On Reading Lord Byron's Childe Harold Poem by Caroline Oliphant

Naturalist of mind! thy bark sailed far
A voyage of discovery o'er the waste
Of Life's wide sea; and not to be deceived
By its bright surface and its dancing waves
Smiling in sunshine, thou didst dive beneath
Searching its hidden caves, and see
Innumerable creeping things, that dwelt
From others' sight concealed, and, with the line
Which Reason gave thee, didst attempt to sound
Immeasurable depths, examine all
The rocky grottoes where the Genii sleep,
And gathering thence a tuneful shell, didst pour
A melancholy blast, that strangely jarr'd
With the light music of the Gondolier.
In fancied safety, sailing o'er the flood,
Many have chanted ocean's loveliness,
Drawn fairy castles on her waves, whose swell
Prolonged the colonnade of wreathed shafts,
And tinged them with a deeper hue. Fair spell!
How many a wand'rer hath been lured by it,
Watching the changes wrought, and hath forgot
Morgana's sumptuous hall was not his home.
Not such thy flatt'ring picture; - thou didst fling
The slime upon the surface, troubling all
The sea-nymph's palace; but thou didst not show
Where the lone voyager might rest in peace
The stormy hours of night. Thou brought'st some spoils
From ocean's tessellated pavement - wrecks
Of human happiness, Affection's freight,
Her gold and ivory from the barren rocks,
With spicy treasures which no price could pay;
And with them specimens of coral broke
From the hard reefs, on which thy bark had struck.
Some child of waters, some fair lotus-wreath
Thy hand hath gather'd as it floated by;
And passing melody of mermaid's song
Thine ear hath caught; but from the foam arising
Thy tale was of the whirlpool and the brine.
The bitterness of waters that had whelm'd thy soul.
Poor mariner; thou didst o'erlook the chief
Of all the wonders of the deep. Hadst thou,
In that vast search, ransacking all her caverns, -
Hadst thou but seen the Pearl of price that shone
Pure, midst those turbid waters, thou hadst sung
A joyous strain, and with a worthier freight
Than seaweed torn from sunken rocks, hadst steer'd
In safety for 'The Islands of the Blest.'
Not as thy records tell: they only prove
Ocean for thee had gulfs, but held no
Gem.