Selected Poems (96 page)

Read Selected Poems Online

Authors: Byron

Tags: #Literary Criticism, #Poetry, #General

BOOK: Selected Poems
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Thy choral memory of the Bard divine,
Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot
Which ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy lot

150

Is shameful to the nations, – most of all,
Albion! to thee: the Ocean queen should not
Abandon Ocean’s children; in the fall
Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall.
XVIII
I loved her from my boyhood – she to me

155

Was as a fairy city of the heart,
Rising like water-columns from the sea,
Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart;
And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare’s art,
1
Had stam’d her imae in me and even so

160

Although I found her thus, we did not part,
Perchance even dearer in her day of woe,
Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show.
XIX
I can repeople with the past – and of
The present there is still for eye and thought,

165

And meditation chasten’d down, enough;
And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought;
And of the happiest moments which were wrought
Within the web of my existence, some
From thee, fair Venice! have their colours caught:

170

There are some feelings Time cannot benumb,
Nor Torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb.
XX
But from their nature will the tannen grow
1
Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter’d rocks,
Rooted in barrenness, where nought below

175

Of soil supports them ’gainst the Alpine shocks
Of eddying storms; yet springs the trunk, and mocks
The howling tempest, till its height and frame
Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks
Of bleak, gray granite into life it came,

180

And grew a giant tree; – the mind may grow the same.
XXI
Existence may be borne, and the deep root
Of life and sufferance make its firm abode
In bare and desolated bosoms: mute
The camel labours with the heaviest load,

185

And the wolf dies in silence, – not bestow’d
In vain should such example be; if they,
Things of ignoble or of savage mood,
Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay
May temper it to bear, – it is but for a day.
XXII

190

All suffering doth destroy, or is destroy’d,
Even by the sufferer; and, in each event,
Ends: – Some, with hope replenish’d and rebuoy’d,
Return to whence they came – with like intent,
And weave their web again; some, bow’d and bent,

195

Wax gray and ghastly, withering ere their time,
And perish with the reed on which they leant;
Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime,
According as their souls were form’d to sink or climb:
XXIII
But ever and anon of griefs subdued

200

There comes a token like a scorpion’s sting,
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued;
And slight withal may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside for ever: it may be a sound –

205

A tone of music – summers eve – or spring –
A flower – the wind – the ocean – which shall wound,
Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound;
XXIV
And how and why we know not, nor can trace
Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind,

210

But feel the shock renew’d, nor can efface
The blight and blackening which it leaves behind,
Which out of things familiar, undesign’d,
When least we deem of such calls up to view
The spectres whom no exorcism can bind,

215

The cold — the changed — perchance the dead — anew,
The mourn’d, the loved, the lost – too many! – yet how few!
Xxv
But my soul wanders; I demand it back
To meditate amongst decay, and stand
A ruin amidst ruins; there to track

220

Fall’n states and buried greatness, o’er a land
Which
was
the mightiest in its old command,
And
is
the loveliest, and must ever be
The master-mould of Nature’s heavenly hand,
Wherein were cast the heroic and the free,

225

The beautiful, the brave – the lords of earth and sea,
XXVI
The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome!
And even since, and now fair Italy!
Thou art the garden of the world, the home
Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree;

230

Even in thy desert, what is like to thee?
Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste
More rich than other climes’ fertility;
Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced
With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced.
XXVII

235

The moon is up, and yet it is not night –
Sunset divides the sky with her – a sea
Of glory streams along the Alpine height
Of blue Friuli’s mountains; Heaven is free
From clouds, but of all colours seems to be

240

Melted to one vast Iris of the West,
Where the Day joins the past Eternity;
While, on the other hand, meek Dian’s crest
Floats through the azure air – an island of the blest!
1
XXVIII
A single star is at her side, and reigns

245

With her o’er half the lovely heaven; but still
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains
Roll’d o’er the peak of the far Rhaetian hill,
As Day and Night contending were, until
Nature reclaim’d her order: – gently flows

250

The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil
The odorous purple of a new-born rose,
Which streams upon her stream, and glass’d within it glows,
XXIX
Fill’d with the face of heaven, which, from afar,
Comes down upon the waters; all its hues,

255

From the rich sunset to the rising star,
Their magical variety diffuse:
And now they change; a paler shadow strews
Its mantle o’er the mountains; parting day
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues

260

With a new colour as it gasps away,
The last still loveliest, till - ’tis gone - and all is gray.
XXX
There is a tomb in Arqua; – rear’d in air,
Pillar’d in their sarcophagus, repose
The bones of Laura’s lover: here repair

265

Many familiar with his well-sung woes,
The pilgrims of his genius. He arose
To raise a language, and his land reclaim
From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes:
Watering the tree which bears his lady’s name

270

With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame.
XXXI
They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died;
The mountain-village where his latter days
Went down the vale of years; and ’tis their pride –
An honest pride – and let it be their praise,

275

To offer to the passing stranger’s gaze
His mansion and his sepulchre; both plain
And venerably simple, such as raise
A feeling more accordant with his strain
Than if a pyramid form’d his monumental fane.
XXXII

280

And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt
Is one of that complexion which seems made
For those who their mortality have felt,
And sought a refuge from their hopes decay’d
In the deep umbrage of a green hill’s shade,

285

Which shows a distant prospect far away
Of busy cities, now in vain display’d,
For they can lure no further; and the ray
Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday.
XXXIII
Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers,

290

And shining in the brawling brook, where-by,
Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours
With a calm languor, which, though to the eye

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