14
Not in those climes where I have late been straying,
Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deemed,
Not in those visions to the heart displaying
Forms which it sighs but to have only dreamed,
Hath aught like thee in Truth or Fancy seemed:
Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek
To paint those charms which varied as they beamed—
To such as see thee not my words were weak;
To those who gaze on thee what language could they speak?
Ah! may'st thou ever be what now thou art,
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy Spring—
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart,
Love's image upon earth without his wing,15 And guileless beyond Hope's imagining! And surely she who now so fondly rears Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, Beholds the Rainbow of her future years, Before whose heavenly hues all Sorrow disappears.
Young Peri of the West!—'tis well for me
My years already doubly number thine;16 My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, And safely view thy ripening beauties shine; Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline; Happier, that, while all younger hearts shall bleed, Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign To those whose admiration shall succeed, But mixed with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours decreed.
Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the Gazelle's,
Now brightly bold or beautifully shy,
Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells,17 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 name18 with this my verse entwined; And long as kinder eyes a look shall casti On Harold's page, Ianthe's here enshrined Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last: My days once numbered—should this homage past Attract thy fairy fingers near the Lyre Of him who hailed thee loveliest, as thou wast— Such is the most my Memory may desire; Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less require?j
Canto the First.
I.19
Oh, thou! in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth,k Muse! formed or fabled at the Minstrel's will! Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,l20 Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred Hill: Yet there I've wandered by thy vaunted rill;m Yes! sighed o'er Delphi's long deserted shrine, 1.B. 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;
But spent his days in riot most uncouth,
And vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.
Ah me! in sooth he was a shameless wight,
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee;n Few earthly things found favour in his sighto Save concubines and carnal companie, And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree.21
III.
Childe Harold was he hight:22—but whence his namep 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 ay,23 However mighty in the olden time; Nor all that heralds rake from coffined clay, Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme,q Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.
IV.
Childe Harold basked him in the Noontide sun,r Disporting there like any other fly; Nor deemed before his little day was done One blast might chill him into misery. But long ere scarce a third of his passed by, Worse than Adversity the Childe befell; He felt the fulness of Satiety: 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,s Nor made atonement when he did amiss, Had sighed to many though he loved but one,t24 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,u And from his fellow Bacchanals would flee; 'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start, But Pride congealed the drop within his ee:25 Apart he stalked in joyless
