Of the bright synod once above them throned.
Mourn, graceful ruin! on thy sacred hill,
Thy gods, thy rites, a kindred fate have shared:
Yet art thou honour’d in each fragment still
That wasting years and barbarous hands had spared;
Each hallow’d stone, from rapine’s fury borne,
Shall wake bright dreams of thee in ages yet unborn.
XCI.
Yes! in those fragments, though by time defaced
And rude insensate conquerors, yet remains