CXXIV. We wither from our youth, we gasp awaySick-sick; unfound the boon-unslaked the thi Though to the last, in verge of our decay, Some phantom lures, such as we sought at firstBut all too late,-so are we doubly curst. Love, fame, ambition, avarice-'tis the same, Each idle-and all ill-and none the worstFor all are meteors with a different name, And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the fla CXXV. Few-none-find what they love or could have lov Antipathies-but to recur, ere long, Whose touch turns Hope to dust,—the dust we all h trod. CXXVI. Our life is a false nature-'tis not in The harmony of things,-this hard decree, 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 seeAnd 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 (57) Our right of thought-our last and only place Is chain'd and tortured-cabin'd, cribb'd, confined, The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the blind. CANTO IV. PILGRIMAGE. 151 CXXVIII. Arches on arches! as it were that Rome, Should be the light which streams here, to illume CXXIX. Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, 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, And only healer when the heart hath bled— 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 :- 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? |