sábado, 8 de junio de 2013

Poetry: Lord Byron - Domestic Pieces - Part 1 - Fare thee well... - A Sketch - Bio - Links






      DOMESTIC PIECES.
             ________

         FARE THEE WELL.
0
"Alas! they had been friends in youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny, and youth is vain:
And to be wroth with one we love,
Doth work like madness in the brain;
.     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .
But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining --
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs, which had been rent asunder;
A dreary sea now flows between,
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once hath been."

                               Coleridge's /Christabel./
               ________

Fare thee well! and if for ever
  Still for ever, fare /thee well;/
Even though unforgiving, never
  'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Would that breast were bared before thee,
  Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o'er thee
  Which thou ne'er canst know again:

Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
  Every inmost thought could show!
Then thou wouldst at last discover
  'Twas not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee --
  Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee,
  Founded on another's woe:

Though my many faults deface me,
  Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embraced me,
  To inflict a cureless wound?

Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not:
  Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
  Hearts can thus be torn away;

Still thine own its life retaineth --
  Still must mine, though bleeding, beat:
And the undying thought which paineth
  Is -- that we no more may meet.

These are words of deeper sorrow
  Than the wail above the dead;
Both shall live, but every morrow
  Wake us from a widow'd bed.

And when thou wouldst solace gather,
  When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!"
  Though his care she must forego?

When her little hands shall press thee,
  When her lip to thine is press'd,
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
  Think of him thy love had bless'd!

Should her lineaments resemble
  Those thou never more mayst see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
  With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest,
  All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,
  Wither, yet with /thee/ they go.

Every feeling hath been shaken;
  Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee -- by thee forsaken,
  Even my soul forsakes me now:

But 'tis done -- all words are idle --
  Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
  Force their way without the will.

Fare thee well! -- thus disunited,
  Torn from every nearer tie,
Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted,
  More than this I scarce can die.

                              /March 17, 1816./

             ________

          A SKETCH.

"Honest -- honest Iago!
If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee."
                                          Shakspeare.

Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred,
Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head;
Next -- for some gracious service unexpress'd,
And from its wages only to be guess'd --
Raised from the toilette to the table, -- where
Her wondering betters wait behind her chair.
With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd,
She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd.
Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie --
The genial confidante, and general spy --
Who could, ye gods! her next employment guess --
An only infant's earliest governess!
She taught the child to read, and taught so well,
That she herself, by teaching learn'd to spell.
An adept next in penmanship she grows,
As many a nameless slander deftly shows:
What she had made the pupil of her art,
None know -- but that high Soul secured the heart,
And panted for the truth it could not hear,
With longing breast and undeluded ear.
Foil'd was perversion by that youthful mind,
Which Flattery fool'd not -- Baseness could not blind,
Deceit infect not -- near Contagion soil --
Indulgence weaken -- nor Example spoil --
Nor master'd Science tempt her to look down
On humbler talents with a pitying frown --
Nor Genius swell -- nor Beauty render vain --
Nor Envy ruffle to retaliate pain --
Nor Fortune change -- Pride raise -- nor Passion bow,
Nor Virtue teach austerity -- till now.
Serenely purest of her sex that live,
But wanting one sweet weakness -- to forgive,
Too shock'd at faults her soul can never know,
She deems that all could be like her below:
Foe to all vice, yet hardly Virtue's friend,
For Virture pardons those she would amend.

  But to the theme: -- now laid aside too long,
The baleful Burthen of this honest song --
Though all her former functions are no more,
She rules the circle which she served before.
If mothers -- none know why -- before her quake;
If daughters dread her for the mothers' sake;
If early habits -- those false links, which bind
At times the loftiest to the meanest mind --
Have given her power too deeply to instil
The angry essence of her deadly will;
If like a snake she steal within your walls,
Till the black slime betray her as she crawls;
If like a viper to the heart she wind,
And leave the venom there she did not find;
What marvel that this hag of hatred works
Eternal evil latent as she lurks,
To make a Pandemonium where she dwell,
And reign the Hecate of domestic hells?
Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints
With all the kind mendacity of hints,
While mingling truth with falsehood -- sneers with smiles --
A thread of candour with a web of wiles;
A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming,
To hide her bloodless heart's soul-harden'd scheming;
A lip of lies -- a face form'd to conceal;
And, without feeling, mock at all who feel:
With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown;
A cheek of parchment -- and an eye of stone.
Mark, how the channels of her yellow blood
Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud,
Cased like the centipede in saffron mail,
Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale --
(For drawn from reptiles only may we trace
Congenial colours in that soul or face) --
Look on her features! and behold her mind
As in a mirror of itself defined:
Look on the picture! deem it not o'ercharged --
There is no trait which might not be enlarged:
Yet true to "Nature's journeymen," who made
This monster when their mistress left off trade --
This female dog-star of her little sky,
Where all beneath her influence droop or die.

  Oh! wretch without a tear -- without a thought,
Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought --
The time shall come, nor long remote, when thou
Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest now;
Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain,
And turn thee howling in unpitied pain.
May the strong curse of crush'd affections light
Back on thy bosom with reflected blight!
And make thee in thy leprosy of mind
As loathsome to thyself as to mankind!
Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate,
Black -- as thy will for others would create:
Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust,
And thy soul welter in its hideous crust.
Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed, --
The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast spread!
Then, when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with prayer,
Look on thine earthly victims -- and despair!
Down to the dust! -- and, as thou rott'st away,
Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay.
But for the love I bore, and still must bear,
To her thy malice from all ties would tear --
Thy name -- thy human name -- to every eye
The climax of all scorn should hang on high,
Exalted o'er thy less abhorr'd compeers --
And festering in the infamy of years.

                                  /March 29, 1816./


George Gordon Byron, 6th Baron Byron, later George Gordon Noel, 6th Baron Byron, FRS (22 January 1788 – 19 April 1824), commonly known simply as Lord Byron, was a British poet and a leading figure in the Romantic movement. Among Byron's best-known works are the lengthy narrative poems Don Juan and Childe Harold's Pilgrimage and the short lyric "She Walks in Beauty." He is regarded as one of the greatest British poets and remains widely read and influential.

He travelled to fight against the Ottoman Empire in the Greek War of Independence, for which Greeks revere him as a national hero.[1] He died at age 36 from a fever contracted while in Missolonghi in Greece.

Byron was celebrated in life for aristocratic excesses, including huge debts, numerous love affairs, rumours of a scandalous incestuous liaison with his half-sister, and self-imposed exile.[2] It has been speculated that he suffered from bipolar I disorder.[3][4]




Poetry: Lord Byron - Domestic Pieces - Part 1 - Fare thee well... - A Sketch - Bio - Links




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