Seek with glad brows the alabaster shade.
And in processions’ pomp together bent
Still interchange their sweet words innocent,—
Not caring that those mighty columns rest
Each on the ruin of a human breast,—
That to the shrine the victor’s chariot rolls
Across the anguish of ten thousand souls!
“Well was it that our fathers suffered thus,”
I hear them say, “that all might end in us;
Well was it here and there a bard should feel