Lord Byron

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (With Byron's Biography)


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seal Love's dimpling finger hath impressedcs Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch: 12.B. Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest, Bid man be valiant ere he merit such: Her glance how wildly beautiful! how much Hath Phoebus wooed in vain to spoil her cheek, Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch! Who round the North for paler dames would seek? How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan, and weak!78

      LIX.

      Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud;

       Match me, ye harems of the land! where now

       I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud

      LX.

      LXI.

      Oft have I dreamed of Thee! whose glorious name

       Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore:

       And now I view thee—'tis, alas, with shame

       That I in feeblest accents must adore.

       When I recount thy worshippers of yore

       I tremble, and can only bend the knee;

       Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar,

       But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy

      LXII.

      Happier in this than mightiest Bards have been,

       Whose Fate to distant homes confined their lot,

       Shall I unmoved behold the hallowed scene,

       Which others rave of, though they know it not?

       Though here no more Apollo haunts his Grot,

       And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave,

       Some gentle Spirit still pervades the spot,

       Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the Cave,

      LXIII.

      Of thee hereafter.—Ev'n amidst my strain

       I turned aside to pay my homage here;

       Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain;

       Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear;

       And hailed thee, not perchance without a tear.

       Now to my theme—but from thy holy haunt

      LXIV.

      But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount! when Greece was young,

      LXV.

      Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast

      LXVI.

      When Paphos fell by Time—accurséd Time!

       The Queen who conquers all must yield to thee—

       The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime;

       And Venus, constant to her native Sea,

       To nought else constant, hither deigned to flee,

       And fixed her shrine within these walls of white:

       Though not to one dome circumscribeth She

       Her worship, but, devoted to her rite,

      LXVII.

      LXVIII.

      The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest:

       What hallows it upon this Christian shore?

       Lo! it is sacred to a solemn Feast:

       Hark! heard you not the forest-monarch's roar?

       Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore

       Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn;

       The thronged arena shakes with shouts for more;

       Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn,

       Nor shrinks the female eye, nor ev'n affects to mourn.