The Works of Lord Byron

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Enter JOSEPHINE and Ida.

Jos.

What is 't we hear? My Siegendorf! Thank Heav'n, I see you safe!

Sieg.

Safe!

Ida.

Ulr. Away! it is father's!
your
Ida.
Yes, dear father!
Sieg. No, no; I have no children: never more
Call me by that worst name of parent.

And I have loved this man!

[Exit ULRIC Oh, great God.

[IDA falls senseless—JOSEPHINE stands speechless with horror.

THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED.

A DRAMA.

Arn.

[This production is founded partly on the story of a | If there would be another unlike thee, novel called The Three Brothers, published many years That monstrous sport of nature. But get hence, ago, from which M. G. Lewis' IVood Demon was also And gather wood! taken-and partly or. the Faust of the great Goethe. The present publication contains the two first Parts only, and the opening chorus of the third. The rest may perhaps appear hereafter.]

Thou incubus! Thou nightmare! Of seven sons
The sole abortion!

Arn.

Would that I had been so,
And never seen the light!
Bert.

I would so too!
But as thou hast—hence, hence—and do thy best!
That back of thine may bear its burden; 't is
More high, if not so broad as that of others.
Arn. It bears its burden;-but, my heart! Will it
Sustain that which you lay upon it, mother?
I love, or, at the least, I loved you: nothing
Save you, in nature, can love aught like me.
You nursed me-do not kill me!

I will: but when I bring it,
Speak to me kindly. Though my brothers are
So beautiful and lusty, and as free
As the free chase they follow, do not spurn me:
Our milk has been the same.

Bert.
As is the hedgehog's,
Which sucks at midnight from the wholesome dam
Of the young bull, until the milkmaid finds
The nipple next day sore and udder dry.
Call not thy brothers brethren! Call me not
Mother; for if I brought thee forth, it was
As foolish hens at times hatch vipers, by
Sitting upon strange eggs. Out, urchin, out

Her bidding;-wearily but willingly

I would fulfil it, could I only hope

A kind word in return. What shall I do?

[ARNOLD begins to cut wood: in doing this he
wounds one of his hands.

My labour for the day is over now.
Accursed be this blood that flows so fast;

For double curses will be my meed now

At home.-What home? I have no home, no kin,
No kind-not made like other creatures, or

To share their sports or pleasures. Must I bleed too
Like them? Oh that each drop which falls to earth
Would rise a snake to sting them, as they have stung me!
Or that the devil, to whom they liken me,
Would aid his likeness! If I must partake
His form, why not his power? Is it because
I have not his will too? For one kind word
From her who bore me would still reconcile me
Even to this hateful aspect. Let me wash
The wound.

[ARNOLD goes to a spring, and stoops to wash his
hand: he starts back.

They are right; and Nature's mirror shows me
What she hath made me. I will not look on it
Again, and scarce dare think on 't. Hideous wretch
That I am! The very waters mock me with
My horrid shadow -like a demon placed
Deep in the fountain to scare back the cattle
From drinking therein.

[He pauses.

And shall I live on,

A burden to the earth, myself, and shame
Unto what brought me into life? Thou blood,
Which flowest so freely from a scratch, let me
Try if thou wilt not in a fuller stream
Pour forth my woes for ever with thyself
On earth, to which I will restore at once
This hateful compound of her atoms, and
Resolve back to her elements, and take
The shape of any reptile save myself,
And make a world for myriads of new worms!
This knife! now let me prove if it will sever
This wither'd slip of nature's nightshade-my
Vile form-from the creation, as it hath
The green bough from the forest.

[ARNOLD places the knife in the ground, with the What all are mocking? That's poor sport, methinks. point upwards.

Now 't is set,

And I can fall upon it. Yet one glance
On the fair day, which sees no foul thing like
Myself, and the sweet sun, which warm'd me, but
In vain. The birds-how joyously they sing!
So let them, for I would not be lamented:
But let their merriest notes be Arnold's knell;
The fallen leaves my monurnent; the murmur
Of the near fountain my sole elegy
Now, knife, stand firmly, as I fain would fall!
[As he rushes to throw himself upon the knife, his
eye is suddenly caught by the fountain, which

seems in motion.

You were the demon, but that your approach Was like one.

Stran.

Unless you keep company

With him (and you seem scarce used to such high
Society) you can't tell how he approaches;
And for his aspect, look upon the fountain,
And then on me, and judge which of us twain
Look likest what the boors believe to be
Their cloven-footed terror.

