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Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
Lit by the wan light of the hornèd moon,
But stay! these walls—these ivy-clad arcades—
These vague entablatures--this crumbling frieze—
These shattered cornices-this wreck-this ruin—
All of the famed and the colossal left
By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?
"Not all "--the Echoes answer me--" not all!
We rule the hearts of mightiest men—we rule
We are not impotent-we pallid stones.
Not all our power is gone-not all our fame-
Not all the mysteries that in us lie-
OT 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 :
And now, as if in mockery of that boast,
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. With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee,
I cannot write--I cannot speak or think
Alas, I cannot feel; for 'tis not feeling,