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; 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; And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair. X. 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; 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 The silent thought, nor from his lips did come XIII. But when the sun was sinking in the sea He seized his harp, which he at times could string, When deemed he no strange ear was listening: And fleeting shores preceded from his sight, I. ADIEU, adieu! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue; The Night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild seamew. 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! Or dost thou dread the billows' rage, But dash the tear-drop from thine eye Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly More merrily along. » 4. « 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. »- α 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? « Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? But thinking on an absent wife Will blanch a faithful cheek. 7. « 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, 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. |