The Works of Lord Byron Volume IV Part 5

Is not the past all shadow?--What are they?

Creations of the mind?--The mind can make Substance, and people planets of its own 20 With beings brighter than have been, and give A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.[37]

I would recall a vision which I dreamed Perchance in sleep--for in itself a thought, A slumbering thought, is capable of years, And curdles a long life into one hour.[38]

II.

I saw two beings in the hues of youth Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, Green and of mild declivity, the last As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such, 30 Save that there was no sea to lave its base, But a most living landscape, and the wave Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke Arising from such rustic roofs;--the hill Was crowned with a peculiar diadem Of trees, in circular array, so fixed, Not by the sport of nature, but of man: These two, a maiden and a youth, were there Gazing--the one on all that was beneath 40 Fair as herself--but the Boy gazed on her; And both were young, and one was beautiful: And both were young--yet not alike in youth.

As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, The Maid was on the eve of Womanhood; The Boy had fewer summers, but his heart Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye There was but one beloved face on earth, And that was shining on him: he had looked Upon it till it could not pa.s.s away; 50 He had no breath, no being, but in hers; She was his voice; he did not speak to her, But trembled on her words; she was his sight,[i][39]

For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers, Which coloured all his objects:--he had ceased To live within himself; she was his life, The ocean to the river of his thoughts,[40]

Which terminated all: upon a tone, A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow,[41]

And his cheek change tempestuously--his heart 60 Unknowing of its cause of agony.

But she in these fond feelings had no share: Her sighs were not for him; to her he was Even as a brother--but no more; 'twas much, For brotherless she was, save in the name Her infant friendship had bestowed on him; Herself the solitary scion left Of a time-honoured race.[42]--It was a name Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not--and why?

Time taught him a deep answer--when she loved 70 Another: even _now_ she loved another, And on the summit of that hill she stood Looking afar if yet her lover's steed[43]

Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew.

III.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.

There was an ancient mansion, and before Its walls there was a steed caparisoned: Within an antique Oratory stood The Boy of whom I spake;--he was alone,[44]

And pale, and pacing to and fro: anon 80 He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced Words which I could not guess of; then he leaned His bowed head on his hands, and shook as 'twere With a convulsion--then arose again, And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear What he had written, but he shed no tears.

And he did calm himself, and fix his brow Into a kind of quiet: as he paused, The Lady of his love re-entered there; She was serene and smiling then, and yet 90 She knew she was by him beloved--she knew, For quickly comes such knowledge,[45] that his heart Was darkened with her shadow, and she saw That he was wretched, but she saw not all.

He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp He took her hand; a moment o'er his face A tablet of unutterable thoughts Was traced, and then it faded, as it came; He dropped the hand he held, and with slow steps Retired, but not as bidding her adieu, 100 For they did part with mutual smiles; he pa.s.sed From out the ma.s.sy gate of that old Hall, And mounting on his steed he went his way; And ne'er repa.s.sed that h.o.a.ry threshold more.[46]

IV.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.

The Boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds Of fiery climes he made himself a home, And his Soul drank their sunbeams: he was girt With strange and dusky aspects; he was not Himself like what he had been; on the sea 110 And on the sh.o.r.e he was a wanderer; There was a ma.s.s of many images Crowded like waves upon me, but he was A part of all; and in the last he lay Reposing from the noontide sultriness, Couched among fallen columns, in the shade Of ruined walls that had survived the names Of those who reared them; by his sleeping side Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds Were fastened near a fountain; and a man 120 Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, While many of his tribe slumbered around: And they were canopied by the blue sky, So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, That G.o.d alone was to be seen in Heaven.[47]

V.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.

The Lady of his love was wed with One Who did not love her better:--in her home, A thousand leagues from his,--her native home, She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, 130 Daughters and sons of Beauty,--but behold!

Upon her face there was the tint of grief, The settled shadow of an inward strife, And an unquiet drooping of the eye, As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.[48]

What could her grief be?--she had all she loved, And he who had so loved her was not there To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, Or ill-repressed affliction, her pure thoughts.

What could her grief be?--she had loved him not, 140 Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, Nor could he be a part of that which preyed Upon her mind--a spectre of the past.

VI.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.

The Wanderer was returned.--I saw him stand Before an Altar--with a gentle bride; Her face was fair, but was not that which made The Starlight[49] of his Boyhood;--as he stood Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came The self-same aspect, and the quivering shock[50] 150 That in the antique Oratory shook His bosom in its solitude; and then-- As in that hour--a moment o'er his face The tablet of unutterable thoughts Was traced,--and then it faded as it came, And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, And all things reeled around him; he could see Not that which was, nor that which should have been-- But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall, 160 And the remembered chambers, and the place, The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, All things pertaining to that place and hour And her who was his destiny, came back And thrust themselves between him and the light: What business had they there at such a time?

VII.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.

The Lady of his love;--Oh! she was changed As by the sickness of the soul; her mind Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes 170 They had not their own l.u.s.tre, but the look Which is not of the earth; she was become The Queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts Were combinations of disjointed things; And forms, impalpable and unperceived Of others' sight, familiar were to hers.

