CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. CANTO III. "Afin que cette application vous forçât de penser à autre chose; il n'y a en vérité de remède que celui-là et le temps." Lettre du Roi de Prusse à D'Alembert, Sept 7, 1776. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. CANTO III. I. Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child! But with a hope. Awaking with a start, The waters heave around me; and on high The winds lift up their voices: I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by, When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine VOL. I. eye. II. Once more upon the waters! yet once more! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail. III. In my youth's summer I did sing of One, Again I seize the theme then but begun, Bears the cloud onwards: in that Tale I find The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, Which, ebbing, leave a steril track behind, O'er which all heavily the journeying years Plod the last sands of life,-where not a flower appears. IV. Since my young days of passion-joy, or pain, To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. V. He, who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife Still unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted cell. |