XXVII. More blest the life of godly Eremite, XXVIII. Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track XXIX. But not in silence pass Calypso's isles, (10) The sister tenants of the midlde deep; There for the weary still a haven smiles, Though the fair goddess long hath ceas'd to weep, And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep For him who dar'd prefer a mortal bride; Here, too, his boy essay'd the dreadful leap Stern Mentor urg'd from high to yonder tide, While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen doubly sigh'd. xxx. Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone; XXXI. Thus Harold deem'd as on that lady's eye Well deem'd the little God his ancient sway was o'er. XXXII. Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze, One who, 'twas said, still sigh'd to all he saw, Withstand, unmov'd, the lustre of her gaze, Which others hail'd with real, or mimic awe, Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law; All that gay beauty from her bondsmen claims: And much she marvell'd that a youth so raw, Nor felt, nor feign'd at least, the oft-told flames, Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely anger XXXIII. [dames, Little knew she that seeming marble-heart, XXXIV. Not much he kens, I ween, of wonan's breast, Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs; What careth she for hearts when once possess'd? Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes; But not too humbly, or she will despise Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes; Disguise ev'n tenderness, if thou art wise, Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes; [hopes. Pique her and soothe in turn, soon Passion crowns thy XXXV. 'Tis an old lesson; Time approves it true, Not to be cur'd when Love itself forgets to please. XXXVI. Away! nor let me loiter in my song, To teach man what he might be, or he ought; Dear Nature is the kindest mother still, Though alway changing, in her aspect mild; From her bare bosom let me take my fill, Her never-wean'd, though not her favour'd child. Oh! she is fairest in her features wild, Where nothing polish'd dares pollute her path; To me by day or night she ever smil'd, Though I have mark'd her when none other hath, And sought her more and more, and lov'd her best in wrath. XXXVIII. Land of Albania ! (11) where Iskander rose, Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise, And he his name-sake, whose oft-baffled foes Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprize; Land of Albania! let me bend mine eyes On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men! The cross descends, thy minarets arise, And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, Through mapy a cypress grove within each city's ken. XXXIX. Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the barren spot, (12) That only Heaven to which Earth's children may aspire. XL. Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve [wight. But loath'd the bravo's trade, and laugh'd at martial XLI. But when he saw the evening star above Leucadia's far projecting rock of woe, And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love, (14) He felt, or deem'd he felt, no common glow: And as the stately vessel glided slow Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, He watch'd the billows melancholy flow, And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont, More placid seem'd his eye, and smooth his pallid front. XLII. Morn dawns; and with it stern Albania's hills, Dark Sulis' rocks, and Pindus' inland peak, Rob'd half in mist, bedew'd with snowy rills, Array'd in many a dun and purple streak, Arise; and, as the clouds along them break: Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer; Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak, Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear, And gathering storms around convulse the closing year. XLIII. Now Harold felt himself at length alone, And bade to Christian tongues a long adien; Now he adventur'd on a shore unknown, Which all admire, but many dread to view His breast was arm'd 'gainst fate, his wants were few; Peril he sought not, but ne'er shrank to meet, The scene was savage, but the scene was new ; This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet, Beat back keen winter's blast, and welcom'd summer's XLIV. Here the red cross, for still the cross is here, [heat. Who from true worship's gold can separate thy dross? XLV. Ambracia's gulph behold, where once was lost God! was thy globe ordain'd, for such to win and lose! XLVI. From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, Ev'n to the centre of Illyria's vales, Childe Harold pass'd o'er many a mount sublime, Through lands scarce notic'd in historic tales, Yet in fam'd Attica such lovely dales, Are rarely seen; nor can fair Tempe boast A charm they know not; lov'd Parnassus fails, Though classic ground and consecrated most, To match some spots, that lurk within this lowering ceast |