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Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

1. A travelogue

2. The modern sceptic's version of pilgrimage: a quest for meaning in a Europe no longer centred on Christianity or fired with the French revolutionaries' secular belief in human perfectability.

3. The Protagonist, Harold: Byron's alter ego, a libertine satiated with sin. A libertine, an embittered sceptic, and anti-hero, the obverse of the Christian knight idealised in the Middle Age. Also a man of feeling.

4. The tone: Sardonic mockery and serious concern. The pilgrim's paradoxical search for an ideal in spite of his pessimistic awareness of the tarnished nature of the fallen world, his elegiac lament for the heroism of the past, this very contradictory mixture of the fervour and despair was the essence of Byronism.

5. Spenserian stanza: ABABBCBCC

1. Invocation

Oh, thou! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth,

Muse! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will!

Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,

Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill:

Yet there I've wander'd by thy vaunted rill;

Yes! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long deserted shrine,

Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;

Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine

To grace so plain a tale -- this lowly lay of mine.

2. Childe Harold, a Byronic Hero

Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun,

Disporting there like any other fly,

Nor deem'd before his little day was done 30

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

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. 40

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.

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,

And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;

'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,

But Pride congeal'd the drop within his ee;

Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie, 50

And from his native land resolv'd to go,

And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;

With pleasure drugg'd, he almost long'd for woe,

And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below.

3. The Convention of Cintra

XXV

Convention is the dwarfish demon styled

That foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome:

Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled,

And turn'd a nation's shallow joy to gloom. 300

Here Folly dash'd to earth the victor's plume,

And Policy regain'd what arms had lost:

For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom!

Woe to the conqu'ring, not the conquer'd host,

Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's coast!

XXVI

And ever since that martial synod met,

Britannia sickens, Cintra! at thy name;

And folks in office at the mention fret,

And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame.

How will posterity the deed proclaim! 310

Will not our own and fellow nations sneer,

To view these champions cheated of their fame,

By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here,

Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming year?

XXVII

So deem'd the Childe, as o'er the mountains he

Did take his way in solitary guise:

Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee,

More restless than the swallow in the skies:

Though here awhile he learn'd to moralize,

For Meditation fix'd at times on him; 320

And conscious Reason whisper'd to despise

His early youth, misspent in maddest whim;

But as he gazed on truth his aching eyes grew dim.

4. Spain

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? 390

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,

While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish matrons' wail.

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 estate. 400

See how the Mighty shrink into a song!

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: 410

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?

5. Greece

LXI

Oft have I dream'd of Thee! whose glorious name

Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore:

And now I view thee, 'tis, alas! with shame

That I in feeblest accents must adore.

When I recount thy worshippers of yore

I tremble, and can only bend the knee;

Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar,

But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy

In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee!

LXII

Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, 630

Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot,

Shall I unmoved behold the hallow'd scene,

Which others rave of, though they know it not?

Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot,

And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave,

Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot,

Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave,

And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave.

LXIII

Of thee hereafter. -- Ev'n amidst my strain

I turn'd aside to pay my homage here; 640

Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain;

Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear;

And hail'd thee, not perchance without a tear.

Now to my theme -- but from thy holy haunt

Let me some remnant, some memorial bear;

Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant,

Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle vaunt.

LXIV

But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount! when Greece was young,

See round thy giant base a brighter choir,

Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung 650

The Pythian hymn, with more than mortal fire,

Behold a train more fitting to inspire

The song of love than Andalusia's maids,

Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire:

Ah! that to these were given such peaceful shades

As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her glades.

6. Cadiz

LXXXV

Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu!

Who may forget how well thy walls have stood?

When all were changing thou alone wert true,

First to be free and last to be subdued

And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude,

Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye:

A traitor only fell beneath the feud:

Here all were noble, save Nobility; 880

None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen Chivalry!

LXXXVI

Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate!

They fight for freedom who were never free;

A Kingless people for a nerveless state,

Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee,

True to the veriest slaves of Treachery:

Fond of a land which gave them nought but life,

Pride points the path that leads to Liberty;

Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife,

War, war is still the cry, 'War even to the knife!' 890

Canto II

1. Narrator’s Skeptic Viewpoint

III

Son of the morning, rise! approach you here!

Come -- but molest not yon defenceless urn: 20

Look on this spot -- a nation's sepulchre!

Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn.

Even gods must yield -- religions take their turn:

'Twas Jove's -- 'tis Mahomet's -- and other creeds

Will rise with other years, till man shall learn

Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds;

Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on reeds.

Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heaven --

Is't not enough, unhappy thing! to know

Thou art? Is this a boon so kindly given, 30

That being, thou would'st be again, and go,

Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what region, so

On earth no more, but mingled with the skies?

Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe?

Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies:

That little urn saith more than thousand homilies.

2. On British Plundering of the Parthenon

XIII

What! shall it e'er be said by British tongue,

Albion was happy in Athena's tears? 110

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 gen'rous aid her name endears,

Tore down those remnants with a harpy's hand,

Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand.

XIV

Where was thine Aegis, Pallas! that appall'd

Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way?

Where Peleus' son? whom Hell in vain enthrall'd, 120

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 wander'd on the Stygian shore,

Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before.

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 130

By British hands, which it had best behov'd

To guard those relics ne'er to be restored.

Curst be the hour when their isle they roved,

And once again thy hapless bosom gored,

And snatch'd thy shrinking Gods to northern climes abhorr'd!

3. Ali Pacha

LXII

In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring 550

Of living water from the centre rose,

Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling,

And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose,

ALI reclined, a man of war and woes:

Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace,

While Gentleness her milder radiance throws

Along that aged venerable face,

The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with disgrace.

LXIII

It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard

Ill suits the passions which belong to youth; 560

Love conquers age -- so Hafiz hath averr'd,

So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth --

But crimes that scorn the tender voice of ruth,

Beseeming all men ill, but most the man

In years, have mark'd him with a tiger's tooth;

Blood follows blood, and, through their mortal span,

In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood began.

4. The Bravery of Albanian Soldiers

LXV

Fierce are Albania's children, yet they lack

Not virtues, were those virtues more mature.

Where is the foe that ever saw their back?

Who can so well the toil of war endure? 580

Their native fastnesses not more secure

Than they in doubtful time of troublous need:

Their wrath how deadly! but their friendship sure,

When Gratitude or Valour bids them bleed,

Unshaken rushing on where'er their chief may lead.

LXVI

Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain's tower

Thronging to war in splendour and success;

And after view'd them, when, within their power,

Himself awhile the victim of distress;

That saddening hour when bad men hotlier press: 590

But these did shelter him beneath their roof,

When less barbarians would have cheer'd him less,

And follow-countrymen have stood aloof --

In aught that tries the heart how few withstand the proof!

5. Greece: Past and Present

LXXIII

Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth!

Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great!

Who now shall lead they scatter'd children forth,

And long accustom'd bondage uncreate?

Not such thy sons who whilome did await,

The hopeless warriors of a willing doom,

In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait --

Oh! who that gallant spirit shall resume, 700

Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb?

LXXIV

Spirit of freedom! when on Phyle's brow

Thou satst with Thrasybulus and his train,

Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour which now

Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain?

Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain,

But every carle can lord it o'er thy land;

Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain,

Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand

From birth till death enslaved; in word, in deed, unmann'd. 710

6. For the revival of Greek’s past glory

LXXXIII

This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece,

If Greece one true-born patriot still can boast:

Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace,

The bondsman's peace, who sighs for all he lost,

Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost,

And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword:

Ah! Greece! they love thee least who owe thee most:

Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record 790

Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde!

LXXXXIV

When riseth Lacedemon's hardihood,

When Thebes Epaminondas rears again,

When Athens' children are with hearts endued,

When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men,

Then may'st thou be restored; but not till then.

A thousand years scarce serve to form a state;

An hour may lay it in the dust: and when

Can man its shatter'd splendour renovate,

Recall its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fate? 800

LXXXV

And yet how lovely in thine age of woe,

Land of lost gods and godlike men! art thou!

The vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow,

Proclaim thee Nature's varied favourite now;

Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow,

Commingling slowly with heroic earth,

Broke by the share of every rustic plough:

So perish monuments of mortal birth,

So perish all in turn, save well-recorded Worth;

7. Narrator’s blessing on Greece

LXXXVII

Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild;

Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, 820

Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled,

And still his honied wealth Hymettus yields;

There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds,

The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain-air;

Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds,

Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare;

Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair.

LXXXVIII

Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy ground,

No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould,

But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, 830

And all the Muse's tales seem truly told,

Till the sense aches with gazing to behold

The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon:

Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold

Defies the power which crush'd thy temples gone:

Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.

8. Narrator’s last plea for the ancient relics in Greece

XCIII

Let such approach this consecrated land,

And pass in peace along the magic waste;

But spare its relics -- let no busy hand

Deface the scenes, already how defaced!

Not for such purpose were these altars placed:

Revere the remnants nations once revered:

So may our country's name be undisgraced,

So may'st thou prosper where thy youth was rear'd, 880

By every honest joy of love and life endear'd!

XCIV

For thee, who thus in too protracted song

Hast soothed thine idlesse with inglorious lays,

Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng

Of louder minstrels in these later days:

To such resign the strife for fading bays --

Ill may such contest now the spirit move

Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise,

Since cold each kinder heart that might approve,

And none are left to please when none are left to love. 890

Related Bianries

Childe Harold_s Pilgrimage Canto I and II.pdf Childe Harold's Pilgrimage I-II

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Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

1. A travelogue

2. The modern sceptic's version of pilgrimage: a quest for meaning in a Europe no longer centred on Christianity or fired with the French revolutionaries' secular belief in human perfectability.

5. Spenserian stanza: ABABBCBCC

1. Invocation

Oh, thou! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth,

Muse! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will!

Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,

Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill:

Yet there I've wander'd by thy vaunted rill;

Yes! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long deserted shrine,

Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;

Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine

To grace so plain a tale -- this lowly lay of mine.

2. Childe Harold, a Byronic Hero

Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun,

Disporting there like any other fly,

Nor deem'd before his little day was done 30

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

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. 40

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.

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,

And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;

'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,

But Pride congeal'd the drop within his ee;

Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie, 50

And from his native land resolv'd to go,

And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;

With pleasure drugg'd, he almost long'd for woe,

And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below.

3. The Convention of Cintra

XXV

Convention is the dwarfish demon styled

That foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome:

Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled,

And turn'd a nation's shallow joy to gloom. 300

Here Folly dash'd to earth the victor's plume,

And Policy regain'd what arms had lost:

For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom!

Woe to the conqu'ring, not the conquer'd host,

Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's coast!

XXVI

And ever since that martial synod met,

Britannia sickens, Cintra! at thy name;

And folks in office at the mention fret,

And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame.

How will posterity the deed proclaim! 310

Will not our own and fellow nations sneer,

To view these champions cheated of their fame,

By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here,

Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming year?

XXVII

So deem'd the Childe, as o'er the mountains he

Did take his way in solitary guise:

Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee,

More restless than the swallow in the skies:

Though here awhile he learn'd to moralize,

For Meditation fix'd at times on him; 320

And conscious Reason whisper'd to despise

His early youth, misspent in maddest whim;

But as he gazed on truth his aching eyes grew dim.

4. Spain

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? 390

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,

While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish matrons' wail.

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 estate. 400

See how the Mighty shrink into a song!

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: 410

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?

5. Greece

LXI

Oft have I dream'd of Thee! whose glorious name

Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore:

And now I view thee, 'tis, alas! with shame

That I in feeblest accents must adore.

When I recount thy worshippers of yore

I tremble, and can only bend the knee;

Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar,

But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy

In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee!

LXII

Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, 630

Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot,

Shall I unmoved behold the hallow'd scene,

Which others rave of, though they know it not?

Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot,

And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave,

Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot,

Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave,

And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave.

LXIII

Of thee hereafter. -- Ev'n amidst my strain

I turn'd aside to pay my homage here; 640

Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain;

Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear;

And hail'd thee, not perchance without a tear.

Now to my theme -- but from thy holy haunt

Let me some remnant, some memorial bear;

Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant,

Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle vaunt.

LXIV

But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount! when Greece was young,

See round thy giant base a brighter choir,

Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung 650

The Pythian hymn, with more than mortal fire,

Behold a train more fitting to inspire

The song of love than Andalusia's maids,

Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire:

Ah! that to these were given such peaceful shades

As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her glades.

6. Cadiz

LXXXV

Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu!

Who may forget how well thy walls have stood?

When all were changing thou alone wert true,

First to be free and last to be subdued

And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude,

Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye:

A traitor only fell beneath the feud:

Here all were noble, save Nobility; 880

None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen Chivalry!

LXXXVI

Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate!

They fight for freedom who were never free;

A Kingless people for a nerveless state,

Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee,

True to the veriest slaves of Treachery:

Fond of a land which gave them nought but life,

Pride points the path that leads to Liberty;

Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife,

War, war is still the cry, 'War even to the knife!' 890

Canto II

1. Narrator’s Skeptic Viewpoint

III

Son of the morning, rise! approach you here!

Come -- but molest not yon defenceless urn: 20

Look on this spot -- a nation's sepulchre!

Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn.

Even gods must yield -- religions take their turn:

'Twas Jove's -- 'tis Mahomet's -- and other creeds

Will rise with other years, till man shall learn

Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds;

Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on reeds.

Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heaven --

Is't not enough, unhappy thing! to know

Thou art? Is this a boon so kindly given, 30

That being, thou would'st be again, and go,

Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what region, so

On earth no more, but mingled with the skies?

Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe?

Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies:

That little urn saith more than thousand homilies.

2. On British Plundering of the Parthenon

XIII

What! shall it e'er be said by British tongue,

Albion was happy in Athena's tears? 110

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 gen'rous aid her name endears,

Tore down those remnants with a harpy's hand,

Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand.

XIV

Where was thine Aegis, Pallas! that appall'd

Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way?

Where Peleus' son? whom Hell in vain enthrall'd, 120

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 wander'd on the Stygian shore,

Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before.

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 130

By British hands, which it had best behov'd

To guard those relics ne'er to be restored.

Curst be the hour when their isle they roved,

And once again thy hapless bosom gored,

And snatch'd thy shrinking Gods to northern climes abhorr'd!

3. Ali Pacha

LXII

In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring 550

Of living water from the centre rose,

Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling,

And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose,

ALI reclined, a man of war and woes:

Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace,

While Gentleness her milder radiance throws

Along that aged venerable face,

The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with disgrace.

LXIII

It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard

Ill suits the passions which belong to youth; 560

Love conquers age -- so Hafiz hath averr'd,

So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth --

But crimes that scorn the tender voice of ruth,

Beseeming all men ill, but most the man

In years, have mark'd him with a tiger's tooth;

Blood follows blood, and, through their mortal span,

In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood began.

4. The Bravery of Albanian Soldiers

LXV

Fierce are Albania's children, yet they lack

Not virtues, were those virtues more mature.

Where is the foe that ever saw their back?

Who can so well the toil of war endure? 580

Their native fastnesses not more secure

Than they in doubtful time of troublous need:

Their wrath how deadly! but their friendship sure,

When Gratitude or Valour bids them bleed,

Unshaken rushing on where'er their chief may lead.

LXVI

Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain's tower

Thronging to war in splendour and success;

And after view'd them, when, within their power,

Himself awhile the victim of distress;

That saddening hour when bad men hotlier press: 590

But these did shelter him beneath their roof,

When less barbarians would have cheer'd him less,

And follow-countrymen have stood aloof --

In aught that tries the heart how few withstand the proof!

5. Greece: Past and Present

LXXIII

Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth!

Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great!

Who now shall lead they scatter'd children forth,

And long accustom'd bondage uncreate?

Not such thy sons who whilome did await,

The hopeless warriors of a willing doom,

In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait --

Oh! who that gallant spirit shall resume, 700

Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb?

LXXIV

Spirit of freedom! when on Phyle's brow

Thou satst with Thrasybulus and his train,

Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour which now

Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain?

Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain,

But every carle can lord it o'er thy land;

Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain,

Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand

From birth till death enslaved; in word, in deed, unmann'd. 710

6. For the revival of Greek’s past glory

LXXXIII

This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece,

If Greece one true-born patriot still can boast:

Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace,

The bondsman's peace, who sighs for all he lost,

Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost,

And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword:

Ah! Greece! they love thee least who owe thee most:

Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record 790

Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde!

LXXXXIV

When riseth Lacedemon's hardihood,

When Thebes Epaminondas rears again,

When Athens' children are with hearts endued,

When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men,

Then may'st thou be restored; but not till then.

A thousand years scarce serve to form a state;

An hour may lay it in the dust: and when

Can man its shatter'd splendour renovate,

Recall its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fate? 800

LXXXV

And yet how lovely in thine age of woe,

Land of lost gods and godlike men! art thou!

The vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow,

Proclaim thee Nature's varied favourite now;

Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow,

Commingling slowly with heroic earth,

Broke by the share of every rustic plough:

So perish monuments of mortal birth,

So perish all in turn, save well-recorded Worth;

7. Narrator’s blessing on Greece

LXXXVII

Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild;

Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, 820

Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled,

And still his honied wealth Hymettus yields;

There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds,

The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain-air;

Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds,

Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare;

Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair.

LXXXVIII

Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy ground,

No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould,

But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, 830

And all the Muse's tales seem truly told,

Till the sense aches with gazing to behold

The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon:

Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold

Defies the power which crush'd thy temples gone:

Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.

8. Narrator’s last plea for the ancient relics in Greece

XCIII

Let such approach this consecrated land,

And pass in peace along the magic waste;

But spare its relics -- let no busy hand

Deface the scenes, already how defaced!

Not for such purpose were these altars placed:

Revere the remnants nations once revered:

So may our country's name be undisgraced,

So may'st thou prosper where thy youth was rear'd, 880

By every honest joy of love and life endear'd!

XCIV

For thee, who thus in too protracted song

Hast soothed thine idlesse with inglorious lays,

Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng

Of louder minstrels in these later days:

To such resign the strife for fading bays --

Ill may such contest now the spirit move

Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise,

Since cold each kinder heart that might approve,

And none are left to please when none are left to love. 890

Related Binaries

Childe Harold_s Pilgrimage Canto I and II.pdf Childe Harold's Pilgrimage I-II

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