by Lord Byron
And sweeter to my heart. As I am now,
I might be feared — admired — respected — loved 360
Of all save those next to me, of whom I
Would be belovéd. As thou showest me
A choice of forms, I take the one I view.
Haste! haste!
Stran. And what shall I wear?
Arn. Surely, he
Who can command all forms will choose the highest,
Something superior even to that which was
Pelides now before us. Perhaps his
Who slew him, that of Paris: or — still higher —
The Poet’s God, clothed in such limbs as are
Themselves a poetry.
Stran. Less will content me; 370
For I, too, love a change.
Arn. Your aspect is
Dusky, but not uncomely.
Stran. If I chose,
I might be whiter; but I have a penchant
For black — it is so honest, and, besides,
Can neither blush with shame nor pale with fear;
But I have worn it long enough of late,
And now I’ll take your figure.
Arn. Mine!
Stran. Yes. You
Shall change with Thetis’ son, and I with Bertha,
Your mother’s offspring. People have their tastes;
You have yours — I mine.
Arn. Despatch! despatch!
Stran. Even so. 380
[The Stranger takes some earth and moulds it along the turf, and then addresses the phantom of Achilles.
Beautiful shadow
Of Thetis’s boy!
Who sleeps in the meadow
Whose grass grows o’er Troy:
From the red earth, like Adam,
Thy likeness I shape,
As the Being who made him,
Whose actions I ape.
Thou Clay, be all glowing,
Till the Rose in his cheek 390
Be as fair as, when blowing,
It wears its first streak!
Ye Violets, I scatter,
Now turn into eyes!
And thou, sunshiny Water,
Of blood take the guise!
Let these Hyacinth boughs
Be his long flowing hair,
And wave o’er his brows,
As thou wavest in air! 400
Let his heart be this marble
I tear from the rock!
But his voice as the warble
Of birds on yon oak!
Let his flesh be the purest
Of mould, in which grew
The Lily-root surest,
And drank the best dew!
Let his limbs be the lightest
Which clay can compound, 410
And his aspect the brightest
On earth to be found!
Elements, near me,
Be mingled and stirred,
Know me, and hear me,
And leap to my word!
Sunbeams, awaken
This earth’s animation!
‘Tis done! He hath taken
His stand in creation! 420
[Arnold falls senseless; his soul passes into the shape of Achilles, which rises from the ground; while the phantom has disappeared, part by part, as the figure was formed from the earth.
Arn. (in his new form). I love, and I shall be beloved! Oh, life!
At last I feel thee! Glorious Spirit!
Stran. Stop!
What shall become of your abandoned garment,
Yon hump, and lump, and clod of ugliness,
Which late you wore, or were?
Arn. Who cares? Let wolves
And vultures take it, if they will.
Stran. And if
They do, and are not scared by it, you’ll say
It must be peace-time, and no better fare
Abroad i’ the fields.
Arn. Let us but leave it there;
No matter what becomes on’t.
Stran. That’s ungracious; 430
If not ungrateful. Whatsoe’er it be,
It hath sustained your soul full many a day.
Arn. Aye, as the dunghill may conceal a gem
Which is now set in gold, as jewels should be.
Stran. But if I give another form, it must be
By fair exchange, not robbery. For they
Who make men without women’s aid have long
Had patents for the same, and do not love
Your Interlopers. The Devil may take men,
Not make them, — though he reap the benefit 440
Of the original workmanship: — and therefore
Some one must be found to assume the shape
You have quitted.
Arn. Who would do so?
Stran. That I know not,
And therefore I must.
Arn. You!
Stran. I said it ere
You inhabited your present dome of beauty.
Arn. True. I forget all things in the new joy
Of this immortal change.
Stran. In a few moments
I will be as you were, and you shall see
Yourself for ever by you, as your shadow.
Arn. I would be spared this.
Stran. But it cannot be. 450
What! shrink already, being what you are,
From seeing what you were?
Arn. Do as thou wilt.
Stran. (to the late form of Arnold, extended on the earth).
Clay! not dead, but soul-less!
Though no man would choose thee,
An Immortal no less
Deigns not to refuse thee.
Clay thou art; and unto spirit
All clay is of equal merit.
Fire! without which nought can live;
Fire! but in which nought can live, 460
Save the fabled salamander,
Or immortal souls, which wander,
Praying what doth not forgive,
Howling for a drop of water,
Burning in a quenchless lot:
Fire! the only element
Where nor fish, beast, bird, nor worm,
Save the Worm which dieth not,
Can preserve a moment’s form,
But must with thyself be blent: 470
Fire! man’s safeguard and his slaughter:
Fire! Creation’s first-born Daughter,
And Destruction’s threatened Son,
When Heaven with the world hath done:
Fire! assist me to renew
Life in what lies in my view
Stiff and cold!
