Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Byron

There was small leisure for superfluous sin;

  But whether they escaped or no, lies hid

  In darkness — I can only hope they did.

  CXXXIII

  Suwarrow now was conqueror — a match

  For Timour or for Zinghis in his trade.

  While mosques and streets, beneath his eyes, like thatch

  Blazed, and the cannon’s roar was scarce allay’d,

  With bloody hands he wrote his first despatch;

  And here exactly follows what he said: —

  “Glory to God and to the Empress!” (Powers

  Eternal! such names mingled!) “Ismail’s ours.”

  CXXXIV

  Methinks these are the most tremendous words,

  Since “Mene, Mene, Tekel,” and “Upharsin,”

  Which hands or pens have ever traced of swords.

  Heaven help me! I’m but little of a parson:

  What Daniel read was short-hand of the Lord’s,

  Severe, sublime; the prophet wrote no farce on

  The fate of nations; — but this Russ so witty

  Could rhyme, like Nero, o’er a burning city.

  CXXXV

  He wrote this Polar melody, and set it,

  Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans,

  Which few will sing, I trust, but none forget it —

  For I will teach, if possible, the stones

  To rise against earth’s tyrants. Never let it

  Be said that we still truckle unto thrones; —

  But ye — our children’s children! think how we

  Show’d what things were before the world was free!

  CXXXVI

  That hour is not for us, but ‘t is for you:

  And as, in the great joy of your millennium,

  You hardly will believe such things were true

  As now occur, I thought that I would pen you ‘em;

  But may their very memory perish too! —

  Yet if perchance remember’d, still disdain you ‘em

  More than you scorn the savages of yore,

  Who painted their bare limbs, but not with gore.

  CXXXVII

  And when you hear historians talk of thrones,

  And those that sate upon them, let it be

  As we now gaze upon the mammoth’s bones,

  ”And wonder what old world such things could see,

  Or hieroglyphics on Egyptian stones,

  The pleasant riddles of futurity —

  Guessing at what shall happily be hid,

  As the real purpose of a pyramid.

  CXXXVIII

  Reader! I have kept my word, — at least so far

  As the first Canto promised. You have now

  Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, war —

  All very accurate, you must allow,

  And epic, if plain truth should prove no bar;

  For I have drawn much less with a long bow

  Than my forerunners. Carelessly I sing,

  But Phoebus lends me now and then a string,

  CXXXIX

  With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle.

  What farther hath befallen or may befall

  The hero of this grand poetic riddle,

  I by and by may tell you, if at all:

  But now I choose to break off in the middle,

  Worn out with battering Ismail’s stubborn wall,

  While Juan is sent off with the despatch,

  For which all Petersburgh is on the watch.

  CXL

  This special honour was conferr’d, because

  He had behaved with courage and humanity —

  Which last men like, when they have time to pause

  From their ferocities produced by vanity.

  His little captive gain’d him some applause

  For saving her amidst the wild insanity

  Of carnage, — and I think he was more glad in her

  Safety, than his new order of St. Vladimir.

  CXLI

  The Moslem orphan went with her protector,

  For she was homeless, houseless, helpless; all

  Her friends, like the sad family of Hector,

  Had perish’d in the field or by the wall:

  Her very place of birth was but a spectre

  Of what it had been; there the Muezzin’s cal

  To prayer was heard no more! — and Juan wept,

  And made a vow to shield her, which he kept.

  DON JUAN: CANTO THE NINTH

  I

  Oh, Wellington! (or “Villainton” — for Fame

  Sounds the heroic syllables both ways;

  France could not even conquer your great name,

  But punn’d it down to this facetious phrase —

  Beating or beaten she will laugh the same),

  You have obtain’d great pensions and much praise:

  Glory like yours should any dare gainsay,

  Humanity would rise, and thunder “Nay!”

  II

  I don’t think that you used Kinnaird quite well

  In Marinet’s affair — in fact, ‘t was shabby,

  And like some other things won’t do to tell

  Upon your tomb in Westminster’s old abbey.

  Upon the rest ‘t is not worth while to dwell,

  Such tales being for the tea-hours of some tabby;

  But though your years as man tend fast to zero,

  In fact your grace is still but a young hero.

  III

  Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much,

  Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more:

  You have repair’d Legitimacy’s crutch,

  A prop not quite so certain as before:

  The Spanish, and the French, as well as Dutch,

  Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore;

  And Waterloo has made the world your debtor

  (I wish your bards would sing it rather better).

  IV

  You are “the best of cut-throats:” — do not start;

  The phrase is Shakspeare’s, and not misapplied:

  War’s a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art,

  Unless her cause by right be sanctified.

