A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile
(While yet the Church was Rome’s) stood half apart
In a grand Arch, which once screened many an aisle.
These last had disappeared—a loss to Art:
The first yet frowned superbly o’er the soil,
And kindled feelings in the roughest heart,
Which mourned the power of Time’s or Tempest’s march,
In gazing on that venerable Arch.