"L'univers est une espèce de livre, dont on n'a lu que la
première page quand on n'a vu que son pays. J'en ai
feuilleté un assez grand nombre, que j'ai trouvé également
mauvaises. Cet examen ne m'a point été infructueux.
Je haïssais ma patrie. Toutes les impertinences des peuples
divers, parmi lesquels j'ai vécu, m'ont reconcilié avec elle.
Quand je n'aurais tiré d'autre bénéfice de mes voyages que
celui-là, je n'en regretterais ni les frais ni les
fatigues."—Le Cosmopolite, ou, le Citoyen du Monde,
par Fougeret de Monbron. Londres, 1753.
PREFACE
[a]
[TO THE FIRST AND SECOND CANTOS.]
The following poem was written, for the most part, amidst
the scenes which it attempts[b] to describe. It was begun in
Albania; and the parts relative to Spain and Portugal were
composed from the author's observations in those countries.
Thus much it may be necessary to state for the correctness
of the descriptions. The scenes attempted to be sketched
are in Spain, Portugal, Epirus, Acarnania and Greece.
There, for the present, the poem stops: its reception will
determine whether the author may venture to conduct his
readers to the capital of the East, through Ionia and Phrygia:
these two cantos are merely experimental.
A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of giving
some connection to the piece; which, however, makes no
pretension to regularity. It has been suggested to me by
friends, on whose opinions I set a high value,[c]—that in this
fictitious character, "Childe Harold," I may incur the suspicion
of having intended some real personage: this I beg
leave, once for all, to disclaim—Harold is the child of imagination,
for the purpose I have stated.
In some very trivial particulars, and those merely local,
there might be grounds for such a notion;[d] but in the main
points, I should hope, none whatever.[e]
It is almost superfluous to mention that the appellation
"Childe,"[2] as "Childe Waters," "Childe Childers," etc., is
used as more consonant with the old structure of versification
which I have adopted. The "Good Night" in the beginning
of the first Canto, was suggested by Lord Maxwell's "Good
Night"[3] in the Border Minstrelsy, edited by Mr. Scott.
With the different poems[4] which have been published on
Spanish subjects, there may be found some slight coincidence[f]
in the first part, which treats of the Peninsula, but it can only
be casual; as, with the exception of a few concluding stanzas,
the whole of the poem was written in the Levant.
The stanza of Spenser, according to one of our most
successful poets, admits of every variety. Dr. Beattie makes
the following observation:—
"Not long ago I began a poem in the style and stanza of
Spenser, in which I propose to give full scope to my inclination,
and be either droll or pathetic, descriptive or sentimental,
tender or satirical, as the humour strikes me; for, if
I mistake not, the measure which I have adopted admits
equally of all these kinds of composition."[5] Strengthened in
my opinion by such authority, and by the example of some
in the highest order of Italian poets, I shall make no apology
for attempts at similar variations in the following composition;[g]
satisfied that, if they are unsuccessful, their failure
must be in the execution, rather than in the design sanctioned
by the practice of Ariosto, Thomson, and Beattie.
London, February, 1812.
ADDITION TO THE PREFACE.
I have now waited till almost all our periodical journals
have distributed their usual portion of criticism. To the
justice of the generality of their criticisms I have nothing to
object; it would ill become me to quarrel with their very
slight degree of censure, when, perhaps, if they had been less
kind they had been more candid. Returning, therefore, to
all and each my best thanks for their liberality, on one point
alone I shall venture an observation. Amongst the many
objections justly urged to the very indifferent character of the
"vagrant Childe" (whom, notwithstanding many hints to the
contrary, I still maintain to be a fictitious personage), it has
been stated, that, besides the anachronism, he is very
unknightly, as the times of the Knights were times of Love,
Honour, and so forth.[6] Now it so happens that the good old
times, when "l'amour du bon vieux tems, l'amour antique,"
flourished, were the most profligate of all possible centuries.
Those who have any doubts on this subject may consult
Sainte-Palaye, passim, and more particularly vol. ii. p. 69.[7]
The vows of chivalry were no better kept than any other
vows whatsoever; and the songs of the Troubadours were
not more decent, and certainly were much less refined, than
those of Ovid. The "Cours d'Amour, parlemens d'amour, ou
de courtoisie et de gentilesse" had much more of love than of
courtesy or gentleness. See Rolland[8] on the same subject
with Sainte-Palaye.
Whatever other objection may be urged to that most unamiable
personage Childe Harold, he was so far perfectly
knightly in his attributes—"No waiter, but a knight templar."[9]
By the by, I fear that Sir Tristrem and Sir Lancelot were
no better than they should be, although very poetical personages
and true knights, "sans peur," though not "sans
réproche." If the story of the institution of the "Garter" be
not a fable, the knights of that order have for several centuries
borne the badge of a Countess of Salisbury, of indifferent
memory. So much for chivalry. Burke need not have
regretted that its days are over, though Marie-Antoinette was
quite as chaste as most of those in whose honour lances were
shivered, and knights unhorsed.[10]
Before the days of Bayard, and down to those of Sir Joseph
Banks[11] (the most chaste and celebrated of ancient and modern
times) few exceptions will be found to this statement; and I
fear a little investigation will teach us not to regret these
monstrous mummeries of the middle ages.
I now leave "Childe Harold" to live his day such as he is;
it had been more agreeable, and certainly more easy, to have
drawn an amiable character. It had been easy to varnish
over his faults, to make him do more and express less, but he
never was intended as an example, further than to show,
that early perversion of mind and morals leads to satiety of
past pleasures and disappointment in new ones, and that
even the beauties of nature and the stimulus of travel (except
ambition, the most powerful of all excitements) are lost on a
soul so constituted, or rather misdirected. Had I proceeded
with the Poem, this character would have deepened as he
drew to the close; for the outline which I once meant to fill
up for him was, with some exceptions, the sketch of a modern
Timon,[12] perhaps a poetical
Zeluco.[13]
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE
CANTO THE FIRST.
Not in those climes where I have late been straying,
Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deemed,
Not in those visions to the heart displaying
Forms which it sighs but to have only dreamed,
Hath aught like thee in Truth or Fancy seemed:
Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek
To paint those charms which varied as they beamed—
To such as see thee not my words were weak;
To those who gaze on thee what language could they speak?
Ah! may'st thou ever be what now thou art,
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy Spring—
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart,
Love's image upon earth without his wing,[15]
And guileless beyond Hope's imagining!
And surely she who now so fondly rears
Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening,
Beholds the Rainbow of her future years,
Before whose heavenly hues all Sorrow disappears.
Young Peri of the West!—'tis well for me
My years already doubly number thine;[16]
My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee,
And safely view thy ripening beauties shine;
Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline;
Happier, that, while all younger hearts shall bleed,
Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign
To those whose admiration shall succeed,
But mixed with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours decreed.
Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the Gazelle's,
Now brightly bold or beautifully shy,
Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells,[17]
Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny
That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh
Could I to thee be ever more than friend:
This much, dear Maid, accord; nor question why
To one so young my strain I would commend,
But bid me with my wreath one matchless Lily blend.
Such is thy name[18] with this my verse entwined;
And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast[i]
On Harold's page, Ianthe's here enshrined
Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last:
My days once numbered—should this homage past
Attract thy fairy fingers near the Lyre
Of him who hailed thee loveliest, as thou wast—
Such is the most my Memory may desire;
Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less require?[j]
CHILDE HAROLD'S
PILGRIMAGE.
A ROMAUNT.
CANTO THE FIRST.
Oh, thou! in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth,[k]
Muse! formed or fabled at the Minstrel's will!
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,[l][20]
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred Hill:
Yet there I've wandered by thy vaunted rill;[m]
Yes! sighed o'er Delphi's long deserted shrine, [1.B.]
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine
To grace so plain a tale—this lowly lay of mine.
II.
Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth,
Who ne in Virtue's ways did take delight;
But spent his days in riot most uncouth,
And vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.
Ah me! in sooth he was a shameless wight,
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee;[n]
Few earthly things found favour in his sight[o]
Save concubines and carnal companie,
And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree.[21]
III.
Childe Harold was he hight:[22]—but whence his name[p]
And lineage long, it suits me not to say;
Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame,
And had been glorious in another day:
But one sad losel soils a name for ay,[23]
However mighty in the olden time;
Nor all that heralds rake from coffined clay,
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme,[q]
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.
IV.
Childe Harold basked him in the Noontide sun,[r]
Disporting there like any other fly;
Nor deemed before his little day was done
One blast might chill him into misery.
But long ere scarce a third of his passed by,
Worse than Adversity the Childe befell;
He felt the fulness of Satiety:
Then loathed he in his native land to dwell,
Which seemed to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell.
V.
For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run,[s]
Nor made atonement when he did amiss,
Had sighed to many though he loved but one,[t][24]
And that loved one, alas! could ne'er be his.
Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kiss
Had been pollution unto aught so chaste;
Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss,
And spoiled her goodly lands to gild his waste,
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to taste.
VI.
And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,[u]
And from his fellow Bacchanals would flee;
'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,
But Pride congealed the drop within his ee:[25]
Apart he stalked in joyless reverie,[v]
And from his native land resolved to go,
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;[26]
With pleasure drugged, he almost longed for woe,
And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below.
VII.
The Childe departed from his father's hall:
It was a vast and venerable pile;
So old, it seeméd only not to fall,
Yet strength was pillared in each massy aisle.
Monastic dome! condemned to uses vile![w]
Where Superstition once had made her den
Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile;[x]
And monks might deem their time was come agen,[27]
If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.
Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood
Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow,[z]
As if the Memory of some deadly feud
Or disappointed passion lurked below:
But this none knew, nor haply cared to know;
For his was not that open, artless soul
That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow,
Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole,
Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control.
And none did love him!—though to hall and bower[28]
He gathered revellers from far and near,
He knew them flatterers of the festal hour,
The heartless Parasites of present cheer.
Yea! none did love him—not his lemans dear—[ab][29]
But pomp and power alone are Woman's care,
And where these are light Eros finds a feere;[30]
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,
And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair.
X.
Childe Harold had a mother—not forgot,[ac]
Though parting from that mother he did shun;
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not[31]
Before his weary pilgrimage begun:
If friends he had, he bade adieu to none.[ad]
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel:[ae][32]
Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel
Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.
XI.
His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,[af]
The laughing dames in whom he did delight,[ag]
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands,
Might shake the Saintship of an Anchorite,
And long had fed his youthful appetite;
His goblets brimmed with every costly wine,
And all that mote to luxury invite,
Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine,
And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's central line.[ah][33]
XII.
The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew,[ai]
As glad to waft him from his native home;
And fast the white rocks faded from his view,
And soon were lost in circumambient foam:
And then, it may be, of his wish to roam
Repented he, but in his bosom slept[34]
The silent thought, nor from his lips did come
One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept,
And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept.
XIII.
But when the Sun was sinking in the sea
He seized his harp, which he at times could string,
And strike, albeit with untaught melody,
When deemed he no strange ear was listening:
And now his fingers o'er it he did fling,
And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight;
While flew the vessel on her snowy wing,
And fleeting shores receded from his sight,
Thus to the elements he poured his last "Good Night."[35]
CHILDE HAROLD'S GOOD NIGHT.
1.
"Adieu, adieu! my native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue;
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.
Yon Sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native Land—Good Night!
2.
"A few short hours and He will rise
To give the Morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my mother Earth.
Deserted is my own good Hall,
Its hearth is desolate;
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;
My Dog howls at the gate.
3.
"Come hither, hither, my little page[36]
Why dost thou weep and wail?
Or dost thou dread the billows' rage,
Or tremble at the gale?
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;
Our ship is swift and strong:
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly[aj]
More merrily along."[ak]
4.
"Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,[al]
I fear not wave nor wind:
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I
Am sorrowful in mind;[37]
For I have from my father gone,
A mother whom I love,
And have no friend, save these alone,
But thee—and One above.
5.
'My father blessed me fervently,
Yet did not much complain;
But sorely will my mother sigh
Till I come back again.'—
"Enough, enough, my little lad!
Such tears become thine eye;
If I thy guileless bosom had,
Mine own would not be dry.
6.
"Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,[38]
Why dost thou look so pale?
Or dost thou dread a French foeman?
Or shiver at the gale?"—
'Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?
Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;
But thinking on an absent wife
Will blanch a faithful cheek.
7.
'My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,
Along the bordering Lake,
And when they on their father call,
What answer shall she make?'—
"Enough, enough, my yeoman good,[am]
Thy grief let none gainsay;
But I, who am of lighter mood,
Will laugh to flee away.
8.
"For who would trust the seeming sighs[an]
Of wife or paramour?
Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes
We late saw streaming o'er.
For pleasures past I do not grieve,
Nor perils gathering near;
My greatest grief is that I leave
No thing that claims a tear.[39]
9.
"And now I'm in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea:
But why should I for others groan,
When none will sigh for me?
Perchance my Dog will whine in vain,
Till fed by stranger hands;
But long ere I come back again,
He'd tear me where he stands.[ao][40]
10.
"With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine;
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,
So not again to mine.
Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves!
And when you fail my sight,
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!
My native Land—Good Night!"
XIV.
On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone,
And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay.
Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon,
New shores descried make every bosom gay;
And Cintra's mountain[41] greets them on their way,
And Tagus dashing onward to the Deep,
His fabled golden tribute[42] bent to pay;
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap,
And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap.[ap]
XV.
Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see
What Heaven hath done for this delicious land![aq]
What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree!
What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand!
But man would mar them with an impious hand:
And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge
'Gainst those who most transgress his high command,
With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge
Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge[ar]
XVI.
What beauties doth Lisboa[43] first unfold![as]
Her image floating on that noble tide,
Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold,[at]
But now whereon a thousand keels did ride
Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied,
And to the Lusians did her aid afford:
A nation swoln with ignorance and pride,[44]
Who lick yet loathe the hand that waves the sword[au]
To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing lord.
XVII.
But whoso entereth within this town,
That, sheening far, celestial seems to be,
Disconsolate will wander up and down,
'Mid many things unsightly to strange ee;[av]
For hut and palace show like filthily:[aw]
The dingy denizens are reared in dirt;[ax]
Ne personage of high or mean degree
Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt,
Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, unwashed, unhurt.
XVIII.
Poor, paltry slaves! yet born 'midst noblest scenes—
Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men?
Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes[45]
In variegated maze of mount and glen.
Ah, me! what hand can pencil guide, or pen,
To follow half on which the eye dilates
Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken[ay]
Than those whereof such things the Bard relates,
Who to the awe-struck world unlocked Elysium's gates.
XIX.