The Works of Lord Byron Volume III Part 22

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"Father! thy, days have pa.s.sed in peace, 'Mid counted beads, and countless prayer; To bid the sins of others cease, Thyself without a crime or care, Save transient ills that all must bear, Has been thy lot from youth to age; And thou wilt bless thee from the rage Of pa.s.sions fierce and uncontrolled, Such as thy penitents unfold, Whose secret sins and sorrows rest 980 Within thy pure and pitying breast.

My days, though few, have pa.s.sed below In much of Joy, but more of Woe; Yet still in hours of love or strife, I've 'scaped the weariness of Life: Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes, I loathed the languor of repose.

Now nothing left to love or hate, No more with hope or pride elate, I'd rather be the thing that crawls 990 Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls,[116]

Than pa.s.s my dull, unvarying days, Condemned to meditate and gaze.

Yet, lurks a wish within my breast For rest--but not to feel 'tis rest.

Soon shall my Fate that wish fulfil; And I shall sleep without the dream Of what I was, and would be still Dark as to thee my deeds may seem:[eb]

My memory now is but the tomb 1000 Of joys long dead; my hope, their doom: 'Though better to have died with those Than bear a life of lingering woes.

My spirit shrunk not to sustain The searching throes of ceaseless pain; Nor sought the self-accorded grave Of ancient fool and modern knave: Yet death I have not feared to meet; And in the field it had been sweet, Had Danger wooed me on to move 1010 The slave of Glory, not of Love.

I've braved it--not for Honour's boast; I smile at laurels won or lost; To such let others carve their way, For high renown, or hireling pay: But place again before my eyes Aught that I deem a worthy prize-- The maid I love, the man I hate-- And I will hunt the steps of fate, To save or slay, as these require, 1020 Through rending steel, and rolling fire:[ec]

Nor needst thou doubt this speech from one Who would but do--what he _hath_ done.

Death is but what the haughty brave, The weak must bear, the wretch must crave; Then let life go to Him who gave: I have not quailed to Danger's brow When high and happy--need I _now_?

"I loved her, Friar! nay, adored-- But these are words that all can use-- 1030 I proved it more in deed than word; There's blood upon that dinted sword, A stain its steel can never lose: 'Twas shed for her, who died for me, It warmed the heart of one abhorred: Nay, start not--no--nor bend thy knee, Nor midst my sin such act record; Thou wilt absolve me from the deed, For he was hostile to thy creed!

The very name of Nazarene 1040 Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen.

Ungrateful fool! since but for brands Well wielded in some hardy hands, And wounds by Galileans given-- The surest pa.s.s to Turkish heaven-- For him his Houris still might wait Impatient at the Prophet's gate.

I loved her--Love will find its way Through paths where wolves would fear to prey; And if it dares enough,'twere hard 1050 If Pa.s.sion met not some reward-- No matter how, or where, or why, I did not vainly seek, nor sigh: Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain I wish she had not loved again.

She died--I dare not tell thee how; But look--'tis written on my brow!

There read of Cain the curse and crime, In characters unworn by Time: Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause; 1060 Not mine the act, though I the cause.

Yet did he but what I had done Had she been false to more than one.

Faithless to him--he gave the blow; But true to me--I laid him low: Howe'er deserved her doom might be, Her treachery was truth to me; To me she gave her heart, that all Which Tyranny can ne'er enthrall; And I, alas! too late to save! 1070 Yet all I then could give, I gave-- 'Twas some relief--our foe a grave.[ed]

His death sits lightly; but her fate Has made me--what thou well mayst hate.

His doom was sealed--he knew it well, Warned by the voice of stern Taheer, Deep in whose darkly boding ear[117]

The deathshot pealed of murder near, As filed the troop to where they fell!

He died too in the battle broil, 1080 A time that heeds nor pain nor toil; One cry to Mahomet for aid, One prayer to Alla all he made: He knew and crossed me in the fray-- I gazed upon him where he lay, And watched his spirit ebb away: Though pierced like pard by hunter's steel, He felt not half that now I feel.

