XLVIII

       Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre,
       Oh, not of him, but of our joy: ’tis nought
       That ages, empires and religions there
       Lie buried in the ravage they have wrought;
       For such as he can lend—they borrow not
       Glory from those who made the world their prey;
       And he is gather’d to the kings of thought
       Who wag’d contention with their time’s decay,
And of the past are all that cannot pass away.

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