His resurrection rests with me and you!
One little, marshy spark of flame —
And he again shall seem the same; 480
But I his Spirit’s place shall hold!
[An ignis-fatuus flits through the wood and rests on the brow of the body. The Stranger disappears: the body rises.
Arn. (in his new form). Oh! horrible!
Stran. (in Arnold’s late shape). What! tremblest thou?
Arn. Not so —
I merely shudder. Where is fled the shape
Thou lately worest?
Stran. To the world of shadows.
But let us thread the present. Whither wilt thou?
Arn. Must thou be my companion?
Stran. Wherefore not?
Your betters keep worse company.
Arn. My betters!
Stran. Oh! you wax proud, I see, of your new form:
I’m glad of that. Ungrateful too! That’s well;
You improve apace; — two changes in an instant, 490
And you are old in the World’s ways already.
But bear with me: indeed you’ll find me useful
Upon your pilgrimage. But come, pronounce
Where shall we now be
errant?
Arn. Where the World
Is thickest, that I may behold it in
Its workings.
Stran. That’s to say, where there is War
And Woman in activity. Let’s see!
Spain — Italy — the new Atlantic world —
Afric with all its Moors. In very truth,
There is small choice: the whole race are just now 500
Tugging as usual at each other’s hearts.
Arn. I have heard great things of Rome.
Stran. A goodly choice —
And scarce a better to be found on earth,
Since Sodom was put out. The field is wide too;
For now the Frank, and Hun, and Spanish scion
Of the old Vandals, are at play along
The sunny shores of the World’s garden.
Arn. How
Shall we proceed?
Stran. Like gallants, on good coursers.
What, ho! my chargers! Never yet were better,
Since Phaeton was upset into the Po. 510
Our pages too!
Enter two Pages, with four coal-black horses.
Arn. A noble sight!
Stran. And of
A nobler breed. Match me in Barbary,
Or your Kochlini race of Araby,
With these!
Arn. The mighty steam, which volumes high
From their proud nostrils, burns the very air;
And sparks of flame, like dancing fire-flies wheel
Around their manes, as common insects swarm
Round common steeds towards sunset.
Stran. Mount, my lord:
They and I are your servitors.
Arn. And these
Our dark-eyed pages — what may be their names? 520
Stran. You shall baptize them.
Arn. What! in holy water?
Stran. Why not? The deeper sinner, better saint.
Arn. They are beautiful, and cannot, sure, be demons.
Stran. True; the devil’s always ugly: and your beauty
Is never diabolical.
Arn. I’ll call him
Who bears the golden horn, and wears such bright
And blooming aspect, Huon; for he looks
Like to the lovely boy lost in the forest,
And never found till now. And for the other
And darker, and more thoughtful, who smiles not, 530
But looks as serious though serene as night,
He shall be Memnon, from the Ethiop king
Whose statue turns a harper once a day.
And you?
Stran. I have ten thousand names, and twice
As many attributes; but as I wear
A human shape, will take a human name.
Arn. More human than the shape (though it was mine once)
I trust.
Stran. Then call me Cæsar.
Arn. Why, that name
Belongs to Empire, and has been but borne
By the World’s lords.
Stran. And therefore fittest for 540
The Devil in disguise — since so you deem me,
Unless you call me Pope instead.
Arn. Well, then,
Cæsar thou shalt be. For myself, my name
Shall be plain Arnold still.
Cæs. We’ll add a title —
“Count Arnold:” it hath no ungracious sound,
And will look well upon a billet-doux.
Arn. Or in an order for a battle-field.
Cæs. (sings).
To horse! to horse! my coal-black steed
Paws the ground and snuffs the air!
There’s not a foal of Arab’s breed 550
More knows whom he must bear;
On the hill he will not tire,
Swifter as it waxes higher;
In the marsh he will not slacken,
On the plain be overtaken;
In the wave he will not sink,
Nor pause at the brook’s side to drink;
In the race he will not pant,
In the combat he’ll not faint;
On the stones he will not stumble, 560
Time nor toil shall make him humble;
In the stall he will not stiffen,
But be wingèd as a Griffin,
Only flying with his feet:
And will not such a voyage be sweet?
Shall our bonny black horses skim over the ground!
From the Alps to the Caucasus, ride we, or fly!
For we’ll leave them behind in the glance of an eye.
[They mount their horses, and disappear.
Scene II. — A Camp before the walls of Rome.
Arnold and Cæsar.
Cæs. You are well entered now.
