CLXXII. but no, These might have been her destiny; Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest The land which loved thee so that none could love thee best. CLXXIII. (70) Lo, Nemi! navell'd in the woody hills And, calm as cherish'd hate, its surface wears 174 CHILDE HAROLD'S CANTO IV. CLXXIV. And near Albano's scarce divided waves Shine from a sister valley ;-and afar * The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war, "Arms and the Man," whose re-ascending star Rose o'er an empire;-but beneath thy right Tully reposed from Rome;-and where yon bar Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight The Sabine farm was till'd, the weary bard's delight. (71) 1 CLXXV. But I forget. My pilgrim's shrine is won, And he and I must part,-so let it be,— Those waves, we follow'd on till the dark Euxine roll'd CLXXVI. Upon the blue Symplegades: long years Long, though not very many, since have done Their work on both; some suffering and some tears Have left us nearly where we had begun : Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run, We have had our reward-and it is here; That we can yet feel gladden'd by the sun, And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear As if there were no man to trouble what is clear. CLXXVII. Oh! that the Desert were my dwelling place, With one fair Spirit for my minister, That I might all forget the human race, In deeming such inhabit many a spot? Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. CLXXVIII. There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep Sea, and music in its roar : I love not Man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the Universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet can not all conceal. CLXXIX. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean-roll! He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown. CLXXX. His steps are not upon thy paths, thy fields Are not a spoil for him,-thou dost arise And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, His petty hope in some near port or bay, CLXXXI. The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, VOL. II. N |