For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run,[s] Nor made atonement when he did amiss, Had sighed to many though he loved but one,[t][24] And that loved one, alas! could ne'er be his. Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kiss Had been pollution unto aught so chaste; Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, And spoiled her goodly lands to gild his waste, Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to taste. VI. And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,[u] And from his fellow Bacchanals would flee; 'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start, But Pride congealed the drop within his ee:[25] Apart he stalked in joyless reverie,[v] And from his native land resolved to go, And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;[26] With pleasure drugged, he almost longed for woe, And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below. VII. The Childe departed from his father's hall: It was a vast and venerable pile; So old, it seeméd only not to fall, Yet strength was pillared in each massy aisle. Monastic dome! condemned to uses vile![w] Where Superstition once had made her den Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile;[x] And monks might deem their time was come agen,[27] If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men. VIII.[y] Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow,[z] As if the Memory of some deadly feud Or disappointed passion lurked below: But this none knew, nor haply cared to know; For his was not that open, artless soul That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow, Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control. IX.[aa] And none did love him!--though to hall and bower[28] He gathered revellers from far and near, He knew them flatterers of the festal hour, The heartless Parasites of present cheer. Yea! none did love him--not his lemans dear--[ab][29] But pomp and power alone are Woman's care, And where these are light Eros finds a feere;[30] Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair. X. Childe Harold had a mother--not forgot,[ac] Though parting from that mother he did shun; A sister whom he loved, but saw her not[31] Before his weary pilgrimage begun: If friends he had, he bade adieu to none.[ad] Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel:[ae][32] Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon A few dear objects, will in sadness feel Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.