CXXXI.

Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine And temple more divinely desolate-- Among thy mightier offerings here are mine, Ruins of years--though few, yet full of fate:-- If thou hast ever seen me too elate, Hear me not; but if calmly I have borne Good, and reserved my pride against the hate Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn This iron in my soul in vain--shall _they_ not mourn?