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In Saxon times, which we are wont to call Ancient; and these three mortal things are still On their foundations, and unaltered all-- Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill-- The World--the same wide den--of thieves, or what ye will. CXLVI. Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime--[514] Shrine of all saints and temple of all Gods, From Jove to Jesus--spared and blest by Time-- Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods Arch--empire--each thing round thee--and Man plods His way through thorns to ashes--glorious Dome! Shalt thou not last? Time's scythe and Tyrants' rods Shiver upon thee--sanctuary and home Of Art and Piety--Pantheon!--pride of Rome![pc] CXLVII. Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts! Despoiled yet perfect! with thy circle spreads A holiness appealing to all hearts; To Art a model--and to him who treads Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds Her light through thy sole aperture; to those Who worship, here are altars for their beads-- And they who feel for Genius may repose Their eyes on honoured forms, whose busts around them close.[515] CXLVIII. There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light[516] What do I gaze on? Nothing--Look again! Two forms are slowly shadowed on my sight-- Two insulated phantoms of the brain:[pd] It is not so--I see them full and plain-- An old man, and a female young and fair, Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein The blood is nectar:--but what doth she there, With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and bare?[pe] CXLIX. Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, Where _on_ the heart and _from_ the heart we took Our first and sweetest nurture--when the wife, Blest into mother, in the innocent look, Or even the piping cry of lips that brook[pf] No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives[pg] Man knows not--when from out its cradled nook She sees her little bud put forth its leaves-- What may the fruit be yet?--I know not--Cain was Eve's. CL. But here Youth offers to Old Age the food, The milk of his own gift: it is her Sire To whom she renders back the debt of blood
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