the poem was written by the noble lord Byron (1788 - 1824)
when the moon is on the wave,
and the glow-worm in the grass,
and the meteor on the grave,
and the wisp on the morass
when the falling stars are shooting,
and the answer`d owls are hooting,
and the silent leaves are still
in the shadow of the hill,
shall my soul be upon thine,
with a power and with a sign.
though thy slumber may be deep,
yet thy spirit shall not sleep;
there are shades which will not vanish,
there are thoughts thou canst not banish,
by a power to thee unknown,
thou canst never be alone;
thou art wrapt as with a shroud,
thou art gather`d in a cloud;
and for ever shalt thou dwell
in the spirit of this spell.
though thou seest me not pass by,
thou shalt feel me with thine eye
as a thing that, though unseen,
must be near thee, and hath been;
and when in that secret dread
thou hast turn`d around thy head,
thou shalt marvel I am not
as thy shadow on the spot,
and the power which thou dost feel
shall be what thou dost feel
shall be what thou must conceal.
and a magic voice and verse
hath baptized thee with a curse;
and a spirit of the air
hath begirt thee with a snare;
in the wind there is a voice
shall forbid thee to rejoice;
and to thee shall night deny
all the quiet of her sky;
and the day shall have a sun,
which shall make thee wish it done.
from thy false tears I did distil
an essence which hath strength to kill;
from thy own heart I then did wring
the black blood in its blackest spring;
from thy own smile I snatch`d the snake,
for there it coil`d as in a brake;
from thy own smile I snatch`d the snake,
for there it coil`d as in a brake;
from thy own lip I drew the the charm
which gave all these their chiefest harm;
in proving every poison known,
I found the strongest was thine own.
by thy cold breast and serpent smile,
by thy unfathom`d gulfs of guile,
by that most seeming virtuos eye,
by thy shut soul`s hypocrisy;
by the perfection of thine art
which pass`d for human thine own heart;
by thy delight in others` pain,
and by thy brotherhood of cain,
I call upon thee! and compel
thyself to be thy proper hell!
and on thy head I pour the vial
which doth devote this trial;
nor to slumber, nor to die,
shall be in thy destiny;
though thy death shall still seem near
to thy wish, but as a fear;
lo! the spell now works around thee,
and the clankless chain hath bound thee;
o`er thy heart and brain together
hath the word been pass`d - now wither!
