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5. On thee, in whom at once conspire

All charms which heedless hearts can move, Whom but to see is to admire,

And, oh! forgive the word to love.

6. Forgive the word, in one who ne'er

With such a word can more offend; And since thy heart I cannot share,

Believe me, what I am, thy friend.

7. And who so cold as look on thee,

Thou lovely wand'rer, and be less ? Nor be, what man should ever be,

The friend of Beauty in distress ?


Ah! who would think that form had past

Through Danger's most destructive path, Had braved the death-winged tempest's blast,

And 'scaped a Tyrant's fiercer wrath ?

9. Lady! when I shall view the walls

Where free Byzantium once arose, And Stamboul's Oriental halls

The Turkish tyrants now enclose;

i. Through giant Danger's rugged path.-(MS. M.]

Though mightiest in the lists of fame,

That glorious city still shall be;
On me 'twill hold a dearer claim,

As spot of thy nativity :


And though I bid thee now farewell,

When I behold that wondrous scene-
Since where thou art I may not dwell –
'Twill soothe to be where thou hast been.

September, 1809. (First published, Childe Harold, 1812 (4:0;.;




Chill and mirk is the nightly blast,

Where Pindus' mountains rise,

i. Stanzas.—[1812.] 1. Composed Oct. 11, 1809, during the night in a thunderstorm, when the guides had lost the road to Žitza, near the range of mountains formerly called Pindus, in Albania. [Editions 1812-1831.)

[This thunderstorm occurred during the night of the 11th October, 1809, when Lord Byron's guides had lost the road to Zitza, near the range of mountains formerly called Pindus, in Albania. Hobhouse, who had ridden on before the rest of the party, and arrived at Zitza just as the evening set in, describes the thunder as rolling “ without intermission-the echoes of one peal had not ceased to roll in the mountains, before another tremendous crash burst over our heads, whilst the plains and the distant hills, visible through the cracks in the cabin, appeared in a perpetual blaze. The tempest was altogether terrific, and worthy of the Grecian Jove. Lord Byron, with the priest and the servants, did not enter our hut before three (in the morning). I now learnt from him that they had lost their way, ..

Aud angry clouds are pouring fast

The vengeance of the skies.


Our guides are gone, our hope is lost,

And lightnings, as they play,
But show where rocks our path have crost,

Or gild the torrent's spray.

Is yon a cot I saw, though low?

When lightning broke the gloom-
How welcome were its shade !-ah, no!

'Tis but a Turkish tomb.

Through sounds of foaming waterfalls,

I hear a voice exclaim
My way-worn countryman, who calls

On distant England's name.

A shot is fired-by foe or friend?

Another-'tis to tell
The mountain-peasants to descend,

And lead us where they dwell.

Oh! who in such a night will dare

To tempt the wilderness ?

and that after wandering up and down in total ignorance of their position, had, at last, stopped near some Turkish tombstones and a torrent, which they saw by the flashes of lightning. They had been thus exposed for nine hours. . . . It was long before we ceased to talk of the thunderstorm in the plain of Zitza."— Travels in Albania, 1858, i. 70, 72; Childe Harold, Canto II. stanza xlviii., Poetical Works, 1899, ii. 129, note 1.)

And who 'mid thunder-peals can hear

Our signal of distress?


And who that heard our shouts would rise

To try the dubious road?
Nor rather deem from nightly cries

That outlaws were abroad.


Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour!

More fiercely pours the storm!
Yet here one thought has still the power

To keep my bosom warm.

9. While wandering through each broken path

O'er brake and craggy brow; While elements exhaust their wrath,

Sweet Florence, where art thou ?


Not on the sea, not on the sea

Thy bark hath long been gone : Oh, may the storm that pours on me,

Bow down my head alone!


Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc,

When last I pressed thy lip;
And long ere now, with foaming shock,

Impelled thy gallant ship.

I 2.

Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now

Hast trod the shore of Spain; 'Twere hard if aught so fair as thou

Should linger on the main.

13. And since I now remember thco

In darkness and in dread, As in those hours of revelry

Which Mirth and Music sped ;

Do thou, amid the fair white walls,

If Cadiz yet be free,
At times from out her latticed halls

Look o'er the dark blue sea;

Then think upon Calypso's isles,

Endeared by days gone by;
To others give a thousand smiles,

To me a single sigh.


And when the admiring circle mark

The paleness of thy face,
A half-formed tear, a transient spark

Of melancholy grace,

17. Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun

Some coxcomb's raillery; Nor own for once thou thought'st on one,

Who ever thinks on thee.

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