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 Childe fiarold,Canto IV 
 and Other Poem^' 
 
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tETtje Httier0iDe Mttmtmt ^ttit& 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD 
 
 CANTO THE FOURTH 
 
 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 
 AND MAZEPPA 
 
 BY 
 
 LORD BYRON 
 
 EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES SWAIN THOMAS, A.M. 
 
 HEAD OF THE ENGLISH DEPARTMENT IN THE 
 NEWTON (mass.) HIGH SCHOOL 
 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 
 Boston : 4 Park Street ; New York : 85 Fifth Avenue 
 Chicago : 378-388 Wabash Avenue 
 
 (Ct)e 0itjer?itie pre?? Cambciboe 
 
r1 
 
 < 
 
 CONTENTS .VvVa!>^ 
 
 Biographical Sketch of Bybon "» 
 
 Childe Harold (Canto the Fourth) .... 1 
 
 The Prisoner of Chillon ^ 
 
 78 
 Mazeppa 
 
 Notes, Comments, and Suggestions 107 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY HOVGrlTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 ©Ci.A25123-. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF LORD BYRON 
 
 Although Byron died at the age of thirty-six, the events 
 of his life, as contrasted with those of most poets, are nu- 
 merous and dramatic. Byron's temperament was restless 
 and passionate, and this restlessness and passion carried him, 
 in his brief career, into many and varied activities. We 
 can get a short, comprehensive view of his life by consider- 
 ing it under the four following headings : (1) Birth and 
 Farentage; (2) Early Training and Schooling; (3) Ca- 
 reer at Cambridge; (4) Activities of Later Life. 
 
 George Gordon Byron was born in Holies Street, Lon- 
 don, January 22, 1788. His father came of aristocratic 
 lineage, though with many blots on the family Birth and 
 escutcheon. His paternal grand-uncle, then lord ^"entage 
 of the estate at Newstead, which had been granted to the 
 family by Henry VIII. killed his neighbor and kinsman, 
 Mr. Chaworth, was committed to the Tower, and later con- 
 victed of manslaughter. The grandfather, though bearing 
 a better reputation, led a stormy existence as an admiral in 
 the British navy. Of him Byron wrote in the Epistle to 
 Augusta, ^^ He had no rest at sea, nor I. on shore. " 
 
 The father of the poet was a notorious profligate who 
 bore to the end of his life an unsavory reputation, and 
 finally, after abandoning his wife and child, died abroad, 
 leaving a very small fortune for his family. 
 
 Byron's mother, Catherine Gordon, was also of aristo- 
 cratic birth, being descended from James I. of Scotland, 
 through his daughter Annabella, married to the second Earl 
 of Huntley. The mother was a woman of ungovernable tem- 
 per, so variable and so ill-poised that Byron as a schoolboy 
 calmly admitted to one of his playmates that she was a fool. 
 She was not devoid of affection, but her affection was not of 
 the strong, partial sort that arouses a child's early love. 
 Because her son was afflicted with congenital lameness she 
 
iv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF LORD BYRON 
 
 seemed rather angered than sympathetic. In one of her 
 angry moods slie ended lier ahuse by calling liim 'Si lame 
 brat." The sensitive nature of the boy was touched, and 
 he said plaintively, *' I was born so, mother." 
 
 When Byron was a mere infant tlie mother moved from 
 London to Aberdeen, Scotland. The father was a tran- 
 sient visitor here until hisdeatli in 1791. Neither 
 Ing and parent seems to have exerted tlie influence which 
 
 °° ^ the little boy's nurse, jVIary Gray, exerted; and 
 •to her biographers attribute the poet's knowledge of the 
 Bible — particularly the Psalms — and the early Calvinistic 
 bent given to liis religious nature. 
 
 Here in Scotland liis formal scliooling began. In 1792 — 
 he was tlien Imt four years old — he was sent to a rudi- 
 mentary school taught ])y a Mr. Boyers. He had several, 
 ditierent tutors who prepared liim for the Aberdeen Gram- 
 mar School, where, to use his own phrase, he "threaded 
 all the classes to the fourth." 
 
 At this time (1798) IWron inliorited the estate of New- 
 stead AV)bey, and soon the mother and son returned to 
 England. Kewstead, however, was in a state of decay and 
 burdened with debt. Mrs. Byron could not afford to live 
 there, and accordingly took up her residence at Nottingham 
 where they lived for twelve months, Byron being under 
 ' the tutelage of a l\Ir. Rogers, who seems to have aroused 
 the boy's affection. From here he went to Dr. Glennie*s 
 school at Dulwich, leaving that for Harrow, which he en- 
 tered in 1801. 
 
 Of the boy Byron Dr. Joseph Drury, the head-master, 
 later wrote: "Mr. Hanson, Lord Byron's solicitor, con- 
 signed him to my care at the age of thirteen and a half, 
 with remarks that his education had been neglected; that 
 he v/as ill-prepared for a public school; but that he thought 
 there was cleverness about him. After his departure I 
 took my young disciple into my study, and endeavored to 
 bring him forward by inquiries as to his former amusements, 
 employments, and associates, but with little or no effect, 
 and I soon found that a wild mountain colt had been sub- 
 mitted to my management. But there was mind in his 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF LORD BYRON v 
 
 eye. In the first place, it was necessary to attach him to 
 an ehler boy : the information he received gave him no 
 pleasure when he heard of the advances of some much 
 younger than himself. This I discovered, and assured him 
 that lie should not be placed till by diligence he might 
 rank with those of his own age. His manner and temper 
 soon convinced me that he might be led by a silken string 
 to a point, rather than a cable : on that principle I acted." 
 
 Byron to the end of his life cherished a high regard for 
 Dr. Drury, but the school — except the last year and a 
 half — he disliked. He revolted against its discipline; he 
 was a care-less student of Latin, Greek, and mathematics; 
 and disliked continuous study of any kind; but all the 
 while he was an omnivorous reader. His special interest 
 at this time lay in declamation rather than in poetry. His 
 prowess in athletics, especially in boxing, rowing, and 
 swimming, won for him a leader's part among the boys of 
 the school. He formed many strong attachments, and 
 won a reputation for loyalty in his friendships. 
 
 Byron spent the years from 1805 to 1808 in a desultory 
 attendance at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he received 
 his honorary nobleman's M. A. degree in March career at 
 of his last year in residence. Just how he was Cambridge 
 able to secure a degree is a mystery, for he was always a 
 poor student, idled away much of his time in London, 
 squandered his money lavishly, and spent much of his 
 time in athletic sports — in cricket, boxing, riding, shooting, 
 and swimming. 
 
 For the University he avowed a candid dislike, as did 
 Milton and Dryden and Gray. Yet careless as the days he 
 spent here, it would be folly to suppose that the academic 
 atmosphere was not a powerful influence in developing his 
 poetical genius. Here he met many young men who be- 
 came his ardent friends, many of whom helped to kindle 
 his intellectual fires. His intimate companions were Ed- 
 ward Noel Long, Charles Skinner Mathews, the Rev. F. 
 Hodgson, and his lifelong friend, John Cam Hobhouse. 
 He was especially intimate with a youth named Eddlestone, 
 of inferior social rank, but one whom he said he "loved 
 
vi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF LORD BYRON 
 
 more than any human being." Association \vith all these 
 and with his tutor, and Avith the university lecturers, had 
 an influence hard to estimate, but nevertheless real. 
 
 In 1806, when Byron was eighteen years old, he col- 
 lected and published for private distribution his juvenile 
 Activities ol poems, M'liich were in no sense remarkable, and 
 Later Llle jj^^ j^q^ foreshadow his future genius. A year 
 later he issued another volume entitled Ilonrs of Idle- 
 ness. 
 
 As we view it in retrospect, the publication of Hours in 
 Idleness is important, not so much for its inherent merit 
 as for its influence in making literary history. It was 
 perhaps largely by chance that the volume happened to 
 fall under tlie eye and under the odium of Lord Brougham, 
 who thereupon wrote a scathing criticism of the work for 
 the Edinburgh Remeiv. The severity of this criticism 
 aroused the Berserker nature of Lord Byron, who retaliated 
 with a long poem, published a year later (1809), Eivjlish 
 Bards and Scotch Bcviewers. The reply revealed the 
 rapid movement and the satiric gleam which distinguished 
 much of Byron's later work. It immediately gave him a 
 reputation for poetic power, though full of bitterness and 
 abuse. 
 
 Just a few weeks before the publication of English 
 Bards and Scotch Beviarcrs Byron had come of age 
 and had taken his seat in the Ho\ise of Lords. Shortly 
 after the publication of the poem he started with his friend 
 Hobhouse on his first sojourn on the Continent. In his 
 journey of two years he visited Portugal, Spain, Sardinia, 
 Greece, Turkey, and other foreign countries, at odd hours 
 writing in verse an idealized account of his travels. 
 
 On his return to England in 1811 he published the first 
 two cantos of this account under the title of Child e IlarohVs 
 Pilgrimage. This poem met with extraordinary popu- 
 larity; as Byron himself expressed it, "I awoke one morn- 
 ing and found myself famous." 
 
 For a time after his return to England Byron was deeply 
 interested in politics, and made several speeches in the 
 House of Lords on the Liberal side. But the natural 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF LORD BYRON vii 
 
 genius of the man was literary and social. He became the 
 popular hero, of the hour. He became the intimate com- 
 panion of such celebrities as Sheridan, Rogers, Campbell, 
 Monk Lewis, and Madame de Stael. His social duties did 
 not apparently interfere with his writing, and before 1816 
 he had written and published The Waltz, The Giaour, 
 The Bride of Abydos, The Corsair, Lara, Hebrew Melo- 
 dies, Siege of Corinth, and Parisina. 
 
 On January 2, 1815, Byron, after a series of love-affairs, 
 was married to Miss Anne Isabella Milbanke, only daugh- 
 ter of Sir Ralph Milbanke. In December of that year 
 their daughter, Augusta Ada, was born. The tempera- 
 ments of the husband and wife were ill-suited, and after 
 an unhappy year of married life, there was a formal separa- 
 tion. Their domestic trouble was widely heralded, and 
 Byron, the erstwhile lion of London society, was degraded 
 and held up to public scorn. Lady Byron thought him 
 insane. Matters grew so disturbing to the poet that in 
 April of 1816 Byron left England for good. Concerning 
 this departure he later wrote : " I felt that, if what was 
 whispered and muttered and murmured was true, I was 
 unfit for England ; if false, England was unfit for me. I 
 withdrew ; but this was not enough. In other countries — 
 in Switzerland, in the shadow of the Alps, and by the blue 
 depth of the lakes — I was pursued and breathed upon by 
 the same blight. I crossed the mountains, but it was the 
 same ; so I went a little farther, and settled myself by the 
 waves of the Adriatic, like the stag at bay, who betakes 
 himself to the water." 
 
 This second tour on the Continent provided the material 
 for the third and fourth cantos of Childe HarokCs Pil- 
 grimage. Among the places visited were Ostend, Ghent, 
 Antwerp, Mechlin, Waterloo, Geneva, Coblentz, Lake 
 Leman, Vevay (where the castle of Chillon is situated), 
 Milan, Venice, and Rome. The poem was completed in 
 the latter part of 1817. 
 
 In the meantime The Prisoner of Chillon had been 
 completed and Manfred had been begun. These were fol- 
 lowed by Bejjpo (1818), Prophecy of Dante (1819), Ma- 
 
viii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF LORD BYRON 
 
 rino FaUero (1820), The Two Foscari (1821), Sardana- 
 palus (1821), Cain (1821), Visio?i of Judgment (1821), 
 Werner (1822), The Deformed Transf,nned (1822), Don 
 Juan, untiiiislied, (1823), and many minor poems. 
 
 But liyron's interests were not wholly literary. In 
 1820 he became an active sympathizer in the Carbonari 
 movement in Italy — a movement designed to free Italy 
 from Austrian rule. The leaders of the Carbonari were 
 discovered and banished. Byron, being an Englishman 
 of rank, was exempted from punishment, though the 
 Austrian government was cognizant of his connection with 
 the conspiracy. 
 
 His last political interest was the independence of 
 Greece in her struggle against Turkey. For this he gave 
 freely of his money, etpiipping a ship at his own expense 
 and volunteering his services. In this campaign he mani- 
 fested such courage and sagacity that he quickly won the 
 confidence of the Grecian leaders. Some historians think 
 that, had he lived to see the success of the Greek cause, 
 he would have been made king. But all plans were cut 
 short by fever contracted at jVIesolonghi. Here, after an 
 illness of ten days, he dieil, April 10, 1824, greatly mourned 
 by the Greeks. Burial at Westminster Al))>ey being denied 
 him, his remains were laid by the side of those of his an- 
 cestors in the village church at Hucknall, the conservative 
 gentry abstemiously denying their presence, the common 
 peoj-ile attending in throngs. 
 
 In all that period from ISIG to his death in 1824 ]^>yron 
 had lived on the Continent the life of a reckless adventurer 
 and nomad. Venice, Ravenna, Pisa, Genoa, Mesolonghi — 
 all these had been successive scenes in the fifth act of his 
 life's tragedy. Into it had come other important charac- 
 ters — the Shelleys, the Godwins, Lady Caroline Lamb, 
 Claire Clairmont, the Countess Guiccioli, the members 
 of the Carbonari, and the Greek revolters. Moods of pas- 
 sion and patriotism and generosity and satire and courage 
 and irresolution mingled in strange confusion, until finally 
 the end came in his death by fever in that last sacrificial 
 deed of his in behalf of Grecian liberty. 
 
20 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD. 
 CANTO THE FOURTH. 
 
 I. 
 
 I STOOD in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs, 
 A palace and a prison on each hand ; 
 I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
 As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand : 
 A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
 Around me, and a dying Glory smiles 
 O'er the far times, when many a subject land 
 Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles. 
 Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred 
 
 isles ! 
 
 II. 
 
 She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, 
 
 Rising with her tiara of proud towers 
 
 At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
 
 A ruler of the waters and their powers. 
 
 And such she was; — her daughters had their 
 
 dowers 
 From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East 
 Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers : 
 In purple was she robed, and of her feast 
 Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity in- 
 creased. 
 
 III. 
 
 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 ear ; 
 
I BYRON 
 
 Those days are gone, but Beauty still is here ; 
 States fall, arts fade, but Nature doth not die, 
 s Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear. 
 The pleasant place of all festivity, 
 The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy I 
 
 IV. 
 
 But unto us she hath a spell beyond 
 Her name in story, and her long array 
 
 » Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond 
 Above the dogeless city's vanish'd sway: 
 Ours is a tropliy which will not decay 
 With the Kialto ; Shylock and the Moor 
 And Pierre can not be swept or worn away, 
 
 S5 The keystones of the arch I — thougli all were o'er, 
 For us repeopled were the solitary shore. 
 
 V. 
 
 The beings of the mind are not of clay ; 
 
 Essentially immortal, they create 
 
 And multiply in us a brighter ray 
 40 And more beloved existence. That which Fate 
 
 Prohibits to dull life in this our state 
 
 Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied, 
 
 First exiles, then replaces what we hate ; 
 
 AVatering the heart whose early flowers have died, 
 *5 And with a fresher growth replenishing the void. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Such is the refuge of our youth and age, 
 The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy; 
 And this worn feeling peoples many a page, 
 And, maybe, that which grows beneath mine eye. 
 80 Yet there are things whose strong reality 
 
65 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD 3 
 
 Outshines our fairy-land; in shape and hues 
 More beautiful than our fantastic sky, 
 And the strange constellations which the Muse 
 O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse : 
 
 vn. 
 
 I saw or dream'd of such, — but let them go, — 
 They came like truth, and disappear'd like 
 
 dreams ; 
 And whatsoe'er they were — are now but so. 
 I could replace them if I would ; still teems 
 My mind with many a form which aptly seems 
 w Such as I sought for, and at moments found : 
 Let these too go, for waking Reason deems 
 Such ov^er-weening phantasies unsound. 
 And other voices speak and other sights surround. 
 
 viir. 
 
 I 've taught me other tongues, and in strange eyes 
 «5 Have made me not a stranger — to the mind 
 
 Which is itself, no changes bring surprise; 
 
 Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find 
 
 A country with — ay, or without mankind ; 
 
 Yet was I born where men are ])roud to be, 
 70 Not without cause ; and should I leave behind 
 
 The inviolate island of the sage and free, 
 And seek me out a home by a remoter sea, 
 
 IX. 
 
 Perhaps I loved it well ; and should I lay 
 My ashes in a soil which is not mine, 
 76 My spirit shall resume it — if we may 
 Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine 
 My hopes of being remember'd in my line 
 
4 BYRON 
 
 With my land's language : if too fond and far 
 These aspirations in their scope incline, — 
 80 If my fame should be, as my fortunes are, 
 
 Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar 
 
 X. 
 
 My name from out the temple where the dead 
 Are honour'd by the nations — let it be, 
 And light the laurels on a loftier head ! 
 85 And be the Spartan's ej)ita})h on me, 
 
 ' Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.' 
 Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need ; 
 The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree 
 I planted, — they have torn me — and I bleed : 
 90 I should have known what fruit would sj)ring from 
 such a seed. 
 
 XI. 
 The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord ; 
 And annual marriage now no more renew'd. 
 The Hucentaur lies rotting unrestored, 
 Neglected garment of her widowliood ! 
 M St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood 
 
 Stand, but in mockery of his wither'd ])ower. 
 Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued, 
 And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour 
 When Venice was a queen with an unequall'd 
 dower. 
 
 XII. 
 
 100 The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — 
 An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt ; 
 Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains 
 Clank over sce])tred cities ; nations melt 
 From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 5 
 
 105 The sunshine for a while, and downward go 
 
 Like lauwine loosen'd from the mountain's 
 
 belt ; — 
 Oh, for one hour of blind old Dandolo, 
 Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, 
 no Their gilded collars glittering in the sun ; 
 But is not Doria's menace come to pass? 
 Are they not bridled f — Venice lost and won, 
 Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done. 
 Sinks, like a sea- weed, into whence she rose ! 
 "5 Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and shun, 
 Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes. 
 From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 In youth she was all glory, a new Tyre, 
 Her very by-word sprung from victory, 
 
 120 The ' Planter of the Lion,' which through fire 
 And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea ; 
 Though making many slaves, herself still free. 
 And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite ; — 
 Witness Troy's rival, Candia ! Vouch it, ye 
 
 125 Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight ! 
 For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Statues of glass — all shiver'd — the long file 
 Of her dead Doges are declined to dust ; 
 But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous 
 pile 
 130 Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust ; 
 
6 BYRON 
 
 Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, 
 Have yielded to the stranger : empty halls, 
 Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 
 Too oft remind her who and what enthralls, 
 135 Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely 
 walls. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, 
 And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of war, 
 Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse, 
 Her voice their only ransom from afar : 
 140 See ! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car 
 Of the o'ermaster'd victor stops, the reins 
 Fall from his hands — his idle scimitar 
 Starts from its belt — he rends his captive's chains, 
 And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his 
 strains. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 145 Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, 
 Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot. 
 Thy choral memory of the Bard divine. 
 Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot 
 Which ties thee to thy tyrants ; and thy lot 
 
 150 Is shameful to the nations, — most of all, 
 
 Albion, to thee : the Ocean queen should not 
 Abandon Ocean's children ; in the fall 
 Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 I loved her from my boyhood ; she to me 
 155 Was as a fairy city of the heart, 
 
 Rising like water-columns from the sea, 
 
CHILDE HAROLD T 
 
 Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart : 
 And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakespeare's art, 
 Had stamped her image in me ; and even so, 
 160 Although I found her thus, we did not part. 
 Perchance even dearer in her day of woe 
 Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 I can repeople with the past — and of 
 
 The present there is still for eye and thought, 
 
 166 And meditation chasten'd down, enough. 
 
 And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought ; 
 And of the happiest moments which were wrought 
 Within the web of my existence, some 
 From thee, fair Venice, have their colours caught : 
 
 170 There are some feelings Time cannot benumb, 
 Nor torture shake, or mine would now be cold and 
 dumb. 
 
 XX. 
 
 But from their nature will the tannen grow 
 Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter'd rocks. 
 Rooted in barrenness, where nought below 
 175 Of soil supports them 'gainst the Alpine shocks 
 Of eddying storms ; yet springs the trunk, and 
 
 mocks 
 The howling tempest, till its height and frame 
 Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks 
 Of bleak, gray granite into life it came, 
 180 And grew a giant tree ; — the mind may grow the 
 same. 
 
 XXI. 
 Existence may be borne, and the deep root 
 Of ^''^"^ and sufferance make its firm abode 
 
8 BYRON 
 
 In bare and desolated bosoms : mute 
 The camel labours with the heaviest load, 
 185 And the wolf dies in silence, — not bestow'd 
 In vain should such example be ; if they, 
 Things of ignoble or of savage mood, 
 Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay 
 May temper it to bear, — it is but for a day. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 190 All suffering doth destroy, or is destroyed 
 Even by the sufferer ; and, in each event. 
 Ends: — Some, with hope replenish 'd and re- 
 
 buoy'd. 
 Return to whence they came — with like intent, 
 And weave their web again ; some, bow'd and 
 bent, 
 195 AVax gray and ghastly, withering ere their time, 
 And perish with the reed on which they leant ; 
 Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime. 
 According as their souls were form'd to sink or 
 climb. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 But ever and anon of griefs subdued 
 200 There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, 
 Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued ; 
 And slight withal may be the things which bring 
 Back on the heart the weight which it would 
 
 fling 
 Aside for ever : it may be a sound, — 
 205 A tone of music, summer's eve, or spring, 
 
 A flower, the wind, the ocean, — which shall 
 wound. 
 Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly 
 bound ; 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 9 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 And how and why we know not, nor can trace 
 Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, 
 
 210 But feel the shock renew'd, nor can efface 
 
 The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, 
 Which out of things familiar, undesign'd, 
 When least we deem of such, calls up to view 
 The spectres whom no exorcism can bind, 
 
 215 The cold — the changed — perchance the dead — 
 anew. 
 The mourn'd, the loved, the lost — too many ! — yet 
 
 , how few! 
 
 XXV. 
 
 But my soul wanders ; I demand it back 
 To meditate amongst decay, and stand 
 A ruin amidst ruins ; there to track 
 
 220 Fall'n states and buried greatness, o'er a land 
 Which was the mightiest in its old command, 
 And is the loveliest, and must ever be 
 The master-mould of Nature's heavenly hand, 
 Wherein were cast the heroic and the free, 
 
 225 The beautiful, the brave — the lords of earth and 
 sea, 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome ! 
 And even since, and now, fair Italy, 
 Thou art the garden of the world, the home 
 Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree ; 
 230 Even in thy desert, what is like to thee ? 
 Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste 
 More rich than other climes' fertility; 
 
10 BYRON 
 
 Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced 
 With an immaculate charm which cannot be de- 
 faced. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 235 The moon is up, and yet it is not night — 
 Sunset divides the sky with her, a sea 
 Of glory streams along the Alpine height 
 Of blue Friuli's mountains ; Heaven is free 
 From clouds, but of all colours seems to be 
 
 240 Melted to one vast Iris of the West, 
 
 Where the Day joins the past Eternity ; 
 While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest 
 Floats through the azure air, an island of the blest ! 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 A single star is at her side, and reigns 
 345 With her o'er half the lovely heaven ; but still 
 Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
 RoU'd o'er the peak of the far Rhsetian hill. 
 As Day and Night contending were, until 
 Nature reclaim'd her order : gently flows 
 280 The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil 
 The odorous purple of a new-born rose, 
 Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within 
 it glows, 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Fill'd with the face of heaven, which from afar 
 Comes down upon the waters ; all its hues, 
 266 From the rich sunset to the rising star, 
 Their magical variety diffuse. 
 And now they change ; a paler shadow strews 
 Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting day 
 Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues 
 
CHILD E HAROLD 11 
 
 260 With a new colour as it gasps away, 
 
 The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone — and all is 
 gray. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 There is a tomb in Arqua ; - — rear'd in air, 
 Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose 
 The bones of Laura's lover: here repair 
 
 265 Many familiar with his well-sung woes. 
 The pilgrims of his genius. He arose 
 To raise a language, and his land reclaim 
 From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes ; 
 Watering the tree which bears his lady's name 
 
 270 With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 They keep his dust in Arqua where he died, 
 The mountain-village where his latter days 
 Went down the vale of years; and 'tis their 
 
 pride — 
 An honest pride, and let it be their praise — 
 275 To offer to the passing stranger's gaze 
 
 His mansion and his sepulchre ; both plain 
 And venerably simple, such as raise 
 A feeling more accordant with his strain 
 Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 280 And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt 
 Is one of that complexion which seems made 
 For those who their mortality have felt, 
 And sought a refuge from their hopes decay'd 
 In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade, 
 
 385 Which shows a distant prospect far away 
 
12 BYRON 
 
 Of busy cities, now in vain disj^lay'd 
 For they can lure no further ; and the ray 
 Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday, 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers, 
 290 And shining in the brawling brook, where-by. 
 
 Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours 
 
 With a calm languor, which, though to the eye 
 
 Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. 
 
 If from society we learn to live, 
 205 'T is solitude should teach us how to die ; 
 
 It hath no flatterers ; vanity can give 
 No hollow aid ; alone — man with his God must 
 strive : 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Or, it may be, with demons, who impair 
 The strength of better thoughts, and seek their 
 prey 
 
 800 In melanchol}^ bosoms, such as were 
 
 Of moody texture from their earliest day 
 And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay, 
 Deeming themselves predestined to a doom 
 Which is not of the pangs that pass away ; 
 
 305 Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, 
 The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Ferrara, in thy wide and grass-grown streets 
 Whose symmetry was not for solitude. 
 There seems as 't were a curse upon the seats 
 sio Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood 
 Of Este, which for many an age made good 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 13 
 
 Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore 
 Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood 
 Of petty power impell'd, of those who wore 
 315 The wreath which Dante's brow alone had worn 
 before. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 And Tasso is their glory and their shame : 
 Hark to his strain and then survey his cell ! 
 And see how dearly earn'd Torquato's fame, 
 And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell. 
 320 The miserable despot could not quell 
 
 The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend 
 With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell 
 Where he had plunged it. Glory without end 
 Scattered the clouds away, and on that name attend 
 
 XXXVIT. 
 
 325 The tears and praises of all time ; while thine 
 Would rot in its oblivion — in the sink 
 Of worthless dust which from thy boasted line 
 Is shaken into nothing — but the link 
 Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think 
 330 Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn. 
 Alfonso ! how thy ducal pageants shrink 
 From thee ! if in another station born. 
 Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou madest to 
 mourn : — 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 TTiou ! form'd to eat, and be despised, and die, 
 335 Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou 
 Hadst a more splendid trough and wider sty ; 
 He I with a glory round his f urrow'd brow, 
 Which emanated then, and dazzles now, 
 
14 BYRON 
 
 In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire, 
 840 And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow 
 
 No strain which shamed his country's creaking 
 lyre, 
 That whetstone of the teeth — monotony in wire! 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Peace to Torquato's injured shade ! 't was his 
 In life and death to be the mark where Wrong 
 
 345 Aim'd with her poison'd arrows, but to miss. 
 Oh, victor unsurpass'd in modern song ! 
 Each year brings forth its millions ; but how long 
 The tide of generations shall roll on. 
 And not the whole combined and countless throng 
 
 Ko Compose a mind like thine ? Though all in one 
 Condensed their scatter'd rays, they would not form 
 a sun. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Great as thou art, yet parallel'd by those. 
 Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine. 
 The ]^ards of Hell and Chivalry : first rose 
 
 855 The Tuscan father's comedy divine ; 
 Then, not unequal to the Florentine 
 The southern Scott, the minstrel who call'd forth 
 A new creation with his magic line. 
 And, like the Ariosto of the North, 
 
 860 Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly 
 worth. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust 
 The iron crown of laurel's mimic'd leaves ; 
 Nor was the ominous element unjust. 
 For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 15 
 
 M5 Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves, 
 
 And the false semblance but disgraced his brow ; 
 Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieves. 
 Know, that the lightning sanctifies below 
 Whate'er it strikes ; — yon head is doubly sacred 
 now. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 870 Italia ! oh, Italia ! thou who hast 
 
 The fatal gift of beauty, which became 
 A funeral dower of present woes and past. 
 On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough 'd by shame. 
 And annals graved in characters of flame. 
 
 875 Oh, God ! that thou wert in thy nakedness 
 
 Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim 
 
 Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press 
 
 To shed thy blood and drink the tears of thy distress ; 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Then mightst thou more appal ; or, less desired, 
 380 Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored 
 
 For thy destructive charms ; then, still untired, 
 Would not be seen the armed torrents pour'd 
 Down the deep Alps ; nor would the hostile horde 
 Of many-nation'd spoilers from the Po 
 885 Quaff blood and water ; nor the stranger's sword 
 Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, 
 Victor or vanquished, thou the slave of friend or foe. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, 
 The Roman friend of Rome's least-mortal mind, 
 390 The friend of Tully. As my bark did skim 
 The bright blue waters with a fanning wind, 
 Came Megara before me, and behind 
 
16 BYRON 
 
 ^giua lay, Piraeus on the right, 
 And Corinth on the left ; I lay reclined 
 395 Along the prow, and saw all these unite 
 
 In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight ; — 
 
 XLV. 
 
 For Time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd 
 Barbaric dwellings on their shatter'd site, 
 Which only make more mourn'd and more en- 
 dear'd 
 
 <«> The few last rays of their far-scatter'd light 
 And the crush'd relics of their vanish'd might. 
 The Roman saw these tombs in his own age. 
 These sej)ulchres of cities which excite 
 Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page 
 
 405 The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 That page is now before me, and on mine 
 His country's ruin added to the mass 
 Of perish'd states he mourn'd in their decline, 
 And I in desolation. All that was 
 410 Of then destruction is ; and now, alas ! 
 
 Rome — Rome imperial, ])ows her to the storm, 
 In the same dust and blackness, and we pass 
 The skeleton of her Titanic form, 
 Wrecks of another world whose ashes still are warm. 
 
 XL VII. 
 
 415 Yet, Italy ! through every other land 
 
 Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to 
 
 side ; 
 Mother of Arts, as once of arms ; thy hand 
 Was then our guardian, and is still our guide ; 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 17 
 
 Parent of our Religion, whom the wide 
 420 Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven ! 
 Europe, repentant of her prarricide, 
 Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, 
 Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 But Arno wins us to the fair white walls, 
 425 Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps 
 A softer feeling for her fairy halls. 
 Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps 
 Her corn and wine and oil, and Plenty leaps 
 To laughing life with her redundant horn. 
 «o Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps 
 Was modern Luxury of Commerce born, 
 And buried Learning rose, redeem'd to a new morn. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fills 
 The air around with beauty. We inhale 
 
 435 The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils 
 Part of its immortality ; the veil 
 Of heaven is half undrawn ; within the pale 
 W^e stand, and in that form and face behold 
 What mind can make when Nature's self would 
 fail ; 
 
 440 And to the fond idolaters of old 
 
 Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould. 
 
 We gaze and turn away, and know not where. 
 Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart 
 Reels with its fulness ; there — for ever there — 
 445 Chain'd to the chariot of triumphal Art, 
 
18 BYRON 
 
 We stand as captives and would not depart. 
 Away! — there need no words nor terms precise, 
 The paltry jargon of the marble mart 
 Where Pedantry gulls Folly — we have eyes : 
 ^ Blood, pulse, and breast confirm the Dardan Shep- 
 herd's prize. 
 
 LI. 
 
 Appear'dst thou not to Paris in this guise ? 
 Or to more deeply blest Anchises ? or. 
 In all thy perfect goddess-shij), when lies 
 Before thee thy own vanquish'd Lord of War ? 
 *55 And gazing in thy face as toward a star, 
 Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee u])turn. 
 Feeding on thy sweet cheek; while thy lips are 
 With lava kisses melting while they burn, 
 Shower'd on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from 
 an urn! 
 
 LII. 
 
 400 Glowing and cireumfused in speechless love, 
 Their full divinity inadequate 
 That feeling to express or to improve, 
 The gods become as mortals, and man's fate 
 Has moments like their brightest ; but the weight 
 
 *fl5 Of earth recoils upon us ; — let it go ! 
 We can recall such visions, and create, 
 From what has been or might be, things which grow 
 Into thy statue's form and look like gods below. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 I leave to learned fingers and wise hands, 
 470 The artist and his ape, to teach and tell 
 How well his connoisseurship understands 
 The graceful bend and the voluptuous swell : 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 19 
 
 Let these describe the undescribable ; 
 I would not their vile breath should crisp the 
 stream 
 475 Wherein that image shall for ever dwell, 
 The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream 
 That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie 
 Ashes which make it holier, dust which is 
 
 480 Even in itself an immortality, 
 
 Though there were nothing save the past, and this, 
 The particle of those sublimities 
 Which have relapsed to chaos : here repose 
 Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his, 
 
 <«5 The starry Galileo, with his woes ; 
 
 Here Machiavelli's earth returu'd to whence it rose. 
 
 LV. 
 
 These are four minds, which, like the elements. 
 Might furnish forth creation. Italy ! 
 Time, which hath wrong'd thee with ten thousand 
 rents 
 
 490 Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, 
 And hath denied, to every other sky 
 Spirits which soar from ruin : — thy decay 
 Is still impregnate with divinity. 
 Which gilds it with revivifying ray ; 
 
 495 Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 But where repose the all Etruscan three — 
 Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they. 
 The Bard of Prose, creative spirit, he 
 
20 BYRON 
 
 Of the Hundred Tales of love — where did they lay 
 500 Their bones, distinguish'd from our common clay 
 In death as life ? Are they resolved to dust, 
 And have their country's marbles nought to say ? 
 Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust ? 
 Did they not to her breast their filial earth intrust ? 
 
 LVII. 
 
 505 Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar, 
 Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore ; 
 Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, 
 Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore 
 Their children's children would in vain adore 
 
 610 With the remorse of ages ; and the crown 
 
 Which Petrarch's laureate brow sui)remely wore, 
 Upcm a far and foreign soil had grown, 
 His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled — not 
 thine own. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd 
 515 His dust ; and lies it not her Great among. 
 
 With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed 
 O'er him who form'd the Tuscan's siren tongue ? 
 That music in itself, whose sounds are song. 
 The poetry of speech ? No ; — even his tomb 
 520 Uptorn must bear the hysena bigot's wrong. 
 No more amidst the meaner dead find room. 
 Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for whom I 
 
 LIX. 
 
 And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust, — 
 Yet for this want more noted, as of yore 
 525 The Caesar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust, 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 21 
 
 Did but of Rome's best Son remind her more. 
 Happier Ravenna ! on thy hoary shore, 
 Fortress of falling empire, honour'd sleeps 
 The immortal exile ; Arqua, too, her store 
 530 Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, 
 
 While Florence vainly begs her banish'd dead, and 
 weeps. 
 
 LX. 
 What is her pyramid of precious stones, 
 Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues 
 Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones 
 535 Of merchant-dukes ? The momentary dews 
 W^hich, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse 
 Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead, 
 Whose names are mausoleums of the Muse, 
 Are gently prest with far more reverent tread 
 540 Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely 
 head. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 There be more things to greet the heart and eyes 
 In Arno's dome of Art's most princely shrine, 
 Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister vies ; 
 There be more marvels yet — but not for mine ; 
 545 For I have been accustom'd to entwine 
 
 My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields. 
 Than Art in galleries : though a work divine 
 Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields 
 Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields 
 
 LXII. 
 550 Is of anothertemper, and I roam 
 By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles 
 Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home ; 
 
22 BYRON 
 
 For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles 
 Come back before me, as his skill beguiles 
 655 The host between the mountains and the shore, 
 Where Courage falls in her despairing files, 
 And torrents, swoU'n to rivers with their gore. 
 Reek through the sultry plain with legions shattered 
 o'er, 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Like to a forest fell'd by mountain winds ; 
 
 5«o And such the storm of battle on this day. 
 
 And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds 
 To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray, 
 An earthquake reel'd unheededly away ! 
 None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet, 
 
 M5 And yawning forth a grave for those who lay 
 Upon their bucklers for a winding sheet ; 
 Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations 
 meet ! 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 The Earth to them was as a rolling bark 
 Which bore them to Eternity ; they saw 
 570 The Ocean round, but had no time to mark 
 The motions of their vessel ; Nature's law, 
 In them suspended, reck'd not of the awe 
 Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the 
 
 birds 
 Plunge in the clouds for refuge and withdraw 
 575 From their down-toppling nests ; and bellowing 
 herds 
 Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath 
 no words. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Far other scene is Thrasimene now ; 
 Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 23 
 
 Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough ; 
 
 680 Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain 
 
 Lay where their roots are ; but a brook hath ta'en — 
 A little rill of scanty stream and bed — 
 A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain ; 
 And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead 
 
 585 Made the earth wet and turn 'd the unwilling 
 waters red. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 But thou, Clitumnus, in thy sweetest wave 
 Of the most living crystal that was e'er 
 The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave 
 Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear 
 690 Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer 
 Grazes, — the purest god of gentle waters, 
 And most serene of aspect, and most clear ! 
 Surely that stream was unprof aned by slaughters — 
 A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daughters I 
 
 LXVII. 
 W5 And on thy happy shore a Temple still, 
 Of small and delicate proportion, keeps, 
 Upon a mild declivity of hill, 
 Its memory of thee ; beneath it sweeps 
 Thy current's calmness ; oft from out it leaps 
 floo The finny darter with the glittering scales. 
 Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps; 
 While, chance, some scatter 'd water-lily sails 
 Down where the shallower wave still tells its bub- 
 bling tales. 
 
 Lxvin. 
 
 Pass not unblest the Genius of the place I 
 eo6 If through the air a zephyr more serene 
 Win to the brow, 't is his ; and if ye trace 
 
24 BYRON 
 
 Along his margin a more eloquent green, 
 If on the heart the freshness of the scene 
 Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust 
 eio Of weary life a moment lave it clean 
 
 With Nature's baptism, — 'tis to him ye must * 
 Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 The roar of waters ! — from the headlong height 
 Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice; 
 
 ei5 The fall of waters! rapid as the light 
 
 The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ; 
 The hell of waters ! where they howl and hiss, 
 And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat 
 Of their great agony, wrung out from this 
 
 620 Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet 
 That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, 
 
 LXX. 
 
 And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again 
 Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, 
 With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, 
 
 626 Is an eternal April to the ground. 
 
 Making it all one emerald: — how profound 
 The gulf ! and how the giant element 
 From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound. 
 Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and 
 rent 
 
 830 With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful 
 vent 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 To the broad column which rolls on, and shows 
 
 More like tlie fountain of an infant sea 
 
 Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 25 
 
 Of a new world, than only thus to be 
 335 Parent of rivers, wliich flow gushingly, 
 
 With many windings, through the vale: — Look 
 
 back ! 
 Lo, where it comes like an eternity, 
 As if to sweep down all things in its track, 
 Charming the eye with dread — a matchless cataract, 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 640 Horribly beautiful ! but on the verge, 
 
 From side to side, beneath the glittering morn, 
 An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge. 
 Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn 
 Its steady dyes while all around is torn 
 
 645 By the distracted waters, bears serene 
 
 Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn; 
 Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene, 
 Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 Once more upon the woody Apennine, 
 650 The infant Alps, which — had I not before 
 
 Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine 
 Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar 
 The thundering lauwine — might be worshipp'd 
 
 more; 
 But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear 
 655 Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar 
 
 Glaciers of bleak Mont Blanc both far and near, 
 And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Th' Acroceraunian mountains of old name ; 
 And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly 
 
26 BYRON 
 
 660 Like spirits of the spot, as 't were for fame, 
 For still they soar'd unutterably high : 
 I 've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye ; 
 Athos, Olympus, ^^tna, Atlas, made 
 These hills seem things of lesser dignity, 
 
 665 AH, save the lone Soracte's height, display'd 
 Not now in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 For our remembrance, and from out the plain 
 Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break. 
 And on the curl hangs pausing. Not in vain 
 
 670 May he, who will, his recollections rake. 
 And quote in classic raptures, and awake 
 The hills with Latin echoes ; I abhorr'd 
 Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake, 
 The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word by word 
 
 675 In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 Aught that recalls the daily drug which turn'd 
 My sickening memory ; and, though Time hath 
 
 taught 
 My mind to meditate what then it learn'd, 
 Yet such the fix'd inveteracy wrought 
 680 By the impatience of my early thought. 
 
 That, with the freshness wearing out before 
 My mind could relish what it might have sought. 
 If free to choose, I cannot now restore 
 Its health ; but what it then detested, still abhor. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 685 Then farewell, Horace ; whom I hated so, 
 Not for thy faults, but mine ; it is a curse 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 27 
 
 To understand, not feel thy lyric flow, 
 To comprehend, but never love thy verse. 
 Although no deeper Moralist rehearse 
 690 Our little life, nor Bard prescribe his art. 
 Nor livelier Satirist the conscience pierce, 
 Awakening without wounding the touch'd heart ; 
 Yet fare thee well — upon Soracte's ridge we part. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 Oh Rome, my country ! city of the soul ! 
 
 695 The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, 
 Lone mother of dead empires, and control 
 In their shut breasts their petty misery. 
 What are our woes and sufferance ? Come and see 
 The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way 
 
 700 O'er steps of broken thrones and temples. Ye ! 
 Whose agonies are evils of a day — 
 A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 The Niobe of nations ! there she stands, 
 Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe ; 
 
 705 An empty urn within her withered hands. 
 Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago : 
 The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now; 
 The very sepulchres lie tenantless 
 Of their heroic dwellers; — dost thou flow, 
 
 710 Old Tiber, through a marble wilderness? 
 
 Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress ! 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and 
 
 Fire, 
 Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride ; 
 
28 BYRON 
 
 She saw her glories star by star expire, 
 715 And up the steep barbarian monarch s ride 
 
 Where the car climb \1 the capitol ; far and wide 
 Temple and tower went down, nor left a site: — 
 Chaos of rnins ! who shall trace the void, 
 O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, 
 720 And say, ' here was, or is,' where all is doubly night? 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 The double night of ages, and of her, 
 
 Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and 
 
 wrap 
 All round us ; we but feel our way to err : 
 The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map, 
 725 And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap ; 
 But Home is as the desert where we steer 
 Stumbling o'er recollections ; now we clap 
 Our hands, and cry ' P^ureka I' it is clear — 
 When but some false miraire of ruin rises near. 
 
 o 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 730 Alas, the lofty city ! and alas. 
 
 The trebly hundred triumphs ! and the day 
 When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass 
 The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away ! 
 Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay, 
 
 735 And Livy's pictured page ! — but these shall be 
 Her resurrection ; all beside — decay. 
 Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see 
 That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was 
 free ! 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 Oh thou, whose chariot roll'd on Fortune's wheel, 
 740 Triumphant Sylla ! thou, who didst subdue 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 29 
 
 Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst pause to feel 
 The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due 
 Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew 
 O'er prostrate Asia; — thou, who with thy frown 
 745 Annihilated senates — Roman, too, 
 
 With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down 
 With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown, 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 The dictatorial wreath, — couldst thou divine 
 To what would one day dwindle that which made 
 750 Thee more than mortal ? and that so supine 
 
 By aught than Romans Rome should thus be 
 
 laid? 
 She who was named Eternal ; and array'd 
 Her warriors but to conquer — she who veil'd 
 Earth with her haughty shadow, and display'd, 
 755 Until the o'er-canopied horizon fail'd. 
 
 Her rushing wings — Oh, she who was Almighty 
 hail'd! 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Sylla was first of victors ; but our own 
 The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell ; he 
 Too swept off senates while he hew'd the throne 
 
 760 Down to a block — immortal rebel ! See 
 What crimes it costs to be a moment free 
 And famous through all ages ! but beneath 
 His fate the moral lurks of destiny ; 
 His day of double victory and death 
 
 765 Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield his 
 breath. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 The third of the same moon whose former course 
 Had all but crown'd him, on the self-same day 
 
30 BYRON 
 
 Deposed him gently from his throne of force, 
 And laid him with the earth's preceding clay. 
 770 And sliow'd not Fortune thus how fame and 
 
 sway. 
 And all we deem delightful and consume 
 Our souls to compass through each arduous 
 
 way, 
 Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb ? 
 Were they but so in man's, how different were his 
 
 doom ! 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 775 And thou, dread statue, yet existent in 
 The austerest form of naked majesty! 
 Thou who beheldest, 'mid the assassins' din, 
 At thy bathed base the bloody Cresar lie, 
 Folding his robe in dying dignity, 
 
 780 An offering to thine altar from the queen 
 Of gods and men, great Nemesis ! did he die, 
 And thou, too, perish, Pompey ? have ye been 
 Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene ? 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome! 
 785 She-wolf, whose brazen-imaged dugs impart 
 The milk of conquest yet within the dome 
 Where, as a monument of antique art. 
 Thou staudest ; mother of the mighty heart. 
 Which the great founder suck'd from thy wild 
 teat, 
 790 Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's ethereal dart. 
 
 And thy limbs black with lightning — dost thou 
 yet 
 Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge 
 forget ? 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 31 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Thou dost ; but all thy foster-babes are dead — 
 The men of iron ; and the world hath rear'd 
 795 Cities from out their sepulchres. Men bled 
 In imitation of the things they fear'd 
 And fought and conquer'd and the same course 
 
 steer'd, 
 At apish distance ; but as yet none have, 
 Nor could the same supremacy have near'd, 
 800 Save one vain man, who is not in the grave 
 But vanquish'd by himself, to his own slaves a 
 slave — 
 
 xc. 
 
 The fool of false dominion — and a kind 
 Of bastard Ctesar, following him of old 
 With steps unequal ; for the Roman's mind 
 
 805 Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould. 
 With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold, 
 And an immortal instinct which redeem'd 
 The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold, 
 Alcides with the distaff now he seem'd 
 
 810 At Cleopatra's feet, — and now himself he beam'd, 
 
 xci. 
 
 And came — and saw — and conquer'd ! But the 
 
 man 
 Who would have tamed his eagles down to 
 
 flee. 
 Like a train'd falcon, in the Gallic van. 
 Which he, in sooth, long led to victory, 
 815 With a deaf heart which never seem'd to be 
 A listener to itself, was strangely framed ; 
 With but one weakest weakness — vanity. 
 
82 BYRON 
 
 Coquettish in ambition — still he aim'd — 
 At what ? can he avouch — or answer what he 
 claim'cl ? — 
 
 XCII. 
 
 820 And would be all or nothing — nor could wait 
 For the sure grave to level him ; few years 
 Had fix'd him with the Caesars in his fate, 
 On whom we tread. For this the conqueror rears 
 The arch of triumph ! and for this the tears 
 
 825 And blood of earth flow on as they have flow'd, 
 An universal deluge, which appears 
 Without an ark for wretched man's abode, 
 And ebbs but to reflow I — Renew thy rainbow, God ! 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 What from this barren being do we reap ? 
 830 Our senses narrow, and our reason frail. 
 
 Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep, 
 And all things weigh'd in custom's falsest scale ; 
 Opinion an omnipotence, — whose veil 
 Mantles the earth with darkness, until right 
 835 And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale 
 
 Lest their own judgments should become too 
 bright. 
 And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have 
 too much light. 
 
 XCIV. 
 
 And thus they plod in sluggish misery, 
 Rotting from sire to son, and age to age, 
 840 Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, 
 Bequeathing their hereditary rage 
 To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage 
 War for their chains, and rather than be free, 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 33 
 
 Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage 
 845 Within the same arena where they see 
 Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree. 
 
 xcv. 
 I speak not of men's creeds — they rest between 
 Man and his Maker — but of things allow'd, 
 Averr'd, and known — and daily, hourly seen — 
 
 850 The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd 
 And the intent of tyranny avow'd. 
 The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown 
 The apes of him who humbled once the proud 
 And shook them from their slumbers on the 
 throne ; 
 
 855 Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done. 
 
 xcvi. 
 
 Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be. 
 And Freedom find no champion and no child 
 Such as Columbia saw arise when she 
 Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled ? 
 860 Or must such minds be nourish'd in the wild, 
 Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar 
 Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled 
 On infant Washington ? Has Earth no more 
 Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such 
 shore ? 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 865 But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime, 
 And fatal have her Saturnalia been 
 To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime ; 
 Because the deadly days which we have seen, 
 And vile Ambition, that built up between 
 
 870 Man and his hopes an adamantine wall, 
 
34 BYRON 
 
 And the base pageant last upon the scene, 
 Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall 
 Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's worst — 
 bis second fall. 
 
 xcvin. 
 
 Yet, Freedom, yet thy banner, torn but flying, 
 875 Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind ; 
 Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying, 
 The loudest still the tempest leaves behind : 
 Tliy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 
 Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and little w^orth, 
 880 But the sap lasts, — and still the seed we find 
 Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North ; 
 So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth. 
 
 xcix. 
 
 There is a stern round tower of other days, 
 Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, 
 
 885 Such as an army's baffled strength delays. 
 Standing with half its battlements alone, 
 And with two thousand years of ivy grown. 
 The garland of eternity, wliere wave 
 The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown ; — 
 
 890 What was this tower of strength ? within its cave 
 What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid? A woman's 
 
 But who was she, the lady of the dead, 
 Tomb'd in a palace ? AYas she chaste and fair ? 
 Worthy a king's — or more — a Roman's bed ? 
 What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear? 
 What daughter of her beauties was the heir? 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 35 
 
 How lived, how loved, how died she ? Was she not 
 So honour'd — and conspicuously there, 
 Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, 
 900 Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot ? 
 
 CT. 
 
 Was she as those who love their lords, or they 
 Who love the lords of others ? — such have been 
 Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say. 
 Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien, 
 905 Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen, 
 Profuse of joy — or 'gainst It did she war. 
 Inveterate in virtue? Did she lean 
 To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar 
 Love from amongst her griefs ? — for such the 
 affections are. 
 
 CII. 
 
 910 Perchance she died in youth : it may be, bow'd 
 With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb 
 That welgh'd upon her gentle dust, a cloud 
 Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom 
 In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom 
 
 015 Heaven gives its favourites — early death ; yet 
 shed 
 A sunset charm around her, and illume 
 With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead. 
 Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf -like red. 
 
 cm. 
 
 Perchance she died in age — surviving all, 
 92© Charms, kindred, children — with the silver gray 
 On her long tresses, which might yet recall, 
 It may be, still a something of the day 
 When they were braided, and her proud array 
 
36 BYRON 
 
 And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed 
 925 By Rome. — But whither woukl Conjecture stray ? 
 Thus much alone we know — INIetella died, 
 The wealthiest Roman's wife. Behold his love or 
 pride ! 
 
 CIV. 
 
 I know not why, but standing thus by thee, 
 It seems as if I had thine inmate known, 
 030 Thou tomb ! and other days come back on me 
 With recollected music, though the tone 
 Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan 
 Of dying thunder on the distant wind ; 
 Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone 
 935 Till I had bodied forth the heated mind 
 
 Forms from the floating wreck which Ruin leaves 
 behind ; 
 
 cv. 
 
 And from the planks, far shatter'd o'er the rocks, 
 Built me a little bark of hope, once more 
 To battle with the ocean and the shocks 
 
 940 Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar 
 Which rushes on the solitary shore 
 Where all lies founder'd that was ever dear. 
 But could I irather from the wave-worn store 
 Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer ? 
 
 945 There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is 
 here. 
 
 CVI. 
 Then let the winds howl on ! their harmony 
 Shall henceforth be my music, and the night 
 The sound shall temper with the owlets' cry, 
 As I now hear them, in the fading light 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 37 
 
 950 Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site, 
 Answering each other on the Palatine, 
 With their large eyes all glistening gray and 
 
 bright. 
 And sailing pinions. Upon such a shrine 
 What are our petty griefs ? — let me not number 
 mine. 
 
 CVII. 
 
 953 Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown 
 Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd 
 On what were chambers, arch crush'd, column 
 
 strown 
 In fragments, choked up vaults, and frescos 
 
 steep' d 
 In subterranean damps where the owl peep'd, 
 960 Deeming it midnight : — Temples, baths, or halls ? 
 Pronounce who can ; for all that Learning reap'd 
 Prom her research hath been, that these are 
 walls — 
 Behold the Imperial Mount ! 't is thus the mighty 
 falls. 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 There is the moral of all human tales ; 
 965 'T is but the same rehearsal of the past. 
 
 First Freedom and then Glory — when that 
 
 fails, 
 Wealth, vice, corruption, — barbarism at last. 
 And History, with all her volumes vast. 
 Hath but one page, — 't is better written here 
 970 Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amass'd 
 All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear. 
 Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask. — Away with 
 words, draw near, 
 
38 BYRON 
 
 Cix. 
 
 Admire, exult — despise — laugh, weep, — for 
 
 here 
 There is such matter for all feeling : — Man ! 
 »75 Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear, 
 Ages and realms are crowded in this span, 
 This mountain, whose obliterated plan 
 The pyramid of empires pinnacled. 
 Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van 
 080 Till the sun's rays with added liame were fill'd ! 
 Where are its golden roofs ? where those who dared 
 to build ? 
 
 ex. 
 
 Tully was not so eloquent as thou. 
 
 Thou nameless column with the buried base ! 
 
 Wliat are the laurels of the Caesar's brow ? 
 
 885 Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-])lace. 
 Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, 
 Titus' or Trajan's ? No — 't is that of Time : 
 Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace 
 Scoffing ; and apostolic statues climb 
 
 9«o To crush the imperial urn whose ashes slept sublime, 
 
 CXI. 
 
 Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome, 
 And looking to the stars. They had contain'd 
 A spirit which with these would find a home. 
 The last of those who o'er the whole earth reign'd, 
 095 The Koman globe, for after none sustain'd 
 
 But yielded back his conquests : he was more 
 Than a mere Alexander, and, unstain'd 
 W^ith household blood and wine, serenely wore 
 His sovereign virtues — still we Trajan's name adore. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 39 
 
 CXII. 
 1000 Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place 
 Where Rome embraced her heroes? where the 
 
 steep 
 Tarpeian, fittest goal of Treason's race, 
 The promontory whence the Traitor's Leap 
 Cured all ambition ? Did the conquerors heap 
 1005 Their spoils here? Yes; and in yon field be- 
 low, 
 A thousand years of silenced factions sleep — 
 The Forum, where the immortal accents glow, 
 And still the eloquent air breathes — burns with 
 Cicero ! 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood: 
 1010 Plere a proud people's passions were exhaled, 
 . From the first hour of empire in the bud 
 To that when further worlds to conquer fail'd ; 
 But long before had Freedom's face been 
 
 veil'd, 
 And Anarchy assumed her attributes ; 
 1015 Till every lawless soldier who assail'd 
 
 Trod on the trembling senate's slavish mutes, 
 Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes. 
 
 CXIV. 
 Then turn me to her latest tribune's name. 
 From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee, 
 L020 Kedeemer of dark centuries of shame — 
 Tlie friend of Petrarch — hope of Italy — 
 Rienzi I last of Romans ! AVhile the tree 
 Of freedom's wither'd trunk puts forth a leaf 
 Even for thy tomb a garland let it be — 
 
40 BYRON 
 
 i»25 The forum's champion, and the people's 
 chief — 
 Her new-born Numa thou — with reign, alas, too 
 brief. 
 
 cxv. 
 
 Egeria, sweet creation of some heart 
 Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 
 As thine ideal breast ! whate'er thou art 
 
 1030 Or wert, — a young Aurora of the air, 
 Tlie nympholopsy of some fond despair ; 
 Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth. 
 Who found a more than common votary there 
 Too much adoring : whatsoe'er thy birth, 
 
 1035 Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied 
 forth. 
 
 CXVI. 
 
 The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled 
 With thine Elysian water-drops ; the face- 
 Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years un wrin- 
 kled, 
 Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, 
 1040 Whose green, wild margin now no more erase 
 Art's works ; nor must the delicate waters sleep, 
 Prison'd in marble ; bubbling from the base 
 Of the cleft statue, with a- gentle leap 
 The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy 
 creep, 
 
 CXVII. 
 
 1045 Fantastically tangled. The green hills 
 
 Are clothed with early blossoms, through the 
 
 grass 
 The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills 
 Of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass ; 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 41 
 
 Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class, 
 1080 Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes 
 Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass ; 
 The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes 
 Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems colour'd by 
 its skies. 
 
 CXVIII. 
 
 Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, 
 1065 Egeria ! thy all heavenly bosom beating 
 For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover. 
 The purple Midnight veil'd that mystic meeting 
 With her most starry canopy ; and seating 
 Thyself by thine adorer, what befell ? 
 1060 This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting 
 Of an enamour'd Goddess, and the cell 
 Haunted by holy Love — the earliest oracle ! 
 
 cxix. 
 
 And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, 
 Blend a celestial with a human heart ; 
 1065 And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing. 
 Share with immortal transports ? Could thine art 
 Make them indeed immortal, and impart 
 The purity of heaven to earthly joys. 
 Expel the venom and not blunt the dart — 
 iwo The dull satiety which all destroys — 
 
 And root from out the soul the deadly weed which 
 cloys ? , 
 
 cxx. 
 
 Alas ! our young affections run to waste, 
 
 Or water but the desert ; whence arise 
 
 But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste, 
 
42 BYRON 
 
 1075 Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes, 
 Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies, 
 And trees whose gums are poison ; — such the 
 
 plants 
 Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies 
 O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants 
 
 108O For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. 
 
 cxxi. 
 Oh Love ! no habitant of earth thou art — 
 An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, 
 A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart, 
 But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see 
 1085 The naked eye, thy form, as it should be ; 
 
 The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven. 
 Even with its own desiring phantasy. 
 And to a thought such shape and image given. 
 As haunts the unquench'd soul — parch'd — wearied 
 — wrung — and riven. 
 
 CXXII. 
 
 looo Of its own beauty is the mind diseased. 
 And fevers into false creation : — where, 
 Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath 
 
 seized ? — 
 In him alone. Can Nature show so fair? 
 Where are the charms and virtues which we dare 
 1006 Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, 
 The unreach'd Paradise of our despair. 
 Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen. 
 And overpowers the page where it would bloom 
 again ? 
 
 CXXIII. 
 
 Who loves, raves — 't is youth's frenzy ; but the 
 cure 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 43 
 
 1100 Is bitterer still. As charm by charm unwinds 
 Which robed our idols, and we see too sure 
 Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's 
 Ideal shape of such ; yet still it binds 
 The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, 
 1105 Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds ; 
 The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun. 
 Seems ever near the prize, — wealthiest when most 
 undone. 
 
 cxxiv. 
 
 We wither from our youth, we gasp away — 
 Sick — sick ; unf ound the boon — unslaked the 
 thirst, 
 1110 Though to the last, in verge of our decay, 
 
 Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first — 
 But all too late, — so are we doubly curst. 
 Love, fame, ambition, avarice — 't is the same. 
 Each idle, and all ill, and none the worst — 
 1115 For all are meteors with a different name, 
 
 And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the 
 flame. 
 
 cxxv. 
 
 Few — none — find what they love or could have 
 loved. 
 
 Though accident, blind contact, and the strong 
 
 Necessity of loving, have removed 
 "20 Antipathies — but to recur, ere long, 
 
 Envenom'd with irrevocable wrong ; 
 
 And Circumstance, that unspiritual god 
 
 And miscreator, makes and helps along 
 
 Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod, 
 1125 Whose touch turns Hope to dust, — the dust we all 
 have trod. 
 
44 BYRON 
 
 CXXVI. 
 
 Our life is a false nature, 't is not in 
 The harmony of things, — this hard decree, 
 This uneradicable taint of sin, 
 This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree 
 1130 Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be 
 The skies which rain their plagues on men like 
 
 dew — 
 Disease, death, bondage — all the woes we see — 
 And worse, the woes we see not — which throb 
 
 through 
 The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new. 
 
 CXXVII. 
 
 1135 Yet let us ponder boldly ; 't is a base 
 Abandonment of reason to resign 
 Our right of thought, our last and only place 
 Of refuge — this, at least, shall still be mine. 
 Though from our birth the faculty divine 
 
 1140 Is chain'd and tortured — cabin'd, cribb'd, con- 
 fined, 
 And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine 
 Too brightly on the unprepared mind. 
 The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the 
 
 blind. 
 
 CXXVIII. 
 
 Arches on arches ! as it were that Rome, 
 1145 Collecting the chief trophies of her line, 
 
 Would build up all her triumphs in one dome, — 
 Her Coliseum stands ; the moonbeams shine 
 As 't were its natural torches, for divine 
 Should be the light which streams here, to illume 
 M50 This long-explored but still exhaustless mine 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 45 
 
 Of contemplation ; and the azure gloom 
 Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume 
 
 CXXIX. 
 
 Hues which have words and speak to ye of heaven 
 Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument, 
 
 1155 And shadows forth its glory. There is given 
 
 Unto the things of earth, which Time hath 
 
 bent, 
 A spirit's feeling ; and where he hath leant 
 His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power, 
 And magic in the ruin'd battlement, 
 
 1160 For which the palace of the present hour 
 
 Must yield its pomp and wait till ages are its dower. 
 
 cxxx. 
 
 Oh, Time ! the beautifier of the dead, 
 
 Adorner of the ruin, comforter 
 
 And only healer when the heart hath bled — 
 1165 Time ! the corrector where our judgments err. 
 
 The test of truth, love, — sole philosopher. 
 
 For all besides are sophists, from thy thrift 
 
 Which never loses though it doth defer — 
 
 Time, the avenger ! unto thee I lift 
 1170 My hands and eyes and heart, and crave of thee a 
 gift: 
 
 CXXXI. 
 
 Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a 
 
 shrine 
 And temple more divinely desolate, 
 Among thy mightier offerings here are mine. 
 Ruins of years — though few, yet full of fate : — 
 1175 If thou hast ever seen me too elate. 
 
46 BYRON 
 
 Hear me not ; but if calmly I have borne 
 Good, and reserved my pride against the hate 
 Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn 
 This iron in my soul in vain — shall they not mourn ? 
 
 CXXXII. 
 1180 And thou, who never yet of human wrong 
 Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis ! 
 Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long — 
 Thou, who didst call the Furies from the abyss, 
 And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss 
 1185 For that unnatural retribution — just. 
 
 Had it but been from hands less near — in this 
 Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust ! 
 Dost thou not hear my heart ? — Awake ! thou shalt, 
 and must. 
 
 CXXXIII. 
 It is not that I may not have incurr'd 
 1190 For my ancestral faults or mine the wound 
 I bleed withal, and, had it been conferr'd 
 With a just weapon, it had flow'd unbound ; 
 But now my blood shall not sink in the ground ; 
 To thee I do devote it — thou shalt take 
 1195 The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and 
 found. 
 Which if / have not taken for the sake — 
 But let that pass — I sleep, but thou shalt yet 
 awake. 
 
 cxxxiv. 
 
 And if my voice break forth, 't is not that now 
 I shrink from what is suffer'd ; let him speak 
 1200 Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, 
 
 Or seen m}^ mind's convulsion leave it weak : 
 But in this page a record will I seek. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 47 
 
 Not in the air shall these my words disperse, 
 Though I be ashes ; a far hour shall wreak 
 1205 The deep prophetic fulness of this verse, 
 
 And pile on human heads the mountain of my 
 curse I 
 
 cxxxv. 
 
 That curse shall be Forgiveness. Have I not — 
 Hear me, my mother Earth ! behold it, Heaven ! — 
 Have I not had to wrestle with my lot ? 
 
 1210 Have I not suffer'd things to be forgiven ? 
 
 Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart riven, 
 Hopes sapp'd, name blighted. Life's life lied 
 
 away? 
 And only not to desperation driven. 
 Because not altogether of such clay 
 
 1215 As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. 
 
 CXXXVI. 
 
 From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy 
 Have I not seen what human things could do? 
 From the loud roar of foaming calumny 
 To the small whisper of the as paltry few, 
 1220 And subtler venom of the reptile crew. 
 
 The Janus glance of whose significant eye. 
 Learning to lie with silence, would seem true. 
 And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh. 
 Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy. 
 
 CXXXVII. 
 
 1225 But I have lived, and have not lived in vain : 
 My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire. 
 And my frame perish even in conquering pain ; 
 But there is that within me which shall tire 
 
48 BYRON 
 
 Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire ; 
 1230 Something unearthly which they deem not of, 
 Like the remember'd tone of a mute lyre, 
 Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and move 
 In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. 
 
 CXXXVIII. 
 
 The seal is set. — Now welcome, thou dread 
 power ! 
 
 1235 Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here 
 Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour 
 With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear; 
 Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear 
 Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene 
 
 1240 Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear 
 That we become a part of what has been. 
 And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen. 
 
 CXXXIX. 
 
 And here the buzz of eager nations ran. 
 In murmur'd pity or loud-roar'd applause, 
 
 1245 As man was slaughter'd by his fellow man. 
 
 And wherefore slaughter'd? wherefore, but be- 
 cause 
 Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws, 
 And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore not ? 
 What matters where we fall to fill the maws 
 
 1250 Of worms — on battle-plains or listed spot ? 
 Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. 
 
 CXL. 
 
 I see before me the Gladiator lie : 
 
 He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
 
 Consents to death, but conquers agony. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 49 
 
 1255 And his droop'd head sinks gradually low — 
 
 And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
 From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, 
 Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now 
 The arena swims around him — he is gone, 
 
 1260 Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the 
 wretch who won. 
 
 CXLI. 
 
 He heard it, but he heeded not— his eyes 
 Were with his heart and that was far away ; 
 He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize. 
 But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, 
 1265 There were his young barbarians all at play, 
 
 There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, 
 Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday — 
 All this rush'd with his blood. — Shall he expire 
 And unavenged ? — Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your 
 ire ! 
 
 CXLII. 
 
 1270 But here, where Murder breathed her bloody 
 steam ; 
 And there, where buzzing nations choked the 
 
 ways. 
 And roar'd or murmur'd like a mountain stream 
 Dashing or winding as its torrent strays ; 
 Here, where the Roman millions' blame or praise 
 1275 Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd. 
 
 My voice sounds much, and fall the stars' faint 
 
 rays 
 On the arena void — seats crush'd — walls 
 bow'd — 
 And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely 
 loud. 
 
60 BYRON 
 
 CXLIII. 
 A ruin — yet what ruin ! From its mass 
 1280 Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been rear'd ; 
 Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, 
 And marvel where the spoil could have appear'd. 
 Hath it indeed been plunder'd, or but clear'd ? 
 Alas ! developed, opens the decay, 
 1285 When the colossal fabric's form is near'd : 
 It will not bear the brightness of the day. 
 Which streams too much on all years, man, have 
 reft away. 
 
 CXLIV. 
 But when the rising moon begins to climb 
 Its topmost arch and gently pauses there ; 
 1290 When the stars twinkle through the loops of 
 time. 
 And the low night-breeze waves along the air 
 The garland forest, which the gray walls wear 
 Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head ; 
 When the light shines serene but doth not 
 glare, 
 1295 Then in this magic circle raise the dead : 
 
 Heroes have trod this spot — 't is on their dust ye 
 tread. 
 
 CXLV. 
 
 ' While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand ; 
 When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall ; 
 And when Rome falls — the World.' From our 
 own land 
 1300 Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall 
 In Saxon times, which we are wont to call 
 Ancient ; and these three mortal things are still 
 On their foundations, and unalter'd all ; 
 
CHILDE HAROLD . 61 
 
 Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill, 
 1305 The World, the same wide den — of thieves, or 
 what ye will. 
 
 CXLVI. 
 
 Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime — 
 Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods. 
 From Jove to Jesus — spared and blest by time ; 
 Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods 
 1310 Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man 
 
 plods 
 His way through thorns to ashes — glorious dome ! 
 Shalt thou not last? Time's scythe and tyrants' 
 
 rods 
 Shiver upon thee — sanctuary and home 
 Of art and piety — Pantheon ! — pride of Rome ! 
 
 CXLVII. 
 
 1315 Relic of nobler days and noblest arts ! 
 
 Despoil'd, yet perfect, with thy circle spreads 
 A holiness appealing to all hearts — 
 To art a model ; and to liim who treads 
 Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds 
 
 1320 Her light through thy sole aperture ; to those 
 Who worship, here are altars for their beads ; 
 And they who feel for genius may repose 
 Their eyes on honour'd forms whose busts around 
 them close. 
 
 CXLVIII. 
 
 There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light 
 1325 What do I gaze on ? Nothing : Look again ! 
 Two forms are slowly shadow'd on my sight — 
 Two insulated phantoms of the brain : 
 It is not so ; I see them full and plain — 
 
52 BYRON 
 
 An old man, and a female young and *fai?, 
 1330 Fresh as a nursing mother, in. whose vein 
 
 The blood is nectar; — but what doth she there 
 With her un mantled neck, and bosom white and bare ? 
 
 CXLIX. 
 
 Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, 
 Where on the heart and from the heart we took 
 
 1335 Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife, 
 Blest into mother, in the innocent look 
 Or even the piping cry of lips that brook 
 No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives 
 Man knows not, wlien from out its cradled nook 
 
 1340 She sees her little bud put forth its leaves — 
 
 What may the fruit be yet? — I know not, Cain 
 was Eve's. 
 
 CL. 
 
 But liere youth offers to old age the food, 
 The milk of his own gift: — it is her sire 
 To whom she renders back the debt of blood 
 
 1345 Born with lier birth. No ; he shall not expire 
 While in those warm and lovely veins the fire 
 Of health and holy feeling can provide 
 Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises 
 
 higher 
 Than Egypt's river : — from that gentle side 
 
 1350 Drink, drink and live, old man ! Heaven's realm 
 holds no such tide. 
 
 CLI. 
 
 The starry fable of the milky way 
 
 Has not thy story's purity ; it is 
 
 A constellation of a sweeter ray. 
 
 And sacred Nature triumphs more in this 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 53 
 
 1355 Reverse of her decree than in the abyss 
 
 Where sparkle distant worlds. Oh, holiest nurse ! 
 No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss 
 To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source 
 With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. 
 
 CLII. 
 
 1300 Turn to the Mole which Hadrian rear'd on high, 
 Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles, 
 Colossal copyist of deformity. 
 Whose travell'd phantasy from the far Nile's 
 Enormous model doom'd the artist's toils 
 
 1365 To build for giants, and for his vain earth, 
 
 His shrunken ashes, raise this dome. How smiles 
 The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth, 
 To view the huge design which sprung from such 
 a birth I 
 
 CLIII. 
 
 But lo, the dome, the vast and wondrous dome 
 1370 To which Diana's marvel was a cell, 
 
 Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb I 
 I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle — 
 Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell 
 The hyaena and the jackal in their shade ; 
 1375 I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell 
 
 Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have survey 'd 
 Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem 
 pray'd ; 
 
 CLIV. 
 
 But thou, of temples old or altars new, 
 Standest alone, with nothing like to thee — 
 1380 Worthiest of Ood, the holy and the true. 
 Since Zion's desolation, when that He 
 Forsook his former city, what could be, 
 
64 BYRON 
 
 Of earthly structures, in his honour piled 
 Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty, 
 1385 Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are aisled 
 In this eternal ark of worship undefiled. 
 
 CLV. 
 
 Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not ; 
 And why ? it is not lessen'd : but thy mind, 
 Expanded by the genius of the spot, 
 1390 Has grown colossal, and can only find 
 A fit abode wherein appear enshrined 
 Thy hopes of immortality ; and thou 
 Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, 
 See thy God face to face as thou dost now 
 His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow. 
 
 1306 
 
 CLVI. 
 
 Thou movest — but increasing with the advance, 
 Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth 
 
 rise. 
 Deceived by its gigantic elegance ; 
 Vastness which grows, but grows to harmonise — 
 MOO All musical in its immensities ; 
 
 Rich marbles, richer painting, shrines where flame 
 
 The lamps of gold, and haughty dome which vies 
 
 In air with Earth's chief structures, though their 
 
 frame 
 
 Sits on the firm-set ground — and this the clouds 
 
 must claim. 
 
 CLVII^ 
 
 1405 Thou seest not all; but piecemeal thou must 
 break 
 To separate contemplation the great whole ; 
 And as the ocean many bays will make. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 65 
 
 That ask the eye — so here condense thy soul 
 To more immediate objects, and control 
 1410 Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart 
 Its eloquent proportions, and unroll 
 In mighty graduations, part by part, 
 The glory which at once upon thee did not dart, 
 
 CLViii. 
 Not by its fault — but thine. Our outward sense 
 
 1415 Is but of gradual grasp : and as it is 
 
 That what we have of feeling most intense 
 Outstrips our faint expression ; even so this 
 Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice 
 Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great 
 
 i«o Defies at first our Nature's littleness, 
 
 Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate 
 Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. 
 
 CLIX. 
 Then pause, and be enlighten'd; there is more 
 In such a survey than the sating gaze 
 1425 Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore 
 The worship of the place, or the mere praise 
 Of art and its great masters, who could raise 
 What former time, nor skill, nor thought could 
 
 plan ; 
 The fountain of sublimity displays 
 1430 Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man 
 Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions 
 can. 
 
 CLX. 
 Or, turning to the Vatican, go see 
 Laocoon's torture dignifying pain — 
 A father's love and mortal's agony 
 1435 With an immortal's patience blending. Vain 
 
56 BYRON 
 
 The struggle ; vain, against the coiling strain 
 And gripe and deepening of the dragon's grasp, 
 The old man's clencli ; the long envenoni'd chain 
 Rivets the living links, the enormous asp 
 14*0 Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp. 
 
 CLXI. 
 
 Or view the Lord of the unerring bow, 
 The God of life and poesy and light, — 
 The Sun in human limbs array'd, and brow 
 All radiant from his triumph in the fight ; 
 1448 The shaft hath just been shot — the arrow bright 
 Witli an immortal's vengeance ; in his eye 
 And nostril beautiful disdain and might 
 And majesty flash their full lightnings by, 
 Developing in that one glance the Deity. 
 
 CLXII. 
 
 1450 But in his delicate form — a dream of Love, 
 Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast 
 Long'd for a deathless lover from above 
 And madden'd in that vision — are exprest 
 All that ideal beauty ever bless'd 
 
 1455 The mind with in its most unearthly mood. 
 
 When each conception was a heavenly guest — 
 A ray of immortality — and stood, 
 Starlike, around, until they gathered to a god I 
 
 CLXIII. 
 And if it be Prometheus stole from Heaven 
 1400 The fire which we endure, it was repaid 
 By him to whom the energy was given 
 Which this poetic marble hath array'd 
 With an eternal glory — which, if made 
 By human hands, is not of human thought; 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 57 
 
 "65 And Time himself hath hallowVl it, nor laid 
 One ringlet in the dust ; nor hath it caught 
 A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 
 't was wrought. 
 
 CLXIV. 
 
 But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song. 
 The being who upheld it through the past? 
 
 1470 Methinks he cometh late and tarriec long. 
 
 He is no more — these breathings are his last ; 
 His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast, 
 And he himself as nothing : — if he was 
 Aught bnt a phantasy, and could be class'd 
 
 1475 With forms which live and suffer — let that pass — 
 His shadow fades away into Destruction's mass, 
 
 CLXV. 
 
 Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all 
 That we inherit in its mortal shroud. 
 And spreads the dim and universal pall 
 
 1480 Through which all things grow phantoms ; and 
 the cloud 
 Between ns sinks and all which ever glow'd, 
 Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays 
 A melancholy halo scarce allow'd 
 To hover on the verge of darkness ; — rays 
 
 "ss Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze, 
 
 CLXVI. 
 
 And send us prying into the abyss. 
 To gather what we shall be when the frame 
 Shall be resolved to something less- than this 
 Its wretc^hed essence ; and to dream of fame, 
 1400 And wipe the dust from off the idle name 
 
 We never more shall hear, — but never more. 
 
68 BYRON 
 
 Oh, happier thought! can we be made the same: 
 It is enough in sooth that ofice we bore 
 These fardels of the heart — the heart whose sweat 
 was gore. 
 
 CLXVII. 
 1495 Ilark I forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, 
 A long low distant murmur of dread sound, 
 Such as arises when a nation bleeds 
 With some deep and immedicable wound ; 
 Through storm and darkness yawns the rending 
 ground ; 
 1500 The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief 
 Seems royal still, though with her head dis- 
 crowned ; 
 And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief 
 She clasps a babe to whom her breast yields no 
 relief. 
 
 CLXVIII. 
 
 Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou ? 
 
 1506 Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead ? 
 Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low 
 Some less majestic, less beloved head ? 
 In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, 
 The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, 
 
 1510 Death hush'd that pang for ever ; with thee fled 
 The present happiness and promised joy 
 Which fiird the imperial isles so full it seem'd to 
 
 cloy. 
 
 CLXIX. 
 
 Peasants bring forth in safety. — Can it be, 
 Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored ! 
 1515 Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, 
 And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to 
 hoard 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 59 
 
 Her many griefs for One ; for she had pour'd 
 Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head 
 Beheld her Iris. — Thou, too, lonely lord, 
 1520 And desolate consort — vainly wert thou wed ! 
 The husband of a year ! the father of the dead ! 
 
 CLXX. 
 
 Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made ; 
 Thy bridal's fruit is ashes ; in the dust 
 The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is laid, 
 
 1525 The love of millions ! How we did intrust 
 Futurity to her ! and, though it must 
 Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd 
 Our children should obey her child, and bless'd 
 Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd 
 
 1530 Like stars to shepherds' eyes : — 't was but a meteor 
 beam'd. 
 
 CLXXI. 
 
 Woe unto us, not her ; for she sleeps well : 
 The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue 
 Of hollow counsel, the false oracle. 
 Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung 
 1535 Its knell in princely ears till the o'er-stung 
 
 Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate 
 Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath 
 
 flung 
 Against their blind omnipotence a weight 
 Within the opposing scale which crushes soon or 
 
 late, — 
 
 CLXXII. 
 
 1540 These might have been her destiny ; but no, 
 Our hearts deny it: and so young, so fair. 
 Good without effort, great without a foe ; 
 But now a bride and mother — and now there! 
 
60 BYRON 
 
 How many ties did that stern moment tear ! 
 1545 From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast 
 Is link'd the electric chain of that despair, 
 Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest 
 The land which loved thee so that none could love 
 thee best. 
 
 CLXXIII. 
 
 Lo, Nemi ! naveird in the woody hills 
 1550 So far, that the uprooting wind which tears 
 
 The oak from his foundation, and which spills 
 The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears 
 Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares 
 The oval mirror of thy glassy lake ; — 
 1555 And, calm as cherish'd hate, its surface wears 
 A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake. 
 All coil'd into itself and round, as sleeps the snake. 
 
 CLXXIV. 
 
 And near Albano's scarce divided waves 
 Shine from a sister valley ; and afar 
 1560 The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
 The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war, 
 'Arms and the Man,' whose re-ascending star 
 Rose o'er an empire : but beneath thy right 
 Tully reposed from Rome ; and where yon bar 
 1565 Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight 
 
 The Sabine farm was till'd, the weary bard's de- 
 light. 
 
 CLXXV. 
 
 But I forget. — My Pilgrim's shrine is won, 
 And he and I must part — so let it be : 
 His task and mine alike are nearly done; 
 1570 Yet once more let us look upon the sea ; 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 61 
 
 The midland ocean breaks on him and me, 
 And from the Alban Mount we now behold 
 Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when we 
 Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold 
 1575 Those waves, we f ollow'd on till the dark Euxine 
 roU'd 
 
 CLXXVI. 
 
 Upon the blue Symplegades. Long years — 
 Long, though not very many — since have done 
 Their work on both ; some suffering and some 
 
 tears 
 Have left us nearly where we had begun : 
 1580 Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run ; 
 We have had our reward, and it is here, — 
 That we can yet feel gladden'd by the sun, 
 And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear 
 As if there were no man tb trouble what is clear. 
 
 ^y^ CLXXVII. 
 
 1585 Oh that the Desert were my dwelling-place, 
 With one fair Spirit for my minister. 
 That I might all forget the human race, 
 And, hating no one, love but only her ! 
 Ye Elements, in whose ennobling stir 
 
 1590 I feel myself exalted, can ye not 
 
 Accord me such a being ? Do I err 
 In deeming such inhabit many a spot. 
 Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot f 
 
 CLXXVIII. 
 
 There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
 1595 There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
 There is society where none intrudes. 
 By the deep Sea, and music in its roar; 
 
62 BYRON 
 
 I love not Man the less, but Nature more, 
 From these our interviews, in which I steal 
 1800 From all I may be or have been before, 
 To mingle witli the Universe, and feel 
 What I can ne'er express, yet can not all conceal. 
 
 CLXXIX. 
 
 Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean, roll ! 
 Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; 
 1006 Man marks the earth with ruin, his control 
 Stops with the shore ; u})on the watery plain 
 The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
 A shadow of man's ravage, save his own. 
 When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
 wio He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan. 
 Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and un- 
 known. 
 
 CLXXX. 
 
 His steps are not upon thy paths, thy fields 
 Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise 
 And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he 
 wields 
 
 1815 For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
 Spurning liim from thy bosom to the skies. 
 And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray 
 And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies 
 His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
 
 1820 And dashest him again to earth : — there let him 
 lay. 
 
 CLXXXI. 
 
 The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
 Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake 
 And monarchs tremble in their capitals. 
 The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
 
CtilLDE HAROLD 63 
 
 1625 Their clay creator the vain title take 
 Of lord of thee and arbiter of war, — 
 These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 
 They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
 Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar. 
 
 CLXXXII. 
 
 1630 Thy shores are empires, changed in all save 
 thee — 
 Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they ? 
 Thy waters wash'd them power while they were 
 
 free. 
 And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
 The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
 1835 Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou, 
 Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play ; 
 Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow ; 
 Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou roUest now. 
 
 CLXXXIII. 
 
 Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
 1840 Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time. 
 
 Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
 Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
 Dark-heaving ; — boundless, endless, and sub- 
 lime — 
 The image of Eternity — the throne 
 1645 Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
 
 The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
 Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, 
 alone. 
 
 CLXXXIV. 
 
 And I have loved thee. Ocean ! and my joy 
 Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
 
64 BYRON 
 
 1650 Borne, like thy bubbles, onward. From a boy 
 I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to me 
 Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
 Made them a terror — 't was a pleasing fear, 
 For I was as it were a child of thee, 
 
 1855 And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
 
 And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 
 
 ^ CLXXXV. 
 
 My task is done — my song nath ceased — my 
 
 theme 
 Has died into an echo ; it is fit 
 The spell should break of this protracted dream. 
 1600 The torch shall be extinguished which hath 
 lit 
 My midnight lamp — and what is writ, is writ, — 
 Would it were worthier! but I am not now 
 That which I have been — and my visions ilit 
 Less palpably before me — and the glow 
 1665 Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and 
 low. 
 
 CLXXXVI. 
 
 Farewell ! a word that must be, and hath been — 
 A sound which makes us linger ; — yet — fare- 
 well ! 
 Ye, who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene 
 Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 
 1670 A thought which once was his, if on ye swell 
 A single recollection, not in vain 
 He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop-shell'; 
 Farewell! with him alone may rest the pain. 
 If such there were — with you^ the moral of his 
 strain I 
 
THE PRISOITER OF CHILLON. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 
 The words " a fable " which Byron added to the title of this 
 poem should put one on his guard against taking the poem as an 
 historical narrative, or treating it in its parts as true to the lit- 
 eral facts of Bonnivard's experience. Byron wrote the poem in 
 June, 1816, at a small inn in the little village of Ouchy, near 
 Lausanne on the shores of Lake Geneva, where he happened to 
 be detained a couple of days by stress of weather. In a notice 
 prefixed to the poem he wrote : " When this poem was com- 
 posed, I was not sufficiently aware of the history of Bonnivard, 
 or I should have endeavored to dignify the subject by an attempt 
 to celebrate his courage and his virtues." As it was he had been 
 stirred by the tradition of the patriot's confinement in the castle 
 which he had just visited, and with his ardent passion for political 
 liberty which found expression later in Italy and in Greece, he 
 used the incident for an impassioned poetic monologue. 
 
 The tourist to-day who visits the castle of Chillon finds abun- 
 dant historical information respecting the castle and the confine- 
 ment of Bonnivard. Byron's poem has lifted the place into 
 great distinction. The castle stands on a rock in the lake, not 
 far from Montreux, and is approached by a bridge. In the inte- 
 rior is a range of dungeons. Eight pillars are sliown, one of 
 which is half built into the wall. The prisoners, who were some- 
 times reformers, sometimes prisoners of state, were fettered to 
 the pillars, and the pavement is worn with the footsteps of their 
 brief pace. Francis Bonnivard was born in 1496. He was of 
 gentle birth and inherited a rich priory near Geneva. When the 
 Duke of Savoy attacked the republic of Geneva, Bonnivard 
 joined in the defence, and became thus the enemy of the Duke. 
 Subsequently, when in the service of the republic, he fell into 
 the power of the Duke, who imprisoned him for six years in the 
 castle of Chillon. He was released by the Genevese in 1536, 
 and led a stormy existence until his death in 1571. 
 
66 BYRON 
 
 My hair is gray, but not with years, 
 Nor grew it white 
 In a single night, 
 
 As men's have grown from sudden fears. 
 6 My limbs are bowed, though not with toil, 
 But rusted with a vile repose. 
 
 For they have been a dungeon's spoil. 
 And mine has been the fate of those 
 
 To whom tlie goodly earth and air 
 10 Are banned, and barred — forbidden fare ; 
 
 But this was for my father's faith 
 
 I suffered chains and courted death ; 
 
 That father perished at the stake 
 
 For tenets he would not forsake ; 
 15 And for the same his lineal race 
 
 In darkness found a dwelling-place ; 
 
 We were seven — who now are one, 
 Six in youth, and one in age, 
 
 Finished as they had begun, 
 20 Proud of Persecution's rage ; 
 
 One in fire, and two in field. 
 
 Their belief with blood have sealed : 
 
 Dying as their father died. 
 
 For the God their foes denied ; — 
 25 Three were in a dungeon cast. 
 
 Of whom this wreck is left the last. 
 
 II. 
 
 There are seven pillars of Gothic mould 
 In Chillon's dungeons deep and old, 
 There are seven columns massy and gray, 
 JO Dim with a dull imprisoned ray. 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILL ON 67 
 
 A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 
 And through the crevice and the cleft 
 0£ the thick wall is fallen and left : 
 Creeping o'er tha floor so damp, 
 
 35 Like a marsh's meteor lamp : 
 And in each pillar there is a ring, 
 
 And in each ring there is a chain ; 
 That iron is a cankering thing, 
 
 For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
 
 40 With marks that will not wear away 
 Till I have done with this new day. 
 Which now is painful to these eyes. 
 Which have not seen the sun so rise 
 For years — I cannot count them o'er, 
 
 45 1 lost their long and heavy score 
 When my last brother drooped and died, 
 And I lay living by his side. 
 
 III. 
 
 They chained us each to a column stone, 
 
 And we were three — yet, each alone ; 
 50 We could not move a single pace. 
 
 We could not see each other's face, 
 
 But with that pale and livid light 
 
 That made us strangers in our sight : 
 
 And thus together — yet apart, 
 65 Fettered in hand, but joined in heart ; 
 
 'T was still some solace, in the dearth 
 
 Of the pure elements of earth. 
 
 To hearken to each other's speech, 
 
 And each turn comforter to each 
 
 31. One of the impressive sights in the dungeon now, as it was 
 in Byron's day, is the beams of the setting sun streaming through 
 the narrow loopholes into the gloomy recesses. 
 
68 BYRON 
 
 60 With some new hope or legend old, 
 Or song heroically bold ; 
 But even these at length grew cold. 
 Our voices took a dreary tone, 
 An echo of the dungeon stone, 
 65 A grating sound — not full and free 
 As they of yore were wont to be ; 
 It might be fancy — but to me 
 They never sounded like our own. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I was the eldest of the three, 
 70 And to uphold and cheer the rest 
 I ought to do — and did my best — 
 And each did well in his degree. 
 
 The youngest, whom my father loved, 
 Because our mother's brow was given 
 75 To him — with eyes as blue as heaven, 
 For liltn my soul was sorely moved: 
 And truly might it be distressed 
 To see such ])ird in such a nest ; 
 For he was beautiful as day — 
 80 (When day was beautiful to me 
 As to young eagles being free) — 
 A polar day, which will not see 
 A sunset till its summer 's gone, 
 Its sleepless summer of long light, 
 85 The snow-clad offspring of the sun : 
 And thus he was as pure and bright. 
 And in his natural spirit gay, 
 With tears for naught but others' ills. 
 And then they flowed like mountain rills, 
 90 Unless he could assuage the woe 
 Which he abhorred to view below. 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 69 
 
 The other was as pure of mind, 
 But formed to combat with his kind ; 
 Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
 95 Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, 
 And perished in the foremost rank 
 
 With joy : — but not in chains to pine : 
 His spirit withered with their clank, 
 
 I saw it silently decline — 
 100 And so perchance in sooth did mine ; 
 But yet I forced it on to cheer 
 Those relics of a home so dear. 
 He was a hunter of the hills, 
 
 Had followed there the deer and wolf ; 
 103 To him this dungeon was a gulf. 
 And fettered feet the worst of ills. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls, 
 
 A thousand feet in depth below 
 
 Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
 uo Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
 
 From Chillon's snow-white battlement. 
 Which round about the wave inthrals : 
 
 A double dungeon wall and wave 
 
 Have made — and like a living grave. 
 115 Below the surface of the lake 
 
 The dark vault lies wherein we lay. 
 
 We heard it ripple night and day ; 
 Sounding o'er our heads it knocked 
 
 And I have felt the winter's spray 
 120 Wash through the bars when winds were high 
 
 107. Lake Leman is another uame for Lake Geneva. 
 
70 BYRON 
 
 And wanton in the happy sky ; 
 
 And then the very rock liath rocked, 
 And I have felt it shake, unshocked, 
 
 Because I could have smiled to see 
 125 The death that would have set me free. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I said my nearer brother pined, 
 I said his mighty heart declined, 
 He loathed and put away his food ; 
 It was not that 't was coarse and rude, 
 
 130 For we were used to hunter's fare, 
 And for the like had little care : 
 The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
 Was changed for water from the moat, 
 Our bread was such as captive's tears 
 
 135 Have moistened many a thousand years, 
 Since man first peut liis fellow men 
 Like brutes within an iron den ; 
 But what were these to us or him ? 
 These wasted not his heart or limb ; 
 
 140 My brother's soul was of that mould 
 Which in a palace had grown cold, 
 Had his free breathing been denied 
 The range of the steep mountain's side 
 But why delay the truth ? — he died. 
 
 145 1 saw, and could not hold his head, 
 
 Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, — 
 Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 
 To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
 He died, and they unlocked his chain, 
 
 150 And scooped for him a shallow grave 
 Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
 I begged them, as a boon, to lay 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 71 
 
 His corse in dust whereon the day- 
 Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 
 
 155 But then within my brain it wrought, 
 That even in death his freeborn breast 
 In such a dungeon could not rest. 
 I might have spared my idle prayer — 
 They coldly laughed — and laid him there : 
 
 160 The flat and turfless earth above 
 The being we so much did love ; 
 His empty chain above it leant. 
 Such murder's fitting monument ! 
 
 VIII. 
 But he, the favorite and the flower, 
 165 Most cherished since his natal hour, 
 His mother's image in fair face. 
 The infant love of all his race. 
 His martyred father's dearest thought, 
 My latest care, for whom I sought 
 170 To hoard my life, that his might be 
 Less wretched now, and one day free ; 
 He, too, who yet had held untired 
 A spirit natural or inspired — 
 He, too, was struck, and day by day 
 175 Was withered on the stalk away. 
 Oh, God ! it is a fearful thing 
 To see the human soul take wing 
 In any shape, in any mood : — 
 I 've seen it rushing forth in blood, 
 180 1 've seen it on the breaking ocean 
 Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 
 I 've seen the sick and ghastly bed 
 Of Sin delirious with its dread : 
 But these were horrors — this was woe 
 
72 BYRON 
 
 185 Unmixecl with such — but sure and slow ; 
 He faded, and so calm and meek, 
 So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 
 So tearless, yet so tender — kind. 
 And grieved for those he left behind ; 
 
 190 With all the while a cheek whose bloom 
 Was as a mockery of the tomb. 
 Whose tints as gently sunk away 
 As a departing rainbow's ray — 
 An eye of most transparent light, 
 
 195 That almost made the dungeon bright, 
 And not a word of murmur — not 
 A groan o'er liis untimely lot, — - 
 A little talk of better days, 
 A little hope my own to raise, 
 
 200 For I was sunk in silence — lost 
 In this last loss, of all the most ; 
 And then the sighs he would suppress 
 Of fainting nature's feebleness, 
 ^lore slowly drawn, grew less and less: 
 
 205 1 listened, but I could not hear — 
 I called, for I was wild with fear ; 
 I knew 't was hoi)eless, but my dread 
 Would not be thus admonished ; 
 I called, and thought 1 heard a sound — 
 
 ao I burst my chain with one strong bound, 
 And rushed to him : — I found him not, 
 /only stirred in this black spot, 
 / only lived — / only drew 
 The accursed breath of dungeon-dew ; 
 
 215 The last — the sole; — the dearest link 
 Between me and the eternal brink. 
 Which bound me to my failing race, 
 Was broken in this fatal place. 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILL ON 73 
 
 One on the earth, and one beneath — 
 220 My brothers — both had ceased to breathe ; 
 
 I took that hand which lay so still, 
 
 Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 
 
 I had not strength to stir, or strive. 
 
 But felt that I was still alive — 
 225 A frantic feeling, when we know 
 
 That what we love shall ne'er be so. 
 I know not why 
 I could not die, 
 
 I had no earthly hope — but faith, 
 230 And that forbade a selfish death. 
 
 IX. 
 
 What next befell me then and there 
 I know not well — I never knew — 
 
 First came the loss of light, and air. 
 And then of darkness too : 
 235 1 had no thought, no feeling — none — 
 
 Among the stones I stood a stone, 
 
 And was, scarce conscious what I wist, 
 
 As shrubless crags within the mist ; 
 
 For all was blank, and bleak, and gray, 
 240 It was not night — it was not day. 
 
 It was not even the dungeon-light, 
 
 So hateful to my heavy sight. 
 
 But vacancy absorbing space, 
 
 And fixedness — without a place ; 
 245 There were no stars — no earth — no time — 
 
 No check — no change — no good — no crime — 
 
 But silence, and a stirless breath 
 
 Which neither was of life nor death ; 
 
 A sea of stagnant idleness, 
 25» Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless I 
 
74 BYRON 
 
 A light broke in upon my brain, — 
 
 It was the carol of a bird ; 
 It ceased, and then it came again, 
 The sweetest song ear ever heard, 
 
 255 And mine was thankful till my eyes 
 Kan over with the glad surprise, 
 And they that moment could not see 
 I was the mate of misery ; 
 But then by dull degrees came back 
 
 260 My senses to their wonted track, 
 I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
 Close slowly round me as before, 
 I saw the glimmer of the sun 
 Creeping as it before had done, 
 
 265 But through the crevice where it came 
 That bird was perched, as fond and tame. 
 
 And tamer than upon the tree ; 
 A lovely bird, witli azure wings. 
 And song that said a thousand things, 
 
 ro And seemed to say them all for me I 
 I never saw its like before, 
 I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 
 It seemed like me to want a mate. 
 But was not half so desolate, 
 
 275 And it was come to love me when 
 None lived to love me so again. 
 And cheering from my dungeon's brink. 
 Had brought me back to feel and think. 
 I know not if it late were free, 
 
 280 Or broke its cage to perch on mine. 
 But knowing well captivity, 
 
 Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine I 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 75 
 
 Or if it were, in winged guise, 
 
 A visitant from Paradise ; 
 285 For — Heaven forgive that thought ! the while 
 
 Which made me both to weep and smile ; 
 
 I sometimes deemed that it might be 
 
 My brother's soul come down to me ; 
 
 But then at last away it flew, 
 290 And then 't was mortal — well I knew, 
 
 For he would never thus have flown, 
 
 And left me twice so doubly lone, — 
 
 Lone — as the corse within its shroud, 
 
 Lone — as a solitary cloud, 
 295 A single cloud on a sunny day. 
 
 While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
 
 A frown upon the atmosphere. 
 
 That hath no business to appear 
 
 When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 
 
 XI. 
 
 300 A kind of change came in my fate, 
 
 My keepers grew compassionate ; 
 
 I know not what had made them so. 
 
 They were inured to sights of woe. 
 
 But so it was : — my broken chain 
 805 With links unfastened did remain, 
 
 And it was liberty to stride 
 
 Along my cell from side to side. 
 
 And up and down, and then athwart, 
 
 And tread it over every part ; 
 310 And round the pillars one by one, 
 
 Returning where my walk begun. 
 
 Avoiding only, as I trod, 
 
 My brothers' graves without a sod ; 
 
 For if I thoucrht with heedless tread 
 
76 BYRON 
 
 815 My step profaned their lowly bed, 
 My breath came gaspingly and thick, 
 And my crushed heart fell blind and sick 
 
 XII. 
 
 I made a footing in the wall, 
 It was not therefrom to escape, 
 
 820 For I had buried one and all 
 
 Who loved me in a human shape ; 
 And the whole earth would henceforth be 
 A wider prison unto me : 
 No child — no sire — no kin had I, 
 
 825 No partner in my misery ; 
 
 I thought of this, and I was glad, 
 
 For thought of them had made me mad ; 
 
 But I was curious to ascend 
 
 To my barred windows, and to bend 
 
 330 Once more, upon the mountains high, 
 The quiet of a loving eye. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 I saw them — and they were the same. 
 
 They were not changed like me in frame ; 
 
 I saw their thousand years of snow 
 335 On high — their wide long lake below, 
 
 And the blue Khone in fullest flow ; 
 
 I heard the torrents leap and gush 
 
 O'er channelled rock and broken bush ; 
 
 I saw the white-walled distant town, 
 340 And whiter sails go skimming down ; 
 
 And then there was a little isle, 
 
 ^1. Between the entrances of the Rhone and Villeneuve, not 
 far from Chillon, is a very small island; the only one I could 
 perceive, in my voyage round and over the lake, within its cir- 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 11 
 
 Which in my very face did smile, 
 
 The only one in view ; 
 A small green isle it seemed no more, 
 
 345 Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 
 But in it there were three tall trees, 
 And o'er it blew the mountain breeze. 
 And by it there were waters flowing. 
 And on it there were young flowers growing, 
 
 350 Of gentle breath and hue. 
 
 The fish swam by the castle wall. 
 And they seemed joyous each and all ; 
 The eagle rode the rising blast, 
 Methouo-ht he never flew so fast 
 
 355 As then to me he seemed to fly. 
 And then new tears came in my eye. 
 And I felt troul)led — and would fain 
 I had not left my recent chain ; 
 And when I did descend again, 
 
 360 The darkness of my dim abode 
 Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
 It was as is a new-dug grave. 
 Closing o'er one we sought to save, — 
 
 ' And yet my glance, too much oppressed, 
 
 365 Had almost need of such a rest. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 It might be months, or years, or days, 
 I kept no count — I took no note, 
 
 I had no hope my eyes to raise. 
 
 And clear them of their dreary mote ; 
 370 At last men came to set me free, 
 
 cumference. It contains a few trees (I think not above three), 
 and from its singleness and diminutive size has a peculiar effect 
 upon the view. Byron. 
 
78 BYRON 
 
 I asked not why, and recked not where, 
 It was at length the same to me, 
 Fettered or fetterless to be, 
 1 learned to love despair. 
 
 375 And thus w^hen they appeared at last, 
 And all my bonds aside were cast, 
 These heavy walls to me had grown 
 A liermitage — and all my own ! 
 And half 1 felt as they were come 
 
 380 To tear me from a second home : 
 
 With spiders I had friendship made, '^ 
 And watehed them in their sullen trade, 
 Had seen the mice by moonlight i)lay. 
 And why should I feel less than they ? 
 
 385 We were all inmates of one place, 
 And I, the monarch of each race. 
 Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ! 
 In quiet we had learned to dwell — 
 My very chains and I grew friends, 
 
 390 So nmch a long communion tends 
 To make us what we are : — even I 
 liegained my freedom with a sigh, y' 
 
 MAZEPPA. 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTE. - 
 
 This poem was written .it Venice and Ravenna in the autumn 
 of 1818. Byron drew his story from an incident related by 
 Voltaire in his History of Charles XII., which is as follows : — 
 
 The Ukraine (the country of the Cossacks) has always as- 
 pired to liberty ; but being surrounded by Muscovy, the domin- 
 ions of the Grand Seignior, and Poland, it has been obliged to 
 choose a protector, and, consequently, a master, in one of these 
 three States. The Ukrainians at first put themselves under the 
 
MAZEPPA 79 
 
 protection of the Poles, who treated them with great severity. 
 They afterwards submitted to the Russians, who governed 
 them with despotic sway. They had originally the privilege of 
 electing a prince under the name of general ; but they were 
 soon deprived of that right, and their general was nominated by 
 the court of Moscow. 
 
 The person who then filled that station was a Polish gentle- 
 man, named Mazeppa, and born in the palatinate of Podolia. 
 He had been brought up as a page to John Casimir, and had 
 received some tincture of learning in his court. An intrigue 
 which he had had in his youth with the lady of a Polish gentle- 
 man, having been discovered, the husband caused him to be 
 bound stark naked upon a wild horse, and let him go in that 
 condition." The horse, which had been brought out of Ukraine, 
 returned to its own country, and carried Mazeppa along with 
 it, half-dead with hunger and fatigue. Some of the country 
 people gave him assistance ; and he lived among them for a 
 long time, and signalized himself in several excursions against 
 the Tartars. The superiority of his knowledge gained him 
 great respect among the Cossacks ; and his reputation daily 
 increasing, the czar found it necessary to make him prince of 
 the Ukraine. 
 
 'T WAS after dread Pultowa's day, 
 
 When fortune left the royal Swede, 
 Around a slaughter'd army lay, 
 
 No more to combat and to bleed. 
 5 The power and glory of the war, 
 
 Faithless as their vain votaries, men, 
 Had pass'd to the triumphant Czar, 
 
 And Moscow's walls were safe again, 
 Until a day more dark and drear, 
 10 And a more memorable year, 
 Should give to slaughter and to shame 
 A mightier host and haughtier name ; 
 A greater wreck, a deeper fall, 
 A shock to one — a thunderbolt to alL 
 
80 BYRON 
 
 n. 
 
 15 Such was the hazard of the die ; 
 
 The wouiuIlhI Charles was taught to fly 
 
 By day and iii<;ht through field and flood, 
 
 Stain'd with his own and subjects' blood ; 
 
 For thousands fell that flight to aid : 
 20 And not a voice was heard t' ui)braid 
 
 Ambition in his humbled hour, 
 
 When truth had naught to dread from power. 
 
 His horse was slain, and Gieta gave 
 
 His own — and died the Russians' slave. 
 v> This too sinks after many a league 
 
 Of well-sustain \1, but vain fatigue ; 
 
 And in the depth of forests darkling, 
 
 The watch-fires in the distance sparkling — 
 The beacons of surrounding foes — 
 10 A king must lay his limbs at length. 
 Are these the laurels and repose 
 
 For which the nations strain their strength ? 
 
 They laid him by a savage tree, 
 
 In outworn nature's agony ; 
 55 His wounds were stiff — his limbs were stark - 
 
 The heavy hour was chill and dark ; 
 
 The fever in his blood forbade 
 
 A transient slumber's fitful aid : 
 
 And thus it was ; but yet through all, 
 40 Kinglike the monarch bore his fall, 
 
 And made, in this extreme of ill. 
 
 His pangs the vassals of his will : 
 
 All silent and subdued were they. 
 
 As once the nations round him lay. 
 
MAZEPPA 81 
 
 III. 
 
 45 A band of chiefs I — alas I how few, 
 
 Since but the fleeting of a day 
 
 Had thinn'd it ; but this wreck was true 
 
 And chivalrous : upon the clay- 
 Each sate him down, all sad and mute, 
 50 Beside his monarch and his steed, 
 
 For danger levels man and brute, 
 And all are fellows in their need. 
 
 Among the rest, Mazeppa made 
 
 His pillow in an old oak's shade — 
 55 Himself as rough, and scarce less old. 
 
 The Ukraine's hetman, calm and bold. 
 
 But first, outspent with his long course. 
 
 The Cossack prince rubb'd down his horse, 
 
 And made for him a leafy bed, 
 60 And smooth'd his fetlocks and his mane, 
 And slack'd his girth, and stripp'd his rein, 
 
 And joy'd to see how well he fed ; 
 
 For until now he had the dread 
 
 His wearied courser might refuse 
 65 To browse beneath the midnight dews : 
 
 But he was hardy as his lord. 
 
 And little cared for bed and board ; 
 
 But spirited and docile too ; 
 
 Whate'er was to be done, would do. 
 70 Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb, 
 
 All Tartar-like he carried him ; 
 
 Obey'd his voice, and came to call, 
 
 And knew him in the midst of all : 
 
 Though thousands were around, — and Night, 
 75 Without a star, pursued her flight, — 
 5G. Hetman, a Cossack chief. 
 
82 BYRON 
 
 That steed from sunset until dawn 
 His chief would follow like a fawn. 
 
 IV. 
 
 This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak, 
 And laid liis lance beneath his oak, 
 
 80 Felt if his arms in order good 
 The long day's march had well withstood - 
 If still the powder nird the pan, 
 
 And flints unloosen'd kept their lock — 
 His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt, 
 
 85 And whether they had chafed his belt — 
 And next the venerable man. 
 From out his haversack and can, 
 
 Prepared and spread his slender stock ; 
 And to the monarch and his men 
 
 90 The whole or portion offer'd then 
 With far less of inquietude 
 Than courtiers at a banquet would. 
 And Charles of this his slender share 
 AVith smiles partook a moment there, 
 
 95 To force of cheer a greater show. 
 And seem above both wounds and woe ; — 
 And then he said — " Of all our band. 
 Though firm of heart and strong of hand, 
 In skirmish, march, or forage, none 
 
 100 Can less have said or more have done 
 Than thee, iVIazeppa ! On the earth 
 So fit a pain had never birth. 
 Since Alexander's days till now, 
 As thy Bucephalus and thou : 
 
 105 All Scythia's fame to thine should yield 
 For pricking on o'er flood and field." 
 Mazeppa answer'd — '' 111 betide 
 
MAZEPPA 83 
 
 The school wherein I learn'd to ride ! " 
 
 Quoth Charles — " Old Hetman, wherefore so, 
 uo Since thou hast learn'd the art so well ? " 
 
 Mazeppa said — " 'T were long to tell ; 
 
 And we have many a league to go, 
 
 With every now and then a blow, 
 
 And ten to one at least the foe, 
 U5 Before our steeds may graze at ease 
 
 Beyond the swift Borysthenes ; 
 
 And, sire, your limbs have need of rest, 
 
 And I will be the sentinel 
 
 Of this your troop." — " But I request," 
 120 Said Sweden's monarch, " thou wilt tell 
 
 This tale of thine, and I may reap. 
 
