My sympathies are all with times of old,
I cannot live with things of yesterday,
Upstart and flippant, foolish, weak, and gay,
But spirits cast in a severer mould,
Of solid worth like elemental gold:
I love to wander o'er the shadowy past,
Dreaming of dynasties long swept away,
And seem to find myself almost the last
Of a time-honoured race, decaying fast:
For I can dote upon the rare antique,
Conjuring up what story it might tell,
The bronze, or bead, or coin, or rare relique;
And in a desert could delight to dwell
Amongst vast ruins — Tadmor's stately halls,
Old Egypt's giant fanes, or Babel's mouldering walls.