Hours of Idleness by Lord Byron 5

Hours of Idleness

FRAGMENT

WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE
MARRIAGE OF MISS CHAWORTH

HILLS of Annesley, bleak and barren,
   Where my thoughtless childhood stray'd,
How the northern tempests, warring,
   Howl above thy tufted shade!
Now no more, the hours beguiling,
   Former favourite haunts I see;
Now no more my Mary smiling
   Makes ye seem a heaven to me.
1805

GRANTA

A MEDLEY
OH! could Le Sage's demon's gift
   Be realized at my desire,
This night my trembling form he'd lift
   To place it on St. Mary's spire.
Then would, unroof'd, old Granta's halls
   Pedantic inmates full display;
Fellows who dream on lawn or stalls'
   The price of venal votes to pay.
Then would I view each rival wight,
   Petty and Palreerston survey;
Who canvass there with all their might,
   Against the next elective day.
Lo! candidates and voters lie
   All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number;
A race renown'd for piety
   Whose conscience won't disturb their slumber.
Lord H –, indeed, rnay not demur:
   Fellows are sage, reflecting men:
They know preferment can occur
   But very seldom, – now and then.
They know the Chancellor has got
   Some pretty livings in disposal:
Each hopes that one may be his lot,
   And therefore smiles on his proposal.
Now from the soporific scene
   I'll turn mine eye, as night grows later,
To view, unheeded and unseen,
   The studious sons of Alma Mater.
There, in apartments small and damp,
   The candidate for college prizes
Sits poring by the midnight lamp;
   Goes late to bed, yet early rises.
He surely well deserves to gain them,
   With all the honours of his college,
Who, striving hardly to obtain them,
   Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge:
Who sacrifices hours of rest
   To scan precisely meres Attic;
Or agitates his anxious breast
   In solving problems mathematic:
Who reads false quantities in Seale,
   Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle;
Deprived of many a wholesome meal;
   In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle:
Renouncing every pleasing page
   From authors of historic use;
Preferring to the letter'd sage
   The square of the hypothenuse.
Still, harmless are these occupations
   That hurt none but the hapless student,
Compared with other recreations,
   Which bring together the imprudent;
Whose daring revels shock the sight,
   When vice and infamy combine,
When drunkenness and dice invite,
   As every sense is steep'd in wine.
Not so the methodistic crew,
   Who plans of reformation lay:
In humble attitude they sue,
   And for the sins of others pray:
Forgetting that their pride of spirit
   Their exultation in their trial
Detracts most largely from the merit
   Of all their boasted self-denial.
'Tis morn:– from these I turn my sight.
   What scene is this which meets the eye?
A numerous crowd, array'd in white,
   Across the green in numbers fly.
Loud rings in air the chapel bell;
   'Tis hush'd:-what sounds are these I hear?
The organ's soft celestial swell
   Rolls deeply on the list'ning ear.
To this is join'd the sacred song,
   The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain;
Though he who hears the music long
   Will never wish to hear again.
Our choir would be scarcely excused,
   Even as a band of raw beginners;
All mercy now must be refused
   To such a set of croaking sinners.
If David, when his toils were ended,
   Had heard these blockheads sing before him,
To us his psalms had ne'er descended,–
   In furious mood he would have tore 'em.
The luckless Israelites, when taken
   By some inhuman tyrant's order,
Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken
   On Babylonian river's border.
Oh! had they sung in notes like these,
   Inspired by stratagem or fear,
They might have set their hearts at ease
   The devil a soul had stay'd to hear.
But if I scribble longer now
   The deuce a soul will stay to read;
My pen is blunt, my ink is low;
   'Tis almost time to stop, indeed.
Therefore, farewell old Granta's spires!
   No more like Cleofas, I fly;
No more thy theme my muse inspires;
   The reader's tired, and so am I.
1806

ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE AND
SCHOOL OF THE HARROW HILL
Oh! mihi præteritos referat si Jupiter annos.—
                         Virgil
Ye scenes of my childhood, whose lov'd recollection
   Embitters the present, compar'd with the past;
Where science first dawn'd on the powers of reflection,
   And friendships were form'd, too romantic to last;
Where fancy, yet, joys to retrace the resemblance
   Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied;
How welcome to me your ne'er fading remembrance,
   Which rests in the bosom, though hope is deny'd!
Again I revisit the hills where we sported,
   The streams where we swam, and the fields where we fought;
The school where, loud warn'd by the bell, we resorted,
   To pore o'er the precepts by Pedagogues taught.
Again I behold where for hours I have ponder'd,
   As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay;
Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander'd,
   To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray.
I once more view the room, with spectators surrounded,
   Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown;
While, to swell my young pride, such applauses resounded,
   I fancied that Mossop himself was outshone.
Or, as Lear, I pour'd forth the deep imprecation,
   By my daughters, of kingdom and reason depriv'd;
Till, fir'd by loud plaudits and self-adulation,
   I regarded myself as a Garrick reviv'd.
Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you!
   Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast;
Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you:
   Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest.
To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me,
   While Fate shall the shades of the future unroll!
Since Darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me,
   More dear is the beam of the past to my soul!
But if, through the course of the years which await me,
   Some new scene of pleasure should open to view,
I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me,
   Oh! such were the days which my infancy knew.

TO M —
Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire,
   With bright, but mild affection shine:
Though they might kindle less desire,
   Love, more than mortal, would be thine.
For thou art form'd so heavenly fair,
   Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam,
We must admire, but still despair;
   That fatal glance forbids esteem.
When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth,
   So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear'd that, too divine for earth,
   The skies might claim thee for their own.
Therefore, to guard her dearest work,
   Lest angels might dispute the prize,
She bade a secret lightning lurk,
   Within those once celestial eyes.
These might the boldest Sylph appall,
   When gleaming with meridian blaze;
Thy beauty must enrapture all;
   But who can dare thine ardent gaze?
'Tis said that Berenice's hair,
    In stars adorns the vault of heaven;
But they would ne'er permit thee there,
   Who wouldst so far outshine the seven.
For did those eyes as planets roll,
   Thy sister-lights would scarce appear:
E'en suns, which systems now control,
   Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.

TO WOMAN
Woman! experience might have told me,
That all must love thee who behold thee:
Surely experience might have taught
Thy firmest promises are nought:
But, placed in all thy charms before me,
All I forget, but to adore thee.
Oh memory! Thou choicest blessing
When join'd with hope, when still possessing;
But how much cursed by every lover
When hope is fled and passion's over.
Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,
How throbs the pulse when first we view
The eye that rolls in glossy blue,
Or sparkles black, or mildly throws
A beam from under hazel brows!
How quick we credit every oath,
And hear her plight the willing troth!
Fondly we hope't will last for aye,
When, lo! she changes in a day.
This record will for ever stand,
"Woman, thy vows are traced in sand."

TO M.S.G.
When I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive;
   Extend not your anger to sleep;
For in visions alone your affection can live,—
   I rise, and it leaves me to weep.
Then, Morpheus! envelope my faculties fast,
   Shed o'er me your languor benign;
Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last,
   What rapture celestial is mine!
They tell us that slumber, the sister of death,
   Mortality's emblem is given;
To fate how I long to resign my frail breath,
   If this be a foretaste of heaven!
Ah! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft brow,
   Nor deem me to happy in this;
If I sin in my dream, I atone it for now,
   Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss.
Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may smile,
   Oh, think not my penance deficient!
When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile,
   To awake will be torture sufficient.

TO MARY
ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE
This faint resemblance of thy charms,
   (Though strong as mortal art could give,)
My constant heart of fear disarms,
   Revives my hopes, and bids me live.
Here, I can trace the locks of gold
   Which round thy snowy forehead wave;
The cheeks which sprung from Beauty's mould,
   The lips, which made me Beauty's slave.
Here I can trace — ah, no! that eye,
   Whose azure floats in liquid fire,
Must all the painter's art defy,
   And bid him from the task retire.
Here, I behold its beauteous hue;
   But where's the beam so sweetly straying,
Which gave a lustre to its blue,
   Like Luna o'er the ocean playing?
Sweet copy! far more dear to me,
   Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art,
Than all the living forms could be,
   Save her who plac'd thee next my heart.
She plac'd it, sad, with needless fear,
   Lest time might shake my wavering soul,
Unconscious that her image there
   Held every sense in fast control.
Thro' hours, thro' years, thro' time, 'twill cheer —
   My hope, in gloomy moments, raise;
In life's last conflict 'twill appear,
   And meet my fond, expiring gaze.

TO LESBIA
Lesbia! since far from you I've ranged,
   Our souls with fond affection glow not;
You say 't is I, not you, have changed,
   I'd tell you why,- but yet I know not.
Your polish'd brow no cares have crost;
   And, Lesbia! we are not much older,
Since, trembling, first my heart I lost,
   Or told my love, with hope grown bolder.
Sixteen was then our utmost age,
   Two years have lingering past away, love!
And now new thoughts our minds engage,
   At least I feel disposed to stray, love!
'Tis I that am alone to blame,
   I, that am guilty of love's treason;
Since your sweet breast is still the same,
   Caprice must be my only reason.
I do not, love! suspect your truth,
   With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not;
Warm was the passion of my youth,
   One trace of dark deceit it leaves not.
No, no, my flame was not pretended,
   For, Oh! I loved you most sincerely;
And- though our dream at last is ended –
   My bosom still esteems you dearly.
No more we meet in yonder bowers;
   Absence has made me prone to roving;
But older, firmer hearts than ours
   Have found monotony in loving.
Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpeair'd,
   New beauties still are daily bright'ning,
Your eye for conquest beams prepared,
   The forge of love's resistless lightning.
Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed,
   Many will throng to sigh like me, love!
More constant they may prove, indeed;
   Fonder, alas! they ne'er can be, love!

LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY
[As the author was discharging his pistols in a garden,two ladies passing near the spot were alarmed by the sound of a bullet hissing near them; to one of whom the following stanzas were addressed the next morning.]
DOUBTLESS, sweet girl! the hissing lead,
   Wafting destruction o'er thy charms,
And hurtling o'er thy lovely head,
   Has fill'd that breast with fond alarms.
Surely some envious demon's force,
   Vex'd to behold such beauty here,
Impell'd the bullet's viewless course,
   Diverted from its first career.
Yes! in that nearly fatal hour
   The ball obey'd some hell-born guide;
But Heaven, with interposing power,
   In pity turn'd the death aside.
Yet, as perchance one trembling tear
   Upon that thrilling bosom fell;
Which I, th' unconscious cause of fear,
   Extracted fromn its glistening cell:
Say, what dire penance can atone
   For such an outrage done to thee?
Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne,
   What punishment wilt thou decree?
Might I perform the judge's part,
   The sentence I should scarce deplore;
It only would restore a heart
   Which but belong'd to thee before.
The least atonement I can make
   Is to become no longer free;
Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake,
   Thou shalt be all in all to me.
But thou, perhaps, may'st now reject
   Such expiation of my guilt;
Come then, some other mode elect;
   Let it be death, or what thou wilt.
Choose then, relentless! and I swear
   Nought shall thy dread decree prevent;
Yet hold-one little word forbear!
   Let it be aught but banishment.

LOVE'S LAST ADIEU
The roses of love glad the garden of life,
    Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pestilent dew,
Till time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife,
    Or prunes them for ever, in love's last adieu!
In vain, with endearments, we soothe the sad heart,
    In vain do we vow for an age to be true;
The chance of an hour may command us to part,
    Or death disunite us in love's last adieu!
Still Hope, breathing peace, through the grief-swollen breast,
    Will whisper, 'Our meeting we yet may renew:'
With this dream of deceit, half our sorrow's represt,
    Nor taste we the poison, of love's last adieu!
Oh! mark you yon pair: in the sunshine of youth,
    Love twined round their childhood his flowers as they grew;
They flourish awhile, in the season of truth,
    Till chill'd by the winter of love's last adieu!
Sweet lady! why thus doth a tear steal its way,
    Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue?
Yet why do I ask?---to distraction a prey,
    Thy reason has perish'd with love's last adieu!
Oh! who is yon misanthrope, shunning mankind?
    From cities to caves of the forest he flew:
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind,
    The mountains reverberate love's last adieu!
Now hate rules a heart which in love's easy chains,
    Once passion's tumultuous blandishments knew;
Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins;
    He ponders in frenzy on love's last adieu!
How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt in steel!
    His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few,
Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel,
    And dreads not the anguish of love's last adieu!
Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o'ercast;
    No more, with love's former devotion, we sue:
He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast;
    The shroud of affection is love's last adieu!
In this life of probation, for rapture divine,
    Astrea declares that some penance is due;
From him, who has worshipp'd at love's gentle shrine,
    The atonement is ample in love's last adieu!
Who kneels to the god, on his altar of light
    Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew:
His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight,
    His cypress, the garland of love's last adieu!

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