These walls, where now with softening grace 
The ivy-wreath is flung, 
With trophies once of war and chace 
Were thick and proudly hung: 
But helmet, spear, and horn are gone 
T’ augment the dust we tread upon. 
Full oft this cell in weary thrall 
Hath lonely captive held, 
And these proud towers the whizzing ball 
Like granite rock repell’d: 
But ah ! they fall and crumble now, 
Beneath a stronger, mightier foe. 
Time, Time his withering hand hath laid 
On battlement and tower, 
And where rich banners were display’d, 
Now only waves a flower; 
List, and’t will fitting comment read 
On revel gay, and martial deed. 
£ Mute is the warden’s challenge, mute 
The warrior’s hasty tread, 
And tuneless is the lady’s lute, 
For she is with the dead; 
And but a flower now mourns the doom 
Of prostrate strength and faded bloom. 
