The mouldering torso, the forgotten bust.
The warrior’s urn, the altar’s mossy stone—
Amidst the loneliness of shatter’d fanes,
Still matchless monuments of other years—
O’er cypress groves or solitary plains,
Its eastern form the minaret proudly rears:
As on some captive city’s ruin’d wall
The victor’s banner waves, exulting o’er its fall.
XXXII.
Still, where that column of the mosque aspires,