Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (With Byron's Biography). Lord Byron

I joy no child he was of thine: Thy free-born men should spare what once was free; Yet they could violate each saddening shrine, And hear these altars o'er the long-reluctant brine. 5.B.

      XII.

But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast,dy122 To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath spared: 6.B. Cold as the crags upon his native coast, His mind as barren and his heart as hard, Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prepared. Aught to displace Athenæ's poor remains: Her Sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard, Yet felt some portion of their Mother's pains, 7.B. And never knew, till then, the weight of Despot's chains.

      XIII.

What! shall it e'er be said by British tongue,dz Albion was happy in Athena's tears? Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung, Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears; The Ocean Queen, the free Britannia, bears The last poor plunder from a bleeding land: Yes, she, whose generous aid her name endears, Tore down those remnants with a Harpy's hand, Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand.ea

      XIV.

Where was thine Ægis, Pallas! that appalledeb Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way? 8.B. Where Peleus' son? whom Hell in vain enthralled. His shade from Hades upon that dread day Bursting to light in terrible array! What! could not Pluto spare the Chief once more, To scare a second robber from his prey? Idly he wandered on the Stygian shore, Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before.

      XV.

      Cold is the heart, fair Greece! that looks on Thee,

       Nor feels as Lovers o'er the dust they loved;

       Dull is the eye that will not weep to see

       Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed

By British hands, which it had best behovedec To guard those relics ne'er to be restored:— Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved, And once again thy hapless bosom gored, And snatched thy shrinking Gods to Northern climes abhorred!123

      XVI.

      But where is Harold? shall I then forget

       To urge the gloomy Wanderer o'er the wave?

       Little recked he of all that Men regret;

No loved-one now in feigned lament could rave;124 No friend the parting hand extended gave, Ere the cold Stranger passed to other climes: Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave; But Harold felt not as in other times, And left without a sigh the land of War and Crimes.

      XVII.

      He that has sailed upon the dark blue sea

       Has viewed at times, I ween, a full fair sight,

       When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be,

       The white sail set, the gallant Frigate tight—

       Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right,

       The glorious Main expanding o'er the bow,

       The Convoy spread like wild swans in their flight,

       The dullest sailer wearing bravely now—

       So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow.

      XVIII.

      And oh, the little warlike world within!

The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy, 9.B. The hoarse command, the busy humming din, When, at a word, the tops are manned on high: Hark, to the Boatswain's call, the cheering cry! While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides; Or schoolboy Midshipman that, standing by, Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides, And well the docile crew that skilful Urchin guides.ed

      XIX.

      White is the glassy deck, without a stain,

       Where on the watch the staid Lieutenant walks:

Look on that part which sacred doth remainee For the lone Chieftain, who majestic stalks, Silent and feared by all—not oft he talks With aught beneath him, if he would preserve That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks Conquest and Fame: but Britons rarely swerve From law, however stern, which tends their strength to nerveef.

      XX.

      Blow! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale!

       Till the broad Sun withdraws his lessening ray:

       Then must the Pennant-bearer slacken sail,

That lagging barks may make their lazy way.125 Ah! grievance sore, and listless dull delay, To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze! What leagues are lost, before the dawn of day, Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, The flapping sail hauled down to halt for logs like these!

      XXI.

      The Moon is up; by Heaven, a lovely eve!

       Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand;

Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believeeg: Such be our fate when we return to land! Meantime some rude Arion's restless handeh Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love; A circle there of merry listeners stand Or to some well-known measure featly move, Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove.

      XXII.

Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore;ei Europe and Afric on each other gaze!126 Lands of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky Moor Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze: How softly on the Spanish shore she plays!127 Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown,128 Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase; But Mauritania's giant-shadows frown, From mountain-cliff to coast descending sombre down.

      XXIII.

      'Tis