Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud;
   Match me, ye harems! of the land where now
   I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud
   Beauties that even a cynic must avow! 
   Match me those houris, whom ye scarce allow
   To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind,
   With Spain’s dark-glancing daughters—­deign to know,
   There your wise Prophet’s paradise we find,
His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind.