55 
No;—rather like the ivy, which has brought 
A fairer wreath than sculpture ever wrought, 
To hide the breaches Time’s rude hand has made, 
Oh ! let me think thou lend’st thy classic shade,— 
Anxious his mighty mischiefs to repair, 
And guard and grace the fallen and the fair. 
Hadst thou a voice, methinks when eve’s still hour 
Within us wakes the meditative power, 
’Mid scenes like these how sadly sweet’t would be 
To list awhile thy solemn homily; 
Thy text these ruins, which do mutely show 
What Time, alas ! has done, and what can do. 
Thou hast a voice. —As from some hidden shrine 
I hear thee whisper to this heart of mine; 
{This careless heart, which turns so oft away 
From aught that seems to mind it of decay;) 
Thy theme, Time’s changes; and to mortal man, 
Whose life’s a breath, whose days are but a span. 
Whose beauty fadeth as a summer rose, 
Methinks no fitter subject couldst thou choose. 
Yet stay not here thy monitory strain: 
These fallen columns, which bestrew the plain, 
But half man’s awful destiny suggest, — 
Thy changeless leaf may typify the rest. 
£ 4 
