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,N17
And left the primal city of the land,
And onwards did his further journey take[1]
To greet Albania's Chief, whose dread commandN18
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.N19
XLVIII.
Monastic Zitza![2] from thy shady brow,N20