Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto the Third
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Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage 1 Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, 2 Once more upon the waters! yet once more!3 Canto the Third And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider. Welcome, to their roar! Byron began Childe Harold III immediately upon Swift be their guidance, wheresoe’er it lead! leaving England in 1816 (on the manuscript he wrote, “Begun at sea”). Separated from his wife, the 15 Though the strain’d mast should quiver as a reed, subject of dark rumors, shunned by the society that And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, had once embraced him, Byron decided to travel to Still must I on; for I am as a weed, Europe (he never returned to England). This third Flung from the rock, on Ocean’s foam, to sail canto of Childe Harold charts his journey through Where’er the surge may sweep, the tempest’s breath Belgium, Germany, and Switzerland. prevail. “Afin que cette application vous forçât à penser à autre 3 1 chose; il n’y a en vérité de remède que celui-là et le temps.” 20 In my youth’s summer I did sing of One, —Lettre du Roi de Prusse à D’Alembert, The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind; Sept. 7, 1776. Again I seize the theme, then but begun, And bear it with me, as the rushing wind 1 Bears the cloud onwards: in that Tale I find s thy face like thy mother’s, my fair child! 25 The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, 2 I Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart? Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind, When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled, O’er which all heavily the journeying years And then we parted,—not as now we part, Plod the last sands of life—where not a flower appears. 5 But with a hope.— Awaking with a start, 4 The waters heave around me; and on high Since my young days of passion—joy, or pain, The winds lift up their voices: I depart, 30 Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string, Whither I know not; but the hour’s gone by, And both may jar: it may be, that in vain 10 When Albion’s lessening shores could grieve or glad I would essay as I have sung to sing. mine eye. Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling; So that it wean me from the weary dream 35 Of selfish grief or gladness—so it fling Forgetfulness around me—it shall seem 1 Afin … le temps “So that this exercise forces you to think of something else. There is, in truth, no other remedy than that and To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. time.” Oeuvres de Fréderic le Grand (1846–57) 25: 49–50. Frederick II (the Great) of Prussia recommended “some problem very difficult 5 to solve” as a consolation for Jean le Rond d’Alembert (1717–83), He, who grown aged in this world of woe, who was in mourning for the death of Claire Francoise, Mlle. In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, l’Espinasse (d. 23 May 1776). 40 2 So that no wonder waits him; nor below Ada Augusta Ada Byron was born on 10 December 1815. Lady Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife, Byron left her husband on 15 January 1816, taking their child with her. Byron never saw either of them again, although he continued to Cut to his heart again with the keen knife display an interest in Ada’s progress. In 1835, Ada, a highly Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell intelligent woman and a talented amateur mathematician, married Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife William King Noel, Baron King (later the Earl of Lovelace). They 45 With airy images, and shapes which dwell had three children, Byron, Annabella, and Ralph. Ada died of uterine cancer in 1852. In daguerreotypes, Ada fluctuates between Still unimpair’d, though old, in the soul’s haunted cell. a striking resemblance to her mother and a striking resemblance to the Byron side of the family. 3 yet once more Shakespeare, Henry V 3.1.1. 2 George Gordon, Lord Byron 6 10 ’Tis to create, and in creating live Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix’d A being more intense, that we endow Again in fancied safety with his kind, With form our fancy, gaining as we give 85 And deem’d his spirit now so firmly fix’d 50 The life we image, even as I do now. And sheath’d with an invulnerable mind, What am I? Nothing: but not so art thou, That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk’d behind; Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth, And he, as one, might ’midst the many stand Invisible but gazing, as I glow Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find Mix’d with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, 90 Fit speculation; such as in strange land 55 And feeling still with thee in my crush’d feelings’ dearth. He found in wonder-works of God and Nature’s hand. 7 11 Yet must I think less wildly: I have thought But who can view the ripen’d rose, nor seek Too long and darkly, till my brain became, To wear it? who can curiously behold In its own eddy boiling and o’er-wrought, The smoothness and the sheen of beauty’s cheek, A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame: 95 Nor feel the heart can never all grow old? 60 And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, Who can contemplate Fame through clouds unfold My springs of life were poison’d. ’Tis too late! The star which rises o’er her steep, nor climb? Yet am I chang’d; though still enough the same Harold, once more within the vortex, roll’d In strength to bear what time can not abate, On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate. 100 Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth’s fond prime. 8 12 65 Something too much of this—but now ’tis past, But soon he knew himself the most unfit And the spell closes with its silent seal. Of men to herd with Man; with whom he held Long absent HAROLD re-appears at last; Little in common; untaught to submit He of the breast which fain no more would feel, His thoughts to others, though his soul was quell’d Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne’er 105 In youth by his own thoughts; still uncompell’d, heal, He would not yield dominion of his mind 70 Yet Time, who changes all, had alter’d him To spirits against whom his own rebell’d; In soul and aspect as in age: years steal Proud though in desolation; which could find Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb; A life within itself, to breathe without mankind. And life’s enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. 13 9 110 Where rose the mountains, there to him were His had been quaff’d1 too quickly, and he found friends; 75 The dregs were wormwood; but he fill’d again, Where roll’d the ocean, thereon was his home; And from a purer fount, on holier ground, Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends, And deem’d its spring perpetual; but in vain! He had the passion and the power to roam; Still round him clung invisibly a chain The desert, forest, cavern, breaker’s foam, Which gall’d for ever, fettering though unseen, 115 Were unto him companionship; they spake 80 And heavy though it clank’d not; worn with pain, A mutual language, clearer than the tome Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen, Of his land’s tongue, which he would oft forsake Entering with every step, he took, through many a scene. For Nature’s pages glass’d by sunbeams on the lake. 1 quaff’d Drunk. Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage 3 14 And is this all the world has gain’d by thee, Like the Chaldean,1 he could watch the stars, Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory? 120 Till he had peopled them with beings bright As their own beams; and earth, and earth-born jars, 18 And human frailties, were forgotten quite: 155 And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, Could he have kept his spirit to that flight The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo!2 He had been happy; but this clay will sink How in an hour the power which gave annuls 125 Its spark immortal, envying it the light Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too! To which it mounts, as if to break the link In “pride of place” 3 here last the eagle flew, That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its 160 Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain, brink. Pierc’d by the shaft of banded nations through; Ambition’s life and labours all were vain; 15 He wears the shatter’d links of the world’s broken But in Man’s dwellings he became a thing chain.4 Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome, 130 Droop’d as a wild-born falcon with clipt wing, 19 To whom the boundless air alone were home: Fit retribution! Gaul may champ the bit Then came his fit again, which to o’ercome, 165 And foam in fetters:—but is Earth more free? As eagerly the barr’d-up bird will beat Did nations combat to make One submit; His breast and beak against his wiry dome Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty? 135 Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat What! shall reviving Thraldom again be Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat.