Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/279

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CANTO III.]
243
CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE.

And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife,
That should their days, surviving perils past,
Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast[1]
With sorrow and supineness, and so die;
Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste
With its own flickering, or a sword laid by,
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.


XLV.

He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow;
He who surpasses or subdues mankind,
Must look down on the hate of those below.[2]
Though high above the Sun of Glory glow,
And far beneath the Earth and Ocean spread,
Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow
Contending tempests on his naked head,[3]
And thus reward the toils which to those summits led.


XLVI.

Away with these! true Wisdom's world will be[4]
Within its own creation, or in thine,
Maternal Nature! for who teems like thee,[5]

Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine?
  1. ——they rave overcast.—[MS.]
  2. ——the hate of all below.—[MS.]
  3. ——on his single head.—[MS.]
  4. ——the wise man's World will be.—[MS.]
  5. ——for what teems like thee.—[MS.]