BYRON'S WORKS.
446
Because I'd rather it should be forgot:
“ Shadows the soul of Richard” may appal.
In. short, upon that subject I’ve some qualms veryLike those of the philosopher of Malmsbury.*
xcvii.
The night—-(I sing by night—sometimes an owl,And now and then a nightingale)—is dim ;
An d tiie loud shriek of sage Minerva’s fowl,
* Battles around me her discordant hymn :
Old portraits from old walls upon me scowl—
I wish to heaven they would not look so grimThe dying embers dwindle in the grate—
I think, too, that I have sate up too late:
xcvm.
A?id therefore, though ’tls by no means my wayTo rhyme at noon—when I have other tilingsTo think of, if I ever think—I sayI feel some chilly midnight sliudderings,
And prudently postpone, until mid-day,
Treating a topic, which, alas! but bringsShadows ; —but you must be in my condition,Before you learn to call this superstition.
xeix.
Between two world’s life hovers like a star,’Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon’sverge:
How little do wo know that which we are!
How less wliat we may be! The eternal surgeOf time and tide rolls on, and bears afarOur bubbles: as the old burst new emerge,Lash’d from the foam of ages ; while the gravesOf empires heave but like some passing waves.
CANTO THE SIXTEENTH.
The antique Persians taught three useful things,To draw the bow, to ride, and speak the truth,This was the mode of Cyrus, best of kings—
A mode adopted since by modern youth.
Bows have they, generally with two strings :
Horses they ride without remorse or ruth:
At speaking truth perhaps they ave less clever,But draw the long bow better now than ever.
II.
The cause of this effect, or this defect—
“ For this effect defective comes by cause,’ —Is what I have not leisure to inspect;
By this I must say in my own applause,
Of all the Muses that I recollect,
Wliate’er may be her follies or her flawsIn some things, mine’s beyond all contradiction,The most sincere that ev'er dealt in Action.
hi.
And as she treats all things, and ne’er retreatsFrom anything, this epic will containA wilderness of the most rare conceits,
Which you might elsewhere hope to findin vain
’Tis true there be some bitters with tbe sweets.
Yet mix’d so slightly, that you can’t complain,But wonder they so few are, since my tale is“De rebus cunctis et quibusdam aliis
IV.
But of all truths which she has told, the mostTrue is that which she is about to tell.
I said it was a story of a ghost—
What then ? 1 only know it so befell.
Have you explor’d the limits of the coast,
Where all the dwellers of the earth must dwell?’Tis time to strike such puny doubters dumb asThe sceptics who would not believe Columbus.
V.
Some people would impose now with authority,Turpin's or Monmouth Geoffry’s Chronicle;
Men whose historical superiorityIs always greatest at a miracle.
But Saint Augustine has the great priority,
Who bids all men believe the impossible,
Because ’ tis so. Who nibble, scribble, quibble, h©Quiets at once with “ quia impossible.”
VI.
And therefore, mortals cavil not at all:
Believe:—if ’tis improbable, you must;
And if it is impossible, you shall:
’Tis always best to take things upon trust.
I do not speak profanely, to recallThose holier mysteries which the wise and justReceive as gospel, and which grow more rooted,As all truths must, the more they are disputed:
VII.
I merely meant to say what Johnson said,
That, in the course of some six thousand years,All nations have believ’d that, from the dead,
A visitant at intervals appears:
And what is strangest upon this strange head,
Is, that, whatever bar the reason rears’Gainst such belief, there’s something stronger stillIn its behalf, let those deuy who will.
vm.
The dinner and the soiree, too, w T ere done:
The supper, too, discuss'd, the dames admir'd:Tlio banqueteers had dropp’d off, one by one—The song was silent, and the dance expir'd:
The last thin petticoats were vanish’d, goneLike fleecy clouds into the sky retir’d;
And nothing brighter gleam’d through the saloon,Than dying tapers—and the peeping moon.
IX.
The evaporation of a joyous day,
Is like the last glass of champagne, withoutThe foam which made its virgin bumper gay;
Or like a system coupled with a doubt;
Or like a soda bottle, when its sprayHas sparkled and let half its spirit out;
Or like a billow, left by storms behind,
Without the animation of the wind;
X.
Or like an opiate, which brings troubled rest,
Or none; or like—like nothing that I know,Except itself;—such is the human breast;
A thing, of which similitudes can show