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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 phalanx'd host should meet the

foe, Enough, alas, in humble homes remain,

To pieditate 'gainst friends the secret blow, For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm

stream must flow.


But Jealousy has fled: liis bars, his bolts,
His withered sentinel, Duenna sage!
And all whereat the generous soul revolts,
Which the stern dotard deen’d he could encage,
Have pass'd to darkness with the vanisl’d 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


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, careless gloom

The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore, That will not look beyond the tomb,

But canuot hope for rest before. What exile from himself can flee?

To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be,

The blight of Life-the demon Thought.

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Flows there a tear of pity for the dead ?

Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain : Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage !
Look on the hands with female slaughter red; Ye who of him may further seek to know,
Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain, Shall find some tidings in a future page,
Then to the vulture let each corse remain;

If be that rhymeth now may scribble moe.
Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw,

Is this too much? Stern Critic, say not so: Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleaching Patience! and ye shall hear what he beheld stain,

In other lands where he was doom'd to go : Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe:

Lands that contain the monuments of eld, Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were



(1) Alluding to the condnct and death of Solano, the governor of Cadiz, in May, 1809.

(2) Palafox's answer to the French general at the siege of Saragon.

Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.

Where demi-gods appear'd, as records tell.
Remove yon skull from out the scatter'd heaps :
Is that a temple where a god may dwell ?
Why, even the worm at last disdains her shatter'd

cell !



1. COME, blue-eyed maid of heaven !-but thou, alas, Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall, Didst never get one mortal song inspire

Its chambers desolate, and portals foul; Goddess of Wisdom! Here tly temple was, Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall, And is, despite of war and wasting fire,

The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul. And years, that bade thy worship to expire : Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit, Is the drear sceptre and dominion dire

And Passion's host, that never brook'd control : Of men who never felt the sacred glow

Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts People this lonely tower, this tenement refit?


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(1) Part of the Acropolis was destroyed by the explosion of trymen, as Achilles, Brasidas, &c., and at last even Antinous, a magazine during the Venetian siege.

whose death was as heroic as his life was infamous. (2) It was not always the custom of the Greeks to burn (3) The temple of Jupiter Olympius, of which sixteen their dead; the greater Ajax, in particular, was interred coluinns, entirely of marble, yet survive : originally there entire. Almost all the chiefs became gods after their decease; were one hundred and fifty. These columns, however, are by and he was indeed neglected who had not annual games near many supposed to have belonged to the Pantheon. bis tomb, or festivals in honour of his memory hy his coun


free ;



The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place.

XVI. It may not be: nor even can Fancy's eye

But where is Harold ? shall I then forget Restore what time hath labour'd to deface.

To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave ? Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh; Little reck'd

he of all that men regret; Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by. No loved one now in feign'd lament could rave;

No friend the parting hand extended gave,

Ere the cold stranger passed to other climes. But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane

Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave; On high, where Pallas linger’d, loth to flee, But Harold felt not as in other times, The latest relic of her ancient reign

And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes.
The last, the worst dull spoiler, who was he?
Blush, Caledonia ! such thy son could be !

England! I joy no child he was of thine :
Thy free-born men should spare what once was He that has sail'd upon the dark blue sea,

Has view'd at times, I ween, a full fair sight; Yet they could violate each saddening shrine,

When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be, And bear these altars o'er the long reluctant brine. The white sails set, the gallant frigate tight,

Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right,

The glorious main expanding o'er the bow, But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast,

The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight, To rive what Goth, and Time, and Turk hath The dullest sailer wearing bravely now, spared :

So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow. Cold as the crags upon his native coast, His mind as barren and his heart as hard,

XVIII. Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prepared,

And oh, the little warlike world within!
Aught to displace Athena's poor remains :

The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy, 2,
Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard,
Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains,

The hoarse command, the busy humming din,

When, at a word, the tops are manned on high : And never knew, till then, the weight of Despot's

Hark to the boatswain's call, the cheering cry, chains.

While through the seaman's hand the tackle

glides ; What! shall it e'er be said by British tongue Or schoolboy midshipman that, standing by, Albion was happy in Athena's tears ?

Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides, Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung, And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides. Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears ; The ocean queen, the free Britannia, bears The last poor plunder from a bleeding land : Yes, she, whose generous aid her name endears,

White is the glassy deck, without a stain,
Tore down those remnants with a harpy's hand, Where on the watch the staid lieutenant walks:
Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left to Look on that part which sacred doth remain

For the lone chieftain who majestic stalks
Silent and feared by all : not oft he talks

With aught beneath bim, if he would preserve Where was thine Ægis, Pallas, that appallid

That strict restraint, which, broken, ever baulks Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way ?1 Where Peleus' sou? whom hell in vain enthrall’d, From law, however stern, which tends their strength

Conquest and Fame: but Britons rarely swerve His shade from Hades upon that dread day

to nerve. Bursting to light in terrible array ! What! could not Pluto spare the chief once more,

XX. To scare a second robber from his prey ?

Blow, swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale, 1dly he wander'd on the Stygian shore,

Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray; Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before.

Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail,
That lagging barks may make their lazy way.

Ah! grievance sore, and listless dull delay,
Cold is the heart, fair Greece, that looks on thee, To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze!
Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved;

What leagues are lost before the dawn of day, Dull is the eye that will not weep to see

Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas,
Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines re- The flapping sail hauld down to balt for logs like

these !
By British hands, which it had best beloved
To guard those relics ne'er to be restored.
Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved, The moon is up; by Heaven, a lovely eve !
And once again thy hapless bosom gored,

Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand; And snatch'd thy shrinking gods to northern climes Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe : abhorrd.

Such be our fate when we return to land !






(1) According to Zosimus, Minerva and Achilles frightened (2) To prevent blocks or splinters from falling on deck Alaric from the Acropolis ; others relate that the Gothic king during action. as nearly as mischievous as the Scottish peer.-See Chandler.






Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand
Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love : More blest the life of godly eremite,
A circle there of merry listeners stand,

Such as on lonely Athos may be

seen, Or to some well-known measure featly move,

Watching at eve upon the giant height, Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to Which looks on waves so blue, skies so serene,

That he who there at such an hour hath been,
Will wistful linger on that hallow'd spot ;

Then slowly tear him from the witching scene, Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore ; Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot, Europe and Afric on each other gaze!

Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot. Lands of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky Moor, Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze :

XXVIII. How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown, Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track Distinct, though darkening with her waning Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind ; phase!

Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack, But Mauritania's giant-shadows frown,

And each well-known caprice of wave and wind; From mountain-cliff to coast descending sombre Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find, down.

Cooped in their winged sea-girt citadel;
The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind,
As breezes rise and fall, and billows swell

, 'Tis night, when Meditation bids us feel

Till on some jocund morn-lo, land ! and all is well. We once have loved, though love is at an end : The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal, Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend. Who with the weight of years would wish to bend,

But not in silence pass Calypso's isles, When Youth itself survives young Love and joy?

The sister tenants of the middle deep;

There for the weary still a haven smiles,
Alas! when mingling souls forget to blend,
Death hath but little lest him to destroy!

Though the fair goddess long hath ceased to weep,

And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep
Ah, happy years ! once more who would not be a

For him who dared prefer a mortal bride :
Here, too, his boy essay'd the dreadful leap
Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide;

While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen doubly Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side,

To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere,
The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride,

And flies unconscious o'er each backward year. Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone :
None are so desolate, but something dear,

But trust not this; too easy youth, beware! Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd

A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne, A thought, and claims the homage of a tear; And thou may'st find a new Calypso there. A flashing pang, of which the weary breast

Sweet Florence! could another ever share
Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest.

This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine :
But check'd by every tie, I may not dare

To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine,

Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine. To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been;

Thus Harold deem'd, as on that lady's eye To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, He look'd, and met its beam without a thought, With the wild flock that never needs a fold; Save Admiration glancing harmless by: Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean : Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote, This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold

Who knew his votary often lost and caught, Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores But knew him as his worshipper no more, unroll’d.

And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought :
Since now he vainly urged him to adore,

Well deem'd the little god his ancient sway was o'er.
But, ʼmidst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,

And roam along, the world's tired denizen,
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;

Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze, Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!

One wbo, 'twas said, still sigh’d to all he saw, None that, with kindred consciousness endued,

Withstand, unmov'd, the lustre of her gaze, If we were not, would seem to smile the less,

Which others hail'd with real or mimic awe, Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and sued: This is to be alone; this, this is solitude !

(1) Goza is said to have been the island of Calypso.





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