XCI. And thou, my friend! (19)-since unavailing woe By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest! What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully to rest? XCII. Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the most! XCIII. Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage: Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were quell'd. END OF CANTO I. Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. A ROMAUNT. CANTO II. I. COME, blue-eyed maid of heaven!-but thou, alas! Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire Of men who never felt the sacred glow That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts bestow. (2) F |