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VIII. Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow, As is 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 flatt'rers 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 feere; Maidens, like moth's, are ever caught by glare, And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair.

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Childe Harold had a mother-not forgot,
Though parting from that mother he did shun;
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not
Before his weary pilgrimage begun:
If friends he had , he bade adieu to none.

Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel ;
Ye, who have known what 'tis to doat upon

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, The laughing names in whom he did delight, Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, And long had fed his youthful appetite ; His goblets brimmed with every costly wine, And all that mote to luxury invite:

Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine, And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's central line.

XII. The sails were filled , and fair the light winds blew, As glad to waft him from his native home, And fast the white rocks faded from his view, And soon were lost in circumambient foam. And then, it may be , of his wish to roam Repented he, but in his bosom slept The silent thought, nor from his lips did come

One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept, And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept.

XIII. But when the sun was sinking in the sea He seized his harp, which he at times could string, And strike, albeit with untaught melody, When deemed he no strange ear was listening: And now his fingers o'er it he did fling, And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight. While flew the vessel on her snowy wing ,

And fleeting shores preceded from his sight, Thus to the elements he poured his last « Good Night. »

Adieu, adieu! my native shore

Fades o’er the waters blue;
The Night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,

And shrieks the wild seamew.
Yon Sun that sets upon the sea

We follow in his flight;
Farewell a while to him and thee,
My native Land—Good Night!,

2.
A few short hours and He will rise

To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,

But not my mother Earth. Deserted is my own good hall,

Its hearth is desolate;

Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;

My dog howls at the gate.

3.
« Come hither, hither, my little page!

Why dost thou weep and wail?
Cr dost thou dread the billows' rage,

Or tremble at the gale?
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye,

Our ship is swift and strong:
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly

More morrily along. »

* Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,

I fear not wave nor wind;
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that!

Am sorrowful in mind;
For I have from my father gone,

A mother whom I love.
And have no friend , save these alone,

But thee--and one above.

5. « My father blessed me fervently,

Yet did not much complain; But sorely will my mother sigh

Till I come back again. »

« Enough, enough, my little lad!

Such tears become thine eye; 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?

Sir Childe; I'm not so weak; But thinking on an absent wife

Will blanch a faithful cheek.

« My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,

Along the bordering lake,
And when they on their father call,

What answer shall she make? »
« Enough, enough, my yeomau good,

Thy grief let none gainsay; But I, who am of lighter mood, Will laugh to flee away.'

8. « For who would trust the seeming sighs

Of wife or paramour?
Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes

We late saw streaming o'er.

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