Childe Harold's pilgrimage, a romaunt . d down to halt for logs like these I XXI. The moon is up; by Heaven, a lovely eve!Long streams of light oer dancing waves expand;Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe;Such be our fate when we return to land!Meantime some rude Arions restless handWakes the brisk liarmony that sailors love:A circle there of merry listeners stand,Or to some well-known measure featly move,Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove. XXI r. Through Calpes straits survey the steepy shore ;Europe and Afric on each other gaze!Lands of the dark-eyed maid and
Childe Harold's pilgrimage, a romaunt . d down to halt for logs like these I XXI. The moon is up; by Heaven, a lovely eve!Long streams of light oer dancing waves expand;Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe;Such be our fate when we return to land!Meantime some rude Arions restless handWakes the brisk liarmony that sailors love:A circle there of merry listeners stand,Or to some well-known measure featly move,Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove. XXI r. Through Calpes straits survey the steepy shore ;Europe and Afric on each other gaze!Lands of the dark-eyed maid and dusky MoorAlike beheld beneath pale Hecates blaze:How softly on the Spanish shore she rock, and slope, and forest , though darkening with her waning phase;But Mauritanias giant-shadows mountain-cliff to coast descending sombre down. is night, when Meditation bids us feelWe once have loved, thougli love is at an end:The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal, 76 CHILDE HAROLDS CANTO Though friendless now, will dream it had a with the weight of years would wish to bend,When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy ?Alas! when mingling souls forget to blend,Death hath l)ut little left him to destroy!Ah! happy years! once more who would not be a boy ? XXIV. Thus bending oer the vessels laving side,To gaze on Dians wave-reflected sphere,Tlic soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride,And flies^unconscious oer each backward vear. CANTO 11. PILGRIMAGE. 11 None are so desolate but something dear,Dearer than self, possesses or possessedA thought, and claims the homage of a tear;A flashing pang! of which the weary breastWould still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest. XXV. To sit on rocks, to muse oer flood and fell,To slowly trace the forests shady things that own not mans dominion dwell,And mortal foot hath neer, or rarely been;To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,With the wild flock that never nee
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