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 From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the Universe, and feel What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal.
The Poetry of Byron, 1788
Nature’s fragmentary might, Let it remain unfathom’d, and in fright,
As the ancients understood it well,
The feeling of that glow betwixt the night,
And it shall take its flight,
A sudden sound from the ocean swell,
In the breath of tranquil sleep,
Hold fast thine soul, and plunge the depth,
Elysian qualities gather beneath the scales of fate,
The change of epochs takes their seat.
Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto II
To the Icy Ocean, in a barque of light, The path of commerce must embark, The sceptre hangs with shining bright, Till golden mists shall drift to dark. Their soft waves bidding me forget That I am bound by brine and sand. Thus still I roam, my heart unset, Upon the verdant, willing land.
The Island
When I beheld the heaven’s azure dome, The naked vigor of the sun’s domain, And when I saw the heart of one fair stone, Me wandered deep in joy, untainted pain. Could I that had a fool’s own vision hold, An eye upon the beauty of the wood, And find the storm of winter in the cold, The spirit of my body understood.
Manfred: A Dramatic Poem
Ode to the West Wind
Mighty Spirit! thou art a life and breath, That stirs the bosom of a warden free, Thy pangs of chaos linger yet in death, My muscles throb beneath the sway of thee. If thou art gentle in thy fair embrace, Let me not feel the shadow; remove me blind, To nature’s hint, a silent agony,
And let the beauty rest upon my mind.
From “The Prisoner of Chillon”
I came back from the hills of fruitless verdure, Each rose was touching history’s edge,—
From silence strikes the thunder’s madness, Its folds of symmetry salute the pledge. I founded lost waves’ hoary wisdom, The fissured golden dawn still paints the flounders, Here with the woodlands, horns of mountain’s thrill. I grasp the pulse of earth, the fog of founders.
The Siege of Corinth
When a heart is weary, and the mind at rest, What would become of a dream that hath decayed? In nature’s lap, I laid my blessed nest, The ark of wishes that the stars have laid. And nature spread her softening hand on edge, Nurture a throbbing heart, immovable from pain, And I walked far, and danced with dew from hedge, Yet I am rapt by oceans, joy, and rain.
The Giaour
A human heart reflects the glimmering stream, Waves skirmish as a knight within Their beauty gleamed amid the sunlight’s theme, Where sense, and vainness ’twas not pure yet seen, Nor for health at prize have I but prize within. The tree I chained in visage shines with prayer, The moon that passes engulfs the air, O sovereign being, flow, and bloom, and share.
Beppo
Upon a knoll in France, I swept my soul, Desire ignites the fabric of the light, And still the shadow beckons with its toll, A rustic spring, a moment in the night. See where I tread! Cast devours the burn, And still the earth can feel the stubborn stake; Let winter’s cowl adorn the branch’s turn, And light once more to conquer every ache.
The Lament of Tasso
Born when the spring has fled, and slumber lies, By every hue across this breathing mold, What grasped shall hold one embittered sigh,— A wish however vain shall leave you cold. Yet still I walk beneath the steady dusk, Repose, until the starry earth needs tell. To cloak the featureless, in new delight, The nature’s way, among the sable bells.
The Dream
As dusk began to darken every bower, The hollow sound forgot the body’s pang, Where nature, filled in watching happy hour, Still waits, beneath the shade and summer sang. A period frozen in a bird’s own flight, The peace unspoken, lodges near the heart; Let thunder roll, then holder take delight, For in the vision rests a spirit’s art.
The Bride of Abydos
O Lake of Geneva, hear my prayer, Upon the twilight memories fade, And smiles that lightly play is fair, By thee do shadows tell the last parade. Let me rest between the sorrows meet, The very hills fall gently to your feet. Each note of quiet fills the air above, Nurtured by dreams, O lake, for thee I love.
From “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage” Canto III
Nature shall sing my hymn in sovereign breath, And ripening shores shall bear the bloom of things, As if the groups of care transfixed by death, Would rise above the earth on nature’s wings. Let winter’s curse be stormed with absent light, And let my heart once more escape the yoke; Thus on life’s peril, shine its raw delight, To blossom where the eye of nature spoke.
The Siege of Corinth
Now hear the sunset glide beneath,
Whate’er befalls the wayward eye;
Within the shade of solitary sheath,
Above the mountains bending sigh.
What remains is still the gentle night,
And beauty clasped does weave the boon,
To see what stands in timeless light,
With nature’s calm that speaks too soon.
The Chamois Hunter
I rove the hills, a wanderer in air, From cloud to cloud, unfold the path of ease, Green carpets growing, and awaken lures that dare, To glimpse the voiceless charms of hidden seas.
Yet as I close, the light is dark at hand, And nature’s breath shall mark my very sight To feel the freedom rivet my command, As earth adjusted beams and waves unite.
A Fragment of a Poem
Wherever I go, the woods shall await, With never smoother soil by nature’s hand, Allured by every tribute sent awake, That made me stronger, night and suffering stand. The fingers shall rejoice in blushing shade text, The surging thundering streams shall thrive,
With nature torn in worlds, thus blest,
I wander not alone, and yet for life.
Byron’s natural poem.
♀
- George Gordon Lord Byron