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Yet oft-time 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 card 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 controul.

And none did love bim-though to hall and bower
He gather'd revellers from far and near,
He knew them flatt'rers of the festal hour;
The heartless parasites of present cheer.
Yea! none did love him-not his lemans dear-
But pomp aud power alone are woman's care,
And where these are light Eros find 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 lov’d, 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.

His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,
The laughing dames in whom he did delight,
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy bands
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite,
And long he 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 Payaim shores, and pass earth's central line.

XII. The sails were filled, 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.

But when the sun was sinking in the sea
He seiz'd 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 fing,
And tun'd 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."


“ Adieu, adieu! my native shore

Fades o'er the waters blue;
The Night-winds sigh--the breakers roar,

And shrieks the wild seamew.
Yon Sun that sets upon the sea

We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native Land-Good Night!


« 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 ball,

Its hearth so desolate;
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;

My dogs howl at the gate.

3. “ Come hither, hither, my little page!

Why dost thou weep and wail? Or dost thou dread the billow's rage,

Or tremble at the gale? But dash the tear-drop from thine eye ;

Our ship is swift and strong; Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly

More merrily along."


“ Let winds be sbrill, 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,

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 guileless bosom had

Mine own would not be dry.


“ Come hither, hither my staunch yeoman,

Why dost thou look so pale ?
Or dost thou dread a French foeman ?

Or shiver at the gale?”
“ Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?

Sir Childe, I'm not so weak; But thinking on an absent wife Will blanch a faithful cheek.



“My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,

Along the bordering lake,
And when they on their father call'

What answer shall she make ?”-
« Enought, enought, my yeoman good,

Thy grief let none gainsay ; But I, who am of lighter mood,

Will laugh to flee away.


« For who would trust seeming sighs

Of wife or paramour ? Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes

We late saw streaming o'er. For pleasure past I do not greive,

Nor perils gathering near ; My greatest grief is that I leave

No thing that claims a tear.


“ And now I'm in the world alone,

Upon the wide, wide sea
But why should I for others groan,

When none will sigh for me?
Ferehance my dog will whine in vain,

Till fed by stranger hands; But long ere I come back again,

He'd tear me where he stands.


“ With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go

Atb ward the foaming brine;
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to

So not again to mine.
Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves!

And when you fail my sight, Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves !

My native Land-Good Night !"

On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone,
And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay.
Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon,
New shores descried make every bosom gay ;
And Cintra's mountain greets them on their way
And Tagus dashing onward to the deep,
His fabled golden tribute bent to pay

And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap,
And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap

XV. Ob, Christ ! it is a goodly sight to see What Heaven hath done for this delicious land ! What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree! What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand ! But man would mar them with an impious hand : And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge 'Gainst those who most trausgress his high command

With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge
Gaul's locust host, aud earth from fellest foemen purge

What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold !
Her image floating on that noble tide,
Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold,
But now whereon a thousand keels did ride
Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied,
And to the Lusians did her aid afford :
A nation swoln with ignorance and pride,

Who lick yet loath the hand that waves the sword To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing lord.

But whoso entereth within this town,
That, sheening far, celestial seems to be,
Disconsolate will wander up and down,
'Mid many things unsightly to strange ee;
For hut and palace show like filthily :
The dingy denizens are rear’d in dirt ;
Ne personage of high or mean degree
Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt,

[unhurt. Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, unwashid,

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