“But midst those ancient groves, no more
Shall I thy quivering lustre hail;
Its plaintive strain my harp must pour
To swell a foreign gale.
The rocks, the woods, whose echoes woke
When its full tones their stillness broke,
Deserted now, shall hear alone
The brook’s wild voice, the wind’s mysterious moan.
“And oh! ye fair, forsaken halls,
Left by your lord to slow decay,