Their golden summits, in the noon-day light,

Shone o’er the dark-green deep that roll’d between;

For domes, and pinnacles, and spires were seen

Peering above the sea, . . a mournful sight!

Well might the sad beholder ween from thence

What works of wonder the devouring wave

Had swallowed there, when monuments so brave

Bore record of their old magnificence.

And on the sandy shore, beside the verge

Of Ocean, here and there, a rock-hewn fane

Resisted in its strength the surf and surge

That on their deep foundations beat in vain.

In solitude the Ancient Temples stood,

Once resonant with instrument and song,

And solemn dance of festive multitude;

Now as the weary ages pass along,

No voice they hear, save of the Ocean flood,

Which roars for ever on the restless shores;

Or, visiting their solitary caves,

The lonely sound of Winds, that moan around

Accordant to the melancholy waves.