Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series Read online

  Like you will he live, or like you will he perish;

  When decay’d, may he mingle his dust with your own!

  1803

  LINES

  WRITTEN IN ‘LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN AND AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN; BY J. J. ROUSSEAU: FOUNDED ON FACTS’

  ‘Away, away, your fleeting arts

  May now betray some simpler hearts;

  And you will smile at their believing,

  And they shall weep at your deceiving.’

  ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED TO MISS — .

  Dear, simple girl, those flattering arts,

  From which thou’dst guard frail female hearts,

  Exist but in imagination, —

  Mere phantoms of thine own creation;

  For he who views that witching grace,

  That perfect form, that lovely face,

  With eyes admiring, oh! believe me,

  He never wishes to deceive thee:

  Once in thy polish’d mirror glance,

  Thou’lt there descry that elegance

  Which from our sex demands such praises,

  But envy in the other raises:

  Then he who tells thee of thy beauty,

  Believe me, only does his duty:

  Ah! fly not from the candid youth;

  It is not flattery, — ’tis truth.

  July 1804

  ADRIAN’S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL WHEN DYING

  [Animula! vagula, blandula,

  Hospes comesque corporis,

  Quæ nunc abibis in loca—

  Pallidula, rigida, nudula,

  Nec, ut soles, dabis jocos?]

  Ah! gentle, fleeting, wav’ring sprite,

  Friend and associate of this clay!

  To what unknown region borne,

  Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight?

  No more with wonted humour gay,

  But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.

  TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS

  AD LESBIAM

  Equal to Jove that youth must be —

  Greater than Jove he seems to me —

  Who, free from Jealousy’s alarms,

  Securely views thy matchless charms.

  That cheek, which ever dimpling glows,

  That mouth, from whence such music flows,

  To him, alike, are always known,

  Reserved for him, and him alone.

  Ah! Lesbia! though ‘tis death to me,

  I cannot choose but look on thee;

  Whilst trembling with a thousand fears,

  Parch’d to the throat my tongue adheres,

  My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short,

  My limbs deny their slight support,

  Cold dews my pallid face o’erspread,

  With deadly langour droops my head,

  My ears with tingling echoes ring,

  And life itself is on the wing;

  My eyes refuse the cheering light,

  Their orbs are veil’d in starless night:

  Such pangs my nature sinks beneath,

  And feels a temporary death.

  TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS

  BY DOMITIUS MARSUS

  He who sublime in epic numbers roll’d,

  And he who struck the softer lyre of love,

  By Death’s unequal hand alike controll’d,

  Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!

  IMITATION OF TIBULLUS

  ‘Sulpicia ad Cerinthum.’—Lib. iv.

  Cruel Cerinthus! does the fell disease

  Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please?

  Alas! I wish’d but to o’ercome the pain,

  That I might live for love and you again;

  But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate:

  By death alone I can avoid your hate.

  TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS

  [Lugete, Veneres, Cupidinesque, &c.]

  Ye Cupids, droop each little head,

  Nor let your wings with joy be spread;

  My Lesbia’s favourite bird is dead,

  Whom dearer than her eyes she loved:

  For he was gentle, and so true,

  Obedient to her call he flew,

  No fear, wild alarm he knew,

  But lightly o’er her bosom moved:

  And softly fluttering here and there,

  He never sought to cleave the air,

  But chirrup’d oft, and, free from care,

  Tuned to her ear his grateful strain.

  Now having pass’d the gloomy bourne

  From whence he never can return,

  His death and Lesbia’s grief I mourn,

  Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain.

  Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave!

  Whose jaws eternal victims crave,

  From whom no earthly power can save,

  For thou hast ta’en the bird away:

  From thee my Lesbia’s eyes o’erflow,

  Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow;

  Thou art the cause of all her woe,

  Receptacle of life’s decay.

  IMITATED FROM CATULLUS

  TO ELLEN

  Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire,

  A million scarce would quench desire:

  Still would I steep my lips in bliss,

  And dwell an age on every kiss;

  Nor then my soul should sated be,

  Still would I kiss and cling to thee:

  Nought should my kiss from thine dissever;

  Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever,

  E’en though the numbers did exceed

  The yellow harvest’s countless seed.

  To part would be a vain endeavor:

  Could I desist? — ah! never — never!

  TRANSLATION FROM HORACE

  [Justum et tenacem propositi virum, &c.]

  The man of firm and noble soul

  No factious clamours can control;

  No threat’ning tyrant’s darkling brow

  Can swerve him from his just intent:

  Gales the warring waves which plough,

  By Auster on the billows spent,

  To curb the Adriatic main,

  Would awe his fix’d, determined mind in vain.

  Ay, and the red right arm of Jove,

  Hurtling his lightnings from above,

  With all his terrors, there unfurl’d,

  He would unmoved, unawed, behold.

  The flames of an expiring world,

  Again in crashing chaos roll’d,

  In vast promiscuous ruin hurl’d,

  Might light his glorious funeral pile:

  Still dauntless ‘midst the wreck of earth he’d smile.

  FROM ANACREON

  I wish to tune my quivering lyre

  To deed of fame and notes of fire;

  To echo, from its rising swell,

  How heroes fought and nations fell,

  When Atreus’ sons advanced to war,

  Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar;

  But still, to martial strains unknown,

  My lyre recurs to love alone.

  Fired with the hope of future fame,

  I seek some nobler hero’s name;

  The dying chords are strung anew,

  To war, to war, my harp is due.

  With glowing strings, the epic strain

  To Jove’s great son I raise again;

  Alcides and his glorious deeds,

  Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds.

  All, all in vain; my wayward lyre

  Wakes silver notes of soft desire.

  Adieu, ye chiefs renown’d in arms!

  Adieu the clang of war’s alarms!

  To other deeds my soul is strung,

  And sweeter notes shall now be sung;

  My harp shall all its powers reveal,

  To tell the tale my heart must feel;<
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  Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim,

  In songs of bliss and sighs of flame.

  FROM ANACREON

  ‘Twas now the hour when Night had driven

  Her car half round yon sable heaven;

  Boötes, only, seem’d to roll

  His arctic charge around the pole;

  While mortals, lost in gentle sleep,

  Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep:

  At this lone hour the Paphian boy,

  Descending from the realms of joy,

  Quick to my gate directs his course,

  And knocks with all his little force.

  My visions fled, alarm’d I rose,—

  ‘What stranger breaks my blest repose?’

  ‘Alas!’ replies the wily child,

  In faltering accents sweetly mild,

  ‘A hapless infant here I roam,

  Far from my dear maternal home.

  Oh! shield me from the wintry blast!

  The nightly storm is pouring fast.

  No prowling robber lingers here.

  A wandering baby who can fear?’

  I heard his seeming artless tale,

  I heard his sighs upon the gale:

  My breast was never pity’s foe,

  But felt for all the baby’s woe.

  I drew the bar, and by the light

  Young Love, the infant, met my sight;

  His bow across his shoulders flung,

  And thence his fatal quiver hung

  (Ah! little did I think the dart

  Would rankle soon within my heart).

  With care I tend my weary guest,

  His little fingers chill my breast;

  His glossy curls, his azure wing,

  Which droop with nightly showers, I wring;

  His shivering limbs the embers warm;

  And now reviving from the storm,

  Scarce had he felt his wonted glow,

  Than swift he seized his slender bow:-

  ‘I fain would know, my gentle host,’

  He cried, ‘if this its strength has lost;

  I fear, relax’d with midnight dews,

  The strings their former aid refuse.’

  With poison tipt, his arrow flies,

  Deep in my tortured heart it lies:

  Then loud the joyous urchin laugh’d:-

  ‘My bow can still impel the shaft:

  ‘Tis firmly fix’d, thy sighs reveal it;

  Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?’

  FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF ÆSCHYLUS

  Great Jove, to whose almighty throne

  Both gods and mortals homage pay,

  Ne’er may my soul thy power disown,

  Thy dread behests ne’er disobey.

  Oft shall the sacred victim fall

  In sea-girt Ocean’s mossy hall;

  My voice shall raise no impious strain

  ‘Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main.

  How different now thy joyless fate,

  Since first Hesione thy bride,

  When placed aloft in godlike state,

  The blushing beauty by the side,

  Thou sat’st, while reverend Ocean smiled,

  And mirthful strains the hours beguiled;

  The Nymphs and Tritons dances around,

  Nor yet thy doom was fix’d, nor Jove relentless frown’d.

  TO EMMA

  Since now the hour is come at last,

  When you must quit your anxious lover;

  Since now our dream of bliss is past,

  One pang, my girl, and all is over.

  Alas! that pang will be severe,

  Which bids us part to meet no more;

  Which tears me far from one so dear,

  Departing for a distant shore.

  Well! we have pass’d some happy hours,

  And joy will mingle with our tears;

  When thinking on these ancient towers,

  We shelter of our infant years;

  Where from this Gothic casement’s height,

  We view’s the lake, the park, the dell,

  And still, though tears obstruct our sight,

  We lingering look a last farewell,

  O’er fields through which we used to run,

  And spend the hours in childish play;

  O’er shades where, when our race was done,

  Reposing on my breast you lay;

  Whilst I, admiring, too remiss,

  Forgot to scare the hovering flies,

  Yet envied every fly the kiss

  It dared to give your slumbering eyes:

  See still the little painted bark,

  In which I row’d you o’er the lake;

  See there, high waving o’er the park,

  The elm I clamber’d for your sake.

  These times are past — our joys are gone,

  You leave me, leave this happy vale;

  These scenes I must retrace alone:

  Without thee what will they avail?

  Who can conceive, who has not proved,

  The anguish of a last embrace?

  When, torn from all you fondly loved,

  You bid a long adieu to peace.

  This is the deepest of our woes,

  For this these tears our cheeks bedew;

  This is of love the final close,

  Oh, God! the fondest, last adieu!

  TO M. S. G.

  Whene’er I view those lips of thine,

  Their hue invites my fervent kiss;

  Yet, I forego that bliss divine,

  Alas! it were — unhallow’d bliss.

  Whene’er I dream of that pure breast,

  How could I dwell upon its snows!

  Yet, is the daring wish represt,

  For that, — would banish its repose.

  A glance from thy soul-searching eye

  Can raise with hope, depress with fear;

  Yet, I conceal my love, — and why?

  I would not force a painful tear.

  I ne’er have told my love, yet thou

  Hast seen my ardent flame too well;

  And shall I plead my passion now,

  To make thy bosom’s heaven a hell?

  No! for thou never canst be mine,

  United by the priest’s decree:

  By any ties but those divine,

  Mine, my belov’d, thou ne’er shalt be.

  Then let the secret fire consume,

  Let it consume, thou shalt not know:

  With joy I court a certain doom,

  Rather than spread its guilty glow.

  I will not ease my tortur’d heart,

  By driving dove-ey’d peace from thine;

  Rather than such a sting impart,

  Each thought presumptuous I resign.

  Yes! yield those lips, for which I’d brave

  More than I here shall dare to tell;

  Thy innocence and mine to save, —

  I bid thee now a last farewell.

  Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair

  And hope no more thy soft embrace;

  Which to obtain, my soul would dare,

  All, all reproach, but thy disgrace.

  At least from guilt shalt thou be free,

  No matron shall thy shame reprove;

  Though cureless pangs may prey on me,

  No martyr shalt thou be to love.

  TO CAROLINE

  Think’st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes,

  Suffus’d in tears, implore to stay;

  And heard unmov’d thy plenteous sighs,

  Which said far more than words can say?

  Though keen the grief thy tears exprest,

  When love and hope lay both o’erthrown;

  Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast

  Throbb’d, with deep sorrow, as thine own.

 
But, when our cheeks with anguish glow’d,

  When thy sweet lips were join’d to mine;

  The tears that from my eyelids flow’d

  Were lost in those which fell from thine.

  Thou could’st not feel my burning cheek,

  Thy gushing tears had quench’d its flame,

  And, as thy tongue essay’d to speak,

  In sighs alone it breath’d my name.

  And yet, my girl, we weep in vain,

  In vain our fate in sighs deplore;

  Remembrance only can remain,

  But that, will make us weep the more.

  Again, thou best belov’d, adieu!

  Ah! if thou canst, o’ercome regret,

  Nor let thy mind past joys review,

  Our only hope is, to forget!

  TO CAROLINE

  When I hear that you express an affection so warm,

  Ne’er think, my beloved, that I do not believe;

  For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm,

  And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive.

  Yet, still, this fond bosom regrets, while adoring,

  That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear;

  That age will come on, when remembrance, deploring,

  Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear;

  That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining

  Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the breeze,

  When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining

  Prove nature a prey to decay and disease.

  ‘Tis this, my beloved, which spreads gloom o’er my features,

  Though I ne’er shall presume to arraign the decree,

  Which God has proclaim’d as the fate of his creatures,

  In the death which will one day deprive you of me.

  Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion,

  No doubt can the mind of your lover invade;

  He worships each look with such faithful devotion,

  A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade.

  But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall o’ertake us,

  And our breasts, which alive with such sympathy glow,

  Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us,

  When calling the dead, in earth’s bosom laid low,-

  Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure,

  Which from passion like ours may unceasingly flow;

  Let us pass round the cup of love’s bliss in full measure,

  And quaff the contents as our nectar below.

  1805

  TO CAROLINE

  Oh when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow?

  Oh when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay?

  The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow

  But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day.

  From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no curses

  I blast not the fiends who have hurl’d me from bliss;

  For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses