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What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each loved one blotted from life's page, And be alone on earth, as I am now. Before the Chastener humbly let me bow, O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroy'd : Roll on, vain days full reckless may ye flow, Since Time hath rest whate'er my soul enjoy’d, And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy'd.

end OF CANTO THE SECOND.

CAN TO TIIE THIRD. * Afin que cette application vous forcât de penser à autre chose ; il n'y a en vérité de remède que celui-là et le temps.o Lettre du Roi de Prusse à D'Alembert, Septembre 7, 1776.

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CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE.

canto THE Thirt D.

I.

Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child!
ADA! sole daughter of my house and heart?
When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled,
And then we parted,—not as now we part,
But with a hope.— -

Awaking with a start,
The waters heave around me; and on high
The winds list up their voices: I depart,
Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by,

When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine

eye.

II.
Once more upon the waters! yet once more!
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
That knows his rider. Welcome to the roar!
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead!
Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed,
And the rent canvass fluttering strew the gale,
Still must I on ; for I am as a weed,
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam to sail

Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath

prevail.

III.

In my youth's summer I did sing of One, The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind; Again I seize the theme, then but begun, And bear it with me, as the rushing wind Bears the cloud onwards: in that Tale I find The surrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind, O'er which all heavily the journeying years Plod the last sands of life, where not a flower appears.

IV.
Since my young days of passion—joy, or pain,
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string,
And both may jar: it may be, that in vain
I would essay as I have sung to sing.
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling
So that it wean me from the weary dream
Of selfish grief or gladness—so it fling
Forgetfulness around me—it shall seem
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme.

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He, who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him; nor below Can love or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife, Cut to his heart again with the keen knife Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rise With airy images, and shapes which dwell Still unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted cell.

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