Selected Poems

by Byron

  How woke he from the wildness of that dream?

  Alas! he told not – but he did awake

  130

  To curse the wither’d heart that would not break.

  IX

  Books, for his volume heretofore was Man,

  With eye more curious he appear’d to scan,

  And oft, in sudden mood, for many a day,

  From all communion he would start away:

  135

  And then, his rarely call’d attendants said,

  Through night’s long hours would sound his hurried tread

  O’er the dark gallery, where his fathers frown’d

  In rude but antique portraiture around:

  They heard, but whisper’d – ‘that must not be known –

  140

  The sound of words less earthly than his own.

  Yes, they who chose might smile, but some had seen

  They scarce knew what, but more than should have been

  Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head

  Which hands profane had gather’d from the dead,

  145

  That still beside his open’d volume lay,

  As if to startle all save him away?

  Why slept he not when others were at rest?

  Why heard no music, and received no guest?

  All was not well, they deem’d – but where the wrong?

  150

  Some knew perchance – but ’twere a tale too long;

  And such besides were too discreetly wise,

  To more than hint their knowledge in surmise;

  But if they would – they could’ – around the board,

  Thus Lara’s vassals prattled of their lord.

  X

  155

  It was the night – and Lara’s glassy stream

  The stars are studding, each with imaged beam;

  So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray,

  And yet they glide like happiness away;

  Reflecting far and fairy-like from high

  160

  The immortal lights that live along the sky:

  Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree,

  And flowers the fairest that may feast the bee;

  Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove,

  And Innocence would offer to her love.

  165

  These deck the shore; the waves their channel make

  In windings bright and mazy like the snake.

  All was so still, so soft in earth and air,

  You scarce would start to meet a spirit there;

  Secure that nought of evil could delight

  170

  To walk in such a scene, on such a night!

  It was a moment only for the good:

  So Lara deem’d, nor longer there he stood,

  But turn’d in silence to his castle-gate;

  Such scene his soul no more could contemplate:

  175

  Such scene reminded him of other days,

  Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze,

  Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that now –

  No – no – the storm may beat upon his brow,

  Unfelt – unsparing – but a night like this,

  180

  A night of beauty, mock’d such breast as his.

  XI

  He turn’d within his solitary hall,

  And his high shadow shot along the wall:

  There were the painted forms of other times,

  ‘Twas all they left of virtues or of crimes,

  185

  Save vague tradition; and the gloomy vaults

  That hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults;

  And half a column of the pompous page,

  That speeds the specious tale from age to age;

  Where history’s pen its praise or blame supplies,

  190

  And lies like truth, and still most truly lies.

  He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam shone

  Through the dim lattice o’er the floor of stone,

  And the high fretted roof, and saints, that there

  O’er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer,

  195

  Reflected in fantastic figures grew,

  Like life, but not like mortal life, to view;

  His bristling locks of sable, brow of gloom,

  And the wide waving of his shaken plume,

  Glanced like a spectre’s attributes, and gave

  200

  His aspect all that terror gives the grave.

  XII

  ’Twas midnight – all was slumber; the lone light

  Dimm’d in the lamp, as loth to break the night.

  Hark! there be murmurs heard in Lara’s hall –

  A sound – a voice – a shriek – a fearful call!

  205

  A long, loud shriek – and silence – did they hear

  That frantic echo burst the sleeping ear?

  They heard and rose, and, tremulously brave,

  Rush where the sound invoked their aid to save;

  They come with half-lit tapers in their hands,

  210

  And snatch’d in startled haste unbelted brands.

  XIII

  Cold as the marble where his length was laid,

  Pale as the beam that o’er his features play’d,

  Was Lara stretch’d; his half drawn sabre near,

  Dropp’d it should seem in more than nature’s fear;

  215

  Yet he was firm, or had been firm till now,

  And still defiance knit his gather’d brow;

  Though mix’d with terror, senseless as he lay,

  There lived upon his lip the wish to slay;

  Some half form’d threat in utterance there had died,

  220

  Some imprecation of despairing pride;

  His eye was almost seal’d, but not forsook

  Even in its trance the gladiator’s look,

  That oft awake his aspect could disclose,

  And now was fix’d in horrible repose.

  225

  They raise him – bear him; – hush! he breathes, he speaks,

  The swarthy blush recolours in his cheeks

  His lip resumes its red, his eye, though dim,

  Rolls wide and wild, each slowly quivering limb

  Recalls its function, but his words are strung

  230

  In terms that seem not of his native tongue;

  Distinct but strange, enough they understand

  To deem them accents of another land;

  And such they were, and meant to meet an ear

  That hears him not – alas! that cannot hear!

  XIV

  235

  His page approach’d, and he alone appear’d

  To know the import of the words they heard;

  And, by the changes of his cheek and brow,

  They were not such as Lara should avow,

  Nor he interpret, – yet with less surprise

  240

  Than those around their chieftain’s state he eyes,

  But Lara’s prostrate form he bent beside,

  And in that tongue which seem’d his own replied,

  And Lara heeds those tones that gently seem

  To soothe away the horrors of his dream –

  245

  If dream it were, that thus could overthrow

  A breast that needed not ideal woe.

  XV

  Whate’er his frenzy dream’d or eye beheld,

  If yet remember’d ne’er to be reveal’d,

  Rests at his heart: the custom’d morning came,

  250

  And breathed new vigour in his shaken frame;

  And solace sought he none from priest nor leech,

  And soon the same in movement and in speech

  As heretofore he fill’d the passing hours, –

  Nor less he smiles, nor more his forehead
lowers,

  255

  Than these were wont; and if the coming night

  Appear’d less welcome now to Lara’s sight,

  He to his marvelling vassals show’d it not,

  Whose shuddering proved their fear was less forgot.

  In trembling pairs (alone they dared not) crawl

  260

  The astonish’d slaves, and shun the fated hall;

  The waving banner, and the clapping door,

  The rustling tapestry, and the echoing floor;

  The long dim shadows of surrounding trees,

  The flapping bat, the night song of the breeze;

  265

  Aught they behold or hear their thought appals,

  As evening saddens o’er the dark grey walls.

  XVI

  Vain thought! that hour of ne’er unravell’d gloom

  Came not again, or Lara could assume

  A seeming of forgetfulness, that made

  270

  His vassals more amazed nor less afraid –

  Had memory vanish’d then with sense restored?

  Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord

  Betray’d a feeling that recall’d to these

  That fever’d moment of his mind’s disease.

  275

  Was it a dream? was his the voice that spoke

  Those strange wild accents; his the cry that broke

  Their slumber? his the oppress’d, o’erlabour’d heart

  That ceased to beat, the look that made them start?

  Could he who thus had suffer’d so forget,

  280

  When such as saw that suffering shudder yet?

  Or did that silence prove his memory fix’d

  Too deep for words, indelible, unmix’d

  In that corroding secrecy which gnaws

  The heart to show the effect, but not the cause?

  285

  Not so in him; his breast had buried both,

  Nor common gazers could discern the growth

  Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half told;

  They choke the feeble words that would unfold.

  XVII

  In him inexplicably mix’d appear’d

  290

  Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear’d;

  Opinion varying o’er his hidden lot,

  In praise or railing ne’er his name forgot:

  His silence form’d a theme for others’ prate –

  They guess’d – they gazed – they fain would know his fate.

  295

  What had he been? what was he, thus unknown,

  Who walk’d their world, his lineage only known?

  A hater of his kind? yet some would say,

  With them he could seem gay amidst the gay;

  But own’d that smile, if oft observed and near,

  300

  Waned in its mirth, and wither’d to a sneer;

  That smile might reach his lip, but pass’d not by,

  None e’er could trace its laughter to his eye:

  Yet there was softness too in his regard,

  At times, a heart as not by nature hard,

  305

  But once perceived, his spirit seem’d to chide

  Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride,

  And steel’d itself, as scorning to redeem

  One doubt from others’ half withheld esteem;

  In self-inflicted penance of a breast

  310

  Which tenderness might once have wrung from rest;

  In vigilance of grief that would compel

  The soul to hate for having loved too well.

  XVIII

  There was in him a vital scorn of all:

  As if the worst had fall’n which could befall,

  315

  He stood a stranger in this breathing world,

  An erring spirit from another hurl’d;

  A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped

  By choice the perils he by chance escaped;

  But ’scaped in vain, for in their memory yet

  320

  His mind would half exult and half regret:

  With more capacity for love than earth

  Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth,

  His early dreams of good outstripp’d the truth,

  And troubled manhood follow’d baffled youth;

  325

  With thought of years in phantom chase misspent,

  And wasted powers for better purpose lent;

  And fiery passions that had pour’d their wrath

  In hurried desolation o’er his path,

  And left the better feelings all at strife

  330

  In wild reflection o’er his stormy life;

  But haughty still, and loth himself to blame,

  He call’d on Nature’s self to share the shame,

  And charged all faults upon the fleshly form

  She gave to clog the soul, and feast the worm;

