Selected Poems

by Byron

  To slowly trace the forest’s shady scene,

  Where things that own not man’s dominion dwell,

  220

  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

  225

  Converse with Nature’s charms, and view her stores unroll’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;

  230

  Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!

  None that, with kindred consciousness endued,

  If we were not, would seem to smile the less

  Of all that flatter’d, follow’d, sought, and sued;

  This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!

  XXVII

  235

  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

  240

  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.

  XXVIII

  Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track

  245

  Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind;

  Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack,

  And each well known caprice of wave and wind;

  Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find,

  Coop’d in their winged sea-girt citadel;

  250

  The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind,

  As breezes rise and fall and billows swell,

  Till on some jocund morn – lo, land! and all is well.

  XXIX

  But not in silence pass Calypso’s isles,1

  The sister tenants of the middle deep;

  255

  There for the weary still a haven smiles,

  Though the fair goddess long hath ceased to weep,

  And o’er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep

  For him who dared prefer a mortal bride:

  Here, too, his boy essay’d the dreadful leap

  260

  Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide;

  While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen doubly sighed.

  XXX

  Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone:

  But trust not this; too easy youth, beware!

  A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne,

  265

  And thou may’st find a new Calypso there.

  Sweet Florence! could another ever share

  This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine:

  But check’d by every tie, I may not dare

  To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine,

  270

  Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine.

  XXXI

  Thus Harold deem’d, as on that lady’s eye

  He look’d, and met its beam without a thought,

  Save Admiration glancing harmless by:

  Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote,

  275

  Who knew his votary often lost and caught,

  But knew him as his worshipper no more,

  And ne’er again the boy his bosom sought:

  Since now he vainly urged him to adore,

  Well deem’d the little God his ancient sway was o’er.

  XXXII

  280

  Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze,

  One who, ’twas said, still sigh’d to all he saw,

  Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze,

  Which others hail’d with real or mimic awe,

  Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law;

  285

  All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims:

  And much she marvell’d that a youth so raw

  Nor felt, nor feign’d at least, the oft-told flames,

  Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely anger dames.

  XXXIII

  Little knew she that seeming marble heart,

  290

  Now mask’d in silence or withheld by pride,

  Was not unskilful in the spoiler’s art,

  And spread its snares licentious far and wide;

  Nor from the base pursuit had turn’d aside,

  As long as aught was worthy to pursue:

  295

  But Harold on such arts no more relied;

  And had he doted on those eyes so blue,

  Yet never would he join the lover’s whining crew.

  XXXIV

  Not much he kens, I ween, of woman’s breast,

  Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs;

  300

  What careth she for hearts when once possess’d?

  Do proper homage to thine idol’s eyes;

  But not too humbly, or she will despise

  Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes:

  Disguise ev’n tenderness, if thou art wise;

  305

  Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes;

  Pique her and soothe in turn, soon Passion crowns thy hopes.

  XXXV

  ‘Tis an old lesson; Time approves it true,

  And those who know it best, deplore it most;

  When all is won that all desire to woo,

  310

  The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost:

  Youth wasted, minds degraded, honour lost,

  These are thy fruits, successful Passion! these!

  If, kindly cruel, early Hope is crost,

  Still to the last it rankles, a disease,

  315

  Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to please.

  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 –

  320

  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

  325

  Dear Nature is the kindest mother still,

  Though alway 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,

  330

  Where nothing polish’d dares pollute her path:

  To me by day or night she ever smiled,

  Though I have mark’d her when none other hath,

  And sought her more and more, and loved her best in wrath.

  XXXVIII

  Land of Albania! where Iskander rose,

  335

  Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise,

  And he his namesake, whose oft-baffled foes

  Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprize:

  Land of Albania!1 let me bend mine eyes

  On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men!

  340

  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;2

  345

  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 she not live who life eternal gave?

  350

  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;1

  A spot he longed to see, nor cared to leave:

  355

  Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish’d war,

  Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar;2

  Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight

  (Born beneath some remote inglorious star)

  In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight,

  360

  But loathed the bravo’s trade, and laughed at martial wight.

  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:

  365

  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

  370

  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,

  375

  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,

  380

  And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu;

  Now he adventured on a shore unknown,

  Which all admire, but many dread to view:

  His breast was arm’d ’gainst fate, his wants were few;

  Peril he sought not, but ne’er shrank to meet:

  385

  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.

  XLIV

  Here the red cross, for still the cross is here,

  Though sadly scoff’d at by the circumcised,

  390

  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,

  395

  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

  400

  Did many a Roman chief and Asian king1

  To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter bring:

  Look where the second Caesar’s trophies rose:1

  Now, like the hands that rear’d them, withering:

  Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes!

  405

  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;

  410

  Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales

  Are rarely seen; nor can fair Tempe boast

  A charm they know not; loved Parnassus fails,

  Though classic ground and consecrated most,

  To match some spots that lurk within this lowering coast.

  XLVII

  415

  He pass’d bleak Pindus, Acherusia’s lake,2

  And left the primal city of the land,

  And onwards did his further journey take

  To greet Albania’s chief,3 whose dread command

  Is lawless law; for with a bloody hand

  420

  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.4

  XLVIII

  Monastic Zitza!1 from thy shady brow,

  425

  Thou small, but favour’d spot of holy ground!

  Where’er we gaze, around, above, below,

  What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found!

  Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound,

  And bluest skies that harmonise the whole:

  430

  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

  435

  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,2 nor rude is he,

  Nor niggard of his cheer; the passer by

  440

  Is welcome still; nor heedless will he flee

  From hence, if he delight kind Nature’s sheen to see.

  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,

  445

  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,

  450

  And gaze, untired, the morn, the noon, the eve away.

  LI

  Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight,

  Nature’s volcanic amphitheatre,1

  Chimæra’s alps extend from left to right:

  Beneath, a living valley seems to stir;

  455

  Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain-fir

  Nodding above; behold black Acheron!2

  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

  460

  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

  465

  Browseth; and, pensive o’er his scatter’d flock,

  The little shepherd in his white capote3

  Doth lean his boyish form along the rock,

  Or in his cave awaits the tempest’s short-lived shock. />
  LIII

  Oh! where, Dodona! is thine aged grove,

  470

  Prophetic fount, and oracle divine?

  What valley echo’d 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?

  475

  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

  480

  Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale

  As ever Spring yclad in grassy die:

  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,

  485

  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,1

  And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by;2

  The shades of wonted night were gathering yet,

  490

  When, down the steep banks winding warily,

  Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky,

  The glittering minarets of Tepalen,

  Whose walls o’erlook the stream; and drawing nigh,

  He heard the busy hum of warrior-men

  495

  Swelling the breeze that sigh’d along the lengthening glen.

  LVI

  He pass’d the sacred Haram’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.

  500

  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

  505

  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,

  510

  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,

  515

  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,