Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   So deemed the Childe, as o’er the mountains he
   Did take his way in solitary guise: 
   Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee,
   More restless than the swallow in the skies: 
   Though here awhile he learned to moralise,
   For Meditation fixed at times on him,
   And conscious Reason whispered to despise
   His early youth misspent in maddest whim;
But as he gazed on Truth, his aching eyes grew dim.