Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

CANTO THE FIRST. TO IANTHE. 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?…