LORD BYRON
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III.---The Last Portrait painted of Lord Byron. By
Francis Engleheart; from an original Picture, by
W. E. West, in that gentleman's possession..33
STANZAS.
Written beneath the portrait of Lord Byron,
painted by Mr. West.
'Tis with strange feelings that I gaze
Upon this brow of thine,
Magnificent as if the mind
Herself had carved her shrine:
An altar unto which was given
The flowers of earth, the light of heaven.
At the first glance, that eye is proud,
But, if I read aright,
A fountain of sweet tears lies hid
Beneath its flashing light:
Tenderness, like a gushing rill
Subdued, represt, but flowing still.
That lip is curled with sneering smile,—
Alas! what doth it prove?—
Not in the warfare of the world
Are lessons taught of love.
So much is there hard to be borne,
The heart must either break or scorn.
And differently the poison works
On every differing mind,
Some grow false as the false they blamed,
And thus 'tis with mankind:
But there are some whose loftier mood
Grows maddened on such things to brood.
The young warm heart whose faith and love
Were all too prompt at first,
What must it feel when these are turned
To darkness and distrust?
Wormwood to know that heart has been
Dupe of the false, prey of the mean.
Such will not ask for sympathy,
Knowing they ask in vain,—
Nor yield to softer feelings way
To be deceived again;
And bitter laugh, and scornful sneer,
Become at once their shield and spear.
Such, methinks, was the destiny
That threw its chill o'er thee;
Thou hadst mixed with the false, till all
Seemed but alike to be.
Could not the workings of thine heart
Another, holier creed impart?
I read it in thy gifted page,
In every noble thought,
Each lofty feeling, and sweet song
With tenderness deep fraught;
For there thine inmost soul was shown,—
Their truth, their beauty, were thine own.
For out on the vain worldling's speech
Which saith the poet's skill
But sets forth feelings he has not;
Worked up, wrought out at will.
What knows he of that sacred feeling?
He hath no part in its revealing.
And if sometimes he is not all
That his own song has sung,
It is but part of that great curse
Which still to earth has clung.
Whoe'er has seen, who yet shall see
Himself as he deemed he could be?
The mind can win eternity
With its immortal name,
But all too often happiness
Is the price paid for fame:
For not a barbed shaft can fly
But aims to strike the mark on high.
Oh, if there be one sullied page
Unworthy of thy name,
The weakness of a mighty one,
To dwell on it were shame;
Were cruelty, when thy fine mind
Has left such nobler store behind.
But thou art with the dead,—thy life
In such a cause was given,
Most glorious in the sight of man,
Precious in that of heaven.
Marathon, and Thermopylæ:
Such soil was fitting grave for thee!
Oh, England! to thy young and brave
Is not this stirring call,
To free the fallen from the chain,
To break the tyrant's thrall,
His life has not been spent in vain
If Greece shall burst the Moslem chain.
L. E. L.