Α. ΜΠΑΥΡΟΝ - Ο ΕΚΠΡΟΣΩΠΟΣ ΤΟΥ ΡΟΜΑΝΤΙΣΜΟΥ
ΣΤΟΥΣ ΕΠΑΝΑΣΤΑΤΕΣ ΤΗΣ ΕΥΡΩΠΗΣ
Ο Μπάυρον (Lord
George Gordon Noel, 6ος
Byron) είναι στην Αγγλία
γνωστός ως ένας από τους μεγαλύτερους εκφραστές του ρομαντισμού. Ήταν μέλος
Society» στο Λονδίνο
(Εταιρεία μελέτης των Φυσικών Επιστημών) γι’ αυτό και στις υπογραφές του
προτάσσει το αναγνωριστικό των μελών της εταιρείας (FRS).
Η πρώτη συλλογή έργων του εξεδόθη όταν αυτός ήταν ακόμη 14ετών. Πολύ
βοήθησε στην προβολή του Μπάιρον ο φίλος του, Σεβασμιώτατος
Μέχρι σήμερα τα ποιήματα του
Μπάυρον διαβάζονται σε όλη την Ευρώπη. Ιδιαίτερα το ποίημα «Δον Ζουάν»
αποτελούμενο από 17 «ραψωδίες» θεωρείται το σημαντικότερο Αγγλικό
δημιούργημα μετά από τον «Χαμένο Παράδεισο» του
Στα έπη "Ο Κουρσάρος", "Το Προσκύνημα του μικρού Χάρολντ","The
Giaur" και "Lara" εισάγεται ένας
ανθρώπου) που αυτοθυσιάζεται και που υπηρετεί υψηλές ιδέες. Ο
χαρακτήρας αυτός είναι γνωστός ως "Byronic Hero"
(ήρως του Μπάυρον). Ο
ηρωισμός για τον Μπάυρον είναι έκφραση πάθους. Και ένας ποιητής που εξυμνεί
τον ενθουσιασμό και το έντονο πάθος δεν διαφέρει από ένα ήρωα. Αυτόν τον
Μπάυρον θέλησε να μιμηθεί. Έτσι στις 5 Ιουλίου 1821 παρακολουθούσε από κοντά την ηρωική αυτοθυσία
των αγωνιζομένων Ελλήνων, θαύμαζε τον ηρωισμό τους και έγραψε στον φίλο του,
Thomas Moor, Ιρλανδό ποιητή:"Η ποίηση είναι η έκφραση ενθουσιώδους πάθους.
Και δεν υπάρχει άλλο πιο ενθουσιώδες παρά η ζωή που συγκλονίζεται από πάθη,
εντονότερα από σεισμό ή από πυρετό".
Τη θεωρία του αυτή
περί "ήρωος" και "ηρωισμού" ο Μπάυρον την έκανε
πράξη όταν το Δεκέμβριο του 1823 έσπασε τον κλοιό των Τούρκων και μπήκε στο πολιορκούμενο
Τα αδιέξοδα της ευρωπαϊκής άρχουσας τάξης - λίγα χρόνια μετά τη Γαλλική
Επανάσταση - επηρέασαν έντονα την προσωπική του ζωή, που υπήρξε θυελλώδης.
Το όνομά του έχει συνδεθεί με σειρά από σκάνδαλα: Συνήψε ερωτικές σχέσεις με την
Mary Duff, με τη μακρινή εξαδέλφη
του Margaret Parker,
με τη φερομένη ως ετεροθαλή αδελφή του Augusta
Leigh και με
Τη σχέση του με την Chaworth ο Μπάυρον την
περιγράφει στην ποιητική συλλογή 'Childish Recollections'. Τέλος η σχέση του με τη διηγηματογράφο Λαίδη Caroline
Lamb υπήρξε σκανδαλώδης. Δεν είναι σαφές αν τον απέρριψε η Λαίδη
για να μη χάσει τα προνόμια από τον Λόρδο σύζυγό της, ή αν ο
ίδιος (όπως έκανε πάντα) την εγκατέλειψε "για να αφοσιωθεί στην ποίηση". Το
βέβαιο είναι ότι η Λαίδη σε επιστολές και σε συνεντεύξεις της αποκαλεί τον
Μπάυρον "επικίνδυνο και τρομερό".
Ίσως τα σκάνδαλα που
συνδέθηκαν με το όνομά του και ιδιαίτερα η σχέση του με τη Λαίδη
τον ανάγκασαν να παραιτηθεί από τη Βουλή των
Μεταξύ των ετών 1809-1826 ο Μπάυρον μαζί με το φίλο του
John Cam Βαρώνο του Hobhouse
ταξίδευσε σε όλη σχεδόν την Ευρώπη και σε πολλές πόλεις της Ανατολής.
όπου είχαν ξεσπάσει κοινωνικές επαναστάσεις (όπως την
Πορτογαλία και την Ισπανία).
Πήγε στο πεδίο μάχης του Βατερλώ όπου
εμπνεύστηκε το ποίημα."THE EVE OF WATERLOO" που είναι
μια γλαφυρή περιγραφή της γαλλικής
άρχουσας τάξης (γιατί όχι και της Αγγλικής) στους κόλπους των οποίων
διαμορφώθηκε ο ρομαντισμός. Μέσα στους στίχους του ποιήματος αυτού, ο κοινωνικός περίγυρος της Δουκίσσης του
Richmond (οι "ευγενείς" των αρχών του 19ου αι), ζούν "στον κόσμο τους" ενώ ακριβώς δίπλα τους
πρόκειται να ξεσπάσει μια μάχη που θα κρίνει το ίδιο τους το μέλλον.
Ο Λόρδος Μπάυρον
ίσως ήταν από τους λίγους λόρδους - εκπρόσωπος της άρχουσας τάξης - που
έβλεπαν τις ανατροπές που θα έρχονταν. Άραγε ως γνήσιος εκπρόσωπος του
Ρομαντισμού, άκουε και αυτός μόνο τους ήχους του θανάτου; (και τους άκουε
μόνο με "death's prophetic ear";) Πίστεψε άραγε
ότι υπάρχει λύτρωση για τη γενιά του που ζούσε μόνο με τα όνειρα χωρίς να
βλέπει γύρω της; Στην πολυτάραχη ζωή του Μπάυρον αυτό δεν έχει ξεκαθαριστεί.
Μετά τη μάχη του Βατερλό ο Μπάυρον επισκέφθηκε την Ελβετία όπου συνάντησε τον
Percy Bysshe Shelley.Μία
κρουαζιέρα στις Λίμνες της Γενεύης μαζί με τον ποιητή Shelley και η
διαμονή του στη βίλλα
έδωσε στον Μπάυρον την έμπνευση να γράψει το
ποίημα "Prisoner of Chillon" και την τρίτη ραψωδία
του αριστουργήματος "Childe Harold at Diodati".
άλλη κρουαζιέρα, στη λίμνη Thun στο Bernese
Oberland της Βέρνης ενέπνευσε στον Μπάυρον το σκηνικό για το
έμμετρο δράμα "Δον Ζουάν", όπου περιγράφονται οι τύψεις της συνειδήσεως και
οι απογοητεύσεις του ποιητή. "Ο άνθρωπος αποτελείται κατά το ήμισυ από χώμα
και κατά το άλλο ήμισυ από θεότητα. Είναι ικανός να βυθιστεί αλλά και να
πετάξει ψηλά". Όμως πουθενά στο
έπος αυτό δεν φαίνεται μια χαραμάδα ελπίδας. Τα αδιέξοδα του Ρομαντισμού
ίσως θα κυνηγούν τον ποιητή μέχρι το θάνατό του.
Στις 5 Οκτωβρίου 1817 ο Μπάυρον ταξίδευσε στη Βενετία όπου διέμεινε στο
αρμενικό μοναστήρι του Σαν Λάζαρο και συμμετείχε σε λογοτεχνικές συναντήσεις
και συζητήσεις. Για χάρη της Αρμενικής παροικίας της Βενετίας χρηματοδότησε
την έκδοση βιβλίου γραμματικής και τη μετάφραση επιστολών του Αποστόλου
Η επίσκεψή του στη Ρώμη του έδωσε υλικό για την 4η ραψωδία του έργου
Childe Harold. Στο γραφικό χωριό La Mira στον ποταμό Brentat έγραψε στίχους
που αποτέλεσαν την πρώτη
ραψωδία του έργου "Δον Ζουάν",- σατιρικό δράμα με πολλές αναφορές στις
εμπειρίες και στις περιπέτειες του ποιητή.
Στην Ραβέννα ο Μπάυρον το 1820 ερωτεύτηκε την κόμισσα Τερέζα
Cuicciolo. Ο αδελφός της Τερέζας τον μύησε στα μυστικά των
"καρμπονάρων". Ενθουσιασμένος ο Μπάυρον, τροφοδότησε με όπλα και με άλλα
εφόδια το κίνημα των Ιταλών εναντίον της Αυστρίας. Η ζωή του
κοντά στους επαναστάτες καρμπονάρους και στη φτωχολογιά της Βορείου Ιταλίας τον ενέπνευσε να γράψει άλλες τρεις
ραψωδίες του έργου Δον Ζουάν και τα δράματα "Μαρίνο Φολιέρο" και
1808 - 1809 επισκέφτηκε την Ζίτσα και το Τεπελένι όπου γνώρισε από
κοντά τον Αλή Πασά και εντυπωσιάστηκε από την θερμή φιλοξενία. Τις εντυπώσεις του από αυτή την συνάντηση μεταφέρει στην μητέρα του, σε
επιστολή - ημερολόγιο. Τον ξάφνιασε το γεγονός ότι ενώ ο Αλή Πασάς ήταν
αμείλικτος τύραννος, ένοχος για τις πιο φριχτές ωμότητες», όμως ως
οικοδεσπότης φέρθηκε «πολύ ευγενικά
και η εμφάνισή του δείχνει οτιδήποτε άλλο εκτός από τον αληθινό χαρακτήρα
εντυπώσεις του από το ταξίδι στη Ζίτσα και στο Τεπελένι ο Μπάυρον τις
εκθέτει εε Επιστολή προς τη μητέρα του):
«Πρέβεζα, 12 Νοεμβρίου 1809.
Αγαπητή μου μητέρα.....».
[ΔΙΑΒΑΣΤΕ ΤΟ ΚΕΙΜΕΝΟ ΤΗΣ ΕΠΙΣΤΟΛΗΣ]
ΜΕΡΙΚΑ ΑΠΟ ΤΑ ΣΗΜΑΝΤΙΚΟΤΕΡΑ ΠΟΙΗΜΑΤΑ ΤΟΥ ΜΠΑΫΡΟΝ
"MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART"
AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG
THE DESTRUCTION OF
THE EVE OF WATERLOO
ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY
SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY
THERE BE NONE OF BEAUTY'S
WE' LL GO NO MORE A-ROVING
WHEN WE TWO PARTED
Γ. Ο ΜΠΑΥΡΟΝ ΤΗΣ ΕΛΛΗΝΙΚΗΣ ΕΠΑΝΑΣΤΑΣΗΣ
Το 1823 ήταν για
Μπάυρον το έτος που άρχισε να βοηθά φανερά τους Έλληνες.
Τον Απρίλιο δέχτηκε την επίσημη πρόταση των αγωνιστών να τους εκπροσωπεί στη
βασιλική Αυλή του Μπάκιγχαμ. Στις 2 Αυγούστου του 1823 έφθασε στην Κεφαλονιά
και εγκαταστάθηκε στα Μεταξάτα. Δώρισε 4.000 λίρες για τον εξοπλισμό του
ελληνικού στόλου. Και στις 29 Δεκεμβρίου 1823 αποβιβάστηκε στο Μεσολόγγι για
να ενταχθεί ως εθελοντής στη δύναμη που Αλέξανδρου Μαυροκορδάτου. Συμμετείχε
με πολύ ζήλο στις επιχειρήσεις για την απελευθέρωση της Ναυπάκτου.
Πρωτοστάτησε στον εξοπλισμό των ελληνικών πλοίων με κανόνια και ανέλαβε την οχύρωση
του Μεσολογγίου χρησιμοποιώντας πολλούς Σουλιώτες. Δυστυχώς παρά τις
επίπονες προσπάθειές του δεν μπόρεσε να πείσει τους οπλαρχηγούς της
Ανατολικής και της Δυτικής Ελλάδος να ενωθούν υπό μία γενική διοίκηση.
Οι πηγές αναφέρουν ότι στις αρχές του 1824 είχε δύο επιληπτικές κρίσεις -
ίσως όμως πρόκειται για βαριάς μορφής ελονοσία (αφού ο
βιογράφος του δεν αναφέρει πουθενά ότι έπασχε από επιληψία). Και ενώ η
ελονοσία τον εξαντλούσε, την ίδια στιγμή οι ισχυρές οικογένειες των
Σουλιωτών διχάστηκαν υπονομεύοντας έτσι και απειλώντας την ίδια την
Η κατάστασή του επιδεινώθηκε την Άνοιξη και παρά τις προσπάθειες των γιατρών
ο Μπάυρον πέθανε στις 19 Απριλίου του 1824.Η καρδιά του ετάφη κάτω από ένα
δένδρο στο Μεσολόγγι. Αργότερα προς τιμήν του δόθηκε το όνομά του στο γνωστό δήμο
Το σώμα του ταριχεύτηκε και μεταφέρθηκε στην Αγγλία. Ο ηγούμενος του Αβαείου
στο Γουεστμίνστερ αρνήθηκε να δώσει άδεια ταφής στο χώρο του Αβαείου (ίσως
λόγω της σκανδαλώδους ζωής του Μπάυρον).Τελικά η ταφή έγινε σε άλλο χώρο, στο Hucknall του Nottingham,
στο ναό της Αγίας Μαρίας της Μαγδαληνής.
Δίπλα του ετάφη η Alba - που όπως λένε ήταν κόρη του,
προϊόν του παράνομου εφήμερου δεσμού του με την Claire Clairmont.
Μόλις το 1969 (145 χρόνια από το θάνατο του Μπάυρον), με ενέργειες της Ελληνικής Κυβερνήσεως το Αβαείο του Γουεστμίνστερ
να τοποθετηθεί στο χώρο του Αβαείου εν είδει κενοταφίου, αντίγραφο της
μαρμάρινης πλάκας που σκεπάζει τον τάφο του Μπάυρον.
Ο τίτλος του Βαρόνου, μετά το θάνατο του Μπάυρον μεταβιβάστηκε σύμφωνα με το
κληρονομικό δίκαιο της Αγγλίας στον εξάδελφό του, Λόρδο
Anson 7ο Βαρόνο του Byron (1789-1868) που ήταν ναύαρχος του
Βρετανικού Βασιλικού Ναυτικού.
Δ. ΤΕΡΕΖΑ ΜΑΚΡΗ Η "ΚΟΡΗ ΤΩΝ
Όταν επισκέφθηκε την Αθήνα ο Μπάυρον διέμενε στο μοναστήρι των
Καπουτσίνων στην Πλάκα (εκεί όπου αρχίζει η οδός Αδριανού).
Εκεί ίσως γνώρισε
την οικογένεια του Προκοπίου Μακρή. που εκτελούσε χρέη πρόξενου της
Αγγλίας. Η οικογένεια Μακρή (ο πρόξενος με τη σύζυγό του και οι τρεις θυγατέρες τους η
Μαριάνα, η Κατίγκω και η μικρή Τερέζα), έμεναν τότε στου Ψειρή σε ένα
νεοκλασικό σπίτι. Εκεί φιλοξένησαν το Μπάυρον ο οποίος εντυπωσιάστηκε από
την ομορφιά της Τερέζας. Σε επιστολή του προς τον
φίλο του, καθηγητή Henry Drury, ο Μπάυρον αναφέρει:"Πεθαίνω από έρωτα για τρία κορίτσια
της Αθήνας. Την Τερέζα, τη Μαριάνα και τήν Κατίγκω". Και πριν
ξεκινήσει για Κωνσταντινούπολη έγραψε το ποίημα "Η ΚΟΡΗ ΤΩΝ ΑΘΗΝΩΝ"
OF ATHENS ERE WE PART"), που το
αφιέρωσε στη μικρότερη κόρη της οικογένειας, την Τερέζα, Φαίνεται ότι
μαζί με το ποίημα αυτό ο Μπάυρον εξέφρασε ανοιχτά τον έρωτά του προς την
Τερέζα. Φαίνεται επίσης ότι η μικρή Τερέζα αρνήθηκε ευγενικά τις ερωτικές προτάσεις του
Άραγε η μικρή Τερέζα Μακρή επισκέφτηκε το Μεσολόγγι όταν ο Μπάυρον βρισκόταν εκεί;
Δεν το γνωρίζουμε. Το βέβαιο είναι ότι γνώρισε τον πρέσβυ της Αγγλίας στο Μεσολόγγι.(τον
φιλέλληνα Jack Blanc).Αργότερα (ίσως το 1829)
έφυγε μαζί του στο Λονδίνο όπου τον παντρεύτηκε. Πέθανε το 1876 σε ηλικία
περίπου 80 ετών.
Η οικία της οικογένειας Μακρή στου Ψειρή κατεδαφίστηκε το 1974.
Ε. Ο "ΜΠΑΫΡΟΝ" ΣΤΟ ΘΕΑΤΡΟ
1. Στις 13 Μαρτίου του 1933 το Εθνικό Θέατρο ανέβασε το έργο "ΛΟΡΔΟΣ ΜΠΑΫΡΟΝ"
σε κείμενα Αλέκου Λιδορίκη. Σκηνοθέτης ήταν ο Φώτος Πολίτης. Στον ρόλο του
Μπάυρον ο Νίκος Δενδραμής. Τον ρόλο της Τερέζας Μακρή τον υποδύθηκε με μεγάλη
επιτυχία η αξέχαστη Βάσω Μανωλίδου.
2. Το 1992 ο Νίκος Κούνδουρος σκηνοθέτησε
την ταινία "Μπάυρον - Μπαλάντα για ένα
Δαίμονα". (έγχρωμο φιλμ 134΄). Το Σενάριο του
έργου το επιμελήθηκε ο ίδιος ο Νίκος Κούνδουρος μαζί με τον Φώτη Κωνσταντινίδη. Την μουσική την έγραψε ο Γιάννης Μαρκόπουλος.
Σκηνικά, ο Ρώσος Κωνσταντίν Φορεστένκο. Κοστούμια Διονύσης
Φωτόπουλος. Τους ρόλους ερμήνευσαν οι Ρώσοι ηθοποιοί Ιγκόρ
Γιασούλοβιτς, Βέρα Σοτνίκοβα, Φαρχάντ Μαχμούντοφ και
οι Έλληνες Μάνος Βακούσης, Βασίλης Λόγγος και Άκης
Για την ταινία αυτή του Νίκου Κούνδουρου, ο Βασίλης
Ραφαηλίδης (κριτικός κινηματογράφου, 1934-2000), έγραψε στο
"ΕΘΝΟΣ" στις 28-3-1992:
«Ο Νίκος Κούνδουρος, εκρηχτικά
ρομαντικός ο ίδιος, που κάποτε έβαλε τον επαναστατικό
ρομαντισμό του στην υπηρεσία μιας επανάστασης, βρήκε στον
Μπάιρον το αρχέτυπο του «επαναστατημένου ανθρώπου» - του
διαρκώς επαναστατημένου στον καθ’ ημέραν βίο του. (...) Και
τον μεταχειρίστηκε έτσι ακριβώς. Πληθωρικά, εκρηχτικά (...)
Το δύσκολο εγχείρημα του Κούνδουρου είναι ένα κατόρθωμα.»
ΤΟΝ ΘΑΝΑΤΟΝ ΤΟΥ ΜΠΑΫΡΟΝ"
Λευτεριά, γιὰ λίγο πάψε
νὰ χτυπᾶς μὲ τὸ σπαθί.
Τώρα σίμωσε καὶ κλάψε
εἰς τοῦ Μπάιρον τὸ κορμί.
Καὶ ἀναδεύονται, καὶ γέρνουν,
καὶ εἰς τὸ πρόσωπο ἱλαροί,
χεραπλώνουνε καὶ παίρνουν
ἀπὸ τὴ σπιθοβολή.
Δὲν ἀκοῦς γύρου πατήματα.
Μον᾿ τὸν ἴσκιο τοῦ θωρεῖς,
ὁποῦ ἁπλώνεται στὰ μνήματα,
ἔρμος, ἄσειστος, μακρύς,
Καὶ κατόπι ἂς ἀκλουθοῦνε
ὅσοι ἐπράξανε λαμπρά.
ἀποπάνου του ἂς χτυποῦνε
μόνο στήθια ἡρωικά.
Ἐδῶ βλέπει ἀντρειωμένα
νὰ φρονοῦν παρὰ ποτέ.
Καὶ ὅλος ἔρωτα γιὰ σένα
προσηλώνεται εἰς ἐσέ.
καθὼς βλέπεις καὶ μαυρίζει
ἴσκιος νέου κυπαρισσιοῦ,
ἂν τὴν ἄκρη του δὲν ῾γγίζει
αὔρα ζέφυρου λεπτοῦ.
Πρῶτοι ἂς ἔλθουνε οἱ Σουλιῶτες,
καὶ ἀπ᾿ τὸ Λείψανον αὐτὸ
ἂς μακραίνουνε οἱ προδότες
καὶ ἀπ᾿ τὰ λόγια ὁποῦ θὰ πῶ.
Τὸ πουλί, ποὺ βασιλεύει
πάνου εἰς τ᾿ ἄλλα τὰ πουλιά,
τὰ αἰθερόλαμνα φτερά,
Πές μου, Ἀνδρεῖε, τί μελετοῦνε
οἱ γενναῖοι σου στοχασμοί,
ποὺ πολληώρα ἀργοποροῦνε
εἰς τοῦ Μάρκου τὴν ταφή;
Φλάμπουρα, ὄπλα τιμημένα,
ἂς γυρθοῦν κατὰ τὴ γῆ,
καθὼς ἤτανε γυρμένα
εἰς τοῦ Μάρκου τὴ θανή,
τρέχει, χάνεται, καὶ πίνει
τόλμην πίνει ὁ ὀφθαλμὸς
ἀπὸ τ᾿ ἄστρον, ὁποῦ χύνει
κύματα ἄφθαρτα φωτός.
Σκιάζεσαι ἴσως μὴ χουμήσουν
ξάφνου οἱ Τοῦρκοι τὸ πρωί,
καὶ τὸ στράτευμα νικήσουν,
ποὺ ἔχει ἀνίκητην ὁρμή;
ποῦ βαστοῦσε τὸ μαχαίρι,
ὅταν τοῦ ῾λειψε ἡ ζωή,
μεσ᾿ στὸ ἀνδρόφονο τὸ χέρι,
καὶ δὲν τ᾿ ἄφηνε νὰ βγεῖ.
Πλανημένη ἡ φαντασιά του
μέσα στὸ μέλλον τὸ ἀργό,
ποὺ προσμένει τ᾿ ὄνομά του
νὰ τὸ κάμη πλέον λαμπρό,
Σκιάζεσαι τοὺς Βασιλιάδες,
ποὺ ἔχουν Ἕνωσιν Ἱερή,
μὴ φερθοῦνε ὡσὰν Πασάδες
στὸν Μαχμοὺτ ἐμπιστευτοί;
Ἀναθράφηκε ὁ γενναῖος
στῶν ἁρμάτων τὴν κλαγγή.
Τοῦτον ἔμπνευσε, ὄντας νέος,
μία θεὰ μελωδική.
εἰς σὲ μία ματιοῦ ροπή.
Στρέφει ἀπεκεὶ καὶ κοιτάει.
Ἤ σοῦ λέει στὰ σπλάχνα ἡ φύσις
μ᾿ ἕνα κίνημα κρυφό:
«Τὴν Ἑλλάδα θὲ ν᾿ ἀφήσεις,
γιὰ νὰ πᾶς στὸν Οὐρανό;»
Μὲ τὲς θεῖες τὶς ἀδελφάδες
ἐνῶ αὐξαίνανε οἱ λαμπράδες
στοῦ Θεοῦ τὴν κεφαλή,
ἀπ᾿ τοῦ κόσμου ὅλου τὰ πέρατα
τοῦ καιροῦ ἡ χλαλοή,
καὶ διηγώντας τοῦ τὰ τέρατα
τοῦ χτυπάει τὴν ἀκοή.
Βγαίνει μάγεμα ἀπ᾿ τὴ στάχτη
τῶν Ἡρώων, καὶ τὸν βαστᾶ,
καὶ τὴ θέλησι τοῦ ἀδράχτει.
Τότε αἰσθάνεται μὲ μία,
ποῦ ἐμελέτουνε τὴ Χτίσι.
Καὶ ὅτι ἐβγῆκε ἡ προσταγή,
ὁποῦ ἐστένεψε τὴ Φύση
αἰφνιδίως νὰ φωτιστεῖ,
Ἔθνη ποὺ ἄλλα φοβερίζουν,
φωνές, θρόνοι δυνατοί.
Ἄλλοι πέφτουνε, ἄλλοι τρίζουν,
καὶ ἄλλοι ἀτάραχτοι καὶ ὀρθοί.
τὴν ἀράθυμη ψυχή του,
ποὺ μὲ φλόγα ἀναζητεῖ
νὰ τοῦ σύρει τὸ κορμί του
σὲ φωτιὰ πολεμική.
Μὲ τὰ μάτια ἀκολουθώντας
τὸ νεογέννητο τὸ φῶς,
καὶ σὲ δαῦτο ἀναφτερώντας,
τῆς ἐξέβγαινε ὁ ψαλμὸς
Ἀπὸ φόβο καὶ ἀπὸ τρόμο,
ἀπὸ βάρβαρους δεσμούς,
ποὖναι σκόρπιοι εἰς κάθε δρόμο,
καὶ ἀπὸ μύριους ὑβρισμούς,
Τοῦ πολέμου ἔνδοξοι οἱ κάμποι!
Εἶδ᾿ ἡ Ἑλλάδα τολμηρὰ
καὶ τὸ Σοφοκλῆ νὰ λάμπει
μέσα στὴν ἁρματωσιά.
ἀπ᾿ τ᾿ ἀθάνατο τὸ στόμα,
καὶ ἀπομάκραινε ἡ βροντή,
ποῦ τὸ Χάος ἔκανε ἀκόμα
στὴν ὀγλήγορη φυγή,
βγαίνει, ἀνάμεσα στοὺς κρότους
τῶν γενναίων ποὺ τὴν παινοῦν,
καὶ κοιτοῦνται ἀνάμεσό τους
γιὰ τὸ θαῦμα ποὺ θωροῦν,
Καὶ εἶδε Αὐτόν, ποὺ παρασταίνει
μαζωμένους τοὺς Ἑφτὰ
στὴν ἀσπίδα αἱματωμένη,
ὅπου ὠρκόνονταν φριχτά.
ἕως ποὺ ὁλόκληρον ἐχάθη
στοῦ Ἔρεβου τὴ φυλακή,
ὅπου ἁπλώθηκε καὶ ἐστάθη
σὰν στὴν πρώτη του πηγή.
μία γυναίκα, ποὖχε βάλει
μὲς στὰ βάσανα ὁ καιρός,
ξαναδείχνοντας τὰ κάλλη
ποὺ τῆς ἔσβησε ὁ ζυγός,
τὲς ὠδὲς τοῦ τὰ παιδιά,
καὶ αἰσθανότανε ἀντρειότερα
στὴν ἀνήλικη καρδιά.
- Ψάλλε, Μπάιρον, τοῦ λαλοῦσε,
ὅσες βλέπεις ὀμορφιές.
καὶ κειός, ποὺ ἐκρυφαγροικοῦσε
ἀνταπόκριση μ᾿ αὐτές,
μόνον ἔχοντας γιὰ σκέπη
τὰ τουφέκια τὰ ἐθνικά,
καὶ τὸ χαίρεται νὰ βλέπει
πὼς καὶ Αὐτὸς τὴν ἀκλουθᾶ.
Καὶ τὰ μάτια τοὺς γελοῦσαν,
μάτια μαῦρα ὡς τὴν ἐλιά.
Τῶν μορφῶν, ὁποῦ βαστοῦσαν
τραγουδώντας τὲς γλυκά.
βάνεται, τὲς τραγουδάει
μ᾿ ἕνα χεῖλο ἁρμονικό,
καὶ τὰ πάθη ἔτσι στοῦ ῾γγιάει,
ποὺ τραγούδι πλέον ψηλό,
Ἄχ! συνέρχεται... ξανοίγει
ὁποῦ ἀγιάτρευτην ἀνοίγει
τῆς Ἑλλάδας μίαν πληγή.
Στὴ φωτιά! καὶ θρέφει ἐλπίδα
νὰ νικήσει, νὰ ἠμπορεῖ
νὰ ἐπιστρέψει στὴν Πατρίδα,
τὸ κοράσιό του νὰ εὑρεῖ.
δὲν ἀκούστηκεν, ἀπ᾿ ὦτα
ἔψαλ᾿ ὁ Ἄγγλος ὁ τυφλὸς
τ᾿ ἀγκαλιάσματα τὰ πρῶτα
ποὺ ἔδωσ᾿ ἄντρας γυναικός.
Ἐρινύαν ἀπὸ τὰ χθόνια
ποὺ ἡ Ἑλλάδα ἀπαρατᾷ.
Ἡ θεομίσητη Διχόνοια
ποὺ τὸν ἄνθρωπο χαλνᾶ.
Νὰ τοῦ λέγει μ᾿ ἕνα δάκρυ:
«Χαίρου, τέκνο μου ἀκριβό,
εἰς τοῦ στήθους μου τὴν ἄκρη
ἐλαβώθηκα καὶ ἐγώ.
Συχνὰ ἐβράχνιασε ἡ μιλιά του
πῶς στὸν ἥλιον ἀποκάτου
εἶναι λίγη ἐλευθεριά.
Ἀφοῦ ἐδιώχτηκε ἀπὸ τ᾿ ἄστρα
ὅπου ἐτόλμησε νὰ πά,
πάει στοὺς κάμπους, πάει στὰ κάστρα,
χωρὶς ναὔβρῃ δυσκολιά.
Βάλε, φῶς μου, τὴν παλάμη
εἰς τὰ στήθια τοῦ πατρός.
Νά, τὴν ζώνη ποὺ ἔχει κάμει
κόρη τούρκισσα τοῦ ἀντρός».
«Κάθε γῆ» παραπονιέται
«ἐσκλαβώθηκε - εἶναι μία,
ὅπου ὁ ἄνθρωπος τιμιέται,
ἀπὸ δώθενε μακριά;
Καὶ κρατώντας κάτι φίδια
ποὺ εἶχε βγάλει ἀπ᾿ τὴν καρδιά,
καὶ χτυπώντας τὰ πιτήδεια
εἰς τοὺς Ἕλληνας, περνᾶ.
Καὶ τὸ πέλαγο ἀγναντεύει
ἴσως τώρα ἡ κορασιά,
καὶ ξεφάντωση γυρεύει
μὲ τραγούδια τρυφερά.
Τὴν ὁποία χτυπάει τὸ νάμα
σύνορα τ᾿ Ἀτλαντικό.
μετανιώνει ἐν τῷ ἅμα
ὅποιος πάει μὲ στοχασμό,
Καὶ ὄχι πλέον τραγούδια νίκης
ὡσὰν πρῶτα, ἐνῶ τυφλά,
μὲ τὸ τρέξιμο τῆς φρίκης,
τούρκικα ἄλογα πολλά,
«Τὸν γονιό μου, Πρόνοια Θεία,
κᾶμε τόνε νικητή,
εἰς τὰ χώματα, στὰ ὁποῖα
ἡ γυναίκα ἀπαρατεῖ
τὴ γλυκειὰν Ἐλευθερία
νὰ τὴν βλάψει ἀπὸ κοντά.
τὸ δοκίμασεν ἡ Ἀγγλία!
κανεὶς πλέον ἂς μὴν κοτᾶ».
ἐτσακίζανε τὰ χνάρια
στὴν ἀπέλπιστη φυγή,
καὶ ἐγκρεμίζαν παλληκάρια
τοῦ γκρεμνοῦ ἀπὸ τὴν κορφή.
τὰ στολίδια, τὸν καθρέφτη,
καὶ ἀποκάτου ἀπ᾿ τὸ βυζὶ
ζώνεται ἅρματα, καὶ πέφτει
ὅπου κίνδυνο θωρεῖ.
Καὶ ὅτι βούλεται νὰ φύγει
ἐκεῖ πέρα ὁ Ποιητής,
ἐσὲ ἐδῶ νὰ πεταχτεῖς.
Ὄχι, πλέον, ὄχι τὰ δυνα-
τὰ στοιχεῖα νὰ μᾶς θωροῦν,
καὶ νὰ ὀργίζωνται καὶ ἐκεῖνα
καὶ γιὰ μᾶς νὰ πολεμοῦν.
Κᾶμε Ἐσὺ μὲ τὴν μητέρα
τὴ γλυκειά μου νὰ ἑνωθεῖ
ἔλα γρήγορα, πατέρα,
ὅλη ἡ Ἀγγλία σὲ καρτερεῖ.
Χωρὶς ἄλλος νὰ σοῦ πεῖ.
Τώρα ἀρχίνησε τὴ μάχη,
κι ἐγὼ πλάκωσα μαζί.
Ἀλλὰ πάει στοὺς νόας μία θέρμη,
ποὺ εἶναι ἀλλιώτικη ἀπ᾿ αὐτή,
ὁποῦ ἐσκόρπισε στὴν ἔρμη
Χίο τοῦ Τούρκου ἡ ῾πιβουλή,
Τὸ καράβι πότε ἀράχνει
εἰσὲ θάλασσα ἀγγλική;
Μοῦ σπαράζουνε τὰ σπλάχνη,
ὁποῦ μοῦ ἔκανες ἐσύ.
Νὰ σ᾿ τὸ πεῖ, καὶ νὰ σὲ ρίξει
στῶν Τουρκῶν τὲς τουφεκιὲς
ἀσυντρόφιαστη, ἂν ξανοίξει
τὲς περίστασες δεινές,
ὅταν τόσοι ἐπέφταν χάμου,
καὶ μὲ λόγια ἀπελπισιᾶς,
κόψε με, ἔλεγαν, Ἀγᾶ μου,
καὶ τοὺς ἔκοβεν ὁ Ἀγᾶς
Πές, πότ᾿ ἔρχεσαι;»... Ὁλοένα
εἰν᾿ τὸ πλοῖο του στὰ νερά,
ποὺ φλοισβήζουνε σχισμένα,
καὶ ποσῶς δὲν τ᾿ ἀγροίκα.
κι ἂν τὲς εὕρει εὐτυχισμένες,
νά ῾λθει ἀντὶς γιὰ τὸν ἐχθρό,
μ᾿ ἄλλες ἅλυσες φτειασμένες
ἀποκάτου ἀπ᾿ τὸ Σταυρό,
Ὅμως θέρμη. Ποῖος ὑβρίζει
τὸν καλύτερο, καὶ ποιὸς
λόγια ἀνόητα ψιθυρίζει.
Ἄλλος στέκεται ὀκνηρός.
Ποῖος, ἀλίμονον! μᾶς δίνει
μίαν ἀρχὴ παρηγοριᾶς;
Ἀπ᾿ αὐτὸν δὲ θὲ νὰ μείνει
μήτε ἡ στάχτη του μέ μας.
ποὖχε λάβει στὲς ἀγκάλες
ἀπὸ μᾶς, κι εἶχε θεούς,
καὶ βροντὲς καὶ ποταμούς.
Ἄλλος παίρνει τὸ ποτήρι
ἀποκάτου ἀπ᾿ τὴν ἐλιά,
ὡσὰν νάτουν πανηγύρι,
μὲ τὰ πόδια διπλωτά.
Θὰ τὴν ἔχουν ἄλλοι!... Ὤ! σύρε,
σύρε, Μπάϋρον, στὸ καλό.
Ὕπνος ἔξαφνα σὲ πῆρε,
ποὺ δὲν ἔχει ξυπνημό.
Μόνον τ᾿ ἀδικοσφαγμένα
τὰ παιδιά σου, στριμωχτά,
μὲ τὰ χέρια τσακισμένα
σὲ ἐσπρώξαε ὀμπροστά,
Καὶ ἄλλοι, ἀλίτηροι! χτυπώντας
πέφτουνε στὸν ἀδελφό,
καὶ παινεύονται, θαρρώντας
πῶς ἐχτύπησαν ἐχθρό.
Εἶναι ἀδιάφορο, δὲ βλάβει,
ἂν ἐκεῖ σιμοτινὸ
πλέξει ἢ τούρκικο καράβι,
ἢ καράβι ἑλληνικό.
καὶ Σὺ ἐχύθηκες, πετώντας
μία ματιὰ στὸν Οὐρανό,
ποῦ τὰ δίκια σου θωρώντας,
ἀποκρίθηκε: Εἶμ᾿ ἐδῶ.
Καὶ τοὺς φώναξε: «Φευγᾶτε
τῆς Ἐρινύας τὴν τρικυμιά.
Ὤ! τί κάνετε; Ποῦ πάτε;
Γιὰ φερθεῖτε εἰρηνικά.
Ἄκου, Μπάϋρον, πόσον θρῆνον
κάνει, ἐνῶ σὲ χαιρετᾶ,
ἡ πατρίδα τῶν Ἑλλήνων.
Κλαῖγε, κλαῖγε, Ἐλευθεριά.
Καὶ χτυπώντας ξεθυμαίνει
εἰς τὸ πέλαγο, εἰς τὴ γῆ,
ἡ ρομφαία σου πυρωμένη
ὂχ τὴν Ἄπλαστη Φωνή.
»γιατί ἀλλιῶς θὲ νὰ βρεθεῖτε
ἢ μὲ ξένο βασιλιά,
ἢ θὰ καταφανισθεῖτε
ἀπὸ χέρια ἀγαρηνά».
Γιατί ἐκείτοταν στὴν κλίνη,
καὶ τοῦ ἐβάραινε πολὺ
πῶς γιὰ πάντα εἶχε νὰ μείνει,
καὶ ἀπὸ Σὲ νὰ χωριστεῖ.
Καὶ θαυμάσια τόσα πράχτει,
ὁποῦ οἱ Τύραννοι τῆς γῆς
σ᾿ ἐσὲ κίνησαν μὲ ἄχτι,
ὅμως ἔστρεψαν εὐθύς.
Ἀφοῦ ἐδῶ στὴν παλαιά σου
κατοικία καὶ ἄλλη φορὰ
μὲ διχόνοιες τὰ παιδιά σου
σοὺ ἑτοιμάσανε ἐξοριά,
Ἀρχινάει τοῦ ξεσκεπάζει
ἄλλον κόσμο ὁ λογισμὸς
καὶ κάθε ἄλλο σκοταδιάζει,
καὶ τοῦ κρύβεται ἀπ᾿ ἐμπρός.
Χαῖρε! Κι ὅποιος σὲ μισάει,
καὶ πικρὰ σὲ λοιδορεῖ,
εὐτυχιὰ νὰ πιθυμάει,
καὶ ποτὲ νὰ μὴ τὴν δεῖ.
ἀπὸ τότες ὁποῦ ἐσώθη
στὴν Ἑλλάδα ὁ Στρατηγός,
ὁποῦ ὁ Ἕλληνας εἰπώθη
καὶ τώρα ὄχι ὁ στερινός,
Ἀλλὰ ἀντίκρυ ἀπὸ τὰ πλάσματα
τοῦ νοὸς τὰ ἀληθινά,
τοῦ προβαίνουν δυὸ φαντάσματα
ὁλοζώντανα καὶ ὀρθά.
καὶ νὰ κλαίει πὼς ἦλθε ἡ ὥρα
ἡ πατρίς του νὰ δεθεῖ
μὲ τὰ σίδερα, ποὺ τώρα
πᾶς συντρίβοντας Ἐσύ.
ἕως ποὺ ὁ κόσμος ἐβαστοῦσε
τὸν ἀπάνθρωπον Ἀλή,
ποὺ ὅσον αἷμα καὶ ἂν ρουφοῦσε
τόσο ἐγύρευε νὰ πιεῖ.
Ἡ ἀκριβή του θυγατέρα,
καθὼς ἔμεινε μικρή,
ἐνῶ ἡ τύχη τὸν πατέρα,
ἐκαλοῦσε ἀλλοῦ, καὶ Ἐσύ,
Χαίρου ὡστόσο ὅλους τοὺς τόπους,
ποῦ ἐξανάλαβαν γοργὰ
πάλι ἐλεύθερους ἀνθρώπους.
Καὶ τοῦ Μπάϋρον τὴ χαρά.
Ἐπερνοῦσαν οἱ αἰῶνες
ἢ σὲ ξένη ὑποταγή,
ἢ μὲ ψεύτικες κορῶνες,
ἢ μὲ σίδερα καὶ ὀργή.
Ἐσύ, θεία τοῦ ἀνθρώπου εἰκόνα,
μὲ τὰ φέγγη σου, καὶ αὐτὴ
ὅπου σ᾿ ἔφθανε στὸ γόνα
μὲ τὴν ὤρια κεφαλή,
Χαίρου, ἀνάμεσα στὰ ἄλλα
πράγματα ποὺ σὲ τιμοῦν.
Οἱ μεγάλοι τὰ μεγάλα,
ποῦ τοὺς μοιάζουνε, ἀγαποῦν.
Καὶ ἦλθε τότες καὶ ἐπερπάτει
ὅπου ἐπάταγες Ἐσύ,
καὶ τοῦ δάκρυζε τὸ μάτι,
καὶ ἐπιθύμαε νὰ Σὲ ἰδεῖ.
γιὰ λίγη ὥρα τοῦ σηκώνεται
τοῦ ἄλλου κόσμου τὴ θωριά,
καὶ σ᾿ ἐσᾶς ἀντισηκώνεται
μὲ τὴν πρόθυμη ἀγκαλιά.
Βλέποντας σὲ ἀναγαλλιάζει
ἡ θλιμμένη τοῦ ψυχή,
καὶ τοῦ λέει. Ὄπλα φωνάζει
τώρα ἡ Ἑλλάδα. Πᾶμε ἐκεῖ.
κι ἔλεε: πότε ἔρχεσαι πάλι!
Καὶ δὲν εἶναι ἀληθινό,
πῶς μας εἶχε ἀδικοβάλει
μὲ βρισιὲς καὶ μὲ θυμό.
Ἔτσι ὁ Ἄνθρωπος τοῦ Αἰῶνος,
ὅταν ἔπαυε νὰ ζεῖ,
καθὼς ἤθελεν ὁ φθόνος,
σ᾿ ἕνα ἀγνώριστο νησί,
Καὶ κινάει νὰ σ᾿ ἀπαντήσει
καὶ ἡ Φήμη τοῦ Ποιητοῦ,
ποῦ τὸν κόσμο εἶχε γυρίσει,
καὶ τὴ δέχτηκαν παντοῦ,
Ἐζωγράφιζαν οἱ στίχοι
τὸν γαλάζιον οὐρανό,
καὶ ἐκλαιόνταν μὲ τὴν τύχη
καὶ μὲ τ᾿ ἄστρο τὸ κακό,
καὶ εἶχε μάρτυρα εἰς τὸ βράχο
τοῦ Θεοῦ τὸν ὀφθαλμό,
καὶ τριγύρω τοῦ μονάχο
τοῦ πελάου τὸ γογγυτό.
μπροστοπάταε, νὰ σὲ κράξει
μὲ ὄνομα τόσο γλυκύ,
ποὺ ὅποιο μάτι σὲ κοιτάξει
σὲ ξανοίγει πλέον σεμνή.
εἰς τὸ ὁποῖον ἔχει νὰ σκύψει
κάθε δύναμη θνητή,
καὶ ἡ πατρίδα του νὰ στρίψει
παντελῶς δὲν ἠμπορεῖ.
Ἐνῶ ἀνάδινε ἡ ψυχῆ του
μόνους ἄφησε νὰ ἐλθοῦν
ἡ Γαλλία καὶ τὸ παιδί του
πρὸς τὰ μάτια, πρὶν σβησθοῦν.
Τὸν ἀκολούθησεν ὁ πλοῦτος,
θεῖος στὰ χέρια τοῦ καλοῦ,
καὶ κακόπραχτος, ἂν οὕτως
καὶ εἶν᾿ στὰ χέρια τοῦ κακοῦ.
Τώρα ἀθάμπωτη ἔχει δόξα,
καὶ μὲ φέρσιμο τερπνὸν
βλέπει ἀδύνατα τὰ τόξα
τῶν ἀντίζηλων ἐθνῶν.
Καὶ ὄχι ἡ μοίρα, ὁποῦ σαράντα
νίκες τοῦ ἄδραξε ἡ σκληρή,
καὶ βαρύτερη εἶναι πάντα
σὲ καρδιὰ βασιλική.
Μ᾿ ἕνα βλέμμα ὁποῦ φονεύει
τὰ φρονήματα τὰ αἰσχρά,
τρομερὴ τὸν συντροφεύει,
στέκοντάς του εἰς τὴ δεξιά.
Καὶ λαοὺς ἁλυσοδένει,
καὶ εἰς τὰ πόδια τοὺς πατεῖ,
καὶ τὸ πέλαγο σωπαίνει
ἂν τοῦ σύρει μία φωνή.
Ὄχι ἡ δόξα ἡ περασμένη,
ποὺ μὲ βία πολεμικὴ
τοῦ ἔδειχνε τὴν Οἰκουμένη,
λέγοντάς του: Ἀκαρτέρει,
Καὶ ὄντας ἄφαντη στοὺς ἄλλους,
τοῦ Ἀλκαίου ἡ σκιά,
καὶ τοὺς ὤμους τοὺς μεγάλους
λίγο γέρνοντας, κρυφά,
Τέχνες, ἅρματα, σοφία,
τῆνε κάνουν δοξαστῆ,
ὅμως θὰ βροῦνε εὐκαιρία
νὰ τὴ φθείρουνε οἱ καιροί,
Στὴν ταφή του μὲ τὴν πάχνη
χύν᾿ ἡ βρύση τὸ νερό,
ποὺ τοῦ δρόσισε τὰ σπλάχνη,
εἰς τὸ ψυχομαχητό.
λόγια ἀθάνατα τοῦ λέει,
μὲ τὰ ὁποῖα στὰ σωθικὰ
τὸ θυμό του ξανακαίει
ἐναντίον στὴν ἀδικιά.
καὶ νὰ ἰδῆ τὸ ριζικό της
καθὼς εἶναι ἡ καταχνιά,
ποὺ εἰς τὸ κλίμα τὸ δικό της
κρύβει τὴν ἀστροφεγγιά.
Τὲς ἡμέρες, ὁποῦ ἂν μόνο
τ᾿ ὄνομά του ἤθελε πεῖς,
ὁλογόστευαν στὸ θρόνο
τὴν αὐθάδεια οἱ βασιλεῖς,
θυμόν, τρόμο ὅλον γεμάτον,
ποῦ νικάει τὴν ταραχὴ
τῶν βροντόκραυγων ἁρμάτων,
καὶ πετιέται ὁλοῦ μὲ ὁρμή,
«Ποῦ εἶν᾿, θὰ λένε σαστισμένοι,
τὸ Λεοντάρι τὸ Ἀγγλικό;
Εἶναι ἡ χήτη τοῦ πεσμένη,
καὶ τὸ μούγκρισμα βουβό».
κατά μας καὶ Αὐτὸς ἀκόμη
εἶχε ρίξει μία ματιά.
Εἶναι ἡ δάφνη ὡραῖα στὴν κόμη,
ὅταν φέρνει ἐλευθεριά.
καὶ τοῦ τύραννου χτυπάει
τὴ βουλή, καὶ τὴν ξυπνά,
στὴ στιγμὴ ποὺ μελετάει
τῶν λαῶν τὴ συμφορά.
Ἀλλ᾿ ἡ Ἑλλὰς νὰ ξαναζήσει
ἦταν ἄξια, καὶ νὰ ἰδεῖ
ὁ ἐρχομὸς νὰ τὴν τιμήσει
τοῦ ὑψηλότατου Ποιητή.
Ὤ! νὰ μάθαινε ὁ Μεγάλος
πόσην ἔδειξε χαρὰ
ἀγροικώντας ἕνας Γάλλος:
ἐχαθῆκαν τὰ Ψαρά.
Μόνον ἄκουε τοῦ Κοράκου
τῆς Αὐστρίας τὸ κραυγητό,
ποῦ δὲν ἔκρωζε τοῦ κάκου,
καὶ ἐπεθύμαε τὸ κακό.
Ἔστεκε στὸ μισημένο
τὸ ζυγὸ μ᾿ ἀραθυμιά.
Τὸ ποδάρι εἶχε δεμένο,
ἀλλὰ ἐλεύθερη καρδιά.
Φωνὴν τρόμου ἡ Ἑλλάδα σύρνει,
σύρνει, καὶ ἔπειτα σιωπεῖ.
Ὅμως κρότους μὲς στὴ Σμύρνη
ὅλη ἡ νύχτα ἠχολογεῖ.
Ὁμοίως ἔστρεφεν ἡ Μοίρα,
ποῦ εἶχε πάντοτε σταθεῖ
μές᾿ στῆς Κόλασης τὴ θύρα
μὲ τὸ κρίμα ἀνταμωτή,
Ἐκαθότουνε εἰς τὰ ὄρη
ὁ Σουλιώτης ξακουστός.
Νὰ τὸν διώξει δὲν ἠμπόρει
πείνα, δίψα, καὶ ἀριθμός.
Νά, ἀνθοστόλιστο τραπέζι.
Δὲν εἶν᾿ γέννημα Τουρκῶν,
ὁποῦ τρώοντας περιπαίζει
τὴν ἀντρεία τῶν Ψαριανῶν.
ἔστρεφε κατὰ τὴ Χτίση,
γιατί ἐμύριζε νεκρὴ
μυρωδιά, ποὺ χὲ σκορπίσει
ἡ πικρὴ μεταβολή.
Συχνὰ σπώντας τὰ θηκάρια
μὲ τὰ χέρια τὰ λιγνά,
ὁρμοῦν σ᾿ ἄπειρα κοντάρια.
Τὲς γυναῖκες τῶν συχνά,
Μύρια λόγια, γέλια μύρια,
καὶ χτυποῦν τὰ φωτερὰ
στὰ ὁλογέμιστα ποτήρια,
καὶ στὰ γέλια τὰ τρελλά.
Καὶ ἀπὸ τ᾿ ἄπειρο διάστημα
τὸ μιαρό της τὸ ἀνάστημα,
νὰ χαρεῖ τὴ μυρωδιά.
τὸν ἴδιον αἴσθημα τιμῆς,
ποὺ κοιτώντας τὸν Κομβάϋ
εἶχε ὁ ἀνδρεῖος Τραγουδιστής.
Μὲ ἁρμονίες τοὺς κράζει ἡ λύρα,
καὶ ἐπετάχτηκαν ὁμού,
λυσσιασμένοι ἀπὸ τὴν πύρα
τῆς χαρᾶς καὶ τοῦ κρασιοῦ.
Στὴν Ἑλλάδα χαροκόπι.
Γιατί Ἐκεῖνον, ποὺ ζητεῖ,
βλέπει νάρχεται, καὶ οἱ τόποι
ποὺ ἡ σκλαβιὰ καταπατεῖ,
Τὲς ἐμάζωξε εἰς τὸ μέρος
τοῦ Τσαλόγγου τὸ ἀκρινὸ
τῆς ἐλευθεριᾶς ὁ ἔρως
καὶ τὲς ἔμπνευσε χορό.
Καὶ χορεύουνε τριγύρου...
Γειά σας, Γάλλοι εὐγενικοί!
Εἶν᾿ τὰ χώματα τοῦ Ὁμήρου
ποὺ τὸ πόδι σας πατεῖ!
χαμηλὴ τὴν κεφαλήν τους,
ἀγροικώντας τὴ βουή,
ἐδακρύζαν, καὶ οἱ δεσμοί τους
τοὺς ἐφάνησαν διπλοί.
Τέτοιο πήδημα δὲν τὸ εἶδαν
οὔτε γάμοι, οὔτε χαρές,
καὶ ἄλλες μέσα τους ἐπήδαν
Γιατί μες᾿ στ᾿ ἀχρεία τους σπλάχνη
τὸ φαγὶ καὶ τὸ ποτὸ
σὲ φαρμάκι δὲν ἀλλάχνει,
νὰ τοὺς φάει τὸ σωθικό;
Ἀλλὰ ἀμέσως ὅλοι οἱ ἄλλοι
ποῦ εἶχαν ἐλευθερωθεῖ,
καὶ ἔχουν δάφνη στὸ κεφάλι
ποῦ δὲν θέλει μαραθεῖ,
Τὰ φορέματα ἐσφυρίζαν
καὶ τὰ ξέπλεκα μαλλιά,
κάθε γύρο ποὺ ἐγυρίζαν
ἀπὸ πάνου ἔλειπε μία.
Καὶ ἀπ᾿ τὴ μάνητα ν᾿ ἀνάψει
τὸν ὁποῖον μόνος νὰ πάψει
σκληρὸς θάνατος καὶ ἀργός,
τὲς σημαῖες τοὺς ξεδιπλώνουν,
καὶ τὲς δάφνες ποὺ φοροῦν
χαιρετώντας τὸν σηκώνουν,
καὶ μ᾿ αὐτὲς τὸν προσκαλοῦν.
Χωρὶς γόγγυσμα κι ἀντάρα
πάρα ἐκείνη μοναχά,
ὁποῦ ἔκαναν μὲ τὴν κάρα,
μὲ τὰ στήθια, στὰ γκρεμά.
γιὰ ν᾿ ἀρχίσουν τὴ χαρά τους,
ὄντας φάσματα ἐλαφρά,
ἐμπροστὰ στὸ βασιλιά τους,
καὶ στὸ Μπάϋρον ἐμπροστά,
Ποῦ θὰ πάει; Βουνὰ καὶ λόγγοι
καὶ λαγκάδια ἀϊλογοῦν.
Ποῦ θὰ πάει; - Στὸ Μεσολόγγι,
καὶ ἄλλοι ἂς μὴ ζηλοφθονοῦν.
Στὰ ἴδια ὅρη ἐγεννηθῆκαν
καὶ τὰ ἀδάμαστα παιδιά,
ποὺ τὴν σήμερο ἐχυθῆκαν
πάντα οἱ πρῶτοι στὴ φωτιά.
ὁποῦ φθάνοντας κεῖ κάτου
ἴσως τούμεινε ὡς ἐκεῖ
ἡ ἀέρινη ἀγκαλιά του,
σὰν πρωτύτερα, ἀνοιχτή!
Τέτοιο χῶμα, ἀπ᾿ τὴν ἡμέρα
τὴ μεγάλη του Χριστοῦ,
ποῦ εἶχε φέρει ἀπ᾿ τὸν αἰθέρα
τιμὴ ἐμᾶς καὶ δόξα Αὐτοῦ,
Γιατί, ἀλίμονον! γυρίζοντας
τοὺς ηὖρε ὁ Μπάϋρον σκυθρωπούς;
τὸν πλέον ἔνδοξο ἀπ᾿ αὐτούς.
Τόνε βλέπω! Τοῦ προβαίνουν
ἄλλα φάσματα γοργά,
ποὺ ἀκατάπαυστα πληθαίνουν
σφόδρα, καὶ εἶναι Ἑλληνικά.
εἰς ἱερὸ προσκυνητάρι,
καὶ δὲ θέλει πατηθεῖ
ἀπὸ βάρβαρο ποδάρι,
πάρεξ ὅταν χαλαστεῖ.
Ὅταν στῆς νυχτὸς τὰ βάθη
τὰ πάντα ὅλα σιωποῦν,
καὶ εἰς τὸν ἄνθρωπο τὰ πάθη,
ποῦναι ἀνίκητα, ἀγρυπνοῦν,
Γιὰ τὴν ποθητὴν Ἑλλάδα
τόσο πρόθυμα ρωτοῦν,
σὰν νὰ ἐζήτααν τὴ γλυκάδα
τοῦ φωτὸς νὰ ξαναϊδοῦν.
Δὲν ἦταν τὴ μέρα τούτη
Νά, μολύβια, νά, μπαρούτι,
νά, σπαθιῶν λαμποκοπή.
καὶ γυρμένοι εἰς τὸ πλευρό τους
οἱ στρατιῶτες τοῦ Χριστοῦ,
μύρια βλέπουν στ᾿ ὄνειρό τους
ξεψυχίσματα τοῦ ἐχθροῦ,
Κλάψες ἄμετρα χυμένες,
χέρια ἁπλότρεμα, κραυγές,
ποὺ ἀπ᾿ τ᾿ς ἀντίλαλους πωμένες
εἶναι πλέον τρομαχτικές.
Στὸν ἀέρα ἀνακατώνονται
οἱ σπιθόβολοι καπνοί,
καὶ ἀπὸ πάνου φανερώνονται
ἴσκιοι θεῖοι πολεμικοί.
αὐτὸς ἄγρυπνος στενάζει,
καὶ εἰς τὴν πλάκα τὴν πικρή,
ποὺ τὸν Μπότσαρη σκεπάζει,
γιὰ πολλὴ ὥρα ἀργοπορεῖ.
Κειὸς σεβάσμια προχωρώντας,
καὶ μὲ ἀνήσυχες ματιές,
τὰ προσώπατα κοιτώντας,
καὶ κοιτώντας τὲς πληγές:
Καὶ εἶναι αὐτοί, ποὺ πολεμώντας
ἐσκεπάσανε τὴ γῆ,
πάνου εἰς τ᾿ ἅρματα βροντώντας
μὲ τὸ ἐλεύθερο κορμί.
Ἔχει πλάγιασμα θανάτου
καὶ ἄλλος ἄντρας φοβερὸς
εἰς τὰ πόδια τοῦ ἀποκάτου,
καὶ εἶναι ἀντίκρυ τοῦ ὁ ναός.
«Ἡ Διχόνοια κατατρέχει
τὴν Ἑλλάδα. Ἂν νικηθεῖ,
ΜΑ ΤΟΝ ΚΟΣΜΟ ΠΟΥ ΜΑΣ ΕΧΕΙ,
τ᾿ ὄνομά σας ξαναζεῖ».
Καὶ ἀγκαλιάσματα ἐκεῖ πλήθια,
δάφνες ἔλαβαν, φιλιά,
ὅσα ἐλάβανε εἰς τὰ στήθια
βόλια τούρκικα, σπαθιά.
Ἀκριβὸ σὰν τὴν ἐλπίδα
ποὺ ἔχει πάντοτε ὁ θνητός,
γλυκοφέγγει ἀπ᾿ τὴ θυρίδα
τῆς Ἅγιας Τράπεζας τὸ φῶς.
Ὅλοι ἐκεῖνοι οἱ πολεμάρχοι
τὴν ψυχὴ τοῦ Πατριάρχη,
ποὺ τὸν πόλεμο εὐλογεῖ.
Μέσαθε ἔπαιρνε ὁ ἀέρας
μὲ δροσόβολη πνοὴ
τὸ λιβάνι τῆς ἡμέρας,
καὶ τοῦ τόφερνε ὡς ἐκεῖ.
ΜΕΡΙΚΑ ΑΠΟ ΤΑ ΣΗΜΑΝΤΙΚΟΤΕΡΑ ΠΟΙΗΜΑΤΑ ΤΟΥ
"MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART"
(Κάθε στροφή του ποιήματος καταλήγει με την ελληνική φράση: "Ζωή μου σας
Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh, give back my heart!
Or, since that has left my breast,
Keep it now, and take the rest!
Hear my vow before I go,
Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ.
By those tresses unconfined,
Wooed by each Aegean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge;
By those wild eyes like the roe,
Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ.
By that lip I
By that zone-encircled waist;
By all the token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well;
By love's alternate joy and woe,
Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ.
Maid of Athens! I am gone:
Think of me, sweet! when alone.
Though I fly to Istambol,
Athens holds my heart and soul:
Can I cease to love thee? No!
Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ.
Πηγή πληροφοριών :
Gross (2001). Byron: The
Erotic Liberal. Rowman & Littlefield. p. 148. ISBN 0742511626.
AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG
Gordon (Lord) Byron (1788-1824)
Έκδοση John Murray 1832
thou art dead, as young and fair
As aught of mortal birth;
And form so soft, and charms so rare,
Too soon return'd to Earth!
Though Earth receiv'd them in her bed,
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread
In carelessness or mirth,
There is an eye which could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.
I will not ask where thou liest low,
Nor gaze upon the spot;
There flowers or weeds at will may grow,
So I behold them not:
It is enough for me to prove
That what I lov'd, and long must love,
Like common earth can rot;
To me there needs no stone to tell,
'T is Nothing that I lov'd so well.
Yet did I love thee to the last
As fervently as thou,
Who didst not change through all the past,
And canst not alter now.
The love where Death has set his seal,
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,
Nor falsehood disavow:
And, what were worse, thou canst not see
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.
The better days of life were ours;
The worst can be but mine:
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers,
Shall never more be thine.
The silence of that dreamless sleep
I envy now too much to weep;
Nor need I to repine
That all those charms have pass'd away,
I might have watch'd through long decay.
The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
Must fall the earliest prey;
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,
The leaves must drop away:
And yet it were a greater grief
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
Than see it pluck'd to-day;
Since earthly eye but ill can bear
To trace the change to foul from fair.
I know not if I could have borne
To see thy beauties fade;
The night that follow'd such a morn
Had worn a deeper shade:
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd,
And thou wert lovely to the last,
Extinguish'd, not decay'd;
As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high.
As once I wept, if I could weep,
My tears might well be shed,
To think I was not near to keep
One vigil o'er thy bed;
To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,
Uphold thy drooping head;
And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.
Yet how much less it were to gain,
Though thou hast left me free,
The loveliest things that still remain,
Than thus remember thee!
The all of thine that cannot die
Through dark and dread Eternity
Returns again to me,
And more thy buried love endears
Than aught except its living years.
THE DESTRUCTION OF
Gordon (Lord) Byron (1788-1824) Έκδοση
John Murray 1832
THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
THE EVE OF WATERLOO
Historic Poems and Ballads.
Ed. Rupert S. Holland.
Philadelphia: George W. Jacobs & Co., 1912.
was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men.
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell;
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
Did ye not hear it? -- No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.
But hark! -- that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before;
Arm! arm! it is -- it is -- the cannon's opening roar!
Within a windowed niche of that high hall
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell;
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago,
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness.
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated; who would guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!
And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering, with white lips -- "The foe! they come!
ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY
George Gordon (Lord) Byron (1788-1824)
THIS time the heart should be unmoved,
Since others it hath ceased to move:
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!
My days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!
The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze--
A funeral pile.
The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.
But 'tis not thus--and 'tis not here--
Such thoughts should shake my soul nor now,
Where glory decks the hero's bier,
Or binds his brow.
The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.
Awake! (not Greece--she is awake!)
Awake, my spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!
Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood!--unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.
If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live?
The land of honourable death
Is here:--up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!
Seek out--less often sought than found--
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
take thy rest.
by:George Gordon (Lord)
to whose immortal eyes
The sufferings of mortality,
Seen in their sad reality,
Were not as things that gods despise;
What was thy pity's recompense?
A silent suffering, and intense;
The rock, the vulture, and the chain,
All that the proud can feel of pain,
The agony they do not show,
The suffocating sense of woe,
Which speaks but in its loneliness,
And then is jealous lest the sky
Should have a listener, nor will sigh
Until its voice is echoless.
Titan! to thee the strife was given
Between the suffering and the will,
Which torture where they cannot kill;
And the inexorable Heaven,
And the deaf tyranny of Fate,
The ruling principle of Hate,
Which for its pleasure doth create
The things it may annihilate,
Refus'd thee even the boon to die:
The wretched gift Eternity
Was thine--and thou hast borne it well.
All that the Thunderer wrung from thee
Was but the menace which flung back
On him the torments of thy rack;
The fate thou didst so well foresee,
But would not to appease him tell;
And in thy Silence was his Sentence,
And in his Soul a vain repentance,
And evil dread so ill dissembled,
That in his hand the lightnings trembled.
Thy Godlike crime was to be kind,
To render with thy precepts less
The sum of human wretchedness,
And strengthen Man with his own mind;
But baffled as thou wert from high,
Still in thy patient energy,
In the endurance, and repulse
Of thine impenetrable Spirit,
Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse,
A mighty lesson we inherit:
Thou art a symbol and a sign
To Mortals of their fate and force;
Like thee, Man is in part divine,
A troubled stream from a pure source;
And Man in portions can foresee
His own funereal destiny;
His wretchedness, and his resistance,
And his sad unallied existence:
To which his Spirit may oppose
Itself--and equal to all woes,
And a firm will, and a deep sense,
Which even in torture can descry
Its own concenter'd recompense,
Triumphant where it dares defy,
And making Death a Victory.
SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY
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:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
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!
THERE BE NONE OF BEAUTY'S
by: George Gordon (Lord)
be none of Beauty's daughters
With a magic like Thee;
And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The charméd ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:
And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chain o'er the deep,
Whose breast is gently heaving
As an infant's asleep:
So the spirit bows before thee
To listen and adore thee;
With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of Summer's ocean.
WE'LL GO NO MORE A-ROVING
we'll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have a rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.
WHEN WE TWO PARTED
we two parted
In silence and tears,
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow--
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me--
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well:
Lond, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.
I secret we met--
I silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.
The Serfs are glad through Lara's wide domain,
And slavery half forgets her feudal chain;
He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord —
The long self-exiled chieftain is restored:
There be bright faces in the busy hall,
Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall;
Far chequering o'er the pictured window, plays
The unwonted fagots' hospitable blaze;
And gay retainers gather round the hearth,
With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth.
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,
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
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.
And Lara left in youth his fatherland;
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,
'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,
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
The Laras' last and longest dwelling-place;
But one is absent from the mouldering file,
That now were welcome to that Gothic pile.
He comes at last in sudden loneliness,
And whence they know not, why they need not guess;
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
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.
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
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.
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,
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,
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
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.
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,
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 inquiry grew,
His brow fell darker, and his words more few.
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,
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;
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 showed him still alone;
Upon his eye sate something of reproof,
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.
'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,
And found his recompence 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;
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
To curse the wither'd heart that would not break.
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:
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 — "that must not be known —
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,
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?
Some knew perchance — but 'twere a tale too long;
And such besides were too discreetly wise,
To more than hint their knowledge in surmise;
But if they would — they could" — around the board,
Thus Lara's vassals prattled of their lord.
It was the night — and Lara's glassy stream
The stars are studding, each with imaged beam:
So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray,
And yet they glide like happiness away;
Reflecting far and fairy-like from high
The immortal lights that live along the sky:
Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree,
And flowers the fairest that may feast the bee;
Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove,
And Innocence would offer to her love.
These deck the shore; the waves their channel make
In windings bright and mazy like the snake.
All was so still, so soft in earth and air,
You scarce would start to meet a spirit there;
Secure that nought of evil could delight
To walk in such a scene, on such a night!
It was a moment only for the good:
So Lara deem'd, nor longer there he stood,
But turn'd in silence to his castle-gate;
Such scene his soul no more could contemplate.
Such scene reminded him of other days,
Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze,
Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that now —
No — no — the storm may beat upon his brow,
Unfelt — unsparing — but a night like this,
A night of beauty mock'd such breast as his.
He turn'd within his solitary hall,
And his high shadow shot along the wall;
There were the painted forms of other times,
'Twas all they left of virtues or of crimes,
Save vague tradition; and the gloomy vaults
That hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults;
And half a column of the pompous page,
That speeds the specious tale from age to age:
When history's pen its praise or blame supplies,
And lies like truth, and still most truly lies.
