Moulded by Art to dignify alone
Her own bright deity’s resplendent throne,
Since first her skill their fiery grace bestow’d
Meet for such lofty fate, such high abode,
How many a race, whose tales of glory seem
An echo’s voice—the music of a dream,
Whose records feebly from oblivion save
A few bright traces of the wise and brave;
How many a state, whose pillar’d strength sublime
Defied the storms of war, the waves of time,