1

There seems a floating whisper on the hill, But that is fancy, for the starlight dews

All silently their tears of love instil,
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse

Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. (1)
LXXXVIII.

Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!

If in your bright leaves we would read the fate
Of men and empires,-'t is to be forgiven,
That, in our aspirations to be great,
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state,
And claim a kindred with you; for ye are
A beauty and a mystery, and create

In us such love and reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.

LXXXIX.

All heaven and earth are still-though not in sleep,

But breathless, as we grow when feeling most;
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep:-
All heaven and earth are still from the high host
Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast,
All is concenter'd in a life intense,

Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,
But hath a part of being, and a sense

Of that which is of all Creator and defence.

(1) During Lord Byron's stay in Switzerland, he took up his residence at the well-known Campagne-Diodati, in the village of Coligny. It stands at the top of a rapidly-descending vineyard; the windows commanding, one way, a noble view of the lake and of Geneva; the other, up the lake. Every evening the poet embarked on the lake; and to the feelings created by these excursions we owe these delightful stanzas. Of his mode of passing a day, the following, from the Journal already referred to, is a pleasant specimen:

“September 18. Called. Got up at five. Hobhouse walked on before. Rode till within a mile of Vevay. Stopped at Vevay two hours. View from the church-yard superb; within it Ludlow (the regicide's) monument - black marble-long inscription; Latin, but simple. Near him Broughton (who read King Charles's sentence to Charles Stuart), is buried, with a queer and rather canting inscription. Ludlow's house shown. Walked down to the lake side; servants, carriages, saddle-horses,-all set off, and left us plantés lá by some mistake. Hobhouse ran on before, and overtook them. Arrived at Clarens. Went to Chiilon through scenery worthy of I know not whom; went over the castle again. Met an English party in a carriage; a lady in it fast asleep-fast asleep in the most anti-narcotic spot in the world, -excellent! After a slight and short dinner, visited the Château de Clarens. Saw all worth seeing, and then descended to the Bosquet de Julie,' etc. etc.: our guide full of Rousseau, whom he is eternally confounding with St. Preux, and mixing the man and the book. Went again as far as Chillon. to revisit the little torrent from the hill behind it. The corporai who showed the wonders of Chillon was as drunk as Blucher, and (to my mind) as great a man he was deaf also; and, thinking every one else so, roared out the legends of the castle so fearfully, that Hobhouse got out of humour. However, we saw things, from the gallows to the dungeons. Sunset reflected in the lake. Nine o'clock-going to bed. Have to get up at five to-morrow.", -After Lord Byron quitted the Campagne-Diodati, Sir Egerton Brydges tells us, that the doors of the house were beset by travellers, anxious to get a sight of the room in which the poet slept. (2) It is to be recollected, that the most beautiful and impres

sive doctrines of the divine Founder of Christianity were delivered, not in the Temple, but on the Mount. To wave the question of devotion, and turn to human eloquence, the most effectual and splendid specimens were not pronounced within walls. Demosthenes addressed the public and popular assemblies. Cicero spoke in the forum. That this added to their effect on the mind of both orator and hearers may be conceived from the difference between what we read of the emotions then and there produced, and those we ourselves experience in the perusal in the closet. It is one thing to read the Iliad at Sigæum and on the tumuli, or by the springs, with Mount Ida above, and the plain and rivers and Archipelago around you; and another to trim your taper over it in a snug library-this I know. Were the early and rapid progress of what is called Methodism to be attributed to any cause beyond the enthusiasm excited by its vehement faith and doctrines (the truth or error of which I presume neither to canvass nor to question), I should venture to ascribe it to the practice of preaching in the fields, and the unstudied and extemporaneous effusions of its teachers. The Mussulmans, whose erroneous devotion (at least in the lower orders) is most sincere, and therefore impressive, are accustomed to repeat their prescribed orisons and prayers, wherever they may be, at the stated hours-of course frequently in the open air, kneeling upon a light mat (which they carry for the purpose of a bed or cushion as required): the ceremony lasts some minutes, during which they are totally absorbed, and only living in their supplication: nothing can disturb them. On me the simple and entire sincerity of these men, and the spirit which appeared to be within and upon them, made a far greater impression than any general rite which was ever performed in places of worship, of which I have seen those of almost every persuasion under the sun; including most of our own sectaries, and the Greek, the Catholic, the Armenian, the Lutheran, the Jewish, and the Mahometan. Many of the negroes, of whom there are numbers in the Turkish empire, are idolaters, and have free exercise of their belief and its rites: some of these I had a distant view of at Patras; and, from what I could make out of them, they appeared to be of a truly Pagan description, and not very agreeable to a spectator.

