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NoT in those climes where I have late been straying,
Though beauty long hath there been matchless deem'd;
Not in those visions to the heart displaying

Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd,
Hath aught like thee, in truth or fancy, seem'd:

Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek

To paint those charms which varied as they beam'd—

To such as see thee not my words were weak;

To those who gaze on thee, what language could they speak?

Ah! may'st thou ever be what now thou art,
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring,
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart,
Love's image upon earth without his wing,
And guileless beyond hope's imagining!
And surely she who now so fondly rears
Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening,
Beholds the rainbow of her future years,

Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears.

Young Peri of the West!-'t is well for me
My years already doubly number thine;
My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee,

And safely view thy ripening beauties shine ;
Happy I ne'er shall see them in decline,
Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed,
Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign

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,
Now brightly bold or beautifully shy,
Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells,
Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny
That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh,
Could I to thee be ever more than friend;

This much, dear maid, accord: nor question why
To one so young my strain I would commend,
But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend.

Such is thy name with this my verse entwined;
And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast

On Harold's page, Ianthe's here enshrined
Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last:
My days once number'd, should this homage past
Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre

Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast,

Such is the most my memory may

desire ;

Though more than hope can claim, could friendship less require?





Он, 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,*
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;
Nor mote shell awake the weary Nine,
To grace so plain a tale-this lowly lay of mine.

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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 sight,

Save concubines and carnal companie,

And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree,


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.


Childe Harold bask'd him in the noon-tide 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 cell.


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,
And that loved one, alas! could ne'er be his.
Ah, happy she! to 'scape from nim 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.


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 reverie,

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.


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.


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 his grief mote be, which he could not control.


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-not 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.


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 't is to dote upon

A few dear objects, will in sadness feel

Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.


His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,

The laughing dames in whom he did delight,

and snowy


fair locks, Whose large blue eyes, 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,

And traverse Paynim shores, and pass earth's central line.

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