And solitude and ruin gird thee round.
Thy end is come, fair fortress, thou art fallen—
Thy magical prestige has been stripped off—
Thy well-shaped corner-stones have been displaced
And cast forth to the outside of thy ramparts.
In lieu of thy rich wine feasts, thou hast now
Nought but the cold stream from the firmament;
It penetrates thee on all sides,
Thou mansion like Emania the golden.
Thy doorways are, alas! filled up,