But one sad losel soils a name for aye, Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. 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, Nor made atonement when he did amiss, Had sigh'd to many though he lov'd 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 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, With pleasure drugg'd he almost long'd for wo, And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below. VII. The Childe departed from his father's hall: So old, it seemed only not to fall, Yet strength was pillar'd 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 car'd 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 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, Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine, And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's central line. 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. 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 deem'd 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 pour'd his last "Good Night." 1. "ADIEU, adieu! my native shore The Night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild seamew. Yon Sun that sets upon the sea 2. "A few short hours and He will rise But not my mother Earth. Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; My dog howls at the gate. 3. "Come hither, hither, my little page! VOL. I.B Or dost thou dread the billows' rage, Or tremble at the gale? But dash the tear drop from thine eye; 4. 'Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, Am sorrowful in mind; For I have from my father gone, A mother whom I love, And have no friend, save these alone, "Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, Why dost thou look so pale? Or dost thou dread a French foeman? '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. |