The Works of Lord Byron

FAREWELL TO THE MUSE

THOU Power! who hast ruled me through infancy's days,

Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part;

Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays,

The coldest effusion which springs from my heart.

This bosom, responsive to rapture no more,

Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing;
The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar,
Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing.

Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre,
Yet even those themes are departed for ever;
No more beam the eyes which my dream could in-
spire,

My visions are flown, to return,-alas, never!
When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl,
How vain is the effort delight to prolong!
When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul,
What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song?

Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone,

of kisses and smiles which they now must resign? Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown? Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine.

Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to
love?

Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain!
But how can my numbers in sympathy move,
When I scarcely can hope to behold them again?
Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done,
And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires?
For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone!
For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires!

Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's years, On the land of my fathers I reared thee with pride;

They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears,Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide.

I left thee, my Oak, and since that fatal hour,
A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire;
Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power,
But his whose neglect may have made tnec expire

Oh! hardy thou wert-even now little care
Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds
gently heal;

But thou wert not fated affection to share

For who could suppose that a stranger would feel?

Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for awhile;

Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run, The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile, When Infancy's years of probation are done.

Oh, live then, my Oak! tow'r aloft from the weeds,
That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay,
For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds,
And still may thy branches their beauty display

Oh! yet, if maturity's years may be thine,

Though I shall lie low in the cavern of death,
On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine
Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath.

For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave
O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid;
While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave,
The chief who survives may recline in thy shade.

And as he with his boys shall revisit this spot,
He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread
Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead.

Untouch'd then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast-Oh! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot:
'Tis hush'd; and my feeble endeavors are o'er:
And those who have heard it will pardon the past,
When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate

And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime
Perhaps he has poured forth his young simple lay
And here he must sleep, till the moments of time
Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day.

LINES.

1807.

ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL.

AND thou wert sad-yet I was not with thee;

And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near; Methought that joy and health alone could be Where I was not-and pain and sorrow here! And is it thus ?-is it as I foretold,

And shall be more so; for the mind recoils
Upon itself, and the wreck'd heart lies cold,
While heaviness collects the shatter'd spoils.
It is not in the storm nor in the strife

We feel benumb'd and wish to be no more,
But in the after-silence on the shore,
When all is lost, except a little life.

• See Fragment, page 571.

I am too well avenged-but 'twas my right; Whate'er my sins might be, thou wert not sent To be the Nemesis who should requite

Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument.

Mercy is for the merciful!-If thou

Hast been of such, 'twill be accorded now.

Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep!-
Yes! they may flatter thee, but thou must feel
A hollow agony which will not heal,
For thou art pillow'd on a curse too deep;
Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap
The bitter harvest in a wo as real!

I have had many foes, but none like thee;

For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend,
And be avenged, or turn them into friend;

But thou in safe implacability

Hadst nought to dread-in thine own weakness

shielded,

And in my love, which hath but too much yielded,
And spared, for thy sake, some I should not spare-
And thus upon the world-trust in thy truth-
And the wild fame of my ungovern'd youth-

On things that were not, and on things that are-
Even upon such a basis hast thou built
A monument, whose cement hath been guilt!
The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord,
And hew'd down, with an unsuspected sword,
Fame, peace, and hope-and all the better life

Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart,
Might still have risen from out the grave of strife,
And found a nobler duty than to part.
But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice,

Trafficking with them in a purpose cold,
For present anger and for future gold-
And buying other's grief at any price.
And thus once enter'd into crooked ways,
The early truth, which was thy proper praise,
Did not still walk beside thee-but at times,
And with a breast unknowing its own crimes,
Deceit, averments incompatible,

Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell
In Janus-spirits-the significant eye
Which learns to lie with silence-the pretext
Of Prudence, with advantages annex'd-
The acquiescence in all things which tend,
No matter how, to the desired end-

All found a place in thy philosophy,

The means were worthy, and the end is won-
I would not do by thee as thou hast done!

September, 1816.

STANZAS.

"COULD LOVE FOR EVER."

COULD Love for ever

Run like a river,

And Time's endeavor

Be tried in vain

No other pleasure

With this could measure;

And like a treasure

We'd hug the chain. But since our sighing

Ends not in dying,

And, form'd for flying,

Thou may'st retire.

[Exit HERMAN Man. (alone.) There is a calm upon meInexplicable stillness! which till now Did not belong to what I knew of life. If that I did now know philosophy To be of all our vanities the motliest, The merest word that ever fool'd the ear

From out the schoolman's jargon, I should deem
The golden secret, the sought "Kalon " found
And seated in my soul. It will not last,

But it is well to have known it, though but once;
It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense,
And I within my tables would note down
That there is such a feeling. Who is there?

Re-enter HERMAN.

Her. My lord, the Abbot of St. Maurice craves To greet your presence.

Enter the ABBOT OF ST. MAURICE.

Abbot.
Peace be with Count Manfred!
Man. Thanks, holy father! welcome to these
walls:

Thy presence honors them, and bless those
Who dwell within them.

Abbot.

Would it were so, Count! But I would fain confer with thee alone. Man. Herman retire. What would my reverend guest? [Exit HERMAN. Abbot. Thus, without prelude;-Age and zeal, my office,

And good intent, must plead my privilege;
Our near, though not acquainted, neighborhood
May also be my herald. Rumors strange,

And of unholy nature, are abroad,
And busy with thy name-a noble name
For centuries; may he who bears it now
Transmit it unimpaired!

Abbot. Then, hear and tremble! For the headstrong wretch

Who in the mail of innate hardihood

Would shield himself, and battle for his sins,

There is the stake on earth, and beyond earth eternal

Man. Charity, most reverend father, Becomes thy lips so much more than this menace. That I would call thee back to it: but say, What wouldst thou with me?

Abbot.
It may be there are
Things that would shake thee-but I keep them
back,

And give thee till to-morrow to repent.
Then if thou dost not all devote thysel?
To penitence, and with gift of all thy lands
To the monastery--
Man.
I understand thee, -well.
Abbot. Expect no mercy; I have warned chee
Man. (opening the casket.)

There is a gift for thee within this casket.

Stop

Abbot. 'Tis said thou holdest converse with the To which the witches dance their round,

things

Which are forbidden to the search of man;
That with the dwellers of the dark abodes,
The many evil and unheavenly spirits
Which walk the valley of the shade of death,
Thou communest. I know that with mankind,
Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely
Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude
Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy.

Man. And what are they who do avouch these things?

Abbot. My pious brethren-the scared peasantryEven thy own vassals-who do look on thee With most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in peril. Man. Take it. Abbot.

Merrily, merrily, cheerily, cheerily,

Merrily, merrily speeds the ball:

The dead in their shrouds, and the demons in clouds Flock to the witches' carnival.

Abbot. I fear thee not-hence-henceAvaunt thee, evil one!-help, ho! without there! Man. Convey this man to the Shreck horn-to its

peak

To its extremest peak-watch with him there
From now till sunrise; let him gaze, and know
He ne'er again will be so near to heaven,
But harm him not; and when the morrow breaks,
Set him down safe in his cell-away with him!
Ash. Had I not better bring his brethren too,

I come to save, and not destroy-Convent and all to bear him company?

I would not pry into thy secret soul;

But if these things be sooth, there still is time

For penitence and pity: reconcile thee

Man. No, this will serve for the present. Take him up.

Ash. Come, friar! now an exorcism or two,

With the true church, and through the church to And we shall fly the lighter.

heaven.

Man. I hear thee. This is my reply; whate'er

I may have been, or am, doth rest between

Heaven and myself.-I shall not choose a mortal
To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd
Against your ordinances? prove and punish!

It will be perceived that, as far as this, the original matter of the Third ael has been retained.

[ASHTAROTH disappears with the ABBOT, sing ing as follows:

A prodigal son and a maid undone,
And a widow re-wedded within the year;
And a wordly monk and a pregnant nun,
Are things which every day appear.

"Raven-stone, (Rabenstein,) a transistion of the German word for thy gibbet, which in Germany and Switzerland is permanent, and made of stone

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The Works of Lord Byron: Embracing His Suppressed Poems, and a Sketch of His ...