Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Part 5

TO INEZ.

Nay, smile not at my sullen brow, Alas! I cannot smile again: Yet Heaven avert that ever thou Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain.

And dost thou ask what secret woe I bear, corroding joy and youth?

And wilt thou vainly seek to know A pang even thou must fail to soothe?

It is not love, it is not hate, Nor low Ambition's honours lost, That bids me loathe my present state, And fly from all I prized the most:

It is that weariness which springs From all I meet, or hear, or see: To me no pleasure Beauty brings; Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me.

It is that settled, ceaseless gloom The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore, That will not look beyond the tomb, But cannot hope for rest before.

What exile from himself can flee?

To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life--the demon Thought.

Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, And taste of all that I forsake: Oh! may they still of transport dream, And ne'er, at least like me, awake!

Through many a clime 'tis mine to go, With many a retrospection curst; And all my solace is to know, Whate'er betides, I've known the worst.

What is that worst? Nay, do not ask-- In pity from the search forbear: Smile on--nor venture to unmask Man's heart, and view the h.e.l.l that's there.

Lx.x.xV.

Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu!

Who may forget how well thy walls have stood?

When all were changing, thou alone wert true, First to be free, and last to be subdued.

And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude, Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye, A traitor only fell beneath the feud: Here all were n.o.ble, save n.o.bility; None hugged a conqueror's chain save fallen Chivalry!

Lx.x.xVI.

Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate!

They fight for freedom, who were never free; A kingless people for a nerveless state, Her va.s.sals combat when their chieftains flee, True to the veriest slaves of Treachery; Fond of a land which gave them nought but life, Pride points the path that leads to liberty; Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, War, war is still the cry, 'War even to the knife!'

Lx.x.xVII.

Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife: Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on foreign foe Can act, is acting there against man's life: From flas.h.i.+ng scimitar to secret knife, War mouldeth there each weapon to his need-- So may he guard the sister and the wife, So may he make each curst oppressor bleed, So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed!

Lx.x.xVIII.

Flows there a tear of pity for the dead?

Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain: Look on the hands with female slaughter red; Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain, Then to the vulture let each corse remain; Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw, Let their bleached bones, and blood's unbleaching stain, Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe: Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw!

Lx.x.xIX.

Nor yet, alas, the dreadful work is done; Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees: It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees.

Fall'n nations gaze on Spain: if freed, she frees More than her fell Pizarros once enchained.

Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustained, While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder unrestrained.

XC.

Not all the blood at Talavera shed, Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight, Not Albuera lavish of the dead, Have won for Spain her well-a.s.serted right.

When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight?

When shall she breathe her from the blus.h.i.+ng toil?

How many a doubtful day shall sink in night, Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil, And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil?

XCI.

And thou, my friend! since unavailing woe Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain-- Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low, Pride might forbid e'en Friends.h.i.+p to complain: But thus unlaurelled to descend in vain, By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, While glory crowns so many a meaner crest!

What hadst thou done, to sink so peacefully to rest?

XCII.

Oh, known the earliest, and esteemed the most!

Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear!

Though to my hopeless days for ever lost, In dreams deny me not to see thee here!

And Morn in secret shall renew the tear Of Consciousness awaking to her woes, And Fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier, Till my frail frame return to whence it rose, And mourned and mourner lie united in repose.

XCIII.

Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage.

Ye who of him may further seek to know, Shall find some tidings in a future page, If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe.

Is this too much? Stern critic, say not so: Patience! and ye shall hear what he beheld In other lands, where he was doomed to go: Lands that contain the monuments of eld, Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were quelled.

CANTO THE SECOND.

I.

Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven!--but thou, alas, Didst never yet one mortal song inspire-- G.o.ddess of Wisdom! here thy temple was, And is, despite of war and wasting fire, And years, that bade thy wors.h.i.+p to expire: But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, Is the drear sceptre and dominion dire Of men who never felt the sacred glow That thoughts of thee and thine on polished b.r.e.a.s.t.s bestow.

II.

Ancient of days! august Athena! where, Where are thy men of might, thy grand in soul?

Gone--glimmering through the dream of things that were: First in the race that led to Glory's goal, They won, and pa.s.sed away--is this the whole?

A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour!

The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower, Dim with the mist of years, grey flits the shade of power.

III.

Son of the morning, rise! approach you here!

Come--but molest not yon defenceless urn!

Look on this spot--a nation's sepulchre!

Abode of G.o.ds, whose shrines no longer burn.