Arn.
Do you dare you
To taunt me with my born deformity?

Stran. Were I to taunt a buffalo with this
Cloven foot of thine, or the swift dromedary
With thy sublime of humps, the animals
Would revel in the compliment. And yet

Both beings are more swift, more strong, more mighty In action and endurance than thyself,

To talk to thee in human language (for
Thou canst not yet speak mine) the forester
Hunts not the wretched coney, but the boar,
Or wolf, or lion, leaving paltry game

To petty burghers, who leave once a year
Their walls, to fill their household caldrons with
Such scullion prey. The meanest gibe at thee,-
Now I can mock the mightiest.

Arn.

Thy time on me: I seek thee not. Stran.

Then waste not

Your thoughts

Are not far from me. Do not send me back: I am not so easily recall'd to do

Good service.

Arn. Stran.

What wilt thou do for me?

Change

Shapes with you, if you will, since yours so irks you Or form you to your wish in any shape.

Arn. Oh! then you are indeed the demon, for Naught else would wittingly wear mine. Stran. I'll show thee The brightest which the world e'er bore, and give thee Thy choice. On what condition?

Arn. Stran.

There's a question! An hour ago you would have given your soul To look like other men, and now you pause To wear the form of heroes.

Arn.

I must not compromise my soul. Stran.

No; I will not. What soul,

Worth naming so, would dwell in such a carcass?

Arn. "T is an aspiring one, whate'er the tenement In which it is mislodged. But name your compact: Must it be sign'd in blood?

Stran.

Arn. Whose blood then? Stran.

Not in your own.

We will talk of that hereafter But I'll be moderate with you, for I see Great things within you. You shall have no bond But your own will, no contract save your deeds. Are you content?

[The Stranger approaches the fountain, and turns te ARNOLD.

A little of your blood. 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.

Stran. Shadows of beauty!

Shadows of power!
Rise to your duty-

This is the hour!

Various Phantoms arise from the waters, and pass
in succession before the Stranger and ARNOLD.
Arn. What do I see?
Stran.

The black-eyed Roman, with
The eagle's beak between those eyes which ne'er
Beheld a conqueror, or look'd along

The land he made not Rome's, while Rome became
Ilis, and all theirs who heir'd his very name.

Arn. The phantom's bald; my quest is beauty.
Could I

Inherit but his fame with his defects!

The ancient world for love.
Arn.

It was the man who lost

I cannot blame him,
Since I have risk'd my soul because I find not
That which he exchang'd the earth for.

Stran.
Since so far
You seem congenial, will you wear his features?
Arn. No. As you leave me choice, I am difficult,

Stran. His brow was girt with laurels more than If but to see the heroes I should ne'er

hairs.

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 Cæsar. Let him pass;
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' mother,
Or Cleopatra at sixteen-an age

When love is not less in the eye than heart.
But be it so! Shadow, pass on!

Arn.

Have seen else on this side of the dim shore
Whence they float back before us.
Stran.

Thy Cleopatra's waiting.

Hence, triumvir!

[The shade of Antony disappears: another rises
Arn.
Who is this?
Who truly looketh like a demigod,
Blooming and bright, with golden hair, and stature,
If not more high than mortal, yet immortal
In all that nameless bearing of his limbs,
Which he wears as the sun his rays-a something
Which shines from him, and yet is but the flashing

[The phantom of Julius Caesar disappears. Emanation of a thing more glorious still.

And can it

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.

Was he e'er human only?
Stran.

Let the earth speak,
If there be atoms of him left, or even
Of the more solid gold that form'd his urn.
Arn. Who was this glory of mankind?
Stran.

Of Greece in peace, her thunderbolt in war-
Demetrius the Macedonian, and

Taker of cities.

The shan

Stran. (addressing the shadow.) Get thee to Lamia'a lap!

[The shade of Demetrius Poliocetes vanishes:

another rises.

I'll fit you still

Fear not, my hunchback. If the shadows of That which existed please not your nice taste, I'll animate the ideal marble, till Your soul be reconciled to her new garment. Arn. Content! I will fix here. Stran. I must commend Your choice. The godlike son of the sea-goddess, The unshorn boy of Peleus, with his locks As beautiful and clear as the amber waves This is a well-known German superstition-a gigantic shadow proof rich Pactolus, roll'd o 'er sands of gold duced by reflection on the Brocken.

[The shade of Alcibiades disappears.

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The Works of Lord Byron: In Verse and Prose. Including His Letters, Journals ...