  Translated by STRONG. I ask’d of Time, to whom arose this high Majestic pile, here mouldering in decay? He answered not, but swifter sped his way With ceaseless pinions winnowing the sky. To Fame I turn’d: “Speak thou, whose sons defy The waste of years, and deathless works essay.” She heaved a sigh, as one to grief a prey And silent, downward cast her tearful eye. Onward I pass’d, but sad and thoughtful grown, When, stern in aspect o’er the ruin’d shrine I saw Oblivion stalk from stone to stone. “Dread power,” I cried, “Tell me whose vast design.” He check’d my further speech, in sullen tone: “Whose once it was, I care not; now ’tis mine.” decorative line |
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