem it evil, what thou wilt; 
 But say, oh say, hers was not guilt! 
 
Poetical Worlds of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Fifty-nine 
 
 'Such is my name, and such my tale. 
 
 Confessor! to thy secret ear 
 I breathe the sorrows I bewail, 
 
 And thank thee for the generous tear 
 This glazing eye could never shed. 
 Then lay me with the humblest dead, 
 And, save the cross above my head, 
 Be neither name nor emblem spread. 
 By prying stranger to be read, 
 Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread.' 
 
 He pass'd — nor of his name and race 
 Hath left a token or a trace. 
 Save what the father must not say 
 Who shrived him on his dying day: 
 This broken tale was all we knew 
 Of her he loved, or him he slew. 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 One Hundred and Sixty LORD BYRON 
 
 Cbe IBxitit of afipDo$ 
 
 A Turkish Tale 
 
 Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 
 
 Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime. 
 Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, 
 
 Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime? 
 Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 
 Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine; 
 Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with 
 
 perfume, 
 Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom; 
 Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, 
 And the voice of the nightingale never is mute : 
 Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky. 
 In colour though varied, in beauty may vie. 
 And the purple of Ocean is deepest in dye; 
 Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, 
 And all, save the spirit of man, is divine? 
 'T is the clime of the East; 't is the land of the Sun — 
 Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? 
 Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell 
 Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which 
 they tell. 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Si'xfp-one 
 
 Cije Corsair 
 
 A Tale 
 
 'O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, 
 Our thoughts as boundless and our souls as free, 
 Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, 
 Survey our empire and behold our home! 
 These are our realms, no limits to their sway — 
 Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. 
 Ours the wild life in tumult still to range 
 From toil to rest, and joy in every change. 
 Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave. 
 Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave; 
 Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease. 
 Whom slumber soothes not, pleasure cannot please. 
 Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, 
 And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide. 
 The exulting sense, the pulse's maddening play, 
 That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way? 
 That for itself can woo the approaching fight. 
 And turn what some deem danger to delight; 
 That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal. 
 And where the feebler faint, can only feel — 
 Feel — to the rising bosom's inmost core. 
 Its hope awaken and its spirit soar? 
 No dread of death — if with us die our foes — 
 Save that it seems even duller than repose : 
 Come when it will — we snatch the life of life — 
 When lost — what recks it by disease or strife? 
 Let him who crawls enamour'd of decay, 
 Cling to his couch and sicken years away; 
 Heave his thick breath and shake his palsied head; 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 One Hundred and Sixty-two LORD BYRON 
 
 Ours the fresh turf and not the feverish bed. 
 While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul, 
 Ours with one pang — one bound — escapes control. 
 
 Such were the notes that from the Pirate's isle 
 Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while: 
 Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks along, 
 And unto ears as rugged seem'd a song! 
 In scatter'd groups upon the golden sand, 
 They game — carouse — converse — or whet the brand; 
 Select the arms — to each his blade assign. 
 And careless eye the blood that dims its shine; 
 
 But who that Chief? his name on every shore 
 
 Is famed and fear'd — they ask and know no more. 
 
 With these he mingles not but to command; 
 
 Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand. 
 
 Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess. 
 
 But they forgive his silence for success. 
 
 Ne'er for his lip the purpling cup they fill. 
 
 That goblet passes him untasted still; 
 
 And for his fare — the rudest of his crew 
 
 Would that, in turn, have pass'd untasted too; 
 
 Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest roots. 
 
 And scarce the summer luxury of fruits, 
 
 His short repast in humbleness supply 
 
 With all a hermit's board would scarce deny. 
 
 But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense, 
 
 His mind seems nourish'd by that abstinence. 
 
 'Steer to that shore!' — they sail. *Do this!' — 't is done; 
 
 'Now form and follow me!' — the spoil is won. 
 
 Thus prompt his accents and his actions still. 
 
 And all obey and few inquire his will; 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Sixfy-three 
 
 To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye 
 Convey reproof, nor further deign reply. 
 
 Unlike the heroes of each ancient race. 
 
 Demons in act but Gods at least in face, 
 
 In Conrad's form seems little to admire. 
 
 Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire: 
 
 Robust but not Herculean — to the sight 
 
 No giant frame sets forth his common height; 
 
 Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again, 
 
 Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men; 
 
 They gaze and marvel how — and still confess 
 
 That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. 
 
 Sunburnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale 
 
 The sable curls in wild profusion veil; 
 
 And oft perforce his rising lip reveals 
 
 The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals. 
 
 Though smooth his voice and calm his general mien, 
 
 Still seems there something he would not have seen : 
 
 His features' deepening lines and varying hue 
 
 At times attracted, yet perplex'd the view, 
 
 As if within that murkiness of mind 
 
 Work'd feelings fearful and yet undefined; 
 
 Such might it be — that none could truly tell — 
 
 Too close inquiry his stern glance would quell. 
 
 There breathe but few whose aspect might defy 
 
 The full encounter of his searching eye : 
 
 He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seek 
 
 To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek. 
 
 At once the observer's purpose to espy, 
 
 And on himself roll back his scrutiny, 
 
 Lest he to Conrad rather should betray 
 
 Some secret thought, than drag that chief's to day. 
 
Page Poelical Wor^s of 
 
 One Hundred and Sixty-lour LORD BYRON 
 
 There was a laughing devil in his sneer, 
 That raised emotions both of rage and fear; 
 And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, 
 Hope withering fled — and Mercy sigh'd farewell! 
 
 Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt 
 From all affection and from all contempt: 
 His name could sadden and his acts surprise, 
 But they that fear'd him dared not to despise. 
 Man spurns the worrh, but pauses ere he wake 
 The slumbering venom of the folded snake: 
 The first may turn, but not avenge the blow; 
 The last expires, but leaves no living foe; 
 Fast to the doom'd offender's form it clings. 
 And he may crush — not conquer — still it stings! 
 
 None are all evil: quickening round his heart, 
 
 One softer feeling would not yet depart. 
 
 Oft could he sneer at others as beguiled 
 
 By passions worthy of a fool or child; 
 
 Yet 'gainst that passion vainly still he strove, 
 
 And even in him it asks the name of Love ! 
 
 Yes, it was love — unchangeable — unchanged, 
 
 Felt but for one from whom he never ranged ; 
 
 Though fairest captives daily met his eye, 
 
 He shunn'd, nor sought, but coldly pass'd them by; 
 
 Though many a beauty droop'd in prison'd bower, 
 
 None ever soothed his most unguarded hour. 
 
 Yes — it was Love; if thoughts of tenderness, 
 
 Tried in temptation, strengthen'd by distress. 
 
 Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime. 
 
 And yet — Oh more than all ! — untired by time ; 
 
 Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile, 
 
 Could render sullen were she near to smile, 
 
Poetical IVor^s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Sixl^- five 
 
 Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent 
 
 On her one murmur of his discontent; 
 
 Which still would meet with joy, with calmness part, 
 
 Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart; 
 
 Which nought removed, nor menaced to remove; — 
 
 If there be love in mortals — this was love! 
 
 He was a villain — ay — reproaches shower 
 
 On him — but not the passion, nor its power, 
 
 Which only proved, all other virtues gone, 
 
 Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest one! 
 
 He paused a moment, till his hastening men 
 Pass'd the first winding downward to the glen. 
 'Strange tidings! — many a peril have I pass'd, 
 Nor know I why this next appears the last! 
 Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear. 
 Nor shall my followers find me falter here. 
 'T is rash to meet, but surer death to wait 
 Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate; 
 And, if my plan but hold and Fortune smile, 
 We '11 furnish mourners for our funeral pile. 
 Ay, let them slumber, peaceful be their dreams! 
 Morn ne'er awoke them with such brilliant beams 
 As kindle high to-night (but blow, thou breeze!) 
 To warm these slow avengers of the seas. 
 
 Thus with himself communion held he, till 
 He reach'd the summit of his tower-crown'd hill: 
 There at the portal paused — for wild and soft 
 He heard those accents never heard too oft. 
 Through the high lattice far yet sweet they rung, 
 And these the notes the bird of beauty sung : 
 
Page Poetical IVor^s of 
 
 One Hundred and Sixly-six LORD BYRON 
 
 'Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells. 
 Lonely and lost to light for evermore, 
 
 Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, 
 Then trembles into silence as before. 
 
 'There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp 
 Burns the slow flame, eternal — but unseen; 
 
 Which not the darkness of despair can damp, 
 Though vain its ray as it had never been. 
 
 'Remember me — Oh! pass not thou my grave 
 Without one thought whose relics there recline: 
 
 The only pang my bosom dare not brave 
 Must be to find forgetfulness in thine. 
 
 'My fondest, faintest, latest accents hear — 
 Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove; 
 
 Then give me all I ever ask'd — a tear, 
 The first — last — sole reward of so much love.' 
 
 He pass'd the portal, cross'd the corridore, 
 
 And reached the chamber as the strain gave o'er: 
 
 'My own Medora! sure thy song is sad — ' 
 
 'In Conrad's absence wouldst thou have it glad? 
 
 Without thine ear to listen to my lay, 
 
 Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray: 
 
 Still must each accent to my bosom suit. 
 
 My heart unhush'd — although my lips were mute! 
 
 Oh! many a night on this lone couch recUned, 
 
 My dreaming fear with storms hath wing'd the wind. 
 
 And deem'd the breath that faintly fann'd thy sail 
 
 The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale; 
 
 Though soft, it seem'd the low prophetic dirge, 
 
 That moum'd thee floating on the savage surge. 
 
 Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fire. 
 
 Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire; 
 
 And many a restless hour outwatch'd each star, 
 
Poetical lVorl(s of 
 
 LORD BYRON n u j j , o ^"^^ 
 
 Une Hundred and Sixt\f-seven 
 
 And morning came-and still thou wert afar 
 Oh! how the chill blast on my bosom blew 
 And day broke dreary on my troubled view' ■ 
 And still I gazed and gazed-and not a prow 
 Was granted to my tears~my truth-my vow' 
 At length_'t was noon-I hail'd and blest the mast 
 That met my sight-it near'd-Alas! it pass'd » 
 Another came-Oh God ! 't was thine at last ! 
 Would that those days were over! wilt thou ne'er 
 My Conrad! learn the joys of peace to share? ' 
 Sure thou hast more than wealth, and many a home 
 As bright as this invites us not to roam. 
 Thou know'st it is not peril that I fear, 
 I only tremble when thou art not here; 
 Then not for mine, but that far dearer life 
 Which flies from love and languishes for strife- 
 How strange that heart, to me so tender still 
 Should war with nature and its better will!' ' 
 
 List'-'t is the bugle-Juan shrilly blew- 
 One kiss— one more— another— Oh ! Adieu! 
 She rose she sprung, she clung to his embrace. 
 Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face 
 He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye. 
 Which downcast droop'd in tearless agony. 
 Her long fair hair floating o'er his arms. 
 In all the wildness of dishevell'd charms- 
 Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt 
 So full—that feeling seem'd almost unfelt' 
 Hark— peals the thunder of the signal-gun' 
 It told 't was sunset-and he cursed that sun 
 Again— again— that form he madly press'd, 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 One Hundred and Sixly-eighi LORD BYRON 
 
 Which mutely clasp'd, imploringly caress'd! 
 And tottering to the couch his bride he bore, 
 One moment gazed — as if to gaze no more; 
 Felt — that for him earth held but her alone, 
 Kiss'd her cold forehead — turn'd — is Conrad gone? 
 
 From crag to grag descending, swiftly sped 
 
 Stern Conrad down, nor once he turn'd his head: 
 
 But shrunk whene'er the windings of his way 
 
 Forced on his eye what he would not survey, 
 
 His lone but lovely dwelling on the steep, 
 
 That hail'd him first when homeward from the deep: 
 
 And she — the dim and melancholy star. 
 
 Whose ray of beauty reach'd him from afar, 
 
 On her he must not gaze, he must not think; 
 
 There he might rest — but on Destruction's brink. 
 
 Around him mustering ranged his ready guard. 
 Before him Juan stands— 7' Are all prepared?' 
 'They are — nay more, embark'd; the latest boat 
 Waits but my chief — ' 
 
 'My sword, and my capote.' 
 Soon firmly girded on and lightly slung. 
 His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung. 
 'Call Pedro here!' He comes, and Conrad bends 
 With all the courtesy he deign'd his friends : 
 'Receive these tablets and peruse with care, 
 Words of high trust and truth are graven there; 
 Double the guard, and when Anselmo's bark 
 Arrives, let him alike these orders mark: 
 In three days (serve the breeze) the sun shall shine 
 On our return — till then all peace be thine!' 
 This said, his brother Pirate's hand he rung, 
 Then to his boat with haughty gesture sprung. 
 
Poetical WorJ^s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Sixty -nine 
 
 Flash'd the dipt oars, and, sparkling with the stroke, 
 Around the waves' phosphoric brightness broke; 
 They gain the vessel, on the deck he stands; 
 Shrieks the shrill whistle — ply the busy hands. 
 Ke marks how well the ship her helm obeys, 
 How gallant all her crew, and deigns to praise. 
 His eyes of pride to young Gonsalvo turn — 
 Why doth he start and inly seem to mourn? 
 Alas! those eyes beheld his rocky tower, 
 And live a moment o'er the parting hour; 
 She, his Medora, did she mark the prow? 
 Ah! never loved he half so much as now! 
 But much must yet be done ere dawn of day — 
 Again he mans himself and turns away; 
 Down to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends. 
 And there unfolds his plan, his means, and ends. 
 Before them burns the lamp, and spreads the chart, 
 And all that speaks and aids the naval art; 
 They to the midnight watch protract debate; 
 To anxious eyes what hour is ever late; 
 Meantime, the steady breeze serenely blew, 
 And fast and falcon-like the vessel flew; 
 Pass'd the high headlands of each clustering isle 
 To gain their port — long — long ere morning smile: 
 And soon the night-glass through the narrow bay 
 Discovers where the Pacha's galleys lay. 
 Count they each sail, and mark how there supine 
 The lights in vain o'er heedless Moslem shine. 
 Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow pass'd by. 
 And anchor'd where his ambush meant to lie; 
 Screen'd from espial by the jutting cape, 
 That rears on high its rude fantastic shape. 
 Then rose his band to duty — not from sleep — 
 
Page Poetical IVorlfs of 
 
 One Hundred and Seveni}) LORD BYRON 
 
 Equipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep; 
 While lean'd their leader o'er the fretting flood. 
 And calmly talk'd — and yet he talk'd of blood! 
 
 In Coron's bay floats many a galley light, 
 Through Coron's lattices the lampg are bright. 
 For Seyd, the Pacha, makes a feast to-night: 
 A feast for promised triumph yet to come. 
 When he shall drag the fetter'd Rovers home. 
 This hath he sworn by Alia and his sword; 
 And faithful to his firman and his sword. 
 His summon'd prows collect along the coast, 
 And great the gathering crews, and loud the boast. 
 Already shared the captives and the prize. 
 Though far the distant foe they thus despise; 
 'T is but to sail — no doubt to-morrow's Sun 
 Will see the Pirates bound — their haven won! 
 Meantime the watch may slumber, if they will, 
 Nor only wake to war, but dreaming kill. 
 Though all, who can, disperse on shore and seek 
 To flesh their glowing valour on the Greek; 
 How well such deed becomes the turban'd brave. 
 To bare the sabre's edge before a slave, 
 Infest his dwelling, but forbear to slay — 
 Their arms are strong, yet merciful to-day. 
 And do not deign to smite because they may ! 
 Unless some gay caprice suggests the blow. 
 To keep in practice for the coming foe. 
 Revel and rout the evening hours beguile. 
 And they who wish to wear a head must smile; 
 For Moslem mouths produce their choicest cheer, 
 And hoard their curses, till the coast is clear. 
 
Poetical WorJ^s of Pane 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Seventy-onc 
 
 High in his hall reclines the turban'd Seyd; 
 Around, the bearded chiefs he came to lead. 
 Removed the banquet, and the last pilaff- 
 Forbidden draughts, 't is said, he dared to quaff, 
 Though to the rest the sober berry's juice 
 The slaves bear round for rigid Moslems' use; 
 The long chibouque's dissolving cloud supply, 
 While dance the Almas to wild minstrelsy. 
 The rising morn will view the chiefs embark. 
 But waves are somewhat treacherous in the dark ; 
 And revellers may more securely sleep 
 On silken couch than o'er the rugged deep; 
 Feast there who can, nor combat till they must, 
 And less to conquest than to Korans trust; 
 And yet the numbers crowded in his host 
 Might warrant more than even the Pacha's boast. 
 With cautious reverence from the outer gate 
 Slow stalks the slave, whose office there to wait. 
 Bows his bent head; his hand salutes the floor,' 
 Ere yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore : 
 *A captive Dervise, from the pirate's nest 
 Escaped, is here— himself would tell the rest.* 
 He took the sign from Seyd's assenting eye. 
 And led the holy man in silence nigh. 
 His arms were folded on his dark-green vest. 
 His step was feeble, and his look deprest; 
 Yet worn he seem'd of hardship more than years. 
 And pale his cheek with penance, not from fears. 
 Vow'd to his God— his sable locks he wore. 
 And these his lofty cap rose proudly o'er: 
 Around his form his loose long robe was thrown, 
 And wrapt a breast bestow'd on heaven alone.' 
 
Page Poetical Wor^i of 
 
 One Hundred and Seventy-tivo LORD BYRON 
 
 Submissive, yet with self-possession mann'd. 
 He calmly met the curious eyes that scann'd; 
 And question of his coming fain would seek, 
 Before the Pacha's will allow'd to speak. 
 
 'Whence com'st thou, Dervise?' 
 
 'From the outlaw's den, 
 A fugitive — ' 
 
 *Thy capture where and when?' 
 'From Scalanova's port to Scio's isle, 
 The Saick was bound; but Alia did not smile 
 Upon our course — the Moslem merchant's gains 
 The Rovers won: our limbs have worn their chains. 
 I had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast. 
 Beyond the wandering freedom which I lost; 
 At length a fisher's humble boat by night 
 Afforded hope, and offer'd chance of flight; 
 I seized the hour, and find my safety here — 
 With thee, most mighty Pacha! who can fear?' 
 
 'How speed the outlaws? stand they well prepared. 
 Their plunder'd wealth and robber's rock to guard? 
 Dream they of this our preparation, doom'd 
 To view with fire their scorpion nest consumed?' 
 
 'Pacha! the fetter'd captive's mourning eye. 
 
 That weeps for flight, but ill can play the spy; 
 
 I only heard the reckless waters roar. 
 
 Those waves that would not bear me from the shore; 
 
 I only mark'd the glorious sun and sky, 
 
 Too bright, too blue for my captivity; 
 
 And felt that all which Freedom's bosom cheers 
 
 Must break my chain before it dried my tears. 
 
 This may'st thou judge, at least, from my escape. 
 
 They little deem of aught in peril's shape; 
 
Poetical lVor}(s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Seventif-three 
 
 Else vainly had I pray'd or sought the chance 
 That leads me here — if eyed with vigilance: 
 The careless guard that did not see me fly, 
 May watch as idly when thy power is nigh. 
 Pacha! — ^my limbs are faint — and nature craves 
 Food for my hunger, rest from tossing waves: 
 Permit my absence — peace be with thee ! Peace 
 With all around! — now grant repose — release.' 
 
 *Stay, Dervise! I have more to question — stay, 
 I do command thee — sit — dost hear? — obey! 
 More I must ask, and food the slaves shall bring; 
 Thou shalt not pine where all are banqueting. 
 The supper done, prepare thee to reply. 
 Clearly and full — I love not mystery.' 
 
 'T were vain to guess what shook the pious man, 
 Who look'd not lovingly on that Divan; 
 Nor show'd high relish for the banquet prest, 
 And less respect for every fellow guest. 
 'T was but a moment's peevish hectic pass'd 
 Along his cheek, and tranquillized as fast: 
 He sate him down in silence, and his look 
 Resumed the calmness which before forsook. 
 The feast waS usher'd in, but sumptuous fare 
 He shunn'd as if some poison mingled there. 
 For one so long condemn'd to toil and fast, 
 Methinks he strangely spares the rich repast. 
 
 *What ails thee, Dervise? eat — dost thou suppose 
 This feast a Christian's? or my friends thy foes? 
 Why dost thou shun the salt? that sacred pledge. 
 Which, once partaken, blunts the sabre's edge. 
 Makes even contending tribes in peace unite, 
 And hated hosts seem brethren to the sight!' 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 One Hundred and Sextnt^-iour LORD BYRON 
 
 'Salt seasons dainties, and my food is still 
 The humblest root, my drink the simplest rill; 
 And my stern vow and order's law oppose 
 To break or mingle bread with friends or foes. 
 It may seem strange — if there be aught to dread, 
 That peril rests upon my single head. 
 But for thy sway — nay more, thy Sultan's throne — 
 I taste nor bread nor banquet — save alone; 
 Infringed our order's rule, the Prophet's rage 
 To Mecca's dome might bar my pilgrimage.' 
 
 'Well, as thou wilt — ascetic as thou art ; 
 
 One question answer, then in peace depart. 
 
 How many? — Ha! it cannot sure be day? 
 
 What star — what sun is bursting on the bay? 
 
 It shines a lake of fire! — away — away! 
 
 Ho! treachery! my guards! my scimitar! 
 
 The galleys feed the flames — and I afar! 
 
 Accursed Dervise! — these thy tidings — thou 
 
 Some villain spy — seize — cleave him — slay him now!* 
 
 Up rose the Dervise with that burst of light, 
 Nor less his change of form appall'd the sight: 
 Up rose that Dervise — not in saintly garb. 
 But like a warrior bounding on his barb, 
 Dash'd his high cap, and tore his robe away — 
 Shone his mail'd breast, and flash'd his sabre's ray ! 
 His close but glittering casque, and sable plume. 
 More glittering eye, and black brow's sabler gloom, 
 Glared on the Moslems' eyes some Afrit sprite, 
 Whose demon death-blow left no hope for fight. 
 The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow 
 Of flames on high and torches from below; 
 The shriek of terror, and the mingling yell — 
 
Poetical iVorl^s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One HundreJ and Seveni\ffr>e 
 
 For swords began to clash and shouts to swell — 
 
 Flung o'er that spot of earth the air of hell! 
 
 Distracted, to and fro, the flying slaves 
 
 Behold but bloody shore and fiery waves; 
 
 Nought heeded they the Pacha's angry cry. 
 
 They) seize that Dervise! — seize on Zatanai! 
 
 He saw their terror, check'd the first despair 
 
 That urged him but to stand and perish there, — 
 
 Since far too early and too well obey'd, 
 
 The flame was kindled ere the signal made, — 
 
 He saw their terror, from his baldric drew 
 
 His bugle — brief the blast — but shrilly blew. 
 
 'T is answer'd — 'Well ye speed, my gallant crew I 
 
 Why did I doubt their quickness of career? 
 
 And deem design had left me single here?' 
 
 Sweeps his long arm — that sabre's whirling sway 
 
 Sheds fast atonement for its first delay; 
 
 Completes his fury what their fear begun, 
 
 And makes the many basely quail to one. 
 
 The cloven turbans o'er the chamber spread, 
 
 And scarce an arm dare rise to guard its head: 
 
 Even Seyd, convulsed, o'erwhelm'd with rage, surprise. 
 
 Retreats before him, though he still defies. 
 
 No craven he, and yet he dreads the blow, 
 
 So much Confusion magnifies his foe! 
 
 His blazing galleys still distract his sight. 
 
 He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fight; 
 
 For now the pirates pass'd the Haram gate, 
 
 And burst within — and it were death to wait; 
 
 Where wild Amazement shrieking — kneeling — throws 
 
 The sword aside — in vain — the blood o'erflows! 
 
 The Corsairs, pouring, haste to where within 
 
 Invited Conrad's bugle, and the din 
 
Page Poetical WoTl^i of 
 
 One Hundred and Sevenlysix LORD BYRON 
 
 Of groaning victims and wild cries for life 
 
 Proclaim'd how well he did the work of strife. 
 
 They shout to find him grim and lonely there, 
 
 A glutted tiger mangling in his lair! 
 
 But short their greeting, shorter his reply: 
 
 * 'T is well — but Seyd escapes — and he must die ; 
 
 Much hath been done, but more remains to do; 
 
 Their galleys blaze — why not their city too?' 
 
 Quick at the word they seized him each a torch, 
 
 And fire the dome from minaret to porch. 
 
 A stern delight was fix'd in Conrad's eye. 
 
 But sudden sunk; for on his ear the cry 
 
 Of women struck, and like a deadly knell 
 
 Knock'd at that heart unmoved by battle's yell: 
 
 *Oh! burst the Haram — wrong not on your lives 
 
 One female form, remember we have wives. 
 
 On them such outrage Vengeance will repay ; 
 
 Man is our foe, and such 't is ours to slay: 
 
 But still we spared, must spare the weaker prey. 
 
 Oh! I forgot — but Heaven will not forgive 
 
 If at my word the helpless cease to live. 
 
 Follow who will — I go — we yet have time 
 
 Our souls to lighten of at least a crime.' 
 
 He climbs the crackling stair, he bursts the door. 
 
 Nor feels his feet glow scorching with the floor; 
 
 His breath choked gasping with the volumed smoke. 
 
 But still from room to room his way he broke. 
 
 They search — they find — they save: with lusty arms 
 
 Each bears a prize of unregarded charms; 
 
 Calm their loud fears, sustain their sinking frames 
 
 With all the care defenceless beauty claims; 
 
 So well could Conrad tame their fiercest mood. 
 
Poetical Worlds of p 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hunired and Se.eniy-.Z 
 
 And check the very hands with gore imbrued. 
 But who is she whom Conrad's arms convey 
 From reeking pile and combat's wreck away? 
 Who but the love of him he dooms to bleed? 
 The Harem queen— but still the slave of Seyd! 
 Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare, 
 Few words to reassure the trembUng fair; 
 For in that pause compassion snatch'd from war. 
 The foe before retiring, fast and far. 
 With wonder saw their footsteps unpursued, 
 First slowlier fled— then rallied— then withstood. 
 This Seyd perceives, then first perceives how few. 
 Compared with his, the Corsair's roving crew; 
 And blushes o'er his error, as he eyes 
 The ruin wrought by panic and surprise. 
 Alia il Alia! Vengeance swells the cry. 
 Shame mounts to rage that must atone or die! 
 And flame for flame and blood for blood must tell.' 
 The tide of triumph ebbs that flow'd too well- 
 When wrath returns to renovated strife, 
 And those who fought for conquest strike for life. 
 Conrad beheld the danger, he beheld 
 His followers faint by freshening foes repell'd: 
 'One effort- one— to break the circling host!' 
 They form, unite, charge, waver— all is lost ! 
 Within a narrower ring compress'd, beset. 
 Hopeless, not heartless, strive and struggle yet— 
 Ah! now they fight in firmest file no more, 
 Hemm'd in— cut off- cleft down— and trampled o'er; 
 But each strikes singly, silently, and home. 
 And sinks outwearied rather than o'ercome. 
 His last faint quittance rendering with his 'breath, 
 Till the blade glimmers in the grasp of death! 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 One Hundred and Seventy-eight LORD BYRON 
 
 But first, ere came the rallying host to blows, 
 
 And rank to rank and hand to hand oppose, 
 
 Gulnare and all her Haram handmaids, freed. 
 
 Safe in the dome of one who held their creed 
 
 By Conrad's mandate safely were bestow'd. 
 
 And dried those tears for life and fame that flow'd. 
 
 And when that dark-eyed lady, young Gulnare, 
 
 Recall'd those thoughts late wandering in despair. 
 
 Much did she marvel o'er the courtesy 
 
 That smooth'd his accents, soften'd in his eye: 
 
 'T was strange — that robber, thus with gore bedew'd, 
 
 Seem'd gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood. 
 
 The Pacha woo'd as if he deem'd the slave 
 
 Must seem delighted with the heart he gave ; 
 
 The Corsair vow'd protection, soothed affright. 
 
 As if his homage were a woman's right. 
 
 'The wish is wrong — nay, worse for female, vain: 
 
 Yet much I long to view that chief again; 
 
 If but to thank for, what my fear forgot. 
 
 The life — my loving lord remember'd not!' 
 
 And him she saw, where thickest carnage spread. 
 But gather'd breathing from the happier dead; 
 Far from his band, and battling with a host 
 That deem right dearly won the field he lost, 
 Fell'd — bleeding — ^baffled of the death he sought, 
 And snatch'd to expiate all the ills he wrought; 
 Preserved to linger and to live in vain. 
 While Vengeance ponder'd o'er new plans of pain 
 And stanch'd the blood she saves to shed again — 
 But drop for drop, for Seyd's unglutted eye 
 Would doom him ever dying — ne'er to die! 
 Can this be he triumphant late she saw, 
 
Poetical WoT^i of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Seventh-nine 
 
 When his red hand's wild gesture waved, a law? 
 
 'T is he indeed, disarm'd but undeprest, 
 
 His sole regret the life he still possest; 
 
 His wounds too slight, though taken with that will 
 
 Which would have kiss'd the hand that then could kill. 
 
 Oh were there none, of all the many given, 
 
 To send his soul — he scarcely ask'd to heaven? 
 
 Must he alone of all retain his breath. 
 
 Who more than all had striven and struck for death? 
 
 He deeply felt — what mortal hearts must feel, 
 
 When thus reversed on faithless fortune's wheel, 
 
 For crimes committed, and the victor's threat 
 
 Of lingering tortures to repay the debt — 
 
 He deeply, darkly felt; but evil pride 
 
 That led to perpetrate, now serves to hide. 
 
 Still in his stern and self-collected mien 
 
 A conqueror's more than captive's air is seen. 
 
 Though faint with wasting toil and stiffening wound, — 
 
 But few that saw, so calmly gazed around: 
 
 Though the far shouting of the distant crowd, 
 
 Their tremors o'er, rose insolently loud. 
 
 The better warriors who beheld him near, 
 
 Insulted not the foe who taught them fear; 
 
 And the grim guards that to his durance led, 
 
 In silence eyed him with a secret dread. 
 
 In the high chamber of his highest tower 
 Sate Conrad, fetter'd in the Pacha's power. 
 His palace perish'd in the flame, this fort 
 Contain'd at once his captive and his court. 
 Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame, 
 His foe, if vanquish'd, had but shared the same. 
 Alone he sate, in solitude had scann'd 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 One Hundred and Eight}) LORD BYRON 
 
 His guilty bosom, but that breast he mann'd ; 
 One thought alone he could not, dared not meet : 
 *Oh, how these tidings will Medora greet?' 
 Then, only then, his clanking hands he raised, 
 And strain'd with rage the chain on which he gazed; 
 But soon he found, or feign'd, or dream'd relief, 
 And smiled in self-derision of his grief : 
 'And now come torture when it will — or may; 
 More need of rest to nerve me for the day!' 
 This said, with languor to his mat he crept. 
 And, whatsoe'er his visions, quickly slept. 
 
 'T was hardly midnight when that fray begun, 
 For Conrad's plans matured, at once were done ; 
 And Havoc loathes so much the waste of time. 
 She scarce had left an uncommitted crime. 
 One hour beheld him since the tide he stemm'd — 
 Disguised — discover'd — conquering — ta'en — 
 
 condemn'd — 
 A chief on land — an outlaw on the deep — 
 Destroying — saving — prison'd — and asleep ! 
 
 He slept — Who o'er his placid slumber bends? 
 Was hush'd so deep — Ah! happy if in death! 
 He slept in calmest seeming, for his breath 
 His foes are gone, and here he hath no friends; 
 Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace? 
 No, 't is an earthly form with heavenly face! 
 Its wliite arm raised a lamp, yet gently hid. 
 Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid 
 Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain, 
 And once unclosed — but once may close again. 
 That form, with eye so dark and cheek so fair, 
 And auburn waves of gemm'd and braided hair; 
 
Poetical lVorI(s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Eightyone 
 
 With shape of fairy lightness, naked foot, 
 
 That shines like snow and falls on earth as mute — 
 
 Through guards and dunnest night how came it there? 
 
 Ah! rather ask what will not Woman dare, 
 
 Whom youth and pity lead like thee, Gulnare? 
 
 She could not sleep; and while the Pacha's rest 
 
 In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-guest, 
 
 She left his side: his signet-ring she bore, 
 
 Which oft in sport adorn'd her hand before; 
 
 And with it, scarcely question'd, won her way 
 
 Through drowsy guards that must that sign obey. 
 
 Worn out with toil and tired with changing blows, 
 
 Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose; 
 
 And chill and nodding at the turret door. 
 
