work worthy of the better days of our history. For me, "Non movero mai corda Ove la turba di sue ciance assorda." What Italy has gained by the late transfer of nations, it were useless for Englishmen to inquire, till it becomes ascertained that England has acquired something more than a permanent army and a suspended Habeas Corpus; it is enough for them to look at home. For what they have done abroad, and especially in the South, "Verily they will have their reward," and at no very distant period. Wishing you, my dear Hobhouse, a safe and agreeable return to that country whose real welfare can be dearer to none than to yourself, I dedicate to you this poem in its completed state; and repeat once more how truly I am ever Your obliged And affectionate friend, BYRON. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. CANTO IV. I. I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; (1) I saw from out the wave her structures rise O'er the far times, when many a subject land Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles! II. She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, (2) And such she was ;—her daughters had their dowers Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity increased. III. In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, (3) IV. But unto us she hath a spell beyond And Pierre, can not be swept or worn awayThe keystones of the arch! though all were o'er, For us repeopled were the solitary shore. V. The beings of the mind are not of clay; And more beloved existence: that which Fate Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied VI. Such is the refuge of our youth and age, And the strange constellations which the Muse VII. I saw or dream'd of such,-but let them go- And other voices speak, and other sights surround. VIII. I've taught me other tongues-and in strange eyes Have made me not a stranger; to the mind Which is itself, no changes bring surprise; Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find A country with-ay, or without mankind; Yet was I born where men are proud to be, Not without cause; and should I leave behind The inviolate island of the sage and free, And seek me out a home by a remoter sea, IX. Perhaps I loved it well; and should I lay X. My name from out the temple where the dead Are honour'd by the nations-let it beAnd light the laurels on a loftier head! And be the Spartan's epitaph on me— "Sparta hath many a worthier son than he." (4) Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need; The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted, they have torn me,-and I bleed: I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed. XI. The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord; And, annual marriage now no more renew'd, The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, Neglected garment of her widowhood! St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood (5) Stand, but in mockery of his wither'd power, Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued, And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour When Venice was a queen with an unequall'd dower. |