XC.

Lone are thy pillars now--each passing gale Sighs o’er them as a spirit’s voice, which moan’d That loneliness, and told the plaintive tale Of the bright synod once above them throned. Mourn, graceful ruin! on thy sacred hill, Thy gods, thy rites, a kindred fate have shared: Yet art thou honour’d in each fragment still That wasting years and barbarous hands had spared; Each hallow’d stone, from rapine’s fury borne, Shall wake bright dreams of thee in ages yet unborn.