Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew
   As glad to waft him from his native home;
   And fast the white rocks faded from his view,
   And soon were lost in circumambient foam;
   And then, it may be, of his wish to roam
   Repented he, but in his bosom slept
   The silent thought, nor from his lips did come
   One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept,
And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept.