Of human Grandeur mark the fleeting Day,
How frail each Purpose, and each Wish how vain!
The strong-built Domes, the cloister’d Fanes decay,
And Ruin hovers round the desert Scene.
The Path that leads to yonder shatter’d Pile
Is now perplex’d with many a sordid Brier:
No Crowd is seen within the sacred Isle,
The Sabbath mourns its long-deserted Quire.
The golden Crozier blended with the Dust
In horrid Folds the Serpent clasps around:
The pow’rful Image, and the sainted Bust,
Defam’d, unhallow’d, press the weedy Ground.
Not distant far, her gold-encircled Tow’r
Th’ inviolable Dome majestic rear’d,
On whose dread Altar breath’d some hidden Pow’r,
By Terror guarded, and by Kings rever’d:
To which Asylum ev’n th’ Assassin came,
(His Hand audacious still imbrued with Gore)
The Boon of full Impunity to claim,
While feeble Justice wept her baffled Lore.
So Truth at length dissolv’d the mental Chain,
And banish’d Error from th’ enlighten’d Shore:
So clos’d at length the busy-acted Scene,
The Curtain drop’d, and Folly’s Mask was o’er.
Then gladsome Ceres rais’d her drooping Head,
(While yellow Harvests gilt the smiling Plain)
Beheld a youthful Band around her spread,
With Sickles arm’d to reap the bearded Grain.
The Warrior then beneath the trailing Vest,
The peaceful Cassock, or the drowsy Cowl,
No longer quench’d the Flame within his Breast,
Or lull’d the Purpose of his daring Soul:
But rush’d undaunted to the doubtful War,
Pursued where Glory led the radiant Way,
Till Neptune rising on his coral Car,
Resign’d his wat’ry World to Britain’s Sway.
The Virgin Fair by venal Guardians doom’d,
By Error prompted, or subdued by Force,
No more in Cloisters drear their Days consum’d:
Like Flow’rets strew’d around the senseless Corse.