Childe Harold's pilgrimage : a romaunt . on the distant wind ;Yet could I seat me by this ivied stoneTill I had bodied forth the heated mindForms from the floating wreck which Ruin leaves behind ; CV. And from the planks, far shatterd oer the rocks,Built me a little bark of hope, once moreTo battle with the ocean and the shocksOf the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roarWhich rushes on the solitary shoreWhere all lies founderd that was ever dear :But could I gather from the wave-worn storeEnough for my rude boat, where should I steer 1There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here C
Childe Harold's pilgrimage : a romaunt . on the distant wind ;Yet could I seat me by this ivied stoneTill I had bodied forth the heated mindForms from the floating wreck which Ruin leaves behind ; CV. And from the planks, far shatterd oer the rocks,Built me a little bark of hope, once moreTo battle with the ocean and the shocksOf the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roarWhich rushes on the solitary shoreWhere all lies founderd that was ever dear :But could I gather from the wave-worn storeEnough for my rude boat, where should I steer 1There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here CVI. Then let the winds howl on ! their harmonyShall henceforth be my music, and the nightThe sound shall temper with the owlets cry,As I now hear them, in the fading lightDim oer 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 shrineWhat are our petty griefs 1—let me not number mine. CANTO IV. ohilde harolds pilgrimage 243 i. FORUM ROMS CVII. Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grownMatted and massd together, hillocks heapdOn what were chambers, arch crushd, column strownIn fragments, choked up vaults, and frescos steepdIn subterranean damps, where the owl peepd,Deeming it midnight :—Temples, baths, or halls 1Pronounce who can ; for all that Learning reapdFrom her research hath been, that these are walls—Behold the Imperial Mount ! tis thus the mighty falls. 244 childe harolds pilgrimage CANTO IV. cvni. 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 History, with all her volumes vast,Hath but one page,—tis better written here,Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amassdAll 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 hereThere is s
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