NATURE THE CONSOLER. (CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iii. Stanzas 13-15.) WHERE rose the mountains, there to him were friends; Where roll'd 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 glass'd by sunbeams on the lake. Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, As their own beams; and earth, and earth-born jars, Could he have kept his spirit to that flight 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 THE SAME. (CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iii. Stanzas 71-75.) Is it not better, then, to be alone, And love Earth only for its earthly sake? I live not in myself, but I become Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee, And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life; Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling. And when, at length, the mind shall be all free Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm? Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part Is not the love of these deep in my heart Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow? THE POET AND THE WORLD. (CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iii. Stanzas 113, 114.) I HAVE not loved the world, nor the world me; Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles,—nor cried aloud They could not deem me one of such; I stood Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could, Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued. I have not loved the world, nor the world me,- 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 ; That two, or one, are almost what they seem, That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. BEREAVEMENT. (CHILDE HAROLD, Canto ii. Stanza 98.) WHAT is the worst of woes that wait on age? LAST LEAVING ENGLAND. CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iii. Stanzas 1, 2.) Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child! Awaking with a start, The waters heave around me; and on high The winds lift up their voices: 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! yet once more! Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail. |