I ( SELECTIONS FROM THE POETRY OF LORD BYRON EDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES BY FREDERIC IVES CARPENTER, Ph.D. Instructor in English, the University of Chicago Dir in klar und triiben Tagen Lied und Mut war schon und gross. // ' Faust,' III, I. 1426. NEW YORK HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY IQOO *^ \J> r^ j — , ; NOV 7 1900 Copynght «,try S£CON'D COPY. Copyright, 1900, BY HENRY HOLT & CO. ROBERT DRUMMOND, PRINTER, NEW YORK. / SP7 /j-y CONTENTS Introduction : page I, Two Aspects of Byron : the Man and the Poet , v II. The Personal Byron vi III. Relation to his Times xiii r""". Political Ideas : the Poet of Liberty xix V. Ideas on Life, Here and Hereafter, on God, and on Religion - . xxii VI. Literary Relations xxvi VIL Literary Creed and Motives xxx VIII. Style and Literary Characteristics .... xxxvii IX. Summary : Permanent Elements and Final Posi- tion xlvi Chronological Outline of the Life of Byron. . . li Bibliography Iv Selections : Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (Parts of Cantos I-II. Can- tos III-IV entire) i The Prisoner of Chillon 155 Manfred - 168 The Dream 213 Darkness 220 Mazeppa : The Ride (Sections IX to the end) .... 223 Don Juan : The Shipwreck (from Canto II) .... 238 The Isles of Greece (from Canto III) . . . 262 The Death of Haidee (from Canto IV) . .273 Cain, Scene I of Act II . , , 279 iii IV CONTENTS PACK Lyrics : When we two parted 287 Maid of Athens 288 And thou art dead 289 The Glory that was Greece (from the "Gia- our") 291 Know ye the land (from the "Bride of Aby- dos") 292 The Corsair's Song (from the "Corsair") . . 293 Grecian Sunset (from the "Corsair ") . . . . 294 She walks in beauty (from the "Hebrew Melo- dies") 296 If that high world (from the " Hebrew Melo- dies") 296 O snatch 'd away in beauty's bloom (from the " Hebrew Melodies ") 297 When coldness wraps this suffering clay (from the " Hebrew Melodies ") 297 The Destruction of Sennacherib (from the "Hebrew Melodies") 298 Stanzas for Music 299 So, we'll go no more a-roving 300 Stanzas written on the road between Florence and Pisa 300 Song of the South-Sea Islanders (from the "Island") 301 On this day I complete my thirty-sixth year. . 303 Notes : To Childe Harold's Pilgrimage 305 To the Prisoner of Chillon t 34i To Manfred 347 To the Dream. . . '. 375 To Darkness ..%•.' 379 To Mazeppa ..-..= 380 To Don Juan . . . 385 To Cain 400 To the Lyrics 402 Index of First Lines ....,,....,. 411 INTRODUCTION I There are two aspects of Byron, almost equally attractive to the modern reader, although attractive in different ways. There is the personal Byron, vehe- mently masculine in most of his habits and doings, yet, as Moore and others who knew him report, strangely. feminine in some of his traits, and perhaps again, as Goethe felt, as strangely immature and like a child as soon as he turned to reflection: the whole com- pound a brilliant meteoric genius that dazzled the eyes of Europe for a short generation. To us this Byron becomes a fascinating psychological study, a document in humanity, baffling our analysis, as he himself baffled his own analysis. For this study it is plain that we need all the evidence obtainable, letters, journals, the testimony alike of friends, of enemies, and of indifferent contemporaries, as well as all the verses, the bad with the good, which flowed so readily from his incontinent pen. On the other hand there is Byron the poet, whom, it is true, we cannot altogether separate from the personal Byron, but whom we should judge, as we judge other poets, by the best half of his work, in which, as Matthew Arnold, a poet writing of a poet, so finely says: V VI INTRO D UCTION- "Nature herself seemed to take the pen from him as she took it from Wordsworth, and to write for him as she wrote for Words- worth, though in a different fashion, with her own penetrating simplicity." II Our enjoyment of Byron as a poet then is greater if we confine ourselves to Byron at his best. But Byron's poetry at its best is constantly personal, subjective, and overflowing with Byron the man. So that fully to understand Byron at his best in poetry we are driven to study the personal, the inferior, the prose Byron. And here we are perpetually beset with the paradox of Byron's nature, with the difficulty of disentangling the real Byron from the false Byron. For, contradictory and complex as are most modern characters, few have been more so than Byron. A histrionic strain was prominent in him from the beginning, and it was and is an offence to sincere and candid souls that not only at times his sentiments were evidently put on and worn for effect, but also not infrequently he himself did not know his own real sentiments, but was the dupe of his own imaginings. Nevertheless it is important to recognize that, although seldom apparent in his life from day to day, or in much of his verse from line to line, a fiery and desperate sincerity was at bottom and essentially the motive force of Byron's character as of Byron's poetry. After we have read all that he wrote, no less than after reading only the inspired portions, and after following his career step by step, the general impression of this returns to us and abides with us. The war of the members, the contradictory elements in Byron, are ^evident. Byron himself, given to self- INTROD UCTIOiV Vll analysis, did not fail to notice them. In a letter to Miss Milbanke (Sept. i6, 1 8 14?) he relates that his head had just been examined by Spurzheim the craniologist, *' a discoverer of faculties and dispositions from the heads. . . . He says all mine are strongly marked, but very antithetical, for everything developed in or on this same skull of mine has its opposite in great force, so that, to believe him, my good and evil are at perpetual war." The war of good and evil in the human breast is no new or peculiar thing; but Byron's poetry is, as was his life, a field where the conflict appears pre-eminently desperate and magnificent. '' He taught us little ; but our soul Had/i"// him like the thunder's roll. With shivering heart the strife we saw Of passion with eternal law." All the passions, at one time or another, were at strife within his soul. And yet, early as was the maturity of his passionate nature, we can trace the development of it through several stages. His ancestry and his parentage explain much. His genius remains underivable, but his energy, his courage, his love of adventure, and the seeds of much that developed later into evil and vice with him seem to hold from the paternal line; his irritability, waywardness, generosity, and occasional self-devotion, the strain of fitful mor- bidity in him, and perhaps his latent enthusiasm, from the maternal. His physical malformation — his congenital lameness — reacted upon his sensitive and suspicious nerves VlU INTROD UCTION and resulted in a vice of temperament. His sudden / and unexpected change of fortune, making him heir to a peerage w^hen still a child, was in its effects a mis- fortune. Worst of all, however, was the influence upon his life of his mother's violent, capricious, and hysterical temper. To this Byron, notwithstanding his paradoxical affection for her, often alludes with bitter- ness. Thus in a letter to his half-sister Augusta, written in i8i i, before his cynicism was anything more than youthful and nascent, he writes: "You must excuse my being a little cynical, knowing how my temper was tried in my nonage ; the manner in which I was brought up must necessarily have broken a meek spirit, or ren- dered a fiery one ungovernable ; the effect it has had on mine I need not state." Afterwards it was the world at large and especially the times in which he lived which had the greatest in- fluence in the formation of the character of the great English protagonist of a revolutionary age. Other traits, essential in Byron, seem latent or patent from his youth. There is his pride, — of which he was not a little proud. *'To the charge of pride I suspect I must plead guilty," he writes to Miss Milbanke in 1813 (with some complacency and in the role of the interesting lover), "because when a boy and a very young one it was the constant reproach of schoolfellows and tutors. ... It was, however, originally defensive — for at that time my hand like Ishmael's was against every one's and every one's against mine." Practically all of Byron's heroes are types of that proud disdain which Dante and mediaeval writers on ethics denominated superbia. Such are Childe Harold, INTROD UCTIOJ^ IX Manfred, Lucifer in "Cain," the mysterious Giaour, and many others. But pride is an inclusive quality, and the common attribute of the soul in revolt. Then there is Byro'n's suspiciousness and distrust, — the re- current feeling that every one's hand was against him. There is his melancholy and his moodiness and his love of solitude. There is his improvident extrava- gance, balanced in later years by freaks of avarice; his *' silent rages" and "high impatient temper" ("as to temper," he writes in 1813, "unluckily I have the reputation of a very bad one"); his little super- stitions; his mobility of mood and his wayward in- consistency; his combativeness (" I like a row, and always did from a boy," he writes); his detestation of cant and hypocrisy, as fervent as that of Swift or o| Carlyle, but degenerating into bravado and a ' ' habit of inverse hypocrisy" which too often led him to assume a vice when he had it not. There are, too, his other poses and chosen mannerisms, — his pose of blighted affections, of mystery and gloom, of man-of- the-world-liness; his sentiment, rarely degenerating into sentimentality; his eccentricity, his misanthropy, and his cynicism. His misanthropy was partly as- sumed and a mere mood, but also partly real, and the reaction of his revolutionary nature against the cant and conventionality of much of the life around him. In 1808 he writes to his sister from Newstead: **I live here much in my own manner, that is, alone, for I could not bear the company of my best friend above a month ; there is such a sameness in mankind upon the whole, and they grow so much more disgusting every day, that, were it not for a portion of ambition, and a conviction that in times like the present we ought to perform our respective duties, I should live X INTRODUCTION here all my life in unvaried solitude. ... I flatter myself I have made some improvements in Newstead, and, as I am independ- ent, I am happy, as far as any person unfortunate enough to be born into this world can be said to be so. " ^ And in 1811 to his friend Harness he writes: "The circumstances you mention at the close of your letter is another proof in favour of my opinion of mankind. Such you will always find them — selfish and distrustful. I except none. The cause of this is the state of society." His cynicism was perhaps as real as cynicism ever can be — that is to say, essentially assumed and senti- mental; although in ** Don Juan" and through his later years it is often truculent and lurid and auda- ciously expressed. Yet Byron's cynicism, like his other passions, was never cold. In later years Byron's character hardened while it matured. There was a time in Italy when the baser qualities overruled the rest, and he became something of the " Inglese italianato " of the proverb. But this time was short. At no time had he manifested or cared to possess many of the neutral virtues, and his early years had been marked and marred by dissipation and vices, probably however not greatly beyond the not infrequent custom of his times and class. More- over, much that is in his letters on this subject is, more suo, mainly pose and display. - Yet Byron was always frank, if sometimes more than frank, and as ingenuous as his imaginative temperament would permit him to be. A passage in one of his letters to IMoore, written after the break with Lady Byron in 18 16, although ^ Compare with this the passage in ''Childe Harold," C. Ill, stanzas 113, 114. INTROD UCTION XI referring particularly to that affair, hints fairly enough at the causes of Byron's condition generally. ''My circumstances," he writes, " have been and are in a state of great confusion ; my health has been a good deal disordered, and my mind ill at ease for a considerable period. Such are the causes (I do not name them as excuses) which have frequently driven me into excess, and disqualified my temper for comfort. Something also may be attributed to the strange and desultory habits which becoming my own master at an early age, and scrambling about, over and through the world, may have induced. I still, however, think that, if I had had a fair chance, by being placed in even a tolerable situation, I might have gone on fairly. But that seems hopeless, — and there is nothing more to be said." After this the last step is to the wilful cynicism of *' Don Juan " or the melancholy note of such passages as these from letters and journals of his later years: "What is the reason that I have been, all my lifetime, more or less ennuy^ ? and that, if anything, I am rather less so now than I was at twenty, as far as my recollection serves ? I do not know how to answer this, but presume that it is constitutional, — as well as the waking in low spirits, which I have invariably done for many years. Temperance and exercise, which I have practised at times, and for a long time together vigorously and violently, made little or no difference. Violent passions did ; when under their immediate influence — it is odd, but — I was in agitated, but not in depressed spirits. ... I feel a something which makes me think that, if I ever reach near to old age, like Swift, 'I shall die at top ' first. Only I do not dread idiotism or madness so much as he did. On the contrary, I think some quieter stages of both must be preferable to much of what men think the possession of their senses. " (Journal, Jan. 6, 1821.) " As I grow older, the indifference — not to life, for we love it by instinct — but to the stimuli of life, increases." (Letter to Shelley, Apr. 26, 182 1.) " I am not sure that long life is desirable for one of my temper and constitutional depression of spirits, — which of course I sup. X 1 1 IN TROD UCTION press in society ; but which breaks out when alone, and in my writings, in spite oi myself." (Letter to Murray. Sept. 20. 1821.) Byron, in truth, like the young Elizabethans, and especially like INIarlowe, whom he so strangely resem- bles in some points of temperament and history, crowded much living into few years, — having antici- pated life, as he phrased it, in his youth. '■' My passions," he writes in his •• Detached Thoughts," •• were developed very early. . . . Perhaps this was one of the reasons which caused the anticipated melancholy of my thoughts, — hav- ing anticipated life.'' He bought his knowledge of life dearly, for his own ultimate content. For his poetr}^, that is perhaps a different matter. If the great lyrical poet is he who coins his passionate experience into the minted gold of song, such a poet was Byron. Byron's experience and his knowledge of life were necessarily but those of one man and essentially in one vein, and, so, limited and imperfect. He did not live a life of many phases like Goethe's, nor was he capable of what was peculiar to men like \\'ords\vorth on the one hand or Shelley on the other. His intuitions were not so subtle and fine as those of Keats or of Coleridge. But at any rate his inner life had been intense and passionate, and his outer life had led him to a broader outlook upon men and nations than that of any of the others except Goethe's. This is one thing at least which recom- mends Byron to men of the world and to men of other tongues. "The pity of these men," he writes to IMurray in 1821 with a curious mixture of aristocratic vanity and of penetration, speaking of some of the chief poets his contemporaries, "is that they never IN TROD UCTION XI 1 1 lived in high Hfe nor in solitude: there is no medium for the knowledge of the busy or the still world." One side of the busy world at least Byron knew; only he was self-deceived into thinking that this side of the w^orld was the world, the great world of men. Thus we find him writing to Murray in 1820: ** You talk of refinement : — are you all more moral ? are you so moral ? No such thing. / know what the world is in England, by my own proper experience of the best of it — at least of the loftiest ; and I have described it every where as it is to be found in all places." Ill If Shakspere's dramatic genius was happy in com- ing in the great dramatic age of our literature, Byron's genius, all high restive impatience, fuming revolt, and^ Titanic fire and force, was no less happy in coming in ! the great revolutionary age. And yet Byron came too late to find himself in sympathy with his own times. He caught the inspiration of the movement of en- thusiastic liberalism, progress, and re-birth, which preceded him. He was deeply influenced by Rous- ■ seau, by the example of Plutarch's heroes, of Washing- ton, and of Napoleon, so long as Napoleon seemed to stand for reconstruction and the new order. But he saw the early hopes of reform crumble and he lived the greater part of his years in an age of temporary reac- tion, when England turned panic-stricken from the excesses of the French Revolution, when the Habeas- corpus act was suspended for long periods of time and every democratic manifestation was rigidly suppressed, and when the iniquitous Holy Alliance dominated the XIV IN TROD UCTJON politics of the continent of Europe. So that Byron's world in all its professed beliefs, political, religious, and social, was not with him. '^'This opposition doubt- less stirred his spirit and stimulated his genius as noth- ing else could. We can imagine B}Ton quite in his element and at home in the days of the early Revolu- tion, or in the days of Fielding and Dr. Johnson in England, if he could have been reconciled to any place or any time, — for there is a strong residuum of sympathy with eighteenth-century ways of thinking and feeling in the early Byron as in the later prose Byron; and this, which is another of the contradictions in his char- acter, must be borne in mind in any attempt to com- prehend the whole of his genius. We can also imagine Byron more at his ease in the later days of reform which came after his death and the later revolutions which had their beginning in Italy, Spain, and Greece, and for which he gave up his life. But he fell in an age of reaction and against his age he strongly battled. That his audience was so large through all these years proves that the struggle had not been given up and that men's minds were still a fertile soil for the seeds of revolutionary enthusiasms. Much of Byron's opposition to his age was tempera- mental, the isolation of a lonely, jealous, and intract- able nature. Much of it was purely personal resent- ment against the England and the Englishmen who had turned against him in 1816 at the time of the scandal of Lady Byron's separation from him. '* I abhor the nation and the nation me," he writes to Murray in 181 7, and this feeling remained with him pretty constantly to the end. But whatever its genesis IN TROD UCTION XV it was essentially a sincere enough antipathy to what was narrow and provincial and false in the ideals and j the life of the England of the first quarter of this cen- tury, especially of that section of the life of England which Byron had touched and known. Already in 1811 through his first journey abroad Byron had freed himself from what he calls " the bitter effects of staying at home with all the narrow prejudices of an islander." The effect of his later life was to emancipate him pretty thoroughly from the domina- tion of current English ideals and prejudices. Byron in his way is fundamentally a poet of emancipation, — lx' perhaps too exclusively so, but effectively so at least. And we can trace in his life step by step how he freed himself and was set free by others from all the sanctions and bonds of the social order from which he emerged. The impatience, the resolution not to submit and endure, which is the keynote of his character, could brook nothing but this complete emancipation. After it came, he, or at least his poetry, was the better for it. His relief finds expression in a letter to Moore in 1822: "As my success in society was not inconsiderable, I am surely not a prejudiced judge upon the subject, unless in its favour ; but I think it, as now constituted, fatal to all great original undertak- ings of every kind. I never courted it then, when I was young and high in blood, and one of its ' curled darlings ' ; and do you think I would do so now, when I am living in a clearer atmos- phere ? One thing only might lead me back to it, and that is to try once more if I could do any good in politics ; but not in the petty politics I see now preying upon our miserable country." All of the picturesque superficies of the society of his day Byron had come in contact with and reflects in his XVI IN TROD UCTION letters or his verse, — the dandyism, the club life and the high play, the dissipation in fashionable society, the blue-stockings and the rage for literary lions, the waltz in its newness, the salons, the literary breakfasts at Rogers', the pugilism, the calamities and quarrels of authors, and the rest. The constructive ideals of his greater verse are concerned with other things, but his satiric and destructive verse is largely directed against ^ the abuses of English society. In the ' ' Age of Bronze, ' ' a poem on the revival of the movement for national liberty in 1820, in which Byron shows himself most openly the poet of the Revolution, after reviewing the aspects of contemporary Continental politics, he turns to satirize the vices of England and especially the greed of her dominant class, the landlords. After the close of the Napoleonic wars, during which, owing to the exclusion of the greater part of foreign competition, these gentry had profited exceedingly by the high rents they were able to exact from the farmers of their lands, ; they set themselves doggedly against reform and lower rents. These Byron attacks : '' Alas, the country ! how shall tongue or pen Bewail her now z/wcountry gentlemen ? The last to bid the cry of warfare cease. The first to make a malady of peace. For wliat were all these country patriots bom? To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of com ? But com, like every mortal thing, must fall, Kings, conquerors, and markets most of all. And must ye fall with every ear of grain ? Why would you trouble Buonaparte's reign ? He was your great Triptolemus ; his vices Destroy'd but realms, and still maintain'd your prices ; IN TROD UCTION XVI 1 He amplified to every lord's content The grand agrarian alchymy, hight rent. Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars, And lower wheat to such desponding quarters ? Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone ? The man was worth much more upon his throne. True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt, But what of that ? the Gaul may bear the guilt ; But bread was high, the farmer paid his way, And acres told upon the appointed day. ****** Up, up again, ye rents ! exalt your notes, Or else the ministry will lose their votes, And patriotism, so delicately nice, Her loaves will lower to the market price. ****** See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm. Farmers of war, dictators of the farm ; Their ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands, Their fields manured by gore of other lands ; Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent Their brethren out to battle. Why ? For rent ! Year after year they voted cent, per cent.. Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions. Why? For rent ! They roar'd, they dined, they drank, they swore they meant To die for England. Why then live ? For rent ! The peace has made one general malcontent Of these high-market patriots ; war was rent ! Their love of country, millions all mis-spent, How reconcile ? by reconciling rent ! And will they not repay the treasures lent ? No : down with everything, and up with rent ! Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent, Being, end, aim, religion — rent, rent, rent ! " ^ But Byron's chief satiric animus was against the corruption and the cant of the day. It was, writes Mr. Henley, XVlll IN TROD UCTION '' a dreadful age, no doubt: for all its solid foundations of faith and dogma in the Church and of virtue and solvency in the State, a fierce, drunken, gambling, 'keeping,' adulterous, high-living, hard-drinking, hard-hitting, brutal age. But it was Byron's ; and ' Don Juan ' and ' The Giaour ' are as naturally its outcome as '■ Absalom and Achitophel ' is an expression of the Restoration, and ' In Memoriam ' a product of Victorian England. "As to the cant of the day," writes Byron in 1819, " I despise it, as I have ever done all its other finical fashions, which become you as paint became the ancient Britons." And in 182 1 : '■'■ And after all, what is the higher society of England ? According to my own experience and to all that I have seen and heard (and I have lived there in the very highest and what is called the best) no way of life can be more corrupt. ... In England the only homage which they pay to virtue is hypocrisy. I speak of course of the tone of high life, — the middle ranks may be very virtuous." And once again in a passage in his *' Letter on Bowles' Strictures on Pope " : "The truth is that in these days the gTZXid. primuni mobile oi England is c^nt ; cant political, cant poetical, cant religious, cant moral ; but always cant, multiplied through all the varieties of life. It is the fashion, and while it lasts will be too powerful for those who can only exist by taking the tone of the time. I say cant, because it is a thing of words, without the smallest influence upon human actions ; the English being no wiser, no better, and much poorer and more divided amongst themselves, as well as far less moral, than they were before the prevalence of this verbal decorum." Byron certainly was not one of those who exist only by taking the tone of the time. However mixed were his motives, and however exaggerated the indictment he draws, the whole course of his life, as of his writings, was sincerely in protest against what was fundamentally outworn and false and hypocritical in the social organ- ization of the day. The smug unintelligence of the JNTEOD UCTION XlX contemporary treatment of Byron alone is sufficient to furnish the measure of the age. IV The substance of Byron's criticism of life, translated into prose, is mainly interesting from the historical point of view and in its relation to his times. The high revolutionary spirit, the passionate outcry against all that imposes upon and enslaves the human will, the yearning after an ideal quite other than and differ- ent from that towards which most human life is aiming, the apotheosis of struggle and energy and boundless force, which mark Byron at his greatest, are rather matters of spirit than of substance, and can be felt and recognized as interpenetrating his poetry, but cannot be subtracted and isolated from it. Among the positive ideas of Byron's mind, among the few fixed principles ^ to which he was constant, a «^ love of liberty in all the senses of the word and a t sympathy with freedom and free institutions were perhaps the most constant. And this in spite of certain deductions that must be allowed on the score of the more superficial prejudices engendered by Byron's aristocratic training and associations. In this matter Byron thoroughly attested his sincerity by his acts, in his short parliamentary career, in his participation in the Carbonari movement in Italy, as well as by his ^ " Lord Byron's was a versatile and still a stubborn mind ; it wavered, but always returned to certain fixed principles." (Col- onel Stanhope — associated with Byron in Greece — as quoted in Moore's Life of Byron.) XX IN TROD UCTION self-devotion and fatal self-sacrifice in the cause of Greek emancipation. The superficial Byron, Byron the lord, the Byron of the letters and the controversial tracts, may at times appear as a lukewarm republican. As, for example, when in the course of his controversy with Southey he writes as follows: ''It is the fashion to attribute everything to the French Revo- lution and the French Revolution to everything but its real cause. That cause is obvious — the government exacted too much, and the people could neither give nor bear more. . . . Acts, — acts on the part of government, and not w^ritings against them, have caused the past convulsions, and are tending to the future. I look upon such as inevitable, thovigh no revolutionist : I wish to see the English constitution restored, and not destroyed. Bom an aristocrat, and naturally one by temper, with the greater part of my present property in the funds, what have / to gain by a revolution? " But with this utterance should bo compared what Byron wrote to Leigh Hunt in 1816 explaining why he was not more active in Parliament. The corruption and conservatism of the House, he hints, make it use- less for him to address it, ''feeling, as I trust I do, independently. However, when a proper spirit is manifested ' without doors, ' I will endeavour not to be idle within. Do you think such a time is coming ? Me- thinks there are gleams of it. My forefathers were on the other side of the question in Charles' days, and the fruit of it was a title and the loss of an enormous property. If the old struggle comes on, I may lose the one, and shall never regain the other ; but no matter : there are things, even in this world, better than either." Or again, when in 1821 he writes: "There must be an universal republic, — and there ought to be." Or his enthusiasm for the liberation of Italy: INTROD UCTION XXI "It is no great matter, supposing that Italy could be liberated, who or what is sacrificed. It is a grand object — the very poetry of politics. Only think — a free Italy ! Why, there has been nothing like it since the days of Augustus." Or similarly the verses declaring for a French republic : " France hath twice too well been taught The ' moral lesson ' dearly bought — Her safety sits not on a throne With Capet or Napoleon ! But in equal rights and laws, Hearts and hands in one great cause — Freedom, such as God hath given Unto all beneath his heaven. ..." Or the sympathy with the cause of Poland expressed in "The Age of Bronze"; or his execration in the same poem upon Napoleon's betrayal of the cause of liberty : " A single step into the right had made This man the Washington of worlds betrayed : A single step into the wrong has given His name a doubt to all the winds of heaven." Or again there is his constant sympathy with America as the land of freedom, as when he writes in 1821 : "Whenever an American requests to see me (which is not un- frequently) I comply, firstly, because I respect a people who ac- quired their freedom by their firmness without excess ; and, secondly, because these trans-Atlantic visits . . . make me feel as if talking with posterity from the other side of the Styx. In a century or two the new English and Spanish Atlantides will be masters of the old countries, in all probability, as Greece and Europe overcame their mother Asia in the older or earlier ages, as they are called." But the classical passage in Byron declaring his faith in the ultimate freedom of man are the stanzas in XXll INTROD UCTIOJSr " Childe Harold " in defence of the French Revolution (Canto III, stanzas 82-84). It is worth while to multiply examples on this head, for the sincerity of Byron's loyalty to the cause of political freedom has sometimes in recent years been questioned.^ A poet has the right to be judged by his best, and Byron surely has the right to be ranked with Milton and Shelley as the third great English poet of republican liberty. A SECOND great subject on which the substance of Byron's belief apart from the form perhaps admits of statement and illustration is the question of his pes- simism and scepticism, of his creed in matters philo- sophical and religious, — in brief of his attitude to the great problems of human destiny, faith, and duty. Not that Byron's mind was essentially philosophical like Wordsworth's, or that his philosophy of life (if indeed he ever attained any fully articulate philosophy of life) is of permanent interest or importance apart from his poetry. But that his views on these subjects, essentially the expression of fundamental mood and temperament as they are, are extremely powerful ex- pressions of mood and are only to be fully understood if studied in connection with his career and in their connection with one another. Here too, as everywhere in Byron, we meet a certain formal and superficial contradiction and inconsistency in his utterances. ;' At times he disclaims disbelief and ^ As, for example, by Elze, '' Life of Byron," 358. INTRODUCTION XXlll wishes to be thought a conservative. More often he gives free and full utterance to the doubt that is in his nature and to the black despair that governs his mood. The strain of conservatism in Byron's nature was doubtless genuine and he was, as he asserted, no atheist. He, however, was alive to modern doubts, and, earlier than Leopardi and Amiel and Schopenhauer, was infected with that disease of modern thought which was the malady of those distinguished and unhappy spirits. Moreover he had the penetration to recognize it as a disease. *' I am no bigot to infidelity," he writes to Gifford in 1813, <'and did not expect that, because I doubted the immortality of man, I should be charged with denying the existence of God. It was the comparative insignificance of ourselves and our world, when placed in competition with the mighty whole of which it is an atom, that first led me to imagine that our pretensions to eternity might be overrated. This, and being early disgusted with a Calvinistic Scotch school, where I was cudgelled to church for the first ten years of my life, afflicted me with this malady; f )r, after all, it is, I believe, a disease of the mind as much as other kinds of hypochondria." 'In a certain sense " Manfred " and '* Cain " may be called studies in doubt; they are certainly Byron's greatest poetical expression of his speculative moods and ideas. Many passages from his letters and journals read like commentaries upon these poems. As thus, when he writes to Miss Milbanke in 1814: "Why I came here, I know not. Where I shall go to, it is useless to inquire. In the midst of myriads of the living and the dead worlds — stars — systems— infinity — why should I be anxious about an atom ? " XXIV IN TROD UCTION As we trace his creed through his writings certain points seem fairly well fixed in Byron's mind. In his earlier and middle years he strongly doubts individual ^/immortality. Thus he writes to his friend Hodgson ^ in 1811 : " I will have nothing to do with your immortality; we are miserable enough in this life, without the absurdity of speculating upon another. If men are to live, why die at all ? and if they die, why disturb the sweet and sound sleep that ' knows no waking ' ? ... I hope I am sincere ; I was so at least on a bed of sickness in a far-distant country, when I had neither friend, nor comforter, nor hope, to sustain me. I looked to death as a relief from pain, without a wish for an after-life, but a confidence that the God who punishes in this existence had left that last asylum for the weary." Of a similar tenor is the following: " Of .the two, I should think the long sleep better than the agonised vigil. But men, miserable as they are, cling so to any- thing like life, that they probably would prefer damnation to quiet. Besides, they think themselves so important in the crea- tion, that nothing less can satisfy their pride — the insects ! " Later his opinions on this subject were somewhat altered. In 182 1 he writes in his journal: ''It has been said that the immortality of the soul is a 'grand peut-etre ' — but still it is a grand one. Everybody clings to it, — the stupidest and dullest and wickedest of human bipeds is still persuaded that he is immortal." And again, in his *' Detached Thoughts " : ' ' Of the immortality of the soul it appears to me that there can be little doubt, if we attend for a moment to the action of the mind : ' Apropos of the opening stanzas of Canto II of " Childe Harold." INTROD OCT ION XXV it is in perpetual activity. I used to doubt of it, but reflection has taught me better. . . . How far our future life will be indi- vidual, or rather, how far it will at all resemble our present exist- ence, is another question ; but that the mind is eternal seems as probable as that the body is not so." In revealed religion Byron apparently did not believe. In 1807 he asserts that he is a deist; and in 1 8 1 1 he writes to Hodgson : '•I do not believe in any revealed religion, because no religion is revealed : and if it pleases the Church to damn me for not allowing a nonentity, I throw myself on the mercy of the ' Great First Cause, least understood ' who must do what is most proper ; though I conceive He never made anything to be tortured in an- other life, whatever it may in this." And to Miss Milbanke in 1813 : "I believe doubtless in God, and should be happy to be con- vinced of much more. If I do not at present place implicit faith in tradition and revelation of any human creed, I hope it is not from want of reverence for the Creator but the created. ..." Against the doctrine of eternal punishment, as already appears, Byron stood firm. As he writes in his scoffing and satirical vein in his " Vision of Judgment " : " I hardly know too if not quite alone am I In this small hope of bettering future ill By circumscribing, with some slight restriction, The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction, I know this is unpopular ; I know 'Tis blasphemous ; I know one may be damn'd For hoping no one else may e'er be so." And in his " Detached Thoughts " : " A material resurrection seems strange and even absurd, ex- cept for purposes of punishment ; and all punishment which is to revenge rather than correct must be morally wrong ; and when XXVI INTROD UCTION the world is at an end, what moral or warning purpose can eter- nal tortures answer ? " The doctrine of the final reconciliation of good and evil is proclaimed in ' ' Heaven and Earth ' ' : "The eternal will Shall deign to expound this dream Of good and evil ; and redeem Unto himself all times, all things ; And, gather'd under his almighty wings, Abolish hell ! And to the expiated Earth Restore the beauty of her birth, Her Eden in an endless paradise, Where man no more can fall as once he fell, And even the very demons shall do well ! " VI Byron's literary affiliations and his relation to con- temporary literature in England are as curious and apparently as paradoxical as most other things in his life and opinions. \ His sources are largely in the eighteenth century both in its revolutionary and its pre-revolutionary periods ; and he professed a profound admiration for the poetry of Pope, whose genius and fame he vigorously defended in his generation. This profession was doubtless genuine enough so far as his critical and conscious judgment was concerned. But the real Byron, the inspired Byron, in his own poetry was in almost everything the very opposite of Pope. Where Pope was epigrammatic and balanced and restrained and polished and shining with a merely dry light, Byron was abounding, unequal, negligent, and lurid with the red flames of elemental passion. In INTROD UCTION XXVll satire like ** The English Bards " and the " Hints from Horace" Byron imitated Pope as well as his intract- able temperament would allow; and doubtless his early study of Pope was not without strong influence (though inconsiderable in comparison with that of his Italian models) in the development of his later and highly original vein of mordant and cynical and audacious satire in " Don Juan." But Byron, if he belonged to any school at all, was one of the Roman-, tics. Romanticism as opposed to classicism character- izes the great bulk of his work. A certain strain of sardonic or purposely prosaic realism which now and then crops out in his verse is decidedly non-romantic, it is true, and his romanticism was of a very different type from that of Shelley and Keats. To Scott and in some measure to Coleridge he owes more. The idea and the movement of his romantic verse-tales, as literary forms, are partly modelled upon Scott, and to Scott and to Coleridge he was indebted for the free four-stress verse employed in several of them. With " Christabel " he had early become acquainted, — indeed long before its publication; and it strongly caught his fancy. There are touches of Coleridgean romanticism in the verse of his middle period, as in the following lines from "The Siege of Corinth," — • although Byron protested that they were written before he had heard " Christabel " recited: ''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 ? XXVlii INTRODUCTION' 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 Cithaeron's hill, And he felt not a breath come over his cheek; What did that sudden sound bespeak ? He turn'd to the left — is he sure of sight ? There sate a lady, youthful and bright ! " To the Elizabethan romanticists he owes little directly. Indebtedness to Marlowe he disavowed. Shakespere he knew as all the great modern poets know him; but he quotes Falstaff and " Henry IV" perhaps quite as often as the great tragedies. Of the spirit and system of the Elizabethan drama he dis- approved. And from Spenser he takes only the stanza and some of the sporadic archaisms of " Childe Harold." Byron affected originality and mdepend- ence, but he was essentially original and independent. " Childe Harold " and " Don Juan " are new types of poetry, — new at least in English. The former is in some measure romantic. It appeals in the romantic manner to the sense of novelty and w^onder, to the spirit of adventure, and to the historical and topo- graphical imagination; the verse-tales that followed are even more romantic and remote from realism; ** Don Juan," however, can scarcely be called romantic in manner more than classical or realistic; it is sui generis, and the doubtful and luxuriant flower of that literary cosmopolitanism towards which the circumstances of his life turned Byron's genius in his later years. Of contemporary poets and poetry, even before the IN TROD UCTION XXIX full development of his cosmopolitan ideas, and largely in consequence of his fanatical admiration for Pope, the prose and critical Byron entertained a low opinion. "With regard to poetry in general," he writes to Murray in 1817, "I am convinced, the more I think of it, that he [Moore] and all of us — Scott, Southey, Wordsworth, Moore, Campbell, I, — are all in the wrong, one as much as another ; that we are upon a wrong revolutionary poetical system, or systems, not worth a damn in itself, and from which none but Rogers and Crabbe are free ; and that the present and next generations will finally be of this opinion. I am more confirmed in this by having lately gone over some of our classics, particularly Pope, whom I tried in this way, — I took Moore's poems and my own and some others, and went over them side by side with Pope's, and I was really aston- ished (I ought not to have been so) and mortified at the ineffable distance in point of sense, learning, effect, and even imagination, passion, and invention, between the little Queen Anne's man and us of the Lower Empire. Depend upon it, it is all Horace then and Claudian now among us; and if I had to begin again, I would mould myself accordingly." ^ Dis aliter visum: the influence of the time-spirit was too strong for him, and Byron became what he was in spite of himself. ' Compare Shelley's penetrating comment upon his opinions in 1821 after Byron had come under the additional influence of Ital- ian classicism: "We talked a great deal of poetry and such matters last night ; and, as usual, differed — and I think more than ever. He affects to patronise a system of criticism fit only for the production of mediocrity ; and, although all his finer poems and passages have been produced in defiance of this system, yet I rec- ognise the pernicious effects of it in the Doge of Venice [* Marino Faliero']; and it will cramp and limit his future efforts, however great they may be, unless he gets rid of it." XXX IN TROD UC TION VII Byron's motives and methods, and his conception and ideal of poetry, are not easily defined. There are here as everywhere the two sides of Byron, often in apparent contradiction. '- The love of fame doubtless was a constant motive with him. " Oh Fame ! thou goddess of my heart; On him who gains thy praise, Pointless will fall the Spectre's dart. Consumed in Glory's blaze," he cries in a copy of youthful verses written at Harrow. And throughout his letters his eagerness for fame is evident, however masked by the affectation of indiffer- ence. But his love of fame did not draw him out of his orbit. His independence and his energy of will were greater motives. In 1814 after the early success of the first part of " Childe Harold," when for the moment he feared that his vein was exhausted, he writes to Moore : ** I have had my day, and there's an end. The utmost I expect, or even wish, is to have it said in the Biographia Britannica that I might perhaps have been a poet had I gone on and amended. My great comfort is that the temporary celebrity I have wrung from the world has been in the very teeth of all opinions and prej- udices. I have flattered no ruling powers; I have never con- cealed a single thought that tempted me. They can't say I have truckled to the times, nor to popular topics. . . . " f / j It was not the contemplative life,^ in which Words- worth's ideal was placed, which could attract Byron; nor the aesthetic life for which Keats yearned; nor INTRODUCTION XXXI Shelley's life of ideals and visions. His was a motor temperament, and activity, movement, sensation, passion, were the breath of his nostrils. "You don't like my 'restless' doctrines," he writes to Miss Milbanke in 1813; "I should be very sorry if you did; but I can't stagnate nevertheless. If I must sail let it be on the ocean no matter how stormy — anything but a dull cruise on a land lake with- out ever losing sight of the same insipid shores by which it is surrounded." And again : " The great object of life is sensation — to feel that we exist, even though in pain. It is this ' craving void ' which drives us to gaming, to battle, to travel, to intemperate but keenly felt pursuits of any description, whose principal attraction is the agitation inseparable from their accomplishment." / So, in the " Deformed Transformed," he writes: " From the star To the winding worm, all life is motion; and In life commotion is the extremest point - Of life." Animation, he says somewhere, is the chief secret of woman's beauty. And in 181 8, after describing a Venetian girl whom he admired, — " with large black eyes, a face like Faustina's, and the figure of a Juno; tall and energetic as a Pythoness, with eyes flashing, and her dark hair streaming in the moonlight," — he goes on to add: " I like this kind of animal, and am sure that I should have preferred ]\Iedea to any woman that ever breathed. '' His temperament was active and pugnacious. " In the words of the tragedian Liston, ' I love a row,' " he says. The grandson of a famous admiral and the descendant of Norman warriors ana of cavalier knights, it was in his blood to delight in struggle and passion and the active life. His poetry XXXll INTRODUCTION he chiefly valued for himself as an outlet to the seething springs of emotion within his breast. " I by no means rank poetry or poets high in the scale of intel- lect," he writes to Miss Milbanke in a very significant passage only recently published. '• This may look like affectation, but it is my real opinion. It is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake. ^ They say poets never or rarely go mad. Cowper and Collins are instances to the contrary (but Cowper was no poet). It is, however, to be remarked that they rarely do, but are generally so near it that I cannot help thinking rhyme is so far useful in anticipating and preventing the disorder. I prefer the talejits of action — of war, or the senate, or even of science, — to all the speculations of these mere dreamers of another existence (I don't mean religiously, but fancifully) and spectators of this apathy. Disgust and perhaps incapacity have rendered me now a mere spectator; but I have occasionally mixed in the active and tumultuous departments of existence, and in these alone my recollection rests with any satisfaction, though not the best parts of it." In a certain sense Byron's poetry was the overflow of his feelings and a transcript of his life. In this sense at least Byron was a great lyrical poet; for, although the singing quality and the musical element in his verse are often defective, seldom has the subjec- tive and personal element in lyric poetry received more complete and powerful expression than in Byron's poetry. Byron's own generation made the mistake of supposing the invention and the detail of his poetry to be quite as much a transcript of his life as the 1 Similarly he writes to Moore in 1821 concerning the writing of poetry. "... It comes over me in a kind of rage every now and then, . . . and then, if I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. . . . I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I think composition a great pain/' JNTROD UCTION XXX i i 1 motives and the moods and the ideals. Everything in, Byron's verse, it is true, is centered in the portraiture of an ideal hero, and there is something of Byron in all of these heroes; but rather the ideal of Byron than the facts of Byron. And the likeness usually flatters his worser traits. No lyrical poetry of any great sort can be a literal transcript of the poet's lite. Experi- ence must be transmuted and idealized before it is fit material for verse. This Byron understood well enough, although in some of his verse the idealizing imagination is less in evidence than in other. Thus, "almost all 'Don Juan,'" Byron tells us, "is real life, either my own, or from people I knew." And elsewhere: " I could not write upon anything, without some personal experience and foundation." But in another place he writes of the charge that he is responsible for the opinions which he puts into the mouths of his characters: "My ideas of a character may run away with me: like all im- aginative men I of course embody myself with the character while I draw it, but not a moment after the pen is from off the paper." ^ The peculiar thing about Byron, however, is what has been called "his strange incontinence of lan- guage." He has no reticence, and the cacoethes scrihendi too often appears to be in him a disease. Byron is frank, but at times we would prefer not to be admitted so freely into his confidence. This doubtless Moore and his committee felt when they destroyed Byron's posthumous prose autobiography. On the other hand, although he may equivocate, we kno\y 1 Cf. his letter to Murray of Aug. 9, 1819. XXXIV JNTROD UCTION that he conceals nothing of his mind from us, but is sure to blab in the end. At the same time also, in his (^ effort to express everything, he expresses more than \ himself, more than his real mind. The exaggerations and audacities of his poetry are often not the real Byron, but a factitious and portentous Byron whose image the poet is trying to impose upon us. The real \ Byron is more human, and is not so terrible and so \ wicked after all. Byron's effective conception of the nature and func- tion of poetry, in spite of his paradoxical worship of Pope, was essentially that of his period. His practice exemplified Wordsworth's theory that "poetry is the / spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings," and that ^ " it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tran- y/ quillity; ^ the emotion is contemplated till, by a species of reaction, the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion, kindred to that which was before the sub- ject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind. " Or again as Words- worth wrote, "The poet is chiefly distinguished from j other men by a greater promptness to think and feel without immediate external excitement, and a greater power in expressing such thoughts and feelings as are produced in him in that manner." Byron's range of emotions was very different from Wordsworth's, but the poetic process seems to have been the same. " As for poesy, " he says, ' ' mine is the dream of the sleeping passions; when they are awake I cannot speak their 1 Cf. Byron's remark: '■'■... My first impressions are always strong and confused, and my memory selects and reduces them to order, like distance in the landscape. ..." INTROD UCTION XXXV language." The abstracting and visionary power was very strong in Byron's temperament. For Byron poetry was a matter of inspiration, as for most of the Romantics, and not mainly an art or a trade of life. "A man's poetry," he writes, " is a distinct faculty, or Soul, and has no more to do with , the every-day individual than the inspiration with the Pythoness when removed from her tripod." ^ Poetry, he holds, should be creative and Promethean, '•For what is poesy but to create From overfeeling good or ill; and aim At an external life beyond our fate, And be the new Prometheus of new men, Bestowing fire from heaven, and then, too late, Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain. And vultures to the heart of the bestower. Who, having lavish'd his high gift in vain, Lies chain'd to his lone rock by the sea-shore ? So be it: we can bear. — But thus all they Whose intellect is an o'ermastering power Which still recoils from its encumbering clay Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoe'er The form which their creations may essay, Are bards." ^ The operation of poetry he has exactly described in a famous stanza in " Childe Harold " : " 'Tis 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. ' Cf. similarly Byron in Trelawny's '' Records of Shelley, Byron, and the Author," 22. 2 "The Prophecy of Dante," Canto IV. XXXVl INTRODUCTION 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 feeling's dearth." That the poet is essentially seeking an ideality, Byron too, at his best, felt, as well as Shelley. Yet Byron rather feels with Marlowe the unattainability of ideal beauty. As Marlowe cries: '' If all the pens that ever poets held Had fed the feeling of their masters' thoughts, ****** If these had made one poem's period, And all combined in beauty's worthiness,^ Yet should there hover in their restless heads One thought, one grace, one wonder, at the least, Which into words no virtue can digest." So Byron : " Of its own beauty is the mind diseased. And fevers into false creation : — where. Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized ? In him alone. Can Nature show so fair ? ****** Nor worth nor beauty dwell's from out the mind's Ideal shape of such," ^ What most distinguishes Byron's conception of poetry, however, is his insistence that the end of poetry is passion, emotion, movement. "I can never," he writes, "get people to understand that poetry is the expression of excited passion, and that there is no such 1 I.e. honor, praise, worship. 2 "Childe Harold," Canto IV, sts. 122, 123. INTROD UCTION xxxvil thing as a life of passion any more than a continuous earthquake, or an eternal fever." The expression of passion, this surely was Byron's great gift, in which he surpassed all others of his generation, however much he fell behind them in certain other gifts. VIII The style of Byron's poetry reveals his genius freely, and requires little further analysis. It is marked by passion, verve, fire, concentration, a careless energy, rapidity of movement, unevenness, sharp contrasts of emotion and manner; at its worst by laxness, in- coherency, and a certain vulgarity; at its best by in- credible ease and effectiveness. His diction and vocabulary are adequate and rich, without being curi- ous. As Professor Courthope says, " alone among his contemporaries he understood how to swell the stream of English poetical diction as it had come down to him from the eighteenth centur}-, so as to make it an adequate vehicle of expression for romantic thought and feeling. Wordsworth speaks the language of philosophers, Shelley of spirits, but Byron of men." Byron is not great as a stylist; he was too careless and disdainful of form for that. His manner is essen- tially that of impromptu, — at its best the impromptu of genius and inspiration, it is true; but still im- promptu. His high impatient temper refused the labor of the file. He would amplify, or substitute an entirely new act or passage for one which was judged inferior, but he would not polish and revise. XXXVlll INTROD UCTION ''I can't furbish," he writes to Murray in 1820. ''I am like the tiger (in poesy); if I miss the first spring, I go growling back to my jungle. There is no second; I can't correct; I can't, and I won't." It is difficult, as Mr, J. A. Symonds has pointed out in his admirable essay on Byron, for our generation, trained to an exacting taste for all the subtleties of poetical art, to appreciate a style void of subtlety, full of technical defects in matters of detail, and great only in the mass and in a few pre-eminent qualities. Byron's poetry must be read not for the lingering sweetness or the curious felicity of the line or the phrase, but for the sweeping magnificence of long passages, the effectiveness of large masses, and its power in wholes. In these at his best he always attains his ends and never fails of his effect.^ He cared little for fine phrases — which Keats used to dote upon like a lover. Phrasing for its own sake was an offence to him. He writes in one of his Diaries in 1821: "I have been reading Frederic Schlegel till now, and I can make out nothing. He evidently shows a great power of words, but there is nothing to be taken hold of. ... I like him the worse . . . because he always seems upon the verge of meaning; and, lo ! he goes down like sunset, or melts like a rainbow, leaving a rather rich confusion." There is much of the positivist in Byron, — a grasp upon substance and sense, and a this-worldliness, which separate him widely from the other Romanticists. 1 "Like paintings, poems may be too highly finished. The great art is effect, no matter how produced." (Byron, in Medwin's '•Conversations," 133.) INTROD UCTION XXXIX At times, as in parts of " Don Juan," he becomes out and out a realist. The self-conscious reader, who refuses to submit himself to the fascination of Byron's movement and the sway of his verse, easily discovers in this poetry a sort of unconcealed artifice which a more cunning workman would have kept hidden, — mannerisms and devices which, being thus revealed, are forthwith classed as rhetorical or melodramatic. The broken and exclamatory style of the following passage from *' Lara, " for example, is highly characteristic of Byron : '* 'Twas 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. Rhetorical, if you will, but in its kind how effective ! And Byron usually maintains the style of the particular kind in which he has chosen to write, with remarkable dexterity. We must indeed be careful to note the effect he is seeking and not expect something different. " Childe Harold " is not an epic and does not aim at epic effects. Superficially regarded it might be classed as descriptive poetry. But how different the effect from that of most descriptive poetry that we know! And the reason is this, that its description is animated at all points with human emotion, until the center of xl • IN TROD UCTION interest is in the poet and only secondarily in the object described. In this sense the poem is more lyrical than descriptive. Similar cautions, mutatis mutandis, may be suggested for the other poems. Byron's style is effective because it renders so com- pletely to us Byron himself. Vital feeling, the impulse, in spite of attendant despairs, to rejoice, as Wordsworth says the poet does, ' ' more than other men in the spirit of life that is in him," this is the underlying impulse of Byron's poetry. It throbs with life; strong, defiant, desperate, mocking, resistant life; but still with life. Now mark how Byron, inspired by this feeling, takes the heroic couplet of the classicists, the instrument of impersonal and subdued poetic propriety, and makes it express, in the " Corsair" for example, all the im- petuous rush, the turbulence, and the personal force of his nature : " There is a war, a chaos of the mind, When all its elements convulsed, combined, Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force, And gnashing with impenitent Remorse — That juggling fiend — who never spake before — But cries, ' I warn'd thee ! ' when the deed is o'er. Vain voice ! the spirit burning but unbent, May writhe — rebel — the v/eak alone repent ! Even in that lonely hour when most it feels, And to itself, all — all that self reveals, No single passion, and no ruling thought That leaves the rest, as once, unseen, unsought ; But the wild prospect when the soul reviews, All rushing through their thousand avenues. Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret, Endanger'd glory, life itself beset; The joy untasted, the contempt or hate 'Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate; iNTROD UCTiON xll The hopeless past, the hasting future driven Too quickly on to guess if hell or heaven ; Deeds, thoughts, and woi'ds, perhaps remember'd not So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot; Things light or lovely in their acted time, But now to stern reflection each a crime; The withering sense of evil unreveal'd, Not cankering less because the more conceal'd — All, in a word, from which all eyes must start. That opening sepulchre — the naked heart Bares with its buried woes, till Pride awake, ^ To snatch the mirror from the soul — and break." ^ Certain mannerisms and tricks of style in Byron everybody will notice. There is his excessive use of the dash indicating ellipsis and the appositional phrase. There is the omission of connectives. There is the frequent use of such words as ' ' away, away ! " or *' on, on." Verbs and other words indicating motion swarm in certain poems, the " Giaour" and " Mazep- pa" for example. The painting of emotion and of moods, the narration of action, the setting in of a background by description, — these are almost the only elements in Byron's verse-romances. There is no redundancy. With admirable effect he plunges i7i medias res. In transitions he is usually skilful, though abrupt. An excellent example are the opening stanzas of Canto III of " Childe Harold." And although sometimes cacophonous and logically incoherent, there is generally sufficient consistency in the larger units of composition, and the poet seldom misses the emotional effect at which he aims. His style, however, is manifold. There is the style of his early satires, couplets in imitation of Pope. There is the style of " Childe Harold," stately, im- xlii INTRODUCTION petuous, resonant, and often nobly rhetorical. There is the style of the verse-romances, mostly written in free octosyllabic verse or pentameter couplets, more mannered than his other compositions, but maturing to admirable finish in parts of ' ' Mazeppa, " " The Prisoner of Chillon, " and "The Island." There is the style of his lyrics, often singularly impressive, but imperfect and unfinished. There is his dramatic and blank- verse style, an instrument forced to effective utterance in ' ' Manfred ' ' and ' ' Cain, ' ' but imperfectly commanded and in itself unpleasing. And finally there is the style of " Beppo " and " Don Juan," a style of astonishing ease, audacity, variety, and power, some- thing supreme in its kind in the whole range of litera- ture, of which Byron remains the undisputed master. Byron excels in the broadly picturesque, and his imagery is concrete and \ivid, although elemental and dynamic rather than clear-cut, cameo-like, or elab- orated. Not the picture so much as the emotional connotation of the picture is what he aims for. There is little of the idyllic. His imagery is the imagery of pathos and passion and power rather than of vision. All his characteristic similes are energetic and sugges- tive of movement and force. Nature in her extremest manifestations, nature in her elements, supplies most of his comparisons. So he cries In " Childe Harold " : • ' Could I embody and unbosom now That which is most within me ; — could I wreak My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak. All that I would have sought, and all I seek, Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into one word, And that one word were Lightning, I would speak." INTRODUCTION xHil This may stand for us as the emblem of Byron's poetic ideal. The "lightning of the mind" is his. Here and there, it is true, images of pure beauty are exhibited. '< She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies." Or again : " As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, The maid was on the eve of womanhood." Or similarly, in ' ' Mazeppa " : " She had the Asiatic eye, ... Dark as above us is the sky ; But through it stole a tender light, Like the first moonrise of midnight." Or Haidee's beauty, in " Don Juan," is compared to the break of day over the mountain-tops. But even in these examples it is always the beauty of ele- mental nature that is brought into the comparison. The more characteristic images are as where the poet proclaims that his hero's mind is as a seaweed torn from the rock and swept by the surge ^ ; or rushing onward as the wind which bears the cloud before it^; or drooping as the wild-born falcon with dipt wing^; or impatient of calm and pining like a flame unfed, or a sword rusting ingloriously * ; or dreading the leafless desert of the mind, or to drop by dull decay on life- » '' Childe Harold," III, 2. 3 j^. Ill, 15. 2 Id. Ill, 3. 4 Id. Ill, 44. xliv 2NTR0D UCTIOKt less waves ^; or growing through adversity and enduring storms like the fir on the barren Alpine rocks. ^ The guilty mind is like the scorpion girt by fire seeking death from its own sting 2; the shock of battle is com- pared to the meeting of opposing tide and torrent^; deeds appear fierce as the gloomy vulture's^; it is as if a serpent were wreathed around the heart and stung it to strife^; the hero's eye flashes like the white torrent, or the lightning bursting from the black cloud ^; the hero battling alone is like a glutted tiger mangling in his lair^; warriors assaulting the ramparts are like a pack of wolves tossed by a buffalo ^; the opposing force gives way and falls like a cliff undermined by the tides"; wrath is like the rattlesnake's in act to strike^; scorn affects one as the wind the rock, another as the whirlwind on the waters^; the hero's locks rise like startled vipers o'er his brow^'^; he faces his enemies dark as a sullen cloud before the sun^^; a woman's revenge is as the tiger's spring, deadly, and quick, and crushing. ^2 As we review these images we touch, if we do not analyze, the psychology of Byron's tempera- ment; and the partial similarity of his imagination to that of some of the Elizabethans, like Marlowe and Webster, becomes once more apparent. Rhetorical dexterity marks Byron's handling of simile and metaphor; as when in the following lines 1 i ' The Giaour." 7 Id. xxiv. 2 < 'Childe Harold," IV, 20. 8 " Mazeppa," xiii. 3 < ' The Giaour." 9 " Marino Faliero," V, 4 < ' Bride of Abydos," xii. 10 ''The Island," iv. 5 . ' The Corsair," iv. ^Ud. 6 1 •' The Siege of Corinth," xxiii. ^■- "Don Juan/' II, 199. INTROD UCTION' xlv he welds together a series of similes into a picturesque emotional climax: "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." ^ Or in these lines: "Tell him what thou dost behold : The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind, The wrack by passion left behind, A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter'd leaf, Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief." So, as an example of terse congruity, the familiar lines: "Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green. That host with their banners at sunset were seen : Tike the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown." For effects of humor and satire, naturally, Byron uses imagery in quite a different manner. Here the rhetorical effect usually desired is that of anti-climax. This is especially seen in "" Don Juan." "And she bent over him, and he lay beneath, Hush'd as the babe upon its mother's breast, Droop'd as the willow when no winds can breathe, Lull'd like the depth of ocean when at rest, 1 "Childe Harold," III, 32. Cf. the following stanza. xlvi INTRODUCTION Fair as the crowning rose of the whole wreath, Soft as the callow cygnet in its nest; In short, he was a very pretty fellow, Although his woes had turn'd him rather yellow." ^ As in most of his similes drawn from nature there is present some element of human association or emotion, as in " A shriveir d scroll, a scattered leaf." so in his descriptions of nature Byron habitually and on principle 2 compares natural things with human. Thus, in his description of the Lake of Nemi,^ he writes : '' Calm as cherish'd hate, its surface wears A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake. All coil'd into itself and round, as sleeps the snake." IX In conclusion we are led to ask, What are the per- manent elements in Byron's work ? That his was a mind of surpassing genius few will deny. Whether he was a poet, or in what sense and degree he was a poet, is a question which has been mooted, and which in time may come to be debated as the question whether Pope was a poet has been debated. There is this difference in the two questions, however, that those who doubt Pope's position are those who insist on the test of inspiration over form, while with Byron the case 1 Similarly, cf. "Don Juan," XIII, 37; XVI, 9, 10. ^ See his "Letter on Bowles' Strictures on Pope." 3 "Childe Harold," IV, 173. IN TROD UCTION xlvif is precisely the contrary. Mr. Swinburne, for exam- ple, is for judging Byron to be a great prose writer in his letters, but in poetry infinitely inferior to Shelley and Coleridge. "Byron," he says, "was supreme in his turn — a king by truly divine right; but in a province outside the proper domain of absolute poetry." The proper domain of absolute poetry of course is very much a matter of definition and opinion, and there is little use disputing about definitions. In some debatable borderland of creative literature just outside the proper domain of absolute poetry, then, we may safely say that Byron reigns as one of the dii major es of the world's literature. "It is on the quality of the matter it informs or controls," Walter Pater writes, "its compass, its variety, its alliance to great ends, or the depth of the note of revolt, or the largeness of hope in it, that the greatness of literary art depends." To the superficial eye Byron's verse seems narrow in compass and variety; it seems narrow by reason of its personal note and constant egotism. The depth of the note of revolt in it is unmistakable, as well as the greatness of the ends with which it is concerned. Its egotism, moreover, is something more than a personal egotism. Byron is a protagonist of humanity. " The feeling for human suffering," to use the phrase applied to him by Brandes, dominates his mind. It appears even in the early poems, but more intensely in "Chillon, " * ' Mazeppa, " " IVIanfred, ' ' the later ' ' Childe Harold, ' ' and " Don Juan." A holy indignation is upon him. He represents his age, and is in revolt against all that is hollow and false and narrowing in life and thought, xlviii INTRODUCTION then and forever. He is for liberating our spirits and enfranchising us from the bonds of custom and cant and conventionality. When he is inspired, — and preferably he wrote, as he phrased it, only when the esiro was upon him, — a current of elemental power sweeps through him. We forget all that is merely personal and temporal in him, his scepticism and cynicism and sense of satiety, and all that was unami- able in his character and temper, and feel only the lyrical resonance and sweep of his verse, the humani- tarian aim and scope of his poetic passion, the vastness and indomitable energy of his imagination, and the sincerity of his outcry against fate and those blind forces of the world which repress and limit and baffle the aspirations of the soul towards a more perfect and absolute ideal. Byron and Goethe, as Mazzini says, are the two great representatives of their age. They are the two last great exponents of that spirit of individuality which dominates and inspires the long period of the Renaissance, and which slowly expires in the throes of modern Revolution. Byron is not a great artist. He has not the artistic temperament and the sense for beauty of Keats or Tennyson or Rossetti. Nor has he the gift for poetical form, and phrasing of Shelley and ColeridgC: In the mere art of poetry he stands below these men; and this defect will prevent his being placed as a poet after Shakspere and Milton. But it is easy to exaggerate Byron's defects of form and of art. The positive merits of his poetical method have never been suffi- ciently recognized, partly perhaps because his method is so different from that of other poets of our age. IN TK ODUC TIO IV X i 1 X The compensating qualities of his style are simple and generally obvious, and they are not subtle. But his style admirably suits his genius, and at its best meets, with candid and impartial readers, his own test of effectiveness. There is, moreover, an underlying sin- cerity in his art. " If," writes Professor Courthope, " . . . we search for the special quality that gives his work its enduring interest and its strange power over the imagination, I think it will be found to be reality; reality in description, reality in feeling, reality in style." ^ It requires in our day a determined effort of detachment and readjustment to appreciate the pro- found genius and the essential sincerity of Byron. He did not know himself; it is only with difficulty that we to-day can arrive at even a partial knowledge of him. Mediocrity has misinterpreted him, and has done its worst to obscure his genius. It has been in vain, for his works live after him; and through them, however obscured, that genius shines. Apart from all questions of the technicalities of ethics and of art two potent personalities, two pre-eminent poets, loom forth in the English literature of the first half of the nine- teenth century, Byron and Wordsworth, different in type, different in method, but both leaders in the ' Compare Ruskin's interesting account (in his " Prasterita," N. Y., 1886, I, 258 f.) of his early indebtedness to Byron : ''Two things I consciously recognized, that his truth of observation was the most exact, and his chosen expression the most concentrated, that I had yet found in literature. . . . But here at last I had found a man who spoke only what he had seen and known ; and spoke without exaggeration, without mystery, without enmity, and without mercy. ' That is so ;— make what you will of it ! ' " 1 INTROD UCTION march of humanity. The one is the great modem English poet of the will, the proclaimer of emancipa- tion to man. His method stands in the exaltation of freedom and of personal force. The other is the poet of character, and the advocate of law. The wisdom of passivity, and reconciliation through ultimate sub- mission are his words of order. Taken together they fully represent their age, and they have both left abid- ing monuments of immortal verse behind them. CHRONOLOGICAL OUTLINE OF THE LIFE OF BYRON Byron's career naturally falls into four Periods (Nichol), as indicated below. Progressive growth, deepening of power, and increasing command of style, is traceable throughout. Ancestry ancient, tracing to Norman and Viking founders. Ennobled in 1643. Distinguished members two generations before Byron. His father a libertine and spendthrift. His mother of old Scotch stock, violent, ill-bred, hysterical. Passion, eccentricity, and self-will from both branches. Newstead Abbey family seat of Byrons since Henry VIII. 1788-1809. First Period : Early Years and Youthful Poems. 1788, Jan. 22. Born in London. Congenital lameness. 1790. Moved to Aberdeen. Childhood under care of kindly nurse, Mary Gray. Early imbibes Scotch Calvinistic doctrines (traces of which remain in all his later thought) and knowledge of the Bible. 1792. To day-school in Aberdeen. Later to Rev. Mr. Ross, and then to Mr. Paterson. Begins Latin. Mediocre student, but passion for reading history and romance. 1794. Becomes heir- apparent to the Barony. 1795-6. Early childish passion for a cousin, Mary Duff. 1796. Visit to Scotch Highlands. Early love of mountains. 1798. Inherits the title and estates. Journey to Newstead. Settles — in Nottingham. Lord Carlisle, an uncle, his guardian. 1799. School at Dulwich under Dr. Glennie. Voracious general reading. 1800. Boyish passion for another cousin, Margaret Parker ("Thyrza" ?) lii CHRONOLOGICAL OUTLINE 1801-1805. At Harrow school under Dr. Jos. Drury. Latin; some Greek; reading knowledge of French; mere smat- tering of German. (Learns Italian thoroughly in later life.) Wide reading. Strong memory. 1803-4. Disappointed in love for Mary Chaworth (cf. ''The Dream"). 1805-1808. At Cambridge, Trinity College. Little attention to studies. M.A. i8o8. College friends, — esp. Hobhouse, Byron's stanch and life-long fi-iend. ' 1806. Juvenile poems (issue destroyed). — J 8 07, Jati. "Juvenilia' revised (private). 1807, March. "Hours of Idleness " ("Juvenilia," public). 1808. Life in London. Dissipation. — March. Attack on poems by "Edinburgh Review." 1809, Jan. 22. Comes of age. Takes seat in House of Lords. — March. "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." Fare- well revels with friends at Newstead before going abroad. 1809-1812. Second Period : First Sojourn Abroad. First Cantos of "Childe Harold." 1809, June. Sails for Portugal. — Jufy- At Lisbon, trip through Spain, to Greece, etc. (See Itinerary, in Notes to "Childe Harold," below.) 1810, March. Completes second canto of "Childe Harold." Pressure from creditors at home, and consequently, 1811, July, returns to England. — August. Death of his mother. Beginning of friendship with Tom Moore. 1812, February. "Childe Harold " I-II published. Its immense success. 1812-1813. Several speeches in House of Lords on Liberal side. 1812-1816. Third Period: Life in London; Early Verse- romances. 1812-1814. Lion of the day in London. Literary society (Sheri- dan, Rogers, Moore, Campbell, Monk Lewis, Mme. de Stael, etc. Corresponds with Scott, whom he meets in 18 15.) Affair with Lady Caroline Lamb. 1813-1815. "The Giaour," "Bride of Abydos," "Corsair," "Lara," "Hebrew Melodies," "Siege of Corinth," "Parisina," etc. OF THE LIFE OF BYRON Hil 1814, Engagement to Miss Milbanke. 1815, January 2. Marriage, — December. Birth of daughter, Augusta Ada. 1816, January. Lady Byron leaves Byron. Public scandal. Formal separation. 1816, April. Byron leaves England for good, "hunted out of the ^2^-/5^ /^Vj country, bankrupt in purse and heart." ,i 1816-1824. Fourth Period : Life Abroad ; Production of THE Great Works. 1816. Through Belgium and along the Rhine to Switzerland (see Itinerary). PViendship w^ith Shelley. Influence on his work. Amour with Clare Clairmont (Godwin's daughter). Various excursions. — June. "Prisoner of Chillon." Third canto of "Childe Harold" written. — J'^ify- "Manfred" \)t./r 1 * ,1' , T ,• 1 1 Criticism found m Matthew Arnold s essay (published as introduction to his ' ' Selections from Byron ' ' ; also in his "Essays in Criticism," 2d series); see also Matthew Arnold's "Memorial Verses," 11. 6-14. Excellent also is the shorter study by J. A. Symonds, prefixed to the selections from Byron in Ward's "English Poets," Vol. IV.. Perhaps third in value should be named the admirable summary of Byron's present position by Paul E. More in "The Atlantic Monthly " for December, 1898. The several criticisms upon Byron by A. C. Swinburne are curiously contra- dictory and unequal. They contain some of the best things that have been written about Byron, with some of the worst. The critic attacks Arnold's judgment and violently denies Byron all purely poetic power. See his "Essays and Studies," 214-216, 238-258, 304-307; and his " Miscellanies," 63-156. The poet's historical position is judiciously weighed in John Morley's essay on Byron (in his "Miscellanies," I, 203-251). Slighter, but of charming quality, are the essay on Byron in W. E. Henley's "Views and Reviews," 56-62, and (in verse) in Andrew Lang's ' ' Letters to Dead Authors. ' ' Macaulay's essay, brilliant but borne, must still be read; as also should the utterances on Byron of dis- tinguished critics and poets of an earlier day, like Ivlii BIBLIOGRAPHY William Hazlitt, Jeffrey, Goethe, Mazzini (eloquent yet admirable : see his Essays, in the Camelot Series, London, 1887, pp. 83-108), Scott, Shelley, Ste.-Beuve, Tennyson (** Memoirs "), Ruskin (" Praeterita "), Lamartine, Washington Irving, and others. A valu- able contemporary Continental criticism of Byron is to be found in G. Brandes, " Der Naturalismus in England" (Leipzig, 1894), chs. 16-21 — especially excellent for the appreciations of " Cain " and " Don Juan." The sections on Byron in the standard his- tories of English Literature should also be consulted. See especially Taine, Gosse (" Modern English Litera- ture"), Saintsbury (" History of Nineteenth-Century Literature " ; also a " Short History of English Litera- ture "), C. H. Herford (" The Age of Wordsworth "), Minto (" Literature of the Georgian Era," ch. xvii), and Courthope (" Liberal Movement in English Litera- ture," 131-144). Numerous special studies on detached aspects or separate works of Byron exist, some of which are mentioned in the Notes to this volume. See also the pages of the periodicals, " Englische Studien " and ' ' Anglia. ' ' Worthy of special mention are Prof. Kolbing's unfinished edition of Byron with elaborate notes; F. H. O. Weddigen, " Lord Byron's Einfluss auf die europaischen Litteraturen der Neuzeit," Han- nover, 1884; J. O. E. Donner, "Byron's Welt- Anschauung, " 1897; O. Schmidt, " Rousseau und Byron, " Leipzig, 1890. See Varnhagen's " "^rerzeich- nis, " etc., 1893, pp. 202-3. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE A ROMAUNT TO lANTHE Not in those climes where I have late been straying, Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deem'd, Not in those visions to the heart displaying Forms which it sighs but to have only dream 'd, Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd : Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek To paint those charms which varied as they beam'd — To such as see thee not my words were weak ; To those who gaze on thee what language could they speak ? Ah ! may'st thou ever be what now thou art. Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring. As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart. Love's image upon earth without his wing. And guileless beyond Hope's imagining ! And surely she who now so fondly rears Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening. Beholds the rainbow of her future years. Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears. Young Peri of the West ! — 'tis well for me My years already doubly number thine ; My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, And safely view thy ripening beauties shine : 2 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline; Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed, Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign To those whose admiration shall succeed, But mix'd with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours de- creed. Oh ! let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle's, Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells. Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh, Could I to thee be ever more than friend : This much, dear maid, accord ; nor question why To one so young my strain I would commend. But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend. Such is thy name with this my verse entwined ; And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast On Harold's page, lanthe's here enshrined Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last: My days once number'd, should this homage past Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre Of him who hail'd thee loveliest, as thou wast, Such is the most my memory may desire ; Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less require ? I CANTO THE FIRST 1812 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. Wliilome 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 favor in his sight Save concubines and carnal companie And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree, III. Childe Harold was he hight : — but whence his name And lineage long, it suits me not to say ; Suffice 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. 3 4 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON IV. Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun, Disporting there like any other fly, Nor deem'd before his little day was done One blast might chill him into misery. But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by, Worse than adversity the Childe befell ; He felt the fullness of satiety : Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell. V. For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run. Nor made atonement when he did amiss. Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one, And that lov'd one, alas, could ne'er be his. Ah, happy she ! to 'scape from him whose kiss Had been pollution unto aught so chaste ; Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste, Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to taste. VI. And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, And from his fellow bacchanals would flee ; 'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start. But Pride congeal'd the drop within his e'e ; Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie, And from his native land resolv'd 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. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE VII. The Childe departed from his father's hall ; It was a vast and venerable pile ; So old, it seemed only not to fall. Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle. Monastic dome ! condemn'd to uses vile ! Where Superstition once had made her den, Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile ; And monks might deem their time was come agen, If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men. VIII. Yet ofttimes, in his maddest mirthful mood, Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow, As if the memory of some deadly feud Or disappointed passion lurk'd below: But this none knew, nor haply cared to know ; For his was not that open, artless soul That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow ; Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control. IX. And none did love him — though to hall and bower He gather'd revellers from far and near. He knew them flatterers of the festal hour ; The heartless parasites of present cheer. Yea ! none did love him^not hislemans 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. SELECTIONS FROM BYRON Childe Harold had a mother — not forgot, Though parting from that mother he did shun: A sister whom he loved, but saw her not Before his weary pilgrimage begun: If friends he had, he bade adieu to none, Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel ; Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon A few dear objects, will in sadness feel Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal. XI. 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 all that mote to luxury invite. Without a sigh he left to cross the brine, And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's central line. XII. The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds blew, As glad to waft him from his native home ; And fast the white rocks faded from his view, And soon were lost in circumambient foam ; And then, it may be, of his wish to roam Repented he, but in his bosom slept The silent thought, nor from his lips did come One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept. And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE XIII. But when the sun was sinking in the sea, He seized his harp, which he at times could string, 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 farev/ell 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 4og howls at the gate. 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 I - . 8 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON' 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'll 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 ! XIV. 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. XV. Oh, Christ ! it is a goodly sight to see What Heaven hath done for this delicious land: What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree ! What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand ! But man would mar them with an impious hand : And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge 'Gainst those who most transgress his high command, With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE XVI. What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold ! Her image floating on that noble tide, Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, But now whereon a thousand keels did ride Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied, And to the Lusians did her aid afford : A nation swoll'n with ignorance and pride. Who lick, yet loathe, the hand that waves the sword To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing lord. XVII. But whoso entereth within this town. That, sheening far, celestial seems to be. Disconsolate will wander up and down, *Mid many things unsightly to strange e'e ; For hut and palace show like filthily ; The dingy denizens are rear'd in dirt ; Ne personage of high or mean degree Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt, Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, unwash'd, unhurt. XVIII. Poor, paltry slaves ! yet born 'midst noblest scenes- Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men ? Lo ! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes In variegated maze of mount and glen. Ah me ! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, To follow half on which the eye dilates. Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken Than those whereof such things the bard relates. Who to the awe-struck world unlock'd Elysium's gates? lO SELECTIONS FROM BYRON XIX. The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown'd, The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep, The mountain moss by scorching skies imbrown'd. The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep, The tender azure of the unruffled deep. The orange tints that gild the greenest bough, The torrents that from cliff to valley leap, The vine on high, the willow branch below, Mix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow. XX. Then slowly climb the many-winding way, And frequent turn to linger as you go, From loftier rocks new loveliness survey. And rest ye at " Our Lady's House of Woe" ; Where frugal monks their little relics show. And sundry legends to the stranger tell : Here impious men have punish 'd been ; and lo, Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell, In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell. XXI. . And here and there, as up the crags you spring, • Mark many rude-carv'd crosses near the path.;/ . • .." Yet deem not these devotion's offering — These are memorials frail of murderous wrath : For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife, Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath ; And grove and glen with thousand such are rife Througihaut. this, purple land, where law secures, not Uie.1 CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE II XXII. 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 splendor 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 When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done. Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun. XXX. O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, (Oh, that such hills upheld a free-born 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, Jong league to trace, Oh, there is sweetness in the mountain air. And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share. XXXI. More bleak to view the hills at length recede, And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend : Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed ! Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, Spain's realms appear, whereon her shepherds tend Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader knows- Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend ; For Spain is compass'd by unyielding foes. And all must shield their all, or share Subjection's woes. 12 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON XXXII. Where Lusitania and her Sister meet, Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide ? Or e'er the jealous queens of nations greet, Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide ? Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride ? Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall ? — Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall, Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land from Gaul. XXXIII. But these between a silver streamlet glides, And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook, Tliough rival kingdoms press its v^erdant sides. Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook, And vacant on the rippling waves doth look. That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow ; For proud each peasant as the noblest duke : Well doth the Spanish hind the dilTerence know 'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low. XXXIV. But ere the mingling bounds have far been pass'd Dark Guadiana rolls his power along In sullen billows, murmuring and vast. So noted ancient roundelays among. Whilome upon his banks did legions throng Of Moor and Knight, in mailed splendor drest ; Here ceas'd the swift their race, here sunk the strong ; The Paynim turban and the Christian crest Mix'd on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppress'd. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 1 3 XXXV. Oh, lovely Spain ! renovvn'd, romantic land ! Where is that standard which Pelagio bore. When Cava's traitor-sire first called the band That dyed thy mountain-streams with Gothic gore? Where are those bloody banners which of yore Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale. And drove at last the spoilers to their shore? Red gleam'd the cross, and waned the crescent pale, While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish matrons' wail. xxxvi. Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale ? Ah ! such, alas, the hero's amplest fate ! When granite moulders, and when records fail, A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. Pride ! bend thine eye from heaven to thine estate, See how the Mighty shrink into a song! Can Volume, Pillar, Pile, preserve thee great ? Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue. When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does thee wrong ? XXXVII. Awake, ye sons of Spain ! awake ! advance ! Lo ! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries. But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance, Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies : Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies. And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar ! In every peal she calls — " Awake, arise ! " Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, When her war-song v/as heard on Andalusia's shore ? 14 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON XXXVIII. Hark ! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note ? Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath ? Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath Tyrants and tyrants' slaves? — the fires of death, The bale-fires flash on high : — from rock to rock Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe : Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. XXXIX. Lo ! where the giant on the mountain stands, His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun, With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands. And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon ; Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon Flashing afar, and at his iron feet Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done ; For on this morn three potent nations meet, To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet. XL. By Heaven ! it is a splendid sight to see (For one who hath no friend, no brother there) Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery. Their various arms that glitter in the air ! What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair, And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey ! All join the chase, but few the triumph share : The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away. And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 1$ XLI. Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice ; Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high ; Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies : The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory ! The foe, the victim, and the fond ally That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, Are met — as if at home they could not die — To feed the crow on Talavera's plain, And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain. XLII. There shall they rot — Ambition's honour'd fools ! Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay ! Vain Sophistry ! in these behold the tools, The broken tools, that tyrants cast away By myriads, when they dare to pave their way With human hearts — to what ? — a dream alone. Can despots compass aught that hails their sv/ay > Or call with truth one span of earth their own. Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone XLIII. O Albuera, glorious field of grief ! As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his steed, Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed } Peace to the perish'd ! ma}^ the warrior's meed And tears of triumph their reward prolong ! Till others fall where other chieftains lead, Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng. And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song. 1 6 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON XLIV. Enough of Battle's minions ! let them play Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame : Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay, Though thousands fall to deck some single name. In sooth, 'twere sad to thwart their noble aim Who strike, blest hirelings ! for their country's good, And die, that living might have proved her shame ; Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud, Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursued. XLV. Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued : Yet is she free — the spoiler's wish'd-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. XLVI. But all unconscious of the coming doom, The feast, the song, the revel here abounds ; Strange modes of merriment the hours consume, Nor bleed these patriots with their country's wounds ; Nor hear War's clarion, but Love's rebeck sounds ; Here Folly still his votaries enthralls. And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals, Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tottering walls. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE IJ XLVII. Not so the rustic : with his trembling mate He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar, Lest he should view his vineyard desolate, Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star Fandango twirls his jocund Castanet : Ah, monarchs I could ye taste the mirth ye mar, Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret ; The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy yet. XLVIII. How carols now the lusty muleteer ? Of love, romance, devotion is his lay, As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer. His quick bells wildly jingling on the way? No ! as he speeds he chants " Viva el Rey ! " And checks his song to execrate Godoy, The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy. And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate joy. XLIX. On yon long level plain, at distance crown'd With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest. Wide scatter'd hoof-marks dint the wounded ground ; And, scathed by fire, the greensward's darkened vest Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest : Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host, Here the bold peasant storm'd the dragon's nest ; Still does he mark it v/ith triumphant boast, And points to yonder clifTs, which oft were won and lost. 1 8 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON And whomsoe'er along the path you meet Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet : Woe to the man that walks in public view Without of lo)'alty this token true : Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke ; And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue. If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloke. Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's smoke. LI. At every turn Morena's dusky height Sustains aloft the battery's iron load ; And, far as mortal eye can compass sight, The mountain-howitzer, the broken road, The bristling palisade, the fosse o'erflow'd, The station'd bands, the never-vacant watch, The magazine in rocky durance stow'd. The holster'd steed beneath the shed of thatch, The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match, LII. Portend the deeds to come : — but he whose nod Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway, A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod ; A little mom.ent deigneth to delay ; Soon V.' ill his legions sweep through these their way ; The West must own the Scourger of the world. Ah, Spain ! how sad will be thy reckoning-day, When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings unfurl'd. And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurl'd. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 1 9 LIII. And must they fall — the young, the proud, the brave — To swell one bloated Chief's unwholesome reign ? No step between submission and a grave ? The rise of Rapine and the fall of Spain ? And doth the Power that man adores ordain Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal ? Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain ? And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal, The Veteran's skill, Youth's fire, and Manhood's heart of steel ? LIV, Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, And, all unsex'd, the anlade hath espoused, Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war ? And she, whom once the semblance of a scar Appall'd. an owlet's larum chill'd with dread, Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar. The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to tread. LV. Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, Oh ! had you known her in her softer hour, Mark'd hen black eye that mocks her coal-black veil, Heard her light, lively tones in Lady's bower, Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, Her fairy form, with more than female grace, Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face, Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glorv's fearful chase. . 20 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON LVI. Her lover sinks — she sheds no ill-timed tear ; Her chief is slain — she fills his fatal post ; Her fellows flee — she checks their base career; The foe retires — she heads the sallying host ; Who can appease like her a lover's ghost ? Who can avenge so well a leader's fall ? What maid retrieve when man's fiush'd hope is lost ? Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall ? LX. Oh, thou Parnassus ! whom I now survey, Not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye, Not in the fabled landscape of a lay. But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, In the wild pomp of mountain majesty ! What marvel if I thus essay to sing ? The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string. Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave her wing. LXI. Oft have I dream'd of Thee ! whose glorious name Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore ! And now I view thee, 'tis, alas, with shame That I in feeblest accents must adore. When I recount thy worshippers of yore I tremble, and can only bend the knee ; Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee ! CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 21 LXII. Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot. Shall I unmoved behold the hallow'd scene, Which others rave of, though they know it not ? Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot, And thou the Muses' seat, art now their grave, Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot, Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave. And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave. LXIII. Of thee hereafter. — Ev'n amidst my strain I turn'd aside to pay my homage here ; Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain ; Her fate, to every free-born bosom dear ; And hail'd thee, not perchance without a tear. Now to my theme — but from thy holy haunt Let me some remnant, some memorial bear ; Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant. Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle vaunt. LXIV. But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount ! when Greece was young, See round thy giant base a brighter choir ; Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire. Behold a train more fitting to inspire The song of love than Andalusia's maids, Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire : Ah ! that to these were given such peaceful shades As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her glades. 22 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON LXXI. 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. LXXII. 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, Ne 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. LXXIII. Hush'd is the.din of tongues — on gallant steeds, . With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-pois'd lance. 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 to-day, 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. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 23 LXXIV. In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array 'd, But all afoot, the light-limb'd Matadore Stands in the centre, eager to invade The lord of lowing herds ; but not before The ground, with cautious tread, is travers'd o'er. Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed ; His arms a dart, he fights aloof, no more Can man achieve without the friendly steed — Alas ! too oft condemned for him to bear and bleed. LXXV. Thrice sounds the clarion ; lo ! the signal falls, The den expands, and Expectation mute Gapes around 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. LXXVI. 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 ; 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 bellow ings speak his woes. 24 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON LXXVII. 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. LXXVIII. 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 — 'tis past — he sinks upon the sand ! CANTO THE SECOND 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 be- stow. II. Ancient of days ! august Athena ! where, Where are thy men of might ? thy grand in soul ? Gone — glimmering 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. III. 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 : *Twas Jove's — 'tis 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, v/hose hope is built on reeds. 25 26 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON IV. 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 saith more than thousand homilies. Or burst the vanish'd Hero's lofty mound ; Far on the solitary shore he sleeps : 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 ! VI. 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 } CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 27 VII. 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 its 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. VIII. Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be A lard 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 With those who made our mortal labors 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 ! XVII. 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. 28 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON XVIII. And oh, the little warlike world within ! The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy, The hoarse command, the busy humming din, When, at a word, the tops are manned on high : Hark to the boatswain's call, the cheering cry ! While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides Or schoolboy midshipman that, standing by, Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides, And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides. XIX. White is the glassy deck, without a stain, Where on the watch the staid lieutenant walks : Look on that part which sacred doth remain For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks, Silent and fear'd by all — not oft he talks With aught beneath him, if he would preserve That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks Conquest and fame : but Britons rarely swerve Vrom law, however stern, which tends their strength to nerve. XX. Blow ! swiftly blow, thou ked-compelling gale ! Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray ; Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail, That lagging barks may make their lazy way. Ah ! grievance sore, and listless dull delay, To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze, What leagues are lost, before the dawn of day, Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, Vhe flapping sail haul'd down to halt for logs like these ! CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 2g XXI. 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. XXII. Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore; Europe and Afric on each other gaze! Lands of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky Moor Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze : How softly on the Spanish shore she plays. Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown, Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase; But Mauritania's giant shadows frown. From mountain-clifT to coast descending sombre down. XXIII. 'Tis 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 ? 30 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON XXIV. 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 3'ear. 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. XXV. 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 ; 'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores un- roll'd. XXVI. But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, And roam along, the world's tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless ; Minions of splendor 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/ CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 3 1 XXVII. More blest the life of godly eremite, Such as on lonely Athos may be seen, . Watching at eve upon the giant height, Which looks o'er waves so blue, skies so serene. That he who there at such an hour hath been Will wistful linger on that hallow'd spot ; Then slowly tear him from the witching scene. Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot. XXXVI. 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. XXXVII. 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 bes-: wrath. 32 SELECTIONS EROM BYRON XXXVIII. Land of Albania ! where Iskander rose ; Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise; And he his namesake, whose oft-baffled foes Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprise : Land of Albania ! let me bend mine eyes On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men ! The cross descends, thy minarets arise, And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, Through many a cypress grove within each city's ken. XXXIX. Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the barren spot Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave ; And onward view'd the mount, not yet forgot. The lover's refuge, and the Lesbian's grave. Dark Sappho ! could not verse immortal save That breast imbued with such immortal fire ? Could slie not live who life eternal gave ? If life eternal may await the lyre. That only heaven to which earth's children may aspire. XL. *Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve, Childe Harold hail'd Leucadia's cape afar; A spot he long'd to see, nor cared to leave : Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish'd war, Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar : Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight (Born beneath some remote inglorious star) In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, But loath'd the bravo's trade, and laugh'd at martial wight. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 33 XLI. But when he saw the evening star above Leucadia's far-projecting rock of woe. And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love, He felt, or deem'd he felt, no common glow : And as the stately vessel glided slow Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, He watch'd the billows' melancholy flow, And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont. More placid seem'd his eye, and smooth his pallid front. XLII. Morn dawns; and with it stern Albania's hills, Dark Suli's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak, Robed half in mist, bedew'd with snowy rills, Array'd in many a dun and purple streak, Arise ; and, as the clouds along them break, Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer; Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak. Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear. And gathering storms around convulse the closing year. XLIII. Now Harold felt himself at length alone. And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu : Now he adventured on a shore unknown, Which all admire, but many dread to viev/ : His breast was arm'd 'gainst fate, his wants were few : Peril he sought not, but ne'er shrank to meet : The scene was savage, but the scene was new^ ; This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet, Beat back keen winter's blast, and welcomed summer's heat. 34 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON XLIV. Here the red cross, for still the cross is here, Though sadly scoff'd at by the circumcised. Forgets that pride to pamper'd priesthood dear : Churchman and votary alike despised. Foul superstition ! howsoe'er disguised, Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross, For whatsoever symbol thou art prized, Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss ! Who from true worship's gold can separate thy dross ? XLV. Ambracia's gulf behold, where once was lost A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing ! In yonder rippling bay, their naval host Did many a Roman chief and Asian king To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter, bring: Look where the second Caesar's trophies rose, Now, like the hands that reared them, withering : Imperial anarchs doubling human woes ! God ! was thy globe ordain 'd for such to win and lose ? XLVI. From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, Ev'n to the centre of Illyria's vales, Childe Harold pass'd o'er many a mount sublime, Through lands scarce noticed in historic tales : Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales Are rarely seen ; nor can fair Tempe boast A charm they know not ; lov'd Parnassus fails, Though classic ground and consecrated most. To match some spots that lurk within this lowering coast. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 35 XLVII. He pass'd bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake. And left the primal city of the land, And onwards did his further journey take, To greet Albania's chief, whose dread command Is lawless law ; for with a bloody hand He sways a nation, turbulent and bold : Yet here and there some daring mountain band Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold. XLVIII. 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 harmonize 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. XLIX. Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill. Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still, Might well itself be deem'd of dignity, The convent's white walls glisten fair on high ; Here dwells the caloyer ; nor rude is he. Nor niggard of his cheer : the passer-by Is welcome still; nor heedless will he iiee From hence, if he delight kind Nature's sheen to see. 36 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON L. 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. LI. Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight, Nature's volcanic amphitheatre, Chimsera's alps extend from left to right : Beneath, a living valley seems to stir ; Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain fir Nodding above ; behold black Acheron ! Once consecrated to the sepulchre. Pluto ! if this be hell I look upon. Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek for none. LII. Ne city's towers pollute the lovely view ; Unseen is Yanina, though not remote, Veil'd by the screen of hills ; here men are few, Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot ; But, peering down each precipice, the goat Browseth : and, pensive o'er his scatter'd flock, The little shepherd in his white capote Doth lean his boyish form along the rock. Or in his cave awaits the tempest's short-lived shock. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 2>7 hill. Oh ! where, Dodona ! is thine aged grove, Prophetic fount, and oracle divine? What valley echoed the response of Jove ? What trace remaineth of the Thunderer's shrine? All, all forgotten — and shall man repine That his frail bonds to fleeting life are broke ? Cease, fool ! the fate of gods may well be thine : Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak, When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink beneath the stroke ? LIV. Epirus' bounds recede, and mountains fail ; Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale As ever Spring yclad in grassy dye : Ev'n on a plain no humble beauties lie, Where some bold river breaks the long expanse, And woods along the banks are waving high, Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance, Or with the moonbeam sleep in midnight's solemn trance. LV. The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit, And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by. The shades of wonted night were gathering yet, When, down the steep banks winding warily Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky. The glittering minarets of Tepalen, Whose v/alls o'erlook the stream ; and drawing nigh. He heard the busy hum of warrior-men Swelling the breeze that sigh'd along the lengthening glen. 38 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON LVI. He pass'd the sacred Hiram's silent tower, And underneath the wide o'erarching gate Survey'd the dwelling of this chief of power, Where all around proclaim'd his high estate. Amidst no common pomp the despot sate, While busy preparation shook the court ; Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests and santons wait Within, a palace, and without, a fort. Here men of every clime appear to make resort. LVII. Richly caparison'd, a ready row Of armed horse, and many a warlike store. Circled the wide-extending court below ; Above, strange groups adorn'd the corridore ; And ofttimes through the area's echoing door, Some high-capp'd Tartar spurr'd his steed away ; The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor, Here mingled in their many-hued array, While the deep war-drum's sound announced the close of day. LVIII. The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee. With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun, And gold-embroider'd garments, fair to see: The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon : The Delhi with his cap of terror on, And crooked glaive; the lively, supple Greek ; And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son ; The bearded Turk, that rarely deigns to speak, Master of all around, too potent to be meek. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 39 LIX. Are mix'd conspicuous : some recline in groups, Scanning the motley scene that varies round ; There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops, And some that smoke, and some that play are found : Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground ; Half-whispering there the Greek is heard to prate ; Hark ! from the mosque the nightly solemn sound, The Muezzin's call doth shake the minaret, There is no god but God ! — to prayer — lo ! God is great ! " LX. Just at this season Ramazani's fast Through the long day its penance did maintain, But when the lingering twilight hour was past, Revel and feast assumed the rule again : Nov/ all was bustle, and the menial train Prepared and spread the plenteous board within The vacant gallery now seem'd made in vain. But from the chambers came the mingling din. As page and slave anon were passing out and in. LXI. Here woman's voice is never heard : apart And scarce permitted, guarded, veil'd, to move, She yields to one her person and her heart. Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove ; For, not unhappy in her master's love. And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares, Blest cares ! all other feelings far above ! Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears, Who never quits the breast, no meaner passion shares. 