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Ink. Are you so far advanced as to hazard this? Tra. Why, Do you think me subdued by a Blue-stocking's eye, So far as to tremble to tell her in rhyme What I've told her in prose, at the least, as sublime?

Ink. As sublime? If it be so, no need of my Muse.

Tra. But consider, dear Inkel, she's one of the "Blues."

Ink. As sublime!-Mr. Tracy-I've nothing to say.

Stick to prose-As sublime!!-But I wish you good day.

Tra. Nay, stay, my dear fellow-consider-I'm

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ECLOGUE THE SECOND.

An Apartment in the House of Lady Bluebottle. A Table prepared.

Sir Richard Bluebottle solus.
Was there ever a man who was married so sorry?
Like a fool, I must needs do the thing in a hurry.
My life is reversed, and my quiet destroy'd;
My days, which once pass'd in so gentle a void,
Must now, every hour of the twelve, be employ'd;
The twelve, do I say ?-of the whole twenty-four,
Is there one which I dare call my own any more?
What with driving and visiting, dancing and dining,
What with learning, and teaching, and scribbling
and shining,

In science and art, I'll be curst if I know
Myself from my wife; for although we are two,
Yet she somehow contrives that all things shall be
done

In a style which proclaims us eternally one.
But the thing of all things which distresses me

more

Than the bills of the week (though they trouble me sore)

Is the numerous, humourous, backbiting crew
Of scribblers, wits, lecturers, white, black, and blue,

Who are orought to my house as an inn, to my cost-
For the bill here, it seems, is defray'd by the host-
No pleasure! no leisure! no thought for my pains,
But to hear a vile jargon which addles my brains;
A smatter and chatter, glean'd out of reviews,
By the rag, tag, and bobtail of those they call the
"BLUES;"

A rabble who know not-But soft, here they come! Would to God I were deaf! as I'm not, I'll be dumb.

Enter Lady Bluebottle, Miss Lilac,_Lady
Bluemount, Mr. Botherby, Inkel, Tracy,
Miss Mazarine, and others, with Scamp
the Lecturer, &c., &c.

Lady Blueb. Ah! Sir Richard, good morning:
I've brought you some friends.

Sir Rich. (bows, and afterwards aside). If friends, they're the first.

Lady Blueb. But the luncheon attends, I pray ye be seated, sans cérémonie."

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Mr. Scamp, you're fatigued; take your chair there [They all sit.

next, me.

Sir Rich. (aside.) If he does, his fatigue is to

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Lady Bluem.

Both.

You're too bad.
Very good!

Lady Bluem. How good?

Lady Bluem.

Lady Blueb. He means nought-'tis his phrase.

He grows rude.

Lady Blueb. He means nothing; nay, ask him. Lady Bluem.

What you said?

Ink.

Pray, sir! did you mean

Never mind if he did; 'twill be seen

That whatever he means won't alloy what he says. Both. Sir!

Ink. Pray be content with your portion of praise; 'Twas in your defence.

Both.

If you please, with submission,

I can make out my own. Ink.

It would be your perdition. While you live, my dear Botherby, never defend Yourself or your works; but leave both to a friend.

Apropos-Is your play then accepted at last?
Both. At last?

Ink. Why I thought-that's to say-there had pass'd

A few green-room whispers, which hinted—you

know

That the taste of the actors at best is so-so. Both. Sir, the green-room's in rapture, and so's the Committee.

Ink. Ay-yours are the plays for exciting our

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pity And fear," as the Greek says: for "purging the mind,"

I doubt if you'll leave us an equal behind.
Both. I have written the prologue, and meant to
have pray'd

For a spice of your wit in an epilogue's aid.
Ink. Well, time enough yet, when the play's to
be play'd.
Is it cast yet?

Both. The actors are fighting for parts, As is usual in that most litigious of arts.

(1) Grange is or was a famous pastry-cook and fruiterer in Piccadilly.

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Lady Blueb. We'll all make a party, and go the
first night.

Tra. And you promised the epilogue, Inkel.
Ink.

Not quite.
However, to save my friend Botherby trouble
I'll do what I can, though my pains must be
double.

Tra. Why so?
Ink.
Both. Sir, I'm happy to
that score.

To do justice to what goes before. say, I've no fears on

Your parts, Mr. Inkel, are-
Ink.

Stick to those of your play, own line.

Never mind mine; which is quite your

Lady Bluem. You're a fugitive writer, I think, sir, of rhymes ?

Ink. Yes, ma'am; and a fugitive reader, some-
times.

On Wordswords, for instance, I seldom alight,
Or on Mouthy, his friend, without taking to flight.
Lady Bluem. Sir, your taste is too common; but
time and posterity

Will right these great men, and this age's severity
Become its reproach.
Ink.
I've no sort of objection,
So I'm not of the party to take the infection.
Lady Blueb. Perhaps you have doubts that they
ever will take?

Ink. Not at all; on the contrary, those of the lake

Have taken already, and still will continue
To take-what they can, from a groat to a guinea,
Of pension or place ;-but the subject's a bore.
Lady Bluem. Well, sir, the time's coming.
Scamp! don't you feel sore?

Ink.

What say you to this?
Scamp.
They have merit, I own;
Though their system's absurdity keeps it unknown.
Ink. Then why not unearth it in one of your lec-
tures?

Scamp. It is only time past which comes under

my strictures.

Lady Blueb. Come, a truce with all tartness ;the joy of my heart

Is to see Nature's triumph o'er all that is art.
Wild Nature!-Grand Shakspeare!

Both.

And down Aristotle ! Lady Bluem. Sir George thinks exactly with Lady Bluebottle:

And my Lord Seventy-four, who protects our dear Bard,

And who gave him his place, has the greatest regard

For the poet, who, singing of pedlars and asses, Has found out the way to dispense with Parnassus. Tra. And you, Scamp!

Scamp. I needs must confess I'm embarrass'd. Ink. Don't call upon Scamp, who's already so harass'd

With old schools, and new schools, and no schools, and all schools.

Tra. Well, one thing is certain, that some must be fools.

I should like to know who.

Ink. And I should not be sorry To know who are not:-it would save us some

Lady Blueb. A truce with remark, and let nothing control

This "feast of our reason and flow of the soul."
Oh! my dear Mr. Botherby! sympathise!—I
Now feel such a rapture, I'm ready to fly,
I feel so elastic-"so buoyant-so buoyant!" 1
Ink. Tracy! open the window.
I wish her much joy on 't.
Both. For God's sake, my Lady Bluebottle,
check not

Tra.

This gentle emotion, so seldom our lot

Upon earth. Give it way: 'tis an impulse which lifts

Our spirits from earth; the sublimest of gifts; For which poor Prometheus was chain'd to his mountain:

'Tis the source of all sentiment-feeling's true fountain;

'Tis the Vision of Heaven upon Earth: 'tis the gas Of the soul! 'tis the seizing of shades as they pass, And making them substance: 'tis something divine!

Ink. Shall I help you, my friend, to a little more wine ?

Both. I thank you; not any more, sir, till I dine. Ink. Apropos-Do you dine with Sir Humphrey to-day ?

Tra. I should think with Duke Humphrey was more in your way.

Ink. It might be of yore; but we authors now look

To the Knight, as a landlord, much more than the Duke.

The truth is, each writer now quite at his ease is, And (except with his publisher) dines where he pleases.

But 'tis now nearly five, and I must to the Park.
Tra. And I'll take a turn with you there till 'tis
dark.
And you, Scamp—
Scamp.
For my lecture next week.

Ink.

Excuse me! I must to my notes

He must mind whom he quotes

Out of "Elegant Extracts."
Lady Blueb.

Well, now we break up;
But remember Miss Diddle invites us to sup.
Ink. Then at two hours past midnight we all
meet again,

For the sciences, sandwiches, hock, and champagne!
Tra. And the sweet lobster salad!
Both.
I honour that meal,
For 'tis then that our feelings most genuinely-feel.
Ink. True; feeling is truest then, far beyond

question:

I wish to the gods 'twas the same with digestion!
Lady Blueb. Pshaw!-never mind that; for one
Is worth-God knows what.
moment of feeling

"Tis at least worth concealing
-But here comes your

Ink.
For itself, or what follows-

carriage.

Sir Rich. [aside]; I wish all these people were dd with my marriage!

END OF ECLOGUE THE SECOND.

[Exeunt.

worry,

(1) Fact from life, with the words.

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage :

A ROMAUNT.

"L'univers est une espèce de livre, dont on n'a lu que la première page quand on n'a vu que son pays. J'en ai feuilleté un assez grand nombre, que j'ai trouvé également mauvaises. Cet examen ne m'a point été infructueux. Je haissais ma patrie. Toutes les impertinences des peuples divers, parmi lesquels j'ai vécu, m'ont réconcilié avec elle. Quand je n'aurais tiré d'autre bénéfice de mes voyages que celui-là, je n'en regretterais ni les frais ni les fatigues."-LE COSMOPOLITE.

PREFACE TO THE FIRST AND SECOND

CANTOS.

THE following poem was written, for the most part, amidst the scenes which it attempts to describe. It was begun in Albania; and the parts relative to Spain and Portugal were composed from the author's observations in those countries. Thus much it may be necessary to state for the correctness of the descriptions. The scenes attempted to be sketched are in Spain, Portugal, Epirus, Acarnania, and Greece. There, for the present, the poem stops: its reception will determine whether the author may venture to conduct his readers to the capital of the East, through Ionia and Phrygia; these two cantos are merely experimental.

strikes me; for, if I mistake not, the measure which I have adopted admits equally of all these kinds of authority, and by the example of some in the highest composition." Strengthened in my opinion by such order of Italian poets, I shall make no apology for attempts at similar variations in the following comtheir failure must be in the execution rather than in position; satisfied that, if they are unsuccessful, the design, sanctioned by the practice of Ariosto, Thomson, and Beattie.

LONDON, February, 1812.

ADDITION TO THE PREFACE.

