Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   And none did love him:  though to hall and bower
   He gathered revellers from far and near,
   He knew them flatterers of the festal hour;
   The heartless parasites of present cheer. 
   Yea, none did love him—­not his lemans dear —
   But pomp and power alone are woman’s care,
   And where these are light Eros finds a feere;
   Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,
And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.