Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   Yet ofttimes in his maddest mirthful mood,
   Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold’s brow,
   As if the memory of some deadly feud
   Or disappointed passion lurked below: 
   But this none knew, nor haply cared to know;
   For his was not that open, artless soul
   That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow;
   Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole,
Whate’er this grief mote be, which he could not control.