No More Learning

And when those deep and burning moments passed,
And Juan sank to sleep within her arms,
She slept not, but all tenderly, though fast,
Sustained his head upon her bosom's charms;


## p. 2975 (#549) ###########################################

LORD BYRON
2975
And now and then her eye to heaven is cast,
And then on the pale cheek her breast now warms,
Pillowed on her o'erflowing heart, which pants
With all it granted, and with all it grants.
An infant when it gazes on the light,
A child the moment when it drains the breast,
A devotee when soars the Host in sight,
An Arab with a stranger for a guest,
A sailor when the prize has struck in fight,
A miser filling his most hoarded chest,
Feel rapture; but not such true joy are reaping,
As they who watch o'er what they love while sleeping.
For there it lies, so tranquil, so beloved;
All that it hath of life with us is living;
So gentle, stirless, helpless, and unmoved,
And all unconscious of the joy 'tis giving.
All it hath felt, inflicted, passed, and proved,
Hushed into depths beyond the watcher's diving:
There lies the thing we love, with all its errors
And all its charms, like death without its terrors.
The lady watched her lover - and that hour
Of Love's, and Night's, and Ocean's solitude,
O'erflowed her soul with their united power;
Amidst the barren sand and rocks so rude,
She and her wave-worn love had made their bower
Where naught upon their passion could intrude:
And all the stars that crowded the blue space
Saw nothing happier than her glowing face.
Alas, the love of women! it is known
To be a lovely and a fearful thing;
For all of theirs upon that die is thrown,
And if 'tis lost, life hath no more to bring
To them but mockeries of the past alone,
And their revenge is as the tiger's spring,
Deadly and quick and crushing; yet as
Torture is theirs - what they inflict they feel.


## p. 2976 (#550) ###########################################

2976
LORD BYRON
THE TWO BUTTERFLIES
From The Giaour)
A
S, RISING on its purple wing,
The insect queen of eastern spring
O’er emerald meadows of Kashmeer
Invites the young pursuer near,
And leads him on from flower to flower,
A weary chase and wasted hour,
Then leaves him, as it soars on high,
With panting heart and tearful eye:
So beauty lures the full-grown child,
With hue as bright, and wing as wild, -
A chase of idle hopes and fears,
Begun in folly, closed in tears.
If won, to equal ills betrayed,
Woe waits the insect and the maid:
A life of pain, the loss of peace,
From infant's play and man's caprice.
The lovely toy so fiercely sought
Hath lost its charm by being caught,
For every touch that wooed its stay
Hath brushed its brightest hues away,
Till, charm and hue and beauty gone,
'Tis left to fly or fall alone.
With wounded wing or bleeding breast,
Ah, where shall either victim rest?
Can this with faded pinion soar
From rose to tulip as before ?
Or Beauty, blighted in an hour,
Find joy within her broken bower ?
No: gayer insects futtering by
Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die,
And lovelier things have mercy shown
To every failing but their own,
And every woe a tear can claim,
Except an erring sister's shame.


## p. 2977 (#551) ###########################################

LORD BYRON
2977
TO HIS SISTER
From Childe Harold's Pilgrimage)
T"
He castled crag of Drachenfels
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,
Whose breast of waters broadly swells
Between the banks which bear the vine;
And hills all rich with blossomed trees,
And fields which promise corn and wine,
And scattered cities crowning these,
Whose far white walls along them shine,
Have strewed a scene which I should see
With double joy, wert thou with me!
And peasant girls, with deep-blue eyes,
And hands which offer early flowers,
Walk smiling o'er this paradise;
Above, the frequent feudal towers
Through green leaves lift their walls of gray,
And many a rock which steeply lours,
And noble arch in proud decay,
Look o'er this vale of vintage bowers;
But one thing want these banks of Rhine-
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!
I send the lilies given to me;
Though long before thy hand they touch,
I know that they must withered be,
But yet reject them not as such;
For I have cherished them as dear,
Because they yet may meet thine eye,
And guide thy soul to mine even here,
When thou beholdest them drooping nigh,
And knowest them gathered by the Rhine,
And offered from my heart to thine!
The river nobly foams and flows,
The charm of this enchanted ground,
And all its thousand turns disclose
Some fresher beauty varying round;
The haughtiest breast its wish might bound
Through life to dwell delighted here;
Nor could on earth a spot be found
To nature and to me so dear,
Could thy dear eyes in following mine
Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine!
V-187


## p. 2978 (#552) ###########################################

2978
LORD BYRON
ODE TO NAPOLEON
T'S
is done — but yesterday a King,
And armed with Kings to strive;
And now thou art a nameless thing,
So abject - yet alive!
Is this the man of thousand thrones,
Who strewed our earth with hostile bones,
And can he thus survive ?
Since he, miscalled the Morning Star,
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far.
Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind
Who bowed so low the knee?
By gazing on thyself grown blind,
Thou taught'st the rest to see.
With might unquestioned — power to save —
Thine only gift hath been the grave
To those that worshiped thee;
Nor till thy fall could mortals guess
Ambition's less than littleness!
Thanks for that lesson - it will teach
To after-warriors more
Than high Philosophy can preach,
And vainly preached before.
That spell upon the minds of men
Breaks never to unite again,
That led them to adore
Those pagod things of sabre sway,
With fronts of brass and feet of clay.
The triumph and the vanity,
The rapture of the strife * -
The earthquake voice of Victory,
To thee the breath of life -
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway
Which man seemed made but to obey,
Wherewith renown was rife -
All quelled ! — Dark Spirit! what must be
The madness of thy memory!
* « Certaminis gaudia » – the expression of Attila in his harangue to his
army, previous to the battle of Châlons.


