Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind,
   Though now it moved him as it moves the wise;
   Not that Philosophy on such a mind
   E’er deigned to bend her chastely-awful eyes: 
   But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies;
   And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb,
   Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise: 
   Pleasure’s palled victim! life-abhorring gloom
Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain’s unresting doom.