XXI. Existence may be borne, and the deep root 1 XXII. All suffering doth destroy, or is destroy'd, Ends: Some, with hope replenish'd and rebuoy'd, Return to whence they came- with like intent, And weave their web again; some, bow'd and bent, Wax gray and ghastly, withering ere their time, And perish with the reed on which they leant; Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, According as their souls were form'd to sink or climb. XXIII. But ever and anon of griefs subdued There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, A tone of music-summer's eve- or spring- wound, which shall [bound; Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly Alps, which only thrives in very rocky parts, where scarcely soil sufficient for its nourishment can be found. On these spots it grows to a greater height than any other mountain tree. XXIV. And how and why we know not, nor can trace The cold anew, the changed-perchance the dead [how few! The mourn'd, the loved, the lost -too many! — yet XXV. But my soul wanders; I demand it back Fall'n states and buried greatness, o'er a land The master-mould of Nature's heavenly hand, XXVI. The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome! And even since, and now, fair Italy! Thou art the garden of the world, the home Of all Art yields, and Nature 1 can decree; Even in thy desert, what is like to thee? Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste More rich than other climes' fertility; Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced With an immaculate charm which can not be defaced. [The whole of this canto is rich in description of Nature. The love of Nature now appears as a distinct passion in Lord XXVII. The moon is up, and yet it is not night— Sunset divides the sky with her a sea Of glory streams along the Alpine height Of blue Friuli's mountains; Heaven is free From clouds, but of all colours seems to be Melted to one vast Iris of the West, Where the Day joins the past Eternity; While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest Floats through the azure air—an island of the blest ! ! XXVIII. A single star is at her side, and reigns With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it glows, Byron's mind. It is a love that does not rest in beholding, nor is satisfied with describing, what is before him. It has a power and being, blending itself with the poet's very life. Though Lord Byron had, with his real eyes, perhaps seen more of Nature than ever was before permitted to any great poet, yet he never before seemed to open his whole heart to her genial impulses. But in this he is changed; and in this Canto of Childe Harold, he will stand a comparison with the best descriptive poets, in this age of descriptive poetry.- WILSON.] 1 The above description may seem fantastical or exaggerated to those who have never seen an Oriental or an Italian sky, yet it is but a literal and hardly sufficient delineation of an August evening (the eighteenth), as contemplated in one of many rides along the banks of the Brenta, near La Mira. XXIX. Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar, And now they change; a paler shadow strews The last still loveliest, till-'t is gone-and all is gray. XXX. There is a tomb in Arqua;-rear'd in air, XXXI. They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died; 2 A feeling more accordant with his strain 1, 2 See Appendix, "Historical Notes," Nos. VIII. and IX. XXXII. And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt 1 XXXIII. Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers, If from society we learn to live, 'Tis solitude should teach us how to die; It hath no flatterers; vanity can give No hollow aid; alone- -man with his God must strive: 1 XXXIV. Or, it may be, with demons, who impair? The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey In melancholy bosoms, such as were Of moody texture from their earliest day, And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay, ["Half way up He built his house, whence as by stealth he caught That soothed, not stirr'd.". ROGERS.] 2 The struggle is to the full as likely to be with demons as with our better thoughts. Satan chose the wilderness for the temptation of our Saviour. And our unsullied John Locke preferred the presence of a child to complete solitude. |