Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Byron

  Where lay his drooping head upon her knee;

  And in that posture where she saw him fall,

  His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall; 1260

  And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair,

  And oft would snatch it from her bosom there,

  And fold, and press it gently to the ground,

  As if she staunched anew some phantom’s wound.

  Herself would question, and for him reply;

  Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly

  From some imagined Spectre in pursuit;

  Then seat her down upon some linden’s root,

  And hide her visage with her meagre hand,

  Or trace strange characters along the sand — 1270

  This could not last — she lies by him she loved;

  Her tale untold — her truth too dearly proved.

  THE SIEGE OF CORINTH

  INTRODUCTION

  In a note to the “Advertisement” to the Siege of Corinth (vide post, ), Byron puts it on record that during the years 1809-10 he had crossed the Isthmus of Corinth eight times, and in a letter to his mother, dated Patras, July 30, 1810, he alludes to a recent visit to the town of Corinth, in company with his friend Lord Sligo. (See, too, his letter to Coleridge, dated October 27, 1815, Letters, 1899, iii. 228.) It is probable that he revisited Corinth more than once in the autumn of 1810; and we may infer that, just as the place and its surroundings — the temple with its “two or three columns” (line 497), and the view across the bay from Acro-Corinth — are sketched from memory, so the story of the siege which took place in 1715 is based upon tales and legends which were preserved and repeated by the grandchildren of the besieged, and were taken down from their lips. There is point and meaning in the apparently insignificant line (stanza xxiv. line 765), “We have heard the hearers say” (see variant i. p. 483), which is slipped into the description of the final catastrophe. It bears witness to the fact that the Siege of Corinth is not a poetical expansion of a chapter in history, but a heightened reminiscence of local tradition.

  History has, indeed, very little to say on the subject. The anonymous Compleat History of the Turks (London, 1719), which Byron quotes as an authority, is meagre and inaccurate. Hammer-Purgstall (Histoire de l’Empire Ottoman, 1839, xiii. 269), who gives as his authorities Girolamo Ferrari and Raschid, dismisses the siege in a few lines; and it was not till the publication of Finlay’s History of Greece (vol. v., a.d. 1453-1821), in 1856, that the facts were known or reported. Finlay’s newly discovered authority was a then unpublished MS. of a journal kept by Benjamin Brue, a connection of Voltaire’s, who accompanied the Grand Vizier, Ali Cumurgi, as his interpreter, on the expedition into the Morea. According to Brue (Journal de la Campagne … en 1715 … Paris, 1870, p. 18), the siege began on June 28, 1715. A peremptory demand on the part of the Grand Vizier to surrender at discretion was answered by the Venetian proveditor-general, Giacomo Minetto, with calm but assured defiance (“Your menaces are useless, for we are prepared to resist all your attacks, and, with confidence in the assistance of God, we will preserve this fortress to the most serene Republic. God is with us”). Nevertheless, the Turks made good their threat, and on the 2nd of July the fortress capitulated. On the following day at noon, whilst a party of Janissaries, contrary to order, were looting and pillaging in all directions, the fortress was seen to be enveloped in smoke. How or why the explosion happened was never discovered, but the result was that some of the pillaging Janissaries perished, and that others, to avenge their death, which they attributed to Venetian treachery, put the garrison to the sword. It was believed at the time that Minetto was among the slain; but, as Brue afterwards discovered, he was secretly conveyed to Smyrna, and ultimately ransomed by the Dutch Consul.

  The late Professor Kölbing (Siege of Corinth, 1893, p. xxvii.), in commenting on the sources of the poem, suggests, under reserve, that Byron may have derived the incident of Minetto’s self-immolation from an historic source — the siege of Zsigetvar, in 1566, when a multitude of Turks perished from the explosion of a powder magazine which had been fired at the cost of his own life by the Hungarian commander Zrini.

  It is, at least, equally probable that local patriotism was, in the first instance, responsible for the poetic colouring, and that Byron supplemented the meagre and uninteresting historic details which were at his disposal by “intimate knowledge” of the Corinthian version of the siege. (See Memoirs of the Life and Writings of the Right Hon. Lord Byron, London, 1822, p. 222; and Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Lord Byron, by George Clinton, London, 1825, p. 284.)

  It has been generally held that the Siege of Corinth was written in the second half of 1815 (Kölbing’s Siege of Corinth, p. vii.). “It appears,” says John Wright (Works, 1832, x. 100), “by the original MS., to have been begun in July, 1815;” and Moore (Life, p. 307), who probably relied on the same authority, speaks of “both the Siege of Corinth and Parisina having been produced but a short time before the Separation” (i.e. spring, 1816). Some words which Medwin (Conversations, 1824, p. 55) puts into Byron’s mouth point to the same conclusion. Byron’s own testimony, which is completely borne out by the MS. itself (dated Jy [i.e. January, not July] 31, 1815), is in direct conflict with these statements. In a note to stanza xix. lines 521-532 (vide post, pp. -473) he affirms that it “was not till after these lines were written” that he heard “that wild and singularly original and beautiful poem [Christabel] recited;” and in a letter to S. T. Coleridge, dated October 27, 1815 (Letters, 1899, iii. 228), he is careful to explain that “the enclosed extract from an unpublished poem (i.e. stanza xix. lines 521-532) ... was written before (not seeing your Christabelle [sic], for that you know I never did till this day), but before I heard Mr. S[cott] repeat it, which he did in June last, and this thing was begun in January, and more than half written before the Summer.” The question of plagiarism will be discussed in an addendum to Byron’s note on the lines in question; but, subject to the correction that it was, probably, at the end of May (see Lockhart’s Memoir of the Life of Sir W. Scott, 1871, pp. 311-313), not in June, that Scott recited Christabel for Byron’s benefit, the date of the composition of the poem must be determined by the evidence of the author himself.

  The copy of the MS. of the Siege of Corinth was sent to Murray at the beginning (probably on the 2nd, the date of the copy) of November, and was placed in Gifford’s hands about the same time (see letter to Murray, November 4, 1815, Letters, 1899, iii. 245; and Murray’s undated letter on Gifford’s “great delight” in the poem, and his “three critical remarks,” Memoir of John Murray, 1891, i. 356). As with Lara, Byron began by insisting that the Siege should not be published separately, but slipped into a fourth volume of the collected works, and once again (possibly when he had at last made up his mind to accept a thousand guineas for his own requirements, and not for other beneficiaries — Godwin, Coleridge, or Maturin) yielded to his publisher’s wishes and representations. At any rate, the Siege of Corinth and Parisina, which, says Moore, “during the month of January and part of February were in the hands of the printers” (Life, p. 300), were published in a single volume on February 7, 1816. The greater reviews were silent, but notices appeared in numerous periodicals; e.g. the Monthly Review, February, 1816, vol. lxxix. p. 196; the Eclectic Review, March, 1816, N.S. vol. v. p. 269; the European, May, 1816, vol. lxxix. p. 427; the Literary Panorama, June, 1816, N.S. vol. iv. p. 418; etc. Many of these reviews took occasion to pick out and hold up to ridicule the illogical sentences, the grammatical solecisms, and general imperfections of technique which marked and disfigured the Siege of Corinth. A passage in a letter which John Murray wrote to his brother-publisher, William Blackwood (Annals of a Publishing House, 1897, i. 53), refers to these cavillings, and suggests both an apology and a retaliation —

  “Many who by ‘numbers judge a poet’s song’ are so stupid as not to see the powerful effect of the poems, which is the great object of poetry, b
ecause they can pick out fifty careless or even bad lines. The words may be carelessly put together; but this is secondary. Many can write polished lines who will never reach the name of poet. You see it is all poetically conceived in Lord B.’s mind.”

  In such wise did Murray bear testimony to Byron’s “splendid and imperishable excellence, which covers all his offences and outweighs all his defects — the excellence of sincerity and strength.”

  TO

  JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ.,

  THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED,

  BY HIS

  FRIEND.

  January 22nd, 1816.

  ADVERTISEMENT

  “The grand army of the Turks (in 1715), under the Prime Vizier, to open to themselves a way into the heart of the Morea, and to form the siege of Napoli di Romania, the most considerable place in all that country, thought it best in the first place to attack Corinth, upon which they made several storms. The garrison being weakened, and the governor seeing it was impossible to hold out such a place against so mighty a force, thought it fit to beat a parley: but while they were treating about the articles, one of the magazines in the Turkish camp, wherein they had six hundred barrels of powder, blew up by accident, whereby six or seven hundred men were killed; which so enraged the infidels, that they would not grant any capitulation, but stormed the place with so much fury, that they took it, and put most of the garrison, with Signior Minotti, the governor, to the sword. The rest, with Signior or Antonio Bembo, Proveditor Extraordinary, were made prisoners of war.” — A Compleat History of the Turks [London, 1719], iii. 151.

  THE SIEGE OF CORINTH

  In the year since Jesus died for men,

  Eighteen hundred years and ten,

  We were a gallant company,

  Riding o’er land, and sailing o’er sea.

  Oh! but we went merrily!

  We forded the river, and clomb the high hill,

  Never our steeds for a day stood still;

  Whether we lay in the cave or the shed,

  Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed;

  Whether we couched in our rough capote, 10

  On the rougher plank of our gliding boat,

  Or stretched on the beach, or our saddles spread,

  As a pillow beneath the resting head,

  Fresh we woke upon the morrow:

  All our thoughts and words had scope,

  We had health, and we had hope,

  Toil and travel, but no sorrow.

  We were of all tongues and creeds; —

  Some were those who counted beads,

  Some of mosque, and some of church, 20

  And some, or I mis-say, of neither;

  Yet through the wide world might ye search,

  Nor find a motlier crew nor blither.

  But some are dead, and some are gone,

  And some are scattered and alone,

  And some are rebels on the hills

  That look along Epirus’ valleys,

  Where Freedom still at moments rallies,

  And pays in blood Oppression’s ills;

  And some are in a far countree, 30

  And some all restlessly at home;

  But never more, oh! never, we

  Shall meet to revel and to roam.

  But those hardy days flew cheerily!

  And when they now fall drearily,

  My thoughts, like swallows, skim the main,

  And bear my spirit back again

  Over the earth, and through the air,

  A wild bird and a wanderer.

  ‘Tis this that ever wakes my strain, 40

  And oft, too oft, implores again

  The few who may endure my lay,

  To follow me so far away.

  Stranger, wilt thou follow now,

  And sit with me on Acro-Corinth’s brow?

  I.

  Many a vanished year and age,

  And Tempest’s breath, and Battle’s rage,

  Have swept o’er Corinth; yet she stands,

  A fortress formed to Freedom’s hands.

  The Whirlwind’s wrath, the Earthquake’s shock, 50

  Have left untouched her hoary rock,

  The keystone of a land, which still,

  Though fall’n, looks proudly on that hill,

  The landmark to the double tide

  That purpling rolls on either side,

  As if their waters chafed to meet,

  Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet.

  But could the blood before her shed

  Since first Timoleon’s brother bled,

  Or baffled Persia’s despot fled, 60

  Arise from out the Earth which drank

  The stream of Slaughter as it sank,

  That sanguine Ocean would o’erflow

  Her isthmus idly spread below:

  Or could the bones of all the slain,

  Who perished there, be piled again,

  That rival pyramid would rise

  More mountain-like, through those clear skies

  Than yon tower-capp’d Acropolis,

  Which seems the very clouds to kiss. 70

  II.

  On dun Cithæron’s ridge appears

  The gleam of twice ten thousand spears;

  And downward to the Isthmian plain,

  From shore to shore of either main,

  The tent is pitched, the Crescent shines

  Along the Moslem’s leaguering lines;

  And the dusk Spahi’s bands advance

  Beneath each bearded Pacha’s glance;

  And far and wide as eye can reach

  The turbaned cohorts throng the beach; 80

  And there the Arab’s camel kneels,

  And there his steed the Tartar wheels;

  The Turcoman hath left his herd,

  The sabre round his loins to gird;

  And there the volleying thunders pour,

  Till waves grow smoother to the roar.

  The trench is dug, the cannon’s breath

  Wings the far hissing globe of death;

  Fast whirl the fragments from the wall,

  Which crumbles with the ponderous ball; 90

  And from that wall the foe replies,

  O’er dusty plain and smoky skies,

  With fares that answer fast and well

  The summons of the Infidel.

  III.

  But near and nearest to the wall

  Of those who wish and work its fall,

  With deeper skill in War’s black art,

  Than Othman’s sons, and high of heart

  As any Chief that ever stood

  Triumphant in the fields of blood; 100

  From post to post, and deed to deed,

  Fast spurring on his reeking steed,

  Where sallying ranks the trench assail,

  And make the foremost Moslem quail;

  Or where the battery, guarded well,

  Remains as yet impregnable,

  Alighting cheerly to inspire

  The soldier slackening in his fire;

  The first and freshest of the host

  Which Stamboul’s Sultan there can boast, 110

  To guide the follower o’er the field,

  To point the tube, the lance to wield,

  Or whirl around the bickering blade; —

  Was Alp, the Adrian renegade!

  IV.

  From Venice — once a race of worth

  His gentle Sires — he drew his birth;

  But late an exile from her shore,

  Against his countrymen he bore

  The arms they taught to bear; and now

  The turban girt his shaven brow. 120

  Through many a change had Corinth passed

  With Greece to Venice’ rule at last;

  And here, before her walls, with those

  To Greece and Venice equal foes,

  He stoo
d a foe, with all the zeal

  Which young and fiery converts feel,

  Within whose heated bosom throngs

  The memory of a thousand wrongs.

  To him had Venice ceased to be

  Her ancient civic boast — “the Free;” 130

  And in the palace of St. Mark

  Unnamed accusers in the dark

  Within the “Lion’s mouth” had placed

  A charge against him uneffaced:

  He fled in time, and saved his life,

  To waste his future years in strife,

  That taught his land how great her loss

  In him who triumphed o’er the Cross,

  ‘Gainst which he reared the Crescent high,

  And battled to avenge or die. 140

  V.

  Coumourgi — he whose closing scene

  Adorned the triumph of Eugene,

  When on Carlowitz’ bloody plain,

  The last and mightiest of the slain,

  He sank, regretting not to die,

  But cursed the Christian’s victory —

  Coumourgi — can his glory cease,

  That latest conqueror of Greece,

  Till Christian hands to Greece restore

  The freedom Venice gave of yore? 150

  A hundred years have rolled away

  Since he refixed the Moslem’s sway;

  And now he led the Mussulman,

  And gave the guidance of the van

  To Alp, who well repaid the trust

  By cities levelled with the dust;

  And proved, by many a deed of death,

  How firm his heart in novel faith.

  VI.

  The walls grew weak; and fast and hot

  Against them poured the ceaseless shot, 160

  With unabating fury sent

  From battery to battlement;

  And thunder-like the pealing din

  Rose from each heated culverin;

  And here and there some crackling dome

  Was fired before the exploding bomb;

  And as the fabric sank beneath

  The shattering shell’s volcanic breath,

  In red and wreathing columns flashed

  The flame, as loud the ruin crashed, 170

  Or into countless meteors driven,

  Its earth-stars melted into heaven;

  Whose clouds that day grew doubly dun,

  Impervious to the hidden sun,

  With volumed smoke that slowly grew