Selected Poems

by Byron

  80

  And all obey and few enquire his will;

  To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye

  Convey reproof, nor further deign reply.

  III

  ‘A sail! – a sail!’ – a promised prize to Hope!

  Her nation – flag – how speaks the telescope?

  85

  No prize, alas! – but yet a welcome sail:

  The blood-red signal glitters in the gale.

  Yes – she is ours – a home returning bark –

  Blow fair, thou breeze! – she anchors ere the dark.

  Already doubled is the cape – our bay

  90

  Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray.

  How gloriously her gallant course she goes!

  Her white wings flying – never from her foes –

  She walks the waters like a thing of life,

  And seems to dare the elements to strife.

  95

  Who would not brave the battle-fire – the wreck –

  To move the monarch of her peopled deck?

  IV

  Hoarse o’er her side the rustling cable rings;

  The sails are furl’d; and anchoring round she swings:

  And gathering loiterers on the land discern

  100

  Her boat descending from the latticed stern.

  ’Tis mann’d – the oars keep concert to the strand,

  Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand.

  Hail to the welcome shout! – the friendly speech!

  When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach;

  105

  The smile, the question, and the quick reply,

  And the heart’s promise of festivity!

  V

  The tidings spread, and gathering grows the crowd:

  The hum of voices and the laughter loud

  And woman’s gentler anxious tone is heard –

  110

  Friends’ – husbands’ – lovers’ names in each dear word:

  ‘Oh! are they safe? we ask not of success –

  But shall we see them? will their accents bless?

  From where the battle roars – the billows chafe –

  They doubtless boldly did – but who are safe?

  115

  Here let them haste to gladden and surprise,

  And kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes!’

  VI

  ‘Where is our chief? for him we bear report –

  And doubt that joy – which hails our coming – short;

  Yet thus sincere – ’tis cheering though so brief;

  120

  But, Juan! instant guide us to our chief:

  Our greeting paid, we’ll feast on our return,

  And all shall hear what each may wish to learn.’

  Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way,

  To where his watch-tower beetles o’er the bay,

  125

  By bushy brake, and wild flowers blossoming,

  And freshness breathing from each silver spring,

  Whose scatter’d streams from granite basins burst,

  Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst;

  From crag to cliff they mount – Near yonder cave,

  130

  What lonely straggler looks along the wave?

  In pensive posture leaning on the brand,

  Not oft a resting-staff to that red hand?

  ‘ ’Tis he – ’tis Conrad – here – as wont – alone;

  On – Juan! – on – and make our purpose known

  135

  The bark he views – and tell him we would greet

  His ear with tidings he must quickly meet:

  We dare not yet approach – thou know’st his mood,

  When strange or uninvited steps intrude.’

  VII

  Him Juan sought, and told of their intent; –

  140

  He spake not – but a sign expressed assent.

  These Juan calls – they come – to their salute

  He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute.

  ‘These letters, Chief, are from the Greek – the spy,

  Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh:

  145

  Whate’er his tidings, we can well report,

  Much that’ – ‘Peace, peace!’ – he cuts their prating short.

  Wondering they turn, abash’d, while each to each

  Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech:

  They watch his glance with many a stealing look,

  150

  To gather how that eye the tidings took;

  But, this as if guess’d, with head aside,

  Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride,

  He read the scroll – ‘My tablets Juan, hark –

  Where is Gonsalvo?

  ‘In the anchor’d bark.’

  155

  ‘There let him stay – to him this order bear –

  Back to your duty – for my course prepare:

  Myself this entreprise to-night will share.’

  ‘Tonight, Lord Conrad?’

  ‘Ay! at set of sun:

  The breeze will freshen when the day is done.

  160

  My corslet – cloak – one hour – and we are gone.

  Sling on thy bugle – see that free from rust

  My carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust;

  Be the edge sharpen’d of my boarding-brand,

  And give its guard more room to fit my hand.

  165

  This let the Armourer with speed dispose;

  Last time, it more fatigued my arm than foes:

  Mark that the signal-gun be duly fired

  To tell us when the hour of stay’s expired.’

  VIII

  They make obeisance, and retire in haste,

  170

  Too soon to seek again the watery waste:

  Yet they repine not – so that Conrad guides;

  And who dare question aught that he decides?

