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VIII. Yet ofttimes, in his maddest mirthful mood, Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's


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, Aud launting wassailers of high and low degree.

Childe Harold was he hight :-but whence his

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;
Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay,
Nor florid prose, nor honey'd lines of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.

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, Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control

And none did love him: though to hall and

He gather'd 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 bis lemans dear-
But pomp and power alone are woman's care,
And where these are light Eros finds a feere;

Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, And Mainmon wins his way where Seraphis might


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IV. Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun, Disporting there like any other fly, 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 besell; He felt the fulness of satiety:

Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, Which seem'd to him more lone than eremite's sad


For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run,
Nor made atonement when he did amiss,
Had sigl’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 wliose 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, Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to taste.

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 e'e.
Apart be stalkd 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 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 ! 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.

Cbilde Harold had a mother-not forgot,
Though parting from that mother he did shun;
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not
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 Such partings break the beart they fondly liope to heal.

His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,
The laugbing dames in whom he did delight,
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snow

Might shake the saintship of an achorite,
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.

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

As glad to wast 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.

But when the sun was sinking in the sea,
He seized his barp, which he at times could

And strike, albeit with untaught melody,
When deem'd be no strange ear was listening:
And now his fingers o'er it he did fling,

And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight,

For who would trust the seeming sighs While flew the vessel on ber snowy wing,

Of wife or paramour ? And fleeting shores receded from his sight,

Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes Thus to the elements he pour'd his last “Good

We late saw streaming o'er.

For pleasures past I do not grieve,

Nor perils gathering near;
Adieu, adieu ! my native shore

My greatest grief is that I leave
Fades o'er the waters blue;

No thing that claims a tear.
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.

And now I'm in the world alone,
Yon sun that sets upon the sea

Upon the wide, wide sea;
We follow in his flight;

But why should I for others groan,
Farewell awhile to him and thee,

When none will sigh for me?
My native Land-Good Night!

Perchance my dog will whine in vain,

Till fed by stranger hands;
A few short hours, and he will rise

But long ere I come back again
To give the morrow birth;

He'd tear me where he stands.
And I shall hail the main and skies,

But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,

With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
Its hearth is desolate;

Athwart the foaming brine;
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall,

Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,
My dog howls at the gate

So not again to mine.

Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves ! “ Come hither, hither, my little page:

And when you fail my sight,
Why dost thou weep and wail ?

Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves !
Or dost thou dread the billow's rage,

My native land-Good Night!
Or tremble at the gale?
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye,

Our ship is swift and strong;

On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone,
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly

And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay.
More merrily along."

Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon,

New shores descried make every bosom gay;
“Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, And Cintra's mountain greets them on their way,
I fear not wave nor wind;

And Tagus dashing onward to the deep,
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I

His fabled golden tribute bent to pay :
Am sorrowful in mind;

And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap,
For I am froin my father gone,

And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics
A mother whom I love,

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

Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see
“My father bless'd me fervently,

What Heaven hath done for this delicious land ! Yet did not much complain :

What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree! But sorely will my mother sigh

What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand ! Till I come back again.”

But man would mar them with an impious hand : “Enough, enough, my little lad!

And when the Almighty lifts His fiercest scourge Such tears become thine cye;

'Gainst those who most transgress His high If I thy guileless bosom had,

command, Mine own would not be dry.

With treble vengeance will His bot shafts urge

Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foeman “Come hither, bither, my staunch yeoman,

Why dost thou look so pale ?

Or dost thou dread a French foeman,

What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold!
Or shiver at the gale!"-

Her image floating on that noble tide,
“ Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?

Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;

But now whereon a thousand keels did ride But thinking on an absent wife

Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied, Will blanch a faithful cheek.

And to the Lusians did her aid afford :

A nation swoll'n with ignorance and pride, “My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,

Who lick, yet loathe, the hand that waves the Along the bordering lake;

sword And when they on their father call,

To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing
What answer shall she make!"-

“Enough, enough, my yeoman good,
Thy grief let none gainsay ;

But I, who am of lighter mood,

But whoso entereth within this town,
Will laugh to flee away."

| That, sheening far, celestial seems to be,

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Disconsolate will wander up and down,

XXII. 'Mid many things unsightly to strange e'e ;

On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, For hut and palace show like filthily;

Are domes where whilome kings did make The dingy denizens are rear'd in dirt;

repair: No personage of high or mean degree

But now the wild flowers round them only Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt,

breathe ; Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, un Yet ruin'd splendour still is lingering there, wash'd, unhurt.

And yonder towers the Prince's palace fair :

There thou, too, Vathek! England's wealthiest XVIII. Poor, paltry slaves ! yet born 'midst noblest Once form’d thy Paradise, as not aware scenes

When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men ?

done, Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes

Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to In variegated maze of mount and glen.

shun. Ah me! what hand can pencil, guide, or pen, To follow half on which the eye dilates

XXITI. Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure Than those whereof such things the bard relates,

plan, Who to the awe-struck world unlock'd Elysium's Beneath yon mountain's ever beauteous brow; gates ?

But now, as if a thing unblest by Man,

Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou !

Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow
The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown'd, To halls deserted, portals gaping wide;
The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep, Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how
The mountain moss by scorching skies im Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied ;

Swept into wrecks anon by Tiine's ungentle tide. The sunken gler, whose sunless shrubs must

weep, The tender azure of the unruffled deep,

XXIV. The orange tints that gild the greenest bough,

Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened!3 The torrents that from cliff to valley leap,

Oh! dome displeasing unto British eye! The vine on high, the willow branch below,

With diadem hight foolscap, lo! a fiend,
Mix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow.

A little fiend that scoffs incessantly,
There sits in parchment robe array'd, and by

His side is hung a seal and sable scroll,
Then slowly climb the many-winding way,

Where blazon'd glare names known to chivalry, And frequent turn to linger as you go,

And sundry signatures adorn the roll, From loitier rocks new loveliness survey,

Whereat the Urchin points, and laughs with all his And rest ye at “ Our Lady's House of Woc;"

soul. Where frugal monks their little relics show,

And sundry legends to the stranger tell :
Here impious men bare punish'd been; ana lo,

Convention is the dwarfish demon styled
Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell,

That foild the knights in Marialva's dome :
In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell.

Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled,
And turn'd a nation's shallow joy to gloom.

Here Folly dash'd to earth the victor's plume,

And Policy regain’d what Arms had lost : And here and there, as up the crags you spring, For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom ! Mark many rude-carv'd crosses near the path; Woe to the conquering, not the conquer'd host, Yet deem not these devotion's offering

| Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's coast. These are memorials frail of murderous wrath : For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's

XXVI. knife,

And ever since that martial synod met, Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath; Britannia sickens, Cintra, at thy name;

And grove and glen with thousand such are rife, And folks in office at the mention fret, Throughout this purple land, where law secures And fain would blush, if blush they could, for not life !2

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(1) The convent of “Our Lady of Punishment." Nossa ceived any compatriot defending himself against his allies. I Senora de Pena, on the summit of the rock. Below, at some was once stopped in the way to the theatre at eight o'clock in distance, is the Cork Convent, where St. Honorius dug his the evening, when the streets were not more empty than they den, over which is his epitaph. From the hills, the sea adds generally are at that hour, opposite to an open shop, and in a to the beauty of the view.

carriage with a friend. Had we not fortunately been armed, (2) It is a well-known fact, that in the year 1809 the I have not the least doubt that we should have " adorned a assassinations in the streets of Lisbon and its vicinity were | tale" instead of telling one. not confined by the Portuguese to their countrymen, but that (3) The Convention of Cintra was signed in the palace of Englishren were daily butchered; and so far from redress the Marchese Marialva. being obtained, we were requiested not to interfere if we per

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(1) As I found the Portuguese, so I have characterised them. That they are since improved, at least in courage, is evident. The late exploits of Lord Wellington have etfaced the follies of Cintra. He has indeed done wonders; he has perhaps changed the character of a nation, reconciled rival

superstitions, and baffled an enemy who never retreated before his predecessors.-1812.

(2) Count Julian's daughter, tho Helen of Spain. Pelagius preserved his independence in the fastnesses of the Asturias.


When granite moulders and when records fail, I The foe, the victim, and the fond ally
A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. That figlits for all, but ever fights in vain,
Pride! bend thine eye from heaven to thine Are met-as if at home they could not die

To feed the crow on Talavera's plain,
See how the mighty shrink into a song !

And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain. Can Volume, Pillar, Pile preserve thee great ?

Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue, When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does

XLII. thee wrong?

There shall they rot-Ambition's honour'd fools !

Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their XXXVII.

clay! Awake, ye song of Spain ! awake! advance! Vain sophistry! in these behold the tools, Lo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess eries,

The broken tools, that tyrants cast away But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance,

By myriads, when they dare to pave their way Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies : With human hearts-to what ?-a dream alone. Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies,

Can despots compass aught that hails their sway ? And speaks in thunder through yon engine's Or call with truth one span of earth their own, roar!

Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by In every peal she calls"Awake! arise!”

bone ?
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore,
When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's
shore ?

O Albuera, glorious field of grief!

As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his steed, Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful

Who could foresee thee in a space so brief, note!

A scene where mingling foes should boast and

bleed. Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath! Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote;

Peace to the perish'd ! may the warrior's meed

And tears of triumph their reward belong! Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath Tyrants and tyrants' slaves the fires of death,

Till others fall where other chieftains lead,

Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, The bale-fires flash on high :-from rock to rock Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe:

And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transcient Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,

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


Enough of Battle's minions ! let them play XXXIX.

Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame : Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands, Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay, His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun, Though thousands fall to deck some single name. With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,

In sooth, 'twere sad to thwart their noble ainn And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon;

Who strike, blest hirelings ! for their country's Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon Flashing afar,—and at his iron feet

And die, that living might have proved her Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are

shame; done;

Perish’d, perchance, in some domestic feud, For on this morn three potent nations meet, Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path purTo shed before his shrine the blood he deems most



Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way
By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see

Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued : (For one who hath no friend, no brother there)

Yet is she free-the spoiler's wish'd-for prey ! Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery,

Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude, Their various arms that glitter in the air!

Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude. What gallant war-bounds rouse them from their

Inevitable hour! 'Gainst fate to strive lair!

Where Desolation plants her famish'd brood And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey !

Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre, might yet survive, All join the chase, but few the triumph share:

| And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away,

thrive. And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array.


But all unconscious of the coming doom,
Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;

The feast, the song, the revel, here abounds ; Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high; Strange modes of merriment the hours consume, Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies : Nor bleed these patriots with their country's The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory! |


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