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Mis à jour: 14 juin 2025
SO HAROLD ENDS, IN GREECE, HIS PILGRIMAGE! There fitly ending, in that land renown'd, Whose mighty genius lives in Glory's page, He, on the Muses' consecrated ground, Sinking to rest, while his young brows are bound With their unfading wreath! To bands of mirth, No more in TEMPE let the pipe resound! HAROLD, I follow to thy place of birth The slow hearse and thy LAST sad PILGRIMAGE on earth.
Slow moves the plumed hearse, the mourning train, I mark the sad procession with a sigh, Silently passing to that village fane, Where, HAROLD, thy forefathers mouldering lie; There sleeps THAT MOTHER, who, with tearful eye Pondering the fortunes of thy early road, Hung o'er the slumbers of thine infancy; Her Son, released from mortal labour's load, Now comes to rest, with her, in the same still abode.
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