XXXII. Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze, One who, 'twas said, still sigh'd to all he saw, Withstand, unmov'd, the lustre of her gaze, Which others hail'd with real, or mimic awe, Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law; All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims: And much she marvell'd that a youth so raw Nor felt, nor feign'd at least, the oft-told flames, Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely anger dames. XXXIII. Little knew she that seeming marble-heart, And had he doated on those eyes so blue, Yet never would he join the lover's whining crew. VOL. I. G XXXIV. Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast, Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs; What careth she for hearts when once possess'd? Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes; But not too humbly, or she will despise Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes: Disguise ev'n tenderness, if thou art wise; Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes; Pique her and soothe in turn, soon Passion crowns thy hopes. XXXV. "Tis an old lesson; Time approves it true, And those who know it best, deplore it most; When all is won that all desire to woo, The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost: Youth wasted, minds degraded, honour lost, These are thy fruits, successful Passion! these! If, kindly cruel, early Hope is crost, Still to the last it rankles, a disease, Not to be cur'd when Love itself forgets to please. XXXVI. Away! nor let me loiter in my song, 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 I have mark'd her when none other hath, And sought her more and more, and lov'd her best in wrath. XXXVIII. Land of Albania!" where Iskander rose, Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise, And he his name-sake, whose oft-baffled foes Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprize: Land of Albania! let me bend mine eyes On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men! The cross descends, thy minarets arise, And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, Through many a cypress grove within each city's ken. XXXIX. Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the barren spot, If life eternal may await the lyre, That only Heaven to which Earth's children may aspire. XL. 'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve Childe Harold hail'd Leucadia's cape afar; A spot he long'd to see, nor cared to leave: Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish'd war, Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar; 13 Mark them unmov'd, for he would not delight (Born beneath some remote inglorious star) In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, But loath'd the bravo's trade, and laugh'd at martial wight. XLI. 14 But when he saw the evening star above 1 And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont, More placid seem'd his eye, and smooth his pallid front. |