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Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.

A ROMAUNT.

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;
Not in those visions to the heart displaying
Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd
Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd:
Nor having seen thee shall I vainly seek
To paint those charms which varied as they beam'd,

To such as see thee not my words were weak,
To those who gaze on thee what language could they speak?

Ah! may'st thou ever be what now thou art,
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring,
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart,
Love's image upon earth without his wing,
And guileless beyond Hope's imagining!
And surely she who now so fondly rears
Thy youth, in thee thus hourly brightening,

Beholds the rainbow of her future years,
Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears.

Young Peri of the West!—'tis well for me
My years already doubly number thine;
My loveless eye unmov'd may gaze on thee,
And safely view thy ripening beauties shine;
Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline,
Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed,
Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign, #

To those whose admiration shall succeed,
But mixed with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours decreed.

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