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CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 BY 
 
 LORD BYRON 
 
 NEW YORK 
 THE MERSHON COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS 
 

" L'univers est une espece de livre, dont on 
 n'a lu que la premiere page quand on n'a vu 
 que son pays. J'en ai feuillete un assez grand 
 nombre, que j'ai trouvd dgalement mauvaises. 
 Cet examen ne m'a point e'te infructueux. Je 
 haissais ma patrie. Toutes les impertinences 
 des peuples divers, parmi lesquels j'ai ve'cu- 
 m'ont re'concilie' avec elle. Quand je n'aurals 
 tire* d'autre be'ne'fice de mes voyages que 
 celui-la, je n'en regretterais ni les frais ni les 
 fatigues." — Le Cosmopolite. 
 
ay 
 
 '* itOf 
 
PREFACE TO THE FIRST AND SECOND 
 CANTOS. 
 
 The following poem was written, for the 
 most part, amidst the scenes which it attempts 
 to describe. It was begun in Albania ; and 
 the parts relative to Spain and Portugal were 
 composed from the author's observations in 
 those countries. Thus much it may be neces- 
 sary to state for the correctness of the descrip- 
 tions. The scenes attempted to be sketched 
 are in Spain, Portugal, Epirus, Acarnania, and 
 Greece. There, for the present, the poem 
 stops : its reception will determine whether 
 the author may venture to conduct his readers 
 to the capital of the East, through Ionia and 
 Phrygia : these two Cantos are merely experi- 
 mental. 
 
 A fictitious character is introduced for the 
 sake of giving some connection to the piece- 
 which, however, makes no pretensions to regu- 
 larity. It has bee* suggested to me by friends, 
 on whose opinions I set a high value, that in 
 this fictitious character, " Childe Harold," I 
 may incur the suspicion of having intended 
 some real personage : this I beg leave, once 
 for all, to disclaim. Harold is a child of im- 
 agination for the purpose I have stated. I» 
 
%xtim. 
 
 some very trivial particulars, and those merely 
 local, there might be grounds for such a 
 notion ; but in the main points, I should hope, 
 none whatever. 
 
 It is almost superfluous to mention that 
 the appellation " Childe," as " Childe Waters," 
 " Childe Childers," etc., is used as more con- 
 sonant with the old structure of versification 
 which I have adopted. The " Good Night," in 
 the beginning of the first Canto, was suggested 
 by " Lord Maxwell's Good Night," in the Bor- 
 der Mi?istrelsy, edited by Mr. Scott. 
 
 With the different poems which have been 
 published on Spanish subjects, there may be 
 found some slight coincidence in the first part 
 which treats of the Peninsula ; but it can only 
 be casual, as, with the exception of a few con- 
 cluding stanzas, the whole of this poem was 
 written in the Levant. 
 
 The stanza of Spenser, according to one of 
 our most successful poets, admits of every va- 
 riety. Dr. Beattie makes the following observa- 
 tion : — " Not long ago, I began a poem in the 
 style and stanza of Spenser, in which I propose 
 to give full scope to my inclination, and be either 
 droll or pathetic, descriptive or sentimental, 
 tender or satirical, as the humor strikes me : 
 for, if I mistake not, the measure which I have 
 adopted admits equally of all these kinds of 
 composition." Strengthened in my opinion by 
 such authority, and by the example of some 
 in the highest order of Italian poets, I shall 
 make no apology for attempts at similar varia- 
 
^Ktfm. 
 
 tions in the following composition ; satisfied 
 that, if they are unsuccessful, their failure 
 must be in the execution rather than in the 
 design, sanctioned by the practice of Ariosto, 
 Thomson, and Beattie. 
 London, February \ 1812. 
 
 ADDITION TO THE PREFACE. 
 
 I have now waited till almost all our periodi- 
 cal journals have distributed their usual portion 
 of criticism. To the justice of the generality 
 of their criticisms I have nothing to object : it 
 would ill become me to quarrel with their very 
 slight degree of censure, when, perhaps, if they 
 had been less kind, they had been more can- 
 did. Returning, therefore, to all and each my 
 best thanks for their liberality, on one point 
 alone shall I venture an observation. Amongst 
 the many objections justly urged to the very 
 indifferent character of the " vagrant Childe " 
 (whom, notwithstanding many hints to the 
 contrary, I will maintain to be a fictitious 
 personage), it has been stated that, besides 
 the anachronism, he is very imknightly, as the 
 times of the Knights were times of Love, 
 Honor and so forth. Now, it so happens 
 that the good old times, when " l'amour du bon 
 vieux terns, Pamour antique" flourished, were 
 the most profligate of all possible centuries. 
 Those who have any doubts on this subject 
 
6 gjrefaff. 
 
 may consult Sainte-Palaye, passim, and more 
 particularly vol. ii., p. 69. The vows of chiv- 
 alry were no better kept than any other vows 
 -whatsoever ; and the songs of the Troubadours 
 •were not more decent, and certainly were 
 much less refined, than those of Ovid. The 
 " Cours d'amour, parlemens d'amour, ou de 
 courtesie et de gentilesse," had much more of 
 love than of courtesy or gentleness. See 
 Roland on the same subject with Saint-Palaye. 
 Whatever other objection may be urged to 
 that most unamiable personage, Childe Harold, 
 lie was so far perfectly knightly in his attri- 
 butes — "No waiter but a knight templar."* 
 By the by, I fear that Sir Tristrem and Sir 
 Lancelot were no better than they should be, 
 -although very poetical personages and true 
 knights, " sans peur," though not " sans re- 
 proche." If the story of the institution of the 
 "Garter" be not a fable, the knights of that 
 order have for several centuries borne the 
 badge of a Countess of Salisbury, of indiffer- 
 ent memory. So much for chivalry. Burke 
 need not have regretted that its days are over, 
 though Marie-Antoinette was quite as chaste as 
 most of those in whose honor lances were 
 shivered and knights unhorsed. 
 
 Before the days of Bayard, and down to 
 those of Sir Joseph Banks (the most chaste 
 and celebrated of ancient and modern times), 
 few exceptions will be found to this state- 
 
 *77u Rover s % or the Double Arrangement, 
 
85 wfacc. 7 
 
 ment: and I fear a little investigation will 
 teach us not to regret these monstrous mum- 
 meries of the middle ages. 
 
 I now leave " Childe Harold " to live his day, 
 such as he is. It had been more agreeable, 
 and certainly more easy, to have drawn an 
 amiable character. It had been easy to var- 
 nish over his faults, to make him do more and 
 express less ; but he never was intended as an 
 example, further than to show that early per- 
 version of mind and morals leads to satiety 
 of past pleasures and disappointment in new 
 ones, and that even the beauties of nature and 
 the stimulus of travel (except ambition, the 
 most powerful of all excitements) are lost on a 
 soul so constituted, or rather misdirected. 
 Had I proceeded with the poem, this character 
 would have deepened as he drew to the close ; 
 for the outline which I once meant to fill up for 
 him was, with some exceptions, the sketch of a 
 modern Timon, perhaps a poetical Zeluco. 
 
 London, 1813. 
 
TO IANTHE* 
 
 Not in those climes where I have late been 
 straying, 
 
 Though Beauty long hath there been match- 
 less deem'd, 
 
 Not in those visions to the heart displaying 
 
 Forms which it sighs but to have only 
 dream'd, 
 
 Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy 
 seem'd : 
 
 Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek 
 
 To paint those charms which varied as they 
 beam'd — 
 
 To such as see thee not my words were weak ; 
 To those who gaze on thee, what language 
 could they speak ? 
 
 Ah ! may'st 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 
 
 * Lady Charlotte Harley, daughter of the Earl of 
 Oxford, afterwards Lady C. Bacon. 
 
io £0 ganthc 
 
 Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, 
 Beholds the rainbow of her future years. 
 Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow dis- 
 appears. 
 
 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 mix'd 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. 
 
8* iawthe. ii 
 
 Such is thy name with this my verse en- 
 twined ; 
 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 number'd, should this homage 
 
 past 
 Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre 
 Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou 
 
 wast, 
 Such is the most my memory may desire ; 
 Though more than Hope can claim, could 
 Friendship less require ? 
 
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. 
 
 1812. 
 
 CANTO THE FIRST. 
 
 Oh, thou, in Hellas deem'd of heavenly 
 
 birth, 
 Muse, form'd 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 wander'd by thy vaunted rill ; 
 Yes ! sigh'd 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. 
 
 * The little village of Castri stands partly on the site 
 of Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, from 
 Chrysso, are the remains of sepulchres hewn in and 
 from the rock ; "one," said the guide, " of a king who 
 broke his neck hunting." His majesty had certainly 
 chosen the fittest spot for such an achievement. A 
 little above Castri is a cave, supposed the Pythian, of 
 immense depth ; the upper part of it is paved, and now 
 
14 (£U'Mt Sftftflft Jitcjrimagc. 
 
 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 vex'd 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 Haunting wassailers of high and low 
 
 degree. 
 
 in. 
 
 Childe Harold was he bight; — but whence 
 
 his name 
 And lineage long, it suits me not to say; 
 Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, 
 And bad 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 comn'd clay, 
 Nor florid prose, nor honey'd lines of 
 
 rhyme, 
 Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. 
 
 a cow-house. On the other side of Castri stands a 
 Greek monastery : some way above which is the cleft 
 in the rock, with a range of caverns difficult of ascent, 
 and apparently leading to the interior of the mountain, 
 probably to the Corycian Cavern mentioned by Pau- 
 sanias. From this part descend the fountain and the 
 44 Dews of Castalie." 
 
(£hUd* Steroid^ gilgrimaor. 15 
 
 IV. 
 
 Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide 
 
 sun, 
 Disporting there like any other fly, 
 Nor deem'd before his little day was done 
 One blast might chill him into misery. 
 But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by, 
 Worse than adversity the Childe befell ; 
 He felt the fulness of satiety : 
 Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, 
 Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's 
 
 sad cell. 
 
 For he through Sin's long labyrinth had 
 
 run, 
 Nor made atonement when he did amiss, 
 Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but 
 
 one, 
 And that loved one, alas, could ne'er be 
 
 his. 
 Ah, happy she I to 'scape from him whose 
 
 kiss 
 Had been pollution unto aught so chaste; 
 Who soon had left her charms for vulgar 
 
 bliss, 
 And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his 
 
 waste, 
 Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to 
 
 taste. 
 
46 Child? JUroltTiGi Jilgrimage. 
 
 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 congeal'd the drop within his e'e. 
 Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie, 
 And from his native land resolved to go, 
 And visit scorching climes beyond the sea : 
 With pleasure drugg'd, 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 pillar'd in each massy aisle. 
 
 Monastic dome! condemn'd 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, 
 It ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy 
 
 men. 
 
 MIL 
 
 Yet ofttimes, in his maddest mirthful mood, 
 Strange pangs would flash along Childe 
 Harold's brow 
 
OHto ItewHfjsi gHgtimagr. 17 
 
 As if the memory of some deadly feud 
 Or disappointed passion lurk'd 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 gather'd 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; 
 
 2 
 
1 8 Child* gawiM** jnigvimaoc. 
 
 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 de- 
 light, 
 Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and 
 
 snowy hands, 
 Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, 
 And long had fed hie 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 fill'd, 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 ; 
 
<*Mfo gawttTg gilgrimafle. 
 
 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 deem'd he no strange ear was listen- 
 ing : 
 And now his fingers o'er it he did fling, 
 And turned 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 pour'd 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 ! 
 
20 (tWAt garoto'jBi g Hgrimagf. 
 
 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." 
 
 u 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 bless'd me fervently, 
 Yet did not much complain ; 
 
 But sorely will my mother sigh 
 Till I come back again." — 
 
mite Steroid'* gilgrimage. 21 
 
 « 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 
 
 W r e 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. 
 
22 Child* gntotd^ gilgrimage. 
 
 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. 
 
Child* JtaroWiS gitgrimag*. 23 
 
 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 foe* 
 
 men purge. 
 
 xvr. 
 
 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 Lusian- 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 un- 
 sparing lord. 
 
24 (fhititc 9*X*W$ yitflrimagc. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 But whoso entereth witliin 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 rear'd in dirt ; 
 No personage of high or mean degree 
 Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt, 
 Though shunt with Egypt's plague, unkempt, 
 unwash'd, 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 unlock'd Elysium's 
 
 gates ? 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The horrid crags, by toppling convent 
 
 crown'd, 
 The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy 
 
 steep, 
 
ChMe garoIM gilgrimage. 25 
 
 The mountain moss by scorching skies 
 
 imbrown'd, 
 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, 
 Mix'd 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 punish'd been; 
 
 and lo, 
 Deep in yon cave Honorius long did 
 
 dwell, 
 In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a 
 
 Hell. 
 
 * The convent of " Our Lady of Punishment," 
 Nossa Senora <U Ptna, on the summit of the rock. 
 Below, at some distance, is the Cork Convent, where 
 ^t. Honorius dug his den, over which is his epitaph. 
 From the hills, the sea adds to the beauty of the 
 view. 
 
a6 (Etoldc $ft*0lA'0 git0rhllftgfe 
 
 XXI. 
 
 And here and there, as up the crags you 
 spring, 
 
 Mark many rude-carv'd 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 
 
 Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assas- 
 sin'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 se- 
 cures not life ! * 
 
 xx ir. 
 
 On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, 
 Are domes where whilom kings did make 
 repair : 
 
 * It is a well-known fact, that in the year 1809 the 
 assassinations in the streets of Lisbon and its vicinity 
 were not confined by the Portuguese to their country- 
 men, but that Englishmen were daily butchered; and 
 so far from redress being obtained, we were requested 
 not to interfere if we perceived any compatriot defend- 
 ing himself against his allies. I was once stopped in 
 the way to the theatre at eight o'clock in the evening, 
 when the streets were not more empty than they gen- 
 erally are at that hour, opposite to an open shop, and 
 in a carriage with a friend. Had we not fortunately 
 been armed, I have not the least doubt that we should 
 have "adorned a tale " instead of telling one. 
 
Childc garold'0 ^itonmage. 27 
 
 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 wealth- 
 iest son, 
 Once form'd 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 r.llow 
 To halls deserted, portals gaping wide ; 
 Fresh lessons to the thinking bo.,om, 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 con- 
 vened ! * 
 Oh ! dome displeasing unto British eye ! 
 
 * The Convention of Cintra was signed in the palaca 
 ©f the Marchese Marialva. 
 
CUildc maxMi gitfldmaflf. 
 
 With diadem hight foolscap, lo ! a fiend, 
 A little fiend that scoffs incessantly, 
 There sits in parchment robe array'd, and 
 
 by 
 His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, 
 Where blazon'd 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 foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome: 
 Of brains (if brains they had; he them be- 
 guiled, 
 And turn'd 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 conquer'd 
 host, 
 Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's 
 coast. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 And ever since that martial synod met, 
 Britannia sickens, Cintro, at thy name ; 
 And folks in office at the mention fret, 
 
(EfxilAt garold'i* gWgrimage. 29 
 
 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 deem'd the Childe, as o'er the mount- 
 ains 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 moralize, 
 For Meditation fix'd at times on him, 
 And conscious Reason whisper'd 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, forever 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 fix'd as yet the goal 
 
30 £hilde garoliTg pilgrimage. 
 
 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 I 
 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 gar- 
 nish 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, 
 
(Ehtffa gafold^ gttgrimafl*. 31 
 
 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 re- 
 cede, 
 
 And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend ; 
 
 Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed ! 
 
 Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, 
 
 Spain's realms appear, whereon her shep- 
 herds tend 
 
 Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the 
 trader knows — 
 
 Now must the pastor's arm his lambs de- 
 fend : 
 
 For Spain is compass'd by unyielding foes, 
 And all must shield their all, or share Subjec- 
 tion'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 ? 
 
32 €M4* garold^ §J ilorimag*. 
 
 Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall ? — 
 Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, 
 Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark land 
 
 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. * 
 
 * As I found the Portuguese, so I have characterized 
 them. That they are since improved, at least in cour- 
 age, is evident. The late exploits of Lord Wellington 
 have effaced the follies of Cintra. He has indeed 
 done wonders ; he has perhaps changed the character 
 of a nation, reconciled rival superstitions, and baffled 
 an enemy who never retreated before his predecessors. 
 — 1812. 
 
<EMfo gurooMfr gilgrimap* 33 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 But ere the mingling bounds have far been 
 
 pass'd, 
 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 
 Mix'd on the bleeding stream, by floating; 
 
 hosts oppress'd. 
 
 xxxv. 
 
 Oh, lovely Spain ! renown'd, romantic land ! 
 Where is that standard which Pelagio bore, 
 When Cava's # traitor-sire first call'd 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 ? 
 
 * Count Julian's daughter, the Helen of Spain. 
 Pelagius preserved his independence in the fastnesses 
 of the Asturias. 
 
34 €UMt Itotd'jsi § ilorimag*. 
 
 Red gleam'd the cross, and waned the 
 crescent pale, 
 While Afric's echoes thrill'd 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 dread- 
 ful 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 ; 
 
36 ChMe JfmWt gilgrimagr. 
 
 Restless it rolls, now fix'd, 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 mix'd 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 number 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, Vio 
 
 tory ! 
 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 fertilize the field that each pretends to 
 gain. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 There shall they rot— Ambition's honour'd 
 
 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 ? 11- 
 
 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 I 
 As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick d his 
 steed, 
 
38 Child* gtafttA'j gitgrimagf. 
 
 Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, 
 A scene where mingling foes should boast 
 
 and bleed ? 
 Peace to the perish'd ! may the warrior's 
 
 meed 
 And tears of triumph their reward prolong 1 
 Till others fall where other chieftains lead, 
 Thy name shall circle round the gaping 
 
 throng, 
 And shine in worthless lays, the theme of 
 
 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 ; 
 Perish'd, 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: 
 
m\fa garoWi* gitgtimafie. 39 
 
 Yet is she free— the spoiler's wish'd-for 
 
 prey ! 
 Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot in- 
 trude, 
 Blackening her lovely domes with traces 
 
 rude. 
 Inevitable hour ! 'Gainst fate to strive 
 Where Desolation plants her famish'd brood 
 Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre, might yet survive, 
 A-nd 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 con- 
 sume, 
 
 Noi 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 mid- 
 night rounds: 
 
 Girt with the silent crimes of capitals, 
 Still to the last kind Vice clings to the totter- 
 ing walls. 
 
 XLVI I. 
 
 Not so the rustic : with his trembling mate 
 He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar, 
 
40 (fhilde &*X$W* gitflttttftje. 
 
 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 check his song to execrate Godoy, 
 The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day 
 
 * " Viva el Rey Fernando ! " Long live King Ferdi- 
 nand ! is the chorus of most of the Spanish patriotic 
 songs. They are chierly in dispraise of the old King 
 Charles, the Queen, and the Prince of Peace. I have 
 heard many of them : some of the airs are beautiful. 
 Don Manuel Godoy, the Principe de la Paz, of an 
 ancient but decayed family, was born at Badajoz, on 
 the frontiers of Portugal, and was originally in the ranks 
 of the Spanish guards: till his person attracted the 
 queen's eyes, and raised him to the dukedom of Alcudia, 
 etc., etc. It is to this man that the Spaniards univer 
 sally impute the ruin of their country, 
 
(Child* '§i\xoUV$ gilnnmage. 41 
 
 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 crown'd 
 With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets 
 
 rest, 
 Wide scatter'd hoof-marks dint the wounded 
 
 ground ; 
 And, scathed by fire, the greensward's dark- 
 
 en'd vest 
 Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest : 
 Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and 
 
 the host, 
 Here the brave peasant storm'd 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; 
 
 ♦The red cockade, with "Fernando VII." in the 
 centre. 
 
42 (tilxMt %bnvoW$ gitanroage. 
 
 And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue, 
 If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloke, 
 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'errlow'd, 
 The station'd bands, the never-vacant watch, 
 The magazine in rocky durance stow'd, 
 The holster'd 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 
 
 their way : 
 The West must own the Scourger of the 
 
 world. 
 Ah, Spain ! how sad will be thy reckoning 
 
 day, 
 
(EMfo gatold^ git0rima0*. 43 
 
 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 Man- 
 hood's heart of steel ? 
 
 LIV. 
 
 Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, 
 Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, 
 And, all unsex'd, the anlace hath espoused, 
 Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of 
 
 war? 
 And she, whom once the semblance of a 
 
 scar 
 Appall'd, an owlet's larum chill'd with 
 
 dread, 
 Now views the column-scattering bayonet 
 
 jar, 
 
44 ChiUU gurtftA'* £itflrimage. 
 
 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, 
 Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal- 
 black veil, 
 1 Irani her li.u r ht, 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-tim'd 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 flush'd hope 
 
 is lost ? 
 
Chita* 'QMoWt gitgtimag*, 45 
 
 Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, 
 Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a battered 
 wall?* 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, 
 But form'd 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 im- 
 pressed 
 
 Denotes how soft that chin which bears his 
 his touch : f 
 
 Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their 
 nest, 
 
 Bid man be valiant ere he merit such : 
 
 ♦Such were the exploits of the Maid of Saragoza, 
 ^rho by her valour elevated herself to the highest rank 
 of heroines. When the author was at Seville, she 
 vralked daily on the Prado, decorated with medals and 
 orders, by command of the Junta. 
 
 t " Sigilla in mento impressa Amoris digitulo 
 
 Vestigo demonstrant mollitudinem." — Aul. Gel. 
 
46 Childe garold^ pilgrimage. 
 
 Her glance, how wildly beautiful ! how much 
 
 Hath Phoebus woo'd in vain to spoil her 
 cheek, 
 
 Which glows yet smoother from his amor- 
 ous 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. 
 
 Oh thou, Parnassus ! whom I now survey, 
 Not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye, 
 Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, 
 
(StoMt l&zvoWfi pilgrimage. 47 
 
 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 dream'd 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 hallow'd scene, 
 Which others rave of, though they know it 
 
 not? 
 
48 (ThiUlc XtaroUr.s pilgrimage. 
 
 Though here no more Apollo haunts his 
 
 g rot > 
 And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their 
 
 grave, 
 Some gentle spirit till 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 turn'd aside to pay my homage here ; 
 Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of 
 
 Spain ; 
 Her fate, to every free born bosom dear ; 
 And hail'd 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 deem'd 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 mortaj 
 
 fire, 
 
Child* garotte g itgnmage, 49 
 
 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, 
 
 4 
 
50 (fhildc $WttWt gilfpiuUtgA 
 
 To nought else constant, hither deign'd to 
 flee, 
 
 And fix'd 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, forever 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 
 
Child* ggfvlft'tf gUgrimafle. 51 
 
 Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his 
 
 horn : 
 The throng'd arena shakes with shouts for 
 
 more ; 
 Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly 
 
 torn, 
 Nor shrinks the female eye, nor even affects tc* 
 
 mourn. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 The seventh day this : the jubilee of man. 
 London ! right well thou know'st the day of 
 
 prayer : 
 Then thy spruce citizen, wash'd artisan, 
 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 ribbon'd 
 
 fair, 
 Others along the safer turnpike fly ; 
 Some Richmond Hill ascend, some scud ta 
 
 Ware, 
 
52 £hMe §wttftTj gitgrimage. 
 
 And many to the steep of Highgate hie. 
 Ask ye, Boeotian shades, the reason why ? 
 'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn, 
 Grasp'd 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 : 
 Voung, old, high, low, at once the same 
 
 diversion share. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 The lists are ope'd, the spacious area clear'd, 
 Thousands on thousands piled are seated 
 
 round ; 
 Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is 
 
 heard, 
 Ne vacant space for lated wight is found : 
 Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames 
 
 abound, 
 
Skill'd in the ogle of a roguish eye, 
 
 Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound ; 
 
 None through their cold disdain are doom'd 
 
 to die, 
 As moon-struck bards complain, by Love's sad 
 
 archery. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 Hush'd 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, 
 Knd all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their 
 toils repay. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array d. 
 But all afoot, the light-limb'd Matadore 
 Stands in the centre, eager to. invade 
 The lord of lowing herds ; but not before 
 The ground, with cautious tread, is trav» 
 ersed o'er, 
 
54 Child* garold^ gilgrimaof. 
 
 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 1 too oft condemn'd 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 fix'd : 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 ; 
 
(ftfxil&t g*at0W0 gilfltima0e» 55 
 
 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 bellow- 
 
 ings 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 stretch'd a mangled 
 corse ; 
 
 Another, hideous sight ! unseam'd appears, 
 
 His gory chest unveils life's panting source ; 
 
 Though death-struck, still his feeble frame 
 he rears ; 
 Staggering, but stemming all, his lord un- 
 harmed he bears. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 Foil'd, 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 : 
 
56 Childe garoto'js pilgrimage. 
 
 And now the Matadores around him play, 
 Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready 
 
 brand : 
 Once more through all he bursts his thunder 
 
 ing 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 dash- 
 ing by. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Such the ungentle sport that oft invites 
 The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish 
 swain : 
 
Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart de- 
 lights 
 
 In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. 
 
 What private feuds the troubled village 
 stain ! 
 
 Though now one phalanx'd 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 deem'd he could 
 
 encage, 
 Have pass'd to darkness with the vanish'd 
 
 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 dream'd he loved, since rapture is a 
 dream ; 
 
58 $Mde garotte gilflnmage. 
 
 But now his wayward bosom was unmoved, 
 For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream : 
 And lately had he learn'd 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 deign 'd 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 pall'd victim ! life-abhorring 
 gloom 
 Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unrest- 
 ing doom. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng; 
 But view'd them not with misanthropic 
 hate ; 
 
Fain would he now have join'd the dance, 
 
 the song ; 
 But who may smile that sinks beneath his 
 
 fate? 
 Naught 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, 
 Pour'd 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. 
 
60 £hiUlc gmMfr pilgrimage* 
 
 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 ! in. iv they still of transport dream, 
 
 And ne'er, at least like me, awake 1 
 
 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 hugg'd a conqueror's chain save fallen 
 Chivalry I 
 
 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 naught 
 
 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 l"t 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards 
 know, 
 
 * Alluding to the conduct and death of Solano, the 
 governor of Cadiz, in May, 1S09. 
 
 t Palafox's answer to the French general at the siege 
 of Saragoza. 
 
62 GIMfo fjtowMfti -gitflrimafl*. 
 
 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 remorse* 
 
 less 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 bleach'd bones, and blood's un- 
 
 bleaching 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. 
 Fallen nations gaze on Spain : if freed, she 
 frees 
 
$kild* garoid'tf g itfltiwag** 63 
 
 More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd. 
 Strange retribution ! now Columbia's ease 
 Repairs the wrongs that Quito's son sus- 
 
 tain'd, 
 While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder 
 
 unrestrain'd. 
 
 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 blush- 
 ing 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 com- 
 plain : 
 
64 ChUde garotd'jei gUflrimaoe. 
 
 But thus unlaurel'd 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 1 
 What hadst thou done, to sink so peacefully 
 to rest ? 
 
 xcn. 
 
 Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the 
 
 most 1 
 Dear to a heart where nought was left so 
 
 dear ! 
 Though to my hopeless days forever lost, 
 In dreams deny me not to see thee here I 
 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 re- 
 pose. 
 
 xcnr. 
 
 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 doom'd to go: 
 Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, 
 Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous 
 hands were quell'd. 
 
CANTO THE SECOND. 
 
 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 polish'd 
 
 breasts bestow. 
 
 ir. 
 
 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, 
 
 * Part of the Acropolis was destroyed by the explosion 
 of a magazine during the Venetian siege. 
 
 5 6 5 
 
66 ChiUU pnrfUTl gitarimage. 
 
 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. 
 
 in. 
 
 Son of the morning, rise ! approach you 
 
 here ! 
 Come — but molest not yon defenceless urn I 
 Look on this spot — a nation's sepulchre ! 
 Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer 
 
 burn. 
 Even 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 hom- 
 ilies. 
 
 Or burst the vanish'd Hero's lofty mound ; 
 Far on the solitary shore he sleeps ; * 
 He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around; 
 But now not one of saddening thousands 
 
 weeps, 
 Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps 
 Where demi-gods appear'd, as records tell. 
 Remove yon skull from out the scatter'd 
 
 heaps : 
 Is that a temple where a God may dwell ? 
 Why, even the worm at last disdains her shat- 
 
 ter'd cell I 
 
 * It was not always the custom of the Greeks to burn 
 their dead ; the greater Ajax, in particular, was interred 
 entire. Almost all the chiefs became gods after their 
 decease; and he was indeed neglected who had not 
 annual games near his tomb, or festivals in honour of 
 his memory by his countrymen, as Achilles, Brasidas, 
 etc., and at last even Antinous, whose death was as 
 heroic as his life was infamous. 
 
68 $hitde garolW gitgnmag*. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd 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 brook'd 
 
 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 can- 
 not shun ? 
 
 Each hath its pang, but feeble sufferers 
 groan 
 
 With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. 
 
 Pursue what Chance or Fact 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 deem'd, 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 fear'd to hear no 
 
 more ! 
 Behold each mighty shade reveal'd 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 re- 
 main, 
 Be as it may Futurity's behest, 
 For me 'twere bliss enough to know thy spirit 
 blest! 
 
 x. 
 
 Here let me sit upon this massy stone, 
 The marble column's yet unshaken base ! 
 
70 (Clnlfo garotd'ss gitgrimagc. 
 
 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 labour'd 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 linger'd, 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. 
 
 ♦The temple of Jupiter Olympius, of which sixteen 
 columns, entirely of marble, yet survive: originally 
 there were one hundred and fifty. These columns, how- 
 ever, are by many supposed to have belonged to th« 
 Pantheon. 
 
(MA* ga*ot<T0 gitgrimag** 71 
 
 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 en- 
 dears, 
 
 Tore down those remnants with a harpy's 
 hand, 
 Which envious Eld forbore, and Tyrants left 
 to stand. 
 
72 $hUde garotd^ gitgrimage, 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Where was thine ^gis, Pallas, that appall'd 
 Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way ? * 
 Where Peleus' son ? whom Hell in vain en- 
 
 thrall'd, 
 His shade from Hades upon that dread day 
 Bursting to light in terrible array ! 
 What ! could not Pluto spare the chief once 
 
 more, 
 To scarce a second robber from his prey ? 
 Idly he wander'd 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 snatch'd thy shrinking gods to northern 
 
 climes abhorr'd ! 
 
 * According to Zosimus, Minerva and Achilles 
 frightened Alaric from the Acropolis ; but others relate 
 that the Gothic king was nearly as mischievous as the 
 Scottish peer. — See Chandler. 
 
(EUiUt |jto*0ld'0 gilotimag*. 73 
 
 XVI. 
 
 But where is Harold ? shall I then forget 
 To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave ? 
 Little reck'd he of all that men regret ; 
 No loved one now in feign'd lament could 
 
 rave ; 
 No friend the parting hand extended gave,. 
 Ere the cold stranger pass'd 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 sail'd upon the dark blue sea, 
 Has view'd 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 sailor wearing bravely now, 
 So gaily curl the waves before each dashing 
 
 prow. 
 
74 CWWe 'gMtoW* gilgrimage. 
 
 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 mann'd 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 
 
 b >-- ... 
 
 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 re- 
 main 
 For the lone Chieftain, who majestic stalks, 
 Silent and fear'd by all : not oft he talks 
 With aught beneath him, if he would pre- 
 serve 
 
 * To prevent blocks or splinters from falling on 
 deck during action. 
 
That strict restraint, which broken, ever 
 
 baulks . . 
 
 Conquest and Fame : but Britons rarely 
 
 SWerVe , • i J *!. •- 
 
 From law, however stern, which tends their 
 strength to nerve. 
 
 xx. 
 
 Blow, swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling 
 
 Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening 
 
 Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail, 
 That lagging barks may make their lazy 
 
 way. i n j i 
 
 Ah i 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 napping sail haul'd down to halt tor 
 logs like these 1 
 
 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 landi 
 
76 ©hild* gfaroM^ gilgrimage. 
 
 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 som- 
 bre 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 J 
 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 possess'd 
 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: 
 
78 (tthll&t garatd'0 gitorimagc. 
 
 This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold 
 Converse with Nature's charms, and view her 
 stores unroll'd. 
 
 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 dis- 
 tress ! 
 None that, with kindred consciousness en* 
 
 dued, 
 If we were not, would seem to smile the less 
 Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and 
 sued : 
 This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude 1 
 
 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, 
 
(&h%U$ Dtatold^ pilgrimage. 79 
 
 Sigh forth one wish that such had bten 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 hath 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 essay'd the dreadful leap 
 
 • Goza is said to have been the island of Claypso. 
 
80 ChMe garotte gilgnmage. 
 
 Stern Meritor urged from high to yonder 
 tide ; 
 While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen 
 doubly sigh'd. 
 
 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 may'st find a new Calypso there. 
 Sweet Florence ! could another ever share 
 This wayward, loveless heart, it would be 
 
 thine : 
 But check'd 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 deem'd, as on that lady's eye 
 He look'd, 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 deem'd the little god his ancient sway 
 
 was o'er. 
 
XXXII. 
 
 Fair Florence found, in sooth with some 
 
 amaze, 
 One who, 'twas said, still sigh'd to all he saw, 
 Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze, 
 Which others hail'd with real or mimic awe, 
 Their hope, their doom, their punishment, 
 
 their law : 
 All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen 
 
 claims : 
 And much she marvell'd that a youth so 
 
 raw 
 Nor felt, nor feign'd at least, the oft-told 
 
 flames, 
 Which, though sometimes they frown, yet 
 
 rarely anger dames. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Little knew she that seeming marble heart, 
 Now mask'd 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 turn'd 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, 
 Vet never would he join the lover's whining 
 
 crew. 
 6 
 
$2 €h\\&t garotte gUgrimage. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Not much he kens, I ween, of woman'* 
 breast, 
 
 Who thinks that wanton thing is won by 
 sighs : 
 
 What careth she for hearts when once pos- 
 sessed ? 
 
 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 even 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 crost, 
 Still to the last it rankles, a disease, 
 Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to 
 
 please. 
 
<Sfeiifle ffawtd'* f itgtfmaae* 83 
 
 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 favour'd 
 
 child. 
 Oh ! she is fairest in her features wild 
 Where nothing polish'd dares pollute her 
 
 path : 
 To me by day or night she ever smil'd, 
 Though I have marked her when none other 
 
 hath, 
 And sought her more and more, and loved her 
 
 best in wrath. 
 
$4 ChMc gurotd^ JUgrimagf. 
 
 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 em- 
 prise : 
 
 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 sail'd, and pass'd the bar- 
 ren spot 
 
 Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave ; * 
 
 And onward view'd the mount, not yet for- 
 got, 
 
 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. 
 
 * Ithaca. 
 
(tfbilfo jltawW* gitgrimag** 85 
 
 XL, 
 
 'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve, 
 Childe Harold hail'd Leucadia's cape 
 
 afar ; * 
 A spot he long'd to see, nor cared to leave : 
 Oft did he mark the senses of vanished war, 
 Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar : f 
 Mark them unmoved, for he would not de- 
 light 
 (Born beneath some remote inglorious star) 
 In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, 
 But loath'd the bravo's trade, and laugh'd at 
 martial wight. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 But when he saw the evening star above 
 Leucadia's far-projecting rock of woe, 
 And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love, 
 He felt, or deem'd he felt, no common 
 
 glow : 
 And as the stately vessel glided slow 
 Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, 
 He watch'd the billows' melancholy flow, 
 
 * Leucadia, now Santa Maura. From the promon- 
 tory (the Lover's Leap) Sappho is said to have thrown 
 herself. 
 
 t Actium and Trafalgar need no further mention. 
 The battle of Lepanto, equally bloody and consider- 
 able, but less known, was fought in the gulf of Patras. 
 Here the author of Don Quixote lost his left hand. 
 
26 CfcitiU garotd'* gitgrimage. 
 
 And, sunk albeit in thought as he was 
 wont, 
 More placid seem'd 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, bedew'd with snowy 
 
 rills, 
 Array'd 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 ap- 
 pear, 
 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 arm'd '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, , . j 
 
 Beat back keen winter's blast, and welcomed 
 summer's heat. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Here the red cross, for still the cross is 
 here, ■ ' . . , 
 
 Though sadly scoff'd at by the circumcised. 
 Forgets that pride to pamper'd 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 
 
 A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing ! 
 In yonder rippling bay, their naval host 
 Did many a Roman chief and Asian king 
 
 * It is said that, on the day previous to the battle of 
 Actium, Antony had thirteen kings at his levee. 
 
88 $hild* StaroW'ie apitgrimage. 
 
 To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter, 
 
 bring : 
 Look where the second Csesar's trophies 
 
 rose,* 
 Now, like the hands that rear'd them, 
 
 withering ; 
 Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes ! 
 God ! was thy globe ordain'd for such to win 
 
 and lose ? 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 Prom the dark barriers of that rugged 
 
 clime, 
 E'en to the centre of Illyria's vales, 
 Childe Harold pass'd 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, 
 Through classic ground, and consecrated 
 
 most, 
 To match some spots that lurk within this 
 
 lowering coast. 
 
 * Nicopolis, whose ruins are most extensive, is at 
 some distance from Actium, where the wall of the Hip- 
 podrome survives in a few fragments. These ruins 
 are large masses of brickwork, the bricks of which are 
 joined by interstices of mortar, as large as the bricks 
 themselves, and equally durable. 
 
$foit4* 'gxtoWg gitgrimag*, 8$ 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 Hepass'd 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 con> 
 
 mand t 
 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 favour'd spot of holy 
 ground ! 
 
 * According to Pouqueville, the lake of Yanina : but 
 Pouqueville is always out. 
 
 t The celebrated Ali Pacha. Of this extraordinary 
 man there is an incorrect account in Pouqueville's 
 Travels. 
 
 X Five thousand Suliotes, among the rocks and irj 
 the castle of Suli, withstood thirty thousand Albanians 
 for eighteen years : the castle at last was taken by 
 bribery. In this contest there were several acts per- 
 formed not unworthy of the better days of Greece. 
 
 § The convent and village of Zitza are four hours' 
 journey from Joannina, or Yanina, the capital of the 
 pachalic. In the valley the river Kalamas (once th« 
 
90 $httde Ifaroto'isi gitgrimage. 
 
 Where'er we gaze, around, above, below, 
 What rainbow tints, what magic charms are 
 
 found 1 
 Rock, river, forest, mountain all abound, 
 And bluest skies that harmonize 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 deem'd 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. 
 
 Acheron) flows, and not far from Zitza forms a fine 
 cataract. The situation is perhaps the finest in Greece, 
 though the approach to Delvinachi and parts of Acar- 
 irania and /Etolia may contest the palm. Delphi, 
 Parnassus, and, in Attica, even Cape Colonna and 
 Port Raphti, are very inferior; as also every scene in 
 Ionia, or the Troad : I am almost inclined to add, the 
 approach to Constantinople ; but, from the different 
 features of the last, a comparison can hardly be made. 
 * The Greek monks are so called. 
 
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 — ohl 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 moon, 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 ! f 
 Once consecrated to the sepulchre. 
 
 * The Chimariot mountains appear to have bee* 
 volcanic. 
 
 t Now called Kalamas. 
 
92 Chitdc 2Urotd'$ ^itgrimage. 
 
 Pluto ! if this be hell I look upon, 
 Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall 
 seek for none. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Ne city's towers pollute the lovely view ; 
 Unseen is Yanina, though not remote, 
 Veil'd 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. 
 
 nil. 
 
 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 1 the fate of gods may well be 
 
 thine : 
 
 * Albanese cloak. 
 
©tnlfa garaW'jJ gilgrimage. 93 
 
 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 upgazing still, the wearied eye 
 Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale 
 As ever Spring yclad in grassy dye : 
 Even on a plain no humble beauties lie, 
 Where some bold river breaks the long ex- 
 panse, 
 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 • 
 
 * Anciently Mount Tomarus. 
 
 t The river Laos was full at the time the authof 
 passed it ; and, immediately above Tepaleen, was to 
 the eye as wide as the Thames at Westminster — at 
 least in the opinion of the author and his fellow- 
 traveller. In the summer it must be much narrower. 
 It certainly is the finest river in the Levant : neither 
 Achelous, Alpheus, Ache. »n, Scamander, nor Cayster, 
 approached it in breadth o v beauty. 
 
94 €Mdc garaWiSi gilgrimage. 
 
 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 pass'd the sacred Haram's silent tower, 
 And underneath the wide o'erarching gate 
 Survey'd the dwelling of this chief of 
 
 power, 
 Where all around proclaim'd his high 
 
 estate. 
 Amidst no common pomp the despot sate, 
 While busy preparation shook the court ; 
 Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and san- 
 
 tons wait ; 
 Within, a palace, and without a fort, 
 Here men of every clime appear to make 
 
 resort. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Richly caparison'd, a ready row 
 Of armed horse, and many a war-like store, 
 Circled the wide-extending court below ; 
 Above, strange groups adorned the corri- 
 dore; 
 
0fcil4t SatoW'jsi gttgrlttui^ 95 
 
 And ofttimes through the area's echoing 
 
 Some°rngh-capp'd Tartar spurr'd his steed 
 
 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-embroider' d 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 
 
 Maste/rfall around, too potent to be meek. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Are mix'd 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 ; 
 
96 $hMe %f&xM*# f ttgtfmage. 
 
 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 I 
 
 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 seem'd 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, veil'd, to 
 move, 
 
$htftfe gratd^ f ii0fto0*. 97 
 
 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 re* 
 
 pose, 
 AH 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 
 111 suits the passions which belong to youth : 
 Love conquers age — so Hafiz hath averr'd, 
 So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth — 
 But crimes that scorn the tender voice of 
 ruth, 
 
 7 
 
98 (Mid* %imoW$ giljrimaflpe. 
 
 Beseeming all men ill, but most the man 
 In years, have mark'd 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 ma- 
 ture. 
 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 friend- 
 ship 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 suc- 
 cess; 
 
 And after view'd 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 cheer'd 
 him less, 
 
 And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof * — » 
 In aught that tries the heart how few with- 
 stand the proof ! 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 It chanced that adverse winds once drove 
 
 his bark 
 Full on the coast of Suli's shaggy shore, 
 
 * Alluding to the wreckers of Cornwall. 
 
ioo #hMe garottTjsi gitorimage. 
 
 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 doubt- 
 ing sore 
 
 That those who loathe alike the Frank and 
 Turk 
 Might once again renew their ancient butcher- 
 work. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 Vain fear ! the Suliotes stretch'd the wel- 
 come hand, 
 
 Led them o'er rocks and past the dangerous 
 swamp, 
 
 Kinder than polish'd slaves, though not so 
 bland, 
 
 And piled the hearth, and wrung their gar- 
 ments damp, 
 
 And fill'd the bowl, and trimm'd the cheer- 
 ful 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. 
 
ttfcitft SawM'* g«0«im»0e. ">i 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 It came to pass, that when he did address 
 Himself to quit at length this mountain 
 
 land, , , - 
 
 Combined marauders half-way barr d egress. 
 And wasted far and near with glaive and 
 
 brand ; , 
 
 And therefore did he take a trusty band 
 To traverse Acarnania's forest wide, ^ 
 
 Inwarwellseason'd,andwith labours tann d, 
 Till he did greet white Achelous' tide, 
 And from his farther bank Doha's wolds 
 espied. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Where loneUtraikey forms its circling cove, 
 And weary waves retire to gleam at rest, 
 How brown the foliage of the green hill s 
 
 grove, . i » 
 
 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, 
 
io2 (ftlulde 3*av0ltT£ pilgrimage. 
 
 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 Palikarf his sabre from him cast, 
 And bounding hand in hand, man link'd to 
 
 man, 
 Yelling their uncouth dirge, long danced the 
 
 kirtled clan. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 Childe Harold at a little distance stood, 
 And view'd, but not displeased, the revel- 
 
 rie, 
 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 gleam'd, 
 Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing 
 
 free, 
 The long wild locks that to their girdles 
 
 stream'd, 
 
 * The Albanian Mussulmans do not abstain from 
 teine, and indeed very few of the others. 
 
 t Palikar, a general name for a soldier amongst the 
 Greeks and Albanese who speak Romaic : it means, 
 properly, " a lad." 
 
(!Mde StewM'* gitgrimage, 103; 
 
 While thus in concert they this lay half sang y 
 half scream'd : 
 
 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 ! f 
 
 Oh ! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, 
 In 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 scarfs of blood-red shall be redder,. 
 
 before 
 The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o'er. 
 
 * Drummer. 
 
 f These stanzas are partly taken from different 
 Albanese songs, as far as I was able to make them out 
 by the exposition of the Albanese in Romaic and! 
 Italian. 
 
io4 (tfhitfa $XttU'| gitgrirnHgr. 
 
 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 flow- 
 ing 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-torvul 
 
 lyre, 
 And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. 
 
 Remember the moment when Previsa fell,* 
 The shrieks of the conquer'd, the conquerors' 
 
 yell : 
 The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we 
 
 shared, 
 The wealthy we slaughter'd, the lovely we 
 
 spared. 
 
 I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear ; 
 He neither must know who would serY<» the 
 Vizier : 
 
 * It was taken by storm from the Frenck 
 
mite gawW* gitgrimag*, 105 
 
 Since the days of our prophet the crescent 
 
 ne'er saw 
 A chief ever glorious like AH Pashaw. 
 
 Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped„ 
 
 Let the yellow-haired * Giaours view his horse- 
 tail with dread ; 
 
 When his Delhis f come dashing in blood o'er 
 the banks, 
 
 How few shall escape from the Muscovite 
 ranks ! 
 
 Selictar ! t 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 scatter'd children 
 
 forth, 
 And long accustom 'd bondage uncreate ? 
 Not such thy sons who whilomc did await, 
 The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, 
 In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait — 
 
 ♦Yellow is the epithet given to the Russians. 
 Giaour : Infidel. Horsetail : the insignia of a Pacha, 
 t Horsemen, answering to our forlorn hope. 
 X " Selictar,' ' swordbearer. 
 
io6 Chitdc SUrotiTiss pilgrimage. 
 
 Oh, who that gallant spirit shall resume, 
 Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee froi* 
 the tomb ? 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Spirit of Freedom ! when on Phyle's brow * 
 Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, 
 Couldst thou forebode 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, unmann'd. 
 
 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 burn'd 
 
 anew 
 With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty ! 
 And many dream withal the hour is nigh 
 
 * Phyle, which commands a beautiful view of Athens, 
 has still considerable remains. It was seized by 
 Thrasybulus previous to the expulsion of the Thirty. 
 
em&t ga*oM'si giljrimafle. 107 
 
 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 name. 
 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. 
 
 LXXVI 1. 
 
 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 ; 
 * When taken by the Latins, and retained for several 
 years. 
 
io8 Whittle lUroliViss ^Unnmage. 
 
 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. 
 
 I. XXIX. 
 
 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 : 
 
 * Mecca and Medina were taken some time ago bj 
 the Wahabees, a sect yearly increasing. 
 
#hitfo gawM* gitgrimage. 109 
 
 (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 woo'd the eye, and thrill'd the Bosphorus 
 
 along. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Loud was the lightsome tumult on the shore ; 
 Oft Music changed, but never ceased her 
 
 tone, 
 And timely echo'd 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 seem'd 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, 
 
no $hUdc IftnvaUVjS gtlgrimage. 
 
 While many a languid eye and thrilling hand 
 Exchanged the look few bosoms may with- 
 stand, 
 Or gently prest, return'd 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, redeem'd Life's 
 years of ill ! 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 But, 'midst the throng in merry masquerade, 
 Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret 
 
 pain, 
 Even through the closest searment half-be- 
 
 tray'd ? 
 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, 
 A.nd 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 still 
 
 boast : 
 
OlfciMe StoroM'* fitgrimage. 
 
 iii 
 
 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 may'st 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 shatter'd 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 
 
$hittt* Steroid'* gilavimage. 
 
 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 ; f 
 Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns 
 Colonna's cliff, and gleams along the wave ; t 
 
 *On many of the mountains, particularly Liakura, the 
 snow never is entirely melted, notwithstanding the 
 intense heat of the summer; but I never saw it lie on 
 the plains, even in winter. 
 
 t Of Mount Pentelicus, from whence the marble was 
 dug that constructed the public edifices of Athens. The 
 modern name is Mount Mendeli. An immense cave 
 formed by the quarries still remains, and will till the 
 end of time. 
 
 X In all Attica, if we except Athens itself and Mara- 
 thon, there is no scene more interesting than Cape 
 Colonna. To the antiquary and artist, sixteen columns 
 are an inexhaustible source of observation and design; 
 to the philosopher, the supposed scene of some of 
 Plato's conversations will not be unwelcome ; and the 
 traveller will be struck with the beauty of the prospect 
 over " isles that crown the TEgean deep; " but, for an 
 Englishman, Colonna has yet an additional interest, as 
 the actual spot of Falconer's shipwreck. Pallas and 
 Plato are forgotten, in the recollection of Falconer and 
 Campbell : 
 
 " Here in the dead of night by Lonna's steep, 
 The seaman's cry was heard along the deep." 
 
CMttc gjtowItPjes filgvimag*, 113 
 
 Save o'er some warrior's half-forgotten 
 
 grave, 
 Where the gray 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, 
 
 This temple of Minerva may be seen at sea from a great 
 distance. In two journeys which I made, and one 
 voyage to Cape Colonna, the view from either side by 
 land was more striking than the approach from the isles. 
 In our second land excursion we had a narrow escape 
 from a party of Mainotes concealed in the caverns 
 beneath. We were told afterwards by one of their 
 prisoners, subsequently ransomed, that they were de- 
 terred from attacking us by the appearance of my two 
 Albanians; conjecturing very sagaciously, but falsely, 
 that we had a complete guard of these Arnaouts at 
 hand, they remained stationary, and thus saved our 
 party, which was too small to have opposed any effect- 
 ual resistance. Colonna is no less a resort of painters 
 than of pirates : there 
 
 " The hireling artist plants his paltry desk, 
 And makes degraded nature picturesque." — 
 (See Hodgson's Lady fane Grey, etc.) 
 
 But there Nature, with the aid of Art, has done that 
 for herself. I was fortunate enough to engage a very 
 superior German artist, and hope to renew my acquaint- 
 ance with this and many other Levantine scenes by the 
 arrival of his performances. 
 8 
 
n4 Guide l&xtM't pilgrimage, 
 
 Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smile*., 
 And still his honey'd 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. 
 
 Lxxxvnr. 
 
 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 crush'd thy temples 
 
 gone : 
 Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray 
 
 Marathon. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Th« sun, the soil, but not the slave, the 
 
 same ; 
 Unchanged in all except its foreign lord— 
 
mite latoW'u gitgrimage. 115 
 
 Preserves alike its bounds and boundless 
 
 fame ; 
 The Battle-field, where Persia's victim horde 
 First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' 
 
 sword, 
 As on the morn to distant Glory dear, 
 When Marathon became a magic word ;* 
 Which utter'd, 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 hallow'd 
 
 ground, 
 Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear? 
 
 * " Siste Viator— heroa calcas ! " was the epitaph on 
 the famous C unt Merci ;— what, then, must be our 
 feelings when standing on the tumulus of the two 
 hundred (Greeks) who fell on Marathon ? The prin- 
 cipal barrow has recently been opened by Fauvel : few 
 or no relics, as vases, etc., were found by the excavator. 
 The plain of Marathon was offered to me for sale at 
 the sum of sixteen thousand piastres, about nine 
 hundred pounds ! Alas !— " Expende — quot libras in 
 duce summo— invenies!"— was the dust of Miltiades 
 worth no more ? It could scarcely have fetched less if 
 -sold by weight. 
 
n6 Child* ^nxoWg gitgumag^ 
 
 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. 
 
 xcn. 
 
 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 plairs where Greek and 
 
 Persian died. 
 
$trilfo Smvoid'tf fil0tima0^ 117 
 
 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 may'st thou prosper where thy youth was 
 
 rear'd, 
 By every honest joy of love and life endear'd ! 
 
 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 — 
 111 may such contest now the spirit move 
 Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial 
 
 praise, 
 Since cold each kinder heart that might ap- 
 prove, 
 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 ; 
 
u8 (&Ml&t Statolith gngrimng*. 
 
 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 stay'd 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 J 
 Would he had ne'er return'd 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 re- 
 moved ! 
 
 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 snatch'd the little joy that life had yet 
 to lend. 
 
 xcvn. 
 
 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 
 
 P a g e 
 And be alone on earth, as I am now. 
 Before the Chastener humbly let me bow, 
 O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroy'd : 
 Roll on, vain days ! full reckless may ye 
 
 flow, 
 Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul 
 
 enjoy'd, 
 And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years 
 
 alloy'd. 
 
i2o (EMd* llarotd'0 gilpimag*, 
 
 CANTO THE THIRD. 
 1816. 
 
 "Afin que cette application vous forcat de penseraautre 
 chose ; il n'y a en verite de remede que celui la et le 
 temps." — Lettre du Roi de Prusse & D 'Aletnbert, Sept. 
 7> 177& 
 
 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. 
 
 11. 
 
 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 ! 
 
ttMe y&MvW$ gilgtimag^ 
 
 Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead ! 
 Though the strain'd 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. 
 
 Ill; 
 
 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, 
 
if2 Childc $Xf*tt'j l v \\t\v'mn$c. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 shnpes which dwell 
 Still unimpair'd, 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 1 ? Nothing: but not so art thou, 
 Soul of my thought ! with whom I traverse 
 
 earth, 
 Invisible but gazing, as I glow 
 Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, 
 And feeling still with thee in my crush'd feel- 
 ings' dearth. 
 
dftiiae garoW* g itgrimage. 123 
 
 VII. 
 
 Yet must I think less wildly: I have thought 
 Too long and darkly, till my brain became, 
 In its own eddy boi'ling and o'erwrought, 
 A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame : 
 And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, 
 My springs of life were poison'd. Tis too 
 
 late ! 
 Yet am I changed ; though still enough the 
 
 same 
 In strength to bear what time can not 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 alter'd him 
 In soul and aspect as in age : years steal 
 Fire fu§m the mind as vigour from the limb : 
 And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near 
 
 the brim. 
 
 IX. 
 
 His had been quaff'd too quickly, and he 
 found , 
 
 The dregs were wormwood ; but he fill a 
 again, 
 
i24 Child* UaroItTiSi gilgvima©*. 
 
 And from a purer fount, on holier ground, 
 And deem'd its spring perpetual ; but in 
 
 vain ! 
 Still round him clung invisibly a chain 
 Which gall'd for ever, fettering though un* 
 
 seen, 
 And heavy though it clank'd not ; worn with 
 
 pain, 
 Which pined although it spoke not, and grew 
 
 keen, 
 Entering with every step he took through many 
 
 a scene. 
 
 Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd 
 Again in fancied safety with his kind, 
 And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd 
 And sheath'd with an invulnerable mind, 
 That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd 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 ripen'd 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 ? 
 
Child* gatoM'* f ilgrimag*. 125 
 
 Who can contemplate Fame through clouds 
 
 unfold 
 The star which rises o'er her steep, nor 
 
 climb ? 
 Harold, once more within the vortex roll'd 
 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 
 
 quell'd, 
 In youth by his own thoughts ; still uncom- 
 
 pell'd, 
 He would not yield dominion of his mind 
 To spirits against whom his own rebell'd ; 
 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 roll'd the ocean, thereon was his 
 
 home ; 
 Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends, 
 He had the passion and the power to roan* ' 
 The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, 
 
i26 (&)\Mt glaroliPjSi gitgrimarje. 
 
 Were unto him companionship ; they spake 
 A mutual language, clearer than the tone 
 Of his land's tongue, which he would oft 
 
 forsake 
 For Nature's pages glass'd 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 s'park immortal, envying it the light 
 To which it mounts, as if to break the link 
 That keep 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, 
 Droop'd as a wild-born falcon with dipt 
 
 wing, 
 To whom the boundless air alone were home ; 
 Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome, 
 As eagerly the barr'd-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. 
 
$JuId* Srartd'i* fitgriwag*. 127 
 
 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 plun- 
 
 der'd 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 1 
 Is the spot mark'd 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 gain'd by thee, 
 Thou first and last of fields ! king-making Vic- 
 tory ? 
 
 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 
 
123 fflMt gavold^ gilgrimage. 
 
 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 shatter'd links of the world's 
 
 broken chain. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Fit retribution ! Gaul may champ the bit, 
 And foam in fetters, but is Earth more freer^ 
 Did nations combat to make One submit ; 
 Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty* 
 What ! shall reviving thraldom again be 
 The patch'd-up idol of enlighten'd days ? 
 Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we 
 Pay the Wolf homage ? proffering lowly gaze 
 £.nd servile knees to thrones? No; prove be- 
 fore ye praise ! 
 
 xx. 
 
 If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more ! 
 In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd 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 
 
 * " In pride of place " is a term of falconry, and means 
 •he highest pitch of flight. See Macbeth, etc. 
 
 " An eagle towering in his pride of place," etc. 
 
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 c -pital had gather'd 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 look'd love to eyes which spake 
 
 again, 
 And all went merry as a marriage bell ; f 
 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 unconfin'd ; 
 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, 
 
 * See the famous song on Harmodius and Aristo* 
 giton. The best English translation is in BlancPs An- 
 thology, by Mr. (now Lord Chief-Justice) Denman : 
 " With myrtle my sword will I wreathe," etc. 
 
 t On the night previous to the action, it is said that 
 a ball was given at Brussels. 
 
 9 
 
130 $lriUU llawtd^ gilgtimag*. 
 
 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 window'd 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 deem'd 
 
 it near, 
 His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
 Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier, 
 And roused the vengeance blood alone could 
 quell : 
 He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fight- 
 ing, fell. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
 And gathering tears, and tremblings of dis- 
 tress, 
 And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
 Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
 And there were sudden partings, such as 
 
 press 
 The life from out young hearts, and choking 
 sighs 
 
(JMde gawld'tf -gitgrimagc. 131 
 
 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 throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, 
 Or whispering, with white lips — "The foe! 
 
 They come ! they come ! " 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 And wild and high the " Cameron's gather- 
 ing" 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 
 
132 (&%Mt fterold^ gfilgtimag*. 
 
 The stirring memory of a thousand years, 
 And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clan* 
 man'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 unreturning 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, 
 
 * Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant Donald, the 
 " gentle Lochiel " of the " forty-five." 
 
 t The wood of Soignies is supposed to be a remnant 
 of the forest of Ardennes, famous in Boiardo's Orlando, 
 and immortal in Shakspeare's As You Like It. It is 
 also celebrated in Tacitus, as being the spot of success- 
 ful defence by the Germans against the Roman en- 
 croachments. I have ventured to adopt the name 
 connected with nobler associations than those of mere 
 slaughter. 
 
QSkiUt 1§mvM'# g itgvitttage. 133 
 
 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 cover'd thick with other clay, 
 Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and 
 
 pent, 
 Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red 
 
 burial blent ! 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Their praise is hymn'd 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 
 
 shower'd 
 The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files 
 
 along, 
 Even where the thickest of war's tempest 
 
 lower'd, 
 They reach'd 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 j 
 
134 GMfo StowM'jsi g\\$vxm$t. 
 
 But when I stood beneath the fresh green 
 
 tree, 
 Which living waves where thou didst cease 
 
 to live, 
 And saw around me the wide 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 turn'd from all she brought to those she 
 
 could not bring.* 
 
 * My guide from Mont St. Jean over the field seemed 
 intelligent and accurate. The place where Major 
 Howard fell was not far from two tall and solitary 
 trees (there was a third, cut down, or shivered, in the 
 battle), which stand a few yards from each other at a 
 pathway's side. Beneath these he died and was buried. 
 The body has since been removed to England. A 
 small hollow for the present marks where it lay, but 
 will probably soon be effaced ; the plough has been upon 
 it, and the grain is. After pointing out the different 
 spots where Picton and other gallant men had perished, 
 the guide said, " Here Major Howard lay : I was near 
 him when wounded." I told him my relationship, and 
 he seemed then still more anxious to point out the 
 particular spot and circumstances. The place is one 
 of the most marked in the field, from the peculiarity 
 of the two trees above mentioned. I went on horseback 
 twice over the field, comparing it with my recollection 
 of similar scenes. As a plain, Waterloo seems marked 
 out for the scene of some great action, though this 
 may be mere imagination. I have viewed with atten- 
 tion those of Platea, Troy, Mantinea, Leuctra, 
 Chaeronea, and Marathon, and the field around Mont 
 St. Jean and Hougoumont appears to want little but 
 a better cause, and that undefinable but impressive 
 halo which the lapse of ages throws around a cele- 
 brated spot, to vie in interest with any or all of these, 
 except perhaps the last mentioned. 
 
GMde ^nwWt fitgrimafl** 135 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 I turn'd 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 honour'd, 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 ruin'd 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 : 
 
136 (&M\&t 'gnxoWz gUgrimag*. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Even 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 for- 
 sakes, 
 Living in shatter'd 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's 
 
 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 ? 
 
 * The (fabled) apples on the brink of the lake As* 
 phaltes were said to be fair without, and within ashes. 
 Vide Tacitus, Histor. lib. v. 7. 
 
mWt f arotd'0 gilgtfowfl*. 137 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 The Psalmist number' d out the years of 
 
 man : 
 They are enough ; and if thy tale be true, 
 Thou, who didst grudge him even 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, 
 " EL , 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 o£ 
 men, 
 
 Whose spirit antithetically mixt 
 
 One moment of the mightiest, and again 
 
 On little objects with like firmness fixt ; 
 
 Extreme in all things ! hadst thou been be- 
 twixt, 
 
 Thy throne had still been thine, or never 
 been; # 
 
 For daring made thy rise as fall: tnou 
 seek st 
 
 Even now to reassume the imperial mien, 
 And shake again the world, the Thunderer of 
 the scene 1 
 
138 «WWe SawW'iei gitgnmage, 
 
 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 woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and be- 
 
 c me 
 The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert 
 A god unto thyself ; nor less the same 
 To the astounded kingdoms all inert, 
 Who deem'd 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, re- 
 build, 
 But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor, 
 However deeply in men's spirits skill'd, 
 Look through thine own, nor curb the lust 
 of war, 
 Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the 
 loftiest star. 
 
CHiJfo ^mW# Sttgrintajp, 139 
 
 XXXIX, 
 
 Yet well thy soul hath brook'd 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 spoil'd and favourite 
 
 child, 
 He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him 
 
 piled. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Sager than in thy fortunes ; for in them 
 Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show 
 That just habitual scorn, which could con- 
 temn 
 Men and their thoughts ; 'twas wise to feel, 
 
 not so 
 To wear it ever on thy 3ip and brow, 
 And spurn the instruments thou wert to 
 
 use 
 Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow : 
 'Tis but a worthless world to win or lose ; 
 So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who 
 choose. 
 
140 €Mt\t ftovotiTiS gitgrimafl*. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 If, like a tower upon a headland rock, 
 Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone, 
 Such scorn of man had help'd 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 
 
 * The great error of Napoleon, " if we have writ our 
 annals true," was a continued obtrusion on mankind of 
 his want of all community of feeling for or with them : 
 perhaps more offensive to human vanity than the active 
 cruelty of more trembling and suspicious tyranny. 
 Such were his speeches to public assemblies as well as 
 individuals; and the single expression which he is said 
 to have used on returning to Paris after the Russian 
 winter had destroyed his army, rubbing his hands over 
 a fire, " This is pleasanter than Moscow," would prob- 
 ably alienate more favour from his cause than the de* 
 Struction and reverses which led to the remark. 
 
Chilfo gjtevoItTg gilgrimage. 141 
 
 Beyond the fitting medium of desire ; 
 And, but once kindled, quenchless ever- 
 more, 
 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 ; 
 
142 <*Mtl* $aroltT0 gilgrimage. 
 
 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 sum- 
 mits 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 fare* 
 
 wells 
 From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly 
 
 dwells. 
 
$Hitd* gatotd^ g itgrimag*. 143 
 
 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 pass'd 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 ? 
 
 * " What wants that knave that a king should have ? " 
 vtsls King James's question on meeting Johnny Arm- 
 strong and his followers in full accoutrements. — See 
 the Ballad. 
 
i44 (tttol&t gSaroItVjsi gUgrimage. 
 
 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 discolour'd 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 
 
€fxMt §Mt*0liT0 fgilfltfmag*. 145 
 
 Even now what wants thy stream ? — that it 
 should Lethe be. 
 
 LI. 
 
 A thousand battles have assaiPd thy banks, 
 But these and half their fame have pass'd 
 
 away, 
 And Slaughter heap'd on high his weltering 
 
 ranks : 
 Their very graves are gone, and what are 
 
 they? 
 Thy tide wash'd down the blood of yester- 
 day, 
 And all was stainless, and on thy clear 
 
 stream 
 Glass'd with its dancing light the sunny ray ; 
 But o'er the blacken'd memory's blighting 
 
 dream 
 Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as 
 
 they seem. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along, 
 Yet not insensible to all which here 
 Awoke the jocund birds to early song 
 In glens which might have made even exile 
 
 dear : 
 Though on his brow were graven lines 
 
 austere, 
 And tranquil sternness which had ta'en the 
 
 place 
 Of feelings fiercer far but less severe. 
 10 
 
146 Child* garuid^ gilgtfmage, 
 
 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 dis- 
 gust 
 Hath wean'd 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 learn'd 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 
 
m\l&t ataMfor* fitgrimap, 147 
 
 Small power the nipp'd affections have to 
 grow, 
 In him this glow'd 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 greet- 
 ings 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, 
 
 * The castle of Drachenfels stands on the highest 
 summit of " The Seven Mountains," over the Rhine* 
 banks ; it is in ruins, and connected with some singula- 
 traditions. It is the first in view on the road fron» 
 Bonn, but on the opposite side of the river. On this 
 bank, nearly facing it, are the remains of another, 
 called the Jew's Castle, and a large cross commemora- 
 tive of the murder of a chief by his brother. The 
 number of castles and cities along the course of the 
 Rhine on both sides is very great, and their situations 
 remarkably beautiful. 
 
'48 mitt mtow* mwm$t. 
 
 AnH ?m al K ri u h With bloss ™'d trees, 
 And fields which promise corn and wine 
 And scatter'd cities crowning these, ' 
 H*° Se 5 ar ?* lte walls al0 "g them shine, 
 
 wfihV ?7 a SCene ' Which 2 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 
 
 Ihmugh green leaves lift their walls of 
 
 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 ; 
 
 iK°! g K before thy ham} the y touch > 
 
 I know that they must wither'd be 
 But yet reject them not as such ; ' 
 £or I have cherish'd them as dear 
 Because they yet may meet thine eye, 
 And guide thy soul to mine even here, 
 J hen thou behold'st them drooping nigh, 
 
 AnH k "°t?V hem gather'd by the Rhine/ 
 And offer d from my heart to thine ! 
 
 The river nobly foams and flows, 
 The charm of this enchanted ground, 
 And all its thousands turns disclose 
 borne fresher beauty varying round • 
 
tttttte Smtt'* gummas*- 149 
 
 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, gush'd from the rough 
 
 soldier's lid, 
 Lamenting and yet envying such a doom, 
 Falling for France, whose rights he battled to 
 resume. 
 
 LVTI. 
 
 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 
 
150 (&M&t garotte gitgrimage. 
 
 On such as wield her weapons ; he had 
 kept 
 The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er 
 him wept* 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 Here Ehrenbreitstein,f with her shatter'd 
 
 wall 
 
 * The monument of the young and lamented General 
 Marceau (killed by a rifle-ball at Alterkirchen on the 
 last day of the fourth year of the French Republic) 
 still remains as described. The inscriptions on his 
 monument are rather too long, and not required — his 
 name was enough. France adored, and her enemies 
 admired ; both wept over him. His funeral was attended 
 by the generals and detachments from both armies. 
 In the same grave General Hoche is interred, a gallant 
 man also in every sense of the word; but though he 
 distinguished himself greatly in battle, he had not the 
 good fortune to die there; his death was attended by 
 suspicions of poison. A separate monument (not 
 over his body, which is buried by Marceau' s) is raised 
 for him near Andernach, opposite to which one of his 
 most memorable exploits was performed, in throwing 
 a bridge to an island on the Rhine. The shape and 
 style are different from that of Marceau's and the in- 
 scription more simple and pleasing : " The Army of the 
 Sambre and Meuseto its Commander-in-Chief, Hoche." 
 This is all, and as it should be. Hoche was esteemed 
 among the first of France's earlier generals, before 
 Bonaparte monopolized her triumphs. He was the 
 destined commander of the invading army of Ireland. 
 
 t Ehrenbreitstein, i. e. " the broad stone of honor," 
 one of the strongest fortresses in Europe, was dismantled 
 and blown up by the French at the truce of Leoben. 
 It had been, and could only be, reduced by famine or 
 treachery, It yielded to the former, aided by surprise. 
 After having seen the fortifications of Gibraltar and 
 
tffcilA* §totMs gilgtlmajie. 15 x 
 
 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 watch'd along the plain : 
 But Peace destroy'd what War could never 
 
 blight, 
 And laid those proud roofs bare to Summer s 
 
 ram — >j 
 
 On which the iron shower for years had pour d 
 
 in vain. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Adieu to thee, fair Rhine ! How long, de- 
 lighted, 
 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, nor too sombre nor too gay, 
 Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, 
 Is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the year. 
 
 Malta, it did not much strike by comparison ; but the 
 situation is commanding. General Marceau besieged 
 it in vain for some time; and I slept in a room where 
 I was shown a window at which he is said to have been 
 standing, observing the progress of the siege by moon- 
 light, when a ball struck immediately below it. 
 
152 tSMlfc garold^ gfitgrimage, 
 
 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 cherish'd 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 be- 
 tween, 
 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 spirh>yet appals, 
 Gather round 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 pass d in vain, — 
 Morat ! the proud, the patriot field ! where 
 
 man 
 May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slam, 
 Nor blush for those who conquered on that 
 
 plain ; , . 
 
 Here Burgundy bequeath'd his tombless 
 
 host, 
 A bony heap, through ages to remain, 
 Themselves their monument ;— the Stygian 
 
 coast 
 Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek d each 
 
 wandering ghost.* 
 
 * The chapel is destroyed, and the pyramid of bones 
 diminished to a small number by the Burgundian legion 
 in the service of France, who anxiously effaced this 
 record of their ancestors 1 less successful invasions. A 
 few still remain, notwithstanding the pains taken by the 
 Burgundians for ages (all who passed that way remov- 
 ing a bone to their own country), and the less justifiable 
 larcenies of the Swiss postilions, who carried them oft 
 
154 (C'hUdc gtottfMP* JUgnmagc. 
 
 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-entail'd Corruption ; they no land 
 Doom'd 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 gray and grief-worn aspect of old days, 
 'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years, 
 And looks as with the wild bewilder'd gaze 
 Of one to stone converted by amaze, 
 Yet still with consciousness ; and there it 
 
 stands, 
 Making a marvel that it not decays, 
 
 to sell for knife-handles, — a purpose for which the 
 whiteness imbibed by the bleaching of years had 
 rendered them in great request. 
 
 Of these relics I ventured to bring away as much as 
 may have made a quarter of a hero, for which the sole 
 excuse is, that if I had not, the next passer-by might 
 have perverted them to worse uses than the careful 
 preservation which I intend for them. 
 
<£1xMt %mM f $ gilgrimage. 155 
 
 When the coeval pride of human hands, 
 Levell'd Aventicum, hath strew'd 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.f 
 
 * Aventicum, near Morat, was the Roman capital of 
 Helvetia, where Avenches now stands. 
 
 t Julia Alpinula, a young Aventian priestess, died 
 soon after a vain endeavour to save her father.condemned 
 to death as a traitor by Aulus Caecina. Her epitaph 
 was discovered many years ago. It is thus: "Julia 
 Alpinula : Hie jaceo. Infelicis patris infelix proles. 
 Deae Aventiae Sacerdos. Exorare patris necem non 
 potui : Male mori in fatis ille erat. Vixi annos XXIII." 
 I know of no human composition so affecting as this, 
 nor a history of deeper interest. These are the names 
 and actions which ought not to perish, and to which 
 we turn with a true and healthy tenderness, from the 
 wretched and glittering detail of a confused mass of 
 
156 (K'hUdc l*aroUr$ vUfuimnge. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 But there 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 : 
 
 conquests and battles, with which the mind is roused 
 for a time to a false and feverish sympathy, from 
 whence it recurs at length with all the nausea conse- 
 quent on such intoxication. 
 
 * This is written in the eye of Mont Blanc (June 3d, 
 1S16,) which even at this distance dazzles mine. (July 
 20.) — I this day observed for some time the distinct 
 reflection of Mont Blanc and Mont Argentiere in the 
 calm of the lake, which I was crossing in my boat. 
 The distance of these mountains from their mirror is 
 sixty miles. 
 
Child* garotd^ gitgrimage. 157 
 
 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 cherish'd than of 
 
 old, 
 Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd 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 tean: 
 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 in- 
 vite, 
 
158 ttitfa gawWjsi gitantttage. 
 
 But there are wanderers o'er Eternity 
 Whose bark drives on and on, and anchof'd 
 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 fro ward 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, doom'd 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, 
 Class'd 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. 
 
 * The colour of the Rhone at Geneva is blue to a 
 depth of tint which I have never seen equalled in 
 water, salt or fresh, except in the Mediterranean and 
 Archipelago. 
 
(&UMt ^xxoWg gitpimag*. 159 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 And thus I am absorb'd, 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 im« 
 
 mortal 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 
 
x6o Childc ifmWt giIgrittXge< 
 
 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 a while — 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 Rous- 
 seau, 
 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 
 
€Mde ItotiVtf gilfltimag*, 161 
 
 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 enamour'd, 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, distemper'd though it 
 seems. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 This breathed itself to life in Julie, this 
 Invested her with all that's wild and sweet ; 
 This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss * 
 Which every morn his fever'd lip would greet, 
 
 * This refers to the account in his Confessions of his 
 passion for the Comtesse d'Houdetot (the mistress of 
 St. Lambert), and his long walk every morning, for the 
 sake of the single kiss which was the common saluta- 
 tion of French acquaintance. Rousseau's description 
 of his feelings on this occasion maybe considered as the 
 most passionate, yet not impure, description and ex- 
 pression of love that ever kindled into words; which, 
 after all, must be felt from their very force to be inade- 
 quate to the delineation. A painting can give no suf* 
 ficent idea of the ocean. 
 II 
 
162 (gfoMt garoltTjsi pilgrimage. 
 
