BYRON
Once more upon the waters! Yet once more!And the waves bound beneath me as a steedThat knows his rider. Welcome to their roar!Swift be their guidance, wheresoe’er it lead!Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed,And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale,Still must I on; for I am as a weed,Flung from the rock, on Ocean’s foam to sailWhere’er the surge may sweep, the tempest’s breath prevail.I’ve taught me other tongues—and in strange eyesHave made me not a stranger; to the mindWhich is itself, no changes bring surprise;Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to findA country with—aye, or without mankind;Yet was I born where men are proud to be,—Not without cause; and should I leave behindThe inviolate Island of the sage and free,And seek me out a home by a remoter sea,Perhaps I loved it well; and should I layMy ashes in a soil which is not mine,My Spirit shall resume it—if we mayUnbodied choose a sanctuary. I twineMy hopes of being remembered in my lineWith my land’s language: if too fond and farThese aspirations in their scope incline,—If my Fame should be, as my fortunes are,Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion barMy name from out the temple where the deadAre honoured by the Nations—let it be—And light the Laurels on a loftier head!And be the Spartan’s epitaph on me—‘Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.’Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need—The thorns which I have reaped are of the treeI planted,—they have torn me,—and I bleed:I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.Byron.
Once more upon the waters! Yet once more!And the waves bound beneath me as a steedThat knows his rider. Welcome to their roar!Swift be their guidance, wheresoe’er it lead!Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed,And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale,Still must I on; for I am as a weed,Flung from the rock, on Ocean’s foam to sailWhere’er the surge may sweep, the tempest’s breath prevail.I’ve taught me other tongues—and in strange eyesHave made me not a stranger; to the mindWhich is itself, no changes bring surprise;Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to findA country with—aye, or without mankind;Yet was I born where men are proud to be,—Not without cause; and should I leave behindThe inviolate Island of the sage and free,And seek me out a home by a remoter sea,Perhaps I loved it well; and should I layMy ashes in a soil which is not mine,My Spirit shall resume it—if we mayUnbodied choose a sanctuary. I twineMy hopes of being remembered in my lineWith my land’s language: if too fond and farThese aspirations in their scope incline,—If my Fame should be, as my fortunes are,Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion barMy name from out the temple where the deadAre honoured by the Nations—let it be—And light the Laurels on a loftier head!And be the Spartan’s epitaph on me—‘Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.’Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need—The thorns which I have reaped are of the treeI planted,—they have torn me,—and I bleed:I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.Byron.
Once more upon the waters! Yet once more!And the waves bound beneath me as a steedThat knows his rider. Welcome to their roar!Swift be their guidance, wheresoe’er it lead!Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed,And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale,Still must I on; for I am as a weed,Flung from the rock, on Ocean’s foam to sailWhere’er the surge may sweep, the tempest’s breath prevail.
I’ve taught me other tongues—and in strange eyesHave made me not a stranger; to the mindWhich is itself, no changes bring surprise;Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to findA country with—aye, or without mankind;Yet was I born where men are proud to be,—Not without cause; and should I leave behindThe inviolate Island of the sage and free,And seek me out a home by a remoter sea,
Perhaps I loved it well; and should I layMy ashes in a soil which is not mine,My Spirit shall resume it—if we mayUnbodied choose a sanctuary. I twineMy hopes of being remembered in my lineWith my land’s language: if too fond and farThese aspirations in their scope incline,—If my Fame should be, as my fortunes are,Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar
My name from out the temple where the deadAre honoured by the Nations—let it be—And light the Laurels on a loftier head!And be the Spartan’s epitaph on me—‘Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.’Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need—The thorns which I have reaped are of the treeI planted,—they have torn me,—and I bleed:I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.
Byron.
The Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece!Where burning Sappho loved and sung,Where grew the arts of war and peace,—Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!Eternal summer gilds them yet,But all, except their sun, is set.The Scian and the Teian muse,The hero’s harp, the lover’s lute,Have found the fame your shores refuse;Their place of birth alone is mute.To sounds which echo further westThan your sires’ ‘Islands of the Blest.’The mountains look on Marathon—And Marathon looks on the sea;And musing there an hour alone,I dream’d that Greece might still be free,For standing on the Persians’ graveI could not deem myself a slave.A king sate on the rocky browWhich looks o’er sea-born Salamis;And ships, by thousands, lay below,And men in nations;—all were his!He counted them at break of day—And when the sun set where were they?And where are they? And where art thou,My country? On thy voiceless shoreThe heroic lay is tuneless now,The heroic bosom beats no more!And must thy lyre, so long divine,Degenerate into hands like mine?’Tis something in the dearth of fame,Though linked among a fettered race,To feel at least a patriot’s shame,Even as I sing, suffuse my face;For what is left the poet here?For Greeks a blush—for Greece a tear!Mustwebut weep o’er days more blest?Mustwebut blush? Our fathers bled.Earth! render back from out thy breastA remnant of our Spartan dead!Of the three hundred grant but three,To make a new Thermopylæ!What, silent still? and silent all?Ah! no;—the voices of the deadSound like a distant torrent’s fall,And answer, ‘Let one living head,But one arise,—we come, we come!’’Tis but the living who are dumb.In vain—in vain: strike other chords;Fill high the cup with Samian wine!Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,And shed the blood of Scio’s vine!Hark! rising to the ignoble call—How answers each bold Bacchanal!Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!Our virgins dance beneath the shade—I see their glorious black eyes shine;But gazing on each glowing maid,My own the burning tear-drop laves,To think such breasts must suckle slaves.Place me on Sunium’s marbled steep,Where nothing, save the waves and IMay hear our mutual murmurs sweep;There, swan-like, let me sing and die:A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine—Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!Byron.
The Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece!Where burning Sappho loved and sung,Where grew the arts of war and peace,—Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!Eternal summer gilds them yet,But all, except their sun, is set.The Scian and the Teian muse,The hero’s harp, the lover’s lute,Have found the fame your shores refuse;Their place of birth alone is mute.To sounds which echo further westThan your sires’ ‘Islands of the Blest.’The mountains look on Marathon—And Marathon looks on the sea;And musing there an hour alone,I dream’d that Greece might still be free,For standing on the Persians’ graveI could not deem myself a slave.A king sate on the rocky browWhich looks o’er sea-born Salamis;And ships, by thousands, lay below,And men in nations;—all were his!He counted them at break of day—And when the sun set where were they?And where are they? And where art thou,My country? On thy voiceless shoreThe heroic lay is tuneless now,The heroic bosom beats no more!And must thy lyre, so long divine,Degenerate into hands like mine?’Tis something in the dearth of fame,Though linked among a fettered race,To feel at least a patriot’s shame,Even as I sing, suffuse my face;For what is left the poet here?For Greeks a blush—for Greece a tear!Mustwebut weep o’er days more blest?Mustwebut blush? Our fathers bled.Earth! render back from out thy breastA remnant of our Spartan dead!Of the three hundred grant but three,To make a new Thermopylæ!What, silent still? and silent all?Ah! no;—the voices of the deadSound like a distant torrent’s fall,And answer, ‘Let one living head,But one arise,—we come, we come!’’Tis but the living who are dumb.In vain—in vain: strike other chords;Fill high the cup with Samian wine!Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,And shed the blood of Scio’s vine!Hark! rising to the ignoble call—How answers each bold Bacchanal!Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!Our virgins dance beneath the shade—I see their glorious black eyes shine;But gazing on each glowing maid,My own the burning tear-drop laves,To think such breasts must suckle slaves.Place me on Sunium’s marbled steep,Where nothing, save the waves and IMay hear our mutual murmurs sweep;There, swan-like, let me sing and die:A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine—Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!Byron.
The Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece!Where burning Sappho loved and sung,Where grew the arts of war and peace,—Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!Eternal summer gilds them yet,But all, except their sun, is set.
The Scian and the Teian muse,The hero’s harp, the lover’s lute,Have found the fame your shores refuse;Their place of birth alone is mute.To sounds which echo further westThan your sires’ ‘Islands of the Blest.’
The mountains look on Marathon—And Marathon looks on the sea;And musing there an hour alone,I dream’d that Greece might still be free,For standing on the Persians’ graveI could not deem myself a slave.
A king sate on the rocky browWhich looks o’er sea-born Salamis;And ships, by thousands, lay below,And men in nations;—all were his!He counted them at break of day—And when the sun set where were they?
And where are they? And where art thou,My country? On thy voiceless shoreThe heroic lay is tuneless now,The heroic bosom beats no more!And must thy lyre, so long divine,Degenerate into hands like mine?
’Tis something in the dearth of fame,Though linked among a fettered race,To feel at least a patriot’s shame,Even as I sing, suffuse my face;For what is left the poet here?For Greeks a blush—for Greece a tear!
Mustwebut weep o’er days more blest?Mustwebut blush? Our fathers bled.Earth! render back from out thy breastA remnant of our Spartan dead!Of the three hundred grant but three,To make a new Thermopylæ!
What, silent still? and silent all?Ah! no;—the voices of the deadSound like a distant torrent’s fall,And answer, ‘Let one living head,But one arise,—we come, we come!’’Tis but the living who are dumb.
In vain—in vain: strike other chords;Fill high the cup with Samian wine!Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,And shed the blood of Scio’s vine!Hark! rising to the ignoble call—How answers each bold Bacchanal!
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!Our virgins dance beneath the shade—I see their glorious black eyes shine;But gazing on each glowing maid,My own the burning tear-drop laves,To think such breasts must suckle slaves.
Place me on Sunium’s marbled steep,Where nothing, save the waves and IMay hear our mutual murmurs sweep;There, swan-like, let me sing and die:A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine—Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!
Byron.
There was a sound of revelry by night,And Belgium’s capital had gathered thenHer Beauty and her Chivalry—and brightThe lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men;A thousand hearts beat happily; and whenMusic arose with its voluptuous swell,Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,And all went merry as a marriage bell;But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!Did ye not hear it?—No—’twas but the wind,Or the car rattling o’er the stony street;On with the dance! Let joy be unconfined;No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meetTo chase the glowing Hours with flying feet—But, hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,As if the clouds its echo would repeat;And nearer—clearer—deadlier than before!Arm! Arm! it is—it is—the cannon’s opening roar!Within a windowed niche of that high hallSate Brunswick’s fated Chieftain; he did hearThat sound the first amidst the festival,And caught its tone with Death’s prophetic ear;And when they smiled because he deemed it near,His heart more truly knew that peal too wellWhich stretched his father on a bloody bier,And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell;He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro—And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,And cheeks all pale, which but an hour agoBlushed at the praise of their own loveliness—And there were sudden partings, such as pressThe life from out young hearts, and choking sighsWhich ne’er might be repeated; who could guessIf ever more should meet those mutual eyes,Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!And there was mounting in hot haste—the steed,The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,And swiftly forming in the ranks of war,—And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;And near, the beat of the alarming drumRoused up the soldier ere the morning star;While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,Or whispering, with white lips—‘The foe! They come! they come!’And wild and high the ‘Camerons’ Gathering’ rose!The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn’s hillsHave heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:—How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fillsTheir mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineersWith the fierce native daring which instilsThe stirring memory of a thousand years,And Evan’s—Donald’s fame rings in each clansman’s ears!And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,Dewy with Nature’s tear-drops, as they pass—Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves,Over the unreturning brave,—alas!Ere evening to be trodden like the grassWhich now beneath them, but above shall growIn its next verdure, when this fiery massOf living valour rolling on the foe,And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.Last noon beheld them full of lusty life;—Last eve in Beauty’s circle proudly gay;The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,The morn the marshalling in arms,—the dayBattle’s magnificently-stern array!The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which when rentThe earth is covered thick with other clay,Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,Rider and horse,—friend—foe,—in one red burial blent!Lord Byron.
There was a sound of revelry by night,And Belgium’s capital had gathered thenHer Beauty and her Chivalry—and brightThe lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men;A thousand hearts beat happily; and whenMusic arose with its voluptuous swell,Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,And all went merry as a marriage bell;But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!Did ye not hear it?—No—’twas but the wind,Or the car rattling o’er the stony street;On with the dance! Let joy be unconfined;No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meetTo chase the glowing Hours with flying feet—But, hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,As if the clouds its echo would repeat;And nearer—clearer—deadlier than before!Arm! Arm! it is—it is—the cannon’s opening roar!Within a windowed niche of that high hallSate Brunswick’s fated Chieftain; he did hearThat sound the first amidst the festival,And caught its tone with Death’s prophetic ear;And when they smiled because he deemed it near,His heart more truly knew that peal too wellWhich stretched his father on a bloody bier,And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell;He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro—And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,And cheeks all pale, which but an hour agoBlushed at the praise of their own loveliness—And there were sudden partings, such as pressThe life from out young hearts, and choking sighsWhich ne’er might be repeated; who could guessIf ever more should meet those mutual eyes,Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!And there was mounting in hot haste—the steed,The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,And swiftly forming in the ranks of war,—And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;And near, the beat of the alarming drumRoused up the soldier ere the morning star;While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,Or whispering, with white lips—‘The foe! They come! they come!’And wild and high the ‘Camerons’ Gathering’ rose!The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn’s hillsHave heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:—How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fillsTheir mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineersWith the fierce native daring which instilsThe stirring memory of a thousand years,And Evan’s—Donald’s fame rings in each clansman’s ears!And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,Dewy with Nature’s tear-drops, as they pass—Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves,Over the unreturning brave,—alas!Ere evening to be trodden like the grassWhich now beneath them, but above shall growIn its next verdure, when this fiery massOf living valour rolling on the foe,And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.Last noon beheld them full of lusty life;—Last eve in Beauty’s circle proudly gay;The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,The morn the marshalling in arms,—the dayBattle’s magnificently-stern array!The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which when rentThe earth is covered thick with other clay,Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,Rider and horse,—friend—foe,—in one red burial blent!Lord Byron.
There was a sound of revelry by night,And Belgium’s capital had gathered thenHer Beauty and her Chivalry—and brightThe lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men;A thousand hearts beat happily; and whenMusic arose with its voluptuous swell,Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,And all went merry as a marriage bell;But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
Did ye not hear it?—No—’twas but the wind,Or the car rattling o’er the stony street;On with the dance! Let joy be unconfined;No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meetTo chase the glowing Hours with flying feet—But, hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,As if the clouds its echo would repeat;And nearer—clearer—deadlier than before!Arm! Arm! it is—it is—the cannon’s opening roar!
Within a windowed niche of that high hallSate Brunswick’s fated Chieftain; he did hearThat sound the first amidst the festival,And caught its tone with Death’s prophetic ear;And when they smiled because he deemed it near,His heart more truly knew that peal too wellWhich stretched his father on a bloody bier,And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell;He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro—And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,And cheeks all pale, which but an hour agoBlushed at the praise of their own loveliness—And there were sudden partings, such as pressThe life from out young hearts, and choking sighsWhich ne’er might be repeated; who could guessIf ever more should meet those mutual eyes,Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!
And there was mounting in hot haste—the steed,The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,And swiftly forming in the ranks of war,—And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;And near, the beat of the alarming drumRoused up the soldier ere the morning star;While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,Or whispering, with white lips—‘The foe! They come! they come!’
And wild and high the ‘Camerons’ Gathering’ rose!The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn’s hillsHave heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:—How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fillsTheir mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineersWith the fierce native daring which instilsThe stirring memory of a thousand years,And Evan’s—Donald’s fame rings in each clansman’s ears!
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,Dewy with Nature’s tear-drops, as they pass—Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves,Over the unreturning brave,—alas!Ere evening to be trodden like the grassWhich now beneath them, but above shall growIn its next verdure, when this fiery massOf living valour rolling on the foe,And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life;—Last eve in Beauty’s circle proudly gay;The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,The morn the marshalling in arms,—the dayBattle’s magnificently-stern array!The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which when rentThe earth is covered thick with other clay,Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,Rider and horse,—friend—foe,—in one red burial blent!
Lord Byron.