The Works of Lord Byron Volume V Part 132

_Arn._ But doth she live indeed?

_Caes._ Nay, never fear!

But, if you rue it after, blame not me.

_Arn._ Let her but live!

_Caes._ The Spirit of her life Is yet within her breast, and may revive.

Count! count! I am your servant in all things, And this is a new office:--'tis not oft 170 I am employed in such; but you perceive How staunch a friend is what you call a fiend.

On earth you have often only fiends for friends; Now _I_ desert not mine. Soft! bear her hence, The beautiful half-clay, and nearly spirit!

I am almost enamoured of her, as Of old the Angels of her earliest s.e.x.[250]

_Arn._ Thou!

_Caes._ I! But fear not. I'll not be your rival.

_Arn._ Rival!

_Caes._ I could be one right formidable; But since I slew the seven husbands of 180 Tobias' future bride (and after all Was smoked out by some incense),[251] I have laid Aside intrigue: 'tis rarely worth the trouble Of gaining, or--what is more difficult-- Getting rid of your prize again; for there's The rub! at least to mortals.

_Arn._ Prithee, peace!

Softly! methinks her lips move, her eyes open!

_Caes._ Like stars, no doubt; for that's a metaphor For Lucifer and Venus.

_Arn._ To the palace Colonna, as I told you!

_Caes._ Oh! I know 190 My way through Rome.

_Arn._ Now onward, onward! Gently!

[_Exeunt, bearing_ OLIMPIA. _The scene closes_.

PART III.

SCENE I.--_A Castle in the Apennines, surrounded by a wild but smiling Country. Chorus of Peasants singing before the Gates_.

_Chorus_.

I.

The wars are over, The spring is come; The bride and her lover Have sought their home: They are happy, we rejoice; Let their hearts have an echo in every voice!

II.

The spring is come; the violet's gone, The first-born child of the early sun:[dt]

With us she is but a winter's flower, The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower, 10 And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue To the youngest sky of the self-same hue.

III.

And when the spring comes with her host Of flowers, that flower beloved the most Shrinks from the crowd that may confuse Her heavenly odour and virgin hues.

IV.

Pluck the others, but still remember Their herald out of dim December-- The morning star of all the flowers, The pledge of daylight's lengthened hours; 20 Nor, midst the roses, e'er forget The virgin--virgin Violet.

_Enter_ CaeSAR.

_Caes._ (_singing_).

The wars are all over, Our swords are all idle, The steed bites the bridle, The casque's on the wall.

There's rest for the rover; But his armour is rusty, And the veteran grows crusty, As he yawns in the hall. 30 He drinks--but what's drinking?

A mere pause from thinking!

No bugle awakes him with life-and-death call.

_Chorus_.

But the hound bayeth loudly, The boar's in the wood, And the falcon longs proudly To spring from her hood: On the wrist of the n.o.ble She sits like a crest, And the air is in trouble 40 With birds from their nest.

_Caes_.

Oh! shadow of Glory!

Dim image of War!

But the chase hath no story, Her hero no star, Since Nimrod, the founder Of empire and chase, Who made the woods wonder And quake for their race.

When the lion was young, 50 In the pride of his might, Then 'twas sport for the strong To embrace him in fight; To go forth, with a pine For a spear, 'gainst the mammoth, Or strike through the ravine[du]

At the foaming behemoth; While man was in stature As towers in our time, The first born of Nature, 60 And, like her, sublime!

_Chorus_.

But the wars are over, The spring is come; The bride and her lover Have sought their home: They are happy, and we rejoice; Let their hearts have an echo from every voice!

[_Exeunt the Peasantry, singing_.

FRAGMENT OF THE THIRD PART OF _THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED_.

_Chorus_.

When the merry bells are ringing, And the peasant girls are singing, And the early flowers are flinging Their odours in the air; And the honey bee is clinging To the buds; and birds are winging Their way, pair by pair: Then the earth looks free from trouble With the brightness of a bubble: Though I did not make it, 10 I could breathe on and break it; But too much I scorn it, Or else I would mourn it, To see despots and slaves Playing o'er their own graves.

_Enter_ COUNT ARNOLD.

{_Mem._ Jealous--Arnold of Caesar.

{Olympia at first not liking Caesar {--then?--Arnold jealous of himself {under his former figure, owing to {the power of intellect, etc., etc., etc.

_Arnold_. You are merry, Sir--what? singing too?