Selected Poems

by Byron

  And laid him with the earth’s preceding clay.

  770

  And show’d not Fortune thus how fame and sway,

  And all we deem delightful, and consume

  Our souls to compass through each arduous way,

  Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb?

  Were they but so in man’s, how different were his doom!

  LXXXVII

  775

  And thou, dread statue! yet existent in

  The austerest form of naked majesty,

  Thou who beheldest ’mid the assassins’ din

  At thy bathed base the bloody Cæsar lie,

  Folding his robe in dying dignity,

  780

  An offering to thine altar from the queen

  Of gods and men, great Nemesis! did he die,

  And thou too perish Pompey? have ye been

  Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene?

  LXXXVIII

  And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome

  785

  She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart

  The milk of conquest yet within the dome

  Where, as a monument of antique art,

  Thou standest: – Mother of the mighty heart,

  Which the great founder suck’d from thy wild teat,

  790

  Scorch’d by the Roman Jove’s etherial dart,

  And thy limbs black with lightning – dost thou yet

  Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget?

  LXXXIX

  Thou dost; – but all thy foster-babes are dead –

  The men of iron; and the world hath rear’d

  795

  Cities from out their sepulchres: men bled

  In imitation of the things they fear’d,

  And fought and conquer’d, and the same course steer’d,

  At apish distance; but as yet none have,

  Nor could the same supremacy have near’d

  800

  Save one vain man, who is not in the grave,

  But, vanquish’d by himself, to his own slaves a slave –

  XC

  The fool of false dominion – and a kind

  Of bastard Cæsar, following him of old

  With steps unequal; for the Roman’s mind

  805

  Was modell’d in a less terrestrial mould,

  With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold,

  And an immortal instinct which redeem’d

  The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold,

  Alcides with the distaff now he seem’d

  810

  At Cleopatra’s feet, — and now himself he beam’d.

  XCI

  And came — and saw – and conquer’d! But the man

  Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee,

  Like a train’d falcon, in the Gallic van,

  Which he, in sooth, long led to victory,

  815

  With a deaf heart which never seem’d to be

  A listener to itself was strangely framed;

  With but one weakest weakness – vanity,

  Coquettish in ambition – still he aim’d –

  At what? can he avouch – or answer what he claim’d?

  XCII

  820

  And would be all or nothing – nor could wait

  For the sure grave to level him; few years

  Had fix’d him with the Cæsars in his fate,

  On whom we tread: For this the conqueror rears

  The arch of triumph! and for this the tears

  825

  And blood of earth flow on as they have flow’d,

  An universal deluge, which aears,

  Without an ark for wretched man’s abode

  And ebbs but to reflow! – Renew thy rainbow, God!

  XCIII

  What from this barren being do we reap?

  830

  Our senses narrow, and our reason frail,

  Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep,

  And all things weigh’d in custom’s falsest scale:

  Opinion an omnipotence, – whose veil

  Mantles the earth with darkness, until right

  835

  And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale

  Lest their own judgments should become too bright,

  And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too much light.

  XCIV

  And thus they plod in sluggish misery,

  Rotting from sire to son, and age to age,

  840

  Proud of their trampled nature, and so die,

  Bequeathing their hereditary rage

  To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage

  War for their chains, and rather than be free,

  Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage

  845

  Within the same arena where they see

  Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree.

  XCV

  I speak not of men’s creeds – they rest between

  Man and his Maker – but of things allow’d,

  Averr’d, and known, – and daily, hourly seen -

  850

  The yoke that is upon us doubly bow’d,

  And the intent of tyranny avow’d,

  The edict of Earth’s rulers, who are grown

  The apes of him who humbled once the proud,

  And shook them from their slumbers on the throne;

  855

  Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done.

  XCVI

  Can trants but b trants conuer’d be

  And Freedom find no champion and no child

  Such as Columbia saw arise when she

  Sprung forth a Pallas, arm’d and undefiled?

  860

  Or must such minds be nourish’d in the wild,

  Deep in the unpruned forest, ’midst the roar

  Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled

  On infant Washington? Has Earth no more

  Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore?

  XCVII

  865

  But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime,

  And fatal have her Saturnalia been

  To Freedom’s cause, in every age and clime;

  Because the deadly days which we have seen,

  And vile Ambition, that built up between

  870

  Man and his hopes an adamantine wall,

  And the base pageant last upon the scene,

  Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall

  Which nips life’s tree, and dooms man’s worst — his second fall.

  XCVIII

  Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying

  875Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind;

  Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying,

  The loudest still the tempest leaves behind;

  Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind,

  Chopp’d by the axe, looks rough and little worth,

  880

  But the sap lasts, and still the seed we find

  Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North;

  So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth.

  XCIX

  There is a stern round tower of other days,

  Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone,

  885

  Such as an army’s baffled strength delays,

  Standing with half its battlements alone,

  And with two thousand years of ivy grown,

  The garland of eternity, where wave

  The green leaves over all by time o’erthrown; -

  890

  What was this tower of strength? within its cave

  What treasure lay so lock’d, so hid? – A woman’s grave.

  C

  But who was she, the lady of the dead,

  Tomb’d in a palace? Was she chaste and fair?

  Worthy
a king’s – or more – a Roman’s bed?

  895

  What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear?

  What daughter of her beauties was the heir?

  How lived – how loved – how died she? Was she not

  So honour’d – and conspicuously there,

  Where meaner relics must not dare to rot,

  900

  Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot?

  CI

  Was she as those who love their lords, or they

  Who love the lords of others? such have been

  Even in the olden time, Rome’s annals say.

  Was she a matron of Cornelia’s mien,

  905

  Or the light air of Egypt’s graceful queen,

  Profuse of joy – or ’gainst it did she war,

  Inveterate in virtue? Did she lean

  To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar

  Love from amongst her griefs? — for such the affections are.

  CII

  910

  Perchance she died in youth: it may be, bow’d

  With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb

  That weigh’d upon her gentle dust, a cloud

  Might gather o’er her beauty, and a gloom

  In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom

  915

  Heaven gives its favourites – early death; yet shed

  A sunset charm around her, and illume

  With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead,

  Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red.

  CIII

  Perchance she died in age – surviving all,

  920

  Charms, kindred, children – with the silver gray

  On her long tresses, which might yet recal,

  It may be, still a something of the day

  When they were braided, and her proud array

  And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed

  925

  By Rome – but whither would Conjecture stray?

  Thus much alone we know – Metella died,

  The wealthiest Roman’s wife: Behold his love or pride!

  CIV

  I know not why – but standing thus by thee

  It seems as if I had thine inmate known,

  930

  Thou tomb! and other days come back on me

  With recollected music, though the tone

  Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan

  Of dying thunder on the distant wind;

  Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone

  935

  Till I had bodied forth the heated mind

  Forms from the floating wreck which Ruin leaves behind;

  CV

  And from the planks, far shatter’d o’er the rocks,

  Built me a little bark of hope, once more

  To battle with the ocean and the shocks

  940

  Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar

  Which rushes on the solitary shore

  Where all lies founder’d that was ever dear:

  But could I gather from the wave-worn store

  Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer?

  945

  There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here.

  CVI

  Then let the winds howl on! their harmony

  Shall henceforth be my music, and the night

  The sound shall temper with the owlets’ cry,

  As I now hear them, in the fading light

  950

  Dim o’er the bird of darkness’ native site,

  Answering each other on the Palatine,

  With their large eyes, all glistening gray and bright,

  And sailing pinions. – Upon such a shrine

  What are our petty griefs? – let me not number mine.

  CVII

  955

  Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown

  Matted and mass’d together, hillocks heap’d

  On what were chambers, arch crush’d, column strown

  In fragments, choked up vaults, and frescos steep’d

  In subterranean damps, where the owl peep’d,

  960

  Deeming it midnight: – Temples, baths, or halls?

  Pronounce who can; for all that Learning reap’d

  From her research hath been, that these are walls—

  Behold the Imperial Mount! ’tis thus the mighty falls.1

  CVIII

  There is the moral of all human tales;

  965

  Tis but the same rehearsal of the past,

  First Freedom and then Glory – when that fails,

  Wealth, vice, corruption, – barbarism at last.

