XXXI.

   Thus Harold deemed, as on that lady’s eye
   He looked, and met its beam without a thought,
   Save Admiration glancing harmless by: 
   Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote,
   Who knew his votary often lost and caught,
   But knew him as his worshipper no more,
   And ne’er again the boy his bosom sought: 
   Since now he vainly urged him to adore,
Well deemed the little god his ancient sway was o’er.

XXXII.

   Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze,
   One who, ’twas said, still sighed to all he saw,
   Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze,
   Which others hailed with real or mimic awe,
   Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law: 
   All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims: 
   And much she marvelled that a youth so raw
   Nor felt, nor feigned at least, the oft-told flames,
Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely anger dames.

XXXIII.

   Little knew she that seeming marble heart,
   Now masked by silence or withheld by pride,
   Was not unskilful in the spoiler’s art,
   And spread its snares licentious far and wide;
   Nor from the base pursuit had turned aside,
   As long as aught was worthy to pursue: 
   But Harold on such arts no more relied;
   And had he doted on those eyes so blue,
Yet never would he join the lover’s whining crew.

XXXIV.

   Not much he kens, I ween, of woman’s breast,
   Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs;
   What careth she for hearts when once possessed? 
   Do proper homage to thine idol’s eyes,
   But not too humbly, or she will despise
   Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes;
   Disguise e’en tenderness, if thou art wise;
   Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes;
Pique her and soothe in turn, soon Passion crowns thy hopes.

XXXV.

   ’Tis an old lesson:  Time approves it true,
   And those who know it best deplore it most;
   When all is won that all desire to woo,
   The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost: 
   Youth wasted, minds degraded, honour lost,
   These are thy fruits, successful Passion! these! 
   If, kindly cruel, early hope is crossed,
   Still to the last it rankles, a disease,
Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to please.

XXXVI.

   Away! nor let me loiter in my song,
   For we have many a mountain path to tread,
   And many a varied shore to sail along,
   By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led —
   Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head
   Imagined in its little schemes of thought;
   Or e’er in new Utopias were read: 
   To teach man what he might be, or he ought;
If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught.