by Byron
With lonely lustre, all his own.
XVII
‘Up rose the sun; the mists were curl’d
Back from the solitary world
655
Which lay around – behind – before;
What booted it to traverse o’er
Plain, forest, river? Man nor brute,
Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot,
Lay in the wild luxuriant soil;
660
No sign of travel – none of toil;
The very air was mute;
And not an insect’s shrill small horn,
Nor matin bird’s new voice was borne
From herb nor thicket. Many a werst,
665
Panting as if his heart would burst,
The weary brute still stagger’d on;
And still we were – or seem’d – alone:
At length, while reeling on our way,
Methought I heard a courser neigh,
670
From out yon tuft of blackening firs.
Is it the wind those branches stirs?
No, no! from out the forest prance
A trampling troop; I see them come!
In one vast squadron they advance!
675
I strove to cry – my lips were dumb.
The steeds rush on in plunging pride;
But where are they the reins to guide?
A thousand horse — and none to ride!
With flowing tail, and flying mane,
680
Wide nostrils — never stretch’d by pain,
Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein,
And feet that iron never shod,
And flanks unscarr’d by spur or rod,
A thousand horse the wild the free,
685
Like waves that follow o’er the sea,
Came thickly thundering on,
As if our faint approach to meet;
The sight re-nerved my courser’s feet,
A moment staggering, feebly fleet,
690
A moment, with a faint low neigh,
He answer’d, and then fell;
With gasps and glazing eyes he lay,
And reeking limbs immoveable,
His first and last career is done!
695
On came the troop – they saw him stoop,
They saw me strangely bound along
His back with many a bloody thong:
They stop – they start – they snuff the air,
Gallop a moment here and there,
700
Approach, retire, wheel round and round,
Then, plunging back with sudden bound,
Headed by one black mighty steed,
Who seem’d the patriarch of his breed,
Without a single speck or hair
705
Of white upon his shaggy hide;
They snort — they foam — neigh — swerve aside
And backward to the forest fly,
By instinct from a human eye. –
They left me there to my despair,
710
Link’d to the dead and stiffening wretch,
Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch,
Relieved from that unwonted weight,
From whence I could not extricate
Nor him nor me – and there we lay
715
The dying on the dead!
I little deem’d another day
Would see my houseless, helpless head.
‘And there from morn till twilight bound,
I felt the heavy hours toil round,
720
With just enough of life to see
My last of suns go down on me,
In hopeless certainty of mind,
That makes us feel at length resign’d
To that which our foreboding years
725
Presents the worst and last of fears
Inevitable – even a boon,
Nor more unkind for coming soon;
Yet shunn’d and dreaded with such care,
As if it only were a snare
730
That prudence might escape:
At times both wish’d for and implored
At times sought with self-pointed sword,
Yet still a dark and hideous close
To even intolerable woes,
735
And welcome in no shape.
And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure,
They who have revell’d beyond measure
In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure,
Die calm, or calmer, oft than he
740
Whose heritage was misery:
For he who hath in turn run through
All that was beautiful and new,
Hath nought to hope, and nought to leave;
And, save the future, (which is view’d
745
Not quite as men are base or good,
But as their nerves may be endued,)
With nought perhaps to grieve: –
The wretch still hopes his woes must end,
And Death, whom he should deem his friend,
750
Appears, to his distemper’d eyes,
Arrived to rob him of his prize,
The tree of his new Paradise.
Tomorrow would have given him all,
Repaid his pangs, repair’d his fall;
755
Tomorrow would have been the first
Of days no more deplored or curst,
But bright, and long, and beckoning years,
Seen dazzling through the mist of tears,
Guerdon of many a painful hour;
760
Tomorrow would have given him power
To rule, to shine, to smite, to save –
And must it dawn upon his grave?
XVIII
‘The sun was sinking – still I lay
Chain’d to the chill and stiffening steed,
765
I thought to mingle there our clay;
And my dim eyes of death had need,
No hope arose of being freed:
I cast my last looks up the sky,
And there between me and the sun
770
I saw the expecting raven fly,
Who scarce would wait till both should die,
Ere his repast begun;
He flew, and perch’d, then flew once more,
And each time nearer than before;
775
I saw his wing through twilight flit,
And once so near me he alit
I could have smote, but lack’d the strength;
But the slight motion of my hand,
And feeble scratching of the sand,
780
The exerted throat’s faint struggling noise,
Which scarcely could be call’d a voice,
Together scared him off at length. –
I know no more – my latest dream
Is something of a lovely star
785
Which fix’d my dull eyes from afar,
And went and came with wandering beam,
And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense
Sensation of recurring sense,
And then subsiding back to death,
790
And then again a little breath,
A little thrill, a short suspense,
An icy sickness curdling o’er
My heart, and sparks that cross’d my brain –
A gasp, a throb, a start of pain,
795
A sigh, and nothing more.
XIX
‘I woke – Where was I? – Do I see
A human face look down on me?
And doth a roof above me close?
Do these limbs on a couch repose?
800
Is this a chamber where I lie?
And is it mortal yon brigh
t eye,
That watches me with gentle glance?
I closed my own again once more,
As doubtful that the former trance
805
Could not as yet be o’er.
A slender girl, long-hair’d, and tall,
Sate watching by the cottage wall;
The sparkle of her eye I caught,
Even with my first return of thought;
810
For ever and anon she threw
A prying, pitying glance on me
With her black eyes so wild and free:
I gazed, and gazed, until I knew
No vision it could be, –
815
But that I lived, and was released
From adding to the vulture’s feast:
And when the Cossack maid beheld
My heavy eyes at length unseal’d,
She smiled – and I essay’d to speak,
820
But fail’d – and she approach’d, and made
With lip and finger signs that said,
I must not strive as yet to break
The silence, till my strength should be
Enough to leave my accents free;
825
And then her hand on mine she laid,
And smooth’d the pillow for my head,
And stole along on tiptoe tread,
And gently oped the door, and spake
In whispers – ne’er was voice so sweet!
830
Even music follow’d her light feet; –
But those she call’d were not awake,
And she went forth; but, ere she pass’d,
Another look on me she cast,
Another sign she made, to say,
835
That I had nought to fear, that all
Were near, at my command or call,
And she would not delay
Her due return: — while she was gone,
Methought I felt too much alone.
XX
840
‘She came with mother and with sire –
What need of more? — I will not tire
With long recital of the rest,
Since I became the Cossack’s guest.
They found me senseless on the plain –
845
They bore me to the nearest hut –
They brought me into life again –
Me – one day o’er their realm to reign!
Thus the vain fool who strove to glut
His rage, refining on my pain,
850
Sent me forth to the wilderness,
Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone,
To pass the desert to a throne, –
What mortal his own doom may guess? –
Let none despond, let none despair!
855
Tomorrow the Borysthenes
May see our coursers graze at ease
Upon his Turkish bank, – and never
Had I such welcome for a river
As I shall yield when safely there.
860
Comrades, good night!’ – The Hetman threw
His length beneath the oak-tree shade,
With leafy couch already made,
A bed nor comfortless nor new
To him, who took his rest whene’er
865
The hour arrived, no matter where:
His eyes the hastening slumbers steep.
And if ye marvel Charles forgot
To thank his tale, he wonder’d not, –
The king had been an hour asleep.
Stanzas to the Po
I
River, that rollest by the ancient walls,
Where dwells the lady of my love, when she
Walks by thy brink, and there perchance recalls
A faint and fleeting memory of me;
II
5
What if thy deep and ample stream should be
A mirror of my heart, where she may read
The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee,
Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed!
III
What do I say — a mirror of my heart?
10
Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong?
Such as my feelings were and are, thou art;
And such as thou art were my passions long.
IV
Time may have somewhat tamed them, — not for ever;
Thou overflow’st thy banks, and not for aye
15
Thy bosom overboils, congenial river!
Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away.
V
But left long wrecks behind, and now again,
Borne in our old unchanged career we move;
Thou tendest wildly onwards to the main,
20
And I — to loving one I should not love.
VI
The current I behold will sweep beneath
Her native walls and murmur at her feet;
Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe
The twilight air, unharm’d by summer’s heat.
VII
25
She will look on thee, — I have look’d on thee,
Full of that thought; and, from that moment, ne’er
Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see,
Without the inseparable sigh for her!
VIII
Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream, —
30
Yes! they will meet the wave I gaze on now:
Mine cannot witness, even in a dream,
That happy wave repass me in its flow!
IX
The wave that bears my tears returns no more:
Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep? —
35
Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore,
I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep.
X
But that which keepeth us apart is not
Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth,
But the distraction of a various lot,
40
As various as the climates of our birth.
XI
A stranger loves the lady of the land,
Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood
Is all meridian, as if never fann’d
By the black wind that chills the polar flood.
XII
45
My blood is all meridian; were it not,
I had not left my clime, nor should I be,
In spite of tortures, ne’er to be forgot,
A slave again of love, — at least of thee.
XIII
’Tis vain to struggle — let me perish young —
50
Live as I lived, and love as I have loved;
To dust if I return, from dust I sprung,
And then, at least, my heart can ne’er be moved.
The Isles of Greece
1
The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,
Where Delos rose, and Phœbus sprung!
5
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.
2
The Scian and the Teian muse,
The hero’s harp, the lover’s lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse:
10
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo further west
Than your sires’ ‘Islands of the Blest.’
3
The mountains look on Marathon —
And Marathon looks on the sea;
15
And musing there an hour alone,
I dream’d that Greece might still be free;
For standing on the Persians’ grave,
/>
I could not deem myself a slave.
4
A king sate on the rocky brow
20
Which looks o’er sea-born Salamis;
And ships, by thousands, lay below,
And men in nations; – all were his!
He counted them at break of day —
And when the sun set where were they?
5
25
And where are they? and where art thou,
My country? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic lay is tuneless now –
The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
30
Degenerate into hands like mine?
6
’Tis something, in the dearth of fame,
Though link’d among a fetter’d race,
To feel at least a patriot’s shame,
Even as I sing, suffuse my face;
35
For what is left the poet here?
For Greeks a blush – for Greece a tear.
7
Must we but weep o’er days more blest?
Must we but blush? – Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
40
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylae!
8
What, silent still? and silent all?
Ah! no; – the voices of the dead
45
Sound like a distant torrent’s fall,
And answer, ‘Let one living head,
But one arise, – we come, we come!’
’Tis but the living who are dumb.
9
In vain – in vain: strike other chords;
50
Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,
And shed the blood of Scio’s vine!
Hark! rising to the ignoble call —
How answers each bold Bacchanal!
10
55
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet;
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget
The nobler and the manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave –
60
Think ye he meant them for a slave?
11
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
We will not think of themes like these!
It made Anacreon’s song divine:
He served – but served Polycrates –
65
A tyrant; but our masters then
Were still, at least, our countrymen.
12
The tyrant of the Chersonese
Was freedom’s best and bravest friend;
That tyrant was Miltiades!
70
Oh! that the present hour would lend
Another despot of the kind!
Such chains as his were sure to bind.
13
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
On Suli’s rock, and Parga’s shore,
75
Exists the remnant of a line
Such as the Doric mothers bore;
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown,
The Heracleidan blood might own.