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 flee;

'T is 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 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.
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 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 where these are light Eros finds a fere;
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,

And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair.

Newstead Abbey.

"The Childe departed from his father's hall: It was a vast and venerable pile."