Bards, chieftains, monarchs, tower with mien august
O’er scenes that shrine their venerable dust.
Those forms, those features, luminous with soul,
Still o’er thy children seem to claim control;
With awful grace arrest the pilgrim’s glance,
Bind his rapt soul in elevating trance,
And bid the past, to fancy’s ardent eyes,
From time’s dim sepulchre in glory rise.
Souls of the lofty! whose undying names
Rouse the young bosom still to noblest aims;