[6] Childe Harold, Canto 3.

"There breathes a living fragrance from the shore
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear
Drips the light drop of the suspended oar.
* * * * *
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes
Starts into voice a moment, then is still
There seems a floating whisper on the hill,
But that is fancy,--for the starlight dews
All silently their tears of love instil,
Weeping themselves away."

A person who was of these parties has thus described to me one of
their evenings. 'When the _bise_ or northeast wind blows, the waters
of the Lake are driven towards the town, and, with the stream of the
Rhone, which sets strongly in the same direction, combine to make a
very rapid current towards the harbour. Carelessly, one evening, we
had yielded to its course, till we found ourselves almost driven on
the piles; and it required all our rowers' strength to master the
tide. The waves were high and inspiriting,--we were all animated by
our contest with the elements. 'I will sing you an Albanian song,'
cried Lord Byron; 'now be sentimental, and give me all your
attention.' It was a strange, wild howl that he gave forth; but such
as, he declared, was an exact imitation of the savage Albanian mode,
laughing, the while, at our disappointment, who had expected a wild
Eastern melody.

Sometimes the party landed, for a walk upon the shore, and, on such
occasions, Lord Byron would loiter behind the rest, lazily trailing