EXCERPTS from CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE.

LORD BYRON

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN 1816

(TEXT FROM PROJECT GUTENBERG)

XVII.

  Stop! for thy tread is on an empire's dust!

   An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below!

   Is the spot marked with no colossal bust?

   Nor column trophied for triumphal show?

   None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so,

   As the ground was before, thus let it be;—

   How that red rain hath made the harvest grow!

   And is this all the world has gained by thee,

Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory?

XVIII.

  And Harold stands upon this place of skulls,

   The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo!

   How in an hour the power which gave annuls

   Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too!

   In 'pride of place' here last the eagle flew,

   Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain,

   Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through:

   Ambition's life and labours all were vain;

He wears the shattered links of the world's broken chain.

XIX.

  Fit retribution!  Gaul may champ the bit,

   And foam in fetters, but is Earth more free?

   Did nations combat to make ONE submit;

   Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty?

   What! shall reviving thraldom again be

   The patched-up idol of enlightened days?

   Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we

   Pay the Wolf homage? proffering lowly gaze

And servile knees to thrones?  No; PROVE before ye praise!

XX.

  If not, o'er one fall'n despot boast no more!

   In vain fair cheeks were furrowed with hot tears

   For Europe's flowers long rooted up before

   The trampler of her vineyards; in vain years

   Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears,

   Have all been borne, and broken by the accord

   Of roused-up millions:  all that most endears

   Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword

Such as Harmodius drew on Athens' tyrant lord.

XXI.

  There was a sound of revelry by night,

   And Belgium's capital had gathered then

   Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright

   The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;

   A thousand hearts beat happily; and when

   Music 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!

XXII.

  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 meet

   To 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!

XXIII.

  Within a windowed niche of that high hall

   Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear

   That 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 well

   Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,

   And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:

He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

XXIV.

  Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,

   And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,

   And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago

   Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;

   And there were sudden partings, such as press

   The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs

   Which ne'er might be repeated:  who would guess

   If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,

Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

XXV.

  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 drum

   Roused 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!'

XXVI.

  And wild and high the 'Cameron's gathering' rose,

   The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills

   Have 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 fills

   Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers

   With the fierce native daring which instils

   The stirring memory of a thousand years,

And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears.

XXVII.

  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 unreturniug brave,—alas!

   Ere evening to be trodden like the grass

   Which now beneath them, but above shall grow

   In its next verdure, when this fiery mass

   Of living valour, rolling on the foe,

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

XXVIII.

  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 day

   Battle's magnificently stern array!

   The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent

   The 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!

XXIX.

  Their praise is hymned by loftier harps than mine;

   Yet one I would select from that proud throng,

   Partly because they blend me with his line,

   And partly that I did his sire some wrong,

   And partly that bright names will hallow song;

   And his was of the bravest, and when showered

   The death-bolts deadliest the thinned files along,

   Even where the thickest of war's tempest lowered,

They reached no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant Howard!

XXX.

  There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee,

   And mine were nothing, had I such to give;

   But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree,

   Which living waves where thou didst cease to live,

   And saw around me the wild field revive

   With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring

   Come forth her work of gladness to contrive,

   With all her reckless birds upon the wing,

I turned from all she brought to those she could not bring.

XXXI.

  I turned to thee, to thousands, of whom each

   And one as all a ghastly gap did make

   In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach

   Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake;

   The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake

   Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of Fame

   May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake

   The fever of vain longing, and the name

So honoured, but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim.

XXXII.

  They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, mourn:

   The tree will wither long before it fall:

   The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn;

   The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall

   In massy hoariness; the ruined wall

   Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone;

   The bars survive the captive they enthral;

   The day drags through though storms keep out the sun;

And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on:

XXXIII.

  E'en as a broken mirror, which the glass

   In every fragment multiplies; and makes

   A thousand images of one that was,

   The same, and still the more, the more it breaks;

   And thus the heart will do which not forsakes,

   Living in shattered guise, and still, and cold,

   And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches,

   Yet withers on till all without is old,

Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold.

XXXIV.

  There is a very life in our despair,

   Vitality of poison,—a quick root

   Which feeds these deadly branches; for it were

   As nothing did we die; but life will suit

   Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit,

   Like to the apples on the Dead Sea shore,

   All ashes to the taste:  Did man compute

   Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er

Such hours 'gainst years of life,—say, would he name threescore?

XXXV.

  The Psalmist numbered out the years of man:

   They are enough:  and if thy tale be TRUE,

   Thou, who didst grudge him e'en that fleeting span,

   More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo!

   Millions of tongues record thee, and anew

   Their children's lips shall echo them, and say,

   'Here, where the sword united nations drew,

   Our countrymen were warring on that day!'

And this is much, and all which will not pass away.

XXXVI.

  There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men,

   Whose spirit anithetically mixed

   One moment of the mightiest, and again

   On little objects with like firmness fixed;

   Extreme in all things! hadst thou been betwixt,

   Thy throne had still been thine, or never been;

   For daring made thy rise as fall:  thou seek'st

   Even now to reassume the imperial mien,

And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene!

XXXVII.

  Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou!

   She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name

   Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now

   That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame,

   Who wooed thee once, thy vassal, and became

   The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert

   A god unto thyself; nor less the same

   To the astounded kingdoms all inert,

Who deemed thee for a time whate'er thou didst assert.

XXXVIII.

  Oh, more or less than man—in high or low,

   Battling with nations, flying from the field;

   Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool, now

   More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield:

   An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild,

   But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor,

   However deeply in men's spirits skilled,

   Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war,

Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star.

XXXIX.

  Yet well thy soul hath brooked the turning tide

   With that untaught innate philosophy,

   Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride,

   Is gall and wormwood to an enemy.

   When the whole host of hatred stood hard by,

   To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled

   With a sedate and all-enduring eye;

   When Fortune fled her spoiled and favourite child,

He stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled.

XL.

  Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them

   Ambition steeled thee on to far too show

   That just habitual scorn, which could contemn

   Men and their thoughts; 'twas wise to feel, not so

   To wear it ever on thy lip and brow,

   And spurn the instruments thou wert to use

   Till they were turned unto thine overthrow:

   'Tis but a worthless world to win or lose;

So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose.

XLI.

  If, like a tower upon a headland rock,

   Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone,

   Such scorn of man had helped to brave the shock;

   But men's thoughts were the steps which paved thy throne,

   THEIR admiration thy best weapon shone;

   The part of Philip's son was thine, not then

   (Unless aside thy purple had been thrown)

   Like stern Diogenes to mock at men;

For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den.

XLII.

  But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell,

   And THERE hath been thy bane; there is a fire

   And motion of the soul, which will not dwell

   In its own narrow being, but aspire

   Beyond the fitting medium of desire;

   And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore,

   Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire

   Of aught but rest; a fever at the core,

Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore.

XLIII.

  This makes the madmen who have made men mad

   By their contagion!  Conquerors and Kings,

   Founders of sects and systems, to whom add

   Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things

   Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs,

   And are themselves the fools to those they fool;

   Envied, yet how unenviable! what stings

   Are theirs!  One breast laid open were a school

Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule:

XLIV.

  Their breath is agitation, and their life

   A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last,

   And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife,

   That should their days, surviving perils past,

   Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast

   With sorrow and supineness, and so die;

   Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste

   With its own flickering, or a sword laid by,

Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.

XLV.

  He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find

   The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow;

   He who surpasses or subdues mankind,

   Must look down on the hate of those below.

   Though high ABOVE the sun of glory glow,

   And far BENEATH the earth and ocean spread,

   ROUND him are icy rocks, and loudly blow

   Contending tempests on his naked head,

And thus reward the toils which to those summits led.

EXCERPTS from DON JUAN.

LORD BYRON

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN 1823

(TEXT FROM PROJECT GUTENBERG)

O, Wellington! (or 'Villainton'—for Fame

       Sounds the heroic syllables both ways;

     France could not even conquer your great name,

       But punn'd it down to this facetious phrase—

     Beating or beaten she will laugh the same),

       You have obtain'd great pensions and much praise:

     Glory like yours should any dare gainsay,

     Humanity would rise, and thunder 'Nay!'

     I don't think that you used Kinnaird quite well

       In Marinet's affair—in fact, 't was shabby,

     And like some other things won't do to tell

       Upon your tomb in Westminster's old abbey.

     Upon the rest 't is not worth while to dwell,

       Such tales being for the tea-hours of some tabby;

     But though your years as man tend fast to zero,

     In fact your grace is still but a young hero.

     Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much,

       Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more:

     You have repair'd Legitimacy's crutch,

       A prop not quite so certain as before:

     The Spanish, and the French, as well as Dutch,

       Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore;

     And Waterloo has made the world your debtor

     (I wish your bards would sing it rather better).

     You are 'the best of cut-throats:'—do not start;

       The phrase is Shakspeare's, and not misapplied:

     War 's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art,

       Unless her cause by right be sanctified.

     If you have acted once a generous part,

       The world, not the world's masters, will decide,

     And I shall be delighted to learn who,

     Save you and yours, have gain'd by Waterloo?

     I am no flatterer—you 've supp'd full of flattery:

       They say you like it too—'t is no great wonder.

     He whose whole life has been assault and battery,

       At last may get a little tired of thunder;

     And swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he

       May like being praised for every lucky blunder,

     Call'd 'Saviour of the Nations'—not yet saved,

     And 'Europe's Liberator'—still enslaved.

     I 've done. Now go and dine from off the plate

       Presented by the Prince of the Brazils,

     And send the sentinel before your gate

       A slice or two from your luxurious meals:

     He fought, but has not fed so well of late.

       Some hunger, too, they say the people feels:—

     There is no doubt that you deserve your ration,

     But pray give back a little to the nation.

     I don't mean to reflect—a man so great as

       You, my lord duke! is far above reflection:

     The high Roman fashion, too, of Cincinnatus,

       With modern history has but small connection:

     Though as an Irishman you love potatoes,

       You need not take them under your direction;

     And half a million for your Sabine farm

     Is rather dear!—I 'm sure I mean no harm.

     Great men have always scorn'd great recompenses:

       Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died,

     Not leaving even his funeral expenses:

       George Washington had thanks and nought beside,

     Except the all-cloudless glory which few men's is

       To free his country: Pitt too had his pride,

     And as a high-soul'd minister of state is

     Renown'd for ruining Great Britain gratis.

     Never had mortal man such opportunity,

       Except Napoleon, or abused it more:

     You might have freed fallen Europe from the unity

       Of tyrants, and been blest from shore to shore:

     And now—what is your fame? Shall the Muse tune it ye?

       Now—that the rabble's first vain shouts are o'er?

     Go! hear it in your famish'd country's cries!

     Behold the world! and curse your victories!