The Works of Lord Byron Complete in One Volume

the blast

With a fresh pinion; which I feel to spring, Though young, yet waxing vigorous, as Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling.

And when, at length, the mind shall be all free

From what it hates in this degraded form,
Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be
Existent happier in the fly and worm,—
When elements to elements conform,
And dust is as it should be, shall I not
Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm?
The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each
spot?

Of which, even now, I share at times the

immortal lot?

Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part

Of me and of my soul, as I of them?
Is not the love of these deep in my heart
With a pure passion? should I not contemn
All objects, if compared with these? and stem
A tide of suffering, rather than forego
Such feelings for the hard and worldly
phlegm

Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below, Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow?

But thi is not my theme; and I return
To that which is immediate, and require
Those who find contemplation in the urn,
To look on One, whose dust was once all fire,
A native of the land where I respire
The clear air for a while-a passing guest,
Where he became a being,-whose desire
Was to be glorious; 'twas a foolish quest,
The which to gain and keep he sacrificed

all rest.

Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rous

seau,

The apostle of affliction, he who threw
Enchantment over passion, and from woe
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew
The breath which made him wretched; yet
he knew
How to make madness beautiful, and cast
O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly
hue

Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they
past
The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feel-
ingly and fast.

His love was passion's essence—as a tree On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame Kindled he was and blasted; for to be Thus, and enamour'd, were in him the same. But his was not the love of living dame,

Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams,
But of ideal beauty, which became
In him existence, and o'erflowing teems
Along his burning page, distemper'd though
it seems.

This breathed itself to life in Julie, this Invested her with all that's wild and sweet; This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss Which every morn his fever'd lip would greet

From her's, who but with friendship his would meet;

But to that gentle touch through brain and breast

Flash'd the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring heat;

In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest, Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest.

His life was one long war with self-sought foes,

Or friends by him self-banish'd; for his mind Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose For its own cruel sacrifice the kind, 'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind.

But he was phrenzied,—wherefore, who may know? Since cause might be which skill could never find; But he was phrenzied by disease or woe, To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show.

For then he was inspired, and from him came, As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore, Those oracles which set the world in flame, Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no

Did he not this for France? which lay before Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years, Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore, Till by the voice of him and his compeers, Roused up to too much wrath which follows o'ergrown fears.

They made themselves a fearful monument! The wreck of old opinions-things which grew

Breathed from the birth of time: the veil
they rent,
And what behind it lay, all earth shall view.
But good with ill they also overthrew,
Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild
Upon the same foundation, and renew
Dungeons and thrones, which the same
hour re-fill'd,

As heretofore, because ambition was selfwill'd.

But this will not 'endure, nor be endured! Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt.

They might have used it better, but, allured
By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt
On one another; pity ceased to melt
With her once natural charities. But they,
Who in oppression's darkness caved had
dwelt,

They were not eagles,nourish'd with the day;
What marvel then, at times, if they mistook
their prey?

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?

The heart's bleed longest and but heal to

wear

Silence, but not submission: in his lair
Fix'd Passion holds his breath, until the hour
Which shall atone for years: none need
despair:

Of men and empires,-'tis to be forgiven,
That in our aspirations to be great,
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state,
And claim a kindred with you; for
ye are
A beauty and a mystery, and create
In us such love and reverence from afar,
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named
themselves a star.

All heaven and earth are still-though not in sleep,

But breathless, as we grow when feeling most;

And silent,as we stand in thoughts too deep:All heaven and earth are still: from the high host

That which disfigures it; and they who war |
With their own hopes, and have been van-
quish'd, bear Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast,
All is concenter'd in a life intense,
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,
But hath a part of being, and a sense
Of that which is of all Creator and defence.
Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt
In solitude, where we are least alone;
A truth, which through our being then
doth melt

It came, it cometh, and will come,-the power

To punish or forgive-in one we shall be slower.

Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake,
With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring.
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing
To waft me from distraction; once I loved
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring
Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved,
That I with stern delights should e'er have
been so moved.

It is the hush of night, and all between Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,

Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen, Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear

Precipitously steep; and drawing near,
There breathes a living fragrance from the
shore,

Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on
the ear
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar,
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night-
carol more;

He is an evening-reveller, who makes
His life an infancy, and sings his fill;
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes
Starts into voice a moment, then is still.
There seems a floating whisper on the hill,
But that is fancy, for the starlight-dews
All silently their tears of love instil,
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her
hues.

Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate

compare

Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air,

Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy
prayer!

The sky is changed!—and such a change!
Oh night,

And storm, and darkness, ye are wond'rous
strong,

Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,
From peak to peak, the rattling crags
among

Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone
cloud,

But every mountain now hath found a tongue,

And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!

And this is in the night:-Most glorious night!

Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,—
A portion of the tempest and of thee!
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!
And now again 'tis black,—and now, the glee
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-
mirth,
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earth-
quake's birth.

Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between

Heights which appear as lovers who have parted

In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, That they can meet no more, though brokenhearted,

Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, Love was the very root of the fond rage Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed :Itself expired, but leaving them an age Of years all winters,-war within themselves to wage.

Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way,

The mightiest of the storms hath ta’en his stand:

For here, not one, but many, make their play, And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand,

Flashing and cast around: of all the band, The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye!

With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul

To make these felt and feeling, well may be Things that have made me watchful; the far roll

Of your departing voices is the knoll
Of what in me is sleepless,—if I rest.
But where of ye, oh tempests! is the goal?
Are ye like those within the human breast?
Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some
high nest?

Could I embody and unbosom now
That which is most within me,-could I
wreak

My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak,

All that I would have sought, and all I seek,

Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe into one word, And that one word were Lightning, I would speak; But as it is, I live and die unheard, With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword.

The morn is up again, the dewy morn, With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom,

Laughing the clouds away with playful

scorn,

And living as if earth contain❜d no tomb,— And glowing into day: we may resume The march of our existence: and thus I, Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find

room

And food for meditation, nor pass by Much, that may give us pause, if ponder’d fittingly.

Clarens! sweet Clarens, birth-place of deep
Love!
Thine air is the young breath of passionate
thought;

Thy trees take root in Love; the snows above
The very Glaciers have his colours caught,
And sun-set into rose-hues sees them wrought
By rays which sleep there lovingly: the rocks,
The permanent crags, tell here of Love,
who sought

In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then mocks.

Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod,

Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne To which the steps are mountains; where the god

Is a pervading life and light,—so shown
Not on those summits solely, nor alone
In the still cave and forest; o'er the flower
His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath
blown,

His soft and summer breath, whose tender

power

Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour.

All things are here of him; from the black pines, Which are his shade on high, and the loud

roar

Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines Which slope his green path downward to the shore,

Where the bow'd waters meet him, and adore, Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood,

The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar,
But light leaves, young as joy, stands where
it stood,
Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude,

A populous solitude of bees and birds,
And fairy-form'd and many-colour'd things,
Who worship him with notes more sweet
than words,

And innocently open their glad wings,
Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs,
And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend
Of stirring branches, and the bud which
brings

The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend,
Mingling, and made by Love, unto one
mighty end.

He who hath loved not, here would learn
that lore,

And make his heart a spirit; he who knows
That tender mystery, will love the more,
For this is Love's recess, where vain men's

woes,

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

Yet, peace be with their ashes, for by them,

And the world's waste, have driven him far If merited, the penalty is paid;
from those,

For 'tis his nature to advance or die;
He stands not still, but or decays, or grows
Into a boundless blessing, which may vie
With the immortal lights, in its eternity!

Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this
spot,

Peopling it with affections; but he found
It was the scene which passion must allot
To the mind's purified beings; 'twas the
ground

Where early Love his Psyche's zone unbound,
And hallow'd it with loveliness: 'tis lone,
And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound,
And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the
Rhone

Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have
rear'd a throne.

Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes

Of names which unto you bequeath'd a name;
Mortals, who sought and found, by danger-
ous roads,

A path to perpetuity of fame:
They were gigantic minds, and their steep
aim,

Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile
Thoughts which should call down thunder,
and the flame

It is not ours to judge,-far less condemn;
The hour must come when such things
shall be made

Known unto all,—or hope and dread allay'd
By slumber, on one pillow,-in the dust,
Which, thus much we are sure, must lie
decay'd;

And when it shall revive, as is our trust,
Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is
just.

