Selected Poems

by Byron

  That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.

  LXXXIX

  All heaven and earth are still – though not in sleep,

  But breathless, as we grow when feeling most;

  835

  And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep: –

  All heaven and earth are still: From the high host

  Of stars, to the lull’d lake and mountain-coast,

  All is concenter’d in a life intense,

  Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,

  840

  But hath a part of being, and a sense

  Of that which is of all Creator and defence.

  XC

  Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt

  In solitude, where we are least alone;

  A truth, which through our being then doth melt

  845

  And purifies from self: it is a tone,

  The soul and source of music, which makes known

  Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm,

  Like to the fabled Cytherea’s zone,

  Binding all things with beauty; – ’twould disarm

  850

  The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm.

  XCI

  Not vainly did the early Persian make

  His altar the high places and the peak

  Of earth-o’ergazing mountains,1 and thus take

  A fit and unwall’d temple, there to seek

  855

  The Spirit in whose honour shrines are weak,

  Uprear’d of human hands. Come, and compare

  Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek,

  With Nature’s realms of worship, earth and air,

  Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy pray’r!

  XCII

  860

  Thy sky is changed! – and such a change! Oh night,

  And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,

  Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light

  Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,

  From peak to peak, the rattling crags among

  865

  Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud,

  But every mountain now hath found a tongue,

  And Jura answers, through her misty shroud,

  Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!

  XCIII

  And this is in the night: – Most glorious night!

  870

  Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be

  A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, –

  A portion of the tempest and of thee!1

  How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,

  And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!

  875

  And now again ’tis black, – and now, the glee

  Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,

  As if they did rejoice o’er a young earthquake’s birth.

  XCIV

  Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between

  Heights which appear as lovers who have parted

  880

  In hate, whose mining depths so intervene,

  That they can meet no more, though brokenhearted!

  Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted,

  Love was the very root of the fond rage

  Which blighted their life’s bloom, and then departed:

  885

  Itself expired, but leaving them an age

  Of years all winters, — war within themselves to wage.

  XCV

  Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way,

  The mightiest of the storms hath ta’en his stand:

  For here, not one, but many, make their play,

  890

  And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand,

  Flashing and cast around: of all the band,

  The brightest through these parted hills hath fork’d

  His lightnings, – as if he did understand,

  That in such gaps as desolation work’d,

  895

  There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk’d.

  XCVI

  Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye!

  With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul

  To make these felt and feeling, well may be

  Things that have made me watchful; the far roll

  900

  Of your departing voices, is the knoll

  Of what in me is sleepless, – if I rest.

  But where of ye, oh tempests! is the goal?

  Are ye like those within the human breast?

  Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest?

  XCVII

  905

  Could I embody and unbosom now

  That which is most within me, – could I wreak

  My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw

  Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak,

  All that I would have sought, and all I seek,

  910

  Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into one word,

  And that one word were Lightning, I would speak;

  But as it is, I live and die unheard,

  With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword.

  XCVIII

  The morn is up again, the dewy morn,

  915

  With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom,

  Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn,

  And living as if earth contain’d no tomb, —

  And glowing into day: we may resume

  The march of our existence: and thus I,

  920

  Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room

  And food for meditation, nor pass by

  Much, that may give us pause, if ponder’d fittingly.

  XCIX

  Clarens! sweet Clarens, birthplace of deep Love!

  Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought;

  925

  Thy trees take root in Love; the snows above

  The very Glaciers have his colours caught,

  And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought

  By rays which sleep there lovingly: the rocks,

  The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought

  930

  In them a refuge from the worldly shocks,

  Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then mocks.

  C

  Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod, –

  Undying Love’s, who here ascends a throne

  To which the steps are mountains; where the god

  935

  Is a pervading life and light, – so shown

  Not on those summits solely, nor alone

  In the still cave and forest; o’er the flower

  His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown,

  His soft and summer breath, whose tender power

  940

  Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour.1

  CI

  All things are here of him; from the black pines,

  Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar

  Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines

  Which slope his green path downward to the shore,

  945

  Where the bow’d waters meet him, and adore,

  Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood,

  The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar,

  But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood,

  Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude.

  CII

  950

  A populous solitude of bees and birds,

  And fairy-formed and many-colour’d things,

  Who worship him with notes more sweet than words,

  And innocently open their glad wings,

  Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs,

  955


  And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend

  Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings

  The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend,

  Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end.

  CIII

  He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore,

  960

  And make his heart a spirit; he who knows

  That tender mystery, will love the more,

  For this is Love’s recess, where vain men’s woes,

  And the world’s waste, have driven him far from those,

  For ’tis his nature to advance or die;

  965

  He stands not still, but or decays, or grows

  Into a boundless blessing, which may vie

  With the immortal lights, in its eternity!

  CIV

  ’Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot,

  Peopling it with affections; but he found

  970

  It was the scene which passion must allot

  To the mind’s purified beings; ’twas the ground

  Where early Love his Psyche’s zone unbound,

  And hallow’d it with loveliness: ’tis lone,

  And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound,

  975

  And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone

  Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear’d a throne.

  CV

  Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes

  Of names which unto you bequeath’d a name;1

  Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads,

  980

  A path to perpetuity of fame:

  They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim

  Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile

  Thoughts which should call down thunder, and the flame

  Of Heaven, again assail’d, if Heaven the while

  985

  On man and man’s research could deign do more than smile.

  CVI

  The one was fire and fickleness, a child,

  Most mutable in wishes, but in mind,

  A wit as various, – gay, grave, sage, or wild, –

  Historian, bard, philosopher, combined;

  990

  He multiplied himself among mankind,

  The Proteus of their talents: But his own

  Breathed most in ridicule, – which, as the wind,

  Blew where it listed, laying all things prone, –

  Now to o’erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne.

  CVII

  995

  The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought,

  And hiving wisdom with each studious year,

  In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought,

  And shaped his weapon with an edge severe,

  Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer;

  1000

  The lord of irony, – that master-spell,

  Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear,

  And doom’d him to the zealot’s ready Hell,

  Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well.

  CVIII

  Yet, peace be with their ashes, – for by them,

  1005

  If merited, the penalty is paid;

  If it is not ours to judge, – far less condemn;

  The hour must come when such things shall be made

  Known unto all, – or hope and dread allay’d

  By slumber, on one pillow, – in the dust,

  1010

  Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decay’d;

  And when it shall revive, as is our trust,

  ’Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just.

  CIX

  But let me quit man’s works, again to read

  His Maker’s, spread around me, and suspend

  1015

  This page, which from my reveries I feed,

  Until it seems prolonging without end.

  The clouds above me to the white Alps tend,

  And I must pierce them, and survey whate’er

  May be permitted, as my steps I bend

  1020

  To their most great and growing region, where

  The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air.

  CX

  Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee,

  Full flashes on the soul the light of ages,

  Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee,

  1025

  To the last halo of the chiefs and sages

  Who glorify thy consecrated pages;

  Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; still,

  The fount at which the panting mind assuages

  Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill,

  1030

  Flows from the eternal source of Rome’s imperial hill.

  CXI

  Thus far have I proceeded in a theme

  Renew’d with no kind auspices: – to feel

  We are not what we have been, and to deem

  We are not what we should be, – and to steel

  1035

  The heart against itself; and to conceal,

  With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught, –

  Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal, –

  Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought,

  Is a stern task of soul: – No matter, — it is taught.

  CXII

  1040

  And for these words, thus woven into song,

  It may be that they are a harmless wile, —

  The colouring of the scenes which fleet along,

  Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile

  My breast, or that of others, for a while.

  1045

  Fame is the thirst of youth, – but I am not

  So young as to regard men’s frown or smile,

  As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot;

  I stood and stand alone, – remember’d or forgot.

  CXIII

  I have not loved the world, nor the world me;

  1050

  I have not flatter’d its rank breath, nor bow’d

  To its idolatries a patient knee, –

  Nor coin’d my cheek to smiles, — nor cried aloud

  In worship of an echo; in the crowd

  They could not deem me one of such; I stood

  1055

  Among them, but not of them; in a shroud

  Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could,

  Had I not filed1 my mind, which thus itself subdued.

  CXIV

  I have not loved the world, nor the world me, —

  But let us part fair foes; I do believe,

  1060

  Though I have found them not, that there may be

  Words which are things, – hopes which will not deceive,

  And virtues which are merciful, nor weave

  Snares for the failing: I would also deem

  O’er others’ griefs that some sincerely grieve;2

  1065

  That two, or one, are almost what they seem,

  That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream.

  CXV

  My daughter! with thy name this song begun –

  My daughter! with thy name thus much shall end –

  I see thee not, – I hear thee not, – but none

  1070

  Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend

  To whom the shadows of far years extend:

  Albeit my brow thou never should’st behold,

  My voice shall with thy future visions blend,

  And reach into thy heart, – when mine is cold, —

  1075

  A token and a tone, even from thy father’s mould.

  CXVI

  To aid thy mind’s developement, – to watch

  Thy dawn of little joys, – to sit and see

  Almost thy very growth, – to view thee catch

 
; Knowledge of objects, – wonders yet to thee!

  1080

  To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee,

  And print on thy soft cheek a parent’s kiss, —

  This, it should seem, was not reserved for me;

  Yet this was in my nature: — as it is,

  I know not what is there, yet something like to this.

  CXVII

  1085

  Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught,

  I know that thou wilt love me; though my name

  Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught

  With desolation, – and a broken claim:

  Though the grave closed between us, – ’twere the same,

  1090

  I know that thou wilt love me; though to drain

  My blood from out thy being were an aim,

  And an attainment, – all would be in vain, –

  Still thou would’st love me, still that more than life retain.

  CXVIII

  The child of love, – though born in bitterness

  1095

  And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire

  These were the elements, – and thine no less.

  As yet such are around thee, – but thy fire

  Shall be more temper’d, and thy hope far higher.

  Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! O’er the sea,

  1100

  And from the mountains where I now respire,

  Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee,

  As, with a sigh, I deem thou might’st have been to me!

  Epistle to Augusta (‘My sister! my sweet sister!’&c.)

  I

  My sister! my sweet sister! if a name

  Dearer and purer were, it should be thine.

  Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim

  No tears, but tenderness to answer mine:

  5

  Go where I will, to me thou art the same –

  A loved regret which I would not resign.

  There yet are two things in my destiny, –

  A world to roam through, and a home with thee.

  II

  The first were nothing – had I still the last,

  10

  It were the haven of my happiness;

  But other claims and other ties thou hast,

  And mine is not the wish to make them less.

  A strange doom is thy father’s son’s, and past

  Recalling, as it lies beyond redress;

  15

  Reversed for him our grandsire’s1 fate of yore, –

  He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore.

  III

  If my inheritance of storms hath been

  In other elements, and on the rocks

  Of perils, overlook’d or unforeseen,

  20

  I have sustain’d my share of worldly shocks,

  The fault was mine; nor do I seek to screen

  My errors with defensive paradox;

  I have been cunning in mine overthrow,

  The careful pilot of my proper woe.

  IV

  25

  Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward.