He, nor his ancient seats remain;
But in strange horror staring round,
A Spectre, pointing to his wound,
Of hideous shape, with bald head, stalks
Before me o’er the ravag’d walks;
Where Desolation grim affrights[[40]]
Sham’d Ceres in unhallow’d rites;
Where the check’d Plunderer shrinks aside,
As by his own deed terrified,
Or fears, from many a faithful root,