Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Part 21

I speak not of men's creeds--they rest between Man and his Maker--but of things allowed, Averred, and known,--and daily, hourly seen-- The yoke that is upon us doubly bowed, And the intent of tyranny avowed, The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown The apes of him who humbled once the proud, And shook them from their slumbers on the throne; Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done.

XCVI.

Can tyrants but by tyrants conquered be, And Freedom find no champion and no child Such as Columbia saw arise when she Sprung forth a Pallas, armed and undefiled?

Or must such minds be nourished in the wild, Deep in the unpruned forest, midst the roar Of cataracts, where nursing nature smiled On infant Washington? Has Earth no more Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such sh.o.r.e?

XCVII.

But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime, And fatal have her Saturnalia been To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime; Because the deadly days which we have seen, And vile Ambition, that built up between Man and his hopes an adamantine wall, And the base pageant last upon the scene, Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall Which nips Life's tree, and dooms man's worst--his second fall.

XCVIII.

Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, Streams like the thunder-storm AGAINST the wind; Thy trumpet-voice, though broken now and dying, The loudest still the tempest leaves behind; Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, Chopped by the axe, looks rough and little worth, But the sap lasts,--and still the seed we find Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North; So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth.

XCIX.

There is a stern round tower of other days, Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, Such as an army's baffled strength delays, Standing with half its battlements alone, And with two thousand years of ivy grown, The garland of eternity, where wave The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown: What was this tower of strength? within its cave What treasure lay so locked, so hid?--A woman's grave.

C.

But who was she, the lady of the dead, Tombed in a palace? Was she chaste and fair?

Worthy a king's--or more--a Roman's bed?

What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear?

What daughter of her beauties was the heir?

How lived--how loved--how died she? Was she not So honoured--and conspicuously there, Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot?

CI.

Was she as those who love their lords, or they Who love the lords of others? such have been Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say.

Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien, Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen, Profuse of joy; or 'gainst it did she war, Inveterate in virtue? Did she lean To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar Love from amongst her griefs?--for such the affections are.

CII.

Perchance she died in youth: it may be, bowed With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb That weighed upon her gentle dust, a cloud Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom Heaven gives its favourites--early death; yet shed A sunset charm around her, and illume With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red.

CIII.

Perchance she died in age--surviving all, Charms, kindred, children--with the silver grey On her long tresses, which might yet recall, It may be, still a something of the day When they were braided, and her proud array And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed By Rome--But whither would Conjecture stray?

Thus much alone we know--Metella died, The wealthiest Roman's wife: Behold his love or pride!

CIV.

I know not why--but standing thus by thee It seems as if I had thine inmate known, Thou Tomb! and other days come back on me With recollected music, though the tone Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan Of dying thunder on the distant wind; Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone Till I had bodied forth the heated mind, Forms from the floating wreck which ruin leaves behind;

CV.

And from the planks, far shattered o'er the rocks, Built me a little bark of hope, once more To battle with the ocean and the shocks Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar Which rushes on the solitary sh.o.r.e Where all lies foundered that was ever dear: But could I gather from the wave-worn store Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer?

There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here.

CVI.

Then let the winds howl on! their harmony Shall henceforth be my music, and the night The sound shall temper with the owlet's cry, As I now hear them, in the fading light Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site, Answer each other on the Palatine, With their large eyes, all glistening grey and bright, And sailing pinions.--Upon such a shrine What are our petty griefs?--let me not number mine.

CVII.

Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown Matted and ma.s.sed together, hillocks heaped On what were chambers, arch crushed, column strown In fragments, choked-up vaults, and frescoes steeped In subterranean damps, where the owl peeped, Deeming it midnight:--Temples, baths, or halls?

p.r.o.nounce who can; for all that Learning reaped From her research hath been, that these are walls-- Behold the Imperial Mount! 'tis thus the mighty falls.

CVIII.

There is the moral of all human tales: 'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, First Freedom, and then Glory--when that fails, Wealth, vice, corruption--barbarism at last.

And History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but ONE page,--'tis better written here, Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus ama.s.sed All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask--Away with words! draw near,

CIX.

Admire, exult--despise--laugh, weep--for here There is such matter for all feeling:--Man!

Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear, Ages and realms are crowded in this span, This mountain, whose obliterated plan The pyramid of empires pinnacled, Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van Till the sun's rays with added flame were filled!

Where are its golden roofs? where those who dared to build?

CX.

Tully was not so eloquent as thou, Thou nameless column with the buried base!

What are the laurels of the Caesar's brow?

Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place.

Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, t.i.tus or Trajan's? No; 'tis that of Time: Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace, Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime,

CXI.

Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome, And looking to the stars; they had contained A spirit which with these would find a home, The last of those who o'er the whole earth reigned, The Roman globe, for after none sustained But yielded back his conquests:--he was more Than a mere Alexander, and unstained With household blood and wine, serenely wore His sovereign virtues--still we Trajan's name adore.

CXII.

Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place Where Rome embraced her heroes? where the steep Tarpeian--fittest goal of Treason's race, The promontory whence the traitor's leap Cured all ambition? Did the Conquerors heap Their spoils here? Yes; and in yon field below, A thousand years of silenced factions sleep-- The Forum, where the immortal accents glow, And still the eloquent air breathes--burns with Cicero!

CXIII.

The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood: Here a proud people's pa.s.sions were exhaled, From the first hour of empire in the bud To that when further worlds to conquer failed; But long before had Freedom's face been veiled, And Anarchy a.s.sumed her attributes: Till every lawless soldier who a.s.sailed Trod on the trembling Senate's slavish mutes, Or raised the venal voice of baser prost.i.tutes.

CXIV.

Then turn we to our latest tribune's name, From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee, Redeemer of dark centuries of shame-- The friend of Petrarch--hope of Italy-- Rienzi! last of Romans! While the tree Of freedom's withered trunk puts forth a leaf, Even for thy tomb a garland let it be-- The forum's champion, and the people's chief-- Her new-born Numa thou, with reign, alas! too brief.

CXV.

Egeria! sweet creation of some heart Which found no mortal resting-place so fair As thine ideal breast; whate'er thou art Or wert,--a young Aurora of the air, The nympholepsy of some fond despair; Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, Who found a more than common votary there Too much adoring; whatsoe'er thy birth, Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth.

CXVI.