Other travellers of less authority than Clarke--Dodwell, for instance, who visited the Parthenon before it had been dismantled, and, afterwards, was present at the removal of metopes; and Hughes, who came after Byron (autumn, 1813)--make use of such phrases as "shattered desolation," "wanton devastation and avidity of plunder." Even Michaelis, the great archaeologist, who denounces "The Curse of Minerva"
as a ""libellous" poem," and affirms "that only blind pa.s.sion could doubt that Lord Elgin"s act was an act of preservation," admits that "the removal of several metopes and of the statue from the Erechtheion had severely injured the surrounding architecture" ("Ancient Marbles in Great Britain", by A. Michaelis, translated by C.A.M. Fennell, 1882, p.
135). Highly coloured and emotional as some of these phrases may be, they explain, if they do not justify, the "saeva indignatio" of Byron"s satire.
It is almost, if not quite, unnecessary to state the facts on the other side. History regards Lord Elgin as a disinterested official, who at personal loss (at least thirty-five thousand pounds on his own showing), and in spite of opposition and disparagement, secured for his own country and the furtherance of art the perishable fragments of Phidian workmanship, which, but for his intervention, might have perished altogether. If they had eluded the clutches of Turkish mason and Greek dealer in antiquities--if, by some happy chance, they had escaped the ravages of war, the gradual but gradually increasing a.s.saults of rain and frost would have already left their effacing scars on the "Elgin marbles." As it is, the progress of decay has been arrested, and all the world is the gainer. Byron was neither a prophet nor an archaeologist, and time and knowledge have put him in the wrong. But in 1810 the gaps in the entablature of the Parthenon were new, the Phidian marbles were huddled in a "damp dirty penthouse" in Park Lane (see "Life of Haydon", i. 84), and the logic of events had not justified a sad necessity.
THE CURSE OF MINERVA.
Pallas te hoc Vulnere Pallas Immolat et poenam scelerato ex Sanguine Sumit.
ATHENS: CAPUCHIN CONVENT, _March_ 17, 1811.
Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, [1]
Along Morea"s hills the setting Sun; Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, But one unclouded blaze of living light; O"er the hushed deep the yellow beam he throws, [i]
Gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows; On old aegina"s rock and Hydra"s isle [2]
The G.o.d of gladness sheds his parting smile; O"er his own regions lingering loves to shine, Though there his altars are no more divine. [ii] 10 Descending fast, the mountain-shadows kiss Thy glorious Gulf, unconquered Salamis!
Their azure arches through the long expanse, [iii]
More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance, And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, Mark his gay course, and own the hues of Heaven; Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, Behind his Delphian rock he sinks to sleep. [iv]
On such an eve his palest beam he cast When, Athens! here thy Wisest looked his last. 20 How watched thy better sons his farewell ray, That closed their murdered Sage"s [3] latest day!
Not yet--not yet--Sol pauses on the hill, The precious hour of parting lingers still; But sad his light to agonizing eyes, And dark the mountain"s once delightful dyes; Gloom o"er the lovely land he seemed to pour, The land where Phoebus never frowned before; But ere he sunk below Cithaeron"s head, The cup of Woe was quaffed--the Spirit fled; 30 The soul of Him that scorned to fear or fly, [v]
Who lived and died as none can live or die.
But lo! from high Hymettus to the plain The Queen of Night a.s.serts her silent reign; [vi] [4]
No murky vapour, herald of the storm, [vii]
Hides her fair face, or girds her glowing form; With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play, There the white column greets her grateful ray, And bright around, with quivering beams beset, Her emblem sparkles o"er the Minaret; 40 The groves of olive scattered dark and wide, Where meek Cephisus sheds his scanty tide, The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk, [5]
And sad and sombre "mid the holy calm, Near Theseus" fane, yon solitary palm; All, tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye; And dull were his that pa.s.sed them heedless by. [6]
Again the aegean, heard no more afar, Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war: 50 Again his waves in milder tints unfold Their long expanse of sapphire and of gold, Mixed with the shades of many a distant isle That frown, where gentler Ocean deigns to smile. [viii]
As thus, within the walls of Pallas" fane, I marked the beauties of the land and main, Alone, and friendless, on the magic sh.o.r.e, Whose arts and arms but live in poets" lore; Oft as the matchless dome I turned to scan, Sacred to G.o.ds, but not secure from Man, 60 The Past returned, the Present seemed to cease, And Glory knew no clime beyond her Greece!
Hour rolled along, and Dian"s...o...b..on high Had gained the centre of her softest sky; And yet unwearied still my footsteps trod O"er the vain shrine of many a vanished G.o.d: [ix]
But chiefly, Pallas! thine, when Hecate"s glare Checked by thy columns, fell more sadly fair O"er the chill marble, where the startling tread Thrills the lone heart like echoes from the dead. 70 Long had I mused, and treasured every trace The wreck of Greece recorded of her race, When, lo! a giant-form before me strode, And Pallas hailed me in her own Abode!
Yes,"twas Minerva"s self; but, ah! how changed, Since o"er the Dardan field in arms she ranged!
Not such as erst, by her divine command, Her form appeared from Phidias" plastic hand: Gone were the terrors of her awful brow, Her idle aegis bore no Gorgon now; 80 Her helm was dinted, and the broken lance Seemed weak and shaftless e"en to mortal glance; The Olive Branch, which still she deigned to clasp, Shrunk from her touch, and withered in her grasp; And, ah! though still the brightest of the sky, Celestial tears bedimmed her large blue eye; Round the rent casque her owlet circled slow, And mourned his mistress with a shriek of woe!
"Mortal!"--"twas thus she spake--"that blush of shame Proclaims thee Briton, once a n.o.ble name; 90 First of the mighty, foremost of the free, [x]
Now honoured "less" by all, and "least" by me: Chief of thy foes shall Pallas still be found.
Seek"st thou the cause of loathing!--look around.
Lo! here, despite of war and wasting fire, I saw successive Tyrannies expire; "Scaped from the ravage of the Turk and Goth, [xi]
Thy country sends a spoiler worse than both.
Survey this vacant, violated fane; Recount the relics torn that yet remain: 100 "These" Cecrops placed, "this" Pericles adorned, [7]
"That" Adrian reared when drooping Science mourned.
What more I owe let Grat.i.tude attest-- Know, Alaric and Elgin did the rest.
That all may learn from whence the plunderer came, The insulted wall sustains his hated name: [8]
For Elgin"s fame thus grateful Pallas pleads, Below, his name--above, behold his deeds!
Be ever hailed with equal honour here The Gothic monarch and the Pictish peer: [xii] 110 Arms gave the first his right, the last had none, But basely stole what less barbarians won.
So when the Lion quits his fell repast, Next prowls the Wolf, the filthy Jackal last: [xiii]
Flesh, limbs, and blood the former make their own, The last poor brute securely gnaws the bone.
Yet still the G.o.ds are just, and crimes are crossed: See here what Elgin won, and what he lost!
Another name with _his_ pollutes my shrine: Behold where Dian"s beams disdain to shine! 120 Some retribution still might Pallas claim, When Venus half avenged Minerva"s shame." [9]
She ceased awhile, and thus I dared reply, To soothe the vengeance kindling in her eye: "Daughter of Jove! in Britain"s injured name, [xiv]
A true-born Briton may the deed disclaim.
Frown not on England; England owns him not: Athena, no! thy plunderer was a Scot.
Ask"st thou the difference? From fair Phyles" towers Survey Boeotia;--Caledonia"s ours. 130 And well I know within that b.a.s.t.a.r.d land [10]
Hath Wisdom"s G.o.ddess never held command; A barren soil, where Nature"s germs, confined To stern sterility, can stint the mind; Whose thistle well betrays the n.i.g.g.ard earth, Emblem of all to whom the Land gives birth; Each genial influence nurtured to resist; A land of meanness, sophistry, and mist. [xv]
Each breeze from foggy mount and marshy plain Dilutes with drivel every drizzly brain, 140 Till, burst at length, each wat"ry head o"erflows, Foul as their soil, and frigid as their snows: Then thousand schemes of petulance and pride Despatch her scheming children far and wide; Some East, some West, some--everywhere but North!
In quest of lawless gain, they issue forth.
And thus--accursed be the day and year!
She sent a Pict to play the felon here.
Yet Caledonia claims some native worth, [11]
As dull Boeotia gave a Pindar birth; 150 So may her few, the lettered and the brave, Bound to no clime, and victors of the grave, Shake off the sordid dust of such a land, And shine like children of a happier strand; As once, of yore, in some obnoxious place, Ten names (if found) had saved a wretched race."
"Mortal!" the blue-eyed maid resumed, "once more Bear back my mandate to thy native sh.o.r.e. [12]
Though fallen, alas! this vengeance yet is mine, To turn my counsels far from lands like thine. 160 Hear then in silence Pallas" stern behest; Hear and believe, for Time will tell the rest.
"First on the head of him who did this deed My curse shall light,--on him and all his seed: Without one spark of intellectual fire, Be all the sons as senseless as the sire: If one with wit the parent brood disgrace, Believe him b.a.s.t.a.r.d of a brighter race: Still with his hireling artists let him prate, And Folly"s praise repay for Wisdom"s hate; 170 Long of their Patron"s gusto let them tell, Whose n.o.blest, _native_ gusto is--to sell: To sell, and make--may shame record the day!-- The State--Receiver of his pilfered prey.
Meantime, the flattering, feeble dotard, West, Europe"s worst dauber, and poor Britain"s best, With palsied hand shall turn each model o"er, And own himself an infant of fourscore. [13]
Be all the Bruisers culled from all St. Giles", That Art and Nature may compare their styles; [xvi] 180 While brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare, And marvel at his Lordship"s "stone shop" there. [14]
Round the thronged gate shall sauntering c.o.xcombs creep To lounge and lucubrate, to prate and peep; While many a languid maid, with longing sigh, On giant statues casts the curious eye; The room with transient glance appears to skim, Yet marks the mighty back and length of limb; Mourns o"er the difference of _now_ and _then_; Exclaims, "These Greeks indeed were proper men!" 190 Draws slight comparisons of "these" with "those", [xvii]
And envies Las all her Attic beaux.
When shall a modern maid have swains like these? [xviii]
Alas! Sir Harry is no Hercules!
And last of all, amidst the gaping crew, Some calm spectator, as he takes his view, In silent indignation mixed with grief, Admires the plunder, but abhors the thief.
Oh, loathed in life, nor pardoned in the dust, May Hate pursue his sacrilegious l.u.s.t! 200 Linked with the fool that fired the Ephesian dome, Shall vengeance follow far beyond the tomb, [15]
And Eratostratus [16] and Elgin shine In many a branding page and burning line; Alike reserved for aye to stand accursed, Perchance the second blacker than the first.
"So let him stand, through ages yet unborn, Fixed statue on the pedestal of Scorn; Though not for him alone revenge shall wait, But fits thy country for her coming fate: 210 Hers were the deeds that taught her lawless son To do what oft Britannia"s self had done.
Look to the Baltic--blazing from afar, Your old Ally yet mourns perfidious war. [17]
Not to such deeds did Pallas lend her aid, Or break the compact which herself had made; Far from such counsels, from the faithless field She fled--but left behind her Gorgon shield; A fatal gift that turned your friends to stone, And left lost Albion hated and alone. 220
"Look to the East, [18] where Ganges" swarthy race Shall shake your tyrant empire to its base; Lo! there Rebellion rears her ghastly head, And glares the Nemesis of native dead; Till Indus rolls a deep purpureal flood, And claims his long arrear of northern blood.