II.

Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight; But spent his days in riot most uncouth, And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of Night. Ah me! in sooth he was a shameless wight, Sore given to revel and ungodly glee; Few earthly things found favour in his sight Save concubines and carnal companie, And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree.

III.

Childe Harold was he hight:-but whence his
And lineage long, it suits me not to say; [name
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 honeyed lies of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.

IV.

Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun,
Disporting there like any other fly;
Nor deem'd before his little day was done
One blast might chill him into misery.
But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by,
Worse than adversity the Childe befell;
He felt the fulness of satiety :

Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell.

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 fellow bacchanals would flee; "T is said, at times the sullen tear would start, But Pride congeal'd the drop within his ee: Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie, And from his native land resolved to go, And visit scorching climes beyond the sea; With pleasure drugg'd, he almost long'd for woc, And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below.

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;
[agen,

And monks might deem their time was come If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.

VIII.

IX.

[brow,

Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's As if the memory of some deadly 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. And none did love him: though to hall and bower He gather'd revellers from far and near, He knew them flatt'rers of the festal hour; The heartless parasites of present cheer. Yea! none did love him-not his lemans dearBut pomp and power alone are woman's care, And where these are light Eros finds a feere; Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair.

X.

Childe Harold had a mother-not forgot,
Though parting from that mother he did shun;
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not
Before his weary pilgrimage begun:

If friends he had, he bade adieu to none.
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel:
Ye, who have known what 't is to dote upon

A few dear objects, will in sadness feel [heal. Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to

XI.

His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,
The laughing dames in whom he did delight,
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy
hands,

Might shake the saintship of an anchorite,
And long had fed his youthful appetite;
His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine,
And all that mote to luxury invite,
Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine,
And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's
central line.

XII.

The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds blew, As glad to waft him from his native home; And fast the white rocks faded from his view, And soon were lost in circumambient foam: And then, it may be, of his wish to roam Repented he, but in his bosom slept The silent thought, nor from his lips did come One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept, And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept.

XIII.

But when the sun was sinking in the sea He seized his harp, which he at times coul And strike, albeit with untaught melody, [string, When deem'd he no strange ear was listening: And now his fingers o'er it he did fling, And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight. While flew the vessel on her snowy wing, And fleeting shores rceeded from his sight, Thus to the elements he pour'd his last "Good Night."

XVII.

But whoso entereth within this town, That, sheening far, celestial seems to be, Disconsolate will wander up and down, 'Mid many things unsightly to strange ee; For hut and palace show like filthily: The dingy denizens are rear'd in dirt; Ne personage of high or mean degree Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt; Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, unwash'd, unhurt.

XVIII.

Poor, paltry slaves! yet born 'midst noblest

scenes

XIX.

Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men? Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes In variegated maze of mount and glen. Ah me! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, To follow half on which the eye dilates Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken Than those whereof such things the bard relates, Who to the awe-struck world unlock'd Elysium's [gates? "The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown'd. The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep, The mountain-moss by scorching skies imbrown'd, The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must The tender azure of the unruffled deep, [weep, The orange tints that gild the greenest bough, The torrents that from cliff to valley leap, The vine on high, the willow branch below, Mix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow.

XX.

Then slowly climb the many-winding way, And frequent turn to linger as you go, From loftier rocks new loveliness survey, And rest ye at " Our Lady's house of woe;" Where frugal monks their little relics show, And sundry legends to the stranger tell : Here impious men have punish'd been, and lo! Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell, In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell.

XXI.

And here and there, as up the crags you spring, Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path: Yet deem not these devotion's offeringThese are memorials frail of murderous wrath: For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife, Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath; And grove and glen with thousand such are rife Throughout this purple land, where law secures [not life. On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, Are domes where whilome kings did make repair; [breathe;

XXII.

But now the wild flowers round them only
Yet ruin'd splendour still is lingering there.
And yonder towers the Prince's palace fair:
There thou too, Vathek! England's wealthiest
Once form'd thy Paradise, as not aware [son,
When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath
done,

[shun.

Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to

XXIX.

Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay,
Where dwelt of yore the Lusians' luckless queen;
And church and court did mingle their array,
And mass and revel were alternate seen;
Lordlings and freres-ill-sorted fry I ween!
But here the Babylonian whore hath built

A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen, That men forget the blood which she hath spilt, And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to varnish ΧΧΧ. [guilt. O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, (Oh, that such hills upheld a free-born race!) Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place.

Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase,
And marvel men should quit their easy chair,
The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace,
Oh there is sweetness in the mountain air,
And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share.
XXXI.

More bleak to view the hills at length recede,
And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend;
Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed!
Far as the eye discerns, withouten end,
Spain's realms appear whereon her shepherds
tend

[knows

Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader
Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend:
For Spain is compass'd by unyielding foes,
And all must shield their all, or share Subjection's
XXXII.
[woes.

Where Lusitania and her Sister meet,
Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide?
Or ere the jealous queens of nations greet,
Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide?

Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride?

Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall?

Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall, Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land from XXXIII. [Gaul: But these between a silver streamlet glides, And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook, Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides. Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook, And vacant on the rippling waves doth look, That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow; For proud each peasant as the noblest duke: Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low.

XXXIV.

Bat ere the mingling bounds have far been pass'd,
Dark Guadiana rolls his power along
In sullen billows, murmuring and vast,
So noted ancient roundelays among.
Whilome upon his banks did legions throng
Of Moor and Knight, in mailed splendour drest:
Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the
strong;

The Paynim turban and the Christian crest Mix'd on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppress'd.

XXXV.

Oh, lovely Spain! renown'd, romantic land! Where is that standard which Pelagio bore, When Cava's traitor-sire first call'd the band That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore?

Where are those bloody banners which of yore Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale, And drove at last the spoilers to their shore? Red gleam'd the cross, and waned the crescent pale, [wail. While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish matrons' XXXVI.

Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale? Ah! such, alas! the hero's amplest fate! When granite moulders and when records fail, A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. Pride! bend thine eye from heaven to thine See how the Mighty shrink into a song! [estate, Can Volume, Pillar, Pile preserve thee great? Or must thou trust tradition's simple tongue, When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does thee wrong?

XXXVII.

Awake, ye sons of Spain! awake! advance! Lo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries, But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance, Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies: Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies, And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar: In every peal she calls-"Awake! arise!" Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore? XXXVIII.

Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note? Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath? Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote, Nor saved your brethren cre they sank beneath Tyrants and tyrants' slaves?-the fires of death, The bale-fires flash on high-from rock to rock Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe; Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, [shock. Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the XXXIX.

Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands, His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun, With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon; Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon Flashing afar,-and at his iron feet

Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done; For on this morn three potent nations meet, To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.

XL.

By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there)
Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery,
Their various arms that glitter in the air! [lair,
What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their
And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey!
All join the chase, but few the triumph share;

The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array.

XLI.

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice; Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high; Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies; The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory! The foe, the victim, and the fond ally That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, Are met as if at home they could not dieTo feed the crow on Talavera's plain, And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain.

XLII.

There shall they rot-Ambition's honour'd fools! Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay! Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools, The broken tools, that tyrants cast away By myriads, when they dare to pave their way With human hearts-to what ?-a dream alone. Can despots compass aught that hails their sway? Or call with truth one span of earth their own, Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by [bone? XLIII.

Oh, Albuera glorious field of grief! As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his steed, Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, [bleed! A scene where mingling foes should boast and Peace to the perish'd! may the warrior's meed And tears of triumph their reward prolong! Till others fall where other chieftains lead Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, And shine in worthless lays the theme of transient XLIV. [song. Enough of battle's minions! let them play Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame: Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay, Though thousands fall to deck some single name. In sooth 't were sad to thwart their noble aim Who strike, blest hirelings! for their country's good, [shame;

And die, that living might have proved her Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud, Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursued. XLV.

Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued: Yet is she free-the spoiler's wish'd-for prey! Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude, Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude. Inevitable hour! 'Gainst fate to strive Where Desolation plants her famish'd brood Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre, might yet survive, And Virtue vanquish all, and murder cease to

L.

And, scathed by fire, the greensward's darken'd Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest: [host, Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the Here the bold peasant storm'd the dragon's nest; Still does he mark it with triumphant boast; And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won [and lost. And whomsoe'er along the path you meet Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet. Woe to the man that walks in public view Without of loyalty this token true: Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke; And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue, If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloke, Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's {smoke.

LI.

At every turn Morena's dusky height Sustains aloft the battery's iron load; And, far as mortal eye can compass sight, The mountain-howitzer, the broken road, The bristling palisade, the fosse o'erflow'd, The station'd bands, the never-vacant watch, The magazine in rocky durance stow'd, The holster'd steed beneath the shed of thatch, The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match,

LII.

[way;

Portend the deeds to come:-but he whose nod
Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway,
A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod;
A little moment deigneth to delay:
Soon will his legions sweep through these their
The West must own the Scourger of the world.
Ah! Spain! how sad will be thy reckoning day,
When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings un-
furl'd,
[hurl'd.