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Turn to the Mole which Hadrian rear'd on high,67
Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles,
Colossal copyist of deformity,

Whose travell'd phantasy from the far Nile's
Enormous model, doom'd the artist's toils

To build for giants, and for his vain earth,
His shrunken ashes, raise this dome: How smiles
The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth,

Thou movest-but increasing with the advance,
Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise,
Deceived by its gigantic elegance;
Vastness which grows-but grows to harmonize-
All musical in its immensities;
[flame
Rich marbles-richer painting-shrines where
The lamps of gold-and haughty dome which vies
In air with Earth's chief structure, though their
frame

Sits on the firm-set ground-and this the clouds must claim.

CLVII.

Thou seest not all; but piecemeal thou must break To seperate contemplation, the great whole; And as the ocean many bays will make, That ask the eye-so here condense thy soul To more immediate objects, and control Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart Its eloquent proportions, and unroll In mighty graduations, part by part, The glory which at once upon thee did not dart,

CLVIII.

Not by its fault-but thine: Our outward sense
Is but of gradual grasp-and as it is

That what we have of feeling most intense
Outstrips our faint expression; even so this
Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice

Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great
Defies at first our Nature's littleness,
Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate

To view the huge design which sprung from such a Our spirits to the size of what they contemplate.

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CLXII.

But in his delicate form-a dream of Love,
Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast
Long'd for a deathless lover from above,
And madden'd in that vision-are exprest
All that ideal beauty ever bless'd

The mind with in its most unearthly mood,
When each conception was a heavenly guest-
A ray of immortality-and stood,

Starlike, around, until they gather'd to a god!

CLXIII.

And if it be Prometheus stole from Heaven The fire which we endure, it was repaid By him to whom the energy was given Which this poetic marble hath array'd With an eternal glory-which, if made By human hands, is not of human thought; And Time himself hath hallow'd it, nor laid One ringlet in the dust-nor hath it caught A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 'twas wrought.

CLXIV.

But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song,
The being who upheld it through the past?
Methinks he cometh late and tarries long.
He is no more-these breathings are his last,
His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast,
And he himself as nothing:-if he was
Aught but a phantasy, and could be class'd

CLXVIII.

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou?
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead?
Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low
Some less majestic, less beloved head?

In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled,
The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy,

Death hush'd that pang for ever; with thee fled
The present happiness and promised joy
Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy

CLXIX.

Peasants bring forth in safety. Can it be,
Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored!
Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee,
And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard
Her many griefs for ONE; for she had pour'd
Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head
Beheld her Iris.-Thou, too, lonely lord,
And desolate consort-vainly wert thou wed!
The husband of a year! the father of the dead!

CLXX.

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made;
Thy bridal's fruit is ashes: in the dust
The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is laid,
The love of millions! How we did intrust
Futurity to her! and, though it must
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd
Our children should obey her child, and bless'd
Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd

With forms which live and suffer let that pass-Like stars to shepherd's eyes:-'twas but a meteor His shadow fades away into Destruction's mass,

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And send us prying into the abyss

To gather what we shall be when the frame
Shall be resolved to something less than this
Its wretched essence; and to dream of fame,
And to wipe the dust from off the idle name
We never more shall hear,-but never more,
Oh, happier thought! can we be made the same:
It is enough in sooth that once we bore

beam'd.

CLXXI.

Wo unto us, not her; for she sleeps well: The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, Which from the birth of manarchy hath rung Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate Which stumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath Against thair blind omnipotence a weight [flung Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late,

CLXXII.

These might have been her destiny; but no,
Our hearts deny it: and so young, so fair,
Good without effort, great without a foe;
But now a bride and mother-and now there!
How many ties did that stern moment tear!
From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast
Is link'd the electric chain of that despair,
Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest

These fardels of the heart-the heart whose sweat The land which loved thee so that none could lov

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CLXXXV.

My task is done-my song hath ceased-my theme
Has died into an echo; it is fit

The spell should break of this protracted dream.
The torch shall be extinguish'd which hath lit
My midnight lamp-and what is writ, is writ,—
Would it were worthier! but I am not now
That which I have been-and my visions flit
Less palpably before me-and the glow

CLXXXVI.

Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been-
A sound which makes us linger;-yet-farewell.
Ye! who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene
Which is his last, if in your memories dwell
A thought which once was his, if on ye swell
A single recollection, not in vain

He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop-shell;
Farewell! with him alone may rest the pain,

Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low. If such there were-with you, the moral of his strair

NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE.

CANTO I.

3.

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

Stanza i. line 6.

Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life. Stanza xxi. line last. THE little village of Castri stands partly on the It is a well known fact, that in the year 1809 the site of Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, assassinations in the streets of Lisbon and its from Chrysso, are the remains of sepulchres hewn vicinity were not confined by the Portuguese to in and from the rock. "One," said the guide, "of their countrymen; but that Englishmen were daily a king who broke his neck hunting." His majesty butchered: and so far from redress being obtained, had certainly chosen the fittest spot for such an we were requested not to interfere if we perceived any compatriot defending himself against his allies.

achievement.

A little above Castri is a cave, supposed the I was once stopped in the way to the theatre at Pythian, of immense depth; the upper part of it is eight o'clock in the evening, when the streets were paved, and now a cow-house. not more empty than they generally are at that On the other side of Castri stands a Greek hour, opposite to an open shop and in a carriage monastery; some way above which is the cleft in with a friend; had we not fortunately been armed, the rock, with a range of caverns difficult of ascent, I have not the least doubt that we should have and apparently leading to the interior of the moun-adorned a tale instead of telling one. The crime tain; probably to the Corycian Cavern mentioned of assassination is not confined to Portugal; in by Pausahias From this part descend the fountain Sicily and Malta we are knocked on the head at a and the "Dews of Castalie." handsome average nightly, and not a Sicilian or Maltese is ever punished!"

2.

And rest ye at our "Lady's house of wo."

Stanza xx. line 4.

4.

Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened! Stanza xxiv. line 1. The Convent of "Our Lady of Punishment," Nossa Senora de Pena, on the summit of the rock. palace of the Marchese Marialva. The late exploits The Convention of Cintra was signed in the Below, at some distance, is the Cork Convent, where St. Honorius dug his den, over which is his of Lord Wellington have effaced the follies of epitaph. From the hills, the sea adds to the beauty perhaps changed the character of a nation, recon He has, indeed, done wonders; he has ciled rival superstitions, and baffled an enemy who never retreated before his predecessors.

of the view.

• Since the publication of this poemn, I have been informed of the misapprehension of the term Nossa Senora de Pena. It was owing to the want of the tilde, or mark over the n, which alters the signification of the word: with it, Pena signifies a rock; without it, Pena has the sense I adepted. I do not think it necessary to alter the passage, as, though the common acceptation| cffixed to it is "Our Lady of the Rock," 1 may well assume the other sense from the severities practised there.

Cintra.

5.

Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay. Stanza xxix. line 1. The extent of Mafra is prodigious; it contains a

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Ask ye, Baotian shades, the reason why? Stanza lxx. line 5. This was written at Thebes, and consequently in the best situation for asking and answering such a question: not as the birthplace of Pindar, but as the capital of Boeotia, where the first riddle was propounded and solved.

16.

Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.
Stanza lxxxii. line last.
"Medio de fonte leporum

When Cava's traitor sire first call'd the band That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore. Stanza xxxv. lines 3 and 4. Count Julian's daughter, the Helen of Spain. Pelagius preserved his independence in the fastnesses of the Asturias, and the descendants of his Surgit amari aliquid quod in ipsis floribus angat.” followers, after some centuries, completed their struggle by the conquest of Grenada

8.

17.

Lua.

A traitor only fell beneath the feud.
Stanza lxxxv. line 7.
Alluding to the conduct and death of Solano,
the Governor of Cadiz.

18.

"War even to the knife!"

No! as he speeds, he chants, "Viva el Rey!" Stanza xlviii. line 5. "Viva el Rey Fernando!" Long live King Ferdinand is the chorus of most of the Spanish) patriotic songs: they are chiefly in dispraise of the ld king Charles, the Queen, and the Prince of Stanza lxxxvi. line last. Peace. I have heard many of them; some of the "War to the knife." Palafox's answer to the airs are beautiful. Godoy, the Principe de la Paz, French general at the siege of Saragoza. was born at Badajoz, on the frontiers of Portugal, and was originally in the ranks of the Spanish Guards, till his person attracted the queen's eyes, and raised him to the dukedom of Alcudia, &c. &c. It is to this man that the Spaniards universally impute the ruin of their country.

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19.

And thou, my friend! &c.

Stanza xci. line 1.

The Honorable I*. W**. of the Guards, who died of a fever at Coinbra. I had known him ten years, the better half of his life, and the happiest part of mine.

who gave me being, and most of those who had In the short space of one month I had lost her made that being tolerable. To me the lines of Young are no fiction:

"Insatiate archer! could not one suffice?

Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain,
And thrice ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn.'

I should have ventured a verse to the memory of the late Charles Skinner Matthews, Fellow of Downing College, Cambridge, were he not too much above all praise of mine. His powers of mind, shown in the attainment of greater honors, against the ablest candidates, than those of any graduate on record at Cambridge, have sufficiently established his fame on the spot where it was acquired: while his softer qualities live in the recollection of friends who loved him too well to envy his superiority.

CANTO II.

1.

-despite of war and wasting fire

Stanza i. line 4. PART of the Acropolis was destroyed by the explosion of a magazine during the Venetian siege.

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