Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Byron

  Some new scene of pleasure should open to view,

  I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me,

  Oh! such were the days which my infancy knew.

  TO M —

  Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire,

  With bright, but mild affection shine:

  Though they might kindle less desire,

  Love, more than mortal, would be thine.

  For thou art form’d so heavenly fair,

  Howe’er those orbs may wildly beam,

  We must admire, but still despair;

  That fatal glance forbids esteem.

  When Nature stamp’d thy beauteous birth,

  So much perfection in thee shone,

  She fear’d that, too divine for earth,

  The skies might claim thee for their own.

  Therefore, to guard her dearest work,

  Lest angels might dispute the prize,

  She bade a secret lightning lurk,

  Within those once celestial eyes.

  These might the boldest Sylph appall,

  When gleaming with meridian blaze;

  Thy beauty must enrapture all;

  But who can dare thine ardent gaze?

  ‘Tis said that Berenice’s hair,

  In stars adorns the vault of heaven;

  But they would ne’er permit thee there,

  Who wouldst so far outshine the seven.

  For did those eyes as planets roll,

  Thy sister-lights would scarce appear:

  E’en suns, which systems now control,

  Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.

  TO WOMAN

  Woman! experience might have told me,

  That all must love thee who behold thee:

  Surely experience might have taught

  Thy firmest promises are nought:

  But, placed in all thy charms before me,

  All I forget, but to adore thee.

  Oh memory! Thou choicest blessing

  When join’d with hope, when still possessing;

  But how much cursed by every lover

  When hope is fled and passion’s over.

  Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,

  How throbs the pulse when first we view

  The eye that rolls in glossy blue,

  Or sparkles black, or mildly throws

  A beam from under hazel brows!

  How quick we credit every oath,

  And hear her plight the willing troth!

  Fondly we hope’t will last for aye,

  When, lo! she changes in a day.

  This record will for ever stand,

  “Woman, thy vows are traced in sand.”

  TO M.S.G.

  When I dream that you love me, you’ll surely forgive;

  Extend not your anger to sleep;

  For in visions alone your affection can live, —

  I rise, and it leaves me to weep.

  Then, Morpheus! envelope my faculties fast,

  Shed o’er me your languor benign;

  Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last,

  What rapture celestial is mine!

  They tell us that slumber, the sister of death,

  Mortality’s emblem is given;

  To fate how I long to resign my frail breath,

  If this be a foretaste of heaven!

  Ah! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft brow,

  Nor deem me to happy in this;

  If I sin in my dream, I atone it for now,

  Thus doom’d but to gaze upon bliss.

  Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may smile,

  Oh, think not my penance deficient!

  When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile,

  To awake will be torture sufficient.

  TO MARY

  ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE

  This faint resemblance of thy charms,

  (Though strong as mortal art could give,)

  My constant heart of fear disarms,

  Revives my hopes, and bids me live.

  Here, I can trace the locks of gold

  Which round thy snowy forehead wave;

  The cheeks which sprung from Beauty’s mould,

  The lips, which made me Beauty’s slave.

  Here I can trace — ah, no! that eye,

  Whose azure floats in liquid fire,

  Must all the painter’s art defy,

  And bid him from the task retire.

  Here, I behold its beauteous hue;

  But where’s the beam so sweetly straying,

  Which gave a lustre to its blue,

  Like Luna o’er the ocean playing?

  Sweet copy! far more dear to me,

  Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art,

  Than all the living forms could be,

  Save her who plac’d thee next my heart.

  She plac’d it, sad, with needless fear,

  Lest time might shake my wavering soul,

  Unconscious that her image there

  Held every sense in fast control.

  Thro’ hours, thro’ years, thro’ time, ‘twill cheer —

  My hope, in gloomy moments, raise;

  In life’s last conflict ‘twill appear,

  And meet my fond, expiring gaze.

  TO LESBIA

  Lesbia! since far from you I’ve ranged,

  Our souls with fond affection glow not;

  You say ‘t is I, not you, have changed,

  I’d tell you why,- but yet I know not.

  Your polish’d brow no cares have crost;

  And, Lesbia! we are not much older,

  Since, trembling, first my heart I lost,

  Or told my love, with hope grown bolder.

  Sixteen was then our utmost age,

  Two years have lingering past away, love!

  And now new thoughts our minds engage,

  At least I feel disposed to stray, love!

  ‘Tis I that am alone to blame,

  I, that am guilty of love’s treason;

  Since your sweet breast is still the same,

  Caprice must be my only reason.

  I do not, love! suspect your truth,

  With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not;

  Warm was the passion of my youth,

  One trace of dark deceit it leaves not.

  No, no, my flame was not pretended,

  For, Oh! I loved you most sincerely;

  And- though our dream at last is ended –

  My bosom still esteems you dearly.

  No more we meet in yonder bowers;

  Absence has made me prone to roving;

  But older, firmer hearts than ours

  Have found monotony in loving.

  Your cheek’s soft bloom is unimpeair’d,

  New beauties still are daily bright’ning,

  Your eye for conquest beams prepared,

  The forge of love’s resistless lightning.

  Arm’d thus, to make their bosoms bleed,

  Many will throng to sigh like me, love!

  More constant they may prove, indeed;

  Fonder, alas! they ne’er can be, love!

  LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY

  [As the author was discharging his pistols in a garden,two ladies passing near the spot were alarmed by the sound of a bullet hissing near them; to one of whom the following stanzas were addressed the next morning.]

  DOUBTLESS, sweet girl! the hissing lead,

  Wafting destruction o’er thy charms,

  And hurtling o’er thy lovely head,

  Has fill’d that breast with fond alarms.

  Surely some envious demon’s force,

  Vex’d to behold such beauty here,

  Impell’d the bullet’s viewless course,

  Diverted from its first career.

  Yes! in that nearly fatal hour />
  The ball obey’d some hell-born guide;

  But Heaven, with interposing power,

  In pity turn’d the death aside.

  Yet, as perchance one trembling tear

  Upon that thrilling bosom fell;

  Which I, th’ unconscious cause of fear,

  Extracted fromn its glistening cell:

  Say, what dire penance can atone

  For such an outrage done to thee?

  Arraign’d before thy beauty’s throne,

  What punishment wilt thou decree?

  Might I perform the judge’s part,

  The sentence I should scarce deplore;

  It only would restore a heart

  Which but belong’d to thee before.

  The least atonement I can make

  Is to become no longer free;

  Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake,

  Thou shalt be all in all to me.

  But thou, perhaps, may’st now reject

  Such expiation of my guilt;

  Come then, some other mode elect;

  Let it be death, or what thou wilt.

  Choose then, relentless! and I swear

  Nought shall thy dread decree prevent;

  Yet hold-one little word forbear!

  Let it be aught but banishment.

  LOVE’S LAST ADIEU

  The roses of love glad the garden of life,

  Though nurtured ‘mid weeds dropping pestilent dew,

  Till time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife,

  Or prunes them for ever, in love’s last adieu!

  In vain, with endearments, we soothe the sad heart,

  In vain do we vow for an age to be true;

  The chance of an hour may command us to part,

  Or death disunite us in love’s last adieu!

  Still Hope, breathing peace, through the grief-swollen breast,

  Will whisper, ‘Our meeting we yet may renew:’

  With this dream of deceit, half our sorrow’s represt,

  Nor taste we the poison, of love’s last adieu!

  Oh! mark you yon pair: in the sunshine of youth,

  Love twined round their childhood his flowers as they grew;

  They flourish awhile, in the season of truth,

  Till chill’d by the winter of love’s last adieu!

  Sweet lady! why thus doth a tear steal its way,

  Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue?

  Yet why do I ask?—to distraction a prey,

  Thy reason has perish’d with love’s last adieu!

  Oh! who is yon misanthrope, shunning mankind?

  From cities to caves of the forest he flew:

  There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind,

  The mountains reverberate love’s last adieu!

  Now hate rules a heart which in love’s easy chains,

  Once passion’s tumultuous blandishments knew;

  Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins;

  He ponders in frenzy on love’s last adieu!

  How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt in steel!

  His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few,

  Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel,

  And dreads not the anguish of love’s last adieu!

  Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o’ercast;

  No more, with love’s former devotion, we sue:

  He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast;

  The shroud of affection is love’s last adieu!

  In this life of probation, for rapture divine,

  Astrea declares that some penance is due;

  From him, who has worshipp’d at love’s gentle shrine,

  The atonement is ample in love’s last adieu!

  Who kneels to the god, on his altar of light

  Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew:

  His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight,

  His cypress, the garland of love’s last adieu!

  DAMÆTAS

  In law an infant, and in years a boy,

  In mind a slave to every vicious joy;

  From every sense of shame and virtue wean’d;

  In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend;

  Versed in hypocrisy, while yet a child;

  Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild;

  Women his dupe, his heedless friend a tool;

  Old in the world, though scarcely broke from school;

  Damætas ran through all the maze of sin,

  And found the goal when others just begin:

  Even still conflicting passions shake his soul,

  And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure’s bowl;

  But, pall’d with vice, he breaks his former chain,

  And what was once his bliss appears his bane.

  TO MARION

  Marion! why that pensive brow?

  What disgust to life hast thou?

  Change that discontented air;

  Frowns become not one so fair.

  ‘Tis not love disturbs thy rest,

  Love’s a stranger to thy breast;

  He in dimpling smiles appears,

  Or mourns in weedy timid tears’

  Or bends the languid eyelid down,

  But shuns the cold forbidding frown.

  Then resume thy former fire

  Some will love, and all admire;

  While that icy aspect chills us,

  Nought but cool indifference thrills us.

  Wou’dst thou wandering hearts beguile,

  Smile at least, or seem to smile.

  Eyes like thine were never meant

  To hide their orbs in dark restraint.

  Spite of all thou fain wouldst say,

  Still in truant beams they play.

  Thy lips – but here my modest Muse

  Her impulse chaste must needs refuse:

  She blushes, curt’sies, frowns,– in short she

  Dreads lest the subject should transport me;

  And flying off in search of reason,

  Brings prudence back in proper season.

  All I shall therefore say (whate’er

  I think, is neither here nor there)

  Is, that such lips of looks endearing,

  Were form’d for better things than sneering:

  Of soothing compliments divested,

  Advice at least’s disinterested;

  Such is my artless song to thee,

  From all the flow of flattery free;

  Counsel like mine is as a brother’s,

  My heart is given to some others;

  That is to say, unskill’d to cozen

  It shares itself among a dozen.

  Marion. adieu! oh, pr’ythee slight not

  This warning, though it may delight not;

  And, lest my precepts be displeasing

  To those who think remonstrance teasing:

  At once I’ll tell thee our opinion

  Concerning woman’s soft dominion:

  Howe’er we gaze with admiration

  On eyes of blue or lips carnation,

  Howe’er the flowing locks attract us,

  Howe’er those beauties may distract us,

  Still fickle, we are prone to rove,

  These cannot fix our souls to love;

  It is not too severe a stricture

  To say they form a pretty picture;

  But wouldst thou see the secret chain

  Which binds us in your humble train,

  To hail you queens of all creation,

  Know, in a word, ‘tis ANIMATION.

  TO A LADY

  WHO PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF HAIR BRAIDED WITH HIS OWN, AND APPOINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER TO MEET HIM IN THE GARDEN

  These locks, which fondly thus entwine,

  In firmer chains our hearts confine

  Than all th’
unmeaning protestations

  Which swell with nonsense love orations.

  Our love is fix’d, I think we’ve proved it,

  Nor time, nor place, nor art have moved it;

  Then wherefore should we sigh and whine,

  With groundless jealousy repine,

  With silly whims and fancies frantic,

  Merely to make our love romantic?

  Why should you weep like Lydia Languish,

  And fret with self-created anguish?

  Or doom the lover you have chosen,

  On winter to nights to sigh half frozen;

  In leafless shades to sue for pardon,

  Only because the scene’s a garden?

  For gardens seem, by one consent

  (Since Shakespeare set the precedent,

  Since Juliet first declared her passion),

  To from the place of assignation.

  Oh! would some modern muse inspire,

  And seat her by a sea-coal fire;

  Or had the bard at Christmas written,

  And laid the scene of love in Britain,

  He surely, in commiseration,

  Had changed the place of declaration.

  In Italy I’ve no objection,

  Warm nights are proper for reflection;

  But here our climate is so rigid,

  That love itself is rather frigid:

  Think on our chilly situation,

  And curb this rage for imitation.

  Then let us meet, as oft we’ve done,

  Beneath the influence of the sun;

  Or, if at midnight I must meet you,

  Within your mansion let me greet you:

  There we can love for hours together,

  Much better, in such snowy weather,

  Than placed in all th’ Arcadian groves

  That ever witness’d rural loves;

  Then, if my passion fail to please,

  Next night I’ll be content to freeze;

  No more I’ll give a loose to laughter,

  But curse my fate for ever after

  OSCAR OF ALVA

  A TALE

  How sweetly shines through azure skies,

  The lamp of heaven on Lora’s shore;

  Where Alva’s hoary turrets rise,

  And hear the din of arms no more!

  But often has yon rolling moon

  On Alva’s casques of silver play’d;

  And view’d at midnight’s silent noon,

  Her chief’s in gleaming mail array’d:

  And on the crimson’d rocks beneath,

  Which scowl o’er ocean’s sullen flow,

  Pale in the scatter’d runks of death,

  She saw the gasping warrior low;

  While many an eye which ne’er again

  Could mark the rising orb of day,

  T’urn’d feebly from the gory plain,

  Beheld in death her fading ray.

  Once to those eyes the lamp of Love,