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.[dr] Even 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.[ds]