CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, A ROMAUNT. CANTO I. I. Oh, thou! in Hellas deemed of heav'nly birth, Muse! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will! Since sham'd 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! sighed o'er Delphi's long deserted shrine, (1) 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. 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 beeu glorious in another day : Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, IV. Childe Harold bask'd him in the noon-tide sun, Nor deem'd before his little day was done Then, loathed he in his native land to dwell, For he through Sin's long labyrinth bad run, And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, And from his native land resolv'd to go, 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. Where Superstition once had made her den VIII. Yet oft-time 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 car'd to know; That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow, Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, Whate'er his grief mote be, which he could not controul. And none did love him-though to hall and bower Yea! none did love him-pot his lemans dear- X. Childe Harold had a mother-not forgot, Before his weary pilgrimage begun : If friends he had, he bade adieu to none. Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel; A few dear objects, will in sadness feel Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal. XI. His house, his home, his heritage, his lands, Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, And long he fed his youthful appetite! His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine, And all that mote to luxury invite, Without a sigh he left to cross the brine, And traverse Payaim shores, and pass earth's central line. XII. The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew, The silent thought, nor from his lips did come But when the sun was sinking in the sea He seiz'd his harp, which he at times could string, And fleeting shores receded from his sight, 1. "Adieu, adieu! my native shore The Night-winds sigh-the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild seamew. Yon Sun that sets upon the sea Farewell awhile to him and thee, 2. "A few short hours, and He will rise Its hearth so desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; My dogs howl at the gate. 3. "Come hither, hither, my little page! But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly 4. "Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, I fear not wave nor wind; Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I Am sorrowful in mind; For I have from my father gone, A mother whom I love, And have no friend save these alone 5. "My father bless'd me fervently, If I thy guileless bosom had Mine own would not be dry. 6. "Come hither, hither my staunch yeoman, Why dost thou look so pale? Or dost thou dread a French foeman? Or shiver at the gale?" "Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? But thinking on an absent wife B |