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, To paint those charms which varied as they beam'd; Ah! mayst thou ever be what now thou art, Young Peri of the West!-'tis well for me Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed, To those whose admiration shall succeed, But mixed with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours decreed. Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle's, Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells, This much, dear maid, accord; nor question why Such is thy name with this my verse entwined; My days once number'd, should this homage past Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast, Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less require? OH, thou! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth, II. Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. III. C 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; But one sad lozel soils a name for aye, However mighty in the olden time; 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 noontide sun, Nor deem'd before his little day was done One blast might chill him into misery. 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, 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, 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 seemèd 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: 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. |