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, 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 dames. XXXIII. Little knew she that seeming marble-heart, Now mash'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 pursuit had turn'd aside, As long as aught 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. 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 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: Pique her and soothe in turn, soon Passion crowns thy hopes. XXXV. 'Tis an old lesson; Time approves it true, 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, 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, Where nothing polish'd dares pollute her path: Though I have mark'd her when none other hath, And sought her more and more, and loved 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 many a cypress grove within each city's ken. XXXIX. Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the barren spot, (12) Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave; That only Heaven to which Earth's children may aspire. XL. 'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve Childe Harold hail'd Leucadia's cape afar; A spot he long'd to sce, nor cared to leave : Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish'd war, Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar; (13) Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight (Born beneath some remote inglorious star) In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, But loath'd the brayo's trade, and laugh'd at martial wight. XLI. But when he saw the evening star above And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love, (14) XLII. Morn dawns; and with it stern Albania's hills, Dark Sulis' rocks, and Pindus' inland peak, Robed 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, ་ Now he adventured 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 ceasless toil of travel sweet, Beat back keen winter's blast, and welcom'd 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 Now like the hands that reared them, withering: GOD! was thy globe ordain'd for such to win and lose? XLVI. From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, |