CXXVI.

   Our life is a false nature—­’tis not in
   The harmony of things,—­this hard decree,
   This uneradicable taint of sin,
   This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree,
   Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be
   The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew —
   Disease, death, bondage, all the woes we see—­
   And worse, the woes we see not—­which throb through
The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new.

CXXVII.

   Yet let us ponder boldly—­’tis a base
   Abandonment of reason to resign
   Our right of thought—­our last and only place
   Of refuge; this, at least, shall still be mine: 
   Though from our birth the faculty divine
   Is chained and tortured—­cabined, cribbed, confined,
   And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine
   Too brightly on the unprepared mind,
The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the blind.

CXXVIII.

   Arches on arches! as it were that Rome,
   Collecting the chief trophies of her line,
   Would build up all her triumphs in one dome,
   Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams shine
   As ’twere its natural torches, for divine
   Should be the light which streams here, to illume
   This long explored but still exhaustless mine
   Of contemplation; and the azure gloom
Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume

CXXIX.

   Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven,
   Floats o’er this vast and wondrous monument,
   And shadows forth its glory.  There is given
   Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent,
   A spirit’s feeling, and where he hath leant
   His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power
   And magic in the ruined battlement,
   For which the palace of the present hour
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower.

CXXX.

   O Time! the beautifier of the dead,
   Adorner of the ruin, comforter
   And only healer when the heart hath bled —
   Time! the corrector where our judgments err,
   The test of truth, love,—­sole philosopher,
   For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift,
   Which never loses though it doth defer —
   Time, the avenger! unto thee I lift
My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift: 

CXXXI.

   Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine
   And temple more divinely desolate,
   Among thy mightier offerings here are mine,
   Ruins of years—­though few, yet full of fate: 
   If thou hast ever seen me too elate,
   Hear me not; but if calmly I have borne
   Good, and reserved my pride against the hate
   Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn
This iron in my soul in vain—­shall they not mourn?