 They stretch their listless limbs and watch no more: 
 
 Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring, 
 
 Nor ask or what or who the sign may bring. 
 
 She gazed in wonder: 'Can he calmly sleep. 
 While other eyes his fall or ravage weep, 
 And mine in restlessness are wandering here? 
 What sudden spell hath made this man so dear? 
 True, 't is to him my life, and more, I owe, 
 And me and mine he spared from worse than woe. 
 'T late to think — but soft, his slumber breaks — 
 How heavily he sighs ! he starts — awakes !' 
 
 He raised his head, and dazzled with the light. 
 His eye seem'd dubious if it saw aright; 
 He moved his hand — the grating of his chain 
 Too harshly told him that he lived again. 
 'What is that form? if not a shape of air, 
 Methinks, my jailor's face shows wondrous fair!' 
 
Page Poetical Wot^s of 
 
 One Hundred and Eighl\)-lmo LORD BYRON 
 
 'Pirate! thou know'st me not; but I am one, 
 Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done. 
 Look on me, and remember her thy hand 
 Snatch'd from the flames and thy more fearful band. 
 I come through darkness — and I scarce know why — 
 Yet not to hurt — I would not see thee die.' 
 
 'If so, kind lady! thine the only eye 
 That would not here in that gay hope delight: 
 Theirs is the chance — and let them use their right ; 
 But still I thank their courtesy or thine, 
 That would confess me at so fair a shrine!' 
 
 Strange though it seem, yet with extremest grief 
 
 Is link'd a mirth — it doth not bring relief: 
 
 That playfulness of Sorrow ne'er beguiles. 
 
 And smiles in bitterness — but still it smiles; 
 
 And sometimes with the wisest and the best. 
 
 Till even the scaffold echoes with their jest! 
 
 Yet not the joy to which it seems akin — 
 
 It may deceive all hearts, save that within. 
 
 Whate'er it was that flash'd on Conrad, now 
 
 A laughing wildness half unbent his brow: 
 
 And these his accents had a sound of mirth. 
 
 As if the last he could enjoy on earth; 
 
 Yet 'gainst his nature, for through that short life, 
 
 Few thoughts had he to spare from gloom and strife, 
 
 'Corsair, thy doom is named! but I have power 
 
 To soothe the Pacha in his weaker hour. 
 
 Thee would I spare — nay more, would save thee now, 
 
 But this — time — hope — nor even thy strength allow; 
 
 But all I can, I will: at least delay 
 
 The sentence that remits thee scarce a day. 
 
Poetical Wor^s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Eighfy-three 
 
 More now were ruin — ev'n thyself were loth 
 The vain attempt should bring but doom to both.' 
 
 'Yes, loth indeed! my soul is nerved to all. 
 
 Or fall'n too low to fear a further fall. 
 
 Tempt not thyself with peril, me with hope 
 
 Of flight from foes with whom I could not cope: 
 
 Unfit to vanquish — shall I meanly fly, 
 
 The one of all my band that would not die? 
 
 Yet there is one — to whom my memory clings, 
 
 Till to these eyes her own wild softness springs. 
 
 My sole resources in the path I trod 
 
 Were these — my bark — my sword — my love — my God! 
 
 The last I left in youth — he leaves me now, 
 
 And Man but works his will to lay me low. 
 
 I have no thought to mock his throne with prayer 
 
 Wrung from the coward crouching of despair; 
 
 It is enough — I breathe — and I can bear. 
 
 My sword is shaken from the worthless hand 
 
 That might have better kept so true a brand; 
 
 My bark is sunk or captive; but my love — 
 
 For her in sooth my voice would mount above. 
 
 Oh! she is all that still to earth can bind; 
 
 And this will break a heart so more than kind, 
 
 And blight a form — till thine appear'd, Gulnare, 
 
 Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were as fair.' 
 
 'Thou lov'st another then? — but what to me 
 Is this — 't is nothing — nothing e'er can be: 
 But yet — thou lov'st — and — Oh ! I envy those 
 Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose, 
 Who never feel the void, the wandering thought 
 That sighs o'er visions — such as mine hath wrought,' 
 
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 One Hundred and Eighty-four LORD BYRON 
 
 'Lady — methought thy love was his, for whom 
 This arm redeem'd thee from a fiery tomb.' 
 
 'My love stern Seyd's! Oh — No — No — not my love — 
 
 Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once strove 
 
 To meet his passion — but it would not be, 
 
 I felt — I feel — love dwells with — with the free: 
 
 I am a slave, a favour'd slave at best, 
 
 To share his splendour, and seem very blest! 
 
 Oft must my soul the question undergo. 
 
 Of — "Dost thou love?" and burn to answer, "No!" 
 
 Oh 1 hard it is that fondness to sustain. 
 
 And struggle not to feel averse in vain; 
 
 But harder still the heart's recoil to bear. 
 
 And hide from one — perhaps another there. 
 
 He takes the hand I give not — nor withhold. 
 
 Its pulse nor check'd — nor quicken'd — calmly cold: 
 
 And when resign'd, it drops a lifeless weight 
 
 From one I never loved enough to hate. 
 
 No warmth these lips return by his imprest. 
 
 And chill'd remembrance shudders o'er the rest. 
 
 Yes — had I ever proved that Passion's zeal. 
 
 The change to hatred were at least to feel: 
 
 But still — he goes unmourn'd — returns unsought — 
 
 And oft when present — absent from my thought. 
 
 Or when reflection comes, — and it must — 
 
 I fear that henceforth 't will but bring disgust; 
 
 I am his slave — but, in despite of pride, 
 
 'T were worse than bondage to become his bride. 
 
 Oh ! that this dotage of his breast would cease ! 
 
 Or seek another and give mine release — 
 
 But yesterday I could have said, to peace! 
 
 Yes, if unwonted fondness now I feign, 
 
Poel'tcal WotI^s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Eighty-/it,e 
 
 Remember, captive, 't is to break thy chain; 
 Repay the life that to thy hand I owe; 
 To give thee back to all endear'd below. 
 Who share such love as I can never know. 
 Farewell — morn breaks — and I must now away: 
 'T will cost me dear— but dread not death to-day!' 
 
 She press'd his fetter'd fingers to her heart, 
 And bow'd her head, and turn'd her to depart. 
 And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone. 
 And was she here? and is he now alone? 
 What gem hath dropp'd and sparkles o'er his chain? 
 The tear most sacred, shed for others' pain, 
 That starts at once — bright — pure — from Pity's mine, 
 Already polish'd by the hand divine! 
 
 'T is Morn — and o'er his alter'd features play 
 The beams, without the Hope of yesterday. 
 What shall he be ere night? perchance a thing 
 O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing. 
 By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt. 
 While sets that Sun and Dews of evening melt. 
 Chill — ^wet — and misty round each stiffen'd limb, 
 Refreshing earth — reviving all but him ! 
 
 Within the Haram's secret chamber sate 
 Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his Captive's fate; 
 His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell. 
 Now with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cell. 
 Here at his feet the lovely slave reclined 
 Surveys his brow — would soothe his gloom of mind: 
 While many an anxious glance her large dark eye 
 Sends in its idle search for sympathy. 
 
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 One Hundred and Eighly-stx LORD BYRON 
 
 His only bends in seeming o'er his beads, 
 But inly views his victim as he bleeds. 
 
 'Pacha! the day is thine; and on thy crest 
 Sits Triumph — Conrad taken, fall'n the rest! 
 His doom is fix'd — he dies: and well his fate 
 Was earn'd — yet much too worthless for thy hate : 
 Methinks, a short release, for ransome told 
 With all his treasure, not unwisely sold; 
 Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard — 
 Would that of this my Pacha were the lord! 
 While baffled, weaken'd by this fatal fray — ^ 
 Watch'd — follow'd — he were then an easier prey; 
 But once cut off — the remnant of his band 
 Embark their wealth and seek a safer strand.' 
 
 'Gulnare ! if for each drop of blood a gem 
 
 Were offer'd rich as Stamboul's diadem; 
 
 If for each hair of his a massy mine 
 
 Of virgin ore should supplicating shine; 
 
 If all our Arab tales divulge or dream 
 
 Of wealth were here — that gold should not redeem ! 
 
 It had not now redeem'd a single hour; 
 
 But that I know him fetter'd, in my power; 
 
 And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still 
 
 On pangs that longest rack and latest kill.' 
 
 'Nay, Seyd! — I seek not to restrain thy rage. 
 Too justly moved for mercy to assuage ; 
 My thoughts were only to secure for thee 
 His riches — thus released, he were not free: 
 Disabled, shorn of half his might and band, 
 His capture could but wait thy first command.* 
 
Poetical Works of p 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Eighfy-seven 
 
 'His capture could!— and shall I then resign 
 One day to him— the wretch already mine? 
 Release my foe! — at whose remonstrance? — thine! 
 Fair suitor! — to thy virtuous gratitude, 
 That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood, 
 Which thee and thine alone of all could spare. 
 No doubt regardless if the prize were fair,— 
 My thanks and praise alike are due — now hear! 
 I have a counsel for thy gentler ear: 
 I do mistrust thee, woman! and each word 
 Of thine stamps truth on all Suspicion heard. 
 Borne in his arms through fire from yon Serai — 
 Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly? 
 Thou need'st not answer— thy confession speaks. 
 Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks; 
 Then, lovely dame, bethink thee! and beware: 
 'T is not his life alone may claim such care! 
 Another word and — nay — I need no more. 
 Accursed was the moment when he bore 
 Thee from the flames, which better far— but— no— 
 I then had mourn'd thee with a lover's woe; 
 Now 't is thy lord that warns— deceitful thing ! 
 Know'st thou that I can clip thy wanton wing? 
 In words alone I am not wont to chafe: 
 Look to thyself, nor deem thy falsehood safe !* 
 He rose— and slowly, sternly thence withdrew. 
 Rage in his eye and threats in his adieu: 
 Ah! little reck'd that chief of womanhood. 
 Which frowns ne'er quell'd nor menaces subdued; 
 And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gulnare, 
 When soft could feel, and when incensed could dare. 
 His doubts appear'd to wrong— nor yet she knew 
 How deep the root from whence compassion grew; 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 One Hundred and Eighty-eight LORD BYRON 
 
 She was a slave — from such may captives claim 
 
 A fellow-feeling, differing but in name. 
 
 Still half unconscious, heedless of his wrath, 
 
 Again she ventured on the dangerous path, 
 
 Again his rage repell'd — until arose 
 
 That strife of thought, the source of woman's woes ! 
 
 The first day pass'd; he saw not her, Gulnare; 
 The second — third — and still she came not there ; 
 But what her words avouch'd, her charms had done. 
 Or else he had not seen another sun. 
 The fourth day roll'd along, and with the night 
 Came storm and darkness in their mingling might. 
 Oh! how he listen'd to the rushing deep, 
 That ne'er till now so broke upon his sleep: 
 And his wild spirit wilder wishes sent, 
 Roused by the roar of his own element! 
 Oft had he ridden on that winged wave. 
 And loved its roughness for the speed it gave; 
 And now its dashing echo'd on his ear, 
 A long-known voice — alas ! too vainly near ! 
 Loud sung the wind above; and, doubly loud, 
 Shook o'er his turret cell the thundercloud; 
 And flash'd the lightning by the latticed bar, 
 To him more genial than the midnight star: 
 Close to the glimmering grate he dragg'd his chain. 
 And hoped that peril might not prove in vain. 
 He raised his iron hand to Heaven, and pray'd 
 One pitying flash to mar the form it made: 
 His steel and impious prayer attract alike — 
 The storm roll'd onward, and disdain'd to strike; 
 Its peal wax'd fainter — ceased — he felt alone, 
 As if some faithless friend had spurn'd his groan! 
 
Poetical Worlds of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Eighiy^-nine 
 
 The midnight pass'd, and to the massy door 
 A light step came — it paused — it moved once more ; 
 Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key: 
 'T is as his heart foreboded — that fair she! 
 Whate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint, 
 And beauteous still as hermit's hope can paint; 
 Yet changed since last within that cell she came. 
 More pale her cheek, more tremulous her frame. 
 On him she cast her dark and hurried eye, 
 Which spoke before her accents — 'Thou must die! 
 Yes, thou must die; there is but one resource, 
 The last — the worst — if torture were not worse.' 
 
 'Lady! I look to none; my lips proclaim 
 What last proclaim'd they — Conrad still the same. 
 Why should'st thou seek an outlaw's life to spare, 
 And change the sentence I deserve to bear? 
 Well have I earn'd — nor here alone — the meed 
 Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed.' 
 
 'Why should I seek? because — Oh! didst thou not 
 
 Redeem my life from worse than slavery's lot? 
 
 Why should I seek? — hath misery made thee blind 
 
 To the fond workings of a woman's mind? 
 
 And must I say? albeit my heart rebel 
 
 With all that woman feels, but should not tell— 
 
 Because, despite thy crimes, that heart is moved: 
 
 It fear'd thee — thank'd thee — pitied — madden'd — loved. 
 
 Reply not, tell not now thy tale again, 
 
 Thou lov'st another — and I love in vain; 
 
 Though fond as mine her bosom, form more fair, 
 
 I rush through peril which she would not dare. 
 
 If that thy heart to hers were truly dear. 
 
 Were I thine own, thou wert not lonely here: 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 One Hundred and Ninet\f LORD BYRON 
 
 An outlaw's spouse — and leave her lord to roam! 
 What hath such gentle dame to do with home? 
 But speak not now — o'er thine and o'er my head 
 Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread; 
 If thou hast courage still, and wouldst be free, 
 Receive this poinard — rise, and follow me !' 
 
 'Ay in my chains ! my steps will gently tread, 
 With these adornments, o'er each slumbering head! 
 Thou hast forgot — is this a garb for flight? 
 Or is that instrument more fit for fight?' 
 
 'Misdoubting Corsair! I have gain'd the guard, 
 
 Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward. 
 
 A single word of mine removes that chain: 
 
 Without some aid how here could I remain? 
 
 Well, since we met, hath sped my busy time, 
 
 If in aught evil, for thy sake the crime: 
 
 The crime — 't is none to punish those of Seyd. 
 
 That hated tyrant, Conrad — he must bleed ! 
 
 I see thee shudder, but my soul is changed — 
 
 Wrong'd, spurn'd, reviled — and it shall be avenged; 
 
 Accused of what till now my heart disdain'd — 
 
 Too faithful, though to bitter bondage chain'd. 
 
 Yes, smile! — but he had little cause to sneer, 
 
 I was not treacherous then, nor thou too dear: 
 
 But he has said it, and the jealous well 
 
 (Those tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel) 
 
 Deserve the fate their fretting lips foretell. 
 
 I never loved — he bought me — ^somewhat high, 
 
 Since with me came a heart he could not buy, 
 
 I was a slave unmurmuring : he hath said. 
 
 But for his rescue I with thee had fled. 
 
 'T was false thou know'st; but let such augurs rue. 
 
Poetical Worlds of p 
 
 LORD B YRON One Hundred and /V, 
 
 met\f-one 
 
 Their words are omens Insult renders true. 
 
 Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer; 
 
 This fleeting grace was only to prepare 
 
 New torments for thy life, and my despair. 
 
 Mine too he threatens ; but his dotage still 
 
 Would fain reserve me for his lordly will: 
 
 When wearier of these fleeting charms and me. 
 
 There yawns the sack—and yonder rolls the sea! 
 
 What, am I then a toy for dotard's play, 
 
 To wear but till the gilding frets away? 
 
 I saw thee— loved thee— owe thee all— would save. 
 
 If but to show how grateful is a slave. 
 
 But had he not thus menaced fame and life 
 
 (And well he keeps his oaths pronounced in strife), 
 
 I still had saved thee— but the Pacha spared. 
 
 Now I am all thine own — for all prepared: 
 
 Thou lov'st me not — nor know'st — or but the worst. 
 
 Alas! this love, that hatred are the first— 
 
 Oh ! couldst thou prove my truth, thou wouldst not start. 
 
 Nor fear the fire that Hghts an Eastern heart; 
 
 'T is now the beacon of thy safety — now 
 
 It points within the port a Mainote prow: 
 
 But in one chamber, where our path must lead. 
 
 There sleeps— he must not wake — the oppressor Seydl' 
 
 'Gulnare— Gulnare— I never felt till now 
 
 My abject fortune, wither'd fame so low! 
 
 Seyd is mine enemy, had swept my band 
 
 From earth with ruthless but with open hand; 
 
 And therefore came I, in my bark of war. 
 
 To smite the smiter with the scimitar; 
 
 Such is my weapon — not the secret knife; 
 
 Who spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life. 
 
 Thine saved I gladly. Lady, not for this— 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 One Hundred and Nmefs-lroo LORD BYRON 
 
 Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. 
 
 Now fare thee well — more peace be with thy breast! 
 
 Night wears apace, my last of earthly rest!' 
 
 'Rest! rest! by sunrise must thy sinews shake, 
 
 And thy limbs writhe around the ready stake. 
 
 I heard the order — saw — 1 will not see — 
 
 If thou wilt perish, I will fall with thee. 
 
 My life — my love — my hatred — all below 
 
 Are on this cast; Corsair! 't is but a blow! 
 
 Without it flight were idle — how evade 
 
 His sure pursuit? my wrongs too unrepaid, 
 
 My youth disgraced — the long, long wasted years, 
 
 One blow shall cancel with our future fears. 
 
 But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, 
 
 I '11 try the firmness of a female hand. 
 
 The guards are gain'd — one moment all were o'er — 
 
 Corsair! we meet in safety or no more; 
 
 If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud 
 
 Will hover o'er thy scaffold, and my shroud.' 
 
 She turn'd, and vanish'd ere he could reply. 
 
 But his glance follow'd far with eager eye; 
 
 And gathering, as he could, the links that bound 
 
 His form, to curl their length and curb their sound, 
 
 Since bar and bolt no more his steps preclude. 
 
 He, fast as fetter'd limbs allow, pursued. 
 
 'T was dark and winding, and he knew not where 
 
 That passage led; nor lamp nor guard was there. 
 
 He sees a dusky glimmering — shall he seek 
 
 Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak? 
 
 Chance guides his steps — a freshness seems to bear 
 
 Full on his brow, as if from morning air; 
 
 He reached an open gallery — on his eye 
 
Poetical Works of p^g^ 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Ninely-ihrc^ 
 
 Gleam'd the last star of night, the clearing sky : 
 
 Yet scarcely heeded these— another light 
 
 From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. 
 
 Towards it he moved; a scarcely closing door 
 
 Reveal'd the ray within, but nothing more. 
 
 With hasty step a figure outward pass'd, 
 
 Then paused— and turn'd— and paused— 't is She at last ! 
 
 No poniard in that hand, nor sign of ill — 
 
 'Thanks to that softening heart, she could not kill !' 
 
 Again he look'd, the wildness of her eye 
 
 Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully. 
 
 She stopp'd— threw back her dark far-floating hair, 
 
 That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair: 
 
 As if she late had bent her leaning head 
 
 Above some object of her doubt or dread. 
 
 They meet — upon her brow, unknown, forgot, 
 
 Her hurrying hand had left— 't was but a spot 
 
 Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood — 
 Oh ! slight but certain pledge of crime— 't is blood ! 
 
 He had seen battle, he had brooded lone 
 O'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt foreshown; 
 He had been tempted, chasten'd, and the chain 
 Yet on his arms might ever there remain; 
 But ne'er from strife, captivity, remorse. 
 From all his feelings in their inmost force, 
 So thrill'd, so shudder'd every creeping vein, 
 As now they froze before that purple stain. 
 That spot of blood, that light but guilty streak. 
 Had banish'd all the beauty from her cheek! 
 Blood he had view'd — could view unmoved — but then 
 It flow'd in combat, or was shed by men ! 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 One Hundred and Ninety-four LORD BYRON 
 
 ' 'T is done — he nearly waked — but it is done ; 
 Corsair! he perish'd — -thou art dearly won. 
 All words would now be vain — away — away! 
 Our bark is tossing — 't is already day. 
 The few gain'd over, now are wholly mine, 
 And these thy yet surviving band shall join: 
 Anon my voice shall vindicate my hand, 
 When once our sail forsakes this hated strand!' 
 
 She clapp'd her hands, and through the gallery pour, 
 Equipp'd for flight, her vassals — Greek and Moor; 
 Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind; 
 Once more his limbs are free as mountain wind! 
 But on his heavy heart such sadness sate, 
 As if they there transferr'd that iron weight. 
 No words are utter'd; at her sign, a door 
 Reveals the secret passage to the shore; 
 The city lies behind — they speed, they reach 
 The glad waves dancing on the yellow beach; 
 And Conrad following, at her beck, obey'd. 
 Nor cared he now if rescued or betray'd; 
 Resistance were as useless as if Seyd 
 Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed. 
 
 Embark'd, the sail unfurl'd, the light breeze blew — 
 How much had Conrad's memory to review! 
 Sunk he in Contemplation, till the Cape 
 Where last he anchor'd rear'd its giant shape. 
 Ah ! since that fatal night, though brief the time. 
 Had swept an age of terror, grief, and crime. 
 As its far shadow frown'd above the mast. 
 He veil'd his face and sorrow'd as he pass'd ; 
 He thought of all — Gonsalvo and his band, 
 His fleeting triumph and his failing hand; 
 
Poetical IVor^s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Ninet},-he 
 
 He thought on her afar, his lonely bride: 
 He turn'd and saw — Gulnare, the homicide! 
 
 She watch'd his features till she could not bear 
 Their freezing aspect and averted air; 
 And that strange fierceness, foreign to her eye. 
 Fell quench'd in tears, too late to shed or dry. 
 She knelt beside him and his hand she press'd, 
 'Thou may'st forgive though Allah's self detest; 
 But for that deed of darkness what wert thou? 
 Reproach me — but not yet — Oh! spare me now! 
 I am not what I seem — this fearful night 
 My brain bewilder'd — do not madden quite! 
 If I had never loved — though less my guilt. 
 Thou hadst not lived to — hate me — if thou wilt.' 
 
 She wrongs his thoughts, they more himself upbraid 
 Than her, though undesign'd, the wretch he made; 
 But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexprest. 
 They bleed within that silent cell — his breast. 
 Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge, 
 The blue waves sport around the stern they urge ; 
 Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck, 
 A spot — a mast — a sail — an armed deck! 
 Their little bark her men of watch descry. 
 And ampler canvas woos the wind from high; 
 She bears her down majestically near. 
 Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier; 
 A flash is seen — the ball beyond their bow 
 Booms harmless, hissing to the deep below. 
 Up rose keen Conrad from his silent trance, 
 A long, long absent gladness in his glance; 
 ' 'T is mine — my blood-red flag ! again — again — 
 I am not all deserted on the main!' 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 One Hundred and Ninetyf-six LORD BYRON 
 
 They own the signal, answer to the hail, 
 
 Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail. 
 
 ' 'T is Conrad ! Conrad !' shouting from the deck, 
 
 Command nor duty could their transport check! 
 
 With light alacrity and gaze of pride. 
 
 They view him mount once more his vessel's side; 
 
 A smile relaxing in each rugged face. 
 
 Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace. 
 
 He, half forgetting danger and defeat. 
 
 Returns their greeting as a chief may greet. 
 
 Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmo's hand, 
 
 And feels he yet can conquer and command! 
 
 These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow, 
 Yet grieve to win him back without a blow; 
 They sail'd prepared for vengeance — had they known 
 A woman's hand secured that deed her own, 
 She were their queen; less scrupulous are they 
 Than haughty Conrad how they win their way. 
 With many an asking smile and wondering stare, 
 They whisper round and gaze upon Gulnare; 
 And her, — at once above, beneath her sex. 
 Whom blood appall'd not, — their regards perplex. 
 To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye. 
 She drops her veil, and stands in silence by; 
 Her arms are meekly folded on that breast. 
 Which — Conrad safe — to fate resign'd the rest. 
 Though worse than frenzy could that bosom fill, 
 Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill. 
 The worst of crimes had left her woman still! 
 
 This Conrad mark'd, and felt — ah ! could he less ? — 
 Hate of that deed but grief for her distress; 
 What she has done no tears can wash away, 
 
Poetical fVorlis of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Ninety-seven 
 
 And Heaven must punish on its angry day. 
 But — it was done: he knew, whate'er her guilt, 
 For him that poinard smote, that blood was spilt; 
 And he was free ! — and she for him had given 
 Her all on earth and more than all in heaven! 
 And now he turn'd him to that dark-eyed slave, 
 Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance he gave. 
 Who now seem'd changed and humbled: — faint and 
 
 meek, 
 But varying oft the colour of her cheek 
 To deeper shades of paleness, all its red 
 That fearful spot which stain'd it from the dead! 
 He took that hand — it trembled — now too late — 
 So soft in love, so wildly nerved in hate; 
 He clasp'd that hand — it trembled — and his own 
 Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone. 
 'Gulnare!' — but she replied not — 'dear Gulnare!' 
 She raised her eye, her only answer there. 
 At once she sought and sunk in his embrace: 
 If he had driven her from that resting-place. 
 His had been more or less than mortal heart. 
 But — good or ill — it bade her not depart. 
 Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast. 
 His latest virtue then had join'd the rest. 
 Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss 
 That ask'd from form so fair no more than this, 
 The first, the last that Frailty stole from Faith — 
 To lips where Love had lavish'd all his breath. 
 To lips whose broken sighs such fragrance fling, 
 As he had fann'd them freshly with his wing! 
 
 They gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle. 
 To them the very rocks appear to smile; 
 
Page Poetical IVorka of 
 
 One Hundred and Ninefy-eight LORD BYRON 
 
 The haven hums with many a cheering sound, 
 
 The beacons blaze their wonted stations round, 
 
 The boats are darting o'er the curly bay, 
 
 And sportive dolphins bend them through the spray; 
 
 Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill, discordant shriek 
 
 Greets like the v/elcome of his tuneless beak! 
 
 Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams. 
 
 Their fancy paints the friends that trim the beams. 
 
 Oh! what can sanctify the joys of home, 
 
 Like Hope's gay glance from Ocean's troubled foam? 
 
 The lights are high on beacon and from bower, 
 
 And 'midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower: 
 
 He looks in vain — 't is strange — ^and all remark, 
 
 Amid so many, hers alone is dark. 
 
 'T is strange — of yore its welcome never fail'd, 
 
 Nor now, perchance, extinguish'd, only veil'd. i 
 
 With the first boat descends he for the shore. 
 
 And looks impatient on the lingering oar. 
 
 Oh! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight, 
 
 To bear him like an arrow to that height! 
 
 With the first pause the resting rowers gave. 
 
 He waits not — looks not — leaps into the wave. 
 
 Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and high 
 
 Ascends the path familiar to his eye. 
 
 He reach'd his turret door; he paused — no sound 
 Broke from within, and all was night around. 
 He knock'd, and loudly— footstep nor reply 
 Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh; 
 He knock'd— but faintly— for his trembling hand 
 Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand. 
 The portal opens — 't is a well-known face- 
 But not the form he panted to embrace. 
 
Poelical IVorks of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON One Hundred and Ninety-nine 
 
 Its lips are silent; twice his own essay 'd, 
 And fail'd to frame the question they delay'd; 
 He snatch'd the lamp — its light will answer all — 
 It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. 
 He would not wait for that reviving ray — 
 As soon could he have linger'd there for day; 
 But, glimmering through the dusky corridore, 
 Another chequers o'er the shadow'd floor; 
 His steps the chamber gain, his eyes behold 
 All that his heart believed not — yet foretold! 
 
 He ask'd no questions — all were answer'd now 
 By the first glance on that still, marble brow. 
 It was enough — she died — what reck'd it how? 
 The love of youth, the hope of better years, 
 The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears. 
 The only living thing he could not hate. 
 Was reft at once — and he deserved his fate. 
 But did not feel it less ; — the good explore. 
 For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar : 
 The proud, the wayward, who have fix'd below 
 Their joy and find this earth enough for woe. 
 Lose in that one their all — perchance a mite — 
 But who in patience parts with all delight? 
 Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern 
 Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn; 
 And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost. 
 In smiles that least befit who wear them most. 
 
 By those that deepest feel is ill exprest 
 The indistinctness of the suffering breast; 
 Where thousand thoughts begin, to end in one 
 Which seeks from all the refuge found in none; 
 No words suffice the secret soul to show. 
 
Page Poetical IVor^s of 
 
 Tti>o Hundred LORD BYRON 
 
 For Truth denies all eloquence to Woe. 
 On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest, 
 And stupor almost lull'd it into rest; 
 So feeble now — his mother's softness crept 
 To those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept : 
 It was the very weakness of his brain, 
 Which thus confess'd without relieving pain. 
 None saw his trickling tears — perchance, if seen, 
 That useless flood of grief had never been: 
 Nor long they flow'd — he dried them to depart, 
 In helpless, hopeless, brokenness of heart: 
 
 'T is morn; to venture on his lonely hour 
 
 Few dare, though now Anselmo sought his tower. 
 
 He was not there, nor seen along the shore; 
 
 Ere night, alarm'd, their isle is traversed o'er. 
 
 Another morn — another bids them seek. 
 
 And shout his name till echo waxeth weak; 
 
 Mount, grotto, cavern, valley search'd in vain, 
 
 They find on shore a seaboat's broken chain: 
 
 Their hope revives, they follow o'er the main. 
 
 'T is idle all; moons roll on moons away. 
 
 And Conrad comes not, came not since that day: 
 
 Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare 
 
 Where lives his grief, or perish'd his despair! 
 
 Long mourn'd his band whom none could mourn beside ; 
 
 And fair the monument they gave his bride : 
 
 For him they raise not the recording stone — 
 
 His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known ; 
 
 He left a Corsair's name to other times, 
 
 Link'd with one virtue and a thousand crimes. 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Trvo Hundred and One 
 
 Lata 
 
 A Tale 
 
 The Serfs are glad through Lara's wide domain, 
 
 And Slavery half forgets her feudal chain; 
 
 He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord, 
 
 The long self-exiled chieftain, is restored. 
 
 There be bright faces in the busy hall. 
 
 Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall; 
 
 Far checkering o'er the pictured window, plays 
 
 The unwonted faggots' hospitable blaze; 
 
 And gay retainers gather round the hearth. 
 
 With tongues all loudness and with eyes all mirth. 
 
 The chief of Lara is return'd again: 
 And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main? 
 Left by his sire, too young such loss to know, 
 Lord of himself — that heritage of woe, 
 That fearful empire which the human breast 
 But holds to rob the heart within of rest! 
 With none to check and few to point in time 
 The thousand paths that slope the way to crime; 
 Then, when he most required commandment, then 
 Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men. 
 It skills not, boots not, step by step to trace 
 His youth through all the mazes of its race; 
 Short was the course his restlessness had run, 
 But long enough to leave him half undone. 
 
 And Lara left in youth his father-land; 
 But from the hour he waved his parting hand 
 Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all 
 Had nearly ceased his memory to recall. 
 
Page Poetical lVorl(s of 
 
 Trvo Hundred and Two LORD BYRON 
 
 His sire was dust, his vassals could declare, 
 'T was all they knew, that Lara was not there ; 
 Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew 
 Cold in the many, anxious in the few. 
 His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name, 
 His portrait darkens in its fading frame. 
 Another chief consoled his destined bride, 
 The young forgot him, and the old had died. 
 'Yet doth he live !' exclaims the impatient heir. 
 And sighs for sables which he must not wear. 
 A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace 
 The Laras' last and longest dwelling-place; 
 But one is absent from the mouldering file. 
 That now were welcome in that Gothic pile. 
 
 He comes at last in sudden loneliness, 
 
 And whence they know not, why they need not guess; 
 
 They more might marvel, when the greeting's o'er. 
 
 Not that he came, but came not long before: 
 
 No train is his beyond a single page. 
 
 Of foreign aspect and of tender age. 
 
 Years had roll'd on, and fast they speed away 
 
 To those that wander as to those that stay; 
 
 But lack of tidings from another clime 
 
 Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time. 
 
 They see, they recognize, yet almost deem 
 
 The present dubious, or the past a dream. 
 
 He lives, nor yet is past his manhood's prime, 
 
 Though sear'd by toil, and something touch'd by time; 
 
 His faults, whate'er they were, if scarce forgot. 
 
 Might be untaught him by his varied lot; 
 
 Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name 
 
 Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame. 
 
Poetical Worki of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Two HunJreJ and Three 
 
 His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins 
 No more than pleasure from the stripling wins; 
 And such, if not yet harden'd in their course, 
 Might be redeem'd nor ask a long remorse. 
 
 And they indeed were changed — 't is quickly see 
 
 Whate'er he be, 't was not what he had been: 
 
 That brow in furrow'd lines had fix'd at last, 
 
 And spake of passions, but of passion past. 
 
 The pride, but not the fire, of early days, 
 
 Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise; 
 
 A high demeanour, and a glance that took 
 
 Their thoughts from others by a single look; 
 
 And that sarcastic levity of tongue, 
 
 The stinging of a heart the world hath stung, 
 
 That darts in seeming playfulness around. 
 
 And makes those feel that will not own the wound, — 
 
 All these seem'd his, and something more beneath 
 
 Than glance could well reveal or accent breathe. 
 
 Ambition, glory, love, the common aim. 
 
 That some can conquer, and that all would claim, 
 
 V/ithin his breast appear'd no more to strive. 
 
 Yet seem'd as lately they had been alive; 
 
 And some deep feeling it were vain to trace 
 
 At moments lighten'd o'er his livid face. 
 
 Not much he loved long question of the past. 
 Nor told of wondrous wilds and deserts vast 
 In those far lands, where he had wander'd lone 
 And — as himself would have it seem — unknown. 
 Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan. 
 Nor glean experience from his fellow man; 
 But what he had beheld he shunn'd to show, 
 As hardly worth a stranger's care to know; 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 Two Hundred and Four LORD BYRON 
 
 If Still more prying such enquiry grew, 
 
 His brow fell darker, and his words more few. 
 
 Not unrejoiced to see him once again. 
 Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men. 
 Born of high lineage, link'd in high command, 
 He mingled with the Magnates of his land; 
 Join'd the carousals of the great and gay, 
 And saw them smile or sigh their hours away; 
 But still he only saw and did not share 
 The common pleasure or the general care; 
 He did not follow what they all pursued 
 With hope still bafHed still to be renew'd, — 
 Nor shadowy honour, nor substantial gain, 
 Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's pain. 
 Around him some mysterious circle thrown 
 Repell'd approach and show'd him still alone; 
 Upon his eye sat something of reproof. 
 That kept at least frivolity aloof; 
 And things more timid that beheld him near. 
 In silence gazed or whisper'd mutual fear; 
 And they the wiser, friendlier few confess'd 
 They deem'd him better than his air express'd. 
 
 'T was strange — in youth all action and all life, 
 Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife; 
 Woman, the field, the ocean, all that gave 
 Promise of gladness, peril of a grave, 
 In turn he tried — he ransack'd all below. 
 And found his recompense in joy or woe, 
 No tame, trite medium; for his feelings sought 
 In that intenseness an escape from thought. 
 The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed 
 On that the feebler elements hath raised; 
 
Poeiical Wor}(s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Tx»o Hundred and Five 
 
 The rapture of his heart had look'd on high, 
 And ask'd if greater dwelt beyond the sky. 
 Chain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme, 
 How woke he from the wildness of that dream? 
 Alas, he told not! but he did awake 
 To curse the wither'd heart that would not break. 
 
 Books, for this volume heretofore was Man, 
 
 With eye more curious he appear'd to scan, 
 
 And oft, in sudden mood, for many a day. 
 
 From all communion he would start away: 
 
 And then, his rarely call'd attendants said. 
 
 Through night's long hours would sound his hurried 
 
 tread 
 O'er the dark gallery, where his fathers frown'd 
 In rude but antique portraiture around. 
 They heard, but whisper'd — 'that must not be known — 
 The sound of words less earthly than his own. 
 Yes, they who chose might smile, but some had seen 
 They scarce knew what, but more than should have been. 
 Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head 
 Which hands profane had gather'd from the dead, 
 That still beside his open'd volume lay. 
 As if to startle all save him away? 
 Why slept he not when others were at rest? 
 Why heard no music and received no guest? 
 All was not well, they deem'd — but where the wrong? 
 Some knew perchance, but 't were a tale too long; 
 And such besides were too discreetly wise. 
 To more than hint their knowledge in surmise; 
 But if they would — they could' — around the board, 
 Thus Lara's vassals prattled of their lord. 
 
Page Poetical WoT^i of 
 
 Tt>o Hundred and Six LORD BYRON 
 
 It was the night, and Lara's glassy stream 
 
 The stars are studding, each with imaged beam; 
 
 So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray, 
 
 And yet they glide like happiness away; 
 
 Reflecting far and fairy-like from high 
 
 The immortal lights that live along the sky. 
 
 Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree, 
 
 And flowers the fairest that may feast the bee; 
 
 Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove. 
 
 And Innocence would offer to her love. 
 
 These deck the shore; the waves their channel make 
 
 In windings bright and mazy, like the snake. 
 
 All was so still, so soft in earth and air. 
 
 You scarce would start to meet a spirit there; 
 
 Secure that nought of evil could deUght 
 
 To walk in such a scene, on such a night! 
 
 It was a moment only for the good: 
 
 So Lara deem'd, nor longer there he stood, 
 
 But turn'd in silence to his castle-gate. 
 
 Such scene his soul no more could contemplate; 
 
 Such scene reminded him of other days, 
 
 Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze. 
 
 Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that now — 
 
 No — no — the storm may beat upon his brow, 
 
 Unfelt, unsparing, but a night Hke this, 
 
 A night of beauty, mock'd such breast as his. 
 
 He turn'd within his solitary hall. 
 And his high shadow shot along the wall. 
 There were the painted forms of other times, 
 'T was all they left of virtues or of crimes. 
 Save vague tradition; and the gloomy vaults 
 That hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults; 
 
Poetical Worlds of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Two Hundred and Seven 
 
 And half a column of the pompous page 
 That speeds the specious tale from age to age; 
 Where history's pen its praise or blame supplies, 
 And lies like truth, and still most truly lies. 
 He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam shone 
 Through the dim lattice o'er the floor of stone; 
 And the high fretted roof, and saints that there 
 O'er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer, 
 Reflected in fantastic figures grew. 
 Like life, but not like mortal life, to view; — 
 His bristling locks of sable, brow of gloom. 
 And the wide waving of his shaken plume. 
 Glanced like a spectre's attributes, and gave 
 His aspect all that terror gives the grave. 
 
 'T was midnight — all was slumber ; the lone light 
 Dimm'd in the lamp, as loth to break the night. 
 Hark! there be murmurs heard in Lara's hall — 
 A sound — a voice — a shriek — a fearful call! 
 A long, loud shriek — and silence ; did they hear 
 That frantic echo burst the sleeping ear? 
 They heard and rose, and, tremulously brave, 
 Rush where the sound invoked their aid to save; 
 They come with half-lit tapers in their hands, 
 And snatch'd in startled haste unbelted brands. 
 
 Cold as the marble where his length was laid, 
 Pale as the beam that o'er his features play'd, 
 Was Lara stretch'd; his half-drawn sabre near, 
 Dropp'd it should seem in more than nature's fear; 
 Yet he was firm, or had been firm till now, 
 And still defiance knit his gather'd brow: 
 Though mix'd with terror, senseless as he lay. 
 There lived upon his lip the wish to slay; 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 Two Hundred and Eight LORD BYRON 
 
 Some half-form'd threat in utterance there had died, 
 
 Some imprecation of despairing pride. 
 
 His eye was almost seal'd, but not forsook 
 
 Even in its trance the gladiator's look, 
 
 That oft awake his aspect could disclose. 
 
 And now was fix'd in horrible repose. 
 
 They raise him, bear him ; — hush ! he breathes, he speaks, 
 
 The swarthy blush recolours in his cheeks ; 
 
 His lip resumes its red; his eye, though dim, 
 
 Rolls wide and wild; each slowly quivering limb 
 
 Recalls its function; but his words are strung 
 
 In terms that seem not of his native tongue, 
 
 Distinct but strange — enough they understand 
 
 To deem them accents of another land ; 
 
 And such they were, and meant to meet an ear 
 
 That hears him not — alas, that cannot hear! 
 
 His page approach'd, and he alone appear'd 
 To know the import of the words they heard; 
 And, by the changes of his cheek and brow, 
 They were not such as Lara should avow. 
 Nor he interpret,— yet with less surprise 
 Than those around their chieftain's state he eyes. 
 But Lara's prostrate form he bent beside, 
 And in that tongue which seem'd his own replied, 
 And Lara heeds those tones that gently seem 
 To soothe away the horrors of his dream — 
 If dream it were, that thus could overthrow 
 A breast that needed not ideal woe. 
 
 Whate'er his frenzy dream'd or eye beheld, — 
 If yet remember'd ne'er to be reveal'd, — 
 Rests at his heart; the custom'd morning came, 
 . And breathed new vigour in his shaken frame. 
 
Poetical IVorlis of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Tv,o Hundred and Nine 
 
 And solace sought he none from priest nor leech, 
 And soon the same in movement and in speech 
 As heretofore he fill'd the passing hours; 
 Nor less he smiles, nor more his forehead lowers, 
 Than these were wont; and if the coming night 
 Appear'd less welcome now to Lara's sight, 
 He to his marvelling vassals show'd it not. 
 Whose shuddering proved their fear was less forgot. 
 In trembling pairs (alone they dared not) crawl 
 The astonish'd slaves, and shun the fated hall; 
 The waving banner, and the clapping door, 
 The rustling tapestry, and the echoing floor; 
 The long dim shadows of surrounding trees, 
 The flapping bat, the night song of the breeze; 
 Aught they behold or hear their thought appals, 
 As evening saddens o'er the dark grey walls. 
 
 Vain thought! that hour of ne'er unravell'd gloom 
 
 Came not again, or Lara could assume 
 
 A seeming of forgetfulness, that made 
 
 His vassals more amazed nor less afraid — 
 
 Had memory vanish'd then with sense restored? 
 
 Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord 
 
 Betray'd a feeling that recall'd to these 
 
 That fever'd moment of his mind's disease. 
 
 Was it a dream? was his the voice that spoke 
 
 Those strange wild accents; his the cry that broke 
 
 Their slumber? his the oppress'd, o'erlabour'd heart 
 
 That ceased to beat, the look that made them start? 
 
 Could he who thus had suffer'd so forget. 
 
 When such as saw that suffering shudder yet? 
 
 Or did that silence prove his memory fix'd 
 
 Too deep for words, indelible, unmix'd 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 Two Hundred and Ten LORD BYRON 
 
 In that corroding secrecy which gnaws 
 The heart to show the effect but not the cause? 
 Not so to him; his breast had buried both, 
 Nor common gazers could discern the growth 
 Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half told ; 
 They choke the feeble words that would unfold. 
 
 In him inexplicably mix'd appear'd 
 
 Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear'd. 
 
 Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot. 
 
 In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot; 
 
 His silence form'd a theme for others' prate; 
 
 They guess'd, they gazed, they fain would know his fate. 
 
 What had he been? what was he, thus unknown. 
 
 Who walk'd their world, his lineage only known? 
 
 A hater of his kind? yet some would say, 
 
 With them he could seem gay amidst the gay ; 
 
 But own'd that smile, if oft observed and near. 
 
 Waned in its mirth and wither'd to a sneer; 
 
 That smile might reach his lip but pass'd not by. 
 
 None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye. 
 
 Yet there was softness too in his regard, 
 
 At times, a heart as not by nature hard, 
 
 But once perceived, his spirit seem'd to chide 
 
 Such weakness as unworthy of its pride. 
 
 And steel'd itself, as scorning to redeem 
 
 One doubt from others' half withheld esteem; 
 
 In self-inflicted penance of a breast 
 
 Which tenderness might once have wrung from rest; 
 
 In vigilance of grief that would compel 
 
 The soul to hate for having loved too well. 
 
 There was in him a vital scorn of all : 
 
 As if the worst had fall'n which could befall. 
 
Poetical Worlds of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Two Hundred and Eleven 
 
 He stood a stranger in this breathing world, 
 
 An erring spirit from another hurl'd; 
 
 A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped 
 
 By choice the perils he by chance escaped; 
 
 But 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yet 
 
 His mind would half exult and half regret. 
 
 With more capacity for love than earth 
 
 Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth, 
 
 His early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth. 
 
 And troubled manhood follow'd bafifled youth ; 
 
 With thought of years in phantom chase misspent, 
 
 And wasted powers for better purpose lent; 
 
 And fiery passions that had pour'd their wrath 
 
 In hurried desolation o'er his path, 
 
 And left the better feelings all at strife 
 
 In wild reflection o'er his stormy life; 
 
 But haughty still and loth himself to blame. 
 
 He call'd on Nature's self to share the shame. 
 
 And charged all faults upon the fleshly form 
 
 She gave to clog the soul and feast the worm; 
 
 Till he at last confounded good and ill. 
 
 And half mistook for fate the acts of will. 
 
 Too high for common selfishness, he could 
 
 At times resign his own for others' good, 
 
 But not in pity, not because he ought. 
 
 But in some strange perversity of thought, 
 
 That sway'd him onward with a secret pride 
 
 To do what few or none would do beside; 
 
 And this same impulse would, in tempting time, 
 
 Mislead his spirit equally to crime; 
 
 So much he soar'd beyond, or sunk beneath. 
 
 The men with whom he felt condemn'd to breathe, 
 
 And long'd by good or ill to separate 
 
Fage Poetical Works of 
 
 Two Hundred and Twelve LORD BYRON 
 
 Himself from all who shared his mortal state. 
 His mind abhorring this had fix'd her throne 
 Far from the world, in regions of her own : 
 Thus coldly passing all that pass'd below, 
 His blood in temperate seeming now would flow : 
 Ah! happier if it ne'er with guilt had glow'd, 
 But ever in that icy smoothness flow'd ! 
 'T is true, with other men their path he walk'd. 
 And like the rest in seeming did and talk'd, 
 Nor outraged Reason's rules by flaw nor start. 
 His madness was not of the head, but heart; 
 And rarely wander'd in his speech, or drew 
 His thoughts so forth as to offend the view. 
 
 With all that chilling mystery of mien, 
 And seeming gladness to remain unseen, 
 He had (if 't were not nature's boon) an art 
 Of fixing memory on another's heart. 
 It was not love perchance, nor hate, nor aught 
 That words can image to express the thought; 
 But they who saw him did not see in vain. 
 And once beheld, would ask of him again; 
 And those to whom he spake remember'd well. 
 And on the words, however light, would dwell. 
 None knew, nor how, nor why, but he entwined 
 Himself perforce around the hearer's mind; 
 There he was stamp'd, in liking, or in hate. 
 If greeted once; however brief the date 
 That friendship, pity, or aversion knew. 
 Still there within the inmost thought he grew. 
 You could not penetrate his soul, but found, 
 Despite your wonder, to your own he wound; 
 His presence haunted still; and from the breast 
 
Poetical Wor^s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Two Hundred and Thirteen 
 
 He forced an all unwilling interest: 
 Vain was the struggle in that mental net, 
 His spirit seem'd to dare you to forget! 
 
 There is a festival, where knights and dames, 
 And aught that wealth or lofty lineage claims, 
 Appear — a highborn and a welcome guest 
 To Otho's hall came Lara with the rest. 
 The long carousal shakes the illumined hall, 
 Well speeds alike the banquet and the ball; 
 And the gay dance of bounding Beauty's train 
 Links grace and harmony in happiest chain. 
 Blest are the early hearts and gentle hands 
 That mingle there in well according bands; 
 It is a sight the careful brow might smooth. 
 And make Age smile and dream itself to youth, 
 And Youth forget such hour was past on earth, 
 So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth! 
 
 And Lara gazed on these, sedately glad. 
 
 His brow belied him if his soul was sad. 
 
 And his glance follow'd fast each fluttering fair. 
 
 Whose steps of lightness woke no echo there. 
 
 He lean'd against the lofty pillar nigh. 
 
 With folded arms and long attentive eye. 
 
 Nor mark'd a glance so sternly fix'd on his — 
 
 111 brook'd high Lara scrutiny like this. 
 
 At length he caught it — 't is a face unknown, 
 
 But seems as searching his, and his alone; 
 
 Prying and dark, a stranger's by his mien. 
 
 Who still till now had gazed on him unseen : 
 
 At length encountering meets the mutual gaze 
 
 Of keen enquiry and of mute amaze. 
 
 On Lara's glance emotion gathering grew, 
 
Page Poetical Wor^s of 
 
 Tv>o Hundred and Fourteen LORD BYRON 
 
 As if distrusting that the stranger threw; 
 
 Along the stranger's aspect, fix'd and stern, 
 
 Flash'd more than thence the vulgar eye could learn, 
 
 ' 'T is he !' the stranger cried, and those that heard 
 
 Re-echo'd fast and far the whisper'd word. 
 
 ' 'T is he!' — "T is who?' they question far and near, 
 
 Till louder accents rung on Lara's ear ; 
 
 So widely spread, few bosoms well could brook 
 
 The general marvel, or that single look. 
 
 But Lara stirr'd not, changed not, the surprise 
 
 That sprung at first to his arrested eyes 
 
 Seem'd now subsided, neither sunk nor raised 
 
 Glanced his eye round, though still the stranger gazed; 
 
 And drawing nigh, exclaim'd, with haughty sneer, 
 
 ' 'T is he ! — how came he thence ? — what doth he here ?' 
 
 It were too much for Lara to pass by 
 Such questions, so repeated fierce and high; 
 With look collected, but with accent cold, 
 More mildly firm than petulantly bold, 
 He turn'd, and met the inquisitorial tone — 
 'My name is Lara! — when thine own is known, 
 Doubt not my fitting answer to requite 
 The unlook'd for courtesy of such a knight. 
 'T is Lara! — further wouldst thou mark or ask? 
 I shun no question, and I wear no mask.' 
 
 'Thou shunn'st no question ! Ponder — is there none 
 
 Thy heart must answer, though thine ear would shun? 
 
 And deem'st thou me unknown too? Gaze again! 
 
 At least thy memory was not given in vain. 
 
 Oh ! never canst thou cancel half her debt, 
 
 Eternity forbids thee to forget.' 
 
 With slow and searching glance upon his face 
 
Poetical IVorks of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Two Hundred and Fifteen 
 
 Grew Lara's eyes, but nothing there could trace 
 They knew, or chose to know : with dubious look 
 He deign'd no answer, but his head he shook, 
 And half contemptuous turn'd to pass away; 
 But the stern stranger motion'd him to stay. 
 'A word! — I charge thee stay, and answer here 
 To one, who, wert thou noble, were thy peer ; 
 But as thou wast and art — nay, frown not, lord, 
 If false, 't is easy to disprove the word — 
 But as thou wast and art, on thee looks down, 
 Distrust thy smiles, but shakes not at thy frown. 
 
 Art thou not he? whose deeds ' 'Whate'er I be, 
 
 Words wild as these, accusers like to thee, 
 
 I list no further; those with whom they weigh 
 
 May hear the rest, nor venture to gainsay 
 
 The wondrous tale no doubt thy tongue can tell, 
 
 Which thus begins so courteously and well. 
 
 Let Otho cherish here his polish'd guest, 
 
 To him my thanks and thoughts shall be express'd.' 
 
 And here their wondering host hath interposed: 
 
 'Whate'er there be between you undisclosed. 
 
 This is no time nor fitting place to mar 
 
 The mirthful meeting with a wordy war. 
 
 If thou, Sir Ezzelin, hast aught to show 
 
 Which it befits Count Lara's ear to know. 
 
 To-morrow, here or elsewhere, as may best 
 
 Beseem your mutual judgment, speak the rest ; 
 
 I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown, 
 
 Though, like Count Lara, now return'd alone 
 
 From other lands, almost a stranger grown; 
 
 And if from Lara's blood and gentle birth 
 
 I augur right of courage and of worth. 
 
 He will not that untainted line belie. 
 
Page Poetical Wor^s of 
 
 Two HundreJ and Sixteen LORD BYRON 
 
 Nor aught that knighthood may accord, deny.' 
 
 'To-morrow be it,' EzzeUn repUed, 
 
 'And here our several worth and truth be tried; 
 
 I gage my life, my falchion to attest 
 
 My words, so may I mingle with the blest!' 
 
 What answers Lara? to its centre shrunk 
 
 His soul, in deep abstraction sudden sunk; 
 
 The words of many, and the eyes of all 
 
 That there were gather'd, seem'd on him to fall; 
 
 But his were silent, his appear'd to stray 
 
 In far forgetfulness away — away — 
 
 Alas! that heedlessness of all around 
 
 Bespoke remembrance only too profound. 
 
 'To-morrow! — ay, to-morrow!' further word 
 
 Than those repeated none from Lara heard; 
 
 Upon his brow no outward passion spoke; 
 
 From his large eye no flashing anger broke ; 
 
 Yet there was something fix'd in that low tone. 
 
 Which show'd resolve, determined, though unknown. 
 
 He seized his cloak, his head he slightly bow'd, 
 
 And passing Ezzelin, he left the crowd; 
 
 And, as he pass'd him, smiling met the frown 
 
 With which that chieltain's brow would bear him down : 
 
 It was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling pride 
 
 That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide; 
 
 But that of one in his own heart secure 
 
 Of all that he would do, or could endure. 
 
 Could this mean peace? the calmness of the good? 
 
 Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihood? 
 
 Alas ! too like in confidence are each, 
 
 For man to trust to mortal look or speech; 
 
 From deeds, and deeds alone, may he discern 
 
 Truths which it wrings the unpractised heart to learn. 
 
Poetical Worki of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Ti»o Hundred and Seventeen 
 
 And Lara call'd his page, and went his way — 
 
 Well could that stripling word or sign obey: 
 
 His only follower from those climes afar, 
 
 Where the soul glows beneath a brighter star 
 
 (For Lara left the shore from whence he sprung), 
 
 In duty patient, and sedate though young; 
 
 Silent as him he served, his faith appears 
 
 Above his station, and beyond his years. 
 
 Though not unknown the tongue of Lara's land, 
 
 In such from him he rarely heard command; 
 
 But fleet his step, and clear his tones would come, 
 
 When Lara's lip breathed forth the words of home: 
 
 Those accents, as his native mountains dear. 
 
 Awake their absent echoes in his ear. 
 
 Friends,' kindred's, parents,' wonted voice recall. 
 
 Now lost, abjured, for one — his friend, his all: 
 
 For him earth now disclosed no other guide; 
 
 What marvel then he rarely left his side? 
 
 Light was his form, and darkly delicate 
 
 That brow whereon his native sun had sate, 
 
 But had not marr'd (though in his beams he grew) 
 
 The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shone through; 
 
 Yet not such blush as mounts when health would show 
 
 All the heart's hue in that delighted glow; 
 
 But 't was a hectic tint of secret care 
 
 That for a burning moment fever'd there; 
 
 And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught 
 
 From high, and lighten'd with electric thought, 
 
 Though its black orb those long low lashes' fringe 
 
 Had temper 'd with a melancholy tinge; 
 
 Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there, 
 
 Or, if 't were grief, a grief that none should share. 
 
Page Poetical Worlis of 
 
 Tr»o Hundred and Eighteen LORD BYRON 
 
 And pleased not him the sports that please his age, 
 The tricks of youth, the frolics of the page; 
 For hours on Lara he would fix his glance. 
 As all-forgotten in that watchful trance ; 
 And from his chief withdrawn, he wander'd lone. 
 Brief were his answers, and his questions none ; 
 His walk the wood, his sport some foreign book, 
 His resting-place the bank that curbs the brook. 
 He seem'd, like him he served, to live apart 
 From all that lures the eye and fills the heart ; 
 To know no brotherhood, and take from earth 
 No gift beyond that bitter boon — our birth. 
 
 If aught he loved, 't was Lara; but was shown 
 
 His faith in reverence and in deeds alone. 
 
 In mute attention, and his care, which guess'd 
 
 Each wish, fulfill'd it ere the tongue express'd. 
 
 Still there was haughtiness in all he did, 
 
 A spirit deep that brook'd not to be chid; 
 
 His zeal, though more than that of servile hands, 
 
 In act alone obeys, his air commands; 
 
 As if 't was Lara's less than his desire 
 
 That thus he served, but surely not for hire. 
 
 Slight were the tasks enjoin'd him by his lord. 
 
 To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword; 
 
 To tune his lute, or, if he will'd it more, 
 
 On tomes of other times and tongues to pore; 
 
 But ne'er to mingle with the menial train, 
 
 To whom he show'd nor deference nor disdain. 
 
 But that well-worn reserve which proved he knew 
 
 No sympathy with that familiar crew: 
 
 His soul, whate'er his station or his stem. 
 
 Could bow to Lara, not descend to them. 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Tt>o Hundred and Nineteen 
 
 Of higher birth he seem'd, and better days, 
 
 Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays, 
 
 So femininely white it might bespeak 
 
 Another sex, when match'd with that smooth cheek, 
 
 But for his garb, and something in his gaze. 
 
 More wild and high than woman's eye betrays; 
 
 A latent fierceness that far more became 
 
 His fiery climate than his tender frame: 
 
 True, in his words it broke not from his breast, 
 
 But from his aspect might be more than guess'd. 
 
 Kaled his name, though rumour said he bore 
 
 Another ere he left his mountain-shore; 
 
 For sometimes he would hear, however nigh, 
 
 That name repeated loud without reply. 
 
 As unfamiliar, or, if roused again, 
 
 Start to the sound, as but remember'd then; 
 
 Unless 't was Lara's wonted voice that spake. 
 
 For then ear, eyes, and heart would all awake. 
 
 He had look'd down upon the festive hall. 
 
 And mark'd that sudden strife so mark'd of all; 
 
 And when the crowd around and near him told 
 
 Their wonder at the calmness of the bold. 
 
 Their marvel how the high-born Lara bore 
 
 Such insult from a stranger, doubly sore, 
 
 The colour of young Kaled went and came. 
 
 The lip of ashes, and the cheek of flame; 
 
 And o'er his brow the dampening heart-drops threw 
 
 The sickening iciness of that cold dew. 
 
 That rises as the busy bosom sinks 
 
 With heavy thoughts from which reflection shrinks. 
 
 Yes — there be things which we must dream and dare. 
 
 And execute ere thought be half aware : 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 Tn-o Hundred and Twenty LORD BYRON 
 
 Whate'er might Kaled's be, it was enow 
 
 To seal his lip, but agonise his brow. 
 
 He gazed on Ezzelin till Lara cast 
 
 That sidelong smile upon the knight he past ; 
 
 When Kaled saw that smile his visage fell, 
 
 As if on something recognized right well; 
 
 His memory read in such a meaning more 
 
 Than Lara's aspect unto others wore. 
 
 Forward he sprung — a moment, both were gone, 
 
 And all within that hall seem'd left alone ; 
 
 Each had so fix'd his eye on Lara's mien, 
 
 All had so mix'd their feelings with that scene. 
 
 That when his long dark shadow through the porch 
 
 No more relieves the glare of yon high torch. 
 
 Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seem 
 
 To bound as doubting from too black a dream. 
 
 Such as we know is false, yet dread in sooth, 
 
 Because the worst is ever nearest truth. 
 
 And they are gone — but Ezzelin is there. 
 
 With thoughtful visage and imperious air ; 
 
 But long remain'd not; ere an hour expired 
 
 He waved his hand to Otho, and retired. 
 
 The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest; 
 The courteous host, and all-approving guest, 
 Again to that accustom'd couch must creep 
 Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep, 
 And man, o'erlaboured with his being's strife. 
 Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life. 
 There lie love's feverish hope, and cunning's guile, 
 Hate's working brain, and lull'd ambition's wile; 
 O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave, 
 And quench'd existence crouches in a grave. 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Two Hundred and Twenly-one 
 
 What better name may slumber's bed become? 
 
 Night's sepulchre, the universal home, 
 
 Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine, 
 
 Alike in naked helplessness recline; 
 
 Glad for awhile to heave unconscious breath. 
 
 Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of dead, 
 
 And shun, though day but dawn on ills increased, 
 
 That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least. 
 
 Night wanes, the vapours round the mountains curl'd 
 
 Melt into morn, and Light awakes the world. 
 
 Man has another day to swell the past, 
 
 And lead him near to little, but his last; 
 
 But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth, 
 
 The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth; 
 
 Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam. 
 
 Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream. 
 
 Immortal man! behold her glories shine. 
 
 And cry, exulting inly, 'They are thine!' 
 
 Gaze on, while yet thy gladden'd eye may see; 
 
 A morrow comes when they are not for thee: 
 
 And grieve what may above thy senseless bier, 
 
 Nor earth nor sky will yield a single tear; 
 
 Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall, 
 
 Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee, for all; 
 
 But creeping things shall revel in their spoil. 
 
 And fit thy clay to fertilise the soil. 
 
 'T is morn — 't is noon; assembled in the hall 
 The gather'd chieftains come to Otho's call. 
 'T is now the promised hour, that must proclaim 
 The life or death of Lara's future fame ; 
 When Ezzelin his charge may here unfold. 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 Tvo Hundred and Ti»eni^-tV>o LORD BYRON 
 
 And whatsoe'er the tale, it must be told. 
 His faith was pledged, and Lara's promise given. 
 To meet it in the eye of man and heaven. 
 Why comes he not? Such truths to be divulged, 
 Methinks the accuser's rest is long indulged. 
 
 The hour is past, and Lara too is there. 
 
 With self-confiding, coldly patient air; 
 
 Why comes not Ezzelin? The hour is past. 
 
 And murmurs rise, and Otho's brow 's o'ercast. 
 
 *I know my friend! his faith I cannot fear. 
 
 If yet he be on earth, expect him here; 
 
 The roof that held him in the valley stands 
 
 Between my own and noble Lara's lands; 
 
 My halls from such a guest had honour gain'd, 
 
 Nor had Sir Ezzelin his host disdain'd. 
 
 But that some previous proof forbade his stay, 
 
 And urged him to prepare against to-day. 
 
 The word I pledged for his I pledge again, 
 
 Or will myself redeem his knighthood's stain.' 
 
 He ceased ; and Lara answer'd, 'I am here 
 
 To lend at thy demand a listening ear 
 
 To tales of evil from a stranger's tongue, 
 
 Whose words already might my heart have wrung, 
 
 But that I deem'd him scarcely less than mad. 
 
 Or, at the worst, a foe ignobly bad. 
 
 I know him not — but me it seems he knew 
 
 In lands where, but I must not trifle too: 
 
 Produce this babbler — or redeem the pledge, 
 
 Here in thy hold, and with thy falchion's edge.' 
 
 Proud Otho, on the instant reddening, threw 
 His glove on earth, and forth his sabre flew: 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Troo Hundred and Truenl'^-thret 
 
 'The last alternative befits me best, 
 
 And thus I answer for mine absent guest.' 
 
 With cheek unchanging from its sallow gloom, 
 
 However near his own or other's tomb ; 
 
 With hand, whose almost careless coolness spoke 
 
 Its grasp well-used to deal the sabre-stroke; 
 
 With eye, though calm, determined not to spare, 
 
 Did Lara too his willing weapon bare. 
 
 In vain the circling chieftains round them closed. 
 
 For Otho's frenzy would not be opposed; 
 
 And from his lip those words of insult fell — 
 
 His sword is good who can maintain them well. 
 
 Short was the conflict; furious, blindly rash. 
 
 Vain Otho gave his bosom to the gash : 
 
 He bled, and fell; but not with deadly wound, 
 
 Stretch'd by a dextrous sleight along the ground. 
 
 'Demand thy life !' He answer'd not : and then 
 
 From that red floor he ne'er had risen again. 
 
 For Lara's brow upon the moment grew 
 
 Almost to blackness in its demon hue ; 
 
 And fiercer shook his angry falchion now 
 
 Than when his foe's was levell'd at his brow ; 
 
 Then all was stern collectedness and art. 
 
 Now rose the unleaven'd hatred of his heart; 
 
 So little sparing to the foe he fell'd. 
 
 That when the approaching crowd his arm withheld. 
 
 He almost turn'd the thirsty point on those 
 
 Who thus for mercy dared to interpose : 
 
 But to a moment's thought that purpose bent; 
 
 Yet look'd he on him still with eye intent, 
 
 As if he loathed the ineffectual strife 
 
 That left a foe, howe'er o'erthrown, with life; 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 Tree Hundred and TwenlM-four LORD BYRON 
 
 As if to search how far the wound he gave 
 Had sent its victim onward to his grave. 
 
 They raised the bleeding Otho, and the Leech 
 Forbade all present question, sign, and speech; 
 The others met within a neighbouring hall, 
 And he, incensed and heedless of them all, 
 The cause and conqueror in this sudden fray, 
 In haughty silence slowly strode away : 
 He back'd his steed, his homeward path he took. 
 Nor cast on Otho's towers a single look. 
 
 But where was he, that meteor of a night, 
 Who menaced but to disappear with light? 
 Where was this Ezzelin, who came and went 
 To leave no other trace of his intent? 
 He left the dome of Otho, long ere mom, 
 In darkness, yet so well the path was worn 
 He could not miss it: near his dwelling lay; 
 But there he was not, and with coming day 
 Came fast enquiry, which unfolded nought 
 Except the absence of the chief it sought. 
 A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest, 
 His host alarm'd, his murmuring squires distress'd : 
 Their search extends along, around the path, 
 In dread to meet the marks of prowlers' wrath : 
 But none are there, and not a brake hath borne 
 Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn; 
 Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass. 
 Which still retains a mark where murder was; 
 Nor dabbling fingers left to tell the tale, 
 The bitter print of each convulsive nail, 
 When agonized hands that cease to guard. 
 Wound in that pang the smoothness of the sward. 
 
Poetical Worh of ^^?« 
 
 LORD BYRON 7*i»o Hundred and Tiueniy-fcve 
 
 Some such had been, if here a life was reft, 
 But these were not; and doubting hope is left. 
 And strange suspicion, whispering Lara's name, 
 Now daily mutters o'er his biacken'd fame ; 
 Then, sudden silent when his form appear'd, 
 Awaits the absence of the thing it fear'd, 
 Again its wonted wondering to renew, 
 And dye conjecture with a darker hue. 
 
 Days roll along, and Otho's wounds are heal'd. 
 
 But not his pride, and hate no more conceal'd. 
 
 He was a man of power, and Lara's foe, 
 
 The friend of all who sought to work him woe. 
 
 And from his country's justice now demands 
 
 Account of Ezzelin at Lara's hands. 
 
 Who else than Lara could have cause to fear 
 
 His presence? who had made him disappear, 
 
 If not the man on whom his menaced charge 
 
 Had sate too deeply were he left at large? 
 
 The general rumour ignorantly loud, 
 
 The mystery dearest to the curious crowd; 
 
 The seeming friendlessness of him who strove 
 
 To win no confidence, and wake no love ; 
 
 The sweeping fierceness which his soul betray'd. 
 
 The skill with which he wielded his keen blade ; 
 
 Where had his arm unwarlike caught that art? 
 
 Where had that fierceness grown upon his heart? 
 
 For it was not the blind capricious rage 
 
 A word can kindle and a word assuage; 
 
 But the deep working of a soul unmix'd 
 
 With aught of pity where its wrath had fix'd; 
 
 Such as long power and overgorged success 
 
 Concentrates into all that 's merciless. 
 
Page Poetical IVorlis of 
 
 T-a>o Hundred and Tmenty-six LORD BYRON 
 
 These, link'd with that desire which ever sways 
 Mankind, the rather to condemn than praise, 
 'Gainst Lara gathering raised at length a storm, 
 Such as himself might fear, and foes would form, 
 And he must answer for the absent head 
 Of one that haunts him still, alive or dead. 
 
 Within that land was many a malcontent, 
 
 Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent; 
 
 That soil full many a wringing despot saw. 
 
 Who work'd his wantonness in form of law. 
 
 Long war without and frequent broil within 
 
 Had made a path for blood and giant sin. 
 
 That waited but a signal to begin 
 
 New havoc, such as civil discord blends, 
 
 Which knows no neuter, owns but foes or friends; 
 
 Fix'd in his feudal fortress each was lord, 
 
 In word and deed obey'd, in soul abhorr'd. 
 
 Thus Lara had inherited his lands. 
 
 And with them pining hearts and sluggish hands ; 
 
 But that long absence from his native clime 
 
 Had left him stainless of oppression's crime. 
 
 And now, diverted by his milder sway. 
 
 All dread by slow degrees had worn away. 
 
 The menials felt their usual awe alone, 
 
 But more for him than them that fear was grown ; 
 
 They deem'd him now unhappy, though at first 
 
 Their evil judgment augur'd of the worst. 
 
 And each long restless night and silent mood 
 
 Was traced to sickness, fed by solitude. 
 
 And though his lonely habits threw of late 
 
 Gloom o'er his chamber, cheerful was his gate; 
 
 For thence the wretched ne'er unsoothed withdrew. 
 
Poetical Works of ^^S' 
 
 LORD BYRON 7"i»o Hundred and Tmenl^-ieven 
 
 For them, at least, his soul compassion knew. 
 
 Cold to the great, contemptuous to the high, 
 
 The humble pass'd not his unheeding eye ; 
 
 Much he would speak not, but beneath his roof 
 
 They found asylum oft and ne'er reproof. 
 
 And they who watch'd might mark that, day by day. 
 
 Some new retainers gather'd to his sway. 
 
 But most of late, since Ezzelin was lost, 
 
 He play'd the courteous lord and bounteous host : 
 
 Perchance his strife with Otho made him dread 
 
 Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head ; 
 
 Whate'er his view, his favour more obtains 
 
 With these, the people, than his fellow thanes. 
 
 If this were policy, so far 't was sound, 
 
 The million judged but of him as they found ; 
 
 From him by sterner chiefs to exile driven 
 
 They but required a shelter, and 't was given. 
 
 By him no peasant mourn'd his rifled cot. 
 
 And scarce the Serf could murmur o'er his lot; 
 
 With him old avarice found its hoard secure, 
 
 With him contempt forbore to mock the poor; 
 
 Youth present cheer and promised recompense 
 
 Detain'd, till all too late to part from thence. 
 
 To hate he offer'd, with the coming change. 
 
 The deep reversion of delay'd revenge; 
 
 To love, long baffled by the unequal match. 
 
 The well-woiti charms success was sure to snatch. 
 
 All now was ripe, he waits but to proclaim 
 
 That slavery nothing which was still a name. 
 
 The moment came, the hour when Otho thought 
 
 Secure at last the vengeance which he sought. 
 
 His summons found the destined criminal 
 
 Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall, 
 
Page Poetical IVor^i of 
 
 Tv>o Hundred and TTi>enly-eighi LORD BYRON 
 
 Fresh from their feudal fetters newly riven, 
 
 Defying earth and confident of heaven. 
 
 That morning he had freed the soil-bound slaves 
 
 Who dig no land for tyrants but their graves ! 
 
 Such is their cry — some watchword for the fight 
 
 Must vindicate the wrong and warp the right; 
 
 Religion, freedom, vengeance, what you will — 
 
 A word's enough to raise mankind to kill; 
 
 Some factious phrase by cunning caught and spread. 
 
 That guilt may reign, and wolves and worms be fed ! 
 
 Throughout that clime the feudal chiefs had gain'd 
 
 Such sway, their infant monarch hardly reign'd. 
 
 Now was the hour for faction's rebel growth. 
 
 The Serfs contemn'd the one, and hated both: 
 
 They waited but a leader, and they found 
 
 One to their cause inseparably bound. 
 
 By circumstance compell'd to plunge again. 
 
 In self-defence, amidst the strife of men. 
 
 Cut ofif by some mysterious fate from those 
 
 Whom birth and nature meant not for his foes, 
 
 Had Lara from that night, to him accurst. 
 
 Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst. 
 
 Some reason urged, whate'er it was, to shun 
 
 Enquiry into deeds at distance done; 
 
 By mingling with his own the cause of all. 
 
 E'en if he fail'd, he still delay'd his fall. 
 
 The sudden calm that long his bosom kept, 
 
 The storm that once had spent itself and slept. 
 
 Roused by events that seem'd foredoom'd to urge 
 
 His gloomy fortunes to their utmost verge. 
 
 Burst forth, and made him all he once had been, 
 
 And is again ; he only changed the scene. 
 
Poetical Work^ of P'^i^ 
 
 LORD BYRON Two Hundred and Tvent]f-mne 
 
 Light care had he for life, and less for fame. 
 
 But not less fitted for the desperate game: 
 
 He deem'd himself mark'd out for others' hate, 
 
 And mock'd at ruin so they shared his fate. 
 
 What cared he for the freedom of the crowd? 
 
 He raised the humble but to bend the proud. 
 
 He had hoped quiet in his sullen lair. 
 
 But man and destiny beset him there : 
 
 Inured to hunters, he was found at bay ; 
 
 And they must kill, they cannot snare the prey. 
 
 Stern, unambitious, silent, he had been 
 
 Henceforth a calm spectator of life's scene; 
 
 But dragg'd again upon the arena stood 
 
 A leader not unequal to the feud; 
 
 In voice, mien, gesture, savage nature spoke. 
 
 And from his eye the gladiator broke. 
 
 What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife, 
 
 The feast of vultures, and the waste of life? 
 
 The varying fortune of each separate field, 
 
 The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yield? 
 
 The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall? 
 
 In this the struggle was the same with all; 
 
 Save that distemper'd passions lent their force 
 
 In bitterness that banish'd all remorse. 
 
 None sued, for Mercy knew her cry was vain, 
 
 The captive died upon the battle-plain. 
 
 In either cause, one rage alone possess'd 
 
 The empire of the alternate victor's breast; 
 
 And they that smote for freedom or for sway, 
 
 Deem'd few were slain, while more remain'd to slay. 
 
 It was too late to check the wasting brand. 
 
 And Desolation reap'd the famish'd land; 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 Tv>o Hundred and Thirl)) LORD BYRON 
 
 The torch was lighted, and the flame was spread, 
 And Carnage smiled upon her daily dead. 
 
 Fresh with the nerve the new-born impulse strung, 
 
 The first success to Lara's numbers clung: 
 
 But that vain victory hath ruined all; 
 
 They form no longer to their leader's call: 
 
 In blind confusion on the foe they press. 
 
 And think to snatch is to secure success. 
 
 The lust of booty and the thirst of hate 
 
 Lure on the broken brigands to their fate : 
 
 In vain he doth whate'er a chief may do. 
 
 To check the headlong fury of that crew; 
 
 In vain their stubborn ardour he would tame, 
 
 The hand that kindles cannot quench the flame; 
 
 The wary foe alone hath turn'd their mood. 
 
 And shown their rashness to that erring brood. 
 
 The feign'd retreat, the nightly ambuscade. 
 
 The daily harass, and the fight delay'd, 
 
 The long privation of the hoped supply. 
 
 The tentless rest beneath the humid sky, 
 
 The stubborn wall that mocks the leaguer's art 
 
 And palls the patience of his baffled heart, — 
 
 Of these they had not deem'd: the battle-day 
 
 They could encounter as a veteran may ; 
 
 But more preferr'd the fury of the strife, 
 
 And present death, to hourly suffering life. 
 
 And famine wrings, and fever sweeps away 
 
 His numbers melting fast from their array; 
 
 Intemperate triumph fades to discontent, 
 
 And Lara's soul alone seems still unbent. 
 
 But few remain to aid his voice and hand, 
 
 And thousands dwindled to a scanty band: 
 
Poetical Worl{s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Two Hundred and Thirty-one 
 
 Desperate, though few, the last and best remain'd 
 To mourn the discipline they late disdain'd. 
 One hope survives, the frontier is not far, 
 And thence they may escape from native war; 
 And bear within them to the neighbouring state 
 An exile's sorrows or an outlaw's hate: 
 Hard is the task their father-land to quit. 
 But harder still to perish or submit. 
 
 It is resolved, they march — consenting Night 
 Guides with her star their dim and torchless flight. 
 Already they perceive its tranquil beam 
 Sleep on the surface of the barrier stream; 
 Already they descry — is yon the bank? 
 Away! 't is lined with many a hostile rank. 
 Return or fly! — What glitters in the rear? 
 'T is Otho's banner, the pursuer's spear! 
 Are those the shepherds' fires upon the height? 
 Alas! they blaze too widely for the flight: 
 Cut off from hope, and compass'd in the toil, 
 Less blood perchance hath bought a richer spoil! 
 
 A moment's pause — 't is but to breathe their band. 
 Or shall they onward press, or here withstand? 
 It matters little; if they charge the foes 
 Who by their border-stream their march oppose, 
 Some few, perchance, may break and pass the line, 
 However link'd to baffle such design. 
 'The charge be ours ! to wait for their assault 
 Were fate well worthy of a coward's halt.' 
 Forth flies each sabre, rein'd is every steed. 
 And the next word shall scarce outstrip the deed : 
 In the next tone of Lara's gathering breath 
 How many shall but hear the voice of death ! 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 Two Hundred and Thirty^-two LORD BYRON 
 
 His blade is bared, — in him there is an air 
 As deep, but far too tranquil for despair; 
 A something of indifference more than then 
 Becomes the bravest, if they feel for men. 
 He turn'd his eye on Kaled, ever near, 
 And still too faithful to betray one fear; 
 Perchance 't was but the moon's dim twilight threw 
 Along his aspect an unwonted hue 
 Of mournful paleness, whose deep tint express'd 
 The truth, and not the terror of his breast. 
 This Lara mark'd, and laid his hand on his: 
 It trembled not in such an hour as this; 
 His lip was silent, scarcely beat his heart, 
 His eye alone proclaim'd, *We will not part! 
 Thy band may perish, or thy friends may flee. 
 Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee!' 
 
 The word hath pass'd his lips, and onward driven. 
 Pours the link'd band through ranks asunder riven ; 
 Well has each steed obey'd the armed heel, 
 And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel; 
 Outnumber'd, not outbraved, they still oppose 
 Despair to daring, and a front to foes; 
 And blood is mingled with the dashing stream, 
 Which runs all redly till the morning beam. 
 
 Commanding, aiding, animating all, 
 Where foe appear'd to press, or friend to fall, 
 Cheers Lara's voice, and waves or strikes his steel. 
 Inspiring hope himself had ceased to feel. 
 None fled, for well they knew that flight were vain ; 
 But those that waver turn to smite again. 
 While yet they find the firmest of the foe 
 Recoil before their leader's look and blow. 
 
Poelical WoTki of P°S^ 
 
 LORD DYRON T-d>o Hundred and Thirly-lhree 
 
 Now girt with numbers, now almost alone, 
 He foils their ranks, or re-unites his own; 
 Himself he spared not— once they seem'd to fly — 
 Now was the time, he waved his hand on high. 
 And shook— Why sudden droops that plumed crest? 
 The shaft is sped, the arrow 's in his breast! 
 That fatal gesture left the unguarded side. 
 And Death hath stricken down yon arm of pride. 
 The word of triumph fainted from his tongue; 
 That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung! 
 But yet the sword instinctively retains, 
 Though from its fellow shrink the falling reins; 
 These Kaled snatches : dizzy with the blow, 
 And senseless bending o'er his saddle-bow, 
 Perceives not Lara that his anxious page 
 Beguiles his charger from the combat's rage. 
 Meantime his followers charge, and charge again; 
 Too mix'd the slayers now to heed the slain! 
 
 Day glimmers on the dying and the dead. 
 The cloven cuircass, and the helmless head. 
 The war-horse masterless is on the earth. 
 And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth; 
 And near, yet quivering with what life remain'd, 
 The heel that urged him and the hand that rein'd; 
 And some too near that rolling torrent lie, 
 Whose waters mock the lip of those that die ; 
 That panting thirst which scorches in the breath 
 Of those that die the soldier's fiery death. 
 In vain impels the burning mouth to crave 
 One drop— the last— to cool it for the grave; 
 With feeble and convulsive effort swept, 
 Their limbs along the crimson'd turf have crept ; 
 
Page Poetical IVor^s of 
 
 Two Hundred and Thirfy-four LORD BYRON 
 
 The faint remains of life such struggles waste, 
 But yet they reach the stream, and bend to taste: 
 They feel its freshness, and almost partake — 
 Why pause? No further thirst have they to slake — 
 It is unquench'd and yet they feel it not; 
 It was an agony — but now forgot! 
 
 Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene, 
 
 Where but for him that strife had never been, 
 
 A breathing but devoted warrior lay: 
 
 'T was Lara bleeding fast from life away. 
 
 His follower once, but now his only guide. 
 
 Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side. 
 
 And with his scarf would stanch the tides that rush, 
 
 With each convulsion, in a blacker gush; 
 
 And then, as his faint breathing waxes low, 
 
 In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow: 
 
 He scarce can speak, but motions him 't is vain, 
 
 And merely adds another throb to pain. 
 
 He clasps the hand that pang which would assuage, 
 
 And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page, 
 
 Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, nor sees. 
 
 Save that damp brow which rests upon his knees; 
 
 Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though dim, 
 
 Held all the light that shone on earth for him. 
 
 The foe arrives, who long had search'd the field, 
 Their triumph nought till Lara too should yield. 
 They would remove him, but they see 't were vain ; 
 And he regards them with a calm disdain, 
 That rose to reconcile him with his fate 
 And that escape to death from living hate. 
 And Otho comes, and leaping from his steed. 
 Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed. 
 
Poetical Works of Poge 
 
 LORD BYRON Tivo I-luncIreJ and Thirty-five 
 
 And questions of his state; he answers not. 
 
 Scarce glances on him as on one forgot, 
 
 And turns to Kaled: — each remaining word 
 
 They understood not, if distinctly heard; 
 
 His dying tones are in that other tongue, 
 
 To which some strange remembrance wildly clung. 
 
 They spake of other scenes, but what — is known 
 
 To Kaled, whom their meaning reach'd alone; 
 
 And he replied, though faintly, to their sound. 
 
 While gazed the rest in dumb amazement round. 
 
 They seem'd even then, that twain, unto the last 
 
 To half forget the present in the past; 
 
 To share between themselves some separate fate, 
 
 Whose darkness none beside should penetrate. 
 
 Their words though faint were many — from the tone 
 
 Their import those who heard could judge alone; 
 
 From this, you might have deem'd young Kaled's death 
 
 More near than Lara's by his voice and breath. 
 
 So sad, so deep, and hesitating broke 
 
 The accents his scarce-moving pale lips spoke; 
 
 But Lara's voice, though low, at first was clear 
 
 And calm, till murmuring death gasp'd hoarsely near. 
 
 But from his visage little could we guess. 
 
 So unrepentant, dark, and passionless, 
 
 Save that when struggling nearer to his last, 
 
 Upon that page his eye was kindly cast; 
 
 And once, as Kaled's answering accents ceased, 
 
 Rose Lara's hand, and pointed to the East, 
 
 Whether (as then the breaking sun from high 
 
 Roll'd back the clouds) the morrow caught his eye, 
 
 Or that 't was chance, or some remember'd scene. 
 
 That raised his arm to point where such had been. 
 
P(i§e Poetical Works of 
 
 Ttuo Hundred and Thirty-six LORD BYRON 
 
 Scarce Kaled seem'd to know, but turn'd away, 
 
 As if his heart abhorr'd that coming day, 
 
 And shrunk his glance before that morning light, 
 
 To look on Lara's brow — where all grew night. 
 
 Yet sense seem'd left, though better were its loss ; 
 
 For when one near display'd the absolving cross, 
 
 And proffer'd to his touch the holy bead, 
 
 Of which his parting soul might own the need. 
 
 He look'd upon it with an eye profane. 
 
 And smiled — Heaven pardon! if 't were with disdain. 
 
 And Kaled, though he spoke not, nor withdrew 
 
 From Lara's face his fix'd despairing view. 
 
 With brow repulsive, and with gesture swift. 
 
 Flung back the hand which held the sacred gift. 
 
 As if such but disturb'd the expiring man. 
 
 Nor seem'd to know his life but then began; 
 
 That life of Immortality, secure 
 
 To none, save them whose faith in Christ is sure. 
 
 But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew. 
 
 And dull the film along his dim eye grew; 
 
 His limbs stretch'd fluttering, and his head droop'd o'er 
 
 The weak yet still untiring knee that bore; 
 
 He press'd the hand he held upon his heart — 
 
 It beats no more, but Kaled will not part 
 
 With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain. 
 
 For that faint throb which answers not again. 
 
 'It beats!' — Away, thou dreamer! he is gone — 
 
 It once was Lara which thou look'st upon. 
 
 He gazed, as if not yet had pass'd away 
 The haughty spirit of that humble clay; 
 And those around have roused him from his trance 
 
Poelkal Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Tivo Hundred and Thirly-seven 
 
 But cannot tear from hence his fixed glance; 
 
 And when, in raising him from where he bore 
 
 Within his arms the form that felt no more, 
 
 He saw the head his breast would still sustain, 
 
 Roll down like earth to earth upon the plain; 
 
 He did not dash himself thereby, nor tear 
 
 The glossy tendrils of his raven hair. 
 
 But strove to stand and gaze, but reel'd and fell. 
 
 Scarce breathing more than that he loved so well; — 
 
 Than that he loved! Oh! never yet beneath 
 
 The breast of man such trusty love may breathe ! 
 
 That trying moment hath at once reveal'd 
 
 The secret long and yet but half conceal'd ; 
 
 In baring to revive that lifeless breast. 
 
 Its grief seem'd ended, but the sex confess'd; 
 
 And life return'd, and Kaled felt no shame — 
 
 What now to her was Womanhood or Fame? 
 
 And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep. 
 But where he died his grave was dug as deep ; 
 Nor is his mortal slumber less profound. 
 Though priest nor bless'd, nor marble deck'd the mound; 
 And he was mourn'd by one whose quiet grief, 
 Less loud, outlasts a people's for their chief. 
 Vain was all question ask'd her of the past. 
 And vain e'en menace — silent to the last; 
 She told nor whence, nor why she left behind 
 Her all for one who seem'd but little kind. 
 Why did she love him? Curious fool! — be still- 
 Is human love the growth of human will? 
 To her he might be gentleness; the stern 
 Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern, 
 And when they love, your smilers guess not how 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 Two Hundred and Thirty-eight LORD BYRON 
 
 Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow. 
 They were not common links, that form'd the chain 
 That bound to Lara Kaled's heart and brain; 
 But that wild tale she brook'd not to unfold. 
 And seal'd is now each lip that could have told. 
 
 They laid him in the earth, and on his breast, 
 Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest, 
 They found the scatter'd dints of many a scar, 
 Which were not planted there in recent war. 
 Where'er had pass'd his summer years of life. 
 It seems they vanish'd in a land of strife; 
 But all unknown his glory or his guilt, 
 These only told that somewhere blood was spilt, 
 And Ezzelin, who might have spoke the past, 
 Return'd no more — that night appear'd his last. 
 
 Upon that night (a peasant's is the tale) 
 A Serf that cross'd the intervening vale, 
 When Cynthia's light almost gave way to morn 
 And nearly veil'd in mist her waning horn, — 
 A Serf, that rose betimes to thread the wood, 
 And hew the bough that bought his children's food, 
 Pass'd by the river that divides the plain 
 Of Otho's lands and Lara's broad domain. 
 He heard a tramp — a horse and horseman broke 
 From out the wood — before him was a cloak 
 Wrapt round some burthen at his saddlebow. 
 Bent was his head, and hidden was his brow. 
 Roused by the sudden sight at such a time. 
 And some foreboding that it might be crime. 
 Himself unheeded watch'd the stranger's course. 
 Who reach'd the river, bounded from his horse. 
 
Poetical Wor^s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Two Hundred and Thirly-nine 
 
 And lifting thence the burthen which he bore, 
 
 Heaved up the bank, and dash'd it from the shore, 
 
 Then paused, and look'd, and turn'd, and seem'd to watch, 
 
 And still another hurried glance would snatch, 
 
 And follow with his step the stream that flow'd, 
 
 As if even yet too much its surface show'd. 
 
 At once he started, stoop'd, around him strown 
 
 The winter floods had scatter'd heaps of stone; 
 
 Of these the heaviest thence he gather'd there, 
 
 And slung them with a more than common care. 
 
 Meantime the Serf had crept to where unseen 
 
 Himself might safely mark what this might mean ; 
 
 He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast. 
 
 And something glitter'd starlike on the vest; 
 
 But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk, 
 
 A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk: 
 
 It rose again, but indistinct to view, 
 
 And left the waters of a purple hue. 
 
 Then deeply disappear'd. The horseman gazed 
 
 Till ebb'd the latest eddy it had raised; 
 
 Then turning, vaulted on his pawing steed, 
 
 And instant spurr'd him into panting speed. 
 
 His face was mask'd — the features of the dead. 
 
 If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread; 
 
 But if in sooth a star its bosom bore. 
 
 Such is the badge that knighthood ever wore, 
 
 And such 't is known Sir Ezzelin had worn 
 
 Upon the night that led to such a morn. 
 
 If thus he perish'd. Heaven receive his soul! 
 
 His undiscover'd limbs to ocean roll; 
 
 And charity upon the hope would dwell 
 
 It was not Lara's hand by which he fell. 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 Treo Hunirei and Forly LORD BYRON 
 
 And Kaled — Lara — Ezzelin, are gone, 
 
 Alike without their monumental stone ! 
 
 The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean 
 
 From lingering where her chieftain's blood had been. 
 
 Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud. 
 
 Her tears were few, her wailing never loud; 
 
 But furious would you tear her from the spot 
 
 Where yet she scarce believed that he was not, 
 
 Her eye shot forth with all the living fire 
 
 That haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire; 
 
 But left to waste her weary moments there. 
 
 She talk'd all idly unto shapes of air, 
 
 Such as the busy brain of Sorrow paints. 
 
 And woos to listen to her fond complaints. 
 
 And she would sit beneath the very tree 
 
 Where lay his drooping head upon her knee; 
 
 And in that posture where she saw him fall. 
 
 His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall; 
 
 And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair, 
 
 And oft would snatch it from her bosom there. 
 
 And fold, and press it gently to the ground. 
 
 As if she stanch'd anew some phantom's wound. 
 
 Herself would question, and for him reply; 
 
 Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly 
 
 From some imagined spectre in pursuit; 
 
 Then seat her down upon some linden's root, 
 
 And hide her visage with her meagre hand, 
 
 Or trace strange characters along the sand: — 
 
 This could not last— she lies by him she loved, 
 
 Her tale untold, her truth too dearly proved. 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Ttuo Hundred and Forl^-one 
 
 Cf)e ^fege of Corintb 
 
 Many a vanish'd year and age. 
 
 And tempest's breath, and battle's rage, 
 
 Have swept o'er Corinth; yet she stands, 
 
 A fortress form'd to Freedom's hands. 
 
 The whirlwind's wrath, the earthquake's shock. 
 
 Have left untouch'd her hoary rock, 
 
 The keystone of a land, which still. 
 
 Though fall'n, looks proudly on that hill. 
 
 The landmark to the double tide 
 
 That purpling rolls on either side, 
 
 As if their waters chafed to meet, 
 
 Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet. 
 
 But could the blood before her shed 
 
 Since first Timoleon's brother bled, 
 
 Or baffled Persia's despot fled, 
 
 Arise from out the earth which drank 
 
 The stream of slaughter as it sank. 
 
 That sanguine ocean would o'erflow 
 
 Her isthmus idly spread below: 
 
 Or could the bones of all the slain, 
 
 Who perish'd there, be piled again. 
 
 That rival pyramid would rise 
 
 More mountain-like, through those clear skies. 
 
 Than yon tower-capp'd Acropolis 
 
 Which seems the very clouds to kiss. 
 
 On dun Cithaeron's ridge apears 
 The gleam of twice ten thousand spears; 
 And downward to the Isthmian plain. 
 From shore to shore of either main, 
 
p^gg Poetical Works of 
 
 Tv>o Hundred and Foriy-tv>o LORD BYRON 
 
 The tent is pitch'd, the crescent shines 
 Along the Moslem's leaguering lines; 
 And the dusk Spahi's bands advance 
 Beneath each bearded pacha's glance ; 
 And far and wide as eye can reach 
 The turban'd cohorts throng the beach; 
 And there the Arab's camel kneels, 
 And there his steed the Tartar wheels; 
 The Turcoman hath left his herd, 
 
 The sabre round his loins to gird; 
 
 And there the volleying thunders pour 
 
 Till waves grow smoother to the roar. 
 
 The trench is dug, the cannon's breath 
 
 Wings the far-hissing globe of death; 
 
 Fast whirl the fragments from the wall, 
 
 Which crumbles with the ponderous ball; 
 
 And from that wall the foe replies. 
 
 O'er dusty plain and smoky skies, 
 
 With fires that answer fast and well 
 
 The summons of the Infidel. 
 
 But near and nearest to the wall 
 Of those who wish and work its fall. 
 With deeper skill in war's black art 
 Than Othman's sons, and high of heart 
 As any chief that ever stood 
 Triumphant in the fields of blood; 
 From post to post, and deed to deed. 
 Fast spurring on his reeking steed. 
 Where sallying ranks the trench assail 
 And make the foremost Moslem quail; 
 Or where the battery, guarded well. 
 Remains as yet impregnable. 
 
Poetical Worki of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Two Hundred and Foriy-lhree 
 
 Alighting cheerly to inspire 
 
 The soldier slackening in his fire; 
 
 The first and freshest of the host 
 
 Which Stamboul's sultan there can boast, 
 
 To guide the follower o'er the field, 
 
 To point the tube, the lance to wield. 
 
 Or whirl around the bickering blade ; — 
 
 Was Alp, the Adrian renegade! 
 
 From Venice — once a race of worth 
 
 His gentle sires — he drew his birth; 
 
 But late an exile from her shore, 
 
 Against his countrymen he bore 
 
 The arms they taught to bear; and now 
 
 The turban girt his shaven brow. 
 
 Through many a change had Corinth pass'd 
 
 With Greece to Venice' rule at last; 
 
 And here, before her walls, with those 
 
 To Greece and Venice equal foes. 
 
 He stood a foe, with all the zeal 
 
 Which young and fiery converts feel, 
 
 Within whose heated bosom throngs 
 
 The memory of a thousand wrongs. 
 
 To him had Venice ceased to be 
 
 Her ancient civic boast — 'the Free;' 
 
 And in the palace of St. Mark 
 
 Unnamed accusers in the dark 
 
 Within the 'Lion's mouth' had placed 
 
 A charge against him uneffaced. 
 
 He fled in time, and saved his life, 
 
 To waste his future years in strife, 
 
 That taught his land how great her loss 
 
 In him who triumph'd o'er the Cross, 
 
Page Poetical Wot\s of 
 
 Two Hundred and Forty-fouT LORD BYRON 
 
 'Gainst which he rear'd the Crescent high. 
 And battled to avenge or die, 
 
 Coumourgi, he whose closing scene 
 Adorn'd the triumph of Eugene, 
 When on Carlowitz' bloody plain, 
 The last and mightiest of the slain. 
 He sank, regretting not to die, 
 But cursed the Christian's victory — 
 Coumourgi, can his glory cease, 
 That latest conqueror of Greece, 
 Till Christian hands to Greece restore 
 The freedom Venice gave of yore? 
 A hundred years have roll'd away 
 Since he refix'd the Moslem's sway. 
 And now he led the Mussulman, 
 And gave the guidance of the van 
 To Alp, who well repaid the trust 
 By cities levell'd with the dust; 
 And proved, by many a deed of death, 
 How firm his heart in novel faith. 
 
 The walls grew weak; and fast and hot 
 Against them pour'd the ceaseless shot. 
 With unabating fury sent 
 From battery to battlement; 
 And thunder-like the pealing din 
 Rose from each heated culverin. 
 And here and there some crackling dome 
 Was fired before the exploding bomb; 
 And as the fabric sank beneath 
 The shattering shell's volcanic breath. 
 In red and wreathing columns flash'd 
 The flame, as loud the ruin crash'd, 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Tivo Hundred and Forl^- five 
 
 Or into countless meteors driven, 
 
 Its earth-stars melted into heaven; 
 
 Whose clouds that day grew doubly dun, 
 
 Impervious to the hidden sun, 
 
 With volumed smoke that slowly grew 
 
 To one wide sky of sulphurous hue. 
 
 But not for vengeance, long delay'd, 
 
 Alone, did Alp, the renegade. 
 
 The Moslem warriors sternly teach 
 
 His skill to pierce the promised breach. 
 
 Within these walls a maid was pent 
 
 His hope would win without consent 
 
 Of that inexorable sire, 
 
 Whose heart refused him in its ire, 
 
 When Alp, beneath his Christian name, 
 
 Her virgin hand aspired to claim. 
 
 In happier mood and earUer time. 
 
 While unimpeach'd for traitorous crime. 
 
 Gayest in gondola or hall. 
 
 He glitter'd through the Carnival; 
 
 And tuned the softest serenade 
 
 That e'er on Adria's waters play'd 
 
 At midnight to Italian maid. 
 
