Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,
   And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;
   ’Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,
   But pride congealed the drop within his e’e: 
   Apart he stalked in joyless reverie,
   And from his native land resolved to go,
   And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;
   With pleasure drugged, he almost longed for woe,
And e’en for change of scene would seek the shades below.