Here once the monarch trod in regal pride;
Here once the hero sought his hallow'd fate;
But nothing past its season doth abide,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Upon these silent shores no sun shall rise
In glory like to what the past hath known;
None to the starry vault shall raise his eyes
And see his gilded pennants proudly flown.
What second dawn shall come? What poet's air
Shall tell of deeds of greatness bravely done?
What empty page those brighter lays shall bear
Of crowns and sceptres lost, of kingdoms won?
No laurels now, save this, alone, we owe:
The earth is still. May 't not be ever so.
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