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George Gordon Byron - Childe Harold`s Pilgrimage: A Romaunt. Canto III.
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I.
Is thy face like thy mother`s, my fair child! 
Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart? 
When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled, 
And then we parted,--not as now we part, 
But with a hope.-- 
                            Awaking with a start, 
The waters heave around me; and on high 
The winds lift up their voices: I depart, 
Whither I know not; but the hour`s gone by, 
When Albion`s lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye. 

II.
Once more upon the waters! yet once more! 
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed 
That knows his rider. Welcome, to their roar! 
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe`er it lead! 
Though the strain`d mast should quiver as a reed, 
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, 
Still must I on; for I am as a weed, 
Flung from the rock, on Ocean`s foam, to sail 
Where`er the surge may sweep, or tempest`s breath prevail. 

III.
In my youth`s summer I did sing of One, 
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind; 
Again I seize the theme then but begun, 
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind 
Bears the cloud onwards: in that Tale I find 
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, 
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind, 
O`er which all heavily the journeying years 
Plod the last sands of life,--where not a flower appears. 

IV.
Since my young days of passion--joy, or pain, 
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string, 
And both may jar: it may be, that in vain 
I would essay as I have sung to sing. 
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling; 
So that it wean me from the weary dream 
Of selfish grief or gladness--so it fling 
Forgetfulness around me--it shall seem 
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. 

V. 
He, who grown aged in this world of woe, 
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, 
So that no wonder waits him; nor below 
Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife, 
Cut to his heart again with the keen knife 
Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell 
Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife 
With airy images, and shapes which dwell 
Still unimpair`d, though old, in the soul`s haunted cell. 

VI.
`Tis to create, and in creating life 
A being more intense, that we endow 
With form our fancy, gaining as we give 
The life we image, even as I do now. 
What am I? Nothing; but not so art thou, 
Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth, 
Invisible but gazing, as I grow 
Mix`d with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, 
And feeling still with thee in my crush`d feeling`s dearth. 

VII. 
Yet must I think less wildly:--I have thought 
Too long and darkly, till my brain became, 
In its own eddy boiling and o`erwrought, 
A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame: 
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, 
My springs of life were poison`d. `Tis too late! 
Yet am I chang`d; though still enough the same 
In strength to bear what time can not abate, 
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate. 

VIII. 
Something too much of this:--but now `tis past, 
And the spell closes with its silent seal. 
Long absent HAROLD re-appears at last; 
He of the breast which fain no more would feel, 
Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne`er heal; 
Yet Time, who changes all, had altered him 
In sould and aspect as in age: years steal 
Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb; 
And life`s enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. 

IX.
His had been quaff`d too quickly, and he found 
The dregs were wormwood; but he fill`d again, 
And from a purer fount, on holier ground, 
And deem`d its spring perpetual; but in vain! 
Still round him clung invisibly a chain 
Which gall`d for ever, fettering though unseen, 
And heavy though it clank`d not; worn with pain, 
Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen, 
Entering with every step, he took, through many a scene. 

X. 
Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix`d 
Again in fancied safety with his kind, 
And deem`d his spirit now so firmly fix`d 
And sheath`d with an invulnerable mind, 
That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk`d behind; 
And he, as one, might midst the many stand 
Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find 
Fit speculation! such as in strange land 
He found in wonder-works of God and Nature`s hand. 

XI.
But who can view the ripened rose, nor seek 
To wear it? who can curiously behold 
The smoothness and the sheen of beauty`s cheek, 
Nor feel the heart can never all grow old? 
Who can contemplate Fame through clouds unfold 
The star which rises o`er her steep, nor climb? 
Harold, once more within the vortex, roll`d 
On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, 
Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth`s fond prime. 

XII.
But soon he knew himself the most unfit 
Of men to herd with man; with whom he held 
Little in common; untaught to submit 
His thoughts to others, though his soul was quell`d 
In youth by his own thoughts; still uncompell`d, 
He would not yield dominion of his mind 
To spirits against whom his own rebell`d; 
Proud though in desolation; which could find 
A life within itself, to breathe without mankind. 

XIII. 
Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends; 
Where roll`d the ocean, theron was his home; 
Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends, 
He had the passion and the power to roam; 
The desert, forest, cavern, breaker`s foam, 
Were unto him companionship; they spake 
A mutual language, clearer than the tome 
Of his land`s tongue, which he would oft forsake 
For Nature`s pages glass`d by sunbeams on the lake. 

XIV.
Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, 
Till he had peopled them with beings bright 
As their own beams; and earth, and earth-born jars, 
And human frailties, were forgotten quite: 
Could he have kept his spirit to that flight 
He had been happy; but this clay will sink 
Its spark immortal, envying it the light 
To which it mounts, as if to break the link 
That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its brink. 

XV.
But in Man`s dwellings he became a thing 
Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome, 
Droop`d as a wild-born falcon with clipt wing, 
To whom the boundless air alone were home: 
Then came his fit again, which to o`ercome, 
As eagerly the barr`d-up bird will beat 
His breast and beak against his wiry dome 
Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat 
Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat. 

XVI.
Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again, 
With nought of hope left, but with less of gloom; 
The very knowledge that he lived in vain, 
That all was over on this side the tomb, 
Had made Despair a smilingness assume, 
Which, though `twer wild,--as on the plundered wreck 
When mariners would madly meet their doom 
With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck,-- 
Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check. 

XVII.
Stop!--for thy tread is on an Empire`s dust! 
An earthquake`s spoil is sepulchred below! 
Is the spot mark`d with no colossal bust? 
Nor column trophied for triumphal show? 
None; but the moral`s truth tells simpler so, 
As the ground was before, thus let it be;-- 
How that red rain hath made the harvest grow! 
And is this all the world has gained by thee 
Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory? 

XVIII.
And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, 
The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo! 
How in an hour the power which gave annuls 
Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too! 
In `pride of place` here last the eagle flew, 
Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain, 
Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through; 
Ambition`s life and labours all were vain; 
He wears the shattered links of the world`s broken chain. 

XIX.
Fit retribution! Gaul may champ the bit 
And foam in fetters;--but is Earth more free? 
Did nations combat to make One submit; 
Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty? 
What! shall reviving Thraldom again be 
The patched-up idol of enlightened days? 
Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we 
Pay the Wolf homage? proffering lowly gaze 
And servile knees to thrones? No; prove before ye praise! 

XX.
If not, o`er one fallen despot boast no more! 
In vain fair cheeks were furrowed with hot tears 
For Europe`s flowers long rooted up before 
The trampler of her vineyards; in vain years 
Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears, 
Have all been borne, and broken by the accord 
Of roused-up millions: all tha tmost endears 
Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword 
Such as Harmodius drew on Athen`s tyrant lord. 

XXI.
There was a sound of revelry by night, 
And Belgium`s capital had gathered then 
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o`er fair women and brave men; 
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
Soft eyes look`d love to eyes which spake again, 
And all went merry as a marriage-bell; 
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! 

XXII.
Did ye not hear it?--No; `twas but the wind, 
Or the car rattling o`er the stony stret; 
On with the dance! let joy e unconfined; 
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet-- 
But, hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more, 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! 
Arm! Arm! and out--it is--the cannon`s opening roar! 

XXIII.
Within a windowed niche of that high hall 
Sate Brunswick`s fated chieftain; he did hear 
That sound the first amidst the festival, 
And caught its tone with Death`s prophetic ear; 
And when they smiled because he deem`d it near, 
His heart more turly knew hat peal too well 
Which stretch`d his father on a bloody bier, 
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: 
He rush`d into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. 

XXIV.
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Blush`d at the priase of their own loveliness; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne`er might be repeated; who could guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 
Since upon nights so sweet such awful morn could rise? 

XXV.
And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
Went pouring forward in impetuous speed, 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; 
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; 
While throng`d the citizens with terror dumb, 
Or whispering, with white lips--`The foe! They come! they come!` 

XXVI.
And wild and high the `Cameron`s gathering` rose! 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn`s hills 
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:-- 
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, 
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills 
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring which instils 
The stirring memory of a thousand years, 
And Evan`s, Donald`s fame rings in each clansman`s ears! 

XXVII.
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, 
Dewy with nature`s tear-drops, as they pass, 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e`er grieves, 
Over the unreturning brave,--alas! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
Of living valour, rolling on the foe 
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. 

XXVIII.
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
Last eve in Beauty`s circle proudly gay, 
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, 
The morn the marshalling in arms,--the day 
Battle`s magnificently-stern array! 
The thunder-clouds close o`er it, which when rent 
The earth is covered thick with other clay, 
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, 
Rider and horse,--friend, foe,--in one red burial blent! 

XXIX.
Their praise is hymn`d by loftier harps than mine; 
Yet one I would select from that proud throng, 
Partly because they blend me with his line, 
And partly that I did his sire some wrong, 
And partly that bright names will hallow song; 
And his was of the bravest, and when shower`d 
The death-bolts deadliest the thinn`d files along, 
Even where the thickest of war`s tempest lower`d, 
They reach`d no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant Howard! 

XXX.
There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, 
And mine were nothing, had I such to give; 
But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, 
Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, 
And saw around me the wide field revive 
With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring 
Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, 
With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
I turn`d from all she brought to those she could not bring. 

XXXI.
I turn`d to thee, to thousands, of whom each 
And one as all a ghastly gap did make 
In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach 
Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake; 
The Archangel`s trump, not Glory`s, must awake 
Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of Fame 
May for a moment sooth, it cannot slake 
The fever of vain longing, and the name 
So honoured but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim. 

XXXII.
They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, mourn: 
The tree will wither long before it fall; 
The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn; 
The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall 
In massy hoariness; the ruined wall 
Stands when its wind-worn batlements are gone; 
The bars survive the captive they enthral; 
The day drags through though storms keep out the sun; 
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on: 

XXXIII.
Even as a broken mirrow, which the glass 
In every fragment multiplies; and makes 
A thousand images of one that was, 
The same, and still the more, the more it breaks; 
And thus the heart will do which not forsakes, 
Living in shattered guise, and still, and cold, 
And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, 
Yet withers on till all without is old, 
Shewing no visible sign, for such things are untold. 

XXXIV.
There is a very life in our despair, 
Vitality of poison,--a quick root 
Which feeds these deadly brances; for it were 
As nothing did we die; but Life will suit 
Itself to Sorrow`s most detested fruit, 
Like to the apples on the Dead Sea`s shore, 
All ashes to the taste: Did man compute 
Existence by enjoyment, and count o`er 
Such hours `gainst years of life,--says, would he name three-score? 

XXXV.
The Psalmist numbered out the years of man: 
They are enough; and if thy tale be true, 
Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleeting span, 
More than enough, thoufatal Waterloo! 
Millions of tongues record thee, and anew 
Their children`s lips shall echo them, and say-- 
`Here, where the sword united nations drew, 
Our countrymen were warring on that day!` 
And this is much, and all which will not pass away. 

XXXVI.
There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, 
Whose spirit antithetically mixt 
One moment of the mightiest, and again 
On little objects with like firmness fixt, 
Extreme in all things! hadst thou been betwixt, 
Thy throne had still been thine, or never been; 
For daring made thy rise as fall: thou seek`st 
Even now to re-assume the imperial mien, 
And shake 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 
That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame, 
Who wooed thee once, thy vassal, and became 
The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert 
A god unto thyself; nor less the same 
To the astounded kingdoms all inert, 
Who deem`d thee for a time whate`er thou didst assert. 

XXXVIII.
Oh, more or less than man--in high or low, 
Battling with nations, flying from the field; 
Now making monarchs` necks thy footstool, now 
More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield; 
An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild, 
But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor, 
However deeply in men`s spirits skill`d, 
Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war, 
Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star. 

XXXIX.
Yet well thy sould hath brook`d the turning tide 
With that untaught innate philosophy, 
Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, 
Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. 
When the whole host of hatred stood hard by, 
To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled 
With a sedate and all-enduring eye;-- 
When Fortune fled her spoil`d and favourite child, 
He stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled. 

XL.
Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them 
Ambition steel`d thee on too far to show 
That just habitual scorn which could contemn 
Men and their thoughts; `twas wise to feel, not so 
To wear it ever on thy lip and brow, 
And spurn the instruments thou wert to use 
Till they were turn`d unto thine overthrow: 
`Tis 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 help`d to brave the shock; 
But men`s thoughts were the steps which paved thy throne, 
Their admiratio nthy best weapon sone; 
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. 

XLII.
But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell, 
And there had been thy bane; there is a fire 
And motion of the sould which will not dwell 
In its own narrow being, but aspire 
Beyond the fitting medium of desire; 
And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, 
Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire 
Of aught but rest; a fever at the core, 
Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. 

XLIII.
This makes the madmen who have made men mad 
By their contagion; Conquerors and Kings, 
Founders of sects and systems, to whom add 
Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things 
Which stir too strongly the soul`s secret springs, 
And are themselves the fools to whose they fool; 
Envied, yet how unenviable! what stings 
Are theirs! One breast laid open were a school 
Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule: 

XLIV.
Their breath is agitation, and their life 
A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, 
And yet so nurs`d and bigotted to strife, 
That should their days, surviving perils past, 
Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast 
With sorrow and supineness, and so die; 
Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste 
With its own flickering, or a sword laid by 
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously. 

XLV.
He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find 
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow; 
He who surpasses or subdues mankind, 
Must look down on the hate of those below. 
Though high above the sun of glory glow, 
And far beneath the earth and ocean ocean spread, 
Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
Contending tempests on his naked head, 
And thus reward the toils which to those summits led. 

XLVI.
Away with these! true Wisdom`s world will be 
Within its own creation, or in thine, 
Maternal Nature! for who teems like thee, 
Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine? 
There Harold gazes on a work divine, 
A blending of all beauties; streams and dells, 
Fruit, foilage, crag, wood, cornfield, mountain, vine, 
And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells 
From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells. 

XLVII.
And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, 
Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd, 
All tenantless, save to the crannying wind, 
Or holding dark communion with the cloud. 
There was a day when they were young and proud, 
Banners on high, and battles pass`d below; 
But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, 
And those which waved are shredless dust ere now, 
And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow. 

XLVIII.
Beneath these battlements, within those walls, 
Power dwelt amidst her passions; in proud state 
Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, 
Doing his evil will, nor less elate 
Than mightier heroes of a longer date. 
What want these outlaws conquerors should have 
But History`s purchased page to call them great? 
A wider space, an ornamented grave? 
Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full as brave. 

XLIX.
In their baronial feuds and single fields, 
What deed of prowess unrecorded died! 
And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields, 
With emblems well devised by amorous pride, 
Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide; 
But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on 
Keen contest and destruction near allied, 
And many a tower for some fair mischief won, 
Saw the discoloured Rhine beneath its ruin run. 

L.
But Thou, exulting and abounding river! 
Making thy waves a blessing as they flow 
Through banks whose beauty would endure for ever 
Could man but leave thy bright creation so, 
Nor its fair promise from the surface mow 
With the sharp scythe of conflict,--then to see 
Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know 
Earth paved like Heaven; and to seem such to me 
Even now what wants thy stream?--that it should Lethe be. 

LI.
A thousand battles have assail`d thy banks, 
But these and half their fame have pass`d away, 
And Slaughter heap`d on high his weltering ranks; 
Their very graves are gone, band what are they? 
Thy tide wash`d down the blood of yesterday, 
And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream 
Glass`d with its dancing light the sunny ray; 
But o`er the blackened memory`s blighting dream 
Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem. 

LII.
Thus Harold inly said, and pass`d along, 
Yet not insensibly to all which here 
Awoke the jocund birds to early song 
In glens which might have made even exile dear: 
Though on his brow were graven lines austere, 
And tranquil sternnes which had ta`en the place 
Of feelings fierier far but less severe, 
Joy was not always absent from his face, 
But o`er it in such scenes would steal with transient trace. 

LIII.
Nor was all love shut from him, though his days 
Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. 
It is in vain that we would coldly gaze 
On such as smile upon us; the heart must 
Leak kindly back to kindness, though disgust 
Hath wean`d it from all worldlings: thus he felt, 
For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust 
In one fond breast, to which his own would melt, 
And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt. 

LIV.
And he had learn`d to love,--I know not why, 
For this in such as him seems strange of mood,-- 
The helpless looks of blooming infancy, 
Even in its earliest nurture; what subdued, 
To change like this, a mind so far imbued 
With scorn of man, it little boots to know; 
But thus it was; and though in solitude 
Small power the nipp`d affections have to grow, 
In him this glowed when all beside had ceased to glow. 

LV.
And there was one soft breast, as hath been said, 
Which unto his was bound by stronger ties 
Than the church links withal; and, though unwed, 
That love was pure, and, far above disguise, 
Had stood the test of mortal enmities 
Still undivided, and cemented more 
By peril, dreaded most in female eyes; 
But this was firm, and from a foreign shore 
Well to that heart might his these absent greetings pour! 

    1 
    The castled crag of Drachenfels 
    Frowns o`er the wide and winding Rhine, 
    Whose breast of waters broadly swells 
    Between the banks which bear the vine, 
    And hills all rich with blossomed trees, 
    And fields which promise corn and wine, 
    And scattered cities crowning these, 
    Whose far white walls along them shine, 
    Have strewed a scene, which I should see 
    With double joy were thou with me! 

    2 
    And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes, 
    And hand which offer early flowers, 
    Walk smiling o`er this paradise 
    Above, the frequent feudal towers 
    Through green leaves lift their walls of grey, 
    And many a rock which steeply lours, 
    And noble arch in proud decay, 
    Look o`er this vale of vintage-bowers; 
    But one thing want these banks of Rhine,-- 
    Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine! 

    3 
    I send the lilies given to me; 
    Though long before thy hand they touch, 
    I know that they must withered be, 
    But yet reject them not as such; 
    For I have cherish`d them as dear, 
    Because they yet may meet thine eye, 
    And guide thy sould to mine even here, 
    When thou behold`st them drooping night, 
    And knowst them gathered by the Rhine, 
    And offered from my heart to thine! 

    4 
    The river nobly foams and flows, 
    The charm of this enchanted ground, 
    And all its thousand turns disclose 
    Some fresher beauty varying round; 
    The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 
    Through life to dwell delighted here; 
    Nor could on earth a spot be found 
    To nature and to me so dear, 
    Could thy dear eyes in following mine 
    Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine! 

LVI.
By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground, 
There is a small and simply pyramid, 
Crowning the summit of the verdant mound; 
Beneath its base are heroes` ashes hid, 
Our enemy`s,--but let not that forbid 
Honour to Marceau! o`er whose early tomb 
Tears, big tears, gush`d from the rough soldier`s lid, 
Lamenting and yet envying such a doom, 
Falling for France, whose rights he battled to resume. 

LVII.
Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career,-- 
His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes; 
And fitly may the stranger lingering here 
Pray for his gallant spirit`s bright repose; 
For he was Freedom`s champion, one of those, 
The few in number, who had not o`erstept 
The charter to chastise which she bestows 
On such as wield her weapons; he had kept 
The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o`er him wept. 

LVIII.
Here Ehrenbreitstein, with her shattered wall 
Black with the miner`s blast, upon her height 
Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball 
Rebounding idly on her strength did light; 
A tower of victory! from whence the flight 
Of baffled foes was watch`d along the plain: 
But Peace destroy`d what War could never blight, 
And laid those proud roofs bare to Summer`s rain-- 
On which the iron shower for years had pour`d in vain. 

LIX.
Adieu to thee, fair Rhine! How long delighted 
The stranger fain would linger on his way! 
Thine is a scene alike where souls united 
Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray; 
And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey 
On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, 
Where Nature, nor too sombre nor too gay, 
Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, 
Is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the year. 

LX.
Adieu to thee again! a vain adieu! 
There can be found no farewell to scene like thine; 
The mind is coloured by thy every hue; 
And if reluctantly the eyes resign 
Their cherish`d gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine! 
`Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise; 
More mighty spots may rise--more glaring shine, 
But none unite in one attaching maze 
The brilliant, fair, and soft,--the glories of old days, 

LXI.
The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom 
Of coming ripeness, the white city`s sheen, 
The rolling stream, the precipice`s gloom, 
The forest`s growth, and Gothic`s walls between, 
The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been 
In mockery of man`s art; and these withal 
A race of faces happy as the scene, 
Whose fertile bounties extend to all, 
Still sprining o`er thy banks, though Empires near them fall. 

LXII.
But these recede. Above me are the Alps, 
The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls 
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, 
And throned Eternity in icy halls 
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls 
The avalanche--the thunderbolt of snow! 
All which expands the spirit, yet appals, 
Gather around these summits, as to show 
How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below. 

LXIII.
But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan, 
There is a spot should not be pass`d in vain,-- 
Morat! the proud, the patriot field! where man 
May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, 
Nor blush for those who conquered on that plain; 
Here Burgundy bequeath`d his tombless host, 
A bony heap, through ages to remain, 
Themselves their monument;--the Stygian coast 
Unsepulchred they roam`d, and shriek`d each wandering ghost. 

LXIV.
While Waterloo with Cannae`s carnage vies, 
Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand; 
They were true Glory`s stainless victories, 
Won by the unambitious heart and hand 
Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band, 
All unbought champions in no princely cause 
Of vice-entail`d Corruption; they no land 
Doom`d to bewail the blasphemy of laws 
Making kings` rights divine, by some Draconic clause. 

LXV.
By a lone wall a lonelier column rears 
A gray and grief-worn aspect of old days, 
`Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years, 
And looks as with the wild-bewildered gaze 
Of one to stone converted by amaze, 
Yet still with consciousness; and there it stands 
Making a marvel that it not decays, 
When the coeval pride of human hands, 
Levell`d Aventicum, hath strewed her subject lands. 

LXVI.
And there--oh! sweet and sacred be the name!-- 
Julia--the daughter, the devoted--gave 
Her youth to Heaven; her heart, beneath a claim 
Nearest to Heaven`s, broke o`er a father`s grave. 
Justice is sworn `gainst tears, and hers would crave 
The life she lived in; but the judge was just, 
And then she died on him she could not save. 
Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, 
And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one dust. 

LXVII.
But these are deeds which should not ass away, 
And names that must not wither, though the earth 
Forgets her empires with a just decay, 
The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and birth; 
The high, the mountain-majesty of worth 
Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe, 
And from its immortality look forth 
In the sun`s face, like yonder Alpine snow; 
Imperishably pure beyond all things below. 

LXVIII.
Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, 
The mirror where the stars and mountains view 
The stillness of their aspect in each trace 
Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue: 
There is too much of man here, to look through 
With a fit mindt he might which I behold; 
But soon in me shall Loneliness renew 
Thoughts hid, but not less cherish`d than of old, 
Ere mingling with the herd had penn`d me in their fold. 

LXIX.
To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind; 
All are not fit with them to stire and toil, 
Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 
Deep in its fountain, lest it overvoil 
In the hot throng, where we become the spoil 
Of our infection, till too late and long 
We may deplore and struggle with the coil, 
In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong 
`Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong. 

LXX.
There, in a moment, we may plunge our years 
In fatal penitence, and in the blight 
Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears, 
And colour things to come with hues of Night; 
The race of life becomes a hopeless flight 
To those that walk in darkness: on the sea, 
The boldest steer but where their ports invite, 
But there are wanderers o`er Eternity 
Whose bark drives on and one, and anchored ne`er shall be. 

LXXI.
Is it not better, then, to be alone, 
And love Earth only for its earthly sake? 
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, 
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, 
Which feeds it as a mother who doth make 
A fair but froward infant her own care, 
Kissing its cries away as these awake;-- 
Is it not better thus our lives to wear, 
Than join the crushing crowd, doom`d to inflict or bear? 

LXXII. 
I live not in myself, but I become 
Portion of that around me; and to me 
High mountains are a feeling, but the hum 
Of human cities torture: I can see 
Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be 
A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, 
Class`d among creatures, when the soul can flee, 
And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain 
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. 

LXXIII. 
And thus I am absorb`d, and this is life: 
I look upon the peopled desart past, 
As on a place of agony and strife, 
Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast, 
To act and suffer, but remount at last 
With a fresh pinion; which I feel to spring, 
Though young, yet waxing vigorous, as the blast 
Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, 
Spurning the clay-cold bonds with round our being cling. 

LXXIV.
And when, at length, the mind shall all be free 
From what it hates in this degraded form, 
Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be 
Existent happier in the fly and worm,-- 
When elements to elements conform, 
And dust is as it should be, shall I note 
Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm? 
The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each spot? 
Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot? 

LXXV.
Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part 
Of me and of my soul, as I of them? 
Is not the love of these deep in my heart 
With a pure passion? should I not contemn 
All objects, if compared with these? and stem 
A tide of suffering, rather than forego 
Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm 
Of those whose eyes are only turn`d below, 
Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow? 

LXXVI.
But this is not my theme; and I return 
To that which is immediate, and require 
Those who find contemplation in the urn, 
To look on One, whose dust was once all fire, 
A native of the land where I respire 
The clear air for a while--a passing guest, 
Where he became a being,--whose desire 
Was to be glorious; `twas a foolish quest, 
The which to gain and keep, he sacrificied all rest. 

LXXVII.
Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, 
The apostle of affliction, he who threw 
Enchantment over passion, and from woe 
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew 
The breath which made him wretched; yet he knew 
How to make madness beautiful, and cast 
O`er erring deeds and thoughts, a heavenly hue 
Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past 
The eyes, which o`er them shed tears feelingly and fast. 

LXXVIII.
His love was passion`s essence--as a tree 
On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame 
Kindled he was, and blasted; for to be 
Thus, and enamoured, were in him the same. 
But his was not the love of living dame, 
Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams 
But of ideal beauty, which became 
In him existence, and o`erflowering teems 
Along his burning page, distempered though it seems 

LXXIX.
This breathed itself to life in Júlie, this 
Invested her with all that`s wild and sweet; 
This hallowed, too, the memorable kiss 
Which every morn his fevered lip would greet, 
From hers, who but with friendship his would meet; 
But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast 
Flash`d the thrill`d spirit`s love-devouring heat; 
In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest, 
Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest. 

LXXX.
His life was one long war with self-sought foes, 
Or friends by him self-banish`d; for his mind 
Had grown Suspicion`s sanctuary, and chose 
For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind, 
`Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind. 
But he was phrenzied,--wherefore, who may know? 
Since cause might be which skill could never find; 
But he was phrenzied by disease or woe, 
To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show. 

LXXXI.
For then he was inspired, and from him came, 
As from the Pythian`s mystic cave of your, 
Those oracles which set the world in flame, 
Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more: 
Did he not this for France? which lay before 
Bowed to the inborn tyranny of years? 
Broken and trembling, to the yoke she bore, 
Till by the voice of him and his compeers, 
Roused up too much wrath which follows o`ergrown fears? 

LXXXII.
They made themselves a fearful monument! 
The wreck of old opinions--things which grew 
Breathed from the birth of time: the veil they rent, 
And what behind it lay, all earth shall view. 
But good with ill they also overthrew, 
Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild 
Upon the same foundation, and renew 
Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour re-fill`d, 
As heretofore, because ambitio was self-will`d. 

LXXXIII.
But this will not endure, nor be endured! 
Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt. 
They might have used it better, but, allured 
By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt 
On one another; pity ceased to melt 
With her once natural charities. But they, 
Who in oppression`s darkness caved had dwelt, 
They were not eagles, nourish`d with the day; 
What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey? 

LXXXIV.
What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? 
The heart`s bleed longest, and but heal to wear 
That which disfigures it; and they who war 
With their own hopes, and have been vanquish`d, bear 
Silence, but not submission: in his lair 
Fix`d Passion holds his breath, until the hour 
Which shall atone for years; none need despair: 
It came, it cometh, and will come,--the power 
To punish or forgive--in one we shall be slower. 

LXXXV.
Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, 
With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 
Earth`s troubled waters for a purer spring. 
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
To waft me from distraction; once I loved 
Torn ocean`s roar, but thy soft murmuring 
Sounds sweet as if a sister`s voice reproved, 
That I with stern delights should e`er have been so moved. 

LXXXVI.
It is the hush of night, and all between 
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen, 
Save darken`d Jura, whose capt heights appear 
Precipitously steep; and drawing near, 
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, 
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 
Or chirps the grasshopped one good-night carol more; 

LXXXVII.
He is an evening reveller, who makes 
His life an infancy, and sings his fill; 
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes, 
Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
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