TO IANTHE. Nor in those climes where I have late been straying, 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, Young Peri of the West!-'tis well for me Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed, 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, Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells, This much, dear maid, accord; nor question why Such is thy name with this my verse entwined; My days once number'd, should this homage past Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast, Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less require? CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. CANTO THE FIRST. I. OH, thou! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth, Muse! form'd 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 wander'd by thy vaunted rill; Yes! sigh'd 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, And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. B III. Childe Harold was he hight:-but whence his name Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, IV. Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun, Nor deem'd before his little day was done But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by, Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, Which seem'd to him more lone than eremite's sad cell. 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 this grief mote be, which he could not control. |