[249]
The Victor overthrown!
The Victor overthrown!
Byron
[243]
Since he, miscalled the Morning Star,[244]
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far.
II. [245]
Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind
Who bowed so low the knee?
By gazing on thyself grown blind,
Thou taught'st the rest to see.
With might unquestioned,--power to save,--
Thine only gift hath been the grave
To those that worshipped thee;
Nor till thy fall could mortals guess
Ambition's less than littleness!
III.
Thanks for that lesson--it will teach
To after-warriors more
Than high Philosophy can preach,
And vainly preached before.
That spell upon the minds of men[246]
Breaks never to unite again,
That led them to adore
Those Pagod things of sabre-sway,
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay.
IV.
The triumph, and the vanity,
The rapture of the strife--[247]
The earthquake-voice of Victory,
To thee the breath of life;
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway
Which man seemed made but to obey,
Wherewith renown was rife--
All quelled! --Dark Spirit! what must be
The madness of thy memory!
V. [248]
The Desolator desolate!
[249]
The Victor overthrown!
The Arbiter of others' fate
A Suppliant for his own!
Is it some yet imperial hope
That with such change can calmly cope?
Or dread of death alone?
To die a Prince--or live a slave--
Thy choice is most ignobly brave!
VI.
He who of old would rend the oak,
Dreamed not of the rebound;[250]
Chained by the trunk he vainly broke--
Alone--how looked he round?
Thou, in the sternness of thy strength,
An equal deed hast done at length.
And darker fate hast found:
He fell, the forest prowlers' prey;
But thou must eat thy heart away!
VII.
The Roman,[251] when his burning heart
Was slaked with blood of Rome,
Threw down the dagger--dared depart,
In savage grandeur, home. --
He dared depart in utter scorn
Of men that such a yoke had borne,
Yet left him such a doom!
His only glory was that hour
Of self-upheld abandoned power.
VIII.
The Spaniard, when the lust of sway
Had lost its quickening spell,[252]
Cast crowns for rosaries away,
An empire for a cell;
A strict accountant of his beads,
A subtle disputant on creeds,
His dotage trifled well:[253]
Yet better had he neither known
A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne.
IX.
Since he, miscalled the Morning Star,[244]
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far.
II. [245]
Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind
Who bowed so low the knee?
By gazing on thyself grown blind,
Thou taught'st the rest to see.
With might unquestioned,--power to save,--
Thine only gift hath been the grave
To those that worshipped thee;
Nor till thy fall could mortals guess
Ambition's less than littleness!
III.
Thanks for that lesson--it will teach
To after-warriors more
Than high Philosophy can preach,
And vainly preached before.
That spell upon the minds of men[246]
Breaks never to unite again,
That led them to adore
Those Pagod things of sabre-sway,
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay.
IV.
The triumph, and the vanity,
The rapture of the strife--[247]
The earthquake-voice of Victory,
To thee the breath of life;
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway
Which man seemed made but to obey,
Wherewith renown was rife--
All quelled! --Dark Spirit! what must be
The madness of thy memory!
V. [248]
The Desolator desolate!
[249]
The Victor overthrown!
The Arbiter of others' fate
A Suppliant for his own!
Is it some yet imperial hope
That with such change can calmly cope?
Or dread of death alone?
To die a Prince--or live a slave--
Thy choice is most ignobly brave!
VI.
He who of old would rend the oak,
Dreamed not of the rebound;[250]
Chained by the trunk he vainly broke--
Alone--how looked he round?
Thou, in the sternness of thy strength,
An equal deed hast done at length.
And darker fate hast found:
He fell, the forest prowlers' prey;
But thou must eat thy heart away!
VII.
The Roman,[251] when his burning heart
Was slaked with blood of Rome,
Threw down the dagger--dared depart,
In savage grandeur, home. --
He dared depart in utter scorn
Of men that such a yoke had borne,
Yet left him such a doom!
His only glory was that hour
Of self-upheld abandoned power.
VIII.
The Spaniard, when the lust of sway
Had lost its quickening spell,[252]
Cast crowns for rosaries away,
An empire for a cell;
A strict accountant of his beads,
A subtle disputant on creeds,
His dotage trifled well:[253]
Yet better had he neither known
A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne.
IX.
