VIII. Something too much of this:-but now 'tis past, And the spell closes with its silent seal. Long absent HAROLD re-appears at last; He of the breast which fain no more would feel, Yet Time, who changes all, had alter'd him In soul and aspect as in age: years steal Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb; And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. IX. His had been quaff'd too quickly, and he found The dregs were wormwood; but he fill'd again, And from a purer fount, on holier ground, And deem'd its spring perpetual; but in vain! Still round him clung invisibly a chain Which gall'd for ever, fettering though unseen, And heavy though it clank'd not; worn with pain, Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen, Entering with every step, he took, through many a scene. 1 X. Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd And sheath'd with an invulnerable mind, That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind; And he, as one, might midst the many stand Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's hand. XI. But who can view the ripen'd rose, nor seek To wear it? who can curiously behold The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek, Who can contemplate Fame through clouds unfold On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond prime. XII. But soon he knew himself the most unfit Of men to herd with Man; with whom he held His thoughts to others, though his soul was quell'd Proud though in desolation; which could find XIII. Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends; Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was his home; XIV. Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, Till he had peopled them with beings bright As their own beams; and earth, and earth-born jars, He had been happy; but this clay will sink from yon heaven which woos us to its brink. XV. But in Man's dwellings he became a thing Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat. XVI. Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again, With nought of hope left, but with less of gloom; That all was over on this side the tomb, Had made Despair a smilingness assume, Which, though 'twere wild,—as on the plunder'd wreck When mariners would madly meet their doom With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck,Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check. XVII. Stop!-for thy tread is on an Empire's dust! Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory? |