But let me quit man's works, again to read
His Maker's, spread around me, and suspend
This page, which from my reveries I feed,
Until it seems prolonging without end.
The clouds above me to the white Alps tend,
And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er
May be permitted, as my steps I bend
To their most great and growing region,

where

The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air.

Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee,
Full flashes on the soul the light of ages,
Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won
thee,

To the last halo of the chiefs and sages,
Who glorify thy consecrated pages;
Thou wert the throne and grave of empires;
still,

Of Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the The fount at which the panting mind aswhile

suages

On man and man's research could deign do | Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there more than smile. her fill, Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill.

The one was fire and fickleness, a child,
Most mutable in wishes, but in mind,
A wit as various,-gay, grave, sage, or
wild,-

Historian, bard, philosopher combined;
He multiplied himself among mankind,
The Proteus of their talents: but his own
Breathed most in ridicule,—which, as the
wind,

Thus far I have proceeded in a theme
Renew'd with no kind auspices:-to feel
We are not what we have been, and to deem
We are not what we should be,-and to steel
The heart against itself; and to conceal,
With a proud caution, love, or hate, or
aught,-

Passion or feeling, purpose, grief or zeal,- | This, it should seem, was not reserved for me; Which is the tyrant-spirit of our thought, Yet this was in my nature:-as it is, Is a stern task of soul:-No matter,-it is I know not what is there, yet something taught. like to this.

name

Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught

And for these words, thus woven into song, Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be
It may be that they are a harmless wile,-
tanght,
The colouring of the scenes which fleet along, I know that thou wilt love me; though my
Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile
My breast, or that of others, for a while.
Fame is the thirst of youth,—but I am not
So young as to regard men's frown or smile,
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot;
I stood and stand alone,-remember'd or
forgot.

I have not loved the world, nor the world me;
I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd
To its idolatries a patient knee,—
Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles,—nor cried
aloud

In worship of an echo; in the crowd
They could not deem me one of such; I
stood

Among them, but not of them; in a shroud
Of thoughts which were not their thoughts,
and still could,

Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued.

I have not loved the world, nor the world

me,

But let us part fair foes; I do believe, Though I have found them not, that there may be

Words which are things,—hopes which will
not deceive,

And virtues which are merciful, nor weave
Snares for the failing: I would also deem
O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve;
That two, or one, are almost what they

seem,

That goodness is no name and happiness no dream.

My daughter! with thy name this song begun

My daughter! with thy name thus much

shall end-
I see thee not, I hear thee not,-but none
Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend
To whom the shadows of far years extend:
Albeit my brow thou never should'st behold,
My voice shall with thy future visions blend,
And reach into thy heart,—when mine is
cold,-

A token and a tone, even from thy father's
mould.

To aid thy mind's developement,-to watch
Thy dawn of little joys,-to sit and see
Almost thy very growth,-to view thee catch
Knowledge of objects, wonders yet to thee!
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee,
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss,

With desolation,-and a broken claim:
Though the grave closed between us,
'twere the same,

I know that thou wilt love me; though to
drain
My blood from out thy being, were an aim,
And an attainment,—all would be in vain,-
Still thou would'st love me, still that more
than life retain.

The child of love,-though born in bit-
terness,

And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire
These were the elements,—and thine no less.
As yet such are around thee,—but thy fire
Shall be more temper'd, and thy hope far
higher.

Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! O'er the sea,
And from the mountains where I now respire,
Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee,
As, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have
been to me!

CANTO IV.

Visto ho Toscana, Lombardia, Romagna,
Quel monte che divide, e quel che serra
Italia, e un mare e l'altro, che la bagna.

ARIOSTO, Satira m.

Venice, January 2, 1818.

JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ.

MY DEAR HOBHOUSE, AFTER an interval of eight years between the composition of the first and last cantos of Childe Harold, the conclusion of the poem is about to be submitted to the public. In parting with so old a friend it is not extraordinary that I should recur to one still older and better,-to one who has beheld the birth and death of the other, and to whom I am far more indebted for

the social advantages of an enlightened friendship, than—though not ungrateful—I can, or could be, to Childe Harold, for any public favour reflected through the poem on the poet,-to one, whom I have known long, and accompanied far, whom

« 上一頁繼續 »

圖書