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While writhing coils of hydra-headed wrong,
Listening, and wondering at that heavenly song,
Deemed they had drunk of some foul mixture brewed
In Circe’s maddening cup, with sorcery imbued.
Alas ! if from an alien to his clime,
No bas-relief may grace thy front sublime,
Stern block, in some obscure disaster hurled
From the rent heart of a primeval world,
Through storied centuries thou shalt proudly stand
In the memorial city of his land,
A silend monitor, austere and gray,
To warn the clamorous prood of harpies from their prey.
