Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

Oft have I dream’d of Thee, whose glorious name Who knows not, knows not man’s divinest lore; And now I view thee, ’tis, alas! with shame That I in feeblest accents must adore. When I recount thy worshippers of yore I tremble, and can only bend the knee; Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy In silent joy t

Can Volume, Pillar, Pile, preserve thee great? Or must thou trust Tradition’s simple tongue, When Flattery sleeps with thee and History does thee wrong?

Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, And turn’d a nation’s shallow joy to gloom.

For pleasures past I do not grieve, Nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave No thing that claims a tear.