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! XCIII.

And this is in the night:-most glorious night? Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and fair delight,A portion of the tempest and of thee! (1) How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! And now again 't is black,—and now the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. (2)

XCIV.

Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between

Heights which appear as lovers who have parted In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, That they can meet no more, though brokenhearted! [thwarted,

Though in their souls, which thus each other Love was the very root of the fond rage [parted: Which blighted their life's bloom, and then deItself expired, but leaving them an age [wage. Of years all winters,-war within themselves to

XCV.

Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way,

The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand: For here, not one, but many, make their play, And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand, Flashing and cast around: of all the band, The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd His lightnings, as if he did understand, That in such gaps as desolation work'd, [lurk'd. There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein

XCVI.

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye, With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul To make these felt and feeling, well may be Things that have made me watchful; the far roll Of your departing voices is the knoll

(1) The thunder-storm to which these lines refer occurred on the 13th of June, 1816, at midnight. I have seen, among the Acroceraunian mountains of Chimari, several more terrible, but none more beautiful.-[The opposite engraving presents a facsimile of one of these remarkable stanzas, as dashed off by Lord Byron during one of his evening excursions on the Lake of Geneva.-E.]

(2) "This is one of the most beautiful passages of the poem. The fierce and fair delight' of a thunder-storm is here described in verse almost as vivid as its lightnings. The live thunder 'leaping among the rattling crags'-the voice of mountains, as if shouting to each other-the plashing of the big rain-the gleaming of the wide lake, lighted like a phosphoric sea-present a picture of

Of what in me is sleepless,-if I rest. (3) But where of ye, oh tempests! is the goal? Are ye like those within the human breast? Gr do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest? XCVII.

Could I embody and unbosom now

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 breathe-into one word,
And that one word were Lightning, I would
speak;

But as it is, I live and die unheard, [sword. With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a XCVIII.

The morn is up again, the dewy morn, With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, And living as if earth contain'd no tomb,— And glowing into day : we may resume The march of our existence and thus I, Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room And food for meditation, nor pass by Much, that may give us pause, if ponder'd fittingly.

XCIX.

:

sublime terror, yet of enjoyment, often attempted, but never so well, certainly never better, brought out in poetry."-Sir Walter Scott.

(5) The Journal of his Swiss tour, which Lord Byron kept for his sister, closes with the following mournful passage:-"In the weather, for this tour of thirteen days, I have been very fortunate -fortunate in a companion" (Mr. Hobhouse)" fortunate in our prospects, and exempt from even the little petty accidents and delays which often render journeys in a less wild country disappointing. I was disposed to be pleased. I am a lover of nature, and an admirer of beauty. I can bear fatigue, and welcome privation, and have seen some of the noblest views in the world. But in all this,-the recollection of bitterness, and more especially

In the still cave and forest; o'er the flower His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown, His soft and summer breath, whose tender power Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour. (1)

CI.

All things are here of him; from the black pines,
Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar
Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines
Which slope his green path downward to the shore,
Where the bow'd waters meet him, and adore,
Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood,
The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar,
But light leaves, young as Joy, stands where it
stood,

Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude.
CII.

A populous solitude of bees and birds,
And fairy-form'd and many-colour'd things,
Who worship him with notes more sweet than
And innocently open their glad wings, [words,
Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs,
And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend
Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings
The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend,
Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end.

of recent and more home desolation, which must accompany me through life, has preyed upon me here; and neither the music of the shepherd, the crashing of the avalanche, nor the torrent, the mountain, the glacier, the forest, nor the cloud, have for one moment lightened the weight upon my heart, nor enabled me to lose my own wretched identity, in the majesty, and the power, and the glory, around, above, and beneath me."-E.

