CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. A ROMAUNT. CANTO II. I. COME, blue-eyed maid of heaven, - but thou, alas! Didst never yet one mortal song inspire Goddess 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, Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul? Gone - glimmering through the dream of things that were: First, in the race that led to Glory's goal, They won, and pass'd away - is this the whole? A school-boy's tale, the wonder of an hour! The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole Are sought in vain, and o'er each moulde ring tower, Dim with the mist of years, greyflits the shade of power. III. Son of the morning, rise! approach you here! 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 hea ven 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 knowst 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 homi lics. V. Or burst the vanish'd Hero's lofty mound; tered cell! VI. Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall, Its chambers desolate, and portals foul: |