Bow’d many a crest, and shatter’d many a throne,
Mingling the urn, the trophy, and the bust,
With what they hide—their shrined and treasured dust.
Men traverse Alps and oceans, to behold
Earth’s glorious works fast mingling with her mould;
But still these nameless chronicles of death,
Midst the deep silence of the unpeopled heath,
Stand in primeval artlessness, and wear
The same sepulchral mien, and almost share
Th’ eternity of nature, with the forms