Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. CANTO III. I.. IS thy face like thy mother's, my fair child! 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. 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, Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail. III. In my youth's summer I did sing of One, Bears the cloud onwards: in that Tale I find The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, Which, ebbing, leave a steril 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, To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. V. He, who grown aged in this world of woe, Still unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted cell. VI. "Tis to create, and in creating live A being more intense, that we endow श What am I? Nothing; but not so art thou, CA Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth, Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, And feeling still with thee in my crush'd feelings' dearth. VII. Yet must I think less wildly:-I have thought Too long and darkly, till my brain became, A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame: And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate. |