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George Gordon Byron - Childe Harold`s Pilgrimage: A Romaunt. Canto II.
Work rating: Medium

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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, 
And years, that bade thy worship to expire: 
But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, 
Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
Of men who never felt the sacred glow 
That thoughts of thee and thine on polish`d breasts bestow. 

II.
Ancient of days! august Athena! where, 
Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul? 
Gone-glimmering through the dream of things that were: 
First in the race that led to Glory`s goal, 
They won, and pass`d away-is this the whole? 
A school-boy`s tale, the wonder of an hour! 
The warrior`s weapon and the sophist`s stole 
Are sought in vain, and o`er each mouldering tower, 
Dim with the mist of years, grey flits the shade of power. 

III.
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: 
`Twas Jove`s--2tis Mahomet`s-and other creeds 
Will rise with other years, till man shall learn 
Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds; 
Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on reeds. 

IV.
Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heaven- 
Is`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. 

V.
Or burst the vanish`d Hero`s lofty mound; 
Far on the solitary shore he sleeps: 
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 scatte?d heaps: 
Is that a temple where a God may dwell? 
Why ev`n 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, 
People this lonely tower, this tenement refit? 

VII.
Well didst thou speak, Athena`s wisest son! 
`All that we know is, nothing can be known.` 
Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun? 
Each has his pang, but feeble sufferers groan 
With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. 
Pursue what Chance or.Fate proclaimeth best; 
Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron: 
There no forc`d banquet claims the sated guest, 
But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest. 

VIII. 
Yet if, as holiest men have deem`d, there be 
A land of souls beyond that sable shore, 
To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee 
And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore; 
How sweet it were in concert to adore 
With those who made our mortal labours light! 
To hear each voice we fear`d to hear no more! 
Behold each mighty shade reveal`d to sight, 
The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right! 

IX.
There, thou!-whose love and life together fled, 
Have left me here to love and live in vain- 
Twin`d 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, 
For me `twere bliss enough to know thy spirit blest! 

X.
Here let me sit upon this massy stone, 
The marble column`s yet unshaken base; 
Here, son of Saturn! was thy favrite throne: 
Mightiest of many such! Hence let me trace 
The latent grandeur of thy dwelling place. 
It may not be: nor ev`n can Fancy`s eye 
Restore what Time hath labour`d to deface. 
Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh, 
Unmov`d 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. 

XII.
But most the modern Pict’s ignoble boast, 
To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath spar’d: 
Cold as the crags upon his native coast, 
His mind as barren and his heart as hard, 
Is he whose head conceiv’d, whose hand prepar’d, 
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, 
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 tyrnats left to stand. 

XIV.
Where was thine Aegis, Pallas! that appall`d 
Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way? 
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 preserv`d the walls he lov`d to shield before. 

XV.
Cold is the heart, fair Greece! that looks on thee, 
Nor feels as lovers o`er the dust they lov`d; 
Dull is the eye that will not weep to see 
Thy walls defac`d, thy mouldering shrines remov`d 
By British hands, which it had best behov`d 
To guard those relics ne`er to be restor`d. 
Curst be the hour when from their isle they rov`d, 
And once again thy hapless bosom gor`d, 
And snatch`d thy shrinking Gods to northern climes abhorr`d! 

XVI.
But where is Harold? shall I then forget 
To urge the gloomy wanderer o`er the wave? 
Little reck`d he of all that men regret; 
No lov`d-one now in feign`d lament could rave; 
No friend the parting hand extended gave, 
Ere the cold stranger pass`d to other climes: 
Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave; 
But Harold felt not as in other times, 
And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes. 

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-reev`d guns, the netted canopy, 
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 llight 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, 
Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove. 

XXII. 
Through Calpe`s straits survey the streepy shore; 
Europe and Afric on each other gaze! 
Lands of the dark-ey`d Maid and dusky Moor 
Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate`s blaze: 
How softly on the Spanish shore she play, 
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 lov`d, thoug hlove 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 though, 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 flook 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 tir`d 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, 
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, 
Sight 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, 
TIll on some jocund morn--lo, land! and all is well. 

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 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 dreadful leap 
Stern Mentor urg`d 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 urg`d 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 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; 
Who 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, 
And those who know it best, 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, kiindly cruel, early Hope is crost, 
Still to the last it rankles, a disease, 
Not to be cur`d 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-- 
Climes, fair withal as every 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. 

XXXVII.
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 sought her more and more, and lov`d her best in wrath. 

XXXVIII.
Land of Albania! 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, 
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. 

XL. 
`Twas on a Grecian autumn`s gentle eve 
Childe Harold hail`d Leucadia`s cape afar; 
A spot he long`d to see, nor cared to leave: 
Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish`d war, 
Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar; 
Mark them unmov`d, for he would not delight 
(Born beneath some remote inglorious star) 
In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, 
But loath`d the bravo`s trade, and laugh`d 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: 
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. 
Morn dawns; and with it stern Albania`s hills, 
Dark Suli`s rocks, and Pindus` inland peak, 
Rob`d half in mist, bedew`d with snowy rills, 
Array`d in many a dun and purple streak, 
Arise; and, as the clouds among the break, 
Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer: 
Here roams the wolf, the eage 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 shore unknown, 
Which all admre, 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, 
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 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 can separate thy dross?

XLV. 
Ambracia`s gulph 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 
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! 
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 Illyria`s vales, 
Childe Harold pass`d o`er many a mount 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 charm they know not; lov`d 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, 
And left the primal city of the land, 
And onwards did his further journey take 
To greet Albania`s chief, 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. 

XLVIII.
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 volum`d 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 high 
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, untir`d, the morn, the noon, the eve away. 

LI.
Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight, 
Nature`s volcanic amphitheatre, 
Chimaera`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! 
Once consecrated to the sepulchre. 
Pluto! if this be hell I look upon, 
Close sham`d 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; 
But, peering down each precipice, the goat 
Browseth; and, pensive o`er his scattered flock, 
The little shepherd in his white capote 
Doth lean his boyish form along the rock, 
Or in his cave awaits the tempest`s short-liv`d shock. 

LIII.
Oh! where, Dodona! is thine aged grove, 
Prophetic fount, and oracle divine? 
What valley echo`d 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; 
Tir`d of up-gazing still, the wearied eye 
Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale 
As ever Spring yclad in grassy dye: 
Ev`n 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, 
Or with the moon-beam sleep in midnight`s solemn trance. 

LV.
The Sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit, 
And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by; 
The shades of wonted night were gathering yet, 
When, down the steep banks winding warily, 
Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky, 
The glittering minarets of Tepalen, 
Whose walls o`erlook the stream; and drawing nigh, 
He heard the busy hum of warrior-men 
Swelling the breeze that sigh`d along the lengthening glen. 

LVI. 
He pass`d the sacred Haram`s silent tower, 
And underneath the wide o`erarching gate 
Survey`d the dwelling of this chief of power, 
Where all around proclaim`d his high estate. 
Amidst no common pomp the despot sate, 
While busy preparation shook the court, 
Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons wait; 
Within, a palace, and without, a fort; 
Here men of every clime appear to make resort. 

LVII. 
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 corridore; 
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, 
While the deep war-drum`s sound announc`d the close 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, 

LIX.
Are mix`d conspicuous: some recline in groups, 
Scanning the motley scene that varies round; 
There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops, 
And some that smoke, and some that play, are found; 
Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground; 
Half whispering there the Greek is heard to prate; 
Hark! from the mosque the nightly solemn sound, 
The Muezzin`s call doth shake the minaret, 
`There is no god but God!--to prayer--lo! God is great.` 

LX.
Just at this season Ramazani`s fast 
Through the long day its penance did maintain: 
But when the lingering twilight hour was past, 
Revel and feast assum`d the rule again: 
Now all was bustle, and the menial train 
Prepar`d and spread the plenteous board within; 
The vacant gallery now seem`d made in vain, 
But from the chambers came the mingling din, 
As page and slave anon were passing out and in. 

