XLIII.

   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.

XLIV.

   Here the red cross, for still the cross is here,
   Though sadly scoffed at by the circumcised,
   Forgets that pride to pampered priesthood dear;
   Churchman and votary alike despised. 
   Foul Superstition! howsoe’er disguised,
   Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross,
   For whatsoever symbol thou art prized,
   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
   A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing! 
   In yonder rippling bay, their naval host
   Did many a Roman chief and Asian king
   To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter, bring
   Look where the second Caesar’s trophies rose,
   Now, like the hands that reared them, withering;
   Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes! 
God! was thy globe ordained for such to win and lose?

XLVI.

   From the dark barriers of that rugged clime,
   E’en to the centre of Illyria’s vales,
   Childe Harold passed o’er many a mount sublime,
   Through lands scarce noticed in historic tales: 
   Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales
   Are rarely seen; nor can fair Tempe boast
   A charm they know not; loved Parnassus fails,
   Though classic ground, and consecrated most,
To match some spots that lurk within this lowering coast.

XLVII.

   He passed bleak Pindus, Acherusia’s lake,
   And left the primal city of the land,
   And onwards did his further journey take
   To greet Albania’s chief, 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
   Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold
Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold.

XLVIII.

   Monastic Zitza! from thy shady brow,
   Thou small, but favoured spot of holy ground! 
   Where’er we gaze, around, above, below,
   What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found! 
   Rock, river, forest, mountain all