Selected Poems

by Byron

  Expel the venom and not blunt the dart –

  1070

  The dull satiety which all destroys —

  And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys?

  CXX

  Alas! our young affections run to waste,

  Or water but the desert; whence arise

  But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste,

  1075

  Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes,

  Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies,

  And trees whose gums are poison; such the plants

  Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies

  O’er the world’s wilderness, and vainly pants

  1080

  For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants.

  CXXI

  Oh Love! no habitant of earth thou art –

  An unseen seraph, we believe in thee,

  A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart,

  But never yet hath seen, nor e’er shall see

  1085

  The naked eye, thy form, as it should be;

  The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven,

  Even with its own desiring phantasy,

  And to a thought such shape and image given,

  As haunts the unquench’d soul — parch’d — wearied — wrung — and riven.

  CXXII

  1090

  Of its own beauty is the mind diseased,

  And fevers into false creation: – where,

  Where are the forms the sculptor’s soul hath seized?

  In him alone. Can Nature show so fair?

  Where are the charms and virtues which we dare

  1095

  Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men,

  The unreach’d Paradise of our despair,

  Which o’er-informs the pencil and the pen,

  And overpowers the page where it would bloom again?

  CXXIII

  Who loves, raves – ’tis youth’s frenzy – but the cure

  1100

  Is bitterer still; as charm by charm unwinds

  Which robed our idols, and we see too sure

  Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind’s

  Ideal shape of such; yet still it binds

  The fatal spell, and still it draws us on,

  1105

  Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds;

  The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun,

  Seems ever near the prize – wealthiest when most undone.

  CXXIV

  We wither from our youth, we gasp away –

  Sick – sick; unfound the boon – unslaked the thirst,

  1110

  Though to the last, in verge of our decay,

  Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first –

  But all too late, – so are we doubly curst.

  Love, fame, ambition, avarice – ’tis the same,

  Each idle – and all ill – and none the worst –

  1115

  For all are meteors with a different name,

  And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame.

  CXXV

  Few — none — find what they love or could have loved,

  Though accident, blind contact, and the strong

  Necessity of loving, have removed

  1120

  Antipathies — but to recur, ere long,

  Envenom’d with irrevocable wrong;

  And Circumstance, that unspiritual god

  And miscreator, makes and helps along

  Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod,

  1125

  Whose touch turns Hope to dust, – the dust we all have trod.

  CXXVI

  Our life is a false nature – ’tis not in

  The harmony of things, - this hard decree,

  This uneradicable taint of sin,

  This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree,

  1130

  Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be

  The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew –

  Disease, death, bondage – all the woes we see –

  And worse, the woes we see not – which throb through

  The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new.

  CXXVII

  1135Yet let us ponder boldly – ’tis a base

  Abandonment of reason to resign

  Our right of thought – our last and only place

  Of refuge; this, at least, shall still be mine:

  Though from our birth the faculty divine

  1140

  Is chain’d and tortured – cabin’d, cribb’d, confined,

  And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine

  Too brightly on the unprepared mind,

  The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the blind.

  CXXVIII

  Arches on arches! as it were that Rome,

  1145

  Collecting the chief trophies of her line,

  Would build up all her triumphs in one dome,

  Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams shine

  As ’twere its natural torches, for divine

  Should be the light which streams here, to illume

  1150

  This long-explored but still exhaustless mine

  Of contemplation; and the azure gloom

  Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume

  CXXIX

  Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven,

  Floats o’er this vast and wondrous monument,

  1155

  And shadows forth its glory. There is given

  Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent,

  A spirit’s feeling, and where he hath leant

  His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power

  And magic in the ruin’d battlement

  1160

  For which the palace of the present hour

  Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower.

  CXXX

  Oh Time! the beautifier of the dead,

  Adorner of the ruin, comforter

  And only healer when the heart hath bled –

  1165

  Time! the corrector where our judgments err,

  The test of truth, love, – sole philosopher,

  For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift,

  Which never loses though it doth defer —

  Time, the avenger! unto thee I lift

  1170

  My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift:

  CXXXI

  Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine

  And temple more divinely desolate,

  Among thy mightier offerings here are mine,

  Ruins of years – though few, yet full of fate: –

  1175

  If thou hast ever seen me too elate,

  Hear me not; but if calmly I have borne

  Good, and reserved my pride against the hate

  Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn

  This iron in my soul in vain – shall they not mourn?

  CXXXII

  1180

  And thou, who never yet of human wrong

  Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis!

  Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long –

  Thou, who didst call the Furies from the abyss,

  And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss

  1185

  For that unnatural retribution – just,

  Had it but been from hands less near – in this

  Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust!

  Dost thou not hear my heart? – Awake! thou shalt, and must.

  CXXXIII

  It is not that I may not have incurr’d

  1190

  For my ancestral faults or mine the wound

  I bleed withal, and, had it been conferr’d

  With a just weapon, it had flow’d unbound;

  But n
ow my blood shall not sink in the ground;

  To thee I do devote it – thou shalt take

  1195

  The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found,

  Which if I have not taken for the sake—

  But let that pass – I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake

  CXXXIV

  And if my voice break forth, ’tis not that now

  I shrink from what is suffer’d: let him speak

  1200

  Who hath beheld decline upon my brow,

  Or seen my mind’s convulsion leave it weak;

  But in this page a record will I seek.

  Not in the air shall these my words disperse,

  Though I be ashes; a far hour shall wreak

  1205

  The deep prophetic fulness of this verse,

  And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse!

  CXXXV

  That curse shall be Forgiveness. – Have I not –

  Hear me, my mother Earth! behold it, Heaven! –

  Have I not had to wrestle with my lot!

  1210

  Have I not suffer’d things to be forgiven?

  Have I not had my brain sear’d, my heart riven,

  Hopes sapp’d, name blighted, Life’s life lied away?

  And only not to desperation driven,

  Because not altogether of such clay

  1215

  As rots into the souls of those whom I survey.

  CXXXVI

  From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy

  Have I not seen what human things could do?

  From the loud roar of foaming calumny

  To the small whisper of the as paltry few

  1220

  And subtler venom of the reptile crew,

  The Janus glance of whose significant eye,

  Learning to lie with silence, would seem true,

  And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh,

  Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy.

  CXXXVII

  1225

  But I have lived, and have not lived in vain:

  My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire,

  And my frame perish even in conquering pain;

  But there is that within me which shall tire

  Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire;

  1230

  Something unearthly, which they deem not of,

  Like the remember’d tone of a mute lyre,

  Shall on their soften’d spirits sink, and move

  In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love.

  CXXXVIII

  The seal is set. – Now welcome, thou dread power!

  1235

  Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here

  Walk’st in the shadow of the midnight hour

  With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear;

  Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear

  Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene

  1240

  Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear

  That we become a part of what has been,

  And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen.

  CXXXIX

  And here the buzz of eager nations ran,

  In murmur’d pity, or loud-roar’d applause,

  1245

  As man was slaughter’d by his fellow man.

  And wherefore slaughter’d? wherefore, but because

  Such were the bloody Circus’ genial laws,

  And the imperial pleasure. – Wherefore not?

  What matters where we fall to fill the maws

  1250

  Of worms – on battle-plains or listed spot?

  Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot.

  CXL

  I see before me the Gladiator lie:

  He leans upon his hand – his manly brow

  Consents to death, but conquers agony,

  1255

  And his droop’d head sinks gradually low –

  And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow

  From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,

  Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now

  The arena swims around him – he is gone,

  1260

  Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail’d the wretch who won.

  CXLI

  He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes

  Were with his heart, and that was far away:

  He reck’d not of the life he lost nor prize,

  But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,

  1265

  There were his young barbarians all at play,

  There was their Dacian mother – he, their sire,

  Butcher’d to make a Roman holiday1 —

  All this rush’d with his blood – Shall he expire

  And unavenged? – Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!