  If you have acted once a generous part,

  The world, not the world’s masters, will decide,

  And I shall be delighted to learn who,

  Save you and yours, have gain’d by Waterloo?

  V

  I am no flatterer — you’ve supp’d full of flattery:

  They say you like it too — ‘t is no great wonder.

  He whose whole life has been assault and battery,

  At last may get a little tired of thunder;

  And swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he

  May like being praised for every lucky blunder,

  Call’d “Saviour of the Nations” — not yet saved,

  And “Europe’s Liberator” — still enslaved.

  VI

  I’ve done. Now go and dine from off the plate

  Presented by the Prince of the Brazils,

  And send the sentinel before your gate

  A slice or two from your luxurious meals:

  He fought, but has not fed so well of late.

  Some hunger, too, they say the people feels: —

  There is no doubt that you deserve your ration,

  But pray give back a little to the nation.

  VII

  I don’t mean to reflect — a man so great as

  You, my lord duke! is far above reflection:

  The high Roman fashion, too, of Cincinnatus,

  With modern history has but small connection:

  Though as an Irishman you love potatoes,

  You need not take them under your direction;

  And half a million for your Sabine farm

  Is
rather dear! — I’m sure I mean no harm.

  VIII

  Great men have always scorn’d great recompenses:

  Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died,

  Not leaving even his funeral expenses:

  George Washington had thanks and nought beside,

  Except the all-cloudless glory (which few men’s is)

  To free his country: Pitt too had his pride,

  And as a high-soul’d minister of state is

  Renown’d for ruining Great Britain gratis.

  IX

  Never had mortal man such opportunity,

  Except Napoleon, or abused it more:

  You might have freed fallen Europe from the unity

  Of tyrants, and been blest from shore to shore:

  And now — what is your fame? Shall the Muse tune it ye?

  Now — that the rabble’s first vain shouts are o’er?

  Go! hear it in your famish’d country’s cries!

  Behold the world! and curse your victories!

  X

  As these new cantos touch on warlike feats,

  To you the unflattering Muse deigns to inscribe

  Truths, that you will not read in the Gazettes,

  But which ‘t is time to teach the hireling tribe

  Who fatten on their country’s gore, and debts,

  Must be recited, and — without a bribe.

  You did great things; but not being great in mind,

  Have left undone the greatest — and mankind.

  XI

  Death laughs — Go ponder o’er the skeleton

  With which men image out the unknown thing

  That hides the past world, like to a set sun

  Which still elsewhere may rouse a brighter spring —

  Death laughs at all you weep for: — look upon

  This hourly dread of all! whose threaten’d sting

  Turns life to terror, even though in its sheath:

  Mark how its lipless mouth grins without breath!

  XII

  Mark how it laughs and scorns at all you are!

  And yet was what you are: from ear to ear

  It laughs not — there is now no fleshy bar

  So call’d; the Antic long hath ceased to hear,

  But still he smiles; and whether near or far,

  He strips from man that mantle (far more dear

  Than even the tailor’s), his incarnate skin,

  White, black, or copper — the dead bones will grin.

  XIII

  And thus Death laughs, — it is sad merriment,

  But still it is so; and with such example

  Why should not Life be equally content

  With his superior, in a smile to trample

  Upon the nothings which are daily spent

  Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample

  Than the eternal deluge, which devours

  Suns as rays — worlds like atoms — years like hours?

  XIV

  “To be, or not to be? that is the question,”

  Says Shakspeare, who just now is much in fashion.

  I am neither Alexander nor Hephæstion,

  Nor ever had for abstract fame much passion;

  But would much rather have a sound digestion

  Than Buonaparte’s cancer: could I dash on

  Through fifty victories to shame or fame —

  Without a stomach what were a good name?

  XV

  “O dura ilia messorum!” — “Oh

  Ye rigid guts of reapers!” I translate

  For the great benefit of those who know

  What indigestion is — that inward fate

  Which makes all Styx through one small liver flow.

  A peasant’s sweat is worth his lord’s estate:

  Let this one toil for bread — that rack for rent,

  He who sleeps best may be the most content.

  XVI

  “To be, or not to be?” — Ere I decide,

  I should be glad to know that which is being?

  ‘T is true we speculate both far and wide,

  And deem, because we see, we are all-seeing:

  For my part, I’ll enlist on neither side,

  Until I see both sides for once agreeing.

  For me, I sometimes think that life is death,

  Rather than life a mere affair of breath.

  XVII

  “Que scais-je?” was the motto of Montaigne,

  As also of the first academicians:

  That all is dubious which man may attain,

  Was one of their most favourite positions.

  There’s no such thing as certainty, that’s plain

  As any of Mortality’s conditions;

  So little do we know what we’re about in

  This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting.

  XVIII

  It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float,

  Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation;

  But what if carrying sail capsize the boat?

  Your wise men don’t know much of navigation;

  And swimming long in the abyss of thought

  Is apt to tire: a calm and shallow station

  Well nigh the shore, where one stoops down and gathers

  Some pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers.

  XIX

  “But heaven,” as Cassio says, “is above all —

  No more of this, then, — let us pray!” We have

  Souls to save, since Eve’s slip and Adam’s fall,

  Which tumbled all mankind into the grave,

  Besides fish, beasts, and birds. “The sparrow’s fall

  Is special providence,” though how it gave

  Offence, we know not; probably it perch’d

  Upon the tree which Eve so fondly search’d.

  XX

  Oh, ye immortal gods! what is theogony?

  Oh, thou too, mortal man! what is philanthropy?

  Oh, world! which was and is, what is cosmogony?

  Some people have accused me of misanthropy;

  And yet I know no more than the mahogany

  That forms this desk, of what they mean; Lykanthropy

  I comprehend, for without transformation

  Men become wolves on any slight occasion.

  XXI

  But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind,

  Like Moses, or Melancthon, who have ne’er

  Done anything exceedingly unkind, —

  And (though I could not now and then forbear

  Following the bent of body or of mind)

  Have always had a tendency to spare, —

  Why do they call me misanthrope? Because

  They hate me, not I them. — and here we’ll pause.

  XXII

  ‘T is time we should proceed with our good poem, —

  For I maintain that it is really good,

  Not only in the body but the proem,

  However little both are understood

  Just now, — but by and by the Truth will show ‘em

  Herself in her sublimest attitude:

  And till she doth, I fain must be content

  To share her beauty and her banishment.

  XXIII

  Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader, yours)

  Was left upon his way to the chief city

  Of the immortal Peter’s polish’d boors

  Who still have shown themselves more brave than witty.

  I know its mighty empire now allures

  Much flattery — even Voltaire’s, and that’s a pity.

  For me, I deem an absolute autocrat

  Not a barbarian, but much worse than that.

  XXIV

  And I will war, at least in words (and — should

  My chance so happen — deeds), with all who war

  With Thought; — and of T
hought’s foes by far most rude,

  Tyrants and sycophants have been and are.

  I know not who may conquer: if I could

  Have such a prescience, it should be no bar

  To this my plain, sworn, downright detestation

  Of every depotism in every nation.

  XXV

  It is not that I adulate the people:

  Without me, there are demagogues enough,

  And infidels, to pull down every steeple,

  And set up in their stead some proper stuff.

  Whether they may sow scepticism to reap hell,

  As is the Christian dogma rather rough,

  I do not know; — I wish men to be free

  As much from mobs as kings — from you as me.

  XXVI

  The consequence is, being of no party,

  I shall offend all parties: never mind!

  My words, at least, are more sincere and hearty

  Than if I sought to sail before the wind.

  He who has nought to gain can have small art: he

  Who neither wishes to be bound nor bind,

  May still expatiate freely, as will I,

  Nor give my voice to slavery’s jackal cry.

  XXVII

  That’s an appropriate simile, that jackal; —

  I’ve heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl

  By night, as do that mercenary pack all,

  Power’s base purveyors, who for pickings prowl,

  And scent the prey their masters would attack all.

  However, the poor jackals are less foul

  (As being the brave lions’ keen providers)

  Than human insects, catering for spiders.

  XXVIII

  Raise but an arm! ‘t will brush their web away,

  And without that, their poison and their claws

  Are useless. Mind, good people! what I say

  (Or rather peoples) — go on without pause!

  The web of these tarantulas each day

  Increases, till you shall make common cause:

  None, save the Spanish fly and Attic bee,

  As yet are strongly stinging to be free.

  XXIX

  Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter,

  Was left upon his way with the despatch,

  Where blood was talk’d of as we would of water;

  And carcasses that lay as thick as thatch

  O’er silenced cities, merely served to flatter

  Fair Catherine’s pastime — who look’d on the match

  Between these nations as a main of cocks,

  Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks.

  XXX

  And there in a kibitka he roll’d on

  (A curséd sort of carriage without springs,

  Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole bone),

  Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings,

  And orders, and on all that he had done —

  And wishing that post-horses had the wings