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 deemed, there be

A land of souls beyond that sable shore,
To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee
And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore;
How sweet it were in concert to adore

With those who made our mortal labors light!
To hear each voice we feared to hear no more!

Behold each mighty shade revealed to sight,

The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right!

IX.

There, thou!-whose love and life together fled,

Have left me here to love and live in vain

Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead,

When busy Memory flashes on my brain?

Well I will dream that we may meet again,

And woo the vision to my vacant breast:

If aught of young Remembrance then remain,
Be as it may Futurity's behest,

For me 't were bliss enough to know thy spirit blest!

X.

Here let me sit upon this massy stone,
The marble column's yet unshaken base;
Here, son of Saturn! was thy favorite throne:
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 labored 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 lingered, 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.

XII.

But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast,

To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath spared:

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 remains:

Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard,

Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains,

And never knew, till then, the weight of Despot's chains.

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 generous aid her name endears, Tore down those remnants with a harpy's hand, Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand.

XIV.

Where was thine Egis, Pallas! that appalled

Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way ?

Where Peleus' son? whom Hell in vain enthralled,

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 wandered 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,
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 behoved

To guard those relics ne'er to be restored.

Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved,

And once again thy hapless bosom gored,

And snatched thy shrinking Gods to northern climes abhorred !

XVI.

But where is Harold? shall I then forget

To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave?
Little recked he of all that men regret ;

No loved-one now in feigned lament could rave;

No friend the parting hand extended gave,

Ere the cold stranger passed 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 sailed upon the dark blue sea,
Has viewed 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,
The hoarse command, the busy humming din,
When, at a word, the tops are manned 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.

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 feared 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!
Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray;

Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail,