Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, BYRON, by ROBERT POLLOCK


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

BYRON, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Admire the goodness of almighty god
Last Line: To fill the embrace of all eternity!
Alternate Author Name(s): Pollok, Robert
Variant Title(s): The Genius Of Byron
Subject(s): Byron, George Gordon, Lord (1788-1824); Poetry & Poets; Writing & Writers; Byron, George Gordon Byron, 6th Baron


ADMIRE the goodness of Almighty God!
He riches gave, he intellectual strength,
To few, and therefore none commands to be
Or rich, or learn'd; nor promises reward
Of peace to these. On all, He moral worth
Bestow'd, and moral tribute ask'd from all.
And who that could not pay? who born so poor,
Of intellect so mean, as not to know
What seem'd the best; and, knowing, might not do?
As not to know what God and conscience bade,
And what they bade not able to obey?
And he, who acted thus, fulfill'd the law
Eternal, and its promise reaped of peace;
Found peace this way alone: who sought it else,
Sought mellow grapes beneath the icy pole,
Sought blooming roses on the cheek of death,
Sought substance in a world of fleeting shades.
Take one example, to our purpose quite,
A man of rank, and of capacious soul,
Who riches had and fame, beyond desire,
An heir of flattery, to titles born,
And reputation, and luxurious life;
Yet, not content with ancestorial name,
Or to be known because his fathers were,
He on this height hereditary stood,
And, gazing higher, purposed in his heart
To take another step. Above him seem'd,
Alone, the mount of song, the lofty seat
Of canonized bards; and thitherward,
By nature taught, and inward melody,
In prime of youth, he bent his eagle eye.
No cost was spared. What books he wish'd, he read;
What sage to hear, he heard; what scenes to see,
He saw. And first in rambling school-boy days
Britannia's mountain-walks, and heath-girt lakes,
And story-telling glens, and founts, and brooks,
And maids, as dew-drops pure and fair, his soul
With grandeur fill'd, and melody, and love.
Then travel came, and took him where he wish'd.
He cities saw, and courts, and princely pomp;
And mused alone on ancient mountain-brows;
And mused on battle-fields, where valour fought
In other days; and mused on ruins gray
With years; and drank from old and fabulous wells,
And pluck'd the vine that first-born prophets pluck'd,
And mused on famous tombs, and on the wave
Of ocean mused, and on the desert waste;
The heavens and earth of every country saw.
Where'er the old inspiring genii dwelt,
Aught that could rouse, expand, refine the soul,
Thither he went, and meditated there.
He touch'd his harp, and nations heard, entranced,
As some vast river of unfailing source,
Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flow'd,
And open'd new fountains in the human heart.
Where fancy halted, weary in her flight,
In other men, his, fresh as morning, rose,
And soar'd untrodden heights, and seem'd at home
Where angels bashful look'd. Others, though great,
Beneath their argument seem'd struggling whiles;
He from above descending stoop'd to touch
The loftiest thought; and proudly stoop'd, as though
It scarce deserved his verse. With Nature's self
He seem'd an old acquaintance, free to jest
At will with all her glorious majesty.
He laid his hand upon "the ocean's mane,"
And play'd familiar with his hoary locks;
Stood on the Alps, stood on the Apennines,
And with the thunder talk'd, as friend to friend;
And wove his garland of the lightning's wing,
In sportive twist, the lightning's fiery wing,
Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God,
Marching upon the storm in vengeance, seem'd;
Then turn'd, and with the grasshopper, who sung
His evening song beneath his feet, conversed.
Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds, his sisters were;
Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas and winds and storms
His brothers, younger brothers, whom he scarce
As equals deem'd. All passions of all men,
The wild and tame, the gentle and severe;
All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and profane;
All creeds, all seasons, Time, Eternity;
All that was hated, and all that was dear;
All that was hoped, all that was feared, by man;
He toss'd about, as tempest, wither'd leaves,
Then, smiling, look'd upon the wreck he made.
With terror now he froze the cowering blood,
And now dissolved the heart in tenderness;
Yet would not tremble, would not weep himself;
But back into his soul retired, alone,
Dark, sullen, proud, gazing contemptuously
On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet.
So ocean from the plains his waves had late
To desolation swept, retired in pride,
Exulting in the glory of his might.
And seem'd to mock the ruin he had wrought.
As some fierce comet of tremendous size,
To which the stars did reverence, as it pass'd,
So he through learning and through fancy took
His flight sublime, and on the loftiest top
Of fame's dread mountain sat; not soil'd and worn,
As if he from the earth had labour'd up;
But as some bird of heavenly plumage fair,
He look'd, which down from higher regions came,
And perch'd it there, to see what lay beneath.
The nations gazed, and wonder'd much, and prais'd.
Critics before him fell in humble plight,
Confounded fell, and made debasing signs
To catch his eye, and stretch'd, and swell'd themselves
To bursting nigh, to utter bulky words
Of admiration vast: and many, too,
Many that aim'd to imitate his flight,
With weaker wing, unearthly fluttering made,
And gave abundant sport to after days.
Great man! the nations gazed, and wonder'd much,
And praised; and many call'd his evil good.
Wits wrote in favour of his wickedness,
And kings to do him honour took delight.
Thus, full of titles, flattery, honour, fame,
Beyond desire, beyond ambition, full,
He died. He died of what? Of wretchedness; --
Drank every cup of joy, heard every trump
Of fame, drank early, deeply drank, drank draughts
That common millions might have quench'd; then died
Of thirst, because there was no more to drink.
His goddess, Nature, wooed, embraced, enjoy'd,
Fell from his arms, abhorr'd; his passions died,
Died, all but dreary, solitary pride;
And all his sympathies in being died.
As some ill-guided bark, well built and tall,
Which angry tides cast out on desert shore,
And then, retiring, left it there to rot
And moulder in the winds and rains of heaven;
So he, cut from the sympathies of life,
And cast ashore from pleasure's boisterous surge,
A wandering, weary, worn, and wretched thing,
Scorch'd, and desolate, and blasted soul,
A gloomy wilderness of dying thought, --
Repined, and groan'd, and wither'd from the earth.
His groanings fill'd the land, his numbers fill'd;
And yet he seem'd ashamed to groan: Poor man! --
Ashamed to ask, and yet he needed help.
Proof this, beyond all lingering of doubt,
That not with natural or mental wealth
Was God delighted, or his peace secured;
That not in natural or mental wealth
Was human happiness or grandeur found.
Attempt, how monstrous, and how surely vain!
With things of earthly sort, with aught but God,
With aught but moral excellence, truth, and love
To satisfy and fill the immortal soul!
Attempt, vain inconceivably! attempt,
To satisfy the ocean with a drop,
To marry immortality to death,
And with the unsubstantial shade of time,
To fill the embrace of all eternity!





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