CANTO. I. 9

But long ere scarce a third of his passed by,'Worse than adversity the Childe befell;

He felt the fulness of satiety:

Then loathed he in his native land to dwell,Which seemed to him more lone than Eremi-te’s sad cell.

V.

For he through Sin’s long labyrinth had run.Nor made atonement when he did amiss.Had sighed to many though he loved hut one.And that loved one, alas! could ne’er be his.Ah, happy she! to ’scape from him whose ki$9Had been pollution unto aught so chaste;W"ho soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss.And spoiled her goodly lands to gild his waste.Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned totaste.

VT.

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,And from his fellow bacchanals would lice;’Tissaid, at times the sullen tear would start.But Pride congealed the drop withiu his ee:Apart he stalked in joyless reverie.

And from his native land resolved to go.And visit scorching cliuics bejond the sea;