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Childe Harold's pilgrimage : a romaunt . rene 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, Home shall stand ; When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall ; And when Rome falls—the World. From our own landThus spake the pilgrims oer this mighty wallIn Saxon times, which we are wont to callAncient ; and these three mortal things are stillOn their foundations, and unalterd all ;Rome and her Ruin past Redemptions skill,The World, the same wide den—of thieves, or what ye will. CXLVI. Simple, erect,
Childe Harold's pilgrimage : a romaunt . rene 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, Home shall stand ; When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall ; And when Rome falls—the World. From our own landThus spake the pilgrims oer this mighty wallIn Saxon times, which we are wont to callAncient ; and these three mortal things are stillOn their foundations, and unalterd all ;Rome and her Ruin past Redemptions 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 nods2 Q childe hakolds pilgrimage CANTO IV Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plodsHis way through thorns to ashes—glorious dome !Shalt thou not last ? Times scythe and tyrants rodsShiver upon thee—sanctuary and homeOf art and piety—Pantheon !—pride of Koine !. PANTHEON CXLVII. Eelic of nobler days, and noblest arts !Despoild yet perfect, with thy circle spreadsA holiness appealing to all hearts—To art a model; and to him who treads CANTO IV. childe harolds pilgrimage 263 Rome for the sake of ages, Glory shedsHer light through thy sole aperture; to thoseWho worship, here are altars for their beads ;And they who feel for genius may reposeTheir eyes on honourd forms, whose busts around them close. CXLVIII. There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear lightWhat do I gaze on ? Nothing : Look again !Two forms are slowly shadowd 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 veinThe 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 tookOur first and
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