The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own; When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown! His steps are not upon thy paths-thy fields Are not a spoil for him,-thou dost arise, And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling, to his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth:-there let him lay. The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals— The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war These are thy toys; and, as the snowy flake, Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee— Dark-heaving-boundless, endless, and sublime! Of the invisible:-Even from out thy slime Obeys thee! Thou goest forth, dread! fathomless! alone! Byro The Present Aspect of Greece. Have swept the lines where beauty lingers, The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon- 'Tis Greece-but living Greece no more! That parts not quite with parting breath; A gilded halo hovering round decay, The farewell beam of Feeling past away! Spark of that flame-perchance of heavenly birth— Which gleams-but warms no more its cherish'd earth! The Curfew. THE Curfew tolls-the knell of parting day! Byron. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Beneath these rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed! Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share! Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield; Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team a-field! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; The paths of glory lead-but to the grave! If memory o'er their tombs no trophies raise, Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.- Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust? Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death? 233 Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, And froze the genial current of the soul! Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air! Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may restSome Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. The applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confinedForbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide; To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame; Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride, With incense kindled at the muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way! With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spell'd by the unletter'd muse The place of fame and elegy supply; And many a holy text around she strews, To teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing, anxious being e'er resign'd- For thee, who, mindful of the unhonour'd dead, Haply, some hoary-headed swain may say 66 Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love! "One morn I miss'd him on the accustom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite tree: Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he: 'The next-with dirges due, in sad array, Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne: Approach, and read-for thou canst read-the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH. HERE rests his head upon the lap of earth, |