Then loathed 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 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 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 e'e.
Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie,

And from his native land resolved 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 seemèd 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.

VIII.

Yet ofttimes in his maddest mirthful mood, Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow

As if the memory of some deadly feud
Or disappointed passion lurk'd below:

But this none knew, nor haply cared to know:
For his was not that open, artless soul
That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow;

Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole,

Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control.

IX.

And none did love him: though to hall and bower

He gather'd revellers from far and near,

He knew them flatterers of the festal hour;
The heartless parasites of present cheer.
Yea, none did love him not his lemans
dear -

But pomp and power alone are woman's care, And where these are light Eros finds a feere; Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair.

X.

Childe Harold had a mother - not forgot, Though parting from that mother he did shun;

A sister whom he loved, but saw her not
Before his weary pilgrimage begun :

If friends he had, he bade adieu to none,

Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of

steel:

Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon A few dear objects, will in sadness feel

Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.

XI.

His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,
The laughing dames in whom he did delight,
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy
hands,

Might shake the saintship of an anchorite,
And long had fed his youthful appetite;
His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine,
And all that mote to luxury invite,

Without a sigh he left to cross the brine, And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's central line.

XII.

The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds

blew,

As glad to waft him from his native home; And fast the white rocks faded from his view, And soon were lost in circumambient foam; And then, it may be, of his wish to roam Repented he, but in his bosom slept

The silent thought, nor from his lips did

come

One word of wail, whilst others sate and

wept,

And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning

kept.

XIII.

But when the sun was sinking in the sea, He seized his harp, which he at times could string,

And strike, albeit with untaught melody,

When deem'd he no strange ear was listening: And now his fingers o'er it he did fling, And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight; While flew the vessel on her snowy wing, And fleeting shores receded from his sight, Thus to the elements he pour'd his last “Good Night."

Adieu, adieu! my native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue;

The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,

And shrieks the wild sea-mew.

Yon sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight;

Farewell a while to him and thee,
My native land — Good Night!

A few short hours, and he will rise
To give the morrow birth;

And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my mother earth.