Where the high celestial chorus greeting every one by name,
Sings; "O! Hasten, favoured mortals! Hasten to the House of Fame!"—
Pressing upwards at a pace, meant for success, we reach the basement.
Shattered is each door and casement; ruined are the lower halls,
Not a word by us is spoken, seeing statues long so broken
That of what they were no token yet remains, and crumbling walls
Whence the mouldering tablet, carved with long-forgotten letters, falls.
Through these chambers sadly wending, and to other halls ascending,
Newer they appear, though tending slowly to a like decay;
Aristotle's, Plato's pages, which, through long succeeding ages,