XCI. And thou, my friend!"-since unavailing woe Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain— Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low, By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest! What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully to rest? XCII. Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the most! Till my XCIII. Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage: Ye who of him may further seek to know, Shall find some tidings in a future page, If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe. Is this too much? stern Critic! say not so: Patience! and ye shall hear what he beheld In other lands, where he was doom'd to go: Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were quell'd, END OF CANTO I. Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. A ROMAUNT. CANTO II. I. COME, blue-eyed maid of heaven!--but thou, alas! Didst never yet one mortal song inspire- And is, despite of war and wasting fire,' But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire Of men who never felt the sacred glow That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts bestow." |