Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 3.djvu/342

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Thine evil deeds are writ in gore,
Nor written thus in vain—
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more,
Or deepen every stain:
If thou hadst died as Honour dies,
Some new Napoleon might arise,
To shame the world again—
But who would soar the solar height,
To set in such a starless night?[1]


Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust
Is vile as vulgar clay;[2]
Thy scales, Mortality! are just
To all that pass away:
But yet methought the living great
Some higher sparks should animate,
To dazzle and dismay:
Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth
Of these, the Conquerors of the earth.


And she, proud Austria's mournful flower,
Thy still imperial bride;
How bears her breast the torturing hour?
Still clings she to thy side?

Must she too bend, must she too share
  1. But who would rise in brightest day
    To set without one parting ray?—[MS.]

  2. —— common clay.—[First Proof.]
  3. [Added in Proof v.]