Analysis of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A Romaunt. Canto III.
George Gordon Lord Byron 1788 (London) – 1824 (Missolonghi, Aetolia)
I.
Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child!
Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart?
When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled,
And then we parted,--not as now we part,
But with a hope.--
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.
II.
Once more upon the waters! yet once more!
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
That knows his rider. Welcome, to their roar!
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead!
Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed,
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale,
Still must I on; for I am as a weed,
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail
Where'er the surge may sweep, or tempest's breath prevail.
III.
In my youth's summer I did sing of One,
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind;
Again I seize the theme then but begun,
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind
Bears the cloud onwards: in that Tale I find
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears,
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind,
O'er which all heavily the journeying years
Plod the last sands of life,--where not a flower appears.
IV.
Since my young days of passion--joy, or pain,
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string,
And both may jar: it may be, that in vain
I would essay as I have sung to sing.
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling;
So that it wean me from the weary dream
Of selfish grief or gladness--so it fling
Forgetfulness around me--it shall seem
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme.
V.
He, who grown aged in this world of woe,
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life,
So that no wonder waits him; nor below
Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife,
Cut to his heart again with the keen knife
Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell
Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife
With airy images, and shapes which dwell
Still unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted cell.
VI.
'Tis to create, and in creating life
A being more intense, that we endow
With form our fancy, gaining as we give
The life we image, even as I do now.
What am I? Nothing; but not so art thou,
Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth,
Invisible but gazing, as I grow
Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth,
And feeling still with thee in my crush'd feeling's dearth.
VII.
Yet must I think less wildly:--I have thought
Too long and darkly, till my brain became,
In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought,
A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame:
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame,
My springs of life were poison'd. 'Tis too late!
Yet am I chang'd; though still enough the same
In strength to bear what time can not abate,
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate.
VIII.
Something too much of this:--but now 'tis past,
And the spell closes with its silent seal.
Long absent HAROLD re-appears at last;
He of the breast which fain no more would feel,
Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne'er heal;
Yet Time, who changes all, had altered him
In sould and aspect as in age: years steal
Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb;
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.
IX.
His had been quaff'd too quickly, and he found
The dregs were wormwood; but he fill'd again,
And from a purer fount, on holier ground,
And deem'd its spring perpetual; but in vain!
Still round him clung invisibly a chain
Which gall'd for ever, fettering though unseen,
And heavy though it clank'd not; worn with pain,
Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen,
Entering with every step, he took, through many a scene.
X.
Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd
Again in fancied safety with his kind,
And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd
And sheath'd with an invulnerable mind,
That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind;
And he, as one, might midst the many stand
Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find
Fit speculation! such as in strange land
He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's hand.
XI.
But who can view the ripened rose, nor seek
To wear it? who can curiously behold
The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek,
Nor feel the heart can never all grow old?
Who can contemplate Fame through clouds unfold
The sta
Scheme | ABCBCXCACAA ADEDXEFEFF AGHGHHIHJJ KLMLMMNMNN KOKOKKPKPP AKQKQQRORR KXSBSSTSTT KUVUVVWVWW IXXXLLYLYY XZHZHH1 H1 1 X2 3 2 3 3 X |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 1 1111110111 1011011101 1111111111 0111011111 1101 1101 0101011011 0111110101 10111101011 111001111111 1 1101010111 0011011101 1111010111 11110111 1011110101 00110100101 1111111101 1101110111 10011111101 1 0111011111 0100111111 0111011101 0111110101 1011001111 011110111 1101010101 101110001001 1011111101001 1 1111110111 0111011101 0111111101 1101111111 1101011111 1111110101 110111111 1011111 111111010101 1 111101111 0111100111 1111011101 1111010101 1111011011 1101100111 1111001111 1101000111 10111001101 1 1101000101 0101011101 11101010111 01110101111 1111011111 1111111101 0100110111 1111010111 01011101111 1 1111110111 1101011101 011101001 01011101 011011111 1111010111 1111110101 0111111101 011101010101 1 1011111111 0011011101 1101010111 1101111111 1101111111 1111011101 010110111 1010111101 010101110101 1 1111110011 010111101 01010111001 01110100101 1111101 111101101 0101111111 111111011 100110011111001 1 0101010111 0101010111 0111011101 0111010001 1111110101 0111110101 0101010111 101011011 110101110101 1 1111010111 11111100001 010001111 1101110111 111011101 01 |
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 4,298 |
Words | 805 |
Sentences | 42 |
Stanzas | 11 |
Stanza Lengths | 11, 10, 10, 10, 10, 10, 10, 10, 10, 10, 7 |
Lines Amount | 108 |
Letters per line (avg) | 31 |
Words per line (avg) | 7 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 300 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 73 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 4:11 min read
- 51 Views
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"Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A Romaunt. Canto III." Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 21 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/15046/childe-harold%27s-pilgrimage%3A-a-romaunt.-canto-iii.>.
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