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 car'd to know; For his was not that open, artless soul Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, Whate'er his 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 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; If friends he had, he bade adieu to none. Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel; 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, 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 then, it may be, of his wish to roam The silent thought, nor from his lips did come XIII. But when the sun was sinking in the sea He seiz'd his harp, which he at times could string, When deem'd he no strange ear was listening: And now his fingers o'er it he did fling, And tun'd his farewell in the dim twilight. And fleeting shores receded from his sight, Thus to the clements he pour'd his last " Good Night." 1. "ADIEU, adieu! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue; The Night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild seamew. "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. 3. "Come hither, hither, my little page! But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly More merrily along.” 4. '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 above. |