The Flood of Thessaly The Girl of Provence, and Other Poems. By Barry Cornwall [i.e. Bryan Waller Procter] |
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 | The Flood of Thessaly |  |
—Many a silent age the prow
Of untiring Time—(dividing
Years and days, and ever gliding
Onwards) has passed by:—And now,
Where's thy wealth of streets and towers?
Where thy gay and dazzling hours?
Where thy crowds of slaves,—and things
That fed on the rich breath of kings?
Where thy laughter-crowned times?—
Thou art—what?—a breath, a fame,
In the shadow of thy name
Dwelling, like a ghost unseen;
Grander than if laurels green
Or the massy gold were spread,
Crown-like, upon thy great head:
Mighty in thy own undoing,
Drawing a fresh life from ruin
And eternal prophecy:—
Thou art gone, but cannot die.
Like a splendour from the sky
Through the silent ether flung,
Like a hoar tradition hung
Glittering in the ear of Time,
Thou art,—like a lamp sublime,
Telling from thy wave-worn tower
Where the raging floods have power,
How ruin lives,—and how Time flies,—
And all that on the dial lies.
Of untiring Time—(dividing
Years and days, and ever gliding
Onwards) has passed by:—And now,
Where's thy wealth of streets and towers?
Where thy gay and dazzling hours?
Where thy crowds of slaves,—and things
That fed on the rich breath of kings?
Where thy laughter-crowned times?—
242
In the shadow of thy name
Dwelling, like a ghost unseen;
Grander than if laurels green
Or the massy gold were spread,
Crown-like, upon thy great head:
Mighty in thy own undoing,
Drawing a fresh life from ruin
And eternal prophecy:—
Thou art gone, but cannot die.
Like a splendour from the sky
Through the silent ether flung,
Like a hoar tradition hung
Glittering in the ear of Time,
Thou art,—like a lamp sublime,
Telling from thy wave-worn tower
Where the raging floods have power,
How ruin lives,—and how Time flies,—
And all that on the dial lies.
| The Flood of Thessaly | |