Such is thy name with this my verse entwined;
And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast
On Harold's page, lanthe's here enshrined
Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last:

My days once number'd, should this homage past
Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre

Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast, Such is the most my memory may desire; Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less require?

CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE.

CANTO THE FIRST.

I.

Oh, thou! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth, Muse! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will! Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill: Yet there I've wander'd by thy vaunted rill; Yes! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long deserted shrine,1 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.

II.

Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth,
Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight;
But spent his days in riot most uncouth,

And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.
Ah me! in sooth he was a shameless wight,
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee;
Few earthly things found favour in his sight
Save concubines and carnal companie,

And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree.

III.

Had sigh'd to many though he loved but one,
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 charins for vulgar bliss,
And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste,
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to taste.
VI.

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;
"T is said, at times the sullen tear would start,
But Pride congeal'd the drop within his ee:
Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie,

And from his native land resolved to go,
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;
With pleasure drugg'd, he almost long'd for woe,
And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades
below.

VII.

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

VIII.

Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow,

As if the memory of some deadly feud

Or disappointed passion lurk'd 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,

1 The little village of Castri stands partly on the site of Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, froin Chrysso, are the remains of sepulchres hewn in and from the rock. "One," said the guide, "of a king who broke his neck hunting." His majesty had certainly chosen the fittest spot for such an achievement. A little above Castri is a cave, supposed the Pythian, of immense depth; the upper part of it is paved, and now a cow-house. On the other side of Castri stands a Greek monastery; some way above which is the cleft in the rock, with a range of caverns difficult of ascent, and apparently leading to the interior of the mountain; probably to the Corycian Cavern men. tioned by Pausanias. From this part descend the fountain and the "Dews of Castalie."

trol.

XII.

The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds blew,
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

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.
XIII.

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 deem'd 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 pour'd his last "Good Night."

1.

"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!

2.

"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.

3.

"Come hither, hither, my little page! 1
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
More merrily along."

4.

'Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, I fear not waves nor wind:

Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I

Am sorrowful in mind; 2

For I have from my father gone,

A mother whom I love,

And have no friend, save these alone,
But thee and one above.

1 This "little page" was Robert Rushton, the son of one of Lord Byron's tenants. "Robert I take with me," says the poet, in a letter to his mother; "I like him, because, like myself, he seems a friendless animal: tell his father he is well, and doing well."-- E.

a

2 Seeing that the boy was "sorrowful" at the separation from his parents, Lord Byron, or reaching Gibraltar, sent him back to England, under the care of his old servant Joe Murray. "Pray," he says to his mother, "show the lad every kindness, as he is my great favourite." He also wrote a letter to the father of the boy, which leaves most favourable impression of his thoughtfulness and kindliness. "I have," he says, "sent Robert home, because the country which I am about to travel through is in a state which renders it unsafe, particularly for one so young. I allow you to deduct from your rent five and twenty pounds a year for his education, for three years, provided I do not return before that time; and I desire he may be considered as in my service. He has behaved extremely well."-- E.

5.

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

6.

"Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, 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.

7.

'My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, Aiong the bordering lake,

And when they on their father call,
What answer shall she make?'-
"Enough, enough, my yeoman good,
Thy grief let none gainsay;

But I, who am of lighter mood,
Will laugh to flee away.

8.

"For who would trust the seeming sighs Of wife or paramour?

Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes
We late saw streaming o'er.

For pleasures past I do not grieve,
Nor perils gathering near;
My greatest grief is that I leave
No thing that claims a tear.

9.

"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.

10.

"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!"

XIV.

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

reap.

XV.

Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see
What Heaven hath done for this delicious land!

3 William Fletcher, the faithful valet; who, after a service of twenty years, ("during which," he says, "his Lord was more to him than a father,") received the Pilgrim's last words at Missolonghi, and did not quit his remains, until he had seen them deposited in the family vault at Hucknall. Fletcher died in 1840.-E.

XXXVIII.

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
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe;
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,

Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock.

XXXIX.

Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,
His blood-red tresses deephing in the sun,
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon;
Restless it rolls, now fix'd, 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.

XL.

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

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

XLII.

There shall they rot - Ambition's honour'd fools! Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay! Vain Sophistry in these behold the tools, 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? Or call with truth one span of earth their own, Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone?

XLIII.

Oh, Albuera, glorious field of grief!

As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his steed,
Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief,

A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed!
Peace to the perish'd! may the warrior's meed
And tears of triumph their reward prolong!
Tiil others fall where other chieftains lead,
Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng,
And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient
song.

XLIV.

Enough of Battle's minions! let them play
Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame:
Fame that will scarce re-animate their clay,
Though thousands fall to deck some single name.
In sooth 't were sad to thwart their noble aim
Who strike, blest hirelings! for their country's good,
And die, that living might have proved her shame;
Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud,

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" Viva el Rey!" 2
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.
XLIX.

On yon long, level plain, at distance crown'd
With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest,
Wide scatter'd hoof-marks dint the wounded ground;
And, scathed by fire, the greensward's darken'd vest
Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest:

Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host,
Here the bold peasant storm'd the dragon's nest;
Still does he mark it with triumphant boast,
And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and
lost.

L.

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: a
Woe to the man that walks in public view,

1 A kind of fiddle, with only two strings, played on by a bow, said to have been brought by the Moors into Spain.-E.

2 Viva el Rey Fernando!" Long live King Ferdiand is the chorus of most of the Spanish patriotic songs. They are chiefly in dispraise of the old king Charles, the Queen, and the Prince of Peace. have heard many of them: some of the airs are beautiful. Don Manuel Godoy, the Principe de la Paz, of an ancient but decayed family, was born at Badajoz, on the frontiers of Portugal, and was originally in the ranks of the Spanish guards; till his person attracted the queen's eyes, and raised him to the dukedom of Alcudia, &c. &c. It is to this man that the Spaniards universally impute the ruin of their country. [See, for ample particulars concerning the flagitious court of Charles IV., Southey' History of the Peninsular War, vol. i.-E.]

3 The red cockade, with "Fernando Septimo," in the