Childe Harolds Pilgrimage | Page 2

third of his passed
by,
Worse than adversity the Childe befell;
He felt the fulness of
satiety:
Then loathed he in his native land to dwell,
Which seemed
to him more lone than eremite's sad cell.
V.
For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run,
Nor made atonement
when he did amiss,
Had sighed to many, though he loved but one,

And that loved one, alas, could ne'er be his.
Ah, happy she! to 'scape
from him whose kiss
Had been pollution unto aught so chaste;
Who
soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss,
And spoiled her goodly
lands to gild his waste,
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned 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 congealed the drop within his e'e:
Apart he stalked in
joyless reverie,
And from his native land resolved to go,
And visit
scorching climes beyond the sea;
With pleasure drugged, he almost

longed for woe,
And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades
below.
VII.
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 pillared 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 ofttimes 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 lurked 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 gathered
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.
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 dote 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 brimmed 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.
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.
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 deemed he no strange ear was listening:
And now his fingers
o'er it he did fling,
And tuned 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 poured 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 sea-mew.
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 hall,
Its hearth is desolate;
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall,
My dog howls at the gate.
'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 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