Selected Poems

by Byron

  Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes,

  I loathed the languor of repose.

  Now nothing left to love or hate,

  No more with hope or pride elate,

  990

  I’d rather be the thing that crawls

  Most noxious o’er a dungeon’s walls,

  Than pass my dull, unvarying days,

  Condemn’d to meditate and gaze.

  Yet, lurks a wish within my breast

  995

  For rest – but not to feel ’t is rest.

  Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil;

  And I shall sleep without the dream

  Of what I was, and would be still,

  Dark as to thee my deeds may seem:

  1000

  My memory now is but the tomb

  Of joys long dead; my hope, their doom:

  Though better to have died with those

  Than bear a life of lingering woes.

  My spirit shrunk not to sustain

  1005

  The searching throes of ceaseless pain;

  Nor sought the self-accorded grave

  Of ancient fool and modern knave:

  Yet death I have not fear’d to meet;

  And in the field it had been sweet,

  1010

  Had danger woo’d me on to move

  The slave of glory, not of love.

  I’ve braved it – not for honour’s boast;

  I smile at laurels won or lost;

  To such let others carve their way,

  1015

  For high renown, or hireling pay:

  But place again before my eyes

  Aught that I deem a worthy prize,

  The maid I love, the man I hate;

  And I will hunt the steps of fate,

  1020

  To save or slay, as these require,

  Through rending steel, and rolling fire:

  Nor needst thou doubt this speech from one

  Who would but do – what he hath done.

  Death is but what the haughty brave,

  1025

  The weak must bear, the wretch must crave;

  Then let Life go to him who gave:

  I have not quail’d to danger’s brow

  When high and happy – need I now?

  *

  ‘I loved her, Friar! nay, adored –

  1030

  But these are words that all can use –

  I proved it more in deed than word;

  There’s blood upon that dinted sword,

  A stain its steel can never lose:

  ‘Twas shed for her, who died for me,

  1035

  It warm’d the heart of one abhorr’d:

  Nay, start not – no – nor bend thy knee,

  Nor midst my sins such act record;

  Thou wilt absolve me from the deed,

  For he was hostile to thy creed!

  1040

  The very name of Nazarene

  Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen.

  Ungrateful fool! since but for brands

  Well wielded in some hardy hands,

  And wounds by Galileans given,

  1045

  The surest pass to Turkish heaven,

  For him his Houris still might wait

  Impatient at the Prophet’s gate.

  I loved her – love will find its way

  Through paths where wolves would fear to prey;

  1050

  And if it dares enough, ’t were hard

  If passion met not some reward –

  No matter how, or where, or why,

  I did not vainly seek, nor sigh:

  Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain

  1055

  I wish she had not loved again.

  She died – I dare not tell thee how;

  But look – ’t is written on my brow!

  There read of Cain the curse and crime,

  In characters unworn by time:

  1060

  Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause;

  Not mine the act, though I the cause.

  Yet did he but what I had done

  Had she been false to more than one.

  Faithless to him, he gave the blow;

  1065

  But true to me, I laid him low:

  Howe’er deserved her doom might be,

  Her treachery was truth to me;

  To me she gave her heart, that all

  Which tyranny can ne’er enthrall;

  1070

  And I, alas! too late to save!

  Yet all I then could give, I gave,

  ‘Twas some relief, our foe a grave.

  His death sits lightly; but her fate

  Has made me – what thou well may’st hate.

  1075

  His doom was seal’d – he knew it well

  Warn’d by the voice of stern Taheer,

  Deep in whose darkly boding ear1

  The deathshot peal’d of murder near,

  As filed the troop to where they fell!

  1080

  He died too in the battle broil,

  A time that heeds nor pain nor toil;

  One cry to Mahomet for aid,

  One prayer to Alla all he made:

  He knew and cross’d me in the fray –

  1085

  I gazed upon him where he lay,

  And watch’d his spirit ebb away:

  Though pierced like pard by hunters’ steel,

  He felt not half that now I feel.

  I search’d, but vainly search’d, to find

  1090

  The workings of a wounded mind;

  Each feature of that sullen corse

  Betray’d his rage, but no remorse.

  Oh, what had Vengeance given to trace

  Despair upon his dying face!

  1095

  The late repentance of that hour,

  When Penitence hath lost her power

  To tear one terror from the grave,

  And will not soothe, and cannot save.

  *

  ‘The cold in clime are cold in blood,

  1100

  Their love can scarce deserve the name;

  But mine was like the lava flood

  That boils in Ætna’s breast of flame.

  I cannot prate in puling strain

  Of ladye-love, and beauty’s chain:

  1105

  If changing cheek, and scorching vein,

  Lips taught to writhe, but not complain,

  If bursting heart, and madd’ning brain,

  And daring deed, and vengeful steel,

  And all that I have felt, and feel,

  1110

  Betoken love – that love was mine,

  And shown by many a bitter sign.

