Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. A ROMAUNT. CANTO I. TO IANTHE. Not in those climes where I have late been straying, Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deem'd; Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd Nor having seen thee shall I vainly seek To paint those charms which varied as they beam'd, To those who gaze on thee what language could they speak? Ah! may'st 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. |