Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Byron

  Unless the heart could speak?

  By day or night, in weal or woe,

  That heart, no longer free,

  Must bear the love it cannot show,

  And silent ache for thee.

  March 1811.

  EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT, LATE POET AND SHOEMAKER

  Stranger! behold, interr’d together,

  The souls of learning and of leather.

  Poor Joe is gone, but left his all:

  You’ll find his relics in a stall.

  His works were neat, and often found

  Well stitch’d, and with morocco bound.

  Tread lightly — where the bard is laid

  He cannot mend the shoe he made;

  Yet is he happy in his hole,

  With verse immortal as his sole.

  But still to business he held fast,

  And stuck to Phobus to the last.

  Then who shall say so good a fellow

  Was only ‘leather and prunella?’

  For character – he did not lack it

  And if he did, ‘twere shame to ‘Black it.

  Malta, May 16, 1811.

  FAREWELL TO MALTA

  Adieu, ye joys of La Valette!

  Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat!

  Adieu, thou palace rarely enter’d!

  Adieu, ye mansions where I’ve ventured!

  Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs!

  (How surely he who mounts you swears!)

  Adieu, ye merchants often failing!

  Adieu, thou mob for ever railing!

  Adieu, ye packets without letters!

  Adieu, ye fools who ape your betters!

  Adieu, thou damned’st quarantine,

  That gave me fever, and the spleen!

  Adieu, that stage which makes us yawn, Sirs,

  Adieu, his Excellency’s dancers!

  Adieu to Peter — whom no fault’s in,

  But could not teach a colonel waltzing;

  Adieu, ye females fraught with graces!

  Adieu, red coats, and redder faces!

  Adieu, the supercilious air

  Of all that strut ‘en militaire’!

  I go — but God knows when, or why,

  To smoky towns and cloudy sky,

  To things (the honest truth to say)

  As bad — but in a different way.

  Farewell to these, but not adieu,

  Triumphant sons of truest blue!

  While either Adriatic shore,

  And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more,

  And nightly smiles, and daily dinners,

  Proclaim you war and woman’s winners.

  Pardon my Muse, who apt to prate is,

  And take my rhyme — because ‘tis ‘gratis.’

  And now I’ve got to Mrs. Fraser,

  Perhaps you think I mean to praise her

  And were I vain enough to think

  My praise was worth this drop of ink,

  A line — or two — were no hard matter,

  As here, indeed, I need not flatter:

  But she must be content to shine

  In better praises than in mine,

  With lively air, and open heart,

  And fashion’s ease, without its art;

  Her hours can gaily glide along,

  Nor ask the aid of idle song.

  And now, O Malta! since thou’st got us,

  Thou little military hothouse!

  I’ll not offend with words uncivil,

  And wish thee rudely at the Devil,

  But only stare from out my casement,

  And ask, for what is such a place meant?

  Then, in my solitary nook,

  Return to scribbling, or a book,

  Or take my physic while I’m able

  (Two spoonfuls hourly by the label),

  Prefer my nightcap to my beaver,

  And bless the gods I’ve got a fever.

  May 26, 1811.

  TO DIVES.

  A Fragment

  Unhappy Dives! in an evil hour

  ‘Gainst Nature’s voice seduced to deeds accurst!

  Once Fortune’s minion, now thou feel’st her power;

  Wrath’s vial on thy lofty head bath burst.

  In Wit, in Genius, as in Wealth the first,

  How wondrous bright thy blooming morn arose!

  But thou went smitten with th’ unhallow’d thirst

  Of crime un-named, and thy sad noon must close

  In scorn, and solitude unsought, the worst of woes.

  ON MOORE’S LAST OPERATIC FARCE, OR FARCICAL OPERA

  Good plays are scarce:

  So Moore writes farce.

  The poet’s fame grows brittle —

  We knew before

  That Little’s Moore,

  But now ‘tis Moore that’s little.

  September 14, 1811.

  EPISTLE TO A FRIEND

  IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING THE AUTHOR TO BE CHEERFUL, AND TO BANISH CARE

  ‘OH! banish care’ — such ever be

  The motto of thy revelry!

  Perchance of mine, when wassail nights

  Renew those riotous delights,

  Wherewith the children of Despair

  Lull the lone heart, and `banish care.’

  But not in morn’s reflecting hour,

  When present, past, and future lower,

  When all I loved is changed or gone,

  Mock with such taunts the woes of one,

  Whose every thought — but let them pass

  Thou know’st I am not what I was.

  But, above all, if thou wouldst hold

  Place in a heart that ne’er was cold,

  By all the powers that men revere,

  By all unto thy bosom dear,

  Thy joys below, thy hopes above,

  Speak — speak of anything but love.

  ‘Twere long to tell, and vain to hear,

  The tale of one who scorns a tear;

  And there is little in that tale

  Which better bosoms would bewail.

  But mine has suffer’d more than well

  ‘Twould suit philosophy to tell.

  I’ve seen my bride another’s bride, —

  Have seen her seated by his side,

  Have seen the infant, which she bore,

  Wear the sweet smile the mother wore,

  When she and I in youth have smiled,

  As fond and faultless as her child;

  Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain,

  Ask if I felt no secret pain

  And I have acted well my part,

  And made my cheek belie my heart,

  Return’d the freezing glance she gave:

  Yet felt the while that woman’s slave; —

  Have kiss’d, as if without design,

  The babe which ought to have been mine,

  And show’d, alas! in each caress

  Time had not made me love the less.

  But let this pass — I’ll whine no more,

  Nor seek again an eastern shore;

  The world befits a busy brain, —

  I’ll hie me to its haunts again.

  But if, in some succeeding year,

  When Britain’s May is in the sere,’

  Thou hear’st of one whose deepening crimes

  Suit with the sablest of the times,

  Of one, whom love nor pity sways,

  Nor hope of fame, nor good men’s praise;

  One, who in stern ambition’s pride,

  Perchance not blood shall turn aside;

  One rank’d in some recording page

  With the worst anarchs of the age,

  Him wile thou know — and knowing pause,

  Nor with the effect forget the cause.

  Newstead Abbey, Oct. 11, 1811.

  TO THYRZA

&nbs
p; Without a stone to mark the spot,

  And say, what Truth might well have said,

  By all, save one, perchance forgot,

  Ah! wherefore art thou lowly laid?

  By many a shore and many a sea

  Divided, yet beloved in vain;

  The past, the future fled to thee,

  To bid us meet no ne’er again!

  Could this have been — a word, a look,

  That softly said, ‘We part in peace,’

  Had taught my bosom how to brook,

  With fainter sighs, thy soul’s release.

  And didst thou not, since Death for thee

  Prepared a light and pangless dart,

  Once long for him thou ne’er shaft see,

  Who held, and holds thee in his heart?

  Oh! who like him had watch’d thee here?

  Or sadly mark’d thy glazing eye,

  In that dread hour ere death appear,

  When silent sorrow fears to sigh,

  Till all was past; But when no more

  ‘Twas thine to reek of human woe,

  Affection’s heart-drops, gushing o’er,

  Had flow’d as fast — as now they flow.

  Shall they not flow, when many a day

  In these, to me, deserted towers,

  Ere call’d but for a time away,

  Affection’s mingling tears were ours?

  Ours too the glance none saw beside;

  The smile none else might understand;

  The whisper’d thought of hearts allied,

  The pressure of the thrilling hand;

  The kiss, so guiltless and refined,

  That Love each warmer wish forbore;

  Those eyes proclaim’d so pure a mind,

  Even Passion blush’d to plead for more.

  The tone, that taught me to rejoice,

  When prone, unlike thee, to repine;

  The song, celestial from thy voice,

  But sweet to me from none but thine;

  The pledge we wore — I wear it still,

  But where is thine? — Ah! where art thou?

  Oft have I borne the weight of ill,

  But never bent beneath till now!

  Well hast thou left in life’s best bloom

  The cup of woe for me to drain.

  If rest alone be in the tomb,

  I would not wish thee here again.

  But if in worlds more blest than this

  Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere,

  Impart some portion of thy bliss,

  To wean me from mine anguish here.

  Teach me — too early taught by thee!

  To bear, forgiving and forgiven:

  On earth by love was such to me —

  It fain would form my hope in heaven!

  October 11, 1811.

  AWAY, AWAY, YE NOTES OF WOE!

  Away, away, ye notes of woe!

  Be silent, thou once soothing strain,

  Or I must flee from hence — for, oh!

  I dare not trust those sounds again.

  To me they speak of brighter days

  But lull the chords, for now, alas!

  I must not think, I may not gaze,

  On what I am — on what I was.

  The voice that made those sounds more sweet

  Is hush’d, and all their charms are fled

  And now their softest notes repeat

  A dirge, an anthem o’er the dead!

  Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of thee,

  Beloved dust! since dust thou art;

  And all that once was harmony

  Is worse than discord to my heart!

  ‘Tis silent all! — but on my ear

  The well remember’d echoes thrill;

  I hear a voice I would not hear,

  A voice that now might well be still:

  Yet oft my doubting soul ‘twill shake;

  Even slumber owns its gentle tone,

  Till consciousness will vainly wake

  To listen, though the dream be flown.

  Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep,

  Thou art but now a lovely dream;

  A star that trembled o’er the deep,

  Then turn’d from earth its tender beam.

  But he who through life’s dreary way

  Must pass, when heaven is veil’d in wrath,

  Will long lament the vanish’d ray

  That scatter’d gladness o’er his path.

