And springs the oak the cherished fruit tree near;
Where once were arbors, now, through thickest brake,
Slow winds, in many a fold, the glancing snake.
Time, tempest, violence, and dull decay,
Have worn at length the latest marks away;
One tower alone stands grimly where it stood,
Gray, torn, dismantled, frowning o’er the flood,
The dreariest mark those mournful ruins bear,
That human forms have been—but are not there.
Yet, Elva! once with thee it was not so: