Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 5.djvu/646

606 Rocked in his cradle by the roaring wind,

The tempest-born in body and in mind,

His young eyes opening on the ocean-foam,

Had from that moment deemed the deep his home,

The giant comrade of his pensive moods,

The sharer of his craggy solitudes,

The only Mentor of his youth, where'er

His bark was borne; the sport of wave and air;

A careless thing, who placed his choice in chance,

Nursed by the legends of his land's romance;

Eager to hope, but not less firm to bear,

Acquainted with all feelings save despair.

Placed in the Arab's clime he would have been

As bold a rover as the sands have seen,

And braved their thirst with as enduring lip

As Ishmael, wafted on his Desert-Ship;

Fixed upon Chili's shore, a proud cacique;

On Hellas' mountains, a rebellious Greek;

Born in a tent, perhaps a Tamerlane;

Bred to a throne, perhaps unfit to reign.

For the same soul that rends its path to sway,

If reared to such, can find no further prey

Beyond itself, and must retrace its way,

Plunging for pleasure into pain: the same

Spirit which made a Nero, Rome's worst shame,

A humbler state and discipline of heart,

Had formed his glorious namesake's counterpart;