CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE (1816) CANTO III. III. In my youth's summer I did sing of One, 20 The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, 25 Plod the last sands of life,-where not a flower appears. VIII. Something too much of this:-but now 'tis past, Long absent Harold re-appears at last; 65 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 altered 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. IX. His had been quaff'd too quickly, and he found 70 75 Which gall'd forever, 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. 81 XII. But soon he knew himself the most unfit 100 Of men to herd with Man; with whom he held His thoughts to others, though his soul was quell'd 105 In youth by his own thoughts; still uncompell'd, XIII. Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends; Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was his home; 110 Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends, He had the passion and the power to roam; The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, Were unto him companionship; they spake A mutual language, clearer than the tome Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams on the lake. 115 XIV. Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, Till he had peopled them with beings bright 121 As their own beams; and earth, and earth-born jars, He had been happy; but this clay will sink To which it mounts, as if to break the link 125 That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its brink. XV. But in Man's dwellings he became a thing To whom the boundless air alone were home: 130 His breast and beak against his wiry dome Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat. 135 XVI. Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again, With naught of hope left, but with less of gloom; 140 Which, though 'twere wild,-as on the plunder'd wreck When mariners would madly meet their doom With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck,— Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check. XVIII. And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, 155 Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain, Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through; 160 Ambition's life and labours all were vain; He wears the shatter'd links of the world's broken chain. XXI. There was a sound of revelry by night, The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, 185 But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! XXII. Did ye not hear it?-No; 'twas but the wind 190 No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet XXIII. Within a window'd niche of that high hall 196 Sate Brunswicks' fated chieftain; he did hear 200 That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deem'd it near, 205 His heart more truly knew that peal too wel! Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. XXIV. 210 Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise? 215 XXV. And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, And near, the beat of the alarming drum 220 Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips-" The foe! They come! they come!" 225 XXVI. And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose! |