Classic Poem

He was , and is not! Graecia's trembling shore,
Sighing through all her palmy groves, shall tell
That Harold's pilgrimage at last is o'er;
Mute the impassioned tongue, and tuneful shell,
That erst was wont in noblest strains to swell!
Hushed the proud shouts that rode th' Aegaean wave,
For lo! the great deliv'rer breathes farewell!
Gives to the world his mem'ry, and a grave —
And dies amidst the land he lived and fought to save!

Mourn, Hellas, mourn! and o'er thy widowed brow,
For aye the cypress wreath of sorrow twine;
And in thy new-formed beauty, desolate, throw
The fresh-culled flowers on his sepulchral shrine.
Yes, let that heart, whose fervour was all thine,
In consecrated urn lamented be!
That generous heart whose genius thrilled divine
Hath spent its last most glorious throb for thee —
Then sank amidst the storm that made thy children free.

Britannia's poet, Graecia's hero, sleeps!
And Freedom, bending o'er the breathless clay,
Lifts up her voice, and in her wildness weeps!
For us , a night hath clouded o'er our day
And hushed the lips that breathed our fairest lay.
Alas! and must the British lyre resound
A requiem, while the spirit wings away
Of him who on her strings such music found,
And taught her startling chords to breathe so sweet a sound?

The theme grows sadder — and my soul shall find
A language in these tears. No more, no more!
Soon, midst the shrieking of the tossing wind,
The " dark blue depths" he sang of shall have bore
Our all of Byron to his native shore!
His grave is thick with voices, murm'ring here
The awful tale of greatness swiftly o'er;
But mem'ry strives with death and, ling'ring near,
Shall consecrate the dust of Harold's lonely bier!