CXIII.

I have not loved the world, nor the world me;
I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd
To its idolatries a patient knee,—

Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles,-nor cried aloud.
In worship of an echo; in the crowd

They could not deem me one of such; I stood
Among them, but not of them; in a shroud

Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could, Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued.

CXIV.

I have not loved the world, nor the world me,

But let us part fair foes; I do believe,

Though I have found them not, that there may be Words which are things, hopes which will not deceive, And virtues which are merciful, nor weave Snares for the failing: I would also deem O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve; That two, or one, are almost what they seem,— That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream.

CXV.

My daughter! with thy name this song begun-
My daughter! with thy name thus much shall end—

I see thee not,-I hear thee not, but none
Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend
To whom the shadows of far years extend:
Albeit my brow thou never should'st behold,
My voice shall with thy future visions blend,
And reach into thy heart,-when mine is cold,-
A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould.

CXVI.

To aid thy mind's development,—to watch
Thy dawn of little joys,-to sit and see
Almost thy very growth,-to view thee catch
Knowledge of objects,-wonders yet to thee!
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee,

And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss,-
This, it should seem, was not reserved for me;
Yet this was in my nature:-as it is,

I know not what is there, yet something like to this.

CXVII.

Yet, though dull hate as duty should be taught,
I know that thou wilt love me; though my name
Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught
With desolation,—and a broken claim:

Though the grave closed between us,-'twere the same,
I know that thou wilt love me; though to drain

My blood from out thy being, were an aim,

And an attainment,-all would be in vain,—

Still thou would'st love me, still that more than life retain.

CXVIII.

The child of love,-though born in bitterness, And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire These were the elements,—and thine no less. As yet such are around thee,-but thy fire Shall be more temper'd, and thy hope far higher. Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! O'er the sea, And from the mountains where I now respire, Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, As, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have been to me!

END OF CANTO THE THIRD.

CANTO THE FOURTH.

L

Visto ho Toscana, Lombardia, Romagna,

Quel Monte che divide, e quel che serra Italia, e un mare e l'altro, che la bagna.

ARIOSTO, Satira iii.

ΤΟ

JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ. A.M. F.R.S.

ETC. ETC. ETC.

VENICE, January 2, 1818.

MY DEAR HOBHOUSE,

AFTER an interval of eight years between the composition of the first and last cantos of Childe Harold, the conclusion of the poem is about to be submitted to the public. In parting with so old a friend it is not extraordinary that I should recur to one still older and better,—to one who has beheld the birth and death of the other, and to whom I am far more indebted for the social advantages of an enlightened friendship, than— though not ungrateful—I can, or could be, to Childe Harold, for any public favour reflected through the poem on the poet,-to one, whom I have known long, and accompanied far, whom I have found wakeful over my sickness and kind in my sorrow, glad in my prosperity and firm in my adversity, true in counsel and trusty in peril-to a friend often tried and never found wanting ;-to yourself.

In so doing, I recur from fiction to truth, and in dedicating to you in its complete, or at least concluded state, a poetical work which is the longest, the most thoughtful and comprehensive of my compositions, I