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XC. The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow; The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear; Mountains above, Earth's, Ocean's plain below; Death in the front, Destruction in the rear ! Such was the scene—what now remaineth here? What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground, Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear? The rifled urn, the violated mound, The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger! spurns around.
Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past
XCII. 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, Orgazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died.
XCIII. Let such approach this consecrated land, And pass in peace along the magic waste; But spare its relics—let no busy hand Deface the scenes, already how defaced Not for such purpose were these altars placed: Revere the remnants nations once revered: So may our country's name be undisgraced, So may’st thou prosper where thy youth was rear'd, By every honest joy of love and life endear'd
For thee, who thus in too protracted song Hast soothed thine idlesse with inglorious lays, Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng Of louder minstrels in these later days: To such resign the strife for fading bays— Ill may such contest now the spirit move Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise, Since cold each kinder heart that might approve, And none are left to please where none are left to love.
Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one! Whom youth and youth's affections bound to me; Who did for me what none beside have done, Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. What is my being? thou hast ceased to be! Nor staid to welcome here thy wanderer home Who mourns o'er hours which we no more shall see— Would they had never been, or were to come! Would he had ne'er return'd to find fresh cause to roam
XCVI. Oh! ever loving, lovely, and beloved' How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past, And clings to thoughts now better far removed But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last. All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death ! thou hast; The parent, friend, and now the more than friend; Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast, And grief with grief continuing still to blend, Hath snatch'd the little joy that life had yet to lend.