Their glance is cold indifference, and their toil
But to destroy what ages have revered—
As if exulting sternly to erase
Whate’er might prove that land had nursed a nobler race.
LXXXVIII.
And who may grieve that, rescued from their hands,
Spoilers of excellence and foes to art,
Thy relics, Athens! borne to other lands,
Claim homage still to thee from every heart
Though now no more th’ exploring stranger’s sight,