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CLXXXIII.
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
Calm or convulsed—in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving;-boundless, endless, and sublime—
The image of Eternity—the throne
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone

Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

CLXXXIV.
And I have loved thee, Ocean' and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
I wanton'd with thy breakers—they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror—'t was a pleasing fear,
For I was as it were a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane—as I do here.

CLXXXV.
My task is done—my song hath ceased—my theme
Has died into an echo; it is fit
The spell should break of this protracted dream.
The torch shall be extinguish’d which hath lit
My midnight lamp—and what is writ, is writ,
Would it were worthier! but I am not now
That which I have been—and my visions flit
Less palpably before me—and the glow

Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low.

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CLXXXVI. Farewell ! a word that must be, and hath been— A sound which makes us linger;-yet—farewell ! Ye! who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene Which is his last, if in your memories dwell A thought which once was his, if on ye swell A single recollection, not in vain He wore his sandal-shoon, and scallop-shell; Farewell ! with him alone may rest the pain, If such there were—with you, the moral of his strain.

end of CANTO The Fourth.

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THE little village of Castri stands partly on the site of Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, from Chrysso, are the remains of sepulchres hewn in and from the rock. “One,” said the guide, “of a king who broke his neck hunting.” His majesty had certainly chosen the fittest spot for such an achievement.

A little above Castri is a cave, supposed the Pythian, of immense depth; the upper part of it is paved, and now a cowhouse.

On the other side of Castri stands a Greek monastery; some way above which is the cleft in the rock, with a range of caverns difficult of ascent, and apparently leading to the interior of the mountain; probably to the Corycian Cavernmentioned by Pausanias. From this part descend the fountain and the “Dews of Castalie.”

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The Convent of “Our Lady of Punishment,” Nossa Señora de Pena, on the summit of the rock. Below, at some distance, is the Cork Convent, where St. Honorius dug his den, over which is his epitaph. From the hills, the sea adds to the beauty of the view.—Note to 1st Edition. Since the publication of this poem, I have been informed of the misapprehension of the term Nossa Señora de Pena. It was owing to the want of the tilde or mark over the fi, which alters the signification of the word: with it, Peña signifies a rock; §. it, Pena has the sense I adopted. I do not think it necessary to alter the passage; as though the common acceptation affixed to it is “Our Lady of the Rock,” I may well assume the other sense from the severities practised there.—Note to 2d Edition.

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It is a well known fact, that in the year 1809 the assassinations in the streets of Lisbon and its vicinity were not confined by the Portuguese to their countrymen; but that Englishmen were daily butchered: and so far

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