IX.
For all the loveliness, and light, and bloom
That yet are thine, surviving many a storm,
Are but as heaven’s warm radiance on the tomb,
The rose’s blush that masks the canker-worm.
And thou art desolate—thy morn hath pass’d!
So dazzling in the splendour of its sway,
That the dark shades the night hath o’er thee cast
Throw tenfold gloom around thy deep decay.
Once proud in freedom, still in ruin fair,
Thy fate hath been unmatch’d—in glory and despair.