[THE OCEAN.] CHILDE HAROLD, CANTO IV. CLXXVIII. THERE is a pleasure in the pathless woods, CLXXIX. 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. 5 10 15 CLXXX. His steps are not upon thy paths thy fields Are not a spoil for him - thou dost arise 20 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 25 His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth: there let him lay. CLXXXI. The armaments which thunderstrike the walls These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, CLXXXII. Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee- CLXXXIII. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Calm or convulsed-in breeze, or gale, or storm, Dark-heaving; - boundless, endless, and sublime - Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 30 35 40 45 50 CLXXXIV And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy as I do here. CLXXXV. 55 60 My task is done my song hath ceased my theme 65 Has died into an echo; it is fit Less palpably before me and the glow Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low. 70 CLXXXVI. Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been 75 Ye! who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop-shell; If such there were— with you, the moral of his strain. 80 [THE ISLES OF GREECE.] DON JUAN, CANTO III. THE isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! But all, except their sun, is set. 5 He counted them at break of day- And where are they? and where art thou, 20 25 My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine? 30 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Though link'd among a fetter'd race, To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here? 35 For Greeks a blush-for Greece a tear. Must we but weep o'er days more blest? A remnant of our Spartan dead What, silent still? and silent all? Ah! no; the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 40 45 50 55 60 We will not think of themes like these; It made Anacreon's song divine: He served - but served Polycrates 65 A tyrant; but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen. |