I HAVE now waited till almost all our periodical journals have distributed their usual portion of criticism. To the justice of the generality of their criticisms I have nothing to object: it would ill become me to quarrel with their very slight degree of censure, when, perhaps, if they had been less kind, they had been more candid. Returning, therefore, to all and each my best thanks for their liberality, on one point alone shall I venture an

A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of giving some connection to the piece; which, however, makes no pretensions to regularity. It has been suggested to me by friends, on whose opinions I set a high value, that in this fictitious character, "Childe Harold," I may incur the suspicion of having intended some real personage; this I beg leave once for all to disclaim. Harold is a child of imagination, for the purpose I have stated. In some very trivial particulars, and those merely local, there might be grounds for such a notion; but in the main points, I should hope, observation. Amongst the many objections justly none whatever.

It is almost superfluous to mention that the appellation "Childe," as "Childe Waters," "Childe Childers," &c., is used as more consonant with the old structure of versification which I have adopted. The "Good Night," in the beginning of the first canto, was suggested by "Lord Maxwell's Good Night," in the Border Minstrelsy, edited by Mr. Scott.

With the different poems which have been published on Spanish subjects, there may be found some slight coincidence in the first part which treats of the Peninsula; but it can only be casual, as, with the exception of a few concluding stanzas, the whole of this poem was written in the Levant. The stanza of Spenser, according to one of our most successful poets, admits of every variety. Dr. Beattie makes the following observation :-"Not long ago, I began a poem in the style and stanza of Spenser, in which I propose to give full scope to my inclination, and be either droll or pathetic, descriptive or sentimental, tender or satirical, as the humour

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urged to the very indifferent character of the "vagrant Childe" (whom, notwithstanding many hints to the contrary, I still maintain to be a fictitious personage), it has been stated that, besides the anachronism, he is very unknightly, as the times of the knights were times of Love, Honour, and so forth. Now, it so happens that the good old times, when "l'amour du bon vieux temps, l'amour antique,' flourished, were the most profligate of all possible centuries. Those who have any doubts on this subject may consult Sainte-Palaye, pussim, and more particularly vol. ii. p. 69. The vows of chivalry were no better kept than any other vows whatsoever; and the songs of the Troubadours were not more decent, and certainly were much less refined, than those of Ovid. The "Cours d'amour, parlemens d'amour, ou de courtésie et de gentilesse," had much more of love than of courtesy or gentleness. See Roland on the same subject with Saint-Palaye. Whatever other objection may be urged to that most unamiable personage, Childe Harold, he was so far perfectly knightly in his

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sans peur,

attributes-"No waiter but a knight templar."1 By-the-bye, I fear that Sir Tristrem and Sir Lancelot were no better than they should be, although very poetical personages and true knights, though not "sans reproche." If the story of the institution of the "Garter" be not a fable, the knights of that order have for several centuries borne the badge of a Countess of Salisbury, of indifferent memory. So much for chivalry. Burke need not have regretted that its days are over, though Marie-Antoinette was quite as chaste as most of those in whose honour lances were shivered and knights unhorsed.

Before the days of Bayard, and down to those of Sir Joseph Banks (the most chaste and celebrated of ancient and modern times), few exceptions will

be found to this statement: and I fear a little investigation will teach us not to regret these monstrous mummeries of the middle ages.

I now leave "Childe Harold " to live his day, such as he is. It had been more agreeable, and certainly more easy, to have drawn an amiable character. It had been easy to varnish over his faults, to make him do more and express less; but he never was intended as an example, further than to show that early perversion of mind and morals leads to satiety of past pleasures and disappointment in new ones, and that even the beauties of nature and the stimulus of travel (except ambition, the most powerful of all excitements) are lost on a soul so constituted, or rather misdirected. Had I proceeded with the poem, this character would have deepened as he drew to the close; for the outline which I once meant to fill up for him was, with some exceptions, the sketch of a modern Timon, perhaps a poetical Zeluco.

LONDON, 1813.

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. 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 mix'd with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours

decreed.

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TO IANTHE.2

NOT in those climes where I have late been straying,

Though Beauty long hath there been matchless

deem'd,

Not in those visions to the heart displaying Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd, Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd: Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek

To paint those charms which varied as they beam'd

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,

The Rovers, or the Double Arrangement. (2) Lady Charlotte Harley, daughter of the Earl of Oxford, afterwards Lady C. Bacon. (3) The little village of Castri stands partly on the site of Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, from Chrysso, are the remains of sepulchres hewn in and from the rock; "one," said the guide, "of a king who broke his neck hunting." His majesty had certainly chose the fittest spot for such an

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.

1812.

CANTO THE FIRST.

I.

Он, thou, in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth, Muse, form'd 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 wander'd by thy vaunted rill; Yes! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine,3 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.

achievement. A little above Castri is a cave, supposed the Pythian, of immense depth; the upper part of it is paved, and now a cow-house. On the other side of Castri stands a Greek monastery; some way above which is the cleft in the rock, with a range of caverns difficult of ascent, and apparently leading to the interior of the mountain, probably to the Corycian Cavern mentioned by Pausanias. From this part descend the fountain and the "Dews of Castalie."

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