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,
XCI.
Yes; in those fragments, though by time defaced,
And rude insensate conquerors, yet remains
All that may charm th' enlighten'd eye of taste,
On shores where still inspiring freedom reigns.
As vital fragrance breathes from every part
Of the crush'd myrtle, or the bruised rose,
E'en thus th' essential energy of art,
There in each wreck imperishably glows!38[1]
The soul of Athens lives in every line,
