XIV.

And tombs of monarchs to the clouds up-piled-- They perished--but the eternal tombs remain-- And the black precipice, abrupt and wild, Pierced by long toil and hollowed to a fane;-- Huge piers and frowning forms of gods sustain The everlasting arches, dark and wide, Like the night-heaven, when clouds are black with rain. But idly skill was tasked, and strength was plied, All was the work of slaves to swell a despot's pride.