SOLITUDE. [Childe Harold, Canto iv.] OH! that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister, That I might all forget the human race, From toil to rest, and joy in every change. Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave! Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave; Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease! Whom slumber soothes not cannot please pleasure And, hating no one, love but only her! stir I feel myself exalted - - Can ye not Accord me such a being? Do I err In deeming such inhabit many a spot? Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: I love not Man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal hath tried, We promise-hope-believe - there Thy glorious gulf, unconquered Salamis ! breathes despair, O'er every feature of that still pale face, Had sorrow fixed what time can ne'er erase: The tender blue of that large loving eye Their azure arches through the long ex By blood or ink; 'tis sweet to put an end To strife; 'tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, Particularly with a tiresome friend: Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels; Dear is the helpless creature we defend Against the world; and dear the schoolboy spot We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, Is first and passionate love — it stands alone, Like Adam's recollection of his fall; The tree of knowledge has been plucked-all's known And life yields nothing further to recall Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown, No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven Fire which Prometheus filched for us from heaven. |