Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/428

386 Like Spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame,

For still they soared unutterably high:

I've looked on Ida with a Trojan's eye;

Athos—Olympus—Ætna—Atlas—made

These hills seem things of lesser dignity;

All, save the lone Soracte's height, displayed

Not now in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid

LXXV.

For our remembrance, and from out the plain

Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break,

And on the curl hangs pausing: not in vain

May he, who will, his recollections rake,

And quote in classic raptures, and awake

The hills with Latian echoes—I abhorred

Too much, to conquer for the Poet's sake,

The drilled dull lesson, forced down word by word

In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record