XXIII.
All gone! the wild beast’s lair is trodden out;
Proud temples stand in beauty there;
Our children raise their merry shout,
Where once the death-whoop vexed the air:
The Pilgrim—seek yon ancient place of graves,
Beneath that chapel’s holy shade;
Ask, where the breeze the long grass waves,
Who, who within that spot are laid:
The Patriot—go, to fame’s proud mount repair,
The tardy pile, slow rising there,
With tongueless eloquence shall tell
Of them who for their country fell.