[These stanzas, slightly different in form and superscribed On the Death of the Duke of Dorset,' are in the new Murray edition claimed as first published from an autograph manuscript in the possession of Mr. Murray. They have been in print for at least more than half a century.] I HEARD thy fate without a tear, I know not what hath sear'd mine eye: Yes-deep and heavy, one by one, They cannot petrify more fast NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL FROM THE FRENCH [This and the following poems are, it is needless to say, not from the French, but original with Byron.] FAREWELL to the Land where the gloom of my Glory Arose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her name Woman's love, and friendship's zeal, Dear as both have been to me What are they to all I feel, With a soldier's faith for thee? Idol of the soldier's soul ! First in fight, but mightiest now: Many could a world control; Thee alone no doom can bow. By thy side for years I dared Death; and envied those who fell, When their dying shout was heard, Blessing him they served so well. Would that I were cold with those, Since this hour I live to see; When the doubts of coward foes Scarce dare trust a man with thee, Dreading each should set thee free! Oh! although in dungeons pent, All their chains were light to me, Gazing on thy soul unbent. Would the sycophants of him Now so deaf to duty's prayer, Were his borrow'd glories dim, In his native darkness share? Were that world this hour his own, All thou calmly dost resign, Could he purchase with that throne ΤΟ 20 30 Hearts like those which still are thine? A crimson cloud it spreads and glows, But shall return to whence it rose; When 't is full 't will burst asunder Never yet was heard such thunder As then shall shake the world with wonder, As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning! The Chief has fallen, but not by you, With that youthful chief competed ? Then he fell: -so perish all Who would men by man enthrall! And thou, too, of the snow-white plume! 20 31 40 50 On thy war-horse through the ranks Like a stream which burst its banks, While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing, Shone and shiver'd fast around thee Of the fate at last which found thee: Was that haughty plume laid low By a slave's dishonest blow? Once -as the Moon sways o'er the tide, It roll'd in air, the warrior's guide; Through the smoke-created night Of the black and sulphurous fight, The soldier raised his seeking eye To catch that crest's ascendency, And, as it onward rolling rose, So moved his heart upon our foes. There, where death's brief pang was quickest, And the battle's wreck lay thickest, Strew'd beneath the advancing banner Of the eagle's burning crest 61 The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lull'd winds seem dreaming. And the midnight moon is weaving So the spirit bows before thee, With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean. March 28 [1816]. ON THE STAR OF THE LEGION OF HONOUR' FROM THE FRENCH STAR of the brave!- whose beam hath shed Such glory o'er the quick and dead Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays; Like lava roll'd thy stream of blood, Before thee rose, and with thee grew, One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes; 10 20 30 And he was faithful to a corse, and kept The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay, And men were gather'd round their blazing Till hunger clung them, or the dropping its [Charles Churchill (1731–1764), the satirical poet. On the sheet containing the original draft of these lines, Lord Byron has written: 'The following poem (as most that I have endeavoured to write) is founded on a fact; and this detail is an attempt at a serious imitation of the style of a great poet beauties and its defects: I say, the style; for the thoughts I claim as my own. In this, if there be anything ridiculous, let it be attributed to me, at least as much as to Mr. Wordsworth, of whom there can exist few greater admirers than myself. I have blended what I would deem to be the beauties as well as de so; He died before my day of Sextonship, And I had not the digging of this grave.' And is this all? I thought, - and do we rip The veil of Immortality, and crave I know not what of honour and of light Through unborn ages, to endure this blight ? So soon, and so successless? As I said, The Architect of all on which we tread, 20 For Earth is but a tomb-stone, did essay To extricate remembrance from the clay, Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's thought, Were it not that all life must end in one, Of which we are but dreamers; -as he caught As 't were the twilight of a former Sun, Thus spoke he, 'I believe the man of whom |