Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, by George Byron

Canto the Third.


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 a 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 strained 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 rushing 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 unimpaired, 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

Mixed with thy spirit, blended with thy birth,

And feeling still with thee in my crushed 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 poisoned. ’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 altered 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 quaffed too quickly, and he found

The dregs were wormwood; but he filled again,

And from a purer fount, on holier ground,

And deemed its spring perpetual; but in vain!

Still round him clung invisibly a chain

Which galled for ever, fettering though unseen,

And heavy though it clanked 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 mixed

Again in fancied safety with his kind,

And deemed his spirit now so firmly fixed

And sheathed with an invulnerable mind,

That, if no joy, no sorrow lurked 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 ripened 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 rolled

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 quelled,

In youth by his own thoughts; still uncompelled,

He would not yield dominion of his mind

To spirits against whom his own rebelled;

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 rolled 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 his land’s tongue, which he would oft forsake

For nature’s pages glassed 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,

Drooped 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 barred-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 plundered wreck

When mariners would madly 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 marked 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 gained 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’ 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 shattered 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 patched-up idol of enlightened days?

Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we

Pay the Wolf homage? proffering lowly gaze

And servile knees to thrones? No; PROVE before ye praise!


If not, o’er one fall’n despot boast no more!

In vain fair cheeks were furrowed with hot tears

For Europe’s flowers long rooted up before

The trampler of her vineyards; 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.


There was a sound of revelry by night,

And Belgium’s capital had gathered 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 looked love to eyes which spake again,

And all went merry as a marriage bell;

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 unconfined;

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 windowed niche of that high hall

Sate Brunswick’s fated chieftain; he did hear

That sound, the first amidst the festival,

And caught its tone with Death’s prophetic ear;

And when they smiled because he deemed it near,

His heart more truly knew that peal too well

Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,

And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:

He rushed 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

Blushed 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 thronged 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.


And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,

Dewy with Nature’s tear-drops, as they pass,

Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves,

Over the unreturniug 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 covered thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,

Rider and horse,—friend, foe,—in one red burial blent!


Their praise is hymned 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 showered

The death-bolts deadliest the thinned files along,

Even where the thickest of war’s tempest lowered,

They reached no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant Howard!


There have been tears 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 wild 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 turned from all she brought to those she could not bring.


I turned 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 honoured, 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 ruined 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:


E’en 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 shattered guise, and still, and cold,

And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches,

Yet withers on till all without is old,

Showing 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 shore,

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 numbered out the years of man:

They are enough: and if thy tale be TRUE,

Thou, who didst grudge him e’en 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 anithetically mixed

One moment of the mightiest, and again

On little objects with like firmness fixed;

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 wooed 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 deemed 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 monarchs’ 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 skilled,

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 brooked 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 spoiled and favourite child,

He stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled.


Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them

Ambition steeled thee on to far too 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 turned 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 headland rock,

Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone,

Such scorn of man had helped 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.


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 grey 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 passed 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

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 discoloured 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 assailed thy banks,

But these and half their fame have passed away,

And Slaughter heaped on high his weltering ranks:

Their very graves are gone, and what are they?

Thy tide washed down the blood of yesterday,

And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream

Glassed with its dancing light the sunny ray;

But o’er the blackened memory’s blighting dream

Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem.


Thus Harold inly said, and passed along,

Yet not insensible to all which here

Awoke the jocund birds to early song

In glens which might have made e’en exile dear:

Though on his brow were graven lines austere,

And tranquil sternness which had ta’en the place

Of feelings fierier far but 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 weaned it from all worldlings: thus he felt,

For there was 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 had learned 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 nipped affections have to grow,

In him this glowed 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

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 blossomed trees,

And fields which promise corn and wine,

And scattered cities crowning these,

Whose far white walls along them shine,

Have strewed 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 grey,

And many a rock which steeply lours,

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 withered be,

But yet reject them not as such;

For I have cherished them as dear,

Because they yet may meet thine eye,

And guide thy soul to mine e’en here,

When thou behold’st them drooping nigh,

And know’st them gathered by the Rhine,

And offered 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, gushed from the rough soldier’s lid,

Lamenting and yet envying such a doom,

Falling for France, whose rights 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.


Here Ehrenbreitstein, with her shattered wall

Black with the miner’s blast, upon her height

Yet shows 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 watched along the plain;

But Peace destroyed what War could never blight,

And laid those proud roofs bare to Summer’s rain—

On which the iron shower for years had poured 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, not 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 coloured by thy every hue;

And if reluctantly the eyes resign

Their cherished 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,

Gathers 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 passed in vain,—

Morat! the proud, the patriot field! where man

May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain,

Nor blush for those who conquered on that plain;

Here Burgundy bequeathed his tombless host,

A bony heap, through ages to remain,

Themselves their monument;—the Stygian coast

Unsepulchred they roamed, and shrieked each wandering ghost.


While Waterloo with Cannae’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-entailed Corruption; they no land

Doomed to bewail the blasphemy of laws

Making king’s rights divine, by some Draconic clause.


By a lone wall a lonelier column rears

A grey and grief-worn aspect of old days

’Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years,

And looks as with the wild bewildered 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,

Levelled Aventicum, hath strewed her subject lands.


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.


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,

Imperishably pure beyond all things below.


Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face,

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 cherished than of old,

Ere mingling with the herd had penned 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,

But there are wanderers o’er Eternity

Whose bark drives on and on, and anchored 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,

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, doomed 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 chain,

Classed 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 absorbed, 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 felt 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 I not 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 turned 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 awhile—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 enamoured, 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, distempered though it seems.


THIS breathed itself to life in Julie, THIS

Invested her with all that’s wild and sweet;

This hallowed, too, the memorable kiss

Which every morn his fevered lip would greet,

From hers, who but with friendship his would meet:

But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast

Flashed the thrilled 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-banished; 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

Bowed 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 refilled,

As heretofore, because ambition was self-willed.


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, nourished 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 vanquished, bear

Silence, but not submission: in his lair

Fixed 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,

Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen.

Save darkened 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 instil,

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

A beauty and a mystery, and create

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 lulled lake and mountain-coast,

All is concentered 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 infinite, 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.


Nor vainly did the early Persian make

His altar the high places and the peak

Of earth-o’ergazing mountains, and thus take

A fit and unwalled temple, there to seek

The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak,

Upreared 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 in 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!

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 thunderbolts from hand to hand,

Flashing and cast around: of all the band,

The brightest through these parted hills hath forked

His lightnings, as if he did understand

That in such gaps as desolation worked,

There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurked.


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 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,

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 contained 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 pondered 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 sunset 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 bowed 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-formed and many coloured 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 hallowed 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 reared a throne.


Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes

Of names which unto you bequeathed a name;

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 assailed, 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 doomed 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 allayed

By slumber on one pillow, in the dust,

Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decayed;

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.


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 of knowledge, quaffing there her fill,

Flows from the eternal source of Rome’s imperial hill.


Thus far have I proceeded in a theme

Renewed 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,—remembered or forgot.


I have not loved the world, nor the world me;

I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed

To its idolatries a patient knee,—

Nor coined 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 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 falling: I would also deem

O’er others’ griefs that some sincerely grieve;

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 this 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 tempered, 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!

Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:51