And this is in the night:-Most glorious | Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe

night!

one word,

speak; But as it is, I live and die unheard, With a most voiceless thought, sheat it as a sword

Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be And that one word were Lightning, I w
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,—
A portion of the tempest and of thee!
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 earth-
quake's birth.

The morn is up again, the dewy mor With breath all incense, and with c all bloom,

Laughing the clouds away with pla

scorn,

And living as if earth contain'd no tom
And glowing into day: we may resum
The march of our existence: and thus
Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may

room

In hate, whose mining depths so intervene,
That they can meet no more, though broken- | And food for meditation, nor pass by
Much, that may give us pause, if pond
fittingly.

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 them-
selves 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, oh tempests! is the goal?
Are ye like those within the human breast?
Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some
high nest?

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,

Clarens! sweet Clarens, 'birth-place of
Love!

Thine air is the young breath of passio
thought;

Thy trees take root in Love; the snows al
The very Glaciers have his colours cau
And sun-set into rose-hues sees them wrou
By rays which sleep there lovingly: the ro
The permanent crags, tell here of L
who sought

In them a refuge from the worldly sho
Which stir and sting the soul with hope t
woos, then mo

Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths trod,

Undying Love's, who here ascends a thr
To which the steps are mountains; wh
the god

Is a pervading life and light,-so sh
Not on those summits solely, nor alon
In the still cave and forest; o'er the flo
His eye is sparkling, and his breath h

blown,

A populous solitude of bees and birds,
And fairy-form'd and many-colour'd things,
Whe 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,

Yet, peace be with their ashes,―for by them,

And the world's waste, have driven him far If merited, the penalty is paid;
from those,

For 'tis his nature to advance or die;
He stands not still, but or decays, or grows
ta boundless blessing, which may vie
With the immortal lights, in its eternity!

Tww not for fiction chose Rousseau this
spot,

Pling it with affections; but he found
In the scene which passion must allot
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,
dense, and sight of sweetness; here the
Rhone

Buch spread himself a couch, the Alps have
rear'd a throne.

Laane! and Ferney! ye have been the

abodes

Ofumes which unto you bequeath'd a name; Metals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads,

path to perpetuity of fame: They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim, Wa Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile Thaghts which should call down thunder,

h

and the flame

Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the

while
man and man's research could deign do
more than sinile.

The one was fire and fickleness, a child,
at matable in wishes, but in mind,
vit as various,-gay, grave, sage, or

wild,

Histerian, bard, philosopher combined;
He multiplied himself among mankind,
The Proteus of their talents: but his own
Breathed most in ridicule,which, as the

wind,

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,
And 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.

taught.

Passion or feeling, purpose, grief or zeal,- | This, it should seem, was not reserved for
Which is the tyrant-spirit of our thought, Yet this was in my nature:-as it is,
Is a stern task of soul:-No matter,—it is│I know not what is there, yet somet
like to this.
And for these words, thus woven into song, Yet, though dull Hate as duty shoul
It may be that they are a harmless wile,
tanght,
The colouring of the scenes which fleet along, I know that thou wilt love me; though
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
alond

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 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 grieye;
That two, or one, are almost what they

seem,

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 should'st 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

name

Should be shut from thee, as a spell
fraught
With desolation,—and a broken claim:
Though the grave closed between u
'twere the sam
I know that thou wilt love me; though
drain

My blood from out thy being, were an a
And an attainment,—all would be in vain
Still thou would'st love me, still that m

than life retai

The child of love, though born in
terness,

And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy si
These were the elements,—and thine no l
As yet such are around thee,-but thy
Shall be more temper'd, and thy hope
higher.

Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! O'er the s
And from the mountains where I now respi
Fain would I waft such blessing upon th
As, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st ha
been to me!

CANTO IV.

Visto ho Toscana, Lombardia, Romagna,
Quel monte che divide, e quel che serra
Italia, e un mare e l'altro, che la bagna.
ARIOSTO, Satira n

Venice, January 2, 1

ΤΟ

JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ.

MY DEAR HOBHOUSE, AFTER an interval of eight years tween the composition of the first and l cantos of Childe Harold, the conclusion the poem is about to be submitted to t public. In parting with so old a frie it is not extraordinary that I should ree to one still older and better,-to one w has beheld the birth and death of the othe and to whom I am far more indebted f To aid thy mind's developement, to watch the social advantages of an enlighten Thy dawn of little joys,-to sit and see friendship, than-though not ungratefulAlmost thy very growth,-to view thee catch can, or could be, to Childe Harold, f Knowledge of objects, wonders yet to thee! any public favour reflected through t To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, poem on the poet,-to one, whom I hav And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss,-known long, and accompanied far, who

mould.

I have found wakeful over my sickness and that I had become weary of drawing a line kind in my sorrow, glad in my prosperity which every one seemed determined not to and firm in my adversity, true in counsel perceive: like the Chinese in Goldsmith's and trusty in peril-to a friend often tried "Citizen of the World," whom nobody would and never found wanting;-to yourself. believe to be a Chinese, it was in vain that la so doing, I recur from fiction to truth, I asserted, and imagined, that I had drawn and in dedicating to you in its complete, or a distinction between the author and the at least concluded state, a poetical work pilgrim; and the very anxiety to preserve which is the longest, the most thoughtful | this difference, and disappointment at findand comprehensive of my compositions, I ing it unavailing, so far crushed my efforts wish to do honour to myself by the record in the composition, that I determined to of many years intimacy with a man of learn- abandon it altogether—and have done so. The ing. of talent, of steadiness, and of honour. | opinions which have been, or may be, formed It is not for minds like ours to give or to on that subject, are now a matter of inreceive flattery; yet the praises of sincerity difference; the work is to depend on itself, have ever been permitted to the voice of and not on the writer; and the author, who friendship, and it is not for you, nor even has no resources in his own mind beyond for others, but to relieve a heart which the reputation, transient or permanent, has not elsewhere, or lately, been so much which is to arise from his literary efforts, accustomed to the encounter of good-will deserves the fate of authors. to withstand the shock firmly, that In the course of the following canto it was I thas attempt to commemorate your good my intention, either in the text or in the calities, or rather the advantages which notes, to have touched upon the present state have derived from their exertion. Even of Italian literature, and perhaps of manthe recurrence of the date of this letter, ners. But the text, within the limits I prothe anniversary of the most unfortunate posed, I soon found hardly sufficient for the of my past existence, but which labyrinth of external objects and the conot poison my future while I retain the sequent reflections; and for the whole of the urce of your friendship, and of my own notes, excepting a few of the shortest, I am anties, will henceforth have a more agree-indebted to yourself, and these were necesWe recollection for both, inasmuch as it sarily limited to the elucidation of the text. will remind us of this my attempt to thank for an indefatigable regard, such as few men have experienced, and no one could rience without thinking better of his speries and of himself.

It is also a delicate, and no very grateful task, to dissert upon the literature and manners of a nation so dissimilar; and requires an attention and impartiality which would induce us,-though perhaps no inatI has been our fortune to traverse to- tentive observers, nor ignorant of the langper, at various periods, the countries of uage or customs of the people amongst whom alry, history, and fable-Spain, Greece, we have recently abode, to distrust, or at Minor, and Italy: and what Athens least defer our judgment, and more narConstantinople were to us a few years rowly examine our information. The state Venice and Rome have been more re- of literary, as well as political party, apCy. The poem also, or the pilgrim, or pears to run, or to have run, so high, that beth, have accompanied me from first to for a stranger to steer impartially between and perhaps it may be a pardonable them is next to impossible. It may be ity which induces me to reflect with enough then, at least for my purpose, to placency on a composition which in some quote from their own beautiful languageconnects me with the spot where Mi pare che in un paese tutto poetico, produced, and the objects it would che vanta la lingua la più nobile ed insieme fis describe; and however unworthy it la più dolce, tutte le vie diverse si posybe deemed of those magical and me- sono tentare, e che sinche la patria di rable abodes, however short it may fall Alfieri e di Monti non ha perduto l'antico of our distant conceptions and immediate valore, in tutte essa dovrebbe essere la priimpressions, yet as a mark of respect for ma." Italy has great names still-Canova, Wat is venerable, and a feeling for what is Monti, Ugo Foscolo, Pindemonti, Visconti, terions, it has been to me a source of plea- Morelli, Cicognara, Albrizzi, Mezzofanti, in the production, and I part with it Mai, Mustoxidi, Aglietti, and Vacca, will with a kind of regret, which I hardly sus- secure to the present generation an honourred that events could have left me for able place in most of the departments of Art, Science, and Belles Lettres; and in some the very highest;-Europe-the World---has but one Canova.

