LXXXI.

Fall’n are thy fabrics, that so oft have rung To choral melodies and tragic lore; Now is the lyre of Sophocles unstrung, The song that hail’d Harmodius peals no more. Thy proud Piræus is a desert strand, Thy stately shrines are mouldering on their hill, Closed are the triumphs of the sculptor’s hand, The magic voice of eloquence is still; Minerva’s veil is rent[47]--her image gone; Silent the sage’s bower--the warrior’s tomb o’erthrown.