Or gods decaying in their shrines of gold--
Where were thy vaunted princes, that of old
Trod thee with thunder--of thy saints was none
To rouse thee when the onslaught was begun,
That shook the tinseled sceptre from thy hold?
Dead--though behind thy gloomy citadels
The fountains lave their baths of porphyry;
Dead--though the rose-trees of thy myriad dells
Breathe as of old their speechless ecstasy;
Dead--though within thy temples, courts, and cells,