XCIII.

And this is in the night :-Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber! et me be A sharer in thy fierce and far del ght,— A portion of the tempest and of thee !1 How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! And now again 'tis black,-and now, the glee Of the loud hill shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.

XCIV.

Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between

Heights which appear as lovers who have parted In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, That they can meet no more, though brokenhearted; [thwarted,

Though in their souls, which thus each other Love was the very root of the fond rage [parted: Which blighted their life's bloom, and then deItself expired, but leaving them an age Of years all winters,-war within themselves to wage.

XCV.

Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way,

The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand: For here, not one, but many, make their play, And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand, Flashing and cast around: of all the band, The brightest through these parted hills hath His lightnings,-as if he did understand, [fork'd That in such gaps as desolation work'd, [lurk'd. There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein

XCVI.

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye! With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul To make these felt and feeling, well may be Things that have made me watchful; the far roll Of your departing voices, is the knoll

Of what in me is sleepless,--if I rest.

But where of ye, oh, tempests! is the goal?
Are ye like those within the human breast?

Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest?

XCVII.

Could I embody and unbosom now

That which is most within me,-could I wreak
My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw
Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak,
All that I would have sought, and all I seek,
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe-into one word,

1 The tnunder-storm to which these lines refer occurred on the 13th of June, 1816, at midnight. I have seen, among the Acroceraunian mountains of Chimari, several more terrible, but none more beautiful.

And that one word were lightning, I would speak; But as it is, I live and die unheard, [sword. With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a

XCVIII.

The morn is up again, the dewy morn,

With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, And living as if earth contain’d no tomb,-And glowing into day: we may resume The march of our existence: and thus I, Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room And food for meditation, nor pass hy Much, that may give us pause, if ponder'd fittingly.

XCIX.

Clarens sweet Clarens,2 birthplace of deep love! Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought; Thy trees take root in Love; the snows above The very glaciers have his colors caught, And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought By rays which sleep there lovingly the rocks, The permanent crags, tell here of love, who sought In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then mocks.

C.

Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod,--Undying love's, who here ascends a throne To which the steps are mountains; where the god Is a pervading life and light,-so shown Not on those summits solely, nor alone In the still cave and forest; o'er the flower His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown His soft and summer breath, whose tender power Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour.

CI.

All things are here of him; from the black pines,
Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar
Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines
Which slope his green path downward to the shore,
Where the bow'd waters meet him, and adore,
Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood,
The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar,
But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it
stood,

Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude

CII.

A populous solitude of bees and birds,
And fairy-form'd and many-color'd things,
Who worship him with notes more sweet than
And innocently open their glad wings, [words
Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs,

2 Scene of the romance of Rousseau.

As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot;

I stood and stand alone,-remember'd or forgot.

CXIII.

I have not loved the world, nor the world me;
I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd
To its idolatries a patient knee,—

Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles,-nor cried aloud
In worship of an echo; in the crowd
They could not deem me one of such; I stood
Among them, but not of them; in a shroud

Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could,

Had I not filed' my mind, which thus itself subdued.

CXIV.

I have not loved the world, nor the world me,-
But let us part fair foes; I do believe,
Though I have found them not, that there may be
Words which are things, hopes which will not

deceive,

And virtues which are merciful, nor weave Snares for the failing: I would also deem O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve;" That two, or one, are almost what they seem,-That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream,

CXV.

My daughter! with thy name this song begun— My daughter! with thy name thus much shall endI see thee not,-I hear thee not,—but none Can be so wrapp'd in thee; thou art the friend To whom the shadows of far years extend: Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold, My voice shall with thy future visions blend, And reach into thy heart,-when mine is cold,A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould.

CXVI.

To aid thy mind's development, to watch
Thy dawn of little joys,-to sit and see
Almost thy very growth,—to view thee catch
Knowledge of objects,-wonders yet to thee!
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee,
And print on thy soft cheek. a parent's kiss,—
This, it should seem, was not reserved for me;
Yet this was in my nature :—as it is,

AFTER an interval of eight years between the com position of the first and last cantos of Childe Harold the conclusion of the poem is about to be submitted to the public. In parting with so old a friend, it is not extraordinary that I should recur to one still older and better, to one who has beheld the birth and death of the other, and to whom I am far more indebted for the social advantages of an enlightened friendship, thanthough not ungrateful-I can, or could be, to Childe Harold, for any public favor reflected through the poem on the poet,-to, one, whom I have known long, and accompanied far, whom I have found wakeful over my

and firm in my adversity, true in counsel and trusty in peril,-to a friend often tried and never found wanting; -to yourself.

