A LAS , that noble beauty, thus, should be brought low!
Not the magnificence of thy proud height,
Thy solemn grandeur, nor the awful might
Of thy time-builded column, which the slow
And patient ages, ponderously crowned
With wide-spread honors, which proclaimed the king:
Nor all the memories, that the years could bring —
Which, like a sacred halo, girt thee round: —
Could save thee from man's puny arm. Alas!
He, haggling at thy roots, hath brought thee prone:
But thou art laid,
Not in the dust, but on the soft, sweet grass,
Amidst the flowers, that have for centuries grown,
Beneath thy shade.