MANFRED
Patience and patience! Hence—that word was made
For brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey;
Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine, —
I am not of thine order.
CHAMOIS HUNTER
Thanks to heaven!
I would not be of thine for the free fame
Of William Tell...
Lord Byron.
Oh! how my days' monotonous rotation
Affrights my thought and crowns it with frustration!
What shall I do with soul and sacred fires,
In this oppressive air that chokes the town,
Midst thoughtless, vile crowds milling up and down,
Where sleeps all fervour, where each heart expires!
What shall I do, pray tell, with this accursed
Devotion to man's noble, heaven-nursed
Grandeur, with passion's rush and pride's fierce swell,
With all this seething, this internal storm,
That sears my burning nerves and breaks their form,
And makes me dream already of death's cell!
Must fate eternally thus bid me wane
And wither in this godforsaken plain?
Oh! shall I ne'er, freed from these iron bars,
A vagrant pilgrim on fresh shores unknown,
Lead forth my active passions, fully grown,
Across the Ocean, through the desert's scars?
Where is the vessel that, disdaining shore,
Must seek with me the deep and lofty store?
When, new Childe Harold, mounted on the stern,
At parting hour, wild, free, and darkly proud,
With smile like phantom's wrapped in shadow's shroud,
Shall I cast insult where I'll not return?
The lustful rocking of adventurous wave
Perhaps might lull the sulphurous fever's rave
That draws my tears and drains my blood away:
Perhaps, once fled the soil that I disown,
This love would leave, whose pale and withered tone
Betrays its morbid, blighting power's sway.
Perhaps I'd even forget that magic name
My heart, melancholic lyre of flame,
Has whispered soft from tiresome hearts apart:
And see no more, in my morose repose,
A phantom dear, whose white and rosy rose
Hand weaves perfumes through ebon locks' dark art.
Forget her, slave? — Oh! no, I dare you try.
— Too potent was the charm cast on your eye. —
Whilst reason's glimmer, faint though it may be,
Still lights the night of your deserted soul,
Forever in your thought's grief-opened hole,
A mocking voice shall spell that name to thee!
Well then! if ever, in its pilgrimage,
My bold brigantine should find a stage
Where battle's dreaded drama might unfold:
Drop anchor, I would cry, let's go ashore!
I love the blood, the death, the scimitar's war,
And claim my share of pleasure to behold!
A horse! a horse!... and at full gallop thrown
Into the thickest ranks where death is sown!
— Receive, loud chaos, one who seeks to die...
Oh! helmet's flash! and courage's spasmic thrill!
The clarion's shriek, carnage's scent to fill! —
What sublime feast for my last living sigh!!
Indeed, young fool, such proud dreams you devise.
Your muse has never, for such beauteous lies,
Upon the soul's keyboard improvised such airs.
But vain the cries of your hot-blooded dare!
At Destiny's council you've found no prayer:
Upon his throne of bronze he mocks your cares.
— Weep: you must resign to languish in the towns.
Farewell enthusiasm. — In servile gowns
Of toil they'll shroud you, like a cold death-sheet.
Ah! weep — but softly, lest mockery's voice
Of pride and misery denounce your choice.
— And friendless too! — You must weep alone, complete.
This is one of 50+ rare French literary texts translated into English for the first time on this site.
Léon Hennique Novel 