LXXXIV. Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng; LXXXV. Adieu, fair Cadiz ! yea, a long adieu! L'o charms as fair as those that soothed his happier None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen day. Chivalry! TO INEZ. 1. NAY, smile not at my sullen brow; Alas! I cannot smile again : Yet Heaven avert that ever thou 2. And dost thou ask, what secret wo pang, ev'n thou must fail to sooth? 3. It is not love, it is not hate, Nor low Ambition's honors lost, That bids me loathe my present state, 4. It is that weariness which springs 5. It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 6. What Exile from himself can flee? To Zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life-the demon Thought. 7. Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, 8. Through many a clime 'tis mine to go, Whate'er betides, I've known the worst. 9. What is that worst? Nay do not ask- Smile on-nor venture to unmask LXXXVI. Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate! LXXXVII. Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, LXXXVIIP. Flows there a tear of pity for the dead? LXXXIX. Nor yet, alas! the dreadful work is done; XC. Not all the blood at Talavera shed, Have won for Spain her well-asserted right. Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there. And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil XCI. And thou, my friend! 19-since unavailing wo Burst from my heart, and mingles with the strainHad the sword laid thee with the mighty low, Pride might forbid ev'n Friendship to complain; But thus unlaurel'd to descend in vain, By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest! What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully to rest? XCII. 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, Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands we quell'd. CANTO II. I. COME, blue-eyed maid of heaven!--but thou, alas . Didst never yet one mortal song inspireGoddess of Wisdom! here thy temple was, And is, despite of war and wasting fire,' And years, that bade thy worship to expire; But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire Of men who never felt the sacred glow That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts bestow.2 II. [were: Ancient of days! august Athena! where, III. Son of the morning, rise! approach you here; Come-but molest not yon defenceless urn: Look on this spot-a nation's sepulchre ! Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn. Even gods must yield-religions take their turn : 'Twas Jove's-'tis Mahomet's-and other creeds Will rise with other years, till man shall learn Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds; Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on reeds. 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 would'st 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 wo? 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; 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 war-like worshipper his vigil keeps Where demi-gods appear'd, as records tell. Remove yon scull from out the scatter'd heaps: Is that a temple where a God may dwell? Why ev'n the worm at last disdains her shatter'd cell! VI. Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall, And Passion's host, that never brook'd control; 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 labors light! To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more! Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight, Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the IX. If aught of young Remembrance then remain, XV. Cold is the heart, fair Greece! that looks on thee, For me 'twere bliss enough to know thy spirit blest. And snatch'd thy shrinking Gods to northern climes 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 ev'n can Fancy's eye Restore what Time hath labored to deface. Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh; Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by. XI. But wno, of all the plunderers of yon fane On high, where Pallas linger'd, loath 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 : [free; Thy free-born men should spare what once was 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, Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prepared, abhorr'd! XVI. But where is Harold? shall I then forget To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave? Little reck'd he of all that men regret ; No loved one now in feign'd lament could rave; No friend the parting hand extended gave, Ere the cold stranger pass'd to other climes: Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave, But Harold felt not as in other times, 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! And never knew, till then, the weight of Despot's | And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides. chains. XIII. What! shall it e'er be said by British tongue, Albion was happy in Athena's tears? Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung. Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears; The ocean queen, the free Britannia, bears The last poor plunder from a bleeding land; Yes, she, whose gen'rous aid her name endears, Tore down those remnants with a harpy's hand, Which envious Elb forbore, and tyrants left to stand. XIV. Where was thine Ægis, Pallas, that appall'd What! could not Pluto spare the chief once more, Idly he wander'd on the Stygian shore, XIX. White is the glassy deck, without a stain, Where on the watch the staid Lieutenant walks: Look on that part which sacred doth remain For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks, Silent and fear'd by all-not oft he talks With aught beneath him, if he would preserve That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks Conquest and Fame: but Britons rarely swerve From law, however stern, which tends their strength to nerve. XX. Blow! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale! Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield The flapping sail haul'd down to halt for logs like 30 XXI. XXVII. More blest the life of godly Eremite, Such as on lonely Athos may be seen, Watching at eve upon the giant height, Which looks o'er waves so blue, skies so serene, That he who there at such an hour hath been Will wistful linger on that hallowed spot; Then slowly tear him from the witching scene, Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot, Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot. XXVIII. Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind; Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack, And each well known caprice of wave and wind; Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find, Coop'd in their winged sea-girt citadel; The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind, As breezes rise and fall and billows swell, Till on some jocund morn―lo, land! and all is well XXIX. But not in silence pass Calypso's isles,10 Though the fair goddess long hath ceased to weep, XXX. Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone: But trust not this; too easy youth, beware! A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne, And thou may'st find a new Calypso there. Sweet Florence! could another ever share This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine: But check'd by every tie, I may not dare To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine, Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine. XXXI. Thus Harold deem'd, as on that lady's eye He look'd, and met its beam without a thought, Save Admiration glancing harmless by: Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote, Who knew his votary often lost and caught, But knew him as his worshipper no more, And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought; Since now he vainly urged him to adore, Well deem'd the little God his ancient sway was o'er. XXXII. Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze, One who, 'twas said, still sigh'd to all he saw, Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze, Which others hail'd with real or mimic awe, [law; Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims; And much she marvelled that a youth so raw Nor felt, nor feign'd at least, the oft-told flames, Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely anger dames. |