Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/493

CANTO IV.] His wanderings done—his visions ebbing fast,

And he himself as nothing:—if he was

Aught but a phantasy, and could be classed

With forms which live and suffer—let that pass—

His shadow fades away into Destruction's mass,

CLXV.

Which gathers shadow—substance—life, and all

That we inherit in its mortal shroud—

And spreads the dim and universal pall

Through which all things grow phantoms; and the cloud

Between us sinks and all which ever glowed,

Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays

A melancholy halo scarce allowed

To hover on the verge of darkness—rays

Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze,

CLXVI.

And send us prying into the abyss,

To gather what we shall be when the frame

Shall be resolved to something less than this—

Its wretched essence; and to dream of fame,

And wipe the dust from off the idle name

We never more shall hear,—but never more,