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Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone.
Thus Harold deemed, as on that lady's eye
Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze, One who, 'twas said, still sighed to all he saw, Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze, Which others hailed with real, or mimic awe, Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law; All that gay beauty from her bondsmen claims: And much she marvelled that a youth so raw Nor felt, nor feigned at least, the oft-told flames, Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely anger dams$XXXIII.
Little knew she that seeming marble-heart,
Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast, 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, liut 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; Pique her and soothe in turn, soon passion crowns thy hopes
"Tis an old lesson; time approves it true,
Away! nor let me. loiter in my song,
Or e'er in new Utopias were ared,
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. 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 1 have marked her when none other hath, And sought her more and more, and loved her best in wrath.
Land of Albania! where Iskander rose,
Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise, . And he his name-sake, whose oft-baffled foes
Shrank from his deeds of chivalrous eraprize:
Land of Albania ! let me bend mine eyes
On thee, thon rugged nurse of savage men!
The cross descends, thy minarets arise,
And the pale crescent sparkles in tbe glen, Through many a cypress grove within each city's ken. XXXIX.
Childc Harold sailed, and passed lhe barren spot, Where sad Penelope o'erlookcd the wave; And onward viewed tbe mount, not yet iorgot, The lover's refuge, and the Lesbian's grave. Dark Sappho! could not verse immortal save That breast imbued with such immortal lire? Could she not live who life eternal gave? If life eternal may await the lyre, That only Heaven to which Earth's children may aspirr.
Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve Childe Harold hailed Leucadia's cape afar; A spot he longed to see, uor cared to leave: Oft did he mark the scenes of vanished war, Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar; Mark them unmoved, for-he would not delight (Corn beneath some remote inglorious star) In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, But loathed the bravo's trade, and laughed at martial wig
But when he saw the evening star above
He felt, or .deemed he felt, no common glow:
Morn dawns; and with it stern Albania's bills,
Now Harold felt himself at length alone, And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu; Now he adventured on a shore 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.
Here the red cross, for still the cross is here,