Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.

CANTO THE SECOND.

I.

COME, blue-eyed maid of heaven!--but thou, alas,
Didst never yet one mortal song inspire-
Goddess of Wisdom! Here thy temple was,
And is, despite of war and wasting fire,1
And years, that bade thy worship to expire:
But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow,
Is the drear sceptre and dominion dire
Of men who never felt the sacred glow

Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps Where demi-gods appear'd, as records tell. Remove yon skull from out the scatter'd heaps: Is that a temple where a god may dwell? Why, even the worm at last disdains her shatter'd cell!

VI.

Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall,
Its chambers desolate, and portals foul;
Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall,
The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul.
Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole,
The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit,

And Passion's host, that never brook'd control:
Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ,

bestow.

Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand 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 ;
Europe and Afric on each other gaze!
Lands of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky Moor,
Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze:
How softly on the Spanish shore she plays,
Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown,
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, 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?

XXIV.

Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side, To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere, The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride, And flies unconscious o'er each backward year. None are so desolate, but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd 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.

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 : This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unroll'd.

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! None that, with kindred consciousness endued, If we were not, would seem to smile the less, Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and sued: This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!

XXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX.

But not in silence pass Calypso's isles,1 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 essay'd the dreadful leap Stern Mentor urged 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: 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, Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine.

XXXI.

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 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 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,

(1) Goza is said to have been the island of Calypso.

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 welcomed summer's heat.

XLIV.

Here the red cross, for still the cross is here,
Though sadly scoff'd at by the circumcised,
Forgets that pride to pamper'd 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! In yonder rippling bay, their naval host Did many a Roman chief and Asian king 1 To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter, bring: Look where the second Cæsar's trophies rose,2 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,
Even to the centre of Illyria's vales,

Childe Harold pass'd 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 pass'd bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake,3
And left the primal city of the land,
And onwards did his further journey take
To greet Albania's chief, whose dread command4
Is lawless law; for with a bloody band
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.5

(1) It is said that, on the day previous to the battle of Actium, Antony had thirteen kings at his levée.

(2) Nicopolis, whose ruins are most extensive, is at some distance from Actium, where the wall of the Hippodrome survives in a few fragments. These ruins are large masses of brickwork, the bricks of which are joined by interstices of mortar, as large as the bricks themselves, and equally durable.

(3) According to Pouqueville, the lake of Yanina: but Pouqueville is always out.

(4) The celebrated Ali Pacha. Of this extraordinary man there is an incorrect account in Pouqueville's Travels.

(5) Five thousand Suliotes, among the rocks and in the castle of Suli, withstood thirty thousand Albanians for eighteen years: the castle at last was taken by bribery. In

XLVITI.

Monastic Zitza! from thy shady brow,
Thou small, but favour'd 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.

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 deem'd 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.

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, 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,8
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 !9
Once consecrated to the sepulchre.
Pluto! if this be hell I look upon,

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

LII.

Ne city's towers pollute the lovely view ·
Unseen is Yanina, though not remote,
Veil'd by the screen of hills: here men are few,
Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot;

this contest there were several acts performed not unworthy of the better days of Greece.

(6) The convent and village of Zitza are four hours' journey from Joannina, or Yanina, the capital of the pachalic. In the valley the river Kalamas (once the Acheron) flows, and not far from Zitza forms a fine cataract. The situation is perhaps the finest in Greece, though the approach to Delvinachi and parts of Acarnania and Etolia may contest the palm. Delphi, Parnassus, and, in Attica, even Cape Colonna and Port Raphti, are very inferior; as also every scene in Ionia, or the Troad: I am almost inclined to add, the approach to Constantinople; but, from the different features of the last, a comparison can hardly be made. (7) The Greek monks are so called.

(8) The Chimariot mountains appear to have been volcanic. (9) Now called Kalamas.