ginary objects.
With regard to the conduct of the last
there will be found less of the pilgrim

66

than in any of the preceding, and that little | It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, dightly, if at all, separated from the author that "La pianta uomo nasce più robusta in peaking in his own person. The fact is, Italia che in qualunque altra terra-e che

gli stessi atroci delitti che vi si commettono | She looks a sea-Cybele, fresh from ocean ne sono una prova." Without subscribing Rising with her tiara of proud towers to the latter part of his proposition, a dan-At airy distance, with majestic motion, gerous doctrine, the truth of which may be A ruler of the waters and their powers: disputed on better grounds, namely, that And such she was ;-her daughters had the the Italians are in no respect more fedowers rocious than their neighbours, that man From spoils of nations, and the exhaust! must be wilfully blind, or ignorantly heedEast less, who is not struck with the extraor- Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkli dinary capacity of this people, or, if such a

showers.

In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,
And silent rows the songless gondolier;
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,
And music meets not always now the car
Those days are gone—but Beauty still is her
States fall,arts fade—but Nature doth not di
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear
The pleasant place of all festivity,
The revel of the earth, the masque of Ital

word be admissible, their capabilities, the|In purple was she robed, and of her feas facility of their acquisitions, the rapidity Monarchs partook, and deem'd their digni of their conceptions, the fire of their genius, increased. their sense of beauty, and amidst all the disadvantages of repeated revolutions, the desolation of battles and the despair of ages, their still unquenched “longing after immortality," the immortality of independence. And when we ourselves, in riding round the walls of Rome, heard the simple lament of the labourers' chorus, “Roma! Roma! Roma! Roma non è più come era prima,” it was difficult not to contrast this melancholy dirge with the bacchanal roar of the songs of exultation still yelled from the London taverns, over the carnage of Mont | St. Jean, and the betrayal of Genoa, of Italy, of France, and of the world, by men | whose conduct you yourself have exposed in a work worthy of the better days of our history. For me,

"Non movero mai corda

But unto us she hath a spell beyond
Her name in story, and her long array
Of mighty shadows,whose dim forms despon
Above the dogeless city's vanish'd sway;
Ours is a trophy which will not decay
With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor,
And Pierre, can not be swept or worn away-
The keystones of the arch! tho' all were o'c
For us repeopled were the solitary shore.

And more beloved existence: that which Fa

"Ove la turba di sue ciance assorda." What Italy has gained by the late transfer of nations, it were useless for English-The beings of the mind are not of clay; men to inquire, till it becomes ascerEssentially immortal, they create tained that England has acquired something And multiply in us a brighter ray more than a permanent army and a suspended Habeas Corpus; it is enough for them to look at home. For what they have done abroad, and especially in the South, "Verily they will have their reward," and at no very distant period.

Wishing you, my dear Hobhouse, a safe and agreeable return to that country whose real welfare can be dearer to none than to

yourself, I dedicate to you this poem in its
completed state; and repeat once more how
truly I am ever
Your obliged

And affectionate friend,
BYRON.

Prohibits to dull life, in this our state
of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplic
First exiles, then replaces what we hate;
Watering the heart whose early flowers hav

died,

And with a fresher growth replenishing th
void.

Such is the refuge of our youth and age,
The first from Hope, the last from Vacanc
And this worn feeling peoples many a pag
And, may be, that which grows beneat
mine eye:

Yet there are things whose strong reality
Outshines our fairy-land; in shape and huc
More beautiful than our fantastic sky,
And the strange constellations which th
Muse

O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse

I saw or dream'd of such,--but let them go
They came like truth, and disappear'd lik

dreams;

And whatsoe'er they were-are now but so
I could replace them if I would, still teem
My mind with many a form which aptly seem
Such as I sought for, and at moments found