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diff --git a/old/2004-02-chpl10.txt b/old/2004-02-chpl10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8360d05 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/2004-02-chpl10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6651 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, by Lord Byron +(#1 in our series by Lord Byron) + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage + +Author: Lord Byron + +Release Date: February, 2004 [EBook #5131] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on May 7, 2002] +[Most recently updated: July 28, 2006] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE *** + + + + +This eBook was produced by Les Bowler, St. Ives, Dorset. + + + + + +CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, BY LORD BYRON. + + + + +Contents + + To Ianthe + Canto the First + Canto the Second + Canto the Third + Canto the Fourth + + + +TO IANTHE. {1} + + + + Not in those climes where I have late been straying, + Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deemed, + Not in those visions to the heart displaying + Forms which it sighs but to have only dreamed, + Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seemed: + Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek + To paint those charms which varied as they beamed - + To such as see thee not my words were weak; +To those who gaze on thee, what language could they speak? + + Ah! mayst thou ever be what now thou art, + Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring, + As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, + Love's image upon earth without his wing, + And guileless beyond Hope's imagining! + And surely she who now so fondly rears + Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, + Beholds the rainbow of her future years, +Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears. + + Young Peri of the West!--'tis well for me + My years already doubly number thine; + My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, + And safely view thy ripening beauties shine: + Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline; + Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed + Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign + To those whose admiration shall succeed, +But mixed with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours decreed. + + Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle's, + Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, + Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells, + Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny + That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh, + Could I to thee be ever more than friend: + This much, dear maid, accord; nor question why + To one so young my strain I would commend, +But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend. + + Such is thy name with this my verse entwined; + And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast + On Harold's page, Ianthe's here enshrined + Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last: + My days once numbered, should this homage past + Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre + Of him who hailed thee, loveliest as thou wast, + Such is the most my memory may desire; +Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less require? + + + +CANTO THE FIRST. + + + +I. + + Oh, thou, in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth, + Muse, formed or fabled at the minstrel's will! + Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, + Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill: + Yet there I've wandered by thy vaunted rill; + Yes! sighed o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine + Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still; + Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine +To grace so plain a tale--this lowly lay of mine. + +II. + + Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, + Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight; + But spent his days in riot most uncouth, + And vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of Night. + Ah, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight, + Sore given to revel and ungodly glee; + Few earthly things found favour in his sight + Save concubines and carnal companie, +And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. + +III. + + Childe Harold was he hight: --but whence his name + And lineage long, it suits me not to say; + Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, + And had been glorious in another day: + But one sad losel soils a name for aye, + However mighty in the olden time; + Nor all that heralds rake from coffined clay, + Nor florid prose, nor honeyed lines of rhyme, +Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. + +IV. + + Childe Harold basked him in the noontide sun, + Disporting there like any other fly, + Nor deemed before his little day was done + One blast might chill him into misery. + But long ere scarce a third of his passed by, + Worse than adversity the Childe befell; + He felt the fulness of satiety: + Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, +Which seemed to him more lone than eremite's sad cell. + +V. + + For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run, + Nor made atonement when he did amiss, + Had sighed to many, though he loved but one, + And that loved one, alas, could ne'er be his. + Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kiss + Had been pollution unto aught so chaste; + Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, + And spoiled her goodly lands to gild his waste, +Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to taste. + +VI. + + And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, + And from his fellow bacchanals would flee; + 'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start, + But pride congealed the drop within his e'e: + Apart he stalked in joyless reverie, + And from his native land resolved to go, + And visit scorching climes beyond the sea; + With pleasure drugged, he almost longed for woe, +And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below. + +VII. + + The Childe departed from his father's hall; + It was a vast and venerable pile; + So old, it seemed only not to fall, + Yet strength was pillared in each massy aisle. + Monastic dome! condemned to uses vile! + Where superstition once had made her den, + Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile; + And monks might deem their time was come agen, +If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men. + +VIII. + + Yet ofttimes in his maddest mirthful mood, + Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow, + As if the memory of some deadly feud + Or disappointed passion lurked below: + But this none knew, nor haply cared to know; + For his was not that open, artless soul + That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow; + Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, +Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control. + +IX. + + And none did love him: though to hall and bower + He gathered revellers from far and near, + He knew them flatterers of the festal hour; + The heartless parasites of present cheer. + Yea, none did love him--not his lemans dear - + But pomp and power alone are woman's care, + And where these are light Eros finds a feere; + Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, +And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair. + +X. + + Childe Harold had a mother--not forgot, + Though parting from that mother he did shun; + A sister whom he loved, but saw her not + Before his weary pilgrimage begun: + If friends he had, he bade adieu to none. + Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel; + Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon + A few dear objects, will in sadness feel +Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal. + +XI. + + His house, his home, his heritage, his lands, + The laughing dames in whom he did delight, + Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands, + Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, + And long had fed his youthful appetite; + His goblets brimmed with every costly wine, + And all that mote to luxury invite, + Without a sigh he left to cross the brine, +And traverse Paynim shores, and pass earth's central line. + +XII. + + The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew + As glad to waft him from his native home; + And fast the white rocks faded from his view, + And soon were lost in circumambient foam; + And then, it may be, of his wish to roam + Repented he, but in his bosom slept + The silent thought, nor from his lips did come + One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept, +And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept. + +XIII. + + But when the sun was sinking in the sea, + He seized his harp, which he at times could string, + And strike, albeit with untaught melody, + When deemed he no strange ear was listening: + And now his fingers o'er it he did fling, + And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight, + While flew the vessel on her snowy wing, + And fleeting shores receded from his sight, +Thus to the elements he poured his last 'Good Night.' + +Adieu, adieu! my native shore + Fades o'er the waters blue; +The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, + And shrieks the wild sea-mew. +Yon sun that sets upon the sea + We follow in his flight; +Farewell awhile to him and thee, + My Native Land--Good Night! + +A few short hours, and he will rise + To give the morrow birth; +And I shall hail the main and skies, + But not my mother earth. +Deserted is my own good hall, + Its hearth is desolate; +Wild weeds are gathering on the wall, + My dog howls at the gate. + +'Come hither, hither, my little page: + Why dost thou weep and wail? +Or dost thou dread the billow's rage, + Or tremble at the gale? +But dash the tear-drop from thine eye, + Our ship is swift and strong; +Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly + More merrily along.' + +'Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, + I fear not wave nor wind; +Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I + Am sorrowful in mind; +For I have from my father gone, + A mother whom I love, +And have no friend, save these alone, + But thee--and One above. + +'My father blessed me fervently, + Yet did not much complain; +But sorely will my mother sigh + Till I come back again.' - +'Enough, enough, my little lad! + Such tears become thine eye; +If I thy guileless bosom had, + Mine own would not be dry. + +'Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, + Why dost thou look so pale? +Or dost thou dread a French foeman, + Or shiver at the gale?' - +'Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? + Sir Childe, I'm not so weak; +But thinking on an absent wife + Will blanch a faithful cheek. + +'My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, + Along the bordering lake; +And when they on their father call, + What answer shall she make?' - +'Enough, enough, my yeoman good, + Thy grief let none gainsay; +But I, who am of lighter mood, + Will laugh to flee away.' + +For who would trust the seeming sighs + Of wife or paramour? +Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes + We late saw streaming o'er. +For pleasures past I do not grieve, + Nor perils gathering near; +My greatest grief is that I leave + No thing that claims a tear. + +And now I'm in the world alone, + Upon the wide, wide sea; +But why should I for others groan, + When none will sigh for me? +Perchance my dog will whine in vain + Till fed by stranger hands; +But long ere I come back again + He'd tear me where he stands. + +With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go + Athwart the foaming brine; +Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, + So not again to mine. +Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves! + And when you fail my sight, +Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves! + My Native Land--Good Night! + +XIV. + + On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, + And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay. + Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon, + New shores descried make every bosom gay; + And Cintra's mountain greets them on their way, + And Tagus dashing onward to the deep, + His fabled golden tribute bent to pay; + And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap, +And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap. + +XV. + + Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see + What Heaven hath done for this delicious land! + What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree! + What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand! + But man would mar them with an impious hand: + And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge + 'Gainst those who most transgress his high command, + With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge +Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge. + +XVI. + + What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold! + Her image floating on that noble tide, + Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, + But now whereon a thousand keels did ride + Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied, + And to the Lusians did her aid afford + A nation swoll'n with ignorance and pride, + Who lick, yet loathe, the hand that waves the sword. +To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing lord. + +XVII. + + But whoso entereth within this town, + That, sheening far, celestial seems to be, + Disconsolate will wander up and down, + Mid many things unsightly to strange e'e; + For hut and palace show like filthily; + The dingy denizens are reared in dirt; + No personage of high or mean degree + Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt, +Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, unwashed, unhurt. + +XVIII. + + Poor, paltry slaves! yet born midst noblest scenes - + Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men? + Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes + In variegated maze of mount and glen. + Ah me! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, + To follow half on which the eye dilates + Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken + Than those whereof such things the bard relates, +Who to the awe-struck world unlocked Elysium's gates? + +XIX. + + The horrid crags, by toppling convent crowned, + The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep, + The mountain moss by scorching skies imbrowned, + The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep, + The tender azure of the unruffled deep, + The orange tints that gild the greenest bough, + The torrents that from cliff to valley leap, + The vine on high, the willow branch below, +Mixed in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow. + +XX. + + Then slowly climb the many-winding way, + And frequent turn to linger as you go, + From loftier rocks new loveliness survey, + And rest ye at 'Our Lady's House of Woe;' + Where frugal monks their little relics show, + And sundry legends to the stranger tell: + Here impious men have punished been; and lo, + Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell, +In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell. + +XXI. + + And here and there, as up the crags you spring, + Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path; + Yet deem not these devotion's offering - + These are memorials frail of murderous wrath; + For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath + Poured forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife, + Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath; + And grove and glen with thousand such are rife +Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life! + +XXII. + + On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, + Are domes where whilom kings did make repair; + But now the wild flowers round them only breathe: + Yet ruined splendour still is lingering there. + And yonder towers the prince's palace fair: + There thou, too, Vathek! England's wealthiest son, + Once formed thy Paradise, as not aware + When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done, +Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun. + +XXIII. + + Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure plan. + Beneath yon mountain's ever beauteous brow; + But now, as if a thing unblest by man, + Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou! + Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow + To halls deserted, portals gaping wide; + Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how + Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied; +Swept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentle tide. + +XXIV. + + Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened! + Oh! dome displeasing unto British eye! + With diadem hight foolscap, lo! a fiend, + A little fiend that scoffs incessantly, + There sits in parchment robe arrayed, and by + His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, + Where blazoned glare names known to chivalry, + And sundry signatures adorn the roll, +Whereat the urchin points, and laughs with all his soul. + +XXV. + + Convention is the dwarfish demon styled + That foiled the knights in Marialva's dome: + Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, + And turned a nation's shallow joy to gloom. + Here Folly dashed to earth the victor's plume, + And Policy regained what Arms had lost: + For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom! + Woe to the conquering, not the conquered host, +Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's coast. + +XXVI. + + And ever since that martial synod met, + Britannia sickens, Cintra, at thy name; + And folks in office at the mention fret, + And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame. + How will posterity the deed proclaim! + Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer, + To view these champions cheated of their fame, + By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here, +Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming year? + +XXVII. + + So deemed the Childe, as o'er the mountains he + Did take his way in solitary guise: + Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee, + More restless than the swallow in the skies: + Though here awhile he learned to moralise, + For Meditation fixed at times on him, + And conscious Reason whispered to despise + His early youth misspent in maddest whim; +But as he gazed on Truth, his aching eyes grew dim. + +XXVIII. + + To horse! to horse! he quits, for ever quits + A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul: + Again he rouses from his moping fits, + But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl. + Onward he flies, nor fixed as yet the goal + Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage; + And o'er him many changing scenes must roll, + Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage, +Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage. + +XXIX. + + Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay, + Where dwelt of yore the Lusians' luckless queen; + And church and court did mingle their array, + And mass and revel were alternate seen; + Lordlings and freres--ill-sorted fry, I ween! + But here the Babylonian whore had built + A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen, + That men forget the blood which she hath spilt, +And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to garnish guilt. + +XXX. + + O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, + (Oh that such hills upheld a free-born race!) + Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, + Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place. + Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, + And marvel men should quit their easy chair, + The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace. + Oh, there is sweetness in the mountain air +And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share. + +XXXI. + + More bleak to view the hills at length recede, + And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend: + Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed! + Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, + Spain's realms appear, whereon her shepherds tend + Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader knows - + Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend: + For Spain is compassed by unyielding foes, +And all must shield their all, or share Subjection's woes. + +XXXII. + + Where Lusitania and her Sister meet, + Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide? + Or e'er the jealous queens of nations greet, + Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide? + Or dark sierras rise in craggy pride? + Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall? - + Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, + Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall +Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land from Gaul + +XXXIII. + + But these between a silver streamlet glides, + And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook, + Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides. + Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook, + And vacant on the rippling waves doth look, + That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow: + For proud each peasant as the noblest duke: + Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know +'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low. + +XXXIV. + + But ere the mingling bounds have far been passed, + Dark Guadiana rolls his power along + In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, + So noted ancient roundelays among. + Whilome upon his banks did legions throng + Of Moor and Knight, in mailed splendour drest; + Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the strong; + The Paynim turban and the Christian crest +Mixed on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppressed. + +XXXV. + + Oh, lovely Spain! renowned, romantic land! + Where is that standard which Pelagio bore, + When Cava's traitor-sire first called the band + That dyed thy mountain-streams with Gothic gore? + Where are those bloody banners which of yore + Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale, + And drove at last the spoilers to their shore? + Red gleamed the cross, and waned the crescent pale, +While Afric's echoes thrilled with Moorish matrons' wail. + +XXXVI. + + Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale? + Ah! such, alas, the hero's amplest fate! + When granite moulders and when records fail, + A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. + Pride! bend thine eye from heaven to thine estate, + See how the mighty shrink into a song! + Can volume, pillar, pile, preserve thee great? + Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue, +When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does thee wrong? + +XXXVII. + + Awake, ye sons of Spain! awake! advance + Lo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries, + But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance, + Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies: + Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies, + And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar! + In every peal she calls--'Awake! arise!' + Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, +When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore? + +XXXVIII. + + Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note? + Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath? + Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote; + Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath + Tyrants and tyrants' slaves?--the fires of death, + The bale-fires flash on high: --from rock to rock + Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe: + Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, +Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. + +XXXIX. + + Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands, + His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun, + With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, + And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon; + Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon + Flashing afar,--and at his iron feet + Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done; + For on this morn three potent nations meet, +To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet. + +XL. + + By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see + (For one who hath no friend, no brother there) + Their rival scarfs of mixed embroidery, + Their various arms that glitter in the air! + What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair, + And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey! + All join the chase, but few the triumph share: + The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, +And Havoc scarce for joy can cumber their array. + +XLI. + + Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice; + Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high; + Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies. + The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory! + The foe, the victim, and the fond ally + That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, + Are met--as if at home they could not die - + To feed the crow on Talavera's plain, +And fertilise the field that each pretends to gain. + +XLII. + + There shall they rot--Ambition's honoured fools! + Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay! + Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools, + The broken tools, that tyrants cast away + By myriads, when they dare to pave their way + With human hearts--to what?--a dream alone. + Can despots compass aught that hails their sway? + Or call with truth one span of earth their own, +Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone? + +XLIII. + + O Albuera, glorious field of grief! + As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim pricked his steed, + Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, + A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed. + Peace to the perished! may the warrior's meed + And tears of triumph their reward prolong! + Till others fall where other chieftains lead, + Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, +And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song. + +XLIV. + + Enough of Battle's minions! let them play + Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame: + Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay, + Though thousands fall to deck some single name. + In sooth, 'twere sad to thwart their noble aim + Who strike, blest hirelings! for their country's good, + And die, that living might have proved her shame; + Perished, perchance, in some domestic feud, +Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursued. + +XLV. + + Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way + Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued: + Yet is she free--the spoiler's wished-for prey! + Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude, + Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude. + Inevitable hour! 'Gainst fate to strive + Where Desolation plants her famished brood + Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre, might yet survive, +And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive. + +XLVI. + + But all unconscious of the coming doom, + The feast, the song, the revel here abounds; + Strange modes of merriment the hours consume, + Nor bleed these patriots with their country's wounds; + Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck sounds; + Here Folly still his votaries enthralls, + And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds: + Girt with the silent crimes of capitals, +Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tottering walls. + +XLVII. + + Not so the rustic: with his trembling mate + He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar, + Lest he should view his vineyard desolate, + Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. + No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star + Fandango twirls his jocund castanet: + Ah, monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, + Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret; +The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy yet. + +XLVIII. + + How carols now the lusty muleteer? + Of love, romance, devotion is his lay, + As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, + His quick bells wildly jingling on the way? + No! as he speeds, he chants 'Viva el Rey!' + And checks his song to execrate Godoy, + The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day + When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy, +And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate joy. + +XLIX. + + On yon long level plain, at distance crowned + With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest, + Wide scattered hoof-marks dint the wounded ground; + And, scathed by fire, the greensward's darkened vest + Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest: + Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host, + Here the brave peasant stormed the dragon's nest; + Still does he mark it with triumphant boast, +And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost. + +L. + + And whomsoe'er along the path you meet + Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, + Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet: + Woe to the man that walks in public view + Without of loyalty this token true: + Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke; + And sorely would the Gallic foemen rue, + If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloak, +Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's smoke. + +LI. + + At every turn Morena's dusky height + Sustains aloft the battery's iron load; + And, far as mortal eye can compass sight, + The mountain-howitzer, the broken road, + The bristling palisade, the fosse o'erflowed, + The stationed bands, the never-vacant watch, + The magazine in rocky durance stowed, + The holstered steed beneath the shed of thatch, +The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match, + +LII. + + Portend the deeds to come: --but he whose nod + Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway, + A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod; + A little moment deigneth to delay: + Soon will his legions sweep through these the way; + The West must own the Scourger of the world. + Ah, Spain! how sad will be thy reckoning day, + When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings unfurled, +And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurled. + +LIII. + + And must they fall--the young, the proud, the brave - + To swell one bloated chief's unwholesome reign? + No step between submission and a grave? + The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain? + And doth the Power that man adores ordain + Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal? + Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain? + And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal, +The veteran's skill, youth's fire, and manhood's heart of steel? + +LIV. + + Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, + Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, + And, all unsexed, the anlace hath espoused, + Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war? + And she, whom once the semblance of a scar + Appalled, an owlet's larum chilled with dread, + Now views the column-scattering bayonet jar, + The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead +Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to tread. + +LV. + + Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, + Oh! had you known her in her softer hour, + Marked her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil, + Heard her light, lively tones in lady's bower, + Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, + Her fairy form, with more than female grace, + Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower + Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face, +Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chase. + +LVI. + + Her lover sinks--she sheds no ill-timed tear; + Her chief is slain--she fills his fatal post; + Her fellows flee--she checks their base career; + The foe retires--she heads the sallying host: + Who can appease like her a lover's ghost? + Who can avenge so well a leader's fall? + What maid retrieve when man's flushed hope is lost? + Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, +Foiled by a woman's hand, before a battered wall? + +LVII. + + Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, + But formed for all the witching arts of love: + Though thus in arms they emulate her sons, + And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, + 'Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove, + Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate: + In softness as in firmness far above + Remoter females, famed for sickening prate; +Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great. + +LVIII. + + The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impressed + Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch: + Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest, + Bid man be valiant ere he merit such: + Her glance, how wildly beautiful! how much + Hath Phoebus wooed in vain to spoil her cheek + Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch! + Who round the North for paler dames would seek? +How poor their forms appear? how languid, wan, and weak! + +LIX. + + Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud; + Match me, ye harems! of the land where now + I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud + Beauties that even a cynic must avow! + Match me those houris, whom ye scarce allow + To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind, + With Spain's dark-glancing daughters--deign to know, + There your wise Prophet's paradise we find, +His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind. + +LX. + + O thou, Parnassus! whom I now survey, + Not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye, + Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, + But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, + In the wild pomp of mountain majesty! + What marvel if I thus essay to sing? + The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by + Would gladly woo thine echoes with his string, +Though from thy heights no more one muse will wave her wing. + +LXI. + + Oft have I dreamed of thee! whose glorious name + Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore: + And now I view thee, 'tis, alas, with shame + That I in feeblest accents must adore. + When I recount thy worshippers of yore + I tremble, and can only bend the knee; + Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, + But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy +In silent joy to think at last I look on thee! + +LXII. + + Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, + Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot, + Shall I unmoved behold the hallowed scene, + Which others rave of, though they know it not? + Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot, + And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave, + Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot, + Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave, +And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave. + +LXIII. + + Of thee hereafter.--Even amidst my strain + I turned aside to pay my homage here; + Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain; + Her fate, to every free-born bosom dear; + And hailed thee, not perchance without a tear. + Now to my theme--but from thy holy haunt + Let me some remnant, some memorial bear; + Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant, +Nor let thy votary's hope be deemed an idle vaunt. + +LXIV. + + But ne'er didst thou, fair mount, when Greece was young, + See round thy giant base a brighter choir; + Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung + The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire, + Behold a train more fitting to inspire + The song of love than Andalusia's maids, + Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire: + Ah! that to these were given such peaceful shades +As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her glades. + +LXV. + + Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast + Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days, + But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, + Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. + Ah, Vice! how soft are thy voluptuous ways! + While boyish blood is mantling, who can 'scape + The fascination of thy magic gaze? + A cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, +And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape. + +LXVI. + + When Paphos fell by Time--accursed Time! + The Queen who conquers all must yield to thee - + The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime; + And Venus, constant to her native sea, + To nought else constant, hither deigned to flee, + And fixed her shrine within these walls of white; + Though not to one dome circumscribeth she + Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, +A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright. + +LXVII. + + From morn till night, from night till startled morn + Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew, + The song is heard, the rosy garland worn; + Devices quaint, and frolics ever new, + Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu + He bids to sober joy that here sojourns: + Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu + Of true devotion monkish incense burns, +And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns. + +LXVIII. + + The sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest; + What hallows it upon this Christian shore? + Lo! it is sacred to a solemn feast: + Hark! heard you not the forest monarch's roar? + Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore + Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn: + The thronged arena shakes with shouts for more; + Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn, +Nor shrinks the female eye, nor e'en affects to mourn. + +LXIX. + + The seventh day this; the jubilee of man. + London! right well thou know'st the day of prayer: + Then thy spruce citizen, washed artizan, + And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air: + Thy coach of hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair, + And humblest gig, through sundry suburbs whirl; + To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make repair; + Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl, +Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl. + +LXX. + + Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribboned fair, + Others along the safer turnpike fly; + Some Richmond Hill ascend, some scud to Ware, + And many to the steep of Highgate hie. + Ask ye, Boeotian shades, the reason why? + 'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn, + Grasped in the holy hand of Mystery, + In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn, +And consecrate the oath with draught and dance till morn. + +LXXI. + + All have their fooleries; not alike are thine, + Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea! + Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine, + Thy saint adorers count the rosary: + Much is the Virgin teased to shrive them free + (Well do I ween the only virgin there) + From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be; + Then to the crowded circus forth they fare: +Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share. + +LXXII. + + The lists are oped, the spacious area cleared, + Thousands on thousands piled are seated round; + Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard, + No vacant space for lated wight is found: + Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound, + Skilled in the ogle of a roguish eye, + Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound; + None through their cold disdain are doomed to die, +As moon-struck bards complain, by Love's sad archery. + +LXXIII. + + Hushed is the din of tongues--on gallant steeds, + With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised lance, + Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, + And lowly bending to the lists advance; + Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance: + If in the dangerous game they shine to-day, + The crowd's loud shout, and ladies' lovely glance, + Best prize of better acts, they bear away, +And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay. + +LXXIV. + + In costly sheen and gaudy cloak arrayed, + But all afoot, the light-limbed matadore + Stands in the centre, eager to invade + The lord of lowing herds; but not before + The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er, + Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed: + His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more + Can man achieve without the friendly steed - +Alas! too oft condemned for him to bear and bleed. + +LXXV. + + Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls, + The den expands, and expectation mute + Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. + Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute, + And wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot, + The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe: + Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit + His first attack, wide waving to and fro +His angry tail; red rolls his eye's dilated glow. + +LXXVI. + + Sudden he stops; his eye is fixed: away, + Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear; + Now is thy time to perish, or display + The skill that yet may check his mad career. + With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer; + On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes; + Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear: + He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes: +Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellowings speak his woes. + +LXXVII. + + Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail, + Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse; + Though man and man's avenging arms assail, + Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. + One gallant steed is stretched a mangled corse; + Another, hideous sight! unseamed appears, + His gory chest unveils life's panting source; + Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears; +Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharmed he bears. + +LXXVIII. + + Foiled, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, + Full in the centre stands the bull at bay, + Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast, + And foes disabled in the brutal fray: + And now the matadores around him play, + Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand: + Once more through all he bursts his thundering way - + Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand, +Wraps his fierce eye--'tis past--he sinks upon the sand. + +LXXIX. + + Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine, + Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies. + He stops--he starts--disdaining to decline: + Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries, + Without a groan, without a struggle dies. + The decorated car appears on high: + The corse is piled--sweet sight for vulgar eyes; + Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, +Hurl the dark bull along, scarce seen in dashing by. + +LXXX. + + Such the ungentle sport that oft invites + The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain: + Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights + In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. + What private feuds the troubled village stain! + Though now one phalanxed host should meet the foe, + Enough, alas, in humble homes remain, + To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow, +For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm stream must flow. + +LXXXI. + + But Jealousy has fled: his bars, his bolts, + His withered sentinel, duenna sage! + And all whereat the generous soul revolts, + Which the stern dotard deemed he could encage, + Have passed to darkness with the vanished age. + Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen + (Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage), + With braided tresses bounding o'er the green, +While on the gay dance shone Night's lover-loving Queen? + +LXXXII. + + Oh! many a time and oft had Harold loved, + Or dreamed he loved, since rapture is a dream; + But now his wayward bosom was unmoved, + For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream: + And lately had he learned with truth to deem + Love has no gift so grateful as his wings: + How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem, + Full from the fount of joy's delicious springs +Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings. + +LXXXIII. + + Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind, + Though now it moved him as it moves the wise; + Not that Philosophy on such a mind + E'er deigned to bend her chastely-awful eyes: + But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies; + And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb, + Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise: + Pleasure's palled victim! life-abhorring gloom +Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting doom. + +LXXXIV. + + Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng; + But viewed them not with misanthropic hate; + Fain would he now have joined the dance, the song, + But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate? + Nought that he saw his sadness could abate: + Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's sway, + And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sate, + Poured forth this unpremeditated lay, +To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier day. + + +TO INEZ. + + +Nay, smile not at my sullen brow, + Alas! I cannot smile again: +Yet Heaven avert that ever thou + Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. + +And dost thou ask what secret woe + I bear, corroding joy and youth? +And wilt thou vainly seek to know + A pang even thou must fail to soothe? + +It is not love, it is not hate, + Nor low Ambition's honours lost, +That bids me loathe my present state, + And fly from all I prized the most: + +It is that weariness which springs + From all I meet, or hear, or see: +To me no pleasure Beauty brings; + Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. + +It is that settled, ceaseless gloom + The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore, +That will not look beyond the tomb, + But cannot hope for rest before. + +What exile from himself can flee? + To zones, though more and more remote, +Still, still pursues, where'er I be, + The blight of life--the demon Thought. + +Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, + And taste of all that I forsake: +Oh! may they still of transport dream, + And ne'er, at least like me, awake! + +Through many a clime 'tis mine to go, + With many a retrospection curst; +And all my solace is to know, + Whate'er betides, I've known the worst. + +What is that worst? Nay, do not ask - + In pity from the search forbear: +Smile on--nor venture to unmask + Man's heart, and view the hell that's there. + +LXXXV. + + Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu! + Who may forget how well thy walls have stood? + When all were changing, thou alone wert true, + First to be free, and last to be subdued. + And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude, + Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye, + A traitor only fell beneath the feud: + Here all were noble, save nobility; +None hugged a conqueror's chain save fallen Chivalry! + +LXXXVI. + + Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate! + They fight for freedom, who were never free; + A kingless people for a nerveless state, + Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee, + True to the veriest slaves of Treachery; + Fond of a land which gave them nought but life, + Pride points the path that leads to liberty; + Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, +War, war is still the cry, 'War even to the knife!' + +LXXXVII. + + Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, + Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife: + Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on foreign foe + Can act, is acting there against man's life: + From flashing scimitar to secret knife, + War mouldeth there each weapon to his need - + So may he guard the sister and the wife, + So may he make each curst oppressor bleed, +So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed! + +LXXXVIII. + + Flows there a tear of pity for the dead? + Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain: + Look on the hands with female slaughter red; + Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain, + Then to the vulture let each corse remain; + Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw, + Let their bleached bones, and blood's unbleaching stain, + Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe: +Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw! + +LXXXIX. + + Nor yet, alas, the dreadful work is done; + Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees: + It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, + Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. + Fall'n nations gaze on Spain: if freed, she frees + More than her fell Pizarros once enchained. + Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease + Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustained, +While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder unrestrained. + +XC. + + Not all the blood at Talavera shed, + Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight, + Not Albuera lavish of the dead, + Have won for Spain her well-asserted right. + When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight? + When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil? + How many a doubtful day shall sink in night, + Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil, +And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil? + +XCI. + + And thou, my friend! since unavailing woe + Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain - + Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low, + Pride might forbid e'en Friendship to complain: + But thus unlaurelled to descend in vain, + By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, + And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, + While glory crowns so many a meaner crest! +What hadst thou done, to sink so peacefully to rest? + +XCII. + + Oh, known the earliest, and esteemed the most! + Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear! + Though to my hopeless days for ever lost, + In dreams deny me not to see thee here! + And Morn in secret shall renew the tear + Of Consciousness awaking to her woes, + And Fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier, + Till my frail frame return to whence it rose, +And mourned and mourner lie united in repose. + +XCIII. + + Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage. + Ye who of him may further seek to know, + Shall find some tidings in a future page, + If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe. + Is this too much? Stern critic, say not so: + Patience! and ye shall hear what he beheld + In other lands, where he was doomed to go: + Lands that contain the monuments of eld, +Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were quelled. + + + +CANTO THE SECOND. + + + +I. + + Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven!--but thou, alas, + Didst never yet one mortal song inspire - + Goddess of Wisdom! here thy temple was, + And is, despite of war and wasting fire, + And years, that bade thy worship to expire: + But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, + Is the drear sceptre and dominion dire + Of men who never felt the sacred glow +That thoughts of thee and thine on polished breasts bestow. + +II. + + Ancient of days! august Athena! where, + Where are thy men of might, thy grand in soul? + Gone--glimmering through the dream of things that were: + First in the race that led to Glory's goal, + They won, and passed away--is this the whole? + A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour! + The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole + Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower, +Dim with the mist of years, grey flits the shade of power. + +III. + + Son of the morning, rise! approach you here! + Come--but molest not yon defenceless urn! + Look on this spot--a nation's sepulchre! + Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn. + E'en gods must yield--religions take their turn: + 'Twas Jove's--'tis Mahomet's; and other creeds + Will rise with other years, till man shall learn + Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds; +Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on reeds. + +IV. + + Bound to the earth, he lifts his eyes to heaven - + Is't not enough, unhappy thing, to know + Thou art? Is this a boon so kindly given, + That being, thou wouldst be again, and go, + Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what region, so + On earth no more, but mingled with the skies! + Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe? + Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies: +That little urn saith more than thousand homilies. + +V. + + Or burst the vanished hero's lofty mound; + Far on the solitary shore he sleeps; + He fell, and falling nations mourned around; + But now not one of saddening thousands weeps, + Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps + Where demi-gods appeared, as records tell. + Remove yon skull from out the scattered heaps: + Is that a temple where a God may dwell? +Why, e'en the worm at last disdains her shattered cell! + +VI. + + Look on its broken arch, its ruined wall, + Its chambers desolate, and portals foul: + Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall, + The dome of Thought, the Palace of the Soul. + Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, + The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit, + And Passion's host, that never brooked control: + Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, +People this lonely tower, this tenement refit? + +VII. + + Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son! + 'All that we know is, nothing can be known.' + Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun? + Each hath its pang, but feeble sufferers groan + With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. + Pursue what chance or fate proclaimeth best; + Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron: + There no forced banquet claims the sated guest, +But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest. + +VIII. + + Yet if, as holiest men have deemed, there be + A land of souls beyond that sable shore, + To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee + And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore; + How sweet it were in concert to adore + With those who made our mortal labours light! + To hear each voice we feared to hear no more! + Behold each mighty shade revealed to sight, +The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right! + +IX. + + There, thou!--whose love and life together fled, + Have left me here to love and live in vain - + Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead, + When busy memory flashes on my brain? + Well--I will dream that we may meet again, + And woo the vision to my vacant breast: + If aught of young Remembrance then remain, + Be as it may Futurity's behest, +For me 'twere bliss enough to know thy spirit blest! + +X. + + Here let me sit upon this mossy stone, + The marble column's yet unshaken base! + Here, son of Saturn, was thy favourite throne! + Mightiest of many such! Hence let me trace + The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place. + It may not be: nor even can Fancy's eye + Restore what time hath laboured to deface. + Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh; +Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by. + +XI. + + But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane + On high, where Pallas lingered, loth to flee + The latest relic of her ancient reign - + The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he? + Blush, Caledonia! such thy son could be! + England! I joy no child he was of thine: + Thy free-born men should spare what once was free; + Yet they could violate each saddening shrine, +And bear these altars o'er the long reluctant brine. + +XII. + + But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast, + To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath spared: + Cold as the crags upon his native coast, + His mind as barren and his heart as hard, + Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prepared, + Aught to displace Athena's poor remains: + Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard, + Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains, +And never knew, till then, the weight of Despot's chains. + +XIII. + + What! shall it e'er be said by British tongue + Albion was happy in Athena's tears? + Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung, + Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears; + The ocean queen, the free Britannia, bears + The last poor plunder from a bleeding land: + Yes, she, whose generous aid her name endears, + Tore down those remnants with a harpy's hand. +Which envious eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand. + +XIV. + + Where was thine aegis, Pallas, that appalled + Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way? + Where Peleus' son? whom Hell in vain enthralled, + His shade from Hades upon that dread day + Bursting to light in terrible array! + What! could not Pluto spare the chief once more, + To scare a second robber from his prey? + Idly he wandered on the Stygian shore, +Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before. + +XV. + + Cold is the heart, fair Greece, that looks on thee, + Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved; + Dull is the eye that will not weep to see + Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed + By British hands, which it had best behoved + To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. + Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved, + And once again thy hapless bosom gored, +And snatched thy shrinking gods to northern climes abhorred! + +XVI. + + But where is Harold? shall I then forget + To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave? + Little recked he of all that men regret; + No loved one now in feigned lament could rave; + No friend the parting hand extended gave, + Ere the cold stranger passed to other climes. + Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave; + But Harold felt not as in other times, +And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes. + +XVII. + + He that has sailed upon the dark blue sea, + Has viewed at times, I ween, a full fair sight; + When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be, + The white sails set, the gallant frigate tight, + Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right, + The glorious main expanding o'er the bow, + The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight, + The dullest sailer wearing bravely now, +So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow. + +XVIII. + + And oh, the little warlike world within! + The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy, + The hoarse command, the busy humming din, + When, at a word, the tops are manned on high: + Hark to the boatswain's call, the cheering cry, + While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides + Or schoolboy midshipman that, standing by, + Strains his shrill pipe, as good or ill betides, +And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides. + +XIX. + + White is the glassy deck, without a stain, + Where on the watch the staid lieutenant walks: + Look on that part which sacred doth remain + For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks, + Silent and feared by all: not oft he talks + With aught beneath him, if he would preserve + That strict restraint, which broken, ever baulks + Conquest and Fame: but Britons rarely swerve +From law, however stern, which tends their strength to nerve. + +XX. + + Blow, swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale, + Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray; + Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail, + That lagging barks may make their lazy way. + Ah! grievance sore, and listless dull delay, + To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze! + What leagues are lost before the dawn of day, + Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, +The flapping sails hauled down to halt for logs like these! + +XXI. + + The moon is up; by Heaven, a lovely eve! + Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand! + Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe: + Such be our fate when we return to land! + Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand + Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love: + A circle there of merry listeners stand, + Or to some well-known measure featly move, +Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove. + +XXII. + + Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore; + Europe and Afric, on each other gaze! + Lands of the dark-eyed maid and dusky Moor, + Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze: + How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, + Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown, + Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase: + But Mauritania's giant-shadows frown, +From mountain-cliff to coast descending sombre down. + +XXIII. + + 'Tis night, when Meditation bids us feel + We once have loved, though love is at an end: + The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal, + Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend. + Who with the weight of years would wish to bend, + When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy? + Alas! when mingling souls forget to blend, + Death hath but little left him to destroy! +Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy? + +XXIV. + + Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side, + To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere, + The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride, + And flies unconscious o'er each backward year. + None are so desolate but something dear, + Dearer than self, possesses or possessed + A thought, and claims the homage of a tear; + A flashing pang! of which the weary breast +Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest. + +XXV. + + To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, + To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, + Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, + And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been; + To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, + With the wild flock that never needs a fold; + Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean: + This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold +Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled. + +XXVI. + + But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, + To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, + And roam along, the world's tired denizen, + With none who bless us, none whom we can bless; + Minions of splendour shrinking from distress! + None that, with kindred consciousness endued, + If we were not, would seem to smile the less + Of all that flattered, followed, sought, and sued: +This is to be alone; this, this is solitude! + +XXVII. + + More blest the life of godly eremite, + Such as on lonely Athos may be seen, + Watching at eve upon the giant height, + Which looks o'er waves so blue, skies so serene, + That he who there at such an hour hath been, + Will wistful linger on that hallowed spot; + Then slowly tear him from the witching scene, + Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot, +Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot. + +XXVIII. + + Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track + Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind; + Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack, + And each well-known caprice of wave and wind; + Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find, + Cooped in their winged sea-girt citadel; + The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind, + As breezes rise and fall, and billows swell, +Till on some jocund morn--lo, land! and all is well. + +XXIX. + + But not in silence pass Calypso's isles, + The sister tenants of the middle deep; + There for the weary still a haven smiles, + Though the fair goddess long has ceased to weep, + And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep + For him who dared prefer a mortal bride: + Here, too, his boy essayed the dreadful leap + Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide; +While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen doubly sighed. + +XXX. + + Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone: + But trust not this; too easy youth, beware! + A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne, + And thou mayst find a new Calypso there. + Sweet Florence! could another ever share + This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine: + But checked by every tie, I may not dare + To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine, +Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine. + +XXXI. + + Thus Harold deemed, as on that lady's eye + He looked, and met its beam without a thought, + Save Admiration glancing harmless by: + Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote, + Who knew his votary often lost and caught, + But knew him as his worshipper no more, + And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought: + Since now he vainly urged him to adore, +Well deemed the little god his ancient sway was o'er. + +XXXII. + + Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze, + One who, 'twas said, still sighed to all he saw, + Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze, + Which others hailed with real or mimic awe, + Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law: + All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims: + And much she marvelled that a youth so raw + Nor felt, nor feigned at least, the oft-told flames, +Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely anger dames. + +XXXIII. + + Little knew she that seeming marble heart, + Now masked by silence or withheld by pride, + Was not unskilful in the spoiler's art, + And spread its snares licentious far and wide; + Nor from the base pursuit had turned aside, + As long as aught was worthy to pursue: + But Harold on such arts no more relied; + And had he doted on those eyes so blue, +Yet never would he join the lover's whining crew. + +XXXIV. + + Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast, + Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs; + What careth she for hearts when once possessed? + Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes, + But not too humbly, or she will despise + Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes; + Disguise e'en tenderness, if thou art wise; + Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes; +Pique her and soothe in turn, soon Passion crowns thy hopes. + +XXXV. + + 'Tis an old lesson: Time approves it true, + And those who know it best deplore it most; + When all is won that all desire to woo, + The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost: + Youth wasted, minds degraded, honour lost, + These are thy fruits, successful Passion! these! + If, kindly cruel, early hope is crossed, + Still to the last it rankles, a disease, +Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to please. + +XXXVI. + + Away! nor let me loiter in my song, + For we have many a mountain path to tread, + And many a varied shore to sail along, + By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led - + Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head + Imagined in its little schemes of thought; + Or e'er in new Utopias were read: + To teach man what he might be, or he ought; +If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught. + +XXXVII. + + Dear Nature is the kindest mother still; + Though always changing, in her aspect mild: + From her bare bosom let me take my fill, + Her never-weaned, though not her favoured child. + Oh! she is fairest in her features wild, + Where nothing polished dares pollute her path: + To me by day or night she ever smiled, + Though I have marked her when none other hath, +And sought her more and more, and loved her best in wrath. + +XXXVIII. + + Land of Albania! where Iskander rose; + Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise, + And he his namesake, whose oft-baffled foes, + Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprise: + Land of Albania! let me bend mine eyes + On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men! + The cross descends, thy minarets arise, + And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, +Through many a cypress grove within each city's ken. + +XXXIX. + + Childe Harold sailed, and passed the barren spot + Where sad Penelope o'erlooked the wave; + And onward viewed the mount, not yet forgot, + The lover's refuge, and the Lesbian's grave. + Dark Sappho! could not verse immortal save + That breast imbued with such immortal fire? + Could she not live who life eternal gave? + If life eternal may await the lyre, +That only Heaven to which Earth's children may aspire. + +XL. + + 'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve, + Childe Harold hailed Leucadia's cape afar; + A spot he longed to see, nor cared to leave: + Oft did he mark the scenes of vanished war, + Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar: + Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight + (Born beneath some remote inglorious star) + In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, +But loathed the bravo's trade, and laughed at martial wight. + +XLI. + + But when he saw the evening star above + Leucadia's far-projecting rock of woe, + And hailed the last resort of fruitless love, + He felt, or deemed he felt, no common glow: + And as the stately vessel glided slow + Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, + He watched the billows' melancholy flow, + And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont, +More placid seemed his eye, and smooth his pallid front. + +XLII. + + Morn dawns; and with it stern Albania's hills, + Dark Suli's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak, + Robed half in mist, bedewed with snowy rills, + Arrayed in many a dun and purple streak, + Arise; and, as the clouds along them break, + Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer; + Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak, + Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear, +And gathering storms around convulse the closing year. + +XLIII. + + Now Harold felt himself at length alone, + And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu: + Now he adventured on a shore unknown, + Which all admire, but many dread to view: + His breast was armed 'gainst fate, his wants were few: + Peril he sought not, but ne'er shrank to meet: + The scene was savage, but the scene was new; + This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet, +Beat back keen winter's blast; and welcomed summer's heat. + +XLIV. + + Here the red cross, for still the cross is here, + Though sadly scoffed at by the circumcised, + Forgets that pride to pampered priesthood dear; + Churchman and votary alike despised. + Foul Superstition! howsoe'er disguised, + Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross, + For whatsoever symbol thou art prized, + Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss! +Who from true worship's gold can separate thy dross. + +XLV. + + Ambracia's gulf behold, where once was lost + A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing! + In yonder rippling bay, their naval host + Did many a Roman chief and Asian king + To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter, bring + Look where the second Caesar's trophies rose, + Now, like the hands that reared them, withering; + Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes! +God! was thy globe ordained for such to win and lose? + +XLVI. + + From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, + E'en to the centre of Illyria's vales, + Childe Harold passed o'er many a mount sublime, + Through lands scarce noticed in historic tales: + Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales + Are rarely seen; nor can fair Tempe boast + A charm they know not; loved Parnassus fails, + Though classic ground, and consecrated most, +To match some spots that lurk within this lowering coast. + +XLVII. + + He passed bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake, + And left the primal city of the land, + And onwards did his further journey take + To greet Albania's chief, whose dread command + Is lawless law; for with a bloody hand + He sways a nation, turbulent and bold: + Yet here and there some daring mountain-band + Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold +Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold. + +XLVIII. + + Monastic Zitza! from thy shady brow, + Thou small, but favoured spot of holy ground! + Where'er we gaze, around, above, below, + What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found! + Rock, river, forest, mountain all abound, + And bluest skies that harmonise the whole: + Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound + Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll +Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please the soul. + +XLIX. + + Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill, + Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh + Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still, + Might well itself be deemed of dignity, + The convent's white walls glisten fair on high; + Here dwells the caloyer, nor rude is he, + Nor niggard of his cheer: the passer-by + Is welcome still; nor heedless will he flee +From hence, if he delight kind Nature's sheen to see. + +L. + + Here in the sultriest season let him rest, + Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees; + Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast, + From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze: + The plain is far beneath--oh! let him seize + Pure pleasure while he can; the scorching ray + Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease: + Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay, +And gaze, untired, the morn, the noon, the eve away. + +LI. + + Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight, + Nature's volcanic amphitheatre, + Chimera's alps extend from left to right: + Beneath, a living valley seems to stir; + Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain fir + Nodding above; behold black Acheron! + Once consecrated to the sepulchre. + Pluto! if this be hell I look upon, +Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek for none. + +LII. + + No city's towers pollute the lovely view; + Unseen is Yanina, though not remote, + Veiled by the screen of hills: here men are few, + Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot; + But, peering down each precipice, the goat + Browseth: and, pensive o'er his scattered flock, + The little shepherd in his white capote + Doth lean his boyish form along the rock, +Or in his cave awaits the tempest's short-lived shock. + +LIII. + + Oh! where, Dodona, is thine aged grove, + Prophetic fount, and oracle divine? + What valley echoed the response of Jove? + What trace remaineth of the Thunderer's shrine? + All, all forgotten--and shall man repine + That his frail bonds to fleeting life are broke? + Cease, fool! the fate of gods may well be thine: + Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak, +When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink beneath the stroke? + +LIV. + + Epirus' bounds recede, and mountains fail; + Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye + Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale + As ever Spring yclad in grassy dye: + E'en on a plain no humble beauties lie, + Where some bold river breaks the long expanse, + And woods along the banks are waving high, + Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance, +Or with the moonbeam sleep in Midnight's solemn trance. + +LV. + + The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit, + The Laos wide and fierce came roaring by; + The shades of wonted night were gathering yet, + When, down the steep banks winding wearily + Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky, + The glittering minarets of Tepalen, + Whose walls o'erlook the stream; and drawing nigh, + He heard the busy hum of warrior-men +Swelling the breeze that sighed along the lengthening glen. + +LVI. + + He passed the sacred harem's silent tower, + And underneath the wide o'erarching gate + Surveyed the dwelling of this chief of power + Where all around proclaimed his high estate. + Amidst no common pomp the despot sate, + While busy preparation shook the court; + Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons wait; + Within, a palace, and without a fort, +Here men of every clime appear to make resort. + +LVII. + + Richly caparisoned, a ready row + Of armed horse, and many a warlike store, + Circled the wide-extending court below; + Above, strange groups adorned the corridor; + And ofttimes through the area's echoing door, + Some high-capped Tartar spurred his steed away; + The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor, + Here mingled in their many-hued array, +While the deep war-drum's sound announced the close of day. + +LVIII. + + The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee, + With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun, + And gold-embroidered garments, fair to see: + The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon; + The Delhi with his cap of terror on, + And crooked glaive; the lively, supple Greek; + And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son; + The bearded Turk, that rarely deigns to speak, +Master of all around, too potent to be meek, + +LIX. + + Are mixed conspicuous: some recline in groups, + Scanning the motley scene that varies round; + There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops, + And some that smoke, and some that play are found; + Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground; + Half-whispering there the Greek is heard to prate; + Hark! from the mosque the nightly solemn sound, + The muezzin's call doth shake the minaret, +'There is no god but God!--to prayer--lo! God is great!' + +LX. + + Just at this season Ramazani's fast + Through the long day its penance did maintain. + But when the lingering twilight hour was past, + Revel and feast assumed the rule again: + Now all was bustle, and the menial train + Prepared and spread the plenteous board within; + The vacant gallery now seemed made in vain, + But from the chambers came the mingling din, +As page and slave anon were passing out and in. + +LXI. + + Here woman's voice is never heard: apart + And scarce permitted, guarded, veiled, to move, + She yields to one her person and her heart, + Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove; + For, not unhappy in her master's love, + And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares, + Blest cares! all other feelings far above! + Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears, +Who never quits the breast, no meaner passion shares. + +LXII. + + In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring + Of living water from the centre rose, + Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling, + And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, + Ali reclined, a man of war and woes: + Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace, + While Gentleness her milder radiance throws + Along that aged venerable face, +The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with disgrace. + +LXIII. + + It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard + Ill suits the passions which belong to youth: + Love conquers age--so Hafiz hath averred, + So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth - + But crimes that scorn the tender voice of ruth, + Beseeming all men ill, but most the man + In years, have marked him with a tiger's tooth: + Blood follows blood, and through their mortal span, +In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood began. + +LXIV. + + Mid many things most new to ear and eye, + The pilgrim rested here his weary feet, + And gazed around on Moslem luxury, + Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat + Of Wealth and Wantonness, the choice retreat + Of sated Grandeur from the city's noise: + And were it humbler, it in sooth were sweet; + But Peace abhorreth artificial joys, +And Pleasure, leagued with Pomp, the zest of both destroys. + +LXV. + + Fierce are Albania's children, yet they lack + Not virtues, were those virtues more mature. + Where is the foe that ever saw their back? + Who can so well the toil of war endure? + Their native fastnesses not more secure + Than they in doubtful time of troublous need: + Their wrath how deadly! but their friendship sure, + When Gratitude or Valour bids them bleed, +Unshaken rushing on where'er their chief may lead. + +LXVI. + + Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain's tower, + Thronging to war in splendour and success; + And after viewed them, when, within their power, + Himself awhile the victim of distress; + That saddening hour when bad men hotlier press: + But these did shelter him beneath their roof, + When less barbarians would have cheered him less, + And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof - +In aught that tries the heart how few withstand the proof! + +LXVII. + + It chanced that adverse winds once drove his bark + Full on the coast of Suli's shaggy shore, + When all around was desolate and dark; + To land was perilous, to sojourn more; + Yet for awhile the mariners forbore, + Dubious to trust where treachery might lurk: + At length they ventured forth, though doubting sore + That those who loathe alike the Frank and Turk +Might once again renew their ancient butcher-work. + +LXVIII. + + Vain fear! the Suliotes stretched the welcome hand, + Led them o'er rocks and past the dangerous swamp, + Kinder than polished slaves, though not so bland, + And piled the hearth, and wrung their garments damp, + And filled the bowl, and trimmed the cheerful lamp, + And spread their fare: though homely, all they had: + Such conduct bears Philanthropy's rare stamp - + To rest the weary and to soothe the sad, +Doth lesson happier men, and shames at least the bad. + +LXIX. + + It came to pass, that when he did address + Himself to quit at length this mountain land, + Combined marauders half-way barred egress, + And wasted far and near with glaive and brand; + And therefore did he take a trusty band + To traverse Acarnania forest wide, + In war well-seasoned, and with labours tanned, + Till he did greet white Achelous' tide, +And from his farther bank AEtolia's wolds espied. + +LXX. + + Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove, + And weary waves retire to gleam at rest, + How brown the foliage of the green hill's grove, + Nodding at midnight o'er the calm bay's breast, + As winds come whispering lightly from the west, + Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene: + Here Harold was received a welcome guest; + Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene, +For many a joy could he from night's soft presence glean. + +LXXI. + + On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly blazed, + The feast was done, the red wine circling fast, + And he that unawares had there ygazed + With gaping wonderment had stared aghast; + For ere night's midmost, stillest hour was past, + The native revels of the troop began; + Each palikar his sabre from him cast, + And bounding hand in hand, man linked to man, +Yelling their uncouth dirge, long danced the kirtled clan. + +LXXII. + + Childe Harold at a little distance stood, + And viewed, but not displeased, the revelrie, + Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude: + In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see + Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee: + And as the flames along their faces gleamed, + Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing free, + The long wild locks that to their girdles streamed, +While thus in concert they this lay half sang, half screamed: + + +Tambourgi! Tambourgi! thy larum afar +Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war; +All the sons of the mountains arise at the note, +Chimariot, Illyrian, and dark Suliote! + +Oh! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, +To his snowy camese and his shaggy capote? +To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock, +And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock. + +Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive +The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live? +Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego? +What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe? + +Macedonia sends forth her invincible race; +For a time they abandon the cave and the chase: +But those scarves of blood-red shall be redder, before +The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o'er. + +Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the waves, +And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves, +Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, +And track to his covert the captive on shore. + +I ask not the pleasure that riches supply, +My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy: +Shall win the young bride with her long flowing hair, +And many a maid from her mother shall tear. + +I love the fair face of the maid in her youth; +Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall soothe: +Let her bring from her chamber the many-toned lyre, +And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. + +Remember the moment when Previsa fell, +The shrieks of the conquered, the conqueror's yell; +The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared, +The wealthy we slaughtered, the lovely we spared. + +I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear; +He neither must know who would serve the Vizier; +Since the days of our prophet, the crescent ne'er saw +A chief ever glorious like Ali Pasha. + +Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, +Let the yellow-haired Giaours view his horsetail with dread; +When his Delhis come dashing in blood o'er the banks, +How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks! + +Selictar! unsheath then our chief's scimitar: +Tambourgi! thy larum gives promise of war. +Ye mountains that see us descend to the shore, +Shall view us as victors, or view us no more! + +LXXIII. + + Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! + Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great! + Who now shall lead thy scattered children forth, + And long accustomed bondage uncreate? + Not such thy sons who whilome did await, + The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, + In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait - + Oh, who that gallant spirit shall resume, +Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb? + +LXXIV. + + Spirit of Freedom! when on Phyle's brow + Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, + Couldst thou forbode the dismal hour which now + Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain? + Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, + But every carle can lord it o'er thy land; + Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, + Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand, +From birth till death enslaved; in word, in deed, unmanned. + +LXXV. + + In all save form alone, how changed! and who + That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye, + Who would but deem their bosom burned anew + With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty! + And many dream withal the hour is nigh + That gives them back their fathers' heritage: + For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh, + Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, +Or tear their name defiled from Slavery's mournful page. + +LXXVI. + + Hereditary bondsmen! know ye not + Who would be free themselves must strike the blow? + By their right arms the conquest must be wrought? + Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye? No! + True, they may lay your proud despoilers low, + But not for you will Freedom's altars flame. + Shades of the Helots! triumph o'er your foe: + Greece! change thy lords, thy state is still the same; +Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thy years of shame. + +LXXVII. + + The city won for Allah from the Giaour, + The Giaour from Othman's race again may wrest; + And the Serai's impenetrable tower + Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest; + Or Wahab's rebel brood, who dared divest + The Prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil, + May wind their path of blood along the West; + But ne'er will Freedom seek this fated soil, +But slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil. + +LXXVIII. + + Yet mark their mirth--ere lenten days begin, + That penance which their holy rites prepare + To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin, + By daily abstinence and nightly prayer; + But ere his sackcloth garb Repentance wear, + Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all, + To take of pleasaunce each his secret share, + In motley robe to dance at masking ball, +And join the mimic train of merry Carnival. + +LXXIX. + + And whose more rife with merriment than thine, + O Stamboul! once the empress of their reign? + Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine + And Greece her very altars eyes in vain: + (Alas! her woes will still pervade my strain!) + Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng, + All felt the common joy they now must feign; + Nor oft I've seen such sight, nor heard such song, +As wooed the eye, and thrilled the Bosphorus along. + +LXXX. + + Loud was the lightsome tumult on the shore; + Oft Music changed, but never ceased her tone, + And timely echoed back the measured oar, + And rippling waters made a pleasant moan: + The Queen of tides on high consenting shone; + And when a transient breeze swept o'er the wave, + 'Twas as if, darting from her heavenly throne, + A brighter glance her form reflected gave, +Till sparkling billows seemed to light the banks they lave. + +LXXXI. + + Glanced many a light caique along the foam, + Danced on the shore the daughters of the land, + No thought had man or maid of rest or home, + While many a languid eye and thrilling hand + Exchanged the look few bosoms may withstand, + Or gently pressed, returned the pressure still: + Oh Love! young Love! bound in thy rosy band, + Let sage or cynic prattle as he will, +These hours, and only these, redeemed Life's years of ill! + +LXXXII. + + But, midst the throng in merry masquerade, + Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain, + E'en through the closest searment half-betrayed? + To such the gentle murmurs of the main + Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain; + To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd + Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain: + How do they loathe the laughter idly loud, +And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud! + +LXXXIII. + + This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece, + If Greece one true-born patriot can boast: + Not such as prate of war but skulk in peace, + The bondsman's peace, who sighs for all he lost, + Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost, + And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword: + Ah, Greece! they love thee least who owe thee most - + Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record +Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde! + +LXXXIV. + + When riseth Lacedaemon's hardihood, + When Thebes Epaminondas rears again, + When Athens' children are with hearts endued, + When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men, + Then mayst thou be restored; but not till then. + A thousand years scarce serve to form a state; + An hour may lay it in the dust: and when + Can man its shattered splendour renovate, +Recall its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fate? + +LXXXV. + + And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, + Land of lost gods and godlike men, art thou! + Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow, + Proclaim thee Nature's varied favourite now; + Thy fanes, thy temples to the surface bow, + Commingling slowly with heroic earth, + Broke by the share of every rustic plough: + So perish monuments of mortal birth, +So perish all in turn, save well-recorded worth; + +LXXXVI. + + Save where some solitary column mourns + Above its prostrate brethren of the cave; + Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns + Colonna's cliff, and gleams along the wave; + Save o'er some warrior's half-forgotten grave, + Where the grey stones and unmolested grass + Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave, + While strangers only not regardless pass, +Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh 'Alas!' + +LXXXVII. + + Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild: + Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, + Thine olives ripe as when Minerva smiled, + And still his honeyed wealth Hymettus yields; + There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds, + The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain air; + Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds, + Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare; +Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair. + +LXXXVIII. + + Where'er we tread, 'tis haunted, holy ground; + No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould, + But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, + And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, + Till the sense aches with gazing to behold + The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon: + Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold, + Defies the power which crushed thy temples gone: +Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon. + +LXXXIX. + + The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same; + Unchanged in all except its foreign lord - + Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame; + The battle-field, where Persia's victim horde + First bowed beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword, + As on the morn to distant Glory dear, + When Marathon became a magic word; + Which uttered, to the hearer's eye appear +The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career. + +XC. + + The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow; + The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear; + Mountains above, Earth's, Ocean's plain below; + Death in the front, Destruction in the rear! + Such was the scene--what now remaineth here? + What sacred trophy marks the hallowed ground, + Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear? + The rifled urn, the violated mound, +The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger! spurns around. + +XCI. + + Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past + Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng: + Long shall the voyager, with th' Ionian blast, + Hail the bright clime of battle and of song; + Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue + Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore: + Boast of the aged! lesson of the young! + Which sages venerate and bards adore, +As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore. + +XCII. + + The parted bosom clings to wonted home, + If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth; + He that is lonely, hither let him roam, + And gaze complacent on congenial earth. + Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth; + But he whom Sadness sootheth may abide, + And scarce regret the region of his birth, + When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side, +Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died. + +XCIII. + + Let such approach this consecrated land, + And pass in peace along the magic waste: + But spare its relics--let no busy hand + Deface the scenes, already how defaced! + Not for such purpose were these altars placed. + Revere the remnants nations once revered; + So may our country's name be undisgraced, + So mayst thou prosper where thy youth was reared, +By every honest joy of love and life endeared! + +XCIV. + + For thee, who thus in too protracted song + Hath soothed thine idlesse with inglorious lays, + Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng + Of louder minstrels in these later days: + To such resign the strife for fading bays - + Ill may such contest now the spirit move + Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise, + Since cold each kinder heart that might approve, +And none are left to please where none are left to love. + +XCV. + + Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one! + Whom youth and youth's affections bound to me; + Who did for me what none beside have done, + Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. + What is my being? thou hast ceased to be! + Nor stayed to welcome here thy wanderer home, + Who mourns o'er hours which we no more shall see - + Would they had never been, or were to come! +Would he had ne'er returned to find fresh cause to roam! + +XCVI. + + Oh! ever loving, lovely, and beloved! + How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past, + And clings to thoughts now better far removed! + But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last. + All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death, thou hast: + The parent, friend, and now the more than friend; + Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast, + And grief with grief continuing still to blend, +Hath snatched the little joy that life had yet to lend. + +XCVII. + + Then must I plunge again into the crowd, + And follow all that Peace disdains to seek? + Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly loud, + False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek, + To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak! + Still o'er the features, which perforce they cheer, + To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique; + Smiles form the channel of a future tear, +Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled sneer. + +XCVIII. + + What is the worst of woes that wait on age? + What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? + To view each loved one blotted from life's page, + And be alone on earth, as I am now. + Before the Chastener humbly let me bow, + O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroyed: + Roll on, vain days! full reckless may ye flow, + Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoyed, +And with the ills of eld mine earlier years alloyed. + + + +CANTO THE THIRD. + + + +I. + + Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child! + Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart? + When last I saw thy young blue eyes, they smiled, + And then we parted,--not as now we part, + But with a hope. - + Awaking with a start, + The waters heave around me; and on high + The winds lift up their voices: I depart, + Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by, +When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye. + +II. + + Once more upon the waters! yet once more! + And the waves bound beneath me as a steed + That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar! + Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead! + Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed, + And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, + Still must I on; for I am as a weed, + Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail +Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail. + +III. + + In my youth's summer I did sing of One, + The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind; + Again I seize the theme, then but begun, + And bear it with me, as the rushing wind + Bears the cloud onwards: in that tale I find + The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, + Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind, + O'er which all heavily the journeying years +Plod the last sands of life--where not a flower appears. + +IV. + + Since my young days of passion--joy, or pain, + Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string, + And both may jar: it may be, that in vain + I would essay as I have sung to sing. + Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling, + So that it wean me from the weary dream + Of selfish grief or gladness--so it fling + Forgetfulness around me--it shall seem +To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. + +V. + + He who, grown aged in this world of woe, + In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, + So that no wonder waits him; nor below + Can love or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife, + Cut to his heart again with the keen knife + Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell + Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife + With airy images, and shapes which dwell +Still unimpaired, though old, in the soul's haunted cell. + +VI. + + 'Tis to create, and in creating live + A being more intense, that we endow + With form our fancy, gaining as we give + The life we image, even as I do now. + What am I? Nothing: but not so art thou, + Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth, + Invisible but gazing, as I glow + Mixed with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, +And feeling still with thee in my crushed feelings' dearth. + +VII. + + Yet must I think less wildly: I HAVE thought + Too long and darkly, till my brain became, + In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, + A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame: + And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, + My springs of life were poisoned. 'Tis too late! + Yet am I changed; though still enough the same + In strength to bear what time cannot abate, +And feed on bitter fruits without accusing fate. + +VIII. + + Something too much of this: but now 'tis past, + And the spell closes with its silent seal. + Long-absent Harold reappears at last; + He of the breast which fain no more would feel, + Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne'er heal; + Yet Time, who changes all, had altered him + In soul and aspect as in age: years steal + Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb; +And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. + +IX. + + His had been quaffed too quickly, and he found + The dregs were wormwood; but he filled again, + And from a purer fount, on holier ground, + And deemed its spring perpetual; but in vain! + Still round him clung invisibly a chain + Which galled for ever, fettering though unseen, + And heavy though it clanked not; worn with pain, + Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen, +Entering with every step he took through many a scene. + +X. + + Secure in guarded coldness, he had mixed + Again in fancied safety with his kind, + And deemed his spirit now so firmly fixed + And sheathed with an invulnerable mind, + That, if no joy, no sorrow lurked behind; + And he, as one, might midst the many stand + Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find + Fit speculation; such as in strange land +He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's hand. + +XI. + + But who can view the ripened rose, nor seek + To wear it? who can curiously behold + The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek, + Nor feel the heart can never all grow old? + Who can contemplate fame through clouds unfold + The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb? + Harold, once more within the vortex rolled + On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, +Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond prime. + +XII. + + But soon he knew himself the most unfit + Of men to herd with Man; with whom he held + Little in common; untaught to submit + His thoughts to others, though his soul was quelled, + In youth by his own thoughts; still uncompelled, + He would not yield dominion of his mind + To spirits against whom his own rebelled; + Proud though in desolation; which could find +A life within itself, to breathe without mankind. + +XIII. + + Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends; + Where rolled the ocean, thereon was his home; + Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends, + He had the passion and the power to roam; + The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, + Were unto him companionship; they spake + A mutual language, clearer than the tome + Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake +For nature's pages glassed by sunbeams on the lake. + +XIV. + + Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, + Till he had peopled them with beings bright + As their own beams; and earth, and earth-born jars, + And human frailties, were forgotten quite: + Could he have kept his spirit to that flight, + He had been happy; but this clay will sink + Its spark immortal, envying it the light + To which it mounts, as if to break the link +That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its brink. + +XV. + + But in Man's dwellings he became a thing + Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome, + Drooped as a wild-born falcon with clipt wing, + To whom the boundless air alone were home: + Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome, + As eagerly the barred-up bird will beat + His breast and beak against his wiry dome + Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat +Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat. + +XVI. + + Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again, + With naught of hope left, but with less of gloom; + The very knowledge that he lived in vain, + That all was over on this side the tomb, + Had made Despair a smilingness assume, + Which, though 'twere wild--as on the plundered wreck + When mariners would madly meet their doom + With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck - +Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check. + +XVII. + + Stop! for thy tread is on an empire's dust! + An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below! + Is the spot marked with no colossal bust? + Nor column trophied for triumphal show? + None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so, + As the ground was before, thus let it be; - + How that red rain hath made the harvest grow! + And is this all the world has gained by thee, +Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory? + +XVIII. + + And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, + The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo! + How in an hour the power which gave annuls + Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too! + In 'pride of place' here last the eagle flew, + Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain, + Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through: + Ambition's life and labours all were vain; +He wears the shattered links of the world's broken chain. + +XIX. + + Fit retribution! Gaul may champ the bit, + And foam in fetters, but is Earth more free? + Did nations combat to make ONE submit; + Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty? + What! shall reviving thraldom again be + The patched-up idol of enlightened days? + Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we + Pay the Wolf homage? proffering lowly gaze +And servile knees to thrones? No; PROVE before ye praise! + +XX. + + If not, o'er one fall'n despot boast no more! + In vain fair cheeks were furrowed with hot tears + For Europe's flowers long rooted up before + The trampler of her vineyards; in vain years + Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears, + Have all been borne, and broken by the accord + Of roused-up millions: all that most endears + Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword +Such as Harmodius drew on Athens' tyrant lord. + +XXI. + + There was a sound of revelry by night, + And Belgium's capital had gathered then + Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright + The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; + A thousand hearts beat happily; and when + Music arose with its voluptuous swell, + Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, + And all went merry as a marriage bell; +But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! + +XXII. + + Did ye not hear it?--No; 'twas but the wind, + Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; + On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; + No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet + To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet. + But hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more, + As if the clouds its echo would repeat; + And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! +Arm! arm! it is--it is--the cannon's opening roar! + +XXIII. + + Within a windowed niche of that high hall + Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear + That sound, the first amidst the festival, + And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; + And when they smiled because he deemed it near, + His heart more truly knew that peal too well + Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, + And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: +He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. + +XXIV. + + Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, + And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, + And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago + Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; + And there were sudden partings, such as press + The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs + Which ne'er might be repeated: who would guess + If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, +Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise! + +XXV. + + And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, + The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, + Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, + And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; + And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; + And near, the beat of the alarming drum + Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; + While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, +Or whispering, with white lips--'The foe! They come! they come!' + +XXVI. + + And wild and high the 'Cameron's gathering' rose, + The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills + Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes: + How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills + Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills + Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers + With the fierce native daring which instils + The stirring memory of a thousand years, +And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears. + +XXVII. + + And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, + Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass, + Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, + Over the unreturniug brave,--alas! + Ere evening to be trodden like the grass + Which now beneath them, but above shall grow + In its next verdure, when this fiery mass + Of living valour, rolling on the foe, +And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. + +XXVIII. + + Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, + Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, + The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, + The morn the marshalling in arms,--the day + Battle's magnificently stern array! + The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent + The earth is covered thick with other clay, + Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, +Rider and horse,--friend, foe,--in one red burial blent! + +XXIX. + + Their praise is hymned by loftier harps than mine; + Yet one I would select from that proud throng, + Partly because they blend me with his line, + And partly that I did his sire some wrong, + And partly that bright names will hallow song; + And his was of the bravest, and when showered + The death-bolts deadliest the thinned files along, + Even where the thickest of war's tempest lowered, +They reached no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant Howard! + +XXX. + + There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, + And mine were nothing, had I such to give; + But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, + Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, + And saw around me the wild field revive + With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring + Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, + With all her reckless birds upon the wing, +I turned from all she brought to those she could not bring. + +XXXI. + + I turned to thee, to thousands, of whom each + And one as all a ghastly gap did make + In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach + Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake; + The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake + Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of Fame + May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake + The fever of vain longing, and the name +So honoured, but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim. + +XXXII. + + They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, mourn: + The tree will wither long before it fall: + The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn; + The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall + In massy hoariness; the ruined wall + Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone; + The bars survive the captive they enthral; + The day drags through though storms keep out the sun; +And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on: + +XXXIII. + + E'en as a broken mirror, which the glass + In every fragment multiplies; and makes + A thousand images of one that was, + The same, and still the more, the more it breaks; + And thus the heart will do which not forsakes, + Living in shattered guise, and still, and cold, + And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, + Yet withers on till all without is old, +Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold. + +XXXIV. + + There is a very life in our despair, + Vitality of poison,--a quick root + Which feeds these deadly branches; for it were + As nothing did we die; but life will suit + Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit, + Like to the apples on the Dead Sea shore, + All ashes to the taste: Did man compute + Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er +Such hours 'gainst years of life,--say, would he name threescore? + +XXXV. + + The Psalmist numbered out the years of man: + They are enough: and if thy tale be TRUE, + Thou, who didst grudge him e'en that fleeting span, + More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo! + Millions of tongues record thee, and anew + Their children's lips shall echo them, and say, + 'Here, where the sword united nations drew, + Our countrymen were warring on that day!' +And this is much, and all which will not pass away. + +XXXVI. + + There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, + Whose spirit anithetically mixed + One moment of the mightiest, and again + On little objects with like firmness fixed; + Extreme in all things! hadst thou been betwixt, + Thy throne had still been thine, or never been; + For daring made thy rise as fall: thou seek'st + Even now to reassume the imperial mien, +And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene! + +XXXVII. + + Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou! + She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name + Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now + That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame, + Who wooed thee once, thy vassal, and became + The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert + A god unto thyself; nor less the same + To the astounded kingdoms all inert, +Who deemed thee for a time whate'er thou didst assert. + +XXXVIII. + + Oh, more or less than man--in high or low, + Battling with nations, flying from the field; + Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool, now + More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield: + An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild, + But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor, + However deeply in men's spirits skilled, + Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war, +Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star. + +XXXIX. + + Yet well thy soul hath brooked the turning tide + With that untaught innate philosophy, + Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, + Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. + When the whole host of hatred stood hard by, + To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled + With a sedate and all-enduring eye; + When Fortune fled her spoiled and favourite child, +He stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled. + +XL. + + Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them + Ambition steeled thee on to far too show + That just habitual scorn, which could contemn + Men and their thoughts; 'twas wise to feel, not so + To wear it ever on thy lip and brow, + And spurn the instruments thou wert to use + Till they were turned unto thine overthrow: + 'Tis but a worthless world to win or lose; +So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose. + +XLI. + + If, like a tower upon a headland rock, + Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone, + Such scorn of man had helped to brave the shock; + But men's thoughts were the steps which paved thy throne, + THEIR admiration thy best weapon shone; + The part of Philip's son was thine, not then + (Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) + Like stern Diogenes to mock at men; +For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den. + +XLII. + + But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell, + And THERE hath been thy bane; there is a fire + And motion of the soul, which will not dwell + In its own narrow being, but aspire + Beyond the fitting medium of desire; + And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, + Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire + Of aught but rest; a fever at the core, +Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. + +XLIII. + + This makes the madmen who have made men mad + By their contagion! Conquerors and Kings, + Founders of sects and systems, to whom add + Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things + Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs, + And are themselves the fools to those they fool; + Envied, yet how unenviable! what stings + Are theirs! One breast laid open were a school +Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule: + +XLIV. + + Their breath is agitation, and their life + A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, + And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife, + That should their days, surviving perils past, + Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast + With sorrow and supineness, and so die; + Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste + With its own flickering, or a sword laid by, +Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously. + +XLV. + + He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find + The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow; + He who surpasses or subdues mankind, + Must look down on the hate of those below. + Though high ABOVE the sun of glory glow, + And far BENEATH the earth and ocean spread, + ROUND him are icy rocks, and loudly blow + Contending tempests on his naked head, +And thus reward the toils which to those summits led. + +XLVI. + + Away with these; true Wisdom's world will be + Within its own creation, or in thine, + Maternal Nature! for who teems like thee, + Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine? + There Harold gazes on a work divine, + A blending of all beauties; streams and dells, + Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, corn-field, mountain, vine, + And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells +From grey but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells. + +XLVII. + + And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, + Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd, + All tenantless, save to the crannying wind, + Or holding dark communion with the cloud. + There was a day when they were young and proud, + Banners on high, and battles passed below; + But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, + And those which waved are shredless dust ere now, +And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow. + +XLVIII. + + Beneath these battlements, within those walls, + Power dwelt amidst her passions; in proud state + Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, + Doing his evil will, nor less elate + Than mightier heroes of a longer date. + What want these outlaws conquerors should have + But History's purchased page to call them great? + A wider space, an ornamented grave? +Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full as brave. + +XLIX. + + In their baronial feuds and single fields, + What deeds of prowess unrecorded died! + And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields, + With emblems well devised by amorous pride, + Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide; + But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on + Keen contest and destruction near allied, + And many a tower for some fair mischief won, +Saw the discoloured Rhine beneath its ruin run. + +L. + + But thou, exulting and abounding river! + Making thy waves a blessing as they flow + Through banks whose beauty would endure for ever, + Could man but leave thy bright creation so, + Nor its fair promise from the surface mow + With the sharp scythe of conflict,--then to see + Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know + Earth paved like Heaven; and to seem such to me +Even now what wants thy stream?--that it should Lethe be. + +LI. + + A thousand battles have assailed thy banks, + But these and half their fame have passed away, + And Slaughter heaped on high his weltering ranks: + Their very graves are gone, and what are they? + Thy tide washed down the blood of yesterday, + And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream + Glassed with its dancing light the sunny ray; + But o'er the blackened memory's blighting dream +Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem. + +LII. + + Thus Harold inly said, and passed along, + Yet not insensible to all which here + Awoke the jocund birds to early song + In glens which might have made e'en exile dear: + Though on his brow were graven lines austere, + And tranquil sternness which had ta'en the place + Of feelings fierier far but less severe, + Joy was not always absent from his face, +But o'er it in such scenes would steal with transient trace. + +LIII. + + Nor was all love shut from him, though his days + Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. + It is in vain that we would coldly gaze + On such as smile upon us; the heart must + Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust + Hath weaned it from all worldlings: thus he felt, + For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust + In one fond breast, to which his own would melt, +And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt. + +LIV. + + And he had learned to love,--I know not why, + For this in such as him seems strange of mood, - + The helpless looks of blooming infancy, + Even in its earliest nurture; what subdued, + To change like this, a mind so far imbued + With scorn of man, it little boots to know; + But thus it was; and though in solitude + Small power the nipped affections have to grow, +In him this glowed when all beside had ceased to glow. + +LV. + + And there was one soft breast, as hath been said, + Which unto his was bound by stronger ties + Than the church links withal; and, though unwed, + THAT love was pure, and, far above disguise, + Had stood the test of mortal enmities + Still undivided, and cemented more + By peril, dreaded most in female eyes; + But this was firm, and from a foreign shore +Well to that heart might his these absent greetings pour! + + The castled crag of Drachenfels + Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine. + Whose breast of waters broadly swells + Between the banks which bear the vine, + And hills all rich with blossomed trees, + And fields which promise corn and wine, + And scattered cities crowning these, + Whose far white walls along them shine, + Have strewed a scene, which I should see + With double joy wert THOU with me! + + And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes, + And hands which offer early flowers, + Walk smiling o'er this paradise; + Above, the frequent feudal towers + Through green leaves lift their walls of grey, + And many a rock which steeply lours, + And noble arch in proud decay, + Look o'er this vale of vintage bowers: + But one thing want these banks of Rhine, - + Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine! + + I send the lilies given to me; + Though long before thy hand they touch, + I know that they must withered be, + But yet reject them not as such; + For I have cherished them as dear, + Because they yet may meet thine eye, + And guide thy soul to mine e'en here, + When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, + And know'st them gathered by the Rhine, + And offered from my heart to thine! + + The river nobly foams and flows, + The charm of this enchanted ground, + And all its thousand turns disclose + Some fresher beauty varying round; + The haughtiest breast its wish might bound + Through life to dwell delighted here; + Nor could on earth a spot be found + To Nature and to me so dear, + Could thy dear eyes in following mine + Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine! + +LVI. + + By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground, + There is a small and simple pyramid, + Crowning the summit of the verdant mound; + Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid, + Our enemy's,--but let not that forbid + Honour to Marceau! o'er whose early tomb + Tears, big tears, gushed from the rough soldier's lid, + Lamenting and yet envying such a doom, +Falling for France, whose rights he battled to resume. + +LVI. + + Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career, - + His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes; + And fitly may the stranger lingering here + Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose; + For he was Freedom's champion, one of those, + The few in number, who had not o'erstept + The charter to chastise which she bestows + On such as wield her weapons; he had kept +The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept. + +LVIII. + + Here Ehrenbreitstein, with her shattered wall + Black with the miner's blast, upon her height + Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball + Rebounding idly on her strength did light; + A tower of victory! from whence the flight + Of baffled foes was watched along the plain; + But Peace destroyed what War could never blight, + And laid those proud roofs bare to Summer's rain - +On which the iron shower for years had poured in vain. + +LIX. + + Adieu to thee, fair Rhine! How long, delighted, + The stranger fain would linger on his way; + Thine is a scene alike where souls united + Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray; + And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey + On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, + Where Nature, not too sombre nor too gay, + Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, +Is to the mellow earth as autumn to the year. + +LX. + + Adieu to thee again! a vain adieu! + There can be no farewell to scene like thine; + The mind is coloured by thy every hue; + And if reluctantly the eyes resign + Their cherished gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine! + 'Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise; + More mighty spots may rise--more glaring shine, + But none unite in one attaching maze +The brilliant, fair, and soft;--the glories of old days. + +LXI. + + The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom + Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen, + The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom, + The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between, + The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been + In mockery of man's art; and these withal + A race of faces happy as the scene, + Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, +Still springing o'er thy banks, though empires near them fall. + +LXII. + + But these recede. Above me are the Alps, + The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls + Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, + And throned Eternity in icy halls + Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls + The avalanche--the thunderbolt of snow! + All that expands the spirit, yet appals, + Gathers around these summits, as to show +How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below. + +LXIII. + + But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan, + There is a spot should not be passed in vain, - + Morat! the proud, the patriot field! where man + May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, + Nor blush for those who conquered on that plain; + Here Burgundy bequeathed his tombless host, + A bony heap, through ages to remain, + Themselves their monument;--the Stygian coast +Unsepulchred they roamed, and shrieked each wandering ghost. + +LXIV. + + While Waterloo with Cannae's carnage vies, + Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand; + They were true Glory's stainless victories, + Won by the unambitious heart and hand + Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band, + All unbought champions in no princely cause + Of vice-entailed Corruption; they no land + Doomed to bewail the blasphemy of laws +Making king's rights divine, by some Draconic clause. + +LXV. + + By a lone wall a lonelier column rears + A grey and grief-worn aspect of old days + 'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years, + And looks as with the wild bewildered gaze + Of one to stone converted by amaze, + Yet still with consciousness; and there it stands, + Making a marvel that it not decays, + When the coeval pride of human hands, +Levelled Aventicum, hath strewed her subject lands. + +LXVI. + + And there--oh! sweet and sacred be the name! - + Julia--the daughter, the devoted--gave + Her youth to Heaven; her heart, beneath a claim + Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave. + Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would crave + The life she lived in; but the judge was just, + And then she died on him she could not save. + Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, +And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one dust. + +LXVII. + + But these are deeds which should not pass away, + And names that must not wither, though the earth + Forgets her empires with a just decay, + The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and birth; + The high, the mountain-majesty of worth, + Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe, + And from its immortality look forth + In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow, +Imperishably pure beyond all things below. + +LXVIII. + + Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, + The mirror where the stars and mountains view + The stillness of their aspect in each trace + Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue: + There is too much of man here, to look through + With a fit mind the might which I behold; + But soon in me shall Loneliness renew + Thoughts hid, but not less cherished than of old, +Ere mingling with the herd had penned me in their fold. + +LXIX. + + To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind; + All are not fit with them to stir and toil, + Nor is it discontent to keep the mind + Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil + In one hot throng, where we become the spoil + Of our infection, till too late and long + We may deplore and struggle with the coil, + In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong +Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong. + +LXX. + + There, in a moment, we may plunge our years + In fatal penitence, and in the blight + Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears, + And colour things to come with hues of Night; + The race of life becomes a hopeless flight + To those that walk in darkness: on the sea, + The boldest steer but where their ports invite, + But there are wanderers o'er Eternity +Whose bark drives on and on, and anchored ne'er shall be. + +LXXI. + + Is it not better, then, to be alone, + And love Earth only for its earthly sake? + By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, + Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, + Which feeds it as a mother who doth make + A fair but froward infant her own care, + Kissing its cries away as these awake; - + Is it not better thus our lives to wear, +Than join the crushing crowd, doomed to inflict or bear? + +LXXII. + + I live not in myself, but I become + Portion of that around me; and to me, + High mountains are a feeling, but the hum + Of human cities torture: I can see + Nothing to loathe in Nature, save to be + A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, + Classed among creatures, when the soul can flee, + And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain +Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. + +LXXIII. + + And thus I am absorbed, and this is life: + I look upon the peopled desert Past, + As on a place of agony and strife, + Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast, + To act and suffer, but remount at last + With a fresh pinion; which I felt to spring, + Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the blast + Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, +Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling. + +LXXIV. + + And when, at length, the mind shall be all free + From what it hates in this degraded form, + Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be + Existent happier in the fly and worm, - + When elements to elements conform, + And dust is as it should be, shall I not + Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm? + The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each spot? +Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot? + +LXXV. + + Are not the mountains, waves, and skies a part + Of me and of my soul, as I of them? + Is not the love of these deep in my heart + With a pure passion? should I not contemn + All objects, if compared with these? and stem + A tide of suffering, rather than forego + Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm + Of those whose eyes are only turned below, +Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow? + +LXXVI. + + But this is not my theme; and I return + To that which is immediate, and require + Those who find contemplation in the urn, + To look on One whose dust was once all fire, + A native of the land where I respire + The clear air for awhile--a passing guest, + Where he became a being,--whose desire + Was to be glorious; 'twas a foolish quest, +The which to gain and keep he sacrificed all rest. + +LXXVII. + + Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, + The apostle of affliction, he who threw + Enchantment over passion, and from woe + Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew + The breath which made him wretched; yet he knew + How to make madness beautiful, and cast + O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue + Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past +The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast. + +LXXVIII. + + His love was passion's essence--as a tree + On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame + Kindled he was, and blasted; for to be + Thus, and enamoured, were in him the same. + But his was not the love of living dame, + Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, + But of Ideal beauty, which became + In him existence, and o'erflowing teems +Along his burning page, distempered though it seems. + +LXXIX. + + THIS breathed itself to life in Julie, THIS + Invested her with all that's wild and sweet; + This hallowed, too, the memorable kiss + Which every morn his fevered lip would greet, + From hers, who but with friendship his would meet: + But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast + Flashed the thrilled spirit's love-devouring heat; + In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest, +Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest. + +LXXX. + + His life was one long war with self-sought foes, + Or friends by him self-banished; for his mind + Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose + For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind, + 'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind. + But he was frenzied,--wherefore, who may know? + Since cause might be which skill could never find; + But he was frenzied by disease or woe +To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show. + +LXXXI. + + For then he was inspired, and from him came, + As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore, + Those oracles which set the world in flame, + Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more: + Did he not this for France, which lay before + Bowed to the inborn tyranny of years? + Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore, + Till by the voice of him and his compeers +Roused up to too much wrath, which follows o'ergrown fears? + +LXXXII. + + They made themselves a fearful monument! + The wreck of old opinions--things which grew, + Breathed from the birth of time: the veil they rent, + And what behind it lay, all earth shall view. + But good with ill they also overthrew, + Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild + Upon the same foundation, and renew + Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour refilled, +As heretofore, because ambition was self-willed. + +LXXXIII. + + But this will not endure, nor be endured! + Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt. + They might have used it better, but, allured + By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt + On one another; Pity ceased to melt + With her once natural charities. But they, + Who in Oppression's darkness caved had dwelt, + They were not eagles, nourished with the day; +What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey? + +LXXXIV. + + What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? + The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear + That which disfigures it; and they who war + With their own hopes, and have been vanquished, bear + Silence, but not submission: in his lair + Fixed Passion holds his breath, until the hour + Which shall atone for years; none need despair: + It came, it cometh, and will come,--the power +To punish or forgive--in ONE we shall be slower. + +LXXXV. + + Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, + With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing + Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake + Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. + This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing + To waft me from distraction; once I loved + Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring + Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, +That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. + +LXXXVI. + + It is the hush of night, and all between + Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, + Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen. + Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear + Precipitously steep; and drawing near, + There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, + Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear + Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, +Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more; + +LXXXVII. + + He is an evening reveller, who makes + His life an infancy, and sings his fill; + At intervals, some bird from out the brakes + Starts into voice a moment, then is still. + There seems a floating whisper on the hill, + But that is fancy, for the starlight dews + All silently their tears of love instil, + Weeping themselves away, till they infuse +Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. + +LXXXVIII. + + Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven, + If in your bright leaves we would read the fate + Of men and empires,--'tis to be forgiven, + That in our aspirations to be great, + Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, + And claim a kindred with you; for ye are + A beauty and a mystery, and create + In us such love and reverence from afar, +That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star. + +LXXXIX. + + All heaven and earth are still--though not in sleep, + But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; + And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep: - + All heaven and earth are still: from the high host + Of stars, to the lulled lake and mountain-coast, + All is concentered in a life intense, + Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, + But hath a part of being, and a sense +Of that which is of all Creator and defence. + +XC. + + Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt + In solitude, where we are LEAST alone; + A truth, which through our being then doth melt, + And purifies from self: it is a tone, + The soul and source of music, which makes known + Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm, + Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone, + Binding all things with beauty;--'twould disarm +The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm. + +XCI. + + Nor vainly did the early Persian make + His altar the high places and the peak + Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and thus take + A fit and unwalled temple, there to seek + The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak, + Upreared of human hands. Come, and compare + Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, + With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air, +Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer! + +XCII. + + The sky is changed!--and such a change! O night, + And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, + Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light + Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, + From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, + Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, + But every mountain now hath found a tongue; + And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, +Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! + +XCIII. + + And this is in the night: --Most glorious night! + Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be + A sharer in thy fierce and far delight - + A portion of the tempest and of thee! + How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, + And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! + And now again 'tis black,--and now, the glee + Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, +As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. + +XCIV. + + Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between + Heights which appear as lovers who have parted + In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, + That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted; + Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, + Love was the very root of the fond rage + Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed: + Itself expired, but leaving them an age +Of years all winters--war within themselves to wage. + +XCV. + + Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way, + The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand; + For here, not one, but many, make their play, + And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand, + Flashing and cast around: of all the band, + The brightest through these parted hills hath forked + His lightnings, as if he did understand + That in such gaps as desolation worked, +There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurked. + +XCVI. + + Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye, + With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul + To make these felt and feeling, well may be + Things that have made me watchful; the far roll + Of your departing voices, is the knoll + Of what in me is sleepless,--if I rest. + But where of ye, O tempests! is the goal? + Are ye like those within the human breast? +Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest? + +XCVII. + + Could I embody and unbosom now + That which is most within me,--could I wreak + My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw + Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak, + All that I would have sought, and all I seek, + Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe--into one word, + And that one word were lightning, I would speak; + But as it is, I live and die unheard, +With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. + +XCVIII. + + The morn is up again, the dewy morn, + With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, + Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, + And living as if earth contained no tomb, - + And glowing into day: we may resume + The march of our existence: and thus I, + Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room + And food for meditation, nor pass by +Much, that may give us pause, if pondered fittingly. + +XCIX. + + Clarens! sweet Clarens! birthplace of deep Love! + Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought; + Thy trees take root in love; the snows above + The very glaciers have his colours caught, + And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought + By rays which sleep there lovingly: the rocks, + The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought + In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, +Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then mocks. + +C. + + Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod, - + Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne + To which the steps are mountains; where the god + Is a pervading life and light,--so shown + Not on those summits solely, nor alone + In the still cave and forest; o'er the flower + His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown, + His soft and summer breath, whose tender power +Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour. + +CI. + + All things are here of HIM; from the black pines, + Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar + Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines + Which slope his green path downward to the shore, + Where the bowed waters meet him, and adore, + Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood, + The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, + But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood, +Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude. + +CII. + + A populous solitude of bees and birds, + And fairy-formed and many coloured things, + Who worship him with notes more sweet than words, + And innocently open their glad wings, + Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs, + And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend + Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings + The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, +Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end. + +CIII. + + He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore, + And make his heart a spirit: he who knows + That tender mystery, will love the more, + For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes, + And the world's waste, have driven him far from those, + For 'tis his nature to advance or die; + He stands not still, but or decays, or grows + Into a boundless blessing, which may vie +With the immortal lights, in its eternity! + +CIV. + + 'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, + Peopling it with affections; but he found + It was the scene which passion must allot + To the mind's purified beings; 'twas the ground + Where early Love his Psyche's zone unbound, + And hallowed it with loveliness: 'tis lone, + And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound, + And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone +Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have reared a throne. + +CV. + + Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes + Of names which unto you bequeathed a name; + Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads, + A path to perpetuity of fame: + They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim + Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile + Thoughts which should call down thunder, and the flame + Of Heaven, again assailed, if Heaven the while +On man and man's research could deign do more than smile. + +CVI. + + The one was fire and fickleness, a child + Most mutable in wishes, but in mind + A wit as various,--gay, grave, sage, or wild, - + Historian, bard, philosopher combined: + He multiplied himself among mankind, + The Proteus of their talents: But his own + Breathed most in ridicule,--which, as the wind, + Blew where it listed, laying all things prone, - +Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne. + +CVII. + + The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, + And hiving wisdom with each studious year, + In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought, + And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, + Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer; + The lord of irony,--that master spell, + Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear, + And doomed him to the zealot's ready hell, +Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well. + +CVIII. + + Yet, peace be with their ashes,--for by them, + If merited, the penalty is paid; + It is not ours to judge, far less condemn; + The hour must come when such things shall be made + Known unto all,--or hope and dread allayed + By slumber on one pillow, in the dust, + Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decayed; + And when it shall revive, as is our trust, +'Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just. + +CIX. + + But let me quit man's works, again to read + His Maker's spread around me, and suspend + This page, which from my reveries I feed, + Until it seems prolonging without end. + The clouds above me to the white Alps tend, + And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er + May be permitted, as my steps I bend + To their most great and growing region, where +The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air. + +CX. + + Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee + Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, + Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, + To the last halo of the chiefs and sages + Who glorify thy consecrated pages; + Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; still, + The fount at which the panting mind assuages + Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, +Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill. + +CXI. + + Thus far have I proceeded in a theme + Renewed with no kind auspices: --to feel + We are not what we have been, and to deem + We are not what we should be, and to steel + The heart against itself; and to conceal, + With a proud caution, love or hate, or aught, - + Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal, - + Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought, +Is a stern task of soul: --No matter,--it is taught. + +CXII. + + And for these words, thus woven into song, + It may be that they are a harmless wile, - + The colouring of the scenes which fleet along, + Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile + My breast, or that of others, for a while. + Fame is the thirst of youth,--but I am not + So young as to regard men's frown or smile + As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot; +I stood and stand alone,--remembered or forgot. + +CXIII. + + I have not loved the world, nor the world me; + I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed + To its idolatries a patient knee, - + Nor coined my cheek to smiles, nor cried aloud + In worship of an echo; in the crowd + They could not deem me one of such; I stood + Among them, but not of them; in a shroud + Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could, +Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued. + +CXIV. + + I have not loved the world, nor the world me, - + But let us part fair foes; I do believe, + Though I have found them not, that there may be + Words which are things,--hopes which will not deceive, + And virtues which are merciful, nor weave + Snares for the falling: I would also deem + O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve; + That two, or one, are almost what they seem, - +That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. + +CXV. + + My daughter! with thy name this song begun - + My daughter! with thy name this much shall end - + I see thee not, I hear thee not,--but none + Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend + To whom the shadows of far years extend: + Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold, + My voice shall with thy future visions blend, + And reach into thy heart, when mine is cold, - +A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould. + +CXVI. + + To aid thy mind's development,--to watch + Thy dawn of little joys,--to sit and see + Almost thy very growth,--to view thee catch + Knowledge of objects, wonders yet to thee! + To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, + And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, - + This, it should seem, was not reserved for me + Yet this was in my nature: --As it is, +I know not what is there, yet something like to this. + +CXVII. + + Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught, + I know that thou wilt love me; though my name + Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught + With desolation, and a broken claim: + Though the grave closed between us,--'twere the same, + I know that thou wilt love me: though to drain + MY blood from out thy being were an aim, + And an attainment,--all would be in vain, - +Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain. + +CXVIII. + + The child of love,--though born in bitterness, + And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire + These were the elements, and thine no less. + As yet such are around thee; but thy fire + Shall be more tempered, and thy hope far higher. + Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! O'er the sea, + And from the mountains where I now respire, + Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, +As, with a sigh, I deem thou mightst have been to me! + + + +CANTO THE FOURTH. + + + +I. + + I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; + A palace and a prison on each hand: + I saw from out the wave her structures rise + As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: + A thousand years their cloudy wings expand + Around me, and a dying glory smiles + O'er the far times when many a subject land + Looked to the winged Lion's marble piles, +Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles! + +II. + + She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, + Rising with her tiara of proud towers + At airy distance, with majestic motion, + A ruler of the waters and their powers: + And such she was; her daughters had their dowers + From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East + Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. + In purple was she robed, and of her feast +Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased. + +III. + + In Venice, Tasso's echoes are no more, + And silent rows the songless gondolier; + Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, + And music meets not always now the ear: + Those days are gone--but beauty still is here. + States fall, arts fade--but Nature doth not die, + Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, + The pleasant place of all festivity, +The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy! + +IV. + + But unto us she hath a spell beyond + Her name in story, and her long array + Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond + Above the dogeless city's vanished sway; + Ours is a trophy which will not decay + With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor, + And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away - + The keystones of the arch! though all were o'er, +For us repeopled were the solitary shore. + +V. + + The beings of the mind are not of clay; + Essentially immortal, they create + And multiply in us a brighter ray + And more beloved existence: that which Fate + Prohibits to dull life, in this our state + Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied, + First exiles, then replaces what we hate; + Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, +And with a fresher growth replenishing the void. + +VI. + + Such is the refuge of our youth and age, + The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy; + And this worn feeling peoples many a page, + And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye: + Yet there are things whose strong reality + Outshines our fairy-land; in shape and hues + More beautiful than our fantastic sky, + And the strange constellations which the Muse +O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse: + +VII. + + I saw or dreamed of such,--but let them go - + They came like truth, and disappeared like dreams; + And whatsoe'er they were--are now but so; + I could replace them if I would: still teems + My mind with many a form which aptly seems + Such as I sought for, and at moments found; + Let these too go--for waking reason deems + Such overweening phantasies unsound, +And other voices speak, and other sights surround. + +VIII. + + I've taught me other tongues, and in strange eyes + Have made me not a stranger; to the mind + Which is itself, no changes bring surprise; + Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find + A country with--ay, or without mankind; + Yet was I born where men are proud to be, + Not without cause; and should I leave behind + The inviolate island of the sage and free, +And seek me out a home by a remoter sea, + +IX. + + Perhaps I loved it well: and should I lay + My ashes in a soil which is not mine, + My spirit shall resume it--if we may + Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine + My hopes of being remembered in my line + With my land's language: if too fond and far + These aspirations in their scope incline, - + If my fame should be, as my fortunes are, +Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar. + +X. + + My name from out the temple where the dead + Are honoured by the nations--let it be - + And light the laurels on a loftier head! + And be the Spartan's epitaph on me - + 'Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.' + Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need; + The thorns which I have reaped are of the tree + I planted,--they have torn me, and I bleed: +I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed. + +XI. + + The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord; + And, annual marriage now no more renewed, + The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, + Neglected garment of her widowhood! + St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood + Stand, but in mockery of his withered power, + Over the proud place where an Emperor sued, + And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour +When Venice was a queen with an unequalled dower. + +XII. + + The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns - + An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt; + Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains + Clank over sceptred cities; nations melt + From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt + The sunshine for a while, and downward go + Like lauwine loosened from the mountain's belt: + Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo! +The octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. + +XIII. + + Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, + Their gilded collars glittering in the sun; + But is not Doria's menace come to pass? + Are they not BRIDLED?--Venice, lost and won, + Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, + Sinks, like a seaweed, into whence she rose! + Better be whelmed beneath the waves, and shun, + Even in Destruction's depth, her foreign foes, +From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. + +XIV. + + In youth she was all glory,--a new Tyre, - + Her very byword sprung from victory, + The 'Planter of the Lion,' which through fire + And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea; + Though making many slaves, herself still free + And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite: + Witness Troy's rival, Candia! Vouch it, ye + Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight! +For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight. + +XV. + + Statues of glass--all shivered--the long file + Of her dead doges are declined to dust; + But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile + Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust; + Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, + Have yielded to the stranger: empty halls, + Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must + Too oft remind her who and what enthrals, +Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. + +XVI. + + When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, + And fettered thousands bore the yoke of war, + Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse, + Her voice their only ransom from afar: + See! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car + Of the o'ermastered victor stops, the reins + Fall from his hands--his idle scimitar + Starts from its belt--he rends his captive's chains, +And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains. + +XVII. + + Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, + Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, + Thy choral memory of the bard divine, + Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot + Which ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy lot + Is shameful to the nations,--most of all, + Albion! to thee: the Ocean Queen should not + Abandon Ocean's children; in the fall +Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall. + +XVIII. + + I loved her from my boyhood: she to me + Was as a fairy city of the heart, + Rising like water-columns from the sea, + Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart + And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art, + Had stamped her image in me, and e'en so, + Although I found her thus, we did not part, + Perchance e'en dearer in her day of woe, +Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. + +XIX. + + I can repeople with the past--and of + The present there is still for eye and thought, + And meditation chastened down, enough; + And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought; + And of the happiest moments which were wrought + Within the web of my existence, some + From thee, fair Venice! have their colours caught: + There are some feelings Time cannot benumb, +Nor torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb. + +XX. + + But from their nature will the tannen grow + Loftiest on loftiest and least sheltered rocks, + Rooted in barrenness, where nought below + Of soil supports them 'gainst the Alpine shocks + Of eddying storms; yet springs the trunk, and mocks + The howling tempest, till its height and frame + Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks + Of bleak, grey granite, into life it came, +And grew a giant tree;--the mind may grow the same. + +XXI. + + Existence may be borne, and the deep root + Of life and sufferance make its firm abode + In bare and desolate bosoms: mute + The camel labours with the heaviest load, + And the wolf dies in silence. Not bestowed + In vain should such examples be; if they, + Things of ignoble or of savage mood, + Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay +May temper it to bear,--it is but for a day. + +XXII. + + All suffering doth destroy, or is destroyed, + Even by the sufferer; and, in each event, + Ends: --Some, with hope replenished and rebuoyed, + Return to whence they came--with like intent, + And weave their web again; some, bowed and bent, + Wax grey and ghastly, withering ere their time, + And perish with the reed on which they leant; + Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, +According as their souls were formed to sink or climb. + +XXIII. + + But ever and anon of griefs subdued + There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, + Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued; + And slight withal may be the things which bring + Back on the heart the weight which it would fling + Aside for ever: it may be a sound - + A tone of music--summer's eve--or spring - + A flower--the wind--the ocean--which shall wound, +Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound. + +XXIV. + + And how and why we know not, nor can trace + Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, + But feel the shock renewed, nor can efface + The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, + Which out of things familiar, undesigned, + When least we deem of such, calls up to view + The spectres whom no exorcism can bind, - + The cold--the changed--perchance the dead--anew, +The mourned, the loved, the lost--too many!--yet how few! + +XXV. + + But my soul wanders; I demand it back + To meditate amongst decay, and stand + A ruin amidst ruins; there to track + Fall'n states and buried greatness, o'er a land + Which WAS the mightiest in its old command, + And IS the loveliest, and must ever be + The master-mould of Nature's heavenly hand, + Wherein were cast the heroic and the free, +The beautiful, the brave--the lords of earth and sea. + +XXVI. + + The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome! + And even since, and now, fair Italy! + Thou art the garden of the world, the home + Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree; + Even in thy desert, what is like to thee? + Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste + More rich than other climes' fertility; + Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced +With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced. + +XXVII. + + The moon is up, and yet it is not night - + Sunset divides the sky with her--a sea + Of glory streams along the Alpine height + Of blue Friuli's mountains; Heaven is free + From clouds, but of all colours seems to be - + Melted to one vast Iris of the West, + Where the day joins the past eternity; + While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest +Floats through the azure air--an island of the blest! + +XXVIII. + + A single star is at her side, and reigns + With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still + Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains + Rolled o'er the peak of the far Rhaetian hill, + As Day and Night contending were, until + Nature reclaimed her order: --gently flows + The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil + The odorous purple of a new-born rose, +Which streams upon her stream, and glassed within it glows, + +XXIX. + + Filled with the face of heaven, which, from afar, + Comes down upon the waters; all its hues, + From the rich sunset to the rising star, + Their magical variety diffuse: + And now they change; a paler shadow strews + Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day + Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues + With a new colour as it gasps away, +The last still loveliest, till--'tis gone--and all is grey. + +XXX. + + There is a tomb in Arqua;--reared in air, + Pillared in their sarcophagus, repose + The bones of Laura's lover: here repair + Many familiar with his well-sung woes, + The pilgrims of his genius. He arose + To raise a language, and his land reclaim + From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes: + Watering the tree which bears his lady's name +With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. + +XXXI. + + They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died; + The mountain-village where his latter days + Went down the vale of years; and 'tis their pride - + An honest pride--and let it be their praise, + To offer to the passing stranger's gaze + His mansion and his sepulchre; both plain + And venerably simple, such as raise + A feeling more accordant with his strain, +Than if a pyramid formed his monumental fane. + +XXXII. + + And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt + Is one of that complexion which seems made + For those who their mortality have felt, + And sought a refuge from their hopes decayed + In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade, + Which shows a distant prospect far away + Of busy cities, now in vain displayed, + For they can lure no further; and the ray +Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday. + +XXXIII. + + Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers + And shining in the brawling brook, where-by, + Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours + With a calm languor, which, though to the eye + Idlesse it seem, hath its morality, + If from society we learn to live, + 'Tis solitude should teach us how to die; + It hath no flatterers; vanity can give +No hollow aid; alone--man with his God must strive: + +XXXIV. + + Or, it may be, with demons, who impair + The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey + In melancholy bosoms, such as were + Of moody texture from their earliest day, + And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay, + Deeming themselves predestined to a doom + Which is not of the pangs that pass away; + Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, +The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. + +XXXV. + + Ferrara! in thy wide and grass-grown streets, + Whose symmetry was not for solitude, + There seems as 'twere a curse upon the seat's + Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood + Of Este, which for many an age made good + Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore + Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood + Of petty power impelled, of those who wore +The wreath which Dante's brow alone had worn before. + +XXXVI. + + And Tasso is their glory and their shame. + Hark to his strain! and then survey his cell! + And see how dearly earned Torquato's fame, + And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell. + The miserable despot could not quell + The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend + With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell + Where he had plunged it. Glory without end +Scattered the clouds away--and on that name attend + +XXXVII. + + The tears and praises of all time, while thine + Would rot in its oblivion--in the sink + Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line + Is shaken into nothing; but the link + Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think + Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn - + Alfonso! how thy ducal pageants shrink + From thee! if in another station born, +Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st to mourn: + +XXXVIII. + + THOU! formed to eat, and be despised, and die, + Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou + Hadst a more splendid trough, and wider sty: + HE! with a glory round his furrowed brow, + Which emanated then, and dazzles now + In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire, + And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow + No strain which shamed his country's creaking lyre, +That whetstone of the teeth--monotony in wire! + +XXXIX. + + Peace to Torquato's injured shade! 'twas his + In life and death to be the mark where Wrong + Aimed with their poisoned arrows--but to miss. + Oh, victor unsurpassed in modern song! + Each year brings forth its millions; but how long + The tide of generations shall roll on, + And not the whole combined and countless throng + Compose a mind like thine? Though all in one +Condensed their scattered rays, they would not form a sun. + +XL. + + Great as thou art, yet paralleled by those + Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine, + The bards of Hell and Chivalry: first rose + The Tuscan father's comedy divine; + Then, not unequal to the Florentine, + The Southern Scott, the minstrel who called forth + A new creation with his magic line, + And, like the Ariosto of the North, +Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly worth. + +XLI. + + The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust + The iron crown of laurel's mimicked leaves; + Nor was the ominous element unjust, + For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves + Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves, + And the false semblance but disgraced his brow; + Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieves, + Know that the lightning sanctifies below +Whate'er it strikes;--yon head is doubly sacred now. + +XLII. + + Italia! O Italia! thou who hast + The fatal gift of beauty, which became + A funeral dower of present woes and past, + On thy sweet brow is sorrow ploughed by shame, + And annals graved in characters of flame. + Oh God! that thou wert in thy nakedness + Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim + Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press +To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress; + +XLIII. + + Then mightst thou more appal; or, less desired, + Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored + For thy destructive charms; then, still untired, + Would not be seen the armed torrents poured + Down the deep Alps; nor would the hostile horde + Of many-nationed spoilers from the Po + Quaff blood and water; nor the stranger's sword + Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, +Victor or vanquished, thou the slave of friend or foe. + +XLIV. + + Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, + The Roman friend of Rome's least mortal mind, + The friend of Tully: as my bark did skim + The bright blue waters with a fanning wind, + Came Megara before me, and behind + AEgina lay, Piraeus on the right, + And Corinth on the left; I lay reclined + Along the prow, and saw all these unite +In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight; + +XLV. + + For time hath not rebuilt them, but upreared + Barbaric dwellings on their shattered site, + Which only make more mourned and more endeared + The few last rays of their far-scattered light, + And the crushed relics of their vanished might. + The Roman saw these tombs in his own age, + These sepulchres of cities, which excite + Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page +The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage. + +XLVI. + + That page is now before me, and on mine + HIS country's ruin added to the mass + Of perished states he mourned in their decline, + And I in desolation: all that WAS + Of then destruction IS; and now, alas! + Rome--Rome imperial, bows her to the storm, + In the same dust and blackness, and we pass + The skeleton of her Titanic form, +Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. + +XLVII. + + Yet, Italy! through every other land + Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side; + Mother of Arts! as once of Arms; thy hand + Was then our Guardian, and is still our guide; + Parent of our religion! whom the wide + Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven! + Europe, repentant of her parricide, + Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, +Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. + +XLVIII. + + But Arno wins us to the fair white walls, + Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps + A softer feeling for her fairy halls. + Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps + Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps + To laughing life, with her redundant horn. + Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps, + Was modern Luxury of Commerce born, +And buried Learning rose, redeemed to a new morn. + +XLIX. + + There, too, the goddess loves in stone, and fills + The air around with beauty; we inhale + The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils + Part of its immortality; the veil + Of heaven is half undrawn; within the pale + We stand, and in that form and face behold + What Mind can make, when Nature's self would fail; + And to the fond idolaters of old +Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould: + +L. + + We gaze and turn away, and know not where, + Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart + Reels with its fulness; there--for ever there - + Chained to the chariot of triumphal Art, + We stand as captives, and would not depart. + Away!--there need no words, nor terms precise, + The paltry jargon of the marble mart, + Where Pedantry gulls Folly--we have eyes: +Blood, pulse, and breast, confirm the Dardan Shepherd's prize. + +LI. + + Appearedst thou not to Paris in this guise? + Or to more deeply blest Anchises? or, + In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies + Before thee thy own vanquished Lord of War? + And gazing in thy face as toward a star, + Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn, + Feeding on thy sweet cheek! while thy lips are + With lava kisses melting while they burn, +Showered on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from an urn! + +LII. + + Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love, + Their full divinity inadequate + That feeling to express, or to improve, + The gods become as mortals, and man's fate + Has moments like their brightest! but the weight + Of earth recoils upon us;--let it go! + We can recall such visions, and create + From what has been, or might be, things which grow, +Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below. + +LIII. + + I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands, + The artist and his ape, to teach and tell + How well his connoisseurship understands + The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell: + Let these describe the undescribable: + I would not their vile breath should crisp the stream + Wherein that image shall for ever dwell; + The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream +That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam. + +LIV. + + In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie + Ashes which make it holier, dust which is + E'en in itself an immortality, + Though there were nothing save the past, and this + The particle of those sublimities + Which have relapsed to chaos: --here repose + Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his, + The starry Galileo, with his woes; +Here Machiavelli's earth returned to whence it rose. + +LV. + + These are four minds, which, like the elements, + Might furnish forth creation: --Italy! + Time, which hath wronged thee with ten thousand rents + Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, + And hath denied, to every other sky, + Spirits which soar from ruin: --thy decay + Is still impregnate with divinity, + Which gilds it with revivifying ray; +Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. + +LVI. + + But where repose the all Etruscan three - + Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they, + The Bard of Prose, creative spirit! he + Of the Hundred Tales of love--where did they lay + Their bones, distinguished from our common clay + In death as life? Are they resolved to dust, + And have their country's marbles nought to say? + Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust? +Did they not to her breast their filial earth entrust? + +LVII. + + Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar, + Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore; + Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, + Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore + Their children's children would in vain adore + With the remorse of ages; and the crown + Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore, + Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, +His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled--not thine own. + +LVIII. + + Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeathed + His dust,--and lies it not her great among, + With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed + O'er him who formed the Tuscan's siren tongue? + That music in itself, whose sounds are song, + The poetry of speech? No;--even his tomb + Uptorn, must bear the hyaena bigots' wrong, + No more amidst the meaner dead find room, +Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for WHOM? + +LIX. + + And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust; + Yet for this want more noted, as of yore + The Caesar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust, + Did but of Rome's best son remind her more: + Happier Ravenna! on thy hoary shore, + Fortress of falling empire! honoured sleeps + The immortal exile;--Arqua, too, her store + Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, +While Florence vainly begs her banished dead, and weeps. + +LX. + + What is her pyramid of precious stones? + Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues + Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones + Of merchant-dukes? the momentary dews + Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse + Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead, + Whose names are mausoleums of the Muse, + Are gently prest with far more reverent tread +Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely head. + +LXI. + + There be more things to greet the heart and eyes + In Arno's dome of Art's most princely shrine, + Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister vies; + There be more marvels yet--but not for mine; + For I have been accustomed to entwine + My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields + Than Art in galleries: though a work divine + Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields +Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields + +LXII. + + Is of another temper, and I roam + By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles + Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home; + For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles + Come back before me, as his skill beguiles + The host between the mountains and the shore, + Where Courage falls in her despairing files, + And torrents, swoll'n to rivers with their gore, +Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scattered o'er, + +LXIII. + + Like to a forest felled by mountain winds; + And such the storm of battle on this day, + And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds + To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray, + An earthquake reeled unheededly away! + None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet, + And yawning forth a grave for those who lay + Upon their bucklers for a winding-sheet; +Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet. + +LXIV. + + The Earth to them was as a rolling bark + Which bore them to Eternity; they saw + The Ocean round, but had no time to mark + The motions of their vessel: Nature's law, + In them suspended, recked not of the awe + Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the birds + Plunge in the clouds for refuge, and withdraw + From their down-toppling nests; and bellowing herds +Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath no words. + +LXV. + + Far other scene is Thrasimene now; + Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain + Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough; + Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain + Lay where their roots are; but a brook hath ta'en - + A little rill of scanty stream and bed - + A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain; + And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead +Made the earth wet, and turned the unwilling waters red. + +LXVI. + + But thou, Clitumnus! in thy sweetest wave + Of the most living crystal that was e'er + The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave + Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear + Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer + Grazes; the purest god of gentle waters! + And most serene of aspect, and most clear: + Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters, +A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daughters! + +LXVII. + + And on thy happy shore a temple still, + Of small and delicate proportion, keeps, + Upon a mild declivity of hill, + Its memory of thee; beneath it sweeps + Thy current's calmness; oft from out it leaps + The finny darter with the glittering scales, + Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps; + While, chance, some scattered water-lily sails +Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling tales. + +LXVIII. + + Pass not unblest the genius of the place! + If through the air a zephyr more serene + Win to the brow, 'tis his; and if ye trace + Along his margin a more eloquent green, + If on the heart the freshness of the scene + Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust + Of weary life a moment lave it clean + With Nature's baptism,--'tis to him ye must +Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust. + +LXIX. + + The roar of waters!--from the headlong height + Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice; + The fall of waters! rapid as the light + The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss; + The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss, + And boil in endless torture; while the sweat + Of their great agony, wrung out from this + Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet +That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, + +LXX. + + And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again + Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, + With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, + Is an eternal April to the ground, + Making it all one emerald. How profound + The gulf! and how the giant element + From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, + Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent +With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent + +LXXI. + + To the broad column which rolls on, and shows + More like the fountain of an infant sea + Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes + Of a new world, than only thus to be + Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly, + With many windings through the vale: --Look back! + Lo! where it comes like an eternity, + As if to sweep down all things in its track, +Charming the eye with dread,--a matchless cataract, + +LXXII. + + Horribly beautiful! but on the verge, + From side to side, beneath the glittering morn, + An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, + Like Hope upon a deathbed, and, unworn + Its steady dyes, while all around is torn + By the distracted waters, bears serene + Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn: + Resembling, mid the torture of the scene, +Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. + +LXXIII. + + Once more upon the woody Apennine, + The infant Alps, which--had I not before + Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine + Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar + The thundering lauwine--might be worshipped more; + But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear + Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar + Glaciers of bleak Mont Blanc both far and near, +And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, + +LXXIV. + + The Acroceraunian mountains of old name; + And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly + Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame, + For still they soared unutterably high: + I've looked on Ida with a Trojan's eye; + Athos, Olympus, AEtna, Atlas, made + These hills seem things of lesser dignity, + All, save the lone Soracte's height displayed, +Not NOW in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid + +LXXV. + + For our remembrance, and from out the plain + Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break, + And on the curl hangs pausing: not in vain + May he who will his recollections rake, + And quote in classic raptures, and awake + The hills with Latian echoes; I abhorred + Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake, + The drilled dull lesson, forced down word by word +In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record + +LXXVI. + + Aught that recalls the daily drug which turned + My sickening memory; and, though Time hath taught + My mind to meditate what then it learned, + Yet such the fixed inveteracy wrought + By the impatience of my early thought, + That, with the freshness wearing out before + My mind could relish what it might have sought, + If free to choose, I cannot now restore +Its health; but what it then detested, still abhor. + +LXXVII. + + Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, + Not for thy faults, but mine; it is a curse + To understand, not feel, thy lyric flow, + To comprehend, but never love thy verse, + Although no deeper moralist rehearse + Our little life, nor bard prescribe his art, + Nor livelier satirist the conscience pierce, + Awakening without wounding the touched heart, +Yet fare thee well--upon Soracte's ridge we part. + +LXXVIII. + + O Rome! my country! city of the soul! + The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, + Lone mother of dead empires! and control + In their shut breasts their petty misery. + What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see + The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way + O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye! + Whose agonies are evils of a day-- +A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. + +LXXIX. + + The Niobe of nations! there she stands, + Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe; + An empty urn within her withered hands, + Whose holy dust was scattered long ago; + The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now; + The very sepulchres lie tenantless + Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow, + Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness? +Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress! + +LXXX. + + The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire, + Have dwelt upon the seven-hilled city's pride: + She saw her glories star by star expire, + And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, + Where the car climbed the Capitol; far and wide + Temple and tower went down, nor left a site; - + Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void, + O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, +And say, 'Here was, or is,' where all is doubly night? + +LXXXI. + + The double night of ages, and of her, + Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt, and wrap + All round us; we but feel our way to err: + The ocean hath its chart, the stars their map; + And knowledge spreads them on her ample lap; + But Rome is as the desert, where we steer + Stumbling o'er recollections: now we clap + Our hands, and cry, 'Eureka!' it is clear - +When but some false mirage of ruin rises near. + +LXXXII. + + Alas, the lofty city! and alas + The trebly hundred triumphs! and the day + When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass + The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away! + Alas for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay, + And Livy's pictured page! But these shall be + Her resurrection; all beside--decay. + Alas for Earth, for never shall we see +That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free! + +LXXXIII. + + O thou, whose chariot rolled on Fortune's wheel, + Triumphant Sylla! Thou, who didst subdue + Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst pause to feel + The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due + Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew + O'er prostrate Asia;--thou, who with thy frown + Annihilated senates--Roman, too, + With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down +With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown - + +LXXXIV. + + The dictatorial wreath,--couldst thou divine + To what would one day dwindle that which made + Thee more than mortal? and that so supine + By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid? + She who was named eternal, and arrayed + Her warriors but to conquer--she who veiled + Earth with her haughty shadow, and displayed + Until the o'er-canopied horizon failed, +Her rushing wings--Oh! she who was almighty hailed! + +LXXXV. + + Sylla was first of victors; but our own, + The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell!--he + Too swept off senates while he hewed the throne + Down to a block--immortal rebel! See + What crimes it costs to be a moment free + And famous through all ages! But beneath + His fate the moral lurks of destiny; + His day of double victory and death +Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield his breath. + +LXXXVI. + + The third of the same moon whose former course + Had all but crowned him, on the self-same day + Deposed him gently from his throne of force, + And laid him with the earth's preceding clay. + And showed not Fortune thus how fame and sway, + And all we deem delightful, and consume + Our souls to compass through each arduous way, + Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb? +Were they but so in man's, how different were his doom! + +LXXXVII. + + And thou, dread statue! yet existent in + The austerest form of naked majesty, + Thou who beheldest, mid the assassins' din, + At thy bathed base the bloody Caesar lie, + Folding his robe in dying dignity, + An offering to thine altar from the queen + Of gods and men, great Nemesis! did he die, + And thou, too, perish, Pompey? have ye been +Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene? + +LXXXVIII. + + And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome! + She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart + The milk of conquest yet within the dome + Where, as a monument of antique art, + Thou standest: --Mother of the mighty heart, + Which the great founder sucked from thy wild teat, + Scorched by the Roman Jove's ethereal dart, + And thy limbs blacked with lightning--dost thou yet +Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget? + +LXXXIX. + + Thou dost;--but all thy foster-babes are dead - + The men of iron; and the world hath reared + Cities from out their sepulchres: men bled + In imitation of the things they feared, + And fought and conquered, and the same course steered, + At apish distance; but as yet none have, + Nor could, the same supremacy have neared, + Save one vain man, who is not in the grave, +But, vanquished by himself, to his own slaves a slave, + +XC. + + The fool of false dominion--and a kind + Of bastard Caesar, following him of old + With steps unequal; for the Roman's mind + Was modelled in a less terrestrial mould, + With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold, + And an immortal instinct which redeemed + The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold. + Alcides with the distaff now he seemed +At Cleopatra's feet, and now himself he beamed. + +XCI. + + And came, and saw, and conquered. But the man + Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee, + Like a trained falcon, in the Gallic van, + Which he, in sooth, long led to victory, + With a deaf heart which never seemed to be + A listener to itself, was strangely framed; + With but one weakest weakness--vanity: + Coquettish in ambition, still he aimed +At what? Can he avouch, or answer what he claimed? + +XCII. + + And would be all or nothing--nor could wait + For the sure grave to level him; few years + Had fixed him with the Caesars in his fate, + On whom we tread: For THIS the conqueror rears + The arch of triumph! and for this the tears + And blood of earth flow on as they have flowed, + An universal deluge, which appears + Without an ark for wretched man's abode, +And ebbs but to reflow!--Renew thy rainbow, God! + +XCIII. + + What from this barren being do we reap? + Our senses narrow, and our reason frail, + Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep, + And all things weighed in custom's falsest scale; + Opinion an omnipotence, whose veil + Mantles the earth with darkness, until right + And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale + Lest their own judgments should become too bright, +And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too much light. + +XCIV. + + And thus they plod in sluggish misery, + Rotting from sire to son, and age to age, + Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, + Bequeathing their hereditary rage + To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage + War for their chains, and rather than be free, + Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage + Within the same arena where they see +Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree. + +XCV. + + I speak not of men's creeds--they rest between + Man and his Maker--but of things allowed, + Averred, and known,--and daily, hourly seen - + The yoke that is upon us doubly bowed, + And the intent of tyranny avowed, + The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown + The apes of him who humbled once the proud, + And shook them from their slumbers on the throne; +Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done. + +XCVI. + + Can tyrants but by tyrants conquered be, + And Freedom find no champion and no child + Such as Columbia saw arise when she + Sprung forth a Pallas, armed and undefiled? + Or must such minds be nourished in the wild, + Deep in the unpruned forest, midst the roar + Of cataracts, where nursing nature smiled + On infant Washington? Has Earth no more +Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore? + +XCVII. + + But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime, + And fatal have her Saturnalia been + To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime; + Because the deadly days which we have seen, + And vile Ambition, that built up between + Man and his hopes an adamantine wall, + And the base pageant last upon the scene, + Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall +Which nips Life's tree, and dooms man's worst--his second fall. + +XCVIII. + + Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, + Streams like the thunder-storm AGAINST the wind; + Thy trumpet-voice, though broken now and dying, + The loudest still the tempest leaves behind; + Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, + Chopped by the axe, looks rough and little worth, + But the sap lasts,--and still the seed we find + Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North; +So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth. + +XCIX. + + There is a stern round tower of other days, + Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, + Such as an army's baffled strength delays, + Standing with half its battlements alone, + And with two thousand years of ivy grown, + The garland of eternity, where wave + The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown: + What was this tower of strength? within its cave +What treasure lay so locked, so hid?--A woman's grave. + +C. + + But who was she, the lady of the dead, + Tombed in a palace? Was she chaste and fair? + Worthy a king's--or more--a Roman's bed? + What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear? + What daughter of her beauties was the heir? + How lived--how loved--how died she? Was she not + So honoured--and conspicuously there, + Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, +Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot? + +CI. + + Was she as those who love their lords, or they + Who love the lords of others? such have been + Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say. + Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien, + Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen, + Profuse of joy; or 'gainst it did she war, + Inveterate in virtue? Did she lean + To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar +Love from amongst her griefs?--for such the affections are. + +CII. + + Perchance she died in youth: it may be, bowed + With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb + That weighed upon her gentle dust, a cloud + Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom + In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom + Heaven gives its favourites--early death; yet shed + A sunset charm around her, and illume + With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, +Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red. + +CIII. + + Perchance she died in age--surviving all, + Charms, kindred, children--with the silver grey + On her long tresses, which might yet recall, + It may be, still a something of the day + When they were braided, and her proud array + And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed + By Rome--But whither would Conjecture stray? + Thus much alone we know--Metella died, +The wealthiest Roman's wife: Behold his love or pride! + +CIV. + + I know not why--but standing thus by thee + It seems as if I had thine inmate known, + Thou Tomb! and other days come back on me + With recollected music, though the tone + Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan + Of dying thunder on the distant wind; + Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone + Till I had bodied forth the heated mind, +Forms from the floating wreck which ruin leaves behind; + +CV. + + And from the planks, far shattered o'er the rocks, + Built me a little bark of hope, once more + To battle with the ocean and the shocks + Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar + Which rushes on the solitary shore + Where all lies foundered that was ever dear: + But could I gather from the wave-worn store + Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer? +There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here. + +CVI. + + Then let the winds howl on! their harmony + Shall henceforth be my music, and the night + The sound shall temper with the owlet's cry, + As I now hear them, in the fading light + Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site, + Answer each other on the Palatine, + With their large eyes, all glistening grey and bright, + And sailing pinions.--Upon such a shrine +What are our petty griefs?--let me not number mine. + +CVII. + + Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown + Matted and massed together, hillocks heaped + On what were chambers, arch crushed, column strown + In fragments, choked-up vaults, and frescoes steeped + In subterranean damps, where the owl peeped, + Deeming it midnight: --Temples, baths, or halls? + Pronounce who can; for all that Learning reaped + From her research hath been, that these are walls - +Behold the Imperial Mount! 'tis thus the mighty falls. + +CVIII. + + There is the moral of all human tales: + 'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, + First Freedom, and then Glory--when that fails, + Wealth, vice, corruption--barbarism at last. + And History, with all her volumes vast, + Hath but ONE page,--'tis better written here, + Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amassed + All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, +Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask--Away with words! draw near, + +CIX. + + Admire, exult--despise--laugh, weep--for here + There is such matter for all feeling: --Man! + Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear, + Ages and realms are crowded in this span, + This mountain, whose obliterated plan + The pyramid of empires pinnacled, + Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van + Till the sun's rays with added flame were filled! +Where are its golden roofs? where those who dared to build? + +CX. + + Tully was not so eloquent as thou, + Thou nameless column with the buried base! + What are the laurels of the Caesar's brow? + Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. + Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, + Titus or Trajan's? No; 'tis that of Time: + Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace, + Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb +To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime, + +CXI. + + Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome, + And looking to the stars; they had contained + A spirit which with these would find a home, + The last of those who o'er the whole earth reigned, + The Roman globe, for after none sustained + But yielded back his conquests: --he was more + Than a mere Alexander, and unstained + With household blood and wine, serenely wore +His sovereign virtues--still we Trajan's name adore. + +CXII. + + Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place + Where Rome embraced her heroes? where the steep + Tarpeian--fittest goal of Treason's race, + The promontory whence the traitor's leap + Cured all ambition? Did the Conquerors heap + Their spoils here? Yes; and in yon field below, + A thousand years of silenced factions sleep - + The Forum, where the immortal accents glow, +And still the eloquent air breathes--burns with Cicero! + +CXIII. + + The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood: + Here a proud people's passions were exhaled, + From the first hour of empire in the bud + To that when further worlds to conquer failed; + But long before had Freedom's face been veiled, + And Anarchy assumed her attributes: + Till every lawless soldier who assailed + Trod on the trembling Senate's slavish mutes, +Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes. + +CXIV. + + Then turn we to our latest tribune's name, + From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee, + Redeemer of dark centuries of shame - + The friend of Petrarch--hope of Italy - + Rienzi! last of Romans! While the tree + Of freedom's withered trunk puts forth a leaf, + Even for thy tomb a garland let it be-- + The forum's champion, and the people's chief - +Her new-born Numa thou, with reign, alas! too brief. + +CXV. + + Egeria! sweet creation of some heart + Which found no mortal resting-place so fair + As thine ideal breast; whate'er thou art + Or wert,--a young Aurora of the air, + The nympholepsy of some fond despair; + Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, + Who found a more than common votary there + Too much adoring; whatsoe'er thy birth, +Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth. + +CXVI. + + The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled + With thine Elysian water-drops; the face + Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled, + Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, + Whose green wild margin now no more erase + Art's works; nor must the delicate waters sleep, + Prisoned in marble, bubbling from the base + Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap +The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy creep, + +CXVII. + + Fantastically tangled; the green hills + Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass + The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills + Of summer birds sing welcome as ye pass; + Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class, + Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes + Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass; + The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, +Kissed by the breath of heaven, seems coloured by its skies. + +CXVIII. + + Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, + Egeria! thy all heavenly bosom beating + For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover; + The purple Midnight veiled that mystic meeting + With her most starry canopy, and seating + Thyself by thine adorer, what befell? + This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting + Of an enamoured Goddess, and the cell +Haunted by holy Love--the earliest oracle! + +CXIX. + + And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, + Blend a celestial with a human heart; + And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing, + Share with immortal transports? could thine art + Make them indeed immortal, and impart + The purity of heaven to earthly joys, + Expel the venom and not blunt the dart - + The dull satiety which all destroys-- +And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys? + +CXX. + + Alas! our young affections run to waste, + Or water but the desert: whence arise + But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste, + Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes, + Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies, + And trees whose gums are poison; such the plants + Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies + O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants +For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. + +CXXI. + + O Love! no habitant of earth thou art - + An unseen seraph, we believe in thee,-- + A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart, + But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see, + The naked eye, thy form, as it should be; + The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven, + Even with its own desiring phantasy, + And to a thought such shape and image given, +As haunts the unquenched soul--parched--wearied--wrung--and riven. + +CXXII. + + Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, + And fevers into false creation;--where, + Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? + In him alone. Can Nature show so fair? + Where are the charms and virtues which we dare + Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, + The unreached Paradise of our despair, + Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen, +And overpowers the page where it would bloom again. + +CXXIII. + + Who loves, raves--'tis youth's frenzy--but the cure + Is bitterer still; as charm by charm unwinds + Which robed our idols, and we see too sure + Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's + Ideal shape of such; yet still it binds + The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, + Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds; + The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, +Seems ever near the prize--wealthiest when most undone. + +CXXIV. + + We wither from our youth, we gasp away - + Sick--sick; unfound the boon, unslaked the thirst, + Though to the last, in verge of our decay, + Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first - + But all too late,--so are we doubly curst. + Love, fame, ambition, avarice--'tis the same - + Each idle, and all ill, and none the worst - + For all are meteors with a different name, +And death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame. + +CXXV. + + Few--none--find what they love or could have loved: + Though accident, blind contact, and the strong + Necessity of loving, have removed + Antipathies--but to recur, ere long, + Envenomed with irrevocable wrong; + And Circumstance, that unspiritual god + And miscreator, makes and helps along + Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod, +Whose touch turns hope to dust--the dust we all have trod. + +CXXVI. + + Our life is a false nature--'tis not in + The harmony of things,--this hard decree, + This uneradicable taint of sin, + This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, + Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be + The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew - + Disease, death, bondage, all the woes we see-- + And worse, the woes we see not--which throb through +The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new. + +CXXVII. + + Yet let us ponder boldly--'tis a base + Abandonment of reason to resign + Our right of thought--our last and only place + Of refuge; this, at least, shall still be mine: + Though from our birth the faculty divine + Is chained and tortured--cabined, cribbed, confined, + And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine + Too brightly on the unprepared mind, +The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the blind. + +CXXVIII. + + Arches on arches! as it were that Rome, + Collecting the chief trophies of her line, + Would build up all her triumphs in one dome, + Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams shine + As 'twere its natural torches, for divine + Should be the light which streams here, to illume + This long explored but still exhaustless mine + Of contemplation; and the azure gloom +Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume + +CXXIX. + + Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, + Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument, + And shadows forth its glory. There is given + Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent, + A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant + His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power + And magic in the ruined battlement, + For which the palace of the present hour +Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. + +CXXX. + + O Time! the beautifier of the dead, + Adorner of the ruin, comforter + And only healer when the heart hath bled - + Time! the corrector where our judgments err, + The test of truth, love,--sole philosopher, + For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift, + Which never loses though it doth defer - + Time, the avenger! unto thee I lift +My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift: + +CXXXI. + + Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine + And temple more divinely desolate, + Among thy mightier offerings here are mine, + Ruins of years--though few, yet full of fate: + If thou hast ever seen me too elate, + Hear me not; but if calmly I have borne + Good, and reserved my pride against the hate + Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn +This iron in my soul in vain--shall THEY not mourn? + +CXXXII. + + And thou, who never yet of human wrong + Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis! + Here, where the ancients paid thee homage long - + Thou, who didst call the Furies from the abyss, + And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss + For that unnatural retribution--just, + Had it but been from hands less near--in this + Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust! +Dost thou not hear my heart?--Awake! thou shalt, and must. + +CXXXIII. + + It is not that I may not have incurred + For my ancestral faults or mine the wound + I bleed withal, and had it been conferred + With a just weapon, it had flowed unbound. + But now my blood shall not sink in the ground; + To thee I do devote it--THOU shalt take + The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found, + Which if _I_ have not taken for the sake - +But let that pass--I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake. + +CXXXIV. + + And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now + I shrink from what is suffered: let him speak + Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, + Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak; + But in this page a record will I seek. + Not in the air shall these my words disperse, + Though I be ashes; a far hour shall wreak + The deep prophetic fulness of this verse, +And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse! + +CXXXV. + + That curse shall be forgiveness.--Have I not - + Hear me, my mother Earth! behold it, Heaven! - + Have I not had to wrestle with my lot? + Have I not suffered things to be forgiven? + Have I not had my brain seared, my heart riven, + Hopes sapped, name blighted, Life's life lied away? + And only not to desperation driven, + Because not altogether of such clay +As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. + +CXXXVI. + + From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy + Have I not seen what human things could do? + From the loud roar of foaming calumny + To the small whisper of the as paltry few + And subtler venom of the reptile crew, + The Janus glance of whose significant eye, + Learning to lie with silence, would SEEM true, + And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh, +Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy. + +CXXXVII. + + But I have lived, and have not lived in vain: + My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire, + And my frame perish even in conquering pain, + But there is that within me which shall tire + Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire: + Something unearthly, which they deem not of, + Like the remembered tone of a mute lyre, + Shall on their softened spirits sink, and move +In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. + +CXXXVIII. + + The seal is set.--Now welcome, thou dread Power + Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here + Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour + With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear: + Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear + Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene + Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear + That we become a part of what has been, +And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen. + +CXXXIX. + + And here the buzz of eager nations ran, + In murmured pity, or loud-roared applause, + As man was slaughtered by his fellow-man. + And wherefore slaughtered? wherefore, but because + Such were the bloody circus' genial laws, + And the imperial pleasure.--Wherefore not? + What matters where we fall to fill the maws + Of worms--on battle-plains or listed spot? +Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. + +CXL. + + I see before me the Gladiator lie: + He leans upon his hand--his manly brow + Consents to death, but conquers agony, + And his drooped head sinks gradually low - + And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow + From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, + Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now + The arena swims around him: he is gone, +Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won. + +CXLI. + + He heard it, but he heeded not--his eyes + Were with his heart, and that was far away; + He recked not of the life he lost nor prize, + But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, + THERE were his young barbarians all at play, + THERE was their Dacian mother--he, their sire, + Butchered to make a Roman holiday - + All this rushed with his blood--Shall he expire, +And unavenged?--Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire! + +CXLII. + + But here, where murder breathed her bloody steam; + And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways, + And roared or murmured like a mountain-stream + Dashing or winding as its torrent strays; + Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise + Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd, + My voice sounds much--and fall the stars' faint rays + On the arena void--seats crushed, walls bowed, +And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud. + +CXLIII. + + A ruin--yet what ruin! from its mass + Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been reared; + Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, + And marvel where the spoil could have appeared. + Hath it indeed been plundered, or but cleared? + Alas! developed, opens the decay, + When the colossal fabric's form is neared: + It will not bear the brightness of the day, +Which streams too much on all, years, man, have reft away. + +CXLIV. + + But when the rising moon begins to climb + Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there; + When the stars twinkle through the loops of time, + And the low night-breeze waves along the air, + The garland-forest, which the grey walls wear, + Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head; + When the light shines serene, but doth not glare, + Then in this magic circle raise the dead: +Heroes have trod this spot--'tis on their dust ye tread. + +CXLV. + + 'While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand; + When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; + And when Rome falls--the World.' From our own land + Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall + In Saxon times, which we are wont to call + Ancient; and these three mortal things are still + On their foundations, and unaltered all; + Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill, +The World, the same wide den--of thieves, or what ye will. + +CXLVI. + + Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime - + Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods, + From Jove to Jesus--spared and blest by time; + Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods + Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods + His way through thorns to ashes--glorious dome! + Shalt thou not last?--Time's scythe and tyrants' rods + Shiver upon thee--sanctuary and home +Of art and piety--Pantheon!--pride of Rome! + +CXLVII. + + Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts! + Despoiled yet perfect, with thy circle spreads + A holiness appealing to all hearts-- + To art a model; and to him who treads + Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds + Her light through thy sole aperture; to those + Who worship, here are altars for their beads; + And they who feel for genius may repose +Their eyes on honoured forms, whose busts around them close. + +CXLVIII. + + There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light + What do I gaze on? Nothing: Look again! + Two forms are slowly shadowed on my sight - + Two insulated phantoms of the brain: + It is not so: I see them full and plain - + An old man, and a female young and fair, + Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein + The blood is nectar: --but what doth she there, +With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and bare? + +CXLIX. + + Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, + Where ON the heart and FROM the heart we took + Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife, + Blest into mother, in the innocent look, + Or even the piping cry of lips that brook + No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives + Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook + She sees her little bud put forth its leaves - +What may the fruit be yet?--I know not--Cain was Eve's. + +CL. + + But here youth offers to old age the food, + The milk of his own gift: --it is her sire + To whom she renders back the debt of blood + Born with her birth. No; he shall not expire + While in those warm and lovely veins the fire + Of health and holy feeling can provide + Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises higher + Than Egypt's river: --from that gentle side +Drink, drink and live, old man! heaven's realm holds no such tide. + +CLI. + + The starry fable of the milky way + Has not thy story's purity; it is + A constellation of a sweeter ray, + And sacred Nature triumphs more in this + Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss + Where sparkle distant worlds: --Oh, holiest nurse! + No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss + To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source +With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. + +CLII. + + Turn to the mole which Hadrian reared on high, + Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles, + Colossal copyist of deformity, + Whose travelled phantasy from the far Nile's + Enormous model, doomed the artist's toils + To build for giants, and for his vain earth, + His shrunken ashes, raise this dome: How smiles + The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth, +To view the huge design which sprung from such a birth! + +CLIII. + + But lo! the dome--the vast and wondrous dome, + To which Diana's marvel was a cell-- + Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb! + I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle-- + Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell + The hyaena and the jackal in their shade; + I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell + Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have surveyed +Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem prayed; + +CLIV. + + But thou, of temples old, or altars new, + Standest alone--with nothing like to thee - + Worthiest of God, the holy and the true, + Since Zion's desolation, when that he + Forsook his former city, what could be, + Of earthly structures, in his honour piled, + Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty, + Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are aisled +In this eternal ark of worship undefiled. + +CLV. + + Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not; + And why? it is not lessened; but thy mind, + Expanded by the genius of the spot, + Has grown colossal, and can only find + A fit abode wherein appear enshrined + Thy hopes of immortality; and thou + Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, + See thy God face to face, as thou dost now +His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow. + +CLVI. + + Thou movest--but increasing with th' advance, + Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise, + Deceived by its gigantic elegance; + Vastness which grows--but grows to harmonise - + All musical in its immensities; + Rich marbles--richer painting--shrines where flame + The lamps of gold--and haughty dome which vies + In air with Earth's chief structures, though their frame +Sits on the firm-set ground--and this the clouds must claim. + +CLVII. + + Thou seest not all; but piecemeal thou must break + To separate contemplation, the great whole; + And as the ocean many bays will make, + That ask the eye--so here condense thy soul + To more immediate objects, and control + Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart + Its eloquent proportions, and unroll + In mighty graduations, part by part, +The glory which at once upon thee did not dart. + +CLVIII. + + Not by its fault--but thine: Our outward sense + Is but of gradual grasp--and as it is + That what we have of feeling most intense + Outstrips our faint expression; e'en so this + Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice + Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great + Defies at first our nature's littleness, + Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate +Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. + +CLIX. + + Then pause and be enlightened; there is more + In such a survey than the sating gaze + Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore + The worship of the place, or the mere praise + Of art and its great masters, who could raise + What former time, nor skill, nor thought could plan; + The fountain of sublimity displays + Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man +Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions can. + +CLX. + + Or, turning to the Vatican, go see + Laocoon's torture dignifying pain - + A father's love and mortal's agony + With an immortal's patience blending: --Vain + The struggle; vain, against the coiling strain + And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp, + The old man's clench; the long envenomed chain + Rivets the living links,--the enormous asp +Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp. + +CLXI. + + Or view the Lord of the unerring bow, + The God of life, and poesy, and light - + The Sun in human limbs arrayed, and brow + All radiant from his triumph in the fight; + The shaft hath just been shot--the arrow bright + With an immortal's vengeance; in his eye + And nostril beautiful disdain, and might + And majesty, flash their full lightnings by, +Developing in that one glance the Deity. + +CLXII. + + But in his delicate form--a dream of Love, + Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast + Longed for a deathless lover from above, + And maddened in that vision--are expressed + All that ideal beauty ever blessed + The mind within its most unearthly mood, + When each conception was a heavenly guest - + A ray of immortality--and stood +Starlike, around, until they gathered to a god? + +CLXIII. + + And if it be Prometheus stole from heaven + The fire which we endure, it was repaid + By him to whom the energy was given + Which this poetic marble hath arrayed + With an eternal glory--which, if made + By human hands, is not of human thought + And Time himself hath hallowed it, nor laid + One ringlet in the dust--nor hath it caught +A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 'twas wrought. + +CLXIV. + + But where is he, the pilgrim of my song, + The being who upheld it through the past? + Methinks he cometh late and tarries long. + He is no more--these breathings are his last; + His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast, + And he himself as nothing: --if he was + Aught but a phantasy, and could be classed + With forms which live and suffer--let that pass - +His shadow fades away into Destruction's mass, + +CLXV. + + Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all + That we inherit in its mortal shroud, + And spreads the dim and universal pall + Thro' which all things grow phantoms; and the cloud + Between us sinks and all which ever glowed, + Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays + A melancholy halo scarce allowed + To hover on the verge of darkness; rays +Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze, + +CLXVI. + + And send us prying into the abyss, + To gather what we shall be when the frame + Shall be resolved to something less than this + Its wretched essence; and to dream of fame, + And wipe the dust from off the idle name + We never more shall hear,--but never more, + Oh, happier thought! can we be made the same: + It is enough, in sooth, that ONCE we bore +These fardels of the heart--the heart whose sweat was gore. + +CLXVII. + + Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, + A long, low distant murmur of dread sound, + Such as arises when a nation bleeds + With some deep and immedicable wound; + Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground. + The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief + Seems royal still, though with her head discrowned, + And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief +She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief. + +CLXVIII. + + Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? + Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? + Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low + Some less majestic, less beloved head? + In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, + The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, + Death hushed that pang for ever: with thee fled + The present happiness and promised joy +Which filled the imperial isles so full it seemed to cloy. + +CLXIX. + + Peasants bring forth in safety.--Can it be, + O thou that wert so happy, so adored! + Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, + And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard + Her many griefs for One; for she had poured + Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head + Beheld her Iris.--Thou, too, lonely lord, + And desolate consort--vainly wert thou wed! +The husband of a year! the father of the dead! + +CLXX. + + Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made: + Thy bridal's fruit is ashes; in the dust + The fair-haired Daughter of the Isles is laid, + The love of millions! How we did entrust + Futurity to her! and, though it must + Darken above our bones, yet fondly deemed + Our children should obey her child, and blessed + Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seemed +Like star to shepherd's eyes; 'twas but a meteor beamed. + +CLXXI. + + Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well: + The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue + Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, + Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung + Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstrung + Nations have armed in madness, the strange fate + Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung + Against their blind omnipotence a weight +Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late, - + +CLXXII. + + These might have been her destiny; but no, + Our hearts deny it: and so young, so fair, + Good without effort, great without a foe; + But now a bride and mother--and now THERE! + How many ties did that stern moment tear! + From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast + Is linked the electric chain of that despair, + Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and oppressed +The land which loved thee so, that none could love thee best. + +CLXXIII. + + Lo, Nemi! navelled in the woody hills + So far, that the uprooting wind which tears + The oak from his foundation, and which spills + The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears + Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares + The oval mirror of thy glassy lake; + And, calm as cherished hate, its surface wears + A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake, +All coiled into itself and round, as sleeps the snake. + +CLXXIV. + + And near Albano's scarce divided waves + Shine from a sister valley;--and afar + The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves + The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war, + 'Arms and the Man,' whose reascending star + Rose o'er an empire,--but beneath thy right + Tully reposed from Rome;--and where yon bar + Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight, +The Sabine farm was tilled, the weary bard's delight. + +CLXXV. + + But I forget.--My pilgrim's shrine is won, + And he and I must part,--so let it be, - + His task and mine alike are nearly done; + Yet once more let us look upon the sea: + The midland ocean breaks on him and me, + And from the Alban mount we now behold + Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when we + Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold +Those waves, we followed on till the dark Euxine rolled + +CLXXVI. + + Upon the blue Symplegades: long years - + Long, though not very many--since have done + Their work on both; some suffering and some tears + Have left us nearly where we had begun: + Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run, + We have had our reward--and it is here; + That we can yet feel gladdened by the sun, + And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear +As if there were no man to trouble what is clear. + +CLXXVII. + + Oh! that the Desert were my dwelling-place, + With one fair Spirit for my minister, + That I might all forget the human race, + And, hating no one, love but only her! + Ye Elements!--in whose ennobling stir + I feel myself exalted--can ye not + Accord me such a being? Do I err + In deeming such inhabit many a spot? +Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. + +CLXXVIII. + + There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, + There is a rapture on the lonely shore, + There is society where none intrudes, + By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: + I love not Man the less, but Nature more, + From these our interviews, in which I steal + From all I may be, or have been before, + To mingle with the Universe, and feel +What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. + +CLXXIX. + + Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean--roll! + Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; + Man marks the earth with ruin--his control + Stops with the shore;--upon the watery plain + The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain + A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, + When for a moment, like a drop of rain, + He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, +Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. + +CLXXX. + + His steps are not upon thy paths,--thy fields + Are not a spoil for him,--thou dost arise + And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields + For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, + Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, + And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray + And howling, to his gods, where haply lies + His petty hope in some near port or bay, +And dashest him again to earth: --there let him lay. + +CLXXXI. + + The armaments which thunderstrike the walls + Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, + And monarchs tremble in their capitals. + The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make + Their clay creator the vain title take + Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; + These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, + They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar +Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. + +CLXXXII. + + Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee - + Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? + Thy waters washed them power while they were free + And many a tyrant since: their shores obey + The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay + Has dried up realms to deserts: not so thou, + Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play - + Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow - +Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. + +CLXXXIII. + + Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form + Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, + Calm or convulsed--in breeze, or gale, or storm, + Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime + Dark-heaving;--boundless, endless, and sublime - + The image of Eternity--the throne + Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime + The monsters of the deep are made; each zone +Obeys thee: thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. + +CLXXXIV. + + And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy + Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be + Borne like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy + I wantoned with thy breakers--they to me + Were a delight; and if the freshening sea + Made them a terror--'twas a pleasing fear, + For I was as it were a child of thee, + And trusted to thy billows far and near, +And laid my hand upon thy mane--as I do here. + +CLXXXV. + + My task is done--my song hath ceased--my theme + Has died into an echo; it is fit + The spell should break of this protracted dream. + The torch shall be extinguished which hath lit + My midnight lamp--and what is writ, is writ - + Would it were worthier! but I am not now + That which I have been--and my visions flit + Less palpably before me--and the glow +Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low. + +CLXXXVI. + + Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been - + A sound which makes us linger; yet, farewell! + Ye, who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene + Which is his last, if in your memories dwell + A thought which once was his, if on ye swell + A single recollection, not in vain + He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop shell; + Farewell! with HIM alone may rest the pain, +If such there were--with YOU, the moral of his strain. + + + +Footnotes: + +{1} Lady Charlotte Harley, daughter of the Earl of Oxford. + + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE *** + +This file should be named chpl10.txt or chpl10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, chpl11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, chpl10a.txt + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END* + diff --git a/old/2004-02-chpl10.zip b/old/2004-02-chpl10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..6d07f92 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/2004-02-chpl10.zip diff --git a/old/2004-02-chpl10h.htm b/old/2004-02-chpl10h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..84a75fd --- /dev/null +++ b/old/2004-02-chpl10h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6800 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01//EN"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII"> +<title>Childe Harold's Pilgrimage</title> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, by Lord Byron</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, by Lord Byron +(#1 in our series by Lord Byron) + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. 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You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage + +Author: Lord Byron + +Release Date: February, 2004 [EBook #5131] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on May 7, 2002] +[Most recently updated: July 28, 2006] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII +</pre> +<p> +<a name="startoftext"></a> +This eBook was produced by Les Bowler, St. Ives, Dorset.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE, BY LORD BYRON.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Contents<br> +<br> + To Ianthe<br> + Canto the First<br> + Canto the Second<br> + Canto the Third<br> + Canto the Fourth<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +TO IANTHE. <a name="citation1"></a><a href="#footnote1">{1}</a><br> +<br> +<br> +<br> + Not in those climes where I have late been straying,<br> + Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deemed,<br> + Not in those visions to the heart displaying<br> + Forms which it sighs but to have only dreamed,<br> + Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seemed:<br> + Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek<br> + To paint those charms which varied as they beamed +-<br> + To such as see thee not my words were weak;<br> +To those who gaze on thee, what language could they speak?<br> +<br> + Ah! mayst thou ever be what now thou art,<br> + Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring,<br> + As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart,<br> + Love’s image upon earth without his wing,<br> + And guileless beyond Hope’s imagining!<br> + And surely she who now so fondly rears<br> + Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening,<br> + Beholds the rainbow of her future years,<br> +Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears.<br> +<br> + Young Peri of the West! - ’tis well for me<br> + My years already doubly number thine;<br> + My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee,<br> + And safely view thy ripening beauties shine:<br> + Happy, I ne’er shall see them in decline;<br> + Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed<br> + Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign<br> + To those whose admiration shall succeed,<br> +But mixed with pangs to Love’s even loveliest hours decreed.<br> +<br> + Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle’s,<br> + Now brightly bold or beautifully shy,<br> + Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells,<br> + Glance o’er this page, nor to my verse deny<br> + That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh,<br> + Could I to thee be ever more than friend:<br> + This much, dear maid, accord; nor question why<br> + To one so young my strain I would commend,<br> +But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend.<br> +<br> + Such is thy name with this my verse entwined;<br> + And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast<br> + On Harold’s page, Ianthe’s here enshrined<br> + Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last:<br> + My days once numbered, should this homage past<br> + Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre<br> + Of him who hailed thee, loveliest as thou wast,<br> + Such is the most my memory may desire;<br> +Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less require?<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CANTO THE FIRST.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +I.<br> +<br> + Oh, thou, in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth,<br> + Muse, formed or fabled at the minstrel’s will!<br> + Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,<br> + Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill:<br> + Yet there I’ve wandered by thy vaunted rill;<br> + Yes! sighed o’er Delphi’s long-deserted +shrine<br> + Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;<br> + Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine<br> +To grace so plain a tale - this lowly lay of mine.<br> +<br> +II.<br> +<br> + Whilome in Albion’s isle there dwelt a youth,<br> + Who ne in virtue’s ways did take delight;<br> + But spent his days in riot most uncouth,<br> + And vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.<br> + Ah, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight,<br> + Sore given to revel and ungodly glee;<br> + Few earthly things found favour in his sight<br> + Save concubines and carnal companie,<br> +And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree.<br> +<br> +III.<br> +<br> + Childe Harold was he hight: - but whence his name<br> + And lineage long, it suits me not to say;<br> + Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame,<br> + And had been glorious in another day:<br> + But one sad losel soils a name for aye,<br> + However mighty in the olden time;<br> + Nor all that heralds rake from coffined clay,<br> + Nor florid prose, nor honeyed lines of rhyme,<br> +Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.<br> +<br> +IV.<br> +<br> + Childe Harold basked him in the noontide sun,<br> + Disporting there like any other fly,<br> + Nor deemed before his little day was done<br> + One blast might chill him into misery.<br> + But long ere scarce a third of his passed by,<br> + Worse than adversity the Childe befell;<br> + He felt the fulness of satiety:<br> + Then loathed he in his native land to dwell,<br> +Which seemed to him more lone than eremite’s sad cell.<br> +<br> +V.<br> +<br> + For he through Sin’s long labyrinth had run,<br> + Nor made atonement when he did amiss,<br> + Had sighed to many, though he loved but one,<br> + And that loved one, alas, could ne’er be his.<br> + Ah, happy she! to ’scape from him whose kiss<br> + Had been pollution unto aught so chaste;<br> + Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss,<br> + And spoiled her goodly lands to gild his waste,<br> +Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to taste.<br> +<br> +VI.<br> +<br> + And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,<br> + And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;<br> + ’Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,<br> + But pride congealed the drop within his e’e:<br> + Apart he stalked in joyless reverie,<br> + And from his native land resolved to go,<br> + And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;<br> + With pleasure drugged, he almost longed for woe,<br> +And e’en for change of scene would seek the shades below.<br> +<br> +VII.<br> +<br> + The Childe departed from his father’s hall;<br> + It was a vast and venerable pile;<br> + So old, it seemèd only not to fall,<br> + Yet strength was pillared in each massy aisle.<br> + Monastic dome! condemned to uses vile!<br> + Where superstition once had made her den,<br> + Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile;<br> + And monks might deem their time was come agen,<br> +If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.<br> +<br> +VIII.<br> +<br> + Yet ofttimes in his maddest mirthful mood,<br> + Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold’s +brow,<br> + As if the memory of some deadly feud<br> + Or disappointed passion lurked below:<br> + But this none knew, nor haply cared to know;<br> + For his was not that open, artless soul<br> + That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow;<br> + Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole,<br> +Whate’er this grief mote be, which he could not control.<br> +<br> +IX.<br> +<br> + And none did love him: though to hall and bower<br> + He gathered revellers from far and near,<br> + He knew them flatterers of the festal hour;<br> + The heartless parasites of present cheer.<br> + Yea, none did love him - not his lemans dear -<br> + But pomp and power alone are woman’s care,<br> + And where these are light Eros finds a feere;<br> + Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,<br> +And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.<br> +<br> +X.<br> +<br> + Childe Harold had a mother - not forgot,<br> + Though parting from that mother he did shun;<br> + A sister whom he loved, but saw her not<br> + Before his weary pilgrimage begun:<br> + If friends he had, he bade adieu to none.<br> + Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel;<br> + Ye, who have known what ’tis to dote upon<br> + A few dear objects, will in sadness feel<br> +Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.<br> +<br> +XI.<br> +<br> + His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,<br> + The laughing dames in whom he did delight,<br> + Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands,<br> + Might shake the saintship of an anchorite,<br> + And long had fed his youthful appetite;<br> + His goblets brimmed with every costly wine,<br> + And all that mote to luxury invite,<br> + Without a sigh he left to cross the brine,<br> +And traverse Paynim shores, and pass earth’s central line.<br> +<br> +XII.<br> +<br> + The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew<br> + As glad to waft him from his native home;<br> + And fast the white rocks faded from his view,<br> + And soon were lost in circumambient foam;<br> + And then, it may be, of his wish to roam<br> + Repented he, but in his bosom slept<br> + The silent thought, nor from his lips did come<br> + One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept,<br> +And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept.<br> +<br> +XIII.<br> +<br> + But when the sun was sinking in the sea,<br> + He seized his harp, which he at times could string,<br> + And strike, albeit with untaught melody,<br> + When deemed he no strange ear was listening:<br> + And now his fingers o’er it he did fling,<br> + And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight,<br> + While flew the vessel on her snowy wing,<br> + And fleeting shores receded from his sight,<br> +Thus to the elements he poured his last ‘Good Night.’<br> +<br> +Adieu, adieu! my native shore<br> + Fades o’er the waters blue;<br> +The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,<br> + And shrieks the wild sea-mew.<br> +Yon sun that sets upon the sea<br> + We follow in his flight;<br> +Farewell awhile to him and thee,<br> + My Native Land - Good Night!<br> +<br> +A few short hours, and he will rise<br> + To give the morrow birth;<br> +And I shall hail the main and skies,<br> + But not my mother earth.<br> +Deserted is my own good hall,<br> + Its hearth is desolate;<br> +Wild weeds are gathering on the wall,<br> + My dog howls at the gate.<br> +<br> +‘Come hither, hither, my little page:<br> + Why dost thou weep and wail?<br> +Or dost thou dread the billow’s rage,<br> + Or tremble at the gale?<br> +But dash the tear-drop from thine eye,<br> + Our ship is swift and strong;<br> +Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly<br> + More merrily along.’<br> +<br> +‘Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,<br> + I fear not wave nor wind;<br> +Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I<br> + Am sorrowful in mind;<br> +For I have from my father gone,<br> + A mother whom I love,<br> +And have no friend, save these alone,<br> + But thee - and One above.<br> +<br> +‘My father blessed me fervently,<br> + Yet did not much complain;<br> +But sorely will my mother sigh<br> + Till I come back again.’ -<br> +‘Enough, enough, my little lad!<br> + Such tears become thine eye;<br> +If I thy guileless bosom had,<br> + Mine own would not be dry.<br> +<br> +‘Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,<br> + Why dost thou look so pale?<br> +Or dost thou dread a French foeman,<br> + Or shiver at the gale?’ -<br> +‘Deem’st thou I tremble for my life?<br> + Sir Childe, I’m not so weak;<br> +But thinking on an absent wife<br> + Will blanch a faithful cheek.<br> +<br> +‘My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,<br> + Along the bordering lake;<br> +And when they on their father call,<br> + What answer shall she make?’ -<br> +‘Enough, enough, my yeoman good,<br> + Thy grief let none gainsay;<br> +But I, who am of lighter mood,<br> + Will laugh to flee away.’<br> +<br> +For who would trust the seeming sighs<br> + Of wife or paramour?<br> +Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes<br> + We late saw streaming o’er.<br> +For pleasures past I do not grieve,<br> + Nor perils gathering near;<br> +My greatest grief is that I leave<br> + No thing that claims a tear.<br> +<br> +And now I’m in the world alone,<br> + Upon the wide, wide sea;<br> +But why should I for others groan,<br> + When none will sigh for me?<br> +Perchance my dog will whine in vain<br> + Till fed by stranger hands;<br> +But long ere I come back again<br> + He’d tear me where he stands.<br> +<br> +With thee, my bark, I’ll swiftly go<br> + Athwart the foaming brine;<br> +Nor care what land thou bear’st me to,<br> + So not again to mine.<br> +Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves!<br> + And when you fail my sight,<br> +Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!<br> + My Native Land - Good Night!<br> +<br> +XIV.<br> +<br> + On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone,<br> + And winds are rude in Biscay’s sleepless bay.<br> + Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon,<br> + New shores descried make every bosom gay;<br> + And Cintra’s mountain greets them on their way,<br> + And Tagus dashing onward to the deep,<br> + His fabled golden tribute bent to pay;<br> + And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap,<br> +And steer ’twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap.<br> +<br> +XV.<br> +<br> + Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see<br> + What Heaven hath done for this delicious land!<br> + What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree!<br> + What goodly prospects o’er the hills expand!<br> + But man would mar them with an impious hand:<br> + And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge<br> + ’Gainst those who most transgress his high command,<br> + With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge<br> +Gaul’s locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge.<br> +<br> +XVI.<br> +<br> + What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold!<br> + Her image floating on that noble tide,<br> + Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold,<br> + But now whereon a thousand keels did ride<br> + Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied,<br> + And to the Lusians did her aid afford<br> + A nation swoll’n with ignorance and pride,<br> + Who lick, yet loathe, the hand that waves the sword.<br> +To save them from the wrath of Gaul’s unsparing lord.<br> +<br> +XVII.<br> +<br> + But whoso entereth within this town,<br> + That, sheening far, celestial seems to be,<br> + Disconsolate will wander up and down,<br> + Mid many things unsightly to strange e’e;<br> + For hut and palace show like filthily;<br> + The dingy denizens are reared in dirt;<br> + No personage of high or mean degree<br> + Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt,<br> +Though shent with Egypt’s plague, unkempt, unwashed, unhurt.<br> +<br> +XVIII.<br> +<br> + Poor, paltry slaves! yet born midst noblest scenes +-<br> + Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men?<br> + Lo! Cintra’s glorious Eden intervenes<br> + In variegated maze of mount and glen.<br> + Ah me! what hand can pencil guide, or pen,<br> + To follow half on which the eye dilates<br> + Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken<br> + Than those whereof such things the bard relates,<br> +Who to the awe-struck world unlocked Elysium’s gates?<br> +<br> +XIX.<br> +<br> + The horrid crags, by toppling convent crowned,<br> + The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep,<br> + The mountain moss by scorching skies imbrowned,<br> + The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep,<br> + The tender azure of the unruffled deep,<br> + The orange tints that gild the greenest bough,<br> + The torrents that from cliff to valley leap,<br> + The vine on high, the willow branch below,<br> +Mixed in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow.<br> +<br> +XX.<br> +<br> + Then slowly climb the many-winding way,<br> + And frequent turn to linger as you go,<br> + From loftier rocks new loveliness survey,<br> + And rest ye at ‘Our Lady’s House of Woe;’<br> + Where frugal monks their little relics show,<br> + And sundry legends to the stranger tell:<br> + Here impious men have punished been; and lo,<br> + Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell,<br> +In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell.<br> +<br> +XXI.<br> +<br> + And here and there, as up the crags you spring,<br> + Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path;<br> + Yet deem not these devotion’s offering -<br> + These are memorials frail of murderous wrath;<br> + For wheresoe’er the shrieking victim hath<br> + Poured forth his blood beneath the assassin’s +knife,<br> + Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath;<br> + And grove and glen with thousand such are rife<br> +Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life!<br> +<br> +XXII.<br> +<br> + On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath,<br> + Are domes where whilom kings did make repair;<br> + But now the wild flowers round them only breathe:<br> + Yet ruined splendour still is lingering there.<br> + And yonder towers the prince’s palace fair:<br> + There thou, too, Vathek! England’s wealthiest +son,<br> + Once formed thy Paradise, as not aware<br> + When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done,<br> +Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun.<br> +<br> +XXIII.<br> +<br> + Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure plan.<br> + Beneath yon mountain’s ever beauteous brow;<br> + But now, as if a thing unblest by man,<br> + Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou!<br> + Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow<br> + To halls deserted, portals gaping wide;<br> + Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how<br> + Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied;<br> +Swept into wrecks anon by Time’s ungentle tide.<br> +<br> +XXIV.<br> +<br> + Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened!<br> + Oh! dome displeasing unto British eye!<br> + With diadem hight foolscap, lo! a fiend,<br> + A little fiend that scoffs incessantly,<br> + There sits in parchment robe arrayed, and by<br> + His side is hung a seal and sable scroll,<br> + Where blazoned glare names known to chivalry,<br> + And sundry signatures adorn the roll,<br> +Whereat the urchin points, and laughs with all his soul.<br> +<br> +XXV.<br> +<br> + Convention is the dwarfish demon styled<br> + That foiled the knights in Marialva’s dome:<br> + Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled,<br> + And turned a nation’s shallow joy to gloom.<br> + Here Folly dashed to earth the victor’s plume,<br> + And Policy regained what Arms had lost:<br> + For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom!<br> + Woe to the conquering, not the conquered host,<br> +Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania’s coast.<br> +<br> +XXVI.<br> +<br> + And ever since that martial synod met,<br> + Britannia sickens, Cintra, at thy name;<br> + And folks in office at the mention fret,<br> + And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame.<br> + How will posterity the deed proclaim!<br> + Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer,<br> + To view these champions cheated of their fame,<br> + By foes in fight o’erthrown, yet victors here,<br> +Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming year?<br> +<br> +XXVII.<br> +<br> + So deemed the Childe, as o’er the mountains +he<br> + Did take his way in solitary guise:<br> + Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee,<br> + More restless than the swallow in the skies:<br> + Though here awhile he learned to moralise,<br> + For Meditation fixed at times on him,<br> + And conscious Reason whispered to despise<br> + His early youth misspent in maddest whim;<br> +But as he gazed on Truth, his aching eyes grew dim.<br> +<br> +XXVIII.<br> +<br> + To horse! to horse! he quits, for ever quits<br> + A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul:<br> + Again he rouses from his moping fits,<br> + But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl.<br> + Onward he flies, nor fixed as yet the goal<br> + Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage;<br> + And o’er him many changing scenes must roll,<br> + Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage,<br> +Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage.<br> +<br> +XXIX.<br> +<br> + Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay,<br> + Where dwelt of yore the Lusians’ luckless queen;<br> + And church and court did mingle their array,<br> + And mass and revel were alternate seen;<br> + Lordlings and freres - ill-sorted fry, I ween!<br> + But here the Babylonian whore had built<br> + A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen,<br> + That men forget the blood which she hath spilt,<br> +And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to garnish guilt.<br> +<br> +XXX.<br> +<br> + O’er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills,<br> + (Oh that such hills upheld a free-born race!)<br> + Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills,<br> + Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place.<br> + Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase,<br> + And marvel men should quit their easy chair,<br> + The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace.<br> + Oh, there is sweetness in the mountain air<br> +And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share.<br> +<br> +XXXI.<br> +<br> + More bleak to view the hills at length recede,<br> + And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend:<br> + Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed!<br> + Far as the eye discerns, withouten end,<br> + Spain’s realms appear, whereon her shepherds +tend<br> + Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader knows +-<br> + Now must the pastor’s arm his lambs defend:<br> + For Spain is compassed by unyielding foes,<br> +And all must shield their all, or share Subjection’s woes.<br> +<br> +XXXII.<br> +<br> + Where Lusitania and her Sister meet,<br> + Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide?<br> + Or e’er the jealous queens of nations greet,<br> + Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide?<br> + Or dark sierras rise in craggy pride?<br> + Or fence of art, like China’s vasty wall? -<br> + Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide,<br> + Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall<br> +Rise like the rocks that part Hispania’s land from Gaul<br> +<br> +XXXIII.<br> +<br> + But these between a silver streamlet glides,<br> + And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook,<br> + Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides.<br> + Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook,<br> + And vacant on the rippling waves doth look,<br> + That peaceful still ’twixt bitterest foemen +flow:<br> + For proud each peasant as the noblest duke:<br> + Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know<br> +’Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low.<br> +<br> +XXXIV.<br> +<br> + But ere the mingling bounds have far been passed,<br> + Dark Guadiana rolls his power along<br> + In sullen billows, murmuring and vast,<br> + So noted ancient roundelays among.<br> + Whilome upon his banks did legions throng<br> + Of Moor and Knight, in mailèd splendour drest;<br> + Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the strong;<br> + The Paynim turban and the Christian crest<br> +Mixed on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppressed.<br> +<br> +XXXV.<br> +<br> + Oh, lovely Spain! renowned, romantic land!<br> + Where is that standard which Pelagio bore,<br> + When Cava’s traitor-sire first called the band<br> + That dyed thy mountain-streams with Gothic gore?<br> + Where are those bloody banners which of yore<br> + Waved o’er thy sons, victorious to the gale,<br> + And drove at last the spoilers to their shore?<br> + Red gleamed the cross, and waned the crescent pale,<br> +While Afric’s echoes thrilled with Moorish matrons’ wail.<br> +<br> +XXXVI.<br> +<br> + Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale?<br> + Ah! such, alas, the hero’s amplest fate!<br> + When granite moulders and when records fail,<br> + A peasant’s plaint prolongs his dubious date.<br> + Pride! bend thine eye from heaven to thine estate,<br> + See how the mighty shrink into a song!<br> + Can volume, pillar, pile, preserve thee great?<br> + Or must thou trust Tradition’s simple tongue,<br> +When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does thee wrong?<br> +<br> +XXXVII.<br> +<br> + Awake, ye sons of Spain! awake! advance<br> + Lo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries,<br> + But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance,<br> + Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies:<br> + Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies,<br> + And speaks in thunder through yon engine’s roar!<br> + In every peal she calls - ‘Awake! arise!’<br> + Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore,<br> +When her war-song was heard on Andalusia’s shore?<br> +<br> +XXXVIII.<br> +<br> + Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note?<br> + Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath?<br> + Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote;<br> + Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath<br> + Tyrants and tyrants’ slaves? - the fires of +death,<br> + The bale-fires flash on high: - from rock to rock<br> + Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe:<br> + Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,<br> +Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock.<br> +<br> +XXXIX.<br> +<br> + Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,<br> + His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun,<br> + With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,<br> + And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon;<br> + Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon<br> + Flashing afar, - and at his iron feet<br> + Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done;<br> + For on this morn three potent nations meet,<br> +To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.<br> +<br> +XL.<br> +<br> + By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see<br> + (For one who hath no friend, no brother there)<br> + Their rival scarfs of mixed embroidery,<br> + Their various arms that glitter in the air!<br> + What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair,<br> + And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey!<br> + All join the chase, but few the triumph share:<br> + The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away,<br> +And Havoc scarce for joy can cumber their array.<br> +<br> +XLI.<br> +<br> + Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;<br> + Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;<br> + Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies.<br> + The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory!<br> + The foe, the victim, and the fond ally<br> + That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,<br> + Are met - as if at home they could not die -<br> + To feed the crow on Talavera’s plain,<br> +And fertilise the field that each pretends to gain.<br> +<br> +XLII.<br> +<br> + There shall they rot - Ambition’s honoured fools!<br> + Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay!<br> + Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools,<br> + The broken tools, that tyrants cast away<br> + By myriads, when they dare to pave their way<br> + With human hearts - to what? - a dream alone.<br> + Can despots compass aught that hails their sway?<br> + Or call with truth one span of earth their own,<br> +Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone?<br> +<br> +XLIII.<br> +<br> + O Albuera, glorious field of grief!<br> + As o’er thy plain the Pilgrim pricked his steed,<br> + Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief,<br> + A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed.<br> + Peace to the perished! may the warrior’s meed<br> + And tears of triumph their reward prolong!<br> + Till others fall where other chieftains lead,<br> + Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng,<br> +And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song.<br> +<br> +XLIV.<br> +<br> + Enough of Battle’s minions! let them play<br> + Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame:<br> + Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay,<br> + Though thousands fall to deck some single name.<br> + In sooth, ’twere sad to thwart their noble aim<br> + Who strike, blest hirelings! for their country’s +good,<br> + And die, that living might have proved her shame;<br> + Perished, perchance, in some domestic feud,<br> +Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine’s path pursued.<br> +<br> +XLV.<br> +<br> + Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way<br> + Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued:<br> + Yet is she free - the spoiler’s wished-for prey!<br> + Soon, soon shall Conquest’s fiery foot intrude,<br> + Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude.<br> + Inevitable hour! ’Gainst fate to strive<br> + Where Desolation plants her famished brood<br> + Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre, might yet survive,<br> +And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive.<br> +<br> +XLVI.<br> +<br> + But all unconscious of the coming doom,<br> + The feast, the song, the revel here abounds;<br> + Strange modes of merriment the hours consume,<br> + Nor bleed these patriots with their country’s +wounds;<br> + Nor here War’s clarion, but Love’s rebeck +sounds;<br> + Here Folly still his votaries enthralls,<br> + And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds:<br> + Girt with the silent crimes of capitals,<br> +Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tottering walls.<br> +<br> +XLVII.<br> +<br> + Not so the rustic: with his trembling mate<br> + He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar,<br> + Lest he should view his vineyard desolate,<br> + Blasted below the dun hot breath of war.<br> + No more beneath soft Eve’s consenting star<br> + Fandango twirls his jocund castanet:<br> + Ah, monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar,<br> + Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret;<br> +The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy yet.<br> +<br> +XLVIII.<br> +<br> + How carols now the lusty muleteer?<br> + Of love, romance, devotion is his lay,<br> + As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer,<br> + His quick bells wildly jingling on the way?<br> + No! as he speeds, he chants ‘Viva el Rey!’<br> + And checks his song to execrate Godoy,<br> + The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day<br> + When first Spain’s queen beheld the black-eyed +boy,<br> +And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate joy.<br> +<br> +XLIX.<br> +<br> + On yon long level plain, at distance crowned<br> + With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest,<br> + Wide scattered hoof-marks dint the wounded ground;<br> + And, scathed by fire, the greensward’s darkened +vest<br> + Tells that the foe was Andalusia’s guest:<br> + Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host,<br> + Here the brave peasant stormed the dragon’s +nest;<br> + Still does he mark it with triumphant boast,<br> +And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost.<br> +<br> +L.<br> +<br> + And whomsoe’er along the path you meet<br> + Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue,<br> + Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet:<br> + Woe to the man that walks in public view<br> + Without of loyalty this token true:<br> + Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke;<br> + And sorely would the Gallic foemen rue,<br> + If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloak,<br> +Could blunt the sabre’s edge, or clear the cannon’s smoke.<br> +<br> +LI.<br> +<br> + At every turn Morena’s dusky height<br> + Sustains aloft the battery’s iron load;<br> + And, far as mortal eye can compass sight,<br> + The mountain-howitzer, the broken road,<br> + The bristling palisade, the fosse o’erflowed,<br> + The stationed bands, the never-vacant watch,<br> + The magazine in rocky durance stowed,<br> + The holstered steed beneath the shed of thatch,<br> +The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match,<br> +<br> +LII.<br> +<br> + Portend the deeds to come: - but he whose nod<br> + Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway,<br> + A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod;<br> + A little moment deigneth to delay:<br> + Soon will his legions sweep through these the way;<br> + The West must own the Scourger of the world.<br> + Ah, Spain! how sad will be thy reckoning day,<br> + When soars Gaul’s Vulture, with his wings unfurled,<br> +And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurled.<br> +<br> +LIII.<br> +<br> + And must they fall - the young, the proud, the brave +-<br> + To swell one bloated chief’s unwholesome reign?<br> + No step between submission and a grave?<br> + The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain?<br> + And doth the Power that man adores ordain<br> + Their doom, nor heed the suppliant’s appeal?<br> + Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain?<br> + And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal,<br> +The veteran’s skill, youth’s fire, and manhood’s heart +of steel?<br> +<br> +LIV.<br> +<br> + Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused,<br> + Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar,<br> + And, all unsexed, the anlace hath espoused,<br> + Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war?<br> + And she, whom once the semblance of a scar<br> + Appalled, an owlet’s larum chilled with dread,<br> + Now views the column-scattering bayonet jar,<br> + The falchion flash, and o’er the yet warm dead<br> +Stalks with Minerva’s step where Mars might quake to tread.<br> +<br> +LV.<br> +<br> + Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale,<br> + Oh! had you known her in her softer hour,<br> + Marked her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil,<br> + Heard her light, lively tones in lady’s bower,<br> + Seen her long locks that foil the painter’s +power,<br> + Her fairy form, with more than female grace,<br> + Scarce would you deem that Saragoza’s tower<br> + Beheld her smile in Danger’s Gorgon face,<br> +Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory’s fearful chase.<br> +<br> +LVI.<br> +<br> + Her lover sinks - she sheds no ill-timed tear;<br> + Her chief is slain - she fills his fatal post;<br> + Her fellows flee - she checks their base career;<br> + The foe retires - she heads the sallying host:<br> + Who can appease like her a lover’s ghost?<br> + Who can avenge so well a leader’s fall?<br> + What maid retrieve when man’s flushed hope is +lost?<br> + Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul,<br> +Foiled by a woman’s hand, before a battered wall?<br> +<br> +LVII.<br> +<br> + Yet are Spain’s maids no race of Amazons,<br> + But formed for all the witching arts of love:<br> + Though thus in arms they emulate her sons,<br> + And in the horrid phalanx dare to move,<br> + ’Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove,<br> + Pecking the hand that hovers o’er her mate:<br> + In softness as in firmness far above<br> + Remoter females, famed for sickening prate;<br> +Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great.<br> +<br> +LVIII.<br> +<br> + The seal Love’s dimpling finger hath impressed<br> + Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch:<br> + Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest,<br> + Bid man be valiant ere he merit such:<br> + Her glance, how wildly beautiful! how much<br> + Hath Phoebus wooed in vain to spoil her cheek<br> + Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch!<br> + Who round the North for paler dames would seek?<br> +How poor their forms appear? how languid, wan, and weak!<br> +<br> +LIX.<br> +<br> + Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud;<br> + Match me, ye harems! of the land where now<br> + I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud<br> + Beauties that even a cynic must avow!<br> + Match me those houris, whom ye scarce allow<br> + To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind,<br> + With Spain’s dark-glancing daughters - deign +to know,<br> + There your wise Prophet’s paradise we find,<br> +His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind.<br> +<br> +LX.<br> +<br> + O thou, Parnassus! whom I now survey,<br> + Not in the frenzy of a dreamer’s eye,<br> + Not in the fabled landscape of a lay,<br> + But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky,<br> + In the wild pomp of mountain majesty!<br> + What marvel if I thus essay to sing?<br> + The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by<br> + Would gladly woo thine echoes with his string,<br> +Though from thy heights no more one muse will wave her wing.<br> +<br> +LXI.<br> +<br> + Oft have I dreamed of thee! whose glorious name<br> + Who knows not, knows not man’s divinest lore:<br> + And now I view thee, ’tis, alas, with shame<br> + That I in feeblest accents must adore.<br> + When I recount thy worshippers of yore<br> + I tremble, and can only bend the knee;<br> + Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar,<br> + But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy<br> +In silent joy to think at last I look on thee!<br> +<br> +LXII.<br> +<br> + Happier in this than mightiest bards have been,<br> + Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot,<br> + Shall I unmoved behold the hallowed scene,<br> + Which others rave of, though they know it not?<br> + Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot,<br> + And thou, the Muses’ seat, art now their grave,<br> + Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot,<br> + Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave,<br> +And glides with glassy foot o’er yon melodious wave.<br> +<br> +LXIII.<br> +<br> + Of thee hereafter. - Even amidst my strain<br> + I turned aside to pay my homage here;<br> + Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain;<br> + Her fate, to every free-born bosom dear;<br> + And hailed thee, not perchance without a tear.<br> + Now to my theme - but from thy holy haunt<br> + Let me some remnant, some memorial bear;<br> + Yield me one leaf of Daphne’s deathless plant,<br> +Nor let thy votary’s hope be deemed an idle vaunt.<br> +<br> +LXIV.<br> +<br> + But ne’er didst thou, fair mount, when Greece +was young,<br> + See round thy giant base a brighter choir;<br> + Nor e’er did Delphi, when her priestess sung<br> + The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire,<br> + Behold a train more fitting to inspire<br> + The song of love than Andalusia’s maids,<br> + Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire:<br> + Ah! that to these were given such peaceful shades<br> +As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her glades.<br> +<br> +LXV.<br> +<br> + Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast<br> + Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days,<br> + But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast,<br> + Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise.<br> + Ah, Vice! how soft are thy voluptuous ways!<br> + While boyish blood is mantling, who can ’scape<br> + The fascination of thy magic gaze?<br> + A cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape,<br> +And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape.<br> +<br> +LXVI.<br> +<br> + When Paphos fell by Time - accursèd Time!<br> + The Queen who conquers all must yield to thee -<br> + The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime;<br> + And Venus, constant to her native sea,<br> + To nought else constant, hither deigned to flee,<br> + And fixed her shrine within these walls of white;<br> + Though not to one dome circumscribeth she<br> + Her worship, but, devoted to her rite,<br> +A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright.<br> +<br> +LXVII.<br> +<br> + From morn till night, from night till startled morn<br> + Peeps blushing on the revel’s laughing crew,<br> + The song is heard, the rosy garland worn;<br> + Devices quaint, and frolics ever new,<br> + Tread on each other’s kibes. A long adieu<br> + He bids to sober joy that here sojourns:<br> + Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu<br> + Of true devotion monkish incense burns,<br> +And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns.<br> +<br> +LXVIII.<br> +<br> + The sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest;<br> + What hallows it upon this Christian shore?<br> + Lo! it is sacred to a solemn feast:<br> + Hark! heard you not the forest monarch’s roar?<br> + Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore<br> + Of man and steed, o’erthrown beneath his horn:<br> + The thronged arena shakes with shouts for more;<br> + Yells the mad crowd o’er entrails freshly torn,<br> +Nor shrinks the female eye, nor e’en affects to mourn.<br> +<br> +LXIX.<br> +<br> + The seventh day this; the jubilee of man.<br> + London! right well thou know’st the day of prayer:<br> + Then thy spruce citizen, washed artizan,<br> + And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air:<br> + Thy coach of hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair,<br> + And humblest gig, through sundry suburbs whirl;<br> + To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make repair;<br> + Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl,<br> +Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl.<br> +<br> +LXX.<br> +<br> + Some o’er thy Thamis row the ribboned fair,<br> + Others along the safer turnpike fly;<br> + Some Richmond Hill ascend, some scud to Ware,<br> + And many to the steep of Highgate hie.<br> + Ask ye, Bœotian shades, the reason why?<br> + ’Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn,<br> + Grasped in the holy hand of Mystery,<br> + In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn,<br> +And consecrate the oath with draught and dance till morn.<br> +<br> +LXXI.<br> +<br> + All have their fooleries; not alike are thine,<br> + Fair Cadiz, rising o’er the dark blue sea!<br> + Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine,<br> + Thy saint adorers count the rosary:<br> + Much is the Virgin teased to shrive them free<br> + (Well do I ween the only virgin there)<br> + From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be;<br> + Then to the crowded circus forth they fare:<br> +Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share.<br> +<br> +LXXII.<br> +<br> + The lists are oped, the spacious area cleared,<br> + Thousands on thousands piled are seated round;<br> + Long ere the first loud trumpet’s note is heard,<br> + No vacant space for lated wight is found:<br> + Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound,<br> + Skilled in the ogle of a roguish eye,<br> + Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound;<br> + None through their cold disdain are doomed to die,<br> +As moon-struck bards complain, by Love’s sad archery.<br> +<br> +LXXIII.<br> +<br> + Hushed is the din of tongues - on gallant steeds,<br> + With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised +lance,<br> + Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds,<br> + And lowly bending to the lists advance;<br> + Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance:<br> + If in the dangerous game they shine to-day,<br> + The crowd’s loud shout, and ladies’ lovely +glance,<br> + Best prize of better acts, they bear away,<br> +And all that kings or chiefs e’er gain their toils repay.<br> +<br> +LXXIV.<br> +<br> + In costly sheen and gaudy cloak arrayed,<br> + But all afoot, the light-limbed matadore<br> + Stands in the centre, eager to invade<br> + The lord of lowing herds; but not before<br> + The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o’er,<br> + Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed:<br> + His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more<br> + Can man achieve without the friendly steed -<br> +Alas! too oft condemned for him to bear and bleed.<br> +<br> +LXXV.<br> +<br> + Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls,<br> + The den expands, and expectation mute<br> + Gapes round the silent circle’s peopled walls.<br> + Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute,<br> + And wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot,<br> + The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe:<br> + Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit<br> + His first attack, wide waving to and fro<br> +His angry tail; red rolls his eye’s dilated glow.<br> +<br> +LXXVI.<br> +<br> + Sudden he stops; his eye is fixed: away,<br> + Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear;<br> + Now is thy time to perish, or display<br> + The skill that yet may check his mad career.<br> + With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer;<br> + On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes;<br> + Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear:<br> + He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes:<br> +Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellowings speak his woes.<br> +<br> +LXXVII.<br> +<br> + Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail,<br> + Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse;<br> + Though man and man’s avenging arms assail,<br> + Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force.<br> + One gallant steed is stretched a mangled corse;<br> + Another, hideous sight! unseamed appears,<br> + His gory chest unveils life’s panting source;<br> + Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears;<br> +Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharmed he bears.<br> +<br> +LXXVIII.<br> +<br> + Foiled, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last,<br> + Full in the centre stands the bull at bay,<br> + Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast,<br> + And foes disabled in the brutal fray:<br> + And now the matadores around him play,<br> + Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand:<br> + Once more through all he bursts his thundering way +-<br> + Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand,<br> +Wraps his fierce eye - ’tis past - he sinks upon the sand.<br> +<br> +LXXIX.<br> +<br> + Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine,<br> + Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies.<br> + He stops - he starts - disdaining to decline:<br> + Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries,<br> + Without a groan, without a struggle dies.<br> + The decorated car appears on high:<br> + The corse is piled - sweet sight for vulgar eyes;<br> + Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy,<br> +Hurl the dark bull along, scarce seen in dashing by.<br> +<br> +LXXX.<br> +<br> + Such the ungentle sport that oft invites<br> + The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain:<br> + Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights<br> + In vengeance, gloating on another’s pain.<br> + What private feuds the troubled village stain!<br> + Though now one phalanxed host should meet the foe,<br> + Enough, alas, in humble homes remain,<br> + To meditate ’gainst friends the secret blow,<br> +For some slight cause of wrath, whence life’s warm stream must +flow.<br> +<br> +LXXXI.<br> +<br> + But Jealousy has fled: his bars, his bolts,<br> + His withered sentinel, duenna sage!<br> + And all whereat the generous soul revolts,<br> + Which the stern dotard deemed he could encage,<br> + Have passed to darkness with the vanished age.<br> + Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen<br> + (Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage),<br> + With braided tresses bounding o’er the green,<br> +While on the gay dance shone Night’s lover-loving Queen?<br> +<br> +LXXXII.<br> +<br> + Oh! many a time and oft had Harold loved,<br> + Or dreamed he loved, since rapture is a dream;<br> + But now his wayward bosom was unmoved,<br> + For not yet had he drunk of Lethe’s stream:<br> + And lately had he learned with truth to deem<br> + Love has no gift so grateful as his wings:<br> + How fair, how young, how soft soe’er he seem,<br> + Full from the fount of joy’s delicious springs<br> +Some bitter o’er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.<br> +<br> +LXXXIII.<br> +<br> + Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind,<br> + Though now it moved him as it moves the wise;<br> + Not that Philosophy on such a mind<br> + E’er deigned to bend her chastely-awful eyes:<br> + But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies;<br> + And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb,<br> + Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise:<br> + Pleasure’s palled victim! life-abhorring gloom<br> +Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain’s unresting doom.<br> +<br> +LXXXIV.<br> +<br> + Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng;<br> + But viewed them not with misanthropic hate;<br> + Fain would he now have joined the dance, the song,<br> + But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate?<br> + Nought that he saw his sadness could abate:<br> + Yet once he struggled ’gainst the demon’s +sway,<br> + And as in Beauty’s bower he pensive sate,<br> + Poured forth this unpremeditated lay,<br> +To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier day.<br> +<br> +<br> +TO INEZ.<br> +<br> +<br> +Nay, smile not at my sullen brow,<br> + Alas! I cannot smile again:<br> +Yet Heaven avert that ever thou<br> + Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain.<br> +<br> +And dost thou ask what secret woe<br> + I bear, corroding joy and youth?<br> +And wilt thou vainly seek to know<br> + A pang even thou must fail to soothe?<br> +<br> +It is not love, it is not hate,<br> + Nor low Ambition’s honours lost,<br> +That bids me loathe my present state,<br> + And fly from all I prized the most:<br> +<br> +It is that weariness which springs<br> + From all I meet, or hear, or see:<br> +To me no pleasure Beauty brings;<br> + Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me.<br> +<br> +It is that settled, ceaseless gloom<br> + The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore,<br> +That will not look beyond the tomb,<br> + But cannot hope for rest before.<br> +<br> +What exile from himself can flee?<br> + To zones, though more and more remote,<br> +Still, still pursues, where’er I be,<br> + The blight of life - the demon Thought.<br> +<br> +Yet others rapt in pleasure seem,<br> + And taste of all that I forsake:<br> +Oh! may they still of transport dream,<br> + And ne’er, at least like me, awake!<br> +<br> +Through many a clime ’tis mine to go,<br> + With many a retrospection curst;<br> +And all my solace is to know,<br> + Whate’er betides, I’ve known the worst.<br> +<br> +What is that worst? Nay, do not ask -<br> + In pity from the search forbear:<br> +Smile on - nor venture to unmask<br> + Man’s heart, and view the hell that’s +there.<br> +<br> +LXXXV.<br> +<br> + Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu!<br> + Who may forget how well thy walls have stood?<br> + When all were changing, thou alone wert true,<br> + First to be free, and last to be subdued.<br> + And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude,<br> + Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye,<br> + A traitor only fell beneath the feud:<br> + Here all were noble, save nobility;<br> +None hugged a conqueror’s chain save fallen Chivalry!<br> +<br> +LXXXVI.<br> +<br> + Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate!<br> + They fight for freedom, who were never free;<br> + A kingless people for a nerveless state,<br> + Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee,<br> + True to the veriest slaves of Treachery;<br> + Fond of a land which gave them nought but life,<br> + Pride points the path that leads to liberty;<br> + Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife,<br> +War, war is still the cry, ‘War even to the knife!’<br> +<br> +LXXXVII.<br> +<br> + Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know,<br> + Go, read whate’er is writ of bloodiest strife:<br> + Whate’er keen Vengeance urged on foreign foe<br> + Can act, is acting there against man’s life:<br> + From flashing scimitar to secret knife,<br> + War mouldeth there each weapon to his need -<br> + So may he guard the sister and the wife,<br> + So may he make each curst oppressor bleed,<br> +So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed!<br> +<br> +LXXXVIII.<br> +<br> + Flows there a tear of pity for the dead?<br> + Look o’er the ravage of the reeking plain:<br> + Look on the hands with female slaughter red;<br> + Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain,<br> + Then to the vulture let each corse remain;<br> + Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird’s maw,<br> + Let their bleached bones, and blood’s unbleaching +stain,<br> + Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe:<br> +Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw!<br> +<br> +LXXXIX.<br> +<br> + Nor yet, alas, the dreadful work is done;<br> + Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees:<br> + It deepens still, the work is scarce begun,<br> + Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees.<br> + Fall’n nations gaze on Spain: if freed, she +frees<br> + More than her fell Pizarros once enchained.<br> + Strange retribution! now Columbia’s ease<br> + Repairs the wrongs that Quito’s sons sustained,<br> +While o’er the parent clime prowls Murder unrestrained.<br> +<br> +XC.<br> +<br> + Not all the blood at Talavera shed,<br> + Not all the marvels of Barossa’s fight,<br> + Not Albuera lavish of the dead,<br> + Have won for Spain her well-asserted right.<br> + When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight?<br> + When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil?<br> + How many a doubtful day shall sink in night,<br> + Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil,<br> +And Freedom’s stranger-tree grow native of the soil?<br> +<br> +XCI.<br> +<br> + And thou, my friend! since unavailing woe<br> + Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain +-<br> + Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low,<br> + Pride might forbid e’en Friendship to complain:<br> + But thus unlaurelled to descend in vain,<br> + By all forgotten, save the lonely breast,<br> + And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain,<br> + While glory crowns so many a meaner crest!<br> +What hadst thou done, to sink so peacefully to rest?<br> +<br> +XCII.<br> +<br> + Oh, known the earliest, and esteemed the most!<br> + Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear!<br> + Though to my hopeless days for ever lost,<br> + In dreams deny me not to see thee here!<br> + And Morn in secret shall renew the tear<br> + Of Consciousness awaking to her woes,<br> + And Fancy hover o’er thy bloodless bier,<br> + Till my frail frame return to whence it rose,<br> +And mourned and mourner lie united in repose.<br> +<br> +XCIII.<br> +<br> + Here is one fytte of Harold’s pilgrimage.<br> + Ye who of him may further seek to know,<br> + Shall find some tidings in a future page,<br> + If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe.<br> + Is this too much? Stern critic, say not so:<br> + Patience! and ye shall hear what he beheld<br> + In other lands, where he was doomed to go:<br> + Lands that contain the monuments of eld,<br> +Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were quelled.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CANTO THE SECOND.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +I.<br> +<br> + Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven! - but thou, alas,<br> + Didst never yet one mortal song inspire -<br> + Goddess of Wisdom! here thy temple was,<br> + And is, despite of war and wasting fire,<br> + And years, that bade thy worship to expire:<br> + But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow,<br> + Is the drear sceptre and dominion dire<br> + Of men who never felt the sacred glow<br> +That thoughts of thee and thine on polished breasts bestow.<br> +<br> +II.<br> +<br> + Ancient of days! august Athena! where,<br> + Where are thy men of might, thy grand in soul?<br> + Gone - glimmering through the dream of things that +were:<br> + First in the race that led to Glory’s goal,<br> + They won, and passed away - is this the whole?<br> + A schoolboy’s tale, the wonder of an hour!<br> + The warrior’s weapon and the sophist’s +stole<br> + Are sought in vain, and o’er each mouldering +tower,<br> +Dim with the mist of years, grey flits the shade of power.<br> +<br> +III.<br> +<br> + Son of the morning, rise! approach you here!<br> + Come - but molest not yon defenceless urn!<br> + Look on this spot - a nation’s sepulchre!<br> + Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn.<br> + E’en gods must yield - religions take their +turn:<br> + ’Twas Jove’s - ’tis Mahomet’s; +and other creeds<br> + Will rise with other years, till man shall learn<br> + Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds;<br> +Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on reeds.<br> +<br> +IV.<br> +<br> + Bound to the earth, he lifts his eyes to heaven -<br> + Is’t not enough, unhappy thing, to know<br> + Thou art? Is this a boon so kindly given,<br> + That being, thou wouldst be again, and go,<br> + Thou know’st not, reck’st not to what +region, so<br> + On earth no more, but mingled with the skies!<br> + Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe?<br> + Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies:<br> +That little urn saith more than thousand homilies.<br> +<br> +V.<br> +<br> + Or burst the vanished hero’s lofty mound;<br> + Far on the solitary shore he sleeps;<br> + He fell, and falling nations mourned around;<br> + But now not one of saddening thousands weeps,<br> + Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps<br> + Where demi-gods appeared, as records tell.<br> + Remove yon skull from out the scattered heaps:<br> + Is that a temple where a God may dwell?<br> +Why, e’en the worm at last disdains her shattered cell!<br> +<br> +VI.<br> +<br> + Look on its broken arch, its ruined wall,<br> + Its chambers desolate, and portals foul:<br> + Yes, this was once Ambition’s airy hall,<br> + The dome of Thought, the Palace of the Soul.<br> + Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole,<br> + The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit,<br> + And Passion’s host, that never brooked control:<br> + Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ,<br> +People this lonely tower, this tenement refit?<br> +<br> +VII.<br> +<br> + Well didst thou speak, Athena’s wisest son!<br> + ‘All that we know is, nothing can be known.’<br> + Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun?<br> + Each hath its pang, but feeble sufferers groan<br> + With brain-born dreams of evil all their own.<br> + Pursue what chance or fate proclaimeth best;<br> + Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron:<br> + There no forced banquet claims the sated guest,<br> +But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest.<br> +<br> +VIII.<br> +<br> + Yet if, as holiest men have deemed, there be<br> + A land of souls beyond that sable shore,<br> + To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee<br> + And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore;<br> + How sweet it were in concert to adore<br> + With those who made our mortal labours light!<br> + To hear each voice we feared to hear no more!<br> + Behold each mighty shade revealed to sight,<br> +The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right!<br> +<br> +IX.<br> +<br> + There, thou! - whose love and life together fled,<br> + Have left me here to love and live in vain -<br> + Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead,<br> + When busy memory flashes on my brain?<br> + Well - I will dream that we may meet again,<br> + And woo the vision to my vacant breast:<br> + If aught of young Remembrance then remain,<br> + Be as it may Futurity’s behest,<br> +For me ’twere bliss enough to know thy spirit blest!<br> +<br> +X.<br> +<br> + Here let me sit upon this mossy stone,<br> + The marble column’s yet unshaken base!<br> + Here, son of Saturn, was thy favourite throne!<br> + Mightiest of many such! Hence let me trace<br> + The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place.<br> + It may not be: nor even can Fancy’s eye<br> + Restore what time hath laboured to deface.<br> + Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh;<br> +Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by.<br> +<br> +XI.<br> +<br> + But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane<br> + On high, where Pallas lingered, loth to flee<br> + The latest relic of her ancient reign -<br> + The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he?<br> + Blush, Caledonia! such thy son could be!<br> + England! I joy no child he was of thine:<br> + Thy free-born men should spare what once was free;<br> + Yet they could violate each saddening shrine,<br> +And bear these altars o’er the long reluctant brine.<br> +<br> +XII.<br> +<br> + But most the modern Pict’s ignoble boast,<br> + To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath spared:<br> + Cold as the crags upon his native coast,<br> + His mind as barren and his heart as hard,<br> + Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prepared,<br> + Aught to displace Athena’s poor remains:<br> + Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard,<br> + Yet felt some portion of their mother’s pains,<br> +And never knew, till then, the weight of Despot’s chains.<br> +<br> +XIII.<br> +<br> + What! shall it e’er be said by British tongue<br> + Albion was happy in Athena’s tears?<br> + Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung,<br> + Tell not the deed to blushing Europe’s ears;<br> + The ocean queen, the free Britannia, bears<br> + The last poor plunder from a bleeding land:<br> + Yes, she, whose generous aid her name endears,<br> + Tore down those remnants with a harpy’s hand.<br> +Which envious eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand.<br> +<br> +XIV.<br> +<br> + Where was thine aegis, Pallas, that appalled<br> + Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way?<br> + Where Peleus’ son? whom Hell in vain enthralled,<br> + His shade from Hades upon that dread day<br> + Bursting to light in terrible array!<br> + What! could not Pluto spare the chief once more,<br> + To scare a second robber from his prey?<br> + Idly he wandered on the Stygian shore,<br> +Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before.<br> +<br> +XV.<br> +<br> + Cold is the heart, fair Greece, that looks on thee,<br> + Nor feels as lovers o’er the dust they loved;<br> + Dull is the eye that will not weep to see<br> + Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed<br> + By British hands, which it had best behoved<br> + To guard those relics ne’er to be restored.<br> + Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved,<br> + And once again thy hapless bosom gored,<br> +And snatched thy shrinking gods to northern climes abhorred!<br> +<br> +XVI.<br> +<br> + But where is Harold? shall I then forget<br> + To urge the gloomy wanderer o’er the wave?<br> + Little recked he of all that men regret;<br> + No loved one now in feigned lament could rave;<br> + No friend the parting hand extended gave,<br> + Ere the cold stranger passed to other climes.<br> + Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave;<br> + But Harold felt not as in other times,<br> +And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes.<br> +<br> +XVII.<br> +<br> + He that has sailed upon the dark blue sea,<br> + Has viewed at times, I ween, a full fair sight;<br> + When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be,<br> + The white sails set, the gallant frigate tight,<br> + Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right,<br> + The glorious main expanding o’er the bow,<br> + The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight,<br> + The dullest sailer wearing bravely now,<br> +So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow.<br> +<br> +XVIII.<br> +<br> + And oh, the little warlike world within!<br> + The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy,<br> + The hoarse command, the busy humming din,<br> + When, at a word, the tops are manned on high:<br> + Hark to the boatswain’s call, the cheering cry,<br> + While through the seaman’s hand the tackle glides<br> + Or schoolboy midshipman that, standing by,<br> + Strains his shrill pipe, as good or ill betides,<br> +And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides.<br> +<br> +XIX.<br> +<br> + White is the glassy deck, without a stain,<br> + Where on the watch the staid lieutenant walks:<br> + Look on that part which sacred doth remain<br> + For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks,<br> + Silent and feared by all: not oft he talks<br> + With aught beneath him, if he would preserve<br> + That strict restraint, which broken, ever baulks<br> + Conquest and Fame: but Britons rarely swerve<br> +From law, however stern, which tends their strength to nerve.<br> +<br> +XX.<br> +<br> + Blow, swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale,<br> + Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray;<br> + Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail,<br> + That lagging barks may make their lazy way.<br> + Ah! grievance sore, and listless dull delay,<br> + To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze!<br> + What leagues are lost before the dawn of day,<br> + Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas,<br> +The flapping sails hauled down to halt for logs like these!<br> +<br> +XXI.<br> +<br> + The moon is up; by Heaven, a lovely eve!<br> + Long streams of light o’er dancing waves expand!<br> + Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe:<br> + Such be our fate when we return to land!<br> + Meantime some rude Arion’s restless hand<br> + Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love:<br> + A circle there of merry listeners stand,<br> + Or to some well-known measure featly move,<br> +Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove.<br> +<br> +XXII.<br> +<br> + Through Calpe’s straits survey the steepy shore;<br> + Europe and Afric, on each other gaze!<br> + Lands of the dark-eyed maid and dusky Moor,<br> + Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate’s blaze:<br> + How softly on the Spanish shore she plays,<br> + Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown,<br> + Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase:<br> + But Mauritania’s giant-shadows frown,<br> +From mountain-cliff to coast descending sombre down.<br> +<br> +XXIII.<br> +<br> + ’Tis night, when Meditation bids us feel<br> + We once have loved, though love is at an end:<br> + The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal,<br> + Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend.<br> + Who with the weight of years would wish to bend,<br> + When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy?<br> + Alas! when mingling souls forget to blend,<br> + Death hath but little left him to destroy!<br> +Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?<br> +<br> +XXIV.<br> +<br> + Thus bending o’er the vessel’s laving +side,<br> + To gaze on Dian’s wave-reflected sphere,<br> + The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride,<br> + And flies unconscious o’er each backward year.<br> + None are so desolate but something dear,<br> + Dearer than self, possesses or possessed<br> + A thought, and claims the homage of a tear;<br> + A flashing pang! of which the weary breast<br> +Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest.<br> +<br> +XXV.<br> +<br> + To sit on rocks, to muse o’er flood and fell,<br> + To slowly trace the forest’s shady scene,<br> + Where things that own not man’s dominion dwell,<br> + And mortal foot hath ne’er or rarely been;<br> + To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,<br> + With the wild flock that never needs a fold;<br> + Alone o’er steeps and foaming falls to lean:<br> + This is not solitude; ’tis but to hold<br> +Converse with Nature’s charms, and view her stores unrolled.<br> +<br> +XXVI.<br> +<br> + But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,<br> + To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,<br> + And roam along, the world’s tired denizen,<br> + With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;<br> + Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!<br> + None that, with kindred consciousness endued,<br> + If we were not, would seem to smile the less<br> + Of all that flattered, followed, sought, and sued:<br> +This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!<br> +<br> +XXVII.<br> +<br> + More blest the life of godly eremite,<br> + Such as on lonely Athos may be seen,<br> + Watching at eve upon the giant height,<br> + Which looks o’er waves so blue, skies so serene,<br> + That he who there at such an hour hath been,<br> + Will wistful linger on that hallowed spot;<br> + Then slowly tear him from the witching scene,<br> + Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot,<br> +Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot.<br> +<br> +XXVIII.<br> +<br> + Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track<br> + Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind;<br> + Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack,<br> + And each well-known caprice of wave and wind;<br> + Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find,<br> + Cooped in their wingèd sea-girt citadel;<br> + The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind,<br> + As breezes rise and fall, and billows swell,<br> +Till on some jocund morn - lo, land! and all is well.<br> +<br> +XXIX.<br> +<br> + But not in silence pass Calypso’s isles,<br> + The sister tenants of the middle deep;<br> + There for the weary still a haven smiles,<br> + Though the fair goddess long has ceased to weep,<br> + And o’er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep<br> + For him who dared prefer a mortal bride:<br> + Here, too, his boy essayed the dreadful leap<br> + Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide;<br> +While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen doubly sighed.<br> +<br> +XXX.<br> +<br> + Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone:<br> + But trust not this; too easy youth, beware!<br> + A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne,<br> + And thou mayst find a new Calypso there.<br> + Sweet Florence! could another ever share<br> + This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine:<br> + But checked by every tie, I may not dare<br> + To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine,<br> +Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine.<br> +<br> +XXXI.<br> +<br> + Thus Harold deemed, as on that lady’s eye<br> + He looked, and met its beam without a thought,<br> + Save Admiration glancing harmless by:<br> + Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote,<br> + Who knew his votary often lost and caught,<br> + But knew him as his worshipper no more,<br> + And ne’er again the boy his bosom sought:<br> + Since now he vainly urged him to adore,<br> +Well deemed the little god his ancient sway was o’er.<br> +<br> +XXXII.<br> +<br> + Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze,<br> + One who, ’twas said, still sighed to all he +saw,<br> + Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze,<br> + Which others hailed with real or mimic awe,<br> + Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law:<br> + All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims:<br> + And much she marvelled that a youth so raw<br> + Nor felt, nor feigned at least, the oft-told flames,<br> +Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely anger dames.<br> +<br> +XXXIII.<br> +<br> + Little knew she that seeming marble heart,<br> + Now masked by silence or withheld by pride,<br> + Was not unskilful in the spoiler’s art,<br> + And spread its snares licentious far and wide;<br> + Nor from the base pursuit had turned aside,<br> + As long as aught was worthy to pursue:<br> + But Harold on such arts no more relied;<br> + And had he doted on those eyes so blue,<br> +Yet never would he join the lover’s whining crew.<br> +<br> +XXXIV.<br> +<br> + Not much he kens, I ween, of woman’s breast,<br> + Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs;<br> + What careth she for hearts when once possessed?<br> + Do proper homage to thine idol’s eyes,<br> + But not too humbly, or she will despise<br> + Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes;<br> + Disguise e’en tenderness, if thou art wise;<br> + Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes;<br> +Pique her and soothe in turn, soon Passion crowns thy hopes.<br> +<br> +XXXV.<br> +<br> + ’Tis an old lesson: Time approves it true,<br> + And those who know it best deplore it most;<br> + When all is won that all desire to woo,<br> + The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost:<br> + Youth wasted, minds degraded, honour lost,<br> + These are thy fruits, successful Passion! these!<br> + If, kindly cruel, early hope is crossed,<br> + Still to the last it rankles, a disease,<br> +Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to please.<br> +<br> +XXXVI.<br> +<br> + Away! nor let me loiter in my song,<br> + For we have many a mountain path to tread,<br> + And many a varied shore to sail along,<br> + By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led -<br> + Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head<br> + Imagined in its little schemes of thought;<br> + Or e’er in new Utopias were read:<br> + To teach man what he might be, or he ought;<br> +If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught.<br> +<br> +XXXVII.<br> +<br> + Dear Nature is the kindest mother still;<br> + Though always changing, in her aspect mild:<br> + From her bare bosom let me take my fill,<br> + Her never-weaned, though not her favoured child.<br> + Oh! she is fairest in her features wild,<br> + Where nothing polished dares pollute her path:<br> + To me by day or night she ever smiled,<br> + Though I have marked her when none other hath,<br> +And sought her more and more, and loved her best in wrath.<br> +<br> +XXXVIII.<br> +<br> + Land of Albania! where Iskander rose;<br> + Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise,<br> + And he his namesake, whose oft-baffled foes,<br> + Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprise:<br> + Land of Albania! let me bend mine eyes<br> + On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men!<br> + The cross descends, thy minarets arise,<br> + And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen,<br> +Through many a cypress grove within each city’s ken.<br> +<br> +XXXIX.<br> +<br> + Childe Harold sailed, and passed the barren spot<br> + Where sad Penelope o’erlooked the wave;<br> + And onward viewed the mount, not yet forgot,<br> + The lover’s refuge, and the Lesbian’s +grave.<br> + Dark Sappho! could not verse immortal save<br> + That breast imbued with such immortal fire?<br> + Could she not live who life eternal gave?<br> + If life eternal may await the lyre,<br> +That only Heaven to which Earth’s children may aspire.<br> +<br> +XL.<br> +<br> + ’Twas on a Grecian autumn’s gentle eve,<br> + Childe Harold hailed Leucadia’s cape afar;<br> + A spot he longed to see, nor cared to leave:<br> + Oft did he mark the scenes of vanished war,<br> + Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar:<br> + Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight<br> + (Born beneath some remote inglorious star)<br> + In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight,<br> +But loathed the bravo’s trade, and laughed at martial wight.<br> +<br> +XLI.<br> +<br> + But when he saw the evening star above<br> + Leucadia’s far-projecting rock of woe,<br> + And hailed the last resort of fruitless love,<br> + He felt, or deemed he felt, no common glow:<br> + And as the stately vessel glided slow<br> + Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount,<br> + He watched the billows’ melancholy flow,<br> + And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont,<br> +More placid seemed his eye, and smooth his pallid front.<br> +<br> +XLII.<br> +<br> + Morn dawns; and with it stern Albania’s hills,<br> + Dark Suli’s rocks, and Pindus’ inland +peak,<br> + Robed half in mist, bedewed with snowy rills,<br> + Arrayed in many a dun and purple streak,<br> + Arise; and, as the clouds along them break,<br> + Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer;<br> + Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak,<br> + Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear,<br> +And gathering storms around convulse the closing year.<br> +<br> +XLIII.<br> +<br> + Now Harold felt himself at length alone,<br> + And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu:<br> + Now he adventured on a shore unknown,<br> + Which all admire, but many dread to view:<br> + His breast was armed ’gainst fate, his wants +were few:<br> + Peril he sought not, but ne’er shrank to meet:<br> + The scene was savage, but the scene was new;<br> + This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet,<br> +Beat back keen winter’s blast; and welcomed summer’s heat.<br> +<br> +XLIV.<br> +<br> + Here the red cross, for still the cross is here,<br> + Though sadly scoffed at by the circumcised,<br> + Forgets that pride to pampered priesthood dear;<br> + Churchman and votary alike despised.<br> + Foul Superstition! howsoe’er disguised,<br> + Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross,<br> + For whatsoever symbol thou art prized,<br> + Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss!<br> +Who from true worship’s gold can separate thy dross.<br> +<br> +XLV.<br> +<br> + Ambracia’s gulf behold, where once was lost<br> + A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing!<br> + In yonder rippling bay, their naval host<br> + Did many a Roman chief and Asian king<br> + To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter, bring<br> + Look where the second Cæsar’s trophies +rose,<br> + Now, like the hands that reared them, withering;<br> + Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes!<br> +God! was thy globe ordained for such to win and lose?<br> +<br> +XLVI.<br> +<br> + From the dark barriers of that rugged clime,<br> + E’en to the centre of Illyria’s vales,<br> + Childe Harold passed o’er many a mount sublime,<br> + Through lands scarce noticed in historic tales:<br> + Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales<br> + Are rarely seen; nor can fair Tempe boast<br> + A charm they know not; loved Parnassus fails,<br> + Though classic ground, and consecrated most,<br> +To match some spots that lurk within this lowering coast.<br> +<br> +XLVII.<br> +<br> + He passed bleak Pindus, Acherusia’s lake,<br> + And left the primal city of the land,<br> + And onwards did his further journey take<br> + To greet Albania’s chief, whose dread command<br> + Is lawless law; for with a bloody hand<br> + He sways a nation, turbulent and bold:<br> + Yet here and there some daring mountain-band<br> + Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold<br> +Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold.<br> +<br> +XLVIII.<br> +<br> + Monastic Zitza! from thy shady brow,<br> + Thou small, but favoured spot of holy ground!<br> + Where’er we gaze, around, above, below,<br> + What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found!<br> + Rock, river, forest, mountain all abound,<br> + And bluest skies that harmonise the whole:<br> + Beneath, the distant torrent’s rushing sound<br> + Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll<br> +Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please the soul.<br> +<br> +XLIX.<br> +<br> + Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill,<br> + Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh<br> + Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still,<br> + Might well itself be deemed of dignity,<br> + The convent’s white walls glisten fair on high;<br> + Here dwells the caloyer, nor rude is he,<br> + Nor niggard of his cheer: the passer-by<br> + Is welcome still; nor heedless will he flee<br> +From hence, if he delight kind Nature’s sheen to see.<br> +<br> +L.<br> +<br> + Here in the sultriest season let him rest,<br> + Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees;<br> + Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast,<br> + From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze:<br> + The plain is far beneath - oh! let him seize<br> + Pure pleasure while he can; the scorching ray<br> + Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease:<br> + Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay,<br> +And gaze, untired, the morn, the noon, the eve away.<br> +<br> +LI.<br> +<br> + Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight,<br> + Nature’s volcanic amphitheatre,<br> + Chimera’s alps extend from left to right:<br> + Beneath, a living valley seems to stir;<br> + Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain +fir<br> + Nodding above; behold black Acheron!<br> + Once consecrated to the sepulchre.<br> + Pluto! if this be hell I look upon,<br> +Close shamed Elysium’s gates, my shade shall seek for none.<br> +<br> +LII.<br> +<br> + No city’s towers pollute the lovely view;<br> + Unseen is Yanina, though not remote,<br> + Veiled by the screen of hills: here men are few,<br> + Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot;<br> + But, peering down each precipice, the goat<br> + Browseth: and, pensive o’er his scattered flock,<br> + The little shepherd in his white capote<br> + Doth lean his boyish form along the rock,<br> +Or in his cave awaits the tempest’s short-lived shock.<br> +<br> +LIII.<br> +<br> + Oh! where, Dodona, is thine aged grove,<br> + Prophetic fount, and oracle divine?<br> + What valley echoed the response of Jove?<br> + What trace remaineth of the Thunderer’s shrine?<br> + All, all forgotten - and shall man repine<br> + That his frail bonds to fleeting life are broke?<br> + Cease, fool! the fate of gods may well be thine:<br> + Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak,<br> +When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink beneath the stroke?<br> +<br> +LIV.<br> +<br> + Epirus’ bounds recede, and mountains fail;<br> + Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye<br> + Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale<br> + As ever Spring yclad in grassy dye:<br> + E’en on a plain no humble beauties lie,<br> + Where some bold river breaks the long expanse,<br> + And woods along the banks are waving high,<br> + Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance,<br> +Or with the moonbeam sleep in Midnight’s solemn trance.<br> +<br> +LV.<br> +<br> + The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit,<br> + The Laos wide and fierce came roaring by;<br> + The shades of wonted night were gathering yet,<br> + When, down the steep banks winding wearily<br> + Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky,<br> + The glittering minarets of Tepalen,<br> + Whose walls o’erlook the stream; and drawing +nigh,<br> + He heard the busy hum of warrior-men<br> +Swelling the breeze that sighed along the lengthening glen.<br> +<br> +LVI.<br> +<br> + He passed the sacred harem’s silent tower,<br> + And underneath the wide o’erarching gate<br> + Surveyed the dwelling of this chief of power<br> + Where all around proclaimed his high estate.<br> + Amidst no common pomp the despot sate,<br> + While busy preparation shook the court;<br> + Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons wait;<br> + Within, a palace, and without a fort,<br> +Here men of every clime appear to make resort.<br> +<br> +LVII.<br> +<br> + Richly caparisoned, a ready row<br> + Of armèd horse, and many a warlike store,<br> + Circled the wide-extending court below;<br> + Above, strange groups adorned the corridor;<br> + And ofttimes through the area’s echoing door,<br> + Some high-capped Tartar spurred his steed away;<br> + The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor,<br> + Here mingled in their many-hued array,<br> +While the deep war-drum’s sound announced the close of day.<br> +<br> +LVIII.<br> +<br> + The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee,<br> + With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun,<br> + And gold-embroidered garments, fair to see:<br> + The crimson-scarfèd men of Macedon;<br> + The Delhi with his cap of terror on,<br> + And crooked glaive; the lively, supple Greek;<br> + And swarthy Nubia’s mutilated son;<br> + The bearded Turk, that rarely deigns to speak,<br> +Master of all around, too potent to be meek,<br> +<br> +LIX.<br> +<br> + Are mixed conspicuous: some recline in groups,<br> + Scanning the motley scene that varies round;<br> + There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops,<br> + And some that smoke, and some that play are found;<br> + Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground;<br> + Half-whispering there the Greek is heard to prate;<br> + Hark! from the mosque the nightly solemn sound,<br> + The muezzin’s call doth shake the minaret,<br> +‘There is no god but God! - to prayer - lo! God is great!’<br> +<br> +LX.<br> +<br> + Just at this season Ramazani’s fast<br> + Through the long day its penance did maintain.<br> + But when the lingering twilight hour was past,<br> + Revel and feast assumed the rule again:<br> + Now all was bustle, and the menial train<br> + Prepared and spread the plenteous board within;<br> + The vacant gallery now seemed made in vain,<br> + But from the chambers came the mingling din,<br> +As page and slave anon were passing out and in.<br> +<br> +LXI.<br> +<br> + Here woman’s voice is never heard: apart<br> + And scarce permitted, guarded, veiled, to move,<br> + She yields to one her person and her heart,<br> + Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove;<br> + For, not unhappy in her master’s love,<br> + And joyful in a mother’s gentlest cares,<br> + Blest cares! all other feelings far above!<br> + Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears,<br> +Who never quits the breast, no meaner passion shares.<br> +<br> +LXII.<br> +<br> + In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring<br> + Of living water from the centre rose,<br> + Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling,<br> + And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose,<br> + Ali reclined, a man of war and woes:<br> + Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace,<br> + While Gentleness her milder radiance throws<br> + Along that aged venerable face,<br> +The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with disgrace.<br> +<br> +LXIII.<br> +<br> + It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard<br> + Ill suits the passions which belong to youth:<br> + Love conquers age - so Hafiz hath averred,<br> + So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth -<br> + But crimes that scorn the tender voice of ruth,<br> + Beseeming all men ill, but most the man<br> + In years, have marked him with a tiger’s tooth:<br> + Blood follows blood, and through their mortal span,<br> +In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood began.<br> +<br> +LXIV.<br> +<br> + Mid many things most new to ear and eye,<br> + The pilgrim rested here his weary feet,<br> + And gazed around on Moslem luxury,<br> + Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat<br> + Of Wealth and Wantonness, the choice retreat<br> + Of sated Grandeur from the city’s noise:<br> + And were it humbler, it in sooth were sweet;<br> + But Peace abhorreth artificial joys,<br> +And Pleasure, leagued with Pomp, the zest of both destroys.<br> +<br> +LXV.<br> +<br> + Fierce are Albania’s children, yet they lack<br> + Not virtues, were those virtues more mature.<br> + Where is the foe that ever saw their back?<br> + Who can so well the toil of war endure?<br> + Their native fastnesses not more secure<br> + Than they in doubtful time of troublous need:<br> + Their wrath how deadly! but their friendship sure,<br> + When Gratitude or Valour bids them bleed,<br> +Unshaken rushing on where’er their chief may lead.<br> +<br> +LXVI.<br> +<br> + Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain’s +tower,<br> + Thronging to war in splendour and success;<br> + And after viewed them, when, within their power,<br> + Himself awhile the victim of distress;<br> + That saddening hour when bad men hotlier press:<br> + But these did shelter him beneath their roof,<br> + When less barbarians would have cheered him less,<br> + And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof -<br> +In aught that tries the heart how few withstand the proof!<br> +<br> +LXVII.<br> +<br> + It chanced that adverse winds once drove his bark<br> + Full on the coast of Suli’s shaggy shore,<br> + When all around was desolate and dark;<br> + To land was perilous, to sojourn more;<br> + Yet for awhile the mariners forbore,<br> + Dubious to trust where treachery might lurk:<br> + At length they ventured forth, though doubting sore<br> + That those who loathe alike the Frank and Turk<br> +Might once again renew their ancient butcher-work.<br> +<br> +LXVIII.<br> +<br> + Vain fear! the Suliotes stretched the welcome hand,<br> + Led them o’er rocks and past the dangerous swamp,<br> + Kinder than polished slaves, though not so bland,<br> + And piled the hearth, and wrung their garments damp,<br> + And filled the bowl, and trimmed the cheerful lamp,<br> + And spread their fare: though homely, all they had:<br> + Such conduct bears Philanthropy’s rare stamp +-<br> + To rest the weary and to soothe the sad,<br> +Doth lesson happier men, and shames at least the bad.<br> +<br> +LXIX.<br> +<br> + It came to pass, that when he did address<br> + Himself to quit at length this mountain land,<br> + Combined marauders half-way barred egress,<br> + And wasted far and near with glaive and brand;<br> + And therefore did he take a trusty band<br> + To traverse Acarnania forest wide,<br> + In war well-seasoned, and with labours tanned,<br> + Till he did greet white Achelous’ tide,<br> +And from his farther bank Ætolia’s wolds espied.<br> +<br> +LXX.<br> +<br> + Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove,<br> + And weary waves retire to gleam at rest,<br> + How brown the foliage of the green hill’s grove,<br> + Nodding at midnight o’er the calm bay’s +breast,<br> + As winds come whispering lightly from the west,<br> + Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep’s serene:<br> + Here Harold was received a welcome guest;<br> + Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene,<br> +For many a joy could he from night’s soft presence glean.<br> +<br> +LXXI.<br> +<br> + On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly blazed,<br> + The feast was done, the red wine circling fast,<br> + And he that unawares had there ygazed<br> + With gaping wonderment had stared aghast;<br> + For ere night’s midmost, stillest hour was past,<br> + The native revels of the troop began;<br> + Each palikar his sabre from him cast,<br> + And bounding hand in hand, man linked to man,<br> +Yelling their uncouth dirge, long danced the kirtled clan.<br> +<br> +LXXII.<br> +<br> + Childe Harold at a little distance stood,<br> + And viewed, but not displeased, the revelrie,<br> + Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude:<br> + In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see<br> + Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee:<br> + And as the flames along their faces gleamed,<br> + Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing free,<br> + The long wild locks that to their girdles streamed,<br> +While thus in concert they this lay half sang, half screamed:<br> +<br> +<br> +Tambourgi! Tambourgi! thy larum afar<br> +Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war;<br> +All the sons of the mountains arise at the note,<br> +Chimariot, Illyrian, and dark Suliote!<br> +<br> +Oh! who is more brave than a dark Suliote,<br> +To his snowy camese and his shaggy capote?<br> +To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock,<br> +And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock.<br> +<br> +Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive<br> +The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live?<br> +Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego?<br> +What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe?<br> +<br> +Macedonia sends forth her invincible race;<br> +For a time they abandon the cave and the chase:<br> +But those scarves of blood-red shall be redder, before<br> +The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o’er.<br> +<br> +Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the waves,<br> +And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves,<br> +Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar,<br> +And track to his covert the captive on shore.<br> +<br> +I ask not the pleasure that riches supply,<br> +My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy:<br> +Shall win the young bride with her long flowing hair,<br> +And many a maid from her mother shall tear.<br> +<br> +I love the fair face of the maid in her youth;<br> +Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall soothe:<br> +Let her bring from her chamber the many-toned lyre,<br> +And sing us a song on the fall of her sire.<br> +<br> +Remember the moment when Previsa fell,<br> +The shrieks of the conquered, the conqueror’s yell;<br> +The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared,<br> +The wealthy we slaughtered, the lovely we spared.<br> +<br> +I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear;<br> +He neither must know who would serve the Vizier;<br> +Since the days of our prophet, the crescent ne’er saw<br> +A chief ever glorious like Ali Pasha.<br> +<br> +Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped,<br> +Let the yellow-haired Giaours view his horsetail with dread;<br> +When his Delhis come dashing in blood o’er the banks,<br> +How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks!<br> +<br> +Selictar! unsheath then our chief’s scimitar:<br> +Tambourgi! thy larum gives promise of war.<br> +Ye mountains that see us descend to the shore,<br> +Shall view us as victors, or view us no more!<br> +<br> +LXXIII.<br> +<br> + Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth!<br> + Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great!<br> + Who now shall lead thy scattered children forth,<br> + And long accustomed bondage uncreate?<br> + Not such thy sons who whilome did await,<br> + The hopeless warriors of a willing doom,<br> + In bleak Thermopylæ’s sepulchral strait +-<br> + Oh, who that gallant spirit shall resume,<br> +Leap from Eurotas’ banks, and call thee from the tomb?<br> +<br> +LXXIV.<br> +<br> + Spirit of Freedom! when on Phyle’s brow<br> + Thou sat’st with Thrasybulus and his train,<br> + Couldst thou forbode the dismal hour which now<br> + Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain?<br> + Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain,<br> + But every carle can lord it o’er thy land;<br> + Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain,<br> + Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand,<br> +From birth till death enslaved; in word, in deed, unmanned.<br> +<br> +LXXV.<br> +<br> + In all save form alone, how changed! and who<br> + That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye,<br> + Who would but deem their bosom burned anew<br> + With thy unquenchèd beam, lost Liberty!<br> + And many dream withal the hour is nigh<br> + That gives them back their fathers’ heritage:<br> + For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh,<br> + Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage,<br> +Or tear their name defiled from Slavery’s mournful page.<br> +<br> +LXXVI.<br> +<br> + Hereditary bondsmen! know ye not<br> + Who would be free themselves must strike the blow?<br> + By their right arms the conquest must be wrought?<br> + Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye? No!<br> + True, they may lay your proud despoilers low,<br> + But not for you will Freedom’s altars flame.<br> + Shades of the Helots! triumph o’er your foe:<br> + Greece! change thy lords, thy state is still the same;<br> +Thy glorious day is o’er, but not thy years of shame.<br> +<br> +LXXVII.<br> +<br> + The city won for Allah from the Giaour,<br> + The Giaour from Othman’s race again may wrest;<br> + And the Serai’s impenetrable tower<br> + Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest;<br> + Or Wahab’s rebel brood, who dared divest<br> + The Prophet’s tomb of all its pious spoil,<br> + May wind their path of blood along the West;<br> + But ne’er will Freedom seek this fated soil,<br> +But slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil.<br> +<br> +LXXVIII.<br> +<br> + Yet mark their mirth - ere lenten days begin,<br> + That penance which their holy rites prepare<br> + To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin,<br> + By daily abstinence and nightly prayer;<br> + But ere his sackcloth garb Repentance wear,<br> + Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all,<br> + To take of pleasaunce each his secret share,<br> + In motley robe to dance at masking ball,<br> +And join the mimic train of merry Carnival.<br> +<br> +LXXIX.<br> +<br> + And whose more rife with merriment than thine,<br> + O Stamboul! once the empress of their reign?<br> + Though turbans now pollute Sophia’s shrine<br> + And Greece her very altars eyes in vain:<br> + (Alas! her woes will still pervade my strain!)<br> + Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng,<br> + All felt the common joy they now must feign;<br> + Nor oft I’ve seen such sight, nor heard such +song,<br> +As wooed the eye, and thrilled the Bosphorus along.<br> +<br> +LXXX.<br> +<br> + Loud was the lightsome tumult on the shore;<br> + Oft Music changed, but never ceased her tone,<br> + And timely echoed back the measured oar,<br> + And rippling waters made a pleasant moan:<br> + The Queen of tides on high consenting shone;<br> + And when a transient breeze swept o’er the wave,<br> + ’Twas as if, darting from her heavenly throne,<br> + A brighter glance her form reflected gave,<br> +Till sparkling billows seemed to light the banks they lave.<br> +<br> +LXXXI.<br> +<br> + Glanced many a light caique along the foam,<br> + Danced on the shore the daughters of the land,<br> + No thought had man or maid of rest or home,<br> + While many a languid eye and thrilling hand<br> + Exchanged the look few bosoms may withstand,<br> + Or gently pressed, returned the pressure still:<br> + Oh Love! young Love! bound in thy rosy band,<br> + Let sage or cynic prattle as he will,<br> +These hours, and only these, redeemed Life’s years of ill!<br> +<br> +LXXXII.<br> +<br> + But, midst the throng in merry masquerade,<br> + Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain,<br> + E’en through the closest searment half-betrayed?<br> + To such the gentle murmurs of the main<br> + Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain;<br> + To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd<br> + Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain:<br> + How do they loathe the laughter idly loud,<br> +And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud!<br> +<br> +LXXXIII.<br> +<br> + This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece,<br> + If Greece one true-born patriot can boast:<br> + Not such as prate of war but skulk in peace,<br> + The bondsman’s peace, who sighs for all he lost,<br> + Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost,<br> + And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword:<br> + Ah, Greece! they love thee least who owe thee most +-<br> + Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record<br> +Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde!<br> +<br> +LXXXIV.<br> +<br> + When riseth Lacedæmon’s hardihood,<br> + When Thebes Epaminondas rears again,<br> + When Athens’ children are with hearts endued,<br> + When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men,<br> + Then mayst thou be restored; but not till then.<br> + A thousand years scarce serve to form a state;<br> + An hour may lay it in the dust: and when<br> + Can man its shattered splendour renovate,<br> +Recall its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fate?<br> +<br> +LXXXV.<br> +<br> + And yet how lovely in thine age of woe,<br> + Land of lost gods and godlike men, art thou!<br> + Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow,<br> + Proclaim thee Nature’s varied favourite now;<br> + Thy fanes, thy temples to the surface bow,<br> + Commingling slowly with heroic earth,<br> + Broke by the share of every rustic plough:<br> + So perish monuments of mortal birth,<br> +So perish all in turn, save well-recorded worth;<br> +<br> +LXXXVI.<br> +<br> + Save where some solitary column mourns<br> + Above its prostrate brethren of the cave;<br> + Save where Tritonia’s airy shrine adorns<br> + Colonna’s cliff, and gleams along the wave;<br> + Save o’er some warrior’s half-forgotten +grave,<br> + Where the grey stones and unmolested grass<br> + Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave,<br> + While strangers only not regardless pass,<br> +Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh ‘Alas!’<br> +<br> +LXXXVII.<br> +<br> + Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild:<br> + Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields,<br> + Thine olives ripe as when Minerva smiled,<br> + And still his honeyed wealth Hymettus yields;<br> + There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds,<br> + The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain air;<br> + Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds,<br> + Still in his beam Mendeli’s marbles glare;<br> +Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair.<br> +<br> +LXXXVIII.<br> +<br> + Where’er we tread, ’tis haunted, holy +ground;<br> + No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould,<br> + But one vast realm of wonder spreads around,<br> + And all the Muse’s tales seem truly told,<br> + Till the sense aches with gazing to behold<br> + The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon:<br> + Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold,<br> + Defies the power which crushed thy temples gone:<br> +Age shakes Athena’s tower, but spares gray Marathon.<br> +<br> +LXXXIX.<br> +<br> + The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same;<br> + Unchanged in all except its foreign lord -<br> + Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame;<br> + The battle-field, where Persia’s victim horde<br> + First bowed beneath the brunt of Hellas’ sword,<br> + As on the morn to distant Glory dear,<br> + When Marathon became a magic word;<br> + Which uttered, to the hearer’s eye appear<br> +The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror’s career.<br> +<br> +XC.<br> +<br> + The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow;<br> + The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear;<br> + Mountains above, Earth’s, Ocean’s plain +below;<br> + Death in the front, Destruction in the rear!<br> + Such was the scene - what now remaineth here?<br> + What sacred trophy marks the hallowed ground,<br> + Recording Freedom’s smile and Asia’s tear?<br> + The rifled urn, the violated mound,<br> +The dust thy courser’s hoof, rude stranger! spurns around.<br> +<br> +XCI.<br> +<br> + Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past<br> + Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng:<br> + Long shall the voyager, with th’ Ionian blast,<br> + Hail the bright clime of battle and of song;<br> + Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue<br> + Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore:<br> + Boast of the aged! lesson of the young!<br> + Which sages venerate and bards adore,<br> +As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore.<br> +<br> +XCII.<br> +<br> + The parted bosom clings to wonted home,<br> + If aught that’s kindred cheer the welcome hearth;<br> + He that is lonely, hither let him roam,<br> + And gaze complacent on congenial earth.<br> + Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth;<br> + But he whom Sadness sootheth may abide,<br> + And scarce regret the region of his birth,<br> + When wandering slow by Delphi’s sacred side,<br> +Or gazing o’er the plains where Greek and Persian died.<br> +<br> +XCIII.<br> +<br> + Let such approach this consecrated land,<br> + And pass in peace along the magic waste:<br> + But spare its relics - let no busy hand<br> + Deface the scenes, already how defaced!<br> + Not for such purpose were these altars placed.<br> + Revere the remnants nations once revered;<br> + So may our country’s name be undisgraced,<br> + So mayst thou prosper where thy youth was reared,<br> +By every honest joy of love and life endeared!<br> +<br> +XCIV.<br> +<br> + For thee, who thus in too protracted song<br> + Hath soothed thine idlesse with inglorious lays,<br> + Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng<br> + Of louder minstrels in these later days:<br> + To such resign the strife for fading bays -<br> + Ill may such contest now the spirit move<br> + Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise,<br> + Since cold each kinder heart that might approve,<br> +And none are left to please where none are left to love.<br> +<br> +XCV.<br> +<br> + Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one!<br> + Whom youth and youth’s affections bound to me;<br> + Who did for me what none beside have done,<br> + Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee.<br> + What is my being? thou hast ceased to be!<br> + Nor stayed to welcome here thy wanderer home,<br> + Who mourns o’er hours which we no more shall +see -<br> + Would they had never been, or were to come!<br> +Would he had ne’er returned to find fresh cause to roam!<br> +<br> +XCVI.<br> +<br> + Oh! ever loving, lovely, and beloved!<br> + How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past,<br> + And clings to thoughts now better far removed!<br> + But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last.<br> + All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death, thou hast:<br> + The parent, friend, and now the more than friend;<br> + Ne’er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast,<br> + And grief with grief continuing still to blend,<br> +Hath snatched the little joy that life had yet to lend.<br> +<br> +XCVII.<br> +<br> + Then must I plunge again into the crowd,<br> + And follow all that Peace disdains to seek?<br> + Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly loud,<br> + False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek,<br> + To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak!<br> + Still o’er the features, which perforce they +cheer,<br> + To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique;<br> + Smiles form the channel of a future tear,<br> +Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled sneer.<br> +<br> +XCVIII.<br> +<br> + What is the worst of woes that wait on age?<br> + What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow?<br> + To view each loved one blotted from life’s page,<br> + And be alone on earth, as I am now.<br> + Before the Chastener humbly let me bow,<br> + O’er hearts divided and o’er hopes destroyed:<br> + Roll on, vain days! full reckless may ye flow,<br> + Since Time hath reft whate’er my soul enjoyed,<br> +And with the ills of eld mine earlier years alloyed.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CANTO THE THIRD.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +I.<br> +<br> + Is thy face like thy mother’s, my fair child!<br> + Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart?<br> + When last I saw thy young blue eyes, they smiled,<br> + And then we parted, - not as now we part,<br> + But with a hope. -<br> + Awaking +with a start,<br> + The waters heave around me; and on high<br> + The winds lift up their voices: I depart,<br> + Whither I know not; but the hour’s gone by,<br> +When Albion’s lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.<br> +<br> +II.<br> +<br> + Once more upon the waters! yet once more!<br> + And the waves bound beneath me as a steed<br> + That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar!<br> + Swift be their guidance, wheresoe’er it lead!<br> + Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed,<br> + And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale,<br> + Still must I on; for I am as a weed,<br> + Flung from the rock, on Ocean’s foam, to sail<br> +Where’er the surge may sweep, the tempest’s breath prevail.<br> +<br> +III.<br> +<br> + In my youth’s summer I did sing of One,<br> + The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind;<br> + Again I seize the theme, then but begun,<br> + And bear it with me, as the rushing wind<br> + Bears the cloud onwards: in that tale I find<br> + The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears,<br> + Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind,<br> + O’er which all heavily the journeying years<br> +Plod the last sands of life - where not a flower appears.<br> +<br> +IV.<br> +<br> + Since my young days of passion - joy, or pain,<br> + Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string,<br> + And both may jar: it may be, that in vain<br> + I would essay as I have sung to sing.<br> + Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling,<br> + So that it wean me from the weary dream<br> + Of selfish grief or gladness - so it fling<br> + Forgetfulness around me - it shall seem<br> +To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme.<br> +<br> +V.<br> +<br> + He who, grown aged in this world of woe,<br> + In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life,<br> + So that no wonder waits him; nor below<br> + Can love or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife,<br> + Cut to his heart again with the keen knife<br> + Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell<br> + Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife<br> + With airy images, and shapes which dwell<br> +Still unimpaired, though old, in the soul’s haunted cell.<br> +<br> +VI.<br> +<br> + ’Tis to create, and in creating live<br> + A being more intense, that we endow<br> + With form our fancy, gaining as we give<br> + The life we image, even as I do now.<br> + What am I? Nothing: but not so art thou,<br> + Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth,<br> + Invisible but gazing, as I glow<br> + Mixed with thy spirit, blended with thy birth,<br> +And feeling still with thee in my crushed feelings’ dearth.<br> +<br> +VII.<br> +<br> + Yet must I think less wildly: I <i>have</i> thought<br> + Too long and darkly, till my brain became,<br> + In its own eddy boiling and o’erwrought,<br> + A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame:<br> + And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame,<br> + My springs of life were poisoned. ’Tis +too late!<br> + Yet am I changed; though still enough the same<br> + In strength to bear what time cannot abate,<br> +And feed on bitter fruits without accusing fate.<br> +<br> +VIII.<br> +<br> + Something too much of this: but now ’tis past,<br> + And the spell closes with its silent seal.<br> + Long-absent Harold reappears at last;<br> + He of the breast which fain no more would feel,<br> + Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne’er +heal;<br> + Yet Time, who changes all, had altered him<br> + In soul and aspect as in age: years steal<br> + Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb;<br> +And life’s enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.<br> +<br> +IX.<br> +<br> + His had been quaffed too quickly, and he found<br> + The dregs were wormwood; but he filled again,<br> + And from a purer fount, on holier ground,<br> + And deemed its spring perpetual; but in vain!<br> + Still round him clung invisibly a chain<br> + Which galled for ever, fettering though unseen,<br> + And heavy though it clanked not; worn with pain,<br> + Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen,<br> +Entering with every step he took through many a scene.<br> +<br> +X.<br> +<br> + Secure in guarded coldness, he had mixed<br> + Again in fancied safety with his kind,<br> + And deemed his spirit now so firmly fixed<br> + And sheathed with an invulnerable mind,<br> + That, if no joy, no sorrow lurked behind;<br> + And he, as one, might midst the many stand<br> + Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find<br> + Fit speculation; such as in strange land<br> +He found in wonder-works of God and Nature’s hand.<br> +<br> +XI.<br> +<br> + But who can view the ripened rose, nor seek<br> + To wear it? who can curiously behold<br> + The smoothness and the sheen of beauty’s cheek,<br> + Nor feel the heart can never all grow old?<br> + Who can contemplate fame through clouds unfold<br> + The star which rises o’er her steep, nor climb?<br> + Harold, once more within the vortex rolled<br> + On with the giddy circle, chasing Time,<br> +Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth’s fond prime.<br> +<br> +XII.<br> +<br> + But soon he knew himself the most unfit<br> + Of men to herd with Man; with whom he held<br> + Little in common; untaught to submit<br> + His thoughts to others, though his soul was quelled,<br> + In youth by his own thoughts; still uncompelled,<br> + He would not yield dominion of his mind<br> + To spirits against whom his own rebelled;<br> + Proud though in desolation; which could find<br> +A life within itself, to breathe without mankind.<br> +<br> +XIII.<br> +<br> + Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends;<br> + Where rolled the ocean, thereon was his home;<br> + Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends,<br> + He had the passion and the power to roam;<br> + The desert, forest, cavern, breaker’s foam,<br> + Were unto him companionship; they spake<br> + A mutual language, clearer than the tome<br> + Of his land’s tongue, which he would oft forsake<br> +For nature’s pages glassed by sunbeams on the lake.<br> +<br> +XIV.<br> +<br> + Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars,<br> + Till he had peopled them with beings bright<br> + As their own beams; and earth, and earth-born jars,<br> + And human frailties, were forgotten quite:<br> + Could he have kept his spirit to that flight,<br> + He had been happy; but this clay will sink<br> + Its spark immortal, envying it the light<br> + To which it mounts, as if to break the link<br> +That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its brink.<br> +<br> +XV.<br> +<br> + But in Man’s dwellings he became a thing<br> + Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome,<br> + Drooped as a wild-born falcon with clipt wing,<br> + To whom the boundless air alone were home:<br> + Then came his fit again, which to o’ercome,<br> + As eagerly the barred-up bird will beat<br> + His breast and beak against his wiry dome<br> + Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat<br> +Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat.<br> +<br> +XVI.<br> +<br> + Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again,<br> + With naught of hope left, but with less of gloom;<br> + The very knowledge that he lived in vain,<br> + That all was over on this side the tomb,<br> + Had made Despair a smilingness assume,<br> + Which, though ’twere wild - as on the plundered +wreck<br> + When mariners would madly meet their doom<br> + With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck -<br> +Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check.<br> +<br> +XVII.<br> +<br> + Stop! for thy tread is on an empire’s dust!<br> + An earthquake’s spoil is sepulchred below!<br> + Is the spot marked with no colossal bust?<br> + Nor column trophied for triumphal show?<br> + None; but the moral’s truth tells simpler so,<br> + As the ground was before, thus let it be; -<br> + How that red rain hath made the harvest grow!<br> + And is this all the world has gained by thee,<br> +Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory?<br> +<br> +XVIII.<br> +<br> + And Harold stands upon this place of skulls,<br> + The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo!<br> + How in an hour the power which gave annuls<br> + Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too!<br> + In ‘pride of place’ here last the eagle +flew,<br> + Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain,<br> + Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through:<br> + Ambition’s life and labours all were vain;<br> +He wears the shattered links of the world’s broken chain.<br> +<br> +XIX.<br> +<br> + Fit retribution! Gaul may champ the bit,<br> + And foam in fetters, but is Earth more free?<br> + Did nations combat to make <i>One</i> submit;<br> + Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty?<br> + What! shall reviving thraldom again be<br> + The patched-up idol of enlightened days?<br> + Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we<br> + Pay the Wolf homage? proffering lowly gaze<br> +And servile knees to thrones? No; <i>prove</i> before ye praise!<br> +<br> +XX.<br> +<br> + If not, o’er one fall’n despot boast no +more!<br> + In vain fair cheeks were furrowed with hot tears<br> + For Europe’s flowers long rooted up before<br> + The trampler of her vineyards; in vain years<br> + Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears,<br> + Have all been borne, and broken by the accord<br> + Of roused-up millions: all that most endears<br> + Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword<br> +Such as Harmodius drew on Athens’ tyrant lord.<br> +<br> +XXI.<br> +<br> + There was a sound of revelry by night,<br> + And Belgium’s capital had gathered then<br> + Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright<br> + The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men;<br> + A thousand hearts beat happily; and when<br> + Music arose with its voluptuous swell,<br> + Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,<br> + And all went merry as a marriage bell;<br> +But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!<br> +<br> +XXII.<br> +<br> + Did ye not hear it? - No; ’twas but the wind,<br> + Or the car rattling o’er the stony street;<br> + On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;<br> + No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet<br> + To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet.<br> + But hark! - that heavy sound breaks in once more,<br> + As if the clouds its echo would repeat;<br> + And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!<br> +Arm! arm! it is - it is - the cannon’s opening roar!<br> +<br> +XXIII.<br> +<br> + Within a windowed niche of that high hall<br> + Sate Brunswick’s fated chieftain; he did hear<br> + That sound, the first amidst the festival,<br> + And caught its tone with Death’s prophetic ear;<br> + And when they smiled because he deemed it near,<br> + His heart more truly knew that peal too well<br> + Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,<br> + And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:<br> +He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.<br> +<br> +XXIV.<br> +<br> + Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,<br> + And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,<br> + And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago<br> + Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;<br> + And there were sudden partings, such as press<br> + The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs<br> + Which ne’er might be repeated: who would guess<br> + If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,<br> +Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!<br> +<br> +XXV.<br> +<br> + And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,<br> + The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,<br> + Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,<br> + And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;<br> + And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;<br> + And near, the beat of the alarming drum<br> + Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;<br> + While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,<br> +Or whispering, with white lips - ‘The foe! They come! they +come!’<br> +<br> +XXVI.<br> +<br> + And wild and high the ‘Cameron’s gathering’ +rose,<br> + The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn’s hills<br> + Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:<br> + How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills<br> + Savage and shrill! But with the breath which +fills<br> + Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers<br> + With the fierce native daring which instils<br> + The stirring memory of a thousand years,<br> +And Evan’s, Donald’s fame rings in each clansman’s +ears.<br> +<br> +XXVII.<br> +<br> + And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,<br> + Dewy with Nature’s tear-drops, as they pass,<br> + Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves,<br> + Over the unreturniug brave, - alas!<br> + Ere evening to be trodden like the grass<br> + Which now beneath them, but above shall grow<br> + In its next verdure, when this fiery mass<br> + Of living valour, rolling on the foe,<br> +And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.<br> +<br> +XXVIII.<br> +<br> + Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,<br> + Last eve in Beauty’s circle proudly gay,<br> + The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,<br> + The morn the marshalling in arms, - the day<br> + Battle’s magnificently stern array!<br> + The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which when +rent<br> + The earth is covered thick with other clay,<br> + Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,<br> +Rider and horse, - friend, foe, - in one red burial blent!<br> +<br> +XXIX.<br> +<br> + Their praise is hymned by loftier harps than mine;<br> + Yet one I would select from that proud throng,<br> + Partly because they blend me with his line,<br> + And partly that I did his sire some wrong,<br> + And partly that bright names will hallow song;<br> + And his was of the bravest, and when showered<br> + The death-bolts deadliest the thinned files along,<br> + Even where the thickest of war’s tempest lowered,<br> +They reached no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant Howard!<br> +<br> +XXX.<br> +<br> + There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee,<br> + And mine were nothing, had I such to give;<br> + But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree,<br> + Which living waves where thou didst cease to live,<br> + And saw around me the wild field revive<br> + With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring<br> + Come forth her work of gladness to contrive,<br> + With all her reckless birds upon the wing,<br> +I turned from all she brought to those she could not bring.<br> +<br> +XXXI.<br> +<br> + I turned to thee, to thousands, of whom each<br> + And one as all a ghastly gap did make<br> + In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach<br> + Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake;<br> + The Archangel’s trump, not Glory’s, must +awake<br> + Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of Fame<br> + May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake<br> + The fever of vain longing, and the name<br> +So honoured, but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim.<br> +<br> +XXXII.<br> +<br> + They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, mourn:<br> + The tree will wither long before it fall:<br> + The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn;<br> + The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall<br> + In massy hoariness; the ruined wall<br> + Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone;<br> + The bars survive the captive they enthral;<br> + The day drags through though storms keep out the sun;<br> +And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on:<br> +<br> +XXXIII.<br> +<br> + E’en as a broken mirror, which the glass<br> + In every fragment multiplies; and makes<br> + A thousand images of one that was,<br> + The same, and still the more, the more it breaks;<br> + And thus the heart will do which not forsakes,<br> + Living in shattered guise, and still, and cold,<br> + And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches,<br> + Yet withers on till all without is old,<br> +Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold.<br> +<br> +XXXIV.<br> +<br> + There is a very life in our despair,<br> + Vitality of poison, - a quick root<br> + Which feeds these deadly branches; for it were<br> + As nothing did we die; but life will suit<br> + Itself to Sorrow’s most detested fruit,<br> + Like to the apples on the Dead Sea shore,<br> + All ashes to the taste: Did man compute<br> + Existence by enjoyment, and count o’er<br> +Such hours ’gainst years of life, - say, would he name threescore?<br> +<br> +XXXV.<br> +<br> + The Psalmist numbered out the years of man:<br> + They are enough: and if thy tale be <i>true</i>,<br> + Thou, who didst grudge him e’en that fleeting +span,<br> + More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo!<br> + Millions of tongues record thee, and anew<br> + Their children’s lips shall echo them, and say,<br> + ‘Here, where the sword united nations drew,<br> + Our countrymen were warring on that day!’<br> +And this is much, and all which will not pass away.<br> +<br> +XXXVI.<br> +<br> + There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men,<br> + Whose spirit anithetically mixed<br> + One moment of the mightiest, and again<br> + On little objects with like firmness fixed;<br> + Extreme in all things! hadst thou been betwixt,<br> + Thy throne had still been thine, or never been;<br> + For daring made thy rise as fall: thou seek’st<br> + Even now to reassume the imperial mien,<br> +And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene!<br> +<br> +XXXVII.<br> +<br> + Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou!<br> + She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name<br> + Was ne’er more bruited in men’s minds +than now<br> + That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame,<br> + Who wooed thee once, thy vassal, and became<br> + The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert<br> + A god unto thyself; nor less the same<br> + To the astounded kingdoms all inert,<br> +Who deemed thee for a time whate’er thou didst assert.<br> +<br> +XXXVIII.<br> +<br> + Oh, more or less than man - in high or low,<br> + Battling with nations, flying from the field;<br> + Now making monarchs’ necks thy footstool, now<br> + More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield:<br> + An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild,<br> + But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor,<br> + However deeply in men’s spirits skilled,<br> + Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war,<br> +Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star.<br> +<br> +XXXIX.<br> +<br> + Yet well thy soul hath brooked the turning tide<br> + With that untaught innate philosophy,<br> + Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride,<br> + Is gall and wormwood to an enemy.<br> + When the whole host of hatred stood hard by,<br> + To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled<br> + With a sedate and all-enduring eye;<br> + When Fortune fled her spoiled and favourite child,<br> +He stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled.<br> +<br> +XL.<br> +<br> + Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them<br> + Ambition steeled thee on to far too show<br> + That just habitual scorn, which could contemn<br> + Men and their thoughts; ’twas wise to feel, +not so<br> + To wear it ever on thy lip and brow,<br> + And spurn the instruments thou wert to use<br> + Till they were turned unto thine overthrow:<br> + ’Tis but a worthless world to win or lose;<br> +So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose.<br> +<br> +XLI.<br> +<br> + If, like a tower upon a headland rock,<br> + Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone,<br> + Such scorn of man had helped to brave the shock;<br> + But men’s thoughts were the steps which paved +thy throne,<br> + <i>Their</i> admiration thy best weapon shone;<br> + The part of Philip’s son was thine, not then<br> + (Unless aside thy purple had been thrown)<br> + Like stern Diogenes to mock at men;<br> +For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den.<br> +<br> +XLII.<br> +<br> + But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell,<br> + And <i>there</i> hath been thy bane; there is a fire<br> + And motion of the soul, which will not dwell<br> + In its own narrow being, but aspire<br> + Beyond the fitting medium of desire;<br> + And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore,<br> + Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire<br> + Of aught but rest; a fever at the core,<br> +Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore.<br> +<br> +XLIII.<br> +<br> + This makes the madmen who have made men mad<br> + By their contagion! Conquerors and Kings,<br> + Founders of sects and systems, to whom add<br> + Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things<br> + Which stir too strongly the soul’s secret springs,<br> + And are themselves the fools to those they fool;<br> + Envied, yet how unenviable! what stings<br> + Are theirs! One breast laid open were a school<br> +Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule:<br> +<br> +XLIV.<br> +<br> + Their breath is agitation, and their life<br> + A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last,<br> + And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife,<br> + That should their days, surviving perils past,<br> + Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast<br> + With sorrow and supineness, and so die;<br> + Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste<br> + With its own flickering, or a sword laid by,<br> +Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.<br> +<br> +XLV.<br> +<br> + He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find<br> + The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow;<br> + He who surpasses or subdues mankind,<br> + Must look down on the hate of those below.<br> + Though high <i>above</i> the sun of glory glow,<br> + And far <i>beneath</i> the earth and ocean spread,<br> + <i>Round</i> him are icy rocks, and loudly blow<br> + Contending tempests on his naked head,<br> +And thus reward the toils which to those summits led.<br> +<br> +XLVI.<br> +<br> + Away with these; true Wisdom’s world will be<br> + Within its own creation, or in thine,<br> + Maternal Nature! for who teems like thee,<br> + Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine?<br> + There Harold gazes on a work divine,<br> + A blending of all beauties; streams and dells,<br> + Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, corn-field, mountain, +vine,<br> + And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells<br> +From grey but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells.<br> +<br> +XLVII.<br> +<br> + And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind,<br> + Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd,<br> + All tenantless, save to the crannying wind,<br> + Or holding dark communion with the cloud.<br> + There was a day when they were young and proud,<br> + Banners on high, and battles passed below;<br> + But they who fought are in a bloody shroud,<br> + And those which waved are shredless dust ere now,<br> +And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow.<br> +<br> +XLVIII.<br> +<br> + Beneath these battlements, within those walls,<br> + Power dwelt amidst her passions; in proud state<br> + Each robber chief upheld his armèd halls,<br> + Doing his evil will, nor less elate<br> + Than mightier heroes of a longer date.<br> + What want these outlaws conquerors should have<br> + But History’s purchased page to call them great?<br> + A wider space, an ornamented grave?<br> +Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full as brave.<br> +<br> +XLIX.<br> +<br> + In their baronial feuds and single fields,<br> + What deeds of prowess unrecorded died!<br> + And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields,<br> + With emblems well devised by amorous pride,<br> + Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide;<br> + But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on<br> + Keen contest and destruction near allied,<br> + And many a tower for some fair mischief won,<br> +Saw the discoloured Rhine beneath its ruin run.<br> +<br> +L.<br> +<br> + But thou, exulting and abounding river!<br> + Making thy waves a blessing as they flow<br> + Through banks whose beauty would endure for ever,<br> + Could man but leave thy bright creation so,<br> + Nor its fair promise from the surface mow<br> + With the sharp scythe of conflict, - then to see<br> + Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know<br> + Earth paved like Heaven; and to seem such to me<br> +Even now what wants thy stream? - that it should Lethe be.<br> +<br> +LI.<br> +<br> + A thousand battles have assailed thy banks,<br> + But these and half their fame have passed away,<br> + And Slaughter heaped on high his weltering ranks:<br> + Their very graves are gone, and what are they?<br> + Thy tide washed down the blood of yesterday,<br> + And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream<br> + Glassed with its dancing light the sunny ray;<br> + But o’er the blackened memory’s blighting +dream<br> +Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem.<br> +<br> +LII.<br> +<br> + Thus Harold inly said, and passed along,<br> + Yet not insensible to all which here<br> + Awoke the jocund birds to early song<br> + In glens which might have made e’en exile dear:<br> + Though on his brow were graven lines austere,<br> + And tranquil sternness which had ta’en the place<br> + Of feelings fierier far but less severe,<br> + Joy was not always absent from his face,<br> +But o’er it in such scenes would steal with transient trace.<br> +<br> +LIII.<br> +<br> + Nor was all love shut from him, though his days<br> + Of passion had consumed themselves to dust.<br> + It is in vain that we would coldly gaze<br> + On such as smile upon us; the heart must<br> + Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust<br> + Hath weaned it from all worldlings: thus he felt,<br> + For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust<br> + In one fond breast, to which his own would melt,<br> +And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt.<br> +<br> +LIV.<br> +<br> + And he had learned to love, - I know not why,<br> + For this in such as him seems strange of mood, -<br> + The helpless looks of blooming infancy,<br> + Even in its earliest nurture; what subdued,<br> + To change like this, a mind so far imbued<br> + With scorn of man, it little boots to know;<br> + But thus it was; and though in solitude<br> + Small power the nipped affections have to grow,<br> +In him this glowed when all beside had ceased to glow.<br> +<br> +LV.<br> +<br> + And there was one soft breast, as hath been said,<br> + Which unto his was bound by stronger ties<br> + Than the church links withal; and, though unwed,<br> + <i>That</i> love was pure, and, far above disguise,<br> + Had stood the test of mortal enmities<br> + Still undivided, and cemented more<br> + By peril, dreaded most in female eyes;<br> + But this was firm, and from a foreign shore<br> +Well to that heart might his these absent greetings pour!<br> +<br> + The castled crag of Drachenfels<br> + Frowns o’er the wide and winding Rhine.<br> + Whose breast of waters broadly swells<br> + Between the banks which bear the vine,<br> + And hills all rich with blossomed trees,<br> + And fields which promise corn and wine,<br> + And scattered cities crowning these,<br> + Whose far white walls along them shine,<br> + Have strewed a scene, which I should see<br> + With double joy wert <i>thou</i> with me!