The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott Edited by his Son Edwin Elliott ... A New and Revised Edition: Two Volumes |
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DEVIL BYRON.
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 | The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott |  |
308
DEVIL BYRON.
A BALLAD.
A strange man own'd yon Abbey once,
Men call'd him Devil Byron;
Yet he a sister had who loved
Well that man of iron.
Men call'd him Devil Byron;
Yet he a sister had who loved
Well that man of iron.
309
And well he loved that sister—Love
Is strong in rugged bosoms;
Even as the barren-seeming bough
Oft hoards richest blossoms.
Is strong in rugged bosoms;
Even as the barren-seeming bough
Oft hoards richest blossoms.
Yet from his heart, when she espoused
A peasant, he dismissed her;
And thenceforth Devil Byron spoke
Never, to his sister.
A peasant, he dismissed her;
And thenceforth Devil Byron spoke
Never, to his sister.
Therefore, whene'er he drove abroad,
She chased the Man of iron,
Rode by his wheels, and riding cried,
“Speak to me, Lord Byron!”
She chased the Man of iron,
Rode by his wheels, and riding cried,
“Speak to me, Lord Byron!”
Thus, at his chariot's side, she pray'd;
For was he not her brother?
“Do speak to me, my lord!” she said;
Was he not her brother?
For was he not her brother?
“Do speak to me, my lord!” she said;
Was he not her brother?
Her quivering hand, her voice, her looks,
Might wring soft speech from iron;
But he speaks not!—her heart will break:
He is Devil Byron.
Might wring soft speech from iron;
But he speaks not!—her heart will break:
He is Devil Byron.
Yet down his cheeks tears shoot, like hail;
Then, speak, thou Angel's brother!
Why struggle, in thy burning soul
Wordless fire to smother?
Then, speak, thou Angel's brother!
Why struggle, in thy burning soul
Wordless fire to smother?
310
Oh, Power is cruel!—Wilful Man!
Why kill thy helpless sister?
Relent! repent! already, lo,
Beauteous blight hath kiss'd her
Why kill thy helpless sister?
Relent! repent! already, lo,
Beauteous blight hath kiss'd her
Men say, a spectre with thee walks,
And will not from thee sever;
A shadow—not, alas, thy own!
Pointing at thee ever.
And will not from thee sever;
A shadow—not, alas, thy own!
Pointing at thee ever.
Oh, think of Chaworth rashly slain,
And wrath, too late repenting!
Think of the kiss men give the dead!
Vainly, then, relenting.
And wrath, too late repenting!
Think of the kiss men give the dead!
Vainly, then, relenting.
Think of thy sister's mother's grave;
Think of your days of childhood—
The little hands in fondness join'd,
Wandering through the wild-wood.
Think of your days of childhood—
The little hands in fondness join'd,
Wandering through the wild-wood.
The hedgerose, then, was not so fair
As she, in gladness ranging;
Now, sorrowful as beautiful!
Changed, and sadly changing!
As she, in gladness ranging;
Now, sorrowful as beautiful!
Changed, and sadly changing!
The wither'd hand, the failing voice,
Moved they the Man of iron?
The live rose took the dead one's hue:
God, forgive thee, Byron!
Moved they the Man of iron?
The live rose took the dead one's hue:
God, forgive thee, Byron!
311
As rainbow fades, she perish'd. Then,
How fared the stubborn-hearted?
With her, the wrong'd and lost, he lived—
Never to be parted.
How fared the stubborn-hearted?
With her, the wrong'd and lost, he lived—
Never to be parted.
The Abbot's garden well he liked,
But there a shape was sighing;
There, in each pale, reproachful flower,
Sinless love seem'd dying.
But there a shape was sighing;
There, in each pale, reproachful flower,
Sinless love seem'd dying.
The bird that on the belfry wail'd,
It all her tones did borrow;
The shadows in his banquet-hall
Wore her brow of sorrow.
It all her tones did borrow;
The shadows in his banquet-hall
Wore her brow of sorrow.
Where'er he went, she with him went—
Alas, thou stubborn-hearted!
The grey old Abbey's gloom did groan,
“Life and Death, be parted!”
Alas, thou stubborn-hearted!
The grey old Abbey's gloom did groan,
“Life and Death, be parted!”
He wish'd, but did not pray, for death—
Pray, pray, thou Heart of iron!
Dying he heard her heart's last pray'r,
“Speak to me, Lord Byron!”
Pray, pray, thou Heart of iron!
Dying he heard her heart's last pray'r,
“Speak to me, Lord Byron!”
Dying, he saw her dying face;
And as with poison'd lashes,
It look'd forgiveness, its slow smile,
Smote him—He is ashes.
And as with poison'd lashes,
It look'd forgiveness, its slow smile,
Smote him—He is ashes.
312
Well sleep the dead: in holy ground
Well sleeps the Heart of iron:
The worm that pares his sister's cheek,
What cares it for Byron?
Well sleeps the Heart of iron:
The worm that pares his sister's cheek,
What cares it for Byron?
Yet when her night of death comes round,
They ride and drive together,
And ever when they drive and ride,
Wilful is the weather.
They ride and drive together,
And ever when they drive and ride,
Wilful is the weather.
On mighty wings, in spectre coach,
Fast speeds the Heart of iron;
On spectre-steed, the spectre-dame—
Side by side with Byron.
Fast speeds the Heart of iron;
On spectre-steed, the spectre-dame—
Side by side with Byron.
The winds they blow rain, sleet, and snow
To welcome Devil Byron;
Through sleet and snow the hail doth go,
Ripp'd—like shot of iron.
To welcome Devil Byron;
Through sleet and snow the hail doth go,
Ripp'd—like shot of iron.
A star? 'Tis gone. The moon? How fast
She hurries through wild weather!
The coach and steed chase moon and star,
Lost and seen together.
She hurries through wild weather!
The coach and steed chase moon and star,
Lost and seen together.
“Halloo!”—The slain hath left his grave!
He knows thee, Heart of iron!
And with a laugh that daft's hellfire,
Hails thy sister, Byron!
He knows thee, Heart of iron!
And with a laugh that daft's hellfire,
Hails thy sister, Byron!
313
Which is most sad of saddest things.
The laughter? or the weeping?
Laughs Chaworth, while her Feast of Sighs
Love-in-Death is keeping?
The laughter? or the weeping?
Laughs Chaworth, while her Feast of Sighs
Love-in-Death is keeping?
Thou ghastly thing! thou mockery
Of life, and human doings!
With flame-like eyes, on shadows fix'd!
Shadows which are ruins!
Of life, and human doings!
With flame-like eyes, on shadows fix'd!
Shadows which are ruins!
Thou see'st but sadness in her smile,
And pity in her sadness,
And in her slander'd innocence
Pain, that once was gladness.
And pity in her sadness,
And in her slander'd innocence
Pain, that once was gladness.
And can'st thou—while Night groans—do less
Than weep for injured woman?
Man! is thy manhood manliness?
Is she not a woman?
Than weep for injured woman?
Man! is thy manhood manliness?
Is she not a woman?
Oh, Night doth love her! oh, the clouds
They do her form environ!
The lightning weeps—it hears her sob,
“Speak to me, Lord Byron!”
They do her form environ!
The lightning weeps—it hears her sob,
“Speak to me, Lord Byron!”
On winds, on clouds, they ride, they drive—
Oh, hark, thou Heart of iron!
The thunder whispers mournfully,
“Speak to her, Lord Byron!”
Oh, hark, thou Heart of iron!
The thunder whispers mournfully,
“Speak to her, Lord Byron!”
314
My God! thy judgments dreadful are
When thought its vengeance wreaketh,
And mute reproach is agony:
Now, thy thunder speaketh!
When thought its vengeance wreaketh,
And mute reproach is agony:
Now, thy thunder speaketh!
He doth not speak! he cannot speak;
Then, break, thou Heart of iron!
It cannot break! it cannot break!
I can weep for Byron.
Then, break, thou Heart of iron!
It cannot break! it cannot break!
I can weep for Byron.
The uttered word is oft a sin,
Its stain oft everlasting;
But, oh, that saddest unsaid word;
Its dumb guilt is blasting!
Its stain oft everlasting;
But, oh, that saddest unsaid word;
Its dumb guilt is blasting!
Eternity, the ever young,
Hath, with fix'd hand, recorded
The speechless deed unspeakable;
Ne'er to be unworded!
Hath, with fix'd hand, recorded
The speechless deed unspeakable;
Ne'er to be unworded!
Oh, write it, then, “in weeping blood,”
Ye purified and thwarted!
Oh, House of Brokenheartedness!
Spare the broken-hearted.
Ye purified and thwarted!
Oh, House of Brokenheartedness!
Spare the broken-hearted.
Tell not the fallen that they fell,
The foil'd that there are winners,
If He, whose name is Purity,
Died, to ransom sinners.
The foil'd that there are winners,
If He, whose name is Purity,
Died, to ransom sinners.
315
No, spare the wronger and the wrong'd,
Oh, ye, who wrongs inherit!
“A wounded spirit who can bear?”
Soothe, the erring spirit!
Oh, ye, who wrongs inherit!
“A wounded spirit who can bear?”
Soothe, the erring spirit!
He, earning least, and taking most,
May love the wrong in blindness,
Not needing less, but all the more,
Pity, help, and kindness.
May love the wrong in blindness,
Not needing less, but all the more,
Pity, help, and kindness.
| The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott | |