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; 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 ? TO IANTHE. Not in those climes where I have late been straying, Though Beauty long hath there been matchless Not in those visions to the heart displaying 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, Young Peri of the West!-'tis well for me 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; 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? CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. CANTO I. 1. Oh, 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, 1) Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still; Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine To grace so plain a tale-this lowly lay of mine. II. Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, Few earthly things found favour in his sight 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; Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, IV. Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun, Nor deem'd before his little day was done Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell. V. For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run, Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, And spoil'd her goodly lands to gilt 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 native land resolved to go, With pleasure drugg'd he almost long'd for woe, And e'n for change of scene would seek the shades below. VII. The Childe departed from his father's hall: So old, it seemed only not to fall, Yet strenght was pillar'd in each massy aisle. |