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Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.
IS thy face like thy mother's, my fair child !
Awaking with a start,
Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by, When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.
Once more upon the waters ! yet once more!
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath
III. In my youth's summer I did sing of One, The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind; Again I seize the theme then but begun, And bear it with me, as the rushing wind 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.
Forgetfulness around me—it shall seem
He, who grown aged in this world of woe,
With airy images, and shapes which dwell
.. VI. 'Tis to create, and in creating live A being more intense, that we endow With form our fancy, gaining as we give The life we image, even as I do now. What am I? Nothing: but not so art thou, Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth, Invisible but gazing, as I glow
Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, And feeling still with thee in my crush'd feelings’dearth.
VII. Yet must I think less wildly: I have thought Too long and darkly, till my brain became, In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, A whirling gulf of phantasy and fame: And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, My springs of life were poison'd. Tis too late! Yet am I changed; though still enough the same
In strength to bear what time can not abate, And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate.
VIII. Something too much of this :—but now 'tis past, And the spell closes with its silent seal. Long absent HarolD re-appears at last ; He of the breast which fain no more would feel, Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne'er heal; Yet Time, who changes all, had alter'd him In soul and aspect as in age: years steal
Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb; And life’s enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.
IX. . His had been quaff’d too quickly, and he found The dregs were wormwood; but he fill'd again, And from a purer fount, on holier ground, And deem'd its spring perpetual; but in vain! Still round him clung invisibly a chain Which gall’d for ever, fettering though unseen, And heavy though it clank'd not; worn with pain,
Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen, Entering with every step, he took, through many a scene.