The open graves, the recent scene of blood,
Were present to the soul's creative sight;
These mournful images my mind possess'd,
And mingled with the visions of
my rest.

2.

Methought that I was travelling o'er a plain
Whose limits, far beyond all reach of sense,
The aching, anxious sight explored in vain.

How I came there I could not tell, nor whence; Nor where my melancholy journey lay;

9.

Its frail foundations upon sand were placed,
And round about it mouldering rubbish lay;
For easily by time and storms defaced,

The loose materials crumbled in decay;
Rising so high, and built so insecure,
Ill might such perishable work endure.

10.