Selected Poems

by Byron

  375

  ‘Oh, how these tidings will Medora greet?’

  Then – only then – his clanking hands he raised,

  And strain’d with rage the chain on which he gazed:

  But soon he found – or feign’d – or dream’d relief,

  And smiled in self-derision of his grief,

  380

  ‘And now come torture when it will – or may

  More need of rest to nerve me for the day!’

  This said, with languor to his mat he crept,

  And, whatsoe’er his visions, quickly slept.

  ‘Twas hardly midnight when that fray begun,

  385

  For Conrad’s plans matured, at once were done:

  And Havoc loathes so much the waste of time,

  She scarce had left an uncommitted crime.

  One hour beheld him since the tide he stemm’d –

  Disguised – discover’d – conquering – ta’en - condemn’d –

  390

  A chief on land – an outlaw on the deep –

  Destroying – saving – prison’d – and asleep!

  XII

  He slept in calmest seeming – for his breath

  Was hush’d so deep – Ah! happy if in death!

  He slept – Who o’er his placid slumber bends?

  395

  His foes are gone – and here he hath no friends;

  Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace?

  No, ’tis an earthly form with heavenly face!

  Its white arm raised a lamp – yet gently hid

  Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid

  400

  Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain,

  And once unclosed – but once may close again.

  That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so fair,

  And auburn waves of gemm’d and braided hair;

  With shape of fairy lightness – naked foot,

  405

  That shines like snow, and falls on earth as mute –

  Through guards and dunnest night how came it there?

  Ah! rather ask what will not woman dare?

  Whom youth and pity lead like thee, Gulnare!

  She could not sleep – and while the Pacha’s rest

  410

  In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-guest,

  She left his side – his signet-ring she bore,

  Which oft in sport adorn’d her hand before –

  And with it, scarcely question’d, won her way

  Through drowsy guards that must that sign obey.

  415

  Worn out with toil, and tired with changing blows,

  Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose;

  And chill and nodding at the turret door,

  They stretch their listless limbs, and watch no more:

  Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring,

  420

  Nor ask or what or who the sign may bring.

  XIII

  She gazed in wonder, ‘Can he calmly sleep,

  While other eyes his fall or ravage weep?

  And mine in restlessness are wandering here -

  What sudden spell hath made this man so dear?

  425

  True – ’tis to him my life, and more, I owe,

  And me and mine he spared from worse than woe:

  ‘Tis late to think – but soft – his slumber breaks –

  How heavily he sighs! – he starts – awakes!’

  He raised his head – and dazzled with the light,

  430

  His eye seem’d dubious if it saw aright:

  He moved his hand – the grating of his chain

  Too harshly told him that he lived again.

  ‘What is that form? if not a shape of air,

  Methinks, my jailor’s face shows wond’rous fair!’

  435

  ‘Pirate! thou know’st me not – but I am one,

  Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done;

  Look on me – and remember her, thy hand

  Snatch’d from the flames, and thy more fearful band.

  I come through darkness – and I scarce know why –

  440

  Yet not to hurt – I would not see thee die.’

  ‘If so, kind lady! thine the only eye

  That would not here in that gay hope delight:

  Theirs is the chance – and let them use their right.

  But still I thank their courtesy or thine,

  445

  That would confess me at so fair a shrine!’

  Strange though it seem – yet with extremest grief

  Is link’d a mirth – it doth not bring relief –

  That playfulness of Sorrow ne’er beguiles,

  And smiles in bitterness – but still it smiles;

  450

  And sometimes with the wisest and the best,

  Till even the scaffold1 echoes with their jest!

  Yet not the joy to which it seems akin –

  It may deceive all hearts, save that within.

  Whate’er it was that flash’d on Conrad, now

  455

  A laughing wildness half unbent his brow:

  And these his accents had a sound of mirth,

  As if the last he could enjoy on earth;

  Yet ’gainst his nature – for through that short life,

  Few thoughts had he to spare from gloom and strife.

  XIV

  460

  ‘Corsair! thy doom is named – but I have power

  To soothe the Pacha in his weaker hour.

  Thee would I spare – nay more – would save thee now,

  But this – time – hope – nor even thy strength allow;

  But all I can, I will: at least delay

  465

  The sentence that remits thee scarce a day.

  More now were ruin – even thyself were loth

  The vain attempt should bring but doom to both.’

  ‘Yes! – loth indeed: – my soul is nerved to all,

  Or fall’n too low to fear a further fall:

  470

  Tempt not thyself with peril; me with hope

  Of flight from foes with whom I could not cope:

  Unfit to vanquish – shall I meanly fly,

  The one of all my band that would not die?

  Yet there is one – to whom my memory clings

  475

  Till to these eyes her own wild softness springs.

  My sole resources in the path I trod

  Were these – my bark – my sword – my love – my God!

  The last I left in youth – he leaves me now –

  And Man but works his will to lay me low.

  480

  I have no thought to mock his throne with prayer

  Wrung from the coward crouching of despair;

  It is enough – I breathe – and I can bear.

  My sword is shaken from the worthless hand

  That might have better kept so true a brand;

  485

  My bark is sunk or captive – but my love –

  For her in sooth my voice would mount above:

  Oh! she is all that still to earth can bind –

  And this will break a heart so more than kind,

  And blight a form – till thine appear’d, Gulnare!

  490

  Mine eye ne’er ask’d if others were as fair.’

  ‘Thou lov’st another then? – but what to me

  Is this – ’tis nothing – nothing e’er can be:

  But yet – thou lov’st – and – Oh! I envy those

  Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose,

  495

  Who never feel the void – the wandering thought

  That sighs o’er visions – such as mine hath wrought.’

  ‘Lady – methought thy love was his, for whom

  This arm redeem’d thee from a fiery tomb.’

  ‘My love stern Seyd
’s! Oh – No – No – not my love -

  500

  Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once strove

  To meet his passion – but it would not be.

  I felt – feel – love dwells with – with the free.

  I am a slave, a favour’d slave at best,

  To share his splendour, and seem very blest!

  505

  Oft must my soul the question undergo,

  Of – ‘Dost thou love?’ and burn to answer, ‘No!’

  Oh! hard it is that fondness to sustain,

  And struggle not to feel averse in vain;

  But harder still the heart’s recoil to bear,

  510

  And hide from one – perhaps another there.

  He takes the hand I give not – nor withhold –

  Its pulse nor check’d – nor quicken’d – calmly cold:

  And when resign’d, it drops a lifeless weight

  From one I never loved enough to hate.

  515

  No warmth these lips return by his imprest,

  And chill’d remembrance shudders o’er the rest.

  Yes – had I ever proved that passion’s zeal,

  The change to hatred were at least to feel:

  But still – he goes unmourn’d – returns unsought –

  520

  And oft when present – absent from my thought.

  Or when reflection comes – and come it must –

  I fear that henceforth ’twill but bring disgust;

  I am his slave – but, in despite of pride,

  ‘Twere worse than bondage to become his bride.

  525

  Oh! that this dotage of his breast would cease!

  Or seek another and give mine release,

  But yesterday – I could have said, to peace!

  Yes – if unwonted fondness now I feign,

  Remember – captive! ’tis to break thy chain;

  530

  Repay the life that to thy hand I owe;

  To give thee back to all endear’d below,

  Who share such love as I can never know.

  Farewell – morn breaks – and I must now away:

  ‘Twill cost me dear – but dread no death to-day!’

  XV

  535

  She press’d his fetter’d fingers to her heart,

  And bow’d her head, and turn’d her to depart,

  And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone.

  And was she here? and is he now alone?

  What gem hath dropp’d and sparkles o’er his chain?

  540

  The tear most sacred, shed for others’ pain,

  That starts at once – bright – pure – from Pity’s mine,

  Already polish’d by the hand divine!

  Oh! too convincing – dangerously dear –

  In woman’s eye the unanswerable tear!

  545

  That weapon of her weakness she can wield,

  To save, subdue – at once her spear and shield:

  Avoid it – Virtue ebbs and Wisdom errs

  Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers!

  What lost a world, and bade a hero fly?

  550

  The timid tear in Cleopatra’s eye.

  Yet be the soft triumvir’s fault forgiven,

  By this – how many lose not earth – but heaven!

  Consign their souls to man’s eternal foe,

  And seal their own to spare some wanton’s woe.

  XVI

  555

  ’Tis morn – and o’er his alter’d features play

  The beams – without the hope of yesterday.

  What shall he be ere night? perchance a thing

  O’er which the raven flaps her funeral wing:

  By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt,

  560

  While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt,

  Chill – wet – and misty round each stiffen’d limb,

  Refreshing earth – reviving all but him! –

  Canto the Third

  ‘Come vedi – ancor non m’abbandona.’

  DANTE.

  I

  Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,

  Along Morea’s hills the setting sun;

  Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright,

  But one unclouded blaze of living light!

  5

  O’er the hush’d deep the yellow beam he throws,

  Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows.

  On old Ægina’s rock, and Idra’s isle,

  The god of gladness sheds his parting smile;

  O’er his own regions lingering, loves to shine,

  10

  Though there his altars are no more divine.

  Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss

  Thy glorious gulf, unconquer’d Salamis!

  Their azure arches through the long expanse

  More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance,

  15

  And tenderest tints, along their summits driven,

  Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven;

  Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep,

  Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep.

  On such an eve, his palest beam he cast,

  20

  When – Athens! here thy Wisest look’d his last.

  How watch’d thy better sons his farewell ray,

  That closed their murder’d sage’s1 latest day!

  Not yet - not yet - Sol pauses on the hill -

  The precious hour of parting lingers still;

  25

  But sad his light to agonising eyes,

  And dark the mountain’s once delightful dyes:

  Gloom o’er the lovely land he seem’d to pour,

  The land, where Phoebus never frown’d before;

  But ere he sank below Cithæron’s head,

  30

  The cup of woe was quaff’d – the spirit fled;

  The soul of him who scorn’d to fear or fly –

  Who lived and died, as none can live or die!

  But lo! from high Hymettus to the plain,

  The queen of night asserts her silent reign.2

  35

  No murky vapour, herald of the storm,

  Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form;

  With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play,

  There the white column greets her grateful ray,

  And, bright around with quivering beams beset,

  40

  Her emblem sparkles o’er the minaret:

  The groves of olive scatter’d dark and wide

  Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide,

  The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque,

  The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk,3

  45

  And, dun and sombre ’mid the holy calm,

  Near Theseus’ fane yon solitary palm,

  All tinged with varied hues arrest the eye –

  And dull were his that pass’d them heedless by.

  Again the Ægean, heard no more afar,

  50

  Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war;

  Again his waves in milder tints unfold

  Their long array of sapphire and of gold,

  Mix’d with the shades of many a distant isle,

  That frown – where gentler ocean seems to smile.1

  II

  55

  Not now my theme – why turn my thoughts to thee?

  Oh! who can look along thy native sea,

  Nor dwell upon thy name, whate’er the tale,

  So much its magic must o’er all prevail?

  Who that beheld that Sun upon thee set,

  60

  Fair Athens! could thine evening face forget?

  Not he – whose heart nor time nor distance frees,

  Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades!

  Nor seems this homage foreign to his st
rain,

  His Corsair’s isle was once thine own domain –

  65

  Would that with freedom it were thine again!

  III

  The Sun hath sunk – and, darker than the night,

  Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height

  Medora’s heart – the third day’s come and gone –

  With it he comes not – sends not – faithless one!

  70

  The wind was fair though light; and storms were none.

  Last eve Anselmo’s bark return’d, and yet

  His only tidings that they had not met!

  Though wild, as now, far different were the tale

  Had Conrad waited for that single sail.

  75

  The night-breeze freshens – she that day had pass’d

  In watching all that Hope proclaim’d a mast;

  Sadly she sate – on high – Impatience bore

  At last her footsteps to the midnight shore,

  And there she wander’d, heedless of the spray

  80

  That dash’d her garments oft, and warn’d away:

  She saw not – felt not this – nor dared depart,

  Nor deem’d it cold - her chill was at her heart;

  Till grew such certainty from that suspense –

  His very Sight had shock’d from life or sense!

  85

  It came at last – a sad and shatter’d boat,

  Whose immates first beheld whom first they sought;

  Some bleeding – all most wretched – these the few –

  Scarce knew they how escaped – this all they knew.

  In silence, darkling, each appear’d to wait

  90

  His fellow’s mournful guess at Conrad’s fate:

  Something they would have said; but seem’d to fear

  To trust their accents to Medora’s ear.

  She saw at once, yet sunk not – trembled not –

  Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot,

  95

  Within that meek fair form, were feelings high,

  That deem’d not till they found their energy.

  While yet was Hope – they soften’d – flutter’d – wept –

  All lost – that softness died not – but it slept;

  And o’er its slumber rose that Strength which said,

  100

  ‘With nothing left to love – there’s nought to dread.’

  ’Tis more than nature’s; like the burning might

  Delirium gathers from the fever’s height.

  ‘Silent you stand – nor would I hear you tell

  What – speak not – breathe not – for I know it well –

  105

  Yet would I ask – almost my lip denies

  The – quick your answer – tell me where he lies.’

  ‘Lady! we know not – scarce with life we fled;

  But here is one denies that he is dead:

  He saw him bound; and bleeding – but alive.’

  110

  She heard no further – ’twas in vain to strive –