by Lord Byron
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!
II.
Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow,
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.
III.
Farewell to others, but never we part,
Heir to my Royalty — Son of my heart!
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway,
Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day!
Seaham, 1815.
ALL IS VANITY, SAITH THE PREACHER.
I.
Fame, Wisdom, Love, and Power were mine,
And Health and Youth possessed me;
My goblets blushed from every vine,
And lovely forms caressed me;
I sunned my heart in Beauty’s eyes,
And felt my soul grow tender;
All Earth can give, or mortal prize,
Was mine of regal splendour.
II.
I strive to number o’er what days
Remembrance can discover,
Which all that Life or Earth displays
Would lure me to live over.
There rose no day, there rolled no hour
Of pleasure unembittered;
And not a trapping decked my Power
That galled not while it glittered.
III.
The serpent of the field, by art
And spells, is won from harming;
But that which coils around the heart,
Oh! who hath power of charming?
It will not list to Wisdom’s lore,
Nor Music’s voice can lure it;
But there it stings for evermore
The soul that must endure it.
Seaham, 1815.
WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFERING CLAY.
I.
When coldness wraps this suffering clay,
Ah! whither strays the immortal mind?
It cannot die, it cannot stay,
But leaves its darkened dust behind.
Then, unembodied, doth it trace
By steps each planet’s heavenly way?
Or fill at once the realms of space,
A thing of eyes, that all survey?
II.
Eternal — boundless, — undecayed,
A thought unseen, but seeing all,
All, all in earth, or skies displayed,
Shall it survey, shall it recall:
Each fainter trace that Memory holds
So darkly of departed years,
In one broad glance the Soul beholds,
And all, that was, at once appears.
III.
Before Creation peopled earth,
Its eye shall roll through chaos back;
And where the farthest heaven had birth,
The Spirit trace its rising track.
And where the future mars or makes,
Its glance dilate o’er all to be,
While Sun is quenched — or System breaks,
Fixed in its own Eternity.
IV.
Above or Love — Hope — Hate — or Fear,
It lives all passionless and pure:
An age shall fleet like earthly year;
Its years as moments shall endure.
Away — away — without a wing,
O’er all — through all — its thought shall fly,
A nameless and eternal thing,
Forgetting what it was to die.
Seaham, 1815.
VISION OF BELSHAZZAR.
I.
The King was on his throne,
The Satraps thronged the hall:
A thousand bright lamps shone
O’er that high festival.
A thousand cups of gold,
In Judah deemed divine —
Jehovah’s vessels hold
The godless Heathen’s wine!
II.
In that same hour and hall,
The fingers of a hand
Came forth against the wall,
And wrote as if on sand:
The fingers of a man; —
A solitary hand
Along the letters ran,
And traced them like a wand.
III.
The monarch saw, and shook,
And bade no more rejoice;
All bloodless waxed his look,
And tremulous his voice.
“Let the men of lore appear,
The wisest of the earth,
And expound the words of fear,
Which mar our royal mirth.”
IV.
Chaldea’s seers are good,
But here they have no skill;
And the unknown letters stood
Untold and awful still.
And Babel’s men of age
Are wise and deep in lore;
But now they were not sage,
They saw — but knew no more.
V.
A captive in the land,
A stranger and a youth,
He heard the King’s command,
He saw that writing’s truth.
The lamps around were bright,
The prophecy in view;
He read it on that night, —
The morrow proved it true.
VI.
“Belshazzar’s grave is made,
His kingdom passed away.
He, in the balance weighed,
Is light and worthless clay;
The shroud, his robe of state,
His canopy the stone;
The Mede is at his gate!
The Persian on his throne!”
SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS!
Sun of the sleepless! melancholy star!
Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far,
That show’st the darkness thou canst not dispel,
How like art thou to Joy remembered well!
So gleams the past, the light of other days,
Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays:
A night-beam Sorrow watcheth to behold,
Distinct, but distant — clear — but, oh how cold!
WERE MY BOSOM AS FALSE AS THOU DEEM’ST IT TO BE.
I.
Were my bosom as false as thou deem’st it to be,
I need not have wandered from far Galilee;
It was but abjuring my creed to efface
The curse which, thou say’st, is the crime of my race.
II.
If the bad never triumph, then God is with thee!
If the slave only sin — thou art spotless and free!
If the Exile on earth is an Outcast on high,
Live on in thy faith — but in mine I will die.
III.
I have lost for that faith more than thou canst bestow,
As the God who permits thee to prosper doth know;
In his hand is my heart and my hope — and in thine
The land and the life which for him I resign.
Seaham, 1815.
HEROD’S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE.
I.
Oh, Mariamne! now for thee
The heart for which thou bled’st is bleeding;
Revenge is lost in Agony
And wild Remorse to rage succeeding.
Oh, Mariamne! where art thou?
Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading:
Ah! could’st thou — thou would’st pardon now,
Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding.
II.
And is she dead? — and did they dare
Obey my Frenzy’s jealous raving?
My Wrath but doomed my own despair:<
br />
The sword that smote her ‘s o’er me waving. —
But thou art cold, my murdered Love!
And this dark heart is vainly craving
For he who soars alone above,
And leaves my soul unworthy saving.
III.
She’s gone, who shared my diadem;
She sunk, with her my joys entombing;
I swept that flower from Judah’s stem,
Whose leaves for me alone were blooming;
And mine’s the guilt, and mine the hell,
This bosom’s desolation dooming;
And I have earned those tortures well,
Which unconsumed are still consuming!
Jan. 15, 1815.
ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM BY TITUS.
I.
From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome,
I beheld thee, oh Sion! when rendered to Rome:
‘Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall
Flashed back on the last glance I gave to thy wall.
II.
I looked for thy temple — I looked for my home,
And forgot for a moment my bondage to come;
I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane,
And the fast-fettered hands that made vengeance in vain.
III.
On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed
Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed;
While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline
Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy shrine.
IV.
And now on that mountain I stood on that day,
But I marked not the twilight beam melting away;
Oh! would that the lightning had glared in its stead,
And the thunderbolt burst on the Conqueror’s head!
V.
But the Gods of the Pagan shall never profane
The shrine where Jehovah disdained not to reign;
And scattered and scorned as thy people may be,
Our worship, oh Father! is only for thee.
1815.
BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE SAT DOWN AND WEPT.
I.
We sate down and wept by the waters
Of Babel, and thought of the day
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters,
Made Salem’s high places his prey;
And Ye, oh her desolate daughters!
Were scattered all weeping away.
II.
While sadly we gazed on the river
Which rolled on in freedom below,
They demanded the song; but, oh never
That triumph the Stranger shall know!
May this right hand be withered for ever,
Ere it string our high harp for the foe!
III.
On the willow that harp is suspended,
Oh Salem! its sound should be free;
And the hour when thy glories were ended
But left me that token of thee:
And ne’er shall its soft tones be blended
With the voice of the Spoiler by me!
Jan. 15, 1813.
BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON.
I.
In the valley of waters we wept on the day
When the host of the Stranger made Salem his prey;
And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay,
And our hearts were so full of the land far away!
II.
The song they demanded in vain — it lay still
In our souls as the wind that hath died on the hill —
They called for the harp — but our blood they shall spill
Ere our right hands shall teach them one tone of their skill.
III.
All stringlessly hung in the willow’s sad tree,
As dead as her dead-leaf, those mute harps must be:
Our hands may be fettered — our tears still are free
For our God — and our Glory — and Sion, Oh Thee!
1815.
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.
I.
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
II.
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
III.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved — and for ever grew still!
IV.
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
V.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent — the banners alone —
The lances unlifted — the trumpet unblown.
VI.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
Seaham, Feb. 17, 1815.
A SPIRIT PASSED BEFORE ME.
FROM JOB.
I.
A spirit passed before me: I beheld
The face of Immortality unveiled —
Deep Sleep came down on every eye save mine —
And there it stood, — all formless — but divine:
Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake;
And as my damp hair stiffened, thus it spake:
II.
“Is man more just than God? Is man more pure
Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure?
Creatures of clay — vain dwellers in the dust!
The moth survives you, and are ye more just?
Things of a day! you wither ere the night,
Heedless and blind to Wisdom’s wasted light!”
STANZAS FOR MUSIC
CONTENTS
THERE BE NONE OF BEAUTY’S DAUGHTERS
THERE’S NOT A JOY THE WORLD CAN GIVE LIKE THAT IT TAKES AWAY
ON NAPOLEON’S ESCAPE FROM ELBA.
ODE FROM THE FRENCH.
FROM THE FRENCH.
ON THE STAR OF “THE LEGION OF HONOUR.”
NAPOLEON’S FAREWELL.
THERE BE NONE OF BEAUTY’S DAUGHTERS
1.
There be none of Beauty’s daughters
With a magic like thee;
And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The charméd Ocean’s pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lulled winds seem dreaming:
2.
And the midnight Moon is weaving
Her bright chain o’er the deep;
Whose breast is gently heaving,
As an infant’s asleep:
So the spirit bows before thee,
To listen and adore thee;
With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of Summer’s ocean.
THERE’S NOT A JOY THE WORLD CAN GIVE LIKE THAT IT TAKES AWAY
“O Lachr
ymarum fons, tenero sacros
Ducentium ortus ex animo: quater
Felix! in imo qui scatentem
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit.”
Gray’s Poemata.
[Motto to “The Tear,” Poetical Works, 1898, i. 49.]
1.
There’s not a joy the world can give like that it takes away,
When the glow of early thought declines in Feeling’s dull decay;
‘Tis not on Youth’s smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast,
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere Youth itself be past.
2.
Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness
Are driven o’er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess:
The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain
The shore to which their shivered sail shall never stretch again.
3.
Then the mortal coldness of the soul like Death itself comes down;
It cannot feel for others’ woes, it dare not dream its own;
That heavy chill has frozen o’er the fountain of our tears,
And though the eye may sparkle still, ‘tis where the ice appears.
4.
Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,
Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;
‘Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruined turret wreath
All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey beneath.
5.
Oh, could I feel as I have felt, — or be what I have been,
Or weep as I could once have wept, o’er many a vanished scene;
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,
So, midst the withered waste of life, those tears would flow to me.
ON NAPOLEON’S ESCAPE FROM ELBA.
ONCE fairly set out on his party of pleasure,
Taking towns at his liking, and crowns at his leisure,
From Elba to Lyons and Paris he goes,
Making balls for the ladies, and bows to his foes.
March 27, 1815.
ODE FROM THE FRENCH.
I.
We do not curse thee, Waterloo!
Though Freedom’s blood thy plain bedew;
There ‘twas shed, but is not sunk —
Rising from each gory trunk,
Like the water-spout from ocean,
With a strong and growing motion —
It soars, and mingles in the air,
With that of lost La Bédoyère —
With that of him whose honoured grave
Contains the “bravest of the brave.”
A crimson cloud it spreads and glows,
But shall return to whence it rose;
When ‘tis full ‘twill burst asunder —
Never yet was heard such thunder
As then shall shake the world with wonder —
Never yet was seen such lightning
As o’er heaven shall then be bright’ning!
Like the Wormwood Star foretold