LXXXV.

And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, Land of lost Gods and godlike men, art thou! Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow,[37.B.] Proclaim thee Nature's varied favourite now: Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow, Commingling slowly with heroic earth, Broke by the share of every rustic plough: So perish monuments of mortal birth, So perish all in turn, save well-recorded _Worth_:[188]