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George Gordon Byron - Childe Harold`s Pilgrimage: A Romaunt. Canto IV.
Work rating: Medium

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XCII 
And would be all or nothing -- nor could wait 
For the sure grave to level him; few years 
Had fix`d him with the Cæsars in his fate, 
On whom we tread; for this the conqueror rears 
The arch of triumph and for this the tears 
And blood of earth flow on as they have flow`d, 
An universal deluge, which appears 
Without an ark for wretched man`s abode, 
And ebbs but to reflow! Renew thy rainbow, God! 

XCIII 
What from this barren being do we reap? 
Our senses narrow, and our reason frail, 
Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep, 
And all things weigh`d in custom`s falsest scale; 
Opinion an omnipotence, -- whose veil 
Mantles the earth with darkness, until right 
And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale 
Lest their own judgments should become too bright, 
And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too much light. 

XCIV 
And thus they plod in sluggish misery, 
Rotting from sire to son, and age to age, 
Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, 
Bequeathing their hereditary rage 
To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage 
War for their chains, and rather than be free, 
Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage 
Within the same arena where they see 
Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree. 

XCV 
I speak not of men`s creeds -- they rest between 
Man and his Maker -- but of things allow`d, 
Averr`d, and known, and daily, hourly seen -- 
The yoke that is upon us doubly bow`d, 
And the intent of tyranny avow`d, 
The edict of Earth`s rulers, who are grown 
The apes of him who humbled once the proud, 
And shook them from their slumbers on the throne: 
Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done. 

XCVI 
Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer`d be, 
And Freedom find no champion and no child 
Such as Columbia saw arise when she 
Sprung forth a Pallas, arm`d and undefiled? 
Or must such minds be nourish`d in the wild, 
Deep in the unpruned forest, `midst the roar 
Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled 
On infant Washington? Has Earth no more 
Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore? 

XCVII 
But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime, 
And fatal have her Saturnalia been 
To Freedom`s cause, in every age an clime; 
Because the deadly days which we have seen, 
And vile Ambition, that built up between 
Man and his hopes an adamantine wall, 
And the base pageant last upon the scene, 
Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall 
Which nips life`s tree, and dooms man`s worst -- his second fall. 

XCVIII 
Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, 
Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind; 
Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying, 
The loudest still the tempest leaves behind; 
Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 
Chopp`d by the axe, looks rough and little worth, 
But the sap lasts, -- and still the seed we find 
Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North; 
So shall a better spring less better fruit bring forth. 

XCIX 
There is a stern round tower of other days, 
Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, 
Such as an army`s baffled strength delays, 
Standing with half its battlements alone, 
And with two thousand years of ivy grown, 
The garland of eternity, where wave 
The green leaves over all by time o`er thrown; -- 
Where was this tower of strength? within its case 
What treasure lay, so lock`d, so hid? -- A woman`s grave. 

C 
But who was she, the lady of the dead, 
Tomb`d in a palace? Was she chaste and fair? 
Worthy a king`s, or more -- a Roman`s bed? 
What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear? 
What daughter of her beauties was she heir? 
How lived, how loved, how died she? Was she not 
So honoured -- and conspicuously there, 
Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, 
Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot? 

CI 
Was she as those who love their lords, or they 
Who love the lords of others? such have been 
Even in the olden time, Rome`s annals say. 
Was she a matron of Cornelia`s mien, 
Or the light air of Egypt`s graceful queen, 
Profuse of joy -- or `gainst it did she war 
Inveterate in virtue? Did she lean 
To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar 
Love from amongst her griefs? -- for such the affections are. 

CII 
Perchance she died in youth: it may be, bow`d 
With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb 
That weigh`d upon her gentle dust, a cloud 
Might gather o`er her beauty, and a gloom 
In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom 
Heaven gives its favourites -- early death; yet shed 
A sunset charm around her, and illume 
With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, 
Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red. 

