XLII. Morn dawns; and with it stern Albania's hills, Dark Sulis' rocks, and Pindus' inland peak, XLIII. Now Harold felt himself at length alone, Which all admire, but many dread to view: His breast was arm'd '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. L XLIV. Here the red cross, for still the cross is here, Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss ! Who from true worship's gold can separate thy dross? XLV. Ambracia's gulf behold, where once was lost GOD! was thy globe ordain'd for such to win and lose? XLVI. From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, Ev'n to the centre of Illyria's vales, Childe Harold pass'd o'er many a mount sublime, Are rarely seen; nor can fair Tempe boast To match some spots that lurk within this lowering coast. XLVII. He pass'd 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 Is lawless law; for with a bloody hand. He sways a nation, turbulent and bold: Yet here and there some daring mountain-band Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold. (19) XLVIII. Monastic Zitza! (20) from thy shady brow, Thou small, but favour'd spot of holy ground! What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found! And bluest skies that harmonize the whole: Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please the soul. XLIX. Amidst the grove that crowns yon Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still, Might well itself be deem'd of dignity, The convent's white walls glisten fair on high : Is welcome still; nor heedless will he flee From hence, if he delight kind Nature's sheen to see. L. Here in the sultriest season let him rest, LI. Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight, Nature's volcanic amphitheatre, (22) Chimæra's alps extend from left to right: Beneath, a living valley seems to stir; Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain-fir Once consecrated to the sepulchre. Pluto! if this be hell I look upon, Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek for none! |