The Works of Lord Byron

But soon he found-or feign'd—or dream'd relief,

And smiled in self-derision of his grief:
"And now come torture when it will-or
may,

More need of rest to nerve me for the day!
This said, with languor to his mat he crept,
And, whatsoe'er his visions, quickly slept.

Vain voice! the spirit burning but unhent,
May writhe-rebel the weak alone repent!
Even in that lonely hour when most it feels,
And, to itself, all-all that self reveals,
No single passion, and no rolling thought
That leaves the rest at once unseen,unsought; For Conrad's plans matured, at once were
But the wild prospect when the soul re-
views-

'Twas hardly midnight when that fray

begun,

done;

And Havoc loathes so much the waste of time,

One hour beheld him since the tide he

She scarce had left an uncommitted crime.

All rushing through their thousand avenues.
Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret.
Endanger'd glory, life itself beset;
The joy untasted, the contempt or hate
'Gainst those who fain would triumph in Disguised-discover'd — conquering—ta’en

our fate;

stemm'd

-condemn'd

The hopeless past, the hasting future driven A chief on land-arf outlaw on the deep-
Too quickly on to guess if hell or heaven; Destroying—saving – prison'd—and asleep!
Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remem-
ber'd not

So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot;
Things light or lovely in their acted time,
But now to stern reflection each a crime;
The withering sense of evil unreveal'd,
Not cankering less because the more con-
ceal'd-

All, in a word, from which all eyes must
start,

That opening sepulchre-the naked heart
Bares with its buried woes, till Pride awake,
To snatch the mirror from the soul-and
break.

He slept in calmest seeming for his

breath

Was hush'd so deep-Ah! happy if in death!

He slept who o'er his placid slumber bends?
His foes are gone and here he hath no
friends;

Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace?
No, 'tis an earthly form with heavenly face!
Its white arm raised a lamp-yet gently hid,
Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid
Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain,
And once unclosed but once may close
again.

Ay-Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all,
All—all — before-beyond — the deadliest | That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so fair,
And auburn waves of gemm'd and braided
hair;

fall.

Each hath some fear, and he who least
betrays,

The only hypocrite deserving praise:
Not the loud recreant wretch who boasts
and flies;

But he who looks on death- and silent dies.
So steel'd by pondering o'er his far career,
He halfway meets him should he menace
near!

With shape of fairy lightness-naked foot,
That shines like snow, and falls on earth
as mute-

Through guards and dunnest night how
came it there?
Ah! rather ask what will not woman dare?
Whom youth and pity lead like thee,
Gulnare!

She could not sleep-and while the Pacha's | Till even the scaffold echoes with their jest! Yet not the joy to which it seems akin—

rest

In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-It may deceive all hearts, save that within.

[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors]

"Tis late to think - but soft his slumber breaks

How heavily he sighs!--he starts-awakes!" He raised his head-and dazzled with the light,

His eye seem'd dubious if it saw aright: He moved his hand-the grating of his chain Too harshly told him that he lived again. "What is that form?, if not a shape of air, Methinks my jailor's face shows wondrous fair!"

grief

[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small]

"Yes! —loth indeed :-my soul is nerved to all,

Or fall'n too low to fear a further fall: Tempt not thyself with peril; me with hope, Of flight from foes with whom I could not cope:

Unfit to vanquish-shall I meanly fly,
The one of all my band that would not die?
Yet there is one-to whom my memory
clings,

Till to these eyes her own wild softness
springs.
My sole resources in the path I trod
Were these

my bark my sword-my love-my God! The last I left in youth-he leaves me nowAnd man but works his will to lay me low. I have no thought to mock his throne with prayer

Wrung from the coward crouching of despair;

It is enough-I breathe-and I can bear. My sword is shaken from the worthless hand That might have better kept so true a brand; My bark is sunk or captive - but my love— For her in sooth my voice would mount above:

Oh! she is all that still to earth can bindAnd this will break a heart so more than kind, till thine appeared, Gulnare! Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were as fair?”

And blight a form

"Thou lov'st another then? - but what to me

Is link'd a mirth-it doth not bring relief --
That playfulness of Sorrow ne'er beguiles. Is this 'tis nothing--nothing e'er can be :
And smiles in bitterness - but still it smiles; But yet - thou lovest - and -- Oh! I envy
And sometimes with the wisest and the best.

those

Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose, | What gem hath dropp'd and sparkles o'er Who never feel the void the wandering his chain? thought The tear most sacred, shed for other's pain, That sighs o'er visions-such as mine hath That starts at once- bright - pure-from wrought." Pity's mine,

Lady - methought thy love was his, for whom

This arm redeem'd thee from a fiery tomb."

Already polish'd by the hand divine!

Oh! too convincing-dangerously dearIn woman's eye the unanswerable tear! My love stern Seyd's! Oh-No-No-That weapon of her weakness she can wield, To save, subdue at once her spear and shield:

not my love-
Yet much this heart, that strives no more,
once strove

To meet his passion-but it would not be.
I felt I feel-love dwells with-with the

free.

Yes-had I ever proved that passion's zeal, The change to hatred were at least to feel : But still he goes unmourn'd-returns unsought

And oft when present - absent from my thought. Or when reflection comes, and come it mustI fear that henceforth 'twill but bring disgust;

I am his slave-but, in despite of pride, Twere worse than bondage to become his bride.

Oh! that this dotage of his breast would cease!

Or seek another and give mine release, But yesterday- I could have said, to peace! Yes-if unwonted fondness now I feign, Remember-captive! 'tis to break thy chain; Repay the life that to thy hand I owe: To give thee back to all endear'd below, Who share such love as I can never know. Farewell - morn breaks-and I must now

away:

Twill cost me dear-but dread no death to-day!"

She press'd his fetter'd fingers to her heart, And bow'd her head,and turn'd her to depart, And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone. And was she here? and is he now alone?

Avoid it-Virtue ebbs and Wisdom errs,
Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers!
What lost a world, and bade a hero fly?
The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye.
Yet be the soft triumvir's fault forgiven,
By this how many lose not earth-but

heaven!

Consign their souls to man's eternal foe, And seal their own to spare some wanton's woe!

'Tis morn- and o'er his alter'd features play The beams-without the hope of yesterday. What shall he be ere night? perchance a thing

O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing, By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt, While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt,

Chill-wet-and misty round each stiffen'd limb, Refreshing earth-reviving all but him!

CANTO III.

"Come vedi-ancor non m'abbandona."

DANTE.

SLOW sinks, more lovely ere his race be

run,

Along Morea's hills the setting sun;
Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light!
O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he
throws,

|
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it
glows.

On old Aegina's rock, and Idra's isle, The god of gladness sheds his parting smile; O'er his own regions lingering,loves to shine, Though there his altars are no more divine. Descending fast the mountain-shadows kiss Thy glorious gulph, unconquer'd Salamis! Their azure arches through the long expanse More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance, along their summits driven.

And tenderest tints,

Mark his gay course and own the hues of | His Corsair's isle

heaven;

Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, Would that with Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep.

On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, When - Athens! here thy Wisest look'd his last.

How watch'd thy better sons his farewell-ray,
That closed their murder'd sage's latest day!
Not yet not yet-Sol pauses on the hill-
The precious hour of parting lingers still;
But sad his light to agonizing eyes,
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes:
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour,
The land, where Phoebus never frown'd
before,

But ere he sunk below Cithaeron's head,
The cup of woe was quaff'd—the spirit fled;
The soul of him who scorn'd to fear or fly-
Who lived and died, as none can live or die!

But lo! from high Hymettus to the plain, The queen of night asserts her silent reign. No murky vapour, herald of the storm, Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form;

With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play,

There the white column greets her grateful
ray,
And, bright around with quivering beams
beset,

Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret:
The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide
Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide,
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque,
The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk,
And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm,
Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm,
All tinged with varied hues arrest the eye-
And dull were his that pass'd them heedless
by.

Again the Acgean, heard no more afar, Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war; Again his waves in milder tints unfold Their long array of sapphire and of gold, Mixt with the shades of many a distant isle, That frown - where gentler ocean seems to smile.

Not now my theme - why turn my thoughts to thee?

Oh! who can look along thy native sea,
Nor dwell upon thy name, whate’er the tale,
So much its magic must o'er all prevail?
Who that beheld that Sun upon thee set,
Fair Athens! could thine evening - face
forget?

Not he-whose heart nor time nor distance
frees,
Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades!
Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain,

was once thine own domainfreedom it were thine again!

The Sun hath sunk and, darker than the night, Sinks with his beam upon the beacon height

Medora's heart-the third day's come and

to fear

To trust their accents to Medora's ear.
She saw at once, yet sunk not-trembled not-
Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot;
Within that meek fair form were feelings
high,

That deem'd not till they found their energy. While yet was Hope they soften’d—flutter'd-wept

All lost-that softness died not-but it slept; And o'er its slumber rose that Strength which said,

"With nothing left to love-there's nought to dread." Tis more than nature's; like the burning might Delirium gathers from the fever's height.

“Silent you stand—nor would I hear you tell What speak not-breathe not-for I know it well

Yet would I ask-almost my lip denies The quick your answer-tell me where he lies?"

"Pacha! the day is thine; and on thy crest Sits Triumph-Conrad taken-fall'n the rest!

His doom is fix'd-he dies: and well his fate
Was earn'd-yet much too worthless for thy
hate:

Methinks, a short release, for ransom told
With all his treasure, not unwisely sold;

"Lady! we know not-scarce with life Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard

we fled; He saw him bound; and bleeding-but

But here is one denies that he is dead:

alive."

grave;

ing eyes,

Would that of this my Pacha were the Lord!
While baffled, weaken'd by this fatal fray-
Watch'd-follow'd-he were then an easier

prey;

But once cut off-the remnant of his band Embark their wealth, and seek a safer strand."

"Gulnare!-If for each drop of blood a Were offer'd rich as Stamboul's diadem; gem If for each hair of his a massy mine Of virgin-ore should supplicating shine; Of wealth were here-that gold should If all our Arab tales divulge or dream

not redeem!

But that with hands though rude, yet weep-It had not now redeem'd a single hour, But that I know him fetter'd, in my power; And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still On pangs that longest rack and latest kill."

They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies:
Dash o'er her deathlike cheek the ocean-dew:
Raise-fan-sustain, till life returns anew;
Awake her handmaids, with the matrons
leave

That fainting form o'er which they gaze
and grieve;

Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report
The tale too tedious-when the triumph
short.

« 上一頁繼續 »

圖書

The Works of Lord Byron: Complete in One Volume