As full, as perfect, in vile Man that mourns, Cease then, nor order imperfection name: All Chance, Direction, which thou canst not see; And, spite of pride, in erring Reason's spite, 44.-Self-Knowledge. KNOW thou thyself, presume not God to scan, Sole judge of Truth, in endless Error hurl'd; Pope. Go, wond'rous creature! mount where Science guides; Go, measure earth, weigh air, and state the tides; Instruct the planets in what orbs to run, 45.-Vice and Virtue. FOOLS but too oft into the notion fall, Pope. But where the Extreme of Vice, was ne'er agreed: At Greenland, Zembla, or I know not where. But thinks his neighbour farther gone than he; Virtuous and vicious every Man must be, But Heaven's great view is One, and that the Whole. Pope. 46.-On the Plain of Marathon. WHERE'ER we tread 'tis haunted, holy ground, Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame, The flying Mede-his shaftless broken bow, The dust-thy courser's hoof, rude stranger! spurns around. Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past, The parted bosom clings to wonted home, If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth; He that is lonely hither let him roam, And gaze complacent on congenial earth. Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth; But he whom sadness sootheth may abide, And scarce regret the region of his birth, When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side, Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died. Byron. 47.-On the Present State of Athens. ANCIENT of days! august Athena! where, Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul? Gone-glimmering through the dream of things that were, First in the race that led to Glory's goal, They won, and pass'd away-is this the whole? A school-boy's tale, the wonder of an hour! The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower, Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power. Son of the morning, rise! approach you here! Come-but molest not yon defenceless urn: Look on this spot-a nation's sepulchre ! Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn. Even gods must yield-religions take their turn: 'Twas Jove's-'tis Mahomet's-and other creeds Will rise with other years, till man shall learn Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds; Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on reeds. Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heavenIs't not enough, unhappy thing! to know Thou art? Is this a boon so kindly given, That being, thou wouldst be again, and go, Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what region, so On earth no more, but mingled with the skies? Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe? Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies: That little urn saith more than thousand homilies. Or burst the vanish'd Hero's lofty mound; He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around; But now not one of saddening thousands weeps, Nor warlike-worshipper his vigil keeps Where demi-gods appear'd, as records tell. Remove yon skull from out the scatter'd heapsIs that a temple where a god may dwell? Why ev'n the worm at last disdains her shatter'd cell! Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall, Its chambers desolate, and portals foul: Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall, The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul: Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit, And Passion's host, that never brook'd control: Can all, saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, People this lonely tower, this tenement refit? Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son! "All that we know is, nothing can be known." Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun? Each has his pang, but feeble sufferers groan With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. Pursue what Chance or Fate proclaimeth best ; Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron : There no forc'd banquet claims the sated guest, But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest. Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be A land of souls beyond that sable shore, To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee And Sophists, madly vain of dubious lore; How sweet it were in concert to adore With those who made our mortal labours light! To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more! Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight, The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right. Byron. |