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82 Even Time, the conqueror, fled thee in his fear; That hoary giant, who, in lonely pride, So long had ruled the world, that nations fell Beneath his silent footstep. Pyramids, That for millenniums had withstood the tide Of human things, his storm-breath drove in sand Across that desert where their stones survived The name of him whose pride had heaped them there. Yon monarch, in his solitary pomp, Was but the mushroom of a summer day, That his light-winged footstep pressed to dust: Time was the king of earth: all things gave way Before him, but the fixed and virtuous will, The sacred sympathies of soul and sense, That mocked his fury and prepared his fall. Yet slow and gradual dawned the morn of love; Long lay the clouds of darkness o'er the scene, Till from its native heaven they rolled away: First, crime, triumphant o'er all hope, careered Unblushing, undisguising, bold, and strong; Whilst falsehood, tricked in virtue's attributes, Long sanctified all deeds of vice and woe, Till done by her own venomous sting to death, She left the moral world without a law, No longer fettering passion's fearless wing, Nor searing reason with the brand of God. Then steadily the happy ferment worked; Reason was free; and wild though passion went Through tangled glens and wood-embosomed meads, Gathering a garland of the strangest flowers,