40 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON LXII. In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring Of living water from the centre rose, ■j Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling, «i' And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, AH reclined, a man of war and woes : Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace, While Gentleness her milder radiance throws, Along that aged venerable face. The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with disgrace. LXIII. It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard 111 suits the passions which belong to youth : Love conquers age — so Hafiz hath averr'd, So sings the Teian, and he signs in sooth — But crimes that scorn the tender voice of Ruth, Beseeming all men ill, but most the man In years, have mark'd him with a tiger's tooth ; Blood follows blood, and through their mortal span. In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood began. LXIV. 'Mid many things m.ost new to ear and eye The pilgrim rested here his weary feet, And gazed around on Moslem, luxury, Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat Of Wealth and Wantonness, the choice retreat Of sated grandeur from the city's noise : And were it humbler it in sooth were sweet ; But Peace abhorreth artificial joys, And Pleasure, leagued with Pomp, the zest of both de- stroys. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 4 1 LXIX. It came to pass, that when he did address Himself to quit at length this mountain land, Combined marauders halfway barred egress, And wasted far and near with glaive and brand ; And therefore did he take a trusty band To traverse Acarnania's forest wide, In war well season'd, and with labours tann'd. Till he did greet white Achelous' tide, And from his further bank ^tolia's wolds espied. LXX. 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. LXXI. 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 v/as 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. 42 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON LXXII. Childe Harold at a little distance stood, And view'd, but not displeased, the revelrie, Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude : In sooth, it Avas 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 : screamed : I. 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 ! 2. 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. 3- 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 ?' 4. Macedonia sends forth her invincible race; For a time they abandon the cave and the cliase : But those scarfs of blood-red shall be redder, before The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o'er. 5- 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. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 43 6. I ask not the pleasures that riches supply, My sabre shall win v/hat the feeble must buy ; Shall win the young bride with her long flowing hair, And many a maid from her mother shall tear. 7- 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. 8. 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. 9- I talk not of mercy I talk not of fear ; He neither must know who^vould serve the Vizier ; Since the days of our prophet the Crescent ne'er saw A chief ever glorious like Ali Pashaw. lo. Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, Let the yellow-hair'd Giaours view his horsetail with with dread ; When his Delhis come dashing in blood o'er the banks, How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks ! II. Selictar ! unsheath 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 ! 44 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON LXXIII. 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 accustomed 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 ? LXXIV. Spirit of Freedom, when on Phyle's brow Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, Could'st thou forebode the dismal hour which now Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain ? Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, But every carle can lord it o'er thy land ; Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain. Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand, From birth till death enslaved ; in word, in deed, un- mann'd. LXXV. In all save form alone, how changed ! and who That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye. Who but would deem their bosoms burn'd anew With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty ! And many dream withal the hour is nigh That gives them back their father's heritage : For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh. Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage. Or tear their name defiled from Slaver>''s mournful page. I I CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 45 LXXVI, Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not Who would be free themselves must strike the blow ? By their right arms the conquest must be wrought ? Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye ? No ! True, they may lay your proud despoilers low. But not for you will Freedom's altars flame. Shades of the Helots ! triumph o'er your foe : Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still the same ; Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thine years of shame. LXXVII. The city won for Allah from the Giaour, The Giaour from Othman's race again may wrest : And the Serai's impenetrable tov/er Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest ; Or Wahab's rebel brood, who dared divest The prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil, May wind their path of blood along the West ; But ne'er will Freedom saek this fated soil, But slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil. LXXVIII. Yet mark their mirth — ere lenten days begin. That penance which their holy rites prepare To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin. By daily abstinence and nightly prayer; But ere his sackcloth garb Repentance wear. Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all. To take the pleasaunce each his secret share, In motley robe to dance at masking ball, And join the mimic train of merry Carnival. 46 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON LXXIX. And whose more rife with merriment than thine, O Stamboul ! once the empress of their reign ? Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine, And Greece her very altars eyes in vain : (Alas ! her woes will still pervade my strain I) 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. LXXX. Loud was the lightsome tumult on the shore ; Oft Music changed, but never ceased her tone, And timely echo'd back the measured oar. And rippling waters made a pleasant moan : The Queen of tides on high consenting shone ; And when a transient breeze swept o'er the wave, 'Twas as if, darting from her heavenly throne, A brighter glance her form reflected gave. Till sparkling billows seem'd to light the banks they lave. * LXXXI. Glanced many a light caique along the foam, Danced on the shore the daughters of the land. No 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 ! CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 47 LXXXV. 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 favorite 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 ; LXXXVI. Save where some solitary column mourns Above its prostrate brethren of the cave ; Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns Colonna's cliiT, and gleams along the wave ; Save o'er some warrior's half-forgotten grave. Where the gray stones and unmolested grass Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave, While strangers only not regardless pass. Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh " Alas ! " LXXXVII. 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, And still his honey'd 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. 48 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON LXXXVIII. Where'er we tread, 'tis haunted, holy ground ; No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould, But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, Till the sense aches with gazing to behold The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon : Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold. Defies the power which crush'd thy temples gone : Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon. LXXXIX. The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same ; — Unchanged in all except its foreign lord — Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame ; The battle-field, where Persia's victim horde First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword, As on the morn to distant Glory dear. When Marathon became a magic word ; Which utter'd, to the hearer's eye appear The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career. xc. The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow ; The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear ; Mountains above. Earth's, Ocean's plain below. Death in the front. Destruction in the rear ! Such was the scene — what now remaineth here ? What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground. Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear? The rifled urn, the violated mound. The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger ! spurns around. CHILD E HA jR OLD'S PILGRIMAGE 49 XCI. Yet to the remnants of thy splendor 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. xcv. 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 h'lst ceased to be ! Nor stay'd 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 ! xcvi. 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 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. 50 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON XCVII. 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. XCVIII. What is the v/orst of woes that wait on age ? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow ? To view each lov'd 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 v/hate'er my soul enjoy 'd, And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy'd. CANTO THE THIRD. 1816. " Afin que cette application vous format a penser k autre chose; il n'y a en v^rite de remade que ceiui-li et le temps." — Lettre du Roi de Prusse k D'Alembert, Sept. 7, 1776. 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 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. II. 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 pre- vail. 51 52 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON III. In my youth's summer I did sing of One, The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind ; Again I seize the theme, then but begun, And bear it with me, as the rushing wind Bears the cloud onwards : in that Tale I find The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind, O'er which all heavily the journeying years Plod the last sands of life — where not a flower appears. IV. Since my young days of passion — joy, or pain, Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string. And both may jar: it may be, tliat 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 love 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- With airy images, and shapes which dwell Still unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted cell. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 53 VI. 'Tis 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. VII. 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. 'Tis too late ! Yet am I changed : though still enough the same In strength to bear what time cannot abate. And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate. VIII. Something too much of this ; — but now 'tis past, A_nd the spell closes with its silent seal. Long-absent Harold reappears 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 vigor from the limb ; And life's enchanted cud but soarkles near the brim. 54 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON IX. 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 deemed 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. X. 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. XI. 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. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 55 XII. But soon he knew himself the most unfit Of men to herd with Man ; with whom he held Little in common ; untaught to submit His thoughts to others, though his soul was quell'd In youth by his own thoughts ; still uncompell'd, He would not yield dominion of his mind To spirits against whom his own rebell'd ; Proud though in desolation ; which could find A life within itself, to breathe without mankind. XIII. 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, 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. XIV. 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. 56 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON XV. 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. XVI. 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, Which, though 'twere 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. XVII. 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 i And is this all the world has gain'd by thee,' Thou first and last of fields ! king-making Victory? CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE S7 XVIII. 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. XIX. Fit retribution ! Gaul may champ the bit. And foam in fetters, — but is Earth more free ? Did nations combat to make On^ submit ; Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty? What ! shall reviving Thraldom again be The patch'd-up idol of enlighten 'd days? Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we Pay the Wolf homage ? proffering lowly gaze And servile knees to thrones ? No ; prove before ye praise ! XX. If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more ! In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with hot tears For Europe's flowers long rooted up before The trampler of her vineyards ; in vain years Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears. Have all been borne, and broken by the accord Of roused-up millions : all that most endears Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword Such as Harmodius drew on Athens' tyrant lord. 58 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON XXI. 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. And all went merry as a marriage bell ; But hush ! hark ! a deeo sound strikes like a rising knell! XXII. Did ye not hear it ? — No ; 'twas 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 ! XXIII. 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. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 59 XXIV. 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 ! XXV. 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!" XXVI. 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 ! 6o SELECTIONS FROM BYRON XXVII. And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves. Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which nov/ beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe. And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. XXVIII. Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, 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 ! XXIX. 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 ! CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRLMAGE 6 1 XXX. 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 saw 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. XXXI. 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 ; 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. XXXII. 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 : 62 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON XXXIII. 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. xxxiv. 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, Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, All ashes to the taste : Did man compute Existence by enjoyment, and count o er Such hours 'gainst years of life, — say, would he name threescore ? XXXV. 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. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 63 XXXVI. 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 dl 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 reassume the imperial mien. And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene ! XXXVII. 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 To the astounded kingdoms all inert, Who deem'd thee for a time whate'er thou didst assert. XXXVIII. 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 spirits skill'd. Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war. Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star. 64 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON XXXlX. 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. XL. 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 ; 'twas 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 : Tis but a worthless world to win or lose ; So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose. XLI. 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, Then- admiration thy best weapon shone ; The part of Philip's son was thine, not then (Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) Like stern Diogenes to mock at men ; For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 65 XLII. 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. XLIII. 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 I what stings Are theirs ! One breast laid open were a school Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule : XLIV. Their breath is agitation, and their life A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, 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. ^ SELECTIONS FROM BYRON XLV. 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 befieat/i 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. XLVI. 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 Rhiije ? There Harold gazes on a work divine, A blending of all beauties ; streams and dells„ Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, corn-field, mountain, vine And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells. XLVII. 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, 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. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 6/ XLVIII. Beneath these battlements, within those walls. Power dwelt amidst her passions ; in proud state Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, Doing his evil will, nor less elate Than mightier heroes of a longer date. What want these outlaws conquerors should have But History's purchased page to call them great? A wider space, an ornamented grave ? Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full as brave. XLIX. In their baronial feuds and single fields. What deeds of prowess unrecorded died ! And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields, With emblems well devised by amorous pride. Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide ; But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on Keen contest and destruction near allied. And many a tower for some fair mischief won, Saw the discolour'd Rhine beneath its ruin run. L. But Thou, exulting and abounding river ! Making thy waves a blessing as they flow Through banks whose beauty would endure forever, 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 rrie. Even now what wants thy stream ? — that it should Lethe be. 68 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON LI. 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. LII. Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along, Yet not insensible 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, Joy was not always absent from his face. But o'er it in such scenes would steal with transient trace. LIII. 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 worldlings : 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. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 69 LIV. 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. LV. And there was one soft breast, as hath been said. Which unto his was bound by stronger ties Than 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 ! I. 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 ! yo SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 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 ! 3. 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 ! 4. 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 ; 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. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGK1*MAGE LVI. By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground, There is a small and simple pyramid, Crowning the summit of the verdant mound ; Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid. Our enemy's, — but kt not that forbid Honor to Marceau ! o'er whose early tomb Tears, big tears, gush'd from the rough soldier's lid, Lamenting and yet envying such a doom, Falling for France, whose rights he battled to resume. LVII. Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career, — His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes ; And fitly may the stranger lingering here Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose ; For he was Freedom's champion, one of those. The few in number, who had not o'erstept The charter to chastise which she bestows On such as wield her weapons ; he had kept The whiten'ess bf his soul, arid thus meri o'er liim wept. LVIII. Here Ehrenbreitstein, with her shatter'd wall Black with the miner's blast, upon her height Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball Rebounding idly on her strength did light ; A tower of victory ! from whence the flight Of baffled foes was watch'd along the plain : But Peace destroy 'd what War could never blight. And laid those proud roofs bare to Summer's rain.— .. On v/hich the iron shower for years had pour'd .iu.yain. 72 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON LIX. 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 vulture 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. LX. Adieu to thee again ! a vain adieu ! There can be no farewell to scene like thine; The mind is colour'd by thy every hue ; And if reluctantly the eyes resign Their cherish'd gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine ! 'Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise : More mighty spots may rise — more glaring shine, But none unite in one attaching maze The brilliant, fair, and soft ; — the glories of old days. LXI. The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen. The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom, The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between. The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been In mockery of man's art : and these withal A race of faces happy as the scene. Whose fertile bounties here extend to all. Still springing o'er thy banks, though Empires near them fall. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 73 LXII. But these recede. Above me are the Alps, The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, And throned Eternity in icy halls Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow ! All that expands the spirit, yet appals, Gather around these summits, as to show How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below. LXIII. But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan. There is a spot should not be passed in vain. — xVIorat ! the proud, the patriot field ! where m_an May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain. Nor blush for those \v\\o conquer'd on that plain ; Here Burgundy bequeathed his torn bless host, A bony heap, through ages to remain, Themselves their monument; — the Stygian coast Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek"d each wandering ghost. LXIV. While Waterloo with Cannati's carnage vies, Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand ; They were true Glory's stainless victories, Won by the unambitious heart and hand Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band, All unbought champions in no princely cause Of vice-etitaird Corruption ; they no land Doom'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws Making kings' rights divine, by some Draconic clause. 74 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON LXV. By a lone wall a lonelier column rears A grey and grief-worn aspect of old days; 'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years, And looks as with ihe wild bewilder'd gaze Of one to stone converted by amaze, Yet still with consciousness ; and there it stands, Making a marvel that it not decays, When the coeval pride of human hands, Levell'd Aventicum, hath strew'd her subject lands. LXVI. And there — oh ! sweet and sacred be the name ! — Julia — the daughter, the devoted — gave Her youth to Heaven ; her heart, beneath a claim Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave. Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would crave The life she lived in; but the judge was just, And then she died on him she could not save. Their tomb was simple, and without a bust. And held witUiu their ura one mind, one heart, one dust. LXVJI. But these are deeds which should not pass away, And names that must not wither, though the earth Forgets her empires with a just decay, The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and birth The high, the mountain-majesty of worth, Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe. And from its immortality look forth In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow, Imperishably pure beyond all things below. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 75 LXVIII. Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, Tiie mirror where the stars and mountains view The stillness of their aspect in each trace Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue ; There is too much of man here, to look through With a lit mind the might which I behold ; But soon in me shall Loneliness renew Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of old, Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me in their fold. LXIX. To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind ; All are not fit with them to stir and toil. Nor is it discontent to keep the mind Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil In the hot throng, where we become the spoil Of our infection, till too late and long We may deplore and struggle with the coil, In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong 'Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong. LXX. There, in a moment, we may plunge our years In fatal penitence, and in the blight Of our own soul turn all our blood to tears. And colour things to come with hues of Night: The race of life becomes a hopeless flight To those that walk in darkness ; on the sea The boldest steer but where their ports invite. But there are wanderers o'er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be. 76 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON LXXI. Is it not better, then, to be alone. And love Earth only for its earthly sake ? By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake. Which feeds it as a mother who doth make A fair but froward infant her own care. Kissing its cries away as these awake ; — Is it not better thus our lives to wear, Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict or bear? LXXII. I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me : and to me. High mountains are a feeling, but the hum Of human cities torture; I can see Nothing to loathe in Nature, save to be A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, Ciass'd among creatures, when the soul can flee. And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. LXXIII. And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life : I look upon the peopled desert past. As on a place of agony and strife, Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast, To act and suffer, but remount at last With a fresh pinion ; which I feel to spring. Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the blast Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 7/ LXXIV. And when, at length, the mind shall be all free From what it hates in this degraded form. Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be Existent happier in the fly and worm, — When elements to elements conform, And dust is as it should be, shall I not Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm ? The bodiless thought ? the Spirit of each spot ? Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot ? LXXV. Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part Of me and of n.y soul, as I of them ? Is not the love of these deep in my heart With a pure passion ? should I not contemn All objects, if compared with these ? and stem A tide of suffering rather than forego Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm Of those whose eyes are only turn *d below, Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow ? LXXVI. But this is not my theme ; and I return To that which is immediate, and require Those who find contemplation in the urn, To look on One whose dust was once all fire, A native of the land where I respire The clear air for awhile — a passing guest. Where he became a being — whose desire Was to be glorious : 'twas a foolish quest, The which to gain and keep he sacrificed all rest. 78 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON LXXVII. Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, The apostle of affliction, he who threw Enchantment over passion, and from woe Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew The breath which made him wretched; yet he knew How to make madness beautiful, and cast O'er erring deeds and thoughts, a heavenly hue Of words like sunbeams, dazzling as they past The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast. Lxxviir. His love was passion's essence — as a tree On fire by lightning ; with ethereal flame Kindled he was, and blasted ; for to be Thus, and enamour'd, were in him the same. But his was not the love of living dame, Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, But of ideal Beauty, which became In him existence, and o'erflowing teems Along his burning page, distemper'd though it seems. LXXIX. This breathed itself to life in Julie, this Invested her with all that's wild and sweet: This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss "Which every morn his fever'd lip would greet, From hers who but with friendship his would meet But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast Flash'd the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring heat ; In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest. Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 79 LXXX. His life was one long war with self-sought foes, Or friends by him self-banish'd ; for his mind Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind 'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind. But he was frenzied, — wherefore, who may know ? Since cause might be which skill could never find ; But he was frenzied by disease or woe To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reas ning show. LXXXI. For then he was inspired, and from him came. As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore. Those oracles which set the world in flame. Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more : Did he not this for France, which lay before Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years ? Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore. Till by the voice of him and his compeers Roused up to too much wrath, which follows o'ergrown fears ? LXXXII. They made themselves a fearful monument ! The wreck of old opinions — things which grew. Breathed from the birth of time : the veil they rent, And what behind it lay all earth shall view. But good with ill they also overthrew, Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild Upon the same foundation, and renew Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour refill'd, As heretofore, because ambition was self-will'd. 8o :^ELECTIONS FROM BYRON LXXXIII. But this will not endure, nor be endur'd ! Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt. They might have used it better, but, allur'd By their new vigor, sternly have they dealt On one another ; pity ceased to melt With her once natural charities. But they. Who in oppression's darkness caved had dwelt, They were not eagles, nourish'd with the day; What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey ? LXXXIV. What deep wounds ever closed without a scar ? The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear That which disfigures it ; and they who war With their own hopes, and have been vanquish'd, bear Silence, but not submission : in his lair Fix'd Passion holds his breath, until the hour Which shall atone for years ; none need despair : It came, it cometh, and will come, — the power To punish or forgive — in one we shall be slower. LXXXV. 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 loved 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. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE '^l LXXXVI. 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 Drops the light drip of the suspended oar. Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more ; LXXXVII. He is an evening reveller, who makes His life an infancy, and sings his fill ; At intervals, some bird from out the brakes Starts into voice a moment, then is still. There seems a floating whisper on the hill, But that is fancy, for the starlight dews All silently their tears of love instil. Weeping themselves away, till they infuse Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. LXXXVIII. Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven! If in your bright leaves w^e would read the fate Of men and empires, —'tis 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. 82 SELECTIONS FROM BYROJSr LXXXIX. 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 :— jW\ heaven and earth are still : From the high host Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast, All is concenter'd 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. xc. 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 ; — 'twould disarm The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm. XCI. Not vainly did the early Persian make His altar the high places and the peak Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and thus take A fit and unv/all'd temple, there to seek The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak, Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and compare Columns and idol dwellings, Goth or Greek, With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air. Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer ! CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE XCII. The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! O 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 ! XCIII. 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 'tis 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. XCIV. 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 ; 84 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON xcv. Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way, The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand : For here, not one, but many, make their play, And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand, Flashing and cast around : of all the band, The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd His lightnings — as if he did understand That in such gaps as desolation work'd, There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd. xcvi. Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye, With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul To make these felt and feeling, well may be Things that have made me watchful ; the far roll Of \'our departing voices, is the knoll Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest. But where of ye, O tempests ! is the goal ? Are ye like those within the human breast ? Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest ? XCVII. Could I embody and unbosom now That which is most within me, — could I wreak My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak, All that I would have sought, and all I seek, Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into one word, And that one word were Lightning, I would speak ; But as it is, I live and die unheard, With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. I CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIATAGE 85 XCVIII. The morn is up again, the dewy morn, With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, 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. xcix. Clarens ! sweet Clarens ! birthplace of deep Love ! Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought ; Thy trees take root in Love ; the snows above The very Glaciers have his colours caught. And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought By rays which sleep there lovingly ; the rocks, The permanent crags, tell here of Love, v/ho sought In them a refuge from the worldly shocks. Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then mocks. c. Clarens ! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod — Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne To which the steps are mountains ; where the god Is a pervading life and light, — so shown Not on those summits solely, nor alone In the still cave and forest ; o'er the flower His eye is sparkling, and his breat.h hath blown. His soft and summer breath, whose tender power passes the strength oi' storm :j in their most desolate hour. 86 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON CI. All things are here of ///;// / from the black pines, Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines Which slope his green path downward to the shore, Where the bow'd waters meet him and adore, Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood. The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar. But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood, Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude. CII. A populous solitude of bees and birds, And fairy-form'd and many-colour'd things, Who worship him with notes more sweet than words. And innocently open their glad wings. Fearless and full of life : the gush of springs. And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end. cm. 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, where vain men's woes, And the world's waste, have driven him far from those, For 'tis 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 •■ - CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 87 CIV. 'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, PeopHng it with affections ; but he found It was the scene which Passion must allot To the mind's purified beings ; 'twas the ground Where early Love his Psyche's zone unbound, And hallow'd it with loveliness: 'tis lone. And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound. And sense, and sight of sweetness ; here the Rhone Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd a throne. cv. Lausanne ! and Ferney ! ye have been the abodes Of names which unto you bequeath'd a name ; Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads, A path to perpetuity of fame : They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile Thoughts v/hich should call down thunder, and the flame Of Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the while * On man and man's research could deign do more than smile. cvi. The one was fire and fickleness, a child Most mutable in wishes, but in mind A wit as various, — gay, grave, sage, or wild, — Historian, bard, philosopher combined : He multiplied himself among mankind, The Proteus of their talents : But his own Breathed most in ridicule, — which, as the wind, Blew where it listed, laying all things prone, — Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne. 88 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON CVII. The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought And hiving wisdom with each studious year, In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought, And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer; The lord of irony, — that master-spell, Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear, And doom'd him to the zealot's ready Hell, Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well. CVIII. Yet, peace be with their ashes, — for by them, If merited, the penalty is paid ; It is not ours to judge, — far less condemn ; The hour must come when such things shall be made Known unto all, or hope and dread allay 'd By slumber, on one pillow, in the dust. Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decay 'd : And when it shall revive, as is our trust, 'twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just. CIX. But let me quit man's works, again to read His Maker's, spread around me, and suspend This page, which from my reveries I feed. Until it seems prolonging without end. The clouds above me to the white Alps tend. And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er May be permitted, as my steps I bend To their most great and growing region, where The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 89 ex. Italia ! too, Italia ! looking on thee Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, To the last halo of the chiefs and sages Who glorify thy consecrated pages : Thou wert the throne and graves of empires ; still, The fount at which the panting mind assuages Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill. CXI. Thus far have I proceeded in a theme Renew'd with no kind auspices : — to feel We are not what we have been, and to deem We are not what we should be, and to steel The heart against itself ; and to conceal. With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught,— Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal, — Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought, Is a stern task of soul : — No matter, — it is taught. CXII. And for these words, thus woven into song, It may be that they are a harmless wile, — The colouring of the scenes which fleet along, Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile My breast, or that of others, for a while. Fame is the thirst of youth, — but I am not So young as to regard men's frown or smile As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot ; I stood and stand alone, — remember'd or forgot. 90 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON CXIII. I have not loved the world, nor the world me ; I have not flattered 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. CXIV. I have not loved the world, nor the world me, — But let us part fair foes ; I do believe, Though I have found them not, that there may be Words which are things, — hopes which will not deceive, And virtues which are merciful, nor weave Snares for the failing ; I would also deem O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve ; That two, or one, are almost what they seem, — That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. cxv. My daughter! with thy name this song begun — My daughter I with thy name thus much shall end- I see thee not, I hear thee not, — but none Can be so wrapt in thee ; thou art the friend To whom the shadows of far years extend : Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold, My voice shall with thy future visions blend. And reach into thy heart, when mine is cold, — A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould. CHILD E HAJWLD'S PILGRIMAGE Ql CXVI. To aid thy mind's development, — to watch Thy dawn of little joys, — to sit and see Almost thy very growth, — to view thee catch Knowledge of objects, — wonders yet to thee ! To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee. And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, — This, it should seem, was not reserved for me ; Yet this was in my nature : — As it is I know not v/hat is there, yet something like to this. CXVII. Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught, I know that thou wilt love me ; though my name Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught With desolation, — and a broken claim : Though the grave closed between us,-— 'twere the same, I know that thou wilt love me, though to drain My blood from out thy being were an aim. And an attainment, — all would be in vain,— Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain. CXVIII. The child of love, — though born in bitterness, And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire These were the elements — and thine no less. As yet such are around thee— but thy fire Shall be more, temper'd, and thy hope far higher. Sweet be thy cradled slumbers ! O'er the sea, And from the mountains vdiere I now respire. Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, As, with a sigh, I deem thou mightst have been to me! CANTO THE FOURTH. 1818. " Visto ho Toscana, Lombardia, Romagna, Quel monte che divide, e quel che serra Italia, e un mare e 1' altro. che la bagna." Ariosto, Satira iv. 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 : 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, xVhere Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles! II. 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. 92 CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 93 III. 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 ! IV. But unto us she hath a spell beyond Her name in story, and her long array Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond Above the Dogeless city's vanish'd sway ; Ours is a trophy which will not decay With the Rialto ; Shylock and the Moor, And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away — The keystones of the arch ! though all were o'er, For us repeopled were the solitary shore. 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 ; Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, And with a fresher growth replenishing the void. 94 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON VI. Such is the refuge of our youth and age, The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy ; And this wan feeling peoples many a page, And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye ; Yet there are things whose strong reality Outshines our fairy-land ; in shape and hues More beautiful than our fantastic sky, And the strange constellations which the Muse O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse : VII. I saw or dream'd of such, — but let them go, — They came like truth, and disappear'd like dreams And whatsoe'er they were — are now but so ; I could replace them if I would ; still teems My mind with many a form which aptly seems Such as I sought for, and at moments found ; Let these too go — for waking Reason deems Such overw^eening phantasies unsound, And other voices speak, and other sights surround. VIII. 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. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 95 IX. 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. XI. The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord ; And, annual marriage now no more renew'd, The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, Neglected garment of her widowhood ! St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood Stand, but in mockery of his wither'd power, Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued, And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour When Venice was a queen with an unequall'd dower. 96 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON XII. The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt ; Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains Clank over sceptred cities ; nations melt From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt The sunshine for a while, and downward go Like lauwine loosen'd from the mountain's belt : Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo I Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. XIII. Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, Their gilded collars glittering in the sun ; But is not Doria's menace come to pass } Are they not bridled? — Venice, lost and won, Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, Sinks, like a seaweed, unto whence she rose ! Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and shun, Even in Destruction's depth, her foreign foes. From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. XIV. In youth she was all glory, — a new Tyre, — Her very byword sprung from victory, The " Planter of the Lion," which through lire And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea ; Though making many slaves, herself still free, And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite : Witness Troy's rival, Candia ! Vouch it, ye Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's tight ! For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 97 XV. Statues of glass — all shiver'd— the long file Of her dead Doges are declined to dust ; But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid tnist; Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, Have yielded to the stranger : empty halls. Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must Too oft remind her who and what enthrals, Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. XVI. When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of war. Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse, Her voice their only ransom from afar ; See ! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car Of the o'ermaster'd victor stops, the reins Fall from his hands — his idle scimitar Starts from its belt — he rends his captive's chains. And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains. XVII. Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine. Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, Thy choral memory of the Bard divine. Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot Which ties thee to thy tyrants ; and thy lot Is shameful to the nations — most of all, Albion, to thee : the Ocean queen should not Abandon Ocean's children ; in the fall Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall. 98 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON XVIII. I loved her from my boyhood — she to me Was as a fairy city of the heart, Rising Hke water-columns from the sea, Of Joy the sojourn, and of Wealth the mart; And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art, Had stamp'd her image in me, and even so, Although I found her thus, we did not part, Perchance even dearer in her day of woe. Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. XIX. I can repeople with the past — and of The present there is still for eye and thought, And meditation chasten'd down, enough ; And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought ; And of the happiest moments, which were wrought Within the web of my existence, some From thee, fair Venice ! have their colours caught : r- There are some feelings time cannot benumb, /Nor torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb. XX. But from their nature will the tannen grow Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter'd rocks, Rooted in barrenness, where nought below Of soil supports them 'gainst the Alpine shocks Of eddying storms ; yet springs the trunk, and mocks The howling tempest, till its height and frame Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks Of bleak, gray granite, into life it came, And grew a giant tree ; — the mind may grow the same. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 99 / ^^^- Existence may be borne, and the deep root Of life and sufferance make its firm abode In bare and desolated bosoms : mute The camel labors with the heaviest load, And the wolf dies in silence, — not bestow'd In vain should such example be ; if they, Things of ignoble or of savage mood. Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay May temper it to bear, — it is but for a day. XXII. u All suffering doth destroy, or is destroy'd, Even by the sufferer ; and, in each event, Ends : — Some with hope replenish'd and rebuoy'd, Return to whence they came — with like intent, ' And weave their web again ; some, bow'd and bent. Wax gray and ghastly, withering ere their time. And perish with the reed on which they leant ; Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime. According as their souls were form'd to sink or climb. XXIII. But ever and anon of griefs subdued There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued ; And slight withal may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside forever : it may be a sound — A tone of music — summer's eve — or spring — A flower — the wind — the ocean — which shall wound. Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound lOO SELECTIONS FROM BYRON XXIV. And how and why we know not, nor can trace Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, But feel the shock renew'd, nor can efface The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, Which out of things familiar, undesign'd, When least we deem of such, calls up to view The spectres whom no exorcism can bind, — The cold— the changed — perchance the dead — anew, The mourn'd, the loved, the lost — too many ! — yet how few! XXV. But my soul wanders ; I demand it back To meditate amongst decay, and stand A ruin amidst ruins ; there to track FalleVi states and buried greatness, o'er a land Which was 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. XXVI. 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 cliarm which cannot be defaced. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE lOI XXVII. 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 ! XXVIII. 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 Roll'd o'er the peak of the far Rhastian 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, XXIX. Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar, Comes down upon the waters ; all its hues, From the rich sunset to the rising star. Their magical variety diffuse : And now they change ; a paler shadow strews Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone — and all is gray. I02 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON XXX. There is a tomb in Arqua ; — rear'd in air, Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose The bones of Laura's lover ; here repair Many familiar with his well-sung woes. The pilgrims of his genius. He arose To raise a language, and his land reclaim From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes : Watering the tree which bears his lady's name With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. XXXI. They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died ; The mountain-village where his latter days Went down the vale of years ; and 'tis their pride- An honest pride — and let it be their praise, To offer to the passing stranger's gaze His mansion and his sepulchre ; both plain And venerably simple, such as raise A feeling more accordant with his strain, Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane. XXXII. And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt Is one of that complexion which seems made For those who their mortality have felt, And sought a refuge from their hopes decay 'd In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade, Which shows a distant prospect far away Of busy cities, now in vain display'd. For they can lure no further ; and the ray Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE IO3 XXXIII. t< Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers, And shining in the brawling brook, whereby. Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours With a calm languor, which, though to the eye Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. p If from society we learn to live, \ 'Tis solitude should teach us how to die ; ( It hath no flatterers ; vanity can give No hollow aid ; alone — man with his God must strive XXXIV. Or, it may be, with demons, who impair The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey In melancholy bosoms, such as were Of moody texture from their earliest day. And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay. Deeming themselves predestined to a doom Which is not of the pangs that pass away ; Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb. The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. XXXV. Ferrara ! in thy wide and grass-grown streets, Whose symmetry was not for solitude. There seems as 'twere a curse upon the s6ats Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood Of Este, which for many an age made good' Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood Of petty power impell'd, of those who wore The wreath which Dante- s- brow alone had w^rn' before.' 104 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON XXXVI. TAnd Tasso is their glory and their shame. Hark to his strain ! and then survey his cell ! And see how dearly earn'd Torquato's fame, And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell. The miserable despot could not quell The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell Where he had plunged it. Glory without end Scatter'd the clouds away — and on that name attend XXXVII. The tears and praises of all time, while thine Would rot in its oblivion — in the sink Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line Is shaken into nothing ; but the link Thou,formest in his fortunes bids us think Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn — Alfonso ! how thy ducal pageants shrink From thee ! if in another station born. Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou madest t© mourn XXXVIII. Thott ! form'd to eat, and be despised, and die, Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou Hadst a more splendid trough, and wider sty ; He! with a glory round his furrow'd brow, Which emanated then, and dazzles now. In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire, And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow No strain which shamed his country's creaking lyre, That whetstone of the teeth— monotony in wire ! CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE IO5 XXXIX. Peace to Torquato's injured shade ! 'twas his In life and death to be the mark where Wrong Aim'd with her poison'd arrows — but to miss. Oh, victor unsurpass'd in modern song ! Each year brings forth its millions ; but how long The tide of generations shall roll on, And not the whole combined and countless throng Compose a mind like thine ? Though all in one Condensed their scatter'd rays, they would not form a sun. XL. Great as thou art, yet parallel'd by those. Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine, The Bards of Hell and Chivalry: first rose The Tuscan father's Comedy Divine ; Then, not unequal to the Florentine. The southern Scott, the minstrel who call'd forth A new creation with his magic line. And, like the Ariosto of the North, Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly worth. XLL The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust The iron crown of laurel's mimick'd leaves ; Nor was the ominous element unjust. For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves, And the false semblance but disgraced his brow Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieves, Know that the lightning sanctifies below Whate'er it strikes ;— yon head is doubly sacred now. I06 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON XLII. Italia ! O 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. O 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 XLIII. Then might'st thou more appal ; or, less desired, Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored For thy destructive charms ; then, still untired. Would not be seen the armed torrents pour'd Down the deep Alps ; nor would the hostile horde Of many-nation'd spoilers from the Po Quaff blood and water; nor the stranger's sword Be thy sad weapons of defence, and so, Victor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of friend or foe. XLIV. Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, The Roman friend of Rome's least mortal mind. The friend of Tully : as my bark did skim The bright blue waters with a fanning wind. Came Megara before me, and behind ^gina lay, Piraeus on the right, And Corinth on the left ; I lay reclined Along the prow, and saw all these unite In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight ; CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE IO7 XLV. For Time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd Barbaric dwellings on their shatter'd site, Which only make more mourn'd and more endear'd The few last rays of their far-scatter'd light, And the crush'd relics of their vanish'd might. The Roman saw these tombs in his own age. These sepulchres of cities, which excite Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage. XLVI. That page is now before me, and on mine His country's ruin added to the mass Of perish'd states he mourn'd in their decline, And I in desolation : all that was Of then destruction is ; and now, alas ! Rome — Rome imperial, bows her to the storm. In the same dust and blackness, and we pass The skeleton of her Titanic form, Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. XLVII. Yet, Italy ! through every other land Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side Mother of Arts ! as once of Arms ; thy hand Was then our guardian, and is still our guide ; Parent of our Religion ! whom the wide Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven ! Europe, repentant of her parricide. Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. I08 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON XLVIII. But Arno wins us to the fair white walls. Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps A softer feeling for her fairy halls. Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps To laughing life, with her redundant horn. Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps, Was modern Luxury of Commerce born, And buried Learning rose, redeem'd to a new morn. XLIX. There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fills The air around with beauty ; we inhale The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils Part of its immortality ; the veil Of heaven is half undrawn ; within the pale We stand, and in that form and face behold What Mind can make, when Nature's self would fail And to the fond idolaters of old Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould : L. We gaze and turn away, and know not where, Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart Reels with its fulness ; there — forever there — Chain'd to the chariot of triumphal Art, We stand as captives, and would not depart. Away !-~there need no words, nor terms precise, The paltry jargon of the marble mart. Where Pedantry gulls Folly — we have eyes ; Blood, — pulse, — and breast, confirm the Dardan Shep- herd's prize. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE lOy LI. Appear'dst thou not tu Paris in this guise ? Or to more deeply blest Anchises? or. In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies Before thee thy own vanquish 'd Lord of War? And gazing in thy face as toward a star, Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn, Feeding on thy sweet cheek ! while thy lips are With lava kisses melting while they burn, Shower'd on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from an urn ! LII. Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love, Their full divinity inadequate That feeling to express, or to improve, The gods become as mortals, and man's fate Has moments like their brightest ! but the weight Of earth recoils upon us ; — let it go ! We can recall such visions, and create From what has been, or might be, things which grow, Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below. LIII. I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands. The artist and his ape, to teach and tell How well his connoisseurship understands The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell : Let these describe the undescribable : I would not their vile breath should crisp the stream Wherein that image shall forever dwell ; The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam. no SELECTIONS FROM BYRON LIV. In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie Ashes which make it holier, dust which is Even in itself an immortality. Though there were nothing save the past, and this The particle of those sublimities Which have relapsed to chaos : — here repose Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his, The starry Galileo, with his woes ; Here Machiavelli's earth return'd to whence it rose. ▼ "7 LV. These are four minds, which, like the elements, Might furnish forth creation : — Italy ! Time, which hath wrong'd thee with ten thousand rents Of thine imperial garment, shall deny And hath denied, to every other sky. Spirits which soar from ruin : — thy decay Is still impregnate with divinity, Which gilds it with revivifying ray ; Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. LVI. But where repose the all Etruscan three — Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they, The Bard of Prose, creative spirit ! he Of the Hundred Tales of love — where did they lay Their bones, distinguish'd from our common clay In death as life ? Are they resolved to dust. And have their country's marbles nought to say ? Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust ? Did they not to her breast their filial earth entrust ? CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE III LVII. Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar, Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore ; Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, Proscribed the bard whose name forevermore Their children's children would in vain adore With the remorse of ages ; and the crown Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore, Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled — not thine own. LVIII. Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd His dust, — and lies it not her Great among. With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed O'er him who form'd the Tuscan's siren tongue ? That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech ? No ; — even his tomb Uptorn, must bear the hyaena bigot's wrong, No more amidst the meaner dead find room, Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for whom / LIX. And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust. Yet for this want more noted, as of yore The Caesar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust. Did but of Rome's best son remind her more : Happier Ravenna ! on thy hoary shore, Fortress of falling empire ! honour'd sleeps The immortal exile ; — Arqua, too, her store Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps. While Florence vainly begs her banish'd dead, and weeps. 212 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON LX. What is her pyramid of precious stones? Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones Of merchant-dukes ? the momentary dews Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead, Whose names are mausoleums of the Muse, Are gently prest with far more reverent tread Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely head. LXI. There be more things to greet the heart and eyes In Arno's dome of Art's most princely shrine. Where Sculpture with her rainbow Sister vies ; There be more marvels yet — but not for mine ; V For I have been accustom'd to entwine My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields, Than Art in galleries ; though a work divine Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields LXII. Is of another temper, and I roam By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home ; For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles Come back before me, as his skill beguiles The host between the mountains and the shore, Where Courage falls in her despairing files, And torrents, swoU'n to rivers with their gore, Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scatter'd o'er, CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE X13 LXIII. Like to a forest fell'd by mountain winds ; And such the storm of battle on this day, And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray, An earthquake reel'd unheededly away ! None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet, And yawning forth a grave for those who lay Upon their bucklers for a winding-sheet ; Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet / LXIV. The Earth to them was as a rolling bark Which bore them to Eternity ; they saw The Ocean round, but had no time to mark The motions of their vessel : Nature's law, In them suspended, reck'd not of the awe Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the birds Plunge in the clouds for refuge, and withdraw From their down-toppling nests ; and bellowing herds Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath no words. LXV. Far other scene is Thrasimene now ; Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough ; Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain Lay where their roots are ; but a brook hath ta'en — A little rill of scanty stream and bed — A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain ; And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead Made the earth wet, and turn'd the unwilling waters red. 114 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON LXVI. But thou, Clitumnus ! in thy sweetest wave Of the most living crystal that was e'er The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer Grazes ; the purest god of gentle waters ! And most serene of aspect, and most clear : Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters — A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daughters ! LXVII. And on thy happy shore a Temple still, Of small and delicate proportion, keeps. Upon a mild declivity of hill, Its memory of thee ; beneath it sweeps Thy current's calm.ness ; oft from out it leaps The finny darter with the glittering scales, Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps ; While, chance, some scatter'd water-lily sails Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling tales. LXVIII. Pass not unblest the Genius of the place ! It through the air a zephyr more serene Win to the brow, 'tis his ; and if ye trace Along his margin a more eloquent green. If on the heart the freshness of the scene Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust Of weary life a moment lave it clean With Nature's baptism, — 'tis to him ye must Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE US LXIX. The roar of waters ! — from the headlong height Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice ; The fall of waters ! rapid as the light The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ; The hell of waters ! where they howl and hiss. And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat Of their great agony, wrung out from this Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set. LXX. And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain. Is an eternal April to the grourid, Making it all one emerald ; — how profound The gulf ! and how the giant element From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent Lxxr. To the broad column, which rolls on, and shows More like the fountain of an infant sea Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes Of a new world, than only thus to be Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly. With many windings, through the vale ; — Look back ! Lo ! where it comes like an eternity, As if to sweep down all things in its track. Charming the eye with dread,— a matchless cataract. Il6 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON LXXII. Horribly beautiful ! but on the verge, From side to side, beneath the glittering morn, An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, Like Hope upon a deathbed, and, unworn Its steady dyes, while all around is torn By the distracted waters, bears serene Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn ; Resembling, mid the torture of the scene. Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. LXXIII. Once more upon the woody Apennine, The infant Alps, which — had I not before Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar The thundering lauwine,— might be worshipp'd more But I have seen the soaring J ungfrau rear Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar Glaciers of bleak Mont Blanc both far and near, And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, LXXIV. The Acroceraunian mountains of old name ; And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame. For still they soar'd unutterably high : I've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye ; Athos, Olympus, ^tna. Atlas, made These hills seem things of lesser dignity; All, save the lone Soracte's height display'd, Not ntyuJ in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE HJ LXXV. For our remembrance, and from out the plain Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break, And on the curl hangs pausing : not in vain May he who will his recollections rake. And quote in classic raptures, and awake The hills with Latin echoes ; I abhorr'd Too much to conquer for the poet's sake. The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word by word In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record LXXVL Aught that recalls the daily drug which turn'd My sickening memory ; and, though Time hath taught My mind to meditate what then it learn'd. Yet such the fix'd inveteracy wrought By the impatience of my early thought, That, with the freshness wearing out before My mind could relish what it might have sought. If free to choose, I cannot now restore Its health : but what it then detested, still abhor. LXXVII. Then farewell, Horace ; whom I hated so. Not for thy faults, but mine ; it is a curse To understand, not feel thy lyric flow, To comprehend, but never love thy verse. Although no deeper Moralist rehearse Our little life, nor Bard prescribe his art. Nor livelier Satirist the conscience pierce, Awakening without wounding the touch'd heart, Yet iare thee well— upon Soracte's ridge we part. Il8 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON LXXVIII. O 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 C3''press, 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. LXXIX. The Niobe of nations ! there she stands, Childless and crownless in her voiceless woe ; An empty urn within her wither'd hands. Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago ; The Scipio's tomb contains no ashes now ; The very sepulchres lie tenantless Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow. Old Tiber ! through a marble wilderness ? Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress. LXXX. The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire, Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride r 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 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, of is," where all is doubly nighl*.^ ^ CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE II9 LXXXI. The double night of ages, and of her. Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt, and wrap All round us ; we but feel our way to err : The ocean hath its chart, the stars their map, And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap ; But Rome is as the desert, where we steer Stumbling o'er recollections : now we clap Our hands, and cry " Eureka ! " it is clear — When but some false mirage of ruin rises near. LXXXII. Alas, the lofty city ! and alas, The trebly hundred triumphs ! and the day When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away ! Alas for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay. And Livy's pictured page ! But these shall be Her resurrection ; all beside — decay. Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free ! LXXXIII. O thou, whose chariot roU'd on Fortune's wheel. Triumphant Sylla ! Thou who didst subdue Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst pause to feel The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew O'er prostrate Asia ; — thou, who with thy frown Annihilated senates — Roman, too, With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown — 120 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON LXXXIV. Thy dictatorial wreath, — couldst thou divine To what would one day dwindle that which made Thee more than mortal ? and that so supine By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid ? She who was named Eternal, and array'd Her warriors but to conquer — she who veil'd Earth with her haughty shadow, and display'd, Until the o'er-canopied horizon fail'd, Her rushing wings — Oh ! she who was Almighty hail'd ! LXXXV. Sylla was first of victors ; but our own, The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell ! — he Too swept off senates while he hew'd the throne Down to a block — immortal rebel ! See What crimes it cost to be a moment free And famous through all ages ! But beneath His fate the moral lurks of destiny ; His day of double victory and death Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield his breath. LXXXVI. The third of the same moon whose former course Had all but crown'd him, on the self-same day Deposed him gently from his throne of force. And laid him with the earth's preceding clay. And show'd not Fortune thus how fame and sway, And all we deem delightful, and consume Our souls to compass through each arduous way, Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb ? Were they but so in man's, how different were his doom ! CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 121 LXXXVII. And thou, dread statue ! yet existent in The austerest form of naked majesty, Thou who beheldest, 'mid the assassins' din, At thy bathed base the bloody Csesar lie, Folding his robe in dying dignity, An offering to thine altar from the queen Of gods and men, great Nemesis ! did he die. And thou, too, perish, Pompey ? have ye been Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene ? LXXXVIII. And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome ! She-wolf ! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart The milk of conquest yet within the dome Where, as a monument of antique art. Thou standest : — Mother of the mighty heart, Which the great founder suck'd from thy wild teat, Scorch 'd by the Roman Jove's ethereal dart. And thy limbs black'd with lightning — dost thou yet Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget? LXXXIX. Thou dost ; — but all thy foster-babes are dead — The men of iron ; and the world hath rear'd Cities from out their sepulchres : men bled In imitation of the things they fear'd, And fought and conquer'd, and the same course steer'd, At apish distance ; but as yet none have. Nor could, the same supremacy have near'd, Save one vain man, who is not in the grave, But, vanquish'd by himself, to his own slaves a slave, — 122 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON xc. The fool of false dominion — and a kind Of bastard Caesar, following him of old With steps unequal ; for the Roman's mind Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould, With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold, And an immortal instinct which redeem'd The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold, Alcides with a distaff now he seem'd At Cleopatra's feet, — and now himself he beamd, XCL And came, — and saw, — and conquer'd ! But the man Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee, Like a train'd falcon, in the Gallic van, Which he, in sooth, long led to victory, With a deaf heart, which never seem'd to be A listener to itself, was strangely framed ; With but one weakest weakness — vanity : Coquettish in ambition, — still he aim'd — At what ? Can he avouch, or answer what he claim 'd ? XCII. And would be all or nothing — nor could wait For the sure grave to level him ; few years Had fix'd him with the Caesars in his fate. On whom we tread : For this the conqueror rears The arch of triumph ! and for this the tears And blood of earth flow on as they have flow'd. An universal deluge, which appears Without an ark for wretched man's abode. And ebbs but to reflow ! — Renew thy rainbow, God ! CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 1 23 XCIII. What from this barren being do we reap ? Our senses narrow, and our reason frail, Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep, And all things weigh'd in custom's falsest scale ; Opinion an omnipotence — whose veil Mantles the earth with darkness, until right And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale Lest their own judgments should become too bright, And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too much light. xciv. And thus they plod in sluggish misery, Rotting from sire to son, and age to age. Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, Bequeathing their hereditary rage To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage War for their chains, and rather than be free. Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage Within the same arena where they see Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree. xcv. 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. 124 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON XCVI. Can tyrants but b);- 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 ? XCVII. But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime, And fatal have her Saturnalia been To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime ; Because the deadly days which we have seen. And vile Ambition, that built up between Man and his hopes an adamantine wall, And the base pageant last upon the scene. Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's worst — his second fall. XCVIII. 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 Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North ; So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 1 25 XCIX. There is a stern round tower of other days, Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, Such as an army's baffled strength delays, Standing with half its battlements alone. And with two thousand years of ivy grown. The garland of eternity, where wave The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown ; What was this tower of strength ? within its cave What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid ? — A woman's grave. But who was she, the lady of the dead, Tomb'd in a palace ? Was she chaste and fair ? Worthy a king's — or more — a Roman's bed ? What r^ce of chiefs and heroes did she bear ? What daughter of her beauties was the heir? How lived — how loved — how died she ? Was she not So honour'd — and conspicuously there, Where meaner relics must not dare to rot. Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot ? CI. Was she as those who love their lords, or they Who love the lords of others ? such have been Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say. Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien, Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen. Profuse of joy — or 'gainst it did she war, Inveterate in virtue } Did she lean To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar Love from amongst her griefs } — for such the affections are. 126 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON. CII. Perchance she died in youth : it may be, bow'd With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb That weigh'd upon her gentle dust, a cloud Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom Heaven gives its favorites — early death ; yet shed A sunset charm around her, and illume AVith hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaflike red. cm. Perchance she died in age — surviving all, Charms, kindred, children — with the silver gray On her long tresses, which might yet recall. It may be, still a something of the day When they were braided, and her proud array And lovely form were envied, praised and eyed By Rome — But whither would Conjecture stray? Thus much alone we know — Metella died. The wealthiest Roman's wife : Behold his love or pride ! CIV. I know not why — but standing thus by thee It seems as if I had thine inmate known. Thou tomb ! and other days come back on me With recollected music, though the tone Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan Of dying thunder on the distant wind ; Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone Till I had bodied forth the heated mind Forms from the floating wreck which Ruin leaves behind CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 12/ CV. And from the planks, far shattered 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. cvi. 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. cvii. 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 frescoes 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 ! 'tis thus the ISIighty falls. 128 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON CVIII. There is the moral of all human tales; 'Tis 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, — 'tis 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. cix. Admire, exult — despise — laugh, weep — for here There is such matter for all feelings : — Man ! Thou pendulum betwixt 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 tc build ? ex. Tully was not so eloquent as thou. Thou nameless column with the buried base ! What are the laurels of the Caesar's brow } Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, Titus or Trajan's ? No — 'tis that of Time : Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace. Scoffing ; and apostolic statues climb To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime, CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 1 29 CXI. Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome, And looking to the stars ; they had contain'd A spirit which with these would find a home, The last of those who o'er the whole earth reign'd, The Roman globe, for after none sustain'd But yielded back his conquests : — he was more Than a mere Alexander, and unstain'd With household blood and wine, serenely wore His sovereign virtues — still we Trajan's name adore. CXII. Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place Where Rome embraced her heroes ? where the steep Tarpeian ? fittest goal of Treason's race, The promontory whence the Traitor's Leap Cured all ambition. Did the Conquerors heap Their spoils here ? Yes ; and in yon field below, A thousand years of silenced factions sleep — The Forum, where the immortal accents glow, And still the eloquent air breathes — burns with Cicero ! CXIII. The field of freedom, faction, fame and blood ; Here a proud people's passions were exhaled, From the first hour of empire in the bud To that when further worlds to conquer fail'd ; But long before had Freedom's face been veil'd. And Anarchy assumed her attributes ; Till every lawless soldier who assail'd Trod on the trembling Senate's slavish mutes, Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes. 130 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON cxiv. Then turn we to her latest tribune's name, From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee, Redeemer of dark centuries of shame — The friend of Petrarch — hope of Italy — Rienzi ! last of Romans. While the tree Of Freedom's wither'd trunk puts forth a leaf, Even for thy tomb a garland let it be — The forum's champion, and the people's chief — . Her new-born Numa thou — with reign, alas ! too brief. cxv. Egeria ! sweet creation of some heart Which found no mortal resting-place so fair As thine ideal breast ; whate'er thou art Or wert, — a young Aurora of the air, The nympholepsy of some fond despair : Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, Who found a more than common votary there Too much adoring ; whatsoe'er thy birth, Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth. cxvi. The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled With thine Elysian water-drops ; the face Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled, Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place. Whose green wild margin now no more erase Art's works ; nor must the delicate waters sleep, Prison'd in marble, — bubbling from the base Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy creep. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE I3I cxvir. Fantastically tangled ; the green hills . Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills Of summer birds sing welcome as ye pass : Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class. Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass; The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems colour'd by its skies. CXXIII. Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, Egeria ! thy all heavenly bosom beating For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover ; The purple Midnight veil'd that mystic meeting With her most starry canopy, and seating Thyself by thine adorer, what befell ? This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting Of an enamour'd Goddess, and the cell Haunted by holy Love — the earliest oracle ! cxix. And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, Blend a celestial with a human heart ; And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing. Share with immortal transports ? could thine art Make them indeed immortal, and impart The purity of heaven to earthly joys, Expel the venom and not blunt the dart — The dull satiety which all destroys — And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys ? 132 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON" CXX. Alas ! our young affections run to waste, Or water but the desert ; whence arise But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste. Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes, Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies, Aud trees whose gums are poison ; such the plants Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. cxxi. O Love ! no habitant of earth thou art — An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, — A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart. But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see, The naked eye, thy form, as it should be : The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven, Even with its own desiring phantasy. And to a thought such shape and image given, As haunts the unquench'd soul — parch'd — wearied — wrung — and riven. CXXII. Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, And fevers into false creation ; — where. Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized ? In him alone. Can Nature show so fair ? Where are the charms and virtues which we dare Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, The unreach'd Paradise of our despair, Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen, And overpowers the page where it would bloom again ? CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 133 CXXIII. Who loves, raves — 'tis youth's frenzy — but the cure Is bitterer still ; as charm by charm unwinds Which robed our idols, and we see too sure Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's Ideal shape of such ; yet still it binds The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds ; The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun. Seems ever near the prize — wealthiest when most undone. cxxiv. 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 — 'tis 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. cxxv. Few — none — find what they love or could have loved : Though accident, blind contact, and the strong Necessity of loving, have removed Antipathies — 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. 134 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON CXXVI. Our life is a false nature — 'tis not in The harmony of things, — this hard decree, This uneradicable taint of sin, This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be The skies whicli rain their plagues on men like dew — Disease, death, bondage — all the woes we see, And worse, the woes we see not — which throb through The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new. CXXVII. Yet let us ponder boldly — 'tis a base Abandonment of reason to resign Our right of thought — our last and only place Of refuge ; this, at least, shall still be mine : Though from our birth the faculty divine Is chain'd and tortured — cabin'd, cribb'd, confined. And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine Too brightly on the unprepared mind, The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the blind. CXXV.III. 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 'twere 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 CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 135 CXXIX. 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. cxxx. O Time ! the beautifier of the dead, Adorner of the ruin, comforter And only healer when the heart hath bled — Time ! the corrector where our judgments err. The test of truth, love, — sole philosopher. For all beside 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 cxxxi. 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 they not mourn ? 136 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON CXXXII. And thou, who never yet of human wrong Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis ! Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long — Thou, who didst call the Furies from the abyss, And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss For that unnatural retribution — just, Had it but been from hands less near — in this Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust ! Dost thou not hear my heart ? — Awake I thou shalt, and must. cxxxiir. It is not that I may not have incurr'd For my ancestral faults or mine the wound I bleed withal, and had it been conferr'd With a just weapon, it had flow'd unbound. But now my blood shall not sink in the ground ; To thee I do devote it — thou shalt take The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found. Which if / have not taken for the sake — But let that pass — I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake. cxxxiv. And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now I shrink from what is sufifer'd : let him speak Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak ; But in this page a record will I seek. Not in the air shall these my words disperse, Though I be ashes ; a far hour shall wreak The deep prophetic fulness of this verse, And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse ! CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 137 cxxxv. That curse shall be Forgiveness. — Have I not — Hear me, my mother Earth ! behold it, Heaven ! — Have I not had to wrestle with my lot ? Have I not suffer'd things to be forgiven ? Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart riven, Hopes sapp'd, name blighted, Life's life lied away ? And only not to desperation driven, Because not altogether of such clay As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. cxxxvi. From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy Have I not seen what human things could do ? ; From the loud roar of foaming calumny To the small whisper of the as paltry few — And subtler venom of the reptile crew, The Janus glance of whose significant eye. Learning to lie with silence, would seevi true. And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh. Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy. CXXXVII. 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 Tinie, 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. 138 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON CXXXVIII. The seal is set. — Now welcome, thou dread power ! Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here Walk'st in the shadow of the midnigiit hour With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear : Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear That we become a part of what has been, And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen. cxxxix. 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 ? 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. CXL. 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. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 1 39 CXLI. 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. CXLII. 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 million's blame or praise Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd, My voice sounds much — and fall tlie stars' faint rays On the arena void — seats crush'd, walls bow'd — And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud. CXLIII. 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. I40 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON CXLIV. 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 Csesar's head ; When the light shines serene, but doth not glare, Then in this magic circle raise the dead : Heroes have trod this spot — 'tis on their dust ye tread. CXLY. " While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand ; AVhen 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. CXLVI. Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime — Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods, From Jove to Jesus — spared and blest by time ; Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods His way through thorns to ashes — glorious dome ! Shalt thou not last.^ — Time's scythe and tyrants' rods Shiver upon thee — sanctuarj^ and home Of art and piety— Pantheon ! — pride of Rome ! CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE I4I CXLVII. Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts ! Despoil'd yet perfect, with thy circle spreads A holiness appealing to all hearts — To art a model ; and to him who treads Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds Her light through thy sole aperture ; to those Who worship, here are altars for their beads ; And they who feel for genius may repose Their eyes on honour'd forms, whose busts around them close. CXLVIII. There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light What do I gaze on ? Nothing : Look again ! Two forms are slowly shadow 'd on my sight — Two insulated phantoms of the brain : It is not so ; I see them full and plain — An old man, and a female young and fair. Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein The blood is nectar : — but what doth she there. With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and bare ? CXLIX. Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life. Where 07i the heart and/r^w the heart we took Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife, Blest into mother, in the innocent look, Or even the piping cry of lips that brook No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook She sees her little bud put forth its leaves — V>'hat may the fruit be yet ? — I know not — Cain was Eve's. 142 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON CL. But here youth offers to old age the food, The milk of his own gift : — it is her sire To whom she renders back the debt of blood Born with her birth. No ; he shall not expire While in those warm and lovely veins the fire Of health and holy feeling can provide Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises higher Than Egypt's river : — from that gentle side Drink, drink and live, old man ! Heaven's realm holds no such tide. CLI. The starry fable of the milky way Has not thy story's purity ; it is A constellation of a sv/eeter ray, And sacred Nature triumphs more in this Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss Where sparkle distant worlds : Oh, holiest nurse ! No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. CLII. Turn to the Mole which Hadrian rear'd on high. Imperial mimic of old Eg}^pt's piles, Colossal copyist of deformity. Whose travell'd phantasy from the far Nile's Enormous model, doom'd the artist's toils To build for giants, and for his vain earth, His shrunken ashes, raise this dome : How smiles The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth, To view the huge design which sprung from such a birth! CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 143 CLIII. But lo ! the dome — the vast and wondrous dome, To which Diana's marvel was a cell — Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb ! I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle — Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell The hyaena and the jackal in their shade ; I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have survey 'd Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem pray'd ; CLIV. But thou, of temples old, or altars new, Standest alone — with nothing like to thee — Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. Since Zion's desolation, when that He Forsook His former city, what could be, Of earthly structures, in His honour piled, Of a sublimer aspect ? Majesty, Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are aisled In this eternal ark of worship undefiled. CLV. Enter : its grandeur overwhelms thee not ; And why ? it is not lessen'd ; but thy mind, Expanded by the genius of the spot, Has grown colossal, and can only find A fit abode wherein appear enshrined Thy hopes of immortality ; and thou Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, See thy God face to face, as thou dost now His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by His brow. 144 SELECTIONS FROM BYEOM CLVI. Thou movest — but increasing with the advance, Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise. Deceived by its gigantic elegance ; Vastness which grows — but grows to harmonize — All musical in its immensities ; Rich marbles — richer painting — shrines where flame The lamps of gold — and haughty dome which vies In air with Earth's chief structures, though their frame Sits on the firm-set ground — and this the clouds must claim. CLVII. Thou seest not all : but piecemeal thou must break. To separate contemplation, the great whole ; And as the ocean many bays will make, That ask the eye — so here condense thy soul To more immediate objects, and control Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart Its eloquent proportions, and unroll In mighty graduations, part by part, The glory which at once upon thee did not dart. CLVIII. Not by its fault — but thine: Our outward sense Is but of gradual grasp — and as it is That what we have of feeling most intense Outstrips our faint expression ; even so this Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great Defies at first our Nature's littleness. Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 14$ CLIX. Then pause and be enlighten'd ; there is more In such a survey than the sating gaze Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore The worship of the place, or the mere praise Of art and its great masters, who could raise What former time, nor skill, nor thought could plan ; The fountain of sublimity displays Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions can. CLX. Or, turning to the Vatican, go see Laocoon's torture dignifying pain — A father's love and mortal's agony With an immortal's patience blending: — Vain The struggle ; vain, against the coiling strain And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp. The old man's clench ; the long envenom'd chain Rivets the living links, — the enormous asp Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp. CLXI. Or view the Lord of the unerring bow, The God of life, and poesy, and light — Tiie Sun in human limbs array'd, and brow All radiant from his triumph in the fight ; The shaft hath just been shot — the arrow bright With an immortal's vengeance ; in his eye And nostril beautiful disdain, and might And majesty, flash their full lightnings by, Developing in that one glance the Deity. 14^ SELECTIONS EROM BYRON CLXII. But in his delicate form — a dream of Love, Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast Long'd for a deathless lover from above, And madden'd in that vision — are exprest All that ideal beauty ever bless'd The mind with in its most unearthly mood, When each conception was a heavenly guest — A ray of immortality — and stood. Starlike, around, until they gather'd to a god ! CLXIII. And if it be Prometheus stole from heaven The fire which we endure, it was repaid By him to whom the energy was given Which this poetic marble hath array'd With an eternal glory — which, if made By human hands, is not of human thought ; And Time himself iiath hallow'd it, nor laid One ringlet in the dust— nor hath it caught A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 'twas wrought. CLXIV. But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song, The being who upheld it through the past? Methinks he cometh late and tarries long. He is no more — these breathings are his last; His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast, And he himself as nothing :— if he was Aught but a phantasy, and could be class'd With forms which live and suffer — let that pass — His shadow fades away into Destruction's mass, CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE I47 CLXV. Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all That we inlierit in its mortal shroud, And spreads the dim and universal pall Through which all things grow phantoms; and the cloud Between us sinks and all which ever glow'd, Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays A melancholy halo scarce allow'd To hover on the verge of darkness : rays Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze, CLXVI. And send us prying into the abyss. To gather what we shall be when the frame Shall be resolved to something less than this Its wretch'd essence ; and to dream of fame. And wipe the dust from off the idle name We never more shall hear, — but never more, Oh, happier thought ! can we be made the same ; It is enough, in sooth, that once we bore These fardels of the heart — the heart whose sweat was gore. CLXVII. Hark ! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, A long low distant murmur of dread sound, Such as arises when a nation bleeds With some deep and immedicable wound ; Through storm and darknessyawnsthe rending ground — The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief Seems royal still, though with her head discrowned, And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief. 148 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON CLXVIII. Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou ? Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead ? Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low Some less majestic, less beloved head ? In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, Death hush'd that pang for ever ; with thee fled The present happiness and promised joy Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy. CLXIX. Peasants bring forth in safety. — Can it be, O thou that wert so happy, so adored ! Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee. And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard Her many griefs for One ; for she had pour'd Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head Beheld her Iris. — Thou, too, lonely lord, And desolate consort— vainly wert thou wed ! The husband of a year ! the father of the dead ! CLXX. Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made ; Thy bridal's fruit is ashes ; in the dust The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is laid. The love of millions ! How we did entrust Futurity to her ! and, though it must Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd Our children should obey her child, and bless'd Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd Like stars to shepherds' eyes ; 'twas but a meteor beam'd. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 1 49 CLXXI. Woe unto us, not her ; for she sleeps well : The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung Nations have arni'd in madness, the strange fate Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung Against their blind omnipotence a weight Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late, — CLXXir. These might have been her destiny ; but no. Our hearts deny it : and so young, so fair, Good without effort, great without a foe ; But now a bride and mother — and now there! How many ties did that stern moment tear ! From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast Is link'd the electric chain of that despair, Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest The land which loved thee so, that none could love thee best. CLXXIII. Lo, Nemi ! navell'd in the woody hills' So far, that the uprooting wind which tears The oak from his foundation, and which spills The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares The oval mirror of thy glassy lake ; And, calm as cherish'd hate, its surface v/ears A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake. All coil'd into itself and round, as sleeps the snake. ISO SELECTIONS FROM BYRON CLXXIV. And near Albano's scarce divided waves Shine from a sister valley ; — and afar The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war, " Arms and the Man," whose re-ascending star Rose o'er an empire ; — but beneath thy right Tully reposed from Rome ; — and where yon bar Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight, The Sabine farm was till'd, the wear}'- bard's delight. CLXXV. But I forget. — My Pilgrim's shrine is won, And he and I must part, — so let it be, — His task and mine alike are nearly done ; Yet once more let us look upon the sea : The midland ocean breaks on him and me. And from the Alban Mount we now behold Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when we Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold Those waves, we foUow'd on till the dark Euxine roU'd CLXXVI. Upon the blue Symplegades : long years — Long, though not very many — since have done Their work on both ; some suffering and some tears Have left us nearly where we had begun : Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run, We have had our reward — and it is here ; That we can yet feel gladden'd by the sun, A^nd reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear As if there were no man to trouble what is clear* CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 15 I CLXXVII. Oh ! that the Desert were my dwelling place, With one fair Spirit for my minister, 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. CLXXVIII. 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 Ffom all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the Universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. CLXXIX. 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 wjth bubbling groan. Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd and unknown. 152 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON CLXXX, 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, 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. CLXXXI. 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. CLXXXII. Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they ? Thy waters washed 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 v/rinkle on thine azure brow — Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 153 CLXXXIIT. 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 Eternit}^ — 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. CLXXXIV. And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my ]oy 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 — 'twas 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. CLXXXV. My task is done — my sung 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. 154 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON CLXXXVI. 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 — ^\\\\ you, the moral of his strain. THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 1816 SONNET ON CHILLON Eternal Spirit of the chainlcss 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 'twas trod. Until his very steps have left a trace Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard ! May none those marks efface ! For they appeal from tyranny to God. THE PRISONER OF CHILLON My hair is gray, 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 v/ith toil, But rusted with a vile repose, For they have been a dungeon's spoil. And mine has been the fate ot those 155 156 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 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 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 Dying as their father died, For the God their foes denied ; — Three were in a dungeon cast, Of whom this wreck is left the last. II. There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, In Chillon's dungeon deep and old ; There are seven columns, massy and gray, Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, 30 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, 40 Till I have done witii this new day. THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 157 Which now is painful to these eyes, Which have not seen the sun so rise For years — I cannot count them o'er ; I lost their long and heavy score When my last brother droop'd and died, And I lay living by his side. III. They chain'd us each to a column stone, And we were three — yet each alone ; We could not move a single pace, 50 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, 'Twas 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, 60 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. IV. I was the eldest of the three ; And to uphold and cheer the rest 70 I ought to do— and did — my best, And each did well in his degree. 158 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON The youngest, whom my father loved, Because our mother's brow was given To him — with eyes as blue as heaven, — 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 naught but others' ills. And then they flow'd like mountain rills, Unless he could assuage the woe 90 Which he abhorr'd to view below. V. 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 ; 100 But yet I forced it on to cheer Those relics of a home so dear. He was a hunter of the hills. Had follow'd there the deer and wolf; To him this dungeon was a gulf. And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. THE PRISONER OF CHILLON I S9 VI. 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 no From Chillon's snow-white battlement, Which round about the wave enthralls : 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 vv^ere high 120 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. VII. I said my nearer brother pined, I said his mighty heart declined, He loathed and put away his food : It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, For we were used to hunters' fare, 130 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 : :6o SELECTIONS FROM BYRON But what were these to us or him ? These wasted not his heart or limb ; My brother's soul was of that mould 140 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 150 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 free-born 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 160 The being we so much did love ; His empty chain above it leant. Such murder's fitting monument ! VIII. But he, the favorite and the flower. Most cherish'd since his natal hour, His mother's image in fair face. The infant love of all his race. His martyr'd father's dearest thought, My latest care, for whom I sought To hoard my life, that his might be 170 Less wretched now, and one day free; THE PRISONER OF CHILLON l6l 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. 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 i8o Strive with a swoll'n 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 190 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 200 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 : 1 listen'd, but I could not hear — I call'd, for I was wild with fear ; I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread Would not be thus admonished ; 1 62 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON I call'd, and thought I heard a sound — I burst my chain with one strong bound, 210 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 : 220 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. 230 IX. 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 gray. It was not night— it was not day ; 240 It was not even the dungeon-light. So hateful to my heavy sight, THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 1 63 But vacancy absorbing space. And fixedness, without a place : There were no stars, — no earth, — no time, — No check, — no change, — no good, — no crime, — But silence, and a stirless breath Which neither was of life nor death ; A sea of stagnant idleness, Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! 250 X. 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, 260 I saw the dungeon walls and floor 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 ! 270 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. 164 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 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, 280 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 'twas mortal— well I knew, 290 For he would never thus have flown, And left me twice so doubly lone — Lone, — as the corse within its shroud ; Lone, — as a solitary cloud, A single cloud on a sunny day. While all the rest of heaven is clear, A frown upon the atmosphere. That hath no business to appear When skies are blue and earth is gay. XI. A kind of change came in my fate, 300 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 ; THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 165 And round the pillars one by one, 3^0 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. XII. I made a footing in the wall, It was not therefrom to escape, For I had buried one and all 320 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, 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, 2>2P The quiet of a loving eye. XIII. 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 ; 34° 66 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 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 blev/ the mountain breeze. And by it there were waters flowing. And on it there were young flowers growing. Of gentle breath and hue. 350 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, 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 360 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 opprest, Had almost need of such a rest. XIV. 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, 37° I ask'd not wh3^ 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. THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 1 6/ 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 : 380 With spiders I had friendship made, And watch'd them in their sullen trade. Had seen the mice by moonlight play, And why should I feel less than they ? We were all inmates of one place, And I, the monarch of each race, Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell! In quiet we had learn'd to dwell — My very chains and I grew friends, So much a long communion tends 39° To make us what we are : — even I Regain 'd my freedom with a sigh. MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 1817 There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." DRAMATIS PERSONS Manfred. Chamois Hunter. Abbot of St. Maurice. Manuel. Herman. Witch of the Alps, Arimanes. Nemesis. The Destinies.^ Spirits, etc. The scene of the Drama is amongst the Higher Alps — partly in the Castle of Manfred, and partly in the Mountains. ACT I. Scene I. — Manfred alone. — Scene, a Gothic Gallery,- Tiuie, Midnight. Man. The lamp must be replenish'd, but even then It will not burn so long as I must watch : My slumbers — if I slumber— are not sleep, But a continuance of enduring thought, Which then I can resist not : in my heart There is a vigil, and these eyes but close To look within ; and yet I live, and bear 168 MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 169 The aspect and the form of breathing men. But grief should be the instructor of the wise ; Sorrow is knowledge : they who know the most 10 Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth, The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life. Philosophy and science, and the springs Of wonder, and the wisdom of the world, I have essay 'd, and in my mind there is A power to make these subject to itself — But they avail not : I have done men good. And I have met with good even among men — But this avail'd not : I have had my foes. And none have baffled, many fallen before me — 20 But this avail'd not : — Good, or evil, life. Powers, passions, all I see in other beings, Have been to me as rain unto the sands, Since that all-nameless hour. I have no dread, And feel the curse to have no natural fear, Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or wishes. Or lurking love of something on the earth. — Now to my task. — Mysterious Agency ! Ye spirits of the unbounded Universe ! Whom I have sought in darkness and in light — 30 Ye, who do compass earth about, and dwell In subtler essence — ye, to whom the tops Of mountains inaccessible are haunts, And earth's and ocean's caves familiar things— I call upon ye by the written charm Which gives me power upon you — Rise ! appear ! {^A pause. They come not yet. — Now by the voice of him Who is the first among you — by this sign. Which makes you tremble — by the claims of him Who is undying, — Rise ! appear ! — Appear ! 40 [^A pause. If it be so, — Spirits of earth and air, I/O SELECTIONS FROM BYRON Ye shall not thus elude me : by a power. Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-spell, Which had its birth-place in a star condemn 'd, The burning wreck of a demolish'd world, A wandering hell in the eternal space ! By the strong curse which is upon my soul, The thought which is within me and around me, I do compel ye to my will. — Appear ! \^A star is seen at the darker etidof the gallery : it is station- ary : and a voice is heard singing. First Spirit. Mortal ! to thy bidding bow'd, 5<^ From my mansion in the cloud, Which the breath of twilight builds, And the summer's sunset gilds With the azure and vermilion, Which is mix'd for my pavilion ; Though thy quest may be forbidden, On a star-beam I have ridden ; To thine adjuration bow'd, Mortal — be thy wish avow'd ! Voice of the S^^COm) SPIRIT. Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains : 60 They crown'd him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow. Around his waist are forests braced, The Avalanche in his hand ; But ere it fall, that thundering ball Must pause for my command. The Glacier's cold and restless mass Moves onward day by day ; But I am he who bids it pass, 7° Or with its ice delay. MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM I/I I am the spirit of the place, Could make the mountain bow And quiver to his cavern'd base — And what with me wouldst Thou? Voice of the Tyliv^-d Spirit. In the blue depth of the waters, Where the wave hath no strife, . Where the wind is a stranger. And the sea-snake hath life, Where the Mermaid is decking 80 Her green hair with shells, Like the storm on the surface Came the sound of thy spells : O'er my calm Hall of Coral The deep echo roll'd — To the Spirit of Ocean Thy wishes unfold ! Fourth Spirit. Where the slumbering earthquake Lies pillow'd on fire. And the lakes of bitumen 90 Rise boilingly higher ; Where the roots of the Andes Strike deep in the earth, As their summits to heaven Shoot soaringly forth ; I have quitted my birthplace. Thy bidding to bide — Thy spell hath subdued me, Thy will be my guide ! Fifth Spirit. I am the Rider of the wind, 100 The Stirrer of the storm ; 1/2 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON The hurricane I left behind Is yet with lightning warm ; To speed to thee o'er shore and sea I swept upon the blast ; The fleet I met sail'd well, and yet 'Twill sink ere night be past. Sixth Spirit. My dwelling is the shadow of the night, Why doth thy magic torture me with light ? Seventh Spirit. The star which rules thy destiny no Was rule4, ere earth began, by me : It was a world as fresh and fair As e'er revolved round sun in air ; Its course was free and regular, Space bosom'd not a lovelier star. The hour arrived — and it became A wandering mass of shapeless flame, A pathless comet, and a curse, The menace of the universe ; Still rolling on with innate force, 120 Without a sphere, without a course, A bright deformity on high, The monster of the upper sky ! And thou ! beneath its influence born — Thou worm ! whom I obey and scorn — Forced by a power (which is not thine. And lent thee but to make thee mine) For this brief moment to descend, Wiiere these weak spirits round thee bend And parley with a thing like thee — 130 What wouldst thou, Child of Clay ! with me .'' MANFKED: A DRAMATIC POEM 173 The Seven Spirits. Earth, ocean, air, night, mountains, winds, thy star, Are at thy beck and bidding. Child of Clay ! Before thee at thy quest their spirits are — What wouldst thou with us, son of rfiortals — say? Man. Forgetfulness — First Spirit. Of what — of whom — and why ? Man. Of that which is within me : read it there ;— Ye know it, and I cannot utter it. Spirit. We can but give thee that which we possess : Ask of us subjects, sovereignty, the power 140 O'er earth, the whole, or portion, or a sign Which shall control the elements, whereof We are the dominators : each and all. These shall be thine. Ma7i. Oblivion, self-oblivion — Can ye not wring from out the hidden realms Ye offer so profusely what I ask ? Spirit. It is not in our essence, in our skill ; But — thou may'st die. Man. Will death bestow it on me } Spirit. We are immortal, and do not forget ! We are eternal ; and to us the past 150 Is, as the future, present. Art thou answer'd ? Man. Ye mock me — but the power which brought ye here Hath made you mine. Slaves, scoff not at my will ! The mind, the spirit, the Promethean spark. The lightning of my being, is as bright, Pervading, and far-darting as your own, And shall not yield to yours, though coop'd in clay! Answer, or I will teach ye what I am. Spirit. We answer as we answer'd ; our reply Is even in thine own words. 160 Man. Why say ye so } Spirit. If, as thou say'st, thine essence be as ours. 174 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON We have replied in telling thee, the thing Mortals call death hath nought to do with us. Man. I then have call'd ye from your realms in vain ; Ye cannot, or ye will not, aid me. Spirit. Say ; [ What we possess we offer ; it is thine : Bethink ere thou dismiss us, ask again — ^ Kingdom, and sway, and strength, and length of days — Ma7i. Accursed ! what have I to do with days ? They are too long already. Hence — begone ! 170 Spirit, Yet pause : being here, our will would do thee service ; Bethink thee, is there then no other gift Which we can make not worthless in thine eyes ? Man. No, none : yet stay — one moment, ere we part — I would behold ye face to face. I hear Your voices, sweet and melancholy sounds, As music on the waters ; and I see The steady aspect of a clear large star ; But nothing more. 'Approach me as ye are, | Or one, or all, in your accustom'd forms. 180 Spirit. We have no forms beyond the elements Of which we are the mind and principle : But choose a form — in that we will appear. Man. I have no choice ; there is no form on earth '' Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him. Who is most powerful of ye, take such aspect As unto him may seem most fitting — Come ! Seventh Spirit {appearing in the shape of a beautiful female figure). Behold ! Man. O God ! if it be thus, and thou Art not a madness and a mockery, I yet might be most happy. I will clasp thee, 190 And we again will be — {^T he figure vanishes. My heart is crush'd. [Man FRED /«//j- sejiseless. r" MAMFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 1 75 A voice is heard in the Incantation which follows. When the moon is on the wave, And the glow-worm in the grass, And the meteor on the grave, And the wisp on the morass ; When the fallen stars are shooting, And the answer'd owls are hooting, And the silent leaves are still In the shadow of the hill, Shall my soul be upon thine. With a power and with a sign. Though thy slumber may be deep, Yet thy spirit shall not sleep ; There are shades which will not vanish, There are thoughts thou canst not banish By a power to thee unknown, Thou canst never be alone : Thou art wrapt as with a shroud, Thou art gather'd in a cloud : And forever shalt thou dwell In the spirit of this spell. Though thou seest me not pass by, Thou shalt feel me with thine eye As a thing that, though unseen. Must be near thee, and hath been ; And when in that secret dread Thou hast turn'd around thy head, Thou shalt marvel I am not As thy shadow on the spot, And the power which thou dost feel Shall be what thou must conceal. And a magic voice and verse Hath baotized thee with a curse ; 1^6 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON And a spirit of the air Hath begirt thee with a snare : In the wind there is a voice Shall forbid thee to rejoice ; And to thee shall Night deny- All the quiet of her sky ; And the day shall have a sun, 230 Which shall make thee wish it done. From thy false tears I did distil An essence which hath strength to kill ; From thy own heart I then did wring The black blood in its blackest spring : From thy own smile I snatch'd the snake, For there it coil'd as in a brake ; From thy own lip I drew the charm Which gave all these their chiefest harm : In proving every poison known, 240 I found the strongest was thine own. By thy cold breast and serpent smile, By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile. By that most seeming virtuous eye. By thy shut soul's hypocrisy ; By the perfection of thine art Which pass'd for human thine own heart ; By thy delight in others' pain, And by thy brotherhood of Cain, I call upon thee, and compel 350 Thyself to be thy proper Hell ! And on thy head I pour the vial Which doth devot^ thee to this trial Nor to slumber, nor to die. Shall be in thy destiny ; -- Though thy death shall still seem near To thy wish, but as a fear : MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 177 Lo ! the spell now works around thee, And the clankless chain hath bound thee ; O'er thy heart and brain together 260 Hath the word been pass'd — now wither ! Scene II. — The Mountain of the Jimgfrau. — Time, Morning. MANFRED alotie upon the Cliffs. iMan. The spirits I have raised abandon me — The spells which I have studied baffle me — The remedy I reck'd of tortured me : I lean no more on superhuman aid, It hath no power upon the past, and for The future, till the past be gulf'd in darkness It is not of my search. — My mother Earth, And thou, fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains, Why are ye beautiful ? I cannot love ye. And thou, the bright eye of the universe, 10 That openest over all, and unto all Art a delight — thou shin'st not on my heart. And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs In dizziness of distance; when a leap, A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed To rest forever — wherefore do I pause ? I feel the impulse — yet I do not plunge ; 20 I see the peril — yet do not recede ; And my brain reels — and yet my foot is firm : There is a power upon me which withholds, And makes it my fatality to live ; If it be life to wear within myself This barrenness of spirit, and to be My own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased 178 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON To justify my deeds unto myself — ( The last infirmity of evil. Ay, ) Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister, 30 'yAn eagle passes. Whose happy flight is highest into heaven. Well may'st thou swoop so near me — I should be Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets : thou art gone Where the eye cannot follow thee ; but thine Yet pierces downward, onward, or above, With a pervading vision. — Beautiful ! How beautiful is all this visible world ! \ How glorious in its action and itself ! ': But we who name ourselves its sovereigns, we Half dust, half deity, alike unfit 40 To sink or soar, with our mix'd essence make A conflict of its elements, and breathe The breath of degradation and of pride. Contending with low wants and lofty will, Till our mortality predominates, And men are — what they name not to themselves, And trust not to each other. Hark ! the note, {The shepherd' s pipe t?i the distance is heard. The natural music of the mountain reed — For here the patriarchal days are not A pastoral fable — pipes in the liberal air, 50 Mix'd with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd : My soul would drink those echoes — Oh, that I were The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, A living voice, a breathing harmony, A bodiless enjoyment — born and dying With the blest tone which made me ! E7iter from below a CHAMOIS Hunter. Chamois himter. Even so. This way the chamois leapt: her nimble feet Have baffled me ; my gains to-day will scarce Repay my break-neck travail. — What is here } MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 1/9 Who seems not of my trade, and yet hath reach'd 60 A height which none even of our miountaineers, Save our best hunters, may attain : his garb Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air Proud as a free-born peasant's at this distance. — I will approach him nearer. Man. {not perceiving the other). To be thus — Gray-hair'd with anguish, like these blasted pines, Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless, A blighted trunk upon a cursed root, Which but supplies a feeling to decay — And to be thus, eternally but thus, 70 Having been otherwise ! Now furrow'd o'er With wrinkles, plough'd by moments, not by years And hours — all tortured into ages — hours Which I outlive ! — \e toppling crags of ice ! Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down In mountainous o'erwhelmlng, come and crush me ! I hear ye momently above, beneath, Crash with a frequent conflict ; but ye pass, And only fall on things that still would live ; On the young flourishing forest, or the hut 80 And hamlet of the harmless villager, C. Hun. The mists begin to rise from up the valley ; I'll warn him to descend, or he may chance To lose at once his way and life together. Man. The mists boil up around the glaciers ; clouds Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury. Like foam from the roused ocean of deep Hell, Whose every wave breaks on a living shore, Heap'd with the damn'd like pebbles. — I am giddy. C Hun. I must approach him cautiously ; if near, 90 A sudden step will startle him, and he Seems tottering already. Majt. Mountains have fallen. Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock Rocking their Alpine brethren ; filling up l8o SELECTIONS FROM BYRON The ripe green valleys with destruction's splinters; Damming the rivers with a sudden dash, Which crush'd the waters into mist, and made Their fountains find another channel. — Thus, Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg — Why stood I not beneath it ? loo C. Hun. Friend ! have a care. Your next step may be fatal ! — for the love Of Him who made you, stand not on that brink ! Man. {not hearmg hhn). Such would have been for me a fitting tomb ; My bones had then been quiet in their depth : They had not then been strewn upon the rocks For the wind's pastime — as thus^ — thus they shall be — In this one plunge. — Farewell, ye opening heavens ! Look not upon me thus reproachfully — You were not meant for me — Earth ! take these atoms ! [As Manfred zs in act to spriftg from the cliff, the Chamois Hunter seizes and retains him with a sudden grasp. C. Hun. Hold, madman ! — though weary of thy life, no Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood — Away with me 1 will not quit my hold. Man. I am most sick at heart — nay, grasp me not — I am all feebleness — the mountains v/hirl, Spinning around me 1 grow blind What art thou } C. Hun. I'll answer that anon, — Away with me The clouds grow thicker there — now lean on me Place your foot here — here, take this staff, and cling A moment to that shrub — now give me your hand. And hold fast by my girdle — softly — well — 120 The Chalet will be gain'd within an hour — Come on, we'll quickly find a surer footing. And something like a pathway, which the torrent Hath wash'd since winter. — Come, 'tis bravely done — You should have been a hunter. — Follow me. \As they descend the rocks with difficulty the scene closes. MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM l8l ACT II. Scene I. — A Cottage ainongst the Bernese Alps. Man- fred a fid the Chamois Hunter. C. Hun. No, no — yet pause — thou must not yet go forth : Thy mind and body are alike unfit To trust each other, for some hours at least ; When thou art better, I will be thy guide — But whither f Man. It imports not : I do know My route full well, and need no further guidance. C. Hun. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high lin- eage — One of the many chiefs, whose castled crags Look o'er the lower valleys — which of these May call thee lord } I only know their portals : lo My way of life leads me but rarely down To bask by the huge hearths of those old halls. Carousing with the vassals ; but the paths Which step from out our mountains to their doors, I know from childhood — which of these is thine ? Alan. No matter. C. Hun. Well, sir, pardon me the question, And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine : 'Tis of an ancient vintage ; many a day 'T has thaw'd my veins among our glaciers, now Let it do thus for thine. — Come, pledge me fairly. 20 Man. Away, away ! there's blood upon the brim ! Will it then never — never sink in the earth ? C. Hun. What dost thou mean } thy senses wander from thee. Man. I say 'tis blood — my blood ! the pure warm y stream Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours When we were in our youth, and had one heart, 1 82 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON And loved each other as we should not love, And this was shed : but still it rises up, Colouring the clouds, that shut me out from heaven. Where thou art not— and I shall never be. 3° C. Hun. Man of strange words, and some half-madden- ing sin, Which makes thee people vacancy, whate'er Thy dread and sufferance be, there's comfort yet — The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience — Man. Patience and patience ! Hence — that word was made For brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey ; Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine — I am not of thine order. C. Hun. Thanks to heaven ! I would not be of thine for the free fame Of William Tell : but whatsoe'er thine ill, 40 It must be borne, and these wild starts are useless. Man. Do I not bear it .^ — Look on me — I live. C. Hun. This is convulsion, and no healthful life. Ma7t. I tell thee, man, I have lived many years. Many long years, but they are nothing now To those which I must number : ages — ages — Space and eternity — and consciousness. With the fierce thirst of death — and still unslaked ! C. Hun. Why, on thy brow the seal of middle age Hath scarce been set : I am thine elder far. 50 Man. Think'st thou existence doth depend on time ? It doth ; but actions are our epochs : mine Have made my days and nights imperishable, Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore, Innumerable atoms ; and one desert, Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break, But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks, Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness. C. Hun. Alas ! he's mad — but yet I must not leave him. Man. I would I were — for then the things I see 60 MANFRED: A DRAMA'-FIC POEM 1 83 Would be but a distemper'd dream. C. Hun. What is it That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon ? Man. Myself, and thee — a peasant of the Alps — Thy humble virtues, hospitable home, And spirit patient, pious, proud, and free ; Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts ; Thy days of health, and nights of sleep ; thy toils. By danger dignified, yet guiltless; hopes Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave. With cross and garland over its green turf, 70 And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph : This do I see — and then I look within — It matters not — my soul was scorch'd already ! C. Hun. And wouldst thou then exchange thy lot for mine ? Man. No friend ! I would not wrong thee, nor exchange My lot with living being : I can bear — However wretchedly, 'tis still to bear — In life what others could not brook to dream. But perish in their slumber. C. Hun. And with this — This cautious feeling for another's pain, 80 Canst thou be black with evil ?— say not so. Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak'd revenge Upon his enemies ? Matt. Oh ! no. no, no ! My injuries came down on those who loved me — On those whom I best loved : I never quell'd An enemy, save in my just defence — But my embrace was fatal. C. Hun. Heaven give thee rest ! And penitence to restore thee to thyself : My prayers shall be for thee. Man. I need them not. But can endure thy pity. I depart — 9° 'Tis time — farewell ! — Here's gold and thanks for thee : 1 84 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON No words — it is thy due. — Follow me not — I know my path— the mountain peril's past ; And once again I charge thee, follow not ! {^Exit Manfred. Scene II. — A lower Valley in the Alps. — A Cataract. Enter Manfred. It is not noon — the sunbow's rays still arch The torrent with the many hues of heaven, And roll the sheeted silver's waving column O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular. And fling its lines of foaming light along, And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail. The Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death, As told in the Apocalypse. No eyes But mine now drink this sight of loveliness ; I should be sole in this sweet solitude, lo And with the Spirit of the place divide The homage of these waters. — I will call her. [Manfred takes some of the water into the palm of his hand, and flings it in the air, jnuttering the ad- juration. After a pause, the WiTCH OF the Alps rises beneath the arch of the sunbow of the torrent. Beautiful Spirit ! with thy hair of light, And dazzling eyes of glor}% in whose form The charms of earth's least mortal daughters grow To an unearthly stature, in an essence Of purer elements ; while the hues of youth — Carnation'd like a sleeping infant's cheek, Rock'd by the beating of her mother's heart, Or the rose tints, which summer's twilight leaves 2c Upon the lofty glacier's virgin snow, The blush of earth, embracing with her heaven — Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame The beauties of the sunbow which bends o'er thee. Beautiful Spirit ! in thy calm clear brow, MANFRED: A DRAMATIC FOEM 1 85 Wherein is glass'd serenity of soul, Which of itself shows immortality, I read that thou wilt pardon to a Son Of Earth, whom the abstruser powers permit At times to commune with them — if that he 30 Avail him of his spells— to call thee thus. And gaze on thee a moment. Witch. Son of Earth ! I know thee, and the powers which give thee power ; I know thee for a man of many thoughts, And deeds of good and ill, extreme in botli, Fatal and fated in thy sufferings. I have expected this — what wouldst thou with me } Man. To look upon thy beauty — nothing further. The face of the earth hath madden'd me, and I Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce 40 To the abodes of those who govern her — But they can nothing aid me. I have sought From them what they could not bestow, and now I search no further. Witch. What could be the quest Which is not in the power of the most powerful. The rulers of the invisible .'* Man. A boon ; But why should I repeat it } 'tvv^ere in vain. Witch. I know not that ; let thy lips utter it. Man. Well, though it torture me, 'tis but the same ; My pang shall find a voice. From my youth upwards 50 My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men, Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes ; The thirst of their ambition was not mine. The aim of their existence was not mine ; My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers. Made me a stranger ; though I wore the form, I had no sympathy with breathing flesh. Nor midst the creatures of clay that girded me Was there but one who — but of her anon. ISO SELECTIONS FROM BYRON I said, with men, and with the thoughts of men, 60 I held but slight communion ; but instead, My joy was in the Wilderness, to breathe The difficult air of the iced mountain's top. Where the birds dare not build, nor insect's wing Flit o'er the herbless granite ; or to plunge Into the torrent, and to roll along On the swift whirl of the new breaking wave Of river-stream or ocean, in their flow. In these my early strength exulted ; or To follow through the night the moving moon, 70 The stars and their development ; or catch The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim ; Or to look, list'ning, on the scatter'd leaves. While autumn winds were at their evening song. These were my pastimes, and to be alone ; For if the beings, of whom I was one, — Hating to be so — cross'd me in my path, I felt myself degraded back to them, And was all clay again. And then I dived, In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death, 80 Searching its cause in its effect ; and drew From wither'd bones, and skulls, and heap'd-up dust. Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass'd The nights of years in sciences untaught, Save in the old time ; and with time and toil. And terrible ordeal, and such penance As in itself hath power upon the air, And spirits that do compass air and earth. Space, and the peopled infinite, I made Mine eyes familiar with Eternity, 9° Such as, before me, did the Magi, and He who from out their fountain dwellings raised Eros and Anteros. at Gadara, As I do thee : — and with my knowledge grew The thirst of knowledge, and the power and joy Of this most bright intelligence, until — MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 18/ Witch. Proceed. Man. Oh ! I but thus prolong'd my words, Boasting these idle attributes, because As I approach the core of my heart's grief — But to my task. I have not named to thee loo Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being With whom I wore the chain of human ties ; If I had such, they seem'd not such to me — Yet there was one — Witch. Spare not thyself — proceed. Mail. She was like me in lineaments — her eyes, Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone Even of her voice, they said were like to mine ; But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty: She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings, The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind no To comprehend the universe : nor these Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine. Pity, and smiles, and tears — which I had not ; And tenderness — but that I had for her; Humility — and that I never had. Her faults were mine — her virtues were her own — I loved her, and destroy'd her ! Witch. With thy hand } Man. Not with my hand, but heart — which broke her heart — It gazed on mine and wither d. I have shed Blood, but not hers — and yet her blood was shed — 120 I saw — and could not stanch it. Witch. And for this — A being of the race thou dost despise, The order which thine own would rise above. Mingling with us and ours, thou dost forego The gifts of our great knowledge, and shrink'st back To recreant mortality — Away ! Man. Daughter of Air ! I tell thee, since that hour — But words are breath — look on me in my sleep, 1 88 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON' Or watch my watchings — Come and sit by me ! My solitude is solitude no more, 130 But peopled with the Furies, — 1 have gnash'd My teeth in darkness till returning morn, Then cursed myself till sunset ; — I have pray'd For madness as a blessing — 'tis denied me. I have affronted death — but in the war Of elements the waters shrunk from me, And fatal things pass'd harmless — the cold hand Of an all-pitiless demon held me back. Back by a single hair, which would not break. In phantasy, imagination, all 140 The affluence of my soul — which one day was A Croesus in creation — I plunged deep, Bnt, like an ebbing wave, it dash'd me back Into the gulf of my unfathom'd thought. I plunged amidst mankind — Forgetfulness I sought in all, save where 'tis to be found, And that I have to learn — my sciences, My long pursued and superhuman art. Is mortal here — I dwell in my despai^ And live — and live forever. 150 Witch. It may be That I can aid thee. Man. To do this thy powei;^ Must wake the dead, or lay me low with th-em. Do so — in any shape — in any hour — With any torture — so it be the last. Witch. That is not in my province ; but if thou Wilt swear obedience to my will, and do My bidding, it may help thee to thy wishes. Man. I will not swear — Obey ! and whom } the spirits Whose presence I command, and be the slave Of those who serve me — Never ! 160 Witch. Is this all } Hast thou no gentler answer? Yet bethink thee, And pause ere thou rejectest. MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 1 89 Man. I have said it. Witch. Enough ! — I may retire then — say ! Man. Retire ! [ The Witch disappears. Man. [a/one.] We are the fools of time and terror : days Steal on us and steal from us : yet we live, Loathing our life, and dreading still to die. In all the days of this detested yoke — This vital weight upon the struggling heart. Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with pain, Or joy that ends in agony or faintness — 170 In all the days of past and future, for In life there is no present, we can number How few — how less than fev/ — wherein the soul Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back As from a stream in winter, though the chill Be but a moment's. I have one resource Still in my science — I can call the dead, And ask them what it is we dread to be : The sternest answer can but be the Grave, And that is nothing — if they answer not — 180 The buried Prophet answer'd to the Hag Of Endor : and the Spartan monarch drew From the Byzantine maid's unsleeping spirit An answer and his destiny — he slew That which he loved, unknowing what he slew. And died unpardon'd»— though he call'd in aid The Phyxian Jove, and in Phygalia roused The Arcadian Evocators to compel The indignant shadow to depose her wrath, Or fix her term of vengeance — she replied 190 In words of dubious import, but fulfill'd. If I had never lived, that which I love Had still been living : had I never loved. That which I love would still be beautiful — Happy and giving happiness. What is she ? What is she now ? — a sufferer for my sins — 190 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON A thing I dare not think upon — or nothing. Within few hours I shall not call in vain — Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare ; Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze 200 On spirit, good or evil — now I tremble, And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart. But I can act even what I most abhor. And champion human fears — The night approaches. lExit. Scene III. — The Summit of the Jung f rati Mount am. Enter First Destiny. The moon is rising broad, and round, and bright ; And here on snows, where never human foot Of common mortal trod, we nightly tread And leave no traces ; o'er the savage sea, The glassy ocean of the mountain ice, We skim its rugged breakers, which put on The aspect of a tumbling tempest's foam, Frozen in a moment — a dead whirlpool's image : And this most steep fantastic pinnacle. The fretwork of some earthquake — where the clouds 10 Pause to repose themselves in passing by — Is sacred to our revels, or our vigils ; Here do I wait my sisters, on our way To the Hall of Arimanes, for to-night Is our great festival — 'tis strange they come not. A Voice without, singing. The Captive Usurper, Hurl'd down from the throne. Lay buried in torpor. Forgotten and lone ; I broke through his slumbers, 20 I shiver'd his chain, I leagued him with numbers — He's Tyrant again ! MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM I9I With the blood of a million he'll answer my care, With a nation's destruction — his flight and despair. Seco7id Voice, luithoiit. The ship sail'd on, the ship sail'd fast, But 1 left not a sail, and I left not a mast ; There is not a plank of the hull or the deck. And there is not a wretch to lament o'er his wreck, Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by the hair, 30 And he was a subject well worthy my care : A traitor on land, and a pirate at sea — But I sav'd him to wreak further havoc for me. First Destiny, answering. The city lies sleeping ; The morn, to deplore it, May dawn on it weeping : Sullenly, slowly, The black plague flew o'er it — Thousands lie lowly ; Tens of thousands shall perish, 40 The living shall fly from The sick they should cherish ; But nothing can vanquish The touch that they die from. Sorrow and anguish. And evil and dread. Envelope a nation — The blest are the dead. Who see not the sight Of their own desolation — 5c This work of a night — This wreck of a realm — this deed of my doing — For ages I've done, and shall still be renewing ! 192 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON Enter the Second and Third Destinies. The Three. Our hands contain the hearts of men, Our footsteps are their graves ; We only give to take again The spirits of our slaves ! First Des. Welcome ! — Where's Nemesis? Seco7id Des. At some great work : But what I know not, for my hands were full. Third Des. Behold, she cometh. 60 Enter Nemesis. First Des. Say, where hast thou been } My sisters and thyself are slow to-night. Netn. I w^as detain'd repairing shatter'd thrones, Marrying fools, restoring dynasties, Avenging men upon their enemies. And making them repent their own revenge ; Goading the wise to madness : from the dull Shaping out oracles to rule the world Afresh, for they were waxing out of date ; And mortals dared to ponder for themselves, To weigh kings in the balance, and to speak 70 Of freedom, the forbidden fruit — Away ! We have outstay'd the hour — mount we our clouds ! {^Exeunt. Scene IV. — The Hall of Arinianes — Arimanes on his throne, a Globe of Fire, siirroufided by the Spirits. Hymn of the Spirits. Hail to our master ! — Prince of Earth and Air ! Who walks the clouds and waters — in his hand The sceptre of the elements, which tear Themselves to chaos at his high command ! He breatheth — and a tempest shakes the sea : MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 1 93 He speaketh — and the clouds reply in thunder ; He gazeth — from his glance the sunbeams flee : He moveth — earthquakes rend the world asunder. Beneath his footsteps the volcanoes rise ; His shadow is the Pestilence ; his path lo The comets herald through the crackling skies ; And planets turn to ashes at his wrath. To him War offers daily sacrifice ; To him Death pays his tribute ; Life is his, With all its infinite of agonies — And his the spirit of whatever is ! Enter the DESTINIES aiid Nemesis. First Des. Glory to Arimanes ! on the earth His power increaseth — both my sisters did His bidding, nor did I neglect my duty ! Seco7id Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we who bow 20 The necks of men bow down before his throne ! Third Des. Glory to Arimanes ! wx await his nod ! Nein. Sovereign of sovereigns, we are thine, And all that liveth, more or less, is ours, And most things wholly so ; still to increase Our power, increasing thine, demands our care, And we are vigilant — thy late command's Have been fulfill'd to the utmost. Enter Manfred. A Spirit. What is here ? A mortal. — Thou most rash and fatal wretch, Bow down and worship ! 30 Second Spirit. I do know the man — A Magian of great power, and fearful skill ! Third Spirit. Bow down and worship, slave ! What, know'st thou not Thine and our Sovereign } — Tremble, and obey ! All the Spirits. Prostrate thyself, and thy condemned clay. Child of the Earth ! or dread the worst. 194 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON' Ma7t. * I know it ; And yet 3'e see I kneel not. Fourth Spirit. 'Twill be taught thee. Man. 'Tis taught already ; — many a night on the earth, On the bare ground, have 1 bow'd down my face, And strew'd my head with ashes ; I have known The fulness of humiliation, for 40 I sunk before my vain despair, and knelt To my own desolation. Fifth Spirit. Dost thou dare Refuse to Arimanes on his throne What the whole earth accords, beholding not The terror of his glory ? Crouch ! I say. Man, Bid him bow down to that which is above him, The overruling Infinite — the Maker Who made him not for worship — let him kneel, And we will kneel together. The Spirits. Crush the worm ! Tear him in pieces ! — 50 First Des. Hence ! Avaunt ! — he's mine. Prince of the Powers Invisible ! this man Is of no common order, as his port And presence here denote ; his sufferings Have been of an immortal nature, like Our own ; his knowledge, and his powers and will, As far as is compatible with clay, Which clogs the ethereal essence, have been such As clay hath seldom borne ; his aspirations Have been beyond the dwellers of the earth. And they have only taught him what we know — 60 That knowledge is not happiness, and science But an exchange of ignorance for that Which is another kind of ignorance. This is not all — the passions, attributes Of earth and heaven, from which no power, nor being, Nor breath from the worm upwards is exempt, MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM I95 Have pierced his heart ; and in their consequence, Made him a thing, v/hich I, who pity not. Yet pardon those who pity. He is mine And thine, it may be — be it so, or not, 70 No other spirit in this region hath A soul Hke his — or power upon his soul. Nem. Wliat doth he here then } First Des. Let him answer that. Man. Ye know what I have known ; and without power I could not be amongst ye ; but there are Powers deeper still beyond — I come in quest Of such, to answer unto what I seek. Nem. What wouldst thou ? Man. Thou canst not reply to me. Call up the dead — my question is for them. Nem. Great Arimanes, doth thy will avouch 80 The wishes of this mortal } Art. Yea. Nem. Whom wouldst thou Uncharnel ? Man. One without a tomb — call up Astarte. Nemesis. Shadow ! or Spirit ! Whatever thou art. Which still doth inherit The whole or a part Of the form of thy birth. Of the mould of thy clay. Which return 'd to the earth, 90 Re-appear to the day ! Bear what thou borest. The heart and the form. And the aspect thou worest Redeem from the worm. Appear ! — appear ! — appear ! Who sent thee there requires thee here ! 196 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON {The Phanlofn of Astarte rises aiid stands zn the midst. Man. Can this be death ? there's bloom upon her cheek ; But now I see it is no living hue, But a strange hectic— like the unnatural red 100 Which autumn plants upon the perish'd leaf. It is the same ! O God ! that I should dread To look upon the same — Astarte ! — No, I cannot speak to her — but bid her speak — Forgive me or condemn me. Nemesis. By the power which hath broken The grave which enthrall'd thee, Speak to him who hath spoken, Or those who have call'd thee. Man. She is silent, And in that silence I am more than answer'd. no Nem. My power extends no further. Prince of Air ! It rests with thee alone — command her voice. Art. Spirit — obey this sceptre. Nem. . Silent still ! She is not of our order, but belongs To the other powers. Mortal ! thy quest is vain, And we are baffled also. Man. Hear me ; hear me — Astarte ! my beloved ! speak to me : I have so much endured — so much endure — Look on me ! the grave hath not changed thee more Than I am changed for thee. Thou lovedst me 120 Too much, as I loved thee ; we were not made To torture thus each other, though it were The deadliest sin to love as we have loved. Say that thou loath'st me not — that I do bear This punishment for both — that thou wilt be One of the blessed — and that I shall die ; For hitherto all hateful things conspire MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 1 9/ To bind me in existence — in a life Which makes me shrink from immortality — A future like the past. I cannot rest. 130 I know not what I ask, nor what I seek : I feel but what thou art — and what I am ; And I would hear yet once before I perish The voice which was my music — Speak to me ! For I have call'd on thee in the still night, Startled the slumbering birds from the hush'd boughs, And woke the mountain wolves, and made the caves Acquainted with thy vainly echoed name, Which answer'd me— many things answer'd me — Spirits and men — but thou wert silent all. 140 Yet speak to me ! I have outwatch'd the stars, And gazed o'er heaven in vain in search of thee. Speak to me ! I have wander'd o'er the earth, And never found thy likeness. — Speak to me ! Look on the fiends around — they feel for me : I fear them not, and feel for thee alone — Speak to me ! though it be in wrath ; but say — I reck not what — but let me hear thee once — This once — once more ! Phantom of Astarte. Manfred ! Man. Say on, say on — I live but in the sound — it is thy voice ! 150 Phan. Manfred ! to-morrow ends thine earthly ills. Farewell ! Man. Yet one word more — am I forgiven } Phan. Farewell. Man. Say, shall we meet again ? Phan. Farewell ! Man. One word for mercy ! Say thou lovest me. Phan. Manfred ! [ The Spirit of Astarte disappears. Nem. She's gone, and will not be recall'd ; Her words will be fulfill'd. Return to the earth. 198 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON A Spirit. He is convulsed. — This is to be a mortal, And seek the things beyond mortality. Another Spirit. Yet, see, he mastereth himself, and makes His torture tributary to his will. 160 Had he been one of us, he would have made An awful spirit. Nem. Hast thou further question Of our great sovereign, or his worshippers } Man. None. Nem. Then for a time farewell. Man. We meet then ! Where } On the earth } Even as thou wilt : and for the grace accorded I now depart a debtor. Fare ye well ! [Exit Manfred. {Scene closes.) ACT HI. Scene I. — A Hall in the Castle of Manfred. Manfred atid Herman. Man. What is the hour ? Her. It wants but one till sunset, And promises a lovely twilight. Ma7i. Say, Are all things so disposed of in the tower As I directed ? Her. All, my lord, are ready : Here is the key and casket. Man. It is well : Thou may'st retire. [Exit Herman. Man. {alone). There is a calm upon me — Inexplicable stillness ! which till now Did not belong to what I knew of life. If that I did not know philosophy To be of all our vanities the motliest, 10 MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 1 99 The merest word that ever fool'd the ear From out the schoolman's jargon, I should deem The golden secret, the sought " Kaion " found. And seated in my soul. It will not last. But it is well to have known it, though but once : It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense, And I within my tablets would note down That there is such a feeling. Who is there } Re-enter Herman. Her. My lord, the Abbot of St. Maurice craves To greet your presence. 20 Enter the Abbot of St. Maurice. Abbot. Peace be with Count Manfred ! Ma7i. Thanks, holy father ! welcome to these walls ; Thy presence honors them, and blesseth those Who dwell within them. Abbot. Would it were so, Count !— But I would fain confer with thee alone. Man. Herman, retire. — What would my reverend guest } Abbot. Thus, without prelude: — Age and zeal, my office. And good intent must plead my privilege ; Our near, though not acquainted neighborhood, May also be my herald. Rumors strange, And of unholy nature, are abroad, 3° And busy with thy name ; a noble name For centuries ; may he who bears it now Transmit it unimpair'd ! Man. Proceed — I listen. Abbot. 'Tis said thou boldest converse with the things Which are forbidden to the search of man ; That with the dwellers of the dark abodes, The many e\nl and unheavenly spirits Which walk the valley of the shade of death. Thou communest. I know that with mankind, 200 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely 40 Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy. Mail. And what are they who do avouch these things ? Abbot . My pious .brethren — the scared peasantry — Even thy own vassals — who do look on thee With most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in peril. Man. Take it. Abbot. I come to save, and not destroy — I would not pry into thy secret soul ; But if these things be sooth, there still is time For penitence and pity : reconcile thee 50 With the true church, and through the church to Heaven. Man. I h^ar thee. This is my reply : Whate'er I may have been, or am, doth rest between Heaven and myself — I shall not choose a mortal To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd Against your ordinances } Prove and punish ! Abbot. My son ! I did not speak of punishment. But penitence and pardon ; — with thyself The choice of such remains — and for the last, Our institutions and our strong belief 60 Have given me power to smooth the path from sin To higher hope and better thoughts ; the first I leave to Heaven — " Vengeance is mine alone ! " So saith the Lord, and with all humbleness His servant echoes back the awful word. Man. Old man ! there is no power in holy men, Nor charm in prayer — nor purifying form Of penitence — nor outward look — nor fast — Nor agony — nor, greater than all these. The innate tortures of that deep despair, 70 Which is remorse without the fear of hell. But all in all sufficient to itself Would make a hell of heaven — can exorcise * From out the unbounded spirit, the quick sense Of its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revenge MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 20I Upon itself ; there is no future pang Can deal that justice on the self-condemn'd He deals on his own soul. Abbot. All this is well ; For this will pass away, and be succeeded By an auspicious hope, which shall look up 80 With calm assurance to that blessed place, Which all who seek may win, whatever be Their earthly errors, so they be atoned : And the commencement of atonement is The sense of its necessity. — Say on — And all our Church can teach thee shall be taught ; And all we can absolve thee shall be pardon'd. Man. When Rome's sixth emperor was near his last ; The victim of a self-inflicted wound, To shun the torments of a public death 90 From senates once his slaves, a certain soldier. With show of loyal pity, would have stanch 'd The gushing throat with his officious robe ; The dying Roman thrust him back, and said — Some empire still in his expiring glance — " It is too late — is this fidelity } " Abbot, And what of this 7 Man. I answer with the Roman — " It is too late ! " Abbot. It never can be so, To reconcile thyself with thy own soul. And thy own soul with Heaven. Hast thou no hope ? 100 'Tis strange— even those who do despair above, Yet shape themselves some phantasy on earth, To which frail twig they cling like drowning men. Man. Ay — father ! I have had those earthly visions And noble aspirations in my youth. To make my own the mind of other men. The enlightener of nations ; and to rise I knew not whither— it might be to fall ; But fall even as the mountain-cataract. 202 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON' Which having leapt from its more dazzling height, iio Even in the foaming strength of its abyss, (Which casts up misty columns that become Clouds raining from the re-ascended skies,) Lies low, but mighty still. — But this is past. My thoughts mistook themselves. Abbot. And wherefore so ? Ma7i, I could not tame my nature down ; for he Must serve who fain would sway ; and soothe — and sue — And watch all time — and pry into all place — And be a living lie— v/ho would become A mighty thing amongst the mean, and such 120 The mass are { I disdain'd to mingle w'wh. A herd, though to be leader — and of wolves. The lion is alone, and so am I. Abbot. And why not live and act with other men ? Man. Because my nature was averse from life ; And yet not cruel ; for I would not make, But find a desolation : — like the wind. The red-hot breath of the most lone simoom, Which dwells but in the desert, and sweeps o'er The barren sands which bear no shrubs to blast, 130 And revels o'er their wild and arid waves. And seeketh not, so that it is not sought. But being met is deadly ; such hath been The course of my existence ; but there came Things in my path which are no more. Abbot. Alas ! I 'gin to fear that thou art past all aid Ffom me and from my calling; yet so young, -I still would — Man. Look on me ! there is an order Of mortals on the earth, who do become Old in their youth, and die ere middle age, 140 Without the violence of warlike death ; Some perishing of pleasure — some of study — Some worn with toil — some of mere weariness — MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 203 Some of disease — and some insanity — And some of wither'd or of broken hearts ; For this last is a malady which slays More than are number'd in the lists of Fate, Taking all shapes, and bearing many names. Look upon me ! for even of all these things Have I partaken ; and of all these things 150 One were enough ; then wonder not that I Am what I am, but that I ever was, Or having been, that I am still on earth. Abbot. Yet, hear me still — Mail. Old man ! I do respect Thine order, and revere thy years; I deem Thy purpose pious, but it is vain : Think me not churlish ; I would spare thyself Far more than me, in shunning at this time All further colloquy — and so — farewell ! {^Exit Manfred. Abbot. This should have been a noble creature : he 160 Hath all the energy which would have made A goodly frame of glorious elements. Had they been wisely mingled ; as it is, It is an awful chaos — light and darkness — And mind and dust — and passions and pure thoughts, Mix'd and contending without end or order — All dormant or destructive : he will perish. And yet he must not ; I will try once more. For such are worth redemption ; and my duty Is to dare all things for a righteous end. 170 I'll follow him — but cautiously, though surely. [Exit Abbot. 204 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON Scene II. — Another Chamber » j Manfred and Herman. Her. My lord, 3^ou bade me wait on you at sunset : He sinks behind the mountain. A/an. Doth he so ? I will look on him. [Manfred advances to the wiiidow of the hall. Glorious Orb ! the idol Of early nature, and the vigorous race Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons Of the embrace of angels, with a sex More beautiful than they, which did draw down The erring spirits, who can ne'er return. — Most glorious orb ! that wert a worship, ere The mystery of thy making was reveal'd ! lo Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, Which gladdened, on their mountain-tops, the hearts Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd Themselves in orisons ! Thou material God ! And representative of the Unknown — Who chose thee for his shadow ! Thou chief star ! Centre of many stars ! which mak'st our earth Endurable, and temperest the hues And hearts of all who walk within thy rays ! Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the climes, 20 And those who dwell in them ! for near or far, Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee, Even as our outward aspects ; — thou dost rise. And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well ! I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance Of love and wonder was for thee, then take My latest look : thou wilt not beam on one To v^^hom the gifts of life and warmth have been Of a more fatal nature. He is gone : I follow. {Exit Manfred. 30 MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 20 S Scene lll.— T/ie Motmtains.—The Castle of Manfred at so7ne distance. — A terrace before a Tower. — Time, Twilight. Herman, Manuel, and other Depende7its ^Manfred. Her. 'Tis strange enough ; night after night, for years. He hath pursued long vigils in this tower. Without a witness. I have been within it — So have we all been ofttimes : but from it, Or its contents, it were impossible To draw conclusions absolute, of aught His studies tend to. To be sure there is One chamber where none enter ; I would give The fee of what I have to come these three years, To pore upon its mysteries. i° Manuel. 'Twere dangerous ; Content thyself with what thou know'st already. Her. Ah, Manuel ! thou art elderly and wise And couldst say much ; thou hast dwelt within the castle — How many years is't ? Manuel. Ere Count Manfred's birth, I served his father, whom he nought resembles. Her. There be more sons in like predicament. But wherein do they differ } Mamiel. I speak not Of features or of form, but mind and habits ; Count Sigismund was proud — but gay and free — A warrior and a reveller ; he dwelt not 20 With books and solitude, nor made the night A gloomy vigil, but a festal time. Merrier than day ; he did not walk the rocks And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside From men and their delights. Her. Beshrew the hour. But those were jocund times ! I would that such Would visit the old walls again ; they look As if they had forgotten them. 206 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON Manuel. These walls Must change their chieftain first. Oh ! I have seen borne strange things in them, Herman. 30 Her. Come, be friendly j Relate me some to while away our watch : I've heard thee darkly speak of an event Which happen'd hereabouts, by this same tower. Mamiel. That was a night indeed ! I do remember 'Twas twilight, as it may be now, and such Another evening ; yon red cloud which rests On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then So like that it might be the same ; the wind Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows Began to glitter with the climbing moon ; 40 Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower- How occupied, we knew not, but with him The sole companion of his wanderings And watchings — her, whom all of earthly things That lived, the only thing he seem'd to love — As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do, — The Lady Astarte, his Hush ! who comes here .' Enter the Abbot. Abbot. Where is your master ? Her. Yonder, in the tower. Abbot. I must speak with him. Manuel. 'Tis impossible ; He is most private, and must not be thus 50 Intruded on. Abbot. Upon myself I take The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be — But I must see him. Her. Thou hast seen him once This eve already. Abbot. Herman ! I command thee, Knock, and apprise the Count of my approach. MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 20/ Her. We dare not. Abbot. Then it seems I must be herald Of my own purpose. Manuel. Reverend father, stop — I pray you pause. Abbot. Why so } , Ma7tuel. But step this way, And I will tell you further. [^Exeunt. Scene IV. — Interior of the Tower. Manfred alone. The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful ! I linger yet with Nature, for the night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man ; and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness, I learn'd the language of another world. I do remember me, that in my youth, When I was wandering, upon such a night I stood within the Coliseum's wall, lo 'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome ; The trees which grew along the broken arches Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar The watch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber ; and More near from out the Caesar's palace came The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, Of distant sentinels the fitful song Begun and died upon the gentle wind. Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach 20 Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood Within a bowshot. — Where the Caesars dwelt. And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst A grove which springs through levell'd battlements. And twines its roots v/ith the imperial hearths. 208 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON' Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth ; — But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands, A noble wreck in ruinous perfection ! While Caesar's chambers, and the Augustan halls, Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. — 30 And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon All this ; and cast a wide and tender light, Which soften'd down the hoar austerity Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up. As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries ; Leaving that beautiful which still was so. And making that which v/as not, till the place Became religion, and the heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old ! — The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule 40 Our spirits from their urns. — 'Twas such a night ! 'Tis strange that I recall it at this time ; But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight Even at the moment when they should array Themselves in pensive order. Enter the Abbot. Abbot. My good lord, I crave a second grace for this approach ; But yet let not my humble zeal offend By its abruptness — all it hath of ill Recoils on me ; it's good in the effect May light upon your head — could I say heart — 5° Could I touch that, with words or prayers, I should Recall a noble spirit which hath wander'd, But is not yet all lost. Man. Thou know'st me not : My days are number'd, and my deeds recorded : Retire, or 'twill be dangerous — Away ! Abbot. Thou dost not mean to menace me ? Ma7i. Not I : MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 209 I simply tell thee peril is at hand And would preserve thee. Abbot. What dost thou mean ? Ma?i. Look there What dost thou see ? Abbot. Nothing. Ma7i. Look there, I say, And stedfastly ; — now tell me what thou seest. 60 Abbot. That which should shake me — but I fear it not— I see a dusk and awful figure rise. Like an infernal god, from out the earth ; His face wrapt in a mantle, and his form Robed as with angry clouds : he stands between Thyself and me — but I do fear him not. Man. Thou hast no cause — he shall not harm thee — but His sight may shock thine old limbs into palsy. I say to thee — Retire ! Abbot. And I reply — Never — till I have battled with this fiend ; — 70 What doth he here } Man. Why — ay — what doth he here .'' — I did not send for him, — he is unbidden. Abbot. Alas, lost mortal ! what with guests like these Hast thou to do } I tremble for thy sake ; Why doth he gaze on thee, and thou on him } Ah ! he unveils his aspect ; on his brow The thunder stars are graven ; from his eye Glares forth the immortality of hell — Avaunt ! Man. Pronounce — what is thy mission } spirit. Come ! Abbot. What art thou, unknown being .^ answer! — speak ! 80 spirit. The genius of this mortal. — Come ! 'tis time. Man. I am prepared for all things, but deny The power which summons me. Who sent thee here } Spirit. Thou'lt know anon — Come ! come ! 210 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON Man. I have commanded Things of an essence greater far than thine, And striven with thy masters. Get thee hence ! Spirit. Mortal ! thine hour is come — away ! I say. Mail. I knew, and know my hour is come, but not To render up my soul to such as thee : Away ! I'll die as I have lived — alone. 9° spirit. Then I must summon up my brethren — Rise ! {Other Spirits rise tip. Abbot. Avaunt, ye evil ones ! — A vaunt ! I say : — Ye have no pov/er where piety hath power, And 1 do charge ye in the name Spirit. Old man ! We know ourselves, our mission, and thine order : Waste not thy holy words on idle uses. It were in vain : this man is forfeited. Once more I summon him — Away ! away ! Mail. I do defy ye, — though I feel my soul Is ebbing from me, yet I do defy ye ; loo Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breath To breathe my scorn upon ye — earthly strength To wrestle, though with spirits ; what ye take Shall be ta'en limb by limb. Spirit. Reluctant mortal ! Is this the Magian who would so pervade The world invisible, and make himself Almost our equal ? — Can it be that thou Art thus in love with life ? the very life Which made thee wretched ? Man. Thou false fiend, thou liest ! My life is in its last hour, — that I know, no Nor would redeem a moment of that hour ; I do not combat against death, but thee And thy surrounding angels ; my past power Was purchased by no compact with thy crew. But by superior science — penance — daring — And length of watching — strength of mind — and skill MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM 211 In knowledge of our fathers — when the earth Saw men and spirits walking side by side, And gave ye no supremacy : I stand Upon my strength — I do defy — deny — 120 Spurn back, and scorn ye ! spirit. But thy many crim_es Have made thee — Ma7i. What are they to such as thee ? Must crimes be punish'd but by other crimes, And greater criminals ? — back to thy hell ! Thou hast no power upon me, that I feel ; Thou never shalt possess me, that I know : What I have done is done : I bear within A torture which could nothing gain from thine : The mind which is immortal makes itself Requital for its good or evil thoughts — 130 Is its own origin of ill and end — And its own place and time — its innate sense, When stripp'd of this mortality, derives No colour from the fieeting things without ; But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy, Born from the knowledge of its own desert. Thou didst not tempt me, and thou couldst not tempt me ; I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey — But was my own destroyer, and will be My own hereafter. — Back, ye baffled fiends ! 140 The hand of death is on me — but not yours ! [ The Demofis disappear. Abbot. Alas ! how pale thou art — thy lips are white — And thy breast heaves — and in thy gasping throat The accents rattle — Give thy prayers to Heaven — Pray — albeit in thought — but die not thus. Ma7i. 'Tis over — my dull eyes can fix thee not ; But all things swim around me, and the earth Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well — Give me thy hand. Abbot. Cold — cold — even to the heart — 212 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON But yet one prayer — Alas ! how fares it with thee ? 150 Man. Old man ! 'tis not so difficult to die. [Manfred expires. Abbot. He's gone — his soul hath ta'en his eanhless flight- Whither? I dread to think — but he is gone. THE DREAM Our life is twofold : Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence : Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality. And dreams in their development have breath. And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being ; they become A portion of ourselves as of our time, And look like heralds of eternity ; They pass like spirits of the past — they speak Like sibyls of the future ; they have power — The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; They make us what we were not — what they will. And shake us with the vision that's gone by. The dread of vanish'd shadows — are they so ? Is not the past all shadow ? — What are they ? Creations of the mind ? — The mind can make Substance, and people planets of its own With beings brighter than have been, and give A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. I would recall a vision which I dream 'd Perchance in sleep ; for in itself a thought, A slumbering thought, is capable of years. And curdles a long life into one hour. 213 214 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON I saw two beings in the hues of youth Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, Green, and of mild declivity, the last As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such, 30 Save that there was no sea to lave its base. But a most living landscape, and the wave Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke Arising from such rustic roofs ; — the hill Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd, Not by the sport of nature, but of man : These two, a maiden and a youth, were there Gazing — the one on all that was beneath, 40 Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her ; And both were young, and one was beautiful : And both were young — yet not alike in youth. As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; The boy had fewer summers, but his heart Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye There vv^as but one beloved face on earth. And that was shining on him ; he had look'd Upon it till it could not pass away ; 50 He had no breath, no being, but in hers ; She was his voice ; he did not speak to her, But trembled on her words ; she was his sight, For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with hers. Which colour'd all his objects : — he had ceased To live within himself ; she was his life, The ocean to the river of his thoughts. Which terminated all : upon a tone, A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow. And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart 60 Unknowing of its cause of agony. THE DREAM 21^ But she in these fond feelings had no share : Her sighs were not for him ; to her he was Even as a brother — but no more ; 'twas much, For brotherless she was, save in the name Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him ; Herself the solitary scion left Of a time-honour'd race. — It was a name Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not — and why ? Time taught him a deep answer— when she loved 70 Another ; even 7iow she loved another. And on the summit of that hill she stood Looking afar if yet her lover's steed Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. III. A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. There was an ancient mansion, and before Its walls there was a steed caparison'd : Within an antique Oratory stood The Boy of whom I spake; — he v/as alone, And pale, and pacing to and fro : anon 80 He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced Words which I could not guess of ; then he lean'd His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere With a convulsion — then arose again. And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear What he had written, but he shed no tears. And he did calm himself, and fix his brow Into a kind of quiet : as he paused. The Lady of his love re-enter'd there ; She was serene and smiling then, and yet 90 She knew she was by him beloved, — she knew. For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw That he was wretched, but she saw not all. He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 2l6 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face A tablet of unutterable thoughts Was traced, and then it faded, as it came ; He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps Retired, but not as bidding her adieu, For they did part with mutual smiles ; he pass'd From out the massy gate of that old Hall, And mounting on his steed he went his way ; And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more. IV. A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Boy was sprung to manhood ; in the wilds Of fiery climes he made himself a home, And his soul drank their sunbeams ; he was girt With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not Himself like what he had been ; on the sea And on the shore he was a wanderer ; There was a mass of many images Crowded like waves upon me, but he was A part of all ; and in the last he lay Reposing from the noontide sultriness, Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade Of ruin'd walls that had surv'ived the names Of those who rear'd them ; by his sleeping side Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds Were fasten'd near a fountain ; and a man. Clad in a flowing garb, did watch the while, While many of his tribe slumber'd around : And they were canopied by the blue sky, So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, That God alone was to be seen in heaven. V. A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Lady of his love was wed with One THE DREAM 21/ Who did not love her better : — in her home, A thousand leagues from his — her native home, She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, 130 Daughters and sons of Beauty, — but behold ! Upon her face there was the tint of grief, The settled shadow of an inward strife, And an unquiet drooping of the eye, As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. What could her grief be ? — she had all she loved ; And he who had so loved her was not there To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish. Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts. What could her grief be ? — she had loved him not, 140 Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved ; Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. VI. A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Wanderer was return'd. — I saw him stand Before an altar — with a gentle bride ; Her face was fair, but was not that which made The starlight of his Boyhood. As he stood Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came The self-same aspect, and the quivering shock 150 That in the antique Oratory shook His bosom in its solitude ; and then — As in that hour — a moment o'er his face The tablet of unutterable thoughts Was traced, — and then it faded as it came. And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke The fitting vows, but heard not his own words. And all things reel'd around him ; he could see Not that which was, nor that which should have been — But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall, 160 And the remember'd chambers, and the place. 2l8 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, All things pertaining to that place and hour, And her who was his destiny, — came back And thrust themselves between him and the light; What business had they there at such a time ? VII. A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Lady of his love : — oh ! she was changed As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes, 170 They had not their own lustre, but the look Which is not of the earth ; she was become The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts Were combinations of disjointed things ; And forms impalpable and unperceived Of others' sight familiar were to hers. And this the world calls frenzy ; but the wise Have a far deeper madness, and the glance Of melancholy is a fearful gift ; What is it but the telescope of truth } 180 Which strips the distance of its fantasies. And brings life near in utter nakedness. Making the cold reality too real ! VIII. A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Wanderer was alone as heretofore, The beings which surrounded him were gone, Or were at war with him ; he was a mark For blight and desolation, compass'd round With Hatred and Contention ; Pain was mix'd In all which was served up to him, until, 190 Like to the Pontic monarch of old days. He fed on poisons, and they had no power, But were a kind of nutriment ; he lived THE DREAM 219 Through that which had been death to many men, And made him friends of mountains : with the stars And the quick Spirit of the Universe He held his dialogues ; and they did teach To him the magic of their mysteries ; To him the book of Night was open'd wide, And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd 2c» A marvel and a secret. — Be it so. IX. My dream was past : it had no further change. It was of a strange order, that the doom Of these two creatures should be thus traced out Almost like a reality — the one To end in madness — both in misery. DARKNESS I HAD a dream, 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 ; Morn 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 watchfires — and the thrones, The palaces of crowned kings — the huts. The habitations of all things which dwell, Were burnt for beacons ; cities were consumed, And men were gathered round their blazing homes To look once more into each other's face ; Happy were those who dwelt within tTie eye Of the volcanoes, and their mountain-torch : A fearful hope was all the world contained ; 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 DARKNESS 221 With mad disquietude on the dull sky, The pall of a past world ; and then again 30 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 40 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 50 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, 60 And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath Blew for a little life, and made a flame Which was a mockery ; then they lifted up 222 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld Each other's aspects — saw, and shriek'd, and died — Ev'n 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, 70 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 w^ere in their grave, The Moon, their mistress, had expired before ; The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, 80 And the clouds perish'd ; Darkness had no need Of aid from them — She was the Universe ! MAZEPPA: THE RIDE 1818 IX. " ' 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, 5 Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, With spur and bridle undefiled — 'Twas but a day he had been caught ; And snorting, with erected mane, And struggling fiercely, but in vain, 10 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— 15 Away ! — away ! — and on we dash ! — Torrents less rapid and less rash. X. " Away ! — away ! — my breath was gone — I saw not where he hurried on : 'Twas scarcely yet the break of day, And on he foam'd — away ! — away ! — The last of human sounds which rose, 5 223 224 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 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, lo 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, 15 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, 20 Its drawbridge and portcullis weight. Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left; Nor of its fields a blade of grass, Save what grows on a ridge of wall. Where stood the hearthstone of the hall ; 25 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, And the hot lead pour down like rain 30 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, 35 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, 4° They bound me to his foaming flank ; At length I play'd them one as frank — MAZEPPA: THE RIDE 225 For time at last sets all things even — And if we do but watch the hour, There never yet was human power 45 Which could evade, if unforgiven, The patient search and vigil long Of him who treasures up a wrong. XI. '* 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 5 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 lo On distant heights of some strong hold, Against the Tartars built of old, No trace of man. The year before A Turkish army had march'd o'er ; And where the Spahi's hoof hath trod, iS 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, — 20 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, Ke flew upon his far career ; 25 At times I almost thought, indeed. He must have slacken'd in his speed ; But no — my bound and slender frame 226 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON Was nothing to his angry might. And merely like a spur became : 30 Each motion which I made to free My swoll'n limbs from their agony Increased his fury and affright : I tried my voice — 'twas faint and low, But yet he swerved as from a blow ; 35 And, starting to each accent, sprang As from a sudden trumpet's clang; Meantime my cords were v/et with gore, Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er. And in my tongue the thirst became 40 A something fierier far than fiam.e. XII. " We near'd the wild wood— 'twas so wide, I saw no bounds on either side ; 'Twas studded with old sturdy trees, That bent not to the roughest breeze Which howls down from Siberia's waste, S 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 strewn by those autumnal eves 10 That nip the forest's foliage dead, Discolour'd with a lifeless red. Which stands thereon, like stiffen'd gore Upon the slain vv-hen battle's o'er, And some long winter's night hath shed 15 Its frosts o'er every tombless head, So cold and stark the raven's beak May peck unpierced each frozen cheek : 'Twas a wild waste of underwood, And here and there a chestnut stood, 20 The strong oak, and the hardy pine ; MAZEPPA: THE RIDE 22/ 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 25 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, 30 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 foUow'd on. Nor left us with the morning sun ; 35 Behind I saw them, scarce a rood, At daybreak 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, 40 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 ; 45 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 50 Whose threshold he shall cross no more, Bev/ilder'd with the dazzling blast, Than through the forest-paths he pass'd — Untired, untamed, and worse than wild ; All furious as a favoured child 55 Balk'd of its wish ; or fiercer still — A woman piqued— who has her will. 228 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON XIII. "The wood was pass'd ; 'twas 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. 5 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, The tortures which beset my path, lo 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 15 The rattlesnake'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 ; 20 But err'd, for I was fastly bound. My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore, And throbbM awhile, then beat no more : The skies spun like a mighty wheel ; I saw the trees like drunkards reel, 25 And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes. Which saw no further : he who dies Can die no more than then I died. O'ertortured by that ghastly ride, I felt the blackness come and go, 30 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, 35 MAZEPPA: THE RIDE 229 And hurl thee towards 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 ; 40 But soon it pass'd, with little pain ; 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 45 Feel far more ere we turn to dust : No matter ; I have bared my brow Full in Death's face — before — and now. XIV. " 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, 5 My blood reflow'd, though thick and chill ; My ear with uncouth noises rang, My heart began once more to thrill ; My sight return'd, though dim, alas ! And thicken'd, as it v/ere with glass. 10 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 25 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 30 My stiffen'd limbs were rebaptized. 230 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON My courser's broad breast proudly braves, And dashes off the ascending waves, And onward we advance ! We reach the slippery shore at length, 25 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, 30 I could not tell ; I scarcely knew If this were human breath I drew. XV. " 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 5 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, 10 Or scatter'd spot of dusky green. In masses broke into the light, As rose the moon upon my right : But naught distinctly seen In the dim w^aste would indicate 15 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 : 20 That very cheat had cheer'd me then ! Although detected, welcome still. Reminding me, through every ill, Of the abodes of men. MAZEPPA: THE RIDE 2^,1 XVI. " 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 5 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. lo 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, 15 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 ! 20 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, 25 And caird the radiance from their cars, And fill'd the earth, from his deep throne, With lonely lustre, all his own. XVII. " 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, - 232 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot. Lay in the wild hixuriant soil ; No sign of travel — none of toil ; The very air was mute ; And not an insect's shrill small horn, 10 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 : 15 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 20 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 .^ 25 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, 30 And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod, A thousand horse, the wild, the free, Like waves that follow o'er t'ne sea. Came thickly thundering on, As if our faint approach to meet ; 35 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, 40 And reeking limbs immovable, His first and last career is done ! MAZEPPA: THE RIDE 233 On came the troop — they saw him stoop, They saw me strangely bound along His back with many a bloody thong; 45 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, 50 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, 55 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, 60 From whence I could not extricate Nor him, nor me ; — and there we lay, The dying on the dead ! I little deem'd another day Would see my houseless, helpless head. 65 " 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, 70 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 ; 75 Yet shunn'd and dreaded with such care, As if it only were a snare That prudence might escape : 234 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON At times both wish'd for and implored, At times sought with self-pointed sword, 80 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 85 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, 90 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). With nought perhaps to grieve ; — 95 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, 100 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, 105 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 smite, to save — And must it dawn upon his grave ? no XVIII. " The sun was sinking — still I lay Chain'd to the chill and stiffening steed; I thought to mingle there our clay, MAZEPPA: THE RIDE 235 And my dim eyes of death had need, No hope arose of being freed : 5 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 ; 10 He flew, and perch'd, then fiew^ 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 ; 15 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. — 20 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 25 Sensation of recurring sense, And then subsiding back to death, And then again a little breath, A little thrill, a short suspense, An ic)'^ sickness curdling o'er 30 My heart, and sparks that cross'd my brain ; A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, A sigh, and nothing more. XIX. " 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 ? 236 SELECTIONS FROM BY RON Is this a chamber where I lie ? 5 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. 10 A slender girl, long-hair'd, and tall, Sate watching by the cottage wall ; The sparkle of her eye I caught, Even with my first return of thought ; For ever and anon she threw 15 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 20 From adding to the vulture's feast ; And when the Cossack maid beheld My heavy eyes at length unseal'd. She smil'd — and I essay 'd to speak. But fail'd — and she approach'd and made 25 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, 30 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 ; — • 35 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 40 Were near, at my command or call, MAZEPPA: THE RIDE 23/ And she would not delay Her due return, — while she was gone, Methought I felt too much alone. XX. " 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 — 5 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, lo 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 ! 15 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. 20 Comrades, good night ! " DON JUAN 1819 THE SHIPWRECK From Canto II. XXIV. The ship, call'd the most holy " Trinidada," Was steering duly for the port Leghorn ; For there the Spanish family Moncada Were settled long ere Juan's sire was born ; They were relations, and for them he had a Letter of introduction, which the morn Of his departure had been sent him by His Spanish friends for those in Italy. XXV. His suite consisted of three servants and A tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo, Who several languages did understand, But now lay sick and speechless on his pillow. And, rocking in his hammock, long'd for land, His headache being increased by every billow ; And the waves oozing through the porthole made His berth a little damp, and him afraid. XXVI. 'Twas not without some reason, for the wind Increased at night, until it blew a gale ; And though 'twas not much to a naval mind, Some landsmen would have look'd a little pale, 238 DON JUAN 239 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. XXVII. 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 : 'twas time to sound The pumps, and there were four feet water found. XXVIII. One gang of people instantly was put Upon the pumps, and the remainder set To get up part of the cargo, and what not ; But they could not come at the leak as yet. At last they did get at it really, but Still their salvation was an even bet ; The water rush'd through in a way quite puzzling, While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of muslin, XXIX. Into the opening; but all such ingredients Would have been vain, and they must have gone down^ Despite of all their efforts and expedients. But for the pumps : I'm glad to make them known To all the brother tars who may have need hence. For fifty tons of water were upthrown By them per hour, and they had all been undone, But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London. 240 SELECTIONS FROM BY RON XXX. As day advanced the weather seem'd to abate, And then the leak they reckon'd to reduce, And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet Kept two hand and one chain-pump still in use. The wind blew fresh again : as it grew late A squall came on, and while some guns broke loose, A gust — which all descriptive power transcends — Laid with one blast the ship on her beam-ends. XXXI. There she lay, motionless, and seem'd upset ; The water left the hold, and wash'd the decks, And made a scene men do not soon forget ; For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks, Or any other thing that brings regret, Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necks: Thus drownings are much talk'd of by the divers, And swimmers, who may chance to be survivors. XXXII. Immediately the masts were cut away. Both main and mizzen : first the mizzen went, The main-mast follow'd ; but the ship still lay Like a mere log and baflfled 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. XXXIII. It may be easily supposed, while this Was going on, some people were unquiet, That passengers would find it much amiss To lose their lives as well as spoil their diet ; DON JUAN 241 That even the able seaman, deeming his Days nearly o'er, might be disposed to riot, As upon such occasions tars will ask For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask. XXXIV. 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. XXXV. Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his years, Got to the spirit-room, and stood before It with a pair of pistols ; and their fears. As if Death were more dreadful by his door Of fire than water, spite of oaths and tears, Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk. Thought it would be becoming to die drunk. XXXVI. " Give us more grog ! " they cried, " for it will be All one an hour hence." Juan answer'd, " No ! 'Tis true that death awaits both you and me. But let us die like men, not sink below Like brutes "; — and thus his dangerous post kept he, And none liked to anticipate the blow ; And even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor, Was for some rum a disappointed suitor. ^4^ SELECTIONS FROM BYRON XXXVII. The good old gentleman was quite aghast, And made a loud and pious lamentation ; Repented all his sins, and made a last Irrevocable vow of reformation ; Nothing should tempt him more (this peril past) To quit his academic occupation, In cloisters of the classic Salamanca, To follow Juan's wake, like Sancho Panca. XXXVIII. But now there came a flash of hope once more ; Day broke, and the wind lull'd : the masts were gone, The leak increased ; shoals round her, but no shore, The vessel swam, yet still she held her own. They tried the pumps again, and though before Their desperate efforts seem'd all useless grown, A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to bale — i The stronger pump'd, the v.'^eaker thrumm'd a sail. i XXXIX. Under the vessel's keel the sail was past, And for the moment it had some effect ; But with a leak, and not a stick of mast, Nor rag of canvas, what could they expect } But still 'tis best to struggle to the last, 'Tis never too late to be wholly wreck'd : And though 'tis true that man can only die once, 'Tis not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons. XL. There winds and waves had hurl'd them, and from thence. Without their will, they carried them away : For they were forced with steering to dispense, And never had as yet a quiet day DON JUAN 243 On which they might repose, or even commence A jurymast or rudder, or could say The ship would swim an hour, which, by good luck. Still swam — though not exactly like a duck. XLI. The wind, in fact, perhaps was rather less, But the ship labour'd so, they scarce could hope To weather out much longer; the distress Was also great with which they had to cope For want of water, and their solid mess Was scant enough ; in vain the telescope Was used — nor sail nor shore appear'd in sight, Nought but the heavy sea and coming night. XLII. Again the weather threaten'd, — again blew A gale, and in the fore and after hold Water appear'd ; yet, though the people knew All this, the most were patient, and some bold. Until the chains and leathers were worn through Of all our pumps ; — a wreck complete she roll'd At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are Like human beings during civil war. XLIII. Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears In his rough eyes, and told the captain he Could do no more : he was a man in years. And long had voyaged through many a stormy sea And if he wept at length, they were not fears That made his eyelids as a woman's be. But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children. Two things for dying people quite bewild'ring. 244 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON XLIV. 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. XLV. Some lash'd them in their hammocks ; some put on Their best clothes, as if going to a fair ; Some cursed the day on which they saw the sun, And gnash'd their teeth, and, howling, tore their hair And others went on as they had begun, Getting the boats out, being well aware That a tight boat will live in a rough sea, Unless with breakers close beneath her lee. XLVI. The worst of all was, that in their condition, Having been several days in great distress, 'Twas difficult to get out such provision As now might render their long suffering less : Men, even when dying, dislike inanition ;• Their stock was damaged by the weather's stress ; Two casks of biscuit, and a keg of butter. Were all that could be thrown into the cutter. XLVII. But in the long-boat they contrived to stow Some pounds of bread, though injured by the wet ; Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so. Six flasks of wine ; and they contrived to get DON JUAN 245 A portion of their beef up from below, And with a piece of pork, moreover, met, But scarce enough to serve them for a luncheon — Then there was rum, eight gallons in a puncheon. XLVIII. The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had Been stove, in the beginning of the gale ; And the long-boat's condition was but bad. As there were but two blankets for a sail. And one oar for a mast, which a young lad Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail ; And two boats could not liold, far less be stored. To save one half the people then on board. XLIX. 'Twas 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. L. Some trial had been making at a raft. With little hope in such a rolling sea, A sort of thing at which one would have laugh'd, If any laughter at such times could be. Unless with people who too much have quaff'd. And have a kind of wild and horrid glee, Half epileptical and half hysterical : — Their preservation would have been a miracle. 246 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON LI. 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. LII. 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. LIII. And first one universal shriek there rush'd Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash Of echoing thunder ; and then all was hush'd, Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash Of billows ; but at intervals there gush'd, Accompanied with a convulsive splash, A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry Of some strong swimmer in his agony. LIV. The boats, as stated, had got ofif before, And in them crowded several of the crew ; And yet their present hope was hardly more Than what it had been ; for so strong it blew, DON JUAN 247 There was slight chance of reaching any shore ; And then they were too many, though so few — Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat. Were counted in them when they got afloat. LV. All the rest perish'd : near two hundred souls Had left their bodies ; and what's worse, alas ! When over Catholics the ocean rolls, They must wait several weeks before a mass Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals. Because, till people know what's come to pass, They won't lay out their money on the dead — It costs three francs for every mass that's said. LVI. 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. LVII. Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save. But the same cause, conducive to his loss, Left him so drunk, he jump'd into the wave, As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross. And so he found a wine-and-watery grave ; They could not rescue him, although so close, Because the sea ran higher every minute, And for the boat — the crew kept crowding in it. 248 • SELECTIONS FROM BYRON LVIII. A small old spaniel — which had been Don Jose's, His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think, For on such things the memory reposes With tenderness — stood howling on the brink, Knowing (dogs have such intellectual noses !) No doubt, the vessel was about to sink : And Juan caught him up, and, ere he stepp'd Off, threw him in, then after him he leap'd. LIX. He also stuff'd his money where he could About his person, and Pedrillo's too. Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would, Not knowing what himself to say or do. As every rising wave his dread renew'd ; But Juan, trusting they might still get through, And deeming there were remedies for any ill, Thus re-embark'd his tutor and his spaniel. LX. 'Twas a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet, That the sail was becalm'd between the seas, Though on the wave's high top too much to set. They dared not take it in for all the breeze : Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept them wet. And made theiu bale without a moment's ease, So that themselves as well as hopes were damp'd, And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd. LXI. Nine souls more went in her ; the long-boat still Kept above water, with an oar for mast ; Two blankets stitch'd together, answering ill Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast : DON JUAN 249 Though every wave roll'd menacing to fill, And present peril all before surpass'd, They grieved for those who perished with the cutter, And also for the biscuit-casks and butter. LXII. The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign Of the continuance of the gale : to run . Before the sea, until it should grow fine, Was all that for the present could be done : A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wine Were served out to the people, who begun To faint, and damaged bread v/et through the bags. And most of them had little clothes but rags. LXIII. They counted thirty, crowded in a space Which left scarce room for motion or exertion : They did their best to modif}^ their case. One half sate up, though numb'd with the immersion. While t'other half were laid down in their place. At watch and watch ; thus shivering like the tertian Ague in its cold fit, they fill'd their boat. With nothing but the sky for a great coat. LXIV. Tis very certain the desire of life Prolongs it ; this is obvious to physicians, When patients, neither plagued with friends nor wife. Survive through very desperate conditions. Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife Nor shears of Atropos before their visions : Despair of all recovery spoils longevity, And makes men's miseries of alarming brevity. 250 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON LXV. Tis said that persons living on annuities Are longer lived than others — God knows why, Unless to plague the grantors — yet so true it is. That some, I really think, do never die : Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is, And that's their mode of furnishing supply : In my young days they lent me cash that way. Which I found veiy troublesome to pay. LXVI. 'Tis thus with people in an open boat, They live upon the love of life, and bear More than can be believed, or even thought, And stand like rocks the tempest's wear and tear And hardship still has been the sailor's lot. Since Noah's ark went cruising here and there ; She had a curious crew as well as cargo. Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo. LXVII. But man is a carnivorous production, And must have meals, at least one meal a day; He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction. But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey : Although his anatomical construction Bears vegetables, in a grumbling way, Your labouring people think, beyond all question, Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion. LXVIII. And thus it was with this our hapless crew ; For on the third day there came on a calm. And though at first their strength it might renew. And, lying on their weariness like balm, DON JUAN 251 Lull'd them like turtles sleeping on the blue Of ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm, And fell all ravenously on their provision, Instead of hoarding it with due precision. LXIX. The consequence was easily foreseen — They ate up all they had, and drank their wine, In spite of all remonstrances, and then On what, in fact, next day were they to dine ? They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish men, And carry them to shore ; these hopes were fine, But as they had but one oar, and that brittle, It would have been more wise to save their victual. LXX. The fourth day came, but not a breath of air, And Ocean slumber'd like an unwean'd child ; The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there, The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and mild — With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair) What could they do ? and hunger's rage grew wild So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating. Was kill'd, and portion'd out for present eating. LXXI. On the sixth day they fed upon his hide, And Juan, who had still refused, because The creature was his father's dog that died. Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws, With some remorse received (though first denied), As a great favor, one of the fore-paws. Which he divided with Pedrillo, who Devour'd it, longing for the other too. 252 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON LXXII. The seventh day, and no wind — the burning sun BHster'd and scorch'd, and, stagnant on the sea, They lay like carcasses ; and hope was none. Save in the breeze that came not : savagely They glared upon each other — all was done. Water, and wine, and food — and you might see The longings of the cannibal arise (Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes. LXXIII. At length one whisper'd his companion, who Whisper'd another, and thus it went round, And then into a hoarser murmur grew. An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound: And when his comrade's thought each sufiferer knew, 'Twas but his own, suppress'd till now, he found : And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood, And who should die to be his fellows' food. LXXIV. But ere they came to this, they that day shared Some leathern caps, and what remain'd of shoes ; And then they look'd around them, and despair'd. And none to be the sacrifice would choose : At length the lots were torn up, and prepared, But of materials that much shock the Muse — Having no paper, for the want of better. They took by force from Juan, Julia's letter. LXXV. The lots were made, and mark'd, and mix'd, and handed In silent horror, and their distribution "^ull'd even the savage hunger which demanded. Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution ; DON JUAN 253 None in particular had sought or plann'd it, 'Twas nature gnaw'd them to this resolution, By which none were permitted to be neuter — And the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor. LXXVI. He but requested to be bled to death : The surgeon had his instruments, and bled Pedrillo, and so gently ebb'd his breath, You hardly could perceive when he was dead. He died, as born, a Catholic in faith, Like most, in the belief in which thej^'re bred ; And first a little crucifix he kiss'd, And then held out his jugular and wrist. ******* LXXVIII. The sailors ate him, all save three or four, Who were not quite so fond of animal food ; To these was added Juan, who, before Refusing his own spaniel, hardly could Feel now his appetite increase much more ; 'Twas not to be expected that he should. Even in extremity of their disaster. Dine with them on his pastor and his master. LXXIX. 'Twas better that he did not ; for in fact, The consequence was awful in the extreme ; For they who were most ravenous in the act. Went raging mad — Lord ! how they did blaspheme ! And foam, and roll, with strange convulsions rack'd, Drinking salt water like a mountain-stream; Tearing, and grinning, howling, screeching, swearing, And with hyaena-laughter, died despairing. 254 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON LXXX. Their numbers were much thinn'd by this infliction, And all the rest were thin enough, Heaven knows ; And some of them had lost their recollection, Happier than they who still perceived their woes ; But others ponder'd on a new dissection, As if not warn'd sufficiently by those Who had already perish'd, suffering madly, For having used their appetites so sadly. ******* LXXXIII. And if Pedrillo's fate should shocking be, Remember Ugolino condescends To eat the head of his arch enemy, The moment after he politely ends His tale : if foes be food in hell, at sea 'Tis surely fair to dine upon our friends, When shipwreck's short allowance grows too scanty. Without being much more horrible than Dante. LXXXIV. And the same night there fell a shower of rain. For which their mouths gaped, like the cracks of earth When dried to summer dust ; till taught by pain, Men really know not what good water's worth : If you had been in Turkey or in Spain, Or with a famish'd boat's crew had your berth, Or in the desert heard the camel's bell, You'd wish yourself where Truth is — in a well. LXXXV. It pour'd down torrents, but they were no richer, Until they found a ragged piece of sheet. Which served them as a sort of spongy pitcher. And when they deem'd its moisture was complete, DON JUAN- 255 They wrung it out, and though a thirsty ditcher Might not have thought the scanty draught so sweet As a full pot of porter, to their thinking They ne'er till now had known the joys of drinking. LXXXVI. And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack, Suck'd in the moisture which like nectar stream'd ; Their throats were ovens, their swoll'n tongues were black, As the rich man's in hell, who vainly scream'd To beg the beggar, who could not rain back A drop of dew, when every drop had seem'd To taste of heaven — if this be true, indeed, Some Christians have a comfortable creed. LXXXVII. There were two fathers in this ghastly crew. And with them their two sons, of whom the one Was more robust and hardy to the view, But he died early ; and when he was gone. His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw One glance on him, and said, " Heaven's will be done : I can do nothing " ; and he saw him thrown Into the deep, without a tear or groan. LXXXVIII. The other father had a weaklier child, Of a soft cheek and aspect delicate ; But the boy bore up long, and with a mild And patient spirit held aloof his fate : Little he said, and now and then he smiled As if to win a part from off the weight He saw increasing on his father's heart. With the deep deadly thought that they must part. 256 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON LXXXIX. And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed ; And when the wished-for shower at length was come, And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed, Brighten'd and for a moment seem'd to roam, He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain Into his dying child's mouth — but in vain. xc. The boy expired — the father held the clay. And look'd upon it long ; and when at last Death left no doubt, and the dead burthen lay Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past, He watch 'd it wistfully, until away 'Twas borne by the rude wave wherein 'twas cast ; Then he himself sunk down all dumb and shivering, And gave no sign of life, save his limbs quivering. xci. Now overhead a rainbow, bursting through The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the dark sea. Resting its bright base on the quivering blue. And all within its arch appear'd to be Clearer than that without, and its wide hue Wax'd broad and waving like a banner free, Then changed like to a bow that's bent, and then Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwreck'd men. XCI I. It changed, of course ; a heavenly chameleon, The airy child of vapour and the sun. Brought forth in purple, cradled in vermilion, Baptized in molten gold, and sv.'athed in dun, BON juAJsr 257 Glittering like crescents o'er a Turk's pavilion, And blending every colour into one, Just like a black eye in a recent scuffle (For sometimes we must box without the muffle). XCIII. Our shipwreck'd seamen thought it a good omen- It is as well to think so now and then : 'Twas an old custom of the Greek and Roman, And may become of great advantage when Folks are discouraged : and most surely no men Had greater need to nerve themselves again, Than these, and so this rainbow look'd like hope- Quite a celestial kaleidoscope. xciv. About this time a beautiful white bird, Web-footed, not unlike a dove in size And plumage (probably it might have err'd Upon its course), pass'd oft before their eyes, And tried to perch, although it saw and heard The men within the boat, and in this guise It came and went, and fiutter'd round them till Night fell — this seem'd a better omen still. xcv. But in this case I also must remark, 'Twas well this bird of promise did not perch, Because the tackle of our shatter'd bark Was not so safe for roosting as a church ; And had it been the dove from Noah's ark. Returning there from her successful search. Which in their way that moment chanced to fall, They would have eat her, olive-branch and all. 258 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON xcvi. With twilight it again came on to blow, But not with violence ; the stars shone out, The boat made way ; yet now they were so low They knew not where nor what they w^ere about : Some fancied they saw land, and some said " No ! " The frequent fog-banks gave them cause to doubt — Some swore that they heard breakers, others guns, And all mistook about the latter once. XCVII. As morning broke, the light wind died away, When he who had the watch sung out and swore, If 'twas 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 ba)^ Or thought they saw, and shaped their course for shore For shore it was, and gradually grew Distinct and high, and palpable to view. XCVIII. 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. xcix. The day before, fast sleeping on the w^ater, They found a turtle of the hawk's-bill kind, And by good fortune, gliding softly, caught her. Which yielded a day's life, and to their mind DON JUAN 259 Proved even still a more nutritious matter, Because it left encouragement behind : They thought that in such perils, more than chance Had sent them this for their deliverance. The land appear'd a high and rocky coast. And higher grew the mountains as they drew. Set by a current, toward it ; they were lost In various conjectures, for none knew To what part of the earth they had been tost. So changeable had been the winds that blew : Some thought it was Mount /Etna, some the highlands Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands. CI. 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. CII. Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat, had done Their work on them by turns, and thinn'd them to Such things, a mother had not known her son Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew : By night chill'd, by day scorch'd, thus one by one They perish'd, until wither'd to these few, But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter. In washing down Pedrillo with salt water, 26o SELECTIONS FROM BYRON cm. As they drew nigh the land, which now was seen Unequal in its aspect here and there, They felt the freshness of its growing green, That waved in forest tops, and smooth'd the air, And fell upon their glazed eyes like a screen From glistening waves, and skies so hot and bare- Lovely seem'd any object that should sweep Away the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep. CIV. The shore look'd wild, without a trace of 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. cv. 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 passed the Hellespont, As once (a feat on which ourselves we prided) Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did. CVI. 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 : DON JUAN 261 The greatest danger here was from a shark, That carried off his neighbor by the thigh ; As for the other two, they could not swim, So nobody arrived on shore but him. CVII. Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar, Which, providentially for him, was wash'd Just as his feeble arms could strike no more. And the hard wave o'erwhelm'd him as 'twas dash'd Within his grasp : he clung to it, and sore The waters beat while he thereto was lash'd ; At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, he RoH'd on the beach, half-senseless, from the sea. CVIII. 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. Cix. With slow and staggering effort he arose. But sunk again upon his bleeding knee And quivering hand : and then he look'd for those . Who long had been his mates upon the sea ; But none of them appear'd to share his woes, Save one, a corpse, from out the famish'd three. Who died two days before, and now had found An unknown barren beach for burial ground. 262 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON ex. And as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast, And down he sunk ; and as he sunk, the sand Swam round and round, and all his senses pass'd : He fell upon his side, and his stretch'd hand Droop'd dripping on the oar (their jury-mast) ; And, like a wither'd lily, on the land His slender frame and pallid aspect lay. As fair a thing as e'er was form'd of clay. CXI. 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 hea\y faintness pass'd away He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb, And tingling vein, seem'd throbbing back to life. For Death, though vanquish'd, still retired with strife. DON JUAN : THE ISLES OF GREECE From Canto III. LXXXV. Thus usually when he was ask'd to sing, He gave the different nations something national ; 'Twas all the same to him — " God, save the king," •Or " Qa tra," according to the fashion all : His muse made increment of anything. From the high lyric down to the low rational : If Pindar sang horse-races, what should hinder Himself from being as pliable as Pindar.^ LXXXVI. In France, for instance, he w^ould write a chanson ; In England, a six-canto quarto tale ; DON JUAN 263 In Spain, he'd make a ballad or romance on The last war — much the same in Portugal ; In Germany, the Pegasus he'd prance on Would be old Goethe's — (see what says De Stael) ; In Italy, he'd ape the " Trecentisti " ; In Greece he'd sing some sort of hymn like this t' ye : I. 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. 2. The Scian and the Teian muse. The hero's harp, the lover's lute. Have found tlie fame your shores refuse ; Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires' " Islands of the Blest." 3- 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. 4. 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 ? 264 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 5- 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 ! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine ? 6. 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame. Though link'd among a fetter'd race, To feel at least a patriot's shame. Even as I sing, suffuse my face : For what is left the poet here ? For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 7. Must we but weep o'er days more blest ? Must we 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 ! 8. 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 ! " 'Tis but the living who are dumb. 9- 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 ! DON JUAN 265 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 ? You have the letters Cadmus gave — Think ye he meant them for a slave ? II. 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 Poly crates — A tyrant : but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen. 12. The tyrant of the Chersonese Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; That tyrant v/as Miltiades ! Oh, that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind ! Such chains as his were sure to bind. 13- Fill high the bowl with Samian 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. 14. 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. 266 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON 15- Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! Our virgins dance beneath the shade — I see their glorious black eyes shine ; But, gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves. To think such breasts must suckle slaves. i6. 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 ! LXXXVII. Thus sung, or would, or could, or should have sung, The modern Greek, in tolerable verse; If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was young. Yet in these times he might have done much worse His strain display'd some feeling — right or wrong; And feeling, in a poet, is the source Of others' feeling : but they are such liars. And take all colours — like the hands of dyers. LXXXVIII. But words are things ; and a small drop of ink. Falling, like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think : 'Tis strange, the shortest letter which man uses Instead of speech, may form a lasting link Of ages ; to what straits old Time reduces Frail man, when paper — even a rag like this — Survives himself, his tomb, and all that's his ! DON JUAN 267 LXXXIX. And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank, His station, generation, even his nation, Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank In chronological commemoration, Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank, Or graven stone found in a barrack's station In digging the foundation of a closet, May turn his name up as a rare deposit. xc. And glory long has made the sages smile ; 'Tis something, nothing, words, illusion, wind — Depending more upon the historian's style, Than on the name a person leaves behind. Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to Hoyle : The present century was growing blind To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks. Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe. XCI. Milton's the prince of poets — so we say ; A little heavy, but no less divine: An independent being in his day — Learn'd, pious, temperate in love and wine : But his life falling into Johnson's way. We're told this great high priest of all the Nine Was whipt at college — a harsh sire — odd spouse, For the first Mrs. Milton left his house. XCII. All these are, certes, entertaining facts. Like Shakespeare's stealing deer, Lord Bacon's bribes; Like Titus' youth, and Caesar's earliest acts ; Like Burns (whom Doctor Currie well describes) ; 268 ' SELECTIONS FROM BYRON Like Cromwell's pranks ; — but although truth exacts These amiable descriptions from the scribes, As most essential to their hero's story, They do not much contribute to his glory. XCIII. All are not moralists, like Southey, when He prated to the world of " Pantisocracy " ; Or Wordsworth, unexcised, unhired, who then Season'd his pedlar poems with democracy: Or Coleridge, long before his flighty pen Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy ; When he and Southey, following the same path, Espoused two partners (milliners of Bath). xciv. Such names at present cut a convict figure. The very Botany Bay in moral geography ; Their loyal treason, renegado rigour. Are good manure for their more bare biography. Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is bigger Than any since the birthday of typography ; A drowsy, frowzy poem call'd The Exairston, Writ in a manner which is my aversion. xcv. He there builds up a formidable dyke Between his own and others' intellect ; But Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, like Johanna Southcote's Shiloh, and her sect, Are things which in this century don't strike The public mind — so few are the elect ; And the new births of both their stale virginities Have proved but dropsies, taken tor divinities. DON JUAN 269 xcvi. But let me to my story : I must own, If I have any fault, it is digression — Leaving my people to proceed alone, While I soliloquize beyond expression ; But these are my addresses from the throne, Which put off business to the ensuing session , Forgetting each omission is a loss to The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. XCVII. I know that what our neighbors called ''longueurs" (We've not so good a word, but have the thing. In that complete perfection which ensures An epic from Bob Southey every spring — ) Form not the true temptation which allures The reader ; but 'twould not be hard to bring Some fine examples of the epopee To prove its grand ingredient is e?i?iui. XCVIII. We learn from Horace, " Homer sometimes sleeps " ; We feel without him, Wordsworth sometimes wakes, To show with what complacency he creeps. With his dear " Waggoners," around his lakes. He wishes for " a boat " to sail the deeps — Of ocean ? — No, of air ; and then he makes Another outcry for "a little boat," And drivels seas to set it well afloat. xcix. If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal plain. And Pegasus runs restive in his " Waggon," Could he not beg the loan of Charles's Wain, Or pray Medea for a single dragon ? 270 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON Or if too classic for his vulgar brain, He fear'd his neck to venture such a nag on, And he must needs mount nearer to the moon, Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon ? ' Pedlars," and " Boats," and " Waggons ! " O, ye shades Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this ? That trash of such sort not alone evades Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss Floats scumlike uppermost ; and these Jack Cades Of sense and song, above your graves may hiss — The " little boatman " and his " Peter Bell " Can sneer at him who drew " Achitophel ! " CI. T' our tale. — The feast was over, the slaves gone, The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired ; The Arab lore and poet's song were done, And every sound of revelry expired ; The lady and her lover, left alone. The rosy flood of twilight sky admired ; — Ave Maria ! o'er the earth and sea, That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee ! Cil. Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour, The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft Have felt that moment in its fullest power Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft. While swung the deep bell in the distant tower, Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft. And not a breath crept through the rosy air, And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer. DON JUAN 2fl cm. Ave Maria I 'tis the hour of prayer ! Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of love ! Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! Ave Maria ! oh that face so fair ! Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty dove — What though 'tis but a pictured image ? — strike — That painting is no idol — 'tis too like. CIV. Some kinder casuists are pleased to say In nameless print — that I have no devotion ; But set those persons down with me to pray, And you shall see who has the properest notion Of getting into heaven the shortest way : My altars are the mountains and the ocean, Earth, air, stars — all that springs from the great Whole, Who hath produced, and will receive the soul. cv. Sweet hour of twilight ! — in the solitude Of the pine forest and the silent shore Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, Rooted where once the Adrian wave fiow'd o'er, To where the last Csesarean fortress stood, Evergreen forest ! which Boccaccio's lore And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, How have I loved the twilight hour and thee ! CVI. The shrill cicalas, people of the pine. Making their summer lives one ceaseless song. Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, And vesper bells that rose the boughs along : 272 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON The spectre huntsman of Onesti's Hne, His hell-dogs and their chase, and the fair throng, Which learn'd from this example not to fly From a true lover — shadow'd my mind's eye. CVII. O Hesperus ! thou bringest all good things — Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, To the young bird the parent's brooding wings. The welcome stall to the o'erlabour'd steer ; Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, Whate'er our household gods protect of dear, Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest ; Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast. CVIII. Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and melts the heart Of those who sail the seas, on the first day When they from their sweet friends are torn apart ; Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way As the far bell of vesper makes him start. Seeming to weep the dying day's decay ; Is this a fancy which our reason scorns ? Ah ! surely nothing dies but something mourns. Cix. When Nero perish'd by the justest doom Which ever the destroyer yet destroy'd. Amidst the roar of liberated Rome, Of nations freed, and the world overjoy 'd, Some hands unseen strew'd flowers upon his tomb ; Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void Of feeling for some kindness done, when power Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour. DON JUAN 273 ex. But I'm digressing; what on earth has Nero, Or any such like sovereign buffoons, To do with the transactions of my hero, More than such madmen's fellow-man — the moon's ? Sure my invention must be down at zero, And I grown one of man}'- " wooden spoons " Of verse (the name with which we Cantabs please To dub the last of honours in degrees). CXI. I feel this tediousness will never do — 'Tis being too epic, and I must cut down (In copying) this long canto into two : They'll never find it out, unless I own The fact, excepting some experienced few ; And then as an improvement 'twill be shown : I'll prove that such the opinion of the critic is, From Aristotle /<^^j/w. — See IIoujvLKrji. THE DEATH OF HAIDEE From Canto IV LVI. 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 : Beaut}" 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. 274 SELECTIONS FROM B YRON LVII. Her daughter, temper'd with a milder ray, Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and fair, Till slov/ly 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. LVIII, 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. LIX. 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. LX. 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 ; DON JUAN 275 Corruption came not, in eacii 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. LXI. The ruling passion, such as marble shows When exquisitel)^ chisell'd, still lay there, But fix'd as marble's unchanged aspect throws O'er the fair Venus, but forever fair ; O'er the Laocoon's all eternal throes, And ever-dying Gladiator's air, Their energy, like life, forms all their fame, Yet looks not life, for they are still the same. LXII. 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, for a while, the furies made a pause. LXIII. She look'd on many a face with vacant eye, On many a token, witliout 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. 276 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON LXIV. 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. LXV. 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 warp Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re-sent ; And he begun a long low island song Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong. LXVI. 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 fiash'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. LXVII. Short solace, vain relief ! — thought came too quick. And whirl'd her brain to madness ; she arose, As one who ne'er had dwelt am^ong the sick. And flew at all she met, as on her foes ; DON JUAN 277 But no one ever heard her speak or shriek, Although her paroxysm drew towards its close ; — Hers was a frenzy which disdain'd to rave, Even when they smote her, in the hope to save. LXVIII. 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 forever. LXIX. 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 ! LXX. She died, but not alone : she held within A second principle of life, which might Have dawn'd a fair and sinless child of sin ; But closed its little being without light, And went down to the grave unborn, wherein Blossom and bough lie wither'd with one blight: In vain the dews of heaven descend above The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of 1ov>l. 2yS SELECTIONS FROM BYRON' LXXI. 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 stay'd Long with her destiny ; but she sleeps well By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to dwell. LXXII. 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. LXXIII. But many a Greek maid in a loving song Sighs o'er her name ; and many an islander With her sire's story makes the night less long. Valour was his, and beauty dwelt with her : If she loved rashly, her life paid for wrong — A heavy price must all pay who thus err. In some shape; let none think to fly the danger. For soon or late Love is his own avenger. CAIN AND LUCIFER IN THE ABYSS OF SPACE (Act II., Scene I., of 'Cain,' 1821) Cain. I tread on air, and sink not ; yet I fear To sink. Lucifer. Have faith in me, and thou shalt be Borne on the air, of which I am the prince. Cain. Can I do so without impiety ? Lucifer. Believe — and sink not! doubt — and perish! thus Would run the edict of the other God, Who names me demon to his angels ; they Echo the sound to miserable things, Which, knowing nought beyond their shallow senses, Worship the word which strikes their ear, and deem 10 Evil or good what is proclaimed to them In their abasement. I will have none such : Worship or worship not, thou shalt behold The worlds beyond thy little world, nor be Amerced for doubts beyond thy little life. With torture of my dooming. There will come An hour, when, toss'd upon some water-drops, A man shall say to a man, " Believe in me, And walk the waters " ; and the man shall walk The billows and be safe. / will not say, 20 Believe in me, as a conditional creed To save thee ; but fly with me o'er the gulf Of space an equal flight, and I will show 279 28o SELECTIONS FROM BYRON What thou dar'st not deny— the history Of past, and present, and of future worlds. Cain. Oh, god, or demon, or whate'er thou art, Is yon our earth ? Lucifer. Dost thou not recognize The dust which formed your father ? Caitt. Can it be ? Yon small blue circle, swinging in far ether, With an inferior circlet near it still, 30 Which looks like that which lit our earthly night ? Is this our Paradise ? Where are its walls. And they who guard them ? Lucifer. Point me out the site Of Paradise. Cain. How should I ? As we move Like sunbeams onward, it grows small and smaller, And as it waxes little, and then less. Gathers a halo round it, like the light Which shone the roundest of the stars, when I Beheld them from the skirts of Paradise : Methinks they both, as we recede from them, 40 Appear to join the innumerable stars Which are around us ; and, as we move on, Increase their myriads. Lucifer. And if there should be Worlds greater than thine own, inhabited By greater things, and they themselves far more In number than the dust of thy dull earth, Though multiplied to animated atoms, All living, and all doom'd to death, and wretched. What wouldst thou think ? Caitt. I should be proud of thought Which knew such things. Lucifer. But if that high thought were 50 Link'd to a servile mass of matter, and Knowing such things, aspiring to such things, And science still beyond them, were chain'd down CAIN AND LUCIFER 28 1 To the most gross and petty paltry wants. All foul and fulsome, and the very best Of thine enjoyments a sweet degradation, A most enervating and filthy cheat To lure thee on to the renewal of Fresh souls and bodies, all foredoom'd to be As frail, and few so happy — Cai7i. Spirit! I 60 Know nought of death, save as a dreadful thing Of which I have heard my parents speak, as of A hideous heritage I owe to them No less than life ; a heritage not happy, If I may judge, till now. But, spirit ! if It be as thou hast said (and I within Feel the prophetic torture of its truth). Here let me die : for to give birth to those Who can but suffer many years, and die, Methinks is merely propagating death, 70 And multiplying murder. Lucifer. Thou canst not All die — there is what must survive. Cain. The Other Spake not of this unto my father, when He shut him forth from Paradise, with death Written upon his forehead. But at least Let what is mortal of me perish, that I may be in the rest as angels are. Lucifer. I am angelic : wouldst thou be as I am } Cain. I know not what thou art : I see thy power. And see thou show'st me things beyond 7ny power, 80 Beyond all power of my born faculties, Although inferior still to my desires And my conceptions. Lucifer. What are they w hich dwell So humbly in their pride, as to sojourn With worms in clay .'' Cciiti, And what art thou who dwellest 282 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON So haughtily in spirit, and canst range Nature and immortality — and yet Seem'st sorrowful ? Lucifer. I seem that which I am ; And therefore do I ask of thee, if thou Wouldst be immortal ? Cam. Thou hast said, I must be 9° Immortal in despite of me, I knew not This until lately — but since it must be, Let me, or happy or unhappy, learn To anticipate my immortality. Lucifer. Thou didst before I came upon thee. Cain. How? Lucifer. By suffering. Cain. And must torture be immortal } Lucifer. We and thy sons will try. But now, behold ! Is it not glorious ? Cain. Oh, thou beautiful And unimaginable ether! and Ye multiplying masses of increased loo And still increasing lights ! what are ye ? what Is this blue wilderness of interminable Air, where ye roll along, as I have seen The leaves along the limpid streams of Eden.^ Is your course measured for ye } Or do ye Sweep on in your unbounded revelry. Through an aerial universe of endless Expansion — at which my soul aches to think — Intoxicated with eternity } O God ! O Gods ! or whatsoe'er ye are ! i:^o How beautiful ye are ! how beautiful Your works, or accidents, or whatsoe'er They may be ! Let me die, as atoms die (If that they die), or know ye in your might And knowledge ! My thoughts are not in this hour Unworthy what I see, though my dust is. Spirit ! let me expire, or see them nearer. CAIiV AND LUCIFER 283 Lucifer. Art thou not nearer ? Look back to thine earth ! Cain. Wliere is it? I see nothing save a mass Of most innumerable lights. 120 Lucifer. Look there ! Cain. I cannot see it. Lucifer. Yet it sparkles still. Cain. That ! — yonder ! Lucifer. Yea. Cai7i. . And wilt thou tell me so ? Why, I have seen the fire-flies and fire-worms Sprinkle the dusky groves and the green banks In the dim twilight, brighter than yon world Which bears them. Lucifer. Thou hast seen both worms and worlds, Each bright and sparkling — what dost think of them ? Caifi. That they are beautiful in their own sphere. And that the night, which makes both beautiful. The little shining fire-fly in its flight, 130 And the immortal star in its great course, Must both be guided. Lucifer. But by whom or what ? Cain. Show me. Lucifer. Dar'st thou behold ? Cain. How know I what I dare behold ? As yet thou hast shown nought I dare not gaze on further. Lucifer. On, then, with me. Wouldst thou behold things mortal or immortal? Caijt. Why, what are things ? Lucifer. Both partly ; but what doth Sit next thy heart ? Cain, The things I see. Lucifer. But what Sate nearest it ? Caiji. The things I have not seen. Nor ever shall — the mysteries of death. 140 284 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON' Lucifer. What, if I show to thee things which have died, As I have shown thee much which cannot die ? Cain. Do so. Lucifer. Away, then, on our mighty wings. Cain. Oh, how we cleave the blue ! The stars fade from us ! The earth ! where is my earth } Let me look on it, For I was made of it. Lucifer. 'Tis now beyond thee. Less, in the universe, than thou in it ; Yet deem not that thou canst escape it : thou Shalt soon return to earth and all its dust : 'Tis part of thy eternity, and mine. 150 Cain. Where dost thou lead me ? Lucifer. To what was before thee . The phantasm of the world ; of which thy world Is but the wreck. Cain. What ! is it not then new } Lucifer. No more than life is ; and that was ere thou Or /were, or the things which seem to us Greater than either : many things will have No end ; and some, which would pretend to have Had no beginning, have had one as mean As thou ; and mightier things have been extinct 160 To make way for much meaner than we can Surmise ; for moments only and the space Have been and must be all u7icJi2ngeable. But changes make not death, except to clay : But thou art clay — and canst but comprehend That which was clay ; and such thou shalt behold. Cain. Clay, spirit ! what thou wilt, I can surv^ey. Lucifer. Away, then ! Caiji. But the lights fade from me fast. And some till now grew larger as we approach'd. And wore the look of worlds. 170 LMcifer. And such they are. CAIN AND LUCIFER 285 Caiti. And Edens in them ? Lucifer. It may be. Caifi. And men ? Lucifer. Yea, or things higher. C«/«. Ay ! and serpents too ? Lucifer. Wouldst thou have men without them } must no reptiles Breathe save the erect ones ? Cain. How the lights recede ! Where fly we ? Lucifer. To the world of phantoms, which Are beings past, and shadows still to come. Caiti. But it grows dark, and dark — the stars are gone ! Lucifer. And yet thou seest. Cain. 'Tis a fearful light ! No sun, no moon, no lights innumerable. The very blue of the empurpled night 180 Fades to a dreary twilight, yet I see Huge dusky masses : but unlike the worlds We were approaching, which, begirt with light, Seem'd full of life even when their atmosphere Of light gave way, and show'd them taking shapes Unequal, of deep valleys and vast mountains ; And some emitting sparks, and some displaying Enormous liquid plains, and some begirt With luminous belts, and floating moons, which took. Like them, the features of fair earth : — instead, 190 All here seems dark and dreadful. Lucifer. But distinct. Thou seekest to behold death and dead things ? Caiti. I seek it not : but as I know there are Such, and that my sire's sin makes him and me, And all that we inherit, liable To such, I would behold at once, what I Must one day see perforce. Lucifer. Behold. Cai7i. 'Tis darkness. 286 SELECTIONS FROM BYROiY Lucifer. And so it shall be ever ; but we will Unfold its gates ! Cain. Enormous vapours roil Apart — what's this ? Lucifer. Enter ! 200 Cain. Can I return ? Lucifer. Return ! be sure : how else should death be peopled ? Its present realm is thin to what it v,^ill be, Through thee and thine. Caitt. The clouds still open wide And wider, and make widening circles round us. Lucifer. Advance ! Cain. And thou ! Lucifer. Fear not — without me thou Couldst not have gone beyond thy world. On ! on ! \They disappear through the clouds. LYRICS WHEN WE TWO PARTED When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss ; Truly that hour foretold 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. 287 288 SELECTIONS FROM BYRON In secret we met — In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, 30 How should I greet thee ?^ — With silence and tears. MAID OF ATHENS ZoJt; fxov, crd'i dyaTK^. 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, Zgot] /loVf aas (pv^ios, Zeus who favors flight, or Zeus the rescuer. Byron's " Phyxian Jove." 366 NOTES and remote, as befits the character of the beings introduced. — The scene as a whole is merely a prelude to the following scene. Byron's treatment of the Three Fates or Destinies (Parcse or Moerse) in this scene is somewhat free. In general they resemble the classical Parcae, but the ancients did not, as a rule, represent them as so crudely maleficent. The association with Arimanes (a Persian deity) was perhaps suggested by the fact that the ancients sometimes represented them as ministersgof the King of Hades and sitting at the foot of his throne. 190 : 4. the savage sea refers to the metaphor repeated in the next line ("The glassy ocean "). A verb of motion has to be supplied. 190 : 8. Cf. Byron's Swiss Journal : " Arrived at the Grinden- wald ; mounted again, and rode to the higher glacier — like a frozen hurricane." 190 : 14. for to-night Is our great festival. The idea was, perhaps, suggested by the Walpurgisnacht in 'Faust.' 190 : 14. Arimdnes (or Ahriman, more exactly Angra Mainyu) appears in the next scene. The name signifies Hostile or Destroy- ing Spirit, — "The Enemy." He is the Evil Spirit and Prince of Darkness of the * Zend-Avesta ' and Persian mythology. All other evil spirits are subject to him, — and thus Byron represents them. He resides in Hell, surrounded by an army of demons whom he has created. He poisons all the elements of the created world, and brings into being hunger, thirst, and evils of every kind. Byron has magnificently developed this conception of the Evil Power in the opening speech of the next scene. 190 : 15 ff. A Voice without. That of one of the other Desti- nies who enter later. War, shipwreck, and plague, are chosen as the three types of evil wrought by the Destinies. Lines 16-25 perhaps were written with Napoleon in mind. So too Gray's ' The Fatal Sisters ' foretell war and carnage. Cf. in ' Macbeth ' the witches' recital of the evil they have just been accomplish- ing. 190 : 16 ff. For the rhythm, cf. Act I, sc. i, 76-87. What is the difference, rhythmically, between the two passages ? Cf. the song of the spirits in I ' Faust,' 1093 ff. Note the curious rhyme- scheme (three stanzas, a b a c b c). 191 : 26 ff. Shipwrecks were a favorite subject of Byron's MOTES 367 imagination. Cf. above (pp. 258 ff.) the account of the shipwreck from ' Don Juan. ' 192:62-71. Is the satire in keeping with the conventional idea of Nemesis and the Destinies ? Is it in keeping with the tone of this scene and of the drama as a whole ? The allusions are to the fall of Napoleon, the restoration of the Bourbons, and other events of the period. ACT II, SCENE IV This scene, although entirely thaumaturgic, ultra-romantic, and built up of the machinery of the supernatural, is extremely impres- sive and constitutes a sort of climax in the progress of the drama as a whole. Manfred's character is here brought out in its fulness, and his final mastery over the spirits is foreshadowed. For Arimanes cf. note to Act II, sc. iii, 14, above. With the scene as a whole compare the description of the Hall of Eblis, in Beckford's 'Vathek' (near the end), a book which Byron had read and admired, and to which his imagination was doubtless indebted in this scene. 192 : 7-16. The music and magnificence of this hymn can be fully appreciated only when one reads it aloud. The crash and crescendo of the concluding lines perhaps excel anything that Byron, that master of climax, has elsewhere done. 194 : 35. What does it here refer to? 194 : 41-42. What gives these lines their peculiarly poetical effect ? What rhetorical figure is used ? 195 : 77- Powers deeper still beyond. Cf. the conception of Demogorgon in Shelley's ' Prometheus Unbound ' II, iv; similarly, too, in Greek mythology. So the ancients regarded Zeus himself as subject to Fate or Necessity. Cf. Keats' 'Hyperion.' 195 : 83. Astarte. The name originally of the Syrian Aphrodite, associated by Milton also (' Par. Lost' I, 438) v/ith the brood of Hell. Byron's Astarte, however, is apparently not the goddess, although she is "one without a tomb" (cf., however, 1. 107 : ''The grave which enthrall'd thee "); she is the mysterious being, woman, mistress, blood-relative, frieiifl, of Manfred's years fore- past, whose prototype is found in the Cleonice of the story of » Pausanias and Cleonice,' above (II, ii, 182 ff".). The name Astarte 368 NOTES is probably given her to suggest the present association and to add another element of mystery to her nature. For further references to this mysterious portion of the story, cf. I, i, 24, 87-91; II, i, 21-30, 84-87; II, ii, 59, 104-121, 192- 197; II, iv, 83, 97-155; III. iii. 41-47- 196 : 98. The Phantom of Astarte. For the possible symbolism underlying this apparition, cf. ' Childe Harold ' IV, cxxiv, 3-4 : " Though to the last, in verge of our decay, Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first." 196 : 100. Cf. Shelley's ' Ode to the West Wind ' (1819) : " thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red." 197 • 154- ^'^y^ thou lovest me. Phan. Alanfred ! With this enigmatical answer Astarte vanishes. With what tones are we to imagine that she pronounces the name Manfred ? Is it a cry of love and atonement ? Is the germ here of the conclusion of the second part of Goethe's ' Faust,' " Das Ewig-Weibliche Zieht uns hinan," and as Margaret's love for Faust reaches beyond the grave, so here does Astarte's for Manfred ? 198 : 160. he mastereth himself^ and makes His toriure tribu- tary to his will. In these words is summed up the secret of Byron's nature, his chief differentia. His will would not be broken. Not strength of will and self-mastery, but indomitable persistency of will, was his, confronting all Will from without with Titanic resistance; all tortures of the spirit, to the death that ended all, being made tributary to his will. Nothing of the spirit of reconciling submission, Dante's " La sua volontade e nostra pace," or Cardinal Newman's " I loved to choose and see my path, but now, Lead Thou m^on," but the inflexible assertion of the individual might and spiritual independence of the human soul. NOTES 369 ACT III, SCENE I The third act as originally written was bad and a failure, as Byron admitted after reflection and when he had been informed of Giffbrd's private censure passed upon it. Byron composed rapidly, and laborious correction and polish were things that he brought himself to with difficulty. All the more remarkable, therefore, is this the revised version, which he produced within a month after the abandonment of the first version. In the first version (printed in its entirety in Moore's 'Life of Byron,' fol- lowing the letter to Murray of May 5, 18 1 7) there are only two scenes. As far as line 56 the two versions are identical; while the whole of the present scene ii, including Manfred's impassioned invocation to the sun, formed the conclusion of the original scene i. In between, however, in place of the present text, wherein the Abbot labors in vain to convert Manfred from the error of his thoughts, but finally departs in peace, stood a passage of some sixty lines in which the Abbot is represented as threatening Manfred with dire punishments unless he reconciles himself at once to the Church; hereupon Manfred, somewhat after the man- ner of Faustus in Marlowe's drama, plays " pranks fantastical " with the Abbot, summoning the Demon Ashtaroth, who appears singing a grotesque and uncanny demon-chant of a raven, a gib- bet, and the witches' carnival (a lyric which the poet Thomas Lovell Beddoes perhaps has imitated iw Wolfram's Song in 'Death's Jest- Book,' act v, sc. iv), and who at Manfred's bid- ding conveys the Abbot through the air to the peak of the Schreckhorn, there to do penance till sunrise. For the serious purposes of the drama this is, as Byron soon saw, out of keeping and mere "nonsense." How much more dignified and adequate is the present version ! The second scene of the discarded version coincided with the present third scene as far as line 47. But at this point, instead of* the entrance of the Abbot, Herman and Manuel suddenly break off (the mystery of Astarte remains un- revealed in both versions) on discovering that Manfred's tower is on fire. Manfred, mortally injured, is rescued from the ruins and expires, " With strange accompaniments and fearful signs," 370 NOTES uttering, addressed to Manuel, the dying words here addressed to the Abbot : " Old man ! 'tis not so difficult to die." The drama closes with three lines given to Herman and Manuel : '■'• Her. His eyes are fixed and lifeless. — He is gone. Manuel. Close them. — My old hand quivers. — He departs — Whither ? I dread to think — but he is gone ! " In the re-written act the poet has given us a poetical instead of a melodramatic ending, including the famous passage on the Coliseum, and a fitting farewell to all that is mortal of Manfi-ed. 198 : 5. The reference to the key and casket seems to have been retained from the original version by inadvertence. Here they are not again referred to ; there they were used by Manfred in calling up the Demon Ashtaroth. ipQ : 13. The golden secret^ the sought '•'■ Kolon.'' rb Ka\6v, beauty, moral beauty ; or more commonly in the compounded form KoXoKa-yadbv, the beautiful and good, in the Academic phil- osophy, the ideal of man. 199 '• 17-18- A reminiscence of Hamlet, who, after the schol- ar's habit, and with similar inconsequentiality, calls for " My tables, — meet it is I set it down, That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain." 199 : 19. The abbot of St. Maurice. At St. Maurice, in the Rhone valley, some few miles above the point where the river empties into Lake Leman and some fifty miles from the region where most of the action of this drama is imagined to take place, there is a very ancient and at one time important abbey, now inhabited by Augustinian monks. 200 : 63. Cf. 'Romans' xii, 19: "Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord." 200 : 70-71. The sense is, " Remorse, not founded on the fear of hell, in itself produces deep despair," etc. Cf. Sackville's 'Induction to the Mirror for Magistrates,' st. 32 : " And first, within the porch and jaws of Hell Sat deep Remorse of Conscience." NOTES 371 Compare and contrast the treatment of the theme of despair in Marlowe's ' Faustus,' especially scenes xiv and xvi. 201 : 88-96. The story of the death of Nero, sixth emperor, A.D. 54-68, is told in Suetonius, 'Life of Nero' xlix. 201 : loi. despair above, i.e., despair of being pardoned above, in Heaven. ACT III, SCENE II This passage formed the conclusion of the original first scene. Of it Byron said: "The speech of Manfred to the Sun is the only part of this act [in its first form] I thought good myself." Cf. the equally magnificent Hymn to the Sun in Tennyson's 'Akbar's Dream.' Cf. also Ossian's Address to the Sun (at end of 'Carthon '). 204: 4-8. The fate of these ''giant sons" and "erring spirits" forms the subject of Byron's dramatic poem 'Heaven and Earth,' 1821. Cf. 'Genesis' vi, 2, 4. Cf. also, Moore's poem ' The Loves of the Angels,' 1823. 204 : 13. the Chaldean shepherds. The Chaldeans were fire- worshippers. ACT III, SCENE III What is the poetic intention of this scene and its function in the structure of the drama ? Why the references to the mj^sterious chamber, the vigils in the tower, Manfred's father and the good old times, his wanderings, and the fatal night where Manfred and the still-undescribed Astarte were alone together in the tower ? In what way does this scene serve as preparation for and contrast to the final scene that follows ? 206 : 37. The (Grosse) Eiger stands a few miles north from the Jungfrau in the region of the Bernese Oberland. Manfred's castle is thus imagined in this region in sight of the Eiger, — but not necessarily to the east of it, as the sunset rays frequently color the clouds in the east as well as the west. 206 : 46-47. For the missing word are we to supply sister ? And is the love described that of brother and sister ? Does that agree with previous references to Astarte ? Or is the word perhaps cousin ? The poet obviously intended the mystery to pique our curiosity, but still to remain unsolved. 372 NOTES ACT III, SCENE IV The structure of this scene deserves study. The calm and solemn opening with its reminiscences of earthly beauty and glory in Manfred's soliloquy, then the intervention of the Abbot, the representative of conventional opinion and the conventional power of good, as opposed to the conventional and limited powers of evil who next appear, — all by subtle gradations prepare our mood for the climax of Manfred's fate that follows, and all serve to set in bold relief the dominant figure of the hero. Byron's once notorious and agitating "scepticism" is to be traced in the implications of this scene more than elsewhere in the poem. It properly gives the "moral " of the piece. Manfred is not converted and saved at the last moment by the power of the Church, nor is he carried off despairing by the powers of evil, as is the hero in Marlowe's ' Faustus ' and in the popular versions of the Faust legend generally. Moreover Goethe's optimistic re- solution of the situation in the ending of the second part of ' Faust' was not then in existence to afford the hint of still a third outcome to Byron. And so, with the stern naturalism which was the result of the absolute integrity and intellectual sincerity of Byron's poetic genius when confronted with the fundamental and eternal problems of life, Manfred is neither saved by the Church, nor damned by the Devil, nor rapt up to Heaven by the intercession of the atoning power of the Ever-Feminine, but simply dies, an immortal soul, destined to the immortality of its own heaven or hell, — of its own heaven and hell. " The mind which is immortal makes itself Requital for its good or evil thoughts — Is its own origin of ill and end — And its own place and time." This is Byron's doctrine — his poetic doctrine — of future punish- ment and future life. A complete statement in four lines of the relativity of all existence except that of the individual soul ! As for this life and the ending of it, — " Old man ! 'tis not so difficult to die." NOTES 373 207 : 3-7. For Byron's feeling for night cf. ' Childe Harold ' III, Ixxxvi ff. Cf. also his lyric "She walks in Beauty, like the night" (above, p. 296). 207 : 10 ff. With this famous poetical description of the Colos- seum compare that in ' Childe Harold ' IV, sts. cxxviii-cxxxi. By producing what poetical and dramatic effect is the presence of so long and elaborate a set piece of description in this crucial scene justified ? 207 : 16, 22. the Ccssar's palace. On the Palatine Hill. Cf. ' Childe Harold ' IV, cvi-cx, — where also the incident of the owl's cry on the Palatine is mentioned. What other striking points of likeness and of difference are there in the two descriptions ? 209 : 62-65. ^f- ^^ Shelley's 'Prometheus Unbound' II, iv, 2-7, Panthea's description of Demogorgon; " I see a mighty darkness Filling the seat of power, and rays of gloom Dart round, as light upon the meridian sun, Ungazed upon and shapeless ; neither limb. Nor form, nor outline; yet we feel it is A living Spirit." Which passage better conveys the impression of awe and mys- tery and spiritual majesty, and why ? 209 : 77- on his brow The thiitider-scars are graven. Cf. ' Para- dise Lost ' I, 600 (the description of Satan) : ' ' but his face Deep scars of thunder had intrenched." 209 : 81. The genius of this mortal. Hence the same spirit who had appeared in I, i, 1 10 ff. 210 : 97. this man is forfeited. The Faust-motive. But note Manfred's answer to this claim, below, line 124. 211 : 117. Cf. Byron's 'Heaven and Earth' passim. 211 : 131. Is its oivn origin of ill and end — i.e. 'and end of ill.' 211:132. And its own place and time. Possibly a reminiscence of the Kantian doctrine that space and time are but forms of thought. Cf. 'Cain '.II, i, 161. 374 NOTES 211 : 135. Sufferance. Here used in the sense of suffering, misery ; as in Shakspere, ' Lear ' III, vi : " But then the mind much sufferance doth o'erskip, When grief hath mates." 211 : 139- '^''^d, will be My own hereafter^ i.e. 'will be my own future-life, my own heaven or hell.' 211 : 141. The Dejnons disappear. The key to the whole action. As explained above, the baffling of the spirits of evil, — and by no device or trickery other than the assertion of the indomitable and immortal human will — is the significant variation which Byron introduces into the treatment of the Faust-motive. Cf. the concluding lines of Byron's 'Prometheus': " Triumphant where it [the will] dares defy, And making Death a victory." 212 : 151. In the first edition this line was accidentally omitted ; whereupon Byron wrote to Murray : ' ' You have destroyed the whole effect and moral of the poem, by omitting the last line of Manfred's speaking." The ending of the poem is quiet, dignified, and full of intense Byronic sincerity of utterance. These notes upon ' Manfred ' may be concluded with a quota- tion from an old-fashioned and forgotten contemporary criticism of the character of Manfred. " The creation of such a character," writes Gait in his 'Life of Byron,' 1830, p. 328, "is in the sub- limest degree of originality ; to give it appropriate thoughts and feelings required powers worthy of the conception ; and to make it susceptible of being contemplated as within the scope and range of human sympathy, places Byron above all his contem- poraries and antecedents. ^ Milton has described in Satan the greatest of human passions, supernatural attributes, directed to immortal intents, and stung with inextinguishable revenge ; but Satan is only a dilatation of man. Manfred is loftier, and worse, than Satan; he has conquered punishment, having within himself a greater than hell can inflict. There is a fearful mystery in this conception." -• NOTES 375 THE DREAM Written at Diodati, near Geneva, July, l8l6. Published with the * Prisoner of Chillon ' in December of the same year. This poem is essentially personal and autobiographical. The machinery of the dream is but a poetical convention. The real theme is the story of the great formative emotional experience of the poet's youth, his unrequited love for Mary Chaworth. The experience was like an evil dream, and so is naturally recalled as though it were a dream (''Is not the past all shadow?"). The introductory paragraph sets forth this conception of the nature of human experience. The rest of the poem is a straightforward relation, from memory heightened by imagination, of his boy- hood love and disappointment, and of the effect of this disappoint- ment on his character and life, leading to the first Childe Harold pilgrimage, to his own marriage to one not the object of his early love, and to the "blight and desolation" that followed this in- auspicious union. The poem is autobiographical, however, only in its main outlines. In its details truth and fiction are strangely mingled. The scenery and places are described with fidelity. But while some points in the love-story agree with the facts, others are altered for poetical effect. Thus line 104 ("And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more") forms a better climax for this passage than the real fact: for in 1808, after Miss Chaworth's marriage, Byron dined at Annesley on her husband's invitation. The striking incident of the poet's curious state of mind at his own wedding ceremony, related in section vi of the poem, may or may not be largely a piece of poetic invention. It accords well enough with Byron's temperament. And Moore, apparently on the authority of unpublished Memoranda by Byron, testifies that it agrees closely with Byron's own prose account of his wed- ding ; "in which he describes himself as waking, on the morn- ing of his marriage, with the most melancholy reflections, on seeing his wedding suit spread out before him. In the same mood he wandered about the grounds alone, till he was summoned for the ceremony, and joined, for the first time on that day, his bride and her family. He knelt down — he repeated the words after the clergyman ; but a mist was before his eyes — his thoughts 37^ NOTES were elsewhere ; and he was but awakened by the congratulations of the bystanders to find that he was — married." Jeaffreson (' The Real Lord Byron.' 176 ff., 379), however, argues strenuously that there is little of autobiographic value in the poem, especially in the passage relating to the poet's own marriage. Mrs. Chaworth-Musters was in fact unhappy in her married life, and after a separation from her husband became for a time mentally deranged (section vii). She however did not "end in madness " (1. 206). but was soon cured of her ailment. The prose of the whole story is given in the following passage from a letter of Byron's written in July, 1823 (originally in Italian) : " It is singular enough, that when very young, I formed a strong attachment for the grand-niece and heiress of Mr. Chaworth [whom Byron's grand-uncle had killed in a duel], who stood in the same de- gree of relationship as myself to Lord Byron [the grand-uncle afore- said] ; and at one time it was thought that the two families would have been united in us. She was two years older than I was, and we were very much together in our youth. She married a man of an old and honourable family; but her marriage was not a happier one than my own. Her conduct, however, was irreproachable, but there was no sympathy between their characters, and a separation took place. I have not seen her for many years. When an occasion offered, I was upon the point, with her consent, of paying her a visit, when my sister, who has always had more influence over me than anyone else, per- suaded me not to do it. ' For,' said she, ' if you go, you will fall in love again, and then there will be a scene ; one step will lead to another, et cela/era uji eclat, etc' I was guided by these reasons,* and shortly after I married ; with what result it is useless to say. Mrs. C, some time after, being separated from her husband, became insane; but she ♦ Cf. the verse (" Well ! thou art happy" ) addressed to Mrs. Cha- worth in 1808, on the occasion of his last visit : " I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride Had quench'd at length my boyish flame ; Nor knew, till seated by thy side, My heart in all, — save hope, — the same. * * * * Away ! away ! my early dream Remembrance never must awake : Oh ! where is Lethe's fabled stream ? My foolish heart be still, or break." NOTES 377 has since recovered her reason, and is, I believe, reconciled to her husband." It was while living at Nottingham in 1803 (he was then hardly fifteen) that his attachment to Miss Chaworth, whose family re- sided at Annesley, near Nottingham and New stead, began. Their intimacy lasted for but six weeks. In the following year he bade her the **last" farewell from the hill near Annesley, as described in the poem. In 1805 she was married to Mr. John Musters. Her death occurred in 1832. In rhetorical strvicture the matter of the poem is skilfully dis- posed. Like some modern spectacular plays the poem presents a series of scenes or episodes without much connecting material. But that is not inappropriate for a " Dream." The metrical form is blank verse, a form which Byron generally handles with only moderate success. Here it seems but indifferently adapted to the lyrical impulse of the poem, especially as the verse is rather epical or dramatic in form and abounds in "run-on" lines; although its plainness suggests, appropriately enough, sombre- ness and the monotony of a heavy dream. This effect is enforced by the absence of ornament and the restrained harmony of the diction. Devices of repetition, as in the formulas for opening each section (-'A change came over the spirit of my dream"), or in the lines " And both were youn<^, and one was beautiful ; And both were young, yet not aUke in youth," help out the lyrical effect. 213 : 12. Cf. 'Childe Harold' 11, ii : " Gone, glimmering through the dream of things that were." 213 : 18. Cf. ' Parisina' III, 82 : " The past is nothing — and at last The future can but be the past." 213 : 19-22. Cf. -Childe Harold' IV, v (p. 93, above). 213 : 25. Capable of years. An elliptical phrase partly ex- plained in the next line. 214 : 28 ff. The scene described is after Nature — the hill (1. 35) near Annesley, as now, except that the "peculiar diadem of trees " has been cut down. 378 NOTES 214 : 44-45- What is the full import of this simile ? — how many- qualities of "■ the maid " are implied in it? 215 ; 84. This description of his emotions, however heightened poetically, helps us to understand one point at least in Byron's peculiar temperament. Compare ' Don Juan ' VI, cvi ; *' It was but a convulsion, which, though short, Can never be described ; we all have heard. And some of us have felt thus ' all amort, ^ When things beyond the common have occurred." 216 : 105 fif. Cf. 'Childe Harold' I, vi. 216 : 114-125. "This is true 'keeping,' — an Eastern picture perfect in its foreground and distance and sky, and no part of which is so dwelt upon or laboured as to obscure the principal figure" (Sir Walter Scott). Prof. Kolbing thinks that the scene can be identified with the ruins of Corinth. Cf. Byron's poem 'The Siege of Corinth,' esp. sect, xviii. 218: 179. -/l/d'A^wr/zf/j', the malady which has afflicted the lady's lover, the narrator, as contrasted with the ' phrenzy ' of the lady herself. The one robs things of their illusion and glamour ; the other at least leaves one monarch 'of a fantastic realm.' 218 : 185 ff. A picture of the poet's situation in the evil days after the death of his mother and so many of his earlier friends, and especially after the separation from his wife and the quarrel with her family ("beings which . . . were at war with him "). The untempered ill-will of the public after this event is doubtless also glanced at. 218 : 191. Mithridates of Pontus, who is said to have circum- vented the plots of his enemies to poison him by so inuring his system by degrees -to the use of poisons that they came to have no effect upon him when taken. 219 : 195. Cf. 'Childe Harold' III, xiii (p. 55 above) ; also IV. clxxvii-viii (p. 151). 219 : 199. Cf. 'Manfred' II, ii, 70, and III, iv, 3 (above, pp 186, 207). 219 : 200-20I recall again 'Manfred' II, ii, 60-74 (p. 186). NOTES 379 DARKNESS. Written in Switzerland in July, 1816, Published with 'The Prisoner of Chillon ' in the same year. Similar visions of the end of things were written in numbers both before and after Byron's poem. Many of these Prof. Kolbiiig describes in his edition of ' The Prisoner of Chillon and Other Poems.* Such were; (i) 'The Last Man,' Lond. 1806, where the picture drawn has many points of resemblance with Byron's. Byron's immedi- ate suggestion, however, may have been found in the Old Testa- ment. Cf. 'Jeremiah,' IV, 23, 24, 25. " I beheld the earth, and lo ! it was without form and void ; and the heavens, and they had no light. ... I beheld, and lo ! there was no man, and all the birds of the heavens were fled. I beheld, and lo ! the fruitful place was a wilderness, and all the cities thereof were broken down. ..." ' Ezekiel ' xxxii, 7,8: "I will cover the heaven and make the stars thereof dark ; I will cover the sun with a cloud, and the moon shall not give her light. All the bright lights of heaven I will make dark over thee, and set darkness upon thy land, saith the Lord God." Cf. also 'Joel' II, 30-31; 'Revelation,' VI, etc. (2) Camp- bell's poem 'The Last Man' ("All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom," etc.) appeared in 1823. It bears a certain resemblance to Byron's poem, but doubtless, as Campbell claims, was written independently. (3) In the 'Poetical Miscellanies of Harlequin Proteus ' appeared a poem entitled ' The World's End ' ; and (4) in 'The European Magazine,' 18:6, one on 'The Death of the World,' both modelled on Byron. Better known is (5) Mrs. Shel- ley's romance 'The Last Man,' 1816. (6) Thomas Hood's 'Last Man,' 1826, a burlesque poem on the same theme. For other treatments of the same subject the reader is referred to Prof. Kolbing's edition, 213, 222, 224, 234 ft". The poem in the original MS. was first entitled 'A Dream.' So far as relates to the structure of tlie poem, three stages are apparent in the description: (i) the condition of things just before the enc (11. 1-54); (2) the end of the two last men (11. 55-69), and (3) the state of the world when life has finally disappeared (U. 69-82). 380 JVOTES 221 ; 50. Till hunger clung thenu Cf. 'Macbeth' V, v, 40: " Till famine cling thee," i.e., " Till famine shrivel thee up.' 222 : 73 ff. Byron here may have taken the description of the calm (11. no fif.) in the ' Ancient Mariner ' as a model. MAZEPPA. Written mainly in the latter part of 1818. Not published till 1819. The first eight sections give the setting of the poem, which is based on historical events. After the battle of Pultowa in 1709, in which Peter the Great defeated the Swedish forces under Charles XII, the latter, accompanied, among others, by his ally, the Cossack chieftain Mazeppa, fled to take refuge among fhe Turks. In the course of their flight they snatch a night's repose in the depth of the forest. Charles praises Mazeppa 's endurance and horsemanship. " Mazeppa answer'd — ' I'Jl betide The school wherein I learn'd to ride ! ' " This answer excites Charles' curiosity, and he induces the seventy-year-old chieftain to recall the days when he w^as twenty and to relate the tale. In his youth Mazeppa was a page at the court of the Polish king, John Casimir. On account of an intrigue with Theresa, the lady of a powerful Polish count, he was seized at the count's castle, and condemned to the punishment and fate related in sections ix and following of the poem. It is not improbable that, as Elze maintains ('Tife of Byron,' p. 138), ''in 'Mazeppa ' we have the idealized reflex of Byron's relation to the Countess Guiccioli; like her the object of Mazeppa's love is called Theresa, and the old Polish Count is perhaps the old Count Guiccioli." Against this supposition merely stands the fact that 'Mazeppa ' was begun before September 24, 18 18, when the poem is mentioned in a letter of Byron's as still incomplete, while his acquaintance with the Countess Guiccioli did not begin till the spring of 1819. But the first part of the poem, where Theresa is mentioned, may have been written last. For the portion of the story related in sections ix-xx, however, there is nothing to correspond in Byron's life. Here his treatment is objective. The source of this portion as well as of the whole of N07'£S 3S1 the historical story is given by Byron in the ft>llowing extract from Voltaire's ' Histoire de Charles XII': " Celui qui remplissait alors cette place etait un gentilhomme Polo- nais, nomme Mazeppa, ne dans le palatinat de Padolie : il avait ete eleve page de Jean Casimir, et avait pris d sa cour quelque teinture des belles-lettres. Une intrigue qu'il eut dans sa jeunesse avec la femme d'un gentilhomme Polonais ayant ete decouverte, le mari le fit lier tout nu sur un cheval farouche, et ie laissa aller en cet etat. Le cheval, qui etait du pays de I'Ukraine, y retourna, et y porta Mazeppa, demi-mort de fatigue et de faim. Quelques paysans le secoururent : il resta longtemps parmi eux, et se signala dans plusieurs courses con- tre les Tartares. La superiorite de ses lumieres lui donna une grande consideration parmi les Cosaques : sa reputation s'augmentant de jour en jour obligea le Czar a le faire Prince de I'Ukraine." More modern accounts alter the story in some particulars. Born, about 1645 and dying 17 10, Mazeppa had an adventurous career. Because of a quarrel in the palace of Jan Casimir, in which he was involved, he was exiled from the court. The fol- lowing account of his succeeding adventures is quoted from Schuyler's ' Peter the Great' (N. Y., 1884, voL II, p. 92): "He withdrew to his mother's estate in Volynia, where he became en- gaged in an intrigue with the wife of a neighbouring nobleman, Falbowski. On one of his visits he was waylaid by the injured husband ; was ignominiously stripped and bound to his horse. The spirited animal, frightened by the cuts of a whip and the firing of a pistol close to his ear, rushed furiously through woods and thickets, and brought his master home so torn and bleeding that he was hardly recognizable. Unable to meet his equals af- ter such an adventure, Mazeppa sought a refuge among the Cos- sacks." By means of his education and talents he soon rose to high position, becoming eventually Hetman or governor of the Cossacks. For over twenty years he remained faithful to his overlord, Peter the Great. Just before the battle of Pultowa, in 1709, however, he deserted to Charles, with whom he shared de- feat and exile till his death in 17 10. The poem is written in the metre and somewhat in the style of the early verse-tales of Byron's London period. The treatment, however, is less melodramatic and more dramatic, direct, and forcible. For vividness, movement, power of realization, intense 382 NOTES feeling, and general effectiveness of style Byron has hardly else- where surpassed this poem. The motives which it suggests have been treated in brilliant musical form by the composer Liszt, in his symphonic poem entitled 'Mazeppa.' See also Victor Hugo's poem, 'Mazeppa' (in ' Les Orientales,' xxxiv), — a free paraphrase of Byron, plus an application of the text : the steed is his genius who bears the poet at its will, threatened by malevolent spirits (birds and beasts of prey), across the wide deserts of the world towards the horizon of the ideal. Who can tell his sufferings? He reaches the end, he falls at last, — and rises up, a king ! Again, as in 'Manfred,' in 'The Prisoner of Chillon,' and in so many other of Byron's poems, the leading motive is, as Dr. Englaender points out, the depicting of silent suffering and heroic endurance. The admiration for characters of superhuman forti- tude is innate with Byron and influences all his poetry. The contemporary interest in the name of Mazeppa and in the land of his reign is attested by the anonym.ous verse-romance en- titled 'The Cossack, a Poem in three Cantcs,' published at Lon- don in 1815. Mazeppa appears at section xi of the second canto. He, however, is not the hero, but Kouteskoff, a minor Cossack chieftain. There is nothing to indicate that Byron knew this poem. Suggestions for the scenery of the poem Byron may have taken from Voltaire's ' Charles XII ' : " Depuis Grodno jusq'au Borys- thene en tirant vers I'orient, ce sont des marais, des deserts, des forets immenses." ... " un desert, ou ils ne voyaientni huttes ni tentes, ni hommes ni animaux, ni chemins; tout y manquait jusqu'a I'eau meme." [Cf. ' Mazeppa ' xvii, 5-8.] The poet's aim is to make his landscape and the touches of Nature which he intro- duces suggest a certain mood and convey a certain impression. This impression is, in the words of Dr. Englaender, "the awful feeling of the illimitable, called forth by the unbounded solitudes and wastes of Nature, and a mournful feeling of yearning and sadness allied to the former, which especially finds expression iw the tireless onward flight of Mazeppa's steed." The art is noteworthy with which the phenomena of Nature, the appearances of the region traversed in the Ride, are chosen NOTES 3^3 and depicted as they might be seen and imagined by one bound as Mazeppa was, and suffering as he was. The poet's imagina- tion has thoroughly entered into the character and the situation. Romantic as the tale is, the manner of telling it is realistic in the best sense. The verse is the free four-foot or "octosyllabic" measure used by Scott, Coleridge, and others of the Romantic period, and by Byron himself in many of the early narrative poems, in 'The Prisoner o^ Chillon, ' and elsewhere. Occasionally lines of three feet occur. The movement is iambic or ascending. The rhymes are freely varied, occasionally running in couplet form for a num- ber of lines, but soon changing to alternate rhymes, or even more complicated arrangements, as the ebb and flow of the thought suggest. Alliteration is freely but not profusely employed, to lend fluency and emphasis to the verse. For the ride itself, compare, in 'The Giaour,' 11. i8o ff., the account of the wild ride of the hero, " Who thundering comes on blackest steed," etc. An interesting monograph on the poem has been written by Dr. E. Englaender, 'Lord Byron's Mazeppa, eine Studie ' (Berlin, 1897). 223 : ix, 3. Ukraine. District in southern Russia, north of the Black Sea and in the valley of the Dnieper, inhabited by the Cossacks. 223-5 : X. The story of the revenge which Mazeppa afterwards took for his sufferings comes in appropriately at this point, firstly, because it is in character for the proud old warrior to let his hear- ers know without delay that he was not wronged with impunity ; and, secondly, because if put at the close of the poem it would disturb the effect of reconcilement and peaceful ending there in- troduced. 225 : xi, 15. Spahi. Turkish cavalryman. 226 ; xii, 13-18. Byron is not squeamish about introducing images of mere horror. Here, of course, this image emphasizes the dramatic effect : it is quite in keeping from the mouth of the wild Cossack warrior. In itself, moreover, it adds to the efiect of barbarous circumstances and feelings which the poem aims to produce. These are the things which Mazeppa thought of in his 3^4 NOTES terror and agony. We should not feel them if he concealed them, or if he expressed his thought in more chastened symbols. 227: xii, 31. Do wolves run in " trot)ps " or packs except during the winter ? 228 : xiii, 19 ff. It is perhaps in his psychology, in his por- trayal of states of mind, in this poem, that Byron's art is most extraordinary. In such a touch as " but could not make My senses climb up from below," and in all that follows there is, or (what is quite as important for poetry) at least there seems to be, absolute fidelity to fact and to the laws of psychology. In this respect is there an advance on the art of ' The Prisoner of Chillon ' ? Compare Coleridge's 'The Ancient Mariner,' his suffering, swoons, and hallucinations. 229 : xiv, 7. Cf. * Anc. Mariner,' 62 : '-Like noises in a sv/ound." 230 : xiv, 24. What is the effect of the sudden introduction of the three-foot line ? Is the device used for similar effects else- where in the poem, as, for example, in xv, 4, 9, 14, 24 ; xvii, 9, 34. 39, 63, 78, 83, 95, etc. ? 230 : xiv, 30. Why ' suspended pangs ' ? and, 19, why '• hol- Io7v trance ' ? How do these epitliets enlarge their nouns ? 230 : XV, 3. Does this line exhibit expressive tone-color? 230 : XV, 4. The inverted rhythm of the first foot helps to ex- press the idea of effort. 230 : XV, 10-13. Is the coloring true for moonlight effects ? 230 : XV, 19-20. Is this properly a case of " pathetic fallacy " ? Would then an unfallacious form of statement have been equally dramatic and effective ? 231 : xvi, 19 ff. During how many days has the ride con- tinued ? 232 : xvii, 12. 7verst. More commonly written verst, — a Rus- sian measure of distance, about two-thirds of a mile. 234 : xvii, 92-94. So Byron wrote in his Journal of February 18, 1814 : " Is there anything beycmd ? Who knows ? He that can't tell. Who tells that there is ? He who don't know. And when shall NOTES 3^5 he know ? Perhaps, when he don't expect, and generally when he don't wish it. In this last respect, however, all are not alike : it depends a good deal upon education, something upon nerves and habits, but most upon digestion." 234 : xvii, 70-1 10. Is this passage of moralization out of place ? Is it sufficiently justified by the suggestion that it serves a purpose of relief and relaxation of attention in the progress of the story ? 237 : XX, 16. Borysthenes. Ancient name of the river Dnieper, formerly the boundary between Poland and Russia, and, near its mouth, between Turkey and Russia. DON JUAN: THE SHIPWRECK (Canto II, Stanzas xxiv-lxxvi, Ixxviii-lxxx, Ixxxiii-cxi.) 'Don Juan' was begun in the summer of 1818. The second canto was finished in January, 1819, and cantos I and II were published in July, 1819, cantos III-V in 1821, and the others at intervals in 1823 and 1824. The plan is even looser and more rambling than that of ' Childe Harold.' " I have no plan ; I had no plan ; but I had or have materials," wrote Byron to Murray. The poem carried on the vein opened up in ' Beppo,' and, in its author's words, was "meant to be a little quietly facetious upon everything." Nothing else quite like it exists in English, al- though 'The Monks and the Giants' (1817), by "the brothers Whistlecraft " (John Hookham Frere) is after the same models in Italian (Pulci and others) followed by Byron, and itself furnished Byron with many hints. The plot and spirit are Southern and Continental rather than English ; and the poem, although now by many accounted Byron's masterpiece for power, performance, and originality, affronted and baffled his own generation. Indeed, at this day, although it must be admitted that the poem is full of license,* and in some parts inevitably shocks most"accepted stand- ards of feeling and of ethics, the elementary distinction, as put by Taine, that " ' Don Juan ' is a satire on the abuses of the present state of society, and not an eulogy of vice," needs to be re- * " The soul of such writing is license : at least the liberty of that license, if one likes, — not that one should abuse it " (Byron to Murray, Aug. 12, 1819). 386 NOTES peated. The poem is full of multiplex intentions and design, and the poet's meaning and mood in it may easily be mistaken unless the reader traces the author's way with footing fine. ' Don Juan ' presents examples of a score of different styles and tones, — the mocking, the satirical, the gruesome, the realistic, the witty, the pathetic, the terrible mixed with the horrible, the vo- luptuous, the exalted, the pessimistic, and many others ; but the ground tone is always the familiar, the sportive, the mocking, and the facetious. Incongruity and burlesque (sometimes savage bur- lesque) is of the very design of the piece. This the reader must come prepared to accept. The style attempted is suggested by the author's motto, chosen from Horace : " Difficile est propria communia dicere." Half in jest, the poet again and again indulges in coiifidences with his readers, and discusses his plan. So, for example, canto I, stanzas cc-cciv : " My poem's epic, and is meant to be Divided in twelve books ; each book containing, With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea, A list of ships and captains, and kings reigning, New characters ; the episodes are three : A panoramic view of hell's in training, After the style of Virgil and of Homer, So that my name of Epic's no misnomer." Etc. The sensible reader of course knows in what spirit to take such badinage. The verse is the ottava rima stanza, composed of eight five- foot lines, rhyming abababc c. Byron poses in this poem as the anti-sentimentalist, and consequently avoids purposely poetic diction and smoothness of versification. The aim is to keep up the conversational and matter-of-fact tone and rhythm as far as is compatible with the maintenance of verse and stanza at all. Hence the unemphatic rhythm, marked by the utmost license ol inversion and substitution of feet within the line, the capricious variety of pauses and of run-on effects, and the wilfully queer rhymes. The frequent double rhymes have generally in themselves a slightly ludicrous effect, arising from the wrenching of the accent NOTES 387 which often attends them, or which they at least suggest. Thus in the first stanza of the first selection here given, the rhymes "Leghorn," "was born," and "the m.orn " give this effect. Note also the effect produced by such rhymes as " Mon- cada " and "he had a," "trough of the sea" and "shattered the," " undone " and " London," " annuities" "true it is " and "Jew it is," "scanty" and "Dante," "we prided" and "and I did," and the like. The sentimentalist again is flouted by the poet's tantalizing device of introducing a digression just as the situation is becoming most thrilling, and as the emotion is mount- ing to its climax.* So it is in the account of the Shipwreck at stanzas numbered Ixiv to Ixvii. The Shipwreck episode, as a whole, however, is treated with more poetic seriousness than most parts of the poem. For poetical realism, sometimes brutal but always impressive, it stands alone. The sentence of a con- temporary (anonymous) critic stands confirmed by time, that "the copiousness and flexibility of the English language were never before so triumphantly approved," and that "the same compass of talent, 'the grave, the gay, the great, the small,' comic force, humour, m.etaphysics, and observation, boundless fancy and ethereal beauty, and curious knowledge, curiously ap- plied, have never been blended with the same felicity in any other poem." Or, as another phrased it, " ' Don Juan ' is by far the most admirable specimen of the mixture of ease, strength, gaiety, and seriousness extant in the whole body of English poetry." To these judgments should be added that of Goethe : " ' Don Juan ' is a thoroughly genial work, — misanthropical to the bitterest savageness, tender to the most exquisite delicacy of sweet feel- ings. . , , The technical execution of the verse is thoroughly in ac- cordance with the strange wild simplicity of the conception and plan : the poet no more thinks of polishing his phrase, than he does of flattering his kind ; and yet, when Ave examine the piece more narrowly, we feel that English poetry is in possession of what the German has never attained, a classically elegant comic style." t * Cf. above, p. 268, st. xcvi. t Cf. also Shelley's judgement upon the poem in his letter to Mrs. Shelley of August 10, 1821 (Works, ed, Buxton Fornian, Lend., 1880, viii, 219). 388 - NOTES The hero, whose name gives its title to the poem, is the Don Juan of legend, of Moliere's play and Mozart's opera, but placed in entirely new circumstances and treated with perfect freedom and levity. The present selection affords a fruitful opportunity to study the poet in his workshop. Byron's method of imagination and com- position was peculiar. Experience, and observation or reading, always supplied him with his immediate materials. "In my writings," Byron says, ''I have rarely described any character under a fictitious name: those of whom I have spoken have had their own. . . . But of real circumstances I have availed myself plentifully, both in the serious and the ludicrous — they are to poetry what landscapes are to the painter; but my figures are not portraits. It may even have happened, that I have seized on some events that have occurred under my own observation, or in my own family, as I would paint a view from my grounds, did it harmonize with my picture." And later (Aug. 23, 1821) and unequivocally: "Almost all 'Don Juan' is real life, either my own or from people I kncAV." So here, \\\ regard to the Ship- wreck, he wrote to Murray that ' * there was not a single circum- stance of it not taken from fact; not, indeed, from any single shipwreck, but all from actual facts of different wrecks." The idea of depicting a shipwreck had long lain dormant and growing in his mind. Moore informs us that, "in the year 1799, while Lord Byron was the pupil of Dr. Glennie, at Dulv/ich, among the books that lay accessible to the boys was a pamphlet entitled ' Narrative of the Shipwreck of the Juno on the Coast of Arracan, in the year 1 795.' The pamphlet attracted but little public attention ; but among the young students of Dulwich Grove it was a favourite study ; and the impression which it left on the retentire mind of Byron may have had some share, perhaps, in suggesting that curious research through all the various accounts of Ship- wrecks upon record by which he prepared himself to depict, with such power, a scene of the same description in 'Don Juan.'" The manner in which he has handled his materials, often draw- ing upon the very words of his sources, suggests the similar use of his sources, such as Holinshed and Plutarch, by Shakspere in his historical plays. The editor of the 1833 edition of Byron's Works has gathered together the main correspondences between NOTES 3^9 Byron's narrative and the originals.* These extracts, arranged in order as they were utilized in the poem, and forming a sort of corpus of the poet's materials, are reprinted below, with reference to the particular stanzas in which each is chiefly utilized. The proper names appended are those of the ships whose wrecks are recounted. Words which are directly incorporated into his narrative by the poet are italicized: Loss OF THE Hercules : " Night came on worse than the day had been; and a sudden shift ofzvind, about midnight, threw the ship into the trough of the sea, which struck her aft, tore away the rud- der, started the stern-post, and shattered the whole of her stern frame. The pumps were tm^nediately sounded, and in the course of a few minutes the water had increased io four feet, [xxvii.] . . . One gajig was instantly put on them, and the remainder of the people employed in getting up rice from the run of the ship, and heaving it over, to come at the leak, if possible. After three or four hundred bags were thrown into the sea, ive did get at it, and found the water rushing into the ship with astonishing rapidity; therefore we thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of muslin, and every thing of the like description that could be got, into the opefting. [xxviii.] . . . Not- withstanding the pumps discharged ffty tons of water an hour, the ship certainly must have gone down, had not our expedients been attended with some success. The pumps, to the excellent construction of which I owe my life, were made by Mr. Mann of London.''^ [xxix.] Loss OF THE Centaur: '■'■As the next day advanced, the wea- ther appeared to moderate, the men continued incessantly at the pumps, and every exertion was made to keep the ship afloat. Scarce was tliis done, when a gust, exceeding in violence every thing of the kind I had ever seen, or could conceive, laid the ship on her beam ends, [xxx.] . . . The ship lay motionless, and, to all appearance, irrevocably overset. The ivater forsook the hold, and appeared be- tween decks, [xxxi,] . . . Immediately directions were given to cut azuay the main a7td mizen masts, trusting, when the ship righted, to be able to wear her. On cutting one or two lanyards, the mizen-mast ivent first over, but without producing the smallest effect on the ship, and, cutting the lanyard of one shroud, the main-mast followed. I * Besides the original pamphlets, cf. ' Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea,' Edinburgh (Constable & Co.), 1812, 3 vols.; and Jas. S. Clarke, ' Naufragia, or Historical Memoirs of Shipwrecks,' London, 1805, 2 vols. 39^ NOTES had the mortification to see the foremast and bowsprit also go over. On this, the ship iTnmediately righted with great violence." [xxxii.] Loss OF THE Abergavenny: "A midshipman was appointed to guard the spirit-room^ to repress that unhappy desire of a devoted crew to die in a state of intoxication. The sailors, though in other respects orderly in conduct, here pressed eagerly upon him. [xxxiii- XXXV.] . . . ' Give us some grog,' they exclaimed, ' it will be all one an hour hence.' — * I know we must die,' replied the gallant officer, coolly, ' but let us die like men ! ' — armed with a brace of pistols he kept his post, even while the ship was sinking, [xxxvi.] . . . How- ever, by great exertion of the chain-pump, we held our own. All who were not seamen by profession, had been employed in thrumtning a sail, which was passed under the ship's bottom, and I thought had some effect, [xxxviii-xxxix.] . , . The ship laboured so much, ihaXl could scarce hope she would swim till morning : our sufferings were very great y^r wa?tt of water, [xli.] , . , The weather again threat- ened, and by noon, it blew a storm. The ship laboured greatly ; the water appeared in the fore and after hold. The leathers were nearly consumed, and the chains of the pumps, by constant exertion, and the friction of the coils, were rendered almost useless, [xlii.] . . . At length, the carpenter came up from below, and told the crew, who were working at the pumps, he could do no Tnore for them. Seeing their efforts useless, many of them burst into tears, and ivept like chil- dren, [xliii.] , . , I perceived the ship settling by the head. It was not in my power to encourage the ship's company any longer with a prospect of safety, [xliv.] . . . Some appeared perfectly resigned, went to their hammocks, and desired their messmates to lash them in ; others were for securing themselves to gratings and small rafts ; but the most predominant idea was that of putting on their best and cleanest clothes. The boats were got over the side." [xlv.] Wreck of the Sydney : " Eight bags of rice, six flasks of wine, and a small quantity of salted beef and pork, were put into the long boat, as provisions for the whole." [xlvi-xlvii,] The Centaur : " The yawl was stove alongside and sunk." Loss OF the Wellington: " One oar was erected yi^r a main- mast, and the other bent to the breadth of the blankets for a sail." [xlviii.] The Centaur : "As rafts had been mentioned by the carpenter, I thought it right to make the attempt. It was impossible for any man to deceive himself with the hopes of being saved on a raft in such a sea as this". [1.] Loss OF the Pandora . Spars, booms, hencoops, and every thing buoyant, were therefore cast loose, that the men might have some chance to save themselves ; for the boats were at some distance." [li.l NOTES 391 Loss OF THE Lady Hobart : "We had scarcely quitted the ship, when she gave a heavy lurch to port, and then went down, headfore- most." The Pandora: " At this instant, one of the officers told the captain she was going down, and bidding him farewell, leaped overboard : the crew had just time to leap overboard, which they did, uttering a most dreadful yell." Shipwreck of the Betsey: "The boat, being fastened to the rigging, was no sooner cleared of the greatest part of the water, than a dog of mine came to me running along the gunwale. / took him in." [Iviii.] Bligh's Open Boat Navigation: "It blew a violent storm, so that betiveen the seas the sail was becalmed ; and when on the top of the wave, it was too much to be set, but we could not venture to take it in, for we were in very imminent danger and distress ; the sea curling over the stern of the boat, which obliged us to bale with all our might." The Centaur: " Before it was dark a blanket \va.s discovered in the boat. This was immediately bent to one of the stretchers, and under it, as a sail, we scudded all night, in expectation of being swal- lowed by every wave." [Ixi.] Bligh : " The sun rose red and fiery, a sure indication of a severe gale of wind. . . . We could do nothing more tlian run before the sea, ... I served a tea-spoonful of rum to every person. The bread we found was damaged diXidi rotten." [Ixii.] "... As our lodging was very wretched and confined for want of room, I endeavoured to remedy this defect, by putting ourselves at watch and watch ; so that one half always sat up, ivhile the other half lay down in |the bottom of the boat, with nothing to cover us but the heavens. [Ixiii.] . . . The fourth day came and not a breath of air." [Ixx.] Shipwreck of the Betsey: " The fourth day we began to suffer exceedingly from hunger and thirst. I then seized my dog, and plunged my knife into its throat. We caught his blood in the hat, receiving in our hands and drinking what ran over ; we afterwards drank in turn out of the hat, and felt ourselves refreshed." [Ixx.] Sufferings of the Crew of the Thomas: "Day after day having passed, and the cravings of hunger pressing hard upon them, they fell upon the horrible and dreadful expedient of eating each other ; and in order to prevent any contention about who should become the food of the others, they cast lots to determine the sufferer." [Ixxiv- Ixxv.] Famine in the American Ship Peggy: " The lots were drawn : the captain , . . wrote upon slips of paper the name of each man, folded 392 NOTES them up, put them into a hat, and shook them together. The crew, meanwhile, preserved an awful silence ; each eye was fixed and each mouth open, while terror was strongly impressed upon every counte- nance." [Ixxv.] The Thomas : " He requested to be bled to death, the surgeon be- ing with them, and having his case of instruments in his pocket when he quitted the ship. [Ixxvi.] . . . Those who glutted themselves with human flesh and gore, and whose stomachs retained the unnatural food, soon perished with raging insanity." [Ixxix.] The Centaur: "In the evening there came on a squall, which brought the most seasonable relief, as it was accompanied with heavy rain : we had no means of catching it, but by spreading out our clothes ; catching the drops as they fell, or squeezing them out of our clothes." [Ixxxiv-lxxxv.] The Juno: " I particularly remember the following instances: — Mr. Wade's boy, a stout healthy lad, died early and almost without a groan ; while another, of the same age, but of a less promising appear- ance, held out much longer. Their fathers were both in the fore-top, when the boys were taken ill. Wade, hearing of his son's illness, an- swered, with indifference, that ' he could do 7iothing for him,' and left him to his fate. The other father hurried down. By that time only three or four planks of the quarter-deck remained, just over the weather-quarter gallery. To this point the unhappy man led his son, making him fast to the rail, to prevent his being washed away. . . ". Whenever the boy was seized with a fit of retching, the father Hfted him up and wiped away the foam from his lips; and if a shower came, he made him open his mouth to receive the drops, or gently squeezed them into it from a rag. . . In this affecting situation both remained four or five days, till the boy expired. The unfortunate parent, as if unwilling to believe the fact, raised the body, looked wistfully at it, and when he could no longer entertain any doubt, watched it in silence until it was carried off by sea ; then, wrapping himself in a piece of canvas, sunk down and rose no more ; though he must have lived two days longer, as we judged from the quivering of his li?nbs, when a wave broke over him." [Ixxxvii-xc] The Lady Hobart : '■'■About this time a beautiful white bird, web footed, and not unlike a dove ifi size and plumage, hovered over the mast-head of the cutter, and, notwithstanding the pitching of the boat, frequently attempted to perch on it, and continued to flutter there till dark. Trifling as this circumstance may appear, it was considered by us all as z. propitious omen, [xciv.] ... I found it neces- sary to caution the people against being deceived by the appearance of land, or calling out till they were convinced of the reality, more especially as fog-banks are often mistaken for land : several of the NOTES 393 poor fellows nevertheless repeatedly exclaimed they heard breakers, and some the firing of guns, [xcvi.] . . . The joy at a speedy relief affected us all in a most remarkable way. Many burst into tears ; some looked at each other with a stupid stare, as if doubtful of the reality of what they saw ; while several were in such a lethargic con- dition, that no animating words could rouse them to exertion. At this affecting period, I proposed offering up our solemn thanks to Heaven for the miraculous deliverance." [xcvii-xcviii.] The Centaur: '■'■At length one of them broke into a most immoder- ate swearing fit of joy, which I could not restrain, and declared, that he had never seen land in his life, if what he now saw was not land." [xcvii.] The Thomas: "After having suffered the horrors of hunger and thirst for many days, they providentially took a small turtle whilst floating asleep on the surface of the water." [xcix.] Bligh : "Our bodies were nothing but skin and bones, our limbs were full of sores, and we were clothed in rags." Escape of Deserters from St. Helena: "They discovered land right ahead, and steered for it. There being a very heavy surf they endeavoured to turn the boat's head to it, which, from weakness, they were unable to complete, and soon afterwards the boat upset." Don Juan, after various adventures in Spain, the land of his birth, has been sent abroad to travel. Our narrative begins in the midst of his voyage from Cadiz bound for Leghorn. 238 : XXV, 2. licentiate, i.e., having taken a degree or license to teach. Cf. the French, licenci^. 241 : xxxiv, 4-5. Cf. Spenser's 'Faerie Queene ' II, xii, st. Ixxi. 242 : xxxvii, 8. like Sancho Panca. So written for the sake of the rhyme. Regularly Sancho Panza. The faithful follower of Don Quixote in Cervantes' famous story. 242 : xxxviii. thrimim'd a sail. Inserting short pieces of rope- yarn in a sail, making a rough surface, which, applied to the opening, might stop the leak. 244 : xliv, 4. A touch perhaps suggested by Erasmus' famous dialogue, ' The Shipwreck,' in his ' Colloquies,' where, in a similar situation, among other vows there is one of a gigantic candle to St. Christopher if he should bring the petitioner off alive. 245 : xlix, 6-8. The curiosa felicitas of phrasing is not often Byron's forte. Here, however, there is classical perfection of phrase. The dim, desolate dee^ — what three words could more 394 NOTES perfectly convey both the picture and the emotion than these? Cf. stanza.ciii, 1. 8 : "the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep." 250 : Ixvi, 8. the Argo, in which Jason and his comrades made their voyage in search of the Golden Fleece. 252 : Ixxiv, 8. Jtdias letter. The letter sent Juan by his mistress as he is about to sail ; described in canto I, stanzas cxci- cxcviii. 254 : Ixxxiii. The story of Ugolino, who perished of hunger in "The Tower of Famine," and whom Dante saw in Hell gnawing the head of his arch-enemy, is related in 'The Inferno,' canto xxxii, 124 ff. and canto xxxiii, 1-90. What aesthetic difference is there between Byron's use of the Horrible and Dante's ? 254 : Ixxxiv. Cf. in the 'Ancient Mariner,' Part III, the de- scription of the thirst of the ship's crew. 255 : Ixxvi. The allusion is to the story of the rich man and Lazarus in the Bible. Cf. ' St. Luke ' xvi, 19-26. Cf. D. G. Rossetti's sonnet ' Lost Days ' : " Such spilt water as in dreams must cheat The undying throats of Hell, athirst alway." 258 : xcvi. 3. yet now they were so low. The meaning intended is given more clearly in the first reading of Byron's MS. for which the present was substituted: "but their spirits were so low." 258 : xcix, 1-3. The hint for this incident Byron may have taken from his own experience. In describing the voyage from Gibraltar to Malta, Gait, who was a fellow-passenger, writes, in his 'Life of Byron' : "In the calms the jolly-boat was several times lowered; and on one of these occasions his lordship with the captain caught a turtle." 260 : cv, 6-8. The amiable vanity of boasting of this feat (a vanity here more than redeemed by the exquisitely ludicrous and epigrammatic turn of the verse) never left Lord Byron. Again and again he referred to the exploit in his letters and conversation. For a circumstantial account see his letter to Murray, February 21, 1821. 261 : cviii. Compare the account of the casting ashore of Ulysses in the ' Odyssey,' Bk. V, near the end. This account, to- gether with that of Nausicaa's reception of him in Bk. VI may NOTES 395 have suggested to Byron the present passage, as well as that which follows relating Juan's rescue by Haidee. DON JUAN: 'THE ISLES OF GREECE.* (Canto III, Stanzas Ixxxv-cxi.) The selection here chosen presents in short compass a fair ex- ample of the range, variety, audacity, ease, verve, wit, lyric enthusiasm, satire, and tender pathos which are so sti-angely and inextricably mingled throughout this poem. After the shipwreck Juan is rescued by Haidee, the daughter of Lambro, a Greek pirate chieftain, lord of the isle on whose strand Juan is thrown. During Lambro's absence Haidee en- tertains Juan with festivities in her father's halls. A native poet is present, and the selection opens with the account of his talents. After the song ("The Isles of Greece") placed in his mouth, Byron takes up the theme and comments on it, speaking in his own person. 262 : Ixxxv-vi. On this passage cf. Ruskin, 'Fiction, Fair and Foul ' 53 : " Note first here . . . the concentrating and fore- telling power. . . . Then, note the estimate of height and depth in poetry, swept in an instant, 'high lyric to low rational.' Pin- dar to Pope (knowing Pope's height, too, all the while, no man better); then, the poetic power of France — resumed in a word — Beranger; then the cut at Marmion, entirely deserved . . . yet kindly given, for everything he names in these two stanzas is the best of its kind; then Romance in Spain on — \X\^Iast war {present war not being to Spanish poetical taste), then, Goethe, the real heart of all Germany, and last, the aping of the Trecentisti which has since consummated itself in Pre-Raphaelitism ! . . . Lastly comes the mock at himself — the modern English Greek . . . and then — to amazement, forth he thunders in his Achilles voice." 262 : Ixxxv, 4. Qa ira. The famous revolutionary song of the French, 1789, — "It will speed." 7. Practically all of Pindar's extant poetry consists of the Epinikian Odes, in celebration of the victors in the Greek games. Many of these, as, for example, the first six Olympian Odes, cele- brate the winners in "horse-races," as their nominal subjects. 262 : Ixxxvi, I. The contemporary chansons of Beranger and Desaugiers were very popular at this period. 39^ NOTES 6. a quarto tale. Such as Scott and Byron himself were pour- ing forth. 6. Madame de Stael's famous book ' De TAUemagne,' in which, among other subjects, Goethe and other German authors are dis- cussed, appeared in i8io. 7. the Trecentisti. The Italian poets and artists of the four- teenth century. 263, The Song, i, 4. Delos^ the smallest island of the Cy- clades in the ^Egean, and the birthplace of Apollo, was fabled to have risen from the sea. 263, 2, I. The Scian muse is Homer (who wielded " the hero's harp "). Scio (or Chios) was one of the seven cities which claimed to be the birthplace of Homer. The Teian viuse^ Anacreon, bom at Teios, in Asia Minor, — the singer of love and wine. 6. Islands of the Blest., Insulae Fortunatae, islands mentioned in Greek legend as existing in the far Atlantic, where the souls of the blessed were conveyed after death. Cf. Andrew Lang's poem ' The Fortunate Islands ' (a paraphrase from Lucian). 265, II, 4. Forced to flee from his native land, Anacreon was kindly received by Polycrates, tyrant of Samos. 265, 12. For several years previous to the battle of Marathon, in which he proved himself ''Freedom's best and bravest friend," Miltiades reigned as "tyrant" over the Chersonesus. 265, 13, 2. SulVs rock. Suli is a fortress upon a rocky height on the river Suli, about thirty miles southwest of Janina. Farga, a town on the coast of Epirus opposite the island of Paxo. 6. The Heraclidae, or descendants of Hercules, who conquered the Peloponnesus in the period before the Trojan war, are here put for the Greeks as a whole. 265, 16. Sunium, a promontory at the southern extremity of Attica, where, on the cliff three hundred feet above the sea, are the ruins of a temple of Athene. Byron's note refers to Sophocles' * Ajax,' 12 17 ff. : " O, could I be where the woody foreland, washsd by the wave> beetles o'er the main, 'neath Sunium's lofty plain." 266 : Ixxxvii, 6. Horace's ' ' si vis me flere, dolendum est Primum ipsi tibi " (' Ars Poetica,' 102-3). NOTES 397 May we justly infer from the mocking tone of this stanza that the poet in this case has not felt that which he makes us feel so keenly in the noble lyric which precedes ? Or is the change of tone rather a sign of intenser feeling ? 267 : xc, 8. 'The Memoirs of John, Duke of Marlborough,' by William Coxe, Archdeacon of Wiltshire, in three volumes, ap- peared at London in 1818-19. 267 : xci, 5. Cf. the Life of Milton, in Johnson's 'Lives of the Poets.' 267 : xcii, 3. Suetonius and Plutarch relate nothing of " Caesar's earliest acts " before he was fifteen or sixteen years of age. To the subject of " Titus' youth " Suetonius devotes a couple of short chapters. 4. An edition of Bums, with an Account of his Life by Dr. James Currie, was published at Liverpool in 1800. 5. CromwelV s pranks. The early life of Cromwell has been the subject of many stories of wildness and debauchery, princi- pally the invention of cavaliers and royalists. In Mark Noble's 'Memoirs of the Cromwell Family,' 1787, vol. I, pp. 93 ff., (where possibly Byron may have read them), many of these stories are related, including accounts of the young Cromwell's depredations upon orchards and dove-houses, his sup- posed boyhood meeting and combat with the young Prince Charles, his prowess in athletic sports, and his roystering. These stories have been investigated in Sanford's ' Studies and Illustra- tions of the Great Rebellion, ' 1 74-268. 267 : xciii, 1-2. Southey, Coleridge, and Wordsworth started out with democratic, or at least republican, principles, which, to Byron's implacable indignation, they afterwards abandoned. The two former met in 1794 and formed their scheme of " Pantisoc- racy," for a communistic colony on the banks of the Susquehanna. The question "whether the marriage contract shall be dissolved, if agreeable to one or both parties," was under discussion. (Hence, Byron's " All are not moralists.") Cf. Byron's 'Obser- vations upon an Article in Blackwood's Magazine,' in 1820: "He [Southey] was one of the projectors of a scheme called ' pantisoci-acy, ' for having all things, including women, in com- mon . . . and he sets vip as a moralist." 398 NO TKS Cf. J. D. Campbell's Introduction to the Globe edition of Cole- ridge's Poems, p. xxi. 3. Wordsworth was appointed Distributor of Stamps for the County of Westmoreland {not exciseman) in March, 1813. 4. The allusion is to 'The Excursion,' originally called 'The Pedlar' by Wordsworth, and referred to as "the Pedlar poem" by Dorothy Wordsworth in ' The Alfoxden Journal. ' 6. Coleridge's contributions to the London 'Morning Post' began in 1798. 7-8. Southey married Edith Fricker, Nov. 14, 1795, and Cole- ridge her sister Sara, Oct. 4, 1795. Both were originally resi- dents of Bristol, not Bath, and poor girls, but not "milliners" nor " partners." 268 : xciv, 7. 'The Excursion' was published in 1814. 268 : xcv, 4. Joanna Southcote. The fanatic founder of a sect of religious enthusiasts. She proclaimed that she was to become the mother of a second Shiloh. 8. The physicians certified that she had a dropsy and was not pregnant ; and so it was. 269 : xcviii, 2. It is obvious that the emphasis is maliciously on '■'■sometimes." 4. Wordsworth's 'The Waggoner, ' composed in 1805, was pub- lished in 1819. 5-8. So in ' Peter Bell,' 11. 3-5 : " But through the clouds I'll never float Until I have a little boat Shaped like the crescent-moon." 269 : xcix, 4. Medea, after killing her children, is fabled to have fled from Jason's vengeance through the air upon a chariot drawn by winged dragons. 269 : c. 8. Byron has reference to a sentence in Wordsworth's essay supplementary to his preface of 1815 : "The verses of Dryden, once highly celebrated, are forgotten." 270 : civ. Cf. the Introduction, above, p. 26. 270 : civ, 1-2. In the first draught, these lines ran : " Are not these pretty stanzas ? — Some folks say, Downright in print — that I have no devotion." Did the poet improve by altering ? NOTES 399 271 : cv, 4. The Adrian wave. The Adriatic, named from the ancient Etruscan town of Adria, at one time on its shores. Ravenna, now six miles from the sea, formerly stood on its shores, and in Byron's time and long before, was surrounded with a pine forest. Since his day fire and frost have destroyed the greater part of this forest. LI. 6-7. The references are to Boccaccio's Eighth Novel of the Fifth Day of the 'Decameron,' and to Dryden's translation 'Theodore and Honoria,' the scene of which is at Ravenna and in the surrounding forest. 271 : cvi, 5-8. The references are to the events of the tale as told by Boccaccio and Dryden — which see. 271 : cvii. A paraphrase of a fragment of Sappho, to which Byron in a note refers : 'EcTTrepe, TraVra cpepels [(pepoju^, etc. "Evening, thou that bringest all that bright morning scattered; thou bringest the sheep, the goat, the child back to her mother." (Wharton's 'Sappho.') Cf. Tennyson, ' Locksley Hall Sixty Years After ' : " Hesper, whom the poet call'd the Bringer home of all t;ood things." 272 : cviii. This stanza, like the preceding, is a paraphrase, and for its original Byron refers us to Dante's ' Purgatorio,' canto VIII, 11. 1-6, which are thus translated by E. H. Plumptre : " The hour was come which brings back yearning new To those far out at sea, and melts their hearts, The day that they have bid sweet friends adieu ; Whereat the pilgrim fresh with strong love starts, If he perchance hear bells, far ofT yet clear. Which seem to mourn the day's life that departs." 272 : cix, 5. " See Suetonius for this fact." [Byron's note- 273 : cxi, 8. See IloirjTiKTjs. The ' Poetics ' of Aristotle. DON JUAN : DEATH OF HAIDEE. (Canto IV, Stanzas LVI-LXXIII.) A passage of pure pathos, executed in exquisite keeping. One of the masterpieces of Byron's art. 400 NOTES Lambro, Haidee's father, returning secretly after an absence which had endured so long that his daughter believed him dead, finds Haidee in the company of her lover, Juan. Juan is over- come by Lambro's retainers, and falls, in Haidee's sight, severely wounded, — as she believes, dead. At this point, turning from Juan to Haidee, the narrative begins in the selection here given. 273 : Iviii, 1-2. "This is no very uncommon effect of the vio- lence of conflicting and different passions. . . . Before I was six- teen years of age, I was witness to a melancholy instance of the same effect of mixed passions upon a young person. . . ." [Byron's note. 274 : Ixi, 4. The adversative "but" in this line is full of im- plication. The sense is, the fair Venus may be of marble and so lifeless, but she is for that very reason forever fair. Cf. Keats' ' Ode to a Grecian Urn' ; " Forever wilt thou love and she be fair." The Venus which the poet has in mind is the Venus de Medici, described in ' Childe Harold,' IV, xlix, 1. 6. Cf. 'Childe Harold,' IV, cxl. 7-8. i.e., 'Their energy, which is like that of life, is the cause of their impressive effect as statues, yet it looks not like life, because statues are unchanging, being of marble.' 276 : Ixviii, 4. retrace. Apparently here = recall, re- member. 277 : Ixxi-lxii. Byron has seldom elsewhere attained precisely the exquisite cadence and music and the subdued and reticent pathos of these two stanzas — " no dirge, except the hollow seas, Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades." CAIN. (Act II, Scene I.) In ' Cain ' Byron returns to the poetical treatment of some of the problems of evil, sin, death, immortality, fate, and faith, touched upon in 'Manfred.' This scene, however, is conspicuous above all else for the magnificent sweep of the imagination of in- terstellar space displayed in it. Three or four prototypes may NOTES 401 have hovered before the poet's mind as he wrote, — Milton, perhaps, first of all, the 'Paradise Lost' (II, 927 ff.) and ' Paradise Re- gained'; then Dante's 'Paradiso'; many passages in the Bible; and possibly also Cicero's ' Somnium Scipionis ' (' De Republica,' bk. VI). More modern passages, where in part softiething of a similar sort of imagination is displayed, are to be found in Victor Hugo's *La-Haut' and 'La Comete ' (in * La Legende des Siecles,' II), or " O gouffre ! I'ame plonge et rapporte le doute " ('Les Con- templations,' II), 'Magnitude Parvi ' (' Les Contemplations,' I); D. G. Rossetti's 'Blessed Damozel'; Kipling's 'To Wolcott Balestier ' (Dedication to 'Barrack Room Ballads'); and Cowley's 'The Ecstasy.' See also Chaucer's 'Parlement of Foules ' (Proem) ; Blake's ' Marriage of Heaven and Hell ' (passage begin- ning, "An Angel came to me"). 'Cain' was partly planned as early as January, 1821, and was finished early in September of the same year. Byron wrote Murray: "I have a good opinion of the piece, as poetry; it is in my gay metaphysical style, and in the Manfred line." In the preceding portion of the drama Cain's discontent with the pious and accepted creed and the religious submission of his family is explained, as well as his determination to accompany his tempter, Lucifer, in the quest for boundless knowledge. Later occurs the murder of Abel. Byron in his preface warns us that we must remember that his personages speak strictly in character. "With regard to the language of Lucifer, it was difficult for me to make him talk like a clergyman upon the same subjects." Here, too, some of the conceptions of modern science are early taken up into poetry. " The reader will perceive," Byron writes, "that the author has partly adopted in this poem the notion of Cuvier that the world had been destroyed several times before the creation of man."/ In explanation of the dramatic object in the unfolding of Cain's character served by this scene Byron writes: j" Cain is a proud man; if Lucifer promised him kingdom, etc., it would elate him; the object of the Demon is to depress him still further in his own estimation than he was before, by showing him infinite things and his own abasement, till he falls into the frame of mind that leads to the catastrophe , . . from the rage and fury against the inadequacy of his state to his conceptions." In 40:5 AZOTES its own day ' Cain ' raised a great outcry from many of the ultra-orthodox, — a pother which now it is difficult to understand. Byron's own judgment seems just: "I really thought 'Cain' a speculative and hardy, but still a harmless, production." 279 : I. I fear To sink, i.e., I fear lest I shall sink. 279 : 4. Can I dS so ? i.e., have faith in Lucifer. 279 : 7. i.e. Who refers to me before his angels as a demon. 279 : 8. to 77iiserable things, i.e., to men. 279 : 18. Cf. 'Matthew,' ch. xiv. 280 : 29 ff. Are the details of the flight through chaos exactly such as they may be imagined as being from the successive points of view of the actors in it ? 281 : 72. This is the consideration which gives Manfred pause. 284 : 161-2. The meaning seems to be, that time and space have always existed and must ever be unchanged and as they have been. 285 ! 175-176. For the world of phantoms to which "beings past " return and from which those '' still to come " emerge, com- pare the Garden of Adonis in Spenser's ' Faerie Queene ' III, vi, stanzas 29 ff. THE LYRICS. Byron's power in the pure lyric is doubtless inferior to that of four or five of his contemporaries. The central conception and the opening lines are often extremely good, but the later verses often fall off and he usually fails to give the delicate finish and the subtler note which we expect from Shelley, Coleridge, Keats, or Wordsworth. There are two veins which Byron especially culti- vates : the short, rounded lyric of sentiment, with musical asso- ciations, after the model of Tom Moore and the song-writers (as in 'When we two parted' or 'Maid of Athens') ; and the intro- spective and personal lyric or monody, such as ' Darkness ' or * The Dream.' A haunting, if somewhat obvious, cadence and sentiment, which permanently recommends them to the intimate memory of the reader, attaches to the best of them. Byron's se- lected lyrics have their own charm and atmosphere, and, in the best sense, are English classics. NOTES 403 287. 'When We Two Parted.' Written 1808, in the poet's twentieth year. Published with 'Poems,' 1816. It is a frequent practice of Byron to admit lines apparently or actually longer or shorter by a foot than the norm of the stanza would seem to exact. So here lines 5 and 7 apparently require three stresses each. They, however, have each six syllables, like the corresponding lines in stanza 2, and musically or metri- cally can thus be read to the same time as the rest of the lines. For other and similar irregularities see p. 297 (different rhyme- scheme for each stanza), p. 299. (''There be none of Beauty's daughters," — the scansion throughout.) 288. 'Maid OF Athens.' Written at Athens in 1810. Ad- dressed to the eldest daughter (Theresa Macri) of the widow of the vice-consul for England, at whose house Byron lodged during his first visit to Athens. She is described by a contemporary traveller (Hugh Williams, 'Travels in Italy, Greece,' etc.) as of middle stature, oval countenance, dark hair and eyes, and pleas- ing manners. Gait, however ('Life of Byron' p. 119), thinks that she "has been rendered more famous by his Lordship's verses than her degree of beauty deserved. She was a pale and pensive-looking girl, with regular Grecian features. Whether he really cherished any sincere attachment to her I much doubt." After his departure from Athens Byron wrote in a letter to his friend Drury : "I almost forgot to tell you that I am dying for love of three Greek girls at Athens, sisters. I lived in the same house. Teresa, Mariana, and Katinka are the names of these divinities, — all of them under fifteen." From this passage one can fairly judge the sincerity of the poet's attachment. All the better, perhaps, is the poetry itself. 288 : 6. "Romaic expression of tenderness. ... It means, ' My life, I love you ! ' which sounds very prettily in all lan- guages." [Byron's note. 288 : 15. "In the East (where ladies are not taught to write, lest they should scribble assignations) flowers, cinders, pebbles, etc., convey the sentiments of the parties by that universal deputy of Mercury — an old woman." [Byron's note. 288 : 21. Istambol. Constantinople. 289. 'And Thou Art Dead.' Written in February, 1812. I am not aware that it is to be attached to any circumstance in 404 NOTES the poet's life, but it was written not long after the deaths of his mother and of several of the friends of his youth, which deeply affected him. With this stimulus the poem may very well have been written directly from the Latin text which is prefixed to it, which is echoed in the concluding lines, and which Moore also paraphrased in the poem mentioned below. 289 : I. For the motto, cf. Shenstone, 'Inscription on an Orna- mented Urn ' (To Miss Dolman : in Chalmers' Poets, xiii, 330). Translated by Moore : "^To live with them is far less sweet, Than to remember thee." Moore's poem ('I saw thy form in youthful prime,' in the < Irish Melodies'), written in a stanza of which Byron's seems to be a modification, and upon a similar theme and from the same motto or text, was probably Byron's starting-point in this lyric. Byron was a great admirer of Moore's songs. The two poems may be compared with profit. They exhibit strikingly the dif- ferences in diction, tone of sentiment, and lyric method of the two poets. 291 : -'Clime of the Unforgotten Brave ! " From 'The Giaour,' written and published in the spring of 1813, — a poem to which a motto from Moore is prefixed. 292 : "Know ye the Land." From 'The Bride of Abydos,' written in November, and published early in December, 18 13. These form the opening lines of the poem and are written in a different metre from the rest. These lines were written as an after-thought, while the poem was passing through the press. They suggest at once Goethe's famous lyric, prefixed to the first chapter of the third book of ' Wilhelm Meister ' : " Kennst du das Land, wo die Zitronen bluhn, Im dunkeln Laub die Goldorangen gluhn, Ein sanfter Wind vom blauen Himmel weht, Die Myrte still und hoch der Lorbeer steht ? Kennst du es wohl ? — Dahin ! Dahin Mocht ich mit dir, O mein Geliebter, ziehn," etc. The resemblance, however, is merely in general theme and coloring. Byron has not followed his model very closely, if Goethe were his model. As he did not read German, this last NOTES 405 seems doubtful. He, however, was accused of borrowing these lines from Madame de Stael's paraphrase : " Cette terre, ou les myrtes fleurissent, Ou les rayons des cieux tombent avec amour, Ou des sons enchanteurs dans les airs retentissent, Ou la plus douce nuit succede au plus beau jour," This charge the Countess of Blessington ('Conversations with Byron,' 326) reports him as denying. In any event, while the motive is the same, the resemblance otherwise is merely a vague and general one. The lines as given above are from the Countess of Blessington's book. In Madame de Stael's ' L'Allemagne ' (ch. xxviii) only the first line is given, and that in another form, viz. : " Connais-tu cette terre ou les citronniers fleurissent." The measure is a four-foot verse of free anapsestic movement. 292 : 8. Gjil. The rose. [Byron's note. 293: "O'er the Glad Waters of the Dark-blue Sea." The opening lines of 'The Corsair,' written in December, 1813, and published in January, 18 14. The poem is written in heroic couplets. The first line, however, is rhythmically exceedingly irregular, although metrically regular, producing thus a strong effect of rapidity and animation. The management of cadence and pause in this entire passage may be studied with advantage. 294: ''Slow Sinks, more Lovely ere his Race be Run." The opening lines of the third canto of 'The Corsair,' 1813-14. These lines, however, as Byron tells us in a note, were written in 18 11 for another (unpublished) poem, — and so may the more justifiably here be detached from ' The Corsair ' as a whole. "They were," he says, "written on the spot," — i.e., at Athens. Could a painter comprehend the picture, here given, on one canvas ? What does the poet here give which the painter could not give ? 294 : 7. Idra's isle. Idra, otherwise Hydra, an island off the east coast of the Morea. 294 : 22. " Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before simset (the hour of execution), notwithstanding the entreaties of his disciples to wait till the sun went down." [Byron's note. 406 NOTES 295 : 29. CithixrorCs head. A mountain in Boeotia, northwest from Athens. 295 : 33. high Hyniethis. A mountain two miles southeast from Athens. 295 : 42. meek Cephisus. The smaller stream of this name, in Attica. 295 : 44, 46. "The Kiosk is a Turkish summer-house: the palm is without the present walls of Athens, not far from the temple of Theseus, between which and the tree the wall inter- venes. Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and Ilissus has no stream at all." [Byron's note. 296 : " She Walks in Beauty." The first among the so-called 'Hebrew Melodies,' written in December, 1814, and published in 18 15. The volume was intended for the use of the modem Israel- ites, the music being written or arranged by Messrs. Nathan and Braham. At the solicitation of his friend the Hon. Douglas Kin- naird, Byron consented to write a number of songs for the col- lection. The editor of the 1832 edition of Byron's Works appends the following note to this lyric: "These stanzas were written by Lord Byron on returning from a ballroom, where he had seen Mrs. (now Lady) Wilmot Horton, the wife of his relation, the present Governor of Ceylon. On this occasion Mrs. W. H. had appeared in mourning, with num.erous spangles on her dress." 296 : 3. The meaning is made more explicit in 1. 7. 296; 5. Thus inellowed. i.e., through the meeting "in her aspect and her eyes." 296: "If that High World." Also from the 'Hebrew Melodies,' 18 14. 296 : 2. Love is the subject of the sentence. 297: 14. The phrase is elliptical; after " shares " is under- stood some such phrase as " mutual love with it." 297: "Oh! Snatch'd away in Beauty's Bloom." From the 'Hebrew Melodies,' 1814. 297: "When Coldness Wraps this Suffering Clay." From the ' Hebrew Melodies,' 18x4. 298. The Destruction of Sennacherib. From the 'He- brew Melodies,' 1814. Cf. II ' Kings ' xviii-xix, esp. xviii, 13; " Now in the fourteenth NOTES 407 year of king Hezekiah did Sennacherib, king of Assyria, come up against all the fenced cities of^Judah, and took them." Also xix, 35: *' And it came to pass that night that the angel of the Lord went out and smote in the camp of the Assyrians an hundred four- score and five thousand: and when they arose early in the morn- ing, behold, they were all dead corpses." Cf. also II 'Chronicles' xxxii, and ' Isaiah ' xxxvi-vii. 299:21. the widoxas of Ashur, i.e. of Assyria, the ancient Semitic kingdom of Asshur, or perhaps one of its capitals, the city of the same name. 299 : "There be None of Beauty's Daughters." Written in 1815, as ''Stanzas for Music." Published 1816. The rhythmical scansion of these two stanzas is difficult, if not practically impossible, after any consistent scheme. As they were written for music, however, the metrical %c2,x\s\QXi is the more important. This seems to require the scheme 4, 3, 4, 3, 4, 3,4, 4 (i.e. a four-foot line, a three-foot, etc.), with allowance ©of a full rest or pause to complete the defective foot in each seven- syllabled line. 299 : 3. Cf. 'Manfred,' I, i, 177. 300: So we'll go no more a-roving. Sent in the poet'.- letter of February 28, 181 7, from Venice to Moore, introduced with the following words: " The Carnival — that is, the latter part of it, and sitting up late o' nights, had knocked me up a little. But it is over, — and it is now Lent, with all its abstinence and sacred music. The mumming closed with a masked ball at the Fenice, where I went, as also to most of the ridottos, etc., etc.; and, though I did not dissipate much upon the whole, yet I find 'the sword wearing out the scabbard,' though I have but just turned the corner of twenty -nine. So, we'll go no more a-roving," etc. . . . 300. "O, Talk not to me of a Name Great in Story." Otherwise headed ' Stanzas written on the road between Florence and Pisa.' Written in the autumn of 182 1. 301. Song of the South-Sea Islanders. From ' The Island,' written early in 1823, and published in June of the same year. The poem as a whole is chiefly concerned with the story of the mutiny of the Bounty^ and, as Byron tells us, is founded 408 NOTES on Bligh's ' Narrative of the Mutiny and Seizure of the Bounty, in the South Seas, in 1789,' and on Mariner's ' Account of the Tonga Islands.' This passage occurs at the beginning of canto 11. 301 : I ff. " The first three sections are taken from an actual song of the Tonga Islanders, of which a prose translation is given in • Mariner's Account of the Tonga Islands. ' Toobonai is not, however, one of them ; but was one of those where . . . the muti- neers took refuge. I have altered and added, but have retained as much as possible of the original." [Byron's note. — This "original," in the prose translation mentioned, is as follows : " Whilst we were talking of Vavdoo toa Licoo, the women said to us, let us repair to the back of the island to contemplate the setting sun : there let us listen to the warbling of the birds and the cooing of the M-ood-pigeon. We will gather flowers from the burying-place at Matdwto, and partake of refreshments prepared for us at Licoo One : we will then bathe in the sea, and rinse ourselves in the Vdoo Aca ; we will anoint our skins in the sun with sweet scented oil, and will plait in wreaths the flowers gathered at Matdwto. And now as we stand motionless on the eminence over Ana Mdnoo, the whistling of the wind among the branches of the lofty toa shall fill us with a pleas- ing melancholy ; or our minds shall be seized with astonishment as we behold the roaring surf below, endeavouring but in vain to tear away the firm rocks. Oh ! how much happier shall we be thus employed, than when engaged in the troublesome and insipid affairs of life ! Now as night comes on, we must return to the Mooa : But hark ! — hear you not the sound of the mats ? — they are practising a bo-o6la * to be performed to-night on the maldi at Taneo, Let us also go there. How will that scene of rejoicing call to our minds the many festivals held there, before Vavdoo was torn to pieces by war ! Alas, how destructive is war ! Behold ! how it has rendered the land pro- ductive of weeds, and opened untimely graves for departed heroes ! Our chiefs can now no longer enjoy the sweet pleasures of wandering alone by moonlight in search of their mistresses. But let us banish sorrow from our hearts : since we are at war, we must think and act like the natives of Fiji, who first taught us this destructive art. Let us therefore enjoy the present time, for to-morrow perhaps, or the next day, we may die. We will dress ourselves with chi coola, and put bands of white tdppa round our waists. We will plait thick wreaths oi jiale for our heads, and prepare strings of hooni for our necks, that their whiteness may show off the colour of our skins. Mark how the * " A kind of dance performed by torch-light." NOTES 409 uncultivated spectators are profuse of their applause ! — But now the dance is over : let us remain here tonight and feast and be cheerful, and tomorrow we will depart for the Mooa. How troublesome are the young men, begging for our wreaths of flowers, while they say in their flattery, ' See how charming these young girls look coming from Licoo ! — how beautiful are their skins, diffusing around a fragrance like the flowery precipice of Mataloco ' : — Let us also visit Licoo. We will depart to-morrow." (Mariner's Account, etc., 1827 ed., I, 244.) In the same place is given a poetical version in eight-line stanzas (by *'a literary friend "). A more strictly literal prose version also is given in vol. II, at page xl of the Appendix. Byron, however, seems to have used only the version quoted above. The author notes that "it is perhaps a curious cir- cumstance that love and war seldom form the subjects of their poetical compositions, but mostly scenery and moral reflections." — In what sense are Byron's verses original poetry ? What is the most important element in poetic originality ? 301 : 10. tooa. " A superior sort of yam " (Mariner). 302 : 29. Mooa. "Place where the chiefs, etc., dwell" (Mariner). 302 : 30. ^^ Mats" are a common article of clothing in the Tonga Islands, according to Mariner. 302 : 32. Marly, or Malai, " a piece of ground, generally be- fore a large house, or chiefs grave, where public ceremonies are principally held" (Mariner). 302 : 45. Cava, the pepper-plant, from which an intoxicating drink is prepared. 302 : 49- Tappa. ' ' A substance used for clothing, prepared from the bark of the Chinese paper mulberry tree " (Mariner). 302 : 50. Hooni. A kind of flower. 302 : 58. ^^ Licoo is the name given to the back or unfre- -quented part of any island " (Mariner). 303. On this day I Complete my thirty-sixth Year. Byron's last poem, written in Greece a few weeks before his death. 303 : 5. Cf. < Macbeth,' V, iii, 23 : "my way of life Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf." The following passage is from an article on Byron in Black- tvood's Magazine^ 1825 : 4IO NOTES "The last poem he wrote was produced upon his birthday, not many weeks before he died. We consider it as one of the finest and most touching effusions of his noble genius. . . . The deep and passionate struggles with the inferior elements of his nature (and ours) which it records — the lofty thirsting after purity — the heroic devotion of a soul half weary of life, because unable to believe in its own powers to live up to what it so intensely felt to be, and so reverentially honoured as, the right — the whole picture of this mighty spirit, often darkened, but never sunk, often erring, but never ceasing to see and to worship the beauty of virtue — the repentance of it, the anguish, the aspiration, almost stifled in despair — the whole of this is such a whole that we are sure no man can read these solemn verses too often." 1 INDEX OF FIRST LINES PAGE Adieu, adieu ! my native shore 7 Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth 273 And thou art dead, as young and fair 289 Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour 270 * Bring forth the horse ! ' The horse was brought 223 Clime of the unforgotten brave ! 291 Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven I — but thou, alas 25 Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind ! 155 Hail to our master ! — Prince of Earth and Air 192 How pleasant were the songs of Toobonai 301 If that high world, which lies beyond 296 I had a dream, which was not all a dream 220 I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs 92 I tread on air, and sink not ; yet I fear 279 Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child ! 51 Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 292 Maid of Athens, ere we part 288 Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains 170 Mortal ! to thy bidding bowed 170 My hair is gray, but not with years 155 Not in those climes where I have late been straying i O'er the glad waters of the dark-blue sea 293 O snatch'd away in beauty's bloom 297 O talk not to me of a name great in story 300 O, thou ! in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth 3 Our life is twofold : Sleep hath its own world 213 Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue Ocean — roll 151 She walks in beauty, like the night 296 Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run 294 411 412 INDEX OF FIRST LINES PAGE So, we'll go no more a -roving 300 Tambourgi ! Tambourgi ! thy laruin afar 42 The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold 298 The castled crag of Drachenfels 69 The isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece 263 The lamp must be replenish'd, but even then 168 The ship, call'd the most holy ' Trinidada ' 238 There be none of Beauty's daughters 299 There is a pleasure in the pathless woods 151 There was a sound of revelry by night 58 Thus usually when he was ask'd to sing 262 'Tis time this heart should be unmov'd 303 When coldness wraps this suffering clay 297 When the moon is on the wave 175 When we two parted 287 ^* I do not know where else, within the limits, to find so delightful a selection of noble poems:'— Prof Tliomas R. Price of Columbia. PANCOAST^S STANDARD ENGLISH POEMS From Spenser to Tennyson. Selected and edited by HENRY S. Pancoast, author of An Introduction to English Litera- ture, etc. 749 pp. i6mo. $1.50, net. Some 250 complete poems, besides selections from such long poems as "The Faerie Queene," " Childe Harold's Pilgrim- age," etc. There are ig pages of Ballads, 33 of Spenser, 22 of Elizabethan Songs and Lyrics, 16 of Elizabethan Sonnets, 51 of Seven- teenth Century Songs, 51 of verse from Dryden to Thomson, 277 of verse from Thomson to Tennyson, and 100 of Victorian verse, 164 of Notes (chiefly biographical and appreciative), and an index of titles. New York Tribune : "We believe it will be received cordially by all lovers of poetry, whether elementary students or not. Basing his selections on the individual excellence and historic importance of the poems, the editor has not allowed his fidelity to the latter test to overrule his taste, and there is very little matter in the book which is historically significant alone. First and last, this is an anthology of the best poetry." Prof. Henry A. Beers of Yale, author of " English Romanticism in the Eighteenth Century," etc.: " The collection seems to me in gen- eral made with excellent judgment, and the notes are sensible, help- ful, and not too weitldufig:'' Prof. Albert S. Cook of Yale : "A thoroughly good selection, and the notes are judicious, so far as I have examined." Prof. William Hand Browne of Johns Hopkins: "The scope is amply wide, and the selections as judicious as was possible under the limitations. The notes, judging from a hasty glance, seem full and clear." Prof. Charles W. Kent of the University of Virginia : "Contains nearly all the poems I would wish in such a volume and very few that I would readily dispense with." Prof. James M. Dixon of "Washington University: "It is just such a handy volume as can be made, by a sympathetic teacher, a companion to the scholar for life." HENRY HOLT & CO., 3;iw.^isifiv.^rchL''i\ i igoo '* Will Interest the old hardly less than the young** — Chicago Evening Pott LUCAS^ A BOOK OF VERSES FOR CHILDREN Over 200 poems, representing- some 80 authors. Compiled by Edward Verrall Lucas. With title-page and cover-lining pic- tures in color by F. D. Bedford, two other illustrations, and white cloth cover in three colors and gilt. Revised edition, izmo. $2.00. Prof. Edward Everett Hale, Jr. ; " David Copperfield remembered learning to walk, and Pierre Loti remembers the tirst time he jumped, I think. My earliest recollections are of being sung to sleep by my father, who used to sing for that purpose 'The British Grenadiers' and other old-time songs. At about the same period it must have been that my mother introduced me to 'Meddlesome Mattie ' and ' George and the Chimney-sweep.' It was, therefore, with a rush of recollection that on opening 'A Book of Verses for Children' com- piled by Edward Verrall Lucas I discovered not only these three classics but many another lovely thing by Ann and Jane Taylor, Eliza- beth Turner, and others, as well as more modern poems by Stevenson and Lewis Carroll. 'Can it be,' thought I, 'that children nowadays will stand Ann and Jane Taylor?' An opportunity of experiment came very soon. 1 happened to have the book under my arm the next day as I stopped to see some friends. They were out, so I asked for the children and had afternoon tea with real tea-things in company •with a large and very beautiful doll, and afterward skated about the hall on what had originally been toy freight-cars. At last I asked if poems would be acceptable. The proposal was received with favor, and I was soon seated on a large trunk with Miss Geraldine on one side and Mr. Bartlett on the other. I began with a safe one, ' The Walrus and the Carpenter,' but went on with the Taylorian ' Birds, Beasts, and Fishes.' This took very well. I tried another modern (not to push a good thing into the ground), and then went on with * Tommy and his Sister Jane.' This also succeeded, so I continued with others and others. We were finally interrupted in our delightful occupation, but I regarded the experiment as successful. ... I know of nothing better to say of this book than the strictly accurate and unvarnished account I have just given. For my own part I thought it one of the most delightful books I had seen for a long time. Critic : " We know of no other anthology for children so complete and well arranged." J^ezv York Tribune : " The book remains a good one ; it contains so much that is charming, so much that is admirably in tune with the spirit of childhood. Moreover, the few colored decorations with which it is supplied are extremely artistic, and the cover is exception- ally attractive." Churchman : " Beautiful in its gay cover, laid paper, and decorated title-page. Mr. Edward Verrall Lucas has made the selections with nice discrimination and an intimate knowledge of children's needs and capacities. Many of the selections are classic, all are refined and excellent. The book is valuable as a household treasure." Bookman : " A very satisfactory book for its purpose, and has in it much that is not only well adapted to please and interest a rational child, but that is good, sx)und literature also." Poet Lore : " A child could scarcely get a choicer range of verse to roll over in his mind, or be coaxed to it by a prettier volume. ... A book to take note of against Christmas and all the birthday gift times of the whole year round." HENRY HOLT & CO. ^^ ^K^eVltrl""" •' One of the most important books on Music that has ever been published.'' — W. J. HENDERSON, Musical Critic of ^.^, Times. LAVIGNAC'S MUSIC AND MUSICIANS Translated by William Marchant. Edited by H. E. Krehbiel. With 94 illustrations and 510 examples in musical notation. 2d Edition. 504 pp. 8vo. $3.00. Dial : " If one had to restrict his musical library to a single volume, we doubt whether he could do better than select the work called 'Music and Musicians.' . . . We find in this new volume the same lucidity of exposi- tion, the same economy of arrangement, and the same comprehensiveness, ... in fact, although not in form, a veritable encyclopaedia of music, and will be found equally satisfactory as a work of reference and as a text-book for the actual study of counterpoint, the structure of instru- ments, the history of music, and the physical basis of musical production. A few supplementary pages, by Mr. H. E. Krehbiel, add American com- posers to M. Lavignac's list, and put the finishing touch of usefulness upon a work which we cordially recommend to both students and general readers." "It is impossible to speak too highly of this volume" {Literary Review, Boston). — "The most comprehensive reference-work on music f)ublished in a single volume and accessible to readers of English" Revie^v 0/ Reviews). — "An encyclopaedia from which all manner of curious facts may be drawn" {Literary World'). — "A musical library in W.^e.M'''' {Chicago Tribune). — "A cyclopaedia of knowledge concern- ing his art " {Christian Register). — " It adds a great deal that the student of music is not likely to get elsewhere " {Springfield Re- publican). — "The most complete and perfect work of its kind" {The Home Journal, New York). — " For the musical student and music teacher invaluable if not indispensable " {Buffalo Commercial).— ^^ He has ap- portioned his pages with rare good judgment " {Churchman).—"^ It is of all things thorough " {Brooklyn Eagle). — " There is nothing superfi- cial about it " {Hartford Courant). — " it has a reliability and authority which give it the highest value " {Chicago Tribune). — " Distinctly scien- tific " {Providence Journal). — " It seems to have been his desire to let no interesting topic escape. . . . The wonder is that those parts of the book which ought to be dry are so readable. ... A style which can fairly be described as fascinating " (A''. Y. Times). — " Free from superfluous technicalities" {Providence Journal). — " He has covered the field with French clarity and German thoroughness'' {S/ringjfeld Republican). — " Not too technical to be exceedingly useful and enjoyable to every intelligent reader '''' {Hartford Courant).— " Lishiened with interesting anecdotes" {Brooklyn Eagle).— '■'• We writes brilliantly : even the laziest or most indifferent will find that he chains the attention and makes a perusal of the history of music a delightful recreation " {N. Y. Home Journal). " Capitally indexed. . . . Mr. Marchant has done his hard task of trans- lating exceedingly well " {Transcripf) .—" . . . The pictures of the instru- ments are clear and helpful " (A''. Y. Times'). — "An unusually handsome book" {Musical Record). — "This superb volume" {The Watchman).— "This handsome volume, . . . elegantly printed on the best of paper, and the illustrations are numerous" (Christian Register). — "An excellent translator " {Providence Journal). — " Well translated " {School and Home Education). — "The translation is excellent; . . .handsomely bound" (Home Journal). HENRY HOLT & CO.. V,7^^^^hf^l2^. XII '99 RINGWALT'S AMERICAN ORATORY Selections, with introduction and notes, by Ralph C. Ringwalt, formerly Instructor in Columbia University. 334 pp. lamo. $1.00, net. Contains Schurz's General Avrtnesty. Jeremiah S. Black's Trial by Jury, Phillips's Daniel O'Gonnell, Depew's Inaug-uration of Washington^ Curtis's The Leadership of Educated /lien, Henry W. Grady's The New South, and Beecher's The Sepulchre in the Garden. Prof. F. N. Scott, University of Michigan : " An extremely sensible book." Prof. D. L. 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Includes Brougham on Negro Emancipation ; Fox and Cobden on the Corn Laws ; Brighton the Suspension of Habeas Corpus Act; Butt and Morley on Home Rule ; Gladstone on the Beaconsfield Ministry ; Parnell on the Coercion Bill ; and others by Beaconsfield, Russell, Randolph Churchill, Chamberlain, Macaulay, Bulwer-Lytton, McCarthy, etc., etc. POLITICAL PAMPHLETS By Burke, Steele, Saxby, Halifax, Arbuthnot, Swift, Bolingbroke, and "Junius." Edited by A. F. Pollard. Bound in one volume. Pamph- let Library. i2mo. Cloth, $1.75, net, special. The Nation: "The selections are very well chosen. . . . Deserves well of book-buyers in point of matter and form." HENRY HOLT & CO. ^^ ^^:l.^^%S''^^^ IX, 1900 jEuGltsb IReaMnas tor Students. English masterpieces in editions at once competently edited and inexpensive. The aim is to Jill vacancies now existing because of subject, treatment, or price. Prices given below are i^'iLT. i6mo. Cloth, Arnold (Matthew): Prose Selections. Edited by Prof. Lewis E. 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Contents : Speeches at Arrival at Bristol, at Conclusion of the Poll ; Letters to the Marquis of Rockingham, to the Sheriffs of Bristol, and to a Noble Lord ; Address to the King ; Selections from the Sublime and the Beautiful, from Thoughts on the Present Discontents, from Speech on the Nabob of Arcot's Debts, from Impeachment of Hastings (2), from Reflections on the Revolution in France (7, including Fiat Money). Edward Dowden, the author and critic: "They seem to me admirably chosen and arranged, and the introduction brings various aspects of Burke's mind truly and vividly before the reader." Coleridge : Prose Extracts. Edited by Prof. Henry A. Beers of Yale. xix+i48pp. 50c. The selections, varying in length from a paragraph to ten or twenty pages, are mainly from Table Talk and Biographia Literaria, but also from Notes on Shakespeare, etc. vii, 1900 English Readings for Students. De Quincey : Joan of Arc ; The Mail Coach. 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