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Page:Sons and Lovers, 1913, Lawrence.djvu/63

Rh William fled away, glad to be exonerated. And Mrs. Morel, who hated any bother with the neighbours, thought she would explain to Mrs. Anthony, and the business would be over.

But that evening Morel came in from the pit looking very sour. He stood in the kitchen and glared round, but did not speak for some minutes. Then:

“Wheer’s that Willy?” he asked.

“What do you want him for?” asked Mrs. Morel, who had guessed.

“I’ll let ’im know when I get him,” said Morel, banging his pit-bottle on to the dresser.

“I suppose Mrs. Anthony’s got hold of you and been yarning to you about their Alfy’s collar,” said Mrs. Morel, rather sneering.

“Niver mind who’s got hold of me,” said Morel. “When I get hold of ’im I’ll make his bones rattle.”

“It’s a poor tale,” said Mrs. Morel, “that you’re so ready to side with any snipey vixen who likes to come telling tales against your own children.”

“I’ll learn ’im!” said Morel. “It none matters to me whose lad ’e is; ’e’s none goin’ rippin’ an’ tearin’ about just as he’s a mind.”

“ ‘Ripping and tearing about’!” repeated Mrs. Morel. “He was running after that Alfy, who’d taken his cobbler, and he accidentally got hold of his collar, because the other dodged—as an Anthony would.”

“I know!” shouted Morel threateningly.

“You would, before you’re told,” replied his wife bitingly.

“Niver you mind,” stormed Morel. “I know my business.”

“That’s more than doubtful,” said Mrs. Morel, “supposing some loud-mouthed creature had been getting you to thrash your own children.”

“I know,” repeated Morel.

And he said no more, but sat and nursed his bad temper. Suddenly William ran in, saying:

“Can I have my tea, mother?”

“Tha can ha’e more than that!” shouted Morel.

“Hold your noise, man,” said Mrs. Morel; “and don’t look so ridiculous.”

“He’ll look ridiculous before I’ve done wi’ him!” shouted Morel, rising from his chair and glaring at his son.

William, who was a tall lad for his years, but very sensitive, had gone pale, and was looking in a sort of horror at his father.


text:
Page:Sons and Lovers, 1913, Lawrence.djvu/64

52 “Go out!” Mrs. Morel commanded her son.

William had not the wit to move. Suddenly Morel clenched his fist, and crouched.

“I’ll gi’e him ‘go out’!” he shouted like an insane thing.

“What!” cried Mrs. Morel, panting with rage. “You shall not touch him for her telling, you shall not!”

“Shonna I?” shouted Morel. “Shonna I?”

And, glaring at the boy, he ran forward. Mrs. Morel sprang in between them, with her fist lifted.

“Don’t you dare I” she cried.

“What!” he shouted, baffled for the moment. “What!”

She spun round to her son.

“Go out of the house!” she commanded him in fury.

The boy, as if hypnotized by her, turned suddenly and was gone. Morel rushed to the door, but was too late. He returned, pale under his pit-dirt with fury. But now his wife was fully roused.

“Only dare!” she said in a loud, ringing voioe. “Only dare, mllord, to lay a finger on that child! You’ll regret it for ever.”

He was afraid of her. In a towering rage, he sat down.

When the children were old enough to be left, Mrs. Morel joined the Women’s Guild. It was a little club of women attached to the Co-operative Wholesale Society, which met on Monday night in the long room over the grocery shop of the Bestwood “Co-op.” The women were supposed to discuss the benefits to be derived from co-operation, and other social questions. Sometimes Mrs. Morel read a paper. It seemed queer to the children to see their mother, who was always busy about the house, sitting writing in her rapid fashion, thinking, referring to books, and writing again. They felt for her on such occasions the deepest respect.

But they loved the Guild. It was the only thing to which they did not grudge their mother—and that partly because she enjoyed it, partly because of the treats they derived from it. The Guild was called by some hostile husbands, who found their wives getting too independent, the “clat-fart” shop—that is, the gossip-shop. It is true, from off the basis of the Guild, the women could look at their homes, at the conditions of their own lives, and find fault. So the colliers found their women had a new standard of their own, rather disconcerting. And also, Mrs. Morel always had a lot of news on Monday nights, so that the children liked William to be in when their mother came home, because she told him things.

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


text:
Author:Thomson Wilson Leys

Works

 * (ed.) Early History of New Zealand
 * (ed.) Colonist's Guide
 * The Doctrine of Evolution
 * in reply to Professor Denton
 * The Cruise of the Wairarapa

title: Author:Thomson Wilson Leys


text:
Page:Sons and Lovers, 1913, Lawrence.djvu/65

Rh Then, when the lad was thirteen, she got him a job in the “Co-op.” office. He was a very clever boy, frank, with rather rough features and real viking blue eyes.

“What dost want ter ma’e a stool-harsed Jack on ’im for?” said Morel. “All he’ll do is to wear his britches behind out, an’ earn nowt. What’s ’e startin’ wi’?”

“It doesn’t matter what he’s starting with,” said Mrs. Morel.

“It wouldna! Put ’im i’ th’ pit we me, an’ ’e’ll earn a easy ten shillin’ a wik from th’ start. But six shillin’ wearin’ his truck-end out on a stool’s better than ten shilln’ i’ th’ pit wi’ me, I know.”

“He is not going in the pit,” said Mrs. Morel, “and there’s an end of it.”

“It wor good enough for me, but it’s non good enough for ’im.”

“If your mother put you in the pit at twelve, it’s no reason why I should do the same with my lad.”

“Twelve! It wor a sight afore that!”

“Whenever it was,” said Mrs. Morel.

She was very proud of her son. He went to the night-school, and learned shorthand, so that by the time he was sixteen he was the best shorthand clerk and book~keeper on the place, except one. Then he taught in the night-schools. But he was so fiery that only his good-nature and his size protected him.

All the things that men do—the decent things—William did. He could run like the wind. When he was twelve he won a first prize in a race—an inkstand of glass, shaped like an anvil. It stood proudly on the dresser, and gave Mrs. Morel a keen pleasure. The boy only ran for her. He flew home with his anvil, breathless, with a “Look, mother!” That was the first real tribute to herself. She took it like a queen.

“How pretty!” she exclaimed.

