XXVITI
S1r PaLaMEDE goes aching on
(Pox of despair’s dread interdict !)
Aye to the western horizon,
Still meditating, sharp and strict,
Upon the changes of the earth,
Its towers and temples derelict,
The ready ruin of its mirth,
The flowers, the fruits, the leaves that fall,
The joy of life, its growing girth—
And nothing as the end of all.
Yea, even as the Yang-tze rolled
Its rapids past him, so the wall
Of things brake down; his eyes behold
The mighty Beast serenely couched
Upon its breast of burnished gold.
“ Ah! by Christ's blood!” (his soul avouched),
“ Nothing but change (but change!) abides.
Death lurks, a leopard curled and crouched,