Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/434

392 All round us; we but feel our way to err:

The Ocean hath his chart, the Stars their map,

And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap;

But Rome is as the desert—where we steer

Stumbling o'er recollections; now we clap

Our hands, and cry "Eureka!" "it is clear"—

When but some false Mirage of ruin rises near.

LXXXII.

Alas! the lofty city! and alas!

The trebly hundred triumphs! and the day

When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass

The Conqueror's sword in bearing fame away!

Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay,

And Livy's pictured page!—but these shall be

Her resurrection; all beside—decay.

Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see

That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free!

LXXXIII.

Oh, thou, whose chariot rolled on Fortune's wheel,

Triumphant Sylla! Thou, who didst subdue