  That man of loneliness and mystery,

  Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh;

  175

  Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew,

  And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue;

  Still sways their souls with that commanding art

  That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart.

  What is that spell, that thus his lawless train

  180

  Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain?

  What should it be, that thus their faith can bind?

  The power of Thought – the magic of the Mind!

  Link’d with success, assumed and kept with skill,

  That moulds another’s weakness to its will;

  185

  Wields with their hands, but, still to these unknown,

  Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own.

  Such hath it been – shall be – beneath the sun

  The many still must labour for the one!

  ’Tis Nature’s doom – but let the wretch who toils,

  190

  Accuse not hate not him who wears the spoils.

  Oh! if he knew the weight of splendid chains

  How light the balance of his humbler pains!

  IX

  Unlike the heroes of each ancient race,

  Demons in act, but Gods at least in face,

  195

  In Conrad’s form seems little to admire

  Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire:

  Robust but not Herculean – to the sight

  No giant frame sets forth his common height;

  Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again,

  200

  Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men;

  They gaze and marvel how – and still confess

  That thus it is, but why they cannot guess.

  Sunburnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale
/>
  The sable curls in wild profusion veil;

  205

  And oft perforce his rising lip reveals

  The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals.

  Though smooth his voice, and calm his general mien,

  Still seems there something he would not have seen:

  His features’ deepening lines and varying hue

  210

  At times attracted, yet perplex’d the view,

  As if within that murkiness of mind

  Work’d feelings fearful, and yet undefined;

  Such might it be – that none could truly tell –

  Too close enquiry his stern glance would quell.

  215

  There breathe but few whose aspect might defy

  The full encounter of his searching eye:

  He had the skill, when Cunning’s gaze would seek

  To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek,

  At once the observer’s purpose to espy,

  220

  And on himself roll back his scrutiny,

  Lest he to Conrad rather should betray

  Some secret thought, than drag that chief’s to day.

  There was a laughing Devil in his sneer,

  That raised emotions both of rage and fear;

  225

  And where his frown of hatred darkly fell,

  Hope withering fled – and Mercy sigh’d farewell!

  X

  Slight are the outward signs of evil thought,

  Within – within – ’twas there the spirit wrought!

  Love shows all changes – Hate, Ambition, Guile,

  230

  Betray no further than the bitter smile;

  The lip’s least curl, the lightest paleness thrown

  Along the govern’d aspect, speak alone

  Of deeper passions; and to judge their mien,

  He, who would see, must be himself unseen.

  235

  Then – with the hurried tread, the upward eye,

  The clenched hand, the pause of agony,

  That listens, starting, lest the step too near

  Approach intrusive on that mood of fear:

  Then – with each feature working from the heart,

  240

  With feelings loosed to strengthen – not depart:

  That rise – convulse – contend – that freeze or glow,

  Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow;

  Then – Stranger! if thou canst, and tremblest not,

  Behold his soul – the rest that soothes his lot!

  245

  Mark – how that lone and blighted bosom sears

  The scathing thought of execrated years!

  Behold – but who hath seen, or e’er shall see,

  Man as himself – the secret spirit free?

  XI

  Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent

  250

  To lead the guilty – guilt’s worst instrument –

  His soul was changed, before his deeds had driven

  Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven.

  Warp’d by the world in Disappointment’s school,

  In words too wise, in conduct there a fool;

  255

  Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop,

  Doom’d by his very virtues for a dupe,

  He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill

  And not the traitors who betray’d him still;

  Nor deem’d that gifts bestow’d on better men

  260

  Had left him joy, and means to give again.

  Fear’d – shunn’d – belied – ere youth had lost her force,

  He hated man too much to feel remorse,

  And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call,

  To pay the injuries of some on all.

  265

  He knew himself a villain – but he deem’d

  The rest no better than the thing he seem’d;

  And scorn’d the best as hypocrites who hid

  Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did.

  He knew himself detested, but he knew

  270

  The hearts that loath’d him, crouch’d and dreaded too.

  Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt

  From all affection and from all contempt:

  His name could sadden, and his acts surprise;

  But they that fear’d him dared not to despise:

  275

  Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake

  The slumbering venom of the folded snake;

  The first may turn – but not avenge the blow;

  The last expires – but leaves no living foe;

  Fast to the doom’d offender’s form it clings

  280

  And he may crush – not conquer – still it stings!

  XII

  None are all evil – quickening round his heart,

  One softer feeling would not yet depart;

  Oft could he sneer at others as beguiled

  By passions worthy of a fool or child;

  285

  Yet ’gainst that passion vainly still he strove,

  And even in him it asks the name of Love!

  Yes, it was love – unchangeable – unchanged,

  Felt but for one from whom he never ranged;

  Though fairest captives daily met his eye

  290

  He shunn’d, nor sought, but coldly pass’d them by;

  Though many a beauty droop’d in prison’d bower,

  None ever sooth’d his most unguarded hour.

  Yes – it was Love – if thoughts of tenderness,

  Tried in temptation, strengthen’d by distress,

  295

  Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime,

  And yet – Oh more than all! – untired by time;

  Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile,

  Could render sullen were she ne’er to smile,

  Nor rage could fire nor sickness fret to vent

  300

  On her one murmur of his discontent;

  Which still would meet with joy, with calmness part,

  Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart;

  Which nought removed, nor menaced to remove –

  If there be love in mortals – this was love!

  305

  He was a villain – ay – reproaches shower

  On him – but not the passion, nor its power,

  Which only proved, all other virtues gone,

  Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest one!

  XIII

  He paused a moment – till his hastening men

  310

  Pass’d the first winding downward to the glen.

  ‘Strange tidings! – many a peril have I past,

  Nor know I why this next appears the last!

  Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear,

  Nor shall my followers find me falter here.

  315

  ’Tis rash to meet, but surer death to wait

  Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate;

  And, if my plan but hold, and Fortune smile,

  We’ll furnish mourners for our funeral pile.

  Ay – let them slumber – peaceful be their dreams!

  320

  Morn ne’er awoke them with such brilliant beams

  As kindle high to-night (but blow, thou breeze!)

  To warm these slow avengers of the seas.

  Now to Medora – Oh! my sinking heart

  Long may her own be lighter than thou art!

  325

  Yet was I brave – mean boast where all are brave!

  Ev’n insects sting for aught they seek to save.

  This common courage which with brutes we share,

  That owes its deadliest efforts to despair,

  Small merit claims – but ’twas my nobler hope

  330

  To teach my few with numbers still
to cope;

  Long have I led them – not to vainly bleed;

  No medium now – we perish or succeed!

  So let it be – it irks not me to die;

  But thus to urge them whence they cannot fly.

  335

  My lot hath long had little of my care,

  But chafes my pride thus baffled in the snare:

  ‘Is this my skill? my craft? to set at last

  Hope, power, and life upon a single cast?

  Oh, Fate! – accuse thy folly, not thy fate –

  340

  She may redeem thee still – nor yet too late.’

  XIV

  Thus with himself communion held he, till

  He reach’d the summit of his tower-crown’d hill:

  There at the portal paused – for wild and soft

  He heard those accents never heard too oft;

  345

  Through the high lattice far yet sweet they rung,

  And these the notes the bird of beauty sung:

  1

  ‘Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells,

  Lonely and lost to light for evermore,

  Save when to thine my heart responsive swells,

  350

  Then trembles into silence as before.

  2

  ‘There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp

  Burns the slow flame, eternal – but unseen;

  Which not the darkness of despair can damp,

  Though vain its ray as it had never been.

  3

  355

  ‘Remember me – Oh! pass not thou my grave

  Without one thought whose relics there recline:

  The only pang my bosom dare not brave

  Must be to find forgetfulness in thine.

  4

  ‘My fondest – faintest – latest accents hear –

  360

  Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove;

  Then give me all I ever ask’d – a tear,

  The first – last – sole reward of so much love!’

  He pass’d the portal – cross’d the corridore,

  And reach’d the chamber as the strain gave o’er:

  365

  ‘My own Medora! sure thy song is sad –’

  ‘In Conrad’s absence wouldst thou have it glad?

  Without thine ear to listen to my lay,

  Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray:

  Still must each accent to my bosom suit,

  370

  My heart unhush’d – although my lips were mute!

  Oh! man a niht on this lone couch reclined

  My dreaming fear with storms hath wing’d the wind,

  And deem’d the breath that faintly fann’d thy sail

  The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale;

  375

  Though soft, it seem’d the low prophetic dirge,

  That mourn’d thee floating on the savage surge:

  Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fire,

  Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire;

  And many a restless hour outwatch’d each star,