The Spirit passed, and now alone, The darker Shadow trod the shore-- Deep from his breast the parting tone Swept with the wind, the landscape o'er. "Farewell! I will not speak of deeds,-- For these are written but in sand-- And, as the furrow choked with weeds, Fade from the memory of the land. The war-plumed chieftain cannot stay, To guard the gore his blade hath shed-- Time sweeps the purple stain away, And throws a veil o'er glory's bed. But though my form must fade from view. And Byron bow to fate resigned,-- Undying as the fabled Jew, Harold's dark spirit stays behind! And he who yet in after years, Shall tread the vine-clad shores of Rhine, In Chillon's gloom shall pour his tears, Or raptured, see blue Leman shine-- He shall not--cannot, go alone-- Harold unseen shall seek his side: Shall whisper in his ear a tone, So seeming sweet, he cannot chide. He cannot chide; although he feel, While listening to the magic verse, A serpent round his bosom steal, He still shall hug the coiling curse. Or if beneath Italian skies, The wanderer's feet delighted glide, Harold, in merry Juan's guise, Shall be his tutor and his guide. One living essence God hath poured In every heart--the love of sway-- And though he may not wield the sword, Each is a despot in his way. The infant rules by cries and tears-- The maiden, with her sunny eyes-- The miser, with the hoard of years-- The monarch, with his clanking ties. To me the will--the power--were given. O'er plaything man to weave my spell, And if I bore him up to heaven, 'Twas but to hurl him down to hell. And if I chose upon the rack Of doubt to stretch the tortured mind, To turn Faith's heavenward footstep back, Her hope despoiled--her vision, blind-- Or if on Virtue's holy brow, A wreath of scorn I sought to twine-- And bade her minions mocking bow, With sweeter vows at pleasure's shrine-- Or if I mirrored to the thought, With glorious truth the charms of earth, While yet the trusting fool I taught, To scoff at Him who gave it birth-- Or if I filled the soul with light, And bore its buoyant wing in air-- To plunge it down in deeper night, And mock its maniac wanderings there-- I did but wield the wand of power, That God intrusted to my clasp, And not, the tyrant of an hour-- Will I resign it to Death's grasp! The despot with his iron chain, In idle bonds the limbs may bind-- He who would hold a sterner reign, Must twine the links around the mind. Thus I have thrown upon my race, A chain that ages cannot rend-- And mocking Harold stays to trace, The slaves that to my sceptre bend." The Teacher's Lesson.