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CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE.

A ROMA U N T.

L'univers est une espèce de livre dont on n'a lu que la première page, quand on n'a vu que son pays. J'en ai feuilleté un assez grand nombre, que j'ai trouvé également mauvaises. Cet examen ne m'a point été infructueux. Je haissais ma patrie. Toutes les impertinences des peuples divers, parmi lesquels j'ai vécu, m'ont réconcilié avec elle. Quand je n'aurais tiré d'autre bénéfice de mes voyages que celui-là, je n'en regretterais ni les frais, ni les fatigues.

LE COSMOPOLITE.

PREFACE.

THE HE 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 necessary to state for the correctness of the descriptions. 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 experimental.

A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of giving some connexion to the piece, which, however, makes no pretention to regularity. It has been 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 the child of imagination, for the purpose have stated. In 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.

I

It is almost superfluous to mention that the appellation "Childe,” as "Childe Waters," "Childe Childers," is used as more consonant with the old structure of versifica tion which I have adopted. The "Good Night," in the beginning of the first canto, was suggested by "Lord Maxwell's Good Night," in the Border Minstrelsy, 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 concluding 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 variety. Dr. Beattie makes the following observation: "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 humour strikes me; for, if I mistake not, the measure which I have adopted admits equally of all these kinds of compositions." 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 variations 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.

ADDITION TO THE PREFACE.

I have now waited till almost all our periodical 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 candid. 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 still maintain to be a fictitious personage), it has been stated, that besides the anachronism, he is very unknightly, as the times of the Knights were times of love, honour, and so forth. Now it so happens that the good old times, when "l'amour du bon vieux tems, l'amour antique" flourished, were the most profligate of all possible centuries. Those who have any doubts on this subject may consult St. Palaye, passim, and more partienlarly vol. u. page 69. The vows of chivalry

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 statement, and I fear a little investigation will teach us not to regret these monstrous mummeries 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

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 courtoisie et de gentilesse," had much more of love than of courtesy or gentleness.See Roland on the same subject with St. Palaye.—Whatever other objection may be urged to that most unamiable personage Childe Harold, he was so far perfectly knightly in his attributes "No waiter, but a knight tem-nish over his faults, to make him do more and plar." By the by, I fear that Sir Tristram and Sir Lancelot were no better than they should be, although very poetical personages and true knights "sans peur," though not "sans reproche."-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 indifferent memory. So much for chivalry. Burke need not have regretted that its days are over, though Maria Antoinette was quite as chaste as most of those in whose honours lances were shivered, and knights unhorsed.

express less, but he never was intended as an example, further than to show that early perversion 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.

TO IANTHE.

Nor in those climes where I have late been straying,

Though Beauty long hath there been matchless 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
Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening,
Beholds the rainbow of her future years,
Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow
disappears.

Young Peri of the West!—'tis well for me
My years already doubly number thine;
My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee,
And safely view thy ripening beauties shine;
Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline,
Happier, that while all younger hearts shall
bleed,

Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign

To those whose admiration shall succeed, But 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.

Such is thy name with this my verse en-
twined;

And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast
On Harold's page, lanthe'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 hailed thee, loveliest as thou
wast,

Such the most my memory may desire;
Though more than Hope can claim, could
Friendship less require?

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Childe Harold had a mother—not forgot,
Though parting from that mother he did
shun;

A sister whom he loved, but saw her not
Before his weary pilgrimage begun :
If friends he had, he bade adieu to none.
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of
steel;

Ye, who have known what 'tis to doat upon
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel
Such partings break the heart they fondly
hope to heal.

His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,
The laughing dames in whom he did delight,
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy
hands,

Might shake the saintship of an anchorite,
And long had fed his youthful appetite;
His goblets brimm'd 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.

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 :
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.

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 listening:
And now his fingers o'er it he did fling,
And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight.
While flew the vessel on her snowy wing,
And fleeting shores receded from his sight,
Thus to the elements he 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 scamew.
Yon Sun that sets upon the sca

We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,

My native Land-Good Night!

"A few short hours and He will rise
To give the Morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies.
But not my mother Earth.

Deserted is my own good hall,
Its hearth is desolate;

Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;
My dog howls at the gate.

"Come hither, hither, my little page!
Why dost thou weep and wail?
Or dost thou dread the billow's rage,
Or tremble at the gale?

But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;
Our ship is swift and strong:
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly
More merrily along."

“Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,
I fear not wave nor wind;
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I
Am sorrowful in mind;
For I have from my father gone,
| And have no friend, save these alone,
A mother whom I love,
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."-
"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,
Or dost thou dread a French foeman?
Why dost thou look so pale?
Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?
Or shiver at the gale? ”—
But thinking on an absent wife
Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;

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 feres will dry the bright blue eyes
We late saw streaming o'er.
For pleasures past I do not grieve,
Nor perils gathering near;

My greatest grief is that I leave
No thing that claims a tear.

"And now I'm in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea:
But why should I for others groan.
When none will sigh for me?
Perchance my dog will whine in vain,
Till fed by stranger hands ;
But long ere I come back again,
He'd tear me where he stands.

"With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go Athwart the foaming brine;

Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,

So not again to mine.
Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves!
And when you fail my sight,
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!
My native Land-Good Night!"

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.

Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see What Heaven hath done for this delicious land!

What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree! What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand! But man would mar them with an impious hand:

And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest

scourge

`Gainst those who most transgress his high command,

With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest

foemen purge.

What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold!
Her image floating on that noble tide,
Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold,
But now whereon a thousand keels did ride
Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied,
And to the Lusians did her aid afford:
A nation swoln with ignorance and pride,
Who lick yet loathe the hand that waves the
sword

To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing lord.

But whoso entereth within this town,
That, sheening far, celestial seems to be,
Disconsolate will wander up and down,
Mid many things unsightly to strange ee;
For hut and palace show like filthily:
The dingy denizens are reared in dirt ;
Ne personage of high or mean degree
Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt,
Though shent with Egypt's plague,
kempt, unwash'd; unhurt.

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The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep,

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.

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 Io!
Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell,
In hope to merit Heaven by making earth
a Hell.

And here and there, as up the crags you spring,

Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path: Yet deem not these devotion's offering— These are memorials frail of murderous wrath:

For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath; And grove and glen with thousand such are rife

Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life.

On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, Are domes where whilome kings did make repair;

But now the wild flowers round them only breathe;

Yet ruin'd splendour still is lingering there. un-And yonder towers the Prince's palace fair : There thou too, Vathek! England's wealthiest son,

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.

Once form'd thy Paradise, as not aware When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done, Meck Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun.

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