II. Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, Few earthly things found favour in his sight And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. III. Childe Harold was he hight:-but whence his name And lineage long, it suits me not to say; Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, And had been glorious in another day: Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, IV. Childe Harold bask'd him in the noon-tide sun, Nor deem'd before his little day was done But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by, Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell. V. For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run, Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, And spoil'd 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 native land resolved to go, And visit scorching climes beyond the sea; With pleasure drugg'd he almost long'd 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 pillar'd in each massy aisle. Monastic dome! condemn'd 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 haply cared to know; 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 flatt'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; 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, Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands, And long had fed his youthful appetite; His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine, Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine, And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's central line. |