Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/321

CANTO III.] The fount at which the panting Mind assuages

Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill,

Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill.

CXI.

Thus far have I proceeded in a theme

Renewed with no kind auspices:—to feel

We are not what we have been, and to deem

We are not what we should be,—and to steel

The heart against itself; and to conceal,

With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught,—

Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal,—

Which is the tyrant Spirit of our thought,

Is a stern task of soul:—No matter,—it is taught.

CXII.

And for these words, thus woven into song,

It may be that they are a harmless wile,—

The colouring of the scenes which fleet along,

Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile