Amid the grove that crowns yon tufted hill,
   Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh
   Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still,
   Might well itself be deem’d of dignity;
   The convent’s white walls glisten fair on high: 
   Here dwells the caloyer, nor rude is he,
   Nor niggard of his cheer; the passer-by
   Is welcome still; nor heedless will he flee
From hence, if he delight kind Nature’s sheen to see.

Having halted a night at Zitza, the travellers proceeded on their journey next morning, by a road which led through the vineyards around the villages, and the view from a barren hill, which they were obliged to cross, is described with some of the most forcible touches of the poet’s pencil.

   Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight,
   Nature’s volcanic amphitheatre,
   Chimera’s Alps, extend from left to right;
   Beneath, a living valley seems to stir. 
   Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain fir
   Nodding above; behold Black Acheron! 
   Once consecrated to the sepulchre. 
   Pluto! if this be hell I look upon,
Close shamed Elysium’s gates; my shade shall seek for none!

The Acheron, which they crossed in this route, is now called the Kalamas, a considerable stream, as large as the Avon at Bath but towards the evening they had some cause to think the Acheron had not lost all its original horror; for a dreadful thunderstorm came on, accompanied with deluges of rain, which more than once nearly carried away their luggage and horses.  Byron himself does not notice this incident in Childe Harold, nor even the adventure more terrific which he met with alone in similar circumstances on the night before their arrival at Zitza, when his guides lost their way in the defiles of the mountains—­adventures sufficiently disagreeable in the advent, but full of poesy in the remembrance.

The first halt, after leaving Zitza, was at the little village of Mosure, where they were lodged in a miserable cabin, the residence of a poor priest, who treated them with all the kindness his humble means afforded.  From this place they proceeded next morning through a wild and savage country, interspersed with vineyards, to Delvinaki, where it would seem they first met with genuine Greek wine, that is, wine mixed with resin and lime—­a more odious draught at the first taste than any drug the apothecary mixes.  Considering how much of allegory entered into the composition of the Greek mythology, it is probable that in representing the infant Bacchus holding a pine, the ancient sculptors intended an impersonation of the circumstance of resin being employed to preserve new wine.