These are the themes that claim our plaudits | A bard may chaunt too often and too long; As thou art strong in verse, in mercy spare! now; These are the Bards to whom the Muse must A fourth, alas! were more than we could bear. bow; While Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike forgot, Resign their hallowed Bays to Walter Scott. But if, in spite of all the world can say, 231 The time has been, when yet the Muse was The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue: "God help thee," Southey, and thy readers too. young, 189 When Homer swept the lyre, and Maro10 sung, An Epic11 scarce ten centuries could claim, While awe-struck nations hailed the magic name: The work of each immortal Bard appears Tongues have expired with those who gave them birth, Without the glory such a strain can give, field.12 First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance, The scourge of England and the boast France! 200 Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, That mild apostate from poetic rule, The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay As soft as evening in his favourite May, Who warns his friend19 to shake off toil and trouble, 239 And quit his books, for fear of growing double''; 251 the A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way, of 210 Though burnt by wicked Bedford13 for a witch, 220 12 Southey's Joan of Arc, 1796: Thalaba the Destroyer, 1801 Madoc (in two parts: Madoc in Wales, Madoc in Aztlan), 1805. 13 John Plantagenet, the general of the English forces in France. 14 In Arabian tales, a were schooled. cavern where magicians 15 The hero of a farce by Fielding. 16 chieftain 17 See p. 63. She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; One shade the more, one ray the less, Or softly lightens o'er her face; How pure, how dear, their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, A mind at peace with all below, 6 THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB* The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 2 Constantinople * II Kings, xix, 35. SC WE'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING So we'll go no more a roving So late into the night, 'Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, By the light of the moon. STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BE TWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-andtwenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. 4 With that water, as this wine, SONNET ON CHILLON Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! What are garlands and crowns to the brow that And when thy sons to fetters are consignedis wrinkled? 20 To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew be- Their country conquers with their martyrdom, sprinkled. And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. Then away with all such from the head that is Chillon! thy prison is a holy place, hoary! What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory! 8 There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee; And thy sad floor an altar-for 't was trod, THE PRISONER OF CHILLON My hair is gray, but not with years, In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears; For they have been a dungeon's spoil, When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in Are banned, and barred-forbidden fare; my story, I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. TO THOMAS MOORE* My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea; But, before I go, Tom Moore, Here's a double health to thee! Here's a sigh to those who love me, And a smile to those who hate; And, whatever sky's above me, Here's a heart for every fate. Though the ocean roar around me, Yet it still shall bear me on; Though a desert should surround me, It hath springs that may be won. Were't the last drop in the well, As I gasped upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell, 'Tis to thee that I would drink. 16 8 16 The first stanza of this poem was written in 1816, when Byron left England for the last time. But this was for my father's faith 10 This French word has no very marked accent on either syllable. Byron usually accents the first. François de Bonivard was a republican of Geneva who resisted the domination of the Duke of Savoy and was imprisoned for six years (1530-1536) in the castle of Chillon, on the Lake of Geneva (Leman). When the castle was captured by his republican friends, he was released. Byron has greatly idealized the character and has invented the circumstance of the imprisonment and death of the brothers. The poem was composed in two days. Of it Dr. F. I. Carpenter writes: "There is very little action; there is very little ornament: the narrative evolves from within, and is presented with high dramatic fidelity, and with subtle gradation and progression. The situation in itself is bare and simple: the art with which the poet develops it is masterly Who else, except Dante perhaps, as in the Ugolino episode [Inferno 33], could do so much with so little?" Proud of Persecution's rage; Of whom this wreck is left the last. There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, For in these limbs its teeth remain, They chained us each to a column stone, But even these at length grew cold. A grating sound, not full and free, I was the eldest of the three, And to uphold and cheer the rest I ought to do-and did my bestAnd each did well in his degree. The youngest, whom my father loved, Because our mother's brow was given To him, with eyes as blue as heaven 30 40 For him my soul was sorely moved; And truly might it be distressed To see such bird in such a nest; For he was beautiful as day (When day was beautiful to me As to young eagles, being free)— A polar day, which will not see A sunset till its summer's gone, Its sleepless summer of long light, The snow-clad offspring of the sun: And thus he was as pure and bright, And in his natural spirit gay, With tears for nought but others' ills, 80 But formed to combat with his kind; With joy:-but not in chains to pine: I saw it silently decline— And so perchance in sooth did mine: But yet I forced it on to cheer Those relics of a home so dear. He was a hunter of the hills, Had followed there the deer and wolf; To him this dungeon was a gulf, 50 And fettered feet the worst of ills. 100 110 121 130 And for the like had little care: The milk drawn from the mountain goat But he, the favourite and the flower, I've seen it rushing forth in blood, So tearless, yet so tender, kind, And grieved for those he left behind; With all the while a cheek whose bloom Was as a mockery of the tomb, Whose tints as gently sunk away As a departing rainbow's ray; An eye of most transparent light, That almost made the dungeon bright; And not a word of murmur, not 140 A groan o'er his untimely lot,A little talk of better days, A little hope my own to raise, For I was sunk in silence-lost In this last loss, of all the most; And then the sighs he would suppress Of fainting nature's feebleness, More slowly drawn, grew less and less: I listened, but I could not hear; I called, for I was wild with fear: 150 I knew 't was hopeless, but my dread Would not be thus admonished; I called, and thought I heard a sound- I only lived, I only drew 170 196 200 210 One on the earth, and one beneath- I had not strength to stir, or strive, I could not die, I had no earthly hope-but faith, And that forbade a selfish death. What next befell me then and there I had no thought, no feeling-none- 180 And was, scarce conscious what I wist, As shrubless crags within the mist; 230 240 |