He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam shone
Through the dim lattice o'er the floor of stone,
And the high fretted roof, and saints, that there
O'er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer,
Reflected in fantastic figures grew,
Like life, but not like mortal life, to view;
His bristling locks of sable, brow of gloom,
And the wide waving of his shaken plume,
Glanced like a spectre's attributes, and gave
His aspect all that terror gives the grave.
'Twas midnight — all was slumber; the lone light
Dimm'd in the lamp, as loth to break the night.
Hark! there be murmurs heard in Lara's hall —
A sound — voice — a shriek — a fearful call!
A long, loud shriek — and silence — did they hear
That frantic echo burst the sleeping ear?
They heard and rose, and tremulously brave
Rush where the sound invoked their aid to save;
They come with half-lit tapers in their hands,
And snatch'd in startled haste unbelted brands.
Cold as the marble where his length was laid,
Pale as the beam that o'er his features play'd,
Was Lara stretch'd; his half-drawn sabre near,
Dropp'd it should seem in more than nature's fear;
Yet he was firm, or had been firm till now,
And still defiance knit his gather'd brow;
Though mix'd with terror, senseless as he lay,
There lived upon his lip the wish to slay;
Some half-form'd threat in utterance there had died,
Some imprecation of despairing pride;
His eye was almost seal'd, but not forsook
Even in its trance the gladiator's look,
That oft awake his aspect could disclose,
And now was fix'd in horrible repose.
They raise him — bear him: hush! he breathes, he speaks!
The swarthy blush recolours in his cheeks,
His lip resumes its red, his eye, though dim,
Rolls wide and wild, each slowly quivering limb
Recalls its function, but his words are strung
In terms that seem not of his native tongue;
Distinct but strange, enough they understand
To deem them accents of another land,
And such they were, and meant to meet an ear
That hears him not — alas! that cannot hear!
His page approach'd, and he alone appear'd
To know the import of the words they heard;
And by the changes of his cheek and brow
They were not such as Lara should avow,
Nor he interpret, yet with less surprise
Than those around their chieftain's state he eyes,
But Lara's prostrate form he bent beside,
And in that tongue which seem'd his own replied,
And Lara heeds those tones that gently seem
To soothe away the horrors of his dream;
If dream it were, that thus could overthrow
A breast that needed not ideal woe.
Whate'er his frenzy dream'd or eye beheld,
If yet remember'd ne'er to be reveal'd,
Rests at his heart: the custom'd morning came,
And breathed new vigour in his shaking frame;
And solace sought he none from priest nor leech,
And soon the same in movement and in speech
As heretofore he fill'd the passing hours,
Nor less he smiles, nor more his forehead lours
Than these were wont; and if the coming night
Appear'd less welcome now to Lara's sight,
He to his marvelling vassals shew'd it not,
Whose shuddering proved their fear was less forgot.
In trembling pairs (alone they dared not) crawl
The astonish'd slaves, and shun the fated hall;
The waving banner, and the clapping door;
The rustling tapestry, and the echoing floor;
The long dim shadows of surrounding trees,
The flapping bat, the night song of the breeze;
Aught they behold or hear their thought appals
As evening saddens o'er the dark gray walls.
Vain thought! that hour of ne'er unravell'd gloom
Came not again, or Lara could assume
A seeming of forgetfulness that made
His vassals more amazed nor less afraid —
Had memory vanish'd then with sense restored?
Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord
Betray'd a feeling that recall'd to these
That fever'd moment of his mind's disease.
Was it a dream? was his the voice that spoke
Those strange wild accents; his the cry that broke
Their slumber? his the oppress'd o'er-labour'd heart
That ceased to beat, the look that made them start?
Could he who thus had suffer'd, so forget
When such as saw that suffering shudder yet?
Or did that silence prove his memory fix'd
Too deep for words, indelible, unmix'd
In that corroding secresy which gnaws
The heart to shew the effect, but not the cause?
Not so in him; his breast had buried both,
Nor common gazers could discern the growth
Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half told;
They choke the feeble words that would unfold.
In him inexplicably mix'd appear'd
Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear'd;
Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot,
In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot;
His silence form'd a theme for others' prate —
They guess'd — they gazed — they fain would know his fate.
What had he been? what was he, thus unknown,
Who walk'd their world, his lineage only known?
A hater of his kind? yet some would say,
With them he could seem gay amidst the gay;
But own'd that smile, if oft observed and near,
Waned in its mirth and wither'd to a sneer;
That smile might reach his lip, but pass'd not by,
None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye:
Yet there was softness too in his regard,
At times, a heart as not by nature hard,
But once perceived, his spirit seem'd to chide
Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride,
And steel'd itself, as scorning to redeem
One doubt from others' half withheld esteem;
In self-inflicted penance of a breast
Which tenderness might once have wrung from rest;
In vigilance of grief that would compel
The soul to hate for having loved too well.
There was in him a vital scorn of all:
As if the worst had fall'n which could befall,
He stood a stranger in this breathing world,
An erring spirit from another hurled;
A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped
By choice the perils he by chance escaped;
But 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yet
His mind would half exult and half regret:
With more capacity for love than earth
Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth,
His early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth,
And troubled manhood follow'd baffled youth;
With thought of years in phantom chase misspent,
And wasted powers for better purpose lent;
And fiery passions that had pour'd their wrath
In hurried desolation o'er his path,
And left the better feelings all at strife
In wild reflection o'er his stormy life;
But haughty still, and loth himself to blame,
He call'd on Nature's self to share the shame,
And charged all faults upon the fleshly form
She gave to clog the soul, and feast the worm;
'Till he at last confounded good and ill,
And half mistook for fate the acts of will:
Too high for common selfishness, he could
At times resign his own for others' good,
But not in pity, not because he ought,
But in some strange perversity of thought,
That sway'd him onward with a secret pride
To do what few or none would do beside;
And this same impulse would, in tempting time,
Mislead his spirit equally to crime;
So much he soar'd beyond, or sunk beneath
The men with whom he felt condemn'd to breathe,
And long'd by good or ill to separate
Himself from all who shared his mortal state;
His mind abhorring this had fix'd her throne
Far from the world, in regions of her own;
Thus coldly passing all that pass'd below,
His blood in temperate seeming now would flow:
Ah! happier if it ne'er with guilt had glow'd,
But ever in that icy smoothness flow'd:
'Tis true, with other men their path he walk'd,
And like the rest in seeming did and talk'd,
Nor outraged Reason's rules by flaw nor start,
His madness was not of the head, but heart;
And rarely wander'd in his speech, or drew
His thoughts so forth as to offend the view.
With all that chilling mystery of mien,
And seeming gladness to remain unseen,
He had (if 'twere not nature's boon) an art
Of fixing memory on another's heart:
It was not love, perchance — nor hate — nor aught
That words can image to express the thought;
But they who saw him did not see in vain,
And once beheld, would ask of him again:
And those to whom he spake remember'd well,
And on the words, however light, would dwell.
None knew nor how, nor why, but he entwined
Himself perforce around the hearer's mind;
There he was stamp'd, in liking, or in hate,
If greeted once; however brief the date
That friendship, pity, or aversion knew,
Still there within the inmost thought he grew.
You could not penetrate his soul, but found
Despite your wonder, to your own he wound.
His presence haunted still; and from the breast
He forced an all-unwilling interest;
Vain was the struggle in that mental net,
His spirit seem'd to dare you to forget!
There is a festival, where knights and dames,
And aught that wealth or lofty lineage claims,
Appear — a high-born and a welcomed guest
To Otho's hall came Lara with the rest.
The long carousal shakes the illumined hall,
Well speeds alike the banquet and the ball;
And the gay dance of bounding Beauty's train
Links grace and harmony in happiest chain:
Blest are the early hearts and gentle hands
That mingle there in well according bands;
It is a sight the careful brow might smooth,
And make Age smile, and dream itself to youth,
And Youth forget such hour was pass'd on earth,
So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth!
And Lara gazed on these sedately glad,
His brow belied him if his soul was sad,
And his glance follow'd fast each fluttering fair,
Whose steps of lightness woke no echo there:
He lean'd against the lofty pillar nigh
With folded arms and long attentive eye,
Nor mark'd a glance so sternly fix'd on his,
Ill brook'd high Lara scrutiny like this:
At length he caught it, 'tis a face unknown,
But seems as searching his, and his alone;
Prying and dark, a stranger's by his mien,
Who still till now had gazed on him unseen;
At length encountering meets the mutual gaze
Of keen inquiry, and of mute amaze;
On Lara's glance emotion gathering grew,
As if distrusting that the stranger threw;
Along the stranger's aspect fix'd and stern
Flash'd more than thence the vulgar eye could learn.
"'Tis he!" the stranger cried, and those that heard
Re-echo'd fast and far the whisper'd word.
"'Tis he!" — "'Tis who?" they question far and near,
Till louder accents rang on Lara's ear;
So widely spread, few bosoms well could brook
The general marvel, or that single look;
But Lara stirr'd not, changed not, the surprise
That sprung at first to his arrested eyes
Seem'd now subsided, neither sunk nor raised
Glanced his eye round, though still the stranger gazed;
And drawing nigh, exclaim'd, with haughty sneer,
"'Tis he! — how came he thence? — what doth he here?"
It were too much for Lara to pass by
Such question, so repeated fierce and high;
With look collected, but with accent cold,
More mildly firm than petulantly bold,
He turn'd, and met the inquisitorial tone —
"My name is Lara! — when thine own is known,
Doubt not my fitting answer to requite
The unlook'd for courtesy of such a knight.
'Tis Lara! — further wouldst thou mark or ask?
I shun no question, and I wear no mask."
"Thou shunn'st no question! Ponder — is there none
Thy heart must answer, though thine ear would shun?
And deem'st thou me unknown too? Gaze again!
At least thy memory was not given in vain.
Oh! never canst thou cancel half her debt,
Eternity forbids thee to forget."
With slow and searching glance upon his face
Grew Lara's eyes, but nothing there could trace
They knew, or chose to know — with dubious look
He deign'd no answer, but his head he shook,
And half contemptuous turn'd to pass away;
But the stern stranger motion'd him to stay.
"A word! — I charge thee stay, and answer here
To one, who, wert thou noble, were thy peer,
But as thou wast and art — nay, frown not, lord,
If false, 'tis easy to disprove the word —
But as thou wast and art, on thee looks down,
Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy frown.
Art thou not he? whose deeds — "
"Whate'er I be,
Words wild as these, accusers like to thee,
I list no further; those with whom they weigh
May hear the rest, nor venture to gainsay
The wondrous tale no doubt thy tongue can tell,
Which thus begins courteously and well.
Let Otho cherish here his polish'd guest,
To him my thanks and thoughts shall be express'd."
And here their wondering host hath interposed —
"Whate'er there be between you undisclosed,
This is no time nor fitting place to mar
The mirthful meeting with a wordy war.
If thou, Sir Ezzelin, hast ought to show
Which it befits Count Lara's ear to know,
To-morrow, here, or elsewhere, as may best
Beseem your mutual judgment, speak the rest;
I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown,
Though, like Count Lara, now return'd alone
From other lands, almost a stranger grown;
And if from Lara's blood and gentle birth
I augur right of courage and of worth,
He will not that untainted line belie,
Nor aught that knighthood may accord deny."
"To-morrow be it," Ezzelin replied,
"And here our several worth and truth be tried:
I gage my life, my falchion to attest
My words, so may I mingle with the blest!"
What answers Lara? to its centre shrunk
His soul, in deep abstraction sudden sunk;
The words of many, and the eyes of all
That there were gather'd, seem'd on him to fall;
But his were silent, his appear'd to stray
In far forgetfulness away — away —
Alas! that heedlessness of all around
Bespoke remembrance only too profound.
"To-morrow! — ay, to-morrow!" — further word
Than those repeated none from Lara heard;
Upon his brow no outward passion spoke,
From his large eye no flashing anger broke;
Yet there was something fix'd in that low tone
Which shew'd resolve, determined, though unknown.
He seized his cloak — his head he slightly bow'd,
And passing Ezzelin he left the crowd;
And as he pass'd him, smiling met the frown
With which that chieftain's brow would bear him down:
It was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling pride
That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide;
But that of one in his own heart secure
Of all that he would do, or could endure.
Could this mean peace? the calmness of the good?
Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihood?
Alas! too like in confidence are each
For man to trust to mortal look or speech;
From deeds, and deeds alone, may he discern
Truths which it wrings the unpractised heart to learn.
And Lara call'd his page, and went his way —
Well could that stripling word or sign obey:
His only follower from those climes afar
Where the soul glows beneath a brighter star;
For Lara left the shore from whence he sprung,
In duty patient, and sedate though young;
Silent as him he served, his fate appears
Above his station, and beyond his years.
Though not unknown the tongue of Lara's land,
In such from him he rarely heard command;
But fleet his step, and clear his tones would come,
When Lara's lip breathed forth the words of home:
Those accents, as his native mountains dear,
Awake their absent echoes in his ear,
Friends', kindreds', parents', wonted voice recall,
Now lost, abjured, for one — his friend, his all:
For him earth now disclosed no other guide;
What marvel then he rarely left his side?
Light was his form, and darkly delicate
That brow whereon his native sun had sate,
But had not marr'd, though in his beams he grew,
The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shone through;
Yet not such blush as mounts when health would show
All the heart's hue in that delighted glow;
But 'twas a hectic tint of secret care
That for a burning moment fever'd there;
And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught
From high, and lighten'd with electric thought,
Though its black orb those long low lashes' fringe
Had temper'd with a melancholy tinge;
Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there,
Or, if 'twere grief, a grief that none should share:
And pleased not him the sports that please his age,
The tricks of youth, the frolics of the page;
For hours on Lara he would fix his glance,
As all-forgotten in that watchful trance;
And from his chief withdrawn, he wander'd lone,
Brief were his answers, and his questions none;
His walk the wood, his sport some foreign book;
His resting-place the bank that curbs the brook;
He seem'd, like him he served, to live apart
From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart;
To know no brotherhood; and take from earth
No gift beyond that bitter boon — our birth.