## p. 2979 (#553) ###########################################

LORD BYRON
2979
The Desolator desolate!
The victor overthrown!
The Arbiter of others' fate
A Suppliant for his own!
Is it some yet imperial hope
That with such change can calmly cope,
Or dread of death alone ?
To die a prince, or live a slave -
Thy choice is most ignobly brave!
He who of old would rend the oak *
Dreamed not of the rebound;
Chained by the trunk he vainly broke –
Alone - how looked he round!
Thou, in the sternness of thy strength,
An equal deed hast done at length,
And darker fate hast found:
He fell, the forest prowlers' prey:
But thou must eat thy heart away!
The Roman,t when his burning heart
Was slaked with blood of Rome,
Threw down the dagger - dared depart
In savage grandeur, home:
He dared depart, in utter scorn
Of men that such a yoke had borne,
Yet left him such a doom!
His only glory was that hour
Of self-upheld abandoned power.
The Spaniard, I when the lust of sway
Had lost its quickening spell,
Cast crowns for rosaries away,
An empire for a cell;
A strict accountant of his beads,
A subtle disputant on creeds,
His dotage trifled well:
Yet better had he neither known
A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne.
But thou — from thy reluctant hand
The thunderbolt is wrung;
* Milo of Croton.
+ Sulla.
# The Emperor Charles V. , who abdicated in 1555.


## p. 2980 (#554) ###########################################

2980
LORD BYRON
Too late thou leav'st the high command
To which thy weakness clung;
All Evil Spirit as thou art,
It is enough to grieve the heart
To see thine own unstrung;
To think that God's fair world hath been
The footstool of a thing so mean!
And Earth hath spilt her blood for him,
Who thus can hoard his own!
And Monarchs bowed the trembling limb,
And thanked him for a throne!
Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear,
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear
In humblest guise have shown.
Oh! ne'er may tyrant leave behind
A brighter name to lure mankind!
Thine evil deeds are writ in gore,
Nor written thus in vain-
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more,
Or deepen every stain:
If thou hadst died, as honor dies,
Some new Napoleon might arise,
To shame the world again;
But who would soar the solar height,
To set in such a starless night?
Weighed in the balance, hero dust
Is vile as vulgar clay;
Thy scales, Mortality! are just
To all that pass away;
But yet methought the living great
Some higher sparks should animate,
To dazzle and dismay:
Nor deemed Contempt could thus make mirth
Of these, the Conquerors of the earth.
And she, proud Austria's mournful flower,
Thy still imperial bride,
How bears her breast the torturing hour?
Still clings she to thy side ?
Must she too bend, must she too share
Thy late repentance, long despair,
Thou throneless Homicide ?
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem
'Tis worth thy vanished diadem!


## p. 2981 (#555) ###########################################

LORD BYRON
2981
Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,
And gaze upon the sea;
That element may meet thy smile
It ne'er was ruled by thee!
Or trace with thine all idle hand,
In loitering mood upon the sand,
That Earth is now as free!
That Corinth's pedagogue* hath now
Transferred his byword to thy brow.
Thou Timour! in his captive's cage,
What thoughts will there be thine,
While brooding in thy prisoned rage ?
But one -«The world was mine! »
Unless, like him of Babylon,
All sense is with thy sceptre gone,
Life will not long confine
That spirit poured so widely forth —
So long obeyed — so little worth !
THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO
From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage'
THE
HERE 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!
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!
#
Dionysius of Sicily, who, after his fall, kept a school at Corinth.


## p. 2982 (#556) ###########################################

2982
LORD BYRON
Within a windowed niche of that high hall
Sat 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.
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 could guess
If 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 drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While thronged the citizens with terror dumnb,
Or whispering with white lips — «The foe! They come! they
come ! »
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 instills
The 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 grass


## p. 2983 (#557) ###########################################

LORD BYRON
2983
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
Of living valor, rolling on the foe,
And burning with high hope, shall molder 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 marshaling 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!
MAZEPPA'S RIDE
From Mazeppa)
T"
He last of human sounds which rose,
As I was darted from my foes,
Was the wild shout of savage laughter,
Which on the wind came roaring after
A moment from that rabble rout:
With sudden wrath I wrenched my head,
And snapped the cord which to the mane
Had bound my neck in lieu of rein,
And, writhing half my form about,
Howled back my curse; but 'midst the tread,
The thunder of my courser's speed,
Perchance they did not hear nor heed;
It vexes me - for I would fain
Have paid their insult back again.
I paid it well in after days:
There is not of that castle. gate,
Its drawbridge and portcullis weight,
Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left;
Nor of its fields a blade of grass,
Save what grows on a ridge of wall,
Where stood the hearthstone of the hall;
And many a time ye there might pass,
Nor dream that e'er that fortress was:
I saw its turrets in a blaze,


