And bared the scanty fragments to our view,
(As the [a] dust sprinkled on a punctur’d hand
Bids the faint tints resume their azure hue.)
No mossy record of those once-lov’d seats
Points out the mansion to inquiring eyes;
No tottering wall, in echoing sounds, repeats
Our mournful questions and our bursting sighs.
Yet midst those ruin’d heaps, that naked plain,
Can faithful memory former scenes restore,
Recall the busy throng, the jocund train,