76
CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE.
[CANTO I.
That bids me loathe my present state,
And fly from all I prized the most:
4.
It is that weariness which springs
From all I meet, or hear, or see:
To me no pleasure Beauty brings;
Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me.
5.
It is that settled, ceaseless gloom
The fabled Hebrew Wanderer bore;
That will not look beyond the tomb,
But cannot hope for rest before.
6.
What Exile from himself can flee?[1]
To zones though more and more remote,[2]
Still, still pursues, where'er I be,
The blight of Life—the Demon Thought.[3]
7.
Yet others rapt in pleasure seem,