Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/492

448 All that ideal Beauty ever blessed

The mind with in its most unearthly mood,

When each Conception was a heavenly Guest—

A ray of Immortality—and stood,

Starlike, around, until they gathered to a God!

CLXIII.

And if it be Prometheus stole from Heaven

The fire which we endure —it was repaid

By him to whom the energy was given

Which this poetic marble hath arrayed

With an eternal Glory—which, if made

By human hands, is not of human thought—

And Time himself hath hallowed it, nor laid

One ringlet in the dust—nor hath it caught

A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 'twas wrought.

CLXIV.

But where is he, the Pilgrim of my Song,

The Being who upheld it through the past?

Methinks he cometh late and tarries long.

He is no more—these breathings are his last—