Byron possessed a bottom of plain sincerity and rational sobriety, which kept him substantially straight, real, and human, and made him a genuine exponent of that universal social movement which we sum up as the Revolution. . . . Nowhere else do

we see drawn in such traits that colossal figure, which has haunted Europe these four score years and more, with its newborn passion, its half-controlled will, its constant cry for a multitude of unknown blessings under the single name of Freedom. . . Though Byron have no place in our own Minster, he assuredly belongs to the band of far-shining men of whom Pericles declared the whole world to be the tomb." JOHN MORLEY.

"With Byron the last rays of the artificiality which had bound European expression for a century and a half were torn off and flung to the winds. He taught roughly, melodramatically, inconsistently, but he taught a lesson of force and vitality. He was full of technical faults, drynesses, flatnesses; he lacked the power to finish; he offended by a hundred careless impertinencies; but his whole being was an altar on which the flame of personal genius flared like a conflagration."— EDMUND Gosse.

"Byron's cynicism is his testimony to the truth that man must live by faith; his bitterness of spirit means that to move sanely and joyously in a moral void is impossible. At the last moment his nobler self revolted against the baseness not only around him but within him, and it was the champion of Greek liberty who fell asleep at Missolonghi. In his delirium he was mounting a breach. 'Forward, forward, courage, follow my example.' When calm returned he was heard to murmur; 'Poor Greece! . . . I have given her my time, my means, my health, - and now I give her my life! What could I do more?'"- EDWARD DOWDEN.

TO IANTHE

NOT in those climes where I have late been straying,
Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deemed,
Not in those visions to the heart displaying
Forms which it sighs but to have only dreamed,

Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seemed :

Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek

To paint those charms which varied as they beamed ·

To such as see thee not my words were weak;

To those who gaze on thee what language could they speak?

Ah! may'st thou ever be what now thou art,
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring,
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart,
Love's image upon earth without his wing,
And guileless beyond Hope's imagining !
And surely she who now so fondly rears
Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening,
Beholds the rainbow of her future years,
Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears.

15

ΙΟ

Young Peri° of the West!-'tis well for me
My years already doubly number thine;
My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee,
And safely view thy ripening beauties shine;
Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline;

Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed,
Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign

To those whose admiration shall succeed,

But mixed with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours decreed.

Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the Gazelle's,
Now brightly bold or beautifully shy,

Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells,
Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny
That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh,
Could I to thee be ever more than friend :
This much, dear maid, accord; nor question why
To one so young my strain I would commend,
But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend.

Such is thy name with this my verse entwined;
And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast
On Harold's page, Ianthe's here enshrined
Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last :

20

25

30

35

Of him who hailed thee, loveliest as thou wast,
Such is the most my memory may desire;

My days once numbered, should this homage past
Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre

40

require ?

Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less

45

CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE

CANTO FIRST

I

Он, thou! in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth,°
Muse! formed or fabled at the minstrel's will!
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill :°
Yet there I've wandered by thy vaunted rill;°
Yes! sighed o'er Delphi's long deserted shrine,°
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine
To grace so plain a tale this lowly lay of mine.

II

Whilome in Albion's Isle there dwelt a youth,
Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight;
But spent his days in riot most uncouth,
And vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.
Ah me in sooth he was a shameless wight,
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee;
Few earthly things found favour in his sight
Save concubines and carnal companie,

O

And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree.

5

IO

15

III

Childe Harold was he hight:°.

but whence his name

And lineage long, it suits me not to say;
Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame,
And had been glorious in another day:
But one sad losel° soils a name for aye,
However mighty in the olden time;

Nor all that heralds rake from coffined clay,
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.°

IV

Childe Harold basked him in the noontide sun,°
Disporting there like any other fly;

Nor deemed before his little day was done
One blast might chill him into misery.

But long ere scarce a third of his passed by,
Worse than adversity the Childe befell;
He felt the fulness of satiety :°

Then loathed he in his native land to dwell,

Which seemed to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell.

V

For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run,
Nor made atonement when he did amiss,
Had sighed to many though he loved but one,°
And that loved one, alas! could ne'er be his.
Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kiss
Had been pollution unto aught so chaste;
Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss,
And spoiled her goodly lands to gild his waste,
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to taste.

20

25

30

35

40

45