Arn. Aye; but my path
Has been o’er carcasses: mine eyes are full
Of blood.
Cæs. Then wipe them, and see clearly. Why!
Thou art a conqueror; the chosen knight
And free companion of the gallant Bourbon,
Late constable of France; and now to be
Lord of the city which hath been Earth’s Lord
Under its emperors, and — changing sex,
Not sceptre, an Hermaphrodite of Empire —
Lady of the old world.
Arn. How old? What! are there 10
New worlds?
Cæs. To you. You’ll find there are such shortly,
By its rich harvests, new disease, and gold;
From one half of the world named a whole new one,
Because you know no better than the dull
And dubious notice of your eyes and ears.
Arn. I’ll trust them.
Cæs. Do! They will deceive you sweetly,
And that is better than the bitter truth.
Arn. Dog!
Cæs. Man!
Arn. Devil!
Cæs. Your obedient humble servant.
Arn. Say master rather. Thou hast lured me on,
Through scenes of blood and lust, till I am here. 20
Cæs. And where wouldst thou be?
Arn. Oh, at peace — in peace!
Cæs. And where is that which is so? From the star
To the winding worm, all life is motion; and
In life commotion is the extremest point
Of life. The planet wheels till it becomes
A comet, and destroying as it sweeps
The stars, goes out. The poor worm winds its way,
Living upon the death of other things,
But still, like them, must live and die, the subject
Of something which has made it live and die. 30
You must obey what all obey, the rule
Of fixed Necessity: against her edict
Rebellion prospers not.
Arn. And when it prospers — —
Cæs. ‘Tis no rebellion.
Arn. Will it prosper now?
Cæs. The Bourbon hath given orders for the assault,
And by the dawn there will be work.
Arn. Alas!
And shall the city yield? I see the giant
Abode of the true God, and his true saint,
Saint Peter, rear its dome and cross into
That sky whence Christ ascended from the cross, 40
Which his blood made a badge of glory and
Of joy (as once of torture unto him), —
God and God’s Son, man’s sole and only refuge!
Cæs. ‘Tis there, and shall be.
Arn. What?
Cæs. The Crucifix
Above, and many altar shrines below.
Also some culverins upon the walls,
And harquebusses, and what not; besides
The men who are to kindle them to death
Of other men.
Arn. And those scarce mort
al arches,
Pile above pile of everlasting wall, 50
The theatre where Emperors and their subjects
(Those subjects Romans) stood at gaze upon
The battles of the monarchs of the wild
And wood — the lion and his tusky rebels
Of the then untamed desert, brought to joust
In the arena — as right well they might,
When they had left no human foe unconquered —
Made even the forest pay its tribute of
Life to their amphitheatre, as well
As Dacia men to die the eternal death 60
For a sole instant’s pastime, and “Pass on
To a new gladiator!” — Must it fall?
Cæs. The city, or the amphitheatre?
The church, or one, or all? for you confound
Both them and me.
Arn. To-morrow sounds the assault
With the first cock-crow.
Cæs. Which, if it end with
The evening’s first nightingale, will be
Something new in the annals of great sieges;
For men must have their prey after long toil.
Arn. The sun goes down as calmly, and perhaps 70
More beautifully, than he did on Rome
On the day Remus leapt her wall.
Cæs. I saw him.
Arn. You!
Cæs. Yes, Sir! You forget I am or was
Spirit, till I took up with your cast shape,
And a worse name. I’m Cæsar and a hunch-back
Now. Well! the first of Cæsars was a bald-head,
And loved his laurels better as a wig
(So history says) than as a glory. Thus
The world runs on, but we’ll be merry still.
I saw your Romulus (simple as I am) 80
Slay his own twin, quick-born of the same womb,
Because he leapt a ditch (‘twas then no wall,
Whate’er it now be); and Rome’s earliest cement
Was brother’s blood; and if its native blood
Be spilt till the choked Tiber be as red
As e’er ‘twas yellow, it will never wear
The deep hue of the Ocean and the Earth,
Which the great robber sons of fratricide
Have made their never-ceasing scene of slaughter,
For ages.
Arn. But what have these done, their far 90
Remote descendants, who have lived in peace,
The peace of Heaven, and in her sunshine of
Piety?
Cæs. And what had they done, whom the old
Romans o’erswept? — Hark!
Arn. They are soldiers singing
A reckless roundelay, upon the eve
Of many deaths, it may be of their own.
Cæs. And why should they not sing as well as swans?
They are black ones, to be sure.
Arn. So, you are learned,
I see, too?
Cæs. In my grammar, certes. I
Was educated for a monk of all times, 100