<br> +<br> + And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes,<br> + And hands which offer early flowers,<br> + Walk smiling o’er this paradise;<br> + Above, the frequent feudal towers<br> + Through green leaves lift their walls of grey,<br> + And many a rock which steeply lours,<br> + And noble arch in proud decay,<br> + Look o’er this vale of vintage bowers:<br> + But one thing want these banks of Rhine, -<br> + Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!<br> +<br> + I send the lilies given to me;<br> + Though long before thy hand they touch,<br> + I know that they must withered be,<br> + But yet reject them not as such;<br> + For I have cherished them as dear,<br> + Because they yet may meet thine eye,<br> + And guide thy soul to mine e’en here,<br> + When thou behold’st them drooping nigh,<br> + And know’st them gathered by the Rhine,<br> + And offered from my heart to thine!<br> +<br> + The river nobly foams and flows,<br> + The charm of this enchanted ground,<br> + And all its thousand turns disclose<br> + Some fresher beauty varying round;<br> + The haughtiest breast its wish might bound<br> + Through life to dwell delighted here;<br> + Nor could on earth a spot be found<br> + To Nature and to me so dear,<br> + Could thy dear eyes in following mine<br> + Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine!<br> +<br> +LVI.<br> +<br> + By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground,<br> + There is a small and simple pyramid,<br> + Crowning the summit of the verdant mound;<br> + Beneath its base are heroes’ ashes hid,<br> + Our enemy’s, - but let not that forbid<br> + Honour to Marceau! o’er whose early tomb<br> + Tears, big tears, gushed from the rough soldier’s +lid,<br> + Lamenting and yet envying such a doom,<br> +Falling for France, whose rights he battled to resume.<br> +<br> +LVI.<br> +<br> + Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career, -<br> + His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes;<br> + And fitly may the stranger lingering here<br> + Pray for his gallant spirit’s bright repose;<br> + For he was Freedom’s champion, one of those,<br> + The few in number, who had not o’erstept<br> + The charter to chastise which she bestows<br> + On such as wield her weapons; he had kept<br> +The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o’er him wept.<br> +<br> +LVIII.<br> +<br> + Here Ehrenbreitstein, with her shattered wall<br> + Black with the miner’s blast, upon her height<br> + Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball<br> + Rebounding idly on her strength did light;<br> + A tower of victory! from whence the flight<br> + Of baffled foes was watched along the plain;<br> + But Peace destroyed what War could never blight,<br> + And laid those proud roofs bare to Summer’s +rain -<br> +On which the iron shower for years had poured in vain.<br> +<br> +LIX.<br> +<br> + Adieu to thee, fair Rhine! How long, delighted,<br> + The stranger fain would linger on his way;<br> + Thine is a scene alike where souls united<br> + Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray;<br> + And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey<br> + On self-condemning bosoms, it were here,<br> + Where Nature, not too sombre nor too gay,<br> + Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere,<br> +Is to the mellow earth as autumn to the year.<br> +<br> +LX.<br> +<br> + Adieu to thee again! a vain adieu!<br> + There can be no farewell to scene like thine;<br> + The mind is coloured by thy every hue;<br> + And if reluctantly the eyes resign<br> + Their cherished gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine!<br> + ’Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise;<br> + More mighty spots may rise - more glaring shine,<br> + But none unite in one attaching maze<br> +The brilliant, fair, and soft; - the glories of old days.<br> +<br> +LXI.<br> +<br> + The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom<br> + Of coming ripeness, the white city’s sheen,<br> + The rolling stream, the precipice’s gloom,<br> + The forest’s growth, and Gothic walls between,<br> + The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been<br> + In mockery of man’s art; and these withal<br> + A race of faces happy as the scene,<br> + Whose fertile bounties here extend to all,<br> +Still springing o’er thy banks, though empires near them fall.<br> +<br> +LXII.<br> +<br> + But these recede. Above me are the Alps,<br> + The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls<br> + Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,<br> + And throned Eternity in icy halls<br> + Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls<br> + The avalanche - the thunderbolt of snow!<br> + All that expands the spirit, yet appals,<br> + Gathers around these summits, as to show<br> +How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below.<br> +<br> +LXIII.<br> +<br> + But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan,<br> + There is a spot should not be passed in vain, -<br> + Morat! the proud, the patriot field! where man<br> + May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain,<br> + Nor blush for those who conquered on that plain;<br> + Here Burgundy bequeathed his tombless host,<br> + A bony heap, through ages to remain,<br> + Themselves their monument; - the Stygian coast<br> +Unsepulchred they roamed, and shrieked each wandering ghost.<br> +<br> +LXIV.<br> +<br> + While Waterloo with Cannæ’s carnage vies,<br> + Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand;<br> + They were true Glory’s stainless victories,<br> + Won by the unambitious heart and hand<br> + Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band,<br> + All unbought champions in no princely cause<br> + Of vice-entailed Corruption; they no land<br> + Doomed to bewail the blasphemy of laws<br> +Making king’s rights divine, by some Draconic clause.<br> +<br> +LXV.<br> +<br> + By a lone wall a lonelier column rears<br> + A grey and grief-worn aspect of old days<br> + ’Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years,<br> + And looks as with the wild bewildered gaze<br> + Of one to stone converted by amaze,<br> + Yet still with consciousness; and there it stands,<br> + Making a marvel that it not decays,<br> + When the coeval pride of human hands,<br> +Levelled Aventicum, hath strewed her subject lands.<br> +<br> +LXVI.<br> +<br> + And there - oh! sweet and sacred be the name! -<br> + Julia - the daughter, the devoted - gave<br> + Her youth to Heaven; her heart, beneath a claim<br> + Nearest to Heaven’s, broke o’er a father’s +grave.<br> + Justice is sworn ’gainst tears, and hers would +crave<br> + The life she lived in; but the judge was just,<br> + And then she died on him she could not save.<br> + Their tomb was simple, and without a bust,<br> +And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one dust.<br> +<br> +LXVII.<br> +<br> + But these are deeds which should not pass away,<br> + And names that must not wither, though the earth<br> + Forgets her empires with a just decay,<br> + The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and birth;<br> + The high, the mountain-majesty of worth,<br> + Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe,<br> + And from its immortality look forth<br> + In the sun’s face, like yonder Alpine snow,<br> +Imperishably pure beyond all things below.<br> +<br> +LXVIII.<br> +<br> + Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face,<br> + The mirror where the stars and mountains view<br> + The stillness of their aspect in each trace<br> + Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue:<br> + There is too much of man here, to look through<br> + With a fit mind the might which I behold;<br> + But soon in me shall Loneliness renew<br> + Thoughts hid, but not less cherished than of old,<br> +Ere mingling with the herd had penned me in their fold.<br> +<br> +LXIX.<br> +<br> + To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind;<br> + All are not fit with them to stir and toil,<br> + Nor is it discontent to keep the mind<br> + Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil<br> + In one hot throng, where we become the spoil<br> + Of our infection, till too late and long<br> + We may deplore and struggle with the coil,<br> + In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong<br> +Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong.<br> +<br> +LXX.<br> +<br> + There, in a moment, we may plunge our years<br> + In fatal penitence, and in the blight<br> + Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears,<br> + And colour things to come with hues of Night;<br> + The race of life becomes a hopeless flight<br> + To those that walk in darkness: on the sea,<br> + The boldest steer but where their ports invite,<br> + But there are wanderers o’er Eternity<br> +Whose bark drives on and on, and anchored ne’er shall be.<br> +<br> +LXXI.<br> +<br> + Is it not better, then, to be alone,<br> + And love Earth only for its earthly sake?<br> + By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone,<br> + Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake,<br> + Which feeds it as a mother who doth make<br> + A fair but froward infant her own care,<br> + Kissing its cries away as these awake; -<br> + Is it not better thus our lives to wear,<br> +Than join the crushing crowd, doomed to inflict or bear?<br> +<br> +LXXII.<br> +<br> + I live not in myself, but I become<br> + Portion of that around me; and to me,<br> + High mountains are a feeling, but the hum<br> + Of human cities torture: I can see<br> + Nothing to loathe in Nature, save to be<br> + A link reluctant in a fleshly chain,<br> + Classed among creatures, when the soul can flee,<br> + And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain<br> +Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain.<br> +<br> +LXXIII.<br> +<br> + And thus I am absorbed, and this is life:<br> + I look upon the peopled desert Past,<br> + As on a place of agony and strife,<br> + Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast,<br> + To act and suffer, but remount at last<br> + With a fresh pinion; which I felt to spring,<br> + Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the blast<br> + Which it would cope with, on delighted wing,<br> +Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling.<br> +<br> +LXXIV.<br> +<br> + And when, at length, the mind shall be all free<br> + From what it hates in this degraded form,<br> + Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be<br> + Existent happier in the fly and worm, -<br> + When elements to elements conform,<br> + And dust is as it should be, shall I not<br> + Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm?<br> + The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each spot?<br> +Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot?<br> +<br> +LXXV.<br> +<br> + Are not the mountains, waves, and skies a part<br> + Of me and of my soul, as I of them?<br> + Is not the love of these deep in my heart<br> + With a pure passion? should I not contemn<br> + All objects, if compared with these? and stem<br> + A tide of suffering, rather than forego<br> + Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm<br> + Of those whose eyes are only turned below,<br> +Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow?<br> +<br> +LXXVI.<br> +<br> + But this is not my theme; and I return<br> + To that which is immediate, and require<br> + Those who find contemplation in the urn,<br> + To look on One whose dust was once all fire,<br> + A native of the land where I respire<br> + The clear air for awhile - a passing guest,<br> + Where he became a being, - whose desire<br> + Was to be glorious; ’twas a foolish quest,<br> +The which to gain and keep he sacrificed all rest.<br> +<br> +LXXVII.<br> +<br> + Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau,<br> + The apostle of affliction, he who threw<br> + Enchantment over passion, and from woe<br> + Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew<br> + The breath which made him wretched; yet he knew<br> + How to make madness beautiful, and cast<br> + O’er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue<br> + Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past<br> +The eyes, which o’er them shed tears feelingly and fast.<br> +<br> +LXXVIII.<br> +<br> + His love was passion’s essence - as a tree<br> + On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame<br> + Kindled he was, and blasted; for to be<br> + Thus, and enamoured, were in him the same.<br> + But his was not the love of living dame,<br> + Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams,<br> + But of Ideal beauty, which became<br> + In him existence, and o’erflowing teems<br> +Along his burning page, distempered though it seems.<br> +<br> +LXXIX.<br> +<br> + <i>This</i> breathed itself to life in Julie, <i>this<br> + </i>Invested her with all that’s wild and sweet;<br> + This hallowed, too, the memorable kiss<br> + Which every morn his fevered lip would greet,<br> + From hers, who but with friendship his would meet:<br> + But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast<br> + Flashed the thrilled spirit’s love-devouring +heat;<br> + In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest,<br> +Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest.<br> +<br> +LXXX.<br> +<br> + His life was one long war with self-sought foes,<br> + Or friends by him self-banished; for his mind<br> + Had grown Suspicion’s sanctuary, and chose<br> + For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind,<br> + ’Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and +blind.<br> + But he was frenzied, - wherefore, who may know?<br> + Since cause might be which skill could never find;<br> + But he was frenzied by disease or woe<br> +To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show.<br> +<br> +LXXXI.<br> +<br> + For then he was inspired, and from him came,<br> + As from the Pythian’s mystic cave of yore,<br> + Those oracles which set the world in flame,<br> + Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more:<br> + Did he not this for France, which lay before<br> + Bowed to the inborn tyranny of years?<br> + Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore,<br> + Till by the voice of him and his compeers<br> +Roused up to too much wrath, which follows o’ergrown fears?<br> +<br> +LXXXII.<br> +<br> + They made themselves a fearful monument!<br> + The wreck of old opinions - things which grew,<br> + Breathed from the birth of time: the veil they rent,<br> + And what behind it lay, all earth shall view.<br> + But good with ill they also overthrew,<br> + Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild<br> + Upon the same foundation, and renew<br> + Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour refilled,<br> +As heretofore, because ambition was self-willed.<br> +<br> +LXXXIII.<br> +<br> + But this will not endure, nor be endured!<br> + Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt.<br> + They might have used it better, but, allured<br> + By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt<br> + On one another; Pity ceased to melt<br> + With her once natural charities. But they,<br> + Who in Oppression’s darkness caved had dwelt,<br> + They were not eagles, nourished with the day;<br> +What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey?<br> +<br> +LXXXIV.<br> +<br> + What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?<br> + The heart’s bleed longest, and but heal to wear<br> + That which disfigures it; and they who war<br> + With their own hopes, and have been vanquished, bear<br> + Silence, but not submission: in his lair<br> + Fixed Passion holds his breath, until the hour<br> + Which shall atone for years; none need despair:<br> + It came, it cometh, and will come, - the power<br> +To punish or forgive - in <i>one</i> we shall be slower.<br> +<br> +LXXXV.<br> +<br> + Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake,<br> + With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing<br> + Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake<br> + Earth’s troubled waters for a purer spring.<br> + This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing<br> + To waft me from distraction; once I loved<br> + Torn ocean’s roar, but thy soft murmuring<br> + Sounds sweet as if a sister’s voice reproved,<br> +That I with stern delights should e’er have been so moved.<br> +<br> +LXXXVI.<br> +<br> + It is the hush of night, and all between<br> + Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,<br> + Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen.<br> + Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear<br> + Precipitously steep; and drawing near,<br> + There breathes a living fragrance from the shore,<br> + Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear<br> + Drops the light drip of the suspended oar,<br> +Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more;<br> +<br> +LXXXVII.<br> +<br> + He is an evening reveller, who makes<br> + His life an infancy, and sings his fill;<br> + At intervals, some bird from out the brakes<br> + Starts into voice a moment, then is still.<br> + There seems a floating whisper on the hill,<br> + But that is fancy, for the starlight dews<br> + All silently their tears of love instil,<br> + Weeping themselves away, till they infuse<br> +Deep into Nature’s breast the spirit of her hues.<br> +<br> +LXXXVIII.<br> +<br> + Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven,<br> + If in your bright leaves we would read the fate<br> + Of men and empires, - ’tis to be forgiven,<br> + That in our aspirations to be great,<br> + Our destinies o’erleap their mortal state,<br> + And claim a kindred with you; for ye are<br> + A beauty and a mystery, and create<br> + In us such love and reverence from afar,<br> +That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.<br> +<br> +LXXXIX.<br> +<br> + All heaven and earth are still - though not in sleep,<br> + But breathless, as we grow when feeling most;<br> + And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep: -<br> + All heaven and earth are still: from the high host<br> + Of stars, to the lulled lake and mountain-coast,<br> + All is concentered in a life intense,<br> + Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,<br> + But hath a part of being, and a sense<br> +Of that which is of all Creator and defence.<br> +<br> +XC.<br> +<br> + Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt<br> + In solitude, where we are <i>least</i> alone;<br> + A truth, which through our being then doth melt,<br> + And purifies from self: it is a tone,<br> + The soul and source of music, which makes known<br> + Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm,<br> + Like to the fabled Cytherea’s zone,<br> + Binding all things with beauty; - ’twould disarm<br> +The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm.<br> +<br> +XCI.<br> +<br> + Nor vainly did the early Persian make<br> + His altar the high places and the peak<br> + Of earth-o’ergazing mountains, and thus take<br> + A fit and unwalled temple, there to seek<br> + The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak,<br> + Upreared of human hands. Come, and compare<br> + Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek,<br> + With Nature’s realms of worship, earth and air,<br> +Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer!<br> +<br> +XCII.<br> +<br> + The sky is changed! - and such a change! O night,<br> + And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,<br> + Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light<br> + Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,<br> + From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,<br> + Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud,<br> + But every mountain now hath found a tongue;<br> + And Jura answers, through her misty shroud,<br> +Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!<br> +<br> +XCIII.<br> +<br> + And this is in the night: - Most glorious night!<br> + Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be<br> + A sharer in thy fierce and far delight -<br> + A portion of the tempest and of thee!<br> + How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,<br> + And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!<br> + And now again ’tis black, - and now, the glee<br> + Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,<br> +As if they did rejoice o’er a young earthquake’s birth.<br> +<br> +XCIV.<br> +<br> + Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between<br> + Heights which appear as lovers who have parted<br> + In hate, whose mining depths so intervene,<br> + That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted;<br> + Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted,<br> + Love was the very root of the fond rage<br> + Which blighted their life’s bloom, and then +departed:<br> + Itself expired, but leaving them an age<br> +Of years all winters - war within themselves to wage.<br> +<br> +XCV.<br> +<br> + Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way,<br> + The mightiest of the storms hath ta’en his stand;<br> + For here, not one, but many, make their play,<br> + And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand,<br> + Flashing and cast around: of all the band,<br> + The brightest through these parted hills hath forked<br> + His lightnings, as if he did understand<br> + That in such gaps as desolation worked,<br> +There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurked.<br> +<br> +XCVI.<br> +<br> + Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye,<br> + With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul<br> + To make these felt and feeling, well may be<br> + Things that have made me watchful; the far roll<br> + Of your departing voices, is the knoll<br> + Of what in me is sleepless, - if I rest.<br> + But where of ye, O tempests! is the goal?<br> + Are ye like those within the human breast?<br> +Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest?<br> +<br> +XCVII.<br> +<br> + Could I embody and unbosom now<br> + That which is most within me, - could I wreak<br> + My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw<br> + Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak,<br> + All that I would have sought, and all I seek,<br> + Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe - into one word,<br> + And that one word were lightning, I would speak;<br> + But as it is, I live and die unheard,<br> +With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword.<br> +<br> +XCVIII.<br> +<br> + The morn is up again, the dewy morn,<br> + With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom,<br> + Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn,<br> + And living as if earth contained no tomb, -<br> + And glowing into day: we may resume<br> + The march of our existence: and thus I,<br> + Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room<br> + And food for meditation, nor pass by<br> +Much, that may give us pause, if pondered fittingly.<br> +<br> +XCIX.<br> +<br> + Clarens! sweet Clarens! birthplace of deep Love!<br> + Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought;<br> + Thy trees take root in love; the snows above<br> + The very glaciers have his colours caught,<br> + And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought<br> + By rays which sleep there lovingly: the rocks,<br> + The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought<br> + In them a refuge from the worldly shocks,<br> +Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then mocks.<br> +<br> +C.<br> +<br> + Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod, -<br> + Undying Love’s, who here ascends a throne<br> + To which the steps are mountains; where the god<br> + Is a pervading life and light, - so shown<br> + Not on those summits solely, nor alone<br> + In the still cave and forest; o’er the flower<br> + His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown,<br> + His soft and summer breath, whose tender power<br> +Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour.<br> +<br> +CI.<br> +<br> + All things are here of <i>him</i>; from the black +pines,<br> + Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar<br> + Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines<br> + Which slope his green path downward to the shore,<br> + Where the bowed waters meet him, and adore,<br> + Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood,<br> + The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar,<br> + But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood,<br> +Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude.<br> +<br> +CII.<br> +<br> + A populous solitude of bees and birds,<br> + And fairy-formed and many coloured things,<br> + Who worship him with notes more sweet than words,<br> + And innocently open their glad wings,<br> + Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs,<br> + And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend<br> + Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings<br> + The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend,<br> +Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end.<br> +<br> +CIII.<br> +<br> + He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore,<br> + And make his heart a spirit: he who knows<br> + That tender mystery, will love the more,<br> + For this is Love’s recess, where vain men’s +woes,<br> + And the world’s waste, have driven him far from +those,<br> + For ’tis his nature to advance or die;<br> + He stands not still, but or decays, or grows<br> + Into a boundless blessing, which may vie<br> +With the immortal lights, in its eternity!<br> +<br> +CIV.<br> +<br> + ’Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot,<br> + Peopling it with affections; but he found<br> + It was the scene which passion must allot<br> + To the mind’s purified beings; ’twas the +ground<br> + Where early Love his Psyche’s zone unbound,<br> + And hallowed it with loveliness: ’tis lone,<br> + And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound,<br> + And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone<br> +Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have reared a throne.<br> +<br> +CV.<br> +<br> + Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes<br> + Of names which unto you bequeathed a name;<br> + Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads,<br> + A path to perpetuity of fame:<br> + They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim<br> + Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile<br> + Thoughts which should call down thunder, and the flame<br> + Of Heaven, again assailed, if Heaven the while<br> +On man and man’s research could deign do more than smile.<br> +<br> +CVI.<br> +<br> + The one was fire and fickleness, a child<br> + Most mutable in wishes, but in mind<br> + A wit as various, - gay, grave, sage, or wild, -<br> + Historian, bard, philosopher combined:<br> + He multiplied himself among mankind,<br> + The Proteus of their talents: But his own<br> + Breathed most in ridicule, - which, as the wind,<br> + Blew where it listed, laying all things prone, -<br> +Now to o’erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne.<br> +<br> +CVII.<br> +<br> + The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought,<br> + And hiving wisdom with each studious year,<br> + In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought,<br> + And shaped his weapon with an edge severe,<br> + Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer;<br> + The lord of irony, - that master spell,<br> + Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear,<br> + And doomed him to the zealot’s ready hell,<br> +Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well.<br> +<br> +CVIII.<br> +<br> + Yet, peace be with their ashes, - for by them,<br> + If merited, the penalty is paid;<br> + It is not ours to judge, far less condemn;<br> + The hour must come when such things shall be made<br> + Known unto all, - or hope and dread allayed<br> + By slumber on one pillow, in the dust,<br> + Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decayed;<br> + And when it shall revive, as is our trust,<br> +’Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just.<br> +<br> +CIX.<br> +<br> + But let me quit man’s works, again to read<br> + His Maker’s spread around me, and suspend<br> + This page, which from my reveries I feed,<br> + Until it seems prolonging without end.<br> + The clouds above me to the white Alps tend,<br> + And I must pierce them, and survey whate’er<br> + May be permitted, as my steps I bend<br> + To their most great and growing region, where<br> +The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air.<br> +<br> +CX.<br> +<br> + Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee<br> + Full flashes on the soul the light of ages,<br> + Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee,<br> + To the last halo of the chiefs and sages<br> + Who glorify thy consecrated pages;<br> + Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; still,<br> + The fount at which the panting mind assuages<br> + Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill,<br> +Flows from the eternal source of Rome’s imperial hill.<br> +<br> +CXI.<br> +<br> + Thus far have I proceeded in a theme<br> + Renewed with no kind auspices: - to feel<br> + We are not what we have been, and to deem<br> + We are not what we should be, and to steel<br> + The heart against itself; and to conceal,<br> + With a proud caution, love or hate, or aught, -<br> + Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal, -<br> + Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought,<br> +Is a stern task of soul: - No matter, - it is taught.<br> +<br> +CXII.<br> +<br> + And for these words, thus woven into song,<br> + It may be that they are a harmless wile, -<br> + The colouring of the scenes which fleet along,<br> + Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile<br> + My breast, or that of others, for a while.<br> + Fame is the thirst of youth, - but I am not<br> + So young as to regard men’s frown or smile<br> + As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot;<br> +I stood and stand alone, - remembered or forgot.<br> +<br> +CXIII.<br> +<br> + I have not loved the world, nor the world me;<br> + I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed<br> + To its idolatries a patient knee, -<br> + Nor coined my cheek to smiles, nor cried aloud<br> + In worship of an echo; in the crowd<br> + They could not deem me one of such; I stood<br> + Among them, but not of them; in a shroud<br> + Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still +could,<br> +Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued.<br> +<br> +CXIV.<br> +<br> + I have not loved the world, nor the world me, -<br> + But let us part fair foes; I do believe,<br> + Though I have found them not, that there may be<br> + Words which are things, - hopes which will not deceive,<br> + And virtues which are merciful, nor weave<br> + Snares for the falling: I would also deem<br> + O’er others’ griefs that some sincerely +grieve;<br> + That two, or one, are almost what they seem, -<br> +That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream.<br> +<br> +CXV.<br> +<br> + My daughter! with thy name this song begun -<br> + My daughter! with thy name this much shall end -<br> + I see thee not, I hear thee not, - but none<br> + Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend<br> + To whom the shadows of far years extend:<br> + Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold,<br> + My voice shall with thy future visions blend,<br> + And reach into thy heart, when mine is cold, -<br> +A token and a tone, even from thy father’s mould.<br> +<br> +CXVI.<br> +<br> + To aid thy mind’s development, - to watch<br> + Thy dawn of little joys, - to sit and see<br> + Almost thy very growth, - to view thee catch<br> + Knowledge of objects, wonders yet to thee!<br> + To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee,<br> + And print on thy soft cheek a parent’s kiss, +-<br> + This, it should seem, was not reserved for me<br> + Yet this was in my nature: - As it is,<br> +I know not what is there, yet something like to this.<br> +<br> +CXVII.<br> +<br> + Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught,<br> + I know that thou wilt love me; though my name<br> + Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught<br> + With desolation, and a broken claim:<br> + Though the grave closed between us, - ’twere +the same,<br> + I know that thou wilt love me: though to drain<br> + <i>My</i> blood from out thy being were an aim,<br> + And an attainment, - all would be in vain, -<br> +Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain.<br> +<br> +CXVIII.<br> +<br> + The child of love, - though born in bitterness,<br> + And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire<br> + These were the elements, and thine no less.<br> + As yet such are around thee; but thy fire<br> + Shall be more tempered, and thy hope far higher.<br> + Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! O’er the +sea,<br> + And from the mountains where I now respire,<br> + Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee,<br> +As, with a sigh, I deem thou mightst have been to me!<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CANTO THE FOURTH.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +I.<br> +<br> + I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;<br> + A palace and a prison on each hand:<br> + I saw from out the wave her structures rise<br> + As from the stroke of the enchanter’s wand:<br> + A thousand years their cloudy wings expand<br> + Around me, and a dying glory smiles<br> + O’er the far times when many a subject land<br> + Looked to the wingèd Lion’s marble piles,<br> +Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles!<br> +<br> +II.<br> +<br> + She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,<br> + Rising with her tiara of proud towers<br> + At airy distance, with majestic motion,<br> + A ruler of the waters and their powers:<br> + And such she was; her daughters had their dowers<br> + From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East<br> + Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers.<br> + In purple was she robed, and of her feast<br> +Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased.<br> +<br> +III.<br> +<br> + In Venice, Tasso’s echoes are no more,<br> + And silent rows the songless gondolier;<br> + Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,<br> + And music meets not always now the ear:<br> + Those days are gone - but beauty still is here.<br> + States fall, arts fade - but Nature doth not die,<br> + Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,<br> + The pleasant place of all festivity,<br> +The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!<br> +<br> +IV.<br> +<br> + But unto us she hath a spell beyond<br> + Her name in story, and her long array<br> + Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond<br> + Above the dogeless city’s vanished sway;<br> + Ours is a trophy which will not decay<br> + With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor,<br> + And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away -<br> + The keystones of the arch! though all were o’er,<br> +For us repeopled were the solitary shore.<br> +<br> +V.<br> +<br> + The beings of the mind are not of clay;<br> + Essentially immortal, they create<br> + And multiply in us a brighter ray<br> + And more beloved existence: that which Fate<br> + Prohibits to dull life, in this our state<br> + Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied,<br> + First exiles, then replaces what we hate;<br> + Watering the heart whose early flowers have died,<br> +And with a fresher growth replenishing the void.<br> +<br> +VI.<br> +<br> + Such is the refuge of our youth and age,<br> + The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy;<br> + And this worn feeling peoples many a page,<br> + And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye:<br> + Yet there are things whose strong reality<br> + Outshines our fairy-land; in shape and hues<br> + More beautiful than our fantastic sky,<br> + And the strange constellations which the Muse<br> +O’er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse:<br> +<br> +VII.<br> +<br> + I saw or dreamed of such, - but let them go -<br> + They came like truth, and disappeared like dreams;<br> + And whatsoe’er they were - are now but so;<br> + I could replace them if I would: still teems<br> + My mind with many a form which aptly seems<br> + Such as I sought for, and at moments found;<br> + Let these too go - for waking reason deems<br> + Such overweening phantasies unsound,<br> +And other voices speak, and other sights surround.<br> +<br> +VIII.<br> +<br> + I’ve taught me other tongues, and in strange +eyes<br> + Have made me not a stranger; to the mind<br> + Which is itself, no changes bring surprise;<br> + Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find<br> + A country with - ay, or without mankind;<br> + Yet was I born where men are proud to be,<br> + Not without cause; and should I leave behind<br> + The inviolate island of the sage and free,<br> +And seek me out a home by a remoter sea,<br> +<br> +IX.<br> +<br> + Perhaps I loved it well: and should I lay<br> + My ashes in a soil which is not mine,<br> + My spirit shall resume it - if we may<br> + Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine<br> + My hopes of being remembered in my line<br> + With my land’s language: if too fond and far<br> + These aspirations in their scope incline, -<br> + If my fame should be, as my fortunes are,<br> +Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar.<br> +<br> +X.<br> +<br> + My name from out the temple where the dead<br> + Are honoured by the nations - let it be -<br> + And light the laurels on a loftier head!<br> + And be the Spartan’s epitaph on me -<br> + ‘Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.’<br> + Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need;<br> + The thorns which I have reaped are of the tree<br> + I planted, - they have torn me, and I bleed:<br> +I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.<br> +<br> +XI.<br> +<br> + The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord;<br> + And, annual marriage now no more renewed,<br> + The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored,<br> + Neglected garment of her widowhood!<br> + St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood<br> + Stand, but in mockery of his withered power,<br> + Over the proud place where an Emperor sued,<br> + And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour<br> +When Venice was a queen with an unequalled dower.<br> +<br> +XII.<br> +<br> + The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns -<br> + An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt;<br> + Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains<br> + Clank over sceptred cities; nations melt<br> + From power’s high pinnacle, when they have felt<br> + The sunshine for a while, and downward go<br> + Like lauwine loosened from the mountain’s belt:<br> + Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo!<br> +The octogenarian chief, Byzantium’s conquering foe.<br> +<br> +XIII.<br> +<br> + Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass,<br> + Their gilded collars glittering in the sun;<br> + But is not Doria’s menace come to pass?<br> + Are they not <i>bridled?</i> - Venice, lost and won,<br> + Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done,<br> + Sinks, like a seaweed, into whence she rose!<br> + Better be whelmed beneath the waves, and shun,<br> + Even in Destruction’s depth, her foreign foes,<br> +From whom submission wrings an infamous repose.<br> +<br> +XIV.<br> +<br> + In youth she was all glory, - a new Tyre, -<br> + Her very byword sprung from victory,<br> + The ‘Planter of the Lion,’ which through +fire<br> + And blood she bore o’er subject earth and sea;<br> + Though making many slaves, herself still free<br> + And Europe’s bulwark ’gainst the Ottomite:<br> + Witness Troy’s rival, Candia! Vouch it, +ye<br> + Immortal waves that saw Lepanto’s fight!<br> +For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight.<br> +<br> +XV.<br> +<br> + Statues of glass - all shivered - the long file<br> + Of her dead doges are declined to dust;<br> + But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile<br> + Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust;<br> + Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust,<br> + Have yielded to the stranger: empty halls,<br> + Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must<br> + Too oft remind her who and what enthrals,<br> +Have flung a desolate cloud o’er Venice’ lovely walls.<br> +<br> +XVI.<br> +<br> + When Athens’ armies fell at Syracuse,<br> + And fettered thousands bore the yoke of war,<br> + Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse,<br> + Her voice their only ransom from afar:<br> + See! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car<br> + Of the o’ermastered victor stops, the reins<br> + Fall from his hands - his idle scimitar<br> + Starts from its belt - he rends his captive’s +chains,<br> +And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains.<br> +<br> +XVII.<br> +<br> + Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine,<br> + Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot,<br> + Thy choral memory of the bard divine,<br> + Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot<br> + Which ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy lot<br> + Is shameful to the nations, - most of all,<br> + Albion! to thee: the Ocean Queen should not<br> + Abandon Ocean’s children; in the fall<br> +Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall.<br> +<br> +XVIII.<br> +<br> + I loved her from my boyhood: she to me<br> + Was as a fairy city of the heart,<br> + Rising like water-columns from the sea,<br> + Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart<br> + And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare’s +art,<br> + Had stamped her image in me, and e’en so,<br> + Although I found her thus, we did not part,<br> + Perchance e’en dearer in her day of woe,<br> +Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show.<br> +<br> +XIX.<br> +<br> + I can repeople with the past - and of<br> + The present there is still for eye and thought,<br> + And meditation chastened down, enough;<br> + And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought;<br> + And of the happiest moments which were wrought<br> + Within the web of my existence, some<br> + From thee, fair Venice! have their colours caught:<br> + There are some feelings Time cannot benumb,<br> +Nor torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb.<br> +<br> +XX.<br> +<br> + But from their nature will the tannen grow<br> + Loftiest on loftiest and least sheltered rocks,<br> + Rooted in barrenness, where nought below<br> + Of soil supports them ’gainst the Alpine shocks<br> + Of eddying storms; yet springs the trunk, and mocks<br> + The howling tempest, till its height and frame<br> + Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks<br> + Of bleak, grey granite, into life it came,<br> +And grew a giant tree; - the mind may grow the same.<br> +<br> +XXI.<br> +<br> + Existence may be borne, and the deep root<br> + Of life and sufferance make its firm abode<br> + In bare and desolate bosoms: mute<br> + The camel labours with the heaviest load,<br> + And the wolf dies in silence. Not bestowed<br> + In vain should such examples be; if they,<br> + Things of ignoble or of savage mood,<br> + Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay<br> +May temper it to bear, - it is but for a day.<br> +<br> +XXII.<br> +<br> + All suffering doth destroy, or is destroyed,<br> + Even by the sufferer; and, in each event,<br> + Ends: - Some, with hope replenished and rebuoyed,<br> + Return to whence they came - with like intent,<br> + And weave their web again; some, bowed and bent,<br> + Wax grey and ghastly, withering ere their time,<br> + And perish with the reed on which they leant;<br> + Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime,<br> +According as their souls were formed to sink or climb.<br> +<br> +XXIII.<br> +<br> + But ever and anon of griefs subdued<br> + There comes a token like a scorpion’s sting,<br> + Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued;<br> + And slight withal may be the things which bring<br> + Back on the heart the weight which it would fling<br> + Aside for ever: it may be a sound -<br> + A tone of music - summer’s eve - or spring -<br> + A flower - the wind - the ocean - which shall wound,<br> +Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.<br> +<br> +XXIV.<br> +<br> + And how and why we know not, nor can trace<br> + Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind,<br> + But feel the shock renewed, nor can efface<br> + The blight and blackening which it leaves behind,<br> + Which out of things familiar, undesigned,<br> + When least we deem of such, calls up to view<br> + The spectres whom no exorcism can bind, -<br> + The cold - the changed - perchance the dead - anew,<br> +The mourned, the loved, the lost - too many! - yet how few!<br> +<br> +XXV.<br> +<br> + But my soul wanders; I demand it back<br> + To meditate amongst decay, and stand<br> + A ruin amidst ruins; there to track<br> + Fall’n states and buried greatness, o’er +a land<br> + Which <i>was</i> the mightiest in its old command,<br> + And <i>is</i> the loveliest, and must ever be<br> + The master-mould of Nature’s heavenly hand,<br> + Wherein were cast the heroic and the free,<br> +The beautiful, the brave - the lords of earth and sea.<br> +<br> +XXVI.<br> +<br> + The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome!<br> + And even since, and now, fair Italy!<br> + Thou art the garden of the world, the home<br> + Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree;<br> + Even in thy desert, what is like to thee?<br> + Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste<br> + More rich than other climes’ fertility;<br> + Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced<br> +With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced.<br> +<br> +XXVII.<br> +<br> + The moon is up, and yet it is not night -<br> + Sunset divides the sky with her - a sea<br> + Of glory streams along the Alpine height<br> + Of blue Friuli’s mountains; Heaven is free<br> + From clouds, but of all colours seems to be -<br> + Melted to one vast Iris of the West,<br> + Where the day joins the past eternity;<br> + While, on the other hand, meek Dian’s crest<br> +Floats through the azure air - an island of the blest!<br> +<br> +XXVIII.<br> +<br> + A single star is at her side, and reigns<br> + With her o’er half the lovely heaven; but still<br> + Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains<br> + Rolled o’er the peak of the far Rhætian +hill,<br> + As Day and Night contending were, until<br> + Nature reclaimed her order: - gently flows<br> + The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil<br> + The odorous purple of a new-born rose,<br> +Which streams upon her stream, and glassed within it glows,<br> +<br> +XXIX.<br> +<br> + Filled with the face of heaven, which, from afar,<br> + Comes down upon the waters; all its hues,<br> + From the rich sunset to the rising star,<br> + Their magical variety diffuse:<br> + And now they change; a paler shadow strews<br> + Its mantle o’er the mountains; parting day<br> + Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues<br> + With a new colour as it gasps away,<br> +The last still loveliest, till - ’tis gone - and all is grey.<br> +<br> +XXX.<br> +<br> + There is a tomb in Arqua; - reared in air,<br> + Pillared in their sarcophagus, repose<br> + The bones of Laura’s lover: here repair<br> + Many familiar with his well-sung woes,<br> + The pilgrims of his genius. He arose<br> + To raise a language, and his land reclaim<br> + From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes:<br> + Watering the tree which bears his lady’s name<br> +With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame.<br> +<br> +XXXI.<br> +<br> + They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died;<br> + The mountain-village where his latter days<br> + Went down the vale of years; and ’tis their +pride -<br> + An honest pride - and let it be their praise,<br> + To offer to the passing stranger’s gaze<br> + His mansion and his sepulchre; both plain<br> + And venerably simple, such as raise<br> + A feeling more accordant with his strain,<br> +Than if a pyramid formed his monumental fane.<br> +<br> +XXXII.<br> +<br> + And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt<br> + Is one of that complexion which seems made<br> + For those who their mortality have felt,<br> + And sought a refuge from their hopes decayed<br> + In the deep umbrage of a green hill’s shade,<br> + Which shows a distant prospect far away<br> + Of busy cities, now in vain displayed,<br> + For they can lure no further; and the ray<br> +Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday.<br> +<br> +XXXIII.<br> +<br> + Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers<br> + And shining in the brawling brook, where-by,<br> + Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours<br> + With a calm languor, which, though to the eye<br> + Idlesse it seem, hath its morality,<br> + If from society we learn to live,<br> + ’Tis solitude should teach us how to die;<br> + It hath no flatterers; vanity can give<br> +No hollow aid; alone - man with his God must strive:<br> +<br> +XXXIV.<br> +<br> + Or, it may be, with demons, who impair<br> + The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey<br> + In melancholy bosoms, such as were<br> + Of moody texture from their earliest day,<br> + And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay,<br> + Deeming themselves predestined to a doom<br> + Which is not of the pangs that pass away;<br> + Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb,<br> +The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom.<br> +<br> +XXXV.<br> +<br> + Ferrara! in thy wide and grass-grown streets,<br> + Whose symmetry was not for solitude,<br> + There seems as ’twere a curse upon the seat’s<br> + Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood<br> + Of Este, which for many an age made good<br> + Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore<br> + Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood<br> + Of petty power impelled, of those who wore<br> +The wreath which Dante’s brow alone had worn before.<br> +<br> +XXXVI.<br> +<br> + And Tasso is their glory and their shame.<br> + Hark to his strain! and then survey his cell!<br> + And see how dearly earned Torquato’s fame,<br> + And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell.<br> + The miserable despot could not quell<br> + The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend<br> + With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell<br> + Where he had plunged it. Glory without end<br> +Scattered the clouds away - and on that name attend<br> +<br> +XXXVII.<br> +<br> + The tears and praises of all time, while thine<br> + Would rot in its oblivion - in the sink<br> + Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line<br> + Is shaken into nothing; but the link<br> + Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think<br> + Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn -<br> + Alfonso! how thy ducal pageants shrink<br> + From thee! if in another station born,<br> +Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad’st to mourn:<br> +<br> +XXXVIII.<br> +<br> + <i>Thou</i>! formed to eat, and be despised, and die,<br> + Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou<br> + Hadst a more splendid trough, and wider sty:<br> + <i>He!</i> with a glory round his furrowed brow,<br> + Which emanated then, and dazzles now<br> + In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire,<br> + And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow<br> + No strain which shamed his country’s creaking +lyre,<br> +That whetstone of the teeth - monotony in wire!<br> +<br> +XXXIX.<br> +<br> + Peace to Torquato’s injured shade! ’twas +his<br> + In life and death to be the mark where Wrong<br> + Aimed with their poisoned arrows - but to miss.<br> + Oh, victor unsurpassed in modern song!<br> + Each year brings forth its millions; but how long<br> + The tide of generations shall roll on,<br> + And not the whole combined and countless throng<br> + Compose a mind like thine? Though all in one<br> +Condensed their scattered rays, they would not form a sun.<br> +<br> +XL.<br> +<br> + Great as thou art, yet paralleled by those<br> + Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine,<br> + The bards of Hell and Chivalry: first rose<br> + The Tuscan father’s comedy divine;<br> + Then, not unequal to the Florentine,<br> + The Southern Scott, the minstrel who called forth<br> + A new creation with his magic line,<br> + And, like the Ariosto of the North,<br> +Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly worth.<br> +<br> +XLI.<br> +<br> + The lightning rent from Ariosto’s bust<br> + The iron crown of laurel’s mimicked leaves;<br> + Nor was the ominous element unjust,<br> + For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves<br> + Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves,<br> + And the false semblance but disgraced his brow;<br> + Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieves,<br> + Know that the lightning sanctifies below<br> +Whate’er it strikes; - yon head is doubly sacred now.<br> +<br> +XLII.<br> +<br> + Italia! O Italia! thou who hast<br> + The fatal gift of beauty, which became<br> + A funeral dower of present woes and past,<br> + On thy sweet brow is sorrow ploughed by shame,<br> + And annals graved in characters of flame.<br> + Oh God! that thou wert in thy nakedness<br> + Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim<br> + Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press<br> +To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress;<br> +<br> +XLIII.<br> +<br> + Then mightst thou more appal; or, less desired,<br> + Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored<br> + For thy destructive charms; then, still untired,<br> + Would not be seen the armèd torrents poured<br> + Down the deep Alps; nor would the hostile horde<br> + Of many-nationed spoilers from the Po<br> + Quaff blood and water; nor the stranger’s sword<br> + Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so,<br> +Victor or vanquished, thou the slave of friend or foe.<br> +<br> +XLIV.<br> +<br> + Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him,<br> + The Roman friend of Rome’s least mortal mind,<br> + The friend of Tully: as my bark did skim<br> + The bright blue waters with a fanning wind,<br> + Came Megara before me, and behind<br> + Ægina lay, Piræus on the right,<br> + And Corinth on the left; I lay reclined<br> + Along the prow, and saw all these unite<br> +In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight;<br> +<br> +XLV.<br> +<br> + For time hath not rebuilt them, but upreared<br> + Barbaric dwellings on their shattered site,<br> + Which only make more mourned and more endeared<br> + The few last rays of their far-scattered light,<br> + And the crushed relics of their vanished might.<br> + The Roman saw these tombs in his own age,<br> + These sepulchres of cities, which excite<br> + Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page<br> +The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage.<br> +<br> +XLVI.<br> +<br> + That page is now before me, and on mine<br> + <i>His</i> country’s ruin added to the mass<br> + Of perished states he mourned in their decline,<br> + And I in desolation: all that <i>was<br> + </i>Of then destruction <i>is;</i> and now, alas!<br> + Rome - Rome imperial, bows her to the storm,<br> + In the same dust and blackness, and we pass<br> + The skeleton of her Titanic form,<br> +Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm.<br> +<br> +XLVII.<br> +<br> + Yet, Italy! through every other land<br> + Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side;<br> + Mother of Arts! as once of Arms; thy hand<br> + Was then our Guardian, and is still our guide;<br> + Parent of our religion! whom the wide<br> + Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven!<br> + Europe, repentant of her parricide,<br> + Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven,<br> +Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven.<br> +<br> +XLVIII.<br> +<br> + But Arno wins us to the fair white walls,<br> + Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps<br> + A softer feeling for her fairy halls.<br> + Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps<br> + Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps<br> + To laughing life, with her redundant horn.<br> + Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps,<br> + Was modern Luxury of Commerce born,<br> +And buried Learning rose, redeemed to a new morn.<br> +<br> +XLIX.<br> +<br> + There, too, the goddess loves in stone, and fills<br> + The air around with beauty; we inhale<br> + The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils<br> + Part of its immortality; the veil<br> + Of heaven is half undrawn; within the pale<br> + We stand, and in that form and face behold<br> + What Mind can make, when Nature’s self would +fail;<br> + And to the fond idolaters of old<br> +Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould:<br> +<br> +L.<br> +<br> + We gaze and turn away, and know not where,<br> + Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart<br> + Reels with its fulness; there - for ever there -<br> + Chained to the chariot of triumphal Art,<br> + We stand as captives, and would not depart.<br> + Away! - there need no words, nor terms precise,<br> + The paltry jargon of the marble mart,<br> + Where Pedantry gulls Folly - we have eyes:<br> +Blood, pulse, and breast, confirm the Dardan Shepherd’s prize.<br> +<br> +LI.<br> +<br> + Appearedst thou not to Paris in this guise?<br> + Or to more deeply blest Anchises? or,<br> + In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies<br> + Before thee thy own vanquished Lord of War?<br> + And gazing in thy face as toward a star,<br> + Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn,<br> + Feeding on thy sweet cheek! while thy lips are<br> + With lava kisses melting while they burn,<br> +Showered on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from an urn!<br> +<br> +LII.<br> +<br> + Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love,<br> + Their full divinity inadequate<br> + That feeling to express, or to improve,<br> + The gods become as mortals, and man’s fate<br> + Has moments like their brightest! but the weight<br> + Of earth recoils upon us; - let it go!<br> + We can recall such visions, and create<br> + From what has been, or might be, things which grow,<br> +Into thy statue’s form, and look like gods below.<br> +<br> +LIII.<br> +<br> + I leave to learnèd fingers, and wise hands,<br> + The artist and his ape, to teach and tell<br> + How well his connoisseurship understands<br> + The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell:<br> + Let these describe the undescribable:<br> + I would not their vile breath should crisp the stream<br> + Wherein that image shall for ever dwell;<br> + The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream<br> +That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam.<br> +<br> +LIV.<br> +<br> + In Santa Croce’s holy precincts lie<br> + Ashes which make it holier, dust which is<br> + E’en in itself an immortality,<br> + Though there were nothing save the past, and this<br> + The particle of those sublimities<br> + Which have relapsed to chaos: - here repose<br> + Angelo’s, Alfieri’s bones, and his,<br> + The starry Galileo, with his woes;<br> +Here Machiavelli’s earth returned to whence it rose.<br> +<br> +LV.<br> +<br> + These are four minds, which, like the elements,<br> + Might furnish forth creation: - Italy!<br> + Time, which hath wronged thee with ten thousand rents<br> + Of thine imperial garment, shall deny,<br> + And hath denied, to every other sky,<br> + Spirits which soar from ruin: - thy decay<br> + Is still impregnate with divinity,<br> + Which gilds it with revivifying ray;<br> +Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day.<br> +<br> +LVI.<br> +<br> + But where repose the all Etruscan three -<br> + Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they,<br> + The Bard of Prose, creative spirit! he<br> + Of the Hundred Tales of love - where did they lay<br> + Their bones, distinguished from our common clay<br> + In death as life? Are they resolved to dust,<br> + And have their country’s marbles nought to say?<br> + Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust?<br> +Did they not to her breast their filial earth entrust?<br> +<br> +LVII.<br> +<br> + Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar,<br> + Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore;<br> + Thy factions, in their worse than civil war,<br> + Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore<br> + Their children’s children would in vain adore<br> + With the remorse of ages; and the crown<br> + Which Petrarch’s laureate brow supremely wore,<br> + Upon a far and foreign soil had grown,<br> +His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled - not thine own.<br> +<br> +LVIII.<br> +<br> + Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeathed<br> + His dust, - and lies it not her great among,<br> + With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed<br> + O’er him who formed the Tuscan’s siren +tongue?<br> + That music in itself, whose sounds are song,<br> + The poetry of speech? No; - even his tomb<br> + Uptorn, must bear the hyæna bigots’ wrong,<br> + No more amidst the meaner dead find room,<br> +Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for <i>whom?<br> +<br> +</i>LIX.<br> +<br> + And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust;<br> + Yet for this want more noted, as of yore<br> + The Cæsar’s pageant, shorn of Brutus’ +bust,<br> + Did but of Rome’s best son remind her more:<br> + Happier Ravenna! on thy hoary shore,<br> + Fortress of falling empire! honoured sleeps<br> + The immortal exile; - Arqua, too, her store<br> + Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps,<br> +While Florence vainly begs her banished dead, and weeps.<br> +<br> +LX.<br> +<br> + What is her pyramid of precious stones?<br> + Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues<br> + Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones<br> + Of merchant-dukes? the momentary dews<br> + Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse<br> + Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead,<br> + Whose names are mausoleums of the Muse,<br> + Are gently prest with far more reverent tread<br> +Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely head.<br> +<br> +LXI.<br> +<br> + There be more things to greet the heart and eyes<br> + In Arno’s dome of Art’s most princely +shrine,<br> + Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister vies;<br> + There be more marvels yet - but not for mine;<br> + For I have been accustomed to entwine<br> + My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields<br> + Than Art in galleries: though a work divine<br> + Calls for my spirit’s homage, yet it yields<br> +Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields<br> +<br> +LXII.