be dearer to none than to yourself, I dedicate to you this poem in its completed state ; and repeat once more how truly I am ever

Your obliged
And affectionate friend,

BYRON,

CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE.

A ROMAUMT.

CANTO IV. '

| stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; (iy
A palace and a prison on each hand;
I saw from out the wave her structures rise
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand :
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying Glory smiles
O’er the far times, when many a subject land

Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hunda

dred isles !

11. She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, (2) Rising with her tiara of proud towers Àt airy distance, with majestic motion, A ruler of the waters and their powers : And such she was her daughters had their

dowers From the spoils of nations, and the exhaustless

East Pour'd in her lap al gems in sparkling showers.

In purple was sbe robed, and of ber feast Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity in

creased!

III.

In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, (3)
And silent rows the songless gondolier ;
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,
And music meets not always now the ear:
Those days are gone-but Beauty still is here.
States fall, arts fade-but Nature doth not die
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,

The pleasant place of all festivity,
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!

But unto-us she hath a spell beyond
Her name in story, and her long array
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond
Above the dogeless city's vanish'd sway;
Qurs is a trophy which will not decay,
With the Rialto: Shylock and the Moor,
And Pierre, can not be swept or worn away-

The keystones of the arch! though all were o'er, For us repeopled were the solitary shore.

The beings of the mind are not of clay ;
Essentially immortal, they create
And muliply in us a brighter ray
And more beloved existence: that which Fate
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state
Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied
First exiles, then replaces what we hate;
Watering the heart whose early flowers have

died; And with a fresher growth replenishing the void.

VI.
Such is the refuge of our youth and age,
The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy ;
And this worn feeling peoples many a page,
And, may be, that which grows beneath mine

eye:
Yet there are things whose strong reality
Outshines our fairy land; in shape and hues
More beautiful than our fantastic sky,

And the strange constellations which the Muse O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse :

VII.

I saw or dream'd of such—but let them go-They came like truth, and disappear'd like

dreams; And whatsoe'er they were-are now but so: I could replace them if I would, still teems My mind with many a form which aptly seems Such as I sought for, and at moments found; Let these too go-for waking Reason deems

Such over-weening phantasies unsound, And other voices speak, and other sights surround.

VIII. I've taught me other tongues-and in strange

eyes Have made me not a stranger; to the mind Which is itself, no changes bring surprise ; Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find A country with-ay, or without mankind; Yet was I born where men are proud to be, Not without cause; and should I leave behind

The inviolate island of the sage and free, And seek me out a home by a remoter sea,

VOL. 1.-M

15.

Perhaps I loved it well: and should I lay
My ashes in a soil which is not mine,
My spirit shall resume it—if we may
Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine
My hopes of being remember'd in my line
With my land's language: if too fond and far
These aspirations in their scope incline,-

If my fame should be, as my fortunes are, of basty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar

X. My name from out the temple wbere the dead Are honour'd by the nations-let it beAnd light the laurels on a loftier head ! And be the Spartan's epitaph on me “Sparta has many a worthier son than he." (4) Mean time I seek no sympathies, nor need; The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree

I planted,--they have torn me,--and I bleed: I should bave known what fruit would spring from

such a seed.

XI. The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord ; And, annual marriage now no more renew'd, *The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, Neglected garment of her widowhood! St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood (5) Stand, but in mockery of his withered power, Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued,

And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour When Venice was a queen with an unequallid

dower.

XII.

The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns

(6) An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt;