High barrows, without marble, or a name,
A vast, untilled, and mountain-skirted plain,
And Ida in the distance, still the same,
And old Scamander (if ’tis he) remain;
The situation seems still formed 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;