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Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.

A ROMAUNT.

B

TO IANTHE.

NOT in those climes where I have late been straying,
Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deem'd ;
Not in those visions to the heart displaying

Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd,
Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd:

Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek

To paint those charms which varied as they beam'd—
To such as see thee not my words were weak;

To those who gaze on thee what language could they speak?

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