Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 4.djvu/78

48 Of which we are but dreamers;—as he caught

As 'twere the twilight of a former Sun

Thus spoke he,—"I believe the man of whom

You wot, who lies in this selected tomb,

Was a most famous writer in his day,

And therefore travellers step from out their way

To pay him honour,—and myself whate'er

Your honour pleases:"—then most pleased I shook

From out my pocket's avaricious nook

Some certain coins of silver, which as 'twere

Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare

So much but inconveniently:—Ye smile,

I see ye, ye profane ones! all the while,

Because my homely phrase the truth would tell.

You are the fools, not I—for I did dwell

With a deep thought, and with a softened eye,

On that old Sexton's natural homily,

In which there was Obscurity and Fame,—

The Glory and the Nothing of a Name. Diodati, 1816. First published, Prisoner of Chillon, etc., 1816.]

PROMETHEUS.

I.

! to whose immortal eyes

The sufferings of mortality,