## p. 2984 (#558) ###########################################

2984
LORD BYRON
Their crackling battlements all cleft,
And the hot lead pour down like rain
From off the scorched and blackening roof,
Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof.
They little thought, that day of pain
When, launched as on the lightning's flash,
They bade me to destruction dash,
That one day I should come again,
With twice five thousand horse, to thank
The Count for his uncourteous ride.
They played me then a bitter prank,
When, with the wild horse for my guide,
They bound me to his foaming flank:
At length I played them one as frank --
For time at last sets all things even
And if we do but watch the hour,
There never yet was human power
Which could evade, if unforgiven,
The patient search and vigil long
Of him who treasures up a wrong.
We rustled through the leaves like wind,
Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind.
By night I heard them on the track,
Their troop came hard upon our back,
With their long gallop, which can tire
The hound's ep hate and hunter's fire:
Where'er we flew they followed on,
Nor left us with the morning sun;
Behind I saw them, scarce a rood,
At daybreak winding through the wood.
And through the night had heard their feet
Their stealing, rustling step repeat.
Oh! how I wished for spear or sword,
At least to die amidst the horde,
And perish — if it must be so-
At bay, destroying many a foe.
When first my courser's race begun,
I wished the goal already won;
But now I doubted strength and speed.
Vain doubt! his swift and savage breed
Had nerved him like the mountain roe;
Not faster falls the blinding snow


## p. 2985 (#559) ###########################################

LORD BYRON
2985
Which whelms the peasant near the door
Whose threshold he shall cross no more,
Bewildered with the dazzling blast,
Than through the forest-paths he passed -
Untired, untamed, and worse than wild;
All furious as a favored child
Balked of its wish; or fiercer still
A woman piqued — who has her will.
.
.
Onward we went- but slack and slow:
His savage force at length o'erspent,
The drooping courser, faint and low,
All feebly foaming went.
At length, while reeling on our way,
Methought I heard a courser neigh,
From out yon tuft of blackening firs.
Is it the wind those branches stirs ?
No, no! from out the forest prance
A trampling troop; I see them come!
In one vast squadron they advance!
I strove to cry — my lips were dumb.
The steeds rush on in plunging pride;
But where are they the reins to guide ?
A thousand horse — and none to ride!
With flowing tail, and flying mane,
Wide nostrils, never stretched by pain,
Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein,
And feet that iron never shod,
And flanks unscarred by spur or rod,
A thousand horse, the wild, the free,
Like waves that follow o'er the sea,
Came thickly thundering on,
As if our faint approach to meet;
The sight re-nerved my courser's feet;
A moment staggering, feebly fleet,
A moment, with a faint low neigh.
He answered, and then fell;
With gasps and glazing eyes he lay,
And reeking limbs immovable
His first and last career is done!


## p. 2986 (#560) ###########################################

2986
LORD BYRON
U
THE IRISH AVATAR
E
RE the Daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave,
And her ashes still float to their home o'er the tide,
Lo! George the triumphant speeds over the wave,
To the long-cherished Isle which he loved like his — bride.
True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone,
The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom could pause
For the few little years, out of centuries won,
Which betrayed not, or crushed not, or wept not her cause.
True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags;
The castle still stands, and the senate's no more;
And the famine which dwelt on her freedomless crags
Is extending its steps to her desolate shore.
}
To her desolate shore where the emigrant stands
For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth;
Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from his hands,
For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth.
But he comes! the Messiah of royalty comes!
Like a goodly leviathan rolled from the waves!
Then receive him as best such an advent becomes,
With a legion of cooks, and an army of slaves!
He comes in the promise and bloom of threescore,
To perform in the pageant the sovereign's part-
But long live the shamrock which shadows him o'er!
Could the green in his hat be transferred to his heart!
Could that long-withered spot but be verdant again,
And a new spring of noble affections arise
Then might Freedom forgive thee this dance in thy chain,
And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the skies.
Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now?
Were he God as he is but the commonest clay,
With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow
Such servile devotion might shame him away.
1
Ay, roar in his train! let thine orators lash
Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride:
Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash
His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied.
1


## p. 2987 (#561) ###########################################

LORD BYRON
2987
Ever glorious Grattan! the best of the good!
So simple in lieart, so sublime in the rest!
With all which Demosthenes wanted, endued,
And his rival or victor in all he possessed.
Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome.
Though unequaled, preceded, the task was begun;
But Grattan sprung up like a god from the tomb
Of ages, the first, last, the savior, the one !
With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute;
With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind;
Even Tyranny, listening, sate melted or mute,
And corruption shrunk scorched from the glance of his mind.
But back to our theme! Back to despots and slaves!
Feasts furnished by Famine! rejoicings by Pain!
True Freedom but welcomes, while slavery still raves,
When a week's Saturnalia hath loosened her chain.
Let the poor squalid splendor thy wreck can afford
(As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would hide)
Gild over the palace. Lo! Erin, thy lord !
Kiss his foot with thy blessing, his blessings denied !
Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last,
If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay,
Must what terror or policy wring forth be classed (prey?
With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves yield their
Each brute hath its nature; king's is to reign,-
To reign! in that word see, ye ages, comprised
The cause of the curses all annals contain,
From Cæsar the dreaded to George the despised!
Wear, Fingal, thy trapping! O'Connell, proclaim
His accomplishments! His! ! ! and thy country convince
Half an age's contempt was an error of fame,
And that “Hal is the rascalliest, sweetest young prince! »
Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall
The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs ?
Or has it not bound thee the fastest of all
The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with hymns ?
Ay! “Build him a dwelling! ” let each give his mite!
Till like Babel the new royal dome hath arisen!


## p. 2988 (#562) ###########################################

2988
LORD BYRON
Let thy beggars and Helots their pittance unite -
And a palace bestow for a poor-house and prison !
Spread — spread for Vitellius the royal repast,
Till the gluttonous despot be stuffed to the gorge!
And the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at last
The Fourth of the fools and oppressors called George ”!
((
Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan!
Till they groan like thy people, through ages of woe!
Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's throne,
Like their blood which has flowed, and which yet has to flow.
But let not his name be thine idol alone -
On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears!
Thine own Castlereagh! let him still be thine own!
A wretch never named but with curses and jeers!
Till now, when the isle which should blush for his birth,
Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her soil,
Seems proud of the reptile which crawled from her earth,
And for murder repays him with shouts and a smile!
Without one single ray of her genius, without
The fancy, the manhood, the fire of her race —
The miscreant who well might plunge Erin in doubt
If she ever gave birth to a being so base.
If she did — let her long-boasted proverb be hushed,
Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile can spring:
See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full flushed,
Still warming its folds in the breast of a King!
Shout, drink, feast, and flatter! O Erin, how low
Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till
Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below
The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still!
My voice, though but humble, was raised for thy right:
My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free;
This hand, though but feeble, would arm in thy fight,
And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still for thee!
Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my land;
I have known noble hearts and great souls in thy sons,
And I wept with the world o'er the patriot band
Who are gone, but I weep them no longer as once.


## p. 2989 (#563) ###########################################

LORD BYRON
2989
For happy are they now reposing afar,—
Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, all
Who for years were the chiefs in the eloquent war,
And redeemed, if they have not retarded, thy fall.
Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves!
Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of to-day,–
Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves
Be stamped in the turf o'er their fetterless clay.
Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore,
Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled
There was something so warm and sublime in the core
Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy – thy dead.
Or if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour
My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore,
Which though trod like the worm will not turn upon power,
'Tis the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore!
THE DREAM
I
0"
U'R life is twofold: sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence; sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality;
And dreams in their development have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off our waking toils,
They do divide our being; they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time,
And look like heralds of eternity;
They pass like spirits of the past, - they speak
Like sibyls of the future; they have power —
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;
They make us what we were not — what they will,
And make us with the vision that's gone by,
The dread of vanished shadows. — Are they so ?
Is not the past all shadow ? What are they?
Creations of the mind ? — The mind can make
Substance, and people planets of its own
With beings brighter than have been, and give
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.


## p. 2990 (#564) ###########################################

2990
LORD BYRON
I would recall a vision which I dreamed
Perchance in sleep — for in itself a thought,
A slumbering thought, is capable of years,
And curdles a long life into one hour.
II
I saw two beings in the hues of youth
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill,
Green and of mild declivity, the last
As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such,
Save that there was no sea to lave its base,
But a most living landscape, and the wave
Of woods and corn-fields, and the abodes of men
Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke
Arising from such rustic roofs;— the hill
Was crowned with a peculiar diadem
Of trees, in circular array, so fixed,
Not by the sport of nature, but of man:
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there
Gazing - the one on all that was beneath
Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her;
And both were young, and one was beautiful;
And both were young, yet not alike in youth.
As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge,
The maid was on the eve of womanhood;
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on him; he had looked
Upon it till it could not pass away;
He had no breath, no being, but in hers;
She was his voice; he did not speak to her,
But trembled on her words; she was his sight,
For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers,
Which colored all his objects; — he had ceased
To live within himself; she was his life,
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,
Which terminated all: upon a tone,
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow,
And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart
Unknowing of its cause of agony.
But she in these fond feelings had no share:
Her sighs were not for him; to her he was
Even as a brother - but no more: 'twas much,
1
1
1


## p. 2991 (#565) ###########################################

LORD BYRON
2991
For brotherless she was, save in the name
Her infant friendship had bestowed on him;
Herself the solitary scion left
Of a time-honored race. - It was a name
Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not -- and why?
Time taught him a deep answer — when she loved
Another; even now she loved another,
And on the summit of that hill she stood
Looking afar if yet her lover's steed
Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew.
III
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
There was an ancient mansion, and before
Its walls there was a steed caparisoned.
Within an antique oratory stood
The boy of whom I spake; — he was alone,
And pale, and pacing to and fro; anon
He sat him down, and seized a pen, and traced
Words which I could not guess of: then he leaned
His bowed head on his hands, and shook as 'twere
With a convulsion — then arose again,
And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear
What he had written, but he shed no tears.
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow
Into a kind of quiet: as he paused,
The lady of his love re-entered there;
She was serene and smiling then, and yet
She knew she was by him beloved, - she knew,
For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart
Was darkened with her shadow, and she saw
That he was wretched; but she saw not all.
He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp
He took her hand; a moment o'er his face
A tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded as it came;
He dropped the hand he held, and with slow steps
Retired, but not as bidding her adieu,
For they did part with mutual smiles; he passed
From out the massy gate of that old hall,
And mounting on his steed he went his way,
And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more.


