Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Part 6

E'en G.o.ds 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 eyes to heaven-- Is'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 woe?

Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies: That little urn saith more than thousand homilies.

V.

Or burst the vanished hero's lofty mound; Far on the solitary sh.o.r.e he sleeps; He fell, and falling nations mourned around; But now not one of saddening thousands weeps, Nor warlike wors.h.i.+pper his vigil keeps Where demi-G.o.ds appeared, as records tell.

Remove yon skull from out the scattered heaps: Is that a temple where a G.o.d may dwell?

Why, e'en the worm at last disdains her shattered cell!

VI.

Look on its broken arch, its ruined wall, Its chambers desolate, and portals foul: Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall, The dome of Thought, the Palace of the Soul.

Behold through each lack-l.u.s.tre, eyeless hole, The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit, And Pa.s.sion's host, that never brooked 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!

'All that we know is, nothing can be known.'

Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun?

Each hath its 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 sh.o.r.es 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 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 'twere bliss enough to know thy spirit blest!

X.

Here let me sit upon this mossy stone, The marble column's yet unshaken base!

Here, son of Saturn, was thy favourite 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 laboured to deface.

Yet these proud pillars claim no pa.s.sing 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 ign.o.ble 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.

XIII.

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 blus.h.i.+ng 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 aegis, Pallas, that appalled Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way?

Where Peleus' son? whom h.e.l.l 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 sh.o.r.e, Nor now preserved the walls he loved to s.h.i.+eld 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed thy shrinking G.o.ds 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 pa.s.sed 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 sails 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 das.h.i.+ng prow.

XVIII.

And oh, the little warlike world within!

The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy, The hoa.r.s.e 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 schoolboy mids.h.i.+pman 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 gla.s.sy 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 baulks 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, That lagging barks may make their lazy way.

Ah! grievance sore, and listless dull delay, To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze!

What leagues are lost before the dawn of day, Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, The flapping sails hauled down to halt for logs like these!

XXI.