CHILDE

HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE.

CANTO III.

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 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.

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 leavily the journeying years Plod the last sands of life, where not a flower

IV.

Since my young days of passion--joy, or pain,
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string,
And botlı 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.

He, who grown aged in this world of woe,
In deeds, not yers, 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 rise
With airy images, and shapes which dwell
Still unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted

cell.

VI. 'Tis to create, and in creating liye 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 Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, And feeling still with thee in my crush'd 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, onthaught in youth my heart to tame, My springs of life were poison'd, Tis too late! Yet am I chang’d; though still enough the same In strength to bear what time can not abate, And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate.