Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   Oh! many a time and oft had Harold loved,
   Or dreamed he loved, since rapture is a dream;
   But now his wayward bosom was unmoved,
   For not yet had he drunk of Lethe’s stream: 
   And lately had he learned with truth to deem
   Love has no gift so grateful as his wings: 
   How fair, how young, how soft soe’er he seem,
   Full from the fount of joy’s delicious springs
Some bitter o’er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.