NoT in those climes where I have late been straying, Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd, Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek To paint those charms which varied as they beam'd— To such as see thee not my words were weak; To those who gaze on thee, what language could they speak? Ah! may'st thou ever be what now thou art, Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears. Young Peri of the West!-'t is well for me And safely view thy ripening beauties shine ; 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, This much, dear maid, accord: nor question why Such is thy name with this my verse entwined; On Harold's page, Ianthe's here enshrined Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast, Such is the most my memory may desire ; Though more than hope can claim, could friendship less require? CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. A ROMAUNT. CANTO I. I. Он, thou! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth, II. Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, Few earthly things found favour in his sight, Save concubines and carnal companie, 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 noon-tide sun, Nor deem'd before his little day was done, 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 resolved 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 : It was a vast and venerable pile : So old, it seemed only not to fall, Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle. VIII. Yet oft-times, 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 his grief mote be, which he could not control. IX. And none did love him—though to hall and bower He knew them flatterers of the festal hour, The heartless parasites of present cheer. Yea, none did love him-not his lemans dear But pomp and power alone are woman's care, And where these are light Eros finds a feere; Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair. X. Childe Harold had a mother-not forgot, Though parting from that mother he did shun; Before his weary pilgrimage begun : If friends he had, he bade adieu to none. Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel: Ye who have known what 't is to dote upon A few dear objects, will in sadness feel Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal. XI. His house, his home, his heritage, his lands, The laughing dames in whom he did delight, and snowy hands, fair locks, Whose large blue eyes, Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, And long had fed his youthful appetite; His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine, Without a sigh he left to cross the brine, And traverse Paynim shores, and pass earth's central line. |