He had The third canto of Childe Harold is more deeply imbued with a love of nature than any of his previous productions. A new power had been imparted to him on the shores of the 'Leman lake.' just escaped from the strife of London and his own domestic unhappiness, and his conversations with Shelley might have turned him more strongly to this pure poetical source. The poetry of Wordsworth had also unconsciously lent its influence. An evening scene by the side of the lake is thus exquisitely described: It is the hush of night; and all between Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seenSave darkened Jura, whose capped heights appear Precipitously steep; and drawing near, There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Of flowers yet fresh with childhood: on the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more; He is an evening reveller, who makes A forcible contrast to this still scene is then given in a brief description of the same landscape during a thunder-storm: The sky is changed!-and such a change! O night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, Leaps the live thunder! not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! And this is in the night: most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delightA portion of the tempest and of thee! How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! And now again 'tis black-and now the glee Of the loud hill shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. In the fourth canto there is a greater throng of images and objects. The poet opens with a sketch of the peculiar beauty and departed greatness of Venice, rising from the sea, 'with her tiara of proud towers' in airy distance. He then resumes his pilgrimage-moralises on the scenes of Petrarch and Tasso, Dante and Boccaccio-and visits the lake of Thrasimene and the temple of Clitumnus. [Temple of Clitumnus.] But thou, Clitumnus! in thy sweetest wave Of the most living crystal that was e'er The haunt of river-nymph, to gaze and lave Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer Grazes; the purest god of gentle waters! And most serene of aspect and most clear! Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters, A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daughters! And on thy happy shore a temple still, Its memory of thee; beneath it sweeps The Greek statues at Florence are then inimitably described, after which the poet visits Rome, and revels in the ruins of the Palatine and Coliseum, and the glorious remains of ancient art. His dreams of love and beauty, of intellectual power and majesty, are here realised. The lustre of the classic age seems reflected back in his glowing pages, and we feel that in this intense appreciation of ideal beauty and sculptured grace-in passionate energy and ecstasy-Byron outstrips all his contemporaries. The poem concludes abruptly with an apostrophe to the sea, his joy of youthful sports,' and a source of lofty enthusiasm and pleasure in his solitary wanderings on the shores of Italy and Greece. The greatness of Byron's genius is seen in Childe Haroldits tenderness in the tales and smaller poems-its rich variety in Don Juan. A brighter garland few poets can hope to wear-yet it wants the unfading flowers of hope and virtue. [The Gladiator.] I see before me the gladiator lie: He leans upon his hand; his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony, And his drooped head sinks gradually low: And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now The arena swims around him; he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won. He heard it, but he heeded not; his eyes All this rushed with his blood. Shall he expire, And unavenged? Arise, ye Goths, and glut your ire! [Apostrophe to the Ocean.] There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar; I love not man the less, but nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue Ocean-roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin-his control Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groanWithout a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. His steps are not upon thy paths-thy fields For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals, The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war: These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. Thy shores are empires, changed in all save theeAssyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy waters wasted them while they were free, And many a tyrant since; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts: not so thou; Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play. Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow: Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers-they to me Were a delight; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror-'twas a pleasing fear; For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane-as I do here. [An Italian Evening on the Banks of the Brenta.] [From Childe Harold.] The moon is up, and yet it is not night— Sunset divides the sky with her a sea Of glory streams along the alpine height Of blue Friuli's mountains: heaven is free From clouds, but of all colours seems to be Melted to one vast Iris of the west, Where the day joins the past eternity; While on the other hand, meek Dian's crest Floats through the azure air—an island of the blest. A single star is at her side, and reigns Which streams upon her stream, and glassed within it glows. Filled with the face of heaven, which, from afar, And now they change; a paler shadow strews The last still loveliest, till-'tis gone-and all is gray. [Midnight Scene in Rome-the Coliseum.] The stars are forth, the moon above the tops I learned the language of another world. I do remember me, that in my youth, And making that which was not, till the place [The Shipwreck.] [From Don Juan.] 'Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell- And down she sucked with her the whirling wave, Like one who grapples with his enemy, And strives to strangle him before he die. And first one universal shriek there rushed, Accompanied with a convulsive splash, A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry * There were two fathers in this ghastly crew, But he died early; and when he was gone, I can do nothing;' and he saw him thrown The other father had a weaklier child, Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate; But the boy bore up long, and with a mild And patient spirit held aloof his fate; Little he said, and now and then he smiled, As if to win a part from off the weight He saw increasing on his father's heart, With the deep deadly thought that they must part. And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed: And when the wished-for shower at length was come, And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed, Brightened, and for a moment seemed to roam, He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain Into his dying child's mouth; but in vain! The boy expired-the father held the clay, And looked upon it long; and when at last Death left no doubt, and the dead burden lay Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past, He watched it wistfully, until away 'Twas borne by the rude wave wherein 'twas cast; Then he himself sunk down all dumb and shivering, And gave no sign of life, save his limbs quivering. [Description of Haidee.] [From the same.] Her brow was overhung with coins of gold They nearly reached her heels; and in her air There was a something which bespoke command, As one who was a lady in the land. Her hair, I said, was auburn; but her eyes Were black as death, their lashes the same hue, Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies Deepest attraction; for when to the view Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies, Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew : 'Tis as the snake late coiled, who pours his length, And hurls at once his venom and his strength. Her brow was white and low; her cheek's pure dye, (A race of mere impostors when all's doneI've seen much finer women, ripe and real, Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal). [Haidee visits the shipwrecked Don Juan.] And down the cliff the island virgin came, Mistake you would have made on seeing the two, And when into the cavern Haidee stepped And wrapt him closer, lest the air, too raw, A lesson in her tongue; but by surmise, Turns oftener to the stars than to his book: 'Tis pleasing to be schooled in a strange tongue Pressure of hands, perhaps even a chaste kiss ;I learned the little that I know by this. [Haidee and Juan at the Feast.] Haidee and Juan carpeted their feet On crimson satin, bordered with pale blue; Their sofa occupied three parts complete Of the apartment-and appeared quite new; The velvet cushions-for a throne more meetWere scarlet, from whose glowing centre grew A sun embossed in gold, whose rays of tissue, Meridian-like, were seen all light to issue. Crystal and marble, plate and porcelain, Had done their work of splendour; Indian mats And Persian carpets, which the heart bled to stain, Over the floors were spread; gazelles and cats, And dwarfs and blacks, and such-like things, that gain Their bread as ministers and favourites-that's To say, by degradation-mingled there As plentiful as in a court or fair. There was no want of lofty mirrors, and The greater part of these were ready spread With viands and sherbets in ice-and wineKept for all comers, at all hours to dine. Of all the dresses, I select Haidee's: She wore two jelicks-one was of pale yellow; Of azure, pink, and white, was her chemise'Neath which her breast heaved like a little billow; With buttons formed of pearls as large as peas, All gold and crimson shone her jelick's fellow, And the striped white gauze baracan that bound her, Like fleecy clouds about the moon flowed round her. One large gold bracelet clasped each lovely arm, That the hand stretched and shut it without harm, And clinging as if loath to lose its hold: Around, as princess of her father's land, A light gold bar above her instep rolled Announced her rank; twelve rings were on her hand; Her hair was starred with gems; her veil's fine fold Below her breast was fastened with a band Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told; Her orange-silk full Turkish trousers furled About the prettiest ankle in the world. Her hair's long auburn waves, down to her heel The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun Their bonds whene'er some Zephyr caught began To offer his young pinion as her fan. Round her she made an atmosphere of life; The very air seemed lighter from her eyes, They were so soft, and beautiful, and rife, With all we can imagine of the skies, And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wifeToo pure even for the purest human ties; Her overpowering presence made you feel It would not be idolatry to kneel. Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tinged- Her nails were touched with henna; but again Juan had on a shawl of black and gold, But a white baracan, and so transparent The sparkling gems beneath you might behold, Like small stars through the Milky-way apparent; His turban, furled in many a graceful fold, An emerald aigrette with Haidee's hair in 't Surmounted as its clasp-a glowing crescent, ⚫ Whose rays shone ever trembling, but incessant. And now they were diverted by their suite, Dwarfs, dancing-girls, black eunuchs, and a poet; Which made their new establishment complete; The last was of great fame, and liked to shew it: His verses rarely wanted their due feet And for his theme-he seldom sung below it, He being paid to satirise or flatter, As the Psalms say, 'inditing a good matter.' [The Death of Haidee.] Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth, The Moorish blood partakes the planet's hour, And, like the soil beneath it, will bring forth: Beauty and love were Haidee's mother's dower; But her large dark eye shewed deep Passion's force, Though sleeping like a lion near a source. Her daughter, tempered with a milder ray, Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and fair, Till slowly charged with thunder, they display Terror to earth and tempest to the air, Had held till now her soft and milky way; But, overwrought with passion and despair, The fire burst forth from her Numidian veins, Even as the simoom sweeps the blasted plains. The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore, Where late he trod her beautiful, her own; Thus much she viewed an instant and no more Her struggles ceased with one convulsive groan; On her sire's arm, which until now scarce held Her writhing, fell she like a cedar felled. A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes; Of herbs and cordials they produced their store: But she defied all means they could employ, Like one life could not hold nor death destroy. Days lay she in that state unchanged, though chill- All hope to look upon her sweet face bred Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall In time to his old tune; he changed the theme, And sung of Love; the fierce name struck through all In worldly prospects and distinction the poet there Her recollection; on her flashed the dream Of what she was, and is, if ye could call To be so being: in a gushing stream The tears rushed forth from her o'erclouded brain, Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain. Twelve days and nights she withered thus; at last, Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow, Thus lived-thus died she; never more on her Shall sorrow light or shame. She was not made Through years or moons the inner weight to bear, Which colder hearts endure till they are laid By age in earth: her days and pleasures were Brief, but delightful-such as had not stayed Long with her destiny; but she sleeps well By the sea-shore whereon she loved to dwell. fore surpassed most of his tuneful brethren; yet this only served to render his unhappy and strange destiny the more conspicuously wretched. When ten years of age, he was put to a public school, Sion House, where he was harshly treated both by his instructors and by tyrannical school-fellows. He was fond of reading, especially wild romances and tales of diablerie; and when very young he wrote two novels, Zastrozzi, and St Irvyne, or the Rosicrucian. From Sion House, Shelley was removed to Eton, where his sensitive spirit was again wounded by ill-usage and by the system of fagging tolerated at Eton. His resistance to all established authority and opinion displayed itself while at school, and in the introduction to his Revolt of Islam, he has portrayed his early impressions in some sweet and touching stanzas: Thoughts of great deeds were mine, dear friend, when first The clouds which wrap this world from youth did pass. I do remember well the hour which burst My spirit's sleep: a fresh May-dawn it was, |