Epirus’ bounds recede, and mountains fail;
   Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye
   Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale
   As ever Spring yclad in grassy dye: 
   E’en on a plain no humble beauties lie,
   Where some bold river breaks the long expanse,
   And woods along the banks are waving high,
   Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance,
Or with the moonbeam sleep in Midnight’s solemn trance.

LV.

   The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit,
   The Laos wide and fierce came roaring by;
   The shades of wonted night were gathering yet,
   When, down the steep banks winding wearily
   Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky,
   The glittering minarets of Tepalen,
   Whose walls o’erlook the stream; and drawing nigh,
   He heard the busy hum of warrior-men
Swelling the breeze that sighed along the lengthening glen.

LVI.

   He passed the sacred harem’s silent tower,
   And underneath the wide o’erarching gate
   Surveyed the dwelling of this chief of power
   Where all around proclaimed his high estate. 
   Amidst no common pomp the despot sate,
   While busy preparation shook the court;
   Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons wait;
   Within, a palace, and without a fort,
Here men of every clime appear to make resort.

LVII.

   Richly caparisoned, a ready row
   Of armed horse, and many a warlike store,
   Circled the wide-extending court below;
   Above, strange groups adorned the corridor;
   And ofttimes through the area’s echoing door,
   Some high-capped Tartar spurred his steed away;
   The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor,
   Here mingled in their many-hued array,
While the deep war-drum’s sound announced the close of day.

LVIII.

   The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee,
   With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun,
   And gold-embroidered garments, fair to see: 
   The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon;
   The Delhi with his cap of terror on,
   And crooked glaive; the lively, supple Greek;
   And swarthy Nubia’s mutilated son;
   The bearded Turk, that rarely deigns to speak,
Master of all around, too potent to be meek,

LIX.

   Are mixed conspicuous:  some recline in groups,
   Scanning the motley scene that varies round;
   There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops,
   And some that smoke, and some that play are found;
   Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground;
   Half-whispering there the Greek is heard to prate;
   Hark! from the mosque the nightly solemn sound,
   The muezzin’s call doth shake the minaret,
‘There is no god but God!—­to prayer—­lo!  God is great!’