VII.
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he Childe departed from his father's hall:It was a vast and venerable pile;So old, it seemed 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 denNow 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 moodStrange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow,[z]As if the Memory of some deadly feudOr disappointed passion lurked below:But this none knew, nor haply cared to know;For his was not that open, artless soulThat 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.
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