Selected Poems
Page 20
The breast thus publicly resign’d to man,
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In private may resist him—if it can.
O ye who loved our grandmothers of yore,
Fitzpatrick, Sheridan, and many more!
And thou, my prince! whose sovereign taste and will
It is to love the lovely beldames still!
220
Thou ghost of Queensbury! whose judging sprite
Satan may spare to peep a single night,
Pronounce – if ever in your days of bliss
Asmodeus struck so bright a stroke as this;
To teach the young ideas how to rise,
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Flush in the cheek, and languish in the eyes;
Rush to the heart, and lighten through the frame,
With half-told wish and ill-dissembled flame
For prurient nature still will storm the breast –
Who, tempted thus, can answer for the rest?
230
But ye – who never felt a single thought
For what our morals are to be, or ought;
Who wisely wish the charms you view to reap,
Say – would you make those beauties quite so cheap?
Hot from the hands promiscuously applied,
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Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side,
Where were the rapture then to clasp the form
From this lewd grasp and lawless contact warm?
At once love’s most endearing thought resign,
To press the hand so press’d by none but thine;
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To gaze upon that eye which never met
Another’s ardent look without regret;
Approach the lip which all, without restraint,
Come near enough – if not to touch – to taint;
If such thou lovest – love her then no more,
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Or give – like her – caresses to a score;
Her mind with these is gone, and with it go
The little left behind it to bestow.
Voluptuous Waltz! and dare I thus blaspheme?
Thy bard forgot thy praises were his theme.
250
Terpsichore, forgive! – at every ball
My wife now waltzes – and my daughters shall;
My son – (or stop – ’tis needless to enquire –
These little accidents should ne’er transpire;
Some ages hence our genealogic tree
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Will wear as green a bough for him as me) –
Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amends,
Grandsons for me – in heirs to all his friends.
Remember Thee! Remember Thee!
Remember thee! remember thee!
Till Lethe quench life’s burning stream,
Remorse and shame shall cling to thee,
And haunt thee like a feverish dream!
5
Remember thee! Ay, doubt it not;
Thy husband too shall think of thee!
By neither shalt thou be forgot,
Thou false to him, thou fiend to me!
THE GIAOUR
A Fragment of a Turkish Tale
‘One fatal remembrance – one sorrow that throws
Its bleak shade alike o’er our joys and our woes –
To which Life nothing darker nor brighter can bring,
For which joy hath no balm – and affliction no sting.’
[THOMAS] MOORE. [Irish Melodies]
TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.
AS A SLIGHT BUT MOST SINCERE TOKEN OF ADMIRATION OF HIS GENIUS, RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, AND GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP, THIS PRODUCTION IS INSCRIBED BY HIS OBLIGED AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT,
BYRON.
London, May, 1813.
ADVERTISEMENT
The tale which these disjointed fragments present is founded upon circumstances now less common in the East than formerly; either because the ladies are more circumspect than in the ‘olden time,’ or because the Christians have better fortune, or less enterprise. The story, when entire, contained the adventures of a female slave, who was thrown, in the Mussulman manner, into the sea for infidelity, and avenged by a young Venetian, her lover, at the time the Seven Islands were possessed by the Republic of Venice, and soon after the Arnauts were beaten back from the Morea, which they had ravaged for some time subsequent to the Russian invasion. The desertion of the Mainotes, on being refused the plunder of Misitra, led to the abandonment of that enterprise, and to the desolation of the Morea, during which the cruelty exercised on all sides was unparalleled even in the annals of the faithful.
No breath of air to break the wave
That rolls below the Athenian’s grave,
That tomb1 which, gleaming o’er the cliff,
First greets the homeward-veering skiff,
5
High o’er the land he saved in vain:
When shall such hero live again?
*
Fair clime! where every season smiles
Benignant o’er those blessed isles,
Which, seen from far Colonna’s height,
10
Make glad the heart that hails the sight,
And lend to loneliness delight.
There mildly dimpling, Ocean’s cheek
Reflects the tints of many a peak
Caught by the laughing tides that lave
15
These Edens of the eastern wave:
And if at times a transient breeze
Break the blue crystal of the seas,
Or sweep one blossom from the trees,
How welcome is each gentle air
20
That wakes and wafts the odours there!
For there – the Rose o’er crag or vale,
Sultana of the Nightingale,2
The maid for whom his melody,
His thousand songs are heard on high,
25
Blooms blushing to her lover’s tale:
His queen, the garden queen, his Rose,
Unbent by winds, unchill’d by snows,
Far from the winters of the west,
By every breeze and season blest,
30
Returns the sweets by nature given
In softest incense back to heaven;
And grateful yields that smiling sky
Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh.
And many a summer flower is there,
35
And many a shade that love might share,
And many a grotto, meant for rest,
That holds the pirate for a guest;
Whose bark in sheltering cove below
Lurks for the passing peaceful prow,
40
Till the gay mariner’s guitar1
Is heard, and seen the evening star;
Then stealing with the muffled oar
Far shaded by the rocky shore,
Rush the night-prowlers on the prey,
45
And turn to groans his roundelay.
Strange – that where Nature loved to trace,
As if for Gods, a dwelling place,
And every charm and grace hath mix’d
Within the paradise she fix’d,
50
There man, enamour’d of distress,
Should mar it into wilderness,
And trample, brute-like, o’er each flower
That tasks not one laborious hour;
Nor claims the culture of his hand
55
To bloom along the fairy land,
But springs as to preclude his care,
And sweetly woos him – but to spare!
Strange – that where all is peace beside,
There passion riots in her pride,
60
And lust and rapine wildly reign
To darken o’er the fair domain.
It is as though the fiends prevail’d
Against the ser
aphs they assail’d,
And, fix’d on heavenly thrones, should dwell
65
The freed inheritors of hell;
So soft the scene, so form’d for joy,
So curst the tyrants that destroy!
He who hath bent him o’er the dead
Ere the first day of death is fled,
70
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress,
(Before Decay’s effacing fingers
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,)
And mark’d the mild angelic air,
75
The rapture of repose that’s there,
The fix’d vet tender traits that streak
The languor of the placid cheek,
And – but for that sad shrouded eye,
That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now,
80
And but for that chill, changeless brow,
Where cold Obstruction’s apathy1
Appals the gazing mourner’s heart,
As if to him it could impart
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;
85
Yes, but for these and these alone,
Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant’s power;
So fair, so calm, so softly seal’d,
The first, last look by death reveal’d!2
90
Such is the aspect of this shore;
‘Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there.
Hers is the loveliness in death,
95
That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb,
Expression’s last receding ray,
A gilded halo hovering round decay,
100
The farewell beam of Feeling past away!
Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth,
Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish’d earth!
Clime of the unforgotten brave!
Whose land from plain to mountain-cave
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Was Freedom’s home or Glory’s grave!
Shrine of the mighty! can it be,
That this is all remains of thee?
Approach, thou craven crouching slave:
Say, is not this Thermopylæ?
110
These waters blue that round you lave,
Oh servile offspring of the free –
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this?
The gulf, the rock of Salamis!
These scenes, their story not unknown,
115
Arise, and make again your own;
Snatch from the ashes of your sires
The embers of their former fires;
And he who in the strife expires
Will add to theirs a name of fear
120
That Tyranny shall quake to hear,
And leave his sons a hope, a fame,
They too will rather die than shame:
For Freedom’s battle once begun,
Bequeath’d by bleeding Sire to Son,
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Though baffled oft is ever won.
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page,
Attest it many a deathless age!
While kings, in dusty darkness hid,
Have left a nameless pyramid,
130
Thy heroes, though the general doom
Hath swept the column from their tomb,
A mightier monument command,
The mountains of their native land!
There points thy Muse to stranger’s eye
135
The graves of those that cannot die!
‘Twere long to tell, and sad to trace,
Each step from splendour to disgrace;
Enough – no foreign foe could quell
Thy soul, till from itself it fell;
140
Yes! Self-abasement paved the way
To villain-bonds and despot sway.
What can he tell who treads thy shore?
No legend of thine olden time,
No theme on which the muse might soar
145
High as thine own in days of yore,
When man was worthy of thy clime.
The hearts within thy valleys bred,
The fiery souls that might have led
Thy sons to deeds sublime,
150
Now crawl from cradle to the grave,
Slaves – nay, the bondsmen of a slave,1
And callous, save to crime;
Stain’d with each evil that pollutes
Mankind, where least above the brutes;
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Without even savage virtue blest,
Without one free or valiant breast,
Still to the neighbouring ports they waft
Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft;
In this the subtle Greek is found,
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For this, and this alone, renown’d.
In vain might Liberty invoke
The spirit to its bondage broke,
Or raise the neck that courts the yoke:
No more her sorrows I bewail,
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Yet this will be a mournful tale,
And they who listen may believe,
Who heard it first had cause to grieve.
*
Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing,
The shadows of the rocks advancing
170
Start on the fisher’s eye like boat
Of island-pirate or Mainote;
And fearful for his light caique,
He shuns the near but doubtful creek:
Though worn and weary with his toil,
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And cumber’d with his scaly spoil,
Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar,
Till Port Leone’s safer shore
Receives him by the lovely light
That best becomes an Eastern night.
*
180
Who thundering comes on blackest steed,
With slacken’d bit and hoof of speed?
Beneath the clattering iron’s sound
The cavern’d echoes wake around
In lash for lash, and bound for bound;
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The foam that streaks the courser’s side
Seems gather’d from the ocean-tide:
Though weary waves are sunk to rest,
There’s none within his rider’s breast;
And though to-morrow’s tempest lower,
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‘Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour!
I know thee not, I loathe thy race,
But in thy lineaments I trace
What time shall strengthen, not efface:
Though young and pale, that sallow front
195
Is scathed by fiery passion’s brunt;
Though bent on earth thine evil eye,
As meteor-like thou glidest by,
Right well I view and deem thee one
Whom Othman’s sons should slay or shun.
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On – on he hasten’d, and he drew
My gaze of wonder as he flew:
Though like a demon of the night
He pass’d, and vanish’d from my sight,
His aspect and his air impress’d
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A troubled memory on my breast,
And long upon my startled ear
Rung his dark courser’s hoofs of fear.
He spurs his steed; he nears the steep,
That, jutting, shadows o’er the deep;
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He winds around; he hurries by;
The rock relieves him from mine eye;
&
nbsp; For well I ween unwelcome he
Whose glance is fix’d on those that flee;
And not a star but shines too bright
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On him who takes such timeless flight.
He wound along; but ere he pass’d
One glance he snatch’d, as if his last,
A moment check’d his wheeling steed,
A moment breathed him from his speed,
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A moment on his stirrup stood –
Why looks he o’er the olive wood?
The crescent glimmers on the hill,
The Mosque’s high lamps are quivering still:
Though too remote for sound to wake
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In echoes of the far tophaike,1
The flashes of each joyous peal
Are seen to prove the Moslem’s zeal,
Tonight, set Rhamazani’s sun;
Tonight, the Bairam feast’s begun;
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Tonight – but who and what art thou
Of foreign garb and fearful brow?
And what are these to thine or thee,
That thou should’st either pause or flee?
He stood – some dread was on his face,
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Soon Hatred settled in its place:
It rose not with the reddening flush
Of transient Anger’s hasty blush,
But pale as marble o’er the tomb,
Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom.
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His brow was bent, his eye was glazed;
He raised his arm, and fiercely raised,
And sternly shook his hand on high,
As doubting to return or fly:
Impatient of his flight delay’d,
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Here loud his raven charger neigh’d –
Down glanced that hand, and grasp’d his blade;
That sound had burst his waking dream,
As Slumber starts at owlet’s scream.
The spur hath lanced his courser’s sides;
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Away, away, for life he rides:
Swift as the hurl’d on high jerreed1
Springs to the touch his startled steed;
The rock is doubled, and the shore
Shakes with the clattering tramp no more;
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The crag is won, no more is seen
His Christian crest and haughty mien.
‘Twas but an instant he restrain’d
That fiery barb so sternly rein’d;
‘Twas but a moment that he stood,
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Then sped as if by death pursued:
But in that instant o’er his soul
Winters of Memory seem’d to roll,
And gather in that drop of time
A life of pain, an age of crime.
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O’er him who loves, or hates, or fears,
Such moment pours the grief of years:
What felt he then, at once opprest
By all that most distracts the breast?
That pause, which ponder’d o’er his fate,
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Oh, who its dreary length shall date!
Though in Time’s record nearly nought,