Page:Poetical Remains.pdf/300

Its plaintive strain my harp must pour,
    To swell a foreign gale;
The rocks, the woods, whose echoes woke,
When its full tones their stillness broke,
Deserted now, shall hear alone,

The brook's wild voice, the wind's mysterious moan.

And oh! ye fair, forsaken halls,
    Left by your lord to slow decay,
Soon shall the trophies on your walls
    Be mouldering fast away!
There shall no choral songs resound,
There shall no festal board be crowned;
But ivy wreath the silent gate,

And all be hushed, and cold, and desolate.

No banner from the stately tower,
    Shall spread its blazoned folds on high,
There the wild briar and summer-flower,
    Unmarked shall wave and die!