 And many deem'd her heart was won; 
 For sought by numbers, given to none. 
 Had young Francesca's hand remain'd 
 Still by the church's bonds unchain'd. 
 And when the Adriatic bore 
 Lanciotto to the Paynim shore. 
 Her wonted smiles were seen to fail. 
 And pensive wax'd the maid and pale; 
 More constant at confessional, 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 Two Hundred and Forfp-sfx LORD BYRON 
 
 More rare at masque and festival; 
 
 Or seen at such, with downcast eyes 
 
 Which conquer'd hearts they ceased to prize. 
 
 With listless look she seems to gaze; 
 
 With humbler care her form arrays; 
 
 Her voice less lively in the song ; 
 
 Her step, though light, less fleet among 
 
 The pairs, on whom the Morning's glance 
 
 Breaks, yet unsated with the dance. 
 
 Sent by the state to guard the land 
 
 (Which, wrested from the Moslem's hand, 
 
 While Sobieski tamed his pride 
 
 By Buda's wall and Danube's side, 
 
 The chiefs of Venice wrung away 
 
 From Patra to Euboea's bay), 
 
 Minotti held in Corinth's towers 
 
 The Dodge's delegated powers. 
 
 While yet the pitying eye of Peace 
 
 Smiled o'er her long forgotten Greece. 
 
 And ere that faithless truce was broke 
 
 Which freed her from the unchristian yoke, 
 
 With him his gentle daughter came; 
 
 Nor there, since Menelaus' dame 
 
 Forsook her lord and land, to prove 
 
 What woes await on lawless love. 
 
 Had fairer form adorn'd the shore 
 
 Than she, the matchless stranger, bore. 
 
 The wall is rent, the ruins yawn; 
 And, with to-morrow's earliest dawn. 
 O'er the disjointed mass shall vault 
 The foremost of the fierce assault. 
 The bands are rank'd ; the chosen van 
 
Poetical i^Vorlis of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Two Hundred and For(y-se*en 
 
 Of Tartar and of Mussulman, 
 The full of hope, misnamed 'forlorn,' 
 Who hold the thought of death in scorn, 
 And win their way with falchion's force. 
 Or pave the path with many a corse 
 O'er which the following brave may rise. 
 Their stepping-stone — the last who dies! 
 
 *T is midnight: on the mountains brown 
 The cold, round moon shines deeply down; 
 Blue roll the waters, blue the sky 
 Spreads like an ocean hung on high. 
 Bespangled with those isles of light, 
 So wildly, spiritually bright; — 
 Who ever gazed upon them shining 
 And turn'd to earth without repining. 
 Nor wish'd for wings to flee away. 
 And mix with their eternal ray? 
 The waves on either shore lay there 
 Calm, clear, and azure as the air; 
 And scarce their foam the pebbles shook. 
 But murmur'd meekly as the brook. 
 The winds were pillow'd on the waves; 
 The banners droop'd along their staves, 
 And, as they fell around them furUng, 
 Above them shone the crescent curUng. 
 And that deep silence was unbroke. 
 Save where the watch his signal spoke. 
 Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrill, 
 And echo answer'd from the hill. 
 And the wide hum of that wild host 
 Rustled like leaves from coast to coast. 
 As rose the Muezzin's voice in air 
 
^age Poetical Works of 
 
 T TOO Hundred and FoTly-eighl LORD BYRON 
 
 In midnight call to wonted prayer : 
 
 It rose, that chanted mournful strain. 
 
 Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain; 
 
 'T was musical, but sadly sweet, 
 
 Such as when winds and harp-strings meet. 
 
 And take a long unmeasured tone, 
 
 To mortal minstrelsy unknown. 
 
 It seem'd to those within the wall 
 
 A cry prophetic of their fall. 
 
 It struck even the besieger's ear 
 
 With something omnious and drear. 
 
 An undefined and sudden thrill 
 
 Which makes the heart a moment still. 
 
 Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed 
 
 Of that strange sense its silence framed; 
 
 Such as a sudden passing-bell 
 
 Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell. 
 
 The tent of Alp was on the shore; 
 
 The sound was hush'd, the prayer was o'er; 
 
 The watch was set, the night-round made. 
 
 All mandates issued and obey'd. 
 
 'T is but another anxious night. 
 
 His pains the morrow may requite 
 
 With all revenge and love can pay. 
 
 In guerdon for their long delay. 
 
 Few hours remain, and he hath need 
 
 Of rest, to nerve for many a deed 
 
 Of slaughter; but within his soul 
 
 The thoughts like troubled waters roll. 
 
 He stood alone among the host; 
 
 Not his the loud fanatic boast 
 
 To plant the crescent o'er the cross. 
 
Poeiical IVorl^s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Two Hundred and FoTty-nine 
 
 Or risk a life with little loss, 
 
 Secure in paradise to be 
 
 By Houris loved immortally. 
 
 Nor his, what burning patriots feel, 
 
 The stern exaltedness of zeal, 
 
 Profuse of blood, untired in toil. 
 
 When battling on the parent soil. 
 
 He stood alone — a renegade 
 
 Against the country he betray'd; 
 
 He stood alone amidst his band. 
 
 Without a trusted heart or hand. 
 
 They follow'd him, for he was brave. 
 
 And great the spoil he got and gave; 
 
 They crouch'd to him, for he had skill 
 
 To warp and wield the vulgar will: 
 
 But still his Christian origin 
 
 With them was little less than sin. 
 
 They envied even the faithless fame 
 
 He earn'd beneath a Moslem name; 
 
 Since he, their mightiest chief, had been 
 
 In youth a bitter Nazarene."^ 
 
 They did not know how pride can stoop. 
 
 When baffled feelings withering droop ; 
 
 They did not know how hate can burn 
 
 In hearts once changed from soft to stern; 
 
 Nor all the false and fatal zeal 
 
 The convert of revenge can feel. 
 
 He ruled them — man may rule the worst, 
 
 By ever daring to be first; 
 
 So lions o'er the jackal sway; 
 
 The jackal points, he fells the prey. 
 
 Then on the vulgar, yelling, press 
 
 To gorge the relics of success. 
 
Pa%e Poetical Works of 
 
 Two Hundred ar\d Fifty LORD B YRON 
 
 His head grows fever'd and his pulse 
 
 The quick successive throbs convulse; 
 
 In vain from side to side he throws 
 
 His form, in courtship of repose; 
 
 Or if he dozed, a sound, a start 
 
 Awoke him with a sunken heart. 
 
 The turban on his hot brow press'd, 
 
 The mail weigh'd lead-like on his breast, 
 
 Though oft and long beneath its weight 
 
 Upon his eyes had slumber sate, 
 
 Without or couch or canopy, 
 
 Except a rougher field and sky 
 
 Than now might yield a warrior's bed, 
 
 Than now along the heaven was spread. 
 
 He could not rest, he could not stay 
 
 Within his tent to wait for day. 
 
 But walk'd him forth along the sand. 
 
 Where thousand sleepers strew'd the strand. 
 
 What pillow'd them? and why should he 
 
 More wakeful than the humblest be, 
 
 Since more their peril, worse their toil? 
 
 And yet they fearless dream of spoil; 
 
 While he alone, where thousands pass'd 
 
 A night of sleep, perchance their last, 
 
 In sickly vigil wander'd on, 
 
 And envied all he gazed upon. 
 
 Not mindless of these mighty times 
 Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes; 
 And through this night, as on he wander'd. 
 And o'er the past and present ponder'd. 
 And thought upon the glorious dead 
 Who there in better cause had bled. 
 
Poetical Works of Pag' 
 
 LORD BYRON Tiuo Hundred and Fifly-one 
 
 He felt how faint and feebly dim 
 
 The fame that could accrue to him. 
 
 Who cheer'd the band and waved the sword, 
 
 A traitor in a turban'd horde; 
 
 And led them to the lawless siege, 
 
 Whose best success were sacrilege. 
 
 Not so had those his fancy number'd, 
 
 The chiefs whose dust around him slumber'd; 
 
 Their phalanx marshall'd on the plain, 
 
 Whose bulwarks were not then in vain. 
 
 They fell devoted, but undying; 
 
 The very gale their names seem'd sighing: 
 
 The waters murmur'd of their name; 
 
 The woods were peopled with their fame; 
 
 The silent pillar, lone and grey, 
 
 Claim'd kindred with their sacred clay; 
 
 Their spirits wrapp'd the dusky mountain, 
 
 Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain; 
 
 The meanest rill, the mightiest river 
 
 RoU'd mingling with their fame for ever. 
 
 Despite of every yoke she bears, 
 
 That land is glory's still and theirs! 
 
 'T is still a watch-word to the earth: 
 
 When man would to a deed of worth 
 
 He points to Greece, and turns to tread. 
 
 So sanction'd, on the tyrant's head; 
 
 He looks to her, and rushes on 
 
 Where life is lost, or freedom won. 
 
 There is a temple in ruin stands, 
 Fashion'd by long forgotten hands; 
 Two or three columns, and many a stone. 
 Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown! 
 
Page Poetical IVorl^s of 
 
 Tr»o Hundred and F if ty-iwo LORD BYRON 
 
 Out upon Time! it will leave no more 
 
 Of the things to come than the things before! 
 
 Out upon Time! who for ever will leave 
 
 But enough of the past for the future to grieve 
 
 O'er that which hath been, and o'er that which must be : 
 
 What we have seen, our sons shall see ; 
 
 Remnants of things that have pass'd away. 
 
 Fragments of stone, rear'd by creatures of clay! 
 
 He sate him down at a pillar's base, 
 
 And pass'd his hand athwart his face. 
 
 Lfike one in dreary musing mood. 
 
 Declining was his attitude; 
 
 His head was drooping on his breast, 
 
 Fever'd, throbbing, and oppress'd; 
 
 And o'er his brow, so downward bent, 
 
 Oft his beating fingers went. 
 
 Hurriedly, as you may see 
 
 Your own run over the ivory key, 
 
 Ere the measured tone is taken 
 
 By the cords you would awaken. 
 
 There he sate all heavily, 
 
 As he heard the night-wind sigh. 
 
 Was it the wind, through some hollow stone, 
 
 Sent that soft and tender moan? 
 
 He lifted his head, and he look'd on the sea. 
 
 But it was unrippled as glass may be; 
 
 He look'd on the long grass— it waved not a blade; 
 
 How was that gentle sound convey 'd? 
 
 He look'd to the banners— each flag lay still. 
 
 So did the leaves on Cithseron's hill, 
 
 And he felt not a breath come over his cheek; 
 
 What did that sudden sound bespeak? 
 
Poetical Works o/ ^ag« 
 
 LORD BYRON Two Hundred and Fifiy-lhree 
 
 He turn'd to the left — is he sure of sight? 
 There sate a lady, youthful and bright! 
 
 He started up with more of fear 
 
 Than if an armed foe were near. 
 
 'God of my fathers! what is here? 
 
 Who art thou, and wherefore sent 
 
 So near a hostile armament?' 
 
 His trembling hands refused to sign 
 
 The cross he deem'd no more divine: 
 
 He had resumed it in that hour, 
 
 But conscience wrung away the power. 
 
 He gazed, he saw: he knew the face 
 
 Of beauty, and the form of grace; 
 
 It was Francesca by his side. 
 
 The maid who might have been his bride! 
 
 The rose was yet upon her cheek. 
 
 But mellow'd with a tenderer streak: 
 
 Where was the play of her soft lips fled? 
 
 Gone was the smile that enliven'd their red. 
 
 The ocean's calm within their view, 
 
 Beside her eye had less of blue; 
 
 But like that cold wave it stood still, 
 
 And its glance, though clear, was chill. 
 
 Around her form a thin robe twining. 
 
 Nought conceal'd her bosom shining; 
 
 Through the parting of her hair. 
 
 Floating darkly downward there, 
 
 Her rounded arm show'd white and bare. 
 
 And ere yet she made reply, 
 
 Once she raised her hand on high; 
 
 It was so wan and transparent of hue, 
 
 You might have seen the moon shine through. 
 
Page Poetical WotI(s of 
 
 T*>o Hundred and Fifiy-f our LORD BYRON 
 
 'I come from my rest to him I love best, 
 
 That I may be happy, and he may be bless'd. 
 
 I have pass'd the guards, the gate, the wall; 
 
 Sought thee in safety through foes and all. 
 
 'T is said the lion will turn and flee 
 
 From a maid in the pride of her purity ; 
 
 And the Power on high, that can shield the good 
 
 Thus from the tyrant of the wood, 
 
 Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well 
 
 From the hands of the leaguering infidel. 
 
 I come — and if I come in vain, 
 
 Never, oh never, we meet again! 
 
 Thou hast done a fearful deed 
 
 In falling away from thy father's creed: 
 
 But dash that turban to earth, and sign 
 
 The sign of the cross, and for ever be mine ; 
 
 Wring the black drop from thy heart, 
 
 And to-morrow unites us no more to part.' 
 
 'And where should our bridal couch be spread? 
 
 In the midst of the dying and the dead? 
 
 For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame 
 
 The sons and the shrines of the Christian name. 
 
 None, save thou and thine, I 've sworn, 
 
 Shall be left upon the morn: 
 
 But thee will I bear to a lovely spot, 
 
 Where our hands shall be join'd, and our sorrow forgot. 
 
 There thou yet shalt be my bride. 
 
 When once again I 've quell'd the pride 
 
 Of Venice; and her hated race 
 
 Have felt the arm they would debase 
 
 Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, those 
 
 Whom vice and envy made my foes.' 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Two Hundred and Fifi]f-fi\>e 
 
 Upon his hand she laid her own — 
 
 Light was the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone, 
 
 And shot a chillness to his heart, 
 
 Which fix'd him beyond the power to start. 
 
 Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold, 
 
 He could not loose him from its hold; 
 
 But never did clasp of one so dear 
 
 Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear, 
 
 As those thin fingers, long and white. 
 
 Froze through his blood by their touch that night. 
 
 The feverish glow of his brow was gone. 
 
 And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone, 
 
 As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue, 
 
 So deeply changed from what he knew, — 
 
 Fair but faint, without the ray 
 
 Of mind, that made each feature play 
 
 Like sparkling waves on a sunny day. 
 
 And her motionless lips lay still as death, 
 
 And her words came forth without her breath. 
 
 And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell. 
 
 And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwell. 
 
 Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix'd, 
 
 And the glance that it gave was wild and unmix'd 
 
 With aught of change, as the eye may seem 
 
 Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream ; 
 
 Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare, 
 
 Stirr'd by the breath of the wintry air. 
 
 So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light. 
 
 Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight; 
 
 As they seem, through the dimness, about to come down 
 
 From the shadowy wall where their images frown; 
 
 Feafully flitting to and fro, 
 
 As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 Tvo Hundred and Fifl^-iix LORD B YRON 
 
 'If not for love of me be given 
 
 Thus much, then, for the love of heaven, — 
 
 Again I say, — that turban tear 
 
 From off thy faithless brow, and swear 
 
 Thine injured country's sons to spare, 
 
 Or thou art lost; and never shalt see — 
 
 Not earth, that 's past — but heaven or me. 
 
 If this thou dost accord, albeit 
 
 A heavy doom 't is thine to meet, 
 
 That doom shall half absolve thy sin, 
 
 And mercy's gate may receive thee within. 
 
 But pause one moment more, and take 
 
 The curse of Him thou didst forsake; 
 
 And look once more to heaven, and see 
 
 Its love for ever shut from thee. 
 
 There is a light cloud by the moon — 
 
 'T is passing, and will pass full soon — 
 
 If, by the time its vapoury sail 
 
 Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil, 
 
 Thy heart within thee is not changed, 
 
 Then God and man are both avenged; 
 
 Dark will thy doom be, darker still 
 
 Thine immortality of ill.' 
 
 Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high 
 
 The sign she spake of in the sky; 
 
 But his heart was swollen, and turn'd aside 
 
 By deep interminable pride: 
 
 This first false passion of his breast 
 
 Roll'd like a torrent o'er the rest. 
 
 He sue for mercy! He dismay'd 
 
 By wild words of a timid maid! 
 
 He, wrong'd by Venice, vow to save 
 
Poetical Worlis of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Tao Hundred and Fifl},-se\>en 
 
 Her sons, devoted to the grave! 
 
 No — though that cloud were thunder's worst, 
 
 And charged to crush him — let it burst! 
 
 He look'd upon it earnestly, 
 
 Without an accent of reply; 
 
 He watch'd it passing; it is flown. 
 
 Full on his eye the clear moon shone, 
 
 And thus he spake : ' Whate'er my fate, 
 
 I am no changeling — 't is too late; 
 
 The reed in storms may bow and quiver. 
 
 Then rise again; the tree must shiver. 
 
 What Venice made me, I must be, 
 
 Her foe in all, save love to thee. 
 
 But thou art safe; oh, fly with me!' 
 
 He turn'd, but she is gone! 
 
 Nothing is there but the column stone. 
 
 Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air? 
 
 He saw not — he knew not — but nothing is there., 
 
 The night is past, and shines the sun 
 
 As if that morn were a jocund one. 
 
 Lightly and brightly breaks away 
 
 The Morning from her mantle grey. 
 
 And the Noon will look on a sultry day. 
 
 Hark to the trump, and the drum, 
 
 And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn, 
 
 And the flap of the banners that flit as they 're borne. 
 
 And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum. 
 
 And the clash, and the shout, 'They come! they come!' 
 
 The horsetails are pluck'd from the ground, and the 
 
 sword 
 From its sheath; and they form, and but wait for the 
 
 word. 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 Tr»o Hundred and Fifl^-eight LORD BYRON 
 
 Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, 
 
 Strike your tents, and throng to the van; 
 
 Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain. 
 
 That the fugitive may flee in vain 
 
 When he breaks from the town, and none escape, 
 
 Aged or young in the Christian shape; 
 
 While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass, 
 
 Bloodstain the breach through which they pass. 
 
 The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein; 
 
 Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane; 
 
 White is the foam of their champ on the bit: 
 
 The spears are uplifted; the matches are lit; 
 
 The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar, 
 
 And crush the wall they have crumbled before. 
 
 Forms in his phalanx each Janizar; 
 
 Alp at their head; his right arm is bare, 
 
 So is the blade of his scimitar; 
 
 The khan and the pachas are all at their post; 
 
 The vizier himself at the head of the host. 
 
 When the culverin's signal is fired, then on; 
 
 Leave not in Corinth a living one — 
 
 A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls, 
 
 A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls. 
 
 God and the Prophet — Alia Hu! 
 
 Up to the skies with that wild halloo! 
 
 'There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to scale; 
 
 And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye fail? 
 
 He who first downs with the red cross may crave 
 
 His heart's dearest wish; let him ask it, and have!' 
 
 Thus utter'd Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier; 
 
 The reply was the brandish of sabre and spear. 
 
 And the shout of fierce thousands in joyous ire : — 
 
 Silence — hark to the signal — fire! 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Troo Hundred and F if ly -nine 
 
 As the wolves, that headlong go 
 
 On the stately buffalo, 
 
 Though with fiery eyes, and angry roar, 
 
 And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore, 
 
 He tramples on earth, or tosses on high 
 
 The foremost who rush on his strength but to die : 
 
 Thus against the wall they went. 
 
 Thus the first were backward bent. 
 
 Many a bosom, sheathed in brass, 
 
 Strew'd the earth like broken glass, 
 
 Shiver'd by the shot that tore 
 
 The ground whereon they moved no more. 
 
 Even as they fell, in files they lay; 
 
 Like the mower's grass at the close of day 
 
 When his work is done on the levell'd plain. 
 
 Such was the fall of the foremost slain. 
 
 As the spring-tides, with heavy plash. 
 
 From the cliffs invading dash 
 
 Huge fragments, sapp'd by the ceaseless flow 
 
 Till white and thundering down they go. 
 
 Like the avalanche's snow 
 
 On the Alpine vales below; 
 
 Thus at length, outbreathed and worn, 
 
 Corinth's sons were downward borne 
 
 By the long and oft renew'd 
 
 Charge of the Moslem mutitude. 
 
 In firmness they stood, and in masses they fell, 
 
 Heap'd by the host of the infidel, 
 
 Hand to hand, and foot to foot. 
 
 Nothing there, save death, was mute; 
 
 Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry 
 
 For quarter, or for victory, 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 Two Hundred and Sixls LORD BYRON 
 
 Mingle there with the volleying thunder, 
 
 Which makes the distant cities wonder 
 
 How the sounding battle goes. 
 
 If with them or for their foes; 
 
 If they must mourn, or may rejoice 
 
 In that annihilating voice. 
 
 Which pierces the deep hills through and through 
 
 With an echo dread and new: 
 
 You might have heard it, on that day. 
 
 O'er Salamis and Megara 
 
 (We have heard the hearers say), 
 
 Even unto Piraeus' bay. 
 
 From the point of encountering blades to the hilt, 
 
 Sabres and swords with blood were gilt; 
 
 But the rampart is won, and the spoil begun. 
 
 And all but the after carnage done. 
 
 Shriller shrieks now mingling come 
 
 From within the plunder'd dome. 
 
 Hark to the haste of flying feet, 
 
 That splash in the blood of the slippery street; 
 
 But here and there, where 'vantage ground 
 
 Against the foe may still be found, 
 
 Desperate groups, of twelve or ten. 
 
 Make a pause, and turn again — 
 
 With banded backs against the wall. 
 
 Fiercely stand, or fighting fall. 
 
 There stood an old man — his hairs were white, 
 
 But his veteran arm was full of might: 
 
 So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray, 
 
 The dead before him, on that day, 
 
 In a semicircle lay; 
 
 Still he combated unwounded, 
 
Poetical Works of Pag'^ 
 
 LORD BYRON Ti»o Hundred and Sixly-one 
 
 Though retreating, unsurrounded. 
 
 Many a scar of former fight 
 
 Lurk'd beneath his corslet bright; 
 
 But of every wound his body bore, 
 
 Each and all had been ta'en before. 
 
 Though aged, he was so iron of limb, 
 
 Few of our youth could cope with him ; 
 
 And the foes, whom he singly kept at bay, 
 
 Outnumber'd his thin hairs of silver grey. 
 
 From right to left his sabre swept : 
 
 Many an Othman mother wept 
 
 Sons that were unborn, when dipp'd 
 
 His weapon first in Moslem gore, 
 
 Ere his years could count a score. 
 
 Of all he might have been the sire 
 
 Who fell that day beneath his ire: 
 
 For, sonless left long years ago. 
 
 His wrath made many a childless foe; 
 
 And since the day, when in the strait 
 
 His only boy had met his fate, 
 
 His parent's iron hand did doom 
 
 More than a human hecatomb. 
 
 If shades by carnage be appeased, 
 
 Patroclus' spirit less was pleased 
 
 Than his, Minotti's son, who died 
 
 Where Asia's bounds and ours divide. 
 
 Buried he lay, where thousands before 
 
 For thousands of years were inhumed on the shore; 
 
 What of them is left, to tell 
 
 Where they lie, and how they fell? 
 
 Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their graves; 
 
 But they live in the verse that immortally saves. 
 
Page Poetical WoT^i of 
 
 Two Hundred and Sixi^-lv>o LORD BYRON 
 
 Hark to the Allah shout! a band 
 
 Of the Mussulman bravest and best is at hand. 
 
 Their leader's nervous arm is bare, 
 
 Swifter to smite, and never to spare — 
 
 Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them on; 
 
 Thus in the fight is he ever known. 
 
 Others a gaudier garb may show, 
 
 To tempt the spoil of the greedy foe; 
 
 Many a hand 's on a richer hilt, 
 
 But none on a steel more ruddily gilt; 
 
 Many a loftier turban may wear, — 
 
 Alp is but known by the white arm bare; 
 
 Look through the thick of the fight, 't is there! 
 
 There is not a standard on that shore 
 
 So well advanced the ranks before; 
 
 There is not a banner in Moslem war 
 
 Will lure the Delhis half so far; 
 
 It glances like a falling star! 
 
 Where'er that mighty arm is seen. 
 
 The bravest be, or late have been; 
 
 There the craven cries for quarter 
 
 Vainly to the vengeful Tartar; 
 
 Or the hero, silent lying. 
 
 Scorns to yield a groan in dying; 
 
 Mustering his last feeble blow 
 
 'Gainst the nearest levell'd foe, 
 
 Though faint beneath the mutual wound. 
 
 Grappling on the gory ground. 
 
 Still the old man stood erect, 
 And Alp's career a moment check'd. 
 'Yield thee, Minotti; quarter take. 
 For thine own, thy daughter's sake.' 
 
Poetical fVor^s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Two Hundred and Sixlylhree 
 
 'Never, renegade, never! 
 
 Though the life of thy gift would last for ever.' 
 
 'Francesca! — Oh, my promised bride! 
 
 Must she too perish by thy pride?' 
 
 'She is safe.' — 'Where? where?' — *In heaven; 
 
 From whence thy traitor soul is driven — 
 
 Far from thee, and undefiled.' 
 
 Grimly then Minotti smiled, 
 
 As he saw Alp staggering bow 
 
 Before his words, as with a blow. 
 
 *Oh God! when died she?' — 'Yester-night— 
 
 Nor weep I for her spirit's flight: 
 
 None of my pure race shall be 
 
 Slaves to Mahomet and thee. 
 
 Come on!' — That challenge is in vain, 
 
 Alp 's already with the slain! 
 
 While Minotti's words were wreaking 
 
 More revenge in bitter speaking 
 
 Than his falchion's point had found, 
 
 Had the time allow'd to wound, 
 
 From within the neighbouring porch 
 
 Of a long defended church. 
 
 Where the last and desperate few 
 
 Would the failing fight renew. 
 
 The sharp shot dash'd Alp to the ground. 
 
 Ere an eye could view the wound 
 
 That crash'd through the brain of the infidel, 
 
 Round he spun, and down he fell ; 
 
 A flash like fire within his eyes 
 
 Blazed, as he bent no more to rise. 
 
 And then eternal darkness sunk 
 
 Through all the palpitating trunk; 
 
Page Poetical Wor^i of 
 
 Two Hundred and Sixty-four LORD BYRON 
 
 Nought of life left, save a quivering 
 Where his limbs were slightly shivering. 
 They turn'd him on his back; his breast 
 And brow were stain'd with gore and dust, 
 And through his lips the life-blood oozed 
 From its deep veins lately loosed. 
 But in his pulse there was no throb. 
 Nor on his lips one dying sob; 
 Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath 
 Heralded his way to death: 
 Ere his very thought could pray, 
 Unaneled he pass'd away, 
 Without a hope from mercy's aid, — 
 To the last — a Renegade. 
 
 Fearfully the yell arose 
 Of his followers and his foes. 
 These in joy, in fury those. 
 Then again in conflict mixing. 
 Clashing swords, and spears transfixing. 
 Interchanged the blow and trust. 
 Hurling warriors in the dust. 
 Street by street, and foot by foot, 
 Still Minotti dares dispute 
 The latest portion of the land 
 Left beneath his high command; 
 With him, aiding heart and hand. 
 The remnant of his galant band. 
 Still the church is tenable, 
 
 Whence issued late the fated ball, 
 
 That half avenged the city's fall, 
 When Alp, her fierce assailant, fell. 
 Thither bending sternly back, 
 
Poetical IVorki of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Tno Hundred and Sixly-fn>e 
 
 They leave before a bloody track; 
 And, with their faces to the foe, 
 Dealing wounds with every blow. 
 The chief, and his retreating train, 
 Join to those within the fane. 
 There they yet may breathe awhile, 
 Shelter'd by the massy pile. 
 
 Brief breathing-time! the turban'd host, 
 
 With adding ranks and raging boast. 
 
 Press onwards with such strength and heat. 
 
 Their numbers balk their own retreat; 
 
 For narrow the way that led to the spot 
 
 Where still the Christians yielded not; 
 
 And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try 
 
 Through the massy column to turn and fly; 
 
 They perforce must do or die. 
 
 They die; but ere their eyes could close. 
 
 Avengers o'er their bodies rose. 
 
 Fresh and furious, fast they fill 
 
 The ranks unthinn'd, though slaughter'd still; 
 
 And faint the weary Christians wax 
 
 Before the still renew'd attacks. 
 
 And now the Othmans gain the gate; 
 
 Still resists its iron weight. 
 
 And still, all deadly aim'd and hot. 
 
 From every crevice comes the shot; 
 
 From every shatter'd window pour 
 
 The volleys of the sulphurous shower. 
 
 But the portal wavering grows and weak — 
 
 The iron yields, the hinges creak — 
 
 It bends — it falls — and all is o'er; 
 
 Lost Corinth may resist no more! 
 
Page Poelical Works of 
 
 Two Hundred and Sixt^-six LORD BYRON 
 
 Darkly, sternly, and all alone, 
 
 Minotti stood o'er the altar stone. 
 
 Madonna's face upon him shone, 
 
 Painted in heavenly hues above, 
 
 With eyes of light and looks of love; 
 
 And placed upon that holy shrine 
 
 To fix our thoughts on things divine, 
 
 When pictured there, we kneeling see 
 
 Her, and the boy-God on her knee. 
 
 Smiling sweetly on each prayer 
 
 To heaven, as if to waft it there, 
 
 Still she smiled; even now she smiles. 
 
 Though slaughter streams along her aisles. 
 
 Minotti lifted his aged eye, 
 
 And made the sign of a cross with a sigh, 
 
 Then seized a torch which blazed thereby; 
 
 And still he stood, while, with steel and flame. 
 
 Inward and onward the Mussulman came. 
 
 The vaults beneath the mosaic stone 
 
 Contain'd the dead of ages gone; 
 
 Their names were on the graven floor. 
 
 But now illegible with gore; 
 
 The carved crests, and curious hues 
 
 The varied marble's veins diffuse, 
 
 Were smear'd, and slippery — stain'd, and strown 
 
 With broken swords and helms o'erthrown. 
 
 There were dead above, and the dead below 
 
 Lay cold in many a coffin'd row; 
 
 You might see them piled in sable state, 
 
 By a pale light through a gloomy grate; 
 
 But War had enter'd their dark caves, 
 
 And stored along the vaulted graves 
 
Poetical W orks of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Two Hundred and Sixi^-stven 
 
 Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread 
 In masses by the fleshless dead. 
 Here, throughout the siege, had been 
 The Christians' chiefest magazine; 
 To these a late-form'd train now led, 
 Minotti's last and stern resource 
 Against the foe's o'erwhelming force. 
 
 The foe came on, and few remain 
 
 To strive, and those must strive in vain. 
 
 For lack of further lives, to slake 
 
 The thirst of vengeance now awake. 
 
 With barbarous blows they gash the dead, 
 
 And lop the already lifeless head. 
 
 And fell the statues from their niche, 
 
 And spoil the shrines of offerings rich, 
 
 And from each other's rude hands wrest 
 
 The silver vessels saints had bless'd. 
 
 To the high altar on they go; 
 
 Oh, but it made a glorious show! 
 
 On its table still behold 
 
 The cup of consecrated gold; 
 
 Massy and deep, a glittering prize, 
 
 Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes. 
 
 That morn it held the holy wine. 
 
 Converted by Christ to his blood so divine, 
 
 Which his worshippers drank at the break of day. 
 
 To shrive their souls ere they join'd in the fray. 
 
 Still a few drops within it lay; 
 
 And round the sacred table glow 
 
 Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row. 
 
 From the purest metal cast; 
 
 A spoil — the richest, and the last. 
 
Page Poetical JVorl^i of 
 
 Tx»Q Hundred and Sixty-eight LORD BYRON 
 
 So near they came, the nearest stretch'd 
 To grasp the spoil he almost reach'd, 
 
 When old Minotti's hand 
 Touch'd with the torch the train — 
 
 'T is fired! 
 Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain, 
 
 The turban'd victors, the Christian band, 
 All that of living or dead remain, 
 Hurl'd on high with the shiver'd fane. 
 
