When We Two Parted

by George Gordon Byron · Explore poems

1.
When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold[mr]
Sorrow to this.
2.
The dew of the morning[ms]
Sunk chill on my brow--
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,[mt]
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.
3.[mu]
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:--
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.
4.
In secret we met--
In silence I grieve.
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee[mv]
After long years,
How should I greet thee?--
With silence and tears.
[First published, _Poems_, 1816.]
[LOVE AND GOLD.[306]]
1.
I cannot talk of Love to thee,
Though thou art young and free and fair!
There is a spell thou dost not see,
That bids a genuine love despair.
2.
And yet that spell invites each youth,
For thee to sigh, or seem to sigh;
Makes falsehood wear the garb of truth,
And Truth itself appear a lie.
3.
If ever Doubt a place possest
In woman's heart, 'twere wise in thine:
Admit not Love into thy breast,
Doubt others' love, nor trust in mine.
4.
Perchance 'tis feigned, perchance sincere,
But false or true thou canst not tell;
So much hast thou from all to fear,
In that unconquerable spell.
5.
Of all the herd that throng around,
Thy simpering or thy sighing train,
Come tell me who to thee is bound
By Love's or Plutus' heavier chain.
6.
In some 'tis Nature, some 'tis Art
That bids them worship at thy shrine;
But thou deserv'st a better heart,
Than they or I can give for thine.
7.
For thee, and such as thee, behold,
Is Fortune painted truly--blind!
Who doomed thee to be bought or sold,
Has proved too bounteous to be kind.
8.
Each day some tempter's crafty suit
Would woo thee to a loveless bed:
I see thee to the altar's foot
A decorated victim led.
9.
Adieu, dear maid! I must not speak
Whate'er my secret thoughts may be;
Though thou art all that man can reck
I dare not talk of Love to _thee_.
STANZAS FOR MUSIC.[307]
1.
I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name,[mw]
There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame:
But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart
The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart.
2.[mx]
Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace,
Were those hours--can their joy or their bitterness cease?
We repent, we abjure, we will break from our chain,--
We will part, we will fly to--unite it again!
3.
Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt![my]
Forgive me, adored one!--forsake, if thou wilt;--
But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased[mz]
And _man_ shall not break it--whatever _thou_ mayst.[na]
4.
And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee,
This soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall be:[nb]
And our days seem as swift, and our moments more sweet,
With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet.
5.[nc]
One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love,[nd]
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove;
And the heartless may wonder at all I resign--
Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to _mine_.
_May_ 4, 1814.
[First published, _Letters and Journals_, 1830, i. 554.]
ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE RECITED AT
THE CALEDONIAN MEETING.[308]
Who hath not glowed above the page where Fame
Hath fixed high Caledon's unconquered name;
The mountain-land which spurned the Roman chain,
And baffled back the fiery-crested Dane,
Whose bright claymore and hardihood of hand
No foe could tame--no tyrant could command?
That race is gone--but still their children breathe,
And Glory crowns them with redoubled wreath:
O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine,
And, England! add their stubborn strength to thine.
The blood which flowed with Wallace flows as free,
But now 'tis only shed for Fame and thee!
Oh! pass not by the northern veteran's claim,
But give support--the world hath given him fame!
The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled
While cheerly following where the Mighty led--[309]
Who sleep beneath the undistinguished sod
Where happier comrades in their triumph trod,
To us bequeath--'tis all their fate allows--
The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse:
She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise
The tearful eye in melancholy gaze,
Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose
The Highland Seer's anticipated woes,
The bleeding phantom of each martial form
Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm;[310]
While sad, she chaunts the solitary song,
The soft lament for him who tarries long--
For him, whose distant relics vainly crave
The Coronach's wild requiem to the brave!
'Tis Heaven--not man--must charm away the woe,
Which bursts when Nature's feelings newly flow;
Yet Tenderness and Time may rob the tear
Of half its bitterness for one so dear;
A Nation's gratitude perchance may spread
A thornless pillow for the widowed head;
May lighten well her heart's maternal care,
And wean from Penury the soldier's heir;
Or deem to living war-worn Valour just[311]
Each wounded remnant--Albion's cherished trust--
Warm his decline with those endearing rays,
Whose bounteous sunshine yet may gild his days--
So shall that Country--while he sinks to rest--
His hand hath fought for--by his heart be blest!
_May_, 1814.
[First published, _Letters and Journals_, 1830, i. 559.]
ELEGIAC STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF
SIR PETER PARKER, BART.[312]
1.
There is a tear for all that die,[313]
A mourner o'er the humblest grave;
But nations swell the funeral cry,
And Triumph weeps above the brave.
2.
For them is Sorrow's purest sigh
O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent:
In vain their bones unburied lie,
All earth becomes their monument!
3.
A tomb is theirs on every page,
An epitaph on every tongue:
The present hours, the future age,
For them bewail, to them belong.
4.
For them the voice of festal mirth
Grows hushed, _their name_ the only sound;
While deep Remembrance pours to Worth
The goblet's tributary round.
5.
A theme to crowds that knew them not,
Lamented by admiring foes,
Who would not share their glorious lot?
Who would not die the death they chose?
6.
And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined
Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be;
And early valour, glowing, find
A model in thy memory.
7.
But there are breasts that bleed with thee
In woe, that glory cannot quell;
And shuddering hear of victory,
Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell.
8.
Where shall they turn to mourn thee less?
When cease to hear thy cherished name?
