Those native towers, and know that they must fall
By slow decay, and none remain to grieve
When the weeds cluster’d on the lonely wall!
We were the last—my boy and I—the last
Of a long line which brightly thence had pass’d!
My father bless’d me as I left his hall—
With his deep tones and sweet, though full of years,
He bless’d me there, and bathed my child’s young head with tears.
XXIX.
I had brought sorrow on his gray hairs down,