BYRON. _TO HIS ACCUSERS_.
Reading edition
I.
My soul is sick of calumny and lies: Men gloat on evil—even woman’s hand Will dabble in the mire, nor heed the cries Of the poor victim whom she seeks to brand In thy sweet name, Religion, through the land! Like the keen tempest she doth strip her prey, Tossing him bare and wrecked upon the strand, While vaunting her misdeeds before the day, Bearing a monument which crumbles like the clay.
II.
My sister, have I lived to see thy name Dishonored? Thou, who wast my pride, my stay; Shall Jealousy and Fraud thy love defame And I be dumb? Just Heaven, let a ray From thy majestic light illume earth’s clay,[A] That through her I may scorch the slander vile, And light throughout the land a torch to-day, Which shall reveal how false and full of guile Are they who seek thy name, Augusta, to defile.
III.
She who has borne my title and my name, In deeds fraternal saw some monster crime; To her base level sought my heart to tame, Made mock of each aspiring thought sublime, And sought to bury me beneath the slime Of her imaginings. All—all are gone Who could defend me. From the grave of time I am unearth’d—by sland’rous miscreants torn, And rise to feel again the ills I once have borne.
IV.
Is this a Christian deed, to flaunt a vice, And with another’s failings gild your own? To hearken to the whisperings and device Of old age, selfish, to suspicion grown? To misconstrue each friendly look—each tone— And out of natural love create vile lust? Must brother’s heart his very kin disown, While rudest hand disturbs her mouldering dust? Is this a Christian deed? Shall mankind call it just?
V.
But let that pass. I hear a nation’s voice Raised to defend the absent, wronged child; My hopes and aims were high, albeit my choice Was fixed on one who felt not for my wild And wayward nature; one who never smiled On imperfection. From my home of light Unscathed, I see life’s blackening billows piled, Ready to sweep the daring soul from sight, Sinking his name and memory in darkest night.
VI.
I rise again above the woes of earth, Like unchained bird, seeking my native air. Men seldom see their fellow-creatures’ worth, But blot sweet nature’s page, however fair. Away, my soul, and seek thy nobler state, Where loving angels breathe their softest prayer, Where sweetest seraphs for thy coming wait, And ne’er suspicion’s breath can pass the Golden Gate.