XVI.

But where is Harold? shall I then forget To urge the gloomy Wanderer o'er the wave? Little recked he of all that Men regret; No loved-one now in feigned lament could rave;[124] No friend the parting hand extended gave, Ere the cold Stranger passed to other climes: Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave; But Harold felt not as in other times, And left without a sigh the land of War and Crimes.