Nor tamed his glance of fierce ascendency;
While the deep meaning of his features told
Ages of thought had o’er his spirit roll’d,
Nor dimm’d the fire that might not be controll’d;
And still did power invest his stately form,
Shatter’d, but yet unconquer’d, by the storm.
—But slow his step—and where, not yet o’erthrown,
Still tower’d a pillar midst the waste alone,
Faint with long toil, his weary limbs he laid,
To slumber in its solitary shade.