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Or evening suns illume, with purple smile, The Parian altar, and the pillared aisle, Then as the full, or softened radiance falls, On Angel-groups that hover o'er the walls, Well may those Temples, where your hand has shed Light o'er the tomb, existence round the dead, Seem like some world, so perfect and so fair, That nought of earth should find admittance there, Some sphere, where Beings to mankind unknown, Dwell in the brightness of their pomp, alone!

Hence, ye vain fictions, fancy's erring theme, Gods of illusion! phantoms of a dream! Frail, powerless idols of departed time, Fables of song, delusive, tho' sublime! To loftier tasks has Roman Art assigned, Her matchless pencil, and her mighty mind!