CIII 
Perchance she died in age -- surviving all, 
Charms, kindred, children -- with the silver gray 
On her long tresses, which might yet recall, 
It may be, still a something of the day 
When they were braided, and her proud array 
And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed 
By Rome -- But whither would Conjecture stray? 
Thus much alone we know -- Metella died, 
The wealthiest Roman`s wife: Behold his love or pride! 

CIV 
I know not why -- but standing thus by thee 
It seems as if I had thine inmate known, 
Thou Tomb! and other days come back on me 
With recollected music, though the tone 
Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan 
Of dying thunder on the distant wind; 
Yet could I set me by this ivied stone 
Till I had bodied forth the heated mind, 
Forms from the floating wreck which Ruin leaves behind; 

CV 
And from the planks, far shatter`d o`er the rocks, 
Built me a little bark of hope, once more 
To battle with the ocean and the shocks 
Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar 
Which rushes on the solitary shore 
Where all lies founder`d that was ever dear: 
But could I gather from the wave-worn store 
Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer? 
There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here. 

CVI 
Then let the winds howl on! their harmony 
Shall henceforth be my music, and the night 
The sound shall temper with the owlets` cry, 
As I now hear them, in the fading light 
Dim o`er the bird of darkness` native site, 
Answering each other on the Palatine, 
With their large eyes, all glistening gray and bright, 
And sailing pinions. -- Upon such a shrine 
What are our petty griefs? -- let me not number mine. 

CVII 
Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown, 
Matted and mass`d together, hillocks heap`d 
On what were chambers, arch crush`d, column strown 
In fragments, choked up vaults, and frescos steep`d 
In subterranean damps, where the owl peep`d, 
Deeming it midnight: -- Temples, baths, or halls? 
Pronounce who can; for all that Learning reap`d 
From her research hath been, that these are walls -- 
Behold thee Imperial Mount! `tis thus the mighty falls. 

CVIII 
There is the moral of all human tales; 
`Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, 
First Freedom, and then Glory -- when that fails, 
Wealth, vice , corruption, -- barbarism at last. 
And History, with all her volumes vast, 
Hath but one page, -- `tis better written here 
Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amass`d 
All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, 
Heart, soul, could seek, tongue ask -- Away with words! draw near, 

CIX 
Admire, exult, despise, laugh, weep, -- for here 
There is such matter for all feeling: -- Man! 
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear, 
Ages and realms are crowded in this span, 
This mountain, whose obliterated plan 
The pyramid of empires pinnacled, 
Of Glory`s gewgaws shining in the van 
Till the sun`s rays with added flame were fill`d! 
Where are its golden roofs? where those who dared to build? 

CX 
Tully was not so eloquent as thou, 
Thou nameless column with the buried base! 
What are the laurels of the Cæsar`s brow? 
Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. 
Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, 
Titus or Trajan`s? No -- `tis that of Time: 
Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace 
Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb 
To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime, 

CXI 
Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome, 
And looking to the stars; they had contain`d 
A spirit which with thee would find a home, 
The last of those who o`er the whole earth reign`d, 
The Roman globe, for after none sustain`d, 
But yielded back his conquests: -- he was more 
Than a mere Alexander, and unstain`d 
With household blood and wine, serenely wore 
His sovereign virtues -- still we Trajan`s name adore. 

CXII 
Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place 
Where Rome embraced her heroes? where the steep 
Tarpeian? fittest goal of Treason`s race, 
The promontory whence the Traitor`s Leap 
Cured all ambition. Did the conquerors heap 
Their spoils here? Yes; and in yon field below, 
A thousand years of silenced faction sleep -- 
The Forum, where the immortal accents glow, 
And still the eloquent air breathes -- burns with Cicero! 

CXIII 
The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood: 
Here a proud people`s passions were exhaled, 
From the first hour of empire in the bud 
To that when further worlds to conquer fail`d; 
But long before had Freedom`s face been veil`d, 
And Anarchy assumed her attributes; 
Till every lawless soldier who assail`d 
Trod on the trembling senate`s slavish mutes, 
Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes. 

CXIV 
Then turn we to her latest tribune`s name, 
From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee, 
Redeemer of dark centuries of shame -- 
The friend of Petrarch -- hope of Italy -- 
Rienzi! last of Romans! While the tree 
Of freedom`s wither`d trunk puts forth a leaf 
Even for thy tomb a garland let it be -- 
The forum`s champion, and the people`s chief -- 
Her new-born Numa thou -- with reign, alas! too brief. 

CXV 
Egeria! sweet creation of some heart 
Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 
As thine ideal breast; whate`er thou art 
Or wert, -- a young Aurora of the air, 
The nympholepsy of some fond despair; 
Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, 
Who found a more than common votary there 
Too much adoring; whatsoe`er thy birth, 
Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth. 

CXVI 
The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled 
With thine Elysian water-drops; the face 
Of thy cave-guarded spring with years unwrinkled, 
Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, 
Whose green, wild margin now no more erase 
Art`s works; nor must the delicate waters sleep, 
Prison`d in marble -- bubbling from the base 
Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap 
The rill runs o`er -- and round -- fern, flowers, and ivy creep, 

CXVII 
Fantastically tangled: the green hills 
Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass 
The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills 
Of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass; 
Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class, 
Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes, 
Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass; 
The sweetness of the violet`s deep blue eyes, 
Kiss`d by the breath of heaven, seems colour`d by its skies. 

CXVIII 
Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, 
Egeria! thy all heavenly bosom beating 
For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover; 
The purple Midnight veil`d that mystic meeting 
With her most starry canopy, and seating 
Thyself by thine adorer, what befell? 
This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting 
Of an enamour`d Goddess, and the cell 
Haunted by holy Love -- the earliest oracle! 

CXIX 
And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, 
Blend a celestial with a human heart; 
And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing, 
Share with immortal transports? could thine art 
Make them indeed immortal, and impart 
The purity of heaven to earthly joys, 
Expel the venom and not blunt the dart -- 
The dull satiety which all destroys -- 
And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys? 

CXX 
Alas! our young affections run to waste, 
Or water but the desert; whence arise 
But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste, 
Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes, 
Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies, 
And trees whose gums are poisons; such the plants 
Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies 
O`er the world`s wilderness, and vainly pants 
For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. 

CXXI 
Oh, Love! no habitant of earth thou art -- 
An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, -- 
A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart, -- 
But never yet hath seen, nor e`er shall see 
The naked eye, thy form, as it should be; 
The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven, 
Even with its own desiring phantasy, 
And to a thought such shape and image given, 
As haunts the unquench`d soul -- parch`d, wearied, wrung, and riven. 

CXXII 
Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, 
And fevers into false creation: -- where, 
Where are the forms the sculptor`s soul hath seiz`d? 
In him alone. Can Nature show so fair? 
Where are the charms and virtues which we dare 
Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, 
The unreach`d Paradise of our despair, 
Which o`er-informs the pencil and the pen, 
And overpowers the page where it would bloom again? 

CXXIII 
Who loves, raves -- `tis youth`s frenzy -- but the cure 
Is bitterer still, as charm by charm unwinds 
Which robed our idols, and we see too sure 
Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind`s 
Ideal shape of such; yet still it binds 
The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, 
Reaping the whirlwind from the oftsown winds; 
The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, 
Seems ever near the prize -- wealthiest when most undone. 

CXXIV 
We wither from our youth, we gasp away -- 
Sick -- sick; unfound the boon, unslaked the thirst, 
Though to the last, in verge of our decay, 
Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first -- 
But all too late, -- so are we doubly curst. 
Love, fame, ambition, avarice -- `tis the same, 
Each idle, and all ill, and none the worst -- 
For we all are meteors with a different name, 
And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame. 

CXXV 
Few -- none -- find what they love or could have loved, 
Though accident, blind contact, and the strong 
Necessity of loving, have removed 
Antipathies -- but to recur, ere long, 
Envenom`d with irrevocable wrong; 
And Circumstance, that unspiritual god 
And miscreator, makes and helps along 
Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod, 
Whose touch turns Hope to dust, -- the dust we all have trod. 

CXXVI 
Our life is a false nature: `tis not in 
The harmony of things, -- this hard decree, 
This uneradicable taint of sin 
This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, 
Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be 
The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew -- 
Disease, death, bondage -- all the woes we see, 
And worse, the woes we see not -- which throb through 
The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new. 

CXXVII 
Yet let us ponder boldly -- `tis a base 
Abandonment of reason to resign 
Our right of thought -- our last and only place 
Of refuge; this, at least, shall still be mine: 
Though from our birth the faculty divine 
Is chain`d and tortured -- cabin`d, cribb`d, confined, 
And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine 
Too brightly on the unpreparèd mind, 
The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the blind. 

CXXVIII 
Arches on arches! as it were that Rome, 
Collecting the chief trophies of her line, 
Would build up all her triumphs in one dome, 
Her coliseum stands; the moonbeams shine 
As `twere its natural torches, for divine 
Should be the light which streams here to illume 
This long-explored but still exhaustless mine 
Of contemplation; and the azure gloom 
Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume 

CXXIX 
Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, 
Floats o`er this vast and wondrous monument, 
And shadows forth its glory. There is given 
Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent 
A spirit`s feeling, and where he hath leant 
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power 
And magic in the ruin`d battlement, 
For which the palace of the present hour 
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. 

CXXX 
Oh Time! the beautifier of the dead, 
Adorner of the ruin, comforter 
And only healer when the heart hath bled; 
Time! the corrector where our judgments err, 
The test of truth, love, -- sole philosopher, 
For all beside are sophists -- from thy thrift, 
Which never loses though it doth defer -- 
Time, the avenger! unto thee I lift 
My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift: 

CXXXI 
Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine 
And temple more divinely desolate, 
Among thy mightier offerings here are mine, 
Ruins of years, though few, yet full of fate: 
If thou hast ever seen me too elate, 
Hear me not; but if calmly I have borne 
Good, and reserved my pride against the hate 
Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn 
This iron in my soul in vain -- shall they not mourn? 

CXXXII 
And thou, who never yet of human wrong 
Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis! 
Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long -- 
Thou who didst call the Furies from the abyss, 
And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss 
For that unnatural retribution -- just, 
Had it but been from hands less near -- in this 
Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust! 
Dost thou not hear my heart? -- Awake! thou shalt, and must. 

CXXXIII 
It is not that I may not have incurr`d 
For my ancestral faults or mine the wound 
I bleed withal, and, had it been conferr`d 
With a just weapon, it had flow`d unbound; 
But now my blood shall not sink in the ground; 
To thee I do devote it. -- thou shalt take 
The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found, 
Which if I have not taken for the sake -- 
But let that pass -- I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake. 

CXXXIV 
And if my voice break forth, `tis not that now 
I shrink from what is suffer`d: let him speak 
Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, 
Or seen my mind`s convulsion leave it weak; 
But in this page a record will I seek. 
Not in the air shall these my words disperse, 
Though I be ashes; a far hour shall wreak 
The deep prophetic fulness of this verse, 
And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse! 

CXXXV 
That curse shall be Forgiveness. -- Have I not -- 
Hear me, my mother Earth! behold it, Heaven! 
Have I not had to wrestle with my lot? 
Have I not suffer`d things to be forgiven? 
Have I not had my brain sear`d, my heart riven, 
Hopes sapp`d, name blighted, Life`s life lied away? 
And only not to desperation driven, 
Because not altogether of such clay 
As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. 

CXXXVI 
From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy 
Have I not seen what human things could do? 
From the loud roar of foaming calumny 
To the small whisper of the as paltry few, 
And subtler venom of the reptile crew, 
The Janus glance of whose significant eye, 
Learning to lie with silence, would seem true, 
And without utterance, save the shrug or sign, 
Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy. 

CXXXVII 
But I have lived, and have not lived in vain: 
My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire, 
And my frame perish even in conquering pain; 
But there is that within me which shall tire 
Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire; 
Something unearthly, which they deem not of, 
Like the remember`d tone of a mute lyre, 
Shall on their soften`d spirits sink, and move 
In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. 

CXXXVIII 
The seal is set. -- Now welcome, thou dread power! 
Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here 
Walk`st in the shadow of the midnight hour 
With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear; 
Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear 
Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene 
Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear 
That we become a part of what has been, 
And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen. 

CXXXIX 
And here the buzz of eager nations ran, 
In murmur`d pity, or loud-roar`d applause, 
As man was slaughter`d by his fellow-man. 
And wherefore slaughter`d? wherefore, but because 
Such were the bloody Circus` genial laws, 
And the imperial pleasure. -- Wherefore not? 
What matters where we fall to fill the maws 
Of worms -- on battle-plains or listed spot? 
Both are but theatres -- where the chief actors rot. 

CXL 
I see before me the Gladiator lie: 
He leans upon his hand -- his manly brow 
Consents to death, but conquers agony, 
And his droop`d head sinks gradually low -- 
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, 
Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now 
The arena swims around him -- he is gone, 
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail`d the wretch who won. 

CXLI 
He heard it, but he heeded not -- his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was far away; 
He reck`d not of the life he lost nor prize, 
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, 
There where his young barbarians all at play, 
There was their Dacian mother -- he, their sire, 
Butcher`d to make a Roman holiday -- 
All this rush`d with his blood -- Shall he expire 
And unavenged? Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire! 

CXLII 
But here, where Murder breathed her bloody steam; 
And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways, 
And roar`d or murmur`d like a mountain stream 
Dashing or winding as its torrent strays; 
Here, where the Roman million`s blame or praise 
Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd, 
My voice sounds much -- and fall the stars faint rays 
On the arena void -- seats crush`d -- walls bow`d -- 
And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud. 

CXLIII 
A ruin -- yet what a ruin! from its mass 
Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been rear`d; 
Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, 
And marvel where the spoil could have appear`d. 
Hath it indeed been plunder`d, or but clear`d? 
Alas! developed, opens the decay, 
When the colossal fabric`s form is near`d: 
It will not bear the brightness of the day, 
Which streams too much on all -- years -- man -- have reft away. 

CXLIV 
But when the rising moon begins to climb 
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there; 
When the stars twinkle through the loops of time, 
And the low night-breeze waves along the air 
The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear, 
Like laurels on the bald first Cæsar`s head; 
When the light shines serene but doth not glare, 
Then in this magic circle raise the dead: 
Heroes have trod this spot -- `tis on their dust ye tread. 

CXLV 
`While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand; 
`When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; 
`And when Rome falls -- the World.` From our own land 
Thus spake the pilgrims o`er this mighty wall 
In Saxon times, which we are wont to call 
Ancient; and these three mortal things are still 
On their foundations, and unalter`d all; 
Rome and her Ruin past Redemption`s skill, 
The World, the same wide den -- of thieves, or what ye will. 

CXLVI 
Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime -- 
Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods, 
From Jove to Jesus -- spared and blest by time; 
Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods 
Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods 
His way through thorns to ashes -- glorious dome! 
Shalt thou not last? Time`s scythe and tyrants` rods 
Shiver upon thee -- sanctuary and home 
Of art and piety -- Pantheon! -- pride of Rome! 

CXLVII 
Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts! 
Despoil`d yet perfect, with thy circle spreads 
A holiness appealing to all hearts -- 
To art a model; and to him who treads 
Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds 
Her light through thy sole aperture; to those 
Who worship, here are altars for their beads; 
And they who feel for genius may repose 
Their eyes on honour`d forms, whose busts around them close. 

