Of weary pilgrimage and burning,thirst, (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,) Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld! Here, where a hero fell, a column falls! Lit by the wan light of the hornèd moon, The swift and silent lizard of the stones ! But stay! these walls-these ivy-clad arcades These mouldering plinths-these sad and blackened shafts These vague entablatures-this crumbling frieze— These shattered cornices-this wreck—this ruin These stones-alas! these grey stones-are they all All of the famed and the colossal left By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me? "Not all "-the Echoes answer me "not all! Prophetic sounds and loud arise for ever From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise, We rule the hearts of mightiest men-we rule With a despotic sway all giant minds. Not all our power is gone-not all our fame--- Not all the wonder that encircles us Not all the mysteries that in us lie— Not all the memories that hang upon Not long ago, the writer of these lines, In the mad pride of intellectuality, Maintained "the power of words," denied that ever A thought arose within the human brain Beyond the utterance of the human tongue; That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,"- Than even the seraph harper, Israfel, (Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,") Could hope to utter. And I my spells are broken, The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand. 24 ΤΟ With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee, I cannot write-I cannot speak or think-- To where the prospect terminates—thee only. м |