[213] {174} [William Martin Leake (1777-1860), traveller and numismatist, published (inter alia) Researches in Greece, in 1814. He was "officially resident" in Albania, February, 1809-March, 1810.]

[214] [A Journey through Albania during the Years 1809-10, London, 1812.]

[215] {175} [The inhabitants of Albania, of the Shkipetar race, consist of two distinct branches: the Gueghs, who belong to the north, and are for the most part Catholics; and the Tosks of the south, who are generally Mussulmans (Finlay's History of Greece, i. 35).]

[gg] I laughed so much as to induce a violent perspiration to which ... I attribute my present individuality.—Ḍ

[216] {176} [The mayor of the village; in Greek, [Greek: proestos].]

[217] [The father of the Consulina Teodora Macri, and grandfather of the "Maid of Athens."]

[218] [Tristram Shandy, 1775, iv. 44.]

[219] [See Recollections of the Life of Lord Byron, 1824, p.64.]

[220] {177} [Compare The Waltz, line 125—"O say, shall dull Romaika's heavy sound." Poems, 1898, i. 492.]

[221] {186} [Francois Mercy de Lorraine, who fought against the Protestants in the Thirty Years' War, was mortally wounded at the battle of Nordlingen, August 3, 1645.]

[222] {187} [Byron and Hobhouse visited Marathon, January 25, 1810. The unconsidered trifle of the "plain" must have been offered to Byron during his second residence at Athens, in 1811.]

[223] ["Expende Annibalem—quot libras," etc. (Juvenal, x. 147), is the motto of the Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte, which was written April 10, 1814.—Journal, 1814; Life, p. 325.]

[224] [Compare letter to Hodgson, September 25, 1811: Letters, 1898, ii. 45.]

[225] [Miss Owenson (Sydney, Lady Morgan), 1783-1859, published her Woman, or Ida of Athens, in 4 vols., in 1812. Writing to Murray, February 20, 1818, Byron alludes to the "cruel work" which an article (attributed to Croker but, probably, written by Hookham Frere) had made with her France in the Quarterly Review (vol. xvii. p. 260); and in a note to The Two Foscari, act iii. sc. 1, he points out that his description of Venice as an "Ocean-Rome" had been anticipated by Lady Morgan in her "fearless and excellent work upon Italy." The play was completed July 9, 1821, but the work containing the phrase, "Rome of the Ocean," had not been received till August 16 (see, too, his letter to Murray, August 23, 1821). His conviction of the excellence of Lady Morgan's work was, perhaps strengthened by her outspoken eulogium.]

[226] {188} [For the Disdar's extortions, see Travels in Albania, i. 244.]

[227] ["The poor ...when once abroad, Grow sick, and damn the climate like a lord." Pope, Imit. of Horace, Ep. 1, lines 159, 160.]

[228] [Works and Days, v. 493, et seq.; Hesiod. Carm., C. Goettlingius (1843), p. 215.]

[229] Nonsense; humbug.

[230] {189} [Hobhouse pronounced it to be the Fountain of Ares, the Paraporti Spring, "which serves to swell the scanty waters of the Dirce." The Dirce flows on the west; the Ismenus, which forms the fountain, to the east of Thebes. "The water was tepid, as I found by bathing in it" (Travels in Albania, i. 233; Handbook for Greece, p. 703).]

[231] [Travels in Greece, ch. lxvii.]

[232] [Gell's Itinerary of Greece (1810), Preface, p. xi.]

[233] {190} [For M. Roque, see Itineraire de Paris a Jerusalem: Oeuvres Chateaubriand, Paris, 1837, ii. 258-266.]

[234] {191} [William Eton published (1798-1809) A Survey of the Turkish Empire, in which he advocated the cause of Greek independence. Sonnini de Manoncourt (1751-1812), another ardent phil-Hellenist, published his Voyage en Grece et en Turquie in 1801.]

[235] [Cornelius de Pauw (1739-1799), Dutch historian, published, in 1787, Recherches philosophiques sur les Grecs. Byron reflects upon his paradoxes and superficiality in Note II., infra. Thomas Thornton published, in 1807, a work entitled Present State of Turkey (see Note II., infra).]

[236] {192} [The MSS. of Hints from Horace and The Curse of Minerva are dated, "Athens, Capuchin Convent, March 12 and March 17, 1811." Proof B of Hints from Horace is dated, "Athens, Franciscan Convent, March 12, 1811." Writing to Hodgson, November 14, 1810, he says, "I am living alone in the Franciscan monastery with one 'friar' (a Capuchin of course) and one 'frier' (a bandy-legged Turkish cook)" (Letters, 1898, i. 307).]

[237] {193} [The Ionian Islands, with the exception of Corfu and Paxos, fell into the hands of the English in 1809, 1810. Paxos was captured in 1814, but Corfu, which had been blockaded by Napoleon, was not surrendered till the restoration of the Bourbons in 1815.]

[238] [The Mainotes or Mainates, who take their name from Maina, near Cape Taenaron, were the Highlanders of the Morea, "remarkable for their love of violence and plunder, but also for their frankness and independence." "Pedants have termed the Mainates descendants of the ancient Spartans," but "they must be either descended from the Helots, or from the Perioikoi.... To an older genealogy they can have no pretension."—Finlay's History of Greece, 1877, v. 113; vi. 26.]

[239] {194} [The Fanal, or Phanar, is to the left, Pera to the right, of the Golden Horn. "The water of the Golden Horn, which flows between the city and the suburbs, is a line of separation seldom transgressed by the Frank residents."—Travels in Albania, ii. 208.]

[240] {195} A word, en passant, with Mr. Thornton and Dr. Pouqueville, who have been guilty between them of sadly clipping the Sultan's Turkish.[Sec.1]

Dr. Pouqueville tells a long story of a Moslem who swallowed corrosive sublimate in such quantities that he acquired the name of "Suleyman Yeyen" i.e. quoth the Doctor, "Suleyman the eater of corrosive sublimate." "Aha," thinks Mr. Thornton (angry with the Doctor for the fiftieth time), "have I caught you?"[Sec.2]—Then, in a note, twice the thickness of the Doctor's anecdote, he questions the Doctor's proficiency in the Turkish tongue, and his veracity in his own.—"For," observes Mr. Thornton (after inflicting on us the tough participle of a Turkish verb), "it means nothing more than 'Suleyman the eater,' and quite cashiers the supplementary 'sublimate.'" Now both are right, and both are wrong. If Mr. Thornton, when he next resides "fourteen years in the factory," will consult his Turkish dictionary, or ask any of his Stamboline acquaintance, he will discover that "Suleyma'n yeyen," put together discreetly, mean the "Swallower of sublimate" without any "Suleyman" in the case: "Suleyma" signifying "corrosive sublimate" and not being a proper name on this occasion, although it be an orthodox name enough with the addition of n. After Mr. Thornton's frequent hints of profound Orientalism, he might have found this out before he sang such paeans over Dr. Pouqueville.

