Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   Of thee hereafter.—­Even amidst my strain
   I turned aside to pay my homage here;
   Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain;
   Her fate, to every free-born bosom dear;
   And hailed thee, not perchance without a tear. 
   Now to my theme—­but from thy holy haunt
   Let me some remnant, some memorial bear;
   Yield me one leaf of Daphne’s deathless plant,
Nor let thy votary’s hope be deemed an idle vaunt.