Shorn of its beams, still o’er its woods it tow’rs, 195
A wreck, which yet recals its prouder hours.
Gaze on the sculptur’d arch, the massive aisle,
The niche where saint or martyr seemed to smile;
(Dwellers in heaven, and only called below
Our faith to strengthen, or to soothe our woe;) 200
The plunder’d altar in its fall behold,
Once heaped with far-sought relics, gems, and gold;
Where a king knelt,[[4]] the penance vow to pay,
And the mailed warrior came his spoils to lay;