Of burnished mail the sunbeams throw,
Flashing the poplars tall between,
As knights ride by to meet the foe;
Or, mayhap, shepherd lads who blow
On slender pipes, a pastoral dance—
Ah, strong were they in weal and woe
Adown the lanes of Old Romance!
But now the vast years intervene,
The fountain long has ceased its flow,
And silence rules the lone demesne