The Works of Lord Byron. Vol. 5: PoetryByron, George Gordon Byron, Baron
General
The Works of Lord Byron. Vol. 5: Poetry
Byron, George Gordon Byron, Baron
English drama; English poetry
_Bel._ With worse than vacancy--
A despised monarch. Look to it, Arbaces:
I have still aided, cherished, loved, and urged you;
Was willing even to serve you, in the hope
To serve and save Assyria. Heaven itself
Seemed to consent, and all events were friendly,
Even to the last, till that your spirit shrunk
Into a shallow softness; but now, rather
Than see my country languish, I will be
Her saviour or the victim of her tyrant-- 400
Or one or both--for sometimes both are one;
And if I win--Arbaces is my servant.
_Arb._ _Your_ servant!
_Bel._ Why not? better than be slave,
The _pardoned_ slave of _she_ Sardanapalus!
_Enter_ PANIA.
_Pan._ My Lords, I bear an order from the king.
_Arb._ It is obeyed ere spoken.
_Bel._ Notwithstanding,
Let's hear it.
_Pan._ Forthwith, on this very night,
Repair to your respective satrapies
Of Babylon and Media.
_Bel._ With our troops?
_Pan._ My order is unto the Satraps and 410
Their household train.
_Arb._ But----
_Bel._ It must be obeyed:
Say, we depart.
_Pan._ My order is to see you
Depart, and not to bear your answer.
_Bel._ (_aside_). Aye[o]!
Well, Sir--we will accompany you hence.
_Pan._ I will retire to marshal forth the guard
Of honour which befits your rank, and wait
Your leisure, so that it the hour exceeds not.
[_Exit_ PANIA.
_Bel._ Now then obey!
_Arb._ Doubtless.
_Bel._ Yes, to the gates
That grate the palace, which is now our prison--
No further.
_Arb._ Thou hast harped the truth indeed! 420
The realm itself, in all its wide extension,
Yawns dungeons at each step for thee and me.
_Bel._ Graves!
_Arb._ If I thought so, this good sword should dig
One more than mine.
_Bel._ It shall have work enough.
Let me hope better than thou augurest;
At present, let us hence as best we may.
Thou dost agree with me in understanding
This order as a sentence?
_Arb._ Why, what other
Interpretation should it bear? it is
The very policy of Orient monarchs-- 430
Pardon and poison--favours and a sword--
A distant voyage, and an eternal sleep.
How many Satraps in his father's time--
For he I own is, or at least _was_, bloodless--
_Bel._ But _will_ not--_can_ not be so now.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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