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CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE.
[CANTO IV.
All that ideal Beauty ever blessed
The mind with in its most unearthly mood,
When each Conception was a heavenly Guest—
A ray of Immortality—and stood,
Starlike, around, until they gathered to a God![1]
CLXIII.
And if it be Prometheus stole from Heaven
The fire which we endure[2]—it was repaid
By him to whom the energy was given
Which this poetic marble hath arrayed
With an eternal Glory—which, if made
By human hands, is not of human thought—
And Time himself hath hallowed it, nor laid
One ringlet in the dust—nor hath it caught
A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 'twas wrought.
CLXIV.
But where is he, the Pilgrim of my Song,
The Being who upheld it through the past?
Methinks he cometh late and tarries long.
