by Homer
And the whole earth would henceforth be
A wider prison unto me:
No child, no sire, no kin had I,
No partner in my misery; 325
I thought of this, and I was glad,
For thought of them had made me mad;
But I was curious to ascend
To my barr’d windows, and to bend
Once more, upon the mountains high, 330
The quiet of a loving eye.
I saw them — and they were the same.
They were not changed like me in frame;
I saw their thousand years of snow
On high — their wide long lake below, 335
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow;
I heard the torrents leap and gush
O’er channell’d rock and broken bush;
I saw the white-wall’d distant town,
And whiter sails go skimming down; 340
And then there was a little isle,
Which in my very face did smile,
The only one in view;
A small green isle, it seem’d no more,
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 345
But in it there were three tall trees,
And o’er it blew the mountain breeze,
And by it there were waters flowing,
And on it there were young flowers growing
Of gentle breath and hue. 350
The fish swam by the castle wall,
And they seem’d joyous each and all;
The eagle rode the rising blast,
Methought he never flew so fast
As then to me he seem’d to fly; 355
And then new tears came in my eye,
And I felt troubled and would fain
I had not left my recent chain.
And when I did descend again,
The darkness of my dim abode 360
Fell on me as a heavy load;
It was as is a new-dug grave,
Closing o’er one we sought to save;
And yet my glance, too much opprest,
Had almost need of such a rest. 365
It might be months, or years, or days —
I kept no count, I took no note,
I had no hope my eyes to raise,
And clear them of their dreary mote.
At last men came to set me free; 370
I ask’d not why, and reck’d not where,
It was at length the same to me,
Fetter’d or fetterless to be,
I learn’d to love despair.
And thus when they appear’d at last, 375
And all my bonds aside were cast,
These heavy walls to me had grown
A hermitage — and all my own!
And half I felt as they were come
To tear me from a second home: 380
With spiders I had friendship made,
And watch’d them in their sullen trade,
Had seen the mice by moonlight play,
And why should I feel less than they?
We were all inmates of one place, 385
And I, the monarch of each race,
Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell!
In quiet we had learn’d to dwell —
My very chains and I grew friends,
So much a long communion tends 390
To make us what we are: — even I
Regain’d my freedom with a sigh.
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
On the Castle of Chillon
George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788–1824)
ETERNAL SPIRIT of the chainless Mind!
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art, —
For there thy habitation is the heart —
The heart which love of Thee alone can bind;
And when thy sons to fetters are consign’d, 5
To fetters, and the damp vault’s dayless gloom,
Their country conquers with their martyrdom,
And Freedom’s fame finds wings on every wind.
Chillon! thy prison is a holy place
And thy sad floor an altar, for ’twas trod, 10
Until his very steps have left a trace
Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod,
By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface!
For they appeal from tyranny to God.
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
Song of Saul Before His Last Battle
George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788–1824)
WARRIORS and chiefs! should the shaft or the sword
Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord,
Heed not the corse, though a king’s in your path:
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath!
Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow, 5
Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe,
Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet!
Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet.
Farewell to others, but never we part,
Heir to my royalty, son of my heart! 10
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway,
Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day!
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
The Isles of Greece
George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788–1824)
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!
Eternal summer gilds them yet, 5
But all, except their sun, is set.
The Scian and the Teian muse,
The hero’s harp, the lover’s lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse:
Their place of birth alone is mute 10
To sounds which echo further west
Than your sires’ ‘Islands of the Blest.’
The mountains look on Marathon —
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone, 15
I dream’d that Greece might still be free;
For standing on the Persians’ grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.
A king sate on the rocky brow
Which looks o’er sea-born Salamis; 20
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?
And where are they? and where art thou, 25
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,
Degenerate into hands like mine? 30
’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;
For what is left the poet here? 35
For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear.
Must we but weep o’er days more blest?
Must we but blush? — Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead! 40
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylæ!
What, silent still? and silent all?
Ah! no; — the voices of the dead
Sound like a distant torrent’s fall, 45
And answer, ‘Let one living head,
But one, arise, — we come, we come!’
’Tis but the living who are dumb.
In vain — in vain: strike other chords;
Fill high the cup with Samian wine! 50
Leave battl
es to the Turkish hordes,
And shed the blood of Scio’s vine!
Hark! rising to the ignoble call —
How answers each bold Bacchanal!
