A right substantial, well-preserved old Tower,
Let that suffice us.
Some there are, who say
Thou wert an ancient wind-mill.
Be it so!
Our pilgrim-sires must have been much in love
With extra labor, thus to gather stones,
And patient rear thy Scandinavian arch,
And build thine ample chamber, and uplift
Thy shapely column, for the gadding winds
To play vagaries with.
In those hard times
I trow king Philip gave them other work,
Than to deck dancing-halls, and lure the blasts
From old Eolus' cave.
Had'st thou the power,
I think thou'dst laugh right heartily to see
The worthy farmers, with their sacks of corn,
Mistaking thy profession, as of old
Don Quixote did mistake thine ancestor:
If haply such progenitor thou hadst.
But still, grey Ruin, though they lightly speak,
I fain would honor thee, as rhymers do,
And 'neath thy shadow weave my noteless song.
I said I 'd do thee honor, if I might,
For thou art old. And whatsoever bears
The stamp of hoary time, and hath not been
