Childe harold pilgrimage
“But who can view the ripen’d rose, nor seek To wear it? who can curiously behold The smoothness and the sheen of beauty’s cheek, Not feel the heart can never all grow old? Who can contemplate Fame through clouds unfold The star which rises o’er her steep, nor climb? Harold, once more within the vortex, roll’d On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth’s fond prime.
But soon he knew himself the most unfit Of men to herd with Man; with whom he held Little in common; untaught to submit His thoughts to others, though his soul was quell’d In youth by his own thoughts; still uncompell’d, He would not yield dominion of his mind To spirits against whom his own rebell’d; Proud though in desolation; which could find A life within itself, to breathe without mankind.
Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends; Where roll’d the ocean, thereon was his home; Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends, He had the passion and the power to roam; The desert, forest, cavern, breaker’s foam, Were unto him companionship; they spake A mutual language, clearer than the tome Of his land’s tongue, which he would oft forsake For Nature’s pages glass’d by sunbeams on the lake.
Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, Till he had peopled them with beings bright As their own beams; and earth, and earth-born jars, And human frailties, were forgotten quite: Could he have kept his spirit to that flight He had been happy; but this clay will sink Its spark immortal, envying it the light To which it mounts, as if to break the link That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its brink.”
This slowly unravels veshches like:
Question of wordsworthian solution
history can be pushed to the side
he was anti imperial, but this provided no cure for Byron, quite the opposite he got more infected by that
there is no maturity in byron’s adventure
against giving in desire (wordsworth). he wants to be absorbed
but poetry is a form of visualization, worsworth visualizes himself in tinternabi, boyish appetite.
desire for the new, for the vital, but it cannot provide the cure
he uses history to bring his poem to a close, historical struggle
undo the pretentions of the human beings
he was very fond of animals
he does not believe in the illusion that there is humanitarianism in empire. he doesnt think its all for the best
he was the first celebrity
the solution is to keep writing, keep living
digression – there is no original motivation. just an excuse to speak
transgression, people enjoy the transgression
there is no innocence
literature is not medicine, its just experience. there is no cure
the moral is that we always are under the shadow of death
if you are not busy living you are too busy dying