XCIII.

Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage:
Ye who of him may further seek to know,
Shall find some tidings in a future page,
If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe.

Is this too much? stern critic! say not so:
Patience! and ye shall hear what he beheld
In other lands, where he was doom'd to go:
Lands that contain the monuments of Eld,

V.

Or burst the vanish'd hero's lofty mound;
Far on the solitary shore he sleeps: 3
He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around;
But now not one of saddening thousands weeps,
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?

Son of the morning, rise! approach you here!
Come-but molest not yon defenceless urn:
Look on this spot-a nation's sepulchre !
Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn.
Even gods must yield-religions take their turn:
T was Jove's-t is Mahomet's-and other creeds
Will rise with other years, till man shall learn
Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds;

VI.

There, thou!-whose love and life together fled,
Have left me here to love and live in vain-
Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead,
When busy memory flashes on my brain?
Well-I will dream that we may meet again,
And woo the vision to my vacant breast:
If aught of young remembrance then remain,
Be as it may futurity's behest,

reeds.

IV.

Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heavenIs 't not enough, unhappy thing! to know Thou art! Is this a boon so kindly given, That being, thou wouldst be again, and go, Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what region, so On earth no more, but mingled with the skies? Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe? Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies: That little urn saith more than thousand homilies.

X.

Here let me sit upon this massy stone, The marble column's yet unshaken base; Here, son of Saturn! was thy fav'rite throne: 4 Mightiest of many such! Hence let me trace The latent grandeur of thy dwelling place. It may not be: nor even can fancy's eye Restore what time hath labour'd to deface. Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sighUnmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by.

XI.

But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane On high, where Pallas linger'd, loth to flee The latest relic of her ancient reign; The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he? Blush Caledonia! such thy son could be! England! I joy no child he was of thine: Thy free-born men should spare what once was free; Yet they could violate each saddening shrine, And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant brine.5

XII.

But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast,

To rive what Goth, and Turk, and time hath spared:6 Cold as the crags upon his native coast,

His mind as barren and his heart as hard,

Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prepared, Aught to displace Athena's poor remains: Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard, Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains, 7 And never knew, till then, the weight of despot's chains.

XIII.

What! shall it e'er be said by British tongue, Albion was happy in Athena's tears? Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung, Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears; The ocean queen, the free Britannia bears The last poor plunder from a bleeding land: Yes, she, whose gen'rous aid her name endears, Tore down those remnants with a harpy's hand, Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand.

XIV.

Where was thine ægis, Pallas! that appall'd
Stern Alaric and havoc on their way?8
Where Peleus' son? whom hell in vain enthrall'd,
His shade from Hades upon that dread day,
Bursting to light in terrible array!

What! could not Pluto spare the chief once more,
To scare a second robber from his prey?
Idly he wander'd on the Stygian shore,

Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield e fore.

XV.

Cold is the heart, fair Greece! that looks on thee,
Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved;
Dull is the eye that will not weep to see
Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed
By British hands, which it had best behoved
To guard those relics ne'er to be restored.

Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved,
And once again thy hapless bosom gored,

XVII.

He that has sail'd upon the dark blue sea
Has view'd at times, I ween, a full fair sight;
When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be,
The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight;
Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right,
The glorious main expanding o'er the bow,
The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight,
The dullest sailer wearing bravely now,

So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow.
XVIII.

And oh, the little warlike world within!
The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy,9
The hoarse command, the busy humming din,
When, at a word, the tops are mann'd on high:
Hark to the boatswain's call, the cheering cry!
While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides:
Or school-boy midshipman that, standing by,
Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides,
And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides.

XIX.

White is the glassy deck, without a stain, Where on the watch the staid lieutenant walks: Look on that part which sacred doth remain For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks, Silent and fear'd by all-not oft he talks With aught beneath him, if he would preserve That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks Conquest and fame: but Britons rarely swerve From law, however stern, which tends their strength

to nerve.

XX.

Blow! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale! Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray; Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail, That lagging barks may make their lazy way. Ah! grievance sore, and listless dull delay, To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze! What leagues are lost before the dawn of day, Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, The flapping sail haul'd down to halt for logs like these! XXI.

The moon is up; by Heaven a lovely eve!

Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand;
Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe:
Such be our fate when we return to land!
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,

T is night, when meditation bids us feel
We once have loved, though love is at an end:
The heart, lone mourner of its baftled 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 bath but little left him to destroy!

XXIX.

But not in silence pass Calypso's isles,'
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;

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;

1 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

sigh'd.

anroll'd.

XXVI.

Bat '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.

More blest the life of godly eremite, Such as on lonely Athos may be seen, Watching at eve upon the giant height, Which 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 had almost forgot.

XXVIII.

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, Tai on some jocund morn-lo, land! and all is well.

XXXII.

Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze, One who, 't was said, still sigh'd to all he saw, Withstand, unmoved, 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, thoughr sometimes they frown, yet rarely anger dames.

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 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 even tenderness, if thou art wise; Brisk confidence still best with woman copes; Pique her and soothe in turn, soon passion crowns thy hopes.

wight.

XLVII.

LIII.

He pass'd bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake,'7 And left the primal city of the land,

And onwards did his further journey take

To greet Albania's chief,18 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.'9
XLVIII.

Monastic Zitza! 20 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

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 : Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak? When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink beneath the stroke!

LIV.

Epirus' bounds recede, and mountains fail;

Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye
Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale

As ever spring yclad in grassy dye:

Even 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,

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, 21 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, 22

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! 23

Once consecrated to the sepulchre.

Pluto! if this be hell I look upon,

trance.

Richly caparison'd, a ready row

Of armed horse, and many a warlike store
Circled the wide-extending court below:
Above, strange groups adorn'd the corridor;
And oft-times through the Area's echoing door
Some high-capp'd Tartar spurr'd his steed away:
The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor,
Here mingled in their many-hued array,

none!

LII.

Ne city's towers pollute the lovely view;
Unseen is Yanina, though not remote,
Veld by the screen of hills! here men are few,
Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot;
But, peering down each precipice, the goat
Browth: and, pensive o'er his scatter'd flock,
The httle shepherd in his white capote 24
Doth lean his boyish form along the rock,

Or in his cave awaits the tempest's short-lived shock.

of day.

LVIII.

The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee,
With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun,
And gold-embroider'd 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,