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LXXXII.

LXIIVI But, midst the throng in merty masquerade,

Sare where some solitary column mourns Lurk tuere no hearts that throb with secret pain, AIUTE it pr strate brethren of the cave ; : Even through the closest searment half betragd ? Sire where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns To such the gentle murmurs of the main

Colonna's cliffs, and gleams along the wave ;
Seemn to re-echo all they mourn in vain ;

Sare o'er some warrior's half-forgotten grare,
To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd Where the gray stones and unmolested grass
Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain : Azes, but not oblivion, feebly brare,
How do they loathe the laughter idly loud,

While strangers only not regarless pass,
And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud! Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh “Alas :"

LXXXIII.

LXXXVII. This muist he feel, the true-born son of Greece, Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild; If Greece one true-born patriot still can boast : Sweet are thy groves, and rendant are thy fields, Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace,

Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, The bondsman's peace, who sighs for all he lost, And still his boney'd wealth Hymettus yields ; Yet with «mooth smile his tyrant can accost,

There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds, And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword :

The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain-air ;
Ah! Greece! they love thee least who owe thee most-1 Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds,

Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare;
Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde! ; Art. Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair.“

LXXXIV.

LXXXVIII. When riseth Lacedemon's hardihood,

Where'er we tread 't is haunted, holy ground; When Thebes Epaminondas rears again,

to earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould, When Athens' children are with hearts endued, But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men. And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, Then may st thou be restored; but not till then. Till the sense aches with gazing to behold A thousand years scarce serve to form a state; The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon : An hour may lay it in the dust : and when

Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold Can man its shatter'd splendour renovate,

Defies the power which crush'd thy temples gone: Recall its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fate? Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.

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! On many of the mountains, particularly Liakura, the enow never is entirriy melted, noi withstanding the intense heat of the summer ; but I never saw it lie on the plains, even in winter.

? 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.

3 In all Attica, if we except Athens itself and Marathon, 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 Ægean deep:

ut, for an glishman, 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.” 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 less 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 deterred 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 sared our parts, which was too small to have opposed any effectual 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 Jane Grey, &c.) 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 acquaintance with this and many other Levantine scenes, by the arrival of his performances.

[The following passage in Harris's Philosophical In. quiries, contains the pith of this stanza:-“ Notwithstanding the various fortunes of Athens as a cits, Attica is still famous for olives, and Mount Hymnettus for honey. Human institutions perish, but Nature is permanent." I recollect having once pointed out this coincidence to Lord Byron, but he assured me that he had never even seen this work of Harris's.

MOORE.]

5“ Siste Viator - heroa calcas!” was the epitaph on the famous Count Merci;- what then must be our feelings when standing on the tumulus of the two hundred (Greeks) who sell on Marathon? The principal barrow has recently been opened by Fauvel : few or no relics, as rases, &c, 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.

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! The original MS. closes with this stanza. The rest was He while the canto was passing through the press.]

* This stanza was written October 11. 1811; upon which ze the poet, in a letter to a friend, says, “ I have been in shocked with a death, and have lost one very dear to ze in happier times; but I have almost forgot the taste of Tie' and supped full of horrors,' till I have become callous ; For bare I a tear left for an event which, five years ago, would are bored down my head to the earth. It seems as though I Tere to experience in my youth the greatest misery of age. My frien is fall around me, and I shall be left a lonely tree before I am withered. Other men can always take refuge in

their families : I have no resource but my own reflections, and they present no prospect here or hereafter, except the selfish satisfaction of surviving my friends. I am indeed very wretched, and you will excuse my saying so, as you know am not apt to cant of sensibility." In reference to this stanza, ** Surely," said Professor Clarke to author of the Pursuits of Literature, “ Lord Byron cannot have experienced such keen anguish as these exquisite allusions to what older men may have felt seem to denote."_“I fear he has," answered Matthias ; "he could not otherwise have written such a poem."]

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.

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.

“ Afin que cette application vous forçat de penser à autre chose ; il n'y a en vérité de remède que celui-là et le temps.' - Lettre du Roi de Prusse à D'Alembert, Sept. 7. 1776.

CANTO THE THIRD.

V. He, who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of lifc, 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 rif:

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 live A being more intense that we endow With form our fancy, gaining as we give The life wé 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.

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 2 ; but the hour 's gone by, When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye. S

II. Once more upon the waters ! yet once more ! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider. 4 Welcome to their roar ! Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead ! Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed, And the rent canvass fluttering strew the gale, 5 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.

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 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 't is past, And the spell closes with its silent seal. Long absent HAROLD re-appears at last; He of the breast which fain no more would feel, Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne'er Yet Time, who changes all, bad alter'd him (heal; In soul and aspect as in age 6 : years steal

Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb; And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.

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.

[in a hitherto unpublished letter, dated Verona, November 6. 1816, Lord Byron says-“ By the way, Ada's name (which I found in our pedigree, under king John's reign), is the same with that of the sister of Charlemagne, as I redde, the other day, in a book treating of the Rhine.”]

? [Lord Byron quitted England, for the second and last time, on the 25th of April, 1816, attended by William Fletcher and Robert Rushton, the "yeoman " and "page" of Canto I.; his physician, Dr. Polidori ; and a Swiss valet. ]

3(-“could grieve or glad my gazing eye." - MS.] . [In the “ Two Noble Kinsmen " of Beaumont and Fletcher, we find the following passage:

Oh, never
Shall we two exercise, like twins of Honour,
Our arms again, and feel our fiery horses

Like proud seas under us." Out of this somewhat forced simile, by a judicious transposition of the comparison, and by the substitution of the more definite word "waves " for “ seas," Lord Byron's clear and noble thought has been produced. — MOORE.]

"[" And the rent canvass tattering." - MS.)

6 [The first and second cantos of “Childe Harold's Pii. grimage” produced, on their appearance in 1812, an effect upon the public, at least equal to any work which has appeared within this or the last century, and placed at once upon Lord Byron's head the garland for which other men of genius have toiled long, and which they have gained late. He was placed pre-eminent among the literary men of his country by general acclamation. It was amidst such feelings of admiration that he entered the public stage. Every thing in his manner, person, and conversation, tended to maintain the charm which his genius had flung around him ; and those adınitted to his conversation, far from finding that the inspired poet sunk into ordinary mortality, felt themselves attached to him, not only by many noble qualities, but by the interest of a mysterious, undefined, and almost painful curiosity. A countenance exquisitely modelled to the expression of feeling and passion, and exhibiting the remarkable contrast of very dark hair and eyebrows with light and expressive eyes, presented to the physiognomist the most interesting subject for the exercise of his art. The predominating expression was that of deep and habitual thought, which gave way to the most rapid play of features when he engaged in interesting discussion ; so that a brother poet compared them to the

IX.

The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, His had been quaff'd too quickly, and he found Were unto him companionship; they spake The dregs were wormwood; but be fill'd again, A mutual language, clearer than the tome And from a purer fount, on holier ground,

Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake And deem'd its spring perpetual ; but in vain ! For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams on the lake. Still round him clung invisibly a chain Which gall’d for ever, fettering though unseen,

XIV. And heavy though it clank'd not; worn with pain, Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars,

Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen, Till he had peopled them with beings bright Entering with every step he took through many a As their own beams; and earth, and earth-born jars, scene.

And human frailties, were forgotten quite :
X.

Could he have kept his spirit to that flight
Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd

He had been happy; but this clay will sink Again in fancied safety with his kind,

Its spark immortal, envying it the light And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd

To which it mounts, as if to break the link (brink. And sheath'd with an invulnerable mind,

That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind; And he, as one, might ʼmidst the many stand

XV. Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find

But in Man's dwellings he became a thing Fit speculation ; such as in strange land

Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome, He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's hand.

Droop'd as a wild-born falcon with clipt wing,

To whom the boundless air alone were home : XI.

Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome, But who can view the ripen'd rose, nor seek

As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat To wear it? who can curiously behold

His breast and beak against his wiry dome The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek,

Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat Nor feel the heart can never all grow old ?

Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat. Who can contemplate Fame through clouds unfold The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb ?

XVI. Harold, once more within the vortex, rolld

Self-exiled Harold 1 wanders forth again, On with the giddy circle, chasing Time,

With naught of hope left, but with less of gloom ; Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond prime.

The very knowledge that he lived in vain,

That all was over on this side the tomb,
XII.

Had made Despair a smilingness assume, (wreck But soon he knew himself the most unfit

Which, though 't were wild, - as on the plunder'd Of men to herd with Man; with whom he held

When mariners would madly meet their doom Little in common; untaught to submit

With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck,His thoughts to others, though his soul was quell'd Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check. ? In youth by his own thoughts; still uncompell’d, He would not yield dominion of his mind

XVII. To spirits against whom his own rebellid;

Stop!- for thy tread is on an Empire's dust! Proud though in desolation; which could find

An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below!
A life cithin itself, to breathe without mankind.

Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust?
XIII.

Nor column trophied for triumphal show ? Where rose the mountains, there to him were None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so, friends ;

As the ground was before, thus let it be ; Where roli'd the ocean, thereon was his home ; How that red rain hath made the harvest grow ! Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends,

And is this all the world has gain'd by thee, He had the passion and the power to roam ;

Thou first and last of fields ! king-making Victory ?

sculpture of a beautiful alahaster rase. only seen to perfection whea lighted up from within. The Nashes of mirih, gaiety, indignation, or 'satirical dislike, which frequently animated Lord Byron's countenance, might, during an evening's confertation, be mistaken, by a stranger, for the habitual ex.

pression, so easily and so happily was it formed for them all ; , but those who had an opportunity of studying his features for

a length of time, and upon various occasions, both of rest and

emotion, will agree that their proper language was that of it relancholy. Sometimes shades of this gloom interrupted

even bis gayest and most happy moments. — Sir WALTER SCOTT.]

[In the third canto of Childe Harold there is much isequality. The thoughts and images are sometimes la. borred; but still they are a very great improvement upon the first two cantos. Lord Byron here speaks in his own language and character, not in the tone of others :- he is describing, not inventing ; therefore he has not, and cannot base, the freedom with which fiction is composed. Some.

times he has a conciseness which is very powerful, but almost į abrupt. From trusting himself alone, and working out his

en deep-buried thoughts, he now, perhaps, fell into a habit of labouring, even where there was no occasion to labour. In the first sixteen stanzas there is yet a mighty but groaning

burst of dark and appalling strength. It was unquestionably the unexaggerated picture of a most tempestuous and sombre, but magnificent soul!-- BRYDGES.]

? [These stanzas,- in which the author, adopting more distinctly the character of Childe Harold than in the original poem, assigns the cause why he has resumed his Pilgrim's staff, when it was hoped he had sat down for life a denizen of his native country, - abound with much moral interest and poetical beauty. The commentary through which the meaning of this melancholy tale is rendered obvious, is still in vivid remembrance ; for the errors of those who excel their fellows in gitts and accomplishments are not soon forgotten. Those scenes, ever most painful to the bosom, were rendered yet more so by public discussion, and it is at least possible that amongst those who exclaimed most loudly on this unhappy occasion, were some in whose eyes literary superiority exaggerated Lord Byron's offence. The scene may be described in a few words: - the wise condemned - the good regretted - the multitude, idly or maliciously inquisitive, rushed from place to place, gathering gossip, which they mangled and exaggerated while they repeated it; and impudence, ever ready to hitch itself into notoriety, hooked on, as Falstaff enjoins Bardolph, blustered, bullied, and talked of“ pleading a cause," and " taking a side." - SIR WALTER Scort.]

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!“ Pride of place" is a term of falconry, and means the highest pitch of flight. See Macbeth, &c.

“ An eagle towering in his pride of place," &c. 2 [In the original draught of this stanza (which, as well as the preceding one, was written after a visit to the field of Waterloo), the lines stood

“ Here his last flight the haughty eagle flew,

Then tore with bloody beak the fatal plain.” On seeing these lines, Mr. Reinagle sketched a spirited chained eagle, grasping the earth with his talons. The cir cumstance being mentioned to Lord Byron, he wrote thus to a friend at Brussels, –“ Reinagle is a better poet and a better ornithologist than I am: eagles, and all birds of prey, attack with their talons, and not with their beaks; and I have altered the line thus:

• Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain.' This is, I think, a better line, besides its poetical justice."]

3 See the famous song on Harmodius and Aristogiton. The best English translation is in Bland's Anthology, by Mr. (now Lord Chief Justice) Denman,

“ With myrtle my sword will I wreathe," &c. · [There can be no more remarkable proof of the greatness of Lord Byron's genius, than the spirit and interest he has cortrived to communicate to his picture of the often-drawn and difficult scene of the breaking up from Brussels before the great Battle. It is a trite remark, that poets generally fail in the representatio. of great events, where the interest

is recent, and the particulars are consequently clearly and commonly known. It required some courage to venture on a theme beset with so many dangers, and deformed with the wrecks of so many former adventures. See, however, with what easy strength he enters upon it, and with how much grace he gradually finds his way back to his own peculiar vein of sentiment and diction ! -'JEFFREY.]

5 On the night previous to the action, it is said that a ball was given at Brussels. - [The popular error of the Duke of Wellington having been surprised, on the eve of the battle of Waterloo, at a ball given by the Duchess of Richmond at Brussels, was first corrected on authority, in the History on Napoleon Buonaparte, which forms a portion of the “ Family Library.” The Duke had received intelligence or Napoleon's decisive operations, and it was intended to put off the ball : but, on reflection, it seemed highly important that the people of Brussels should be kept in ignorance as to the course of events, and the Duke not only desired that the ball should proceed, but the general officers received his commands to appear at it - cach taking care to quit the apartment as quietly as possible at ten o'clock, and proceed to join his respective division en route.]

6 [The father of the Duke of Brunswick, who fell at Quatre Bras, received his death-wound at Jena]

7 [This stan za is very grand, even from its total unadors. ment. It is only a versification of the common narratives but here may well be applied a position of Johnson, that “ where truth is sufficient to fill the mind, fiction is worse than useless." — BRYDGES.]

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