Till bolder spirits seized the rule, and nailed

On men the yoke that man should never bear,

And drave them forth to battle. Lo! unveiled

The scene of those stern ages! What is there?

A boundless sea of blood, and the wild air

Moans with the crimsoned surges that entomb

Cities and bannered armies; forms that wear

The kingly circlet rise, amid the gloom,

O'er the dark wave, and straight are swallowed in its womb.

XIII

 Those ages have no memory, but they left A record in the desert—columns strown On the waste sands, and statues fallen and cleft, Heaped like a host in battle overthrown; Vast ruins, where the mountain's ribs of stone Were hewn into a city; streets that spread In the dark earth, where never breath has blown Of heaven's sweet air, nor foot of man dares tread The long and perilous ways—the Cities of the Dead! 15

Those ages have no memory, but they left

A record in the desert—columns strown

On the waste sands, and statues fallen and cleft,

Heaped like a host in battle overthrown;

Vast ruins, where the mountain's ribs of stone

Were hewn into a city; streets that spread

In the dark earth, where never breath has blown

Of heaven's sweet air, nor foot of man dares tread

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