The Selected Poetry of Lord Byron

THE SELECTED POETRY OF LORD BYRON

By LORD BYRON

The Selected Poetry of Lord Byron

By Lord George Gordon Byron

Print ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-5885-0

eBook ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-5886-7

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Cover Image: a detail of a portrait of Lord Byron, English School, (20th century) / Private Collection / © Look and Learn / Bridgeman Images.

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CONTENTS

POEMS

CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE

PREFACE (TO THE FIRST AND SECOND CANTOS)

CANTO THE FIRST.

CANTO THE SECOND.

CANTO THE THIRD.

CANTO THE FOURTH.

ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY

THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE

TO WOMAN

REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J. M. B. PIGOT, ESQ.,

TO THE SIGHING STREPHON

LACHIN Y GAIR

TO ROMANCE

TO A LADY

I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD

WHEN I ROV’D A YOUNG HIGHLANDER

FRAGMENT

LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL.

INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG

WELL! THOU ART HAPPY

TO A LADY

STANZAS WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN GULF

THE SPELL IS BROKE, THE CHARM IS FLOWN!

THE GIRL OF CADIZ

WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO ABYDOS

MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART

FAREWELL TO MALTA

NEWSTEAD ABBEY

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND

TO THYRZA

AWAY, AWAY, YE NOTES OF WOE!

ONE STRUGGLE MORE, AND I AM FREE

EUTHANASIA

AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG AND FAIR.

LINES TO A LADY WEEPING

REMEMBER THEE! REMEMBER THEE!

THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU ART FICKLE

SONNET, TO GENEVRA

SONNET, TO THE SAME

ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE

STANZAS FOR MUSIC

STANZAS FOR MUSIC

STANZAS FOR MUSIC

DARKNESS

CHURCHILL’S GRAVE

PROMETHEUS

A FRAGMENT

SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN

ON SAM ROGERS

STANZAS TO THE PO

STANZAS

STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA

ARISTOMENES

LAST WORDS ON GREECE

ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR

[LOVE AND DEATH]

HEBREW MELODIES

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY

THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL SWEPT

IF THAT HIGH WORLD

THE WILD GAZELLE

OH! WEEP FOR THOSE

ON JORDAN’S BANKS

JEPHTHA’S DAUGHTER

OH! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY’S BLOOM

MY SOUL IS DARK

I SAW THEE WEEP

THY DAYS ARE DONE

SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST BATTLE

SAUL

ALL IS VANITY, SAITH THE PREACHER

WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFERING CLAY

VISION OF BELSHAZZAR

SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS!

WERE MY BOSOM AS FALSE AS THOU DEEM’ST IT TO BE

HEROD’S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE

ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM BY TITUS

BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE SAT DOWN AND WEPT

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB

A SPIRIT PASSED BEFORE ME.

BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON

FARE THEE WELL

STANZAS TO AUGUSTA

STANZAS TO AUGUSTA

THE DREAM

LINES TO MR. HODGSON

TRANSLATION OF THE NURSE’S DOLE IN THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES.

WINDSOR POETICS

SO WE’LL GO NO MORE A-ROVING

VERSICLES

TO MR. MURRAY

TO THOMAS MOORE

EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO DR. POLIDORI

EPISTLE TO MR. MURRAY

TO MR. MURRAY

EPIGRAM

EPILOGUE

ON MY WEDDING-DAY

MY BOY HOBBIE O

LINES

EPIGRAM

JOHN KEATS

SATIRES

ENGLISH BARDS, AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS.

THE VISION OF JUDGMENT

From DON JUAN

DEDICATION

CANTO THE FIRST

CANTO THE SECOND

CANTO THE THIRD

CANTO THE FOURTH

CANTO THE SEVENTH

CANTO THE NINTH

CANTO THE ELEVENTH

CANTO THE TWELTH

CANTO THE THIRTEENTH

CANTO THE FOURTEENTH

CANTO THE FIFTEENTH

CANTO THE SIXTEENTH

CANTO THE SEVENTEENTH

TALES

THE GIAOUR

From THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS

From THE CORSAIR

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON

BEPPO

DRAMA

MANFRED

BIOGRAPHICAL AFTERWORD

Poems

CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE

A ROMANCE

PREFACE (TO THE FIRST AND SECOND CANTOS)

The following poem was written, for the most part, amidst the scenes which it attempts to describe. It was begun in Albania; and the parts relative to Spain and Portugal were composed from the author’s observations in those countries. Thus much it may be necessary to state for the correctness of the descriptions. The scenes attempted to be sketched are in Spain, Portugal, Epirus, Acarnania, and Greece. There, for the present, the poem stops; its reception will determine whether the author may venture to conduct his readers to the capital of the East, through Ionia and Phrygia: these two cantos are merely experimental.

A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of giving some connection to the piece; which, however, makes no pretension to regularity. It has been suggested to me by friends, on whose opinion I set a high value, that in this fictitious character, ‘Childe Harold,’ I may incur the suspicion of having intended some real personage; this I beg leave, once for all, to disclaim—Harold is the child of imagination, for the purpose I have stated. In some very trivial particulars, and those merely local, there might be grounds for such a notion; but in the main points, I should hope, none whatever.

It is almost superfluous to mention that the appellation ‘Childe,’ as ‘Childe Waters,’ ‘Childe Childers,’ &c., is used as more consonant with the old structure of versification which I have adopted. The ‘Good Night,’ in the beginning of the first canto, was suggested by ‘Lord Maxwell’s Good Night,’ in the Border Minstrelsy, edited by Mr. Scott.

With the different poems which have been published on Spanish subjects, there may be found some slight coincidence in the first part, which treats of the Peninsula, but it can only be casual; as, with the exception of a few concluding stanzas, the whole of this poem was written in the Levant.

The stanza of Spenser, according to one of our most successful poets, admits of every variety. Dr. Beattie makes the following observation:—‘Not long ago, I began a poem in the style and stanza of Spenser, in which I propose to give full scope to my inclination, and be either droll or pathetic, descriptive or sentimental, tender or satirical, as the humour strikes me; for, if I mistake not, the measure which I have adopted admits equally of all these kinds of composition’.—Strengthened in my opinion by such authority, and by the example of some in the highest order of Italian poets, I shall make no apology for attempts at similar variations in the following composition; satisfied that if they are unsuccessful, their failure must be in the execution, rather than in the design, sanctioned by the practice of Ariosto, Thomson, and Beattie.

London, February, 1812.

ADDITION TO THE PREFACE

I have now waited till almost all our periodical journals have distributed their usual portion of criticism. To the justice of the generality of their criticisms I have nothing to object: it would ill become me to quarrel with their very slight degree of censure, when, perhaps, if they had been less kind they had been more candid. Returning, therefore, to all and each my best thanks for their liberality, on one point alone shall I venture an observation. Amongst the many objections justly urged to the very indifferent character of the ‘vagrant Childe’ (whom, notwithstanding many hints to the contrary, I still maintain to be a fictitious personage), it has been stated, that, besides the anachronism, he is very unknightly, as the times of the Knights were times of Love, Honour, and so forth. Now, it so happens that the good old times, when ‘l’amour du bon vieux temps, l’amour antique,’ flourished, were the most profligate of all possible centuries. Those who have any doubts on this subject may consult Sainte-Palaye, passim, and more particularly vol. ii. p. 69. The vows of chivalry were no better kept than any other vows, whatsoever; and the songs of the Troubadours were not more decent, and certainly were much less refined, than those of Ovid. The ‘Cours d’amour, parlemens d’amour, ou de courtesie et de gentilesse’ had much more of love than of courtesy or gentleness. See Rolland on the same subject with Sainte-Palaye.

Whatever other objection may be urged to that most unamiable personage Childe Harold, he was so far perfectly knightly in his attributes—‘No waiter, but a knight templar.’ By the by, I fear that Sir Tristrem and Sir Lancelot were not better than they should be, although very poetical personages and true knights, ‘sans peur,’ though not ‘sans reproche.’ If the story of the institution of the ‘Garter’ be not a fable, the knights of that order have for several centuries borne the badge of a Countess of Salisbury, of indifferent memory. So much for chivalry. Burke need not have regretted that its days are over, though Marie-Antoinette was quite as chaste as most of those in whose honour lances were shivered, and knights unhorsed.

I now leave ‘Childe Harold’ to live his day, such as he is; it had been more agreeable, and certainly more easy, to have drawn an amiable character. It had been easy to varnish over his faults, to make him do more and express less, but he never was intended as an example, further than to show, that early perversion of mind and morals leads to satiety of past pleasures and disappointment in new ones, and that even the beauties of nature and the stimulus of travel (except ambition, the most powerful of all excitements) are lost on a soul so constituted, or rather misdirected. Had I proceeded with the poem, this character would have deepened as he drew to the close; for the outline which I once meant to fill up for him was, with some exceptions, the sketch of a modern Timon, perhaps a poetical Zeluco.

London, 1813.

TO IANTHE.

Not in those climes where I have late been straying,

Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deemed,

Not in those visions to the heart displaying

Forms which it sighs but to have only dreamed,

Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seemed:

Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek

To paint those charms which varied as they beamed—

To such as see thee not my words were weak;

To those who gaze on thee, what language could they speak?

Ah! mayst thou ever be what now thou art,

Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring,

As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart,

Love’s image upon earth without his wing,

And guileless beyond Hope’s imagining!

And surely she who now so fondly rears

Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening,

Beholds the rainbow of her future years,

Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears.

Young Peri of the West!—’tis well for me

My years already doubly number thine;

My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee,

And safely view thy ripening beauties shine:

Happy, I ne’er shall see them in decline;

Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed

Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign

To those whose admiration shall succeed,

But mixed with pangs to Love’s even loveliest hours decreed.

Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle’s,

Now brightly bold or beautifully shy,

Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells,

Glance o’er this page, nor to my verse deny

That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh,

Could I to thee be ever more than friend:

This much, dear maid, accord; nor question why

To one so young my strain I would commend,

But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend.

Such is thy name with this my verse entwined;

And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast

On Harold’s page, Ianthe’s here enshrined

Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last:

My days once numbered, should this homage past

Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre

Of him who hailed thee, loveliest as thou wast,

Such is the most my memory may desire;

Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less require?

CANTO THE FIRST.

I.

Oh, thou, in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth,

Muse, formed or fabled at the minstrel’s will!

Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,

Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill:

Yet there I’ve wandered by thy vaunted rill;

Yes! sighed o’er Delphi’s long-deserted shrine

Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;

Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine

To grace so plain a tale—this lowly lay of mine.

II.

Whilome in Albion’s isle there dwelt a youth,

Who ne in virtue’s ways did take delight;

But spent his days in riot most uncouth,

And vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.

Ah, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight,

Sore given to revel and ungodly glee;

Few earthly things found favour in his sight

Save concubines and carnal companie,

And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree.

III.

Childe Harold was he hight:—but whence his name

And lineage long, it suits me not to say;

Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame,

And had been glorious in another day:

But one sad losel soils a name for aye,

However mighty in the olden time;

Nor all that heralds rake from coffined clay,

Nor florid prose, nor honeyed lines of rhyme,

Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.

IV.

Childe Harold basked him in the noontide sun,

Disporting there like any other fly,

Nor deemed before his little day was done

One blast might chill him into misery.

But long ere scarce a third of his passed by,

Worse than adversity the Childe befell;

He felt the fulness of satiety:

Then loathed he in his native land to dwell,

Which seemed to him more lone than eremite’s sad cell.

V.

For he through Sin’s long labyrinth had run,

Nor made atonement when he did amiss,

Had sighed to many, though he loved but one,

And that loved one, alas, could ne’er be his.

Ah, happy she! to ’scape from him whose kiss

Had been pollution unto aught so chaste;

Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss,

And spoiled her goodly lands to gild his waste,

Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to taste.

VI.

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,

And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;

’Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,

But pride congealed the drop within his ee:

Apart he stalked in joyless reverie,

And from his native land resolved to go,

And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;

With pleasure drugged, he almost longed for woe,

And e’en for change of scene would seek the shades below.

VII.

The Childe departed from his father’s hall;

It was a vast and venerable pile;

So old, it seeméd only not to fall,

Yet strength was pillared in each massy aisle.

Monastic dome! condemned to uses vile!

Where superstition once had made her den,

Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile;

And monks might deem their time was come agen,

If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.

VIII.

Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood,

Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold’s brow,

As if the memory of some deadly feud

Or disappointed passion lurked below:

But this none knew, nor haply cared to know;

For his was not that open, artless soul

That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow;

Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole,

Whate’er this grief mote be, which he could not control.

IX.

And none did love him: though to hall and bower

He gathered revellers from far and near,

He knew them flatterers of the festal hour;