The Works of Lord Byron Volume V Part 121

_Arn._ No; I will not.

I must not compromise my soul.

_Stran._ What soul, Worth naming so, would dwell in such a carcase?

_Arn._ 'Tis an aspiring one, whate'er the tenement In which it is mislodged. But name your compact: Must it be signed in blood?

_Stran._ Not in your own.

_Arn._ Whose blood then?

_Stran._ We will talk of that hereafter.

But I'll be moderate with you, for I see 150 Great things within you. You shall have no bond But your own will, no contract save your deeds.

Are you content?

_Arn._ I take thee at thy word.

_Stran._ Now then!-- [_The Stranger approaches the fountain, and turns to_ ARNOLD.

A little of your blood.[208]

_Arn._ For what?

_Stran._ To mingle with the magic of the waters, And make the charm effective.

_Arn._ (_holding out his wounded arm_). Take it all.

_Stran._ Not now. A few drops will suffice for this.

[_The Stranger takes some of_ ARNOLD'S _blood in his hand, and casts it into the fountain_.

Shadows of Beauty!

Shadows of Power!

Rise to your duty-- 160 This is the hour!

Walk lovely and pliant[cz]

From the depth of this fountain, As the cloud-shapen giant Bestrides the Hartz Mountain.[209]

Come as ye were, That our eyes may behold The model in air Of the form I will mould, Bright as the Iris 170 When ether is spanned;-- Such _his_ desire is, [_Pointing to_ ARNOLD.

Such _my_ command![da]

Demons heroic-- Demons who wore The form of the Stoic Or sophist of yore-- Or the shape of each victor-- From Macedon's boy, To each high Roman's picture, 180 Who breathed to destroy-- Shadows of Beauty!

Shadows of Power!

Up to your duty-- This is the hour!

[_Various phantoms arise from the waters, and pa.s.s in succession before the Stranger and_ ARNOLD.

_Arn._ What do I see?

_Stran._ The black-eyed Roman,[210] with The eagle's beak between those eyes which ne'er Beheld a conqueror, or looked along The land he made not Rome's, while Rome became His, and all theirs who heired his very name. 190

_Arn._ The phantom's bald; _my_ quest is beauty. Could I Inherit but his fame with his defects!

_Stran._ His brow was girt with laurels more than hairs.[211]

You see his aspect--choose it, or reject.

I can but promise you his form; his fame Must be long sought and fought for.

_Arn._ I will fight, too, But not as a mock Caesar. Let him pa.s.s: His aspect may be fair, but suits me not.

_Stran._ Then you are far more difficult to please Than Cato's sister, or than Brutus's mother, 200 Or Cleopatra at sixteen[212]--an age When love is not less in the eye than heart.

But be it so! Shadow, pa.s.s on!

[_The phantom of Julius Caesar disappears_.

_Arn._ And can it Be, that the man who shook the earth is gone,[db]

And left no footstep?

_Stran._ There you err. His substance Left graves enough, and woes enough, and fame More than enough to track his memory; But for his shadow--'tis no more than yours, Except a little longer and less crooked I' the sun. Behold another! [_A second phantom pa.s.ses_.

_Arn._ Who is he? 210

_Stran._ He was the fairest and the bravest of Athenians.[213] Look upon him well.

_Arn._ He is More lovely than the last. How beautiful!

_Stran._ Such was the curled son of Clinias;--wouldst thou Invest thee with his form?

_Arn._ Would that I had Been born with it! But since I may choose further, I will _look_ further. [_The shade of Alcibiades disappears_.

_Stran._ Lo! behold again!

_Arn._ What! that low, swarthy, short-nosed, round-eyed satyr, With the wide nostrils and Silenus' aspect, The splay feet and low stature![214] I had better 220 Remain that which I am.

_Stran._ And yet he was The earth's perfection of all mental beauty, And personification of all virtue.

But you reject him?

_Arn._ If his form could bring me That which redeemed it--no.

_Stran._ I have no power To promise that; but you may try, and find it Easier in such a form--or in your own.

_Arn._ No. I was not born for philosophy, Though I have that about me which has need on't.

Let him fleet on.

_Stran._ Be air, thou Hemlock-drinker! 230 [_The shadow of Socrates disappears: another rises_.

_Arn._ What's here? whose broad brow and whose curly beard And manly aspect look like Hercules,[215]

Save that his jocund eye hath more of Bacchus Than the sad purger of the infernal world, Leaning dejected on his club of conquest,[216]

As if he knew the worthlessness of those For whom he had fought.

_Stran._ It was the man who lost The ancient world for love.

_Arn._ I cannot blame him, Since I have risked my soul because I find not That which he exchanged the earth for.