The heath-flower spread its purple. We must leave
The copse, and through yon broken avenue,
Shadow’d by drooping walnut-foliage, reach
The ruin’s glade.
And lo! before us, fair
Yet desolate, amidst the golden day,
It stands, that house of silence! wedded now
To verdant Nature by the o’ermantling growth
Of leaf and tendril, which fond woman’s hands
Once loved to train. How the rich wallflower-scent