Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs;
What careth she for hearts when once possessed?
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:er 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—es These are thy fruits, successful Passion! these!135 If, kindly cruel, early Hope is crost, Still to the last it rankles, a disease, 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—
Climes, fair withal as ever mortal headet Imagined in its little schemes of thought;eu Or e'er in new Utopias were ared,136 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 always changing, in her aspect mild;
From her bare bosom let me take my fill,
Her never-weaned, though not her favoured child.ev Oh! she is fairest in her features wild, Where nothing polished dares pollute her path: To me by day or night she ever smiled, Though I have marked her when none other hath, And sought her more and more, and loved her best in wrath.137
XXXVIII.
Land of Albania! where Iskander rose,138 Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise,139 And he his namesake, whose oft-baffled foes Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprize: Land of Albania! let me bend mine eyes 11.B. 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 sailed, and passed the barren spot,140 Where sad Penelope o'erlooked the wave; 12.B. And onward viewed 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.141
XL.
'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve
Childe Harold hailed Leucadia's cape afar;
A spot he longed to see, nor cared to leave:
Oft did he mark the scenes of vanished war,
Actium—Lepanto—fatal Trafalgar; 13.B. Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight (Born beneath some remote inglorious star)142 In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, But loathed the bravo's trade, and laughed at martial wight.ew
XLI.
But when he saw the Evening star above
Leucadia's far-projecting rock of woe,
And hailed the last resort of fruitless love, 14.B. He felt, or deemed he felt, no common glow: And as the stately vessel glided slow143 Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, He watched the billows' melancholy flow, And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont,ex More placid seemed 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,144 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 shore unknown,145 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 circumcised,
Forgets that Pride to pampered priesthood dear;
Churchman and Votary alike despised.
Foul Superstition! 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.