Poetry: Lord Byron - Childe Harold's Pilgrimage - Part 3 - Canto III - Links to more Byron

Posted by Ricardo Marcenaro | Posted in | Posted on 17:14


"Afin que cette application vous forçât de penser à autre chose; il n'y a en vérité de remède que celui-lá et le temps." -- /Lettre du Roi de Prusse à D'Alembert, Sept./ 7, 1776.


  Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child!
  Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart?
  When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled,
  And then we parted, -- not as now we part,
  But with hope. --
                                   Awaking with a start,
  The waters heave around me; and on high
  The winds lift up their voices: I depart,
  Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by,
When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.


  Once more upon the waters! yet once more!
  And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
  That knows his rider.  Welcome to their roar!
  Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead!
  Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed,
  And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale,
  Still must I on; for I am as a weed,
  Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail
Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail.


  In my youth's summer I did sing of One,
  The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind;
  Again I seize the theme, then but begun,
  And bear it with me, as the gushing wind
  Bears the cloud onwards: in that Tale I find
  The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears,
  Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind,
  O'er which all heavily the journeying years
Plod the last sands of life, -- where not a flower appears.


  Since my young days of passion -- joy, or pain,
  Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string,
  And both may jar: it may be, that in vain
  I would essay as I have sung to sing.
  Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling,
  So that it wean me from the weary dream
  Of selfish grief or gladness -- so it fling
  Forgetfulness around me -- it shall seem
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme.


  He, who grown aged in this world of woe,
  In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life,
  So that no wonder waits him; nor below
  Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife,
  Cut to his heart again with the keen knife
  Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell
  Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife
  With airy images, and shapes which dwell
Still unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted cell.


  'Tis to create, and in creating live
  A being more intense, that we endow
  With form our fancy, gaining as we give
  The life we image, even as I do now.
  What am I?  Nothing: but not so art thou,
  Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth,
  Invisible but gazing, as I glow
  Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth,
And feeling still with thee my crush'd feelings' dearth.


  Yet must I think less wildly: -- I /have/thought
  Too long and darkly, till my brain became,
  In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought,
  A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame:
  And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame,
  My springs of life were poison'd.  'Tis too late!
  Yet am I changed; though still enough the same
  In strength to bear what time cannot abate,
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate.


  Something too much of this: -- but now 'tis past,
  And the spell closes with its silent seal.
  Long absent Harold reappears at last;
  He of the breast which fain no more would feel,
  Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne'er heal;
  Yet Time, who changes all, had alter'd him
  In soul and aspect as in age: years steal
  Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb;
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.


  His had been quaff'd too quickly, and he found
  The dregs were wormwood; but he fill'd again,
  And from a purer fount, on holier ground,
  And deem'd its spring perpetual; but in vain!
  Still round him clung invisibly a chain
  Which gall'd for ever, fettering though unseen,
  And heavy though it clank'd not; worn with pain,
  Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen,
Entering with every step he took through many a scene.


  Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd
  Again in fancied safety with his kind,
  And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd
  And sheath'd with an invulnerable mind,
  That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind.;
  And he, as one, might 'midst the many stand
  Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find
  Fit speculation; such as in strange land
He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's hand.


  But who can view the ripen'd rose, nor seek
  To wear it? who can curiously behold
  The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek,
  Nor feel the heart can never all grow old?
  Who can contemplate Fame through clouds unfold
  The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb?
  Harold, once more within the vortex, roll'd
  On with the giddy circle, chasing Time,
Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond prime.


  But soon he knew himself the most unfit
  Of men to herd with Man; with whom he held
  Little in common; untaught to submit
  His thoughts to others, though his soul was quell'd
  In youth by his own thoughts; still uncompell'd,
  He would not yield dominion of his mind
  To spirits against whom his own rebell'd,
  Proud though in desolation; which could find
A life within itself, to breathe without mankind.


  Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends;
  Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was his home;
  Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends,
  He had the passion and the power to roam;
  The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam,
  Were unto him companionship; they spake
  A mutual language, clearer than the tome
  Of this land's tongue, which he would oft forsake
For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams on the lake.


  Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars,
  Till he had peopled them with beings bright
  As their own beams; and earth, and earth-born jars,
  And human frailties, were forgotten quite:
  Could he have kept his spirit to that flight
  He had been happy; but this clay will sink
  Its spark immortal, envying it the light
  To which it mounts, as if to break the link
That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its brink.


  But in Man's dwellings he became a thing
  Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome,
  Droop'd as a wild-born falcon with clipt wing,
  To whom the boundless air alone were home:
  Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome,
  As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat
  His breast and beak against his wiry dome
  Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat
Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat.


  Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again,
  With naught of hope left, but with less of gloom;
  The very knowledge that he lived in vain,
  That all was over on this side the tomb,
  Had made Despair a smilingness assume,
  Which, though 'twere wild, -- as on the plunder'd wreck
  When mariners would gladly meet their doom
  With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck, --
Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check.


  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?
  Nor column trophied for triumphal show?
  None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so,
  As the ground was before, thus let it be; --
  How that red rain hath made the harvest grow!
  And is this all the world has gain'd by thee,
Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory?


  And Harold stands upon this place of skulls,
  The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo!
  How in an hour the power which gave annuls
  Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too!
  In "pride of place" [53] here last the eagle flew,
  Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain,
  Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through;
  Ambition's life and labours all were vain;
He wears the shatter'd links of the world's broken chain.