CXLVIII 
There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light 
What do I gaze on? Nothing: Look again! 
Two forms are slowly shadow`d on my sight -- 
Two insulated phantoms of the brain: 
It is not so; I see them full and plain -- 
An old man, and a female young and fair, 
Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein 
The blood is nectar: -- but what doth she there, 
With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and bare? 

CXLIX 
Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, 
Where on the heart and from the heart we took 
Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife, 
Blest into mother, in the innocent look, 
Or even the piping cry of lips that brook 
No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives 
Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook 
She sees her little bud put forth its leaves -- 
What may the fruit be yet? I know not -- Cain was Eve`s. 

CL 
But here youth offers to old age the food, 
The milk of his own gift: it is her sire 
To whom she renders back the debt of blood 
Born with her birth. No; he shall not expire 
While in those warm and lovely veins the fire 
Of health and holy feeling can provide 
Great Nature`s Nile, whose deep stream rises higher 
Than Egypt`s river: from that gentle side 
Drink, drink and live, old man! Heaven`s realm holds no such tide. 

CLI 
The starry fable of the milky way 
Has not thy story`s purity; it is 
A constellation of a sweeter ray, 
And sacred Nature triumphs more in this 
Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss 
Where sparkle distant worlds: -- Oh, holiest nurse! 
No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss 
To thy sire`s heart, replenishing its source 
With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. 

CLII 
Turn to the mole which Hadrian rear`d on high, 
Imperial mimic of old Egypt`s piles, 
Colossal copyist of deformity 
Whose travell`d phantasy from the far Nile`s 
Enormous model, doom`d the artist`s toils 
To build for giants, and for his vain earth, 
His shrunken ashes, raise this dome: How smiles 
The gazer`s eyes with philosophic mirth, 
To view the huge design which sprung from such a birth! 

CLIII 
But lo! the dome -- the vast and wondrous dome, 
To which Diana`s marvel was a cell -- 
Christ`s mighty shrine above his martyr`s tomb! 
I have beheld the Ephesian`s miracle; -- 
Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell 
The hyæna and the jackal in their shade; 
I have beheld Sophia`s bright roofs swell 
Their glittering mass i` the sun, and have survey`d 
Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem pray`d; 

CLIV 
But thou, of temples old, or altars new, 
Standest alone, with nothing like to thee -- 
Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. 
Since Zion`s desolation, when that He 
Forsook his former city, what could be, 
Of earthly structures, in his honour piled, 
Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty, 
Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty all are aisled 
In this eternal ark of worship undefiled. 

CLV 
Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not; 
And why? It is not lessen`d; but thy mind, 
Expanded by the genius of the spot, 
Has grown colossal, and can only find 
A fit abode wherein appear enshrined 
Thy hopes of immortality; and thou 
Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, 
See thy God face to face, as thou dost now 
His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow. 

CLVI 
Thou movest, but increasing with the advance, 
Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise, 
Deceived by its gigantic elegance; 
Vastness which grows, but grows to harmonise -- 
All musical in its immensities; 
Rich marbles, richer painting -- shrines where flame 
The lamps of gold -- and haughty dome which view 
In air with Earth`s chief structures, though their frame 
Sits on the firm-set ground, and this the clouds must claim. 

CLVII 
Thou seest not all; but piecemeal thou must break, 
To separate contemplation, the great whole; 
And as the ocean many bays will make 
That ask the eye -- so here condense thy soul 
To more immediate objects, and control 
Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart 
Its eloquent proportions, and unroll 
In mighty graduations, part by part, 
The glory which at once upon thee did not dart, 

CLVIII 
Not by its fault -- but thine: Our outward sense 
Is but of gradual grasp -- and as it is 
That what we have of feeling most intense 
Outstrips our faint expression; even so this 
Outshining and o`erwhelming edifice 
Fools our fond gaze,and greatest of the great 
Defies at first our Nature`s littleness, 
Till growing with its growth, we thus dilate 
Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. 

