By ruin struck, and yet unbowed by years,
One noble relic on this waste appears:
See! where yon lofty-raised stupendous wall
Nods o'er the desert mounds, but will not fall;
Beneath the mighty arch we wander slow,
On sand-heaped floors the thorn and thistle grow.
And here dwelt Khosru, Persia's tasteful king,
Lapped in each joy that power and splendour bring;
Here blazed that throne, all formed of pearls and gold,
Like sunset cloud round Mythra's chariot rolled;
Here Indian slaves knelt down in glittering rows,
And Tyrian couches wooed to cool repose;
Breathed from a thousand urns each choice perfume,
Till fainting sweetness filled each dazzling room.
Here Barbud's * hand the harp- strings swept along,
Till all the trembling air seemed steeped with song.
The soul in dreams half thought her in the skies,
Mistaking earth for star-bright Paradise.