Translated by STRONG.
I ask’d of Time, to whom arose this high
Majestic pile, here mouldering in decay?
He answered not, but swifter sped his way
With ceaseless pinions winnowing the sky.
To Fame I turn’d: “Speak thou, whose sons defy
The waste of years, and deathless works essay.”
She heaved a sigh, as one to grief a prey
And silent, downward cast her tearful eye.
Onward I pass’d, but sad and thoughtful grown,
When, stern in aspect o’er the ruin’d shrine
I saw Oblivion stalk from stone to stone.
“Dread power,” I cried, “Tell me whose vast design.”
He check’d my further speech, in sullen tone:
“Whose once it was, I care not; now ’tis mine.”