XLVII.
Wave swept on wave. We reach’d a stately square,
Deck’d for the rites. An altar stood on high,
And gorgeous, in the midst: a place for prayer,
And praise, and offering. Could the earth supply
No fruits, no flowers for sacrifice, of all
Which on her sunny lap unheeded fall?
No fair young firstling of the flock to die,
As when before their God the patriarchs stood?—
Look down! man brings thee, heaven! his brother’s guiltless blood!