But near where Jordan, rippling, joins the lake,
And towering hills a wilder aspect take,
Dark groups of ruin draw the traveller's eye,
And while they prompt reflection ask a sigh.
Frieze, cornice, pillar, lie in mouldering heaps,
Where in the sun the listless adder sleeps.
With ivies hung by Ruin's mocking hand,
A huge black pile o'erlooks the wave-kissed sand;
Here frowns a building, pierced with arches gray,
Temple or royal palace, who may say?
Within those courts their tents wild Arabs spread,
Or some fell robber hides his dastard head:
Bright Pleasure's town, where sorrow shed no tear,
'Tis proud Capernaum, all thou see'st here!