BYRON._TO HIS ACCUSERS_.
My soul is sick of calumny and lies:Men gloat on evil—even woman’s handWill dabble in the mire, nor heed the criesOf the poor victim whom she seeks to brandIn thy sweet name, Religion, through the land!Like the keen tempest she doth strip her prey,Tossing him bare and wrecked upon the strand,While vaunting her misdeeds before the day,Bearing a monument which crumbles like the clay.
My sister, have I lived to see thy nameDishonored? Thou, who wast my pride, my stay;Shall Jealousy and Fraud thy love defameAnd I be dumb? Just Heaven, let a rayFrom thy majestic light illume earth’s clay,[A]That through her I may scorch the slander vile,And light throughout the land a torch to-day,Which shall reveal how false and full of guileAre they who seek thy name, Augusta, to defile.
[A]The Clairvoyant.
[A]The Clairvoyant.
She who has borne my title and my name,In deeds fraternal saw some monster crime;To her base level sought my heart to tame,Made mock of each aspiring thought sublime,And sought to bury me beneath the slimeOf her imaginings. All—all are goneWho could defend me. From the grave of timeI am unearth’d—by sland’rous miscreants torn,And rise to feel again the ills I once have borne.
Is this a Christian deed, to flaunt a vice,And with another’s failings gild your own?To hearken to the whisperings and deviceOf old age, selfish, to suspicion grown?To misconstrue each friendly look—each tone—And out of natural love create vile lust?Must brother’s heart his very kin disown,While rudest hand disturbs her mouldering dust?Is this a Christian deed? Shall mankind call it just?
But let that pass. I hear a nation’s voiceRaised to defend the absent, wronged child;My hopes and aims were high, albeit my choiceWas fixed on one who felt not for my wildAnd wayward nature; one who never smiledOn imperfection. From my home of lightUnscathed, I see life’s blackening billows piled,Ready to sweep the daring soul from sight,Sinking his name and memory in darkest night.
I rise again above the woes of earth,Like unchained bird, seeking my native air.Men seldom see their fellow-creatures’ worth,But blot sweet nature’s page, however fair.Away, my soul, and seek thy nobler state,Where loving angels breathe their softest prayer,Where sweetest seraphs for thy coming wait,And ne’er suspicion’s breath can pass the Golden Gate.