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.

IX.

   And none did love him:  though to hall and bower
   He gathered revellers from far and near,
   He knew them flatterers of the festal hour;
   The heartless parasites of present cheer. 
   Yea, none did love him—­not his lemans dear —
   But pomp and power alone are woman’s care,
   And where these are light Eros finds a feere;
   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 loved, but saw her not
   Before his weary pilgrimage begun: 
   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 dote upon
   A few dear objects, will in sadness feel
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,
   Might shake the saintship of an anchorite,
   And long had fed his youthful appetite;
   His goblets brimmed 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 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.’