With mournful yet majestic grace,
Soft as the melancholy smile
Of sunset on some ruin’d pile!
—It is the bard, whose song had power
To lure the maiden from her tower—
The bard, whose wild inspiring lays,
E’en in gay childhood’s earliest days,
First woke, in Osbert’s kindling breast,
The flame that will not be represt,
The pulse that throbs for praise!