III.

Son of the morning, rise! approach you here! Come--but molest not yon defenceless urn! Look on this spot--a nation's sepulchre! Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn. E'en gods must yield--religions take their turn: 'Twas Jove's--'tis Mahomet's; and other creeds Will rise with other years, till man shall learn Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds; Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on reeds.