| Ye grey and mouldering walls!—ye ivied towers! From whence the midnight-loving bird doth pour Her dreary note upon the solemn hour! Ye dim arcades!—ye fancy-haunted bowers! Ruined—but how majestic in decay! I love thee well; and gazing thus on thee In twilight solitude, it seems to me A spirit voice comes stealing up this way— The voice of vanished years—and many a tale It tells my musing mind of gallant lords And ladies gay—of moonlight-whispered words, And deeds of high renown—of crimes that pale The cheek to dream—and the malignant scowl Of evil eyes beneath the monkish cowl. |
IV.
SONNET.
| Oh! I could almost weep to think that thou Whom heaven hath moulded in a form as fair As fancy pictures those of upper air, Shouldst thus belie the promise of that brow Where truth seems to repose, pure as its snow. Alas! that treachery should lurk beneath Such smiles!—a hidden serpent in a wreath Of Eden flowers!—what art thou, wouldst thou know? In all thy pride of charms?—A living tomb Of buried hopes—the grave of ruined hearts Which trusted, loved thee,—dreaming not that arts Which taught the soul excess of bliss, would doom The worshipper to—no! not Death, but worse— And yet thou art too fair a thing to curse. |
LIONEL GRANBY.
CHAP. VI.