CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE.

CANTO THE FIRST.

I.

Oн, 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 shrine,* Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still; Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine To grace so plain a tale― this lowly lay of mine.

*The little village of Castri stands partly on the site of Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, from Chrysso, are the remains of sepulchres hewn in and from the rock. "One," said the guide," of a king who broke his neck hunting." His majesty had certainly chosen the fittest spot for such an achievement. A little above Castri is a cave, supposed the Pythian, of immense depth; the upper part of it is paved, and now a cowhouse. On the other side of Castri stands a Greek monastery; some way above which is the cleft in the rock, with a range of caverns difficult of ascent, and apparently leading to the interior of the mountain; probably to the Corycian Cavern mentioned by Pausanias. From this part descend the fountain and the "Dews of Castalie."-["We were sprinkled," says Hobhouse, "with the spray of the immortal rill, and here, if anywhere,

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 favor in his sight,
Save concubines and carnal companie,

And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree.

III.

Childe Harold was he hight:-but whence his

name

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

One blast might chill him into misery.

should have felt the poetic inspiration: we drank deep, too, of the spring; but-(I can answer for myself)—without feeling sensible of any extraordinary effect."]

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, [cell. Which seemed to him more lone than Eremite's sad

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 kiss Had 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 ee:
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.

* [In these stanzas, and indeed throughout his works, we must not accept too literally Byron's testimony against himself-he took a morbid pleasure in darkening every shadow of his self-portraiture. His life at Newstead had, no doubt, been, in some points.

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 oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow,

As if the memory of some deadly feud

Or disappointed passion lurked below:

But this none knew, nor haply cared to know;

For his was not that open, artless soul

That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow,

Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole,

Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not

control.

loose and irregular enough; but it certainly never exhibited any thing of the profuse and Sultanic luxury which the language in the text might seem to indicate. In fact, the narrowness of his means at the time the verses refer to would alone have precluded this. His household economy, while he remained at the Abbey, is known to have been conducted on a very moderate scale; and, besides, his usual companions, though far from being averse to convivial indulgences, were not only, as Moore says, "of habits and tastes too intellectual for mere vulgar debauchery," but, assuredly, quite incapable of playing the parts of flatterers and parasites.]

And none did love him

IX.

though to hall and bower

He 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 fere; 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 not
Before his weary pilgrimage begun :

If friends he had, he bade adieu to none.

Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel: Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon

A few dear objects, will in sadness feel

Such partings break the 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,

VOL. IV.

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