Childe Harold

Slow and weary, moves a dreary
Stout black bark the stream along;
Visors wearing, all-uncaring,
Funeral mutes the benches throng.

’Mongst them dumbly, with his comely
Face upturn’d, the dead bard lies;
Living seeming, toward the beaming
Light of heaven still turn his eyes.

From the water, like a daughter
Of the stream’s voice, comes a sigh,
And with wailing unavailing
’Gainst the bark the waves dash high.