Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/135

CANTO II.] 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, gray 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.

Even 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 eye to Heaven—

Is 't not enough, Unhappy Thing! to know

Thou art? Is this a boon so kindly given,

That being, thou would'st be again, and go,