  Fit retribution!  Gaul may champ the bit
  And foam in fetters; -- but is Earth more free?
  Did nations combat to make /One/ submit;
  Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty?
  What! shall reviving thraldom again be
  The patch'd-up idol of enlighten'd days?
  Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we
  Pay the wolf homage? proferring lowly gaze
And servile knees to thrones?  No; /prove/ before ye praise!


  If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more!
  In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with hot tears
  For Europe's flowers long rooted up before
  The trampler of her vinyards; in vain years
  Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears,
  Have all been borne, and broken by the accord
  Of roused-up millions: all that most endears
  Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword
Such as Harmodius drew on Athens' tyrant lord. [54]


  There was a sound of revelry by night,
  And Belgium's capital had gather'd then
  Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright
  The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
  A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
  Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
  Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,
  And all went merry as a marriage-bell; [55]
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!


  Did ye not hear it? -- No; 'twas but the wind,
  Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
  On with the dance! let joy be unconfin'd;
  No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
  To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet --
  But, hark! -- that heavy sound breaks in once more,
  As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
  And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! arm! it is -- it is -- the cannon's opening roar!


 Within a window'd niche of that high hall
  Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
  That sound the first amid the festival,
  And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;
  And when they smiled because he deem'd it near,
  His heart more truly knew the peal too well
  Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier,
  And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:
He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.


  Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
  And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
  And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
  Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness;
  And there were sudden partings, such as press
  The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
  Which ne'er might be repeated: who would guess
  If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!


  And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
  The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
  Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
  And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
  And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
  And near, the beat of the alarming drum
  Roused up the soldier ere the morning star,
  While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering, with white lips -- "The foe!  They come!  they come!"


  And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose,
  The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
  Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:
  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
  With the fierce native daring which instils
  The stirring memory of a thousand years,
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears! [56]


  And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, [57]
  Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
  Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,
  Over the unreturning brave, -- alas!
  Ere evening to be trodden like the grass
  Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
  In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
  Of living valour, rolling on the foe,
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.


  Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
  Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,
  The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
  The morn the marshalling in arms, -- the day
  Battle's magnificently-stern array!
  The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent
  The earth is cover'd thick with other clay,
  Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent,
Rider and horse, -- friend, foe, -- in one red burial blent!


  Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine;
  Yet one I would select from that proud throng,
  Partly because they blend me with his line,
  And partly that I did his sire some wrong,
  And partly that bright names will hallow song;
  And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd
  The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along,
  Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd,
They reach'd no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant Howard!


  There have been fears and breaking hearts for thee,
  And mine were nothing, had I such to give;
  But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree,
  Which living waves where thou didst cease to live,
  And saw around me the wide field revive
  With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring
  Come forth her work of gladness to contrive,
  With all her reckless birds upon the wing,
I turn'd from all she brought to those she could not bring. [58]


  I turn'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each
  And one as all a ghastly gap did make
  In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach
  Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake;
  The Archangel's trump, not glory's, must awake
  Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of Fame
  May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake
  The fever of vain longing, and the name
So honour'd, but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim.


  They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, mourn:
  The tree will wither long before it fall;
  The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn;
  The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall
  In massy hoariness; the ruin'd wall
  Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone;
  The bars survive the captive they enthral;
  The day drags through though storms keep out the sun;
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on:


  Even as a broken mirror, which the glass
  In every fragment multiplies; and makes
  A thousand images of one that was,
  The same, and still the more, the more it breaks;
  And thus the heart will do which not forsakes,
  Living in shatter'd guise, and still, and cold,
  And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches;
  Yet withers on till all without is old,
Shewing no visible sign, for such things are untold.


  There is a very life in our despair,
  Vitality of poison, -- a quick root
  Which feeds these deadly branches; for it were
  As nothing did we die; but life will suit
  Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit,
  Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, [59]
  All ashes to the taste: Did man compute
  Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er
Such hours 'gainst years of life, -- say, would he name threescore?


  The Psalmist number'd out the years of man:
  They are enough: and if thy tale be /true,/
  Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleeting span,
  More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo!
  Millions of tongues record thee, and anew
  Their children's lips shall echo them, and say --
  "Here, where the sword united nations drew,
  Our countrymen were warring on that day!"
And this is much, and all which will not pass away.


  There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men,
  Whose spirit antithetically mixt
  One moment of the mightiest, and again
  On little objects with like firmness fixt,
  Extreme in all things! hadst thou been betwixt,
  Thy throne had still been thine, or never been;
  For daring made thy rise as fall: thou seek'st
  Even now to reassume the imperial mien,
And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene!


  Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou!
  She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name
  Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now
  That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame,
  Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and became
  The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert
  A god unto thyself; nor less the same
  To the astounded kingdoms all inert,
Who deem'd thee for a time whate'er thou didst assert.


  Oh, more or less than man -- in high or low,
  Battling with nations, flying from the field;
  Now making monarch's necks thy footstool, now
  More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield:
  An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild,
  But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor,
  However deeply in men's spirits skill'd,
  Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war,
Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star.


  Yet well thy soul hath brook'd the turning tide
  With that untaught innate philosophy,
  Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride,
  Is gall and wormwood to an enemy.
  When the whole host of hatred stood hard by,
  To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled
  With a sedate and all-enduring eye; --
  When Fortune fled her spoil'd and favorite child,
He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him piled.


  Sager than in thy fortress; for in them
  Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show
  That just habitual scorn, which could contemn
  Men and their thoughts; 'twas wise to feel, not so
  To wear it ever on thy lip and brow,
  And spurn the instruments thou wert to use
  Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow;
  'Tis but a worthless world to win or lose;
So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose.


  If, like a tower upon a headlong rock,
  Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone,
  Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the shock;
  But men's thoughts were the steps which paved thy throne,
  /Their/ admiration thy best weapon shone;
  The part of Philip's son was thine, not then
  (Unless aside thy purple had been thrown)
  Like stern Diogenes to mock at men;
For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den. [60]


  But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell,
  And /there/ hath been thy bane; there is a fire
  And motion of the soul which will not dwell
  In its own narrow being, but aspire
  Beyond the fitting medium of desire;
  And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore,
  Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire
  Of aught but rest; a fever at the core,
Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore.


  This makes the madmen who have made men mad
  By their contagion!  Conquerors and Kings,
  Founders of sects and systems, to whom add
  Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things
  Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs,
  And are themselves the fools to those they fool,
  Envied, yet how unenviable! what stings
  Are theirs!  One breast laid open were a school
Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule:


  Their breath is agitation, and their life
  A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last,
  And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife,
  That should their days, surviving perils past,
  Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast
  With sorrow and supineness, and so die;
  Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste
  With its own flickering, or a sword laid by,
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.


  He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find
  The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow;
  He who surpasses or subdues mankind,
  Must look down on the hate of those below.
  Though high /above/ the sun of glory glow,
  And far /beneath/ the earth and ocean spread,
  /Round/ him are icy rocks, and loudly blow
  Contending tempests on his naked head,
And thus reward the toils which to those summits led.


  Away with these! true Wisdom's world will be
  Within its own creation, or in thine,
  Maternal Nature!  for who teems like thee,
  Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine?
  There Harold gazes on a work divine,
  A blending of all beauties; streams and dells,
  Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, corn-field, mountain, vine,
  And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells
From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells.


  And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind,
  Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd,
  All tenantless, save to the crannying wind,
  Or holding dark communion with the cloud.
  There was a day when they were young and proud,
  Banners on high, and battles pass'd below;
  But they who fought are in a bloody shroud,
  And those which waved are shredless dust ere now,
And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow.


  Beneath these battlements, within those walls,
  Power dwelt amidst her passions; in proud state
  Each robber chief upheld his armed halls,
  Doing his evil will, nor less elate
  Than mightier heroes of a longer date.
  What want these outlaws conquerors should have? [61]
  But History's purchased page to call them great?
  A wider space, an ornamented grave?
Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full as brave.


  In their baronial feuds and single fields,
  What deeds of prowess unrecorded died!
  And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields,
  With emblems well devised by amorous pride,
  Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide;
  But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on
  Keen contest and destruction near allied,
  And many a tower for some fair mischief won,
Saw the discolour'd Rhine beneath its ruin run.


  But Thou, exulting and abounding river!
  Making thy waves a blessing as they flow
  Through banks whose beauty would endure for ever
  Could man but leave thy bright creation so,
  Nor its fair promise from the surface mow
  With the sharp scythe of conflict, -- then to see
  Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know
  Earth paved like Heaven; and to seem such to me
Even now what wants thy stream? -- that it should Lethe be.


  A thousand battles have assail'd thy banks,
  But these and half their fame have pass'd away,
  And Slaughter heap'd on high his weltering ranks:
  Their very graves are gone, and what are they?
  Thy tide wash'd down the blood of yesterday,
  And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream
  Glass'd with its dancing light the sunny ray;
  But o'er the blacken'd memory's blighting dream
Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem.


  Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along,
  Yet not insensibly to all which here
  Awoke the jocund birds to early song
  In glens which might have made even exile dear:
  Though on his brow were graven lines austere,
  And tranquil sternness which had ta'en the place
  Of feelings fierier but far less severe,
  Joy was not always absent from his face,
But o'er it in such scenes would steal with transient trace.


  Nor was all love shut from him though his days
  Of passion had consumed themselves to dust.
  It is in vain that we would coldly gaze
  On such as smile upon us; the heart must
  Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust
  Hath wean'd it from all worldlings: thus he felt,
  For there were soft remembrance, and sweet trust
  In one fond breast, to which his own would melt,
And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt.


  And he learn'd to love, -- I know not why,
  For this in such as him seems strange of mood, --
  The helpless looks of blooming infancy,
  Even in its earliest nurture; what subdued,
  To change like this, a mind so far imbued
  With scorn of man, it little boots to know;
  But thus it was; and though in solitude
  Small power the nipp'd affections have to grow,
In him this glow'd when all beside had ceased to glow.


  And there was one soft breast, as hath been said,
  Which unto his was bound by stronger ties
  Than the church links withal: and, though unwed,
  /That/ love was pure, and far above disguise,
  Had stood the test of mortal enmities
  Still undivided, and cemented more
  By peril, dreaded most in female eyes;
  But this was firm, and from a foreign shore
Well to that heart might his these absent greetings pour!

      The castled crag of Drachenfels, [62]
      Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,
      Whose breast of waters broadly swells
      Between the banks which bear the vine,
      And hills all rich with blossom'd trees,
      And fields which promise corn and wine,
      And scatter'd cities crowning these,
      Whose far white walls along them shine,
      Have strew'd a scene, which I should see
      With double joy wert thou with me.

      And peasant girls, with deep-blue eyes,
      And hands which offer early flowers,
      Walk smiling o'er this paradise;
      Above, the frequent feudal towers
      Through green leaves lift their walls of gray,
      And many a rock which steeply lowers,
      And noble arch in proud decay,
      Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers;
      But one thing want these banks of Rhine, --
      Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!

