Childe Harold's pilgrimage, a romaunt . aded, honor lost,These are thy fruits, successful Passion! these!If, kindly cruel, early hope is crost,Still to the last it rankles, a to be cured when love itself forgets to please. XXXVI. Away! nor let me loiter in my song,For we have many a mountain-path to many a varied shore to sail pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led — CANTO II. PILGRIMAGE. 81 Climes, fair withal as ever mortal headImagined in its little schemes of thought;Or oer in new Utopias were ared,To teach man what he might be, or he ought;If that corrupted th
Childe Harold's pilgrimage, a romaunt . aded, honor lost,These are thy fruits, successful Passion! these!If, kindly cruel, early hope is crost,Still to the last it rankles, a to be cured when love itself forgets to please. XXXVI. Away! nor let me loiter in my song,For we have many a mountain-path to many a varied shore to sail pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led — CANTO II. PILGRIMAGE. 81 Climes, fair withal as ever mortal headImagined in its little schemes of thought;Or oer in new Utopias were ared,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 always changing, in her aspect mild;From her bare bosom let me take my never-weaned, though not her favored ! she is fairest in her features nothing polished dares pollute her path:To me by day or night she ever I have marked her when none other hath,And sought her more and more, and loved her best in 82 CHILDE HAROLDS canto ii. XXXVIII. Land of Albania ! where Iskancler rose,Theme of the young, and beacon of the he his namesake, whose oft-baffled foesShrunk from his deeds of chivahous emprise:Land of Albania! let me bend mine eyesOn thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men !The cross descends, thy minarets the pale crescent sparkles in the glen,Through many a cypress grove within each citys ken. XXXIX. Childe Harold sailed, and passed the barren spot,Where sad Penelope oerlooked the wave;And onward viewed the mount, not yet forgot,The lovers refuge, and the Lesbians Sappho! could not verse immortal saveThat breast imbued with such immortal fire?Could she not live who life eternal gave ?If life eternal may await the only Heaven to which Earths children may aspire. XL. T was on a Grecian autumns gentle eveChilde Harold hailed Leucadias cape afar;A spot he longed to see, nor cared to leave:Oft did he mark th
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