Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou?

Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead?

Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low

Some less majestic, less beloved head?

Lord Byron 1788-1824: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 168.

The ruins of himself! now worn away

With age, yet still majestic in decay.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): The Odyssey of Homer. Book xxiv. Line 271.

No hammers fell, no ponderous axes rung;

Like some tall palm the mystic fabric sprung.

Majestic silence!

Reginald Heber (1783-1826): Palestine.

With grave

Aspect he rose, and in his rising seem'd

A pillar of state; deep on his front engraven

Deliberation sat, and public care;

And princely counsel in his face yet shone,

Majestic though in ruin: sage he stood,

With Atlantean shoulders, fit to bear

The weight of mightiest monarchies; his look

Drew audience and attention still as night

Or summer's noontide air.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book ii. Line 300.

Ye gods, it doth amaze me

A man of such a feeble temper should

So get the start of the majestic world

And bear the palm alone.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Julius Caesar. Act i. Sc. 2.