Were idols, fern-clad to the knees,
And scattered round, in pale decay,
The ruins of old temples lay.
Altars of many a mythic age,
Forgotten even on history’s page,
With sacrificial knife and brand,
Arose, like tombs, on either hand.
And each one seemed to ask, though not
A word disturbed that haunted spot,
For some one, who, with eye of lynx,