Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series
Page 36
In silent anguish I sustain
And still thy heart, without partaking
One pang, exults – while mine is breaking.
Pour me the poison; fear not thou!
Thou canst not murder more than now:
I’ve lived to curse my natal day,
And Love, that thus can lingering slay.
My wounded soul, my bleeding breast,
Can patience preach thee into rest?
Alas! too late, I dearly know
That joy is harbinger of woe.
THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU ART FICKLE
Thou art not false, but thou art fickle,
To those thyself so fondly sought;
The tears that thou hast forced to trickle
Are doubly bitter from that thought:
‘Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest
Too well thou lov’st – too soon thou leavest.
The wholly false the heart despises,
And spurns deceiver and deceit;
But she who not a thought disguises,
Whose love is as sincere as sweet,
When she can change who loved so truly,
It feels what mine has felt so newly.
To dream of joy and wake to sorrow
Is doom’d to all who love or live;
And if, when conscious on the morrow,
We scarce our fancy can forgive,
That cheated us in slumber only,
To leave the waking soul more lonely,
What must they feel whom no false vision,
But truest, tenderest passion warm’d?
Sincere, but swift in sad transition;
As if a dream alone had charm’d?
Ah! sure such grief is fancy’s scheming,
And all thy change can be but dreaming!
ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE ‘ORIGIN OF LOVE’
The ‘Origin of Love!’ — Ah why
That cruel question ask of me,
When thou may’st read in many an eye
He starts to life on seeing thee?
And should’st thou seek his end to know:
My heart forebodes, my fears foresee
He’ll linger long in silent woe;
But live — until I cease to be.
REMEMBER HIM, WHOM PASSION’S POWER
Remember him, whom Passion’s power
Severely — deeply — vainly proved:
Remember thou that dangerous hour,
When neither fell, though both were loved.
That yielding breast, that melting eye,
Too much invited to be blessed:
That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh,
The wilder wish reproved, repressed.
Oh! let me feel that all I lost
But saved thee all that Conscience fears;
And blush for every pang it cost
To spare the vain remorse of years.
Yet think of this when many a tongue,
Whose busy accents whisper blame,
Would do the heart that loved thee wrong,
And brand a nearly blighted name.
Think that, whate’er to others, thou
Hast seen each selfish thought subdued:
I bless thy purer soul even now,
Even now, in midnight solitude.
Oh, God! that we had met in time,
Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free;
When thou hadst loved without a crime,
And I been less unworthy thee!
Far may thy days, as heretofore,
From this our gaudy world be past!
And that too bitter moment o’er,
Oh! may such trial be thy last.
This heart, alas! perverted long,
Itself destroyed might there destroy;
To meet thee in the glittering throng,
Would wake Presumption’s hope of joy.
Then to the things whose bliss or woe,
Like mine, is wild and worthless all,
That world resign — such scenes forego,
Where those who feel must surely fall.
Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness —
Thy soul from long seclusion pure;
From what even here hath passed, may guess
What there thy bosom must endure.
Oh! pardon that imploring tear,
Since not by Virtue shed in vain,
My frenzy drew from eyes so dear;
For me they shall not weep again.
Though long and mournful must it be,
The thought that we no more may meet;
Yet I deserve the stern decree,
And almost deem the sentence sweet.
Still — had I loved thee less — my heart
Had then less sacrificed to thine;
It felt not half so much to part
As if its guilt had made thee mine.
ON LORD THURLOW’S POEMS
When Thurlow this damn’d nonsense sent
(I hope I am not violent),
Nor men nor gods knew what he meant.
And since not even our Rogers’ praise
To common sense his thoughts could raise —
Why would they let him print his lays’
To me, divine Apollo, grant — O!
Hermilda s first and second canto,
I’m fitting up a new portmanteau;
And thus to furnish decent lining,
My own and others’ bays I’m twining, —
So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in.
TO LORD THURLOW
‘I lay my branch of laurel down.
Then thus to form Apollo’s crown.
Let every other bring his own.’~Lord Thurlow’s lines to Mr. Rogers
‘I lay my branch of laurel down.’
Thou ‘lay thy branch of laurel down!’
Why, what thou’st stole is not enow;
And, were it lawfully thine own,
Does Rogers want it most, or thou?
