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Monastic Zitza! (20) from thy shady brow,
Thou small, but favour'd spot of holy ground!
What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found!
Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill,
Might well itself be deem'd of dignity,
Is welcome still; nor heedless will he flee
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.
Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight,
Beneath, a living valley seems to stir;
Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain-fir Nodding above: behold black Acheron! (23)
Once consecrated to the sepulchre.
Pluto! if this be hell I look upon,
Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek for none!
Ne city's towers pollute the lovely view;
Veil'd by the screen of hills: here men are few,
Oh! where, Dodona! is thine aged grove,
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?
When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink beneath the stroke!
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 grassy die: 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 moonbeam sleep in midnight's solemn trance.
The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit, (25)
Whose walls o'erlook the stream; and drawing nigh,
Swelling the breeze that sigh'd along the lengthening glen.
He pass'd the sacred Haram's silent tower,
Here men of every clime appear to make resort.
Richly caparison'd, a ready row
Of armed horse, and many a warlike store,
Above, strange groups adorn'd the corridore;
While the deep war-drum's sound announced the close of day.
The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee,
The bearded Turk that rarely deigns to speak,
Are mix'd conspicuous: some recline in groups,
"There is no god but God!-to prayer-lo! God is great!"
Just at this season Ramazani's fast
Through the long day its penance did maintain:
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, 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 passion shares.
In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring
Along that aged venerable face,
The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with disgrace.