VI. Ill-fated Chief! there are whose hopes are built Upon the ruins of thy glorious name; Who, through the portal of one moment's guilt, Pursue thee with their deadly aim! O matchless perfidy! portentous lust Of monstrous crime! that horror-striking blade, Drawn in defiance of the Gods, hath laid The noble Syracusan low in dust! Shuddered the walls, the marble city wept, And sylvan places heaved a pensive sigh; Of spirit too capacious to require That Destiny her course should change; too just XXXIII. THE PASS OF KIRKSTONE 1. WITHIN the mind strong fancies work, Of these fraternal hills: Where, save the rugged road, we find Nor hint of man; if stone or rock Altars for Draid service fit (But where no fire was ever lit, Unless the glowworm to the skies Green, moss-grown tower; or hoary tent; II. Ye ploughshares sparkling on the slopes! Ye snow-white lambs that trip Imprisoned 'mid the formal props Ye trees, that may to-morrow fall Wages of folly, baits of crime, Of life's uneasy game the stake, O care! O guilt!- O vales and plains, At once all memory of You, Most potent when mists veil the sky, Mists that distort and magnify; While the coarse rushes, to the sweeping breeze, Sigh forth their ancient melodies! III. List to those shriller notes! - that march Perchance was on the blast, When, through this Height's inverted arch, Rome's earliest legion passed! -They saw, adventurously impelled, And older eyes than theirs beheld, This block, and yon, whose church-like frame Gives to this savage Pass its name. Thy daring in a vapory bourn, Not seldom may the hour return Be thankful, even though tired and faint, IV. My Soul was grateful for delight The greenness tells, man must be there; Is of the clime in which we live; Where Toil pursues his daily round; Where Pity sheds sweet tears; and Love, In woodbine bower or birchen grove, Inflicts his tender wound. Who comes not hither ne'er shall know How beautiful the world below; Carols like a shepherd-boy; And who is she? - Can that be Joy! "Whate'er the weak may dread, the wicked dare, Thy lot, O Man, is good, thy portion fair!" XXXIV. 1817. TO ENTERPRISE. KEEP for the Young the impassioned smile And drop thy pointing finger, bright But neither veil thy head in shadows dim, From one who, in the evening of his day, To thee would offer no presumptuous hymn! |