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XII.
Till bolder spirits seiz’d the rule, and nail’d
On men the yoke that man should never bear,
And drove them forth to battle: Lo! unveil’d
The scene of those stern ages! What is there?
A boundless sea of blood, and the wild air
Moans with the crimson surges that intomb
Cities and banner’d armies; forms that wear
The kingly circlet, rise, amid the gloom,
O’er the dark wave, and straight are swallow’d in its womb.
XIII.
Those ages have no memory—but they left
A record in the desert—columns strewn
On the waste sands, and statues fall’n and cleft,
Heap’d like a host in battle overthrown;
Vast ruins, where the mountain’s ribs of stone
Were hewn into a city; streets that spread
In the dark earth, where never breath has blown
Of heaven’s sweet air, nor foot of man dares tread
The long and perilous ways—the cities of the dead;
