VIII. 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, or haply car'd 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. 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-not his lemans dear- pomp and power alone are woman's care, 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, Though parting from that mother he did shun; A sister whom he lov'd, but saw her not If friends he had, he bade adieu to none. Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel; Ye, who have known what 'tis to doat upon Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal. XI, His house, his home, his heritage, his lands, The laughing dames in whom he did delight, Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands, His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine, Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine, And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's central line. XII. The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds blew, The silent thought, nor from his lips did come XIII. But when the sun was sinking in the sea He seiz'd his harp, which he at times could string, And strike, albeit with untaught melody, When deem'd he no strange ear was listening: And now his fingers o'er it he did fling, And tun'd his farewell in the dim twilight. And fleeting shores receded from his sight, Thus to the elements he pour'd his last "Good Night.". 1. "ADIEU, adieu! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue; The Night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native Land-Good Night! 2. "A few short hours and He will rise And I shall hail the main and skies, Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; My dog howls at the gate. 3. "Come hither, hither, my little page! But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly More merrily along." 4. Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, I fear not wave nor wind; Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I Am sorrowful in mind; For I have from my father gone, A mother whom I love, And have no friend, save these alone, But thee-and one above. |