XLI.

 Oh! misery if it were: That gliding worm
 Might make its mock of us,—it feeds and then
 Is full and happy—and the lordliest form
 That ever ruled its fellow-wretches, men—
 What were it but the lion in the den,
 Biting its fetters, groaning for the sweep
 Of its strong sinews?—Better, not have been,
 Than desperate gaze on heaven's forbidden steep,
Than feel this world a woe; the next, death, ashes, sleep!

XLII.

 But the freed spirit's gone;—upon the floods,
 The rolling of whose waves is life, 'tis gone!
 And it has mingled with the diadem'd crowds
 That wing above the light of star or sun,
 It lives at last,—its being has begun!
 Ay, from the moment that its clouded eye
 Closed on the chamber hush'd and taper dun,
 It gazed on things unutterable, high
Above all height,—all hope;—on Immortality!

XLIII.

 Now, to the world again.—The thought has past!—
 It came, and for itself made words, and now
 Has gone—as fitful as the summer blast.
 Again I see imperial overthrow,
 The halls resound with heavy crash and blow,
 Engines and trooping feet, and labour's cries;
 For there the God of many a realm lies low,
 Unthroned, upon the floor's mosaic dyes,
Yet worshipp'd still, the love, the wonder of all eyes.

XLIV.

 That crowd itself a wonder; half the world
 Seem'd to have sent it for some final deed.
 There gazed the deep-brow'd Calmuck, that unfurl'd
 His flag by China's wall:—In wolfskin weed
 The bearded Bashkir with his lance of reed;—
 There the bold hunter, nursed beneath thy sky,
 Tyrol, his Austrian master's strength and dread;—
 There the helm'd Prussian—vengeance in his eye,
Till the last debt is paid to bitter memory.

XLV.

 There the green Russian, that across thy wave,
 Wild Euxine! shoots his glance of wrath and scorn
 On the proud Sultanry, stupendous grave!
 Where Power sits throned in shadowy pomp forlorn
 Beneath the Crescent's swift-declining horn.
 There towers, in gold and scarlet harnessries,
 The lordly Briton, by whose lance was borne
 The Godless to the earth, no more to rise!
Champion of Man and Heaven—the ransom'd world's his prize.

XLVI.

 But all is rapture, reverence round one shrine,
 Arch'd by the sunset with a burst of rays;
 A form seems floating out, a youth divine,
 Half throned, half mantled in the amber haze,—
 High scorn, instinctive power are in his gaze;
 His bow is scarce relax'd, his shaft scarce flown,
 His arm uplifted still, his tress still plays;
 He bends to catch the Python's dying groan,
Yet bends as if that spot were his Olympian throne.

XLVII.

 King of the sun-beams—on the silvery shore
 Of Delos stood thy glory, and thy name
 Rose solemn from its caves and forests hoar;
 And ever on its waves proud pilgrims came
 Bearing upon their barks the incense-flame;
 Bards, warriors, kings, with laurel-wreath and lyre,
 Bound to the Mystic Isle, where life—a dream,
 A lovely dream! nor cradle knew nor pyre;
Greece! like thy early heart; its fire, all hallow'd fire!

XLVIII.

 The Persian millions came.—Thy oracle
 In thunder o'er them utter'd Destiny!
 From the barbarian's hand down dropped the steel,
 Back rush'd their prows, it told they came to die!
 Silent as death, the trump, the warrior cry,—
 The slave, the satrap on his galley-throne,
 The Monarch in his jewell'd canopy!
 All prostrate, till afar their hosts were gone,
Girding the waters blue, a golden, sunset zone.

XLIX.

 Then, answering thunders from the Olympian hill
 Roll'd their deep summons to the yeasty waves,
 To come, and of destruction have their fill:
 And the ten thousand billows all were graves.
 And on his charger through the turban'd slaves
 Rode bloody Death from mountain-top to shore;
 Calling the wolf and wild-dog from their caves,
 And the young lion from his forest hoar,
To glut their burning jaws with kings' and princes' gore.

L.

 Laocoon! round thy splendid form are flung
 Inextricable spires,—twin serpents chain
 Thy mighty limbs,—like fire, the forky tongue
 Shoots o'er thy brow, that writhes with more than pain;
 Their plunging fangs thy patriot life-blood drain,
 Their volumes clasp thy sons, and all must die,—
 But wrath and wrong are burning in thy brain,
 Upon thy boys is fix'd no father's eye;
'Tis cast on Heaven, in bold, accusing agony.