The Works of Lord Byron Volume IV Part 13

[93] {64}[Compare--

"Though thy slumber may be deep, Yet thy Spirit shall not sleep.

Nor to slumber nor to die, Shall be in thy destiny."

_The Incantation_, lines 201, 202, 254, 255, _Manfred_, act i. sc. 1, _vide post_, pp. 92, 93.]

[94] [Compare "I suppose now I shall never be able to shake off my sables in public imagination, more particularly since my moral ...

[Clytemnestra?] clove down my fame" (Letter to Moore, March 10, 1817, _Letters_, 1900, iv. 72). The same expression, "my _moral_ Clytemnestra," is applied to his wife in a letter to Lord Blessington, dated April 6, 1823. It may be noted that it was in April, 1823, that Byron presented a copy of the "Lines," etc., to Lady Blessington (_Conversations, etc._, 1834, p. 79).]

[95] {65}[Compare--

"By thy delight in others' pain."

_Manfred_, act i. sc. i, line 248, _vide post_, p. 93.]

[96] [Compare--

" ... but that high Soul secured the heart, And panted for the truth it could not hear."

_A Sketch_, lines 18, 19, _Poetical Works_, 1900, iii. 541.]

[97] [Compare _Childe Harold_, Canto IV. stanza cx.x.xvi. lines 6-9, _Poetical Works_, 1899, ii. 430.]

MONODY ON THE DEATH

OF

THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN.

INTRODUCTION TO _MONODY ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN._

When Moore was engaged on the Life of Sheridan, Byron gave him some advice. "Never mind," he says, "the angry lies of the humbug Whigs.

Recollect that he was an Irishman and a clever fellow, and that we have had some very pleasant days with him. Don't forget that he was at school at Harrow, where, in my time, we used to show his name--R. B. Sheridan, 1765--as an honour to the walls. Depend upon it that there were worse folks going, of that gang, than ever Sheridan was" (Letter to Moore, September 19, 1818, _Letters_, 1900, iv. 261).

It does not appear that Byron had any acquaintance with Sheridan when he wrote the one unrejected Address which was spoken at the opening of Drury Lane Theatre, October 10, 1812, but that he met him for the first time at a dinner which Rogers gave to Byron and Moore, on or before June 1, 1813. Thenceforward, as long as he remained in England (see his letter to Rogers, April 16, 1816, _Letters,_ 1899, iii 281, note 1), he was often in his company, "sitting late, drinking late," not, of course, on terms of equality and friendship (for Sheridan was past sixty, and Byron more than thirty years younger), but of the closest and pleasantest intimacy. To judge from the tone of the letter to Moore (_vide supra_) and of numerous entries in his diaries, during Sheridan's life and after his death, he was at pains not to pa.s.s judgment on a man whom he greatly admired and sincerely pitied, and whom he felt that he had no right to despise. Body and soul, Byron was of different stuff from Sheridan, and if he "had lived to his age," he would have pa.s.sed over "the red-hot ploughshares" of life and conduct, not unscathed, but stoutly and unconsumed. So much easier is it to live down character than to live through temperament.

Richard Brinsley Sheridan (born October 30, 1751) died July 7, 1816.

_The Monody_ was written at the Campagne Diodati, on July 17, at the request of Douglas Kinnaird. "I did as well as I could," says Byron; "but where I have not my choice I pretend to answer for nothing" (Letter to Murray, September 29, 1816, _Letters_, 1899, iii. 366). He told Lady Blessington, however, that his "feelings were never more excited than while writing it, and that every word came direct from the heart"

(_Conversations, etc._, p. 241).

The MS., in the handwriting of Claire, is headed, "Written at the request of D. Kinnaird, Esq., Monody on R. B. Sheridan. Intended to be spoken at Dy. L^e.^ T. Diodati, Lake of Geneva, July 18^th^, 1816.

Byron."

The first edition was ent.i.tled _Monody on the Death of the Right Honourable R.B. Sheridan_. Written at the request of a Friend. To be spoken at Drury Lane Theatre, London. Printed for John Murray, Albemarle Street, 1816.

It was spoken by Mrs. Davison at Drury Lane Theatre, September 7, and published September 9, 1816.

When the _Monody_ arrived at Diodati Byron fell foul of the t.i.tle-page: "'The request of a Friend:'--

'Obliged by Hunger and request of friends.'

"I will request you to expunge that same, unless you please to add, 'by a person of quality, or of wit and honour about town.' Merely say, 'written to be spoken at D[rury] L[ane]'" (Letter to Murray, September 30, 1816, _Letters,_ 1899, iii. 367). The first edition had been issued, and no alteration could be made, but the t.i.tle-page of a "New Edition,"

1817, reads, "_Monody, etc._ Spoken at Drury Lane Theatre. By Lord Byron."]

MONODY ON THE DEATH

OF THE

RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN,

SPOKEN AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE, LONDON.

When the last sunshine of expiring Day In Summer's twilight weeps itself away, Who hath not felt the softness of the hour Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower?

With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes While Nature makes that melancholy pause-- Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime-- Who hath not shared that calm, so still and deep, The voiceless thought which would not speak but weep, 10 A holy concord, and a bright regret, A glorious sympathy with suns that set?[98]

'Tis not harsh sorrow, but a tenderer woe, Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below, Felt without bitterness--but full and clear, A sweet dejection--a transparent tear, Unmixed with worldly grief or selfish stain-- Shed without shame, and secret without pain.

Even as the tenderness that hour instils When Summer's day declines along the hills, 20 So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes When all of Genius which can perish dies.

A mighty Spirit is eclipsed--a Power Hath pa.s.sed from day to darkness--to whose hour Of light no likeness is bequeathed--no name, Focus at once of all the rays of Fame!

The flash of Wit--the bright Intelligence, The beam of Song--the blaze of Eloquence, Set with their Sun, but still have left behind The enduring produce of immortal Mind; 30 Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, A deathless part of him who died too soon.

But small that portion of the wondrous whole, These sparkling segments of that circling Soul, Which all embraced, and lightened over all, To cheer--to pierce--to please--or to appal.

From the charmed council to the festive board, Of human feelings the unbounded lord; In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied, The praised--the proud--who made his praise their pride. 40 When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan Arose to Heaven in her appeal from Man, His was the thunder--his the avenging rod, The wrath--the delegated voice of G.o.d!

Which shook the nations through his lips, and blazed Till vanquished senates trembled as they praised.[99]

And here, oh! here, where yet all young and warm, The gay creations of his spirit charm,[100]

The matchless dialogue--the deathless wit, Which knew not what it was to intermit; 50 The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring; These wondrous beings of his fancy, wrought To fulness by the fiat of his thought, Here in their first abode you still may meet, Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat; A Halo of the light of other days, Which still the splendour of its...o...b..betrays.

But should there be to whom the fatal blight Of failing Wisdom yields a base delight, 60 Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone Jar in the music which was born their own, Still let them pause--ah! little do they know That what to them seemed Vice might be but Woe.

Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze Is fixed for ever to detract or praise; Repose denies her requiem to his name, And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame.

The secret Enemy whose sleepless eye Stands sentinel--accuser--judge--and spy. 70 The foe, the fool, the jealous, and the vain, The envious who but breathe in other's pain-- Behold the host! delighting to deprave, Who track the steps of Glory to the grave, Watch every fault that daring Genius owes Half to the ardour which its birth bestows, Distort the truth, acc.u.mulate the lie, And pile the Pyramid of Calumny!

These are his portion--but if joined to these Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Disease, 80 If the high Spirit must forget to soar, And stoop to strive with Misery at the door,[101]

To soothe Indignity--and face to face Meet sordid Rage, and wrestle with Disgrace, To find in Hope but the renewed caress, The serpent-fold of further Faithlessness:-- If such may be the Ills which men a.s.sail, What marvel if at last the mightiest fail?

b.r.e.a.s.t.s to whom all the strength of feeling given Bear hearts electric-charged with fire from Heaven, 90 Black with the rude collision, inly torn, By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne, Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that nurst Thoughts which have turned to thunder--scorch, and burst.[ao]

But far from us and from our mimic scene Such things should be--if such have ever been; Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task, To give the tribute Glory need not ask, To mourn the vanished beam, and add our mite Of praise in payment of a long delight. 100 Ye Orators! whom yet our councils yield, Mourn for the veteran Hero of your field!

The worthy rival of the wondrous _Three!_[102]

Whose words were sparks of Immortality!