  ‘Tis true, I could not whine nor sigh,

  I knew but to obtain or die.

  I die – but first I have possess’d,

  1115

  And come what may, I have been blest.

  Shall I the doom I sought upbraid?

  No – reft of all, yet undismay’d

  But for the thought of Leila slain,

  Give me the pleasure with the pain,

  1120

  So would I live and love again.

  I grieve, but not, my holy guide!

  For him who dies, but her who died:

  She sleeps beneath the wandering wave –

  Ah! had she but an earthly grave,

  1125

  This breaking heart and throbbing head

  Should seek and share her narrow bed.

  She was a form of life and light,

  That, seen, became a part of sight;

  And rose, where’er I turn’d mine eye,

  1130

  The Morning-star of Memory!

  ‘Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven;

  A spark of that immortal fire

  With angels shared, by Alla given,

  To lift from earth our low desire.
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  1135

  Devotion wafts the mind above,

  But Heaven itself descends in love;

  A feeling from the Godhead caught,

  To wean from self each sordid thought;

  A Ray of him who form’d the whole;

  1140

  A Glory circling round the soul!

  I grant my love imperfect, all

  That mortals by the name miscall;

  Then deem it evil, what thou wilt;

  But say, oh say, hers was not guilt!

  1145

  She was my life’s unerring light:

  That quench’d, what beam shall break my night?

  Oh! would it shone to lead me still,

  Although to death or deadliest ill!

  Why marvel ye, if they who lose

  1150

  This present joy, this future hope,

  No more with sorrow meekly cope;

  In phrensy then their fate accuse:

  In madness do those fearful deeds

  That seem to add but guilt to woe?

  1155

  Alas! the breast that inly bleeds

  Hath nought to dread from outward blow:

  Who falls from all he knows of bliss,

  Cares little into what abyss.

  Fierce as the gloomy vulture’s now

  1160

  To thee, old man, my deeds appear:

  I read abhorrence on thy brow,

  And this too was I born to bear!

  ‘Tis true, that, like that bird of prey,

  With havock have I mark’d my way:

  1165

  But this was taught me by the dove,

  To die – and know no second love.

  This lesson yet hath man to learn,

  Taught by the thing he dares to spurn:

  The bird that sings within the brake,

  1170

  The swan that swims upon the lake,

  One mate, and one alone, will take.

  And let the fool still prone to range,

  And sneer on all who cannot change,

  Partake his jest with boasting boys;

  1175

  I envy not his varied joys,

  But deem such feeble, heartless man,

  Less than yon solitary swan;

  Far, far beneath the shallow maid

  He left believing and betray’d.

  1180

  Such shame at least was never mine –

  Leila! each thought was only thine!

  My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe,

  My hope on high – my all below.

  Earth holds no other like to thee,

  1185

  Or, if it doth, in vain for me:

  For worlds I dare not view the dame

  Resembling thee, yet not the same.

  The very crimes that mar my youth,

  This bed of death – attest my truth!

  1190

  ’Tis all too late – thou wert, thou art

  The cherish’d madness of my heart!

  ‘And she was lost – and yet I breathed,

  But not the breath of human life:

  A serpent round my heart was wreathed,

  1195

  And stung my every thought to strife.

  Alike all time, abhorred all place,

  Shuddering I shrunk from Nature’s face,

  Where every hue that charm’d before

  The blackness of my bosom wore.

  1200

  The rest thou dost already know,

  And all my sins, and half my woe.

  But talk no more of penitence;

  Thou see’st I soon shall part from hence:

  And if thy holy tale were true,

  1205

  The deed that’s done canst thou undo?

  Think me not thankless – but this grief

  Looks not to priesthood for relief.1

  My soul’s estate in secret guess:

  But wouldst thou pity more, say less.

  1210

  When thou canst bid my Leila live,

  Then will I sue thee to forgive;

  Then plead my cause in that high place

  Where purchased masses proffer grace.

  Go, when the hunter’s hand hath wrung

  1215

  From forest-cave her shrieking young,

  And calm the lonely lioness:

  But soothe not – mock not my distress!

  ‘In earlier days, and calmer hours,

  When heart with heart delights to blend,

  1220

  Where bloom my native valley’s bowers

  I had – Ah! have I now? – a friend!

  To him this pledge I charge thee send,

  Memorial of a youthful vow;

  I would remind him of my end:

  1225

  Though souls absorb’d like mine allow

  Brief thought to distant friendship’s claim,

  Yet dear to him my blighted name.

