The Works of Lord Byron, Volume 2
by George Gordon Byron
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This etext contains only characters from the Latin-1 set. The original work contained a few phrases of Greek text. These are represented here as Beta-code transliterations in brackets, e.g. [Greek: Liakyra].

The original text used a few other characters not found in the Latin-1 set. These have been represented using bracket notation: ā, ī ē represent those letters with a macron. A few instances of superscript letters are indicated by carets, as in "Concluded, Canto 2^d, Smyrna, March 28^th^."

An important feature of this edition is its copious notes, which are of three types. Notes indexed with a number and a letter, for example [4.B.], are end-notes provided by Byron or, following Canto IV, by J. C. Hobhouse. These notes follow each Canto.

Poems and end-notes have footnotes. Footnotes indexed with lowercase letters (e.g. [c], [bf]) show variant forms of Byron's text from manuscripts and other sources. Footnotes indexed with arabic numbers (e.g. [17], [221]) are informational. In the original, footnotes are printed at the foot of the page on which they are referenced, and their indices start over on each page. In this etext, footnotes have been collected at the end of each section, and have been numbered consecutively throughout the book. Within each block of footnotes are numbers in braces, e.g. {321}. These represent the page number on which the following notes originally appeared. To find a note that was originally printed on page 27, search for {27}.

Text in footnotes and end-notes in square brackets is the work of Editor E. H. Coleridge. Note text not in brackets is by Byron or Hobhouse. In certain notes on variant text, the editor showed deleted text struck through with lines. The struck-through words are noted here with braces and dashes, as in {-deleted words-}.

The Works




Poetry. Vol. II.






The text of the present edition of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage is based upon a collation of volume i. of the Library Edition, 1855, with the following MSS.: (i.) the original MS. of the First and Second Cantos, in Byron's handwriting [MS. M.]; (ii.) a transcript of the First and Second Cantos, in the handwriting of R. C. Dallas Ḍ; (iii.) a transcript of the Third Canto, in the handwriting of Clara Jane Clairmont C; (iv.) a collection of "scraps," forming a first draft of the Third Canto, in Byron's handwriting [MS.]; (v.) a fair copy of the first draft of the Fourth Canto, together with the MS. of the additional stanzas, in Byron's handwriting. [MS. M.]; (vi.) a second fair copy of the Fourth Canto, as completed, in Byron's handwriting Ḍ.

The text of the First and Second Cantos has also been collated with the text of the First Edition of the First and Second Cantos (quarto, 1812); the text of the Third and of the Fourth Cantos with the texts of the First Editions of 1816 and 1818 respectively; and the text of the entire poem with that issued in the collected editions of 1831 and 1832.

Considerations of space have determined the position and arrangement of the notes.

Byron's notes to the First, Second, and Third Cantos, and Hobhouse's notes to the Fourth Canto are printed, according to precedent, at the end of each canto.

Editorial notes are placed in square brackets. Notes illustrative of the text are printed immediately below the variants. Notes illustrative of Byron's notes or footnotes are appended to the originals or printed as footnotes. Byron's own notes to the Fourth Canto are printed as footnotes to the text.

Hobhouse's "Historical Notes" are reprinted without addition or comment; but the numerous and intricate references to classical, historical, and archaeological authorities have been carefully verified, and in many instances rewritten.

In compiling the Introductions, the additional notes, and footnotes, I have endeavoured to supply the reader with a compendious manual of reference. With the subject-matter of large portions of the three distinct poems which make up the five hundred stanzas of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage every one is more or less familiar, but details and particulars are out of the immediate reach of even the most cultivated readers.

The poem may be dealt with in two ways. It may be regarded as a repertory or treasury of brilliant passages for selection and quotation; or it may be read continuously, and with some attention to the style and message of the author. It is in the belief that Childe Harold should be read continuously, and that it gains by the closest study, reassuming its original freshness and splendour, that the text as well as Byron's own notes have been somewhat minutely annotated.

In the selection and composition of the notes I have, in addition to other authorities, consulted and made use of the following editions of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage:

i. Edition Classique, par James Darmesteter, Docteur-es-lettres. Paris, 1882.

ii. Byron's Childe Harold, edited, with Introduction and Notes, by H. F. Tozer, M.A. Oxford, 1885 (Clarendon Press Series).

iii. Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, edited by the Rev. E.C. Everard Owen, M.A. London, 1897 (Arnold's British Classics).

Particular acknowledgments of my indebtedness to these admirable works will be found throughout the volume.

I have consulted and derived assistance from Professor Eugen Koelbing's exhaustive collation of the text of the two first cantos with the Dallas Transcript in the British Museum (Zur Textueberlieferung von Byron's Childe Harold, Cantos I., II. Leipsic, 1896); and I am indebted to the same high authority for information with regard to the Seventh Edition (1814) of the First and Second Cantos. (See Bemerkungen zu Byron's Childe Harold, Engl. Stud., 1896, xxi. 176-186.)

I have again to record my grateful acknowledgments to Dr. Richard Garnett, C.B., Dr. A. S. Murray, F.R.S., Mr. R. E. Graves, Mr. E. D. Butler, F.R.G.S., and other officials of the British Museum, for constant help and encouragement in the preparation of the notes to Childe Harold.

I desire to express my thanks to Dr. H. R. Mill, Librarian of the Royal Geographical Society; Mr. J. C. Baker, F.R.S., Keeper of the Herbarium and Library of the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew; Mr. Horatio F. Brown (author of Venice, an Historical Sketch, etc.); Mr. P. A. Daniel, Mr. Richard Edgcumbe, and others, for valuable information on various points of doubt and difficulty.

On behalf of the Publisher, I beg to acknowledge the kindness of his Grace the Duke of Richmond, in permitting Cosway's miniature of Charlotte Duchess of Richmond to be reproduced for this volume.

I have also to thank Mr. Horatio F. Brown for the right to reproduce the interesting portrait of "Byron at Venice," which is now in his possession.


April, 1899.


The First Canto of Childe Harold was begun at Janina, in Albania, October 31, 1809, and the Second Canto was finished at Smyrna, March 28, 1810. The dates were duly recorded on the MS.; but in none of the letters which Byron wrote to his mother and his friends from the East does he mention or allude to the composition or existence of such a work. In one letter, however, to his mother (January 14, 1811, Letters, 1898, i. 308), he informs her that he has MSS. in his possession which may serve to prolong his memory, if his heirs and executors "think proper to publish them;" but for himself, he has "done with authorship." Three months later the achievement of Hints from Horace and The Curse of Minerva persuaded him to give "authorship" another trial; and, in a letter written on board the Volage frigate (June 28, Letters, 1898, i. 313), he announces to his literary Mentor, R. C. Dallas, who had superintended the publication of English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers, that he has "an imitation of the Ars Poetica of Horace ready for Cawthorne." Byron landed in England on July 2, and on the 15th Dallas "had the pleasure of shaking hands with him at Reddish's Hotel, St. James's Street" (Recollections of the Life of Lord Byron, 1824, p. 103). There was a crowd of visitors, says Dallas, and no time for conversation; but the Imitation was placed in his hands. He took it home, read it, and was disappointed. Disparagement was out of the question; but the next morning at breakfast Dallas ventured to express some surprise that he had written nothing else. An admission or confession followed that "he had occasionally written short poems, besides a great many stanzas in Spenser's measure, relative to the countries he had visited." "They are not," he added, "worth troubling you with, but you shall have them all with you if you like." "So," says Dallas, "came I by Childe Harold. He took it from a small trunk, with a number of verses."

Dallas was "delighted," and on the evening of the same day (July 16)—before, let us hope, and not after, he had consulted his "Ionian friend," Walter Rodwell Wright (see Recollections, p. 151, and Diary of H.C. Robinson, 1872, i. 17)—he despatched a letter of enthusiastic approval, which gratified Byron, but did not convince him of the extraordinary merit of his work, or of its certainty of success. It was, however, agreed that the MS. should be left with Dallas, that he should arrange for its publication and hold the copyright. Dallas would have entrusted the poem to Cawthorne, who had published English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers, and with whom, as Byron's intermediary, he was in communication; but Byron objected on the ground that the firm did not "stand high enough in the trade," and Longmans, who had been offered but had declined the English Bards, were in no case to be approached. An application to Miller, of Albemarle Street, came to nothing, because Miller was Lord Elgin's bookseller and publisher (he had just brought out the Memorandum on Lord Elgin's Pursuits in Greece), and Childe Harold denounced and reviled Lord Elgin. But Murray, of Fleet Street, who had already expressed a wish to publish for Lord Byron, was willing to take the matter into consideration. On the first of August Byron lost his mother, on the third his friend Matthews was drowned in the Cam, and for some weeks he could devote neither time nor thought to the fortunes of his poem; but Dallas had bestirred himself, and on the eighteenth was able to report that he had "seen Murray again," and that Murray was anxious that Byron's name should appear on the title-page.

To this request Byron somewhat reluctantly acceded (August 21); and a few days later (August 25) he informs Dallas that he has sent him "exordiums, annotations, etc., for the forthcoming quarto," and has written to Murray, urging him on no account to show the MS. to Juvenal, that is, Gifford. But Gifford, as a matter of course, had been already consulted, had read the First Canto, and had advised Murray to publish the poem. Byron was, or pretended to be, furious; but the solid fact that Gifford had commended his work acted like a charm, and his fury subsided. On the fifth of September (Letters, 1898, ii. 24, note) he received from Murray the first proof, and by December 14 "the Pilgrimage was concluded," and all but the preface had been printed and seen through the press.

The original draft of the poem, which Byron took out of "the little trunk" and gave to Dallas, had undergone considerable alterations and modifications before this date. Both Dallas and Murray took exception to certain stanzas which, on personal, or patriotic, or religious considerations, were provocative and objectionable. They were apprehensive, not only for the sale of the book, but for the reputation of its author. Byron fought his ground inch by inch, but finally assented to a compromise. He was willing to cut out three stanzas on the Convention of Cintra, which had ceased to be a burning question, and four more stanzas at the end of the First Canto, which reflected on the Duke of Wellington, Lord Holland, and other persons of less note. A stanza on Beckford in the First Canto, and two stanzas in the second on Lord Elgin, Thomas Hope, and the "Dilettanti crew," were also omitted. Stanza ix. of the Second Canto, on the immortality of the soul, was recast, and "sure and certain" hopelessness exchanged for a pious, if hypothetical, aspiration. But with regard to the general tenor of his politics and metaphysics, Byron stood firm, and awaited the issue.

There were additions as well as omissions. The first stanza of the First Canto, stanzas xliii. and xc., which celebrate the battles of Albuera and Talavera; the stanzas to the memory of Charles Skinner Matthews, nos. xci., xcii.; and stanzas ix., xcv., xcvi. of the Second Canto, which record Byron's grief for the death of an unknown lover or friend, apparently (letter to Dallas, October 31, 1811) the mysterious Thyrza, and others (vide post, note on the MSS. of the First and Second Cantos of Childe Harold), were composed at Newstead, in the autumn of 1811. Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, quarto, was published on Tuesday, March 10, 1812—Moore (Life, p. 157) implies that the date of issue was Saturday, February 29; and Dallas (Recollections, p. 220) says that he obtained a copy on Tuesday, March 3 (but see advertisements in the Times and Morning Chronicle of Thursday, March 5, announcing future publication, and in the Courier and Morning Chronicle of Tuesday, March 10, announcing first appearance)—and in three days an edition of five hundred copies was sold. A second edition, octavo, with six additional poems (fourteen poems were included in the First Edition), was issued on April 17; a third on June 27; a fourth, with the "Addition to the Preface," on September 14; and a fifth on December 5, 1812,—the day on which Murray "acquainted his friends" (see advertisement in the Morning Chronicle) that he had removed from Fleet Street to No. 50, Albemarle Street. A sixth edition, identical with the fifth and fourth editions, was issued August 11, 1813; and, on February 1, 1814 (see letter to Murray, February 4, 1814), Childe Harold made a "seventh appearance." The seventh edition was a new departure altogether. Not only were nine poems added to the twenty already published, but a dedication to Lady Charlotte Harley ("Ianthe"), written in the autumn of 1812, was prefixed to the First Canto, and ten additional stanzas were inserted towards the end of the Second Canto. Childe Harold, as we have it, differs to that extent from the Childe Harold which, in a day and a night, made Byron "famous." The dedication to Ianthe was the outcome of a visit to Eywood, and his devotion to Ianthe's mother, Lady Oxford; but the new stanzas were probably written in 1810. In a letter to Dallas, September 7, 1811 (Letters, 1898, ii. 28), he writes, "I had projected an additional canto when I was in the Troad and Constantinople, and if I saw them again, it would go on." This seems to imply that a beginning had been made. In a poem, a hitherto unpublished fragment entitled Il Diavolo Inamorato (vide post, vol. iii.), which is dated August 31, 1812, five stanzas and a half, viz. stanzas lxxiii. lines 5-9, lxxix., lxxx., lxxxi., lxxxii., xxvii. of the Second Canto of Childe Harold are imbedded; and these form part of the ten additional stanzas which were first published in the seventh edition. There is, too, the fragment entitled The Monk of Athos, which was first published (Life of Lord Byron, by the Hon. Roden Noel) in 1890, which may have formed part of this projected Third Canto.

No further alterations were made in the text of the poem; but an eleventh edition of Childe Harold, Cantos I., II., was published in 1819.

The demerits of Childe Harold lie on the surface; but it is difficult for the modern reader, familiar with the sight, if not the texture, of "the purple patches," and unattracted, perhaps demagnetized, by a personality once fascinating and always "puissant," to appreciate the actual worth and magnitude of the poem. We are "o'er informed;" and as with Nature, so with Art, the eye must be couched, and the film of association removed, before we can see clearly. But there is one characteristic feature of Childe Harold which association and familiarity have been powerless to veil or confuse—originality of design. "By what accident," asks the Quarterly Reviewer (George Agar Ellis), "has it happened that no other English poet before Lord Byron has thought fit to employ his talents on a subject so well suited to their display?" The question can only be answered by the assertion that it was the accident of genius which inspired the poet with a "new song." Childe Harold's Pilgrimage had no progenitors, and, with the exception of some feeble and forgotten imitations, it has had no descendants. The materials of the poem; the Spenserian stanza, suggested, perhaps, by Campbell's Gertrude of Wyoming, as well as by older models; the language, the metaphors, often appropriated and sometimes stolen from the Bible, from Shakespeare, from the classics; the sentiments and reflections coeval with reflection and sentiment, wear a familiar hue; but the poem itself, a pilgrimage to scenes and cities of renown, a song of travel, a rhythmical diorama, was Byron's own handiwork—not an inheritance, but a creation.

But what of the eponymous hero, the sated and melancholy "Childe," with his attendant page and yeoman, his backward glances on "heartless parasites," on "laughing dames," on goblets and other properties of "the monastic dome"? Is Childe Harold Byron masquerading in disguise, or is he intended to be a fictitious personage, who, half unconsciously, reveals the author's personality? Byron deals with the question in a letter to Dallas (October 31): "I by no means intend to identify myself with Harold, but to deny all connection with him. If in parts I may be thought to have drawn from myself, believe me it is but in parts, and I shall not own even to that." He adds, with evident sincerity, "I would not be such a fellow as I have made my hero for all the world." Again, in the preface, "Harold is the child of imagination." This pronouncement was not the whole truth; but it is truer than it seems. He was well aware that Byron had sate for the portrait of Childe Harold. He had begun by calling his hero Childe Burun, and the few particulars which he gives of Childe Burun's past were particulars, in the main exact particulars, of Byron's own history. He had no motive for concealment, for, so little did he know himself, he imagined that he was not writing for publication, that he had done with authorship. Even when the mood had passed, it was the imitation of the Ars Poetica, not Childe Harold, which he was eager to publish; and when Childe Harold had been offered to and accepted by a publisher, he desired and proposed that it should appear anonymously. He had not as yet come to the pass of displaying "the pageant of his bleeding heart" before the eyes of the multitude. But though he shrank from the obvious and inevitable conclusion that Childe Harold was Byron in disguise, and idly "disclaimed" all connection, it was true that he had intended to draw a fictitious character, a being whom he may have feared he might one day become, but whom he did not recognize as himself. He was not sated, he was not cheerless, he was not unamiable. He was all a-quiver with youth and enthusiasm and the joy of great living. He had left behind him friends whom he knew were not "the flatterers of the festal hour"—friends whom he returned to mourn and nobly celebrate. Byron was not Harold, but Harold was an ideal Byron, the creature and avenger of his pride, which haunted and pursued its presumptuous creator to the bitter end.

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage was reviewed, or rather advertised, by Dallas, in the Literary Panorama for March, 1812. To the reviewer's dismay, the article, which appeared before the poem was out, was shown to Byron, who was paying a short visit to his old friends at Harrow. Dallas quaked, but "as it proved no bad advertisement," he escaped censure. "The blunder passed unobserved, eclipsed by the dazzling brilliancy of the object which had caused it" (Recollections, p. 221).

Of the greater reviews, the Quarterly (No. xiii., March, 1812) was published on May 12, and the Edinburgh (No. 38, June, 1812) was published on August 5, 1812.



The original MS. of the First and Second Cantos of Childe Harold, consisting of ninety-one folios bound up with a single bluish-grey cover, is in the possession of Mr. Murray.[1] A transcript from this MS., in the handwriting of R. C. Dallas, with Byron's autograph corrections, is preserved in the British Museum (Egerton MSS., No. 2027). The first edition (4to) was printed from the transcript as emended by the author. The "Addition to the Preface" was first published in the Fourth Edition.

The following notes in Byron's handwriting are on the outside of the cover of the original MS.:—

"Byron—Joannina in Albania Begun Oct. 31^st.^ 1809. Concluded, Canto 2^d, Smyrna, March 28^th^, 1810. BYRON.

The marginal remarks pencilled occasionally were made by two friends who saw the thing in MS. sometime previous to publication. 1812."

On the verso of the single bluish-grey cover, the lines, "Dear Object of Defeated Care," have been inscribed. They are entitled, "Written beneath the picture of J. U. D." They are dated, "Byron, Athens, 1811."

The following notes and memoranda have been bound up with the MS.:—

"Henry Drury, Harrow. Given me by Lord Byron. Being his original autograph MS. of the first canto of Childe Harold, commenced at Joannina in Albania, proceeded with at Athens, and completed at Smyrna."

"How strange that he did not seem to know that the volume contains Cantos I., II., and so written by L^d.^ B.!" [Note by J. Murray.]

"Sir,—I desire that you will settle any account for Childe Harold with Mr. R. C. Dallas, to whom I have presented the copyright.

Y^r.^ obed^t.^ Serv^t.,^ BYRON. To Mr. John Murray, Bookseller, 32, Fleet Street, London, Mar. 17, 1812."

* * * * *

"Received, April 1st, 1812, of Mr. John Murray, the sum of one hundred pounds 15/8, being my entire half-share of the profits of the 1st Edition of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage 4to.


{ Mem.: This receipt is for the above sum, L101:15:8. { in part of five hundred guineas agreed to { be paid by Mr. Murray for the Copyright { of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."

The following poems are appended to the MS. of the First and Second Cantos of Childe Harold:—

1. "Written at Mrs. Spencer Smith's request, in her memorandum-book—

"'As o'er the cold sepulchral stone.'"

2. "Stanzas written in passing the Ambracian Gulph, November 14, 1809."

3. "Written at Athens, January 16th, 1810—

"'The spell is broke, the charm is flown.'"

4. "Stanzas composed October 11, 1809, during the night in a thunderstorm, when the guides had lost the road to Zitza, in the range of mountains formerly called Pindus, in Albania."

On a blank leaf bound up with the MS. at the end of the volume, Byron wrote—

"Dear D^s.,—This is all that was contained in the MS., but the outside cover has been torn off by the booby of a binder. Yours ever, B."

The volume is bound in smooth green morocco, bordered by a single gilt line. "MS." in gilt lettering is stamped on the side cover.



The MS. numbers ninety-one stanzas, the First Edition ninety-three stanzas.


Stanza vii. "Of all his train there was a henchman page,"— Stanza viii. "Him and one yeoman only did he take,"— Stanza xxii. "Unhappy Vathek! in an evil hour,"— Stanza xxv. "In golden characters right well designed,"— Stanza xxvii. "But when Convention sent his handy work,"— Stanza xxviii. "Thus unto Heaven appealed the people: Heaven,"— Stanza lxxxviii. "There may you read with spectacles on eyes,"— Stanza lxxxix. "There may you read—Oh, Phoebus, save Sir John,"— Stanza xc. "Yet here of Vulpes mention may be made,"—


Stanza i. "Oh, thou! in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth,"— Stanza viii. "Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood,"— Stanza ix. "And none did love him!—though to hall and bower,"— Stanza xliii. "Oh, Albuera! glorious field of grief!"— Stanza lxxxv. "Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu!"— Stanza lxxxvi. "Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her Fate,"— Stanza lxxxviii. "Flows there a tear of Pity for the dead?"— Stanza lxxxix. "Not yet, alas! the dreadful work is done,"— Stanza xc. "Not all the blood at Talavera shed,"— Stanza xci. "And thou, my friend!—since unavailing woe,"— Stanza xcii. "Oh, known the earliest, and esteemed the most,"—

The MS. of the Second Canto numbers eighty stanzas; the First Edition numbers eighty-eight stanzas.


Stanza viii. "Frown not upon me, churlish Priest! that I,"— Stanza xiv. "Come, then, ye classic Thieves of each degree,"— Stanza xv. "Or will the gentle Dilettanti crew,"— Stanza lxiii. "Childe Harold with that Chief held colloquy,"—


Stanza viii. "Yet if, as holiest men have deemed, there be,"— Stanza ix. "There, Thou! whose Love and Life together fled,"— Stanza xv. "Cold is the heart, fair Greece! that looks on Thee,"— Stanza lii. "Oh! where, Dodona! is thine aged Grove?"— Stanza lxiii. "Mid many things most new to ear and eye,"— Stanza lxxx. "Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy ground,"— Stanza lxxxiii. "Let such approach this consecrated Land,"— Stanza lxxxiv. "For thee, who thus in too protracted song,"— Stanza lxxxv. "Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one!"— Stanza lxxxvi. "Oh! ever loving, lovely, and beloved!"— Stanza lxxxvii. "Then must I plunge again into the crowd,"— Stanza lxxxviii. "What is the worst of woes that wait on Age?"—


The Second Canto, in the first six editions, numbers eighty-eight stanzas; in the Seventh Edition the Second Canto numbers ninety-eight stanzas.


The Dedication, To Ianthe. Stanza xxvii. "More blest the life of godly Eremite,"— Stanza lxxvii. "The city won for Allah from the Giaour,"— Stanza lxxviii. "Yet mark their mirth, ere Lenten days begin,"— Stanza lxxix. "And whose more rife with merriment than thine,"— Stanza lxxx. "Loud was the lightsome tumult on the shore,"— Stanza lxxxi. "Glanced many a light Caique along the foam,"— Stanza lxxxii. "But, midst the throng' in merry masquerade,"— Stanza lxxxiii. "This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece,"— Stanza lxxxix. "The Sun, the soil—but not the slave, the same,"— Stanza xc. "The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow,"—


1809. CANTO I.

July 2. Sail from Falmouth in Lisbon packet. (Stanza xii. Letter 125.)

July 6. Arrive Lisbon. (Stanzas xvi., xvii. Letter 126.) Visit Cintra. (Stanzas xviii.-xxvi. Letter 128.) Visit Mafra. (Stanza xxix.)

July 17. Leave Lisbon. (Stanza xxviii. Letter 127.) Ride through Portugal and Spain to Seville. (Stanzas xxviii.-xlii. Letter 127.) Visit Albuera. (Stanza xliii.)

July 21. Arrive Seville. (Stanzas xlv., xlvi. Letters 127, 128.)

July 25. Leave Seville. Ride to Cadiz, across the Sierra Morena. (Stanza li.) Cadiz. (Stanzas lxv.-lxxxiv. Letters 127, 128.)


Aug. 6. Arrive Gibraltar. (Letters 127, 128.)

Aug. 17. Sail from Gibraltar in Malta packet. (Stanzas xvii.-xxviii.) Malta. (Stanzas xxix.-xxxv. Letter 130.)

Sept. 19. Sail from Malta in brig-of-war Spider. (Letter 131.)

Sept. 23. Between Cephalonia and Zante.

Sept. 26. Anchor off Patras.

Sept. 27. In the channel between Ithaca and the mainland. (Stanzas xxxix.-xlii.)

Sept. 28. Anchor off Prevesa (7 p.m.). (Stanza xlv.)

Oct. 1. Leave Prevesa, arrive Salakhora (Salagoura).

Oct. 3. Leave Salakhora, arrive Arta.

Oct. 4. Leave Arta, arrive han St. Demetre (H. Dhimittrios).

Oct. 5. Arrive Janina. (Stanza xlvii. Letter 131.)

Oct. 8. Ride into the country. First day of Ramazan.

Oct. 11. Leave Janina, arrive Zitza ("Lines written during a Thunderstorm"). (Stanzas xlviii.-li. Letter 131.)

Oct. 13. Leave Zitza, arrive Mossiani (Moseri).

Oct. 14. Leave Mossiani, arrive Delvinaki (Dhelvinaki). (Stanza liv.)

Oct. 15. Leave Delvinaki, arrive Libokhovo.

Oct. 17. Leave Libokhovo, arrive Cesarades (Kestourataes).

Oct. 18. Leave Cesarades, arrive Ereeneed (Irindi).

Oct. 19. Leave Ereeneed, arrive Tepeleni. (Stanzas lv.-lxi.)

Oct. 20. Reception by Ali Pacha. (Stanzas lxii.-lxiv.)

Oct. 23. Leave Tepeleni, arrive Locavo (Lacovon).

Oct. 24. Leave Locavo, arrive Delvinaki.

Oct. 25. Leave Delvinaki, arrive Zitza.

Oct. 26. Leave Zitza, arrive Janina.

Oct. 31. Byron begins the First Canto of Childe Harold.

Nov. 3. Leave Janina, arrive han St. Demetre.

Nov. 4. Leave han St. Demetre, arrive Arta.

Nov. 5. Leave Arta, arrive Salakhora.

Nov. 7. Leave Salakhora, arrive Prevesa.

Nov. 8. Sail from Prevesa, anchor off mainland near Parga. (Stanzas lxvii., lxviii.)

Nov. 9. Leave Parga, and, returning by land, arrive Volondorako (Valanidorakhon). (Stanza lxix.)

Nov. 10. Leave Volondorako, arrive Castrosikia (Kastrosykia).

Nov. 11. Leave Castrosikia, arrive Prevesa.

Nov. 13. Sail from Prevesa, anchor off Vonitsa.

Nov. 14. Sail from Vonitsa, arrive Lutraki (Loutraki). (Stanzas lxx., lxxii., Song "Tambourgi, Tambourgi;" stanza written in passing the Ambracian Gulph. Letter 131.)

Nov. 15. Leave Lutraki, arrive Katuna.

Nov. 16. Leave Katuna, arrive Makala (? Machalas).


Nov. 18. Leave Makala, arrive Guria.

Nov. 19. Leave Guria, arrive AEtolikon.

Nov. 20. Leave AEtolikon, arrive Mesolonghi.

Nov. 23. Sail from Mesolonghi, arrive Patras.

Dec. 4. Leave Patras, sleep at Han on shore.

Dec. 5. Leave Han, arrive Vostitsa (Oegion).

Dec. 14. Sail from Vostitsa, arrive Larnaki (? Itea).

Dec. 15. Leave Larnaki (? Itea), arrive Chryso.

Dec. 16. Visit Delphi, the Pythian Cave, and stream of Castaly. (Canto I. stanza i.)

Dec. 17. Leave Chryso, arrive Arakhova (Rhakova).

Dec. 18. Leave Arakhova, arrive Livadia (Livadhia).

Dec. 21. Leave Livadia, arrive Mazee (Mazi).

Dec. 22. Leave Mazee, arrive Thebes.

Dec. 24. Leave Thebes, arrive Skurta.

Dec. 25. Leave Skurta, pass Phyle, arrive Athens. (Stanzas i.-xv., stanza lxxiv.)

Dec. 30. Byron finishes the First Canto of Childe Harold.


Jan. 13. Visit Eleusis.

Jan. 16. Visit Mendeli (Pentelicus). (Stanza lxxxvii.)

Jan. 18. Walk round the peninsula of Munychia.

Jan. 19. Leave Athens, arrive Vari.

Jan. 20. Leave Vari, arrive Keratea.

Jan. 23. Visit temple of Athene at Sunium. (Stanza lxxxvi.)

Jan. 24. Leave Keratea, arrive plain of Marathon.

Jan. 25. Visit plain of Marathon. (Stanzas lxxxix., xc.)

Jan. 26. Leave Marathon, arrive Athens.

Mar. 5. Leave Athens, embark on board the Pylades (Letter 136.)

Mar. 7. Arrive Smyrna. (Letters 132, 133.)

Mar. 13. Leave Smyrna, sleep at Han, near the river Halesus.

Mar. 14. Leave Han, arrive Aiasaluk (near Ephesus).

Mar. 15. Visit site of temple of Artemis at Ephesus. (Letter 132.)

Mar. 16. Leave Ephesus, return to Smyrna. (Letter 132.)

Mar. 28. Byron finishes the Second Canto of Childe Harold.

April 11. Sail from Smyrna in the Salsette frigate. (Letter 134.)

April 12. Anchor off Tenedos.

April 13. Visit ruins of Alexandria Troas.

April 14. Anchor off Cape Janissary.

April 16. Byron attempts to swim across the Hellespont, explores the Troad. (Letters 135, 136.)

April 30. Visit the springs of Bunarbashi (Bunarbasi).

May 1. Weigh anchor from off Cape Janissary, anchor eight miles from Dardanelles.

May 2. Anchor off Castle Chanak Kalessia (Kale i Sultaniye).

May 3. Byron and Mr. Ekenhead swim across the Hellespont (lines "Written after swimming," etc.).

May 13. Anchor off Venaglio Point, arrive Constantinople. (Stanzas lxxvii.-lxxxii. Letters 138-145.)

July 14. Sail from Constantinople in Salsette frigate.

July 18. Byron returns to Athens.


[For dates and names of towns and villages, see Travels in Albania, and other Provinces of Turkey, in 1809 and 1810, by the Right Hon. Lord Broughton, G.C.B. [John Cam Hobhouse], two volumes, 1858. The orthography is based on that of Longmans' Gazetteer of the World, edited by G. G. Chisholm, 1895. The alternative forms are taken from Heinrich Kiepert's Carte de l'Epire et de la Thessalie, Berlin, 1897, and from Dr. Karl Peucker's Griechenland, Wien, 1897.]



Preface to Vol. II. of the Poems v

Introduction to the First and Second Cantos ix

Notes on the MSS. of the First and Second Cantos xvi

Itinerary xxi

Preface to the First and Second Cantos 3

To Ianthe 11

Canto the First 15

Notes 85

Canto the Second 97

Notes 165

Introduction to Canto the Third 211

Canto the Third 215

Notes 291

Introduction to Canto the Fourth 311

Original Draft, etc., of Canto the Fourth 316

Dedication 321

Canto the Fourth 327

Historical Notes by J. C. Hobhouse 465


1. Ianthe (Lady Charlotte Harley), from an Engraving Frontispiece by W. Finden, after a Drawing by R. Westall, R.A.

2. The Duchess of Richmond, from a Miniature by Richard Cosway, in the Possession of His Grace the Duke of Richmond and Gordon, K.G. To face p. 228

3. Portrait of Lord Byron at Venice, from a Painting in Oils by Ruckard, in the Possession of Horatio F. Brown, Esq. 326

4. The Horses of St. Mark, from a Photograph by Alinari 338

5. S. Pantaleon, from a Woodcut published at Cremona in 1493 340

6. The Dying Gaul, from the Original in the Museum of the Capitol 432



"L'univers est une espece de livre, dont on n'a lu que la premiere page quand on n'a vu que son pays. J'en ai feuillete un assez grand nombre, que j'ai trouve egalement mauvaises. Cet examen ne m'a point ete infructueux. Je haissais ma patrie. Toutes les impertinences des peuples divers, parmi lesquels j'ai vecu, m'ont reconcilie avec elle. Quand je n'aurais tire d'autre benefice de mes voyages que celui-la, je n'en regretterais ni les frais ni les fatigues."—Le Cosmopolite, ou, le Citoyen du Monde, par Fougeret de Monbron. Londres, 1753.



The following poem was written, for the most part, amidst the scenes which it attempts[b] to describe. It was begun in Albania; and the parts relative to Spain and Portugal were composed from the author's observations in those countries. Thus much it may be necessary to state for the correctness of the descriptions. The scenes attempted to be sketched are in Spain, Portugal, Epirus, Acarnania and Greece. There, for the present, the poem stops: its reception will determine whether the author may venture to conduct his readers to the capital of the East, through Ionia and Phrygia: these two cantos are merely experimental.

A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of giving some connection to the piece; which, however, makes no pretension to regularity. It has been suggested to me by friends, on whose opinions I set a high value,[c]—that in this fictitious character, "Childe Harold," I may incur the suspicion of having intended some real personage: this I beg leave, once for all, to disclaim—Harold is the child of imagination, for the purpose I have stated.

In some very trivial particulars, and those merely local, there might be grounds for such a notion;[d] but in the main points, I should hope, none whatever.[e]

It is almost superfluous to mention that the appellation "Childe,"[2] as "Childe Waters," "Childe Childers," etc., is used as more consonant with the old structure of versification which I have adopted. The "Good Night" in the beginning of the first Canto, was suggested by Lord Maxwell's "Good Night"[3] in the Border Minstrelsy, edited by Mr. Scott.

With the different poems[4] which have been published on Spanish subjects, there may be found some slight coincidence[f] in the first part, which treats of the Peninsula, but it can only be casual; as, with the exception of a few concluding stanzas, the whole of the poem was written in the Levant.

The stanza of Spenser, according to one of our most successful poets, admits of every variety. Dr. Beattie makes the following observation:—

"Not long ago I began a poem in the style and stanza of Spenser, in which I propose to give full scope to my inclination, and be either droll or pathetic, descriptive or sentimental, tender or satirical, as the humour strikes me; for, if I mistake not, the measure which I have adopted admits equally of all these kinds of composition."[5] Strengthened in my opinion by such authority, and by the example of some in the highest order of Italian poets, I shall make no apology for attempts at similar variations in the following composition;[g] satisfied that, if they are unsuccessful, their failure must be in the execution, rather than in the design sanctioned by the practice of Ariosto, Thomson, and Beattie.

London, February, 1812.


I have now waited till almost all our periodical journals have distributed their usual portion of criticism. To the justice of the generality of their criticisms I have nothing to object; it would ill become me to quarrel with their very slight degree of censure, when, perhaps, if they had been less kind they had been more candid. Returning, therefore, to all and each my best thanks for their liberality, on one point alone I shall venture an observation. Amongst the many objections justly urged to the very indifferent character of the "vagrant Childe" (whom, notwithstanding many hints to the contrary, I still maintain to be a fictitious personage), it has been stated, that, besides the anachronism, he is very unknightly, as the times of the Knights were times of Love, Honour, and so forth.[6] Now it so happens that the good old times, when "l'amour du bon vieux tems, l'amour antique," flourished, were the most profligate of all possible centuries. Those who have any doubts on this subject may consult Sainte-Palaye, passim, and more particularly vol. ii. p. 69.[7] The vows of chivalry were no better kept than any other vows whatsoever; and the songs of the Troubadours were not more decent, and certainly were much less refined, than those of Ovid. The "Cours d'Amour, parlemens d'amour, ou de courtoisie et de gentilesse" had much more of love than of courtesy or gentleness. See Rolland[8] on the same subject with Sainte-Palaye.

Whatever other objection may be urged to that most unamiable personage Childe Harold, he was so far perfectly knightly in his attributes—"No waiter, but a knight templar."[9] By the by, I fear that Sir Tristrem and Sir Lancelot were no better than they should be, although very poetical personages and true knights, "sans peur," though not "sans reproche." If the story of the institution of the "Garter" be not a fable, the knights of that order have for several centuries borne the badge of a Countess of Salisbury, of indifferent memory. So much for chivalry. Burke need not have regretted that its days are over, though Marie-Antoinette was quite as chaste as most of those in whose honour lances were shivered, and knights unhorsed.[10]

Before the days of Bayard, and down to those of Sir Joseph Banks[11] (the most chaste and celebrated of ancient and modern times) few exceptions will be found to this statement; and I fear a little investigation will teach us not to regret these monstrous mummeries of the middle ages.

I now leave "Childe Harold" to live his day such as he is; it had been more agreeable, and certainly more easy, to have drawn an amiable character. It had been easy to varnish over his faults, to make him do more and express less, but he never was intended as an example, further than to show, that early perversion of mind and morals leads to satiety of past pleasures and disappointment in new ones, and that even the beauties of nature and the stimulus of travel (except ambition, the most powerful of all excitements) are lost on a soul so constituted, or rather misdirected. Had I proceeded with the Poem, this character would have deepened as he drew to the close; for the outline which I once meant to fill up for him was, with some exceptions, the sketch of a modern Timon,[12] perhaps a poetical Zeluco.[13]



TO IANTHE.[h][14]

Not in those climes where I have late been straying, Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deemed, Not in those visions to the heart displaying Forms which it sighs but to have only dreamed, Hath aught like thee in Truth or Fancy seemed: Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek To paint those charms which varied as they beamed— To such as see thee not my words were weak; To those who gaze on thee what language could they speak?

Ah! may'st thou ever be what now thou art, Nor unbeseem the promise of thy Spring— As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, Love's image upon earth without his wing,[15] And guileless beyond Hope's imagining! And surely she who now so fondly rears Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, Beholds the Rainbow of her future years, Before whose heavenly hues all Sorrow disappears.

Young Peri of the West!—'tis well for me My years already doubly number thine;[16] My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, And safely view thy ripening beauties shine; Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline; Happier, that, while all younger hearts shall bleed, Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign To those whose admiration shall succeed, But mixed with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours decreed.

Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the Gazelle's, Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells,[17] Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh Could I to thee be ever more than friend: This much, dear Maid, accord; nor question why To one so young my strain I would commend, But bid me with my wreath one matchless Lily blend.

Such is thy name[18] with this my verse entwined; And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast[i] On Harold's page, Ianthe's here enshrined Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last: My days once numbered—should this homage past Attract thy fairy fingers near the Lyre Of him who hailed thee loveliest, as thou wast— Such is the most my Memory may desire; Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less require?[j]

* * * * *



* * * * *



Oh, thou! in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth,[k] Muse! formed or fabled at the Minstrel's will! Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,[l][20] Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred Hill: Yet there I've wandered by thy vaunted rill;[m] Yes! sighed o'er Delphi's long deserted shrine,[1.B.] Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still; Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine To grace so plain a tale—this lowly lay of mine.


Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, Who ne in Virtue's ways did take delight; But spent his days in riot most uncouth, And vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of Night. Ah me! in sooth he was a shameless wight, Sore given to revel and ungodly glee;[n] Few earthly things found favour in his sight[o] Save concubines and carnal companie, And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree.[21]


Childe Harold was he hight:[22]—but whence his name[p] And lineage long, it suits me not to say; Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, And had been glorious in another day: But one sad losel soils a name for ay,[23] However mighty in the olden time; Nor all that heralds rake from coffined clay, Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme,[q] Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.


Childe Harold basked him in the Noontide sun,[r] Disporting there like any other fly; Nor deemed before his little day was done One blast might chill him into misery. But long ere scarce a third of his passed by, Worse than Adversity the Childe befell; He felt the fulness of Satiety: Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, Which seemed to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell.


For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run,[s] Nor made atonement when he did amiss, Had sighed to many though he loved but one,[t][24] And that loved one, alas! could ne'er be his. Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kiss Had been pollution unto aught so chaste; Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, And spoiled her goodly lands to gild his waste, Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to taste.


And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,[u] And from his fellow Bacchanals would flee; 'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start, But Pride congealed the drop within his ee:[25] Apart he stalked in joyless reverie,[v] And from his native land resolved to go, And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;[26] With pleasure drugged, he almost longed for woe, And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below.


The Childe departed from his father's hall: It was a vast and venerable pile; So old, it seemed only not to fall, Yet strength was pillared in each massy aisle. Monastic dome! condemned to uses vile![w] Where Superstition once had made her den Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile;[x] And monks might deem their time was come agen,[27] If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.


Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow,[z] As if the Memory of some deadly feud Or disappointed passion lurked below: But this none knew, nor haply cared to know; For his was not that open, artless soul That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow, Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control.


And none did love him!—though to hall and bower[28] He gathered revellers from far and near, He knew them flatterers of the festal hour, The heartless Parasites of present cheer. Yea! none did love him—not his lemans dear—[ab][29] But pomp and power alone are Woman's care, And where these are light Eros finds a feere;[30] Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair.


Childe Harold had a mother—not forgot,[ac] Though parting from that mother he did shun; A sister whom he loved, but saw her not[31] Before his weary pilgrimage begun: If friends he had, he bade adieu to none.[ad] Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel:[ae][32] Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon A few dear objects, will in sadness feel Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.


His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,[af] The laughing dames in whom he did delight,[ag] Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands, Might shake the Saintship of an Anchorite, And long had fed his youthful appetite; His goblets brimmed with every costly wine, And all that mote to luxury invite, Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine, And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's central line.[ah][33]


The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew,[ai] As glad to waft him from his native home; And fast the white rocks faded from his view, And soon were lost in circumambient foam: And then, it may be, of his wish to roam Repented he, but in his bosom slept[34] The silent thought, nor from his lips did come One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept, And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept.


But when the Sun was sinking in the sea He seized his harp, which he at times could string, And strike, albeit with untaught melody, When deemed he no strange ear was listening: And now his fingers o'er it he did fling, And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight; While flew the vessel on her snowy wing, And fleeting shores receded from his sight, Thus to the elements he poured his last "Good Night."[35]



"Adieu, adieu! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild sea-mew. Yon Sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native Land—Good Night!


"A few short hours and He will rise To give the Morrow birth; And I shall hail the main and skies, But not my mother Earth. Deserted is my own good Hall, Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; My Dog howls at the gate.


"Come hither, hither, my little page[36] Why dost thou weep and wail? Or dost thou dread the billows' rage, Or tremble at the gale? But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; Our ship is swift and strong: Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly[aj] More merrily along."[ak]


"Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,[al] I fear not wave nor wind: Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I Am sorrowful in mind;[37] For I have from my father gone, A mother whom I love, And have no friend, save these alone, But thee—and One above.


'My father blessed me fervently, Yet did not much complain; But sorely will my mother sigh Till I come back again.'— "Enough, enough, my little lad! Such tears become thine eye; If I thy guileless bosom had, Mine own would not be dry.


"Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,[38] Why dost thou look so pale? Or dost thou dread a French foeman? Or shiver at the gale?"— 'Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? Sir Childe, I'm not so weak; But thinking on an absent wife Will blanch a faithful cheek.


'My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, Along the bordering Lake, And when they on their father call, What answer shall she make?'— "Enough, enough, my yeoman good,[am] Thy grief let none gainsay; But I, who am of lighter mood, Will laugh to flee away.


"For who would trust the seeming sighs[an] Of wife or paramour? Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes We late saw streaming o'er. For pleasures past I do not grieve, Nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave No thing that claims a tear.[39]


"And now I'm in the world alone, Upon the wide, wide sea: But why should I for others groan, When none will sigh for me? Perchance my Dog will whine in vain, Till fed by stranger hands; But long ere I come back again, He'd tear me where he stands.[ao][40]


"With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go Athwart the foaming brine; Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, So not again to mine. Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves! And when you fail my sight, Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves! My native Land—Good Night!"


On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay. Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon, New shores descried make every bosom gay; And Cintra's mountain[41] greets them on their way, And Tagus dashing onward to the Deep, His fabled golden tribute[42] bent to pay; And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap, And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap.[ap]


Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see What Heaven hath done for this delicious land![aq] What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree! What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand! But man would mar them with an impious hand: And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge 'Gainst those who most transgress his high command, With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge[ar]


What beauties doth Lisboa[43] first unfold![as] Her image floating on that noble tide, Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold,[at] But now whereon a thousand keels did ride Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied, And to the Lusians did her aid afford: A nation swoln with ignorance and pride,[44] Who lick yet loathe the hand that waves the sword[au] To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing lord.


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


Poor, paltry slaves! yet born 'midst noblest scenes— Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men? Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes[45] In variegated maze of mount and glen. Ah, me! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, To follow half on which the eye dilates Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken[ay] Than those whereof such things the Bard relates, Who to the awe-struck world unlocked Elysium's gates.


The horrid crags, by toppling convent crowned,[az] The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep, The mountain-moss by scorching skies imbrowned, The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep, The tender azure[46] of the unruffled deep, The orange tints that gild the greenest bough, The torrents that from cliff to valley leap,[ba] The vine on high, the willow branch below, Mixed in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow.


Then slowly climb the many-winding way, And frequent turn to linger as you go, From loftier rocks new loveliness survey, And rest ye at "Our Lady's house of Woe;"[47][2.B.] Where frugal monks their little relics show, And sundry legends to the stranger tell: Here impious men have punished been, and lo! Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell, In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell.


And here and there, as up the crags you spring, Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path:[48] Yet deem not these Devotion's offering— These are memorials frail of murderous wrath: For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife, Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath; And grove and glen with thousand such are rife Throughout this purple land, where Law secures not life.[3.B.]


On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath,[49] Are domes where whilome kings did make repair; But now the wild flowers round them only breathe: Yet ruined Splendour still is lingering there. And yonder towers the Prince's palace fair: There thou too, Vathek! England's wealthiest son,[bb][50] Once formed thy Paradise, as not aware When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done,[bc] Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun.


Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure plan, Beneath yon mountain's ever beauteous brow: But now, as if a thing unblest by Man,[bd] Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as Thou! Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow To Halls deserted, portals gaping wide: Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied;[be] Swept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentle tide!


Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened![4.B.] Oh! dome displeasing unto British eye! With diadem hight Foolscap, lo! a Fiend, A little Fiend that scoffs incessantly, There sits in parchment robe arrayed, and by[bf] His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, Where blazoned glare names known to chivalry,[bg] And sundry signatures adorn the roll,[bh] Whereat the Urchin points and laughs with all his soul.[bi]


Convention is the dwarfish demon styled[51] That foiled the knights in Marialva's dome: Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, And turned a nation's shallow joy to gloom. Here Folly dashed to earth the victor's plume, And Policy regained what arms had lost: For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom! Woe to the conquering, not the conquered host, Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's coast.


And ever since that martial Synod met, Britannia sickens, Cintra! at thy name; And folks in office at the mention fret,[bj] And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame. How will Posterity the deed proclaim! Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer, To view these champions cheated of their fame, By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here, Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming year?


So deemed the Childe, as o'er the mountains he Did take his way in solitary guise: Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee, More restless than the swallow in the skies:[bk] Though here awhile he learned to moralise, For Meditation fixed at times on him; And conscious Reason whispered to despise His early youth, misspent in maddest whim; But as he gazed on truth his aching eyes grew dim.[52]


To horse! to horse! he quits, for ever quits[53] A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul:[bl] Again he rouses from his moping fits, But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl.[bm] Onward he flies, nor fixed as yet the goal Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage; And o'er him many changing scenes must roll Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage,[bn] Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage.


Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay,[5.B.] Where dwelt of yore the Lusians' luckless queen;[bo][54] And Church and Court did mingle their array, And Mass and revel were alternate seen; Lordlings and freres—ill-sorted fry I ween! But here the Babylonian Whore hath built A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen, That men forget the blood which she hath spilt, And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to varnish guilt.


O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, (Oh, that such hills upheld a freeborn race!) Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place.[bp] Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, And marvel men should quit their easy chair, The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace, Oh! there is sweetness in the mountain air, And Life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share.


More bleak to view the hills at length recede, And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend:[bq] Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed! Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, Spain's realms appear whereon her shepherds tend Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader knows— Now must the Pastor's arm his lambs defend: For Spain is compassed by unyielding foes, And all must shield their all, or share Subjection's woes.


Where Lusitania and her Sister meet, Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide?[br] Or ere the jealous Queens of Nations greet, Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide? Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride? Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall?— Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall, Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land from Gaul:[55]


But these between a silver streamlet[56] glides, And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook, Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides: Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook, And vacant on the rippling waves doth look, That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow; For proud each peasant as the noblest duke: Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low.[6.B.]


But ere the mingling bounds have far been passed,[bs] Dark Guadiana rolls his power along In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, So noted ancient roundelays among.[bt] Whilome upon his banks did legions throng Of Moor and Knight, in mailed splendour drest: Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the strong; The Paynim turban and the Christian crest Mixed on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppressed.[57]


Oh, lovely Spain! renowned, romantic Land! Where is that standard[58] which Pelagio bore,[bu] When Cava's traitor-sire first called the band That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore?[7.B.] Where are those bloody Banners which of yore Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale, And drove at last the spoilers to their shore?[59] Red gleamed the Cross, and waned the Crescent pale,[bv] While Afric's echoes thrilled with Moorish matrons' wail.


Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale?[60] Ah! such, alas! the hero's amplest fate! When granite moulders and when records fail, A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date.[bw] Pride! bend thine eye from Heaven to thine estate, See how the Mighty shrink into a song! Can Volume, Pillar, Pile preserve thee great? Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue, When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does thee wrong?


Awake, ye Sons of Spain! awake! advance! Lo! Chivalry, your ancient Goddess, cries, But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance, Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies: Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies, And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar: In every peal she calls—"Awake! arise!" Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore?


Hark!—heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note? Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath? Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote, Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath Tyrants and Tyrants' slaves?—the fires of Death, The Bale-fires flash on high:—from rock to rock![bx] Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe; Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,[61] Red Battle stamps his foot, and Nations feel the shock.


Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands, His blood-red tresses deepening in the Sun, With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon; Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon Flashing afar,—and at his iron feet Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done; For on this morn three potent Nations meet, To shed before his Shrine the blood he deems most sweet.


By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see[62] (For one who hath no friend, no brother there) Their rival scarfs of mixed embroidery,[by] Their various arms that glitter in the air! What gallant War-hounds rouse them from their lair, And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey! All join the chase, but few the triumph share;[63] The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array.


Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice; Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high; Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies;[64] The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory! The Foe, the Victim, and the fond Ally That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,[65] Are met—as if at home they could not die— To feed the crow on Talavera's plain, And fertilise the field that each pretends to gain.


There shall they rot—Ambition's honoured fools![bz] Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay![66] Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools,[ca] The broken tools, that Tyrants cast away By myriads, when they dare to pave their way With human hearts—to what?—a dream alone. Can Despots compass aught that hails their sway?[cb] Or call with truth one span of earth their own, Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone?


Oh, Albuera! glorious field of grief![cc][67] As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim pricked his steed, Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed![cd] Peace to the perished! may the warrior's meed[ce] And tears of triumph their reward prolong![cf] Till others fall where other chieftains lead Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song.[cg][68]


Enough of Battle's minions! let them play Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame: Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay, Though thousands fall to deck some single name. In sooth 'twere sad to thwart their noble aim Who strike, blest hirelings! for their country's good,[ch] And die, that living might have proved her shame; Perished, perchance, in some domestic feud, Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursued.[ci]


Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way[cj][69] Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued:[ck] Yet is she free? the Spoiler's wished-for prey! Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude, Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude. Inevitable hour! 'Gainst fate to strive Where Desolation plants her famished brood Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre might yet survive, And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive


But all unconscious of the coming doom,[70] The feast, the song, the revel here abounds; Strange modes of merriment the hours consume, Nor bleed these patriots with their country's wounds: Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck[71] sounds;[cl] Here Folly still his votaries inthralls; And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds:[cm] Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals, Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tott'ring walls.


Not so the rustic—with his trembling mate He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar, Lest he should view his vineyard desolate, Blasted below the dun hot breath of War. No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star Fandango twirls his jocund castanet:[72] Ah, Monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret;[cn] The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy yet!


How carols now the lusty muleteer? Of Love, Romance, Devotion is his lay, As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, His quick bells wildly jingling on the way? No! as he speeds, he chants "Vivā el Rey!"[8.B.] And checks his song to execrate Godoy, The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy, And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate joy.


On yon long level plain, at distance crowned[73] With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest, Wide-scattered hoof-marks dint the wounded ground; And, scathed by fire, the greensward's darkened vest Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest: Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host, Here the bold peasant stormed the Dragon's nest; Still does he mark it with triumphant boast, And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost.


And whomsoe'er along the path you meet Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet:[9.B.] Woe to the man that walks in public view Without of loyalty this token true: Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke; And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue, If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloke, Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's smoke.


At every turn Morena's dusky height[74] Sustains aloft the battery's iron load; And, far as mortal eye can compass sight, The mountain-howitzer, the broken road, The bristling palisade, the fosse o'erflowed, The stationed bands, the never-vacant watch,[co] The magazine in rocky durance stowed, The bolstered steed beneath the shed of thatch, The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match,[10.B.]


Portend the deeds to come:—but he whose nod Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway, A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod; A little moment deigneth to delay: Soon will his legions sweep through these their way; The West must own the Scourger of the world.[cp] Ah! Spain! how sad will be thy reckoning-day, When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings unfurled,[cq] And thou shall view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurled.


And must they fall? the young, the proud, the brave, To swell one bloated Chiefs unwholesome reign?[75] No step between submission and a grave? The rise of Rapine and the fall of Spain? And doth the Power that man adores ordain Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal? Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain? And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal— The Veteran's skill—Youth's fire—and Manhood's heart of steel?


Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, And, all unsexed, the Anlace[76] hath espoused, Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war? And she, whom once the semblance of a scar Appalled, an owlet's 'larum chilled with dread,[77] Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar,[cr] The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to tread.


Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, Oh! had you known her in her softer hour, Marked her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil, Heard her light, lively tones in Lady's bower, Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, Her fairy form, with more than female grace, Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face, Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chase.


Her lover sinks—she sheds no ill-timed tear; Her Chief is slain—she fills his fatal post; Her fellows flee—she checks their base career; The Foe retires—she heads the sallying host: Who can appease like her a lover's ghost? Who can avenge so well a leader's fall? What maid retrieve when man's flushed hope is lost? Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, Foiled by a woman's hand, before a battered wall?[11.B.]


Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, But formed for all the witching arts of love: Though thus in arms they emulate her sons, And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, 'Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove, Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate: In softness as in firmness far above Remoter females, famed for sickening prate; Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great.


The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impressed[cs] Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch:[12.B.] Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest, Bid man be valiant ere he merit such: Her glance how wildly beautiful! how much Hath Phoebus wooed in vain to spoil her cheek, Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch! Who round the North for paler dames would seek? How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan, and weak![78]


Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud; Match me, ye harems of the land! where now I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow;[ct] Match me those Houries, whom ye scarce allow To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind, With Spain's dark-glancing daughters—deign to know, There your wise Prophet's Paradise we find, His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind.


Oh, thou Parnassus! whom I now survey,[79][13.B.] Not in the phrensy of a dreamer's eye, Not in the fabled landscape of a lay,[cu] But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, In the wild pomp of mountain-majesty! What marvel if I thus essay to sing? The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string, Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave her wing.


Oft have I dreamed of Thee! whose glorious name Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore: And now I view thee—'tis, alas, with shame That I in feeblest accents must adore. When I recount thy worshippers of yore I tremble, and can only bend the knee; Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee![80]


Happier in this than mightiest Bards have been, Whose Fate to distant homes confined their lot, Shall I unmoved behold the hallowed scene, Which others rave of, though they know it not? Though here no more Apollo haunts his Grot, And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave, Some gentle Spirit still pervades the spot, Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the Cave, And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave.[cv]


Of thee hereafter.—Ev'n amidst my strain I turned aside to pay my homage here; Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain; Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear; And hailed thee, not perchance without a tear. Now to my theme—but from thy holy haunt Let me some remnant, some memorial bear;[cw] Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant, Nor let thy votary's hope be deemed an idle vaunt.


But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount! when Greece was young, See round thy giant base a brighter choir,[81] Nor e'er did Delphi, when her Priestess sung The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire, Behold a train more fitting to inspire The song of love, than Andalusia's maids, Nurst in the glowing lap of soft Desire: Ah! that to these were given such peaceful shades As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her glades.


Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days;[14.B.] But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast,[82] Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. Ah, Vice! how soft are thy voluptuous ways! While boyish blood is mantling, who can 'scape[cx] The fascination of thy magic gaze? A Cherub-Hydra round us dost thou gape, And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape.


When Paphos fell by Time—accursed Time! The Queen who conquers all must yield to thee— The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime; And Venus, constant to her native Sea, To nought else constant, hither deigned to flee, And fixed her shrine within these walls of white: Though not to one dome circumscribeth She Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, A thousand Altars rise, for ever blazing bright.[83]


From morn till night, from night till startled Morn[84] Peeps blushing on the Revel's laughing crew, The Song is heard, the rosy Garland worn; Devices quaint, and Frolics ever new, Tread on each other's kibes.[85] A long adieu He bids to sober joy that here sojourns: Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu[cy] Of true devotion monkish incense burns, And Love and Prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns.[cz]


The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest: What hallows it upon this Christian shore? Lo! it is sacred to a solemn Feast: Hark! heard you not the forest-monarch's roar? Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn; The thronged arena shakes with shouts for more; Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn, Nor shrinks the female eye, nor ev'n affects to mourn.


The seventh day this—the Jubilee of man! London! right well thou know'st the day of prayer: Then thy spruce citizen, washed artisan, And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air: Thy coach of hackney, whiskey,[87] one-horse chair, And humblest gig through sundry suburbs whirl,[da] To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow make repair; Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl, Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl.[db]


Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribboned fair,[dc] Others along the safer turnpike fly; Some Richmond-hill ascend, some scud to Ware, And many to the steep of Highgate hie. Ask ye, Boeotian Shades! the reason why?[15.B.] 'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn,[88] Grasped in the holy hand of Mystery, In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn, And consecrate the oath with draught, and dance till morn.


All have their fooleries—not alike are thine, Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea![89] Soon as the Matin bell proclaimeth nine, Thy Saint-adorers count the Rosary: Much is the VIRGIN teased to shrive them free (Well do I ween the only virgin there) From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be; Then to the crowded circus forth they fare: Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share.


The lists are oped, the spacious area cleared,[90] Thousands on thousands piled are seated round; Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard, Ne vacant space for lated wight is found: Here Dons, Grandees, but chiefly Dames abound, Skilled in the ogle of a roguish eye, Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound; None through their cold disdain are doomed to die, As moon-struck bards complain, by Love's sad archery.


Hushed is the din of tongues—on gallant steeds, With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised lance, Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, And lowly-bending to the lists advance; Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance: If in the dangerous game they shine to-day, The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance, Best prize of better acts! they bear away, And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay.


In costly sheen and gaudy cloak arrayed. But all afoot, the light-limbed Matadore Stands in the centre, eager to invade The lord of lowing herds; but not before The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er, Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed: His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more Can Man achieve without the friendly steed— Alas! too oft condemned for him to bear and bleed.


Thrice sounds the Clarion; lo! the signal falls, The den expands, and Expectation mute Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute, And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot, The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe: Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit His first attack, wide-waving to and fro His angry tail; red rolls his eye's dilated glow.


Sudden he stops—his eye is fixed—away— Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear: Now is thy time, to perish, or display The skill that yet may check his mad career! With well-timed croupe[91] the nimble coursers veer; On foams the Bull, but not unscathed he goes; Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear: He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes; Dart follows dart—lance, lance—loud bellowings speak his woes.


Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail, Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse; Though Man and Man's avenging arms assail, Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. One gallant steed is stretched a mangled corse; Another, hideous sight! unseamed appears, His gory chest unveils life's panting source; Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears; Staggering, but stemming all, his Lord unharmed he bears.


Foiled, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, Full in the centre stands the Bull at bay, Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast,[92] And foes disabled in the brutal fray: And now the Matadores[93] around him play, Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand: Once more through all he bursts his thundering way— Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand, Wraps his fierce eye—'tis past—he sinks upon the sand![dd]


Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine, Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies. He stops—he starts—disdaining to decline: Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries, Without a groan, without a struggle dies. The decorated car appears—on high The corse is piled—sweet sight for vulgar eyes—[de][94] Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by.


Such the ungentle sport that oft invites The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain. Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. What private feuds the troubled village stain! Though now one phalanxed host should meet the foe, Enough, alas! in humble homes remain, To meditate 'gainst friend the secret blow, For some slight cause of wrath, whence Life's warm stream must flow.[95]


But Jealousy has fled: his bars, his bolts, His withered Centinel,[96] Duenna sage! And all whereat the generous soul revolts,[df] Which the stern dotard deemed he could encage, Have passed to darkness with the vanished age. Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen, (Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage,) With braided tresses bounding o'er the green, While on the gay dance shone Night's lover-loving Queen?


Oh! many a time and oft, had Harold loved, Or dreamed he loved, since Rapture is a dream; But now his wayward bosom was unmoved, For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream; And lately had he learned with truth to deem Love has no gift so grateful as his wings: How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem, Full from the fount of Joy's delicious springs[dg] Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.[16.B.]


Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind, Though now it moved him as it moves the wise; Not that Philosophy on such a mind E'er deigned to bend her chastely-awful eyes: But Passion raves herself[97] to rest, or flies; And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb, Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise:[dh] Pleasure's palled Victim! life-abhorring Gloom Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting doom.[98]


Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng; But viewed them not with misanthropic hate: Fain would he now have joined the dance, the song; But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate? Nought that he saw his sadness could abate: Yet once he struggled 'gainst the Demon's sway, And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sate, Poured forth his unpremeditated lay, To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier day.

TO INEZ.[99]


Nay, smile not at my sullen brow; Alas! I cannot smile again: Yet Heaven avert that ever thou Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain.


And dost thou ask what secret woe I bear, corroding Joy and Youth? And wilt thou vainly seek to know A pang, ev'n thou must fail to soothe?


It is not love, it is not hate, Nor low Ambition's honours lost, That bids me loathe my present state, And fly from all I prized the most:


It is that weariness which springs From all I meet, or hear, or see: To me no pleasure Beauty brings; Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me.


It is that settled, ceaseless gloom The fabled Hebrew Wanderer bore; That will not look beyond the tomb, But cannot hope for rest before.

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