File:Childe Harold's pilgrimage - a romaunt (1869) (14776132941).jpg

Identifier: haroldspilgram00byro (find matches)
Title: Childe Harold's pilgrimage : a romaunt
Year: 1869 (1860s)
Authors: Byron, George Gordon Byron, Baron, 1788-1824 Skelton, Percival
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Publisher: London : John Murray
Contributing Library: Getty Research Institute
Digitizing Sponsor: Getty Research Institute

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be, shall I notFeel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm 1The bodiless thought 1 the Spirit of each spot 1<tf which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot 1 LXXV. Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a partOf me and of my soul, as I of them 1Is not the love of these deep in my heartWith a pure passion 1 should I not contemnAll objects, if compared with these 1 and stemA tide of suffering, rather than forego►Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegmOf those whose eyes are only turnd below,Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow ? LXXVI. But this is not my theme ; and I returnTo that which is immediate, and requireThose who find contemplation in the urn,To look on One, whose dust was once all fire,A native of the land where I respireThe clear air for a while—a passing guest,Where he became a being,—whose desireWas to be glorious ; twas a foolish quest,The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed all rest. CANTO III. childe harolds pilgrimage 1G3
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BOSQUET VK JHLili lxxvii. Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau,The apostle of affliction, he who threwEnchantment over passion, and from woeWrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew 1G4 childe harolds pilgrimage CANTO III. The breath which made him wretched; yet he knewHow to make madness beautiful, and castOer erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hueOf words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they pastThe eyes, which oer them shed tears feelingly and fast. LXXVIII. His love was passions essence :—as a treeOn fire by lightning, with ethereal flameKindled he was, and blasted ; for to beThus, and enamourd, were in him the same.But his was not the love of living dame,Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams,But of ideal beauty, which becameIn him existence, and oerflowing teemsAlong his burning page, distemperd though it seems. LXXIX. This breathed itself to life in Julie, thisInvested her with all thats wild and sweet;This hallowd, too, the memorable kissWhich every morn his feverd

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