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I. Harold in Canto III 5. He, who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him; nor below Can Love – or Sorrow – Fame – Ambition – Strife, 40 Cut to his heart again with the keen knife Of silent, sharp endurance – he can tell Why Thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife With airy images, and shapes which dwell Still unimpaired, though old, in the Soul’s haunted cell. 45 6. ’Tis to create, and in creating live A being more intense, that we endow With form our fancy,23 gaining as we give The life we image, even as I do now. What am I? Nothing – but not so art thou, 50 Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth, Invisible but gazing, as I glow Mixed with thy Spirit, blended with thy birth, And feeling still with thee in my crushed feelings’ dearth. 7. Yet must I think less wildly; I have thought 55 Too long and darkly, till my brain became, In its own eddy boiling and o’erwrought, A whirling gulph of phantasy and flame: And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, My Springs of life were poisoned. ’Tis too late, 60 Yet am I changed; though still enough the same In strength to bear what Time cannot abate, And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate. II. Byronic Hero 14. Like the Chaldean, he could watch the Stars, Till he had peopled them with beings bright As their own beams; and Earth, and earth-born jars, 120 And human frailties, were forgotten quite: Could he have kept his Spirit to that flight He had been happy; but this Clay will sink Its spark immortal, envying it the light To which it mounts, as if to break the link 125 That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its brink. 15. But in Man’s dwellings he became a thing Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome, Drooped as a wild-born Falcon with clipped wing, To whom the boundless air alone were home: 130 Then came his fit again,27 which to o’ercome, As eagerly the barred-up bird will beat His breast and beak against his wiry dome Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat Of his impeded Soul would through his bosom eat. 135 III. Waterloo 17. Stop! – for thy tread is on an Empire’s dust!28 145 An Earthquake’s spoil is sepulchred below! Is the spot marked with no Colossal bust? Nor Column trophied for triumphal show? None; but the moral’s truth tells simpler so: As the ground was before, thus let it be; – 150 How that red rain hath made the harvest grow! And is this all the world has gained by thee, Thou first and last of fields! King-making Victory? 18. And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo;29 155 How in an hour the Power which gave annulls Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too! In “pride of place” here last the Eagle flew, * Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain, Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through; 160 Ambition’s life and labours all were vain; He wears the shattered links of the world’s broken chain. 19. Fit retribution – Gaul may champ the bit And foam in fetters – but is Earth more free? Did nations combat to make One submit; 165 Or league to teach all kings true Sovereignty? What! shall reviving Thraldom again be The patched-up Idol of enlightened days? Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we Pay the wolf homage?31 proffering lowly gaze 170 And servile knees to thrones? No; prove before ye praise! 20. If not, o’er one fallen despot boast no more! In vain fair cheeks were furrowed with hot tears For Europe’s flowers long rooted up before The trampler of her vineyards; in vain years 175 Of death – depopulation – bondage – fears, Have all been borne, and broken by the accord Of roused-up millions; all that most endears Glory, is when the Myrtle wreathes a Sword Such as Harmodius drew on Athens’ tyrant Lord. * 180 IV. Napoleon 36. There sunk the greatest – nor the worst of men,43 Whose Spirit, antithetically mixt,44 One moment of the mightiest, and again On little objects with like firmness fixed; Extreme in all things! hadst thou been betwixt, 320 Thy throne had still been thine, or never been; For Daring made thy rise as fall: thou seek’st Even now to re-assume the imperial mien, And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the Scene. 37. Conqueror and Captive of the Earth art thou! 325 She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name Was ne’er more bruited in men’s minds than now That thou art Nothing, save the Jest of Fame, Who wooed thee once, thy Vassal, and became The Flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert 330 A God unto thyself; nor less the same To the astounded kingdoms all inert, Who deemed thee for a time whate’er thou didst assert. 41. If, like a tower upon a headland rock, Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone, Such scorn of Man had helped to brave the Shock; But Men’s thoughts were the steps which paved thy throne, Their Admiration thy best weapon shone; 365 The part of Philip’s Son46 was thine, not then (Unless aside thy Purple had been thrown) Like stern Diogenes to mock at men; For sceptred Cynics Earth were far too wide a den! * 42. But Quiet to quick bosoms is a Hell, 370 And there hath been thy bane; there is a fire And Motion of the Soul which will not dwell In its own narrow being, but aspire Beyond the fitting medium of desire; And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, 375 Preys upon high Adventure, nor can tire Of aught but rest; a fever at the Core, Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. V. Wordsworth 72. I live not in myself, but I become 680 Portion of that around me;74 and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum Of human cities – torture – I can see Nothing to loathe in Nature, save to be A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, 685 Classed among creatures, when the Soul can flee, And with the sky – the peak – the heaving plain Of Ocean, or the Stars, mingle – and not in vain. 73. And thus I am absorbed, and this is life: I look upon the peopled desart past, 690 As on a place of agony and strife, Where, for some sin, to sorrow I was cast, To act and suffer, but remount at last With a fresh pinion; which I feel to spring, Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the Blast 695 Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling. 74. And when, at length, the Mind shall be all free From what it hates in this degraded form, Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be 700 Existent happier in the fly and worm, When elements to elements conform, And dust is as it should be, shall I not Feel all I see – less dazzling – but more warm? The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each Spot? 705 Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot? VI. Rousseau and the French Revolution 81. For then he was inspired, and from him came, As from the Pythian’s mystic cave of yore, Those oracles which set the world in flame, Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more: Did he not this for France? which lay before 765 Bowed to the inborn tyranny of years? Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore, Till by the voice of him and his Compeers Roused up to too much wrath, which follows o’ergrown fears? 82. They made themselves a fearful Monument! 770 The Wreck of old opinions – things which grew, Breathed from the birth of Time: the Veil they rent, And what behind it lay, all Earth shall view. But Good with Ill they also overthrew, Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild 775 Upon the same foundation, and renew Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour refilled * As heretofore, because Ambition was self-willed. 83. But this will not endure, nor be endured! Mankind have felt their strength and made it felt. 780 They might have used it better, but, allured By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt On one another; Pity ceased to melt With her once natural Charities. But they, Who in Oppression’s darkness caved had dwelt, 785 They were not Eagles, nourished with the day; What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey? 84. What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The Heart’s bleed longest, and but heal to wear That which disfigures it; and they who war 790 With their own Hopes, and have been vanquished, bear Silence, but not submission: in his lair Fixed Passion holds his breath, until the hour Which shall atone for years; none need despair: It came – it cometh – and will come – the Power 795 To punish or forgive – in One we shall be slower. VII. Byron on his poetry and himself 97. Could I embody and unbosom now 905 That which is most within me, – could I wreak My thoughts upon Expression – and thus throw Soul – heart – mind – passions – feelings – strong or weak, All that I would have sought, and all I seek, Bear – know – feel – and yet breath – into one word, 910 And that one Word were Lightning, I would speak; But as it is, I live and die unheard, With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. 113. I have not loved the World, nor the World me; I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed 1050 To its Idolatries a patient knee; Nor coined my cheek to smiles – nor cried aloud In worship of an Echo; in the crowd They could not deem me one of such; I stood Among them, but not of them; in a shroud 1055 Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could, Had I not filed my Mind, which thus itself subdued. * 114. I have not loved the world, nor the world me – But let us part fair foes; I do believe, Though I have found them not, that there may be 1060 Words which are things – hopes which will not deceive, And virtues which are merciful, nor weave Snares for the failing: I would also deem O’er others’ griefs that some sincerely grieve; * That two, or one, are almost what they seem – 1065 That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream.
 
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