Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/494

450 Oh, happier thought! can we be made the same:—

It is enough in sooth that once we bore

These fardels of the heart—the heart whose sweat was gore.

CLXVII.

Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds,

A long low distant murmur of dread sound,

Such as arises when a nation bleeds

With some deep and immedicable wound;—

Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground—

The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the Chief

Seems royal still, though with her head discrowned,

And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief—

She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief.