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 congealed the drop within his ee
Apart he stalked in joyless reverie,

And from his native land resolved to go,

And visit scorching climes beyond the sea:

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.

VIII

Yet oft-times 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 lurked below:

But this none knew, nor haply cared to know;

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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.

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IX

And none did love him: though to hall and bower
He gathered revellers from far and near,
He knew them flatt'rers 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 brimmed 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.

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XII

The sails were filled, 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.

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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 deemed he no strange ear was listening:

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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 poured his last 'Good Night.'

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My native Land

- Good Night!

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V

'My father blessed me fervently,
Yet did not much complain;
But sorely will my mother sigh
Till I come back again.' -
'Enough, enough, my little lad!
Such tears become thine eye;
If I thy guileless bosom had,
Mine own would not be dry.

VI

'Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,° Why dost thou look so pale?

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'My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,
Along the bordering lake,°

And when they on their father call,
What answer shall she make?'
'Enough, enough, my yeoman good,
Thy grief let none gainsay :

But I, who am of lighter mood,

Will laugh to flee away.'

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