LXXXVII.

For them in vain the glowing light may smile O’er the pale marble, colouring’s warmth to shed, And in chaste beauty many a sculptured pile Still o’er the dust of heroes lift its head. No patriot feeling binds them to the soil, Whose tombs and shrines their fathers have not rear’d; Their glance is cold indifference, and their toil But to destroy what ages have revered-- As if exulting sternly to erase Whate’er might prove _that_ land had nursed a nobler race.

LXXXVIII.

And who may grieve that, rescued from their hands, Spoilers of excellence and foes to art, Thy relics, Athens! borne to other lands, Claim homage still to thee from every heart Though now no more th’ exploring stranger’s sight, Fix’d in deep reverence on Minerva’s fane, Shall hail, beneath their native heaven of light, All that remain’d of forms adored in vain; A few short years--and, vanish’d from the scene, To blend with classic dust their proudest lot had been.