LXI.
Here woman`s voice is never heard: apart, 
And scarce permitted, guarded, veil`d, to move, 
She yields to one her person and her heart, 
Tam`d to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove: 
For, not unhappy in her master`s love, 
And joyful in a mother`s gentlest cares, 
Blest cares! all other feelings far above! 
Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears, 
Who never quits the breast, no meaner passion shares. 

LXII.
In marble-pav`d pavilion, where a spring 
Of living water from the centre rose, 
Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling, 
And soft voluptuous couches breath`d repose, 
ALI reclin`d, a man of war and woes; 
Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace, 
While Gentleness her milder radiance throws 
Along that aged venerable face, 
The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with disgrace. 

LXIII.
It is not that yon hoary lengthening bear 
Ill suits the passions which  belong to youth; 
Love conquers age--so Hafiz hath averr`d, 
So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth-- 
But crimes that scorn the tender voice of Ruth, 
Beseeming all men ill, but most the man 
In years, have marked him with a tyger`s tooth; 
Blood follows blood, and, through their mortal span, 
In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood began. 

LXIV. 
`Mid many things most new to ear and eye 
The pilgrim rested here his weary feet, 
And gaz`d around on Moslem luxury, 
Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat 
Of Wealth and Wantonness, the choice retreat 
Of sated Grandeur from the city`s noise: 
And were it humbler it in sooth were sweet; 
But Peace abhorreth artificial joys, 
And Pleasure, leagued with Pomp, the zest of both destroys. 

LXV.
Fierce are Albania`s children, yet they lack 
Not virtues, were those virtues more mature. 
Where is the foe that ever saw their back? 
Who can so well the toil of war endure? 
Their native fastnesses not more secure 
Than they in doubtful time of troublous need: 
Their wrath how deadly! but their friendship sure, 
When Gratitude or Valour bids them bleed, 
Unshaken rushing on where`er their chief may lead. 

LXVI.
Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain`s tower 
Thronging to war in splendour and success; 
And after view`d them, when, within their power, 
Himself awhile the victim of distress; 
That saddening hour when bad men hotlier press: 
But these did shelter him beneath their roof, 
When less barbarians would have cheered him less, 
And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof-- 
In aught that tries the heart how few withstand the proof! 

LXVII.
It chanc`d that adverse winds once drove his bark 
Full on the coast of Suli`s shaggy shore, 
When all around was desolate and dark; 
To land was perilous, to sojourn more; 
Yet for awhile the mariners forbore, 
Dubious to trust where treachery might lurk: 
At length they ventur`d forth, though doubting sore 
That those who loathe alike the Frank and Turk 
Might once again renew their ancient butcher-work. 

LXVIII. 
Vain fear! the Suliotes stretch`d the welcome hand, 
Led them o`er rocks and past the dangerous swamp, 
Kinder than polish`d slaves though not so bland, 
And pil`d the hearth, and wrung their garments damp, 
And fill`d the bowl, and trimm`d the cheerful lamp, 
And spread their fare; though homely, all they had: 
Such conduct bears Philanthropy`s rare stamp-- 
To rest the weary and to soothe the sad, 
Doth lesson happier men, and shames at least the bad. 

LXIX. 
It came to pass, that when he did address 
Himself to quit at length this mountain-land, 
Combin`d marauders half-way barr`d egress, 
And wasted far and near with glaive and brand; 
And therefore did he take a trusty band 
To traverse Acarnania`s forest wide, 
In war well season`d, and with labours tann`d, 
Till he did greet white Achelous` tide, 
And from his further bank Aetolia`s wolds espied. 

LXX.
Where lone Utraikey forms it circling cove, 
And weary waves retires to gleam at rest, 
How brown the foilage of the green hill`s grove, 
Nodding at midnight o`er the calm bay`s breast, 
As winds come lightly whispering from the west, 
Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep`s serene:-- 
Here Harold was receiv`d a welcome guest; 
Nor did he pass unmov`d the gentle scene, 
For many a joy could he from Night`s soft presence glean. 

LXXI.
On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly blaz`d, 
The feast was done, the red wine circling fast, 
And he that unawares had there ygaz`d 
With gaping wonderment had star`d aghast; 
For ere night`s midmost, stillest hour was past 
The native revels of the troop began; 
Eack Palikar his sabre from him cast, 
And bounding hand in hand, man link`d to man, 
Yelling their uncouth dirge, long daunc`d the kirtled clan. 

LXXII.
Childe Harold at a little distance stood 
And view`d, but not displeas`d, the revelrie, 
Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude: 
In sooth, it was not vulgar sight to see 
Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee, 
And, as the flames along their faces gleam`d, 
Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing free, 
The long wild locks that to their girdles stream`d, 
While thus in concert they this lay hang sang, half scream`d: 

    1 
    Tambourgi! Tambourgi! thy `larum afar 
    Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war: 
    All the sons of the mountains arise at the note, 
    Chimariot, Illyrian, and dark Suliote! 

    2 
    Oh! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, 
    In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote? 
    To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock, 
    And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock. 

    3 
    Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive 
    The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live? 
    Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego? 
    What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe? 

    4 
    Macedonia sends forth her invincible race; 
    For a time they abandon the cave and the chase: 
    But those scarfs of blood-red shall be redder, before 
    The sabre is sheath`d and the battle is o`er. 

    5 
    Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the waves, 
    And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves, 
    Shall leave on the beach the long gallery and oar, 
    And track to his covert the captive on sore. 

    6 
    I ask not the pleasures that riches supply, 
    My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy; 
    Shall win the young bride with her long flowing hair, 
    And many a maid from her mother shall tear. 

    7 
    I love the fair fave of the maid in her youth, 
    Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall sooth; 
    Let her bring from the chamber her many-ton`d lyre, 
    And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. 

    8 
    Remember the moment when Previsa fell, 
    The shrieks of the conquer`d, the conqueror`s yell; 
    The roofs that we fir`d, and the plunder we shar`d, 
    The wealthy we slaughter`d, the lovely we spar`d. 

    9 
    I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear; 
    He neither must know who would serve the Vizier: 
    Since the days of our prophet the Crescent ne`er saw 
    A chief ever glorious like Ali Pashaw. 

    10 
    Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, 
    Let the yellow-hair`d Giaours view his horse-tail with dread; 
    When he Delhis come dashing in blood o`er the banks, 
    How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks! 

    11 
    Selictar! unsheath then our chief`s scimitar: 
    Tambourgi! thy `larum gives promise of war. 
    Ye mountains, that see us descend to the shore, 
    Shall view us as victors, or view us no more! 

LXXIII.
Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! 
Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great! 
Who now shall lead thy scatter`d children forth, 
And long accustom`d bondage uncreate? 
Not such thy sons who whilome did await, 
The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, 
In bleak Thermopylae`s sepulchral strait-- 
Oh! who that gallant spirit shall resume, 
Lead from Eurotas` banks, and call thee from the tomb? 

LXXIV.
Spirit of freedom! when on Phyle`s brow 
Tho sat`st with Thrasybulus and his train, 
Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour which now 
Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain? 
Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, 
But every carle can lord it o`er thy land; 
Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, 
Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand, 
From birth till death enslav`d; in word, in deed unmann`d. 

LXXV.
In all save form alone, how chang`d! and who 
That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye, 
Who but would deem their bosom burn`d anew 
With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty! 
And many dream withal the hour is nigh 
That gives them back their fathers` heritage: 
For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh, 
Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, 
Or tear their name defil`d from Slavery`s mournfal page. 

LXXVI.
Hereditary bondsmen! know ye not 
Who would be free themselves must strike the blow? 
By their right arms the conquest must be wrought? 
Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye? no! 
True, they lay your proud despoilers low, 
But not for you will Freedom`s altars flame. 
Shades of the Helots! triumph o`er your foe! 
Greece! change thy lords, thy state is still the same; 
Thy glorious day is o`er, but not thine years of shame. 

LXXVII.
The city won for Allah from the Giaour, 
The Giaour from Othmna`s race again may wrest; 
And the Serai`s impenetrable tower 
Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest; 
On Wahab`s rebel brood who dared divest 
The prophet`s tomb of all its pious spoil, 
May wind their path of blood along the West; 
But ne`er will freedom seek this fated soil, 
But slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil. 

LXXVIII.
Yet mark their mirth--ere lenten days begin, 
That penance which their holy rites prepare 
To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin, 
By daily abstinence and nightly prayer; 
But ere his sackcloth garb Repentance wear, 
Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all, 
To take the pleasaunce each his secret share, 
In motley robe to dance at masking ball, 
And join the mimic train of merry Carnival. 

LXXIX.
And whose more rife with merriment than thine, 
Oh Stamboul! once the empress of their reign? 
Though turbans now pollute Sophia`s shrine, 
And Greece her very altars eyes in vain: 
(Alas! her woes will still pervade my strain!) 
Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng, 
All felt the common joy they now must feign, 
Nor oft I`ve seen such sight, nor heard such song, 
As woo`d the eye, and thrill`d the Bosphorus along. 

LXXX.
Loud was the lightsome tumult of the shore, 
Oft Music chang`d but never ceas`d her tone, 
And timely echo`d back the measur`d oar, 
And rippling waters made a pleasant moan: 
The Queen of tides on high consenting shone, 
And when a transient breeze swept o`er the wave, 
`Twas, as if darting from her heavenly throne, 
A brighter glance her form reflected gave, 
Till sparkling billows seem`d to light the banks they lave. 

LXXXI.
Glanc`d many a light caique along the foam, 
Danc`d on the shore the daughters of the land, 
Ne thought had man or maid of rest or home, 
While many a languid eye and thrilling hand 
Exchang`d the look few bosoms may withstand, 
Or gently prest, return`d the pressure still: 
Oh Love! young Love! bound in thy rosy band, 
Let sage or cynic prattle as he will, 
These hours, and only these, redeem Life`s years of ill! 

LXXXII.
But, midst the throng in merry masquerade, 
Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain, 
Even through the closest searment half betrayed? 
To such gentle murmurs of the main 
Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain; 
To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd 
Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain: 
How do they loathe the laughter idly loud, 
And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud! 

LXXXIII.
This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece, 
If Greece one true-born patriot still can boast: 
Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace, 
The bondman`s peace, who sighs for all he lost, 
Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost, 
And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword: 
Ah! Greece! they love thee least who owe thee most; 
Their birth, their blood, and taht sublime record 
Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde! 

LXXXIV.
When riseth Lacedemon`s hardihood, 
When Thebes Epaminondas rears again, 
When Athens` children are with hearts endured, 
When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men, 
Then may`st thou be restored; but not till then. 
A thousand years scarce serve to form a state; 
An hour may lay it in the dust: and when 
Can man its shatter`d splendour renovate, 
Recal its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fate? 

LXXXV.
And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, 
Land of lost gods and godlike men! art thou! 
Thy vales of ever-green, thy hills of snow 
Proclaim thee Nature`s varied favourite now: 
Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow, 
Commingling slowly with heroic earth, 
Broke by the share of every rustic plough: 
So perish monuments of mortal birth, 
So perish all in turn, save well-recorded Worth; 
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