Betokening inward agonies, were there:
Greeks! Romans! all but such as image brave despair!
LXVIII.
But high above that scene, in bright repose,
And beauty borrowing from the torches’ gleams
A mien of life, yet where no life-blood flows,
But all instinct with loftier being seems,
Pale, grand, colossal: lo! th’ embodied dreams
Of yore!—Gods, heroes, bards, in marble wrought,
Look down, as powers, upon the wild extremes