Rock into giant fractures—as the sound
Of the Archangel's trump, upon the deep,
Bids fall the bonds of nature, to let forth
Destruction's formless fiend from world to world,
Trampling the stars to darkness,—Even then,
Like that proud Roman exile, musing o'er
The dust of fallen Carthage, I shall stand,
Myself a solemn wreck, calm and unmoved
Among the ruins of the works of God.
And my last look shall be a look of triumph