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet; 55
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget
The nobler and the manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave —
Think ye he meant them for a slave? 60
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 —
A tyrant; but our masters then 65
Were still, at least, our countrymen.
The tyrant of the Chersonese
Was freedom’s best and bravest friend;
That tyrant was Miltiades!
O that the present hour would lend 70
Another despot of the kind!
Such chains as his were sure to bind.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
On Suli’s rock, and Parga’s shore,
Exists the remnant of a line 75
Such as the Doric mothers bore;
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown,
The Heracleidan blood might own.
Trust not for freedom to the Franks —
They have a king who buys and sells; 80
In native swords and native ranks
The only hope of courage dwells:
But Turkish force and Latin fraud
Would break your shield, however broad.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 85
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,
To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 90
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:
A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine — 95
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
On This Day I Complete My Thirty-Sixth Year
George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788–1824)
‘TIS time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it hath ceased to move:
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!
My days are in the yellow leaf; 5
The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!
The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle; 10
No torch is kindled at its blaze —
A funeral pile.
The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share, 15
But wear the chain.
But ’tis not thus — and ’tis not here —
Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now,
Where glory decks the hero’s bier,
Or binds his brow. 20
The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.
Awake! (not Greece — she is awake!) 25
Awake, my spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!
Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood! — unto thee 30
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.
If thou regret’st thy youth, why live?
The land of honourable death
Is here: — up to the field, and give 35
Away thy breath!
Seek out — less often sought than found —
A soldier’s grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.
AT MISSOLONGHI, January 22, 1824. 40
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
So We’ll Go No More a-Roving
George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788–1824)
So we’ll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart still be as loving,
And the moon still be as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul outwears the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we’ll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
Don Juan: Canto the First
George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788–1824)
I
I want a hero: an uncommon want,
When every year and month sends forth a new one,
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,
The age discovers he is not the true one;
Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,
I’ll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan —
We all have seen him, in the pantomime,
Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time.
II
Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke,
Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe,
Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk,
And fill’d their sign posts then, like Wellesley now;
Each in their turn like Banquo’s monarchs stalk,
Followers of fame, “nine farrow” of that sow:
France, too, had Buonaparté and Dumourier
Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier.
III
Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau,
Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette,
Were French, and famous people, as we know:
And there were others, scarce forgotten yet,
Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, Moreau,
With many of the military set,
Exceedingly remarkable at times,
But not at all adapted to my rhymes.
IV
Nelson was once Britannia’s god of war,
And still should be so, but the tide is turn’d;
There’s no more to be said of Trafalgar,
‘T is with our hero quietly inurn’d;
Because the army’s grown more popular,
At which the naval people are concern’d;
Besides, the prince is all for the land-service,
Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis.
V
Brave men were living before Agamemnon
And since, exceeding valorous and sage,
A good deal like him too, though quite the same none;
But then they shone not on the poet’s page,
And so have been forgotten: — I condemn none,
But can’t find any in the present age
Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one);
So, as I said, I’ll take my friend Don Juan.
VI
Most epic poets plunge “in medias res”
(Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road),
And then your hero tells, whene’er you please,
What went before — by way of episode,
While seated after dinner at his ease,
Beside his mistress in some soft abode,
Palace, or garden, paradise
, or cavern,
Which serves the happy couple for a tavern.
VII
That is the usual method, but not mine —
My way is to begin with the beginning;
The regularity of my design
Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning,
And therefore I shall open with a line
(Although it cost me half an hour in spinning)
Narrating somewhat of Don Juan’s father,
And also of his mother, if you’d rather.
VIII
In Seville was he born, a pleasant city,
Famous for oranges and women — he
Who has not seen it will be much to pity,
So says the proverb — and I quite agree;
Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty,
Cadiz perhaps — but that you soon may see;
Don Juan’s parents lived beside the river,
A noble stream, and call’d the Guadalquivir.
IX
His father’s name was Jóse — Don, of course, —
A true Hidalgo, free from every stain
Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source
Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain;
A better cavalier ne’er mounted horse,
Or, being mounted, e’er got down again,
Than Jóse, who begot our hero, who
Begot — but that’s to come — Well, to renew:
X
His mother was a learnéd lady, famed
For every branch of every science known
In every Christian language ever named,
With virtues equall’d by her wit alone,
She made the cleverest people quite ashamed,
And even the good with inward envy groan,
Finding themselves so very much exceeded