And the proud fabrics Hadrian rear’d
From Tibur’s vale have disappear’d.
We need no prescient sibyl there
The doom of grandeur to declare;
Each stone, where weeds and ivy climb,
Reveals some oracle of Time;
Each relic utters Fate’s decree—
The future as the past shall be.
Halls of the dead! in Tibur’s vale,
Who now shall tell your lofty tale?