And so great names are nothing more than nominal,
   And love of glory’s but an airy lust,
Too often in its fury overcoming all
   Who would, as ’twere, identify their dust
From out the wide destruction which, entombing all,
   Leaves nothing till the coming of the just,
Save change.  I’ve stood upon Achilles’ tomb,
And heard Troy doubted—­time will doubt of Rome.

The very generations of the dead
   Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb,
Until the memory of an age is fled,
   And buried, sinks beneath its offspring’s doom. 
Where are the epitaphs our fathers read,
   Save a few glean’d from the sepulchral gloom,
Which once named myriads, nameless, lie beneath,
And lose their own in universal death?

No task of curiosity can indeed be less satisfactory that the examination of the sites of ancient cities; for the guides, not content with leading the traveller to the spot, often attempt to mislead his imagination, by directing his attention to circumstances which they suppose to be evidence that verifies their traditions.  Thus, on the Trojan plain, several objects are still shown which are described as the self-same mentioned in the Iliad.  The wild fig-trees, and the tomb of Ilus, are yet there—­if the guides may be credited.  But they were seen with incredulous eyes by the poet; even the tomb of Achilles appears to have been regarded by him with equal scepticism; still his description of the scene around is striking, and tinted with some of his happiest touches.

There on the green and village-cotted hill is
   Flanked by the Hellespont, and by the sea,
Entomb’d the bravest of the brave, Achilles—­
   They say so.  Bryant says the contrary. 
And farther downward tall and towering still is
   The tumulus, of whom Heaven knows it may be,
Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus,—­
All heroes, who, if living still, would slay us.

High barrows without marble or a name,
   A vast untill’d and mountain-skirted plain,
And Ida in the distance still the same,
   And old Scamander, if ’tis he, remain;
The situation seems still form’d for fame,
   A hundred thousand men might fight again
With ease.  But where I sought for Ilion’s walls
The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise crawls.

Troops of untended horses; here and there
   Some little hamlets, with new names uncouth,
Some shepherds unlike Paris, led to stare
   A moment at the European youth,
Whom to the spot their schoolboy feelings bear;
   A Turk with beads in hand and pipe in mouth,
Extremely taken with his own religion,
Are what I found there, but the devil a Phrygian.