Where was thine Ægis, Pallas! that appalled[eb]
 Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way? [8.B.]
 Where Peleus' son? whom Hell in vain enthralled.
 His shade from Hades upon that dread day
 Bursting to light in terrible array!
 What! could not Pluto spare the Chief once more,
 To scare a second robber from his prey?
 Idly he wandered on the Stygian shore,
 Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before.

XV.

Cold is the heart, fair Greece! that looks on Thee,
 Nor feels as Lovers o'er the dust they loved;
 Dull is the eye that will not weep to see
 Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed
 By British hands, which it had best behoved[ec]
 To guard those relics ne'er to be restored:—
 Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved,
 And once again thy hapless bosom gored,
 And snatched thy shrinking Gods to Northern climes abhorred![123]

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.

XVII.

He that has sailed upon the dark blue sea
 Has viewed at times, I ween, a full fair sight,
 When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be,
 The white sail set, the gallant Frigate tight—
 Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right,
 The glorious Main expanding o'er the bow,
 The Convoy spread like wild swans in their flight,
 The dullest sailer wearing bravely now—
 So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow.

XVIII.

And oh, the little warlike world within!
 The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy, [9.B.]
The hoarse command, the busy humming din,
 When, at a word, the tops are manned on high:
 Hark, to the Boatswain's call, the cheering cry!
 While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides;
 Or schoolboy Midshipman that, standing by,
 Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides,
 And well the docile crew that skilful Urchin guides.[ed]

XIX.

White is the glassy deck, without a stain,
 Where on the watch the staid Lieutenant walks:
 Look on that part which sacred doth remain[ee]
 For the lone Chieftain, who majestic stalks,
 Silent and feared by all—not oft he talks
 With aught beneath him, if he would preserve
 That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks
 Conquest and Fame: but Britons rarely swerve
 From law, however stern, which tends their strength to nerve[ef].

XX.

Blow! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale!
 Till the broad Sun withdraws his lessening ray:
 Then must the Pennant-bearer slacken sail,
 That lagging barks may make their lazy way.[125]
 Ah! grievance sore, and listless dull delay,
 To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze!
 What leagues are lost, before the dawn of day,
 Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas,
 The flapping sail hauled down to halt for logs like these!

XXI.

The Moon is up; by Heaven, a lovely eve!
 Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand;
 Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe[eg]:
 Such be our fate when we return to land!
 Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand[eh]
 Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love;
 A circle there of merry listeners stand
 Or to some well-known measure featly move,
 Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove.

XXII.

Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore;[ei]
 Europe and Afric on each other gaze![126]
 Lands of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky Moor
 Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze:
 How softly on the Spanish shore she plays![127]
 Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown,[128]
 Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase;
 But Mauritania's giant-shadows frown,
 From mountain-cliff to coast descending sombre down.

XXIII.

'Tis night, when Meditation bids us feel
 We once have loved, though Love is at an end:
 The Heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal,[ej]
 Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend.
 Who with the weight of years would wish to bend,
 When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy?
 Alas! when mingling souls forget to blend,
 Death hath but little left him to destroy!
 Ah! happy years! once more who would not be a boy?[ek]

XXIV.

Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side,
 To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere,[el]
 The Soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride,[em]
 And flies unconscious o'er each backward year;
 None are so desolate but something dear,[en]
 Dearer than self, possesses or possessed
 A thought, and claims the homage of a tear;
 A flashing pang! of which the weary breast
 Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest.

XXV.[eo][129]

To sit on rocks—to muse o'er flood and fell—
 To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,
 Where things that own not Man's dominion dwell,
 And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been;
 To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,
 With the wild flock that never needs a fold;
 Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean;[ep]
 This is not Solitude—'tis but to hold
 Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled.

XXVI.

But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,
 To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,
 And roam along, the World's tired denizen,
 With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;
 Minions of Splendour shrinking from distress![130]
 None that, with kindred consciousness endued,
 If we were not, would seem to smile the less,
 Of all that flattered—followed—sought, and sued:
 This is to be alone—This, This is Solitude![eq]

XXVII.[131]

More blest the life of godly Eremite,
 Such as on lonely Athos may be seen,
 Watching at eve upon the Giant Height,
 Which looks o'er waves so blue, skies so serene,
 That he who there at such an hour hath been
 Will wistful linger on that hallowed spot;
 Then slowly tear him from the 'witching scene,
 Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot,
 Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot.

XXVIII.

Pass we the long unvarying course, the track
 Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind;
 Pass we the calm—the gale—the change—the tack,
 And each well known caprice of wave and wind;
 Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find,
 Cooped in their wingéd sea-girt citadel;
 The foul—the fair—the contrary—the kind—
 As breezes rise and fall and billows swell,
 Till on some jocund morn—lo, Land! and All is well!

XXIX.

But not in silence pass Calypso's isles, [10.B.]
The sister tenants of the middle deep;
 There for the weary still a Haven smiles,
 Though the fair Goddess long hath ceased to weep,
 And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep
 For him who dared prefer a mortal bride:
 Here, too, his boy essayed the dreadful leap
 Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide;
 While thus of both bereft, the Nymph-Queen doubly sighed.[132]

XXX.

Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone:
 But trust not this; too easy Youth, beware!
 A mortal Sovereign holds her dangerous throne,
 And thou may'st find a new Calypso there.
 Sweet Florence[133] could another ever share
 This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine:
 But checked by every tie, I may not dare
 To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine,
 Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine.

XXXI.

Thus Harold deemed, as on that Lady's eye
 He looked, and met its beam without a thought,
 Save Admiration glancing harmless by:
 Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote,
 Who knew his Votary often lost and caught,
 But knew him as his Worshipper no more,
 And ne'er again the Boy his bosom sought:
 Since now he vainly urged him to adore,
 Well deemed the little God his ancient sway was o'er.

XXXII.

Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze,
 One who, 'twas said, still sighed to all he saw,
 Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze,
 Which others hailed with real or mimic awe,
 Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law;
 All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims:
 And much she marvelled that a youth so raw
 Nor felt, nor feigned at least, the oft-told flames,
 Which though sometimes they frown, yet rarely anger dames.

XXXIII.

Little knew she that seeming marble heart,
 Now masked in silence or withheld by Pride,
 Was not unskilful in the spoiler's art,
 And spread its snares licentious far and wide;[134]
 Nor from the base pursuit had turned aside,
 As long as aught was worthy to pursue:
 But Harold on such arts no more relied;
 And had he doted on those eyes so blue,
 Yet never would he join the lover's whining crew.

XXXIV.

Not much he kens, I ween, of Woman's breast,
 Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs;
 What careth she for hearts when once possessed?
 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:[er]
 Pique her and soothe in turn—soon Passion crowns thy hopes.

XXXV.

'Tis an old lesson—Time approves it true,
 And those who know it best, deplore it most;
 When all is won that all desire to woo,
 The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost:
 Youth wasted—Minds degraded—Honour lost—[es]
 These are thy fruits, successful Passion! these![135]
 If, kindly cruel, early Hope is crost,
 Still to the last it rankles, a disease,
 Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to please.

XXXVI.

Away! nor let me loiter in my song,
 For we have many a mountain-path to tread,
 And many a varied shore to sail along,
 By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led—
 Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head[et]
 Imagined in its little schemes of thought;[eu]
 Or e'er in new Utopias were ared,[136]
 To teach Man what he might be, or he ought—
 If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught.

XXXVII.

Dear Nature is the kindest mother still!
 Though always changing, in her aspect mild;
 From her bare bosom let me take my fill,
 Her never-weaned, though not her favoured child.[ev]
 Oh! she is fairest in her features wild,
 Where nothing polished dares pollute her path:
 To me by day or night she ever smiled,
 Though I have marked her when none other hath,
 And sought her more and more, and loved her best in wrath.[137]

XXXVIII.

Land of Albania! where Iskander rose,[138]
 Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise,[139]
 And he his namesake, whose oft-baffled foes
 Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprize:
 Land of Albania! let me bend mine eyes [11.B.]
 On thee, thou rugged Nurse of savage men!
 The Cross descends, thy Minarets arise,
 And the pale Crescent sparkles in the glen,
 Through many a cypress-grove within each city's ken.

XXXIX.

Childe Harold sailed, and passed the barren spot,[140]
Where sad Penelope o'erlooked the wave; [12.B.]
 And onward viewed the mount, not yet forgot,
 The Lover's refuge, and the Lesbian's grave.
 Dark Sappho! could not Verse immortal save
 That breast imbued with such immortal fire?
 Could she not live who life eternal gave?
 If life eternal may await the lyre,
 That only Heaven to which Earth's children may aspire.[141]

XL.

'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve
 Childe Harold hailed Leucadia's cape afar;
 A spot he longed to see, nor cared to leave:
 Oft did he mark the scenes of vanished war,
 Actium—Lepanto—fatal Trafalgar; [13.B.]
 Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight
 (Born beneath some remote inglorious star)[142]
 In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight,
 But loathed the bravo's trade, and laughed at martial wight.[ew]

XLI.

But when he saw the Evening star above
 Leucadia's far-projecting rock of woe,
 And hailed the last resort of fruitless love, [14.B.]
He felt, or deemed he felt, no common glow:
 And as the stately vessel glided slow[143]
 Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount,
 He watched the billows' melancholy flow,
 And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont,[ex]
 More placid seemed his eye, and smooth his pallid front.

XLII.

Morn dawns; and with it stern Albania's hills,
 Dark Suli's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak,[144]
 Robed half in mist, bedewed with snowy rills,
 Arrayed 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 adieu;
 Now he adventured on a shore unknown,[145]
 Which all admire, but many dread to view:
 His breast was armed '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 welcomed Summer's heat.

XLIV.

Here the red Cross, for still the Cross is here,
 Though sadly scoffed at by the circumcised,
 Forgets that Pride to pampered priesthood dear;
 Churchman and Votary alike despised.
 Foul Superstition! howsoe'er disguised,
 Idol—Saint—Virgin—Prophet—Crescent—Cross—
 For whatsoever symbol thou art prized,
 Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss!
 Who from true Worship's gold can separate thy dross?

XLV.

Ambracia's gulf behold, where once was lost
 A world for Woman, lovely, harmless thing![ey][146]
In yonder rippling bay, their naval host
 Did many a Roman chief and Asian King [15.B.]
 To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter bring:
 Look where the second Cæsar's trophies rose![147] [16.B.]
 Now, like the hands that reared them, withering:
 Imperial Anarchs, doubling human woes![ez]
 God! was thy globe ordained 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 passed o'er many a mount sublime,
 Through lands scarce noticed in historic tales:
 Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales
 Are rarely seen; nor can fair Tempe boast
 A charm they know not; loved Parnassus fails,
 Though classic ground and consecrated most,
 To match some spots that lurk within this lowering coast.

XLVII.

He passed bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake, [17.B.]
And left the primal city of the land,
 And onwards did his further journey take[148]
 To greet Albania's Chief, whose dread command [18.B.]
 Is lawless law; for with a bloody hand
 He sways a nation,—turbulent and bold:
 Yet here and there some daring mountain-band
 Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold
 Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold. [19.B.]

XLVIII.

Monastic Zitza![149] from thy shady brow, [20.B.]
Thou small, but favoured spot of holy ground!
 Where'er we gaze—around—above—below,—
 What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found!
 Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound,
 And bluest skies that harmonise the whole:
 Beneath, the distant Torrent's rushing sound
 Tells where the volumed Cataract doth roll
 Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please the soul.

XLIX.

Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill,
 Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh
 Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still,
 Might well itself be deemed of dignity,
 The Convent's white walls glisten fair on high:
 Here dwells the caloyer, nor rude is he, [21.B.]
Nor niggard of his cheer;[150] the passer by
 Is welcome still; nor heedless will he flee
 From hence, if he delight kind Nature's sheen to see.

L.

Here in the sultriest season let him rest,
 Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees;
 Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast,[fa]
 From Heaven itself he may inhale the breeze:
 The plain is far beneath—oh! let him seize
 Pure pleasure while he can; the scorching ray
 Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease:
 Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay,
 And gaze, untired, the Morn—the Noon—the Eve away.

LI.

Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight,
 Nature's volcanic Amphitheatre, [22.B.]
Chimæra's Alps extend from left to right:
 Beneath, a living valley seems to stir;
 Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain-fir
 Nodding above; behold black Acheron! [23.B.]
 Once consecrated to the sepulchre.
 Pluto! if this be Hell I look upon,
 Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek for none[fb].

LII.

Ne city's towers pollute the lovely view;
 Unseen is Yanina, though not remote,
 Veiled by the screen of hills: here men are few,
 Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot:
 But, peering down each precipice, the goat[fc]
Browseth; and, pensive o'er his scattered flock,
 The little shepherd in his white capote [24.B.]
 Doth lean his boyish form along the rock,
 Or in his cave awaits the Tempest's short-lived shock.[fd]

LIII.

Oh! where, Dodona![151] is thine agéd Grove,
 Prophetic Fount, and Oracle divine?
 What valley echoed the response of Jove?
 What trace remaineth of the Thunderer's shrine?
 All, all forgotten—and shall Man repine
 That his frail bonds to fleeting life are broke?[152]
 Cease, Fool! the fate of Gods may well be thine:
 Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak?
 When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink beneath the stroke!

LIV.

Epirus' bounds recede, and mountains fail;[153]
 Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye
 Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale
 As ever Spring yclad in grassy dye:[154]
 Ev'n on a plain no humble beauties lie,
 Where some bold river breaks the long expanse,
 And woods along the banks are waving high,
 Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance,
 Or with the moonbeam sleep in Midnight's solemn trance.

LV.

The Sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit, [25.B.]
And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by; [26.B.]
 The shades of wonted night were gathering yet,
 When, down the steep banks winding warily,
 Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky,[155]
 The glittering minarets of Tepalen,
 Whose walls o'erlook the stream; and drawing nigh,
 He heard the busy hum of warrior-men
 Swelling the breeze that sighed along the lengthening glen.

LVI.

He passed the sacred Haram's silent tower,
 And underneath the wide o'erarching gate
 Surveyed the dwelling of this Chief of power,
 Where all around proclaimed his high estate.
 Amidst no common pomp the Despot sate,
 While busy preparation shook the court,
 Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons[156] wait;[fe]
 Within, a palace, and without, a fort:
 Here men of every clime appear to make resort.

LVII.

Richly caparisoned, a ready row
 Of arméd horse, and many a warlike store,
 Circled the wide-extending court below;
 Above, strange groups adorned the corridore;
 And oft-times through the area's echoing door
 Some high-capped Tartar spurred his steed away:
 The Turk—the Greek—the Albanian—and the Moor,
 Here mingled in their many-hued array,
 While the deep war-drum's sound announced the close of day.[ff]

LVIII.