The Works of Lord Byron

One common cause makes myriads of one | Holds back the invader from her soil again.

breast,

Slaves of the East, or Helots of the West;
On Andes' and on Athos' peaks unfurl'd,
The self-same standard streams o'er either
world;

The Athenian wears again Harmodius'
sword;

The Chili-chief abjures his foreign lord;
The Spartan knows himself once more a
Greek;

Young Freedom plumes the crest of each
Cacique;

Debating despots, hemm'd on either shore,
Shrink vainly from the roused Atlantic's

roar;

Through Calpe's strait the rolling tides
advance,

Sweep slightly by the half-tamed land of
France,

Dash o'er the old Spaniard's cradle,
would fain

and

Unite Ausonia to the mighty main:
But driven from thence awhile, yet not
for aye,
Break o'er th' Ægean, mindful of the day
Of Salamis—there, there, the waves arise,
Not to be lull'd by tyrant-victories.
Lone, lost, abandon'd in their utmost need
By Christians unto whom they gave their
creed,

The desolated lands, the ravaged isle,
The foster'd feud encouraged to beguile,
The aid evaded, and the cold delay,
Prolong'd but in the hope to make a prey;-
These, these shall tell the tale, and Greece
can show

The false friend worse than the infuriate foe.
But this is well: Greeks only should free
Greece,

Not now the Roman tribe nor Punic horde
Demand her fields as lists to prove the sword ;
Not now the Vandal or the Visigoth
Pollute the plains alike abhorring both;
Nor old Pelayo on his mountain rears
The warlike fathers of a thousand years.
That seed is sown and reap`d, as oft the Moor
Sighs to remember on his dusky shore.
Long in the peasant's song or poet's page
Has dwelt the memory of Abencerage,
The Zegri, and the captive victors, flung
Back to the barbarous realm from whence
they sprung.

But these are gone—their faith, their swords,
their sway,

Yet left more anti-christian foes than they:
The bigot monarch and the butcher priest,
The Inquisition, with her burning feast,
The Faith's red "auto," fed with human fuel,
While sat the Catholic Moloch,calmly cruel,
Enjoying, with inexorable eye,
That fiery festival of agony!
The stern or feeble sovereign, one or both
By turns; the haughtiness whose pride was
sloth;

The long degenerate noble; the debased
Hidalgo, and the peasant less disgraced
But more degraded; the unpeopled realm;
The once proud navy which forgot the helm;
The once impervious phalanx disarray'd;
The idle forge that form'd Toledo's blade;
The foreign wealth that flow'd on every
shore,

Save hers who earn'd it with the natives'
gore;

The very language, which might vie with
Rome's,

And once was known to nations like their
home's,

Neglected or forgotten:-such was Spain;
But such she is not, nor shall be again.
These worst, these home invaders, felt and feel
The new Numantine soul of old Castile.
Up! up again! undaunted Tauridor!
The bull of Phalaris renews his roar;
Mount, chivalrous Hidalgo! not in vain
Revive the cry-"Iago! and close Spain!"
Yes, close her with your armed bosoms
round,

Not the barbarian, with his mask of peace.
How should the Autocrat of Bondage be
The king of serfs, and set the nations free?
Better still serve the haughty Mussulman,
Than swell the Cossaque's prowling caravan;
Better still toil for masters, than await,
The slave of slaves, before a Russian gate,
Number'd by hordes, a human capital,
A live estate, existing but for thrall,
Lotted by thousands, as a meet reward
For the first courtier in the Czar's regard;
While their immediate owner never tastes
His sleep, sans dreaming of Siberia's wastes; The exterminating war; the desert plain;
Better succumb even to their own despair, | The streets without a tenant, save the slain;
And drive the camel than purvey the bear.

But not alone within the hoariest clime,
Where Freedom dates her birth with that
of Time;
And not alone where, plunged in night, a

crowd

Of Incas darken to a dubions cloud,
The dawn revives: renown'd, romantic
Spain

And form the barrier which Napoleon found,

The wild Sierra, with its wilder troop
Of vulture-plumed Guerillas, on the stoop
For their incessant prey; the desperate wall
Of Saragossa, mightiest in her fall;
The man nerved to a spirit, and the maid
Waving her more than Amazonian blade;
The knife of Arragon, Toledo's steel ;
The famous lance of chivalrous Castile;
The unerring rifle of the Catalan ;
The Andalusian courser in the van;
The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid;

seas;

And stoic Franklin's energetic shade, Robed in the lightnings which his hand allay'd;

And Washington, the tyrant-tamer, wake, To bid us blush for these old chains, or break.

But Who compose this Senate of the few
That should redeem the many? Who renew
This consecrated name, till now assign'd
To councils held to benefit mankind?
Who now assemble at the holy call?—
The bless'dAlliance,which says three are all!
An earthly Trinity, which wears the shape
Of Heaven's, as man is mimick'd by the ape.
A pious unity! in purpose one-
To melt three fools to a Napoleon.
Why, Egypt's gods were rational to these;
Their dogs and oxen knew their own degrees,
And, quiet in their kennel or their shed,
Cared little, so that they were duly fed;
But these, more hungry, must have some-
thing more -
The power to bark and bite, to toss and gore.
Ah, how much happier were good Æsop's
frogs

Than we! for ours are animated logs,
With ponderous malice swaying to and fro,
And crushing nations with a stupid blow,
All dully anxious to leave little work
Unto the revolutionary stork.

Thrice bless'd Verona! since the holy

three

With their imperial presence shine on thee; Honour'd by them, thy treacherous site forgets

The vaunted tomb of "all the Capulets;" Thy Scaligers-for what was "Dog the Great,"

"Can' Grande" (which I venture to translate) To these sublimer pugs? Thy poet too, Catullus, whose old laurels yield to new; Thine amphitheatre, where Romans sate; And Dante's exile, shelter'd by thy gate;

Thy good old man, whose world was all within

Thy wall, nor knew the country held him fn:
Would that the royal guests it girds about
Were so far like, as never to get out!
Ay, shout! inscribe! rear monuments of
shame,
To tell Oppression that the world is tame!
Crowd to the theatre with loyal rage—
The comedy is not upon the stage;
The show is rich in ribbonry and stars—
Then gaze upon it through thy dungeon-
bars;

Clap thy permitted palms, kind Italy,
For thus much still thy fetter'd hands are
free!

Resplendent sight! behold the coxcomb
Czar,

The autocrat of waltzes and of war!
As eager for a plaudit as a realm,
And just as fit for flirting as the helm;
A Calmuck beauty with a Cossack wit,
And generous spirit, when 'tis not frost-bit;
Now half dissolving to a liberal thaw,
But harden'd back whene'er the morning's

raw;

With no objection to true liberty,
Except that it would make the nations free,
How well the Imperial Dandy prates of

peace,

How fain, if Greeks would be his slaves, free Greece!

How nobly gave he back the Poles their
Diet,

Then told pugnacious Poland to be quiet!
How kindly would he send the mild Ukraine,
With all her pleasant pulks, to lecture Spain;
How royally show off in proud Madrid
His goodly person, from the South long
hid,-

A blessing cheaply purchased, the world knows,

By having Muscovites for friends or foes.
Proceed,thou namesake of Great Philip's son!
La Harpe, thine Aristotle, beckons on;
And that which Scythia was to him of yore,
Find with thy Scythians on Iberia's shore.
Yet think upon, thou somewhat aged youth,
Thy predecessor on the banks of Pruth;
Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be
thine,

Many an old woman, but no Catherine.
Spain too hath rocks, and rivers, and defiles___
The bear may rush into the lion's toils.
Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields;
Thinkst thou to thee Napoleon's victor
yields?

Better reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords To ploughshares, shave and wash thy Bashkir hordes,

Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout,

Than follow headlong in the fatal route,

are pure,

To infest the clime, whose skies and laws | And love much rather to be scourged than school'd? With thy foul legions. Spain wants no Ah! thine was not the temper or the taste For thrones-the table sees thee better placed :

manure;

Her soil is fertile, but she feeds no foe;
Her vultures, too, were gorged not long ago;
And wouldst thou furnish them with fresher
prey ?

Alas! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey.
I am Diogenes, though Russ and Hun
Stand between mine and many a myriad's
sun;

A mild Epicurean, form'd, at best,
To be a kind host and as good a guest,
To talk of letters, and to know by heart
One half the poet's, all the gourmand's art;
A scholar always, now and then a wit,
And gentle when digestion may permit —
But not to govern lands enslaved or free;
The gout was martyrdom enough for thee!

But were I not Diogenes, I'd wander
Rather a worm than such an Alexander!
Be slaves who will, the Cynic shall be free,
His tub hath tougher walls than Sinope: Shall noble Albion pass without a phrase
Still will he hold his lanthorn up to scan From a bold Briton in her wonted praise?
The face of monarchs for an "honest man.'
." "Arts-arms-and George-and glory and
the isles-

And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land Of ne plus ultra Ultras and their band Of mercenaries? and her noisy Chambers And Tribune, which each orator first clambers

Before he finds a voice, and, when 'tis found,

Hears "the lie" echo for his answer round? Our British Commons sometimes deign to

hear;

A Gallic Senate hath more tongue than ear;
Even Constant, their sole master of debate,
Must fight next day, his speech to vindicate.
But this costs little to true Franks, who
had rather

Combat than listen, were it to their father.
What is the simple standing of a shot,
To listening long, and interrupting not?
Though this was not the method of old
Rome,

When Tully fulmined o'er each vocal dome,
Demosthenes has sanction'd the transaction,
In saying eloquence meant “Action, action!"

But where's the Monarch? hath he dined? or yet Groans beneath indigestion's heavy debt? Have revolutionary pâtés risen, And turn'd the royal entrails to a prison? Have discontented movements stirr'd the troops?

Or have no movements follow'd traiterous soups?

Have Carbonaro cooks not carbonadoed Each course enough? or doctors dire dissuaded

Repletion? Ah! in thy dejected looks
I read all--'s treason in her cooks!
Good classic ! is it, canst thou say,
Desirable to be the "--—
Why wouldst thou leave calm—–
abode,
Apician table and Horatian ode,

And happy, Britain-wealth and freedom's smiles-White cliffs, that held invasion far aloofContented subjects, all alike tax-proof— Proud Wellington, with eagle-beak so curl'd, That nose, the hook where he suspends the world!

And Waterloo-and trade-and——(hush! not yet

A syllable of imposts or of debt)—— And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh, Whose pen-knife slit a goose-quill t'other daywho have weather'd every

storm

And pilots (But, no, not even for rhyme's sake, name reform). " These are the themes thus sung so oft before,

Methinks we need not sing them any more; Found in so many volumes far and near, There's no occasion you should find them here.

Yet something may remain perchance to chime With reason, and, what's stranger still, with rhyme;

Even this thy genius, Canning! may permit, Who, bred a statesman, still was born a wit, And never, even in that dull house, couldst

tame

To unleaven'd prose thine own poetic flame;
Our last, our best, our only orator,
Even I can praise thee - Tories do no more,
Nay, not so much;-they hate thee, man,
because

Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes, The hounds will gather to their huntsman's hollo,

And, where he leads, the duteous pack will follow; But not for love mistake their yelling cry, 's green Their yelp for game is not an eulogy; Less faithful far than the four-footed pack, A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back, To rule a people who will not be ruled, Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure

Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure;
The unwieldy old White Horse is apt at last
To stumble,kick,and now and then stick fast
With his great self and rider in the mud;
But what of that? the animal shows blood.

Alas, the country! how shall tongue or pen
Bewail her now uncountry-gentlemen ?—
The last to bid the cry of warfare cease,
The first to make a malady of peace.
For what were all these country-patriots

born?

Farmers of war, Dictators of the farm!
Their ploughshare was the sword in hire-
ling hands,

Their fields manured by gore of other lands;
Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent
Their brethren out to battle-why? forRent!
Year after year they voted cent. per cent.
Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions—
why? for Rent!

They roar'd, they dined, they drank, they
swore they meant

To die for England-why then live? for
Rent!

The peace has made one general malcontent
Of these high-market patriots; war was
Rent!

To hunt,and vote, and raise the price of corn.
But corn,like every mortal thing,must fall—
Kings, conquerors, and markets most of all.
And must ye fall with every ear of grain? Their love of country,millions all mis-spent,
Why would you trouble Bonaparte's reign? How reconcile?—by reconciling Rent.
He was your great Triptolemus! his vices And will they not repay the treasures lent?
Destroy'd but realms, and still maintain'd | No: down with every thing, and up with

your prices;

He amplified, to every Lord's content,
The grand Agrarian Alchymy-high Rent.
Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars,
And lower wheat to such desponding
quarters?

Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone?
The man was worth much more upon his
throne.

True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt,

But what of that? the Gaul may bear the guilt;

Are idle; Israel says the bargain stands.
Such, landlords, was your appetite for war,
And, gorged with blood, you grumble at
a scar!
What, would they spread their earthquake
even o'er Cash?

