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"Come hither, hither, my little page ! *
Why dost thou weep and wail?

Or dost thou dread the billows' rage,
Or tremble at the gale?

But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;
Our ship is swift and strong:
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly

More merrily along."

"Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,

I fear not wave nor wind:

Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, † that I

Am sorrowful in mind;

For I have from my father gone,
A mother whom I love,

And have no friend, save these alone,
But thee-and one above.

"My father bless'd me fervently,
Yet did not much complain;
But sorely will my mother sigh
Till I come back again."—
"Enough, enough, my little lad!
Such tears become thine eye;
If I thy guileless bosom had,
Mine own would not be dry.

"Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,
Why dost thou look so pale?

Or dost thou dread a French foeman ?

Or shiver at the gale?"

The "little page" was Robert Rushton, the son of one of Lord Byron's tenants. The boy being sickly, his master, on reaching Gibraltar, sent him back to England.

+ Childe was a title anciently applied to both knights and squires, and was adopted by Lord Byron as in keeping with the old English style which he sparingly scattered through the two first cantos of the poem.

GOOD NIGHT TO ENGLAND.

"Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?
Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;

But thinking on an absent wife

Will blanch a faithful cheek.*

"My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,

Along the bordering lake,

And when they on their father call,
What answer shall she make ?"-
"Enough, enough, my yeoman good,
Thy grief let none gainsay;
But I, who am of lighter mood,
Will laugh to flee away."

For who would trust the seeming sighs
Of wife or paramour ?

Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes

We late saw streaming o'er.

For pleasures past I do not grieve,

Nor perils gathering near;
My greatest grief is that I leave
No thing that claims a tear.

And now I'm in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea:
But why should I for others groan,
When none will sigh for me?
Perchance my dog will whine in vain,
Till fed by stranger hands;

But long ere I come back again

He'd tear me where he stands.

*Notwithstanding that the "staunch yeoman," who was William Fletcher, the poet's valet, is made in this stanza to disclaim being timid, he was, in reality, the reverse of valiant, and sighed for home comforts,-beer, beaf, and tea,-quite as much as for his absent wife.

3

With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine;

Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,
So not again to mine.

Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves;
And when you fail my sight,

Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves:

My native Land-Good Night.

CHILDE HAROLD.-Canto I.

THE BOUNDARY BETWEEN SPAIN AND PORTUGAL.

WHERE Lusitania and her Sister meet, Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide? Or ere the jealous queens of nations greet, Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide? Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride? Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall?Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall, Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land from Gaul:

But these between a silver streamlet glides,
And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook,
Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides.
Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook,
And vacant on the rippling waves doth look,
That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow;
For proud each peasant as the noblest duke:
Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know
"Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low.

CHILDE HAROLD.-Canto I.

VANITY OF MARTIAL GLORY.

5

VANITY OF MARTIAL GLORY.

*

Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,
His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun,
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon;
Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon
Flashing afar,-and at his iron feet

Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done;
For on this morn three potent nations meet,

To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.

By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there)
Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery,

Their various arms that glitter in the air!

What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair, And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey! All join the chase, but few the triumph share; The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array.

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;

Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies;
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory!
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,
Are met as if at home they could not die-
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain,

And fertilise the field that each pretends to gain.

*The Giant is Battle personified.

There shall they rot-Ambition's honour'd fools!
Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay!
Vain sophistry! in these behold the tools,
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away

By myriads, when they dare to pave their way
With human hearts-to what?-a dream alone.
Can despots compass aught that hails their sway?
Or call with truth one span of earth their own,
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone?

CHILDE HAROLD.-Canto I.

PARNASSUS.

OH, thou Parnassus! whom I now survey,
Not in the phrensy of a dreamer's eye,
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay,

But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky,
In the wild pomp of mountain-majesty!
What marvel if I thus essay to sing ?

The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by

Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string,
Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave her
wing.

Oft have I dream'd of Thee! whose glorious name
Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore:
And now I view thee, 'tis, alas, with shame
That I in feeblest accents must adore.
When I recount thy worshippers of yore
I tremble, and can only bend the knee;
Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar,
But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy

In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee!

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