Oh! let that eye, which wild as the Gazelle's,
Now brightly bold, or beautifully shy,

Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells,
Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny
That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh,
Could I to thee be ever more than friend,

This much, dear maid, accord-nor question why
To one so young my strain I would commend,
But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend.

Such is thy name with this my verse entwin'd;
And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast
On Harold's page-Ianthe's here enshrin'd
Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last;
My days once number'd-should this homage past
Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre

Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast,
Such is the most my memory may desire,

Though more than Hope can claim-could Friendship less

require?

I.

Oн, thou! in Hellas deem'd of heav'nly birth,
Muse! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will!
Since sham'd full oft by later lyres on earth,
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill:
Yet there I've wander'd by thy vaunted rill;
Yes! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine,'
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine
To grace so plain a tale-this lowly lay of mine.

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
One blast might chill him into misery.

But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by,
Worse than adversity the Childe befell;
He felt the fulness of satiety :

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,
Had sigh'd to many though he lov'd but one,
And that lov'd one, alas! could ne'er be his.
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 fellow bacchanals would flee;
'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,
But Pride congeal'd the drop within his ee:
Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie,

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.