by Byron
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Trust not for freedom to the Franks –
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They have a king who buys and sells;
In native swords, and native ranks,
The only hope of courage dwells:
But Turkish force, and Latin fraud,
Would break your shield, however broad.
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Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
Our virgins dance beneath the shade –
I see their glorious black eyes shine;
But gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves,
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To think such breasts must suckle slaves.
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Place me on Sunium’s marbled steep,
Where nothing, save the waves and I,
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
There, swan-like, let me sing and die:
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A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine –
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!
Francesca of Rimini
From the Inferno of Dante, Canto the Fifth
‘The land where I was born sits by the seas,1
Upon that shore to which the Po descends,
With all his followers, in search of peace.
Love, which the gentle heart soon apprehends,
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Seized him for the fair person which was ta’en
From me, and me even yet the mode offends.
Love, who to none beloved to love again
Remits, seized me with wish to please, so strong,
That, as thou seest, yet, yet it doth remain.
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Love to one death conducted us along,
But Cainá waits for him our life who ended: ’
These were the accents utter’d by her tongue. –
Since I first listen’d to these souls offended,
I bow’d my visage, and so kept it till –
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‘What think’st thou?’ said the bard; when I unbended,
And recommenced: ‘Alas! unto such ill
How many sweet thoughts, what strong ecstasies
Led these their evil fortune to fulfil!’
And then I turn’d unto their side my eyes,
Have made me sorrow till the tears arise.
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And said, ‘Francesca, thy sad destinies
But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs,
By what and how thy love to passion rose,
So as his dim desires to recognise?’
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Then she to me: ‘The greatest of all woes
Is to remind us of our happy days
In misery, and that thy teacher knows.
But if to learn our passion’s first root preys
Upon thy spirit with such sympathy,
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I will do even as he who weeps and says.
We read one day for pastime, seated nigh,
Of Lancilot, how love enchain’d him too.
We were alone, quite unsuspiciously.
But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue
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All o’er discoloured by that reading were;
But one point only wholly us o’erthrew;
When we read the long-sigh’d-for smile of her,
To be thus kiss’d by such devoted lover,
He who from me can be divided ne’er
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Kiss’d my mouth, trembling in the act all over.
Accursed was the book and he who wrote!
That day no further leaf we did uncover. —
While thus one spirit told us of their lot,
The other wept, so that with pity’s thralls
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I swoon’d as if by death I had been smote,
And fell down even as a dead body falls.’
Stanzas (‘When a man hath no freedom’)
When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home,
Let him combat for that of his neighbours;
Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome,
And get knock’d on the head for his labours.
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To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan,
And is always as nobly requited;
Then battle for freedom wherever you can,
And, if not shot or hang’d, you’ll get knighted.
SARDANAPALUS
A Tragedy
TO THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE
A STRANGER PRESUMES TO OFFER THE HOMAGE OF A LITERARY VASSAL TO HIS LIEGE LORD, THE FIRST OF EXISTING WRITERS, WHO HAS CREATED THE LITERATURE OF HIS OWN COUNTRY, AND ILLUSTRATED THAT OF EUROPE. THE UNWORTHY PRODUCTION WHICH THE AUTHOR VENTURES TO INSCRIBE TO HIM IS ENTITLED SARDANAPALUS.
PREFACE
In publishing the following Tragedies I have only to repeat, that they were not composed with the most remote view to the stage. On the attempt made by the Managers in a former instance, the public opinion has been already expressed. With regard to my own private feelings, as it seems that they are to stand for nothing, I shall say nothing.
For the historical foundation of the following compositions the reader is referred to the Notes.
The Author has in one instance attempted to preserve, and in the other to approach, the ‘unities;’ conceiving that with any very distant departure from them, there may be poetry, but can be no drama. He is aware of the unpopularity of this notion in present English literature; but it is not a system of his own, being merely an opinion, which, not very long ago, was the law of literature throughout the world, and is still so in the more civilised parts of it. But ‘nous avons changé tout cela,’ and are reaping the advantages of the change. The writer is far from conceiving that any thing he can adduce by personal precept or example can at all approach his regular, or even irregular predecessors: he is merely giving a reason why he preferred the more regular formation of a structure, however feeble, to an entire abandonment of all rules whatsoever. Where he has failed, the failure is in the architect, – and not in the art.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
Men
SARDANAPALUS, King of Nineveh and Assyria, &c.
ARBACES, the Mede who aspired to the Throne
BELESES, a Chaldean and Soothsayer
SALEMENES, the King’s Brother-in-law
ALTADA, an Assyrian Officer of the Palace
PANIA
ZAMES
SFERO
BALEA
Women
ZARINA, the Queen
MYRRHA, an Ionian female Slave, and the Favourite of SARDANAPALUS
Women composing the Harem of SARDANAPALUS, Guards,
Attendants, Chaldean Priests, Medes, &c. &c.
Scene – a Hall in the Royal Palace of Nineveh.
In this tragedy it has been my intention to follow the account of Diodorus Siculus; reducing it, however, to such dramatic regularity as I best could, and trying to approach the unities. I therefore suppose the rebellion to explode and succeed in one day by a sudden conspiracy, instead of the long war of the history.
Act I
SCENE I
A Hall in the Palace.
SALEMENES [solus]: He hath wrong’d his queen, but still he is her lord;
He hath wrong’d my sister, still he is my brother;
He hath wrong’d his people, still he is their sovereign,
And I must be his friend as well as subject:
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He must not perish thus. I will not see
The blood of Nimrod and Semiramis
Sink in the earth, and thirteen hundred years
Of empire ending like a shepherd’s tale;
He must be roused. In his effeminate heart
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There is a careless courage which corruption
Has not all quench’d, and latent energies,
Repress’d by circumstance, but not destroy’d –
Steep’d, but not drown’d, in dee
p voluptuousness.
If born a peasant, he had been a man
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To have reach’d an empire: to an empire born,
He will bequeath none; nothing but a name,
Which his sons will not prize in heritage: —
Yet, not all lost, even yet he may redeem
His sloth and shame, by only being that
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Which he should be, as easily as the thing
He should not be and is. Were it less toil
To sway his nations than consume his life?
To head an army than to rule a harem?
He sweats in palling pleasures, dulls his soul,
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And saps his goodly strength, in toils which yield not
Health like the chase, nor glory like the war –
He must be roused. Alas! there is no sound
[Sound of soft music heard from within.]
To rouse him short of thunder. Hark! the lute,
The lyre, the timbrel; the lascivious tinklings
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Of lulling instruments, the softening voices
Of women, and of beings less than women,
Must chime in to the echo of his revel,
While the great king of all we know of earth
Lolls crown’d with roses, and his diadem
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Lies negligently by to be caught up
By the first manly hand which dares to snatch it.
Lo, where they come! already I perceive
The reeking odours of the perfumed trains,
And see the bright gems of the glittering girls,
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At once his chorus and his council, flash
Along the gallery, and amidst the damsels,
As femininely garb’d, and scarce less female,
The grandson of Semiramis, the man-queen. –
He comes! Shall I await him? yes, and front him,
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And tell him what all good men tell each other,
Speaking of him and his. They come, the slaves.
Led by the monarch subject to his slaves.
SCENE II
[Enter SARDANAPALUS effeminately dressed, his Head crowned with Flowers, and his Robe negligently flowing, attended by a Train of Women and young Slaves.]
SARDANAPALUS [speaking to some of his attendants]: Let the
pavilion over the Euphrates
Be garlanded, and lit, and furnish’d forth
For an especial banquet; at the hour
Of midnight we will sup there: see nought wanting,
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And bid the galley be prepared. There is
A cooling breeze which crisps the broad clear river:
We will embark anon. Fair nymphs, who deign
To share the soft hours of Sardanapalus,
We’ll meet again in that the sweetest hour,
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When we shall gather like the stars above us,
And you will form a heaven as bright as theirs;
Till then, let each be mistress of her time,
And thou, my own Ionian Myrrha, choose,
Wilt thou along with them or me?
MYRRHA:My lord —
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SARDANAPALUS: My lord, my life! why answerest, thou so coldly?
It is the curse of kings to be so answer’d.
Rule thy own hours, thou rulest mine – say, wouldst thou
Accompany our guests, or charm away
The moments from me?
MYRRHA:The king’s choice is mine.
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SARDANAPALUS: I pray thee say not so: my chiefest joy
Is to contribute to thine every wish.
I do not dare to breathe my own desire,
Lest it should clash with thine; for thou art still
Too prompt to sacrifice thy thoughts for others.
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MYRRHA: I would remain: I have no happiness
Save in beholding thine; yet —
SARDANAPALUS:Yet! what YET?
Thy own sweet will shall be the only barrier
Which ever rises betwixt thee and me.
MYRRHA: I think the present is the wonted hour
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Of council; it were better I retire.
SALEMENES [comes forward and says]: The Ionian slave says
well: let her retire.
SARDANAPALUS: Who answers? How now, brother?
SALEMENES:The queen’s brother,
And your most faithful vassal, royal lord.
SARDANAPALUS [addressing his train]: As I have said, let all dispose their hours
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Till midnight, when again we pray your presence.
[The court retiring.]
[To MYRRHA, who is going:]
Myrrha! I thought thou wouldst remain.
MYRRHA:Great king,
Thou didst not say so.
SARDANAPALUS:But thou lookedst it:
I know each glance of those Ionic eyes,
Which said thou wouldst not leave me.
MYRRHA:Sire! your brother —
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SALEMENES: His consort’s brother, minion of Ionia!
How darest thou name me and not blush?
SARDANAPALUS:Not blush!
Thou hast no more eyes than heart to make her crimson
Like to the dying day on Caucasus,
Where sunset tints the snow with rosy shadows,
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And then reproach her with thine own cold blindness,
Which will not see it. What, in tears, my Myrrha?
SALEMENES: Let them flow on; she weeps for more than one, And is herself the cause of bitterer tears.
SARDANAPALUS: Cursed be he who caused those tears to flow!
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SALEMENES: Curse not thyself – millions do that already.
SARDANAPALUS: Thou dost forget thee: make me not remember
I am a monarch.
SALEMENES:Would thou couldst!
MYRRHA:My sovereign,
I pray, and thou, too, prince, permit my absence.
SARDANAPALUS: Since it must be so, and this churl has check’d
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Thy gentle spirit, go; but recollect
That we must forthwith meet: I had rather lose
An empire than thy presence.
[Exit MYRRHA.]
SALEMENES:It may be,
Thou wilt lose both, and both for ever!
SARDANAPALUS:Brother,
I can at least command mself who listen
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To language such as this: yet urge me not
Beyond my easy nature.
SALEMENES:’Tis beyond
That easy, far too easy, idle nature,
Which I would urge thee. O that I could rouse thee!
Though ’twere against myself.
SARDANAPALUS:By the god Baal!
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The man would make me tyrant.
SALEMENES:So thou art.
Think’st thou there is no tyranny but that
Of blood and chains? The despotism of vice –
The weakness and the wickedness of luxury –
The negligence – the apathy – the evils
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Of sensual sloth – produce ten thousand tyrants,
Whose delegated cruelty surpasses
The worst acts of one energetic master,
However harsh and hard in his own bearing.
The false and fond examples of thy lusts
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Corrupt no less than they oppress, and sap
In the same moment all thy pageant power
And those who should sustain it; so that whether
A foreign foe invade, or civil broil
Distract within, both will alike prove fatal:
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The first thy subjects have no heart to conquer;
The last they rather would assist than vanquish.
SARDANAPALUS: Why, what mak
es thee the mouth-piece of the people?
SALEMENES: Forgiveness of the queen, my sister’s wrongs;
A natural love unto my infant nephews;
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Faith to the king, a faith he may need shortly,
In more than words; respect for Nimrod’s line;
Also, another thing thou knowest not.
SARDANAPALUS: What’s that?
SALEMENES:To thee an unknown word.
Yet speak it;
I love to learn.
SALEMENES: Virtue.
SARDANAPALUS:Not know the word!
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Never was word yet rung so in my ears —
Worse than the rabble’s shout, or splitting trumpet:
I’ve heard thy sister talk of nothing else.
SALEMENES: To change the irksome theme, then, hear of vice.
SARDANAPALUS: From whom?
SALEMENES:Even from the winds, if thou couldst listen
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Unto the echoes of the nation’s voice.
SARDANAPALUS: Come, I’m indulgent, as thou knowest, patient,
As thou hast often proved – speak out, what moves thee?
SALEMENES: Thy peril.
SARDANAPALUS:Say on.
SALEMENES:Thus, then: all the nations,
For they are many, whom thy father left
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In heritage, are loud in wrath against thee.
SARDANAPALUS: ’Gainst me! What would the slaves?
SALEMENES:A king.
SARDANAPALUS:And what Am I then?
SALEMENES: In their eyes a nothing; but
In mine a man who might be something still.
SARDANAPALUS: The railing drunkards! why, what would they have?
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Have they not peace and plenty?
SALEMENES:Of the first
More than is glorious; of the last, far less
Than the king recks of.
SARDANAPALUS:Whose then is the crime,
But the false satraps, who provide no better?
SALEMENES: And somewhat in the monarch who ne’er looks
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Beyond his palace walls, or if he stirs
Beyond them, ’tis but to some mountain palace,
Till summer heats wear down. O glorious Baal!
Who built up this vast empire, and wert made
A god, or at the least shinest like a god
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Through the long centuries of thy renown,
This, thy presumed descendant, ne’er beheld
As king the kingdoms thou didst leave as hero,
Won with thy blood, and toil, and time, and peril!
For what? to furnish imposts for a revel,
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Or multiplied extortions for a minion.
SARDANAPALUS: I understand thee – thou wouldst have me go
Forth as a conqueror. By all the stars
Which the Chaldeans read – the restless slaves
Deserve that I should curse them with their wishes,