Watched over by insuperable peaks,
Beneath a leaden sky and copper sun,
Surrounded by a desert treeless, dun,
Where never comes a cloud, nor tempest shrieks
In that still haven lie, with idle beaks
And lifeless sails, the Years, their voyage run,
The harbour the the Past forever won
That each dead epoch with its cargo seeks.
The shore by lurid beacon-fires is gemmed
Whose light stains as with blood the billows spent,
And sepulchres are strewn the whole extent
Betwixt the mountains and the water hemmed--
White tombs of kings once augustly enthroned,
And now by listless, dusty winds bemoaned.