  ‘Tis strange – he prophesied my doom,

  And I have smiled – I then could smile –

  1230

  When Prudence would his voice assume,

  And warn – I reck’d not what – the while:

  But now remembrance whispers o’er

  Those accents scarcely mark’d before.

  Say - that his bodings came to pass,

  1235

  And he will start to hear their truth,

  And wish his words had not been sooth:

  Tell him, unheeding as I was,

  Through many a busy bitter scene

  Of all our golden youth had been,

  1240

  In pain, my faltering tongue had tried

  To bless his memory ere I died;

  But Heaven in wrath would turn away,

  If Guilt should for the guiltless pray.

  I do not ask him not to blame,

  1245

  Too gentle he to wound my name;

  And what have I to do with fame?

  I do not ask him not to mourn,

  Such cold request might sound like scorn;

  And what than friendship’s manly tear

  1250

  May better grace a brother’s bier?

  But bear this ring, his own of old,

  And tell him – what thou dost behold!

  The wither’d frame, the ruin’d mind,

  The wrack by passion left behind,

  1255

  A shrivelled scroll, a scatter’d leaf,

  Sear’d by the autumn blast of grief!

  *

  ‘Tell me no more of fancy’s gleam,

  No, father, no, ’twas not a dream;

  Alas! the dreamer first must sleep,

  1260

  I only watch’d, and wish’d to weep;

  But could not, for my burning brow

  Throbb’d to the very brain as now:

  I wish’d but for a single tear,

  As something welcome, new, and dear:

  1265

  I wish’d it then, I wish it still;

  Despair is stronger than my will.

  Waste not thine orison, despair

  Is mightier than thy pious prayer:

  I would not, if I might, be blest;

  1270

  I want no paradise, but rest.

  ‘Twas then, I tell thee, father! then

  I saw her; yes, she lived again;

  And shining in her white symar,1

  As through yon pale gray cloud the star

  1275

  Which now I gaze on, as on her,

  Who look’d and looks far lovelier;

  Dimly I view its trembling spark;

  Tomorrow’s night shall be more dark;

  And I, before its rays appear,

  1280

  That lifeless thing the living fear.

  I wander, father! for my soul

  Is fleeting towards the final goal.

  I saw her, friar! and I rose

  Fo
rgetful of our former woes;

  1285

  And rushing from my couch, I dart,

  And clasp her to my desperate heart;

  I clasp – what is it that I clasp?

  No breathing form within my grasp,

  No heart that beats reply to mine,

  1290

  Yet, Leila! yet the form is thine!

  And art thou, dearest, changed so much,

  As meet my eye, yet mock my touch?

  Ah! were thy beauties e’er so cold,

  I care not; so my arms enfold

  1295

  The all they ever wish’d to hold.

  Alas! around a shadow prest

  They shrink upon my lonely breast;

  Yet still ’tis there! In silence stands,

  And beckons with beseeching hands!

  1300

  With braided hair, and bright-black eye—

  I knew ’twas false – she could not die!

  But he is dead! within the dell

  I saw him buried where he fell;

  He comes not, for he cannot break

  1305

  From earth; why then art thou awake?

  They told me wild waves roll’d above

  The face I view, the form I love;

  They told me – ’twas a hideous tale!

  I’d tell it, but my tongue would fail:

  1310

  If true, and from thine ocean-cave

  Thou com’st to claim a calmer grave,

  Oh! pass thy dewy fingers o’er

  This brow that then will burn no more;

  Or place them on my hopeless heart:

  1315

  But, shape or shade! whate’er thou art,

  In mercy ne’er again depart!

  Or farther with thee bear my soul

  Than winds can waft or waters roll!

  *

  ‘Such is my name, and such my tale.

  1320

  Confessor! to thy secret ear

  I breathe the sorrows I bewail,

  And thank thee for the generous tear

  This glazing eye could never shed.

  Then lay me with the humblest dead,

  1325

  And, save the cross above my head,

  Be neither name nor emblem spread,

  By prying stranger to be read,

  Or stay the passing pilgrim’s tread.’1

  He pass’d – nor of his name and race

  1330

  Hath left a token or a trace,

  Save what the father must not say

  Who shrived him on his dying day:

  This broken tale was all we knew

  Of her he loved, or him he slew.

  THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS

  A Turkish Tale

  ‘Had we never loved so kindly,

  Had we never loved so blindly,

  Never met or never parted,

  We had ne’er been brokenhearted.’

  [ROBERT] BURNS. [‘Ae fond kiss’, 11. 13–16]

  TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD HOLLAND, THIS TALE IS INSCRIBED, WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF REGARD AND RESPECT, BY HIS GRATEFULLY OBLIGED AND SINCERE FRIEND,

  BYRON.

  Canto the First

  I

  Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle

  Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime,