LXI.

Where now thy shrines, Eleusis! where thy fane Of fearful visions, mysteries wild and high? The pomp of rites, the sacrificial train, The long procession’s awful pageantry? Quench’d is the torch of Ceres[40]--all around Decay hath spread the stillness of her reign; There never more shall choral hymns resound O’er the hush’d earth and solitary main, Whose wave from Salamis deserted flows, To bathe a silent shore of desolate repose.