(1) Rousseau's Heloise, lettre 17. part. 4. note. "Ces montagnes sont si hautes, qu'une demi-heure après le soleil couché, leurs sommets sont éclairés de ses rayons, dont le rouge forme sur ces cimes blanches une belle couleur de rose, qu'on aperçoit de fort in-This applies more particularly to the heights over Meillerie.—“J'allai à Vevai loger à la Clef, et pendant deux jours que ly restai, sans voir personne, je pris pour cette ville un amour qui m'a suivi dans tous mes voyages, et qui m'y a fait établir enfin | les héros de mon roman. Je dirais volontiers à ceux qui ont du goût, et qui sont sensibles: Allez à Vevai-visitez le pays, examinez les sites, promenez-vous sur le lac, et dites si la Nature n'a pas fait ce beau pays pour une Julie, pour une Claire, et pour un St. Preux; mais ne les y cherchez pas."-Les Confessions, liv. iv. p. 306. Lyons, ed. 1796.—In July, 1816, I made a voyage round the Lake of Geneva; and, as far as my own observations have led me in a not uninterested nor inattentive survey of all the scenes most celebrated by Rousseau in his Heloise, I ean safely say, that in this there is no exaggeration. It would be difficult to see Clarens (with the scenes around it, Vevay, Chillon, Boveret, St. Gingo, Meillerie, Eivan, and the entrances of the Rhone, without being forcibly struck with its peculiar adaptation to the persons and events with which it has been peopled. But this is not all: the feeling with which all around Clarens and the opposite rocks of Meillerie is invested, is of a still higher and more comprehensive order than the mere sympathy with individual passion; it is a sense of the existence of love in its most extended and sublime capacity, and of our own participation of its good and of its glory: it is the great principle of the universe, which it there more condensed, but not less manifested; and of which, though knowing ourselves a part, we lose our individuality, and mingle in the beauty of the whole. If Rousseau had never

He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore, And make his heart a spirit; he who knows That tender mystery, will love the more, For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes, And the world's waste, have driven him far from For 't is his nature to advance or die; [those, He stands not still, but or decays, or grows Into a boundless blessing, which may vie With the immortal lights, in its eternity! CIV.

'T was not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, Peopling it with affections; but he found It was the scene which passion must allot To the mind's purified beings; 't was the ground Where early Love his Psyche's zone unbound, And hallow'd it with loveliness: 't is lone, And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound, And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd a

throne.

CV.

Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes
Of names which unto you bequeath'd a name; (2)
Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous
A path to perpetuity of fame :
[roads,

written, nor lived, the same associations would not less have belonged to such scenes. He has added to the interest of his works by their adoption; he has shown his sense of their beauty by tho selection; but they have done that for him which no human being could do for them. I had the fortune (good or evil as it might be, to sail from Meillerie (where we landed for some time) to St. Ginge during a lake storm, which added to the magnificence of all around, although occasionally accompanied by danger to the boat, which was small and overloaded. It was over this very part of the lake that Rousseau has driven the boat of St. Preux and Madame Wolmar to Meilleric, for shelter during a tempest. On gaining the shore at St. Gingo, I found that the wind had been sufficiently strong to blow down some fine old chestnut-trees on the lower part of the mountains. On the opposite height of Clarens is a château. The hills are covered with vineyards, and interspersed with some small but beautiful woods; one of these was named the "Bosquet de Julie;" and it is remarkable that, though long ago cut down by the brutal selfishness of the monks of St. Bernard (to whom the land appertained), that the ground might be enclosed into a vineyard for the miserable drones of an execrable superstition, the inhabitants of Clarens still point out the spot where its trees stood, calling it by the name which consecrated and survived them. Rousseau has not been particularly fortunate in the preservation of the "local habitations" he has given to "airy nothings." The Prior of Great St. Bernard has cut down some of his woods for the sake of a few casks of wine, and Buonaparte has levelled part of the rocks of Meillerie in improving the road to the Simplon. The road is an excellent one, but I cannot quite agree with the remark which I heard made, that "La route vaut mieux que les souvenirs." [During the squall off Meillerie, of which Lord Byron here makes mention, the danger of the party was considerable. At Ouchy, near Lausanne, he was detained two days, in a small inn, by the weather; and here it was that he wrote, in that short interval, the Prisoner of Chillon : “adding," says Moore, "one more deathless association to the already immortalised localities of the lake."-E.] (2) Voltaire and Gibbon.

They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile [flame Thoughts which should call down thunder, and the Of Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the while On man and man's research could deign do more than smile.

CVI.

The one was fire and fickleness, a child,
Most mutable in wishes, but, in mind,

A wit as various,-gay, grave, sage, or wild,--
Historian, bard, philosopher, combined;
He multiplied himself among mankind,
The Proteus of their talents: but his own
Breathed most in ridicule,-which, as the wind,
Blew where it listed, laying all things prone.
Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne.

CVII.

The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, And hiving wisdom with each studious year, In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought, And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer; The lord of irony,-that master-spell, [fear, Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from And doom'd him to the zealot's ready hell, Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well.

CVIII.

Yet, peace be with their ashes,-for by them,
If merited, the penalty is paid;

It is not ours to judge,—far less condemn ; [made
The hour must come when such things shall be
Known unto all,-or hope and dread allay'd
By slumber, on one pillow,-in the dust,
Which, thus much we are sure, must iie decay'd;
And when it shall revive, as is our trust,

'T will be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just.
CIX.

But let me quit man's works again to read
His Maker's spread around me, and suspend
This page, which from my reveries I feed
Until it seems prolonging without end.
The clouds above me to the white Alps tend,
And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er
May be permitted, as my steps I bend

To their most great and growing region, where The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air.

Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; still, The fount at which the panting mind assuages Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill. CXI.

Thus far have I proceeded in a theme
Renew'd with no kind auspices:-to feel
We are not what we have been, and to deem
We are not what we should be, and to steel
The heart against itself; and to conceal
With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught,-
Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal,—
Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought,
Is a stern task of soul:-No matter,—it is taught.
CXII.

And for these words, thus woven into song,
It may be that they are a harmless wile,
The colouring of the scenes which fleet along,
Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile
My breast, or that of others, for a while.
Fame is the thirst of youth,-but I am not
So young as to regard men's frown or smile,
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot;

I stood and stand alone,-remember'd or forgot.

CXIII.

I have not loved the world, nor the world me;
I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd
To its idolatries a patient knee,—

Nor coin'd 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
Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and

still could,

[dued. Had I not filed (1) my mind, which thus itself subCXIV.

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
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; (2) That two, or one, are almost what they seem,— That goodness is no name, and happiness no

dream. (3)

CXV.

My daughter! with thy name this song begun-
My daughter! with thy name thus much shall end-
I see thee not, I hear thee not, but none
Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend

thing in the misfortunes of men's best friends not displeasing to them."

(3) "It is not the temper and talents of the poet, but the use

To whom the shadows of far years extend:
Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold.
My voice shall with thy future visions blend,
And reach into thy heart,—when mine is cold,-
A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould.
CXVI.

To aid thy mind's developement,-to watch
Thy dawn of little joys,-to sit and see
Almost thy very growth,-to view thee catch
Knowledge of objects,-wonders yet to thee!
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee,
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss,—
This, it should seem, was not reserved for me;
Yet this was in my nature :—as it is,

I know not what is there, yet something like to this.
CXVII.

Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught, I know that thou wilt love me; though my name Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught With desolation,—and a broken claim: [same, Though the grave close between us,-'t were the I know that thou wilt love me; though to drain My blood from out thy being were an aim, And an attainment,—all would be in vain,— Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life

rold, the conclusion of the poem is about to be submitted to the public. In parting with so old a friend, it is not extraordinary that I should recur to one still older and better,-to one who has beheld the birth and death of the other, and to whom I am far more indebted for the social advantages of an enlightened friendship, than-though not ungrateful—I can, or could be, to Childe Harold, for any public favour reflected through the poem on the poet, to one, whom I have known long, and accompanied far, whom I have found wakeful over my sickness and kind in my sorrow, glad in my prosperity and firm in my adversity, true in counsel and trusty in peril, to a friend often tried and never found wanting;-to yourself.

In so doing, I recur from fiction to truth; and in dedicating to you in its complete, or at least concluded state, a poetical work which is the longest, the most thoughtful and comprehensive, of my compositions, I wish to do honour to myself by the record of many years' intimacy with a man of learning, of talent, of steadiness, and of honour. It is not for minds like ours to give or to receive flattery; yet the praises of sincerity have ever been permitted to the voice of friendship; and it is not for you, nor even for others, but to relieve a heart which has not elsewhere, or lately, been so much accustomed to the encounter of good-will as to withstand the shock firmly, that I thus attempt to commemorate your good qualities, or rather the advantages which I have derived from their exertion. Even the recurrence of the date of this letter, the anniversary of the most unfortunate day of my past existence, but which cannot poison my future, while I retain the resource of your friendship and of my own faculties, will henceforth have a more agreeable recollection for both, inasmuch as it will remind us of this my attempt to thank you for an indefatigable regard, such as few men have experienced, and no one could experience without thinking better of his species and of himself.

It has been our fortune to traverse together, at various periods, the countries of chivalry, history, and fable-Spain, Greece, Asia Minor, and Italy; and what Athens and Constantinople were to us a few years ago, Venice and Rome have been more recently. The poem also, or the pilgrim, or both, have accompanied me from first to last; and perhaps it may be a pardonable vanity which induces me to reflect with complacency on a composition which in some degree connects me with the spot where it was produced, and the objects it would

poetical temperament. But the Giver of all talents, while he has qualified them each with its separate and peculiar alloy, has endowed the owner with the power of purifying and refining them. But, as if to moderate the arrogance of genius, it is justly and wisely made requisite, that he must regulate and tame the fire of his fancy, and descend from the heig ts to which she exalts