The pomp of rites, the sacrificial train,
The long procession’s awful pageantry?
Quench’d is the torch of Ceres[40]—all around
Decay hath spread the stillness of her reign;
There never more shall choral hymns resound
O’er the hush’d earth and solitary main,
Whose wave from Salamis deserted flows,
To bathe a silent shore of desolate repose.
LXII.
And oh, ye secret and terrific powers!