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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
CHİLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE.
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; (i)
Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hund.
dred isles !
She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, (2)
dowers from the spoils of nations, and the exhaustless
East Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. In purple was she robed, and of her feast Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity in
The pleasant place of all festivity,
But unto us she hath a spell beyond
The keystones of the arch! though all were o'er, For us repeople were the solitary shore.
v. 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.
And the strange constellations which the Muse O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse :
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,
Perhaps I loved it well: and should I lay
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
The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns
(6) An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt;