Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/468

426 Which never loses though it doth defer—

Time, the Avenger! unto thee I lift

My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift:

CXXXI.

Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine

And temple more divinely desolate—

Among thy mightier offerings here are mine,

Ruins of years—though few, yet full of fate:—

If thou hast ever seen me too elate,

Hear me not; but if calmly I have borne

Good, and reserved my pride against the hate

Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn

This iron in my soul in vain—shall they not mourn?

CXXXII.

And Thou, who never yet of human wrong

Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis! N28