by Lord Byron
They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps are to the host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak dim twinkles through the night. The northern star points the path to Tura. Swaran, the king, rests on his lonely hill. Here the troops are mixed: they frown in sleep; their shields beneath their heads. Their swords gleam at distance in heaps. The fires are faint; their embers fail in smoke. All is hushed; but the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the heroes through the slumbering band. Half the journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glistens through the shade. His spear is raised on high. ‘Why dost thou bend thy brow, chief of Oithona?’ said fair-haired Calmar: ‘we are in the midst of foes. Is this a time for delay?’ ‘It is a time for vengeance,’ said Orla of the gloomy brow. ‘Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: seest thou his spear? Its point is dim with the gore of my father. The blood of Mathon shall reek on mine; but shall I slay him sleeping, son of Mora?
No! he shall feel his wound: my fame shall not soar on the blood of slumber. Rise, Mathon, rise! The son of Conna calls; thy life is his; rise to combat.’ Mathon starts from sleep; but did he rise alone? No: the gathering chiefs bound on the plain. ‘Fly! Calmar, fly!’ said dark-haired Orla. ‘Mathon is mine. I shall die in joy: but Lochlin crowds around. Fly through the shade of night.’ Orla turns the helm of Mathon is cleft; his shield falls from his arm: he shudders in his blood. He rolls by the side of the blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall: his wrath rises: his weapon glitters on the head of Orla: but a spear pierced his eye. His brain gushes, and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll the waves of the Ocean on two mighty barks of the north, so pour the men of Lochlin on the chiefs. As, breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer the barks of the north, so rise the chiefs of Morven on the scattered crests of Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes his shield; his sons throng around; the people pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the spear. The eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is the clang of death! many are the widows of Lochlin! Morven prevails in its strength.
Morn glimmers on the hills: no living foe is seen; but the sleepers are many; grim they lie on Erin. The breeze of ocean lifts their locks; yet they do not awake. The hawks scream above their prey.
Whose yellow locks wave o’er the breast of a chief? Bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the dark hair of his friend. ‘Tis Calmar: he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not; but his eye is still a flame. It glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasped in Calmar’s; but Calmar lives! he lives, though low. ‘Rise,’ said the king, ‘rise, son of Mora: ‘tis mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar may yet bound on the hills of Morven.’
‘Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven with Orla,’ said the hero. ‘What were the chase to me alone? Who should share the spoils of battle with Calmar? Orla is at rest! Rough was thy soul, Orla! yet soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared on others in lightning: to me a silver beam of night. Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora; let it hang in my empty hall. It is not pure from blood: but it could not save Orla. Lay me with my friend. Raise the song when I am dark!’
They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four gray stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven: —the bards raised the song.
‘What form rises on the roar of clouds? Whose dark ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder. ‘Tis Orla, the brown chief of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. Peace to thy soul, Orla thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Calmar! Lovely wast thou, son of blue-eyed Mora; but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave. The ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar! It dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the arch of the rainbow; and smile through the tears of the storm.’
L’AMITTÉ EST L’AMOUR SANS AILES
WHY should my anxious breast repine.
Because my youth is fled?
Days of delight may still be mine;
Affection is not dead.
In tracing back the years of youth,
One firm record, one lasting truth,
Celestial consolation brings;
Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat,
Where first my heart responsive beat,-
‘Friendship is Love without his wings!’
Through few, but deeply chequer’d years,
What moments have been mine!
Now half obscured by clouds of tears,
Now bright in rays divine;
Howe’er my future doom be cast,
My soul, enraptured with the past,
To one idea fondly clings
Friendship! that thought is all thine own,
Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone –
‘Friendship is Love without his wings!’
Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave
Their branches on the gale,
Unheeded heaves a simple grave,
Which tells the common tale;
Round this unconscious schoolboys stray,
Till the dull knell of childish play
From yonder studious mansion rings;
But here whene’er my footsteps move,
My silent tears too plainly prove
‘Friendship is Love without his wings!’
Oh, Love! before thy glowing shrine
My early vows were paid;
My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine,
But these are now decay’d;
For thine are pinions like the wind,
No trace of thee remains behind,
Except, alas! thy Jealous stings.
Away, away! delusive power,
Thou shalt not haunt my coining hour;
Unless, indeed, without thy wings.
Seat of my youth! thy distant spire
Recalls each scene of joy;
My bosom glows with former fire,-
In mind again a boy.
Thy grove of elms thy verdant hill,
Thy eyery path delights me still,
Each flower a double fragrance flings;
Again, as once, in converse gay,
Each dear associate seems to say,
‘Friendship is Love without his wings!’
My Lycus! wherefore dost thou weep?
Thy falling tears restrain;
Affection for a time may sleep,
But, oh, ‘twill wake again.
Think, think, my friend, when next we meet
Our long-wish’d interview, how sweet!
From this my hope of rapture springs;
While youthful hearts thus fondly swell,
Absence, my friend, can only tell’
‘Friendship is Love without his wings!’
In one, and one alone deceived,
Did I my error mourn?
No — from oppressive bonds relieved,
I left the wretch to scorn.
I turn’d to those my childhood knew,
With feelings warm, with bosoms true,
Twined with my heart’s according strings;
And till those vital chords shall break,
For none but these my breast shall wake
Friendship the power deprived of wings!
Ye few! my soul, my life is yours,
My memory and my hope;
Your worth a lasting love insures,
Unfetter’d in its scope;
From smooth deceit and terror sprung
With aspect fair and honey’d tongue,
Let Adulation wait on kings;
With joy elate, by snares beset,
We we, my friends, can ne’er forget
‘Friendship is Love without his wings
!’
Fictions and dreams inspire the bard
Who rolls the epic song;
Friendship and truth be my reward –
To me no bays belong-
If laurell’d Fame but dwells with lies,
Me the enchantress ever flies,
Whose heart and not whose fancy sings;
Simple and young, I dare not feign;
Mine be the rude yet heartfelt strain,
‘Friendship is Love without his wings!
December 1806
[First published 1832]
THE PRAYER OF NATURE.
Father of Light! great God of Heaven!
Hear’st thou the accents of despair?
Can guilt like man’s be e’er forgiven?
Can vice atone for crimes by prayer?
Father of Light, on thee I call!
Thou seest my soul is dark within;
Thou who canst’mark the sparrow’s fall,
Avert from me the death of sin.
No shrine I seek, to sects unknown;
Oh, point to me the path of truth!
Thy dread omnipotence I own;
Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth.
Let bigots rear a gloomy fane,
Let superstitition hail the pile,
Let priests, to spread their sable reign,
With tales of mystic rites beguile.
Shall man confine his Maker’s sway
To Gothic domes of mouldering stone?
Thy temple is the face of the day;
Earth, ocean, heaven, thy boundless throne.
Shall man condemn his race to hell,
Unless they bend in pompous form?
Tell us that all, of one who fell,
Must perish in the mingling storm?
Shall each pretend to reach the skies,
Yet doom his brother to expire,
Whose soul a different hope supplies,
Or doctrines less severe inspire?
Shall these, by creeds they can’t expound,
Prepare a fancied bliss or woe?
Shall reptiles, grovelling on the ground,
Their great Creator’s purpose know?
Shall those, who live for self alone,
Whose years float on in a daily crime –
Shall they by Faith for guilt atone,
And live beyond the bounds of Time?
Father! no prophet’s laws I seek,-
Thy laws in Nature’s works appear;-
I own myself corrupt and weak,
Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear!
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star
Through trackness realms of other’s space;
Who calm’st the elemental war,
Whose hand from pole to pole I trace.
Thou, who in wisdom placed me here,
Who, when thou wilt, canst take me hence,
Ah! whilst I tread this earthly sphere,
Extend to me thy wide defence.
To Thee, my God, to thee I call!
Whatever weal or woe betide,
By thy command I rise or fall,
In thy protection I confide.
If, when this dust to dust’s restored,
My soul shall float on airy wing,
How shall thy glorious name adored
Inspire her feedle voice to sing!
But, if this fleeting spirit share
With clay the gaves eternal bed,
While life yet throbs I raise my prayer,
Though doom’d no more to quit the dead.
To Thee I breathe my humble strain;
Grateful for all thy mercies past,
And hope, my God, to thee again
This erring life may fly at last.
December 29, 1806
[First published, 1830]
TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ.
‘Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico.’ – HOR.
Dear Long, in this sequester’d scene,
While all around in slumber lie,
The joyous days, which ours have been
Come rolling fresh on Fancy’s eye;
Thus, if, amidst the gathering storm,
While clouds the darken’d noon deform,
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow,
I hail the sky’s celestial bow,
Which spreads the sign of future peace,
And bids the war of tempests cease.
Ah! though the present brings but pain,
I think those days may come again;
Or if, in melancholy mood,
Some lurking envious fear intrude,
To check my bosom’s fondest thought,
And interrupt the golden dream
I crush the fiend with malice fraught,
And, still, indulge my wonted theme.
Although we ne’er again can trace,
In Granta’s vale, the pedant’s lore,
Nor through the groves of Ida chace
Our raptured visions, as before;
Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion,
And Manhood claims his stern dominion,
Age will not every hope destroy,
But yields some hours of sober joy.
Yes, I will hope that Time’s broad wing
Will shed around some dews of spring:
But, if his scythe must sweep the flowers
Which bloom among the fairy bowers,
Where smiling Youth delights to dwell,
And hearts with early rapture swell;
In frowning Age, with cold control,
Confines the current of the soul,
Congeals the tear of Pity’s eye,
Or checks the sympathetic sigh,
Or hears, unmov’d, Misfortune’s groan,
And bids me feel for self alone;
Oh! may my bosom never learn
To soothe its wonted heedless flow;
Still may I rove untutor’d, wild,
But ne’er forget another’s woe.
Yes, as you knew me in the days
O’er which Remembrance yet delays
And even in age, at heart a child.
Though, now, on airy visions borne,
To you my soul is still the same.
Oft has it ben my fate to mourn,
And all my former joys are tame:
But, hence! ye hours of sabl hue!
Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o’er:
By every bliss my childhood knew,
I’ll think upon your shade no more.
Thus, when the whirlwind’s rage is past,
And caves their sullen roar enclose,
We heed no more the wintery blast,
When lull’d by zephyr to repose.
Full often has my infant Muse
Attun’d to love her languid lyre;
But, now, without a theme to choose,
The strains in stolen sighs expire.
My youthful nymps, alas! are flown;
E — is a wife, and C — a mother,
And Carolina sighs alone,
And Mary’s given to another;
And Cora’s eye, which roll’d on me,
Can now no more my love recall –
In truth, dear LONG, ‘twas time to flee –
For Cora’s eye will shine on all.
And though the Sun, with genial rays,
His beams aike to all displays,
And every lady’s eye’s a sun,
These last should be confin’d to one.
The souls’ meridian don’t become her,
Whose sun desplays a general summer!
Thus faint is every former flame,
And Passion’s self is now a name;
As, when the ebbing flames are low,
The aid which once improv’d their light,
And bade them burn with fiercer glow,
Thus has it been with Passion’s fires,
As many a boy and girl remembers,
While all the force of love expires,
Extinguish’d with the dying embers.
But now, dear LONG, ‘tis midnight’s noon,
And clouds obscure the watery moon,
Whose beauties I shall not rehearse,
Describ’d in every stripling’s verse;
For why should I the path go o’er
Which every bard has trod before?
Yet ere yon silver lamp of night
Has thrice perform’d her stated round,
Has thrice retraced her path of light,
And chased away the gloom profound,
I trust that we, my gentle Friend,
Shall see her rolling orbit wend,
Above the dear-loved peaceful seat,
Which once contain’d our youth’s retreat;
And then, with those our childhood knew,
We’ll mingle in the festive crew;
While many a tale of former day
Shall wing the laughing hours away;
And all the flow of souls shall pour
Tha sacred intellectual shower,
Nor cease, till Luna’s waning horn
Scarce glimmers through the mist of Morn.
TO A LADY
O! had my Fate been join’d with thine,
As once this pledge appear’d a token,
These follies had not, then, been mine,
For, then, my peace had not been broken.
To thee, these early faults I owe,
To thee, the wise and old reproving:
They know my sins, but do not know
‘Twas thine to break the bonds of loving.
For once my soul, like thine, was pure,