Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

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by Lord Byron


  That when his long dark shadow through the porch

  No more relieves the glare of yon high torch,

  Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seem 620

  To bound as doubting from too black a dream,

  Such as we know is false, yet dread in sooth,

  Because the worst is ever nearest truth.

  And they are gone — but Ezzelin is there,

  With thoughtful visage and imperious air;

  But long remained not; ere an hour expired

  He waved his hand to Otho, and retired.

  XXIX.

  The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest;

  The courteous host, and all-approving guest,

  Again to that accustomed couch must creep 630

  Where Joy subsides, and Sorrow sighs to sleep,

  And Man, o’erlaboured with his Being’s strife,

  Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life:

  There lie Love’s feverish hope, and Cunning’s guile,

  Hate’s working brain, and lulled Ambition’s wile;

  O’er each vain eye Oblivion’s pinions wave,

  And quenched Existence crouches in a grave.

  What better name may Slumber’s bed become?

  Night’s sepulchre, the universal home,

  Where Weakness — Strength — Vice — Virtue — sunk supine, 640

  Alike in naked helplessness recline;

  Glad for a while to heave unconscious breath,

  Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of Death,

  And shun — though Day but dawn on ills increased —

  That sleep, — the loveliest, since it dreams the least.

  CANTO THE SECOND

  I.

  Night wanes — the vapours round the mountains curled

  Melt into morn, and Light awakes the world,

  Man has another day to swell the past,

  And lead him near to little, but his last;

  But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth, 650

  The Sun is in the heavens, and Life on earth;

  Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam,

  Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream.

  Immortal Man! behold her glories shine,

  And cry, exulting inly, “They are thine!”

  Gaze on, while yet thy gladdened eye may see:

  A morrow comes when they are not for thee:

  And grieve what may above thy senseless bier,

  Nor earth nor sky will yield a single tear;

  Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall, 660

  Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee, for all;

  But creeping things shall revel in their spoil,

  And fit thy clay to fertilise the soil.

  II.

  ‘Tis morn — ‘tis noon — assembled in the hall,

  The gathered Chieftains come to Otho’s call;

  ‘Tis now the promised hour, that must proclaim

  The life or death of Lara’s future fame;

  And Ezzelin his charge may here unfold,

  And whatsoe’er the tale, it must be told.

  His faith was pledged, and Lara’s promise given, 670

  To meet it in the eye of Man and Heaven.

  Why comes he not? Such truths to be divulged,

  Methinks the accuser’s rest is long indulged.

  III.

  The hour is past, and Lara too is there,

  With self-confiding, coldly patient air;

  Why comes not Ezzelin? The hour is past,

  And murmurs rise, and Otho’s brow’s o’ercast.

  “I know my friend! his faith I cannot fear,

  If yet he be on earth, expect him here;

  The roof that held him in the valley stands 680

  Between my own and noble Lara’s lands;

  My halls from such a guest had honour gained,

  Nor had Sir Ezzelin his host disdained,

  But that some previous proof forbade his stay,

  And urged him to prepare against to-day;

  The word I pledged for his I pledge again,

  Or will myself redeem his knighthood’s stain.”

  He ceased — and Lara answered, “I am here

  To lend at thy demand a listening ear

  To tales of evil from a stranger’s tongue, 690

  Whose words already might my heart have wrung,

  But that I deemed him scarcely less than mad,

  Or, at the worst, a foe ignobly bad.

  I know him not — but me it seems he knew

  In lands where — but I must not trifle too:

  Produce this babbler — or redeem the pledge;

  Here in thy hold, and with thy falchion’s edge.”

  Proud Otho on the instant, reddening, threw

  His glove on earth, and forth his sabre flew.

  “The last alternative befits me best, 700

  And thus I answer for mine absent guest.”

  With cheek unchanging from its sallow gloom,

  However near his own or other’s tomb;

  With hand, whose almost careless coolness spoke

  Its grasp well-used to deal the sabre-stroke;

  With eye, though calm, determined not to spare,

  Did Lara too his willing weapon bare.

  In vain the circling Chieftains round them closed,

  For Otho’s frenzy would not be opposed;

  And from his lip those words of insult fell — 710

  His sword is good who can maintain them well.

  IV.

  Short was the conflict; furious, blindly rash,

  Vain Otho gave his bosom to the gash:

  He bled, and fell; but not with deadly wound,

  Stretched by a dextrous sleight along the ground.

  “Demand thy life!” He answered not: and then

  From that red floor he ne’er had risen again,

  For Lara’s brow upon the moment grew

  Almost to blackness in its demon hue;

  And fiercer shook his angry falchion now 720

  Than when his foe’s was levelled at his brow;

  Then all was stern collectedness and art,

  Now rose the unleavened hatred of his heart;

  So little sparing to the foe he felled,

  That when the approaching crowd his arm withheld,

  He almost turned the thirsty point on those

  Who thus for mercy dared to interpose;

  But to a moment’s thought that purpose bent;

  Yet looked he on him still with eye intent,

  As if he loathed the ineffectual strife 730

  That left a foe, howe’er o’erthrown, with life;

  As if to search how far the wound he gave

  Had sent its victim onward to his grave.

  V.

  They raised the bleeding Otho, and the Leech

  Forbade all present question, sign, and speech;

  The others met within a neighbouring hall,

  And he, incensed, and heedless of them all,

  The cause and conqueror in this sudden fray,

  In haughty silence slowly strode away;

  He backed his steed, his homeward path he took, 740

  Nor cast on Otho’s towers a single look.

  VI.

  But where was he? that meteor of a night,

  Who menaced but to disappear with light.

  Where was this Ezzelin? who came and went,

  To leave no other trace of his intent.

  He left the dome of Otho long ere morn,

  In darkness, yet so well the path was worn

  He could not miss it: near his dwelling lay;

  But there he was not, and with coming day

  Came fast inquiry, which unfolded nought, 750

  Except the absence of the Chief it sought.

  A chamber
tenantless, a steed at rest,

  His host alarmed, his murmuring squires distressed:

  Their search extends along, around the path,

  In dread to meet the marks of prowlers’ wrath:

  But none are there, and not a brake hath borne

  Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn;

  Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass,

  Which still retains a mark where Murder was;

  Nor dabbling fingers left to tell the tale, 760

  The bitter print of each convulsive nail,

  When agoniséd hands that cease to guard,

  Wound in that pang the smoothness of the sward.

  Some such had been, if here a life was reft,

  But these were not; and doubting Hope is left;

  And strange Suspicion, whispering Lara’s name,

  Now daily mutters o’er his blackened fame;

  Then sudden silent when his form appeared,

  Awaits the absence of the thing it feared

  Again its wonted wondering to renew, 770

  And dye conjecture with a darker hue.

  VII.

  Days roll along, and Otho’s wounds are healed,

  But not his pride; and hate no more concealed:

  He was a man of power, and Lara’s foe,

  The friend of all who sought to work him woe,

  And from his country’s justice now demands

  Account of Ezzelin at Lara’s hands.

  Who else than Lara could have cause to fear

  His presence? who had made him disappear,

  If not the man on whom his menaced charge 780

  Had sate too deeply were he left at large?

  The general rumour ignorantly loud,

  The mystery dearest to the curious crowd;

  The seeming friendliness of him who strove

  To win no confidence, and wake no love;

  The sweeping fierceness which his soul betrayed,

  The skill with which he wielded his keen blade;

  Where had his arm unwarlike caught that art?

  Where had that fierceness grown upon his heart?

  For it was not the blind capricious rage 790

  A word can kindle and a word assuage;

  But the deep working of a soul unmixed

  With aught of pity where its wrath had fixed;

  Such as long power and overgorged success

  Concentrates into all that’s merciless:

  These, linked with that desire which ever sways

  Mankind, the rather to condemn than praise,

  ‘Gainst Lara gathering raised at length a storm,

  Such as himself might fear, and foes would form,

  And he must answer for the absent head 800

  Of one that haunts him still, alive or dead.

  VIII.

  Within that land was many a malcontent,

  Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent;

  That soil full many a wringing despot saw,

  Who worked his wantonness in form of law;

  Long war without and frequent broil within

  Had made a path for blood and giant sin,

  That waited but a signal to begin

  New havoc, such as civil discord blends,

  Which knows no neuter, owns but foes or friends; 810

  Fixed in his feudal fortress each was lord,

  In word and deed obeyed, in soul abhorred.

  Thus Lara had inherited his lands,

  And with them pining hearts and sluggish hands;

  But that long absence from his native clime

  Had left him stainless of Oppression’s crime,

  And now, diverted by his milder sway,

  All dread by slow degrees had worn away.

  The menials felt their usual awe alone,

  But more for him than them that fear was grown; 820

  They deemed him now unhappy, though at first

  Their evil judgment augured of the worst,

  And each long restless night, and silent mood,

  Was traced to sickness, fed by solitude:

  And though his lonely habits threw of late

  Gloom o’er his chamber, cheerful was his gate;

  For thence the wretched ne’er unsoothed withdrew,

  For them, at least, his soul compassion knew.

  Cold to the great, contemptuous to the high,

  The humble passed not his unheeding eye; 830

  Much he would speak not, but beneath his roof

  They found asylum oft, and ne’er reproof.

  And they who watched might mark that, day by day,

  Some new retainers gathered to his sway;

  But most of late, since Ezzelin was lost,

  He played the courteous lord and bounteous host:

  Perchance his strife with Otho made him dread

  Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head;

  Whate’er his view, his favour more obtains

  With these, the people, than his fellow thanes. 840

  If this were policy, so far ‘twas sound,

  The million judged but of him as they found;

  From him by sterner chiefs to exile driven

  They but required a shelter, and ‘twas given.

  By him no peasant mourned his rifled cot,

  And scarce the Serf could murmur o’er his lot;

  With him old Avarice found its hoard secure,

  With him contempt forbore to mock the poor;

  Youth present cheer and promised recompense

  Detained, till all too late to part from thence: 850

  To Hate he offered, with the coming change,

  The deep reversion of delayed revenge;

  To Love, long baffled by the unequal match,

  The well-won charms success was sure to snatch.

  All now was ripe, he waits but to proclaim

  That slavery nothing which was still a name.

  The moment came, the hour when Otho thought

  Secure at last the vengeance which he sought:

  His summons found the destined criminal

  Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall; 860

  Fresh from their feudal fetters newly riven,

  Defying earth, and confident of heaven.

  That morning he had freed the soil-bound slaves,

  Who dig no land for tyrants but their graves!

  Such is their cry — some watchword for the fight

  Must vindicate the wrong, and warp the right;

  Religion — Freedom — Vengeance — what you will,

  A word’s enough to raise Mankind to kill;

  Some factious phrase by cunning caught and spread,

  That Guilt may reign-and wolves and worms be fed! 870

  IX.

  Throughout that clime the feudal Chiefs had gained

  Such sway, their infant monarch hardly reigned;

  Now was the hour for Faction’s rebel growth,

  The Serfs contemned the one, and hated both:

  They waited but a leader, and they found

  One to their cause inseparably bound;

  By circumstance compelled to plunge again,

  In self-defence, amidst the strife of men.

  Cut off by some mysterious fate from those

  Whom Birth and Nature meant not for his foes, 880

  Had Lara from that night, to him accurst,

  Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst:

  Some reason urged, whate’er it was, to shun

  Inquiry into deeds at distance done;

  By mingling with his own the cause of all,

  E’en if he failed, he still delayed his fall.

  The sullen calm that long his bosom kept,

  The storm that once had spent itself and slept,

  Roused by events that seemed foredoomed to urge

  His gl
oomy fortunes to their utmost verge, 890

  Burst forth, and made him all he once had been,

  And is again; he only changed the scene.

  Light care had he for life, and less for fame,

  But not less fitted for the desperate game:

  He deemed himself marked out for others’ hate,

  And mocked at Ruin so they shared his fate.

  And cared he for the freedom of the crowd?

  He raised the humble but to bend the proud.

  He had hoped quiet in his sullen lair,

  But Man and Destiny beset him there: 900

  Inured to hunters, he was found at bay;

  And they must kill, they cannot snare the prey.

  Stern, unambitious, silent, he had been

  Henceforth a calm spectator of Life’s scene;

  But dragged again upon the arena, stood

  A leader not unequal to the feud;

  In voice — mien — gesture — savage nature spoke,

  And from his eye the gladiator broke.

  X.

  What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife,

  The feast of vultures, and the waste of life? 910

  The varying fortune of each separate field,

  The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yield?

  The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall?

  In this the struggle was the same with all;

  Save that distempered passions lent their force

  In bitterness that banished all remorse.

  None sued, for Mercy knew her cry was vain,

  The captive died upon the battle-plain:

  In either cause, one rage alone possessed

  The empire of the alternate victor’s breast; 920

  And they that smote for freedom or for sway,

  Deemed few were slain, while more remained to slay.

  It was too late to check the wasting brand,

  And Desolation reaped the famished land;

  The torch was lighted, and the flame was spread,

  And Carnage smiled upon her daily dead.

  XI.

  Fresh with the nerve the new-born impulse strung,

  The first success to Lara’s numbers clung:

  But that vain victory hath ruined all;

  They form no longer to their leader’s call: 930

  In blind confusion on the foe they press,

  And think to snatch is to secure success.

  The lust of booty, and the thirst of hate,

  Lure on the broken brigands to their fate:

  In vain he doth whate’er a chief may do,

  To check the headlong fury of that crew;

  In vain their stubborn ardour he would tame,

  The hand that kindles cannot quench the flame;

  The wary foe alone hath turned their mood,

  And shown their rashness to that erring brood: 940

 

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