by Lord Byron
And all its rising fires could smother;
But, now, thy vows no more endure,
Bestow’d by thee upon another.
Perhaps, his peace I could destroy,
And spoil the blisses that await him;
Yet let my Rival smile in joy,
For thy dear sake, I cannot hate him.
Ah! since thy angel form is gone,
My heart no more can rest with any;
But what it sought in thee alone,
Attempts, alas! to find in many.
Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid!
‘Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee;
Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid,
But Pride may teach me to forget thee.
Yet all this giddy waste of years,
This tiresome round of palling pleasures;
These varied loves, these matrons’ fears,
These thoughtless strains to Passion’s measures –
If thou wert mine, had all been hush’d:-
This cheek, now pale from early riot,
With Passion’s hectic ne’er had flush’d,
But bloom’d in calm domestic quiet.
Yes, once the rural Scene was sweet,
For Nature seem’d to smile before thee;
And once my Breast abhorr’d deceit,-
For then it beat but to adore thee.
But, now, I seek for other joys –
To think, would drive my soul to madness;
In thoughtless throngs, and empty noise,
I conquer half my Bosom’s sadness.
Yet, even in these, a thought will steal,
In spite of every vain endeavor;
And fiends might pity what I feel –
To know that thou art lost for ever.
I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD
I would I were a careless child,
Still dwelling in my Highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,
Or bounding o’er the dark blue wave;
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride
Accords not with the freeborn soul,
Which loves the mountain’s craggy side,
And seeks the rocks where billows roll.
Fortune! Take back these cultured lands,
Take back this name of splendid sound!
I hate the touch of servile hands,
I hate the slaves that cringe around.
Place me among the rocks I love,
Which sound to Ocean’s wildest roar;
I ask but this – again to rove
Through scenes my youth hath known before.
Few are my years, and yet I feel
The world was ne’er designed for me:
Ah! why do dark’ning shades conceal
The hour when man must cease to be?
Once I beheld a splendid dream,
A visionary scene of bliss:
Truth!- wherefore did thy hated beam
Awake me to a world like this?
I loved – but those I loved are gone;
Had friends – my early friends are fled:
How cheerless feels the heart alone,
When all its former hopes are dead!
Though gay companions o’er the bowl
Dispel awile the sense of ill;
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
The heart – the heart – is lonely still.
How dull! to hear the voice of those
Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power,
Have made, though neither friends nor foes
Associates of that festive hour.
Give me again the faithful few,
In years and feelings still the same,
And I will fly the midnight crew,
Where boist’rous joy is but a name.
And woman, lovely woman! thou,
My hope, my comfortet, my all!
How cold must be my bosom now,
When e’en thy smiles begin to pall!
Without a sigh would I resign
This busy scene of splendid woe,
To make that calm contentment mine,
Which virtue knows, or seems to know.
Fain would I fly the haunts of men –
I seek to shun, not hate mankind;
My breast requires the sullen glen,
Whose gloom may suit a darken’d mind.
Oh! that to me the wings were given
Which bear the turtle to her nest!
Then I would cleave the vault of heaven,
To flee away, and be at rest.
WHEN I ROVED A YOUNG HIGHLANDER
WHEN I roved a young Highlander o’er the dark heath,
And climb’d thy steep sumrnit, oh Morven of snow!
To gaze on the torrent that thunder’d beneath,
Or the mist of the tempest that gather’d below,
Untutor’d by science, a stranger to fear,
And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew,
No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear
Need I say, my sweet Mary, ‘twas centred in you?
Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name,-
What passion can dwell in the heart of a child?
But still I pereceive an emotion the same
As I felt, when a boy, on the crag cover’d wild:
One image alone on my bosom impress’d
I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new;
And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless’d;
And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you.
I arose with the dawn; with my dog as my guide,
From mountain to mountain I bounded along
I breasted the billows of Dee’s rushing tide,
And heard at a distance the Highlander’s song:
At eve, on my heath-cover’d couch of repose,
No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view;
And warm to the skies my devotions aoose,
For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you.
I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone;
The mountains are vanish’d, my youth is no more;
As the last of my race, I must wither alone,
And delight but in days I have witness’d before:
Ah! splendour has raised but embitter’d my lot;
More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew:
Though my hopes may have fail’d, yet they are not forgot;
Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you.
