And where the past o'er ruin grieves,
Bids fresher beauty spring to view:--
The storm--an emblem of my name,--
Shall keep my memory in the skies--
Its flash-wreathed wing, a flag of flame,
Shall spread my glory as it flies."

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,