1565

1570

The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war,
'Arms and the Man,' whose re-ascending star
Rose o'er an empire: but beneath thy right
Tully reposed from Rome; and where yon bar
Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight

The Sabine farm was till'd, the weary bard's delight.

CLXXV.

But I forget. My Pilgrim's shrine is won,

And he and I must part—so let it be:
His task and mine alike are nearly done;

Yet once more let us look upon the sea;
The midland ocean breaks on him and me,
And from the Alban Mount we now behold

Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when we
Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold

1575 Those waves, we follow'd on till the dark Euxine roll'd

1580

CLXXVI.

Upon the blue Symplegades. Long years-
Long, though not very many-since have done
Their work on both; some suffering and some tears
Have left us nearly where we had begun:

Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run;
We have had our reward, and it is here,-
That we can yet feel gladden'd by the sun,
And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear
As if there were no man to trouble what is clear.

585

CLXXVII.

Oh that the Desert were my dwelling-place,
With one fair Spirit for my minister,

1590

1595

1600

1605

1610

That I might all forget the human race,
And, hating no one, love but only her!
Ye Elements, in whose ennobling stir
I feel myself exalted, can ye not
Accord me such a being? Do I err

In deeming such inhabit many a spot,

Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot?

CLXXVIII.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes,
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:
I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be or have been before,

To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet can not all conceal.

CLXXIX.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean-roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin-his control
Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain.
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown.

CLXXX.

His steps are not upon thy paths, thy fields
Are not a spoil for him, thou dost arise.

And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields 1615 For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,

Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,

And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,

1620 And dashest him again to earth: there let him lay.

1625

1630

1635

1643

CLXXXI.

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake
And monarchs tremble in their capitals,
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee and arbiter of war,

These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar.

CLXXXII.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save theeAssyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy waters wash'd them power while they were free, And many a tyrant since; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts: - not so thou, Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play; Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow; Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

CLXXXIII.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,

1645

1650

1655

1660

Calm or convulsed-in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving;-boundless, endless, and sublime-
The image of Eternity- the throne

Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime

The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

CLXXXIV.

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward. From a boy
I wanton'd with thy breakers they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror-'t was a pleasing fear,
For I was as it were a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane

as I do here.

my song hath ceased - my theme

Has died into an echo; it is fit

The spell should break of this protracted dream.
The torch shall be extinguish'd which hath lit
My midnight lamp — and what is writ, is writ,—
Would it were worthier! but I am not now

That which I have been

- and my visions flit

Less palpably before me

and the glow

1665 Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low.

CLXXXVI.

Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been

A sound which makes us linger; - yet - farewell!

1670

Ye, who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene
Which is his last, if in your memories dwell

A thought which once was his, if on ye swell
A single recollection, not in vain.

He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop-shell;
Farewell! with him alone may rest the pain,
If such there were with you, the moral of his strain!

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON.

NOTES.

The Castle of Chillon completes the picturesque beauty of the crescent-shaped Lake of Geneva. The bright blue waters of the lake are surrounded by steep mountains, the lower slopes of which are vine-covered, while the summits cut the air in fantastic forms. At the end of the lake, the valley of the Rhone opens toward higher peaks, dimly seen and flashing with snow. The serrated Dent du Midi, however, closes the view from most points. The white castle, satisfying all ideals of a castle aroused by fairy-tale and romance, stands on a little island so close to the shore that

it appears to project into the lake. People were apparently imprisoned here as early as the ninth century. François Bonivard, whose name Byron erroneously spelled Bonnivard, lived in the sixteenth century. Byron did not know much about him when he wrote the poem. He said later: "When this poem was composed, I was not sufficiently aware of the history of Bonnivard, or I should have endeavored to dignify the subject by an attempt to celebrate his courage and his virtues."

The real Bonivard began life as a Roman Catholic and inherited from an uncle a rich priory near the city of Geneva, that carried with it the title of prior. He became, however, a reformer and an ardent republican. "As soon as I began to read the history of nations," he wrote, "I felt drawn by a strong preference for republics, the interests of which I always espoused." The Duke of Savoy opposed the liberties of Geneva, and Bonivard, especially in 1519, helped to defend the city from his attacks. In 1530 he fell for the second time into the power of the Duke, who imprisoned him in Chillon for six years. During the first two years he had fairly comfortable quarters; then "the Duke visited Chillon, and

the Captain thrust me into a cell lower than the lake, where I lived four years. I had so little space for walking that I wore in the rock which was the pavement a little path or track