And secret rapture in their breast did glow;
Hark! midnight sounds—that brazen voice is dying—
A day to meet the vanish'd days is flying.
Where are the valiant?—the resistless lances—
The brands that were as lightning when they waved?
Where are the beautiful—whose sunny glances
Our fathers, with such potency, enslaved?
Where is the bard, whose song no more entrances?
Ah! that deep bell hath answer'd what I craved:
And thou alone, by these grey walls, O river!