  December 6, 1811.

  ONE STRUGGLE MORE, AND I AM FREE

  One struggle more, and I am free

  From pangs that rend my heart in twain;

  One last long sigh to love and thee,

  Then back to busy life again.

  It suits me well to mingle now

  With things that never pleased before!

  Though every joy is fled below,

  What future grief can touch me more?

  Then bring me wine, the banquet bring;

  Man was not form’d to live alone:

  I’ll be that light, unmeaning thing

  That smiles with all, and weeps with none.

  It was not thus in days more dear,

  It never would have been, but thou

  Hast fled, and left me lonely here;

  Thou’rt nothing — all are nothing now.

  In vain my lyre would lightly breathe!

  The smile that sorrow fain would wear

  But mocks the woe that lurks beneath,

  Like roses o’er a sepulchre.

  Though gay companions o’er the bowl

  Dispel awhile the sense of ill:

  Though pleasure fires the maddening soul,

  The heart, — the heart is lonely still!

  On many a lone and lovely night

  It sooth’d to gaze upon the sky;

  For then I deem’d the heavenly light

  Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye:

  And oft I thought at Cynthia’s noon,

  When sailing o’er the Ægean wave,

  ‘Now Thyrza gazes on that moon’

  Alas, it gleam’d upon her grave!

  When stretch’d on fever’s sleepless bed,

  And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins,

  ‘Tis comfort still,’ I faintly said,

  ‘That Thyrza cannot know my pains:’

  Like freedom to the time-worn slave,

  A boon ‘tis idle then to give,

  Relenting Nature vainly gave

  My life, when Thyrza ceased to live!

  My Thyrza’s pledge in better days,

  When love and life alike were new!

  How different now thou meet’st my gaze!

  How tinged by time with sorrow’s hue!

  The heart that gave itself with thee

  Is silent — ah, were mine as still!

  Though cold as e’en the dead can be,

  It feels, it sickens with the chill.

  Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token!

  Though painful, welcome to my breast!

  Still, still preserve that love unbroken,

  Or break the heart to which thou’rt press’d.

  Time tempers love, but not removes,

  More hallow’d when its hope is fled:

  Oh! what are thousand living loves

  To that which cannot quit the dead?

  EUTHANASIA

  When Time, or soon or late, shall bring

  The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead,

  Oblivion! may thy languid wing

  Wave gently o’er my dying bed!

  No band of friends or heirs be there,

  To weep, or wish, the coming blow:

  No maiden, with dishevelled hair,

  To feel, or feign, decorous woe.

  But silent let me sink to earth,

  With no officious mourners near:

  I wo
uld not mar one hour of mirth,

  Nor startle friendship with a tear.

  Yet Love, if Love in such an hour

  Could nobly check its useless sighs,

  Might then exert its latest power

  In her who lives, and him who dies.

  ‘Twere sweet, my Psyche! to the last

  Thy features still serene to see:

  Forgetful of its struggles past,

  E’en Pain itself should smile on thee.

  But vain the wish?for Beauty still

  Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath;

  And women’s tears, produced at will,

  Deceive in life, unman in death.

  Then lonely be my latest hour,

  Without regret, without a groan;

  For thousands Death hath ceas’d to lower,

  And pain been transient or unknown.

  ‘Ay, but to die, and go,’ alas!

  Where all have gone, and all must go!

  To be the nothing that I was

  Ere born to life and living woe!

  Count o’er the joys thine hours have seen,

  Count o’er thy days from anguish free,

  And know, whatever thou hast been,

  ‘Tis something better not to be.

  AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG AND FAIR

  And thou art dead, as young and fair

  As aught of mortal birth;

  And form so soft, and charms so rare,

  Too soon return’d to Earth!

  Though Earth received them in her bed

  And o’er the spot the crowd may tread

  In carelessness or mirth,

  There is an eye which could not brook

  A moment on that grave to look.

  I will not ask where thou liest low,

  Nor gaze upon the spot;

  There flowers or weeds at will may grow,

  So I behold them not:

  It is enough for me to prove

  That what I loved, and long must love,

  Like common earth can rot;

  To me there needs no stone to tell,

  ‘Tis Nothing that I loved so well.

  Yet did I love thee to the last

  As fervently as thou,

  Who didst not change through all the past,

  And cans’t not alter now.

  The love where Death has set his seal,

  Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,

  Nor falsehood disavow:

  And, what were worse, thou canst not see

  Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.

  The better days of life were ours;

  The worst can be but mine:

  The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers,

  Shall never more be thine.

  The silence of that dreamless sleep

  I envy now too much to weep;

  Nor need I to repine,

  That all those charms have pass’d away

  I might have watch’d through long decay.

  The flower in ripen’d bloom unmatch’d

  Must fall the earliest prey;

  Though by no hand untimely snatch’d,