But bread was high, the farmer paid his way,
And acres told upon the appointed day.
But where is now the goodly audit-ale?
The purse-proud tenant never known to fail? | And when land crumbles, bid firm paper
The farm which never yet was left on hand?
The marsh reclaim'd to most improving So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall,
And found on 'Change a Fundling Hospital?
Lo, Mother Church, while all religion
writhes,

land?

The impatient hope of the expiring lease?
The doubling rental? What an evil's peace!
In vain the prize excites the ploughman's
skill,

In vain the Commons pass their patriot bill;
The landed interest (you may understand
The phrase much better leaving out the
land)-

The land self-interest groans from shore to
shore,

For fear that plenty should attain the poor.
Up! up again! ye rents, exalt your notes,
Or else the Ministry will lose their votes,
And Patriotism, so delicately nice,
Her loaves will lower to the market-price;
For ah!"the loaves and fishes,” once so high,
Are gone their oven closed, their ocean dry;
And nought remains of all the millions spent,
Excepting to grow moderate and content.
They who are not so,had their turn—and turn
About still flows from Fortune's equal urn;
Now let their virtue be its own reward,
And share the blessings which themselves
prepared.

See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm,

crash?

Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring, Tithes ;
The Prelates go to-where the Saints have
gone,

And proud pluralities subside to one;
Church,state,and faction, wrestle in the dark,
Toss'd by the Deluge in their common ark.
Shorn of her Bishops, banks, and dividends,
Another Babel soars-but Britain ends.
And why?to pamper the self-seeking wants,
And prop the hill of these agrarian ants.
"Go to these ants, thou sluggard, and be
wise;"

Admire their patience through each sacrifice,
Till taught to feel the lesson of their pride,
The price of taxes and of homicide;
Admire their justice, which would fain deny
The debt of nations:- pray, who made it
high?

Or turn to sail between those shifting rocks, The new Symplegades—the crushing Stocks,

Where Midas might again his wish behold
In real paper or imagined gold.
That magic palace of Alcina shows
More wealth than Britain ever had to lose,
Were all her atoms of unleaven❜d ore,
And all her pebbles from Pactolus' shore.
There Fortune plays, while Rumour holds
the stake,

And the world trembles to bid brokers break.
How rich is Britain! not indeed in mines,
Or peace, or plenty, corn, or oil, or wines;
No land of Canaan, full of milk and honey,
Nor (save in paper shekels) ready money:
But let us not to own the truth refuse,
Was ever Christian land so rich in Jews?
Those parted with their teeth to good King
John,

And now, ye kings! they kindly draw your own; All states, all things, all sovereigns they controul,

And waft a loan "from Indus to the Pole." The banker — broker — baron brethren, speed

To aid these bankrupt tyrants in their need. Nor these alone; Columbia feels no less Fresh speculations follow each success ; And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain Her mild per centage from exhausted Spain. Not without Abraham's seed can Russia march

The averted eye of the reluctant Muse. The imperial daughter, the imperial bride, The imperial victim-sacrifice to pride; The mother of the hero's hope, the boy, The young Astyanax of modern Troy; The still pale shadow of the loftiest queen That earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen; She flits amidst the phantoms of the hour,

'Tis gold, not steel, that rears the conquer-The theme of pity, and the wreck of power.

or's arch.

Oh, cruel mockery! Could not Austria spare A daughter? What did France's widow there? Her fitter place was by St. Helen's wave— Her only throne is in Napoleon's grave. But, no,- she still must hold a petty reign, Flank'd by her formidable Chamberlain ; The martial Argus, whose not hundred eyes Must watch her through these paltry pageantries.

What though she share no more and shared in vain

A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne, Which swept from Moscow to the Southern

seas,

Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese,

Who spit not "on their Jewish gaberdine,"
But honour them as portion of the show—Where Parma views the traveller resort
(Where now, oh, Pope! is thy forsaken toe? To note the trappings of her mimic court.
Could it not favour Judah with some kicks? But she appears! Verona sees her shorn
Or has it ceased to “kick against the pricks?") | Of all her beams—while nations gaze and
On Shylock's shore behold them stand

afresh,

mourn

Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time To chill in their inhospitable clime (If e'er those awful ashes 'can grow cold— But no, their embers soon will burst the mould); She comes! - the Andromache (but not Racine's,

Nor Homer's); lo! on Pyrrhus' arm she leans! Yes! the right arm, yet red from Waterloo, Which cut her lord's half-shatter'd sceptre through,

Is offer'd and accepted! Could a slave

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The Works of Lord Byron: Complete in One Volume