Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

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by Lord Byron

And once I was well versed in the forgotten

  Etruscan letters, and — were I so minded —

  Could make their hieroglyphics plainer than

  Your alphabet.

  Arn. And wherefore do you not?

  Cæs. It answers better to resolve the alphabet

  Back into hieroglyphics. Like your statesman,

  And prophet, pontiff, doctor, alchymist,

  Philosopher, and what not, they have built

  More Babels, without new dispersion, than

  The stammering young ones of the flood’s dull ooze, 110

  Who failed and fled each other. Why? why, marry,

  Because no man could understand his neighbour.

  They are wiser now, and will not separate

  For nonsense. Nay, it is their brotherhood,

  Their Shibboleth — their Koran — Talmud — their

  Cabala — their best brick-work, wherewithal

  They build more — —

  Arn. (interrupting him). Oh, thou everlasting sneerer!

  Be silent! How the soldier’s rough strain seems

  Softened by distance to a hymn-like cadence!

  Listen!

  Cæs. Yes. I have heard the angels sing. 120

  Arn. And demons howl.

  Cæs. And man, too. Let us listen:

  I love all music.

  Song of the Soldiers within.

  The black bands came over

  The Alps and their snow;

  With Bourbon, the rover,

  They passed the broad Po.

  We have beaten all foemen,

  We have captured a King,

  We have turned back on no men,

  And so let us sing! 130

  Here’s the Bourbon for ever!

  Though penniless all,

  We’ll have one more endeavour

  At yonder old wall.

  With the Bourbon we’ll gather

  At day-dawn before

  The gates, and together

  Or break or climb o’er

  The wall: on the ladder,

  As mounts each firm foot, 140

  Our shout shall grow gladder,

  And Death only be mute.

  With the Bourbon we’ll mount o’er

  The walls of old Rome,

  And who then shall count o’er

  The spoils of each dome?

  Up! up with the Lily!

  And down with the Keys!

  In old Rome, the seven-hilly,

  We’ll revel at ease. 150

  Her streets shall be gory,

  Her Tiber all red,

  And her temples so hoary

  Shall clang with our tread.

  Oh, the Bourbon! the Bourbon!

  The Bourbon for aye!

  Of our song bear the burden!

  And fire, fire away!

  With Spain for the vanguard,

  Our varied host comes; 160

  And next to the Spaniard

  Beat Germany’s drums;

  And Italy’s lances

  Are couched at their mother;

  But our leader from France is,

  Who warred with his brother.

  Oh, the Bourbon! the Bourbon!

  Sans country or home,

  We’ll follow the Bourbon,

  To plunder old Rome. 170

  Cæs. An indifferent song

  For those within the walls, methinks, to hear.

  Arn. Yes, if they keep to their chorus. But here comes

  The general with his chiefs and men of trust.

  A goodly rebel.

  Enter the Constable Bourbon “cum suis,” etc., etc.

  Phil. How now, noble Prince,

  You are not cheerful?

  Bourb. Why should I be so?

  Phil. Upon the eve of conquest, such as ours,

  Most men would be so.

  Bourb. If I were secure!

  Phil. Doubt not our soldiers. Were the walls of adamant,

  They’d crack them. Hunger is a sharp artillery. 180

  Bourb. That they will falter is my least of fears.

  That they will be repulsed, with Bourbon for

  Their chief, and all their kindled appetites

  To marshal them on — were those hoary walls

  Mountains, and those who guard them like the gods

  Of the old fables, I would trust my Titans; —

  But now — —

  Phil. They are but men who war with mortals.

  Bourb. True: but those walls have girded in great ages,

  And sent forth mighty spirits. The past earth

  And present phantom of imperious Rome 190

  Is peopled with those warriors; and methinks

  They flit along the eternal City’s rampart,

  And stretch their glorious, gory, shadowy hands,

  And beckon me away!

  Phil. So let them! Wilt thou

  Turn back from shadowy menaces of shadows?

  Bourb. They do not menace me. I could have faced,

  Methinks, a Sylla’s menace; but they clasp,

  And raise, and wring their dim and deathlike hands,

  And with their thin aspen faces and fixed eyes

  Fascinate mine. Look there!

  Phil. I look upon 200

  A lofty battlement.

  Bourb. And there!

  Phil. Not even

  A guard in sight; they wisely keep below,

  Sheltered by the grey parapet from some

  Stray bullet of our lansquenets, who might

  Practise in the cool twilight.

  Bourb. You are blind.

  Phil. If seeing nothing more than may be seen

  Be so.

  Bourb. A thousand years have manned the walls

  With all their heroes, — the last Cato stands

  And tears his bowels, rather than survive

  The liberty of that I would enslave. 210

  And the first Cassar with his triumphs flits

  From battlement to battlement.

  Phil. Then conquer

  The walls for which he conquered and be greater!

  Bourb. True: so I will, or perish.

  Phil. You can not.

  In such an enterprise to die is rather

  The dawn of an eternal day, than death.

  [Count Arnold and Cæsar advance.

  Cæs. And the mere men — do they, too, sweat beneath

  The noon of this same ever-scorching glory?

  Bourb. Ah!

  Welcome the bitter Hunchback! and his master,

  The beauty of our host, and brave as beauteous, 220

  And generous as lovely. We shall find

  Work for you both ere morning.

  Cæs. You will find,

  So please your Highness, no less for yourself.

  Bourb. And if I do, there will not be a labourer

  More forward, Hunchback!

  Cæs. You may well say so,

  For you have seen that back — as general,

  Placed in the rear in action — but your foes

  Have never seen it.

  Bourb. That’s a fair retort,

  For I provoked it: — but the Bourbon’s breast

  Has been, and ever shall be, far advanced 230

  In danger’s face as yours, were you the devil.

  Cæs. And if I were, I might have saved myself

  The toil of coming here.

  Phil. Why so?

  Cæs. One half

  Of your brave bands of their own bold accord

  Will go to him, the other half be sent,

  More swiftly, not less surely.

  Bourb. Arnold, your

  Slight crooked friend’s as snake-like in his words

  As his deeds.

  Cæs. Your Highness much mistakes me.

  The first snake was a
flatterer — I am none;

  And for my deeds, I only sting when stung. 240

  Bourb. You are brave, and that’s enough for me; and quick

  In speech as sharp in action — and that’s more.

  I am not alone the soldier, but the soldiers’

  Comrade.

  Cæs. They are but bad company, your Highness;

  And worse even for their friends than foes, as being

  More permanent acquaintance.

  Phil. How now, fellow!

  Thou waxest insolent, beyond the privilege

  Of a buffoon.

  Cæs. You mean I speak the truth.

  I’ll lie — it is as easy: then you’ll praise me

  For calling you a hero.

  Bourb. Philibert! 250

  Let him alone; he’s brave, and ever has

  Been first, with that swart face and mountain shoulder,

  In field or storm, and patient in starvation;

  And for his tongue, the camp is full of licence,

  And the sharp stinging of a lively rogue

  Is, to my mind, far preferable to

  The gross, dull, heavy, gloomy execration

  Of a mere famished sullen grumbling slave,

  Whom nothing can convince save a full meal,

  And wine, and sleep, and a few Maravedis, 260

  With which he deems him rich.

  Cæs. It would be well

  If the earth’s princes asked no more.

  Bourb. Be silent!

  Cæs. Aye, but not idle. Work yourself with words!

  You have few to speak.

  Phil. What means the audacious prater?

  Cæs. To prate, like other prophets.

  Bourb. Philibert!

  Why will you vex him? Have we not enough

  To think on? Arnold! I will lead the attack

  To-morrow.

  Arn. I have heard as much, my Lord.

  Bourb. And you will follow?

  Arn. Since I must not lead.

  Bourb. ‘Tis necessary for the further daring

  Of our too needy army, that their chief

  Plant the first foot upon the foremost ladder’s

  First step.

  Cæs. Upon its topmost, let us hope:

  So shall he have his full deserts.

  Bourb. The world’s

  Great capital perchance is ours to-morrow.

  Through every change the seven-hilled city hath

  Retained her sway o’er nations, and the Cæsars

  But yielded to the Alarics, the Alarics

  Unto the pontiffs. Roman, Goth, or priest.

  Still the world’s masters! Civilised, barbarian,

  Or saintly, still the walls of Romulus

  Have been the circus of an Empire. Well!

  ‘Twas their turn — now ‘tis ours; and let us hope

  That we will fight as well, and rule much better.

  Cæs. No doubt, the camp’s the school of civic rights.

  What would you make of Rome?

  Bourb. That which it was.

  Cæs. In Alaric’s time?

  Bourb. No, slave! in the first Cæsar’s,

  Whose name you bear like other curs — —

  Cæs. And kings!

  ‘Tis a great name for blood-hounds.

  Bourb. There’s a demon

  In that fierce rattlesnake thy tongue. Wilt never

  Be serious?

  Cæs. On the eve of battle, no; —

  That were not soldier-like. ‘Tis for the general

  To be more pensive: we adventurers

  Must be more cheerful. Wherefore should we think?

  Our tutelar Deity, in a leader’s shape,

  Takes care of us. Keep thought aloof from hosts!

  If the knaves take to thinking, you will have

  To crack those walls alone.

  Bourb. You may sneer, since

  ‘Tis lucky for you that you fight no worse for ‘t.

  Cæs. I thank you for the freedom; ‘tis the only 300

  Pay I have taken in your Highness’ service.

  Bourb. Well, sir, to-morrow you shall pay yourself.

  Look on those towers; they hold my treasury:

  But, Philibert, we’ll in to council. Arnold,

  We would request your presence.

  Arn. Prince! my service

  Is yours, as in the field.

  Bourb. In both we prize it,

  And yours will be a post of trust at daybreak.

  Cæs. And mine?

  Bourb. To follow glory with the Bourbon.

  Good night!

  Arn. (to Cæsar). Prepare our armour for the assault,

  And wait within my tent.

  [Exeunt Bourbon, Arnold, Philibert, etc.

  Cæs. (solus).Within thy tent! 310

  Think’st thou that I pass from thee with my presence?

  Or that this crooked coffer, which contained

  Thy principle of life, is aught to me

  Except a mask? And these are men, forsooth!

  Heroes and chiefs, the flower of Adam’s bastards!

  This is the consequence of giving matter

  The power of thought. It is a stubborn substance,

  And thinks chaotically, as it acts,

  Ever relapsing into its first elements.

  Well! I must play with these poor puppets: ‘tis 320

  The Spirit’s pastime in his idler hours.

  When I grow weary of it, I have business

  Amongst the stars, which these poor creatures deem

  Were made for them to look at. ‘Twere a jest now

  To bring one down amongst them, and set fire

  Unto their anthill: how the pismires then

  Would scamper o’er the scalding soil, and, ceasing

  From tearing down each other’s nests, pipe forth

  One universal orison! ha! ha![Exit Caesar.

  PART II

  Scene I. — Before the walls of Rome. — The Assault: the Army in motion, with ladders to scale the walls; Bourbon with a white scarf over his armour, foremost.

  Chorus of Spirits in the air.

  I.

  ‘Tis the morn, but dim and dark.

  Whither flies the silent lark?

  Whither shrinks the clouded sun?

  Is the day indeed begun?

  Nature’s eye is melancholy

  O’er the city high and holy:

  But without there is a din

  Should arouse the saints within,

  And revive the heroic ashes

  Round which yellow Tiber dashes. 10

  Oh, ye seven hills! awaken,

  Ere your very base be shaken!

  II.

  Hearken to the steady stamp!

  Mars is in their every tramp!

  Not a step is out of tune,

  As the tides obey the moon!

  On they march, though to self-slaughter,

  Regular as rolling water,

  Whose high-waves o’ersweep the border

  Of huge moles, but keep their order, 20

  Breaking only rank by rank.

  Hearken to the armour’s clank!

  Look down o’er each frowning warrior,

  How he glares upon the barrier:

  Look on each step of each ladder,

  As the stripes that streak an adder.

  III.

  Look upon the bristling wall,

  Manned without an interval!

  Round and round, and tier on tier,

  Cannon’s black mouth, shining spear, 30

  Lit match, bell-mouthed Musquetoon,

  Gaping to be murderous soon;

  All the warlike gear of old,

  Mixed with what we now behold,

  In this strife ‘twixt old and new,

  Gather like a locusts’ crew.

  S
hade of Remus! ‘tis a time

  Awful as thy brother’s crime!

  Christians war against Christ’s shrine: —

  Must its lot be like to thine? 40

  IV.

  Near — and near — and nearer still,

  As the Earthquake saps the hill,

  First with trembling, hollow motion,

  Like a scarce awakened ocean,

  Then with stronger shock and louder,

  Till the rocks are crushed to powder, —

  Onward sweeps the rolling host!

  Heroes of the immortal boast!

  Mighty Chiefs! eternal shadows!

  First flowers of the bloody meadows 50

  Which encompass Rome, the mother

  Of a people without brother!

  Will you sleep when nations’ quarrels

  Plough the root up of your laurels?

  Ye who weep o’er Carthage burning,

  Weep not — strike! for Rome is mourning!

  V.

  Onward sweep the varied nations!

  Famine long hath dealt their rations.

  To the wall, with hate and hunger,

  Numerous as wolves, and stronger, 60

  On they sweep. Oh, glorious City!

  Must thou be a theme for pity?

  Fight, like your first sire, each Roman!

  Alaric was a gentle foeman,

  Matched with Bourbon’s black banditti!

  Rouse thee, thou eternal City;

  Rouse thee! Rather give the torch

  With thine own hand to thy porch,

  Than behold such hosts pollute

  Your worst dwelling with their foot. 70

  VI.

  Ah! behold yon bleeding spectre!

  Ilion’s children find no Hector;

  Priam’s offspring loved their brother;

  Rome’s great sire forgot his mother,

  When he slew his gallant twin,

  With inexpiable sin.

  See the giant shadow stride

  O’er the ramparts high and wide!

  When the first o’erleapt thy wall,

  Its foundation mourned thy fall. 80

  Now, though towering like a Babel,

  Who to stop his steps are able?

  Stalking o’er thy highest dome,

  Remus claims his vengeance, Rome!

  VII.

  Now they reach thee in their anger:

  Fire and smoke and hellish clangour

  Are around thee, thou world’s wonder!

  Death is in thy walls and under.

  Now the meeting steel first clashes,

  Downward then the ladder crashes, 90

  With its iron load all gleaming,

  Lying at its foot blaspheming!

  Up again! for every warrior

  Slain, another climbs the barrier.

  Thicker grows the strife: thy ditches

  Europe’s mingling gore enriches.

  Rome! although thy wall may perish,

  Such manure thy fields will cherish,

  Making gay the harvest-home;

  But thy hearths, alas! oh, Rome! — 100

 

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