 In one wild roar expired! 
 The shatter'd town — the walls thrown down — 
 The waves a moment backward bent — 
 The hills that shake, although unrent 
 
 As if an earthquake pass'd — 
 The thousand shapeless things all driven 
 In cloud and flame athwart the heaven, 
 
 By that tremendous blast — 
 Proclaim'd the desperate conflict o'er 
 On that too long afflicted shore. 
 Up to the sky like rockets go 
 All that mingled there below: 
 Many a tall and goodly man, 
 Scorch'd and shrivell'd to a span, 
 When he fell to earth again 
 Like a cinder strew'd the plain. 
 Down the ashes shower like rain ; 
 Some fell in the gulf, which received the sprinkles 
 With a thousand circling wrinkles; 
 Some fell on the shore, but, far away, 
 Scatter'd o'er the isthmus lay; 
 Christian or Moslem, which be they? 
 Let their mothers see and say! 
 When in cradled rest they lay, 
 
Poclical Work^ of P''^" 
 
 LORD BYRON Two Hundred and Sixlyf-nine 
 
 And each nursing mother smiled 
 On the sweet sleep of her child, 
 Little deem'd she such a day- 
 Would rend those tender limbs away. 
 Not the matrons that them bore 
 Could discern their offspring more; 
 That one moment left no trace 
 More of human form or face 
 Save a scatter'd scalp or bone. 
 And down came blazing rafters, strown 
 Around, and many a falling stone. 
 Deeply dinted in the clay. 
 All blacken'd there and reeking lay. 
 All the living things that heard 
 That deadly earth-shock disappear'd: 
 The wild birds flew; the wild dogs fled, 
 And howling left the unburied dead; 
 The camels from their keepers broke; 
 The distant steer forsook the yoke— 
 The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain, 
 And burst his girth, and tore his rein; 
 The bull-frog's note, from out the marsh, 
 Deep-mouth'd arose, and doubly harsh ; 
 The wolves yell'd on the cavern'd hill 
 Where echo roll'd in thunder still; 
 The jackal's troop, in gather'd cry, 
 Bay'd from afar complainingly. 
 With a mix'd and mournful sound, 
 Like crying babe and beaten hound: 
 With sudden wing and ruffled breast. 
 The eagle left his rocky nest. 
 And mounted nearer to the sun. 
 The clonds beneath him seem'd so dun; 
 
Page Poetical Work* of 
 
 Two Hundred and Seventy LORD BYRON 
 
 Their smoke assail'd his startled beak, 
 And made him higher soar and shriek — 
 Thus was Corinth lost and won! 
 
 Pati$tna 
 
 It is the hour when from the boughs 
 
 The nightingale's high note is heard; 
 
 It is the hour when lovers' vows 
 
 Seem sweet in every whisper'd word; 
 
 And gentle winds, and waters near, 
 
 M"^ke music to the lonely ear. 
 
 Each flower the dews have lightly wet, 
 
 And in the sky the stars are met, 
 
 And on the wave is deeper blue. 
 
 And on the leaf a browner hue. 
 
 And in the heaven that clear obscure, 
 
 So softly dark and darkly pure. 
 
 Which follows the decline of day. 
 
 As twilight melts beneath the moon away. 
 
 But it is not to list to the waterfall 
 
 That Parisina leaves her hall, 
 
 And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light 
 
 That the lady walks in the shadow of night. 
 
 And if she sits in Este's bower, 
 
 'T is not for the sake of its full-blown flower j 
 
 She listens, but not for the nightingale. 
 
 Though her ear expects as soft a tale. 
 
Poetical IVor^s of PagM 
 
 LORD BYRON Tt>o Hundred and Sevenl^-onc 
 
 There glides a step through the foliage thick, 
 
 And her cheek grows pale, and her heart beats quick. 
 
 There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves, 
 
 And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves: 
 
 A moment more, and they shall meet; 
 
 'T is past — her lover 's at her feet. 
 
 And what unto them is the world beside, 
 With all its change of time and tide? 
 Its living things, its earth and sky. 
 Are nothing to their mind and eye. 
 And heedless as the dead are they 
 
 Of aught around, above, beneath ; 
 As if all else had pass'd away, 
 
 They only for each other breathe; 
 Their very sighs are full of joy 
 
 So deep, that did it not decay, 
 That happy madness would destroy 
 
 The hearts which feel its fiery sway. 
 Of guilt, of peril, do they deem 
 In that tumultuous tender dream? 
 Who that have felt that passion's power, 
 Or paused or fear'd in such an hour? 
 Or thought how brief such moments last? 
 But yet — they are already past! 
 Alas! we must awake before 
 We know such vision comes no more. 
 
 The Convent bells are ringing. 
 
 But mournfully and slow; 
 In the grey square turret swinging, 
 
 With a deep sound, to and fro. 
 
 Heavily to the heart they go! 
 Hark! the hymn is singing — 
 
Page Poetical fVor^a of 
 
 Ttdo Hundred and 5even<y-fJP0 LORD BYRON 
 
 The song for the dead below, 
 
 Or the living who shortly shall be so! 
 
 For a departing being's soul 
 
 The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells knoll. 
 
 He is near his mortal goal; 
 
 Kneeling at the Friar's knee; 
 
 Sad to hear, and piteous to see, 
 
 Kneeling on the bare cold ground. 
 
 With the block before and the guards around. 
 
 And the headsman, with his bare arm ready 
 
 That the blow may be both swift and steady. 
 
 Feels if the axe be sharp and true. 
 
 Since he set its edge anew: 
 
 While the crowd in a speechless circle gather 
 
 To see the Son fall by the doom of the Father ! 
 
Poetical Worki of ^«?« 
 
 LORD BYRON Ttdo Hundred and Sevenl^-three 
 
 Co 3Ine? 
 
 (Childe Harold) 
 
 Nay, smile not at my sullen brow ; 
 
 Alas! I cannot smile again: 
 Yet Heaven avert that ever thou 
 
 Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. 
 
 And dost thou ask what secret woe 
 I bear, corroding joy and youth? 
 
 And wilt thou vainly seek to know 
 
 A pang, ev'n thou must fail to soothe? 
 
 It is not love, it is not hate. 
 
 Nor low Ambition's honours lost, 
 
 That bids me loathe my present state. 
 And fly from all I prized the most : 
 
 It is that weariness which springs 
 From all I meet, or hear, or see ; 
 
 To me no pleasure Beauty brings, 
 
 Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. 
 
 It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 
 
 The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore; 
 
 That will not look beyond the tomb. 
 But cannot hope for rest before. 
 
 What Exile from himself can flee? 
 
 To zones, though more and more remote, 
 Still, still pursues, where-e'er I be, 
 
 The blight of Ufe— the demon Thought. 
 
 Yet others rapt in pleasure seem. 
 And taste of all that I forsake 
 
Page Poetical Work* of 
 
 Tl»o HunJred anJ Seventh-four LORD BYRON 
 
 Oh, may they still of transport dream, 
 And ne'er, at least like me, awake ! 
 
 Through many a clime 't is mine to go. 
 
 With many a retrospection curst; 
 And all my solace is to know, 
 
 Whate'er betides, I 've known the worst. 
 
 What is that worst? Nay do not ask — 
 
 In pity from the search forbear: 
 Smile on, nor venture to unmask 
 
 Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there. 
 
 Co 0^. ^» (D» 
 
 When I dream that you love me, you '11 surely forgive; 
 
 Extend not your anger to sleep; 
 For in visions alone your affection can live,— 
 
 I rise, and it leaves me to weep. 
 
 Then, Morpheus! envelope my faculties fast. 
 
 Shed o'er me your languor benign; 
 Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last 
 
 What rapture celestial is mine! 
 
Poetical Worki of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON ^^° Hundred and Sevenly-five 
 
 Co 9^* %♦ (D» 
 
 Whene'er I view those lips of thine 
 Their hue invites my fervent kiss; 
 
 Yet I forego that bliss divine, 
 Alas, it were unhallow'd bliss! 
 
 Whene'er I dream of that pure breast. 
 How could I dwell upon its snows! 
 
 Yet is the daring wish repress'd. 
 
 For that — would banish its repose, 
 
 A glance from thy soul-searching eye 
 
 Can raise with hope, depress with fear; 
 
 Yet I conceal my love — and why? 
 
 I would not force a painful tear. 
 
 At least from guilt shalt thou be free, 
 No matron shall thy shame reprove; 
 
 Though cureless pangs may prey on me, 
 No martyr shalt thou be to love. 
 
 ■ ■ 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 Two Hundred and Seventy-six LORD BYRON 
 
 Co 0^- 
 
 Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire, 
 
 With bright but mild affection shine. 
 
 Though they might kindle less desire. 
 
 Love, more than mortal, would be thine. 
 
 For thou art form'd so heavenly fair, 
 
 Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam. 
 
 We must admire, but still despair; 
 That fatal glance forbids esteem. 
 
 When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth. 
 So much perfection in thee shone, 
 
 She fear'd that, too divine for earth. 
 
 The skies might claim thee for their own: 
 
 Therefore, to guard her dearest work, 
 Lest angels might dispute the prize, 
 
 She bade a secret lightning lurk 
 Within those once celestial eyes. 
 
 These might the boldest sylph appal. 
 
 When gleaming with meridian blaze; 
 
 Thy beauty must enrapture all; 
 
 But who can dare thine ardent gaze? 
 
Poetical Worh of ^ „ j . jc , ^"^^ 
 
 LORD BYRON Tipo HundTed and bevenly-aeven 
 
 L'amitie e0t L'^mout ^ans; axles; 
 
 Why should my anxious breast repine, 
 
 Because my youth is fled? 
 Days of delight may still be mine; 
 
 Affection is not dead. 
 In tracing back the years of youth, 
 One firm record, one lasting truth 
 
 Celestial consolation brings; 
 Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat 
 Where first my heart responsive beat, — 
 
 'Friendship is Love without his wings !' 
 
 Seat of my youth! thy distant spire 
 
 Recalls each scene of joy; 
 My bosom glows with former fire, — 
 
 In mind again a boy. 
 Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill. 
 Thy every path delights me still, 
 
 Each flower a double fragrance flings; 
 Again, as once, in converse gay, 
 Each dear associate seems to say, 
 
 'Friendship is Love without his wings!' 
 
 ■ ■ 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 Tr»o Hundred and Sevenly-eight LORD BYRON 
 
 'mUn 31 EotieD a goung ©igi)lanDer' 
 
 When I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath, 
 
 And climb'd thy steep summft, oh Morven of snow! 
 To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath, 
 
 Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below, 
 Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear, 
 
 And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, . 
 No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear; 
 
 Need I say, my sweet Mary, 't was centred in you? 
 
 Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name, — 
 
 What passion can dwell in the heart of a child? 
 But still I perceive an emotion the same 
 
 As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild: 
 One image alone on my bosom impress'd, 
 
 I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new ; 
 And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd ; 
 
 And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you. 
 
 I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone; 
 
 The mountains are vanish'd, my j^^outh is no more; 
 As the last of my race, I must wither alone, 
 
 And delight but in days I have witness'd before: 
 Ah! splendour has raised, but embitter'd, my lot; 
 
 More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew: 
 Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not 
 forgot ; 
 
 Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you. 
 
Poetical iVorl(s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Two Hundred and Seven/j>-n/nc 
 
 Co an flDak at ii5eto0teaD atiliep 
 
 Young Oak ! when I planted thee deep in the ground, 
 I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine: 
 
 That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around. 
 And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. 
 
 Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's years, 
 On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride : 
 
 They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears, — 
 Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide. 
 
 I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour, 
 A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire ; 
 
 Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power, 
 But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expire. 
 
 S)n parting 
 
 The kiss, dear maid ! thy lip has left 
 
 Shall never part from mine. 
 Till happier hours restore the gift 
 
 Untainted back to thine. 
 
 Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, 
 
 An equal love may see ; 
 The tear that from thine eyelid streams 
 
 Can weep no change in me. 
 
 I ask no pledge to make me blest 
 
 In gazing when alone; 
 Nor one memorial for a breast, 
 
 Whose thoughts are all thine own. 
 
Page Poetical Worlfs of 
 
 Two Hundred and Eighty LORD BYRON 
 
 C|)e (3nl of CaDi^ 
 
 Oh never talk again to me 
 
 Of northern climes and British ladies; 
 It has not been your lot to see, 
 
 Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz. 
 Although her eye be not of blue, 
 
 Nor fair her locks, like English lasses, 
 How far its own expressive hue 
 
 The languid azure eye surpasses! 
 
 Our English maids are long to woo, 
 
 And frigid even in possession; 
 And if their charms be fair to view, 
 
 Their lips are slow at Love's confession: 
 But, born beneath a brighter sun, 
 
 For love ordain'd the Spanish maid is, 
 And who, — when fondly, fairly won, — 
 
 Enchants you like the Girl of Cadiz? 
 
 The Spanish girl that meets your love 
 
 Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial. 
 For every thought is bent to prove 
 
 Her passion in the hour of trial. 
 When thronging foemen menace Spain, 
 
 She dares the deed and shares the danger; 
 And should her lover press the plain. 
 
 She hurls the spear, her love's avenger. 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Tr»o Hundred and Eighty-one 
 
 They rested on their paddles, and uprose 
 
 Neuha, and pointing to the approaching foes, 
 
 Cried, 'Torquil, follow me, and fearless follow!' 
 
 Then plunged at once into the ocean's hollow. 
 
 There was no time to pause — the foes were near. 
 
 Chains in his eye, and menace in his ear; 
 
 With vigour they pull'd on, and as they came, 
 
 Hail'd him to yield, and by his forfeit name. 
 
 Headlong he leapt — to him the swimmer's skill 
 
 Was native, and now all his hope from ill. 
 
 But how, or where? He dived, and rose no more; 
 
 The boat's crew look'd amazed o'er sea and shore. 
 
 There was no landing on that precipice, 
 
 Steep, harsh, and slippery as a berg of ice. 
 
 They watch'd awhile to see him float again, 
 
 But not a trace rebubbled from the main. 
 
 The wave roll'd on, no ripple on its face 
 
 Since their first plunge recall'd a single trace; 
 
 The little whirl which eddied, and slight foam. 
 
 That whiten'd o'er what seem'd their latest home, 
 
 White as a sepulchre above the pair 
 
 Who left no marble (mournful as an heir) 
 
 The quiet proa wavering o'er the tide 
 
 Was all that told of Torquil and his bride; 
 
 And but for this alone the whole might seem 
 
 The vanish'd phantom of a seaman's dream. 
 
 They paused and search'd in vain, then pull'd away; 
 
 Even superstition now forbade their stay. 
 
 Some said he had not plunged into the wave. 
 
 But vanish'd like a corpse-light from a grave; 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 Two Hundred and Eighiytwo LORD BYRON 
 
 Others, that something supernatural 
 
 Glared in his figure, more than mortal tall; 
 
 While all agreed that in his cheek and eye 
 
 There was a dead hue of eternity. 
 
 Still as their oars receded from the crag, 
 
 Round every weed a moment would they lag. 
 
 Expectant of some token of their prey; 
 
 But no — he had melted from them like the spray. 
 
 And where was he, the pilgrim of the deep, 
 Following the nereid? Had they ceased to weep 
 For ever? or, received in coral caves, 
 Wrung life and pity from the softening waves? 
 Did they with ocean's hidden sovereigns dwell, 
 And sound with mermen the fantastic shell? 
 Did Neuha with the mermaids comb her hair 
 Flowing o'er ocean as it stream'd in air? 
 Or had they perish'd, and in silence slept 
 Beneath the gulf wherein they boldly leapt? 
 
 Young Neuha plunged into the deep, and he 
 
 Follow'd: her track beneath her native sea 
 
 Was as a native's of the element, 
 
 So smoothly, bravely, brilliantly she went, 
 
 Leaving a streak of light behind her heel. 
 
 Which struck and flash'd like an amphibious steel. 
 
 Closely, and scarcely less expert to trace 
 
 The depths where divers hold the pearl in chase, 
 
 Torquil, the nursling of the northern seas. 
 
 Pursued her liquid steps with heart and ease. 
 
 Deep — deeper for an instant Neuha led 
 
 The way, then upward soar'd ; and as she spread 
 
 Her arms, and flung the foam from off her locks, 
 
 Laugh'd, and the sound was answer'd by the rocks. 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Tri>o Hundred and Eighiy-lhree 
 
 They had gain'd a central realm of earth again. 
 
 But look'd for tree, and field, and sky, in vain. 
 
 Around she pointed to a spacious cave, 
 
 Whose only portal was the keyless wave 
 
 (A hollow archway by the sun unseen. 
 
 Save through the billows' glassy veil of green, 
 
 In some transparent ocean holiday, 
 
 When all the finny people are at play), 
 
 Wiped with her hair the brine from Torquil's eyes, 
 
 And clapp'd her hands with joy at his surprise ; 
 
 Led him to where the rock appear'd to jut, 
 
 And form a something like a Triton's hut; 
 
 For all was darkness for a space, till day 
 
 Through clefts above let in a sober'd ray. 
 
 As in some old cathedral's glimmering aisle 
 
 The dusty monuments from light recoil, 
 
 Thus sadly in their refuge submarine 
 
 The vault drew half her shadow from the scene. 
 
 Forth from her bosom the young savage drew 
 
 A pine torch, strongly girded with gnatoo; 
 
 A plantain-leaf o'er all, the more to keep 
 
 Its latent sparkle from the sapping deep. 
 
 This mantle kept it dry ; then from a nook 
 
 Of the same plantain-leaf a flint she took, 
 
 A few shrunk wither'd twigs, and from the blade 
 
 Of Torquil's knife struck fire ; and thus array'd 
 
 The grot with torchlight. Wide it was and high, 
 
 And show'd a self-born Gothic canopy; 
 
 The arch uprear'd by nature's architect, 
 
 The architrave some earthquake might erect; 
 
 The buttress from some mountain's bosom hurl'd, 
 
 When the Poles crash'd, and water was the world; 
 
Page Poetical IVorlis of 
 
 Tr»o Hundred and Eighth-four LORD BYRON 
 
 Or harden'd from some earth-absorbing fire, 
 
 While yet the globe reek'd from its funeral pyre; 
 
 The fretted pinnacle, the aisle, the nave, 
 
 Were there, all scoop'd by Darkness from her cave. 
 
 There, with a little tinge of phantasy, 
 
 Fantastic faces moped and mow'd on high, 
 
 And then a mitre or a shrine would fix 
 
 The eye upon its seeming crucifix. 
 
 Thus Nature play'd with the stalactites, 
 
 And built herself a chapel of the seas. 
 
 And Neuha took her Torquil by the hand, 
 And waved along the vault her kindled brand, 
 And led him into each recess, and show'd 
 The secret places of their new abode. 
 Nor these alone, for all had been prepared 
 Before, to soothe the lover's lot she shared : 
 The mat for rest ; for dress the fresh gnatoo. 
 And sandal oil to fence against the dew; 
 For food the cocoa-nut, the yam, the bread 
 Born of the fruit; for board the plantain spread 
 With its broad leaf, or turtle-shell which bore 
 A banquet in the flesh it cover'd o'er; 
 The gourd with water recent from the rill. 
 The ripe banana from the mellow hill; 
 A pine-torch pile to keep undying light, 
 And she herself, as beautiful as night. 
 To fling her shadowy spirit o'er the scene. 
 And make their subterranean world serene. 
 She had foreseen, since first the stranger's sail 
 Drew to their isle, that force or flight might fail, 
 And form'd a refuge of the rocky den 
 For Torquil's safety from his countrymen. 
 Each dawn had wafted there her light canoe, 
 
Poetical IVor^s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Two Hundred and Eighty-five 
 
 Laden with all the golden fruits that grew; 
 Each eve had seen her gliding through the hour 
 With all could cheer or deck their sparry bower ; 
 And now she spread her little store with smiles, 
 The happiest daughter of the loving isles. 
 
 She, as he gazed with grateful wonder, press'd 
 Her shelter'd love to her impassion'd breast; 
 And suited to her soft caresses, told 
 An olden tale of love, — for love is old. 
 Old as eternity, but not outworn, 
 With each new being born or to be born: 
 How a young chief, a thousand moons ago. 
 Diving for turtle in the depths below. 
 Had risen, in tracking fast his ocean prey, 
 Into the cave which round and o'er them lay; 
 How in some desperate feud of after-time 
 He shelter'd there a daughter of the clime, 
 A foe beloved, and offspring of a foe, 
 Saved by his tribe but for a captive's woe; 
 How, when the storm of war was still'd, he led 
 His island clan to where the waters spread 
 Their deep-green shadow o'er the rocky door. 
 Then dived — it seem'd as if to rise no more: — 
 His wondering mates, amazed within their bark. 
 Or deem'd him mad, or prey to the blue shark; 
 Row'd round in sorrow the sea-girded rock. 
 Then paused upon their paddles from the shock : 
 When, fresh and springing from the deep, they saw 
 A goddess rise — so deem'd they in their awe ; 
 And their companion, glorious by her side. 
 Proud and exulting in his mermaid bride : — 
 And how, when undeceived, the pair they bore 
 With sounding conchs and joyous shouts to shore. 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 Two Hundred and Eighty-six LORD BYRON 
 
 ^tanf a0 to augusta 
 
 Though the day of my destiny 's over, 
 
 And the star of my fate hath declined, 
 Thy soft heart refused to discover 
 
 The faults which so many could find; 
 Though thy soul with my grief was aquainted, 
 
 It shrunk not to share it with me, 
 And the love which my spirit hath painted 
 
 It never hath found but in thee. 
 
 Though human, thou didst not deceive me. 
 
 Though woman, thou didst not forsake. 
 Though loved, thou foreborest 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, 't was 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, 
 
 'T was 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. 
 
Poetical Worki of P'^S' 
 
 LORD BYRON Tivo Hundred anJ Eighth-seven 
 
 Cfje Jsles! of (Greece 
 
 (Don Juan) 
 
 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 Phoebus 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 mute 
 To sounds which echo further west 
 Than your sires' 'Island 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. 
 
 A king sate on the rocky brow 
 
 Which 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 shore 
 The heroic lay is tuneless now— 
 
 The heroic bosom beats no more ! 
 
Page Poetical lVorf(s of 
 
 Tv>o Hundred and Eighl^-eight LORD BYRON 
 
 And must thy lyre, so long divine, 
 Degenerate into hands like mine? 
 
 'T is 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 rve but weep o'er days more blest? 
 
 Must rve but blush? — Our fathers bled. 
 Earth! render back from out thy breast 
 
 A 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 dead 
 Sound like a distant torrent's fall. 
 
 And answer, 'Let one living head, 
 But one arise, — we come, we come!' 
 'T is 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 ! 
 
 You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, 
 
 Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? 
 
 Of two such lessons, why forget 
 
 The nobler and the manlier one? 
 
Poetical Works of ^"^^ 
 
 LORD BYRON ^^° ^^""'^'^'^ '"^^ Eighly-ntn<i 
 
 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 then 
 Were still, at least, our countrymen. 
 
 The tyrant of the Chersonese 
 
 Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; 
 
 That tyrant was Miltiades! 
 
 Oh! that the present hour would lend 
 
 Another despot of the kind! 
 
 Such chains as his were sure to bind. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samien wine ! 
 
 On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore. 
 Exists the remnant of a line 
 
 Such 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 ranks. 
 The only hope of courage dwells ; 
 
 But Turkish force, and Latin fraud. 
 
 Would 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, 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 Two HundTcd and N'mely LORD BYRON 
 
 My own the burning tear-drop laves, 
 
 To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 
 
 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! 
 
 15t\x}attif IBeUiare/ Cfje 'Black ftiati 
 
 (Don Juan) 
 
 Beware ! beware ! of the Black Friar, 
 
 Who sitteth by Norman stone. 
 For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air, 
 
 And his mass of the days that are gone. 
 When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville, 
 
 Made Norman Church his prey. 
 And expell'd the friars, one friar still 
 
 Would not be driven away. 
 
 Though he came in his might, with King Henry's right, 
 
 To turn church lands to lay. 
 With sword in hand, and torch to light 
 
 Their walls, if they said nay; 
 A monk remain'd, unchased, unchain'd, 
 
 And he did not seem form'd of clay. 
 For he 's seen in the porch, and he 's seen in the church. 
 
 Though he is not seen by day. 
 
Poclical Works of Z'"^" 
 
 LORD BYRON Two Hundred and Nmei]f-one 
 
 And whether for good, or whether for ill, 
 
 It is not mine to say; 
 But still with the house of Amundeville 
 
 He abideth night and day. 
 By the marriage-bed of their lords, 't is said,' 
 
 He flits on the bridal eve; 
 And 't is held as faith, to their bed of death 
 
 He comes— but not to grieve. 
 When an heir is born, he 's heard to mourn, 
 
 And when aught is to befall 
 That ancient line, in the pale moonshine 
 
 He walks from hall to hall. 
 His form you may trace, but not his face, 
 
 'T is shadow'd by his cowl; 
 But his eyes may be seen from the folds between, 
 
 And they seem of a parted soul. 
 But beware ! beware ! of the Black Friar, 
 
 He still retains his sway. 
 For he is yet the church's heir 
 Whoever may be the lay. 
 Amundeville is lord by day. 
 
 But the monk is lord by night ; 
 Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal 
 
 To question that friar's right. 
 Say nought to him as he walks the hall, 
 
 And he '11 say nought to you ; 
 He sweeps along in his dusky pall, 
 
 As o'er the grass the dew. 
 Then grammercy! for the Black Friar; 
 
 Heaven sain him, fair or foul! 
 And whatsoe'er may be his prayer. 
 Let ours be for his soul. 
 
Page Poetical Wor^s of 
 
 Tv>o Hundred and Nmely-lv>o LORD BYRON 
 
 Don Juan 
 
 I want a hero: an uncommon want. 
 
 When every year and month sends forth a new one. 
 Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant. 
 
 The age discovers he is not the true one; 
 Of such as these I should not care to vaunt, 
 
 I '11 therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan — 
 We all have seen him, in the pantomine. 
 Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time. 
 
 In Seville was he born, a pleasant city, 
 
 Famous for oranges and women — he 
 "Who has not seen it will be much to pity. 
 
 So says the proverb — and I quite agree; 
 Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty, 
 
 Cadiz perhaps — but that you soon may see; 
 Don Juan's parents lived beside the river, 
 A noble stream, and call'd the Guadalquivir. 
 
 His father's name was Jose — Don, of course, — 
 
 A true Hidalgo, free from every stain 
 Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source 
 
 Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain; 
 A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse. 
 
 Or, being mounted, e'er got down again, 
 Than Jose, who begot our hero, who 
 Begot — but that 's to come — Well, to renew: 
 
 His mother was a learned lady, famed 
 For every branch of every science known 
 
 In every Christian language ever named. 
 With virtues equall'd by her wit alone, 
 
Poetical Worlds of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Tivo Hundred and Nintl^-ihree 
 
 She made the cleverest people quite ashamed, 
 And even the good with inward envy groan, 
 Finding themselves so very much exceeded 
 In their own way by all the things that she did. 
 
 Don Jose and Donna Inez led 
 
 For some time an unhappy sort of life. 
 Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead; 
 
 They lived respectably as man and wife. 
 Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred, 
 
 And gave no outward signs of inward strife, 
 Until at length the smother'd fire broke out. 
 And put the business past all kind of doubt. 
 
 Their friends had tried at reconciliation. 
 
 Then their relations, who made matters worse. 
 
 ('T were hard to tell upon a like occasion 
 To whom it may be best to have recourse — 
 
 I can't say much for friend or yet relation) : 
 The lawyers did their utmost for divorce, 
 
 But scarce a fee was paid on either side 
 
 Before, unluckily, Don Jose died. 
 
 Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir 
 
 To a chancery suit, and messuages, and lands. 
 
 Which, with a long minority and care, 
 
 Promised to turn out well in proper hands : 
 
 Inez became sole guardian, which was fair. 
 And answer'd but to nature's just demands; 
 
 An only son left with an only mother 
 
 Is brought up much more wisely than another. 
 
 Sagest of women, even of widows, she 
 
 Resolved that Juan should be quite a paragon. 
 And worthy of the noblest pedigree 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 Two Hundred and Ninet\f-four LORD BYRON 
 
 (His sire was of Castile, his dame from Aragon) : 
 Then for accomplishments of chivalry, 
 
 In case our lord the king should go to war again, 
 He learn'd the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, 
 And how to scale a fortress — or a nunnery. 
 
 But that which Donna Inez most desired. 
 And saw into herself each day before all 
 
 The learned tutors whom for him she hired. 
 Was, that his breeding should be strictly moral: 
 
 Much into all his studies she inquired, 
 
 And so they were submitted first to her, all. 
 
 Arts, science, no branch was made a mystery 
 
 To Juan's eyes, excepting natural history. 
 
 Young Juan wax'd in goodliness and grace; 
 
 At six a charming child, and at eleven 
 With all the promise of as fine a face 
 
 As e'er to man's maturer growth was given: 
 He studied steadily, and grew apace. 
 
 And seem'd, at least, in the right road to heaven, 
 For half his days were pass'd at church, the other 
 Between his tutors, confessor, and mother. 
 
 At six, I said, he was a charming child, 
 
 At twelve he was a fine, but quiet boy ; 
 Although in infancy a little wild. 
 
 They tamed him down amongst them : to destroy 
 His natural spirit not in vain they toil'd, 
 
 At least it seem'd so; and his mother's joy 
 Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady. 
 Her young philosopher was grown already. 
 
 Young Juan now was sixteen years of age, 
 Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit: he seem'd 
 
PocticallVorh of , , ^,. ^^»* 
 
 LORD BYRON Two Hundred and Nmel^-Jtve 
 
 Active, though not so sprightly, as a page; 
 
 And everybody but his mother deem'd 
 Him almost man; but she flew in a rage 
 
 And bit her lips (for else she might have scream'd) 
 If any said so, for to be precocious 
 Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious. 
 
 Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all 
 
 Selected for discretion and devotion, 
 There was the Donna Julia, whom to call 
 
 Pretty were but to give a feeble notion 
 Of many charms in her as natural 
 
 As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean, 
 Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid 
 (But this last simile is trite and stupid). 
 
 Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord, 
 
 A man well looking for his years, and who 
 
 Was neither much beloved nor yet abhorr'd : 
 They lived together, as most people do. 
 
 Suffering each other's foibles by accord. 
 And not exactly either one or two; 
 
 Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, 
 
 For jealousy dislikes the world to know it. 
 
 Julia was — yet I never could see why — 
 With Donna Inez quite a favourite friend; 
 
 Between their tastes there was small sympathy, 
 For not a line had Julia ever penn'd : 
 
 Some people whisper (but no doubt they lie, 
 For malice still imputes some private end) 
 
 That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage. 
 
 Forgot with him her very prudent carriage; 
 
Page Poetical Work^ of 
 
 Tvo Hundred and Ninelysix LORD BYRON 
 
 And that still keeping up the old connection, 
 
 Which time had lately render'd much more chaste. 
 
 She took his lady also in affection, 
 
 And certainly this course was much the best: 
 
 She flatter'd Julia with her sage protection, 
 And complimented Don Alfonso's taste ; 
 
 And if she could not (who can?) silence scandal, 
 
 At least she left it a more slender handle, 
 
 I can't tell whether Julia saw the affair 
 With other people's eyes, or if her own 
 
 Discoveries made, but none could be aware 
 Of this, at least no symptom e'er was shown; 
 
 Perhaps she did not know, or did not care, 
 Indifferent from the first or callous grown : 
 
 I 'm really puzzled what to think or say, 
 
 She kept her counsel in so close a way. 
 
 Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child, 
 
 Caress'd him often — such a thing might be 
 
 Quite innocently done, and harmless styled, 
 When she had twenty years, and thirteen he ; 
 
 But I am not so sure I should have smiled 
 When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three ; 
 
 These few short years make wondrous alterations. 
 
 Particularly amongst sun-burnt nations. 
 
 Whate'er the cause might be, they had become 
 
 Changed ; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy. 
 
 Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb, 
 And much embarrassment in either eye; 
 
 There surely will be little doubt with some 
 That Donna Julia knew the reason why, 
 
 But as for Juan, he had no more notion 
 
 Than he who never saw the sea of ocean. 
 
Page 
 LORDBYRot T.o H.n... W N.n.p.e.n 
 
 Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind, 
 
 And tremulously gentle her small hand 
 
 Withdrew itself from his, but left behmd 
 
 A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland 
 And slight, so very sUght, that to the mmd 
 
 'T was but a doubt; but ne'er magician s wand 
 Wrought change with all Armida's fairy art 
 Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart. 
 And if she met him, though she smiled no more, 
 She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile. 
 As if her heart had deeper thoughts m store 
 
 She must not own, but cherish'd more the whue 
 For that compression in its burning core; 
 Even innocence itself has many a wile, 
 And will not dare to trust itself with truth. 
 And love is taught hypocrisy from youth. 
 Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression. 
 
 And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft, 
 And burning blushes, though for no transgression 
 
 Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left, 
 All these are little preludes to possession. 
 
 Of which the young passion cannot be bereft. 
 And merely tend to show how greatly love is 
 Embarrass'd at first starting with a novice. 
 Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state; 
 
 She felt it going, and resolved to make 
 The noblest efforts for herself and mate 
 
 For honour's, pride's, religion's, virtue s sake; 
 Her resolutions were most truly great, ^ 
 
 And almost might have made a Tarqum quake: 
 She pray'd the Virgin Mary for her grace, 
 As being the best judge of a lady s case. 
 
