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.