XCVII.
Midst their bright kindred, from their marble throne
They have look’d down on thousand storms of time;
Surviving power, and fame, and freedom flown,
They still remain’d, still tranquilly sublime!
Till mortal hands the heavenly conclave marr’d.
The Olympian groups have sunk, and are forgot—
Not e’en their dust could weeping Athens guard;
But these were destined to a nobler lot!
And they have borne, to light another land,
The quenchless ray that soon shall gloriously expand.