When War's blood-tinctur'd spear

Hung o'er the trembling rear;

When light-heel'd Terror wing'd their headlong

flight:

Yon tow'rs then rung with wild alarms!

Yon desert gleam'd with shining arms!
While on the bleak hill's bright'ning spire
Bold Vict'ry flam'd, with eyes of fire;
Her limbs celestial robes infold,

Her wings were ting'd with spangling gold.

She spoke her words infus'd resistless might,

And warm'd the bounding heart, and rous'd the soul of fight.

H. 2.

But, ah! what hand the smiling prospect brings,

What voice recalls th' expiring day?

See, darting swift on eagle-wings,

The glancing moments burst away!
So from some mountain's head,

While bright-eyed Fancy stands in sweet surprise,
The vale where musing Quiet treads,

The flow'r-clad lawns, and bloomy meads,
Or streams where Zephyr loves to stray
Beneath the pale eve's twinkling ray;

Or waving woods detain the sight-
When from the gloomy cave of night

Some cloud sweeps shadowy o'er the dusky skies, And wraps the flying scene, that fades, and swims, and dies.

II. 3.

Lo! rising from yon dreary tomb,
What spectres stalk across the gloom!
With haggard eyes, and visage pale,
And voice that moans with feeble wail!

O'er yon long-resounding plain

Slowly moves the solemn train;
Wailing wild with shrieks of woe
O'er the bones that rest below!

While the dull night's startled ear
Shrinks aghast with thrilling fear!

Or stand with thin robes wasting soon,
And eyes that blast the sick'ning moon !
Yet these, ere Time had roll'd their years away,
Ere Death's fell arm had mark'd its aim,
Rul'd yon proud tow'rs with ample sway,

Beheld the trembling swains obey,

And wrought the glorious deed that swell'd the trump of Fame.

III. 1.

But why o'er these indulge the bursting sigh?
Feels not each shrub the tempest's pow'r?

Rocks not the doom when whirlwinds fly ?

Nor shakes the hill when thunders roar?
Lo! mould'ring, wild, unknown,

What fanes, what tow'rs o'erthrown,

What tumbling chaos marks the waste of Time!

I see Palmyra's temples fall;

Yon waste where roaming lions howl,
Yon aisle where moans the grey-eyed owl,
Shows the proud Persian's great abode ;*
Where sceptred once, an earthly god!

His pow'r-clad arm controul'd each happier clime, Where sports the warbling Muse, and Fancy soars sublime.

III. 2.

Hark! what dire sound rolls murm'ring on the Ah! what soul-thrilling scene appears? [gale? I see the column'd arches fail!

And structures hoar, the boast of years!

What mould'ring piles, decay'd,

Gleam through the moon-streak'd shade,

Where Rome's proud genius rear'd her awful brow!

Sad monument!-Ambition near

Rolls on the dust, and pours a tear;
Pale Honour drops the flutt'ring plume,
And Conquest weeps o'er Cæsar's tomb;

* Persepolis.

Slow Patience sits, with eye deprest,

And Courage beats his sobbing breast;

Ev'n War's red cheek the gushing streams o'erflow,

And Fancy's list'ning ear attends the plaint of

Woe.

III. 3.

Lo, on yon pyramid sublime,

Whence lies Old Egypt's desert clime,
Bleak, naked, wild! where ruin low'rs,
'Mid fanes, and wrecks, and tumbling tow'rs:
On the steep height, waste and bare,
Stands the Pow'r with hoary hair!

O'er his scythe he bends; his hand
Slowly shakes the flowing sand;
While the hours, and airy ring,

Lightly flit, with downy wing,

And sap

the works of man; and shade

With silver'd locks his furrow'd head.