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Radiant thou art in the ethereal flame—
The lustrous splendour—which those feelings shed
O'er many a scene of this my father-land!
Thou, grey magician, with thy potent wand,
Evok'st the shades of the illustrious dead!
The mists dissolve—up rise the slumbering years—
On come the knightly riders cap-a-pie—
The herald calls—hark, to the clash of spears!
To Beauty's Queen each hero bends the knee;
Dreams of the Past, how exquisite ye be—
Offspring of heavenly faith and rare antiquity!
Light feet have trod
The soft, green, flowering sod
That girdles thy baronial strength, and traced,
All gracefully, the labyrinthine dance;
Young hearts discoursed with many a passionate glance,
While rose and fell the Minstrel's thrilling strain—
(Who, in this iron age, might sing in vain—
His largesse coarse neglect, and mickle pain!)
Waste are thy chambers tenantless, which long
Echoed the notes of gleeful minstrelsie—
Notes once the prelude to a tale of wrong,
Of Royalty and love.—Beneath yon tree—
Now bare and blasted—so our annals tell—
