Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   The horrid crags, by toppling convent crowned,
   The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep,
   The mountain moss by scorching skies imbrowned,
   The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep,
   The tender azure of the unruffled deep,
   The orange tints that gild the greenest bough,
   The torrents that from cliff to valley leap,
   The vine on high, the willow branch below,
Mixed in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow.