II.

Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth,
Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight;
But spent his days in riot most uncouth,
And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.
Ah me! in sooth he was a shameless wight,
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee;

Few earthly things found favour in his sight1
Save concubines and carnal companie,

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 been glorious in another day:
But one sad losel soils a name for aye,
However mighty in the olden time;
Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay,
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.

IV.

Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun,

Disporting there like any other fly;

Nor deem'd before his little day was done

One blast might chill him into misery.

But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by,
Worse than adversity the Childe befell;
He felt the fulness of satiety :

Then loathed he in his native land to dwell,

Which seem'd to him more lone than eremite's sad

1

cell.

[" "He cheer'd the bad and did the good affright; ·

With concubines," &c.-MS.]

[Childe Buron."-MS.]

V.

For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run, Nor made atonement when he did amiss, Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one,1 And that loved one, alas! could ne'er be his. Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kiss Had been pollution unto aught so chaste; Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste, Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to taste

VI.

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;
'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,
But Pride congeal'd the drop within his ee:
Apart he stalk'd in joyless revery,2

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.3

1 [See Stanzas written to a Lady, on leaving England: Works, vol. vii. p. 302;—

2

["And I must from this land be gone,

Because I cannot love but one."]

["And straight he fell into a revery.”—MS.]

In these stanzas, and indeed throughout his works, we must not accept too literally Lord Byron's testimony against himself— he took a morbid pleasure in darkening every shadow of his selfportraiture. His interior at Newstead had, no doubt, been, in some points, loose and irregular enough; but it certainly never exhibited any thing of the profuse and Satanic luxury which the language in the text might seem to indicate. In fact, the narrowness of his means at the time the verses refer to would alone have precluded this. His household economy, while he remained at the Abbey, is known to have been conducted on a very moderate scale; and, besides, his usual companions, though far from being averse to convivial indulgences, were not only, as Mr. Moore

VII.

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. Monastic dome! condemn'd to uses vile! 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

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 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 the grief mote be, which he could not control.

IX.

And none did love him-though to hall and bower
He gather'd revellers from far and near,

He knew them flatterers of the festal hour;
The heartless parasites of present cheer.

Yea! none did love him—nor his lemans dear— But 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.

says, "of habits and tastes too intellectual for mere vulgar debauchery," but, assuredly, quite incapable of playing the parts of flatterers and parasites.]

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 :1 Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote 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 dames 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 brimm'd with every costly wine,
And all that mote to luxury invite,

Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine,

[line.3

And traverse Paynim shores, and pass earth's central

XII.

The sails were fill'd, 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.

1 ["Yet deem him not from this with breast of steel.”—MS.] ["His house, his home, his vassals and his lands,

2

The Dalilahs," &c.—MS.]

[Lord Byron originally intended to visit India.]

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 deem'd 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 receded from his sight, Thus to the elements he pour'd his last "Good-night.""

1.

"ADIEU, adieu! my native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue;

The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.

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 ?

1 [See Lord Maxwell's "Good Night," in Scott's Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border: Poetical Works, vol. ii. p. 141, ed. 1834"Adieu, madame, my mother dear," &c.]

2 [This "little page" was Robert Rushton, the son of one of