Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,
   The laughing dames in whom he did delight,
   Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands,
   Might shake the saintship of an anchorite,
   And long had fed his youthful appetite;
   His goblets brimmed with every costly wine,
   And all that mote to luxury invite,
   Without a sigh he left to cross the brine,
And traverse Paynim shores, and pass earth’s central line.