George Gordon Byron

CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE
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L.

 But thou, exulting and abounding river!
 Making thy waves a blessing as they flow
 Through banks whose beauty would endure for ever,
 Could man but leave thy bright creation so,
 Nor its fair promise from the surface mow
 With the sharp scythe of conflict,—then to see
 Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know
 Earth paved like Heaven; and to seem such to me
 Even now what wants thy stream?—that it should Lethe be.
 

LI.

   A thousand battles have assailed thy bankh5,
 But these and half their fame have passed away,
 And Slaughter heaped on high his weltering ranks:
 Their very graves are gone, and what are they?
 Thy tide washed down the blood of yesterday,
 And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream
 Glassed with its dancing light the sunny ray;
 But o'er the blackened memory's blighting dream
 Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem.
 

LII.

 Thus Harold inly said, and passed along,
 Yet not insensible to all which here
 Awoke the jocund birds to early song
 In glens which might have made e'en exile dear:
 Though on his brow were graven lines austere,
 And tranquil sternness which had ta'en the place
 Of feelings fierier far but less severe,
 Joy was not always absent from his face,
 But o'er it in such scenes would steal with transient trace.
 

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