Perched on these lofty granite piles,
Rise adamantine domes of power,
Secure from treachery, force, or wiles,
Reared in Ambition's happy hour,
When, having left the storm behind,
Of raging battles, fears, and hates,
He spurns their threats as empty wind,
Himself the guardian of the gates.
Here in these grand, but lonely halls,—
Unmingling with the crowd below,