George Gordon Byron

“ And deem not, what I deem'd, my soul invincible.
CCXIV
No more—no more—Oh! never more on me
The freshness of the heart can fall like dew,
Which out of all the lovely things we see
Extracts emotions beautiful and new,
Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee:
Think'st thou the honey with those objects grew?
Alas! 't was not in them, but in thy power
To double even the sweetness of a flower.
CCXV
No more—no more—Oh! never more, my heart,
Canst thou be my sole world, my universe! ”

“ The fires are faint; their embers fail in smoke. All is hushed; but the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the Heroes through the slumbering band. Half the journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glistens through the shade. His spear is raised on high. "Why dost thou bend thy brow, chief of Oithona?" said fair-haired Calmar: "we are in the midst of foes. Is this a time for delay?" "It is a time for vengeance," said Orla of the gloomy brow. "Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: seest thou his spear? ”

“ Their thoughts from others by a single look;
And that sarcastic levity of tongue,
The stinging of a heart the world hath stung,
That darts in seeming playfulness around,
And makes those feel that will not own the wound;
All these seemed his, and something more beneath
Than glance could well reveal, or accent breathe.
Ambition, Glory, Love, the common aim.
That some can conquer, and that all would claim, ⁠80
Within his breast appeared no more to strive.
Yet seemed as lately they had been alive;
And some deep feeling it were vain to trace
At moments lightened o'er his livid face. ”

“ Man delighted him not—no, nor woman neither. For a time, however, he had cured himself of this trick of sadness. He had drunk new life from the fountain of natural beauty and antique lore, and had returned to take his part in the world, inly armed against dangers and temptations. And in the world he had found beauty, and fame had found him. What wonder that he had done as others use, and then discovered that he could not fare as others fared? ”

“ Attracts our eye amidst the rudest gale:
Though every wave she climbs divides us more,
The heart still follows from the loneliest shore.
II.
Not distant from the isle of Toobonai,
A black rock rears its bosom o'er the spray,⁠10
The haunt of birds, a desert to mankind,
Where the rough seal reposes from the wind,
And sleeps unwieldy in his cavern dun,
Or gambols with huge frolic in the sun:
There shrilly to the passing oar is heard
The startled echo of the Ocean bird,
Who rears on its bare breast her callow brood,
The feathered fishers of the solitude. ”

“ What are visions like these, to the first kiss of love?
6.
Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth, [8]
From Adam, till now, has with wretchedness strove;
Some portion of Paradise still is on earth,
And Eden revives, in the first kiss of love.
7.
When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past—
For years fleet away with the wings of the dove—
The dearest remembrance will still be the last,
Our sweetest memorial, the first kiss of love. ”

“ For leaving Juan to this new temptation;
But what that motive was, I sha'n't say here;
Perhaps to finish Juan's education,
Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes,
In case he thought his wife too great a prize.
CII
It was upon a day, a summer's day;—
Summer's indeed a very dangerous season,
And so is spring about the end of May;
The sun, no doubt, is the prevailing reason;
But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say,
And stand convicted of more truth than treason,
That there are months which nature grows more merry in,—
March has its hares, and May must have its heroine. ”

“ For this in silence I have suffer'd long
A husband like Alfonso at my side;
But now I'll bear no more, nor here remain,
If there be law or lawyers in all Spain.
CXLVI
"Yes, Don Alfonso! husband now no more,
If ever you indeed deserved the name,
Is 't worthy of your years?—you have threescore—
Fifty, or sixty, it is all the same—
Is 't wise or fitting, causeless to explore
For facts against a virtuous woman's fame? ”

“ Rights cheaply earned with blood.—Still, still, for ever
Better, though each man's life-blood were a river,
That it should flow, and overflow, than creep⁠150
Through thousand lazy channels in our veins,
Dammed like the dull canal with locks and chains,
And moving, as a sick man in his sleep,
Three paces, and then faltering:—better be
Where the extinguished Spartans still are free,
In their proud charnel of Thermopylæ,
Than stagnate in our marsh,—or o'er the deep
Fly, and one current to the ocean add,
One spirit to the souls our fathers had,
One freeman more, America, to thee! ”

“ Of Art and Piety—Pantheon!—pride of Rome! [258]
CXLVII.
Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts!
⁠Despoiled yet perfect! with thy circle spreads
⁠A holiness appealing to all hearts;
⁠To Art a model—and to him who treads
⁠Rome for the sake of ages. Glory sheds
⁠Her light through thy sole aperture; to those
⁠Who worship, here are altars for their beads—
⁠And they who feel for Genius may repose
Their eyes on honoured forms, whose busts around them close. ”

“ The earthquake came, and rocked the quivering wall,
⁠And men and nature reeled as if with wine.
Whom did I seek around the tottering hall?
⁠For thee. Whose safety first provide for? Thine.
5.
And when convulsive throes denied my breath
⁠The faintest utterance to my fading thought,
To thee—to thee—e'en in the gasp of death
⁠My spirit turned, oh! oftener than it ought.
6.
Thus much and more; and yet thou lov'st me not,
⁠And never wilt! Love dwells not in our will. ”

“ A breathing but devoted warrior lay:
'Twas Lara bleeding fast from life away.
His follower once, and now his only guide,
Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side,
And with his scarf would staunch the tides that rush,
With each convulsion, in a blacker gush;
And then, as his faint breathing waxes low,
In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow:
He scarce can speak, but motions him 'tis vain. ”

“ In this belovéd marble view
⁠Above the works and thoughts of Man,
What Nature could but would not do,
⁠And Beauty and Canova can!
Beyond Imagination's power,
⁠Beyond the Bard's defeated art,
With Immortality her dower,
⁠Behold the Helen of the heart. ”

“ By the first glance on that still, marble brow. [31]
It was enough—she died—what recked it how?
The love of youth, the hope of better years,
The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears,
The only living thing he could not hate,
Was reft at once—and he deserved his fate,
But did not feel it less;—the Good explore,
For peace, those realms where Guilt can never soar:
The proud, the wayward—who have fixed below⁠1800
Their joy, and find this earth enough for woe,
Lose in that one their all—perchance a mite—
But who in patience parts with all delight? ”

“ And others tremble when they saw.
⁠Woe is me, Alhama!
17.
"Cavalier, and man of worth!
Let these words of mine go forth;
Let the Moorish Monarch know,
That to him I nothing owe.
⁠Woe is me, Alhama!
18.
"But on my soul Alhama weighs,
And on my inmost spirit preys;
And if the King his land hath lost,
Yet others may have lost the most.
⁠Woe is me, Alhama!
19.
"Sires have lost their children, wives
Their lords, and valiant men their lives!
One what best his love might claim
Hath lost, another wealth, or fame.
⁠Woe is me, Alhama! ”

“ Finally, a living poet, neither a disciple nor encomiast of Byron, pays eloquent tribute to the strength and splendour of Don Juan: "Across the stanzas ... we swim forward as over the 'broad backs of the sea;' they break and glitter, hiss and laugh, murmur and move like waves that sound or that subside. There is in them a delicious resistance, an elastic motion, which salt water has and fresh water has not. There is about them a wide wholesome air, full of vivid light and constant wind, which is only felt at sea. ”

“ With which that Chieftain's brow would bear him down:
It was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling pride ⁠500
That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide;
But that of one in his own heart secure
Of all that he would do, or could endure.
Could this mean peace? the calmness of the good?
Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihood?
Alas! too like in confidence are each,
For man to trust to mortal look or speech;
From deeds, and deeds alone, may he discern
Truths which it wrings the unpractised heart to learn. ”

“ The accursed breath of dungeon-dew;
The last, the sole, the dearest link
Between me and the eternal brink,
Which bound me to my failing race,
Was broken in this fatal place.
One on the earth, and one beneath—
My brothers—both had ceased to breathe:⁠220
I took that hand which lay so still,
Alas! my own was full as chill;
I had not strength to stir, or strive,
But felt that I was still alive—
A frantic feeling, when we know
That what we love shall ne'er be so. ”

“ There is no more for me to hope,
⁠There is no more for thee to fear;
And, if I give my Sorrow scope,
⁠That Sorrow thou shalt never hear.
⁠Why did I hold thy love so dear?
⁠Why shed for such a heart one tear? ”

“ From me a wandering Englishman; I tore
One sonnet, but invoke the muse once more
⁠To hail these gentle hearts which Love has tied,
⁠In Youth, Birth, Beauty, genially allied
And blest with Virtue's soul, and Fortune's store. ”

“ For, through thy long dark lashes low depending,
The soul of melancholy Gentleness
Gleams like a Seraph from the sky descending,
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
I worship more, but cannot love thee less. ”

“ Ye men of wit and social eloquence! [7]
He was your brother—bear his ashes hence!
While Powers of mind almost of boundless range, [8]
Complete in kind, as various in their change,110
While Eloquence—Wit—Poesy—and Mirth,
That humbler Harmonist of care on Earth,
Survive within our souls—while lives our sense
Of pride in Merit's proud pre-eminence,
Long shall we seek his likeness—long in vain,
And turn to all of him which may remain,
Sighing that Nature formed but one such man,
And broke the die—in moulding Sheridan! ”

“ 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! ”

“ I had expected to close my life with glory and renown; but now, oppressed by the burden of so many calamities, I have lost every prospect of reputation and of honour. The fear of perpetual imprisonment increases my melancholy; the indignities which I suffer augment it; and the squalor of my beard, my hair, and habit, the sordidness and filth, exceedingly annoy me. Sure am I, that, if she who so little has corresponded to my attachment—if she saw me in such a state, and in such affliction—she would have some compassion on me."—Lettere di Torquato Tasso, 1853, ii. ”

“ In that dread hour ere Death appear,
⁠When silent Sorrow fears to sigh,
Till all was past? But when no more
⁠'Twas thine to reck of human woe,
Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er,
⁠Had flowed as fast—as now they flow. ”

“ But though he shrank from the obvious and inevitable conclusion that Childe Harold was Byron in disguise, and idly "disclaimed" all connection, it was true that he had intended to draw a fictitious character, a being whom he may have feared he might one day become, but whom he did not recognize as himself. He was not sated, he was not cheerless, he was not unamiable. He was all a-quiver with youth and enthusiasm and the joy of great living. ”

“ Where is the human being that ever conferred a benefit on Greek or Greeks? They are to be grateful to the Turks for their fetters, and to the Franks for their broken promises and lying counsels. They are to be grateful to the artist who engraves their ruins, and to the antiquary who carries them away; to the traveller whose janissary flogs them, and to the scribbler whose journal abuses them. This is the amount of their obligations to foreigners. ”

“ Look where you please—we've nothing, sir, to hide;
Only another time, I trust, you'll tell us,
Or for the sake of decency abide
A moment at the door, that we may be
Drest to receive so much good company.
CLVII
"And now, sir, I have done, and say no more;
The little I have said may serve to show
The guileless heart in silence may grieve o'er
The wrongs to whose exposure it is slow:
I leave you to your conscience as before,
'T will one day ask you why you used me so? ”

“ 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.
7.
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, [2]
⁠Uninjured by Time, or the rude Winter's breath. ”

“ XXX
No doubt this patience, when the world is damning us,
Is philosophic in our former friends;
'T is also pleasant to be deem'd magnanimous,
The more so in obtaining our own ends;
And what the lawyers call a "malus animus"
Conduct like this by no means comprehends;
Revenge in person's certainly no virtue,
But then 't is not my fault, if others hurt you.
XXXI
And if your quarrels should rip up old stories,
And help them with a lie or two additional,
I'm not to blame, as you well know—no more is
Any one else—they were become traditional ”

“ The trench is pass'd, and favour'd by the night,
Through sleeping foes, they wheel their wary flight.
When shall the sleep of many a foe be o'er?
Alas! some slumber, who shall wake no more!
Chariots and bridles, mix'd with arms, are seen,
And flowing flasks, and scatter'd troops between:
Bacchus and Mars, to rule the camp, combine;
A mingled Chaos this of war and wine.230
"Now," cries the first, "for deeds of blood prepare,
With me the conquest and the labour share:
Here lies our path; lest any hand arise,
Watch thou, while many a dreaming chieftain dies ”

“ He would not question Nature in search of new and untainted pleasure, but rests in her as inclusive of humanity. The secret of Wordsworth is acquiescence; "the still, sad music of humanity" is the key-note of his ethic. Byron, on the other hand, is in revolt. He has the ardour of a pervert, the rancorous scorn of a deserter. The "hum of human cities" is a "torture." He is "a link reluctant in a fleshly chain." To him Nature and Humanity are antagonists, and he cleaves to the one, yea, he would take her by violence, to mark his alienation and severance from the other. ”

“ Leans sculptured Beauty, which Death cannot blight:⁠40
⁠And from thine ashes boundless Spirits rise
To give thee honour, and the earth delight;
⁠Thy soil shall still be pregnant with the wise,
⁠The gay, the learned, the generous, and the brave,
Native to thee as Summer to thy skies,
⁠Conquerors on foreign shores, and the far wave, [25]
⁠Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name; [26]
⁠For thee alone they have no arm to save,
And all thy recompense is in their fame,
⁠A noble one to them, but not to thee—⁠50
⁠Shall they be glorious, and thou still the same? ”