"L'univers est une espèce de livre, dont on n'a lu que la première page quand on n'a vu que son pays. J'en ai feuilleté un assez grand nombre, que j'ai trouvé également mauvaises. Cet examen ne m'a point été infructueux. Je haïssais ma patrie. Toutes les impertinences des peuples divers, parmi lesquels j'ai vécu, m'ont réconcilié avec elle. Quand je n'aurais tiré d'autre bénéfice de mes voyages que celui-là, je n'en regretterais ni les frais ni les fatigues."-LE COSMOPOLITE. PREFACE TO THE FIRST AND SECOND CANTOS. The following poem was written, for the most part, amidst the scenes which it attempts to describe. It was begun in Albania; and the parts relative to Spain and Portugal were composed from the author's observations in those countries. Thus much it may be necessary to state for the correctness of the descriptions. The scenes attempted to be sketched are in Spain, Portugal, Epirus, Acarnania, and Greece. There, for the present, the poem stops: its reception will determine whether the author may venture to conduct his readers to the capital of the East, through Ionia and Phrygia: these two Cantos are merely experimental. A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of giving some connection to the piece; which, however, makes no pretensions to regularity. It has been suggested to me by friends, on whose opinions I set a high value, that in this fictitious character, "Childe Harold," I may incur the suspicion of having intended some real personage: this I beg leave, once for all, to disclaim. Harold is a child of imagination, for the purpose I have stated. In some very trivial particulars, and those merely local, there might be grounds for such a notion; but in the main points, I should hope, none whatever. It is almost superfluous to mention that the appellation "Childe," as "Childe Waters," "Childe Childers," &c., is used as more consonant with the old structure of versification which I have adopted. The "Good Night," in the beginning of the first Canto, was suggested by "Lord Maxwell's Good Night," in the Border Minstrelsy, edited by Mr Scott. With the different poems which have been published on Spanish subjects, there may be found some slight coincidence in the first part which treats of the Peninsula; but it can only be casual, as, with the exception of a few concluding stanzas, the whole of this poem was written in the Levant. The stanza of Spenser, according to one of our most successful poets, admits of every variet Dr Beattie makes the following observation:-"Not long ago, I began a poem in the style stanza of Spenser, in which I propose to give full scope to my inclination, and be either dro. pathetic, descriptive or sentimental, tender or satirical, as the humour strikes me: for, if I ... take not, the measure which I have adopted admits equally of all these kinds of composit. Strengthened in my opinion by such authority, and by the example of some in the highest or of Italian poets, I shall make no apology for attempts at similar variations in the following composition; satisfied that, if they are unsuccessful, their failure must be in the execution rather than in the design, sanctioned by the practice of Ariosto, Thomson, and Beattie. LONDON, February 1812. ADDITION TO THE PREFACE. I have now waited till almost all our periodical journals have distributed their usual portion of criticism. To the justice of the generality of their criticisms I have nothing to object: it would ill become me to quarrel with their very slight degree of censure, when, perhaps, if they had been less kind, they had been more candid. Returning, therefore, to all and each my best thanks for their liberality, on one point alone shall I venture an observation. Amongst the many objections justly urged to the very indifferent character of the "vagrant Childe" (whom, notwithstanding many hints to the contrary, I still maintain to be a fictitious personage), it has been stated that, besides the anachronism, he is very unknightly, as the times of the Knights were times of Love, Honour, and so forth. Now, it so happens that the good old times, when "l'amour du bon vieux tems, l'amour antique" flourished, were the most profligate of all possible centuries. Those who have any doubts on this subject may consult Sainte-Palaye, passim, and more particularly vol. ii. p. 69. The vows of chivalry were no better kept than any other vows whatsoever; and the songs of the Troubadours were not more decent, and certainly were much less refined than those of Ovid. The "Cours d'amour, parlemens d'amour, ou de courtésie et de gentilesse," had much more of love than of courtesy or gentleness. See Roland on the same subject with Saint-Palaye. Whatever other objection may be urged to that most unamiable personage, Childe Harold, he was so far perfectly knightly in his attributes-"No waiter but a knight templar.' By the by, I fear that Sir Tristrem and Sir Lancelot were no better than they should be, although very poetical personages and true knights, "sans peur,' though not "sans reproche." If the story of the institution of the "Garter" be not a fable, the knights of that order have for several centuries borne the badge of a Countess of Salisbury, of indifferent memory. So much for chivalry. Burke need not have regretted that its days are over, though Marie-Antoinette was quite as chaste as most of those in whose honour lances were shivered and knights unhorsed. Before the days of Bayard, and down to those of Sir Joseph Banks (the most chaste and celebrated of ancient and modern times), few exceptions will be found to this statement: and I fear a little investigation will teach us not to regret these monstrous mummeries of the middle ages. I now leave "Childe Harold" to live his day, such as he is. It had been more agreeable, and certainly more easy, to have drawn an amiable character. It had been easy to varnish over his faults, to make him do more and express less; but he never was intended as an example, further than to show that early perversion of mind and morals leads to satiety of past pleasures and disappointment in new ones, and that even the beauties of nature and the stimulus of travel (except ambition, the most powerful of all excitements) are lost on a soul so constituted, or rather misdirected. Had I proceeded with the poem, this character would have deepened as he drew to the close; for the outline which I once meant to fill up for him was, with some exceptions, the sketch of a modern Timon, perhaps a poetical Zeluco. LONDON, 1813. TO IANTHE.† NOT in those climes where I have late been straying, Though Beauty long hath there been match- Not in those visions to the heart displaying To such as see thee not my words were weak; To those who gaze on thee, what language could they speak? Ah! may'st thou ever be what now thou art, Young Peri of the West !-'tis well for me * The Rovers, or the Double Arrangement. Happier, that while all younger hearts shall Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle's, Could I to thee be ever more than friend : To one so young my strain I would commend, But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend. Such is thy name with this my verse entwined; Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast, Such is the most my memory may desire; Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less require? † Lady Charlotte Harley, daughter of the Earl of Oxford, afterwards Lady C. Bacon. 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. XIII. But when the sun was sinking in the sea, And strike, albeit with untaught melody, Adieu, adieu! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, My native Land-Good Night! Wild weeds are gathering on the wall, But dash the tear-drop from thine eye, "Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I Am sorrowful in mind; For I have from my father A mother whom I love, gone, And have no friend, save these alone, "My father bless'd me fervently, yeoman, If I thy guileless bosom had, But thinking on an absent wife And when they on their father call, eyes For who would trust the seeming sighs But long ere I come back again He'd tear me where he stands. Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves! "My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, To save them from the wrath of Gaul's Along the bordering lake; unsparing lord. |