  THE slowly crumbling wall, the broken gate, O’er which soft silvery threads of Time are spun; Through turrets tall, once grim and stern as Fate, Now unresisted steals the changeless sun. The eager vines close clasp the pillars round, As though to hide the signs of their decay; The cheerless chambers echo with each sound That enters in where Silence holds her sway. Upon the ground, with torn and riven crust, There rests the cuirass of some daring knight, Enfolding but the cold, unspeaking dust Of him who nevermore shall lead the fight. And here the chariot-furrowed roadway lies, Once trod by armies rich in valorous deeds, Now haunted by the lonely wind which sighs And creeps among the dead and tangled weeds. Ruin and ruins everywhere, but yet, In fancy, see the myriad castles tall Whereon the banners fair of Hope are set, Then watch the wreck and ruin of it all! Forsaken cities far beyond the sea Hold not such claim to pity as do those Grand dwellings youth rears in such majesty To crumble and form sepulchres for woes. O memory! keep and guard your treasures well; Contented rest, and, what the past endears, Unto the ever hopeful future tell, And voice your glories through the coming years. |
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