After this, I think "Travellers versus Factors" shall be our motto, though the above Mr. Thornton has condemned "hoc genus omne," for mistake and misrepresentation. "Ne Sutor ultra crepidam," "No merchant beyond his bales." N.B. For the benefit of Mr. Thornton, "Sutor" is not a proper name.

[Sec.1][For Pouqueville's story of the "theriakis" or opium-eaters, see Voyage en Moree, 1805, ii. 126.]

[Sec.2][Thornton's Present State of Turkey, ii. 173.]

[241] Recherches Philosophiques sur les Grecs, 1787, i. 155.

[242] {196} [De Pauw (Rech. Phil. sur les Grecs, 1788, ii. 293), in repeating Plato's statement (Laches, 191), that the Lacedaemonians at Plataea first fled from the Persians, and then, when the Persians were broken, turned upon them and won the battle, misapplies to them the term [Greek: thrasy/deiloi] (Arist., Eth. Nic., iii. 9.7)—men, that is, who affect the hero, but play the poltroon.]

[243] [Attached as a note to line 562 of Hints from Horace (MS. M.).]

[244] ["I'll talk a word with this same learned Theban." Shakespeare, King Lear, act iii. sc. 4, line 150.]

[245] [For April, 1810: vol. xvi. pp. 55, sq.]

[246] [Diamant or Adamantius Coray (1748-1833), scholar and phil-Hellenist, declared his views on the future of the Greeks in the preface to a translation of Beccaria Bonesani's treatise, Dei Delitti e delle Pene (1764), which was published in Paris in 1802. He began to publish his Bibliotheque Hellenique, in 17 vols., in 1805. He was of Chian parentage, but was born at Smyrna. [Greek: Korae Au)tobiographia], Athens, 1891.]

[247] I have in my possession an excellent lexicon "[Greek: tri/glosson]" which I received in exchange from S. G——, Esq., for a small gem: my antiquarian friends have never forgotten it or forgiven me.

[[Greek: Lexiko tri/glosson te~s Gallike~s, I)talike~s, kai 'Romaike~s diale/ktou, k.t.l.], 3 vols., Vienna, 1790. By Georgie Vendoti (Bentotes, or Bendotes) of Joanina. The book was in Hobhouse's possession in 1854.]

[248] In Gail's pamphlet against Coray, he talks of "throwing the insolent Hellenist out of the windows." On this a French critic exclaims, "Ah, my God! throw an Hellenist out of the window! what sacrilege!" It certainly would be a serious business for those authors who dwell in the attics: but I have quoted the passage merely to prove the similarity of style among the controversialists of all polished countries; London or Edinburgh could hardly parallel this Parisian ebullition.

[Jean Baptiste Gail (1755-1829), Professor of Greek in the College de France, published, in 1810, a quarto volume entitled, Reclamations de J. B. Gail, ... et observations sur l'opinion en virtu de laquelle le juri—propose de decerner un prix a M. Coray, a l'exclusion de la chasse de Xenophon, du Thucydide, etc., grec-latin-francais, etc.]

[249] {198} Dorotheus of Mitylene (fl. sixteenth century), Archbishop of Monembasia (Anglice "Malmsey"), on the south-east coast of Laconia, was the author of a Universal History ([Greek: Biblion I(storiko/n, k.t.l.]), edited by A. Tzigaras, Venice, 1637, 4to.

[250] Meletius of Janina (1661-1714) was Archbishop of Athens, 1703-14. His principal work is Ancient and Modern Geography, Venice, 1728, fol. He also wrote an Ecclesiastical History, in four vols., Vienna, 1783-95.

[251] Panagios (Panagiotes) Kodrikas, Professor of Greek at Paris, published at Vienna, in 1794, a Greek translation of Fontenelle's Entretiens sur la Pluralite des Mondes. John Camarases, a Constantinopolitan, translated into French the apocryphal treatise, De Universi Natura, attributed to Ocellus Lucanus, a Pythagorean philosopher, who is said to have flourished in Lucania in the fifth century B.C.

[252] Christodoulos, an Acarnanian, published a work, [Greek: Peri Philoso/phou, Philosophi/as, Physio~n, Metaphysiko~n, k.t.l.], at Vienna, in 1786.

[253] Athanasius Psalidas published, at Vienna, in 1791, a sceptical work entitled, True Felicity ([Greek: A)lethes Eu)daimoni/a]). "Very learned, and full of quotations, but written in false taste."—MS. M. He was a schoolmaster at Janina, where Byron and Hobhouse made his acquaintance—"the only person," says Hobhouse, "I ever saw who had what might be called a library, and that a very small one" (Travels in Albania, etc., i. 508).

[254] Hobhouse mentions a patriotic poet named Polyzois, "the new Tyrtaeus," and gives, as a specimen of his work, "a war-song of the Greeks in Egypt, fighting in the cause of Freedom."—Travels in Albania, etc., i. 507; ii. 6, 7.

[255] {199} [By Blackbey is meant Bey of Vlack, i.e. Wallachia. (See a Translation of this "satire in dialogue"—"Remarks on the Romaic," etc., Poetical Works, 1891, p. 793.)]

[256] [Constantine Rhigas (born 1753), the author of the original of Byron's "Sons of the Greeks, arise," was handed over to the Turks by the Austrians, and shot at Belgrade in 1793, by the orders of Ali Pacha.]

[257] {200} [The Hecatonnesi are a cluster of islands in the Gulf of Adramyttium, over against the harbour and town of Aivali or Aivalik. Cidonies may stand for [Greek: e(po/lis kydonis], the quince-shaped city. "At Haivali or Kidognis, opposite to Mytilene, there is a sort of university for a hundred students and three professors, now superintended by a Greek of Mytilene, who teaches not only the Hellenic, but Latin, French, and Italian."—Travels in Albania, etc., i. 509, 510.]

[258] [Francois Horace Bastien, Conte Sebastiani (1772-1851), was ambassador to the Sublime Porte, May, 1806-June, 1807.]

[259] [Gregor Alexandrovitch Potemkin (1736-1791), the favourite of the Empress Catherine II.]

[260] {201} In a former number of the Edinburgh Review, 1808, it is observed: "Lord Byron passed some of his early years in Scotland, where he might have learned that pibroch does not mean a bagpipe, any more than duet means a fiddle." Query,—Was it in Scotland that the young gentlemen of the Edinburgh Review learned that Solyman means Mahomet II. any more than criticism means infallibility?—but thus it is,

"Caedimus, inque vicem praebemus crura sagittis." Persius, Sat. iv. 42.

The mistake seemed so completely a lapse of the pen (from the great similarity of the two words, and the total absence of error from the former pages of the literary leviathan) that I should have passed it over as in the text, had I not perceived in the Edinburgh Review much facetious exultation on all such detections, particularly a recent one, where words and syllables are subjects of disquisition and transposition; and the above-mentioned parallel passage in my own case irresistibly propelled me to hint how much easier it is to be critical than correct. The gentlemen, having enjoyed many a triumph on such victories, will hardly begrudge me a slight ovation for the present.

[At the end of the review of Childe Harold, February, 1812 (xix., 476), the editor inserted a ponderous retort to this harmless and good-natured "chaff:" "To those strictures of the noble author we feel no inclination to trouble our readers with any reply ... we shall merely observe that if we viewed with astonishment the immeasurable fury with which the minor poet received the innocent pleasantry and moderate castigation of our remarks on his first publication, we now feel nothing but pity for the strange irritability of temperament which can still cherish a private resentment for such a cause, or wish to perpetuate memory of personalities as outrageous as to have been injurious only to their authors."]

[261] ["O Athens, first of all lands, why in these latter days dost thou nourish asses?"]

[262] [Anna Comnena (1083-1148), daughter of Alexis I., wrote the Alexiad, a history of her father's reign.]

[263] [Zonaras (Annales, B 240), lib. viii. cap. 26, A 4. Venice, 1729.]

[264] [See English Bards, etc., line 877: Poems, 1898, i. 366, note 1.]

[265] {203} [For Vely Pacha, the son of Ali Pacha, Vizier of the Morea, see Letters, 1898, i. 248, note 1.]

[266] [The Caimacam was the deputy or lieutenant of the grand Vizier.]

[267] [Scott published "Sir Tristrem, a Metrical Romance of the Thirteenth Century, by Thomas of Ercildoun," in 1804.]

[268] [Captain Lismahago, a paradoxical and pedantic Scotchman, the favoured suitor of Miss Tabitha Bramble, in Smollett's Expedition of Humphry Clinker.]

[269] {204} [Sir William Drummond (1780?-1828) published, inter alia, A Review of the Government of Athens and Sparta, in 1795; and Herculanensia, an Archaeological and Philological Dissertation containing a Manuscript found at Herculaneum, in conjunction with the Rev. Robert Walpole (see letter to Harness, December 8, 1811. See Letters, 1898, ii. 79, note 3).

For Aberdeen and Hamilton, see English Bards, etc., line 509: Poetical Works, 1898, i. 336, note 2, and Childe Harold, Canto II. supplementary stanzas, ibid., ii. 108.

Edward Daniel Clarke, LL.D. (1769-1822), published Travels in Various Countries, 1810-1823 (vide ante, p. 172, note 7).

For Leake, vide ante, p. 174, note 1.

For Gell, see English Bards, etc., line 1034, note 1: Poetical Works, 1898, i. 379.

The Rev. Robert Walpole (1781-1856), in addition to his share in Herculanensia, completed the sixth volume of Clarke's Travels, which appeared in 1823.]

[270] {205} [Compare English Bards, etc., line 655, note 2: Poetical Works, 1898, i. 349.]

[271] [The judge of a town or village—the Spanish alcalde.—N. Eng. Dict., art. "Cadi."]

[272] {206} [Mouradja D'Ohsson (1740-1804), an Armenian by birth, spent many years at Constantinople as Swedish envoy. He published at Paris (1787-90, two vols. fol.) his Tableau general de l'empire Othoman, a work still regarded as the chief authority on the subject.]

[273] ["Effendi," derived from the Greek [Greek: au)the/ntes], through the Romaic [Greek: a)phe/ntes], an "absolute master," is a title borne by distinguished civilians.

The Spanish order of St. James of Compostella was founded circ. A.D. 1170.]

[274] {207} [The "Nizam Gedidd," or new ordinance, which aimed at remodelling the Turkish army on a quasi-European system, was promulgated by Selim III in 1808.

A "mufti" is an expounder, a "molla" or "mollah" a superior judge, of the sacred Moslem law. The "tefterdars" or "defterdars" were provincial registrars and treasurers under the supreme defterdar, or Chancellor of the Exchequer.]

* * * * *



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE.

CANTO THE THIRD.

"Afin que cette application vous forcat a penser a autre chose. Il n'y a en verite de remede que celui-la et le temps."—Lettres du Roi de Prusse et de M. D'Alembert.[275] [Lettre cxlvi. Sept. 7, 1776.]

* * * * *



INTRODUCTION TO THE THIRD CANTO.

The Third Canto of Childe Harold was begun early in May, and finished at Ouchy, near Lausanne, on the 27th of June, 1816. Byron made a fair copy of the first draft of his poem, which had been scrawled on loose sheets, and engaged the services of "Claire" (Jane Clairmont) to make a second transcription. Her task was completed on the 4th of July. The fair copy and Claire's transcription remained in Byron's keeping until the end of August or the beginning of September, when he consigned the transcription to "his friend Mr. Shelley," and the fair copy to Scrope Davies, with instructions to deliver them to Murray (see Letters to Murray, October 5, 9, 15, 1816). Shelley landed at Portsmouth, September 8, and on the 11th of September he discharged his commission.

"I was thrilled with delight yesterday," writes Murray (September 12), "by the announcement of Mr. Shelley with the MS. of Childe Harold. I had no sooner got the quiet possession of it than, trembling with auspicious hope, ... I carried it ... to Mr. Gifford.... He says that what you have heretofore published is nothing to this effort.... Never, since my intimacy with Mr. Gifford, did I see him so heartily pleased, or give one fiftieth part of the praise, with one thousandth part of the warmth."

The correction of the press was undertaken by Gifford, not without some remonstrance on the part of Shelley, who maintained that "the revision of the proofs, and the retention or alteration of certain particular passages had been entrusted to his discretion" (Letter to Murray, October 30, 1816).

When, if ever, Mr. Davies, of "inaccurate memory" (Letter to Murray, December 4, 1816), discharged his trust is a matter of uncertainty. The "original MS." (Byron's "fair copy") is not forthcoming, and it is improbable that Murray, who had stipulated (September 20) "for all the original MSS., copies, and scraps," ever received it. The "scraps" were sent (October 5) in the first instance to Geneva, and, after many wanderings, ultimately fell into the possession of Mrs. Leigh, from whom they were purchased by the late Mr. Murray.

The July number of the Quarterly Review (No. XXX.) was still in the press, and, possibly, for this reason it was not till October 29 that Murray inserted the following advertisement in the Morning Chronicle: "Lord Byron's New Poems. On the 23^d of November will be published The Prisoners (sic) of Chillon, a Tale and other Poems. A Third Canto of Childe Harold...." But a rival was in the field. The next day (October 30), in the same print, another advertisement appeared: "The R. H. Lord Byron's Pilgrimage to the Holy Land.... Printed for J. Johnston, Cheapside.... Of whom may be had, by the same author, a new ed. (the third) of Farewell to England: with three other poems...." It was, no doubt, the success of his first venture which had stimulated the "Cheapside impostor," as Byron called him, to forgery on a larger scale.

