THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY 4 THE LAST CANTO HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, THE LAST CANTO OF HAROLD'S PILGjaiMAGK FEOM THE FEENCH OF LAMARTmE. EENDERED INTO ENGLISH VERSE BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE POETRY OF EARTH," AND OTHER PIECES- DUBLIN: P. DIXON HARDY AND SONS, 23, UPPEE SACKVILLE-STREET. MDCCCXLVIII. TO HER EXCELLENCY THE COUNTESS OF CLARENDON. SINCE tiie arrival of yonr EXCELLENCY in Ireland, it has been tiniver- sally acknowledged tliat your EXCELLENCY'S patronage lias been generously ex- tended to our different Public Institutions— our Manufactures— and our Literature. I am, tberefore. encouraged. Madam, more especially by your EXCEL- LENCY'S permission, so condescendingly granted, to inscribe the following version of LAMAETINE'S LAST CANTO CE HAEOLD'S PILGRIMAGE, being the first of his greater Poems which has appeared in our language, to your EXCELLENCY ; and feel assured that any Work brought out under the auspices of the House of CLARENDON, must secure that measure of public favor which a name, associated with so many historical and literary recollections, is sufficient to command. I remain, MADAM, "With the greatest respect, Your EXCELLENCY'S Most obliged and obedient Servant, MADAM, June, 1848. THE AUTHOR. "In the beautiful critique inserted in the Concordia on M. de la Martine's ' Meditations Pokiques/ Schli^gb-l ob- serves that Lord Byron was the representative of a by-gone poesy, and Lamartine the herald of a new Christian poetry that was to come. " Comparing, the three greatest contemporary poets, out of his own country, Scott, Byron, and Lamartine, Schlegel saw in the productions of the first, the poetry of a vague re- miniscence—in those of the second, the poetry of despair— and in those of the last, the commencement of a poetry of hope. Much as he reprobated the anti- Christian spirit and tend- ency of Lord Byron's muse, and much as he rejoiced that its pernicious influence was in some degree counteracted by the noble effusions of the French rhapsodist, he still rendered full justice to the great genius of the British hsixd/'—Note on SchlegeVs Philosophy of History." THE LAST CANTO OF HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 1. Muse of the latter day, no more the height Of fabled mount dost thou in fancy climb. Man's breast is now the temple where thy light, Alone may kindle into thouglit sublime. Thy harp with wreaths and palms from ev ry clime Is crowned for combatants who nobly bled, And men whose faith was deemed their f ulest crime. To thee the incense of my heart is shed, Whose songs of Christ and Liberty o'er Hsemus fled. 9 THE LAST CANTO OF 11. Ages of error now have rolled away ; And man to his maturity hath sprung ; While throneless are the gods which erst bore sway : Like toys of childhood are those idols flung From worshippers who had in rapture hung On lips whose dark responses spoke a lie. Again shall proud Olympus ne'er have rung With sound of neighing rushing steeds that fly With bright and burning wheels of day across the sky. III. The bolts of him who gave the thunder birth, In his OGce potent grasp lie quenched and crushed ; . While Omar's brutal laughter shakes the earth O'er which his sons had swept with conquest flushed. Memnon dishonored lies where late hath rushed The Nile stirred up from its polluted bed — Its marble shattered, and its music huslied. Voices from Delphi have for ever fled With victims which before Apollo'i nltars bled. harold''s pilgrimage. IV. Time in its desolating flood has swept Into the deep dark gulph of ages past. Temples and shrines, with those who vigils kept. Creed after creed was given to the blast With charms that held the fettered spirit fast. (Proud Rome in ruins may their story tell) Yet one enduring faith shall ever last, With love and liberty's undying spell, Softly subduing man, but crushing pow'rs of hell. V. Love ! I have felt the madness of its fire ! The very whisper of its name could send Such thrilling, trembling tones around my lyre. That ev'ry chord in unison would blend, And new emotions to the spirit lend. One glance had pow'r, as when the tempests rave. My bark upon the fatal rocks to send. " I loved— I have been loved" — and only crave These words with dewy tears to rest upon my grave. 4 THE LAST CANTO OP VI. O Liberty ! my song has been of thee And from thy lips has caught its burning strain. The light—the universe itself must be Thy children since they wear no galling chain ; And love to worship in thy sacred fane. Thou brightest gift which God to earth has givec Refreshing man, when thou like blessed rain Didst fall upon his infant soul from heaven, To give it strength by which each fetter might be r VII Thou pure eternal element of life, Brighter than day and more intense than fire, How oft thy claim's dishonored 'mid the strife Of men who in thy atmosphere respire ; And yet would bid thy very soul expire, When they alone gloat not upon thy smile. More rigid than the fates, would they desire, With foulest bondage freed-men to defile ; And in their jealousy of heav'n her gifts revile. Harold's prLGRiMAGE. 5 VIIL Proud reason have the spoiled of her dread right ; And of thy hallowed name would make a crime ! Yet like the spark which smitten steel can light, Soon, as a deathless principle sublime, From hearts enchained thou startest in thy prime. For tho' a thousand foes against thee fight. And fetters heap upon that form divine : Flinging aside such shackles in thj might, Thou dost avenge the earth, and slavish despots blight. IX. Such blessed days are come, and thou dost hear At Argos swelling songs repeat thy name. Shoals of the Dactyls catch the sound with fear, While proud Thermopylae asserts her claim. With herald lip^ to echo back thy fame. Again do Pindus and Ithome tell Of worshipped liberty, and tyrants' shame, A Nation's mighty voice is heard to swell. As tho' it rushed from spheres where mutt ring thunders dwell. THE LAST CANTO OF X. That voice is one, tho' thousand mingling tones Should make the trembling earth dissolve with dread, And give us back the soldier bones Of brave Leonidas whose fame can shed, Like his of Marathon, upon the dead, Its sacred light. Dost thou not hear the sound Which rushing o'er the Bosphorus hath sped, Where fierce and fiery ships have late been found To furrow up the deep, and fling their fury round ? XI. Amid the rocks which stud th' Egean sea Like glitt ring serpents there they seem to glide ; Throwing a glare upon the waves so free. As from an hundred beacons o'er the tide. Near false Me.s:ara's crowding shoals they ride; And rouse each slumb'ring foe in vengeful ire, Clinging with deadly hold unto the side Of hostile ships 'gainst which they belch out fire That foes may be consumed, tho' they tlieniselves expire. HAROLD 3 PILGRIMAGE. 7 XII. These are the torches worthy of thy rites, Thou late avenger of our destiny. These burning piles of death whose dismal lights Can shew thee tyrants crushed, and man made free, Shall scare each despot who would scowl on thee. Strike then, till 'neath thy sword the foemen reel — Till those who say thou art a dream shall see The gleams of liberty flash from thy steel, And 'neath the lifted cross thy pow'r and vengeance feel. XIII But where is Harold— pilgrim of the earth. Whose ways and wand'rings I so late could mark ? Has he in low amours beneath hi birth Been steeped ? Where now has steered that noble bark ; Or has it anchored 'ere the noon-tide spark Of fleeting day has quenched itself in night ? Have I for ever lost this son of dark And deep'ning thought whose fitful light Could bring my own faint footsteps back upon my sight ? 8 THE LAST CANTO OF Mysterious men ! how interchanged in name ! My nature his— and his transfused with mine ! The pulse- the tone of heart and voice the same. Song blends with song, while soul and soul entwine But where can now his wayward steps incline ? The city of the C£esars was his home, When Tiber mid Bandusian songs divine, Went forth with bounding speed and joyful foam, To reach the track in which his deathless muse might XV. Aibanus saw him on its sunny height. Whence he could look upon the depths profound ; And see the distant dreamy skies unite Vf'ith seas which only heav'n itself might bound. But since upon that more than classic ground, He bid to ocean his sublime adieu. No traces of his pilgrimage were found ; And like some temple, earth to silence grew. Until he should the interrupted hymn renew. Harold's pilgrimage. Where is the coast on which his shattered masts, Beneath inconstant stars are wildly tost ? What waves have witnessed, 'mid the fatal blasts, The wreck which could his latest hope exhaust ? Or did some friendly shore, ere peace was lost, Thy wearied votary, O Muse, receive ! Come then, recite the ills which oft have crossed His dark desponding path ; and let us grieve Witli him whose woes thy mournful lyre did oft relieve. XVII. 'Tis night, but night in whose vast dome is seen Its own pale star that smiles the gloom away ; And sheds upon the sleeping coast its sheen ; While waves are tinged with heav'n's blue glimm'ring ray The shore now rampant — crouching then it lay, Where silvery sands carved into gulfs resound, Lashed by the surges in their foaming way. Alps clad with snowy helmets guard the ground, And throw their vast eternal battlements around. THE LAST CANTO OF XVIII. There summer's gentle breath is softly felt Where hill, 'neath hill, descends from heights sublime. The north wind blows from realms where snows ne'er melt, Revelling in fragrance of a sunny clime, Until embalmed with odors in their prime. A mansion here is seen where cypress trees As types of sadness and of deathless time, Are mute and motionless as if no breeze Would dare upon those dark prophetic ones to seize. XIX. And oft upon that pile they cast their gloom, 'Mid intervals of heav'n's rejaected light, Looking like dark forebodings of the tomb. Whose glare falls ghastly on the troubled sight. Yet clust'ring myrtles here were glad and bright, Tracing the outline both of hill and glade ; And nature's carpet which had felt no blight— With mazy walks that in their wildness strayed. Where climbed the fond clematis o'er the colonade. Harold's pilgrimage. XX. There gardens fragrant with rich orange trees, Above the flattened roofs exotics fling. And with their golden fruit perfume the breeze ; While whisp'ring waters seem at eve to bring The coolness of the zephyr's gentle wing. Beyond this scene, from hallowed domes on high, Sad bells are heard the knpll of time to ring. Then bursts Genoa on the ravished eye, Fair daughter of the deep, emerging towards the sky. XXI. From waves where sleeping vessels calmy rest, Whose tow'ring masts with palaces would vie. And which the captive waters from their breast Uplift with heavings and with throbs that die Upon the shore in hoarse and struggling sigh. But here what stillness and what darkness reign! Do all in sleep and such oblivion lie. That foot, nor voice is heard, nor lights proclaim One lurid torch of midnight kindling into flame ? 12 THE LAST CANTO OF XXll. Yet at the winding of a dusky path, Vroud coursers with a page are seen to stand ; While in the distant creek whose billows hath Died without tumult on the peaceful sand, A barge is floating with its noiseless band ; That living freight to carry in its flight. And soon it stretches from the silent strand Staggering beneath those weapons dread and bright, With fiery steeds departing neath the stars of night, XXIII. But all are not by dreamy sleep entranced. For see the light which from that lattice shines ! Now from another, lo ! the ray has glanced I There it returns—and there, again declines. Is it to crime, or love the step inclines, For which such bright and restless flame was fanned ? Yes, with the heart the thought almost entwines. That like the straggling gleams which reach the strand. The trembling lamp is palsied by a guilty hand. HAROLD^S PILGRIMAGE. ]:3 XXIV The flame ascends and rests within a hall, By whose thin drapery the truth's revealed. There lightest foot with drowsy steps can fall On soft and broidered carpets which concealed The tesselated pavement. Here (unveiled By beauty jealous of each feint disguise) Paintings and tapestry a spell would yield, To fix upon their charms voluptuous eyes, 'Neath grand and gilded ceilings that above them rise. XXY. An urn is seen upon enamelled feet, ^ Soft day from its concealed depths to shed ; Where liglit and gloom beneath an alcove meet. Like some dim flame devoted to the dead, Gleaming within its damp sepulchral bed. Upon an ebon couch in that recess To fling herself, a beauteous one has fled. The sleep of youth seems in its wild caress, Upon her brow to revel *mid each golden tress. THE LAST CANTO OF XXVI. Those locks almost conceal lier fervid breast, 'Neath wanton gambols, where they archly played. Till at her feet they gently find their rest. Bright trinkets which her neck and head arrayed — The ornaments of yesterday — are laid With sparkling rings and wreaths of dying flow 'rs, Close to her bed from which her hand hath strayed, As tho* it sought again their kindling pow'rs Which had so lately gemmed her breast in v/aking hours. XXVIL The door is opened — there is seen to advance A man with burning lamp and measured pace — 'Tis Harold — there he stands with silent glance, And brow, tho' young, where time has left its trace. His genius still is flashing from his face. But 'tis the lightning mid the tempest seen ; Eor like the torch that now illumes the place, And wavers in his grasp, that breast lias been Almost to mortal eye one vacillating scene. Harold's pilgrimage. XXVIII. Both love and scorn upon his haughty lip. In bitter sweetness mingling seem to rest. Tho' fell remorse does not with scorpion whip, The spirit lash, his stormy, stricken breast. With new unending terror is opprest. Else why the deathly paleness which has seized Upon his ashy brow, as tho' 'twere prest By some cold hand that has the vitals freezed. Until some fierce avenging angel be appeased. XXIX. With step unmoved, above that form he bends, Intently gazing on her while a dream, Its graces to her early beauty lends. In earthly guise she would an angel seem, Could unstained innocence her name redeem. But on her brow, one stealthy wrinkle lies, Where light of flow'ry youth alone should gleam Nor j-leep upon those silken curtained eyes Can smooth the furrow or suppress the inner sighs. 16 THE LA«T CANTO OF XXX. Her lip, on which a smile at random strays, Must fix th' admiring look, yet freeze the heart ; For 'tis not love that round it archly plays, But erring thought with its voluptuous art. The graces of her yielding cheek depart Like lilies drooping ere the noon is past ; As tho* she felt some agonizing dart Were winged and wafted by the zephyr blast Of love, whose dying fragrance round her still was cast. XXXI. Thou sleepest, murmured Harold in a voice Subdued ; thou whom 'tis destined I mu-t le^ve ; In whom my soul so long deluded could rejoice ! Whose bland seductive art might well deceive I Yet what avails that I did not perceive Such happiness to be a bli^^sful dream, Meant for a moment only to relieve The dread reality which now would seem To dissipate this child of sleep with mornirg'a beam." Harold's pilgrimage. 17 XXXII. How happy he, who when the dream is past, Some image has within his mind imprest, Whose bright and lovely traces still may last Throughout the dismal future^ there to rest. Like nurtured fire within the riven breast ! But s^till when such an idol has been lost, Or flung away by him whom once it blest ; 'Tis well to feel its worship must have cost Despair which endless night itself could not exhaust." XXXIil. " Thou image of perfection and of love, Engrave thyself upon my raptured sight ! Mists from that brow like gath'ring clouds above, My breathing words could chase and put to flight. Those slumb'ring eyes shall by to-morrow's light. In all their opening beauty seek my praise. How oft upon those lips did I delight To look with fixed intoxicating gaze, And hang upon the tones which they alone could raise.'* 18 THE LAST CANTO OF XXXIY. *' Thy opening hand no more shall join with mine. And feel the greetings which it fondly met. Sleep cannot render dull that mouth divine, Nor make me now its waking charms forget. Oh for that sigh ! but 'tis a vain regret ! Could I but bear it hence within my soul, Where some response it fondly would beget ! 'Tis struggling neath thy bosom's soft control Like rising waves that o'er the restless waters roll.' XXXV. " There sleeps the object which alone inspired A moment's pleasure—shall I call it joy ? It v/as not happiness my breast desired, Or could expect from such delusive toy, That soon upon the sated mind would cloy. Ail that I hoped for were some fleeting hours Of short-lived bliss, tho' mingled with alloy ; Like dying fragrance shed from wreatlis of flow'rs, Whicii pleasure flings upon our heads in balmy show'rs." Harold's pilgrimage. XXXVI. " Such perfume warmed by this soft sunny clime, With dark oblivion's draught would I respire ; If fell remorse, close on the track of crime, Should at thine accents from my couch retire. This were enough for an unhallowed fire. And thou alone, my Lena, couldst impart The blessedness which met my full desire. Yet from this nectared cup did not depart, The black and sick'ning dregs that prey upon the heart." XXXVII. " Let us not more than half the goblet quaff; But consecrate to our relentless foe, The last libation, with derision's laugh ; And thus on destiny those dregs bestow, Tho' it should cost us more than mortal wo. Farewell loved idol, wrapt in heartless sleep. Which would deception round thy pillow throw ; Lest tears of vain regret thy soul should weep, Only in bitterness thy waking thoughts to steep/' 20 THI? LAST CANTO OF xxxvirr. Harold has leapt on board his heaving boat. -Amid the ropes the winds already sigh. The swelling sails upon the breezes float : Climbing from yard to yard they mount on high Casting sheir shade, like wings outstretched to fly. The wav'ring vessel heels upon the tide ; Where seamen with their loud and cheery cry, The anchor weigh. Upon the deep they ride, While through the cleft and foaming waves they quickly glide. XXXIX. The wave suspended for a moment swells : Then broken falls in vapour on the shore, Where all that Harold left in silence dwells With those still waters which are heard no more. Now from the tossing bark is caught the roar Of voices mingling with the piercing blast. The armour piled in dread and glitt'ring store. Is roU'd witli murm'ring omens heard to last, Wliilc o'er the deck such implements of death are cast. Harold's pilgrimage. 21 XL, Sabres and muskets bright with studs of gold, As yet untarnished in the deadly fight, By blood or fire, are in confusion rolled, With banners and with lances whose keen light Has not 'mid thunder flashed upon the sight. Bound to the mast the startled coursers beat With timid step the trembling deck in fright. Neighing at ev'ry wind that rocks their feet ; And shaking from their drenching manes the drifting sleet, XLI. Wrapt in his mantle gloomy as the night, Fit emblem of his breast, proud Harold stands ; And from the stern, beneath the coming light. He looks with vacant eye upon the sands, O er which the billows flow to other lands. Where is the course he now would madly run ? What clime such arms upon the deck demands ? Would he the glorious prize of faith have won, Whose bark is steering for the cradle of the sun ? TIIl^: LAST CAN 'JO OF XLIL Is it at Solyma's vast wilderness, He would the Tomb as conqueror retake; Or pilgrim- like whom cumbrous arms oppress, To Jordan's stream his wearied feet betake; And in its sacred waves their burnings slake ? In such pursuits his soul can share no part. Nor cross, nor crescent will the sceptic take. To cover in the holy war his heart, With signs he deems to be dark superstition's art. XLIIL Jove and Mahomet — gods and heroes were To him the visions of a troubled brain — Dreams true — or false — which for a moment glare Upon the mind in wild fantastic train, Till reason with the sun-light of her reign, Shall from our dark horizon drive the night. Prostrate before no altar will he deign, ^ One prayer to whisper; or with holy rite To tread the sacred courts of Him who dwells in light. Harold's pilgrimage. 23 XLIV. His god is not invoked by any name To mortals known. He is some cause supreme, Blindly throughout this vast stupendous frame Of nature felt — that problem which men deem Unsolved ; while to the mind their god must seem, Tho' good still evil — great tho' yet controlled — A being without attributes — a theme Which nature can in thousand forms unfold — A power whose providence no past event hath told — XLV. A deity who does at random sway Some vague tho' mighty force for good or ill ; Begetting offspring — making them his prey ; Producing evil — yet without the will ; Effecting good— tho' love is abseat still; With no design that foresight can have planned. No principle of faith does he instil. Nor any bleeding sacrifice demand ; But seem to rule with lawless and capricious hand. 24 THE LAST CANTO OP XLVI. Upon the just he would oppression lay ; The weak he gives as victims to the strong, Till reason's tempted in her pride to say, Can he exist permitting so much wrong ?" In praise of faith, or martyrs slain, no song Ascends from those compardons grouped around Dark Harold on the deck in mutt 'ring throng. No tale is told of miracle profound, Or shrine^^, or cross, or pardon by the sinner found. XLVII. These stern apostles of a prouder creed Re-echo sounds that wildly speak of fame, And honor destined for mankind when freed — With rights of man, and graadeur; but of shame And slaughter to each tyrant prince who came Within their grasp. In scornful words they tell How earth has crouched, and sullied her bright name Beneath the yoke of prejudice that fell Upon her trampled neck, and bound her with its spell. Harold's pilgrimage. XL7III. They cry for war which may their vengeance wreak On despots who have crushed our hapless race. The track of wandering liberty they seek ; And to the East her tempting accents trace ; Where Greece, roused from her lethargy, would chase From her polluted soil an impious foe. They rush with swords accustomed, there to grace The triumphs of a people snatched from wo; Whose fields with warmest blood of heroes still o'erfiow. XLIX. The smile of early day that gilds the masts, Sports with the tide just purpled with its ray ; The morning's breath in keen and freshning blasts, Is felt by ev'ry wave which delves its way Thro' foaming waters flinging round their spray. With furled sails the vessel takes her flight, Where Italy's fair coast in sunshine lay. Then bursts on Harold's waking sight. As by romance, the dim horizon's azure light. 26 THE LAST CANTO OP L. He sees a wave from Tiber's muddy bed, Rejoicing to be free. And on the height Of far Soracte looks, which rears its head, As tho' it could alone assert the right To stand erect amid the with'ring blight That on the fallen universe was cast. Beyond this scene then strikes upon the sight Parthenope whose form is glass'd In seas which bound the Europe of the ages past, LI. Vesuvius smoking like some smould'ring fire, Suppressed while day is ling'ring on the sky, Ere night with all her blackness can expire, Sends forth its swift and shooting flames on high, That o'er the bosom of the waters fly. The winds disturb the mingling smoke and flame, While hov'ring in the richest plumage nigh ; Like fiery columns which from temples came, Whose holy rites these self-consuming pillars claim. HAROLD S PILGRIMAGE. LII. O'er Psestum now this black and burning mass Is hurried by the blast towards rising day. Beneath its sombre glare does Harold pass The murmuring Tasnarus— then bends his way, W here blest Elysium once in brightness lay ; Whose ravaged soil an image yet retains To tell of those who bore celestial sway ; And 'mid the wreck of ages now proclaims The starry, cloudless paradise that still remains. LIIL Near where the mighty swan in silence sleeps, The stern is quickly turned to the shore. Flying from wave to wave the vessel keeps Her track o'er shining seas which shall no more The glance of Harold meet. And then before The drifting tide his bark was borne, Till skies one aspect with the ocean wore ; And from his eyes the cloud -wrapt coast was torn, Like names, by distant time, of all their freshness shorn. 28- THE LAST CANTO OF LIV. Oil Italy adieu ! land of the past I Never again my disenclianted eyes Siiall on tliy loved and sunny shores be cast. What can we do amid thy hills that rise, With mould'ring arches 'neath thine azure skies ? Or what can names avail, from death's sad urn Raked out by those who may such relics prize ? To know the past from men, they vainly burn ; Nor answer can thy monuments themselves return," LV. "Save that which tells ho\7 thou wast less to blame Before than since the glory of thine age. Thou art asleep ; but all around thee claim To stand erect. Rude time will not assuage Its headlong, onward course, while in its rage All things are hurried towards some distant goal. The Scythian with the Breton now engage In haughty bands from their bleak coasts to roll Contempt upon thy cities, with their inmost soul/' HAROLd'^S PiLGRIMAGE. LVI. When tempted by loud fame to seek thy shore, They looked upon thee in thy sadness placed 'Mid ruins that are now thine own no more ; , While with untutored eye they wildly traced Each palace, arch and temple which had graced, With their colossal strength, thy place of birth ; Then scowled with brutal laughter on such taste. And asked, as if in sheer derision's mirth, * Shall these remain till other CaBsars rise on earth ?' " LYII. Or can a people's empty shade require So large a place, or such vast tow'ring piles?'* And yet thy cheeks the insult cannot fire I For thou dost give barbarians all thy smiles ; While they for other lands and distant isles, Would buy the rays that from thy stars are caught. Thy marbles which the stranger now defiles, Thy soil where prints of heroes feet are sought, And walls with echoes of their names so vainly f rough t," so THE LAST CANTO OF LVIII. " To him thou pointest out in sluggish pride Together with those husts which he contrasts. In satire, with thyself ; then o'er thy wide Prolific plains a jealous eye he casts ; And looks upon that heaven whose light still lasts — Yet thee disowns 1 Thou art at length ashamed 1 But no ! — expecting still propitious blasts Of glory and of triumph, thou hast claimed To be at the proud capitol a conqueror named." LIX. " Thy feeble hands now grasp no more the sword — That Roman sceptre — but the sounding lyre, And pencil, by th}^ fallen sons adored. Thou knowest how to feed with gentle fire, Perfidious pleasure lest its tone expire ; And how thy Armidas a sweeter song To teach ; or with soft colours to inspire Thy canvass ; and the heroes whom you wrong To bid around thee by thy practised chisel throng." HAROLD S PILGRIMAGE. LX. " The harshness of thy parent's sterner voice, For ever has been hushed amid the soft sweet .Notes in which a prostrate people can rejoice. But while thy tongue our raptured ears may meet ; With flattering tones it would deceive, and treat Us with the falsehood of a base-born slave. Those chains have taught it how in song to greet Each listner with the nervous and the grave ; And by a crouching meanness now their suffrage crave." LXI. Like some sleek serpent which so long hath slept In slimy soil till it at length has caught The foul resemblance of the spot where crept The reptile long enslaved and basely taught To lick the dust. 'Tis thus the tongue has sought, With soft and sounding words to calm the soul ; While loudly with profession meanly fraught, A tide of praises it would falsely roll, And bring the captive mind beneath its base control/' 32 THE LAST CANTO OP LXII. Thou crumbling monument where only dwells The echo ! Dust of ages past that flies Before the wind ! Thou land where neither spells. Nor parent's blood can bind, nor kindred ties! Where on an ancient soil the man that dies Of age is but a child ! where coward steel In darkness strikes 1 where on the brow there lies A black and boding cloud ! where none may feel The power of love unless it shall their ruin seal !" LXIII. " Where modesty is worn but to deceive ! And stratagem is tried that it may turn The edge of keen regard ! where none believe Those enervated words which always spurn The truth ! — clouds that with sunny brightness burn Yet give to worthle-s sound a noisy birth ! Adieu ! lament thy fall ! — for time's black urn Has made of all thy boasted names a dearth ! To seek not liuman dust — but men, I traverse eartli.'* Harold's pilgrimage. LXIV. ^' Yet heav'n still smiles upon thee in thy gloom, Thou land which gods would choose ; where still respire A holiness and love upon thy tomb. Faith 'mid thy scattered ruins would aspire To kindle on her altars deathless fire ; And sway her sceptre o'er a vast domain. Nature whose fruitfulness cannot expire, Has caused thy sun and beauty to remain ; And noble in her sadness, makes thy genius reign," LXV. Upon the ear of him who learns thy name, It fall'5 as would the sound of some dread sword. When stricken from the hero's grasp, whose fame Had made the weapon and the strength adored, Of one whose hapless fate must be deplored. Beneath the feeble noise the trembling ground Would signs of sorrow and of shame afford. 'Tis thus for thee in ev'ry breast is found A plaintive chord that must with sympathy resound." 34^ THE LAST CANTO OF LXVI. " And thou dear Albion ! where my infant years- Were passed ; an exile from thy shore now parts ; Whose dust shall not be moistened by thy tears. Thou hast expelled me from a land where hearts Can feel the pulse that liberty imparts. Still ne'er thine image from this wounded breast, Nor pride of noble blood from me departs. To thee, from Sparta's son, shall be addressed The mem'ry of his triumph, or his glorious rest." LXVII. Around my sails now sighs the graceful breeze.^ My bark is greeted by the joyful tide ; As tho' it knew my path amid the seas ; And like a fiery courser in his pride, Would paw the ground and neigh with nostrils wide When he dismounts who gently held the rein. Yes, oft upon your bosom did I ride, 0 waves, ye stormy emblems that retain An image of the terrors which with ghastly train," H A.ROLD S PILGRIMAGE. 3 LXVIII. Still haunt, as they were wont to do, this breast ! For I am yet a mystery unsolved — An endless hurricane that finds no rest — A hideous dream that may not be dissolved— A wreck where past and future are involved— A wave that carries foam to ev'ry shore — A murmur from the inner depths evolved ; But like the restless sea which cannot pour The troubled waters from its unexhausted store." Where are my days, and why are they so fleet ? To others, or myself, what marks their flight ? What boundaries have curbed my wayward feet ? Or where the fruit which long hath mocked my sight ? A thousand ways IVe traced, yet each one slight! Where shall my wand'ring course at length be stayed ? Can it be life to wander while the light Of hope in heaven, and in ourselves hath made The path so clear from which my wav'ring steps have strayed 36 THE LAST CANTO OF LXX. " The swallow in ber speed can see tlie coast To which in search of summer now she flies ; The seaman looks upon the starry host, Where an unchanging beacon he descries ; The eagle dares against the sun to rise ; The dove on silv'ry wing can find her nest ; The labouring vessel 'neath some unknown skies Is guided by the magnet to her rest ; While man alone by no bright omen is imprest/' LXXL With him to-day and yesterday are one I To-morrow is the same ! At ev*ry hour He alters what already he has done — Recedes—and then advances — till each pow'r Is lost in mists of doubt which darkly low'r ! My goal, too near myself, these hands would place. To seize the prize, where many breasts would cower, A few short strides I made with hurried pace ; And soon outstepped the post itself that marked the race. ' Harold's pilgrimage. LXXIT. I sang — the universe itself was charmed ; And with an early glory crowned my lyre. But 'tis enough ! — no more am I alarmed For worthless fame ; nor would again desire To reproduce that voice which may but tire The wearied ear with its unvaried tone. A name ! — why should I such a sound admire ? How can it for the many pangs atone To those who wear such fruitless empty fame alone ? LXXIII. The poor reward it gives, is that a name Should deeply in the sounding urn be cast ; And to posterity hand down some claim ! What is such glory, since the faintest blast From time's light wing may not permit to last The dim impression of a bygone age ? If but a single word should fail to last, The frozen memory on history's page, May not again the thoughts of living men engage !" 38 THE LAST CANTO OP LXXIV. " A name !— 'tis but an image— 'tis a shade Wliose glory vanishes beneath the wave ; And like the vapour will our grasp evade — A fantasy for wliich I once could rave ; But when beheld, no longer would I crave. A glory that is boundless now I need, Which from oblivion endlessly shall save — An incense such as ages have decreed To offer as the price of some unearthly deed." LXXV. ' ' I ask the fame which brazen war can give ; With waves of blood inscribing on the ground The glorious scenes that must for ever live, And proudly scatt'ring trophies widely round On hostile plains where cries of death resound. Let everlasting brass record each name ; Or deeply let it be engraven found Upon that temple's base which blood would claim For Liberty, and for the tyrant's lasting shame." HAROLD S PILGRIMAGE. LXXVI. *' Oft in deserted ways that lead to Rome ; Or in the gloomy minster of the West, Where slumb'ring dust has darkly found its home. And tombs are 'neath the sacred shadow blest ; Upon some weeping urn my arm would rest. There stood the bronze and statue clothed with age. The pious stranger by the gloom opprest, Was there with trembling step, to read the page Which dimly lettered pavements yield to ev'ry sage." LXXVII. ^' Beneath such monumental shade must rest, In sleep the most august the mighty dead. Those sounds of footsteps o'er their dust imprest. Those crowding statues, and this sacred dread, Those new regrets — those tears in silence shed- Must flatter, tho' the shroud and coffin hold The bones of men on whom the grave has fed, Whose death was pride of an immortal mould- On whose proud cenotaphs ambition would take hold. 40 THE LAST CANTO OF LXXVIII. " This glory I shall have. But still the mind Would seek for something more beyond the tomb. It knows not where that boon on earth to find, Unless it be the breasts of men in wbom For aught but virtue their is found no room. Now let us from that word extract the sense. Can it describe the man whose hopeless gloom Would make him seek a death the most intense, As tho' to martyrdom he had some just pretence ?" LXXIX. " Is it for virtue that he parts his gold — His youth — his pleasure, and his brightest days ? Is such a dream— is liberty that's sold, Almost as soon as purchased worth the praise Wliich to those idols votaries would raise ? Or is it for the cross so long by kings Eorgotten, that his ardent mind betrays A love of vengeance, Avhile the sceptic flings From his dark breast each hope which from tlie future springs?" Harold's pilgrimage. LXXX. But stop !— is this a sail, or some dark cloud That hides the star of evening from our sight ! The shade approaches l^then is heard aloud, The cry—*' to arms—a ship." Like stormy night, She furrows up the deep beneath her flight. Her triple tier of decks ; her sails and masts, Erom seamen's view conceal the azure light. This vulture of the sea, 'mid howling blasts. Upon the prey its talons and its shadow casts. LXXI. What flag is this so proudly seen to float? It is the hateful crescent ! and what cries Are those on which the Ottoman can gloat ? They are the sobs of infants, and the sighs Of virgins wlio deplore their natal skies— Their own loved Chios — whom some tyrants keep With iron grasp in bondage as their prize ; That they may barter beauty. Let us sweep Such despots," Harold cries, into th' avenging deep." 42 THE LAST CANTO OF LXXXII. " Or rescue those whom they would victims make Lest love should be the price of such foul deed." The word is given ! — 'mid thunder, foes awake, From sleep aroused by flashing fire whose speed The lightning cannot in its course exceed. Each bullet is as true in deadly aim, As tho' unbending destiny decreed Its murd'rous instincts to have been the same As man's, from whom the bolts of ruthless vengeance came. LXXXIIT. The furrowed ranks are quickly drenched with blood. The deck is trembling 'neath the splintered mast. And from her pilot's grasp, into the flood, With furious stroke, the shivered helm is cast. While fierce and iron show'rs of bullets last, The sluggish ship in vain attempts to fly, Yet all her decks belch out a fiery blast. Our bark upon her fleetness can rely, And like a skilful wrestler every stroke defy HAROLD 8 PILGRIMAGK. LXXXIV, More than a hundred deadly shots were sent, With rushing sound across tbe startled deep ; When by a sudden heave our mast was bent, And did the foeman's rigging tangled keep. Then speedly did reckless Harold leap On board ; and with his sabre round him traced A bloody circle where the Turks should reap The fiery wrath which cringe so quickly chased. His heroes bounding in his track, the deck soon paced. LXXXV. But what a cry of horror and surprise. The conquerer arrests in his career ! Is it the Ottoman that proudly dies ? Does he resolve in madness, or in fear. To perish with his prey ? The flames appear In torrents from between the decks, while shrieks From dying wretches strike upon the ear. T' escape the burning blast our hero seeks And parts the ship where flaming wrath its fury wreaks. 44 THE LAST CANTO OF LXXXVI. Lamenting from afar the triumph won, He views the raging fire around the pile. From port to port the flames are seen to run, As tho' they were instinct with serpent's guile. Fanned by the fresh'ning gale they cling awhile, In circling wreaths about the blacken'd mast; And then upon the waves descending smile, With ghastly glare, but for a moment cast Upon the fated ship assailed with scorching blast. LXXXVII. Beneath the falling mast the deck gives way ; And on th' unfolding canvass flames take hold. Its scattered shreds in burning fragments lay Where liquid fires were seen like waves to fold, Instead of billows from the ocean rolled. But now ! what brightness bursts upon the view ! What tale is tliat by stifled mutt'rings told ? The last sad glare the vengeful fires renew ; And with the blazing wreck the smitten waters strew Harold's pilgrimage. LXXXVIII. The heav'ns by wild explosion have been rent. The sparks are falling in a burning show'r. Blown into air the torn vesseFs sent; And only by one dying splash has pow'r To fill with mournful sound the silent hour. ^ The smoking wreck's extinguished by the tide. But cries at which the stoutest heart might cower. Are wafted by the breeze, nor aught beside The night and silence on the ocean now preside. LXXXIX. Upon the gloomy sea what plaintive sound Is now renewed — now seems almost t' expire ? Again 'tis faintly heard to float around The ship in tones that sympathy inspire. Boused by the seamen's cry, with soul on fire, Into the deep has fearless Harold rushed ; Nor can the surge his practised arm now tire. Till from the jealous wave, a victim crushed, Is rescued ere the voice in death's for ever hushed. 46 THE LAST CANTO OF XC. Then from a fragment of the wreck, with haste, An infant form he snatches up, and bears It to the deck where gently it is placed ; And *neath the kindling stove a warmth shares ; Till on the cheek the flush of life it wears. The water from its beauteous hair he rung : And from the drenched and scorched garment tears A portrait which upon the child still hung, To view it by the flickering light upon it flung. XCI. Ye gods ! the features which I here can trace Are mine !— Is it a vision that I see I Tell me thy name — '* 'tis Ada" — and thy place Of birth — " 'tis Epidaurus" — who was she That with a mother's smile first looked on thee ? " Eloydne" — say what is thy father's name — " I know not — but my mother placed on me ** His nameless image, when th' assassin's aim, *' With murd'rous rage against her bleeding bosom came ' Harold's pilgrimage- XCII. They speak about a stranger who can tell The mystery !" — enough, said Harold, "go. To thee a father I shall be then fell Upon and kissed this lonely child of wo. Eloydne's name he murmured ! Bid he know The secret of that birth, so much unblest? Or was he touched by graces which could show A heav'n of innocence on her imprest, That might subdue the gloom within his rankling breast XCIII. Before the beam of morning night retreats. Emerging from the deep that land's descried Whose name the murmuring ocean yet repeats To ev'ry rock with voice of mournful pride— A land where recollections still must glide, Like deathless perfume over ev'ry shore, And round her flow upon the heaving tide. Tis Greece ! — the very name such grandeur wore That man while humbled at the sound, must her adore. 48 THE LAST CANTO OF XCIV. Tho' her's is now the glory of the past, Yet all can see for her the envied height, And sad decline which destiny had cast'; Since tyrants have despised each sacred rite — Have sent upon her land a with'ring blight— Her temples trampled, and her sons enchained ! The Christian's altar with unhallowed might, Has by the Propbet's turban been profaned, That they might kiss it, over whom th* Imposter reigned. xcv. Amidst these ruins our enchanted eyes, Tho' weeping see her beauties all renewed. Nature made young by time that never dies. Has tyranny and man for her pursued, Till both beneath her spell have been subdued. She is the country of the gods and sun ! Whose mountains on the very skies intrude, As if their azure heights and heav'n were one And in ethereal waves of brightness seemed to run. HAHOLD S PILGRIMAGE. XCVJ. The arches of her olive hills decline, Where Syrinx on the flood is heard to sigh. Their sloping summits glitt'ring shine Beneath a flood of light that meets the eye, Caught from those sunny peaks which ki^s the skvj And thence indwelling waves of verdure fall. There, hist'ry's page, or fable, places high The names whereby antiquity would call The seas — the mountains —with each ruined temple vra XCVII. This riv^r — it is Alpheus !— and that mount— 'Tis Pindus ! — ev'ry stone can boast some name — Each rock, its trophy — ev'ry sacred fount, Its god — each wave, its voice. Wherever fame Has marked some cherished spot, she there would clai A hov'ring shade past mem'ries to infuse. These marshes and the Styx, they are the same ! This, gulf, tis the Chimera ! Here the muse Of Homer on the rugged coast her step renews! 50 THE LAST CAN TO O^^ XCVIII. Resounding still beneath the foot of time. The shores at ev'ry step again reveal Another page of poetry sublime, Which hoary age and former glory seal. Altho' in vain our spirits seek to feel And realize the annals of the past, A dim remembrance on the mind must steal, To call for smiles at each propitious blast— For tears of sympathy while human sufferings last ! XCIX. We look upon the scene as if a son, In brilliant dreams beheld a mother's shade. For tho' rapt thoughts on vagrant fancies run, His breast with painful tenderness still swayed Eecalls the image which the past has made,. The apparition feasts his raptured sight ; While he beholds a bosom there portrayed Whence life had flowed to him. He saw the light That kindling in her eyes had made his own look bright. Harold's pilgrimage. C. He gazed upon the arms which oft embraced The tender child, and locked it to her breast. Then looked upon those lips where he had traced Each gushing word when he had been caressed, As tho' it were again to him addressed, That be might imitate the blessed sound ! Her brow he sees, and would have there impressed A fervid kiss — but clouds were looming round ; Till he a shadow in his fond embrace had found. CL Homer! a name which earth, the sea and h3ay'n. From Pindus to the Hellespont repeat ! A monument which other days have giv'n, That with astonishment our eyes should meet The record of a man ! — how incomplete Such word to make thy peerless nature known 1 With admiration earth's almost replete ; And wearied with comparisons would own That thou art like the clouds around thy pages thrown 52 THE LAST CANTO OF ' CII. If man, we should have known tliee by thy tears I A god had not been so benevolent As to deplore our sufF 'rings or our fears ! It must have been, that when to earth was sent Such an immortal one whose breathings went To ev'ry soul, thou deeply then didst drink The milk of pity for each heart that's rent. When nature with her gods would monsters link And draw them from the depths of some foul slimy sink. cm. Thou wast alone in thy magnificence Created as another boundless deep, But still without a stream to issue thence— A sympathetic mirror which would keep Upon its bosom stars in heav'n that sleep ; Yet changing not the azure of its tide ; Keflecting all the grace of nymphs who sweep Along its shores, and from the shepherds hide — Glassing the cloud- winged storms of night above that ride- Harold's pilgrimage. 53 CIV. And giving back an image of the mast When falling on the deck with crashing sound ; Together with the thunderbolts when cast, In forked and furious wrath with flames around, Striking the waves whence they again rebound. Then quench themselves beneath the tossing spray. Still while the universe itself is found Indebted to thy muse, it turns away With insult and ingratitude — nor owns thy sway ! CV. How like the treatment that a god would meet ! And oft they say, that where thy mem'ry reigns, Thou didst with sounding lyre the listner greet. And all thy glory beg! But why complains A rival of that glory ? In the strains Of mourning, yet of joy, this torch of heav'n May still be called thy tomb-star that remains ; Since foes whose envy would thy soul have riv'n, Now quarrel for the spot where thy last look was giv n. 4 THE LAST CANTO OF CVI. That glance was like the glory of the sun, Tho' risen late, on which an envious cloud Had lowr'd until its struggling course was run • Thy coffin lid itself has failed to shroud The mould'ring relics of a name so proud. Such foes were spawned by reptiles that would claim Thy very dust for food. Those insects crowd With poisoned sting to wound and soil thy fame : like serpents which from darkness and corruption came> CVII. Heirs of the shame of Zbilus they thrive Upon the putrefaction of the grave ; And preying on thy glory they would strive, Amid contempt, their worthless names to save. 'Tis destiny such ruthless scourges gave To ev'ry age. The distant star tho* bright, Has in its patli a jealous cloud to brave : And when some name that climbs to glory's heiglit ;s heard too near 'twill grating on the ear alight. HAROLD S PILGRIMAGE. 00 CVIII. Like tones of harshness from some brazen bell That fiercely strike upon the startled brain ; But when its echoes from a distance fell, Rolling o'er woods and waves each dying strain ; The music does a moment still remain, In whisp'ring accents of celestial sighs ; Then softly on the far extending plain Expires; while in its harmonies arise Dreams of the pastwath pray'rful thoughts that reach the skies, CIX. What rock is that which hollowed by the tide. Eternally resounds and rears its head, Where blight and baldness like a curse abide ? Across the wave it darkly flings a dread And lengthened shadow where the ship has spread Her sails. A column stands upon the shore ; The noble wreck of times which long have fled ; In solitary grandeur to deplore The temple with its rites, that now exists no more. THK LAST CANTO OF ex. Lifting its head above the swelling wave, It looks upon those classic shores with pride i And dares the wintry tempest still to brave. A boundary it seems upon the wide Expanse of time, to mark an age who«e tide Has rolled away ! This relic of the fane, Where Pallas long was served, is now the guide By which the distant seaman hopes to gain A haven for his bark when bounding o'er the main. CXT. The cape which it has crowned now bears its name ; And Harold looking on the deathless pile. Discovers Sunium that still would claim To be the honored refuge from a vile Insensate mob, where Plato lingered while He held communion with his inmost soul, And truthful nature heard, in whom no guile Was found, amid the harmonies that stole From spheres of heav'n o'er which his hallow'd eyes could roll. Harold's pilgrimage. CXII. He sat in silence on the strand and viewed The stars and billows, till in dreams he thought He heard the accents of the gods renewed In sounds with sweet celestial murm'rings fraught, Which to his breast some dim rerealings brought. Celestial voice ! whose tones the ocean hears. In waves and fondest sighs from zephyrs caught ; Falling where man to plant his foot still fears ! A voice that no instruction had for Harold's ears. CXIII. What solemn chant is that which now ascends ; While o'er the tide his bark in silence steals ? What train of mourning robed in white now wends Its troubled way, and deep affliction feels ? Each rock— each hill the weeping throng reveals. And like a flock by trusty shepherds led, Its priests conduct the pious band. Then peals A hymn of death that from the shore has spread Upon the blast in dismal wail for loved ones dead. 5S THE LAST CAxVTO OF CXIV. What are the holy burdens which they bear, And place upon the earth with awe profound ? What anguish of the spirit can be there To bow the weeping victims to the ground? Tho' Harold trembles at the dirgefal sound No presage will he take ; but quickly steers His vessel to the strand ; then with a bound, He rushes to the scene of so much tears. But what a spectacle, ye gods, to him appears ! cxy. Close to an altar piled upon the old And crumbling portico, in order lay A liost of coffins, over which was told The burial song amid the dread arra}^ Of deacons sprinkling on the breathless clay The sacred waters. All were seen to rest V\Tiere cypresses, as if m dark dismay, "With palms and daffodils in circles press'd Around the group whom garments for the dead invest. HAROLD S PILGRIMAGE. CXVI. When Harold sees this pomp of death he thinks That he is counting warriors who fell. With eyes suffused by tears, and heart that sinks, He looks around the tombs that he may tell The number of the fiery steeds which swell The dismal train, where drum and brazen note Should o'er the hero's bones with martial knell Be heard to raise the dying strains that float, As glory's tribute to the combatants she smote, CXVII. But only veils and flow'rs that virgins wear, With distaff and with spindles can he see. Such emblems of a maiden's worth were there ! The crowns of Hymen also seemed to be By girls of Hellas borne, who bend the knee At shrines of death. Bright lilies there they fling, From Erymanthus plucked, so wildly free. Acanthus in profusion now they bring And scatter it upon the graves round which they cling. 60 THE LAST CAN^TO OF CXVTII. Here weeping infants clad in orphan dress, The floatins: corners of the linen held. And distant warriors their grief express, vrith drooping lieads and murmurs loud that told. How beauty was cut down. Then with a bold And firm grasp, upon their swords they lav Fierce hands, suppressing sobs which would have roU'd In wild complaints against that bloody day. At whose dark mem'ry reason seems to lose'her sway. CXIX. Th' astonished Harold does not dare intrude Upon the recollection of the past, By -vrhich their anguished spirits were imbued. But wlien the awful moment came at last, That on the chalice ev'ry eye was cast— A virgin towards the sacred mound had sprung, With laurels on her brow ! while on the blast Her hair appeared in wild disorder flung; And a> a victim saved, to her dead sisters sung. HAT old's PILGKIM AGE. 61 cxx. ** Upon the frozen summit of the bleak And savage Ery man thus we have fled From shores where Laos winds, that we miglit seek A shelter from the spears of tyrants, red With blood of human victims fiercely shed. Like herds of stricken deer, in vain we rushed Erom rock to rock o'er which the vizier led The ruthless Delhys, till our hopes were crushed On heights where thunders dwell, whose voice isneveThushed." CXXL " Descended to the plain, now falls upon our view, The last sad night whose morning must reveal The horrors of our destiny ! How few And short the hours of sleep that scarcely steal Upon our eyes ! Then hastily we l^neel, While priests are sending up to heav'n our pray'r, In strange dark words whose force we cannot feel. The earth beneath our feet on which there were So many soon to bleed, did then their blessing share," 62 THE LAST CANTO OF CXXII. Upon £L craggy rock each sword is whet. Until it sparkles with a fiitfiil beam. As an avenger, ev'ry weapon met The hot embrace of heroes who would seem To greet with dying brother's look the gleam Of vengeance flashing from the trusty steel. Fond wives with mothers now so precious deem The last few hours of life that still tliey kneel, And cling to those whose coming fate they darkly feel." CXXIIL «< Embracing with a firm unyielding grasp Their husbands once more gazing on their charms : They wildly then to throbbing bosoms clasp Loved infants shielded by their circling arms. And tho' fell death the latest hope disarms, They give their babes before they die that breast Whose life-stream soon must cease. But fresli alarms Are heard e're Menalus by gloom opprest. Was tinged witli rays that could eclipse night's starry vest. HAROLD S PILGRIMAGE, CXXIV. With cries of " Allah !" earth itself resounds ; And from the shady valley's deep recess, The sullen tramp of fighting men rebounds. Erom each dread height and depth around us press Rude hosts intent on ev'ry dark excess Of crime and blood. Their naked gleaming --teel, With mingling shouts, and flash of guns express Tlie murd'rous vengeance that our ranks must feel While 'neath the scimetar they now begin to reel." cxxv. ' One narrow pass with gloomy rocks o'erhung, Alone had dimly broken on our sight, 1i|Slo' which sad mothers with their babes who clung To heaving breasts, and virgins take their flight, With men whom hoary years had robbed of might. Fond husbands, sons and brothers madly ruslied Upon the foe with vengeance dark as night. Nor would they yield till life itself was crushed Eor us whose fear of ghastly death could not be hushed.'^ Tn\<: LAST CANTO OF CXXVI. The highest peak we gain, and wait for death. A dark and dread abyss is at our feet, Whose depth, with timid eyes and struggling breath, We dare not fully in its horrors meet. One verdant hillock was our last retreat. The cheerless Erymanthus crouched below, Cleft by the torrent from its mountain seat. Here trembling rocks their sidc^ upheaving throw From stems whose crags in all their rudeness wildly grow. cxxYir. " There vultures circling flap the deathly wing. And in the gloomy gulph are heard to roar The winds that in their madness wildly fling The foam of ceaseless waters, while they pour Their dark revenge where eye can reach no more. Upon those rugged rocks tlie fury fell ; And from deep beds, uprooted fragments tore. >Jight gath'ring all her clouds above this hell Is heard in endless thunder, tales of wrath to tell." Harold's pilgrimage. 6 CXXVIII. Encircled by the tempest, from this height Our eyes are fixed upon the bloody plain ; And 'mid the flashing meteors of the night, Behold our lovers, friends, and husbands slain. The Turk with reeking sword and tyrant's chain. Is panting now to grasp us for his prey. Each moment, by the lives that still remain, Was counted till the Ottoman should slay Those helpless ones 'gainst whom he urged his murd'rous way CXXIX '* A woman's voice is heard— Sublime Despair 1" The frantic mother cries — " there now remains For us but one avenger yes, 'tis there— The dark abyss 1" No longer she restrains Her hasty step — Her child I" — she still refrains ! It smiles — but yet she tears away the breast Which its half opened mouth so long retains — Now lifts it— trembles — wavers — ('tis caress'd) — Then steels herself against the idol she had blessed 1" 66 THE LAST CANTO OF cxxx. The foeman's savage shout has caught her ear ; She maddens at tlie sound, and wildly flings Her babe into the gulph ! — then turns with fear The eye from that abyss whose echo brings Such mutt'ring tone as thro' the cavern rings, When monsters gloat upon their bleeding prey. She smiled, and said he soars on Freedom's wings ! Ye mothers, chase each craven though^ away— With me, the voice of Liberty — not fear obey." CXXXI. " Ye never yet the sons of slaves have borne Within your wombs ; nor with your milk have fed The coward's offspring.'' At these words, is torn Each sleeping child wherewith a mother fled, And from her warm embrace into the dread Unfathomed gulph is cast ! The fatal tomb Resounds ! while in a mournful dance we tread Around th' abyss, with sad funereal gloom ; And overhang its depths like death's dark nodding plume." Harold's pilgrimage. CXXXII. Hand joined to hand, around the fearful deep We fling ourselves in circling measured pace ; And time, with choral song of virgins keep ; When they with Hymen's fetes the Ysmen grace And on its banks each joyful footstep trace. At ev'ry pause that marks the sacred air, Its closing note points out the hideous place Where, from this chain of death, each one must tear Herself, as if a broken link, the pit to share !" CXXXIII. Then with a sudden bound th' abyss is gained. Rolling from height to height the dismal sound Of bodies mangled, and with blood profaned, Awakes the echoes of those depths profound, And is in chorus with our voices found, While chaunting in the strains of halcyon days This song whose tones with tenderness abound. Such air for us, embracing death, betrays An agonizing contrast to our bridal lays !" THE LAST CANlO OF \ Strew, strew with narcissus and roses ; Strew the couch where beauty reposes." " Dark-eyed maid 'tis thy happiest hour ! Why bow the head like a weeping flow'r, Swept by the blast till its lily form Bends o'er the wave to the passing storm." *' Strew, strew with narcissus and roses ; Strew the couch where beauty reposes." Thy lover ! — I heard when his footsteps came. This ring is the seal of his passion's flame. If thine image hath pierced his fervid breast, There, without breaking that heart, it will rest." Strew, strew with narcissus and roses; Strew the couch where beauty reposes.'' *' This hallowed torch in thy band now take, An embalming flame in thy soul to wake; Its fire shall purely within thee burn, And a fragrance shed, even round thine urn." ** Strew, strew with narcissus and roses ; Strew the couch Avhere beauty reposes." Harold's pilgrimage. ** Look on these kids that about thee play, Which maidens have wreathed for the bridal day, Thus soon our enamelled plains shall see Thy little ones dance, as wild and free " Strew, strew with narcissus and roses ; Strew the couch where beauty reposes." " Fly to the valley, and myrtles bend, Their shade for thy sleeping babe to lend. The wedding gift 's in the mower's hand. Its cradle a mother's skill has planned." " Strew, strew with narcissus and roses ; Sfrew the couch where beauty reposes." List, list to the song of the turtle dove ; Let its tone by thine o'er the child of love. Catch the whisp'ring sigh of the waters lest It wake as it hangs on thy downy breast." *• Strew, strew with narcissus and roses ; Strew the couch where beauty reposes 70 THE LAST CANTO OF CXXXIV. " Our steps thus ruled by pleasure's syren notes, Accompanying the air by love inspired ; But serving now for death ! Such music floats Upon the bloody field, till heroes fired With madness, as tho' life were not desired, March to the trumpet's blast, with mingling song Of joy and death, 'mid swords with slaughter tired. Alas each moment, in our choral throng, Sad voices faintly heard, to us no more belong !" CXXXY. " With rapid whirl we still more swiftly fling Ourselves around ; wliile with a struggling sigh The stifled notes of those who faintly sing, Are quenched in their own pause, and mutely die With each who now to death for refuge fly. Again the chasm groans benej*th the stroke So oft repeated ! Then the earth and sky Commingling seemed to reel, till fear awoke Each throb within my breast, as tho' aloud it spoke!" HAROLD S PILGRIMAGE. CXXXVI. At ev ry fatal turn a voice is lost — A human form is plunged into the deep Voracious pit whose savage jaws had cost So many victims ! Now with circling sweep And closing song, in turn, I reach the steep — The headlong crags ! — some angel must have caught Me 'neath his unseen shelt'ring wing to keep One voice to tell of death so nobly sought, Which impious man has seen— and yet believeth not !" CXXXVII.. She speak? no more. The mute astonished crowd Stfll hang upon the accents of the past. The kindling incense rising like a cloud. On ev'ry coffin seemed a mist to cast ; As if upon those altars smoked the last ¥,^arm stream of martyred blood. Above the (lead- The brazen note is heard with martial blast—- But on his rapid way the stranger sped, Ere it evoked the genius of those shores^ novv^ fled. 72 Tim LAST CANTO OF CXXXVIII. He reaches Phyle — Phyle ! deathless plain Where Athens was avenged — when broken lay The thrice ten links of that foul cursed chain Which tyrants forged — where from the fray, With reeking sword, and conqueror's proud sw^ay, The hero graved his name on altars raised To Pallas ; and with Solon shone ! But say, Has Harold stopped upon thy rock, and gazed At Liberty's horizon that with glory blazed CXXXIX. Beyond the battlement of Cecrop's tow'rs And waves of Salamis ? — He pauses there- He looks upon the evening sun which low'rs Above the hills of Attica ; and where The plains of Phyle lengthened shadows wear, Flung from Pentelicus. There Harold rests Upon a trunk of Daphne's tree, to share With chiefs and soldiers gathered round as guests, The gifts from foreign shores wherewith he each invests. Harold's pilgrimage. CXL. He shows them, scattered round, the shining lance - The dagger— bullets murd'rous in their fliglit — The carriages and cannon whose advance Is with the thunder's roll— the gold so bright Wherewith the price of blood is paid— the light Of gleaming steel whose edge can force the gold. Such gifts the cnief tains with their men of might, Exulting share. Th' Albanian fierce and b