I SEE before me the gladiator lie: He leans upon his hand; - his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony, And his drooped head sinks gradually low And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now The arena swims around him is gone, -he Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won. He heard it, but he heeded not,his eyes Were with his heart, and that was far away; He recked not of the life he lost, nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother, he, their sire, Butchered to make a Roman holiday; All this rushed with his blood; — Shall he expire, And unavenged?-Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire! BYRON. THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. I MADE a footing in the wall, Who loved me in a human shape; And the whole earth would henceforth be A wider prison unto me: But I was curious to ascend I saw them- and they were the same; frame; I saw their thousand years of snow their wide long lake be On high,low, And the blue Rhone in fullest flow; I heard the torrents leap and gush O'er channelled rock and broken bush; I saw the white-walled distant town, And whiter sails go skimming down; And then there was a little isle, Which in my very face did smile, The only one in view; A small green isle, it seemed no more, Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, But in it there were three tall trees, And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, And by it there were waters flowing, And on it there were young flowers growing, Of gentle breath and hue. The eagle rode the rising blast; eye, And I felt troubled,- and would fain I had not left my recent chain. BYRON. FROM PARISINA. EXECUTION. THE Convent-bells are ringing, The song for the dead below, Or the living, who shortly shall be so! For a departing being's soul He is near his mortal goal; And the headsman with his bare arm ready, That the blow may be both swift and steady, Feels if the axe be sharp and trueSince he set its edge anew: While the crowd in a speechless circle gather, To see the son fall by the doom of the father. It is a lovely hour as yet He bends to hear his accents bless He died, as erring man should die, FROM THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. THE night is past, and shines the sun As if that morn were a jocund one. Lightly and brightly breaks away The morning from her mantle gray, And the noon will look on a sultry day. Hark to the trump, and the drum, And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn, And the flap of the banners, that flit as they're borne, And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum, And the clash, and the shout, "They come, they come!" The horse-tails are plucked from the ground, and the sword From its sheath; and they form, and but wait for the word. 'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright, the high sun shines not so! The high sun sees not, on the earth, such a fiery fearful show; The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe. As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster, slow Sinks on the anvil;-all about the faces fiery grow. "Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out leap out" bang, bang, the sledges go; Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low; — A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow, The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling cinders strew The ground around; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow, And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke pant "Ho!" -a Leap out, leap out, my masters, leap out, and lay on load! Let's forge a goodly anchor;bower thick and broad; For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode, And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road, The low reef roaring on her lee, the roll of ocean poured From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board; The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains! But courage still, brave mariners! the bower yet remains, And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky high; Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing-here am I." Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time: Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime. But while you sling your sledges, sing, and let the burthen be, The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we! Strike in, strike in the sparks be gin to dull their rustling red; Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped. Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array, For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay; Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here, For the yeo-heave-o', and the heaveaway, and the sighing seaman's cheer; When, weighing slow, at eve they go - far, far from love and home; And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam. |