CLVIX 
Then pause, and be enlighten`d; there is more 
In such a survey than the sating gaze 
Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore 
The worship of the place, or the mere praise 
Of art and its great masters, who could raise 
What former time, nor skill, nor thought could plan; 
The fountain of sublimity displays 
Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man 
Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions can. 

CLX 
Or, turning to the Vatican, go see 
Laocoön`s torture dignifying pain -- 
A father`s love and mortal`s agony 
With an immortal`s patience blending: -- Vain 
The struggle vain, against the coiling strain 
And gripe, and deepening of the dragon`s grasp, 
The old man`s clench; the long unvenom`d chain 
Rivets the living links, -- the enormous asp 
Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp. 

CLXI 
Or view the Lord of the unerring bow, 
The God of life, and poesy, and light -- 
The Sun in human limbs array`d, and brow 
All radiant from his triumph in the fight; 
The shaft hath just been shot -- the arrow bright 
With an immortal`s vengeance; in his eye 
And nostril beautiful disdain, and might 
And majesty, flash their full lightnings by, 
Developing in that once glance the Deity. 

CLXII 
But in his delicate form -- a dream of Love, 
Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast 
Long`d for a deathless lover from above, 
And madden`d in that vision -- are exprest 
All that ideal beauty ever bless`d 
The mind with in its most unearthly mood, 
When each conception was a heavenly guest -- 
A ray of immortality -- and stood 
Starlike, around, until they gather`d to a god! 

CLXIII 
And if it be Prometheus stole from Heaven 
The fire which we endure, it was repaid 
By him to whom the energy was given 
Which this poetic marble hath array`d 
With an eternal glory -- which, if made 
By human hands, is not of human thought; 
And Time himself hath hallow`d it, nor laid 
One ringlet in the dust -- nor hath it caught 
A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which `twas wrought. 

CLXIV 
But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song, 
The being who upheld it through the past? 
Methinks he cometh late and tarries long. 
He is no more -- these breathings are his last; 
His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast, 
And he himself as nothing: -- if he was 
Aught but a phantasy, and could be class`d 
With forms which live and suffer -- let that pass -- 
His shadow fades away into Destruction`s mass, 

CLXV 
Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all 
That we inherit in its mortal shroud, 
And spreads the dim and universal pall 
Through which all things grow phantoms; and the cloud 
Between us sinks and all which ever glow`d, 
Till Glory`s self is twilight, and displays 
A melancholy halo scarce allow`d 
To hover on the verge of darkness; rays 
Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze, 

CLXVI 
And send us prying into the abyss, 
To gather what we shall be when the frame 
Shall be resolved to something less than this 
Its wretched essence; and to dream of fame, 
And wipe the dust from off the idle name 
We never more shall hear, -- but never more 
Oh, happier thought! can we be made the same: 
It is enough in sooth that once we bore 
These fardels of the heart -- the heart whose sweat was gore. 

CLXVII 
Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, 
A long low distant murmur of dread sound, 
Such as arises when a nation bleeds 
With some deep and immedicable wound; 
Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground, 
The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief 
Seems royal still, though with her head discrown`d, 
And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief 
She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief. 

CLXVIII 
Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? 
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? 
Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low 
Some less majestic, less beloved head? 
In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, 
The mother of a moment, o`er thy boy, 
Death hush`d that pang for ever: with thee fled 
The present happiness and promised joy 
Which fill`d the imperial isles so full it seem`d to cloy. 

CLXIX 
Peasants bring forth in safety. -- Can it be, 
Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored! 
Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, 
And Freedom`s heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard 
Her many griefs for ONE; for she had pour`d 
Her orisons for thee, and o`er thy head 
Beheld her Iris. -- Thou, too, lonely lord, 
And desolate consort -- vainly wert thou wed! 
The husband of a year! the father of the dead! 

CLXX 
Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made; 
Thy bridal`s fruit is ashes: in the dust 
The fair-hair`d Daughter of the Isles is laid, 
The love of millions! How we did intrust 
Futurity to her! and, though it must 
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem`d 
Our children should obey her child, and bless`d 
Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem`d 
Like stars to shepherds` eyes: -- `twas but a meteor beam`d. 

CLXXI 
Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well: 
The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue 
Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, 
Which from the birth of monarchy hath run 
Its knell in princely ears, till the o`erstung 
Nations have arm`d in madness, the strange fate 
Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung 
Against their blind omnipotence a weight 
Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late, -- 

CLXXII 
These might have been her destiny; but no, 
Our hearts deny it: and so young, so fair, 
Good without effort, great without a foe; 
But now a bride and mother -- and now there! 
How many ties did that stern moment tear! 
From thy Sire`s to his humblest subject`s breast 
Is link`d the electric chain of that despair, 
Whose shock was as an earthquake`s, and opprest 
The land which loved thee so that none could love thee best. 

CLXXIII 
Lo, Nemi! navell`d in the woody hills 
So far, that the uprooting wind which tears 
The oak from his foundation, and which spills 
The ocean o`er its boundary, and bears 
Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares 
The oval mirror of thy glassy lake; 
And calm as cherish`d hate, its surface wears 
A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake, 
All coil`d into itself and round, as sleeps the snake. 

CLXXIV 
And near, Albano`s scarce divided waves 
Shine from a sister valley; -- and afar 
The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war, 
`Arms and the Man,` whose re-ascending star 
Rose o`er an empire: -- but beneath thy right 
Tully reposed from Rome; -- and where yon bar 
Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight 
The Sabine farm was till`d, the weary bard`s delight. 

CLXXV 
But I forget. -- My Pilgrim`s shrine is won, 
And he and I must part, -- so let it be, -- 
His task and mine alike are nearly done; 
Yet once more let us look upon the sea; 
The midland ocean breaks on him and me, 
And from the Alban Mount we now behold 
Our friend of youth, that Ocean, which when we 
Beheld it last by Calpe`s rock unfold 
Those waves, we follow`d on till the dark Euxine roll`d 

CLXXVI 
Upon the blue Symplegades: long years -- 
Long, though not very many -- since have done 
Their work on both; some suffering and some tears 
Have left us nearly where we had begun: 
Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run; 
We have had our reward, and it is here, -- 
That we can yet feel gladden`d by the sun, 
And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear 
As if there were no man to trouble what is clear. 

CLXXVII 
Oh! that the Desert were my dwelling-place, 
With one fair Spirit for my minister, 
That I might all forget the human race, 
And, hating no one, love but only her! 
Ye elements! -- in whose enobling stir 
I feel myself exalted -- Can ye not 
Accord me such a being? Do I err 
In deeming such inhabit many a spot? 
Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. 

CLXXVIII 
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
There is society, where none intrudes, 
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar; 
I love not Man the less, but Nature more, 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before, 
To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
What I can ne`er express, yet cannot all conceal. 

CLXXIX 
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean -- roll! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; 
Man marks the earth with ruin -- his control 
Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man`s ravage, save his own, 
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknell`d, uncoffin`d, and unknown. 

CLXXX 
His steps are not upon thy paths, -- thy fields 
Are not a spoil for him -- thou dost arise 
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields 
For earth`s destruction thou dost all despise, 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 
And send`st him shivering in thy playful spray 
And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
And dashest him again to earth: -- there let him lay. 

CLXXXI 
The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
Of rock-built cities. bidding nations quake, 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals, 
The oak leviathons, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war -- 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada`s pride or spoils of Trafalgar. 

CLXXXII 
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee -- 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? 
Thy waters wash`d them power while they were free, 
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts: -- not so thou; -- 
Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves` play, 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow: 
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