      I send the lilies given to me;
      Though long before thy hand they touch,
      I know that they must wither'd be,
      But yet reject them not as such;
      For I have cherish'd them as dear,
      Because they yet may meet thine eye,
      And guide thy soul to mine even here,
      When thou behold'st them drooping nigh,
      And know'st them gather'd by the Rhine,
      And offer'd from my heart to thine!

      The river nobly foams and flows,
      The charm of this enchanted ground,
      And all its thousand turns disclose
      Some fresher beauty varying round:
      The haughtiest breast its wish might bound
      Through life to dwell delighted here;
      Nor could on earth a spot be found
      To nature and to me so dear,
      Could thy dear eyes in following mine
      Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine!


  By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground,
  There is a small and simple pyramid,
  Crowning the summit of the verdant mound;
  Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid,
  Our enemy's -- but let not that forbid
  Honour to Marceau! o'er whose early tomb
  Tears, big tears, gush'd from the rough soldier's lid,
  Lamenting and yet envying such a doom,
Falling for France, whose right he battled to resume.


  Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career. --
  His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes,
  And fitly may the stranger lingering here
  Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose;
  For he was Freedom's champion, one of those,
  The few in number, who had not o'erstept
  The charter to chastise which she bestows
  On such as wield her weapons; he had kept
The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept. [63]


  Here Ehrenbreitstein, [64] with her shatter'd wall
  Black with the miner's blast, upon her height
  Yet shews of what she was, when shell and ball
  Rebounding idly on her strength did light:
  A tower of victory, from whence the flight
  Of baffled foes was watch'd along the plain:
  But Peace destroy'd what War could never blight,
  And laid those proud roofs bare to Summer's rain --
On which the iron shower for years had pour'd in vain.


  Adieu to thee, fair Rhine!  How long delighted
  The stranger fain would linger on his way!
  Thine is a scene alike where souls united
  Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray;
  And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey
  On self-condemning bosoms, it were here,
  Where Nature, nor too sombre nor too gay,
  Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere,
Is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the year.


  Adieu to thee again! a vain adieu!
  There can be no farewell to scene like thine,
  The mind is colour'd by thy every hue;
  Their cherish'd gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine!
  'Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise;
  More mighty spots may rise -- more glaring shine,
  But none unite in one attaching maze
The brilliant, fair, and soft, -- the glories of old days.


  The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom
  Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen,
  The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom,
  The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between,
  The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been
  In mockery of man's art; and these withal
  A race of faces happy as the scene,
  Whose fertile bounties here extend to all,
Still springing o'er thy banks, though Empires near them fall.


  But these recede.  Above me are the Alps,
  The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls
  Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,
  And throned Eternity in icy halls
  Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls
  The avalanche -- the thunderbolt of snow!
  All that expands the spirit, yet appals,
  Gather around these summits, as to show
How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below.


  But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan,
  There is a spot should not be pass'd in vain, --
  Morat! the proud, the patriot field! where man
  May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain,
  Nor blush for those who conquer'd on that plain;
  Here Burgundy bequeath'd his tombless host,
  A bony heap, through ages to remain,
  Themselves their monument; the Stygian coast
Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each wandering ghost. [65]


  While Waterloo with Cannæ's carnage vies,
  Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand;
  They were true Glory's stainless victories,
  Won by the unambitious heart and hand
  Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band,
  All unbought champions in no princely cause
  Of vice-entail'd Corruption; they no land
  Doom'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws
Making kings' rights divine, by some Draconic clause.


  By a lone wall a lonelier column rears
  A gray and grief-worn aspect of old days;
  'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years,
  And looks as with the wild bewilder'd gaze
  Of one to stone converted by amaze,
  Yet still with consciousness; and there it stands
  Making a marvel that it not decays,
  When the coeval pride of human hands,
Levell'd Aventicum, hath strew'd her subject lands. [66]


  And there -- oh! sweet and sacred be the name! --
  Julia -- the daughter, the devoted -- gave
  Her youth to Heaven; her heart, beneath a claim
  Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave.
  Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would crave
  The life she lived in; but the judge was just,
  And then she died on him she could not save.
  Their tomb was simple, and without a bust,
And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one dust. [67]


  But these are deeds which should not pass away,
  And names that must not wither, though the earth
  Forgets her empires with a just decay,
  The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and birth;
  The high, the mountain-majesty of worth,
  Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe,
  And from its immortality look forth
  In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow, [68]
Imperishably pure beyond all things below.


  Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, [69]
  The mirror where the stars and mountains view
  The stillness of their aspect in each trace
  Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue:
  There is too much of man here, to look through
  With a fit mind the might which I behold;
  But soon in me shall Loneliness renew
  Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of old,
Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me in their fold.


  To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind:
  All are not fit with them to stir and toil,
  Nor is it discontent to keep the mind
  Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil
  In one hot throng, where we become the spoil
  Of our infection, till too late and long
  We may deplore and struggle with the coil,
  In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong
'Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong.


  There, in a moment, we may plunge our years
  In fatal penitence, and in the blight
  Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears,
  And colour things to come with hues of Night;
  The race of life becomes a hopeless flight
  To those that walk in darkness: on the sea,
  The boldest steer but where their ports invite,
Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be.


  Is it not better, then, to be alone,
  And love Earth only for its earthly sake?
  By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, [70]
  Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake,
  Which feeds it as a mother who doth make
  A fair but froward infant her own care,
  Kissing its cries away as these awake! --
  Is it not better thus our lives to wear,
Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict or bear?


