CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE A ROMAUNT TO IANTHE NOT in those climes where I have late been straying, Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deem'd, Not in those visions to the heart displaying Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd, Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd: To paint those charms which varied as they beam'd- To those who gaze on thee what language could they speak? Ah! may'st thou ever be what now thou art, Young Peri of the West !-'tis well for me 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 mix'd with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours decreed. Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle's, Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells, This much, dear maid, accord; nor question why Such is thy name with this my verse entwined; My days once number'd, should this homage past Of him who hail'd thee loveliest, as thou wast, Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less require ? CANTO THE FIRST 1812 I. OH, thou! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth, II. Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. III. Childe Harold was he hight :-but whence his name And lineage long, it suits me not to say; Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, And had been glorious in another day: IV. Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun, Nor deem'd before his little day was done But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by, Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell. V. For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run, VI. And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, And from his native land resolv'd to go, And visit scorching climes beyond the sea: With pleasure drugg'd, he almost long'd for woe, And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below. VII. The Childe departed from his father's hall; So old, it seemed only not to fall, Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle. Where Superstition once had made her den, VIII. Yet ofttimes, in his maddest mirthful mood, Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow, As if the memory of some deadly feud Or disappointed passion lurk'd below: But this none knew, nor haply cared to know; For his was not that open, artless soul That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow; Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control. IX. And none did love him—though to hall and bower He gather'd revellers from far and near, He knew them flatterers of the festal hour; The heartless parasites of present cheer. Yea! none did love him—not his lemans dear- And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair. |