<T CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE>
<H CANTO THE FIRST>
Oh, thou! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth,
Music! form'd or fabled at the mins*trel"s will!
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill:
Yet there I've wander'd by thy vaunted rill;
Yes sigh'd o'er Delphi's long deserted shrine,
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is s*till;
Nor more my shell awake the weary Nine
To grace so plain a tale-this lowly lay of mine.
Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth,
Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight;
But spent his days in riot mos*t uncouth,
And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.
Oh, 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. . . .