Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series
Page 92
These wither when for aught save blood they burn;
Yet when their ashes in their nook are laid,
Doth not the myrtle leave as sweet a shade?
Had Cæsar known but Cleopatra’s kiss,
Rome had been free, the world had not been his.
And what have Cæsar’s deeds and Cæsar’s fame 320
Done for the earth? We feel them in our shame.
The gory sanction of his Glory stains
The rust which tyrants cherish on our chains.
Though Glory — Nature — Reason — Freedom, bid
Roused millions do what single Brutus did —
Sweep these mere mock-birds of the Despot’s song
From the tall bough where they have perched so long, —
Still are we hawked at by such mousing owls,
And take for falcons those ignoble fowls,
When but a word of freedom would dispel 330
These bugbears, as their terrors show too well.
XIV.
Rapt in the fond forgetfulness of life,
Neuha, the South Sea girl, was all a wife,
With no distracting world to call her off
From Love; with no Society to scoff
At the new transient flame; no babbling crowd
Of coxcombry in admiration loud,
Or with adulterous whisper to alloy
Her duty, and her glory, and her joy:
With faith and feelings naked as her form, 340
She stood as stands a rainbow in a storm,
Changing its hues with bright variety,
But still expanding lovelier o’er the sky,
Howe’er its arch may swell, its colours move,
The cloud-compelling harbinger of Love.
XV.
Here, in this grotto of the wave-worn shore,
They passed the Tropic’s red meridian o’er;
Nor long the hours — they never paused o’er time,
Unbroken by the clock’s funereal chime,
Which deals the daily pittance of our span, 350
And points and mocks with iron laugh at man.
What deemed they of the future or the past?
The present, like a tyrant, held them fast:
Their hour-glass was the sea-sand, and the tide,
Like her smooth billow, saw their moments glide
Their clock the Sun, in his unbounded tower
They reckoned not, whose day was but an hour;
The nightingale, their only vesper-bell,
Sung sweetly to the rose the day’s farewell;
The broad Sun set, but not with lingering sweep, 360
As in the North he mellows o’er the deep;
But fiery, full, and fierce, as if he left
The World for ever, earth of light bereft,
Plunged with red forehead down along the wave,
As dives a hero headlong to his grave.
Then rose they, looking first along the skies,
And then for light into each other’s eyes,
Wondering that Summer showed so brief a sun,
And asking if indeed the day were done.
XVI.
And let not this seem strange: the devotee 370
Lives not in earth, but in his ecstasy;
Around him days and worlds are heedless driven,
His Soul is gone before his dust to Heaven.
Is Love less potent? No — his path is trod,
Alike uplifted gloriously to God;
Or linked to all we know of Heaven below,
The other better self, whose joy or woe
Is more than ours; the all-absorbing flame
Which, kindled by another, grows the same,
Wrapt in one blaze; the pure, yet funeral pile, 380
Where gentle hearts, like Bramins, sit and smile.
How often we forget all time, when lone,
Admiring Nature’s universal throne,
Her woods — her wilds — her waters — the intense
Reply of hers to our intelligence!
Live not the Stars and Mountains? Are the Waves
Without a spirit? Are the dropping caves
Without a feeling in their silent tears?
No, no; — they woo and clasp us to their spheres,
Dissolve this clog and clod of clay before 390
Its hour, and merge our soul in the great shore.
Strip off this fond and false identity! —
Who thinks of self when gazing on the sky?
And who, though gazing lower, ever thought,
In the young moments ere the heart is taught
Time’s lesson, of Man’s baseness or his own?
All Nature is his realm, and Love his throne.
XVII.
Neuha arose, and Torquil: Twilight’s hour
Came sad and softly to their rocky bower,
Which, kindling by degrees its dewy spars, 400
Echoed their dim light to the mustering stars.
Slowly the pair, partaking Nature’s calm,
Sought out their cottage, built beneath the palm;
Now smiling and now silent, as the scene;
Lovely as Love — the Spirit! — when serene.
The Ocean scarce spoke louder with his swell,
Than breathes his mimic murmurer in the shell,
As, far divided from his parent deep,
The sea-born infant cries, and will not sleep,
Raising his little plaint in vain, to rave 410
For the broad bosom of his nursing wave:
The woods drooped darkly, as inclined to rest,
The tropic bird wheeled rockward to his nest,
And the blue sky spread round them like a lake
Of peace, where Piety her thirst might slake.
XVIII.
But through the palm and plantain, hark, a Voice!
