Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (Selections)

	Canto the First.
	I.
	Oh, thou, in Hellas° deemed of heavenly birth,	Greece
	Muse, formed or fabled at the minstrel’s will!
	Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,
	Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill:
	Yet there I’ve wandered by thy vaunted° rill;	boasted-about
	Yes! sighed o’er Delphi’s long-deserted shrine
	Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;
	Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine°	the Muses
	To grace so plain a tale—this lowly lay of mine.
	II.
	Whilome in Albion’s isle there dwelt a youth,
	Who ne in virtue’s ways did take delight;
	But spent his days in riot most uncouth,
	And vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.
	Ah, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight,
	Sore given to revel and ungodly glee;
	Few earthly things found favour in his sight
	Save concubines and carnal companie,
	And flaunting wassailers° of high and low degree.	celebrators
	III.
	Childe Harold was he hight:°—but whence his name	was called
	And lineage long, it suits me not to say;
	Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame,
	And had been glorious in another day:
	But one sad losel° soils a name for aye,°	worthless person — forever
	However mighty in the olden time;
	Nor all that heralds rake from coffined clay,
	Nor florid prose, nor honeyed lines of rhyme,
	Can blazon° evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.	celebrate
	IV.
	Childe Harold basked him in the noontide sun,
	Disporting there like any other fly,
	Nor deemed before his little day was done
	One blast might chill him into misery.
	But long ere° scarce a third of his passed by,	before
	Worse than adversity the Childe befell;
	He felt the fulness of satiety:
	Then loathed he in his native land to dwell,
	Which seemed to him more lone than eremite’s sad cell.
	V.
	For he through Sin’s long labyrinth had run,
	Nor made atonement when he did amiss,
	Had sighed to many, though he loved but one,
	And that loved one, alas, could ne’er be his.
	Ah, happy she! to ’scape from him whose kiss
	Had been pollution unto aught so chaste;
	Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss,
	And spoiled her goodly lands to gild his waste,
	Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to taste.
	VI.
	And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,
	And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;
	’Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,
	But pride congealed the drop within his e’e:
	Apart he stalked in joyless reverie,
	And from his native land resolved to go,
	And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;
	With pleasure drugged, he almost longed for woe,
	And e’en for change of scene would seek the shades below.

	Canto the Third.
	I.
	Is thy face like thy mother’s, my fair child!
	Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart?
	When last I saw thy young blue eyes, they smiled,
	And then we parted,—not as now we part,
	But with a hope.—
	Awaking with a start,
	The waters heave around me; and on high
	The winds lift up their voices: I depart,
	Whither I know not; but the hour’s gone by,
	When Albion’s lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.
	II.
	Once more upon the waters! yet once more!
	And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
	That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar!
	Swift be their guidance, wheresoe’er it lead!
	Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed,
	And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale,
	Still must I on; for I am as a weed,
	Flung from the rock, on Ocean’s foam, to sail
	Where’er the surge may sweep, the tempest’s breath prevail.
	III.
	In my youth’s summer I did sing of One,
	The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind;
	Again I seize the theme, then but begun,
	And bear it with me, as the rushing wind
	Bears the cloud onwards: in that tale I find
	The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears,
	Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind,
	O’er which all heavily the journeying years
	Plod the last sands of life—where not a flower appears.
	IV.
	Since my young days of passion—joy, or pain,
	Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string,
	And both may jar: it may be, that in vain
	I would essay as I have sung to sing.
	Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling,
	So that it wean me from the weary dream
	Of selfish grief or gladness—so it fling
	Forgetfulness around me—it shall seem
	To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme.
	V.
	He who, grown aged in this world of woe,
	In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life,
	So that no wonder waits him; nor below
	Can love or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife,
	Cut to his heart again with the keen knife
	Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell
	Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife
	With airy images, and shapes which dwell
	Still unimpaired, though old, in the soul’s haunted cell.
	VI.
	’Tis to create, and in creating live
	A being more intense, that we endow
	With form our fancy, gaining as we give
	The life we image, even as I do now.
	What am I? Nothing: but not so art thou,
	Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth,
	Invisible but gazing, as I glow
	Mixed with thy spirit, blended with thy birth,
	And feeling still with thee in my crushed feelings’ dearth.
	VII.
	Yet must I think less wildly: I have thought
	Too long and darkly, till my brain became,
	In its own eddy boiling and o’erwrought,
	A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame:
	And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame,
	My springs of life were poisoned. ’Tis too late!
	Yet am I changed; though still enough the same
	In strength to bear what time cannot abate,
	And feed on bitter fruits without accusing fate.
	VIII.
	Something too much of this: but now ’tis past,
	And the spell closes with its silent seal.
	Long-absent Harold reappears at last;
	He of the breast which fain no more would feel,
	Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne’er heal;
	Yet Time, who changes all, had altered him
	In soul and aspect as in age: years steal
	Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb;
	And life’s enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.
	IX.
	His had been quaffed too quickly, and he found
	The dregs were wormwood; but he filled again,
	And from a purer fount, on holier ground,
	And deemed its spring perpetual; but in vain!
	Still round him clung invisibly a chain
	Which galled for ever, fettering though unseen,
	And heavy though it clanked not; worn with pain,
	Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen,
	Entering with every step he took through many a scene.
	X.
	Secure in guarded coldness, he had mixed
	Again in fancied safety with his kind,
	And deemed his spirit now so firmly fixed
	And sheathed with an invulnerable mind,
	That, if no joy, no sorrow lurked behind;
	And he, as one, might midst the many stand
	Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find
	Fit speculation; such as in strange land
	He found in wonder-works of God and Nature’s hand.
	XI.
	But who can view the ripened rose, nor seek
	To wear it? who can curiously behold
	The smoothness and the sheen of beauty’s cheek,
	Nor feel the heart can never all grow old?
	Who can contemplate fame through clouds unfold
	The star which rises o’er her steep, nor climb?
	Harold, once more within the vortex rolled
	On with the giddy circle, chasing Time,
	Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth’s fond prime.
	XII.
	But soon he knew himself the most unfit
	Of men to herd with Man; with whom he held
	Little in common; untaught to submit
	His thoughts to others, though his soul was quelled,
	In youth by his own thoughts; still uncompelled,
	He would not yield dominion of his mind
	To spirits against whom his own rebelled;
	Proud though in desolation; which could find
	A life within itself, to breathe without mankind.
	XIII.
	Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends;
	Where rolled the ocean, thereon was his home;
	Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends,
	He had the passion and the power to roam;
	The desert, forest, cavern, breaker’s foam,
	Were unto him companionship; they spake
	A mutual language, clearer than the tome
	Of his land’s tongue, which he would oft forsake
	For nature’s pages glassed by sunbeams on the lake.
	XIV.
	Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars,
	Till he had peopled them with beings bright
	As their own beams; and earth, and earth-born jars,
	And human frailties, were forgotten quite:
	Could he have kept his spirit to that flight,
	He had been happy; but this clay will sink
	Its spark immortal, envying it the light
	To which it mounts, as if to break the link
	That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its brink.
	XV.
	But in Man’s dwellings he became a thing
	Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome,
	Drooped as a wild-born falcon with clipt wing,
	To whom the boundless air alone were home:
	Then came his fit again, which to o’ercome,
	As eagerly the barred-up bird will beat
	His breast and beak against his wiry dome
	Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat
	Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat.
	XVI.
	Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again,
	With naught of hope left, but with less of gloom;
	The very knowledge that he lived in vain,
	That all was over on this side the tomb,
	Had made Despair a smilingness assume,
	Which, though ’twere wild—as on the plundered wreck
	When mariners would madly meet their doom
	With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck—
	Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check.
	XVII.
	Stop! for thy tread is on an empire’s dust!
	An earthquake’s spoil is sepulchred below!
	Is the spot marked with no colossal bust?
	Nor column trophied for triumphal show?
	None; but the moral’s truth tells simpler so,
	As the ground was before, thus let it be;—
	How that red rain hath made the harvest grow!
	And is this all the world has gained by thee,
	Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory?
	XVIII.
	And Harold stands upon this place of skulls,
	The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo!
	How in an hour the power which gave annuls
	Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too!
	In ‘pride of place’ here last the eagle flew,
	Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain,
	Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through:
	Ambition’s life and labours all were vain;
	He wears the shattered links of the world’s broken chain.
	XIX.
	Fit retribution! Gaul may champ the bit,
	And foam in fetters, but is Earth more free?
	Did nations combat to make one submit;
	Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty?
	What! shall reviving thraldom again be
	The patched-up idol of enlightened days?
	Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we
	Pay the Wolf homage? proffering lowly gaze
	And servile knees to thrones? No; prove before ye praise!
	XX.
	If not, o’er one fall’n despot boast no more!
	In vain fair cheeks were furrowed with hot tears
	For Europe’s flowers long rooted up before
	The trampler of her vineyards; in vain years
	Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears,
	Have all been borne, and broken by the accord
	Of roused-up millions: all that most endears
	Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword
	Such as Harmodius drew on Athens’ tyrant lord.
	XXI.
	There was a sound of revelry by night,
	And Belgium’s capital had gathered then
	Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright
	The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men;
	A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
	Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
	Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
	And all went merry as a marriage bell;
	But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
	XXII.
	Did ye not hear it?—No; ’twas but the wind,
	Or the car rattling o’er the stony street;
	On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
	No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
	To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet.
	But hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,
	As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
	And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
	Arm! arm! it is—it is—the cannon’s opening roar!
	XXIII.
	Within a windowed niche of that high hall
	Sate Brunswick’s fated chieftain; he did hear
	That sound, the first amidst the festival,
	And caught its tone with Death’s prophetic ear;
	And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
	His heart more truly knew that peal too well
	Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
	And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:
	He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.
	XXIV.
	Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
	And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
	And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
	Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
	And there were sudden partings, such as press
	The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
	Which ne’er might be repeated: who would guess
	If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
	Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!
	XXV.
	And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
	The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
	Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
	And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
	And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
	And near, the beat of the alarming drum
	Roused up the soldier ere° the morning star;	before
	While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
	Or whispering, with white lips—‘The foe! They come! they come!’
	XXVI.
	And wild and high the ‘Cameron’s gathering’ rose,
	The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn’s hills
	Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:
	How in the noon of night that pibroch° thrills	bagpipe tune
	Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
	Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers
	With the fierce native daring which instils
	The stirring memory of a thousand years,
	And Evan’s, Donald’s fame rings in each clansman’s ears.
	XXVII.
	And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
	Dewy with Nature’s tear-drops, as they pass,
	Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves,
	Over the unreturniug brave,—alas!
	Ere evening to be trodden like the grass
	Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
	In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
	Of living valour, rolling on the foe,
	And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.
	XXVIII.
	Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
	Last eve in Beauty’s circle proudly gay,
	The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
	The morn the marshalling in arms,—the day
	Battle’s magnificently stern array!
	The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which when rent
	The earth is covered thick with other clay,
	Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
	Rider and horse,—friend, foe,—in one red burial blent!
	XXIX.
	Their praise is hymned by loftier harps than mine;
	Yet one I would select from that proud throng,
	Partly because they blend me with his line,
	And partly that I did his sire some wrong,
	And partly that bright names will hallow song;
	And his was of the bravest, and when showered
	The death-bolts deadliest the thinned files along,
	Even where the thickest of war’s tempest lowered,
	They reached no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant Howard!
	XXX.
	There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee,
	And mine were nothing, had I such to give;
	But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree,
	Which living waves where thou didst cease to live,
	And saw around me the wild field revive
	With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring
	Come forth her work of gladness to contrive,
	With all her reckless birds upon the wing,
	I turned from all she brought to those she could not bring.
	XXXI.
	I turned to thee, to thousands, of whom each
	And one as all a ghastly gap did make
	In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach
	Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake;
	The Archangel’s trump, not Glory’s, must awake
	Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of Fame
	May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake
	The fever of vain longing, and the name
	So honoured, but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim.
	XXXII.
	They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, mourn:
	The tree will wither long before it fall:
	The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn;
	The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall
	In massy hoariness; the ruined wall
	Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone;
	The bars survive the captive they enthral;
	The day drags through though storms keep out the sun;
	And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on:
	XXXIII.
	E’en as a broken mirror, which the glass
	In every fragment multiplies; and makes
	A thousand images of one that was,
	The same, and still the more, the more it breaks;
	And thus the heart will do which not forsakes,
	Living in shattered guise, and still, and cold,
	And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches,
	Yet withers on till all without is old,
	Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold.
	XXXIV.
	There is a very life in our despair,
	Vitality of poison,—a quick root
	Which feeds these deadly branches; for it were
	As nothing did we die; but life will suit
	Itself to Sorrow’s most detested fruit,
	Like to the apples on the Dead Sea shore,
	All ashes to the taste: Did man compute
	Existence by enjoyment, and count o’er
	Such hours ’gainst years of life,—say, would he name threescore?
	XXXV.
	The Psalmist numbered out the years of man:
	They are enough: and if thy tale be TRUE,
	Thou, who didst grudge him e’en that fleeting span,
	More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo!
	Millions of tongues record thee, and anew
	Their children’s lips shall echo them, and say,
	’Here, where the sword united nations drew,
	Our countrymen were warring on that day!’
	And this is much, and all which will not pass away.
	XXXVI.
	There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men,
	Whose spirit anithetically mixed
	One moment of the mightiest, and again
	On little objects with like firmness fixed;
	Extreme in all things! hadst thou been betwixt,
	Thy throne had still been thine, or never been;
	For daring made thy rise as fall: thou seek’st
	Even now to reassume the imperial mien,
	And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene!
	XXXVII.
	Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou!
	She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name
	Was ne’er more bruited in men’s minds than now
	That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame,
	Who wooed thee once, thy vassal, and became
	The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert
	A god unto thyself; nor less the same
	To the astounded kingdoms all inert,
	Who deemed thee for a time whate’er thou didst assert.
	XXXVIII.
	Oh, more or less than man—in high or low,
	Battling with nations, flying from the field;
	Now making monarchs’ necks thy footstool, now
	More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield:
	An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild,
	But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor,
	However deeply in men’s spirits skilled,
	Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war,
	Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star.
	XXXIX.
	Yet well thy soul hath brooked the turning tide
	With that untaught innate philosophy,
	Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride,
	Is gall and wormwood to an enemy.
	When the whole host of hatred stood hard by,
	To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled
	With a sedate and all-enduring eye;
	When Fortune fled her spoiled and favourite child,
	He stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled.
	XL.
	Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them
	Ambition steeled thee on to far too show
	That just habitual scorn, which could contemn
	Men and their thoughts; ’twas wise to feel, not so
	To wear it ever on thy lip and brow,
	And spurn the instruments thou wert to use
	Till they were turned unto thine overthrow:
	’Tis but a worthless world to win or lose;
	So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose.
	XLI.
	If, like a tower upon a headland rock,
	Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone,
	Such scorn of man had helped to brave the shock;
	But men’s thoughts were the steps which paved thy throne,
	THEIR admiration thy best weapon shone;
	The part of Philip’s son was thine, not then
	(Unless aside thy purple had been thrown)
	Like stern Diogenes to mock at men;
	For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den.
	XLII.
	But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell,
	And there hath been thy bane; there is a fire
	And motion of the soul, which will not dwell
	In its own narrow being, but aspire
	Beyond the fitting medium of desire;
	And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore,
	Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire
	Of aught but rest; a fever at the core,
	Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore.
	XLIII.
	This makes the madmen who have made men mad
	By their contagion! Conquerors and Kings,
	Founders of sects and systems, to whom add
	Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things
	Which stir too strongly the soul’s secret springs,
	And are themselves the fools to those they fool;
	Envied, yet how unenviable! what stings
	Are theirs! One breast laid open were a school
	Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule:
	XLIV.
	Their breath is agitation, and their life
	A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last,
	And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife,
	That should their days, surviving perils past,
	Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast
	With sorrow and supineness, and so die;
	Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste
	With its own flickering, or a sword laid by,
	Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.
	XLV.
	He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find
	The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow;
	He who surpasses or subdues mankind,
	Must look down on the hate of those below.
	Though high above the sun of glory glow,
	And far beneath the earth and ocean spread,
	Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow
	Contending tempests on his naked head,
	And thus reward the toils which to those summits led.

	LII.
	Thus Harold inly said, and passed along,
	Yet not insensible to all which here
	Awoke the jocund birds to early song
	In glens which might have made e’en exile dear:
	Though on his brow were graven lines austere,
	And tranquil sternness which had ta’en the place
	Of feelings fierier far but less severe,
	Joy was not always absent from his face,
	But o’er it in such scenes would steal with transient trace.
	LIII.
	Nor was all love shut from him, though his days
	Of passion had consumed themselves to dust.
	It is in vain that we would coldly gaze
	On such as smile upon us; the heart must
	Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust
	Hath weaned it from all worldlings: thus he felt,
	For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust
	In one fond breast, to which his own would melt,
	And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt.
	LIV.
	And he had learned to love,—I know not why,
	For this in such as him seems strange of mood,—
	The helpless looks of blooming infancy,
	Even in its earliest nurture; what subdued,
	To change like this, a mind so far imbued
	With scorn of man, it little boots to know;
	But thus it was; and though in solitude
	Small power the nipped affections have to grow,
	In him this glowed when all beside had ceased to glow.
	LV.
	And there was one soft breast, as hath been said,
	Which unto his was bound by stronger ties
	Than the church links withal; and, though unwed,
	That love was pure, and, far above disguise,
	Had stood the test of mortal enmities
	Still undivided, and cemented more
	By peril, dreaded most in female eyes;
	But this was firm, and from a foreign shore
	Well to that heart might his these absent greetings pour!

	LXVIII.
	Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face,
	The mirror where the stars and mountains view
	The stillness of their aspect in each trace
	Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue:
	There is too much of man here, to look through
	With a fit mind the might which I behold;
	But soon in me shall Loneliness renew
	Thoughts hid, but not less cherished than of old,
	Ere mingling with the herd had penned me in their fold.
	LXIX.
	To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind;
	All are not fit with them to stir and toil,
	Nor is it discontent to keep the mind
	Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil
	In one hot throng, where we become the spoil
	Of our infection, till too late and long
	We may deplore and struggle with the coil,
	In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong
	Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong.
	LXX.
	There, in a moment, we may plunge our years
	In fatal penitence, and in the blight
	Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears,
	And colour things to come with hues of Night;
	The race of life becomes a hopeless flight
	To those that walk in darkness: on the sea,
	The boldest steer but where their ports invite,
	But there are wanderers o’er Eternity
	Whose bark drives on and on, and anchored ne’er shall be.
	LXXI.
	Is it not better, then, to be alone,
	And love Earth only for its earthly sake?
	By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone,
	Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake,
	Which feeds it as a mother who doth make
	A fair but froward infant her own care,
	Kissing its cries away as these awake;—
	Is it not better thus our lives to wear,
	Than join the crushing crowd, doomed to inflict or bear?
	LXXII.
	I live not in myself, but I become
	Portion of that around me; and to me,
	High mountains are a feeling, but the hum
	Of human cities torture: I can see
	Nothing to loathe in Nature, save to be
	A link reluctant in a fleshly chain,
	Classed among creatures, when the soul can flee,
	And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain
	Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain.
	LXXIII.
	And thus I am absorbed, and this is life:
	I look upon the peopled desert Past,
	As on a place of agony and strife,
	Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast,
	To act and suffer, but remount at last
	With a fresh pinion; which I felt to spring,
	Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the blast
	Which it would cope with, on delighted wing,
	Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling.
	LXXIV.
	And when, at length, the mind shall be all free
	From what it hates in this degraded form,
	Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be
	Existent happier in the fly and worm,—
	When elements to elements conform,
	And dust is as it should be, shall I not
	Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm?
	The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each spot?
	Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot?
	LXXV.
	Are not the mountains, waves, and skies a part
	Of me and of my soul, as I of them?
	Is not the love of these deep in my heart
	With a pure passion? should I not contemn
	All objects, if compared with these? and stem
	A tide of suffering, rather than forego
	Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm
	Of those whose eyes are only turned below,
	Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow?
	LXXVI.
	But this is not my theme; and I return
	To that which is immediate, and require
	Those who find contemplation in the urn,
	To look on One whose dust was once all fire,
	A native of the land where I respire
	The clear air for awhile—a passing guest,
	Where he became a being,—whose desire
	Was to be glorious; ’twas a foolish quest,
	The which to gain and keep he sacrificed all rest.
	LXXVII.
	Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau,
	The apostle of affliction, he who threw
	Enchantment over passion, and from woe
	Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew
	The breath which made him wretched; yet he knew
	How to make madness beautiful, and cast
	O’er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue
	Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past
	The eyes, which o’er them shed tears feelingly and fast.
	LXXVIII.
	His love was passion’s essence—as a tree
	On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame
	Kindled he was, and blasted; for to be
	Thus, and enamoured, were in him the same.
	But his was not the love of living dame,
	Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams,
	But of Ideal beauty, which became
	In him existence, and o’erflowing teems
	Along his burning page, distempered though it seems.

	LXXXV.
	Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake,
	With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing
	Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake
	Earth’s troubled waters for a purer spring.
	This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing
	To waft me from distraction; once I loved
	Torn ocean’s roar, but thy soft murmuring
	Sounds sweet as if a sister’s voice reproved,
	That I with stern delights should e’er have been so moved.
	LXXXVI.
	It is the hush of night, and all between
	Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,
	Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen.
	Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear
	Precipitously steep; and drawing near,
	There breathes a living fragrance from the shore,
	Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear
	Drops the light drip of the suspended oar,
	Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more;
	LXXXVII.
	He is an evening reveller, who makes
	His life an infancy, and sings his fill;
	At intervals, some bird from out the brakes
	Starts into voice a moment, then is still.
	There seems a floating whisper on the hill,
	But that is fancy, for the starlight dews
	All silently their tears of love instil,
	Weeping themselves away, till they infuse
	Deep into Nature’s breast the spirit of her hues.
	LXXXVIII.
	Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven,
	If in your bright leaves we would read the fate
	Of men and empires,—’tis to be forgiven,
	That in our aspirations to be great,
	Our destinies o’erleap their mortal state,
	And claim a kindred with you; for ye are
	A beauty and a mystery, and create
	In us such love and reverence from afar,
	That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.
	LXXXIX.
	All heaven and earth are still—though not in sleep,
	But breathless, as we grow when feeling most;
	And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep: —
	All heaven and earth are still: from the high host
	Of stars, to the lulled lake and mountain-coast,
	All is concentered in a life intense,
	Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,
	But hath a part of being, and a sense
	Of that which is of all Creator and defence.
	XC.
	Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt
	In solitude, where we are least alone;
	A truth, which through our being then doth melt,
	And purifies from self: it is a tone,
	The soul and source of music, which makes known
	Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm,
	Like to the fabled Cytherea’s zone,
	Binding all things with beauty;—’twould disarm
	The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm.
	XCI.
	Nor vainly did the early Persian make
	His altar the high places and the peak
	Of earth-o’ergazing mountains, and thus take
	A fit and unwalled temple, there to seek
	The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak,
	Upreared of human hands. Come, and compare
	Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek,
	With Nature’s realms of worship, earth and air,
	Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer!
	XCII.
	The sky is changed!—and such a change! O night,
	And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,
	Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
	Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,
	From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,
	Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud,
	But every mountain now hath found a tongue;
	And Jura answers, through her misty shroud,
	Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!
	XCIII.
	And this is in the night:—Most glorious night!
	Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be
	A sharer in thy fierce and far delight—
	A portion of the tempest and of thee!
	How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,
	And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!
	And now again ’tis black,—and now, the glee
	Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,
	As if they did rejoice o’er a young earthquake’s birth.
	XCIV.
	Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between
	Heights which appear as lovers who have parted
	In hate, whose mining depths so intervene,
	That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted;
	Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted,
	Love was the very root of the fond rage
	Which blighted their life’s bloom, and then departed:
	Itself expired, but leaving them an age
	Of years all winters—war within themselves to wage.
	XCV.
	Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way,
	The mightiest of the storms hath ta’en his stand;
	For here, not one, but many, make their play,
	And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand,
	Flashing and cast around: of all the band,
	The brightest through these parted hills hath forked
	His lightnings, as if he did understand
	That in such gaps as desolation worked,
	There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurked.
	XCVI.
	Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye,
	With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul
	To make these felt and feeling, well may be
	Things that have made me watchful; the far roll
	Of your departing voices, is the knoll
	Of what in me is sleepless,—if I rest.
	But where of ye, O tempests! is the goal?
	Are ye like those within the human breast?
	Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest?
	XCVII.
	Could I embody and unbosom now
	That which is most within me,—could I wreak
	My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw
	Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak,
	All that I would have sought, and all I seek,
	Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe—into one word,
	And that one word were lightning, I would speak;
	But as it is, I live and die unheard,
	With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword.
	XCVIII.
	The morn is up again, the dewy morn,
	With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom,
	Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn,
	And living as if earth contained no tomb,—
	And glowing into day: we may resume
	The march of our existence: and thus I,
	Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room
	And food for meditation, nor pass by
	Much, that may give us pause, if pondered fittingly.

	CXIII.
	I have not loved the world, nor the world me;
	I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed
	To its idolatries a patient knee,—
	Nor coined my cheek to smiles, nor cried aloud
	In worship of an echo; in the crowd
	They could not deem me one of such; I stood
	Among them, but not of them; in a shroud
	Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could,
	Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued.
	CXIV.
	I have not loved the world, nor the world me,—
	But let us part fair foes; I do believe,
	Though I have found them not, that there may be
	Words which are things,—hopes which will not deceive,
	And virtues which are merciful, nor weave
	Snares for the falling: I would also deem
	O’er others’ griefs that some sincerely grieve;
	That two, or one, are almost what they seem,—
	That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream.
	CXV.
	My daughter! with thy name this song begun—
	My daughter! with thy name this much shall end—
	I see thee not, I hear thee not,—but none
	Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend
	To whom the shadows of far years extend:
	Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold,
	My voice shall with thy future visions blend,
	And reach into thy heart, when mine is cold,—
	A token and a tone, even from thy father’s mould.
	CXVI.
	To aid thy mind’s development,—to watch
	Thy dawn of little joys,—to sit and see
	Almost thy very growth,—to view thee catch
	Knowledge of objects, wonders yet to thee!
	To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee,
	And print on thy soft cheek a parent’s kiss,—
	This, it should seem, was not reserved for me
	Yet this was in my nature:—As it is,
	I know not what is there, yet something like to this.
	CXVII.
	Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught,
	I know that thou wilt love me; though my name
	Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught
	With desolation, and a broken claim:
	Though the grave closed between us,—’twere the same,
	I know that thou wilt love me: though to drain
	My blood from out thy being were an aim,
	And an attainment,—all would be in vain,—
	Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain.
	CXVIII.
	The child of love,—though born in bitterness,
	And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire
	These were the elements, and thine no less.
	As yet such are around thee; but thy fire
	Shall be more tempered, and thy hope far higher.
	Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! O’er the sea,
	And from the mountains where I now respire,
	Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee,
	As, with a sigh, I deem thou mightst have been to me!

Child Harold’s Pilgrimage (Selections)

George Gordon, Lord Byron

Edited by Jack Lynch

Canto the First.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

Canto the Third.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX.

XXX.

XXXI.

XXXII.

XXXIII.

XXXIV.

XXXV.

XXXVI.

XXXVII.

XXXVIII.

XXXIX.

XL.

XLI.

XLII.

XLIII.

XLIV.

XLV.

LII.

LIII.

LIV.

LV.

LXVIII.

LXIX.

LXX.

LXXI.

LXXII.

LXXIII.

LXXIV.

LXXV.

LXXVI.

LXXVII.

LXXVIII.

LXXXV.

LXXXVI.

LXXXVII.

LXXXVIII.

LXXXIX.

XC.

XCI.

XCII.

XCIII.

Child Harold’s Pilgrimage
(Selections)