The prey is mine. They sleep, and never more
Their names shall strike upon the ear of man,
Or memory burst its fetters.
Where is Rome?
She lives but in the tale of other times;
Her proud pavilions, are the hermits' home,
And her long colonades, her public walks,
Now faintly echo to the pilgrims' feet,
Who comes to muse in solitude, and trace
Through the rank moss revealed, her honoured dust.