And yet how lovely in thine age of woe,

Land of lost Gods and godlike men, art thou!

Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow, [37.B.]

Proclaim thee Nature's varied favourite now:

Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow,

Commingling slowly with heroic earth,

Broke by the share of every rustic plough:

So perish monuments of mortal birth,

So perish all in turn, save well-recorded Worth:[188]