XC.
Lone are thy pillars now—each passing gale
Sighs o’er them as a spirit’s voice, which moan’d
That loneliness, and told the plaintive tale
Of the bright synod once above them throned.
Mourn, graceful ruin! on thy sacred hill,
Thy gods, thy rites, a kindred fate have shared:
Yet art thou honour’d in each fragment still
That wasting years and barbarous hands had spared;
Each hallow’d stone, from rapine’s fury borne,
Shall wake bright dreams of thee in ages yet unborn.