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Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth,
Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight;
But spent his days in riot most uncouth,
And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.
Ah, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight,
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee ;
Few earthly things found favour in his sight

Save concubines and carnal companie,
Aud flaunting wassailers of high and low degree.

VIII. Yet ofttimes, in his maddest mirthful mood, Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's

brow, As if the memory of some deadly feud Or disappointed passion lurk'd below: But this none knew, nor haply cared to know : For his was not that open, artless soul That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow: Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not


III. Childe Harold was he hight :-but whence his



And lineage long, it suits me not to say;
Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame,
And had been glorious in another day :
But one sad losel soils a name for aye,
However mighty in the olden time;
Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay,

Nor florid prose, nor honey'd lines of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.


And none did love him: though to hall and

bower He gather'd revellers from far and near, He knew them flatterers of the festal hour; The heartless parasites of present cheer. Yea, none did love him-not bis lemans dearBut pomp and power alone are woman's care, And where these are light Eros finds a feere ;

Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, And Malomon wins his way where Seraphis might despair.

X. Cbilde Harold had a mother-not forgot, Though parting from that mother he did shun; A sister whom he loved, but saw her not Before his weary pilgrimage begun : If friends he had, he bade adieu to none, Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel; Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon

A few dear objects, will in sadness feel Such partings break the beart they fondly liope to



Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun,
Disporting there like any other fly,
Nor deem'd before his little day was done
One blast might chill him into misery.
But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by,
Worse than adversity the Childe befell;
He felt the fulness of satiety:

Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, Which seem'd to him more lone than eremite's sad cell.

V. For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run, Nor inade atonement when he did amiss, Had sigh’d to many, though he loved but one, And that loved one, alas, could ne'er be his. Ah, happy she; to 'scape from him whose kiss Had been pollution unto aught so chaste; Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss,

And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste, Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign’d to taste.

VI. And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, And from his fellow bacchanals would flee; 'T'is said, at times the sullen tear would start, But Pride congeald the drop within his e'e. Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie, And from his native land resolved to go, And visit scorching climes beyond the sea ;

With pleasure drugg'd, he almost long'd for woe, And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades


His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,
The laugbing dames in whom he did delight,
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snow

Might shake the saintship of an achorite,
And long had fed his youthful appetite;
His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine,
And all that mote to luxury invite,

Without a sigh he left to cross the brine,
And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's cen-

tral line.


The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds

As glad to wast him from his native home;
And fast the white rocks faded from his view,
And soon were lost in circumambient foam;
And then, it may be, of bis 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.



The Childe departed from his father's hall;
It was a vast and venerable pile ;
So old, it seemed only not to fall,
Yet strength was pillard in each massy aisle.
Monastic dome! condemn'd to uses vile!
Where Superstition once had made her den,
Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile;
And monks mighit deem their time was come

agen, If ancient iales say true, nor wrong these holy men.

But when the sun was sinking in the sea,
He seized bis barp, which he at times could

And strike, albeit with untaught melody,
When deem'd be no strange ear was listening:
And now his fingers o'er it he did fling,

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For who would trust the seeming sighs

Of wife or paramour ? Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes

We late saw streaming o'er. For pleasures past I do not grieve,

Nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leare

No thing that claims a tear.

And now I'm in the world alone,

Upon the wide, wide sea;
But why should I for others groan,

When none will sigh for me? Perchance my dog will whine in vain,

Till fed by stranger hands; But long ere I come back again

He'd tear me where he stands.

And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight,
While flew the vessel on ber snowy wing,

And fleeting shores receded from his sight,
Thus to the elements he pour'd his last Good

Adieu, adieu ! my native shore

Fades o'er the waters blue;
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,

And shrieks the wild sea-mew.
Yon sun that sets upon the sea

We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,

My native Land-Good Night!
A few short hours, and he will rise

To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,

But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,

Its hearth is desolate;
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall,

My dog howls at the gate
“ Come hither, hither, my little page:

Why dost thou weep and wail ?
Or dost thou dread the billow's rage,

Or tremble at the gale ?
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye,

Our ship is swift and strong;
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly

More merrily along."
“Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,

I fear not wave nor wind;
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I

Am sorrowful in mind;
For I am froin my father gone,

A mother whom I love,
And have no friend, save these alone,

But thee-and One above.

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Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see
What Heaven hath done for this delicious land!
What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree!
What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand !
But man would mar them with an impious hand:
And when the Almighty lifts His fiercest scourge
'Gainst those who most transgress His bigla

command, With treble vengeance will His hot shafts urge Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foeniau purge.

XVI. What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold! Her image floating on that noble tide, Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, But now whereon a thousand keels did ride Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied, And to the Lusians did her aid afford : A nation swoll'n with ignorance and pride, Who lick, yet loathe, the hand that waves the

sword To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing lord.

But whoso entereth within this town,
That, sheening far, celestial seems to be,


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(1) The convent of “Our Lady of Punishment,” Nossa ceived any compatriot defending himself against his allies. I Senora de Pena, on the summit of the rock. Below, at some was once stopped in the way to the theatre at eight o'clock in distance, is the Cork Convent, where St. Honorius dug his the evening, when the streets were not more empty than they den, over which is his epitaph. From the hills, the sea adds generally are at that hour, opposite to an open shop, and in a to the beauty of the view.

carriage with a friend. Had we not fortunately been armed, (2) It is a well-known fact, that in the year 1809 the I have not the least doubt that we should have “adorned á assussinations in the streets of Lisbon and its vicinity were

tale" instead of telling one. not confined by the Portuguese to their countrymen, but that (3) The Convention of Cintra was signed in the palace of Englishunen were daily butchered; and so far from redress the Marchese Mariva. being ohtained, we weie requested not to interfere if we per

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How will posterity the dced proclaim !

Spain's realms appear, whereon her sheplerds Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer,

tend To view these champions cheated of their fame, Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here,

knowsWhere Scorn her finger points through many a

Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend : coming year ?

For Spain is compass'd by unyielding foes,
And all must shield their all, or share Subjection's

So deem'd the Childe, as o'er the mountains he

XXXII. Did take his way in solitary guise :

Where Lusitania and her Sister meet, Sweet was the scene, yet soon be thought to flee,

Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide ? More restless than the swallow in the skies :

Or e'er the jealous queens of nations greet,
Though here awhile he learned to moralize,
For Meditation fix'd at times on bim,

Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide ?"

Or dark sierras rise in craggy pride ? And conscious Reason whisper'd to despise

Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall ?His early youth misspent in maddest whim;

Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, But as be gazed on truth, his aching eyes grew dim.

Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall,

Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land from XXVIII.

Gaul :
To horse! to horse! he quits, for ever quits

A scene of peace, though soothing to bis soul:
Again he rouses from bis moping fits,

But these between a silver streamlet glides, But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl.

And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook, Onward he flies, nor fix'd as yet the goal

Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides. Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage;

Here leans the idle sliepherd on his crook, And o'er him many changing scenes must roll, And vacant on the rippling waves doth look, Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage,

That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow : Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience

For proud each peasant as the noblest duke: sage.

Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the

low. 1 XXIX. Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay,

XXXIV. Where dwelt of yore the Lusians' luckless queen;

But ere the mingling bounds have far been pass’d, And church and court did mingle their array, Dark Guadiana rolls his power along And mass and revel were alternate seen ;

In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, Lordlings and freres—ill-sorted fry, I ween!

So noted ancient roundelays among. But here the Babylonian whore had built

Whilome upon his banks did legions throng A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious

Of Moor and Knight, in mailed splendour drest ; sheen,

Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk tlie That men forget the blood which she hath spilt,

strong; And bow the knee to Ponip that loves to garnish

The Paynim turban and the Christian crest guilt.

Mix'd on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts

oppressid. XXX. O’er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills,

XXXV. (Oh that such hills upheld a free-born race !)

Oh, lovely Spain ! renown'd romantic land ! Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills,

Where is that standard which Pelagio bore, Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant When Cava's2 traitor-sire first call'd the band place.

That dyed thy mountain-streams with Gothic Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, And marvel men should quit their easy chair,

Where are those bloody banners which of yore The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace, Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale, Oh, there is sweetness in the mountain air,

And drove at last the spoilers to their shore ? And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to

Red gleam'd the cross, and waned the crescent share.


While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish matrons' XXXI.

wail. More bleak to view the hills at length recede, And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend;

XXXVI. Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed !

Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale ? Far as the eye discerns, withouten end,

Ah! such, alas, the hero's amplest fate!

gore ?

(1) As I found the Portuguese, so I have characterised superstitions, and baffled an enemy who never retreated them. That they are since improved, at least in courage, is before his predecessors.--1812. evident. The late exploits of Lord Wellington have etraced (2) Count Julian's daughter, the Helen of Spnin. Pelagius the follies of Cintra. He has indeed done wonders ; he has preserved his independence in the fastnesses of the Asperhaps changed the character of a nation, reconciled rival turias.


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When granite moulders and when records fail, The foe, the victim, and the fond ally
A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. That figlits for all, but ever fights in vain,
Pride! bend thine eye from heaven to thine Are met--as if at home they could not die-

To feed the crow on Talavera's plain,
See how the mighty shrink into a song ! And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain.
Can Volume, Pillar, Pile preserve thee great ?
Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue,
When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does
thee wrong?

There shall they rot-Ambition's honour'd fools !

Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their XXXVII.

clay! Awake, ye song of Spain! awake! advance !

Vain sophistry! in these behold the tools, Lo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess eries,

The broken tools, that tyrants cast away But wields not, as of old, ber thirsty lance, By myriads, when they dare to pave their way Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies : With human hearts-to what ?-a dream alone. Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies, Can despots compass aught that hails their sway ? And speaks in thunder through yon engine's Or call with truth one span of earth their own, roar!

Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by In every peal she calls—"Awake! arise ! ”

bone ? Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's

shore ?

O Albuera, giorious field of grief!
As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his steed,

Who could foresee thee in a space so brief, Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful

A scene where mingling foes should boast and note !

bleed. Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath! Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote;

Peace to the perish'd ! may the warrior's meed

And tears of triumph their reward belong! Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath Tyrants and tyrants' slaves ?—the fires of death,

Till others fall where other chieftains lead, The bale-fires Aash on high :—from rock to rock

Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe: And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transcient Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,

song. Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock.

Enough of Battle's minions ! let them play XXXIX.

Their game of lives, and barter breath for "fame : Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands, Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay, His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun, Though thousands fall to deck some single name. With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,

In sooth, 'twere sad to thwart their noble ain And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon;

Who strike, blest birelings! for their country's Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon

good, Flashing afar,-and at his iron feet

And die, that living right have proved her Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are


Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud, For on this morn three potent nations meet, Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path purTo shed before his shrine the blood he deems most

sued. sweet.



done ;

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