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XCIV. For thee, who thus in too protracted songs Hast sooth'd thine idlesse with inglorious lays, Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng Of louder minstrels in these later days: To such resign the strife for fading bays— Ill may such contest now the spirit move Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise ;

Since cold each kinder heart that might approve, And none are left to please when none are left to love.

XCV. Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one! Whom youth and youth's affection bound to me; Who did for me what none beside have done, Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. What is my being ? thou hast ceased to be! Nor staid to welcome here thy wanderer home, Who mourns o'er hours.which we no more shall see

Would they had never been, or were to come! Would he had ne'er return'd to find fresh cause to roam !

XCVI.

.

Oh! ever loving, lovely, and beloved !
How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past,
And clings to thoughts now better far removed !
But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last.
All thou could'st have of mine, stern Death ! thou hast;
The parent, friend, and now the more than friend :
Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast,

And grief with grief continuing still to blend,
Hath snatch'd the little joy that life had yet to lend.

XCVII.

Then must I plunge again into the crowd,
And follow all that Peace disdains to seek ?
Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly loud,
False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek,
To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak;
Still o'er the features, which perforce they cheer,
To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique;

Smiles form the channel of a future tear,
Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled sneer.

XCVIII.
What is the worst of woes that wait on age ?
What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow?
To view each loved one blotted from life's

page,
And be alone on earth, as I am now.
Before the Chastener humbly let me bow,
O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroy'd:
Roll on, vain days! full reckless may ye flow,

Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoy'd, And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy’d.

TO

CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE.

CANTO I.

1.
Yes! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine.

Stanza i. line 6.

The little village of Castri stands partly on the site of Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, from Chrysso, are the remains of sepulchres hewn in and from the rock: “One,” said the guide, “of a king who broke his neck hunting.” His Majesty had certainly chosen the fittest spot for such an achievement.

A little above Castri is a cave, supposed the Pythian, of immense depth; the upper part of it is paved, and now a cowhouse.

On the other side of Castri (stands a Greek monastery ; some way above which is the cleft in the rock, with a range of caverns difficult of ascent, and apparently leading to the interior of the mountain; probably to the Corycian Cavern mentioned by Pausanias. From this part descend the fountain and the “ Dews of Castalie.”

2.
And rest ye at our Lady's house of woe.

Stanza xx. line 4. The Convent of “Our Lady of Punishment,” Nossa Señora de Pena', on the summit of the rock. Below, at some distance, is the Cork Convent, where St. Honorius dug his den, over which is his epitaph. From the hills, the sea adds to the beauty of the view.

3. Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life.

Stanza xxi. line last. It is a well known fact, that in the year 1809 the assassinations in the streets of Lisbon and its vicinity were not confined by the Portuguese to their countrymen ; but that Englishmen were daily butchered : and so far from redress being obtained, we were requested not to interfere if we perceived any compatriot defending himself against his allies. I was once stopped in the way to the theatre at eight o'clock in the evening, when the streets were not more empty than they generally are at that hour, opposite to an open shop, and in a carriage with a friend; had we not fortunately been armed, I have not the least doubt that we should have adorned a tale instead of telling one. The crime of assassination is

Since the publication of this Poem, I have been informed of the misapprehension the term Nossa Señora de Pena. It was owing to the want of the tilde, or mark over the ñ, which alters the signification of the word : with it, Peña signifies a rock; without it, Pena has the sense I adopted. I do not think it necessary to alter the passage, as though the common acceptation affixed to it is “our Lady of the Rock,” I may well assume the other sense from the sererities practised there.

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