Lo! the beacon's distant rays
O'er the waste of water plays,
Friendly to the port-bound bark,
On his watch, the seaman's mark.
Mark! yon dreary Gothic pile,
—Where murder oft did glut and smile,—
Dungeons dire of vanquish'd hosts,
—Hark! the screams of wandering ghosts!—
Now a double gloom is spread
O'er each turret's murky head,
While from th' Owlet's dismal cry
Intruding joys affrighted fly.
Ye vengeful walls for ruin built!
Scenes accurs'd of hell-born guilt!
Direful were your fierce alarms—
Hist! the sentry calls—"To arms!"
How many barons here were slain,
In coats of armour lock'd in vain!—
How many feudal vassals dy'd,
Ebbing here life's crimson tide!
What secret woes lay close immur'd!
What anguish wretches erst endur'd!
When in your sable cells confin'd
Oppression's chosen victims pin'd.
How sullen stands yon rugged tow'r!
Seems it not on the cot to low'r?
As it looks, with proud disdain,
O'er the wide-extended plain.
Here the feudal times I trace;
The lordling's power—the poor's disgrace—
Here while it moulders, all may see
"A Monument of Chivalry."
Orlando.
Aug. 13, 1796.