In so doing, I recur from fiction to truth: and in dedicating to you, in its complete or at least concluded state, a poetical work which is the longest, the most thoughtful and comprehensive of my compositions, I wish to do honor to myself by the record of many years intimacy with a man of learning, of talent, of steadi ness, and of honor. It is not for minds like ours to give or to receive flattery; yet the praises of sincerity have

ever been permitted to the voice of friendship; and it is not for you, nor even for others, but to relieve a heart which has not elsewhere, or lately, been so much accustomed to the encounter of good-will as to withstand the shock firmly, that I thus attempt to commemorate your good qualities, or rather the advantages which I have derived from their exertion. Even the recurrence of the date of this letter, the anniversary of the most unfortunate day of my past existence, but which cannot poison my future while I retain the resource of your friendship, and of my own faculties, will henceforth have a more agreeable recollection for both, inasmuch as it will remind us of this my attempt to thank you for an indefatigable regard, such as few men have experienced, and no one could experience, without thinking better of his species and of himself. It has been our fortune to traverse together, at various periods, the countries of chivalry, history, and fable-Spain, Greece, Asia Minor, and Italy; and what Athens and Constantinople were to us a few years ago, Venice and Rome have been more recently. The poem also, or the pilgrim, or both, have accompanied me from first to last; and perhaps it may be a pardonable vanity which induces me to reflect with complacency on a composition which in some degree connects me with the spot where it was produced, and the objects it would fain describe; and however unworthy it may be deemed of those magical and memorable abodes, however short it may fall of our distant conceptions and immediate impressions, yet as a mark of respect for what is venerable, and of feeling for what is glorious, it has been to me a source of pleasure in the production, and I part with it with a kind of regret, which I hardly suspected that events could have left me for imaginary objects.

With regard to the conduct of the last canto, there will be found less of the pilgrim than in any of the preceding, and that little slightly, if at all, separated from the author speaking in his own person. The fact is, that I had become weary of drawing a line which everyone seemed determined not to perceive: like the Chinese in Goldsmith's "Citizen of the World," whom nobody would believe to be a Chinese, it was in vain that I asserted, and imagined that I had drawn, a distinction between the author and the pilgrim; and the very anxiety to preserve this difference, and disappointment at finding it unavailing, so far crushed my efforts in the composition, that I determined to abandon it altogether -and have done so. The opinions which have been, or may be, formed on that subject, are now a matter of indifference; the work is to depend on itself, and not on the writer; and the author, who has no resources in his own mind beyond the reputation, transient or permanent, which is to arise from his literary efforts, deserves the fate of authors.

tions; and for the whole of the notes, excepting a few of the shortest, I am indebted to yourself, and these were neccessarily limited to the elucidation of the text. It is also a delicate, and no very grateful task, to dis sert upon the literature and manners of a nation so dis similar; and requires an attention and impartiality which would induce us-though perhaps no inattentive observers, nor ignorant of the language or customs of the people amongst whom we have recently abode-to distrust, or at least defer our judgment, and more narrowly examine our information. The state of literary, as well as political party, appears to run, or to have run, so high, that for a stranger to steer impartially between them is next to impossible. It may be enough, then, at least for my purpose, to quote from their own beautiful language-"Mi pare che in un paese tutto poetico, che vanta la lingua la più nobile ed insieme la più dolce, tutte tutte le vie diverse si possono tentare, e che sinche la patria di Alfieri e di Monti non ha perduto l' antico valore, in tutte essa dovrebbe essere la prima.” Italy has great names still-Canova, Monti, Ugo Foscolo, Pindemonte, Visconti, Morelli, Cicognara, Albrizzi, Mezzophanti, Mai, Mustoxidi, Aglietti, and Vacca, will secure to the present generation an honorable place in most of the departments of Art, Science and Belles Lettres; and in some the very highest-Europe-the World-has but one Canova.

It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, that " La pianta uomo nasce più robusta in Italia che in qualunque altra terra-e che gli stessi atroci delitti che vi si commettono ne sono una prova." Without subscribing to the latter part of his proposition, a dangerous doctrine, the truth of which may be disputed on better grounds, namely, that the Italians are in no respect more ferocious than their neighbors, that man must be wilfully blind, or ignorantly heedless, who is not struck with the extraordinary capacity of this people, or, if such a word be admissible, their capabilities, the facility of their acquisitions, the rapidity of their conceptions, the fire of their genius, their sense of beauty, and, amidst all the disadvantages of repeated revolutions, the desolation of battles, and the despair of ages, their still unquenched “longing after immortality,”—the immortal ity of independence. And when we ourselves, in riding round the walls of Rome, heard the simple lament of the laborers' chorus, "Roma! Roma! Roma! Roma non é più come era prima," it was difficult not to contrast this melancholy dirge with the bacchanal roar of the songs of exultation still yelled from the London ta verns, over the carnage of Mont St. Jean, and the betrayal of Genoa, of Italy, of France, and of the world, by men whose conduct you yourself have exposed in a work worthy of the better days of our history. For

me,

"Non movero mai corda

Ove la turba di sue ciance assorda."