CHILDE HAROLD'S

PILGRIMAGE.

A ROMAUNT.

CANTO I.

I.

On, thou! in Hellas deemed of heav'nly birth,

Muse! formed or fabled at the minstrel's will!
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill:
Yet there I've wandered by thy vaunted rill;
Yes! sighed o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine,
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine
To grace so plain a tale-this lowly lay of mine.

II.

Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth,
Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight;

But spent his days in riot most uncouth,

And vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.
Ah, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight,
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee;

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:
But one sad losel soils a name for aye,
However mighty in the olden time;

Nor all that heralds rake from coffined clay,
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme
Cau blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.

IV.

Childe Harold basked him in the noon-tide sun,

Disporting there like any other fly;

Nor deemed before his little day was done
One blast might chill him into misery. ›

But long ere scarce a third of his passed by,
Worse than adversity the Childe befelli
He felt the fulness of satiety :

Then loathed he in his native land to dwell,

Which seemed to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell.

V.

For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run,
Nor made atonement when he did amiss,
Had sighed to many though he loved but one,
And that loved one, alas! could ne'er be his.
Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kiss
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,
And from his fellow bacchanals would fleej;
'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,
But Pride congealed the drop within his ee:
Apart he stalked in joyless reverie,

And from his native land resolved to go;
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;
With pleasure drugged he almost longed for woe,
And c'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. Monastic dome! condemned to uses vile! Where Superstition once had made her den Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile; And monks might deem their time was come agen, If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.

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 flatt'rers 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.