 Perchance, from this the boon of sleep ; 
 
 For at this moment from my eyes 
 
 The hope of present slumber flies." 
 
 125 " Well, sire, with such a hope, I '11 track 
 My seventy years of memory back : 
 I think 't was in my twentieth spring, — 
 Ay, 't was, — when Casimir was king — 
 John Casimir, — I was his page 
 
 130 Six summers, in my earlier age. 
 A learned monarch, faith ! was he, 
 And most unlike your majesty : 
 He made no wars, and did not gain 
 New realms to lose them back again ; 
 
 135 And (save debates in Warsaw's diet) 
 He reign 'd in most unseemly quiet ; 
 Not that he had no cares to vex. 
 He loved the muses and the sex ; 
 And sometimes these so froward are, 
 
 140 They made him wish himself at war ; 
 
84 BYRON 
 
 But soon his wrath being o'er, he took 
 Another mistress, or new book. 
 And then he gave prodigious fetes — 
 All Warsaw gather'd round his gates 
 145 To gaze upon his splendid court, 
 
 And dames, and chiefs, of princely port : 
 lie was the Polish Solomon, 
 So sung his poets, all but one, 
 Who, being unpension'd, made a satire, 
 150 And boasted that he coukl not flatter. 
 It was a court of jousts and mimes, . 
 Wliere every courtier tried at rhymes ; 
 Even I for once produced some verses. 
 And sign'd ni)^ odes ' Despairing Thyrsis.' 
 155 There was a certain Palatiue, 
 
 A count of far and higli descent, 
 Rich as a salt or silver mine ; 
 And lie was proud, ye may divine, 
 As if from heaven he had been sent. 
 160 He had such wealth in blood and ore 
 
 As few coidd match beneath the throne ; 
 And he would gaze upon his store, 
 And o'er his pedigree would pore, 
 Until by some confusion led, 
 165 Which almost look'd like want of head. 
 He thouufht their merits were his own. 
 His wife was not of his opinion — 
 His junior she by thirty years — 
 Grew daily tired of his dominion ; 
 170 And, after wishes, hopes, and fears, 
 To virtue a few farewell tears, 
 A restless dream or two, some glances 
 At Warsaw's youth, some songs, and dances, 
 157. In Poland the salt mines were a great source of wealth. 
 
MAZEPPA 85 
 
 Awaited but the usual chances, 
 175 (Those happy accidents which render 
 The coldest dames so very tender,) 
 To deck her Count with titles given, 
 'T is said, as passports into heaven ; 
 But, strange to say, they rarely boast 
 ISO Of these, who have deserved them most. 
 
 " I was a goodly stripling then ; 
 At seventy years I so may say. 
 That there were few, or boys or men. 
 Who, in my dawning time of day, 
 185 Of vassal or of knight's degree, 
 
 Could vie in vanities with me ; 
 
 For I had strength, youth, gaiety, 
 
 A port, not like to this ye see. 
 
 But as smooth as all is rugged now ; 
 190 For time, and care, and war, have ploughed 
 
 My very soul from out my brow ; 
 And thus I should be disavow'd 
 
 By all my kind and kin, could they 
 
 Compare my day and yesterday. 
 195 This change was wrought, too, long ere age 
 
 Had ta'en my features for his page : 
 
 With years, ye know, have not declined 
 
 My strength, my courage, or my mind. 
 
 Or at this hour I should not be 
 200 Telling old tales beneath a tree. 
 
 With starless skies my canopy. 
 
 But let me on : Theresa's form — 
 
 Methinks it glides before me now. 
 
 Between me and yon chestnut's bough, 
 206 The memory is so quick and warm ; 
 
86 BYRON 
 
 And yet I find no words to tell 
 
 The shape of her I loved so well. 
 
 She had the Asiatic eye, 
 
 Such as our Turkish neighbourhood, 
 210 Hath mingled with our Polish blood, 
 
 Dark as above us is the sky ; 
 
 But through it stole a tender light, 
 
 Like the first nioonrise of niidnlght ; 
 
 Large, darlv, and swimming in the stream, 
 215 Which sceniM to melt to its own beam ; 
 
 All love, half languor, and half lire. 
 
 Like saints that at the stake expire, 
 
 And lift their rai)tured looks on high 
 
 As though it were a joy to die ; — 
 220 A brow like a midsummer lake. 
 
 Transparent with the sun therein, 
 
 "When waves no murnnir dare to nuike, 
 And heaven beholds her face within ; 
 
 A cheek and li}) — but why ])rocccd ? 
 225 I loved her then — 1 love her still ; 
 
 And such as I am, love indeed 
 
 In fierce extremes — in good and ill ; 
 
 But still we love even in our rage. 
 
 And haunted to our very age 
 230 With the vain shadow of the past, 
 
 As is Mazeppa to the last. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " We met — we gazed — I saw, and sigh'd, 
 She did not speak, and yet replied : 
 There are ten thousand tones and signs 
 235 We hear and see, but none defines — 
 Involuntary sparks of thought. 
 Which strike from out the heart o'erwrought 
 
MAZEPPA 87 
 
 And form a strange intelligence 
 Alike mysterious and intense, 
 240 Which link the burning chain that binds, 
 Without their will, young hearts and minds : 
 Conveying, as the electric wire, 
 We know not how, the absorbing fire. — 
 I saw, and sigh'd — in silence wept, 
 245 And still reluctant distance kept. 
 Until I was made known to her. 
 And we might then and there confer 
 Without suspicion — then, even then, 
 I long VI, and was resolved to speak ; 
 250 But on my lips they died again. 
 
 The accents tremulous and weak, 
 Until one hour. — There is a game, 
 A frivolous and foolish play. 
 Wherewith we while away the day ; 
 255 It is — I have forgot the name — 
 And we to this, it seems, were set. 
 By some strange chance, which I forget : 
 I reckon'd not if I won or lost. 
 It was enough for me to be 
 260 So near to hear, and oh ! to see 
 The being whom I loved the most. 
 I watch'd her as a sentinel, 
 (May ours this dark night watch as well !) 
 Until I saw, and thus it was, 
 265 That she was pensive, nor perceived 
 Her occupation, nor was grieved 
 Nor glad to lose or gain ; but still 
 Play'd on for hours, as if her will 
 Yf t bound her to the place, though not 
 270 That hers might be the winning lot. 
 
 Then through my brain the thought did pass 
 
88 BYRON 
 
 Even as a flash of lightning there, 
 That there was something in her air 
 Which would not doom me to despair ; 
 
 275 And on the thought my words broke forth, 
 All incoherent as they were — 
 Their eloquence was little worth. 
 But yet she listen'd — 't is enough — 
 Who listens once will listen twice ; 
 
 280 Her heart, be sure, is not of ice, 
 And one refusal no rebuff. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " I loved, and was beloved again — 
 They tell nic, sire, you never knew 
 Those gentle frailties ; if 't is true, , 
 285 1 shorten all my joy or pain ; 
 
 To you 't would seem absurd as vain ; 
 But all men are not born to reign. 
 Or o'er their passions, or as you 
 Thus o'er tliemselves and nations too. 
 290 I am — or rather icas — a prince, 
 
 A chief of thousands, and could lead 
 Them on where each would foremost bleed ; 
 But could not o'er myself evince 
 The like control. — But to resume : 
 295 I loved, and was beloved again ; 
 In sooth, it is a happy doom, 
 
 But yet where happiest ends in pain. — 
 We met in secret, and the hour 
 Which led me to that lady's bower 
 300 Was fiery Expectation's dower. 
 
 My days and nights were nothing — all 
 Except that hour which doth recall 
 In the long lapse from youth to age 
 
MAZEPPA 89 
 
 No other like itself — I 'd give 
 305 The Ukraine back again to live 
 It o'er once more — and be a page, 
 The happy page, who was the lord 
 Of one soft heart and his own sword, 
 And had no other gein nor wealth 
 310 Save nature's gift of youth and health. — 
 We met in secret — doubly sweet, 
 Some say, they find it so to meet ; 
 I know not that — I would have given 
 My life but to have call'd her mine 
 315 In the full view of earth and heaven ; 
 For I did oft and long repine 
 That we could only meet by stealth. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " For lovers there are many eyes. 
 
 And such there were on us ; — the devil 
 320 On such occasions should be civil — 
 The devil ! — I 'm loth to do him wrong, 
 
 It might be some untoward saint. 
 Who would not be at rest too long 
 But to his pious bile gave vent — 
 325 But one fair night, some lurking spies 
 Surprised and seized us both. 
 The Count was something more than wroth — 
 
 I was unarm'd ; but if in steel. 
 All cap-a-pie from head to heel, 
 330 What 'gainst their numbers could I do ? — 
 'T was near his castle, far away 
 
 From city or from succour near, 
 And almost on the break of day ; 
 I did not think to see another, 
 335 My moments seem'd reduced to few ; 
 
90 BYRON 
 
 And with one prayer to Mary Mother, 
 And, it may be, a saint or two, 
 
 As I resigned me to my fate. 
 
 They led me to the castle gate : 
 MO Tlieresa's doom I never knew, 
 
 Our lot was henceforth separate — 
 
 An angry man, ye may opine. 
 
 Was he, the proud Count Palatine ; 
 
 And he had reason good to be, 
 «5 But he was most enraged lest such 
 An accident should chance to touch 
 
 Upon his future pedigree ; 
 
 Nor less amazed, that such a blot 
 
 His noble 'scutcheon should have got, 
 w) While he was highest of his line ; 
 Because unto himself he scem'd 
 Tlie lirst of men, nor less he dcem'd 
 
 In others' eyes, and most in mine. 
 
 'Sdeath ! with a p(ff/(' — perchance a king 
 »5 Had reconcik'd him to tlie thing ; 
 
 But with a stripling of a page — 
 
 I felt — but cannot paint his rage. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " ' Bring forth the horse ! ' — the horse was brought; 
 
 In truth, he was a noble steed, 
 960 A Tartar of the Ukraine breed. 
 
 Who look'd as though the speed of thought 
 Were in his limbs ; but he was wild. 
 
 Wild as the wild deer, and untaught^ 
 With spur and bridle undefiled — 
 365 'T was but a day he had been caught ; 
 And snorting, with erected mane. 
 And struggling fiercely, but in vain, 
 
MAZEPPA 91 
 
 In the full foam of wrath and dread 
 To me the desert-born was led. 
 370 They bound me on, that menial throng, 
 Upon his back with many a thong ; 
 They loosed him with a sudden lash — 
 Away ! — away ! — and on we dash ! — 
 Torrents less rapid and less rash. 
 
 X. 
 
 375 " Away ! — away ! — My breath was gone — 
 I saw not where he hurried on : 
 'T was scarcely yet the break of day, 
 And on he foam'd — away ! — away I — 
 The last of human sounds which rose, 
 
 880 As I was darted from my foes, 
 
 Was the wild shout of savage laughter. 
 Which on tlie wind came roaring after 
 A moment from that rabble rout ; 
 With su(klen wrath I wrench'd my head, 
 
 385 And snapp'd the cord, which to the mane 
 Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, 
 And writhing half my form about, 
 Howl'd back my curse ; but 'midst the tread, 
 The thunder of my courser's speed, 
 
 390 Perchance they did not hear nor heed : 
 It vexes me — for I would fain 
 Have paid their insult back again. 
 I paid it weU in after days : 
 There is not of that castle gate, 
 
 395 Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight. 
 Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left ; 
 Nor of its fields a blade of grass. 
 Save what grows on a ridge of wall. 
 Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall ; 
 
92 BYRON 
 
 400 And many a time ye there might pass, 
 Nor dream that e'er that fortress was ; 
 I saw its turrets in a blaze, 
 Their craekling battlements all cleft. 
 And the hot lead pour down like rain 
 405 From off the scorch'd and blackening roof, 
 Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. 
 
 They little thought that day of pain, 
 When launched, as on the lightning's flash, 
 They bade me to destruction dash, 
 410 That one day I should come again, 
 With twice five thousand horse, to thank 
 
 The Count for his uncourteous ride. 
 They play'd me then a bitter prank, 
 
 When, with the wild horse for my guide, 
 415 They bound me to his foaming flank : 
 At length I i^lay'd them one as frank — 
 For time at last sets all things even — 
 And if we do but watch the hour, 
 There never yet was human power 
 420 Which could evade, if unforgiven, 
 The patient search and vigil long 
 Of him who treasures up a wrong. 
 
 XI. 
 
 " Away, away, my steed and I, 
 
 Upon the pinions of the wind. 
 425 All human dwellings left behind ; 
 
 We sped like meteors through the sky, 
 
 When with its crackling sound the night 
 
 Is chequered with the northern light. 
 
 Tow^n — village — none were on our track, 
 430 But a wild plain of far extent. 
 
 And bounded by a forest black ; 
 
 And, save the scarce seen battlement 
 
MAZEPPA 93 
 
 On distant heights of some strong hold, 
 Against the Tartars built of old, 
 435 No trace of man : the year before 
 A Turkish army had march'd o'er ; 
 And where the Spahi's hoof hath trod. 
 The verdure flies the bloody sod. 
 The sky was dull, and dim, and gray, 
 440 And a low breeze crept moaning by — 
 I could have answer'd with a sigh — 
 But fast we fled, away, away — 
 And I could neither sigh nor pray ; 
 And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain 
 445 Upon the courser's bristling mane ; 
 But, snorting still with rage and fear, 
 He flew upon his far career. 
 At times I almost thought, indeed, 
 He must have slacken'd in his speed ; 
 460 But no — my bound and slender frame 
 Was nothing to his angry might, 
 And merely like a spur became : 
 Each motion which I made to free 
 My swoln limbs from their agony 
 455 Increased his fury and affright : 
 
 I tried my voice, — 't was faint and low, 
 But yet he swerved as from a blow ; 
 And, starting to each accent, sprang 
 As from a sudden trumpet's clang. 
 460 Meantime my cords were wet with gore, 
 Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er; 
 Aoid in my tongue the thirst became 
 A something fierier far than flame. 
 
 XII. 
 
 *' We near'd the wild wood — 't was so wide, 
 465 1 saw no bounds on either side ; 
 
94 BYRON 
 
 •T was studded with old sturdy trees, 
 That bent not to the roughest breeze 
 "Which howls down from Siberia's waste 
 And strips the forest in its haste, — 
 
 470 But these were few and far between. 
 
 Set thick with shrubs more young and green, 
 Luxuriant with their annual leaves, 
 Ere strown by those autumnal eves 
 That nip the forest's foliage dead, 
 
 475 Discolour'd with a lifeless red, 
 
 Which stands thereon like stiffen'd gore 
 Upon the slain when battle's o'er, 
 And some long winter's night hath shed 
 Its frost o'er every tombless head, 
 
 480 So cold and stark the raven's beak 
 May peck unpierced each frozen cheek. 
 'Twas a wild waste of underwood. 
 And here and there a chestnut stood, 
 The strong oak, and the hardy pine ; 
 
 485 But far apart — and well it were. 
 Or else a different lot were mine — 
 
 The boughs gave way, and did not tear 
 My limbs ; and I found strength to bear 
 My wounds already scarr'd with cold — 
 
 490 My bonds forbade to loose my hold. 
 We rustled through the leaves like wind, 
 Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind ; 
 By night I heard them on the track. 
 Their troop came hard upon our back, 
 
 495 With their long gallop which can tire 
 The hound's deep hate and hunter's fire : 
 Where'er we flew they foUow'd on. 
 Nor left us with the morning sun ; 
 Behind I saw them, scarce a rood, 
 
MAZEPPA 95 
 
 500 At day-break winding through the wood, 
 And through the night had heard their feet 
 Their stealing, rustling step repeat. 
 Oh! how I wish'd for spear or sword, 
 At least to die amidst the horde, 
 
 505 And perish — if it must be so — 
 At bay, destroying many a foe. 
 When first my courser's race begun, 
 I wish'd the goal already won ; 
 But now I doubted strength and speed. 
 
 610 Vain doubt ! his swift and savage breed 
 Had nerved him like the mountain-roe ; 
 Nor faster falls the blinding snow 
 Which whelms the peasant near the door 
 Whose threshold he shall cross no more, 
 
 515 Bewilder'd with the dazzling blast, 
 Than through the forest-paths he past — 
 Untired, untamed, and worse than wild ; 
 All furious as a favour'd child 
 Balk'd of its wish ; or fiercer still — 
 
 520 A woman piqued — who has her will. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " The wood was past ; 't was more than noon. 
 But chill the air although in June ; 
 Or it might be my veins ran cold — 
 Prolong'd endurance tames the bold ; 
 
 525 And I was then not what I seem. 
 But headlong as a wintry stream. 
 And wore my feelings out before 
 I well could count their causes o'er. 
 And what with fury, fear, and wrath, 
 
 530 The tortures which beset my path. 
 Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress, 
 
96 BYRON 
 
 Thus bound in nature's nakedness, 
 (Sprung from a race wliose rising blood 
 When stirr'd beyond its calmer mood, 
 
 535 And trodden hard upon, is like 
 The rattle-snake's in act to strike,) 
 What marvel if this worn-out trunk 
 Beneath its woes a moment sunk ? 
 The earth gave way, the skies roll'd round, 
 
 540 1 seem'd to sink upon the ground ; 
 But err'd, for I was fastly bound. 
 My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore, 
 And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more : 
 The skies spun like a mighty wheel ; 
 
 645 1 saw the trees like drunkards reel. 
 And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes» 
 Which saw no farther : he who dies 
 Can die no more than then I died. 
 O'ertortured by that ghastly ride, 
 
 650 1 felt the blackness come and go, • 
 
 And strove to wake ; but could not make 
 My senses climb up from below : 
 I felt as on a plank at sea. 
 When all the waves that dash o'er thee, 
 
 655 At the same time upheave and whelm. 
 And hurl thee towards a desert realm. 
 My undulating life was as 
 The fancied lights that flitting pass 
 Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when 
 
 660 Fever begins upon the brain ; 
 But soon it pass'd, with little pain. 
 But a confusion worse than such : 
 I own that I should deem it much. 
 Dying, to feel the same again ; 
 
 565 And yet I do suppose we must 
 
MAZEPPA 97 
 
 Feel far more ere we turn to dust : 
 No matter ; I have bared my brow 
 Full in Death's face — before — and now. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " My thoughts came back ; v*rhere was I ? Cold, 
 570 And numb, and giddy : pulse by pulse 
 Life reassumed its lingering hold, 
 And throb by throb : till grown a pang 
 Which for a moment would convulse, 
 
 My blood reflow'd though thick and chill ; 
 575 My ear with uncouth noises rang, 
 
 My heart began once more to thrill ; 
 My sight return'd, though dim, alas ! 
 And thicken'd, as it were, with glass. 
 Methought the dash of waves was nigh : 
 580 There was a gleam too of the sky. 
 Studded with stars ; — it is no dream ; 
 The wild horse swims the wilder stream ! 
 The bright broad river's gushing tide 
 Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide, 
 585 And we are half-way, struggling o'er 
 To yon unknown and silent shore. 
 The waters broke my hollow trance. 
 And with a temporary strength 
 
 My stiffen'd limbs were rebaptized. 
 590 My courser's broad breast proudly braves 
 And dashes off the ascending waves. 
 And onward we advance ! 
 
 We reach the slippery shore at length, 
 A haven I but little prized, 
 595 For all behind was dark and drear. 
 And all before was night and fear. 
 How many hours of night or day 
 
98 BYRON 
 
 In those suspended pangs I lay, 
 
 I could not tell ; I scarcely knew 
 
 600 If this were human breath I drew. 
 
 XV. 
 
 " With glossy skin, and dripping mane, 
 
 And reeling limbs, and reeking flank, 
 The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain 
 
 Up the repelling bank. 
 605 We gain the top : a boundless plain 
 Spreads through the shadow of the night. 
 
 And onward, onward, onward, seems, 
 
 Like precipices in our dreams, 
 To stretch beyond the sight ; 
 610 And here and there a speck of white, 
 
 Or scatter'd spot of dusky green, 
 In masses broke into the light, 
 As rose the moon upon my right. 
 
 But nought distinctly seen 
 615 In the dim waste would indicate 
 The omen of a cottage gate ; 
 No twinkling taper from afar 
 Stood like a hospitable star ; 
 Not even an ignis-fatuus rose 
 620 To make him merry with my woes : 
 
 That very cheat had cheer'd me then ! 
 Although detected, welcome still, 
 Reminding me, through every ill. 
 
 Of the abodes of men. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 625 " Onward we went — but slack and slow ; 
 His savage force at length o'erspent, 
 The drooping courser, faint and low, 
 AU feebly foaming went. 
 
MAZEPPA 99 
 
 A sickly infant had had power 
 660 To guide him forward in that hour ; 
 But useless all to me. 
 His new-born tameness nought avail'd — 
 My limbs were bound ; my force had fail'd, 
 Perchance, had they been free. 
 635 With feeble effort still I tried 
 
 To rend the bonds so starkly tied — 
 
 But still it was in vain ; 
 My limbs were only wrung the more, 
 And soon the idle strife gave o'er, 
 640 Which but prolong'd their pain. 
 The dizzy race seem'd almost done, 
 Although no goal was nearly won : 
 Some streaks announced the coming sun — 
 How slow, alas ! he came ! 
 645 Methought that mist of dawning gray 
 Would never dapple into day ; 
 How heavily it roll'd away — 
 
 Before the eastern flame 
 Rose crimson, and deposed the stars, 
 650 And call'd the radiance from their cars, 
 And fiird the earth, from his deep throne, 
 With lonely lustre, all his own. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " Up rose the sun ; the mists were curl'd 
 Back from the solitary world 
 
 655 Which lay around — behind — before ; 
 What booted it to traverse o'er 
 Plain, forest, river ? Man nor brute, 
 Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot, 
 Lay in the wild luxuriant soil ; 
 
 660 No sign of travel • — none of toil ; 
 
100 BYRON 
 
 The very air was mute ; 
 
 And not an insect's slirill small horn, 
 
 Nor matin bird's new voice was borne 
 
 From herb nor thicket. Many a werst, 
 665 Panting as if his heart would burst, 
 
 The weary Ijrute still stagger'd on ; 
 
 And still we were — or seem'd — alone. 
 
 At length, while reeling on our way, 
 
 Methought I heard a courser neigh 
 670 From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 
 
 Is it the wind those branches stirs ? 
 
 No, no I from out the forest ])rance 
 A trampling troop ; I see them come! 
 
 In one vast squadron they advance ! 
 675 I strove to cry — my lips were dumb. 
 
 The steeds rush on in plunging pride ; 
 
 But where are they the reins to guide ? 
 
 A thousand horse — and none to ride ! 
 
 With flowing tail, and flying mane, 
 680 Wide nostrils — never stretch'd by pain, 
 
 Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein, 
 
 And feet that iron never shod, 
 
 And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod, 
 
 A thousand horse, the wild, the free, 
 685 Like waves that follow o'er the sea, 
 Came thickly thundering on, 
 
 As if our faint approach to meet. 
 
 The sight re-nerved my courser's feet, 
 
 A moment staggering, feebly fleet, 
 690 A moment, with a faint low neigh. 
 He answer'd, and then fell ; 
 
 With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, 
 
 664. A icerst or verst is a Russian measure of length equiva- 
 lent to about two thirds of a mile. 
 
MAZEPPA 
 
 101 
 
 And reeking limbs immoveable ; 
 His first and last career is done ! 
 695 On came the troop — they saw him stoop, 
 They saw me strangely bound along 
 His back with many a bloody thong : 
 They stop — they start — they snuff the air, 
 Gallop a moment here and there, 
 700 Approach, retire, wheel round and round. 
 Then plunging back with sudden bound. 
 Headed by one black mighty steed 
 Who seem'd the patriarch of his breed. 
 Without a single speck or hair 
 705 Of white upon his shaggy hide. 
 
 They snort — they foam — neigh — swerve aside. 
 And backward to the forest fly, 
 By instinct, from a human eye. — 
 They left me there to my despair, 
 710 Link'd to the dead and stiffening wretch, 
 Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch, 
 Relieved from that unwonted weight. 
 From whence I could not extricate 
 Nor him nor me — and there we lay 
 715 The dying on the dead ! 
 I little deem'd another day 
 
 Would see my houseless, helpless head. 
 
 '' And there from morn till twilight bound, 
 I felt the heavy hours toil round, 
 
 720 With just enough of life to see 
 My last of suns go down on me. 
 In hopeless certainty of mind. 
 That makes us feel at length resigned 
 To that which our foreboding years 
 
 725 Presents the worst and last of fears 
 
102 BYRON 
 
 Inevitable — even a boon, 
 
 Nor more unkind for coming soon ; 
 
 Yet shimn'd and dreaded with such care. 
 
 As if it only were a snare 
 
 730 That prudence might escape : 
 
 At times both wish'd for and implored, 
 At times sought with self-pointed sword. 
 Yet still a dark and hideous close 
 To even intolerable woes, 
 
 735 And welcome in no shape. 
 
 And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure. 
 They who have revell'd beyond measure 
 In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure, 
 Die calm, or calmer oft than he 
 
 740 Whose heritage was misery : 
 
 For he who hath in turn run through 
 All that was beautiful and new, 
 
 Hath nought to hope, and nought to leave; 
 And, save the future, (which is view'd 
 
 745 Not quite as men are base or good, 
 But as their nerves may be endued,) 
 
 With nought perhaps to grieve : — 
 The wretch still hopes his woes nuist end, 
 And Death, whom he should deem his friend, 
 
 750 Appears, to his distemper'd eyes, 
 Arrived to rob him of his prize. 
 The tree of his new Paradise. 
 To-morrow would have given him all. 
 Repaid his pangs, repair'd his fall ; 
 
 755 To-morrow would have been the first 
 Of days no more deplored or curst. 
 But bright, and long, and beckoning years. 
 Seen dazzling through the mist of tears. 
 Guerdon of many a painful hour ; 
 
MAZEPPA 103 
 
 760 To-morrow would have given him power 
 To rule, to shine, to smite, to save — 
 And must it dawn upon his grave ? 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " The sun was sinking — still I lay 
 
 Chain'd to the chill and stiffening steed ; 
 765 1 thought to mingle there our clay ; 
 
 And my dim eyes of death had need, 
 No hope arose of being freed. 
 I cast my last looks up the sky, 
 
 And there between me and the sun 
 T70 1 saw the expecting raven fly. 
 
