145 | He that has sail’d upon the dark blue sea |
Has view’d at times, I ween, a full fair sight; | |
When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be, | |
The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight; | |
Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right, | |
150 | The glorious main expanding o’er the bow, |
The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight, | |
The dullest sailer wearing bravely now, | |
So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow. | |
XVIII | |
And oh, the little warlike world within! | |
155 | The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy,1 |
The hoarse command, the busy humming din, | |
When, at a word, the tops are mann’d on high: | |
Hark, to the Boatswain’s call, the cheering cry! | |
While through the seaman’s hand the tackle glides; | |
160 | Or schoolboy Midshipman that, standing by, |
Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides, | |
And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides. | |
XIX | |
White is the glassy deck, without a stain, | |
Where on the watch the staid Lieutenant walks: | |
165 | Look on that part which sacred doth remain |
For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks, | |
Silent and fear’d by all – not oft he talks | |
With aught beneath him, if he would preserve | |
That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks | |
170 | Conquest and Fame: but Britons rarely swerve |
From law, however stern, which tends their strength to nerve. | |
XX | |
Blow! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale! | |
Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray; | |
Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail, | |
175 | That lagging barks may make their lazy way. |
Ah! grievance sore, and listless dull delay, | |
To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze! | |
What leagues are lost, before the dawn of day, | |
Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, | |
180 | The flapping sail haul’d down to halt for logs like these! |
XXI | |
The moon is up; by Heaven, a lovely eve! | |
Long streams of light o’er dancing waves expand; | |
Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe: | |
Such be our fate when we return to land! | |
185 | Meantime some rude Arion’s restless hand |
Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love; | |
A circle there of merry listeners stand, | |
Or to some well-known measure featly move, | |
Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove. | |
XXII | |
190 | Through Calpe’s straits survey the steepy shore; |
Europe and Afric on each other gaze! | |
Lands of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky Moor | |
Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate’s blaze: | |
How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, | |
195 | Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown, |
Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase; | |
But Mauritania’s giant-shadows frown, | |
From mountain-cliff to coast descending sombre down. | |
XXIII | |
‘Tis night, when Meditation bids us feel | |
200 | We once have loved, though love is at an end: |
The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal, | |
Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend. | |
Who with the weight of years would wish to bend, | |
When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy? | |
205 | Alas! when mingling souls forget to blend, |
Death hath but little left him to destroy? | |
Ah! happy years! once more who would not be a boy? | |
XXIV | |
Thus bending o’er the vessel’s laving side, | |
To gaze on Dian’s wave-reflected sphere, | |
210 | The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride, |
And flies unconscious o’er each backward year. | |
None are so desolate but something dear, | |
Dearer than self, possesses or possess’d | |
A thought, and claims the homage of a tear; | |
215 | A flashing pang! of which the weary breast |
Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest. | |
XXV | |
To sit on rocks, to muse o’er flood and fell, | |
To slowly trace the forest’s shady scene, | |
Where things that own not man’s dominion dwell, | |
220 | And mortal foot hath ne’er or rarely been; |
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, | |
With the wild flock that never needs a fold; | |
Alone o’er steeps and foaming falls to lean; | |
This is not solitude; ’tis but to hold | |
225 | Converse with Nature’s charms, and view her stores unroll’d. |
XXVI | |
But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, | |
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, | |
And roam along, the world’s tired denizen, | |
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless; | |
230 | Minions of splendour shrinking from distress! |
None that, with kindred consciousness endued, | |
If we were not, would seem to smile the less | |
Of all that flatter’d, follow’d, sought, and sued; | |
This is to be alone; this, this is solitude! | |
XXVII | |
235 | More blest the life of godly eremite, |
Such as on lonely Athos may be seen, | |
Watching at eve upon the giant height, | |
Which looks o’er waves so blue, skies so serene, | |
That he who there at such an hour hath been | |
240 | Will wistful linger on that hallow’d spot; |
Then slowly tear him from the witching scene, | |
Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot, | |
Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot. | |
XXVIII | |
Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track | |
245 | Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind; |
Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack, | |
And each well known caprice of wave and wind; | |
Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find, | |
Coop’d in their winged sea-girt citadel; | |
250 | The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind, |
As breezes rise and fall and billows swell, | |
Till on some jocund morn – lo, land! and all is well. | |
XXIX | |
But not in silence pass Calypso’s isles,1 | |
The sister tenants of the middle deep; | |
255 | There for the weary still a haven smiles, |
Though the fair goddess long hath ceased to weep, | |
And o’er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep | |
For him who dared prefer a mortal bride: | |
Here, too, his boy essay’d the dreadful leap | |
260 | Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide; |
While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen doubly sighed. | |
XXX | |
Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone: | |
But trust not this; too easy youth, beware! | |
A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne, | |
265 | And thou may’st find a new Calypso there. |
Sweet Florence! could another ever share | |
This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine: | |
But check’d by every tie, I may not dare | |
To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine, | |
270 | Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine. |
XXXI | |
Thus Harold deem’d, as on that lady’s eye | |
He look’d, and met its beam without a thought, | |
Save Admiration glancing harmless by: | |
Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote, | |
275 | Who knew his votary often lost and caught, |
But knew him as his worshipper no more, | |
And ne’er again the boy his bosom sought: | |
Since now he vainly urged him to adore, | |
Well deem’d the little God his ancient sway was o’er. | |
XXXII | |
280 | Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze, |
One who, ’twas said, still sigh’d to all he saw, | |
Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze, | |
Which others hail’d with real or mimic awe, | |
Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law; | |
285 | All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims: |
And much she marvell’d that a youth so raw | |
Nor felt, nor feign’d at least, the oft-told flames, | |
Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely anger dames. | |
XXXIII | |
Little knew she that seeming marble heart, | |
290 | Now mask’d in silence or withheld by pride, |