LXXIV.
Still be that cloud withdrawn—oh! mark on high,
Crowning yon hill, with temples richly graced,
That fane, august in perfect symmetry,
The purest model of Athenian taste.
Fair Parthenon! thy Doric pillars rise
In simple dignity, thy marble’s hue
Unsullied shines, relieved by brilliant skies,
That round thee spread their deep ethereal blue;
And art o’er all thy light proportions throws
The harmony of grace, the beauty of repose.