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Amidst the pillared pomp of lofty hall,
By many a jewelled throng
Of smiling dames and soldier barons bold;
When the loud cheer of generous wassail rolled
From the high deis to where the warder strode,
Proudly, along the battlemented wall,
Beneath his polished armour's ponderous load;
Who paused to hear, and carolled back again,
With martial glee, the jocund vesper strain:
Thou wilt forgive! Mine is no peering eye,
That seeks, with glance malign, the suffering part,
Thereby, with hollow show of sympathy,
To smite again the poor world-wounded heart:
No—thy misfortunes win from him a sigh
Whose soul towers, like thyself, o'er each lewd passer-by.
Relique of earlier days,
Yes, dear thou art to me!—
And beauteous, marvellously,
The moon-light strays
Where banners glorious floated on thy walls—
Clipping their ivied honours with its thread
Of half-angelick light:
And though o'er thee Time's wasting dews have shed
Their all-consuming blight,
