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 mouldering tower, Dim with the mist of years, grey flits the shade of power. 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 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 vanish'd Hero's lofty mound; He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around; But now not one of saddening thousands weeps, Nor warlike-worshipper his vigil keeps 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? Why ev'n the worm at last disdains her shatter'd cell! VI. Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall, And Passion's host, that never brook'd control: VII. Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son! There no forc'd 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 With those who made our mortal labours light! IX. There, thou!-whose love and life together fled, For me 'twere bliss enough to know thy spirit blest! .X. Heré let me sit upon this massy stone, The marble column's yet unshaken base; Here, son of Saturn! was thy fav'rite throne:' 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, Unmoy'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, And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant brine. |