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Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun,
Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's
V. For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run, Nor made atonement when he did amiss, Had sigh'd 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 spoil'd her goodly lands to gilt his waste, Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to taste.
vi. And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, And from his fellow bacchanals would flee; 'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start, But Pride congeal'd the drop within his ee: Apart he stalk d in joyless reverie, 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'n 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 strenght was pillar'd in each massy aisle. Monastic dome! condemn'd 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 dissappointed 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
And none did love him—though to hall and bower He gather'd 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 dearBut 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
Childe Harold had a mother-not forgot,
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel
XI. His house, his home, his heritage, his lands, The laughing dames in whom he did delight,
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy
Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine, And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's
XII. The sails were filld, and fair the light winds
blew, As glad to waft him from his native home; And fast the white rocks faded from his view, And soon were lost in circumambient foam : And then, it may be, of his wish to roam Repented he, but in his bosom slept The silent thought, por from his lips did come
One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept, And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept.
XIII. But when the sun was sinking in the sea He seized his harp, which he at times could
string, And strike, albeit with untaught melody, When deem'd he no strange ear was listening: And now his fingers o'er it he did fling, And tuned his farewell in the dim twil While flew the vessel on her snowy wing, And fleeting shores receded from his sight. Thus to the elements he pour'd his last « Good Night. »
Fades o'er the waters blue;
And shrieks the wild seamew.
We follow in his flight;
My native Land-Good Night!
“ A few short hours and He will rise
To give the Morrow birth;
But not my mother Earth.
Its hearth is desolate;
My dog howls at the gate.
« Come hither, hither, my little page!
Why dost thou weep and wail ?
Or tremble at the gale?
Our ship is swift and strong :
4. "Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,
I fear not wave nor wind;
Am sorrowful in mind;
A mother whom I love,
Yet did not much complain;
Till I come back again.'-
Such tears become thine eye;
Why dost thou look so pale ?
Or dost thou dread a French foeman?
Or shiver at the gale ?,,
Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;
7. “My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,
Along the bordering lake,
What answer shall she make?' —
Thy grief let none gainsay; But I, who am of lighter mood,
Will laugh to flee away.
For pleaperils gath is that I
“For who would trust the seeming sighs
Of wife or paramour ?
We late saw streaming o'er.
Nor perils gathering near;
Upon the wide, wide sea :
When none will sigh for me?
Till fed by stranger hands; But long ere 'I come back again,
He'd tear me where he stands.
“ With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine;
So not again to mine.
And when you fail my sight,
W. So not what land ng brine