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Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.
OH, thou ! in Hellas deem'd of heav'nly birth,
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine
Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth,
Save concubines and carnal companie,
Childe Harold was he hight:--but whence his name
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme
Childe Harold bask'd him in the noon-tide sun,
He felt the fulness of satiety: . Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell.
For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run,
And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste,
With pleasure drugg'd he almost long’d for woe,
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.