And naked all and turned to stone through coming ages lie.
“Woe to thee, murderer accurst, of minstrel-craft the bane,
For crowns of savage glory strive on, and strive in vain;
And be thy name forgotten, in endless midnight sunk,
And pass as into vain air that last death-rattle shrunk.”
The old man’s voice hath pealed it, and Heaven hath heard on high;
The mighty walls are levelled, the halls in ruin lie;
One pillar lone and lofty still tells of vanished power;
Ev’n that is cloven, and may fall before the morning hour.
Around for perfumed gardens is a heath of desert land,