  I live not in myself, but I become
  Portion of that around me; and to me
  High mountains are a feeling, but the hum
  Of human cities torture: I can see
  Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be
  A link reluctant in a fleshly chair,
  Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee,
  And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain.


  And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life:
  I look upon the peopled desert past,
  As on a place of agony and strife,
  Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast,
  To act and suffer, but remount at last
  With a fresh pinion; which I feel to spring,
  Though young, yet waxing vigorous, as the blast
  Which it would cope with, on delighted wing,
Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling.


  And when, at length, the mind shall be all free
  From what it hates in this degraded form,
  Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be
  Existent happier in the fly and worm, --
  When elements to elements conform,
  And dust is as it should be, shall I not
  Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm?
  The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each spot?
Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot?


  Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part
  Of me and of my soul, as I of them?
  Is not the love of these deep in my heart
  With a pure passion? should not I contemn
  All objects, if compared with these? and stem
  A tide of suffering, rather than forego
  Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm
  Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below,
Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow?


  But this is not my theme; and I return
  To that which is immediate, and require
  Those who find contemplation in the urn
  To look on One, whose dust was once all fire,
  A native of the land where I respire
  The clear air for a while -- a passing guest,
  Where he became a being, -- whose desire
  Was to be glorious; 'twas a foolish quest.
The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed all rest.


  Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau,
  The apostle of affliction, he who threw
  Enchantment over passion, and from woe
  Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew
  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
  Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past
The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast.


  His love was passion's essence -- as a tree
  On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame
  Kindled he was, and blasted; for to be
  Thus, and enamour'd, were in him the same.
  But his was not the love of living dame,
  Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams,
  But of ideal beauty, which became
  In him existence, and o'erflowing teems
Along his burning page, distemper'd though it seems.


  /This/ breathed itself to life in Julie, /this/
  Invested her with all that's wild and sweet;
  This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss [71]
  Which every morn his fever'd lip would greet,
  From hers, who but with friendship his would meet;
  But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast
  Flash'd the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring heat:
  In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest
Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest.


  His life was one long war with self-sought foes,
  Or friends by him self-banish'd; for his mind
  Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose
  For its own cruel sacrifice the kind,
  'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind,
  But he was frenzied, -- wherefore, who may know?
  Since cause might be which skill could never find;
  But he was frenzied by disease or woe
To that worst pitch of all which wears a reasoning show.


  For then he was inspired, and from him came
  As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore,
  Those oracles which set the world in flame,
  Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more:
  Did he not this for France? which lay before
  Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years?
  Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore,
  Till by the voice of him and his compeers,
Roused up to too much wrath, which follows o'ergrown fears?


  They made themselves a fearful monument!
  The wreck of old opinions -- things which grew,
  Breathed from the birth of time: the veil they rent,
  And what behind it lay, all earth shall view.
  But good with ill they also overthrew,
  Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild
  Upon the same foundation, and renew
  Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour refill'd,
As heretofore, because ambition was self-will'd.


  But this will not endure, nor be endured!
  Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt.
  They might have used it better, but allured
  By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt
  On one another; pity ceased to melt
  With her once natural charities.  But they,
  Who in oppression's darkness caved had dwelt,
  They were not eagles, nourish'd with the day;
What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey?


  What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?
  The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear
  That which disfigures it; and they who war
  With their own hopes, and have been vanquish'd, bear
  Silence, but not submission: in his lair
  Fix'd Passion holds his breath, until the hour
  Which shall atone for years; none need despair:
  It came, it cometh, and will come, -- the power
To punish or forgive -- in /one/ we shall be slower.


  Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake,
  With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing
  Which warns me, with its stillness to forsake
  Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring.
  This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing
  To waft me from distraction; once I loved
  Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring
  Sounds sweet as if a Sister's voice reproved,
That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved.


  It is the hush of night, and all between
  Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,
  Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen,
  Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear
  Precipitously steep; and drawing near,
  There breathes a living fragrance from the shore,
  Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear
  Drops the light drip of the suspended oar,
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more;


  He is an evening reveller, who makes
  His life an infancy, and sings his fill;
  At intervals, some bird from out the brakes
  Starts into voice a moment, then is still.
  There seems a floating whisper on the hill;
  But that is fancy, for the starlight dews
  All silently their tears of love instill,
  Weeping themselves away, till they infuse
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues.


  Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven,
  If in your bright leaves we would read the fate
  Of men and empires, -- 'tis to be forgiven,
  That in our aspirations to be great,
  Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state,
  And claim a kindred with you; for ye are
  In us such love and reverence from afar,
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.


  All heaven and earth are still -- though not in sleep,
  But breathless, as we grow when feeling most;
  And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep: --
  All heaven and earth are still: From the high host
  Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast,
  All is concenter'd in a life intense,
  Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,
  But hath a part of being, and a sense
Of that which is of all Creator and defence.


  Then stirs the feeling intimate, so felt
  In solitude, where we are /least/ alone;
  A truth, which through our being then doth melt,
  And purifies from self: it is a tone,
  The soul and source of music, which makes known
  Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm,
  Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone,
  Binding all things with beauty; -- 'twould disarm
The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm.  


  Not vainly did the early Persian make
  His altar the high places and the peak
  Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, [72] and thus take
  A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek
  The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak,
  Uprear'd of human hands.  Come, and compare
  Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek,
  With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air,
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer!


  The sky is changed! -- and such a change!  O night,
  And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,
  Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
  Of a dark eye in woman!  Far along,
  From peak to peak, the rattling crags among
  Leaps the live thunder!  Not from one lone cloud,
  But every mountain now hath found a tongue,
  And Jura answers, through her misty shroud,
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!


  And this is the night: -- Most glorious night!
  Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be
  A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, --
  A portion of the tempest and of thee! [73]
  How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,
  And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!
  And now again 'tis black, -- and now, the glee
  Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.


  Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between
  Heights which appear as lovers who have parted
  In hate, whose mining depths so intervene,
  That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted;
  Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted,
  Love was the very root of the fond rage
  Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed: --
  Itself expired, but leaving them an age
Of years all winters, -- war within themselves to wage.


  Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way,
  The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand:
  For here, not one, but many make their play,
  And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand,
  Flashing and cast around: of all the band,
  The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd
  His lightnings, -- as if he did understand,
  That in such gaps as desolation work'd,
There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd.


  Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake lightnings!  ye!
  With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul
  To make these felt and feeling, well may be
  Things that have made me watchful; the far roll
  Of your departing voices, is the knoll
  Of what in me is sleepless, -- if I rest.
  But where of ye, O tempests! is the goal?
  Are ye like those within the human breast?
Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high rest?


  Could I embody and unbosom now
  That which is most within me, -- could I wreak
  My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw
  Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak,
  All that I would have sought, and all I seek,
  Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe -- into /one/ word,
  And that one word were Lightning, I would speak;
  But as it is, I live and die unheard,
With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword.


  The morn is up again, the dewy morn,
  With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom,
  Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn,
  And living as if earth contain'd no tomb, --
  And glowing into day: we may resume
  The march of our existence: and thus I,
  Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room
  And food for meditation, nor pass by
Much, that may give us pause, if ponder'd fittingly.


  Clarens! sweet Clarens! birthplace of deep Love!
  Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought;
  Thy trees take root in love; the snows above
  The very Glaciers have his colours caught,
  And sun-set into rose-hues sees them wrought
  By rays which sleep there lovingly: the rocks,
  The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought
  In them a refuge from the worldly shocks,
Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then mocks.


  Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod, --
  Undying Love's who here ascends a throne
  To which the steps are mountains; where the god
  Is a pervading life and light, -- so shown
  Not on those summits solely, nor alone
  In the still cave and forest; o'er the flower
  His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown
  His soft and summer breath, whose tender power
Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour.


  All things are here of /him;/ from the black pines,
  Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar
  Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines
  Which slope his green path downward to the shore,
  Where the bow'd waters meet him, and adore,
  Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood,
  The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar,
  But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood,
Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude.


  A populous solitude of bees and birds,
  And fairy-form'd and many-colour'd things,
  Who worship him with notes more sweet than words,
  And innocently open their glad wings
  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
  The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend,
Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end.


  He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore,
  And make his heart a spirit; he who knows
  That tender mystery, will love the more,
  For this is love's recess, where vain men's woes,
  And the world's waste, have driven him far from those
  For 'tis his nature to advance or die:
  He stands not still, but or decays, or grows
  Into a boundless blessing, which may vie
With the immortal lights, in its eternity!


  'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot,
  Peopling it with affections; but he found
  It was the scene which passion must allot
  To the mind's purified beings; 'twas the ground
  Where early Love his Psyche's zone unbound,
  And hallow'd it with loveliness: 'tis lone,
  And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound,
  And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone
Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd a throne.


  Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes
  Of names which unto you bequeath'd a name; [74]
  Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads,
  A path to perpetuity of fame:
  They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim
  Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile
  Thoughts which should call down thunder, and the flame
  Of Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the while
On man and man's research could deign do more than smile.


  The one was fire and fickleness, a child,
  Most mutable in wishes, but in mind
  A wit as various, -- gay -- grave -- sage -- or wild --
  Historian, bard, philosopher, combined;
  He multiplied himself among mankind,
  The Proteus of their talents:  But his own
  Breathed most in ridicule, -- which, as the wind,
  Blew where it listed, laying all things prone, --
Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne.


  The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought,
  And hiving wisdom with each studious year,
  In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought,
  And shaped his weapon with an edge severe,
  Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer;
  The lord of irony, -- that master-spell,
  Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear,
  And doom'd him to the zealot's ready hell,
Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well.


  Yet, peace be with their ashes, -- for by them,
  If merited, the penalty is paid;
  It is not ours to judge, -- far less condemn;
  The hour must come when such things shall be made
  Known unto all, -- or hope and dread allay'd
  By slumber, on one pillow, -- in the dust,
  Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decay'd;
  And, when it shall revive, as is our trust,
'Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just.


  But let me quit man's works, again to read
  His Maker's, spread around me, and suspend
  This page, which from my reveries I feed,
  Until it seems prolonging without end.
  The clouds above me to the white Alps tend,
  I must pierce them, and survey whate'er
  May be permitted, as my steps I bend
  To their most great and growing region, where
The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air.


  Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee
  Full flashes on the soul the light of ages,
  Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee,
  To the last halo of the chiefs and sages,
  Who glorify thy consecrated pages;
  Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; still,
  The fount at which the panting mind assuages
  Her thirst for knowledge, quaffing there her fill,
Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill.


  Thus far have I proceeded in a theme
  Renew'd with no kind auspices: -- to feel
  We are not what we have been, and to deem
  We are not what we should be, -- and to steel
  The heart against itself; and to conceal,
  With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught, --
  Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal, --
  Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought,
Is a stern task of soul: -- No matter, -- it is taught.


  And for these words, thus woven into song,
  It may be that they are a harmless wile, --
  The colouring of the scenes which fleet along,
  Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile
  My breast, or that of others, for a while.
  Fame is the thirst of youth, -- but I am not
  So young as to regard men's frown or smile,
  As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot;
I stood and stand alone, -- remember'd or forgot.


  I have not loved the world, nor the world me;
  I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd
  To its idolatries a patient knee, --
  Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, -- nor cried aloud
  In worship of an echo; in the crowd
  They could not deem me one of such; I stood
  Among them, but not of them; in a shroud
  Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could,
Had I not filed [75] my mind, which thus itself subdued.


  I have not loved the world, nor the world me, --
  But let us part fair foes; I do believe,
  Though I have found them not, that there may be
  Words which are things, -- hopes which will not deceive,
  And virtues which are merciful, nor weave
  Snares for the failing: I would also deem
  O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve;
That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream.


  My daughter! with thy name this song begun --
  My daughter! with thy name thus much shall end --
  I see thee not, -- I hear thee not, -- but none
  Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend
  To whom the shadows of far years extend:
  Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold,
  My voice shall with thy future visions blend,
  And reach into thy heart, -- when mine is cold, --
A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould.


  To aid thy mind's development, -- to watch
  Thy dawn of little joys, -- to sit and see
  Almost thy very growth, to view thee catch
  Knowledge of objects, -- wonders yet to thee!
  To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee,
  And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, --
  This, it should seem, was not reserved for me;
  Yet this was in my nature: -- as it is,
I know not what is there, yet something like to this.


  Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught,
  I know that thou wilt love me; though my name
  Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught
  With desolation, -- and a broken claim:
  Though the grave closed between us, -- 'twere the same,
  I know that thou wilt love me; though to drain
  /My/ blood from out thy being were an aim,
  And an attainment, -- all would be in vain, --
Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain.


  The child of love, -- though born in bitterness,
  And nurtured in convulsion.  Of thy sire
  These were the elements, -- and thine no less.
  As yet such are around thee, -- but thy fire
  Shall be more temper'd, and thy hope far higher.
  Sweet be thy cradled slumbers!  O'er the sea,
  And from the mountains where I now respire,
  Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee,
As, with a sigh, I deem thou mightst have been to me!

53.  "In pride of place" is a term of falconry, and means the highest pitch of flight.  See "Macbeth," &c.
    "An eagle towering in his pride of place," &c.

54.  See the famous song on Harmodius and Aristogiton.  The best English translation is in "Bland's Anthology," by Mr (now Lord Chief-Justice) De[n?]man: --
       "With myrtle my sword will I wreathe," &c.

55.  On the night previous to the action, it is said that ball was given at Brussels.

56.  Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant Donald, the "gentle Lochiel" of the "forty-five."

57.  The wood of Soignies is supposed to be a remnant of the forest of Ardennes, famous in Boiardo's "Orlando," and immortal in Shakspeare's "As you like it."  It is also celebrated in Tacitus, as being the spot of successful defence by the Germans against the Roman encroachments.  I have ventured to adopt the name connected with nobler associations than those of mere slaughter.

58.  My guide from Mont St Jean over the field seemed intelligent and accurate.  The place where Major Howard fell was not far from two tall and solitary trees (there was a third, cut down, or shivered in the battle,) which stand a few yards from each other at a pathway's side.  Beneath these he died and was buried.  The body has since been removed to England.  A small hollow for the present marks where it lay, but will probably soon be effaced; the plough has been upon it, and the grain is.  After pointing out the different spots where 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 and circumstances.  The place is one of the most marked in the field, from the peculiarity of the two trees above mentioned.  I went on horseback twice over the field, comparing it with my recollection of similar scenes.  As a plain, Waterloo seems marked out for the scene of some great action, though this may be mere imagination.  I have viewed with attention those of Platea, Troy, Mantinea, Leuctra, Chærones, and Marathon, and the field around Mont St Jean and Hougoumont appears to want little but a better cause, and that undefinable but impressive halo which the lapse of ages throws around a celebrated spot, to vie in interest with any or all of these, except, perhaps, the last mentioned.

59.  The (fabled) apples on the brink of the lake Asphaltes were said to be fair without, and, within, ashes.  /Vide/ Tacitus, Histor. lib. v. 7.

60.  The great error of Napoleon, "if we have writ our annals true," was a continued 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.  Such were his speeches to public assemblies as well as individuals; and the single expression which he is said to have used on returning to Paris after the Russian winter had destroyed his army, rubbing his hands over a fire, "This is pleasanter than Moscow," would probably alienate more favour from his cause than the destruction and reverses which led to the remark.

61.  "What wants that knave that king should have?" was King James's question on meeting Johnny Armstrong and his followers in full accoutrements. -- See the Ballad.

62.  The castle of Drachenfels stands on the highest summit of "The Seven Mountains," over the Rhine banks; it is in ruins, and connected with some singular traditions.  It is the first in view on the road from Bonn, but on the opposite side of the river.  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 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.

63.  The monument of the young and lamented General Marceau (killed by a rifle-ball at Alterkirchen, on the last day of the fourth year of the French republic) still remains as described.  The inscriptions on his monument are rather too long, and not required -- his name was enough.  France adored, and her enemies admired; both wept over him.  His funeral was attended by the generals and detachments from both armies.  In the same grave General Hoche is interred, a gallant man also in every sense of the word; but though he distinguished himself greatly battle, /he/ had not the good fortune to die there: his death was attended by suspicions of poison.  A separate monument (not over his body, which is buried near Marceau's) is raised for him near Andernach, opposite to which one of his most memorable exploits was performed, in throwing a bridge to an island on the Rhine.  The shape and style are different from that of Marceau, and the inscription more simple and pleasing: -- "The Army of the Sambre and Meuse to its Commander-in-Chief, Hoche."  This is all, and as it should be.  Hoche was esteemed among the first of France's earlier generals, before Buonaparte monopolised her triumphs.  He was the destined commander of the invading army of Ireland.

64.  Ehrenbreitstein, /i.e.,/ "the broad stone of honour," one of the strongest fortresses in Europe, was dismantled and blown up by the French at the truce of Leoben.  It had been, and could only be, reduced by famine or treachery.  It yielded to the former, aided by surprise.  After having seen the fortifications of Gibraltar and Malta, it did not much strike by comparison; but the situation is commanding.  General Marceau besieged it in vain for some time, and I slept in a room where I was shewn a window at which he is said to have been standing observing the progress of the siege by moonlight when a ball struck immediately below it.

65.  The chapel is destroyed, and the pyramid of bones diminished to a small number by the Burgundian legion in the service of France, who anxiously effaced this record of their ancestors' less successful invasions.  A few still remain, notwithstanding the pains taken by the Burgundians for ages (all who passed that way removing a bone to their own country,) and the less justifiable larcenies of the Swiss postilions, who carried them off to sell for knife-handles -- a purpose for which the whiteness imbibed by the bleaching of years had rendered them in great request.

Of these relics I ventured to bring away as much as may have made a quarter of 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.

66.  Aventicum, near Morat, was the Roman capital of Helvetia, where Avenches now stands.

67.  Julia Alpinula, a young Aventian priestess, died soon after a vain endeavour to save her father, condemned to death as a traitor by Aulus Cæcina.  Her epitaph was discovered many years ago.  It is thus: -- "Julia Alpinula: Hic jaceo.  Infelis patris infelix proles.  Deæ Aventiæ Sacerdos.  Exorare patris necem non potui: Male mori in fatis ille erat.  Vixi annos XXIII." -- I know of no human composition so affecting as this, nor a history 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 conquests and battles, with which the mind is roused for a time to a false and feverish sympathy, from whence it recurs at length with all the nausea consequent on such intoxication.

68.  This is written in the eye of Mont Blanc (June 3d, 1816,) which even at this distance dazzles mine. -- (July 20th.)  I this day observed for some time the distinct reflection of Mont Blanc and Mont Argentière in the calm of the lake, which I was crossing in my boat.  The distance of these mountains from their mirror is sixty miles.

69.  The following touching stanza forms part of the beautiful lines which about this time the poet addressed to his sister: --

    "I did remind thee of our own dear lake,
    By the old hall which may be mine no more.
    Leman's is fair; but think not I forsake
    The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore:
    Sad havoc Time must with my memory make
    Ere /that/ or /thou/ can fade these eyes before;
    Though, like all things which I have loved, they are
    Resign'd for ever, or divided far."

70.  The colour of the Rhone at Geneva is blue, to a depth of the tint which I have never seen equalled in water, salt or fresh, except in the Mediterranean and Archipelago.

71.  This refers to the account in his "Confessions" 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 kiss which was the common salutation of French acquaintance.  Rousseau's description of his feelings on this occasion may 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 painting can give no sufficient idea of the ocean.

72.  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./  To waive the question of devotion, and turn to human eloquence, -- the most effectual and splendid specimens were not pronounced within walls.  Demosthenes addressed the public and popular assemblies.  Cicero spoke in the forum.  That this added to their effect on the mind of both orator and hearers, may be conceived from the difference between what we read of the emotions then and there produced, and those we ourselves experience in the perusal in the closet.  It is one thing to read the "Iliad" at Sigæum and on the tumuli, or by the springs, with Mount Ida above, and the plain, and rivers, and Archipelago around you; and another to trim your taper over it in a snug library -- /this/ I know.  Were the early and rapid progress of what is called Methodism to be attributed to any cause beyond the enthusiasm excited by its vehement faith and doctrines (the truth or error of which I presume neither to canvass nor to question,) I should venture to ascribe it to the practise of preaching in the /fields,/ and the unstudied and extemporaneous effusions of its teachers.  The Mussulmans, whose erroneous devotion (at least in the lower orders) is most sincere, and therefore impressive, are accustomed to repeat their prescribed orisons and prayers, wherever they may be, and the stated hours -- of course, frequently in the open air, kneeling upon a light mat (which they carry for the purpose of a bed or cushion as required.)  The ceremony lasts some minutes, during which they are totally absorbed, and only living in their supplication: nothing can disturb them.  On me the simple and entire sincerity of these men, and the spirit which appeared to be within and upon them, made a far greater impression than any general rite which was ever performed in places of worship, of which I have seen those of almost every persuasion under the sun -- including most of our own sectaries, and the Greek, the Catholic, the Armenian, the Lutheran, the Jewish, and the Mohammedan.  Many of the negroes, of whom there are numbers in the Turkish empire, are idolators, and have free exercise of their belief and its rites.  Some of these I had a distant view of at Patras; and, from what I could make out of them, they appeared to be of a truly pagan description, and not very agreeable to a spectator.

73.  The thunder-storm 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.

74.  Voltaire and Gibbon.

75.                                          -- "If it be thus,
For Banquo's issue have I filed my mind."  -- /Macbeth./

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage


Poetry: Lord Byron - Childe Harold's Pilgrimage - Part 3 - Canto III - Links to more Byron

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