The Works of Lord Byron Volume II Part 41

x.x.xIII.

Even as a broken Mirror,[296] which the gla.s.s 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.

x.x.xIV.

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's sh.o.r.e,[7.B.]

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?

x.x.xV.

The Psalmist numbered out the years of man: They are enough; and if thy tale be _true_,[hr]

Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleeting span,[297]

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,[hs]

Our countrymen were warring on that day!"

And this is much--and all--which will not pa.s.s away.

x.x.xVI.

There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, Whose Spirit, ant.i.thetically mixed, One moment of the mightiest, and again On little objects with like firmness fixed;[ht]

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[hu][298]

Even now to re-a.s.sume the imperial mien,[299]

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

x.x.xVII.

Conqueror and Captive of the Earth art thou!

She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name[hv]

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 Va.s.sal, and became[hw]

The flatterer of thy fierceness--till thou wert A G.o.d unto thyself; nor less the same To the astounded kingdoms all inert, Who deemed thee for a time whate'er thou didst a.s.sert.

x.x.xVIII.

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 pa.s.sion, nor, However deeply in men's spirits skilled, Look through thine own, nor curb the l.u.s.t of War, Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest Star.

x.x.xIX.

Yet well thy soul hath brooked the turning tide With that untaught innate philosophy, Which, be it Wisdom, Coldness, or deep Pride,[hx]

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[hy]

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[hz]

Ambition steeled thee on too far to 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 headlong 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.[8.B.]

XLII.

But Quiet to quick bosoms is a h.e.l.l, 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[ia]

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,[ib]

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 l.u.s.t to s.h.i.+ne 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[ic]

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 surpa.s.ses or subdues mankind, Must look down on the hate of those below.[id]

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,[ie]

And thus reward the toils which to those summits led.

XLVI.

Away with these! true Wisdom's world will be[if]

Within its own creation, or in thine, Maternal Nature! for who teems like thee,[ig]

Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine?

There Harold gazes on a work divine, A blending of all beauties; streams and dells, Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, cornfield, mountain, vine, And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells.[ih]

XLVII.

And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd, All tenantless, save to the crannying Wind, Or holding dark communion with the Cloud There was a day when they were young and proud; Banners on high, and battles[300] pa.s.sed below; But they who fought are in a b.l.o.o.d.y shroud, And those which waved are shredless dust ere now,[ii]

And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow.

XLVIII.

Beneath these battlements, within those walls, Power dwelt amidst her pa.s.sions; in proud state Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, Doing his evil will, nor less elate Than mightier heroes of a longer date.

What want these outlaws conquerors should have[ij][9.B.]

But History's purchased page to call them great?

A wider s.p.a.ce--an ornamented grave?

Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full as brave.[ik]

XLIX.

In their baronial feuds and single fields, What deeds of prowess unrecorded died!

And Love, which lent a blazon to their s.h.i.+elds,[301]

With emblems well devised by amorous pride, Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide; But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on Keen contest and destruction near allied, And many a tower for some fair mischief won, Saw the discoloured Rhine beneath its ruin run.

L.