THE WALL-FLOWER. 
49 
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. 
E 
