It has been our endeavour to select such melodies as would best suit the style and sentiment of the poetry.”
Moore, for whose benefit the Melodies had been rehearsed, was by no means impressed by their “wildness and pathos,” and seems to have twitted Byron on the subject, or, as he puts it (Life, p. 276), to have taken the liberty of “laughing a little at the manner in which some of the Hebrew Melodies had been set to music.” The author of Sacred Songs (1814) set to airs by Beethoven, Mozart, Haydn, etc., was a critic not to be gainsaid, but from the half-comical petulance with which he “curses” and “sun-burns” (Letters to Moore, February 22, March 8, 1815, Letters, 1899, iii. 179, 183) Nathan, and his “vile Ebrew nasalities,” it is evident that Byron winced under Moore’s “chaff.”
Apart from the merits or demerits of the setting, the title Hebrew Melodies is somewhat misleading. Three love-songs, “She walks in Beauty like the Night,” “Oh! snatched away in Beauty’s Bloom,” and “I saw thee weep,” still form part of the collection; and, in Nathan’s folio (which does not contain “A spirit passed before me”), two fragments, “It is the hour when from the boughs” and “Francesca walks in the shadow of night,” which were afterwards incorporated in Parisina, were included. The Fugitive Pieces, 1829, retain the fragments from Parisina, and add the following hitherto unpublished poems: “I speak not, I trace not,” etc., “They say that Hope is Happiness,” and the genuine but rejected Hebrew Melody “In the valley of waters we wept on the day.”
It is uncertain when Murray’s first edition appeared. Byron wrote to Nathan with regard to the copyright in January, 1815 (Letters, 1899, iii. 167), but it is unlikely that the volume was put on the market before Nathan’s folio, which was advertised for the first time in the Morning Chronicle, April 6, 1815; and it is possible that the first public announcement of the Hebrew Melodies, as a separate issue, was made in the Courier, June 22, 1815.
The Hebrew Melodies were reviewed in the Christian Observer, August, 1815, vol. xiv. p. 542; in the Analectic Magazine, October, 1815, vol. vi. p. 292; and were noticed by Jeffrey [The Hebrew Melodies, though “obviously inferior” to Lord Byron’s other works, “display a skill in versification and a mastery in diction which would have raised an inferior artist to the very summit of distinction”] in the Edinburgh Review, December, 1816, vol. xxvii. p. 291.
ADVERTISEMENT
The subsequent poems were written at the request of my friend, the Hon. Douglas Kinnaird, for a Selection of Hebrew Melodies, and have been published, with the music, arranged by Mr. Braham and Mr. Nathan.
January, 1815.
SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.
I.
She walks in Beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.
II.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
III.
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
June 12, 1814.
THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL SWEPT.
I.
The Harp the Monarch Minstrel swept,
The King of men, the loved of Heaven!
Which Music hallowed while she wept
O’er tones her heart of hearts had given —
Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven!
It softened men of iron mould,
It gave them virtues not their own;
No ear so dull, no soul so cold,
That felt not — fired not to the tone,
Till David’s Lyre grew mightier than his Throne!
II.
It told the triumphs of our King,
It wafted glory to our God;
It made our gladdened valleys ring,
The cedars bow, the mountains nod;
Its sound aspired to Heaven and there abode!
Since then, though heard on earth no more,
Devotion and her daughter Love
Still bid the bursting spirit soar
To sounds that seem as from above,
In dreams that day’s broad light can not remove.
IF THAT HIGH WORLD.
I.
If that high world, which lies beyond
Our own, surviving Love endears;
If there the cherished heart be fond,
The eye the same, except in tears —
How welcome those untrodden spheres!
How sweet this very hour to die!
To soar from earth and find all fears
Lost in thy light — Eternity!
II.
It must be so: ‘tis not for self
That we so tremble on the brink;
And striving to o’erleap the gulf,
Yet cling to Being’s severing link.
Oh! in that future let us think
To hold each heart the heart that shares,
With them the immortal waters drink,
And soul in soul grow deathless theirs!
THE WILD GAZELLE.
I.
The wild gazelle on Judah’s hills
Exulting yet may bound,
And drink from all the living rills
That gush on holy ground;
Its airy step and glorious eye
May glance in tameless transport by: —
II.
A step as fleet, an eye more bright,
Hath Judah witnessed there;
And o’er her scenes of lost delight
Inhabitants more fair.
The cedars wave on Lebanon,
But Judah’s statelier maids are gone!
III.
More blest each palm that shades those plains
Than Israel’s scattered race;
For, taking root, it there remains
In solitary grace:
It cannot quit its place of birth,
It will not live in other earth.
IV.
But we must wander witheringly,
In other lands to die;
And where our fathers’ ashes be,
Our own may never lie:
Our temple hath not left a stone,
And Mockery sits on Salem’s throne.
OH! WEEP FOR THOSE.
I.
Oh! weep for those that wept by Babel’s stream,
Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream;
Weep for the harp of Judah’s broken shell;
Mourn — where their God hath dwelt the godless dwell!
II.
And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet?
And when shall Zion’s songs again seem sweet?
And Judah’s melody once more rejoice
The hearts that leaped before its heavenly voice?
III.
Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast,
How shall ye flee away and be at rest!
The wild-dove hath her nest, the fox his cave,
Mankind their country — Israel but the grave!
ON JORDAN’S BANKS.
I.
On Jordan’s banks the Arab’s camels stray,
On Sion’s hill the False One’s votaries pray,
The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai’s steep —
Yet there — even there — Oh God! thy thunders sleep:
II.
There — where thy finger scorched the tablet stone!
There — where thy shadow to thy people shone!
Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire:
Thyself — none living see and not expire!
III.
Oh! in the lightning let thy glance appear;
Sweep from his shivered hand the oppressor’s spear!
How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod?
How long thy temple worshipless, Oh God?
JEPHTHA’S DAUGHTER.
I.
Since our Country, our God — Oh, my Sire!
Demand that thy Daughter expire;
Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow —
Strike the bosom that’s bared for thee now!
II.
And the voice of my mourning is o’er,
And the mountains behold me no more:
If the hand that I love lay me low,
There cannot be pain in the blow!
III.
And of this, oh, my Father! be sure —
That the blood of thy child is as pure
As the blessing I beg ere it flow,
And the last thought that soothes me below.
IV.
Though the virgins of Salem lament,
Be the judge and the hero unbent!
I have won the great battle for thee,
And my Father and Country are free!
V.
When this blood of thy giving hath gushed,
When the voice that thou lovest is hushed,
Let my memory still be thy pride,
And forget not I smiled as I died!
OH! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY’S BLOOM.
I.
Oh! snatched away in beauty’s bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
But on thy turf shall roses rear
Their leaves, the earliest of the year;
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:
II.
And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a dream,
And lingering pause and lightly tread;
Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the dead!
III.
Away! we know that tears are vain,
That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:
Will this unteach us to complain?
Or make one mourner weep the less?
And thou — who tell’st me to forget,
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.
[Published in the Examiner, April 23, 1815.]
MY SOUL IS DARK.
I.
My soul is dark — Oh! quickly string
The harp I yet can brook to hear;
And let thy gentle fingers fling
Its melting murmurs o’er mine ear.
If in this heart a hope be dear,
That sound shall charm it forth again:
If in these eyes there lurk a tear,
‘Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.
II.
But bid the strain be wild and deep,
Nor let thy notes of joy be first:
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep,
Or else this heavy heart will burst;
For it hath been by sorrow nursed,
And ached in sleepless silence long;
And now ‘tis doomed to know the worst,
And break at once — or yield to song.
I SAW THEE WEEP.
I.
I saw thee weep — the big bright tear
Came o’er that eye of blue;
And then methought it did appear
A violet dropping dew:
I saw thee smile — the sapphire’s blaze
Beside thee ceased to shine;
It could not match the living rays
That filled that glance of thine.
II.
As clouds from yonder sun receive
A deep and mellow dye,
Which scarce the shade of coming eve
Can banish from the sky,
Those smiles unto the moodiest mind
Their own pure joy impart;
Their sunshine leaves a glow behind
That lightens o’er the heart.
THY DAYS ARE DONE.
I.
Thy days are done, thy fame begun;
Thy country’s strains record
The triumphs of her chosen Son,
The slaughters of his sword!
The deeds he did, the fields he won,
The freedom he restored!
II.
Though thou art fall’n, while we are free
Thou shall not taste of death!
The generous blood that flowed from thee
Disdained to sink beneath:
Within our veins its currents be,
Thy spirit on our breath!
III.
Thy name, our charging hosts along,
Shall be the battle-word!
Thy fall, the theme of choral song
From virgin voices poured!
To weep would do thy glory wrong:
Thou shalt not be deplored.
SAUL.
I.
Thou whose spell can raise the dead,
Bid the Prophet’s form appear.
“Samuel, raise thy buried head!
King, behold the phantom Seer!”
Earth yawned; he stood the centre of a cloud:
Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud.
Death stood all glassy in his fixéd eye;
His hand was withered, and his veins were dry;
His foot, in bony whiteness, glittered there,
Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare;
From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame,
Like caverned winds, the hollow accents came.
Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak,
At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke.
II.
“Why is my sleep disquieted?
Who is he that calls the dead?
Is it thou, O King? Behold,
Bloodless are these limbs, and cold:
Such are mine; and such shall be
Thine to-morrow, when with me:
Ere the coming day is done,
Such shalt thou be — such thy Son.
Fare thee well, but for a day,
Then we mix our mouldering clay.
Thou — thy race, lie pale and low,
Pierced by shafts of many a bow;
And the falchion by thy side
To thy heart thy hand shall guide:
Crownless — breathless — headless fall,
Son and Sire — the house of Saul!”
Seaham, Feb., 1815.
SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST BATTLE.
I.
Warriors and chiefs! should the shaft or the sword
Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord,
Heed not the corse, though a King’s, in your path:
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath!
II.
Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow,
Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe,
Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet!
Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet.
III.
Farewell to others, but never we part,
Heir to my Royalty — Son of my heart!
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway,
Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day!
Seaham, 1815.
ALL IS VANITY, SAITH THE PREACHER.
I.
Fame, Wisdom, Love, and Power were mine,
And Health and Youth possessed me;
My goblets blushed from every vine,
And lovely forms caressed me;
I sunned my heart in Beauty’s eyes,
And felt my soul grow tender;
All Earth can give, or mortal prize,
Was mine of regal splendour.
II.
I strive to number o’er what days
Remembrance can discover,
Which all that Life or Earth displays
Would lure me to live over.
There rose no day, there rolled no hour
Of pleasure unembittered;
And not a trapping decked my Power
That galled not while it glittered.
III.
The serpent of the field, by art
And spells, is won from harming;
But that which coils around the heart,
Oh! who hath power of charming?
It will not list to Wisdom’s lore,
Nor Music’s voice can lure it;
But there it stings for evermore
The soul that must endure it.
Seaham, 1815.
WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFERING CLAY.
I.
When coldness wraps this suffering clay,
Ah! whither strays the immortal mind?
It cannot die, it cannot stay,
But leaves its darkened dust behind.
Then, unembodied, doth it trace
By steps each planet’s heavenly way?
Or fill at once the realms of space,
A thing of eyes, that all survey?
II.
Eternal — boundless, — undecayed,
A thought unseen, but seeing all,
All, all in earth, or skies displayed,
Shall it survey, shall it recall:
Each fainter trace that Memory holds
So darkly of departed years,
In one broad glance the Soul beholds,
And all, that was, at once appears.
III.
Before Creation peopled earth,
Its eye shall roll through chaos back;
And where the farthest heaven had birth,
The Spirit trace its rising track.
And where the future mars or makes,
Its glance dilate o’er all to be,
While Sun is quenched — or System breaks,
Fixed in its own Eternity.
IV.
Above or Love — Hope — Hate — or Fear,
It lives all passionless and pure:
An age shall fleet like earthly year;
Its years as moments shall endure.
Away — away — without a wing,
O’er all — through all — its thought shall fly,
A nameless and eternal thing,
Forgetting what it was to die.
Seaham, 1815.
VISION OF BELSHAZZAR.
I.
The King was on his throne,
The Satraps thronged the hall:
A thousand bright lamps shone
O’er that high festival.
A thousand cups of gold,
In Judah deemed divine —
Jehovah’s vessels hold
The godless Heathen’s wine!
II.
In that same hour and hall,
The fingers of a hand
Came forth against the wall,
And wrote as if on sand:
The fingers of a man; —
A solitary hand
Along the letters ran,
And traced them like a wand.
III.
The monarch saw, and shook,
And bade no more rejoice;
All bloodless waxed his look,
And tremulous his voice.
“Let the men of lore appear,
The wisest of the earth,
And expound the words of fear,
Which mar our royal mirth.”
IV.
Chaldea’s seers are good,
But here they have no skill;
And the unknown letters stood
Untold and awful still.
And Babel’s men of age
Are wise and deep in lore;
But now they were not sage,
They saw — but knew no more.
V.
A captive in the land,
A stranger and a youth,
He heard the King’s command,
He saw that writing’s truth.
The lamps around were bright,
The prophecy in view;
He read it on that night, —
The morrow proved it true.
VI.
“Belshazzar’s grave is made,
His kingdom passed away.
He, in the balance weighed,
Is light and worthless clay;
The shroud, his robe of state,
His canopy the stone;
The Mede is at his gate!
The Persian on his throne!”
SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS!
Sun of the sleepless! melancholy star!
Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far,
That show’st the darkness thou canst not dispel,
How like art thou to Joy remembered well!
So gleams the past, the light of other days,
Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays:
A night-beam Sorrow watcheth to behold,
Distinct, but distant — clear — but, oh how cold!
WERE MY BOSOM AS FALSE AS THOU DEEM’ST IT TO BE.
I.
Were my bosom as false as thou deem’st it to be,
I need not have wandered from far Galilee;
It was but abjuring my creed to efface
The curse which, thou say’st, is the crime of my race.
II.
If the bad never triumph, then God is with thee!
If the slave only sin — thou art spotless and free!
If the Exile on earth is an Outcast on high,
Live on in thy faith — but in mine I will die.
III.
I have lost for that faith more than thou canst bestow,
As the God who permits thee to prosper doth know;
In his hand is my heart and my hope — and in thine
The land and the life which for him I resign.
Seaham, 1815.
HEROD’S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE.
I.
Oh, Mariamne! now for thee
The heart for which thou bled’st is bleeding;
Revenge is lost in Agony
And wild Remorse to rage succeeding.
Oh, Mariamne! where art thou?
Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading:
Ah! could’st thou — thou would’st pardon now,
Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding.
II.
And is she dead? — and did they dare
Obey my Frenzy’s jealous raving?
My Wrath but doomed my own despair:
The sword that smote her ‘s o’er me waving. —
But thou art cold, my murdered Love!
And this dark heart is vainly craving
For he who soars alone above,
And leaves my soul unworthy saving.
III.
She’s gone, who shared my diadem;
She sunk, with her my joys entombing;
I swept that flower from Judah’s stem,
Whose leaves for me alone were blooming;
And mine’s the guilt, and mine the hell,
This bosom’s desolation dooming;
And I have earned those tortures well,
Which unconsumed are still consuming!
Jan. 15, 1815.
ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM BY TITUS.
I.
From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome,
I beheld thee, oh Sion! when rendered to Rome:
‘Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall
Flashed back on the last glance I gave to thy wall.
II.
I looked for thy temple — I looked for my home,
And forgot for a moment my bondage to come;
I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane,
And the fast-fettered hands that made vengeance in vain.
III.
On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed
Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed;
While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline
Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy shrine.
IV.
And now on that mountain I stood on that day,
But I marked not the twilight beam melting away;
Oh! would that the lightning had glared in its stead,
And the thunderbolt burst on the Conqueror’s head!
V.
But the Gods of the Pagan shall never profane
The shrine where Jehovah disdained not to reign;
And scattered and scorned as thy people may be,
Our worship, oh Father! is only for thee.
1815.
BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE SAT DOWN AND WEPT.
I.
We sate down and wept by the waters
Of Babel, and thought of the day
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters,
Made Salem’s high places his prey;
And Ye, oh her desolate daughters!
Were scattered all weeping away.
II.
While sadly we gazed on the river
Which rolled on in freedom below,
They demanded the song; but, oh never
That triumph the Stranger shall know!
May this right hand be withered for ever,
Ere it string our high harp for the foe!
III.
On the willow that harp is suspended,
Oh Salem! its sound should be free;
And the hour when thy glories were ended
But left me that token of thee:
And ne’er shall its soft tones be blended
With the voice of the Spoiler by me!
Jan. 15, 1813.
BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON.
I.
In the valley of waters we wept on the day
When the host of the Stranger made Salem his prey;
And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay,
And our hearts were so full of the land far away!
II.
The song they demanded in vain — it lay still
In our souls as the wind that hath died on the hill —
They called for the harp — but our blood they shall spill
Ere our right hands shall teach them one tone of their skill.
III.
All stringlessly hung in the willow’s sad tree,
As dead as her dead-leaf, those mute harps must be:
Our hands may be fettered — our tears still are free
For our God — and our Glory — and Sion, Oh Thee!
1815.
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.
I.
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.
II.
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
III.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved — and for ever grew still!
IV.
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
V.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent — the banners alone —
The lances unlifted — the trumpet unblown.
VI.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
Seaham, Feb. 17, 1815.
A SPIRIT PASSED BEFORE ME.
FROM JOB.
I.
A spirit passed before me: I beheld
The face of Immortality unveiled —
Deep Sleep came down on every eye save mine —
And there it stood, — all formless — but divine:
Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake;
And as my damp hair stiffened, thus it spake:
II.
“Is man more just than God? Is man more pure
Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure?
Creatures of clay — vain dwellers in the dust!
The moth survives you, and are ye more just?
Things of a day! you wither ere the night,
Heedless and blind to Wisdom’s wasted light!”
STANZAS FOR MUSIC
CONTENTS
THERE BE NONE OF BEAUTY’S DAUGHTERS
THERE’S NOT A JOY THE WORLD CAN GIVE LIKE THAT IT TAKES AWAY
ON NAPOLEON’S ESCAPE FROM ELBA.
ODE FROM THE FRENCH.
FROM THE FRENCH.
ON THE STAR OF “THE LEGION OF HONOUR.”
NAPOLEON’S FAREWELL.
THERE BE NONE OF BEAUTY’S DAUGHTERS
1.
There be none of Beauty’s daughters
With a magic like thee;
And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The charméd Ocean’s pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lulled winds seem dreaming:
2.
And the midnight Moon is weaving
Her bright chain o’er the deep;
Whose breast is gently heaving,
As an infant’s asleep:
So the spirit bows before thee,
To listen and adore thee;
With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of Summer’s ocean.
THERE’S NOT A JOY THE WORLD CAN GIVE LIKE THAT IT TAKES AWAY
“O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
Ducentium ortus ex animo: quater
Felix! in imo qui scatentem
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit.”
Gray’s Poemata.
[Motto to “The Tear,” Poetical Works, 1898, i. 49.]
1.
There’s not a joy the world can give like that it takes away,
When the glow of early thought declines in Feeling’s dull decay;
‘Tis not on Youth’s smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast,
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere Youth itself be past.
2.
Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness
Are driven o’er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess:
The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain
The shore to which their shivered sail shall never stretch again.
3.
Then the mortal coldness of the soul like Death itself comes down;
It cannot feel for others’ woes, it dare not dream its own;
That heavy chill has frozen o’er the fountain of our tears,
And though the eye may sparkle still, ‘tis where the ice appears.
4.
Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,
Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;
‘Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruined turret wreath
All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey beneath.
5.
Oh, could I feel as I have felt, — or be what I have been,
Or weep as I could once have wept, o’er many a vanished scene;
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,
So, midst the withered waste of life, those tears would flow to me.
ON NAPOLEON’S ESCAPE FROM ELBA.
ONCE fairly set out on his party of pleasure,
Taking towns at his liking, and crowns at his leisure,
From Elba to Lyons and Paris he goes,
Making balls for the ladies, and bows to his foes.
March 27, 1815.
ODE FROM THE FRENCH.
I.
