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Mourn, graceful ruin! on thy sacred hill Thy gods, thy rites, a kindred fate have shared: Yet art thou honored in each fragment still That wasting years and barbarous hands have spared; Each hallowed stone, from rapine's fury borne, Shall wake bright dreams of thee in ages yet unborn.
Everybody knows Catullus's contribution, which begins: "A log of oak, some rustic's blade Hewed out my shape; grotesquely made I guard this spot by night and day, Scare every vagrant knave away, And save from theft and rapine's hand My humble master's cot and land." The chief complaint to be made against the writers of these verses is that they so rarely strayed from their subject.
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