Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/259

CANTO III.] Drooped as a wild-born falcon with clipt wing,

To whom the boundless air alone were home:

Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome,

As eagerly the barred-up bird will beat

His breast and beak against his wiry dome

Till the blood tinge his plumage—so the heat

Of his impeded Soul would through his bosom eat.

XVI.

Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again,

With nought of Hope left—but with less of gloom;

The very knowledge that he lived in vain,

That all was over on this side the tomb,

Had made Despair a smilingness assume,

Which, though 'twere wild,—as on the plundered wreck

When mariners would madly meet their doom

With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck,—

Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check.

XVII.

Stop!—for thy tread is on an Empire's dust!

An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below!

Is the spot marked with no colossal bust?

Nor column trophied for triumphal show?