444

LORD BYRON SIEGE OF CORINTH.

"But gasping heav'd the breath that Lara drew,
And dull the film along his dim eye grew;

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His limbs stretch'd flutt'ring, and his head dropp'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 gaz'd, as if not yet had pass'd away

The haughty spirit of that humble clay;

And those around have rous'd 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 lov'd 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 confest!
And life return'd, and Kaled felt no shame-
What now to her was Womanhood or Fame?"

We must stop here;- but the whole sequel of the poem is written with equal vigour and feeling; and may be put in competition with any thing that poetry has ever produced, in point either of pathos or energy.

The SIEGE OF CORINTH is next in the order of time; and though written, perhaps, with too visible a striving after effect, and not very well harmonised in all its parts, we cannot help regarding it as a magnificent composition. There is less misanthropy in it than in any of the rest; and the interest is made up of alternate representations of soft and solemn scenes and emotions and of the tumult, and terrors, and intoxication of war. These opposite pictures are perhaps too violently contrasted, and, in some parts, too harshly coloured; but they are in general exquisitely designed, and executed with the

utmost spirit and energy. What, for instance, can be finer than the following night-piece? The renegade had left his tent in moody musing, the night before the final assault on the Christian walls.

"'Tis midnight! On the mountain's brown
The cold round moon shines deeply down;
Blue roll the waters; blue the sky
Spreads like an ocean hung on high,
Bespangled with those isles of light,
So wildly, spiritually bright;
Who ever gaz'd upon them shining,
And turn'd to earth without repining,
Nor wish'd for wings to flee away,
And mix with their eternal ray?
The waves on either shore lay there,
Calm, clear, and azure as the air;
And scarce their foam the pebbles shook,
But murmur'd meekly as the brook.
The winds were pillow'd on the waves;
The banners droop'd along their staves,
And, as they fell around them furling,
Above them shone the crescent curling;
And that deep silence was unbroke,
Save where the watch his signal spoke,
Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrill,
And echo answer'd from the hill,

And the wide hum of that wild host

Rustled like leaves from coast to coast,
As rose the Muezzin's voice in air

In midnight call to wonted prayer."

The transition to the bustle and fury of the morning muster, as well as the moving picture of the barbaric host, is equally admirable.

“The night is past, and shines the sun
As if that morn were a jocund one.
Lightly and brightly breaks away
The Morning from her mantle grey,
And the Noon will look on a sultry day!

Hark to the trump, and the drum,

And the mournful sound of the barb'rous horn,

And the flap of the banners, that flit as they're borne,
And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum,
And the clash, and the shout, They come, they come!'
The horsetails are pluck'd from the ground, and the sword
From its sheath! and they form-and but wait for the word.

446 LORD BYRON

MAGNIFICENT MUSTER AND CHARGE.

The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein;
Curv'd is each neck, and flowing each mane;
White is the foam of their champ on the bit:
The spears are uplifted; the matches are lit;
The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar,
And crush the wall they have crumbled before!
Forms in his phalanx each Janizar;

Alp at their head; his right arm is bare;
So is the blade of his scimitar!

The khan and the pachas are all at their post;
The vizier himself at the head of the host.
When the culverin's signal is fir'd, then on!
Leave not in Corinth a living one-

A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls,
A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls!
God and the Prophet! -Alla Hu!

Up to the skies with that wild halloo !

"As the wolves, that headlong go

On the stately buffalo,

Though with fiery eyes and angry roar,

And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore,

He tramples on earth, or tosses on high

The foremost, who rush on his strength but to die :
Thus against the wall they went,

Thus the first were backward bent!

Many a bosom, sheath'd in brass,
Strew'd the earth like broken glass,
Shiver'd by the shot, that tore

The ground whereon they mov'd no more:
Even as they fell, in files they lay,

Like the mower's grass at the close of day,

When his work is done on the levell'd plain;
Such was the fall of the foremost slain?
As the spring-tides, with heavy plash,
From the cliffs invading dash

Huge fragments, sapp'd by the ceaseless flow,
Till white and thundering down they go.-
Like the avalanche's snow

On the Alpine vales below;

Thus at length, outbreath'd and worn,

Corinth's sons were downward borne

By the long, and oft renew'd

Charge of the Moslem multitude!

In firmness they stood, and in masses they fell,
Heap'd, by the host of the infidel,

Hand to hand, and foot to foot:

Nothing there, save death, was mute;
Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry

For quarter, or for victory!

PARISINA.

But the rampart is won, and the spoil begun,
And all but the after-carnage done.
Shriller shrieks now mingling come
From within the plunder'd dome :
Hark to the haste of flying feet!

That splash in the blood of the slippery street!

447

The

PARISINA is of a different character. There is no tumult or stir in this piece. It is all sadness, and pity, and terror. The story is told in half a sentence. Prince of Esté has married a lady who was originally destined for his favourite natural son. He discovers a criminal attachment between them; and puts the issue and the invader of his bed to death, before the face of his unhappy paramour. There is too much of horror, perhaps, in the circumstances; but the writing is beautiful throughout; and the whole wrapped in a rich and redundant veil of poetry, where every thing breathes the pure essence of genius and sensibility. The opening verses, though soft and voluptuous, are tinged with the same shade of sorrow which gives its character and harmony to the whole poem.

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'It is the hour when from the boughs,
The nightingale's high note is heard;
It is the hour when lovers' vows
Seem sweet in every whisper'd word;
And gentle winds, and waters near,
Make music to the lonely ear!
Each flower the dews have lightly wet;
And in the sky the stars are met,
And on the wave is deeper blue,

And on the leaf a browner hue,
And in the heaven that clear obscure,
So softly dark, and darkly pure,
Which follows the decline of day,

As twilight melts beneath the moon away.
But it is not to list to the waterfall

That Parisina leaves her hall," &c.

448

LORD BYRON

PARISINA.

As if each calmly conscious star
Beheld her frailty from afar."

The arraignment and condemnation of the guilty pair, with the bold, high-toned, and yet temperate defence of the son, are managed with admirable talent; and yet are less touching than the mute despair of the fallen beauty, who stands in speechless agony beside him.

"Those lids o'er which the violet vein
Wandering, leaves a tender stain,
Shining through the smoothest white
That e'er did softest kiss invite-
Now seem'd with hot and livid glow
To press, not shade, the orbs below;
Which glance so heavily, and fill,
As tear on tear grows gath'ring still.-

"Nor once did those sweet eyelids close,
Or shade the glance o'er which they rose,
But round their orbs of deepest blue
The circling white dilated grew-
And there with glassy gaze she stood
As ice were in her curdled blood;
But every now and then a tear
So large and slowly gather'd, slid
From the long dark fringe of that fair lid,
It was a thing to see, not hear!

To speak she thought the imperfect note
Was chok'd within her swelling throat,
Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan

Her whole heart gushing in the tone.
It ceas'd again she thought to speak,
Then burst her voice in one long shriek,
And to the earth she fell, like stone

Or statue from its base o'erthrown."

The grand part of this poem, however, is that which describes the execution of the rival son, and in which, though there is no pomp, either of language or of sentiment, and every thing, on the contrary, is conceived and expressed with studied simplicity and directness, there is a spirit of pathos and poetry to which it would not be easy to find many parallels.