And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise Have a far deeper madness--and the glance Of melancholy is a fearful gift; What is it but the telescope of truth? 180 Which strips the distance of its fantasies, And brings life near in utter nakedness, Making the cold reality too real![j][51]

VIII.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.

The Wanderer was alone as heretofore, The beings which surrounded him were gone, Or were at war with him; he was a mark For blight and desolation, compa.s.sed round With Hatred and Contention; Pain was mixed In all which was served up to him, until, 190 Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,[52]

He fed on poisons, and they had no power, But were a kind of nutriment; he lived Through that which had been death to many men, And made him friends of mountains:[53] with the stars And the quick Spirit of the Universe[54]

He held his dialogues; and they did teach To him the magic of their mysteries; To him the book of Night was opened wide, And voices from the deep abyss revealed[55] 200 A marvel and a secret--Be it so.

IX.

My dream was past; it had no further change.

It was of a strange order, that the doom Of these two creatures should be thus traced out Almost like a reality--the one To end in madness--both in misery.

_July_, 1816.

[First published, _The Prisoner of Chillon_, etc., 1816.]

DARKNESS.[k][56]

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal s.p.a.ce, Rayless, and pathless, and the icy Earth Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air; Morn came and went--and came, and brought no day, And men forgot their pa.s.sions in the dread Of this their desolation; and all hearts Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light: And they did live by watchfires--and the thrones, 10 The palaces of crowned kings--the huts, The habitations of all things which dwell, Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed, And men were gathered round their blazing homes To look once more into each other's face; Happy were those who dwelt within the eye Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch: A fearful hope was all the World contained; Forests were set on fire--but hour by hour They fell and faded--and the crackling trunks 20 Extinguished with a crash--and all was black.

The brows of men by the despairing light Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits The flashes fell upon them; some lay down And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled; And others hurried to and fro, and fed Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up With mad disquietude on the dull sky, The pall of a past World; and then again 30 With curses cast them down upon the dust, And gnashed their teeth and howled: the wild birds shrieked, And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawled And twined themselves among the mult.i.tude, Hissing, but stingless--they were slain for food: And War, which for a moment was no more, Did glut himself again:--a meal was bought With blood, and each sate sullenly apart 40 Gorging himself in gloom: no Love was left; All earth was but one thought--and that was Death, Immediate and inglorious; and the pang Of famine fed upon all entrails--men Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh; The meagre by the meagre were devoured, Even dogs a.s.sailed their masters, all save one, And he was faithful to a corse, and kept The birds and beasts and famished men at bay, Till hunger clung them,[57] or the dropping dead 50 Lured their lank jaws; himself sought out no food, But with a piteous and perpetual moan, And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand Which answered not with a caress--he died.

The crowd was famished by degrees; but two Of an enormous city did survive, And they were enemies: they met beside The dying embers of an altar-place Where had been heaped a ma.s.s of holy things For an unholy usage; they raked up, 60 And shivering sc.r.a.ped with their cold skeleton hands The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath Blew for a little life, and made a flame Which was a mockery; then they lifted up Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld[58]

Each other's aspects--saw, and shrieked, and died-- Even of their mutual hideousness they died, Unknowing who he was upon whose brow Famine had written Fiend. The World was void, The populous and the powerful was a lump, 70 Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless-- A lump of death--a chaos of hard clay.

The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still, And nothing stirred within their silent depths; Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropped They slept on the abyss without a surge-- The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, The Moon, their mistress, had expired before; The winds were withered in the stagnant air, 80 And the clouds perished; Darkness had no need Of aid from them--She was the Universe.

Diodati, _July_, 1816.

[First published, _Prisoner of Chillon_, etc., 1816.]

CHURCHILL'S GRAVE,[59]

A FACT LITERALLY RENDERED.[60]

I stood beside the grave of him who blazed The Comet of a season, and I saw The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed With not the less of sorrow and of awe On that neglected turf and quiet stone, With name no clearer than the names unknown, Which lay unread around it; and I asked The Gardener of that ground, why it might be That for this plant strangers his memory tasked, Through the thick deaths of half a century; 10 And thus he answered--"Well, I do not know Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so; He died before my day of s.e.xtonship, And I had not the digging of this grave."

And is this all? I thought,--and do we rip The veil of Immortality, and crave I know not what of honour and of light Through unborn ages, to endure this blight?

So soon, and so successless? As I said,[61]

The Architect of all on which we tread, 20 For Earth is but a tombstone, did essay To extricate remembrance from the clay, Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's thought, Were it not that all life must end in one, Of which we are but dreamers;--as he caught As 'twere the twilight of a former Sun,[62]

Thus spoke he,--"I believe the man of whom You wot, who lies in this selected[63] tomb, Was a most famous writer in his day, And therefore travellers step from out their way 30 To pay him honour,--and myself whate'er Your honour pleases:"--then most pleased I shook[l]

From out my pocket's avaricious nook Some certain coins of silver, which as 'twere Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare So much but inconveniently:--Ye smile, I see ye, ye profane ones! all the while, Because my homely phrase the truth would tell.

You are the fools, not I--for I did dwell With a deep thought, and with a softened eye, 40 On that old s.e.xton's natural homily, In which there was Obscurity and Fame,-- The Glory and the Nothing of a Name.

Diodati, 1816.

[First published, _Prisoner of Chillon_, etc., 1816.]