  335

  Till he at last confounded good and ill,

  And half mistook for fate the acts of will:

  Too high for common selfishness, he could

  At times resign his own for others’ good,

  But not in pity, not because he ought,

  340

  But in some strange perversity of thought,

  That sway’d him onward with a secret pride

  To do what few or none would do beside;

  And this same impulse would, in tempting time,

  Mislead his spirit equally to crime;

  345

  So much he soar’d beyond, or sunk beneath,

  The men with whom he felt condemn’d to breathe,

  And long’d by good or ill to separate

  Himself from all who shared his mortal state;

  His mind abhorring this had fix’d her throne

  350

  Far from the world, in regions of her own:

  Thus coldly passing all that pass’d below,

  His blood in temperate seeming now would flow:

  Ah! happier if it ne’er with guilt had glow’d,

  But ever in that icy smoothness flow’d!

  355

  ’Tis true, with other men their path he walk’d,

  And like the rest in seeming did and talk’d,

  Nor outraged Reason’s rules by flaw nor start,

  His madness was not of the head, but heart;

  And rarely wander’d in his speech, or drew

  360

  His thoughts so forth as to offend the view.

  XIX

  With all that chilling mystery of mien,

  And seeming gladness to remain unseen,

  He had (if ’twere not nature’s boon) an art

  Of fixing memory on another’s heart:

  365

  It was not love perchance—nor hate—nor aught

  That words can image to express the thought;

  But they who saw him did not see in vain

  And once beheld, would ask of him again:

  And those to whom he spake remembered well,

  370

  And on the words, however light, would dwell:

  None knew, nor how, nor why, but he entwined

  Himself perforce around the hearer’s mind;

  There he was stamp’d, in liking, or in hate,

  If greeted once; however brief the date

  375

  That friendship, pity, or aversion knew,

  Still there within the inmost thought he grew.

  You could not penetrate his soul, but found,

  Despite your wonder, to your own he wound;

  His presence haunted still; and from the breast

  380

  He forced an all unwilling interest:

  Vain was the struggle in that mental net,

  His spirit seem’d to dare you to forget!

  XX

  There is a festival, where knights and dames,r />
  And aught that wealth or lofty lineage claims,

  385

  Appear—a highborn and a welcome guest

  To Otho’s hall came Lara with the rest.

  The long carousal shakes the illumined hall,

  Well speeds alike the banquet and the ball;

  And the gay dance of bounding Beauty’s train

  390

  Links grace and harmony in happiest chain:

  Blest are the early hearts and gentle hands

  That mingle there in well according bands;

  It is a sight the careful brow might smoothe,

  And make Age smile, and dream itself to youth,

  395

  And Youth forget such hour was past on earth,

  So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth!

  XXI

  And Lara gazed on these, sedately glad,

  His brow belied him if his soul was sad;

  And his glance follow’d fast each fluttering fair,

  400

  Whose steps of lightness woke no echo there:

  He lean’d against the lofty pillar nigh,

  With folded arms and long attentive eye,

  Nor mark’d a glance so sternly fix’d on his—

  Ill brook’d high Lara scrutiny like this:

  405

  At length he caught it, ’tis a face unknown,

  But seems as searching his, and his alone;

  Prying and dark, a stranger’s by his mien,

  Who still till now had gazed on him unseen:

  At length encountering meets the mutual gaze

  410

  Of keen enquiry, and of mute amaze;

  On Lara’s glance emotion gathering grew,

  As if distrusting that the stranger threw;

  Along the stranger’s aspect, fix’d and stern,

  Flash’d more than thence the vulgar eye could learn.

  XXII

  415

  “Tis he!’ the stranger cried, and those that heard

  Re-echoed fast and far the whisper’d word.

  ‘ ’Tis he! ‘– “Tis who? ‘ ’they question far and near,

  Till louder accents rung on Lara’s ear;

  So widely spread, few bosoms well could brook

  420

  The general marvel, or that single look:

  But Lara stirr’d not, changed not, the surprise

  That sprung at first to his arrested eyes

  Seem’d now subsided, neither sunk nor raised

  Glanced his eye round, though still the stranger gazed;

  425

  And drawing nigh, exclaim’d, with haughty sneer,

  “Tis he!—how came he thence?—What doth he here?’

  XXIII

  It were too much for Lara to pass by

  Such questions, so repeated fierce and high;

  With look collected, but with accent cold,

  430

  More mildly firm than petulantly bold,

  He turn’d, and met the inquisitorial tone—

  ‘My name is Lara!—when thine own is known,