Such was the feeling of LORD BYRON towards America where his popularity has undergone no change since his brilliant genius first dawned upon the world. The critics for a while ceased writing of him, having perhaps exhausted the theme and needing new subjects; but his fame has constantly been kept fresh in the popular circulation of his Works. BYRON is still the poet of youth and enthusiasm, of the natural emotions of the heart exhibited in that period of life which has more readers of poetry than the rest of the seven ages of man combined. As an artist his Poems challenge the admiration of all ages; his classic descriptions in Childe Harold find their way to the scholar's library; his Dramas and Tales of action and sentiment engage the attention of the most careless readers; while the Horatian charm of his wit and sentiment is a constant delight to the accomplished student of the world and its affairs. Of the merit and interest of the productions of the author of "Childe Harold," "The Corsair," "Manfred," "Don Juan," and a host of others, included in the series "familiar to our mouths as household words," it is unnecessary at this day to speak. After the lapse of half a century, the extraordinary popularity of the writings of BYRON in their own day is continued to new generations of readers, who delight to acknowledge his rare poetical powers, the fervour of his imagination, his kindling eloquence, his portrayal of character, his animated description of natural scenery, his wit, humor, pathos, his varied pictures of human life in England, Italy and Greece, his unfailing sympathy with liberty and freedom. The life of the Poet, accompanying this Edition, is abridged from the best account of BYRON, the ample life by his friend and literary executor, THOMAS MOORE. The Notes are mostly the Poet's own from the original Editions. The text is that of MURRAY'S Standard Edition. L'univers est une espèce de livre, dont on n'a lu que la première page quand on n'a vu que son pays. J'en ai feuilleté un assez grand nombre, que j'ai trouvé également mauvaises. Cet examen ne m'a point été infructueux. Je haissais ma patrie. Toutes los Impertinences des peuples divers, parmi lesquels j'ai vécu, m'ont réconcilié avec elle. Quand je n'aurais tiré d'autre bénéfice de mes voyages que celui-là, je n'en regretterais ni les frais ni les fatigues. LE COSMOPOLITE.1 PREFACE. [TO THE FIRST AND SECOND CANTOS.] THE following poem was written, for the most part, amidst the scenes which it attempts to describe. It was begun in Albania; and the parts relative to Spain and Portugal were composed from the author's observations in those countries. Thus much it may be necessary to state for the correctness of the descriptions. The scenes attempted to be sketched are in Spain, Portugal, Epirus, Acarnania, and Greece. There, for the present, the poem stops: its reception will determine whether the author may venture to conduct his readers to the capital of the East, through Ionia and Phrygia: these two Cantos are merely experimental. gested by "Lord Maxwell's Good Night," in the Bor der Minstrelsy, edited by Mr. Scott. With the different poems which have been published on Spanish subjects, there may be found some slight coincidence in the first part, which treats of the Penin sula, but it can only be casual; as, with the exception of a few concluding stanzas, the whole of this poem was written in the Levant. The stanza of Spenser, according to one of our most successful poets, admits of every variety. Dr. Beattie makes the following observation :-"Not long ago, I began a poem in the style and stanza of Spenser, in which I propose to give full scope to my inclination, and be either droll or pathetic, descriptive or senti inental, tender or satirical, as the humor strikes me for, if I mistake not, the measure which I have adopted admits equally of all these kinds of composition."Strengthened in my opinion by such authority, and by the example of some in the highest order of Italian poets, I shall make no apology for attempts at similar variations in the following composition; satisfied that, if A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of giving some connection to the piece; which, however, makes no pretensions to regularity. It has been suggested to me by friends, on whose opinions I set a high value, that in this fictitious character, "Childe Harcld," I may incur the suspicion of having intended some real personage: this I beg leave, once for all, to disclaimHarold is the child of imagination, for the purpose I have stated. In some very trivial particulars, and those merely local, there might be grounds for such a notion; but in the main points, I should hope, none whatever. It is almost superfluous to mention that the appellation "Childe," as "Childe Waters," "Childe Childers," etc., is used as more consonant with the old structure of versification which I have adopted. The Good I HAVE now waited till almost all our periodical Night" in the beginning of the first canto, was sug- journals have distributed their usual portion of criti 1 Par M. de Montbron, Paris, 1798. Lord Byron somewhere talls it an amusing little volume, full of French flippancy." they are unsuccessful, their failure must be in the execution rather than in the design, sanctioned by the practice of Ariosto, Thomson, and Beattie. LONDON, February, 1812. ADDITION TO THE PREFACE. cism. To the justice of the generality of their criticisms I have nothing to object t would ill become me to quarrel with their very slight degree of censure, when, perhaps, if they had been less kind they had been more candid. Returning, therefore, to all and each my best thanks for their liberality, on one point alone shall I venture an observation. Amongst the many objections justly urged to the very indifferent character of the "vagrant Childe," (whom, notwithstanding many hints to the contrary, I still maintain to be a fictitious personage,) it has been stated, that besides the anachronism, he is very unknightly, as the times of the Knights were times of Love, Honor, and so forth. Now, it so happens that the good old times, when "l'amour du bon vieux temps, l'amour antique" flourished, were the most profligate of all possible centuries. Those who have any doubts on this subject may consult Sainte-Palaye, passim, and more particularly vol. ii, p. 69. The vows of chivalry were no better kept than any other vows whatsoever; and the songs of the Troubadours were not more decent, and certainly were much less refined, than those of Ovid. The "Cours d'amour, parlements d'amour, ou de courtoisie et de gentilesse" had much more of love than of courtesy or gentleness. See Roland on the same subject with Sainte-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 honor 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.' 