When
he began that original and splendid portrait of himself, and transcript
of his travels, _Childe Harold_, he imitated Spenser in form and in
archaism. But he was possessed by the muse: the man wrote as the spirit
within dictated, as the Pythian priestess is fabled to have uttered her
oracles. _Childe Harold_ is a stream of intuitive, irrepressible poetry;
not art, but overflowing nature: the sentiments good and bad came welling
forth from his heart. His descriptive powers are great but peculiar.
Travellers find in _Childe Harold_ lightning glimpses of European scenery,
art, and nature, needing no illustrations, almost defying them. National
conditions, manners, customs, and costumes, are photographed in his
verses:--the rapid rush to Waterloo; a bull-fight in Spain; the women of
Cadiz or Saragossa; the Lion of St. Mark; the eloquent statue of the Dying
Gladiator; "Fair Greece, sad relic of departed worth;" the address to the
ocean; touches of love and hate; pictures of sorrow, of torture, of death.
Everywhere thought and glance are powerfully concentrated, and we find the
poem to be journal, history, epic, and autobiography.
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