Keep to thyself thy wither’d bough,
Or send it back to Doctor Donne:
Were justice done to both, I trow,
He’d have but little, and thou — none.
‘Then thus to form Apollo’s crown.’
A crown! why, twist it how you will,
Thy chaplet must be foolscap still.
When next you visit Delphi’s town,
Inquire amongst your fellow-lodgers,
They’ll tell you Phoebus gave his crown,
Some years before your birth, to Rogers.
‘Let every other bring his own.’
When coals to Newcastle are carried,
And owls sent to Athens, as wonders,
From his spouse when the R egent’s unmarried,
Or Liverpool weeps o’er his blunders;
When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel,
When Castlereagh’s wife has an heir,
Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel,
And thou shalt have plenty to spare.
TO THOMAS MOORE
WRITTEN THE EVENING BEFORE HIS VISIT TO MR. LEIGH HUNT IN HORSEMONGER LANE GAOL, MAY 19, 1813
Oh you, who in all names can tickle the town,
Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown,
For hang me if I know of which you may most brag,
Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Twopenny Post Bag;
But now to my letter-to yours ‘tis an answer —
To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir,
All ready and dress’d for proceeding to spunge on
(According to compact) the wit in the dungeon —
Pray Phobus at length our political malice
May not get us lodgings within the same palace!
I suppose that to-night you’re engaged with some codgers,
And for Sotheby’s Bl
ues have deserted Sam Rogers;
And I, though with cold I have nearly my death got,
Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote;
But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scurra,
And you’ll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra.
IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND
When, from the heart where Sorrow sits,
Her dusky shadow mounts too high,
And o’er the changing aspect flits,
And clouds the brow, or fills the eye;
Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink:
My thoughts their dungeon know too well;
Back to my breast the wanderers shrink,
And droop within their silent cell.
SONNET, TO GENEVRA
Thine eyes’ blue tenderness, thy long fair hair,
And the wan lustre of thy features caught
From contemplation-where serenely wrought,
Seems Sorrow’s softness charm’d from its despair —
Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air
That — but I know thy blessed bosom fraught
With mines of unalloy’d and stainless thought —
I should have deem’d thee doom’d to earthly care.
With such an aspect, by his colours blent,
When from his beauty-breathing pencil born
(Except that thou hast nothing to repent),
The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn —
Such seem’st thou — but how much more excellent!
With nought Remorse can claim — nor Virtue scorn.
December 17, 1813.
SONNET TO GENEVRA
Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush,
My heart would wish away that ruder glow:
And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes — but, oh!
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
And into mine my mother’s weakness rush,
Soft as the last drops round Heaven’s airy bow.
For, though thy long dark lashes low depending,
The soul of melancholy Gentleness
Gleams like a Seraph from the sky descending,
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.
SONNET, TO THE SAME (GENEVRA)
Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush,
My heart would wish away that ruder glow:
And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes — but, oh!
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
And into mine my mother’s weakness rush,
Soft as the last drops round heaven’s airy bow.
For, through thy long dark lashes low depending,
The soul of melancholy Gentleness
Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending,
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.
FROM THE PORTUGUESE, ‘TU MI CHAMAS’
In moments to delight devoted,
‘My life!’ with tenderest tone you cry;
Dear words! on which my heart had doted,
If youth could neither fade nor die.
To death even hours like these must roll,
Ah! then repeat those accents never;
Or change ‘my life!’ into ‘my soul!’
Which, like my love, exists for ever.
ANOTHER VERSION
You call me still your life. — Oh! change the word —
Life is as transient as the inconstant sigh:
Say rather I’m your soul; more just that name,
For, like the soul, my love can never die.
THE DEVIL’S DRIVE: AN UNFINISHED RHAPSODY
The Devil return’d to hell by two,
And he stay’d at home till five;
When he dined on some homicides done in ragoût,
And a rebel or so in an Irish stew,
And sausages made of a self-slain Jew —
And bethought himself what next to do,
‘And’ quoth he, ‘I’ll take a drive.
I walk’d in the morning, I’ll ride to-night;
In darkness my children take most delight,
And I’ll see how my favourites thrive,
‘And what shall I ride in?’ quoth Lucifer then —
‘If I follow’d my taste, indeed,
I should mount in a waggon of wounded men,
And smile to see them bleed.
But these will be furnish’d again and again,
And at present my purpose is speed;
To see my manor as much as I may,
And watch that no souls shall be poach’d away.
‘I have a state-coach at Carlton House,
A chariot in Seymour Place;
But they’re lent to two friends, who make me amends,
By driving my favourite pace:
And they handle their reins with such a grace,
I have something for both at the end of their race.
‘So now for the earth to take my chance:’
Then up to the earth sprang he;
And making a jump from Moscow to France,
He stepp’d across the sea,
And rested his hoof on a turnpike road,
No very great way from a bishop’s abode.
But first as he flew, I forgot to say
That he hover’d a moment upon his way,
To look upon Leipsic plain;
And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare,
And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair,
That he perch’d on a mountain of slain;
And he gazed with delight from its growing height,
Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight,
Nor his work done half as well:
For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead,
That it blush’d like the waves of hell!
Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh’d he:
‘Methinks they have here little need of me!’
But the softest note that soothed his ear
Was the sound of a widow sighing;
And the sweetest sight was the icy tear,
Which horror froze in the blue eye clear
Of a maid by her lover lying —
As round her fell her long fair hair
And she look’d to heaven with that frenzied air,
Which seem ‘d to ask if a God were there!
And, stretch’d by the wall of a ruin’d hut,
With its hollow cheek, and eyes half shut,
A child of famine dying:
And the carnage begun, when resistance is done,
And the fall of the vainly flying!
But the Devil has reach’d our, cliffs so white,
And what did he there, I pray?
If his eyes were good, he but saw by night
What we see every day:
But he made a tour, and kept a journal
Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal,
And he sold it in shares to the Men of the Row,
Who bid pretty well — but they cheated him, though!
The Devil first saw, as he thought, the Mail,
Its coachman and his coat
So instead of a pistol he cock’d his tail,
And seized him by the throat:
‘Aha!’ quoth he, ‘what have we here?
‘Tis a new barouche, and an ancient peer!’
So he sat him on his box
again,
And bade him have no fear,
But be true to his club, and stanch to his rein,
His brothel, and his beer;
‘Next to seeing a lord at the council board,
I would rather see him here.’
The Devil gat next to Westminster,
And he turn’d to ‘the room’ of the Commons;
But he heard, as he purposed to enter in there,
That ‘the Lords’ had received a summons;
And he thought, as a ‘ quondam aristocrat,’
He might peep at the peers, though to hear them were flat;
And he walk’d up the house so like one of our own,
That they say that he stood pretty near the throne.
He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise,
The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly,
And Johnny of Norfolk – a man of some size —
And Chatham, so like his friend Billy;
And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon’s eyes,
Because the Catholics would not rise,
In spite of his prayers and his prophecies;
And he heard – which set Satan himself a staring —
A certain Chief Justice say something like swearing.
And the Devil was shock’d – and quoth he, ‘I must go,
For I find we have much better manners below:
If thus he harangues when he passes my border,
I shall hint to friend Moloch to call him to order.’
WINDSOR POETICS
LINES COMPOSED ON THE OCCASION OF HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCE REGENT BEING SEEN STANDING BETWEEN THE COFFINS OF HENRY VIII AND CHARLES I, IN THE ROYAL VAULT AT WINDSOR
Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties,
By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies;
Between them stands another sceptred thing —
It moves, it reigns — in all but name, a king:
Charles to his people, Henry to his wife,
- In him the double tyrant starts to life:
Justice and death have mix’d their dust in vain,
Each royal vampire wakes to life again.
Ah, what can tombs avail! — since these disgorge
The blood and dust of both — to mould a George.
ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE
‘Expends Annibalem: — quot libras in duce summo
Invenies?~JUVENAL., Sat. X.
I.
Tis done — but yesterday a King!
And arm’d with Kings to strive —
And now thou art a nameless thing:
So abject — yet alive!
Is this the man of thousand thrones,
Who strew’d our earth with hostile bones,
And can he thus survive?
Since he, miscall’d the Morning Star,
Nor man nor fiend bath fallen so far.
II.
Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind
Who bow’d so low the knee?