And thou wert lovely to the last, Extinguish'd, not decay'd; As stars that shoot along the sky Shine brightest as they fall from high. - Lord Byron

My poem's epic, and is meant to be

Dull is the eye that will not weep to see- Thy walls defaced thy mouldering shines removed- by british hands, which it had best behoved- to guard those relics ne'er to be restored. Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved,- And once again thy hapless bossom gored- and snatch'd shrinking gods to northern climes abhorred.

"Júlia lutou, pensou, se arrependeu (A little still she strove and much repented,)
E dizendo "Não cedo!", ela cedeu. (And whispering, 'I will ne'er consent' - consented.)"