Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Part 8

XLII.

Morn dawns; and with it stern Albania's hills, Dark Suli's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak, Robed half in mist, bedewed with snowy rills, Arrayed 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, And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu: Now he adventured on a sh.o.r.e unknown, Which all admire, but many dread to view: His breast was armed '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 scoffed at by the circ.u.mcised, Forgets that pride to pampered priesthood dear; Churchman and votary alike despised.

Foul Superst.i.tion! 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 To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter, bring Look where the second Caesar's trophies rose, Now, like the hands that reared them, withering; Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes!

G.o.d! was thy globe ordained for such to win and lose?

XLVI.

From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, E'en to the centre of Illyria's vales, Childe Harold pa.s.sed 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 Parna.s.sus fails, Though cla.s.sic ground, and consecrated most, To match some spots that lurk within this lowering coast.

XLVII.

He pa.s.sed 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 favoured 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: 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 deemed of dignity, The convent's white walls glisten fair on high; Here dwells the caloyer, nor rude is he, Nor n.i.g.g.ard of his cheer: the pa.s.ser-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, 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!

Once consecrated to the sepulchre.

Pluto! if this be h.e.l.l I look upon, Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek for none.

LII.

No city's towers pollute the lovely view; Unseen is Yanina, though not remote, Veiled 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-lived shock.

LIII.

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 G.o.ds 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 gra.s.sy dye: E'en 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 gla.s.sy waters dance, Or with the moonbeam sleep in Midnight's solemn trance.

LV.

The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit, The Laos wide and fierce came roaring by; The shades of wonted night were gathering yet, When, down the steep banks winding wearily 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 sighed along the lengthening glen.

LVI.

He pa.s.sed the sacred harem's silent tower, And underneath the wide o'erarching gate Surveyed the dwelling of this chief of power Where all around proclaimed 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 caparisoned, a ready row Of armed horse, and many a warlike store, Circled the wide-extending court below; Above, strange groups adorned the corridor; And ofttimes through the area's echoing door, Some high-capped Tartar spurred 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 announced the close of day.

LVIII.

The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee, With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun, And gold-embroidered 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 mixed 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 G.o.d but G.o.d!--to prayer--lo! G.o.d 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 a.s.sumed the rule again: Now all was bustle, and the menial train Prepared and spread the plenteous board within; The vacant gallery now seemed made in vain, But from the chambers came the mingling din, As page and slave anon were pa.s.sing out and in.

LXI.

Here woman's voice is never heard: apart And scarce permitted, guarded, veiled, to move, She yields to one her person and her heart, Tamed 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 pa.s.sion shares.

LXII.

In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring Of living water from the centre rose, Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling, And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, Ali reclined, 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.