CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. A ROMAUNT. CANTO II. 1. 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, (1) 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. Ancient of days! august Athena! where, First in the race that led to Glory's goal, tower, 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 wouldst 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; Where demi-gods appear'd, as records tell. Remove yon skull from out the scatter'd heaps : Is that a temple where a God may dwell? [cell. Why ev'n the worm at last disdains her shatter'd VI. Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall, Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall, The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul: Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit, And passion's host, that never brook'd control : Can all, saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, People this lonely tower, this tenement refit? VII. Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son! 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 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 labours light! To hear each voice, we fear'd to hear no more! Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight, The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right! IX. There, thou!-whose love and life together fled, And woo the vision to my vacant breast: If aught of young Remembrance then remain, For me 'twere 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 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 labour'd to deface. Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh, Unmov'd the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by. XI. But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he? Thy free-born men should spare what once was free; Yet they could violate each saddening shrine, [(5) 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 spar'd: (6) 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, Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall, The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul: Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit, And passion's host, that never brook'd control: Can all, saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, People this lonely tower, this tenement refit? VII. Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son! 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 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 labours light To hear each voice, we fear'd to hear no more! Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight, The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right! IX. There, thou!-whose love and life together fled, |