this the whole? 
   A schoolboy’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, grey flits the shade of power.

III.

   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. 
   E’en 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.

IV.

   Bound to the earth, he lifts his eyes to heaven —
   Is’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.

V.

   Or burst the vanished hero’s lofty mound;
   Far on the solitary shore he sleeps;
   He fell, and falling nations mourned around;
   But now not one of saddening thousands weeps,
   Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps
   Where demi-gods appeared, as records tell. 
   Remove yon skull from out the scattered heaps: 
   Is that a temple where a God may dwell? 
Why, e’en the worm at last disdains her shattered cell!

VI.

   Look on its broken arch, its ruined 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 brooked control: 
   Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ,
People this lonely tower, this tenement refit?

VII.

   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 hath its 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 forced banquet claims the sated guest,
But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest.

VIII.