Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone,
   And winds are rude in Biscay’s sleepless bay. 
   Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon,
   New shores descried make every bosom gay;
   And Cintra’s mountain greets them on their way,
   And Tagus dashing onward to the deep,
   His fabled golden tribute bent to pay;
   And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap,
And steer ’twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap.