Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

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! mayst 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,
   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.