CHAPTER V
THE CRADLE OF THE OSMANLIS
Have Time’s stern scythe, man’s rage and flood and fire
Left naught for curious pilgrims to admire?
A few poor footsteps may now cross the shrine,
Cell, long arcade, high altar, all supine;
Bound with thick ivy broken columns lie,
Through low rent circles winds of evening sigh,
Rough brambles choke the vaults where gold was stored,
And toads spit venom forth where priests adored.
Nicolas Michel.