 Who scarce would wait till both should die 
 
 Ere his repast begun. 
 He flew, and perch'd, then flew once more, 
 And each time nearer than before ; 
 775 I saw his wing through twilight flit, 
 And once so near me he alit 
 
 I could have smote, but lack'd the strength ; 
 But the slight motion of my hand. 
 And feeble scratching of the sand, 
 780 The exerted throat's faint struggling noise, 
 Which scarcely could be call'd a voice. 
 Together scared him off at length. — 
 I know no more — my latest dream 
 Is something of a lovely star 
 785 Which fix'd my dull eyes from afar. 
 And went and came with wandering beam, 
 And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense 
 Sensation of recurring sense, 
 
 And then subsiding back to death, 
 790 And tjjen again a little breath, 
 A little thrilL a short suspense, 
 An icy sickness curdling o'er 
 
104 BYRON 
 
 My heart, and sparks that cross'd my brain — 
 A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, 
 796 A sigh, and nothing more. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " I woke — Where was I ? — Do I see 
 A human face look down on me ? 
 And doth a roof above me close ? 
 Do these limbs on a couch repose? 
 800 Is this a chamber where I lie ? 
 And is it mortal, yon bright eye 
 That watches me with gentle glance? 
 
 I closed my own again once more, 
 As doubtful that the former trance 
 806 Could not as yet be o'er. 
 
 A slender girl, long-hair'd, and tall. 
 Sate watching by the cottage wall : 
 The sparkle of her eye I caught, 
 Even with my first return of thought ; 
 810 For ever and anon she threw 
 
 A prying, ])itying glance on me 
 
 With her black eyes so wild and free. 
 I gazed, and gazed, until I knew 
 
 No vision it could be, — 
 815 But that I lived, and was released 
 From adding to the vulture's feast. 
 And when the Cossack maid beheld 
 My heavy eyes at length unseal'd, 
 She smiled — and I essay'd to speak, 
 820 But faiFd — and she approach'd, and made 
 
 With lip and finger signs that said, 
 I must not strive as yet to break 
 The silence, till my strength should be 
 Enough to leave my accents free ; 
 
MAZEPPA 105 
 
 825 And then her hand on mine she laid, 
 And smooth' d the pillow for my head, 
 And stole along on tiptoe tread, 
 
 And gently oped the door, and spake 
 In whispers — ne'er was voice so sweet ! 
 830 Even music foUow'd her light feet ; — 
 
 But those she calFd were not awake, 
 And she went forth; but, ere she pass'd, 
 Another look on me she cast. 
 
 Another sign she made, to say, 
 835 That I had naught to fear, that all 
 Were near at my command or call, 
 
 And she would not delay 
 Her due return : — while she was gone, 
 Methought I felt too much alone. 
 
 XX. 
 
 840 " She came with mother and with sire — 
 What need of more ? — I will not tire 
 With long recital of the rest. 
 Since I became the Cossack's guest. 
 They found me senseless on the plain — ■ 
 
 845 They bore me to the nearest hut — 
 They brought me into life again — 
 jyje — one day o'er their realm to reign 1 
 Thus the vain fool who strove to glut 
 His rage, refining on my pain, 
 
 850 Sent me forth to the wilderness. 
 Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone, 
 To pass the desert to a throne, — 
 
 What mortal his own doom may guess ? — 
 Let none despond, let none despair ! 
 
 855 To-morrow the Borysthenes 
 
 May see our coursers graze at ease 
 Upon his Turkish bank, — and never 
 
106 BYRON 
 
 Had I such welcome for a river 
 As I shall yield when safely there. 
 860 Comrades, good night ! " — The Hetman threw 
 His length beneath the oak-tree shade, 
 With leafy couch already made, 
 A bed nor comfortless nor new 
 To him who took his rest whene'er 
 865 The hour arrived, no matter where : 
 
 His eyes the hastening shimbers steep. 
 And if ye marvel Charles forgot 
 To thank liis tale, he wonder'd not, — 
 The king had been an hour asleep. 
 
 859. " Charles, having perceived that the day was lost, and 
 that his only chance of safety was to retire with the utmost pre- 
 cipitation, suffered himself to be mounted on horseback, and with 
 the remains of his army fled to a ])lace called Perewolochna, 
 situated in the angle formed by the junction of the Vorskla and 
 the Borvsthenes. Here, accompanied by Mazeppa and a few 
 hundreds of his followers, Charles swam over the latter great 
 river, and proceeding over a desolate country, in danger of 
 perishing with hunger, at length reached the Bog, where he was 
 kindly received by the Turkish pasha. The Russian envoy at 
 the Sublime Porte demanded that Mazeppa should be delivered 
 up to Peter, but the old Hetman of the Cossacks escaped this 
 fate by taking a, disease which hastened bis death." Barrow; 
 Peter the Great. 
 
NOTES, COMMENTS, AND SUGGESTIONS. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 The first and second cantos of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage were 
 apparently written without thought of publication — written 
 rather as a sort of lyrical journal, free, open, and rapid. 
 
 With his friend Hobhouse he had, on July 2, 1809, sailed from 
 Falmouth to Lisbon with the idea of spending a considerable 
 time abroad. During the next two years he visited various cities 
 in Portugal, Spain, Malta, Turkej^, Greece, and other places in 
 the Orient, returning to England in July of 1811. He brought 
 with him a poem entitled Hints from Horace, which followed the 
 satiric vein developed in English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. 
 This poem he showed with some pride to his kinsman, Mr. Rob- 
 ert Dallas, who candidly avowed that he considered it of little 
 value, and was visibly disappointed that Byron had produced so 
 little during the foreign sojourn. Questioned more closely, Byron 
 said rather casually that he had written an account of his trav- 
 els in Spenserian stanzas, but he thought the whole of little 
 worth. Dallas read the two cantos, and was charmed by their 
 style. He himself assumed the risk of publication, and they were 
 soon brought out by Murray, the noted English publisher. All 
 the world knows the story of that unprecedented success and the 
 author's resulting popularity. 
 
 In his preface to the poem Byron expressly said that Childe 
 Harold was a creature of imagination, and was not to be identi- 
 fied with any real person. The English public, nevertheless, im- 
 mediately and persistently identified Childe Harold with Lord 
 Byron; and when the poet wrote the third and fourth cantos, 
 he saw the uselessness of longer keeping up the disguise, and 
 accordingly spoke but more boldly in his own person. 
 
 Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, taken as a whole, is probably 
 the most wonderful poem which travel has inspired. It main- 
 tains its interest, not because it describes in a splendid way the 
 places which the poet visited, but because it portrays so inti- 
 mately and so vividly the thoughts and the emotions which these 
 scenes were able to arouse in a human soul which was responsive 
 to such varied thought and emotion. We are not primarily inter- 
 ested in the scenes, but in the lyric reaction of those scenes. 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 The third canto of Childe Harold was published in November, 
 181G. The fourth canto was begun June 26, 1817, finished in 
 
108 NOTES, COMMENTS, AND SUGGESTIONS 
 
 September, 1817, and publislied in April, 1818, with a dedication 
 to his friend Hobhouse. Both of these cantos show a distinct 
 advance over the emotion and workmansliip of Cantos I. and II. 
 The poet had attained greater maturity, showed a firmer grasp, 
 and a more striking individuality. 
 
 ANALYSIS OF CANTO IV. 
 
 The following analysis is taken from Dr. Uolfe's complete edi- 
 tion of Ch'dde Ilarold. For the general plan and for most of the 
 items Dr. Rolfe acknowledges his indebtedness to the French 
 critic, Dr. Darmesteter. 
 
 CANTO IV : Italy. 
 
 I.-XVIII. Venice. 
 
 XIX. -XXIV. Imagination and Memorv. 
 XXV., XXVI. The Beautv of Italv even in lluius. 
 XXVII-XXIX. An Italian Sunset. 
 XXX.-XXXIV. Anpia and Petrarch. 
 XXXV.-XXXIX. Ferrara and Tasso. 
 XL., XLI. Ariosto. 
 
 XLIL, XLIIL Apostrophe to Italy (Filicaja's Sonnet). 
 XLIV.-XLVII. Sulpicius and the Downfall of Rome. 
 XLVin. Florence. 
 XLIX.-LIII. The Venus de' Medici. 
 LIV.-LVL Santa Croce and its Dead, 
 LVn.-LIX. Dante and Hoecaccio. 
 
 LX. The Tombs of the Medici and the Graves of the Poets. 
 LXI. Art and Nature. 
 LXII.-LXV. Lake Thrasimene. 
 LXVI.-LXVIII. Clitumnus and its Temple. 
 LXIX.-LXXIL The Fall of Terni. 
 
 LXXIII.-LXXVII. The Ai)ennines; Soracte and Horace. 
 LXXVIII.-LXXXII. Rome and her Ruins. 
 LXXXIII.-LXXXVL Svlla and CromweU. 
 LXXXVII. The Statue of I*ompev. 
 LXXXVIII. The Wolf of the Capitol. 
 LXXXIX.-XCII. Ca'sar and Napoleon. 
 XCIII.-XCVII. The Reaction of 1815. 
 XCVIIL Tiie Coming Triumph of Freedom. 
 XCIX.-CV. The Tomb of Cecilia Metella. 
 CVL-CIX. The Ruins of the Palatine Hill. 
 ex., CXI. The Columns of Phocas and of Trajan. 
 CXII.-CXIV. The Capitol; the Forum; Rienzi. 
 CXV.-CXIX. Egeria and her Fountain. 
 CXX.-CXXVII. Love; its Ideals and its Realities. 
 CXXVIII.-CXLV. The Coliseum; Ryron's Imprecation and 
 Forgiveness of his Enemies; The Dying Gladiator. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 109 
 
 CXLVI., CXLVII. The Pantheon. 
 
 CXLVIII.-CLI. The Legend of the Roman Daughter. 
 
 CLII. The Mausoleum of Hadrian. 
 
 CLIII.-CLIX. St. Peter's. 
 
 CLX. The Laocoon. 
 
 CLXI.-CLXIII. The Apollo Belvedere. 
 
 CLXIV.-CLXVI. Childe Harold recalled. 
 
 CLXVII.-CLXXII. The Death of the Princess Charlotte. 
 
 CLXXIII.-CLXXVI. Lakes Nemi and Albano; the view 
 from the Alban Mount. 
 
 CLXXVIL-CLXXXIV. Apostrophe to the Ocean. 
 
 CLXXXV., CLXXXVI. The End of the Song and the Poet's 
 Farewell. 
 
 1. I stood in Venice. Byron at this time was living at Ven- 
 ice, going and returning frequently. His Ode on Venice, Beppo, 
 Marino Faliero, and The Two Foscari also show his interest in 
 this ancient and famous city. 
 
 2. A palace and a prison on each hand. The palace is 
 the Ducal Palace and the prison the State Prison. 
 
 7. The height of lier power as a republic was attained by Ven- 
 ice in the loth century, when she held various possessions in Dal- 
 matia, Greece, and the Levant. Napoleon put an end to the re- 
 public in 1797. Read Wordsworth's sonnet On the Extinction of 
 the Venetian Republic. 
 
 8. The lion of St. Mark is the emblem of Venice. 
 
 10. She looks a sea Cybele Cybele, the wife of Chronos 
 and the mother of the Olympian gods, was usually represented 
 as enthroned between two lions. Her head is adorned with a mural 
 crown. 
 
 Is the metaphor an effective one ? Does it make you feel that 
 you have Byron's conception of the appearance of Venice ? 
 
 17. What significance lies in the word purple? 
 
 19. Tasso's echoes are no more. " The well-known song of 
 the gondoliers, of alternate stanzas from Tasso's Jerusalem, has 
 died with the independence of Venice." — Hohhouse. Torquato 
 Tasso (1544-95), next to Dante among the epic poets of Italy, 
 published his Jerusalem Delivered in its final form in 1581. 
 
 24. States fall, arts fade, but Nature doth not die. 
 With this compare Matthew Arnold's expression in The Youth 
 of Nature. Nature speaking says : — 
 
 Race after race, man after man, 
 Have thought tliat my secret was theirs, 
 Have dream'd that I lived but for them, 
 That they were my glory and joy. 
 — They are dust, they are changed, they are gone ! 
 I remain. 
 
 30. despond. Supply a synonym. 
 
 31. dogeless. AVhen Venice was conquered by Napoleon in 
 1797 the office of the doge was abolished. 
 
110 NOTES, COMMENTS, AND SUGGESTIONS 
 
 33. Rialto. This is the name of a famous bridge which spans 
 the (Jrand Canal. Near the bridge was the Merchants' Exchange, 
 made famous by Shakespeare. 
 
 33, 34. For Shylock, the Moor, and Pierre, see respec- 
 tively The Merchant of Venice, Othello, and Tliomas Otway's 
 Venice Preserved. 
 
 35. Explain the symbolisms in the keystones of the arch. 
 Paraphrase the last two lines of the stanza. 
 
 37-46. What stanzas in Wordsworth's / wandered lonely as a 
 cloud express a similar thought ? Thrase in prose the thought of 
 the stanza. Illustrate by an imaginary specific example the idea 
 in the latter half of the stanza. 
 
 37. beings of the mind. Any concepts stored in the brain, — 
 characters iu literature, memories of past experiences, etc. 
 
 42. these spirits. What spirits ? 
 
 45. void. C'ommi'nt on the rhyme. 
 
 46-54. lu what sense is the idea here converse to that of 
 stanza V. ? 
 
 46, 47. I-'xplain these two lines. 
 
 53. constellations. Explain the grammatical structure. 
 
 57. are now but so. Are now but dreams. 
 
 64. Hyrou sjiokc Italian fluently; he was less skilled in French, 
 German, Latin, and (ireek. 
 
 70. and should I leave behind, etc. And even though I 
 leave England behiiul, perhnps I loved it well. Byron was some- 
 what variable in his attitude toward his native country. The 
 remembrance of the treatment he received at the hands of the 
 British public rankled. This passage is, however, genuinely 
 patriotic. 
 
 73. Cf. what Byron wrote to Murray, June 7, 1819 : " I trust 
 they won't think of ' picking and bringing me home to Clod or 
 Blunderbuss Hall.' I am sure my bones would not rest in an 
 English grave, or my clay mix witli the earth of that country. I 
 believe the thought would drive me mad on my deathbed, could 
 I suppose that any of my friends would be base enough to con- 
 vey my carcass back to your soil. I would not even feed your 
 worms, if I could help it." — Quoted by Rolfe. 
 
 Tennyson in In Memoriam (XVIII.) found comfort in thinking 
 of the body of Arthur Hallam being laid in English soil: 
 
 'T is well ; 't is something; we may stand 
 
 Where he in English earth is laid, 
 
 And from his ashes may be made 
 The violet of his native land. 
 
 78. fond. This word is used in its Elizabethan sense oi foolish. 
 
 82. temple. What abbey is this ? 
 
 85. Spartan's epitaph. This, Ilobhouse tells us, was the 
 answer made by the mother of Brasidas, the Lacedaemonian gen- 
 eral, to those who praised the memory of her son. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 111 
 
 87. nor need. Supply the ellipsis. This line is Byronic bra- 
 vado. 
 
 91. spouseless Adriatic, etc. In former times the Doge 
 annually went out in his barge Buoentaur, and ceremoniously 
 threw a ring into the sea in token of the city's maritime su- 
 premacy. 
 
 95. St. Mark. St. Mark is the patron saint of Venice, and 
 the lion is his emblem. Napoleon ordered this lion taken from 
 its pedestal in the Piazzetta, and sent it to Paris, but it was later 
 restored. 
 
 97, 98. The proud Place was in front of the Cathedral. 
 Here Emperor Frederic Barbarossa (called the Suabian in stanza 
 XII.) in 1177 opposed the papacy, but was soon forced to yield 
 to Pope Alexander III. 
 
 100. Austrian. Napoleon conquered Venice in 1805; in 1814 
 it was restored to Austria, under whose dominion it remained 
 until 1866. 
 
 106. lauwine. A German word meaning avalanche. 
 
 107. Oh, for one hour of blind old Dandolo ! " The reader 
 will recollect the exclamation of the Highlander, ' O, for one 
 hour of Dundee!' Henry Dandolo, when elected Doge in 1192, 
 was eighty-five years of age. When he commanded the Vene- 
 tians at the taking of Constantinople, he was consequently ninety- 
 seven years of age." — Hobhouse. 
 
 109. steeds of brass. These are above the portal of the 
 church of St. Mark. 
 
 111. The Venetians in 1379 were overcome by the Genoese 
 and the prince of Padua. In surrendering they sent an embassy 
 to the conquerors in which they promised to agree to any terms 
 which allowed them their independence. The Genoese, through 
 their commander, Peter Doria, sent back the answer, "On God's 
 faith, gentlemen of Venice, ye shall have no peace . . . until we 
 have first put a rein upon those unbridled horses of yours, that 
 are upon the porch of your evangelist St. Mark." 
 
 113. thirteen hundred years of freedom. Venice was 
 founded in 452. As Byron wrote this in 1817, the exact number 
 of years tliat had elapsed since the founding was thirteen hun- 
 dred sixty -five. Cf . The Ode to Venice — 
 
 Thirteen hundred years 
 Of wealth and glory turned to dust. 
 
 114-117. Sinks, like a sea-weed. Rolfe and other critics 
 see in this an allusion to the gradual subsidence of Venetian 
 buildings. The notes written by Hobhouse, and published by 
 Byron with the poem, suggest rather the deterioration of patri- 
 otic spirit. This certainly is more in keeping with the temper- 
 ament of Byron. 
 
 118. a new Tyre. The old Tyre, as described by the pro- 
 phet Ezekiel, was a Phenician city of great magnificence and 
 
112 NOTES, COMMENTS, AND SUGGESTIONS 
 
 splendor. Like Venice, it was built upon islands. Cf. Ezekiel, 
 chapters xxvi-xxviii. Cf. also Isaiah xxiii : 8. 
 
 119. by-'word. Nickname. 
 
 120. The ' Planter of the Lion.' The Lion of St. Mark, the 
 standard of the Republic of Venice. 
 
 123. bulwark. Explain the grammatical construction. 
 Ottomite= Ottoman Turks. 
 
 124. Troy's rival, Candia. Rival in point of time spent in 
 itvS defence. The Trojans defended their city ten years; the 
 Venetians defended Candia (on the coast of Crete) for twenty- 
 four years. 
 
 125. Lepanto's fight. In the Gulf of Lepanto the Venetians 
 and their allies defeated the Turks in a great naval battle in 
 1571. 
 
 127-135. Note Byron's splendid choice of details in this 
 stanza. What is the total effect of these ? 
 129. pile. Ducal Palace. 
 
 136. "When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse. In 414 B.C. 
 the Athenians under Nicia.s laid siege to ISyracuse, but were in 
 413 B. c. forced to yield. Some of the Athenian captives are said 
 by Plutarch to have obtained their freedom by reciting passages 
 from Euripides. Browning makes use of this legend in his Ba- 
 laustioii's Adventure. Balaustion, a young girl of Rhodes, was one 
 of a group of Athenian sym})athizers wlio were captured by the 
 Syracusans. These captors, finding that Balaustion was willing 
 to recite the Alcestis of Euripides on condition that she and her 
 friends be released, listened iu charmed attention to her story. 
 " All this came," said Balaustion, as she retold her adventure, 
 " from the 
 
 glory of the golden verse, 
 And passion of the picture, and that fine 
 Frank outgusli of the human gratitude 
 Which saved our ship and me, in Syracuse — 
 Ay, and the tear or two which slipt perhaps 
 Away from you, friends, while I told my tola, 
 — It all came of this play." 
 
 140-145. What creates the vividness of these lines? Is it due 
 to the choice of verbs ? Has the use of the present tense any 
 vivifying effect ? 
 
 151-153. Albion. England. Rolf e quotes the description of 
 England in Richard IL, II. 1. 46. 
 
 This precious stone set in the silver sea. 
 Which serves it in the office of a wall, 
 Or as a moat defensive to a house, 
 Against the envy of less happier lands. 
 
 Of course it is not necessary to assume that Byron was think- 
 ing of Shakespeare's passage. 
 
 158. Otway's Venice Preserved, Mrs. Radcliffe's The Mysteries 
 of Udolpho, Schiller's Ghost-seer (Der Geisterseher), and Shake- 
 speare's The Merchant of Venice are here referred to. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 113 
 
 160. Interpret the thus. 
 
 161. Supply the ellipsis. 
 
 163-171. Byron is by no means the only writer in English 
 •who has been influenced by Venice. Can you cite others ? 
 172. But. Can you justify Byron's use of hut here ? 
 
 tannen. German word for Jir trees. " Tannen is the 
 plural of tanne, a species of fir peculiar to the Alps, which only 
 thrives in very rocky parts, where scarcely soil sufficient for its 
 nourishment can be found. On these spots it grows to a greater 
 height than any other mountain tree." — Byron. 
 
 Stanzas XX.-XXV. Frame in five single sentences the 
 thought in each of these five stanzas. With what idea or ideas 
 expressed in these stanzas do you disagree ? Do you know of 
 other writers who have expressed similar thoughts ? 
 189. What is the antecedent of it ? 
 
 194. "weave their "web again. Recommence their work. 
 199-201. Illustrate the thought of this stanza by a specific 
 example — real or imaginary. E. H. Coleridge calls attention 
 here to Browning's Bishop Blougram's Apology. 
 
 Just when we are safest, there 's a sunset-touch, 
 A fancy from a flower-ball, some one's death, 
 A chorus-ending from l<-uripides, — 
 Add that 's enough for fifty hopes and fears 
 To rap and knock and enter in our soul. 
 
 216. Too many! — yet how few! Why too many? Why 
 
 how few? 
 
 2i7ff. Note how Byron here brings the reader back from 
 these digressive stanzas on abstract themes to the concrete real- 
 ities in Rome. The poet's thoughts now turn from Venice to 
 other Italian cities. 
 
 218. Why does Byron speak of himself as a ruin ? 
 
 220-224. Does Byron's praise of Italy here seem to you 
 extravagant, or do facts justify it? 
 
 226. commonwealth of kings. A republic of kingly citi- 
 zens. 
 
 230-234. Note the reserve power felt in these lines. The 
 poet selects for eulogy the meaner things in Italy. What praise 
 could he not bestow upon the grander ? 
 
 Stanzas XXVII.-XXX. These three stanzas are full of 
 what we term sensory images, — i. e., images that appeal to such 
 senses as sight, hearing, feeling, taste, and smell. The student 
 will note that here the appeal is principally to the eye; color, 
 form, and movement are most prominent in the reader's concep- 
 tion. Try to picture all this by studying carefully each mentioned 
 detail and formulating it all in a successive chain of images. 
 Naturally we cannot reconstruct the particular image Byron had 
 in mind, but we can call up pictures which will generate similar 
 emotions. Unless we can do this we are unable to read poetry. 
 What images, other than sight images, are here conceived? 
 
114 NOTES, COMMENTS, AND SUGGESTIONS 
 
 235. Byron conceives himself as stationed on the mainland 
 opposite Venice, where the river Brenta flows into the Gulf of 
 Venice. 
 
 238. blue Friuli's mountains. The mountains meant are 
 "the Julian Alps, which form an arc from behind Trieste to the 
 neighbourhood of Verona; and the word must be taken in its 
 widest acceptation, for the mountains intended are evidently 
 those to the west of Venice, while Friuli itself (the ancient Fo- 
 rum Julii) is to the north-east of that city." 'Jhe same chain, or 
 higher summits beyond, are called below "the far Kluetian hill," 
 that is, the Tyroh-se lieights. — Tozcr. 
 
 243. an island of the blest. " The above description may 
 seem fantastical or exaggerated to those who have never seen 
 an Oriental or an Italian sky, yet it is but a literal and hardly 
 suflicifnt delineation of an August evening as contemplated in 
 one of many rides along the bank of the Brenta, near La Mira." 
 — Jij/ron. 
 
 Stanza XXIX. In the suggestion of images, what power 
 does literature have that is denied to i)ainting and to sculpture? 
 Illustrate from this stanza. Students should consult Lessing's 
 Laocoim. 
 
 254. hues. What case? 
 
 259. Dies like the dolphin. Is Byron's description true to 
 science? Wliat is your aiithority? 
 
 Stanza XXX. From here t(» stanza XLVII. Byron's ideas are 
 largelv aroused by Italian literature, and the life-story of some 
 of hrr ])oets. 
 
 262, Arqua. Consult an atlas or a gazetteer. 
 
 reared in air. The tomb of Fetrarcli is supported on 
 red marble pilhirs. 
 
 264. Laura's lover. Petrarch. Consult the encyclopedia. 
 
 267-269. What lanirii.iixo did he raise? What land reclaim? 
 Who were his harhnnr /nes ? 
 
 269. "Watering the tree. In his ])oetry Petrarch makes fre- 
 quent mention of the laurel. lie plays upon the resemblance be- 
 tween this and the Laura who inspired his lyrics. 
 
 271 fif. Tozer appositely quotes Milton's Epitaph on Shake- 
 speare. 
 
 Wliat noeds my Shakpspoare for his honom-'d bones 
 The labour of an agf in iiile<l stones ? 
 Or tliat liis liallow'd relirs shonld be hid 
 Under a star-y pointing pyramid ? 
 
 What great men do you know about whose monuments are 
 plain and :^imple ? For Bvron's view consult the note on line 478. 
 
 Stanzas XXXII-XXXV. Do you agree with Byron in his 
 notion that solitude, because it lias no flatterers, better enables 
 an individual to work out his own particidar soul-problems ? Or 
 is it better to talk them over with those who are wiser than we ? 
 Or will varying conditions dictate a choice between these two 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 115 
 
 alternatives ? Perhaps you can suggest other and better methods. 
 How does literature sometimes offer us aid ? Do you agree with 
 Byron's note in which he says, " The struggle is full as likely to 
 be with demons as with our better thoughts. Satan chose the 
 wilderness for the temptation of our Saviour. And our unsullied 
 John Locke preferred the presence of a child to complete soli- 
 tude." 
 
 280-288. Can you cite other examples of great writers who 
 lived in quiet hamlets ? 
 
 282. Phrase this line in simpler language. 
 
 290. where-by. On the banks of which. 
 
 293. Idlesse. How do you account for this form ? 
 
 293. Hath its morality. Meaning ? 
 
 298-306. Byron here suggests that some individuals are so 
 unfortimate as to believe themselves predestined to a doom 
 which will not pass away. These individuals lack the element 
 that has distinguished the best and noblest poetry of such writers 
 as Tennyson and Browning — our greatest modern teachers. 
 
 307. Byron, on his way to Florence, stopped at Ferrara, 
 which in the loth and 16th centuries was a noted center of art 
 and literature. Browning has immortalized it under the title 
 of his poem il/y Last Duchess. 
 
 308. Whose symmetry -was not for solitude. Meaning ? 
 311. Este : The name of the house which long ruled Ferrara. 
 
 The glories of the house were celebrated in Tasso's Jerusalem 
 Delivered. 
 
 314. Alfonso I., who belonged to the house of Este, was a 
 patron of poets — particularly of Ariosto. 
 
 Alfonso II. for a time was Tasso's patron. It is popularly be- 
 lieved that this duke, because of Tasso's political intrigues, and 
 because of his daring to love the duke's sister, had the poet con- 
 fined as a lunatic in a narrow cell. (Cf. Byron's Lament of Tasso 
 and Goethe's Torquato Tasso). But later authorities assert that 
 this confinement was due to the genuine insanity of the poet, and 
 Byron's attack here may not be quite justifiable. 
 
 332, 333. For the thought in these last two lines cf. Shake- 
 speare's King Lear, IV. vi. 163 ff. 
 
 a dog 's obey'd in office. . . . 
 
 The usurer hangs the cozener. 
 Through tatter'd clothes great vices do appear ; 
 Robes and furr'd gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold, 
 And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks ; 
 Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw does pierce it. 
 
 335. beasts that perish. Ps. xlix: 20. 
 
 339. the Cruscan quire. " The Accademia della Crusca, 
 established at Florence in 1582, with the object of purifying the 
 national language. It censured Tasso's Jerusalem. Quire is now 
 commonly spelled choir.^^ — Rofe. 
 
116 NOTES, COMMENTS, AND SUGGESTIONS 
 
 340. Boileau *'Tlie celebrated Frencli critic, who complained 
 that the taste of his time preferred the tinsel of Tasso to the 
 gold of Viroil." — Rolfe. 
 
 342. monotony in -wire. Boileau in France was as devoted 
 to the heroic couplet as was Pope in England. Lowell has aptly 
 termed this measure the rockin (/-horse meter. 
 
 354. Bards of Hell and Chivalry. Dante wrote of hell 
 (the Inferno),Ti\\i\ Ariosto wrote of chivalry. 
 
 355.' Tuscan father. Dante. 
 
 356, 357. the Florentine, The southern Scott. Ariosto. 
 Scott and Hyron were admirers of each other's work. Scott 
 abandoned narrative poetry because he felt that Byron was 
 excelling him. 
 
 361. The lightning, etc. *' Before the remains of Tasso were 
 removed from the Benedictine church to the library of Ferrara, 
 his bust, which surmounted the tomb, was struck by lightning, 
 and a crown of laurels melted away." — Ilohhouse. 
 
 364. true laurel-'wreath. What is the true laurel-wreath? 
 
 368. Among the Romans it was a superstition that the light- 
 ning sanctified the objects it struck. Because of this belief the 
 Curtian lake and the Kuminal hg-tree in the P^orum were held 
 sacred. 
 
 370-378. Byron tells us that this stanza and the next are a 
 free translation of Filicaja's famous sonnet. 
 
 377. robbers. Whom did Byron probably have in mind ? 
 
 387-395. In his celebrated letter to Cicero Servius Sulpicius 
 tries to console the great orator for the death of Cicero's daugh- 
 ter Tiillia. He contrasts the insignificance of an individual death 
 with the tragic significance of the downfall of a state. Parts of 
 the letter describe a route by sea and land which Byron often 
 traced. "On my return from Asia," writes Byron, " as I was 
 sailing from iEgina towards Megara, 1 began to contemj)late 
 the j)rospects of the countries around me: /Egina was behind, 
 Megara before me; Pineus on the right, Corinth on the left; all 
 which towns once famous and flourishing, now lie overturned and 
 buried in their ruins. Upon this sight, I could not but think 
 presently within myself : Alas! how do we poor mortals fret and 
 vex ourselves if any of our friends happen to die or be killed, 
 whose life is yet so short, when the carcasses of so many noble 
 cities lie here exposed before me in one view." 
 
 399. Note the cacophony (disagreeable sound) in this line. 
 Byron, in his hurry, is sometimes careless of his style and syntax. 
 
 404. surviving page. What page ? 
 
 409. And I in desolation. Supply the ellipsis. 
 
 415-423. Byron's tribute to Italy is comprehensive; Italy has 
 been the mother of arts, war, and religion. Byron might also have 
 mentioned law — perhaps the most significant of Roman contri- 
 butions to present civilization. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 117 
 
 . 422-423. Has the prophecy of these lines been fulfilled ? 
 
 425. Etrurian Athens. Florence. Tuscany, of which Flor- 
 ence, on the Arno, is the capital, was formerly called Etruria. 
 Florence is the modern home of art, as Athens was the ancient 
 
 431. modern Luxury. " The refined luxury of modern days, 
 as distinguished from the barbarous splendor of the Middle 
 Ages, was first seen at Florence, especially at the court of the 
 Medici: it was the result of the great wealth of Florentme 
 Traders." — Tozer. 
 
 432. buried Learning. Florence was one ot the centers ot 
 the Renaissance movement. 
 
 433 The Goddess alluded to is the statue of Venus de 
 Medici in the Tribute of the Uffizi Gallery. The method of 
 description which Byron here adopts is description by effect. You 
 will note that he says almost nothing about the objective char- 
 acteristics of the statue; the sense of beauty is, however, power- 
 fully revealed to the reader through the poet's magnificent enthu- 
 siasm. This sort of reaction is characteristic of the entire poem. 
 For a similar efPect produced by other Florentine objects, read 
 Henry James's The Madonna of the Future. 
 
 445. Chained to the chariot. To what ancient Roman cus- 
 tom does Bvron here allude ? m , • i j • 
 
 448. paltry jargon of the marble mart. Technical descrip- 
 tions of art treasures used by those dealers who are deluding 
 
 purchasers. . x^ . , i • i j ^i 
 
 450. The Dardan Shepherd is Pans, who decided the con- 
 test of beauty between Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite (Venus). 
 
 452. more deeply blest. Because Anchises was privileged 
 to marrv Aphrodite (Venus). 
 
 454. Lord of "War. Who is meant ? 
 
 458. lava combines the two ideas suggested in melting and 
 burning. The image is certainly not of Byron's happiest concep- 
 
 460-468. Phrase in a single sentence the thought of this 
 stanza. 
 
 470. ape. Copier. . 
 
 478 Santa Crooe. "The church of Santa Croce contains 
 much illustrious nothing. The tombs of Machiavelli, Michael 
 Ano-elo. Galileo, and Alfieri, make it the Westminster Abbey ot 
 Itafy. i did not admire any of these tombs — beyond their con- 
 tents. . . . What is necessary but a bust and name (* and per- 
 haps a date. ... All your allegory and eulogy is infernal." — 
 Byron's Letters, 1817. For what is each of these four great men 
 especially noted ? i ., .. n 
 
 487. like the elements. The ancients believed that all crea- 
 tion was composed of the four elements, earth, air, fire, and 
 water. 
 
118 NOTES, COMMENTS, AND SUGGESTIONS 
 
 495. Canova, the famous Italian sculptor, died in 1822, two 
 years before Byron's death. 
 
 496, 497. For what are Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio (the 
 bard of prose) especially noted ? 
 
 505. Dante sleeps afar. Dante is buried in Ravenna, near 
 the " upbraiding shore " of the Adriatic. 
 
 506. Scipio Africanus the Elder is supposed to be buried near 
 the sea at Liturnum in Campania. He gave orders that he must 
 not be buried at Rome, but at Liturnum, where he had spent 
 several years of voluntary exile. Upon his tomb, some histories 
 assert, there was inscribed in Latin, " Ungrateful country, you 
 shall not have my ashes." 
 
 507. Thy factions. This alludes to the long strife between 
 the Guelf and the Ghibellinc parties. One of the results of this 
 strife was the banishment of Dante. 
 
 510, 511. and the crown, etc. Byron's diction here is 
 careless; he evidently means that upon a far and foreign soil 
 (France) Petrareli had done the work which finally won for him 
 the laurel crown at Rome — a crown which he wore with rare 
 dignity. His grave at Arqna was riHed by Florentine robbers. 
 
 514. to his parent earth. Boccaccio was buried at his birth- 
 place, Certaldo (soutli-westof Florence). Later his remains were 
 ejected from the sacred precincts by those whom Byron calls 
 " hyfcna bigots." 
 
 517. Tuscan's siren tongue. The Italian is the most melli- 
 fluous of languages. 
 
 522. "whom. Boccaccio, whom the monks hated. 
 
 525. the Caesar's pageant. Because Brutus was one of the 
 conspirators against .Julius Csesar, his bust was not carried in 
 the funeral procession of Tiberius C'jesar. Or, ])erhaps, as some 
 authorities say, the funeral procession alluded to is that of Junia, 
 wife of Cassius, and sister of P)rutus. 
 
 528. Fortress of falling empire. During the barbarian in- 
 vasions Ravenna was one of the more strongly fortified places of 
 the Empire. 
 
 532. Byron is here referring to the expensive tombs of the 
 Medici in the church of San l^orenzo at Florence. Notice the 
 effect of this on the poet as he expresses it in a letter to Murray; 
 ** I also went to the Medici chapel, — fine frippery in great slabs 
 of various expensive stones, to commemorate fifty rotten and for- 
 gotten carcasses." He was so nmch disgusted with the ostenta- 
 tious magnificence of the chapel that he did not notice Michael 
 Angelo's celebrated statties on the tombs. 
 
 542. Arno's dome of Art. Mr. E. H. Coleridge thinks this 
 refers to the Duomo or Cathedral at Florence. Other editors 
 think the poet is referring to the Uffizi Gallery. 
 
 543. rainboTv sister. Explain. 
 
 545-549. Cf. the thought here with that expressed in one of 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 119 
 
 Byron's letters to Murray: "I never yet saw the picture or the 
 statue v/^hich came a league within my conception orexpectatfon; 
 but I have seen many mountains, and seas, and rivers, and views 
 . . . [that] went far beyond it." 
 
 551. Thrasimene's lake. Here Hannibal, through his artful 
 wiles, was able to entrap and defeat the Roman army. 
 
 554-559. Study the method by which Byron here secures his 
 effect of vividness. Is he apt in his selection of details ? of 
 words ? Illustrate. 
 
 563. An earthquake reeled unheededly away. Livy is 
 Byron's authority; he says that the carnage here was so intense 
 that the fighters were unconscious of the great earthquake then 
 occurring. 
 
 577. Note that Byron here effects his transition by means of 
 contrast. 
 
 585. unwilling waters. Why unwilling? 
 
 586. But thou, Clitumnus. " No book of travels has omitted 
 to expatiate on the temple of the Clitumnus, between Foligno 
 and Spoleto; and no sight, or scenery, even in Italy, is more 
 worthy a description." — Byron. 
 
 590. milk-white steer. Byron follows Virgil. Cf. GeorgicSj 
 ii. 146, " Hinc, albi, Clitumne, greges." Cf. also Macaulay's 
 Horatius : — 
 
 Unwatched along Clitumnus 
 Qrazes the milk-white steer. 
 
 Pliny tells us that the waters of certain rivers were supposed 
 to make the cattle which drank from them white. 
 
 602. chance. Perchance. 
 
 scattered. Spread out. 
 
 604-612. This stanza suggests an attitude toward nature fre- 
 quent in Byron; he seems to look on nature as a retreat from 
 the weariness of the world, rather than as an active agency in 
 healing power. 
 
 612. disgust. E. H. Coleridge defines the particular meaning 
 here as tastelessness. 
 
 613-621. Note here the various sensory images. Which ones 
 appeal to the eye ? which to the ear ? Recreate each separate 
 image. 
 
 614. The name of the cataract is Terni. It is formed by the 
 Velino River. 
 
 620. Phlegethon. The name of one of the four rivers in 
 Hades. Tozer calls attention to the fine way in which the idea of 
 spirits in torment is here carried out. 
 
 629. Crushing the cliffs, etc. No poet has a keener eye for 
 the powerful, the tempestuous, in nature. Note this characteris- 
 tic in the following stanza, and throughout the poem. 
 
 640-648. Make a study of the similes in this stanza. 
 
 642. Iris. Meaning? 
 
120 NOTES, COMMENTS, AND SUGGESTIONS 
 
 653. lau^vine. Avalanches. Byron's German is faulty, the 
 correct plural being Lauwinen. 
 
 654. Jungfrau. Literally, virgin mountain. This peak of the 
 Alps, which Byron here speaks of as never-trodden, had a pecul- 
 iar fascination for the poet. He makes it the scene of much of 
 the action of Manfred. 
 
 657. Chimari. The Acroceraunian Mountains, now called the 
 Chiniari, take their present name from the town which lies near. 
 
 658. Acroceraunian is Greek iov thunder-hills above, — lit- 
 erally, /)ea^^s• struck by lightning or thunder. Cf. Shelley's Are- 
 thusa : — 
 
 Arethusa arose 
 
 From lier couch of snows 
 
 In the Acroceraunian ujountains. 
 
 659. Supply the ellipsis. 
 
 662. -with a Trojan's eye. From the plain of Troy. 
 
 663. Athos, Olympus, JEtna, Atlas. Consult an atlas or 
 a gazetteer. 
 
 665. Soracte's height. " Tiiis niountain (now known as San 
 Oreste), to the north of Home, though only 'J2G0 feet high, is a 
 conspicuous object in tiie view from many points in the city, on 
 account of its isolated position. Its broken contour, as it rises 
 'from out the })lain ' (we have in mind particularly the view 
 from San Pietro di Montorio — the ancient Janiculum), at once 
 recalls the poet's comparison to a breaking wave. Virgil refers 
 to Soracte in the /En. vi. 090 : ' Hi Soraetis habent arces; ' and 
 id. xi. 785 : * Summe deum, sancti custos Soraetis Apollo; ' and 
 Horace, in Od. i. 9 : ' Vides ut alta stet nive candidum Soracte.' 
 It is this last passage that Byron had in mind in saying that the 
 height is ' not now in snow.' The temple of Apollo on the sum- 
 mit, to which Virgil alludes, is replaced by the modern church 
 of San Silvestro." — Rnlfe. 
 
 666. lyric Roman. Horace. See note above. 
 
 668, 669. Heaves like a long-swept -wave, etc. Cf. this 
 
 with Matthew Arnold's notable simile in Sohrah and Rusium: — 
 
 For we are all, like swimmers in the sea, 
 Poised on the top of a huge wave of fate, 
 Which hangs uncertain to which side to fall. 
 And whether it will heave us up to laud, 
 Or whether it will roll us out to sea. 
 Back out to sea, to the deep waves of death, 
 We know not, and no search will make us know; 
 Only the event will teach us in its hour. 
 
 672. I abhorred, etc. Byron's temperament did not easily 
 accord with the routine of classical studies as pursued at Harrow 
 and at Cambridge. In a letter to Moore he expresses his opinion 
 of Virgil: " I shall go to Bologna by Ferrara, instead of Man- 
 tua; because I would rather see tlie cell where they caged Tasso 
 . . . than his own MSS. at Modena, or the Mantuan birthplace 
 of that harmonious plagiary and miserable flatterer whose cursed 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 
 
 121 
 
 hexameters were drilled into me at Harrow. Byron s own note 
 follows: "I wish to express that we become tired of the task 
 before we can comprehend the beauty; that we learn by rote 
 before we can get by heart; that the freshness is worn away, 
 and the future pleasure and advantage deadened and destroyed 
 bv the didactic anticipation, at an age when we can neither teel 
 nor understand the power of compositions which it requires an 
 acquaintance with life, as well as Latin and Greek to relish or 
 to reason upon In some parts of the Continent young per- 
 sons are taught from more common authors, and do not read 
 the best classics till their maturity." • . ti„^ 
 
 690 nor Bard prescribe his art. The reference is to Hor- 
 ace's ^rs Poetica in which the poet lays down his conception of 
 the laws of poetry. Pope's Essay on Criticism was influenced by 
 Horace's Ars Poetica. , . i u J¥^„ 
 
 695 must turn to thee. What consolation does Rome offer 
 to those who are destitute of love and sympathy ? 
 
 703. Niobe of nations. What comparison is there between 
 Niobe and Rome ? Consult a classical dictionary. 
 
 707. Scipios' tomb. This tomb, discovered near the Appiaa 
 Way in 1780, was soon rifled of its bones. , . , , . , i 
 
 715. steep. The road up the Capitoline Hill which triumphal 
 
 proc^essions^ but feel our way to err. Groping our way, we 
 make mistakes. 
 
 734. TuUy's. Cicero's. 
 
 735, 736. these shall be, etc. In the pages of these, future 
 
 atres will read Rome's story. . „ ^ o n x • „ m,^ 
 
 740-744 Triumphant Sylla. Sulla (or Sylla) was given the 
 name Felix to characterize his continued good luck He set out 
 for the Mithridatic war 87 b. c. before he had gained the results 
 of the victory over Marius. • ^ i n- ^„^^„ ;„ 
 
 745 Annihilated senates. Sulla was appointed Dictator m 
 81 B. c. After this the Senate was completely m his power 
 
 746 *hou didst lay down, etc. Sulla gave up his dicta- 
 torial wreath" in 79 B.C., and withdrew into private lite. 
 
 752 Eternal. Cf. Hall Caine's novel The Eternal City. 
 758. Cromwell dissolved the Long Parliament and brought 
 
 Charles I. to the block. , r^ n „„:„^^ 
 
 763 His fate. " On the 3d of September Cromwell gained 
 the victory of Dunbar [1G50] ; a year afterwards l^e obtained 
 'his crowning mercy 'of Worcester [1651]; and a few years 
 after [1G58], on the same day, which he had ever esteemed the 
 most fortunate for him, died." — 5yron. ^ • . „f :„ 
 
 775. dread statue. The statue of Porapey is still existent m 
 the Spada Palace at Rome. Tradition has long accepted Uiis as 
 the one at whose feet C^sar fell. Cf . Shakespeare's Julius CcBsar, 
 III. ii. 192-193. 
 
122 NOTES, COMMENTS, AND SUGGESTIONS 
 
 781. Nemesis. Byron here asks the god of vengeance if 
 Caesar's death by Brutus came as a retribution for Pompey's 
 death by C«sar. 
 
 784. thunder-stricken nurse of Rome. The bronze " Wolf 
 of the Capitol " in the Palace of the Conservators is thought 
 to be the one alluded to by Cicero in his third oration against 
 Catiline. 
 
 799. supremacy. What is the grammatical construction ? 
 
 800. one vain man. Napoleon. Byron has fully character- 
 ized Napoleon in the following stanzas taken from Canto III. of 
 Childe Harold. 
 
 XXXVl. 
 
 There > sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, 
 Whose spirit, antithetically mixed, 
 One niouient of the uuKhtiest, and af^ain 
 On little objects with like firmness fixed, 
 Extreme in all tilings ! 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 imjwrial mien 
 And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene ! 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 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 
 Tliat thou art nothing, save the jeat 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. 
 
 XXXVIU. 
 
 O, more or less tlian man — in high or low, 
 Battling with nations, fiying 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 ! 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 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 wliole host of hatred stood hard by, 
 To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled 
 With a sedate and all-enduring eye ; — 
 When Fortime fled her spoiled and favorite child, 
 He stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Sager than in thy fortunes ; for in them 
 Ambition steeled thee on too far to show 
 That just habitual scorn which could contemn 
 Men and their thoughts ; 't was wise to feel, not bo 
 1 Waterloo. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 123 
 
 To wear it ever on thy lip and brow, 
 And spurn the instruments thou wert to use 
 Till they were turned unto thine overthrow : 
 'T is but a worthless world to win or lose; 
 So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 If, like a tower upon a headlong 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. 
 
 801. vanquished by himself. Napoleon was at this time 
 an exile on St. Helena. 
 
 803. bastard Caesar. An inferior Caesar. 
 
 809, 810. Alcides with the distaff. An allusion to Hercules 
 who, dressed in maiden's garb, spun wool for Omphale, queen 
 of Lydia. Caesar was fascinated by Cleopatra. 
 
 811. And came — and saw — and conquered ! The trans- 
 lation of Cfesar's famous sentence — veiii, vidi, vici — in which 
 he describes the result of his campaign against Pharnaces II., 
 King of Pontus. 
 
 812. his eagles. Here symbolically used for French soldiery, 
 which were trained to " flee " toward, not away from, the enemy. 
 
 828. Cf. Gen. ix: 13. 
 
 Stanzas XCIII., XCIV. Try to pnt the thought of these two 
 stanzas into one compact sentence. Do you agree with Byron? 
 Can you think of any literary selection that voices a similar 
 thought? Is Byron most interesting — or least so — when he 
 gives expression to such abstract views of life? Or do you like 
 better the objective descriptions in his travels? 
 
 850-854. The yoke that is upon us, etc. The reference is 
 to the increased absolutism in government which followed the 
 fall of Napoleon. 
 
 853. apes of him. The antecedent of him is Napoleon. 
 
 859. Pallas. Consult a classical dictionary. The comparison 
 of America's springing to full liberty as Pallas sprang to full 
 maturity is a striking simile. 
 
 863. Washington. Cf. Byron's Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte 
 for another reference to Washington. 
 
 866. The Saturnalia was a lioman festival marked by unre- 
 strained license. 
 
 871. the base pageant. "By the 'base pageant' Byron refers 
 to the Congress of Vienna (September, 1815); the Holy Alliance 
 (September 26) into which the Duke of Wellington would not 
 enter; and the Second Treaty of Paris, November 20, 1815." — 
 E. H. Coleridge. 
 
 Stanza XCVIII. Get clearly in mind each separate figure 
 
124 NOTES, COMMENTS, AND SUGGESTIONS 
 
 which Byron uses in his analysis of freedom. Do you find his 
 rapid formation of figures producing a clarifying or a confusing 
 effect ? 
 
 881. in the bosom of the North. Byron is probably think- 
 ing of P^ngland. 
 
 883. stern round tower. This tower — the tomb of Csecilia 
 Metella — is situated on the Appian Way, two miles from Rome. 
 It is sixty-five feet in diameter. 
 
 904. Cornelia. We remember her for her famous character- 
 ization of her sons, the Gracchi — "These are my jewels." 
 
 905. Egypt's graceful queen. Cleopatra. 
 
 906. it. What is the antecedent? 
 
 Stanza CIII. The -wealthiest Roman's wife. There has 
 been abinidant conjecture about the personality of Caecilia Me- 
 tella, but we know oidy that she was the wife of Crassus. 
 
 969. Hath but one page. History simj)ly repeats itself. 
 
 976. in this span. Hero in the narrow territory about the 
 Palatine Hill once reigned the greatest of civilizations, but now 
 the foundation can scarcely be traced. 
 
 983. nameless column. Anticpiarians have discovered that 
 this column w^as erected in honor of the Emperor Fhocas, A. D. 
 G08. 
 
 989. apostolic statues. A statue of St. Peter is now upon 
 the column of Trajan and a statue of St. Paul upon the column 
 of Aurelius. 
 
 990. w^hose ashes slept sublime, Buried in air. There was 
 a legend that Trajan's ashes were placed in a gilded globe which 
 originally surmounted tlie column of Trajan. When Sixtus V. 
 opened this globe, he foiuul it empty. 
 
 997. Alexander, under the infiueuce of wine, killed his friend 
 Clitus. 
 
 999. still. Even to thin ar/e rather than nevertheless. 
 
 1000. rock of Triumph. This marked the spot on the Cap- 
 itoline Hill where the triumphal procession ended. 
 
 1002. Tarpeian. From here criminals were thrown. 
 
 1022. Rienzi, after leading a successful insurrection against 
 the nobles, was proclain)ed Trilxme in 1347. Cf. Bulwer-Lyttou's 
 Rienzi, The Last of the Tribunes, and Wagner's opera. 
 
 1026. Numa was also a lawgiver to the Romans. 
 
 1027. Egeria. She was " the nymph who counselled Numa, 
 the ancient lawgiver, who was fabled to have been her lover. 
 Her fountain and grotto were placed beyond the Sebastian gate 
 in Byron's day. They are now thought to be near the Metronian 
 gate." — Carpenter. 
 
 1031. nympholepsy. Mental disorder caused by nymphs. 
 
 1036. thy fountain. The so-called "Grotto of Egeria" is 
 near the Appian Way, about a mile and a half from Rome. The 
 " grotto " is " a nymphseum, originally covered with marble, the 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 125 
 
 shrine of the brook Almo (which now flows past it in an artificial 
 channel) and erected at a somewhat late period. A niche in the 
 posterior wall contains the mutilated statue of the river-god, 
 standing on corbels, from which the water used to flow." — Bae- 
 deker. 
 
 1047. bills. The exigency of the rhyme, rather than high 
 poetic art, dictates this choice. Do you find other similar cases 
 in the poem ? 
 
 1070, 1071. The dull satiety, etc. This is a characteristio 
 attitude in Byron. Find other examples. 
 
 1105. Reaping the -whirl-wind. Cf. Hosea viii : 7. " For 
 they have sow^n the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind." 
 
 1112. doubly curst. Why doubly? 
 
 Stanza CXXV. In the discussion here and in the succeeding 
 stanzas Byron is doubtless thinking of his own infelicitous mar- 
 riage with Miss Milbanke. 
 
 Stanza CXXVI. Seldom does Byron express a more hope- 
 less mood than in this stanza. Compare it with the whole of 
 Manfred. 
 
 1129. upas . . . tree. Study this metaphor carefully. Express 
 the idea, divorced from the figure. 
 
 1140. cabined, cribbed, confined. Cf. Machethy III. iv. 24. 
 
 But now I 'm cabin'd, cribb'd, confiu'd, bound in 
 To saucy doubts and fears. 
 
 1143. couch. This is a technical term in surgery; to couch a 
 cataract means to treat it by pushing down the opaque lens 
 ■with a needle. 
 
 1147. Coliseum. The first, second, and third stories of the 
 Flavian amphitheater were, Mr. E. H. Coleridge tells us, built 
 upon arches. Between the arches, eighty to each story, stood 
 three-quarter columns. Byron in Manfred, Act III. sc. iv. lines 
 8-13, has another description of the Coliseum by night. 
 
 Stanza CXXX. In this and the following stanzas Byron makes 
 his appeal to Time to give to him retributive justice. He feels 
 that he has been deeply wronged and unfairly condemned by the 
 British public. 
 
 Does this impress you as being too personal; or do you like it 
 all the more for its strong personal display of emotion? 
 
 1171. this -wreck. The Coliseum. 
 
 1182. Look this up in a classical dictionary; or, better still, 
 read The Libation Pourers and the Eumenides by ^schylus. 
 
 1194. thou. Nemesis. Byron here seems intent on asserting 
 that for the faults for which he had been condemned he was not 
 in reality to blame, and that in time he would be cleared of 
 blame. 
 
 1196. The dash at the end of the line here indicates that the 
 poet stops short of mentioning any name — his sister's, most 
 likely. 
 
126 NOTES, COMMENTS, AND SUGGESTIONS 
 
 1200. decline. "What part of speech? 
 
 Stanza CXXXV. What do you think of this self-praise? 
 
