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He sung Darius, great and good!
By too severe a fate,
With not a friend to close his eyes.
Revolving, in his altered soul,
The various turns of fate below;
And tears began to flow.
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
is toil and trouble:
Never ending, still beginning,
If the world be worth thy winning,
Lovely Thais sits beside thee.
Take the good the gods provide thee.
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gaz’d on the fair,
Who caus'd his care, And sigh’d, and look’d,-sigh’d, and look’d--sigh’dy
and look',-and sigh'd again. At length, with love and wine at once opprest, The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.
Now strike the golden lyre again;
Hark! hark—the horrid sound
And, amaz’d, he stares around.
See the Furies arise!
See the snakes that they rear,
Behold a ghastly band
Each a torch in his hand:
And unbury'd remain,
To the valiant crew.
How they point to the Persian abodes,
The princes applaud with a furious joy, And the king seiz'd a flambeau, with zeal to destroy:
Thais led the way,
To light him to his prey,
Thus, long ago,
And sounding lyre,
At last, divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame:
Enlarg’d the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds, With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize;
BYRON Night wanes, the vapours round the mountains curl'd Melt into morn, and Light awakes the world; Man has another day to swell the past, And lead him near to little, but his last; But mighty nature bounds as from her birth, The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth; Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam, Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream. Immortal man! behold her glories shine, And cry, exulting inly, they are thine! Gaze on, while yet thy gladden'd eye may see; A morrow comes when they are not for thee: And grieve what may above thy senseless bier, Nor earth nor sky will yield a single tear; Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall, Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee, for all; But creeping things shall revel in their spoil, And fit thy clay to fertilize the soil.
That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now,
And but for that chill changeless brow, Where cold Obstruction's apathy Appals the gazing mourner's heart, As if to him it could impart The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; Yes, but for these and these alone, Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, He still might doubt the tyrant's power; So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd, The first, last look by death reveal'd! Such is the aspect of this shore; "Tis Greece, but living Greece no more! So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, We start, for soul is wanting there. Hers is the loveliness in death, That parts not quite with parting breath; But beauty with that fearful bloom, That hue which haunts it to the tomb; Expression's last receding ray, 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!
CANTO 1V CLLXXVII,
In deeming such inhabit many a spot?
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean-roll!
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
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee