Selected Poems

by Byron

  Doubt not my fitting answer to requite

  The unlook’d for courtesy of such a knight.

  435

  ’Tis Lara!—further wouldst thou mark or ask?

  I shun no question, and I wear no mask.’

  ‘Thou shunn’st no question! Ponder—is there none

  Thy heart must answer, though thine ear would shun?

  And deem’st thou me unknown too? Gaze again!

  440

  At least thy memory was not given in vain.

  Oh! never canst thou cancel half her debt,

  Eternity forbids thee to forget.’

  With slow and searching glance upon his face

  Grew Lara’s eyes, but nothing there could trace

  445

  They knew, or chose to know—with dubious look

  He deign’d no answer, but his head he shook,

  And half contemptuous turn’d to pass away;

  But the stern stranger motion’d him to stay.

  ‘A word!—I charge thee stay, and answer here

  450

  To one, who, wert thou noble, were thy peer,

  But as thou wast and art—nay, frown not, lord,

  If false, ’tis easy to disprove the word—

  But as thou wast and art, on thee looks down,

  Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy frown.

  455

  Art thou not he? whose deeds—’

  ‘Whate’er I be,

  Words wild as these, accusers like to thee

  I list no further; those with whom they weigh

  May hear the rest, nor venture to gainsay

  The wondrous tale no doubt thy tongue can tell,

  460

  Which thus begins so courteously and well.

  Let Otho cherish here his polish’d guest,

  To him my thanks and thoughts shall be express’d.’

  And here their wondering host hath interposed—

  ‘Whate’er there be between you undisclosed,

  465

  This is no time nor fitting place to mar

  The mirthful meeting with a wordy war.

  If thou, Sir Ezzelin, hast aught to show

  Which it befits Count Lara’s ear to know,

  Tomorrow, here, or elsewhere, as may best

  470

  Beseem your mutual judgment, speak the rest;

  I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown,

  Though, like Count Lara, now return’d alone

  From other lands, almost a stranger grown;

  And if from Lara’s blood and gentle birth

  475

  I augur right of courage and of worth,

  He will not that untainted line belie,

  Nor aught that knighthood may accord, deny.’

  ‘Tomorrow be it,’ Ezzelin replied,

  ‘And here our several worth and truth be tried;

  480

  I gage my life, my falchion to attest

  My words, so may I mingle with the blest!’

  What answers Lara? to its centre shrunk

  His soul, in deep abstraction sudden sunk;

  The words of many, and the eyes of all

  485

  That there were gather’d, seem’d on him to fall;

  But his were silent, his appear’d to stray

  In far forgetfulness away — away —

  Alas! that heedlessness of all around

  Bespoke remembrance only too profound.

  XXIV

  490

  ‘Tomorrow! – ay, to-morrow!’ further word

  Than those repeated none from Lara heard;

  Upon his brow no outward passion spoke;

  From his large eye no flashing anger broke;

  Yet there was something fix’d in that low tone,

  495

  Which show’d resolve, determined, though unknown.

  He seized his cloak – his head he slightly bow’d,

  And passing Ezzelin, he left the crowd;

  And, as he pass’d him, smiling met the frown

  With which that chieftain’s brow would bear him down:

  500

  It was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling pride

  That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide;

  But that of one in his own heart secure

  Of all that he would do, or could endure.

  Could this mean peace? the calmness of the good?

  505

  Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihood?

  Alas! too like in confidence are each,

  For man to trust to mortal look or speech;

  From deeds, and deeds alone, may he discern

  Truths which it wrings the unpractised heart to learn.

  XXV

  510

  And Lara call’d his page, and went his way –

  Well could that stripling word or sign obey:

  His only follower from those climes afar,

  Where the soul glows beneath a brighter star;

  For Lara left the shore from whence he sprung,

  515

  In duty patient, and sedate though young;

  Silent as him he served, his faith appears

  Above his station, and beyond his years.

  Though not unknown the tongue of Lara’s land,

  In such from him he rarely heard command;

  520

  But fleet his step, and clear his tones would come,

  When Lara’s lip breathed forth the words of home:

  Those accents, as his native mountains dear,

  Awake their absent echoes in his ear,

  Friends’, kindreds’, parents’, wonted voice recall,

  525

  Now lost, abjured, for one – his friend, his all:

  For him earth now disclosed no other guide;

  What marvel then he rarely left his side?

  XXVI

  Light was his form, and darkly delicate

  That brow whereon his native sun had sate,

  530

  But had not marr’d, though in his beams he grew,

  The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shone through;

  Yet not such blush as mounts when health would show

  All the heart’s hue in that delighted glow;

  But ’twas a hectic tint of secret care

  535

  That for a burning moment fever’d there;

  And the wild sparkle of his eye seem’d caught

  From high, and lighten’d with electric thought,

  Though its black orb those long low lashes’ fringe

  Had temper’d with a melancholy tinge;

  540

  Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there,

  Or, if ’twere grief, a grief that none should share:

  And pleased not him the sports that please his age,

  The tricks of youth, the frolics of the page;

  For hours on Lara he would fix his glance,

  545

  As all-forgotten in that watchful trance;

  And from his chief withdrawn, he wander’d lone,

  Brief were his answers, and his questions none;

  His walk the wood, his sport some foreign book;

  His resting-place the bank that curbs the brook:

  550

  He seem’d, like him he served, to live apart

  From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart;

  To know no brotherhood, and take from earth

  No gift beyond that bitter boon – our birth.

  XXVII

  If aught he loved, ’twas Lara; but was shown

  555

  His faith in reverence and in deeds alone;

  In mute attention; and his care, which guess’d

  Each wish, fulfill’d it ere the tongue express’d.

  Still there was haughtiness in all he did,

  A spirit deep that brook’d not to be chid;

  560

  His zeal, though more than that of servile
hands,

  In act alone obeys, his air. commands;

  As if ’twas Lara’s less than his desire

  That thus he served, but surely not for hire.

  Slight were the tasks enjoin’d him by his lord,

  565

  To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword;

  To tune his lute, or, if he will’d it more,

  On tomes of other times and tongues to pore;

  But ne’er to mingle with the menial train,

  To whom he show’d nor deference nor disdain,

  570

  But that well-worn reserve which proved he knew

  No sympathy with that familiar crew:

  His soul, whate’er his station or his stem,

  Could bow to Lara, not descend to them.

  Of higher birth he seem’d, and better days,

  575 Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays,

  So femininely white it might bespeak

  Another sex, when match’d with that smooth cheek,

  But for his garb, and something in his gaze,

  More wild and high than woman’s eye betrays;

  580

  A latent fierceness that far more became

  His fiery climate than his tender frame:

  True, in his words it broke not from his breast,

  But from his aspect might be more than guess’d.

  Kaled his name, though rumour said he bore

  585

  Another ere he left his mountain-shore;

  For sometimes he would hear, however nigh,

  That name repeated loud without reply,

  As unfamiliar, or, if roused again,

  Start to the sound, as but remember’d then;

  590

  Unless ’twas Lara’s wonted voice that spake,

  For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake.

  XXVIII

  He had look’d down upon the festive hall,

  And mark’d that sudden strife so mark’d of all;

  And when the crowd around and near him told

  595

  Their wonder at the calmness of the bold,

  Their marvel how the highborn Lara bore

  Such insult from a stranger, doubly sore,

  The colour of young Kaled went and came,

  The lip of ashes, and the cheek of flame;

  600

  And o’er his brow the dampening heart-drops threw

  The sickening iciness of that cold dew,

  That rises as the busy bosom sinks

  With heavy thoughts from which reflection shrinks.

  Yes – there be things which we must dream and dare,

  605

  And execute ere thought be half aware:

  Whate’er might Kaled’s be, it was enow

  To seal his lip but agonise his brow.

  He gazed on Ezzelin till Lara cast

  That sidelong smile upon the knight he past;

  610

  When Kaled saw that smile his visage fell,

  As if on something recognised right well;

  His memory read in such a meaning more

  Than Lara’s aspect unto others wore:

  Forward he sprung – a moment, both were gone,

  615

  And all within that hall seem’d left alone;

  Each had so fix’d his eye on Lara’s mien,

  All had so mix’d their feelings with that scene,

  That when his long dark shadow through the porch

  No more relieves the glare of yon high torch,

  620

  Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seem

  To bound as doubting from too black a dream,

  Such as we know is false, yet dread in sooth,

  Because the worst is ever nearest truth.

  And they are gone – but Ezzelin is there,

  625

  With thoughtful visage and imperious air;

  But long remain’d not; ere an hour expired

  He waved his hand to Otho, and retired.

  XXIX

  The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest;

  The courteous host, and all-approving guest,

  630

  Again to that accustom’d couch must creep

  Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep,

  And man, o’erlabour’d with his being’s strife,

  Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life:

  There lie love’s feverish hope, and cunning’s guile,

  635

  Hate’s working brain, and lull’d ambition’s wile;

  O’er each vain eye oblivion’s pinions wave,

  And quench’d existence crouches in a grave.

  What better name may slumber’s bed become?

  Night’s sepulchre, the universal home,

  640

  Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine,

  Alike in naked helplessness recline;

  Glad for awhile to heave unconscious breath,

  Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death,

  And shun, though day but dawn on ills increased,

  645

  That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least.

  Canto the Second

  I

  Night wanes – the vapours round the mountains curl’d

  Melt into morn, and Light awakes the world.

  Man has another day to swell the past,

  And lead him near to little, but his last;

  5

  But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth,

  The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth;

  Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam,

  Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream.

  Immortal man! behold her glories shine,

  10

  And cry, exulting inly, ‘They are thine!’

  Gaze on, while yet thy gladden’d eye may see;

  A morrow comes when they are not for thee:

  And grieve what may above thy senseless bier,

  Nor earth nor sky will yield a single tear;

  15

  Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall,

  Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee, for all;

  But creeping things shall revel in their spoil,

  And fit thy clay to fertilise the soil.

  II

  ’Tis morn – ’tis noon – assembled in the hall,

  20

  The gather’d chieftains come to Otho’s call;

  ’Tis now the promised hour, that must proclaim

  The life or death of Lara’s future fame;

  When Ezzelin his charge may here unfold,

  And whatsoe’er the tale, it must be told.

  25

  His faith was pledged, and Lara’s promise given,

  To meet it in the eye of man and heaven.

  Why comes he not? Such truths to be divulged,

  Methinks the accuser’s rest is long indulged.

  III

  The hour is past, and Lara too is there,

  30

  With self-confiding, coldly patient air;

  Why comes not Ezzelin? The hour is past,

  And murmurs rise, and Otho’s brow’s o’ercast.

  ‘I know my friend! his faith I cannot fear,

  If yet he be on earth, expect him here;

  35

  The roof that held him in the valley stands

  Between my own and noble Lara’s lands;

  My halls from such a guest had honour gain’d,

  Nor had Sir Ezzelin his host disdain’d,

  But that some previous proof forbade his stay,

  40

  And urged him to prepare against to-day;

  The word I pledged for his I pledge again,

  Or will myself redeem his knighthood’s stain.’

  He ceased – and Lara answer’d, ‘I am here

  To lend at thy demand a listening ear

  45

  To tal
es of evil from a stranger’s tongue,

  Whose words alread might my heart have wrung,

  But that I deem’d him scarcely less than mad,

  Or, at the worst, a foe ignobly bad.

  I know him not – but me it seems he knew

  50

  In lands where – but I must not trifle too:

  Produce this babbler – or redeem the pledge;

  Here in thy hold, and with thy falchion’s edge.’

  Proud Otho on the instant, reddening, threw

  His glove on earth, and forth his sabre flew.

  55

  ‘The last alternative befits me best,

  And thus I answer for mine absent guest.’

  With cheek unchanging from its sallow gloom,

  However near his own or other’s tomb;

  With hand, whose almost careless coolness spoke

  60

  Its grasp well-used to deal the sabre-stroke;

  With eye, though calm, determined not to spare,

  Did Lara too his willing weapon bare.

  In vain the circling chieftains round them closed,

  For Otho’s frenzy would not be opposed;

  65

  And from his lip those words of insult fell –

  His sword is good who can maintain them well.

  IV

  Short was the conflict; furious, blindly rash,

  Vain Otho gave his bosom to the gash:

  He bled, and fell; but not with deadly wound,

  70

  Stretch’d by a dextrous sleight along the ground.

  ‘Demand thy life!’ He answer’d not: and then

  From that red floor he ne’er had risen again,

  For Lara’s brow upon the moment grew

  Almost to blackness in its demon hue;

  75

  And fiercer shook his angry falchion now

  Than when his foe’s was levell’d at his brow;

  Then all was stern collectedness and art,

  Now rose the unleaven’d hatred of his heart;

  So little sparing to the foe he fell’d,

  80

  That when the approaching crowd his arm withheld,

  He almost turn’d the thirsty point on those

  Who thus for mercy dared to interpose;

  But to a moment’s thought that purpose bent;

  Yet look’d he on him still with eye intent,

  85

  As if he loathed the ineffectual strife

  That left a foe, howe’er o’erthrown, with life;

  As if to search how far the wound he gave

  Had sent its victim onward to his grave.

  V

  They raised the bleeding Otho, and the Leech

  90

  Forbade all present question, sign, and speech;

  The others met within a neighbouring hall,

  And he, incensed and heedless of them all,

  The cause and conqueror in this sudden fray,

  In haughty silence slowly strode away;

  95

  He back’d his steed, his homeward path he took,

  Nor cast on Otho’s towers a single look.