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: | |
295 | 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; | |
300 | 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; | |
305 | 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, | |
And those who know it best, deplore it most; | |
When all is won that all desire to woo, | |
310 | 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, | |
315 | 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 – | |
320 | Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head |
Imagined 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. | |
XXXVII | |
325 | 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, | |
330 | Where nothing polish’d dares pollute her path: |
To me by day or night she ever smiled, | |
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! where Iskander rose, | |
335 | Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise, |
And he his namesake, whose oft-baffled foes | |
Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprize: | |
Land of Albania!1 let me bend mine eyes | |
On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men! | |
340 | 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, | |
Where sad Penelope o’erlook’d the wave;2 | |
345 | 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? | |
350 | If life eternal may await the lyre, |
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 longed to see, nor cared to leave: | |
355 | Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish’d war, |
Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar;2 | |
Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight | |
(Born beneath some remote inglorious star) | |
In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, | |
360 | But loathed the bravo’s trade, and laughed at martial wight. |
XLI | |
But when he saw the evening star above | |
Leucadia’s far-projecting rock of woe, | |
And hail’d the last resort of fruitless love, | |
He felt, or deem’d he felt, no common glow: | |
365 | 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. | |
XLII | |
370 | Morn dawns; and with it stern Albania’s hills, |
Dark Suli’s 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, | |
375 | 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, | |
380 | And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu; |
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: | |
385 | 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, | |
390 | 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, | |
395 | 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 | |
400 | Did many a Roman chief and Asian king1 |
To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter bring: | |
Look where the second Caesar’s trophies rose: | |
Now, like the hands that rear’d them, withering: | |
Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes! | |
405 | G |
XLVI | |
From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, | |
Ev’n to the centre of Illyria’s vales, | |
Childe Harold pass’d o’er many a mount sublime, | |
Through lands scarce noticed in historic tales; | |
410 | 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 | |
415 | He pass’d bleak Pindus, Acherusia’s lake, |
And left the primal city of the land, | |
And onwards did his further journey take | |
To greet Albania’s chief, | |
Is lawless law; for with a bloody hand | |
420 | 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. | |
XLVIII | |
Monastic Zitza!1 from thy shady brow, | |
425 | 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 harmonise the whole: | |
430 | 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 | |
435 | Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still, |