the fall of chivalry.
189
'Midst tombs defaced, are seen, alas!
The hands which point the lonely grave,
Scarce cares the monuments to save.
The feudal baron's haughty crest
Is vanquished by the conqueror's rest—
How fallen are the noble halls,
With ivy clinging round their walls!—
The fern and harebell growing there
'Midst sweet wall-flowers that scent the air,
Standing so lone on a gentle slope,
With shattered tower and empty moat,—
And all laid bare to midnight sky,
The ruined walls now silent lie;
Nor pike, nor spear, can there be seen
Glist'ning in the moon's pale beam!
The mouldering escutcheon o'er its gate,
Mocking the castle's now fallen state.
The minstrel's song is heard no more,
That strain hath died for evermore;
The songs alike of peace and war
Bear not the spirit, as of yore
Stirred up within the warrior's breast,
Undying deeds, which clust'ring rest
Around the proudest names we prize.
The hands which point the lonely grave,
Scarce cares the monuments to save.
The feudal baron's haughty crest
Is vanquished by the conqueror's rest—
How fallen are the noble halls,
With ivy clinging round their walls!—
The fern and harebell growing there
'Midst sweet wall-flowers that scent the air,
Standing so lone on a gentle slope,
With shattered tower and empty moat,—
And all laid bare to midnight sky,
The ruined walls now silent lie;
Nor pike, nor spear, can there be seen
Glist'ning in the moon's pale beam!
The mouldering escutcheon o'er its gate,
Mocking the castle's now fallen state.
The minstrel's song is heard no more,
That strain hath died for evermore;
The songs alike of peace and war
Bear not the spirit, as of yore
Stirred up within the warrior's breast,
Undying deeds, which clust'ring rest
Around the proudest names we prize.
