Smote him;—he sank to earth in life's fair pride:
SPARTA! thy rocks then heard another cry,
And old Ilissus sigh'd—'Die, generous exile, die!'
"I will not ask sad Pity to deplore
His wayward errors, who thus early died;
Still less, CHILDE HAROLD, now thou art no more,
Will I say aught of genius misapplied;
Of the past shadows of thy spleen or pride:—
But I will bid th' Arcadian cypress wave,
Pluck the green laurel from Peneus' side,