If aught he loved, 'twas Lara; but was shown
His faith in reverence and in deeds alone;
In mute attention; and his care, which guess'd
Each wish, fulfill'd it ere the tongue express'd.
Still there was haughtiness in all he did,
A spirit deep that brook'd not to be chid;
His zeal, though more than that of servile hands,
In act alone obeys, his air commands;
As if 'twas Lara's less than his desire
That thus he served, but surely not for hire.
Slight were the tasks enjoin'd him by his lord,
To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword;
To tune his lute, or, if he will'd it more,
On tomes of other times and tongues to pore;
But ne'er to mingle with the menial train,
To whom he shew'd not deference nor disdain,
But that well-worn reserve which proved he knew
No sympathy with that familiar crew:
His soul, whate'er his station or his stem,
Could bow to Lara, not descend to them.
Of higher birth he seem'd, and better days,
Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays,
So femininely white it might bespeak
Another sex, when match'd with that smooth cheek,
But for his garb, and something in his gaze,
More wild and high than woman's eye betrays;
A latent fierceness that far more became
His fiery climate than his tender frame:
True, in his words it broke not from his breast,
But from his aspect might be more than guess'd.
Kaled his name, though rumour said he bore
Another ere he left his mountain shore;
For sometimes he would hear, however nigh,
That name repeated loud without reply,
As unfamiliar, or, if roused again,
Start to the sound, as but remember'd then;
Unless 'twas Lara's wonted voice that spake,
For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake.
He had look'd down upon the festive hall,
And mark'd that sudden strife so mark'd of all;
And when the crowd around and near him told
Their wonder at the calmness of the bold,
Their marvel how the high-born Lara bore
Such insult from a stranger, doubly sore,
The colour of young Kaled went and came,
The lip of ashes, and the cheek of flame;
And o'er his brow the dampening heart-drops threw
The sickening iciness of that cold dew
That rises as the busy bosom sinks
With heavy thoughts from which reflection shrinks.
Yes — there be things which we must dream and dare
And execute ere thought be half aware:
Whate'er might Kaled's be, it was enow
To seal his lip, but agonise his brow.
He gazed on Ezzelin till Lara cast
That sidelong smile upon on the knight he pass'd;
When Kaled saw that smile his visage fell,
As if on something recognised right well;
His memory read in such a meaning more
Than Lara's aspect unto others wore.
Forward he sprung — a moment, both were gone,
And all within that hall seem'd left alone;
Each had so fix'd his eye on Lara's mien,
All had so mix'd their feelings with that scene,
That when his long dark shadow through the porch
No more relieves the glare of yon high torch,
Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seem
To bound as doubting from too black a dream,
Such as we know is false, yet dread in sooth,
Because the worst is ever nearest truth.
And they are gone — but Ezzelin is there,
With thoughtful visage and imperious air;
But long remain'd not; ere an hour expired
He waved his hand to Otho, and retired.
The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest;
The courteous host, and all-approving guest,
Again to that accustom'd couch must creep
Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep,
And man, o'erlabour'd with his being's strife,
Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life:
There lie love's feverish hope. and cunning's guile,
Hate's working brain and lull'd ambition's wile;
O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave,
And quench'd existence crouches in a grave.
What better name may slumber's bed become?
Night's sepulchre, the universal home,
Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine,
Alike in naked helplessness recline;
Glad for awhile to heave unconscious breath,
Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death,
And shun, though day but dawn on ills increased,
That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least.
Night wanes — the vapours round the mountains curl'd,
Melt into morn, and Light awakes the world.
Man has another day to swell the past,
And lead him near to little, but his last;
But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth,
The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth;
Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam,
Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream.
Immortal man! behold her glories shine,
And cry, exulting inly, "They are thine!"
Gaze on, while yet thy gladden'd eye may see,
A morrow comes when they are not for thee;
And grieve what may above thy senseless bier,
Nor earth nor sky will yield a single tear;
Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall,
Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee, for all;
But creeping things shall revel in their spoil,
And fit thy clay to fertilise the soil.
'Tis morn — 'tis noon — assembled in the hall,
The gather'd chieftains come to Otho's call:
'Tis now the promised hour, that must proclaim
The life or death of Lara's future fame;
When Ezzelin his charge may here unfold,
And whatsoe'er the tale, it must be told.
His faith was pledged, and Lara's promise given,
To meet it in the eye of man and Heaven.
Why comes he not? Such truths to be divulged,
Methinks the accuser's rest is long indulged.
The hour is past, and Lara too is there,
With self-confiding, coldly patient air;
Why comes not Ezzelin? The hour is past,
And murmurs rise, and Otho's brow's o'ercast,
"I know my friend! his faith I cannot fear,
If yet he be on earth, expect him here;
The roof that held him in the valley stands
Between my own and noble Lara's lands;
My halls from such a guest had honour gain'd,
Nor had Sir Ezzelin his host disdain'd,
But that some previous proof forbade his stay,
And urged him to prepare against to-day;
The word I pledge for his I pledge again,
Or will myself redeem his knighthood's stain."
He ceased — and Lara answer'd, "I am here
To lend at thy demand a listening ear,
To tales of evil from a stranger's tongue,
Whose words already might my heart have wrung,
But that I deem'd him scarcely less than mad,
Or, at the worst, a foe ignobly bad.
I know him not — but me it seems he knew
In lands where — but I must not trifle too:
Produce this babbler — or redeem the pledge;
Here in thy hold, and with thy falchion's edge.
Proud Otho on the instant, reddening, threw
His glove on earth, and forth his sabre flew.
"The last alternative befits me best,
And thus I answer for mine absent guest."
With cheek unchanging from its sallow gloom,
However near his own or other's tomb;
With hand, whose almost careless coolness spoke
Its grasp well-used to deal the sabre-stroke;
With eye, though calm, determined not to spare,
Did Lara too his willing weapon bare.
In vain the circling chieftains round them closed,
For Otho's frenzy would not be opposed;
And from his lip those words of insult fell —
His sword is good who can maintain them well.
Short was the conflict; furious, blindly rash,
Vain Otho gave his bosom to the gash:
He bled, and fell; but not with deadly wound,
Stretch'd by a dextrous sleight along the ground.
"Demand thy life!" He answer'd not: and then
From that red floor he ne'er had risen again,
For Lara's brow upon the moment grew
Almost to blackness in its demon hue;
And fiercer shook his angry falchion now
Than when his foe's was levell'd at his brow;
Then all was stern collectedness and art,
Now rose the unleaven'd hatred of his heart;
So little sparing to the foe he fell'd,
That when the approaching crowd his arm withheld
He almost turn'd the thirsty point on those
Who thus for mercy dared to interpose;
But to a moment's thought that purpose bent;
Yet look'd he on him still with eye intent,
As if he loathed the ineffectual strife
That left a foe, howe'er o'erthrown, with life;
As if to search how far the wound he gave
Had sent its victim onward to his grave.
They raised the bleeding Otho, and the Leech
Forbade all present question, sign, and speech;
The others met within a neighbouring hall,
And he, incensed and heedless of them all,
The cause and conqueror in this sudden fray,
In haughty silence slowly strode away;
He back'd his steed, his homeward path he took,
Nor cast on Otho's tower a single look.
But where was he? that meteor of a night,
Who menaced but to disappear with light.
Where was this Ezzelin? who came and went
To leave no other trace of his intent.
He left the dome of Otho long ere morn,
In darkness, yet so well the path was worn
He could not miss it: near his dwelling lay;
But there he was not, and with coming day
Came fast inquiry, which unfolded nought
Except the absence of the chief it sought.
A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest,
His host alarm'd, his murmuring squires distress'd:
Their search extends along, around the path,
In dread to met the marks of prowlers' wrath:
But none are there, and not a brake hath borne
Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn;
Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass,
Which still retains a mark where murder was;
Nor dabbling fingers left to tell the tale,
The bitter print of each convulsive nail,
When agonised hands that cease to guard,
Wound in that pang the smoothness of the sward.
Some such had been, if here a life was reft,
But these were not; and doubting hope is left;
And strange suspicion, whispering Lara's name,
Now daily mutters o'er his blacken'd fame;
Then sudden silent when his form appear'd,
Awaits the absence of the thing it fear'd;
Again its wonted wondering to renew,
And dye conjecture with a darker hue.
Days roll along, and Otho's wounds are heal'd,
But not his pride; and hate no more conceal'd:
He was a man of power, and Lara's foe,
The friend of all who sought to work him woe,
And from his country's justice now demands
Account of Ezzelin at Lara's hands.
Who else than Lara could have cause to fear
His presence? who had made him disappear,
If not the man on whom his menaced charge
Had sate too deeply were he left at large?
The general rumour ignorantly loud,
The mystery dearest to the curious crowd;
The seeming friendlessness of him who strove
To win no confidence, and wake no love;
The sweeping fierceness which his soul betray'd,
The skill with which he wielded his keen blade;
Where had his arm unwarlike caught that art?
Where had that fierceness grown upon his heart?
For it was not the blind capricious rage
A word can kindle and a word assuage;
But the deep working of a soul unmix'd
With aught of pity where its wrath had fix'd;
Such as long power and overgorged success
Concentrates into all that's merciless:
These, link'd with that desire which ever sways
Mankind, the rather to condemn than praise,
'Gainst Lara gathering raised at length a storm,
Such as himself might fear, and foes would form,
And he must answer for the absent head
Of one that haunts him still, alive or dead.
Within that land was many a malcontent,
Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent;
That soil full many a wringing despot saw,
Who work'd his wantonness in form of law;
Long war without and frequent broil within
Had made a path for blood and giant sin,
That waited but a signal to begin
New havoc, such as civil discord blends,
Which knows no neuter, owns but foes or friends;
Fix'd in his feudal fortress each was lord,
In word and deed obey'd, in soul abhorr'd.
Thus Lara had inherited his lands,
And with them pining hearts and sluggish hands;
But that long absence from his native clime
Had left him stainless of oppression's crime,
And now, diverted by his milder sway,
All dread by slow degrees had worn away;
The menials felt their usual awe alone,
But more for him than them that fear was grown;
They deem'd him now unhappy, though at first
Their evil judgment augur'd of the worst,
And each long restless night, and silent mood,
Was traced to sickness, fed by solitude:
And though his lonely habits threw of late
Gloom o'er his chamber, cheerful was his gate;
For thence the wretched ne'er unsoothed withdrew,
For them, at least, his soul compassion knew.
Cold to the great, contemptuous to the high,
The humble pass'd not his unheeding eye;
Much he would speak not, but beneath his roof
They found asylum oft, and ne'er reproof.
And they who watch'd might mark that, day by day,
Some new retainers gather'd to his sway;
But most of late, since Ezzelin was lost,
He play'd the courteous lord and bounteous host:
Perchance his strife with Otho made him dread
Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head;
Whate'er his view, his favour more obtains
With these, the people, than his fellow thanes.
If this were policy, so far 'twas sound,
The million judged but of him as they found;
From him by sterner chiefs to exile driven
They but required a shelter, and 'twas given.
By him no peasant mourn'd his rifled cot,
And scarce the serf could murmur o'er his lot;
With him old avarice found its hoard secure,
With him contempt forbore to mock the poor;
Youth present cheer and promised recompense
Detain'd, till all too late to part from thence:
To hate he offer'd, with the coming change,
The deep reversion of delay'd revenge;
To love, long baffled by the unequal match,
The well-won charms success was sure to snatch.
All now was ripe, he waits but to proclaim
That slavery nothing which was still a name.
The moment came, the hour when Otho thought
Secure at last the vengeance which he sought
His summons found the destined criminal
Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall,
Fresh from their feudal fetters newly riven,
Defying earth, and confident of heaven.
That morning he had freed the soil-bound slaves
Who dig no land for tyrants but their graves!
Such is their cry — some watchword for the fight
Must vindicate the wrong, and warp the right;
Religion — freedom — vengeance — what you will,
A word's enough to raise mankind to kill;
Some factious phrase by cunning caught and spread,
That guilt may reign, and wolves and worms be fed!
Throughout that clime the feudal chiefs had gain'd
Such sway, their infant monarch hardly reign'd;
Now was the hour for faction's rebel growth,
The serfs contemn'd the one, and hated both:
They waited but a leader, and they found
One to their cause inseparably bound;
By circumstance compell'd to plunge again,
In self-defence, amidst the strife of men.
Cut off by some mysterious fate from those
Whom birth and nature meant not for his foes,
Had Lara from that night, to him accurst,
Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst:
Some reason urged, whate'er it was, to shun
Inquiry into deeds at distance done;
By mingling with his own the cause of all,
E'en if he fail'd, he still delay'd his fall.
The sullen calm that long his bosom kept,
The storm that once had spent itself and slept,
Roused by events that seem'd foredoom'd to urge
His gloomy fortunes to their utmost verge,
Burst forth, and made him all he once had been,
And is again; he only changed the scene.
Light care had he for life, and less for fame,
But not less fitted for the desperate game:
He deem'd himself mark'd out for others' hate,
And mock'd at ruin, so they shared his fate.
What cared he for the freedom of the crowd?
He raised the humble but to bend the proud.
He had hoped quiet in his sullen lair,
But man and destiny beset him there:
Inured to hunters, he was found at bay;
And they must kill, they cannot snare the prey.
Stern, unambitious, silent he had been
Henceforth a calm spectator of life's scene;
But dragg'd again upon the arena, stood
A leader not unequal to the feud;
In voice — mien — gesture — savage nature spoke,
And from his eye the gladiator broke.
What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife,
The feast of vultures, and the waste of life?
The varying fortune of each separate field,
The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yield?
The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall?
In this the struggle was the same with all;
Save that distemper'd passions lent their force
In bitterness that banish'd all remorse.
None sued, for Mercy know her cry was vain,
The captive died upon the battle-slain:
In either cause, one rage alone possess'd
The empire of the alternate victor's breast;
And they that smote for freedom or for sway,
Deem'd few were slain, while more remain'd to slay.
It was too late to check the wasting brand,
And Desolation reap'd the famish'd land;
The torch was lighted, and the flame was spread,
And Carnage smiled upon her daily bread.
Fresh with the nerve the new-born impulse strung,
The first success to Lara's numbers clung:
But that vain victory hath ruin'd all;
They form no longer to their leader's call:
In blind confusion on the foe they press,
And think to snatch is to secure success.
The lust of booty, and the thirst of hate,
Lure on the broken brigands to their fate:
In vain he doth whate'er a chief may do,
To check the headlong fury of that crew,
In vain their stubborn ardour he would tame,
The hand that kindles cannot quench the flame.
The wary foe alone hath turn'd their mood,
And shewn their rashness to that erring brood:
The feign'd retreat, the nightly ambuscade,
The daily harass, and the fight delay'd,
The long privation of the hoped supply,
The tentless rest beneath the humid sky,
The stubborn wall that mocks the leaguer's art,
And palls the patience of his baffled heart,
Of these they had not deem'd: the battle-day
They could encounter as a veteran may;
But more preferr'd the fury of the strife,
And present death, to hourly suffering life:
And famine wrings, and fever sweeps away
His numbers melting fast from their array;
Intemperate triumph fades to discontent,
And Lara's soul alone seems still unbent:
But few remain to aid his voice and hand,
And thousands dwindled to a scanty band:
Desperate, though few, the last and best remain'd
To mourn the discipline they late disdain'd.
One hope survives, the frontier is not far,
And thence they may escape from native war;
And bear within them to the neighbouring state
An exile's sorrows, or an outlaw's hate:
Hard is the task their fatherland to quit,
But harder still to perish or submit.
It is resolved — they march — consenting Night
Guides with her star their dim and torchless flight;
Already they perceive its tranquil beam
Sleep on the surface of the barrier stream;
Already they descry — Is yon the bank?
Away! 'tis lined with many a hostile rank.
Return or fly! — What glitters in the rear?
'Tis Otho's banner — the pursuer's spear!
Are those the shepherds' fires upon the height?
Alas! they blaze too widely for the flight:
Cut off from hope, and compass'd in the toil,
Less blood, perchance, hath bought a richer spoil!
A moment's pause — 'tis but to breathe their band
Or shall they onward press, or here withstand?
It matters little — if they charge the foes
Who by their border-stream their march oppose,
Some few, perchance, may break and pass the line,
However link'd to baffle such design.
"The charge be ours! to wait for their assault
Were fate well worthy of a coward's halt."
Forth flies each sabre, rein'd is every steed,
And the next word shall scarce outstrip the deed:
In the next tone of Lara's gathering breath
How many shall but hear the voice of death!
His blade is bared — in him there is an air
As deep, but far too tranquil for despair;
A something of indifference more than then
Becomes the bravest, if they feel for men.
He turn'd his eye on Kaled, ever near,
And still too faithful to betray one fear;
Perchance 'twas but the moon's dim twilight threw
Along his aspect an unwonted hue
Of mournful paleness, whose deep tint express'd
The truth, and not the terror of his breast.
This Lara mark'd, and laid his hand on his:
It trembled not in such an hour as this;
His lip was silent, scarcely beat his heart,
His eye alone proclaim'd —
"We will not part!
Thy band may perish, or thy friends may flee,
Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee!"
The word hath pass'd his lips, and onward driven,
Pours the link'd band through ranks asunder riven;
Well has each steed obey'd the armed heel,
And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel;
Outnumber'd, not outbraved, they still oppose
Despair to daring, and a front to foes;
And blood is mingled with the dashing stream,
Which runs all redly till the morning beam.
Commanding, aiding, animating all,
Where foe appear'd to press, or friend to fall,
Cheers Lara's voice, and waves or strikes his steel,
Inspiring hope himself had ceased to feel.
None fled, for well they knew that flight were vain,
But those that waver turn to smite again,
While yet they find the firmest of the foe
Recoil before their leader's look and blow;
Now girt with numbers, now almost alone,
He foils their ranks, or reunites his own;
Himself he spared not — once they seem'd to fly —
Now was the time, he waved his hand on high,
And shook — Why sudden droops that plumed crest?
The shaft is sped — the arrow's in his breast!
That fatal gesture left the unguarded side,
And Death hath stricken down yon arm of pride.
The word of triumph fainted from his tongue;
That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung!
But yet the sword instinctively retains,
Though from its fellow shrink the falling reins;
These Kaled snatches: dizzy with the blow,
And senseless bending o'er his saddle-bow
Perceives not Lara that his anxious page
Beguiles his charger from the combat's rage:
Meantime his followers charge and charge again;
Too mix'd the slayers now to heed the slain!
Day glimmers on the dying and the dead,
The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head;
The war-horse masterless is on the earth,
And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth:
And near, yet quivering with what life remain'd,
The heel that urged him, and the hand that rein'd:
And some too near that rolling torrent lie,
Whose waters mock the lip of those that die;
That panting thirst which scorches in the breath
Of those that die the soldier's fiery death,
In vain impels the burning mouth to crave
One drop — the last — to cool it for the grave;
With feeble and convulsive effort swept
Their limbs along the crimson'd turf have crept:
The faint remains of life such struggles waste,
But yet they reach the stream, and bend to taste:
They feel its freshness, and almost partake —
Why pause? — No further thirst have they to slake —
It is unquench'd, and yet they feel it not —
It was an agony — but now forgot!
Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene,
Where but for him that strife had never been,
A breathing but devoted warrior lay:
'Twas Lara bleeding fast from life away.
His follower once, and now his only guide,
Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side,
And with his scarf would stanch the tides that rush
With each convulsion in a blacker gush;
And then, as his faint breathing waxes low,
In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow:
He scarce can speak, but motions him 'tis vain,
And merely adds another throb to pain.
He clasps the hand that pang which would assuage,
And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page,
Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, nor sees,
Save that damp brow which rests upon his knees;
Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though dim,
Held all the light that shone on earth for him.
The foe arrives, who long had search'd the field,
Their triumph nought till Lara too should yield;
They would remove him, but they see 'twere vain,
And he regards them with a calm disdain,
That rose to reconcile him with his fate,
And that escape to death from living hate:
And Otho comes, and leaping from his steed,
Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed,
And questions of his state; he answers not,
Scarce glances on him as on one forgot,
And turns to Kaled: — each remaining word,
They understood not, if distinctly heard;
His dying tones are in that other tongue,
To which some strange remembrance wildly clung.
They spake of other scenes, but what — is known
To Kaled, whom their meaning reach'd alone;
And he replied, though faintly, to their sound,
While gazed the rest in dumb amazement round:
They seem'd even then — that twain — unto the last
To half forget the present in the past;
To share between themselves some separate fate,
Whose darkness none beside should penetrate.
Their words though faint were many — from the tone
Their import those who heard could judge alone;
From this, you might have deem'd young Kaled's death
More near than Lara's by his voice and breath,
So sad, so deep, and hesitating broke
The accents his scarce-moving pale lips spoke;
But Lara's voice, though low, at first was clear
And calm, till murmuring death gasp'd hoarsely near:
But from his visage little could we guess,
So unrepentant, dark, and passionless,
Save that when struggling nearer to his last,
Upon that page his eye was kindly cast;
And once, as Kaled's answering accents ceased,
Rose Lara's hand, and pointed to the East:
Whether (as then the breaking sun from high
Roll'd back the clouds) the morrow caught his eye,
Or that 'twas chance, or some remember'd scene
That raised his arm to point where such had been,
Scarce Kaled seem'd to know, but turn'd away,
As if his heart abhorr'd that coming day,
And shrunk his glance before that morning light
To look on Lara's brow — where all grew night.
Yet sense seem'd left, though better were its loss;
For when one near display'd the absolving cross,
And proffer'd to his touch the holy bead,
Of which his parting soul might own the need,
He look'd upon it with an eye profane,
And smiled — Heaven pardon! if 'twere with disdain;
And Kaled, though he spoke not, nor withdrew
From Lara's face his fix'd despairing view,
With brow repulsive, and with gesture swift,
Flung back the hand which held the sacred gift,
As if such but disturb'd the expiring man,
Nor seem'd to know his life but then began,
The life immortal infinite, secure,
To all for whom that cross hath made it sure!
But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew,
And dull the film along his dim eye grew;
His limbs stretch'd fluttering, and his head droop'd o'er
The weak yet still untiring knee that bore:
He press'd the hand he held upon his heart —
It beats no more, but Kaled will not part
With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain,
For that faint throb which answers not again.
"It beats!" — Away, thou dreamer! he is gone —
It once was Lara which thou look'st upon.
He gazed, as if not yet had pass'd away
The haughty spirit of that humble clay;
And those around have roused him from his trance,
But cannot tear from thence his fixed glance;
And when in raising him from where he bore
Within his arms the form that felt no more,
He saw the head his breast would still sustain,
Roll down like earth to earth upon the plain;
He did not dash himself thereby, nor tear
The glossy tendrils of his raven hair,
But strove to stand and gaze, but reel'd and fell,
Scarce breathing more than that he loved so well.
Than that he lov'd! Oh! never yet beneath
The breast of man such trusty love may breathe!
That trying moment hath at once reveal'd
The secret long and yet but half conceal'd;
In baring to revive that lifeless breast,
Its grief seem'd ended, but the sex confess'd;
And life return'd, and Kaled felt no shame —
What now to her was Womanhood or Fame?
And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep,
But where he died his grave was dug as deep;
Nor is his mortal slumber less profound,
Though priest nor bless'd, nor marble deck'd the mound;
And he was mourn'd by one whose quiet grief,
Less loud, outlasts a people's for their chief.
Vain was all question ask'd her of the past,
And vain e'en menace — silent to the last;
She told nor whence nor why she left behind
Her all for one who seem'd but little kind.
Why did she love him? Curious fool! — be still —
Is human love the growth of human will?
To her he might be gentleness; the stern
Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern,
And when they love, your smilers guess not how
Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow.
They were not common links that form'd the chain
That bound to Lara Kaled's heart and brain;
But that wild tale she brook'd not to unfold,
And seal'd is now each lip that could have told.
They laid him in the earth, and on his breast,
Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest,
They found the scattered dints of many a scar
Which were not planted there in recent war:
Where'er had pass'd his summer years of life,
It seems they vanish'd in a land of strife;
But all unknown his glory or his guilt,
These only told that somewhere blood was spilt.
And Ezzelin, who might have spoke the past,
Return'd no more — that night appear'd his last.
Upon that night (a peasant's is the tale)
A Serf that cross'd the intervening vale,
When Cynthia's light almost gave way to morn,
And nearly veil'd in mist her waning horn;
A Serf, that rose betimes to thread the wood,
And hew the bough that bought his children's food,
Pass'd by the river that divides the plain
Of Otho's lands and Lara's broad domain:
He heard a tramp — a horse and horseman broke
From out the wood — before him was a cloak
Wrapt round some burthen at his saddle-bow,
Bent was his head, and hidden was his brow.
Roused by the sudden sight at such a time,
And some foreboding that it might be crime,
Himself unheeded watch'd the stranger's course,
Who reach'd the river, bounded from his horse,
And lifting thence the burthen which he bore,
Heaved up the bank, and dash'd it from the shore, 
Then paused, and look'd, and turn'd, and seem'd to watch,
And still another hurried glance would snatch,
And follow with his step the stream that flow'd,
As if even yet too much its surface show'd:
At once he started, stoop'd, around him strewn
The winter floods had scatter'd heaps of stone;
Of these the heaviest thence he gather'd there,
And slung them with a more than common care.
Meantime the Serf had crept to where unseen
Himself might safely mark what this might mean.
He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast,
And something glitter'd starlike on the vest,
But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk,
A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk:
It rose again, but indistinct to view,
And left the waters of a purple hue,
Then deeply disappear'd: the horseman gazed
Till ebb'd the latest eddy it had raised;
Then turning, vaulted on his pawing steed,
And instant spurr'd him into panting speed.
His face was mask'd — the features of the dead,
If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread;
But if in sooth a star its bosom bore,
Such is the badge that knighthood ever wore,
And such 'tis known Sir Ezzelin had worn
Upon the night that led to such a morn.
If thus he perish'd, Heaven receive his soul!
His undiscover'd limbs to ocean roll;
And charity upon the hope would dwell
It was not Lara's hand by which he fell.
And Kaled — Lara — Ezzelin, are gone,
Alike without their monumental stone!
The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean
From lingering where her chieftain's blood had been.
Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud,
Her tears were few, her wailing never loud;
But furious would you tear her from the spot
Where yet she scarce believed that he was not,
Her eye shot forth with all the living fire
That haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire;
But left to waste her weary moments there,
She talk'd all idly unto shapes of air,
Such as the busy brain of Sorrow paints,
And woos to listen to her fond complaints;
And she would sit beneath the very tree,
Where lay his drooping head upon her knee;
And in that posture where she saw him fall,
His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall;
And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair,
And oft would snatch it from her bosom there,
And fold and press it gently to the ground,
As if she stanch'd anew some phantom's wound.
Herself would question, and for him reply;
Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly
From some imagined spectre in pursuit;
Then seat her down upon some linden's root,
And hide her visage with her meagre hand,
Or trace strange characters along the sand. —
This could not last — she lies by him she loved;
Her tale untold — her truth too dearly proved.