The Works of Lord Byron. Vol. 2
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The Works of Lord Byron. Vol. 2
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In: Poetry·Poetry·British Literature
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #25340.
About this book
The second volume of Lord Byron’s collected poems presents a sprawling, lyrical tableau of his Romantic imagination. The opening passages launch into a series of exalted odes that celebrate the fierce beauty of Spanish maidens, the grandeur of Andalusian cities, and the mythic resonance of classical sites. Byron’s verses weave together vivid descriptions of love‑struck warriors, bustling festivals, and blood‑stained bullrings, all rendered in a rhythm that shifts from tender reverie to martial clangor. The text is punctuated by frequent allusions to ancient deities, the muses, and the poet’s own yearning, establishing a tone of both personal confession and public proclamation.
Byron’s voice is unmistakably that of a late‑Georgian poet who blends lofty diction with a restless, almost theatrical energy. His style is rich in classical references, ornate metaphor, and a cadence that mirrors the epic chants of his era. Readers who relish dense, allusive verse, especially those drawn to the Romantic fascination with exotic locales, heroic melancholy, and the interplay of love and violence, will find this volume a rewarding immersion in Byron’s passionate, larger‑than‑life perspective.
Who appears in The Works of Lord Byron. Vol. 2
- PhoebusYouthful Greek sun god, golden hair, radiant skin, white flowing robes, laurel crown
The opening · free to read
Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, But formed for all the witching arts of love: Though thus in arms they emulate her sons, And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, 'Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove, Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate: In softness as in firmness far above Remoter females, famed for sickening prate; Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great.
LVIII.
The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impressed[cs] Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch:[12.B.] Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest, Bid man be valiant ere he merit such: Her glance how wildly beautiful! how much Hath Phoebus wooed in vain to spoil her cheek, Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch! Who round the North for paler dames would seek? How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan, and weak![78]
LIX.
Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud; Match me, ye harems of the land! where now I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow;[ct] Match me those Houries, whom ye scarce allow To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind, With Spain's dark-glancing daughters--deign to know, There your wise Prophet's Paradise we find, His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind.
LX.
Oh, thou Parnassus! whom I now survey,[79][13.B.] Not in the phrensy of a dreamer's eye, Not in the fabled landscape of a lay,[cu] But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, In the wild pomp of mountain-majesty! What marvel if I thus essay to sing? The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string, Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave her wing.
LXI.
Oft have I dreamed of Thee! whose glorious name Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore: And now I view thee--'tis, alas, with shame That I in feeblest accents must adore. When I recount thy worshippers of yore I tremble, and can only bend the knee; Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee![80]
LXII.
Happier in this than mightiest Bards have been, Whose Fate to distant homes confined their lot, Shall I unmoved behold the hallowed scene, Which others rave of, though they know it not? Though here no more Apollo haunts his Grot, And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave, Some gentle Spirit still pervades the spot, Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the Cave, And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave.[cv]
LXIII.
Of thee hereafter.--Ev'n amidst my strain I turned aside to pay my homage here; Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain; Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear; And hailed thee, not perchance without a tear. Now to my theme--but from thy holy haunt Let me some remnant, some memorial bear;[cw] Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant, Nor let thy votary's hope be deemed an idle vaunt.
LXIV.
But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount! when Greece was young, See round thy giant base a brighter choir,[81] Nor e'er did Delphi, when her Priestess sung The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire, Behold a train more fitting to inspire The song of love, than Andalusia's maids, Nurst in the glowing lap of soft Desire: Ah! that to these were given such peaceful shades As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her glades.
LXV.
Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days;[14.B.] But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast,[82] Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. Ah, Vice! how soft are thy voluptuous ways! While boyish blood is mantling, who can 'scape[cx] The fascination of thy magic gaze? A Cherub-Hydra round us dost thou gape, And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape.
LXVI.
When Paphos fell by Time--accursed Time! The Queen who conquers all must yield to thee-- The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime; And Venus, constant to her native Sea, To nought else constant, hither deigned to flee, And fixed her shrine within these walls of white: Though not to one dome circumscribeth She Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, A thousand Altars rise, for ever blazing bright.[83]
LXVII.
From morn till night, from night till startled Morn[84] Peeps blushing on the Revel's laughing crew, The Song is heard, the rosy Garland worn; Devices quaint, and Frolics ever new, Tread on each other's kibes.[85] A long adieu He bids to sober joy that here sojourns: Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu[cy] Of true devotion monkish incense burns, And Love and Prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns.[cz]
LXVIII.
The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest: What hallows it upon this Christian shore? Lo! it is sacred to a solemn Feast: Hark! heard you not the forest-monarch's roar? Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn; The thronged arena shakes with shouts for more; Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn, Nor shrinks the female eye, nor ev'n affects to mourn.
Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribboned fair,[dc] Others along the safer turnpike fly; Some Richmond-hill ascend, some scud to Ware, And many to the steep of Highgate hie. Ask ye, Boeotian Shades! the reason why?[15.B.] 'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn,[88] Grasped in the holy hand of Mystery, In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn, And consecrate the oath with draught, and dance till morn.
LXXI.
All have their fooleries--not alike are thine, Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea![89] Soon as the Matin bell proclaimeth nine, Thy Saint-adorers count the Rosary: Much is the VIRGIN teased to shrive them free (Well do I ween the only virgin there) From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be; Then to the crowded circus forth they fare: Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share.
LXXII.
The lists are oped, the spacious area cleared,[90] Thousands on thousands piled are seated round; Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard, Ne vacant space for lated wight is found: Here Dons, Grandees, but chiefly Dames abound, Skilled in the ogle of a roguish eye, Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound; None through their cold disdain are doomed to die, As moon-struck bards complain, by Love's sad archery.
LXXIII.
Hushed is the din of tongues--on gallant steeds, With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised lance, Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, And lowly-bending to the lists advance; Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance: If in the dangerous game they shine to-day, The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance, Best prize of better acts! they bear away, And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay.
LXXIV.
In costly sheen and gaudy cloak arrayed. But all afoot, the light-limbed Matadore Stands in the centre, eager to invade The lord of lowing herds; but not before The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er, Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed: His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more Can Man achieve without the friendly steed-- Alas! too oft condemned for him to bear and bleed.
LXXV.
Thrice sounds the Clarion; lo! the signal falls, The den expands, and Expectation mute Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute, And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot, The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe: Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit His first attack, wide-waving to and fro His angry tail; red rolls his eye's dilated glow.
LXXVI.
Sudden he stops--his eye is fixed--away-- Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear: Now is thy time, to perish, or display The skill that yet may check his mad career! With well-timed croupe[91] the nimble coursers veer; On foams the Bull, but not unscathed he goes; Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear: He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes; Dart follows dart--lance, lance--loud bellowings speak his woes.
LXXVII.
Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail, Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse; Though Man and Man's avenging arms assail, Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. One gallant steed is stretched a mangled corse; Another, hideous sight! unseamed appears, His gory chest unveils life's panting source; Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears; Staggering, but stemming all, his Lord unharmed he bears.
LXXVIII.
Foiled, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, Full in the centre stands the Bull at bay, Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast,[92] And foes disabled in the brutal fray: And now the Matadores[93] around him play, Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand: Once more through all he bursts his thundering way-- Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand, Wraps his fierce eye--'tis past--he sinks upon the sand![dd]
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