Muse round th' historic pillars, for 'twas here,
If we accept th' entrancing fable of thy lay,
The brothers pined, and wasted life away.
The guide clanks here the rusted iron ring—
We shudder; "iron is a cankering thing."
Through the rent walls a silver sunbeam flashes;
Faint is the sound of waves that 'gainst them dashes;
There is the window where, with azure wing,
The bright bird perched the prisoner heard sing;
Here, 'neath our very feet, perhaps, the place