Share via Email Love-sick and world-weary. Byron sometimes slept with admiring female readers. Next year is the th anniversary of its publication, and the poem, like Byron himself, has had a strange history. It is now most famous for making him famous.
Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child! When last I saw thy young blue eyes, they smiled, And then we parted,--not as now we part, But with a hope. I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by, When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.
Once more upon the waters! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar!
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead! Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed, And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, Still must I on; for I am as a weed, Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail.
In my youth's summer I did sing of One, The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind; Again I seize the theme, then but begun, And bear it with me, as Childe harold pilgrimage essay rushing wind Bears the cloud onwards: Since my young days of passion--joy, or pain, Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string, And both may jar: Yet, though a dreary strain, Childe harold pilgrimage essay this I cling, So that it wean me from the weary dream Of selfish grief or gladness--so it fling Forgetfulness around me--it shall seem To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme.
He who, grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him; nor below Can love or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife, Cut to his heart again with the keen knife Of silent, sharp endurance: Yet must I think less wildly: I HAVE thought Too long and darkly, till my brain became, In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame: And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, My springs of life were poisoned.
Yet am I changed; though still enough the same In strength to bear what time cannot abate, And feed on bitter fruits without accusing fate. Something too much of this: Long-absent Harold reappears at last; He of the breast which fain no more would feel, Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne'er heal; Yet Time, who changes all, had altered him In soul and aspect as in age: His had been quaffed too quickly, and he found The dregs were wormwood; but he filled again, And from a purer fount, on holier ground, And deemed its spring perpetual; but in vain!
Still round him clung invisibly a chain Which galled for ever, fettering though unseen, And heavy though it clanked not; worn with pain, Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen, Entering with every step he took through many a scene. Secure in guarded coldness, he had mixed Again in fancied safety with his kind, And deemed his spirit now so firmly fixed And sheathed with an invulnerable mind, That, if no joy, no sorrow lurked behind; And he, as one, might midst the many stand Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find Fit speculation; such as in strange land He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's hand.
But who can view the ripened rose, nor seek To wear it? Who can contemplate fame through clouds unfold The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb?
Harold, once more within the vortex rolled On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond prime. But soon he knew himself the most unfit Of men to herd with Man; with whom he held Little in common; untaught to submit His thoughts to others, though his soul was quelled, In youth by his own thoughts; still uncompelled, He would not yield dominion of his mind To spirits against whom his own rebelled; Proud though in desolation; which could find A life within itself, to breathe without mankind.
Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends; Where rolled the ocean, thereon was his home; Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends, He had the passion and the power to roam; The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, Were unto him companionship; they spake A mutual language, clearer than the tome Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake For nature's pages glassed by sunbeams on the lake.
Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, Till he had peopled them with beings bright As their own beams; and earth, and earth-born jars, And human frailties, were forgotten quite: Could he have kept his spirit to that flight, He had been happy; but this clay will sink Its spark immortal, envying it the light To which it mounts, as if to break the link That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its brink.
But in Man's dwellings he became a thing Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome, Drooped as a wild-born falcon with clipt wing, To whom the boundless air alone were home: Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome, As eagerly the barred-up bird will beat His breast and beak against his wiry dome Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat.
Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again, With naught of hope left, but with less of gloom; The very knowledge that he lived in vain, That all was over on this side the tomb, Had made Despair a smilingness assume, Which, though 'twere wild--as on the plundered wreck When mariners would madly meet their doom With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck - Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check.—Charles Gordon Noel Byron, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, canto iv, st clxxviii – clxxxii () in: The Poems and Plays of Lord Byron vol.
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Rhys ed. ) Download a podcast of the twelfth part of Childe Harold here. Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A Romaunt. Canto Ii. by George Gordon Byron..I. Come blueeyed maid of heavenbut thou alas Didst never yet one mortal song inspire Goddess of Wisdom here thy temple was And is despite of war and.
Page/5(1). A s Byron himself observed, he awoke one morning and found himself famous. He was 24 years old and had just published his third book, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, a loosely autobiographical account. Essays and criticism on Lord George Gordon Byron's Childe Harold's Pilgrimage - Critical Essays.
One of the most famous work of Lord Byron became the poem "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage", which is a lyrical diary, in which the poet expressed his attitude to life, gave his assessment of his era, European countries, the social conflict in the society.
THE READER’S PILGRIMAGE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE NARRATION AND TEXTUAL LEVELS IN CHILDE JULIA BACSKAI-ATKARI The aim of the present article is to investigate the narrative structure of Lord Byron’s Childe Harold, with particular interest in its relation to the genre of the novel in verse, the first example of which is Byron’s Don Juan.