Westward a pompous frontispiece appear'd,

Windows and doors in nameless sculpture drest, On Doric pillars of white marble rear'd,

With order, symmetry, or taste unblest;
Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream,
The crazed creation of misguided whim.

BURNS.

Crown'd with an architrave of antique mould,
And sculpture rising on the roughen'd gold.
POPE.

There stands a structure of majestic frame.
ΡΟΡΣ.

With her the temple ev'ry moment grew,

And arches widen, and long aisles ascend.

How rev'rend is the face of this tall pile,
Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads
To bear aloft its arch'd and pond'rous roof!
By its own weight made steadfast and immovable; Upward the columns shoot, the roofs ascend,
Looking tranquillity! It strikes an awe
And terror to my aching sight! The tombs
And monumental caves of death look cold,
And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart.
CONGREVE: Mourning Bride.

POPE.

The growing tow'rs like exhalations rise,
And the huge columns heave into the skies.

ГОРЕ.

Dropp'd manna, and could make the worse ap- An army of good words; and I do know