The palm, he shares the peril, and dejected Faints o'er the labour unapproved--Alas! Despair and Genius are too oft connected. Within the ages which before me pass 40 Art shall resume and equal even the sway Which with Apelles and old Phidias She held in Hellas' unforgotten day. Ye shall be taught by Ruin to revive The Grecian forms at least from their decay, And Roman souls at last again shall live In Roman works wrought by Italian hands, And temples, loftier than the old temples, give New wonders to the World; and while still stands The austere Pantheon, into heaven shall soar 50 A Dome,[319] its image, while the base expands Into a fane surpassing all before, Such as all flesh shall flock to kneel in: ne'er Such sight hath been unfolded by a door As this, to which all nations shall repair, And lay their sins at this huge gate of Heaven. And the bold Architect[320] unto whose care The daring charge to raise it shall be given, Whom all Arts shall acknowledge as their Lord, Whether into the marble chaos driven 60 His chisel bid the Hebrew,[321] at whose word Israel left Egypt, stop the waves in stone,[cm] Or hues of Hell be by his pencil poured Over the damned before the Judgement-throne,[322] Such as I saw them, such as all shall see, Or fanes be built of grandeur yet unknown-- The Stream of his great thoughts shall spring from me[323] The Ghibelline, who traversed the three realms Which form the Empire of Eternity. Amidst the clash of swords, and clang of helms, 70 The age which I anticipate, no less Shall be the Age of Beauty, and while whelms Calamity the nations with distress, The Genius of my Country shall arise, A Cedar towering o'er the Wilderness, Lovely in all its branches to all eyes, Fragrant as fair, and recognised afar, Wafting its native incense through the skies. Sovereigns shall pause amidst their sport of war, Weaned for an hour from blood, to turn and gaze 80 On canvass or on stone; and they who mar All beauty upon earth, compelled to praise, Shall feel the power of that which they destroy; And Art's mistaken gratitude shall raise To tyrants, who but take her for a toy, Emblems and monuments, and prostitute Her charms to Pontiffs proud,[324] who but employ The man of Genius as the meanest brute To bear a burthen, and to serve a need, To sell his labours, and his soul to boot. 90 Who toils for nations may be poor indeed, But free; who sweats for Monarchs is no more Than the gilt Chamberlain, who, clothed and feed, Stands sleek and slavish, bowing at his door.