Then he began to get ambitious. He gave all his money to his mother. When he earned fourteen shillings a week, she gave him back two for himself, and, as he never drank, he felt himself rich. He went about with the bourgeois of Bestwood. The townlet contained nothing higher than the clergyman. Then came the bank manager, then the doctors, then the tradespeople, and after that the hosts of colliers. William began to consort with the sons of the chemist, the schoolmaster, and the tradesmen. He played billiards in the


text:
Page:Sons and Lovers, 1913, Lawrence.djvu/66

54 Mechanics Hall. Also he danced—this in spite of his mother. All the life that Bestwood offered he enjoyed, from the six-penny-hops down Church Street, to sports and billiards.

Paul was treated to dazzling descriptions of all kinds of flower-like ladies, most of whom lived like cut blooms in William’s heart for a brief fortnight.

Occasionally some flame would come in pursuit of her errant swain. Mrs. Morel would find a strange girl at the door, and immediately she sniffed the air.

“Is Mr. Morel in?” the damsel would ask appealingly.

“My husband is at home,” Mrs. Morel replied.

“I—I mean young Mr. Morel,” repeated the maiden painfully.

“Which one? There are several.”

Whereupon much bushing and stammering from the fair one.

“I—I met Mr. Morel—at Ripley,” she explained.

“Oh—at a dance!”

“Yes.”

“I don’t approve of the girls my son meets at dances. And he is not at home.”

Then he came home angry with his mother for having turned the girl away so rudely. He was a careless, yet eager-looking fellow, who walked with long strides, sometimes frowning, often with his cap pushed jollily to the back of his head. Now he came in frowning. He threw his cap on to the sofa, and took his strong jaw in his hand, and glared down at his mother. She was small, with her hair taken straight back from her forehead. She had a quiet air of authority, and yet of rare warmth. Knowing her son was angry, she trembled inwardly.

“Did a lady call for me yesterday, mother?” he asked.

“I don’t know about a lady. There was a girl came.”

“And why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I forgot, simply.”

He fumed a little.

“A good-looking girl—seemed a lady?”

“I didn’t look at her.”

“Big brown eyes?”

“I did not look. And tell your girls, my son, that when they’re running after you, they’re not to corne and ask your mother for you. Tell them that—brazen baggages you meet at dancing-classes.”

“I’m sure she was a nice girl.”

“And I’m sure she wasn’t.”


text:
User talk:46.70.184.231

Welcome

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title: User talk:46.70.184.231


text:
Page:Sons and Lovers, 1913, Lawrence.djvu/67

Rh There ended the altercation. Over the dancing there was a great strife between the mother and the son. The grievance reached its height when William said he was going to Hucknall Torkard—considered a low town—to a fancy-dress ball. He was to be a Highlander. There was a dress he could hire, which one of his friends had had, and which fitted him perfectly. The Highland suit came home. Mrs. Morel received it coldly and would not unpack it.

“My suit come?” cried William.

“There’s a parcel in the front-room.”

He rushed in and cut the string.

“How do you fancy your son in this!” he said, enraptured, showing her the suit.

“You know I don’t want to fancy you in it.”

On the evening of the dance, when he had come home to dress, Mrs. Morel put on her coat and bonnet.

“Aren’t you going to stop and see me, mother?” he asked.

“No; I don’t want to see you,” she replied.

She was rather pale, and her face was closed and hard. She was afraid of her son’s going the same way as his father. He hesitated a moment, and his heart stood still with anxiety. Then he caught sight of the Highland bonnet with its ribbons. He picked it up gleefully, forgetting her. She went out.

When he was nineteen he suddenly left the Co-op. office and got a situation in Nottingham. In his new place he had thirty shillings a week instead of eighteen. This was indeed a rise. His mother and his father were brimmed up with pride. Everybody praised William. It seemed he was going to get on rapidly. Mrs. Morel hoped, with his aid, to help her younger sons. Annie was now studying to be a teacher. Paul, also very clever, was getting on well, having lessons in French and German from his godfather, the clergyman who was still a friend to Mrs. Morel. Arthur, a spoilt and very good-looking boy, was at the Board-school, but there was talk of his trying to get a scholarship for the High School in Nottingham.

William remained a year at his new post in Nottingham. He was studying hard, and growing serious. Something seemed to be fretting him. Still he went out to the dances and the river parties. He did not drink. The children were all rabid teetotallers. He came home very late at night, and sat yet longer studying. His mother implored him to take more care, to do one thing or another.

“Dance, if you want to dance, my son: but don’t think you


text:
User talk:Bhawani Gautam

— billinghurst  sDrewth  11:53, 14 November 2012 (UTC)

title: User talk:Bhawani Gautam


text:
Page:Sons and Lovers, 1913, Lawrence.djvu/68

56 can work in the office, and then amuse yourself, and then study on top of all. You can’t; the human frame won’t stand it. Do one thing or the other—amuse yourself or learn Latin; but don’t try to do both.”

Then he got a place in London, at a hundred and twenty a year. This seemed a fabulous sum. His mother doubted almost whether to rejoice or to grieve.

“They want me in Lime Street on Monday week, mother,” he cried, his eyes blazing as he read the letter. Mrs. Morel felt everything go silent inside her. He read the letter: “ ‘And will you reply by Thursday whether you accept. Yours faithfully——’ They want me, mother, at a hundred and twenty a year, and don’t even ask to see me. Didn’t I tell you I could do it! Think of me in London! And I can give you twenty pounds a year, mater. We s’ll all be rolling in money.”

“We shall, my son,” she answered sadly.

It never occurred to him that she might be more hurt at his going away than glad of his success. Indeed, as the days drew near for his departure, her heart began to close and grow dreary with despair. She loved him so much! More than that, she hoped in him so much. Almost she lived by him. She liked to do things for him: she liked to put a cup for his tea and to iron his collars, of which he was so proud. It was a joy to her to have him proud of his collars. There was no laundry. So she used to rub away at them with her little convex iron, to polish them, till they shone from the sheer pressure of her arm. Now she would not do it for him. Now he was going away. She felt almost as if he were going as well out of her heart. He did not seem to leave her inhabited with himself. That was the grief and the pain to her. He took nearly all himself away.

A few days before his departure—he was just twenty—he burned his love-letters. They had hung on a file at the top of the kitchen cupboard. From some of them he had read extracts to his mother. Some of them she had taken the trouble to read herself. But most were too trivial. Now, on the Saturday morning he said:

“Come on, ’Postle, let’s go through my letters, and you can have the birds and flowers.”

Mrs. Morel had done her Saturday’s work on the Friday, because he was having a last day’s holiday. She was making him a rice cake, which he loved, to take with him. He was scarcely conscious that she was so miserable.


text:
Page:Sons and Lovers, 1913, Lawrence.djvu/69

57 He took the first letter off the file. It was mauve-tinted, and had purple and green thistles. William sniffed the page.

“Nice scent! Smell.”

And he thrust the sheet under Paul’s nose.

“Um!” said Paul, breathing in. “What d’you call it? Smell, mother.”

His mother ducked her small, fine nose down to the paper.

“I don’t want to smell their rubbish,” she said, sniffing.

“This girl’s father,” said William, “is as rich as Crœsus. He owns property without end. She calls me Lafayette, because I know French. ‘You will see, I’ve forgiven you’—I like her forgiving me. ‘I told mother about you this morning, and she will have much pleasure if you come to tea on Sunday, but she will have to get father’s consent also. I sincerely hope he will agree. I will let you know how it transpires. If, however, you——’ ”

“ ‘Let you know how it’ what?” interrupted Mrs. Morel.

“ ‘Transpires’—oh yes!”

“ ‘Transpires!’ ” repeated Mrs. Morel mockingly. “I thought she was so well educated!”

William felt slightly uncomfortable, and abandoned this maiden, giving Paul the corner with the thistles. He continued to read extracts from his letters, some of which amused his mother, some of which saddened her and made her anxious for him.

“My lad,” she said, “they’re very wise. They know they’ve only got to flatter your vanity, and you press up to them like a dog that has its head scratched.”

“Well, they can’t go on scratching for ever,” he replied. “And when they’ve done, I trot away.”

“But one day you’ll find a string round your neck that you can’t pull off,” she answered.

“Not me! I’m equal to any of ’em, mater, they needn’t flatter themselves.”

“You flatter yourself,” she said quietly.

Soon there was a heap of twisted black pages, all that remained of the file of scented letters, except that Paul had thirty or forty pretty tickets from the corners of the note-paper—swallows and forget-me-nots and ivy sprays. And William went to London, to start a new file.


text:
Author:Frederick McCoy

Works

 * Synopsis of the Carboniferous Limestone Fossils of Ireland
 * Synopsis of the Silurian Fossils of Ireland (1846)
 * British Palaeozoic Rocks and Fossils
 * Prodromus of the Zoology of Victoria
 * Prodromus of the Palaeontology of Victoria
 * President's anniversary address for 1864

Works about McCoy

 * Death announcement in The Zoologist, 4th series, vol. 3 (1899), issue 696, p. 280
 * Death announcement in The Zoologist, 4th series, vol. 3 (1899), issue 696, p. 280
 * Death announcement in The Zoologist, 4th series, vol. 3 (1899), issue 696, p. 280

title: Author:Frederick McCoy


text: Index:London - The Call of the Wild, 1903.djvu


text:
Author talk:Henry Ferris Arnold

Name sources
This author is most often record as simply "H. F. Arnold" and none of the usual sources appear to have his full name. It does appear through web searches, however. For example: The Nostalgia League. I can't find any definitive proof but it is commonly repeated, so I'm judging it to be good enough. There is also this Find A Grave page for a man with the same name and birth/death years but no reference to writing. - AdamBMorgan (talk) 13:27, 14 November 2012 (UTC)

title: Author talk:Henry Ferris Arnold


text:
Page:Studies in Letters and Life (Woodberry, 1890).djvu/135

Rh Shelley's work is a secondary thing; its virtue is blended with and transfused into the nature of Shelley himself, who is the centre of their worship. To reveal the fineness and lustre of his character, his essential worth throughout that romantic and darkened career of thirty years, is their chief pleasure, and in this, too, they have now won some success, and have partially reversed the popular estimate of the poet as merely an immoral atheist; yet, although some amends have been made for harsh contemporary criticism, Shelley's name is still for orthodoxy a shibboleth of pious terror and of insult to God. It is still too early to decide whether the modification of the harsh criticism once almost universally bestowed upon Shelley will go on permanently, or whether it is not in some measure due to peculiar results of culture in our own time. Without attempting to prejudge this question, especially in regard to poetic fame, there seems to be, as the cause passes out of the hands of those who knew Shelley personally into the guardianship of the new generation, a tendency toward greater unity of judgment in regard to the larger phases of his character and conduct.


text:
Irish Lullaby

I'd rock my own sweet childie to rest in a cradle of gold on a bough of de willow, to the shoheen ho of the wind of the west and the lulla lo of the soft sea billow.

Sleep, baby dear. Sleep, without fear. Mother is here beside your pillow. Sleep, baby dear. Sleep, without fear. Mother is here beside your pillow.

I'd put my own sweet childie to sleep in a silver boat on the beautiful river, where a shoheen ho whisper the white cascades, and a lulla lo the green flags shiver.

Sleep, baby dear. Sleep, without fear. Mother is here with you for ever.

Sleep, baby dear. Sleep, without fear. Mother is here with you for ever.

Cançó de bressol irlandesa

title: Irish Lullaby


text:
Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/172

132 2.

But often has yon rolling moon,

On Alva's casques of silver play'd;

And view'd, at midnight's silent noon,

Her chiefs in gleaming mail array'd:

3.

And, on the crimson'd rocks beneath,

Which scowl o'er ocean's sullen flow,

Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death,

She saw the gasping warrior low;

4.

While many an eye, which ne'er again

Could mark the rising orb of day,

Turn'd feebly from the gory plain,

Beheld in death her fading ray.

5.

Once, to those eyes the lamp of Love,

They blest her dear propitious light;

But, now, she glimmer'd from above,

A sad, funereal torch of night.

6.

Faded is Alva's noble race,

And grey her towers are seen afar;

No more her heroes urge the chase,

Or roll the crimson tide of war.


text:
Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/214

174 TO ROMANCE.

1.

of golden dreams, Romance!

Auspicious Queen of childish joys,

Who lead'st along, in airy dance,

Thy votive train of girls and boys;

At length, in spells no longer bound,

I break the fetters of my youth;

No more I tread thy mystic round,

But leave thy realms for those of Truth.

2.

And yet 'tis hard to quit the dreams

Which haunt the unsuspicious soul,

Where every nymph a goddess seems,

Whose eyes through rays immortal roll;

While Fancy holds her boundless reign,

And all assume a varied hue;

When Virgins seem no longer vain,

And even Woman's smiles are true.

3.

And must we own thee, but a name,

And from thy hall of clouds descend?


text:
Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/173

Rh 7.

But, who was last of Alva's clan?

Why grows the moss on Alva's stone?

Her towers resound no steps of man,

They echo to the gale alone.

8.

And, when that gale is fierce and high,

A sound is heard in yonder hall;

It rises hoarsely through the sky,

And vibrates o'er the mould'ring wall.

9.

Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs,

It shakes the shield of Oscar brave;

But, there, no more his banners rise,

No more his plumes of sable wave.

10.

Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth,

When Angus hail'd his eldest born;

The vassals round their chieftain's hearth

Crowd to applaud the happy morn.

11.

They feast upon the mountain deer,

The Pibroch rais'd its piercing note,

To gladden more their Highland cheer,

The strains in martial numbers float.


text:
Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/215

Rh Nor find a Sylph in every dame,

A Pylades in every friend?

But leave, at once, thy realms of air

To mingling bands of fairy elves;

Confess that woman's false as fair,

And friends have feeling for—themselves?

4.

With shame, I own, I've felt thy sway;

Repentant, now thy reign is o'er;

No more thy precepts I obey,

No more on fancied pinions soar;

Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye,

And think that eye to truth was dear;

To trust a passing wanton's sigh,

And melt beneath a wanton's tear!

5.

Romance! disgusted with deceit,

Far from thy motley court I fly,

Where Affectation holds her seat,

And sickly Sensibility;


text:
Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/174

134 12.

And they who heard the war-notes wild,

Hop'd that, one day, the Pibroch's strain

Should play before the Hero's child,

While he should lead the Tartan train.

13.

Another year is quickly past,

And Angus hails another son;

His natal day is like the last,

Nor soon the jocund feast was done.

14.

Taught by their sire to bend the bow,

On Alva's dusky hills of wind,

The boys in childhood chas'd the roe,

And left their hounds in speed behind.

15.

But ere their years of youth are o'er,

They mingle in the ranks of war;

They lightly wheel the bright claymore,

And send the whistling arrow far.

16.

Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair,

Wildly it stream'd along the gale;

But Allan's locks were bright and fair,

And pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale.


text:
Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/216

176 Whose silly tears can never flow

For any pangs excepting thine;

Who turns aside from real woe,

To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine.

6.

Now join with sable Sympathy,

With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds,

Who heaves with thee her simple sigh,

Whose breast for every bosom bleeds;

And call thy sylvan female choir,

To mourn a Swain for ever gone,

Who once could glow with equal fire,

But bends not now before thy throne.

7.

Ye genial Nymphs, whose ready tears

On all occasions swiftly flow;

Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears,

With fancied flames and phrenzy glow

Say, will you mourn my absent name,

Apostate from your gentle train?

An infant Bard, at least, may claim

From you a sympathetic strain.

8.

Adieu, fond race! a long adieu!

The hour of fate is hovering nigh;


text:
Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/175

Rh 17.

But Oscar own'd a hero's soul,

His dark eye shone through beams of truth;

Allan had early learn'd controul,

And smooth his words had been from youth.

18.

Both, both were brave; the Saxon spear

Was shiver'd oft beneath their steel;

And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear,

But Oscar's bosom knew to feel;

19.

While Allan's soul belied his form,

Unworthy with such charms to dwell:

Keen as the lightning of the storm,

On foes his deadly vengeance fell.

20.

From high Southannon's distant tower

Arrived a young and noble dame;

With Kenneth's lands to form her dower,

Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came;

21.

And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride,

And Angus on his Oscar smil'd:

It soothed the father's feudal pride

Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child.


text:
Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/217

Rh E'en now the gulf appears in view,

Where unlamented you must lie:

Oblivion's blackening lake is seen,

Convuls'd by gales you cannot weather,

Where you, and eke your gentle queen,

Alas! must perish altogether.

THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA.

AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S "OSSIAN."

are the days of youth! Age dwells on their remembrance through the mist of time. In the twilight he recalls the sunny hours of morn. He lifts his spear with trembling hand. "Not thus feebly did I raise the steel before my fathers!" Past is the race of heroes! But their fame rises on the harp; their souls ride on the wings of the wind; they hear the sound through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall of clouds. Such is Calmar. The grey stone marks his narrow house. He looks down from eddying tempests: he rolls his form in the whirlwind, and hovers on the blast of the mountain.


text:
Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/176

136 22.

Hark! to the Pibroch's pleasing note,

Hark! to the swelling nuptial song,

In joyous strains the voices float,

And, still, the choral peal prolong.

23.

See how the Heroes' blood-red plumes

Assembled wave in Alva's hall;

Each youth his varied plaid assumes,

Attending on their chieftain's call.

24.

It is not war their aid demands,

The Pibroch plays the song of peace;

To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands

Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease.

25.

But where is Oscar? sure 'tis late:

Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame?

While thronging guests and ladies wait,

Nor Oscar nor his brother came.

26.

At length young Allan join'd the bride;

"Why comes not Oscar?" Angus said:

"Is he not here?" the Youth replied;

With me he rov'd not o'er the glade;


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178 In Morven dwelt the Chief; a beam of war to Fingal. His steps in the field were marked in blood. Lochlin's sons had fled before his angry spear; but mild was the eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his yellow locks: they streamed like the meteor of the night. No maid was the sigh of his soul: his thoughts were given to friendship,—to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes! Equal were their swords in battle; but fierce was the pride of Orla:—gentle alone to Calmar. Together they dwelt in the cave of Oithona.

From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves. Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingal roused his chiefs to combat." Their ships cover the ocean! Their hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the aid of Erin.

Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies. But the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The sons of Lochlin slept: their dreams were of blood. They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not so the Host of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. Calmar stood by his side. Their spears were in their hands. Fingal called his chiefs: they stood around. The king was in the midst. Grey were his locks, but strong was the arm of the king. Age withered not his powers. "Sons of Morven," said the hero, "to-morrow we meet the foe. But where is Cuthullin, the shield of


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Rh 27.

"Perchance, forgetful of the day,

'Tis his to chase the bounding roe;

Or Ocean's waves prolong his stay;

Yet, Oscar's bark is seldom slow."

28.

"Oh, no!" the anguish'd Sire rejoin'd,

"Nor chase, nor wave, my Boy delay;

Would he to Mora seem unkind?

Would aught to her impede his way?

29.

"Oh, search, ye Chiefs! oh, search around!

Allan, with these, through Alva fly;

Till Oscar, till my son is found,

Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply."

30.

All is confusion—through the vale,

The name of Oscar hoarsely rings,

It rises on the murm'ring gale,

Till night expands her dusky wings.

31.

It breaks the stillness of the night,

But echoes through her shades in vain;

It sounds through morning's misty light,

But Oscar comes not o'er the plain.


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Rh Erin? He rests in the halls of Tura; he knows not of our coming. Who will speed through Lochlin, to the hero, and call the chief to arms? The path is by the swords of foes; but many are my heroes. They are thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs! Who will arise?"

"Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed," said dark-haired Orla, "and mine alone. What is death to me? I love the sleep of the mighty, but little is the danger. The sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borne Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards; and lay me by the stream of Lubar."—"And shalt thou fall alone?" said fair-haired Calmar. "Wilt thou leave thy friend afar? Chief of Oithona! not feeble is my arm in fight. Could I see thee die, and not lift the spear? No, Orla! ours has been the chase of the roebuck, and the feast of shells; ours be the path of danger: ours has been the cave of Oithona; ours be the narrow dwelling on the banks of Lubar."—"Calmar," said the chief of Oithona, "why should thy yellow locks be darkened in the dust of Erin? Let me fall alone. My father dwells in his hall of air: he will rejoice in his boy; but the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast for her Son in Morven. She listens to the steps of the hunter on the heath, and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. Let her not say, 'Calmar has fallen by the steel of Lochlin: he died with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark brow.' Why should tears dim the azure eye of Mora? Why should her voice curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar? Live Calmar! Live to raise


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138 32.

Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief

For Oscar search'd each mountain cave;

Then hope is lost; in boundless grief,

His locks in grey-torn ringlets wave.

33.

"Oscar! my son!—thou God of Heav'n,

Restore the prop of sinking age!

Or, if that hope no more is given,

Yield his assassin to my rage.

34.

"Yes, on some desert rocky shore

My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie;

Then grant, thou God! I ask no more,

With him his frantic Sire may die!

35.

"Yet, he may live,—away, despair!

Be calm, my soul! he yet may live;

T' arraign my fate, my voice forbear!

O God! my impious prayer forgive.

36.

"What, if he live for me no more,

I sink forgotten in the dust,

The hope of Alva's age is o'er:

Alas! can pangs like these be just?"


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180 my stone of moss; live to revenge me in the blood of Lochlin. Join the song of bards above my grave. Sweet will be the song of Death to Orla, from the voice of Calmar. My ghost shall smile on the notes of Praise." "Orla," said the son of Mora, "could I raise the song of Death to my friend? Could I give his fame to the winds? No, my heart would speak in sighs: faint and broken are the sounds of sorrow. Orla! our souls shall hear the song together. One cloud shall be ours on high: the bards will mingle the names of Orla and Calmar."

They quit the circle of the Chiefs. Their steps are to the Host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak dim-twinkles through the night. The northern star points the path to Tura. Swaran, the King, rests on his lonely hill. Here the troops are mixed: they frown in sleep; their shields beneath their heads. Their swords gleam, at distance in heaps. The fires are faint; their embers fail in smoke. All is hushed; but the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the Heroes through the slumbering band. Half the journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glistens through the shade. His spear is raised on high. "Why dost thou bend thy brow, chief of Oithona?" said fair-haired Calmar: "we are in the midst of foes. Is this a time for delay?" "It is a time for vengeance," said Orla of the gloomy brow. "Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: seest thou his


text:
Author:John Belfour

Works

 * "Spanish fables." An argosy of fables, (1921)
 * N.B. Incorrectly credited as "John Balfour."

title: Author:John Belfour


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Rh 37.

Thus did the hapless Parent mourn,

Till Time, who soothes severest woe,

Had bade serenity return,

And made the tear-drop cease to flow.

38.

For, still, some latent hope surviv'd

That Oscar might once more appear;

His hope now droop'd and now revived,

Till Time had told a tedious year.

39.

Days roll'd along, the orb of light

Again had run his destined race;

No Oscar bless'd his father's sight,

And sorrow left a fainter trace.

40.

For youthful Allan still remain'd,

And, now, his father's only joy:

And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd,

For beauty crown'd the fair-hair'd boy.

41.

She thought that Oscar low was laid,

And Allan's face was wondrous fair;

If Oscar liv'd, some other maid

Had claim'd his faithless bosom's care.


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Rh spear? Its point is dim with the gore of my father. The blood of Mathon shall reek on mine: but shall I slay him sleeping, Son of Mora? No! he shall feel his wound: my fame shall not soar on the blood of slumber. Rise, Mathon, rise! The Son of Conna calls; thy life is his; rise to combat." Mathon starts from sleep: but did he rise alone? No: the gathering Chiefs bound on the plain. "Fly! Calmar, fly!" said dark-haired Orla. "Mathon is mine. I shall die in joy: but Lochlin crowds around. Fly through the shade of night." Orla turns. The helm of Mathon is cleft; his shield falls from his arm: he shudders in his blood. He rolls by the side of the blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall: his wrath rises: his weapon glitters on the head of Orla: but a spear pierced his eye. His brain gushes through the wound, and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll the waves of the Ocean on two mighty barks of the North, so pour the men of Lochlin on the Chiefs. As, breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer the barks of the North, so rise the Chiefs of Morven on the scattered crests of Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes his shield; his sons throng around; the people pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the spear. The eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is the clang of death! many are the Widows of Lochlin. Morven prevails in its strength.


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140 42.

And Angus said, if one year more

In fruitless hope was pass'd away,

His fondest scruples should be o'er,

And he would name their nuptial day.

43.

Slow roll'd the moons, but blest at last

Arriv'd the dearly destin'd morn:

The year of anxious trembling past,

What smiles the lovers' cheeks adorn!

