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CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE.
" Afin que cette application vous forçât de penser à autre chose; ill n'y a en vérité de remède que celui-là et le temps."
Lettre du Roi de Prusse à D'Alembert, Sept. 7, 1776.
Is thy face like thy mother's my fair child!
Awaking with a start,
glad mine eye.
Once more upon the waters ! yet once more ! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider. Welcome, to their roar! Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead! Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed, And the rent canvass fluttering strew the gale, Still must I on; for I am as a weed,
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's
· III. In my youth's summer I did sing of One, The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind; Again I seize the theme then but begun, And bear it with me, as the rushing wind Bears the cloud onwards : in that Tale I find The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, Which, ebbing, leave a steril track behind,
O'er which all heavily the journeying years Plod the last sands of life,--where not a flower ap.
Since my young days of passion-joy, or pain,
Forgetfulness around me-it shall seem
He, who grown aged in this world of wo,
With airy images, and shapes which dwell Still unimpair'd though old, in the soul's haunted
VI. 'Tis to create, and in creating live A being more intense, than we endow With form our fancy, gaining as we give The life we image, even as I do now. What am I? Nothing; but not so art thou, Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth, Invisible but gazing, as I glow Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, And feeling still with thee in my crush'd feelings'
VII. Yet must I think less wildly :- I have thought Too long and darkly, till my brain became, In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame: And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, My springs of life were poison'd. 'Tis too late ! Yet am I changed; though still enough the same
In strength to bear wbat time cannot abate, And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate.
VIII. Something too much of this :-but now 'tis past, And the spell closes with its silent seal. Long absent Harold reappears at last ; He of the breast which fain no more would feel, Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne'er
heal; Yet time, who changes all, had alter'd him In soul and aspect as in age: years steal
Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb ; And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the
pain, Which pined although it spoke not, and grew
keen, Entering with every step, he took, through many
Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd !
Fit speculation ! such as in strange land
XI. But who can view the ripen'd rose nor seek To wear it? who can curiously behold The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek, Nor feel the heart can never all grow old ? Who can contemplate Fame through clouds un.