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 middle 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 been 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. TO IANTHE.t NOT in those climes where I have late been, straying, Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deem'd, Not in those visions to the heart displaying Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd, To such as see thee not my words were weak; Ah! may'st thou ever be what now thou art, My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline; But mix'd with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours Oh let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle's, This much, dear maid, accord; nor question why Such is thy name with this my verse entwined; Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast, *The Rovers, or the Double Arrangement. † Lady Charlotte Harley, daughter of the Earl of Oxford, afterwards Lady C, Bacon, 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 ís a cave, supposed the Pythian, of immense depth; the upper part of it is paved, and now a cow-house. 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.' Worse than adversity the Childe befell; Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell. V. 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. And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, And from his native land resolved to go, VII. 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! condemn'd 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, Yet ofttimes, in his maddest mirthful mood, Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow, As if the memory of some deadly feud Or disappointed passion lurk'd below: But this none knew, nor haply cared to know: For his was not that open, artless soul That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow; Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control. But when the sun was sinking in the sea, He seized his harp, which he at times could string, And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight, Thus to the elements he pour'd his last 'Good Adieu, adieu! my native shore The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, A few short hours, and he will rise Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall, Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, A mother whom I love, 'My father bless'd me fervently, Mine own would not be dry. 'Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, Why dost thou look so pale? Or dost thou dread a French foeman, Sir Childe, I'm not so weak; 'My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, Along the bordering lake; And when they on their father call, For who would trust the seeming sighs Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes Nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave And now I'm in the world alone, Perchance my dog will whine in vain, Till fed by stranger hands; But long ere I come back again He'd tear me where he stands. With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go Athwart the foaming brine; Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, So not again to mine. My native land-Good Night! XIV. On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, XV. Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see With treble vengeance will His hot shafts urge Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge. XVI. What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold! To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing XVII. But whoso entereth within this town, Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt, Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken Than those whereof such things the bard relates, Who to the awe-struck world unlock'd Elysium's gates? XIX. The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown'd, XX. Then slowly climb the many-winding way, XXI. And here and there, as up the crags you spring, XXII. On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, Are domes where whilome kings did make repair: The convent of Our Lady of Punishment,' Nossa Senora 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. 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 country. men, but that Englishmen were daily butchered; and so far from redress being obtained, we were requested Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, un not to interfere if we perceived any compatriot defendwash'd, unhurt. XVIII. ing 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 gene Poor, paltry slaves! yet born 'midst noblest rally are at that hour, opposite to an open shop, and scenes Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men? 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. There thou, too, Vathek! England's wealthiest son, And conscious Reason whisper'd to despise His early youth misspent in maddest whim; But as he gazed on truth, his aching eyes grew dun. Once form'd thy Paradise, as not aware When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath clone, Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun. XXIII. Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure plan, Beneath yon mountain's ever beauteous brow; XXIV. Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened!* Oh! dome displeasing unto British eye! With diadem hight foolscap, lo! a fiend, A little fiend that scoffs incessantly, There sits in parchment robe array'd, and by His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, Where blazon'd glare names known to chivalry, And sundry signatures adorn the roll, Whereat the Urchin points, and laughs with all his soul. XXV. Convention is the dwarfish demon styled That foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome: Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, And turn'd a nation's shallow joy to gloom. Here Folly dash'd to earth the victor's plume, And Policy regain'd what Arms þad lost: For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom! Woe to the conquering, not the conquer'd host, Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's coast. XXVI. And ever since that martial synod met, And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame. How will posterity the deed proclaim! Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer, To view these champions cheated of their faune, By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here, Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming year? XXVII. So deem'd the Childe, as o'er the mountains he Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee, Where Lusitania and her Sister meet, Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide? Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall?— The Convention of Cintra was signed in the palace Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land from of the Marchese Marialva, Gaul: |