  And History, with all her volumes vast,

  Hath but one page, – ’tis better written here,

  970

  Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amass’d

  All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear,

  Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask – Away with words! draw near,

  CIX

  Admire, exult – despise – laugh, weep, – for here

  There is such matter for all feeling: – Man!

  975

  Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear,

  Ages and realms are crowded in this span,

  This mountain, whose obliterated plan

  The pyramid of empires pinnacled,

  Of Glory’s gewgaws shining in the van

  980

  Till the sun’s rays with added flame were fill’d!

  Where are its golden roofs! where those who dared to build?

  CX

  Tully was not so eloquent as thou,

  Thou nameless column with the buried base!

  What are the laurels of the Cæsar’s brow?

  985

  Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place.

  Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face,

  Titus or Trajan’s? No – ’tis that of Time:

  Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace

  Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb

  990

  To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime,

  CXI

  Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome,

  And looking to the stars: they had contain’d

  A spirit which with these would find a home,

  The last of those who o’er the whole earth reign’d,

  995

  The Roman globe, for after none sustain’d,

  But yielded back his conquests: – he was more

  Than a mere Alexander, and, unstain’d

  With household blood and wine, serenely wore

  His sovereign virtues – still we Trajan’s name adore.

  CXII

  1000

  Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place

  Where Rome embraced her heroes? where the steep

  Tarpeian? fittest goal of Treason’s race,

  The promontory whence the Traitor’s Leap

  Cured all ambition. Did the conquerors heap

  1005

  Their spoils here? Yes; and in yon field below,

  A thousand years of silenced factions sleep —

  The Forum, where the immortal accents glow,

  And still the eloquent air breathes – burns with Cicero!

  CXIII

  The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood:

  1010

  Here a proud people’s passions were exhaled,

  From the first hour of empire in the bud

  To that when further worlds to conquer fail’d;

  But long before had Freedom’s face been veil’d,

  And Anarchy assumed her attributes;

  1015

  Till every lawless soldier who assail’d

  Trod on the trembling senate’s slavish mutes,

  Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes.

  CXIV

  Then turn we to he
r latest tribune’s name,

  From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee,

  1020

  Redeemer of dark centuries of shame –

  The friend of Petrarch — hope of Italy –

  Rienzi! last of Romans! While the tree

  Of freedom’s wither’d trunk puts forth a leaf

  Even for thy tomb a garland let it be -

  1025

  The forum’s champion, and the people’s chief–

  Her new-born Numa thou – with reign, alas! too brief.

  CXV

  Egeria! sweet creation of some heart

  Which found no mortal resting-place so fair

  As thine ideal breast; whate’er thou art

  1030

  Or wert, — a young Aurora of the air,

  The nympholepsy of some fond despair;

  Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth,

  Who found a more than common votary there

  Too much adoring; whatso’er thy birth,

  1035

  Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth.

  CXVI

  The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled

  With thine Elysian water-drops; the face

  Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled,

  Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place,

  1040

  Whose green, wild margin now no more erase

  Art’s works; nor must the delicate waters sleep,

  Prison’d in marble, bubbling from the base

  Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap

  The rill runs o’er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy, creep

  CXVII

  1045

  Fantastically tangled; the green hills

  Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass

  The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills

  Of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass;

  Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class,

  1050

  Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes

  Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass;

  The sweetness of the violet’s deep blue eyes,

  Kiss’d by the breath of heaven, seems colour’d by its skies.

  CXVIII

  Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover,

  1055

  Egeria! thy all heavenly bosom beating

  For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover;

  The purple Midnight veiled that mystic meeting

  With her most starry canopy, and seating

  Thyself by thine adorer, what befel?

  1060

  This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting

  Of an enamoured Goddess, and the cell

  Haunted by holy Love – the earliest oracle!

  CXIX

  And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying,

  Blend a celestial with a human heart;

  1065

  And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing,

  Share with immortal transports? could thine art

  Make them indeed immortal, and impart

  The purity of heaven to earthly joys,