O! glad will they be in yon halls below.
But all is gone—one sober glance
Hath whirled in air the fitful trance,
The visioned wood that fancy ranged,
Is still a wood, but O, how changed!
Ancient Power’s, barbaric sway,
Iron deeds have passed away—
Superstition’s gloomy hour,
With the tyrant’s feudal power—
All have passed!—and in their stead,