The Works of Lord Byron - LightNovelsOnl.com
You're reading novel online at LightNovelsOnl.com. Please use the follow button to get notifications about your favorite novels and its latest chapters so you can come back anytime and won't miss anything.
_Arn._ No; I will not.
I must not compromise my soul.
_Stran._ What soul, Worth naming so, would dwell in such a carcase?
_Arn._ 'Tis an aspiring one, whate'er the tenement In which it is mislodged. But name your compact: Must it be signed in blood?
_Stran._ Not in your own.
_Arn._ Whose blood then?
_Stran._ We will talk of that hereafter.
But I'll be moderate with you, for I see 150 Great things within you. You shall have no bond But your own will, no contract save your deeds.
Are you content?
_Arn._ I take thee at thy word.
_Stran._ Now then!-- [_The Stranger approaches the fountain, and turns to_ ARNOLD.
A little of your blood.[208]
_Arn._ For what?
_Stran._ To mingle with the magic of the waters, And make the charm effective.
_Arn._ (_holding out his wounded arm_). Take it all.
_Stran._ Not now. A few drops will suffice for this.
[_The Stranger takes some of_ ARNOLD'S _blood in his hand, and casts it into the fountain_.
Shadows of Beauty!
Shadows of Power!
Rise to your duty-- 160 This is the hour!
Walk lovely and pliant[cz]
From the depth of this fountain, As the cloud-shapen giant Bestrides the Hartz Mountain.[209]
Come as ye were, That our eyes may behold The model in air Of the form I will mould, Bright as the Iris 170 When ether is spanned;-- Such _his_ desire is, [_Pointing to_ ARNOLD.
Such _my_ command![da]
Demons heroic-- Demons who wore The form of the Stoic Or sophist of yore-- Or the shape of each victor-- From Macedon's boy, To each high Roman's picture, 180 Who breathed to destroy-- Shadows of Beauty!
Shadows of Power!
Up to your duty-- This is the hour!
[_Various phantoms arise from the waters, and pa.s.s in succession before the Stranger and_ ARNOLD.
_Arn._ What do I see?
_Stran._ The black-eyed Roman,[210] with The eagle's beak between those eyes which ne'er Beheld a conqueror, or looked along The land he made not Rome's, while Rome became His, and all theirs who heired his very name. 190
_Arn._ The phantom's bald; _my_ quest is beauty. Could I Inherit but his fame with his defects!
_Stran._ His brow was girt with laurels more than hairs.[211]
You see his aspect--choose it, or reject.
I can but promise you his form; his fame Must be long sought and fought for.
_Arn._ I will fight, too, But not as a mock Caesar. Let him pa.s.s: His aspect may be fair, but suits me not.
_Stran._ Then you are far more difficult to please Than Cato's sister, or than Brutus's mother, 200 Or Cleopatra at sixteen[212]--an age When love is not less in the eye than heart.
But be it so! Shadow, pa.s.s on!
[_The phantom of Julius Caesar disappears_.
_Arn._ And can it Be, that the man who shook the earth is gone,[db]
And left no footstep?
_Stran._ There you err. His substance Left graves enough, and woes enough, and fame More than enough to track his memory; But for his shadow--'tis no more than yours, Except a little longer and less crooked I' the sun. Behold another! [_A second phantom pa.s.ses_.
_Arn._ Who is he? 210
_Stran._ He was the fairest and the bravest of Athenians.[213] Look upon him well.
_Arn._ He is More lovely than the last. How beautiful!
_Stran._ Such was the curled son of Clinias;--wouldst thou Invest thee with his form?
_Arn._ Would that I had Been born with it! But since I may choose further, I will _look_ further. [_The shade of Alcibiades disappears_.
_Stran._ Lo! behold again!
_Arn._ What! that low, swarthy, short-nosed, round-eyed satyr, With the wide nostrils and Silenus' aspect, The splay feet and low stature![214] I had better 220 Remain that which I am.
_Stran._ And yet he was The earth's perfection of all mental beauty, And personification of all virtue.
But you reject him?
_Arn._ If his form could bring me That which redeemed it--no.
_Stran._ I have no power To promise that; but you may try, and find it Easier in such a form--or in your own.
_Arn._ No. I was not born for philosophy, Though I have that about me which has need on't.
Let him fleet on.
_Stran._ Be air, thou Hemlock-drinker! 230 [_The shadow of Socrates disappears: another rises_.
_Arn._ What's here? whose broad brow and whose curly beard And manly aspect look like Hercules,[215]
Save that his jocund eye hath more of Bacchus Than the sad purger of the infernal world, Leaning dejected on his club of conquest,[216]
As if he knew the worthlessness of those For whom he had fought.
_Stran._ It was the man who lost The ancient world for love.
_Arn._ I cannot blame him, Since I have risked my soul because I find not That which he exchanged the earth for.
