CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. A ROMAUNT. CANTO THE FIRST (1812). I. OH thou, in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth, Muse, form'd 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 wander'd by thy vaunted rill; Yes! sighed o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine,1 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, Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight; 1 The little village of Castri stands partly on the site of Delphi. 9 But spent his days in riot most uncouth, Few earthly things found favor in his sight And flaunting wassailers of high and low de gree. III. Childe Harold was he hight:— but whence his name And lineage long, it suits me not to say; Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, And had been glorious in another day; But one sad losel soils a name for aye, However mighty in the olden time; Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, Nor florid prose, nor honey'd lines of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. IV. Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide 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, |