I searched, but vainly searched, to find The workings of a wounded mind; 1090 Each feature of that sullen corse Betrayed his rage, but no remorse.[118]

Oh, what had Vengeance given to trace Despair upon his dying face!

The late repentance of that hour When Penitence hath lost her power To tear one terror from the grave,[ee]

And will not soothe, and cannot save.

"The cold in clime are cold in blood, Their love can scarce deserve the name; 1100 But mine was like the lava flood That boils in aetna's breast of flame.

I cannot prate in puling strain Of Ladye-love, and Beauty's chain: If changing cheek, and scorching vein,[ef]

Lips taught to writhe, but not complain, If bursting heart, and maddening brain, And daring deed, and vengeful steel, And all that I have felt, and feel, Betoken love--that love was mine, 1110 And shown by many a bitter sign.

'Tis true, I could not whine nor sigh, I knew but to obtain or die.

I die--but first I have possessed, And come what may, I _have been_ blessed.

Shall I the doom I sought upbraid?

No--reft of all, yet undismayed[eg]

But for the thought of Leila slain, Give me the pleasure with the pain, So would I live and love again. 1120 I grieve, but not, my holy Guide!

For him who dies, but her who died: She sleeps beneath the wandering wave-- Ah! had she but an earthly grave, This breaking heart and throbbing head Should seek and share her narrow bed.

She was a form of Life and Light,[119]

That, seen, became a part of sight; And rose, where'er I turned mine eye, The Morning-star of Memory! 1130

"Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven;[eh][120]

A spark of that immortal fire With angels shared, by Alia given, To lift from earth our low desire.

Devotion wafts the mind above, But Heaven itself descends in Love; A feeling from the G.o.dhead caught, To wean from self each sordid thought; A ray of Him who formed the whole; A Glory circling round the soul! 1140 I grant _my_ love imperfect, all That mortals by the name miscall; Then deem it evil, what thou wilt; But say, oh say, _hers_ was not Guilt!

She was my Life's unerring Light: That quenched--what beam shall break my night?[ei]

Oh! would it shone to lead me still, Although to death or deadliest ill!

Why marvel ye, if they who lose This present joy, this future hope, 1150 No more with Sorrow meekly cope; In phrensy then their fate accuse; In madness do those fearful deeds That seem to add but Guilt to Woe?

Alas! the breast that inly bleeds Hath nought to dread from outward blow: Who falls from all he knows of bliss, Cares little into what abyss.[ej]

Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now To thee, old man, my deeds appear: 1160 I read abhorrence on thy brow, And this too was I born to bear!

'Tis true, that, like that bird of prey, With havock have I marked my way: But this was taught me by the dove, To die--and know no second love.

This lesson yet hath man to learn, Taught by the thing he dares to spurn: The bird that sings within the brake, The swan that swims upon the lake, 1170 One mate, and one alone, will take.

And let the fool still p.r.o.ne to range,[ek]

And sneer on all who cannot change, Partake his jest with boasting boys; I envy not his varied joys, But deem such feeble, heartless man, Less than yon solitary swan; Far, far beneath the shallow maid[el]

He left believing and betrayed.

Such shame at least was never mine-- 1180 Leila! each thought was only thine!

My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe, My hope on high--my all below.

Each holds no other like to thee, Or, if it doth, in vain for me: For worlds I dare not view the dame Resembling thee, yet not the same.

The very crimes that mar my youth, This bed of death--attest my truth!

'Tis all too late--thou wert, thou art 1190 The cherished madness of my heart![em]

"And she was lost--and yet I breathed, But not the breath of human life: A serpent round my heart was wreathed, And stung my every thought to strife.

Alike all time, abhorred all place,[en]

Shuddering I shrank from Nature's face, Where every hue that charmed before The blackness of my bosom wore.

The rest thou dost already know, 1200 And all my sins, and half my woe.

But talk no more of penitence; Thou seest I soon shall part from hence: And if thy holy tale were true, The deed that's done canst _thou_ undo?

