The palace crumbles, and the gorgeous fane
Sinks into dust; he weeps above the tomb
Of human pride, and feels that it is vain;
Yet shall thy voice arise amid the gloom
Of silent hearths and cities, scornful of their doom.
I look once more: behold ’tis changed again,
And yet ’tis unchanged! Earth has upward shot
Her twigs from naked mountain, vale and plain;
How rankly have they grown above the spot,
Where cities crumble, and their builders rot!