<br> +<br> + Is of another temper, and I roam<br> + By Thrasimene’s lake, in the defiles<br> + Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home;<br> + For there the Carthaginian’s warlike wiles<br> + Come back before me, as his skill beguiles<br> + The host between the mountains and the shore,<br> + Where Courage falls in her despairing files,<br> + And torrents, swoll’n to rivers with their gore,<br> +Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scattered o’er,<br> +<br> +LXIII.<br> +<br> + Like to a forest felled by mountain winds;<br> + And such the storm of battle on this day,<br> + And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds<br> + To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray,<br> + An earthquake reeled unheededly away!<br> + None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet,<br> + And yawning forth a grave for those who lay<br> + Upon their bucklers for a winding-sheet;<br> +Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet.<br> +<br> +LXIV.<br> +<br> + The Earth to them was as a rolling bark<br> + Which bore them to Eternity; they saw<br> + The Ocean round, but had no time to mark<br> + The motions of their vessel: Nature’s law,<br> + In them suspended, recked not of the awe<br> + Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the birds<br> + Plunge in the clouds for refuge, and withdraw<br> + From their down-toppling nests; and bellowing herds<br> +Stumble o’er heaving plains, and man’s dread hath no words.<br> +<br> +LXV.<br> +<br> + Far other scene is Thrasimene now;<br> + Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain<br> + Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough;<br> + Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain<br> + Lay where their roots are; but a brook hath ta’en +-<br> + A little rill of scanty stream and bed -<br> + A name of blood from that day’s sanguine rain;<br> + And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead<br> +Made the earth wet, and turned the unwilling waters red.<br> +<br> +LXVI.<br> +<br> + But thou, Clitumnus! in thy sweetest wave<br> + Of the most living crystal that was e’er<br> + The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave<br> + Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear<br> + Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer<br> + Grazes; the purest god of gentle waters!<br> + And most serene of aspect, and most clear:<br> + Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters,<br> +A mirror and a bath for Beauty’s youngest daughters!<br> +<br> +LXVII.<br> +<br> + And on thy happy shore a temple still,<br> + Of small and delicate proportion, keeps,<br> + Upon a mild declivity of hill,<br> + Its memory of thee; beneath it sweeps<br> + Thy current’s calmness; oft from out it leaps<br> + The finny darter with the glittering scales,<br> + Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps;<br> + While, chance, some scattered water-lily sails<br> +Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling tales.<br> +<br> +LXVIII.<br> +<br> + Pass not unblest the genius of the place!<br> + If through the air a zephyr more serene<br> + Win to the brow, ’tis his; and if ye trace<br> + Along his margin a more eloquent green,<br> + If on the heart the freshness of the scene<br> + Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust<br> + Of weary life a moment lave it clean<br> + With Nature’s baptism, - ’tis to him ye +must<br> +Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust.<br> +<br> +LXIX.<br> +<br> + The roar of waters! - from the headlong height<br> + Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice;<br> + The fall of waters! rapid as the light<br> + The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss;<br> + The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss,<br> + And boil in endless torture; while the sweat<br> + Of their great agony, wrung out from this<br> + Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet<br> +That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set,<br> +<br> +LXX.<br> +<br> + And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again<br> + Returns in an unceasing shower, which round,<br> + With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain,<br> + Is an eternal April to the ground,<br> + Making it all one emerald. How profound<br> + The gulf! and how the giant element<br> + From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound,<br> + Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent<br> +With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent<br> +<br> +LXXI.<br> +<br> + To the broad column which rolls on, and shows<br> + More like the fountain of an infant sea<br> + Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes<br> + Of a new world, than only thus to be<br> + Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly,<br> + With many windings through the vale: - Look back!<br> + Lo! where it comes like an eternity,<br> + As if to sweep down all things in its track,<br> +Charming the eye with dread, - a matchless cataract,<br> +<br> +LXXII.<br> +<br> + Horribly beautiful! but on the verge,<br> + From side to side, beneath the glittering morn,<br> + An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge,<br> + Like Hope upon a deathbed, and, unworn<br> + Its steady dyes, while all around is torn<br> + By the distracted waters, bears serene<br> + Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn:<br> + Resembling, mid the torture of the scene,<br> +Love watching Madness with unalterable mien.<br> +<br> +LXXIII.<br> +<br> + Once more upon the woody Apennine,<br> + The infant Alps, which - had I not before<br> + Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine<br> + Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar<br> + The thundering lauwine - might be worshipped more;<br> + But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear<br> + Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar<br> + Glaciers of bleak Mont Blanc both far and near,<br> +And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear,<br> +<br> +LXXIV.<br> +<br> + The Acroceraunian mountains of old name;<br> + And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly<br> + Like spirits of the spot, as ’twere for fame,<br> + For still they soared unutterably high:<br> + I’ve looked on Ida with a Trojan’s eye;<br> + Athos, Olympus, Ætna, Atlas, made<br> + These hills seem things of lesser dignity,<br> + All, save the lone Soracte’s height displayed,<br> +Not <i>now</i> in snow, which asks the lyric Roman’s aid<br> +<br> +LXXV.<br> +<br> + For our remembrance, and from out the plain<br> + Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break,<br> + And on the curl hangs pausing: not in vain<br> + May he who will his recollections rake,<br> + And quote in classic raptures, and awake<br> + The hills with Latian echoes; I abhorred<br> + Too much, to conquer for the poet’s sake,<br> + The drilled dull lesson, forced down word by word<br> +In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record<br> +<br> +LXXVI.<br> +<br> + Aught that recalls the daily drug which turned<br> + My sickening memory; and, though Time hath taught<br> + My mind to meditate what then it learned,<br> + Yet such the fixed inveteracy wrought<br> + By the impatience of my early thought,<br> + That, with the freshness wearing out before<br> + My mind could relish what it might have sought,<br> + If free to choose, I cannot now restore<br> +Its health; but what it then detested, still abhor.<br> +<br> +LXXVII.<br> +<br> + Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so,<br> + Not for thy faults, but mine; it is a curse<br> + To understand, not feel, thy lyric flow,<br> + To comprehend, but never love thy verse,<br> + Although no deeper moralist rehearse<br> + Our little life, nor bard prescribe his art,<br> + Nor livelier satirist the conscience pierce,<br> + Awakening without wounding the touched heart,<br> +Yet fare thee well - upon Soracte’s ridge we part.<br> +<br> +LXXVIII.<br> +<br> + O Rome! my country! city of the soul!<br> + The orphans of the heart must turn to thee,<br> + Lone mother of dead empires! and control<br> + In their shut breasts their petty misery.<br> + What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see<br> + The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way<br> + O’er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye!<br> + Whose agonies are evils of a day - <br> +A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay.<br> +<br> +LXXIX.<br> +<br> + The Niobe of nations! there she stands,<br> + Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe;<br> + An empty urn within her withered hands,<br> + Whose holy dust was scattered long ago;<br> + The Scipios’ tomb contains no ashes now;<br> + The very sepulchres lie tenantless<br> + Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow,<br> + Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness?<br> +Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress!<br> +<br> +LXXX.<br> +<br> + The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire,<br> + Have dwelt upon the seven-hilled city’s pride:<br> + She saw her glories star by star expire,<br> + And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride,<br> + Where the car climbed the Capitol; far and wide<br> + Temple and tower went down, nor left a site; -<br> + Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void,<br> + O’er the dim fragments cast a lunar light,<br> +And say, ‘Here was, or is,’ where all is doubly night?<br> +<br> +LXXXI.<br> +<br> + The double night of ages, and of her,<br> + Night’s daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt, and +wrap<br> + All round us; we but feel our way to err:<br> + The ocean hath its chart, the stars their map;<br> + And knowledge spreads them on her ample lap;<br> + But Rome is as the desert, where we steer<br> + Stumbling o’er recollections: now we clap<br> + Our hands, and cry, ‘Eureka!’ it is clear +-<br> +When but some false mirage of ruin rises near.<br> +<br> +LXXXII.<br> +<br> + Alas, the lofty city! and alas<br> + The trebly hundred triumphs! and the day<br> + When Brutus made the dagger’s edge surpass<br> + The conqueror’s sword in bearing fame away!<br> + Alas for Tully’s voice, and Virgil’s lay,<br> + And Livy’s pictured page! But these shall +be<br> + Her resurrection; all beside - decay.<br> + Alas for Earth, for never shall we see<br> +That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free!<br> +<br> +LXXXIII.<br> +<br> + O thou, whose chariot rolled on Fortune’s wheel,<br> + Triumphant Sylla! Thou, who didst subdue<br> + Thy country’s foes ere thou wouldst pause to +feel<br> + The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due<br> + Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew<br> + O’er prostrate Asia; - thou, who with thy frown<br> + Annihilated senates - Roman, too,<br> + With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down<br> +With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown -<br> +<br> +LXXXIV.<br> +<br> + The dictatorial wreath, - couldst thou divine<br> + To what would one day dwindle that which made<br> + Thee more than mortal? and that so supine<br> + By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid?<br> + She who was named eternal, and arrayed<br> + Her warriors but to conquer - she who veiled<br> + Earth with her haughty shadow, and displayed<br> + Until the o’er-canopied horizon failed,<br> +Her rushing wings - Oh! she who was almighty hailed!<br> +<br> +LXXXV.<br> +<br> + Sylla was first of victors; but our own,<br> + The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell! - he<br> + Too swept off senates while he hewed the throne<br> + Down to a block - immortal rebel! See<br> + What crimes it costs to be a moment free<br> + And famous through all ages! But beneath<br> + His fate the moral lurks of destiny;<br> + His day of double victory and death<br> +Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield his breath.<br> +<br> +LXXXVI.<br> +<br> + The third of the same moon whose former course<br> + Had all but crowned him, on the self-same day<br> + Deposed him gently from his throne of force,<br> + And laid him with the earth’s preceding clay.<br> + And showed not Fortune thus how fame and sway,<br> + And all we deem delightful, and consume<br> + Our souls to compass through each arduous way,<br> + Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb?<br> +Were they but so in man’s, how different were his doom!<br> +<br> +LXXXVII.<br> +<br> + And thou, dread statue! yet existent in<br> + The austerest form of naked majesty,<br> + Thou who beheldest, mid the assassins’ din,<br> + At thy bathed base the bloody Cæsar lie,<br> + Folding his robe in dying dignity,<br> + An offering to thine altar from the queen<br> + Of gods and men, great Nemesis! did he die,<br> + And thou, too, perish, Pompey? have ye been<br> +Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene?<br> +<br> +LXXXVIII.<br> +<br> + And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome!<br> + She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart<br> + The milk of conquest yet within the dome<br> + Where, as a monument of antique art,<br> + Thou standest: - Mother of the mighty heart,<br> + Which the great founder sucked from thy wild teat,<br> + Scorched by the Roman Jove’s ethereal dart,<br> + And thy limbs blacked with lightning - dost thou yet<br> +Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget?<br> +<br> +LXXXIX.<br> +<br> + Thou dost; - but all thy foster-babes are dead -<br> + The men of iron; and the world hath reared<br> + Cities from out their sepulchres: men bled<br> + In imitation of the things they feared,<br> + And fought and conquered, and the same course steered,<br> + At apish distance; but as yet none have,<br> + Nor could, the same supremacy have neared,<br> + Save one vain man, who is not in the grave,<br> +But, vanquished by himself, to his own slaves a slave,<br> +<br> +XC.<br> +<br> + The fool of false dominion - and a kind<br> + Of bastard Cæsar, following him of old<br> + With steps unequal; for the Roman’s mind<br> + Was modelled in a less terrestrial mould,<br> + With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold,<br> + And an immortal instinct which redeemed<br> + The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold.<br> + Alcides with the distaff now he seemed<br> +At Cleopatra’s feet, and now himself he beamed.<br> +<br> +XCI.<br> +<br> + And came, and saw, and conquered. But the man<br> + Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee,<br> + Like a trained falcon, in the Gallic van,<br> + Which he, in sooth, long led to victory,<br> + With a deaf heart which never seemed to be<br> + A listener to itself, was strangely framed;<br> + With but one weakest weakness - vanity:<br> + Coquettish in ambition, still he aimed<br> +At what? Can he avouch, or answer what he claimed?<br> +<br> +XCII.<br> +<br> + And would be all or nothing - nor could wait<br> + For the sure grave to level him; few years<br> + Had fixed him with the Cæsars in his fate,<br> + On whom we tread: For <i>this</i> the conqueror rears<br> + The arch of triumph! and for this the tears<br> + And blood of earth flow on as they have flowed,<br> + An universal deluge, which appears<br> + Without an ark for wretched man’s abode,<br> +And ebbs but to reflow! - Renew thy rainbow, God!<br> +<br> +XCIII.<br> +<br> + What from this barren being do we reap?<br> + Our senses narrow, and our reason frail,<br> + Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep,<br> + And all things weighed in custom’s falsest scale;<br> + Opinion an omnipotence, whose veil<br> + Mantles the earth with darkness, until right<br> + And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale<br> + Lest their own judgments should become too bright,<br> +And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too much light.<br> +<br> +XCIV.<br> +<br> + And thus they plod in sluggish misery,<br> + Rotting from sire to son, and age to age,<br> + Proud of their trampled nature, and so die,<br> + Bequeathing their hereditary rage<br> + To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage<br> + War for their chains, and rather than be free,<br> + Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage<br> + Within the same arena where they see<br> +Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree.<br> +<br> +XCV.<br> +<br> + I speak not of men’s creeds - they rest between<br> + Man and his Maker - but of things allowed,<br> + Averred, and known, - and daily, hourly seen -<br> + The yoke that is upon us doubly bowed,<br> + And the intent of tyranny avowed,<br> + The edict of Earth’s rulers, who are grown<br> + The apes of him who humbled once the proud,<br> + And shook them from their slumbers on the throne;<br> +Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done.<br> +<br> +XCVI.<br> +<br> + Can tyrants but by tyrants conquered be,<br> + And Freedom find no champion and no child<br> + Such as Columbia saw arise when she<br> + Sprung forth a Pallas, armed and undefiled?<br> + Or must such minds be nourished in the wild,<br> + Deep in the unpruned forest, midst the roar<br> + Of cataracts, where nursing nature smiled<br> + On infant Washington? Has Earth no more<br> +Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore?<br> +<br> +XCVII.<br> +<br> + But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime,<br> + And fatal have her Saturnalia been<br> + To Freedom’s cause, in every age and clime;<br> + Because the deadly days which we have seen,<br> + And vile Ambition, that built up between<br> + Man and his hopes an adamantine wall,<br> + And the base pageant last upon the scene,<br> + Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall<br> +Which nips Life’s tree, and dooms man’s worst - his second +fall.<br> +<br> +XCVIII.<br> +<br> + Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying,<br> + Streams like the thunder-storm <i>against</i> the +wind;<br> + Thy trumpet-voice, though broken now and dying,<br> + The loudest still the tempest leaves behind;<br> + Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind,<br> + Chopped by the axe, looks rough and little worth,<br> + But the sap lasts, - and still the seed we find<br> + Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North;<br> +So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth.<br> +<br> +XCIX.<br> +<br> + There is a stern round tower of other days,<br> + Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone,<br> + Such as an army’s baffled strength delays,<br> + Standing with half its battlements alone,<br> + And with two thousand years of ivy grown,<br> + The garland of eternity, where wave<br> + The green leaves over all by time o’erthrown:<br> + What was this tower of strength? within its cave<br> +What treasure lay so locked, so hid? - A woman’s grave.<br> +<br> +C.<br> +<br> + But who was she, the lady of the dead,<br> + Tombed in a palace? Was she chaste and fair?<br> + Worthy a king’s - or more - a Roman’s +bed?<br> + What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear?<br> + What daughter of her beauties was the heir?<br> + How lived - how loved - how died she? Was she +not<br> + So honoured - and conspicuously there,<br> + Where meaner relics must not dare to rot,<br> +Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot?<br> +<br> +CI.<br> +<br> + Was she as those who love their lords, or they<br> + Who love the lords of others? such have been<br> + Even in the olden time, Rome’s annals say.<br> + Was she a matron of Cornelia’s mien,<br> + Or the light air of Egypt’s graceful queen,<br> + Profuse of joy; or ’gainst it did she war,<br> + Inveterate in virtue? Did she lean<br> + To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar<br> +Love from amongst her griefs? - for such the affections are.<br> +<br> +CII.<br> +<br> + Perchance she died in youth: it may be, bowed<br> + With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb<br> + That weighed upon her gentle dust, a cloud<br> + Might gather o’er her beauty, and a gloom<br> + In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom<br> + Heaven gives its favourites - early death; yet shed<br> + A sunset charm around her, and illume<br> + With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead,<br> +Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red.<br> +<br> +CIII.<br> +<br> + Perchance she died in age - surviving all,<br> + Charms, kindred, children - with the silver grey<br> + On her long tresses, which might yet recall,<br> + It may be, still a something of the day<br> + When they were braided, and her proud array<br> + And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed<br> + By Rome - But whither would Conjecture stray?<br> + Thus much alone we know - Metella died,<br> +The wealthiest Roman’s wife: Behold his love or pride!<br> +<br> +CIV.<br> +<br> + I know not why - but standing thus by thee<br> + It seems as if I had thine inmate known,<br> + Thou Tomb! and other days come back on me<br> + With recollected music, though the tone<br> + Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan<br> + Of dying thunder on the distant wind;<br> + Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone<br> + Till I had bodied forth the heated mind,<br> +Forms from the floating wreck which ruin leaves behind;<br> +<br> +CV.<br> +<br> + And from the planks, far shattered o’er the +rocks,<br> + Built me a little bark of hope, once more<br> + To battle with the ocean and the shocks<br> + Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar<br> + Which rushes on the solitary shore<br> + Where all lies foundered that was ever dear:<br> + But could I gather from the wave-worn store<br> + Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer?<br> +There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here.<br> +<br> +CVI.<br> +<br> + Then let the winds howl on! their harmony<br> + Shall henceforth be my music, and the night<br> + The sound shall temper with the owlet’s cry,<br> + As I now hear them, in the fading light<br> + Dim o’er the bird of darkness’ native +site,<br> + Answer each other on the Palatine,<br> + With their large eyes, all glistening grey and bright,<br> + And sailing pinions. - Upon such a shrine<br> +What are our petty griefs? - let me not number mine.<br> +<br> +CVII.<br> +<br> + Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown<br> + Matted and massed together, hillocks heaped<br> + On what were chambers, arch crushed, column strown<br> + In fragments, choked-up vaults, and frescoes steeped<br> + In subterranean damps, where the owl peeped,<br> + Deeming it midnight: - Temples, baths, or halls?<br> + Pronounce who can; for all that Learning reaped<br> + From her research hath been, that these are walls +-<br> +Behold the Imperial Mount! ’tis thus the mighty falls.<br> +<br> +CVIII.<br> +<br> + There is the moral of all human tales:<br> + ’Tis but the same rehearsal of the past,<br> + First Freedom, and then Glory - when that fails,<br> + Wealth, vice, corruption - barbarism at last.<br> + And History, with all her volumes vast,<br> + Hath but <i>one</i> page, - ’tis better written +here,<br> + Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amassed<br> + All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear,<br> +Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask - Away with words! draw near,<br> +<br> +CIX.<br> +<br> + Admire, exult - despise - laugh, weep - for here<br> + There is such matter for all feeling: - Man!<br> + Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear,<br> + Ages and realms are crowded in this span,<br> + This mountain, whose obliterated plan<br> + The pyramid of empires pinnacled,<br> + Of Glory’s gewgaws shining in the van<br> + Till the sun’s rays with added flame were filled!<br> +Where are its golden roofs? where those who dared to build?<br> +<br> +CX.<br> +<br> + Tully was not so eloquent as thou,<br> + Thou nameless column with the buried base!<br> + What are the laurels of the Cæsar’s brow?<br> + Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place.<br> + Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face,<br> + Titus or Trajan’s? No; ’tis that +of Time:<br> + Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace,<br> + Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb<br> +To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime,<br> +<br> +CXI.<br> +<br> + Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome,<br> + And looking to the stars; they had contained<br> + A spirit which with these would find a home,<br> + The last of those who o’er the whole earth reigned,<br> + The Roman globe, for after none sustained<br> + But yielded back his conquests: - he was more<br> + Than a mere Alexander, and unstained<br> + With household blood and wine, serenely wore<br> +His sovereign virtues - still we Trajan’s name adore.<br> +<br> +CXII.<br> +<br> + Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place<br> + Where Rome embraced her heroes? where the steep<br> + Tarpeian - fittest goal of Treason’s race,<br> + The promontory whence the traitor’s leap<br> + Cured all ambition? Did the Conquerors heap<br> + Their spoils here? Yes; and in yon field below,<br> + A thousand years of silenced factions sleep -<br> + The Forum, where the immortal accents glow,<br> +And still the eloquent air breathes - burns with Cicero!<br> +<br> +CXIII.<br> +<br> + The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood:<br> + Here a proud people’s passions were exhaled,<br> + From the first hour of empire in the bud<br> + To that when further worlds to conquer failed;<br> + But long before had Freedom’s face been veiled,<br> + And Anarchy assumed her attributes:<br> + Till every lawless soldier who assailed<br> + Trod on the trembling Senate’s slavish mutes,<br> +Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes.<br> +<br> +CXIV.<br> +<br> + Then turn we to our latest tribune’s name,<br> + From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee,<br> + Redeemer of dark centuries of shame -<br> + The friend of Petrarch - hope of Italy -<br> + Rienzi! last of Romans! While the tree<br> + Of freedom’s withered trunk puts forth a leaf,<br> + Even for thy tomb a garland let it be - <br> + The forum’s champion, and the people’s +chief -<br> +Her new-born Numa thou, with reign, alas! too brief.<br> +<br> +CXV.<br> +<br> + Egeria! sweet creation of some heart<br> + Which found no mortal resting-place so fair<br> + As thine ideal breast; whate’er thou art<br> + Or wert, - a young Aurora of the air,<br> + The nympholepsy of some fond despair;<br> + Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth,<br> + Who found a more than common votary there<br> + Too much adoring; whatsoe’er thy birth,<br> +Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth.<br> +<br> +CXVI.<br> +<br> + The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled<br> + With thine Elysian water-drops; the face<br> + Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled,<br> + Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place,<br> + Whose green wild margin now no more erase<br> + Art’s works; nor must the delicate waters sleep,<br> + Prisoned in marble, bubbling from the base<br> + Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap<br> +The rill runs o’er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy creep,<br> +<br> +CXVII.<br> +<br> + Fantastically tangled; the green hills<br> + Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass<br> + The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills<br> + Of summer birds sing welcome as ye pass;<br> + Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class,<br> + Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes<br> + Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass;<br> + The sweetness of the violet’s deep blue eyes,<br> +Kissed by the breath of heaven, seems coloured by its skies.<br> +<br> +CXVIII.<br> +<br> + Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover,<br> + Egeria! thy all heavenly bosom beating<br> + For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover;<br> + The purple Midnight veiled that mystic meeting<br> + With her most starry canopy, and seating<br> + Thyself by thine adorer, what befell?<br> + This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting<br> + Of an enamoured Goddess, and the cell<br> +Haunted by holy Love - the earliest oracle!<br> +<br> +CXIX.<br> +<br> + And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying,<br> + Blend a celestial with a human heart;<br> + And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing,<br> + Share with immortal transports? could thine art<br> + Make them indeed immortal, and impart<br> + The purity of heaven to earthly joys,<br> + Expel the venom and not blunt the dart -<br> + The dull satiety which all destroys - <br> +And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys?<br> +<br> +CXX.<br> +<br> + Alas! our young affections run to waste,<br> + Or water but the desert: whence arise<br> + But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste,<br> + Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes,<br> + Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies,<br> + And trees whose gums are poison; such the plants<br> + Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies<br> + O’er the world’s wilderness, and vainly +pants<br> +For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants.<br> +<br> +CXXI.<br> +<br> + O Love! no habitant of earth thou art -<br> + An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, - <br> + A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart,<br> + But never yet hath seen, nor e’er shall see,<br> + The naked eye, thy form, as it should be;<br> + The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven,<br> + Even with its own desiring phantasy,<br> + And to a thought such shape and image given,<br> +As haunts the unquenched soul - parched - wearied - wrung - and riven.<br> +<br> +CXXII.<br> +<br> + Of its own beauty is the mind diseased,<br> + And fevers into false creation; - where,<br> + Where are the forms the sculptor’s soul hath +seized?<br> + In him alone. Can Nature show so fair?<br> + Where are the charms and virtues which we dare<br> + Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men,<br> + The unreached Paradise of our despair,<br> + Which o’er-informs the pencil and the pen,<br> +And overpowers the page where it would bloom again.<br> +<br> +CXXIII.<br> +<br> + Who loves, raves - ’tis youth’s frenzy +- but the cure<br> + Is bitterer still; as charm by charm unwinds<br> + Which robed our idols, and we see too sure<br> + Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind’s<br> + Ideal shape of such; yet still it binds<br> + The fatal spell, and still it draws us on,<br> + Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds;<br> + The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun,<br> +Seems ever near the prize - wealthiest when most undone.<br> +<br> +CXXIV.<br> +<br> + We wither from our youth, we gasp away -<br> + Sick - sick; unfound the boon, unslaked the thirst,<br> + Though to the last, in verge of our decay,<br> + Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first -<br> + But all too late, - so are we doubly curst.<br> + Love, fame, ambition, avarice - ’tis the same +-<br> + Each idle, and all ill, and none the worst -<br> + For all are meteors with a different name,<br> +And death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame.<br> +<br> +CXXV.<br> +<br> + Few - none - find what they love or could have loved:<br> + Though accident, blind contact, and the strong<br> + Necessity of loving, have removed<br> + Antipathies - but to recur, ere long,<br> + Envenomed with irrevocable wrong;<br> + And Circumstance, that unspiritual god<br> + And miscreator, makes and helps along<br> + Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod,<br> +Whose touch turns hope to dust - the dust we all have trod.<br> +<br> +CXXVI.<br> +<br> + Our life is a false nature - ’tis not in<br> + The harmony of things, - this hard decree,<br> + This uneradicable taint of sin,<br> + This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree,<br> + Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be<br> + The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew +-<br> + Disease, death, bondage, all the woes we see - <br> + And worse, the woes we see not - which throb through<br> +The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new.<br> +<br> +CXXVII.<br> +<br> + Yet let us ponder boldly - ’tis a base<br> + Abandonment of reason to resign<br> + Our right of thought - our last and only place<br> + Of refuge; this, at least, shall still be mine:<br> + Though from our birth the faculty divine<br> + Is chained and tortured - cabined, cribbed, confined,<br> + And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine<br> + Too brightly on the unpreparèd mind,<br> +The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the blind.<br> +<br> +CXXVIII.<br> +<br> + Arches on arches! as it were that Rome,<br> + Collecting the chief trophies of her line,<br> + Would build up all her triumphs in one dome,<br> + Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams shine<br> + As ’twere its natural torches, for divine<br> + Should be the light which streams here, to illume<br> + This long explored but still exhaustless mine<br> + Of contemplation; and the azure gloom<br> +Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume<br> +<br> +CXXIX.<br> +<br> + Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven,<br> + Floats o’er this vast and wondrous monument,<br> + And shadows forth its glory. There is given<br> + Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent,<br> + A spirit’s feeling, and where he hath leant<br> + His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power<br> + And magic in the ruined battlement,<br> + For which the palace of the present hour<br> +Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower.<br> +<br> +CXXX.<br> +<br> + O Time! the beautifier of the dead,<br> + Adorner of the ruin, comforter<br> + And only healer when the heart hath bled -<br> + Time! the corrector where our judgments err,<br> + The test of truth, love, - sole philosopher,<br> + For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift,<br> + Which never loses though it doth defer -<br> + Time, the avenger! unto thee I lift<br> +My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift:<br> +<br> +CXXXI.<br> +<br> + Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine<br> + And temple more divinely desolate,<br> + Among thy mightier offerings here are mine,<br> + Ruins of years - though few, yet full of fate:<br> + If thou hast ever seen me too elate,<br> + Hear me not; but if calmly I have borne<br> + Good, and reserved my pride against the hate<br> + Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn<br> +This iron in my soul in vain - shall <i>they</i> not mourn?<br> +<br> +CXXXII.<br> +<br> + And thou, who never yet of human wrong<br> + Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis!<br> + Here, where the ancients paid thee homage long -<br> + Thou, who didst call the Furies from the abyss,<br> + And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss<br> + For that unnatural retribution - just,<br> + Had it but been from hands less near - in this<br> + Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust!<br> +Dost thou not hear my heart? - Awake! thou shalt, and must.<br> +<br> +CXXXIII.<br> +<br> + It is not that I may not have incurred<br> + For my ancestral faults or mine the wound<br> + I bleed withal, and had it been conferred<br> + With a just weapon, it had flowed unbound.<br> + But now my blood shall not sink in the ground;<br> + To thee I do devote it - <i>thou</i> shalt take<br> + The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found,<br> + Which if <i>I</i> have not taken for the sake -<br> +But let that pass - I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake.<br> +<br> +CXXXIV.<br> +<br> + And if my voice break forth, ’tis not that now<br> + I shrink from what is suffered: let him speak<br> + Who hath beheld decline upon my brow,<br> + Or seen my mind’s convulsion leave it weak;<br> + But in this page a record will I seek.<br> + Not in the air shall these my words disperse,<br> + Though I be ashes; a far hour shall wreak<br> + The deep prophetic fulness of this verse,<br> +And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse!<br> +<br> +CXXXV.<br> +<br> + That curse shall be forgiveness. - Have I not -<br> + Hear me, my mother Earth! behold it, Heaven! -<br> + Have I not had to wrestle with my lot?<br> + Have I not suffered things to be forgiven?<br> + Have I not had my brain seared, my heart riven,<br> + Hopes sapped, name blighted, Life’s life lied +away?<br> + And only not to desperation driven,<br> + Because not altogether of such clay<br> +As rots into the souls of those whom I survey.<br> +<br> +CXXXVI.<br> +<br> + From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy<br> + Have I not seen what human things could do?<br> + From the loud roar of foaming calumny<br> + To the small whisper of the as paltry few<br> + And subtler venom of the reptile crew,<br> + The Janus glance of whose significant eye,<br> + Learning to lie with silence, would <i>seem</i> true,<br> + And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh,<br> +Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy.<br> +<br> +CXXXVII.<br> +<br> + But I have lived, and have not lived in vain:<br> + My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire,<br> + And my frame perish even in conquering pain,<br> + But there is that within me which shall tire<br> + Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire:<br> + Something unearthly, which they deem not of,<br> + Like the remembered tone of a mute lyre,<br> + Shall on their softened spirits sink, and move<br> +In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love.<br> +<br> +CXXXVIII.<br> +<br> + The seal is set. - Now welcome, thou dread Power<br> + Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here<br> + Walk’st in the shadow of the midnight hour<br> + With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear:<br> + Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear<br> + Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene<br> + Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear<br> + That we become a part of what has been,<br> +And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen.<br> +<br> +CXXXIX.<br> +<br> + And here the buzz of eager nations ran,<br> + In murmured pity, or loud-roared applause,<br> + As man was slaughtered by his fellow-man.<br> + And wherefore slaughtered? wherefore, but because<br> + Such were the bloody circus’ genial laws,<br> + And the imperial pleasure. - Wherefore not?<br> + What matters where we fall to fill the maws<br> + Of worms - on battle-plains or listed spot?<br> +Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot.<br> +<br> +CXL.<br> +<br> + I see before me the Gladiator lie:<br> + He leans upon his hand - his manly brow<br> + Consents to death, but conquers agony,<br> + And his drooped head sinks gradually low -<br> + And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow<br> + From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,<br> + Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now<br> + The arena swims around him: he is gone,<br> +Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.<br> +<br> +CXLI.<br> +<br> + He heard it, but he heeded not - his eyes<br> + Were with his heart, and that was far away;<br> + He recked not of the life he lost nor prize,<br> + But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,<br> + <i>There</i> were his young barbarians all at play,<br> + <i>There</i> was their Dacian mother - he, their sire,<br> + Butchered to make a Roman holiday -<br> + All this rushed with his blood - Shall he expire,<br> +And unavenged? - Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!<br> +<br> +CXLII.<br> +<br> + But here, where murder breathed her bloody steam;<br> + And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways,<br> + And roared or murmured like a mountain-stream<br> + Dashing or winding as its torrent strays;<br> + Here, where the Roman million’s blame or praise<br> + Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd,<br> + My voice sounds much - and fall the stars’ faint +rays<br> + On the arena void - seats crushed, walls bowed,<br> +And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud.<br> +<br> +CXLIII.<br> +<br> + A ruin - yet what ruin! from its mass<br> + Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been reared;<br> + Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass,<br> + And marvel where the spoil could have appeared.<br> + Hath it indeed been plundered, or but cleared?<br> + Alas! developed, opens the decay,<br> + When the colossal fabric’s form is neared:<br> + It will not bear the brightness of the day,<br> +Which streams too much on all, years, man, have reft away.<br> +<br> +CXLIV.<br> +<br> + But when the rising moon begins to climb<br> + Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there;<br> + When the stars twinkle through the loops of time,<br> + And the low night-breeze waves along the air,<br> + The garland-forest, which the grey walls wear,<br> + Like laurels on the bald first Cæsar’s +head;<br> + When the light shines serene, but doth not glare,<br> + Then in this magic circle raise the dead:<br> +Heroes have trod this spot - ’tis on their dust ye tread.<br> +<br> +CXLV.<br> +<br> + ‘While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand;<br> + When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall;<br> + And when Rome falls - the World.’ From +our own land<br> + Thus spake the pilgrims o’er this mighty wall<br> + In Saxon times, which we are wont to call<br> + Ancient; and these three mortal things are still<br> + On their foundations, and unaltered all;<br> + Rome and her Ruin past Redemption’s skill,<br> +The World, the same wide den - of thieves, or what ye will.<br> +<br> +CXLVI.<br> +<br> + Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime -<br> + Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods,<br> + From Jove to Jesus - spared and blest by time;<br> + Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods<br> + Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods<br> + His way through thorns to ashes - glorious dome!<br> + Shalt thou not last? - Time’s scythe and tyrants’ +rods<br> + Shiver upon thee - sanctuary and home<br> +Of art and piety - Pantheon! - pride of Rome!<br> +<br> +CXLVII.<br> +<br> + Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts!<br> + Despoiled yet perfect, with thy circle spreads<br> + A holiness appealing to all hearts - <br> + To art a model; and to him who treads<br> + Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds<br> + Her light through thy sole aperture; to those<br> + Who worship, here are altars for their beads;<br> + And they who feel for genius may repose<br> +Their eyes on honoured forms, whose busts around them close.<br> +<br> +CXLVIII.<br> +<br> + There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light<br> + What do I gaze on? Nothing: Look again!<br> + Two forms are slowly shadowed on my sight -<br> + Two insulated phantoms of the brain:<br> + It is not so: I see them full and plain -<br> + An old man, and a female young and fair,<br> + Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein<br> + The blood is nectar: - but what doth she there,<br> +With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and bare?<br> +<br> +CXLIX.<br> +<br> + Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life,<br> + Where <i>on</i> the heart and <i>from</i> the heart +we took<br> + Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife,<br> + Blest into mother, in the innocent look,<br> + Or even the piping cry of lips that brook<br> + No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives<br> + Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook<br> + She sees her little bud put forth its leaves -<br> +What may the fruit be yet? - I know not - Cain was Eve’s.<br> +<br> +CL.<br> +<br> + But here youth offers to old age the food,<br> + The milk of his own gift: - it is her sire<br> + To whom she renders back the debt of blood<br> + Born with her birth. No; he shall not expire<br> + While in those warm and lovely veins the fire<br> + Of health and holy feeling can provide<br> + Great Nature’s Nile, whose deep stream rises +higher<br> + Than Egypt’s river: - from that gentle side<br> +Drink, drink and live, old man! heaven’s realm holds no such tide.<br> +<br> +CLI.<br> +<br> + The starry fable of the milky way<br> + Has not thy story’s purity; it is<br> + A constellation of a sweeter ray,<br> + And sacred Nature triumphs more in this<br> + Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss<br> + Where sparkle distant worlds: - Oh, holiest nurse!<br> + No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss<br> + To thy sire’s heart, replenishing its source<br> +With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe.<br> +<br> +CLII.<br> +<br> + Turn to the mole which Hadrian reared on high,<br> + Imperial mimic of old Egypt’s piles,<br> + Colossal copyist of deformity,<br> + Whose travelled phantasy from the far Nile’s<br> + Enormous model, doomed the artist’s toils<br> + To build for giants, and for his vain earth,<br> + His shrunken ashes, raise this dome: How smiles<br> + The gazer’s eye with philosophic mirth,<br> +To view the huge design which sprung from such a birth!<br> +<br> +CLIII.<br> +<br> + But lo! the dome - the vast and wondrous dome,<br> + To which Diana’s marvel was a cell - <br> + Christ’s mighty shrine above his martyr’s +tomb!<br> + I have beheld the Ephesian’s miracle - <br> + Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell<br> + The hyæna and the jackal in their shade;<br> + I have beheld Sophia’s bright roofs swell<br> + Their glittering mass i’ the sun, and have surveyed<br> +Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem prayed;<br> +<br> +CLIV.<br> +<br> + But thou, of temples old, or altars new,<br> + Standest alone - with nothing like to thee -<br> + Worthiest of God, the holy and the true,<br> + Since Zion’s desolation, when that he<br> + Forsook his former city, what could be,<br> + Of earthly structures, in his honour piled,<br> + Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty,<br> + Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are aisled<br> +In this eternal ark of worship undefiled.<br> +<br> +CLV.<br> +<br> + Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not;<br> + And why? it is not lessened; but thy mind,<br> + Expanded by the genius of the spot,<br> + Has grown colossal, and can only find<br> + A fit abode wherein appear enshrined<br> + Thy hopes of immortality; and thou<br> + Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined,<br> + See thy God face to face, as thou dost now<br> +His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow.<br> +<br> +CLVI.<br> +<br> + Thou movest - but increasing with th’ advance,<br> + Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise,<br> + Deceived by its gigantic elegance;<br> + Vastness which grows - but grows to harmonise -<br> + All musical in its immensities;<br> + Rich marbles - richer painting - shrines where flame<br> + The lamps of gold - and haughty dome which vies<br> + In air with Earth’s chief structures, though +their frame<br> +Sits on the firm-set ground - and this the clouds must claim.<br> +<br> +CLVII.<br> +<br> + Thou seest not all; but piecemeal thou must break<br> + To separate contemplation, the great whole;<br> + And as the ocean many bays will make,<br> + That ask the eye - so here condense thy soul<br> + To more immediate objects, and control<br> + Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart<br> + Its eloquent proportions, and unroll<br> + In mighty graduations, part by part,<br> +The glory which at once upon thee did not dart.<br> +<br> +CLVIII.<br> +<br> + Not by its fault - but thine: Our outward sense<br> + Is but of gradual grasp - and as it is<br> + That what we have of feeling most intense<br> + Outstrips our faint expression; e’en so this<br> + Outshining and o’erwhelming edifice<br> + Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great<br> + Defies at first our nature’s littleness,<br> + Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate<br> +Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate.<br> +<br> +CLIX.<br> +<br> + Then pause and be enlightened; there is more<br> + In such a survey than the sating gaze<br> + Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore<br> + The worship of the place, or the mere praise<br> + Of art and its great masters, who could raise<br> + What former time, nor skill, nor thought could plan;<br> + The fountain of sublimity displays<br> + Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man<br> +Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions can.<br> +<br> +CLX.<br> +<br> + Or, turning to the Vatican, go see<br> + Laocoön’s torture dignifying pain -<br> + A father’s love and mortal’s agony<br> + With an immortal’s patience blending: - Vain<br> + The struggle; vain, against the coiling strain<br> + And gripe, and deepening of the dragon’s grasp,<br> + The old man’s clench; the long envenomed chain<br> + Rivets the living links, - the enormous asp<br> +Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp.<br> +<br> +CLXI.<br> +<br> + Or view the Lord of the unerring bow,<br> + The God of life, and poesy, and light -<br> + The Sun in human limbs arrayed, and brow<br> + All radiant from his triumph in the fight;<br> + The shaft hath just been shot - the arrow bright<br> + With an immortal’s vengeance; in his eye<br> + And nostril beautiful disdain, and might<br> + And majesty, flash their full lightnings by,<br> +Developing in that one glance the Deity.<br> +<br> +CLXII.<br> +<br> + But in his delicate form - a dream of Love,<br> + Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast<br> + Longed for a deathless lover from above,<br> + And maddened in that vision - are expressed<br> + All that ideal beauty ever blessed<br> + The mind within its most unearthly mood,<br> + When each conception was a heavenly guest -<br> + A ray of immortality - and stood<br> +Starlike, around, until they gathered to a god?<br> +<br> +CLXIII.<br> +<br> + And if it be Prometheus stole from heaven<br> + The fire which we endure, it was repaid<br> + By him to whom the energy was given<br> + Which this poetic marble hath arrayed<br> + With an eternal glory - which, if made<br> + By human hands, is not of human thought<br> + And Time himself hath hallowed it, nor laid<br> + One ringlet in the dust - nor hath it caught<br> +A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which ’twas wrought.<br> +<br> +CLXIV.<br> +<br> + But where is he, the pilgrim of my song,<br> + The being who upheld it through the past?<br> + Methinks he cometh late and tarries long.<br> + He is no more - these breathings are his last;<br> + His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast,<br> + And he himself as nothing: - if he was<br> + Aught but a phantasy, and could be classed<br> + With forms which live and suffer - let that pass -<br> +His shadow fades away into Destruction’s mass,<br> +<br> +CLXV.<br> +<br> + Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all<br> + That we inherit in its mortal shroud,<br> + And spreads the dim and universal pall<br> + Thro’ which all things grow phantoms; and the +cloud<br> + Between us sinks and all which ever glowed,<br> + Till Glory’s self is twilight, and displays<br> + A melancholy halo scarce allowed<br> + To hover on the verge of darkness; rays<br> +Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze,<br> +<br> +CLXVI.<br> +<br> + And send us prying into the abyss,<br> + To gather what we shall be when the frame<br> + Shall be resolved to something less than this<br> + Its wretched essence; and to dream of fame,<br> + And wipe the dust from off the idle name<br> + We never more shall hear, - but never more,<br> + Oh, happier thought! can we be made the same:<br> + It is enough, in sooth, that <i>once</i> we bore<br> +These fardels of the heart - the heart whose sweat was gore.<br> +<br> +CLXVII.<br> +<br> + Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds,<br> + A long, low distant murmur of dread sound,<br> + Such as arises when a nation bleeds<br> + With some deep and immedicable wound;<br> + Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground.<br> + The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief<br> + Seems royal still, though with her head discrowned,<br> + And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief<br> +She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief.<br> +<br> +CLXVIII.<br> +<br> + Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou?<br> + Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead?<br> + Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low<br> + Some less majestic, less beloved head?<br> + In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled,<br> + The mother of a moment, o’er thy boy,<br> + Death hushed that pang for ever: with thee fled<br> + The present happiness and promised joy<br> +Which filled the imperial isles so full it seemed to cloy.<br> +<br> +CLXIX.<br> +<br> + Peasants bring forth in safety. - Can it be,<br> + O thou that wert so happy, so adored!<br> + Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee,<br> + And Freedom’s heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard<br> + Her many griefs for One; for she had poured<br> + Her orisons for thee, and o’er thy head<br> + Beheld her Iris. - Thou, too, lonely lord,<br> + And desolate consort - vainly wert thou wed!<br> +The husband of a year! the father of the dead!<br> +<br> +CLXX.<br> +<br> + Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made:<br> + Thy bridal’s fruit is ashes; in the dust<br> + The fair-haired Daughter of the Isles is laid,<br> + The love of millions! How we did entrust<br> + Futurity to her! and, though it must<br> + Darken above our bones, yet fondly deemed<br> + Our children should obey her child, and blessed<br> + Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seemed<br> +Like star to shepherd’s eyes; ’twas but a meteor beamed.<br> +<br> +CLXXI.<br> +<br> + Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well:<br> + The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue<br> + Of hollow counsel, the false oracle,<br> + Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung<br> + Its knell in princely ears, till the o’erstrung<br> + Nations have armed in madness, the strange fate<br> + Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung<br> + Against their blind omnipotence a weight<br> +Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late, -<br> +<br> +CLXXII.<br> +<br> + These might have been her destiny; but no,<br> + Our hearts deny it: and so young, so fair,<br> + Good without effort, great without a foe;<br> + But now a bride and mother - and now <i>there!<br> + </i>How many ties did that stern moment tear!<br> + From thy Sire’s to his humblest subject’s +breast<br> + Is linked the electric chain of that despair,<br> + Whose shock was as an earthquake’s, and oppressed<br> +The land which loved thee so, that none could love thee best.<br> +<br> +CLXXIII.<br> +<br> + Lo, Nemi! navelled in the woody hills<br> + So far, that the uprooting wind which tears<br> + The oak from his foundation, and which spills<br> + The ocean o’er its boundary, and bears<br> + Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares<br> + The oval mirror of thy glassy lake;<br> + And, calm as cherished hate, its surface wears<br> + A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake,<br> +All coiled into itself and round, as sleeps the snake.<br> +<br> +CLXXIV.<br> +<br> + And near Albano’s scarce divided waves<br> + Shine from a sister valley; - and afar<br> + The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves<br> + The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war,<br> + ‘Arms and the Man,’ whose reascending +star<br> + Rose o’er an empire, - but beneath thy right<br> + Tully reposed from Rome; - and where yon bar<br> + Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight,<br> +The Sabine farm was tilled, the weary bard’s delight.<br> +<br> +CLXXV.<br> +<br> + But I forget. - My pilgrim’s shrine is won,<br> + And he and I must part, - so let it be, -<br> + His task and mine alike are nearly done;<br> + Yet once more let us look upon the sea:<br> + The midland ocean breaks on him and me,<br> + And from the Alban mount we now behold<br> + Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when we<br> + Beheld it last by Calpe’s rock unfold<br> +Those waves, we followed on till the dark Euxine rolled<br> +<br> +CLXXVI.<br> +<br> + Upon the blue Symplegades: long years -<br> + Long, though not very many - since have done<br> + Their work on both; some suffering and some tears<br> + Have left us nearly where we had begun:<br> + Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run,<br> + We have had our reward - and it is here;<br> + That we can yet feel gladdened by the sun,<br> + And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear<br> +As if there were no man to trouble what is clear.<br> +<br> +CLXXVII.<br> +<br> + Oh! that the Desert were my dwelling-place,<br> + With one fair Spirit for my minister,<br> + That I might all forget the human race,<br> + And, hating no one, love but only her!<br> + Ye Elements! - in whose ennobling stir<br> + I feel myself exalted - can ye not<br> + Accord me such a being? Do I err<br> + In deeming such inhabit many a spot?<br> +Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot.<br> +<br> +CLXXVIII.<br> +<br> + There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,<br> + There is a rapture on the lonely shore,<br> + There is society where none intrudes,<br> + By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:<br> + I love not Man the less, but Nature more,<br> + From these our interviews, in which I steal<br> + From all I may be, or have been before,<br> + To mingle with the Universe, and feel<br> +What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal.<br> +<br> +CLXXIX.<br> +<br> + Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean - roll!<br> + Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;<br> + Man marks the earth with ruin - his control<br> + Stops with the shore; - upon the watery plain<br> + The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain<br> + A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own,<br> + When for a moment, like a drop of rain,<br> + He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,<br> +Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.<br> +<br> +CLXXX.<br> +<br> + His steps are not upon thy paths, - thy fields<br> + Are not a spoil for him, - thou dost arise<br> + And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields<br> + For earth’s destruction thou dost all despise,<br> + Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,<br> + And send’st him, shivering in thy playful spray<br> + And howling, to his gods, where haply lies<br> + His petty hope in some near port or bay,<br> +And dashest him again to earth: - there let him lay.<br> +<br> +CLXXXI.<br> +<br> + The armaments which thunderstrike the walls<br> + Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,<br> + And monarchs tremble in their capitals.<br> + The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make<br> + Their clay creator the vain title take<br> + Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war;<br> + These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,<br> + They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar<br> +Alike the Armada’s pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.<br> +<br> +CLXXXII.<br> +<br> + Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee -<br> + Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?<br> + Thy waters washed them power while they were free<br> + And many a tyrant since: their shores obey<br> + The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay<br> + Has dried up realms to deserts: not so thou,<br> + Unchangeable save to thy wild waves’ play -<br> + Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow -<br> +Such as creation’s dawn beheld, thou rollest now.<br> +<br> +CLXXXIII.<br> +<br> + Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty’s form<br> + Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,<br> + Calm or convulsed - in breeze, or gale, or storm,<br> + Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime<br> + Dark-heaving; - boundless, endless, and sublime -<br> + The image of Eternity - the throne<br> + Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime<br> + The monsters of the deep are made; each zone<br> +Obeys thee: thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.<br> +<br> +CLXXXIV.<br> +<br> + And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy<br> + Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be<br> + Borne like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy<br> + I wantoned with thy breakers - they to me<br> + Were a delight; and if the freshening sea<br> + Made them a terror - ’twas a pleasing fear,<br> + For I was as it were a child of thee,<br> + And trusted to thy billows far and near,<br> +And laid my hand upon thy mane - as I do here.<br> +<br> +CLXXXV.<br> +<br> + My task is done - my song hath ceased - my theme<br> + Has died into an echo; it is fit<br> + The spell should break of this protracted dream.<br> + The torch shall be extinguished which hath lit<br> + My midnight lamp - and what is writ, is writ -<br> + Would it were worthier! but I am not now<br> + That which I have been - and my visions flit<br> + Less palpably before me - and the glow<br> +Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low.<br> +<br> +CLXXXVI.<br> +<br> + Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been -<br> + A sound which makes us linger; yet, farewell!<br> + Ye, who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene<br> + Which is his last, if in your memories dwell<br> + A thought which once was his, if on ye swell<br> + A single recollection, not in vain<br> + He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop shell;<br> + Farewell! with <i>him</i> alone may rest the pain,<br> +If such there were - with <i>you,</i> the moral of his strain.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Footnotes:<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote1"></a><a href="#citation1">{1}</a> Lady Charlotte +Harley, daughter of the Earl of Oxford.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE ***<br> +<pre> + +******This file should be named chpl10h.htm or chpl10h.zip****** +Corrected EDITIONS of our EBooks get a new NUMBER, chpl11h.htm +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, chpl10ah.htm + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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