Think me not thankless--but this grief Looks not to priesthood for relief.[eo][121]

My soul's estate in secret guess: But wouldst thou pity more, say less.

When thou canst bid my Leila live, 1210 Then will I sue thee to forgive; Then plead my cause in that high place Where purchased ma.s.ses proffer grace.[ep]

Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung From forest-cave her shrieking young, And calm the lonely lioness: But soothe not--mock not _my_ distress!

"In earlier days, and calmer hours, When heart with heart delights to blend, Where bloom my native valley's bowers,[eq] 1220 I had--Ah! have I now?--a friend![er]

To him this pledge I charge thee send,[es]

Memorial of a youthful vow; I would remind him of my end: Though souls absorbed like mine allow Brief thought to distant Friendship's claim, Yet dear to him my blighted name.

'Tis strange--he prophesied my doom, And I have smiled--I then could smile-- When Prudence would his voice a.s.sume, 1230 And warn--I recked not what--the while: But now Remembrance whispers o'er[et]

Those accents scarcely marked before.

Say--that his bodings came to pa.s.s, And he will start to hear their truth, And wish his words had not been sooth: Tell him--unheeding as I was, Through many a busy bitter scene Of all our golden youth had been, In pain, my faltering tongue had tried 1240 To bless his memory--ere I died; But Heaven in wrath would turn away, If Guilt should for the guiltless pray.

I do not ask him not to blame, Too gentle he to wound my name; And what have I to do with Fame?

I do not ask him not to mourn, Such cold request might sound like scorn; And what than Friendship's manly tear May better grace a brother's bier? 1250 But bear this ring, his own of old, And tell him--what thou dost behold!

The withered frame, the ruined mind, The wrack by pa.s.sion left behind, A shrivelled scroll, a scattered leaf, Seared by the autumn blast of Grief!

"Tell me no more of Fancy's gleam, No, father, no,'twas not a dream; Alas! the dreamer first must sleep, I only watched, and wished to weep; 1260 But could not, for my burning brow Throbbed to the very brain as now: I wished but for a single tear, As something welcome, new, and dear: I wished it then, I wish it still; Despair is stronger than my will.

Waste not thine orison, despair[eu]

Is mightier than thy pious prayer: I would not, if I might, be blest; I want no Paradise, but rest. 1270 'Twas then--I tell thee--father! then I saw her; yes, she lived again; And shining in her white symar[122]

As through yon pale gray cloud the star Which now I gaze on, as on her, Who looked and looks far lovelier; Dimly I view its trembling spark;[ev]

To-morrow's night shall be more dark; And I, before its rays appear, That lifeless thing the living fear. 1280 I wander--father! for my soul Is fleeting towards the final goal.

I saw her--friar! and I rose Forgetful of our former woes; And rushing from my couch, I dart, And clasp her to my desperate heart; I clasp--what is it that I clasp?

No breathing form within my grasp, No heart that beats reply to mine-- Yet, Leila! yet the form is thine! 1290 And art thou, dearest, changed so much As meet my eye, yet mock my touch?

Ah! were thy beauties e'er so cold, I care not--so my arms enfold The all they ever wished to hold.

Alas! around a shadow prest They shrink upon my lonely breast; Yet still 'tis there! In silence stands, And beckons with beseeching hands!

With braided hair, and bright-black eye-- 1300 I knew 'twas false--she could not die!

But _he_ is dead! within the dell I saw him buried where he fell; He comes not--for he cannot break From earth;--why then art _thou_ awake?

They told me wild waves rolled above The face I view--the form I love; They told me--'twas a hideous tale!-- I'd tell it, but my tongue would fail: If true, and from thine ocean-cave 1310 Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave, Oh! pa.s.s thy dewy fingers o'er This brow that then will burn no more; Or place them on my hopeless heart: But, Shape or Shade! whate'er thou art, In mercy ne'er again depart!

Or farther with thee bear my soul Than winds can waft or waters roll!

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The Works of Lord Byron Volume III Part 22 summary

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