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 To such as see thee not my words were weak; To those who gaze on thee what language could they speak? Ah! mayst thou ever be what now thou art, Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring, As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, Love's image upon earth without his wing, And guileless beyond Hope's imagining! And surely she who now so fondly rears Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, Beholds the rainbow of her future years, Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears. Young Peri of the West!-'tis well for me My years already doubly number thine; My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, And safely view thy ripening beauties shine; Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline; Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed, Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign To those whose admiration shall succeed, But mix'd with pangs to Love's even loveliest hour decreed. Oh let that eye, which, wild as the Gazelle's, Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells, Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh, Could I to thee be ever more than friend: This much, dear maid, accord; nor question why To one so young my strain I would commend, But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend. Such is thy name with this my verse intwined; And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast On Harold's page, Iant he's here enshrined Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last: My days once number'd, should this homage past Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast, Such is the most my memory may desire; Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less require? 1 The Lady Charlotte Harley, second daughter of Edward, Fifth Earl of Oxford, (now Lady Charlotte Bacon,) in the autumn of 1812, when these lines were addressed to bor, had not completed her eleventh year. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. CANTO THE FIRST. I. OH, thou! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth, Muse! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will! Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill: Yet there I've wander'd by thy vaunted rill; Yes! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine,' Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still; Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine To grace so plain a tale-this lowly lay of mine. II. Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. III. Childe Harold was he hight:-but whence his name And lineage long, it suits me not to say; Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, And had been glorious in another day: But one sad losel soils a name for aye, However mighty in the olden time; Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, Nor florid prose, nor honey'd lies of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. IV. Childe Harold basked him in the noontide sun, Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, [cell. Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's sad 1 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 is a cave, supposed the Pythian, of immense depth; the upper part of it is paved, and now a cowhouse. 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, 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. VI. 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 oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood [brow, Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's As if the memory of some daily 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. IX. And none did love him-though to hall and bower and apparently leading to the interior of the mountain; probably And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might to the Corycian Cavern mentioned by Pausanias. From this part descend the fountain and the "Dews of Castalie." despair. Deserted is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; My dog howls at the gate. "Come hither, hither, my little page! But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; 'Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, I fear not wave nor wind: Yet marvel not, Sir Childe. that I Am sorrowful in mind; For I have from my father gone, A mother whom I love, And have no friend, save these alone, But these and one above. 'My father bless'd me fervently, Yet did not much complain; But sorely will my mother sigh Till I come back again.'"Enough, enough, my little lad! Such tears become thine eye; If I thy guileless bosom had, Mine own would not be dry. "Come hither, hither, my stanch yeoman, Why dost thou look so pale? Or dost thou dread a French foeman ? Or shiver at the gale ?"— 'Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? Sir Childe, I'm not so weak; But thinking on an absent wife Will blanch a faithful cheek. 'My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall What answer shall she make?'- "For who would trust the seeming sighs Of wife or paramour ? Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes |