No More Learning

O'er the hushed deep the yellow beam he throws,
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows.
On old AEgina's rock, and Idra's isle,[225]
The God of gladness sheds his parting smile;
O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine,
Though there his altars are no more divine.
Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss
Thy glorious gulf, unconquered Salamis! 1180
Their azure arches through the long expanse
More deeply purpled met his mellowing glance,
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven,
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of Heaven;
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep,
Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep.

On such an eve, his palest beam he cast,
When--Athens! here thy Wisest looked his last.
How watched thy better sons his farewell ray,
That closed their murdered Sage's[226] latest day! 1190
Not yet--not yet--Sol pauses on the hill--
The precious hour of parting lingers still;
But sad his light to agonising eyes,
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes:
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seemed to pour,
The land, where Phoebus never frowned before:
But ere he sunk below Cithaeron's head,
The cup of woe was quaffed--the Spirit fled;
The Soul of him who scorned to fear or fly--
Who lived and died, as none can live or die! 1200

But lo! from high Hymettus to the plain,
The Queen of night asserts her silent reign. [227]
No murky vapour, herald of the storm,
Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form;
With cornice glimmering as the moon-beams play,
There the white column greets her grateful ray,
And bright around with quivering beams beset,
Her emblem sparkles o'er the Minaret:
The groves of olive scattered dark and wide
Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide; 1210
The cypress saddening by the sacred Mosque,
The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk;[228]
And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm,
Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm,
All tinged with varied hues arrest the eye--
And dull were his that passed him heedless by.

Again the AEgean, heard no more afar,
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war;
Again his waves in milder tints unfold
Their long array of sapphire and of gold, 1220
Mixed with the shades of many a distant isle,
That frown--where gentler Ocean seems to smile.

II.

Not now my theme--why turn my thoughts to thee?
Oh!
who can look along thy native sea,
Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale,
So much its magic must o'er all prevail?
Who that beheld that Sun upon thee set,
Fair Athens! could thine evening face forget?
Not he--whose heart nor time nor distance frees,
Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades! 1230
Nor seems this homage foreign to its strain,
His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain--[229]
Would that with freedom it were thine again!

III.

The Sun hath sunk--and, darker than the night,
Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height
Medora's heart--the third day's come and gone--
With it he comes not--sends not--faithless one!
The wind was fair though light! and storms were none.
Last eve Anselmo's bark returned, and yet
His only tidings that they had not met! 1240
Though wild, as now, far different were the tale
Had Conrad waited for that single sail.
The night-breeze freshens--she that day had passed
In watching all that Hope proclaimed a mast;
Sadly she sate on high--Impatience bore
At last her footsteps to the midnight shore,
And there she wandered, heedless of the spray
That dashed her garments oft, and warned away:
She saw not, felt not this--nor dared depart,
Nor deemed it cold--her chill was at her heart; 1250
Till grew such certainty from that suspense--
His very Sight had shocked from life or sense!

It came at last--a sad and shattered boat,
Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought;
Some bleeding--all most wretched--these the few--
Scarce knew they how escaped--_this_ all they knew.
In silence, darkling, each appeared to wait
His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate:
Something they would have said; but seemed to fear
To trust their accents to Medora's ear. 1260
She saw at once, yet sunk not--trembled not--
Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot,
Within that meek fair form, were feelings high,
That deemed not till they found their energy.
While yet was Hope they softened, fluttered, wept--
All lost--that Softness died not--but it slept;
And o'er its slumber rose that Strength which said,
"With nothing left to love, there's nought to dread.