Yet if, as holiest men have deemed, 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 feared to hear no more! 
   Behold each mighty shade revealed to sight,
The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right!

IX.

   There, thou!—­whose love and life together fled,
   Have left me here to love and live in vain —
   Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead,
   When busy memory flashes on my brain? 
   Well—­I will dream that we may meet again,
   And woo the vision to my vacant breast: 
   If aught of young Remembrance then remain,
   Be as it may Futurity’s behest,
For me ’twere bliss enough to know thy spirit blest!

X.

   Here let me sit upon this mossy stone,
   The marble column’s yet unshaken base! 
   Here, son of Saturn, was thy favourite throne! 
   Mightiest of many such!  Hence let me trace
   The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place. 
   It may not be:  nor even can Fancy’s eye
   Restore what time hath laboured to deface. 
   Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh;
Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by.

XI.

   But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane
   On high, where Pallas lingered, loth to flee
   The latest relic of her ancient reign —
   The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he? 
   Blush, Caledonia! such thy son could be! 
   England!  I joy no child he was of thine: 
   Thy free-born men should spare what once was free;
   Yet they could violate each saddening shrine,
And bear these altars o’er the long reluctant brine.

XII.

   But most the modern Pict’s ignoble boast,
   To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath spared: 
   Cold as the crags upon his native coast,
   His mind as barren and his heart as hard,
   Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prepared,
   Aught to displace Athena’s poor remains: 
   Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard,
   Yet felt some portion of their mother’s pains,
And never knew, till then, the weight of Despot’s chains.

XIII.

   What! shall it e’er be said by British tongue
   Albion was happy in Athena’s tears? 
   Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung,
   Tell not the deed to blushing Europe’s ears;
   The ocean queen, the free Britannia, bears
   The last poor plunder from a bleeding land: 
   Yes, she, whose generous aid her name endears,
   Tore down those remnants with a harpy’s hand. 
Which envious eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand.