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More blest the life of godly Eremite,
Such as on lonely Athos may be seeil,
Watching at Eve upon the giant height,
That looks o'er waves so blue, skies so serene,
That he who there at such an hour hath been
Will wistful linger on that hallow'd 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 bad almost forgot.

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,
Coop'd in their winged 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.

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 di eadful leap

Stern Mentor urg'd from high to yonder tide,
While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen doubly sigh'd.

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 ! could another ever share
This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine;
But check'd by every tie, I may not dare

To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine,
Ner ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine.

Thus Harold deem'd as on that lady's eye
He look'd, and met its beam without a thought,
Save Admiration glancing harmless by;
Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote,
Who knew his yotary often lost and caught,
But kuew him as his worshipper no more,
And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought;
Since now he vainly urg'd him to adore,
Well deem'd the little God his ancient sway was o'er.

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 bail'd with real, or mimic awe,
Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law;
All thai 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.

Little knew she that seeming marble-heart,
Now mask'd in silence or withheld by pride,
Was not unskilful in the spoiler's art,
And spread its snares licentious far and wide;
Nor from the base porsuit had turn'd aside,
As long as anght was worthy to pursue :
But Harold on such arts no more relied ;

And had he doated on those eyes so blue,
Yet never would he join the lover's whining crew,

Not much he keps, T ween, of'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'u tenderness, ifthou art wise,

Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes ; [hopes. Pique her and soothe in turn, sooa Passion crowus thy

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'Tis an old lesson ; Time approves it true,
And those who know it hest, 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,
These are thy fruits, successful Passion ! these !
If, kindly cruel, early Hope is crost,

Still to the last it rankles, a disease,
Not to be cur'd when Love itself forgets to please.

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
Imagin’d in its little schemes of thought;
Or e'er in new Utopias were ared,

To teach man what he might be, or he ought ;
If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught.

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 suught her more and more,and lov'd her best in wrath.

Land of Albania !(11) where Iskander rose,
Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise,
And he his name-sake, whose ost-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.

Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the barren spot, (12)
Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave;
And onward view'd 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.

'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve
Childe Harold hail'd Leucadia's cape afar ;
A spot he long'd to see, nor car'd to leave :
Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish'd war,
Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar ;(13)
Mark them unmov'd, for he would not delight
(Born beneath some remote inglorious star)

In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, [wight. But loath'd the bravo's trade, and laugh'd at martial

But when he saw the evening star above
Leucadia's far projecting rock of woe,
And haild the last resort of fruitless love, (14)
He felt, or deem'd he felt, no cominon 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.

Morn dawns; and with it stern Albania's hills,
Dark Sulis' rocks, and Pindus' inland peak,
Rob'd half in misi, 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 adieu ; Now he adventur'd on a shoi e 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, [heat. Beat back keen winter's blast, and welcou'd summer's

Here the red cross, for still the cross is here,
Though sadly scoffd at by the circumcis'd,
Forgets that pride to pamper'd Priesthood dear;
Churchman and votary alike despis'd.
Foul Superstition ! howsoe'er disguis'd,
Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross,
For whatsoever symbol thou art priz'd,

Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss!
Who from true worship’s gold cap separate thy dross?

XLV. Ambracia's gulph behold, where once was lost A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing! In yonder rippling bay, their na val host Did mapy a Roman Chief and Asian king, (15) To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter bring : Look where the second Cæsar's trophies rose! (16) Now, like the hands that rear'd them, withering ,

Imperial Anarchs, doubling human woes ! 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 Illy, ia's vales, Childe Harold pass'd o'er many amount 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 charp they know not ; lov'd Parnassus fails, Though classic ground and consecrated most, To match some spots, that lurk within this lowering coast

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