Delphi Poetry Anthology: The World's Greatest Poems (Delphi Poets Series Book 50)

by Homer

  Even though unforgiving, never

  ‘Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

  Would that breast were bared before thee 5

  Where thy head so oft hath lain,

  While that placid sleep came o’er thee

  Which thou ne’er canst know again:

  Would that breast, by thee glanced over,

  Every inmost thought could show! 10

  Then thou wouldst at last discover

  ’Twas not well to spurn it so.

  Though the world for this commend thee —

  Though it smile upon the blow,

  Even its praises must offend thee, 15

  Founded on another’s woe:

  Though my many faults defaced me,

  Could no other arm be found,

  Than the one which once embraced me,

  To inflict a cureless wound? 20

  Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not;

  Love may sink by slow decay,

  But by sudden wrench, believe not

  Hearts can thus be torn away:

  Still thine own its life retaineth, 25

  Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;

  And the undying thought which paineth

  Is — that we no more may meet.

  These are words of deeper sorrow

  Than the wail above the dead; 30

  Both shall live, but every morrow

  Wake us from a widow’d bed.

  And when thou wouldst solace gather,

  When our child’s first accents flow,

  Wilt thou teach her to say ‘Father!’ 35

  Though his care she must forego?

  When her little hands shall press thee,

  When her lip to thine is press’d,

  Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,

  Think of him thy love had bless’d! 40

  Should her lineaments resemble

  Those thou never more may’st see,

  Then thy heart will softly tremble

  With a pulse yet true to me.

  All my faults perchance thou knowest, 45

  All my madness none can know;

  All my hopes, where’er thou goest,

  Wither, yet with thee they go.

  Every feeling hath been shaken;

  Pride, which not a world could bow, 50

  Bows to thee — by thee forsaken,

  Even my soul forsakes me now:

  But ’tis done — all words are idle —

  Words from me are vainer still;

  But the thoughts we cannot bridle 55

  Force their way without the will.

  Fare thee well! thus disunited,

  Torn from every nearer tie,

  Sear’d in heart, and lone, and blighted,

  More than this I scarce can die. 60

  List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

  List of Poets in Alphabetical Order

  The Prisoner of Chillon

  George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788–1824)

  MY hair is gray, but not with years,

  Nor grew it white

  In a single night,

  As men’s have grown from sudden fears;

  My limbs are bow’d, though not with toil, 5

  But rusted with a vile repose,

  For they have been a dungeon’s spoil,

  And mine has been the fate of those

  To whom the goodly earth and air

  Are bann’d, and barr’d — forbidden fare; 10

  But this was for my father’s faith

  I suffer’d chains and courted death;

  That father perish’d at the stake

  For tenets he would not forsake;

  And for the same his lineal race 15

  In darkness found a dwelling-place.

  We were seven — who now are one,

  Six in youth, and one in age,

  Finish’d as they had begun,

  Proud of Persecution’s rage; 20

  One in fire, and two in field

  Their belief with blood have seal’d,

  Dying as their father died,

  For the God their foes denied;

  Three were in a dungeon cast, 25

  Of whom this wreck is left the last.

  There are seven pillars of Gothic mould,

  In Chillon’s dungeons deep and old,

  There are seven columns, massy and gray,

  Dim with a dull imprison’d ray, 30

  A sunbeam which hath lost its way,

  And through the crevice and the cleft

  Of the thick wall is fallen and left;

  Creeping o’er the floor so damp,

  Like a marsh’s meteor lamp. 35

  And in each pillar there is a ring,

  And in each ring there is a chain;

  That iron is a cankering thing,

  For in these limbs its teeth remain,

  With marks that will not wear away, 40

  Till I have done with this new day,

  Which now is painful to these eyes,

  Which have not seen the sun so rise

  For years — I cannot count them o’er,

  I lost their long and heavy score, 45

  When my last brother droop’d and died,

  And I lay living by his side.

  They chain’d us each to a column stone,

  And we were three — yet, each alone;

  We could not move a single pace, 50

  We could not see each other’s face,

  But with that pale and livid light

  That made us strangers in our sight:

  And thus together — yet apart,

  Fetter’d in hand, but join’d in heart, 55

  ’Twas still some solace, in the dearth

  Of the pure elements of earth,

  To hearken to each other’s speech,

  And each turn comforter to each

  With some new hope, or legend old, 60

  Or song heroically bold;

  But even these at length grew cold,

  Our voices took a dreary tone,

  An echo of the dungeon stone,

  A grating sound, not full and free, 65

  As they of yore were wont to be;

  It might be fancy, but to me

  They never sounded like our own.

  I was the eldest of the three,

  And to uphold and cheer the rest 70

  I ought to do — and did my best;

  And each did well in his degree.

  The youngest, whom my father loved,

  Because our mother’s brow was given

  To him, with eyes as blue as heaven — 75

  For him my soul was sorely moved;

  And truly might it be distress’d

  To see such bird in such a nest;

  For he was beautiful as day

  (When day was beautiful to me 80

  As to young eagles, being free) —

  A polar day, which will not see

  A sunset till its summer’s gone,

  Its sleepless summer of long light,

  The snow-clad offspring of the sun: 85

  And thus he was as pure and bright,

  And in his natural spirit gay,

  With tears for nought but others’ ills;

  And then they flow’d like mountain rills,

  Unless he could assuage the woe 90

  Which he abhorr’d to view below.

  The other was as pure of mind,

  But form’d to combat with his kind;

  Strong in his frame, and of a mood

  Which ‘gainst the world in war had stood, 95

  And perish’d in the foremost rank

  With joy: — but not in chains to pine:

  His spirit wither’d with their clank,

  I saw it silently decline —

  And so perchance in sooth did mine: 100

  But yet I forced it on to cheer

  Those relics of a home so dear.

  He was a hunter of the hills,

  H
ad follow’d there the deer and wolf;

  To him this dungeon was a gulf, 105

  And fetter’d feet the worst of ills.

  Lake Leman lies by Chillon’s walls:

  A thousand feet in depth below

  Its massy waters meet and flow;

  Thus much the fathom-line was sent 110

  From Chillon’s snow-white battlement

  Which round about the wave inthrals:

  A double dungeon wall and wave

  Have made — and like a living grave.

  Below the surface of the lake 115

  The dark vault lies wherein we lay,

  We heard it ripple night and day;

  Sounding o’er our heads it knock’d;

  And I have felt the winter’s spray

  Wash through the bars when winds were high 120

  And wanton in the happy sky;

  And then the very rock hath rock’d,

  And I have felt it shake, unshock’d

  Because I could have smiled to see

  The death that would have set me free. 125

  I said my nearer brother pined,

  I said his mighty heart declined,

  He loathed and put away his food;

  It was not that ’twas coarse and rude,

  For we were used to hunter’s fare, 130

  And for the like had little care.

  The milk drawn from the mountain goat

  Was changed for water from the moat,

  Our bread was such as captives’ tears

  Have moistened many a thousand years, 135

  Since man first pent his fellow men

  Like brutes within an iron den;

  But what were these to us or him?

  These wasted not his heart or limb;

  My brother’s soul was of that mould 140

  Which in a palace had grown cold,

  Had his free breathing been denied

  The range of the steep mountain’s side.

  But why delay the truth? — he died.

  I saw, and could not hold his head, 145

  Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, —

  Though hard I strove, but strove in vain

  To rend and gnash my bonds in twain.

  He died, — and they unlock’d his chain,

  And scoop’d for him a shallow grave 150

  Even from the cold earth of our cave.

  I begg’d them, as a boon, to lay

  His corse in dust whereon the day

  Might shine — it was a foolish thought,

  But then within my brain it wrought, 155

  That even in death his freeborn breast

  In such a dungeon could not rest.

  I might have spared my idle prayer;

  They coldly laugh’d — and laid him there:

  The flat and turfless earth above 160

  The being we so much did love;

  His empty chain above it leant,

  Such murder’s fitting monument!

  But he, the favourite and the flower,

  Most cherish’d since his natal hour, 165

  His mother’s image in fair face,

  The infant love of all his race,

  His martyr’d father’s dearest thought,

  My latest care for whom I sought

  To hoard my life, that his might be 170

  Less wretched now, and one day free;

  He, too, who yet had held untired

  A spirit natural or inspired —

  He, too, was struck, and day by day

  Was wither’d on the stalk away. 175

  Oh, God! it is a fearful thing

  To see the human soul take wing

  In any shape, in any mood: —

  I’ve seen it rushing forth in blood,

  I’ve seen it on the breaking ocean 180

  Strive with a swoln convulsive motion,

  I’ve seen the sick and ghastly bed

  Of Sin delirious with its dread:

  But these were horrors — this was woe

  Unmix’d with such — but sure and slow. 185

  He faded, and so calm and meek,

  So softly worn, so sweetly weak,

  So tearless, yet so tender — kind,

  And grieved for those he left behind;

  With all the while a cheek whose bloom 190

  Was as a mockery of the tomb,

  Whose tints as gently sunk away

  As a departing rainbow’s ray;

  An eye of most transparent light,

  That almost made the dungeon bright; 195

  And not a word of murmur, not

  A groan o’er his untimely lot, —

  A little talk of better days,

  A little hope my own to raise,

  For I was sunk in silence — lost 200

  In this last loss, of all the most;

  And then the sighs he would suppress

  Of fainting nature’s feebleness,

  More slowly drawn, grew less and less.

  I listen’d, but I could not hear — 205

  I call’d, for I was wild with fear;

  I knew ‘t was hopeless, but my dread

  Would not be thus admonishèd.

  I call’d, and thought I heard a sound —

  I burst my chain with one strong bound, 210

  And rush’d to him: — I found him not,

  I only stirr’d in this black spot,

  I only lived, I only drew

  The accursèd breath of dungeon-dew;

  The last — the sole — the dearest link 215

  Between me and the eternal brink,

  Which bound me to my failing race,

  Was broken in this fatal place.

  One on the earth, and one beneath —

  My brothers — both had ceased to breathe: 220

  I took that hand which lay so still,

  Alas! my own was full as chill;

  I had not strength to stir, or strive,

  But felt that I was still alive —

  A frantic feeling, when we know 225

  That what we love shall ne’er be so.

  I know not why

  I could not die,

  I had no earthly hope — but faith,

  And that forbade a selfish death. 230

  What next befell me then and there

  I know not well — I never knew;

  First came the loss of light, and air,

  And then of darkness too:

  I had no thought, no feeling — none — 235

  Among the stones, I stood a stone,

  And was, scarce conscious what I wist,

  As shrubless crags within the mist;

  For all was blank, and bleak, and gray;

  It was not night — it was not day; 240

  It was not even the dungeon-light,

  So hateful to my heavy sight,

  But vacancy absorbing space,

  And fixedness — without a place;

  There were no stars, no earth, no time, 245

  No check, no change, no good, no crime,

  But silence, and a stirless breath

  Which neither was of life nor death;

  A sea of stagnant idleness,

  Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless! 250

  A light broke in upon my brain, —

  It was the carol of a bird;

  It ceased, and then it came again,

  The sweetest song ear ever heard,

  And mine was thankful till my eyes 255

  Ran over with the glad surprise,

  And they that moment could not see

  I was the mate of misery.

  But then by dull degrees came back

  My senses to their wonted track; 260

  I saw the dungeon walls and floor

  Close slowly round me as before,

  I saw the glimmer of the sun

  Creeping as it before had done,

  But through the crevice where it came 265

  That bird was perched, as
fond and tame,

  And tamer than upon the tree;

  A lovely bird, with azure wings,

  And song that said a thousand things,

  And seemed to say them all for me! 270

  I never saw its like before,

  I ne’er shall see its likeness more;

  It seemed like me to want a mate,

  But was not half so desolate,

  And it was come to love me when 275

  None lived to love me so again,

  And cheering from my dungeon’s brink,

  Had brought me back to feel and think.

  I know not if it late were free,

  Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 280

  But knowing well captivity,

  Sweet bird! I could not wish for thine!

  Or if it were, in wingèd guise,

  A visitant from Paradise;

  For — Heaven forgive that thought! the while 285

  Which made me both to weep and smile —

  I sometimes deem’d that it might be

  My brother’s soul come down to me;

  But then at last away it flew,

  And then ’twas mortal well I knew, 290

  For he would never thus have flown,

  And left me twice so doubly lone,

  Lone — as the corse within its shroud,

  Lone — as a solitary cloud,

  A single cloud on a sunny day, 295

  While all the rest of heaven is clear,

  A frown upon the atmosphere

  That hath no business to appear

  When skies are blue and earth is gay.

  A kind of change came in my fate, 300

  My keepers grew compassionate;

  I know not what had made them so,

  They were inured to sights of woe,

  But so it was: — my broken chain

  With links unfasten’d did remain, 305

  And it was liberty to stride

  Along my cell from side to side,

  And up and down, and then athwart,

  And tread it over every part;

  And round the pillars one by one, 310

  Returning where my walk begun,

  Avoiding only, as I trod,

  My brothers’ graves without a sod;

  For if I thought with heedless tread

  My steps profaned their lowly bed, 315

  My breath came gaspingly and thick,

  And my crush’d heart fell blind and sick.

  I made a footing in the wall,

  It was not therefrom to escape,

  For I had buried one and all 320

  Who loved me in a human shape;