Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series
Page 165
Slippery with Roman and with holy gore!
No injury! And now thou wouldst preserve me,
To be — — but that shall never be!
[She raises her eyes to Heaven, folds her robe round her, and prepares to dash herself down on the side of the Altar opposite to that where Arnold stands.
Arn. Hold! hold!
I swear.
Olimp. Spare thine already forfeit soul
A perjury for which even Hell would loathe thee. 120
I know thee.
Arn. No, thou know’st me not; I am not
Of these men, though — —
Olimp. I judge thee by thy mates;
It is for God to judge thee as thou art.
I see thee purple with the blood of Rome;
Take mine, ‘tis all thou e’er shalt have of me,
And here, upon the marble of this temple,
Where the baptismal font baptized me God’s,
I offer him a blood less holy
But not less pure (pure as it left me then,
A redeeméd infant) than the holy water 130
The saints have sanctified!
[Olimpia waves her hand to Arnold with disdain, and dashes herself on the pavement from the Altar.
Arn. Eternal God!
I feel thee now! Help! help! she’s gone.
Cæs. (approaches).I am here.
Arn. Thou! but oh, save her!
Cæs. (assisting him to raise Olimpia). She hath done it well!
The leap was serious.
Arn. Oh! she is lifeless!
Cæs. If
She be so, I have nought to do with that:
The resurrection is beyond me.
Arn. Slave!
Cæs. Aye, slave or master, ‘tis all one: methinks
Good words, however, are as well at times.
Arn. Words! — Canst thou aid her?
Cæs. I will try. A sprinkling
Of that same holy water may be useful. 140
[He brings some in his helmet from the font.
Arn. ‘Tis mixed with blood.
Cæs. There is no cleaner now
In Rome.
Arn. How pale! how beautiful! how lifeless!
Alive or dead, thou Essence of all Beauty,
I love but thee!
Cæs. Even so Achilles loved
Penthesilea; with his form it seems
You have his heart, and yet it was no soft one.
Arn. She breathes! But no, ‘twas nothing, or the last
Faint flutter Life disputes with Death.
Cæs. She breathes.
Arn. Thou say’st it? Then ‘tis truth.
Cæs. You do me right —
The Devil speaks truth much oftener than he’s deemed: 150
He hath an ignorant audience.
Arn. (without attending to him). Yes! her heart beats.
Alas! that the first beat of the only heart
I ever wished to beat with mine should vibrate
To an assassin’s pulse.
Cæs. A sage reflection,
But somewhat late i’ the day. Where shall we bear her?
I say she lives.
Arn. And will she live?
Cas. As much
As dust can.
Arn. Then she is dead!
Cæs. Bah! bah! You are so,
And do not know it. She will come to life —
Such as you think so, such as you now are;
But we must work by human means.
Arn. We will 160
Convey her unto the Colonna palace,
Where I have pitched my banner.
Cæs. Come then! raise her up!
Arn. Softly!
Cæs. As softly as they bear the dead,
Perhaps because they cannot feel the jolting.
Arn. But doth she live indeed?
Cæs. Nay, never fear!
But, if you rue it after, blame not me.
Arn. Let her but live!
Cæs. The Spirit of her life
Is yet within her breast, and may revive.
Count! count! I am your servant in all things,
And this is a new office: — ’tis not oft 170
I am employed in such; but you perceive
How staunch a friend is what you call a fiend.
On earth you have often only fiends for friends;
Now I desert not mine. Soft! bear her hence,
The beautiful half-clay, and nearly spirit!
I am almost enamoured of her, as
Of old the Angels of her earliest sex.
Arn. Thou!
Cæs. I! But fear not. I’ll not be your rival.
Arn. Rival!
Cæs. I could be one right formidable;
But since I slew the seven husbands of 180
Tobias’ future bride (and after all
Was smoked out by some incense), I have laid
Aside intrigue: ‘tis rarely worth the trouble
Of gaining, or — what is more difficult —
Getting rid of your prize again; for there’s
The rub! at least to mortals.
Arn. Prithee, peace!
Softly! methinks her lips move, her eyes open!
Cæs. Like stars, no doubt; for that’s a metaphor
For Lucifer and Venus.
Arn. To the palace
Colonna, as I told you!
Cæs. Oh! I know 190
My way through Rome.
Arn. Now onward, onward! Gently!
[Exeunt, bearing Olimpia. The scene closes.
PART III
Scene I. — A Castle in the Apennines, surrounded by a wild but smiling Country. Chorus of Peasants singing before the Gates.
Chorus.
I.
The wars are over,
The spring is come;
The bride and her lover
Have sought their home:
They are happy, we rejoice;
Let their hearts have an echo in every voice!
II.
The spring is come; the violet’s gone,
The first-born child of the early sun:
With us she is but a winter’s flower,
The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower, 10
And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue
To the youngest sky of the self-same hue.
III.
And when the spring comes with her host
Of flowers, that flower beloved the most
Shrinks from the crowd that may confuse
Her heavenly odour and virgin hues.
IV.
Pluck the others, but still remember
Their herald out of dim December —
The morning star of all the flowers,
The pledge of daylight’s lengthened hours; 20
Nor, midst the roses, e’er forget
The virgin — virgin Violet.
Enter Cæsar.
Cæs. (singing).
The wars are all over,
Our swords are all idle,
The steed bites the bridle,
The casque’s on the wall.
There’s rest for the rover;
But his armour is rusty,
And the veteran grows crusty,
As he yawns in the hall. 30
He drinks — but what’s drinking?
A mere pause from thinking!
No bugle awakes him with life-and-death call.
Chorus.
But the hound bayeth loudly,
The boar’s in the wood,
And the falcon longs proudly
To spring from her hood:
On the wrist of the noble
She sits like a crest,
And the air is in trouble 40
With birds from their nest.
Cæs.
Oh! shadow of Glor
y!
Dim image of War!
But the chase hath no story,
Her hero no star,
Since Nimrod, the founder
Of empire and chase,
Who made the woods wonder
And quake for their race.
When the lion was young, 50
In the pride of his might,
Then ‘twas sport for the strong
To embrace him in fight;
To go forth, with a pine
For a spear, ‘gainst the mammoth,
Or strike through the ravine
At the foaming behemoth;
While man was in stature
As towers in our time,
The first born of Nature, 60
And, like her, sublime!
Chorus.
But the wars are over,
The spring is come;
The bride and her lover
Have sought their home:
They are happy, and we rejoice;
Let their hearts have an echo from every voice!
[Exeunt the Peasantry, singing.
FRAGMENT OF THE THIRD PART
Chorus.
When the merry bells are ringing,
And the peasant girls are singing,
And the early flowers are flinging
Their odours in the air;
And the honey bee is clinging
To the buds; and birds are winging
Their way, pair by pair:
Then the earth looks free from trouble
With the brightness of a bubble:
Though I did not make it, 10
I could breathe on and break it;
But too much I scorn it,
Or else I would mourn it,
To see despots and slaves
Playing o’er their own graves.
Enter Count Arnold.
Mem. Jealous — Arnold of Cæsar.
Olympia at first not liking Cæsar
— then? — Arnold jealous of himself
under his former figure, owing to
the power of intellect, etc., etc., etc.
Arnold. You are merry, Sir — what? singing too?
Cæsar. It is
The land of Song — and Canticles you know
Were once my avocation.
Arn. Nothing moves you;
You scoff even at your own calamity —
And such calamity! how wert thou fallen 20
Son of the Morning! and yet Lucifer
Can smile.
Cæs. His shape can — would you have me weep,
In the fair form I wear, to please you?
Arn. Ah!
Cæs. You are grave — what have you on your spirit!
Arn. Nothing.
Cæs. How mortals lie by instinct! If you ask
A disappointed courtier — What’s the matter?
“Nothing” — an outshone Beauty what has made
Her smooth brow crisp — ”Oh, Nothing!” — a young heir
When his Sire has recovered from the Gout,
What ails him? “Nothing!” or a Monarch who 30
Has heard the truth, and looks imperial on it —
What clouds his royal aspect? “Nothing,” “Nothing!”
Nothing — eternal nothing — of these nothings
All are a lie — for all to them are much!
And they themselves alone the real “Nothings.”
Your present Nothing, too, is something to you —
What is it?
Arn. Know you not?
Cæs. I only know
What I desire to know! and will not waste
Omniscience upon phantoms. Out with it!
If you seek aid from me — or else be silent. 40
And eat your thoughts — till they breed snakes within you.
Arn. Olimpia!
Cæs. I thought as much — go on.
Arn. I thought she had loved me.
Cæs. Blessings on your Creed!
What a good Christian you were found to be!
But what cold Sceptic hath appalled your faith
And transubstantiated to crumbs again
The body of your Credence?
Arn. No one — but —
Each day — each hour — each minute shows me more
And more she loves me not —
Cæs. Doth she rebel?
Arn. No, she is calm, and meek, and silent with me, 50
And coldly dutiful, and proudly patient —
Endures my Love — not meets it.
Cæs. That seems strange.
You are beautiful and brave! the first is much
For passion — and the rest for Vanity.
Arn. I saved her life, too; and her Father’s life,
And Father’s house from ashes.
Cæs. These are nothing.
You seek for Gratitude — the Philosopher’s stone.
Arn. And find it not.
Cæs. You cannot find what is not.
But found would it content you? would you owe
To thankfulness what you desire from Passion? 60
No! No! you would be loved — what you call loved —
Self-loved — loved for yourself — for neither health,
Nor wealth, nor youth, nor power, nor rank, nor beauty —
For these you may be stript of — but beloved
As an abstraction — for — you know not what!
These are the wishes of a moderate lover —
And so you love.
Arn. Ah! could I be beloved,
Would I ask wherefore?
Cæs. Yes! and not believe
The answer — You are jealous.
Arn. And of whom?
Cæs. It may be of yourself, for Jealousy 70
Is as a shadow of the Sun. The Orb
Is mighty — as you mortals deem — and to
Your little Universe seems universal;
But, great as He appears, and is to you,
The smallest cloud — the slightest vapour of
Your humid earth enables you to look
Upon a Sky which you revile as dull;
Though your eyes dare not gaze on it when cloudless.
Nothing can blind a mortal like to light.
Now Love in you is as the Sun — a thing 80
Beyond you — and your Jealousy’s of Earth —
A cloud of your own raising.
Arn. Not so always!
There is a cause at times.
Cæs. Oh, yes! when atoms jostle,
The System is in peril. But I speak
Of things you know not. Well, to earth again!
This precious thing of dust — this bright Olimpia —
This marvellous Virgin, is a marble maid —
An Idol, but a cold one to your heat
Promethean, and unkindled by your torch.
Arn. Slave!
Cæs. In the victor’s Chariot, when Rome triumphed, 90
There was a Slave of yore to tell him truth!
You are a Conqueror — command your Slave.
Arn. Teach me the way to win the woman’s love.
Cæs. Leave her.
Arn. Where that the path — I’d not pursue it.
Cæs. No doubt! for if you did, the remedy
Would be for a disease already cured.
Arn. All wretched as I am, I would not quit
My unrequited love, for all that’s happy.
Cæs. You have possessed the woman — still possess.
What need you more?
Arn. To be myself possessed — 100
To be her heart as she is mine.
BEPPO
A VENETIAN STORY.
Written at Venice in 1817, Beppo is Byron’s first attempt at writing in the Italian ottava rima metre, which he favoured for the use of satiric digress
ion. The writing of this poem laid the foundations for his masterpiece Don Juan. The ballad is notable for its comparison of English and Italian morals, where Byron argues that the English aversion to adultery is hypocrisy, compared to how Italians view it.
Beppo tells the story of Laura, a Venetian lady whose husband, Beppo has been lost at sea for three years. According to Venetian customs, she finally takes a new husband, Cavalier Servente. But when the two of them attend the Venetian Carnival, she is closely observed by a Turk, who he is not what he seems…
Byron’s house in Venice, where he wrote ‘Beppo’
INTRODUCTION
Beppo was written in the autumn (September 6 — October 12, Letters, 1900, iv. 172) of 1817, whilst Byron was still engaged on the additional stanzas of the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold. His new poem, as he admitted from the first, was “after the excellent manner” of John Hookham Frere’s jeu d’esprit, known as Whistlecraft (Prospectus and Specimen of an intended National Work by William and Robert Whistlecraft, London, 1818), which must have reached him in the summer of 1817. Whether he divined the identity of “Whistlecraft” from the first, or whether his guess was an after-thought, he did not hesitate to take the water and shoot ahead of his unsuspecting rival. It was a case of plagiarism in excelsis, and the superiority of the imitation to the original must be set down to the genius of the plagiary, unaided by any profound study of Italian literature, or an acquaintance at first hand with the parents and inspirers of Whistlecraft.
It is possible that he had read and forgotten some specimens of Pulci’s Morgante Maggiore, which J. H. Merivale had printed in the Monthly Magazine for 1806-1807, vol. xxi. pp. 304, 510, etc., and it is certain that he was familiar with his Orlando in Roncesvalles, published in 1814. He distinctly states that he had not seen W. S. Rose’s translation of Casti’s Animali Parlanti (first edition [anonymous], 1816), but, according to Pryse Gordon (Personal Memoirs, ii. 328), he had read the original. If we may trust Ugo Foscolo (see “Narrative and Romantic Poems of the Italians” in the Quart. Rev., April, 1819, vol. xxi. pp. 486-526), there is some evidence that Byron had read Forteguerri’s Ricciardetto (translated in 1819 by Sylvester (Douglas) Lord Glenbervie, and again, by John Herman Merivale, under the title of The Two First Cantos of Richardetto, 1820), but the parallel which he adduces (vide post, ) is not very striking or convincing.
On the other hand, after the poem was completed (March 25, 1818), he was under the impression that “Berni was the original of all … the father of that kind [i.e. the mock-heroic] of writing;” but there is nothing to show whether he had or had not read the rifacimento of Orlando’s Innamorato, or the more distinctively Bernesque Capitoli. Two years later (see Letter to Murray, February 21, 1820, Letters, 1900, iv. 407; and “Advertisement” to Morgante Maggiore) he had discovered that “Pulci was the parent of Whistlecraft, and the precursor and model of Berni,” but, in 1817, he was only at the commencement of his studies. A time came long before the “year or two” of his promise (March 25, 1818) when he had learned to simulate the vera imago of the Italian Muse, and was able not only to surpass his “immediate model,” but to rival his model’s forerunners and inspirers. In the meanwhile a tale based on a “Venetian anecdote” (perhaps an “episode” in the history of Colonel Fitzgerald and the Marchesa Castiglione, — see Letter to Moore, December 26, 1816, Letters, 1900, iv. 26) lent itself to “the excellent manner of Mr. Whistlecraft,” and would show “the knowing ones,” that is, Murray’s advisers, Gifford, Croker, Frere, etc., that “he could write cheerfully,” and “would repel the charge of monotony and mannerism.”