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. The patch’d-up idol of enlighten’d days? 170 Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we 16 Pay the Wolf homage? proffering lowly gaze Self-exil’d Harold wanders forth again, And servile knees to thrones? No; prove before ye praise! With nought of hope left, but with less of gloom; The very knowledge that he lived in vain, 20 140 That all was over on this side the tomb, If not, o’er one fallen despot boast no more! Had made Despair a smilingness assume, In vain fair cheeks were furrow’d with hot tears Which, though ’twere wild,—as on the plunder’d 175 For Europe’s flowers long rooted up before wreck The trampler of her vineyards; in vain years When mariners would madly meet their doom Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears, With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck, Have all been borne, and broken by the accord 145 Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check. Of rous’d-up millions; all that most endears 180 Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword 17 Stop!—for thy tread is on an Empire’s dust! An Earthquake’s spoil is sepulchred below! Is the spot mark’d with no colossal bust? 2 Nor column trophied for triumphal show? Waterloo Site of Napoleon’s great defeat by the British and Prussians on 18 June 1815. Byron visited on 4 May 1816. 150 None; but the moral’s truth tells simpler so, 3 [Byron’s note] Pride of Place is a term of falconry, and means the As the ground was before, thus let it be;— highest pitch of flight. See Macbeth &c. How that red rain hath made the harvest grow! “A Falcon towering in her pride of place Was by a mousing Owl hawked at and killed.” 1 Chaldean Native of Chaldea, i.e., proverbial for one who 4 Ambition’s … chain After his defeat, Napoleon was exiled to St. possessed occult learning and astrological knowledge. Helena. 4 George Gordon, Lord Byron

Such as Harmodius drew on Athens’ tyrant lord.1 Which stretch’d his father on a bloody bier,5 And rous’d the vengeance blood alone could quell: 21 He rush’d into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium’s capital2 had gather’d then 24 Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 185 The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men; 210 And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, A thousand hearts beat happily; and when And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Blush’d at the praise of their own loveliness; Soft eyes look’d love to eyes which spake again, And there were sudden partings, such as press And all went merry as a marriage bell;3 The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 190 But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! 215 Which ne’er might be repeated; who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 22 Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise? Did ye not hear it?—No; ’twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o’er the stony street; 25 On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 195 To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet— 220 Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, But hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! And near, the beat of the alarming drum Arm! Arm! it is—it is—the cannon’s opening roar! Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; 225 While throng’d the citizens with terror dumb, 23 Or whispering, with white lips—“The foe! they come! 200 Within a window’d niche of that high hall they come!” Sate Brunswick’s fated chieftain;4 he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, 26 And caught its tone with Death’s prophetic ear; And wild and high the “Cameron’s gathering”6 rose! And when they smiled because he deem’d it near, The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn’s7 hills 205 His heart more truly knew that peal too well Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:— 8 230 How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 1 [Byron’s note] See the famous song on Harmodius and Aristogiton.—The best English translation is in Bland’s Anthology, With the fierce native daring which instils by Mr. Denman. WWith myrtle my sword will I wreathe,” &c. The stirring memory of a thousand years, 9 [Harmodius and Aristogeiton were Athenian patriots who attempted 235 And Evan’s, Donald’s fame rings in each clansman’s ears! to assassinate the tyrants Hippias and Hipparchus in 514 BCE.]

2 Belgium’s capital Brussels. 5 his father … bier Brunswick’s father, Charles, Duke of Brunswick 3 [Byron’s note] On the night previous to the action, it was said (1735–1806) was killed at the battle of Auerstädt. that a ball was given at Brussels. [The Duchess of Richmond gave a 6 Cameron’s gathering War song of the Scottish clan Cameron. ball on 15 June 1815, the night before the inconclusive battle of 7 Quatre Bras. Waterloo was fought on 18 June.] Albyn Scots Gaelic name for Scotland. 8 4 Brunswick’s fated chieftain Frederick, Duke of Brunswick pibroch Song of war or mourning. (1771–1815), brother of Caroline, Princess of Wales, and nephew 9 [Byron’s note] Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant Donald, of George III, was killed at the battle of Quatre Bras, the first the “gentle Lochiel” of the “forty-five.” [Sir Evan Cameron (1629– engagement of the Waterloo campaign, 16 June, 1815. 1719) fought against Cromwell, and his grandson Donald Cameron Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage 5

27 They reach’d no nobler breast than thine, young, And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,1 gallant Howard!2 Dewy with nature’s tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves, 30 Over the unreturning brave,—alas! There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, 240 Ere evening to be trodden like the grass And mine were nothing had I such to give; Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 265 But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, Of living valour, rolling on the foe And saw around me the wide field revive And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring low. Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, 270 With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 28 I turn’d from all she brought to those she could not 3 245 Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, bring. Last eve in Beauty’s circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, 31 The morn the marshalling in arms,— the day I turn’d to thee, to thousands, of whom each Battle’s magnificently-stern array! And one as all a ghastly gap did make 250 The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which when rent In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach The earth is cover’d thick with other clay, 275 Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake; Which her own clay shall cover, heap’d and pent, The Archangel’s trump,4 not Glory’s, must awake Rider and horse,—friend, foe,—in one red burial blent!

29 2 Their praise … Howard In this stanza Byron refers to his cousin Their praise is hymn’d by loftier harps than mine: Frederick Howard (1785–1815), son of the Earl of Carlisle. 3 255 Yet one I would select from that proud throng, [Byron’s note] My guide from Mont St. Jean over the field Partly because they blend me with his line, seemed intelligent and accurate. The place where Major Howard fell was not far from two tall and solitary trees (there was a third cut And partly that I did his sire some wrong, down, or shivered in the battle) which stand a few yards from each And partly that bright names will hallow song; other at a pathway’s side.—Beneath these he died and was buried. And his was of the bravest, and when shower’d The body has since been removed to England. A small hollow for the 260 The death-bolts deadliest the thinn’d files along, present marks where it lay, but it will probably soon be effaced; the Even where the thickest of war’s tempest lower’d, plough has been upon it, and the grain is. After pointing out the different spots where Major Picton and other gallant men had perished, the guide said, “here Major Howard lay; I was near him when wounded.” I told him my relationship, and he seemed then still more anxious to point out the particular spot (1695–1748) was a supporter of Charles Stuart, fighting with him and circumstances. The place is one of the most marked in the field at his defeat at Culloden Moor in 1745. His great-great-grandson, from the peculiarity of the two trees above mentioned. John Cameron (1771–1815), was killed at Quatre Bras. Byron was I went on horseback twice over the field, comparing it with my half Scots.] recollection of similar scenes. As a plain, Waterloo seems marked out 1 [Byron’s note] The wood of Soignies is supposed to be a remnant for the scene of some great action, though this may be mere of the “forest of Ardennes,” famous in Boiardo’s Orlando, and imagination: I have viewed with attention those of Platea, Troy, immortal in Shakspeare’s “As you like it.” It is also celebrated in Mantinea, Leuctra, Chaeronea, and Marathon; and the field around Tacitus as being the spot of successful defence by the Germans Mont St. Jean and Hougoumont appears to want little but a better against the Roman encroachments.—I have ventured to adopt the cause, and that undefinable but impressive halo which the lapse of name connected with nobler associations than those of mere ages throws around a celebrated spot, to vie in interest with any or slaughter. [Cf. Tacitus, Annals 1.60 and 3.42; Boiardo, Orlando all of these, except perhaps the last mentioned. Innamorato 1.2.30. The forest of Ardennes is actually in Luxem- 4 Archangel’s trump The trumpet which will sound at the end of bourg.] the world, to revive the dead; see 1 Corinthians 15.52. 6 George Gordon, Lord Byron

Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of Such hours ’gainst years of life,—say, would he name Fame threescore? May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake The fever of vain longing, and the name 35 3 280 So honour’d but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim. The Psalmist number’d out the years of man: They are enough: and if thy tale be true, 32 310 Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleeting They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, span, mourn; More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo! The tree will wither long before it fall; Millions of tongues record thee, and anew The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn; Their children’s lips shall echo them, and say— The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall “Here, where the sword united nations drew, 285 In massy hoariness; the ruin’d wall 315 Our countrymen were warring on that day!” Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone; And this is much, and all which will not pass away. The bars survive the captive they enthral; The day drags through though storms keep out 36 the sun; There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on:1 Whose spirit, antithetically mixt, One moment of the mightiest, and again 33 320 On little objects with like firmness fixt; 290 Even as a broken mirror, which the glass Extreme in all things! hadst thou been betwixt, In every fragment multiplies; and makes Thy throne had still been thine, or never been; A thousand images of one that was, For daring made thy rise as fall: thou seek’st The same, and still the more, the more it breaks; Even now to re-assume the imperial mien, And thus the heart will do which not forsakes, 325 And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the 295 Living in shatter’d guise; and still, and cold, scene! And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, Yet withers on till all without is old, 37 Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold. Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou! She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name 34 Was ne’er more bruited in men’s minds than now There is a very life in our despair, That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame, 300 Vitality of poison,—a quick root 330 Who woo’d thee once, thy vassal, and became Which feeds these deadly branches; for it were The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert As nothing did we die; but Life will suit A god unto thyself; nor less the same Itself to Sorrow’s most detested fruit, To the astounded kingdoms all inert, Like to the apples on the Dead Sea’s shore,2 Who deem’d thee for a time whate’er thou didst 305 All ashes to the taste: Did man compute assert. Existence by enjoyment, and count o’er 38 1 the heart … live on Cf. Robert Burton (1577–1640), The 335 Oh, more or less than man—in high or low, Anatomy of Melancholy 2.3.5; and John Donne (1572–1631), “The Battling with nations, flying from the field; Broken Heart” 23–32. Now making monarchs’ necks thy footstool, now 2 [Byron’s note] The (fabled) apples on the brink of the lake More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield; Asphaltes were said to be fair without, and within ashes.—Vide Tacitus Histor. 1.5.7. [These apples are mentioned in Deuteronomy 32.32.] 3 The Psalmist King David: see Psalm 90.10. Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage 7

2 An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild, 370 For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den. 340 But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor, However deeply in men’s spirits skill’d, 42 Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war, But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell, Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star. And there hath been thy bane; there is a fire And motion of the soul which will not dwell 39 In its own narrow being, but aspire Yet well thy soul hath brook’d the turning tide 375 Beyond the fitting medium of desire; 345 With that untaught innate philosophy, And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. Of aught but rest; a fever at the core, When the whole host of hatred stood hard by, Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled 43 350 With a sedate and all-enduring eye;— 380 This makes the madmen who have made men mad When Fortune fled her spoil’d and favourite child, By their contagion; Conquerors and Kings, He stood unbow’d beneath the ills upon him piled. Founders of sects and systems, to whom add Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things 40 Which stir too strongly the soul’s secret springs, Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them 385 And are themselves the fools to those they fool; Ambition steel’d thee on too far to show Envied, yet how unenviable! what stings 355 That just habitual scorn, which could contemn Are theirs! One breast laid open were a school Men and their thoughts; ’twas wise to feel, not so Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or To wear it ever on thy lip and brow, rule. And spurn the instruments thou wert to use Till they were turn’d unto thine overthrow; 44 360 ’Tis but a worthless world to win or lose; Their breath is agitation, and their life So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose. 390 A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, And yet so nurs’d and bigoted to strife, 41 That should their days, surviving perils past, If, like a tower upon a headland rock, Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone, With sorrow and supineness, and so die; Such scorn of man had help’d to brave the shock; 395 Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste 365 But men’s thoughts were the steps which paved thy With its own flickering, or a sword laid by, throne, Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously. Their admiration thy best weapon shone; The part of Philip’s son1 was thine, not then 2 (Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) [Byron’s note] The great error of Napoleon, “if we have writ our annals true” (Shakespeare, Coriolanus 5.6.112), was a continued Like stern Diogenes to mock at men; obtrusion on mankind of his want of all community of feeling for or with them; perhaps more offensive to human vanity than the active cruelty of more trembling and suspicious tyranny. 1 Philip’s son Alexander the Great (356–23 BCE), son of Philip of Such were his speeches to public assemblies as well as individuals: Macedon. He is reported to have said that if he had not been a king and the single expression which he is said to have used on returning (kings traditionally wore purple), he would have liked to have been to Paris after the Russian winter had destroyed his army, rubbing his a philosopher like Diogenes (the founder of the Cynic School). hands over a fire, “This is pleasanter than Moscow,” would probably Diogenes is said to have replied that if he had not been a philoso- alienate more favour from his cause than the destruction and reverses pher, he would have liked to have been a king like Alexander. which led to the remark. 8 George Gordon, Lord Byron

45 But history’s purchased page to call them great? He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find A wider space, an ornamented grave? The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow; Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full 400 He who surpasses or subdues mankind, as brave. Must look down on the hate of those below. Though high above the sun of glory glow, 49 And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, In their baronial feuds and single fields, Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 435 What deeds of prowess unrecorded died! 405 Contending tempests on his naked head, And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields, And thus reward the toils which to those summits led. With emblems well devised by amorous pride, Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide; 46 But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on Away with these! true Wisdom’s world will be 440 Keen contest and destruction near allied, Within its own creation, or in thine, And many a tower for some fair mischief won, Maternal Nature! for who teems like thee, Saw the discolour’d Rhine beneath its ruin run. 410 Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine? There Harold gazes on a work divine, 50 A blending of all beauties; streams and dells, But Thou, exulting and abounding river! Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, cornfield, mountain, vine, Making thy waves a blessing as they flow And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells 445 Through banks whose beauty would endure for 415 From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells. ever Could man but leave thy bright creation so, 47 Nor its fair promise from the surface mow And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, With the sharp scythe of conflict,—then to see Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd, Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know All tenantless, save to the crannying wind, 450 Earth paved like Heaven; and to seem such to me, Or holding dark communion with the cloud. Even now what wants thy stream?—that it should 2 420 There was a day when they were young and proud; Lethe be. Banners on high, and battles pass’d below; But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, 51 And those which waved are shredless dust ere now, A thousand battles have assail’d thy banks, And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow. But these and half their fame have pass’d away, And Slaughter, heap’d on high his weltering ranks; 48 455 Their very graves are gone, and what are they? 425 Beneath these battlements, within those walls, Thy tide wash’d down the blood of yesterday, Power dwelt amidst her passions; in proud state And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, Glass’d, with its dancing light, the sunny ray; Doing his evil will, nor less elate But o’er the blackened memory’s blighting dream Than mightier heroes of a longer date. 460 Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they 1 430 What want these outlaws conquerers should have seem.

1 [Byron’s note] “What wants that knave That a king should have?” 1532. He was so magnificently dressed that James hanged him for was King James’s question on meeting Johnny Armstrong and his impudence. The ballad is in Walter Scott, Minstrelsy of the Scottish followers in full accoutrements.—See the Ballad. [Johnnie Arm- Border.] strong, Laird of Gilnockie, surrendered to James V of Scotland in 2 Lethe River of forgetfulness in the classical underworld. Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage 9

52 Well to that heart might his these absent greetings Thus Harold inly said, and pass’d along, pour! Yet not insensible to all which here Awoke the jocund birds to early song 1 2 In glens which might have made even exile dear: The castled crag of Drachenfels Frowns o’er the wide and winding Rhine, 465 Though on his brow were graven lines austere, Whose breast of waters broadly swells And tranquil sternness, which had ta’en the place 500 Between the banks which bear the vine, Of feelings fierier far but less severe, And hills all rich with blossom’d trees, Joy was not always absent from his face, And fields which promise corn and wine, But o’er it in such scenes would steal with transient And scatter’d cities crowning these, trace. Whose far white walls along them shine, 505 Have strew’d a scene, which I should see 53 With double joy wert thou with me. 470 Nor was all love shut from him, though his days Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. 2 It is in vain that we would coldly gaze And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes, On such as smile upon us; the heart must And hands which offer early flowers, Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust Walk smiling o’er this paradise; 475 Hath wean’d it from all worldlings: thus he felt, 510 Above, the frequent feudal towers For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust Through green leaves lift their walls of gray; In one fond breast, to which his own would melt,1 And many a rock which steeply lowers, And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt. And noble arch in proud decay, Look o’er the vale of vintage-bowers; 515 But one thing want these banks of Rhine,— 54 Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine! And he had learn’d to love,—I know not why, 480 For this in such as him seems strange of mood,— 3 The helpless looks of blooming infancy, I send the lilies given to me; Even in its earliest nurture; what subdued, Though long before thy hand they touch, To change like this, a mind so far imbued I know that they must wither’d be, With scorn of man, it little boots to know; 520 But yet reject them not as such; 485 But thus it was; and though in solitude For I have cherish’d them as dear, Small power the nipp’d affections have to grow, Because they yet may meet thine eye, In him this glow’d when all beside had ceased to glow. And guide thy soul to mine even here, When thou behold’st them drooping nigh, 55 525 And know’st them gather’d by the Rhine, And there was one soft breast, as hath been said, And offer’d from my heart to thine! Which unto his was bound by stronger ties 490 Than the church links withal; and, though unwed, 2 [Byron’s note] The castle of Drachenfels stands on the highest love was pure, and, far above disguise, That summit of “the Seven Mountains,” over the Rhine banks; it is in Had stood the test of mortal enmities ruins, and connected with some singular traditions: it is the first in Still undivided, and cemented more view on the road from Bonn, but on the opposite side of the river; By peril, dreaded most in female eyes; on this bank, nearly facing it, are the remains of another called the Jew’s castle, and a large cross commemorative of the murder of a 495 But this was firm, and from a foreign shore chief by his brother: the number of castles and cities along the course of the Rhine on both sides is very great, and their situations remarkably beautiful. [The ruined castle of Drachenfels (dragon 1 A coded reference to Byron’s own half-sister, Augusta Leigh. rock) can still be seen in Germany.] 10 George Gordon, Lord Byron

4 58 3 The river nobly foams and flows, 555 Here Ehrenbreitstein, with her shatter’d wall The charm of this enchanted ground, Black with the miner’s blast, upon her height And all its thousand turns disclose Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball 530 Some fresher beauty varying round: Rebounding idly on her strength did light: The haughtiest breast its wish might bound A tower of victory! from whence the flight Through life to dwell delighted here; 560 Of baffled foes was watch’d along the plain: Nor could on earth a spot be found But Peace destroy’d what War could never blight, To nature and to me so dear, And laid those proud roofs bare to Summer’s 535 Could thy dear eyes in following mine rain— Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine! On which the iron shower for years had pour’d in vain. 56 By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground, There is a small and simple pyramid, 59 Adieu to thee, fair Rhine! How long delighted Crowning the summit of the verdant mound; 565 The stranger fain would linger on his way! 540 Beneath its base are heroes’ ashes hid, Thine is a scene alike where souls united Our enemy’s—but let not that forbid Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray; Honour to Marceau!1 o’er whose early tomb And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey Tears, big tears, gush’d from the rough soldier’s lid, On self-condemning bosoms,4 it were here, Lamenting and yet envying such a doom, 570 Where Nature, nor too sombre nor too gay, 545 Falling for France, whose rights he battled to resume.

57 A separate monument (not over his body, which is buried by Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career,— Marceau’s) is raised for him near Andernach, opposite to which one of his most memorable exploits was performed, in throwing a bridge His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes; to an island on the Rhine. The shape and style are different from And fitly may the stranger lingering here that of Marceau’s, and the inscription more simple and pleasing. Pray for his gallant spirit’s bright repose; “The Army of the Sambre and Meuse 550 For he was Freedom’s champion, one of those, to its Commander-in-Chief The few in number, who had not o’erstept Hoche.” This is all, and as it should be. Hoche was esteemed among the first The charter to chastise which she bestows of France’s earlier generals before Buonaparte monopolised her On such as wield her weapons; he had kept triumphs.—He was the destined commander of the invading army The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o’er him of Ireland. [General Lazare Hoche (1768–97) actually died of wept.2 consumption. He performed his bridge exploit on 18 April 1797, at the battle of Neuwied.] 3 [Byron’s note] Ehrenbreitstein, i.e. “the broad Stone of Hon- 1 Marceau François Sévérin Desgravins Marceau (1769–96), French our,” one of the strongest fortresses in Europe, was dismantled and general, was killed in battle against the counter-revolutionary armies. blown up by the French at the truce of Leoben.—It had been and 2 [Byron’s note] The monument of the young and lamented could only be reduced by famine or treachery. It yielded to the General Marceau (killed by a rifle-ball at Alterkirchen on the last day former, aided by surprise. After having seen the fortifications of of the fourth year of the French republic) still remains as described. Gibraltar and Malta, it did not much strike by comparison, but the The inscriptions on his monument are rather too long, and not situation is commanding. General Marceau besieged it in vain for required: his name was enough; France adored, and her enemies some time, and I slept in a room where I was shown a window at admired; both wept over him.—His funeral was attended by the which he is said to have been standing observing the progress of the generals and detachments from both armies. In the same grave siege by moonlight, when a ball struck immediately below it. [The General Hoche is interred, a gallant man also in every sense of the castle was in fact demolished not after the treaty of Leoben (1797), word, but though he distinguished himself greatly in battle, he had but that of Lunéville (1801).] not the good fortune to die there; his death was attended by 4 An allusion to the punishment of Prometheus. See Byron’s suspicions of poison. “Prometheus,” in this volume. Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage 11

Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, Is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the year. Nor blush for those who conquer’d on that plain; 605 Here Burgundy bequeath’d his tombless host, 60 A bony heap, through ages to remain, Adieu to thee again! a vain adieu! Themselves their monument;—the Stygian coast2 There can be no farewell to scene like thine; Unsepulchred they roam’d, and shriek’d each 3 575 The mind is colour’d by thy every hue; wandering ghost. And if reluctantly the eyes resign Their cherish’d gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine! 64 ’Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise; While Waterloo with Cannae’s4 carnage vies, 5 More mighty spots may rise, more glaring shine, 610 Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand; 580 But none unite in one attaching maze They were true Glory’s stainless victories, The brilliant, fair, and soft,—the glories of old days. Won by the unambitious heart and hand Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band, 61 All unbought champions in no princely cause The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom 615 Of vice-entail’d Corruption; they no land Of coming ripeness, the white city’s sheen, Doom’d to bewail the blasphemy of laws The rolling stream, the precipice’s gloom, Making kings’ rights divine, by some Draconic clause.6 585 The forest’s growth, and Gothic walls between, The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been, 65 In mockery of man’s art; and these withal By a lone wall a lonelier column rears A race of faces happy as the scene, A gray and grief-worn aspect of old days; Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, 620 ’Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years, 590 Still springing o’er thy banks, though Empires near And looks as with the wild-bewilder’d gaze them fall. Of one to stone converted by amaze,

2 62 Stygian coast Coast of the River Styx; in classical mythology, the souls crossed the Styx to enter the underworld. But these recede. Above me are the Alps, 3 The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls [Byron’s note] The chapel is destroyed, and the pyramid of bones diminished to a small number by the Burgundian Legion in Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, the service of France, who anxiously effaced this record of their And throned Eternity in icy halls ancestors’ less successful invasions. A few still remain notwithstand- 595 Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls ing the pains taken by the Burgundians for ages, (all who passed that The avalanche,—the thunderbolt of snow! way removing a bone to their own country) and the less justifiable All that expands the spirit, yet appals, larcenies of the Swiss postillions, who carried them off to sell for knife-handles, a purpose for which the whiteness imbibed by the Gather around these summits, as to show bleaching of years had rendered them in great request. Of these relics How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man I ventured to bring away as much as may have made the quarter of below. a hero, for which the sole excuse is, that if I had not, the next passer by might have perverted them to worse uses than the careful preservation which I intend for them. 63 4 Cannae Battle between the Romans and the Carthaginians, 216 600 But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan, BCE. There is a spot should not be pass’d in vain,— 5 Battle between the Greeks and the Persians, 490 BCE Morat!1 the proud, the patriot field! where man Marathon Byron contrasts Morat and Marathon, battles where free peoples defeated imperialist aggressors, with Cannae (216 BCE) and Water- 1 Morat Battlefield where the Swiss defeated the Burgundians on loo, battles between equally imperial powers. 14 June 1476. The Burgundian dead were placed in an ossuary, 6 Draconian Draco, an Athenian politician of the seventh century which was destroyed by the revolutionary French army in 1798. BCE, was notorious for the severity of his laws. 12 George Gordon, Lord Byron

Yet still with consciousness; and there it stands The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and Making a marvel that it not decays, birth; 625 When the coeval pride of human hands, 640 The high, the mountain-majesty of worth Levell’d Adventicum,1 hath strew’d her subject lands. Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe, And from its immortality look forth 66 In the sun’s face, like yonder Alpine snow,3 And there—oh! sweet and sacred be the name!— Imperishably pure beyond all things below. Julia—the daughter, the devoted—gave Her youth to Heaven; her heart, beneath a claim 68 4 630 Nearest to Heaven’s, broke o’er a father’s grave. 645 Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, Justice is sworn ’gainst tears, and hers would crave The mirror where the stars and mountains view The life she lived in; but the judge was just, The stillness of their aspect in each trace And then she died on him she could not save. Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue: Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, There is too much of man here, to look through 635 And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one 650 With a fit mind the might which I behold; dust.2 But soon in me shall Loneliness renew Thoughts hid, but not less cherish’d than of old, 67 Ere mingling with the herd had penn’d me in their But these are deeds which should not pass away, fold. And names that must not wither, though the earth Forgets her empires with a just decay, 69 To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind: 655 All are not fit with them to stir and toil, 1 [Byron’s note] Aventicum (near Morat) was the Roman capital Nor is it discontent to keep the mind of Helvetia, where Avenches now stands. [The column is the only Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil remaining relic.] In the hot throng, where we become the spoil 2 [Byron’s note] Julia Alpinula, a young Aventian priestess, died Of our infection, till too late and long soon after a vain endeavour to save her father, condemned to death 660 We may deplore and struggle with the coil, as a traitor by Aulus Caecina. Her epitaph was discovered many years In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong ago;—it is thus— Julia Alpinula Midst a contentious world, striving where none are Hic jaceo strong. Infelicis patris, infelix proles Deae Aventiae Sacerdos; 70 Exorare patris necem non potui There, in a moment we may plunge our years Male mori in fatis ille erat. Vixi annos XXIII. In fatal penitence, and in the blight [Latin: Julia Alpinula: Here I lie, the unhappy child of an unhappy 665 Of our own soul turn all our blood to tears, father. Priestess of the Goddess of Aventicum; I was unable to avert And colour things to come with hues of Night; the death of my father: it was his fate to die badly. I lived 23 years.] The race of life becomes a hopeless flight I know of no human composition so affecting as this, nor a history To those that walk in darkness: on the sea of deeper interest. These are the names and actions which ought not to perish, and to which we turn with a true and healthy tenderness, from the wretched and glittering detail of a confused mass of 3 conquests and battles, with which the mind is roused for a time to [Byron’s note] This is written in the eye of Mont Blanc (June 3d, a false and feverish sympathy, from whence it recurs at length with 1816) which even at this distance dazzles mine. (July 20th). I this all the nausea consequent on such an intoxication. Julius Alpinus was day observed for some time the distinct reflection of Mont Blanc and put to death in 69 BCE; see Tacitus, Historia 1.67–68. There is no Mont Argentiere in the calm of the lake, which I was crossing in my evidence that he had a daughter, but both her “history” and this boat; the distance of these mountains from their mirror is 60 miles. epitaph appear in a collection of epitaphs published in 1707. 4 Lake Leman Lake Geneva. Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage 13

The boldest steer but where their ports invite; 74 670 But there are wanderers o’er Eternity And when, at length, the mind shall be all free Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor’d ne’er 700 From what it hates in this degraded form, shall be. Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be Existent happier in the fly and worm,— 71 When elements to elements conform, Is it not better, then, to be alone, And dust is as it should be, shall I not And love Earth only for its earthly sake? 705 Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm? By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone,1 The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each spot? 675 Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot? Which feeds it as a mother who doth make A fair but froward infant her own care, 75 Kissing its cries away as these awake;— Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part Is it not better thus our lives to wear, Of me and of my soul, as I of them? 680 Than join the crushing crowd, doom’d to inflict or 710 Is not the love of these deep in my heart bear? With a pure passion? should I not contemn All objects, if compared with these? and stem 72 A tide of suffering, rather than forego I live not in myself, but I become Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm Portion of that around me; and to me 715 Of those whose eyes are only turn’d below, High mountains are a feeling, but the hum Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare Of human cities torture: I can see not glow? 685 Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, 76 Class’d among creatures, when the soul can flee, But this is not my theme; and I return And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain To that which is immediate, and require Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. Those who find contemplation in the urn 2 720 To look on One, whose dust was once all fire, 73 A native of the land where I respire 690 And thus I am absorb’d, and this is life: The clear air for a while—a passing guest, I look upon the peopled desert past, Where he became a being,—whose desire As on a place of agony and strife, Was to be glorious; ’twas a foolish quest, Where, for some sin, to sorrow I was cast, 725 The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed all rest. To act and suffer, but remount at last 695 With a fresh pinion;° which I feel to spring, wing 77 Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the blast Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, The apostle of affliction, he who threw Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being Enchantment over passion, and from woe cling. Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew 730 The breath which made him wretched; yet he knew How to make madness beautiful, and cast O’er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue

1 [Byron’s note] The colour of the Rhone at Geneva is blue, to a 2 One … all fire Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712–78), Genevan depth of tint which I have never seen equalled in water, salt or fresh, philosopher and novelist, author of Le Contrat social (1762), Julie; except in the Mediterranean and Archipelago. ou, la nouvelle Héloïse (1761), and Confessions (1782–89). 14 George Gordon, Lord Byron

Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past 760 But he was phrensied by disease or woe, The eyes, which o’er them shed tears feelingly and To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning fast. show.

78 81 735 His love was passion’s essence—as a tree For then he was inspired, and from him came, On fire by lightning, with ethereal flame As from the Pythian’s mystic cave of yore,2 Kindled he was, and blasted; for to be Those oracles which set the world in flame, Thus, and enamour’d, were in him the same. 765 Nor ceas’d to burn till kingdoms were no more: But his was not the love of living dame, Did he not this for France? which lay before 740 Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, Bow’d to the inborn tyranny of years? But of ideal beauty, which became Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore, In him existence, and o’erflowing teems Till by the voice of him and his compeers Along his burning page, distemper’d though it seems. 770 Rous’d up to too much wrath, which follows o’ergrown fears? 79 This breathed itself to life in Julie, this 82 745 Invested her with all that’s wild and sweet; They made themselves a fearful monument! This hallow’d, too, the memorable kiss1 The wreck of old opinions—things which grew, Which every morn his fever’d lip would greet, Breathed from the birth of time: the veil they rent, From hers, who but with friendship his would And what behind it lay, all earth shall view. meet; 775 But good with ill they also overthrew, But to that gentle touch through brain and breast Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild 750 Flash’d the thrill’d spirit’s love-devouring heat; Upon the same foundation, and renew In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest. refill’d As heretofore, because ambition was self-will’d. 80 His life was one long war with self-sought foes, 83 Or friends by him self-banish’d; for his mind 780 But this will not endure, nor be endured! 755 Had grown Suspicion’s sanctuary, and chose, Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt. For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind, They might have used it better, but, allured ’Gainst whom he rag’d with fury strange and By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt blind. On one another; pity ceased to melt But he was phrensied,—wherefore, who may 785 With her once natural charities. But they, know? Who in oppression’s darkness caved had dwelt, Since cause might be which skill could never find; They were not eagles, nourish’d with the day; What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey? 1 [Byron’s note] This refers to the account in his Confessions (2.9) of his passion for the Comtesse d’Houdetot (the mistress of St. Lambert) and his long walk every morning for the sake of the single 84 kiss which was the common salutation of French acquaint- What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? ance.—Rousseau’s description of his feelings on this occasion may 790 The heart’s bleed longest, and but heal to wear be considered as the most passionate, yet not impure description and expression of love that ever kindled into words; which after all must be felt, from their very force, to be inadequate to the delineation: a 2 For then … cave of yore Byron compares Rousseau to the painting can give no sufficient idea of the ocean. Pythian, the oracle of Apollo at Delphi. Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage 15

That which disfigures it; and they who war 88 With their own hopes, and have been vanquish’d, 825 Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven! bear If in your bright leaves we would read the fate Silence, but not submission: in his lair Of men and empires,—’tis to be forgiven, Fix’d Passion holds his breath, until the hour That in our aspirations to be great, 795 Which shall atone for years; none need despair: Our destinies o’erleap their mortal state, It came, it cometh, and will come,—the power 830 And claim a kindred with you; for ye are To punish or forgive—in one we shall be slower. A beauty and a mystery, and create In us such love and reverence from afar, 85 That fortune, fame, power, life, have named Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, themselves a star. With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 800 Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 89 Earth’s troubled waters for a purer spring. All heaven and earth are still—though not in sleep, This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 835 But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; To waft me from distraction; once I loved And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep:— Torn ocean’s roar, but thy soft murmuring All heaven and earth are still: From the high host 805 Sounds sweet as if a Sister’s voice reproved, Of stars, to the lull’d lake and mountain-coast, That I with stern delights should e’er have been so All is concenter’d in a life intense, moved. 840 Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, But hath a part of being, and a sense 86 Of that which is of all Creator and defence. It is the hush of night, and all between Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 90 Mellow’d and mingling, yet distinctly seen, Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 1 810 Save darken’d Jura, whose capt heights appear In solitude, where we are least alone; Precipitously steep; and drawing near, 845 A truth, which through our being then doth melt, There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, And purifies from self: it is a tone, Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear The soul and source of music, which makes known Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm 2 815 Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more; Like to the fabled Cytherea’s zone, 850 Binding all things with beauty;—’twould disarm 87 The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm. He is an evening reveller, who makes His life an infancy, and sings his fill; 91 At intervals, some bird from out the brakes Not vainly did the early Persian make Starts into voice a moment, then is still. His altar the high places, and the peak 3 820 There seems a floating whisper on the hill, Of earth-o’ergazing mountains, and thus take But that is fancy, for the starlight dews All silently their tears of love instil, 2 Cytherea’s zone The belt (zone, or girdle) of Venus (Cytherea) Weeping themselves away, till they infuse made its wearer irresistible. Deep into nature’s breast the spirit of her hues. 3 [Byron’s note] It is to be recollected, that the most beautiful and impressive doctrines of the divine Founder of Christianity were delivered, not in the Temple, but on the Mount (Matthew 6–7). To waive the question of devotion, and turn to human elo- quence,—the most effectual and splendid specimens were not 1 Jura Mountain range north-west of Lake Geneva. pronounced within walls. Demosthenes addressed the public and 16 George Gordon, Lord Byron

855 A fit and unwall’d temple, there to seek But every mountain now hath found a tongue, The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Uprear’d of human hands. Come, and compare Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, With Nature’s realms of worship, earth and air, 93 860 Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy pray’r! 870 And this is in the night:—Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be 92 A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,— The sky is changed!—and such a change! Oh night,1 A portion of the tempest and of thee! And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 875 And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, And now again ’tis black,—and now, the glee 865 From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, As if they did rejoice o’er a young earth-quake’s birth.

popular assemblies. Cicero spoke in the forum. That this added to 94 their effect on the mind of both orator and hearers, may be con- Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way ceived from the difference between what we read of the emotions between then and there produced, and those we ourselves experience in the perusal in the closet. It is one thing to read the Iliad at Sigaeum and 880 Heights which appear as lovers who have parted on the tumuli, or by the springs with mount Ida above, and the plain In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, and rivers and Archipelago around you: and another to trim your That they can meet no more, though broken- taper over it in a snug library—this I know. hearted; Were the early and rapid progress of what is called Methodism to Though in their souls, which thus each other be attributed to any cause beyond the enthusiasm excited by its vehement faith and doctrines (the truth or error of which I presume thwarted, neither to canvass nor to question) I should venture to ascribe it to Love was the very root of the fond rage the practice of preaching in the fields, and the unstudied and 885 Which blighted their life’s bloom, and then extemporaneous effusions of its teachers. departed:— The Mussulmans [Muslims], whose erroneous devotion (at least Itself expired, but leaving them an age in the lower orders) is most sincere, and therefore impressive, are accustomed to repeat their prescribed orisons and prayers where-ever Of years all winters,—war within themselves to wage. they may be at the stated hours—of course frequently in the open air, kneeling upon a light mat (which they carry for the purpose of 95 a bed or cushion as required); the ceremony lasts some minutes, Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his during which they are totally absorbed, and only living in their supplication; nothing can disturb them. On me the simple and way, entire sincerity of these men, and the spirit which appeared to be The mightiest of the storms hath ta’en his stand: within and upon them, made a far greater impression than any 890 For here, not one, but many, make their play, general rite which was ever performed in places of worship, of which And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand, I have seen those of almost every persuasion under the sun: including Flashing and cast around; of all the band, most of our own sectaries, and the Greek, the Catholic, the Arme- nian, the Lutheran, the Jewish, and the Mahometan [Mohammatan]. The brightest through these parted hills hath fork’d Many of the negroes, of whom there are numbers in the Turkish His lightnings,—as if he did understand, empire, are idolaters, and have free exercise of their belief and its 895 That in such gaps as desolation work’d, rites: some of these I had a distant view of at Patras; and from what There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein I could make out of them, they appeared to be of a truly Pagan lurk’d. description, and not very agreeable to a spectator. 1 [Byron’s note] The thunder-storms to which these lines refer occurred on the 13th of June, 1816, at midnight. I have seen among the Acroceraunian mountains of Chimari several more terrible, but none more beautiful. Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage 17

96 The very Glaciers have his colours caught, Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye! And sun-set into rose-hues sees them wrought2 With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul To make these felt and feeling, well may be 2 [Byron’s note] Rousseau’s Heloise, Letter 17, part 4, note. “Ces montagnes sont si hautes qu’une demi-heure après le soleil couche, 900 Things that have made me watchful; the far roll leurs sommets sont encore eclaires de ses rayons; dont le rouge forme Of your departing voices, is the knoll sur ces cimes blanches une belle couleur de rose qu’on aperçoit de fort Of what in me is sleepless,—if I rest. loin.” [These mountains are so high, that a half-hour after the sun But where of ye, O tempests! is the goal? sets, their summits are still lit up by its rays, whose redness creates Are ye like those within the human breast? on these white peaks a beautiful pink colour, which can be seen from quite far away.] This applies more particularly to the heights over 905 Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest? Meillerie. “J’allai à Vevay loger à la Clef; et pendant deux jours que j’y restai sans voir personne, je pris pour cette ville un amour qui m’a 97 suivi dans tous mes voyages, et qui m’y a fait établir enfin les héros Could I embody and unbosom now de mon roman. Je dirois volontiers à ceux qui ont du goût et qui That which is most within me,—could I wreak sont sensibles: allez à Vevay—visitez le pays, examinez les sites, My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw promenez-vous sur le lac, et dites si la Nature n’a pas fait ce beau pays pour une Julie, pour une Claire, et pour un St. Preux; mais ne Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak, les y cherchez pas.”—Les Confessions, livre iv. page 306. Lyons ed. 910 All that I would have sought, and all I seek, 1796. [1.4: I went to Vévay to stay at the Key, and during the two Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe—into one word, days that I stayed there without seeing anyone, I acquired for this And that one word were Lightning, I would speak; town a love that has accompanied me in all my travels, and that made me place the heroes of my novel there. I would willingly say to But as it is, I live and die unheard, anyone with taste and sensibility: Go to Vévay, visit the countryside, With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. look at the locales, walk by the lake, and say whether Nature hasn’t made this beautiful country for a Julie, for a Claire, and for a St. 98 Preux, but don’t look for them there.] In July [actually 23–27 June], 1816, I made a voyage around the 915 The morn is up again, the dewy morn, Lake of Geneva; and, as far as my own observations have led me in With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, a not uninterested nor inattentive survey of all the scenes most Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, celebrated by Rousseau in his “Heloise,” I can safely say, that in this And living as if earth contain’d no tomb,— there is no exaggeration. It would be difficult to see Clarens (with And glowing into day: we may resume the scenes around it, Vevay, Chillon, Bôveret, St. Gingo, Meillerie, Evian, and the entrances of the Rhone), without being forcibly 920 The march of our existence: and thus I, struck with it’s peculiar adaptation to the persons and events with Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room which it has been peopled. But this is not all; the feeling with which And food for meditation, nor pass by all around Clarens, and the opposite rocks of Meillerie is invested, Much, that may give us pause, if ponder’d fittingly. is of a still higher and more comprehensive order than the mere sympathy with individual passion; it is a sense of the existence of love in its most extended and sublime capacity, and of our own 99 participation of its good and of its glory: it is the great principle of 1 Clarens! sweet Clarens, birthplace of deep Love! the universe, which is there more condensed, but not less mani- 925 Thine air is the young breath of passionate fested; and of which, though knowing ourselves a part, we lose our thought; individuality, and mingle in the beauty of the whole. Thy trees take root in Love; the snows above, If Rousseau had never written, nor lived, the same associations would not less have belonged to such scenes. He has added to the interest of his works by their adoption; he has shewn his sense of their beauty by the selection; but they have done that for him which no human being could do for them. I had the fortune (good or evil as it might be) so sail from Meillerie (where we landed for some time), to St. Gingo during a lake storm, which added to the magnificence of all around, although 1 Clarens Town on Lake Geneva, site of the main action of occasionally accompanied by danger to the boat, which was small Rousseau’s Julie. Byron and Percy Bysshe Shelley visited it on 26 and overloaded. By a coincidence which I could not regret, it was June 1816. over this very part of the lake that Rousseau has driven the boat of 18 George Gordon, Lord Byron

By rays which sleep there lovingly: the rocks, The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, 930 The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end. sought In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, 103 Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, 960 He who hath loved not, here would learn that then mocks. lore, And make his heart a spirit; he who knows 100 That tender mystery, will love the more; Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod,— For this is Love’s recess, where vain men’s woes, Undying Love’s, who here ascends a throne And the world’s waste, have driven him far from 935 To which the steps are mountains; where the god those, Is a pervading life and light,—so shown 965 For ’tis his nature to advance or die; Not on those summits solely, nor alone He stands not still, but or decays, or grows In the still cave and forest: o’er the flower Into a boundless blessing, which may vie His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown, With the immortal lights, in its eternity! 940 His soft and summer breath, whose tender power Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate 104 hour. ’Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, 970 Peopling it with affections; but he found 101 It was the scene which Passion must allot All things are here of him;1 from the black pines, To the Mind’s purified beings; ’twas the ground Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar Where early Love his Psyche’s zone unbound,2 Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines And hallow’d it with loveliness: ’tis lone, 945 Which slope his green path downward to the 975 And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound, shore, And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone Where the bow’d waters meet him, and adore, Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear’d a Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood, throne. The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it 105 stood, Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes 3 950 Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude. Of names which unto you bequeath’d a name; 980 Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous 102 roads, A populous solitude of bees and birds, A path to perpetuity of fame: And fairy-form’d and many-colour’d things, They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim Who worship him with notes more sweet than Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile words, Thoughts which should call down thunder, and And innocently open their glad wings, the flame 955 Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs, And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings 2 Where … unbound Allusion to the myth of Cupid and Psyche (Love and the Soul) in Apuleius, The Golden Ass. 3 names … bequeathed a name [Byron’s note] Voltaire and St. Preux and Madame Wolmar to Meillerie for shelter during a Gibbon. [Edward Gibbon (1737–94), author of The Decline and tempest [ Julie 4.7]. Fall of the Roman Empire (1788), lived in Lausanne; Voltaire 1 him I.e., Love. (1694–1778), author of Candide, lived in Ferney.] Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage 19

1 985 Of Heaven again assail’d, if Heaven the while This page, which from my reveries I feed, On man and man’s research could deign do more Until it seems prolonging without end. than smile. The clouds above me to the white Alps tend, And I must pierce them, and survey whate’er 106 1020 May be permitted, as my steps I bend The one was fire and fickleness, a child To their most great and growing region, where Most mutable in wishes, but in mind The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air. A wit as various,—gay, grave, sage, or wild,— 990 Historian, bard, philosopher, combined; 110 He multiplied himself among mankind, Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee, The Proteus2 of their talents: But his own Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, 3 Breathed most in ridicule,—which, as the wind, 1025 Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, Blew where it listed, laying all things prone,— To the last halo of the chiefs and sages 995 Now to o’erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne. Who glorify thy consecrated pages; Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; still, 107 The fount at which the panting mind assuages The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, 1030 Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, And hiving wisdom with each studious year, Flows from the eternal source of Rome’s imperial hill. In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought, And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, 111 1000 Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer; Thus far have I proceeded in a theme The lord of irony,—that master-spell, Renew’d with no kind auspices:—to feel Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from We are not what we have been, and to deem fear, 1035 We are not what we should be, and to steel And doom’d him to the zealot’s ready Hell, The heart against itself; and to conceal, Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well. With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught,— Passion or feeling, purpose, grief or zeal,— 108 Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought, 1005 Yet, peace be with their ashes,—for by them, 1040 Is a stern task of soul:—No matter,—it is taught. If merited, the penalty is paid; It is not ours to judge,—far less condemn; 112 The hour must come when such things shall be made And for these words, thus woven into song, Known unto all, or hope and dread allay’d It may be that they are a harmless wile,— 1010 By slumber, on one pillow, in the dust, The colouring of the scenes which fleet along, Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decay’d; Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile And when it shall revive, as is our trust, 1045 My breast, or that of others, for a while. ’Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just. Fame is the thirst of youth, but I am not So young as to regard men’s frown or smile, 109 As loss or guerdon4 of a glorious lot; But let me quit man’s works, again to read I stood and stand alone,—remember’d or forgot. 1015 His Maker’s, spread around me, and suspend

1 They were gigantic … assail’d The Titans piled Mt. Pelion on top 3 Carthaginian Hannibal (247–183 BCE), a Carthaginian general, of Mt. Ossa in the attempt to reach the top of Mt. Olympus and crossed the Alps to invade Italy in 218 BCE, during the Second Punic overthrow the gods. War. 2 Proteus Sea god, known for his ability to alter his shape. 4 guerdon Reward. 20 George Gordon, Lord Byron

113 116 1050 I have not loved the world, nor the world me; To aid thy mind’s development, to watch I have not flatter’d its rank breath, nor bow’d Thy dawn of little joys, to sit and see To its idolatries a patient knee, Almost thy very growth, to view thee catch Nor coin’d my cheek to smiles, nor cried aloud 1080 Knowledge of objects,—wonders yet to thee! In worship of an echo; in the crowd To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, 1055 They could not deem me one of such; I stood And print on thy soft cheek a parent’s kiss,— Among them, but not of them; in a shroud This, it should seem, was not reserved for me; Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and Yet this was in my nature: as it is, still could, 1085 I know not what is there, yet something like to this. Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued.1 117 114 Yet though dull Hate as duty should be taught, I have not loved the world, nor the world me,— I know that thou wilt love me; though my name 1060 But let us part fair foes; I do believe, Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught Though I have found them not, that there may be With desolation, and a broken claim: Words which are things, hopes which will not 1090 Though the grave closed between us,— ’twere the deceive, same, And virtues which are merciful, nor weave I know that thou wilt love me; though to drain Snares for the failing; I would also deem My blood from out thy being were an aim, 2 1065 O’er others’ griefs that some sincerely grieve; And an attainment,—all would be in vain,— That two, or one, are almost what they seem,— Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. retain.

115 118 My daughter! with thy name this song begun; 1095 The child of love, though born in bitterness, My daughter! with thy name thus much shall end; And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire 1070 I see thee not, I hear thee not, but none These were the elements, and thine no less. Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend As yet such are around thee, but thy fire To whom the shadows of far years extend: Shall be more temper’d, and thy hope far higher. Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold, 1100 Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! O’er the sea My voice shall with thy future visions blend, And from the mountains where I now respire, 1075 And reach into thy heart, when mine is cold, Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, A token and a tone, even from thy father’s mould. As, with a sigh, I deem thou might’st have been to me. —1816

1 [Byron’s note] ———————————“If it be thus, For Banquo’s issue have I filed my mind.” Macbeth. [Cf. Macbeth 3.1.64–5.] 2 [Byron’s note] It is said by Rochefoucault that “there is always something in the misfortunes of men’s best friends not displeasing to them.” [François, duc de la Rochefoucauld (1613–80), Maximes.] Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage 21

Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, 3 In Venice Tasso’s4 echoes are no more, from Canto the Fourth 20 And silent rows the songless gondolier; Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, In this final canto of Childe Harold, written in And music meets not always now the ear: 1817–18, Byron at last abandoned any attempt to Those days are gone—but Beauty still is here. separate Harold from himself, declaring in the opening dedication that he was “weary of drawing a States fall, arts fade—but Nature doth not die, line which every one seemed determine not to 25 Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, perceive.” The canto sees Byron traveling through The pleasant place of all festivity, 5 Italy, drawing parallels between his experiences and The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy! Europe’s civilization. The stanzas excerpted here are Byron’s hymn to Venice, where he lived during the 4 winter of 1816 and spring of 1817. But unto us she hath a spell beyond Her name in story, and her long array 1 30 Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; Above the dogeless city’s vanish’d sway;6 I A palace and a prison on each hand:1 Ours is a trophy which will not decay I saw from out the wave her structures rise With the Rialto;7 Shylock and the Moor, As from the stroke of the enchanter’s wand: And Pierre,8 cannot be swept or worn away— 5 A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 35 The keystones of the arch! though all were o’er, Around me, and a dying Glory smiles For us repeopl’d were the solitary shore. O’er the far times, when many a subject land Look’d to the winged Lion’s marble piles,2 5 Where Venice sate in state, thron’d on her hundred The beings of the mind are not of clay; isles! Essentially immortal, they create And multiply in us a brighter ray 9 2 40 And more belov’d existence: that which Fate 3 10 She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, Prohibits to dull life, in this our state Rising with her tiara of proud towers Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied, At airy distance, with majestic motion, First exiles, then replaces what we hate; A ruler of the waters and their powers: And such she was; her daughters had their dowers 15 From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East 4 Tasso Torquato Tasso (1544–95), the greatest poet of the Italian Pour’d in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. Renaissance. In purple was she rob’d, and of her feast 5 masque of Italy Masques were lavish Renaissance entertainments, Monarchs partook, and deem’d their dignity increas’d. short plays heavy with symbolic meaning, involving elaborate costumes and staging and including songs and dances. Byron here also hints at Venice’s abandonment to luxury and pleasure during Carnival time. 1 A palace … hand Venice’s Bridge of Sighs spans the water 6 between the Doge’s Palace and the state prison (the prison of San dogeless city’s … sway The last Doge (Duke) had been deposed by Marco). Traditionally, those who had been found guilty by the Doge Napoleon in 1797. of the crimes of which they were accused were taken immediately 7 Rialto Exchange, or market, of Venice. from his palace to the prison. 8 With the Rialto … Pierre The Rialto, the business district of 2 the winged Lion’s marble piles St. Mark’s Cathedral. The lion was Venice (and also where the city began), was a setting in Shake- the emblem of St. Mark, the patron saint of Venice. speare’s The Merchant of Venice and Othello, as well as in Thomas 3 Cybele Nature goddess, sometimes represented as wearing a Otway’s Venice Preserved, the hero of which is named Pierre. crown of towers (“tiara”). 9 And more belov’d existence See Childe Harold III, stanza 6. 22 George Gordon, Lord Byron

Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, 80 If my fame should be, as my fortunes are, 45 And with a fresher growth replenishing the void. Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar

6 10 Such is the refuge of our youth and age, My name from out the temple where the dead The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy; Are honour’d by the nations1—let it be— And this worn feeling peoples many a page, And light the laurels on a loftier head! And, maybe, that which grows beneath mine eye: 85 And be the Spartan’s epitaph on me— 2 50 Yet there are things whose strong reality “Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.” Outshines our fairy-land; in shape and hues Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need; More beautiful than our fantastic sky, The thorns which I have reap’d are of the tree And the strange constellations which the Muse I planted: they have torn me, and I bleed: O’er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse: 90 I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed. 7 55 I saw or dream’d of such—but let them go; 11 They came like truth—and disappear’d like The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord; dreams; And annual marriage now no more renew’d, And whatsoe’er they were—are now but so: The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestor’d, I could replace them if I would; still teems Neglected garment of her widowhood! 3 My mind with many a form which aptly seems 95 St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood 60 Such as I sought for, and at moments found; Stand, but in mockery of his wither’d power, Let these too go—for waking Reason deems Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued, Such overweening fantasies unsound, And monarchs gaz’d and envied in the hour And other voices speak, and other sights surround. When Venice was a queen with an unequall’d dower.

8 12 I’ve taught me other tongues, and in strange eyes 100 The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns— 4 65 Have made me not a stranger; to the mind An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt; Which is itself, no changes bring surprise; Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find Clank over sceptred cities, nations melt A country with—ay, or without mankind; From power’s high pinnacle, when they have felt Yet was I born where men are proud to be— 105 The sunshine for a while, and downward go 70 Not without cause; and should I leave behind Like lauwine° loosen’d from the mountain’s The inviolate island of the sage and free, belt: avalanche And seek me out a home by a remoter sea,

1 9 My name … nations The Temple of Fame. Perhaps I lov’d it well: and should I lay 2 Sparta … than he In Plutarch’s Moralia, the mother of a slain My ashes in a soil which is not mine, Spartan made this response to those who praised her son. 3 75 My spirit shall resume it—if we may Neglected … widowhood Each Ascension Day, the Doge would Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine throw a ring into the Adriatic from the state barge, the Bucentaur, symbolizing the marriage of the city to sea. My hopes of being remember’d in my line 4 The Suabian … knelt Frederic Barbaross, a Suabian, submitted With my land’s language: if too fond and far to the Pope in St. Mark’s Plaza after losing the Battle of Legnano in These aspirations in their scope incline, 1176. Francis I of Austria, in contrast, ruled Venice from 1787– 1805, and again after 1814. Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage 23

Oh, for one hour of blind old Dandolo, Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, Th’ octogenarian chief, Byzantium’s conquering foe!1 Have yielded to the stranger: empty halls, Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 13 Too oft remind her who and what enthralls, Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, 135 Have flung a desolate cloud o’er Venice’ lovely walls. 110 Their gilded collars glittering in the sun; But is not Doria’s menace come to pass?2 16 Are they not bridled?—Venice, lost and won, When Athens’ armies fell at Syracuse, Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, And fetter’d thousands bore the yoke of war, Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose! Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse, 115 Better be whelm’d beneath the waves, and shun, Her voice their only ransom from afar: Even in destruction’s depth, her foreign foes, 140 See! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. Of the o’ermaster’d victor stops, the reins Fall from his hands—his idle scimitar 14 Starts from its belt—he rends his captive’s chains, 3 In youth she was all glory, a new Tyre, And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains. Her very by-word sprung from victory, 4 120 The “Planter of the Lion,” which through fire 17 And blood she bore o’er subject earth and sea; 145 Thus, Venice! if no stronger claim were thine, Though making many slaves, herself still free, Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, And Europe’s bulwark ’gainst the Ottomite; Thy choral memory of the Bard divine,7 Witness Troy’s rival, Candia!5 Vouch it, ye Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot 6 125 Immortal waves that saw Lepanto’s fight! Which ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy lot For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight. 150 Is shameful to the nations—most of all, Albion,8 to thee: the Ocean queen should not 15 Abandon Ocean’s children; in the fall Statues of glass—all shiver’d—the long file Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall. Of her dead Doges are declin’d to dust; But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile 18 130 Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust; I loved her from my boyhood; she to me 155 Was as a fairy city of the heart, 1 Oh … conquering foe Enrico Dandolo became Doge of Venice Rising like water-columns from the sea, in 1193. He was, according to legend, 85 years old and completely Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart; blind. He led at least two expeditions against the Byzantine Empire, And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakespeare’s art,9 and harbored a lasting hatred of the Byzantines. Had stamp’d her image in me, and even so, 2 Doria's menace come to pass During the War of Chioggia between Venice and Genoa (1378–81), Luciano Doria, a Genoese admiral, 160 Although I found her thus, we did not part; defeated the Venetians at Pola and blockaded Venice. A battle Perchance even dearer in her day of woe, followed, in which Doria was killed. Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. 3 Tyre Island city in ancient Phoenicia, famous in its time for its —1818 splendor and its maritime trade. 4 the Lion I.e., lion of St. Mark. 7 Bard Divine I.e., Tasso. 5 Candia The capital of Crete, which was under Venetian control 8 Albion England until 1669, when it fell to the Turks. 9 And Otway … art References, again, to Otway’s Venice Preserved 6 Lepanto’s fight The Battle of Lepanto occurred in the Gulf of and The Merchant of Venice and Othello, as well as to Friedrich von Lepanto on 7 October 1751, between forces commanded by the Schiller (1759–1805), German dramatist and poet, and to The Ottoman Turk and Ali Pasha and those of the Holy League (Genoa, Mysteries of Udolpho, by the Gothic novelist Anne Radcliffe (1764– Spain, and Venice), let by Don John of Austria. 1823)