Stanza 1

Where be the Temples which in Albion's Isle, As stories tell, the Trojan Brutus reared? The form and substance of each stately pile Were gone, the very dust had disappeared; Ere Julius reached the white-cliffed shore, They sank, delivered o'er To utter dissolution, whence I ween A general doubt prevails, if such have ever been.

Sunk are the Temples which, as stories tell, In Britain's Isle the Trojan Brutus reared, For his transplanted Gods therein to dwell? Ere Julius landed on the white-cliffed shore, The sacred structures were delivered o'er To utter desolation, whence I ween A general doubt prevails if such have ever been.

Where be the Temples which in Britain's Isle, As legends tell, the Trojan Founder reared? Gone like a dream of morning, or a pile { Of glittering clouds that in the East appeared. } { Of gorgeous clouds that in the west appeared. } Ere Julius landed on her white-cliffed shore, They sank, delivered o'er To fatal dissolution, and I ween No vestige there was left that such had ever been.