THE

AGE OF BRONZE;

OR,

CARMEN SECULARE ET ANNUS HAUD MIRABILIS. (')

Impar Congressus Achilli,"

(1) [This poem was written by Lord Byron at Genoa, in the early part of the year 1823; and published in London, by Mr. John Hunt. Its authenticity was much disputed at the time.-E]

THE

AGE OF BRONZE.

I.

THE "good old times"-all times when old are good

Are gone; the present might be if they would; Great things have been, and are, and greater still Want little of mere mortals but their will:

A wider space, a greener field, is given

To those who play their "tricks before high heaven." I know not if the angels weep, but men

Have wept enough—for what?—to weep again!

II.

All is exploded-be it good or bad.

Reader! remember when thou wert a lad,
Then Pitt was all; or, if not all, so much,
His very rival almost deem'd him such. (1)
We, we have seen the intellectual race
Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face-

(1) [Mr. Fox used to say-"I never want a word, but Pitt never wants the word." The story occurs in many memoirs of the time.]

Athos and Ida, with a dashing sea

Of eloquence between, which flow'd all free,
As the deep billows of the Ægean roar
Betwixt the Hellenic and the Phrygian shore.
But where are they-the rivals! a few feet
Of sullen earth divide each winding sheet. (1)
How peaceful and how powerful is the grave
Which hushes all! a calm, unstormy wave
Which oversweeps the world. The theme is old
Of" dust to dust;" but half its tale untold:
Time tempers not its terrors-still the worm
Winds its cold folds, the tomb preserves its form,
Varied above, but still alike below;

The urn may shine, the ashes will not glow,
Though Cleopatra's mummy cross the sea
O'er which from empire she lured Anthony;
Though Alexander's urn a show be grown

On shores he wept to conquer, though unknown-
How vain, how worse than vain, at length appear
The madman's wish, the Macedonian's tear!

(1) [The grave of Mr. Fox, in Westminster Abbey, is within eighteen inches of that of Mr. Pitt, —

"Where-taming thought to human pride!

The mighty chiefs sleep side by side.
Drop upon Fox's grave the tear,

"Twill trickle to his rival's bier:

O'er Pitt's the mournful requiem sound,
And Fox's shall the notes rebound.

The solemn echo seems to cry

'Here let their discord with them die;
Speak not for those a separate doom,
Whom fate made brothers in the tomb;
But search the land of living men,
Where wilt thou find their like again.""

SIR WALTER SCOTT.]

He wept for worlds to conquer-half the earth
Knows not his name, or but his death, and birth,
And desolation; while his native Greece
Hath all of desolation, save its peace.

He " wept for worlds to conquer!" he who ne'er
Conceived the globe, he panted not to spare!
With even the busy Northern Isle unknown,
Which holds his urn, and never knew his throne.(1)

III.

But where is he, the modern, mightier far,
Who, born no king, made monarchs draw his car;
The new Sesostris, whose unharness'd kings, (2)
Freed from the bit, believe themselves with wings,
And spurn the dust o'er which they crawl'd of late,
Chain'd to the chariot of the chieftain's state?
Yes! where is he, the champion and the child
Of all that's great or little, wise or wild?

Whose game was empires, and whose stakes were thrones?

Whose table earth-whose dice were human bones?
Behold the grand result in yon lone isle, (3)
And, as thy nature urges, weep or smile.

(1) [A sarcophagus, of breccia, supposed to have contained the dust of Alexander, which came into the possession of the English army, in consequence of the capitulation of Alexandria, in February, 1802, was presented by George III. to the British Museum.— -E]

(2) [Sesostris is said, by Diodorus, to have had his chariot drawn by eight vanquished sovereigns:

"High on his car Sesostris struck my view,

Whom scepter'd slaves in golden harness drew;
His hands a bow and pointed jav'lin hold,

His giant limbs are arm'd in scales of gold."

POPE'S Temple of Fame.]

(3) [St. Helena,]