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: | |
5 | Yet there I’ve wander’d by thy vaunted rill; |
Yes! sigh’d o’er Delphi’s long deserted shrine, | |
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 | |
10 | 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, | |
15 | 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 | |
Childe Harold was he hight: – but whence his name | |
20 | And lineage long, it suits me not to say; |
Suffice it that perchance they were of fame | |
And had been glorious in another day: | |
But one sad losel soils a name for aye, | |
However mighty in the olden time; | |
25 | Nor all that heralds rake from coffin’d clay, |
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, | |
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. | |
IV | |
Childe Harold bask’d him in the noontide sun, | |
Disporting there like any other fly; | |
30 | Nor deem’d before his little day was done |
One blast might chill him into misery. | |
But long ere scarce a third of his pass’d by, | |
Worse than adversity the Childe befell; | |
He felt the fulness of satiety: | |
35 | Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, |
Which seem’d to him more lone than Eremite’s sad cell. | |
V | |
For he through Sin’s long labyrinth had run, | |
Nor made atonement when he did amiss, | |
Had sigh’d to many though he loved but one, | |
40 | 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 spoil’d her goodly lands to gild his waste, | |
45 | 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; | |
‘Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start, | |
But Pride congeal’d the drop within his ee: | |
50 | 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 | |
55 | 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 pillar’d in each massy aisle. | |
Monastic dome! condemn’d to uses vile! | |
60 | 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 | |
65 | 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 | |
70 | 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. | |
IX | |
And none did love him – though to hall and bower | |
He gather’d revellers from far and near, | |
75 | He knew them flatt’rers of the festal hour; |
The heartless parasites of present cheer. | |
Yea! none did love him – not his lemans dear – | |
But pomp and power alone are woman’s care, | |
And where these are light Eros finds a feere; | |
80 | Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, |
And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair. | |
X | |
Childe Harold had a mother – not forgot, | |
Though parting from that mother he did shun; | |
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not | |
85 | Before his weary pilgrimage begun: |
If friends he had, he bade adieu to none. | |
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel: | |
Ye, who have known what ’tis to dote upon | |
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel | |
90 | Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal. |
XI | |
His house, his home, his heritage, his lands, | |
The laughing dames in whom he did delight, | |
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands, | |
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, | |
95 | And long had fed his youthful appetite; |
His goblets brimm’d 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. | |
XII | |
100 | 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 | |
105 | 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 | |
110 | 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. | |
115 | 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.’ | |
I | |
‘Adieu, adieu! my native shore | |
Fades o’er the waters blue; | |
120 | 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, | |
125 | 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. | |
130 | 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! | |
135 | 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: | |
140 | Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly |
More merrily along.’ | |
4 | |
‘Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, | |
I fear not wave nor wind; | |
Yet marvel not Sir Childe that I | |
145 | Am sorrowful in mind; |
For I have from my father gone, | |
A mother whom I love | |
And have no friend, save these alone, | |
But thee – and one above. | |
5 | |
150 | ‘My father bless’d me fervently, |