Not such as would have been a lover’s choice,
In such an hour, to break the air so still;
No dying night-breeze, harping o’er the hill,
Striking the strings of nature, rock and tree, 420
Those best and earliest lyres of Harmony,
With Echo for their chorus; nor the alarm
Of the loud war-whoop to dispel the charm;
Nor the soliloquy of the hermit owl,
Exhaling all his solitary soul,
The dim though large-eyed wingéd anchorite,
Who peals his dreary Pæan o’er the night;
But a loud, long, and naval whistle, shrill
As ever started through a sea-bird’s bill;
And then a pause, and then a hoarse “Hillo! 430
Torquil, my boy! what cheer? Ho! brother, ho!”
“Who hails?” cried Torquil, following with his eye
The sound. “Here’s one,” was all the brief reply.
XIX.
But here the herald of the self-same mouth
Came breathing o’er the aromatic south,
Not like a “bed of violets” on the gale,
But such as wafts its cloud o’er grog or ale,
Borne from a short frail pipe, which yet had blown
Its gentle odours over either zone,
And, puffed where’er winds rise or waters roll, 440
Had wafted smoke from Portsmouth to the Pole,
Opposed its vapour as the lightning flashed,
And reeked, ‘midst mountain-billows, unabashed,
To Æolus a constant sacrifice,
Through every change of all the varying skies.
And what was he who bore it? — I may err,
But deem him sailor or philosopher.
Sublime Tobacco! which from East to West
Cheers the tar’s labour or the Turkman’s rest;
Which on the Moslem’s ottoman divides 450
His hours, and riv
als opium and his brides;
Magnificent in Stamboul, but less grand,
Though not less loved, in Wapping or the Strand;
Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe,
When tipped with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe:
Like other charmers, wooing the caress,
More dazzlingly when daring in full dress;
Yet thy true lovers more admire by far
Thy naked beauties — Give me a cigar!
XX.
Through the approaching darkness of the wood 460
A human figure broke the solitude,
Fantastically, it may be, arrayed,
A seaman in a savage masquerade;
Such as appears to rise out from the deep,
When o’er the line the merry vessels sweep,
And the rough Saturnalia of the tar
Flock o’er the deck, in Neptune’s borrowed car;
And, pleased, the God of Ocean sees his name
Revive once more, though but in mimic game
Of his true sons, who riot in the breeze 470
Undreamt of in his native Cyclades.
Still the old God delights, from out the main,
To snatch some glimpses of his ancient reign.
Our sailor’s jacket, though in ragged trim,
His constant pipe, which never yet burned dim,
His foremast air, and somewhat rolling gait,
Like his dear vessel, spoke his former state;
But then a sort of kerchief round his head,
Not over tightly bound, nor nicely spread;
And, ‘stead of trowsers (ah! too early torn! 480
For even the mildest woods will have their thorn)
A curious sort of somewhat scanty mat
Now served for inexpressibles and hat;
His naked feet and neck, and sunburnt face,
Perchance might suit alike with either race.
His arms were all his own, our Europe’s growth,
Which two worlds bless for civilising both;
The musket swung behind his shoulders broad,
And somewhat stooped by his marine abode,
But brawny as the boar’s; and hung beneath, 490
His cutlass drooped, unconscious of a sheath,
Or lost or worn away; his pistols were
Linked to his belt, a matrimonial pair —
(Let not this metaphor appear a scoff,
Though one missed fire, the other would go off);
These, with a bayonet, not so free from rust
As when the arm-chest held its brighter trust,
Completed his accoutrements, as Night
Surveyed him in his garb heteroclite.
XXI.
“What cheer, Ben Bunting?” cried (when in full view 500
Our new acquaintance) Torquil. “Aught of new?”
“Ey, ey!” quoth Ben, “not new, but news enow;
A strange sail in the offing.” — “Sail! and how?
What! could you make her out? It cannot be;
I’ve seen no rag of canvass on the sea.”
“Belike,” said Ben, “you might not from the bay,
But from the bluff-head, where I watched to-day,
I saw her in the doldrums; for the wind
Was light and baffling.” — “When the Sun declined
Where lay she? had she anchored?” — “No, but still 510
She bore down on us, till the wind grew still.”
“Her flag?” — “I had no glass: but fore and aft,
Egad! she seemed a wicked-looking craft.”
“Armed?” — “I expect so; — sent on the look-out:
‘Tis time, belike, to put our helm about.”
“About? — Whate’er may have us now in chase,
We’ll make no running fight, for that were base;
We will die at our quarters, like true men.”
“Ey, ey! for that ‘tis all the same to Ben.”
“Does Christian know this?” — “Aye; he has piped all hands 520
To quarters. They are furbishing the stands
Of arms; and we have got some guns to bear,
And scaled them. You are wanted.” — “That’s but fair;
And if it were not, mine is not the soul
To leave my comrades helpless on the shoal.
My Neuha! ah! and must my fate pursue
Not me alone, but one so sweet and true?
But whatsoe’er betide, ah, Neuha! now
Unman me not: the hour will not allow
A tear; I am thine whatever intervenes!” 530
“Right,” quoth Ben; “that will do for the marines.”
CANTO THE THIRD.
I.
The fight was o’er; the flashing through the gloom,
Which robes the cannon as he wings a tomb,
Had ceased; and sulphury vapours upward driven
Had left the Earth, and but polluted Heaven:
The rattling roar which rung in every volley
Had left the echoes to their melancholy;
No more they shrieked their horror, boom for boom;
The strife was done, the vanquished had their doom;
The mutineers were crushed, dispersed, or ta’en,
Or lived to deem the happiest were the slain. 10
Few, few escaped, and these were hunted o’er
The isle they loved beyond their native shore.
No further home was theirs, it seemed, on earth,
Once renegades to that which gave them birth;
Tracked like wild beasts, like them they sought the wild,
As to a Mother’s bosom flies the child;
But vainly wolves and lions seek their den,
And still more vainly men escape from men.
II.
Beneath a rock whose jutting base protrudes
Far over Ocean in its fiercest moods, 20
When scaling his enormous crag the wave
Is hurled down headlong, like the foremost brave,
And falls back on the foaming crowd behind,
Which fight beneath the banners of the wind,
But now at rest, a little remnant drew
Together, bleeding, thirsty, faint, and few;
But still their weapons in their hands, and still
With something of the pride of former will,
As men not all unused to meditate,
And strive much more than wonder at their fate. 30
Their present lot was what they had foreseen,
And dared as what was likely to have been;
Yet still the lingering hope, which deemed their lot
Not pardoned, but unsought for or forgot,
Or trusted that, if sought, their distant caves
Might still be missed amidst the world of waves,
Had weaned their thoughts in part from what they saw
And felt, the vengeance of their country’s law.
Their sea-green isle, their guilt-won Paradise,
No more could shield their Virtue or their Vice: 40
Their better feelings, if such were, were thrown
Back on themselves, — their sins remained alone.
Proscribed even in their second country, they
Were lost; in vain the World before them lay;
All outlets seemed secured. Their new allies
Had fought and bled in mutual sacrifice;
But what availed the club and spear, and arm
Of Hercules, against the sulphury charm,
The magic of the thunder, which destroyed
The warrior ere his strength could be employed? 50
Dug, like a spreading pestilence, the grave
No less of human bravery than the brave!
Their own scant numbers acted all the few
Against the many oft will dare and
do;
But though the choice seems native to die free,
Even Greece can boast but one Thermopylæ,
Till now, when she has forged her broken chain
Back to a sword, and dies and lives again!
III.
Beside the jutting rock the few appeared,
Like the last remnant of the red-deer’s herd; 60
Their eyes were feverish, and their aspect worn,
But still the hunter’s blood was on their horn.
A little stream came tumbling from the height,
And straggling into ocean as it might,
Its bounding crystal frolicked in the ray,
And gushed from cliff to crag with saltless spray;
Close on the wild, wide ocean, yet as pure
And fresh as Innocence, and more secure,
Its silver torrent glittered o’er the deep,
As the shy chamois’ eye o’erlooks the steep, 70
While far below the vast and sullen swell
Of Ocean’s alpine azure rose and fell.
To this young spring they rushed, — all feelings first
Absorbed in Passion’s and in Nature’s thirst, —
Drank as they do who drink their last, and threw
Their arms aside to revel in its dew;
Cooled their scorched throats, and washed the gory stains
From wounds whose only bandage might be chains;
Then, when their drought was quenched, looked sadly round,
As wondering how so many still were found 80
Alive and fetterless: — but silent all,
Each sought his fellow’s eyes, as if to call
On him for language which his lips denied,
As though their voices with their cause had died.
IV.
Stern, and aloof a little from the rest,
Stood Christian, with his arms across his chest.
The ruddy, reckless, dauntless hue once spread
Along his cheek was livid now as lead;
His light-brown locks, so graceful in their flow,
Now rose like startled vipers o’er his brow. 90
Still as a statue, with his lips comprest
To stifle even the breath within his breast,
Fast by the rock, all menacing, but mute,
He stood; and, save a slight beat of his foot,
Which deepened now and then the sandy dint
Beneath his heel, his form seemed turned to flint.
Some paces further Torquil leaned his head
Against a bank, and spoke not, but he bled, —
Not mortally: — his worst wound was within;
His brow was pale, his blue eyes sunken in, 100
And blood-drops, sprinkled o’er his yellow hair,
Showed that his faintness came not from despair,
But Nature’s ebb. Beside him was another,