by Byron
VI
But where was he? that meteor of a night,
Who menaced but to disappear with light.
Where was this Ezzelin? who came and went
100
To leave no other trace of his intent.
He left the dome of Otho long ere morn,
In darkness, yet so well the path was worn
He could not miss it: near his dwelling lay;
But there he was not, and with coming day
105
Came fast enquiry, which unfolded nought
Except the absence of the chief it sought.
A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest,
His host alarm’d, his murmuring squires distress’d:
Their search extends along, around the path,
110
In dread to meet the marks of prowlers’ wrath:
But none are there, and not a brake hath borne
Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn;
Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass,
Which still retains a mark where murder was;
115
Nor dabbling fingers left to tell the tale,
The bitter print of each convulsive nail,
When agonised hands that cease to guard,
Wound in that pang the smoothness of the sward.
Some such had been, if here a life was reft,
120
But these were not; and doubting hope is left;
And strange suspicion, whispering Lara’s name,
Now daily mutters o’er his blacken’d fame;
Then sudden silent when his form appear’d,
Awaits the absence of the thing it fear’d
125
Again its wonted wondering to renew,
And dye conjecture with a darker hue.
VII
Days roll along, and Otho’s wounds are heal’d,
But not his pride; and hate no more conceal’d:
He was a man of power, and Lara’s foe,
130
The friend of all who sought to work him woe,
And from his country’s justice now demands
Account of Ezzelin at Lara’s hands.
Who else than Lara could have cause to fear
His presence? who had made him disappear,
135
If not the man on whom his menaced charge
Had sate too deeply were he left at large?
The general rumour ignorantly loud,
The mystery dearest to the curious crowd;
The seeming friendlessness of him who strove
140
To win no confidence, and wake no love;
The sweeping fierceness which his soul betray’d,
The skill with which he wielded his keen blade;
Where had his arm unwarlike caught that art?
Where had that fierceness grown upon his heart?
145
For it was not the blind capricious rage
A word can kindle and a word assuage;
But the deep working of a soul unmix’d
With aught of pity where its wrath had fix’d;
Such as long power and overgorged success
150
Concentrates into all that’s merciless:
These, link’d with that desire which ever sways
Mankind, the rather to condemn than praise,
‘Gainst Lara gathering raised at length a storm,
Such as himself might fear, and foes would form,
155
And he must answer for the absent head
Of one that haunts him still, alive or dead.
VIII
Within that land was many a malcontent,
Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent;
That soil full many a wringing despot saw,
160
Who work’d his wantonness in form of law;
Long war without and frequent broil within
Had made a path for blood and giant sin,
That waited but a signal to begin
New havoc, such as civil discord blends,
165
Which knows no neuter, owns but foes or friends;
Fix’d in his feudal fortress each was lord,
In word and deed obey’d, in soul abhorr’d.
Thus Lara had inherited his lands,
And with them pining hearts and sluggish hands;
170
But that long absence from his native clime
Had left him stainless of oppression’s crime,
And now, diverted by his milder sway,
All dread by slow degrees had worn away.
The menials felt their usual awe alone,
175
But more for him than them that fear was grown;
They deem’d him now unhappy, though at first
Their evil judgment augur’d of the worst,
And each long restless night, and silent mood,
Was traced to sickness, fed by solitude:
180
And though his lonely habits threw of late
Gloom o’er his chamber, cheerful was his gate;
For thence the wretched ne’er unsoothed withdrew,
For them, at least, his soul compassion knew.
Cold to the great, contemptuous to the high,
185
The humble pass’d not his unheeding eye;
Much he would speak not, but beneath his roof
They found asylum oft, and ne’er reproof.
And they who watch’d might mark that, day by day,
Some new retainers gather’d to his sway;
190
But most of late, since Ezzelin was lost,
He play’d the courteous lord and bounteous host:
Perchance his strife with Otho made him dread
Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head;
Whate’er his view, his favour more obtains
195
With these, the people, than his fellow thanes.
If this were policy, so far ’twas sound,
The million judged but of him as they found;
From him by sterner chiefs to exile driven
They but required a shelter, and ’twas given.
200
By him no peasant mourn’d his rifled cot,
And scarce the Serf could murmur o’er his lot;
With him old avarice found its hoard secure,
With him contempt forbore to mock the poor;
Youth present cheer and promised recompense
205
Detain’d, till all too late to part from thence:
To hate he offer’d, with the coming change,
The deep reversion of delay’d revenge;
To love, long baffled by the unequal match,
The well-won charms success was sure to snatch.
210
All now was ripe, he waits but to proclaim
That slavery nothing which was still a name.
The moment came, the hour when Otho thought
Secure at last the vengeance which he sought:
His summons found the destined criminal
215
Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall,
Fresh from their feudal fetters newly riven,
Defying earth, and confident of heaven.
That morning he had freed the soil-bound slaves
Who dig no land for tyrants but their graves!
220
Such is their cry – some watchword for the fight
Must vindicate the wrong, and warp the right;
Religion – freedom – vengeance – what you will,
A word’s enough to raise mankind to kill;
Some factious phrase by cunning caught and spread,
225
That guilt may reign, and wolves and worms be fed!
IX
Throughout that clime the feudal chiefs had gain’d
Such sway, their infant m
onarch hardly reign’d;
Now was the hour for faction’s rebel growth,
The Serfs contemn’d the one, and hated both:
230
They waited but a leader, and they found
One to their cause inseparably bound;
By circumstance compell’d to plunge again,
In self-defence, amidst the strife of men.
Cut off by some mysterious fate from those
235
Whom birth and nature meant not for his foes,
Had Lara from that night, to him accurst,
Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst:
Some reason urged, whate’er it was, to shun
Enquiry into deeds at distance done;
240
By mingling with his own the cause of all,
E’en if he fail’d, he still delay’d his fall.
The sullen calm that long his bosom kept,
The storm that once had spent itself and slept,
Roused by events that seem’d foredoom’d to urge
245
His gloomy fortunes to their utmost verge,
Burst forth, and made him all he once had been,
And is again; he only changed the scene.
Light care had he for life, and less for fame,
But not less fitted for the desperate game:
250
He deem’d himself mark’d out for others’ hate,
And mock’d at ruin so they shared his fate.
What cared he for the freedom of the crowd?
He raised the humble but to bend the proud.
He had hoped quiet in his sullen lair,
255
But man and destiny beset him there:
Inured to hunters, he was found at bay;
And they must kill, they cannot snare the prey.
Stern, unambitious, silent, he had been
Henceforth a calm spectator of life’s scene;
260
But dragg’d again upon the arena, stood
A leader not unequal to the feud;
In voice – mien – gesture – savage nature spoke,
And from his eye the gladiator broke.
x
What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife,
265
The feast of vultures, and the waste of life?
The varying fortune of each separate field,
The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yield?
The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall?
In this the struggle was the same with all;
270
Save that distemper’d passions lent their force
In bitterness that banish’d all remorse.
None sued, for Mercy knew her cry was vain,
The captive died upon the battle-slain:
In either cause, one rage alone possess’d
275
The empire of the alternate victor’s breast;
And they that smote for freedom or for sway,
Deem’d few were slain, while more remain’d to slay.
It was too late to check the wasting brand,
And Desolation reap’d the famish’d land;
280
The torch was lighted, and the flame was spread,
And Carnage smiled upon her daily dead.
XI
Fresh with the nerve the new-born impulse strung,
The first success to Lara’s numbers clung:
But that vain victory hath ruin’d all;
285
They form no longer to their leader’s call:
In blind confusion on the foe they press,
And think to snatch is to secure success.
The lust of booty, and the thirst of hate,
Lure on the broken brigands to their fate:
290
In vain he doth whate’er a chief may do,
To check the headlong fury of that crew;
In vain their stubborn ardour he would tame,
The hand that kindles cannot quench the flame;
The wary foe alone hath turn’d their mood,
295
And shown their rashness to that erring brood:
The feign’d retreat, the nightly ambuscade,
The daily harass, and the fight delay’d,
The long privation of the hoped supply,
The tentless rest beneath the humid sky,
300
The stubborn wall that mocks the leaguer’s art,
And palls the patience of his baffled heart,
Of these they had not deem’d: the battle-day
They could encounter as a veteran may;
But more preferr’d the fury of the strife,
305
And present death, to hourly suffering life:
And famine wrings, and fever sweeps away
His numbers melting fast from their array;
Intemperate triumph fades to discontent,
And Lara’s soul alone seems still unbent:
310
But few remain to aid his voice and hand,
And thousands dwindled to a scanty band:
Desperate, though few, the last and best remain’d
To mourn the discipline they late disdain’d.
One hope survives, the frontier is not far,
315
And thence they may escape from native war;
And bear within them to the neighbouring state
An exile’s sorrows, or an outlaw’s hate:
Hard is the task their father-land to quit,
But harder still to perish or submit.
XII
320
It is resolved – they march – consenting Night
Guides with her star their dim and torchless flight;
Already they perceive its tranquil beam
Sleep on the surface of the barrier stream;
Already they descry – Is yon the bank?
325
Away! ’tis lined with many a hostile rank.
Return or fly! – What glitters in the rear?
’Tis Otho’s banner – the pursuer’s spear!
Are those the shepherds’ fires upon the height?
Alas! they blaze too widely for the flight:
330
Cut off from hope, and compass’d in the toil,
Less blood perchance hath bought a richer spoil!
XIII
A moment’s pause – ’tis but to breathe their band,
Or shall they onward press, or here withstand?
It matters little – if they charge the foes
335
Who by their border-stream their march oppose,
Some few, perchance, may break and pass the line,
However link’d to baffle such design.
‘The charge be ours! to wait for their assault
Were fate well worthy of a coward’s halt.’
340
Forth flies each sabre, rein’d is every steed,
And the next word shall scarce outstrip the deed:
In the next tone of Lara’s gathering breath
How many shall but hear the voice of death!
XIV
His blade is bared, – in him there is an air
345
As deep, but far too tranquil for despair;
A something of indifference more than then
Becomes the bravest, if they feel for men.
He turn’d his eye on Kaled, ever near,
And still too faithful to betray one fear;
350
Perchance ’twas but the moon’s dim twilight threw
Along his aspect an unwonted hue
Of mournful paleness, whose deep tint express’d
The truth, and not the terror of his breast.
This Lara mark’d, and laid his hand on his:
355
It trembled not in such an hour as this;
His lip was silent, scarcely beat his heart,
His eye a
lone proclaim’d, ‘We will not part!
Thy band may perish, or thy friends may flee,
Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee!’
360
The word hath pass’d his lips, and onward driven,
Pours the link’d band through ranks asunder riven;
Well has each steed obey’d the armed heel,
And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel;
Outnumber’d, not outbraved, they still oppose
365
Despair to daring, and a front to foes;
And blood is mingled with the dashing stream,
Which runs all redly till the morning beam.
XV
Commanding, aiding, animating all,
Where foe appear’d to press, or friend to fall,
370
Cheers Lara’s voice, and waves or strikes his steel,
Inspiring hope himself had ceased to feel.
None fled, for well they knew that flight were vain;
But those that waver turn to smite again,
While yet they find the firmest of the foe
375
Recoil before their leader’s look and blow:
Now girt with numbers, now almost alone,
He foils their ranks, or reunites his own;
Himself he spared not – once they seem’d to fly –
Now was the time, he waved his hand on high,
380
And shook – Why sudden droops that plumed crest?
The shaft is sped – the arrow’s in his breast!
That fatal gesture left the unguarded side,
And Death hath stricken down yon arm of pride.
The word of triumph fainted from his tongue;
385
That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung!
But yet the sword instinctively retains,
Though from its fellow shrink the falling reins;
These Kaled snatches: dizzy with the blow,
And senseless bending o’er his saddle-bow,
390
Perceives not Lara that his anxious page
Beguiles his charger from the combat’s rage:
Meantime his followers charge, and charge again;
Too mix’d the slayers now to heed the slain!
XVI
Day glimmers on the dying and the dead,
395
The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head;
The war-horse masterless is on the earth,
And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth;
And near, yet quivering with what life remain’d,
The heel that urged him and the hand that rein’d;
400
And some too near that rolling torrent lie,
Whose waters mock the lip of those that die;
That panting thirst which scorches in the breath
Of those that die the soldier’s fiery death,
In vain impels the burning mouth to crave
405
One drop – the last – to cool it for the grave;
With feeble and convulsive effort swept,
