LXXXI.

The double night of ages, and of her,[no] Night's daughter, Ignorance,[462] hath wrapt and wrap All round us; we but feel our way to err: The Ocean hath his chart, the Stars their map, And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap; But Rome is as the desert--where we steer Stumbling o'er recollections; now we clap Our hands, and cry "Eureka!" "it is clear"-- When but some false Mirage of ruin rises near.