Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie, 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: It was a vast and venerable pile ; So old, it seemed only not to fall, Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle. Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood 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; Yea! none did love him-not his lemans dear- And Mammon wins his ways where Seraphs might despair. Childe Harold had a mother-not forgot, 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, And long had fed his youthful appetite; 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, Our guides are gone, our hope is lost, And lightnings, as they play, But show where rocks our path have crost, Is yon a cot I saw, though low? Through sounds of foaming waterfalls, My way-worn countryman, who calls A shot is fired-by foe or friend? 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 While wand'ring through each broken path, O'er brake and craggy brow; While elements exhaust their wrath, Sweet Florence, where art thou? Not on the sea, not on the sea! Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc, And long ere now, with foaming shock, Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now And since I now remember thee Do thou, amid the fair white walls, At times from out her latticed halls Then think upon Calypso's isles, To others give a thousand smiles, And when the admiring circle mark A half-form'd tear, a transient spark Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun Some coxcomb's raillery; Nor own for once thou thought'st of one Though smile and sigh alike are vain, "MAID OF ATHENS." Ζώη μοῦ, σάς ἀγαπῶ. MAID of Athens, ere we part, By those tresses unconfined, By that lip I long to taste; By that zone-encircled waist; By all the token-flowers that tell What words can never speak so well; |