Page Poetical Worlfs of 
 
 Two Hundred and Ninel^-eighi LORD BYRON 
 
 She vow'd she never would see Juan more, 
 
 And next day paid a visit to his mother, 
 And look'd extremely at the opening door, 
 
 Which, by the Virgin's grace, let in another; 
 Grateful she was, and yet a little sore — 
 
 Again it opens, it can be no other, 
 'T is surely Juan now — No! I 'm afraid 
 That night the Virgin was no further pray'd. 
 
 She now determined that a virtuous woman 
 Should rather face and overcome temptation. 
 
 That flight was base and dastardly, and no man 
 Should ever give her heart the least sensation ; 
 
 That is to say, a thought beyond the common 
 Preference, that we must feel upon occasion 
 
 For people who are pleasanter than others, 
 
 But then they only seem so many brothers. 
 
 And then there are such things as love divine. 
 Bright and immaculate, unmix'd and pure. 
 
 Such as the angels think so very fine. 
 
 And matrons who would be no less secure, 
 
 Platonic, perfect, 'just such love as mine;' 
 Thus Julia said — and thought so, to be sure; 
 
 And so I 'd have her think, were I the man 
 
 On whom her reveries celestial ran. 
 
 Such love is innocent, and may exist 
 
 Between young persons without any danger. 
 
 A hand may first, and then a lip be kist; 
 For my part, to such doings I 'm a stranger. 
 
 But hear these freedoms form the utmost list. 
 Of all o'er which such love may be a ranger : 
 
 If people go beyond, 't is quite a crime. 
 
 But not my fault — I tell them all in time. 
 
Poetical WorI(s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Tn>o Hundred and Mnety-nine 
 
 Love, then, but love within its proper limits. 
 
 Was Julia's innocent determination 
 In young Don Juan's favour, and to him its 
 
 Exertion might be useful on occasion; 
 And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its 
 
 Ethereal lustre, with what sweet persuasion 
 He might be taught, by love and her together — 
 I really don't know what, nor Julia either. 
 
 Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced 
 
 In mail of proof — her purity of soul — 
 She, for the future of her strength convinced, 
 
 And that her honour was a rock, or mole. 
 Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed 
 
 With any kind of troublesome control; 
 But whether Julia to the task was equal 
 Is that which must be mention'd in the sequel. 
 
 Her plan she deem'd both innocent and feasible. 
 
 And, surely, with a stripling of sixteen 
 Not scandal's fangs could fix on much that's seizable, 
 
 Or if they did so, satisfied to mean 
 Nothing but what was good, her breast was peaceable — 
 
 A quiet conscience makes one so serene! 
 Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded 
 That all the Apostles would have done as they did. 
 
 And if in the mean time her husband died, 
 
 But Heaven forbid that such a thought should cross 
 
 Her brain, though in a dream! (and then she sigh'd) 
 Never could she survive that common loss; 
 
 But just suppose that moment should betide, 
 I only say suppose it — inter nos. 
 
 (This should be enlre nous, for Julia thought 
 
 In French, but then the rhyme would go for naught.) 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 Three HimdreJ LORD BYRON 
 
 I only say suppose this supposition: 
 Juan being then grown up to man's estate 
 
 Would fully suit a widow of condition, 
 
 Even seven years hence it would not be too late; 
 
 And in the interim (to pursue this vision) 
 The mischief, after all, could not be great, 
 
 For he would learn the rudiments of love, 
 
 I mean the seraph way of those above. 
 
 So much for Julia. Now we '11 turn to Juan. 
 
 Poor little fellow! he had no idea 
 Of his own case, and never hit the true one; 
 
 In feeling^ quick as Ovid's Miss Medea, 
 He puzzled over what he found a new one. 
 
 But not as yet imagined it could be a 
 Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming, 
 Which, with a little patience, might grow charming. 
 
 Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow, 
 
 Kis home deserted for the lonely wood, 
 Tormented with a wound he could not know. 
 
 His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude : 
 I 'm fond myself of solitude or so. 
 
 But then, I beg it may be understood. 
 By solitude I mean a sultan's, not 
 A hermit's, with a haram for a grot. 
 
 Young Juan wander'd by the glassy brooks, 
 
 Thinking unutterable things; he threw 
 Himself ^t length within the leafy nooks 
 
 Where the wild branch of the cork forest grew; 
 There poets find materials for their books, 
 
 And every now and then we read them through. 
 So that their plan and prosody are eligible, 
 Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible. 
 
Poetical Worki of P^g' 
 
 LORD BYRON Three Hundred and One 
 
 He thought about himself, and the whole earth. 
 
 Of man the wonderful, and of the stars, 
 And how the deuce they ever could have birth; 
 
 And then he thought of earthquakes, and of wars. 
 How many miles the moon might have in girth, 
 
 Of air-balloons, and of the many bars 
 To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies; — 
 And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes. 
 
 He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers. 
 
 And heard a voice in all the winds; and then 
 He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowers, 
 
 And how the goddesses came down to men: 
 He miss'd the pathway, he forgot the hours. 
 
 And when he look'd upon his watch again. 
 He found how much old Time had been a winner — 
 He also found that he had lost his dinner. 
 Those lonely walks, and lengthening reveries. 
 
 Could not escape the gentle Julia's eyes; 
 She saw that Juan was not at his ease ; 
 
 But that which chiefly may, and must surprise, 
 Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease 
 
 Her only son with question or surmise : 
 Whether it was she did not see, or would not, 
 Or, like all very clever people, could not. 
 
 A real husband always is suspicious, 
 
 But still not less suspects in the wrong place, 
 
 Jealous of some one who had no such wishes, 
 Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace, 
 
 By harbouring some dear old friend extremely vicious; 
 The last indeed 's infallibly the case: 
 
 And when the spouse and friend are gone off wholly. 
 
 He wonders at their vice, and not his folly. 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 Three Hundred and Tieo LORD BYRON 
 
 But Inez was so anxious, and so clear 
 
 Of sight, that I must think, on this occasion, 
 
 She had some other motive much more near 
 For leaving Juan to this new temptation; 
 
 But what that motive was, I shan't say here; 
 Perhaps to finish Juan's education, 
 
 Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes, 
 
 In case he thought his wife too great a prize. 
 
 It was upon a day, a summer's day ; — 
 
 Summer 's indeed a very dangerous season, 
 
 And so is spring about the end of May; 
 
 The sun, no doubt, is the prevailing reason; 
 
 But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say. 
 
 And stand convicted of more truth than treason. 
 
 That there are months which nature grows more merry 
 in, — 
 
 March has its hares, and May must have its heroine. 
 
 'T was on the sixth of June, about the hour 
 Of half-past six — perhaps still nearer seven — 
 
 When Julia sate within as pretty a bower 
 As e'er held houri in that heathenish heaven 
 
 Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore, 
 To whom the lyre and laurels have been given. 
 
 With all the trophies of triumphant song — 
 
 He won them well, and may he wear them long! 
 
 She sate, but not alone; I know not well 
 How this same interview had taken place. 
 
 And even if I knew, I should not tell — 
 
 People should hold their tongues in any case; 
 
 No matter how or why the thing befell, 
 
 But there were she and Juan, face to face — 
 
 When two such faces are so, 't would be wise. 
 
 But very difficult, to shut their eyes. 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Three Hundred and Three 
 
 How beautiful she look'd! her conscious heart 
 Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong. 
 
 Oh Love! how perfect is thy mystic art, 
 
 Strengthening the weak, and trampling on the strong, 
 
 How self-deceitful is the sagest part 
 
 Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along — 
 
 The precipice she stood on was immense. 
 
 So was her creed in her own innocence. 
 
 She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth. 
 
 And of the folly of all prudish fears. 
 Victorious virtue, and domestic truth. 
 
 And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years: 
 I wish these last had not occurr'd, in sooth. 
 
 Because that number rarely much endears. 
 And through all climes, the snowy and the sunny, 
 Sounds ill in love, whate'er it may in money. 
 
 Julia had honour, virtue, truth, and love, 
 
 For Don Alfonso; and she inly swore 
 By all the vows below to powers above. 
 
 She never would disgrace the ring she wore, 
 Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove; 
 
 And while she ponder'd this, besides much more, 
 One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown. 
 Quite by mistake — she thought it was her own ; 
 
 Unconsciously she lean'd upon the other. 
 Which play'd within the tangles of her hair : 
 
 And to contend with thoughts she could not smother 
 She seem'd by the distraction of her air. 
 
 'T was surely very wrong in Juan's mother 
 To leave together this imprudent pair. 
 
 She who for many years had watch'd her son so — 
 
 I 'm very certain mine would not have done so. 
 
Page Poetical IVorks of 
 
 Three Hundred and Four LORD BYRON 
 
 The hand which still held Juan's, by degrees 
 Gently, but palpably confirm'd its grasp, 
 
 As if it said, 'Detain me, if you please;' 
 
 Yet there 's no doubt she only meant to clasp 
 
 His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze: 
 She would have shrunk as from a toad, or asp. 
 
 Had she imagined such a thing could rouse 
 
 A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse. 
 
 I cannot know what Juan thought of this. 
 
 But what he did, is much what you would do; 
 
 His young lip thank'd it with a grateful kiss. 
 And then, abash'd at its own joy, withdrew 
 
 In deep despair, lest he had done amiss, — 
 Love is so very timid when 't is new: 
 
 She blush'd, and frown'd not, but she strove to speak, 
 
 And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak. 
 
 The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon: 
 The devil's in the moon for mischief; they 
 
 Who called her CHASTE, methinks, began too soon 
 Their nomenclature; there is not a day. 
 
 The longest, not the twenty-first of June, 
 Sees half the business in a wicked way 
 
 On which three single hours of moonshine smile — 
 
 And then she looks so modest all the while. 
 
 There is a dangerous silence in that hour, 
 A stillness, which leaves room for the full soul 
 
 To open all itself, without the power 
 Of calling wholly back its self-control; 
 
 The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower. 
 Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the whole, 
 
 Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws 
 
 A loving languor, which is not repose. 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Three Hundred an J Five 
 
 And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced 
 And half retiring from the glowing arm, 
 
 Which trembled like the bosom where 't was placed; 
 Yet still she must have thought there was no harm. 
 
 Or else 't were easy to withdraw her waist; 
 But then the situation had its charm, 
 
 And then — God knows what next — I can't go on ; 
 
 I 'm almost sorry that I e'er begun. 
 
 Oh Plato! Plato! you have paved the way, 
 With your confounded fantasies, to more 
 
 Immoral conduct by the fancied sway 
 
 Your system feigns o'er the controulless core 
 
 Of human hearts, than all the long array 
 Of poets and romancers: — You 're a bore, 
 
 Of charlatan, a coxcomb — and have been. 
 
 At best, no better than a go-between. 
 
 And Julia's voice was lost, except in sighs, 
 
 Until too late for useful conversation; 
 The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes, 
 
 I wish indeed they had not had occasion, 
 But who, alas! can love, and then be wise? 
 
 Not that remorse did not oppose temptation; 
 A little still she strove, and much repented, 
 And whispering 'I will ne'er consent' — consented. 
 
 We '11 talk of that anon. — 'T is sweet to hear 
 At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep 
 
 The song and oar of Adria's gondolier, 
 
 By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep; 
 
 'T is sweet to see the evening star appear ; 
 'T is sweet to listen as the night-winds creep 
 
 From leaf to leaf; 't is sweet to view on high 
 
 The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky. 
 
Page Poelical IVorl^s of 
 
 Three Hundred and Six LORD BYRON 
 
 'T is sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark 
 
 Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home; 
 
 'T is sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
 Our coming, and look brighter when we come; 
 
 'T is sweet to be awaken'd by the lark, 
 Or lull'd by falling waters; sweet the hum 
 
 Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, 
 
 The lisp of children, and their earliest words. 
 
 Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes 
 
 In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth, 
 Purple and gushing: sweet are our escapes 
 
 From civic revelry to rural mirth; 
 Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps. 
 
 Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth, 
 Sweet is revenge— especially to women. 
 Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. 
 
 'T is sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels, 
 By blood or ink; 't is sweet to put an end 
 
 To strife; 't is sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, 
 Particularly with a tiresome friend: 
 
 Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels; 
 Dear is the helpless creature we defend 
 
 Against the world; and dear the schoolboy spot 
 
 We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. 
 
 But sweeter still than this, than these, than all. 
 Is first and passionate love — it stands alone, - 
 
 Like Adam's recollection of his fall; 
 
 The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd — all's known — 
 
 And life yields nothing further to recall 
 Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown. 
 
 No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven 
 
 Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven. 
 ******** 
 
Poelical Works of ^, ^ j , j f"^' 
 
 I ORD BYRON Three Hundred and beven 
 
 But Donna Inez, to divert the train 
 
 Of one of the most circulating scandals 
 That had for centuries been known in Spain, 
 
 At least since the retirement of the Vandals, 
 First vow'd (and never had she vow'd in vain) 
 To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles ; 
 And then, by the advice of some old ladies. 
 She sent her son to be shipp'd off from Cadiz. 
 She had resolved that he should travel through 
 
 All European climes, by land or sea. 
 To mend his former morals, and get new 
 
 Especially in France and Italy 
 (At least this is the thing most people do). 
 
 Julia was sent into a convent : she 
 Grieved, but, perhaps, her feelings may be better 
 Shown in the following copy of her Letter:— 
 'They tell me 't is decided; you depart: 
 
 'T is wise— 't is well, but not the less a pam ; 
 I have no further claim on your young heart, 
 Mine is the victim, and would be again; 
 To love too much has been the only art 
 I used;— I write in haste, and if a stain 
 Be on this sheet, 't is not what it appears; 
 My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears. 
 'I loved I love you, for this love have lost 
 
 State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem, 
 And yet can not regret what it hath cost. 
 
 So dear is still the memory of that dream; 
 Yet, if I name my guilt, 't is not to boast 
 
 None can deem harshlier of me than I deem: 
 I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest— 
 I 've nothing to reproach, or to request. 
 
Page Poetical WorJ^i of 
 
 Three Hundred and Eight LORD BYRON 
 
 'Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 
 
 'T is woman's whole existence; man may range 
 
 The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart ; 
 Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange 
 
 Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart, 
 
 And few there are whom these cannot estrange; 
 
 Men have all these resources, we but one, 
 
 To love again, and be again undone. 
 
 'You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride, 
 
 Beloved and loving many; all is o'er 
 For me on earth, except some years to hide 
 
 My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core; 
 These I could bear, but cannot cast aside 
 
 The passion which still rages as before — 
 And so farewell — forgive me, love me — No, 
 That word is idle now — ^but let it go, 
 
 'My breast has been all weakness, is so yet; 
 
 But still I think I can collect my mind; 
 My blood still rushes where my spirit 's set, 
 
 As roll the v^^aves before the settled wind; 
 My heart is feminine, nor can forget — 
 
 To all, except one image, madly blind; 
 So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole, 
 As vibrates my fond heart to my fix'd soul, 
 
 *I have no more to say^ but linger still. 
 And dare not set my seal upon this sheet, 
 
 And yet I may as well the task fulfil. 
 
 My misery can scarce be more complete: 
 
 I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill ; 
 
 Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet. 
 
 And I must even survive this last adieu. 
 
 And bear with life, to love and pray for you !' 
 ******** 
 
Foclical Worh of ^"g" 
 
 LORD BYRON Three Hundred and Nine 
 
 Oh ye ! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations, 
 Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain, 
 
 I pray ye flog them upon all occasions. 
 
 It mends their morals, never mind the pain: 
 
 The best of mothers and of educations 
 
 In Juan's case were but employ'd in vain. 
 
 Since, in a way that 's rather of the oddest, he 
 
 Became divested of his native modesty. 
 
 But to our tale: the Donna Inez sent 
 
 Her son to Cadiz only to embark; 
 To stay there had not answer'd her intent. 
 
 But why? — we leave the reader in the dark— 
 'T was for a voyage that the young man was meant, 
 
 As if a Spanish ship were Noah's ark, 
 To wean him from the wickedness of earth. 
 And send him like a dove of promise forth. 
 
 Don Juan bade his valet pack his .things 
 
 According to direction, then received 
 A lecture and some money : for four springs 
 
 He was to travel ; and though Inez grieved 
 (As every kind of parting has its stings). 
 
 She hoped he would improve— perhaps believed : 
 A letter, too, she gave (he never read it) 
 Of good advice — and two or three of credit. 
 In the mean time, to pass her hours away, 
 
 Brave Inez now set up a Sunday school 
 For naughty children, who would rather play 
 
 (Like truant rogues) the devil, or the fool ; 
 Infants of three years old were taught that day, 
 
 Dunces were whipt, or set upon a stool : 
 The great success of Juan's education, 
 Spurr'd her to teach another generation. 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 Three HunJreJ and Ten LORD BYRON 
 
 Juan embark'd — the ship got under way, 
 
 The wind was fair, the water passing rough : 
 
 A devil of a sea rolls in that bay, 
 As I, who 've cross'd it oft, know well enough; 
 
 And, standing upon deck, the dashing spray 
 Flies in one's face, and makes it weather-tough: 
 
 And there he stood to take, and take again, 
 
 His first — ^perhaps his last — farewell of Spain. 
 
 Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stern. 
 
 Beheld his native Spain receding far : 
 First partings form a lesson hard to learn. 
 
 Even nations feel this when they go to war; 
 There is a sort of unexprest concern, 
 
 A kind of shock that sets one's heart ajar: 
 At leaving even the most unpleasant people 
 And places, one keeps looking at the steeple. 
 
 'Farewell, my Spain! a long farewell!' he cried, 
 
 'Perhaps I may revisit thee no more. 
 But die, as many an exiled heart hath died. 
 
 Of its own thirst to see again thy shore: 
 Farewell, where Guadalquivir's waters glide! 
 
 Farewell, my mother! and, since all is o'er. 
 Farewell, too, dearest Julia ! — (Here he drew 
 Her letter out again, and read it through.) 
 
 'And, oh! if e'er I should forget, I swear — 
 
 But that 's impossible, and cannot be — 
 Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air. 
 
 Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea, 
 Than I resign thine image, oh, my fair! -^ 
 
 Or think of any thing excepting thee; 
 A mind diseased no remedy can physic 
 (Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew sea-sick). 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Three Hundred and Eleven 
 
 'T was not without some reason, for the wind 
 
 Increased at night, until it blew a gale ; 
 And though 't was not much to a naval mind. 
 
 Some landsmen would have look'd a little pale. 
 For sailors are, in fact, a different kind : 
 
 At sunset they began to take in sail, 
 For the sky show'd it would come on to blow, 
 And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so. 
 
 At one o'clock the wind with sudden shift 
 
 Threw the ship right into the trough of the sea. 
 
 Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift. 
 Started the stern-post, also shatter'd the 
 
 Whole of her stern-frame, and, ere she could lift 
 Herself from out her present jeopardy. 
 
 The rudder tore away : 't was time to sound 
 
 The pumps, and there were four feet water found. 
 
 Immediately the masts were cut away, 
 
 Both main and mizen; first the mizen went, 
 
 The main-mast follow'd: but the ship still lay 
 Like a mere log, and baffled our intent. 
 
 Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and they 
 Eased her at last (although we never meant 
 
 To part with all till every hope was blighted). 
 
 And then with violence the old ship righted. 
 
 There 's nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms 
 As rum and true religion: thus it was. 
 
 Some plunder'd, some drank spirits, some sung psalms, 
 The high wind made the treble, and as bass 
 
 The hoarse harsh waves kept time; fright cured the 
 qualms 
 Of all the luckless landsmen's sea-sick maws : 
 
 Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion, 
 
 Clamour'd in chorus to the roaring ocean. 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 Three Hundred and Twelve LORD BYRON 
 
 The ship was evidently settling now 
 
 Fast by the head; and, all distinction gone, 
 
 Some went to prayers again, and made a vow 
 Of candles to their saints — but there were none 
 
 To pay them with; and some look'd o'er the bow; 
 Some hoisted out the boats; and there was one 
 
 That begg'd Pedrillo for an absolution, 
 
 Who told him to be damn'd — in his confusion, 
 
 'T was twilight, and the sunless day went down 
 
 Over the waste of waters ; like a veil. 
 Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown 
 
 Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail. 
 Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown. 
 
 And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale. 
 And the dim desolate deep: twelve days had Fear 
 Been their familiar, and now Death was here. 
 
 At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hencoops, spars. 
 And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose. 
 
 That still could keep afloat the struggling tars. 
 For yet they strove, although of no great use: 
 
 There was no light in heaven but a few stars, 
 The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews; 
 
 She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port. 
 
 And, going down head foremost — sunk, in short. 
 
 Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell — 
 Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave, 
 
 Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell, 
 As eager to anticipate their grave; 
 
 And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell. 
 
 And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave. 
 
 Like one who grapples with his enemy, 
 
 And strives to strangle him before he die. 
 
Poetical IVorl^s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Three HunJred and Thirteen 
 
 Juan got into the long-boat, and there 
 
 Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place; 
 It seem'd as if they had exchanged their care. 
 
 For Juan wore the magisterial face 
 Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's pair 
 
 Of eyes were crying for their owner's case: 
 Battista, though (a name call'd shortly Tita), 
 Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita. 
 
 As morning broke, the light wind died away. 
 
 When he who had the watch sung out and swore, 
 
 If 't was not land that rose with the sun's ray, 
 He wish'd that land he never might see more ; 
 
 And the rest rubb'd their eyes and saw a bay. 
 
 Or thought thy saw, and shaped their course for shore ; 
 
 For shore it was, and gradually grew 
 
 Distinct, and high, and palpable to view. 
 
 And then of these some part burst into tears, 
 And others, looking with a stupid stare. 
 
 Could not yet separate their hopes from fears, 
 And seem'd as if they had no further care ; 
 
 While a few pray'd (the first time for some years) — 
 And at the bottom of the boat three were 
 
 Asleep : they shook them by the hand and head. 
 
 And tried to awaken them, but found them dead. 
 
 Meantime the current, with a rising gale. 
 
 Still set them onwards to the welcome shore. 
 
 Like Charon's bark of spectres, dull and pale: 
 Their living freight was now reduced to four, 
 
 And three dead, whom their strength could not avail 
 To heave into the deep with those before, 
 
 Though the two sharks still follow'd them, and dash'd 
 
 The spray into their faces as they splash'd. 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 Three Hundred and Fourteen LORD BYRON 
 
 The shore look'd wild, without a trace o£ man, 
 And girt by formidable waves; but they 
 
 Were mad for land, and thus their course they ran, 
 Though right ahead the roaring breakers lay: 
 
 A reef between them also now began 
 
 To show its boiling surf and bounding spray, 
 
 But finding no place for their landing better, 
 
 They ran the boat for shore, — and overset her. 
 
 But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir, 
 Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont; 
 
 And having learnt to swim in that sweet river. 
 Had often turn'd the art to some account: 
 
 A better swimmer you could scarce see ever, 
 He could, perhaps, have pass'd the Hellespont, 
 
 As once (a feat on which ourselves we prided) 
 
 Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did. 
 
 So here, though faint, emaciated, and stark, 
 
 He buoy'd his boyish limbs, and strove to ply 
 
 With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was dark, 
 The beach which lay before him, high and dry : 
 
 The greatest danger here was from a shark, 
 That carried off his neighbour by the thigh; 
 
 As for the other two, they could not swim, 
 
 So nobody arrived on shore but him. 
 
 There, breathless, with his digging nails he clung 
 Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave, 
 
 From whose reluctant roar his life he wrung, 
 Should suck him back to her insatiate grave: 
 
 And there he lay, full length, where he was flung, 
 Before the entrance of a cliff-worn cave. 
 
 With just enough of life to feel its pain. 
 
 And deem that it was saved, perhaps, in vain. 
 
Poetical Works of ^«?^ 
 
 LORD BYRON Three Hundred and F if leen 
 
 How long in his damp trance young Juan lay 
 He knew not, for the earth was gone for him, 
 
 And Time had nothing more of night nor day 
 For his congealing blood, and senses dim; 
 
 And how this heavy faintness pass'd away 
 He knew not, still each painful pulse and limb, 
 
 And tingling vein, seem'd throbbing back to life, 
 
 For Death, though vanquish'd, still retired with strife. 
 
 His eyes he open'd, shut, again unclosed. 
 
 For all was doubt and dizziness; he thought 
 He still was in the boat and had but dozed. 
 
 And felt again with his despair o'er-wrought, 
 And wish'd it death in which he had reposed; 
 
 And then once more his feelings back were brought. 
 And slowly by his swimming eyes was seen 
 A lovely female face of seventeen. 
 'T was bending close o'er his, and the small mouth 
 
 Seem'd almost prying into his for breath; 
 And chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth 
 
 Recall'd his answering spirits back from death; 
 And, bathing his chill temples, tried to soothe 
 
 Each pulse to animation, till beneath 
 Its gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh 
 To these kind efforts made a low reply. 
 Then was the cordial pour'd, and mantle flung 
 
 Around his scarce-clad limbs ; and the fair arm 
 Raised higher the faint head which o'er it hung ; 
 
 And her transparent cheek, all pure and warm, 
 Pillow'd his death-like forehead ; then she wrung 
 
 His dewy curls, long drench'd by every storm; 
 And watch'd with eagerness each throb that drew 
 A sigh from his heaved bosom — and hers, too. 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 Three Hundred and Sixteen LORD BYRON 
 
 And lifting him with care into the cave, 
 The gentle girl and her attendant, — one 
 
 Young, yet her elder, and of brow less grave, 
 And more robust of figure, — then begun 
 
 To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave 
 
 Light to the rocks that roof'd them, which the sun 
 
 Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er 
 
 She was, appear'd distinct, and tall, and fair. 
 
 Her brow was overhung with coins of gold. 
 That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair — 
 
 Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were roU'd 
 In braids behind; and though her stature were 
 
 Even of the highest for a female mould, 
 
 They nearly reach'd her heel; and in her air 
 
 There was something which bespoke command, 
 
 As one who was a lady in the land. 
 
 Her hair, I said, was auburn ; but her eyes 
 Were black as death, their lashes the same hue, 
 
 Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies 
 Deepest attraction; for when to the view 
 
 Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies, 
 Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew; 
 
 'T is as the snake late coil'd, who pours his length, 
 
 And hurls at once his venom and his strength. 
 
 Her brow was white and low, her cheek's pure dye 
 Like twilight rosy still with the set sun; 
 
 Short upper lip — sweet lips! that make us sigh 
 Ever to have seen such; for she was one 
 
 Fit for the model of a statuary 
 
 (A race of mere impostors, when all 's done — 
 
 I 've seen much finer women, ripe and real. 
 
 Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal). 
 
Poetical Works of ^, , , i j j e . 
 
 LORD BYRON ^-/.ree Hundred and Seventeen 
 
 And such was she, the lady of the cave: 
 
 Her dress was very different from the Spanish, 
 Simpler, and yet of colours not so grave; 
 
 For as you know, the Spanish women banish 
 Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while wave 
 
 Around them (what I hope will never vanish) 
 The basquina and the mantilla, they 
 Seem at the same time mystical and gay. 
 But with our damsel this was not the case: 
 Her dress was many-colour'd, finely spun; 
 Her locks curl'd negligently round her face, 
 
 But through them gold and gems profusely shone: 
 Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace 
 
 Flow'd in her veil, and many a precious stone 
 Flash'd on her httle hand; but, what was shockmg. 
 Her small snow feet had slippers, but no stockmg. 
 The other female's dress was not unlike, 
 
 But of inferior materials : she 
 Had not so many ornaments to strike, 
 
 Her hair had silver only, bound to be 
 Her dowry ; and her veil, in form alike. 
 
 Was coarser; and her air, though firm, less free; 
 Her hair was thicker, but less long; her eyes 
 As black, but quicker, and of smaller size. 
 I '11 tell you who they were, this female pair, 
 
 Lest they should seem princesses in disguise; 
 Besides, I hate all mystery, and that air 
 
 Of clap-trap which your recent poets prize; 
 And so, in short, the girls they really were 
 
 They shall appear before your curious eyes. 
 Mistress and maid; the first was only daughter 
 Of an old man who lived upon the water. 
 
Page Poetical lVorl(i of 
 
 Three Hundred and Eighteen LORD BYRON 
 
 A fisherman he had been in his youth, 
 
 And still a sort of fisherman was he; 
 But other speculations were, in sooth. 
 
 Added to his connection with the sea. 
 Perhaps not so respectable, in truth: 
 
 A little smuggling, and some piracy, 
 Left him, at last, the sole of many masters 
 Of an ill-gotten million of piastres. 
 
 He had an only daughter, call'd Haidee, 
 The greatest heiress of the Eastern Isles ; 
 
 Besides, so very beautiful was she. 
 
 Her dowry was as nothing to her smiles: 
 
 Still in her teens, and like a lovely tree 
 
 She grew to womanhood, and between whiles 
 
 Rejected several suitors, just to learn 
 
 How to accept a better in his turn. 
 
 And walking out upon the beach, below 
 
 The cliff, towards sunset, on that day she found, 
 
 Insensible, — not dead, but nearly so, — 
 
 Don Juan, almost famish'd, and half drown'd; 
 
 But being naked, she was shock'd, you know, 
 Yet deem'd herself in common pity bound, 
 
 As far as in her lay, *to take him in, 
 
 A stranger' dying, with so white a skin. 
 
 But taking him into her father's house 
 
 Was not exactly the best way to save. 
 But like conveying to the cat the mouse, 
 
 Or people in a trance into their grave ; 
 Because the good old man had so much 'vous/ 
 
 Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave. 
 He would have hospitably cured the stranger, 
 And sold him instantly when out of danger. 
 
Poetical Worb of ^ ^°^^ 
 
 LORD BYRON Three Hundred and Nineteen 
 
 And therefore, with her maid, she thought it best 
 
 (A virgin always on her maid relies) 
 To place him in the cave for present rest: 
 
 And when, at last, he open'd his black eyes, 
 Their charity increased about their guest; 
 
 And their compassion grew to such a size, 
 It open'd half the turnpike-gates to heaven 
 (St. Paul says, 't is the toll which must be given). 
 
 He had a bed of furs, and a pelisse. 
 
 For Haidee stripped her sables off to make 
 His couch; and, that he might be more at ease. 
 
 And warm, in case by chance he should awake, 
 They also gave a petticoat apiece, 
 
 She and her maid— and promised by daybreak 
 To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish 
 For breakfast, of eggs, poffee, bread, and fish. 
 Young Juan slept all dreamless :— -but the maid. 
 
 Who smooth'd his pillow, as she left the den 
 Look'd back upon him, and a moment stay'd, 
 And turn'd, believing that he call'd again. 
 He slumber'd; yet she thought, at least she said 
 (The heart will slip, even as the tongue and pen), 
 He had pronounced her name— but she forgot 
 That at this moment Juan knew it not. 
 The morn broke, and found Juan slumbering still 
 
 Fast in his cave, and nothing clash'd upon 
 His rest; the rushing of the neighbouring rill. 
 And the young beams of the excluded sun. 
 Troubled him not, and he might sleep his fill; 
 And need he had of slumber yet, for none 
 Had suffer'd more— his hardships were comparative 
 To those related in my grand-dad's 'Narative.' 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 Three Hundred and Twejxl^ LORD BYRON 
 
 Not SO Haidee : she sadly toss'd and tumbled, 
 And started from her sleep, and, turning o'er 
 
 Dream'd of a thousand wrecks, o'er which she stumbled, 
 And handsome corpses strew'd upon the shore; 
 
 And woke her maid so early that she grumbled. 
 And call'd her father's old slaves up, who swore 
 
 In several oaths — Armenian, Turk, and Greek — 
 
 They knew not what to think of such a freak. 
 
 And Haidee met the morning face to face; 
 
 Her own was freshest, though a feverish flush 
 Had dyed it with the headlong blood, whose race 
 
 From heart to cheek is curb'd into a blush. 
 Like to a torrent which a mountain's base, 
 
 That overpowers some Alpine river's rush. 
 Checks to a lake, whose waves in circles spread ; 
 Or the Red Sea — but the sea is not red. 
 
 And down the cliff the island virgin came, 
 
 And near the cave her quick light footsteps drew. 
 
 While the sun smiled on her with his first flame, 
 And young Aurora kiss'd her lips with dew, 
 
 Taking her for a sister; just the same 
 
 Mistake you would have made on seeing the two, 
 
 Although the mortal, quite as fresh and fair. 
 
 Had all the advantage, too, of not being air. 
 
