Nor grim invaders from barbarian climes;
No horrors feigned of giant or of god
Pollute thy stillness with recorded crimes.
Here never yet have happy fields laid waste,
The ravished harvest and the blasted fruit,
The cottage ruined and the shrine defaced,
Tracked the foul passage of the feudal brute.
“Yet, O Antiquity!” the stranger sighs,
“Scenes wanting thee soon pall upon the view;
The soul’s indifference dulls the sated eyes,