His harp he seizes wildly, of harps the peerless prime;
Against a marble column he hath dashed its strength in twain,
Then cries aloud that garden and castle peal amain.
“Woe, woe to you, proud halls, no more echo melodious word
Through all your vaulted hollows, nor ever song or chord;
No, moans alone and wailing, and coward step of slaves,
Till sprites of vengeance trample you to dust and mould of graves.
“Woe to you, odorous gardens, in May-tide’s lovely light,
As ye behold this dead face, so sadly changed to sight;
Even so untimely wither, with every fountain dry,