 And when into the cavern Haidee stepp'd 
 
 All timidly, yet rapidly, she saw 
 That like an infant Juan sweetly slept; 
 
 And then she stopp'd, and stood as if in awe 
 (For sleep is awful), and on tiptoe crept 
 
 And wrapt him closer, lest the air, too raw, 
 Should reach his blood, then o'er him still as death 
 Bent with hush'd lips, that drank his scarce-drawn breath. 
 
Pafe 
 lo^' BYRON r..eeH.n.,W...r.en.,-.«. 
 
 He woke and gazed, and would have slept again, 
 
 But the fair face which met his eyes forbade 
 Those eyes to close, though weariness and pain 
 Had further sleep a further pleasure made; 
 For woman's face was never form'd in vam 
 
 For Juan, so that even when he pray'd 
 He turn'd from grisly saints, and martyrs hairy, 
 To the sweet portraits of the Virgin Mary. 
 And thus upon his elbow he arose. 
 
 And look'd upon the lady, in whose cheek 
 The pale contended with the purple rose. 
 As with an effort she began to speak; 
 Her eyes were eloquent, her words would pose. 
 
 Although she told him, in good modern Greek, 
 With an Ionian accent, low and sweet, 
 That he was faint, and must not talk, but eat. 
 Now Juan could not understand a word. 
 Being no Grecian; but he had an ear. 
 And her voice was the warble of a bird, 
 
 So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear. 
 That finer, simpler music ne'er was heard; 
 
 The sort of sound we echo with a tear. 
 Without knowing why-an overpowering tone. 
 Whence Melody descends as from a throne. 
 And Juan, too, was help'd out from his dream. 
 
 Or sleep, or whatsoe'er it was, by f eelmg 
 A most prodigious appetite: the steam 
 
 Of Zoe's cookery no doubt was steahng 
 Upon his senses, and the kindhng beam 
 
 Of the new fire, which Zoe kept up, kneelmg 
 To stir her viands, made him quite awake 
 And long for food, but chiefly a beef-steak. 
 
Page Poetical IVorJ^s of 
 
 Three Hundred and Twenty-two LORD BYRON 
 
 But to resume. The languid Juan raised 
 
 His head upon his elbow, and he saw 
 A sight on which he had not lately gazed, 
 
 As all his latter meals had been quite raw. 
 Three or four things, for which the Lord he praised, 
 
 And, feeling still the famish'd vulture gnaw. 
 He fell upon whate'er was offer'd, like 
 A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike. 
 
 He ate, and he was well supplied : and she, 
 
 Who watch'd him like a mother, would have fed 
 
 Him past all bounds, because she smiled to see 
 Such appetite in one she had deem'd dead; 
 
 But Zoe, being older than Haidee, 
 
 Knew (by tradition, for she ne'er had read) 
 
 That famish'd people must be slowly nurst. 
 
 And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst. 
 
 And so she took the liberty to state. 
 
 Rather by deeds than words, because the case 
 
 Was urgent, that the gentleman, whose fate 
 Had made her mistress quit her bed to trace 
 
 The sea-shore at this hour, must leave his plate, 
 Unless he wish'd to die upon the place — 
 
 She snatch'd it, and refused another morsel. 
 
 Saying, he had gorged enough to make a horse ill. 
 
 Next they — he being naked, save a tatter'd 
 Pair of scarce decent trowsers — went to work, 
 
 And in the fire his recent rags they scatter'd, 
 And dress'd him, for the present, like a Turk, 
 
 Or Greek — that is, although it not much matter'd, 
 Omitting turban, slippers, pistols, dirk, — 
 
 They furnish'd him, entire, except some stitches. 
 
 With a clean shirt, and very spacious breeches. 
 
Poetical lVorI(s of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Three Hundred and Tv>enly-lhree 
 
 And then fair Haidee tried her tongue at speaking, 
 
 But not a word could Juan comprehend, 
 Although he listen'd so that the young Greek in 
 
 Her earnestness would ne'er have made an end; 
 And, as he interrupted not, went eking 
 
 Her speech out to her protege and friend, 
 Till pausing at the last her breath to take, 
 She saw he did not understand Romaic. 
 
 And then she had recourse to nods, and signs. 
 And smiles, and sparkles of the speaking eye, 
 
 And read (the only book she could) the lines 
 Of his fair face, and found, by sympathy, 
 
 The answer eloquent, where the soul shines 
 And darts in one quick glance a long reply ; 
 
 And thus in every look she saw exprest 
 
 A world of words, and things at which she guess'd. 
 
 And now, by dint of fingers and of eyes, 
 
 And words repeated after her, he took 
 A lesson in her tongue; but by surmise, 
 
 No doubt, less of her language than her look: 
 As he who studies fervently the skies 
 
 Turns oftener to the stars than to his book. 
 Thus Juan learn'd his alpha beta better 
 From Haidee's glance than any graven letter. 
 
 'T is pleasing to be school'd in a strange tongue 
 By female lips and eyes — that is, I mean. 
 
 When both the teacher and the taught are young. 
 As was the case, at least, where I have been; 
 
 They smile so when one's right, and when one's wrong 
 They smile still more, and then there intervene 
 
 Pressure of hands, perhaps even a chaste kiss; — 
 
 I learn'd the little that I know by this. 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 Three Hundred and Tiuerjlyfour LORD BYRON 
 
 Return we to Don Juan. He begun 
 
 To hear new words, and to repeat them; but 
 
 Some feelings, universal as the sun. 
 
 Were such as could not in his breast be shut 
 
 More than within the bosom of a nun : 
 
 He was in love, — as you would be, no doubt. 
 
 With a young benefactress, — so was she. 
 
 Just in the way we very often see. 
 
 And every day by daybreak — rather early 
 For Juan, who was somewhat fond of rest — 
 
 She came into the cave, but it was merely 
 To see her bird reposing in his nest; 
 
 And she would softly stir his locks so curly, 
 Without disturbing her yet slumbering guest. 
 
 Breathing all gently o'er his cheek and mouth, 
 
 As o'er a bed of roses the sweet south. 
 
 And every morn his colour freshlier came, 
 And every day help'd on his convalescence; 
 
 'T was well, because health in the human frame 
 Is pleasant, besides being true love's essence, 
 
 For health and idleness to passion's flame 
 
 Are oil and gunpowder; and some good lessons 
 
 Are also learnt from Ceres and from Bacchus, 
 
 Without whom Venus will not long attack us. 
 
 When Juan woke he found some good things ready, 
 
 A bath, a breakfast, and the finest eyes 
 That ever made a youthful heart less steady. 
 
 Besides her maid's as pretty for their size; 
 But I have spoken of all this already — 
 
 And repetition 's tiresome and unwise, — 
 Well— Juan, after bathing in the sea, 
 Came always back to coffee and Haidee. 
 
Page 
 Poetical Works o1 j^^^j^^j ^^j Twenly-fi^c 
 
 LORD BYRON 
 
 Both were so young, and one so innocent 
 
 That bathing pass'd for nothing; Juan seem d 
 To her, as 'twere, the kind of being sent 
 
 Of whom these two years she had nightly dream d. 
 A something to be loved, a creature rrieant 
 
 To be her happiness, and whom she deem d 
 To render happy; all who joy would wm 
 Must share it,-Happiness was born a twm. 
 It was such pleasure to behold him, such 
 
 Enlargement of existence to partake 
 Nature with him, to thrill beneath his touch. 
 
 To watch him slumbering, and to see him wake. 
 To live with him forever were too much; 
 
 But then the thought of parting made her quake; 
 He was her own, her ocean-treasure, cast 
 Like a rich wreck-her first love, and her last. 
 And thus a moon roll'd on, and fair Haidee 
 
 Paid daily visits to her boy, and took 
 Such plentiful precautions, that still he 
 
 Remain d unknown within the craggy nook; 
 At last her father's prows put out to sea 
 
 For certain merchantmen upon the look, 
 Not as of yore to carry off an lo, 
 But three Ragusan vessels, bound for Scio. 
 Then came her freedom, for she had no mother. 
 
 So that, her father being at sea, she was 
 Free as a married woman, or such other 
 
 Female, as where she likes may freely pass. 
 Without even the incumbrance of a brother, 
 
 The freest she that ever gazed on glass; 
 I speak of Christian lands in this comparison, 
 Where wives, at least, are seldom kept m garnson. 
 
Page Poetical Worlds of 
 
 Three Hundred and Tr»enly-six LORD BYRON 
 
 Now she prolong'd her visits and her talk 
 
 (For they must talk), and he had learnt to say 
 
 So much as to propose to take a walk, — 
 For little had he wander'd since the day 
 
 On which, like a young flower snapp'd from the stalk, 
 Dropping and dewy on the beach he lay, — 
 
 And thus they walk'd out in the afternoon, 
 
 And saw the sun set opposite the moon. 
 
 It was a wild and breaker-beaten coast. 
 
 With cliffs above, and a broad sandy shore. 
 
 Guarded by schoals and rocks as by an host, 
 With here and there a creek, whose aspect wore 
 
 A better welcome to the tempest-tost; 
 
 And rarely ceased the haughty billow's roar. 
 
 Save on the dead long summer days, which make 
 
 The outstretch'd ocean glitter like a lake. 
 
 And forth they wander'd, her sire being gone. 
 
 As I have said, upon an expedition; 
 And mother, brother, guardian, she had none. 
 
 Save Zoe, who, although with due precision 
 She waited on her lady with the sun. 
 
 Thought daily service was her only mission, 
 Bringing warm water, wreathing her long tresses. 
 And asking now and then for cast-off dresses. 
 
 And thus they wander'd forth, and hand in hand. 
 Over the shining pebbles and the shells. 
 
 Glided along the smooth and harden'd sand. 
 And in the worn and wild receptacles 
 
 Work'd by the storms, yet work'd as it were plann'd, 
 In hollow halls, with sparry roofs and cells, 
 
 They turn'd to rest ; and, each clasp'd by an arm, 
 
 Yielded to the deep twilight's purple charm. 
 
Poelical Works of ^"^^ 
 
 LORD BYRON Three Hundred and TTventy-seven 
 
 They look'd up to the sky, whose floating glow 
 
 Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright; 
 They gazed upon the glittering sea below, 
 
 Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight; 
 They heard the wave's splash, and the wind so low, 
 
 And saw each other's dark eyes darting light 
 Into each other— and, beholding this, 
 Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss ; 
 A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love, 
 
 And beauty, all concentrating like rays 
 Into one focus, kindled from above ; 
 
 Such kisses as belong to early days, 
 Where heart, and soul, and sense, in concert move. 
 
 And the blood 's lava, and the pulse a blaze. 
 Each kiss a heart-quake,— for a kiss's strength, 
 I think, it must be reckon'd by its length. 
 
 By length I mean duration ; theirs endured 
 
 Heaven knows how long— no doubt they never 
 reckon'd ; 
 And if they had, they could not have secured 
 
 The sum of their sensations to a second : 
 They had not spoken; but they felt allured. 
 
 As if their souls and lips each other beckon'd. 
 Which, being join'd, like swarming bees they clung— 
 Their hearts the flowers from whence the honey sprung. 
 
 They were alone, but not alone as they 
 Who shut in chambers think it loneliness; 
 
 The silent ocean, and the starlight bay. 
 
 The twilight glow which momently grew less. 
 
 The voiceless sands and dropping caves, that lay 
 Around them, made them to each other press, 
 
 As if there were no life beneath the sky 
 
 Save theirs, and that their life could never die. 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 Three Hundred and Twenl^-eight LORD BYRON 
 
 They fear'd no eyes nor ears on that lone beach, 
 They felt no terrors from the night, they were 
 
 All in all to each other: though their speech 
 
 Was broken words, they thought a language there, — 
 
 And all the burning tongues the passions teach 
 Found in one sight the best interpreter 
 
 Of nature's oracle — first love, — that all 
 
 Which Eve has left her daughters since her fall. 
 
 Haidee spoke not of scruples, ask'd no vows. 
 
 Nor offer'd any; she had never heard 
 Of plight and promises to be a spouse, 
 
 Or perils by a loving maid incurr'd; 
 She was all which pure ignorance allows, 
 
 And flew to her young mate like a young bird; 
 And, never having dreamt of falsehood, she 
 Had not one word to say of constancy. 
 
 She loved, and was beloved — she adored. 
 
 And she was worshipp'd; after nature's fashion, 
 
 Their intense souls, into each other pour'd. 
 
 If souls could die, had perish'd in that passion, — 
 
 But by degrees their senses were restored, 
 Again to be o'ercome, again to dash on; 
 
 And, beating 'gainst his bosom, Haidee's heart 
 
 Felt as if never more to beat apart. 
 
 Alas! they were so young, so beautiful. 
 So lonely, loving, helpless, and the hour 
 
 Was that in which the heart is always full. 
 And, having o'er itself no further power. 
 
 Prompts deeds eternity cantiot annul, 
 
 But pays off moments in an endless shower 
 
 Of hell-fire — all prepared for people giving 
 
 Pleasure or pain to one another living. 
 
Poetical Worlds of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Three Hundred and Twenty-nine 
 
 Alas! for Juan and Haidee! they were 
 So loving and so lovely — till then never, 
 
 Excepting our first parents, such a pair 
 
 Had run the risk of being damn'd for ever; 
 
 And Haidee, being devout as well as fair, 
 
 Had, doubtless heard about the Stygian river. 
 
 And hell and purgatory — but forgot 
 
 Just in the very crisis she should not. 
 
 They look upon each other, and their eyes 
 
 Gleam in the moonlight ; and her white arm clasps 
 
 Round Juan's head, and his around her lies 
 Half buried in the tresses which it grasps; 
 
 She sits upon his knee, and drinks his sighs, 
 He hers, until they end in broken gasps ; 
 
 And thus they form a group that's quite antique. 
 
 Half naked, loving, natural, and Greek. 
 
 And when those deep and burning moments pass'd. 
 And Juan sunk to sleep within her arms. 
 
 She slept not, but all tenderly, though fast, 
 Sustain'd his head upon her bosom's charms; 
 
 And now and then her eye to heaven is cast, 
 
 And then on the pale cheek her breast now warms, 
 
 Pillow'd on her o'erflowing heart, which pants 
 
 With all it granted, and with all it grants. 
 
 The lady watch'd her lover — and that hour 
 Of Love's, and Night's, and Ocean's solitude, 
 
 O'erflow'd her soul with their united power; 
 Amidst the barren sand and rocks so rude 
 
 She and her wave-worn love had made their bower. 
 Where nought upon their passion could intrude. 
 
 And all the stars that crowded the blue space 
 
 Saw nothing happier than her glowing face. 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 Three Hundred and Thirty LORD BYRON 
 
 Alas! the love of women! it is known 
 
 To be a lovely and a fearful thing; 
 For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, 
 
 And if 't is lost, life hath no more to bring 
 To them but mockeries of the past alone, 
 
 And their revenge is as the tiger's spring, 
 Deadly, and quick, and crushing; yet, as real 
 Torture is theirs, what they inflict they feel. 
 
 Haidee was Nature's bride, and knew not this; 
 
 Haidee was Passion's child, born where the sun 
 Showers triple light, and scorches even the kiss 
 
 Of his gazelle-eyed daughter; she was one 
 Made but to love, to feel that she was his 
 
 Who was her chosen: what was said or done 
 Elsewhere was nothing. She had naught to fear, 
 Hope, care, nor love, beyond, her heart beat here. 
 
 And now 't was done — on the lone shore were plighted 
 
 Their hearts; the stars, their nuptial torches, shed 
 Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted: 
 
 Ocean their witness, and the cave their bed. 
 By their own feelings hallow'd and united. 
 
 Their priest was Solitude, and they were wed : 
 And they were happy, for their young eyes 
 Each was an angel, and earth paradise. 
 
 ******** 
 The heart — which may be broken: happy they! 
 
 Thrice fortunate! who of that fragile mould, 
 The precious porcelain of human clay. 
 
 Break with the first fall: they can ne'er behold 
 The long year link'd with heavy day on day, 
 
 And all which must be borne, and never told; 
 While life's strange principle will often lie 
 Deepest in those who long the most to die. 
 
PoeiicaliVorksof ^°«' 
 
 LORD BYRON Three Hundred and Thtrtyf-one 
 
 'Whom the gods love die young,' was said of yore. 
 And many deaths do they escape by this: 
 
 The death of friends, and that which slays even more— 
 The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is, 
 
 Except mere breath; and since the silent shore 
 Awaits at last even those who longest miss 
 
 The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early grave 
 
 Which men weep over may be meant to save. 
 
 Haidee and Juan thought not of the dead— 
 
 The heavens, and earth, and air, seem'd made for them : 
 They found no fault with Time, save that he fled; 
 They saw not in themselves aught to condemn: 
 Each was the other's mirror, and but read 
 
 Joy sparkUng in their dark eyes like a gem. 
 And knew such brightness was but the reflection 
 Of their exchanging glances of affection. 
 The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch. 
 
 The least glance better understood than words, 
 Which still said all, and ne'er could say too much ; 
 
 A language, too, but like to that of birds. 
 Known but to them, at least appearing such 
 
 As but to lovers a true sense afFords; 
 Sweet playful phrases, which would seem absurd 
 To those who have ceased to hear such, or ne'er heard,— 
 All these were theirs, for they were children still, 
 And children still they should have ever been; 
 They were not made in the real world to fill 
 
 A busy character in the dull scene. 
 But like two beings born from out a rill, 
 
 A nymph and her beloved, all unseen 
 To pass their lives in fountains and on flowers, 
 And never know the weight of human hours. 
 
Page Poetical lVorl(s of 
 
 Three Hundred and Thirfy-lrvo LORD BYRON 
 
 They gazed upon the sunset; 't is an hour 
 Dear unto all, but dearest to their eyes, 
 
 For it had made them what they were : the power 
 Of love had first o'erwhelm'd them from such skies, 
 
 When happiness had been their only dower, 
 
 And twilight saw them link'd in passion's ties; 
 
 Charm'd with each other, all things charm'd that brought 
 
 The past still welcome as the present thought. 
 
 I know not why, but in that hour to-night. 
 Even as they gazed, a sudden tremor came. 
 
 And swept, as 't were, across their hearts' delight, 
 Like the wind o'er a harp-string, or a flame, 
 
 When one is shook in sound, and one in sight; 
 And thus some boding flash'd through either frame. 
 
 And call'd from Juan's breast a faint low sigh. 
 
 While one new tear arose in Haidee's eye. 
 
 Juan would question further, but she press'd 
 His lip to hers, and silenced him with this. 
 
 And then dismiss'd the omen from her breast, 
 Defying augury with that fond kiss; 
 
 And no doubt of all methods 't is the best: 
 Some people prefer wine — 't is not amiss; 
 
 I have tried both; so those who would a part take 
 
 May choose between the headache and the heartache. 
 
 Mix'd in each other's arms, and heart in heart, 
 
 Why did they not then die? — they had lived too long 
 
 Should an hour come to bid them breathe apart; 
 Years could but bring them cruel things or wrong; 
 
 The world was not for them, nor the world's art 
 For beings passionate as Sappho's song; 
 
 Love was born Tviih them, in them, so intense. 
 
 It was their very spirit — not a sense. 
 
Poetical Worlds of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Three Hundred and Thirlyihree 
 
 They should have Uved together deep in woods, 
 Unseen as sings the nightingale; they were 
 
 Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes 
 
 Call'd social, haunts of Hate, and Vice, and Care: 
 
 How lonely every freeborn creature broods! 
 The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair; 
 
 The eagle soars alone; the gull and crow 
 
 Flock o'er their carrion, just like men below. 
 
 Now pillow'd cheek to cheek, in loving sleep, 
 
 Haidee and Juan their siesta took, 
 A gentle slumber, but it was not deep, 
 
 For ever and anon a something shook 
 Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would creep; 
 
 And Haidee's sweet lips murmur'd like a brook 
 A wordless music, and her face so fair 
 Stirr'd with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air. 
 
 She dream'd of being alone on the sea-shore, 
 Chain'd to a rock; she knew not how, but stir 
 
 She could not from the spot, and the loud roar 
 
 Grew, and each wave rose roughly, threatening her; 
 
 And o'er her upper lip they seem'd to pour. 
 
 Until she sobb'd for breath, and soon they were 
 
 Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and high — 
 
 Each broke to drown her, yet she could not die. 
 
 The dream changed : — in a cave she stood, its walls 
 Were hung with marble icicles, the work 
 
 Of ages on its water-fretted halls. 
 
 Where waves might wash, and seals might breed and 
 lurk; 
 
 Her hair was dripping, and the very balls 
 
 Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, and mirk 
 
 The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they caught. 
 
 Which froze to marble as it fell, — she thought. 
 
Page Poetical Worlft of 
 
 Three Hundred arid Thirty-iour LORD BYRON 
 
 And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet. 
 
 Pale as the foam that froth'd on his dead brow, 
 
 Which she essay'd in vain to clear (how sweet 
 
 Were once her cares, how idle seem'd they now!), 
 
 Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat 
 Of his quench'd heart ; and the sea dirges low 
 
 Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid's song. 
 
 And that brief dream appear'd a life too long. 
 
 And gazing on the dead, she thought his face 
 
 Faded, or alter'd into something new — 
 Like to her father's features, till each trace 
 
 More like and like to Lambro's aspect grew — 
 With all his keen worn look and Grecian grace; 
 
 And starting, she awoke, and what to view? 
 Oh! Powers of Heaven! what dark eye meets she there? 
 'T is — 't is her father's — fix'd upon the pair! 
 
 Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking fell, 
 With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to see 
 
 Him whom she deem'd a habitant where dwell 
 The ocean-buried, risen from death, to be 
 
 Perchance the death of one she loved too well: 
 Dear as her father had been to Haidee, 
 
 It was a moment of that awful kind — 
 
 I have seen such — but must not call to mind. 
 
 Up Juan sprung to Haidee's bitter shriek. 
 
 And caught her falling, and from off the wall 
 
 Snatch'd down his sabre, in hot haste to wreak 
 Vengeance on him who was the cause of all: 
 
 Then Lambro, who till now forbore to speak. 
 Smiled scornfully, and said, 'Within my call, 
 
 A thousand scimitars await the word; 
 
 Put up, young man, put up your silly sword.* 
 
Pate 
 
 And Haid6e clung around him; 'Juan, 't is— 
 
 'T is Lambro— 't is my father I Kneel with me— 
 He will forgive us^yes— it must be— yes. 
 
 Oh! dearest father, in this agony 
 Of pleasure and of pain— even while I kiss 
 
 Thy garment's hem with transport, can it be 
 That doubt should mingle with my filial joy? ^ 
 Deal with me as thou wilt, but spare this boy. 
 High and inscrutable the old man stood. 
 
 Calm in his voice, and calm within his eye- 
 Not always signs with him of calmest mood: 
 
 He look'd upon her, but gave no reply; 
 Then turn'd to Juan, in whose cheek the blood 
 Oft came and went, as there resolved to die; 
 In arms, at least, he stood, in act to sprmg 
 On the first foe whom Lambro's call might brmg. 
 'Young man, your sword;' so Lambro once more said: 
 
 Tuan replied, 'Not while this arm is free. 
 The old man's cheek grew pale, but not with dread. 
 
 And drawing from his belt a pistol, ^e 
 Replied, 'Your blood be then on your own head. 
 
 Then look'd close at the flint, as if to see 
 'T was fresh— for he had lately used the lock— 
 And next proceeded quietly to cock. 
 Lambro presented, and one instant more 
 
 Had stopp'd this Canto, and Don Juan s breath. 
 When Haidee threw herself her boy before; 
 
 Stern as her sire: 'On me,' she cried, let death 
 Descend-the fault is mine; this fatal shore 
 
 He found-but sought not. I have pledged my faith. 
 I love him— I will die with him: I knew ^ 
 Your nature's firmness-know your daughters too. 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 Three Hundred and Thirf^-six LORD BYRON 
 
 A minute past, and she had been all tears, 
 
 And tenderness, and infancy; but now 
 She stood as one who champion'd human fears — 
 
 Pale, statue-like, and stern, she woo'd the blow; 
 And tall beyond her sex, and their compeers. 
 
 She drew up to her height, as if to show 
 A fairer mark; and with a fix'd eye scann'd 
 Her father's face — but never stopp'd his hand. 
 
 He gazed on her, and she on him; 't was strange 
 
 How like they look'd! the expression was the same; 
 
 Serenely savage, with a little change 
 
 In the large dark eye's mutual-darted flame; 
 
 For she, too, was as one who could avenge. 
 If cause should be — a lioness, though tame. 
 
 Her father's blood before her father's face 
 
 Boil'd up, and proved her truly of his race. 
 
 I said they were alike, their features and 
 
 Their stature, differing but in sex and years; 
 
 Even to the delicacy of their hand 
 
 There was resemblance, such as true blood wears; 
 
 And now to see them, thus divided, stand 
 In fix'd ferocity, when joyous tears 
 
 And sweet sensations should have welcomed both. 
 
 Show what the passions are in their full growth. 
 
 The father paused a moment, then withdrew 
 His weapon, and replaced it; but stood still. 
 
 And looking on her, as to look her through, 
 'Not /,' he said, 'have sought this stranger's ill ; 
 
 Not / have made this desolation: few 
 
 Would bear such outrage, and forbear to kill ; 
 
 But I must do my duty — how thou hast 
 
 Done thine, the present vouches for the past. 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Three Hundred and Thirly-seven 
 
 'Let him disarm; or, by my father's head, 
 His own shall roll before you like a ball!' 
 
 He raised his whistle, as the word he said, 
 And blew; another answer'd to the call, 
 
 And rushing in disorderly, though led, 
 
 And arm'd from boot to turban, one and all. 
 
 Some twenty of his train came, rank on rank; 
 
 He gave the word, — 'Arrest or slay the Frank.* 
 
 Then, with a sudden movement, he withdrew 
 His daughter; while compress'd within his clasp, 
 
 'Twixt her and Juan interposed the crew; 
 In vain she struggled in her father's grasp — 
 
 His arms were like a serpent's coil: then flew 
 Upon their prey, as darts an angry asp, 
 
 The file of pirates; save the foremost, who 
 
 Had fallen, with his right shoulder half cut through. 
 
 The second had his cheek laid open; but 
 The third, a wary, cool old sworder, took 
 
 The blows upon his cutlass, and then put 
 His own well in; so well, ere you could look, 
 
 His man was floor'd, and helpless at his foot, 
 With the blood running like a little brook 
 
 From two smart sabre gashes, deep and red — 
 
 One on the arm, the other on the head. 
 
 And then they bound him where he fell, and bore 
 
 Juan from the apartment: with a sign 
 Old Lambro bade them take him to the shore. 
 
 Where lay some ships which were to sail at nine. 
 They laid him in a boat, and plied the oar 
 
 Until they reach'd some galliots, placed in line; 
 On board of one of these, and under hatches, 
 They stow'd him, with strict orders to the watches. 
 
Pa^e Poetical Worlds of 
 
 Three Hundred and Thiriyf-eight LORD BYRON 
 
 Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth 
 
 Her human clay is kindled; full of power 
 
 For good or evil, burning from its birth, 
 
 The Moorish blood partakes the planet's hour, 
 
 And like the soil beneath it will bring forth: 
 Beauty and love were Haidee's mother's dower; 
 
 But her large dark eye show'd deep Passion's force, 
 
 Though sleeping like a lion near a source. 
 
 Her daughter, temper'd with a milder ray. 
 
 Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and fair. 
 
 Till slowly charged with thunder they display 
 Terror to earth, and tempest to the air, 
 
 Had held till now her soft and milky way; 
 But overwrought with passion and despair. 
 
 The fire burst forth from her Numidian veins, 
 
 Even as the Simoom sweeps the blasted plains. 
 
 The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore. 
 And he himself o'ermaster'd and cut down; 
 
 His blood was running on the very floor 
 Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own ; 
 
 Thus much she view'd an instant and no more, — 
 Her struggles ceased with one convulsive groan; 
 
 On her sire's arm, which until now scarce held 
 
 Her writhing, fell she like a cedar fell'd. 
 
 A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes 
 Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er; 
 
 And her head droop'd as when the lily lies 
 
 O'ercharged with rain : her summon'd handmaids bore 
 
 Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes; 
 Of herbs and cordials they produced their store. 
 
 But she defied all means they could employ. 
 
 Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy. 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Three Hundred and Tbirly-nine 
 
 Days lay she in that state unchanged, though chill — 
 With nothing livid, still her lips were red; 
 
 She had no pulse, but death seem'd absent still ; 
 No hideous sign proclaim'd her surely dead; 
 
 Corruption came not in each mind to kill 
 All hope; to look upon her sweet face bred 
 
 New thoughts of life, for it seem'd full of soul — 
 
 She had so much, earth could not claim the whole. 
 
 She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake. 
 
 Rather the dead, for life seem'd something new, 
 
 A strange sensation which she must partake 
 Perforce, since whatsoever met her view 
 
 Struck not on memory, though a heavy ache 
 Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat still true 
 
 Brought back the sense of pain without the cause. 
 
 For, iot a while, the furies made a pause. 
 
 She look'd on many a face with vacant eye. 
 On many a token without knowing what ; 
 
 She saw them watch her without asking why. 
 And reck'd not who around her pillow sat; 
 
 Not speechless, though she spoke not; not a sigh 
 Relieved her thoughts ; dull silence and quick chat 
 
 Were tried in vain by those who served ; she gave 
 
 No sign, save breath, of having left the grave. 
 
 Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not; 
 
 Her father watch'd, she turn'd her eyes away ; 
 She recognized no being, and no spot. 
 
 However dear or cherish'd in their day; 
 They changed from room to room — but all forgot — 
 
 Gentle, but without memory she lay; 
 At length those eyes, which they would fain be weaning 
 Back to old thoughts, wax'd full of fearful meaning. 
 
Page Poetical Works of 
 
 Three Hundred and Fori)} LORD BYRON 
 
 And then a slave bethought her of a harp; 
 
 The harper came, and tuned his instrument; 
 At the first notes, irregular and sharp. 
 
 On him her flashing eyes a moment bent, 
 Then to the wall she turn'd as if to wrap 
 
 Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re-sent; 
 And he begun a long low island song 
 Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong. 
 
 Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall 
 
 In time to his old tune; he changed the theme, 
 
 And sung of love; the fierce name struck through all 
 Her recollection; on her flash'd the dream 
 
 Of what she was, and is, if ye could call 
 To be so being; in a gushing stream 
 
 The tears rush'd forth from her o'erclouded brain, 
 
 Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain. 
 
 Short solace, vain relief! — thought came too quick. 
 And whirl'd her brain to madness; she arose 
 
 As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick. 
 And flew at all she met, as on her foes ; 
 
 But no one ever heard her speak or shriek. 
 
 Although her paroxysm drew towards its close ; — 
 
 Hers was a phrensy which disdain'd to rave. 
 
 Even when they smote her, in the hope to save. 
 
 Yet she betray'd at times a gleam of sense ; 
 
 Nothing could make her meet her father's face, 
 Though on all other things with looks intense 
 
 She gazed, but none she ever could retrace; 
 Food she refused, and raiment; no pretence 
 
 Avail'd for either; neither change of place, 
 Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her 
 Senses to sleep — the power seem'd gone for ever. 
 
Poetical Works of Page 
 
 LORD BYRON Three Hundred and Forly-one 
 
 Twelve days and nights she wither'd thus; at last, 
 Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show 
 
 A parting pang, the spirit from her past: 
 
 And they who watch'd her nearest could not know 
 
 The very instant, till the change that cast 
 Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow, 
 
 Glazed o'er her eyes — the beautiful, the black — 
 
 Oh! to possess such lustre — and then lack! 
 
 Thus lived — thus died she; never more on her 
 Shall sorrow light, or shame. She was not made 
 
 Through years or moons the inner weight to bear. 
 Which colder hearts endure till they are laid \ 
 
 By age in earth : her days and pleasures were 
 Brief, but delightful — such as had not staid 
 
 Long with her destiny; but she sleeps well 
 
 By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to dwell. 
 
 That isle is now all desolate and bare. 
 
 Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd away; 
 
 None but her own and father's grave is there, 
 And nothing outward tells of human clay; 
 
 Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair. 
 No stone is there to show, no tongue to say 
 
 What was; no dirge, except the hollow sea's, 
 
 Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades. 
 
The Immortal Edition of the Poetiral 
 Morka of Horh ISgron, consisting of 
 One Thousand volumes, compiled 
 and edited by Gurtrude Flower, is 
 published in New York, N. K, in the 
 year Nineteen -Hundred- and- Twelve 
 
OCT 25 1912 
 

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 Treatment Date: March 2009 
 
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