One, who in stern ambition's pride, TO THOMAS MOORE. My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea; But, before I go, Tom Moore, Here's a double health to thee! Here's a sigh to those who love me, Though the ocean roar around me, Were 't the last drop in the well, Ere my fainting spirit fell, 'T is to thee that I would drink. With that water, as this wine, The libation I would pour Should be peace with thine and mine, And a health to thee, Tom Moore. CHILDE HAROLD'S DÉPARTURE. (CHILDE HAROLD, Canto i. Stanzas 4-11.) 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, Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, Which seemed to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell. For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run, And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, 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. The Childe departed from his father's hall: So old, it seemed 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. 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 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. And none did love him — though to hall and bower He gather'd 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 - nor his lemans dear And where these are light Eros finds a feere; Childe Harold had a mother not forgot, Though parting from that mother he did shun; A sister whom he loved, but saw her not If friends he had, he bade adieu to none. Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel: A few dear objects, will in sadness feel Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal. His house, his home, his heritage, his lands, The laughing dames in whom he did delight, Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine, And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's central line. STANZAS COMPOSED DURING A THUNDERSTORM. CHILL and mirk is the nightly blast, Where Pindus' mountains rise, Our guides are gone, our hope is lost, But show where rocks our path have crost, Is yon a cot I saw, though low? - ah, no! Through sounds of foaming waterfalls, I hear a voice exclaim My way-worn countryman, who calls A shot is fired by foe or friend? Another 't is to tell The mountain-peasants to descend, Oh! who in such a night will dare And who 'mid thunder peals can hear Our signal of distress? And who that heard our shouts would rise To try the dubious road? Nor rather deem from nightly cries That outlaws were abroad. Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour! More fiercely pours the storm! Yet here one thought has still the power To keep my bosom warm. While wand'ring through each broken path, O'er brake and craggy brow; While elements exhaust their wrath, Sweet Florence, where art thou? |