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among these silent fanes Whose spacious darkness guards your dust; Around me sleep the hoary plains That hold your ancient wars in trust. I pause, my dreaming spirit hears, Across the wind's unquiet tides, The glimmering music of your spears, The laughter of your royal brides.

In vain, O Kings, doth time aspire To make your names oblivion's sport, While yonder hill wears like a tiar The ruined grandeur of your fort.