Childe Harold's pilgrimage, a romaunt . rs and he will rise To give the morrow birth ;And I shall hail the main and skies. But not my mother is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate ;Wild weeds are gathering on the wall: My dog howls at the gate. III. ? Come hither, hither, my little page !Why dost thou weep and wail ?. \ CANTO I. PILGRIMAGE. 27 Or dost thou dread the billows rage Or tremble at the gale ?But dash the tear-drop from thine eye ; Our ship is swift and strong:Our. fleetest falcon scarce can fly• More merrily along. IV. Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, I
Childe Harold's pilgrimage, a romaunt . rs and he will rise To give the morrow birth ;And I shall hail the main and skies. But not my mother is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate ;Wild weeds are gathering on the wall: My dog howls at the gate. III. ? Come hither, hither, my little page !Why dost thou weep and wail ?. \ CANTO I. PILGRIMAGE. 27 Or dost thou dread the billows rage Or tremble at the gale ?But dash the tear-drop from thine eye ; Our ship is swift and strong:Our. fleetest falcon scarce can fly• More merrily along. IV. Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, I fear not wave nor wind;Yet marvel not. Sir Childe, that I Am sorrowful in mind ;For I have from my father gone, A mother whom I love,And have no friend, save these alone, But thee — and One above. V. My father blessed me fervently, Yet did not much complain ;But sorely will my mother sigh Till I come back again. — Enough, enough, my little lad! Such tears become thine eye ;If I thy guileless bosom had Mine own would not be 28 CHILDE HAROLDS canto a VI. Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,Why dost thou look so pale?Or dost thou dread a French foeman ? Or shiver at the gale ? — Deemst thou I tremble for my life ?. Sir Childe, I m not so weak;But thinking on an absent wifeWill blanch a faithful cheek. VII. My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall. Along the bordering lake. And when they on their father call. What answer shall she make ? — i Enough, enough, my yeoman good, ( Thy grief let none gainsay; ^ But I, who am of lighter mood, i AVill laugh to flee away. \VIII. For who would trust the seeming sighs Of wife or paramour?Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes We late saw streaming pleasures past I do not grieve. Nor perils gathering near;My greatest grief is that I leave No thing that claims a tear. IX. And now I m in the world alone,Upon the wide, wide sea:But why should I for others groan. When none will sigh for me ?Perchance my dog will whine in
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