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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, 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
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, . And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair.
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel
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, Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, And long had fed his youthful appetite; His goblets brimm’d with every costly wine, And all that mote to luxury invite,
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, As glad to waft him from his native home ; And fast the white rocks faded from his view, And soon were lost in circumambient foam : And then, it may be, of his wish to roam Repented he, but in his bosom slept The silent thought, nor from his lips did come One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept, And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept.
XIII. But when the sun was sinking in the sea He seized 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 tuned his farewell in the dim twilight. While flew the vessel on her snowy wing,
And fleeting shores receded from his sight, Thus to the elements he pour’d his last “ Good Night.”
“ ADIEU, adieu ! my native shore
Fades o’er the waters blue ;
And shrieks the wild seamew.
We follow in his flight ;
My native land—Good Night !
“ A few short hours and He will rise
To give the Morrow birth ;
But not my mother earth.
Its hearth is desolate ; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall ;
My dog howls at the gate.
“Come hither, hither, my little page!
Why dost thou weep and wail ?
Or tremble at the gale?
Our ship is swift and strong:
More merrily along.”
'Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,
I fear not wave nor wind;
Am sorrowful in mind;
A mother whom I love,
But thee—and one above.
Mindes blesd me fervently,
Travel not much complain ;
Till I came back again.'—
Nordi for become thine eve:
Mi rinconde not he dry.
I'm bebes, losher, my staunch veoman,
Who crowd thou look so pale?
Di alate withe gole?" -
Non 'houlela, I'm not so weak;
My jouse and her and near thy hall.
Along the bordering lake,
What amswer shall she make?
Thy grief let none gainsay, But I, who am of lighter mood, will laugh to flee away.