Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child!

And Harold stands upon this place of skulls,
The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo!
How in an hour the power which gave annuls
Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too!
In "pride of place" here last the Eagle flew,
Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain,
Pierc'd by the shaft of banded nations through;
Ambition's life and labours all were vain;
He wears the shatter'd links of the world's broken chain.
 
Fit retribution! Gaul may champ the bit
And foam in fetters — but is Earth more free?
Did nations combat to make One submit;
Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty?
What! shall reviving Thraldom again be
The patch'd-up idol of enlighten'd days?
Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we
Pay the Wolf homage? proffering lowly gaze
And servile knees to thrones? No; prove before ye praise!
 
I really have never gotten into poetry. I ended up writing some this last few years. It was just by.. I don't know exactly what to call it.. accident? It was like a twilight zone experience. I just started to get rhyming lines in my head. I disregarded them because I had never written anything in my life. It didn't stop and started to drive me crazy so I put pen to paper.

I write for myself mostly, it is the best way for me to express my deepest thoughts.

Thankyou for posting this I've been enjoying it, its reminding me of things I have went through in my life.
 
Lorelei_11 said:
]I really have never gotten into poetry. I ended up writing some this last few years. It was just by.. I don't know exactly what to call it.. accident? It was like a twilight zone experience. I just started to get rhyming lines in my head. I disregarded them because I had never written anything in my life. It didn't stop and started to drive me crazy so I put pen to paper.

I write for myself mostly, it is the best way for me to express my deepest thoughts.

Thankyou for posting this I've been enjoying it, its reminding me of things I have went through in my life.
You're very welcome. You should make sure you start at the beginning of the thread. I'm about to start cutting. To this point, I think I've quoted the whole canto. From now on, you're on your own. :)
 
If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more!
In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with hot tears
For Europe's flowers long rooted up before
The trampler of her vineyards; in vain years
Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears,
Have all been borne, and broken by the accord
Of rous'd-up millions; all that most endears
Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword
Such as Harmodius drew on Athens' tyrant lord
 
Byron In Exile said:
You're very welcome. You should make sure you start at the beginning of the thread. I'm about to start cutting. To this point, I think I've quoted the whole canto. From now on, you're on your own. :)

I did start at the beginning and read everything. :)

Well thats a familiar feellng... Just joking. *giggle*

I do fine on my own, its nice to have companionship though.

It all reminded me of how universal the experience of life is. It reminded me of the time I had lost all faith in god and mankind. That felt so empty. Life went on, and in the end, I found my truth. I became more passionate, and feel younger than I ever have.
 
Lorelei_11 said:
I did start at the beginning and read everything. :)

Well thats a familiar feellng... Just joking. *giggle*

I do fine on my own, its nice to have companionship though.

It all reminded me of how universal the experience of life is. It reminded me of the time I had lost all faith in god and mankind. That felt so empty. Life went on, and in the end, I found my truth. I became more passionate, and feel younger than I ever have.
If you read all that... give me a moment to decide how far foward to go. It's hard to excise a poet.
 
XXXII

They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, mourn;
The tree will wither long before it fall;
The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn;
The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall
In massy hoariness; the ruined wall
Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone;
The bars survive the captive they enthral;
The day drags through though storms keep out the sun;
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on
 
Byron In Exile said:
If you read all that... give me a moment to decide how far foward to go. It's hard to excise a poet.

I'm really not sure what you mean.
 
Even as a broken mirror, which the glass
In every fragment multiplies; and makes
A thousand images of one that was,
The same, and still the more, the more it breaks;
And thus the heart will do which not forsakes,
Living in shattered guise, and still, and cold,
And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches,
Yet withers on till all without is old,
Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold
 
Lorelei_11 said:
I'm really not sure what you mean.
I mean only that I would like to post this canto completely. But probably no-one here will understand even a fraction of it. So I should edit it down to the basics. But because I know the poem, this is a hard thing for me to do. It is necessary, but it is difficult.
 
Byron In Exile said:
I mean only that I would like to post this canto completely. But probably no-one here will understand even a fraction of it. So I should edit it down to the basics. But because I know the poem, this is a hard thing for me to do. It is necessary, but it is difficult.

