Best Selling Books by George Gordon Byron

Childe Harold''s Pilgrimage: Large Print Lord George Gordon Byroning mounds, or in the vale beneath,Are domes where whilom kings did make repair;But now the wild flowers round them only breathe:Yet ruined splendour still is lingering there.And yonder towers the prince''s palace fair:There thou, too, Vathek! England''s wealthiest son,Once formed thy Paradise, as not awareWhen wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done,Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun.XXIII.Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure plan.Beneath yon mountain''s ever beauteous brow;But now, as if a thing unblest by man,Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou!Here giant weeds a passage scarce allowTo halls deserted, portals gaping wide;Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, howVain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied;Swept into wrecks anon by Time''s ungentle tide.We are delighted to publish this classic book as part of our extensive Classic Library collection. Many of the books in our collection have been out of print for decades, and therefore have not been accessible to the general public. The aim of our publishing program is to facilitate rapid access to this vast reservoir of literature, and our view is that this is a significant literary work, which deserves to be brought back into print after many decades. The contents of the vast majority of titles in the Classic Library have been scanned from the original works. To ensure a high quality product, each title has been meticulously hand curated by our staff. Our philosophy has been guided by a desire to provide the reader with a book that is as close as possible to ownership of the original work. We hope that you will enjoy this wonderful classic work, and that for you it becomes an enriching experience.

This is an annotated version of the book1.contains an updated biography of the author at the end of the book for a better understanding of the text.2.This book has been checked and corrected for spelling errors Not in those climes where I have late been straying, Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deemed, Not in those visions to the heart displaying Forms which it sighs but to have only dreamed, Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seemed: Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek To paint those charms which varied as they beamed-- To such as see thee not my words were weak;To those who gaze on thee, what language could they speak? Ah! mayst thou ever be what now thou art, Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring, As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, Love''s image upon earth without his wing, And guileless beyond Hope''s imagining! And surely she who now so fondly rears Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, Beholds the rainbow of her future years, Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears. Young Peri of the West!--''tis well for me My years already doubly number thine; My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, And safely view thy ripening beauties shine: Happy, I ne''er shall see them in decline; Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign To those whose admiration shall succeed, But mixed with pangs to Love''s even loveliest hours decreed. Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle''s, Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells, Glance o''er this page, nor to my verse deny That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh, Could I to thee be ever more than friend: This much, dear maid, accord; nor question why To one so young my strain I would commend, But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend. Such is thy name with this my verse entwined; And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast On Harold''s page, Ianthe''s here enshrined Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last: My days once numbered, should this homage past Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre Of him who hailed thee, loveliest as thou wast, Such is the most my memory may desire;Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less require?

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"In the following pages will be seen an attempt, however unsuccessful, to join together the links of the story as written by Lord Byron, and to give a regular and connected story. It has been divided into two cantos, for reasons which the reader will immediately perceive." (Advertisement.) Canto I: "The Fisherman''s Story"; Canto II: "The Confession."