And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail; And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, E Chillon TERNAL Spirit of the chainless mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art; The heart which love of thee alone can bind; To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, And thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod, Worn as if thy cold pavements were a sod, Oh! Snatched Away in Beauty's Bloom H, snatched away in beauty's bloom! But on thy turf shall roses rear Their leaves, the earliest of the year, And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom; Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, And feed deep thought with many a dream, Away! we know that tears are vain, Stanzas to Augusta This poem should rank high in the Byronic reliquary. Poe appraises it justly: "Although the rhythm here is one of the most difficult, the versification could scarcely be improved. No nobler theme ever engaged the pen of poet. It is the soul-elevating idea that no man can consider himself entitled to complain of Fate while, in his adversity, he still retains the unwavering love of woman." HOUGH the day of my destiny's over, TH And the star of my fate hath declined, The faults which so many could find. Then when nature around me is smiling, I do not believe it beguiling, And when winds are at war with the ocean, Though the rock of my last hope is shivered, There is many a pang to pursue me: They may crush, but they shall not contemnThey may torture, but shall not subdue me'Tis of thee that I think-not of them. Though human, thou didst not deceive me, Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me, Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, And more than I once could forsee, From the wreck of the past which hath perished It hath taught me that what I most cherished In the desert a fountain is springing, From "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers" In 1809, Byron published this famous satire, which ran through many editions. In 1816, he had the high-mindedness to disavow his belittlement of such men as Coleridge and Wordsworth, saying he regretted that he was not able to consign "this miserable record of misplaced anger and indiscriminate acrimony to the flames." I give you a taste of the satire. PREP REPARE for rhyme-I'll publish, right or wrong: A man must serve his time to every trade Save censure-critics all are ready-made. Take hackneyed jokes from Miller, got by rote, With just enough of learning to misquote. With eagle pinion soaring to the skies, Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field. The scourge of England and the boast of France! Her fetters burst, and just released from prison, There be, who say, in these enlightened days, 'Tis true, that all who rhyme-nay, all who write, The Coliseum FROM "CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE" RCHES on arches! as it were that Rome, A Collecting the chief trophies of her line, Would build up all her triumphs in one dome, |