My Recollections of Lord Byron Part 19

No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers, Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurell'd wreath; Near Askalon's towers John of Horistan slumbers, Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death.

Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressy; For the safety of Edward and England they fell: My fathers! the tears of your country redress ye; How you fought, how you died, still her annals can tell.

On Marston, with Rupert, 'gainst traitors contending,[21]

Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak field; For the rights of a monarch their country defending, Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd.

Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant departing From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu!

Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting New courage, he'll think upon glory and you.

Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret; Far distant he goes, with the same emulation, The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget.

That fame and that memory still will he cherish; He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown: Like you will he live, or like you will he perish: When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own!

When only fourteen his tenant friend dies, and Byron wrote his epitaph, in which, even at that early age (thirteen and a half), he particularly mentions his friend's virtues:--

EPITAPH ON A FRIEND.

"[Greek: Aster prin men elampes eni zooisin heoos]."--LAERTIUS.

Oh, Friend! forever loved, forever dear!

What fruitless tears have bathed thy honor'd bier!

What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath, While thou wast struggling in the pangs of death!

Could tears r.e.t.a.r.d the tyrant in his course; Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force; Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey; Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight, Thy comrade's honor and thy friend's delight.

If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie, Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art.

No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, But living statues there are seen to weep; Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom.

What though thy sire lament his failing line, A father's sorrows can not equal mine!

Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer, Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here: But who with me shall hold thy former place?

Thine image, what new friendship can efface?

Ah, none!--a father's tears will cease to flow, Time will a.s.suage an infant brother's woe; To all, save one, is consolation known, While solitary friendship sighs alone.

Other friends succeeded his earliest one and consoled him for his loss.

At Harrow, those he loved best were Wingfield, Tattersall, Clare, Delaware, and Long.

His great heart sought to express in verse what it felt for each of them. But it is observable that what touched him most was the excellence of the qualities both of the mind and soul of those he loved. To prove this I shall quote in part a poem which he wrote shortly after leaving Harrow for Cambridge, ent.i.tled "Childish Recollections." After giving a picture of his life at Harrow in the midst of his companions, and after describing very freshly and vividly the scene when he was chosen Captain of the School, he exclaims:--

"Dear honest race! though now we meet no more, One last long look on what we were before-- Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu-- Drew tears from eyes unused to weep with you.

Through splendid circles, fashion's gaudy world, Where folly's glaring standard waves unfurl'd, I plunged to drown in noise my fond regret, And all I sought or hoped was to forget.

Vain wish! if chance some well-remember'd face, Some old companion of my early race, Advanced to claim his friend with honest joy, My eyes, my heart, proclaim'd me still a boy; The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around, Were quite forgotten when my friend was found; The smiles of beauty--(for, alas! I've known What 'tis to bend before Love's mighty throne)-- The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were dear, Could hardly charm me, when that friend was near; My thoughts bewilder'd in the fond surprise, The woods of Ida danced before my eyes; I saw the sprightly wand'rers pour along, I saw and join'd again the joyous throng; Panting, again I traced her lofty grove, And friendship's feelings triumph'd over love."

After deploring his fate:--

"Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share The tender guidance of a father's care.

"What brother springs a brother's love to seek?

What sister's gentle kiss has prest my cheek?

"Thus must I cling to some endearing hand, And none more dear than Ida's social band:"--

he goes on to name his dearest comrades, giving them each a fict.i.tious name. Alonzo is Wingfield; Davus, Tattersall; Lycus, Lord Clare: Euryalus, Lord Delaware; and Cleon, Long:--

"Alonzo! best and dearest of my friends, Thy name enn.o.bles him who thus commends: From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise: The praise is his who now that tribute pays.

Oh! in the promise of thy early youth, If hope antic.i.p.ate the words of truth, Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name, To build his own upon thy deathless fame.

Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list Of those with whom I lived supremely blest, Oft have we drain'd the font of ancient lore; Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more.

Yet, when confinement's lingering hour was done, Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one: Together we impell'd the flying ball; Together waited in our tutor's hall; Together join'd in cricket's manly toil, Or shared the produce of the river's spoil; Or, plunging from the green declining sh.o.r.e, Our pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore; In every element, unchanged, the same, All, all that brother's should be, but the name.

Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy!

Davus, the harbinger of childish joy; Forever foremost in the ranks of fun, The laughing herald of the harmless pun; Yet with a breast of such materials made-- Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid; Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel In danger's path, though not untaught to feel.

Still I remember, in the factious strife, The rustic's musket aim'd against my life: High poised in air the ma.s.sy weapon hung, A cry of horror burst from every tongue; While I, in combat with another foe, Fought on, unconscious of th' impending blow; Your arm, brave boy, arrested his career-- Forward you sprung, insensible to fear; Disarm'd and baffled by your conquering hand, The grovelling savage roll'd upon the sand: An act like this, can simple thanks repay?

Or all the labors of a grateful lay?

Oh no! whene'er my breast forgets the deed, That instant, Davus, it deserves to bleed.

"Lycus! on me thy claims are justly great: Thy milder virtues could my muse relate, To thee alone, unrivall'd, would belong The feeble efforts of my lengthen'd song.

Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates fit, A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit: Though yet in embryo these perfections shine, Lycus! thy father's fame will soon be thine.

Where learning nurtures the superior mind, What may we hope from genius thus refin'd!

When time at length matures thy growing years, How wilt thou tower above thy fellow-peers!

Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free, With honor's soul, united, beam in thee.

"Shall fair Euryalus pa.s.s by unsung?

From ancient lineage, not unworthy sprung: What though one sad dissension bade us part?

That name is yet embalm'd within my heart; Yet at the mention does that heart rebound, And palpitate, responsive to the sound.

Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will: We once were friends,--I'll think we are so still, A form unmatch'd in nature's partial mould, A heart untainted, we in thee behold: Yet not the senate's thunder thou shalt wield, Nor seek for glory in the tented field; To minds of ruder texture these be given-- Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven.

Haply, in polish'd courts might be thy seat, But that thy tongue could never forge deceit: The courtier's supple bow and sneering smile, The flow of compliment, the slippery wile.

Would make that breast with indignation burn, And all the glittering snares to tempt thee spurn.

Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate; Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate; The world admire thee, and thy friends adore; Ambition's slave alone would toil for more.

"Now last, but nearest, of the social band, See honest, open, generous Cleon stand; With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing scene, No vice degrades that purest soul serene.

On the same day our studious race begun, On the same day our studious race was run; Thus side by side we pa.s.s'd our first career, Thus side by side we strove for many a year; At last concluded our scholastic life, We neither conquer'd in the cla.s.sic strife: As speakers, each supports an equal name,[22]

And crowds allow to both a partial fame: To soothe a youthful rival's early pride, Though Cleon's candor would the palm divide, Yet candor's self compels me now to own Justice awards it to my friend alone.

"Oh! friends regretted, scenes forever dear, Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear!

Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's urn, To trace the hours which never can return; Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell, And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell!

Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind, As infant laurels round my head were twined, When Probus' praise repaid my lyric song, Or placed me higher in the studious throng; Or when my first harangue received applause, His sage instruction the primeval cause, What grat.i.tude to him my soul possest, While hope of dawning honors fill'd my breast!

For all my humble fame, to him alone The praise is due, who made that fame my own.

Oh! could I soar above these feeble lays, These young effusions of my early days, To him my muse her n.o.blest strain would give: The song might perish, but the theme might live.

Yet why for him the needless verse essay?

His honored name requires no vain display: By every son of grateful Ida blest, It finds an echo in each youthful breast; A fame beyond the glories of the proud, Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd.

"Ida! not yet exhausted is the theme, Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream.

How many a friend deserves the grateful strain!

What scenes of childhood still unsung remain!

Yet let me hush this echo of the past, This parting song, the dearest and the last; And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy, To me a silent and a sweet employ, While, future hope and fear alike unknown, I think with pleasure on the past alone; Yes, to the past alone my heart confine, And chase the phantom of what once was mine.

"Ida! still o'er thy hills in joy preside, And proudly steer through time's eventful tide; Still may thy blooming sons thy name revere, Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear,-- That tear, perhaps, the fondest which will flow O'er their last scene of happiness below.

Tell me, ye h.o.a.ry few, who glide along, The feeble veterans of some former throng, Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempests whirl'd, Are swept forever from this busy world; Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth, While Care as yet withheld her venom'd tooth; Say if remembrance days like these endears Beyond the rapture of succeeding years?

Say, can ambition's fever'd dream bestow So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of woe?

Can treasures, h.o.a.rded for some thankless son, Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won, Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toys (For glittering bawbles are not left to boys), Recall one scene so much beloved to view As those where Youth her garland twined for you?

Ah, no! amid the gloomy calm of age You turn with faltering hand life's varied page; Peruse the record of your days on earth, Unsullied only where it marks your birth; Still lingering pause above each checker'd leaf, And blot with tears the sable lines of grief; When Pa.s.sion o'er the theme her mantle threw, Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu; But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn, Traced by the rosy finger of the morn; When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of Truth, And Love, without his pinion, smiled on youth."

On leaving Harrow and his best friends, Byron felt that he was saying adieu to youth and to its pleasures, and he was as yet unable to replace these by the feasts of the mind. This filled his heart with regret in addition to the sorrows which he experienced by those reflections upon existence which are common to all poetical natures. The cold discipline of Cambridge fell like ice upon his warm nature. He fell ill, and, by way of seeking a relief to the oppression of his mind, he wrote the above transcribed poem.