When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky,
I think of the rocks that o’ershadow Colbleen
When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye
I think of those eyes that endear’d the rude scene;
When, haply, some light-waving locks I behold,
That faintly resemble my Mary’s in hue,
I think on the long, flowing ringlets of gold,
The locks that were sacred to beauty, and you.
Yet the day may arrive when the mountains once more
Shall rise to my sight In their mantles of snow:
But while these soar above me, unchanged as before
Will Mary be there to receive me? – ah, no!
Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred!
Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu!
No home in the forest shall shelter my head,-
Ah! Mary, what home could be mine but with you?
TO GEORGE, EARL DELAWARR
Oh! yes, I will own we were dear to each other;
The friendships of childhood, though fleeting are true;
The love which you felt was the love of a brother,
Nor less the affection I cherish’d for you.
But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion;
Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion,
But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires.
Full oft have we wander’d through Ida together,
And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow:
In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather!
But winter’s rude tempests are gathering now.
No more with affection shall memory blending,
The wonted delights of our childhood retrace:
When pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending,
And what would be Justice appears a disgrace.
However, dear George, for I still must esteem you;
The few whom I love I can never upbraid:
The chance which has lost may in future redeem you,
Repentance will cancel the vow you have made.
I will not complain, and though chill’d is affection,
With me no corroding resentment shall live:
My bosom is calm’d by the simple reflection,
That both may be wrong, and that both should forgive.
You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence,
If danger demanded, were wholly your own.
You knew me unalter’d by years or by distance
Devoted to love and to friendship alone.
You knew – but away with the vain retropection!
The bond of affection no longer endures;
Too late you may droop o’er the fond recollection,
And sigh for the friend who was formerly yours.
For the present, we part, – I will hope not for ever;
For time and regret will restore you at last:
To forget our dimension we both should endeavour,
I ask no atonement, but days like the past.
TO THE EARL OF CLARE
‘Tu semper amoris
Sisd memor, etcari comitis ne abscedat imago’
Val Flac
Friend of my youth! when young we roved,
Like striplings mutually beloved,
With friendship’s purest glow,
The bliss which wing’d those rosy hours
Was such as pleasure seldom showers
On mortals here below.
The recollecclon seems alone
Dearer than all the joys I’ve known,
When distant far from you:
Though pain, ‘tis still a pleasing pain,
To trace those days and hours again,
And sigh again, adieu!
My pensive memory lingers o’er
Those scenes to be enjoy’d no more,
Those scenes regretted ever
The measure of our youth is full,
Life’s evening dream is dark and dull,
And we rnay meet – ah! never!
As when one parent spring supplies
Two strearns which from one fountain rise
Together join’d in ‘vain;
How soon’ diverging from their source,
Each murmuring, seeks another course,
Till mingled in the main!
Our vital streams of weal or woe,
Though near, alas! distinctly flow,
Nor mingle as before:
Now swift or slow, now black or clear,
Till death’s unfathom’d gulf appear,
And both shall quit the shore.
Our souls, my friend! which once supplied
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside,
Now flow in different channels:
Disdaining humbler rural sports,
‘Tis yours to mix in polish’d courts,
And shine in fashion’s annals;
‘Tis mine to waste on love my time,
Or vent my reveries in rhyme,
Without the aid of reason;
For sense and reason (critics know it)
Have quitted every amorous poet,
Nor left a thought to seize on.
Poor LITTLE! sweet, melodlous bard!
Of late esteem’d it monstrous hard
That he, who sang before all,-
He who the lore of love expanded,-
By dire reviewers should be branded
As void of wit and moral.
And yet, while Beauty’s praise is thine,
Harmonious favourite of the nine,
Repine not at thy lot.
Thy soothing lays may still be read,
When Persecution’s arm is dead,
And critics are forgot.
Still I must yield those worthies merit,
Who chasten, with unsparing spirit,
Bad rhymes, and those who write them;
And though myself may be the next
By criticism to be vext,
I really will not fight them.
Perhaps they wouid do quite as well
To break the rudely sounding shell
Of such a young beginner:
He who offends at pert nineteen,
Ere thirty may become, I ween,
A very harden’d sinner.
