THE DREAM
I
Our life is twofold: Sleep hath
its own world,
A boundary between the things
misnamed
Death and existence: Sleep hath
its own world,
And a wide realm of wild
reality,
And dreams in their
developement have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and
the touch of Joy;
They leave a weight upon our
waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off our
waking toils,
They do divide our being; they
become
A portion of ourselves as of
our time,
And look like heralds of
Eternity;
They pass like spirits of the
past,—they speak
Like Sibyls of the future; they
have power—
The tyranny of pleasure and of
pain;
They make us what we were
not—what they will,
And shake us with the vision
that's gone by,
The dread of vanished
shadows—Are they so?
Is not the past all
shadow?—What are they?
Creations of the mind?—The mind
can make
Substance, and people planets
of its own
With beings brighter than have
been, and give
A breath to forms which can
outlive all flesh
I would recall a vision which I
dreamed
Perchance in sleep—for in
itself a thought,
A slumbering thought, is
capable of years,
And curdles a long life into
one hour.
II
I saw two beings in the hues of
youth
Standing upon a hill, a gentle
hill,
Green and of mild declivity,
the last
As 'twere the cape of a long
ridge of such,30
Save that there was no sea to
lave its base,
But a most living landscape,
and the wave
Of woods and cornfields, and
the abodes of men
Scattered at intervals, and
wreathing smoke
Arising from such rustic
roofs;—the hill
Was crowned with a peculiar
diadem
Of trees, in circular array, so
fixed,
Not by the sport of nature, but
of man:
These two, a maiden and a
youth, were there
Gazing—the one on all that was
beneath40
Fair as herself—but the Boy
gazed on her;
And both were young, and one
was beautiful:
And both were young—yet not
alike in youth.
As the sweet moon on the
horizon's verge,
The Maid was on the eve of
Womanhood;
The Boy had fewer summers, but
his heart
Had far outgrown his years, and
to his eye
There was but one belovéd face
on earth,
And that was shining on him: he
had looked
Upon it till it could not pass
away;50
He had no breath, no being, but
in hers;
She was his voice; he did not
speak to her,
But trembled on her words; she
was his sight,
For his eye followed hers, and
saw with hers,
Which coloured all his
objects:—he had ceased
To live within himself; she was
his life,
The ocean to the river of his
thoughts,
Which terminated all: upon a
tone,
A touch of hers, his blood
would ebb and flow,
And his cheek change
tempestuously—his heart
Unknowing of its cause of
agony.
But she in these fond feelings
had no share:
Her sighs were not for him; to
her he was
Even as a brother—but no more;
'twas much,
For brotherless she was, save
in the name
Her infant friendship had
bestowed on him;
Herself the solitary scion left
Of a time-honoured race. —It
was a name
Which pleased him, and yet
pleased him not—and why?
Time taught him a deep
answer—when she loved
Another: even now she loved
another,
And on the summit of that hill
she stood
Looking afar if yet her lover's
steed
Kept pace with her expectancy,
and flew.
III
A change came o'er the spirit
of my dream.
There was an ancient mansion,
and before
Its walls there was a steed
caparisoned:
Within an antique Oratory stood
The Boy of whom I spake;—he was
alone,
And pale, and pacing to and
fro: anon
He sate him down, and seized a
pen, and traced
Words which I could not guess
of; then he leaned
His bowed head on his hands,
and shook as 'twere
With a convulsion—then arose
again,
And with his teeth and
quivering hands did tear
What he had written, but he
shed no tears.
And he did calm himself, and
fix his brow
Into a kind of quiet: as he
paused,
The Lady of his love re-entered
there;
She was serene and smiling
then, and yet
She knew she was by him
beloved—she knew,
For quickly comes such
knowledge, that his heart
Was darkened with her shadow,
and she saw
That he was wretched, but she
saw not all.
He rose, and with a cold and
gentle grasp
He took her hand; a moment o'er
his face
A tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded,
as it came;
He dropped the hand he held,
and with slow steps
Retired, but not as bidding her
adieu,
For they did part with mutual
smiles; he passed
From out the massy gate of that
old Hall,
And mounting on his steed he
went his way;
And ne'er repassed that hoary
threshold more.
IV
A change came o'er the spirit
of my dream.
The Boy was sprung to manhood:
in the wilds
Of fiery climes he made himself
a home,
And his Soul drank their sunbeams:
he was girt
With strange and dusky aspects;
he was not
Himself like what he had been;
on the sea
And on the shore he was a
wanderer;
There was a mass of many images
Crowded like waves upon me, but
he was
A part of all; and in the last
he lay
Reposing from the noontide
sultriness,
Couched among fallen columns,
in the shade
Of ruined walls that had
survived the names
Of those who reared them; by
his sleeping side
Stood camels grazing, and some
goodly steeds
Were fastened near a fountain;
and a man
Clad in a flowing garb did
watch the while,
While many of his tribe
slumbered around:
And they were canopied by the
blue sky,
So cloucdless, clear, and
purely beautiful,
That God alone was to be seen
in Heaven.
V
A change came o'er the spirit
of my dream.
The Lady of his love was wed
with One
Who did not love her better:—in
her home,
A thousand leagues from
his,—her native home,
She dwelt, begirt with growing
Infancy,
Daughters and sons of
Beauty,—but behold!
Upon her face there was the
tint of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward
strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the
eye,
As if its lid were charged with
unshed tears.
What could her grief be?—she
had all she loved,
And he who had so loved her was
not there
To trouble with bad hopes, or
evil wish,
Or ill-repressed affliction,
her pure thoughts.
What could her grief be?—she
had loved him not,
Nor given him cause to deem
himself beloved,
Nor could he be a part of that
which preyed
Upon her mind—a spectre of the
past.
VI
A change came o'er the spirit
of my dream.
The Wanderer was returned.—I
saw him stand
Before an Altar—with a gentle
bride;
Her face was fair, but was not
that which made
The Starlight[16] of his
Boyhood;—as he stood
Even at the altar, o'er his
brow there came
The self-same aspect, and the
quivering shock
That in the antique Oratory
shook
His bosom in its solitude; and
then—
As in that hour—a moment o'er
his face
The tablet of unutterable
thoughts
Was traced,—and then it faded
as it came,
And he stood calm and quiet,
and he spoke
The fitting vows, but heard not
his own words,
And all things reeled around
him; he could see
Not that which was, nor that
which should have been—
But the old mansion, and the
accustomed hall,
And the remembered chambers,
and the place,
The day, the hour, the
sunshine, and the shade,
All things pertaining to that
place and hour
And her who was his destiny,
came back
And thrust themselves between
him and the light:
What business had they there at
such a time?
VII
A change came o'er the spirit
of my dream.
The Lady of his love;—Oh! she
was changed
As by the sickness of the soul;
her mind
Had wandered from its dwelling,
and her eyes
They had not their own lustre,
but the look
Which is not of the earth; she
was become
The Queen of a fantastic realm;
her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed
things;
And forms, impalpable and
unperceived
Of others' sight, familiar were
to hers.
And this the world calls
frenzy; but the wise
Have a far deeper madness—and
the glance
Of melancholy is a fearful
gift;
What is it but the telescope of
truth?
Which strips the distance of
its fantasies,
And brings life near in utter
nakedness,
Making the cold reality too
real!
VIII
A change came o'er the spirit
of my dream.
The Wanderer was alone as
heretofore,
The beings which surrounded him
were gone,
Or were at war with him; he was
a mark
For blight and desolation,
compassed round
With Hatred and Contention;
Pain was mixed
In all which was served up to
him, until,
Like to the Pontic monarch of
old days,
He fed on poisons, and they had
no power,
But were a kind of nutriment;
he lived
Through that which had been
death to many men,
And made him friends of
mountains: with the stars
And the quick Spirit of the
Universe
He held his dialogues; and they
did teach
To him the magic of their
mysteries;
To him the book of Night was
opened wide,
And voices from the deep abyss
revealed
A marvel and a secret—Be it so.
IX
My dream was past; it had no
further change.
It was of a strange order, that
the doom
Of these two creatures should
be thus traced out
Almost like a reality—the one
To end in madness—both in
misery.
LORD BYRON
July, 1816.
EL SUEÑO
I
Doble es la vida del mortal: el Sueño
Tiene también su misterioso mundo,
Que en los inciertos límites se extiende
De la Vida y la Muerte, o lo que ilusos
Llaman así los hombres. Él gobierna
De fantásticos seres reino mudo,
Cuyas visiones, cual nosotros, vida
Tienen y aliento y lágrimas, y agudos
Dolores sufren y placeres gozan.
Al pensamiento humano dan impulso
Ellas secreto, y a la par engendro
De nuevas sombras los azares duros
De nuestra suerte son. Nuestra existencia
Divide el vago sueño; sus obscuros
Cuadros en nuestra mente vida cobran,
Y cual heraldos mira del futuro
Sus sombras el espíritu medroso.
Del pasado recuerdos importunos
O del velado porvenir sibilas,
El alma rinden al pesado yugo
Del placer y el dolor. De su capricho
Juguete es nuestro ser, y su conjuro
Evoca los que hielan nuestra sangre
Pavorosos fantasmas del sepulcro.
¿Fingidas sombras son o ciertos seres?
¿Son también vanas sombras los confusos
Recuerdos de otra edad? ¿Son de la mente
Soñadora ilusiones? Da robusto
Aliento el alma a imaginarios seres,
Que de espléndidos orbes los augustos
Recintos pueblan, y su vida vence
De la vida del hombre el breve curso.
Yo os diré la visión que en el letargo
Mi sueño perturbó: funesto augurio
Quizás, o fiel memoria, que compendia
Luengos años en rápido minuto!
II
Dos sombras vi risueñas. Dio sus rosas
La juventud a su semblante. El musgo
Leve hollaba su pie de alta colina.
¡Colina pintoresca! En el fecundo
Llano se pierde su tendida falda,
Y de enlazada cordillera el último
Promontorio parece; mas no, inquieto,
Ruge áa sus pies el piélago iracundo:
Bello y gozoso panorama extiende
Horizonte sereno en torno suyo.
En mar de espigas y ondulantes selvas,
De desparcidas chozas viejos muros
Pardos se elevan, y sobre ellos vagan
En tenues espirales nubes de humo
Coronan la
colina añosos árboles
Que formados en círculo, sus rudos
Troncos levantan, y a su sombra inmobles
El mancebo y la virgen en profundo
Silencio miran, ella el cuadro inmenso
Que a sus pies se dilata, cual su puro
Semblante hermoso, y él la faz divina
De la doncella. Breves, mas no en número,
Son sus años iguales. Cual la luna
Que naciente destácase en el turbio
Confín del horizonte, en la alborada
Brilla la virgen de su abril fecundo.
Un niño es el doncel; mas ya su pecho
Voraz consume el fuego prematuro
De temprana pasión. La azul pupila
Del ángel, que contempla taciturno,
Su alma inflamó, que alienta sólo y vive
Para su amor. Ella es su voz: si el húmedo
Labio de rosas abre, estremecido
Su melodioso acento escucha él mudo.
Sólo por ella ve: de su mirada,
Que de celestes tintas baña el mundo,
Va su mirada en pos. Ya en sí no vive;
Vive en ella tan sólo. Cual tributo
Dan los ríos al mar, sus pensamientos
Van a morir al pensamiento que único
Consuela su alma ansiosa. Si oye el timbre
Sonoro de su voz; si al blando impulso
Del viento volador, le roza un pliegue
De su flotante falda, en hervor rudo
Su sangre late y borrascoso cambia
El color de su faz; y aún el oculto
Motivo ignora de su interna lucha.
El tierno pecho de la niña, duro
Cerrose a los afanes del mancebo.
En él mira un hermano; mas no pudo
Dar a su amor más que fraterno afecto.
Sola en la tierra, de linaje augusto
Vástago solitario, ella su amigo
Le nombra. Mas ¿por qué vago disgusto
Siente a ese nombre su infeliz amante?
A ese del corazón enigma obscuro
Respuesta el tiempo dio, ¡respuesta amarga!
¡Ella amaba también! Otro ese triunfo
Logró feliz, y en la fatal colina
Mira a lo lejos si el erial inculto
Galopando atraviesa el que anhelante
Su amador espolea noble bruto.
III
Trocáronse las sombras de mi sueño.
De altivo alcázar ante el viejo muro
Embridado corcel jinete aguarda;
Y en oratorio que al divino culto
Los siglos consagraron, solo, triste,
Pálido, pensativo, con adusto
Aspecto el mozo, el pavimento hiere
Con paso desigual. Meditabundo
Siéntase; oprime su crispada mano
La leve pluma, y rápido y convulso
Escribe, y luego entre sus manos trémulas
La frente dobla, que inclinara el mustio
Dolor, desfallecida. Y se levanta
Y el pliego que escribió rasga iracundo
Con rencor ciego, y de benigno llanto
Ni una gota bañó sus ojos turbios.
Calma aparente su inquietud esconde,
Y oye tranquilo que el umbral robusto
Huella del viejo alcázar con pie leve
La reina de su amor. Cándido y puro
Es de sus ojos el destello, y ríe
Dulce al mancebo. ¿El torcedor agudo
Que es su tormento, ignora? No; ella sabe
(El amor escondido nunca estuvo
A la más inexperta de las niñas)
Que es por él adorada, que es el núcleo
Su imagen de sus locos pensamientos,
Que es infeliz; mas ¡ay! Hasta qué punto
Dolor y amor llegaron, aún ignora.
Él se levanta y con gentil saludo
Ceremonioso a la doncella tiende
La mano, que ella oprime, y brillan súbito
Del triste mozo en la sombría frente
Lúgubres pensamientos, que en tumulto
Loco se agitan, y cual vagas sombras
Nebulosos disípanse. Confuso
Deja caer la mano de la bella,
Y cortés parte el mozo. ¿Su adiós último
Es aquel a su amada? Con sonrisa
Que apacible y serena no es augurio
De eterna despedida, se separan.
Cruza con paso rápido el obscuro
Portal; oprime osado los ijares
Del volador corcel; sin fijo rumbo
Lejos corre, y tornar ya no le vieron
Del viejo alcázar los altivos muros.
IV
Trocáronse las sombras de mi sueño.
El niño es hombre ya. Donde los rústicos
Bosques región selvática decoran,
Busca una patria, y su alma a los fecundos
Rayos del sol tranquila se despliega.
Ya no es hoy quien fue ayer: el mar sañudo,
La agreste sierra y el tendido llano
Cruzar le ven indiferente el mundo.
Múltiples perspectivas miro en torno
Y pasan y disípanse, y descubro
Siempre su imagen solitaria en ellas.
Y pasan, y por fin vano refugio
Buscar le miro del candente rayo
Que vibra vertical el sol de julio,
Los fatigados miembros extendiendo
Al pie de las columnas que el orgullo
Alzó y al nombre sobreviven rotas
Del que labró ambicioso el mármol duro.
Duerme y en torno los camellos pacen.
Cerca de claro manantial algunos
De noble raza indómitos caballos
Ligan a firme tronco dobles nudos.
Suelta al viento la túnica flotante,
Guardián de árida tez y rostro enjuto
Vela y sus toscos camaradas yacen
En rojo suelo de verdor desnudo,
Y sobre ellos dilátase el espacio
Tan sereno, tan diáfano y tan puro,
Que la sombra de Dios se transparenta
En el azul firmamento augusto.
V
Trocáronse las sombras de mi sueño.
La amada del mancebo al blando yugo
Rindió del himeneo el albedrío.
Es de su esposo apasionado culto
El idólatra amor: y lejos goza
Del desdeñado mozo, en el seguro
Asilo de su hogar felices días,
Viendo crecer cual vírgenes capullos,
Sus risueños infantes, dulces hijos
De la Hermosura. Mas ¿por qué, cual nuncio
De interna lucha y comprimido anhelo,
Su faz signo fatal nubla importuno?
¿Por qué velan sus húmedas pupilas
Los párpados caídos, cual si el turbio
Raudal del lloro contener quisieran?
¿Cuál es su interno afán? Contempla suyo
Cuanto en el mundo anhela, y del que un día
Loco la amaba, el pensamiento impuro
Y la esperanza criminal, no pueden
Ser a su honor inmaculado insulto.
¿Cuál es su interno afán? Ni ella amó nunca
Al doncel, ni a su amor inoportuno
Dio pábulo jamás. No, ser no puede
Su inocente memoria el que sañudo
En su alma herida sin piedad se ceba,
¡Buitre devorador en ella oculto!
VI
Trocáronse las sombras de mi sueño.
Ya volvió el peregrino: ante el vetusto
Altar le miro, y a su lado hermosa
Desposada gentil. Es noble orgullo
De la beldad su rostro peregrino;
Mas no es el sol que iluminó fecundo
De su infantil amor los dulces sueños.
Ante el ara sombrío y taciturno,
Luchar él siente en su oprimido pecho
Las emociones que en combate rudo
En el sacro oratorio del antiguo
Alcázar sufrió un día, y brillan súbitos
Cual brillaron entonces, en su frente
Lúgubres pensamientos que en tumulto
Loco se agitan, y cual vagas sombras
Nebulosos disípanse. Convulso
Duda; mas pronto reprimió su anhelo,
Y con sereno rostro y con seguro
Acento, dice un «sí» que niega su alma.
Y todo vago gira en torno suyo;
Templo y altar, esposa y sacerdote,
Borrarse mira, y a sus ojos turbios
El hogar aparece de su infancia
Y el del altivo alcázar viejo muro,
Y el amado aposento, el día, la hora,
La colina, las sombras del crepúsculo
Y la que estrella fue de su destino.
Y todos esos cuadros en confuso
Vaivén entre la luz y su pupila
Ruedan veloces. ¿Para qué, importuno,
La pompa turba del solemne instant
El de ya muerta edad aspecto mudo?
VII
Trocáronse las sombras de mi sueño.
La amada del doncel (¿quién la luz pudo
Así extinguir de su beldad?) la amada
Del doncel sufre la que ignora el mundo
Dolencia oculta, que emponzoña su alma.
De la razón burlando el roto yugo,
Libre vuela su espíritu, y sus ojos
Con sobrehumana luz brillan adustos.
En región tenebrosa su alma reina:
Su fantasía, lóbrego conjunto
De desacordes pensamientos, tiende
En su vaga extensión vuelo inseguro.
Locura llamó el hombre a su dolencia;
Mas ¡ay! En alma noble acerbo fruto
Es la locura del dolor. Él presta
Luz radiante y profética a los mustios
Ojos que el llanto empaña. Es la locura.
Entonces claro prisma, que desnudo
De engañadores velos el espectro
De la verdad nos muestra, y los ocultos
Arcanos revelando, brotar hace
La horrible realidad a su conjuro.
VIII
Trocáronse las sombras de mi sueño.
De nuevo el peregrino taciturno
La tierra cruza solitario, muertos
O en lucha ya con él todos los suyos.
Blanco a las flechas del dolor, en su alma
Hincaron el rencor y el odio injusto
Hierro acerado, y ponzoñosa mana
La fuente, donde el néctar libó puro
Del amor y la vida. Cual un tiempo
Del celebrado Ponto el rey astuto,
El de nocivas pócimas nutrido,
La ponzoña letal bebe seguro.
Lo que a los hombres todos muerte fuera,
Para él es vida. Escala los robustos
Peñascos, de los montes fiel amigo,
Contempla las estrellas, y el nocturno
Silencio oye las pláticas que entabla
Con el velado ser que anima al mundo.
Y le dicen los astros su secreto,
Y del cielo en los ámbitos profundos
A sus ojos la noche abre su libro,
Y la voz que habla en el abismo obscuro
Le dice, revelándole su arcano:
«¡Sé cual las sombras de mi reino mudo!»
IX
Y la visión se disipó. Y absorto
Yo la verdad del pavoroso augurio
Hoy pensador medito. ¡Ambos amantes,
Tras vida escasa de agitado curso,
Lloran, él desdichado, ella demente,
El infausto rigor de su infortunio!
Traducción de TEODORO LLORENTE
