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CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE.
CANTO THE FOURTH.
Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles,
II. She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, Rising with her tiara of proud towers At airy distance, with majestic motion, A ruler of the waters and their powers : And such she was ;-her daughters had their dowers From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers.
In purple was she robed, and of her feast Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity increased.
The pleasant place of all festivity,
IV. But unto us she hath a spell beyond Her name in story, and her long array Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond Above the dogeless city's vanish'd sway; Ours is a trophy which will not decay With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor, And Pierre, can not be swept or worn away
The keystones of the arch! though all were o'er, For us repeopled were the solitary shore.
Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, And with a fresher growth replenishing the void.
VI. Such is the refuge of our youth and age, The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy; And this worn feeling peoples many a page, And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye: Yet there are things whose strong reality Outshines our fairy-land; in shape and hues More beautiful than our fantastic sky,
And the strange constellations which the Muse O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse :
VII. I saw or dream'd of such,—but let them goThey came like truth, and disappear'd like dreams ; And whatsoe'er they were are now but so: I could replace them if I would; still teems My mind with many a form which aptly seems Such as I sought for, and at moments found; Let these too go—for waking Reason deems
Such over-weening phantasies unsound, And other voices speak, and other sights surround.
VIII. I've taught me other tongues—and in strange eyes Have made me not a stranger; to the mind Which is itself, no changes bring surprise ; Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find A country with-ay, or without mankind; Yet was I born where men are proud to be, Not without cause; and should I leave behind
The inviolate island of the sage and free, And seek me out a home by a remoter sea,
my fame should be, as my fortunes are,
My name from out the temple where the dead
I planted, they have torn me,-and I bleed: I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.
And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour