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; 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 I. 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, (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; 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 Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, V. 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: So old, it seemed only not to fall, Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle. 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 As if the memory of some deadly feud Or disappointed passion lurk'd below: But this none knew, nor haply cared to know; That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow, IX. 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 despair. X. Childe Harold had a mother-not forgot, 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 had fed his youthful appetite; Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine, And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's central line. |