Though still the empress of the sunburnt waste, Palmyra rises, desolately grand-- Though with rich gold[48] and massy sculpture graced, Commanding still, Persepolis may stand In haughty solitude--though sacred Nile The first-born temples of the world surveys, And many an awful and stupendous pile Thebes of the hundred gates e’en yet displays; City of Pericles! oh who, like thee, Can teach how fair the works of mortal hand may be? LXXXIV. Thou led’st the way to that illumined sphere Where sovereign beauty dwells; and thence didst bear, Oh, still triumphant in that high career! Bright archetypes of all the grand and fair. And still to thee th’ enlighten’d mind hath flown As to her country,--thou hast been to earth A cynosure,--and, e’en from victory’s throne, Imperial Rome gave homage to thy worth; And nations, rising to their fame afar, Still to thy model turn, as seamen to their star. LXXXV. Glory to those whose relics thus arrest The gaze of ages! Glory to the free! For they, they only, could have thus imprest Their mighty image on the years to be! Empires and cities in oblivion lie, Grandeur may vanish, conquest be forgot,-- To leave on earth renown that cannot die, Of high-soul’d genius is th’ unrivall’d lot. Honour to thee, O Athens! thou hast shown What mortals may attain, and seized the palm alone. LXXXVI. Oh! live there those who view with scornful eyes All that attests the brightness of thy prime? Yes; they who dwell beneath thy lovely skies, And breathe th’ inspiring ether of thy clime! Their path is o’er the mightiest of the dead, Their homes are midst the works of noblest arts; Yet all around their gaze, beneath their tread, Not one proud thrill of loftier thought imparts. Such are the conquerors of Minerva’s land, Where Genius first reveal’d the triumphs of his hand! LXXXVII. For them in vain the glowing light may smile O’er the pale marble, colouring’s warmth to shed, And in chaste beauty many a sculptured pile Still o’er the dust of heroes lift its head. No patriot feeling binds them to the soil, Whose tombs and shrines their fathers have not rear’d; Their glance is cold indifference, and their toil But to destroy what ages have revered-- As if exulting sternly to erase Whate’er might prove _that_ land had nursed a nobler race. LXXXVIII.