Had been pollution unto aught so chaste; Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, And spoiled her goodly lands to gild his waste, Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to taste. VI. And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, 'T is said, at times the sullen tear would start, And from his native land resolved to go, And visit scorching climes beyond the sea; With pleasure drugged he almost longed 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 pillared 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 lurked 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 gathered 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 But pomp and power alone are woman's care, And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair. |