  CXLII

  1270

  But here, where Murder breathed her bloody steam;

  And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways,

  And roar’d or murmur’d like a mountain stream

  Dashing or winding as its torrent strays;

  Here, where the Roman millions’ blame or praise

  1275

  Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd,

  My voice sounds much – and fall the stars’ faint rays

  On the arena void – seats crush’d – walls bow’d –

  And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud.

  CXLIII

  A ruin – yet what ruin! from its mass

  1280

  Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been rear’d;

  Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass,

  And marvel where the spoil could have appear’d.

  Hath it indeed been plunder’d, or but clear’d?

  Alas! developed, opens the decay,

  1285

  When the colossal fabric’s form is near’d:

  It will not bear the brightness of the day,

  Which streams too much on all years, man, have reft away.

  CXLIV

  But when the rising moon begins to climb

  Its topmast arch, and gently pauses there;

  1290

  When the stars twinkle through the loops of time,

  And the low night-breeze waves along the air

  The garland forest, which the gray walls wear,

  Like laurels on the bald first Caesar’s head;

  When the light shines serene but doth not glare,

  1295

  Then in this magic circle raise the dead:

  Heroes have trod this spot – ’tis on their dust ye tread.

  CXLV

  ‘While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand;

  When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall;

  And when Rome falls – the World.’ From our own land

  1300

  Thus spake the pilgrims o’er this mighty wall

  In Saxon times, which we are wont to call

  Ancient; and these three mortal things are still

  On their foundations, and unalter’d all;

  Rome and her Ruin past Redemption’s skill,

  1305

  The World, the same wide den – of thieves, or what ye will.

  CXLVI

  Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime —

  Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods,

  From Jove to Jesus — spared and blest by time;

  Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods

  1310

  Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods

  His way through thorns to ashes – glorious dome!

  Shalt thou not last? Time’s scythe and tyrants’ rods

  Shiver upon thee – sanctuary and home

  Of art and piety – Pantheon! – pride of Rome!

  CXLVII

  1315

  Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts!

  Despoil’d ye
t perfect, with thy circle spreads

  A holiness appealing to all hearts –

  To art a model; and to him who treads

  Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds

  1320

  Her light through thy sole aperture; to those

  Who worship, here are altars for their beads;

  And they who feel for genius may repose

  Their eyes on honour’d forms, whose busts around them close.

  CXLVIII

  There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light

  1325

  What do I gaze on? Nothing: Look again!

  Two forms are slowly shadow’d on my sight –

  Two insulated phantoms of the brain:

  It is not so; I see them full and plain –

  An old man, and a female young and fair,

  1330 Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein

  The blood is nectar: – but what doth she there,

  With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and bare?

  CXLIX

  Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life,

  Where on the heart and from the heart we took

  1335

  Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife,

  Blest into mother, in the innocent look,

  Or even the piping cry of lips that brook

  No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives

  Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook

  1340

  She sees her little bud put forth its leaves —

  What may the fruit be yet? – I know not – Cain was Eve’s.

  CL

  But here youth offers to old age the food,

  The milk of his own gift: – it is her sire

  To whom she renders back the debt of blood

  1345

  Born with her birth. No; he shall not expire

  While in those warm and lovely veins the fire

  Of health and holy feeling can provide

  Great Nature’s Nile, whose deep stream rises higher

  Than Egypt’s river: – from that gentle side

  1350

  Drink, drink and live, old man! Heaven’s realm holds no such tide.

  CLI

  The starry fable of the milky way

  Has not thy story’s purity; it is

  A constellation of a sweeter ray,

  And sacred Nature triumphs more in this

  1355

  Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss

  Where sparkle distant worlds: – Oh, holiest nurse!

  No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss

  To thy sire’s heart, replenishing its source

  With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe.

  CLII

  1360

  Turn to the Mole which Hadrian rear’d on high,

  Imperial mimic of old Egypt’s piles,

  Colossal copyist of deformity,

  Whose travell’d phantasy from the far Nile’s

  Enormous model, doom’d the artist’s toils

  1365

  To build for giants, and for his vain earth,

  His shrunken ashes, raise this dome: How smiles