39. "Siste Viator-heroa calcas!" was the epitaph on the famous Count Merci;-what then must be our feelings when standing on the tumulus of the two hundred (Greeks) who fell on Marathon?
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE.
Is thy face like thy mother's my fair child! Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart? When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled, And when we parted,-not as now we part,
Awaking with a start,
The waters heave around me; and on high
The winds lift up their voices: I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by,
When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine
Once more upon the waters! yet once more! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider. Welcome, to their roar! Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead! Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed, And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, Still must I on; for I am as a weed,
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail [prevail. Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath .III.
In my youth's summer I did sing of One
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind; Again I sieze the theme then but begun, And bear it with me, as the rushing wind Bears the cloud onward: in that Tale I find The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind, Q'er which all heavily the journeying yearsTM
Plod the last sand of life,-where not a flower appears.
Since my young days of passion-joy, or pain, Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string, And both may jar: it may be, that in vain I would essay as I have sung to sing
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling; So that wean me from the weary dream
Of selfish grief or gladness-so it fling Forgetfulness around me-it shall seem
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme.
He, who grown aged in this world of woe,
In deeds, not years piercing the depths of life So that no wonder waits him; nor below Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife, Cut to his heart again with the keen knife Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell
Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife With airy images, and shapes which dwell Still unimpair'd though old, in the soul's haunted cell. .VI.
"Tis to create, and in creating live A being more intense, that we endow With form or fancy, gaining as we give
The life we image, even as I do now.
What am I? Nothing; but not so art thou,
Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth, Invisible but gazing, as I glow
Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth,
And feeling still with thee in my crush'd feelings' dearth.
Yet must I think less wildly:-I have thought Too long and darkly, till my brain became, In its own eddy boiling and o'er wrought, A whirling galf of phantasy and flame: And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, My springs of life were poisou'd. 'Tis too late! Yet am I chang'd; though still enough the same!' In strength to bear what time cannot abate, And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Pate.
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, Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne'er heal Yet Time who changes all, had altered 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.
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. X.
Secured in guarded coldness, he had mix'd Again in fancied safety with his kind, And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'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 Fit speculation! such as in strange land
He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's hand.
But who can view the ripened rose, nor seek To wear it? who can curiously behold The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek, Nor feel the heart can never all grow old? Who can contemplate Fame through clouds unfold The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb; Harold, once more within the vortex, roll'd Ou with the giddy circle, chasing Time,
Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond prime.
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