Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth,    Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight;    But spent his days in riot most uncouth,    And vexed 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 favour 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 me not to say;    Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame,    And had been glorious in another day:    But one sad losel soils a name for aye,    However mighty in the olden time;    Nor all that heralds rake from coffined clay,    Nor florid prose, nor honeyed lines of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.

IV.

Childe Harold basked him in the noontide sun,    Disporting there like any other fly,    Nor deemed before his little day was done    One blast might chill him into misery. But long ere scarce a third of his passed by,    Worse than adversity the Childe befell;    He felt the fulness of satiety:    Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, Which seemed to him more lone than eremite's sad cell.

VI.

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,    And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;    'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,    But pride congealed the drop within his e'e:    Apart he stalked in joyless reverie,    And from his native land resolved to go,    And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;    With pleasure drugged, he almost longed for woe, 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 pillared in each massy aisle.    Monastic dome! condemned 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.

Yet ofttimes 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 lurked 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.

XII.

The sails were filled, 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 deemed 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 poured his last 'Good Night.'

Adieu, adieu! my native shore    Fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,    And shrieks the wild sea-mew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea    We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee,    My Native Land—Good Night!

A few short hours, and he will rise    To give the morrow birth; And I shall hail the main and skies,    But not my mother earth. Deserted is my own good hall,    Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall,    My dog howls at the gate.

The lists are oped, the spacious area cleared,    Thousands on thousands piled are seated round;    Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard,    No vacant space for lated wight is found:    Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound,    Skilled in the ogle of a roguish eye,    Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound;    None through their cold disdain are doomed to die, As moon-struck bards complain, by Love's sad archery.

LXXIII.

Hushed is the din of tongues—on gallant steeds,    With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised lance,    Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds,    And lowly bending to the lists advance;    Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance:    If in the dangerous game they shine to-day,    The crowd's loud shout, and ladies' lovely glance,    Best prize of better acts, they bear away, And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay.

LXXIV.

In costly sheen and gaudy cloak arrayed,    But all afoot, the light-limbed matadore    Stands in the centre, eager to invade    The lord of lowing herds; but not before    The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er, Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed:    His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more    Can man achieve without the friendly steed— Alas! too oft condemned for him to bear and bleed.

LXXV.

Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls,    The den expands, and expectation mute    Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute,    And wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot,    The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe:    Here, there,

XXI.

There was a sound of revelry by night,    And Belgium's capital had gathered then    Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright    The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;    A thousand hearts beat happily; and when    Music arose with its voluptuous swell,    Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,    And all went merry as a marriage bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

XXII.

Did ye not hear it?—No; 'twas but the wind,    Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;    On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;    No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet    To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet. But hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,    As if the clouds its echo would repeat;    And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is—it is—the cannon's opening roar!