Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/444

402 And the base pageant last upon the scene,

Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall

Which nips Life's tree, and dooms Man's worst—his second fall.

XCVIII.

Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying,

Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind;

Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying,

The loudest still the Tempest leaves behind;

Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind,

Chopped by the axe, looks rough and little worth,

But the sap lasts,—and still the seed we find

Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North;

So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth.

XCIX.

There is a stern round tower of other days,

Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone,