What could her grief be?-she had loved him not, Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd Upon her mind-a spectre of the past.
A change camẹ o'er the spirit of my dream. The Wanderer was return'd.-I saw him stand Before an Altar-with a gentle bride;
Her face was fair, but was not that which made The Starlight of his Boyhood;-as he stood Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came The self-same aspect, and the quivering shock That in the antique Oratory shook
His bosom in its solitude; and then
As in that hour-a moment o'er his face The tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded as it came, And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, And all things reel'd around him; he could see Not that which was, nor that which should have been— But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall, And the remember'd chambers, and the place, The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, All things pertaining to that place and hour, And her who was his destiny,—came back And thrust themselves between him and the light: What business had they there at such a time?
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Lady of his love ;-Oh! she was changed As by the sickness of the soul; her mind Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes They had not their own lustre, but the look Which is not of the earth; she was become The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things; And forms impalpable and unperceived Of others' sight familiar were to hers. And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise Have a far deeper madness, and the glance Of melancholy is a fearful gift;
What is it but the telescope of truth?
Which strips the distance of its fantasies, And brings life near in utter nakedness, Making the cold reality too real!
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Wanderer was alone as heretofore, The beings which surrounded him were gone, Or were at war with him; he was a mark For blight and desolation, compass'd round With Hatred and Contention; Pain was mix'd In all which was served up to him, until, Like to the Pontic monarch of old days, He fed on poisons, and they had no power, But where a kind of nutriment; he lived Through that which had been death to many men, And made him friends of mountains: with the stars And the quick Spirit of the Universe
He held his dialogues; and they did teach
To him the magic of their mysteries;
To him the book of Night was open'd wide, And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd A marvel and a secret-Be it so.
My dream was past; it had no further change. It was of a strange order, that the doom
Of these two creatures should be thus traced out Almost like a reality-the one
To end in madness-both in misery.
[From Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto III.]
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,
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 should grieve or glad mine eye.
Once more upon the waters! yet once more! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar! Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead ! Though the 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, the tempest's breath prevail.
In my youth's summer I did sing of One, The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind; Again I seize the theme, then but begun, And bear it with me, as the rushing wind Bears the cloud onwards: in that Tale I find The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind, O'er which all heavily the journeying years
Plod the last sands of life,—where not a flower appears.
Since my young days of passion-joy, or pain, Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string,
And both may jar: it may be, that in vain I would essay as I have sung to sing. Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling; So that it wean me from the weary dream Of selfish grief or gladness-so it fling Forgetfulness around me-it shall seem
To me, though no one else, a not ungrateful theme.
He, who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him; nor below Can love or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife, Cut to his heart again with the keen knife Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife With airy images, and shapes which dwell Still unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted cell,
'Tis to create, and in creating live A being more intense that we endow
With form our fancy, gaining as we give
The life we image, even as I do now.
What am I? Nothing: but not so art thou, Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth, Invisible but gazing, as I glow
Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth,
And feeling still with thee in my crush'd feelings' dearth.
Yet must I think less wildly :-I have thought Too long and darkly, till my brain became, In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, A whirling gulf of fantasy and flame:
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, My springs of life were poison'd. 'Tis too late! Yet am I changed; though still enough the same In strength to bear what time cannot abate, And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate.
Something too much of this :—but now 'tis past, And the spell closes with its silent seal.
Long absent HAROLD 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 alter'd him In soul and aspect as in age: years steal Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb; And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.
His had been 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.
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.
But who can view the ripen'd 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.
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