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But one sad losel soils a name for aye,
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme
. IV. 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 befel ; 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
For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run,
And spoild 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 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 wo, And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades
a VII. The Childe departed from his father's håll: It was a vast and venerable pile; So old, it seemed only not to fall, Yet strength was pillard in each massy aisle. Monastic dome! condemned 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 hap'ly card to know ; For bis 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
IX. And none did love him—though to hall and bower He gather'd revellers from far and near, He knew them fatt'rers of the festal hour; The heartless parasites of present cheer. Yea! none did love him-not his lemans dearBut 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.
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; Ye, who have known what 'tis to doat 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, And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's cen.
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.
And fleeting shores receded from his sight,
4 ADIEU, adieu! my native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue ;
And shrieks the wild seamew.
We follow in his flight;
My native land-Good Night!:
To give the Morrow birth;
But not my mother Earth.
Its hearth is desolate ; .
My dog howls at the gate.
- 3. .
Why dost thou weep and wail ?
Or dost thou dread the billows' rage,
Or tremble at the gale?
Our ship is swift and strong:
More merrily along?"
* Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,
I fear not wave nor wind;
Am sorrowful in mind;
A mother whom I love,
But thee-and one above,
My father bless'd me fervently;
Yet did not much complain ; But sorely will my mother sigh
Till I come back again.'“ Enough, enough, my little lad!
Such tears become thine eye: If I thy guiltless bosom had
Mine own would not be dry.
" Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,
Why dost thou look so pale ?
Or shiver at the gale?”
Sir Childe, I'm not so weak; But thinking on an absent wife .
Will blanch a faithful cheek.