Fix’d in deep reverence on Minerva’s fane,
Shall hail, beneath their native heaven of light,
All that remain’d of forms adored in vain;
A few short years—and, vanish’d from the scene,
To blend with classic dust their proudest lot had been.
LXXXIX.
Fair Parthenon! yet still must Fancy weep
For thee, thou work of nobler spirits flown.
Bright, as of old, the sunbeams o’er thee sleep
In all their beauty still—and thine is gone!