 | Erato, number II |  |
CHILDE HAROLD.
—Byron
The bold, high hills my feet once trode!
I cannot wear this galling chain,
And will not longer bear this load.
My spirit is too much oppress'd—
My body is too much confined:
They loathe is life of splendid rest!
Oh, what doth it supply to feed the craving mind!
Albanian cliff, or Alpine rock!
That, for the Sea's congenial roar—
This, for the Thunderer's awful shock.
My bosom burns to be away—
My soul yearns for companions meet;
The rifted rock—the lightning's play—
Gray Ocean's crested surge loud-breaking at my feet.”
The world!—the world? What did he there!
His spirit was too fierce and wild
Its forms to heed—its chains to bear.
He was not born for Fashion's slave,
Nor man's nor woman's mate to be:
The world?—'twas but his spirit's grave!
It hath nor check, nor chain, nor charm for such as he.
The mountain, and the mountaineer:
He 's born to herd with savage men—
Strangers alike to smile and tear!
He, firm of heart and foot, breathes free
Where others pale, and hold their breath:
Commotion is his ecstacy—
But calm, or common-place, his wayward spirit's death.
With yataghan and cymetar—
Albanian, and his craggy land,
Firm barriers to the tide of war—
Jew, Giaour, or Mohammedan—
He cared not which—he reck'd not who—
Lewd priest—or fierce and lawless man—
Gloomy—or wild—or stern: such were the ‘chosen few.’
His spirit all uncurb'd and free;
Or with them through the stormy night—
Or out upon the surging sea,
Where stoop the hurling clouds, and kiss
Morea's billows, lost in gloom—
Or on the shores of Salamis—
Or by the Grecian bard's, or Grecian hero's tomb!
That frowns o'er Delphi's rocky steep,
And pause upon its awful front,
While Corinth's tempest round him sweep!
To gaze upon its summit hoar,
While thoughts of Eld come thronging fast;
Feats, of the mighty days of yore—
Songs, of the great, and wise, and ever-living Past!
Whose every foot its tale can tell—
Or Marathon,—or where, with shield
Batter'd and broken spear, they fell,
The heroes of Thermopylæ—
He'll weep above their stoneless graves;
Ay, weep, that such a land should be
The heritage and home of despots and of slaves.
Where Fashion wreaths the braided tress:
He scorns to dimpled cheek to bow,
Or rustling of a satin dress.
These conquer not, though they may please—
Too soon is quench'd the flame they fann'd.
For him, the dark-eyed Albanese,
As tameless, beauteous, rude, as her wild native land.
Albanian cliff, or Alpine rock!
That, for the Sea's congenial roar—
This, for the Thunderer's awful shock.
His bosom burns to be away—
His soul yearns for companions meet:
The rifted rock—the lightning's play—
Gray Ocean's crested surge loud-breaking at his feet!
“I have too of my mother about me to be dictated to; I like freedom from constraint; I hate artificial regulations: my conduct has always been dictated by my own feelings—and Lady Byron was quite the creature of rules. She was not permitted either to ride, or run, or walk, but as the physician prescribed. She was not permitted to go out when I wished to go: and then the old house was a mere ghost-house; I dreamed of ghosts, and thought of them waking! It was an existence I could not support.” —Here Lord broke off abruptly, saying—“I hate to speak of my family affairs: though I have been compelled to talk nonsense concerning them, to some of my butterfly visitors, glad on any terms to get rid of their importunities. I long to be again among the mountains! I am fond of solitude; and should never talk nonsense, if I always found plain men to talk to.”—Byron's Conservations with Captain Parry.
| Erato, number II | |