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Ambracia's gulph behold, where once was lost
A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing!
In yonder rippling bay, their naval host
Did many a Roman chief and Asian king
To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter bring:
Look where the second Cæsar's trophies rose!
Now, like the hands that reared them, withering:
Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes!

GOD! was thy globe ordained for such to win and lose?


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.


He passed bleak Pindus, Achernsia's lake,
And left the primal city of the land,
And onwards did his further journey take
To greet Albania's chief, whose dread command
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.


Monastic Zitza! from thy shady brow,

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 harmonize 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.


Amidst the grove that crowns yon

tufted bill,

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,
Nor niggard of his cheer; the passer by

Is welcome still; nor heedless will he flee
From hence, if he delight kind Nature's sheen to see.


Here in the sultriest season let him rest, Fresh in the green beneath those aged trees; Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast, 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,


Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight,
Nature's volcanic amphitheatre,

Chimera'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!

Once consecrated to the sepulchre.

Pluto! if this be hell I look upon,

Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek for none!


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
Browseth; and, pensive o'er his scattered flock,
The little shepherd in his white capote

Doth lean his boyish form along the rock,
Or in his cave awaits the tempest's short-lived shock.


Oh! where, Dodona! is thine aged 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?
Cease, fool! the fate of gods may well be thine:
Would'st thou survive the marble or the oak?

When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink beneath the str


Epirus' bounds recede, and mountains fail; Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale As ever spring ycladin grassy dye : 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 moon-beam sleep in midnight's solemn trance.


The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit,
And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by;
The shades of wonted night were gathering yet,
When, down the steep banks winding warily,
Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky,
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.


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 wait;
Within, a palace, and without, a fort:

Here men of every clime appear to make resort.



Richly caparisoned, a ready row

Of armed 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


The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee,
With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun,
And gold-embroidered garments, fair to see;
The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon;
The Delhi with his *cap of terror on,

And crooked glaive; the lively, supple Greek;
And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son;

The bearded Turk that rarely deigns to speak,
Master of all around, too potent to be meek,


Are mixed conspicuous: some recline in groups,
Scanning the motley scene that varies round;
There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops,
And some that smoke, and some that play, are found;
Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground;
Half whispering there the Greek is heard to prate;
Hark! from the mosque the nightly solemn sound,
The Muezzin's call doth shake the minaret,

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