Now, Clare, I must return to you;
And, sure, apologies are due:
Accept, then, my concession
In truth dear Clare, in fancy’s flight
I soar along from left to right;
My muse admires digression
I think I said ‘twould he your fate
To add one star to royal state;-
May regal smiles attend you!
And should a noble monarch reign,
You will not seek his smiles in vain,
If worth can recommend you.
Yet since in danger courts abound,
Where specious rivals glitter round,
From snares may saints preserve you;
And grant your love or friendship ne’er
From any claim a kindred care,
But those who best deserve you!
Not for a moment may you stray
From truth’s secure, unerring way!
May no delights decoy!
O’er roses may your footsteps move,
Your smiles be ever smiles of love,
Your tears be tears of joy!
Oh! if you wish that happiness
Your coming days and years may bless,
And virtues crown your brow;
Be still as you were wont to be,
Spotless as you’ve been known to me,-
Be still as you are now.
And though some trifling share of praise,
To cheer my last declining days,
To me were doubly dear;
Whilst blessing your beloved name
I’d waive at once a poet’s fame,
To prove a prophet here.
LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCHYARD OF HARROW
Spot of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh,
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky;
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod,
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod;
With those who, scattered far, perchance deplore,
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before:
Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill,
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still,
Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay,
And frequent mused the twilight hours away;
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline,
But ah! without the thoughts which then were mine.
How do thy branches, moaning to the blast,
Invite the bosom to recall the past,
And seem to whisper, as the gently swell,
‘Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell!’
When fate shall chill, at length, this fevered breast,
And calm its c
ares and passions into rest,
Oft have I thought, ‘twould soothe my dying hour, –
If aught may soothe when life resigns her power, –
To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell,
Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell.
With this fond dream, methinks, ‘twere sweet to die –
And here it lingered, here my heart might lie;
Here might I sleep, where all my hopes arose,
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose;
For ever stretched beneath this mantling shade,
Pressed by the turf where once my childhood played;
Wrapped by the soil that veils the spot I loved,
Mixed with the earth o’er which my footsteps moved;
Blest by the tongues that charmed my youthful ear,
Mourned by the few my soul acknowledged here;
Deplored by those in early days allied,
And unremembered by the world beside.
September 2 1807
CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE
This long narrative poem is comprised of four cantos, published between 1812 and 1818. The cantos are written in Spenserian stanzas, consisting of eight iambic pentameter lines, followed by an alexandrine. The word childe was a medieval title for a young man preparing for the rigorous training of knighthood. Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage concerns the travels and reflections of a world-weary novice, who is disillusioned with his life of revelry and so seeks distraction in foreign lands. The poem is now viewed by many critics as an expression of the disillusionment felt by people at the time, who were weary of the wars of the post-Revolutionary and Napoleonic eras.
On 2 July 1809, Byron sailed from Falmouth for Lisbon, embarking on a Grand Tour with his friend John Cam Hobhouse. Together they travelled through Portugal, Spain, Malta and Albania, reaching Athens at the end of the year. It was during this journey that Byron composed the first Canto of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, which was originally titled Childe Burun. Many elements of the poem are now considered to be autobiographical, based on the experiences Byron gained during his travels between 1809 and 1811. The poem is dedicated Ianthe, a term of endearment used by the poet for Charlotte Harley, the 13-year-old daughter of Lady Oxford.
Initially Byron was reluctant to publish the first two cantos of the poem, concerned they revealed too much of himself. Nevertheless, after the constant urgings of friends, the poem was published and achieved immediate and unexpected public attention. Byron later wrote to a friend, “I awoke one morning and found myself famous”.
Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage portrays the first example of what would later be termed the Byronic hero. Among the hero’s characteristics, he must be cunning, charming, well-educated and sophisticated in style. However, the Byronic hero is also depicted as struggling with his integrity, being prone to mood swings or what would be termed nowadays as bipolar tendencies. Generally, the hero has disrespect for any figure of authority, depicting the Byronic hero as an exile or outcast. The hero also has a tendency to be arrogant and cynical, indulging in self-destructive behaviour, leading to the need to seduce women. Ever since the publication of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, the character of the Byronic hero has re-appeared in novels, plays, films and many other art forms across the world.