We do not curse thee, Waterloo!
Though Freedom’s blood thy plain bedew;
There ‘twas shed, but is not sunk —
Rising from each gory trunk,
Like the water-spout from ocean,
With a strong and growing motion —
It soars, and mingles in the air,
With that of lost La Bédoyère —
With that of him whose honoured grave
Contains the “bravest of the brave.”
A crimson cloud it spreads and glows,
But shall return to whence it rose;
When ‘tis full ‘twill burst asunder —
Never yet was heard such thunder
As then shall shake the world with wonder —
Never yet was seen such lightning
As o’er heaven shall then be bright’ning!
Like the Wormwood Star foretold
By the sainted Seer of old,
Show’ring down a fiery flood,
Turning rivers into blood.
II.
The Chief has fallen, but not by you,
Vanquishers of Waterloo!
When the soldier citizen
Swayed not o’er his fellow-men —
Save in deeds that led them on
Where Glory smiled on Freedom’s son —
Who, of all the despots banded,
With that youthful chief competed?
Who could boast o’er France defeated,
Till lone Tyranny commanded?
Till, goaded by Ambition’s sting,
The Hero sunk into the King?
Then he fell: — so perish all,
Who would men by man enthral!
III.
And thou, too, of the snow-white plume!
Whose realm refused thee ev’n a tomb;
Better hadst thou still been leading
France o’er hosts of hirelings bleeding,
Than sold thyself to death and shame
For a meanly royal name;
Such as he of Naples wears,
Who thy blood-bought title bears.
Little didst thou deem, when dashing
On thy war-horse through the ranks.
Like a stream which burst its banks,
While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing,
Shone and shivered fast around thee —
Of the fate at last which found thee:
Was that haughty plume laid low
By a slave’s dishonest blow?
Once — as the Moon sways o’er the tide,
It rolled in air, the warrior’s guide;
Through the smoke-created night
Of the black and sulphurous fight,
The soldier raised his seeking eye
To catch that crest’s ascendancy, —
And, as it onward rolling rose,
So moved his heart upon our foes.
There, where death’s brief pang was quickest,
And the battle’s wreck lay thickest,
Strewed beneath the advancing banner
Of the eagle’s burning crest —
(There with thunder-clouds to fan her,
Who could then her wing arrest —
Victory beaming from her breast?)
While the broken line enlarging
Fell, or fled along the plain;
There be sure was Murat charging!
There he ne’er shall charge again!
IV.
O’er glories gone the invaders march,
Weeps Triumph o’er each levelled arch —
But let Freedom rejoice,
With her heart in her voice;
But, her hand on her sword,
Doubly shall she be adored;
France hath twice too well been taught
The “moral lesson” dearly bought —
Her safety sits not on a throne,
With Capet or Napoleon!
But in equal rights and laws,
Hearts and hands in one great cause —
Freedom, such as God hath given
Unto all beneath his heaven,
With their breath, and from their birth,
Though guilt would sweep it from the earth;
With a fierce and lavish hand
Scattering nations’ wealth like sand;
Pouring nations’ blood like water,
In imperial seas of slaughter!
V.
But the heart and the mind,
And the voice of mankind,
Shall arise in communion —
And who shall resist that proud union?
The time is past when swords subdued —
Man may die — the soul’s renewed:
Even in this low world of care
Freedom ne’er shall want an heir;
Millions breathe but to inherit
Her for ever bounding spirit —
When once more her hosts assemble,
Tyrants shall believe and tremble —
Smile they at this idle threat?
Crimson tears will follow yet.
[First published, Morning Chronicle, March 15, 1816.]
FROM THE FRENCH.
I.
Must thou go, my glorious Chief,
Severed from thy faithful few?
Who can tell thy warrior’s grief,
Maddening o’er that long adieu?
Woman’s love, and Friendship’s zeal,
Dear as both have been to me —
What are they to all I feel,
With a soldier’s faith for thee?
II.
Idol of the soldier’s soul!
First in fight, but mightiest now;
Many could a world control;
Thee alone no doom can bow.
By thy side for years I dared
Death; and envied those who fell,
When their dying shout was heard,
Blessing him they served so well.
III.
Would that I were cold with those,
Since this hour I live to see;
When the doubts of coward foes
Scarce dare trust a man with thee,
Dreading each should set thee free!
Oh! although in dungeons pent,
All their chains were light to me,
Gazing on thy soul unbent.
IV.
Would the sycophants of him
Now so deaf to duty’s prayer,
Were his borrowed glories dim,
In his native darkness share?
Were that world this hour his own,
All thou calmly dost resign,
Could he purchase with that throne
Hearts like those which still are thine?
V.
My Chief, my King, my Friend, adieu!
Never did I droop before;
Never to my Sovereign sue,
As his foes I now implore:
All I ask is to divide
Every peril he must brave;
Sharing by the hero’s side
His fall — his exile — and his grave.
[First published, Poems, 1816,]
ON THE STAR OF “THE LEGION OF HONOUR.”
[FROM THE FRENCH.]
1.
Star of the brave! — whose beam hath shed
Such glory o’er the quick and dead —
Thou radiant and adored deceit!
Which millions rushed in arms to greet, —
Wild meteor of immortal birth!
Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth?
2.
Souls of slain heroes formed thy rays;
Eternity flashed through thy blaze;
The music of thy martial sphere
Was fame on high and honour here;
And thy light broke on human eyes,
Like a Volcano of the skies.
3.
Like lava rolled thy stream of blood,
And swept down empires with its flood;
Earth rocked beneath thee to her base,
As thou didst lighten through all space;
And the shorn Sun grew dim in air,
And set while thou wert dwelling there.
4.
Before thee rose, and with thee grew,
A rainbow of the loveliest hue
Of three bright colours, each divine,
And fit for that celestial sign;
For Freedom’s hand had blended them,
Like tints in an immortal gem.
5.
One tint was of the sunbeam’s dyes;
One, the blue depth of Seraph’s eyes;
One, the pure Spirit’s veil of white
Had robed in radiance of its light:
The three so mingled did beseem
The texture of a heavenly dream.
6.
Star of the brave! thy ray is pale,
And darkness must again prevail!
But, oh thou Rainbow of the free!
Our tears and blood must flow for thee.
When thy bright promise fades away,
Our life is but a load of clay.
7.
And Freedom hallows with her tread
The silent cities of the dead;
For beautiful in death are they
Who proudly fall in her array;
And soon, oh, Goddess! may we be
For evermore with them or thee!
[First published, Examiner, April 7, 1816.]
NAPOLEON’S FAREWELL.
[FROM THE FRENCH.]
1.
Farewell to the Land, where the gloom of my Glory
Arose and o’ershadowed the earth with her name —
She abandons me now — but the page of her story,
The brightest or blackest, is filled with my fame.
I have warred with a World which vanquished me only
When the meteor of conquest allured me too far;
I have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely,
The last single Captive to millions in war.
2.
Farewell to thee, France! when thy diadem crowned me,
I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth, —
But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee,
Decayed in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth.
Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted
In strife with the storm, when their battles were won —
Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted
Had still soared with eyes fixed on Victory’s sun!
3.
Farewell to thee, France! — but when Liberty rallies
Once more in thy regions, remember me then, —
The Violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys;
Though withered, thy tear will unfold it again —
Yet, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us,
And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice —
There are links which must break in the chain that has bound us,
Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice!
July 25, 1815. London.
[First published, Examiner, July 30, 1815.]
OCCASIONAL PIECES, 1807-1824
CONTENTS
THE ADIEU
TO A VAIN LADY
TO ANNE
TO ANNE: OH, SAY NOT, SWEET ANNE
TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET,
ON FINDING A FAN
FAREWELL TO THE MUSE
TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD
ON REVISITING HARROW
EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS, OF SOUTHWELL - A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS
TO MY SON
FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER
BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUL!
WHEN WE TWO PARTED
TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND
LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL
WELL! THOU ART HAPPY
INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG
TO A LADY, ON BEING ASKED MY REASONS FOR QUITTING ENGLAND IN THE SPRING
REMIND ME NOT, REMIND ME NOT
THERE WAS A TIME, I NEED NOT NAME
AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN I AM LOW?
FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN
STANZAS TO A LADY, ON LEAVING ENGLAND
LINES ON MR. HODGSON WRITTEN ON BOARD THE LISBON PACKET
TO FLORENCE
LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, AT MALTA
STANZAS COMPOSED DURING A THUNDERSTORM
STANZAS WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN GULF
THE SPELL IS BROKE, THE CHARM IS FLOWN!
WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO ABYDOS
LINES IN THE TRAVELLERS’ BOOK AT ORCHOMENUS
MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART
TRANSLATION OF THE NURSE’S DOLE IN THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES
MY EPITAPH
SUBSTITUTE FOR AN EPITAPH
LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE
TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK WAR SONG
TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG
ON PARTING
EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT, LATE POET AND SHOEMAKER
FAREWELL TO MALTA
TO DIVES.
ON MOORE’S LAST OPERATIC FARCE, OR FARCICAL OPERA
EPISTLE TO A FRIEND
TO THYRZA
AWAY, AWAY, YE NOTES OF WOE!
ONE STRUGGLE MORE, AND I AM FREE
EUTHANASIA
AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG AND FAIR
IF SOMETIMES IN THE HAUNTS OF MEN
FROM THE FRENCH
ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS BROKEN
LINES TO A LADY WEEPING
THE CHAIN I GAVE: FROM THE TURKISH
LINES WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF ‘THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY’
ADDRESS, SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812
PARENTHETICAL ADDRESS
VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMERHOUSE AT HALES-OWEN
REMEMBER THEE! REMEMBER THEE!
TO TIME
TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG
THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU ART FICKLE
ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE ‘ORIGIN OF LOVE’
REMEMBER HIM, WHOM PASSION’S POWER
ON LORD THURLOW’S POEMS
TO LORD THURLOW
TO THOMAS MOORE
IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND
SONNET, TO GENEVRA
SONNET TO GENEVRA
SONNET, TO THE SAME (GENEVRA)
FROM THE PORTUGUESE, ‘TU MI CHAMAS’
THE DEVIL’S DRIVE: AN UNFINISHED RHAPSODY
WINDSOR POETICS
ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE
I SPEAK NOT, I TRACE NOT, I BREATHE NOT THY NAME
ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE RECITED AT THE CALEDONIAN MEETING.
FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO THOMAS MOORE
CONDOLATORY ADDRESS TO SARAH
ELEGIAC STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER, BART.
TO BELSHAZZAR
THE ADIEU
Written Under The Impression That The Author Would Soon Die.
Adieu, thou Hill! where early joy
Spread roses o’er my brow;
Where Science seeks each loitering boy
With knowledge to endow.
Adieu, my youthful friends or foes,
Partners of former bliss or woes;
No more through Ida’s paths we stray;
Soon must I share the gloomy cell,
Whose ever-slumbering inmates dwell
Unconscious of the day.
Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes,
Ye spires of Granta’s vale,
Where Learning robed in sable reigns,
And Melancholy pale.
Ye comrades of the jovial hour,
Ye tenants of the classic bower,
On Cama’s verdant margin placed,
Adieu! while memory still is mine,
For, offerings on Oblivion’s shrine,
These scenes must be effaced.
Adieu, ye mountains of the clime
Where grew my youthful years;
Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime
His giant summit rears.
Why did my childhood wander forth
From you, ye regions of the North,
With sons of pride to roam?
Why did I quit my Highland cave,
Mar’s dusky heath, and Dee’s clear wave,
To seek a Sotheron home!
Hall of my Sires! a long farewell —
Yet why to thee adieu?
Thy vaults will echo back my knell,
Thy towers my tomb will view:
The faltering tongue which sung thy fall,
And former glories of thy Hall,
Forgets its wonted simple note —
But yet the Lyre retains the strings,
And sometimes, on Æolian wings,
In dying strains may float.
Fields which surround yon rustic cot,
While yet I linger here,
Adieu! you are not now forgot,
To retrospection dear.
Streamlet! along whose rippling surge
My youthful limbs were wont to urge,
At noontide heat, their pliant course;
Plunging with ardour from the shore,
Thy springs will lave these limbs no more,
Deprived of active force.
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