The Works of Lord Byron Complete in One Volume

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.-meries of the middle ages. 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 templar."-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 Salis-lost on a soul so constituted, or rather misbury, 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.

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 mum

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 varnish 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 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

directed. 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 | Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes

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,

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, 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 hailed 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.

CANTO I.

A ROMA UNT.

And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste,

to taste.

On, thou! inHellas deem'd of heavenly birth, Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd
Muse! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will!
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,

shrine,

heart,

Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill: And now Childe Harold was sore sick at
Yet there I've wander'd by thy vaunted rill;
Yes! sighed o'er Delphi's long-deserted | And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;
'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,
But Pride congeal'd the drop within his ee :
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

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.

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 flaunting wassailers of high and low
degree.

Childe Harold was he hight:— but whence

his name

And lineage long, it suits me not to say;
Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame,
And had been glorious in another day :
But one sad losel soils a name for aye,
However mighty in the olden time;
Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay,
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.

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

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

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

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

"Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,
I fear not wave nor wind;
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I
Am sorrowful in mind;
For I have from my father gone,
A mother whom I love,
And have no friend, save these alone,
But thee-and one above.

"My father 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?
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 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 piiots 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!

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?

The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown'd,

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 lo!
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. And yonder towers the Prince's palace fair : There thou too, Vathek! England's wealthiest 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.

And ever since that martial synod met,
Britannia sickens, Cintra! at thy name;
And folks in office at the mention fret,
And fain would blush, if blush they could,
for shame.

How will posterity the deed proclaim!
Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer,
To view these champions cheated of their
fame,

By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors
here,
Where Scorn her finger points through ma-

To horse! to horse! he quits, for ever quits
A scene of peace, though soothing to lis
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
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 ex-
perience sage.

Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay,
Where dwelt of yore the Lusian's luckless

queen;

And church and court did mingle their array,
And mass and revel were alternate seen;
Lordlings and freres-ill sorted fry I ween!
But here the Babylonian whore hath 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
varnish guilt.

O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic
hills,

(Oh, that such hills upheld a freeborn race!) Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place.

Though sluggards deem it but a foolish
'chase,

And marvel men should quit their easy chair,
The toilsome way, and long, long league

to trace,

Oh! there is sweetness in the mountain air, And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share.

More bleak to view the hills at length recede,
And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend:
Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed!
Far as the eye discerns, withouten end,
Spain's realms appear whereon her shepherds
tend

Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the tra-
der knows-

Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend : ny a coming year? | For Spain is compass'd by unyielding foes, And all must shield their all, or share Subjection's woes.

So deem'd the Childe, as o'er the mountains
he

Did take his way in solitary guise:
Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to
flee,

More restless than the swallow in the skies:
Though here awhile he learn'd to moralize,
For Meditation fix'd at times on him;
And conscious Reason whisper'd to despise
His early youth, mispent in maddest whim;
But as he gazed on truth his aching eyes
grew dim.

Where Lusitania and her sister meet,
Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide?
Or ere the jealous queens of nations greet,
Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide?
Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride?
Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall?-
Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide,
Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall,
Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land
from Gaul.

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