And all thy founts of song! Their bright course teems
With inspiration yet; and each dim haze,
Or golden cloud which floats around thee, seems
As with its mantle veiling from our gaze
The mysteries of the past, the gods of elder days!
Away, vain fantasies!—doth less of power
Dwell round thy summit, or thy cliffs invest,
Though, in deep stillness, now the ruin’s flower
Wave o’er the pillars mouldering on thy breast?
—Lift through the free blue heavens thine arrowy crest!