IV. Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heavenIs 't not enough, unhappy thing! to know Thou art? Is this a boon so kindly given, That being, thou wouldst be again, and go, Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what region, so On earth no more, but mingled with the skies? Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe? Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies: That little urn saith more than thousand homilies. V. Or burst the vanish'd hero's lofty mound; 3 He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around; Where demi-gods appear'd, as records tell. Why even the worm at last disdains her shatter'd cell! VI. Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall, VII. Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son ! "All that we know is, nothing can be known.' Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun? Each has his pang, but feeble sufferers groan With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. Pursue what chance or fate proclaimeth best ; Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron : There no forced banquet claims the sated guest, But silence spreads the couch of ever-welcome rest. VIII. Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be With those who made our mortal labours light! The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right! IX. There, thou!-whose love and life together fled, When busy memory Well-I will dream that we may meet again, And woo the vision to my vacant breast: For me 't were bliss enough to know thy spirit blest! X. Here let me sit upon this massy stone, It may not be nor even can fancy's eye Restore what time hath labour'd to deface. Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by. XI. But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane On high, where Pallas linger'd, loth to flee The latest relic of her ancient reign; The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he? England! I joy no child he was of thine : Thy free-born men should spare what once was free; Yet they could violate each saddening shrine, And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant brine. XII. But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast, To rive what Goth, and Turk, and time hath spared: His mind as barren and his heart as hard, Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prepared, Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard, XIII. What! shall it e'er be said by British tongue, Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung, XIV. Where was thine ægis, Pallas! that appall'd Stern Alaric and havoc on their way? Where Peleus' son? whom hell in vain enthrall'd, His shade from Hades upon that dread day Bursting to light in terrible array! What! could not Pluto spare the chief once more, To scare a second robber from his prey? Idly he wander'd on the Stygian shore, Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before. XV. Cold is the heart, fair Greece! that looks on thee, Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved, And snatch'd thy shrinking gods to northern climes abhorr'd! XVI. But where is Harold? shall I then forget No loved-one now in feign'd lament could rave; And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes. XVII. He that has sail'd upon the dark blue sea So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow. XVIII. And oh, the little warlike world within! XIX. White is the glassy deck, without a stain, From law, however stern, which tends their strength to nerve. XX. Blow! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale! The flapping sail haul'd down to halt for logs like these! XXI. The moon is up; by Heaven a lovely eve! Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand; Or to some well-known measure featly move, Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove. XXII. Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore; Europe and Afric on each other gaze! Lands of the dark-eyed maid and dusky Moor Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze: How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown, Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase; But Mauritania's giant-shadows frown, From mountain-cliff to coast descending sombre down. XXIII. 'T is night, when meditation bids us feel We once have loved, though love is at an end: Ah! happy years! once more, who would not be a boy? |