Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/418

376 Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse

Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead,

Whose names are Mausoleums of the Muse,

Are gently prest with far more reverent tread

Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely head.

LXI.

There be more things to greet the heart and eyes

In Arno's dome of Art's most princely shrine,

Where Sculpture with her rainbow Sister vies;

There be more marvels yet—but not for mine;

For I have been accustomed to entwine

My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields,

Than Art in galleries: though a work divine

Calls for my Spirit's homage, yet it yields

Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields