But what is mimic Art? Even Nature's works,
Seas, meadows, pastures, the meandering streams,
And everlasting hills shall be no more.
No more shall Teneriff cloud-piercing height
O'er-hang th' Atlantic Surge. — Nor that fam'd cliff,
Thro' which the Persian steer'd with many a sail,
Throw to the Lemnian Isle its evening shade
O'er half the wide Aegean. — Where are now
The Alps that confin'd with unnumber'd realms,
And from the Black Sea to the Ocean stream
Stretch'd their extended arms? — Where's Ararat,
That hill on which the faithful Patriarch's Ark
Which seven long months had voyaged o'er its top
First rested, when the Earth with all her sons,
As now by streaming cataracts of fire,
Was whelm'd by mighty waters? — All at once
Are vanish'd and dissolv'd; no trace remains,
No mark of vain distinction: heaven itself
That azure vault with all those radiant orbs
Sinks in the universal ruin lost. —
No more shall planets round their central sun
Move in harmonious dance; no more the moon
Hang out her silver lamp; and those fix'd stars
Spangling the golden canopy of night,
Which oft the Tuscan with his optic glass
Call'd from their wonderous height, to read their names
And magnitude, some winged minister
Shall quench; and (surest sign that all on earth
Is lost) shall rend from heaven the mystic bow.