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CHILDE HAROLD'S LAST PILGRIMAGE.
SO ENDS CHILDE HAROLD HIS LAST PILGRIMAGE ! Upon the shores of Greece he stood, and cried “ LIBERTY!” and those shores, from age to age Renown'd, and Sparta's woods and rocks replied “ LIBERTY!” but a Spectre, at his side,
5 Stood mocking and its dart, uplifting high, Smote him;-he sank to earth in life's fair pride:
SPARTA ! thy rocks then heard another cry, And Old Ilissus sigh’d—“Die, generous exile, die!” I will not ask sad Pity to deplore
10 His wayward errors, who thus early died; Still less, CHILDE HAROLD, now thou art no more, Will I say aught of genius misapplied ; Of the past shadows of thy spleen or pride :But I will bid the Arcadian cypress wave,
15 Pluck the green laurel from Peneus' side,
And pray thy spirit may such quiet have, [grave. That not one thought unkind be murmur'd o'er thy
So HAROLD ENDS, IN GREECE, HIS PILGRIMAGE !
brows are bound · With their unfading wreath !—To bands of mirth, No more in TEMPE let the pipe resound !
HAROLD, I follow to thy place of birth [earth. The slow hearse; and thy LAST sad PILGRIMAGE ON
Slow moves the plumed hearse, the mourning train; I mark the sad procession with a sigh,
Silently passing to that village fane,
30 Where, HAROLD, thy forefathers mouldering lie ;There sleeps. THAT MOTHER, who with tearful eye, Pondering the fortunes of thy early road, Hung o'er the slumbers of thine infancy; Her son,
released from mortal labours' load, 35 Now comes to rest with her, in the same still abode.
Bursting Death's silence, could that mother speak. (Speak when the earth was heap'd upon his head) In thrilling, but with hollow accent weak, She thus might give the welcome of the dead : 40 “Here rest, my son, with me; the dream is fled; The motley mask and the great stir is o’er: Welcome to me, and to this silent bed,
Where deep forgetfulness succeeds the roar 44 Of life, and fretting passions waste the heart no more.”
THE VOICE OF SPRING.
COME, I come ! ye hare call'd me long,
leaves opening as I pass. I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers, And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes, Are veil'd with wreaths on Italian plains : 10 But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, To speak of the ruin or the tomb !
I have look'd o'er the hills of the stormy North,
not stay Away from the dwellings of care-worn men, The waters are sparkling in grove and glen! Away from the chamber and dusky hearth, The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth! 40 Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains, And youth is abroad in my green domains.
But ye-ye are changed since ye met me last!
50 There were graceful heads, with their ringlets bright, Which toss’d in the breeze with a play of light; There were eyes, in whose glistening laughter lay No faint remembrance of dark decay! There were steps, that flew o'er the cowslip's head, 55 As if for a banquet all earth were spread; There were voices that rung through the sapphire sky, And had not a sound of mortality! (pass'd ? Are they gone? is their mirth from the green hills Ye have look'd on death since ye saw me last ! 60 I know whence the shadow comes o'er you now: Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny
brow! Ye have given the lovely to earth’s embrace, She hath taken the fairest of beauty's race, With their laughing eyes and their festal crown, 65 They are gone from amongst you in silence down! They are gone from amongst you,
and fair, Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair ! But I know of a world where there falls no blight; I shall find them there, with their eyes of light: 70 Where death midst the blooms of the morn may dwell, I tarry no longer--farewell, farewell!
The summer is coming, on soft winds borne,
75 Ye are mark’d by care, ye are mine no more. I go where the loved who have left
dwell, And the flowers are not death's : fare ye well, farewell!
THE BETTER LAND.
“ I HEAR thee speak of the better land, Thou callest its children a happy band; Mother! 0, where is that radiant shore? Shall we not seek it, and weep no more? Is it where the flower of the orange blows, 5 And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs ?" -"Not there, not there, my child!" "Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, And the date grows ripe under sunny skies? Or ’midst the green islands of glittering seas, 10 Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings, Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ?” -"Not there, not there, my child !” “Is it far away, in some region old,
15 Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold? Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand ? Is it there, sweet mother, that better land ?” 20
“Not there, not there, my child !"