And leave his sons a hope, a fame,
They too will rather die than shame:
For Freedom's battle once begun,
Bequeathed by bleeding Sire to Son,
Though baffled oft is ever won.
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page,
Attest it many a deathless age!
While kings, in dusty darkness hid,

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60

Have left a nameless pyramid,

Thy heroes, though the general doom

Hath swept the column from their tomb,
A mightier monument command,

65

The mountains of their native land!

There points thy Muse to stranger's eye
The graves of those that cannot die!
"T were long to tell, and sad to trace,
Each step from splendour to disgrace;
Enough-no foreign foe could quell
Thy soul, till from itself it fell;
Yes! Self-abasement paved the way
To villain-bonds and despot sway.

BYRON.

70

ATHENIAN PROSPECT.

SLOW sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,
Along Morea's hills the setting sun;
Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light!

O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws,
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows.

5

On old Ægina's rock, and Idra's isle,
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile;
O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine,
Though there his altars are no more divine.
Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss
Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis !
Their azure arches through the long expanse
More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance,
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven,
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven ;
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep,
Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep.

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15

On such an eve, his palest beam he cast,
When-Athens! here thy Wisest look'd his last. 20
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray,
That closed their murder'd sage's latest day!
Not yet not yet-Sol pauses on the hill-
The precious hour of parting lingers still;
But sad his light to agonizing eyes,

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And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes:
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour,
The land, where Phoebus never frown'd before,
But ere he sank below Citharon's head,

The cup of woe was quafl'd-the spirit fled;
The soul of him who scorn'd to fear or fly-
Who lived and died, as none can live or die!

30

But lo! from high Hymettus to the plain,

The
queen of night asserts her silent reign.
No murky vapour, herald of the storm,

35

Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form;

With cornice glimmering as the moon-beams play, There the white column greets her grateful ray,

264 'T IS TIME THIS HEART SHOULD BE UNMOVED.

And, bright around with quivering beams beset,
Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret.

40

The groves of olives scatter'd dark and wide,
Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide,
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque,
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk,
And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm,
Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm,

45

All tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye,
And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by.
Again the Ægean, heard no more afar,
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war;

Again his waves in milder tints unfold

Their long array of sapphire and of gold,
Mixt with the shades of many a distant isle,
That frown-where gentler ocean seems to smile.

BYRON.

'T IS TIME THIS HEART SHOULD BE

UNMOVED.

'T is time this heart should be unmoved,

Since others it hath ceased to move;

Yet though I cannot be beloved,

Still let me love!

50

'T IS TIME THIS HEART SHOULD BE UNMOVED.

265

No torch is kindled at its blaze-
A funeral pile!

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain

And

power of love, I cannot share,

But wear the chain.

But 't is not thus-and 't is not here

Such thoughts should shake my soul; nor now,

Where glory decks the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.

Awake, my spirit! think through whom

Awake! (not Greece—she is awake!)

Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,

And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood!-unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown

Of beauty be.

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20

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30

If thou regret'st thy youth, why live?
The land of honourable death

Is here:-up to the field, and give

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Away thy breath!

Seek out-less often sought than found—

A soldier's grave, for thee the best;

Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.

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BYRON.

266 CHILDE HAROLD'S LAST PILGRIMAGE.

CHILDE HAROLD'S LAST PILGRIMAGE.

5

SO ENDS CHILDE HAROLD HIS LAST PILGRIMAGE! Upon the shores of Greece he stood, and cried "LIBERTY!" and those shores, from age to age Renown'd, and Sparta's woods and rocks replied "LIBERTY!" but a Spectre, at his side, Stood mocking:—and its dart, uplifting high, Smote him;-he sank to earth in life's fair pride: SPARTA! thy rocks then heard another cry, And Old Ilissus sigh'd-" Die, generous exile, die !"

I will not ask sad Pity to deplore

His wayward errors, who thus early died;

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Still less, CHILDE HAROLD, now thou art no more, Will I say aught of genius misapplied;

15

Of the past shadows of thy spleen or pride :— But I will bid the Arcadian cypress wave, Pluck the green laurel from Peneus' side, And pray thy spirit may such quiet have, [grave. That not one thought unkind be murmur'd o'er thy

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SO HAROLD ENDS, IN GREECE, HIS PILGRIMAGE!
There fitly ending,—in that land renown'd,
Whose mighty genius lives in Glory's page,—
He, on the Muses' consecrated ground,
Sinking to rest, while his young brows are bound
With their unfading wreath !—To bands of mirth,
No more in TEMPE let the pipe resound!
HAROLD, I follow to thy place of birth

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[earth.

The slow hearse; and thy LAST sad PILGRIMAGE on

Slow moves the plumed hearse, the mourning train; I mark the sad procession with a sigh,