The controversy did not end there. A second advertisement (Morning Chronicle, November 15) of "Lord Byron's Pilgrimage," etc., stating that "the copyright of the work was consigned" to the Publisher "exclusively by the Noble Author himself, and for which he gives 500 guineas," precedes Murray's second announcement of The Prisoners of Chillon, and the Third Canto of Childe Harold, in which he informs "the public that the poems lately advertised are not written by Lord Byron. The only bookseller at present authorised to print Lord Byron's poems is Mr. Murray...." Further precautions were deemed necessary. An injunction in Chancery was applied for by Byron's agents and representatives (see, for a report of the case in the Morning Chronicle, November 28, 1816, Letters, vol. iv., Letter to Murray, December 9, 1816, note), and granted by the Chancellor, Lord Eldon. Strangely enough, Sir Samuel Romilly, whom Byron did not love, was counsel for the plaintiff.

In spite of the injunction, a volume entitled "Lord Byron's Pilgrimage to the Holy Land, a Poem in Two Cantos. To which is attached a fragment, The Tempest," was issued in 1817. It is a dull and, apparently, serious production, suggested by, but hardly an imitation of, Childe Harold. The notes are descriptive of the scenery, customs, and antiquities of Palestine. The Tempest, on the other hand, is a parody, and by no means a bad parody, of Byron at his worst; e.g.—

"There was a sternness in his eye, Which chilled the soul—one knew not why— But when returning vigour came, And kindled the dark glare to flame, So fierce it flashed, one well might swear, A thousand souls were centred there."

It is possible that this Pilgrimage was the genuine composition of some poetaster who failed to get his poems published under his own name, or it may have been the deliberate forgery of John Agg, or Hewson Clarke, or C. F. Lawler, the pseudo Peter Pindar—"Druids" who were in Johnston's pay, and were prepared to compose pilgrimages to any land, holy or unholy, which would bring grist to their employer's mill. (See the Advertisements at the end of Lord Byron's Pilgrimage, etc.)

The Third Canto was published, not as announced, on the 23rd, but on the 18th of November. Murray's "auspicious hope" of success was amply fulfilled. He "wrote to Lord Byron on the 13th of December, 1816, informing him that at a dinner at the Albion Tavern, he had sold to the assembled booksellers 7000 of his Third Canto of Childe Harold...." The reviews were for the most part laudatory. Sir Walter Scott's finely-tempered eulogium (Quart. Rev., No. xxxi., October, 1816 [published February 11, 1817]), and Jeffrey's balanced and cautious appreciation (Edin. Rev., No. liv., December, 1816 [published February 14, 1817]) have been reprinted in their collected works. Both writers conclude with an aspiration—Jeffrey, that

"This puissant spirit Yet shall reascend, Self-raised, and repossess its native seat!"

Scott, in the "tenderest strain" of Virgilian melody—

"I decus, i nostrum, melioribus utere fatis!"

NOTE ON MSS. OF THE THIRD CANTO.

[The following memorandum, in Byron's handwriting, is prefixed to the Transcription:—

"This copy is to be printed from—subject to comparison with the original MS. (from which this is a transcription) in such parts as it may chance to be difficult to decypher in the following. The notes in this copy are more complete and extended than in the former—and there is also one stanza more inserted and added to this, viz. the 33d. B. Byron. July 10th, 1816. Diodati, near y^e Lake of Geneva."

The "original MS." to which the memorandum refers is not forthcoming (vide ante, p. 212), but the "scraps" (MS.) are now in Mr. Murray's possession. Stanzas i.-iii., and the lines beginning, "The castled Crag of Drachenfels," are missing.

Claire's Transcription (C.) occupies the first 119 pages of a substantial quarto volume. Stanzas xxxiii. and xcix.-cv. and several of the notes are in Byron's handwriting. The same volume contains Sonnet on Chillon, in Byron's handwriting; a transcription of the Prisoners (sic) of Chillon (so, too, the advertisement in the Morning Chronicle, October 29, 1816); Sonnet, "Rousseau," etc., in Byron's handwriting, and transcriptions of Stanzas to——, "Though the day of my destiny's over;" Darkness; Churchill's Grave; The Dream; The Incantation (Manfred, act ii. sc. 1); and Prometheus.]



CANTO THE THIRD.

I.

Is thy face like thy mothers, my fair child! ADA! sole daughter of my house and heart?[276] 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.[gh]

II.

Once more upon the waters! yet once more![277] And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider.[278] 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,[gi] 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;[279] 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[gj]: 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,[280] 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.[gk]

VI.

'Tis to create, and in creating live[281] A being more intense that we endow[gl] 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:[gm] And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, My springs of life were poisoned.[282] 'Tis too late: Yet am I changed; though still enough the same In strength to bear what Time can not abate,[gn] 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—[283] Long absent HAROLD re-appears at last; He of the breast which fain no more would feel,[go] 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[gp] 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.[gq]

XI.

But who can view the ripened rose, nor seek[gr] 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?[gs] Who can contemplate Fame through clouds unfold The star[284] 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.[gt][285]

XII.

But soon he knew himself the most unfit[gu] 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;[gv] 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,[gw] 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.[gx]

XV.

But in Man's dwellings he became a thing[gy] 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,[286] With nought 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?[287] Nor column trophied for triumphal show? None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so.—[gz][288] As the ground was before, thus let it be;—[ha] 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![hb] 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,[1.B.] Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain,[hc] 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.[hd]

XIX.

Fit retribution! Gaul may champ the bit And foam in fetters;—but is Earth more free?[289] Did nations combat to make One submit? Or league to teach all Kings true Sovereignty?[he] 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 fallen 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[2.B.] drew on Athens' tyrant Lord.

XXI.

There was a sound of revelry by night,[290] And Belgium's Capital had gathered then Her Beauty and her Chivalry—and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;[hf] 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;[3.B.] 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![hg] Arm! Arm! it is—it is—the cannon's opening roar![hh]

XXIII.

Within a windowed niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated Chieftain; he did hear[291] 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[hi] 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,[hj] 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[hk] The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise![hl]

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; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,[hm] 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, 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[4.B.] fame rings in each clansman's ears!

XXVII.

And Ardennes[5.B.] waves above them her green leaves,[hn] Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass— Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning 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,[292] And partly that bright names will hallow song;[ho] 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![293]

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 wide field revive With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring[294] 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.[6.B.]

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;[hp] 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;[hq] And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on:[295]

XXXIII.

Even as a broken Mirror,[296] 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's shore,[7.B.] 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,[hr] Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleeting span,[297] 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,[hs] 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, antithetically mixed, One moment of the mightiest, and again On little objects with like firmness fixed;[ht] 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[hu][298] Even now to re-assume the imperial mien,[299] 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[hv] 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[hw] 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,[hx] 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[hy] 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[hz] Ambition steeled thee on too far to 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 headlong 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.[8.B.]

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[ia] 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,[ib] 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[ic] 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.[id] 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,[ie] And thus reward the toils which to those summits led.

XLVI.

Away with these! true Wisdom's world will be[if] Within its own creation, or in thine, Maternal Nature! for who teems like thee,[ig] Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine? There Harold gazes on a work divine, A blending of all beauties; streams and dells, Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, cornfield, mountain, vine, And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells.[ih]

XLVII.

And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd, All tenantless, save to the crannying Wind, Or holding dark communion with the Cloud There was a day when they were young and proud; Banners on high, and battles[300] passed below; But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, And those which waved are shredless dust ere now,[ii] And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow.

XLVIII.

Beneath these battlements, within those walls, Power dwelt amidst her passions; in proud state Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, Doing his evil will, nor less elate Than mightier heroes of a longer date. What want these outlaws conquerors should have[ij][9.B.] But History's purchased page to call them great? A wider space—an ornamented grave? Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full as brave.[ik]

XLIX.

In their baronial feuds and single fields, What deeds of prowess unrecorded died! And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields,[301] With emblems well devised by amorous pride, Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide; But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on Keen contest and destruction near allied, And many a tower for some fair mischief won, Saw the discoloured Rhine beneath its ruin run.

L.

But Thou, exulting and abounding river! Making thy waves a blessing as they flow Through banks whose beauty would endure for ever Could man but leave thy bright creation so, Nor its fair promise from the surface mow[il] With the sharp scythe of conflict, then to see Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know[302] Earth paved like Heaven—and to seem such to me,[im] Even now what wants thy stream?—that it should Lethe be.

LI.

A thousand battles have assailed thy banks, But these and half their fame have passed away, And Slaughter heaped on high his weltering ranks: Their very graves are gone, and what are they?[303] Thy tide washed down the blood of yesterday, And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream Glassed, with its dancing light, the sunny ray;[in] But o'er the blacken'd memory's blighting dream Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem.

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 even 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[io] 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.[304]

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,[ip] Which unto his was bound by stronger ties Than the church links withal; and—though unwed, That love was pure—and, far above disguise,[iq] Had stood the test of mortal enmities Still undivided, and cemented more By peril, dreaded most in female eyes;[305] But this was firm, and from a foreign shore Well to that heart might his these absent greetings pour![ir]

1.

The castled Crag of Drachenfels[306][10.B.] Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossomed trees, And fields which promise corn and wine, And scattered cities crowning these, Whose far white walls along them shine, Have strewed a scene, which I should see With double joy wert thou with me.

2.

And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes, And hands which offer early flowers, Walk smiling o'er this Paradise; Above, the frequent feudal towers Through green leaves lift their walls of gray; And many a rock which steeply lowers, And noble arch in proud decay, Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers; But one thing want these banks of Rhine,— Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!

3.

I send the lilies given to me— Though long before thy hand they touch, I know that they must withered be, But yet reject them not as such; For I have cherished them as dear, Because they yet may meet thine eye, And guide thy soul to mine even here, When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, And know'st them gathered by the Rhine, And offered from my heart to thine!

4.

The river nobly foams and flows— The charm of this enchanted ground, And all its thousand turns disclose Some fresher beauty varying round: The haughtiest breast its wish might bound Through life to dwell delighted here; Nor could on earth a spot be found To Nature and to me so dear— Could thy dear eyes in following mine Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine!

LVI.

By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground, There is a small and simple Pyramid, Crowning the summit of the verdant mound; Beneath its base are Heroes' ashes hid— Our enemy's—but let not that forbid Honour to Marceau! o'er whose early tomb[is] Tears, big tears, gushed from the rough soldier's lid, Lamenting and yet envying such a doom, Falling for France, whose rights he battled to resume.

LVII.

Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career,— His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes; And fitly may the stranger lingering here Pray for his gallant Spirit's bright repose;— For he was Freedom's Champion, one of those, The few in number, who had not o'erstept[307] The charter to chastise which she bestows On such as wield her weapons; he had kept The whiteness of his soul—and thus men o'er him wept.[11.B.]

LVIII.

Here Ehrenbreitstein,[12.B.] with her shattered wall Black with the miner's blast, upon her height Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball Rebounding idly on her strength did light:— A Tower of Victory! from whence the flight Of baffled foes was watched along the plain: But Peace destroyed what War could never blight, And laid those proud roofs bare to Summer's rain— On which the iron shower for years had poured in vain.[308]

LIX.

Adieu to thee, fair Rhine! How long delighted The stranger fain would linger on his way! Thine is a scene alike where souls united Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray; And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey[it] On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, Where Nature, nor too sombre nor too gay, Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere,[iu] Is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the year.[309]

LX.

Adieu to thee again! a vain adieu! There can be no farewell to scene like thine; The mind is coloured by thy every hue; And if reluctantly the eyes resign Their cherished gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine! 'Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise; More mighty spots may rise—more glaring shine,[iv] But none unite in one attaching maze The brilliant, fair, and soft,—the glories of old days,

LXI.

The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom[310] Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen, The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom, The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between,— The wild rocks shaped, as they had turrets been, In mockery of man's art; and these withal A race of faces happy as the scene, Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, Still springing o'er thy banks, though Empires near them fall.

LXII.

But these recede. Above me are the Alps, The Palaces of Nature, whose vast walls Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,[iw] And throned Eternity in icy halls Of cold Sublimity, where forms and falls[311] The Avalanche—the thunderbolt of snow! All that expands the spirit, yet appals, Gather around these summits, as to show How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below.

LXIII.

But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan, There is a spot should not be passed in vain,— Morat! the proud, the patriot field! where man May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, Nor blush for those who conquered on that plain; Here Burgundy bequeathed his tombless host, A bony heap, through ages to remain, Themselves their monument;[312]—the Stygian coast Unsepulchred they roamed, and shrieked each wandering ghost.[ix][313][13.B.]

LXIV.

While Waterloo with Cannae's carnage vies,[314] Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand; They were true Glory's stainless victories, Won by the unambitious heart and hand Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band, All unbought champions in no princely cause Of vice-entailed Corruption; they no land[iy] Doomed to bewail the blasphemy of laws Making Kings' rights divine, by some Draconic clause.

LXV.

By a lone wall a lonelier column rears A gray and grief-worn aspect of old days; 'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years, And looks as with the wild-bewildered gaze Of one to stone converted by amaze, Yet still with consciousness; and there it stands Making a marvel that it not decays, When the coeval pride of human hands, Levelled Aventicum,[14.B.] hath strewed her subject lands.

LXVI.

And there—oh! sweet and sacred be the name!— Julia—the daughter—the devoted—gave Her youth to Heaven; her heart, beneath a claim Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave. Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would crave The life she lived in—but the Judge was just— And then she died on him she could not save.[iz] Their tomb was simple, and without a bust,[ja] And held within their urn one mind—one heart—one dust.[15.B.]

LXVII.

But these are deeds which should not pass away, And names that must not wither, though the Earth Forgets her empires with a just decay, The enslavers and the enslaved—their death and birth; The high, the mountain-majesty of Worth Should be—and shall, survivor of its woe, And from its immortality, look forth In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow,[16.B.] Imperishably pure beyond all things below.

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:[jb] There is too much of Man here,[315] 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[jc][316] In the 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.[jd]

LXX.

There, in a moment, we may plunge our years[317] 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[je][318] 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[319] Rhone,[17.B.] 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;—[jf] 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[320] Of human cities torture: I can see[jg] Nothing to loathe in Nature, save to be[jh] A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, Classed among creatures, when the soul can flee, And with the sky—the peak—the heaving plain[ji] 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[jj] With a fresh pinion; which I feel 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.[jk][321]

LXXIV.

And when, at length, the mind shall be all free From what it hates in this degraded form,[jl] 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?[jm] Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot?[322]

LXXV.

Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part[jn] 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?[jo][323]

LXXVI.

But this is not my theme; and I return[jp] 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 a while—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,[jq] 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[jr] 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.[js] 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.

LXXIX.

This breathed itself to life in Julie, this Invested her with all that's wild and sweet; This hallowed, too, the memorable kiss[18.B.] Which every morn his fevered lip would greet, From hers, who but with friendship his would meet; But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast Flashed the thrilled Spirit's love-devouring heat;[jt] In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest.

LXXX.

His life was one long war with self-sought foes, Or friends by him self-banished;[324] for his mind Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose, For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind,[ju] 'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind. But he was phrensied, wherefore, who may know? Since cause might be which Skill could never find;[jv] But he was phrensied by disease or woe, To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show.

LXXXI.

For then he was inspired,[325] and from him came, As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore, Those oracles which set the world in flame,[326] Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more: Did he not this for France? which lay before Bowed to the inborn tyranny of years?[327] Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore, Till by the voice of him and his compeers, Roused up to too much wrath which follows o'ergrown fears?

LXXXII.

They made themselves a fearful monument! The wreck of old opinions—things which grew,[jw] Breathed from the birth of Time: the veil they rent, And what behind it lay, all earth shall view.[jx] But good with ill they also overthrew, Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild Upon the same foundation, and renew Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour refilled, As heretofore, because Ambition was self-willed.

LXXXIII.

But this will not endure, nor be endured! Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt. They might have used it better, but, allured By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt On one another; Pity ceased to melt With her once natural charities. But they, Who in Oppression's darkness caved had dwelt, They were not eagles, nourished with the day; What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey?

LXXXIV.

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear That which disfigures it; and they who war With their own hopes, and have been vanquished, bear Silence, but not submission: in his lair Fixed Passion holds his breath, until the hour Which shall atone for years; none need despair: It came—it cometh—and will come,—the power To punish or forgive—in one we shall be slower.[jy][328]

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,[329] 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[jz] His life an infancy, and sings his fill;[ka][330] 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.[kb]

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.[331]

LXXXIX.

All Heaven and Earth are still—though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most;[332] 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.[333]

XC.

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt[kc] 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[kd] Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone,[334] Binding all things with beauty;—'twould disarm The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm.

XCI.

Not vainly did the early Persian make[335] His altar the high places, and the peak Of earth-o'ergazing mountains,[19.B.] —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! Oh Night,[20.B.] And Storm, and Darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in Woman![336] 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![ke] 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![kf] How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,[kg] 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.[kh]

XCIV.

Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between Heights which appear as lovers who have parted[ki][337] 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:[kj]

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 thunder-bolts 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[338] 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.

XCIX.

Clarens! sweet Clarens[339] birthplace of deep Love! Thine air is the young breath of passionate Thought; Thy trees take root in Love; the snows above,[kk] The very Glaciers have his colours caught, And Sun-set into rose-hues sees them wrought[21.B.] By rays which sleep there lovingly: the rocks,[kl] The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, Which stir and sting the Soul with Hope that woos, then mocks.

C.

Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod,—[km] Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne To which the steps are mountains; where the God Is a pervading Life and Light,—so shown[kn] Not on those summits solely, nor alone In the still cave and forest; o'er the flower His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown, His soft and summer breath, whose tender power[ko] Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour.

CI.

All things are here of Him; from the black pines,[340] Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines Which slope his green path downward to the shore, Where the bowed Waters meet him, and adore, Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the Wood, The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood,[kp] Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude.

CII.

A populous solitude of bees and birds, And fairy-formed and many-coloured things, Who worship him with notes more sweet than words,[kq] And innocently open their glad wings, Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs, And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings The swiftest thought of Beauty, here extend Mingling—and made by Love—unto one mighty end.

CIII.

He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore,[341] And make his heart a spirit; he who knows That tender mystery, will love the more; For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes, And the world's waste, have driven him far from those,[kr] For 'tis his nature to advance or die; He stands not still, but or decays, or grows Into a boundless blessing, which may vie With the immortal lights, in its eternity!

CIV.

'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, Peopling it with affections; but he found It was the scene which Passion must allot To the Mind's purified beings; 'twas the ground Where early Love his Psyche's zone unbound,[342] And hallowed it with loveliness: 'tis lone, And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound, And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have reared a throne.

CV.

Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes Of Names which unto you bequeathed a name;[22.B.] Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads, A path to perpetuity of Fame: They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile Thoughts which should call down thunder, and the flame Of Heaven again assailed—if Heaven, the while, On man and man's research could deign do more than smile.

CVI.

The one was fire and fickleness,[343] a child Most mutable in wishes, but in mind A wit as various,—gay, grave, sage, or wild,— Historian, bard, philosopher, combined;[ks] He multiplied himself among mankind, The Proteus of their talents: But his own Breathed most in ridicule,—which, as the wind, Blew where it listed, laying all things prone,— Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne.[344]

CVII.

The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought,[kt] And hiving wisdom with each studious year, In meditation dwelt—with learning wrought, And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer; The lord of irony,—that master-spell, Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear[ku][345] And doomed him to the zealot's ready Hell, Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well.

CVIII.

Yet, peace be with their ashes,—for by them, If merited, the penalty is paid; It is not ours to judge,—far less condemn; The hour must come when such things shall be made Known unto all,—or hope and dread allayed By slumber, on one pillow, in the dust,[kv] Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decayed; And when it shall revive, as is our trust,[346] 'Twill be to be forgiven—or suffer what is just.

CIX.

But let me quit Man's works, again to read His Maker's, spread around me, and suspend This page, which from my reveries I feed, Until it seems prolonging without end. The clouds above me to the white Alps tend, And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er[347] May be permitted, as my steps I bend To their most great and growing region, where The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air.

CX.

