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 entwin'd; Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast, Though more than Hope can claim-could Friendship less require? I. Oн, thou! in Hellas deem'd of heav'nly birth, IV. Childe Harold bask'd him in the noon-tide sun, Disporting there like any other fly; Nor deem'd before his little day was done But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by, Then loath'd 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, VI. And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, And from his native land resolv'd 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 seemed 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. |