44.

Hark to the Pibroch's pleasing note!

Hark to the swelling nuptial song!

In joyous strains the voices float,

And, still, the choral peal prolong.

45.

Again the clan, in festive crowd,

Throng through the gate of Alva's hall;

The sounds of mirth re-echo loud,

And all their former joy recall.

46.

But who is he, whose darken'd brow

Glooms in the midst of general mirth?

Before his eyes' far fiercer glow

The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth.


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182 Morn glimmers on the hills: no living foe is seen; but the sleepers are many; grim they lie on Erin. The breeze of Ocean lifts their locks; yet they do not awake. The hawks scream above their prey.

Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? Bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the dark hair of his friend. 'Tis Calmar: he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not; but his eye is still a flame. It glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasped in Calmar's; but Calmar lives! he lives, though low. "Rise," said the king, "rise, son of Mora: 'tis mine to heal the wounds of Heroes. Calmar may yet bound on the hills of Morven."

"Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven with Orla," said the Hero. "What were the chase to me alone? Who would share the spoils of battle with Calmar? Orla is at rest! Rough was thy soul, Orla! yet soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared on others in lightning: to me a silver beam of night. Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora; let it hang in my empty hall. It is not pure from blood: but it could not save Orla. Lay me with my friend: raise the song when I am dark!"

They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four grey stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue waves.


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Rh 47.

Dark is the robe which wraps his form,

And tall his plume of gory red;

His voice is like the rising storm,

But light and trackless is his tread.

48.

'Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round,

The bridegroom's health is deeply quaft'd;

With shouts the vaulted roofs resound,

And all combine to hail the draught.

49.

Sudden the stranger-chief arose,

And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd;

And Angus' cheek with wonder glows,

And Mora's tender bosom blush'd.

50.

"Old man!" he cried, "this pledge is done,

Thou saw'st 'twas truly drunk by me;

It hail'd the nuptials of thy son:

Now will I claim a pledge from thee.

51.

"While all around is mirth and joy,

To bless thy Allan's happy lot,

Say, hadst thou ne'er another boy?

Say, why should Oscar be forgot?"


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Rh The winds gave our barks to Morven:—the bards raised the song.

"What Form rises on the roar of clouds? Whose dark Ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder. 'Tis Orla, the brown Chief of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. Peace to thy soul, Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Calmar! Lovely wast thou, son of blue-eyed Mora; but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave. The Ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar! It dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the arch of the rainbow, and smile through the tears of the storm.


text: The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 1/To Romance


text: The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 1/The Death of Calmar and Orla


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Page:The Works of J. W. von Goethe, Volume 12.djvu/215

Rh incident averts this last fearful calamity from the two sisters. This situation, if only I can succeed in working it out well, will probably furnish a scene unequalled for grandeur or pathos by any that has yet been produced on the stage. But where is man to get time and hands for such a work, even if the spirit be willing?

As I feel myself at present somewhat oppressed with such a flood of thoughts of the good and desirable, I cannot help reminding my friends of a dream which I had about a year ago, and which appeared to me to be highly significant. I dreamed, forsooth, that I had been sailing about in a little boat, and had landed on a fertile and richly cultivated island of which I had a consciousness that it bred the most beautiful pheasants in the world. I bargained, I thought, with the people of the island for some of these birds; and they killed and brought them to me in great numbers. They were pheasants, indeed; but as, in dreams, all things are generally changed and modified, they seemed to have long, richly coloured tails, like the loveliest birds-of-paradise, and with eyes like those of the peacock. Bringing them to me by scores, they arranged them in the boat so skilfully, with the heads inwards, the long, variegated feathers of the tail hanging outward, as to form in the bright sunshine the most glorious pile conceivable, and so large as scarcely to leave room enough in the bow and the stern for the rower and the steersman. As with this load the boat made its way through the tranquil waters, I named to myself the friends among whom I should like to distribute those variegated treasures. At last, arriving in a spacious harbour, I was almost lost among great and many-masted vessels, as I mounted deck after deck in order to discover a place where I might safely run my little boat ashore.

Such dreamy visions have a charm; inasmuch as,


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202 springing from our mental state, they possess more or less of analogy with the rest of our lives and fortunes.

But now I have also been to the famed scientific building called the Institution, or Gli Studj. The edifice is large; and the inner court especially has a very imposing appearance, although not of the best style of architecture. In the staircases and corridors there was no want of stuccos and frescoes. They are all appropriate and suitable; and the numerous objects of beauty, which, well worth seeing, are here collected together, justly command our admiration. For all that, however, a German accustomed to a more liberal course of study than is here pursued will not be altogether content with it.

Here, again, a former thought occurred to me; and I could not but reflect on the pertinacity, which in spite of time, which changes all things, man shows in adhering to the old shapes of his public buildings, even long after they have been applied to new purposes. Our churches still retain the form of the basilica, although, probably, the plan of the temple would better suit our worship. In Italy the courts of justice are as spacious and lofty as the means of a community are able to make them. One can almost fancy himself to be in the open air, where justice used once to be administered. And do we not build our great theatres, with their offices under a roof, exactly similar to those of the first theatrical booths of a fair, which were hurriedly put together of planks? The vast multitude of those in whom, about the time of the Reformation, a thirst for knowledge was awakened, obliged the scholars at our universities to take shelter as they could in the burghers' houses; and it was very long before any colleges for pupils (Waisenhäuser) were built, thereby facilitating for poor youths the acquirement of the necessary education for the world.


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142 52.

"Alas!" the hapless Sire replied,

The big tear starting as he spoke,

"When Oscar left my hall, or died,

This aged heart was almost broke.

53.

"Thrice has the earth revolv'd her course

Since Oscar's form has bless'd my sight;

And Allan is my last resource,

Since martial Oscar's death, or flight."

54.

"'Tis well," replied the stranger stern,

And fiercely flash'd his rolling eye;

"Thy Oscar's fate, I fain would learn

Perhaps the Hero did not die.

55.

"Perchance, if those, whom most he lov'd,

Would call, thy Oscar might return;

Perchance, the chief has only rov'd;

For him thy Beltane, yet, may burn.

56.

"Fill high the bowl the table round,

We will not claim the pledge by stealth;

With wine let every cup be crown'd;

Pledge me departed Oscar's health."


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Rh Oct. 20, 1786.

Evening.

The whole of this bright and beautiful day I have spent in the open air. I scarcely ever come near a mountain, but my interest in rocks and stones again revives, I feel as did Antæus of old, who found himself endued with new strength as often as he was brought into fresh contact with his mother-earth. I rode toward Palermo, where is found the so-called Bolognese sulphate of barytes, out of which are made the little cakes, which, being calcined, shine in the dark, if previously they have been exposed to the light, and which the people here call, shortly and expressively, "phosphori."

On the road, after leaving behind me a hilly track of argillaceous sandstone, I came upon whole rocks of selenite, quite visible on the surface. Near a brick-kiln a cascade precipitates its waters, into which many smaller ones also empty themselves. At first sight the traveller might suppose he saw before him a loamy hill, which had been worn away by the rain: on closer examination, I discovered its true nature to be as follows: the solid rock of which this part of the line of hills consists is schistous, bituminous clay of very fine strata, and alternating with gypsum. The schistous stone is so intimately blended with pyrites, that, exposed to the air and moisture, it wholly changes its nature. It swells, the strata gradually disappear, and there is formed a kind of potter's clay, crumbling, shelly, and glittering on the surface like stone-coal. It is only by examining large pieces of both (I myself broke several, and observed the forms of both), that it is possible to convince one's self of the transition and change. At the same time we observed the shelly strata studded with white points, and occasionally, also, variegated with yellow particles. In this way, by degrees, the whole surface crumbles away; and the


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204 hill looks like a mass of weatherworn pyrites on a large scale. Among the lamina some are harder, of a green and red colour. Pyrites I very often found disseminated in the rock.

I now passed along the channels which the last violent gullies of rain had worn in the crumbling rock, and, to my great delight, found many specimens of the desired barytes, mostly of an imperfect egg-shape, peeping out in several places of the friable stone, some tolerably pure, and some slightly mingled with the clay in which they were embedded. That they have not been carried hither by external agency, any one may convince himself at the first glance. Whether they were contemporaneous with the schistous clay, or whether they first arose from the swelling and dissolving of the latter, is matter calling for further inquiry. Of the specimens I found, the larger and smaller approximated to an imperfect egg-shape: the smallest might be said to verge upon irregular crystalline forms. The heaviest of the pieces I brought away weighed seventeen loth (eight ounces and a half). Loose in the same clay, I also found perfect crystals of gypsum. Mineralogists will be able to point out further peculiarities in the specimens I bring with me. And I was now again loaded with stones! I have packed up at least half a quarter of a hundred-weight.

20, 1786. In the night.

How much I should have still to say, were I to attempt to confess to you all that has this beautiful day passed through my mind! But my wishes are more powerful than my thoughts. I feel myself hurried irresistibly forward. It is only with an effort that I can collect myself sufficiently to attend to what is before me. And it seems as if Heaven heard my secret prayer. Word has just been brought me, that there is a vetturino going straight to Rome; and


text:
Author:Thomas Roscoe

Works

 * Italian Novelists, 4 vols. (1825) vol 1, vol 2, vol 3, vol 4
 * The German Novelists, 4 vols. (1826)
 * Memoirs of Scipio de Ricci, 1829 vol 1, vol 2
 * The tourist in Switzerland and Italy, 1830 external source
 * The tourist in Italy, 1831 external source
 * The expedition of Humphry Clinker, 1831 external source
 * The Spanish novelists, 1832 vol 1, vol 2, vol 3
 * Female convents by Scipione de Ricci, 1834 external source
 * Tourist in Spain: Granada, 1835 external source
 * The tourist in Spain: Andalusia, 1836 external source
 * Wanderings and excursions in North Wales, 1836 external source
 * The tourist in Spain: Biscay and the Castiles, 1837 external source
 * The tourist in Spain and Morocco, 1838 external source
 * The life and writings of Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, 1839 external source
 * The London and Birmingham railway, with the home and country scenes on each side of the line [with Peter Lecount ]
 * Belgium: in a picturesque tour, 1841 external source
 * The life of William the Conqueror, 1846 external source
 * The miscellaneous works of Tobias Smollett, 1850 external source
 * The last of the Abencerrages, 1850 external source
 * "Spanish fables." An Argosy of Fables, (1921)

Translations

 * Memoirs of Benvenuto Cellini (1822) external source
 * The history of painting in Italy, 1828 vol 1, vol 2,  vol 3,  vol 4
 * My imprisonments: memoirs of Silvio Pellico da Saluzzo, 1833 external source
 * The duties of men by Silvio Pellico, 1834 external source
 * Historical view of the literature of the south of Europe by Jean-Charles-Léonard Simonde Sismondi, 1846 vol 1, vol 2
 * My prisons; memoirs of Silvio Pellico, 1868 external source
 * The pleasant history of Reynard the Fox, 1873 external source
 * The life and adventures of Lazarillo de Tormes, 1890 external source

title: Author:Thomas Roscoe


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Rh so, the day after to-morrow, I shall set out direct for that city. I must, therefore, to-day and to-morrow, look after my affairs, make all my little arrangements, and despatch my many commissions.

Oct. 21,1786. Evening.

Whether I to-day was driven from Bologna by myself, or whether I have been ejected from it, I cannot say. Suffice it, that I eagerly availed myself of an earlier opportunity of quitting it. And so here I am at a wretched inn, in company with an officer of the Pope's army, who is going to Perugia, where he was born. In order to say something, as I seated myself by his side in the two-wheeled carriage, I paid him the compliment of remarking, that, as a German accustomed to associate with soldiers, I found it very agreeable to have to travel with an officer of the Pope. "Pray do not," he replied, "be offended at what I am about to answer. It is all very well for you to be fond of the military profession; for in Germany, as I have heard, everything is military. But with regard to myself, although our service is light enough,—so that in Bologna, where I am in garrison, I can do just as I like,—still I heartily wish I were rid of this jacket, and had the disposal of my father's little property. But I am a younger son, and so must be content."

22, 1786. Evening.

Here at Giredo, which also is a little paltry place on the Apennines, I feel quite happy, knowing that I am advancing toward the gratification of my dearest wishes. To-day we were joined by a riding party,—a gentleman and a lady, an Englishman and a soi-disant. Their horses are beautiful; but they ride unattended by any servants, and the gentleman, as it appears, acts the part both of groom and valet de chambre.


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Rh 57. "With all my soul," old Angus said,

And fill'd his goblet to the brim:

"Here's to my boy! alive or dead,

I ne'er shall find a son like him."

58.

"Bravely, old man, this health has sped;

But why does Allan trembling stand?

Come, drink remembrance of the dead,

And raise thy cup with firmer hand."

59.

The crimson glow of Allan's face

Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue;

The drops of death each other chace,

Adown in agonizing dew.

60.

Thrice did he raise the goblet high,

And thrice his lips refused to taste;

For thrice he caught the stranger's eye

On his with deadly fury plac'd.

61.

"And is it thus a brother hails

A brother's fond remembrance here?

If thus affection's strength prevails,

What might we not expect from fear?"


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144 62. Roused by the sneer, he rais'd the bowl,

"Would Oscar now could share our mirth!"

Internal fear appall'd his soul;

He said, and dash'd the cup to earth.

63.

"'Tis he! I hear my murderer's voice!"

Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming Form.

"A murderer's voice!" the roof replies,

And deeply swells the bursting storm.

64.

The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink,

The stranger's gone,—amidst the crew,

A Form was seen, in tartan green,

And tall the shade terrific grew.

65.

His waist was bound with a broad belt round,

His plume of sable stream'd on high;

But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there,

And fix'd was the glare of his glassy eye.

66.

And thrice he smil'd, with his eye so wild

On Angus bending low the knee;

And thrice he frown'd, on a Chief on the ground,

Whom shivering crowds with horror see.


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Rh 67. The bolts loud roll from pole to pole,

And thunders through the welkin ring,

And the gleaming form, through the mist of the storm,

Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing.

68.

Cold was the feast, the revel ceas'd.

Who lies upon the stony floor?

Oblivion press'd old Angus' breast,

At length his life-pulse throbs once more.

69.

"Away, away! let the leech essay

To pour the light on Allan's eyes:"

His sand is done,—his race is run;

Oh! never more shall Allan rise!

70.

But Oscar's breast is cold as clay,

His locks are lifted by the gale;

And Allan's barbèd arrow lay

With him in dark Glentanar's vale.

71.

And whence the dreadful stranger came,

Or who, no mortal wight can tell;

But no one doubts the form of flame,

For Alva's sons knew Oscar well.


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146 72.

Ambition nerv'd young Allan's hand,

Exulting demons wing'd his dart;

While Envy wav'd her burning brand,

And pour'd her venom round his heart.

73.

Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow;

Whose streaming life-blood stains his side?

Dark Oscar's sable crest is low,

The dart has drunk his vital tide.

74.

And Mora's eye could Allan move,

She bade his wounded pride rebel:

Alas! that eyes, which beam'd with love,

Should urge the soul to deeds of Hell.

75.

Lo! see'st thou not a lonely tomb,

Which rises o'er a warrior dead?

It glimmers through the twilight gloom;

Oh! that is Allan's nuptial bed.

76.

Far, distant far, the noble grave

Which held his clan's great ashes stood;

And o'er his corse no banners wave,

For they were stain'd with kindred blood.


text: The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 1/Oscar of Alva


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196 When youthful parasites, who bend the knee

To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee,—

And even in simple boyhood's opening dawn

Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn,—

When these declare, "that pomp alone should wait

On one by birth predestin'd to be great;

That books were only meant for drudging fools,

That gallant spirits scorn the common rules;"

Believe them not,—they point the path to shame,

And seek to blast the honours of thy name:

Turn to the few in Ida's early throng,

Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong;

Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth,

None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth,

Ask thine own heart—'twill bid thee, boy, forbear!

For well I know that virtue lingers there.

Yes! I have mark'd thee many a passing day,

But now new scenes invite me far away;

Yes! I have mark'd within that generous mind

A soul, if well matur'd, to bless mankind;

Ah! though myself, by nature haughty, wild,

Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child;

Though every error stamps me for her own,

And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone;

Though my proud heart no precept, now, can tame

I love the virtues which I cannot claim.

'Tis not enough, with other sons of power,

To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour;


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Rh To swell some peerage page in feeble pride,

With long-drawn names that grace no page beside;

Then share with titled crowds the common lot—

In life just gaz'd at, in the grave forgot;

While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead,

Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head,

The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the Herald's roll,

That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll,

Where Lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb may find

One spot, to leave a worthless name behind.

There sleep, unnotic'd as the gloomy vaults

That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults,

A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread,

In records destin'd never to be read.

Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes,

Exalted more among the good and wise;

A glorious and a long career pursue,

As first in Rank, the first in Talent too:

Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun;

Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son.

Turn to the annals of a former day;

Bright are the deeds thine earlier Sires display;

One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth,

And call'd, proud boast! the British drama forth.


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198 Another view! not less renown'd for Wit;

Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit;

Bold in the field, and favour'd by the Nine;

In every splendid part ordain'd to shine;

Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering throng,

The pride of Princes, and the boast of Song.

Such were thy Fathers; thus preserve their name,

Not heir to titles only, but to Fame.

The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close,

To me, this little scene of joys and woes;

Each knell of Time now warns me to resign

Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all were mine:

Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue,

And gild their pinions, as the moments flew;

Peace, that reflection never frown'd away,

By dreams of ill to cloud some future day;

Friendship, whose truth let Childhood only tell;

Alas! they love not long, who love so well.


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Rh To these adieu! nor let me linger o'er

Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore,

Receding slowly, through the dark-blue deep,

Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep.

Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part

Of sad remembrance in so young a heart;

The coming morrow from thy youthful mind

Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind.

And, yet, perhaps, in some maturer year,

Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere,

Since the same senate, nay, the same debate,

May one day claim our suffrage for the state,

We hence may meet, and pass each other by

With faint regard, or cold and distant eye.

For me, in future, neither friend nor foe,

A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe—

With thee no more again I hope to trace

The recollection of our early race;

No more, as once, in social hours rejoice,

Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice;

Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught

To veil those feelings, which, perchance, it ought,

If these,—but let me cease the lengthen'd strain,—

Oh! if these wishes are not breath'd in vain,

The Guardian Seraph who directs thy fate

Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great. 1805.


text: The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 1/To the Duke of Dorset