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George Gordon Byron - Childe Harold`s Pilgrimage: A Romaunt. Canto III.
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There seems a floating whisper on the hill, 
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
All silently their tears of love instil, 
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
Deep into Nature`s breast the spirit of her hues. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CII. 
A populous solitude of bees and birds, 
And fairy form`d and many coloured things, 
Who worship him with notes more sweet than words, 
And innocently open their glad wings, 
Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs, 
And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend 
Of stirring brances, and the bud which brings 
The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, 
Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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