Thyself had'st said, that in the cloudy clime Which gave thee birth, thou willing would'st not die; The wish thus breath'd, in thy prophetic rhyme, Has granted been by answ'ring destiny.
Greece saw thee die — Greece fully made thine own— By all the ties thy genius could impose; Greece claim'd thee living as thy fav'rite son, And dead, laments thee with a nation's woes.
Oh! well, Childe Harold has his fame restored— And well his wayward pilgrimage has clos'd; In arms for liberty, by Greece adored, He died, to Moslem tyranny oppos'd.
Oh, had his sword but drank the oppressor's blood, His dying voice but rais'd the victor's cry; The pilgrim's glorious death would then have stood A crowning, worthy of his poetry.
