Ambracia's gulf behold, where once was lost A world for Woman, lovely, harmless thing![ey][146] In yonder rippling bay, their naval host Did many a Roman chief and Asian King[15.B.] To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter bring: Look where the second Cæsar's trophies rose![147][16.B.] Now, like the hands that reared them, withering: Imperial Anarchs, doubling human woes![ez] GOD! was thy globe ordained for such to win and lose? XLVI. From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, Ev'n 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,[17.B.] And left the primal city of the land, And onwards did his further journey take[148] To greet Albania's Chief, whose dread command[18.B.] 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.[19.B.] XLVIII. Monastic Zitza![149] from thy shady brow,[20.B.] 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 abound, And bluest skies that harmonise the whole: Beneath, the distant Torrent's rushing sound Tells where the volumed Cataract doth roll Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please the soul. XLIX. Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill, Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still, Might well itself be deemed of dignity, The Convent's white walls glisten fair on high: Here dwells the caloyer, nor rude is he,[21.B.] Nor niggard of his cheer;[150] the passer by Is welcome still; nor heedless will he flee From hence, if he delight kind Nature's sheen to see. L. Here in the sultriest season let him rest, Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees; Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast,[fa] From Heaven itself he may inhale the breeze: The plain is far beneath--oh! let him seize Pure pleasure while he can; the scorching ray Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease: Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay, And gaze, untired, the Morn--the Noon--the Eve away.