Son of the Morning, rise! approach you here!

Come—but molest not yon defenceless Urn:

Look on this spot—a Nation's sepulchre!

Abode of Gods, whose shrines no longer burn.[dr]

Even Gods must yield—Religions take their turn:

'Twas Jove's—'tis Mahomet's—and other Creeds

Will rise with other years, till Man shall learn

Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds;

Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on reeds.[ds]