From “Childe Harold,” Canto IV. SIMPLE, erect, severe, austere, sublime,— Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods, From Jove to Jesus,—spared and blest by time; Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods His way through thorns to ashes,—glorious dome! Shalt thou not last? Time’s scythe and tyrants’ rods Shiver upon thee,—sanctuary and home Of art and piety,—Pantheon!—pride of Rome! Relic of nobler days and noblest arts! Despoiled yet perfect, with thy circle spreads A holiness appealing to all hearts. To art a model; and to him who treads Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds Her light through thy sole aperture; to those Who worship, here are altars for their beads; And they who feel for genius may repose Their eyes on honored forms, whose busts around them close.
The Pantheon
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