Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   But Jealousy has fled:  his bars, his bolts,
   His withered sentinel, duenna sage! 
   And all whereat the generous soul revolts,
   Which the stern dotard deemed he could encage,
   Have passed to darkness with the vanished age. 
   Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen
   (Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage),
   With braided tresses bounding o’er the green,
While on the gay dance shone Night’s lover-loving Queen?