 From hers, who but with friendship his 
 
 would meet : 
 But to that gentle touch, through brain and 
 
 breast 
 Flash'd the thrill'd 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-banish'd ; 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 rea- 
 soning 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, 
 
m\&t »a*oM* filgrimase. 163 
 
 Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no 
 
 more : . . , , u ^ 
 
 Did he not this for France, which lay be- 
 fore 3 
 Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years t 
 Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore, 
 Till by the voice of him and his compeers 
 Roused y up to too much wrath, which follows 
 o'ergrown fears ? 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 Thev made themselves a fearful monument! 
 The wreck of old opinions-things which 
 
 Breathed from the birth of time; the veil 
 
 And whltTehind 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 
 
 As heretofore', because ambition was self-will'd. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 But this will not endure, nor be endured! 
 Mankind have felt their strength, and made 
 
 Theymtght have used it better, but, allured 
 By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt 
 On one another; Phased to melt 
 With her once natural chanties. But tney, 
 
164 (EfxMt garold^ f itgrimage. 
 
 Who in oppression's darkness caved had 
 
 dwelt, 
 They were not eagles, nourish'd 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 van- 
 quished, bear 
 Silence, but not submission ; in his lair 
 Fix'd Passion holds his breath, until the hour 
 Which shall atone for years ; none need de- 
 spair : 
 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 wide 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 
 
$hil<te 1&ixvM'$ gitgrimao*, 165 
 
 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, 
 Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen, 
 Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights ap- 
 pear 
 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 hei 
 hues. 
 
166 (&hx\&t Steroid^ gilgrimag** 
 
 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 lull'd lake and mountain- 
 coast, 
 
 All is concenter'd 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 ; 
 
mite lawM* S4l0rtm»0e. 167 
 
 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. 
 
 Not 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 unwall'd temple, there to seek 
 The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are 
 
 weak, 
 Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and com- 
 pare 
 Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, 
 With nature's realms of worship, earth and 
 air, 
 Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thj 
 prayer ! 
 
 xci 1. 
 
 The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! 
 
 O night, 
 And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous 
 
 strong, 
 
[68 4M4* gtour-s pilgrimage. 
 
 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 J 
 
 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 moun .in- 
 
 mirth, 
 A.s 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 ; 
 
<SMd* gjteMM'j* fitgnmag*. 169 
 
 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 
 
 fork'd 
 His lightnings, as if he did understand 
 That in such ^aps as desolation work'd, 
 There the hot "shaft should blast whatever 
 
 therein lurk'd. 
 
 xcvi. 
 
 Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, light- 
 nings ! ye, 
 
 "With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a 
 soul 
 
 To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
 
170 (SfoMt 9 §mvW$ gilpima^ 
 
 Things that have made me watchful ; the fai 
 
 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, 
 
(&MMt WwxoW# gitgvimag*. 171 
 
 And living as if earth contain'd 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. 
 
 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 
 
172 (SMd* Harold^ gitgrimage. 
 
 Not on those summits solely, nor alone 
 
 In the still cave and forest ; o'er the flowet 
 
 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 bow'd 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 
 
 I stood, 
 Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude. 
 
 en. 
 
 A populous solitude of bees and birds, _ 
 And fairy-form'd and many colour'd things, 
 Who worship him with notes more sweet than 
 
 words, 
 And innocently open their glad wings, 
 
<&h,Mt gjtetold^ filgnmag*. 173 
 
 Tearless 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. 
 
 cm. 
 
 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 1 
 
 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 hallow'd it with loveliness : 'tis lone, 
 And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound, 
 
174 ©toitd* garffM^ gitflriwH0*. 
 
 And sense, and sight of sweetness ; here the 
 Rhone 
 Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have 
 rear'd a throne. 
 
 cv. 
 
 Lausanne ! and Ferney ! ye have been the 
 
 abodes 
 Of names which unto you bequeath'd a 
 
 name ; * 
 Mortals, who sought and found, by danger- 
 ous 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 assail'd, 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 
 
 * Voltaire and Gibbon. 
 
mWt %*xM* fiignmage, 17? 
 
 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. 
 
 cvn. 
 
 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 doom'd him to the zealot's ready hell, 
 Which answers to all doubts so eloquently welU 
 
 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 allay d 
 By slumber on one pillow, in the dust, 
 Which, thus much we are sure, must lie de- 
 
 cay'd ; 
 And when it shall revive, as is our trust, 
 •Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just 
 
£.76 GMde garold^ <£Ugrima0*. 
 
 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. 
 
 ex. 
 
 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 as- 
 suages 
 Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her 
 fill, 
 Flows from the eternal source of Rome's im- 
 perial hill. 
 
 CXI. 
 
 Thus far have I proceeded in a theme 
 Renew'd with no kind auspices : — to feel 
 
€Mde gtonottP* gilgvimag*. 177 
 
 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, — remember'd or for- 
 got. 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 I have not loved the world, nor the world 
 
 me; 
 I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor 
 
 bow'd 
 To its idolatries a patient knee, — 
 Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, nor cried 
 
 aloud 
 In worship of an echo ; in the crowd 
 12 
 
178 $Mdc SxvriUfr gUgnmag*. 
 
 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 failing : I would also deem 
 O'er other's 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 thus much 
 
 shall end — 
 
 *— " If it be thus, 
 For Banquo's issue have I filed my mind." — Macbeth* 
 
(£hMz !&moW$ pilgrimage, 179 
 
 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 t 
 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. 
 
 cxvn. 
 
 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 
 
 fought 
 With desolation, and a broken claim : 
 
i8o (Ehxl&t !£imoU f $ g ttgrimage. 
 
 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 bitter- 
 ness 
 
 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 temper'd, and thy hope far 
 higher. 
 
 Sweet be thy cradled slumbers ! O'er the 
 sea, 
 
 And from the mountains where I now re- 
 spire, 
 
 Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, 
 As, with a sigh, I deem thou mightst have 
 been to me ! 
 
$httd* garcM'* gilgtimao*. 181 
 
 CANTO THE FOURTH. 
 1818. 
 
 TO JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ., A.M., F.R.S., ETC. 
 
 VENICE, January 2, 1818. 
 
 My dear Hobhouse. — After an interval of eight 
 years between the composition of the first and last 
 cantos of Childe Harold, the conclusion of the poem is^ 
 about to be submitted to the public. In parting 
 with so old a friend, it is not extraordinary that I should 
 recur to one still older and better, — to one who has be- 
 held the birth and death of the other, and to whom I 
 am far more indebted for the social advantages of an> 
 enlightened friendship, than — though not ungrateful — I 
 can, or could be, to Childe Harold, for any public favour 
 reflected through the p em on the poet, — to one whom, 
 I have known lon,_ and accompanied far, whom I 
 have found wakeful over my si kness and kind in my 
 sorrow, glad in ■ y prosperity and firm in my adversity, 
 true in counsel and tru3ty in peril, — to a f ^nd often 
 tried and nev ■ f ' . ->d wanti g ; — to yourself. 
 
 In so doing, I recir from fiction to truth, and in ded- 
 icating to you, in it complete or at least concluded 
 jjtate, a pr tical w k which is the longest, the most 
 thoughtful and comprehensive of my compositions, I 
 svish to do honour to myself by the record of many 
 years' intimacy with a man of learning, of talent, of 
 steadiness, and of honour. It is not for minds like- 
 ours to give or to receive flattery ; yet the praises of 
 sincerity have ever been permitted to the voice of 
 friendship ; and it is not for you, nor even for others, 
 but to relieve a heart which has not elsewhere, or lately,. 
 been so much accustomed to the encounter of good-wili 
 
1 82 $tul4* TgwoWfi § ilgrimage. 
 
 as to withstand the shock firmly, that I thus attempt 
 to commemorate your good qualities, or rather the ad- 
 vantages which I have derived from their exertion. 
 Even the recurrence of the date of this letter, the anni- 
 versary of the most unfortunate day of my past exist- 
 ence,* but which cannot poison my future while I re- 
 tain the resource of your friendship, and of my own 
 faculties, will henceforth have a more agreeable recol- 
 lection for both, inasmuch as it will remind us of this 
 my attempt to thank you for an indefatigable regard, 
 such as few men have experienced, and no one could 
 experience without thinking better of his species and 
 of himself. 
 
 It has been our fortune to traverse together, at various 
 periods, the countries of chivalry, history, and fable — 
 Spain, Greece, Asia Minor, and Italy ; and what Athens 
 and Constantinople were to us a few years ago, Venice 
 and Rome have been more recently. The poem also, or 
 the pilgrim, or both, have accompanied me from first 
 to last : and perhaps it may be a pardonable vanity 
 which induces me to reflect with complacency on a 
 composition which in some degree connects me with 
 the spot where it was produced, and the objects it 
 would fain describe; and however unworthy it may 
 De deemed of those magical and memorable abodes, 
 however short it may fall of our distant conceptions 
 and immediate impressions, yet as a mark of respect 
 for what is venerable, and of feeling for what is glorious, 
 it has been to me a source of pleasure in the production, 
 and I part with it with a kind f regret, which I hardly 
 suspected that events could have left me for imaginary 
 objects. 
 
 With regard to the conduct of the last canto, there 
 will be found less of the pilgrim than in any of the 
 preceding, and that little slightly, if at all, separated 
 from the author speaking in his own person. The 
 fact is, that I had become weary of drawing aline which 
 every one seemed determined not to perceive : like the 
 Chinese in Goldsmith's Citizen of the Worlds whom 
 nobody would believe to be a Chinese, it was in vain 
 *His marriage. 
 
(&h%Wt StoW$ gitpimage, 183 
 
 that I asserted, and imagined that I had drawn, a dis- 
 tinction between the author and the pilgrim ; and the 
 very anxiety to preserve this difference, and disappoint- 
 ment at finding it unavailing, so far crushed my efforts 
 in the composition, that I determined to abandon it 
 altogether — and have done so. The opinions which 
 have been, or may be, formed on that subject, are now 
 a matter of indifference : the work is to depend on it- 
 self and not on the writer ; and the author, who has 
 no resources in his own mind beyond the reputation, 
 transient or permanent, which is to arise from his 
 literary efforts, deserves the fate of authors. 
 
 In the course of the following canto it was my inten- 
 tion, either in the text or in the notes, to have touched 
 upon the present state of Italian literature, and perhaps 
 of manners. But the text, within the limits I proposed, 
 I soon found hardly sufficient for the labyrinth of ex- 
 ternal objects, and the consequent reflections ; and for 
 the whole of the notes, excepting a few of the shortest, 
 I am indebted to yourself, and these were necessarily 
 limited to the elucidation of the text. 
 
 It is also a delicate, and no very grateful task, to 
 dissert upon the literature and manners of a nation so 
 dissimilar ; and requires an attention and impartiality 
 which would induce us — though perhaps no inattentive 
 observers, nor ignorant of the language or customs of 
 the people amongst whom we have recently abode — to 
 distrust, or at least defer our judgment, and more 
 narrowly examine our information. The state of literary 
 as well as political party appears to run, or to have run, 
 so high, that for a stranger to steer impartially between 
 them is next to impossible. It may be enough, then, 
 at least for my purpose, to quote from their own beauti- 
 ful language — " Mi pare che in un paese tutto poetico, 
 che vanta la lingua la piu nobile ed insieme la piu dolce, 
 tutte tutte le vie diverse si possono tentare, e che sinche 
 la patria di Alfieri e di Monti non ha perduto l'antico 
 valore, in tutte essa doverbbe essere la prima." Italy 
 has great names still : Canova, Monti, Ugo Foscolo, 
 Pindemonte, Visconti, Morelli, Cicognara, Albrizzi, 
 Mezzophanti, Mai, Mustoxidi, Aglietti, and Vacca, will 
 
184 (StoiUte gavuld'j* gitgrimag*. 
 
 secure to the present generation an honourable place 
 in most of the departments of art, science, and belles 
 lettres; and in some the very highest. Europe — the 
 World — has but one Canova. 
 
 It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, that " La 
 pianta uomo nasce piu robusta in Italia che in qualun- 
 que altra terra — e che gli stessi atroci delitti che vi si 
 commettono ne sono una prova." Without subscrib- 
 ing to the latter part of his proposition — a dangerous 
 doctrine, the truth of which may be disputed on better 
 grounds, namely, that the Italians are in no respect 
 more ferocious than their neighbours — that man must 
 be wilfully blind, or ignorantly heedless, who is not 
 struck with the extraordinary capacity of this people,, 
 or, if such a word be admissible, their capabilities, the 
 facility of their acquisitions, the rapidity of their concep- 
 tions, the fire of their genius, their sense of beauty, and 
 amidst all the disadvantages of repeated revolutions, 
 the desolation of battles, and the despair of ages, their 
 still unquenched "longing after immortality" — the 
 immortality of independence. And when we ourselves, 
 in riding round the walls of Rome, heard the simple 
 lament of the labourers' chorus, " Roma ! Roma ! Roma t 
 Roma non e piu come era prima," it was difficult not 
 to contrast this melancholy dirge with the bacchanal 
 roar of the songs of exultation still yelled from the 
 London taverns, over the carnage of Mont St. Jean, and 
 the betrayal of Genoa, of Italy, of France and of the 
 world, by men whose conduct you yourself have ex- 
 posed in a work worthy of the better days of our history. 
 For me,- 
 
 " Non movero mai corda 
 Ove la turba di sue ciance assorda." 
 
 What Italy has gained by the late transfer of nations, 
 it were useless for Englishmen to inquire, till it be- 
 comes ascertained that England has acquired something 
 more than a permanent army and a suspended Habeas 
 Corpus; it is enough for them to look at home. For 
 what they have done abroad, and especially in the 
 
WxW %jnvM'# gilgnmag*, 185 
 
 south, " verily they will have their reward, and at no 
 very distant period." 
 
 Wishing you, my dear Hobhouse, a safe and agree- 
 able return to that country whose real welfare can be 
 dearer to none than to yourself, I dedicate to you this 
 poem in its completed state ; and repeat once more how 
 truly I am ever, your obliged and affectionate friend, 
 
 Byron. 
 
 J 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 ! 
 
 11. 
 
 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 
 Prom spoils of nations, and the exhaustless 
 
 East 
 Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling 
 
 showers. 
 
x86 (t\\\Ut &mWfi gitovimagc. 
 
 In purple was she robed, and of her fearf 
 Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity 
 increased. 
 
 in. 
 
 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 de- 
 spond 
 Above the Dogeless city's vanish'd 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. 
 
 The beings of the mind are not of clay ; 
 Essentially immortal, they create 
 
(£KxMt % m M>$ filgnmag** 187 
 
 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 dream'd of such, — but let them 
 
 go — 
 They came like truth, and disappear'd like 
 
 dreams ; 
 And whatsoe'er they were — are now but so ; 
 I could replace them if I would : still teems 
 
188 m\&c garoN'* gilgrimage. 
 
 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 remember'd in my line 
 With my land's language ; if too fond and 
 
 far 
 These aspirations in their scope incline,— 
 
mm lawW'jst f ilgtimagf. 189 
 
 If my fame should be, as my fortunes are, 
 Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion 
 bar 
 
 My name from out the temple where the 
 
 dead 
 Are honour'd 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 reap'd are of the 
 
 tree 
 I planted, — they have torn me, and I bleed : 
 should have known what fruit would spring 
 
 from such a seed. 
 
 XI. 
 
 The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord ; 
 And, annual marriage now no more renew'd, 
 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 wither'd power, 
 Over the proud Place where an Emperor 
 
 sued, 
 And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour 
 When Venice was a queen with an unequall'd 
 dower. 
 
 * The answer of the mother of Brasidas, the Lace- 
 daemonian general, to the strangers who praised the 
 memory of her son. 
 
190 €h\Ut Steroid^ gilgnmage* 
 
 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 ! 
 Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's con- 
 quering 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 7 — Venice, lost and 
 
 won, 
 Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, 
 Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose I 
 Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and 
 
 shun, 
 Even in Destruction's depth, her foreign 
 
 foes, 
 From whom submission wrings an infamous 
 
 repose. 
 
m\&t itottTj* SU0rtm»(je* 191 
 
 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 
 
 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 shiver'd— the long file 
 
 Of her dead Doges are declined to dust ; 
 
 But where they dwelt, the vast and sump- 
 tuous 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. 
 
 * That is the Lion of St. Mark, the standard of the 
 republic, which is the origin of the word Pantaloon— 
 Piantaleone, Pantaleon, Pantaloon. 
 
(fhiidr Turold'.s ^ilgrimagf. 
 
 xvi. 
 
 When Athens' armies fell at Sync 
 
 1 feuer'd thousands b . fee of war. 
 
 Redemption rose up in the A 
 Her voice their only ransom from afar : 
 
 - they chant the tragic hymn, the car 
 Of the o'ermaster'd victor stops, the reins 
 Fall from his hands — the idle scir. 
 :s from its belt — he rends his cau 
 chn 
 And bids him thank the bard for freedom and 
 his strains. 
 
 xvii. 
 
 nice.if no stronger claim were thine, 
 Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, 
 Thy coral memory of the Bard divine, 
 
 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 
 .nice think of thine, despite thy watery 
 
 wall. 
 
 :n. 
 
 I loved her from my boyhood : she to me 
 Was as a f a. . : the he.v 
 
 og like water-columns from the 
 Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart 
 
 * - - 
 
Childe Tiarold's pilgrimage. 
 
 And Radcliffe, Schiller, Shaks- 
 
 Had -;amp"d her image in me, and even so, 
 Although I found her thus, we did not part, 
 : :hance even dearer in her day of woe, 
 Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a 
 
 sh: . 
 
 
 I can repeople with the past — and of 
 
 The present there is still for eye and 
 
 thong 
 i meditation chasten'd down. enou_ 
 And more, it may be, than I hoped or 
 
 sought ; 
 And of "the happiest moments which 
 
 wrought 
 ithin the web of m nee, some 
 
 Frc . have their colours 
 
 3 
 
 There are some feelings Time can not 
 benumb. 
 Nor torture shake, or mine would now be cold 
 and dumb. 
 
 xx. 
 
 But from the' _-owf 
 
 Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter'd rocks, 
 
 ■:.- of Venice- 
 
 is the plural «H of far 
 
 oeculiar to the Alps, which only thr. rj rocky 
 
 ^ ' 15 
 
194 Childc Ihivours' gilgrimage. 
 
 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, gray 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 makes its firm abode 
 Jn bare and desolate bosoms : mute 
 The camel labours with the heaviest load, 
 And the wolf dies in silence. Not bestow'd 
 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 destroy'd, 
 Even by the sufferer ; and, in each event, 
 Ends : — Some, with hope replenished and 
 rebuoy'd, 
 
 parts, where scarcely soil sufficient for its nourishment 
 can be found. On these spots it grows to a greate* 
 height than any other mountain tree. 
 
Return to whence they came— with like 
 
 intent, 
 And weave their web again; some, bow'd 
 
 and bent, 
 Wax gray 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 form'd 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, 
 
196 (t\x\UU XtaroUr.s pilgrimage, 
 
 But feel the shock renew'd, nor can efface 
 The blight and blackening which it leaves 
 
 behind, 
 Which out of things familiar, undesign'd, 
 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 mourn'd, 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 
 Fallen 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 ; 
 
$hitde IforcM'* f itgrimage. 197 
 
 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 
 Yen sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
 Roll'd o'er the peak of the far Rhaetian hill, 
 As Day and Night contending were, until 
 Nature reclaim'd 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 glass'd 
 
 within it glows. 
 
198 Child* gterold** ^il^timagc. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Fill'd 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 gray. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 There is a tomb in Arqua ; — rear'd in air, 
 Pillar'd 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 
 
ChiUte garotte gitgrimnge. 199 
 
 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 form'd 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 de- 
 
 cay'd 
 In the deep umbrage of a green hill's 
 
 shade, 
 Which shows a distant prospect far away 
 Of busy cities, now in vain display'd. 
 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 
 
300 (Child? garolir.s ^ilflnmanc. 
 
 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 starve ; 
 
 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 ill 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 seats 
 Of former sovereigns, and the antique 
 
 brood 
 Of Este, which for many an age made good 
 
m\fa gavotd^ gUerimage. 201 
 
 Its strength within thy walls, and was of 
 
 yore 
 Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood 
 Of petty power impell'd, 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 earn'd 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 
 Scatter'd 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 
 
102 $hild* itold'isi gjilgnwafl*. 
 
 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. 
 
 xxxvm. 
 
 Thou / form'd to eat, and be despised, and 
 
 die, 
 Even as the beasts that perish, save that 
 
 thou 
 Hadst a more splendid trough, and wider 
 
 sty; 
 Me I with a glory round his furrow'd 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 creak- 
 ing 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 
 Aim'd with her poison'd arrows — but to 
 
 miss. 
 Oh, victor unsurpass'd 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 scatter'd rays, they would 
 
 not form a sun. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Great as thou art, yet parallel'd 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 call'd 
 
 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 mimck'd 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, 
 
2o4 (I'hihlc HtavoUr.c VUfltimaar. 
 
 Know that the lightning sanctifies below 
 Whate'er it strikes ; — yon head is doubly 
 sacred now. 
 
 XI. II. 
 
 Italia! () Italia I 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 l>y 
 
 shame, 
 And annals graved in characters of flame, 
 O God ! that thou wert in thy nakedness 
 
 9 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 
 distri 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Then mightst thou more appal ; or, less 
 desired, 
 
 Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored 
 For thy destructive charms ; then, still un- 
 
 til'eo. 
 
 Would not be seen the armed torrents 
 pour'd 
 
 Down the deep Alps ; nor would the hos- 
 tile horde 
 
 Of many-nation'd spoilers from the Po 
 
 Quaff blood and water ; nor the stranger's 
 sword 
 
Child* garotte gilgrimnflc. 20: 
 
 Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, 
 Victor or vanquish'd, 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 
 JEgina 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 uprear'd 
 Barbaric dwellings mi their shatter'd site, 
 Which only make more mourn'd and more 
 endear'd 
 
 The few last rays of their far-scatter'd light. 
 And the crush'd relics of their vanish'd 
 
 might. 
 The Roman saw these tombs in his own age, 
 These sepulchres of cities, which excite 
 Sad wonder, and his yd surviving page 
 The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pil« 
 
 grimage. 
 
2o6 (ChiliU JiavoUr.s JUgvimnge. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 That page is now before me, and on mine 
 
 His country's ruin added to the mass 
 
 Of perish'd states he mourn'd in their de« 
 
 cline, 
 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 for- 
 given. 
 
dtfxMt Jjwtortd'0 sgilgnwag*. 207 
 
 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, redeem'd 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 be- 
 hold 
 
 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 : 
 
 We gaze and turn away, and know not 
 
 where, 
 Dazzled and drunk with beauty till the heart 
 
*o8 (!Mde JtoroUTjei gilflrimaflc. 
 
 Reels with its fulness ; there — for evel 
 
 there — 
 Chain'd to the chariot of triumphal Art, 
 We stand as captives, and would not de- 
 part. 
 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. 
 
 Appear'dst 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, 
 Shower'd 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 
 
ttild* gtoltTjsi gilgrimage* 209 
 
 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. 
 
 Mil. 
 
 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 
 Even 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 
 
 14 
 
2io Cluldc gtattttfr gitgrtaagt. 
 
 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 ele- 
 ments, 
 Might furnish forth creation : — Italy ! 
 Time, which hath wrong'd 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, distinguish'd from our common 
 
 clay 
 In death as life ? Are they resolved to 
 
 dust, 
 And have their country's marbles nought to 
 
 say ? 
 
(fffeUfc iiaroW'ssi gitgrimaae. 2n 
 
 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 ever- 
 more 
 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 form'd 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, 
 
2i2 (fhiUlc garoUVs VilruimaiK. 
 
 No more amidst the meaner dead find room, 
 Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for 
 whom I 
 
 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 (ailing empire ! honour'd sleeps 
 The immortal exile : — Arqua, too, her store 
 Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, 
 While Florence vainly begs her banish'd 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. 
 
$lnldc UteraWjai gilgrimag^ 213 
 
 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 accustom'd 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, swolPn to rivers with their 
 
 gore, 
 Reek through the sultry plain, with legions 
 
 scatter'd o'er. 
 
2i4 (Thildc JftavoUr.s Vilflvimagc. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Like to a forest fell'd 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 reel'd unneededly away ! 
 None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet. 
 And yawning forth a grave for those who 
 
 lay 
 Upon their bucklers fur 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, reck'd not of the awe 
 Which reigns when mountains tremble, and 
 
 the birds 
 Plunge in the clouds for refuge, and with- 
 draw 
 From their down-toppling nests ; and bellow- 
 ing 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 
 
CKitae gKrift gilgvimafle, 215 
 
 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 turn'd 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 
 
216 <£Uilile gavoliT.s ^Pilgrimage. 
 
 The finny darter with the flittering scales, 
 Who dwells and revels in the glassy deeps; 
 While, chance, some scatter'd water-lily sails 
 Down where the shallower wave still tells its 
 bubbling tales. 
 
 lxviii. 
 
 Pass not unblest the Genios of the place ! 
 If through the air a zephyr more serene 
 Will 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. 
 
 I.XIX. 
 
 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, 
 
(EtoiUU iJtoWjsi gilgrimaflc. 217 
 
 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, 
 
218 it\\Mt Baroia^ ^itgrimagr* 
 
 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 un- 
 shorn ! 
 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 wor- 
 
 shipp'd 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 
 
(£M\&t ftorottf^ gitgdmagc* 219 
 
 Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame, 
 For still they soar'd unutterably high : 
 I've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye ; 
 Athos, Olympus, ^Etna, Atlas, made 
 These hills seem things of lesser dignity, 
 All, save the lone Soracte's height display'd, 
 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 Latin echoes ; I abhorr'd 
 Too much to conquer for the poet's sake, 
 The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word 
 
 by word 
 In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to 
 
 record 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 Aught that recalls the daily drug which 
 
 turn'd 
 My sickening memory ; and, though Time 
 
 hath taught 
 My mind to meditate what then it learn'd, 
 Yet such the fix'd inveteracy wrought 
 By the impatience of my early thought, 
 
220 Chilile JuuoUr.s gttgrimage. 
 
 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 touch'd 
 
 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 wither d hands, 
 Whose holy dust was scatter'd 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 dealt upon the seven-hill'd city s pride : 
 She saw her glories star by star expire, 
 And up the steep barbarian monarchs 
 
 Where the car climb'd the Capitol ; far and 
 
 wide 
 Temple and tower went down, nor leit 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 ? 
 
222 (Child* HuwoUr.s *Hlgvtma(j*. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXXI I. 
 
 Alas, the lofty city ! and alas, 
 
 The trebly hundred triumphs ! * and the day 
 
 When Brutus made the dagger's edge sur- 
 pass 
 
 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 ! 
 
 * Orosius gives 320 for the number of triumphs. He 
 is followed by Panvinius, and Panvinius by Mr. Gibbon 
 and the modern writers. 
 
(&MMt SmwUVie: gitgrimage* 223 
 
 LXXXIII 
 
 O thou, whose chariot roll'd 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 array'd 
 Her warriors but to conquer — she who 
 
 veil'd 
 Earth with her haughty shadow, and dis- 
 
 play'd, 
 Until the o'er-canopied horizon fail'd, 
 Her rushing wings — Oh ! she who was 
 
 Almighty hail'd ! 
 
224 (ThiUlf garaM'* pilgrimage. 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 Sylla was first of victors ; but our own, 
 The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell ! — he 
 Too swept off senates while he hew'd 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 ; 
 1 lis 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 cro\vn"d him, on the self-same 
 
 day 
 Deposed him gently from his throne of force, 
 And laid him with the earth's preceding clay. 
 And show'd 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, 
 
(MUt *§*xoW$ gilgrimage, 
 
 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 suck'd from thy 
 
 wild teat, 
 Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's ethereal dart, 
 And thy limbs black'd with lightning — dost 
 
 thou yet 
 Guard thine immortal cuds, nor thy fond charge 
 
 forget ? 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Thou dost ; — but all thy foster-babes are 
 
 dead — 
 The men of iron ; and the world hath rear'd 
 15 
 
226 (Thildc TgMtM'i $it0Vtaft#t. 
 
 Cities from out their sepulchres : men bled 
 
 In imitation of the things they fear'd, 
 
 And fought and conquer'd, and the same 
 
 course steer'd, 
 At apish distance ; but as yet none have, 
 Nor could, the same supremacy have near'd, 
 Save one vain man, who is not in the grave, 
 But, vanquish'd by himself, to his own slaves 
 
 a slave, 
 
 The fool of false dominion — and a kind 
 Of bastard Caesar, following him of old 
 With steps unequal: for the Roman's mind 
 Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould, 
 With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold. 
 And an immortal instinct which redeem'd 
 Tlie frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold, 
 Alcides with the distaff now he seem'd 
 At Cleopatra's feet, and now himself he 
 beam'd, 
 
 xcr. 
 
 And came, and saw, and conquer'd. But 
 
 the man 
 Who would have tamed his eagles down tc- 
 
 flee, 
 lake a train'd 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 : 
 
$hitde gayoWg gilgtimage, 227 
 
 Coquettish in ambition, still he aim'd — 
 At what ? Can he avouch, or answer what he 
 claim'd ? 
 
 xcn. 
 
 And would be all or nothing — nor could wait 
 For the sure grave to level him ; few years 
 Had fix'd 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 
 
 flow'd, 
 An universal deluge, which appears 
 Without an ark for wretched man's abode, 
 And ebbs but to reftow ! — 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 weigh'd in custom's falsest 
 
 scale ; 
 Opinion on 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. 
 
228 (DhiUlc TtavoUrs rUtuimagc, 
 
 XCIV. 
 
 And thus they plod in sluggish misery, 
 Rotting from sire to son, and age to age, 
 Proud of their trampled nature, and so diej 
 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 tha 
 
 same tree. 
 
 xcv, 
 
 I speak not of men's creeds — they rest be- 
 tween 
 Man and his Maker — but of things allow'd, 
 Averr'd, and known, — and daily, hourly 
 
 seen — 
 The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd, 
 And the intent of tyranny avow'd, 
 The edict of Earths 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 conquer'd be, 
 And Freedom find no champion and no child 
 
Child* gtetoW'iSi gilgrimafl*. 229 
 
 Such as Columbia saw arise when she 
 Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefined? 
 Or must such minds be nourish'd 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? 
 
 xcvn. 
 
 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; 
 
*3° (Childc TuroUr.o' iMjivimagc. 
 
 Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 
 Chopp'd 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 tin- North ; 
 So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring 
 
 forth. 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 There is a stern round tower of other days, 
 Firm as ;i 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 lock'd, so hid ? — A 
 
 woman's grave.* 
 
 c. 
 
 But who was she, the lady of the dead, 
 Tomb'd 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 ? 
 
 * The tomb of Cecilia Metella. 
 
Chitde gavoUt'0 SHgrimage. 231 
 
 How lived — how loved — how died she ? 
 
 Was she not 
 So honour'd — 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. 
 
 en. 
 
 Perchance she died in youth : it may be,. 
 
 bow'd 
 With woes far heavier than the ponderous 
 
 tomb 
 That weigh'd 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 
 
232 Whittle gtoflft fttgttaxge. 
 
 With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, 
 cons 
 red. 
 
 Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like 
 
 cm. 
 
 Perchance she died in age — surviving all, 
 Charms, kindred, children — with the silver 
 
 gray 
 On her long tresses, which might yet recall, 
 It may DC, still a something of the day 
 When they were braided, and her proud 
 
 array 
 And lovely form were envied, praised, and 
 
 ed 
 By Rome — But whither would Conjecture 
 
 stray ? 
 Thus much alone we know — Nfetella died, 
 Tlie wealthiest Roman's wife : Behold his 
 
 love or pride ! 
 
 civ. 
 
 I know not why — but standing thus by thee 
 It seems as if 1 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 shatter'd 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 founder'd 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 owlets' 
 
 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 gray and 
 
 bright, 
 And sailing pinions. — Upon such a shrine 
 What are our petty griefs ? — let me not number 
 
 mine. 
 
 cvi 1. 
 
 Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown 
 Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd 
 
254 tfhilde gto*14'j SUgrtaftge* 
 
 On what were chambers, arch crush'd, column 
 
 strown 
 In fragments, choked-up vaults, and frescoes 
 
 steep'd 
 
 In subterranean damps, where the owl 
 
 peep'd, 
 Deeming it midnight: -Temples, baths, or 
 
 halls ? 
 DOUnce who can; for all that learning 
 ;>'d 
 FVom her research hath been. that these are 
 walls — 
 Behold the Imperial Mount! 'tis thus the 
 mighty falls. 
 
 :il. 
 
 There is the moral of all human t.. 
 Tis but the same relu-.irs.il of the p.ist. 
 First Freedom, and then Glory — when that 
 
 fails 
 Wealth, vice, corruption — barbarism at last 
 And History, with all her volumes vast. 
 Hath but ftlipage — 'tis better written here. 
 Whei Tyranny hath thus am 
 
 All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, 
 
 Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask — Away with 
 words ! draw near, 
 
 ( IX. 
 
 Admire, exult — despise — laugh, weep — for 
 
 here 
 There is such matter for all feeling: — Man! 
 
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear, 
 A^es 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 
 
 fill'd! f . . 
 
 Where are its golden roofs ? where those who- 
 
 dared to build ? 
 
 ex. 
 
 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 ime : 
 Triumph, arch, pillar, all he cloth displace, 
 Scoffing ; and apostolic statues climb 
 To crush 1 the imperial urn, whose ashes slept 
 sublime,* 
 
 CXI, 
 
 Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome, 
 And looking to the stars; they had con- 
 
 tain'd . 
 
 A spirit which with these would find a home. 
 The last of those who o'er the whole earth 
 
 reign'd, 
 * The column of Trajan is surmounted by St. Peter; 
 lat of Aurelius by St. Paul. 
 
236 (Childc TuuoUr.o ^ityrimatic. 
 
 The Roman globe, for after none sustain'd 
 But yielded back his conquests : — he was 
 
 more 
 Than a mere Alexander, and unstain'd 
 With household blood and wine, serenely 
 
 wore 
 His sovereign virtues — still we Trajan's name 
 
 adore. 
 
 ex II. 
 
 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 
 
 fail'd ; 
 But long before had Freedom's face been 
 
 veil'd, 
 
(tthiW gjwrtdfi* gitgriwag*. 237 
 
 And Anarchy assumed her attributes ; 
 Till every lawless soldier who assail'd 
 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 wither'd 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. 
 
-238 (Hutdc Sarold^ rilflvimagc. 
 
 CXVI. 
 
 The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled 
 With thine Elysian water-drops ; the face 
 Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years un- 
 
 wrinkled, 
 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, 
 Prison'd 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, 
 
 cxvi 1. 
 
 Fantastically tangled ; the green hills 
 
 Are clothed with early blossoms, through 
 
 the grass 
 The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the hills 
 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, 
 K-iss'd by thebreath of heaven, seems colour d 
 
 by its skies. 
 
 CXVIII. 
 
 Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, 
 Egeria ! thy all heavenly bosom beating 
 
<>Mfo *§MttW$ g itgvimag*. 239 
 
 For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover ; 
 The purple Midnight veil'd 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 enamour'd Goddess, and the cell 
 Haunted by holy Love — the earliest oracle ! 
 
 cxix. 
 
 And didst thou not, thy breast to his re- 
 plying, 
 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, 
 
24° $hitde llatotiTiei gilgrimag*. 
 
 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 unquench'd soul — parch'd — 
 
 wearied — wrung — and riven. 
 
 cxxi I. 
 
 Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, 
 And fevers into false creation : — where, 
 Where are the forms the sculptor's hand 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, 
 
mm* gawrtfl'isi gilflrimagt. 241 
 
 The unreach'd 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 — s i c k ; 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— 
 16 
 
242 OtMe gat'0ld^ gUgvimage, 
 
 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 th» 
 
 strong 
 Necessity of loving, have removed 
 Antipathies — but to recur, ere long, 
 Envenom'd 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. 
 
€MW 'gmoWg g itgrimaa*. 243 
 
 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 chain'd and tortured — cabin'd, cribb'd, 
 
 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, 
 
 Ploats o'er this vast and wondrous monu- 
 ment. 
 
244 8WM* &wMfr Sitgtiti»ge f 
 
 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 ruin'd 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 
 
mtiWt gatotd'* gilgrimag*. 245 
 
 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 ancient 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 I 
 Dost thou not hear my heart ?— Awake ! thou 
 
 shalt, and must. 
 
 cxxxiii. 
 
 It is not that I may not have incurr'd 
 For my ancestral faults or mine the wound 
 I bleed withal, and had it been conferr'd 
 With a just weapon, it had flow'd unbound. 
 But now my blood shall not sink in the 
 
 ground ; 
 To thee I do devote \t—thou shall take 
 The vengeance, which shall yet be sought 
 
 and found, 
 
246 Child* gtaroia'0 gitflrimnflf. 
 
 Which if /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 suffer'd : let him speak 
 Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, 
 Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak - y 
 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 ! 
 
 ex xxv. 
 
 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 suffer'd things to be forgiven ? 
 Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart 
 
 riven, 
 Hopes sapp'd, 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 speeches 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 ex* 
 
 pire : 
 Something unearthly, which they deem not 
 
 of, 
 Like the remember'd tone of a mute lyre, 
 Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and move- 
 In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of 
 
 love. 
 
 cxxxvin. 
 
 The seal is set. — Now welcome, thou dread 
 
 power ! 
 Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here 
 
248 (ThiUlc Turotd\$ gilgvittftgt. 
 
 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 murmur'd pity, or loud-roar'd applause, 
 As man was slaughter'd by his fellow-man 
 And wherefore slaughter'd ? 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 droop'd 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 
 
(£UMt latttW*; gj itgrimap. 249 
 
 The arena swims around him : he is gone, 
 Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd 
 the wretch who won. 
 
 CXLI. 
 
 He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 
 Were with his heart, and that was far away; 
 He reck'd 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, 
 Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday — 
 All this rush'd with his blood — Shall he ex- 
 pire, 
 And unavenged ? — Arise ! ye Goths, and glut 
 your ire. 
 
 CXLII. 
 
 But here, where murder breathed her bloody 
 stream ; 
 
 And here, where buzzing nations choked the 
 ways, 
 
 And roar'd or murmur'd 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 
 
25° (fuudc Starolft'* giigrimaac 
 
 On the arena void — seats crush'd, walls 
 bow'd, 
 And galleries, where my steps seem echoes 
 strangely loud. 
 
 CXLIII. 
 
 A ruin — yet what ruin ! from its mass 
 Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been rear'd ; 
 Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, 
 And marvel where the spoil could have arx 
 
 pear'd. 
 Hath it indeed been plunder'd, or but 
 
 clear'd ? 
 Alas ! developed, opens the decay, 
 When the colossal fabric's form is near'd ; 
 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 gray walls 
 
 wear, 
 Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head; 
 When the light shines serene, but doth not 
 
 glare, 
 
Whittle itoldfa gitcjrima^ 251 
 
 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 unalter'd 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 t 
 
252 (L'luUlc IhvoUT:* gHgrimage. 
 
 CXLVII. 
 
 Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts ! 
 Despoil'd 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 honour'd 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 shadow'd 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 
 
(E\\\Wt ^MM'g gilgriwafl*. 253 
 
 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 
 
254 tfhUde giarold^ gtlgnmage. 
 
 Where sparkle distant world : — 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 uni- 
 verse. 
 
 CLII. 
 
 Turn to the Mole which Hadrian rear'd on 
 
 high,* 
 Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles, 
 Colossal copyist of deformity, 
 Whose travell'd phantasy from the far Nile's 
 Enormous model, doom'd 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 cellf — 
 Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's 
 
 tomb ! 
 I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle — 
 Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell 
 
 * The Castle of St. Angelo. 
 t St. Peter's. 
 
<!Mfo garold'g gfilgrimagpe. 255 
 
 The hyaena and the jackal in their shade ; 
 I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell 
 Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have 
 survey'd ; 
 Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem 
 pray'd; 
 
 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 lessen'd ; 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. 
 
*5 6 (&M&t &*voW$ pilgrimage. 
 
 CLVI. 
 
 Thou movest — but increasing with the ad- 
 vance, 
 
 Like climbing some great Alp, which still 
 doth rise. 
 
 Deceived by its gigantic elegance. — 
 
 Vastness which grows — but grows to har- 
 monize — 
 
 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 musl 
 
 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. 
 
®%Mt gfowold^ gitgrimafl** 257 
 
 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 ; even 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 contem- 
 plate. 
 
 CLIX. 
 
 Then paused and be enlighten'd ; 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 con 
 
 ceptions can. 
 i7 
 
258 ftfcild* garoW^ pilgrimage. 
 
 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 envenom'd 
 
 chain 
 Rivets the living links, — the enormous asp 
 Enforces pang on pang, and stories 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 array'd, 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 
 
$Jtiite Jtetold'jsi pilgrimage, 259 
 
 Long'd for a deathless lover from above, 
 And madden'd in that vision — are exprest 
 All that ideal beauty ever bless'd 
 The mind within its most unearthly mood, 
 When each conception was a heavenljf 
 
 guest — 
 A ray of immortality — and stood, 
 Starlike, around, until they gather'd 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 array'd 
 With an eternal glory — which, if made 
 By human hands, is not of human thought ; 
 And Time himself hath hallow'd 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 class'd 
 
260 (Childe garold'ia' gilgrimag*. 
 
 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 spread the dim and universal pall 
 Through which all things grow phantoms; 
 
 and the cloud 
 Between us sinks and all which ever glow'd, 
 Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays 
 A melancholy halo scarce allow'd 
 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. 
 
tftotte gattrtW gUgtimafle. 261 
 
 CLXVII. 
 
 Hark ! forth from the abyss a voice pro- 
 
 ceeds 
 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 tne 
 
 chief , . , ,. 
 
 Seems royal still, though with her head dis- 
 
 crown'd, . 
 
 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 ? , j 1 1 
 
 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 > , u u 
 
 The mother of a moment, o er thy boy, 
 Death hush'd that pang for ever : with thee 
 
 fled . , . 
 
 The present happiness and promised joy 
 Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem d 
 to cloy. 
 
262 (tfhilde gurold^ gilgrimagf. 
 
 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 
 
 pour'd 
 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-hair'd 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 deem'd 
 Our children should obey her child, and 
 
 bless'd 
 Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise 
 
 seem'd 
 Like star to shepherds' eyes ; 'twas but a 
 
 meteor beam'd. 
 
#hilte !&}mW$ gilgnma&e. 263 
 
 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 arm'd 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, — 
 
 CLXXI 1. 
 
 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 
 
 * Mary died on the scaffold; Elizabeth of a broken 
 heart; Charles V. a hermit; Louise XIV. a bank- 
 rupt in means and glory; Cromwell of anxiety; and 
 Napoleon died a prisoner. To these sovereigns a long 
 but superfluous list might be added of names equally 
 illustrious and unhappy. 
 
264 (ThUdc HSfavvW* ^Pilgrimage. 
 
 Is link'd the electric chain of that despair, 
 Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and 
 
 opprest 
 The land which loved thee so, that none could 
 
 love thee best. 
 
 CLXXIII. 
 
 Lo, Nemi ! navelFd 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 cherish'd hate, its surface 
 
 wears 
 A deep cold settled aspect nought can 
 
 shake, 
 Ml coil'd 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 
 
^fcitde 1&M8U'# fitgtimage. 265 
 
 Tully reposed from Rome ; and where yon 
 
 bar 
 Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight, 
 The Sabine farm was till'd, 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 follow'd on till the dark 
 
 Euxine roll'd 
 
 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 gladden'd by the sun, 
 And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear 
 As if there were no man to trouble what is 
 
 clear. 
 
266 Child* garotd'jsi gitgrimage. 
 
 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 dreaming 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 iutrudes, 
 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 maybe, or have been before, 
 To mingle with the Universe and feel 
 What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all con- 
 ceal. 
 
 CLXXIX. 
 
 Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean- 
 roll ! 
 
 Ten thousands fleets sweep over thee in 
 vain ; 
 
 Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
 
mi&t Statotd^ gitgrimag*. 267 
 
 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, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and un- 
 known. 
 
 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 de- 
 spise, . 
 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, 
 
268 (&UiW gawW'jBi gilgrimage. 
 
 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, whicrt 
 mar 
 Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Tra- 
 falgar. 
 
 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, 
 
$iiilfo itawalA'j* §> itgwmage. 269 
 
 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, fathom- 
 less, 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 wanton'd 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 
 
270 (Child* ^urold^ JUgrimagc. 
 
 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, fare- 
 well ! 
 
 Ye, who have traced the Pilgrim to the 
 ne 
 
 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, 
 U such there were — with you, the moral of his 
 strain. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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