GEORGE GORDON NOEL, LORD BYRON.
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON.
ETERNAL spirit of the chainless mind!
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art;
For there thy habitation is the heart,
The heart which love of thee alone can bind;
And when thy sons to fetters are consigned,
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,
Their country conquers with their martyrdom,
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.
Chillon thy prison is a holy place, C
And thy sad floor an altar; for 't was trod,
Until his very steps have left a trace
Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod,
May none those marks efface!
For they appeal from tyranny to God.
that the author was not young when he came into England, and that
he then spoke English like a foreigner.
In point of thought the sonnet stands supreme, perhaps above all in any language. Nor can we ponder it too deeply, or with too hopeful a reverence.
HEAVENLY AND EARTHLY BEAUTY COMBINED.
THY cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,
And yet so lovely that if mirth could flush
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush,
My heart would wish away that ruder glow ;-
And dazzle not thy deep blue eyes, — but oh ! 2
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
And into mine my mother's weakness rush,
Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow.
For, through thy long dark lashes, low depending,
The soul of melancholy gentleness
Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending,
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.
POET of Nature! thou hast wept to know
That things depart which never may return!
Childhood and youth, friendship and love's first glow,
Have fled like sweet dreams, leaving thee to mourn.
These common woes I feel. One loss is mine
Which thou too feel'st; yet I alone deplore.
Thou wert as a lone star, whose light did shine
On some frail bark in winter's midnight roar :
Thou hast like to a rock-built refuge stood
Above the blind and battling multitude.
In honored poverty thy voice did weave
Songs consecrate to truth and liberty:
Deserting these, thou leavest me to grieve,
Thus having been, that thou shouldst cease to be.
NOR happiness, nor majesty, nor fame,
Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms or arts,
Shepherd those herds whom tyranny makes tame;
Verse echoes not one beating of their hearts,
History is but the shadow of their shame ;
Art veils her glass, or from the pageant starts,
As to oblivion their blind millions fleet,
Staining that heaven with obscene imagery
Of their own likeness. What are numbers knit
By force or custom? Man, who man would be,
Must rule the empire of himself; in it
Must be supreme, establishing his throne
On vanquished will, quelling the anarchy
Of hopes and fears, being himself alone.
I MET a traveller from an antique land,
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive (stamped on these lifeless things)
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear :-
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty! and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away!
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