Analysis of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A Romaunt. Canto IV.
George Gordon Lord Byron 1788 (London) – 1824 (Missolonghi, Aetolia)
I.
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
A palace and a prison on each hand:
I saw from out the wave her structures rise
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand:
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying Glory smiles
O'er the far times, when many a subject land
Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles,
Where Venice sate in state, thron'd on her hundred isles!
II.
She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,
Rising with her tiara of proud towers
At airy distance, with majestic motion,
A ruler of the waters and their powers:
And such she was; her daughters had their dowers
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East
Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers.
In purple was she rob'd, and of her feast
Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity increas'd.
III.
In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,
And silent rows the songless gondolier;
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,
And music meets not always now the ear:
Those days are gone -- but Beauty still is here.
States fall, arts fade -- but Nature doth not die,
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,
The pleasant place of all festivity,
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!
IV.
But unto us she hath a spell beyond
Her name in story, and her long array
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond
Above the dogeless city's vanish'd sway;
Ours is a trophy which will not decay
With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor,
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away --
The keystones of the arch! though all were o'er,
For us repeopl'd were the solitary shore.
V.
The beings of the mind are not of clay;
Essentially immortal, they create
And multiply in us a brighter ray
And more belov'd existence: that which Fate
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state
Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied,
First exiles, then replaces what we hate;
Watering the heart whose early flowers have died,
And with a fresher growth replenishing the void.
VI.
Such is the refuge of our youth and age,
The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy;
And this worn feeling peoples many a page,
And, maybe, that which grows beneath mine eye:
Yet there are things whose strong reality
Outshines our fairy-land; in shape and hues
More beautiful than our fantastic sky,
And the strange constellations which the Muse
O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse:
VII.
I saw or dream'd of such -- but let them go;
They came like truth -- and disappear'd like dreams;
And whatsoe'er they were -- are now but so:
I could replace them if I would; still teems
My mind with many a form which aptly seems
Such as I sought for, and at moments found;
Let these too go -- for waking Reason deems
Such overweening fantasies unsound,
And other voices speak, and other sights surround.
VIII.
I've taught me other tongues, and in strange eyes
Have made me not a stranger; to the mind
Which is itself, no changes bring surprise;
Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find
A country with -- ay, or without mankind;
Yet was I born where men are proud to be --
Not without cause; and should I leave behind
The inviolate island of the sage and free,
And seek me out a home by a remoter sea,
IX.
Perhaps I lov'd it well: and should I lay
My ashes in a soil which is not mine,
My spirit shall resume it -- if we may
Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine
My hopes of being remember'd in my line
With my land's language: if too fond and far
These aspirations in their scope incline,
If my fame should be, as my fortunes are,
Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar
X.
My name from out the temple where the dead
Are honour'd by the nations -- let it be --
And light the laurels on a loftier head!
And be the Spartan's epitaph on me --
'Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.'
Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need;
The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree
I planted: they have torn me, and I bleed:
I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.
XI.
The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord;
And annual marriage now no more renew'd,
The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored,
Neglected garment of her widowhood!
St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood
Stand, but in mockery of his wither'd power,
Over he proud Place where an Emperor sued,
And monarchs gaz'd and envied in the hour
When Venice was a queen w
Scheme | ABCBDCECEE AFGFGXHGHH AIJIKKAJLL MDNCNNXNOI LNPNPPQPQX ARLRALSASX MTUTUUVUVV MBWBWWLWLL BNXNXXYXYY XZLZLL1 L1 1 LX2 CCXO2 OX |
---|---|
Poetic Form | Tetractys (30%) |
Metre | 1 1101010111 0100010111 1111010101 1101100101 0101110101 0110010101 100111100011 110110101 110101110101 1 110111110 10100101110 11010101010 01010100110 0111010111 111100011 10011101010 0101110101 1101110001 1 010110111 01010101 01001100101 010111101 1111110111 1111110111 1101110111 0101110100 010101011100 1 1101110101 0101000101 11011111 010110101 10101011101 1011001 00110111101 0110111010 111001001 1 0101011111 0100010101 010010101 0101010111 01011101101 11010111001 111010111 100011101011 010101010001 1 11010110101 0111011100 01110101001 0101110111 11111110 1101010101 11001100101 001010101 10011011101 1 1111111111 111100111 01101111 111111111 11110011101 1111101101 1111110101 1110001 010101010101 1 1111010011 1111010101 1101110101 1111111111 0101110111 1111111111 1011011101 001001010101 0111011011 1 0111110111 1100011111 1101011111 11010011 11110010011 1111011101 101001101 1111111101 1101010101001 1 1111010101 111010111 01010101001 01011011 101100100111 111110011 0111111101 1101111011 111111111101 1 01010101 01001011101 011101 01010101 1111110111 110100111010 10111111001 0110100010 110101100 |
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 4,286 |
Words | 804 |
Sentences | 27 |
Stanzas | 11 |
Stanza Lengths | 10, 10, 10, 10, 10, 10, 10, 10, 10, 10, 10 |
Lines Amount | 110 |
Letters per line (avg) | 30 |
Words per line (avg) | 7 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 302 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 73 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 4:09 min read
- 65 Views
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"Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A Romaunt. Canto IV." Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 6 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/15044/childe-harold%27s-pilgrimage%3A-a-romaunt.--canto-iv.>.
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