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 this 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; Yea! none did love him-not his lemans dear- 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 If friends he had, he bade adieu to none. Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel; 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; 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. B XII. The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds blew, As glad to waft him from his native home; 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, 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 fleeting shores receded from his sight, 1 "ADIEU, adieu! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild seamew. My native land-Good Night! 2 "A few short hours and He will rise Its hearth is desolate ; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall 1; My dog howls at the gate. 3 Come hither, hither, my little page! But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; Our ship is swift and strong: 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 I 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, My father bless'd me fervently, Come luther, hither. my staunch yeoman, Why dost thou look so pale? Of dost thou dread a French focman, Of slaver at the gale Doom'st thou 1 tremble for my life? Su Chalde, I'm not so weak; But thinking on an absent wife Wall blanch a faithful cheek. 4 My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, Along the bordering lake, Thy grief let none gainsay; Will laugh to flee away. |