by Lord Byron
The feigned retreat, the nightly ambuscade,
The daily harass, and the fight delayed,
The long privation of the hoped supply,
The tentless rest beneath the humid sky,
The stubborn wall that mocks the leaguer’s art,
And palls the patience of his baffled art,
Of these they had not deemed: the battle-day
They could encounter as a veteran may;
But more preferred the fury of the strife,
And present death, to hourly suffering life: 950
And Famine wrings, and Fever sweeps away
His numbers melting fast from their array;
Intemperate triumph fades to discontent,
And Lara’s soul alone seems still unbent;
But few remain to aid his voice and hand,
And thousands dwindled to a scanty band:
Desperate, though few, the last and best remained
To mourn the discipline they late disdained.
One hope survives, the frontier is not far,
And thence they may escape from native war: 960
And bear within them to the neighbouring state
An exile’s sorrows, or an outlaw’s hate:
Hard is the task their father-land to quit,
But harder still to perish or submit.
XII.
It is resolved — they march — consenting Night
Guides with her star their dim and torchless flight;
Already they perceive its tranquil beam
Sleep on the surface of the barrier stream;
Already they descry — Is yon the bank?
Away! ‘tis lined with many a hostile rank. 970
Return or fly! — What glitters in the rear?
‘Tis Otho’s banner — the pursuer’s spear!
Are those the shepherds’ fires upon the height?
Alas! they blaze too widely for the flight:
Cut off from hope, and compassed in the toil,
Less blood perchance hath bought a richer spoil!
XIII.
A moment’s pause — ‘tis but to breathe their band,
Or shall they onward press, or here withstand?
It matters little — if they charge the foes
Who by their border-stream their march oppose, 980
Some few, perchance, may break and pass the line,
However linked to baffle such design.
“The charge be ours! to wait for their assault
Were fate well worthy of a coward’s halt.”
Forth flies each sabre, reined is every steed,
And the next word shall scarce outstrip the deed:
In the next tone of Lara’s gathering breath
How many shall but hear the voice of Death!
XIV.
His blade is bared, — in him there is an air
As deep, but far too tranquil for despair; 990
A something of indifference more than then
Becomes the bravest, if they feel for men —
He turned his eye on Kaled, ever near,
And still too faithful to betray one fear;
Perchance ‘twas but the moon’s dim twilight threw
Along his aspect an unwonted hue
Of mournful paleness, whose deep tint expressed
The truth, and not the terror of his breast.
This Lara marked, and laid his hand on his:
It trembled not in such an hour as this; 1000
His lip was silent, scarcely beat his heart,
His eye alone proclaimed, “We will not part!
Thy band may perish, or thy friends may flee,
Farewell to Life — but not Adieu to thee!”
The word hath passed his lips, and onward driven,
Pours the linked band through ranks asunder riven:
Well has each steed obeyed the arméd heel,
And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel;
Outnumbered, not outbraved, they still oppose
Despair to daring, and a front to foes; 1010
And blood is mingled with the dashing stream,
Which runs all redly till the morning beam.
XV.
Commanding — aiding — animating all,
Where foe appeared to press, or friend to fall,
Cheers Lara’s voice, and waves or strikes his steel,
Inspiring hope, himself had ceased to feel.
None fled, for well they knew that flight were vain;
But those that waver turn to smite again,
While yet they find the firmest of the foe
Recoil before their leader’s look and blow: 1020
Now girt with numbers, now almost alone,
He foils their ranks, or re-unites his own;
Himself he spared not — once they seemed to fly —
Now was the time, he waved his hand on high,
And shook — Why sudden droops that pluméd crest?
The shaft is sped — the arrow’s in his breast!
That fatal gesture left the unguarded side,
And Death has stricken down yon arm of pride.
The word of triumph fainted from his tongue;
That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung! 1030
But yet the sword instinctively retains,
Though from its fellow shrink the falling reins;
These Kaled snatches: dizzy with the blow,
And senseless bending o’er his saddle-bow,
Perceives not Lara that his anxious page
Beguiles his charger from the combat’s rage:
Meantime his followers charge, and charge again;
Too mixed the slayers now to heed the slain!
XVI.
Day glimmers on the dying and the dead,
The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head; 1040
The war-horse masterless is on the earth,
And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth;
And near, yet quivering with what life remained,
The heel that urged him and the hand that reined;
And some too near that rolling torrent lie,
Whose waters mock the lip of those that die;
That panting thirst which scorches in the breath
Of those that die the soldier’s fiery death,
In vain impels the burning mouth to crave
One drop — the last — to cool it for the grave; 1050
With feeble and convulsive effort swept,
Their limbs along the crimsoned turf have crept;
The faint remains of life such struggles waste,
But yet they reach the stream, and bend to taste:
They feel its freshness, and almost partake —
Why pause? No further thirst have they to slake —
It is unquenched, and yet they feel it not;
It was an agony — but now forgot!
XVII.
Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene,
Where but for him that strife had never been, 1060
A breathing but devoted warrior lay:
‘Twas Lara bleeding fast from life away.
His follower once, and now his only guide,
Kneels Kaled watchful o’er his welling side,
And with his scarf would staunch the tides that rush,
With each convulsion, in a blacker gush;
And then, as his faint breathing waxes low,
In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow:
He scarce can speak, but motions him ‘tis vain,
And merely adds another throb to pain. 1070
He clasps the hand that pang which would assuage,
And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page,
Who nothing fears — nor feels — nor heeds — nor sees —
Save that damp brow which rests upon his knees;
Save tha
t pale aspect, where the eye, though dim,
Held all the light that shone on earth for him.
XVIII.
The foe arrives, who long had searched the field,
Their triumph nought till Lara too should yield:
They would remove him, but they see ‘twere vain,
And he regards them with a calm disdain, 1080
That rose to reconcile him with his fate,
And that escape to death from living hate:
And Otho comes, and leaping from his steed,
Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed,
And questions of his state; he answers not,
Scarce glances on him as on one forgot,
And turns to Kaled: — each remaining word
They understood not, if distinctly heard;
His dying tones are in that other tongue,
To which some strange remembrance wildly clung. 1090
They spake of other scenes, but what — is known
To Kaled, whom their meaning reached alone;
And he replied, though faintly, to their sound,
While gazed the rest in dumb amazement round:
They seemed even then — that twain — unto the last
To half forget the present in the past;
To share between themselves some separate fate,
Whose darkness none beside should penetrate.
XIX.
Their words though faint were many — from the tone
Their import those who heard could judge alone; 1100
From this, you might have deemed young Kaled’s death
More near than Lara’s by his voice and breath,
So sad — so deep — and hesitating broke
The accents his scarce-moving pale lips spoke;
But Lara’s voice, though low, at first was clear
And calm, till murmuring Death gasped hoarsely near;
But from his visage little could we guess,
So unrepentant — dark — and passionless,
Save that when struggling nearer to his last,
Upon that page his eye was kindly cast; 1110
And once, as Kaled’s answering accents ceased,
Rose Lara’s hand, and pointed to the East:
Whether (as then the breaking Sun from high
Rolled back the clouds) the morrow caught his eye,
Or that ‘twas chance — or some remembered scene,
That raised his arm to point where such had been,
Scarce Kaled seemed to know, but turned away,
As if his heart abhorred that coming day,
And shrunk his glance before that morning light,
To look on Lara’s brow — where all grew night. 1120
Yet sense seemed left, though better were its loss;
For when one near displayed the absolving Cross,
And proffered to his touch the holy bead,
Of which his parting soul might own the need,
He looked upon it with an eye profane,
And smiled — Heaven pardon! if ‘twere with disdain:
And Kaled, though he spoke not, nor withdrew
From Lara’s face his fixed despairing view,
With brow repulsive, and with gesture swift,
Flung back the hand which held the sacred gift, 1130
As if such but disturbed the expiring man,
Nor seemed to know his life but then began —
That Life of Immortality, secure
To none, save them whose faith in Christ is sure.
XX.
But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew,
And dull the film along his dim eye grew;
His limbs stretched fluttering, and his head drooped o’er
The weak yet still untiring knee that bore;
He pressed the hand he held upon his heart —
It beats no more, but Kaled will not part 1140
With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain,
For that faint throb which answers not again.
“It beats!” — Away, thou dreamer! he is gone —
It once was Lara which thou look’st upon.
XXI.
He gazed, as if not yet had passed away
The haughty spirit of that humbled clay;
And those around have roused him from his trance,
But cannot tear from thence his fixéd glance;
And when, in raising him from where he bore
Within his arms the form that felt no more, 1150
He saw the head his breast would still sustain,
Roll down like earth to earth upon the plain;
He did not dash himself thereby, nor tear
The glossy tendrils of his raven hair,
But strove to stand and gaze, but reeled and fell,
Scarce breathing more than that he loved so well.
Than that he loved! Oh! never yet beneath
The breast of man such trusty love may breathe!
That trying moment hath at once revealed
The secret long and yet but half concealed; 1160
In baring to revive that lifeless breast,
Its grief seemed ended, but the sex confessed;
And life returned, and Kaled felt no shame —
What now to her was Womanhood or Fame?
XXII.
And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep,
But where he died his grave was dug as deep;
Nor is his mortal slumber less profound,
Though priest nor blessed nor marble decked the mound,
And he was mourned by one whose quiet grief,
Less loud, outlasts a people’s for their Chief. 1170
Vain was all question asked her of the past,
And vain e’en menace — silent to the last;
She told nor whence, nor why she left behind
Her all for one who seemed but little kind.
Why did she love him? Curious fool! — be still —
Is human love the growth of human will?
To her he might be gentleness; the stern
Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern,
And when they love, your smilers guess not how
Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow. 1180
They were not common links, that formed the chain
That bound to Lara Kaled’s heart and brain;
But that wild tale she brooked not to unfold,
And sealed is now each lip that could have told.
XXIII.
They laid him in the earth, and on his breast,
Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest,
They found the scattered dints of many a scar,
Which were not planted there in recent war;
Where’er had passed his summer years of life,
It seems they vanished in a land of strife; 1190
But all unknown his Glory or his Guilt,
These only told that somewhere blood was spilt,
And Ezzelin, who might have spoke the past,
Returned no more — that night appeared his last.
XXIV.
Upon that night (a peasant’s is the tale)
A Serf that crossed the intervening vale,
When Cynthia’s light almost gave way to morn,
And nearly veiled in mist her waning horn;
A Serf, that rose betimes to thread the wood,
And hew the bough that bought his children’s food, 1200
Passed by the river that divides the plain
Of Otho’s lands and Lara’s broad domain:
He heard a tramp — a horse and horseman broke
From out the wood — before him was a cloak
Wrapt round some burthen at his saddle-bow,
Bent was his head, and hidden was his brow.
Roused by the sudde
n sight at such a time,
And some foreboding that it might be crime,
Himself unheeded watched the stranger’s course,
Who reached the river, bounded from his horse, 1210
And lifting thence the burthen which he bore,
Heaved up the bank, and dashed it from the shore,
Then paused — and looked — and turned — and seemed to watch,
And still another hurried glance would snatch,
And follow with his step the stream that flowed,
As if even yet too much its surface showed;
At once he started — stooped — around him strown
The winter floods had scattered heaps of stone:
Of these the heaviest thence he gathered there,
And slung them with a more than common care. 1220
Meantime the Serf had crept to where unseen
Himself might safely mark what this might mean;
He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast,
And something glittered starlike on the vest;
But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk,
A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk:
It rose again, but indistinct to view,
And left the waters of a purple hue,
Then deeply disappeared: the horseman gazed
Till ebbed the latest eddy it had raised; 1230
Then turning, vaulted on his pawing steed,
And instant spurred him into panting speed.
His face was masked — the features of the dead,
If dead it were, escaped the observer’s dread;
But if in sooth a Star its bosom bore,
Such is the badge that Knighthood ever wore,
And such ‘tis known Sir Ezzelin had worn
Upon the night that led to such a morn.
If thus he perished, Heaven receive his soul!
His undiscovered limbs to ocean roll; 1240
And charity upon the hope would dwell
It was not Lara’s hand by which he fell.
XXV.
And Kaled — Lara — Ezzelin, are gone,
Alike without their monumental stone!
The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean
From lingering where her Chieftain’s blood had been:
Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud,
Her tears were few, her wailing never loud;
But furious would you tear her from the spot
Where yet she scarce believed that he was not, 1250
Her eye shot forth with all the living fire
That haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire;
But left to waste her weary moments there,
She talked all idly unto shapes of air,
Such as the busy brain of Sorrow paints,
And woos to listen to her fond complaints:
And she would sit beneath the very tree