Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,
   His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun,
   With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,
   And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon;
   Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon
   Flashing afar,—­and at his iron feet
   Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done;
   For on this morn three potent nations meet,
To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.