The ivy of its ruins, unto which
His fading life seem’d bound. Day roll’d on day,
And from that scene the loneliness was fled;
For crowds around the gray-hair’d chronicler
Met as men meet, within whose anxious hearts
Fear with deep feeling strives; till, as a breeze
Wanders through forest branches, and is met
By one quick sound and shiver of the leaves,
The spirit of his passionate lament,
As through their stricken souls it pass’d, awoke