Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Byron

  The leaves must drop away:

  And yet it were a greater grief

  To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,

  Than see it pluck’d to-day;

  Since earthly eye but ill can bear

  To trace the change to foul from fair.

  I know not if I could have borne

  To see thy beauties fade;

  The night that followed such a morn

  Had worn a deeper shade:

  Thy day without a cloud hath passed

  And thou wert lovely to the last;

  Extinguish’d, not decay’d;

  As stars that shoot along the sky

  Shine brightest as they fall from high.

  As once I wept, if I could weep,

  My tears might well be shed,

  To think I was not near to keep

  One vigil o’er thy bed;

  To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,

  To fold thee in a faint embrace,

  Uphold thy drooping head;

  And show that love, however vain,

  Nor thou nor I can feel again.

  Yet how much less it were to gain,

  Though thou hast left me free,

  The loveliest things that still remain,

  Than thus remember thee!

  The all of thine that cannot die

  Through dark and dread Eternity

  Returns again to me,

  And more thy buried love endears

  Than aught except its living years.

  IF SOMETIMES IN THE HAUNTS OF MEN

  If sometimes in the haunts of men

  Thine image from my breast may fade,

  The lonely hour presents again

  The semblance of thy gentle shade:

  And now that sad and silent hour

  Thus much of thee can still restore,

  And sorrow unobserved may pour

  The plaint she dare not speak before.

  Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile

  I waste one thought I owe to thee,

  And self?condemn’d, appear to smile,

  Unfaithful to thy memory:

  Nor deem that memory less dear,

  That then I seem not to repine;

  I would not fools should overhear

  One sigh that should be wholly thine.

  If not the goblet pass unquaff’d,

  It is not drain’d to banish care;

  The cup must hold a deadlier draught,

  That brings a Lethe for despair.

  And could Oblivion set my soul

  From all her troubled visions free,

  I’d dash to earth the sweetest bowl

  That drown’d a single thought of thee.

  For wert thou vanish’d from my mind,

  Where could my vacant bosom turn?

  And who would then remain behind

  To honour thine abandon’d Um?

  No, no – it is my sorrow’s pride

  That last dear duty to fulfil:

  Though all the world forget beside,

  ‘Tis meet that I remember still.

  For well I know, that such had been

  Thy gentle care for him, who now

  Unmourn’d shall quit this mortal scene,

  Where none regarded him, but thou:

  And, oh! I feel in that was given

  A blessing never meant for me;

  Thou wert too like a dream of Heaven

  For earthly Love to merit thee.

  FROM THE FRENCH

  ÆGLE, beauty and poet, has two little crimes;

  She makes her own face, and does not make her rhymes.

  ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS BROKEN

  Ill-fated Heart! And can it be,

  That thou should’st thus be rent in vain?

  Have years of care for thine and thee

  Alike been all employ’d in vain?

  Yet precious seems each shatter’d part

  And every fragment dearer grown

  Since he who wears thee feels thou art

  A fitter emblem of his own.

  March 16, 1812

  LINES TO A LADY WEEPING

  Weep, daughter of a royal line,

  A Sire’s disgrace, a realm’s decay;

  Ah! happy if each tear of thine

  Could wash a father’s fault away!

  Weep — for thy tears are Virtue’s tears

  Auspicious to these suffering isles;

  And be each drop in future years

  Repaid thee by thy people’s smiles!

  THE CHAIN I GAVE: FROM THE TURKISH

  The chain I gave was fair to view,

  The lute I added sweet in sound;

  The heart that offer’d both was true,

  And ill deserved the fate it found.

  These gifts were charm’d by secret spell,

  Thy truth in absence to divine;

  And they have done their duty well,

  Alas! they could not teach the thine.

  That chain was firm in every link,

  But not to bear a stranger’s touch;

  That lute was sweet, till thou could’st think

  In other hands its notes were such.

  Let him who from thy neck unbound

  The chain which shiver’d in his grasp,

  Who saw that lute refuse to sound,

  Restring the chords, renew the clasp.

  When thou wert changed, they alter’d too;

  The chain is broke, the music mute.

  ‘Tis past, to them and thee adieu

  False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.

  LINES WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF ‘THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY’

  Absent or present, still to thee,

  My friend, what magic spells belong!

  As all can tell, who share, like me,

  In turn thy converse and thy song.

  But when the dreaded hour shall come

  By Friendship ever deem’d too nigh,

  And `MEMORY’ o’er her Druid’s tomb

  Shall weep that aught of thee can die,

  How fondly will she then repay

  Thy homage offer’d at her shrine, to

  And blend, while ages roll away,

  Her name immortally with thine!

  April 19, 1812

  ADDRESS, SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812

  In one dread night our city saw, and sigh’d,

  Bow’d to the dust, the Drama’s tower of pride

  In one short hour beheld the blazing fane,

  Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign.

  Ye who beheld, (oh! sight admired and mourn’d,

  Whose radiance mock’d the ruin it adorn’d!)

  Through clouds of fire the massy fragments riven,

  Like Israel’s pillar, chase the night from heaven;

  Saw the long column of revolving flames

  Shake its red shadow o’er the startled Thames, While thousands, throng’d around the burning dome,

  Shrank back appall’d, and trembled for their home,

  As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone

  The skies, with lightnings awful as their own,

  Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall

  Usurp ‘d the Muse’s realm, and mark’d her fall;

  Say – shall this new, nor less aspiring pile,

  Rear’d where once rose the mightiest in our isle,

  Know the same favour which the former knew,

  A shrine for Shakspeare — worthy him and you?

  Yes — it shall be — the magic of that name

  Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame;

  On the same spot still consecrates the scene,

  And bids the Drama be where she hath been:

  This fabric’s birth attests the potent spell —

  Indulge our honest p
ride, and say, How well!

  As soars this fare to emulate the last,

  Oh! might we draw our omens from the past,

  Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast

  Names such as hallow still the dome we lost.

  On Drury first your Siddons’ thrilling art

  O’erwhelm’d the gentlest, storm’d the sternest heart.

  On Drury, Garrick’s latest laurels grew;

  Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew,

  Sigh’d his last thanks, and wept his last adieu:

  But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom,

  That only waste their odours o’er the tomb.

  Such Drury claim’d and claims — nor you refuse

  One tribute to revive his slumbering muse;

  With garlands deck your own Menander’s head,

  Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead.

  Dear are the days which made our annals bright,

  Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write.

  Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs,

  Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs;

  While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo’s glass

  To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass,

  And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine

  Immortal names, emblazon’d on our line,

  Pause — ere their feebler offspring you condemn,

  Reflect how hard the task to rival them!

  Friends of the stage! to whom both Players and Plays

  Must sue alike for pardon or for praise.

  Whose judging voice and eye alone direct

  The boundless power to cherish or reject;

  If e’er frivolity has led to fame,

  And made us blush that you forbore to blame;

  If e’er the sinking stage could condescend

  To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend,

  All past reproach may present scenes refute,

  And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute!

  Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama’s laws,

  Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause;

  So pride shall doubly nerve the actor’s powers,

  And reason’s voice be echo’d back by ours!

  This greeting o’er, the ancient rule obey’d

  The Drama’s homage by her herald paid,

  Receive our welcome too, whose every tone

  Springs from our hearts, and fair would win your own.

  The curtain rises — may our stage unfold

  Scenes not unworthy Drury’s days of old!

  Britons our judges, Nature for our guide,

  Still may we please — long, long may you preside.

  PARENTHETICAL ADDRESS

  “When energising objects men pursue,

  What are the prodigies they cannot do?

  A magic edifice you here survey,

  Shot from the ruins of the other day!

  As Harlequin had smote the slumberous heap,

  And bade the rubbish to a fabric leap.

  Yet at that speed you’d never be amazed,

  Knew you the zeal with which the pile was raised;

  Nor even here your smiles would be represt,

  Knew you the rival flame that fires our breast, 10

  Flame! fire and flame! sad heart-appalling sounds,

  Dread metaphors that ope our healing wounds —

  A sleeping pang awakes — and — — But away

  With all reflections that would cloud the day

  That this triumphant, brilliant prospect brings,

  Where Hope reviving re-expands her wings;

  Where generous joy exults, where duteous ardour springs.

  If mighty things with small we may compare,

  This spirit drives Britannia’s conquering car,

  Burns in her ranks and kindles every tar.

  Nelson displayed its power upon the main,

  And Wellington exhibits it in Spain;

  Another Marlborough points to Blenheim’s story,

  And with its lustre, blends his kindred glory. 40

  In Arms and Science long our Isle hath shone,

  And Shakespeare — wondrous Shakespeare — reared a throne

  For British Poesy — whose powers inspire

  The British pencil, and the British lyre —

  Her we invoke — her Sister Arts implore:

  Their smiles beseech whose charms yourselves adore,

  These if we win, the Graces too we gain —

  Their dear, beloved, inseparable train;

  Three who their witching arts from Cupid stole

  And three acknowledged sovereigns of the soul: 50

  Harmonious throng! with nature blending art!

  Divine Sestetto! warbling to the heart

  For Poesy shall here sustain the upper part.

  Thus lifted gloriously we’ll sweep along,

  Shine in our music, scenery and song;

  Shine in our farce, masque, opera and play,

  And prove old Drury has not had her day,

  Nay more — so stretch the wing the world shall cry,

  Old Drury never, never soared so high.

  ‘But hold,’ you’ll say, ‘this self-complacent boast; 60

  Easy to reckon thus without your host.’

  True, true — that lowers at once our mounting pride;

  ‘Tis yours alone our merit to decide;

  ‘Tis ours to look to you, you hold the prize

  That bids our great, our best ambitions rise.

  A double blessing your rewards impart,

  Each good provide and elevate the heart.

  Our twofold feeling owns its twofold cause,

  Your bounty’s comfort — rapture your applause;

  When in your fostering beam you bid us live, 70

  You give the means of life, and gild the means you give.”

  Morning Chronicle, October 17, 1812.]

  VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMERHOUSE AT HALES-OWEN

  When Dryden’s fool, ‘unknowing what he sought,’

  His hours in whistling spent, ‘for want of thought,’

  This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense

  Supplied, and amply too, by innocence

  Did modern swains, possess’d of Cymon’s powers,

  In Cymon’s manner waste their leisure hours,

  Th’ offended guests would not, with blushing, see

  These fair green walks disgraced by infamy.

  Severe the fate of modern fools, alas!

  When vice and folly mark them as they pass.

  Like noxious reptiles o’er the whiten’d wall,

  The filth they leave still points out where they crawl.

  REMEMBER THEE! REMEMBER THEE!

  Remember thee! remember thee!

  Till Lethe quench life’s burning stream

  Remorse and shame shall cling to thee,

  And haunt thee like a feverish dream!

  Remember thee! Aye, doubt it not.

  Thy husband too shall think of thee:

  By neither shalt thou be forgot,

  Thou false to him, thou fiend to me!

  TO TIME

  Time! on whose arbitrary wing

  The varying hours must flag or fly,

  Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring,

  But drag or drive us on to die —

  Hail thou! who on my birth bestowed

  Those boons to all that know thee known;

  Yet better I sustain thy load,

  For now I bear the weight alone.

  I would not one fond heart should share

  The bitter moments thou hast given;

  And pardon thee — since thou couldst spare

  All that I loved, to peace or Heaven.

  To them be joy or rest — on me

  Thy future ills shall press in
vain;

  I nothing owe but years to thee,

  A debt already paid in pain.

  Yet even that pain was some relief;

  It felt, but still forgot thy power:

  The active agony of grief

  Retards, but never counts the hour.

  In joy I’ve sighed to think thy flight

  Would soon subside from swift to slow;

  Thy cloud could overcast the light,

  But could not add a night to Woe;

  For then, however drear and dark,

  My soul was suited to thy sky;

  One star alone shot forth a spark

  To prove thee — not Eternity.

  That beam hath sunk — and now thou art

  A blank — a thing to count and curse

  Through each dull tedious trifling part,

  Which all regret, yet all rehearse.

  One scene even thou canst not deform —

  The limit of thy sloth or speed

  When future wanderers bear the storm

  Which we shall sleep too sound to heed.

  And I can smile to think how weak

  Thine efforts shortly shall be shown,

  When all the vengeance thou canst wreak

  Must fall upon — a nameless stone.

  TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG

  Ah! Love was never yet without

  The pang, the agony, the doubt,

  Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh,

  While day and night roll darkling by.

  Without one friend to hear my woe,

  I faint, I die beneath the blow.

  That Love had arrows well I knew;

  Alas! I find them poison’d too.

  Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net

  Which Love around your haunts hath set;

  Or, circled by his fatal fire,

  Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire.

  A bird of free and careless wing

  Was I through many a smiling spring;

  But caught within the subtle snare,

  I burn, and feebly flutter there.

  Who ne’er have loved, and loved in vain,

  Can neither feel nor pity pain,

  The cold repulse, the look askance,

  The lightning of Love’s angry glance.

  In flattering dreams I deem’d thee mine;

  Now hope, and he who hoped, decline’

  Like melting wax, or withering flower,

  I feel my passion, and thy power.

  My light of life! ah, tell me why

  That pouting lip, and alter’d eye?

  My bird of love! my beauteous mate!

  And art thou changed, and canst thou hate?

  Mine eyes like wintry streams o’erflow:

  What wretch with me would barter woe?

  My bird! relent: one note could give

  A charm to bid thy lover live.

  My curdling blood, my madd’ning brain,