XXXV. 'Tis an old lesson; Time approves it true, The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost: Still to the last it rankles, a disease, Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to please. Away! nor let me loiter in my song, For we have many a mountain-path to tread, By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led Climes, fair withall as ever mortal head Or e'er in new Utopias were read, 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 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. XXX VIII. Land of Albania! where Iskander rose, Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise, Through many a cypress grove, within each city's ken. XXXIX. Childe Harold sailed, and passed the barren spot, 11 Where sad Penelope o'erlooked the wave; 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. X L. 'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, But loathed the bravo's trade, and laughed at martial wight. XLI. But wfien he saw the evening star above Leucadia's far-projecting rock of woe, And hailed the last resort of fruitless love, 14 He felt, or deemed he felt, no common glow: And as the stately vessel glided slow Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, He watched the billows' melancholy flow, And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont, More placid seemed his eye, and smooth his pallid front." XLII. Morn dawns; and with it stern Albania's hills Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer: Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak And gathering storms around, convulse the closing year. XLIII. Now Harold felt himselt at length alone, 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, Foul Superstition! howsoe'er disguised, Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross, 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 GOD! was thy globe ordained, for such to win and lose? XLVI. From the dark barrier of that rugged clime, Ev'n to the centre of Illyria's vales, Childe Harold passed o'er many a mount sublime, Are rarely seen; nor can fair Tempe boast 73 To match some spots that lurk, within this lowering coast, XLVII. He passed bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake, 17 And left the primal city of the land, And onwards did his further journey take To greet Albania's chief, 18 whose dread command |