I understand, it would be hard to remove parts. I wouldn't want to, I prefer the whole thing.

I for one, probably wouldn't understand it, you'd have to explain things to me. This would take alot of time and I don't expect you to.

It would be difficult to do. I'm not really into poetry. I'm curious, I like to learn. I enjoy reading it sometimes, its not a huge interest of mine. Its something different to experience.

I appreciate you putting it here, coming to lit has exposed me to many new things. Some of these things have been positive, some negative. This is something I wouldn't seek to read on my own and yet very different and enjoyable.
 
Lorelei_11 said:
I understand, it would be hard to remove parts. I wouldn't want to, I prefer the whole thing.

I for one, probably wouldn't understand it, you'd have to explain things to me. This would take alot of time and I don't expect you to.
Well, excepting the historical references, it really isn't that anyone is unable to understand it, but that it's a matter of patience. Poetry can't be skimmed, any more than music can be listened to on fast-forward. Nowadays, people haven't much time for long poems, or songs that are more than 3 minutes long.
It would be difficult to do. I'm not really into poetry. I'm curious, I like to learn. I enjoy reading it sometimes, its not a huge interest of mine. Its something different to experience.

I appreciate you putting it here, coming to lit has exposed me to many new things. Some of these things have been positive, some negative. This is something I wouldn't seek to read on my own and yet very different and enjoyable.
Well that's pretty neat, thanks! This, and a couple of PM's, have renewed my enthusiasm for this 'harmless wile.' At this point, there's quite a lot about Napoleon, but at the time it was current news. This was written in 1816, and Napoleon's defeat at Waterloo had been in 1815. If I omit anything, I'll include the stanza number. And later, if one wants the unabridged version, there's always the Oxford University Press.
 
There is a very life in our despair,
Vitality of poison, — a quick root
Which feeds these deadly branches; for it were
As nothing did we die; but Life will suit
Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit,
Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore,
All ashes to the taste: Did man compute
Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er
Such hours 'gainst years of life, — say, would he name threescore?
 
The Psalmist number'd out the years of man:
They are enough: and if thy tale be true,
Thou, who didst grudge him e'en that fleeting span,
More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo!
Millions of tongues record thee, and anew
Their children's lips shall echo them, and say —
'Here, where the sword united nations drew,
Our countrymen were warring on that day!'
And this is much, and all which will not pass away
 
There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men,
Whose spirit anithetically mixt,
One moment of the mightiest, and again
On little objects with like firmness fixt;
Extreme in all things! hadst thou been betwixt,
Thy throne had still been thine, or never been;
For daring made thy rise as fall: thou seek'st
Even now to reassume the imperial mien,
And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene!
 
Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou!
She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name
Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now
That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame,
Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and became
The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert
A god unto thyself; nor less the same
To the astounded kingdoms all inert,
Who deemed thee for a time whate'er thou didst assert.
 
Oh, more or less than man — in high or low,
Battling with nations, flying from the field;
Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool, now
More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield:
An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild,
But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor,
However deeply in men's spirits skilled,
Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war,
Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star.
 
Yet well thy soul hath brook'd the turning tide
With that untaught innate philosophy,
Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride,
Is gall and wormwood to an enemy.
When the whole host of hatred stood hard by,
To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled
With a sedate and all-enduring eye; —
When Fortune fled her spoil'd and favourite child,
He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him piled.
 
Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them
Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show
That just habitual scorn, which could contemn
Men and their thoughts; 'twas wise to feel, not so
To wear it ever on thy lip and brow,
And spurn the instruments thou wert to use
Till they were turned unto thine overthrow:
'Tis but a worthless world to win or lose;
So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose.
 
If, like a tower upon a headland rock,
Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone,
Such scorn of man had helped to brave the shock;
But men's thoughts were the steps which paved thy throne,
Their admiration thy best weapon shone;
The part of Philip's son was thine, not then
(Unless aside thy purple had been thrown)
Like stern Diogenes to mock at men;
For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den.
 
But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell,
And there hath been thy bane; there is a fire
And motion of the soul, which will not dwell
In its own narrow being, but aspire
Beyond the fitting medium of desire;
And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore,
Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire
Of aught but rest; a fever at the core,
Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore.
 
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