LXXXVI.

Such be the sons of Spain, and, strange her fate! They fight for freedom who were never free; A kingless people for a nerveless state, Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee, True to the veriest siaves of treachery: Fond of a land which gave them nought but life, Pride points the path that leads to liberty; Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, War, war is still the cry, «war even to the knife!»18

XCI.

Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the most! Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear! Though to my hopeless days for ever lost, In dreams deny me not to see thee here! And morn in secret shall renew the tear Of consciousness awaking to her woes, And fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier, Till my frail frame return to whence it rose, And mourn'd and mourner lie united in repose.

XCIII.

Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage:
Ye who of him may further seek to know,
Shall find some tidings in a future page,
If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe.
Is this too much? stern critic! say not so:
Patience! and ye shall hear what he beheld
In other lands, where he was doom'd to go:
Lands that contain the monuments of Eld,

V.

Or burst the vanish'd hero's lofty mound;
Far on the solitary shore he sleeps :3
He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around;
But now not one of saddening thousands weeps,
Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps
Where demi-gods appear'd, as records tell.
Remove yon skull from out the scatter'd heaps :
Is that a temple where a god may dwell?

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,

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.

X.

Here let me sit upon this massy stone, The marble column's yet unshaken base; Here, son of Saturn! was thy fav'rite throne: 4 Mightiest of many such! Hence let me trace The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place. 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 sighUnmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by.

50

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? Blush, Caledonia! such thy son could be! 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.5 XII.

But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast,

To rive what Goth, and Turk, and time hath spared:6
Cold as the crags upon his native coast,
His mind as barren and his heart as hard,

Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prepared,
Aught to displace Athena's poor remaius:
Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard,
Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains,7
And never knew, till then, the weight of despot's chains.

Cold is the heart, fair Greece! that looks on thee,
Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved;
Dull is the eye that will not weep to see
Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed
By British hands, which it had best beloved
To guard those relics ne'er to be restored.
Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved,
Aud once again thy hapless bosom gored,

XVII.

He that has sail'd upon the dark blue sea
Has view'd at times, I ween, a full fair sight;
When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be,
The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight;
Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right,
The glorious main expanding o'er the bow,
The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight,
The dullest sailer wearing bravely now,

So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow.
XVIII.

And oh, the little warlike world within!
The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy,9
The hoarse command, the busy humming din,
When, at a word, the tops are maun'd on high:
Hark to the boatswain's call. the cheering cry!
While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides:
Or school-boy midshipman that, standing by,
Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides,
And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides.

The moon is up; by Heaven a lovely eve!

Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand;
Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe:
Such be our fate when we return to land!
Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand
Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love;
A circle there of merry listeners stand,
Or to some well-known measure featly move,

abhorr'd!