George Gordon Byron

CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE
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XIII.

 But when the sun was sinking in the sea,
 He seized his harp, which he at times could string,
 And strike, albeit with untaught melody,
 When deemed he no strange ear was listening:
 And now his fingers o'er it he did fling,
 And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight,
 While flew the vessel on her snowy wing,
 And fleeting shores receded from his sight,
 Thus to the elements he poured his last 'Good Night.'
 

 Adieu, adieu! my native shore
 Fades o'er the waters blue;
 The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
 And shrieks the wild sea-mew.
 Yon sun that sets upon the sea
 We follow in his flight;
 Farewell awhile to him and thee,
 My Native Land—Good Night!
 

 A few short hours, and he will rise
 To give the morrow birth;
 And I shall hail the main and skies,
 But not my mother earth.
 Deserted is my own good hall,
 Its hearth is desolate;
 Wild weeds are gathering on the wall,
 My dog howls at the gate.
 

 'Come hither, hither, my little page:
 Why dost thou weep and wail?
 Or dost thou dread the billow's rage,
 Or tremble at the gale?
 But dash the tear-drop from thine eye,
 Our ship is swift and strong;
 Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly
 More merrily along.'
 

 'Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,
 I fear not wave nor wind;
 Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I
 Am sorrowful in mind;
 For I have from my father gone,
 A mother whom I love,
 And have no friend, save these alone,
 But thee—and One above.
 

 'My father blessed me fervently,
 Yet did not much complain;
 But sorely will my mother sigh
 Till I come back again.'—
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