Italia too! Italia! looking on thee, Full flashes on the Soul the light of ages, Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, To the last halo of the Chiefs and Sages Who glorify thy consecrated pages; Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; still,[348] The fount at which the panting Mind assuages Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill.

CXI.

Thus far have I proceeded in a theme Renewed with no kind auspices:—to feel We are not what we have been, and to deem We are not what we should be,—and to steel The heart against itself; and to conceal, With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught,— Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal,— Which is the tyrant Spirit of our thought, Is a stern task of soul:—No matter,—it is taught.[349]

CXII.

And for these words, thus woven into song, It may be that they are a harmless wile,—[kw] The colouring of the scenes which fleet along,[kx] Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile My breast, or that of others, for a while. Fame is the thirst of youth,—but I am not[ky] So young as to regard men's frown or smile, As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot;— I stood and stand alone,—remembered or forgot.

CXIII.

I have not loved the World, nor the World me; I have not flattered its rank breath,[350] 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[351]—in a shroud Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could, Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued.[23.B.]

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 failing; I would also deem O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve—[kz][24.B.] That two, or one, are almost what they seem,— That Goodness is no name—and Happiness no dream.

CXV.[352]

My daughter! with thy name this song begun! My daughter! with thy name thus 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 should'st 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 developement,—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,[353] 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[354] My blood from out thy being were an aim, And an attainment,—all would be in vain,— Still thou would'st love me, still that more than life retain.

CXVIII.

The child of Love![355] 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 might'st have been to me![la]



FOOTNOTES:

[275] {209} [D'Alembert (Jean-le-Rond, philosopher, mathematician, and belletrist, 1717-1783) had recently lost his friend, Mlle. (Claire Francoise) L'Espinasse, who died May 23, 1776. Frederick prescribes quelque probleme bien difficile a resoudre as a remedy for vain regrets (Oeuvres de Frederic II., Roi de Prusse, 1790, xiv. 64, 65).]

[276] {215} ["If you turn over the earlier pages of the Huntingdon peerage story, you will see how common a name Ada was in the early Plantagenet days. I found it in my own pedigree in the reigns of John and Henry.... It is short, ancient, vocalic, and had been in my family; for which reasons I gave it to my daughter."—Letter to Murray, Ravenna, October 8, 1820.

The Honourable Augusta Ada Byron was born December 10, 1815; was married July 8, 1835, to William King Noel (1805-1893), eighth Baron King, created Earl of Lovelace, 1838; and died November 27, 1852. There were three children of the marriage—Viscount Ockham (d. 1862), the present Earl of Lovelace, and the Lady Anna Isabella Noel, who was married to Wilfrid Scawen Blunt, Esq., in 1869.

"The Countess of Lovelace," wrote a contributor to the Examiner, December 4, 1852, "was thoroughly original, and the poet's temperament was all that was hers in common with her father. Her genius, for genius she possessed, was not poetic, but metaphysical and mathematical, her mind having been in the constant practice of investigation, and with rigour and exactness." Of her devotion to science, and her original powers as a mathematician, her translation and explanatory notes of F. L. Menabrea's Notices sur le machine Analytique de Mr. Babbage, 1842, a defence of the famous "calculating machine," remain as evidence.

"Those who view mathematical science not merely as a vast body of abstract and immutable truths, ... but as possessing a yet deeper interest for the human race, when it is remembered that this science constitutes the language through which alone we can adequately express the great facts of the natural world ... those who thus think on mathematical truth as the instrument through which the weak mind of man can most effectually read his Creator's works, will regard with especial interest all that can tend to facilitate the translation of its principles into explicit practical forms." So, for the moment turning away from algebraic formulae and abstruse calculations, wrote Ada, Lady Lovelace, in her twenty-eighth year. See "Translator's Notes," signed A. A. L., to A Sketch of the Analytical Engine invented by Charles Babbage, Esq., London, 1843.

It would seem, however, that she "wore her learning lightly as a flower." "Her manners [Examiner], her tastes, her accomplishments, in many of which, music especially, she was proficient, were feminine in the nicest sense of the word." Unlike her father in features, or in the bent of her mind, she inherited his mental vigour and intensity of purpose. Like him, she died in her thirty-seventh year, and at her own request her coffin was placed by his in the vault at Hucknall Torkard. (See, too, Athenaeum, December 4, 1852, and Gent. Mag., January, 1853.)]

[gh] {216} could grieve my gazing eye.—[C. erased.]

[277] Compare Henry V., act iii. sc. 1, line 1—"Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more."

[278] {217} [Compare The Two Noble Kinsmen (now attributed to Shakespeare, Fletcher, and Massinger), act ii. sc. 1, lines 73, seq.—

"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," says the editor (John Wright) of Lord Byron's Poetical Works, issued in 1832, "by a judicious transposition of the comparison, and by the substitution of the more definite waves for seas, Lord Byron's clear and noble thought has been produced." But the literary artifice, if such there be, is subordinate to the emotion of the writer. It is in movement, progress, flight, that the sufferer experiences a relief from the poignancy of his anguish.]

[gi] And the rent canvass tattering——.—C

[279] ["The metaphor is derived from a torrent-bed, which, when dried up, serves for a sandy or shingly path."—Note by H. F. Tozer, Childe Harold, 1885, p. 257. Or, perhaps, the imagery has been suggested by the action of a flood, which ploughs a channel for itself through fruitful soil, and, when the waters are spent, leaves behind it "a sterile track," which does, indeed, permit the traveller to survey the desolation, but serves no other purpose of use or beauty.]

[gj] {218} I would essay of all I sang to sing.—[MS.]

[280] [Compare Manfred, act ii. sc. 1, lines 51, 52—

"Think'st thou existence doth depend on time? It doth; but actions are our epoch."]

[gk] {219} Still unimpaired though worn——.—[MS. erased.]

[281] [It is the poet's fond belief that he can find the true reality in "the things that are not seen."

"Out of these create he can Forms more real than living man— Nurslings of Immortality."

"Life is but thought," and by the power of the imagination he thinks to "gain a being more intense," to add a cubit to his spiritual stature. Byron professes the same faith in The Dream (stanza i. lines 19-22), which also belongs to the summer of 1816—

"The mind can make Substance, and people planets of its own With beings brighter than have been, and give A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh."

At this stage of his poetic growth, in part converted by Shelley, in part by Wordsworth as preached by Shelley, Byron, so to speak, "got religion," went over for a while to the Church of the mystics. There was, too, a compulsion from within. Life had gone wrong with him, and, driven from memory and reflection, he looks for redemption in the new earth which Imagination and Nature held in store.]

[gl] A brighter being that we thus endow With form our fancies——.—[MS.]

[gm] {220} A dizzy world——.—[MS. erased.]

[282] [Compare The Dream, viii. 6, seq.—

"Pain was mixed In all which was served up to him, until * * * * * He fed on poisons, and they had no power, But were a kind of nutriment."]

[gn] To bear unbent what Time cannot abate.—[MS.]

[283] [Of himself as distinct from Harold he will say no more. On the tale or spell of his own tragedy is set the seal of silence; but of Harold, the idealized Byron, he once more takes up the parable. In stanzas viii.-xv. he puts the reader in possession of some natural changes, and unfolds the development of thought and feeling which had befallen the Pilgrim since last they had journeyed together. The youthful Harold had sounded the depth of joy and woe. Man delighted him not—no, nor woman neither. For a time, however, he had cured himself of this trick of sadness. He had drunk new life from the fountain of natural beauty and antique lore, and had returned to take his part in the world, inly armed against dangers and temptations. And in the world he had found beauty, and fame had found him. What wonder that he had done as others use, and then discovered that he could not fare as others fared? Henceforth there remained no comfort but in nature, no refuge but in exile!]

[go] {221}

He of the breast that strove no more to feel, Scarred with the wounds——.—[MS.]

[gp] {222} Secure in curbing coldness——.—[MS.]

[gq] Shines through the wonder-works—of God and Nature's hand.—[MS.]

[gr] Who can behold the flower at noon, nor seek To pluck it? who can stedfastly behold.—[MS.]

[gs] Nor feel how Wisdom ceases to be cold.—[MS. erased.]

[284] [The Temple of Fame is on the summit of a mountain; "Clouds overcome it;" but to the uplifted eye the mists dispel, and behold the goddess pointing to her star—the star of glory!]

[gt] {223} Yet with a steadier step than in his earlier time.—[MS. erased.]

[285] [Compare Manfred, act ii. sc. 2, lines 50-58—

"From my youth upwards My spirit walked not with the souls of men, Nor looked upon the earth with human eyes; * * * * * My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers Made me a stranger; though I wore the form, I had no sympathy with breathing flesh."

Compare, too, with stanzas xiii., xiv., ibid., lines 58-72.]

[gu] Fool he not to know.—[MS. erased.]

[gv] Where there were mountains there for him were friends. Where there was Ocean—there he was at home.—[MS.]

[gw] {224} Like the Chaldean he could gaze on stars.—[MS.] ——adored the stars.—[MS. erased.]

[gx] That keeps us from that Heaven on which we love to think.—[MS.]

[gy] But in Man's dwelling—Harold was a thing Restless and worn, and cold and wearisome.—[MS.]

[286] {225} [In this stanza the mask is thrown aside, and "the real Lord Byron" appears in propria persona.]

[287] [The mound with the Belgian lion was erected by William I. of Holland, in 1823.]

[gz] {226} None; but the moral truth tells simpler so.—[MS.]

[288] [Stanzas xvii., xviii., were written after a visit to Waterloo. When Byron was in Brussels, a friend of his boyhood, Pryse Lockhart Gordon, called upon him and offered his services. He escorted him to the field of Waterloo, and received him at his house in the evening. Mrs. Gordon produced her album, and begged for an autograph. The next morning Byron copied into the album the two stanzas which he had written the day before. Lines 5-8 of the second stanza (xviii.) ran thus—

"Here his last flight the haughty Eagle flew, Then tore with bloody beak the fatal plain, Pierced with the shafts of banded nations through ..."

The autograph suggested an illustration to an artist, R. R. Reinagle (1775-1863), "a pencil-sketch of a spirited chained eagle, grasping the earth with his talons." Gordon showed the vignette to Byron, who wrote in reply, "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.'"

(See Personal Memoirs of Pryse Lockhart Gordon, 1830, ii. 327, 328.)]

[ha] ——and still must be.—[MS.]

[hb] ——the fatal Waterloo.—[MS.]

[hc] Here his last flight the haughty eagle flew.—[MS.] Then bit with bloody beak the rent plain.—[MS. erased.] Then tore with bloody beak——.—[MS.]

[hd] {227} And Gaul must wear the links of her own broken chain.—[MS.]

[289] [With this "obstinate questioning" of the final import and outcome of "that world-famous Waterloo," compare the Ode from the French, "We do not curse thee, Waterloo," written in 1815, and published by John Murray in Poems (1816). Compare, too, The Age of Waterloo, v. 93, "Oh, bloody and most bootless Waterloo!" and Don Juan, Canto VIII. stanzas xlviii.-l., etc. Shelley, too, in his sonnet on the Feelings of a Republican on the Fall of Bonaparte (1816), utters a like lament (Shelley's Works, 1895, ii. 385)—

"I know Too late, since thou and France are in the dust, That Virtue owns a more eternal foe Than Force or Fraud: old Custom, legal Crime, And bloody Faith, the foulest birth of Time."

Even Wordsworth, after due celebration of this "victory sublime," in his sonnet Emperors and Kings, etc. (Works, 1889, p. 557), solemnly admonishes the "powers"—

"Be just, be grateful; nor, the oppressor's creed Reviving heavier chastisement deserve Than ever forced unpitied hearts to bleed."

But the Laureate had no misgivings, and in The Poet's Pilgrimage, iv. 60, celebrates the national apotheosis—

"Peace hath she won ... with her victorious hand Hath won thro' rightful war auspicious peace; Nor this alone, but that in every land The withering rule of violence may cease. Was ever War with such blest victory crowned! Did ever Victory with such fruits abound!"]

[he] {228} Or league to teach their kings——.—[MS.]

[290] [The most vivid and the best authenticated account of the Duchess of Richmond's ball, which took place June 15, the eve of the Battle of Quatrebras, in the duke's house in the Rue de la Blanchisserie, is to be found in Lady de Ros's (Lady Georgiana Lennox) Personal Recollections of the Great Duke of Wellington, which appeared first in Murray's Magazine, January and February, 1889, and were republished as A Sketch of the Life of Georgiana, Lady de Ros, by her daughter, the Hon. Mrs. J. R. Swinton (John Murray, 1893). "My mother's now famous ball," writes Lady de Ros (A Sketch, etc., pp. 122, 123), "took place in a large room on the ground-floor on the left of the entrance, connected with the rest of the house by an ante-room. It had been used by the coachbuilder, from whom the house was hired, to put carriages in, but it was papered before we came there; and I recollect the paper—a trellis pattern with roses.... When the duke arrived, rather late, at the ball, I was dancing, but at once went up to him to ask about the rumours. 'Yes, they are true; we are off to-morrow.' This terrible news was circulated directly, and while some of the officers hurried away, others remained at the ball, and actually had not time to change their clothes, but fought in evening costume."]

[hf] {229}

The lamps shone on lovely dames and gallant men.—[MS.] The lamps shone on ladies——.—[MS. erased.]

[hg] {230} With a slow deep and dread-inspiring roar.—[MS. erased.]

[hh] Arm! arm, and out! it is the opening cannon's roar.—[MS.] Arm—arm—and out—it is—the cannon's opening roar.—C