appointment in new ones, and that even the
beauties of nature and the stimulus of travel (except ambition, the most
powerful of all excitements) are lost on a soul so constituted, or
rather misdirected. Had I proceeded with the Poem, this character would
have deepened as he drew to the close; for the outline which I once
meant to fill up for him was, with some exceptions, the sketch of a
modern Timon,[12] perhaps a poetical Zeluco.[13]

CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE

CANTO THE FIRST.

TO IANTHE.[h][14]

Not in those climes where I have late been straying,
Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deemed,
Not in those visions to the heart displaying
Forms which it sighs but to have only dreamed,
Hath aught like thee in Truth or Fancy seemed:
Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek
To paint those charms which varied as they beamed--
To such as see thee not my words were weak;
To those who gaze on thee what language could they speak?

Ah! may'st thou ever be what now thou art,
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy Spring--
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart,
Love's image upon earth without his wing,[15]
And guileless beyond Hope's imagining!
And surely she who now so fondly rears
Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening,
Beholds the Rainbow of her future years,
Before whose heavenly hues all Sorrow disappears.

Young Peri of the West!--'tis well for me
My years already doubly number thine;[16]
My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee,
And safely view thy ripening beauties shine;
Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline;
Happier, that, while all younger hearts shall bleed,
Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign
To those whose admiration shall succeed,
But mixed with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours decreed.

Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the Gazelle's,
Now brightly bold or beautifully shy,
Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells,[17]
Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny
That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh
Could I to thee be ever more than friend:
This much, dear Maid, accord; nor question why
To one so young my strain I would commend,
But bid me with my wreath one matchless Lily bl