A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile

(While yet the Church was Rome's) stood half apart

In a grand Arch, which once screened many an aisle.

These last had disappeared—a loss to Art:

The first yet frowned superbly o'er the soil,

And kindled feelings in the roughest heart,

Which mourned the power of Time's or Tempest's march,

In gazing on that venerable Arch.[MF]