## p. 2992 (#566) ###########################################

2992
LORD BYRON
IV
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds
Of fiery climes he made himself a home,
And his soul drank their sunbeams: he was girt
With strange and dusky aspects; he was not
Himself like what he had been; on the sea
And on the shore he was a wanderer.
There was a mass of many images
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was
A part of all; and in the last he lay
Reposing from the noontide sultriness,
Couched among fallen columns, in the shade
Of ruined walls that had survived the names
Of those who reared them; by his sleeping side
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds
Were fastened near a fountain; and a man
Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while,
While many of his tribe slumbered around:
And they were canopied by the blue sky,
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful,
That God alone was to be seen in Heaven.
V
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The lady of his love was wed with one
Who did not love her better: in her home,
A thousand leagues from his, — her native home,
She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy,
Daughters and sons of beauty, but behold!
Upon her face there was the tint of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the eye,
As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.
What could her grief be? — she had all she loved,
And he who had so loved her was not there
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish,
Or ill-repressed affliction, her pure thoughts.
What could her grief be? — she had loved him not,
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved,
Nor could he be a part of that which preyed
Upon her mind — a spectre of the past.


## p. 2993 (#567) ###########################################

LORD BYRON
2993
VI
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The wanderer was returned. - I saw him stand
Before an altar with a gentle bride;
Her face was fair, but was not that which made
The star-light of his boyhood; - as he stood
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came
The self-same aspect, and the quivering shock
That in the antique oratory shook
His bosom in its solitude; and then
As in that hour — a moment o'er his face
The tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced - and then it faded as it came,
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke
The fitting vows, but heard not his own words,
And all things reeled around him; he could see
Not that which was, nor that which should have been
But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall,
And the remembered chambers, and the place,
The day, the hour, the sunshine and the shade,
All things pertaining to that place and hour,
And her who was his destiny came back,
And thrust themselves between him and the light:
What business had they there at such a time ?
VII
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The lady of his love oh! she was changed
As by the sickness of the soul; her mind
Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes,
They had not their own lustre, but the look
Which is not of the earth; she was become
The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things;
And forms impalpable and unperceived
Of others' sight, familiar were to hers.
And this the world calls frenzy: but the wise
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance
Of melancholy is a fearful gift;
What is it but the telescope of truth?
Which strips the distance of its phantasies,
And brings life near in utter nakedness,
Making the cold reality too real!
V-188


## p. 2994 (#568) ###########################################

2994
LORD BYRON
VIII
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The wanderer was alone as heretofore;
The beings which surrounded him were gone,
Or were at war with him; he was a mark
For blight and desolation, compassed round
With hatred and contention; pain was mixed
In all which was served up to him, until,
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,
He fed on poisons, and they had no power,
But were a kind of nutriment; he lived
Through that which had been death to many men
And made him friends of mountains: with the stars
And the quick spirit of the universe
He held his dialogues; and they did teach
To him the magic of their mysteries;
To him the book of night was opened wide,
And voices from the deep abyss revealed
A marvel and a secret
Be it so.
IX
My dream was past; it had no further change.
It was of a strange order, that the doom
Of these two creatures should be thus traced out
Almost like a reality - the one
To end in madness — both in misery.
SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY
From Hebrew Melodies)
S"
He 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.
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;


## p. 2995 (#569) ###########################################

LORD BYRON
2995
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear, their dwelling-place.
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!
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB
T".
HE 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.
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.
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 forever grew still!
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.
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 trumpets unblown.
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!


## p. 2996 (#570) ###########################################

2996
LORD BYRON
FROM THE PRISONER OF CHILLON)
M
Y HAIR is gray, but not with years,
Nor grew it white
In a single night,
As men's have grown from sudden fears;
My limbs are bowed, though not with toil,
But rusted with a vile repose,
For they have been a dungeon's spoil,
And mine has been the fate of those
To whom the goodly earth and air
Are banned and barred — forbidden fare:
But this was for my father's faith
I suffered chains and courted death;
That father perished at the stake
For tenets he would not forsake:
And for the same his lineal race
In darkness found a dwelling-place;
We were seven who now are one,
Six in youth, and one in age,
Finished as they had begun,
Proud of persecution's rage;
One in fire, and two in field,
Their belief with blood have sealed;
Dying as their father died,
For the God their foes denied;
Three were in a dungeon cast,
Of whom this wreck is left the last.
There are seven pillars of Gothic mold
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old;
There are seven columns, massy and gray,
Dim with a dull imprisoned ray,
A sunbeam which hath lost its way,
And through the crevice and the cleft
Of the thick wall is fallen and left;
Creeping o'er the foor so damp,
Like a marsh's meteor lamp:
And in each pillar there is a ring,
And in each ring there is a chain;
That iron is a cankering thing,
For in these limbs its teeth remain,
With marks that will not wear away,
Till I have done with this new day,
.


## p. 2997 (#571) ###########################################

LORD BYRON
2997
Which now is painful to these eyes,
Which have not seen the sun so rise
For years
-I cannot count them o'er;
I lost their long and heavy score
When my last brother drooped and died,
And I lay living by his side.
Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls:
A thousand feet in depth below,
Its massy waters meet and flow;
Thus much the fathom-line was sent
From Chillon's snow-white battlement,
Which round about the wave enthralls:
A double dungeon wall and wave
Have made — and like a living grave
Below the surface of the lake
The dark vault lies wherein we lay;
We heard it ripple night and day:
Sounding o'er our heads it knocked;
And I have felt the winter's spray
Wash through the bars when winds were high
And wanton in the happy sky;
And then the very rock hath rocked,
And I have felt it shake unshocked,
Because I could have smiled to see
The death that would have set me free.
PROMETHEUS
I
T".
VITAN! to whose immortal eyes
The sufferings of mortality,
Seen in their sad reality,
Were not as things that gods despise:
What was thy pity's recompense ?
A silent suffering, and intense;
The rock, the vulture, and the chain,
All that the proud can feel of pain,
The agony they do not show,
The suffocating sense of woe,
Which speaks but in its loneliness,
And then is jealous lest the sky
Should have a listener, nor will sigh
Until its voice is echoless.


## p. 2998 (#572) ###########################################

2998
LORD BYRON
II
Titan! to thee the strife was given
Between the suffering and the will,
Which torture where they cannot kill;
And the inexorable Heaven,
And the deaf tyranny of Fate,
The ruling principle of Hate,
Which for its pleasure doth create
The things it may annihilate,
Refused thee even the boon to die;
The wretched gift eternity
Was thine -- and thou hast borne it well.
All that the Thunderer wrung from thee
Was but the menace which flung back
On him the torments of thy rack;
The fate thou didst so well foresee,
But would not to appease him tell;
And in thy Silence was his Sentence,
And in his Soul a vain repentance,
And evil dread so ill dissembled
That in his hand the lightnings trembled.
III
Thy Godlike crime was to be kind,
To render with thy precepts less
The sum of human wretchedness,
And strengthen Man with his own mind;
But baffled as thou wert from high,
Still in thy patient energy,
In the endurance and repulse
Of thine impenetrable Spirit,
Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse,
A mighty lesson we inherit:
Thou art a symbol and a sign
To Mortals of their fate and force;
Like thee, Man is in part divine,
A troubled stream from a pure source;
And Man in portions can foresee
His own funereal destiny;
His wretchedness and his resistance,
And his sad unallied existence:
To which his Spirit may oppose
Itself — and equal to all woes,


## p. 2999 (#573) ###########################################

LORD BYRON
2999
And a firm will, and a deep sense,
Which even in torture can descry
Its own concentred recompense,
Triumphant where it dares defy,
And making Death a Victory.
A SUMMING-UP
From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage)
I
HAVE not loved the world, nor the world me;
I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed
To its idolatries a patient knee,-
Nor coined my cheek to smiles,— nor cried aloud
In worship of an echo: in the crowd
They could not deem me one of such; I stood
Among them, but not of them, in a shroud
Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could,
Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued.
I have not loved the world, nor the world me,–
But let us part fair foes. I do believe,
Though I have found them not, that there may be
Words which are things,— hopes which will not deceive,
And virtues which are merciful, nor weave
Snares for the failing: I would also deem
O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve;
That two, or one, are almost what they seem,
That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream.
ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR
'T'S
MISSOLONGHI, January 22d, 1824.
vs time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it hath ceased to move:
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!
My days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of love are gone:
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!


## p. 3000 (#574) ###########################################

3000
LORD BYRON
The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze —
A funeral pile.
The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.
But 'tis not thus, and 'tis not here,
Such thoughts should shake my soul — nor now,
Where glory decks the hero's bier,
Or binds his brow.
The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.
Awake! (not Greece — she is awake! )
Awake, my spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!
Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood ! — unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.
If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live?
The land of honorable death
Is here:-up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!
Seek out less often sought than found-
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.


## p. 3001 (#575) ###########################################

3001
FERNAN CABALLERO
(CECILIA BÖHL DE FABER)
(1796-1877)
NGLAND, France, and Spain have each produced within this
century a woman of genius, taking rank among the very
first writers of their respective countries. Fernan Caballero,
without possessing the breadth of intellect or the scholarship of
George Eliot, or the artistic sense of George Sand, is yet worthy to
be named with these two great novelists for the place she holds in
Spanish literature. Interesting parallels might be drawn between
them, aside from the curious coincidence that each chose a mascu-
line pen-name to conceal her sex, and to gain the ear of a generation
suspicious of feminine achievements. Each portrayed both the life
of the gentleman and that of the rustic, and each is at her best in
her homelier portraitures.
Unlike her illustrious compeers, Fernan Caballero did not grow
up amid the scenes she drew. In the scanty records of her life it
does not appear whether, like George Sand, she had first to get rid
of a rebellious self before she could produce those objective master-
pieces of description, where the individuality of the writer disappears
in her realization of the lives and thoughts of a class alien to her
Her inner life cannot be reconstructed from her stories: her
outward life can be told in a few words. She was born December
25th, 1796, in Morges, Switzerland, the daughter of Juan Nicholas Böhl
de Faber, a German merchant in Cadiz, who had married a Spanish
lady of noble family. A cultivated man he was, greatly interested
in the past of Spain, and had published a collection of old Castil-
ian ballads. From him Cecilia derived her love of Spanish folk-lore.
Her earliest years were spent going from place to place with her
parents, now Spain, now Paris, now Germany. From six to sixteen
she was at school in Hamburg. Joining her family in Cadiz, she
was married at the age of seventeen. Left a widow within a short
time, she married after five years the wealthy Marquis de Arco-
Hermaso. His palace in Seville became a social centre, for his young
wife, beautiful, witty, and accomplished, was a born leader of society.
She now had to the full the opportunity of studying those types of
Spanish ladies and gentlemen whose gay, inconsequent chatter she has
so brilliantly reproduced in her novels dealing with high life. The
own.


## p. 3002 (#576) ###########################################

3002
FERNAN CABALLERO
i
success.
Marquis died in 1835, and after two years she again married, this
time the lawyer De Arrom. Losing his own money and hers, he
went as Spanish consul to Australia, where he died in 1863. She
remained behind, retired to the country, and turned to literature.
From 1857 to 1866 she lived in the Alcazar in Seville, as governess
to the royal children of Spain. She died April 7th, 1877, in Seville, -
somewhat solitary, for a new life of ideas flowing into Spain, and
opposing her intense conservatism, isolated her from companionship.
Fernan Caballero began to publish when past fifty, attained
instant success, and never again reached the high level of her first
book. La Gaviota' (The Sea-Gull) appeared in 1849 in the pages
of a Madrid daily paper, and at once made its author famous. (The
Family of Alvøreda,' an earlier story, was published after her first
Washington Irving, who saw the manuscript of this,
encouraged her to go on. Her novels were fully translated, and she
soon had a European reputation. Her work may be divided into
three classes: novels of social life in Seville, such as Elia' and
Clemencia'; novels of Andalusian peasant life, as "The Family of
Alvoreda' ('La Gaviota' uniting both); and a number of short
stories pointing a moral or embodying a proverb. She published
besides, in 1859, the first collection of Spanish fairy tales.
Fernan Caballero created the modern Spanish novel. For two
hundred years after Cervantes there are few names of note in prose
fiction. French taste dominated Spanish literature, and poor imita-
tions of the French satisfied the reading public. A foreigner by
birth and a cosmopolitan by education, the clever new-comer cried
out against this foreign influence, and set herself to bring the
national characteristics to the front. She belonged to the old Span-
ish school, with its Catholicism, its prejudices, its reverence for the
old, its hatred of new ideas and modern improvements. She painted
thus Old Spain with a master's brush. But she especially loved
Andalusia, that most poetic province of her country, with its deep-
blue luminous sky, its luxuriant vegetation, its light-hearted, witty
populace, and she wrote of them with rare insight and exquisite
tenderness. Tasked with having idealized them, she replied:_"Many
years of unremitting study, pursued con amore, justify me in assuring
those who find fault with my portrayal of popular life that they are
less acquainted with them than I am. ” And in another place she
says: -“It is amongst the people that we find the poetry of Spain
and of her chronicles. Their faith, their character, their sentiment,
all bear the seal of originality and of romance. Their language may
be compared to a garland of flowers. The Andalusian peasant is
elegant in his bearing, in his dress, in his language, and in his
ideas. ”


## p. 3003 (#577) ###########################################

FERNAN CABALLERO
3003
Her stories lose immensely in the translation, for it is almost im-
possible to reproduce in another tongue the racy native speech, with
its constant play on words, its wealth of epigrammatic proverbs, its
snatches of ballad or song interwoven into the common talk of the
day. The Andalusian peasant has an inexhaustible store of bits of
poetry, coplas, that fit into every occurrence of his daily life. Fernan
Caballero gathered up these flowers of speech as they fell from the
lips of the common man, and wove them into her tales. Besides their
pictures of Andalusian rural life, these stories reveal a wealth of
popular songs, ballads, legends, and fairy tales, invaluable alike to
the student of manners and of folk-lore. She has little constructive
skill, but much genius for detail. As a painter of manners and of
nature she is unrivaled. In a few bold strokes she brings a whole
village before our eyes. Nor is the brute creation forgotten. In her
sympathy for animals she shows her foreign extraction, the true
Spaniard having little compassion for his beasts. She inveighs against
the national sport, the bull-fight; against the cruel treatment of
domestic animals. Her work is always fresh and interesting, full of
humor and of pathos. A close observer and a realist, she never dwells
on the unlovely, is never unhealthy or sentimental. Her name is a
household word in Spain, where a foremost critic wrote of 'La
Gaviota':-“This is the dawn of a beautiful day, the first bloom of
a poetic crown that will encircle the head of a Spanish Walter
Scott. ”
Perhaps the best summary of her work is given in her own words,
where she says:-
«In composing this light work we did not intend to write a novel,
but strove to give an exact and true idea of Spain, of the manners
of its people, of their character, of their habits. We desired to
sketch the home life of the people in the higher and lower classes,
to depict their language, their faith, their traditions, their legends.
What we have sought above all is to paint after nature, and with
the most scrupulous exactitude, the objects and persons brought
forward. Therefore our readers will seek in vain amid our actors for
accomplished heroes or consummate villains, such as are found in
the romances of chivalry or in melodramas. Our ambition has been
to give as true an idea as possible of Spain and the Spaniards. We
have tried to dissipate those monstrous prejudices transmitted and
preserved like Egyptian mummies from generation to generation. It
seemed to us that the best means of attaining this end was to
replace with pictures traced by a Spanish pen those false sketches
sprung from the pens of strangers. ”


## p. 3004 (#578) ###########################################

3004
FERNAN CABALLERO
THE BULL-FIGHT
From (La Gaviota?
W*
HEN after dinner Stein and his wife arrived at the place
assigned for the bull-fight, they found it already filled
with people.
A brief and sustained animation preceded
the fête. This immense rendezvous, where were gathered
together all the population of the city and its environs; this
agitation, like to that of the blood which in the paroxysms of a
violent passion rushes to the heart; this feverish expectation, this
frantic excitement,-kept, however, within the limits of order;
these exclamations, petulant without insolence; this deep anxiety
which gives a quivering to pleasure: all this together formed a
species of moral magnetism; one must succumb to its force or
hasten to fly from it.
Stein, struck with vertigo, and his heart wrung, would have
chosen flight: his timidity kept him where he was.
He saw
in all eyes which were turned on him the glowing of joy and
happiness; he dared not appear singular. Twelve thousand per-
sons were assembled in this place; the rich were thrown in the
shade, and the varied colors of the costumes of the Andalusian
people were reflected in the rays of the sun.
Soon the arena was cleared.
Then came forward the picadores, mounted on their unfortu-
nate horses, who with head lowered and sorrowful eyes seemed
to be -- and were in reality — victims marching to the sacrifice.
Stein, at the appearance of these poor animals, felt himself
change to a painful compassion; a species of disgust which he
already experienced. The provinces of the peninsula which he had
traversed hitherto were devastated by the civil war, and he had
had no opportunity of seeing these fêtes, so grand, so national,
and so popular, where were united to the brilliant Moorish
strategy the ferocious intrepidity of the Gothic race. But he
had often heard these spectacles spoken of, and he knew that
the merit of a fight is generally estimated by the number of
horses that are slain. His pity was excited towards these poor
animals, which, after having rendered great services to their
masters,- after having conferred on them triumph, and perhaps
saved their lives, - had for their recompense, when age and the
excess of work had exhausted their strength, an atrocious death
1
i


## p. 3005 (#579) ###########################################

FERNAN CABALLERO
3005
which by a refinement of cruelty they were obliged themselves
to seek. Instinct made them seek this death; some resisted,
while others, more resigned or more feeble, went docilely before
them to abridge their agony. The sufferings of these unfortu-
nate animals touched the hardest heart; but the amateurs had
neither eyes, attention, nor interest, except for the bull. They
were under a real fascination, which communicated itself to
most of the strangers who came to Spain, and principally for
this barbarous amusement. Besides, it must be avowed — and
we avow it with grief — that compassion for animals is, in
Spain, particularly among the men, a sentiment more theoretical
than practical. Among the lower classes it does not exist at all.
The three picadores saluted the president of the fête, preceded
by the banderilleros and the chulos, splendidly dressed, and car-
rying the capas of bright and brilliant colors. The matadores
and their substitutes commanded all these combatants, and wore
the most luxurious costumes.
“Pepe Vera! here is Pepe Vera ! ” cried all the spectators.
« The scholar of Montés! Brave boy! What a jovial fellow!
how well he is made! what elegance and vivacity in all his
person! how firm his look! what a calm eye! ”
“Do you know,” said a young man seated near to Stein,
“what is the lesson Montés gives to his scholars ?
He pushes
them, their arms crossed, close to the bull, and says to them,
Do not fear the bull — brave the bull! ) »
Pepe Vera descended into the arena. His costume was of
cherry-colored satin, with shoulder-knots and silver embroidery
in profusion. From the little pockets of his vest stuck out the
points of orange-colored scarfs. A waistcoat of rich tissue of
silver and a pretty little cap of velvet completed his coquettish
and charming costume of majo.
After having saluted the authorities with much ease and
grace, he went like the other combatants to take his accustomed
place. The three picadores also went to their posts, at equal
distance from each other, near to the barrier. There was then
a profound, an imposing silence. One might have said that this
crowd, lately so noisy, had suddenly lost the faculty of breathing.
The alcalde gave the signal, the clarions sounded, and as if
the trumpet of the Last Judgment had been heard, all the spec-
tators arose with most perfect ensemble; and suddenly was seen
opened the large door of the toril, placed opposite to the box
>>>


## p. 3006 (#580) ###########################################

3006
FERNAN CABALLERO
occupied by the authorities. A bull whose hide was red pre-
cipitated himself into the arena, and was assailed by a universal
explosion of cheers, of cries, of abuse, and of praise.