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CXVI.

To aid thy mind's developement, - 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,

I know not what is there, yet something like to this.

CXVII.

Yet, though dull hate as duty should be taught,
I know that thou wilt love me; though my name
Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught
With desolation, and a broken claim:

Though the grave closed between us. 'ere the same,
I know that thou wilt love me; though train
My blood from out thy being, were an aim,

And an attainment, all would be in vain,

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Still thou would'st love me, still that more than life retain.

CXVIII.

though born in bitterness,
Of thy sire

and this no less.

- but thy fire

The child of love,
And nurtured in convulsion.
These were the elements,
As yet such are around thee,
Shall be more temper'd, and thy hope far higher.
Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! O'er the sea,
And from the mountains where I now espire,
Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee,

As, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have been to me!

CHILDE HAROLD'S

PILGRIMAGE.

CANTO THE FOURTH.

Visto ho Toscana, Lombardia, Romagna.
Quel Monte che divide, o quel che sot, i
Iaña, e un mare e l'altro, che la bagra

Anosto, Saura m

ΤΟ

JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ. A.M. F.R.S

MY DEAR IIOBHOUSE,

-

AFTER an interval of eight years between the composition 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, than though not ungrateful - I can, or could be, to Childe Ilarold, for any public favour reflected through the poem on the poet, to one, whom I have known long, and accompanied far, whom I have found wakeful over my sickness and kind in my sorrow, glad in my prosperity and firm in my adversity, true in counsel and trusty in peril to a friend often tried and never found wanting; to yourself.

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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 honour to myself by the record of many years' intimacy with a man of learning, of talent, of steadiness, and of honour. It is not for minds like ours to give or te 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 lctter, 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

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