155 | And don the purple vest, – |
As if that foolish robe could wring | |
Remembrance from thy breast. | |
Where is that faded garment? where | |
The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear, | |
160 | The star – the string – the crest? |
Vain froward child of empire! say, | |
Are all thy playthings snatch’d away? | |
XIX | |
Where may the wearied eye repose | |
When gazing on the Great; | |
165 | Where neither guilty glory glows, |
Nor despicable state? | |
Yes – one – the first – the last – the best – | |
The Cincinnatus of the West, | |
Whom envy dared not hate, | |
170 | Bequeath’d the name of Washington, |
To make man blush there was but one! |
Stanzas for Music | |
I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name, | |
There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame: | |
But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart | |
The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart. | |
5 | Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace |
Were those hours – can their joy or their bitterness cease? | |
We repent – we abjure – we will break from our chain, – | |
We will part, – we will fly to – unite it again! | |
Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt! | |
10 | Forgive me, adored one! – forsake, if thou wilt; – |
But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased, | |
And | |
And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee, | |
This soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall be; | |
15 | And our days seem as swift, and our moments more sweet, |
With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet. | |
One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love, | |
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove; | |
And the heartless may wonder at all I resign - | |
20 | Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to |
May, 1814. |
She walks in beauty | |
I | |
She walks in beauty, like the night | |
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; | |
And all that’s best of dark and bright | |
Meet in her aspect and her eyes: | |
5 | Thus mellow’d to that tender light |
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. | |
II | |
One shade the more, one ray the less, | |
Had half impair’d the nameless grace | |
Which waves in every raven tress, | |
10 | Or softly lightens o’er her face; |
Where thoughts serenely sweet express | |
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. | |
III | |
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, | |
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, | |
15 | The smiles that win, the tints that glow, |
But tell of days in goodness spent, | |
A mind at peace with all below, | |
A heart whose love is innocent! |
LARA | |
Canto the First | |
I | |
The Serfs | |
And Slavery half forgets her feudal chain; | |
He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord, | |
The long self-exiled chieftain, is restored: | |
5 | There be bright faces in the busy hall, |
Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall; | |
Far checkering o’er the pictured window, plays | |
The unwonted faggots’ hospitable blaze; | |
And gay retainers gather round the hearth, | |
10 | With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth. |
II | |
The chief of Lara is return’d again: | |
And why had Lara cross’d the bounding main? | |
Left by his sire, too young such loss to know, | |
Lord of himself; – that heritage of woe, | |
15 | That fearful empire which the human breast |
But holds to rob the heart within of rest! – | |
With none to check, and few to point in time | |
The thousand paths that slope the way to crime; | |
Then, when he most required commandment, then | |
20 | Had Lara’s daring boyhood govern’d men. |
It skills not, boots not step by step to trace | |
His youth through all the mazes of its race; | |
Short was the course his restlessness had run, | |
But long enough to leave him half undone. | |
III | |
25 | And Lara left in youth his father-land; |
But from the hour he waved his parting hand | |
Each trace wax’d fainter of his course, till all | |
Had nearly ceased his memory to recall. | |
His sire was dust, his vassals could declare, | |
30 | ’Twas all they knew, that Lara was not there; |
Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew | |
Cold in the many, anxious in the few. | |
His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name, | |
His portrait darkens in its fading frame, | |
35 | Another chief consoled his destined bride, |
The young forgot him, and the old had died; | |
‘Yet doth he live!’ exclaims the impatient heir, | |
And sighs for sables which he must not wear. | |
A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace | |
40 | The Laras’ last and longest dwelling-place; |
But one is absent from the mouldering file, | |
That now were welcome in that Gothic pile. | |
IV | |
He comes at last in sudden loneliness, | |
And whence they know not, why they need not guess; | |
45 | They more might marvel, when the greeting’s o’er, |
Not that he came, but came not long before: | |
No train is his beyond a single page, | |
Of foreign aspect, and of tender age. | |
Years had roll’d on, and fast they speed away | |
50 | To those that wander as to those that stay; |
But lack of tidings from another clime | |
Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time. | |
They see, they recognise, yet almost deem | |
The present dubious, or the past a dream. | |
55 | He lives, nor yet is past his manhood’s prime, |
Though sear’d by toil, and something touch’d by time; | |
His faults, whate’er they were, if scarce forgot, | |
Might be untaught him by his varied lot; | |
Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name | |
60 | Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame: |
His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins | |
No more than pleasure from the stripling wins; | |
And such, if not yet harden’d in their course, | |
Might be redeem’d, nor ask a long remorse. | |
V | |
65 | And they indeed were changed - ’tis quickly seen, |
Whate’er he be, ’twas not what he had been: | |
That brow in furrow’d lines had fix’d at last, | |
And spake of passions, but of passion past: | |
The pride, but not the fire, of early days, | |
70 | Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise; |
A high demeanour, and a glance that took | |
Their thoughts from others by a single look; | |
And that sarcastic levity of tongue, | |
The stinging of a heart the world hath stung, | |
75 | That darts in seeming playfulness around, |
And makes those feel that will not own the wound; | |
All these seem’d his, and something more beneath | |
Than glance could well reveal, or accent breathe. | |
Ambition, glory, love, the common aim, | |
80 | That some can conquer, and that all would claim, |
Within his breast appear’d no more to strive, | |
Yet seem’d as lately they had been alive; | |
And some deep feeling it were vain to trace | |
At moments lighten’d o’er his livid face. | |
VI | |
85 | Not much he loved long question of the past, |
Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast, | |
In those far lands where he had wander’d lone, | |
And – as himself would have it seem – unknown: | |
Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan, | |
90 | Nor glean experience from his fellow man; |
But what he had beheld he shunn’d to show, | |
As hardly worth a stranger’s care to know; | |
If still more prying such enquiry grew, | |
His brow fell darker, and his words more few. | |
VII | |
95 | Not unrejoiced to see him once again, |
Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men; | |
Born of high lineage, link’d in high command, | |
He mingled with the Magnates of his land; | |
Join’d the carousals of the great and gay, | |
100 | And saw them smile or sigh their hours away; |
But still he only saw, and did not share, | |
The common pleasure or the general care; | |
He did not follow what they all pursued | |
With hope still baffled still to be renew’d; | |
105 | Nor shadowy honour, nor substantial gain, |
Nor beauty’s preference, and the rival’s pain: | |
Around him some mysterious circle thrown | |
Repell’d approach, and show’d him still alone; | |
Upon his eye sat something of reproof | |
110 | That kept at least frivolity aloof; |
And things more timid that beheld him near, | |
In silence gazed, or whisper’d mutual fear; | |
And they the wiser, friendlier few confess’d | |
They deem’d him better than his air express’d. | |
VIII | |
115 | ’Twas strange – in youth all action and all life, |
Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife; | |
Woman – the field – the ocean – all that gave | |
Promise of gladness, peril of a grave, | |
In turn he tried – he ransack’d all below, | |
120 | And found his recompense in joy or woe, |
No tame, trite medium; for his feelings sought | |
In that intenseness an escape from thought: | |
The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed | |
On that the feebler elements hath raised; | |
125 | The rapture of his heart had look’d on high, |
And ask’d if greater dwelt beyond the sky: | |
Chain’d to excess, the slave of each extreme, | |
How woke he from the wildness of that dream? | |
Alas! he told not – but he did awake | |
130 | To curse the wither’d heart that would not break. |
IX | |
Books, for his volume heretofore was Man, | |
With eye more curious he appear’d to scan, | |
And oft, in sudden mood, for many a day, | |
From all communion he would start away: | |
135 | And then, his rarely call’d attendants said, |
Through night’s long hours would sound his hurried tread | |
O’er the dark gallery, where his fathers frown’d | |
In rude but antique portraiture around: | |
They heard, but whisper’d – | |
140 | The sound of words less earthly than his own. |
Yes, they who chose might smile, but some had seen | |
They scarce knew what, but more than should have been | |
Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head | |
Which hands profane had gather’d from the dead, | |
145 | That still beside his open’d volume lay, |
As if to startle all save him away? | |
Why slept he not when others were at rest? | |
Why heard no music, and received no guest? | |
All was not well, they deem’d – but where the wrong? | |
150 | Some knew perchance – but ’twere a tale too long; |