Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 4.djvu/290

252 O'er humbled heads and severed necksGreat God!

Take these thoughts from me—to thy hands I yield

My many wrongs, and thine Almighty rod

Will fall on those who smote me,—be my shield!

As thou hast been in peril, and in pain,

In turbulent cities, and the tented field—

In toil, and many troubles borne in vain

For Florence,—I appeal from her to Thee!

Thee, whom I late saw in thy loftiest reign,

Even in that glorious Vision, which to see

And live was never granted until now,

And yet thou hast permitted this to me.

Alas! with what a weight upon my brow

The sense of earth and earthly things come back,

Corrosive passions, feelings dull and low,

The heart's quick throb upon the mental rack,

Long day, and dreary night; the retrospect

Of half a century bloody and black,

And the frail few years I may yet expect

Hoary and hopeless, but less hard to bear,

For I have been too long and deeply wrecked

On the lone rock of desolate Despair,

To lift my eyes more to the passing sail

Which shuns that reef so horrible and bare;

Nor raise my voice—for who would heed my wail?

I am not of this people, nor this age,

And yet my harpings will unfold a tale

Which shall preserve these times when not a page

Of their perturbéd annals could attract

An eye to gaze upon their civil rage,

Did not my verse embalm full many an act

Worthless as they who wrought it: 'tis the doom

Of spirits of my order to be racked

In life, to wear their hearts out, and consume

Their days in endless strife, and die alone;

Then future thousands crowd around their tomb,

And pilgrims come from climes where they have known

The name of him—who now is but a name,

And wasting homage o'er the sullen stone,