Selected Poems (39 page)

Read Selected Poems Online

Authors: Byron

Tags: #Literary Criticism, #Poetry, #General

And lures to leap into the wave.’

* * * * *

* * * * *

Dark and unearthly is the scowl
That glares beneath his dusky cowl:
The flash of that dilating eye

835

Reveals too much of times gone by;
Though varying, indistinct its hue,
Oft will his glance the gazer rue,
For in it lurks that nameless spell,
Which speaks, itself unspeakable,

840

A spirit yet unquell’d and high,
That claims and keeps ascendency;
And like the bird whose pinions quake,
But cannot fly the gazing snake,
Will others quail beneath his look,

845

Nor ‘scape the glance they scarce can brook.
From him the half-affrighted Friar
When met alone would fain retire,
As if that eye and bitter smile
Transferr’d to others fear and guile:

850

Not oft to smile descendeth he,
And when he doth ’tis sad to see
That he but mocks at Misery.
How that pale lip will curl and quiver!
Then fix once more as if for ever;

855

As if his sorrow or disdain
Forbade him e’er to smile again.
Well were it so - such ghastly mirth
From joyaunce ne’er derived its birth.
But sadder still it were to trace

860

What once were feelings in that face:
Time hath not yet the features fix’d,
But brighter traits with evil mix’d;
And there are hues not always faded,
Which speak a mind not all degraded

865

Even by the crimes through which it waded:
The common crowd but see the gloom
Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom;
The close observer can espy
A noble soul, and lineage high:

870

Alas! though both bestow’d in vain,
Which Grief could change, and Guilt could stain,
It was no vulgar tenement
To which such lofty gifts were lent,
And still with little less than dread

875

On such the sight is riveted.
The roofless cot, decay’d and rent,
Will scarce delay the passer by;
The tower by war or tempest bent,
While yet may frown one battlement,

880

Demands and daunts the stranger’s eye;
Each ivied arch, and pillar lone,
Pleads haughtily for glories gone!
‘His floating robe around him folding,
Slow sweeps he through the column’d aisle;

885

With dread beheld, with gloom beholding
The rites that sanctify the pile.
But when the anthem shakes the choir,
And kneel the monks, his steps retire;
By yonder lone and wavering torch

890

His aspect glares within the porch;
There will be pause till all is done –
And hear the prayer, but utter none.
See – by the half-illumined wall
His hood fly back, his dark hair fall,

895

That pale brow wildly wreathing round,
As if the Gorgon there had bound
The sablest of the serpent-braid
That o’er her fearful forehead stray’d:
For he declines the convent oath,

900

And leaves those locks unhallow’d growth,
But wears our garb in all beside;
And, not from piety but pride,
Gives wealth to walls that never heard
Of his one holy vow nor word.

905

Lo! – mark ye, as the harmony
Peals louder praises to the sky,
That livid cheek, that stony air
Of mix’d defiance and despair!
Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine!

910

Else may we dread the wrath divine
Made manifest by awful sign.
If ever evil angel bore
The form of mortal, such he wore:
By all my hope of sins forgiven,

915

Such looks are not of earth nor heaven!’
To love the softest hearts are prone,
But such can ne’er be all his own;
Too timid in his woes to share,
Too meek to meet, or brave despair;

920

And sterner hearts alone may feel
The wound that time can never heal.
The rugged metal of the mine
Must burn before its surface shine,
But plunged within the furnace-flame,

925

It bends and melts – though still the same;
Then temper’d to thy want, or will,
‘Twill serve thee to defend or kill;
A breast-plate for thine hour of need,
Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed;

930

But if a dagger’s form it bear,
Let those who shape its edge, beware!
Thus passion’s fire, and woman’s art,
Can turn and tame the sterner heart;
From these its form and tone are ta’en,

935

And what they make it, must remain,
But break – before it bend again.

* * * * *

* * * * *

If solitude succeed to grief,
Release from pain is slight relief;
The vacant bosom’s wilderness

940

Might thank the pang that made it less.
We loathe what none are left to share:
Even bliss – ’t were woe alone to bear;
The heart once left thus desolate
Must fly at last for ease – to hate.

945

It is as if the dead could feel
The icy worm around them steal,
And shudder, as the reptiles creep
To revel o’er their rotting sleep,
Without the power to scare away

950

The cold consumers of their clay!
It is as if the desert-bird,
1
Whose beak unlocks her bosom’s stream
To still her famish’d nestlings’ scream,
Nor mourns a life to them transferr’d,

955

Should rend her rash devoted breast,
And find them flown her empty nest.
The keenest pangs the wretched find
Are rapture to the dreary void,
The leafless desert of the mind,

960

The waste of feelings unemploy’d.
Who would be doom’d to gaze upon
A sky without a cloud or sun?
Less hideous far the tempest’s roar
Than ne’er to brave the billows more -

965

Thrown, when the war of winds is o’er,
A lonely wreck on fortune’s shore,
‘Mid sullen calm, and silent bay,
Unseen to drop by dull decay; –
Better to sink beneath the shock

970

Than moulder piecemeal on the rock!

* * * * *

‘Father! thy days have pass’d in peace,
‘Mid counted beads, and countless prayer;
To bid the sins of others cease,
Thyself without a crime or care,

975

Save transient ills that all must bear,
Has been thy lot from youth to age;
And thou wilt bless thee from the rage
Of passions fierce and uncontroll’d,
Such as thy penitents unfold,

980

Whose secret sins and sorrows rest
Within thy pure and pitying breast.
My days, though few, have pass’d below
In much of joy, but more of woe;
Yet still in hours of love or strife,

985

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,

990

I’d rather be the thing that crawls
Most noxious o’er a dungeon’s walls,
Than pass my dull, unvarying days,
Condemn’d to meditate and gaze.
Yet, lurks a wish within my breast

995

For rest – but not to feel ’t is 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:

1000

My memory now is but the tomb

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