 1221. Janus glance. Janus was the name applied to the 
 Roman god who looked in both directions. Cf. our word January. 
 
 1234. The seal is set. My curse is ended. 
 
 dread poiver. " Sentiment of antiquity." — Tozer. 
 
 1243. buzz of eager nations. In the Coliseum crowd of 
 80,000 or more tl)ere would he many nationalities present. 
 
 1247. genial. Here used ironically. 
 
 Stanza CXL. Gladiator. The famous statue of The Dying 
 Gladiator is now known to represent a dying Gaul, Byron's de- 
 scriptive powers are seldom more effectively used than in this 
 stanza. Study the description in an effort to analyze the elements 
 which contribute to the vividness. 
 
 1274. millions' blame or praise, etc. " When one gladiator 
 wounded another, he shouted, ' He has it,' * Hoc habet,' or 
 * Habet.' The wounded combatant dropped his weapon, aiul, ad- 
 vancing to the edge of the arena, supplicated the spectators. If 
 he had fought well, the people saved him, if otherwise, or as they 
 happened to be inclined, they turned down their thumbs and he 
 was slain." — Flohfiouse. 
 
 1279. From its mass. Tiie Coliseum was for a long time 
 used as a stone <piarry. 
 
 1184. developed, opens the decay, etc. When we exam- 
 ine it in detail we come to realize the detail. 
 
 1293. Like laurels, etc. " Suetonius informs us that Julius 
 CfBsar was ])articularly gratified by that decree of the senate 
 which enal)led him to wear a wreath of laurel on all occasions. 
 He was anxious, not to show that he was the conqueror of the 
 world, but to hide that he was bald." — Bi/ron. 
 
 1297. While stands the Coliseum, etc. " This is quoted in 
 the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire as a proof that the 
 Coliseum was entire when seen by the Anglo-Saxon pilgrims at 
 the end of the 7th or the beginning of the 8th century." — Byron. 
 It is ascribed to the Venerable Bede, and the original reads: 
 "Quamdiu stabit Coliseus, stabit et Roma ; quando cadet Coli- 
 seus, cadet Roma; ipiando cadet Roma, cadet et miindus." 
 
 1306. Here the poet commences his description of the Pantheon. 
 The transition is not clear until we reach the last line. 
 
 1321. altars. The Pantheon was consecrated as a church by 
 Pope Boniface IV. in 009. 
 
 1323. whose busts around them close. In modern times 
 busts of some of the better known Italians have been placed here, 
 along with tliose of Raphael, Hannibal, and others. 
 
 Stanza CXLVIII. " This and the three next stanzas allude to 
 the story of a Roman daughter, which is recalled to the travel- 
 ler by the site or pretended site of that adventure now shown 
 at the church of San Nicola in Carcere." — Byron. The legend- 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 127 
 
 ary young woman had lately become a motber, and wben ad- 
 mitted to the prison of her father, who was condemned to death by 
 starvation, she nourished him with her milk. The story is found 
 in Festus {De Verb. Signif. xx), and also in Pliny and Valerius 
 Maxim us. 
 
 1351. The starry fable of the milky way is the story m 
 Greek mythology which tells of Hercules being carried as an in- 
 fant to Olympus, where he was put to the breast of Hera, who lay 
 asleep. When she awoke she pushed him away, and the spilled 
 milk formed the Milky Way. 
 
 1360. Mole. This edifice, now called the castle of St. Angelo, 
 was built as a mole or mausoleum for the ashes of Hadrian. 
 
 1361. Egypt's piles. The pyramids. 
 
 1362. copyist of deformity, etc. Byron here speaks dis- 
 paragingly of Hadrian — he was a mimic, a copyist who built 
 shapeless structures resembling those which he had seen in his 
 
 1369. dome. This and the six following stanzas refer to the 
 church of St. Peter's. Read the seven stanzas together, and then 
 try to decide what it is in this description which most impresses 
 you. Byron has here succeeded in communicating, in a highly 
 vivid way, the sensations he experienced. How has he accom- 
 plished this ? 
 
 1370. The temple of Diana at Ephesus. 
 
 1375. The mosque of St. Sophia at Constantinople. 
 
 1393. so defined. Brought into clear outline. 
 
 1396. but increasing, etc. But you are increasing with the 
 advance, as you do when you climb a great mountain. 
 
 1402. which vies, etc. It was of this dome that Michael 
 Angelo said that his plan would raise the Pantheon in air. 
 
 1431. can. Have power to do. 
 
 1433. Laocoon. See classical dictionary. 
 
 1441. lord of the unerring bow. The statue of Apollo 
 Belvedere. 
 
 1450-1453. On this passage E. H. Coleridge has the follow- 
 ing note. " It is probable that lines 1-4 of this stanza contain an 
 allusion to the fact related by M. Pinel, in his work, Sur Vln- 
 sanite, which Milman turned to account in his Belvedere Apollo^ a 
 Newdigate Prize Poem of 1812: — 
 
 Beauteous as vision seen in dreamy sleep 
 
 By holy maid on Delphi's haunted steep, 
 
 'Mid the dim twilight of the laurel grove, 
 
 Too fair to worship, too divine to love. 
 
 Yet on that form in wild delirious trance 
 
 With more than rev'rence gazed the maid of France, 
 
 Day after day the love-sick dreamer stood 
 
 With him alone, nor thought it solitude ! 
 
 To cherish grief, her last, her dearest care. 
 
 Her one fond hope — to perish of despair. 
 
 1460. fire which we endure. The higher nature which like- 
 
128 NOTES, COMMENTS, AND SUGGESTIONS 
 
 wise gives us our capacity for pain. Prometheus, according to 
 one myth, created men of clay and through fire endowed them 
 with life. 
 
 1461. •whom. The sculptor who carved the statue of Apollo 
 Belvedei-f. 
 
 1468. Pilgrim. The reader is to bear in mind that Childe 
 Harold, the central figure of the first and second Cantos, and to 
 a less extent of the tliird, has not thus far figured in this Canto. 
 He is last mentioned in Canto III. stanza 55. Byron is now little 
 concerned with the idea of liis own identification with the 
 hero. 
 
 1495. Hark ! forth from the abyss, etc. " From the thought 
 of death the poet passes to the death of tlie Princess Charlotte, 
 which happened when he was at Venice. No other event during 
 the ])resent century has caused so great a shock to j)ul)lic feeling 
 in England ; and Byron iiiniself, as we learn from his letters, 
 was deeply moved by it. She was the only daughter of George 
 IV , who at the time was Prince Regent, and consequently she was 
 Heiress Presumptive to the British crown. She was virtuous, 
 accomj)lislied, large-hearted, and sympathetic, and the liopes of 
 the nation were fixed upon her as one who might inaugurate an 
 era of prosperity. On May 1(), 181G, she married Prince Leopold 
 of Saxe-Coburg (afterwards king of the Belgians), and on Nov. 
 6, 1817, she died in childbirth."— Tozer. 
 
 1509. The mother of a moment. The child lived but a mo- 
 ment, if indeiMl it were living when born. 
 
 1513. Can it be ? Is it true that tiiou art dead ? 
 
 1516. And Freedom's heart. Freedom, whicli has been 
 carrying in her breast many sorrows, will put all these aside and 
 will grieve alone for PriiK'ess Charlotte. 
 
 1519. Beheld her Iris. Saw in tiiee the promise of hope. An 
 allusion to the bow of j)i'ouiise after the flood. 
 
 1521. husband of a year. Note above the date of her mar- 
 riage and o( lier dejith. 
 
 1523. Thy bridal's fruit is ashes. Cf. Canto III. 34. 
 
 Like to appli'8 on the Dead Sea's Shore, 
 All ashes to the taste. 
 
 According to the legend the apples ou the brink of the lake 
 Asphaltes were filled with ashes. 
 
 1537. tumbles mightiest sovereigns. " Mary died on the 
 scalfold; Elizabeth of a broken heart; Charles V., a hermit; 
 Louis XIV., a bankrupt in means ami glory; Cromwell, of 
 anxiety; and, 'the greatest is behind,' Napoleon lives a prisoner. 
 To these sovereigns a long but superfluous list might be added 
 of names equally illustrious and unhappy." — Byron. 
 
 1549. Nemi. This lake has as its bed the crater of an extinct 
 volcano of one of these Alban Hills which rise out of the Cam- 
 pagna of Rome. 
 
 1 
 
CHILDE HAROLD 129 
 
 1555. Calm as cherished hate. Do you consider this an 
 
 efiPechve ^^^^^^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^ ^^ ^j^^ ^^^^^ of Latium the war 
 
 celebrated by Virgil in his Epic (commencing " Of arms and men 
 
 ^ 1562^ re-ascf nding star. iEneas, the star of whose fortunes 
 arose again after the fall of Troy, helped to found the Empire 
 
 of Rome. , . ^ m ^ 
 
 1564. Tully. Cicero had a retreat at iusculum. 
 
 1566. Sabine farm. Here was Horace's resting-place. 
 
 1574 Calpe's rock. Gibraltar. " Last may be the last time 
 that Byron and Childe Harold saw the Mediterranean together. 
 Byron had seen it . . . on his return journey to England in 1811. 
 Or by last he may mean the last time that it burst upon his view. 
 He had not seen the Mediterranean on his way from Geneva to 
 Venice in October-November, 1816, o^ from Venice to Rome 
 April-May, 1817; but now from the Alban Mount the 'ocean 
 was in full View." — E. H. Coleridge. ,, , f 
 
 1576. Symplegades. Two small islands near the entrance ot 
 
 * 1578" both Byron the poet and Childe Harold the pilgrim. 
 1586 Does Byron wish for some human personality, such as 
 his sister • or is he longing for something supernatural, such as 
 the Witch of the Alps in Manfred? In his Epistle to Augusta 
 
 ® ^ ■ My sister ! my sweet sister ! if a name 
 
 Dearer and purer were, it should be thine. 
 
 Stanza CLXXVIII. This is one of the stanzas i" %^""'s 
 poetry which suggests his indebtedness to Wordsworth. Wlnle 
 Byron's attitude toward nature is distmct from Wordsworth s, it 
 has, nevertheless, evidently been influenced by such poems as 
 Wordsworth's Tintern Abbey. 
 
 Stanza CLXXIX. The reader mav interest himself by try- 
 ing to decide what has made this one of the best known stanzas 
 in Byron's poetry. Is it due to the style; to the happy selection 
 o details; to the idea of immensity aroused ; to the truth made 
 nmnediat^ly obvious wlien once asserted? Or are there other 
 
 ^^TeSo let him lay. Bvron was temperamentally careless, and 
 here as elsewhere is indifferent to grammatical law. 
 
 1629 Both the Spanish Armada and a large portion ot the 
 fleet captured by the British at Trafalgar were destroyed by 
 
 *^ Stanza CLXXXII. Perhaps nowhere in all literature is the 
 permanency and vital freshness of the ocean more effectively 
 contrasted with the transitoriness and decay of men and na- 
 
 1632, 1633. waters washed them power, etc. Thy waters 
 
 tions 
 
130 NOTES, COMMENTS, AND SUGGESTIONS 
 
 brought them commercial power while they were free, and to 
 many a tyrant since thou hast likewise brought such power. 
 
 Stanza CLXXXIII. It is such stanzas as this which justify 
 Matthew Arnold's critical stanza about Byron in Memorial Verses: 
 
 Wlien Byron's ejes were shut in death, 
 We bowed our heads, and held our breath. 
 He taught us little, but our soul 
 Had./V// him like the thunder's roll. 
 With shivering heart the strife we saw 
 Of passion with eternal law ; 
 And yet with reverential awe 
 We watched the fount of fiery life 
 Which served for that Titanic strife. 
 
 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 
 
 Several commentators on The Prisoner of Chillon, Walter Scott 
 amongst others, have seen the resemblance between tlie experi- 
 ences of Byron's BonAivard and Dante's Ugolino {Inferno, xxxii. 
 124 tf). Shelley has said that Byron had deeply studied this 
 death of Ugolino, and i)erhaps but for it would never have written 
 The Prisoner of Chillon. 
 
 The following outline suggests the structure of the poem. 
 
 Stanza I. describes the effect of tlie long confinement upon the 
 prisoner, and explains the family connection and tlie family loyalty 
 to tenets they would not forsake. It concentrates attention upon 
 the last three surviving brothers. 
 
 Stanza II. describes the appearance of the dungeon and em- 
 phasizes the torturing effect of the continuous wearing of prison 
 chains. The faint gleam of light which strays into the prison adds 
 rather to the gruesomeness of the scene. 
 
 Stanzas III., IV., and V. describe the situation of the three 
 brothers and concentrate attention upon the different tempera- 
 ments of each. The interest is largely character interest. 
 
 In Stanza VI. the interest is again centered in the prison. The 
 effect of loneliness and isolation is rendered vivid by its remote- 
 ness from the manifestation of nature outside. 
 
 Stanzas VII. and VIII. narrate the deaths of the two brothers, 
 and enlist the sympathy of the reader for the one surviving 
 prisoner. 
 
 Stanza IX. records in telling phrase the effect of these terrible 
 experiences; it has rendered him unconscious. 
 
 In Stanza X. the prisoner is aroused from his unconsciousness 
 by the beautiful carol of a bird, which for a moment he fondly 
 imagines to be the soul of his brother. When the bird finally 
 flies away he knows it t6 be mortal — his brother's soul could not 
 be cruel enough to leave him. 
 
 Stanza XI. records the growing compassion of the keepers, who 
 grant him full liberty within his cell. 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 131 
 
 In Stanzas XII. and XIII. we note the prisoner's desire to get 
 sight of nature. The sight of all this freedom and life outside 
 makes him feel more poignantly the darkness of his abode. 
 
 Stanza XIV. records the perfectly passive spirit of the 
 prisoner, who, grown used to solitude, despair, and vermin, re- 
 gains his "freedom with a sigh." 
 
 2, 3. Do you see any reason why Byron should here employ the 
 dimeter lines rather than a single tetrameter ? 
 
 3. In a single night. " Ludovico Sforza and others. — The 
 same is asserted of Marie Antoinette's, the wife of Louis the Six- 
 teenth, though not in quite so short a period. Grief is said to 
 have the same efPect : to such, and not to fear, this change in hers 
 was to be attributed." — Byron. 
 
 10. banned and barred. Distinguish the meaning between 
 the two words. 
 
 11. But. Should an adversative be employed here ? Would 
 and be better ? 
 
 14. tenets. What is the root meaning ? 
 
 Can you tell from the phrasing whether Byron conceived Bon- 
 nivard to have been imprisoned because of his political or his 
 religious views ? What line is conclusive ? The historical Bon- 
 uivard, it will be recalled, was accused of political crimes. 
 
 27. Gothic mould. Image these pillars, and distinguish be- 
 tween tlie Gothic and other forms of architecture. 
 
 31. A sunbeam which hath lost its way. This detail is 
 particularly effective. Its mention helps to emphasize the dark- 
 ness. 
 
 Of the effect of this sunlight Mr. Neaf in his Guide to the Castle 
 of Chillon writes: "This is really so : the loopholes that are 
 partly stopped up are now but long crevices or clefts, but Bonni- 
 vard, from the spot where he was chained, could, perhaps, never 
 get an idea of the loveliness and variety of radiating light which 
 the sunbeam shed at different hours of the day. In the morning 
 this light is of luminous and transparent shining, which the 
 curves of the vaults send back all along the hall. During the 
 afternoon the hall assumes a much deeper and warmer colour- 
 ing, and the blue transparency of the morning disappears; but at 
 eventide, after the sun has set behind the Jura, the scene changes 
 to the deep glow of fire." 
 
 35. Like a marsh's meteor lamp. Explain the effective- 
 ness of the simile. 
 
 41. this new day. Explain. 
 
 42. painful. Why? 
 
 52. livid light. What image does this phrase suggest ? 
 
 57. pure elements of earth. Such things in nature as sun- 
 shine and air. r i • 
 
 63. dreary tone, etc. Follow closely the details of this 
 description, and try to conceive the sound the poet has in mind. 
 
132 NOTES, COMMENTS, AND SUGGESTIONS 
 
 72. in his degree. What was tlie degree of each brother? 
 Name tlieir cluiracteiistics. 
 
 80. Why this parenthesis ? To the prisoner after his libera- 
 tion, was the day as beautiful as it liad been ? Why ? 
 
 82. Why does Byron choose a polar day for this comparison ? 
 What similar characteristics between the polar day and the 
 youngest brother ? 
 
 88. With tears for naught but others' ills. What charac- 
 teristic is this ? Try to think of several words that comprehend 
 it. 
 
 92. Contrast the two brothers. Image them as distinct per- 
 sonalities. 
 
 102. relics. Consult the dictionary for the root meaning. 
 
 105. dungeon was a gulf. K.\phiin tlie metaplior. 
 
 107. Lake Leman. lij roii a few weeks later wrote the fol- 
 lowiug sonnet to Lake Leman : — 
 
 Rousseau — Voltaire — our Gibbon — ami De Stael — 
 
 Leuian ! tliese iianies are worthy of tliy shore, 
 
 Thy shores of names like these ! wert thou no more, 
 
 Thy memory tliy remembrance would recall : 
 
 To them thy banks were lovely as to all, 
 
 But they have made tliem lovelier, for the lore 
 
 Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core 
 
 Of human hearts the ruin of a wall 
 
 Where dwelt the wise and wondrous ; but by thee. 
 
 How much more, Lake of Beauty, do we feel, 
 
 In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea, 
 
 The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal, 
 
 Which of the heirs of immortality 
 
 Is proud, and makes the death of glory real ! 
 
 108. thousand feet. The lake is very deep ; it has been 
 sounded to the depth of <S0() feet. 
 
 121. wanton. Ileedkss. 
 
 122. the very rock hath rocked. E. II. Coleridge calls this 
 play on words "feeble and irritating." Do you agree? Can you 
 find other instances in the poem? in Shakespeare ? Cf. Macbeth, 
 passim. 
 
 154. foolish thought. Why does Bonnivard consider it 
 foolish ? 
 
 160. In what case is earth ? 
 
 166 fair face. Note the effect produced by the series of nouns 
 with one aceom})anying adjective : i7ifant love; martyred father^ 
 dearest thought; latest care. 
 
 185. such. Anything like violent emotion. In the following 
 lines point out the words and plirases which suggest the quiet 
 gradual decline. 
 
 189. those. " There is much delicacy in this plural. By such 
 a fanciful multiplying of the survivors the elder brother prevents 
 self-intrusion ; himself and his loneliness are, as it were, kept 
 out of sight and forgotten." — Hales. 
 
 210. Note here the contrast in the elder brother's emotion ; 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 133 
 
 the spirit of dread quiet is violently disturbed. Is this effec- 
 tive ? 
 
 210 ff. What details does the narrator here employ to bring 
 out the idea of his own loneliness ? 
 
 227, 228. Comment on the dimeter lines. 
 
 229, 230. I had no earthly hope, but I had spiritual faith, and 
 thinking' of my faith I could not commit suicide. 
 
 Stanza IX. In this stanza study the words and phrases which 
 portray the unconsciousness of the prisoner. Each word — each 
 pair of words, in some places — is full of concentrated thought 
 and emotion. 
 
 238. As shrubless crags -within the mist. Make a study 
 of this simile. Is it effective ? Why, or why not ? Comment 
 upon the epithet shrubless ? Does it add to the effectiveness of 
 the figure ? 
 
 Stanza X. Do you consider the use of the bird particularly 
 effective ? Explain fully just what it did, and what emotions it 
 aroused. 
 
 255-258. This is a very delicate way of expressing the idea 
 that for a moment he forgot his sad environment. 
 
 282. Try to explain why the change to apostrophe is here 
 effective. Remember that in poetry emotion must be aroused. 
 
 284. Does this seem natural or far-fetched? 
 
 293, 294. Study these figures and try to decide which is the 
 more effective. Does the second remind you of anything from 
 Wordsworth ? 
 
 316, 317. These two lines well illustrate the emotional power 
 of poetry. A sympathetic reading recreates in the reader the 
 feeling which prompted the expression. 
 
 327. had. What form should we employ in ordinary prose ? 
 
 331. With this line compare Wordsworth's line in A Poet's 
 
 Epitaph : — 
 
 The harvest of a quiet eye. 
 
 Byron had satirized Wordsworth severely in English Bards 
 and Scotch Reviewers. He later regretted his stricture, and by 
 such lines as these acknowledged a poetic debt. 
 
 341. " Between the entrance of the Rhone and Villeneuve, 
 not far from Chillon, is a very small island (He de Paix); the 
 only one I could perceive in my voyage round and over the lake, 
 within its circumference. It contains a few trees (I think not 
 over three), and from its singleness and diminutive size has a 
 peculiar effect upon the view." — E. H. Coleridge. 
 
 356. Explain the emotion of this line. 
 
 Stanza XIII. repays careful study. Note the selected details 
 that lend vivid reality to the outside world upon which the 
 prisoner's new gaze is briefly centered. The effect of it all is 
 heightened by the contrast of the darkened prison gloom in 
 which he is soon shrouded. 
 
134 NOTES, COMMENTS, AND SUGGESTIONS 
 378. Cf. Lovelace's To Altheain Prison : — 
 
 Stone walls do not a prison make, 
 
 Nor iron bars a cage ; 
 Minds innocent and (luiet take 
 
 That for a hermitage. 
 
 391. even. Explain. Where in prose would be the natural 
 place of this word in the line ? 
 
 MAZEPPA. 
 
 This poem, written in 1818, was ])ul)Iishcd the following year. 
 The first hundred and twenty-four lines give the setting of the 
 story. Charles XII. of Sweden, accoinj)anied by Mazeppa, a 
 Cossack chieftain and ally, has, in his wounded condition, sought 
 refuge in Turkish territory after the disastrous defeat at Pul- 
 towa. Here resting the King is glad to listen to IMazeppa's story. 
 
 1. Pultovv^a's day. The liattle of Pultowa on the Vorskla was 
 fought between the Russians and tlie Swedes in July, 1709. The 
 victorious Russians outnumbered the Swedes four to one. 
 
 9. a day more dark and drear, etc. This alludes to the Na^ 
 poleon campaign of ISTJ. 
 
 16. wounded Charles. Several days before the Battle of 
 Pultowa King Charles XII. of Sweden had been wounded. He 
 nevertheless connnanded that he be placed on a litter and car- 
 ried with his troops. In the battle this litter was battered to 
 pieces, another crude one was hurriedly improvised, and the 
 King carried into Turkish territory. 
 
 53. Mazeppa. The Tkraine (the country of the Cossacks) 
 has aspired to liberty; but being surrounded by Muscovy, the 
 dominions of the Grand Seignior, and Poland, it has been obliged 
 to choose a protector, and, consequently, a master, in one of these 
 three States. The Ukrainians at first put themselves under the 
 protection of the Poles, who treated them with great severity. 
 They afterwards submitted to the Russians, who governed them 
 with despotic sway. They had originally the privilege of electing 
 a prince under the name of general ; but they were soon deprived 
 of that right, and their general was nominated by the court of 
 Moscow. 
 
 The person who then filled that station was a Polish gentle- 
 man, named Mazep])a, and born in the palatinate of Podolia. 
 He had been brought up as a page to John Casimir, and had re- 
 ceived some tincture of learning in his court. An intrigue which 
 he had had in his youth with the lady of a Polish gentleman, having 
 been discovered, the husband caused him to be bound stark naked 
 upon a wild horse, and let him go in that condition. The horse, 
 which had been brought out of Ukraine, returned to its own 
 country, and carried Mazeppa along with it, half-dead with hunger 
 and fatigue. Some of the country people gave him assistance ; 
 
MAZEPPA 135 
 
 and he lived among them for a long time, and signalized himself 
 in several excursions against the Tartars. The superiority of his 
 knowledge gained him great respect among the Cossacks; and his 
 reputation daily increasing, the Czar found it necessary to make 
 him prince of the Ukraine. 
 
 58-97. Study this portion of the poem in order to determine 
 how the described actions of Mazeppa create the reader's concep- 
 tions of the old Hetman character. Enumerate the chief traits. 
 
 104. Bucephalus. This famous horse of Alexander the Great 
 accompanied his master through various campaigns, and would 
 allow no one but the king to ride him. The horse at his death was 
 buried with great pomp. 
 
 116. Borysthenes. The Dneiper. 
 
 128. See note to line 53. 
 
 157. The wealth of this country still consists largely of salt 
 mines. 
 
 263. What preceding line in the poem likewise suggests the 
 character of the night on which the story is told ? Do you con- 
 sider such references as these effective — references which re- 
 mind the reader of the scene in which the story is told ? Or are 
 we so interested in the story of Mazeppa's earlier experience that 
 such details affect us as an intrusion ? Point out other instances 
 in the poem. 
 
 308. sword. Syntax? 
 
 347. AVhat preceding line harmonizes especially with this ? 
 
 354. 'Sdeath. An oath corrupted from God's death. 
 
 392. Note liovv the chronological sequence is here interrupted. 
 The narrator jumping to a far-succeeding event connects it with 
 his present narrative. Do you consider this effective ? Justify 
 your opinion. 
 
 404. hot lead. The roofs of old castles were often made prin- 
 cipally of lead. 
 
 437. Spahi. Turkish cavalryman. 
 
 460-464. Here and elsewhere Byron's description is intense 
 in its emphasis on the gory. Is it so intense as to be revolting? 
 Or is it simply in harmony with the general savagery of the 
 time ? Does it harmonize with the character of the narrator ? 
 Point out other instances of this intense realism. 
 
 538. The thread on which the successive tropes or images are 
 loosely strung seems to give if not to snap at this point. "Con- 
 sidering that Mazeppa was sprung of a race which in moments 
 of excitement, when an enemy has stamped upon its vitals, 
 springs up to repel the attack, it was only to be expected that he 
 should sink beneath the blow — and sink he did." The conclu- 
 sion is at variance with the premise. — E. H. Coleridge. 
 
 597. How many hours, etc. Compare 
 
 Hciw long in that same fit I lay, 
 I have not to declare. 
 
 — Ancient Mariner. 
 
136 NOTES, COMMENTS, AND SUGGESTIONS 
 
 600-604. Study these lines for concentrated descriptive effect. 
 A i>u).st vivid picture is portrayed in few words. 
 
 664. ■werst. This word, often written verst, is a unit of mea- 
 sure — about two-thirds of a mile. What is the syntax? 
 
 744-746. An entry in Byron's journal of Feb. 18, 1814, reads 
 as follows: "Is there anything beyond? Who knows? He tiiat 
 can't tell. Who tells that there is? He who don't know. And 
 when shall he know ? Perhaps when he don't ex])ect, and gen- 
 erally when he don't wish it. In this last respect, however, all 
 are not alike: it depends a good deal upon education, something 
 upon nerves and habits, but most on digestion." 
 
 816. vulture. Would raven be more effective ? Cf. line 770. 
 
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