I.

OH, thou! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth,
Muse! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will!
Since shared 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! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long deserted shrine,'
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine
grace so plain a tale-this lowly lay of mine.

II.

Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth,
Whe ae in virtue's ways did take delight;
But spent his days in riot most uncouth,
And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.
Ah, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight,
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee;
Few earthly things found favor in his sight
Save concubines and carnal companie,

And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree.

III.

Childe Harold was he hight.-but whence his name
And lineage long, it suits ne not to say;
Suffice it, that perchance hey were of fame,
And had been glorious in another day:
But one sad logel soils a ame for aye,
However mighty in the o'den time:

Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay,
Nor florid prese, nor hozied lies 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 last might chill him into misery.
But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by,

Worse than adversity the Childe befell;
He felt the futner 3 of satiety:

Then loathed he in us native land to dwell,

For he through Sin's long labyrinth had :un, Nor made atonement when he did amiss, Had sigh'd to many though he loved but one, And that loved one, alas! could ne'er be his. Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kisg Had been pollution unto aught so chaste; Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste, Nor calin domestic peace had ever deign'd to taste

VI.

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at near,
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;
'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,
But Pride congeal'd the drop within his ee:
Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie,

And from his native land resolv'd to go,
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;
With pleasure drugg'd he almost long'd for wo,
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 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.

VIII.

[brow,

Yet ofttimes in his maddest mirthful mood
Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's
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