Time cannot teach forgetfulness,
While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame.
9.
Alas! for them, though not for thee,
They cannot choose but weep the more;
Deep for the dead the grief must be,
Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before.
_October_ 7, 1814.
[First published, _Morning Chronicle_, October 7, 1814.]
JULIAN [A FRAGMENT].[314]
1.
The Night came on the Waters--all was rest
On Earth--but Rage on Ocean's troubled Heart.
The Waves arose and rolled beneath the blast;
The Sailors gazed upon their shivered Mast.
In that dark Hour a long loud gathered cry
From out the billows pierced the sable sky,
And borne o'er breakers reached the craggy shore--
The Sea roars on--that Cry is heard no more.
2.
There is no vestige, in the Dawning light,
Of those that shrieked thro' shadows of the Night.
The Bark--the Crew--the very Wreck is gone,
Marred--mutilated--traceless--all save one.
In him there still is Life, the Wave that dashed
On shore the plank to which his form was lashed,
Returned unheeding of its helpless Prey--
The lone survivor of that Yesterday--
The one of Many whom the withering Gale
Hath left unpunished to record their Tale.
But who shall hear it? on that barren Sand
None comes to stretch the hospitable hand.
That shore reveals no print of human foot,
Nor e'en the pawing of the wilder Brute;
And niggard vegetation will not smile,
All sunless on that solitary Isle.
3.
The naked Stranger rose, and wrung his hair,
And that first moment passed in silent prayer.
Alas! the sound--he sunk into Despair--
He was on Earth--but what was Earth to him,
Houseless and homeless--bare both breast and limb?
Cut off from all but Memory he curst
His fate--his folly--but himself the worst.
What was his hope? he looked upon the Wave--
Despite--of all--it still may be his Grave!
4.
He rose and with a feeble effort shaped
His course unto the billows--late escaped:
But weakness conquered--swam his dizzy glance,
And down to Earth he sunk in silent trance.
How long his senses bore its chilling chain,
He knew not--but, recalled to Life again,
A stranger stood beside his shivering form--
And what was he? had he too scaped the storm?
5.
He raised young Julian. "Is thy Cup so full
Of bitterness--thy Hope--thy heart so dull
That thou shouldst from Thee dash the Draught of Life,
So late escaped the elemental strife!
Rise--tho' these shores few aids to Life supply,
Look upon me, and know thou shalt not die.
Thou gazest in mute wonder--more may be
Thy marvel when thou knowest mine and me.
But come--The bark that bears us hence shall find
Her Haven, soon, despite the warning Wind."
6.
He raised young Julian from the sand, and such
Strange power of healing dwelt within the touch,
That his weak limbs grew light with freshened Power,
As he had slept not fainted in that hour,
And woke from Slumber--as the Birds awake,
Recalled at morning from the branchéd brake,
When the day's promise heralds early Spring,
And Heaven unfolded woos their soaring wing:
So Julian felt, and gazed upon his Guide,
With honest Wonder what might next betide.
Dec. 12, 1814.
TO BELSHAZZAR.
1.[ne]
Belshazzar! from the banquet turn,
Nor in thy sensual fulness fall;
Behold! while yet before thee burn
The graven words, the glowing wall,[nf]
Many a despot men miscall
Crowned and anointed from on high;
But thou, the weakest, worst of all--
Is it not written, thou must die?[ng]
2.
Go! dash the roses from thy brow--
Grey hairs but poorly wreathe with them;
Youth's garlands misbecome thee now,
More than thy very diadem,[nh]
Where thou hast tarnished every gem:--
Then throw the worthless bauble by,
Which, worn by thee, ev'n slaves contemn;
And learn like better men to die!
3.
Oh! early in the balance weighed,
And ever light of word and worth,
Whose soul expired ere youth decayed,
And left thee but a mass of earth.
To see thee moves the scorner's mirth:
But tears in Hope's averted eye
Lament that even thou hadst birth--
Unfit to govern, live, or die.
_February_ 12, 1815.
[First published, 1831.]
STANZAS FOR MUSIC.[315]
"O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
Ducentium ortus ex animo: quater
Felix! in imo qui scatentem
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit."
Gray's _Poemata_.
[Motto to "The Tear," _Poetical Works_, 1898, i. 49.]
1.
There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away,
When the glow of early thought declines in Feeling's dull decay;
'Tis not on Youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades
so fast,[ni]
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere Youth itself be past.
2.
Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness
Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess:
The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain
The shore to which their shivered sail shall never stretch again.
3.
Then the mortal coldness of the soul like Death itself comes down;
It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;
That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears,
And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.
4.
Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,
Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;
'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruined turret wreath[nj][316]
All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey beneath.
5.
Oh, could I feel as I have felt,--or be what I have been,
Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanished scene;
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,
So, midst the withered waste of life, those tears would flow to me.
_March, 1815._
[First published, _Poems, 1816._]
ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF DORSET.[317]
1.
I heard thy fate without a tear,
Thy loss with scarce a sigh;
And yet thou wast surpassing dear,
Too loved of all to die.
I know not what hath seared my eye--
Its tears refuse to start;
But every drop, it bids me dry,
Falls dreary on my heart.
2.
Yes, dull and heavy, one by one,
They sink and turn to care,
As caverned waters wear the stone,
Yet dropping harden there:
They cannot petrify more fast,
Than feelings sunk remain,
Which coldly fixed regard the past,
But never melt again.
[1815.]