Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. A ROMAUNT. CANTO I. I. OH, thou! in Hellas deemed of heav'nly birth, Muse! formed or fabled at the minstrel's will! Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill: Yet there I've wandered by thy vaunted rill; Yes! sighed 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. II. Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, And vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of Night. And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. III. Childe Harold was he hight:-but whence his name And lineage long, it suits me not to say; Nor all that heralds rake from coffined clay, IV. Childe Harold basked him in the noon-tide sun, Nor deemed before his little day was done But long ere scarce a third of his passed by, Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, Which seemed 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 sighed to many though he loved but one, And that loved 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 spoiled her goodly lands to gild his waste, Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to taste. VI. And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, And from his native land resolved to go, With pleasure drugged he almost longed 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 pillared in each massy aisle. Monastic dome! condemned 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. |