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 reverie,v And from his native land resolved to go, And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;26 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 seeméd only not to fall,
Yet strength was pillared in each massy aisle.
Monastic dome! condemned to uses vile!w Where Superstition once had made her den Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile;x And monks might deem their time was come agen,27 If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.
VIII. y
Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood
Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow,z As if the Memory of some deadly feud Or disappointed passion lurked 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.aa
And none did love him!—though to hall and bower28 He gathered 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—ab29 But pomp and power alone are Woman's care, And where these are light Eros finds a feere;30 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,ac Though