Of deeper import than each prostrate dome
Mingling its marble with the dust of Rome.
But who, with eye unshrinking shall explore
That waste, illumed by reason's beam no more?
Who pierce the deep, mysterious clouds that roll
Around the shatter'd temple of the soul,
Curtain'd with midnight?—Low its columns lie,
And dark the chambers of its imag'ry,3[1]
Sunk are its idols now—and God alone
May rear the fabric by their fall o'erthrown!
Yet from its inmost shrine, by storms laid bare,
Is heard an oracle that cries—"Beware!
Child of the dust! but ransom'd of the skies!
One breath of Heaven—and thus thy glory dies!
Haste, ere the hour of doom—draw nigh to him
Who dwells above, between the cherubim!"
Spirit dethroned! and check'd in mid career,
Son of the morning! exiled from thy sphere,
Tell us thy tale!—Perchance thy race was run
With science in the chariot of the sun;
Free as the winds the paths of space to sweep,
Traverse the untrodden kingdoms of the deep,
And search the laws that Nature's springs control,
There tracing all—save Him who guides the whole!
Haply thine eye its ardent glance had cast
Through the dim shades, the portals of the past;
By the bright lamp of thought thy care had fed
From the far beacon-lights of ages fled,
