I now leave "Childe Harold" to live his day such as he is; it had been more agreeable, and certainly more easy, to have drawn an amiable character. It had been easy to varnish over his faults, to make him do more and express less, but he never was intended as an example, further than to show, that early perversion of mind and morals leads to satiety of past pleasures and disappointment in new ones, and that even the beauties of nature and the stimulus of travel (except ambition, the most powerful of all excitements) are lost on a soul so constituted, or rather misdirected. Had I proceeded with the Poem, this character would have deepened as he drew to the close; for the outline which I once meant to fill up for him was, with some exceptions, the sketch of a modern Timon,[12] perhaps a poetical Zeluco.[13] CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE CANTO THE FIRST. TO IANTHE.[h][14] Not in those climes where I have late been straying, Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deemed, Not in those visions to the heart displaying Forms which it sighs but to have only dreamed, Hath aught like thee in Truth or Fancy seemed: Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek To paint those charms which varied as they beamed-- To such as see thee not my words were weak; To those who gaze on thee what language could they speak? Ah! may'st thou ever be what now thou art, Nor unbeseem the promise of thy Spring-- As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, Love's image upon earth without his wing,[15] And guileless beyond Hope's imagining! And surely she who now so fondly rears Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, Beholds the Rainbow of her future years, Before whose heavenly hues all Sorrow disappears. Young Peri of the West!--'tis well for me My years already doubly number thine;[16] My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, And safely view thy ripening beauties shine; Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline; Happier, that, while all younger hearts shall bleed, Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign To those whose admiration shall succeed, But mixed with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours decreed. Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the Gazelle's, Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells,[17] Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh Could I to thee be ever more than friend: This much, dear Maid, accord; nor question why To one so young my strain I would commend, But bid me with my wreath one matchless Lily blend.