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This gentle emotion, so seldom our lot

And you, ScampUpon earth. Give it way: 'tis an impulse which lifts Scamp.

Excuse me! I must to my notes Our spirits from earth; the sublimest of gifts; For my lecture next week. For which poor Prometheus was chain'd to his Ink.

He must mind whom he quotes mountain :

(tain ; Out of "Elegant Extracts." 'Tis the source of all sentiment-feeling's true foun. Lady Blueb.

Well, now we break up; 'Tis the Vision of Heaven upon Earth : 'tis the gas But remember Miss Diddle invites us to sup. Of the soul : 'tis the seizing of shades as they pass, Ink, Then at two hours past midnight we all meet And making them substance ; 'tis something divine :

again, Ink. Shall I help you, my friend, to a little more For the sciences, sandwiches, hock, and champagne ! wine ?

Tra. And the sweet lobster salad ! Botk. I thank you ; not any more, sir, till I dine. Both.

I honour that meal Lik. Apropos-Do you dine with Sir Humphrey to. For 'tis then that our feelings most genuinely-feel. day?

Ink. True; feeling is truest then, far beyond ques. Tra. I should think with Duke Humphrey was more tion: in your way.

I wish to the gods 'twas the same with digestion ! Ink. It might be of yore; but we authors now look Lady Blueb. Pshaw!-never mind that; for one To the Knight, as a landlord, much more than the moment of feeling Duke.

Is worth-God knows what. The truth is, each writer 110w quite at his ease is, Ink.

'Tis at least worth concealing And (except with his publisher) dines where he For itself, or what follows-—But here comes your pleases.

carriage. But 'tis now nearly five, and I must to the Park. Sir Rich. ( Aside). I wish all these people were Tra. And i'll take a turn with you there till 'tis d-d with my marriage! dark.


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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 haissais ma patrie. Toutes les impertinences des peuples divers, parmi lesquels j'ai vécu. m'ont réconcilié 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.

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PREFACE TO THE FIRST AND SECOND CANTOS. The following poem was written, for the most part, amidst the scenes which it attempts 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 nierely experimental.

A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of giving some connection to the piece; which, however, makes no pretensions to regularity. It has been suggested to me by friends, on whose opinions I set a high value, 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 a 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; but in the main points, I should hope, none whatever.

It is alınost superfluous to mention that the appelation`Childe,' 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,' in the Border Minstrelsy, edited by Mr. Scott.

With the different poems which have been published on Spanish subjects, there may be found some slight coincidence 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 this 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.' 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; 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.


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 shall I venture an observation. Amongst the inany objections justly urged to the very indifferent character of the 'vagrant Childe' (whom, notwithstanding many hints to the contrary, I still maintain to lie 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. 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. 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 courtésie et de gentilesse,' had much more of love than of courtesy or gentleness. See Roland on the same subject with Saint-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."* 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 reproche.' 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.

Before the days of Bayard, and down to those of Sir Joseph Banks (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 iniddle 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 een 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, perhaps a poetical Zeluco.

LONDON, 1813.


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 mix'd with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours


Not in those climes where I have late been

Though Beauty long hath there been matchless

Not in those visions to the heart displaying
Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd,
Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seemd:
Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek
To paint those charms which varied as they

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.
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 ;
My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee,
And safely view thy ripening beauties shine:

Oh ! let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle's,
Now brightly bold or beautifully shy,
Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells,
Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny
That smile for which my breast might vain!y 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 with this my verse entwined;
And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast
On Harold's page, Ianthe's here enshrined
Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last :
My days once number'd, should this homage past
Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre
Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast,

Such is the most my memory may desire ;
Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship

less require ?

* The Rovers, or the Double Arrangement.
| Lady Charlotte Harley, daughter of the Earl of Oxford, afterwards Lady C. Bacon,

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OH, thou, in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth,
Muse, formd or fabled at the minstrel's will:
Since shamed full oft by låter lyres on earth,
Mine dares not cail thee from thy sacred hill:
Yet there I've wander'd by thy vaunted rill;
Yes! sigh*d o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine, *
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.

Worse than adversity the Childe befell;
He felt the fulness of satiety :

Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell.

For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run,
Nor made atonement when he did amiss,
Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one,
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 spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste,
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign d to taste.

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 vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.
Ah, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight;
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee;
Few earthly things found favour in his sight

Save concubines and carnal companie,
And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree.

Childe Harold was he hight:--but whence his name
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 aye,
However mighty in the olden time;
Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay,

Nor florid prose, nor honey'd lines of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.

Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun,
Disporting there like any other fly,
Nor deem'd before his little day was done
One blast might chill him into misery.
But long ere scarce a third of his passed by,

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;
'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,
But Pride congeald the drop within his e'e
Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie,
And from his native land resolved to go,
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;

With pleasure drugg'd, he almost long'd for woe, And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below.

The Childe departed from his father's hall;
It was a vast and venerable pile;
So old, it seemed only not to fall,
Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle.
Monastic dome! condemnd to uses vile !
Where Superstition once had made her den,
Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile;

And monks might deem their time was come agen,
If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.

VIII. * The little village of Castri stands partly on the site of Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, from

Yet ofttimes, in his maddest mirthful mood, Chrysso, are the remains of sepulchres hewn in and Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's from the rock; 'one,' said the guide, of a king who

brow, broke his neck hunting.. His inajesty, had certainly chosen the fittest spot for such an achievement. A

As if the memory of some deadly feud little above Castri is a cave, supposed the Pythian, Or disappointed passion lurk'd below: of immense depth; the upper part of it is paved, and now a cow-house. On the other side of Castri stands

But this none knew, nor haply cared to know: a Greek monastery: some way above which is the

For his was not that open, artless soul cleft in the rock, with a range of caverns difficult of That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow; ascent, and apparently leading to the interior of the

Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, mountain, probably to the Corycian Cavern mentioned by Pausanias. From this part descend the fountain Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not and the Dews of Castalie.



A few short hours, and he will rise And none did love him: though to hall and bower

To give the morrow birth ; He gather'd revellers from far and near,

And I sha! hail the main and skies, He knew them flatterers of the festal hour;

But not my mother earth. The heartless parasites of present cheer.

Deserted is iny own good hall, Yea, none did love him--not his lemans dear

Its hearth is desolate; But pomp and power alone are woman's care,

Wild weeds are gathering on the wall, And where these are light Eros finds a feere ;

My dog howls at the gate. Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,

*Come hither, hither, my little page: And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs miglit

Why dost thou weep and wail? despair.

Or dost thou dread the billow's rage, X.

Or tremble at the gale? Childe Harold had a mother-not forgot,

But dash the tear-drop from thine eye, Though parting from that mother he did shun;

Our ship is swift and strong ; A sister whom he loved, but saw her not

Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly
Before his weary pilgrimage begun:

More merrily along.'
If friends he had, he bade adieu to none,
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel;

"Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon

I fear not wave nor wind; A few dear objects, will in sadness feel

Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to

Am sorrowful in mind; heal.

For I have from my father gone,

A mother whom I love,
His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,

And have no friend, save these alone, The laughing dames in whom he did delight,

But thee-and One above. Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy

*My father bless'd me fervently, hands,

Yet did not much coinplain; Might shake the saintship of an anchorite,

But sorely will my mother sigh And long had fed his youthful appetite;

Till I come back again. His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine,

‘Enough, enough, iny little lad! And all that mote to luxury invite,

Such tears become thine eye ; Without a sigh he left to cross the brine,

If I thy guileless bosom had, And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's cen.

Mine own would not be dry. tral line. XII.

Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds blew,

Why dost thou look so pale ? As glad to waft him froın his native home;

Or dost thou dread a French foeman, And fast the white rocks faded from his view,

Or shiver at the gale?And soon were lost in circumambient foam;

Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? And then, it may be, of his wish to roam

Sir Childe, I'm not so weak; Repented he, but in his bosom slept

But thinking on an absent wife
The silent thought, nor from his lips did come

Will blanch a faithful cheek.
One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept,
And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept.

My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,

Along the bordering lake ;

And when they on their father call,
But when the sun was sinking in the sea,

What answer shall she make?'He seized his harp, which he at times could string, • Enough, enough, my yeoman good, And strike, albeit with untaught melody,

Thy grief let none gainsay; When deem'd he no strange ear was listening:

But I, who am of lighter mood,
And now his fingers o'er it he did fing,

Will laugh to flee away.'
And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight,
While flew the vessel on her snowy wing,

For who would trust the seeming sighs And Aleeting shores receded from his sight,

Of wife or paramour ? Thus to the elements he pour'd his last 'Good

Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes Night.'

We late saw streaming o'er.

For pleasures past I do not grieve,
Adieu, adieu ! my native shore

Nor perils gathering near;
Fades o'er the waters blue;

My greatest grief is that I leave
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,

No thing that claims a tear.
And shrieks the wild sea-new.
Yon sun that sets upon the sea

And now I'm in the world alone,
We follow in his flight;

Upon the wide, wide sea;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,

But why should I for others groan,
My native Land-Good Night!

When none will sigh for me?

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