Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place,
Even as a dew-drop from the myrtle spray,
Swept by the wind away?
Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race,
And was there power to smite them with decay?
Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven?
Bow’d be our hearts to think on what we are,
When from its height afar
A world sinks thus—and yon majestic heaven
Shines not the less for that one vanish’d star!