TO IANTHE. {1}
CANTO THE FIRST.
CANTO THE SECOND.
CANTO THE THIRD.
CANTO THE FOURTH.
CANTO THE FIRST.
I.Oh, thou, in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth,Muse, formed or fabled at the minstrel's will!Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill:Yet there I've wandered by thy vaunted rill;Yes! sighed o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrineWhere, save that feeble fountain, all is still;Nor mote my shell awake the weary NineTo grace so plain a tale—this lowly lay of mine.II.Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth,Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight;But spent his days in riot most uncouth,And vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.Ah, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight,Sore given to revel and ungodly glee;Few earthly things found favour in his sightSave concubines and carnal companie,And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree.III.Childe Harold was he hight:—but whence his nameAnd lineage long, it suits me not to say;Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame,And had been glorious in another day:But one sad losel soils a name for aye,However mighty in the olden time;Nor all that heralds rake from coffined clay,Nor florid prose, nor honeyed lines of rhyme,Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.IV.Childe Harold basked him in the noontide sun,Disporting there like any other fly,Nor deemed before his little day was doneOne blast might chill him into misery.But long ere scarce a third of his passed by,Worse than adversity the Childe befell;He felt the fulness of satiety:Then loathed he in his native land to dwell,Which seemed to him more lone than eremite's sad
cell.V.For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run,Nor made atonement when he did amiss,Had sighed to many, though he loved but one,And that loved one, alas, could ne'er be his.Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kissHad been pollution unto aught so chaste;Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss,And spoiled her goodly lands to gild his waste,Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to taste.VI.And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,But pride congealed the drop within his e'e:Apart he stalked in joyless reverie,And from his native land resolved to go,And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;With pleasure drugged, he almost longed for woe,And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades
below.VII.The Childe departed from his father's hall;It was a vast and venerable pile;So old, it seemed only not to fall,Yet strength was pillared in each massy aisle.Monastic dome! condemned to uses vile!Where superstition once had made her den,Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile;And monks might deem their time was come agen,If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy
men.VIII.Yet ofttimes in his maddest mirthful mood,Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's
brow,As if the memory of some deadly feudOr disappointed passion lurked below:But this none knew, nor haply cared to know;For his was not that open, artless soulThat feels relief by bidding sorrow flow;Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole,Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not
control.IX.And none did love him: though to hall and bowerHe gathered revellers from far and near,He knew them flatterers of the festal hour;The heartless parasites of present cheer.Yea, none did love him—not his lemans dear—But pomp and power alone are woman's care,And where these are light Eros finds a feere;Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might
despair.X.Childe Harold had a mother—not forgot,Though parting from that mother he did shun;A sister whom he loved, but saw her notBefore his weary pilgrimage begun:If friends he had, he bade adieu to none.Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel;Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote uponA few dear objects, will in sadness feelSuch partings break the heart they fondly hope to
heal.XI.His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,The laughing dames in whom he did delight,Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy
hands,Might shake the saintship of an anchorite,And long had fed his youthful appetite;His goblets brimmed with every costly wine,And all that mote to luxury invite,Without a sigh he left to cross the brine,And traverse Paynim shores, and pass earth's central
line.XII.The sails were filled, and fair the light winds
blewAs glad to waft him from his native home;And fast the white rocks faded from his view,And soon were lost in circumambient foam;And then, it may be, of his wish to roamRepented he, but in his bosom sleptThe silent thought, nor from his lips did comeOne word of wail, whilst others sate and wept,And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept.XIII.But when the sun was sinking in the sea,He seized his harp, which he at times could
string,And strike, albeit with untaught melody,When deemed he no strange ear was listening:And now his fingers o'er it he did fling,And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight,While flew the vessel on her snowy wing,And fleeting shores receded from his sight,Thus to the elements he poured his last 'Good
Night.'Adieu, adieu! my native shoreFades o'er the waters blue;The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,And shrieks the wild sea-mew.Yon sun that sets upon the seaWe follow in his flight;Farewell awhile to him and thee,My Native Land—Good Night!A few short hours, and he will riseTo give the morrow birth;And I shall hail the main and skies,But not my mother earth.Deserted is my own good hall,Its hearth is desolate;Wild weeds are gathering on the wall,My dog howls at the gate.'Come hither, hither, my little page:Why dost thou weep and wail?Or dost thou dread the billow's rage,Or tremble at the gale?But dash the tear-drop from thine eye,Our ship is swift and strong;Our fleetest falcon scarce can flyMore merrily along.''Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,I fear not wave nor wind;Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that IAm sorrowful in mind;For I have from my father gone,A mother whom I love,And have no friend, save these alone,But thee—and One above.'My father blessed me fervently,Yet did not much complain;But sorely will my mother sighTill I come back again.'—'Enough, enough, my little lad!Such tears become thine eye;If I thy guileless bosom had,Mine own would not be dry.'Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,Why dost thou look so pale?Or dost thou dread a French foeman,Or shiver at the gale?'—'Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;But thinking on an absent wifeWill blanch a faithful cheek.'My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,Along the bordering lake;And when they on their father call,What answer shall she make?'—'Enough, enough, my yeoman good,Thy grief let none gainsay;But I, who am of lighter mood,Will laugh to flee away.'For who would trust the seeming sighsOf wife or paramour?Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyesWe late saw streaming o'er.For pleasures past I do not grieve,Nor perils gathering near;My greatest grief is that I leaveNo thing that claims a tear.And now I'm in the world alone,Upon the wide, wide sea;But why should I for others groan,When none will sigh for me?Perchance my dog will whine in vainTill fed by stranger hands;But long ere I come back againHe'd tear me where he stands.With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly goAthwart the foaming brine;Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,So not again to mine.Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves!And when you fail my sight,Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!My Native Land—Good Night!XIV.On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone,And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay.Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon,New shores descried make every bosom gay;And Cintra's mountain greets them on their way,And Tagus dashing onward to the deep,His fabled golden tribute bent to pay;And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap,And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics
reap.XV.Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to seeWhat Heaven hath done for this delicious land!What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree!What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand!But man would mar them with an impious hand:And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge'Gainst those who most transgress his high
command,With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urgeGaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen
purge.XVI.What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold!Her image floating on that noble tide,Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold,But now whereon a thousand keels did rideOf mighty strength, since Albion was allied,And to the Lusians did her aid affordA nation swoll'n with ignorance and pride,Who lick, yet loathe, the hand that waves the
sword.To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing
lord.XVII.But whoso entereth within this town,That, sheening far, celestial seems to be,Disconsolate will wander up and down,Mid many things unsightly to strange e'e;For hut and palace show like filthily;The dingy denizens are reared in dirt;No personage of high or mean degreeDoth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt,Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, unwashed,
unhurt.XVIII.Poor, paltry slaves! yet born midst noblest
scenes—Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men?Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenesIn variegated maze of mount and glen.Ah me! what hand can pencil guide, or pen,To follow half on which the eye dilatesThrough views more dazzling unto mortal kenThan those whereof such things the bard relates,Who to the awe-struck world unlocked Elysium's
gates?XIX.The horrid crags, by toppling convent crowned,The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep,The mountain moss by scorching skies imbrowned,The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep,The tender azure of the unruffled deep,The orange tints that gild the greenest bough,The torrents that from cliff to valley leap,The vine on high, the willow branch below,Mixed in one mighty scene, with varied beauty
glow.XX.Then slowly climb the many-winding way,And frequent turn to linger as you go,From loftier rocks new loveliness survey,And rest ye at 'Our Lady's House of Woe;'Where frugal monks their little relics show,And sundry legends to the stranger tell:Here impious men have punished been; and lo,Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell,In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell.XXI.And here and there, as up the crags you spring,Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path;Yet deem not these devotion's offering—These are memorials frail of murderous wrath;For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hathPoured forth his blood beneath the assassin's
knife,Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath;And grove and glen with thousand such are rifeThroughout this purple land, where law secures not
life!XXII.On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath,Are domes where whilom kings did make repair;But now the wild flowers round them only breathe:Yet ruined splendour still is lingering there.And yonder towers the prince's palace fair:There thou, too, Vathek! England's wealthiest son,Once formed thy Paradise, as not awareWhen wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done,Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun.XXIII.Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure
plan.Beneath yon mountain's ever beauteous brow;But now, as if a thing unblest by man,Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou!Here giant weeds a passage scarce allowTo halls deserted, portals gaping wide;Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, howVain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied;Swept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentle tide.XXIV.Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened!Oh! dome displeasing unto British eye!With diadem hight foolscap, lo! a fiend,A little fiend that scoffs incessantly,There sits in parchment robe arrayed, and byHis side is hung a seal and sable scroll,Where blazoned glare names known to chivalry,And sundry signatures adorn the roll,Whereat the urchin points, and laughs with all his
soul.XXV.Convention is the dwarfish demon styledThat foiled the knights in Marialva's dome:Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled,And turned a nation's shallow joy to gloom.Here Folly dashed to earth the victor's plume,And Policy regained what Arms had lost:For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom!Woe to the conquering, not the conquered host,Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's coast.XXVI.And ever since that martial synod met,Britannia sickens, Cintra, at thy name;And folks in office at the mention fret,And fain would blush, if blush they could, for
shame.How will posterity the deed proclaim!Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer,To view these champions cheated of their fame,By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here,Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming
year?XXVII.So deemed the Childe, as o'er the mountains heDid take his way in solitary guise:Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee,More restless than the swallow in the skies:Though here awhile he learned to moralise,For Meditation fixed at times on him,And conscious Reason whispered to despiseHis early youth misspent in maddest whim;But as he gazed on Truth, his aching eyes grew
dim.XXVIII.To horse! to horse! he quits, for ever quitsA scene of peace, though soothing to his soul:Again he rouses from his moping fits,But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl.Onward he flies, nor fixed as yet the goalWhere he shall rest him on his pilgrimage;And o'er him many changing scenes must roll,Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage,Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience
sage.XXIX.Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay,Where dwelt of yore the Lusians' luckless queen;And church and court did mingle their array,And mass and revel were alternate seen;Lordlings and freres—ill-sorted fry, I ween!But here the Babylonian whore had builtA dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen,That men forget the blood which she hath spilt,And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to garnish
guilt.XXX.O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills,(Oh that such hills upheld a free-born race!)Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills,Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place.Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase,And marvel men should quit their easy chair,The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace.Oh, there is sweetness in the mountain airAnd life, that bloated Ease can never hope to
share.XXXI.More bleak to view the hills at length recede,And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend:Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed!Far as the eye discerns, withouten end,Spain's realms appear, whereon her shepherds tendFlocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader
knows—Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend:For Spain is compassed by unyielding foes,And all must shield their all, or share Subjection's
woes.XXXII.Where Lusitania and her Sister meet,Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide?Or e'er the jealous queens of nations greet,Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide?Or dark sierras rise in craggy pride?Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall?—Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide,Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tallRise like the rocks that part Hispania's land from
GaulXXXIII.But these between a silver streamlet glides,And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook,Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides.Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook,And vacant on the rippling waves doth look,That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow:For proud each peasant as the noblest duke:Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the
low.XXXIV.But ere the mingling bounds have far been passed,Dark Guadiana rolls his power alongIn sullen billows, murmuring and vast,So noted ancient roundelays among.Whilome upon his banks did legions throngOf Moor and Knight, in mailed splendour drest;Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the
strong;The Paynim turban and the Christian crestMixed on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts
oppressed.XXXV.Oh, lovely Spain! renowned, romantic land!Where is that standard which Pelagio bore,When Cava's traitor-sire first called the bandThat dyed thy mountain-streams with Gothic gore?Where are those bloody banners which of yoreWaved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale,And drove at last the spoilers to their shore?Red gleamed the cross, and waned the crescent
pale,While Afric's echoes thrilled with Moorish matrons'
wail.XXXVI.Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale?Ah! such, alas, the hero's amplest fate!When granite moulders and when records fail,A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date.Pride! bend thine eye from heaven to thine estate,See how the mighty shrink into a song!Can volume, pillar, pile, preserve thee great?Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue,When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does thee
wrong?XXXVII.Awake, ye sons of Spain! awake! advanceLo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries,But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance,Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies:Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies,And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar!In every peal she calls—'Awake! arise!'Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore,When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore?XXXVIII.Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note?Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath?Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote;Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneathTyrants and tyrants' slaves?—the fires of death,The bale-fires flash on high:—from rock to rockEach volley tells that thousands cease to breathe:Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the
shock.XXXIX.Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun,With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon;Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anonFlashing afar,—and at his iron feetDestruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done;For on this morn three potent nations meet,To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most
sweet.XL.By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see(For one who hath no friend, no brother there)Their rival scarfs of mixed embroidery,Their various arms that glitter in the air!What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their
lair,And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey!All join the chase, but few the triumph share:The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away,And Havoc scarce for joy can cumber their array.XLI.Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies.The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory!The foe, the victim, and the fond allyThat fights for all, but ever fights in vain,Are met—as if at home they could not die—To feed the crow on Talavera's plain,And fertilise the field that each pretends to
gain.XLII.There shall they rot—Ambition's honoured fools!Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay!Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools,The broken tools, that tyrants cast awayBy myriads, when they dare to pave their wayWith human hearts—to what?—a dream alone. [...]